Chapter VI: Appendix: 233 (5)

Now as we pass, look up! How minute appears the colossal statue of Our Lady in its niche on the vast front of the cathedral. And the nunneries—self-constituted prisons for those whom God hath born to freedom—how like birds of evil omen they do congregate. Here is that of the Grey Order. Ring at the gateway—we will enter. Here we pass the court-yard; how still, how gloomy, and how prison-like! This is their hospital. Piteous collection! The blind, the halt, the maimed, the hideously deformed—consumption—palsy—the wrecks of fevers! See! with what continued torture that wretched being writhes in her fixed position. Oh! this is the small spark of good amid the black brands of evil. These orphan children are kindly cared for, but where the child-like joy and mirthful freedom! With what stealthy step the officials move about their duties along the silent corridors! and,—aye! here is the chapel, with its gilded altars, its ornaments, its embroideries, its bleeding hearts, its sacred symbols. See with what gentleness the “_Lady_” performs the servile duties of the sanctuary! with what humility she bends before the altar. Oh! how beautiful that cheek of tint of Indian shell; those dark romantic eyes, with their long pensile lashes; that nose of Grecian outline; the small vermilion mouth; the throat and neck of snow, and the glossy raven tresses escaping in rich luxuriance from the plaited coif as they fall upon her sloping shoulders. Mournful seems her devotion—now rising she stands before the Mater Dolorosa; now wistfully gazes down the dark long corridor, in sorrowful meditation. Hush! be silent. I will steal gently near her. Lady! Turn not—’tis thy kind spirit whispers—art thou content? Does thy young active soul find employ congenial in these gloomy mysteries? Does thy springing, youthful heart, sympathize in these cold formalities—this company of grim-visaged saints and bearded martyrs with joy enchain thee? Does the passionate imagination and deep feeling flashing in those dark eyes—the already hectic kindling of that cheek, look with pleasure to long years—a life of cold monotonous routine—of nightly vigils—fastings—of painful mortifications? Lady! listen. They chain thy soul. Break thou away. Quick in thy youth, fly from them, fly. One moment. Speak not. See’st thou yon cottage peering from its green shades and gravelled walks—its parterres of the myrtle and the lily, its diamond lattice enwreathed and almost hidden in the embrace of sweet-smelling honeysuckles and clustering roses—and its interior with its simple yet delicate refinements? See’st thou in snowy dishabille the lovely woman? with what heart-felt glee the frolicking, half-naked child, with chubby arms, almost suffocates in its little embrace her neck, its golden ringlets mingling like streams of light ’mid her dark tresses,—with what ecstasy she enfolds him in her embraces, with maternal lips pressing in exquisite delight the plump alabaster shoulders? Lady, such scenes, not gloomy walls, invite thee—nay ’tis not the voice of the Tempter—’tis not, as they will tell thee, the poisonous breath of the many-coloured serpent stealing o’er thy senses. Let bearded men, wrecked on their own fierce lawless passions, seek these dark cells, these painful vigils, these unmeaning mortifications. They are not for thee. The world awaits thy coming. The pawing steed, throwing the white froth flakes o’er his broad chest, impatiently awaits thee. Fly, dear lady, fly—the joyous, carrolling birds, the dew-spangled meadows, cry, Come. The green, green trees—the bubbling water-falls—the soft summer breezes—the rosy tinted East—the gorgeous drapery of the West—cry to thee, Come. The voice of thy lover, frantic at thy self-sacrifice—the voice of him who in the fragrant orange bower encircled thy slender waist, whilst, with heightened colour and down-cast eyes, thou listen’d to his rapid vows—the voice of him, who with thy glossy raven tresses floating on his shoulder, and thy warm, sweet breath, mingling with his, lavished soul, existence, all, on thee,—in agony cries, Dearest, dearest, come. Nay, nay, ’tis but for _thy_ happiness,—I leave thee—exclaim not—I am gone.

CATARACTS OF NIAGARA.

Now—on, on—over the Chute, and down the Rapid—leaping the Saults—through the rivers, over the islands—we glide—we glide—we rush—we fly. Ho! Ariel, beautiful spirit, riding on thy rainbow—shoot not thy silver arrows at us as we pass. Tricksy spirit—fare thee well—now far in the distance, fare—thee—well! Ha! ha!—Old frolic Puck—sweating, panting, holding thy lubbard sides—we race—we race—we pass thee too—in vain thou strugglest to o’ertake us. Farewell—farewell. Go pinch the housemaids—tickle with straws the snoring herdsmen—tumble about the dusty mows—sprinkle sweet hay before the ruminating cattle—clutch by the tail the cunning fox, as stealthily he crawls within the hen-roost—and anon rub thy hands in glee o’er the embers on the capacious kitchen hearth, and on all-fours cut antics with the glowering cat, as with bowed back and shining eyes she watches thee i’ th’ corner—peer into the kettles and into the jars—see whether the barm rises—whether the yeast doth work; till with clash—clatter—the metal lid slips from thy fingers on the hearth-stone, and villain-like, thou shoot’st up the chimney, with “Ho! ho! ho!” laughing at the sleepy yeoman, as half covered, with oaken cudgel grasped, shivering, he peers through the door-crack the cause o’ th’ uproar. Farewell, farewell, mirthful goblin—farewell, farewell. Ontario, we waft across thy surface. Queenstown, thy sanguinary heights, crowned with brave Briton’s monument, we pass, and now the rising mist-wreaths warn us of thy approach, Niagara. Huzza! huzza! now for a bath under the roaring Cataract. In what wild chaos of waters the clam’rous rapids, as if from the horizon, rush down upon us—jumping, leaping, boiling, in fierce confusion; and this frail bridge, how it groans and shakes in the torrent’s sweep! A slip from Mahomet’s sword edge o’er the awful Hades, would not consign us to more inevitable destruction, than would a treacherous plank or rotten beam from this shaking platform. We tread the deep green woods of Goat Island, their mossy trunks covered with love-marks of Orlandos and Rosalinds; and, amid the roar, descend the great Ferry stair-case—stop a moment at this landing—step out. How the solid earth shakes—jars and vibrates! How the wild winds rush by us, as the huge fluid arch stretches over with continuous plunge—and see that group of wild-flowers—scarlet, green, and purple—smiling in beauty beyond the reach of human hand, glistening in moisture midst the very spray in the rock cleft. But—haste—haste! Here is the boatman. Leap in—leap in! Now how, in our little cockle-shell bark, we whirl and sport in the eddies, o’er the fathomless depths below, like wing-borne insects playing over the abyss.

We land—ascend the heights—we pass the sentry. At the tiring-house. We robe ourselves for the enterprise—tarpaulin coats—hats bound with old rope—trowsers of tow cloth—shoes of cowhide—ha! ha! But quick, descend the long spiral stair-case. Now, Guide—we follow. Beware you fall not on these sharp, slippery rocks. We approach. The Table Rock hangs over us. In grandeur the solid fluid mass falls precipitate. Prepare. Turn as you enter—hold down your head—repress your breath: are you ready? Rush! We are beneath the yawning chasm—soaked in an instant. Like furious rainstorm, and wind, and tempest all combined, this wild, frightful roar. What? Scream louder, louder. Hold firm by the guide—a slip from this narrow ledge—and—whew—splash—dead in our faces—almost suffocated. Turn to the dripping rock wall, and catch your breath till the wind rush again lifts the watery curtain. Slimy eels glide by—darkness deep above—dim light strives to reach us through the cataract sheets. We are at the extreme verge. Guide—guide—ha?—what indicates that motion of thy lips—closer—close in my ear. “Termination rock.” Turn—turn—splash—swash—drenched—suffocated—return, return. We see again the light. Rush! We stand once more in the clear open sunlight. Whew!—puff—dripping—dripping—a shower-bath worthy of old Neptune. How delightfully our nerves spring under its exhilarating influence. Take care—again these slippery stones. Beware! beware! Here we ascend again the stair-case. In the attiring-room. Towels—brushes—Christians once more.

Come—come! Now to the Table Rock. See with what treacherous glitter the wide Niagara stretches in perfect smoothness far towards Chippewa, till, descending upon us, it shoots the rapids o’er their rocky beds like things of life, and with wild rush around the island, sweeps resistless o’er the awful cataracts, a roaring hurricane of waters. Give me your hand—lean forward—look into the abyss—careful. Evil spirits take us at advantage at such times, and whisper us to leap forward. How lashed in milky whiteness the huge gulf boils and foams as the waters plunge fractured, disjointed, tumbling in masses—and the wild birds, how fearlessly they skim amid the white mist rising from its surface. How the earth shudders and trembles around us. You are already dizzy. Come back from the edge. How awful—how terribly sublime! How tame—how useless, helpless description! Would that I, with voice of inspiration, could command language adequate to pourtray the grandeur of the scene under stern Winter’s reign! Transcendantly beautiful once I saw it! A thaw and rain, followed by sudden chill and cold, had clothed all the forest—every hedge and shrub, with transparent coat of ice. Gnarled oaks, from massive trunk to their extremest twigs, became huge crystal chandeliers. The ever-green pines and hemlocks, with long lancing branches,—great emeralds; lithe willows, sweeping, glassy cascades; the wild vines, stiff in silvery trellices between them; the undergrowth, with scarlet, blue and purple berries, candied fruits. The pools of frozen water at their feet, dark sheets of adamant; and ever and anon, as the north wind passed o’er them, the forest was Golconda, Araby—one Ind of radiant gems, quivering with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, in glittering splendour; pearls, emeralds, hyacinths, chrysolites, falling in showers, as fractured from their crackling branches, they strewed the snowy bed stretched smooth around them. That wide, smooth river, far above the Rapids, ice-chained, a solid snow-white bed, gleaming in the midday sun. Yon tower, misshapen giant phantom, ice god, in frozen shroud and winding-sheet, firmly fixed ’mid the swift running waters:—huge stalactite icicles, Winter’s hoary beard, hanging in fantastic curtains from each rock ledge—pinnacle—projection; while on the black rapids, the vast ice-fields breaking in masses, piled in wild confusion, grinding and swaying on their treacherous holds, till gathering momentum, with slide and plunge—submerged, they swept onward ’mid the wild roar of the cataracts, which, with stern, resistless power, held their terrific course. Those huge sheets, those watery arches, those green beryl masses, plunging in resistless fury, unabated vastness, with desperate leaps into the foaming abyss below, the spray falling in silver showers, pierced by the sun’s rays dancing around them in countless rainbows; while the ice avalanches, breaking from their grasps on the surrounding rocks and precipices, with booming plunge and uproar, fell crashing,—buried in the dark whirlpools, boiling in the fathomless depths below. The dark river, in torrents of copperas-hue, whirling in eddies, rushing o’er its deep rocky bed—in savage contrast with the snow-covered precipices that chained it to its course. Deep, resistless sweep of waters! black as despair—Sadoc here were to thee the waters of Oblivion—here that Lethe, which, till other worlds received thee, should blot existence from keenest memory.

The voice of the Unseen addressed the afflicted Patriarch from the whirlwind’s midst—us does it warn from this chained whirlwind of the waters. Sublime, terrible, indescribable, as is this scene by human tongue, how tamely all its grandeur sinks beneath the catastrophe, which the being of future ages shall survey,—or would, if with eagle’s wings he could soar high in the clouds above it,—when the narrow rock-belt which Niagara for by-gone centuries has been slowly wearing, severed, the light tract alluvial crumbling—the whole chain of inland oceans—Huron, Erie, Michigan, with awful wildness and destruction, sweep in second deluge o’er this outlet—the adamantine rocks sinking like snow-wreaths from their beds—all principalities, kingdoms, states—whate’er they shall be—between the Atlantic and the Alleghanies, the Labrador and Mexico—swept from existence, and in their place a heaving surge—wild waste of waters. Fool! revolve this scene terrific in thy heart—ponder it well—then, if thou canst, say, indeed, there is no God! Thy life, at best a flickering taper, shall soon meet extinguishment. Then shall there be an eternity to convince thee.

MOUNT HOLYOKE.

Here we are in the middle of the month of August. The “world” have long since fled the hot walls and blazing pavements of old Gotham, and even the very school-boys are let loose from their pale-faced pedagogues, to frolic like young colts in the country. Come, let us not alone remain in the sweltering city. Throw a few things in your carpet-bag—ay, that is sufficient. Make me the guide. We will leave Saratoga and Rockaway to their flirtations—another field is before us. Now, Eastward ho! shall lie our course. Distance and time are left behind us—already we are ensconced at the Mansion House in this most lovely of villages, “Northampton the beautiful.”

Well does it deserve the name. Come one moment to the corner of this piazza. Look down the long avenues. See the symmetrical verdant arches, formed by the boughs of the antique elms, bending toward each other in loving fraternity; and see the snow-white houses at their feet, their court-yards smiling with flowers; and see the still more smiling faces that glance behind their transparent windows. That will do—you have stared long enough at the demure beauty behind the green blinds. Look this way, and witness the refined taste exhibited in the graceful cottages, as they stand in relief against the dark back-ground of the forest,—the Grecian column, the Gothic arch, the Italian verandah, cottage and temple, all spread around you like the city of your dreams. Truly it seems, as it mostly is, the abode of retired gentlemen—a very Decameron sort of a place in this working-day world of ours. But, allons! Are we not Americans? _Why_ should we rest? To breakfast—behold a regular Yankee feast. Snow-white bread, and golden butter,—chickens that one short hour since dreamed of bins of corn and acres of oats on their roosts in the lofty barn,—steaks, pies, tea, preserves, the well-browned cakes, and last, not least, the sparkling amber cider. Blessings on the heart of the nice looking damsel at the coffee urn, with her red cheeks and neat check apron. But, egad! my dear friend—prudence! hold up—we have to ascend the mountain, and you will not find the feast that you are stowing away with such Dalgetty industry, likely to improve your wind. That last hot roll lengthens our ascent just one quarter of an hour. There! the horses are neighing, and impatiently champing the bit at the door. Are you ready? Come then. Look out, lest that fiery devil throw you on the bosom of our common mother, earth!—your bones would find her a step-dame—those flaming nostrils are sworn enemies to your long spur gaffs. But here we go! How balmy and delightful the cool air of the morning!—the verdant grass rises gracefully—the wild flower shakes its tiny bells, and drinks the dewy diamond glittering on its lips, as it waves gently o’er them. The rich yellow sun mocks the trees, as it rolls out their broad shadows on the velvet turf beneath—while from knoll and waving mullen stalk, the meadow-lark, with outstretched neck and piercing eye, utters his sweet notes in almost delirious rapture. We clear the broad meadows. Our very horses, with ears erect, gather speed with every bound, and seem ready to cry ha! ha! We are the fabled centaurs of old.

See! see!—the heavy morning mist, rising in huge volumes, reluctantly bares the forest on the mountain side,—it curls and breaks in vast masses,—it slowly rolls off to the eastward. Aye! there he stands—there stands old _Holyoke_, with his cragged coronal of rocks, a gigantic Titan, bidding defiance to time and tempest. Gallop—gallop! we are within two hundred feet of the summit. This precipice, its dark sides frowning and grim, the velvet moss, and little clustres of scarlet and yellow flowers peeping from its crevices, where the ripling brooklet scatters its mimic showers over them, wreathed fantastically with vines and gnarled branches from its clefts,—we must climb on foot. Rest a moment. How perfectly still the dense forest extends around us. Nought breaks the silence, save the querulous cry of the cat-bird, as it hops from branch to branch,—the mimic bark of the squirrel, or the distant hollow tap of the woodpecker. Now, a little more climbing—take care of those loose stones—a few steps additional ascent—give me your hand—spring!—here we are on the rocky platform of its summit. Is not the scene magnificent? We stand in the centre of an amphitheatre two hundred miles in diameter. See! at the base of the mountain curls, like a huge serpent, the Connecticut, its sinuosities cutting the smooth plains with all sorts of grotesque figures,—now making a circuit around a peninsula of miles, across whose neck a child might throw a stone,—here stretching straight as an arrow for a like distance,—and there again returning like a hare upon its course. See the verdant valleys extending around us, rich with the labour of good old New England’s sons, and far in the distance—the blue smoky distance—rising in majesty, God’s land-marks, the mountains. See the beautiful plains, the prairies beneath us, one great carpet of cultivation,—the fields of grain, the yellow wheat, the verdant maize, the flocks, the herds, the meadow, the woodland, forming beautiful and defined figures in its texture, while the villages in glistening whiteness, are scattered, like patches of snow, in every part of the landscape; and hark! in that indistinct and mellow music we hear the bell slowly tolling from yonder slender spire. Oh! for a Ruysdael, or a Rubens, to do justice to the picture.

Surely God did not intend that we should sweat and pant in cities when he places such scenes before us. How like the fierce giants of old the lofty mountains encircle it, as a land of enchantment. See! see! the clouds, as they scud along in the heavens, how they throw their broad shadows, chasing each other on the plains below. Imagine them squadrons, charging in desperate and bloody battle. But no—widows and orphans’ tears follow not _their_ encounters—rather the smiles of the honest, hard-handed yeoman, as he foresees his wains groaning with the anticipated harvests—his swelling stacks—his crowded granaries. Here, for the present, let us recline on the broad and moss-covered rocks, while with the untutored Indian, its rightful owner, in silent admiration, we worship the Great Spirit, whose finger moves not, save in beauty, in harmony and majesty.

WHITE MOUNTAINS.

“Knock! knock! knock!” W-e-l-l. “Thump! thump! thump!” Who’s there? What do you want? “Passengers for the White Mountains, Sir, time to get up,—stage ready.” Is it possible? three o’clock already? W-e-l-l, I’ll get up. Call the gentleman in the next room. Well, my friend, how are you, after your trip of yesterday to Mount Holyoke?—a little stiff in the knees and ancles, eh!—but come, the stage is at the door. Waiter, hold the light. How forlorn look the heavy muddy vehicle, and half-waked horses by the dim light of the stage lamps. That’s right, my good fellow; throw those carpet-bags in the inside. Shut the door. All ready. Driver, go ahead! “Aye, aye, sir.” Hey!—Tchk! tchk!—Crack! crack! crack! off we go. The steady clatter of the horses’ hoofs, the jingling of the harness, the occasional roll, as we pass over the boards of some bridge, and the intejectional whistle of the driver as he encourages them, are the only things that break the silence for the next hour. The morning light begins to dawn. Whom have we here? Only two fellow travellers. An honest, clean-looking countryman, snugly fixed in one corner, with his night-cap pulled over his eyes, and his mouth wide open, as if admiring the melody that his nose in bugle strain is enacting just above it; and opposite to him a gross fat man, of rubicund visage, his eyes ensconced in goggles. See! he nods—and nods—and nods, and now his head bobs forward into his neighbour’s lap. How foolishly he looks, as he awakes to consciousness. It is broad day-light. Let us get up with the driver on the outside, and enjoy our cigars and the scenery together.

Here we go, through the Connecticut River Valley, famous for its scenery and its legends—the region of bright eyes and strong arms—the land of quiltings and huskings—of house-raisings and militia trainings, and the home of savory roast pigs and stuffed turkeys, of fat geese, of apple sauce, and pumpkin pies; the Ultima Thule to the Yankee’s imagination. Now we are at Deerfield. While they are about our breakfast, we will run across the road, and see the old Williams Mansion. A hundred years since, it was surrounded by Indians, and its occupant, the clergyman, with his family, carried off captives to Canada. Here is the very hole cut in the front door by their tomahawks, and here the hacks of the hatchets. Through this hole they ran their rifles, and fired into the house, killing a man confined to his bed by sickness, and here is the ball lodging to this day in the side of the wall—and this occurred one hundred years ago! Say you, that the people that treasure up these legends, and retain these memorials untouched, have no poetry in their souls? But there goes the stageman’s horn! Our breakfast finished, we resume our places at the side of the good-natured driver, and on we roll. We pass Brattleboro’, snugly ensconced in its mountain eyrie, and Hanover, with its broad parade, its flourishing colleges, and its inhabitants that never die,—save from old age.

With teams of six and eight horses, we speed over hill, over dale, over mountain, over valley, ascending and descending the mountains in full run; our gallant horses almost with human instinct, guiding themselves. Snorting leaders, swerve not aside in your career—linch-pins, do your duty—traces and breeching, hold on toughly, or “happy men be our dole.” Hah! Wild Amonoosac, we greet thy indeed wild roar.—How it sweeps the fallen timber in its boiling eddies! The huge logs slide dancing onwards with the velocity of the canoes of the Indian; or caught by envious projection, or uplifting rock, form dams and cascades, till the increasing and cumbrous masses, gathering momentum, plunge forward, sweeping all before them,—and—but whist! Step into the shade of this tree—look into the dark pool beneath those gnarled roots—how beautifully the gold and purple colours glitter—how motionlessly still is the head—how slight and tremulous the movement of that fin—the wavy motion of the tail. A two pounder, as I am a Christian! Whist! whist! See that dragon-fly, gently sailing o’er the surface—he rests a moment on it. Watch! the head slowly turns—the fins move decidedly—ay—now—one rapid whirl of the tail—an electric leap to the surface—Poor fly, thy history is written; and well for thee, thou greedy trout, that no barbed hook suspends thee in mid air—struggling in beauty, though in death, the prize of exulting angler. And thou, too, art there, savage _Mount Franconia_, with thy fantastic and human outline! Old Man of the Mountain!—with what grim stoicism thou lookest down upon the busy miners, as with picks and powder-blast they rive the sullen mineral from thy vitals. Ay! watch thou by the lurid glare the sweating, half-naked forgemen, as they feed with thy forests the roaring furnaces. Watch the molten ore, slowly running in glittering streams, with fiery showers of scintillations into the dark earth-troughs below; while with ceaseless din, the ponderous trip-hammers, and clanking machinery, break the till now Sabbath stillness of thy dwelling place. But fare thee well, thou imperturbable old man; fare thee well, for now, we enter the dense continuous forest, through which the busy hand of man has with unwearied industry cut the avenue. How deliciously the aroma of the gigantic pines, mingles with the pure elastic air of the mountains. See the thick undergrowth; the dogwood with its snowy blossoms—the scarlet sumac—the waving green briar, profuse with delicate roses,—the crimson raspberry, loaded with its fruit—the yellow sensitive plant—the dancing blue-bell; and, rising through the entangled mass of verdure and beauty, see the luxuriant wild grape, and clinging ivy, joyously climbing the patriarchs of the forest, encircling their trunks, and hanging their branches in graceful festoons and umbrageous bowers.—No human foot, save with the aid of pioneer, can penetrate its matted wildness—nought save those huge patriarchs rising above it as they grow old and die, and fall with crashing uproar, as into flowery sepulchre, intrude upon its solitude. Then, indeed, in heavy booming plunge and rush, they seem to wildly sing, like their painted children, their death song. But hark!—whence that wild and dissonant shriek, that rings upon the ear? Ah—yonder, erect and motionless, he sits upon the towering oak with haughty eye and talons of iron, screaming his call of warning to his partner, slowly circling in graceful curves high, high in the blue ether above him. Ay! proud bird, our nation’s emblem, would that thy wild scream could warn from us, the accursed spirit of Mammon, which, spreading like an incubus, blights and destroys with its mildew the virtues and energies of her sons.

But see, where, as the dense forest stretches onward, the casual spark dropped by the hand of the woodman, spreading into flame, and gathering in mighty volumes of fire, has swept onwards in its roaring, crackling, destroying progress, leaving nought behind it, save these grim and blackened skeletons, and dead plains of ashes. See what darkness and desolation, and apparent annihilation, extend around you—but yet, silently and quietly, ere long, shall the germ of life which can never die, rise from these ashes, and verdure and beauty reign again, as was their wont. Even so the solitary mourner, when death strikes down at his side his dearest ones, stands helplessly encircled by solitude and desolation; but soon all-pervading benevolence causes the green germ of the soul to rise from the ashes, and his heart again expands with tenderness and sympathy.

The scene of desolation is passed! and now, lest the Lord of fire should reign uncontrolled, lo! where the spirit of the whirlwind has swept in his wild tornado. Lo! far as your vision can command the circle—where, rushing from the mountain gorges his chariots have whirled along in their fierce career of destruction. In mid height, the lofty trees are snapped like pipe-stems, and prone like the field of grain laid by the hand of the reaper, huge trunks with the moss of centuries,—not here and there one solitary,—but for miles, the whole vast forest—prostrate, never again to rise.

But speed! speed! the mountain passes are before us! See—see their huge walls tower in chaotic wildness above us. Rocks on rocks—ledge on ledge—cliff on cliff—plunged upon each other in frantic disorder. See—

“See the giant snouted crags, ho! ho!
How they snort, how they blow.”

See the huge rock ramparts shooting their wild peaks and jagged pinnacles upwards, piercing the very sky above us! their frowning and gashed sides trickling and discoloured with the corroding minerals in their bowels; the stunted pines and evergreens clinging like dwarf shrubs in their crevices. Take heed! beware you fall not. See the huge slides—they have swept whole torrents of rocks, of earth, in promiscuous destruction, from their summits, upon the valley below—the rivers filled, and turned from their courses, in their path,—the very forest itself—the loftiest trees torn up, their branches, their trunks, their upturned roots ground and intermixed with rock and earth, and splintered timber, swept on in wild, inextricable confusion—and here! where starting from their slumbers, the devoted family rushed naked and horror-stricken to meet it in mid career. Ay! hold on by the sides of the steep precipice—cling to the ledge as the wild wind rushes by in furious gust—a slip were your passport to eternity. Look down! How awful the precipice, thousands of feet below you—how the blood curdles and rushes back upon the heart, as you imagine the fatal plunge. Well might the Puritans of old, deem these ghastly deserts the abode and haunts of the evil one.

But, on—on—how toilsome the ascent.—That was a fearful blast; hold tightly the wild roots in thy grasp as it passes. Long since have we passed the region of vegetation: the dry and arid moss clinging to rock and stone, is alone around us. Ay! drink of that spring—but beware its icy coldness—nor winter, nor summer, alters its temperature. Behold, in the clefts and gorges below, the never-melting snow-wreaths. The flaming suns of summer pass over, and leave them undiminished. Courage! we climb, we climb. The witches of the Brocken ne’er had such wild chaos for their orgies. Courage, my friend! We ascend—we ascend—we reach the top—now panting—breathless—exhausted, we throw ourselves upon the extreme summit.

Gather your faculties—press hard your throbbing heart. Catch a view of the scene of grandeur around you, before the wild clouds, like dense volumes of steam, enclose us in their embrace, shutting it from our vision;—mountains—mountains—rolling off as far as eye can reach in untiring vastness—a huge sea of mountains held motionless in mid career. How sublime! how grand! what awful solitude! what chilling, stern, inexorable silence! It seems as if an expectant world were awaiting in palpitating stillness the visible advent of the Almighty—mountain and valley in expectant awe. Oh! man—strutting in thy little sphere, thinkest thou that adoration is confined alone to thy cushioned seats—thy aisles of marble; that for devotion, the Almighty looks to nought but thee? Why, look thou there!—beneath—around—millions—millions—millions of acres teeming with life, yet hushed in silence to thy ear—each grain the integer and composite of a world—the minutest portion, a study—a wonder in itself—lie before thee in awful adoration of their Almighty Founder. Well did the Seers of old go into the mountains to worship. Oh! my brother-man—thou that dost toil, and groan, and labour, in continual conflict with what appears to thee unrelenting fate—thou to whom the brow-sweat appears to bring nought but the bitter bread, and contumely, and shame;—thou on whom the Sysiphean rock of misfortune seems remorselessly to recoil—ascend thou hither. Here, on this mountain-peak, nor King, nor Emperor are thy superior. Here, thou _art_ a man. Stand thou here; and while with thy faculties thou canst command, in instant comprehension, the scene sublime before thee, elevate thee in thy self-respect, and calmly, bravely throw thyself into the all-sheltering arms of Him, who watches with like benevolence and protection, the young bird in its grassy nest, and the majestic spheres, chiming eternal music in their circling courses!

BASS FISHING OFF NEWPORT.

Here we are at Newport—what a little gem of an island—rising like emerald on sapphire, from the surrounding ocean. Neither at Potter’s nor at Whitfield’s, will we take our abode. We will walk up to the Mall. Ay, here, with its green blinds and scrupulously clean piazza, is old Mrs. E——’s, and they are at tea already. Come, take your seat at table.

With what serene dignity and kindness the old lady, in her nice plaited cap, her spotless kerchief, and russet poplin dress, her pin ball, with its silver chain, hanging at her waist—presides at the board—crowded with every imaginable homely delicacy—from the preserved peach and crullers made by herself, to the green candied limes brought home by her grandson from his last West India voyage. See the antique furniture, with its elaborate carving, the mahogany-framed looking-glasses; and, in the corner, on the round stand, the large Bible, carefully covered with baize, surmounted with the silver spectacles. No place this for swearing, duel-fighting, be-whiskered heroes; but just the thing for quiet, sober folk, like you and me. What sayest thou, Scipio, thou ebon angel,—that the ebb sets at five i’ the morning, and that old Davy Swan, the fisherman, will be ready for us at the Long Wharf at that hour? Well, get yourself ready and go along with us. Call us in season. Ay, that will do—the roll of those eyes—the display of that ivory, to say nothing of the scratch of that head, and the sudden displacement of that leg, sufficiently evince thy delight.

So, so,—here we are, punctual to the hour. Ay, yonder he is in his broad strong fishing-boat; yonder is old Davy Swan, as he was twenty years ago; the same tall, gaunt figure, the same stoop in the shoulders, bronzed visage, and twinkling grey eyes; the same wrinkles at the side of his mouth, though deeper; the same long, lank hair, but now the sable silvered; the same—the same that he was in the days of my boyhood. He sees us. Now he stretches up to the wharf. Jump in—jump in. Be careful, thou son of Ethiopia, or thy basket will be overboard—sad disappointment to our sea-whet appetites some few brief hours hence. All in. We slide gently from the wharf. The light air in the inner harbour here barely gives us headway. Look down into the deep, still water—clear as crystal; see the long sea-weed wave below; see the lithe eels, coursing and whipping their paths through its entangled beds; and see our boat, with its green and yellow sides—its long flaunting pennant—its symmetrical white sails, suspended, as if in mid-air, on its transparent surface.

How still and tranquil lies the quiet town, as the sun gilds its white steeples; and how comfortable look the old family mansions rising from the green trees. How beautifully the yellow sun casts his shadows on the undulating surface of the island, green and verdant—the flocks of sheep, and browsing cattle, grouped here and there upon its smooth pastures. And see, how yonder alike he gilds the land of the brave, the chivalrous, the unfortunate Miantonimoh. We float past Fort Wolcott. Its grass-grown ramparts, surmounted with dark ordnance, and its fields cheerful with white-washed cottages and magazines.

Ay! now it breezes a little—now we gather headway—and now we pass the cutter. See her long, taper, raking masts, her taut stays and shrouds; and hear, as the stripes and stars are run up to her gaff, the short roll of the drum, the “beat to quarters.” Hah! Davy,—old fellow, dost remember that note last war? How many times, at midnight, we’ve sprang from our beds as that short, quick “rub-a-dub” warned us of the approach of the blockading frigates, as they neared the town. But, no, no,—forgive me, old tar,—I recollect, indeed, thou then wast captain of thy gun, on board the dashing _Essex_. Ay! well now do I remember, brave old sailor, thy conduct in her last desperate battle. Eighteen men hadst thou killed at thy single gun. I think I see thee now, as grimed with powder, spattered with blood, thou didst advance, through fire and smoke, and approach thy saturnine commander on the quarter-deck. I hear thy brief, business-like request, “A fresh crew for Number Three, Second Division. All my men are killed!” And the short, stern response, “Where is your officer?” “_Dead_,—swept overboard by cannon shot.” And well can I see the momentary play of anguish round his mouth, as, resuming his hurried walk, he gloomily replies, “I have no more men—you must fight your gun yourself!” Ay—and as thy proud ship a helpless target lay, for twice superior force, I hear poor Ripley, thy brave comrade, severed almost in twain by cannon shot, crying, with short farewell—“Messmates, I am no longer of use to myself or country,” as he throws himself, his life-blood gushing, overboard.

But now the wind freshens—the smooth surface darkens—the sails belly out in tension, and the white ripples gather under our bows. We round the point: Fort Adams, we pass thy massive walls, thy grim “forty-two’s” glaring like wild beasts, chained, ready to leap upon us from their casements. Ay—now we run outside—now it freshens—now it breezes—she begins to dance like a feather. There it comes stronger! see the white caps! There she goes—scuppers under—swash—swash—swash—we jump from wave to wave, as we run parallel with the shore, our pennant streaming proudly behind us. Here it comes, strong and steady—there she takes it—gunwale under—luff, old fellow! luff up, Davy! or you’ll give us all wet jackets. Ay! that will do—she’s in the wind’s eye. How the waves tumble in upon the land—see the Spouting Rock—see the column of white foam thrown up, as repulsed, the waves roll out again from the rocky cavern. We near the Dumplings—and, round to! round to! here are the lobster-pots—haul in—tumble them in the bottom of the boat—ay—there’s bait enough. Now we lay our course across to Beaver Light—we slide, we dash along—springing from wave to wave—dash—dash—no barnacles on her bottom at this rate, Davy. Ay, here we are—a quick run—a good quick run. Anchor her just outside the surf—ay, that will do—give her a good swing—let her ride free—she rolls like a barrel on these long waves. Look to your footing, boys—steady—steady. Now, then, for it. Davy, you and Scip will have as much as you can do to bait for us—all ready. Here goes then—a good long throw—that’s it—my sinker is just inside the surf. What!—already! I’ve got him—pull in, pull in—see, my line vibrates like a fiddle-string!—pull away—here he is—_Tautaug_—three-pounder. Lie you there—ay, slap away, beauty, you have done for ever with your native element. There, again—off with him. Again—again—again. This is fun to us, but death to you, ye disciples of St. Anthony! Give me a good large bait this time, Scipio—that will do—now, whis-whis-whis-te—that’s a clean, long throw. By Jupiter! you have got a bite with a vengeance. Careful—give him more line—let it run—play him—ease—ease the line around the thole-pin; he’ll take all the skin of your fingers else. Pull away gently—there he runs. Careful, or you lose him—play him a little—he begins to tire—steady, steady—draw away—now he shoots wildly this way—look out! there he goes under the boat; here he is again. Steady—quick, Davy, the net;—I’ve got it under him—now then, in with him. Bass! twenty pounds, by all the steel-yards in the old Brick Market! Ay, there they have got hold of me; a pull like a young shark; let it run—the whole line is out—quick, quick—take a turn round the thole-pin—snap! There, Davy! there goes your best line, sinker, hooks and all. Give me the other line. Ah, ha!—again—again—again. This is sport. One—two—three——nine Bass, and thirty Tautaug. So—the tide won’t serve here any longer; we will stretch across to Brenton’s Reef, on the other side. Up anchor, hoist away the jib. Here we go, again coursing o’er the blue water. How the wind lulls. Whew—whew—whew—blow wind, blow! Put her a little more before it; that will do. Hallo, you, Scipio! wake up—wake up. Here we are, close on the reef—give her plenty of cable. Let her just swing clear, to lay our sinkers on the rocks. That will do. How the surges swell, and roar, and, recoiling, rush again boiling on the rocks. So—so, they don’t bite well here to-day. The tide comes in too strong flood; well, we can’t complain, we have had good sport even as it is. Come, Africa, bear a hand; let’s see what you have got in that big basket. Come, turn out, turn out. Ham, chicken, smoked salmon, bread and butter; and in that black bottle?—ay, good old brown stout? Pass them along—pass them along, and wo be unto thee, old fellow, if thy commissariat falls short.

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.