Chapter III (6)

No doubt my version has its faults; but it has at least the merit of consistency. Not only is a mountain more poetical than a pair of stairs, but echoes are more appropriately typified as wild beasts than as seeds; and echoes and wild beasts agree better with a mountain than does a pair of stairs with the _sowing_ of seeds—even admitting that these seeds be seeds of fire, and be sown broadcast “among the hills” by a steep generation while in the act of tumbling down the stairs—that is to say, of coming down the stairs in too great a hurry to be capable of sowing the seeds as accurately as all seeds should be sown:—nor is the matter rendered any better for Mrs. Browning, even if the construction of her sentence be understood as implying that the fiery seeds were sown, not immediately by the steep generations that tumbled down the stairs, but mediately, through the intervention of the “supernatural thunders” that were _occasioned_ by the steep generations that were so unlucky as to tumble down the stairs.

* * * * *

THE TELEGRAPH SPIRIT.

BY JNO. S. DU SOLLE.

The telegraph-wires utter, when the wind blows, certain singularly sad, yet spirited music-tones. When they pass through the leaves of a tree the effect is strangely beautiful.

Mysterious Spirit! hark! I hear thee voicing,
Up where the wind-breath woos thee, with its tone
Of mingled mournfulness and strange rejoicing—
As though ’twould fear thee, yet to love were prone.
What doth it whisper ’mid the green tree’s shading?
Or art thou trembling, not with hope but ire?
Chid’st thou its love? Or is it thee upbraiding
With thine inconstant tongue of living fire?

Is it some life-tale thou art subtly telling?
Some tale of dark and passionate romance—
That the young leaflets seem with wonder swelling,
Shrink at thy touch, and eye thee so askance?
Or are they timid only with emotion?
And pout their tiny lips up but for show,
O’er some new story of the heart’s devotion,
That thou art murmuring to the earth below?

Or, ravished from the grasp of Time and Distance,
Com’st thou with News, to gift, with sudden joy,
The sad heart with a sense of fresh existence—
Making the old man feel once more a boy?
Or bear’st thou words to soothe not, but to sunder?
Quietly rupturing the holiest ties—
Just as the lightning’s flash, without its thunder,
Blasts what it looks on with its venomous eyes!

Or is’t, oh, Captive One! thy life-voice fretting,
That, like a caged-bird wrested from its home,
(Thy fluttering wing its sky paths unforgetting,)
Along thy prison-wires such murmurs come?
I hear thee now! And chafing, ah, how vainly!
For they have chained the death-glance of thine eye—
Sightless as Samson—struggling more insanely—
Thou couldst not if thou wouldst, lie down and die!

* * * * *

CAIUS MARIUS

AMIDST THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

A SKETCH FROM HISTORY.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD
HURDIS,” &c.

_The Dungeon of Minturnæ._

MARIUS. THE CIMBRIAN.

Marius. What art thou, wretch, that in the darkness com’st, The midnight of this prison, with sly step, Most fit for the assassin, and bared dagger Gleaming in thy lifted grasp!

Cimbrian. I am sent by those Whose needs demand thy death. A single stroke Sets us both free forever—thou from Fate, Me from Captivity.

Marius. Slave, hast thou the heart
To strike at that of Marius!

Cimbrian. That voice! that name Disarm me; and those fearful eyes that roll Like red stars in the darkness, fill my soul With awe that stays my hand. Master of the world, The conqueror of my people hast thou been! I know thee as a Fate! I cannot harm thee.

Marius. Go to thy senders, and from Marius, say, That, if they bare the weapon for my breast, Let them send hither one who has not yet Looked in a master’s eye. ’Tis not decreed That I shall perish yet, or by such hands As gather in Minturnæ. Get thee hence!

——

_Public Hall of Minturnæ._

MAGISTRATES. THE CIMBRIAN. AUGUR.

Cimbrian. I cannot slay this man. Give me to strike Some baser victim, or restore to me My chains. I cannot purchase at such price The freedom that I covet.

Magistrate. Yet this man
Conquered thy people.

Cimbrian. He hath conquered me!

Augur. And he must conquer still! His hour is not yet come. The Fates reserve His weapon for their service. They have need Of his avenging ministry, to purge The world of its corruptions. I behold A fearful vision of the terrible deeds That wait upon his arm. Let him go free. Give him due homage; clothe him with fresh robes; Speed him in secret with a chosen bark To other shores. So shall your city ’scape Rome’s wrath, and his hereafter.

Magistrate. It is well:
This counsel looks like wisdom.

Augur. It is more!
So the Gods speak through their interpreter.

Magistrate. Release him straightway—send him forth in honor;
We give him freedom—let the gods give safety.

——

_Island of Ænaria._

MARIUS. CETHEGUS.

Cethegus. Thou hast slept, Marius.

Marius. And thou hast watched my sleep. Ah! truest friend and follower, not in vain; Dismiss that cloudy trouble from thy brows, The doubts that vex thy heart; for know that Fate Still has me in its keeping, and decrees Yet other deeds and conquests at my hand, And still one glorious triumph. I shall be Once more, in Rome, a Consul! When a child, Sporting, on summer slopes, beneath old hills, Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud, Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.

Cethegus. Thou hast had it six.

Marius. One other yet remains.

Cethegus. Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream; For know that, while thou sleptst, our treacherous bark Loosed sail, and left the shores.

Marius. Gone!

Cethegus. Clean from sight.

Marius. Ha! ha! Now thank the gods that watch my sleep, And save me when the might of man would fail! Courage, my friend, that vessel speeds to wreck, Racked on some lurking rock beneath the wave, Or foundering in the tempest. We are safe!

Cethegus. Thou’rt confident.

Marius. As Fate and Hope can make me. Yet look! there is an omen. We must fly This place for other refuge. See the strife Betwixt these deadly scorpions on the sands.

Cethegus. What read’st thou in this omen?

Marius. Sylla’s soldiers Are fast upon our heels. Get to the shore; Some fisher’s boat will help us from the land, And bear us whither the directing fates Decree for refuge—safely o’er the seas That gulphed our treacherous vessel.

Cethegus. Be it so!
I follow thee whatever be thy fate!

Marius. Hark! dost thou hear?

Cethegus. What sound?

Marius. The tramp of horse;
And lo! the boat awaits us by the shore!

——

_Marius, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage._

Alone, but not a captive—not o’ercome By any fate, and reckless of its doom, Even midst the ruins by his own arm made, There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid! What mighty thoughts, that will not be repressed, Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast; What glorious memories of the immortal strife, Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life; That giant-like, sea rival of his own Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne; Doomed in long conflict, through experience dread, To bend the neck at last, to bow the head; To feel his foot upon her lordly brow, And yield to him who shares her ruins now.

How o’er his soul, with passion still that gushed, The wondrous past with all its memories rushed; These ruins made his monument. They told Of wisest strategy, adventure bold. Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long, That tried his genius, and approved it strong; That left him robed in conquest, and supreme, His country’s boast, his deeds her brightest theme; Written in brass and marble—sung in strains That warm the blood to dances in the veins; That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill, And crown the spirit with achieving will; That seem eternal in the deeds they show, And waken echoes that survive below; Brood o’er the mortal slumbering in the tomb, And keep his name in song, his works in bloom, Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit, Join in the homage, who till then were mute; Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite To sing the bird they could not match in flight; Content to honor where they could not shame, And praise the worth they could not rob of fame.

How, with these memories gathering in his breast, Of all the labors that denied him rest— Of all the triumphs that his country bore To heights of fame she had not won before— Broods he, the exile from his state and home, On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome! Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees, Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees. No sad submission yields he to his fate, So long as solace comes to him from hate, Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace No single look to recompense disgrace; With no ambition checked, no passion hushed, No pride o’erthrown, no fond delusion crushed; With every fire alive that ever swayed, His soul as lordly as when most obeyed, He broods o’er wrongs, forgetful of his own, And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone. Fixed on the ruins round him, his dread eye Glances, as if fastened on his enemy; His hand is on the fragment of a shrine That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine: Grasped firmly—could the fingers but declare How dread the oath the soul was heard to swear! The awful purpose nursed within, denies Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes, Informs each muscle with the deadliest will, But till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”

Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore; Reveal the secret purpose that inspires That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires; Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance Fixed on those ruins in intensest trance, That nothing speaks to that it still surveys, And looks within alone with meaning gaze; Unclose that lip, that rigidly compressed, Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast; And on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound, Write the full record of his thought profound. What future scene beneath that piercing eye Depicts the carnage and the victory; The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped— The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead: Say, what wild sounds have spelled that eager ear, That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear; How many thousands perish in that cry That fills his bloody sense with melody; What pleading voices, stifling as they swell, Declare the vengeance gratified too well? What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread, Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid? What horrid scene of triumph and of hate, Do ye discover to this man of Fate, Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears, Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?

He hath no speech, save in the ruins round; But there’s a language, born without a sound, A voice whose thunders, though unuttered, fly From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye; There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare, Still tearing those who taught him how to tear; One dream alone delighting his desire— The dream that finds the fuel for his fire; Let fancy shape the language for his mood, And speak the purpose burning in his blood.

——

Marius. “If thou hadst ears, O Carthage! for the voice That speaks among thy ruins, it would cheer The spirit that was crushed beneath my heel, To hear the tongue of thy destroyer swear To live as thy avenger. I have striven For Rome against thee, till, in frequent strife, Thy might was overthrown—thy might as great As Rome’s in days most palmy—save in this: Thou hadst no soul as potent in thy service, As I have been in hers. And thou, and all— The Gaul, the Goth, the Cimbrian—all the tribes That swelled the northern torrents, and brought down, Yearly, the volumed avalanche on Rome, Have sunk beneath my arm, until secure She sat aloft in majesty, seven-throned, And knew or feared no foe. This was my work— Nor this alone; from the patrician sway, That used her as the creature of his will, I plucked her eagles, casting down his power Beneath plebeian footstep. For long years Of cruellest oppression and misrule, I took a merited vengeance on her pride, Debasing her great sons, that in their fall Her people might be men. I loved her tribes, Since they were mine. I made their homes secure; I raised their free condition into state— And I am here! These ruins speak for me— An exile; scarred with honorable wounds, At seventy years, alone and desolate.

“But the o’er-ruling Deities decree My triumph. From thy ruins comes a voice Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries To me as thy avenger. Thou forgiv’st My hand the evil it has wrought on thee, That the same hand, upon thy conqueror’s head May work like ruin. The atoning Fates Speak through thy desolation. They declare That I shall tread the ungrateful city’s streets, Armed with keen weapon and consuming fire, And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow The seeds of future ruins in her heart, So that her fall, if far less swift than thine, Shall be yet more complete. She shall consume With more protracted suffering. She shall pass Through thousand ordeals of the strife and storm, Each bitterer than the last—each worse than thine— A dying that shall linger with its pain Its dread anxieties, its torturing scourge; A period long as life, with life prolonged, Only for dire, deserved miseries. Her state shall fluctuate through successive years, With now great shows of pride—with arrogance That goes before destruction—that her fall May more increase her shame. The future grows— Drear characters, as written on a wall— In fiery lines before me; and I read The rise of thousands who shall follow me, Each emulous of vengeance fell as mine, By mine at first begotten. Yet why gaze In profitless survey of the work of years, Inevitable to the prescient soul, And leave our own undone? I hear a voice Reproaching me that I am slow to vengeance; I, whom the Fates but spare a few short hours, That I may open paths to other masters, For whom they find the scourge. They tutor me That mine’s a present mission; not for me To traverse the wide future in pursuit Of those who shall succeed me in their service, But to speed onward in the work of terror, So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready, Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise, Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins, Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey, And bound to my performance as the lion, Long crouching in his jungle, who at last Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye; A crimson sea receives me, and I tread In billows thus incarnadined from nations That bleed through ages thus at every vein. Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still Lark homeless in these ruins that ye once Made sacred as abodes, and deemed secure, I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer, And swear myself your soldier. I will go, And with each footstep on some mighty neck, Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine! Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud, Before my coming, Rome?[A] Is not my spirit, That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose, Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant, Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper, That loads him with despair? Alone I come; But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd About me with their service—willing creatures That shall assist me first to work on thee, And last upon themselves! The daylight fades, And night belongs to vengeance. I depart, Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror’s heart.”

Silent once more the ruins—dark the night, Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrassed flight; No fears delay, no toils retard the speed Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed; And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure, Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell That summons human fiends to works of hell! Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate, Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate; Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain, Thy virtues sapped to break thy despot’s chain; Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong, The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong; Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway That kept meet progress with the march of day; That from all nations plucked the achieving arts, That make sway sov’reign in a people’s hearts; Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear, There swelled the temple’s crest, the column there, Each with its chronicle to spell the soul, And each most precious to the crowning whole; A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made The admiring nations silent in thy shade; Genius and art commingling in thy cause, And gods presiding o’er thy matchless laws. But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh, And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky; Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last, And all thy glories centre in thy past— Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath Thy altars swells the midnight cry of death; The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe, But to make bare thy bosom to the blow; From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom, And thy own children hollow out thy tomb. The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame, Were those that led thee once to heights of fame; The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast, Is the same eagle that made safe thy nest. Hark at his shrilly scream! the sleuth-hounds wake, The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake; Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey The herds they kept most busy with the prey. These are the flocks they fostered from their foes, And these are first to drink the blood that flows. Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire The maddened son to prey upon the sire! Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields To make this last the bloodiest of his fields. Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down, His iron footstep planted on thy crown; But in thy fate, ’tis something for thy pride, Thus self-destroyed, thou mighty suicide!

-----

[A] The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Johnson’s tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome, etc.”

* * * * *

SONG.—THE CONGRATULATION.

Give wings to thy wildest hopes,
For thy destiny now is known,
And even a lover’s dreams
Could scarcely thus high have flown.

Give wings to thy wildest dreams—
The loved one now is thine,
Nor moveth there on the earth
A being so like divine.

A form so noble and free,
A heart so high and so true;
Oh! thine is as bright a star
As gleams in yon sky of blue.

Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,
Thy raptures no more conceal,
For to thee every coming hour
Can only new joys reveal.
WILFRED.

* * * * *

* * * * *

GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.

NO. I.—THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

There are two things that never grow old—good poetry and good music. They live in the heart like the memory of a beloved friend. Good poetry is the out-birth of real emotions. It is the language of the affections. When the heart feels deeply its utterance takes the form of poetry; and when it seeks to vary its affections and give them a deeper and more expressive form, it seeks the aid of music. Poetry, in coming into the mind, touches it with a sense of beauty, moves its sympathies, or elevates it into a higher appreciation of the pure and heroic; but when music is married to immortal verse, all becomes more intense and real. How fully this is perceived when we hear some familiar ballad or fine lyric sung with skill and taste. We saw beauties before, but now we feel them.

With Moore’s exquisite Irish Melodies, we have been familiar from childhood as poetry and music united. “The Meeting of the Waters,” “The Last Rose of Summer,” “The Legacy,” “Come Rest in this Bosom,” and a dozen besides that could be named, we think of but to love. Fashionable they are not, because the fashion of this world changeth, and in fashionable assemblages we rarely hear them; but now and then a gentle friend warbles them for us in private—or some one bold enough for an innovation, ventures upon a “Melody” in public. How the old sounds stir the heart! How old associations and old feelings come up from the dim past!

The words of these melodies were all written to old airs, familiar throughout Ireland—native airs born from the hearts of the people, and, like links in a golden chain, binding their hearts together. We need not say how well Moore performed his task. Their popularity, for nearly half a century, would make praise an idle tribute. Before these songs were written, the wildly-beautiful, tender, and often spirit-thrilling melodies of the people found only an imperfect utterance. But, when words in correspondence with the music were given, the whole island broke forth into song as by a single impulse. And, soon Albion took up the strains responsive to her sister Erin, (we wish she had not proved to Erin so unnatural a sister,) and for once, at least, found something to admire and love that was born in the Emerald Island.

A remarkable instance of the power of some of these melodies over the heart is that related of Lucretia Davidson. She was particularly sensitive to music, and there was a song, “Moore’s Farewell to his Harp,” to which she took a great fancy, and which always affected the fine poetical organism of her mind in a peculiar manner. She wished to hear it only in the twilight. Then she would listen to the strain until she became cold, pale, and almost fainting. It was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to the verses addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister.

It was not the words of this song that alone affected Miss Davidson. Without the melody in which they found a more perfect utterance, she might never have thought of them after the first reading. But the music spoke to her in the heart’s own language, and her spirit felt an intense sympathy.

Of this particular native air, Moore says, it is “one that defies all poetry to do it justice.”

Among the most tender and beautiful of the Irish Melodies is that known as “The Meeting of the Waters,” Maclise’s exquisite illustration of which we give in the present number of Graham. In the summer of 1807 Moore paid a visit to the Vale of Avoca, in the county of Wicklow, where the two rivers Avon and Avoca meet, a most lovely and enchanting spot. This visit suggested the song which has since been so wide a favorite, and which has associated the vale of Avoca with all that is charming and romantic.

“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

“Yet, it _was_ not that nature had shed o’er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
’Twas _not_ her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.

“’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love;

“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”

The vale of Avoca, thus made classic ground, thousands have since visited; and the tourist through Ireland would as soon think of neglecting the lakes of Killarney as “the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.”

From among the many descriptions of this beautiful spot, we will select that given by an American lady who visited Ireland in 1845. It is brief but eloquent. She says—

“It was Ireland’s summer twilight, lingering long, as though loth to draw the curtain closely about a bright isle in a dark world like this. It was early in July, the rich foliage had attained its maturity, and not a seared leaf was sprinkled on bush or tree, to warn that autumn was near. For the first mile the road was smooth and broad, lined with trees, now and then a white gate with white stone pillars, opening to some neat cottage or domain; the glowing streaks of the setting sun had not left the western sky, and glimmered through the trees; while the air, made fragrant by the gentle shower, diffused through body and mind that calmness which seemed to whisper, ‘Be silent; it is the Vale of Avoca you are entering.’ We descended a declivity, and the vale opened upon us at ‘the Meeting of the Waters.’ The tree under which Moore sat when he wrote the sweet poem had been pointed to me in the morning. We now stood near the union of the two streams, where the poet says,

‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’

The rich variety of wood; the still, clear, limpid water; the hill and vale, in some parts dark and wild, in others light and soft, ever and anon relieving the eye by some new variety; but above all, the pleasant association that this vale, however dark and deep its recesses, harbors not a venomous serpent or reptile—no, not even the buzz of the mosquito is heard—made it unlike all others. We rode three miles, scarcely uttering a syllable all the while; a holy repose seemed to rest on this hallowed spot, as when it first bloomed under the hand of its Maker, and imagination was prompted to say, as no serpent has ever coiled here, the contaminating touch of sin has not left its impress.

“Never did I leave a spot more reluctantly; it was a night scene which never has faded from my eye, and I hope never will.

‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’

In the deep silence, the voice of God and the soft whisper of angels seemed to be there. These voices said kindly, ‘There is mercy yet for poor erring man.’ It appeared like the bow of the covenant, telling us to look and remember that though this world has been cursed by sin, yet a new heaven and earth are promised, of which this is a shadowy resemblance.

“The borders of this valley are interspersed with gentlemen’s seats, and here and there dotted with the white-washed cottages of the peasants; and the rich cluster of foliage upon the hill sides, upon bush and tree, almost persuade you that the dew of Hermon has fallen upon them. Stranger, when you visit Ireland, visit the Vale of Avoca. If you love God, here you will see him in a picture that must be read; if your stay be limited, waste it not in decyphering a time-defaced stone, telling the bloody deeds of some ancient warrior, or the austerity of some long-lived ascetic; but linger in this spot; stop at the neat little hotel, erected on purpose for the accommodation of the stranger; and morning, noon, and night explore its never-dying beauties of light and shade. Three times did I go through, and when I turned away at last, I felt that

‘I could stay there forever to wander and weep.’”

T. S. A.

* * * * *

THE LONE GRAVE-YARD.

BY HON. J. LEANDER STARR.

On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,
And on its banks the weeping willow grows;
A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,
Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.

Beneath the willows which are growing there,
Repose the forms of those once young and fair;
The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,
And here the widow often comes to weep.

It is a lovely spot for those who think—
For close beside the forest-covered brink,
The placid river rolls its gentle waves,
And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.

Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,
When lured from city life, and cares away;
And lost in contemplation here reclined,
And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.

The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,
The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,
The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,
Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.

In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,
With no companionship except the dead;
Yet not _time lost_, for even the silent tomb
Proclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.

And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,
A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;
And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,
The moral found in every epitaph.

How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,
What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!
How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,
How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.

The busy world drives fast its votaries on,
Months succeed days, and years these months again;
Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!
And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.

Who would not choose his grave in village ground?
Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!
Instead of that false mockery and wo,
Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.

Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,
This be my resting-place whene’er I die!
No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,
But simply this—_the record of my name_.

* * * * *

THE CAPTIVES.

A TALE OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

No portion of the infant colonies suffered more from the rude and unsparing hand of war than did the South, and especially the Carolinas. The storm of desolation fell with double fury on those devoted sections of our country, not only from the foreign invaders, seeking to strike down the germ of our liberties, but also from the intestine foes with which she was cursed. This latter kind of warfare was the more to be dreaded, as it fell alike on the old and the young—the blooming youth and the blushing maiden. No condition was permitted to escape. Gray hairs were nothing in the estimation of those fiends in human shape, called Tories. Children were taken from a weeping mother and consigned to a lingering death; beauty was torn from the bridal altar, and innocence from the house of prayer; all the kind and holy feelings of the human heart were given to the winds, and the family hearth, and even the household circle were often made the scene of a brutal death. Such were some of the dangers and difficulties our fathers had to encounter in the struggle for Independence.

A beautiful day, in the spring of 1781, was drawing to a close. The day had been warm, but now the genial breeze of night, so peculiarly pleasing in southern climates, had sprung up. Dim twilight had taken the place of day, the song of the night-bird was beginning to be heard in the wood, the deep-green foliage of the pines looked still deeper in the fast increasing shadows of night, and one by one the stars took their places in the sky. Silence still and deep rested all around; and naught was heard save the occasional hoot of the solitary owl far in the sombre depths of the forest that shaded both sides of the road, (if such the dimly marked path might be called,) which led through this section of the wood. The ground was covered with a dense growth of pines and other trees, interlaced with wild vines and smaller shrubbery, so that their shade, even in daylight, excluded from the eye every thing that was removed a few paces from the road-side, but now, as the darkness came down, all was a blank. Suddenly the stillness of the scene was broken by a slight noise, and a solitary horseman emerged from the cover of the wood into the opening. When he had gained the road, he checked his horse, and carefully examined the vicinity, as if to satisfy himself of the safeness of his position, as well as to mark the locality of the spot. This caution seemed to proceed as much from a settled habit of watchfulness, common in days of peril, as from a sense of personal danger. In appearance the stranger seemed not to have arrived at the full age of manhood. He was clad in a hunting-frock of blue domestic, common in those days among the inhabitants of the Southern States. The style and finish of the dress, however, bespoke more than usual attention to the fitness of the articles. Around his waist was girded a broad leather belt, embellished in front with a massive buckle, and underneath this might have been seen, almost concealed by the folds of his coat, a pair of pistols, such as were used by the horsemen of that day. His pantaloons were of the same materials as his coat, and on his head he wore a hat that differed from that of a common citizen of the times, only in the additional ornament of a small cockade, worn on the left side near the top. This, with a pair of boots made of untanned leather, and armed with rude spurs, made up the costume of the new comer. In stature he was rather over the usual standard, but not so much so as to take from his figure its appearance of grace and activity. His features were large and manly, and his complexion, though darkened by exposure to the burning rays of the southern sun, still showed the tinge of blood upon the cheek. His eyes were dark and piercing, and a profusion of black and curling hair covered a finely-shaped head. In the whole appearance and bearing of the individual could be read the love of the daring and adventurous, shared in common with the noble and chivalrous sons of the South in those days of peril and danger.

After he seemed to have been satisfied of the absence of any intruder, he advanced a short distance up the path we have mentioned, until he gained a place where the underwood was still more dense and impenetrable. It was a small ravine, made by a rivulet in the wet seasons, but at this time was dry. There the branches of the trees interlaced and formed a natural retreat, so dense as to preclude its being reached with any chance of success. When immediately in front of this, he raised his hands to his mouth and produced a sound so nearly resembling the cry of the wood-owl, that a person who was not very familiar with the singular note of this bird must have been mistaken. It was immediately repeated from the ravine, and in a short time a second person made his egress from the leafy ambush. The appearance of the new comer differed in all respects from that of the first. He was a modern Hercules in frame and figure, and bore the marks of long and severe service in sun and storm. But he was dressed much after the fashion of his companion, though the materials were of a coarser kind, and boasted no ornaments. He wore on his head a cap made of the skin of a fox. His arms were the usual brace of pistols, but in addition he bore in his hand a short rifle, and slung from his broad shoulder was the powder-horn and bullet-pouch of the forest ranger. In his face could be seen the marks of the frontier life—good-nature and courage—a man to trust in danger—a friend when most needed. He advanced with slow and cautious steps until he gained the edge of the wood, and then raising his rifle into a position for immediate use, he breathed in a faint but distinct voice “Hawks.” He waited a moment, and then the voice of the stranger repeated, “_They fly_.” “_All’s right_,” was the glad answer from the forester, and breaking from the thicket, he seized the hand of the horseman with a nerve and energy that made the blood tingle to the ends of the fingers.

“Well, Harry, what of the cavalcade?” asked the younger of the men, in a voice that bespoke the excitement under which he was laboring. “Have they passed? How many of them were there?”

“Oh, a score or more of the villains,” answered the other, in a bold, free voice, “and young Wilson and his sister in the midst. They seemed particularly choice of him, as he was lashed to one of the largest of the gang; but what is to be done—have you seen the captain?”

“No,” replied the other, in an excited manner, “he has not returned from the Santee. If the captain was but here, we would soon teach these renegades better manners than to fire and kill at pleasure; and the sister, too—was not the brother enough?”

There was something in the voice and manner of the speaker when he alluded to the capture of this couple, that told a tale of the feelings, plainer, perhaps, than he would have wished, if he had been in other company than that in which he was. When he again spoke, however, he was more calm and collected. Addressing himself with confidence to his companion, he said,

“Harry, what would you advise? You have had more experience in this mode of life than I, and this is an occasion which calls for all our energies.”

A look of honest pride stole over the face of the forester at this marked display of the confidence of his superior in rank; but it was only for a moment, and then the old expression of caution and determination again resumed its place. After a pause, in which he seemed to be debating in his mind the better way of serving the wish of the other, he appeared to have hit upon the plan, and advancing still nearer to his companion to prevent the possibility of being overheard, he said, in a low whisper,

“You must go back to the camp and raise the men, I will follow in the trail of the party; they must have taken the lower route, as the late defeat of the Tories in the north would make the other unsafe. If I fail I will meet you at the Big Pine—you will take that road—they cannot get farther than the Cypress Swamp to-night—I will be there.”

This arrangement seemed to meet the views of the other, as he made no objections to it, but after some minor matters had been disposed of, the two prepared to separate. Shaking his companion heartily by the hand, the younger of the friends struck into the forest in the same direction as that from which we saw him emerge. The other gazed after him until he became lost in the darkness of the shadows, and then striking into the wood in the opposite direction, he proceeded for some distance with hasty steps, until he gained a spot more densely shaded than usual. Parting the branches, he entered the enclosure, and in a few moments came forth leading a horse, which he immediately mounted, and plunged more deeply into the wood. Leaving our two friends to the fulfillment of their tasks, we must give the reader some account of the circumstances that preceded their introduction to us.

William Seaton, the hero of our narrative, was the only child of one of the oldest families in the South. At the breaking out of the war of the Revolution, his father took a firm and decided stand in the defense of the rights of the Colonists, and sealed that defense with his blood. He fell at the Siege of Charleston, bequeathing to his son the care of a mother. With the same bold and fearless love of his native land that distinguished his sire, young Seaton, on the receipt of this intelligence, hastened home from the little band of men to which he belonged, and bearing his mother to a place of safety, hurried to rejoin his comrades again. He had joined that band, by the consent of his patriot father at the outbreaking of the war, though then but a stripling, and had acted with them in all those prominent events that has rendered them so famous in the annals of freedom.

Attached to the same company as Seaton was a young man named Wilson, like him a volunteer in the cause of liberty; and both being in the spring of youth and promise, they became mutually attached. The hours not devoted to labor were spent in the society of each other. In one of the many changes that the fate of war made in the position of this band of patriots, they encamped in the vicinity of Wilson’s father, and now, when the duties of the camp did not call for the attendance of our friends, the snatches of time were spent at the paternal residence. George Wilson’s father was far advanced in the vale of years, and consequently remained neutral, as far as actions went, in the excitements of the day. But still his heart was with the Colonists in the unequal struggle for their rights. The chief attraction for Seaton, however, was Emma Wilson, the sister of George; and she was well worthy a soldier’s admiration and love. She was a soldier’s sister, full of noble daring, and untameable spirit. At each visit Seaton lingered longer and longer. Each glance of his eye was full of meaning, and told more truly to Emma, than words, the conquest she had made. Seaton feared to offer the hand of a nameless soldier to the sister of his high-souled friend, though that hand had been raised at the altar of liberty. But he was poor, his father had periled his all in the cause of his country, and it had been wrested from him; and now the son had nothing, save his sword and the consciousness of rectitude. But that could not prevent the growth of the passion in the breast of young Seaton; and how often would he think he saw in the hesitation and blushes of Emma, when he requested her to sing his favorite songs, something on which to build a lover’s hopes; and this, though slight, would raise into a flame the fire of his affections.

Thus stood matters, when, one evening, Seaton started to visit the Wilson’s, George having been absent some days on account of the illness of his father. It was some distance from the camp, and as he was in the dreaming mood, he suffered his horse to proceed at a slow pace, and gave full vent to his fancy. From this trance he was aroused by a slight noise, and raising his eyes, he beheld (for a turn of the path brought him within view of it) the mansion of the Wilsons in flames. Putting spurs to his steed he soon arrived at the spot. Here all was desolation and ruin. The truth flashed upon him. It was the work of the Tories. But what had become of the inmates? Had they fallen victims, or had they been made captives? No one was visible to solve the question. But no time was to be lost, and after a hasty survey of the vicinity, he started in the direction of the camp to report the affair and procure assistance for the prisoners. On the return he fell in with one of the scouts, and making known the affair to him, it was determined to fall upon the trail of the party, if possible to watch them until they should encamp, and then the scout, by superior knowledge of the windings of the forest, must return to the camp and ensure the surprise and capture of the foe. Acting on this, and knowing that the captain was at this time on his way from the Santee with a body of recruits, Seaton chose the route most likely to fall in with him, to whom he would communicate the intelligence and obtain assistance. Giving his instructions to his companion to await him at the Crossings, he gave the reign to his horse and dashed into the wood. With the result of this meeting the reader is already acquainted in the conversation between the two at the commencement of the story. Buried in the gloom of the ravine, Harry Burton saw the prisoners pass, guarded by a strong band of the Tories. Marking their direction, he had in quiet awaited the coming of his comrade.

Our business now is with the scout. After he parted from his companion, he left the main route, and striking deeper into the forest, pursued his way for some time with as much rapidity as the nature of the ground would admit of, appearing to be guided more by instinct than reason, so well did he, amid the darkness of the dense wood, find out the different pathways and crossings of the forest. After continuing his unbroken course for some time, he turned again in the direction of the main path. Falling into the stream of a small rivulet that ran in that direction, he followed it up, as if to prevent any marks of his horse’s feet being seen in the coming light, if he should not succeed in his enterprise. Silently and steadily did he ride on until he gained a bend in the stream, where he dismounted, and leaving his animal in the deep shade of the trees, continuously advanced to the edge of the pathway, and bent his gaze long and earnestly along the road. Satisfied of the absence of any hostile party, he emerged into the clearing, and commenced a careful survey of the path, with as much accuracy as the faint beams of a partially risen moon would permit. Long and anxious was the labor, and not till he was satisfied of the recent passing of a band of mounted men did it cease. Once confident of this, he again mounted, and pressed on with renewed vigor, still keeping hid in the shade, though not at so great a distance as before. Continuing his course for some time, he gained the top of a hill, and here, for the first time since the passing of the band at the Crossings, he again gained sight of the captives. Halting, that the distance between them might be increased, and thus the danger of discovery lessened, he had a full opportunity to observe them. No material change had taken place in the aspect of the party since he last saw them, save that the bonds of the female had been unloosed, and she was suffered to ride between two of the band. Her brother was still bound, and his horse fastened to that of one of the escort. The only circumstance that struck the quick sight and sense of the scout was the want of that caution and discipline that betokens the consciousness of danger.

Taking advantage of this want of prudence on the part of his enemies, the active mind of the scout suggested the bold expedient of pushing into the front of the party, and by secreting himself in the dense foliage that skirted both sides of the road, gather, if possible, from the lips of the Tories, some hints of their designs. Without waiting to calculate the danger of the undertaking, he again took to the forest, and putting his steed into a swifter pace, made a circuit of some distance to avoid the most remote possibility of being seen. Having again gained the road-side, he took a position more favorable for his purpose. He did not wait long ere the foremost of the band came in sight. When sufficiently near, Harry recognized him as one of the most active and unprincipled of the men who had long been a terror and dread to that vicinity. He had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Emma Wilson; and this, joined to his unrelenting hatred of the Whigs, made the object of the recent attack apparent to the scout. He was attended by several others of the same character—some actuated by motives of personal malice, and others by the love of plunder. The leader appeared in earnest conversation with those who rode near him; and, as they neared the place where the scout was concealed, the words of some of them reached his ear. They were directed to the captain of the band, and were spoken as if in continuation of a question.

“But what do you intend doing with the brother? He fought well, no matter what else he has done, and deserves a better fate than I fear you intend for him.”

“He shall have the same fate as his father—death. The one fell by this hand, by the sword it is true; his son shall die by the rope. I’ll teach them to refuse me. One more, and then my vengeance is complete. That young lover of hers, Seaton!—but he cannot escape me; we have tracked the band that he belongs to, and in a few days he too will be mine. But how stands my modest beauty?” he asked of one of the gang who just rode up from the rear. “She shall have a merry ride to-night, and in the morning—”

“She has fainted from fatigue, and cannot ride farther,” interrupted the other; “what must be done? As there is no danger from pursuit now, I think we had better halt for the night. The Cypress is nigh, and that will be the safest place between here and the Corners. Besides, the captain, as they call him, is in the south now. So no fear of him.”

“I do not fear him,” answered the leader; and then after a pause of a few moments he resumed—“Well, give the command to encamp at the swamp. In the morning we will see what is to be done.”

Saying this, he relapsed into silence, and the other fell back on the rear to give the orders for the night. Harry waited until the last of the band had passed his place of concealment, and faded from sight in the direction of the proposed stopping-place for the night; and then, as if satisfied with the result of his plan, he again took the backward trail to wait at the appointed place young Seaton, and his band, if he should succeed in raising them.