THE 
 
 BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 BY A BACHELOR KNIGHT. 
 
 u Volti subito." 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 ALLEN & T I C K N O R . 
 
 1833. 
 
\ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 II 
 
PS 2$ if 8 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following sketches are now, for the first time, 
 collected in form. Several of them have, at various 
 periods in a short life, found their way into print in 
 one magazine or another. They were written at long 
 intervals upon occasional suggestions and will be 
 found to indicate some of the warmth of a mind and 
 habit, sometimes careless of restraint, and not always 
 to bo controlled by rule. In some of them, the fancy 
 has been permitted free play, and a taste purely oriental / 
 has originated a form of expression and combination in 
 the characters, which the reader, of Spitzbcrgen-like 
 temperament, may hold os a madness beyond even that 
 of Hamlet s, and wanting utterly in its mood and me 
 thod. For these I have not written. It is only with 
 the gentle and the glad with those, who, while the 
 winter fire blazes brightly, and the heart is contracted 
 to the circle which surrounds it, are sufficiently rational 
 to exclaim with the cheerful Grecian 
 
 M I will I will be mad to night," 
 
 that I am willing to leave the little volume which I now 
 
 place before them. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 323 
 

 - 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Prefatory Epistle to My Lady \ v . * * V 
 
 A Dream of the Earth . . ; ; -( 13 
 
 Chatclard . . V ; :.;^ " * * 3 p 8 
 
 The Forest Maiden . . ;>. v r *./ , 
 
 Ponce de Leon . ". . *>- 
 
 The Venetian Bridal . ...*,* 7G 
 
 QC 
 
 Vasco Nunez . . . -. . \ , * 
 
 The Dcatli of a Fairy . . :; : ; * ^ * * 
 
 A Story of the Sea . . > V <* ;- : ,: : ;; -^ >>|jf 107 
 
 The Broken Arrow . , ... ..,.^ >, .,: 122 
 
 Hoiplar, a Story of the Calawba . . .,,.,;:.* ^.;. 126 
 
 The Mental Prism . ., *;. 13G 
 
 The Red Cross Knight . . . t/ . 150 
 
 Missouri, the Captive of tho Pawnee . .1 . ,* 155 
 
 LaPoIa * ; V - 16D 
 
 Metacom of Montaup . ;.,>-.+. * * ^ 
 
 The Children of the Sun .; . . 189 
 
 The Young Sioux . ". : . . . . ^ . 212 
 
 ATalcofFacrie . V * V: - 217 
 
 Tlie Fearful Memory . ,V>V ^" . * . V . 239 
 
 A Legend of tho Pacific ^V ;/ . v ... 244 
 
 Tlio Green Corn Danco 257 
 
 A Scene of the Revolution -,:.. - :.-* .259 
 The Choctaw Criminal . , * . .277 
 
 Tho Spirit Bridegroom 291 
 
 Cleopatra . . . 30 
 
 Tlie Festival of Isis V { ^ 302 
 
 The Lost of the Yemasseea 314 
 
 The Opportunity 32 
 
 Dreams and Dreaming 326 
 
i 
 
 ~ 
 
 o 
 
 - 
 
EPISTLE PREFATORY TO MY LADY. 
 
 DEAR LADY, 
 
 Were these days of fiction, rather than of fact, and 
 could the popular sense be persuaded to regard that 
 period of exciting circumstance in past history, called 
 the era of romance, in any other light than that of a 
 pleasant dream about to bo forgotten, your charms 
 might once again bring into exercise, not merely the 
 lay of the minstrel, but the valour of the knight. In 
 stead of the goosequill, spear and sword might, with 
 sufficient reason, be lifted in your service. Alas ! how 
 ever, for the time it brings forth no such offering. As 
 an especial rebuke to such glorious errantries as made 
 the middle ages the prime period of romantic adven 
 ture ; state prisons and penitentiaries frown upon us 
 from every quarter instead of the warlike and stirring 
 blasts of the bugle, calling the watchful warder to the 
 turret, and arousing the sleeping porter to the approach 
 of the visitor, the tintinnabulary house-bell presents 
 itself conveniently at the portals, and the liveried servi 
 tor opens the door at the first friendly summons. Ro 
 mance knows none of these comforts, and well may 
 
12 EPISTLE PREFATORY. 
 
 adventure sigh after a period which left something for 
 achievement to do, in scaling walls and mounting win 
 dows. Had we, my lady, been born in such a period, 
 doubt not that I should have done something worthy to 
 be named along with the daring doings of the time. 
 Doubt not that lance had been lifted, and bugle wound, 
 and battle clone gallantly, in your behalf and for your 
 love. As the times arc, however, this may not be the 
 case ; and all that chivalry may now profler to his lady 
 love, is some little tribute of romance like this, its 
 relic and remembrance comprised in a tiny volume, 
 quite unworthy of your genius, but all that I can yield 
 from mine. Pardon me, then, dear lady, that these 
 pages many of which have been already uttered in 
 your cars have received a name, which, though not 
 fairly identified with yourself or yours, must nevertheless, 
 and necessarily, refer to you for that countenance and 
 favour, winch is more than popular applause to me. 
 May they not prove altogether unworthy your accept 
 ance, noi seem to be altogether ungracious in your 
 sight. 
 
13 
 
 A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 
 
 " I had a dream, which WM not all a dream." 
 
 My mood is somewhat German that is to say, it 
 inclines prodigiously to diablerie; and with a faculty, 
 which, if not dangerous, is at least troublesome, at 
 times, ^l conjures spirits from the vasty deeps of my 
 imagination, whenever I please to call them up* I can 
 have an assortment of them at, and for, my pleasure ; 
 and though not over pleasant as companions, nor over 
 obedient as servants, I find them sufficiently docile for 
 all temporary purposes. I have my sprightly elves, 
 dancing for me of a summer night my fairies of the 
 evening on the pleasant hill side, and sometimes when 
 the bell tolls at midnight, I turn suddenly in my elbow- 
 chair to behold a very pleasant looking sort of Mephis- 
 topbelcs, peeping over my left shoulder. Of course, I 
 wish not to bo understood to say that I behold these 
 images with a literal and bona-fide vision. God forbid. 
 I only mean to give an idea of those things that some 
 times come to the half-shut eye, at that peculiar mo 
 ment, which is sometimes permitted to most men, when, 
 without losing any of our individual and personal identity, 
 ,we have a sort of dim consciousness of another state of 
 existence, and of having other company than that to 
 which we are usually accustomed. This condition of 
 mental excitation, I am not unwilling to admit, may bo 
 2 
 
14 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 exaggerated by a coal fire a lottle of London porter, 
 
 and the silence tlit? whispering silence of the midnight 
 hour, in your old library in tin- northeast corner. 
 
 There is something delightful to mo in a mood of 
 this description* I mny safely say, that, bating some 
 solitary hour*, my greatest pleasures have come to me 
 at such a period, and while under such an influence. 
 I know not how it is with other men. They answer 
 for themselves. I would not pretend for a moment that 
 my habits, frenzies, or whatsoever they merit to be 
 called, shall go for a moment in illustration of theirs. 
 But with me, what I say, I not only religiously and se 
 riously say, but I most seriously and religiously believe. 
 To me that state of dreamy existence, which is aptly 
 and beautifully designated by the poet, that of the 
 "half-shut eye, * is full of delights and delightful images. 
 I have often thought it the kind of mental intoxication 
 for which men frequently resort to opium, and the in* 
 flucnco of which .nay be best ascertained in the torpid 
 felicity which the Turks, us a nation, exhibit, and which 
 they have already frequently acknowledged. The Con 
 fessions of an Opium Kuter will better describe what I 
 mean and what 1 would pay ; and, as the book ia not 
 only an instructive, but a truly pleasant one, I recom 
 mend it to the reader to supply any deficiencies at this 
 stage of my narrative. 
 
 My arm-chair is, of itself, highly inspiriting. It, no 
 doubt, contributes wonderfully to that state of general 
 preparedness which adds to the force of any invocation. 
 It is of the true oriental make. The reader will not 
 suppose me luxurious when 1 describe it. It is of ma 
 hogany of a moat solid structure. The legs are capa- 
 
A DREAM OP THE EARTH. 1 6 
 
 cious, and liko the seat, calculated for the contingency 
 of any burden. Falstaff would not have filled, though 
 he might have fitted it. A soft velvet flowered cushion 
 of purple, inclines greatly to the sense of repose, which 
 the whole fabric is calculated to instil into him who 
 makes use of it. The arms arc rendered inviting by 
 the use of a liko material, and the back receives any 
 impression. Five degrees of the circle thrown under 
 the feet, give, with the slightest eflort, an undulatory 
 motion to the whole, which contributes, like an orlho- / 
 dox sermon, or the opium already referred to, to a 
 slumberous quietude, that, of a long summer afternoon, 
 is wonderfully pleasant and becoming. 
 
 As evening wears, propped up in this * not at home/* 
 I laugh at the weather without, eschew visiters within, 
 place my feet on the fender, and survey the panorama 
 of creation through the crackling and half-burnt em 
 bers of an excellent sea-coal fire. Numberless are tho 
 images various the pictures wide the prospects glo 
 rious the views and delightful the companions, that riso 
 to my view in that survey. I never use the poker ; it is 
 a horrible an ungraceful engine and destroys many a 
 pleasant illusion. Coal after coal sinks from sight 
 others take their places, forming newer combinations ; 
 and, as in a kaleidoscope, presenting infinite varieties 
 of well-adjointcd and corresponding objects and asso 
 ciations. If 1 behold in one huge mass of the black 
 pile just smitten by tho flame, a gloomy and turreted 
 castle, manned with men in armour and ready for the 
 fight in another I perceive beneath its walls a hostile 
 and invading array getting ready for the onset. The 
 occasional hiss of the escaping air answers all the 
 
16 TUB BOOK OF MT LADY. 
 
 purposes of a trumpet ; ami as the masses respectively 
 flame and fall, I behold the overthrow of this or that 
 armament the invading or invac ed. This, every body 
 M ill admit, is a very pleasant mode of passing away 
 those hours, which, with most men go unemployed ; but 
 this is not all. As f have already said, the world of 
 spirits contributes also to my accommodation ; and at 
 such a period, fancy becomes a recruiting officer, and 
 my senses are all severally supplied with what they 
 respectively require. Images from the natural and 
 spiritual world alike await my bidding ; and without 
 describing a circle, filling it with skulls and scorpions, 
 making a contract with my blood in a manner most 
 horribly German, and invoking his arch majesty, the 
 devil, I command the creatures of the four elements, 
 and they come when, and sometimes before, I call for 
 them. The subtle Zephyr, the gloomy Gnome, tho \ 
 skipping Hamadryad, the old Cyclops, the dewy and 
 plaintive Naiad, all throng about me, and manifold are 
 the adventures which I glean from their several recitals. 
 They make me tho depository of their secrets and 
 mysteries ; but, as they have no doubt told the same 
 secrets to thousands besides, I shall perhaps do them 
 but little injury, and betray a confidence without value, 
 ns it is so much divided, by occasionally whispering to 
 others what they sometimes whisper to rne. As 1 have 
 made no contracts with the creatures, I am not much 
 concerned about offending them, and if they piny mo 
 no pranks in mid-summer, by moonlight, 1 fh.ill not 
 fear other inconveniences at their hand*. 
 
 I remember a conversation, which, while under a 
 mood and in a situation like that dcscril>ed, ! once 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 1 7 
 
 had with our great original under the Deity the 
 Earth. " Twas on a summer evening," in my chair, 
 as aforesaid dinner being over, and the bottle under, 
 that had once been on, the table that I was favoured 
 with the presence of this terrestrial personage. Of 
 his make, person, feature, and so forth, I say nothing. 
 Let him speak for himself. So, taking a seat comfort 
 ably in the corner opposite, with a grave countenance 
 and paternally solemn accent, in reply to some of my 
 obliquitous enquiries, he went on as follows. If the 
 reader thinks it likely he will find the old one as 
 tedious as I did, he will be wise and go no farther. 
 
 " You are right," said he, " in coming to me for in 
 formation on the subject of my history. Nobody so 
 well as one s self can tell one s story ; so that now, 
 having fairly entrusted yourself to me, you will be so 
 good as to forget every thing which you have pre 
 viously heard on this matter, and believe only that 
 which I shall tell you. I kno,v you will think me 
 rather vain and self-complacent when I say this. I 
 know that among the miserable mass which make up 
 your species, it is quite a common belief that you are 
 an fait on all topics, and that it is quite common for 
 each of you to know more of his neighbour s business 
 than he can possibly know of it himself. Still, I look 
 upon you as grievously in the dark on all that concerns 
 me. Of me and mine you know nothing; it will de 
 pend upon the patience and propriety which you may 
 now exhibit, whether I make you any wiser. The 
 good opinion which you generally entertain of your 
 own capacities has, in most cases, shot infinitely be 
 yond your compass ; and you are neither able to teach 
 2* 
 
1 8 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 yourselves nor others on some points, on which it is, 
 nevertheless, necessary you should be taught. All 
 your accounts, therefore those in particular which 
 relate to me are mere absurdities, wild and erro 
 neous. Disposed to speculate and analyse, from the 
 atom of the immortal principle within him, man is yet, 
 however, but too little regulated in his conclusions by 
 the foresight and knowledge which should belong to 
 and describe it, to benefit himself very greatly by its 
 possession. He ate too little of the apple to be wise, 
 too much of it to be happy : enough for presumption, 
 too little for that fine taste and perception which, 
 having brought wisdom, teaches humility. 
 
 " You will yourself have perceived, if I have not 
 greatly mistaken your character, that the process of 
 life in those portions of my body which have come 
 more immediately under your observation, is not dis* 
 similar to the same process, ns it is carried on in your 
 own animal condition. We are not seriously unlike 
 in all vital matters, and though you may think it in no 
 wise complimentary on my part to say so, our wants 
 and necessities, our qualities and our feelings, do not 
 perceptibly differ. We depend for life, and health, 
 and vigour, upon the same influences. We need aliko 
 the same generous sunshine, the same refreshing 
 showers, the same grateful dews, the same cold and 
 heat, and we alike live and laugh under a common 
 Providence. Our moral resemblances arc also striking. 
 Have we not our revolutions, our upa and downs? and 
 have we not both of us permitted our several poles to 
 be flattened ? There is, certainly, but little difference 
 between us ; and whether we look at the one state or 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 1 9 
 
 the other, we must feel assured that the many varieties 
 of fortune and condition which make up our existence, 
 tend greatly to its comfort and the excellent working 
 of the contrivance. Nor is our healthful state the 
 only object in this variety. The sense of enjoyment, 
 nearly the same with both of us, where our ignorance 
 and discontent do not blind us wholly to its percep 
 tion, appears in this to have been most graciously 
 consulted. The two grand seasons of the year, from 
 which the lesser and more minute and uncertain divi 
 sions arise, winter and summer, are made admirably 
 to relieve the duties and neutralise the influences of 
 one another. As the warmth of summer departs, the 
 cool, sharp, and bracing winds of October strengthen 
 and invigorate; and when winter, in turn, grows trou 
 blesome and fretful, its snows are agreeably broken in 
 upon and dissipated by its noisy departure in March ; 
 whilo April and May, genially, by the balmy blossoms 
 which they bring, and the fresh zephyrs and showers 
 which attend on them, atone, like the gentlo children 
 of an ungentle sire, for the severities of their rugged 
 predecessor, and cheer the languid spirits of man and 
 of myself. Is there not, in this, strong sympathy 
 between us? Do we not even clothe ourselves, with 
 a reference to feelings shared in common, under the 
 prevailing influences of these changing seasons ? Your 
 winter woollens are not more thick and warm than 
 the snows wbich-in the same seasons I wrap about me; 
 and do I not, in the pleasant spring-time, dress myself 
 in the very same variety of leafy flowers, which gar 
 land the beautiful girl whom I beheld you emb " 
 Hero I put my hand upon the old fellow s mouth. 
 
20 TJIR BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 What a tell-tale! He promised to ay nothing further 
 about that, and I auflorod him to proceed, 
 
 " Still further,* said he, "and the analogy here is 
 of the most striking description. The docay of the 
 plant*, the flowers, loaves, and trees, stores my bosom 
 with a rich, renewed, and second principle of life; an 
 with you the doath of the animal man gives freedom 
 and full exorcise to the hitherto confined principle of 
 immortality, which makes all tint is worthy or valuable 
 in his original formation. 
 
 " To say that 1 am supported in a pure and healthy 
 habit by tho employment of the same or similar moans 
 with yourself, would be, perhaps, only to remind you 
 of some among your early studies. Your researches, 
 allowing you to have bcon an industrious student, may 
 have taught you that, as in your own system, 1 must 
 become impure and diseased were there not a free and 
 general circulation of blood through my system. To 
 know that tho blood lives, there is no necessity to 
 refer to Dr. Charles Bell, who has gone to considerable 
 pains to establish tho fact; while Dr. John Bell, with 
 desperate silliness, labours to prove a doctrine directly 
 tho reverse. These arc discordant bells t and you will 
 givo no heed to them. The blood has life, and having 
 it, I live. I have veins and arteries, tho streams of 
 which intersect each other, and perpetually supply my 
 overgrown frame with the same animating principle, 
 and strengthen and invigorate mo in much thu same 
 manner as, in your smaller and microscopic formation 
 and structure, tho attenuated ducts and channels pro 
 vide your life with the sustaining fluids. To your eye, 
 it is true, the material possesses not precisely tho 
 
A DREAM OP THE EARTH. 2 1 
 
 same external appearance; but the difference is of 
 indifferent note, when wo know that the effect of both 
 is the same ; that, deprived of the one, you perish ; 
 and, like myself, bereft of the other, are resolved to 
 dust, and dispersed in the fine and subtile element. 
 This difference between your blood and mine is, 
 therefore, purely nominal, and beneath the considera 
 tion of a sober intellect. That I am not similarly 
 constructed with yourself, mere bodily outline consi 
 dered, is perhaps true ; though you, perhaps, are but 
 little calculated, from your native capacities, to deter 
 mine on this particular. It is not pretended that we 
 resemble each other in shape, nor would it have been 
 a wise arrangement to have had us do so. How should 
 I have been enabled to carry my huge body with your 
 legs? I might, it is true, have had a much better 
 standing; but, like most people cursed with being 
 lifted out of their proper element, I certainly should 
 have lost more in ease and repose than I had acquired 
 in pride of place and elevated station. As it is, my 
 structure is by no means deficient in grace and sym- 
 . metrical arrangement. Beneath your eyes I am but a 
 heavy and elaborate mass a great beast without any 
 of those nicer adaptation of parts to that fineness of 
 proportion, which are your modelling standards, and 
 to which you are in the habit of cutting, carving, and 
 squaring every thing virtue, truth, religion, faith, 
 and probity, being all regulated, as I am informed, by 
 a pert, froward, selfish, calculating, conceited, and 
 most wofully ignorant and ill-advised creature, called 
 Fashion. If I have a protuberance or depression, you 
 term it mountain or valley, with a sangfroid, not less 
 
ft THE BOOR OP MY LADY. 
 
 ungracious than peculiar, without for a moment re 
 flecting that you speak of a living, moving, and feeling 
 creation. Should I not have life, who bring it forth? 
 Is not the hidden spring of all vitality in me ? Do 
 not my waters, (to employ your own phraseology, that 
 I may be the better understood) leap within me ; my 
 hills tremble; my flowers and plants and trees bud, 
 blossom, boar, and prove their claim to every pecu 
 liarity in your life, by perishing at last? Do they 
 spring at your command, and do I not bring thorn 
 forth ? In what, then, so far as vitality is concerned, 
 will we be found to differ? In our shape, you will 
 say ; but are you able to determine upon the propor 
 tions of that which you cannot see? 
 
 "Could you, in a glance, and but for a moment, sur 
 vey my gigantic frame to its utmost extremities* 
 could I be extended before your vision as a perfect 
 whole, laid out by an omniscient and particular eye 
 could you behold and determine upon my vast and 
 various undulations my hills swelling into grace 
 my vales, the delicate rctrcatings of a frame, each part 
 accommodated to its fellow, and chiselled into gentle 
 fcaturings all parts beneath your glance, and the 
 symmetry of the whole beheld as you need never ex 
 pect to behold it then would you at once discover 
 and readily admit, that mere bulk is not alone the 
 characteristic of rny person, and that I am in no wise 
 deficient in those features of ovonncss and grace, and 
 that delicacy of proportion, which your miserable 
 vanity will seldom permit you to recognise in the 
 make of any but your own species. I have my defor 
 mities, it is true, for which I shall account hereafter ; 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 23 
 
 but it will bo quite time enough, when you have 
 removed your own * warts and tumours/ to trouble 
 yourself about mine. 
 
 " Of my birth, like all other children, I know little 
 or nothing. I believe further to establish and con 
 firm the analogy between us that, before reaching 
 my present elaborated, though even now incomplete 
 and still increasing bulk, I passed through several 
 stages of being and condition. There was an ordeal 
 term of infancy ond imbecility of childhood, youth, 
 age, with all their faculties of wind and vapour, as 
 known to yourself, through which I had to pass pain, 
 und labour, and sweat, not forgotten before reaching 
 my present advanced, though still immature condition. 
 I believe, like yourself, I was called up in distinct 
 atoms from the boundlessness of space, the darkness 
 and the confusion of chaos that I gathered, and con 
 tinue to gather newer additions from the same source, 
 momentarily not as your philosophy presumes to 
 suppose, from the natural determination to the centre, 
 but from the operation and influence of the mighty 
 will the destiny the great spirit which had gone 
 forth, the propelling energies of whose cloudy wings 
 drove them onwards to the vast work of my creation. 
 Created thus, I swung blackly and heavily in the eter 
 nal sphere blind, confused, wandering and imbecile; 
 until that period of time, when, all things having been 
 prepared, the immortal Spirit covered me with his 
 wings, and life, animation, feeling, was the conse 
 quence; and I leaped, with a blind and impulsive 
 determination, into the place which I now occupy. 
 Still all was darkness, and vacancy, and solitude, about 
 
S4 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 roe in proportion to what I knew and felt, was my 
 doiiro to know and feel yet more ; and 1 writhed in 
 ungovernable anguish for that light which I knew not 
 as yet how to have or comprehend. Like angels and 
 men, I too struggled against the mandate that made 
 and fixed mo in the nphero 1 occupied, I, too, re 
 belled with a stifl -necked determination, arising from 
 my ignorance of the power 1 dared to defy. I leaped, 
 and struggled, and strove, but was bound down at last 
 to my office. 
 
 " 1 was not, however, long condemned to remain 
 rolling in my huge sphere without companionship. 
 The heavy and solid darkness that weighed upon and 
 pressed me down with a presence, felt but unseen, 
 gradually began to dissipate. Sounds came swelling 
 mysteriously and faintly in the distance. Music, the 
 most ravishing and exquisite, came breathing and 
 wrapping itself about inc. I became fixed chained 
 into stillness : a spell was upon me a languid delight 
 every tumult was hushed every rebellious discon 
 tent quieted, and every thing forgotten in that first 
 song of the spheres, us they hailed and ushered in the 
 new-born light. How can you hope to understand, 
 or 1 detail, the character, or give you any idea of that 
 choice harmony which mingled with and made up the 
 sublime mysteries attending upon the creation of tho 
 dependent elements, now first starling into lift) and 
 sound ? How gradually and sweetly arose that melody 
 -swelling on its nearer approach into a mighty and 
 car-piercing burst a diapason of heavenly and myriad 
 voices ; then, falling into a fine depression of faint 
 murmurings, giving forth sounds, such ua might be 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 25 
 
 supposed to arise when immortal hands were wheeling 
 tho throne of the Ktcrnal over the golden floors of 
 heaven. In a moment every thing was hushed into a 
 deep silence the very breathings of the infant Time 
 were unheard. But other sounds other melodies 
 succeeded musical and melodious, and yet not music. 
 You have heard such strains fine, spiritual, and com 
 manding in the winds by night on the wild waters 
 in the forests. The tempest and the calm day 
 and night -even I, with my plants, and flowers, and 
 streams have all conveyed them to your several 
 senses. It was the Spirit itself a voice and a music 
 that bespoke tho presence of the awful I AM and 
 we trembled and shrunk into nothing and quietude 
 before it. It had not to compare it with any thing 
 of or in human life just such an effect upon me, as a 
 deep-toned bell would have upon you in the stillness 
 and solitude of the desert. It was thunder, and ma 
 jesty, and power but how sweet, how finely attenu 
 ated. A pause, and then arose once again the delicious 
 melodies which had preceded it; and, in obedience to 
 the spell, the arches of heaven were unfolded, and 
 huge volumes of light, that mysterious agent of the 
 Deity, poured forth upon and around me. I grew dim 
 and blinded with excessive bright I luxuriated I 
 leaped, and was maddened. Light was born, and for 
 tho first time I beheld myself 1 beheld tho world of 
 which I was a portion. Vacancy was no longer the 
 occasion of my dread and doubt. I could now look 
 up, no longer crowded in upon and by the darkness, 
 and survey the unveiled heavens the mysterious sanc 
 tuary, glorious yet awful, thrown open, while tho pure 
 3 
 
SO TliK BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 streams of new-born light camo rushing forth in solid 
 bodies upon each other. What a vision it (low to 
 my embrace I grasped, I hid it in all my recesses 
 it was mine, all mine, and 1 leaped and bounded with 
 a delirious transport 1 How grateful was its presence ! 
 1 surveyed myself as in a mirror, and grew in love 
 with myself and with every thing around me. Then 
 could 1 seo glorious and innumerable agencies direct 
 ing their flight upon their appointed oilices wheeling 
 away, within the vestments of a golden light, and a 
 plumage borrowed from the lund of Paradise, fur upon 
 the verge of my horizon otheru in immediate attend 
 ance upon the eternal throne for 
 
 * They a! -U Horvc, who only Mtund and wait 
 
 all employed, all happy. Bright wings rushed perpe 
 tually over and around me, cleaving, with uncumbercd 
 ease, tho successive Hoods of transparent light, which 
 still continued to pour forth from on high ; while 
 trooping bands, as they whirled in groups through tho 
 mid-air, kept up a choral nong of rejoicing, of worship 
 and of praise, to that supreme majesty from whom 
 camo all their greatness and winning glory. 
 
 44 Voices were all about me voices of power ! Ima 
 ges of beauty figures of light and glory descended upon 
 me, while, insensible as regards my own capacity of 
 motion, they performed a multitude of oflices which I 
 could not comprehend. But ail things were commanded 
 by a voice whoso authority I felt and beheld. It was 
 about, above, around, and within me, at the same mo 
 ment, nnd at each utterance I thrilled and trembled in 
 every portion of my huge frame. Then rose a song of 
 
A DREAM OP THE EARTH. 27 
 
 gladness and of triumph ; of thanksgiving, rejoicing, 
 and praise ; so rich, so mellow, that, bound down, as it 
 were, in a charm, I lay wrapt, unconscious of all things 
 beside, till the melody had passed again into the azure 
 gates, from which it seemed to descend. The excess 
 of light and splendour the glory, late almost oppres 
 sive, was now mellowed down into softer hues and 
 more delicate featuring?. The skies, no longer flaming 
 with gorgeous radiance, now became tinged only here 
 and there with the richer gleams through which the 
 sweet cerulean flashed gently at frequent intervals ; and 
 though the appearance of the world about me became 
 at this period more truly beautiful, I perceived, with 
 deep anxiety and fear, that my enjoyment was; unstable, 
 and the rich floods of living light were evidently, though 
 gradually, departing. Not so rapidly, indeed, as when 
 it had bounded forth and enveloped me, but in a pro 
 cession of slow and sweetly mournful bodies, seeming 
 to regret, as they re-entered their rich abodes, the fair 
 freedom to which they had lately fallen inheritors. I 
 struggled to grasp and to retain the still fleeting decep 
 tions, but in vain. Column after column gathered and 
 disappeared, till at length all had departed, leaving me 
 to the horrible vacancy of condition, almost enhanced 
 in misery by my knowledge of u sense of enjoyment, 
 rather productive of pain than pleasure, since it had 
 proved so fleeting and evanescent. I shuddered in ter 
 ror, when I recollected the chilling blackness which 
 had before enveloped me in its embrace. I grew con 
 vulsed I was maddened by my excessive emotion. 
 Coldness and vacancy came rapidly over me, and I 
 trembled at my own wide, extensive, and unprotected 
 
28 Tin: BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 bulk. Unknown evils seemed to threaten me in the 
 coming time, the more terrible as they were unknown. 
 I dreaded the doubtful but fearful dangers, and shud 
 dered and shrunk and writhed in a thousand contor 
 tions. Then, on a sudden, I heard a rushing and fear 
 ful noise, as of two mighty hosts of wings and weapons 
 in battle. Roaring and foaming, it approached with 
 an increasing fury, to which I could liken nothing that 
 1 had yet been conscious of. This confirmed my worst 
 apprehension 1 knew not what to dread, and dreaded 
 every thing. Now bellowing, now clashing and fret 
 ting, then moaning with a melancholy terror, as of evil 
 spirits in mortal agonies, 1 did not long remain in 
 doubt as to the character of my new danger. It was 
 not long before I felt my extremities covered completely 
 by an immense body of rushing waters momentarily 
 mounting higher, and threatening, by increasing power 
 and violence, my very existence. I now, for the first 
 time, was taught to know my deadly enemy, the ocean. 
 In vain did I Beck to rid myself of the assailant vain 
 were all my struggles and contortions vainly did I 
 shrink from the deluging power. I was covered and 
 pressed down by the pitiless masses, that all the while 
 kept up tii<-ir infornai ravings and plunging;* above me, 
 yelling throughout their gambols, with a savage triumph, 
 and mocking the tfl orts u Inch 1 made to escape them. 
 Finding all exertion fruitless, I gave up my short dream 
 of delightful enjoyment, with a sort of resignation to 
 that fate, which I apprehended to be close at hand. I 
 felt myself almost enveloped by the wild and intermina 
 ble waters ; and though Mill a creature of perception, 
 I had now none of those hopes of a long and happy 
 
A DREAM OP THE EARTH. 29 
 
 life which I had promised myself on commencing my 
 existence. I now discovered that there was no eternity 
 in pleasure no truth in hope ; and that being, with 
 myself as well as man, was liable to fearful vicissitudes. 
 Yet why should I moralise ? You are all sufficiently 
 ready in the inculcation of truth it might be better for 
 you, were all as ready to receive it. 
 
 41 Still, I survived f did not then perish my time 
 had not yet come. Many were the hours how long 
 and weary did they seem to me that I lay in this con 
 dition. At length, however, I began to feel a larger 
 relaxation in the burden upon me. The weight ap 
 peared to diminish my joints were released, in great 
 part, from the power which had cramped and stiffened 
 them ; and how inexpressible was my delight, when, by 
 these and other signs, I was assured that I was once 
 more about to regain iny liberty. The departure of 
 my enemy was yet protracted. Tlio waters rolled from 
 me gradually, and with little, if any, of that noise and 
 turbulence which had accompanied their first appear 
 ance. Several hours had elapsed, cro they had left mo 
 to the perception and enjoyment of the glorious day 
 that succeeded a night so sorrowful and dismal. But 
 they went at last, and again, to my remotest members, 
 I felt, as on the day before, the floods of refreshing light 
 and heat, rolling over me in their place. With a mel 
 lowed influence at first they gathered pround me, till, 
 entirely descended from the gates of heaven, they con 
 centrated themselves into a full orbed splendour, the 
 glow and glory of which I felt, but dared not looked 
 upon. What a life was that one day to me ! My whole 
 frame was awakened enkindled. I was all one per- 
 3* 
 
SO TI1E BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 ccption every member, every muscle and vein, leapt 
 with enjoyment ; and flower*, and fruit*, and trees, and 
 shrubs, generated by that first embrace with the vital 
 principle, sprung forth from my bosom, shielding mo 
 from the consuming heat which had called them into 
 existence. How richly beautiful how winning was 
 then my appearance ! With what a grace, admitted 
 into the dances of the spheres, did I ascend the whirl 
 ing axle, and become a member of that all-perfect .sys 
 tem, which, in its harmonious and unvarying revolu 
 tions, at once indicates the nature, while it otters a true 
 homage to the handiworks, of Cod ! All this day was 
 one of wonder and delirium. How did I spread my 
 self forth beneath the heavens, to catch every gracious 
 Hinilo and odour und brce/e, that camo therefrom ; 
 while the bla/c, that, like living waters, gushed from its 
 bosom, filled and cnwreuthcd me with the richest splen 
 dour ! With delight 1 could now behold myself in my 
 remotest regions. 1 could sec and luxuriate in the fine 
 though gigantic symmetry of my proportion! the grace 
 ful undulation of muscle and matter here the line and 
 speaking elevation of feature there. iNor did I confine, 
 with undue vanity, my attention solely to my own per 
 son. 1 looked long and delightedly to the many choice 
 images of wonder the unique creations floating grace 
 fully in gold and vermiilion, and azure orbs, about, 
 around, and above me. Beautiful images descended 
 upon mo ; troops of spiritual forms leapt playfully into 
 the skies ; pursuing each other with songs and sport, 
 and mingling together with a habit of joy, that savoured 
 of a frenzied and most unlimited delight. All things 
 were under a spell a yun a glory a high life of 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 31 
 
 beautiful images, and gentle and winning endearments. 
 But yet another change was at hand. The images 
 began to fade and depart. 1 he forms of light and fairy 
 grew less frequent. The wings darted upward the 
 glow and the glory became mellowed into hues and 
 beauties, not less brilliant and captivating, but less 
 warm and bright and, as at length I beheld the burn 
 ing globe descend and heard it hiss in the dark waters, 
 which, now, as if recovering a withheld spirit, began 
 again to ronr and ramp and rise above my extremities ; 
 and as my own body began to grow less and less each 
 moment in my sight, all my fuars and apprehensions re 
 turned all my emotions of rapture took their departure. 
 The night I had already spent was too well remembered, 
 and too sullenly endured, not to occasion many terrible 
 misgivings as to its return ; and with a shuddering hor 
 ror, which neither the past pleasures of the day, nor 
 tlio hope, now strong within me, of its return, could 
 dissipate, I resigned myself to that destiny from which 
 I had no prospect of escape. But with what a plea 
 surable disappointment did I find, after some hours of 
 dreadful apprehension, that my limbs were yet free 
 from the waters that the darkness and coldness of the 
 preceding night had failed to return; and while de 
 ploring, however, the absence of that strong blaze, 
 which was now my chief privation, how was I glad 
 dened to behold, of a sudden, a broad and beautiful 
 stream of spendour, like a transparent pillar from the 
 heavens, equally bright, far more beautiful, though with 
 out the heat, which marked and came with the day, 
 looking down immediately upon me. It grew as it ap 
 proached, in power and expansion, sending its pale and 
 
32 THE ROOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 silvery glances in every direction, illuminating all, and 
 resting with a smile of beautiful attraction, even upon the 
 billows of my mortal enemy. Shall 1 tell you that this 
 was the moon making her first maiden ascent into the 
 blue world, of which she is so beautiful and well-beloved 
 a tenant alone, and proud in her unapproachable 
 brightness. No songs of triumph ushered in her ap 
 proach. Her attendants were Silence and Quiet, and 
 they, like herself, and the Night to which they minister, 
 were born dumb. With what a feeling of delighted 
 awe, aided by her light, and emboldened by the placidity 
 of all around me, did I look upon the fierce waters I 
 had so much dreaded. There, in grim repose, stretched 
 out like myself in a slumbering quiet, did they rest be* 
 ncath her spells. Not a billow stirred not a breath 
 came from them ; and, but for the perpetual heavings 
 of their breasts, 1 should now have regarded them, and 
 all the terrors they had mado mo undergo, as a mere 
 dream, a delusion. But she that gentle spirit to 
 wards morning begun also to decay. She looked no 
 longer down with an eye all brightness and beauty ; 
 slumber seemed to fill upon her, a film passed over her 
 brows ; and now, I discovered, for the first time, the 
 numerous lesser lights that came in her train, the 
 brightness and beauty of which had been hitherto 
 merged entirely in her own. What a fairy picture on 
 sweetness and sublimity ! There was not a shadow 
 upon me there was not a cloud in the firmament ; 
 arid even tho water* that howled fitfully in their sleep 
 at intervals, were wrapt in a garment of thin and fretted 
 silver. But when this Queen of Faery, scared by the 
 approaching day, had veiled her face in a dun mantle, 
 
A DREAM OF THE EARTH. 33 
 
 and the stars, following her example, to avoid the ab 
 sorption of the greater splendour, had done likewise, 
 what new wonders were before me ! There was yet 
 another change, and newer inconveniences. Sounds 
 unheard and unconceived before, were in my ears 
 the only strong feature of which was their utter dis 
 cordance one with the other. As far as I could see, 
 my whole body had been taken possession of by a troop 
 of as disagreeably incongruous creatures as you might 
 by any stretch of imagination conceive. Some were 
 horned and unhorned, tailed and untailed, winged and 
 unwinged, four-footed, two-footed, and no footed 
 beast, bird, and reptile, flesh and fowl ; the whole va 
 riety as you know them now : all were there, making 
 as perfectly free with my system, as if it were purely 
 and entirely their own. Some were nipping the plants 
 and grass some reposing their limbs upon my own ; 
 and, not a few inconsiderately burrowing into my body 
 with their sharp horns, and taking other troublesome 
 and indecent liberties with the body they had so auda 
 ciously invaded. I was i.idigriant, as well I might be ; 
 and strove, with a degree of vigour and violence which 
 merited to have been much more successful, to extricate 
 myself from their impertinence, but in vain. Some, in 
 deed, I did succeed in shuffling into the embraces of my 
 neighbour, the sea ; but though I tumbled and twisted 
 in every possible direction, I failed to dislodge the great 
 mass, or persuade them into any civilities. While, as 
 if in punishment of rny discontent, my limbs were 
 chained and fixed into the several positions in which I 
 had thrown them lumps and depressions were the 
 consequence ; and a body, otherwise superbly and sym- 
 
34 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 metrically beautiful, was now shaped to distortion. 
 These undulations in my animnl make, your sages have 
 denominated valleyH and mountains, and have spoken 
 of, and acted towards them, as if they had been in 
 reality the insensate masses, the names thus given them 
 are used to signify. I nm thus suffering perpetual in 
 juries, bruises, and beatings from your people, in re 
 sentment of which, I sometimes, (for 1 am slow to an 
 ger,) with a contraction of a knee, overthrow a terri 
 tory, arid with the upheaving of my chest or side, 
 swallow up a city or an empire, and perform other 
 feats of a like irregularity. Quo ambitious fool among 
 you, did, in cutting through what he called a mountain, 
 difigure terribly my left nostril, but I revenged myself 
 upon him in a corresponding style. I destroyed his 
 fleet by a breath, and sent him to his own dominions, a 
 fugitive, as he had left them, a fool. Others again, be 
 fore and since, not liking, it would seem, such eleva 
 tions, though in the formation of my frame actually 
 essential to symmetry, have levelled various of my 
 members, to an insipid cvcnnesx, and elevated, in 
 turn, many of my depressions, into positive deformities. 
 Some, not content with working their own advantage 
 at my expense, have allied themselves to rny ancient 
 enemy, the sea with whom I am continually at war, 
 and from whom I daily wrcnt and rescue some of my 
 members cutting trenches in my very bosom to admit 
 his billows; and endeavouring, in this wanton manner, 
 not merely to disencumber me of my component parts, 
 but, with a species of cruelty, purely Turkish, actually 
 to disembowel me. There are other incursions, equally 
 barbarous, which your people are in the habit of making 
 
A DHEAM OF THE UAUTJI. 35 
 
 into my person ; which, as I have already told, 1 some 
 times revenge in lifting or relaxing a leg or an arm, by 
 which I have lodged a city or a state under the waler. 
 It is by these changes (when fatigued in one position) 
 which I sometimes make, that your travellers have met 
 with new continents thus, too, may you account for 
 the rising and falling of a lake or an islandin the pro 
 gress of a single night. Instating my many wrongs at 
 your hands, I may charge you with numerous robberies. 
 Not content with what I place on my surface for your 
 good and at your free disposal, you penetrate with pick 
 axe and spear, into my very entrails, to pilfer my pos 
 sessions. Spoils which your fathers knew not of, or, if 
 they did, which they did not venture to touch, you now 
 grope into my treasuries for, lay violent hands on, and 
 pocket without acknowledgment, and without scruple. 
 
 "I have little else to say, but should not omit, 
 though it does not very greatly enter into the materials 
 of my own history, to speak of some things which 
 more immediately concern yourself. I will return. 
 I had scarcely become familiar with the presence of 
 beast and bird, as already spoken of, when I was made 
 conscious of other objects. Two fair creatures were 
 before, and dwelling above me. They dwelt in tho 
 bosom of a rich star, that hung at a small distance 
 above my horizon. Beauty, and youth, and innocence 
 were about, and enveloped and was a part of them 
 and from the moment I beheld, I loved I worshipped 
 them. Their looks were love their words were 
 music their smiles were peace. Nor was I alone in 
 my adoration. The most savage of the wild tribes 
 that were about mo bowed and bumbled themselves 
 
30 THIS HOOK OF MY LADY. , 
 
 boforo thorn. They walked unharmed by tho tiger- 
 tho serpent crawled into his cavern as they went by, 
 and the doveii met in their pathway, in amorous dis 
 course. Scarcely less beautiful not K .-s perfectly 
 made- though Ictm perfect an it would seem from sub 
 sequent events than tho gloriou* forms and images 
 which came down from heaven, walking and convert** 
 ing with tlii in, how could we rcfiiMc our homage? 
 TliuHo weio your parent*, boy* AL-! how very un 
 like their children, then, though made to rcNemblo 
 them, at lunt, an well in feature as in fortune driven 
 from that habitation of delight a flaming sword set 
 behind arid waving over them unknown danger* 
 Milling ft ml threatening, and tho firnt proof of their 
 fall from thut high cntuto, and of their present do- 
 fortuity tho relaxed homnge of tho brute tho increas 
 ed insolence of the snake the timid fluttering of tho 
 dove the one growling and the other hissing, tho 
 third flying before them in terror, as they passed to 
 their new abode. Rut it is time to pause. 
 
 " If I have not confined myself in this narrative en 
 tirely to the circumstances of my own creation, I have 
 not, at least, extended my account to that of objects 
 not relevant thereto. Of the subsequent revolutions 
 in my life I need say nothing. The history might bo 
 troublesome for me to relate, and somewhat fatiguing, 
 certainly, for you to hear. Still it might instruct you. 
 It consists, and in this respect differs not from your 
 own, of many vicissitudes, changes, shadows and sun 
 shine, hopes and apprehensions. Not the least of my 
 annoyances is the knowledge that I am at tho mercy 
 of your race, the victim of all your caprice and extia- 
 
A DREAM OP THE EARTH. 37 
 
 vagance. The destiny which makes mo your victim, 
 now, however, with a spirit of retributive justice, 
 which marks all heaven s judgments, revenges me on 
 you hereafter. You will all, your great and low, lofty 
 and despised, alike, come and lie down in my bosom, 
 restoring me at last that which had been taken from 
 rne at your formation. Of this you may not complain, 
 if, like me, you have been taught to know how many 
 are the trials of life, and how sweet is the slumber 
 that its close brings with it. You have other hopes, 
 than myself, and in this respect our destinies part 
 company. You dream of a high ascent into other 
 spheres you put on a new life you re-ascend that 
 pure and perfect star, from which your ancestors so 
 haplessly descended. This hope is not for me yet 
 shall I be satisfied, if once again permitted to behold 
 that glory their glory and my own, of which I so 
 freely partook in which I so joyously luxuriated, 
 when the stars first sung their paeans, and the pon 
 derous spheres, in compliance with their high destiny, 
 uttered their full concerted harmonies, in token of 
 their common existence.* 
 
 The spirit had departed. I had been listening to 
 our common Parent. I had heard a story, such as ono 
 may gather from the leaves and the plants, in the city 
 and in the forest, if disposed to listen to those mes- J 
 sengers of the eternal Providence, sent wisely for his 
 sohce and instruction illuminating bis pathway, and 
 directing his feet. 
 
TBB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 CHATELARD. 
 
 The account which history givca us of thii daring 
 and unhappy adventurer, is of as much interest and 
 quite as sadly romantic as that of Rizzio who, with 
 far less pretension, suffered martyrdom for a like error. 
 The first notice we have of Cliatelard places him on 
 board the vessel which bore Mary of Scotland to her 
 unstable empire. The events of that voyage need here 
 no recital. We are told by the historians, who have dwelt 
 upon this particular in the fortunes of Mary with far more 
 precision than distinguishes their narrative throughout, 
 that, with a measure of grief, which, to most persons, 
 would appear highly exaggerated and artificial, " La 
 Reine Blanche" as, from her white mourning, the 
 French hud at that time designated her took her depart 
 ure from the shores of that fair country, in which her 
 education had been acquired, and which her heart could 
 never, at any period in her life, entirely leave. Nor 
 was this feeling at all abated by the oilier circumstances 
 attending her departure. Various and striking were 
 the omens of ill which marked her sailing, and filled 
 her melancholy spirit with apprehensions not unwar 
 ranted by the result ; and when advised of the English 
 fleet sent by her bitter enemy and rival, Elizabeth, to 
 intercept her, not even the pledges of true faith from 
 her gallant but small retinue, could materially diminish 
 
CHATELAHD. 39 
 
 or alien tho countenance of despair, with which, utter 
 ing a thousand exclamations of * farewell !" she kept 
 looking back upon the land which her eyes were so 
 rapidly losing. The strains of the young Chatelard, 
 served up to her senses with a spirit of corresponding 
 tone with hers, soothed, however, the gloomy temper 
 of the princess, and possibly prevented those wild and 
 violent paroxysms, which usually mark the more extra 
 vagant sorrows of the sex. In nature s exhaustion at 
 last, weeping herself to slumber, she sunk down upon 
 the couch prepared for her upon the deck of her vessel ; 
 while, with a spirit more and more enamoured from the 
 subject of his contemplation, the daring boy who sung 
 above her, filled with hopes as delightful as they were 
 illusory, fell into dreams not less cheering than those 
 of his mistress were sorrowful. 
 
 The dawn of the morning found them in the most 
 perilous situation. They were surrounded by the Eng 
 lish fleet, and no possible chances appeared for their 
 escape. In that hour the devotion of those about the 
 beleaguered princess was finely tried; and none weie 
 more ready in their willingness to die in her defence, 
 than the young and accomplished poet. Indeed, as the 
 nephew of the celebrated Bayard, the knight, sans pcur y 
 sans reproche educated in France, skilled in arts, 
 arms, and the required duties of a court the most re 
 fined of Europe less than devotion to death, and firm 
 ness amidst torture, could not have been expected 
 from the youth. His eyes flasher 1 defiance as the tall 
 masts of the approaching and overwhelming force loom 
 ed out upon the horizon ; and, throwing aside the harp, 
 to the strains of which through the night bis fine voice 
 
40 T1IE BOOK OF XV LADY. 
 
 had formed at intervals a fitting accompaniment, he 
 drew his sword, and bending on his knee to his queen, 
 proffered it in gallant language, and begged to use it 
 in her service. Mary smiled through her tears upon 
 the boy, and, with a compliment which came with added 
 sweetness from her lips, gave him permission a per 
 mission which made him happy- to die in her defence* 
 But the watchful Providence hud them in charge, and 
 at the moment of their discovery, a thick fog overspread 
 the seas. A bold hund was upon the helm, and guided 
 unwavering and silently on their course, they escaped, 
 by passing through the gathering prowsjof their enemy. 
 Chatelard was a favourite, and had the power of 
 maintaining that ground in the estimation of the queen 
 which his many accomplishments and warm devotion to 
 her service had long before won. Amidst opposing 
 claims he suffered nothing from rivalship, and while 
 other courtiers were exposed to tho alternations of a 
 cloudy day, all was sunshine and smiles for him. A 
 poetess herself, Mary delighted in all those professing the 
 gay science ; and though we have no remains of Cliato- 
 lard by which his pretensions might be estimated, it 
 appears, from her regard, that his claims were at once 
 agreeable and peculiar. He wrote in all living lan 
 guages. He read with a voice and manner that im 
 proved what he read. He was ready and fluent in 
 composition, and her smiles so encouraged him, that, 
 at length, she herself became his inuso, and ho learned 
 in a little time to forget all others. Nor was his daring 
 unsanctioned by the circumstances attending it. She 
 seemed, perhaps unconsciously, to encourage his mad 
 ness. She replied to his versos in a strain equally 
 
CHATELATID. 4t 
 
 amatory ; and the rapt bard forgot entirely his poetical 
 existence in the feelings of the man. Accustomed to 
 every species of adulation, the tender verses of Chale- 
 lard did not offend the young princess ; and she smiled 
 at his more extravagant flights, as at the flatteries pecu 
 liar to, and pardonable in, the poet. But her conde 
 scension was fatal to the lover. ** Her smiles tempted 
 him," says Brantome, " to aspire, like Phaeton, at as 
 cending the chariot of the sun." Ho grew mad in his 
 hope, and thinking of little beside, and caring for no 
 thing else, the youth had no lifo but in the wild love 
 which ho entertained for his sovereign. 
 
 It was at the close of one of those evenings which 
 Mary, freeing herself from the council and the counsel 
 lors alike, usually reserved to herself, her " four Maries, * 
 and such other of her household, as were classed with 
 her especial favourites that Chatelard, while perform 
 ing to the queen, had drunk in his richest draughts of 
 delicious enjoyment. Though always gentle and indul 
 gent, she had been to the young poet, on this occasion, 
 particularly so ; and there was that in his heart which 
 could not and would not bo controlled. He had just 
 sung the words of a new poem, in which, as usual, her 
 praises had been embodied ; the conceits of which, bor 
 rowed in part from the Italian, had won largely of her 
 admiration. The " four Maries," not so fond as their 
 mistress of the divine art, had, one by one, fallen into 
 that species of torpor, which, if not sleep, is wonderful 
 ly like it, and which is not unusual to those kept long 
 in attendance upon a superior. The queen had not 
 ceased in her admiration, when the fertile genius of the 
 poet suggested a still richer conceit which his lips had 
 4* 
 
42 THE BOOK OF XY LADY. 
 
 carried into song, and which at onco called for another 
 acknowledgement from the gratified and royal listener. 
 She, at length, roused by his inspiration, ditching a 
 portion of its influence, struck the harp which she bade 
 him place beside her, and sung, with great tenderness 
 and much effect, a little response to his strains, in winch, 
 with a like conceit, she requited him. 
 
 The words were those of love, of deep feeling, 
 and though most probably they were dictated only in 
 that spirit of compliment and gallantry which distin 
 guished the age, in that country in which both of them 
 had been educated, the adventurous poet regarded t h . in 
 as reciprocating in every essential the mad pasbion of 
 his own spirit. Falling upon his knee, therefore, he 
 seized her hand, and fervently carrying it to his lips, 
 perceived with renewed delight that she did not rebuke 
 him that the allowed him to retain it fora second, and 
 only did not permit a repetition of his oflbnce. lie 
 spoke to her with a soul which infused itself into every 
 syllable which gathered upon his lips. What he said, 
 he, himself, knew not. ilis heart was wild, and all his 
 senses in rebellion against his reason. Ho breathed 
 forth the adoration which ho felt, and only offended 
 when, in the simplicity of his spirit, he dured to hope. 
 
 The queen rose, and for a moment she spoke not. 
 There was something of a sweet confusion in her eye, 
 which gave a moment s encouragement to the rash and 
 enamoured minstrel. It is not impossible, indeed, 
 that young, ardent, gentle, highly intellectual, having 
 a spirit attuned like his who addressed her, to the high 
 converse of the muse, and warmed to corresponding 
 sympathies, the pretension of the bard had been far 
 
CHATELARD. 43 
 
 less heinous in her cyo than, under other circum 
 stances, it might have appeared. Her manner was 
 not stern, though grave ; and her accents, though not 
 encouraging, were neither severe nor frigid. Look 
 ing around upon her attendants, who had, without 
 much difficulty, worked themselves into the profound- 
 cst sleep with resumed calmness she spoke to tho 
 still kncciing arid still entreating youth. His fine 
 and graceful figure his wild, penetrating, and impas 
 sioned eye the free and bold gesture of his action 
 the eloquence of his language the warmth of his 
 love were all so many advocates, not merely for 
 forgiveness, but for a corresponding love. That, in a 
 less elevated station, Mary of Scotland might have 
 nourished the flame she had enkindled, may not so 
 well be denied, and is far from improbable. But she 
 was a woman of strong good sense a moment s re 
 flection convinced her of the madness of any thought 
 on tho subject, and pitying the youth, with a gentle 
 ness of spirit not unwarmcd by a duo estimate, and a 
 proper admiration of his pretensions, she found it 
 necessary to silence them. 
 
 " This must not be, Chatelard this must not be. 
 You forget yourself you forget me, and presume 
 upon that favour, already a subject of complaint in my 
 court, which I have been fain, and it seems foolish, 
 to bestow upon you. What take you me for, young 
 man? Think you I am a child, and would you teach 
 mo to forget the vast difference and distance between 
 us, as you yourself have forgotten it? Be advised in 
 time, ere the lesson comes too harshly and from ano* 
 
44 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 ther tutor than I, who have been, and am, quite too 
 indulgent to you now.* 
 
 " There can be no sterner tutor to my heart, sweet 
 sovereign/ was the unhesitating response of the poet, 
 * than your own brow thus frowning upon me ; and 
 the only death which 1 dare not encounter is that 
 which comes with your anger. Say then, that you 
 forgive me that you grow not again wroth with me, 
 or I care not to leave this spot, though now so gloomy 
 with your frown. I am ready to perish here, and now 
 now, at your feet." 
 
 " The vain flattery of your speech does not blind 
 me, Chatclard, to the presumption of your spirit ; but 
 I forgive and pity your delusion, believing as I do, 
 that you do not feign, and seek not dishonestly to 
 practise upon me* Still, this kind of language must 
 be forborne. You must not be permitted to indulge 
 in thoughts so far above your condition, and so inju 
 rious to mine. You should remember that I am the 
 sovereign, to whom your allegiance is due, not the 
 fellow subject, with whose fortunes your own might 
 couple, and suiTer neither rebuke nor contamination. 
 
 " And, are you less my sovereign, sweet princess, 
 because I love as well as obey ? Does the passion 
 which now speaks in my spirit, and warms it into de 
 votion for thine, make me lose sight of the homage 
 which it thus doubly secures to thee ? I know you for 
 my queen one graciously forgiving for my faults 
 one too indulgent to my merits. But not merely as 
 my sovereign do I know you. It is not as the painted 
 authority alone, whom the voice of a people, or the 
 rights of inheritance, have invested with power, that 
 
CI1ATELAKD. 45 
 
 the soul of Chatclard regards the person of Mary 
 Stuart. It is not the bauble of sovereignty and vain 
 sway which I have adored it is not these which have 
 dazzled my eyes and misled my spirit. I have not 
 been won away from my homage by such as these ; 
 and I regarded you, my princess, as too far above the 
 sex to which you by nature belong, to have much re 
 garded them yourself. I know that you esteem not 
 royalty ns the silly crowd who gather in its blaze. I 
 have not watched and lingered when all were gone, 
 and loved devotedly when all were hollow and insin 
 cere, to doubt that your soul was as much above the 
 vain trappings of your state, as mine that dared, and 
 still dares, to despise them. And how shall wo regard 
 those toys of human arrangement which make the free 
 spirit a reined and fettered thing, and would enslave 
 and bind affections and high passions, according to 
 chartered limits? I have not cared I shall not care 
 for such restraints, and well I am assured that you are 
 beyond their dictation and control. If you are not 
 if, with that frailty, which the familiar speech of old 
 time, hath laid to your sex, you have deceived me in 
 this, I have, indeed, and deeply, offended. But I 
 will not thus imagine, I dare not think, my princess, 
 that a spirit, so finely wrought as yours, can find a 
 difference in the state with which human laws hedge 
 around authority, giving it superiority over a mind 
 and affections, having no consciousness of aught by 
 which it might suffer in a comparison with authority 
 of the highest." 
 
 And granting, young man, that I thought as you 
 suppose. Granting, that in my mind, there was no* 
 
46 THE BOOK DP MY LADY. 
 
 thing in the state itself which should prevent a queen 
 from bestowing herself on the meanest of her subjects 
 who had found favour in her sight by what art come 
 you to know that such an one arc you? What divina 
 tion provides you with this goodly assurance ? Why 
 hast thou taken it for true, that, having such a free 
 doctrine as that thou hast so plainly imagined, I have 
 chosen to illustrate it to my subjects, with your aid in 
 especial ? * 
 
 The mortification of the poet he did not seek to sup 
 press. As the queen spoke, the colour came and 
 went on his checks, and as his words were uttered in 
 reply, they fell from his lips tremulously and only 
 with great effort. 
 
 " Sharply, my sovereign, have you rebuked my folly, 
 but my pride in this suffers far less than the poor 
 heart in which it abides. It has been my thought, 
 that there were some spirits as sovereign by nature as 
 they were so by human creation ; and my further 
 thought has been, that such a spirit was thine. Nor 
 can 1 yet think otherwise, though thou hast chosen to 
 reprove me for my wild love, not as it offends thy own 
 nature, but as it ill accords with the wonted usage of 
 that vain state with which the pageantry of ancient 
 folly has girt thec in. I love thee not less, however, 
 even now, hopeless as thou hast declared my passion 
 to be, and all humbled as thou hast endeavoured to 
 make that pride, which, till this hour assured as it has 
 been of no semblance of aught that was not high and 
 honourable wus never humbled before man nor, 
 whatever be my fate, can I cease to make the same 
 bold, and, as it appears to thec, most audacious and 
 
CI1ATELAUD. 47 
 
 offensive avowal. I cannot school the nature which I 
 have from heaven, to its own violation, because of 
 any earthly dictation. If it be criminal to love thee, I 
 am thus criminal ; and fear me, if I know myself right 
 ly, that each future hour of my life, will somewhat 
 increase the crime for which the heavy penalty of 
 your stern frown and bitter speech is now gathering 
 in its reproof. 1 
 
 " You arc bold, Chalclard over bold, to your 
 queen, and, but that I deem you the honest subject 
 that you have always appealed, arid now avow your 
 self, I should be something more than offended. I 
 forgive you this boldness, and think not when I warn 
 you to greater prudence, and chide you for the for 
 wardness of present speech, that I overlook and am 
 insensible to those gifts of nature and of art which so 
 present themselves in you, and make you, (is I have 
 often said and thought, one of the fairest gentlemen 
 of my court. I am well delighted with your skill in 
 the divine art of poetry, and would be loth to lose 
 that sweet minstrelsy which hath soothed so many of 
 my saddest hours, and which thy skill so cunningly 
 awakens. But thou must be chary of thy speech and 
 thoughts in this foolish matter of which thou hast 
 permitted thy lips to prattle something too freely. 
 Thou hast marked the jealous scrutiny of those, who, 
 calling themselves my subjects, are yet my sovereigns, 
 and whom 1 dare not offend. Thou hast seen for thy 
 self the malignant spirit with which this gross zealot, 
 whom they call Knox, inveterately watches over and 
 vapours at all that concerns mo. Pursue not, there 
 fore, this madness, for, whatever my woman heart 
 
48 T11E BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 might teach, my calm reason assures me it is nothing 
 less, and be as thou hast heretofore been, and I have 
 been glad to see thcc, the noble friend rather than 
 subject, and make me not less, by thy future bearing, 
 than thine, -as I would he." 
 
 The manner of the queen was even more gentle 
 than her words, but the parental character of both was 
 thrown away upon the infatuated youth. lie was mad 
 enough to conceive this speech a full sanction for, 
 tathcr than rebuke of, his passion ; and under an im 
 pulse, the consequence of that unregulated play of the 
 passions which had him for some time before in mas 
 tery, ho dared to embrace the now terrified and 
 retreating Mary, while imprinting a fervent kiss upon 
 her lips. The maids of honour, awakened at her 
 criefl, came to her rescue. The queen retired to her 
 chamber, and Cliatclard was about to leave the little 
 ante room in which this scene had taken place, when 
 a strong arm was laid upon his shoulder, and the Ilc- 
 gcnt Murray stood before him. Tlio poet was as 
 fcarlcHs in Htrifo n* lie was during in love, but resist 
 ance wan hopck MN. A xcoro of serving men were at 
 the back of the earl, by whom tie was immediately 
 taken into custody, and that very night committed to 
 n close prison. 
 
 The trial of Chatelard, by the proper legal authori 
 ties, followed in duo and rapid course, under the 
 direction of the regal council. The great favour 
 which the poet had enjoyed, had procured for him not 
 a few enemies ; and the jealous hate of Murray, against 
 all and every thing that stood for an instant between 
 himself and the supreme rule, which he always desired, 
 
CIIATKLARU. 49 
 
 and at that time almost affected, furnished a spur, on 
 this occasion, to the active measures which were 
 adopted. The trial was had, and the misguided youth 
 was condemned to death. The gentle spirit of Mary 
 revolted when this sentence was delivered. She la 
 boured, though vainly, for its commutation ; and the 
 stern temper of that stern people, or many amon^ 
 them, over whom she reigned, set down that interest 
 and sympathy, which she now exhibited, to the worst 
 of all criminal attachments. As, With tears in her 
 eyes, and an eloquence not often surpassed even 
 among men, she rose in the council, if possible, to af 
 fect the decision by her own entreaties, and the 
 unhesitating forgiveness which she oflered to the cap 
 tive, the rigid reformer, Knox, throwing aside all 
 sense of propriety, presumed to insinuate a guilty 
 interest in her prayer which did not exist, and never 
 had existed. It was then, that as the queen, disdain 
 ing all reply, sunk back pained and exhausted upon 
 the cushions from which she had risen the victim, 
 for the first time, rose to address the council. 
 
 " I do not speak," said he, " that I may not perish. 
 I am guilty of all that you allege, and, since I may 
 not dare to live, why should I scruple to die ? I havo 
 no fears of death, and, at this moment, but little lovo 
 of life. But for that malignant slanderer, who, not 
 daring to speak out his malice, yet meanly leaves it to 
 the sense of conjecture, I would speak to his shame. 
 It is false as he affirms it. I am the criminal in this 
 the only criminal if it be a crime to love, and with 
 adoration, not less warmly, though perhaps lees accept 
 ably offered, than that which I have entertained for 
 5 
 
60 
 
 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 heaven. Let me/* said ho, turning to the queen, 
 " let me, oh, most beautiful and well beloved princess, 
 do this poor atonement for my offence to you. It ia 
 but meagre justice to your heavenly innocence, that I 
 say to this people who now sit over me in justice, that 
 my rash passion was no less ungracious in your eyes 
 than it has proved criminal in theirs. This, indeed, 
 is my sorrow since the chains with which they have 
 loaded these once free and undishonoured limbs, and 
 the insolent speech and suspicion which they have 
 poured within these cars that had hitherto refused to 
 hearken to any sounds that were not noble and sweet 
 and the ignominious death which is in reserve for 
 me would have all been as nothing ay, would havo 
 been sought for earnestly and anxiously, as a rich boon 
 and blessing, so that thou hadst fult some of that wild 
 passion in thy breast which thou hast so fatally awak 
 ened in mine. * 
 
 With a refinement of cruelty, which seems to have 
 attended Mary through life, she was compelled to sit 
 in a latticed chamber overlooking the place of the 
 poet s execution. This measure was deemed neces 
 sary, in order the more fully to exonerate her from the 
 suspicion urged by her enemies, that, having first 
 tempted, she had afterwards betrayed, the criminal. 
 It was thought necessary that she should seem to 
 rejoice in his just punishment. The unfortunate 
 youth was brought to execution on the 22d February, 
 1653. His conduct on the altar of death and degra 
 dation, was marked by the most enthusiastic bravery. 
 He rejected the aid of the confessor ; arid, having first 
 read aloud Ronsard a celebrated hymn on dcuth, he 
 
CIIATELARD. 61 
 
 turned to the chamber, through the lattice of which 
 the outline of the queen s form might be seen imper 
 fectly, and after a moment s pause exclaiming, "Fare- 
 well, loveliest and most cruel princess that the world 
 contains" knelt firmly and gracefully down before 
 the block. A single shriek from the window announced 
 the moment of execution ; and the queen fell into a 
 swooning fit, as the dismembered head rolled from the 
 gory trunk along the scaffold. 
 
THF HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 THE FOREST MAIDEN. 
 
 The subject of this littlo sketch ID familiar enough to all Ame 
 rican readers, and consequently needs nothing by way of preface. 
 AH some addition*, however, have been made to the history of the 
 event, as given by our historian*, it may be as well to say, that 
 the personal feeling, which, in the poem, is made to prompt tho 
 sanguinary passion of Powhatan, is purely gratuitous ; and for 
 winch there is no authority in the fact. Smith s life wan at 
 tempted, a tier ho was in custody, by an Indian whose son he had 
 wounded or slain ; and he was preserved with difficulty. Pow- 
 fcatan had two sons, at the period referred to, both of whom were 
 unharmed in this adventure. The addition here made, was 
 intended to place in a stronger light the amiable spirit of Poca- 
 hontas, and the great sacrifice, by her father, of his personal 
 feeling and native impulse, in his compliance with her entreaties. 
 The description of the chief incident in the narration is, in ail 
 substantial particular.-, historically correct. 
 
 Oh, lightly Inhumed the maiden s smile 
 
 In careless mood, in regal bower, 
 Kre yet tho stranger s step of guile 
 
 Rruxh d one soil beauty from the flower. 
 A wild girl of an Indian vale, 
 
 With decr-likc pace, that would not tire 
 And if her cheek be less than pale, 
 
 The sun had warmed it all with fire 
 And sweet the light that filled her eye, 
 
 And in the woods, or oa the water, 
 In frail canoe when darting by, 
 
 All knew her Powhatan s young daughter. 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 63 
 
 lie, Prince of many a nullity race, 
 
 Jiclovcd and of unbounded power ; 
 And she the nation could not trace 
 
 A brighter or u gentler ilowcr. 
 Among a savage people still, 
 
 She stood, from all their moods apart, 
 For dream of crime, and thought of ill, 
 
 Had never swayed her gentle heart. 
 A milder tutor had been there, . 
 
 And midst wild deeds and wilder men, 
 Her spirit, us her form, was fair, 
 
 And gracious was its guidance then. 
 A Christian soul, though by its creed, 
 
 Untaught, arnid her native wild, 
 Free from all taint of thought or deed, 
 
 A spotless and a gentle child. 
 Such, in her youth, and ere the blight 
 
 Of failing fortunes touched her race, 
 Was Pocahontas to the sight, 
 
 A form of love a tiling of grace. 
 Beloved by all her father s pride, 
 
 Nor less his pride, than, all apart, 
 The pledge for which he would have died, 
 
 The very life-blood of his heart. 
 The king has sought the chase to-day, 
 And mighty is the proud array, 
 
 A nation gathcr d there 
 A bison herd so comes the tale- 
 Is trampling down the quiet vale, 
 And none who love the land must fail, 
 
 To gather when they hear. 
 He went the father from his child, 
 To meet the monster of the wild, 
 But, in his fond embraces caught, 
 Ere yet he went, he hears her thought, 
 And, in his pliant mood, reveals, 
 Tho love his inward spirit feels. 
 5* 
 
64* TITE HOOK OF MY LADT. 
 
 And hours ore gone, since thus ho wcnf r 
 Dy hur, in wayward impulse spent, 
 
 Win ii, hurk ! the war-whuop shrilly Bounding, 
 Tin my father," uid tlie maid, 
 
 And like sprightly gazelle bounding 
 She haM led the long- arcade, 
 
 Where, from many a forest brought, 
 Blossoms wild, and leaf, and flower, 
 
 She with hand of taste had wrought 
 To a wild fantastic bower. 
 44 Tis my father," said the maid, 
 , As the chaplet down she laid, 
 
 44 Hut why should war-whoop s accent sound. 
 When the hatchet s under ground- 
 Sure, tic Oncida, from afar, 
 Wakes no vengeful voice of war, 
 When they laid the hatchet low, 
 Scarce is gone three moons ago 
 The leaf was burnt the calumet 
 Wafted fumes that gladly met. 
 And the spirit from above 
 Blcss d the sacred sign of love. * 
 
 Powhutan gathers his warriors around 
 A rock is his throne, 
 And his footstool, a ntonc, 
 And the coronet plumes his broad temples have bound, 
 
 No courtier s servile brow is there, 
 
 Hut every head is raised in air, 
 
 And each strong chief, a warrior true, 
 
 A circle round the monarch drew. 
 
 The king, m conscious majesty, 
 
 Rolled around his fiery eye, 
 
 AH tin: meteor hung on high, 
 
 To all it sees, and it can HOC, 
 
 SjKiaks of fearful things to be. 
 
 At his feet, u|on the *tone, 
 
 Sat the sylph-like girl ulont 
 
THE FOHF.ST MAIDEN. 65 
 
 The dark tresses streaming down, 
 Fell upon her shoulders brown, 
 While, with fires unwonted burned, 
 The deep glances, upward turned 
 She, alone, at that dark hour, 
 Ventured nigh the man of power. 
 
 With soothing, but with doubting smile, 
 That fixed the monarch s gaze awhile, 
 Hut could not turn away the mood, 
 That even chilled the maiden s blood 
 And with a trembling tone, that broke, 
 Strangely the stillness round, she spoke 
 My father breaks no word with me, 
 
 Yet is he come, and has not brought 
 The spotted fawn, I fain would see, 
 
 Uy tender hands, unharmed, caught. 
 The task to him I know were light, 
 
 To rouse the silver foot, and take, 
 Even in its weeping mother s sight, 
 
 The bleating captive from the brake. 
 Yet comes he not, to mark his toil, 
 
 And tell his full success, to me, 
 With one j>oor token of Jus spoil 
 
 Not even the bison s head I sec. 
 In vain, I ask I ask it now, 
 
 My father, nor rebuke thy child 
 Why is thy accent stern and wild, 
 
 And why the red spot on thy brow. 
 What may this mean ? No bison chase, 
 
 Nor failing sport, not often vain 
 Ere roused that symbol on your face, 
 
 Or must not bring it there again. 
 Nor in your look where er I turn, 
 
 In every eye that lowers around, 
 I mark a dreadful fury burn, 
 
 That wonts not speech or sound. 
 Where is my brother, " 
 
66 THE HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 M Let him speak,** 
 
 Said the old monarch u I am weak." 
 They brought a dead boy from the ring, 
 And placed him near the king. 
 Dumb was the maiden, as she fell, 
 Before the dead smit as by sudden spell, 
 
 And motionless, save that her fingers strayed. 
 And took from out a deep gash on his breast, 
 
 / That, thence she vainly but still fondly prcss d, 
 
 A hacked and broken blade. 
 
 More darkly grows the monarch s brow 
 44 Ay, girl, you have no brother now, 
 And I, no son the glorious race, 
 That with the day-god kept its place, 
 Ere many moons, shall cease to shine, 
 A broken and a blasted line. 
 And you may shed the infant s tear, 
 Ye cannot move the silent there, 
 Whose spirit all impatient stands, 
 And waves us with its bloody hands, 
 Asks for the shade of him who slew, 
 The sacrifice a warrior true, 
 
 And shall he ask in vain ? 
 Smoothing the path of shadows, heaven 
 A just and sweet revenge has given, 
 To recompense the slain." 
 
 Impatient turn d the, warrior chief, 
 And bade a gloomy warrior nigh, 
 And utter d a command, which grief 
 
 Had made imperfect * Let him die, 
 At once and meet his settled fate; 
 And, if he feel his torture great 
 If one supprcss d or sudden shriek, 
 His terror or his anguish speak, 
 Then shall my soul perchance deny, 
 The wretch, the blessed boon to die, 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 67 
 
 Since I were woman to provide, 
 For my brave son a coward guide." 
 
 The block is prepared, the weapon is bared, 
 And the chiefs arc all nigh with their tomahawks rear d, 
 
 The prisoner they bring, in the midst of tho ring, 
 And the king bids the circle around him be cleared. 
 
 Unmoved, though in a hostile id, 
 And girded by a sarngc band, 
 
 Unknown to yielding mood 
 His limbs, but not his spirit, bound, 
 How looks that gallant stranger round, 
 
 With high and fearless blood. 
 The block before him they display 
 lie shrunk not from the dread array, 
 
 But with a tone as high, 
 As their own song of death, he boasts, 
 Made by his arm, the thousand ghost*, 
 4$: That wait to sec him die. 
 
 Yet once, as o er his mind there came, 
 The memory of a foreign name, 
 
 Perchance, a heart long tried 
 And, as his memory active grew, 
 And to his thoughtful spirit drew 
 The wandering band, the brave, the few, 
 
 That late were at his side, 
 His eye could scarce conceal the tear 
 That struggled, swelled and trembled there;- 
 
 Which, as the savage aaw 
 Dishonouring all his former fame, 
 And emblem of the deepest shame, 
 
 He spoke their fearful law. 
 
 u Be quick, nor long delay his death, 
 For fear, that, in his latest breath, 
 Ho taint my native laud 
 
66 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 I would not have tho warrior die, 
 
 Nor sound his glorious battle cry, 
 
 Nor keep the fight-fire in his rye, 
 
 Nor boost hia matchless brand. 
 
 But heI pity, while I Bcorn 
 
 Tho trihc in which tho wretch was bora, 
 
 And, as I look around, 
 I glad me that I can descry, 
 Amid the brave men gathering nigh, 
 
 Not one who dreads tho battle s sound, 
 Not one who fears to die ! 
 
 They cast the prisoner on the ground, 
 With gyves from neighbouring vines they bound, 
 And on a jagged rock they laid, 
 His destined head, with fell parade ! 
 His eye is full of stern despair, 
 The club it* raised aloft in air- 
 Alas ! ho reads no pity there ! 
 The warriors round, though taught to soc 
 Such dreadful doom for aye impending, 
 Yet seem, with one accord to bo, 
 
 In awful silence hushM 
 The arm that wields tho mace in bending 
 The instrument of death descending 
 No mercy in tho faces by, 
 Bclokeneth humanity 
 
 When forth that maiden rush d, 
 From the low stone, where still affrighted, 
 She sat, her mental sense benighted, 
 And stayed the club in its descent, 
 Whilst on her fairy knee she bent, 
 Pasn d one arm o er the prisoner 1 * brow, 
 Laid her head on his own, and now 
 As to the monarch s wond ring eye, 
 Her own was turn d appeulingly, 
 Dude the stern warrior strike the blow. 
 
THE FOREST MAIDEN. 59 
 
 How could that dark old king forbear, 
 Though writhing with his own despair, 
 To utill her plaint to grunt her pray r ! 
 How could he check the angel grace, 
 That gave such beauty to her face, 
 How stay the more than sweet control, 
 
 That, to the savage could impart, 
 Tho all untaught, the Christian soul, 
 
 The woman s mood, the human heart! 
 Oh, true the pray r, and short the strife, 
 She wins the captive s forfeit-life 
 She breaks his chain, she bids him go, 
 Her idol, but her country s foe, 
 And dreams not, in their parting hour, 
 Tho bonds from lam she tears apart, 
 Are nought in pang and fearful jiower, 
 To those ho leaves around her heart. 
 
60 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 PONCE DE LEON. 
 
 Would you then hear a rtory of inio love 1 
 Bit down and listen." 
 
 The lover of Spanish story must remember Ponce 
 de Leon ; nor is lie likely very soon to be forgotten by 
 the American reader. His history, the renown of his 
 achievements, as well in old as in new Spain, have 
 wrought for him the magic of a name in both coun 
 tries, and made him too familiar to all memories at all 
 conversant with the stirring and busy period in which 
 he lived, to permit of that oblivion, in his case, which 
 has obscured so many of his contemporaries. Wash- 
 ington Irving in his " Companions/* &c. 1ms given a 
 very pleasant and interesting sketch of his life, the peru 
 sal of which, will compensate the idle hour which it 
 employs. Asa knight of romance, we find him fulfill 
 ing, to the card, all the dues nnd duties of the code and 
 court of chivalry, in its most elevated era; a services 
 for which indeed, wo arc free to acknowledge, ho was 
 peculiarly fitted. Ho was brave and daring to a pro- 
 verb, strong in perHon, fiery in npirit, true to Ins nflbc- 
 tiona, earnest in Ins devotionn, a lover of valoroun dccd, 
 for valour s sake, and fond of the RCX as became a dis 
 ciple of tlio Hchool of gallantry in the time of bluck- 
 lettcr romance. It muy not be important to dwell 
 
PONCE DE LEON. 61 
 
 longer upon this head, for, I take it, these tilings aro 
 quite as well known to other people as to myself. 
 
 The wars of Grenada had now fur some time been 
 over the Moors expelled for ever the delicious country 
 in which their clysium had, perhaps, been quite too much 
 placed, and but for the strife and wild adventure which 
 followed the unvcilment of the new world to European 
 eyes, the whole kingdom of Spain had fallen into a 
 most unseemly, and at that period, unnatural and unbe 
 coming quiot. The hum and hurry, of war had ceased 
 to keep awake the cities ; and the spirit-stirring blast 
 of the trumpet gave way at nightfall to the gentle and 
 more delicate and seductive notes of the guitar 
 
 " Atcvrninir, by HOIJIC melancholy maid, 
 To Hi Ivor water*." 
 
 Knighthood, if not positively unfashionable, began to 
 be somewhat cumbersome, at least; and if the coat of 
 mail did here and there continue to be worn by the 
 warrior, inoro solicitous of former than of present 
 times, it was not [infrequently concealed by the vest 
 ment of gorgeous and embroidered silk. In fact, tho 
 entire nation, even at the moment of its greatest glory 
 and true regeneration, had begun to adopt that peculiar 
 languor of habit, the consequence of a sudden flood of 
 prosperous enterprise, which, in after times, when a 
 superabundant wealth provided them with the means 
 of a boundless and luxurious indulgence, has made 
 them a very by-word and a mockery among the nations. 
 This condition of tho national character was not then 
 perceptible, however ; certainly not to themselves, and 
 perhaps not to tho surrounding powers; and tho reposo 
 
62 THE BOOK or MY LADY. 
 
 in which the nation lay, had become particularly irksome 
 to those hravc adventurers who looked to carve out their 
 fortunes with their weapons. " Tlio world was their oys- 
 tcr, M und with them the speech of oncicnt Pistol must 
 have been of favourite and frequent application. Peace 
 was not only inglorious but unprofitable ; und the dis 
 covery of America WUH a godsend quite as necessary 
 to the kingdom of old Spain, in ridding it of the excess 
 and i.dle population, niudc by the buddcn termination of 
 its protracted warfare, as in extending its dominions 
 and enriching its treasures. 
 
 Though fully as renowned as any of the bravo spirits 
 of his ago and country, for every accomplishment of 
 arms, and every requisite of adventure, Ponce do Leon 
 did not, however, at this time, take part in the new 
 crusade, for the conquest of the Indian regions. There 
 were, indeed, sundry good and sufficient reasons why 
 such n step should be unnecessary, and might have 
 been imprudent. Ponce was now getting rather old 
 ho had been fighting the good fight for his king and his 
 faith, from boyhood up, against the infidels, and quite 
 long enough to render unquestionable his loyalty to 
 both. IScyond all this, however and although we 
 shame to say it of so brave a knight, yet the truth had 
 better than not bo known Ponce had of late H uttered 
 some strange sensations of weakness, in regard to a 
 certain capricious damsel, the daughter and only heir 
 of a neighbouring Castellan or, as it now runs, Cas- 
 tiliun a knight of the noblest stock, who could, with 
 out any interregnum, trace his genealogical tree, in all 
 its branches, beyond the flood. Some may find, also, 
 a sufficiently good reason for the supincncsy of our 
 
PONCE DE LEON. 63 
 
 hero, in the fact of his being now well to do in the 
 world. He had been nny thing but a loser in the wars ; 
 had been at the sacking of not a few among the Moor 
 ish towns ; and the spoils thus acquired had been well 
 employed, and with no sparing hand, to enrich and 
 adorn a couple of fine castles on the marches, which 
 the liberality and favour of the queen had committed to 
 his keeping. These perhaps, were each and all of 
 them strong cnouh, as reasons why he should not any 
 more adventure his life for gain or glory. But his 
 amour, his new passion, the rod which swallowed up 
 all others, had got completely the better of the knight s 
 understanding ; and he did nothing but think, talk, and 
 dream, from morning till night, and night till morning, 
 of the beautiful but capricious Leonora D Alvarado. 
 It was a gono case" with Don Ponce ; and *.:e now 
 had more barbers and friseurs in his pay than he ever 
 knew in his young days, or should have known in his 
 old. But all in vain the loves of our knight were un 
 fortunate the course of true love did not run smoothly 
 with him. Leonora was quite too young, beautiful, 
 and wealthy, not to be most fashionable, and most fash 
 ionably capricious and coquettish. She laughed at the 
 old knight made merry with his awkwardnesses, ridi 
 culed his gallantries, which, indeed, did not sit over well 
 upon him j and with much hardness of heart, denied him 
 her attention whenever he sought to bo very manifest 
 with his. She was a gay and wild creature; and with so 
 much grace and wiuningncss did she play the despot, 
 that, while the old knight absolutely shrunk arid trem 
 bled beneath her tyranny, ho loved still more the des 
 pot) and became still more deeply the victim of the 
 
04 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 despotism. It was, as we have already remarked, a 
 L ouc, and wo regret to add, a hopoleKS case, with our 
 hero. Nor was it with him alone, we do her the jus 
 tice to say, that the wanton baggage so toyed und trifled. 
 She had a thousand admirers, all of whom she treated 
 and trampled upon in like manner feeling, and never 
 hesitating to make use of her power, without puusc or 
 mercy, till some cut their own throats, or the throats 
 of one another, while she, who made all the mischief, 
 cut each of them in turn. No sooner, however, did 
 one array leave the field, than another came into it : 
 such were her attractions de-Mined, however, to expe 
 rience like treatment, and ho driven away in turn by 
 other victims. 8hc was indifferent to the fate so hourly 
 experienced ; and many arc the epithets of indigna 
 tion and despairing love which they bestowed upon her; 
 song, sonnet, sigh, and serenade, alike filled to find in 
 her bosom a single accessible or pregnable point, and 
 knight after knight came nnd saw, and went away in 
 his chains. 
 
 Don Ponce was not one of those who so readily des 
 pair, lie had sat down too often before the Moorish 
 castles, from one year s end to the other, not to have 
 acquired certain valuable lessons of patience, which 
 stood him in stead in the present strait ; and, looking 
 upon the conquest of the lady in question, and with 
 much correctness of analogy, as not unlike those to 
 which, in the Moorish wars, ho had been so well ac 
 customed, he concluded tint though he might be able 
 to do nothing by sudden storm, he certainly could not 
 altogether fail of success in the course of a regular 
 blockade. The indefatigable patience and pcrseve- 
 
PONCE PE LEON. 66 
 
 ...-:- 
 
 ranee of the besieger, lie well knew, not unfrcquently 
 wore out both these qualities in the besieged ; so ho 
 sat down before the fair fortress, and regularly com 
 menced his approaches. Never kept besieging army 
 so excellent a watch. Ponce was, and had been at all 
 times, an cxcllcnt general ; the Moors had taught him 
 the nature of strategy, and he taught his retainers. 
 They knew their duty, and did it. Not a messenger 
 entered the castle of the beleaguered damsel that was 
 not overhauled, lie permitted no succour to be thrown 
 into the walls, and the unfortunate waving of a handker 
 chief from any of the latliccs, did not fail to bring out 
 the whole array of the beleaguering force, ready to put 
 to death any auxiliar, or arrest any supplies that might 
 have been going to the succour of the besieged. At 
 length all his outworks having been completed, his 
 own courage roused to the sticking point, the prepara 
 tions for a final attack made perfect, and believing 
 that his antagonist would now be willing to listen to 
 reason, our knight sounded a parley, and the fair de 
 fender of the fair fortress readily, and without pause or 
 seeming apprehension of any kind, gave him the desired 
 interview. Nothing, of course, could have been more 
 delightfully pleasant or pacific. The knight, as had 
 been his wont, on ail great and trying occasions, ap 
 peared in full armour ; and the damsel, conscious of 
 her true strength and the legitimate weapons of her 
 sex, wore, Venus-like, her own graces, set oiT, and ex 
 quisitely developed, by the voluptuous freedom of the 
 Moorish habit. As there was now no necessity for any 
 further delay, the preliminaries having been well passed 
 on both sides, our hero began. Half dignity, half des- 
 G* 
 
66 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 p lii , ho made a desperate exposition of his case. Tie 
 described Ins love, its inveteracy and great irritability, 
 in moving language ; now in prone, now in verse, and 
 all in the spirit of ihut artificial period when love wore 
 wings and worshipped sunbeams, and chivalry carried 
 a lyre in one hund und a lance in the other, ready, in 
 the event of a failure on the part of cither, to supply its 
 place with a more faithful auxiliat UK! it was not (in 
 frequently the case, that tlie fuir hut fickle damsel, 
 having hidden defiance to the persuasive melodies of 
 the former, was borne away triumphantly by the dis 
 cords and terrors of the last. Don Ponce wax terribly 
 eloquent on the present occasion. Never amorous 
 knight more so. He narrated all his endeavours at 
 her attainment ; liU labours more numerous and mag 
 nificent than those of Hercules ; he detailed at length, 
 and with no little glow in the way of colouring, hid va 
 rious visitations by day, long watchings by night in the 
 perilous weather ; described the curious presents, pro 
 cured at infinite trouble and expense, solely for her 
 gratification ; the thousand and one new songs made 
 purposely in her honour, and at his instance, by the 
 most celebrated minstrels, several dozen of whom ho 
 kept in pay sololy for the purpose. Ho then proceeded 
 to describe the honours of his ntatr, his great wealth, 
 substance, dignity, and so forth ; and, with all duo 
 modesty, ho referred to tho noise arid notoriety of his 
 deeds of arms, and the fume, name, and glory which he 
 had thereby acquired. Ho dwelt with peculiar force 
 and emphasis upon tho nature of tho establishment, 
 which, upon marriage, he designed her ; and, with 
 much, and in tho eye of tho maiden, tedious minuteness, 
 
POTS CF. DE I.KON. 67 
 
 entered upon an enumeration at largo of the manifold 
 sources of delight and comfort which such nn event 
 would necessarily occasion. ] laving, by this time, ex 
 hausted all his materiel of speechification, he wisely 
 determined upon coming to the point, and in a fine 
 string of verse, prepared for the occasion, and round 
 ing oiF his speech admirably, as the distich is made to 
 do the scene in the old English drama, lie concluded 
 by making her the offer of Ins hand, heart, and sub 
 stance, little expecting that, after all said and done, 
 such a young maiden should still have the hardihood to 
 refuse. But so she did ; looking archly in his face for 
 a few seconds, she placed her slender and beautiful 
 fingers upon the few small specks of grisly hair that 
 still condescended to adorn his temples, and laughingly 
 exclaimed 
 
 44 Why, bless me, Don Ponce, at your years ! how 
 can you talk of such a thing ! You are quite bald, and 
 so wrinkled, that it s wonderful to me how you can 
 possibly think of any thing but your prayers/ 
 
 This was answer enough, a God s name ; and boil 
 ing with indignation, yet baking with undiminishcd ar 
 dour and love, the worthy knight hurried home to his 
 castle, immersed and buried in the utmost despair and 
 tribulation. 
 
 The indifference, not to say ill treatment of Donna 
 Leonora, was not enough however to efface from the 
 mind of our hero the many and deep impressions which 
 it had imbibed in favour of that capricious beauty. The 
 very sportiveness of her rejection, while it necessarily 
 increased, could not fail, by the seductiveness of her 
 peculiar manner, in lightening, its severity ; at least it 
 
68 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 gave an added charm to her loveliness in the grace of 
 its expression. He now thought more of the coquettish 
 creature than ever ; and the apprehensions, indeed, the 
 now seeming certainty, of her loss, threw him into a 
 fever, which was, of course, duly and professionally 
 heightened by the great number of his attending phy 
 sicians. 
 
 The Sangrado principle was at work upon him, and, 
 but that the fates had determined he should be pre 
 served for better things, he hail ceased to join in the 
 good cheer of his table, and gone, not to eat, but to bo 
 eaten ! It was on the fourth or fifth day of his malady, 
 history is doubtful which, that in a moment of interval 
 from pain, his lacquey brought intelligence of one be 
 low, in the guise of a mariner, who desired sight of his 
 highness, and the royal representative in those parts, 
 the most mighty, and valorous, and wise, Don Ponce 
 de Leon, chief of unnumbered titles, and doer of un 
 numbered deeds, &c. &,c. Though not surprised by 
 the application, for Don Ponce was un oilicer of the 
 king, the knight felt some strange anxieties to sec the 
 stranger, for which he could not precisely account, and 
 did not hesitate, accordingly, to command his appear 
 ance. The new comer was a Portuguese mariner, 
 seeking permission from the knight as the king s sub in 
 that section, to make recruits for properly manning his 
 caraval, from tiie dominions of the knight. He pro 
 posed, as was greatly the fashion at that lime, to make 
 certain new discoveries on the western continent (he 
 new world which Columbus u little while before, with 
 unexampled generosity, * k gave to Castile and Leon," 
 and which, with still greater generosity, they accepted 
 
PONCE DE LEON. GO 
 
 at his hands. In addition, however, to the lands, and 
 savages, and gold, the articles commonly enumerated 
 among the promises of these adventurers, our Portu 
 guese, reviving an old tradition of his people, pledged 
 himself to the discovery of the far-famed fountain, to 
 the waters of which was ascribed the faculty of confer 
 ring perpetual youth upon those who drank of them. 
 It had long been a prime article in the fancies of the 
 Portuguese, that such a fountain existed somewhere in 
 the Indian seas, and the singular success attending the 
 enterprise of Columbus, at its time of conception re 
 garded as so visionary, now inspired a large degree of 
 credence in every story, however monstrous or ex 
 travagant. Our mariner spoke with singular confi 
 dence as to the localities of this fountain, and so very 
 accurately did he describe the features of the spot in 
 which it was to be found, with such a lavish degree of 
 poetical illustration, not to say poetical justice, that, on 
 a sudden, Don Ponco, to the surprise of all about him, 
 who before thought him on his last legs, found himself 
 perfectly restored. lie leaped from his couch, em 
 braced the tarry Portuguese with most unqualified af 
 fection ; and three or four of his attending physicians 
 happening, most unfortunately for them, at that mo 
 ment to make their appearance, he gave orders to trun 
 dle them from the walls of his castle, in company with 
 all the pills, potions, and purges, by which they were 
 usually accompanied ; an order, we need not add, al 
 most as soon executed as given. Congratulating him 
 self, with unalloyed pleasure, upon his new acquisition, 
 our hero, to the surprise of every body, determined upon 
 
70 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 a voyage of discovery, in proper person, to the newly- 
 found continent. 
 
 l I will find these glorious waters, this fountain of 
 youth ; I will surprise, I will win this proud lady ; I will 
 pet rid of this ill-favoured complexion, these trenches, 
 this miserable apology for hair." 
 
 Such were the hrokcn exclamations of Don Ponce. 
 
 " Where s Don Ponce going ?" asked the imperti 
 nent. 
 
 " What s that to you ?" said the knight ; and having 
 made a visit, to take leave, he left the sight of the sneer* 
 ing beauty, entered his vessel, and the sails, under a 
 favouring breeze, loomed out gloriously and auspi 
 ciously in a balmy atmosphere, as they bore the old 
 veteran, but young lover, in search of the heretofore 
 hidden fountain of perpetual youth. 
 
 Years had now rolled away, and the world very well 
 knows, or it ought to know, how Don Ponce do Leon, 
 after many mishaps, disasters, and delays, discovered 
 the object, of his want and search somewhere in the 
 fertile wildernesses of Florida. It answered all his 
 expectations, and had (he desired effect upon his per 
 son. He grow, upon drinking from it, straightway 
 comely arid strong in person and buoyant in mind : 
 and, though tolerably well supplied with the latter 
 characteristic, already excessively warm and ardent in 
 his temper and affections, his joints grew more supple 
 than ever, and he could feel his blood articulating in 
 his veins perpetually, the then new and popular, but 
 now old and unpopular areyto of " Oh, tis love, His 
 love, &c. The stream, however which caused all 
 this change in the moral and animal man, was quite a 
 
PONCE DE LEON. 71 
 
 small one; and its virtues, having soon made them 
 selves manifest, it only seivcd to supply the first 
 comers, and was dry to all succeeding. A single 
 draught was quite enough for all his purposes; and 
 perfectly satisfied with the measure of success which 
 attended his adventure, Don Ponce began again to 
 direct his attention to his native country. lie thought 
 of his broad, bright fields, and of his vineyards, and 
 his retainers, and his castles, and then he thought of 
 Donna Leonora, and her fields, and her retainers, and 
 her castles, and all her other charms, personal and 
 contingent; and so thinking, he commenced his re 
 turn. But this was no easy matter. He had to fight 
 his way through troops of naked Indians, and wild 
 woods, and wicked briars, and swamps that left him 
 half naked ; now losing his way, and almost despairing 
 to find it again ; now exposed to perils from savago 
 men, and to temptations from savage women ; such, in 
 deed, as frequently led his chivalry into singular ad 
 ventures, and nameless and paralysing difficulties. 
 But he surmounted them all ; as how, in reference to 
 his new acquisitions, could he do less? He had taken, 
 as it were, a bond of fate for life. The gray hairs had 
 fallen from his brow, and been succeeded by others of 
 a less equivocal complexion, and in less limited quan 
 tity. The wrinkles had left his check, the dimness 
 his eye ; his step was no longer enfeebled and uncer 
 tain, he felt himself quite as young as when, in the 
 vigour of his boyhood, he had wrestled with a romping 
 maid of Andalusia, and was not overthrown. 
 
 Ho stood onco more, after an interval of many years, 
 upon the deck of his caraval ; and, as he proceeded 
 
72 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 over the mighty waste of waters that lay between him 
 and the land of his nativity, his thoughts grew more 
 than ever active and lively ; his spirit more anxiously 
 aroused as to tiic condition in which he should find all 
 tilings upon his return. His chief apprehension, how* 
 ever grew out of his affair of the heart. Should the fair 
 Leonora huvo become I ho bride of another and was 
 nil his personal beauty to be left upon his humU? 
 This was a damning difficulty, and nli in vain did he 
 seek to wrestle with and avoid the reflection. It grew 
 but the stronger as he approached the shore ; and when, 
 at his castle s entrance, he put the question to an old 
 retainer, and hastily demanded to know that which his 
 heart yet trembled to receive, how was ho rejoiced to 
 learn that all was safe, all as when he left, and the capri 
 cious il.iniM-1 ([tiito as accessible as ever. lie paused at 
 his castle, such was his impatience, but to arrange his 
 habit before intruding upon her. 
 
 " If, * said he, ** my gray hairs, my wrinkled face, 
 my infirm gait, were really her objections before, she 
 can no longer entertain them. I will wed her on the 
 spot .-ho cannot, she dare not, she will not resist 
 me!" 
 
 Suiely not, Don Ponce, surely not ; wo always think 
 well of the man who thinks well of himself. Ca.-sar 
 never struck into a path so perfectly sublime, as when 
 ho said, * Vim, ctJt, vici /" say so too, Don, and tho 
 thing s settled. 
 
 Thus manfully determined, our hero appeared in 
 
 tho halls of his neighbour Castellan, tho father of the 
 
 lady, and, with a view of present prospects, so likely 
 
 to be that of the knight. Their meeting was hearty, 
 
 16 
 
POHCE DE LEON. 73 
 
 though it took the old gentleman some time to under 
 stand how Don Ponce could get young while he himself 
 got old. The grateful mystery of his transformation 
 once explained, however, and matters were all well. He 
 did not waste more time upon the father, than a pro 
 per courtesy actually called for; but, after the first 
 proprieties, hurried, with all a lover s agony of impa 
 tience, to the bower in which he had been taught to 
 believe his mistress awaited him. What a moment of 
 delightful anticipation what funds of love in store 
 what raptures and felicitations at hand ! He was on 
 the threshold he was in the presence. There she 
 stood the same sylphlike form, the same figure of 
 consummated symmetry. But why veiled ? He rushed 
 valiantly forward, fell upon one knee before her, and, 
 oh, unlocked for condescension, she sunk into his 
 arms 1 He did not hesitate for a moment, but tearing 
 away the thick folds of the envious veil, he proceeded 
 to impress upon her lips, the kiss, so long treasured 
 with a perfect fidelity when he beheld, not the Leo 
 nora he had left not the beauty of her girlhood not 
 the creature of exquisite delicacy and youthful fra 
 grance, that queened it over a thousand hearts but a 
 superannuated and withered damsel, of wrinkled face, 
 starched features, and lips to which kisses of any kind 
 appeared to have been strangers for a marvellously 
 long season. Don Ponce had never remembered that 
 the term of years employed by him in gaining, was 
 spent by her in losing, both youth and beauty. Nor, 
 in this error was our knight alone. To all of us, no 
 changes are so surprising, none, certainly, so ungra- 
 c i.oud and painful, as those of tho young, and delicate, 
 7 
 
74 TIIR BOOK OF MY I.ADV. 
 
 and uontlc, under tho hand of timo and human cir 
 cumstances. Fiftoon years had done much for our 
 hero, but much more for our heroine. Ho could not 
 believe his eyes. 
 
 Nay, lady, there is some mistake here, surely," 
 said he, releasing himself partly from his burden. I 
 came to see the beautiful Donna Leonora D Alvarado." 
 " And I am she, most noble knight the same Don 
 na Leonora to whom your heart was so perfectly do- 
 voted/ simpered out the now gracious coquette. 
 
 " 1 must sec Don Guzman, 11 said he, * 1 muni Icnru 
 the facts in this matter ;" and flying out of tho presence 
 of his goddess with even more rapidity than ho had 
 flown into it, ho appeared before tho sire of tho an 
 cient beauty. 
 
 Don Ponce, where arc you going ? M said tho old 
 man. 
 
 41 Homo, Don Guzman," .-aid the young one. 
 " Why this hurry docs my daughter refuse ? If 
 she docs, Don Ponce, be assured that in your favour 
 I shall constrain her inclinations," warmly urged Don 
 Guzman. 
 
 "Not for tho world!" was the reply of our hero, 
 " not for tho world ; and hark ye Don Guzman, tho 
 trutli may as well be said now as ever. 1 no longer find 
 your daughter as 1 left her. 1 am quite too young for 
 her, I perceive. Pray permit me to send for her use 
 and your own, a bottle of water, which I took from a 
 certain fountain in India. 1 can assure you that it 
 will do you great good you both stand very much in 
 need of it." 
 
 Tradition does not say, whether the water thus fur- 
 
PONCE DE LEON. 75 
 
 nishcd had any effect upon the fair Leonora. One 
 old chronicle insinuates that she brought her action 
 for a hreach of promise against the young knight, but 
 failed to recover. This point is apocryphal, however. 
 He, we know, returned to America, and, after losing 
 an eye, in a fight with the Indians, and experiencing 
 many other vicissitudes, died of chagrin, from many 
 disappointments, as well in concerns of ambition as in 
 those of love ; " without," says the legend, from which 
 we borrow our narrative, "losing a single beauty of 
 that youth, so marvellously vouchsafed him, by Provi 
 dence, in the discovery of that wondrous fountain in 
 the wildernesses of Florida." 
 
76 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 THE VENETIAN BRIDAL. 
 
 " The couroc of true love never did run unooth." 
 
 It was a glad day in Venice. The eve of the feast 
 of the purification had arrived, and all those maidens 
 of the republic whose names were written in the Book 
 of Gold, assembled, with their lovers, parents, relatives, 
 and friends, and in the ornamented gondolas repaired 
 a beautiful and joyous crowd to the church of San 
 Pietro dc Castclla, the residence of the patriarch, at 
 Olivolo. This was on the extreme verge of the city 
 its neighbourhood almost without inhabitants, and only 
 occupied by a few priests, whoso grave habits and se 
 cluded lives had imparted an additional sombrcncss to 
 the naturally gloomy characteristics of the spot. But 
 it wan not gloomy now. The day of St. Mary s eve 
 had comr, arid all was life and joy in tho non-republic. 
 The marriages of a goodly company of the high-born, 
 the young and beautiful, were to be celebrated, as was 
 the custom, in public. Headed by the doge, Pietro 
 Candiano, tho city sent forth its thousand*, and every 
 form of life was in motion to be present at the festivi- 
 tics. Many hearts were throbbing with anticipated 
 joys ; and the emotions of many a young bosorn might 
 almost have been counted in the strong pulsation evi 
 dent through the close pressure of the virgin zone. 
 But there were at that spectacle some hearts inte- 
 
THE VENETIAN BRIDAL. 77 
 
 rested in the progress of the festival, who felt any thing 
 but gladness ; and when girded in by thousands of the 
 goodly and the brave by golden images, and flaunting 
 banners, and proud symbols some there were untaste- 
 ful enough to desire escape from their overpowering 
 associations. As the fair procession moved on and up 
 through the gorgeous archways of the cathedral to the 
 altar, where stood the patriarch ready for their recep 
 tion and the performance of the solemn rites, marked 
 you not one face more pallid, more tearful than the 
 rest ? Is hers the emotion of joy ? Is that tremulous, 
 thai indecisive, that unconscious step, the indication of 
 a heart at ease a fancy full and flowing with imagin 
 ings of delight ? Is the tear now gathering in her eye 
 significant of gladness or of grief? It needs no second 
 look to determine. Franccsca Ziani was going to the 
 sacrifice. A single glance over her shoulder, as she 
 passed along through the crowded assembly, fell upon 
 a noble cavalier, standing in an attitude of utter aban 
 don at the entrance. There were volumes in that 
 glance, and Giovanni Gradenigo could not fail to un 
 derstand it. There he stood, hopeless, helpless, in 
 utter despair, leaning upon the arm of his relative, 
 Nicolo Malipieri. lie saw his own heart s grief in that 
 one glance of the unhappy maiden. They had loved 
 they still loved ; but she was the victim of parental au 
 thority. Giovanni was not the favourite of her father, 
 and, in an evil hour, tho poor girl was destined for 
 sacrifice to the weak and wealthy heir of Ulric Earbe- 
 rigo. The hour was at hand, and with a feeling little 
 short of desperation, Giovanni Gradenigo still looked 
 and lingered, oven after all hope had departed* 
 7* 
 
78 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 44 I will not bear this, Nicolo," ho exclaimed, at 
 length. " I will make ono effort more. They shall 
 not so lord it over true affections. Franccsca was 
 mine she is mine even now in the sight of Heaven. 
 How often have wo vowed it. How often have our 
 vows been heard. Shall they not be blessed ? Shall 
 they bo thus defeated by that mercenary monster, mis 
 called her father ? No ! wtaud by me, Nicolo. I will 
 speak in this matter." 
 
 ** What would you do, Giovanni?" exclaimed his 
 friend, interrupting his advance. " How can you now 
 effect your object ? Their names have been long since 
 written in the Book of Gold, and the doge himself may 
 not change the destiny. Let us go, my Giovanni, and 
 seek consolation in other charms in more attainable 
 affections.* 
 
 But ho urged in vain. The impatient and passionate 
 youth heard or heeded not the advice, and put aside the 
 obstruction. Resolutely he advanced amidst the crowd, 
 gathered round to observe the ceremony which had not 
 yet begun. He made his way to the spot where stood 
 bis Franccsca, and a more deadly paleness came over 
 her countenance as ho approached her. The crowd 
 gave way from before him, for he was beloved in 
 Venice ; and as many knew in whatcourso set his affec 
 tions, a tearful interest grew apparent in many an cyo 
 at the fate of the young lovers. He stood before the 
 small circle of the parents and relatives of Franccsca 
 and Barbcrigo, who, on his approach, had encompassed 
 her about. Gently but firmly ho put them aside, and 
 approached tho maiden. Ho took her almost lifeless 
 
THE VENETIAN BRIDAL. 79 
 
 hand, which her mother would have withheld, into his 
 own, and his words were of a touching sorrow. 
 
 " And is it thus, my Francesca, that I must look 
 upon thcc ? Is it thus that I am to behold thec forget 
 ting thy virgin vows to Gradenigo, and yielding them 
 willingly, with thyself, to another ?" 
 
 " Not willingly not willingly, as I live, Giovanni, 
 not willingly. 1 have not forgotten I cannot forget 
 but would that you should forget, as I pray you to 
 forgive. My sin, believe me, is involuntary. I shall 
 love no other than you." 
 
 Faltcringly almost fuintingly, she thus articulated, 
 while a deeper interest grew up in the countenances of 
 all those around who could catch any portion of tho 
 half-whispered dialogue. The parents would have in 
 terfered, but it was not a moment in which they could 
 exhibit a stern heart, such as was too natural with 
 them ; and there was that in the deep grief of the de 
 frauded and defeated lovers which commanded respect 
 even in those bosoms most concerned in bringing about 
 this defeat. Calmly, therefore, almost sternly, Giovanni 
 spoke to the mother of Francesca, as she continued at 
 intervals to interfere. 
 
 " Have you not enough, lady, in thus bringing about 
 your purposes ? Is it not enough that you would have 
 her sacrifice herself and me : must she also be denied 
 the privilege of parting with one she must hold a part 
 of herself? For shamo, lady, this is scarcely becom 
 ing." And as he spoke, the more gentle spirits around 
 looked upon the stern mother with faces expressive of 
 a like rebuke. The youth continued, now addressing 
 the maiden : 
 
80 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 44 And if you did not love this man, my Franccsca, 
 why is it that yon have so soon yielded to his solicita 
 tions and their commands ? Had you not iny aflections 
 in keeping, and what right had you to sacrifice them ? 
 Thought you not of me in that hour when you consent 
 ed to this sacrifice of us both ?" 
 
 41 Hear me, und pity, if you cannot forgive," waa 
 the Budly impassioned response of (ho maiden to the 
 severe speech of her lover. Hear me, (iiovanni, 
 and blame 111*5 for my weakness, if you will, but doubt 
 not that 1 loved and must still love you " 
 
 ** What is this you would say, Francesca? beware !" 
 and the mother held up bur hand in warning ; and the 
 poor girl, us if terrified by some fearful association of 
 ideas, shrunk back, trembling and terrified. 
 
 The youth looked sternly upon the obtrusive and 
 stern parent, dropping at the same moment the hand of 
 thu maiden, which till then he had retained. With a 
 melancholy, which promised to be not less lasting than 
 fatal, upon his countenance, he took a last look at the 
 unhappy victim of a like fate with himself, and slowly 
 turning from her, exclaimed : " Well, Franccsca ! it is 
 then all over, and the hope for both of us is gone for 
 ever. Yet this 1 had riot looked for. It had been my 
 hope that we should have been happy but now " 
 
 She rushed towards him as he moved uway. Her 
 hands were uplifted, and but a single and broken sen 
 tence escaped her lips, as she sank fainting upon the 
 floor. " Forgive Oh ! forgive !" 
 
 He had gone. 
 
 " Let us go," ho exclaimed to his friend, as they led 
 the body of the crowd. " I can stay here no longer 
 
THE VENETIAN BRIDAL. 81 
 
 yet feel it hard to tear myself from the fascination of 
 her presence. God ! I cannot breathe 1 am choking, 
 Nicolo undo my collar." 
 
 Thus incoherently exclaimed the noble youth, as a 
 sudden burst of music from the body of the church, an 
 nounced the ceremony begun. 
 
 But the people had assembled for pleasure and a 
 spectacle, and though sympathising with the sufferings 
 of the lovers as largely as it is possible for the people 
 to do, they could not permit of any protracted interrup 
 tion with any thing like patience. Sympathies are very 
 good, but must not be suftered to take up too much 
 lime. So thought the Venetians, and accordingly the 
 little episode just narrated bad scarcely been over be 
 fore they insisted, by every means common to the popu 
 lace, upon the performance of those very ceremonies, 
 the prospect of which had made so miserable these two, 
 in whose fortunes they were so largely interested. Tho 
 ceremonies were begun. The doge led the way in the 
 procession, first, on behalf of the republic, assigning 
 portions to twelve young maidens, chosen for this pur 
 pose from amidst the mass of those not sufliciently opu 
 lent to secure husbands without. After this, advanced 
 the several couples, and tic after tie, and pledge after 
 pledge, was entered upon, while all the spectators grew 
 as deeply absorbed in the scene they witnessed, as if 
 they themselves were parties to each engagement. At 
 length, in turn, camo tho almost expiring Franccsca 
 Ziani, and the wealthy but weak and worthless Barbe- 
 rigo. Their approach again aroused the interest of all 
 who had beheld tho previous scene between tho dis 
 carded lover and herself. The bridegroom led the half 
 
82 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 unconscious victim to tho altar. The bishop began 
 the ceremonies, and called upon her to speak in re 
 sponse. But slio was spared tho necessity of reply. 
 The doors of tho church were burst open with a tre 
 mendous crcsh, and Barbara, the pirate of Istria, and 
 his six brothers, heading a formidable band, who had 
 long fixed upon this ceremonial a rapacious eye, chiefly 
 on account of tho great wealth accompanying it, now 
 rushed forward, with drawn swords, among tho aflright- 
 ed array. They had no scruples of conscience, and 
 soon dismantled tho church of ull its splendour. They 
 loaded themselves with the booty which tho lichly clad 
 dresses of the company afforded, the nuptial presents, 
 and the church ornaments ; and, not content with this, 
 u greater sacrilege yet, they seized upon the trembling 
 persons of tho young brides themselves. There could 
 be no resistance, for no weapons were permitted to 
 those engaged in tho ceremonial ; and in spite of tho 
 tears of the maidens, and the vain struggles of their 
 lovers, tho former wero borne away at the sword*s 
 point, by these ruthless men, and, hurried on board their 
 vessels, were soon out of sight of the almost heart 
 broken relatives and friends, from whom they had been 
 taken. 
 
 The cry reached the city, and soon all was in com 
 motion there. 
 
 " What are these clamours," exclaimed the despair 
 ing and gloomy Giovanni Gradcnigo, as he rushed to 
 the lattice. " These cries come from Olivolo, and tell 
 of something terrible." A gondola rushed down tho 
 canal, and ho called aloud to the gondolier. 
 
 " Have you not heard," said the gondolier ; and he 
 
THE VENETIAN BRIDAL. 83 
 
 soon told the story. Giovanni cried out to his friend, 
 and rushed down to the harbour. There stood the 
 citi/.ens, unknowing what to do, and hopeless of every 
 thing. 
 
 " Why stand ye here ?" exclaimed Giovanni why 
 stand ye here ? Come with me, gallant gentlemen 
 come on, brave cavaliers ye who would strike for 
 Venice " and ho led the way to the galleys in the 
 harbour. Promptly taking command in the general 
 confusion, he pointed out the course, and having made 
 due enquiries, he gave the direction to steer * for the 
 Lagunc of Caorlo." 
 
 His whole appearance had been changed by this 
 event, and those who, heretofore, had only known him 
 as the despairing lover, the inanimate and inactive 
 dreamer of an ideal hope and home, now wondered at 
 the strong spirit, and firm and fearless audacity of the 
 confident man who had undertaken to lead them. 
 Though having greatly the start in the race, yet, stimu 
 lated as were the pursuers, by the strongest human in 
 centives, and led on by such a spirit as Giovanni, the 
 pirates could not but be overtaken. They are at lengthy 
 when they had begun to be hopeless of success, cheered 
 with the appearance of the hitherto unseen robbers. 
 First one bark, and then another, came in sight, until 
 the whole corsair fleet was before them, urging an em 
 barrassed way through the intiicacies of the Lagune. 
 
 " Courage, bold hearts," cried the youth, " we shall 
 soon be upon them. The pirates, in their haste, have 
 got entangled in the laguncs, and cannot easily escape 
 us. We shall soon bo upon them. 1 
 
 The confident tone employed by their leader had an 
 
04 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 electrical effect upon the sinews of his men. The 
 sturdy oarsmen grew cheered in their labour, with the 
 strong prospect of success attending it ; and the knights 
 prepared their arms, and got themselves ready for the 
 conflict. And it came. They gained upon they 
 hailed they came up with the enemy. There was 
 little parley, and that was in tones of the fiercest fury. 
 
 * Yield thee to the mercy of St. Mark !" was the 
 shout of Giovanni to the pirate chief, Barbaro of Is- 
 triotc. 
 
 44 St. Mark must strike well, before Barbaro shall 
 yield him tribute !" 
 
 There was no other speech between them, and tho 
 galleys grappled. Tho Venetians leaped on board 
 of tho pirates, and their fury was little short of mud- 
 r.ess. Their wrath was terrible, and they smote with 
 an unforgiving vengeance. Tho Istriotcs fought bravely 
 as they had been accustomed, but every soul of them 
 fell. Their blood discoloured tho sea in which they 
 perished. 
 
 Tho victors came back with their spoil, unharmed 
 and in triumph, and preparations were made, tho samo 
 evening, to conclude tho bridal ceremonies, so inoppor 
 tunely interrupted in tho morning. The original distri 
 bution of brides was persevered in, with but a binglo 
 exception ; for tho Dogo 1 ictro Candiano, with that 
 high excrciso of authority, which at ull times, in its 
 palmy days, distinguished tho Venetian sway but with 
 a sentiment of justice which found its sanction in al 
 most every bosom, now dctormincd to bestow tho hand 
 of 1 iuno .-<:u upon Giovanni, as tho only equivalent re- 
 ward lor his ^ulluutry and conduct in her rescue, and 
 
THE VENETIAN ItRIDAL. 85 
 
 his great service to the republic. But where was Gio 
 vanni ? The maid, blessed beyond her hope, awaited 
 him at the altar. But he answered not to his name, 
 and a herald was despatched in pursuit of him. At the 
 final moment, when, in the struggle with the pirates, 
 victory had crowned his enterprise, he had received a 
 severe wound from the axe of ono of the brothers of 
 Barbara, just as he had sent that much dreaded chief 
 tain to his last account. He had strength barely to 
 behold and to shout his victory, when ho sunk fainting 
 upon the deck of his vessel, and was borne out of sight 
 by his friend, Nicolo. lie was now, at the summons of 
 the herald, borne, grievously wounded, into the assem 
 bly, for each member of which he had done and suf 
 fered so much. The Doge declared his purpose, and 
 with fond heart, and eyes streaming with joy, his own 
 I Vanccsca bent over him to confirm the ^lad intelli 
 gence. But, with tho consciousness of the sweet for 
 tune that awaited him, the ear was conscious no 
 longer. The lips were dumb for ever tho young Gio 
 vanni lay lifeless in the arms of the scarcely lesa lifeless 
 Francesca. It was a sad day after all, since its tri 
 umph came with so great a loss ; but tho maidens of 
 Venice still think, that there was more happiness for 
 the youth thus perishing, than would have come to 
 either of tho surviving, if separated, lovers. 
 
80 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 V A SCO NUNEZ. 
 
 For the interesting adventures of tins truly great warrior, the 
 reader is referred to that pleasant volume of Washington Irving, 
 "The Companions of Col um bun," where the chief features of thin 
 sketch will bo found narrated. The writer owes little of it to hot 
 own imagination. 
 
 Triumphant, on a jcak of Duricn, 
 
 Pcrch d on the narrow isthmus, there, lie stood 
 
 A moment, cro ho cant hi* eyes below, 
 
 And trembled in his awe. Beneath him roll d 
 
 The broad Pacific, never yet before 
 
 Unveiled to Euro|>can. What were then 
 
 Tin- feelings of Uall.ua ? Who shall tell 
 
 The struggling, deep, emotions of the soul, 
 
 So high aspiring, when to crown at last 
 
 The hope BO fruitful in great enterprise, 
 
 And noble consummation on his eyes 
 
 Hurst forth that mighty pro*t]>ect~that deep sea, 
 
 In tho virginity of its pure waves, 
 
 CnriuYd of a charm, for the Hint time 
 
 Won to a mortal s arms or, who conceive, 
 
 When on the summit of that isthmus throned, 
 
 Higher than sovereign, and on either hand 
 
 liangcd the two sinter SCUH, for the first time 
 
 <iivcn to each other ; he, that gallant chief, 
 
 Most noble and most valiant of the sons 
 
 > I i.i m s nt on thin great M i vi< <, stood alone, 
 
 And look d ujon his conquest ? Who shaU tell 
 
 The mcUuicholy pride of his grcut boul, 
 
VA8CO NUNEZ. 87 
 
 When tho achievement, long withheld, and won 
 Only by toil at lastthe fearless toil 
 Of truo adventure and achievement great, 
 That greater grew from trial was his own ; 
 And, to a spirit as aspiring, ho 
 Added a name and triumph, scarce below 
 That of the "Admiral," who led the way, 
 First, in this path of glory. With glad eye, 
 And soaring sense, and spirit almost drunk, 
 In its excess of rapture, dumb he stood, 
 And gazed upon the waters. Were thcec, then, 
 The billows of that Indian pea, which claspa 
 In its capacious bosom, those broad isles 
 Of boundless, unimaginable wealth, 
 In gold and gems overflowing, locking in 
 Tho spices and tho perfumes of the east, 
 The world of spoil, the field of enterprise, 
 Meet for that ocean chivalry, to whom 
 Tho sea and land, tho wild, and wilder yet 
 The savages that sway them, havo no bar ! 
 Was this that glorious sea or, prouder still, 
 Had fortune yielded to his daring aim 
 Some lonely, Iock d-up ocean of the wild, 
 Some savage realm of water, undisturb d, 
 Save by the Indian s bark, when, at tho dawn, 
 He plunges through its silvery depths, unscared, 
 For tho pearl oyster, and at eve returns, 
 Laden and glutted with his precious spoils, 
 To his lone wigwam by tho rccdy shore. 
 
 Such were tho conqueror s dreams, yet not forgot 
 In hia own triumph, was the God who gave 
 That sea, before a waste, untrod, unknown 1 
 Bent knees, glad hearts, spoke audible the prayer, 
 Of that true band of warriors, as the cross, 
 Hewn in tho tallest tree, was lifted up, 
 And itationed o er their heads, whilst every eye 
 
86 THE HOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 (Jrcw pregnant with it* tcarafloinc upward turnM, 
 
 To In .1 vi-n , in thunki ami gladncmi ; many moro 
 To tho deep quiet wutcm at their feet. 
 
 Twas midnight, and tho stars were in the licavcns, 
 Each in his brightnew. Nut a single cloud 
 Dimmed their profuxion, and upon that HCU, 
 Curl d into gentle billowy with a swell 
 Like the voluptuouH hcavingH of the hreuHt, 
 < H UMMC fair princess of the burning caul, 
 ." - They Bhow d their counties and repeated lights. 
 With a most emulous glory. From the bouth, 
 Where it had wander d the protracted day, 
 AmidHt the profuse gardens of the wild, 
 And with their odour* laden, whence it cumo - 
 The gentle bree/o, nkimming tho azure wnven, 
 Kipplcd them into lift , and boru them on, 
 With an incennant murmur, to the Hhorc. 
 The rccdn bent down to meet them, and gave forth 
 The toned of their united muuic meet, 
 In it- uumeuKiircd I)euting8, to the ttenHO, 
 For tint broud wildcrneua of uca and lurid. 
 Whilst each, from its aaccnt, gradual but high, 
 From hill to hill extending, meeting oft, 
 Alxw, and arching o er the valcn between, 
 The tall and Hpiry pines, through the i- 1 ill liourw 
 Kept up their Bolemn ehoruH, ehiming in, 
 Monotonous but meet, with the deep si us, 
 And the oi\ zephyru flouting o er their brcautfl. 
 
 *TwuH midnight but the ehieftaiu did not *leep 
 1 low could he wlccp ! Tlie creature of In* nlecp 
 The dreaniH that HO had wrought him for long hour*. 
 And kept him wakeful many u night licforo 
 The vuguo conceit, the rich cxjK ctancy, 
 Of boundlt HH conquest und unrivulled luunc, 
 I ll. it wrought ln.i hdiil 1 :-! ambition from the time 
 He firut had drcamM of glory, were Inn own 
 The liop< of n long life was rculiacd ! 
 
VASCO NUNEZ. 89 
 
 He was no more Iho creature ho had been, 
 
 When boyhood was a season of delight, 
 
 And hope had many a semblance. When amid 
 
 The festive tlirong, for mirth and music bent, 
 
 At evening by the waters, or attuned 
 
 To a more fell employment, he was found 
 
 Rashly adventurous, daring still the first, 
 
 Where all were daring in the tented field, 
 
 Join d in close combat with the tawny Moor, 
 
 A kingdom on his arm. The ruthless mood, 
 
 Indifferent to aught but valorous deed 
 
 And bloody retribution all were gone ! 
 
 And in their stead a loftier spirit came, 
 
 Keeping him watchful. His advcnt rous mind 
 
 Felt its own wing, and knew its strength at last 
 
 And soared into the heavens ; and, caglc-like, 
 
 Ho brooded Vnong those mountains through tho night, v , 
 
 And meditated with tho matin chime, 
 
 His flight across tho waters, where to lead 
 
 He knew not ; but his dreams, his waking dreams, 
 
 Peopled the wilds beyond, with glorious forma 
 
 And empires of the sun. Ho too would give 
 
 To Castile and to Leon a new world, 
 
 And more than he, the mighty Genoese, 
 
 Another ocean with its tribute wealth, 
 
 And uncomplaining waters. 
 
 Thus tho chief, 
 
 AR with his sword upon the grass, ho mado 
 Unmeaning strokes, unconscious, mused alone 
 Not long alone, for on his shoulder fell 
 Tho weight of a strong hand, yet not in wrath. 
 Ho started from his trance. Bcsido him stood 
 One of tho wiso men of that soaring timo 
 A spirit which, through abstinence and toil, 
 Long study, Teachings vast arid infinite, 
 And grievous penance, in its age had grown 
 Familiar with the stars. To him they wore 
 
 8* 
 
00 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 Not ICNH than spirit*, fur they did reveal 
 Thu future with the past UnvcilM to him 
 They wcro all present ; and in rocky cell*, 
 In ruiu d castles, and M eluded caves, 
 And from the crowd remote, he conn d the page. 
 Nightly, of human story ; und could read 
 All lort une-, und could conjure them at will 
 Into the ueeker rt prcHcncc. Such WUH he, 
 Who, i ii the morning wntch of that culm night, 
 Stood l.y the mtuing Spaniard on thut pruk, 
 The peak of Darieii, und looked, with him. 
 Sad, on the new-found sea that lay below. 
 
 To him the chief, who pauwd awhile, thu ipake : 
 
 * Triumph, ut last, old Cicer ! All in vain, 
 
 The rocks, the woods, the tnoiinUiin streams, und worw, 
 
 The drooping spirit* of our wcuricd hot, 
 
 And our own fears oppo^.-d UM on our way. 
 
 These have we overcome, and Bui boa now 
 
 May vaunt his conquest* on the kindred page, 
 
 Th.it i- hi ne-. with Colon H glory. Have I not 
 
 Given a now ocean to our monarch s crown, 
 
 A tributary world, a countless race, 
 
 And an unbounded, vast and nameless wealth, 
 
 Not to U: numl>erM. Have 1 not outnprcud, 
 
 Kven to the cinliraeci of thin foreign breeze. 
 
 That bloHHomB in itii odour, come afar, 
 
 DouhtleMH, from gardcnu of the orient realm, 
 
 Hard by to Ophir lii unconqucr d flag ; *, 
 
 And on thin rock, beheld from cither flea, 
 
 Planted the sacred standard of our faith, 
 
 The hallowed cross ; in token that the wild 
 
 Is now the core of Christ, henceforth to bo 
 
 The creature of his people ? and yet more, 
 
 For his true honour, have we not outborne 
 
 The glory of the Spanish name and arms, 
 
 In irilou* adventure, crowned at lust, 
 
 Through heaven s sweet mercy, with complete BUCCCM ? 
 
VA8CO JttJNEZ. 
 
 These, Ciccr, cannot, shall not be forgot ; 
 And Balboa s nunio, when he shall be no more, 
 Shall have it* chronicler, and spell the car, 
 And on the lips of story sound as well. 
 As any in his record. How will t read, 
 With " Vasco NUHCZ de Balboa," to write 
 Colon the Admiral " " world-finders both !" 
 
 The Mngian paused a space, and in his eye. 
 Where brightness, strangely mingled up with gloom, 
 Wore an appalling lustre, not unlike 
 Such as our dreams for spirit forms provide 
 A darker shade, a deeper, sadder hue, 
 And, it might be, a krgc but single tear, 
 Unbidden gathcr d. Calmly then he spoke. 
 
 M My son, at Palos, by the convent walls 
 Of La Rabida, your old mother dwells : 
 I saw her, when we last departed thence, 
 On this adventure. Not to me unknown, 
 The future, as you found it. You were then, 
 Already, known to glory so men call, 
 Words from their follow-mcn and twas her pride 
 To speak of you as all the country spoke. 
 I could not check the current of her speech, 
 Nor were it kind to do so ; but aroused, 
 And ravished with the subject, when sho grew 
 Wild with imagined triumphs and great spoils, 
 And all the gauds of fortune, in my heart 
 I sorrow d for her strange simplicity. 
 I did not tell her that her eyes in vain 
 Would, till the sunset, o er the waves look out 
 For her son s caravel. I did not say, 
 What, well persuaded, I might well have said, 
 That all your triumphs were to end at last 
 In a wild dungeon, and a bloody grave, 
 And ignominious scaffold " 
 
 " Nay, start not 
 li is my grief, as tis thy destiny, 
 That I should mourn for that I must foresee, 
 
92 THE BOOK OF XV L AD V. 
 
 And thoa escape not Hearken, then, awhile. 
 Thou wilt remember, on our voyage out 
 I traced thy fortune. Thou dtd nt seek of me, 
 Its feature*, hut thy quest I HI ill withstood, 
 As aiduig not thy service to bo known, 
 And, haply, moving thy too soaring thought, 
 Too much to dwell upon it. But with mo 
 It grew a settled study. From my art 
 Of which in praise I speak not, when I say 
 It IMS not I .iilM mo ofl I lingcr d <> < r 
 Thy varying fortune*. Kvcry Htep thou took it, 
 Whether in peace or war, in court or camp, 
 In eae or peril, I beheld at large. 
 I saw thcc trace thy journey to the wild 
 Thy each reverse thy final, full success, 
 Until the mighty waters, which now roll 
 Incessant to our feet, proclaim d thy fame ; 
 And to the daring soldier gave the praise 
 Of calm forethought, deliberation wine, 
 And an intelligent sense, that all confirm* 
 In this thy conquest. Hero then arc we now 
 So fur, the fortune I have traced is true !" , 
 
 44 What more, what more ?" impatient, then, the chief, 
 Asked of the aged man. " Let me know all 
 I do CHtecm thy art, and well believe 
 Thou lovcst me us thy eon. Thou wilt not speak 
 What twere not well to hear ; and, well I know, 
 Thy wisdom, if ill fortune do betide, 
 May guide my wildcr d bark, and bring it safe. 
 Speak then at once, nor think that at thy speech, 
 Though fearful be its form, my soul shall quake, 
 Or my knees tremble. Let me know it all, 
 That I may battle boldly with my fate, 
 However vain the struggle, OB becomes 
 A son of Spain, a warrior of the wild, 
 A spirit prone to combat with the seas, 
 And brave them at their wildest. Speak, old man; 
 
VA8CO NUNEZ. 93 
 
 Give thy thought words, and let my fortune stand 
 Before mo on the instant." 
 
 The magian spoke : 
 
 " When in the gathcr d stars thy fate I read, 
 In one remote and solitary light, 
 I saw its bane and baleful influence. 
 A single star thus quartered in the heavens 
 Tcem d with malicious auguries, and shook 
 All fires malign upon tliec. It was then 
 I sought its secret power, and early read, 
 That, while afar, in the cxtrcmest cast, ;. 
 
 It kept its foreign station, thou wcrt safe ; 
 But when with daring wing it took its way, 
 And where the evening hangs her golden lamp 
 O er the sun s chambers, shook its lurid fires, 
 That hour to thee was perilously dark, 
 And death, a bloody, ignominious death, 
 Was gathcr d in its verge. That hour s at hand 
 Look forth into the west. Behold, apart, 
 From all communion with its fellow lights, 
 Where, with audacious blaze and angry beam, 
 That fate casts forth its fires. Redly it burns, 
 And, as exulting in the near approach 
 To the destruction of its victim, takes 
 A subtle halo round it. There ore stars, 
 That to the eye of mortals seem but stars, 
 Yet arc they evil spirits. Such is this. 
 They arc not of the class with which they roam. 
 Their lights arc not like those which burn around, 
 Nor have they the like genial influence. 
 They hold a fearful power o er earthly tilings, 
 Man, and the Worlds about him. O er the earth. 
 And on the waters, they do exercise ; 
 They have their moods, and bitterly at war 
 With all God s works, they seek for their annoy ; 
 Impede their fortunes, or attend them on, 
 Even to success, as, with tlice, this hath done, 
 That, when they hurl them down to the abyss, 
 
94 THE BOOK OF XY LADY. 
 
 The height shall be a perilous one they leave. 
 The gentler lights of heavenly providence 
 Shrink from their foul contagion, till they stand 
 Apart, and from tho rest all separate. 
 Some they precipitate from their high spheres, 
 Leaping into their place ; while the dethroned, 
 Extinguished in the decpa of all their light, 
 Find there a dwelling-place, to their new cane 
 More apt and fitting. Such pow rs have these 
 O er men and stars, as these do err and shoot, 
 Out from their proper places. Over thru 
 Yon planet hangs its spell, and thou art mark d 
 Its victim, surely all thy triumph nought ; 
 Thy spoils for oilier spoilers, and thy deeds 
 Nought valued, nothing doing for thy life, 
 But all against tlicc. Jesu be thy shield." 
 
 Ere many days, and he, who at that hour 
 Beheld himself by all tho world beheld, 
 The hero horn for conquest and renown, 
 Died on the block. The crown had {Missed away 
 The moral was complete, and in the vast, 
 The utmost height of his unbounded sway, 
 And glorious triumph, far beyond compare, 
 Among his human fellows, liulboa died 
 A hero s glory and a felon s fate, 
 Closing a perilous life of many toils 
 And true adventure. Tho magician s <..-eum 
 Wat* sooth and he, whom world* could not contain, 
 So vast his spirit whuHO fur-darting HOU! 
 Saw from its skyey pinnacle, the new " *i 
 
 And boundless Chores he conquer d - he, the brave, 
 Tho gallant in renown, where all were brave, 
 Perish d, unheard, unheeded not an eye 
 To weep his fortunes ; not a single arm 
 To do his nature justice, and redress 
 The wrongs of men and nations. Thus he died 
 The world ho conquered yielding him a grave ! 
 
05 
 
 THE DEATH OF A FAIRY. 
 
 With one, prono at any time to their encouragement 
 and acquaintance, nothing contributes more, while 
 enfeebling and prostrating all the other faculties, than a 
 warm fever, to the growth and strength of fancy and 
 imagination. An attack of this description, arising 
 from cold, taken in a recent indiscreet exposure, kept 
 me awake all last night, and rendered particularly 
 active and acute an imagination not apt to slumber 
 very considerably at any time. The night was one of 
 clouds and gloom, and fatiguing silence. I heard not 
 even a dog bark in the streets, and the ticking of the 
 clock was the only sound that for several hours came 
 audibly to my senses. At length, however, I should 
 say about one o clock in the morning, I could plainly 
 distinguish something like a humming but suppressed 
 whisper, as of many voices confusedly but cautiously 
 employed in dispute, which seemed to arise at the 
 extreme corner of the chamber in which I lay. Then 
 my eye was attracted to a small glimmering which 
 flashed out at intervals, I had almost said and certainly 
 thought at the time, from the top of my spermaceti 
 candle, which stood centrally upon the mantel. From 
 the emission of light, however at periods, marked by 
 the usual unsteadiness of its pale and delicate sparkle, 
 1 judged and judged rightly, after a moment s reflec- 
 
06 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 tion, that the gleam was that of a glow-worm, which, 
 by some means or other, had begun 
 
 "To polo its ineffectual fires," 
 
 in the place of the moro certain aid of my candle ; 
 illuminating its own little sphere with a splendour, 
 which, though it could afford but little aid to my ob 
 servation at any other time, served fully on this occa 
 sion to give me a perfect insight into the matters then 
 going on. Through its medium 1 could distinctly see, 
 that I was not, as 1 had been at retiring, the sole oc 
 cupant of my chamber; but that hundreds of little 
 creatures, formed like human beings, though on a 
 scale of the most diminutive insignificance, were 
 busily employed in a variety of ofliccs, within ita 
 precincts, making every thing around them their own, 
 and behaving with as much familiarity and freedom in 
 the four walls, as if they, and not I, were the owner 
 and proprietor. Their tiny forms, clothed in gay 
 green vestments, were tingod and tinctured here and 
 there with spots of the richt-st gold and crimson, while 
 the light and gossamer wings, which depended with 
 an air of the most perfect spirituality from their 
 shoulders, approved them those gay creatures of the 
 clement, 
 
 " That in tho colours of tho rainbow live, 
 And play i tho plighted cloud*." 
 
 (Gradually the whole scene became developed to my 
 survey, arid I could sec that they were employed in 
 some great procession, at once of attraction and so 
 lemnity. They funned u double circle, and performed 
 
 
THE DEATH OF A FAIRY. 97 
 
 a variety of fantastic evolutions, which might be dances 
 for aught I knew of their habits and indulgences 
 chanting all the while, in a low but highly musical 
 accent, the following song, which, to my ear, savoured 
 of a most pleasing melancholy. 
 
 SONG OP THE FAIRIES. 
 
 Como in thy robos of quiet night, 
 With each attending spell around, 
 
 And let the wanton zephyr s flight, 
 Bo pinioned to our fuiry ground ; 
 
 The stars shall bring each gracious light, 
 And music in the rccds shall sound. 
 
 Think st thou that earth, alone for thoc, 
 Poor jealous mortal, Heaven has made- 
 
 Thou hast its rule and so have wo, 
 With both our wills alike obeyed 
 
 Your sovereign sway by day you see, 
 For us hath night her charms arrayed. 
 
 Her maiden charms of stainless sky, 
 And odour d breath, and wooing air, 
 
 And many a countless luxury, 
 Denied to bless your humbler sphere 
 
 Sweet spirits, too, when moons arc high, 
 Descend from heaven to revel hero. 
 
 Take thou the day, but to us leave, 
 The gentler hours of evening still 
 
 Your sterner spirits may not heave, 
 At wanton beam or rippling rill 
 
 Yet for each flower that dies, wo grieve. 
 And dread its fate and mourn its ill. 
 
08 Til K BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 Wai thin Bong intended for my oar ? 1 thought 10, 
 and did not think it improper, however imprudent it 
 might be, to look and listen* They did not dance 
 long, but dividing themselves into two nearly equal 
 bodies, they assembled directly in front, but yet at a 
 small distance from each other, drawn up in battle 
 array, and seemingly for the purposes of war. Some 
 were armed with the thorns of the orurigc-treo and rose 
 bush, while the more common instruments of warfare 
 seemed to be the scented flowers of the one and the 
 buds and blossoms of the other, A solituiy cricket 
 had been impressed into the service ns a trumpeter by 
 the one side, who sounded his little bugle at intervals; 
 while on the other hand a parcel of cherry stones, en- 
 closed within the outer rind of the walnut, answered 
 the purposes of the drum for the other, being rattled 
 by a dwarfish but giant-looking member of their own 
 lilliputian tribe. Thus prepared and directed, they 
 approached each otiicr with u degree of fury moio 
 characteristic of a fierce combat, and more determined 
 uflray ; and the conflict was waged with a degree of 
 ardour more like a ?nc.Jcc a entrance, than one of sport 
 or courtesy. 
 
 Various were the results of the strife. Here a feeble 
 warrior, overpowered with innumerable rosebuds, con 
 centring at the same moment on his person, would sink 
 down on the field, and the fight would bo renewed with 
 aggravated fury above his body, as well with the view 
 of securing it from captivity on the one side, as to bear 
 it away as a trophy on thu other. If the one paity was 
 successful, the body of thu unfortunate combatant was 
 borne from tin; field ou a litter, woven together of vines 
 
THE DEATH OP A FAIRY. 99 
 
 and leaves ; and on the other, if the enemy proved tri 
 umphant, chains made of blossoms of the pride of India 
 were put upon his hands, his wings were sprinkled with 
 dews, and sometimes clipped, and ho was borne away 
 to a dungeon, made of a huge calabash, the entrance to 
 which was barred with spokes of cane and cedar. For 
 a long time was the battle continued, without any appa ^. 
 rent advantage on either side. New fairies were per- 
 petuajly arriving, joining themselves to one or the other j 
 party, and, by this means, protracting the combat, 
 which, among thoso originally engaged, would other- / 
 wise have been settled completely. Mingled as they / 
 were, by this time, together ; having lost all the original 
 ardour in which they had begun, the fight had at length 
 settled down into an affair of so many individuals, ter 
 minating, finally, in so many single combats, which 
 seemed to be waged with a more particular fury than 
 before. The feeling was now personal and less gene 
 ral. Passions became concentrated and at work, and 
 the combatants chose those for their encounter against 
 whom they appeared to entertain some especial enmity. 
 I could plainly see that there were several of this de 
 scription on foot ; where such innocuous weapons as 
 rosebuds and orange blossoms, were made to give way 
 to the more formidable influence of pointed spears of 
 cane, or sharp thorns of various kinds ; and some were 
 armed with lath whips or bludgeons, with which they 
 sought as well to disfigure as to maim their opponents. 
 Among these combats, my eye singled out one of a na 
 ture purely personal. The parties scorned to entertain 
 for each other a more than common degree of hatred 
 and dislike. The utmost malignity shot out from their 
 
100 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 eyes, and was distinguishable in thoir actions ; and, dis 
 regarding the rest of the combat, and all the scene be 
 side, saving ond excepting the portions in which they 
 wore necessarily engaged, they seemed to recognise no 
 other object than their entire destruction ; nor did this 
 fury and singleness of purpose appear only to operate 
 upon and to aflect tho two. Whether it was that there 
 was a feud exiting between them, known to their na 
 tion, and which, like those of Scotland, had to bo fought 
 out ; or whether (ho novelty of their desperate fight 
 threw an air of ridicule and rebuke upon all others less 
 severe, 1 know not ; but it was evident, that in a little 
 while they were tho sole combatants on tho ground, and 
 every interest of a more general nature was suspended 
 in the survey of the sharp controversy which they con 
 trived to carry on. Nothing could exceed tho skill, 
 seemingly, with which they pursued tho combat. 
 
 So fur as bodily prowess was concerned, they ap 
 peared pretty equally matched, and it was left to their 
 respective knowledge of tho science to determine tho 
 iiflray. Their skill seemed perfect ; and from tho case 
 which Characterised their actual stylo of fight, it was 
 difficult to guess, how, unlcnn Home unpropitiou.s ciicum- 
 stance should throw its weight into tho scale, it could 
 be decided. The helm, the shield, the curved shoulders, 
 and elosed wings, alternately shrunk beneath the seve 
 rity of their several blows, which, though they seemed 
 to stagger the party receiving them, exhibited no 
 wounds and drew no blood. This might be owing 
 in part to their defence, and partly to the excellence 
 of their guard. Sometimes, suddenly unclosing their 
 silky wings, they would whirl away into the air, to 
 
THE DEATH OP A FAIRY. 101 
 
 alight only tlio more unexpectedly before the antago 
 nist, changing the ground, and in hope to take him 
 upon advantage by the surprise. But their efforts did 
 not seem productive always of the proposed results ; 
 for, to speak in just terms of their cunning in the art of 
 fence, if one did exhibit a surprising degree of activity 
 and skill in this flight, the other seemed not the less 
 well prepared to encounter and to foil him. But the par 
 ties grew sensibly weaker, more irritable, and less 
 guarded than before ; and at length, when I least ex 
 pected the affair to terminate, or terminate in this way, 
 the larger and more robust of the two, in a moment s 
 inattention, and by a sudden backstroke of his enemy s 
 bludgeon, received a severe blow on the arm, and with 
 a slight shriek from the excessive pain, let fall his 
 weapon, and stood at the mercy of his opponent. This 
 condition of things now brought the whole array once 
 more to loggerheads ; particularly as the more success 
 ful champion, following up his advantage, brought his 
 wounded opponent to the ground by a second stroke, 
 even more severe than that which had disarmed him. 
 The fight was just about to recommence, when I thought 
 it high time for other parties to interfere, and recollect 
 ing that it was an old faith among the vulgar, that 
 water was an effectual barrier against the passage of 
 fay or fairy, I resolutely and somewhat desperately, 
 stretched my hands forth from the bedside, to where 
 Htood my wash-stand, and seizing upon the ewer, con 
 veniently filled with water, I took deliberate aim at the 
 two combatants, who stood apart from the rest. At 
 the first hiss of the water one of them took to flight, 
 but the wounded champion, unable to move, was cer- 
 9* 
 
102 THE BOOK OF XY LADY. 
 
 tainly and suddenly soused all over, and a complete 
 stream thrown around him, preventing access from any 
 of his companions. I had no sooner achieved this feat, 
 than 1 was forcibly impressed with all its fearful conse 
 quences. There no class of spirits, " of the earth, 
 earthy," so revengeful, so troublcsomely revengeful, 
 according to the faith which recognises their existence, 
 as the fairy. They are renowned for their tricks upon 
 travellers, housekeepers, particularly old maids and 
 bachelors, and spinsters of a certain age. They tease 
 old coquettes, and worry young ones. They pinch the 
 sleeping wife, newly married, and rouse her and her 
 young lord up, more frequently o* the long nights lhan 
 is altogether consistent with their health and quiet. 
 But, why enumerate ? Every body has read that fine 
 fancy of Mercutio, 
 
 " Oh, then I HOC Quceu Mub hath been with you, 
 She is the Fancy s midwife, and she comes, 
 In hhupc no bigger," &c. 
 
 If every body has not road it, every body ought to road 
 it, and they lose who do not. But, as I expected, the 
 toil and turmoil was now only about to begin. Certain 
 it is, the whole fairy tribe were in the utmost tremor 
 and tribulation for the fate of their companion thus 
 taken in the toils. The rival armies forgot all further 
 contention, and united their forces for his* extrication- 
 all but the champion by whom the prisoner had been 
 overthrown. His malignity scorned more particularly 
 to have bcon marked and specific, from his conduct on 
 this occasion. Ho paused but a moment to survey the 
 condition of the prisoner, and I thought I could dis- 
 
THE DEATH OP A FAIRY. 103 
 
 cover something like a grin of delight on his sharp and 
 speculative features ; then taking wing* he passed out 
 of my sight, but in what manner or direction, I could 
 not at the moment discover. 
 
 There was now a tremendous buzzing and shuffling 
 in my chamber ; all was doubt and deliberation among 
 the petty people. In their whisperings I thought [ 
 could make out, every now and then, the hundred half- 
 formed plans proposed for the liberation of their com 
 rade, all proving ineffectual, however, for they did 
 nothing towards it. Now the chairs would creak and 
 rattle beneath the weight of half a dozen of them, en 
 deavouring, in this way, to behold the predicament of 
 their companion, which otherwise, through tho dense 
 mass collected around him, they could not have seen. 
 In the mean time, what with his leaguer and his bruises, 
 the captive himself uttered at intervals a low complain 
 ing murmur, like the sighing of the winds through 
 some decaying crevice in your shutter. A sad, zephyr- 
 like sigh, the dreamy faintness of which was quits as 
 touching as the grief in which it might be supposed to 
 have its origin. But to their plans for his extrication. 
 First they collected all their roses, and endeavoured to 
 bridge a way for him over the water, by which he might 
 escape without touch or taint from it ; but the leaves 
 became penetrated with a strange susceptibility, and 
 the poor gladiator appeared to suGer so greatly from 
 his wounds, that assistance was necessary to bring him 
 out of the difficulty by a force independent of his own. 
 In the effort to pass to him, it was discovered that those 
 making the effort stood no small chancoof incurring a 
 life forfeiture; the heavy liquid, penetrating with its 
 
104 THE ROOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 dank influence the silky and gauze-like texture of their 
 wings, and leaving them also at the mercy of the cold 
 and cruel creatures of the earth. It would be impossi 
 ble for me to describe the many efforts, the indefatiga 
 ble energy, and determined adherence to their purpose* 
 exhibited by the little creatures on this occasion. Un 
 wavering, however, as they were, it was soon discover 
 ed that their efforts must be vain, unless the party 
 whom they sought to free could co-operate with their 
 labours. This, from the severity of his injuries, he 
 could not do, and thoir purpose was not now so much 
 his release, as their revenge upon him who was parti" 
 ccps crimi/iif, in thus placing him hors du combat. I 
 soon perceived, from sundry demonstrations, that my 
 turn was at hand, and I prepared for it accordingly. 
 Unfortunately, in my previous hurry in making my pri 
 soner, I had squandered away more water than was 
 necessary, and had put it entirely out of my power to 
 fence myself in from attack, by a wall of it around me, 
 which t might have done. With some of it in reserve, 
 at least, I might have kept them in salutary check from 
 the awe which it would havo necessarily inspired. Hut 
 they came to the attack, unobstructed, and in fearful 
 array. A sort of chiming howl, which, though not 
 louder than the chirping of a cricket, excited a consi 
 derable degree of nervousness, preceded their advance, 
 and led me to many disagreeable anticipations of what 
 was to come. At length their batteries were fairly 
 opened, and siege commenced in regular form. Hea 
 ven only knows, I cannot icmeinber, and certainly 
 would not pretend to describe, the many tenors which 
 they employed for my punishment. At one moment 
 
THE DEATH OF A FAIRY. 105 
 
 my ears wore assailed with tho hummings as of ten 
 thousand musquetoes, gaunt wretches, whom the win 
 ter had exhausted of blood, and who now came with 
 their accursed bugles and suckers to my veins for their 
 replenishment. Then their fangs, darted resolutely 
 into my checks and nose, rendered it imperatively ne 
 cessary that I should thrust myself entirely beneath the 
 coverlid and trust to it for protection ; but in covering 
 my head rather too hastily, I left my feet bare, and the 
 invading army only transferred themselves from one 
 extremity to tho other. Having secured these mem- 
 bcrs also by a familiar contraction of tho knees, 1 con 
 ceived myself perfectly secure, when to my utter 
 astonishment and horror, I heard them taking the 
 screws out of my bedstead, ono by one, with a fearful 
 rapidity ; and found the old posts, originally none of the 
 surest, tottering as well under their additional weight as 
 from my tremors, and promising a speedy dissolution. 
 In the mean time another strong body had seized upon 
 the bedclothes, and by concerted arrangement, was 
 drawing them entirely from my person. This was 
 quite too much. I made a desperate effort, leapt 
 out of the bed, and seizing my clothes, endeavoured to 
 put them on. But here again tho mischievous urchins 
 had been at work, and had performed, with singular 
 ingenuity and haste, that peculiar operation upon them, 
 which is known among swimmers as a trick practised 
 upon the clothes of those who are in the water, by those 
 who are out of it. My linen was in fifty knots, my drawers 
 in no less ; and when I attempted to put on my pantaloons, 
 I discovered the legs filled with stockings, vest, neck 
 cloth, and slippers, in such hostile confusion as to create 
 
.-,,.. , t 
 
 I 
 106 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 an awkward question in my mind, whether or not I 
 might ever calculate on thoir extrication. I wai at 
 this stage of the conflict, and in this perilous condition, 
 when, all on a sudden, a shriek burst upon my ears, so 
 piercing yet not loud, shrill yet not unmusical, so pleas 
 ingly delicate, and yet conveying an idea of so much 
 agony, that I felt the blood curdle in my veins, and the 
 hair stood upright and bristling from my cold arid 
 clammy temples. I recovered my position in bed, and 
 resumed my covering. The enemy had left mo, and 
 all further attack seemed given over. They had a new 
 object of interest, and of fur deeper consideration. The 
 shriek we had heard was from my captive, and they now 
 surrounded him in his death agony. They recognised 
 the peculiar cry of pain and of approaching dissolu 
 tion ; and, by some effort, whether of him or of them 
 selves, ho had been removed from the prison, within 
 which I had placed him. Supported on a layer of young yj 
 leaves, they busied themselves in finding cither restora 
 tives or sedatives of some kind, and in their own way, 
 but seemingly in vain ; for, with a gentle sigh, that seem- . , 
 cd like the fuint echo of distant music, ho breathed his 
 last in the arms of those immediately attending him. 
 The glow-worm dropped from the place from whence, 
 through all the time, ho had directed their revels with 
 hit* light, and was seen no inure ; but the fuinl tramp of 
 their footsteps, as if they wcro marching in order, and 
 a low strain, that rose at intervals liko u dirge upon my 
 ear, told me of tho great loss they had suffered, and of 
 the grief that attended even upon the death of a fairy. 
 
107 
 
 A STORY OF THE SEA. 
 
 This ia a myrt >ry of I he deep sen, 
 
 Please you to hoar it 1 You will marvel much, 
 
 For he thru made it hath a mighty power, 
 
 Calling up wond rous forum and images 
 
 Art cannot compaxg." 
 
 Il was on a pleasant da; in Ih month of September, 
 (hat I received a notification from the captain of a 
 small vessel, in which my passage for a distant port 
 had been engaged, apprising me of his intention to 
 sail immediately. I had been already delayed for 
 some day?, the wind being in our teeth; and, though 
 still loth, as all young travellers usually are, to leavo 
 homo for the first time, the suspense and impatience 
 from waiting had been such, that the hurrying call Lad 
 the effect of something like a pleasurable reprieve 
 upon my mind, and I instantly obeyed it. A few mo 
 ments sufficed to complete my preparations, and in two 
 hours all hands were on board j and the little swallow- 
 like packet, under outspread wings, and a clear and 
 beautiful sky, was rapidly leaving the land. We had 
 but two passengers beside myself, both equally young, 
 and equally new to the perils and mysteries of the 
 sea ; and, for a moderately long* voyage, the prospects 
 of enjoyment wcro rather more limited than was desir 
 able. We wcro soon conscious of our mutual depend- 
 
108 THE BOOK OF NY LADY. 
 
 cncc, and accordingly we entered into a determination, 
 ench of us, to do our little for the common comfort 
 and gratification. What with striding the narrow 
 deck, half the time in the way of one another watch 
 ing the land of our birth-place and homes fast receding 
 from our eyes, and calculating, with many doubts, the 
 various chances of our voyage we contrived, as may 
 be supposed, to get through the first day very amica 
 bly, and with tojerable satisfaction. Wo were now 
 fairly at sea. The plane of ocean became rapidly 
 undulated and more buoyant. Broad swells of water 
 bore our bark like a shell sportively upon their bosoms, 
 then sinking with equal suddenness from beneath, left 
 it to plunge and struggle in the deep hollows, until 
 borne up by other and succeeding billows. Space and 
 density, in glorious contrast and comparison, were all at 
 once before us, in the blue world of vacuity hanging 
 and stretching above, and the immense, seldom quiet 
 and murmuring mass spread out below it. The land 
 no longer met our eyes, though strained and stretched 
 to the utmost. The clouds came down, and hung 
 ubout UH, narrowing the horizon to a span, and min 
 gling gloomily with the surges that kept howling per- 
 pctually around us, growing at each moment more and 
 more threatening and restless. Not u speck besides 
 our own littlu vessel was to bu seen amidst that wild 
 infinity, that, admirably consorted, was at once beneath, 
 above, around, and about us. Two days went by in 
 this manner, with scarcely any alteration in the mo 
 notonous character of the prospect. Still the weather 
 was fine the clouds that gathered between, formed a 
 shelter fiom the intensity of the tropical sun, and, in 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. 109 
 
 that warm time and region, were a positive luxury. 
 But, towards the evening of the third day, there was a 
 hazy red crown about the sun as ho sunk behind the 
 swell in our front a curling and increasing motion of 
 the black waters rushing impetuously forward to the 
 wild cavern into which he descended the wind fresh 
 ened, and took to itself a melancholy and threatening 
 tone, as it sung at intervals among the spars and cord 
 age ; and, while it continued of itself, momentarily, to 
 change its burden, appeared, with a fine mystery, to 
 warn us of a yet greater change in the aspect and tem 
 per of the dread elements, all clustering around us. 
 The old seamen looked grave and weather-wise, and 
 shook their heads sagaciously, when questioned about 
 the prospect. The captain strode the deck impatiently 
 and anxiously, giving his orders in a tone that left little 
 doubt on my mind, of a perfect familiarity, on the part 
 of the ancient voyagcur, with the undeceptive and bo 
 ding countenance of sea and sky. Night came on, 
 travelling hurriedly, and cloaked up in impenetrable 
 gloom. The winds continued to freshen and increase; 
 and, but a, single star, hanging out like hope, shot a 
 glance of promise and encouragement through tho 
 pitchy and threatening atmosphere, The prospect was 
 quite too uncheering to permit of much love, or many 
 looks on the part of fresh-water seamen. By common 
 consent, we went below, and, ransacking our trunks, 
 were enabled to conjure up a pack of cards, with 
 which, to the no small inconvenience of our captain, 
 we sought to shut out from thought any association 
 with tho dim and dismal prospect wo had just been 
 contemplating. He did not, it is true, request us to 
 10 
 
110 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 lay aside our amusement, but he annoyed us exces 
 sively by his inuttcringM on the subject. He bade us 
 beware, for that we were certainly bringing on a storm. 
 He had seen it tried, very often, he assured us, to pro 
 duce such an effect, and he had never known it fail. 
 His terrors brought us the very amusement for which 
 he was unwilling wo should look to such devilish en 
 ginery as a pack of cards. We had not needed this, 
 to convince us that the seaman was rather more given 
 to superstition than well comported with the spirit of 
 the age. He was a Connecticut man, thoroughly im 
 bued with blue laws, Cotton Mather, &c. and all the 
 talcs of demonology and witchcraft, ever conceived or 
 hatched in that most productive of all countries in the 
 way of notions. Ho lectured in freely and frequently 
 upon his favourite topic, on which much familiarity had 
 even made him eloquent. Wo encouraged him in his 
 failings, and derived our sport from its indulgence. 
 Relieving fervently himself every syllable ho uttered, 
 he could not understand our presumption in doubting, 
 as we sometimes did, many of the veracious and mar 
 vellous legends of New England and the " Sound, * 
 which he volunteered for our edification ; and when at 
 length, convinced of the utter impossibility of over 
 throwing what, no doubt, he conceived the heresy 
 of our scepticism, he appeared to resign himself to the 
 worst of fates. He evidently regarded each of us as a 
 Jonah, not less worthy of the water and whale than his 
 prototype of old ; and, I make not the slightest ques 
 tion, would have tumbled us all overboard, without a 
 solitary scruple, should the helm refuse to obey, or the 
 go by the board. His stories, however, I am 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. Ill 
 
 free to confess for myself, and I may say for my com 
 panions also, however our philosophy might be sup 
 posed to laugh at the matter, had a greater influence 
 upon all of us than we were willing to admit to one 
 another. Upon me, in particular, the impression pro 
 duced was peculiar in its character. Not that, for a 
 single moment, I could persuade myself, or bo per 
 suaded by others, that the mere playing of any game 
 whatever could bring down upon us the wrath of hea 
 ven, or " hatch a fiendish form upon the deep," but 
 naturally disposed to live and breathe only in an * ele 
 ment of fiction and fantastic change," I drank in every 
 thing savouring of the marvellous with an earnest and 
 yielding spirit. He seemed to have been born and to 
 have lived all his life in a "witch element." He had 
 stories, filled and worked by this principle, of every 
 section of the world in which ho had sojourned or tra 
 velled. Had seen the old boy himself, in the shape of 
 a black pigeon, in a squall off the capes of Delaware ; 
 and once, on the night of the twenty-seventh June, had 
 himself counted the phantom ships of the British fleet, 
 under Sir Peter Parker, as they were towed over the 
 bar of Charleston, in South Carolina, to the attack of 
 Fort Moultrio. What seemed to vex him most of these 
 things was, that the Carolinians, whom he pronounced 
 a most obstinate and unteachable race, refused to be 
 lieve a word of the matter. 
 
 But his favourite legend, and that which he believed 
 as honestly as the best authenticated passage in Scrip 
 ture, was that of the flying Dutchman, who was driven 
 out of the German ocean; and in process of time, and 
 for some such offence, was doomed to a like travail 
 
1 12 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 with the wandering Jew. This identical visionary he 
 had seen more than once, and on one occasion had 
 nearly suffered by speaking him. It was only by dint 
 of good fortune and bad weather that he escaped unseen 
 by that dreadful voyageur, to be noticed by whom is 
 peril of torm, and wreck, and utlcr destruction. It 
 was of this dangerous sail he had now to warn us, Wo 
 were told that this sen, and almost the very portion 
 which we now travelled, was that in which the Dutch 
 man, at this season, usually sojourned for the exercise, 
 with more perfect freedom, of his manifold vagaries a 
 power being given to him, according to our worthy 
 captain, for the duo and proper punishment of those 
 who, when his spirit was abroad upon the waters, dared 
 to palter and trifle in idle games, sport and buffoonery. 
 The voyager evidently apprehended much; and, as the 
 gale freshened, his countenance grow more gloomy, 
 and his words more importunate in reference to those 
 levities and sports which we had fallen into. To pacify 
 him we forbore, and were compelled to refer to other 
 resources for tho recreation wo requited at such a tune. 
 There were three of us, and we told our several stories. 
 The youngest of our trio was young indeed. He was 
 tall, slender, graceful; eminently beautiful, u liiu My 
 intelligent mind, and a finely wrought and susceptible 
 Kpirit. Ho was deeply in lovo, truly devoted to tlio 
 young maiden; and the short timo contemplated to 
 elapse before they should again meet, was one of great 
 and bitter privation. Becoming intimate from tho cir 
 cumstances of our situation, and probably from certain 
 innate sympathies, wo learned all these paiticulais from 
 his own lips. Ho described tho charms of his mistress, 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. 1 13 
 
 gave us the entire history of his connection, his hopes, 
 and fears, and prospects; and, in turn, we were equally 
 communicative. His name was Herbert. 
 
 The storm increased, and with so much violence, 
 that we were fain to go upon the deck, impatient of our 
 restraint below, though by no means secure, even with 
 ropes and bulwarks, and a tenacious grasp above. I shall 
 never forget the awful splendour, the fearful, the gor 
 geous magnificence of that prospect. In the previous ten 
 minutes the gale had increased to a degree of violence 
 that would not permit us to hang out a rag of sail, and 
 the vessel, under her bare poles, was driving down upon 
 and through the black and boiling waters. Nothing 
 was now to bo seen but the great deeps, tho vast and 
 ponderous bulk and body of which groaned with its 
 own huge and ungovernable labours. Horrible abysses 
 opened before us, monstrous and ravenous billows rush 
 ed after us in awful gambols. Mountains gathering 
 upon mountains, clustering and clashing together, threw 
 up from the dreadful collision tall and spiry columns of 
 white foam, that keeping their position for a few seconds 
 would rush down towards us, like some god of the sea, 
 bestriding the billows, and directing their furies for our 
 destruction. Under such impulses we drove on, with 
 a recklessness fully according with the dread spirit that 
 presided over the scene ; now darting through the 
 waters, occasionally rushing beneath them, then emerg 
 ing and throwing off the spray, that shone upon the 
 black and terrific picture, in a contrast as grotesque 
 as tho tinsel ornaments upon the robe of a tyrant, in 
 the thick of a battle, or at tho execution of thousands. 
 On a sudden our course was arrested by a mountain of 
 10* 
 
1 14 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 water, under which our vessel laboured. She broke 
 through the impediment, however, with a fearful en 
 ergy. Another sea come on, which wo shipped, und 
 the bark reeled without power beneath the Mrokc. I 
 was thrown from my feet, and seized with difficulty by 
 the Hide, the water rushing in volumes over me* Again 
 she sprung up and righted, but with a shock that again 
 lost mo the possession of my hold. At that moment a 
 phriek of agony rushed through my senses ; and imme 
 diately beside me a passenger, one of my companions, 
 torn from his hold, was swept over the side, into the 
 unreturning ocean. He passed but a foot from me, in 
 his progress to the deep. How terrible was his cry of 
 death it will never pass out of my memory. Ho 
 grasped desperately at my arm as ho approached mo. 
 Ho would have dragged iuc with him to death, but I 
 shrunk back ; and Ins look the gleam of his eye its 
 vacantly horrible expression will never leave me. Tlio 
 vessel rushed on, unheeding ; and I saw him borne by 
 the waves buoyantly for many yards in her wake before 
 bo sunk. Ho called upon Heaven, und tho winds 
 howled in his cars, and the waters mocked his suppli 
 cations. Down ho went, with one husky cry that tho 
 seas st fled ; and the agony was over. That cry brought 
 a chilling presentiment to my heart. Despair was in it 
 to all. Though I seemed to live under a like influence, 
 there was a degrco of stiango recklessness oven in 
 our scrupulous captain, for which I could not, and in 
 deed did not seek to account. I felt assured we could 
 not long survive. Our vessel groaned and laboured 
 fearfully ; her seams opened, and (he waters came bub 
 bling and hissing in, as if impatient of their prey. Still 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. 115 
 
 she went on, the violence of the storm contributing to 
 the buoyancy of the billows, and aiding her in keeping 
 afloat. But, amidst all this rage and tumult, this strife 
 of warring and vexed elements, there was yet one mo 
 ment in which they were under an universal calm ; one 
 awful moment afforded, seemingly by the demon who 
 had roused the tempest, that we might be enabled ade 
 quately to comprehend our situation, Tho feeling in 
 this extremest moment was the same with all on board, 
 with no exception ; and one unanimous prayer went up 
 to heaven. 
 
 It was but a moment. The winds and the waves 
 went forth with redoubled violence and power. Thero 
 seemed an impelling tempest from every point of the 
 compass. Suddenly, a broad and vivid flash of light 
 ning illuminated tho black and boiling surges ; linger 
 ing upon them sufficiently long to give us a full glanco 
 of the scene. Immediately in our course, came on a 
 large and majestic vessel. She had no sails, but pur 
 sued a path directly in the teeth of the tempest. Sho 
 came down upon us with the swiftness of an eagle. 
 Her decks were bare, as if swept by a thousand seas 
 wo were right in her path there was no veering, no 
 change of course no hope. Tho voice of the captain 
 rose above tho tempest it had a horror which the 
 storm itself lacked. It spoke of the utter despair 
 which was the feeling with all of us alike. " Tho fly 
 ing Dutchman,** was all ho could say, ore the supposed 
 phantom was over us. I felt the shock a single crash 
 and crew, cargo, vessel, all were down, crushed 
 and writhing beneath its superior weight, struggling 
 with and finally sinking beneath the exulting waters. 
 
116 THE BOOK OP MT LADY. 
 
 But where was she, the mysterious bark that had de 
 nt roved us gone, gone ! no trace of her progress, ox* 
 ccpt our broken fragment* our sinking hopes. 
 
 There had been no time for preparation or for 
 prayer. The fatal stranger had gone clean over, or, 
 indeed through us ; and, though sinking myself, it ap 
 peared to me that I could see her keel, with a singular 
 facility of optical penetration, cutting the green moun 
 tains behind me, with the velocity of un arrow. Around 
 me, scattered and sinking with myself, 1 beheld the 
 fragments of our vessel, together with the struggling 
 ntorns of our crew and company. Among these, flout 
 ing near me, on a spar, 1 recognised the fair and me 
 lancholy features of young Herbert, the passenger, 
 whoso love ulluir I have already glanced at* 1 full my- 
 self sinking, and seized upon him convulsively. The 
 spar upon which lie rested veered round, and, grasping 
 it firmly, I raised my body to the surface. He felt con 
 scious of its inadequacy to the task of supporting both 
 of us, and strove to divert its direction from roc. But 
 in vain. Neither of us could prove capable of much, 
 if any generosity on such an occasion, and at such a 
 time, Our grasp became more firm ; and, while death 
 and desolation and a nameless horror enveloped every 
 thing in which we were the sole surviving occupants, 
 wo were enemies, deadly and avowed enemies we, 
 who had exchanged vows of the wannest friendship 
 to whom our several hopes and prospects had been un 
 folded with a confidence the most pure and unqualified 
 wo sought each other s destruction, as the only hope 
 in which our own lives could repose. He appealed to 
 me with tears spoke of the young girl who awaited 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. 1 17 
 
 him the joys that were promised the possibility of 
 both surviving, if I would swim off to a neighbouring 
 spar which he strove to point out to me. But I saw 
 no spar ; I felt that ho strove to deceive me, and I be 
 came indignant with his hypocrisy. What was his lovo 
 to me ? I laughed with a fierce fury in his face. I 
 too had loves and hopes, and a wild ambition, and I 
 swore that I would not risk further a life so precious in 
 so many ways. 
 
 The waters seemed to comprehend our situation a 
 swell threw us together, and our grasp was mutual. 
 My hand was upon his throat with the gripe and energy 
 of despair ; his arms, in turn, wound about my body. 
 I strangled him. I held on, till all his graspings, all his 
 struggles, and every pulsation, had entirely ceased. 
 My strength, as if in close correspondence and sympa 
 thy with the spirit that prompted me, seemed that of a 
 demon. In vain did ho struggle. Could ho hope to 
 contend with the fiend of self, that nerved and corded 
 every vein and muscle of my body ? Fool that ho was, 
 but such was not his thought. Ho uttered but a single 
 name but a brief word through all our contest. 
 That name was the young girl s, who had his pledges 
 and his soul that word was one of prayer for her and 
 her happiness ; and I smiled scornfully even in our 
 grapple of death, at the pusillanimity of his boyish 
 heart. I had aspirations, too, and I mocked him with 
 the utterance of ambitious hopes. I told him of my 
 anticipated triumphs ; I predicted my own fame and 
 future glory, and asked him the value of his worthless 
 life, in comparison with mine. He had but one an 
 swer to all this, and that consisted in the repetition of 
 
1 18 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 the beloved one s name. This but deepened my frenzy 
 and invigorated my hate. Had he interred but one 
 ambitious desire had he been stimulated by one 
 single dream of glory or of greatness, I had spared his 
 life. But there was something of insolence in the hu 
 mility of his aim that provoked my deepest malignity. 
 I grappled him more firmly than ever, and withdrew 
 not my grasp, until, by a flash of lightning, I beheld 
 him blacker than tiie wild waters dashing around us. 
 I felt the warm blood gush forth upon my hands and 
 arms from his mouth and nostrils, and he hung heavily 
 upon me. Would the deed had not been done. 
 Would I might have restored him ; but the good spirit 
 came too late for his hope and for my peace. I shrunk 
 from my victim. I withdrew my grasp not so he. 
 The paroxysm of death had confirmed the spasmodic 
 hold, which, in the struggle, he had taken of my body. 
 My victory was something worse than defeat. It was 
 not merely death- it was tho grave and its foul asso 
 ciations- -it* spectres and its worms, and they haunt 
 mo for ever. 
 
 Wo were supported by tho buoyancy of tho ocean 
 alone, while under tho violence of its dread excite 
 ments ; and I felt assured that tho relaxation to repose , 
 of tho elements, would carry us both down together. 
 Vainly did I struggle to detach myself from his grasp. 
 Freed from one hand, the other would suddenly clasp 
 itself about my neck, with a tenacity only increased by 
 every removal. His face was thrust close into mine 
 the eyes lit up by supernatural fires glaring in my own ; 
 while the teeth, chattering in the furious winds, kept up 
 a perpetual cry of death death death until I was 
 
A STORY OF THE SEA. 1 19 
 
 mad wild as the waters about me, and shrieking al 
 most as loudly in concert with the storm* Fortunately, 
 however, I had but little time for the contemplation of 
 these terrors. The agony of long suspense was spared 
 me. The storm was over. The spar on which I 
 floated, no longer sustained by the continuous swell, 
 settled, at length, heavily down in its pause, and with 
 out an effort, I sunk beneath the waters, the corpse of 
 my companion changing its position, and riding rigidly 
 upon my shoulders. Ten thousand ships had not sus 
 tained me under such a pressure. The waters went 
 over me with a roar of triumph, and I felt, with Cla 
 rence, how " horrid twas to drown." Even at that 
 moment of dread and death, the memory of that vivid 
 picture of the dramatist came to my senses, as I realised 
 all its intensely fearful features in my own fate. What 
 was that fate ? The question was indeed difficult of 
 solution, for I did not perish. I was not deprived of 
 sense or feeling, though shut in from the blessed air, 
 and pressed upon and surrounded by the rolling and yet 
 turbulent waters. For leagues, apparently, could I be 
 hold the new domain in which I was now, perforce, a 
 tcsident; the cold corpse still hanging loosely but firmly 
 about my shoulders. I settled at length upon a rock of 
 a broad surface, which in turn rested upon a fine gra 
 velly bed of white sand. Shrinking and sheltering 
 themselves in innumerable crevices of the rocks around 
 me, from the violence of the storm that had raged above, 
 I was enabled in a little time to behold the numberless 
 varieties of the finny tribe that dwelt in the mighty seas. 
 Many were the ferocious monsters by which I was sur- 
 
120 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 rounded ; and from which I was only safe through the 
 influence of their own terrors. There were huge ser 
 pents, lions, nnd tigers of the ocean. There roved tho 
 angry and ever hungry shark his white teeth, showing 
 like tho finest KI\\ s, promising little pause in tho ban- 
 quct on his prey. There leapt the lively porpoise 
 there swam the sword-fish, and galloped tho sea-horse. 
 They were not long in their advances. 1 paw the sea- 
 wolf prepare to spring the shark darted like an arrow 
 on rny path, and, with a horror too deep for expression, 
 I struck forth into the billow?, and strove once more for 
 the upper air. A blow, from what quarter I know not, 
 struck the corpse from my shoulders, and was spent 
 upon my head. My body was seized by a power, in 
 whoso grasp all vigour was gone, and every muscle re 
 laxed. 
 
 On a sudden, tho entire character of tho scene waa 
 altered. My enemies assumed a new guise and ap 
 pearance, and in place of fish, and beast, and reptile, I 
 perceived myself closely surrounded by a crowd of old 
 and young ladies, busily employed with a do/en smeil- 
 ing bottles, which they vigorously and most industriously 
 employed in application to my nostrils. Where was I ? 
 Instead of a billowy dwelling in the sea, I was in pos 
 session of the largo double family pew in the well-known 
 meeting-house. 1 had never been to sea had not killed 
 my companion was not drowned, and liopo never to 
 be ; but tho whole affair was a vast cflort of diablerie 
 a horrible phantasm of the i/iri/W, got up by tho foul 
 fiend himself, and none other, for my especial exposure 
 und mortification. The old ladies told me 1 hud been 
 
A STORY OF TUB SEA. 121 
 
 trying to swim in the pew ; the young ladies spoke of an 
 endeavour to embrace the prettiest among them ; the 
 gauntlike, however, most charitably, put it down to a 
 spiritual influence ; as (entre nous) doubtless it was. 
 So much for taking late dinners with a friend, drinking 
 my two bottles of Madeira, and going to a night meet 
 ing, when I should have gone lo bed. 
 
 11 
 
122 THE HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 THE BROKEN ARROW. 
 
 Tho execution of the bravo but unfortunate, and per 
 haps deluded, Indian chief, Mackintosh, by his infuriated 
 countrymen, is perhaps within tho familiar recollection 
 of most readers. The term " Broken Arrow," is here, 
 in their own figurative modes of expression, made to 
 apply to that wariior, from tho fact, that a portion of 
 his adherents came from the section of country, princi 
 pally under his control, and which was generally known 
 by the name of the Broken Arrow country. Mackin 
 tosh was the victim of a popular commotion. His in 
 fluence with the people was beyond comparison or ri- 
 valship, and he presumed upon it to enter into a treaty 
 disposing of the lands of his nation without the concur 
 rent votes of his colleagues in power. A party of two 
 or three hundred, led by Menawc?, Mad Wolf, and other 
 leading warriors, took the work of retribution summarily 
 into their hands. They sought him out at his own resi 
 dence in the neighbourhood of Coweta. The first inti 
 mation which he had of their attack, was their summons 
 to surrender. Mackintosh was as fearless in battle as 
 he was politic in council, and scorning any idea of flight, 
 throwing on his hunting-shirt and weapons, he, at once, 
 though with a pcifect knowledge of his danger, made his 
 appearance, and was about to address them. But his 
 enemies knew the danger of such a permission too well 
 
THE BROKEN ARROW. 123 
 
 not to arrest it at the outset. His eloquence was pro 
 digious, and its effect upon the people upon a people 
 of savages too, who arc, more than any others, subject 
 to its influence was, of course, matter of apprehension 
 and fear to the rival leaders, whoso great object was his 
 destruction. Before ho could utter a sentence, there 
 fore, he was shot through the head by Mad Wolf, a fierce 
 warrior of considerable talent, who had called Mackin 
 tosh forth, and who, as ho fired, told him to prepare to 
 die by the law ho had himself made and himself vio 
 lated. The followers of Mackintosh, a considerable part 
 of the nation, compelled to emigrate after this event to 
 the west, are supposed to have joined in the dirge which 
 follows. 
 
 A voice a voice of wail. The forest rung 
 With a strange cry of sadness, and a song 
 Of sorrow m urt with triumph. There they come, 
 A thousand warriors of the uncultured wild, 
 Chiefs of the old domainthe solemn waste, 
 Deep woods and waters drear. They gather now, 
 To the performance of a solemn rite, 
 The parting from their homes their fathers* homes, 
 The graves of the past ages. Yet, no tear, 
 Swells in that sad assemblage sad, but stern 
 Twere vain and weak to mourn the destiny 
 That tears may not avail, nor plaints avert, 
 Nor moaning lighten. Yet a cause of wo, 
 Not deeper than their parting, yet most deep, 
 Rests in the midst before them. The brave chief, 
 The warrior, and the arrow of their tribe, 
 Swift, strong and terrible, to whom their heart* 
 Were given in homage, and whose eyes had been 
 Their guides and watchers, now, among them lies, 
 Cold and insensible. He will lead no more, 
 
124 TOE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 Their arms to battle. He will teach no 
 Their thoughts in council. He will be no more 
 The father he has been. Well may they wail. 
 For broken is the arrow from their bow, 
 The mighty overthrown, that still o crthrew, 
 And had no fear of the struggle. All is o er. 
 And the last song of burial they must yield. 
 The song of death and glory to the brave. 
 
 Ye warriors who gather, the brave to deplore, 
 And repine for the chief ye shall witness no more, 
 Let the hatchet of fight still unburicd remain, 
 Whilst we joy in the glory of him that is slain. 
 
 Unbounded in soul, as unfcaring in fight, 
 Yet mild as the dove when untcmpted to smite- 
 In battle the tiger, in peace the young fawn, 
 Whose footstep scarce brushes the dew from the lawn. 
 
 Stood he not in the thick of the battle s array, 
 When their warm blood like rain o er the smoking gnm lay, 
 And the Seminolc chiefs from his tomahawk fled, 
 While the best of their warriors before him lay dead? 
 
 And long did their women in deep sorrow mourn, 
 Looking forth for tho braves who could never return- 
 For their scalps the full swell of his leg* had embraced, 
 And his women had woven their teeth round his waist. 
 
 But vain were his triumphs, since now we deplore 
 Our sorrow begins, for his battles are o er 
 His last song was heard on the hills by the day, 
 But at midnight its echoes hud fuded away. 
 
 Far down in the valley when evening was still, 
 We heard the deep voice of the wolf on the hill 
 44 And hark!" said the Arrow, when starting to go, 
 u Is not that tho screech of Menawe", my foe. 
 
THE BROKEN AKBOW. 125 
 
 ** He comes not, the coward, to mingle in fight, 
 Whilst the red-god stands by and looks down with his light, 
 But in darkness, that emblems his bosom s own hue, 
 He sneaks to perform, what he trembles to do." 
 
 The chief took his rifle, and whetted his knife, 
 And went down to see where the wolf was at strife : 
 There came up a clamour of death to the hill, 
 And the echoes returned it, and then all was still. 
 
 And the chieftain lay dead In his gore, but his hand % ^ v 
 Still clung to his knife, tho it stuck in the sand 
 They dared not approach him, even dead as ho lay, 
 And they bore not the scalp from his forehead away. 
 
 Let us fling not aside, since tho arrow is lost, 
 The bow which we kept at such perilous cost 
 We can fit a new shall to its string, when afar, 
 And go with tho Sioux and Dog-skin to war. 
 
 Farther west farther west! where the buffalo roves, 
 And tho red-deer is found in tho valley he loves 
 Our hearts shall be glad in tho hunt once again, 
 Till the whitcmon shall seek for tho lands that remain. 
 
 Farther west farther west! where the sun, as he dies, 
 Still leaves a deep lustre abroad in the skies 
 Where the hunter may roam, and his woman may rove, 
 And tho whitcman not blight, what bo cannot improve. 
 
 One song, to tho home that wo leave, of regret 
 *Tis the song of a sorrow, but no eye is wet 
 Ono song for tho hills and the valleys, and ono 
 For tho arrow now broken, the nation undone. 
 
 Farther west farther west ! it is meet that wo fly, 
 Where the red-deer will bound at tho glance of an eye: 
 Yet slowly the song of our parting bo Bung, 
 For the arrow is broken, the bow IB unstrung. 
 11* 
 
126 TIIK BOOK OF MY I ADV. 
 
 H A1OL AR . 
 
 A BTORY OP THE CATAWBA 
 
 " Ytt l.a!l HIP ReuliMof th place 
 It. s, ni i in- tory of ilictr rue. , 
 And Fancy, by tradition !<!, 
 K|tloit> Hi.. itvr to It/ bed 
 Each ftvugr rock, each hill and dell, 
 Mi.-. H iln. I iu fUUiif chronicle." 
 
 The Catawbas, now a miserable tribe of some three 
 hundred persons, occupying a territory of fifteen 
 square miles, in the upper part of the state of South 
 Carolina, was, at one period of American history, the 
 most chivalrous of all the savage nations. To the 
 warmth and courage of the southern character, they 
 added ail the capacity of endurance peculiar to the 
 north; and among the Indians, bore a reputation, 
 which, for their qualities, had no competitor among 
 them. They were a lively, generous people, and fast 
 friends and allies of the Carolinians when the infant 
 white settlement* were surrounded on all hands by 
 deadly enemies. Tin- Carolinians were not ungrateful, 
 and have nothing with which to reproach thftmuolvcs 
 in their treatment of this people. They have been 
 maintained in the state with a tolerance at once duo 
 to humanity and former service, and grateful to the 
 now decaying but once powerful nation. 
 
IIAIGLAR. 127 
 
 Many are the stories told of the Catawba, calculated 
 to do them credit for valour, enterprise and generosity. 
 The traditions, still preserved of them, are numerous, 
 nnd sufficiently lively arid interesting to keep them in 
 memory. That they have not found their way into 
 print must be attributed rather to the want of the 
 novelist than the novel ; rather to the deficiency of 
 bard than subject. They relate a story, among others, 
 of a young chief, who, though acknowledged to be 
 brave and manly, had nevertheless for a long timo 
 failed to distinguish himself. His name was Haiglar. 
 His nation was at war with the Shawncse, and the 
 strife was waged with a deadly hostility between them; 
 but I laiglar joined not in the fray. Parly after party 
 went forth upon the war-track, but Haiglar loitered 
 behind among the smoke of the cabins ; and engaged 
 in no more perilous adventure than the bear-hunt. 
 Ho joined neither in the toil of war nor the song of 
 victory ; and the field and the council and the dance 
 alike failed to attract the spirit of the nimble-footed 
 and strong-armed Haiglar. Still his courage was un 
 questioned. They had seen it too often tested beyond 
 doubt or denial. They had beheld him in the fight. 
 They had seen him win the epoils, and secure the 
 honours of victory; and while they lamented his inac 
 tion they failed to discover the motive. The chief 
 incentive to the Indian s valour being his personal 
 glory, his feats have a selfish origin. This being the 
 chief characteristic impulse among them, the patriot 
 ism of Haiglar was never arraigned ; and perhaps, 
 under no circumstances would have been, unless, in 
 deed, the very existence of his nation was endangered. 
 
128 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 This was not the case in the present instance, and 
 Haiglar went not forth upon the war-track. 
 
 But where did Haiglar go? What course did he 
 take when he bent his steps from the cabins at dawn, 
 and with his hunting knife at hie side, and armed 
 only with his bow and well-filled quiver, entered into 
 the forest* and returned not that duy, or late at night, 
 or after the lapse of many dayH. Ho brought dome 
 game most usually upon his shoulders when he did re 
 turn, but that was no hard task for the well-known skill 
 of the hunter ; nor was it ever known in his more early 
 years that his spirit was so over-fond of the pleasures 
 of the chase, particularly when the glory of war was 
 to be acquired. Let us follow his steps. 
 
 It was a bright duy in early spring that the young 
 hunter passed out of his clay cabin, and buckling his 
 knife to his side, took his bow from the eaves of his 
 humble dwelling, and pasnod out of the town, that still 
 lay silent and in repose. Ho bent his way, seemingly 
 without a care for concealment, yet cautiously and with 
 a heedful regard to the slumbers of its inmates. He 
 was soon behind the precincts of the village, and the 
 forest* thickened around him in their solitary yet se 
 ductive grandeur. Onward did ho pursue his way, 
 looking neither to the right nor the Ult ; and though 
 the sluggish turkey, roused from his slumbers by the 
 approaching footfall, started up at his side, scarcely 
 giving a glance at the affrighted and retreating bird.- 
 Sometimes a squirrel leaped from the tree before him 
 to one more remote ; and now the blcatings of the 
 young fawn, just left by the doe, struck his ear, yet he 
 turned not aside. His spirit seemed not to recognise 
 
IIAIOLAR. 129 
 
 these interruptions; though, perhaps, his physical senses 
 fully comprehended them. For an hour or more did 
 he thus tread the mazes of the forest that thickened 
 around him more deeply at every step ; and in this 
 travel had he, with the swift foot common to the In 
 dian, proceeded many miles. He had penetrated into a 
 choice secluded amphitheatre of nature, formed by 
 large and umbrageous trees disposed in a circle, when 
 he suddenly paused in his journey, as if it were at an 
 end. And so it was. A shrill whistle brought him a 
 companion, beautiful as a star, in the Indian imagina 
 tion. A light and rather diminutive form emerged 
 from the cover of the woods, in a direction opposite 
 to that at which tho young hunter had entered. Her 
 step was free and ethereal. Her figure approached tho 
 delicacy of the white maiden when most delicate, and 
 if the brown of her skin was darker, there was a south 
 ern glow and freshness upon it, and an eye shone 
 above it with a lustre that amply redeemed the dusky 
 loveliness of cheek and forehead. Her dress was 
 primitive, but served to conceal a form of even more 
 perfect symmetry than it is our lot usually to encounter 
 in the walks of civilisation. She was, indeed, the 
 beauty of her tribe ; but this tribe was the Shawnee, 
 the deadly foe to the nation of her lover. 
 
 This may account in part for the absence of Haiglar 
 from the war-path of his people ; yet only in part, for 
 the father of Marramatle (that was the maiden s name) 
 was rather an outskirtcr of the Shawnee, and in no 
 good odour among them, He obeyed their laws, at 
 tended their council, joined them in the chase, some 
 times in battle, but yet had little sympathy with them, 
 
130 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 and they less confidence in him. To what causes this 
 relationship was owing it is not over important wo 
 should know; it is enough that it wan as we say, 
 and that from the operation of causes but partially 
 known even to his people, old Cuncstoga found it 
 politic and proper to leave the usual shelter and clan 
 ship of the town of his tribe, and pitch his abode in 
 the beautiful natural retreat in which wo have found 
 him. His wigwam was embowered still deeper in the 
 recess of the amphitheatre, upon whose proscenium, if 
 wo may be permitted so to style it, Marramatte went 
 forth at morning to meet the embraces of her lover. 
 
 We can readily imagine the difficulties placed, by 
 this condition of the parties, in the way of the lovers. 
 They could not form their union in the presence of 
 their people. Haiglar could not take his bride to his 
 own wigwam nor cull his children by his name, nor 
 be head of his family with the daughter of ono 
 who fought with the war party of their enemy, and 
 who rallied at the war-whoop of the subtle Sliawnco. 
 Nor, on the other hand, could the maiden take her 
 lover into her father s wigwam, and break the mystic 
 wand of union arid perpetual lovo before him. The 
 Catawbn was as odious in the sight of the Shawncc, as 
 the Shawnce in that of the Cutawba. The barrier was 
 impassable between them, Still, the embarrassment of 
 the situation had its charm, and the mystery of their 
 IOVCH almost compensated for all other privations. 
 She hung upon hi* bosom in the dim forest, and asked 
 for no witnesses ; and wu question whether there would 
 have been any addition to the happiness of Huiglur, 
 from the belief that his whole tribe was looking down 
 
IIAIGLAK. 131 
 
 upon his love. The selfishness the jealous exclu- 
 sivcncss of their situation, was itself a luxury to them. 
 
 They had .watchers however. Haiglar had not al 
 ways gone to his place of assignation unobserved and 
 unsuspected ; nor had the charms of Marramatte been 
 without admirers. There was in her own tribe a youth, 
 who without any positively bad, was yet unpossessed 
 of any known good qualities. He was a tolerable 
 warrior and a sightly personage. His valour and per 
 son, however, were not remarkable ; and the lovo 
 which he proffered to Marramatte, with the sanction 
 of Cunestoga, her father, had gone unregarded. He 
 had not ceased to love altogether, but ho had also 
 learned to hate. In foregoing his professions, there 
 fore, ho did not forego his claims ; end if he did not as 
 frequently show himself to the beauty, he contrived, 
 nevertheless, to keep her most commonly in his sight. 
 It was not long, therefore, before ho discovered the 
 amour of our lovers. He discovered, and his anger 
 was doubly roused in finding in his rival the enemy 
 of his nation. Ho more than once had raised the ar 
 row to his eye for the destruction of Haiglar, but ho 
 feared to injure the girl, or he dreaded the dangers of 
 an abortive attack, or ho desired a moment, when, from 
 circumstances, he might secure all advantages to him 
 self, from the destruction of his foe. 
 
 The leaves rustled and there was no wind not a 
 breath of air, and tho stir was sudden and momentary ; 
 not continued, as when the turkey runs from his cover. 
 The chief started upon his feet, while Marramatte 
 sat upon the long grass, and looked up anxiously in 
 his face. 
 
132 TUB BOOK OK MY LADY. 
 
 "I hear sounds, my beloved; there are those upon 
 my track who mean mo no good :" and he leaned his 
 ear to the ground, yet ho heard nothing but the ripple 
 of the rivulet. Still, with the native caution of the 
 Indian, he tightened the belt at his waist, in which were 
 stuck his knife and tomahawk. He threw the loop of 
 the unfrayed sinews, which made his bowstring, over 
 the elastic yew, and prepared for any interruption. He 
 waited not long. Emerging at the same moment from 
 the woods, at equal distances around him, he beheld 
 the approach of a party of Shawnese, more than twenty 
 in number, among whom the rejected luver of Marra- 
 matte was conspicuous. He paused for a second, as 
 if in hesitation, but seeing that they intercepted his 
 course homewards, he sprung of) for a hollow rock in 
 an oblique direction, a few miles distant. The swift 
 ness of foot, for which he was renowned, stood him in 
 stead; and the light hunting dress of the Catawba gave 
 him also great advantage. Thus fleeing, however, he 
 kept up a running fight with his pursuers; and, by his 
 aim, and skill, and swiftness, ho contrived to alay seven 
 of them before they were enabled to surround and tako 
 him. They canicd him in sad triumph to their coun 
 try. Ho hud filled them with shame and grief; yet the 
 proverbial respect for valour which the savage enter 
 tains, compelled the utmost respect and consideration 
 for their captive. But this could not save him from his 
 fate, and they condemned him to the fiery torture. 
 With a wild parade they took him to the place of pun- 
 ishment, which lay near the banks of the Sulutah river. 
 He was unpinioncd, for they had so beaten and mal 
 treated him, and ho had suffered so much from want of 
 
HA10J.AK. 183 
 
 food and the wooden stocks which had been placed 
 upon him, that it would have argued pusillanimity in 
 his captors to have shown apprehensions of his escape. 
 But Haiglar was not the warrior to perish thus. His 
 Indian education had taught him better ; and while a 
 Christian would most probably have resigned himself 
 with prayers and tears to his fate, this bravo warrior 
 was thinking of his freedom. They approached the 
 place of torment, and commenced their preparations* 
 When most employed, however, with a sudden and 
 powerful effort he dashed aside those who stood in his 
 way, and plunging into the river, swam like an otter 
 underneath the current, rising only to take breath. He 
 soon made the opposite shore and ascended its banks. 
 But he had no time for delay or hesitation. His ene 
 mies were on his heels, running every way in pursuit of 
 him, and discharging their poisoned arrows. Tho 
 heart of the Catawba never yet failed him. He replied 
 to their cries by shouting the war-whoop of his tribe ; 
 and cheerily urging his way, without pausa or misgiv 
 ing, he soon took the lead of his pursuers. But tho 
 Indian does not readily give up the pursuit, and it was 
 now a point of honour which deeply interested their 
 pride, to punish the Catawba who had worked them 
 such injury, and had so eluded their vigilance. They 
 pursued him all day till night. Five of them were in 
 advance of their fellows, and at midnight they paused 
 in a small hollow of the woods for slumber and refresh 
 ment. The Catawba, knowing his speed, took his 
 ease, and knew more of his pursuers than they of him. 
 He felt the pursuit relaxed, and was anxious to ascer 
 tain the cause. He began to retrace his steps, and 
 12 
 
184 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 came within sight of their encampment. He behold 
 their repast, and watched them sink down to repose ; 
 and hunger a wolfish hunger, and revenge, and the 
 pride and passion of his nation came upon him, and he 
 bent his way down from the jungle where he had been 
 concealed, and placed his feet firmly among his enemies. 
 
 They weru all in deep sleep around him. Fatigue 
 had drawn largely for repose upon their senses, and 
 they fell easy victims to the fury of the furnishing Ca- 
 tawba, with their own tomahawks, for (hey had taken 
 away his urms. He destroyed them all. He stripped 
 them of their scalps, selected arms for himself, and 
 partook, till refreshed, of the dried meats and parched 
 grain which had been left from their repast. Ho had 
 still a largo distance to travel, for they had taken him 
 to the bosom of their tribe ; so, setting oil afresh, he 
 pursued hU way to his own nation in a sort of running 
 murch, renting by nights against a tree, and employing 
 every moment of the daylight in his perilous journey. 
 The residue of his pursuers, coming up to the place 
 where he had yluin the five, in terror gave up the pur 
 suit. They set him down as a wizard, and concluded 
 it wise to have nothing further to do with him. 
 
 At length the old scenes cumu up before the eye of 
 the warrior. Here was the hill and here the grove, 
 and at the turn of the next coppice, and beyond the 
 next elevated ground, ho would come upon the wig 
 wam of his beloved Marramatte. He knew the strong 
 heart of the Indian maiden, accustomed to a life of 
 peril; yet he felt that the grief of his beloved was not of 
 easy relief, and his steps grew more cautious, and his 
 heart throbbed more quickly, as he approached her 
 
IIAIGLAR. 135 
 
 habitation. He entered the deep forest with light foot 
 step. Ho trod in the bed of the running water, and on 
 the short grass, and paused every now and then to see 
 that all was safe in his path. Thus did he come at 
 length to the small inner grove that sheltered the habit 
 ation ; and timely was his arrival, for the savage chief 
 whom Marramatte had rejected, stood before her in 
 insolent triumph, and her father lay bound and bleeding 
 at his feet. One of his creatures stood at his side, 
 ready to obey his bidding, and keeping close watch 
 above the body of the old man, who lay silent and un 
 complaining, though in pain and not speechless. The 
 girl pleaded for the life of her father, whom Onomatchee 
 brutally threatened, except upon the condition which 
 she as firmly continued to withhold. At length he 
 raised his uplifted tomahawk, and placed his heel upon 
 the bosom of Cunestoga. The girl threw herself upon 
 the body, and raised her uplifted arms in its defence. 
 The hatchet was, in fact, descending, when a swifter 
 arm than his, anticipated the blow by another, and the 
 skull of Onanmtchee was cloven by the tomahawk of 
 his rival. In a moment the grasp of the avenging 
 Haiglar was upon the surviving Indian, who, with sullen 
 ferocity, avoiding his own defence, buried his knife in 
 the bosom of the old man at the very instant that Haig- 
 Jar s entered his own. And now the young warrior 
 forbore not the conflict with the Shawnee. He went 
 not now into the dim forest on the trail of turkeys, but 
 a young maiden sat singing on his wigwam floor, 
 through the long day, of the swift foot, and the strong 
 arm, and the brave true heart of her own Haiglar, the 
 young king of the Catawba. ^ 
 
130 THE DOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 THE MENTAL PRISM. 
 
 FROM T1IK GERMAN. 
 
 What strange creatures of the clement are we ! How 
 sadly dependent upon the adverse influences of sunshine 
 and shadow; how curiously moulded to receive and obey 
 their impressions, and follow the tendencies they so im 
 peratively prescribe. In the one we luxuriate with a 
 champaigno cxhilnrance, that has something little short 
 of madness in it. The other* on the contrary, tramples 
 us down into a feverish morbidity and gloom, that ren 
 ders it a matter of little difliculty to establish the some 
 time propriety and utility of suicide. A zephyr from 
 the south woos us blandishingly into the arms and en 
 dearments of summer; while a little after, a rugged 
 northeaster compels us to wrap up in a hundred weight 
 of" fearnought, " or shrink sullenly and savagely into a 
 dark chamber, over a coal fire, with a dense and un 
 wholesome vapour stifling and strangling all the choice 
 and generous spmiiin.rs of our more natural impulses. 
 The clouds gather about and overspread us, and we slink, 
 ti^fi -like, into our dens and deserts, from whence, with 
 the ready elasticity of the li/urd, upon the first glimmer 
 and glance of the sunlight, we rush forth in thousands 
 to bask in his beams. 
 
 It is not so much a need of the body as a require 
 ment of the mm;!, which compels us to recognise and 
 obey these opposite influences. Ny their several and 
 
THB MENTAL PRISM. 137 
 
 successive exercises, a happy and healthy temperament 
 is provoked and brought about, each influence acting 
 upon and modifying the other. Nevertheless, the thou 
 sand love the sunshine, to the one who seeks the shade; 
 and in this they duly defer to the great principle which 
 regulates nature. The mind has, in all cases, a tendency 
 to light. The eye looks and longs for the daylight, as 
 devotedly as the lover for his mistress, or the impri 
 soned bird for the freedom of the blue air and high do 
 minion ; and yet how differently do men esteem it! No 
 two look upon the elements alike. Your sun is by no 
 means mine. Your shade is cold and repulsive to me. 
 The stream in which you bathe with delicious delight 
 has a freezing complexion; and the long rambles which 
 you take by moonlight are my utter aversion. Let us 
 illustrate the case by a dialogue, which came to my 
 ears a few days back, when you were declaiming poetry 
 to your looking-glass, in the back parlour, and I was 
 enjoying a lunch and bottle in the refectory. The 
 parties were our two friends, Walsten and Mordaunt; 
 the antipodes, as you well know, of each other. Walsten 
 begins, prefacing his remark with a pinch of snuff, the 
 sternutatory operation of which, for twenty minutes, ap 
 peared to derange and disorganise his very system of 
 vitality. 
 
 Walsten. How beautiful, Mordaunt, is the nature 
 around us. How cheering is the sunshine. How en 
 livening its gracious influence. The stir of the day, the 
 buzzing confusion and lively hum of life and employ 
 ment, are grateful indications of its presence. We go 
 abroad and bask in it, in all our colours of rejoicing; 
 and with its generous influence thousands of the light- 
 12* 
 
133 THE HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 hearted and tho gay arc gathering about us. The clouds 
 arc nil dispersed, (he rains are over, the atmosphere 
 of gloom and dullness has made way for a more benign 
 and invigorating freshness and warmth; and innocence 
 and beauty and youth acknowledge, by a hearty unani 
 mity of smiles, the pure and pleasant feeling of cheer 
 fulness and joy f which its presence not less indicate* 
 thnn inspire?. Nor docs it come alone to tho gny and 
 the light-hearted. To the sad and the sick, to the old and 
 infirm, it carries a welcoming and reviving grace. No 
 bars may shut it out. Tho prisoner feels it in his dun 
 geon, the slave glows with it in his chains. It descends 
 upon tho bosom of the labourer, ami I. is heart leaps 
 more lightly in his, than in the bosom of the monarch, 
 wielding the destinies of a thousand thrones. No earth 
 is denied its presence, and every water is gladdened 
 with ita beams. In tho deepest wilds of North America, 
 shooting up the mighty and fur-stretching Mississippi, 
 in his overburdened pirogue, the bold hunter beholds 
 with rapture its coming splendours, darting through tho 
 thick foliage above him, cheering his spirit and direct 
 ing his prow. The wanderer in the desert and upon 
 the ocean; the pilgrim, who.se feet arc wounded by sad 
 travail among the sharp rocks; tho exile, with no eye 
 to mark his progress, and no heart to sympathise with 
 his foi tunes, gathers from its beaming promise, tho 
 countenance of un ever-watchful and presiding God. 
 He fcelK, too, that the same beam that warms the way 
 farer in tho wilderness, blesses the cottage of his boy 
 hood; his heart goes back with it to all his distant affec 
 tions, and the warmth of that imaginary association 
 gives him renewed cour.igc to pursue his wny. 
 
THE MENTAL FKISM. 139 
 
 Mordavnt. How tedious and untrue aro all ihese 
 raptures. The sunshine is very good in its way, perhaps, 
 but I do not like it, and you give but one view of its in 
 fluence. You forget to speak of the miasma which it 
 calls up, fatal to human life and happiness, from fen 
 and forest. You say nothing of its burning heats, which 
 invariably give me headach, and frequently fever. You 
 overlook entirely the thousand plagues which it engen 
 ders during its summer reign; its flies and its insects, 
 that buz in your eyes, and fill your throat, and dip their 
 filthy wins and legs in the very dainties you so much 
 delight in* 
 
 Walstcn. You are an incorrigible monster: nothing 
 gives you pleasure. You quarrel with every thing and 
 every body. Does not the wine-cup sometimes offend 
 you? 
 
 Mordannt, Yes, when it has a spider in it. If I look 
 upon things gloomily, Walsten, and distrust the sem 
 blance of life more frequently than yourself, it is be 
 cause my experience is something more than your own. 
 You aro for ever describing nature as a rosy-cheeked 
 girl, decked out in her bridal habiliments, and panting 
 with scarcely repressed anticipations at the altar. To 
 me she appears a stale and cunning old maid, bedizzen- 
 ed with paint, concealing her yellow complexion not to 
 speak of the thousand wrinkles that mark her face and 
 with artificial roses in her no less artificial locks. She 
 is, doubtless, as highly delighted as yourself with a garb 
 and decorations so holiday-like, yet they have been 
 turned and trimmed ten thousand times already for as 
 many persons. The green garment she wore, just so 
 festooned and perfumed, coloured and worshipped, even 
 
140 THE BOOK OP MY LADY* 
 
 before the lime of Deucalion. For centuries tier lard 
 ers and liquors, her fruits and flowers, have been fur 
 nished from the table of death; and the colours of which 
 her checks are made have been ground from the decay 
 of her own children, from whoso dust comes her dazzle, 
 from whose bones emerge her beauties. How know 
 wo in what company wo arc now walking? May not this 
 wide arena, spreading and circling us about, bo tho sepul 
 chral dwelling-place of your ancestors and mine? May 
 not the same winds which bear us the fragrance of yonder 
 lindens, be impregnated with tho ashes of Arminius? Do 
 you not feel it even now in your nostrils? Yon rivulot, 
 from which you aro perpetually quailing, with a delight 
 to mo unaccountable, may have concealed and rotting 
 at tho bottom the bones of your great-grandmother or 
 mine. It matters not which, there is perhaps but little 
 choice now between them* The soul which spoke a phi 
 losophy you hold so fino in tho skull of Socrates, tho 
 spirit that prompted tho fine visions of Plato, may even 
 now give life to yon reeling follower of Surdanapalus. 
 Tho transition, bo assured, is not great, from the high 
 and dreamy morality of tho ono to tho voluptuous theory 
 which taught tho abuse of tho present hour in appre 
 hension of its loss. Is the picture a comic one, that 
 your laughter grows irrepressible? 1 ace nothing to oc 
 casion merriment. 
 
 Walatcn. Pardon me, Mordaunt, but I do. Your 
 phiz and philosophy alike aro irresistibly comic, and 
 suggest some farther speculations in a corresponding 
 humour. How, if our bodies, according to tho notion 
 you entertain of the soul, should undertake, in a like man 
 ner, to wander through an infinity of ages ? What, if 
 
THE MENTAL PRISM. 141 
 
 after death, they are compelled to continue the same 
 functions, though perhaps in a different form and figure, 
 as when under the guidance and direction of a soul ? 
 
 Mordaunt. What draw you from your proposition ? 
 I am not quick-witted, you are aware; you must provide 
 me with steps to your prohlems. 
 
 Walsten. Do you hear the melody of the bird which 
 sings over us. It is not a melody, perhaps, in your 
 cars, but you hear it? 
 
 Mordaunt. I do; it has been croaking in concert with 
 yourself for the last half hour, and with as little method. 
 
 Walsten. May she not have arisen from the urn of 
 Tibullus, whose song was as loving as hers? Having 
 won his spirit, she deserts his tomb, and repeats the 
 tender melodies, which he taught in life to humanity. 
 Perhaps a Pindar soars triumphantly, in the form of 
 yon towering eagle, to the communion of the blue 
 heavens. Some atom of the rose-lipped Anacreon may 
 prompt the wanton zephyr, which so audaciously stirs 
 the ringlets of yon bright-eyed damsel; and to be more 
 minute, for your satisfaction, who knows that the bo 
 dies of extravagant lovers are not now flying in subtle 
 flakes of hair-powder, through tlio locks of their sur 
 viving mistresses? Will you pretend to say, having your 
 theory seriously at heart, that the doubly-dried bones of 
 the dead usurer are not now chained down in the rust 
 of a hundred years over the money-chests ho so loved 
 in life, and yet left, uncnjoyed, behind him? Nor should 
 this species of retributive justice be withheld from all 
 other kinds of offenders. Would it indicate an ina ppropri- 
 atencss of justice, were the bodies of those in life af 
 flicted with that worst madness of all, the cacocthcs scri- 
 
1 42 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 bcndl, transmuted into typos, and woven into goodly 
 reams of foolscap, groaning for ever under the printing* 
 press, which they so often made to groan in eternalising, 
 along with their own, the nonsense of their successors? 
 To deal further in these analogies, my dear Mordaunt, 
 would he to find you, some hundred years hence, wail 
 ing with the melancholy whippoorwill, in the seclusion 
 of an American for cut. 
 
 Mordaunt. Wilt you never bo serious, Wulsten; not 
 even in your examination of the mysteries of truth and 
 nature? How do you propose to make your discoveries, 
 with your intellect perpetually convulsed with laugh 
 ter? 
 
 Wahtcn. True; in such a situation and mood, I 
 should do little towards the attainment of knowledge; 
 but, with us much reason, may 1 a.-k what shall be the 
 extent of your progress in the same labour, if your eyes 
 are perpetually obscured with tears? 
 
 Mordaunt. Your philosophy is a strange one, indeed, 
 if the nature of thing*, and the existence of truth, which 
 should be immutable, is susceptible to such influences 
 as spring from the sad or meriy heart or counte-, 
 nance ? Shall wisdom become a pawnbroker, and ac 
 commodate her stores to the necessities or the humours 
 of her neighbours? At this rate, a jaded Btornach will 
 destroy a people, a pampered appetite overturn a dy 
 nasty; a glass of wine give immortality and adoration to 
 a gang of highwaymen. If, in our pursuit of philoso 
 phy, so much depends upon our humours, I shall be 
 glad to know in what humour do you propose to set out 
 in your search after truth ? For my part, I am at a loss 
 to see in what respect* the gloom of my habit unfits me 
 
T11E MENTAL 1 BISM. 143 
 
 any more than tho mirth of yours to undertake the 
 search* 
 
 Walsten. Not less, perhaps : the extremes touch, but 
 at points equally foreign from the proposed object. They 
 are both, perhaps, equally unfit, inasmuch as they give 
 their complexion to, and necessarily alter that of the 
 objects they survey. We see through a false medium, 
 and see nothing rightly. The glass is dark with you and 
 dazzling with me, and both of us arc blind in conse 
 quence. If, however, yours be the preferable mood for 
 the search after truth and the acquirement of wisdom, I 
 should prefer to bo perpetually at fault. I would not 
 willingly be wise, or even happy, on such conditions. 
 
 Mordaunt. Happy 1 that is another of the slang 
 words which, without any definite signification, the 
 herd of public teachers and common hearers so com 
 monly employ. Pray, what do you mean by happiness, 
 and by what process do you propose to attain it ? La 
 bour, you say, is the condition of life ; wisdom its pur 
 pose or mean, and happiness its reward. Miserable 
 delusion ; superstition worse than Egyptian ; calf wor 
 ship, bull worship, snake worship ! You see momen 
 tarily, thousands and thousands of men and women 
 spreading their gala sails on the summer day and sea 
 in tho silly pursuit. Happiness dwells, say they, a 
 queenly beauty, on that bright and blessed island. 
 There they go, fleet after fleet, whirling in the unavoid 
 able and necessary circle ; coming back for ever to the 
 point from which they departed, or battered to pieces 
 on rocks and quicksands. Of the survivors of the gang, 
 in reference to their destination, and its attainment, 
 you may well exclaim, apparent rari nante* in gurgite 
 
144 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 You see them, after a long and fruitless labour, 
 swimming to the shore with difficulty, or carried down 
 the stream to the unrcturning floods of eternity. This 
 is the pursuit of happiness, and these are they, poor 
 adventurers, that worship and seek fur the coy divinity, 
 whose existence is in their diseased and morbidly fool 
 ish fancies ulone. 
 
 Wahten. You describe truly the pursuits of the 
 erring, and I am not ready to deny that such are the 
 majority of mankind, since the solo aim of life is to 
 learn how to live. 
 
 Mordavnt. To die, rather. 
 
 \Vahtcn. Well, to die, if you prefer it. But it docs 
 not follow because men take the wrong road to the 
 temple, that it docs not therefore exist. To this the 
 lawyers would unhesitatingly say, non scquitur. Uut, 
 before giving you my idea of the what nnd whereabouts 
 of happiness, permit me to ask, even if these mariners 
 fail in reaching their port, has the voyage itself no 
 beneficial results, no advantages? 
 
 MorJnuni. None that 1 sec unless, perhaps, you 
 refer to the pleasures of viewing what small poets and 
 painters call a fine landscape, in the teeth of storms, 
 and seas, and ship wrecks, and death. If such a pros 
 pect suiliciently compensates to your mind, the priva 
 tions, perils, and perplexities that come with it, 1 am 
 free to say your notion of human happiness and mine 
 if I have any moat essentially differ. 
 
 Walstcn. They certainly do. The pursuit has some 
 thing in it, as it relieves that monotony of existence 
 which necessarily comes with a life, such as yours, 
 passed without risk or excitement ; and, if the adven- 
 
THE MENTAL PBISM. 145 
 
 turers do miss the main end of their embarkation, they 
 occasionally make out to acquire something which, in 
 part, rewards them. All the views of men are gene 
 rally extravagant ; and they perhaps do well, in the 
 way of trade putting it on the most business footing 
 wo can if their returns for their adventures reach to 
 one half the amount of their proposed profits. Shall 
 I, my friend, failing to find the rose of my search, re 
 ject the violet which offers itself to my hand ? Shall I 
 quarrel with the choicest airs of May, because a thun 
 der-cloud sometimes conflicts with them ? The da^ is 
 beautiful now, but to-morrow it may be stormy. Shall 
 I brood over the contingency in gloomy anticipations, 
 while I utterly disregard the pleasure in my grasp ? 
 
 Mordaunt. Pleasure again. Can you never speak 
 without the employment of words having no definite 
 idea ? But you promised me a definition of what peo 
 ple mean by the phrase happiness. I would see what 
 is the stuff out of which you propose to make it. 
 
 Walsten. I promised you my notion, and not that of 
 any body else. That I am willing to bestow upon you, 
 in the hope of its doing something to make you more 
 contented with your neighbour and yourself. 
 
 Mordaunt* You are charitable, at least, and I cannot 
 do less than pay all attention. Proceed. 
 
 Walstcn. The leading error, then, in my mind, under 
 which the great human mass appear to labour, in the 
 search after and desire for happiness, is the proposing 
 to themselves the pursuit of some one single object. 
 At the commencement of life most men set out with 
 this distinct proposition in view. They choose some 
 prominent and select road aim at some individual 
 13 
 
 
 
146 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 goal and object perhaps difficult of access, and the 
 attainment of which only proves the real object of de- 
 sire, as far off and utterly unapproachable as ever. 
 
 Mordavnt. This is what I have always said. In 
 what do you propose to amend the error of the herd ? 
 where lies the difficulty the mistake with them ? 
 
 Walsten. The mistake lies in the proposition itself, 
 since no single pursuit in life can be carried on, unmet 
 by controlling and counteracting circumstances, which 
 invariably thwart and divert from the course ; and in 
 the end compel us to leave it. Of course, you know, 
 that human happiness, under such influences, must bo 
 of a nature subject to many qualifications since hope, 
 one of the prime incentives to human impulse, presup 
 poses a certain discontent with the present condition, 
 and a desire for its change, in one or many respects a 
 feeling directly adverse to that Arcadian felicity and un 
 disturbed content, which forms, in the beau ideal of the 
 poets, the state and quality of genuine happiness, it 
 is not of this condition that I would speak. Tho hap 
 piness of man, such ns lie should seek in this life, is a 
 state of hopes and cravings, as free from contingencies 
 as they can bo made consistently with his own and the 
 nature of things around him. Such a state, it appears 
 to me, is rather the consequence of a successful and 
 harmonious combination of circumstances, than the 
 overcoming of any one difficulty, or the successful 
 search after and attainment of any given end or object* 
 Tho attainment of such a temper of content, as without 
 rejecting the presence of an active and unsleeping hope, 
 at least takes fiom it all unreasonable and exaggerated 
 elevution of aim ; and, if not of easy attainment, is, at 
 
THE MENTAL PllISM. 147 
 
 least, not likely, in the event of defeat, to leave the 
 mind in a state of morbid and diseased prostration. 
 Such a mood can only arise in the mind by a careful 
 economy of the affections and the emotions : a close 
 consideration of what is worthy of, and available in, pur 
 suit. Indeed, it is in happiness as in money making 
 you must take core of the sixpences if you want to have 
 control over and to make use of the pound?. Propos 
 ing a moderate aim, and we are neither so liable to 
 overthrow, nor apt to feel it so sensibly. The life of 
 the child is made up of the momentary and occasional 
 pursuit of trifles ; and his enjoyments I may say his 
 happiness for the time, depend entirely upon his suc 
 cess in their pursuit. Then, if we analyse them closely, 
 we are but children of a larger growth, and more ad 
 vanced period, and call for toys, simply increased in 
 proportion to ourselves ; and, I take it, that a close 
 and economical attention to the little things of being, 
 would be far more likely to result in the due attainment 
 of the object of desire, than any single plan which the 
 mind may propose, and fora very obvious reason the 
 man who has spent twenty years of his life in the pur 
 suit of one road to happiness, is very apt, when he dis 
 covers himself in a desert, and the delusive oasis 
 retreating from his eyes as remotely far as ever, to lie 
 down dcspondingly and die. He despairs of success 
 he dreads to retrace his steps indeed he cannot and, 
 if he diverges into other paths, he only involves himself 
 in intricacies which baffle him at last, and do not alter 
 the destiny, so liable to overthrow, which he himself 
 had chosen. There is a way to avoid all this. The 
 path is a safer one by far ; and, though it may lead to 
 
148 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 no visionary condition of life, the attainment of which 
 would subtract all the charms from heaven itself, at 
 least it can result in no dreadful and soul-mastering 
 disappointments and detects. We should be careful to 
 make every thing the humblest in nature minister to 
 the felicity of the moment. If the beauty and scent of 
 this flower gratifies, for a moment, a solitary sense, 
 why should I trample it unenjoyed under my foot ? If 
 yon purple-coated cloud wins my eye and kindles my 
 fancy, let me survey it. Does the breeze come about 
 me with a sense of freshness, I throw open my vest to 
 its embraces. I reject nothing thataoothes the excited 
 pulse that cheers the wandering hope that invigor 
 ates the saddened spirit. So, with an eye to the em 
 ployment, in the negative of a corresponding doctrine, 
 I avoid all contact and communion with those things 
 which are like to become offensive to me. I avoid 
 the thorn which wounds- the storm which terrified 
 the gloom which palls. Nor, do I rest hero. 1 would 
 gather up carefully, and regulate, my own emotions. 
 1 would set a high value upon them, far beyond 
 tho market standard of the mass. I would lock 
 them up as I would a treasure, which, in tho long win 
 ter nights, with the bright fire blazing before me, and a 
 ghd circle gathered round, I would count over and 
 contemplate. My heart should be a capacious granary, 
 in which I would garner up all the impulses tho hum 
 blest and wildest wanderings of all my senses. The 
 great mass of men neglect all these, and regard them 
 as the merest trifles. They aim at the attainment of 
 the mountain, overlooking entirely tho atoms of which 
 it may bo made. They set forth, unfortunately, with 
 some very brilliant and inviting illusion before them ; 
 
THE MENTAL PRISM. 149 
 
 and, when upon their approach it vanishes, they come 
 to the conclusion, as you have done, that all is vanity 
 and vexation of spirit, and that the object is no where 
 to be found ; when, as is most generally the case, their 
 ill success is entirely attributable to their own idle, ex- 
 travagunt conceptions and misdirected exertions. 
 
 Mordaunt. This is speculation and conjecture, not 
 philosophy. The experience of the world itself, not 
 less than my own, is decidedly against you. For the 
 single grain of enjoyment that falls among rocks and in 
 barren places, there spring up, luxuriantly, a thousand 
 bitter plants of grief and vexation. For the smile of 
 joy, the human eye articulates a thousand sorrows. 
 Do groups of the living gather around us myriads of 
 the once living are crowded beneath us. The dancer 
 whirls along in gladness, while the worm perishes un 
 der his feet. * PAST PAST," is written upon all 
 things which meet, my eye, and mingle in with my 
 spirit. A requiem and a wail of death comes to me in 
 every breeze, 
 
 Walstcn. Incorrigible Mordaunt ! will nothing bring 
 you to reason ? Would you not smile and rejoice, 
 when I say to you, that beneath the sheltering branches 
 of this linden I embraced for the first time my beloved 
 Constance ? 
 
 Mordaunt. Walsten, Walsttn, under this very tree, 
 the wife of my heart lies buried 1 
 
 So much, we may add, for human philosophy. Is 
 not the very name of it, gentle reader, a grievous yet 
 laughable absurdity ? The very neplvs ultra of human 
 knowledge is found in the text ; all that we know is, 
 nothing do we know 1 
 
 13* 
 
1 60 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. 
 
 M Come, croM my hand with the silver white, 
 
 Fair youth, and I will bring, 
 From On; future s realm of hidden night, 
 
 The secret, the unknown thing 
 For mine s a wild and a wondrous art, 
 f&L < And I ve a fearful power, 
 
 I know the springs of the silent heart, 
 
 And I search the coming hour." 
 
 He cross d her hand and her deep black eye. 
 
 Was fixed upon his own, 
 And in her face was a majesty, 
 
 And in every look a tone. 
 The colour has fled from his cheek but now ! 
 And his look is wild and his heart beats low. 
 ** Fond hopes," she said, and her brow grew sad, 
 
 " Vain dreams now fill thine eye, 
 And thy breast is lit with many a glad 
 
 Rich thought of ecstasy. 
 I mark a changing streak of red, 
 
 Upon thy check, that now, 
 Even as I upeak the word, has fled 
 
 To crimson o er thy brow. 
 Ti the mark of a deadly passion traced, 
 
 So deep that it will be, 
 A weary time ere age-effaced, 
 
 That token shall fly from thee. 
 J mark the curling lip of pride, 
 
 I mark the eye of scorn, 
 I see hopes seen by none beside, 
 
 Defeated and forlorn. 
 
THE BED-CROSS KNIGHT. 151 
 
 And in my spirit s prophecy, 
 
 I tell thee, fair youth, beware, 
 For thy hope shall bring no joy to thee, 
 
 And thy joy shall awaken care." 
 
 "Nay tell me not of a thing so dark, 
 
 But from thy skill unfold, 
 The evil that comes, with a certain mark, 
 
 That its strength may be controlled." 
 
 ** Twcre all in vain to tell thco when 
 
 The passionate pang will rise, 
 For it blinds the eyes of mortal men, 
 
 And they may not then be wise; 
 But this I may say, for before my sight, 
 
 Much of the future stands in light" 
 
 u Speak on what thou see st, I cannot fear. 
 Give the dark truth to my eager ear." 
 
 ** I see a light within a bow r, 
 
 I see a bark at sen, 
 From the one thou bcar st a blushing flowV, 
 
 Which the other boars from thee. 
 I see thco fly to distant lands, 
 
 And many there are who bow, 
 But none may do thy fierce commands, 
 
 And bring what thou lovcst now. 
 And thou wilt wander wan and wild, 
 
 The light of thy reason almost gone, 
 Now helpless as the unweaned child, 
 
 Now desolate and lone. 
 And thou wilt call and none will hear, 
 
 Tho often times a sound, 
 Like music that s fled will reach thine ear, 
 
 And thou wilt look around. 
 Yet even thy wild and wanton eye, 
 
 That sees what may not be, 
 
1 52 THF, BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 Will fail, though much it may espy. 
 That single thing to sec. 
 
 And now tho bower again is bright, 
 
 And tho one more lovely still, 
 Within that bower, by evening * light 
 
 Awaits till the night grows chill. 
 Tho bark i wailing by the sea, 
 
 And the idly flapping sail, 
 Seem*, for itt stay, reproaching thco 
 
 As it tempts the frcnh ning gale. 
 The morrow dawna and thou art gone, 
 
 Tho slave of thy pagpionH then, 
 But thou lt return alone, alone, 
 
 And we shall meet again /** 
 
 44 Nay, more, nay more," the young knight cried. 
 But the maid was gone, that, by hi. side, 
 Had muttered the perilous talc of time, 
 Of many a sorrow and many a crime. 
 But the tale in after days was sooth, 
 For much the young knight learnt of truth. 
 And thus ho Hung, as he left tho maid, 
 To go with the king on the far crusade- 
 
 u Tin the red-cross that is streaming 
 
 O er the thousands of the brave, 
 Who, of victory now dreaming, 
 
 Arc about to cross the wave- 
 But the glory shines in seeming, 
 And they go but to the grave ! 
 
 " Oh ! Europe, in thy story, 
 
 I do not care to shine 
 Tis not in search of glory, 
 
 That I leave this land of thine 
 And in the savage foray, 
 
 Be that early fortune mine. 
 

 THE BED-CROSS KNIGHT. 153 
 
 * Tis not for me benighted, < 
 
 By hopes for ever vain ^i-^ 
 
 To pine, with feelings blighted, - s^ 
 Beneath a woman s chain . : s >^, 
 
 From all thus disunited, 
 Maddelle, I m free again. 
 
 Thus do I proudly sever, 
 
 The bonds that would enslave, 
 I break the spell for ever, ^ 
 
 Though I break them in the grave 
 The Red-cross Knight must never, 
 
 Be a fickle woman s slave." 
 
 But the fate of the young knight fosterM well J 
 
 He stood the shock of the Infidel 
 
 But a trial more sad in the loss of fame, 
 
 In the future hours upon him came ; 
 
 And the gipsy girl stood by his castle strong. 
 
 And the gloomy Almys thus hoard her song. 
 
 . * * 
 
 M Thy ftunny hours are o er, 
 
 Thy glories are no more, 
 And the majesty and power have departed from thy brow j 
 
 Of the crowds that to thee knelt, 
 
 Of the few that with theo felt, 
 There is not one remaining to give thee welcome now. 
 
 A stranger in thy halls, 
 
 The dark shadow on thy walls, 
 Is the only sole companion that thy fortune leaves to thce^- 
 
 No vassal comes to wait, 
 
 In the absence of thy state, 
 And the hollow chambers giro thee back thy footstep* dismally. 
 
 But thy heart s unshrinking pride. 
 Though the rabble may deride, 
 And thy undiminished spirit, is within thee as of yore, 
 
154 TJU: BOOK OP NT LADY. 
 
 When in thy young renown, 
 Thou hast struck the fooman down, 
 And the hero fled before thy stroke who never fled before. 
 
 Oh, then thy name was high, 
 
 And when lofty dame* were nigh, 
 And tho bright million re-echoed to the gcntlo and the fair, 
 
 Did prophetic fortune come, 
 
 To portray tho future doom, 
 And show thy haughty spirit all, tho cud reverse ao near. 
 
 Now, no saloon in bright, 
 
 In tho revelry of night- 
 No minstrel sound* the welcome for tho beautiful and brave ; 
 
 Thy purple robo is worn, 
 
 And thy nodding plumo is torn, 
 And soiled and trodden in the dust the scarf that beauty gave. 
 
 Thy banner waves no more, 
 
 Thy victories arc o er, 
 And the lips that hh-.Vd theo once do not whisper now thy name. 
 
 And perched is the thought, 
 
 Of all thy arm has wrought, 
 And tarnish d by tho mean and base thy well- won wreath of fame. 
 
 I Jut the lot* of fume is nought, 
 
 To thy bosom s deeper thought, 
 And the only word of mixcry which thou hast uttered yet, 
 
 IH, that with thy name of pride, 
 
 All nil . ( tionM too have died, 
 And the maid thut pledged no much to thce, should also all forget* 
 
 In thy anguish thou hast rung. 
 
 The dreud secret from thy tongue, 
 
 And the hollow chambers give thce buck the false one s namo once 
 more ; 
 
 Thou hunt left tho gloomy hull, 
 
 Thou art on tho hanging wall, 
 God of mercy, yield thce grace, ibr thy earthly time is o er.** 
 
165 
 
 MISSOURI, 
 
 THE CAPTIVE OF THE PAWNEE. 
 
 11 A token from llic spirit land 
 A h:illt>wv<l gift from fairy hand ; 
 A withered leaf, a flower whoo stem, 
 Tliun broke, we liken unto them. 
 A rainbow huo, that now appear*, ^ _ 
 Then melts away, like hope, In tears/ 
 
 The Pawnees and the Omahas were neighbouring 
 nations, and perpetually at war with one another. A 
 deadly hostility, increased by every contest, existed be 
 tween them ; and it became evident that no cessation of 
 war could be hoped for, from the inextinguishable ha 
 tred of cither people, unless in the total annihilation of 
 one or the other, or, more probably of both. They 
 were equally numerous, equally brave, equally cunning 
 and cautious ; equally matched, indeed, in almost every 
 respect. The advantage obtained by either side, was 
 most generally trifling, and the victor had but little to 
 boast. Sheer exhaustion, and the necessity of a breath 
 ing spell alone, sometimes interposed to give them a 
 task of peace," and, in a pause from hostility, to allow 
 them to rebuild their broken lodges, and provide mate 
 rials for sustenance and war. The original causes of 
 this vindictive spirit might not well be ascertained at 
 the date of our story, so remote had been its origin. 
 Antiquity had, in some degree, to each generation con- 
 
156 THK BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 secreted the strife, and given it sanctity ; and one of 
 the first lessons taught, accordingly, to the Pawnee and 
 Omaha boy* was to learn how to strike and scalp and 
 circumvent tho national enemy, and transmit the same 
 vindictive lesson to his descendants in turn. 
 
 Such was the condition of things at the period of 
 which we speak. The autumn campaign was about to 
 be begun, and the Pawnee-loups, before setting out upon 
 tho war path, held a solemn feast nnd council, in order 
 to determine upon the most advisable plans, and to ob- 
 tain thu sanction of the Great Spirit, as ascertained by 
 his priests. It is useless to dwell, even for a moment, 
 upon the many horrid riles which attended and charac 
 terised this festival. The American reader, with few 
 exceptions, is familiar with tho long details of that bar 
 barous mummery, in which, on these occasions, the 
 savages indulge ; without any seeming meaning, nnd 
 scarcely with any regular design in view. It is enough 
 to say, that on this event, nothing was omitted from the 
 fcHlivu), at all calculated, in the mind of the savage, to 
 give it an air of the most imposing solemnity. The 
 priests divined and predicted general success taking 
 care, however, as in tho case of most other prophet.*, 
 to speak in language sufficiently vague to allow of its 
 adaptation to any circumstances or renting solely on 
 those safe predictions, which commonly bring about 
 their own verification. They did not, however, confine 
 themselves to prophesying the event of tho war they 
 counselled the course to be pursued, and the plans to 
 be adopted, nnd, with too dictatorial a manner to be 
 resisted or rejected. Among other of their predictions, 
 they declared that victory should now rest with that 
 
MISSOURI. 157 
 
 nation who took and put to death the first prisoner by the 
 fire torment a favourite punishment with the Indians, 
 as affording a trial of the courage and firmness of the 
 captive. Such a prediction as this, though seemingly 
 barbarous and cruel, was in reality of a tendency highly 
 merciful, and more than any other measure calculated 
 to arrest the wanton fury of warfare, which is so much 
 the characteristic of the savage. All unnecessary risk 
 was avoided ; and the object now, with the Pawnees, 
 was how to obtain a captive from the enemy, without 
 endangering the freedom of their own people. The 
 subtlety of the Indian, notoriously great, was not long 
 wanting in a stratagem to bring about its object. They 
 effected their designs, and procured their captive with 
 out loss or exposure to themselves. 
 
 The Omahas were not unconscious or unadvised of 
 the goings on of their enemies. They too had their 
 grand council, and made their preparations for the au 
 tumn war path. Their warriors had assembled at dif 
 ferent points, and both nations, about the same moment, 
 had sallied forth from their lodges. It was not the in 
 tention of the Pawnees to proceed to extremities at the 
 outset. With a degree of caution, which, to them, was 
 highly unusual, and which awakened the surprise of 
 their opponents, they contented themselves with patrol- 
 ing their towns and villages, making no overtures of 
 combat, and seemingly bent only on defending their 
 country from attack. (a vain, provoked beyond all 
 patience by this shyness, did the young braves of the 
 Omahas sally forth in sight of the watchful Pawnees ; 
 daring them to combat* assailing them with all manner 
 of reproachful taunt, and denouncing them as mere 
 14 
 
158 THE BOOK OF NT LADY. 
 
 women, and degenerate from their Ancestors. Though 
 feeling all this sorely, and scarcely able to command 
 the natural temper of the nation, the Pawnees still con* 
 trivcd to be quiet in the meanwhile, blindly relying on 
 the prediction of their priests, and satisfied that success 
 alone lay in the counsels which they had given them. 
 
 The Omaha village was one of the most beautiful 
 that can be imagined, in the verge and limit of a south 
 ern country, which boasts an almost perpetual spring. 
 Their principal settlement was upon a small island, 
 embosomed in a broad and glassy lake, which empties 
 into the river IMattc. There was no approach to it 
 but by boats, and no invader could make his appear 
 ance within gunshot, without being at once perceptible 
 from all parts of the secluded and quiet island. There 
 every thing wore the smooth and soothing features of a 
 perpetual summer. The flowers were lengthened in 
 life and strengthened with odour, and the breeze, from 
 the broad prairies, in crossing over the little lake, lost 
 all its sharpness and rigour, and retained only its balm 
 and sweetness. 
 
 The secluded character of this situation its remote 
 ness from the enemies country, and the great and un 
 alloyed security, which, in all their wars, it had hereto 
 fore enjoyed, tutl served to make the Oimliaa relax 
 somewhat in the vigilance, with which, at one time, 
 they had been accustomed to guard and watch over so 
 exquisite a spot. Bui a few warriors, principally in 
 firm, remained on the island ; the residue being cither 
 out on the war path, or engaged in the sports of tho 
 chase it being the custom, arising from the necessity 
 of the thing, thus to employ one portion of the people 
 
MISSOURI. 159 
 
 in procuring, and another in defending, the sustenance 
 and provisions of their community. If the cunning 
 Pawnees did not exactly know of this fact, they at least 
 suspected it ; and while the great body of their warriors 
 contrived to keep in check, and exercise the unconscious 
 Omahas,a small, but selected band, had been despatched 
 by a circuitous route, with the daring intention of mak 
 ing a descent upon the defenceless village, and taking a 
 captive, no matter of what sex or condition, in order to 
 secure for their nation the full benefit of the prediction 
 of their prophets. 
 
 There was among tho Omaha warriors, a" youth, 
 scarcely attained to manhood, than whom a braver or 
 more daring man the nation did not possess. Though 
 young, he had been often engaged in conflict, and had 
 acquired a name among his tribe, which placed him 
 among the foremost in war, and won for him the re 
 spect of the most aged in the solemn deliberations of 
 the council. Brave though he was^ however, and stern 
 and terrible among his enemies, the young Enemoya 
 was not insensible to the tender passion. He had al 
 ready told his love to the gentle Missouri, the loveliest 
 and liveliest maiden of his tribe, and upon his return 
 from tho present expedition, she was to leave her own 
 and take up her abode in the lodge of Enemoya. 
 
 Many were the thoughts of Enemoya while, day 
 afier day, he watched, without any prospect of action, 
 tho motions of tho Pawnees on the subject of his love, 
 and of the hour of his return. Of the spoils, which he 
 would bear homo as a trophy of his victory, and a 
 pledge of his affections, and of the happiness which 
 would make all his life before him, like the Sower of 
 
160 
 
 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 the prairie, that expands its leaves during the day for 
 the reception of the sunshine, which at evening it shuts 
 up nor allows to escape. He dreamt, as the young 
 heart always dreams when love is the subject ; and in 
 his dreaming* he grew impatient of the war, which kept 
 him from the maid of his bosom, and gave him no spoils 
 to take home to her. Finding it impossible to provoke 
 a fight, the Omalms began to direct their attention to 
 the sports of the forest, and contenting themselves with 
 throwing, in the manner of their enemies, a line of ob 
 servation and guard between the assailable points of 
 their country, and the usual war paths of the Pawnees ; 
 the one half of them set seriously to work, to add to the 
 stock of venison which was to supply their nation. Not 
 so with Enemoya. Denied to come to battle with his 
 enemies, he forbore to join in the chase, but taking his 
 arms along with him, he stole nway from his associates, 
 and took the path back to the little island and the beau 
 tiful Missouri. To tho light-footed warrior, putsuing 
 the direct course, the jourmy was not long in consum 
 mation ; and in the course of a few days, we find him 
 on the borders of the placid lake, which lay, like a 
 slumbering and glad spirit, unmoved and untroubled 
 before him. He paused but for an instant, to take 
 from the branch on which it hung, the clear and yellovi 
 gourd, and to drink from the sweet waters ; then step 
 ping into the light * dug-out," or canoe, which stood 
 ready on its margin, he struck out the paddle alternate 
 ly upon cither side, and it shot rapidly towards the 
 island. Encinoya did not remark uny peculiarity in 
 the village while crossing ; for his mind was filled with 
 that dreamy contemplation, which, directed only to, and 
 
MISSOURI. 161 
 
 absorbed in but one subject, effectually excluded and 
 shut out every other ; but as he approached, and when 
 his bark struck the smooth and silvery beach, he be 
 came conscious of an unusual degree of quietude and 
 gloom, for which he knew not how to account. There 
 were but few persons to be seen, and their looks were 
 downcast, and grave in the extreme, and indicative of 
 some terrible disaster. He soon learned the worst 
 from those he encountered. The Pawnees, in a strong 
 body, had unexpectedly made a descent upon them, 
 and after putting to death the few who continued to re 
 sist, had borne off as captives, several of their maidens, 
 among whom the horror-stricken Enemoya heard the 
 name of his Missouri. .After a moment of stupid deso 
 lation, ho rushed to the point of land whence the descent 
 was made, hurriedly enquired into its several particu 
 lars, learned the course taken by the ravishers, and 
 without hesitation, set off in the pursuit. 
 
 The headlong Enemoya went on without other delay 
 than was necessary to discern the tracks left behind by 
 the departing enemy. Under any other lighter circum 
 stances the free step of Enemoya would have made him 
 fearful as a pursuer, but an added facility and lightness 
 of foot grew out of the fury and the frenzy of his heart. 
 Passion and despair seemed to have provided him with 
 wings, and he evidently gained upon his enemy. Every 
 step he look freshened their tracks to his eye, and new 
 hopes were aroused and multiplied in his heart. At 
 midnight of the second day of his pursuit he came sud 
 denly, (and by a bend made by a broad river shooting 
 obliquely from his path, which had heretofore run be 
 side it,) upon the blaze of a large camp-fire. Such u 
 H* 
 
162 
 
 TIIK BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 prospect would have cheered the white man, but it had 
 
 no such c licet upon the Indian. Ho knew that the 
 enemy for whom he Bought would raise no such beacon 
 for his guidance ; but he hesitated not to approach tho 
 fire, around which a group of white men were seated, 
 partaking of n rude repast, which they had just pre 
 pared, The savnge was not ignorant of tho civilised ; 
 and tho intercourse of Kncnioya with the fur traders, 
 in which business his nation largely dealt, had even 
 given him some knowledge of the language. They 
 started to their arms, and demanded his business. It 
 was soon revealed, and with a degree of warmth and 
 passion, which, as it was supposed to be uncommon 
 with tho Indian character, surprised them. They heard 
 his story, and immediately gave him intelligence of tho 
 party which he pursued. They were a party of settlers 
 from Kentucky, who had drawn stakes, and were now 
 on tho look-out for a new whereabout, in which they 
 might replant them. They were a hardy set of adven 
 turers, and as they sat around their blazing fires, while 
 their wives were preparing their repasts, tho young 
 warrior, for the first time, conceived the idea of crav 
 ing their co-operation in the rescue of the fair Mis 
 souri. Such leagues were not unfrequcnt between the 
 settlers and the proprietors, and in this way, in most 
 cases, as in the histoiy of tho downfall of the Roman 
 empire, those who came as allies remained as con 
 querors. Having, by joint effort, destroyed one tribe, it 
 was no difHcult matter for the auxiliaries to turn upon 
 those they had succoured, and in their weakened con 
 dition, as little difficult to overpower them. This, 
 indeed, is in most part, the history of American sway 
 
MISSOURI. 163 
 
 in the valley of the Mississippi. The squatters heard 
 his prayer with attention, and found their account iu 
 it. They determined to assist him, and making a hasty 
 but hearty supper, they somewhat varied their original 
 line of march, and joined in the pursuit* 
 
 It was not long before the pursuers came upon the 
 certain and sure signs of the enemy. The eye of Ene- 
 moya soon perceived, and his quick and awakened 
 spirit did not delay in pointing them out. He knew 
 the country, its bearings and character, and taking 
 them to a turn by which they might head the waters 
 of a creek which ran across their path, he gained 
 greatly upon the Pawnees. They came upon them 
 suddenly and unexpectedly, but the Pawnees were 
 warriors too good to suffer total surprise. They had 
 put out their sentries, and, though not dreaming of as 
 sault, were not unprepared to encounter it. They 
 were sitting upon the ground, not in a group, but scat 
 tered here and there, at a few paces from one another. 
 Some lay beneath a tree, others in the long matted grass 
 of the prairies, and a few were entirely uncovered to the 
 eye of the pursuers. Tho Indian maiden lay bound 
 betwixt two of the most powerful of the marauders 
 her hair dishevelled, her face unmoved but anxious, 
 and her demeanour that of the captive who felt all her 
 misfortune, yet knew how to bear it. It was a sight 
 that did not permit of a single moment s consideration 
 with the young Enemoya. With a single bound and 
 uplifted hatchet, he sprung forward from the covert in 
 which his party had concealed tnemselves, and by thus 
 exposing his person, destroyed the chances of a our- 
 prise. Ho beheld his error when too late to amend it* 
 
164 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 The Pawnees leapt to their arms, and the warrior, in 
 the shelter of a tree which secured his person from 
 their rifles, had leisure to repent of his rashness, so 
 unlike the Indian, and so injurious to the prospect of 
 success. But this was not his sole danger. On the 
 first exhibition of his person, the two savages, to whom 
 the custody of the maiden was given, seized her by 
 her long hair, and raising their knives to her bosom, 
 prepared on the first attack to put an end to her life. 
 It was this that arrested the arm of Enemoya, and sub 
 dued a spirit that had never before quailed, and seldom 
 hesitated. It was now necessary to take counsel, and 
 he regained the shelter in which, as yet concealed, lay 
 his white allies. In number they exceeded the force 
 of the Pawnees, and could easily have destroyed them. 
 This was, indeed, the first impulse ; but from the 
 fiendish cunning of the foe, they were taught to fear 
 and feel that the signal of strife would be that of death 
 to the fair Indian. The squatters were men of daring, 
 but they were also men of experience ; and while they 
 held boldness and confidence as primary requisites in 
 the character of the warrior, they felt that rashness and 
 precipitance would undo and ruin every thing. Ac* 
 cordingly, having deliberated among themselves, it 
 was determined that two of the squatter*, in company 
 with Encmoya, should appear, arid tender the flag of 
 truce, a white handkerchief attached to a willow, which 
 the Indian* had by this time learned to respect ; to see 
 upon what terms they could procure the freedom of the 
 maiden. At their appearance the Indians emerged 
 from their several places of repose and shelter, and ad 
 vanced to meet them, with no more signs of civility, 
 
MISSOURI. 165 
 
 however, than were absolutely necessary to avoid the 
 appearance of attack. The squatter undertook to be 
 spokesman, and, in a way, accommodating his language 
 to the understanding of the Pawnees, by a liberal 
 sprinkling of words from theirs, he sought to make his 
 business understood. He told them of their captive, 
 and of the folly of keeping her for their torture, which 
 was of no use, when they might make her a subject of 
 speculation. He concluded by making proposals to pur 
 chase her for himself, offering arms, knives, and such 
 other objects of use with the Indian, which, as a some 
 time trader among them, he knew would be in demand. 
 The chief of the Pawnees heard him out with great 
 gravity and the most respectful attention, but told him 
 calmly and deliberately that there could be no t/ade 
 that the fate of the Pawnees or Omahas depended up 
 on her life, and that he had, with his warriors, taken a 
 long journey to get her into his power ; that no price 
 could tempt him to forego his hold, and that in a few 
 hours the captive would undergo the fiery torture. 
 
 While speaking, the young and passionate Enemoya 
 had approached his beloved Missouri. Her head had 
 been cast down, but upon his approach, she looked up 
 and fixed a long, fond, and earnest gaze upon him, 
 with an entreating and pleading expression which al 
 most maddened him. Yet, without violating the pri 
 vilege afforded by his flag of truce, he could not 
 approach or speak to her. Impatiently did he await 
 the final determination of the Pawnee, lengthened out, 
 as it was, by the figurative and glowing language which 
 bo employed ; but when the final resolve fell upon the 
 ears of Missouri, she rushed from between the two 
 
166 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 warriora, who had relaxed their hold upon her, and en* 
 dcavoured to throw herself into the onus of her lover; 
 but her captors were not idle, and before she could 
 effect her object, a blow from the arm of one of them 
 precipitated her to the earth. In a moment, the work 
 of death had begun. The conference was broken off, 
 
 4 and the hatchet of Enemoya had been driven deep in- 
 
 (ij to the scull of the brutal chief who had struck his be 
 
 trothed. The Indians were taken by surprise, and did 
 not oiler a very ready resistance. A second blow from 
 the young warrior, and he had struck from his way the 
 
 ,; only opponent between himself and Missouri, and he 
 
 was now rushing towards the maiden, when the leader 
 of the Pawnees with whom the conference had been 
 
 j| held, threw himself between them, and grappling En- 
 
 . emoya, they fell together to the earth. Their grasp 
 was taken closely around the bodies of one another, 
 and the chief effort of both was to got hold of, arid 
 employ the short broad knife which each wore in his 
 belt. This task was not so easy, and in the meanwhile, 
 the struggle was one rather of futigue than danger. 
 These employed, the rest were not idle. The Ken- 
 tuckian made his retreat to a neighbouring tree, the 
 click of lii j rifle was the signal to the rest of his party, 
 and before the Pawnees hud dreamt of the presence of 
 so numerous an enemy, scvcial of them had bit the 
 dust. The squatters rushed on with their knives, ex- 
 
 .. hihiting too large a force for opposition, and the ene 
 
 my fled ; all but one, who, after the hesitation of a 
 moment, with a look of concentrated and contested 
 anger and triumph, leapt through the thicket which 
 lay between himself and where their chief and Ene- 
 
MISSOURI. 167 
 
 moya were atill vainly struggling, and seizing the still 
 bound maiden with one hand, he struck his hatchet 
 deep into her brain, then, without pausing to extricate 
 it, and before the deed might be revenged, with a 
 howl, betwixt a shout of victory and derision, he re 
 joined his party. Enemoya beheld the blow and sought 
 to release himself, but without success ; and turning 
 his eyes, as it were, unconsciously, to where the bleed 
 ing and insensible form of the young maiden lay 
 stretched out before him, he stood at the mercy of his 
 enemy, who had drawn his knife, and with hand up 
 lifted, was about to plunge it Into his bosom ; but be 
 fore he could do so, the stroke of a rifle from one of 
 the squatters prostrated him, and determined the 
 struggle. But the hope of our warrior was blighted, 
 and he moved along as a shadow. He returned with 
 the squatters, and they reached with him the quiet lake 
 and the beautiful island ; yet he but came to hear of 
 new disasters. The relaxed discipline and weakened 
 force of the Omaha warriors, opposed to that of the 
 Pawnees, added to the encouraging account of the suc 
 cess of the party, sent for the purpose of taking their 
 captive, had emboldened them to an attack, which, 
 conducted with skill, caution, and spirit, had terminated 
 in the total defeat of the former, and the slaughter of 
 the best of their warriors. 
 
 * We will build our cabins here, * said the head man 
 of the squatters, " by this quiet lake, and on these 
 verdant meadows. Here will we make an abode." 
 
 " But this is the abode of my people, brother ; here 
 is the wigwam of Enemoya, and this is the dwelling I 
 had built up for the hope of my heart, i\\e gentle Mis 
 souri." - -* 
 
168 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 44 Your people aro destroyed, and have no dwelling, 
 Enemoya ; and Missouri is a fair spirit in the heavens. 
 You are a brave and a good youth be with us, and 
 dwell with our people, and here will wo live together." 
 " No," said the Omaha, " my people are indeed no 
 more, but I can mix with no other. Be yours the fair 
 
 4i island and the quiet lake, and when you have made it, 
 
 I; and all the forest round, a dwelling for you ami your 
 
 children, and your children s children, as it is with 
 you white men the way always to do, remember the 
 Omaha, and call the nation you enjoy after the beauti- 
 
 f| . ful Missouri. For me, I shall go over the great lakes, 
 
 and hunt tho buffalo in the black prairies of the wcHt, 
 till the Great Spirit shall send for mo to dwell once 
 more among the people of tho tribe." 
 
 The squatter gave the promise he required, and the 
 country thus granted by Kncmoya, is even to this day 
 called "Missouri," after tho beautiful maiden of Omaha. 
 
 I 
 
169 
 
 LA POLA. 
 
 " Tis still the same and thin the tyrant s creed, 
 The brave must perish still, the virtuous bleed 
 Yet, lfgm d by the examples which they leave, 
 Tho living shall avenge them, but not grieve 
 Their blood lins watered well our freedom s tree, 
 And sweetly hollows human liberty: 
 Even woman too a dearer sacrifice, 
 Oh! hapless gain for freedom, when she dies !" 
 
 The Colombians, generally, will long remember La 
 Pola. With the history of their struggle for freedom, 
 her story is deeply associated, and the tragical destiny 
 which followed her love of country, is linked with all 
 the interest of the most romantic adventure. Her spi 
 rit seemed made of the finest materials, while her pa 
 triotism and courage, to the last, furnish a model which 
 it would have been well for her country, had it been 
 more generally adopted and followed by its sons. 
 
 Dona Apolinaria Zalabariata, better known by the 
 name of La Pola, was a young lady of good family in 
 Bogota, distinguished not less by her personal accom 
 plishments than her rich and attractive beauty. She was 
 but a child when Bolivar commenced his struggles with 
 the ostensible object of freeing bis country from the 
 trammels of its oppressors. Her father, a gentleman of 
 considerable acquirement as well as wealth, warmly 
 seconded the designs of the Liberator, though from cir 
 cumstances compelled to forbear any active agency, 
 15 
 
170 THK BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 himself, in their promotion. He was a republican of 
 considerable resources and sleepless perseverance; and, 
 witiiout taking up arms himself, he probably contributed 
 quite as much to iliu success of the experiment for 
 liberty, as those who did. In this, he was warmly se 
 conded by his daughter; who, with that ingenuity of 
 contrivance, commonly ascribed to her BOX, was, per 
 haps, the most valuable auxiliar thut Bolivar had in 
 Bogota. 
 
 She was but fourteen years of age, when accident 
 gave her the first gluncc of the man afterwards the pre 
 sident of her country. At this time, with few resources 
 and fewer friends and coadjutor?, Bolivar occasioned 
 little distrust, and, perhaps, commanded as little atten 
 tion. Still, he was known, and generally recognised as 
 an enemy to the existing authorities. Prudence was 
 necessary, therefore; and it was at midnight, and during 
 a severe thunder storm, that ho entered the city, and 
 made his way, by arrangement, into the inner apart 
 ments of the house of Zulaburiuta. A meeting of the 
 i . conspirators for such they were had been contem 
 
 plated on this occasion, and many of them were in at 
 tendance. The circumstance* could not be altogether 
 concealed from the family, and La Tola, who had heard 
 something of Bolivar which hud excited her curiosity, 
 contrived to bo present ; though partially concealed by 
 her habit, and by a rectos situation which she hud 
 chosen. The Liberator explained his projects to the 
 assembly* He was something more than eloquent ho 
 was impassioned ; and the warmth of a southern sun 
 seemed burning in his words and upon his lips. La Pola 
 heard him with ill-concealed admiration. Not so her 
 
LA POLA, 171 
 
 countrymen. Accustomed to usurpation and over 
 throw, they were slow to adventure life and property 
 upon the predictions of one, who, as yet, had given so 
 few assurances of success for the game which he had in 
 hand. They hesitated, they scrupled, and opposed to 
 his animated exhortations a thousand suggestions of 
 prudence a thousand calculations of fear. The Libera- 
 tor grew warmer and more vehement. He denounced 
 in broad language the pusillanimity, which, as much as 
 the tyranny under which they groaned, was the curse of 
 his country. 
 
 " Am I to go alone," he exclaimed passionately 
 " am I to breast the enemy singly will none of you 
 come forward, and join with me in procuring the libera 
 tion of our people? I ask you not, rny countrymen, to 
 any grievous risk to any rash adventure. There is 
 little peril, be assured, in the strife before us. We are 
 more than a match, united among ourselves and with 
 determined spirits, for twice ay thrice the power 
 which they can bring into the field. But even were this 
 not the case were it that the chances were all decided 
 ly against us, I cannot see, still, how you can, or why 
 you should, hesitate to draw the sword in such a strife. 
 You daily and hourly feel the exactions and witness the 
 murders and cruelties of your masters. Thousands of 
 your friends and relatives lie rotting in the common 
 prisons, denied the most common attentions and neces 
 saries, and left to perish under innumerable privations. 
 Thousands have perished in torture; and over the gate 
 way of your city, but now as I entered, hanging in 
 chains, the bleaching bones of old Hermano, one of our 
 best citizens, destroyed because he dared to speak freely 
 
17* 
 
 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 **! 
 
 7 
 
 his thought of these doings, attest the uncompromising 
 and bloody tyranny under which you must momentarily 
 look for a like fate. If you be men if you have hearts 
 or hopes -if you have affections to lose and live for 
 you surely will not hesitate as to the choice the only 
 choice which a freeman one worthy and desirous of 
 the name should be allowed to make.** 
 
 The Liberator paused, as much through exhaustion, 
 as from a desire to enable his hearers to reply. But, 
 with this latter object, his pause seemed made entirely ia 
 vain. The faces of all around him were blank and 
 speechless. They were generally quiet, well meaning 
 citizens, unaccustomed to any enterprises save those of 
 trade, and they were slow to risk the wealth which 
 many of them possessed in abundance, to the certain 
 confiscation which would follow any overt exhibition 
 against the existing authorities. While ia this state of 
 hopeless and speechless indecision, the emotions of the 
 chief were scarcely controllable. His whole frame 
 trembled with the excitement of his spirit. He paced 
 their ranks hurriedly now pausing with this and that 
 personage appealing to them singly as he had done 
 collectively, and suggesting a thousand arguments of 
 weight for the effecting of his purposes. He became 
 impatient at length, and again addressed them. 
 
 " Men of Bogota, you are not worthy to be free if 
 you can hesitate longer. Your chains and insecurity 
 will have been merited, and bo assured, when they be* 
 come necessary to the wants of your enemy, your pre. 
 sent acquiescence to his power will not avail for the 
 protection of your lives or property. They are both at 
 his mercy, and ho will not pause, as you have done, to 
 
LA TOLA. 173 
 
 make use of them. To save them from him, you must 
 risk them for yourselves. To suppose that his mercies 
 will keep them for your benefit is to think madly. There 
 is no security against power, but in power; and to check 
 the innovating terrors of the one, you must exhibit, at 
 the threshold, the strong armed vengeance of the other. 
 A day an hour and it may be too late. To-morrow, 
 unless I am betrayed to-night" looking with a sarcas 
 tic smile around him as he spoke " I shall unfurl the 
 banner of the republic, and if there be no other name 
 arrayed in arms against the oppressor, the more glory 
 to that of Bolivar." 
 
 While the chief spoke, the emotions of the youthful 
 La Pola could not be concealed. The colour came to, 
 and went from, her checks the tears started to her 
 eyes she rose hurriedly from her seat which she un 
 consciously again resumed, and, as the Liberator con 
 cluded his address, rushed across the narrow space 
 which separated her from her father, and seizing him 
 by the hand, with an action the most passionate, yet 
 dignified and graceful, she led him to the spot where 
 Bolivar still held his position ; then for the first time 
 giving utterance to her lips, she exclaimed enquiringly, 
 
 " He must not stand alone, my father. You have a 
 name, and you will give it you will not withhold it 
 from your country and I, too, I will do what I can, 
 if" and her eye sunk before that of the chief as she 
 spoke, while her voice trembled with a tone of modest 
 doubt, the most winning and expressive" if you will 
 let me." 
 
 The eloquence of the woman did more than all that 
 had been uttered either by way of reason or patriotic 
 15* 
 
 
 
174 
 
 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 impulse and exhortation from the lips of the chief. 
 The men, touched with a sense of shame, at once came 
 forward, and entered into the required pledges. There 
 was no more hesitation no new scruple; and the 
 Liberator pressing the hand of the bright-eyed girl to 
 his, lips called her a spirit worthy of her country, and 
 such as if possessed generally by it* sons, could not 
 fail, in a short time, most effectually to recover its 
 liberties. 
 
 In another day, and the standard of the republic 
 was raised. The republicans assembled numerously 
 beneath it, and but little foresight was necessary to 
 perceive, that in the end, the cause must eventually 
 triumph. Still the successes were various. The 
 Spaniards had too strong a foothold, easily to be driven 
 from their possessions, and the conflict, as we know, 
 was for a long time of the most indecisive and various 
 character. What the Colombians wanted, however, 
 in the materials for carrying on a protracted warfare, 
 was more than made up in the patriotism, the talent 
 and the vigilance of their leaders generally ; and how- 
 ever delayed may have been the event which they 
 desired and had in view, its certainty of attainment 
 seems never for a moment to have been questioned, 
 except by those who vainly continued to keep up an 
 ineffectual and hopeless conflict against them. 
 
 For two years, that the war had been carried on, no 
 material change had been effected in the position of 
 the combatants. The Spaniards still maintained their 
 ground in most respects, except where the Colombians 
 had been unanimous in their rising; but their resources 
 were hourly undergoing diminution, and the great les- 
 
LA POLA. . . 175 
 
 eening of the productions of tho country incident to 
 its unsettled condition, had subtracted largely from 
 the inducements held out, individually, to their officers, 
 for the further prosecution of the war. In the mean 
 time, the patriots were invigorated with hope in due 
 proportion with the depression of their opponents; 
 and the increase of numbers, not to speak of the 
 added skill and capacity of their arms, following their 
 long and continuous warfare, not a little contributed to 
 their further encouragement. But how, in all this 
 time, had La Pola redeemed her pledge to the Libera 
 tor ? It may be supposed that tho promise of the girl 
 of fifteen, was not of such a nature as to warrant a 
 reasonable hope or prospect of its fulfilment. It cer 
 tainly was not regarded by Bolivar, himself, as any 
 thing more than the hasty utterance of her emotion, 
 under particular excitement, having no other object, 
 if it had any, than to provoke, by a sense of shame and 
 self-rebuke, the unpatriotic inactivity of her country 
 men. The girl herself did not think so, however. From 
 that moment fho "rocame a woman a strong minded, 
 highly persevering, and most attractive woman. All her 
 soul was bent to the achievement of some plan of co 
 operation with the republican chief, and circumstances 
 largely contributed to the desire thus entertained. She 
 resided in Bogota the strong hold of the royalist 
 forces, under the control of Zamano, a military despot, 
 who, in process of time, in that country, acquired by his 
 cruelties a parallel notoriety with some of the foulest 
 governors of the Roman dependencies. Her family 
 was wealthy, and though favouring Bolivar s enterprise, 
 as we have seen, bad so conducted, as to remain en- 
 
176 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 tirely uniuspccted by the existing powers. This 
 enviable security, the management of La Pola, herself, 
 had principally effected; and under its cover she per 
 fected a scheme of communication with the patriots, 
 by which she put into their possession all the plans of 
 the Spaniards. She was the princess of the Tertulias 
 a mode of evening entertainment common to the 
 Spaniards. She presided at these parties with a grace 
 and influence which brought all their oflicers to her 
 house. They listened with delight to the power and 
 delicacy with which she accommodated her voice one 
 of singular compass and melody to the notes of her 
 guitar, in the performance upon which she was un 
 commonly successful. Unsuspected of any connection 
 with politics, and regarded only as a fine woman, more 
 solicitous of a long train of admirers than of any thing 
 else, she contrived to collect, from the oflicers them 
 selves, most of their plans in the prosecution of the 
 war. She soon learned the force of their several 
 armaments, their disposition and destination, and, in 
 deed, in timely advance, all the projected operations 
 of the Spanish army. She knew all the officers, and 
 from those present obtained a knowledge of their 
 absent companions. In this way, she knew the station 
 of each advanced post who was in command, and 
 most of those particulars, the knowledge of which 
 tended as frequently to the success of Bolivar, as his 
 own conduct and the courage of his men. All these 
 particulars were regularly transmitted to him, as soon 
 as obtained, by a trusty messenger ; and the frequent 
 disappointments of the royalist arms attested the close 
 ness and general correctness of the information thus 
 obtained. 
 
LA POLA. 177 
 
 Unfortunately, one of her communications was in 
 tercepted, and the cowardly bearer, intimidated by the 
 terror of impending death, was persuaded to betray his 
 employer. She was arrested in the midst of an assem 
 bled throng, to whom her voice and guitar were im 
 parting a mingled melody of most attractive romance. 
 She was nothing alarmed at this event, but was hurried 
 before a military court martial law then prevailing in 
 the capital with a rapidity corresponding with the 
 supposed enormity of her offence. Her lover a noble 
 youth named Gomero though perfectly innocent of 
 any connection with her acts on this occasion, was 
 tried along with her, and both condemned for, at this 
 time, condemnation and trial were words of synony 
 mous import to be shot. Zamano the viceroy, de 
 sirous of more victims and hoping to discover her 
 accomplices, granted them a respite of twelve hours 
 before execution, sparing no effort in all this time to 
 bring about a confession. The friar sent to confess 
 her, threatened her, if she ventured upon any conceal 
 ments from him, with eternal punishment hereafter ; 
 while promises of pardon and reward assailed both 
 herself and her betrothed, in the hope of effecting the 
 same object but all equally in vain. She resolutely 
 denied having any other accomplice than the messen 
 ger she had employed, and prayed a release from the 
 persecution of all further enquiries. Perceiving that 
 Gomero, her intended husband, was about to speak 
 and probably confess, through a very natural dread of 
 the death he saw so near she seized his arm impress 
 ively, and fixing her dark eyes reproachfully upon 
 him, she exclaimed, 
 
178 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 44 Comoro, did I love you for this 7 Beware lest I 
 hate and curse you as 1 die. What! is life to dear to 
 you that you would dishonour us both to live? Is 
 there no consolation in the thought that we shall die 
 together ?" 
 
 " But we shall both be saved ! * rejoined her lover. 
 
 " It is false ! The tyrant Zamano spares none ; our 
 lives are forfeit, and all that you could say would be 
 unavailing to avert either your fate or mine. Ho only 
 desires new victims, and will not release his grasp 
 upon those in his doom. If you have ever loved me, 
 Gomcro, speak no more after this fashion. Show your 
 self worthy of the choice which I have made, in the 
 manner of your death." 
 
 The lover persevered in silence, and they were led 
 forth to execution. The friars retired from the hap 
 less pair, and the firing party made ready. Then, for 
 the first time, did the spirit of this noble woman shrink 
 impulsively from the approach of death. 
 
 " Butcher !" she exclaimed to the viceroy, who stood 
 in his balcony overlooking the scene of execution 
 " Butcher you have then the hcurt to kill a woman" 
 and as she spoke, sho covered her face with the saya 
 or veil which she wore, and on drawing it aside for 
 the purpose, the words " Vive la Pa/rta," embroidered 
 in gold were discovered on the basquina. A the sig 
 nal for execution was given a distant hum as of an ad 
 vancing army was heard upon tho car. 
 
 " It is he ho comes it is Bolivar it is tho Libe 
 rator!" she exclaimed with a tone of triumph, which 
 found its echo in the bosoms of thousands who looked 
 with horror on the scene of blood before them. Boli- 
 
LA POLA. 179. 
 
 var it was he came with all speed to the work of de 
 liverance the city was stormed sword in hand a 
 summary atonement was taken in the blood of the 
 cruel viceroy and his flying partisans. But the De 
 liverer came too late to the rescue of the beautiful La 
 Pola. The fatal bullet had penetrated her heart, but 
 a few moments before the appearance of the liberating 
 army upon the works, and in sight of the place of ex 
 ecution. Thus perished a woman, worthy to be re 
 membered with the purest and the proudest who have 
 elevated and done honour to nature and her sex one 
 who, with all the feelings and affections of the woman, 
 possessed all the patriotism, the pride, the courage, 
 and the daring of the man ! 
 
1 80 THE BOOK OP MT LADY. 
 
 METACOM OP MONTAUP. 
 
 Metncom of Montaup, or Philip of Mount Hope, 10 
 associated in New England history with no small por 
 tion of the trials and terrors to which the early colo 
 nists in that region were subject. He had the canning, 
 and we may add, the capacity of the Greek. He was 
 a skilful politician, a bold, adroit lender, and a fearless 
 man ; and battled for his country with all the tenacity 
 of one conscious of his rights, and resolute to maintain 
 them. His memory has not always been spoken of 
 with justice ; and though ruthlessly savngc and deeply 
 treacherous, he does not seem, in a fair estimate of his 
 tory, to have been more so than his Christian invaders. 
 His life is one of high interest, and full of striking ad 
 venture. His own personal escapes from his pursuers 
 are wonderfully numerous and, whether we regard 
 him at the head of a powerful nation, ruling all around 
 htm, or, alone and desolate, deserted by his friends, 
 and hunted through wild and morass by his enemy, ho 
 is still the dauntless, the proud man who must have 
 won tho admiration, as ho certainly did the hatred, of 
 those who pursued him to the death. Ho was a true 
 lover of his country, and never sued for peace from 
 those who were destroying it. On this subject, such 
 was his spirit, that he killed upon the spot, and with 
 his own hand, one of his followers who ventured to pro- 
 
METACOI.I OF r:o:;TAUP. 181 
 
 pose the measure. It was, perhaps, well that such a 
 man should perish, but he certainly must command the 
 sympathies of all those who admire valour and perse 
 verance, employed so unhesitatingly, in the cause of 
 one s country. " It is matter of melancholy interest," 
 says Mr. Thatcher, in his clever work on Indian Bio 
 graphy, 4 to know, that the sachem, wretched and 
 hopeless as he had become in his last days, was still sur 
 rounded by a band of his faithful and affectionate fol 
 lowers. At the very moment of his fatal surprise by 
 the English, he is said to have been telling them his 
 gloomy dreams, and advising them to desert him, and 
 provide for their own safety." This last incident furnishes 
 a chief feature of the poem which follows. 
 
 Twos in a vision of the night 
 
 Tho spirit of that cyo, 
 Which tracks tho present in its Sight, 
 
 And sees tho future nigh, 
 Camo o er ray own, and I beheld 
 The past with all its scenes of eld, 
 
 In vague confusion fly. 
 
 It was a dreary waste, and dim, :> >,./ 
 
 As, with ten thousand lights, 
 Must be the anxious gaze of him 
 
 That sees these varied sights 
 That come in wild and wayward crowd, 
 The high, the humble, base and proud, 
 
 The all, each season blights. 
 
 Warriors of other times, and woods, 
 
 Where foaming waters play- 
 Wilds, where the hungry tiger broods/ 
 
 Expectant, for his prey 
 16 
 
183 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 All changing, in that fitful dream, 
 To each far land and dark extreme,- 
 And all before mo lay. 
 
 And in the crowd beneath my gaw .-- 
 
 My native land I MT, 
 AH now and then, some gleam betrays, 
 
 The shadows distantly 
 But what are these with swarthy brow, 
 And scowling eye, that round them now. 
 
 Look wild and anxiously? 
 
 And one is there with musing eye, 
 The chieftain ye may scan 
 
 Whose check ia stained with purple dye, 
 A proud and lonely man ! 
 
 He stood above the ruin d stone, 
 
 That mark d an ancient warrior gone, 
 Ere yet his line began. 
 
 His chieftains are they all around? 
 
 Thu few, the bravo are there- 
 More lofty in that narrow bound, 
 
 More fearless from despair. 
 They gather round the sterile rock, 
 All ready for the coming shock, 
 None touched with coward fear. 
 
 A smile is on the monarch s cheek, 
 
 But there is sadness too, 
 As midst that band his eye would seek, 
 
 The lost among the few. 
 Ah ! fallen upon the evil days, 
 His favourite meets no more his gaze : 
 
 He turns him from the view. 
 
 He look d upon the dashing wave, 
 And bade his warriors nigh ; 
 

 METACOM OP MONTAtTP. 183 
 
 In a stern voice tho monarch gave 
 
 His latest battle cry 
 Then laid him on the rocky height, 
 Whilst slumber came to sense and sight 
 
 A nation watching by. 
 
 He starts, and o er the mountain s brow 
 
 He leaps in wild dismay 
 Ho calls upon his warriors now 
 
 The war-cry and away. 
 ** Tho whitcman foe !" twas all ho said, 
 And shook his weapon o er his head, 
 
 And gather d to tho fray. 
 
 They start the gallant few in might, 
 But not a foe is there 
 
 They bend the sense, they stretch the sight- 
 No focman see or hear. 
 
 u They come," ho cried, u and still I see, 
 
 They ve track d tho panther to his tree, 
 The lion to his lair. 
 
 * Rock of my sires !" t was thua he spoke, 
 
 This is my latest field, 
 Upon thy brow the spear is broke, 
 
 The forest king must yield 
 Yield ! never ! let the foeman s feet 
 Still with mine own for combat meet, 
 
 And I no weapon wield : 
 
 H Even then, my soul shall joy to traoo 
 
 The features of the foe 
 And grappling in the death embrace, 
 
 My arms shall lay him low : 
 T were sweet, though losing all, to tear 
 The reeking scalp, the dripping hair, 
 
 And drink hu life-blood s flow. 
 
164 THE BOOK Or MY LADY. 
 
 
 
 M Eagle that weki the highest course, 
 
 And dares the darkest sky, 
 * That scrcam d in joy when winds were hoarse, 
 
 And lightnings flaming nigh 
 They may not tamo thy wing, and mine 
 Has been an soaring high as thine 
 
 1 shall not fear to die." 
 I 
 
 So spake the monarch and his brow 
 
 Grew darker in itn hue- 
 Ilia eye assumed the vengeful glow, 
 
 And look d the eagle** too- 
 Then sung he, in a solemn strain, 
 The deed* ho M done, and those again. 
 
 His soul had sworn to do ! 
 
 M I lay on tho broast of tho mountain, 
 
 Where the raven was flapping his wing, 
 Whilst he drew from ray heart, like a fountain, 
 
 Its warmest, its ruddiest spring. 
 The winds through tho forest wcro sighing, 
 
 From the grave of my father they came 
 I saw the old warrior around him were lying 
 The symbols of fight, for the many were dying, 
 Midst havoc, confusion, and flame. 
 
 I 
 
 M Ho stood, but his hatchet was shivered. 
 
 The arrowhead stuck in his breast. 
 And tin- lips of tho warrior quivered, 
 
 As his eye upward looked to tho west 
 But no fear on his spirit dcprcsii d him, 
 
 In the moment of glory ho fell 
 And the prayer of tho prophet had<bless d him, 
 
 Ere ho bade his own forest farewell. 
 
 O craw d by his presence, I dared not 
 Look up at the form of my sire, 
 
METACOM OP MONTAUP. 186 
 
 I trembled, although my son fcar d not, 
 
 The glance of his dark rolling iro. 
 No ! the eagle that soars unsurrounded, 
 
 Unless by his own native pride- 
 Has felt not the Nipnet whose arrow has wounded, 
 And free as the flood from the fbeman has bounded, 
 
 When the Mohegan stood at his side. 
 
 And where is thy bow and thy quiver ? 
 
 At length the old crocodile spoke 
 * Thy heart s blood shall crimson yon river, 
 
 And thy people shall bend to the yoke. 
 Already thy foe is advancing, 
 
 Look up from thy slumbers, and see, 
 Their blades thro the forest leaves glancing, 
 
 Their lances all buried in thee. 
 
 ** He turn d as he spoke. I beheld him, 
 
 Look dark on the shades of the west, 
 And a new life now strongly impelled him, 
 
 Having speech in each throe of his breast. 
 A light from hie dark eye was beaming,] 
 
 I foliow d his gaze in its flight 
 And saw through the woods faintly gleaming 
 The blade of the foe, and his long plume streaming, 
 
 Beneath the pale moon s misty light 
 
 u * Now the foemon is on theo go slumber 
 Till tliou wakest behind the dark hills, 
 Thy blood shall his falchion encumber- 
 No longer thy bosom it fills. 
 Then arise from thy sleep and awaken 
 The last parting hope of thy band- 
 By them thou wort never forsaken, 
 Then strike for them now and thy land ! 
 
 16* 
 
1S6 
 
 THE BOOK OF XT LADY. 
 
 " Ha vanished I ro*e n cold tremor 
 
 Rolax d every nerve of my frame. 
 I hear him once more* Thou fond dreamer, 
 
 Remember thy nation and namo !* 
 Be at peace, them old bird, in thy tree, 
 
 Enough, that I iitand by the ido 
 Of the last of the brave, who arc free, 
 
 And will die an their futhcrH have died. 
 
 1 have calTd up the right arm of power, 
 
 I have call d up tho lessons of old 
 And no breast in tho jwrilou* hour, 
 
 Thut think* on tho pout, will bo cold. 
 Through tho mists of the valley appearing, 
 
 Tho foe man s bright weapon* have sliono 
 I meet them with bosom unfuaring, 
 I meet them with soul full of daring, 
 
 Let them come, though I meet them aJoae. 
 
 ** The eagle ha* never yet cowcr d, 
 
 The Mohegon s arrow ne er flew 
 To the rock, where his mighty wing tower*d 
 Midst the freshness of heaven s own dew. 
 
 Ho has glow d in the sun s brightest splendour, 
 New vigour it gave to his frame 
 
 To mc, in my youth, did they render, 
 His mood, and his might, and his name ! 
 
 M I shrunk not, though worn and surrounded- 
 
 My tomahawk maddcn d with blood. 
 I clung to tho foe I hud wounded, 
 
 And lapped, from his breast, the rod flood. 
 And who, in tho battle s commotion, 
 
 E er saw mo withdraw from the fight 
 I stood, when it boiled like tho ocean, 
 
 And swam in its streams with delight. 
 
METACOM OP MONTAUP. 187 
 
 14 Let them come then the freedom our father?, 
 
 Once gave us, if lost it must be, 
 I care not how soon death s hand gathers, 
 
 The fast falling leaves of our tree ! 
 But twere shame to the souls of the glorious, 
 
 Who have gone to the valley of maids, 
 That their children should come not victorious, 
 
 And followed by enemy s shades. 
 
 44 Then draw ye each bow and prepare now, 
 
 To battle the foes of your land ; 
 Let one warrior but tremble with fear now, 
 
 And he dies by his own monarch s hand. 
 The shades of old warriors surround us, 
 
 Ye victims of battle draw nigh, 
 Let Manitto bless or confound us, 
 
 Be it ours to conquer or die !" 
 
 He paused his warriors gathered round, 
 
 Nor made they vain reply. 
 True valour never yet has found 
 
 It difficult to dio. 
 
 And in the monarch s song they knew, 
 The fate was fixed, and he who flew, 
 
 Again would never fly. 
 
 A smile is gathering on his brow, 
 
 As o er the distant hills, 
 The dawn with streaks of dusky glow 
 
 The dim horizon fills 
 The sun will rise no more to him, 
 Nor will he live to find it dim, 
 
 Behind the western hills. 
 
 But though surviving not to see, 
 Its red light streak the verge 
 
188 
 
 TI! K BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 I 
 
 
 I 
 
 Of that wild land, which once wa ftc, 
 
 \ ocean s leaping nurtfo 
 Will ho not, too, CMcupo the cluin, 
 Hi* |M <|.!i moan, tho gloomy attain, 
 
 Hi* coiintry n doom and dirge ! 
 
 And now hit band is compaiui d round. 
 
 Prophetic was hia dream. 
 And death, on t any tcrmii, i found, 
 
 IJcforo the Bun*n full gleam 
 Ere yet the day had fully broke, 
 Fate o er tho chief had cant her yoke. 
 
 And borne him down her treara. 
 
 The monarch waved his battle axe, 
 
 And roe the war-whoop * cry 
 From men that never turned their back*. 
 
 And battled but to die. 
 And now ho combata hand to hand. 
 With one whoac blood in on the aand. 
 
 Another came like cataract*. 
 Headlong; they dah UIKHI tho utraiuL 
 
 I UN gripe in on thu Indian * throat, 
 
 WhoMe eyc-bullM roll and quiver : 
 T hove are tho monarch^ plume* that float, 
 
 All bloody down tho river; 
 Yet once again bin war-cry rotw 
 
 Upon thu wind and alt in till: 
 There *s blood upon the stream that flow*. 
 
 And blood upon the hill 
 Their monarch bade them never yield 
 And not an Indian left the field. 
 
189 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 
 
 In the year sixteen hundred and , a conspiracy 
 
 was entered into by several of the Indian tribes inhabit 
 ing South Carolina, instigated thereto by the Spanish 
 government of St. Augustine, against the inhabitants of 
 that province. Among these, were the Yamassees and 
 Huspahs, or rather the Yamassecs ; for the IJuspahs 
 were but a portion of the same government and nation, 
 assuming to themselves the name of a local governor or 
 prince. They occupied a large and well watered terri 
 tory, lying backward from Port-Royal Island, on tho 
 northeast side of Savannah river, which, to this day, 
 goes by the name of Indian land. It is now included 
 in the parish of St. Peter, in the present local divisions 
 of the state above mentioned. 
 
 The conspiracy became known to the Carolinians, 
 through the means of a white trader, before it was suf 
 ficiently matured to be carried into execution. Decla 
 ration of war was the immediate consequence ; and, 
 unsupported by the faithless allies, who, after inciting 
 them to insurrection, refused them all succour ; the 
 tribes were, one by one, defeated by tho whites, and 
 either wholly exterminated or driven from their posses-. 
 toot* 
 
 The war was now drawing to a close. The re 
 sources of the Indians had been almost entirely ex 
 hausted ; and deserted by the few tribes with which 
 
190 THE HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 they had been allied, and who had either been de 
 stroyed- or had submitted to the clemency of the con 
 querors, the Yaua&sees, under their king Huspah, pre 
 pared to risk the fate and fortunes of their nation on a 
 single battle, at their own town of Cayanoga, near 
 the site now occupied by the whites, called Purys- 
 11, burgh. They had encamped outside the limits of the 
 
 town, which they had partly barricadoed with logs, 
 closely jointed one in another, according with the mode 
 of defence among the whites during their primitive 
 struggles against the rude and commonly ill-directed 
 assaults of the Indians. But what had been a suffi 
 cient obstacle to the advance of a band of savages, 
 proved no defence against the whites ; and, whilst 
 lying upon their arms, the bulwarks wore stormed, and 
 their dwellings in flames, before they were apprised or 
 conscious of the attack. Nothing could exceed the 
 confusion and disorder among the miserable wretches 
 upon this occasion. The women and children rushed 
 through their blazing habitations, naked and howling 
 with affright. The men seized their defences, and al 
 though the struggle was hopeless, it afforded the as- 
 sailed some opportunities for revenge. Many of the 
 whites were slain ; and, in one instance, a warrior, who 
 was kept off by his enemy s sword, resolutely rushed 
 upon it, in order to glut his vengeance by strangling 
 his foe, which he did with all the fury of a wild beast. 
 They neither gave nor asked for quarter ; and in the 
 confusion and darkness of the night, they were enabled 
 to maintain the struggle against the assailants, with the 
 courage of men fighting for the homes of their fathers, 
 and that conduct, which, in a midnight affrny, is as much 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 191 
 
 the property of the Indian as of any other people on tho 
 globe. But when the day broke, the struggle was over. 
 The first gray of morning found tho bayonet at the 
 breasts of the retreating savages, and themselves at the 
 mercy of those, to whom, in all their successes, they had 
 granted no mercy. Few escaped. Men, women, and 
 children, alike fell victims to tho sword of devastation ; 
 and, before mid-day, the fight was ended, and the Ya- 
 massee nation ceased to have an existence. 
 
 On tho morning after this fatal termination of the 
 war, a warrior might have been seen standing upon a 
 small hillock, within a few miles of the scene. His 
 appearance was indicative of recent fight, and much 
 weariness. The hunting-shirt which he wore, made of 
 finely dressed buckskins, inwrought fantastically with 
 beads and decorations of shells, was torn, and stained 
 in many places with blood and dirt ; and, while his 
 features evinced nothing less than manly determination 
 and firmness, it would require no close observation to 
 perceive that he was one of those with whom the 
 strong principle of grief had become a settled compa 
 nion. His eye had the look of (ho exile, but not cf 
 despair. He gazed anxiously around him : seemed to 
 strain his sight upon the far groves, as if expecting 
 some one to emerge from their gloomy intricacies; 
 then turning away disappointed, glided down into the 
 hollow, and bending to the small brook that slowly 
 wound its way beside him, ho drank long and deeply 
 from its cool, refreshing waters. Having done this, ho 
 again rose to the hillock he had left, and seemed to re 
 new tbe search he had made in vain before, and with 
 similar success. Ho sung, at length, in a low and un- 
 
192 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 repressed, but not subdued tone, something like the 
 lament which follows, over the fortunes of his people : 
 " They are gone all gone the morning finds them 
 not ; the night covers them. My feet have no compa 
 nion in the chase ; the hollow rocks give me back only 
 their echoes. Washattee ! whore art thou ? On the far 
 hills thou hast found the valley of joy, and the plum- 
 groves that are fur over in bloom. Who shall find thy 
 bones, my brother ; who take care of thy spoils ? Thou 
 art all (intended in the valley of joy, and tho ghosts of 
 
 j : the slain bend about theo with many frowns. Where is 
 
 the maid of thy bosom ? Comes she with the smoking 
 
 jj v venison ; does stio dross thy food at tho board, where 
 
 the huntor sits down at evening ? Thou art slain in 
 thy morning, Washatttie, and thy sun forgot to rise. I 
 sing for thce thy hymn of deaththy war-song for 
 many victories. Thou wort mighty in the chase the 
 high hills did not overcome thce. Thy boyhood was 
 like the manhood of other men ; thou did.st not sleep in 
 thy childhood. Well did they name thee the young pan 
 ther tho might and the eyo of tho young panther s 
 mother was thine. Sickness fled from thco affrighted, and 
 thou laughed st in scorn at tho black drinks of Kstutcc. 
 Tho strong tide, when thou awummeat, bore thee not 
 with it ; thou didst put it aside as an infant. Thou 
 wert a long arrow in tho chase, and thy flight was on 
 the strong winds. Who shall rnato thce, my brother ? 
 What chieftain stood up like Washattee ? And the day 
 of thy glory is gone, O Huspah ! the father of many 
 kings. Yamassee, where wort thou sleeping when thy 
 name and thy nation expired ? When the belt was 
 burned, thou didst weave thorn, and the temple of thy 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 193 
 
 spirit overthrown ? Huspah, thy day has gono by in 
 darkness, and the strong night is over- thee. Canst 
 thou wake up the bravo who are sleeping? Canst 
 thou undo the eye which is sealed up, and kindle the 
 sharp light that is hidden therein ? What shall restore 
 thee, Yarnasseo ; and where shall the bravo men of 
 Huspah now find their abode ? The wild grass has 
 taken root in their dwelling-place, and the hill-fox bur 
 rows under the hearth of the hunter. The spirit has 
 no place in the wigwams of many fathers ; silence has 
 made a home of their ruins, and lives lonely among 
 them. Oh, spirit of many ages, thou art vanished ! 
 Thy voice is sunk into an echo, and thy name is whis 
 pered on the hill-lops. Thy glories are the graves of 
 many enemies ; thy own grave is unknown. Thou art 
 scattered to the broad winds, and hast fallen upon the 
 waters. They have carried thee down with them 
 away, and the hunters of the hill find theo not. A 
 curse is gono forth upon thee, and thou art smitten 
 with death I" 
 
 Thus mourned the Indian warrior over the graves of 
 his fathers, and the recollections and affections of his 
 youth. No single trace, however, of those emotions, 
 which might bo supposed to have been exhibited as 
 accompaniments to his uttered sorrows, appeared either 
 in his look or his actions. To one who witnessed their 
 expression, they might bo compared to the language of 
 sorrow falling from a statue. His was the majesty of 
 grief, without its weaknesses. 
 
 A something stirred the leaves, and the quick and 
 watchful scnso of the chief recognised it as the object 
 of bis search. His eye rested upon the deep and sha- 
 17 
 
194 THE BOOK OF XT LADY. 
 
 umbrage, whence proceeded about thirty other 
 Indians, of both sexes, belonging to his own tribe the 
 all that wan now left of their nation. With downcast 
 looks and no words, they struck a light, and in a few 
 moments kindled a fire, around which they sat down in 
 silence to a repast of parched corn, Hour and sugar- 
 called among them uugamite ; with a small portion of 
 dried venison* 
 
 Here they remained not long. They wished to di 
 
 vest themselves of all recollections of their misfortune, 
 
 ij ) yet were quite too near the spot at which it occurred, 
 
 easily to effect their object. Without a word they step- 
 
 J | ped, one by one, into the order of march, which is called 
 
 the Indian file ; and at equal intervals of ten or fifteen 
 
 feet they followed the chief; and, avoiding all beaten 
 
 tracks of human form, they took their way through the 
 
 close and pathless wastes of the forest. 
 
 j Many years had now elapsed, and men ceased to 
 
 remember the noble tribe of the Yamassees ; once 
 the most terrible, and at the same time, the most ac- 
 complishcd of all the Indian nations of the south. 
 They had even gone out of the memories of their an 
 cient enemies the Creeks ; and the Carolinians, while 
 possessing, and in full enjoyment of the rich lands of 
 their spacious territory, had almost forgotten the hard 
 toil and extreme peril by which alone they had been 
 acquired. 
 
 It was in the midst of a bright October month, that 
 a small canoe was seen ascending the river, now known 
 as the St. Mary s, having its source in a vast lake and 
 marsh, called Okcfanokee, and lying between the 
 Flint and Ockmulgc rivets, in the state of Georgia. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE BUN. 105 
 
 There were but two persons in the canoe, both Indian 
 hunters of the Creek nation ; a gallant race, well known 
 for high courage among the tribes, and distinguished 
 not less by their wild magnanimity and adventure, 
 than by their daring ferocity. The warriors were both 
 young, and were numbered, and with strict justice, 
 among the elite of their people. At peace, for the 
 first time for many seasons, with all around them, they 
 gave themselves up to the pleasures of the chase, and, 
 sought, in the hardy trials of the hunt for the bear and 
 the buffalo, to relieve the inglorious and unwelcome 
 ease which this novel condition of things had im 
 posed upon them. Our two adventurers, forsaking the 
 beaten track, and with a spirit tending something more 
 than customary to that which distinguishes civilisation, 
 had undertaken an exploring expedition into the re* 
 cesses of this vast lake and marsh, which, occupying 
 a space of nearly three hundred miles in extent, and 
 in very rainy seasons almost completely inundated, pre 
 sented amidst the thousand islands which its bosom 
 conceals, fruitful and inviting materials for enquiry and 
 and adventure. Girt in with interminable forests, the 
 space of which was completely filled up with umbrage 
 ous vines and a thick underwood, the trial was one of 
 no little peril, and called for the exercise of stout 
 heart, strong hand, and a world of fortitude and 
 patience. It was also* the abiding-place of the wild 
 boar and the panther the southern crocodile howled 
 nightly in its recesses; and the coiled snake, ever and 
 anon, thrust out its venomous fangs from the verdant 
 bush. With words of cheer and mutual encourage 
 ment, the young hunters made their way. They were 
 
106 TUB BOOK OF XT LADY. 
 
 [ :,! 
 
 well armed and prepared for all chances ; and fondly 
 plj did they anticipate the delight which they would 
 
 entertain, on relating their numerous adventures and 
 achievements, by field and flood, to the assembled na 
 tion, on the return of tho ensuing spring. They took 
 with them no unnecessary incumbranccs. The well 
 tempered bow, tho chosen and barbed arrows, the 
 curved knife, suited to a transition the most abrupt, 
 from tho scalping of the enemy to the carving of the 
 repast, and tho hatchet, fitted to tho adroit hand of the 
 hunter and ready ut his back for all emergencies, were 
 tho principal accoutrements of tho warriors. They 
 | ,, troubled themselves not much about provisions. A 
 
 little parched corn supplied all wants, and tho dried 
 venison in their pouches was a luxury, taken on occa 
 sions only. They knew that, for an Indian, tho woods 
 had always a pregnant store, and they did not doubt 
 that their own address in such matters, would at all 
 times enable them to come at it. 
 
 Dreary, indeed, was their progress. An European 
 would have despaired entirely, and given up what must 
 * have appeared, not merely a visionary and hopeless, but 
 a desperate and dangerous pursuit. Hut the determi 
 nation of an Indian, once made, is unchangeable. His 
 mind clothes itself in a seemingly habitual stubbornness, 
 and ho is inflexible and unyielding. Though young, 
 scarcely arrived at manhood, our warriors had been too 
 
 iwcll taught in the national habitude, to have done any 
 thing half so womanlike as to turn their backs upon an 
 adventure, devised coolly, and commenced with all duo 
 preparation. They resolutely pursued their way, un- 
 fearing, unswerving, unshrinking. The river narrowed 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 197 
 
 at length into hundreds of diverging rivulets, and, after 
 having run their canoe upon the sands, they were com 
 pelled to desert it and pursue their further way on foot. 
 They did not pause, but entered at once upon the new 
 labour ; and now climbing from tree to bank now 
 wading along the haunts of the plunging alligator, 
 through pond and mire now hewing with their hatchets 
 a pathway through the thickest branches, they found 
 enough to retard, but nothing to deter them. For days 
 did they puisue this species of toil, passing from island 
 to island alternately wading and swimming until at 
 length, all unexpectedly, the prospect opened in strange 
 brightness and beauty before them. They came to a 
 broad and lovely lake, surrounded on all sides by the 
 forest through a portion of which they had passed with 
 so much difficulty to which the storms never camo. It 
 lay sleeping before them with the calm of an infant, and 
 sheltered by the wood, the wild vine, and a thousand 
 flowers. In the centre rose a beautiful island, whose 
 shores were crowned with trees bearing all species of 
 fruit, and emitting a most grateful fragrance. The land 
 was elevated and inviting, and, as they looked, the young 
 warriors conceived it the most blissful and lovely spot 
 of earth. Afar in the distance, they beheld the white 
 habitations of the people of the strange land, but in 
 vain did they endeavour to reach them. They did not 
 seek to adventure into the broad and otherwise inviting 
 waters ; for occasionally they could behold the croco- 
 diles, of the largest and fiercest class, rising to the sur 
 face, and seeming to threaten them with their unclasped 
 jaws, thickly studded with their white sharp teeth. 
 While iu this difficulty, they beheld a young maiden 
 17* 
 
198 THR BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 waving them on the opposite bank ; and Onea, the 
 youngest of the two hunters, attracted by the incom 
 parable beauty of her person, would have leapt without 
 scruple into the lake, and swam to the side on which 
 she stood, but that his more grave and cautious compa 
 nion, Sanute, restrained him. They observed her mo 
 tions, and perceived tha* she directed their attention to 
 some object in the distance. Following her guidance, 
 they found a small canoe tied to a tree, and sheltered 
 in a little bay. into this they entered fearlessly, and 
 putting out their puddles, passed in a short time to the 
 opposite shore, the beauty of which, now that they had 
 reached it, was even more surpassingly great than when 
 seen afar oil . Nor did the young Indian maiden, in 
 the eye of the bravo Onca, lose any of those charms, 
 the influence of which had already penetrated his inmost 
 spirit. But now she stood not alone. A bright young 
 maiden like herself appeared beside her, and, taking 
 the warriors by the hand, they sung sweet songs of 
 pleasure in their cars, and brought them the milk of 
 the cocoa to refrr.-h them, and plucked for them many 
 of the rich and delightful fruits which hung over their 
 heads. There were oranges and dates, and cakes 
 made of corn and sugar, baked with their own hands, 
 which they cordially set before them. Many were the 
 ewcct glances and precious sentences which they gave 
 to the young warriors, and soon did the gallant Creeks 
 understand, and gladly did they respond to their kind- 
 ness. Long would they have lingered with these 
 maidens, but, when their repast had ended, they en 
 joined them to begone to fly as quickly as possible, 
 for that their people were cruel to strangers, and the 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 199 
 
 mon of their nation would certainly destroy them with 
 savage tortures, were they to return from the distant 
 chase upon which they had gone, and find the intruders. 
 " But will they not give you," said the fearless Onea, 
 " to bo the bride of a brave warrior? I shame not to 
 speak the name of my nation. They are men, and 
 they beg not for life. I, myself, am a man among my 
 people, who are all men. They will give you to fill 
 my wigwam. I will do battle for you, Anyta, with tho 
 knife and tho spear ; I will win you by tho strong arm, 
 if the strange warriors stand in the path." " Alas," 
 said the young girl, " you know not my people. They 
 are tall like the pino trees, which riso above other 
 trees ; they look down upon your tribe as tho prairie 
 grass that the buffalo tramples down, and the flames 
 wither. Tho sun is their father tho earth their mo 
 ther and wo are called tho daughters of tho sun. 
 They would dash you into the flames, if you told them 
 of a lodge in the Creek wigwam for a maiden of our 
 tribe." 
 
 " Tho Creek is a warrior and a chief, Anyta, and he 
 will not die like a woman. He can pluck out the 
 heart of his foe while he begs upon the ground. I fear 
 not for your people s anger, but I love the young maid 
 of the bright eye and sunny face, and would take her 
 as a singing bird into the lodge of a great warrior. I 
 will stay in your cabin till the warriors come back from 
 the hunt. I am no fox to burrow in the hill side." 
 
 You will stay to see me perish then, Onea," said 
 the girl a gleam of melancholy shining from her large 
 dark eyes " for my people will not let me live, when 
 I speak for your life." 
 
200 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 " See you not my bow and arrows, Anyta ? Is not 
 the tomahawk at my shoulder? Look, my knife is 
 keen the sapling may speak.* 
 
 " Your arm is strong, and your heart true, you could 
 say to Onea ; but what is one arm, and what are thy 
 weapons to a thousand ? You must not linger, Onea ; 
 we will put forth in the little canoe. I will steer to a 
 quiet hollow, and when thou art in safety I shall leave 
 thee and return to thee again." 
 
 It was with difficulty the hot-headed Onea was per 
 suaded to comply with the suggestions of prudence, 
 and nothing but a consideration for the safety of the 
 maiden had power to restrain his impetuosity. But as 
 sured that, in the unequal contest of which she spoke, 
 his own individual zeal and valour would prove unavail 
 ing, he submitted, though with an evident ill grace, to 
 her directions. A like scene had, in the meanwhile, 
 taken placo between Sanute and Henamarsa, Anyta s 
 lovely companion, and attended with pretty nearly the 
 same results. A mutual understanding had the effect 
 of providing for the two warriors in tho same manner. 
 Entering once more tho canoe in company with, and 
 under the guidance of their mistresses, they took their 
 way down llic lake, until they lost Bight of the island on 
 which they had first met. They kept on until, far away 
 from tho main route to the habitations of the tribe, they 
 came to a beautiful knoll of green, thickly covered with 
 shrubbery and trees, and so wrapt from the passing 
 glance of tho wayfarer, by the circuitous bondings of 
 tho stream, as to afford them the snfcty and bccrcsy 
 they desired. The maidens informed thorn that they alone 
 were in possession of tho fact of its existence, having 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 201 
 
 been cast upon it by a summer tempest, while wander 
 ing over the rippling waters in their birchen canoe. 
 They found it a pleasant dwelling-place. The wild 
 fruits and scented flowers seemed to have purposely 
 embellished it for the habitation of content and love, 
 and the singing birds were perpetually caroling from 
 the branches. The vine?, thickly interwoven above 
 their heads, and covered with leaves, afforded them the 
 desired shelter ; and gladly did they appropriate, and 
 sweetly did they enjoy its pleasures and its privacies. 
 But the day began to wane, and the approaching even 
 ing indicated the return of the fierce warriors from the 
 chase. With many vows, and a tender and sweet cor- 
 row, the maidens took their departure for the dwellings 
 of their people ; leaving the young chiefs to contemplate 
 their now ties, and the novel situation in which they 
 had found themselves. Nor did the maidens forget 
 their pledges, or prove false to their vows. Day after 
 day did they take their way in the birchen bark, and 
 linger till the evening in the society of their beloved. 
 The hours passed fleetly in such enjoyments, and happy 
 months of felicity had only taught (hem the beauty of 
 flowers and their scents, and the delights of an attach 
 ment before utterly unknown. But the wing of the 
 halcyon ceased to rest on the blessed island. Im 
 patient of inactivity, the warrior Sanute came one 
 dny to the vine-covered cabin of Onca; his looks 
 were sullen, and his language desponding. He spoke 
 thus: 
 
 14 It is not meet, Onca, that the hawk should be 
 clipped of his wings, and^the young panther bo caged 
 like a deer ; let us go home to our people. I am grow- 
 
202 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 ing an old woman. I have no strength in my si new a 
 my knees grow weak. * 
 
 " I would go home to my people/* replied Onea, 
 " but cannot leave the young fawn who hat taken shel 
 ter under my protection. And will Samite- depart from 
 Henatnarsa ?" 
 
 " Sanute will depart from Hcnamarsa, but Sanute 
 has the cunning of the serpent, and can burrow like 
 the hill-fox. Sanute will no longer take the dove to 
 his heart, dreading an enemy. He will go home to 
 his people hi; will gather the young men of the nation, 
 and do battle for Henamarsa, Onea is a brave war 
 rior will he not fight for Anyta ?" 
 
 " Onea would die for Anyta, but he would not that 
 Anyta should perish too. Onea would not destroy the 
 people of his wife." 
 
 * Would they not destroy Onea? They would hang 
 his scalp in the smoke of their wigwams, they would 
 shout and dance about the stake when his death-song 
 is singing. If Onea will not depart with Sanute, ho 
 will go alone. He will bring the young warriors ; and 
 tho dogs who would keep HcrmrnarHa from his wig 
 wam they shall perish by his knife, and tho wild 
 boar shall grow fat upon their carcusaes." 
 
 Thus spoke tho elder of the two warriors, and vain 
 were the entreaties and arguments employed by Onea 
 to dissuade him from his purpose. The Indian habit 
 was too strong for love, and his sense of national, riot 
 less than individual pride, together with the supineness 
 of his present life, contrasted with that restless activity 
 to which he had been brought up and habituated, 
 rendered all persuasion fruitless, and destroyed tho 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 203 
 
 force of all arguments. Deep, seemingly, was the an 
 guish of Hcnamarsa, when she learned the departure 
 of her lover. A settled fear, however, took possession 
 of the bosom of the gentle Anyta, and she sobbed 
 upon the breast of the brave Onca. She felt that their 
 happiness was at an end that the hope of her people 
 was insecure that the home of her fathers was about 
 to suffer violation. Sho saw at once all the dangers, 
 and did not hesitate to whisper it in the ear of Onea. 
 All her hope rested in the belief, that Sanute would 
 never succeed in tracing his way back, from the intri 
 cacies of the swamp to his own people ; or if he did, 
 that ho would not succeed in guiding them to the 
 precise point in its recesses, in which her tribe had 
 found its abode. But Onea knew better the capaci 
 ties of a warrior among his people. He seized his 
 bow and equipments, and would have taken the path 
 after Sanute, determined to quiet the fears of his be 
 loved, even by the death of his late friend and com 
 panion ; but the maiden restrained him. She uttered 
 n prayer to the Great Spirit, for the safety of herself 
 and people, and gave herself up to the wonted happi 
 ness of that society, for which she was willing to 
 sacrifice every thing. 
 
 A new trial awaited Onca. One day Anyta came 
 not. The canoe was paddled by Hcnamarsa alone. 
 Sho sought him in his wigwam. Sho sought to take 
 the place of his beloved in his affections ; and loaded 
 him with caresses. 
 
 - Where is Anyta?" asked the young warrior. 
 
 * Sho is no longer the bride of Onea, 1 was the 
 reply. " She has gone into the wigwam of a warrior 
 
204 TUB noox OF MY LADY. 
 
 ofhor tribe Ilonamarsa will lovo Onca, in (ho place 
 of Anyta." 
 
 44 Onca will love none but Any tn," wae the reply. 
 
 lk But she in now tho wife of Echotee, the chief. 
 She can no longer bo youra. You will never see her 
 more.* 
 
 " 1 will tear her from the cabin of tho dog I will 
 drive my hatchet into his skull/ said tho infuriated 
 warrior. Ho rejected all the blandishments of iiona- 
 inarsa, and taunted her with her infidelity to Sanute*. 
 She departed in anger from his presence, and he lay 
 troubled with his meditations as to the course ho 
 should pursue with regard to Anyta. His determina 
 tion was adopted, and at midnight, in a birchen canoe 
 prepared through the day, he took his way over the 
 broad lake to the island. It lay, but not in quiet, 
 stretched out beautifully under tho twinkling stars that 
 shone down sweetly upon it. These, however, wcro 
 not its only lights. Countless blazes illuminated the 
 shores in every direction and tho sound of merry 
 music came upon his car, with an influence that chafed 
 still more fiercely tho raging spirit in his heart. There 
 were shouts and songs of merriment and the whirling 
 tread of the impetuous dancers bespoke a feast and a 
 frolic such as are due among the Indians to occasions 
 of the highest festivity. 
 
 Drawing his bark quietly upon the shore without in- 
 tcrruption, he proceeded among the revellers. No one 
 seemed to observe no one questioned him. Dressed 
 in habiliments the most fantastic and irregular, hi* war 
 like semblance did not striko the gaze of the spectators 
 as at all inconsistent with tho sports they wero purbu- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 205 
 
 ing, and he passed without impediment or check to the 
 great hall, from whence the sounds of most extravagant 
 merriment proceeded. He entered with the throng, in 
 time to witness a solemn ceremonial. There came, at 
 one side, a gallant chief, richly dressed in furs of native 
 production youthful, handsome, and gracefully erect, 
 at the head of a choice procession of youth of his own 
 age, attired in like habits. Each of them bore a white 
 wand, the symbol of marriage. 
 
 On the other side came a like procession of maidens, 
 dressed in robes of the whitest cotton, and bearing 
 wands like the men. What bright creature is it that 
 leads this beautiful array ? Why does the young chief 
 start wherefore the red spot on the brow of Onea? 
 The maiden who leads the procession is his own, the 
 gentle Anyta. Grief was in her face ; her eyes were 
 dewy and sad, and her limbs so trembled that those 
 around gathered to her support. The first impulse of 
 Onca was to rush forward and challenge the array to 
 seize upon the maiden in the presence of the assembly; 
 and, on the strength of his arm, and the sharp stroke of 
 his hatchet, to assert his claims to the bride in the teeth 
 of every competitor. But the warrior was not less 
 wise than daring. He saw that the maiden was sick at 
 heart, and a fond hope sprung into his own. He deter 
 mined to witness the progress of the ceremony, trusting 
 something to events. They dragged her forward to 
 the rite, passive rather than unresisting. The white 
 wands of the two processions, males and females, were 
 linked above the heads of Echotce and Anyta the bri 
 dal dance was performed around them in circles, and, 
 agreeable to the ritual of the tribe to which they be- 
 10 
 
206 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 longed, tho marriage was declared complete. And 
 now came on the banqueting. The repast, fruitful of 
 animation, proceeded, and the warriors gathered around 
 the board, disposed alternately among tho maidens, 
 Echotee and Anyta presiding. Onen stood apart. 
 
 " Who is he who despises our festival why docs 
 tho young man stand away from tho bourd ? Tho brave 
 man may fight and rejoice ho wears not always the 
 war paint ho cries not for over tho wur*whoop~- ho 
 will come where the singing birds gather, and join in 
 the merriment of the feast." 
 
 Thus cried a strong voice from tho company, and all 
 eyes were turned upon Onca. The youth did not 
 shrink from reply, 
 
 " The warrior says what is true. It is not for tho 
 brave man to scorn tho festival ho rejoices at tho 
 feast. But tho stranger corncs of a fur tribe, and she 
 who carries tho wand must bid him welcome, or ho sits 
 not at the board with the warriors." 
 
 Anyta slowly rose to perform the duty imposed upon 
 her. She had already recognised tho form of her lover, 
 and her speech was tremulous and tho sound slow. 
 She waved the wand which she held in her hands, and 
 ho approached unhesitatingly to her side. The In 
 dians manifested little curiosity such a feature of 
 character being inconsistent, in their nation, with tho 
 manliness indispensable to tho warrior. Still there 
 was something marked in their habit which taught them 
 to believe him a stranger. At such a time, however, 
 the young men, intriguing with their dusky loves, ren 
 dered disguises and deceptions so frequent, that less 
 notice ensued than might otherwise havo been the 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE BUN. 207 
 
 case, and tho repast proceeded without further inter 
 ruption. Then followed the bridal procession to the 
 future dwelling of the couple. The whole assembly 
 sallied forth to the sound of discordant music, each 
 with a flaming torch within his hand. They frolicked 
 with wild halloos in the train of the bridal pair, waving 
 their flaming torches in every direction. A small 
 stream, consecrated by a thousand such occurrences, 
 rippled along their pathway, upon approaching which 
 they hurled tho lights into its hissing waters, leaving 
 the entire procession in darkness. This was one part 
 of the wonted and well known frolic. The transition 
 from unaccustomed light to solemn darkness, pro 
 ducing the profoundest confusion, the merriment grew 
 immense. One party stumbled over tho other, and all 
 were playing at contraries and cross purposes. Shouts 
 of laughter in every direction broke the gloom which 
 occasioned it, and proved the perfect success of tho 
 jest. 
 
 But, on a sudden, a cry arose that the bride was 
 missing. This, perhaps, contributed more than any 
 thing beside to the good humour of all but the one 
 immediately concerned, and the complaint and clamour 
 of the poor bridegroom met with no sympathy. His 
 appeals were unheeded his asseverations received 
 with laughter and shouts of the most deafening de 
 scription. All mirth, however, must have its end ; and 
 the joke grow serious. The bride was really missing, 
 and every thing was in earnest and undreamt-of con 
 fusion and commotion. Vainly did the warriors search 
 vainly did the maidens call upon the name of Anyta. 
 She was far beyond the reach of their voices, hurrying 
 
200 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 down tho quiet lake with Onca, to the green knoll of 
 their early loves and unqualified affections. 
 
 There was one who readily guessed the mystery of 
 Anyta s abduction. The heart of Hcnamarsa had long 
 yearned for that of Onea. The rejection of her suit 
 by the scrupulous warrior had changed its temper into 
 bitterness, and a more vindictive feeling took posses 
 sion of her breast. She determined to be revenged. 
 
 The warrior lay at sunset in the quiet bower, and ho 
 slept with sweet visions in his eyes. But why shrieks 
 the young maiden, and wherefore the strong hand upon 
 him? Who are they that bind with thongs tho free 
 limbs of tho warrior? Vainly does he struggle for his 
 release. Many are the foes around him, and deadly 
 the vengeance which they threaten. He looks about 
 for Anyta, she too is in chains. Above him stood 
 tho form of Hcnamarsa, and he now knew who had 
 betiaycd him, yet he uttered no reproach. She looked 
 upon him with an eye of mingled love and triumph, 
 but he gave her no look in return. He knew her 
 not. 
 
 They took him back to the island, and loaded him 
 with fetters. They taunted him with words of scorn, 
 and intlicted ignominious blows upon his limbs. They 
 brought him food and bade him cat for the sacrifice; for 
 that, at the close of the moon, just begun, he should be 
 subjected, with the gentle Anyta, to tho torture of fire 
 and the stake. " A Creek warrior will teach you how 
 to die, 1 said Onea. " You are yet children ; you know 
 nothing," and he shook his chains in their faces, and 
 spat on them with contempt. 
 
 That night a voice came to him in his dungeon. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 209 
 
 Though he saw not the person, yet he knew that He- 
 namarsa was beside him. 
 
 u Live," said the false one " live, Onea, and I will 
 unloose (he cords about thy limbs. I will make thee 
 free of thy keepers I will carry thee to a quiet forest, 
 where my people shall find thee never." The warrior 
 spake not, but turned his face from the tempter to the 
 wall of his prison. Vainly did she entreat him, nor 
 forego her prayers, until the first glimmerings of the 
 daylight urged her departure. Rising then with re 
 doubled fury from his side, where she had thrown her 
 self, she drew a knife before his eyes. The blade 
 gleamed in his sight, but he shrunk not. 
 
 " What," said she, " if I strike thee to the heart, 
 thou that art sterner than the she-wolf, and colder 
 than the stone-house of the adder ? What if I strike 
 thee for thy scorn, and slay thee like a fox even in bis 
 hole?" 
 
 " Is there a mountain between us, woman, and canst 
 thou not strike ?" said the warrior. * Why speakest 
 thou to me? Do thy will, and hiss no more like a 
 snake in my ears. Thou hast lost thy sting I should 
 not feel the blow from thy knife." 
 
 " Thou art a bravo warrior," said the intruder, " and 
 I love thee too well to slay thee. I will seek thee 
 again in thy captivity, and look for thee to listen." 
 
 Tho last night of the moon had arrived, and the noon 
 of the ensuing day was fixed for the execution of Onea 
 and Anyta. Henamarsa came again to the prison of 
 the chief, and love had full possession of her soul. She 
 strove to win him to his freedom upon her own condi 
 tions. She then proffered him the same boon upon 
 18* 
 
210 THE HOOK OF M V I.ADV 
 
 his own terms; but ho disdained and denied them. 
 Deep was her affliction, and she now deplored her 
 agency in the captivity of the chief. She had thought 
 him less inflexible in his faith; and judging of his by 
 the yielding susceptibilities of her own heart, had 
 falsely believed that the service she offered would have 
 sanctioned his adoption of any conditions which she 
 might propose. She now beheld him ready for death 
 but not for dishonour. She saw him prepared for the 
 last trial, and she sunk down in despair. 
 
 The hour was at hand, and the two were bound to 
 the stake. The torches were blazing around them 
 the crowd assembled the warrior singing his song of 
 death, and of many triumphs. But they wore not so 
 to perish. Relief and rescue were at hand, and look 
 ing forth upon the lake, which his eyes took in at a 
 glance, he beheld a thousand birchen canoes upon its 
 surface, and flying to the scene of execution. He knew 
 the warriors who approached. He discerned the war 
 paint of his nation ; he counted the brave men, as they 
 urged forward their vessels, and called them by their 
 names. The warriors who surrounded him rushed, in 
 a panic, for their arms but how could they contend 
 with tl o choice men of the Creeks the masters of a 
 hundred nations ? The conflict wits brief, though hotly 
 contended. The people of Onca were triumphant, and 
 the chief and the beautiful Anyta freed from their 
 perilous situation. The people whom they had con- 
 quercd were bound with thongs, and tho council de 
 liberated upon their destiny. Shall they go free? 
 shall they die ? wore the questions somewhat novel, 
 it i.-, true, in the history of Indian warfare ; whose 
 
THK CHILDREN OP THE SUN. 211 
 
 course of triumph was usually marked with indiscri 
 minate massacre. The voice of Onea determined the 
 question, and their lives were spared. 
 
 " Will you be of us and our nation ?" asked the con 
 querors of the conquered. 
 
 " We are the children of the sun," was the proud 
 reply* 4 and can mingle with no blood but our own." 
 
 " Our young men will not yield the fair lake, and the 
 beautiful island, and the choice fruits." 
 
 " They are worthy of women and children only, and 
 to these we leave them. We will seek elsewhere for 
 the habitations of our people we will go into other 
 lands. It is nothing new to our fortunes that we 
 should do so now. The spoiler has twice been among 
 us, and the places that knew us shall know us no more. 
 Are wo free to depart ? Lot not your young men fol 
 low to spy out our new habitations. Let them take 
 what is ours now, but let them leave us in quiet here 
 after." 
 
 " You are free to go," was the response, "and our 
 young men shall not follow you." 
 
 The old chiefs led the way, and the young followed, 
 singing a song of exile, to which they- claimed to be 
 familiar, and calling themselves Scminolcs, a name 
 which, in their language, is supposed to signify ban 
 ishment. All departed save Anyta, and she dwelt for 
 long years after in tho cabin of Onea. 
 
212 THK BOOK OF MY LADY, 
 
 THE YOUNG SIOUX. 
 
 Deep hidden in tho forest wild, 
 
 Where yet the savage wandcr d free, 
 
 A manly Hioux boy beguiled 
 The hours beneath a tree ; 
 
 And gaily, in hit* native tongue, 
 
 A wild, unmeasured lay ho sung. 
 
 Its thcmo was love, yet none wan near, 
 No sunny maid to list the strain, 
 
 And save my own, no other cor 
 Might know tho lover s pain ; 
 
 Yet, as to please Home secret thought, 
 
 This story of his flame ho wrought 
 
 44 To-morrow, on the Pawnee s trail, 
 Sweet Munnb, must the warrior go ; 
 
 And I muHt hear his women wail, 
 And meetly une the bended bow ; 
 
 And hurl the spear, and lift tho knife, 
 
 And win or lose the forfeit life. 
 
 11 1 glad me that the time is como 
 To win among the tribo a name. 
 
 And in thy tent no longer dumb, 
 To tell thcc of my flame ; 
 
 Nor whisper, when the path is clear, 
 
 What thou dost tremble still to hear. 
 
 " And inong my people thou shalt be, 
 The youthful warrior-hunter s love ; 
 
THE YOUNG SIOUX. 213 
 
 And ho shall shoot tho deer for thcc, 
 
 As bounding through the grove, 
 With head erect, and hoof of steel, 
 lie scorns tho shrinking sands to fceL 
 
 ** And ncath the gentle summer sky, 
 
 With mo in valley and in grove, 
 Sweet Manne", fearless wilt thou fly, 
 
 To see tho hison rove ; 
 While, with an arrow from my bow, 
 I lay their boldest leader low. 
 
 "And bring theo from tho morning choso 
 
 Unhurt, tho young and spotted fawn, 
 While, proudly, at thy feet I placo 
 
 The skin from leopard drawn ; 
 Torn from him, with a warrior s art, 
 Whilst yet the life is at his heart 
 
 "And thou shalt make tho moccasin, 
 
 And well repay tho hunter s deeds, 
 When thou hast wrought tho red-deer s skin, 
 
 Worked with thy many beads ; 
 Meet for a chief, when from tho west 
 An hundred braves become his guest." 
 
214 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 A TALE OF FAERIE. 
 
 THE IDEA BORROWED VROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 " There be plrlm that do lurk, 
 \Vii.u- Hit- yellow I* < do work ; 
 In the wild gruiw, In the flow ri, 
 Nnw in .minium , now in how n, 
 Ever in wane iportlve play, 
 Tin > do while the hour* away 
 Would your eye* tin ir full io we, 
 And ih. if pluuurtwl coma with u. 
 
 I had been to the soiree of Isabel Beaumontyoung 
 Isabel, as her neighbours called her sweet Isabel, as 
 she truly deserves to bo called. I had spent an even 
 ing most pleasantly ; and though not extravagantly im 
 pressed with the many blooms and beauties scattered 
 around me, I was not so much of the stoic as to reject 
 entirely the influence of their sweet arid various asso 
 ciations. Besides, I had been caressed and flattered. 
 Isabel, herself a wit and poetess, had freely bestowed 
 her eulogies upon my own poor efforts in that way ; 
 and though affecting a stubborn indifference to all the 
 honours of popular renown, I could not altogether resist 
 the gratification which iu applause, coming through 
 the medium of such sweet lips, necessarily brought 
 along with it. 
 
 " Why do you not come oflener ?" she enquired, as 
 she rebuked me for my past inattention ; " why shut 
 
A TALE OP FAERIE. 216 
 
 yourself up in that dim bachelor abode, with your bro 
 ther sinners, denying yourselves the sunshine, whether 
 of nature or society ; plotting, no doubt, as much 
 against the state, as against its female sovereignty ? 
 Are you really so insensible as you pretend ? and must 
 we in truth be taught the mortifying consciousness, 
 that charms such us ours can do nothing towards mak- 
 ing you more civilised more human ? Be assured, 
 unless you show signs, and those shortly, of a better 
 disposition, in sheer pique and mortification, I shall 
 quarter myself upon you. I shall penetrate your inner- 
 moat sanctuary break the mystical silence of your dim 
 abode, with all the various real and imagined terrors 
 which the proverb has ascribed to the woman voice ; 
 making your ears ring with a peal to which they have 
 not as yet become accustomed, and which, I flatter my 
 self, like other severe specifics, warrantable only in 
 cases the most desperate and hopeless, will go very far 
 either to cure or kill you." 
 
 She shook her fan threateningly as she spoke ; and, 
 though trembling with apprehension lest she should, at 
 some future period, and under the impulse of some one 
 of those whims which have a largo influence, at all 
 times, upon the female understanding, and sometimes 
 made away even with hers actually do as she had 
 threatened I made large promises of future amend 
 ment. I even went so far as to utter my satisfaction 
 with the terms and tenor of the proposed visitation ; but 
 I need not say to the reader, with how much insincerity. 
 Three quiet bachelors as wo were so unfamiliar to 
 all noise and bustle so unwilling to be crowded so 
 unprepared for such an intrusion- what an awful 
 
2 16 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 event was this for contemplation ; and how could the 
 members of our college survive the shock and terrors 
 of such an infliction. The quiet deities of our wor 
 ship, effectually frightened away by the unwonted din 
 which such a creature would bring along with her, 
 would never look behind them in their departure, and 
 surely never contemplate a return ; and all the repose 
 and security to which wo hnd so completely given our 
 selves up, would be lost for evermore in the advent of 
 that terrible power, which, though clothed in petticoats, 
 is any thing but petty. The subject was quite too 
 painful for contemplation, and I did not linger long 
 after this dialogue. All my spirits, animal and mental, 
 had taken their departure, and I felt the necessity of at 
 once going after them. 1 found myself momently grow 
 ing more and more sick and stupid ; and, ad the arrange 
 ments of the party were in rapid progress towards a 
 country dance, without beat of drum, I sidled along by 
 the noisy array, and found the stairway pleasantly con 
 tiguous. Be assured, I paused not to number the steps. 
 I hurried home as quickly as possible ; and marvellous 
 long was the brcatli I drew on entering once more in 
 safety the sacred walls of our symposium. 
 
 Such hnd been the hurry in which my exit had been 
 taken, that I had altogether forgotten to cast from mo, 
 on leaving the ubodo in which 1 had suffered so much 
 peril, a fine, full rosebud, uno of the lii ct of the season, 
 given mo at the commencement of the evening by the 
 fair hostess, with a grace and sweetness of manner 
 which was irresistible. 1 had, at the time, placed it, 
 with an air of the moat tragic description, in the folds 
 of my vest, from whence, with a most lack-u-daisical 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 217 
 
 expression, it peered forth upon the company. With 
 my veteran habits, and grave temper, such a foppery 
 was not only unbecoming, but particularly ungracious 
 in my own sight ; and I gave into it, merely to avoid 
 reproof for that ruggedness of demeanour which the 
 vulgar are always apt to couple with the pursuits and 
 temper of philosophy. Had I not been so thoroughly 
 troubled and terrified with the threat which had driven 
 me home, the outre appearance of such an ornament, 
 would not, as may well be supposed, have been suffered 
 so long to distinguish the garb of one to whom it could 
 yield so little satisfaction. 
 
 1 hurried into the garden immediately on my return. 
 I felt too much disquietude to take my usual seat in the 
 sanctum, and had no wish for supper, in the discus 
 sion of which I saw that my two companions were 
 already lustily engaged. I threw myself upon a bench 
 that lay half buried in the long grass of our arbour, and 
 gave myself up to meditation. While speculating upon 
 the subjects suggested by the manner in which my even 
 ing had been passed, I unconsciously took the flower 
 from my bosom, and proceeded to pull it to pieces. It 
 was a beautiful bud, of the largest size, swollen almost 
 to bursting, and promising in a few hours to unfold itself 
 and all its sweetness to the desiring sense. At another 
 moment, and in another mood, I should not have de 
 stroyed it.- I should have regarded the act as inhu 
 man. But now I was fairly roused and ruffled ; and, 
 with a malicious delight, mingled pretty evenly with 
 an abstract wandering of my thought, I beheld leaf 
 by leaf torn away rudely from the purple mansion of 
 19 
 
218 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 iU birth, and crumpled cruelly under my unhesitating 
 fingers. As I thus toiled f I mused and murmured. 
 
 " Yes, her tongue would make a fine ahode fur the 
 student -we should never hear the end of it -there 
 would * be no sleep for all the house/ any more than 
 for that of Dunsinane. The same cry might fill our 
 ears as filled that of Macbeth. She would not only 
 murder sleep, but one would not be permitted a snore 
 beyond one s breath she would murder silence loo." 
 And, as I soliloquised, sentence by sentence, the 
 rose, leaf by leaf, was undergoing demolition ; until but 
 the last circlet, the innermost fold of the poor flower 
 was all that survived, in mournful attestation, ns well 
 of its own beauty, as of the misplaced generosity of 
 Isabel Beaumont. I paused as my fingers approached 
 this last recess. I shuddered at my own barbarity. I 
 could not help the thought which rebuked me for thus 
 wantonly destroying that which gave so much, though 
 perhaps momentary, gratification, and was at the same 
 time, intrinsically, so sweet and beautiful. How many 
 senses, BO much more deriving than my own, had I 
 not deprived and defrauded of their proper polacc ? 
 What life had I not wronged of its true subsistence ? 
 Though, possibly, not constituted myself to find luxury 
 or delight in a source so humble, were there not thou 
 sands to whom the bud which I had destroyed and 
 trampled, would have been both cheering and charm 
 ing ? Would not the waning life of the consumptive 
 have gathered something from its fine odour and deli 
 cate tints, well adapted to gladden senses attenuated to 
 kindred and like delicacy ? 1 shuddered at my thought 
 less brutality, and was about to restore the remnant of 
 
A TALE OF FAEBIE. 219 
 
 tho dismembered flower to my bosom, when a faint 
 sigh rose from the still unbroken petals, which audibly 
 commanded my attention. I paused and listened. In 
 a few seconds, something, savouring of human tones 
 and familiar language, struck upon my senses, and I 
 bent down to hear. They had not deceived me, for 
 after a slight interval, a voice again syllabled forth, 
 from the bosom of the flower, sounds which, though 
 confused and broken, I was yet enabled to understand. 
 What did this mean ? 1 was almost tempted to dash 
 the mysterious blossom to my feet, when the prisoner, 
 for such he was, as if comprehending my emotion and 
 design, appealed to mo in terms of energy and feeling ; 
 calling upon mo in language of tho utmost entreaty to 
 conclude tho labour I had begun, and by destroying 
 his dungeon, release him from his captivity. 
 
 I did as he desired. I tore away the few leaves that 
 still adhered to tho stem, and then, for the first time, 
 discovered the cause of that great size, which had 
 made it remarkable. A tiny and glittering form, with 
 shape like our own, but of dimensions the most diminu 
 tive, rose from the recumbent and contracted position, 
 which tho tightly drawn leaves had forced upon it. It 
 was slender and graceful symmetrically perfect in 
 every feature ; and, with a face whose expression, 
 though delineated in a compass the most pigmy and 
 insignificant, was that of winning, yet manly beauty. 
 Its dress seemed that of the first and freshest leaves 
 of tho early summer, tho green of which was curious 
 ly and gorgeously adorned with hues of gold, of saffron, 
 and purple, inwrought and intermingled with the main 
 texture. Golden wings depended from its shoulders, 
 
220 THE HOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 the scams of whoso plumes, were of the richest raven 
 black, while the down of their extremities was of the 
 most brilliant yet delicate crimson. It was altogether 
 a being of light and loveliness. I gazed with wonder, 
 coupled with unqualified delight, and, for a while, had 
 no words to express cither my astonishment or curiosity. 
 The little creature, in the meanwhile, as if desiring 
 more perfectly to comprehend his freedom, leapt grace- 
 fully into the air, making a do/on circuits, with a whirl* 
 ing rapidity indicative of his rapture, then, suddenly, 
 with an expression of the utmost confidence, stooping, 
 at last, and perching himself upon a clump of boxwood 
 that grew beside me. 
 
 "And who and what aio you?" was my enquiry 
 upon his return. 
 
 " Who ? I ? I am a fairy a prince among the 
 fairies. My name is Sweet William. You, mortals, 
 have a beautiful flower which you call after me. 1 
 
 " Wonderful ! And how came you in prison where 
 do you live where are your people ? Tell me your 
 story tell me all about you and, how came you in 
 prison ?" 
 
 44 You shall hear, but first, let me thank you for the 
 prompt and friendly manner in which you released 
 me from my dungeon ; but never pull a flower to 
 pieces so roughly again. I was in terror, lest you 
 should take oil one of my wings, which had never 
 been so much jeoparded before. As it is, I have sus 
 tained divers rents and bruises which will call fur care 
 nnd a leech." 
 
 44 Well, well I" I exclaimed somewhat impatiently 
 u Tin sorry I ve hurt you ; but to your story. I am 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 221 
 
 anxious to know the history of your concerns. I am 
 curious to know all about you." 
 
 " Know then, that I belong to, and form one of, the 
 Spring tribe of fairies a tribe which enjoys its exist 
 ence more perfectly at this than any other season. In 
 deed, wo know no other. We follow the season in its 
 round through the different countries of the globe, and 
 though we should not perish, yet we should suffer 
 greatly were we to be left in the enjoyment of another 
 period, for the influence and effects of which our 
 habits have not prepared us. Thug, for example, we 
 dwell with you in April and May, and as the season 
 becomes oppressive, we fly to a region less advanced. 
 It is thus we live, and, in this way, in the course of the 
 year, we have the entire possession of the globe. I am 
 one of the heirs to the chief rule of our tribe, and, but 
 for my misfortunes, and the injustice I have met with* 
 would be, oven now, upon the sun-flower throne of my 
 fathers. But, adverse fate and fortune, with us and 
 ours, as with you and your people, has had its way ; 
 and, instead of being a prince in authority, with an en 
 tire people in obedience at my feet, my legitimate sway 
 has been usurped and appropriated by another my 
 sister has been forced to become the wife of the usurper, 
 in this way to afford some countenance to his usurpation, 
 and, defeated in an effort to restrain these objects, I have 
 been placed in the custody from which you have just ef 
 fected my release." 
 
 And who is this usurper, and by what agency did 
 he obtain so great an influence with your people as to 
 bring about such a revolution ?" 
 19* 
 
222 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 " His name was John Quill, or rather, that was the 
 only name by which our people knew him. He was 
 an obscure wretch an author, -a paltry fellow, who 
 wrote politics, and history, and criticism, and verses." 
 
 " Le diable ! and could such a creature effect BO 
 much ? It is not credible. The pursuit of letters, quite 
 abstract and reserved as it usually is, would seem to 
 forbid any approach to the .strife* and terrors of popular 
 life, particularly at a season of wars and revolutions. 1 
 
 * Why, so it is thought, but I am persuaded incor 
 rectly. Once aroused, and always an irritable and dis 
 contented race, 1 am satisfied of all creatures, these poets 
 arc the most difficult to manage the most dangerous 
 to deal with. The only reason, perhaps, why they so 
 unfrequently interfere in the concerns of state and go 
 vernment, is, simply, because they affect to regard the 
 prizes and honours of popular life, as unworthy and be 
 neath the true dignity of their aim. Mere popularity 
 iu not enough for those who are perpetually clamouring 
 for, and claiming, immortality.* 
 
 " You may be right, and, indeed, wo too have eome 
 authority for your notion, in our own experience ; but 
 I am anxious to hear your story in detail : will it 
 please your princcship to go on with it ?" 
 
 " It is long, and you may find it tedious ; but, since 
 you desire it, that is no concern of mine. You pluck 
 for yourself the difficulty, and may not complain of its 
 thorns. Thus, then, as I have already told you, I am 
 the legitimate male heir to the Sunflower empire. My 
 father, whose name I bear, having reached the allotted 
 term of one life on this, was transferred, during the last 
 season, to another planet, and I was left in the peace- 
 
A TALK OF FAEKIE. 223 
 
 able possession of his throne. At the period of his de 
 parture, I was wandering up the Oronico, in company 
 with the Star nation, for one of the daughters of which 
 I had imbibed a high admiration. The news was 
 brought me by our old and favourite servant, Will o* 
 the Whisp, who urged rny immediate return. I de 
 layed, however, unfortunately, and in the delay, the evil 
 had been done. John Quill, always a moody and some 
 what savage thing, who had commenced his life with 
 writing eulogies upon my father, but who, failing there 
 by to acquire place and pension, had become his most 
 bitter satirist, now appealed to the populace, and made 
 a faction among the vulgar. He talked of reform and 
 such other things, and by referring perpetually to the 
 supposed interests of the herd, ho did not long want for 
 an attentive auditory. He went about making speeches 
 like the most thorough-paced demagogue. He called 
 my father a bloody tyrant, and me, he set down, as 
 little, if any, better. All the evils, whether of the laws 
 or of the seasons, were laid to our account respectively. 
 If there came no rains to allay the burning heats of the 
 sands on which we were to dance by night, it was all 
 the doing of one or other of us. If our sun-flower 
 crops happened to be limited in productiveness, and, 
 our people, in consequence, were compelled to emi 
 grate to other sections of country, we were the guilty 
 and ours must be the punishment. In short, every 
 thing evil or unfortunate in our affairs, was laid at our 
 door, and, however wild the charge, the result you 
 must already have foreseen. You know enough of the 
 nature of a thoughtless and ignorant populace, wrought 
 upon by unanticipated misfortune, to understand how 
 
224 THE HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 it ia that he who proposes a remedy for their real or 
 imagined grievances however extravagant his sugges 
 tions -however dishonourable his motives, can always 
 most readily gather his faction, and will never want for 
 attentive consideration among them. When I returned 
 home, I was hailed with reproaches, and my reception 
 was blows. Unsuspecting conspiracy or assault, I was 
 made a prisoner, and placed in the dungeon in which 
 you found me, and fur my release from which 1 am 
 solely indebted to yourself. John Quill, assuming to 
 himself the titular distinctions of our family, to which 
 ho had not the most solitary pretension, seized upon 
 my sister and compelled her to ninrry him. Ho hus 
 seated himself most complacently upon the throne of 
 my father, the golden sunflower of our exclusive in 
 heritance, and sways its sovereignty with a despotism 
 as wild and reckless as were his denunciations of our 
 rule. Our tribo is ground down by a taxation, the 
 most villanous and partial. My fathers, and my own 
 friends, arc the victims of his wanton injustice. Their 
 property, if they dare complain, is wrcated from thorn, 
 on the slightest pretences, and appropriated to the use 
 of his creatures. Nothing, indeed, can exceed tho 
 gloom and misery which now overhang our unhappy 
 nation. Nor, as far as I can sec, is there any apparent 
 remedy at least, not for tho present. Tho usurper 
 has surrounded himself with his guards and mercena 
 ries ho has expended upon them and tho materials of 
 warfare, all the wealth of tho country, and, in this way, 
 ho contrives to keep in subjection tho largo body of my 
 own and father s friends, who might be disposed to de 
 clare in my behalf, while the fruits of their industry are 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 225 
 
 torn from them, for the pay and reward of those who 
 are employed in keeping them in subjection." 
 
 11 This is, indeed, a horrible state of things; but why, 
 let me ask, do the sufferers not unite in the common 
 cause for resistance to this tyranny?" 
 
 " They would do so, if they could at less disadvan 
 tage. The usurper is in power, and has all its advan 
 tages at command. He holds the purse, and controls 
 the armoury of the nation. The idle, the dissolute and 
 desperate, considerable in number, are the merest mer 
 cenaries in his employ. A rebellion would be rash, 
 and almost hopeless, under circumstances such as 
 these." 
 
 "But did your friends and party make no effort for 
 you at the outset ? Did they suffer you quietly to bo put 
 down?" 
 
 " No they did what they could but taken by sur 
 prise, and imperfectly prepared for conflict, they made 
 head in vain. They were defeated in a pitched battle, 
 with considerable loss, and once dispersed, and without 
 a leader to direct, they have not had the spirit to reas 
 semble for another conflict. Now that I am free, 
 though, as I have reason to think, surrounded by the 
 spies of the usurper, I shall proceed to organise and 
 rally them, as well for the recovery of their rights as 
 my own." 
 
 " Well, what you have told, surprises me greatly. I 
 had always been taught to believe that you fairies were 
 the most sportive, pleasant and happy of all God s crea 
 turesthat there was nothing of strife, of sadness or 
 suffering among you. That you lived only among sweets, 
 and sunbeams, and zephyrs, with a life as sweetly sin- 
 
220 TUB BOOK OP NT LADY. 
 
 less as theirs, and know nothing savouring of malevo 
 lence, which was not, at least, playfully, and not inju 
 riously, so. I grieve to hear that passions and a pride 
 like ours, disfigure your lives and blot up your enjoy* 
 mcnts." 
 
 " This has boon the notion of your poets, but they 
 knew little in truth about us and their fancies did not 
 go very far in their better education. We have our wars, 
 for have we not our women ? we have our hates, for 
 wo also have our loves : wo have our fears, for wo are 
 not without our hopes : we have our jealousies, for we 
 are not less ambitious of place, power and glory, than 
 yourselves. Judge then, for yourself, in how much, 
 possessing such characteristics, we should hope for es 
 cape from the trials and troubles of your humanity.** 
 
 41 There is one matter on which I should like to bo 
 informed. How is it, that, in the possession of spiritual 
 and other agencies, superior to ours, it should be per 
 mitted mo to release you from a captivity imposed upon 
 you by ono of your own species ?" 
 
 " Did you not assume for our condition a destiny far 
 more grateful and elevated than it rcully is, you might, 
 without difficulty, answer your own enquiry. Superior 
 though we may be in many things to you, tho Creator 
 of our common tribes, with that equal eye which is tho 
 prominent feature in our ideas of the eternal justice, has 
 found it necessary to restrain our pride and power as 
 well as yours, by denying many attributes to tho ono in 
 common with tho other. With this reason, a mortal is 
 sometimes permitted the performance of an act which 
 a fairy may not think of and in this way we live as 
 mutual restraints upon ono another. Do you not per- 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 227 
 
 ceivc, that, without some such arrangement of the over* 
 ruling Providence, your race would be entirely at the 
 mercy of ours ? At our caprice, wore it not so, you 
 would perish ; as it is, we may and do annoy and tor 
 ment you in a thousand ways, though your philosophies 
 have traced your annoyances to any other than the true 
 cause. It is well for both of us that we arc under the 
 same equal protection from one another there being 
 cases of exception, only, in which nations, differing so 
 decidedly from, and in some respects so adverse to 
 one another, may mingle together, and furnish in few 
 instances mutual checks and impediments to the pro 
 gress or the desires of each other. It is thus, that a 
 fairy, enthralled by a fairy, may be so spelled in his 
 prison that fairy power may not effect his release. My 
 place of confinement on this occasion, happened to be 
 one, which, by our nature, we are not permitted to de 
 stroy. The rose is sacred in our estimation and is ut 
 terly beyond our power. For this reason, it was chosen 
 as my prison, by my cunning enemy. The fairy who de 
 stroys a rose, descends from his grade, and on some 
 obscurer planet passes into a lower condition of life." 
 
 44 1 understand ; but, let me ask, if your enemy had 
 been malignantly disposed towards you, why did ho not 
 destroy you? Why did ho place you in a prison, from 
 which the chances of escape were so numerous? * 
 
 " You mistake again. His malignity was certainly 
 not less than I now describe it. He would have de 
 stroyed me had ho well dared. But it would have been 
 a doubtful policy to have done so, since, even with his 
 own faction t there are some, with whom the blood of 
 legitimacy is still, to a certain degree, considered 
 
228 THE HOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 sacred. There might have been a great re-action in my 
 favour and he feared it in the event of an open at 
 tempt upon my life. He chose a mode, however, less 
 fruitful in peril, but almost as certain to bring about my 
 destruction as the most direct design. He knew how 
 much the fortunes of the flower were under the control 
 of mortals; and relied upon the strong probability of my 
 being torn in pieceo, or crushed under feet, as soon as 
 the little perfume of my prison-house had been ex 
 hausted. Such, most probably, would have been my 
 fortune, had it not suited your mood to articulate a long 
 soliloquy, as leaf by leaf, with measured determination, 
 you tore away the walls of my dungeon; nor, as it is, 
 have 1 entirely escaped. You see by the rents in my 
 wings how much 1 have suffered in the mode of my re 
 lease." 
 
 I was about to condole with the little prince on his 
 misfortunes, and to offer my assistance, such as it was, 
 in his cau.se, when, all of a sudden, his countenance ex 
 hibited the strongest signs of mental agitation. Ilii 
 eyes were turned sci utinisingly and quickly in all direc 
 tions of the garden, and without a word, leaping to the 
 rose-bush which stood near, he tore away several of the 
 largest thorns, and took an attitude und put on an air 
 of the most manly defiance. 
 
 * As I feared," said he, " my enemies are upon me. 
 The spies of the usurper have apprised him of my es 
 cape from prison, and the v hole garden is surrounded 
 by his myrmidons." 
 
 1 looked as ho spoke, and, to my great surprise, bo- 
 held a numerous army, armed with long spears of point 
 ed cane, bow* of yew, blow-guna of willow, and arrows 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 220 
 
 fitted to them of the most pointed thorns of the forest. 
 They approached the young prince, who stood firmly 
 the assault. At their head camo one, whose fierce ges 
 ture, manner and authority, at once, in my mind, de 
 termined him to be the usurper, John Quill, himself. I 
 was right. Despising all humbler enemies, the dethron 
 ed prince, without waiting for the assault, and with a 
 rashness only commendable in the dcsperateness of his 
 situation, rushed fearlessly upon him, and challenged a 
 single combat. But he was not so to bo encountered. 
 The whole force of the foe hemmed him round, and 
 pressed in upon him they girt him in with their wea 
 pons he, struggling and raging gallantly, striking 
 down an enemy at every blow, and resolutely rushing 
 on, and aiming at, their chief. But valour and skill 
 were nothing to the odds against him. He fought in vain. 
 He was overthrown. I saw him borne to the earth 
 his focmcn upon him-* a thousand spears were at his 
 breast, and I could bear the sight no longer. I seized 
 a weapon I dashed forward into the array I struck 
 right and led. Already had I stricken the heads, from 
 a couple, the most forward of tho enemy my next 
 blow, and John Quill himself must have perished, for 
 my weapon was uplifted and hung over him without the 
 most distant probability of his escape with life; when 
 suddenly my arms were pinioned by a superior power 
 tho weapon wrested from my grasp, and, in the twinkling 
 of an eye, myself overthrown and struggling for release 
 upon the soft carpet of our sanctuary. 
 
 " Why do you bold me back?" I exclaimed to my two 
 brother bachelors of the symposium, whom I now found 
 20 
 
230 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 to be the powers which had BO inopportunely arrested 
 the stroke of justice upon the head of the tyrant. 
 
 44 Why, what s the matter, would you break every 
 thing in the house in your sleep/ 1 was the reply. 
 
 I remonstrated with them in vain. * l Will you, then," 
 I asked, " leave young Prince Sweet William to perish? 
 Will you permit that tyrannical usurper, John Quill, to 
 destroy Mm /" and as I spoke, I again advanced to the 
 contiguous garden, which I had just before left in order 
 to procure the sabre \\hich I had handled so lustily, and 
 which I now endeavoured to regain; but they interfered 
 and prevented me. Laughing in my face, they pointed 
 to the two victims I had overthrown. Alas! they seem 
 ed no longer the emissaries of the tyrant. They were 
 our two decanters of sherry, from which the heads had 
 been most adroitly stricken, and through the rents of 
 which the goodly liquor was now streaming over the 
 floor. The demijohn well-stored with the same precious 
 juice, which to my bewildered eyes had personified the 
 usurpating Quill, hud been only preserved fiom a like 
 fate by the timely interposition of my comrades. 
 
 " What have you seen what have you dreamed ?" 
 said they in a breath. I was dumb. It was truo the 
 fairies were no longer before me, but I had certainly 
 been under the power of the incubi. I could not bear 
 the jest and laughter which assailed mo on all hands, 
 and strangely wondering at the hallucination which had 
 so wrought upon my senses, I went hurriedly, yet full 
 of meditation, to my chamber. 
 
 I could not sleep. Was it possible that I had been 
 dreaming ? that a narrative so methodical so regu 
 larly drawn out to all its proper consequences so 
 
A TALE OP FAERIE. 231 
 
 perfectly dramatic had been the mere phantasm of 
 my wild and wandering senses? I could not even 
 then believe it. The thing was impossible, and half 
 distracted between doubt and credulity belwccn faith 
 and scepticism, I rose from my couch and took my 
 seat at the window which looked directly dor. " ^ 
 
 the garden. 
 
 There, all was silent as the grave. The winds had 
 scarce a whisper. The leaves waved not ; and the tall 
 trees, with an inclination the most slight and shadowy, 
 barely bent themselves forward beneath the wing of 
 the zephyr that now and then stooped to take its shelter .> . 
 within their branches. Over all, the moon shone forth 
 with most incomparable and touching brightness, like 
 some guardian mother pale with watching, and now 
 keeping careful guardianship over her sleeping proge 
 ny. The scene throughout was one of faery of the 
 richest fancy, and it need occasion little wonder when ~ 
 I say that my faith grew strong in my former vision. 
 All things seemed to contribute to the madness of rny 
 mood* AH things grew spiritual to the eye, in strict 
 accommodation with the impulses of the mind and 
 heart over which they had wrought so largo an influ 
 ence. 
 
 Surely I dream not now, and what means the long 
 procession which I see before me ? Once more tho 
 garden walk has its throng. The tiny tribes are at 
 work, and busy in the most various circumstance. 
 The flowers live the trees have exercise- not a bush 
 or a branch lacks its arraythey are all in motion. 
 God of the various world how wondrous are thy 
 works how more than wonderful art thou 1 
 
232 TH K BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 They arc engaged in the performance of a mournful 
 duty. They bear the body of the unfortunate prince, 
 Sweet William, to the place of sepulture. They form 
 that class of his former subjects who had not altogether 
 deserted him, and are now permitted by the politic 
 usurper to do the last offices at his burial. Did you over 
 see a fairy funeral, gentle reader. 1 would that I could 
 describe it for your sake. The monotonous hum of 
 the horn, blown at regular intervals by the trumpeter 
 beetle. The mourning candles carried by the glow 
 worm. The chant of tho bcc-bird the occasional 
 cry of tho whip-poor-will keeping time and tune with 
 tho sorrowing cavalcade, attest tho loss which they have 
 all sustained ; for tho fairy is well beloved by the in 
 nocent populace of his garden regions. Ho is the 
 protector and patron of bud, bird, and insect ho 
 countenances their sports, shares in their pleasures, 
 . and revenges their injuries. Should they not bo pro- 
 sent at his funeral ? 
 
 They bore him to his sepulchre in a green hillock, 
 over which I had often rambled, Little did I dream 
 then of its peculiar uses. They wrapped his lifeless 
 body in the greenest leaves, and laid it with duo reve 
 rence in the open grave, freshly hollowed out for the 
 purpose by tho industrious hill-fox. Then came tho 
 chant of the mourners a melancholy song, reciting 
 the virtues, and deploring tho loss, of the deceased. 
 a ,1 It told of his beauty of form, his gentleness of spirit- 
 how ho loved all things that were beautiful, and how 
 all things that were beautiful cnino to sorrow at his 
 departure. They described him now as tho occupant 
 of a brighter and more durable garment of animated 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 233 
 
 materiality as the dweller in fresher and richer gar 
 dens the partaker of choicer fruits and flowers the 
 stiafer in more delicious sports the loved of more 
 lasting affections, t heir creed was not unlike our 
 ..own* "TJ 
 
 But one lingered by the grave when all had departed. 
 A delicate form a gentle beauty the maiden ho had 
 loved. She was one of the daughters of another tribe, 
 called the Star nation, and wore its badge in the shape 
 of a brilliant star, now suffused in sorrowful dews, up 
 on her forehead. Her name was Anne-Mone. Long 
 and earnestly did she pour forth her wail over the form 
 of the buried lover. She planted a rose-tree at hia 
 head, and turned away at last; broken words upon her 
 lips, and tears streaming from her long eyelashes. She 
 came towards my window. A sudden bound placed 
 her upon a branch of the tall tree, which hung directly 
 before it. I felt my head swim and my senses grow 
 confused at her approach. My limbs were paralysed 
 my strength was gone my heart ceased its most 
 perceptible pulsations. She leaned forward, and half 
 sung and half whispered in my ears what delicious, 
 what melancholy music. She told me the story of her 
 l oves of the misfortunes and the loss of her lover ; 
 and avowed her determination to exile herself hence 
 forward from all her people, until the hour of her own 
 departure to the sphere of her lover. It was to fly the 
 solicitations of another suitor, whom her friends and 
 family desired to force on her, that she had come to 
 this determination. This much of herself and hers. 
 What she next said concerned me alone. She spoke 
 of my youth of the wrong I was about to do to my 
 20* 
 
234 TUB BOOK or MY LADT. 
 
 own nature, and in fate s despite, by the isolation 
 which I had been prevailed upon to adopt. Was I 
 happy, or could I bo happy, shut in from the associa 
 tions of that other sex, the communion with which is 
 one of the first conditions that comes with existence. 
 Such was the question, which, asked by her, the widow 
 and the desolate of love, I knew not well how to an 
 swer, even had speech, at that moment, been permitted 
 me. She placed her hand upon rny own, 1 was in 
 capable of resistance. With a word, the import of 
 which, I could not understand, I was lifted from the 
 seat, which, in all this time, I had occupied. I was 
 conscious of motion of flight of a whirling rapidity 
 but of nothing beside. All then was confusion, 
 until, after a brief interval, the words of the young 
 fairy again fell upon my sense, in sounds sweeter than 
 music ! 
 
 " You would have saved him, and I would servo you 
 in return. While I dwell on this planet, let mo toil for 
 the gentle and deserving. You have wronged, and 
 still continue to wrong your own nature, and 1 would 
 bring back your spirit to its better teachings. Look ." 
 
 A gorgeous, but dimly burning lamp, lay on a table 
 before me. I was in an apartment to which I was tin* 
 familiar. It was a cliumber. A richly decorated couch 
 rone to the coiling in iu centre, and UN Ihu light flickered 
 more brightly at intervals, I behold extended upon it in 
 deep and sweet repose, tho form of a beautiful woman. 
 The features are familiar it is Isabel Beaumont her* 
 self the coquette, tho capricious Isabel, for so I thought, 
 and as usual, I foarcd her. What do I hoar? It if my 
 name she has uttered. What delicious tones. Tier lips 
 
A TALE OF FAERIE. 235 
 
 part again again she utters my name, and ccupled too 
 with an association of sentiment so flattering. She loves 
 me me, the ennui the discontent the misanthrope; 
 and, oh ! worse than all- the bachelor ! 
 
 She never looked half so lovely in my eyes before. 
 Her hair wandered in rich profusion, raven-like, glossy 
 and of the most silken texture, over a neck white and 
 spotless as the new fallen snow. The drapery of her 
 dress had fallen, and I maddened at the prospect. My 
 soul was on fire my lips bent down instinctively to hers, 
 but before they yet pressed that virgin shrine and man 
 sion of heavenly beauty and deliciousness, I felt the touch 
 of my fairy companion upon my arm. My limbs were 
 nerveless. My head swam I felt myself again in mo 
 tion, and knew nothing more, until the close and now 
 oppressive walls of my own room grew familiar to my 
 sight. A single sentence the fairy uttered, with uplifted 
 finger, as she left me . $< $ 
 
 ** You know you have seen and heard deal nobly 
 by the maiden she is worthy of all your love." 
 
 I had penetrated into a new world. I was another 
 creature. I had a new life. What now were my emo 
 tionswas this now feeling* love? I could not resolve 
 my own doubts. I had no answer to the question which 
 perpetually suggested itself to my sense. I rose a 
 changed man the next morning. My companions had 
 no longer the wonted expression. I shrunk from I 
 bad no further confidence in them they could have no 
 sympathy with me. My thought was only upon the sweet 
 vision I had witnessed the preceding night. Once moro 
 I gazed upon that fair picture of sleeping loveliness. 
 Once more the broken murmurs of love which then 
 
236 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 escaped her lips, coupled with my own name, inflamed 
 and excited my heart* But was it not all a dream a 
 fond, a foolish delusion. I grew more and more dis 
 tracted the more I meditated upon it; until at length, 
 as night again diew nigh, I sallied forth. "I will see 
 her,** said I, " 1 will watch her closely. No passion, no 
 prejudice shall blind me in my examination; and if she 
 look but pensive if she put on no habit of capricious 
 vagary, I will confide I will permit myself to love! * 
 So 1 spake. Fond fool! I was already the slave- the 
 victim of the passion, upon the existence of which I 
 yet presumed to entertain a will ! 
 
 She was alone she was sad. How beautiful was 
 she how much more beautiful than ever, with that un 
 accustomed sadness. A slight blush (so at least I 
 dreamed) mantled her cheek on rny appearance, and I 
 became more confident. With a hesitation of manner 
 and speech, quite foreign to her wonted ease and dignity, 
 she addressed me, with something of the air of badinage, 
 which had characterised, on her part, our last conver 
 sation, a sentence or two which appears in the first part 
 of our narrative. 
 
 * So you are come. You would crave forgiveness, I 
 imagine, for your uncourtly retreat last night, but I shall 
 not forgive you. What ! shall we have no sway in our 
 own empire where all are pleased and proud to do 
 homage, shall one, alone, be permitted to withhold his 
 knee? It cannot be. The refractory knight must be 
 taught obedience he must learn his duty and our 
 sovereignty." 
 
 She smiled, and the tones of her voice, in correspond 
 ence with the words she uttered, were intended to be 
 
A TALE OF FAEHIE. 237 
 
 playful and sportive, but I could see the secret effort 
 the labour of her manner throughout; and when she 
 ceased speaking her eyelids dropped her lips became 
 slightly depressed, and her glance was pensively vacant. 
 Isabel^ the capricious Isabel, whose sarcasm I had feared, 
 whose mirth had troubled and terrified me, now appear 
 ed in a character entirely new. She was no longer the 
 tyrant- the conqueror. She was herself a captive. Her 
 secret was mine, and mine soon became hers. The col- 
 lego of bachelors was endangered. The pledge which I 
 had made my brethren was soon forgotten in the more 
 attractive influence of other pledges ; and night after 
 night, and hour after hour, of close communion in word 
 and sentiment, only linked me more directly with the 
 beautiful, the sweet creature, of whom I have spoken, 
 in language how far short in expression of a due esti- 
 mate of her thousand attractions. 
 
 I had her vow, she had mine, and, but a few months 
 were required to elapse before our union. In that time, 
 however, we were to be separated a thousand miles 
 were to intervene. Business called my attention to 
 another region, and we parted, sadly, it is true, but full 
 of hope; without distrust with no fear, no presenti 
 ment. 
 
 Sleepless 1 lay upon my couch in the city of . 
 
 In a week more, and I should commence my homeward 
 journey. In a month, Isabel should be mine. She would 
 sleep in my bosom the pulses of her young heart should 
 boat in corresponding sympathies with my own. Such 
 were my fancies such the dreaming mood of my ex 
 cited spirit. A languor suddenly overspread my senses. 
 I could see and feel, but had no visible motion no ca- 
 
238 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 pacify of life. I recognised once more the form of the 
 young fairy before me. Her look was *ad; she pressed 
 her hand upon mine, and shook her hend with a melan 
 choly slowness which had volumes of emphatic mean 
 ing in its manner. A sudden tempest passed over the 
 garden ; the moon was obscured hy clouds; the flowers 
 were prostrate; and, with something of consternation at 
 these shows of nature, I looked round for explanation 
 to where stood the fairy girl, but she had gone. There 
 was something of a strange terror to me in these omens, 
 and I only waited for the daylight to take my departure. 
 I lingered not, in my return, by the way. I hurried to 
 the well-known dwelling I asked for Isabel my Isa 
 bel so soon to be mine, at least and they showed me 
 her grave. There was a sweet sympathy in the fortunes 
 of the fairy, and the no less spiritual being on whom she 
 attended. A strain of music that night catno to my 
 ears, as I mourned in the solitude of my chamber on 
 the desolation of my hopes; and looking forth from my 
 window, I beheld once more the long procession, and 
 witnessed for the second time, the melancholy rites, 
 which like our own, distinguish the funeral of a fairy, 
 
230 
 
 THE FEARFUL MEMORY. 
 
 The idea of the following poem was suggested by the perusal 
 of a single and small paragraph, rendered from a German ro- 
 munccr of repute. The object was to furnish a grouping of suc 
 cessive and corresponding images and ideas, in themselves vaguo 
 and indistinct, which would nevertheless foita, when taken toge 
 ther, a perfect narrative, such as, in malten of jurisprudence, 
 may bu considered the collected body of circumstantial evidence 
 necessary to the conviction of the criminal. IIow for I may have 
 l xm successful in carrying out my design, it i* not with me to 
 determine. 
 
 It comes but as a dream, yet is no dream, 
 And my rack d soul requires no sleeping hour 
 To shadow forth its presence. It is here : 
 By daylight and in darkness still the same, 
 Keeping its watch above my desolate heart, 
 And, when it would escape to other thoughts, 
 Bringing it back, with stern unbcndingncss, 
 To its curst prison, and its scourge and rack ! 
 
 Some years, and many thoughts wo never lose, 
 Howo cr time changes. This is one of them ! 
 Seasons on seasons, since that hour is gone, 
 Have passed away, with many a circumstance, 
 To root the dreadful token from my soul ; 
 And yet its fearful memory, freshly still, 
 Stands by me, night and day ; and, with a voice, 
 Monotonous as Uio evening bird, sends forth 
 
240 TI1E BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 One fearful adjuration one docp tone 
 
 Of dread reproach, and omen, and dismay ! 
 
 It is no flickering shadow on the wall, 
 
 That Btartlcs me at midnight, and cxi>cls. 
 
 The sweet Hlucp and fond quiet, all away 
 
 1 ilU me with horrid thought*, with many A dread, 
 
 And leave* mu wun and spiritless at dawn, 
 
 No childish n|H. ctre, such an fancy paint*, 
 
 Kuddcn, bcfuru Uie trembling criminal, 
 
 When the bell tulU at midnight, and the vault* 
 
 Of the old minster echo back the sound, 
 
 With replication wild haunts mo with scowl 
 
 Of horrible complexion a vague Bpright, 
 
 Of chattering teeth, and wan and empty glance, 
 
 And stale, lack.lustro semblance ! Would it were 
 
 I were not half the wretch that now I am ! 
 
 Buck to that fearful hour, I need not look, 
 The past is ever present ! There it stands 
 The time, the scene, the dreadful circumstance, 
 Vividly in my soul, and fresh as when 
 Kuch fell particular of thought and deed, 
 C uinu to me, as a parcel of myself, 
 Destined thence, ever, to abide with me ! 
 Let folly, all uguj>c, at some drcud mask, 
 Wonder, with (.hooting pulse and brattling luiir, 
 At the poor trick of fancy, which invests 
 Each Heeling, flick ring shadow on the wall 
 With spiritual semblance. Nought of this 
 Troubles my sense, and with unmeasured arm, 
 Shakes some unshapely terror ! 1 see nought 
 Tis in my soul the fiend hath ta cn abode, 
 And yields not up his watch. There, all night long, 
 1 Ic tells the monotonous story of my crime ; 
 Paints, in detail, each dread particular, 
 With horrible recital. On each part, 
 
THE FEARFUL MEMORY. 24 1 
 
 Dwells with a deep minuteness, loud and long, 
 
 Portrays my haggard fright to mine own eyes, 
 
 At mine own work of sorrow ; and forbears, 
 
 Not even when day has come, and with it brought, 
 
 The busy mart, the crowded festival. ( >e?T 
 
 There, in the wildest hum, ho seeks mo out, 
 
 Becoming my sole partner. In my car, 
 
 Some feature, even more dreadful than the rest, 
 
 With jeering tono and gibbering laugh of scorn, 
 
 He whispers and tho sound like rushing fire, 
 
 Or, subtlest poison, from tho mountains won, 
 
 When spirits are abroad through my chilled veins, 
 
 Without arrest, goes suro and fatally ; 
 
 And all grows dark around me and I lose 
 
 The crowded presence, and tho lights grow dim, 
 
 And I behold myself, again, as once - 
 
 In that old hall tho long-gone hours restored 
 
 Darkness around me, save, at intervals, 
 
 When inauspicious lightnings broke tho gloom, 
 
 And the foul bat from out his sooty wing, 
 
 Shot through tho heavy air, a glimmering ray, 
 
 That dccpcn d the accumulated gloom, 
 
 Of that deep gloom about mo. Then, once more, 
 
 Appears that form of matchless excellence, 
 
 Creature of ravishing mould, and graco that came, 
 
 From Eden, cro twas blasted. Did I then, 
 
 Cold, selfish, worthless, as even then I was 
 
 Destroy a flower so blcss d and beautiful? 
 
 Bless d in itself, and more than happy now, 
 
 Yet doubly bless d with me its enemy. 
 
 She comes to me again I see her now 
 
 How glorious every glance how smooth each limb, 
 
 In exquisite proportion, never match d ; 
 
 All rich but ruin d, and the sightless gaze, 
 
 Tho solo perfection dimmed. Could I have seen, 
 
 That moment, what, a moment after, stood 
 
242 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 Before each sense of my spirit, she had been, 
 A living creature I, a happy one ! 
 
 And yet, I struck her not. The blow thatrefl 
 Earth of BO fair a creature lopt away, 
 Suddenly from its stem, as recklessly, 
 The ploughshare smites the daisy wa not mine* 
 That crime is spared my soul ; and yet, the crime, 
 For which I sutler this pursuing fiend, 
 Wan not less deadly, though less dark and dread. 
 Yet, in that Gothic hull, as then I stood, 
 Scarce seeing all unseen save by the God, 
 Whose minister this demon has become- 
 Even now I stand, beholding all anew, 
 With freshest glance ; and ever since that hour, 
 ; . Which brought the doom on her, the curse on me, 
 The deadly circumstance, the fearful crowd, 
 Of images, all terrible and stern, 
 js present to my soul. Before my eyes, 
 Limned in the outline, by a scanty gray, 
 Thrown in the latter nperturc, from which, 
 The broken shutter, creaking sullenly, HW ings, 
 I mark a prostrate form a silent mass, 
 No feature marked no colour, shape or face, 
 Tone or expression nothing to the sight, 
 Worthy the sight s observance; yet to me, 
 My soul aroused and with a spirit s gaze- 
 All s clear all vivid, bright. Her eye no more, 
 Sends forth its fine expression all is dim ! 
 The dark knife lies beside her In her hands, 
 The fatal scrawl that drove her to despair, 
 Writ in my madness. I can sec no more. 
 But madden as I move, for, at each step, 
 My feet do clammily adhere to the floor, 
 As if twere clotted blood that bound them there. 
 Unwilling they should fly unyielding still. 
 In vain would 1 retreat for as I move, 
 
THE FEARFUL MEMORY. 243 
 
 Wildly, with face turned backward on the scene, 
 I fain would fly from, down the narrow stairs, 
 I hear the trickling drops, keeping full pace, 
 In concert with my feeble falt ring steps. 
 Blood blood ! pursuing whcrcsoc er I fly, 
 And reeking to the heavens, and calling down 
 This vengeful memory, that, with demon spite, 
 Inhabits mino own soul, and makes me yield, 
 A prison of myself of mino own heart, 
 A prison meet for mino own punishment. 
 
 What further of my story would you hear, 
 
 What boots the name, the deed, the hour, the place, 
 
 And each foul feature of what men call crime I 
 
 Brief name, to mark a history so long, 
 
 So wild, so very fearful as is mincf 
 
 Was hers is memory s still. It were all vain ; 
 
 Words are not tilings, and fail to paint our thought*, 
 
 When they are dark and terrible as mine, 
 
 Else, should yoa hear it all, from lips that now, 
 
 Blanch with the recollection. But you see 
 
 Its truth in what you sec. A little while, 
 
 The demon will give up its dread abode, 
 
 And still will be the tongue of memory 
 
 Desolate soon must bo its dwelling place, 
 
 And the torn spirit it has rack d so long, 
 
 Freed from its presence, and its bonds all broke, 
 
 Will seek ah, will it find what still it seeks, 
 
 The form it crush d the spirit it deplores. 
 
244 THE BOOK OF XY LADY. 
 
 A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC. 
 
 " Why hnuld there be life, when that tin- love, 
 That gave to life It* ninthine, all t gone ; 
 The heart hould dio, then ; nor in eodlcM pain, 
 llrokcn, live on." 
 
 A Spanish vessel, touching at one of the beautiful 
 islands of the Pacific, shortly after the discovery of 
 Vasco Nunez had made them available, left, at its depart 
 ure, a young Spaniard upon it, who having strayed at 
 some distance from the vessel into the interior, had 
 been unobserved and forgotten. The island, at the first 
 glance, seemed uninhabited ; and so indeed, in reality, 
 it proved to be, subject only to the migratory visifs of a 
 tribe from one in the neighbourhood. Our Spaniard, 
 who was named Velasquez, was of good family, and 
 was among the many, seduced from the luxurious enjoy 
 ment of an independent fortune in his own country, to 
 the paradisul enjoyments accounted to belong to tho 
 modern discoveries of the new world. Ho was not un 
 known to tho perils of war ; and, with nil tho chivalrous 
 spirit of hia ugo and nation, ho contemned and met 
 thorn boldly, and with sufficient firmness ; but the perils 
 of labour for life wore perils hitherto unknown, and tho 
 first moment of consciousness which followed the know 
 ledge of the ship s departure, was one little short of 
 despair. In a paroxysm of frenzy he cast himself down 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC. 245 
 
 upon the sand, bewildered with nameless and number 
 less terrors, and frantic with their contemplation. 
 
 Velasquez was not, however, so greatly the nursling 
 of nobility and ease as to yield the contest to his fate 
 without a struggle. He was of noble spirit, and his 
 energy of charr^er had been at all times his peculiarity. 
 He was romr. vie, too, and after the first paroxysm of 
 apprehension had subsided, the feeling of its desolation 
 was strangely connected with the novelty of his situa 
 tion ; and, in a mood somewhat more lively, he betook 
 himself to a survey of the dominion, of which he found 
 himself in the exclusive possession. 
 
 The island was but a few miles in extent, and in the 
 course of a second day s journey he had made its circuit. 
 It possessed the shelter, from the sun, of several deli* 
 cious groves, of which, during the mid-day heats, he 
 availed himself and found repose ; while they yielded 
 him, at the same time, an abundance of the various fruits 
 common to these island s, obviating any and every incon 
 venience from hunger. A few muscles also contributed 
 to his repast ; and the human mind, always subtle in 
 expedients when sharpened and brought into action by 
 necessity, did not permit the young Spaniard so quietly 
 to suHcr, as to xnako his grief insupportable. Ho felt 
 his privations, it is true; but, with the philosophy which 
 comes of a stout heart and a buoyant spirit, he contrived 
 to make the boat of a situation in which he had no 
 alternative. 
 
 The island upon which be was left offered no means 
 
 by which he might have constructed a shallop, for the 
 
 exploration of its neighbourhood. This, the main evil 
 
 of his exile excepted, was the chief subject of regret 
 
 21* 
 
246 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 with Velasquez. Could he have traced the waters de 
 pendent upon his sovereignty, ho might have explored 
 the contiguous shores which hung before his eyes upon 
 the verge of his horizon, like a dim streak, curtaining 
 the distance. An arm of the sea interposed, presenting 
 a wall of waters to his progress, which, though but a 
 few miles in extent, was effectually a barrier to him. 
 Day by day, after providing for his repast, would he sit 
 upon the edge of the island, contemplating that faint lino 
 in the distance, which ho felt assured was inhnbitcd f 
 and which he so longed to behold. Even the presence 
 of a savage tribo would have been grateful, assuring 
 him, as it must have done, that he was not entirely 
 alone. When, however, as was frequently the case on 
 these occasions of survey, he began to despond, like a 
 good catholic, ho told his beads and said his prayers, 
 and promised many a pilgrimage to the shrine of his 
 patron saint in the event of her succour and assistance. 
 One day, while engaged in this mournful contempla 
 tion, surveying the wido waste stretching before him, 
 rufllcd into a petty fury by the influence of a sudden 
 tempest, he beheld a dark speck in the distance which 
 strongly attracted his attention. Its course was directly 
 onwards to his island, in which direction the currents, 
 operated upon violently by the force of the prevailing 
 wind, set steadily. For a long time with straining eye 
 ho watched its progress, without being able to deter 
 mine what in reality it was ; yet a something of hope 
 kept him chained to the survey of its progress, with a 
 feeling deeply alive, as if it had an especial interest im 
 portant to himself. It had and, in a little while, our 
 exile had the felicity to discover that the object before 
 
A LEGEND OP THE PACIFIC. 247 
 
 him was an Indian canoe, in which, however, he saw 
 but one person, managing it with wonderful dexterity ; 
 and, though unable to control its progress in the one 
 direction, yet BO guiding it as to steady it safely, even 
 against the influence of a strong breeze and a chopping 
 sea. The current bore it directly towards the spot on 
 which Velasquez stood ; and ho now perceived, with 
 pleasing emotion, that the warrior who had, with such 
 good fortune, conducted the shallop safely through the 
 waters, and under circumstances of so much peril, was 
 a young and beautiful Indian woman. AH his appre 
 hensions were now awakened to observe how she would 
 escape the breakers, upon which ho saw the boat must 
 inevitably drive ; and he rose, and, with a degree of 
 eagerness becoming indifferently well a young cavalier 
 of old Spain, he rushed waist-deep into the chafing 
 waters, ready to yield all necessary assistance. Nor 
 did he do so in vain. As the skiff entered the foaming 
 billows it became whirled among them with a rapidity 
 beyond all human control, and was torn at once into 
 fragments by their fury ; while the young Indian, plunged 
 between two struggling waves, for a moment lost all 
 command of her person, and was borne violently up the 
 shore, and as violently forced back in their equally ter 
 rible recoil. It was now the moment when our young 
 Spaniard could render tho service for which he stood 
 prepared; and, with unhesitating boldness and noble 
 vigour, he dashed in among the struggling waves, and 
 soon reached the almost supine and certainly helpless 
 form of the young savage. Grasping her with tena 
 cious firmness around the body, he supported her upon 
 the water until tho return of the surf, which be followed 
 
248 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 with rapidity; pausing, however, and steadying both 
 himself and charge, with their heads towards the return 
 ing billow which broke over them innocuously. A 
 second effort placed them within their depth, and in a 
 few moments they attained the shore. 
 
 But the Indian girl, who was both beautiful and 
 young, lay without eign of life before him ; and Velas 
 quez almost wept to think that a moment the most 
 luxuriously delightful, which he had for so long a time 
 experienced, was possibly to bo dashed by the loss of 
 the only creature whom fortune appeared to have de 
 signed to lighten his solitude. He did not despair, 
 however, but immediately proceeded to put in execu 
 tion every available plan for her restoration. Nature 
 came to the relief of both ; and the young Indian open 
 ed her eyes, which the Spaniard perceived to be both 
 black and beautiful. She spoko faintly too, and in 
 muttered sounds, which, though they did not syllable 
 forth his language, were as soft and tender as the 
 breathings of tho night-wind through the twisted core 
 of the sea shell ; and the already enamoured Spaniard 
 knelt down bcsido her, and gently raising her in his 
 arms, imprinted a deep kiss upon tho pure coral of her 
 lips, that gavo a beautiful relief and lustre to tho clear 
 and sun-dyed brown of her glowing cheeks. The ac 
 tion restored her to something like consciousness she 
 looked around her enquiringly, and her eyes at length 
 settled long and earnestly upon the face of her preserver. 
 As sense returned, she spoko rapidly in her own lan 
 guage, and seemed to make many enquiries, which 
 Velasquez endeavoured to answer- though he could not 
 in words as meaningless to her as hers had 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC. 249 
 
 been to him ; but as in his speech his eyes had taken 
 part, and as the tones of his voice were mellowed into 
 a subdued and touching eloquence, all was not thrown 
 away upon her ear, and the young savage smiled with 
 unalloyed delight and artlessness, at the first lesson she 
 had learned in the language of the pale stranger. As, 
 at the first, in the primeval hour of the creation, the 
 speech which heaven bestowed upon its creatures was 
 that of love, it is fortunately the basis of that ancient 
 language which the senses of all men comprehend, 
 whatever may bo the difference of clime and custom ; 
 and accordingly, our two islanders were not slow to 
 ascertain the tenor of certain and sundry dialogues 
 which their spirits carried on. Thus, at evening, when 
 the Spaniard returned to his usual repose in the recesses 
 of the grove, which had been knotted overhead with the 
 sheltering palm, and strewn below with the long and 
 pliant cane-grass, she lay upon his arm, with the confi 
 dence of innocence at its birth ; and the bridal hour of 
 the two exiles was as sweet and as pure as the love 
 that produced it was hallowed, and the destiny in which 
 it had its origin was solemn and peculiar. 
 
 The passion thus begun, and sanctioned, as it would 
 seem, by an especial providence, was neither slow to 
 ripen nor modified in its character. The desolation of 
 their fate, their separation from all mankind beside, 
 more nearly united them ; and, before many days, the 
 young Spaniard, not less than his dusky companion, if 
 they did not altogether cease to repine at the isolation 
 of their fortunes, did not, nevertheless, feel this isolation 
 as a very particular hardship. In a little time he had 
 taught her the signification of some of those sounds, 
 
250 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 which speak of our simplest wants and impulses ; and 
 she, in turn, had not been slow to make him understand 
 those of her own language, which, having their origin, 
 as in all countries they are found to do, in some gene 
 ral impulses and necessities, are alike common to all. 
 Thus, day by day, they went on teaching and taught, 
 until it ceased to bo difficult to make them comprehend 
 their several emotions. 
 
 Nor were the lessons of the beautiful Amaya for 
 such had she already taught him was her name been 
 confined to the use of words. She led him among 
 the rocks, at the tide-fall, and taught him many 
 mysteries. Plunging fearlessly into the deeps on one 
 occasion, and disappearing from his sight, with a wild 
 shriek of desolation, Velasquez leaped in after her. 
 He, too was an excellent swimmer, and with a joy 
 beyond expression, he beheld her in a vast hollow of 
 the deep, separating from their beds the largest pearl 
 oysters. He, also, like herself, soon became familiar 
 with the buoyant element ; and though no longer 
 valuing a treasure, which in his own country had been 
 beyond estimation, ho nevertheless employed himself 
 in gathering the precious gems, and storing them in 
 his habitation. Great indeed was the wealth which, 
 without any prospect or possibility of its use, the 
 Spaniard was thus enabled to amass ; and when ho 
 sometimes looked upon his stores, and thought of his 
 own sunny lands, and the rich vineyards and the bloom 
 ing groves, which he no longer could behold, his spirit 
 grew melancholy within him, and ho oven turned with 
 a listless eye of indifferent coldness upon the young and 
 simple creature, whose love was little short of adora- 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC. 251 
 
 tion, and who should have been all to him, as, under 
 such circumstances, ho was more than every thing to 
 her. At such moments of despondency on the part 
 of her lover she would employ the gentlest artifices, 
 the tcnderest attentions ; and sing 1 in her own island 
 language, notes, the pathos of which spoke as earnest 
 ly, in the deep and touching emphasis of their tones, 
 as they could possibly have done in the sense of their 
 language. Wooing him to those hollows of the deep, 
 formed by the growth of the coral rocks, her strains, 
 describing their savnge enjoyments, and soothing him 
 for the deprivation of those to which his lifo had been 
 familiar, would sound not unfrequently, as we may 
 suppose, in language like the following : 
 
 Come, seek the ocean s depths with mo, , . ,; 
 
 For there are flowers beneath the sea*; 
 And wandering gems of many a hue, 
 To light thy path and meet thy view. 
 
 And many a pearly shell is there, 
 In hollow bright and water clear ; 
 And amber drops that mermaids weep, 
 In sparry caves along the deep. 
 
 There, with those thousand gems so bright, 
 Thou lt never foci the weight of night; 
 But in one long and sunny day, 
 Thy life in calms shall lapse away. 
 
 It is not much, too well I know, 
 The young Amaya can bestow ; 
 But, if a heart that s truly thine. 
 Is worthy thco, oh! cherish mine. 
 
2f2 Til F BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 And I will sing thoe songs of truth. 
 And teach thco tales of endless youth, 
 Such as our people s prophets hear, 
 When winds and stars aru singing near 
 
 Of regions never prcss d by time, 
 Unknown to griof and free from crime ; 
 Whoso sons, are spirits pure and high, 
 Whoso daughters, beings of the *ky 
 
 Of homos and heaven which, if we prove 
 True ever to our mutual love, 
 Our hearts shall win, where blooms and flower* 
 And fruits shall evermore bo ours. 
 
 Come, let us rove tho silver sands, 
 Nor dream thou of those distant land* 
 Nor teach thy spirit thus to weep, 
 Thy early homo beyond the doep. 
 
 I may not give thec much to move 
 Thy loftier spirit down to love ; 
 Hut mine, alas ! no longer freo, 
 1 give 1 give it all to theo. 
 
 I have no hope, where thou art not 
 No dream, but thou art there tho thought; 
 No single joy, no dread, no fear, 
 Uut thou and 1 aro mingled there. 
 
 And though, as our traditions say, 
 There bloom the worlds of lasting day, 
 I would not care to seek the sky, 
 If there thy spirit did not fly. 
 
 With a sentiment like this, of tho deepest confidence 
 
 tnd lose, did the young uavagc seek to compensate 
 
A LLXiEM) OF Till-: PACIFIC. 
 
 tho Spaniard for the loss of those enjoyments of bis 
 own country, and for those many associations of kin 
 dred and society, which made him often turn upon 
 her a bleak and melancholy eye. 
 
 Nor were her labours in this way altogether without 
 the satisfaction of their most appropriate reward. Her 
 song won him from moody contemplations ; and her 
 love, warm from the heart, and kindling with its truest 
 fires, made the wild blossom around him, and filled 
 him with associations, which, by their variety, serving 
 to divert his thoughts from the one direction, brought 
 his spirit a degree of relief, that supported him in a 
 life, to him, full of privations. 
 
 But a change was about to come over the spirit of 
 their mutual dreams. There came, at last, a tall and 
 stately vessel to his relief, in the approaching canvass 
 and make of which he recognised a countryman, and 
 a new life animated the bosom of Velasquez. The 
 bark came lo anchor, and Amaya heard, with deep 
 sorrow, that prevented all speech, iier lover declare his 
 determination to return once more to his native land. 
 In vain did she entreat, witii a warm tenderness, that 
 was thrown away upon the senses of one too selfish to 
 yield, too cold to feel, too heartless and ungenerous to 
 consider, for an instant, the claims of one, from \vhom 
 ho had derived so much in his solitude, and who had 
 kept back no feeling, no single sentiment, which, shared 
 with him, had yielded a solitary delight. Unpersuaded 
 to remain with her in the secluded abode, so singularly 
 forced upon both of them, she prepared to depart with 
 him ; but what was her surprise and horror, when he 
 assured her such should not be the case ; that, bcncc- 
 22 
 
254 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 forward they should be no more to each other than 
 strangers, for the first time meeting ; and, when urged 
 by the sudden frenzy of the savage, ho told her of en 
 gagement*, and a betrothed in his own land, which 
 forbade their further connection, she forebore all 
 speech, and, with a mournful sternness of manner, the 
 solemn emphasis of which he did not understand, she 
 retired suddenly from his sight. Nor did he experience 
 much regret, when, after a brief and coldly urged 
 search, he fuilcd to find out her place of retreat. 
 
 He had now taken up his abode in the vessel, and 
 had removed on board the treasures, for such they had 
 now become, which he had amassed upon the island. 
 Tho young Indian had been a profitable companion. 
 She had explored the recessed among the rocks, and 
 hud gathered the pearl oysters in abundance, with a 
 skill and coinage known only to the people of her na 
 tion. These, with lavish hand she had given, uncon 
 scious of the value of her gift, into the possession of 
 the traitor, who had so little deserved them ; and had, 
 probably, in this manner, provoked that feeling of ava 
 ricious pride in his bosom, which could not tolerate the 
 idea in his own land, of acknowledging a debt, which 
 must have called for that gratitude, imperatively de 
 manded by nature und humanity, but which would have 
 resulted to him in a forfeiture of caste and condition. 
 Tho selfish spirit triumphed in the struggle ; and, ns we 
 have seen, he did not hesitate to sacrifice the hope and 
 heart of the young creature, whose imagination and heart 
 knew no other inmate or object of regard than himself. 
 
 It was a night of storm and many terrors. Tho tem 
 pest was high, and the fierce lightnings, common to that 
 
A LEGEND OF THE PACIFIC. 255 
 
 latitude, kept up a continued blaze, that seemed to fire 
 the black waters themselves. Secure in a safe anchor 
 age, the Spaniards were rnerry in a deep carouse, for 
 with the morning sun they were to take their departure. 
 The flagon was pledged to many a fair saint in love s 
 calendar; and, with swimming cup, Velasquez in 
 dulged in extravagant dreams of a beautiful Spanish 
 maid, the memory of whom had not entirely departed 
 from him in his solitude. Still he could not entirely 
 stifle the workings of his conscience. There was a 
 sleepless monitor within, that no draught could set at 
 rest; and all in vain did ho seek, in ingenious sophisms, 
 to excuse to himself his proceeding in relation to the 
 young Tndian. It was with this feeling of self-reproach 
 and remorse at work, though half stupefied with the 
 wine he had taken, and surrounded by those entirely 
 under its control, in an interval of silence in the storm, 
 such as so frequently marks it, when it appears to 
 pause in the collection of its scattered terrors, that his 
 ear caught the well-known voice of Amaya, singing 
 mournfully broken stanzas of the song already recited, 
 and which was now familiar to his car. He rushed 
 wildly on the deck of the vessel, for he had a presenti 
 ment of some evil, to which this singular occurrence 
 now appeared to lend confirmation. It came more 
 distinctly to his ear, and with a glance, rendered acute 
 by the active spirit within, he saw, or thought he saw, 
 a form, dimly defined upon the waters, and floating 
 with them. The vessel, too, appeared to be in motion. 
 The song again rose 
 
 ** Come, seek the ocean s depths with me ;" 
 and, with a nameless fear, the Spaniard stood motion* 
 
253 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 loss, mutely gnzing on tho dim and distant *poek from 
 whcnco tho well- known vuico proceeded. On a aud- 
 den ho understood the mystery. The vessel did move, 
 and, driven by tho insidious and powerful current, wtis 
 setting in upon tho f.i-il shoals and coral rocks, which 
 girded in thu bay. The Indian maid hud evidently an 
 agency in this ; and tho Spaniard well conceived, that, 
 f.imiliar as she was with the neighbourhood, nnd 
 prompted by a feeling of desperation, which his con 
 science assured him was tho natural consequence of 
 his desertion, she had employed herself with an indus 
 try that resulted in full success, in cutting with a coral 
 rock tho cable that secured them in their position. Ho 
 rushed below, and sought to arouse tho mariners to 
 their danger. With a stupid sense they heard him, 
 but refused to heed, and, indeed, could not be made to 
 understand, till lifted with a fearful energy among tho 
 rocks, the frail bark reeled and shivered beneath tho 
 shock of their first encounter. Then, indeed, but too 
 late, did they recover their consciousness. Another 
 shock, and she parted her back was broken ami tho 
 waters, with a mad fury, rushed into her sides. Velas 
 quez seized upon a spar, and floated oil* towards the 
 shore. But he was not alone. A wild form swam be 
 side him ; and the song, which invited him to the 
 flowers beneath the sea, had not ceased to thrill in his 
 ears, when the arms of the Indian girl were entwined 
 about his neck ; and, with a laugh, which spoke of a 
 heart-broken revenge, that chimed in well with his own 
 shriek of agony, the lately forsaken Amayu went down 
 to the deep, clinging, with desperate frenzy, to the form 
 of tho perfidious lover, who in vain struggled to be free. 
 
257 
 
 THE GREEN CORN DANCE. 
 
 This is one of the primitive and pleasing festivals common to 
 many of the Indian tribes (if North America ; and presents a 
 pleasing portrait of the naturally devotional temperament of this 
 savage j>coplc. On the first appearance of the green corn from 
 the earth, old and young, male and female, assemble together 
 in their several classes, and, rejoicing in the promise of a good 
 harvest, unite in offering their acknowledgment to the Great 
 Spirit for his beneficence. This is the poetry of truth of religion ; 
 and is one of those fine traits in the habits of every people, how- 
 ever savage, by which they still sccra to, indicate a consciousness, 
 not merely of a superior being, but of a higher hope and destiny 
 for themselves a consciousness, which must always, to a cer 
 tain extent, work out its own fulfilment. 
 
 Come hither, hither, old and young the gentle and the strong, 
 And gather in the green corn dance, and mingle with the song 
 The summer comes, the summer cheers, and with a spirit gay, 
 We bless the smiling boon she bears, and thus her gifts repay. 
 
 Eagle from the mountain, 
 Proudly descend ! 
 
 Young dove from the fountain, 
 Ilithcrword bend 
 
 Bright eye of tho bower 
 
 Bird, and bud, and flower, 
 Come while beneath tho summer s sunny glance, 
 Tho green loaf peeps from earth, and mu.gle in tho dance. 
 
 Not now reluctant do wo come to gladden in tho boon, 
 Tho gentle summer brings us now, so lavishly and soon 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 From every distant village, and from deep secluded glen, . 
 They gather to the green corn dunce, bright maids and warrior 
 
 men. 
 Of the grave, the gravest, 
 
 Smiling, now come 
 Of the brave, the bravest- 
 Give the bravo room. 
 LofticMt in station, 
 Sweetest of the nation, 
 
 Come while bcncnth the summer s sunny glance, 
 The green blade peeps from earth, and minglu in the dance. 
 
 Now give the choral song und ghaut, and let the green wood* ring/ 
 And wo will make a merry rout to usher in the spring 
 Sing high, and while the happy mans in many a ring gocn round, 
 The birds shall cheer, the woods shall hear, and all the hilt* re 
 sound. 
 Fathers, who have taught us 
 
 Ably our toil, 
 For the blessing brought us, 
 
 Share with us the spoil 
 Spirit-God above UH, 
 Deign thou Mill to love us, 
 While long beneath the summer s sunny glance, 
 We sec the green corn spring from earth, und gather in the dance* 
 
259 
 
 A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Happening at the city of Charleston, in South Caro 
 lina, some few years ngo, and in the course of my 
 examination of all the peculiarities of that interesting 
 region, I took advantage of the first pleasant summer 
 afternoon, to pay a visit to Sullivan s Island, the site of 
 one of the earliest and best fought battles of our revo 
 lution. I stepped, at the proper hour, on board the 
 little steamer plying between the city and the island, 
 amidst a largo assemblage of clegantts and negligees^ 
 infants and invalids. Some were in search of fresh air, 
 some health, some pleasure and relief from business, 
 and not a few for Point-house punch and billiards. My 
 object differed something from these, as these severally 
 from each other; but though differing thus, all seemed 
 most harmoniously to agree in the desire of escape from 
 the suffocating heats of the city; and a general feeling of 
 good nature came over us all as the ringing of the last 
 bell prefaced our hurried departure from the wharf. At 
 the moment of our departure, a like movement by the 
 rival boat from the wharf below us, promised a handsome 
 race, as the boats went off evenly together. The in 
 terest excited by such a contest, the fresh breeze wind 
 ing freely around us as wo rushed fairly into the 
 beautiful bay, that swells boldly and broadly before the 
 city, together with the general picturesque grouped out 
 
SCO TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 before us in the various scenery of that fine harbour, 
 gave a lively charm to the scene, that relieved the in 
 valid, and aroused the indolent and indifferent into an 
 emotion very like that of a pleasure. We rapidly passed 
 in succession the vessels at their moorings, the packets 
 on their flight, the rival steamer, CuHtlc Pincknoy, with 
 its brick walls, shclvy hcach and dismounted cannon, 
 and in thirty-five minutes wore at the island cove, with 
 out finding our voyage of some five miles and a half 
 either very long or very tedious. 
 
 I strolled with the more youthful and sportive of our 
 fellow passengers up to the house at the inner point of 
 the island, and facing the city, called the Point House, 
 and, 
 
 M as WOH my custom of an afternoon," 
 
 called for my " pint o* purl, * which together with a fine 
 green cabanna, I discussed with a very fair amount of 
 self-satisfaction. The public, however, rapidly growing 
 filled with the living and laughing cargo of hoth steam 
 ers, and as I detest a squeeze where more than two are 
 concerned, 
 
 tt I nhook, 
 
 From out my pocket * avaricious nook, 
 Sui no certain coius of silver," 
 
 with which, 
 
 Thanks to the immortal bard from whom I quote, 
 For helping me thus far, u I jwiid my shot,** 
 
 and proceeded at once upon my pilgrimage. 
 
A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. 2G 1 
 
 " Want a hack, mosser," cried the obsequious whip, 
 standing, reins in hand before inc. 
 
 " To bo sure I do, Jupiter Ammon," 
 
 I replied, jumping into tho smart gig, and at a word, 
 following iho direction given by tho dozen like vehicles 
 that skirted over tho fine drive along tho beach, from 
 which the tide was rapidly retiring. This is a inogni- 
 ilccnt drive, and yields at the same moment a pleasing 
 view of the city in the distance; the sea, which spreads 
 out in mighty volume before you, and the scattering but 
 lively village, about which you wind. 
 
 It may be advisable, though perhaps not altogether 
 necessary, to inform the reader, that the modern is by no 
 means the ancient Fort Moultrie, so famous in our re 
 volutionary annals for tho fine defence which it made, 
 even before our declaration of independence, against 
 the British fleet under Sir Peter Parker. Wo know it 
 in history as a rude structure of palmetto logs, the 
 growth of the island, and all that it can produce, mor 
 ticed clumsily together in squares, and filled in and up 
 with sand. This is not the case with tho structure now- 
 a-days. All that it retains of the olden time is the name, 
 and, of course, the ever-glorious prateritorium memoria 
 cventorunii of which nothing can deprive it. The pal 
 mettos are all gone from the fort, and, nearly from the 
 island, having been found a lucrative source of trade, 
 and having given way to a rage for building summer 
 dwellings in that salubrious region of retreat. The mo 
 dern battlements are composed chiefly of brick, present 
 ing a somewhat imposing, and at the present day, a 
 rather martial appearance, having recently undergone 
 
2G2 TIU: HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 large and striking improvements. The garrison, how 
 ever, is small, and scarcely more than adequate to a Balute 
 upon the national holiday. There is little more about 
 them at present to strike the spectator, and hut for the 
 ever-grateful association which they must still maintain 
 in the mind of the American, along with the thousand 
 altar-places of lihcrty in our country, they might for 
 ever have been unknown and untrodden by me. But 
 under that hallowing and inspiring influence, having first 
 discharged Jupiter Ammon and his hack, I sat myself 
 down upon ono of the old twcnty-four-poundcrs that 
 looked grimly from the battlements, and yielded myself 
 to the thousand far-searching fancies that grew upon 
 the situation. One thought after another came crowd- 
 ing upon me, and 1 lingered, stretched at length, upon 
 the engine of war, looking up from sea to sky; on both 
 of which, the rich and mellowing hues of nn evening 
 southern sun, were spread out lavishly and light, like 
 the almost living garments of heavenly looms. Below 
 me, scattered here and there along the beach, strolled 
 the various crowds, late my fellow passengers, employ 
 ed in the endeavour to make the most of the brief inter 
 val of time allotted them between the arrival and the 
 departure of the steamers. Gradually, however, as the 
 light began to grow more delicate and faint, and there 
 fore more surpassingly beautiful, in the western heavens, 
 and as the airs of evening carno more freshly, and spoke 
 in louder tones of muttering from the booming waters, 
 their numbers grew less; and finally, but here and there 
 could the strangling wayfarer be perceived, darkening 
 with the shadow of a giant the white and tapering shore 
 of sand, that spread, far as the eye could reach, in the 
 
A SCENE OF THE REVOLUTION. 263 
 
 distance around me. These few, also, disappeared in a 
 little while, and I was left alone to those musings which 
 bring more added satisfaction when enjoyed in the most 
 perfect solitude. The scene, of which I now seemed to 
 be the sole partaker, was certainly of that character, 
 which, if not interrupted in its influence, will never fail 
 to win the heart and all its thoughts to a highly refined 
 and touching, but still pleasing melancholy. All things 
 contributed to this end: the fur city, like a broken cloud 
 in the distance, gilded gently by the last smiles of the 
 sun; the unceasing, low and monotonous beatings of 
 the sea, spread out before me in the undcfmablo and 
 dim distance, like our ideas of eternity; the soothing 
 softness and gentle murmurings, in its most mysterious 
 tones, of the evening breeze, gathering itself up from the 
 bosom of the waters not forgetting the high and in- 
 spiriting associations brought by tho genius loci all 
 conspired to infuse into my mind, naturally given to 
 such wanderings, a dreamy kind of insensibility, thai 
 at length wrought within me a total forgetfulness of 
 my whereabouts, time, place and circumstance, and 
 lifted me into those regions of romance, so inspiring at 
 all periods of time, but so foreign to tho matter-of-fact 
 of ours. 
 
 Gradually tho whole scene underwent a change be 
 fore my view so gradually, indeed, that, until tho 
 transition was complete in all its parts, I remained 
 perfectly unconscious of its going on. Strange lights 
 were before me strange noises in my ears, and faces 
 glancing to and fro within my sight to which I was en 
 tirely unfamiliar. The fort itself seemed to have been 
 changed. In place of tho level plat of folding and 
 
264 THE ROOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 long grass which had so gratified my eye, as it re 
 ceived my form, capping the regularly and scien 
 tifically built battlements, I saw little more than 
 huge masses of sand. The twenty-four pounder, too, 
 upon which, won by its pacific appearance, I had seat 
 ed myself ere while, now appeared to huvo put on an 
 aspect the most antique and ferocious. The works 
 around gave no token of a very extended degree of 
 civilisation in the art of war; and presented, on the 
 contrary, the appearance of just such an enclosure as 
 one would expect to see raised in the forest, by the 
 pioneer, for temporary protection from the onslaught 
 of the Indian. All was heavy, elaborate, and unsci 
 entific. The great body of the fort was composed of 
 palmetto trees, the tops stricken off, and the trunks 
 roughly hewn and dovetailed at their extremities one 
 into the other, forming a square, of some ten or twelve 
 feet or more, the spaces between being filled up with 
 sand, cither in huge narks, or shovelled in without. 
 There was something foreign exclusively foreign 
 in the flag itself, which BUT mounted the incongruous 
 fortification. There were no stars, nor btripen, nor 
 eagles, but a bunncrct of a blue ground, with a silver 
 crescent in one corner. Centrally, however, the word 
 " Liberty" appeared neatly worked upon it, as by the 
 hands of a fair lady. The interior of the fort presented 
 a prospect fully us picturesque as this. Forming a 
 triangle, three palmetto trees, still in verdure, waved 
 their pliant umbrella tops above four rows of white 
 tuit.--, from which, at intervals, and without any order, 
 issued numerous small bodies of inilitia-inen in various 
 guises, half military, half civil. Some of them wore 
 
A SCENE OP THE KUVOLUT1ON. 265 
 
 caps of tho most fantastic make, domestic evidently, 
 and of fox and coon skins. Others again, aspiring to 
 something more of uniform in their arrangements, had 
 on head dresses, of tho glazed leather now familiarly 
 known, on which the word * liberty * was imprinted in 
 huge yellow capitals. Groups of officers, heio and 
 there upon the battlements, gazed intently through 
 telescopes at some distant objects upon the sea, to 
 whoso appearance and approximation we were evi 
 dently indebted for all the excitement and commotion 
 afoot. Martial music rung out cheerily, at intervals, 
 along the old battlements, infusing a sentiment, of life 
 and animation into all around, and of the increasing 
 influence of which, I felt my own spirit momentarily 
 partaking. As yet, however, I could not exactly real 
 ise the nature of my situation or of the things about 
 inc. I ^new none of the faces which I then saw they 
 had an ancient, if not a foreign air; and their dress, in 
 comparison with my own, was of the most antique fash 
 ion. Unwittingly, however, though I could compre 
 hend nothing of the true meaning of the scene, I had 
 engaged along with others in the performance of its 
 duties. As I did this, I began to make acquaintances. 
 Some, I appeared as intimate with as if I had known 
 them a thousand years ; and while I felt, all at once, 
 perfectly at home, I knew so little of tho matter I was 
 engaged in, that I could not avoid making a comparison 
 of my own pursuit with that of the soldier, to whom 
 all causes were the same so that he got the fighting, 
 who frequently changed sides during an engagement, 
 returned as found by the one and missing by the other. 
 But I bad no reason for doubt long. An increased 
 23 .-.* > 
 
2CG THE HOOK OF MY LAD v. 
 
 clang of martial instruments hurried our preparations, 
 oral standing at a gun with hundreds of others, the 
 whole truth burst at onco upon my understanding. 
 There came, in fearless pomp, a well appointed anna- 
 mont. Ship after ship, a strong array, armed with 
 storm and thunder. It was the red cross of old Eng 
 land that came on to the assault it was the infant 
 phalanx of Carolina, as a colony, that prepared to 
 contend with her. I felt 1 saw the whole mystery, 
 in a moment, as by some familiar instinct ; and awe, 
 delight, u wild, sweet anxiety all struggled con- 
 fuuetlly in my bosom. 1 felt the inspiration of battle 
 the rapture of the strife. The faces around, each 
 differing in general expression, had also the same fea 
 ture of enthusiasm with mine. There was one stern, 
 strong mat) thut hud us in command. That was Moul- 
 trie. There was no child s-play in In.-, features, though, 
 except when roused, they wore a decidedly apathetic 
 expression. His face was broad, large, and comprc- 
 hensive his forehead, high and comprehensive his 
 lips rompies-ed with the concentrated energies of a 
 character strikingly distinguished for its firmness. Ho 
 came and spoke to us, and but few words. Hut they 
 were words of might of a man. Wo cheered him, as 
 he npokc, without knowing it, and he went from group 
 to group, and from gun to gun, and there was no 
 flinching spirit after he had spoken. As the danger 
 grew more evident and unavoidable, anticipation found 
 increased expansion and activity, as night, on the ap 
 proach of day, puts on her darker and more imperial 
 aspect. Our magazine was now thrown open 
 our arms in readiness our Hug run up on the heights. 
 
A SCENE OP THE REVOLUTION. 267 
 
 Marshalled with others, I took my place about the 
 rude embrasure, through which we thrust, well-shotted, 
 an English eighteen pounder, not doubting, that, like 
 ourselves, it would have no unwillingness to do duty 
 against its former proprietors and, indeed, to do it all 
 possible justice, throughout the whole of the contest, 
 from beginning to end, it exhibited not the slightest 
 reluctance. And now we stood and this was the 
 moment of fear and anxiety awaiting the awful mo 
 ment. It is not often that men grow impatient at the 
 approach of the enemy, and yet, I feel, such was our 
 enthusiasm, that there were but few, if any, among us, 
 who, however conscious as were we all that the time 
 was big with events, not only of moment, but for 
 which we were almost entirely unprepared, yet felt any 
 apprehension of its consequences, or any great desire 
 to get away from them. But we were not suffered to 
 remain long in suspense. On came the foe, in a regu 
 lar line, to the struggle. First, leading the van, camo 
 the Active, of twenty-eight guns, keeping her way, till 
 within four hundred yards of our little fortress, then 
 anchoring, with springs on her cables, giving us a 
 broadside which went clear over us. Following the 
 same course, came the flag ship Bristol, of fifty guns, 
 under the command of Sir Peter Parker, himself then. 
 the Experiment of fijty, the Solcbay, the Syren, the 
 Acteon, all of twenty-eight guns the Sphinx, the 
 Friendship, each of twenty-six the Thunder bomb, 
 and a host of supernumeraries a formidable armament, 
 to be sure, and one well calculated to provoke mis 
 givings in the minds of those having the highest pos 
 sible opinion of British valour and a British fleet, and 
 
208 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 themselves wholly unaccustomed to war. But when 
 we involuntarily bent our oycs to where lay our fair 
 and lovely city, rising, almost like another Venice, 
 from the bosom of the .sea when we saw the crowd of 
 friends and fellow citizens the thousands covering its 
 battlements temporally made like our own watching 
 anxiouBly the manner of our performances when, too, 
 under the influence of an imagination, ever obedient 
 to the excited sense, and assuming, on such an occa 
 sion, the powers of a winged spirit we could perceive 
 the emotions of their souls in visible array upon their 
 faces and could sec the hope, the fear, and that worst 
 agony of all, the dreadful suspense which gave to these 
 antagonist elements the full sway of the heart for their 
 warfare painting visibly their deep interest in our 
 fight there was no shrinking among us. Our strug 
 glc was literally for them I do not believe we thought 
 of ourselves at that moment. How long they were to 
 remain unemployed, was problematical; but, according 
 to the most currently received opinions of British 
 prowess, the overture of our palmetto fortress, was 
 held only preparatory to the mightier issue of the 
 main ; and with a hope, which was yet as much a 
 doubt as a hope, that wo should be able to do some 
 thing towards taking the sting from the invader, we 
 braced our souls to the strife, and looked fearlessly 
 forth upon our enemy. 
 
 Let us survey the conflict. Let us witness the young 
 giant in his morning throw. Let us sec if he bears 
 himself manfully as becomes the cause for which he 
 encounters such visible odds. Tho ships of the ene 
 my advance in heavy array to the battle, like so many 
 
A 8CENK OP THE REVOLUTION. 269 
 
 storm-bringing clouds ; yet, how beautiful is their ap 
 proach with all the calmness that might be supposed 
 the result of a perfect consciousness of certain victory. 
 Playfully, the blue waters break away from before their 
 prows how silent how awfully serene is the pros 
 pect. Can they come for the purposes of strife. 
 Where are the ensigns of battle whore is the fury 
 the storm the thunder? Yet, the very silentncss of 
 their approach indicates their object. Though calm 
 and winning their gallant bearing though the waters 
 and the sky are unruillcd, terror, muffled up in clouds, 
 rides threateningly in the distance. Yet, where is 
 their enemy, and with whom would they contend? 
 What foe stands forth for the conflict what ensign 
 floats royally in the air what trumpet speaks the de 
 fiance of a rival, confident in prowess, and well known 
 in the slaughter field of nations ? Thus free, to all 
 appearance, from any opposition, did the fleet of old 
 England advance to tho attack upon her refractory 
 colony. The eagle had not yet spread forth her wings 
 amongst tho stars, and the banner of Carolina, in her 
 first field, was a simple strip of blue cloth, bearing a 
 silver crescent. This little ensign waved silently over 
 the palmetto battlements, humbly proportionate to 
 itself. Few were the hearts, and anxiously did they 
 beat, within that enclosure ; but they were firm and 
 fearless, and gallantly devoted to tho danger. As yet, 
 little appears to indicate tho approaching conflict no 
 bugle calls to arms no knightly challenge is heard. 
 Death is the bearer of his own summons, and he comes 
 in silence to bis repast. God of the battle-storm, how 
 
 terrible art thou ! 
 
 23* 
 
270 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 It was at this moment of repose, that my attention 
 was called to ono of my comrades, whose name was 
 M Danic). As I turned to the salutation, I could not 
 help being struck with the contradictory expression of 
 a countenance, scarcely yet marked with the imposing 
 lines of manhood. His appearance was, indeed, re 
 markably boyish, even for his years, which were few ; 
 and his face was full of blood, and softly and attract 
 ively rounded. Still, his person was of the most manly 
 make sturdy, broad-chested, and athletic. As he 
 spoke there was a degree of tremulous sadness in the 
 tone of his voice, prevailing above the studied gaiety 
 of his address. There was too, a dewy suffusion upon 
 his long cyc-lashcs, which wus sadly at variance with 
 what might be looked for in the expression of a soldier. 
 His object in addressing me was curiously melancholy. 
 It was to make one of those contracts, not unfrcqueritly 
 entered into by soldiers upon the eve of an engage 
 ment, when a presentiment of death warns them to a 
 testament of their last wishes and eflects. In the 
 trade of blood, such events are of frequent occurrence, 
 and add another to the thousand testimonies against a 
 profession, deriving its character and importance en 
 tirely from the miseries of humanity. 
 
 " I shall fall," said he, mournfully. u I know it. I 
 have had my warning, and there s no use to argue with 
 me upon the matter. I am as perfectly convinced that 
 I shall perish in this day s fight, as if I had seen it 
 written upon the heavens." 
 
 " And what is the warning you have had what 
 shape did it assume ; and from what testimonies would 
 you infer its authority thus to prepare you ?" 
 
A SCENE OP THE REVOLUTION. 271 
 
 14 You would laugh, perhaps, wero I to undertake 
 to array them to your mind, because, (o the common 
 thought all evidence not conclusive and substantial, 
 would necessarily be rejected. But I am disposed to 
 believe that there is a higher connection between the 
 worlds of humanity and spirits, than we are generally 
 willing to assert or acknowledge. I am satisfied too, that 
 the soul sometimes asserts its freedom long before its 
 escape from the clay, and taking, in anticipation, the 
 wings to which it shall shortly lay claim, arrives at the 
 conviction of the truth, in advance of its own presence. 
 Perhaps this is now my case, for, beyond the irresistible 
 mental conviction, and one or two positive, but as you 
 will say, trifling circumstances, I have no other reason 
 for the strong faith that is within me." 
 
 * And what are these other circumstances ?" 
 
 He took his watch from his fob, and pointing to the 
 shattered chrystal, replied 
 
 " As I left my quarters this morning, I took this 
 watch, the gift of my father, from my pocket, simply 
 to ascertain the hour. As I looked upon it, a film 
 overspread my own vision a sudden dizziness, as it 
 were, and when objects became again distinct, as in 
 a moment after they did, I found the glass shattered, 
 without stroke or blow, in the manner in which it now 
 appears. This you will, of course, hold a trifle. It 
 may be so, but it has its influence upon me, and leads 
 me to the belief that it is ominous of my approaching 
 fate. If I fall, therefore, which I myself doubt not, 
 carry my farewell to my poor mother, and give her 
 this little bag containing a sum of money, which, 
 (bough small in itself, will, nevertheless, be an item of 
 
272 THE BOOK OK MY LAD*. 
 
 some importance to her. The watch you will wear 
 yourself, in return for another favour, which, after 
 death, I shall need at your hands. Have me taken to 
 the city for burial, if that be possible. I would not like 
 to be thrust rudely into these sand-hills, burrowed after 
 by birds, or laid bare by tempests." 
 
 I found all argument vain ; and, ir.deed, we had not 
 time for much, if any. 1 received his little dcposite at 
 last, and he was satisfied. Our colloquy was discon 
 tinued, as we were now called to the performance of 
 our several duties. We were both stationed at the 
 same gun, and many were the glances which 1 cast 
 upon his countenance, but it had now nothing dispirit* 
 cd in it. The enthusiasm of strife hud removed all 
 trace of gloom from his features. The settled deter 
 mination of true courage, alone, was there to be seen, 
 in the contracted brow, the compressed lip, the dis 
 tended nostril. 
 
 The signal is at last given the suspense is over 
 the action is begun, and one wild interminable terror 
 shakes the late peaceful waters. The iron rattles upon 
 our tottering fabric, whoso voice is scarce heard in re 
 ply. It is almost silenced, for such is our poverty, that 
 an adequate quantity of powder had not been, and 
 could not be, provided, without too greatly subtracting 
 from the defence of the city. A stern old officer came 
 to us in the wildest of the confusion. 
 
 " How now," he exclaimed * you use up powder 
 as if it were punch ; have you no more respect for 
 the enemy than to give them so much powder and so 
 little ball ? Your discharges arc quite too frequent it 
 will not do. You must shoot more truly and more 
 
A SC KNE OF THE REVOLUTION. 273 
 
 slowly ;" and carefully adjusting our cannon before its 
 discharge, lie sighted it himself, and watched its effect) 
 as it unerringly drove through the thick ribs of the 
 huge vessel riding before us. l That will do," said he, 
 as he left us, proceeding in like manner to each can- 
 nonier along the battlements. Who would have known 
 ;he stern, almost apathetic, Moultrie, in the easy, the 
 almost playful alacrity of the veteran who had just led 
 us. 
 
 We now regulated the piece by turns M Daniel 
 and myself. It was for my comrade to perform 
 this office. He bent himself along the gun, slightly 
 varied its range, and as he drew his form Up to its 
 height, our whole fort reeled beneath a general broad 
 side from the entire fleet of the enemy. Our gun, un 
 discharged, rushed back from the embrasure, throwing 
 me, with several others, upon the rugged platform, 
 some feet below us. A sudden cry of dismay ran like 
 fire along the line. " The flag is shot away it is 
 down all is over.** I bent my eyes instinctively to the 
 merlin on which it rested. It was indeed gone. I 
 felt, I know not how. I was mad like the wild boar 
 stung by the serpent ; for the loud huzzas of the 
 British could be distinctly heard, as they witnessed 
 what they considered our defeat. On a sudden, how 
 ever, the flag was again elevated, and waving in the 
 sight of all. A slight dark form was beheld, amidst 
 the hottest fire, binding it upon the staff, with the silk 
 handkerchief which had enveloped his neck. All 
 knew him by that handkerchief, which, from its pecu 
 liarity had heretofore identified him. It was Jasper 
 the daring Sergeant Jasper. . He succeeded. The flag 
 
274 TUB BOOK OF KY LADY. 
 
 was firmly knotted to the itufT, and he descended in 
 safety, after an exposure of nevcral seconds to the most 
 dangerous fire. The shouts were vociferous along our 
 fortress. A faint voice, after nil other voices had ceased, 
 repeated the " huzza" at my bide. I shuddered, uncon 
 sciously, as I heard it, and turning, beheld my comrade 
 almost torn to pieces, Huzza !" once more exclaim 
 ed the dying man u huzza ! I am dying, but don t let 
 the cause of liberty die with me !"* 
 
 The words run through my veins like electricity. I 
 shouted them aloud and in a moment, Liberty ! 
 liberty or death !" rung terrifically along our buttle- 
 ments. Every voice repeated it ; and in that moment 
 of the most savage terror, I felt that we all realised the 
 " rapture of the strife 1 an enjoyment not peculiar to 
 Alaric. Every gun was discharged with the shout, and 
 with an effect the most fearful and decided. The vessel 
 of the commodore was almost lifted from the water ; 
 her stays were shot away, and she swung round, with 
 her bowsprit directly upon the guns of the fort. A 
 voice went up from the line all heard it, yet none 
 knew whence it cnine. " Look to the commodore, my 
 boys remember M k Daniel." Every gun that could bo 
 made to bear upon this fated ship attested the warm 
 recognition given to the direction, and three successive 
 discharges went through her before she could be right 
 ed. She was raked foro and aft. Her quarter deck 
 was cleared of every officer but Sir Peter Parker him 
 self, and he fell severely wounded. She was bored in 
 every direction by the bullets, and the blood ran smok- 
 
 * Historical. 
 
A SCENE OF THE HEVOLUTION. 275 
 
 ing in large streams from her scuppers, and bubbling 
 upon the black and reeling waters around her. Vainly 
 does the gallant chief, bleeding and almost alone, call 
 upon his followers for the honour of old England. The 
 courage of desperation is in his eye he cheers, fights, 
 soothes, and imprecates, but in vain. They will hear, 
 they will obey him no longer dead or dying around 
 him, even the name of old England the recollections 
 of past glory the recollections of their homes will 
 arouse them no more. God of battles, how terrible art 
 thou ! 
 
 The cloud is gone from above the fearful scene. 
 Can it be true ? Have the warriors of Britain deserted 
 the combat, shorn of glory and victory, by such young 
 adventurers in the race of fame ? Look again ! The 
 sight is grateful to freedom. What fitter offering for 
 her shrine than the blood of the oppressor -what in 
 cense more grateful than the burning fleets of invasion. 
 They sunk before us as the prairie grass before the fire 
 they took no laurels on that consuming field. The 
 siing of the shepherd had overthrown the gladiator of 
 war ! 
 
 Seldom, O ! Victory, hath thy bird of triumph settled 
 down upon the banners of the just. Thou hast follow 
 ed, with ungenerous spirit, in the wake of empire and 
 aggression. Thy beak bath been whetted upon the 
 hearts of the free, and thy talons are yet dripping with 
 the life-blood of freedom. Thou hadst no wing for 
 liberty. Thou hast carried no weapon for the avenging 
 of human wrong. Thou hast been the ally of bold 
 Tyranny and consuming Carnage, and hast drunken of 
 human suffering as of an ocean, until the old world has 
 
276 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 been peopled with the widow and the orphan. Well is 
 it for man and humanity that in the New thou art endea 
 vouring to retrace thy path, and redeem the errors of 
 the Old. There is now a better hope for the nation?, 
 since, long obedient to the dictates of usurpation, thou 
 hast deserted him at last. Thou hast given in this, a 
 new guarantee of life and liberty to man, and a new pledge 
 of a more elevated, and a more lasting glory ! 
 ******** 
 
 " They have fled they are gone !" I shouted aloud 
 triumphantly. " Ay, ay, sir, both the Charleston" 
 and " Macon"* have gone three hours ago, and you ll 
 not find a packet now, on any terms ;" waa the some 
 what unceremonious, and certainly unlooked for, speech 
 of a tall fellow in the United States uniform, who now 
 stood before me. I rubbed my eyes, and as 1 looked 
 upon the broad sheet of water before me, on which the 
 moon had spread a thin and beautiful garment of fret- 
 tod silver, I saw through the whole mystery. 
 
 44 Sir !" said I, half stupid and scarcely well awake, 
 arising from the groHsy mound upon which 1 had lain. 
 
 " Ay, sir, the boats have all left you full three 
 hours ago. You will have to nleep on the island to 
 night, though, to bo reasonable, your nap has been 
 something long already. You seemed to enjoy it so 
 well that I could not find it in my heart to wake you." 
 
 " Too polite by half," was my involuntary exclama 
 tion, as I set off to look out lodgings for the rest of the 
 night. 
 
 * The two steamers plying at that period between the city of 
 CharlcHton and Sullivan * Island. 
 
277 
 
 THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 
 
 Among the Choctaws of Mississippi, blood for blood 
 is studiously insisted upon, unless the shedding of it 
 take place in a fair and equal fight. It id made legiti 
 mate by this circumstance only. The desire of justice 
 among this people* and in reference to themselves, is 
 productive of frequent events, startling, from their scru 
 pulous morality, to the less exact Christian. An in 
 stance of this nature came under my own observation. 
 Travelling in the state of Mississippi, some few years 
 since, I found, after a long and fatiguing ride over bad 
 and lonely roads, that I was at length approaching 
 something that savoured of a human settlement. The 
 marks of man are easily known in tho wilderness, long 
 ere you approach his habitations. The long worm 
 fence, the openings between the trees, the unimpeded 
 sweep of the winds through tho clear open space, tho 
 lowing of distant cattle, and, now and then, the shrill 
 halloo of the farmer s boy, articulated in half the num 
 ber of instances entirely to diminish tho solitude spread 
 ing about him, are sufficient indications ; and on the 
 present occasion, they became, if not n positive plea 
 sure, an object of no little importance and gratification. 
 My ill humour at my long day s travel began to dissi 
 pate ; and what with meditating upon the smoking 
 supper at hand, of ham and eggs, fresh butter, and 
 24 
 
278 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 round and glowing biscuits of now Ohio flour, and 
 the promise of a sweet night s rest after the fatigues of 
 the day, it appeared to mo, that happiness, after all 
 at least for a time was no such difficult matter to bo 
 met with. At length the cottage appeared in sight 
 kept by a half-breed the supper ready, and I, nothing 
 loth, busily engaged in its discussion. 
 
 I partook of my repast itt comparative silence. The 
 character of the Indian is any thing but commu 
 nicative as indeed must be the character of every 
 insulated people, whoso solo pursuit, like that of tho 
 chase, keeps them for ever in solitude. The first step 
 towards their civilisation, must be tho change of their 
 occupation ; a mutter not so easily effected, as it will 
 call for laborious and new exorcises from those who 
 havo never scon tho necessity of labour before. JJut I 
 digress. I ato my supper in silence. My host, though 
 only half an Indian, partook, in this particular, of tho 
 peculiarities of tho pcoplo with whom ho dwelt; nnd a 
 sullen independence, by taking from him tho necessity 
 of society, throw him upon his own resources, and, 
 while tho mind may havo still been most actively em 
 ployed, tho tonguo had learned to forgot its better pur 
 poses. Tho Indian half-breed is, indeed, something 
 more taciturn, and certainly more sullen than tho In 
 dian himself. Like this latter, his words arc always 
 sparing, very significant, and nover uttered unnecessa 
 rily his looks are always ferocious ho possesses, in 
 short, added to the savage mood of tho Indian, the cun 
 ning, tho caution, and the meanness, so markedly tho 
 characteristic of the low and huckstering white. Such 
 was my host. He sat before me at tho head of tho 
 
THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 279 
 
 board, eating only occasionally. His consort, a stout, 
 sullen woman of tho tribe, with a flat head and nose, 
 and a most unfavourable aspect, stood behind him dur 
 ing the progress of supper, and waited upon us. The 
 looks of both of these, as well as of two young and 
 rather good looking savages, who sat in one corner of 
 the apartment, were full of a distinct sadness. Though 
 naturally gloomy arid stern enough, I could yet see that 
 something unusual had taken place, and accordingly, as 
 soon as the repast was over, I enquired of the youngest 
 of the group as to the cause of present appearances. 
 From him I gathered the following, something novel, 
 and, in my opinion, highly interesting narrative. 
 
 There had been, it appears, a practice for some time 
 prevalent with tho white planters, having settlements 
 immediately contiguous to the Indians, of planting more 
 cotton than their own slaves could gather ; and when 
 this was the case, Indian women were usually cm- 
 ployed in furnishing the necessary additional assistance. 
 
 In this manner, and for this object, Col. H , a 
 
 wealthy planter in the neighbourhood, had given em 
 ployment to a large body of Indian women and girls, 
 some forty or fifty, on his settlement, and there they 
 had been for some days busily engaged in the several 
 tasks assigned them. Their husbands and brothers 
 occasionally came to amuse themselves, by the contem 
 plation of their labouring relatives- solicitous, as they 
 are always found, of places and occasions for gathering 
 and festivity. Under the usual habits of this region, it 
 was but natural that the worthy colonel, whose hospitality 
 was proverbial, should give some refreshments to bis 
 visitors, and this he accordingly did, in the questionable 
 
280 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 shape of whiskey and tobacco. The jug was placed 
 before them, and there was no withstanding it. They 
 all, with the exception of a single man, named Mevvan- 
 to, became, in a short time, completely intoxicated. 
 Mewanto was a wonderful youth, even among hi* peo 
 ple one of the most promising of his tribe. To have 
 resisted in this way, alone, and such a dangerous and 
 sweeping influence, of itself, must sustain for him no 
 moderate pretensions to a strong and elevated charac 
 ter. But more than this. Mewanto was not altogether 
 satisfied with being himself abstemious. He exercised 
 his energies to the utmost, in the endeavour to prevent 
 his people from the sad exposure of their weakness, to 
 which they were inevitably tending but in vain ; and 
 with a more individual feeling, the patriotic savage 
 turned his sole attention to a closely intimate and very 
 dear friend a youth named Oolatibbc, who, led away 
 like the rest by the temptation, had bartered the more 
 manly energies of their primitive character, for the 
 gross indulgence which was defiling them nil so rapidly. 
 He strove, ever) against hope, for a loni* time, to pre 
 vent this youth from continuing the practice so fatally 
 begun. Hut the influence of ihe custom, and (he ex 
 ample of the many, proved more effective than the 
 wholesome advice, and the warm entreaties of friend 
 ship ; and Oolutihbe, in despite of all exhortations, be 
 came momentarily more and more intoxicated. Me 
 wanto, with some difficulty, led him away from the 
 thicket in which their carous il* were carried on, and, 
 in a tone of warmth, sufficiently warranted, us he 
 thought, by the intimacy between them, in the plain 
 language of truth, sought to persuade him of the dan- 
 
TUB CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 28 1 
 
 ger and error of his present indulgence. He spoke 
 with a good deal of that native eloquence which is said 
 to distinguish the Indian, and for which he himself was 
 greatly distinguished, and did not spare the whites, for 
 the introduction of an agent, which he said had withered 
 their fortunes and nation, even as the blasts of Decem 
 ber wither their leaves and flowers. The drunken 
 man heard him with a stupid sort of attention for some 
 time, but starting suddenly at length, as if ho had just 
 then encountered some fearful object, he tore the knife 
 from his belt, and without a word, plunged it deeply 
 and fatally into the bosom of his counsellor, who fell 
 dead upon the spot. The murderer, after a momentary 
 stupor, grew conscious and sobered. The body of his 
 friend was before him the bloody and yet streaming 
 knife in his hand ; and the liquor, which had hereto 
 fore maddened, now left him to a perfectly restored 
 capacity of consciousness. A single shriek or howl, 
 indicative in itself, from long usage, of some horrible 
 matter, and peculiar to the savages, was tho result of 
 his first awakening to sense and sensibility. That cry 
 brought all the Indians around, now almost equally 
 sobered with himself. Mewanto was a gieat chief and 
 well beloved, and they looked upon the spectacle of 
 blood with a general sentiment of terror. A loud and 
 wild cry called the party together, and the criminal 
 preceded them to the great council of the nation. He 
 delivered himself up voluntarily to death, and no re 
 straint was placed upon him. None was deemed ne 
 cessary. 
 
 "To-morrow," said my informant in conclusion, 
 he will be shot." 
 
 24* 
 
282 TUE BOOK OF JA\ LADY. 
 
 44 And where is be now ?" said I to the speaker, 
 anxious to gather from him as much as 1 could, before 
 his garrulity should be utterly exhausted. 
 " lie sits beside you," was the reply. 
 I started, and beheld a noble locking youth, not more 
 than twenty yearn of age, whoso Hue countenance had 
 caught my attention before sitting down to supper. 
 He sat silent, and seemingly calm und undisquieted, in 
 the corner, speaking occasionally with one who sat 
 beside him. Tin: question rone involuntarily to my 
 lips, for ho was perfectly unbound and unguarded. 
 
 " And will he not escape, and why do they not con- 
 fine him?" 
 
 " No use. He cannot fly, for the law is so, and ho 
 knows that he must die. Oolutibbc is a brave chief." 
 1 was struck with the strong sense of retributive justice 
 which this sentence implied. -Do not unto others 
 which you would not that others should do unto you," 
 seemed here in rather belter practice than with some 
 Christian provinces. Curious to ascertain something 
 of, if not entirely to analyse this to me strange 
 characteristic of a people, whom, before we altogether 
 understand, we have been taught to despise, 1 careful 
 ly iixed my gaze upon the criminal. Whut could a 
 spectator, one unacquainted with the circumstances, 
 have met with there? 
 
 Nothing of the precise und awful matter of fact, that 
 connected itself with the fortunes and life of the object 
 of observation. I addressed him 1 brought him to 
 the subject so deeply interesting to himself. Ho 
 spoke of it as of those common occurrences which we 
 often speak of unconsciously. He took up the handle 
 
THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 283 
 
 of a tomahawk and employed himself in carving upon 
 it, a space for a bit of flattened silver which he labour 
 ed to introduce into it. Ho spoke in detached sen 
 tences, during this little eflbrt. In reply to a question 
 which I put, touching the commission of the crime, 
 and whether he was conscious that he was doing it or 
 not he replied i4 Yes he knew it all he knew it 
 was the one of himself, the best part but he had put 
 on a horrible shape and the evil one darkened his eye 
 sight that while he struck the blow, he knew perfect 
 ly well that it was his friend he struck, but that ho 
 was made to do it." 
 
 We conversed at intervals till a late hour he 
 seemed to sing at times, or rather muttered, a few 
 broken catches of song, monotonous and highly solemn 
 at length, the rest having withdrawn, he threw him 
 self upon a bearskin before the door, and I attended 
 the little boy, who was with difficulty aroused from a 
 deep sleep, to my chamber which he pointed out. It 
 may be supposed 1 slept little that night. I was filled 
 with a thousand discordant fancies on the subject ; and 
 could not help the doubt which perpetually beset me, 
 that before day he would bo off, and out of all danger. 
 I could not believe in the strange degree of obedience 
 which this rude savage was about to manifest to his 
 stern and primitive, but really equitable laws. Every 
 movement in the household below, led me to the win 
 dow, in the full expectation that it could indicate 
 nothing less than the flight of the criminal. But 
 I was mistaken. The moral sublime had too unfre- 
 quently been the subject of my own experience, to 
 enable me, in this instance, to appreciate it at a glance. 
 
284 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 A large crowd tho next morning had assembled in 
 the neighbourhood. Tho open space in front of the 
 house was thickly covered with Indians, all labouring 
 under the natural excitements of the occasion. I 
 hurried on my clothes with as much despatch as possi 
 ble, and went down among them. Tho house was 
 crowded as well as tho arena before it. After survey 
 ing tho muss, I looked about for the principal in this 
 extraordinary spectacle his were tho only features 
 unmoved in the assembly. He seemed busily employ 
 ed in gathering up sundry little articles as well of 
 ornament as necessity in the Indian s life. His dress 
 seemed more studied it consisted of a pair of panta 
 loons, seemingly much worn, and probably tho cast 
 oil" donation of some pausing traveller. There was a 
 buckskin hunting shirt on him, with several fulling 
 capes, all thickly covered with fringe ; a belt of wam 
 pum, studded with beads of various colours, tolerably 
 well arranged, encircled his waist whilst his legs, 
 which were well formed, were closely fitted by a pair 
 of leggings fantastically worked and literally loaded 
 with beads. Several other little ornaments, medals, 
 and trinkets hung about him, particularly over his neck 
 and shoulders. 
 
 Some difference of sentiment no less than of feeling 
 seemed to operate upon, and to form a division among 
 the assembled multitude. An air of anger, impatience, 
 and exultation, fully indicated the friends of the de 
 ceased, thirsting for the blood of his murderer while 
 on the other hand, sadness and concern were tho lead 
 ing traits of expression in the countenances of those 
 interested in the criminal. At length the victim him- 
 
THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 285 
 
 self made the first open sign of preparation. He arose 
 from the ground where he had been reclining rather 
 than sitting; and giving to a little boy, who stood in 
 attendance, a bundle of beads, arrow-heads, &c. which 
 ho had been making up as a part necessary in the 
 burial ceremonial with the majesty of a chief, he drew 
 the huge bearskin partially over his shoulders, and led 
 the mournful procession. I took the way with the 
 party. The path lay through a long grove of stunted 
 pines ; at the end of which wo were met, and from 
 thence accompanied to the place of death, by the three 
 executioners, each carrying his rifle unostentatiously 
 beneath his arm. The criminal walked beside them, 
 and in his own language gave them due directions for 
 the performanco of their duty. From one, he took 
 the weapon with a smile, and looked hastily, at the 
 flint, while uttering a sentence which would seem to 
 have been a jest at the expense of the owner. Never 
 did I behold a man with step so firm on any occasion 
 head so unbent a countenance so unmoved, and 
 yet without any of the effort common to most men 
 who endeavour to assume an aspect of heroism upon 
 an event so trying. He walked as to a victory. The 
 triumphal arch seemed above him, and instead of an 
 ignominious death, a triumph over a thousand hearts 
 seemed depicted in his sight. 
 
 The grave was now before us. The place of death, 
 the scene, the trial and all its terrors, were at hand. I 
 watched bis brow attentively as ho looked down upon 
 the fearful paraphernalia; but while I felt the shuddering 
 run like a cold wind through my own frame, I could 
 behold no sign of change in him* After a momentary 
 
286 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 pause, be began a low song, apparently consisting of 
 monosyllables only. He grew more impassioned more 
 deeply warm. I could not understand a single word 
 he uttered but, even though he stood as firm, proud, 
 and unbending as a Roman might be supposed to have 
 stood, as if he disdained the addition of action to hia 
 words, the cadence, the fall, the melody and wild intona 
 tion of this high-souled savage s voice was to me an ac* 
 tivc eloquence, which I could not misunderstand. Ho 
 paused at length. Then moving with on even pace, ho 
 took his place at the head of the grave prepared for 
 him beckoned the boy near, who had followed him, 
 with the simple utensils of savage life, and when he had 
 retired, motioned the executioners. 1 saw them prepare 
 their rifles, and take their aim 1 looked upon the fea 
 tures of the victim they were steady and calm I 
 turned my head away with a strange sickness. I heard 
 the single report of the three rifles, and when I turned my 
 eye again upon the spot, so lately occupied by the un 
 happy victim of an infatuation which has slain more 
 than the sword, they were slowly shovelling the fresh 
 earth into the grave of the murderer. The following 
 poem is devoted to the same subject. 
 
 I wan a wanderer lung, and loved tho wild, 
 Even UM a child lux mother. I grew fund 
 Of tho Bwect keeping of tho wilderness, 
 The M.lrnm warmth, tho wooing Holiludf, 
 And tho deep winding and the nilcnt gloom*, 
 Where, troubled not by hungry pioneer, 
 Nature Mill keep* tier plaee, even a* ut birth. 
 To me, Mil h homo i nut-mi, and when there, 
 Tho bond* of social life I straight forget, 
 
THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 287 
 
 And grow a part of that which I survey. 
 Nor is this solitude as men may deem, 
 But a wide glance, even in her palace home, 
 Where still she keeps her mighty sovereignty, 
 At all existing Nature. There she sits, 
 Supremo in tangled bow r, and toppling hill, 
 And deep umbrageous forest. At her feet, 
 Lake, wood and rivulet, bird and bud and beast, 
 Tree, flow r and leaf, in matchless quietude, 
 Consorting with her mood. I bend before 
 Her solemn temple, and I lay me down, 
 Even at her turfy footstool, while around, 
 Her mantle, redolent of flow rs and fruits, 
 Hangs o er, and shields mo from the noonday beam. 
 
 Have I not on that gentle couch reposed, 
 The lowly plat of green? a tufted bed 
 Of leaves and delicate flow rs beneath my head, 
 While, sweeter than the soft recorder s voice, 
 Or lute of ravishing syren, in my ear, 
 The gentle diapason of the woods, 
 Soft airs and bending pines and murmuring birds, 
 Won me to slumber with their strange discourse. 
 Thus, by that awe-attuning sympathy, 
 That spirit language, which, upon mine cor, 
 Came liko the wayward whispers of the sea, 
 To tho coy wind-harp in the hands of Night, 
 O ercomo, in that most wild society, 
 For from my home, and human home, I slept, 
 In a deep Indian forest, whcro still dwell 
 The lingering Choctaw melancholy men. 
 Who love the woods, their ancient fathers gave, 
 And in their shelter half forget their shame. 
 
 Who speaks? the dream is sooth around me stand 
 The gathering nation; each with solemn brow, 
 As to a sacrifice a deed of dread ! 
 They bring the guilty, the proud, uelf-arraigned, 
 To judgment and to death. There, he stands forth, 
 
288 THE BOOK OF MY LAIM. 
 
 Alone, u.-iaw d, unbound and in hi* eye, 
 AM on his tongue, and in his lofty soul, 
 No fond, appealing thought no fear of death! 
 He speak*, while all is silence, where had been 
 Howling, and many a horrible voice before. 
 
 I come to die no vain delny, 
 
 I ask for none, to vex my soul- 
 Prepare, ye fellow chief*, the way, 
 
 And let the storms about me roll 
 By in.-, Mcwanto s blood wa spilt, 
 Ik-hold ! my hand* ore red with guilt. 
 
 ** The trilx? IIUH lost its bravest steel 
 The arrow from the bow \* gone; 
 
 I saw the brave Mewanto reel, 
 And I, the futul deed have done. 
 
 Madly I struck him with my knife, 
 
 And tore away the Numbering I ill-. 
 
 " He crowed me in my hour of wrath, 
 When hell wan in my heart and mood; 
 
 Spirit* of ill were on my path, 
 
 And he and they, alike, pursued, 
 
 They look d the same Iwfore mine eye, 
 
 And dreadful forms were shouting by. 
 
 ** My fingers grasped my ready knife 
 A struggle that alone I know 
 
 I grappled, as it were, for life, . 
 
 With that dread, dark, infernal crew 
 
 And Hill 1 struck the fearful blow, 
 
 I knew not that my friend was iow. 
 
 M The thought that would have spared him then. 
 
 Too late appcur d for his relief- 
 He stood no more with living men 
 And I grew mad with grief. 
 
THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL. 289 
 
 Yet what is sorrow can it bring 
 The spirit to that silent thing ? 
 
 " Am I not ready do ye sleep, 
 
 Why strike ye not, why pause so long? 
 Your sorrow like mine own is deep, 
 
 Is not your vengeance strong ? . 
 
 His form is by, whom late I slew, 
 I hear him call for vengeance too. 
 
 44 Far wandering on the distant hills, 
 
 Yet watching for the morning s dawn, 
 He lingers o er the western rills, 
 
 All anxious to bo gone : 
 And only waits my kindred shade. 
 To guide him from the grave I made. 
 
 M His hatchet ready for the fight, 
 
 When first tho war-whoop 1 * cry is heard, 
 I ve placed to meet his waking sight, 
 
 When carols forth the bird ; 
 Nor, did my bosom s care forget, 
 The rifle, knife, and calumet. 
 
 44 Oh, brother, whom I madly slew, 
 
 Then shall our kindred spirits join 
 The red-deer s path by day pursue, 
 
 The tented camp by night entwine, 
 Close, at one time, the mutual eye. 
 And on one blanket s bosom lie. * 
 
 No longer spoke tho warrior chief, 
 
 But sullen sternness clothed his brow 
 Whilst fate and anguish, fixed and brief, 
 
 Proclaimed him ready now ! 
 No council spoke no pray r was made, 
 No pomp, no mockery, no parade. 
 
 25 
 
290 THE BOOK OF NY LADY. 
 
 He walk d erect, nnaw d, unbound, 
 He stood upon the grave s dread brink, 
 
 And look d with fearless eye around, 
 Nor did his spirit Hhrink 
 
 In terror from that final test, 
 
 The fearful rifle at his breast 
 
 A moment s pause no voice is heard 
 Ho only, with unchanging look, 
 
 Himself, gave forth the signal word, 
 With which the valley shook 
 
 And when the smoke had clcor d away, 
 
 The dark brow d chief before me lay. 
 
291 
 
 THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Albert Ilolstcin was a student in one of the German 
 universities, the name of which is quite unnecessary to 
 the narration. He was at the time of which we speak 
 just entering his eighteenth year, and had been until 
 his sixteenth, under the guardianship and care of a good 
 and misjudging mother. His father had fallen in a 
 domestic feud with somo rival baron, and the son, the 
 only heir and promise of his princely name and domin 
 ions, but for a mind and temper naturally excellent, 
 would have been utterly ruined by her various and 
 misconceived indulgences. After the usual preparation, 
 he was admitted, as said above, into a leading univer 
 sity ; where ho soon had occasion to test for himself the 
 propriety of that course of education to which he had 
 been so imprudently subjected. It is not our object) 
 however, to dwell upon, or seek to analyse, the impres 
 sions of his mind, under the new changes in his condi 
 tion ; affecting, as they must have done, the whole 
 structure of his early habits, and pruning and convert 
 ing, as it were, the dead branches of excess into a new 
 and fresh capacity of life. He was saved from ruin in 
 spite of education nature having been able, a case 
 not very common, to contend with and counteract all 
 
292 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 the mistakes of a foolish parent, and a crowd of para 
 sites. 
 
 It was on a pleasant evening in the month of June, 
 that a family party was assembled* as usual, in the gar 
 dens of D Arlernont. in thi family , Alhert had be- 
 come almost an inmate* and his presence on the occasion 
 was looked for earnestly by all the company, but by 
 none more anxiously than the fair Anastasia D Ar- 
 Icmont, the only daughter of the high family of thut 
 name, and the hcircus of all its extcnsivn possession*. 
 Tin s young lady, while holding an almost unlimited 
 sway in the bosom of the young student, acknowledged 
 in his fine and graceful person, his accomplished mind 
 and manners, and that general vivacity of habit which 
 is the greatest charm of society, a corresponding influ 
 ence. They had, for themselves, just begun to ascer 
 tain the nature of those sentiments which hud so 
 frequently brought them together ; and their eyes were 
 opened to the strength of the attachment, which, in 
 time, wns to become so futul or blissful to them both. 
 A few evenings picviotis, an opportunity offering for a 
 mutual understanding, in the unconscious delight of the 
 moment, the state of their hearts hud been revealed, 
 and it may bo supposed, therefore, that the anxieties of 
 Anastasia deepened, us In-, who had hitherto been nil 
 punctuality, now delayed his appearance long alter the 
 accustomed hour. She waited, and looked anxiously 
 and earnestly, and yet he carnc not. Hi: had turned, 
 all vainly, her dark and dewy eyes along the flowery 
 pathway through which he had been wont to enter ; 
 and, wondering at a delay so unusual, her soul wns 
 given up to a dread variety of those mysterious fore- 
 
THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM. 293 
 
 bodings, generally admitted to be at all times so preg 
 nant in tho fancy of a German maiden. What made 
 her situation the more painful, and her feelings the 
 more acute, was the doubt whether her sire, one of the 
 noblest and most bigoted among the knighthood of the 
 country, would sanction a closer tie than that of friend 
 ship between a daughter who could choose from among 
 tho highest, and one who, though noble, had never 
 quartered his arms in a broader field than the small 
 baronial privilege of his scant paternal acres. The 
 doubt was not without its reason. The youth had lain 
 open his soul to the sire of his sweetheart, and the re 
 jection of his suit was coupled with words of contumely 
 and reproach. Nor, if the subsequent events may be 
 taken in evidence, did he rest here. The strong arm 
 frequently in that country, and those times, carried out 
 and continued the feud and force of the stern word ; 
 and public opinion did not hesitate to ascribe to tho 
 indignant sire the future misery and final fate of the 
 hapless daughter. It was while gazing with despond 
 ing hope, and with penetrating but unsuccessful vision, 
 along the garden grove, for the well known and beloved 
 form of her lover, that she heard a sudden shriek as of 
 one in agony then a deep and hollow groan, and the 
 fall of some heavy body. Lights were brought, and, 
 in a state of mind bordering on insanity, the young and 
 unhappy Anastasia beheld the scarcely less young and 
 beautiful form of her lover, bleeding before her. The 
 stiletto yet remained in his breast it had penetrated 
 deeply, and ho gave no signs of life. Her father, en 
 tering at the time and witnessing her emotion, had her 
 borne with stern rebuke to her chamber. At that 
 26* 
 
294 f||R HOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 tin) 1 , iln -c around remarked the doop exultation and 
 malignity of his countenance, and made their inferences 
 accordingly. Albert HolHtcin was borno away to his 
 lodgings, where, after a few days, according to the 
 popular voice, he breathed his last. Enquiry, in a little 
 time, passed over without discovering the assassin ; 
 and, if suspicion did rest any where, the mark u n 
 quite too high for tho arm of public justice. 
 
 A few months had elapsed after the occurrence of 
 this event, and, if grief in the bosom of Anus(;iHiu for 
 the loss of her lover had lost ome of its violence, it 
 did not, however, forego any of its tenacity in its hold 
 upon her heart. Lingering one evening, long after the 
 family had all retired, at her lattice indulging in that 
 mournful conttMiiplution of past images, which hud now 
 become the all absorbing passion of her npirit -her enr 
 discerned beneath her window the faint tones of mtjhic, 
 Huch ns .-lie had been accustomed to hear, at lho.se sea 
 sons, \\ lirn, in this manner, her lover had indicated hi* 
 aflections. The notes were the same ; and words such 
 as he ulone had employed, come, arousing in her bosom 
 a feeling of Hupcrstitiou-s dread a sudden und inde 
 scribable awe, such as she had never before entertained. 
 The influence became insupportable at length, and she 
 sought, for the time, a safe retreat in the chamber of 
 her attendant. Here she remained until her mind had 
 become somewhat accustomed to the thoughts and as 
 sociations thus forced upon it, when she returned to 
 her own room, and the sounds were heard no more for 
 that night. A few evenings after, at the samo hour, 
 the music was repeated the same sweet and mysteri 
 ous air full upon her senses with an increased, und, if, 
 
THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM. 295 
 
 \vithout any solecism in terms, we may be permitted 
 the expression, a warmer melancholy. She was no 
 longer terrified, as at first, and yielding herself, without 
 a struggle, to the irresistible impulse, she gently undid 
 the lattice, and looked out in the direction of the music. 
 Nor did she look in vain. Retreating among the trees 
 of the garden, she discovered a form so nearly resem 
 bling that of her departed lover, that she involuntarily 
 utteied his name. A sigh was the only response which 
 the figure gave but so mournfully sad, that it seemed 
 to rebuke her for the indifference of her grief, and her 
 sorrows burst forth anew. The form had utterly dis 
 appeared, and though for hours she looked and linger 
 ed, it returned no more that evening. Night after 
 night, for a week succeeding, as the hour of midnight 
 drew near, did she look forth and listen from her lat 
 tice. She heard the winds softly rustling among the 
 branches the fall of the dead leaf she saw the sha 
 dows, with a quiet beauty, waving in the moonlight, but 
 her visitor returned not. At length, when she began, 
 to conclude that the spirit was offended, and would not 
 come again, or that her over restless and excited imagi 
 nation had deluded her into the belief of the actual 
 presence of one for ever in her mind s eye, she heard 
 again that faint, sad murmuring of song, gentle as the 
 flutterings of an ascending spirit, softly floating on the 
 breeze, and penetrating her lattice. It grew at last 
 more distinct, more full and clear, and with such a 
 tone of true nature to her senses, that she lost all guid 
 ance of hor reason, ond called deliriously upon the 
 name of her lover. Had her voioe so much power* 
 had the deity spoken from her lips? Her lover stood 
 
296 
 
 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 by her side, as in obedience to a spell ; fair and manly, 
 and full of exhilarance and life, as in the gladdest hour 
 of their earliest communion ! She was faint she 
 trembled, with a love and awe necessarily arising from 
 the belief that she was at that moment in the presence 
 of the dead. His eyes, though clear and intelligent as 
 ever, were sad, and wore a solemn expression they 
 looked all the divinity of woe and a mingled love and 
 worship, which she could not restrain, filled and inspir 
 ed her heart. How gentle were all his tones how 
 soothing his speech how true and tender its expres 
 sion ! With what a voice did he assure her of his ex 
 istence of his continued love, while even at the verge of 
 dissolution, and in a deep extremity, from the futul ter 
 mination of which he was only saved by the marvellous 
 skill of their family physician. He now informed her 
 of his unsuccessful suit to her father of his cruel lan 
 guage, and unqualified rejection of his prayers. Ho 
 was now in danger ; and the most perfect secrecy was 
 necessary to shield him from the hand of that power, 
 which, in striking once, had certainly shown no indis 
 position, if such were necessary, to strike again. Long 
 did they linger in that silent garden, with no watchers 
 but the stars ; and no hope but in that true love which 
 they Hccmcd to Hinilo upon and sanction. Night after 
 night were his visits, without interruption, repeated ; 
 and the joy of the young lovers increased with the im 
 patience with which they watched to them the slow 
 progress of day to night again ; never regretting the 
 sleepless hours of their sacrifice, since the altar was 
 so wooing and attractive, and while the worship was so 
 pure and hallowed. 
 
THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM. 297 
 
 In tho mean while, a nobleman of high birth and gal 
 lant achievement, made his appearance as a professed 
 suitor of Anastasia, at the castle of D Arlemont. Ho 
 was remotely connected with the f.miiy, its equal in all 
 hereditary and honourable respects ; and desirous of 
 renewing a former intimacy, and increasing its ties. 
 Count Wallenburg was well known, and ranked highly 
 among the German chivalry. Honourable, high-mind 
 ed, generous and brave, there were but few qualities 
 essential to what, in that age, was esteemed perfection, 
 which this gentleman did not possess. Shall we won 
 der that, admiring the beautiful Anastasia, he should 
 find no difficulty on the part of her family ? As for tho 
 wishes of the lady herself, that was a concern about 
 which barons, at that period, gave themselves no trou 
 ble, and, perhaps, no enquiry. They dressed the lamb 
 gaudily up for the sacrifice ; and to make more solemn 
 the cruelly, sacrificed it upon the altar. His addresses 
 were paid, and, with a ready compliance, accepted by 
 her father. The anguish of the young girl was excru 
 ciating on being instructed to prepare for the nuptials, 
 almost the first intimation which she had of the arrange 
 ment ; but, assured by her lover, whom she saw nightly, 
 that she should become the bride of none other than 
 himself, she offered no fruitless objection, and, to all 
 eyes, seemed passively resigned to her fate. 
 
 The evening appointed for the bridal at length ar 
 rived. The chapel of the castle was illuminated ; the 
 company had assembled, and every thing was gay con 
 fusion and good-humoured clamour. There were aunts 
 and uncles, and cousins and friends the whole world of 
 various and friendly elements, which such an occasion 
 
298 T1IK BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 BO certainly brings along with it. At the head of a 
 long procession of like connections, came the bride 
 groom, with us much impatience for the ceremony as 
 could well comport with his high dignity and German 
 phlegm. But where was she- the young bride ? Why 
 lingered she why came she not, in glittering robes, 
 heading in gladness the rose-garlanded procession of 
 capricious and laughing damsels ? Tin: castle was in 
 commotion, and a strange anxiety was over every coun 
 tenance. The bridal chamber was empty the fair 
 Anastasia was not to bo found! The castle was search 
 ed from turret tops to donjon, but they found her not. 
 The groups dispersed over the gardens and grounds 
 about, with but little success. At length they pene 
 trated the forests. As they advanced the sky sud 
 denly became overcast and dark vivid flashes of 
 lightning added to, while illuminating and making 
 perceptible the gloom. A storm of frightful energy 
 passed over the wood, prostrating every thing before it, 
 and subsiding with equal suddenness. The sky became 
 instantly clear, and the mor.i shone forth in purity, un 
 conscious of a cloud. The firmament had not a speck. 
 The bewildered groups proceeded in their search. A 
 soft and gentle strain of melody seemed to embody it 
 self with the winds. They followed the sounds into a 
 dark and gloomy enclosure of high over-arching trees, 
 thickly fenced in with knotted vines and brushwood. 
 The thunderbolt had been there, and it was scorchud 
 and blackened. They advanced the music still lead 
 ing them onward until, in u small recess, they found 
 indubitable tokens of the maiden, in the half-burned 
 remnants of her hat and shawl. They now beheld her 
 
THE SPIRIT BRIDEGROOM. 299 
 
 destiny. She had become tiic spirit-brido ! The fiend 
 had triumphed in the garb of the earthly lover, and the 
 unhappy maiden had been the victim of a deceit which 
 had led her to dishonour and destruction !***#****** 
 Such is the tradition ; but, about this time, the castle 
 of Holstcin became inhabited. Albert, said the popular 
 voice, was restored to life and his habitation ; and, in 
 time, there was a bright maiden singing merrily in its 
 walls, in whom, those who knew, found a strange like 
 ness to the beautiful Anastasia D Arlcmont. 
 
300 TJIK BOOK OP MY LAUV. 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 She lay in death before mr, yet <> calm 
 
 80 sweetly true each feature to the *<( 
 
 Of earliest nature, that I thought it sleep, 
 
 The infant i slumberous sleep, whose gentle breath. 
 
 Scarcely articulate, on its young lips hang*, 
 
 Even as the zephyr, down among the leaven, 
 
 Reposing sweetly in the noontide ray. 
 
 Reclined upon a couch, whose draperic* fell 
 
 Meetly about her, lay her gracile form. 
 
 DiHturh d, in tin luNt terror, ere she died, 
 
 Her n>!,< had parted, and her soft white neck, 
 
 Gleamed through her shading trcsscx, which down fell, 
 
 As if to honour what they did not hide. 
 
 Hut, wandering to the half-concealed recess, 
 
 My eye full on a tilopo that gently roue 
 
 Into a heaving billow, and there sccm d, 
 
 Uy sudden touch of nature, petrified 
 
 As if the blood, til then, endued with life, 
 
 Grew cold when all was loveliest. How sweet 
 
 How more than sweet, that picture One blue vein 
 
 Skirted the white curl of the heaving wave, 
 
 As if a rainbow-tint had rc-Hted thrrc 
 
 While, further on, and at its swollen height, 
 
 A ruby crettt, borne upward by the swell, 
 
 Grew fix d into a g(.*m a living gem 
 
 One of those prict ICHN gem* for which men give 
 
 Their hearts, their lives, their worship, and then die, 
 
 Meetly, us having nothing more to give. 
 
 But, as in chide of nature s excellence, 
 
 And blotting this fuir picture, so beyond, 
 
CLEOPATRA. 301 
 
 All human skill, to conjure, as it was, 
 Beyond all human power to look upon, 
 Looking, and not to love, lay a small wound, 
 Just where the heart had loudest beat with life, 
 Dabbled with blood, that downward trickling yet, 
 Made rich and red that spotless drapery : 
 A small fine stream : then from beneath her robe, 
 Crawl d forth a venomous reptile, and it pass ci, 
 Over that place of rapture, which then seem d 
 Instinct like some foul, envious cloud, 
 Blotting the silvery sweetness of the sky. 
 
302 
 
 THE FESTIVAL OF ISIS. 
 
 it was the annual festival of his, and nothing but the 
 bustle and noise of preparation for this event was to 
 be heard throughout the ancient city of Memphis. It 
 was a religious exhibition well calculated to blind and 
 to duzzle the senses of the ignorant and superstitious. 
 Where this was not the prevailing motive for attendance, 
 curiosity and the love of show brought innumerable 
 thousands. The neighbouring cities were emptied of all 
 those, whom circumstances permitted to leave their ha 
 bitations; and assembled nations themselves were spec 
 tators on the occasion. Greater preparations and an 
 increased expense, promised to render this festival supe 
 rior to all that had preceded it. The reigning monarch 
 had emptied his palace of its jewels to enrich the tem 
 ple and add lustre to the appearance of the goddess; and 
 the great Pyramid of Ghiza had been ransacked, arid 
 its stoies of gold, of silver arid of pearl, the treasures of 
 preceding princes, appropriated to this enthusiastic pur 
 pose. Unusual anticipations were connected with the 
 present year; and the crowds brought into the city were 
 calculated to excite apprehensions, as to the possibility 
 of providing them with food and lodging. The Arabs, 
 Meccans, and Mamelukes, who, except on these occa 
 sions, never leave the desert, now seemed to have 
 brought treble their usual number into the capital. 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ISIS. SOS 
 
 Nor were the expectations of the people disappointed. 
 The day of celebration had arrived, and the massive 
 doors of the temple of the goddess were thrown open. 
 As the crowds in advance rushed forward to anticipate, 
 as it were, the approach of the deity, they were driven 
 back and blinded by the streams of excessive light, that, 
 prepared by the chemist of their college of the priest 
 hood, served to impart an additional mystery to the re 
 ligion of the goddess whose temple was thus revealed, 
 "dark with excessive bright. * A large sun, before the 
 inner door of the temple, sent forth the richest rays; 
 while innumerable objects of a sacred character among 
 Ihe Egyptians, were prepared to precede the car in which 
 Isis was about to exhibit herself to the assembled multi 
 tude. First came a milk-whito pigeon, with a golden 
 fillet about its neck, and perched upon a branch, in 
 tended to represent the palm, and made of gold, borne 
 by one of the initiated of the year preceding. He was 
 clothed in a garment of the purest white, and bore 
 upon his head a globe, indicative of eternity; a butterfly 
 resting upon it denoted the immortality of the poul. On 
 his shoulder glittered a costly gem, that bound and se 
 cured, with an air of graceful negligence, which ad 
 mirably contrasted with the simple tunic that fell around 
 and enveloped him. He was followed by an hundred 
 others similarly attired; all bearing different emblems of 
 the deity and of the immortality of the soul. As they 
 advanced from the temple, the silence of that mighty 
 and mixed multitude was suddenly broken by one uni 
 versal burst of admiration; while the scats which had 
 been prepared for the nobler and the higher orders 
 of the people rocked with the emotion of those upon 
 
304 TUB BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 them. Next came the slaves, bearing censers of gold 
 and scattering incense upon the people. These were 
 blacks, with a girdle of silver cloth around the loins and 
 a collar fur the neck, and a cap of the same costly ma 
 terial. Officiates of ditTorcnt castes followed; all va 
 riously dressed, and each successive host, if possible, 
 more splendid than the last. Then came the sagas with 
 long white hoards, generally old men, who had spent a 
 life in acquiring the principles of their several sciences, 
 and highly reverenced among the Egyptians. They 
 bore some distinctive characteristic of their profession. 
 To these succeeded the artificers, the painters, the 
 builders; and, at length, the sacred sun, borne by two 
 aged men, advanced into the area followed by the high 
 priest. This office was held by an experienced magian, 
 than whom Egypt could boast of none more renowned 
 or expert in the sacred sciences. His name was Ber- 
 mahdi. A robe of sable was thrown loosely around 
 him, and a living serpent twined itself about his arm, 
 while he grasped its middle with his hand. AH he ad- 
 vanced,the assembled multitude, late still and silent, now 
 burst forth into a mighty shout. The wide urea tung 
 with acclamations, and wisdom and science found an 
 acknowledged victory over ignorance and superstition. 
 Lastly came the car of the god, borne upon the back of 
 a camel whose hoofs were coated with gold, and whose 
 body was covered with clothes and jewels of the most 
 costly character, and rendered sacrec, by previous puri 
 fication. Around it, danced in wild and lascivious con 
 tortions, a troop of priestesses dresned in u manner 
 calculated to cxcito tho emotions and appetites of the 
 most dull and insensible. These closed the procession, 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ISIS. 305 
 
 and as they passed from the doors of the temple, these 
 closed of themselves with a startling and tremendous 
 sound. 
 
 Among the crowds assembled to witness this impos 
 ing spectacle, the youthful Cleon was neither the least 
 observant, nor the least happy. Ho was a youth of 
 fine, natural parts, much improved by an acquaintance 
 with the learning of the schools as well as a close ob 
 servation upon, and a wide intermixture with men, 
 in various travel. A native of the Greek islands?, 
 he had come to Egypt to acquire those abstract 
 and usually forbidden sciences taught by the magi of 
 that country, in the voluptuous and secluded walls of 
 their hidden and mysterious pursuits. But the warmth 
 of his heart and the buoyancy of his imagination forbade 
 that close attention to studies, which, however grand 
 and imposing, his good sense enabled him to see had 
 their foundation in a vicious policy of dominion, and 
 were built upon the fears and grovelling superstitions of 
 the common and uninformed. Besides, at his age f there 
 is one pursuit which of all others is most calculated to 
 swallow up any set on foot by mere ambition or desire of 
 supremacy in intellect. This was love. Very soon after 
 his arrival at Memphis, and before he had as yet made 
 himself familiar with the elements of those sciences, for 
 the acquirement of which his journey had been princi 
 pally undertaken* ho had met with and become en 
 amoured of the beautiful Alrne, the only heir and hope 
 of one of the highest houses in Egypt. She was soon 
 made acquainted with, and encouraged, his passion with 
 emotions as warm; and as nothing could be urged either 
 against the name, character, or wealth of Cleon, the con- 
 26* 
 
306 THF BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 sent of their parents was not difficult to obtain. On a 
 set day they were splendidly utlired, and, attended by a 
 numerous crowd of young friends and relations, they 
 appeared in the temple consecrated to marriage, and 
 were solemnly betrothed by the priestess who officiated 
 and administered tiic rites. This was, however, only in 
 troductory to their full and final espousal, which was 
 fixed to be completed during the continuance of the 
 next moon, provided her appearance bo favourable. 
 This, among a people HO superstitious as the Egyptians, 
 was a necessary duty; urid, however irksome, Cleon was 
 compelled to endure all the anxiety arising from tho 
 suspense. Pending this interval, tho public cites of the 
 goddess Isis began as before represented; and Cleon, 
 with the fair Alme, were among the most prominent of 
 the admiring spectators on this occasion; he for manly 
 grace and proportion; she for feminine delicacy and 
 attraction. 
 
 On these annual festivals, one privilege claimed by 
 the high priest of the Temple of Isis was that of se 
 lecting any young women from the spectators whom 
 the goddess had previously designated as her favourites. 
 It was an honour that most of the Egyptian families 
 were proud of; and many were the hearts that beat tu- 
 multuously with hope and expectation at this period. 
 No limit was placed upon tho demands of the goddess, 
 made through tho high priest, and six and eight have 
 been selected at a time, generally from the loveliest of 
 the fair spectators. After performing mam rites and 
 oblations, calculated to seduce tho reason into the arms 
 of enthusiasm and devotion, the high priest proceeded 
 to the selection of the youthful and trembling divinities. 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ISIS. 307 
 
 Every eye followed his slow pace and searching glance 
 around the deeply silent assembly. Many were the 
 mortified looks that succeeded his passage by those 
 whose consciousness of beauty had, in their opinion, se 
 cured them a choice ; and a low, but not ungracious 
 murmur of compliment, broke from the crowd, as the 
 priest, with a wand of ivory and gold, selected his first 
 priestess, in the person of the fair Aline, by touching 
 her. on the brow with its jewelled extremity, and com 
 manding her to follow him. She rose, as if to obey the 
 summons. The scarcely-breathing Cleon, with trembling 
 and convulsive hand, was about to clasp her to himself, 
 when the maiden, with a look of conscious security and 
 happiness, rather unaccountable to those who had con 
 sidered a selection on this occasion as the highest joy of 
 life, bade him defiance; and throwing back with her 
 snowy finger, through which the blood went and came, 
 the white robe which gracefully encircled her, disclosed 
 the sacred belt of betrothal, given her by the priestess 
 of union and domestic love, which secured her from his 
 demand. iitf * . 
 
 Great was the mortification of the High Priest : he 
 frowned darkly upon her and her lover ; and with ill- 
 suppressed looks of anger and rage, he turned to ano 
 ther part of the open amphitheatre, and made his 
 selections from several, more willing than the fair 
 Alrae. After tho ceremonies of the day had been con 
 cluded, according to established usage, the doors of 
 the temple were again thrown open, and the procession 
 returned in tho same order as it had issued out of 
 them. 
 
 How happy was Cleon that day! Nothing could 
 
308 THK BOOK Or MY LADY. 
 
 have been more calculated to assure him of the love of 
 his betrothed, than the gladness with which she exhi 
 bited the badge which secured her to himself. They 
 separated at a late hour ; he to dream of and anticipate 
 future joys, and she to watch for the coming of that 
 moon, whoso favourable or unfavourable aspect was to 
 confirm hci hopes of immediate happiness, or frustrate 
 them by a longer delay. 
 
 But the next morning arose only to destroy the vain 
 hopes of the unfortunate Cleon. His bride was no 
 where to be found. Her chamber was empty, and no 
 traces of the manner in which she had been spirited 
 away, could be obtained. Her family were in sack 
 cloth and ashes, and lying with their heads covered, 
 upon the threshold of the house. The men were 
 searching for her wherever they thought it possible she 
 had boen taken, and Clcon was neatly mad. The day 
 passed over and no tidings of her were to bo had. All 
 night he searched for her in vain. Morning broke to 
 discover him more miserable and unhappy than before. 
 At length, a sudden thought revived him : it rushed 
 through his brain like an arrow of fire. " It is he !" 
 he exclaimed, in a voice where hope and phrcnzy were 
 oddly blended ; " it is the accursed priest, the villain 
 Bermahdi I see it now I see it now!" 
 
 His plan was arranged. It could not be put in ex 
 ecution, however, before the night. It was to enter 
 the temple, which, as an initiate, he could easily do; 
 and knowing many of the private passages, revealed 
 only to its agents, he thought it probable that if his 
 suspicion were well founded, he must necessarily find 
 the object of his search. The day passed over slowly; 
 
THE PEPTIVAL OF ISIS. 309 
 
 too slowly for Jove, and perhaps too fast for the dura 
 tion of his lately revived hope. But at length night 
 came; and divesting himself of his accustomed dress, 
 and assuming a disguise, with no other weapon than 
 a short Egyptian dagger, he went forward to the west 
 ern and least frequented portion of the stupendous and 
 frowning structure, which ho believed to confine tho 
 object of his devotion and search. 
 
 It was midnight. All seemed perfectly silent as he 
 entered the secret wicket, known only to the hiero- 
 phant and noviciate, who pursued tho mysteries of 
 Egyptian science at that period. Through a long and 
 dark gloomy passage-way, cut in the solid wall, he pur 
 sued his course. At length, he came to an inner en 
 trance which led him into the very bowels of the earth ; 
 for it lay for some distance under the rock on which 
 was reared tho frowning and stupendous turrets of the 
 temple. A large body of water shortly appeared in 
 sight, in which a number of young crocodiles wero 
 yearly put, fed and preserved, for tho use of the god 
 dess. Here the youth, repelled by tho excessive dark 
 ness, paused for a moment ere he proceeded. The 
 only light upon this dreary scene was admitted through 
 an aperture in the roof of tho temple ; and the small 
 lantern, curiously formed out of a sea-shell, with which 
 he had provided himself, was insufficient to render 
 light any part of the vast amphitheatre in which he 
 wandered, except for a few feet in advance of his own 
 person. He proceeded, however, warmed and im 
 pelled forwards, by the tumult of his thoughts, which 
 would not permit the delay of a moment ; and felt the 
 difficulties created by tho darkness before him, as ob- 
 
810 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 stacles which only served to madden and infuriate him. 
 For a long time ho pursued his way, until his eye fell 
 upon a large iron ring in the wall, which he knew as 
 belonging to the passage which led to the main body 
 of the temple, and to the distant apartments of Ber- 
 mahdi, the High Priest. With a violent effort he suc 
 ceeded in wrenching it open ; and as he entered, it 
 shut of itself with a tremendous sound and horrible 
 jar behind him. Ho did not pause, but proceeded on 
 un il ho came to the first trial of the noviciate. This 
 having already passed, he stopped not to think about, 
 but rapidly passed onwards. The wheel of trial to the 
 advanced noviciate at length arrested his attention. 
 He hesitated not, however, but sprung quickly upon 
 it. It whirled suddenly beneath him, and after turning 
 rapidly for several minutes, stopped with a quick 
 shock, and he was thrown stupid and heavy into unn. 
 thcr apartment. The shock, however, roused him: he 
 rose, and found that his lamp, which, before entering 
 upon this trial, he had cautiously concealed beneath his 
 cloak, had been put out by the rotatory motion of the 
 wheel. He saw, however, the burning plates before 
 him, and prepared for another and moro severe trial. 
 A pair of glass shoes lay before them, for the noviciate 
 to put on before passing the flaming bars. Ho threw 
 off his sandals, hastily put them on, and leapt upon the 
 glowing bars. To this trial, as a noviciate, ho had 
 never before advanced, but rather regarded it with ap 
 prehension : to his astonishment, he felt no heat. This 
 was another secret of the Egyptian Magi. By a che 
 mical preparation, the glass shoes were prepared as 
 protectors against the seven-times heated bars, over 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF ISIS. 31 1 
 
 which he trod uninjured. Several other trials, calcu- 
 latcd in appearance to deter most men, and which, on 
 any other occasion, he would have shrunk from, he 
 went through with equal facility. At length he reached 
 the chamber of the High Priest himself. From an 
 aperture, ho beheld for the first time, this first among 
 the Magi of Egypt in the privacy of his supernaturally 
 guarded retirement. He now beheld him seated at a 
 large table with a number of mathematical instruments, 
 together with the astrolabe and mirror necessary for 
 the pursuits, computations, and admeasurements of 
 astrology ; in which science Bermahdi had made some 
 wonderful improvements, and was, in fact, looked up 
 on as dealing with beings of a different order from 
 those over whom he swayed. His knowledge was im 
 mense, and his hard study was incomputable. Books 
 in languages unknown, from among the Scythians and 
 the wise people of Indus, and even remote Africa and 
 Spain, from Persia, and the lands beyond the dominion 
 of the great king, gathered with much care, expense, 
 and labour. Astronomical instruments and signs were 
 before him, and he seemed engaged in some calcula 
 tions of the heavenly bodies, as Cleon looked from the 
 covered door down upon him. His silver beard and 
 venerable appearance, the character of his studies and 
 yet more, the firm and commanding appearance which 
 he maintained, had the effect of impressing a feeling 
 of awe upon his observer. But this sentiment was 
 only momentary. The emotion which had led him 
 thus far, was not to be bound down now by the mere 
 appearance of sanctity and grace. Accordingly, with 
 some violence, he burst into the apartment. Ber 
 mahdi, whose attention seemed intensely fixed upon 
 
312 THK BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 the figures before him, never even turned at the in 
 terruption, but several living serpents that lay around 
 him in wicker baskets, began to hiss and issue forth 
 from their several cases of earth and mud, in which 
 they lived ; and with forked tongues and open mouths 
 began to assa l the youthful adventurer. They were, 
 however, arrested and driven back by the voice of Ber- 
 mahdi, who, after commanding them to be still, de 
 manded of Cleon, what induced his intrusion, at the 
 late hour in which it was made. The youth rather 
 petulantly observed that he who was able to measure 
 and compute the stars, and to calculate and predict tho 
 changes of tho weather, and the elements, should cer 
 tainly be able to compass the thoughts of mere mor 
 tality. " My son," replied the old man, "some head 
 strong passion moves you to this violence,let me know 
 its occasion, and I may bo able from my knowledge to 
 afford you some relief: * My wife, Aline, where is she? 
 I demand of you, Bcrmahdi, tell mo, for you must know, 
 either from your heavenly knowledge, or from your 
 own connection with the great mother of earth. 1 de 
 mand of you to let me Know, or I shall this instant take 
 from you the remains of your treacherous and unwor 
 thy life," said the infuriated Cleon, as he brandished 
 his dagger ubovo tho mugieiun. * I know not where 
 she is, rash young man, 1 said the old priest, but scarco 
 hud he said tho words, when a deep groan issued from 
 the corner of tho apartment which was hidden from 
 sight by the silver veil of Isis. In a moment Cleon 
 had placed his hands upon it. The high priest rushed 
 to prevent him, exclaiming, ** Hold, young iiiun ! your 
 certain death will follow u violation of the mysteries 
 of yonder sanctuary." But in vain he pokc. The 
 
TIIK FESTIVAL OF ISIS. 313 
 
 silver veil was torn down from its place ; and Cleon 
 had just time to behold his bride stretched out upon a 
 couch of the most costly material apparently in a le 
 thargic slumber, as the high priest rushed upon him 
 with the sharp golden compasses which he held in his 
 hands. A violent struggle ensued, which was terminated 
 by Cleon s burying his dagger in the heart of his op 
 ponent, who gave but one groan, and fell dead at the 
 feet of the young man. The serpents rushed upon 
 him ; but they were fanglcss and hurt him not. It was 
 necessary that he should make his escape immediately. 
 How to do this he knew not, burthened with the 
 lifeless body of Alme. With a convulsive grasp ho 
 threw her upon his bosom and shoulder, and seizing 
 the golden lamp that burned upon the table he pur 
 sued his way. All the trials ho passed with little dif 
 ficulty, except that of the wheel, by which, in endea 
 vouring to support his bride from injury, as she could 
 not support herself, he was stunned for several minutes. 
 Recovering himself, he pursued his way with redou 
 bled vigour. Fear lent him wings; and a certain in* 
 tutivcncss which served the place of lamp or guide, 
 (the lamp taken from the priest s table having been 
 extinguished,) aided his flight, and at length he found 
 himself in the pure free air, and under the broad blue 
 and starlit expanse of heaven. A barque was ready 
 for him on the river; with much care he placed his 
 bride within it, and bore down for Memphis. Here 
 he was joined by the family and parents of his Alme, 
 and before his agency in the death of Bermahdi could 
 bo known, they were all safely steering among the 
 free and balmy isles of the Grecian Archipelago. 
 27 
 
314 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE YEMASSEES. 
 
 The Yemassees were a powerful nation of savaget, 
 occupying, in the lower parts of the state of South 
 Carolina, a tract of country extending from Beaufort 
 on the sea coast. Incited to insurrection by Spanish 
 persuasion, they had laid a deep plan for the destruc* 
 tion of the Carolinians, in which, with the cunning of 
 Philip, they had contrived to involve many of the inde 
 pendent neighbouring tribes. Fortunately for the 
 whites, the design was discovered, and in the contest 
 which ensued, the Yemassees were completely extermi 
 nated as a nation. The following lines refer to this 
 event, and the last survivor is here made to furnish the 
 record of their overthrow. That they were extermina 
 ted, in that affair, is, however, very doubtful ; and the 
 opinion generally entertained, is, that a number did 
 survive, and in the wildernesses of Georgia and Florida 
 find a shelter from their enemies. They have been 
 traced by some modern writers, indeed, to the vast 
 swamp, called the EcHinuka of Georgia a capacious 
 marsh, which occupies a large extent of country in the 
 lower regions of that state ; on whose knolls and 
 islands, thousands of which rise up at every step in this 
 secluded shelter, they nro represented as having taken 
 up their abode. Ono of these, according to Bar tram, 
 
TUE LAST OF THE YEMA8SEES. 315 
 
 the Creeks describe as the most blissful spot of earth. 
 They represent it as inhabited by a peculiar race of In 
 dians, whose women are incomparably beautiful. They 
 also tell you, that this terrestrial paradise has been 
 seen by some cf their enterprising hunters, when in 
 puisuitof game, who, being lost in inextricable swamps 
 and bogs, and on the point of perishing, have been sud 
 denly relieved by beautiful women, who kindly gave 
 them fruits and provisions, and then, putting them on 
 their path, bade them fly, for that their men were very 
 fierce and cruel to strangers, and would certainly de 
 stroy them were they to encounter. These hunters 
 describe the settlement, of which they had a distant 
 view, on the elevated banks of an island or promontory 
 in a beautiful lake, but, in their endeavours to approach 
 which, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and 
 like enchanted land, it alternately appeared and disap 
 peared as they continued to advance. The young 
 warriors, on hearing this account, set out upon a jour 
 ney of discovery, but failed, in the thousand intricacies 
 of the swamp, which beset them on every side, to dis 
 cover the beautiful lake, the island, and the settlements. 
 Such is the tradition. It is thought, that some of this 
 may be true- that the Creek hunters may have lost 
 their way, and stumbling upon the place of retreat, 
 chosen by the few surviving Yemassees, were made to 
 believe a story of danger, told them by the women, 
 who thus represented their people, in order to discou 
 rage any enterprise, on the part of the warlike Creeks, 
 for their discovery, which must have ended in their 
 further exile, or in their complete annihilation. Some 
 further use has been -made of this tradition in the pre- 
 
316 THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 sent volume, in which the catastrophe, thus deprecated, 
 has been made to take place. 
 
 He fought his nation s foes til night 
 
 Had cant her mantle round. 
 Nor, in the stern, unequal fight. 
 Where freemen battled for their right, 
 
 (avc undisputed ground. 
 His followers fell before his face- 
 He stood tho luHt of all hi* race. 
 
 His brother him that pride had named 
 
 The eugle of his lund 
 In hunt, UN well as battle, famed, 
 Who once, the furious wolf had tamed, 
 
 And with unweaponed hand- 
 Hi mself the panther in the fight. 
 Who sought it with a fierce delight- 
 Before him fast expiring lay : 
 
 And he whose name had been 
 The signal, many a bloody day. 
 For long and well contested fray 
 
 Known by his uncurbM mien ; 
 Were then a trophy, worth the toil. 
 Of young ambition, mad for spoil. 
 
 Yet who shall tread the thicket s brake, 
 
 And with undaunted heart, 
 Arouse the coil d and glittering snake 
 With fearful fang, and eye awake, 
 
 Nor backward shuddering start? 
 There, coil d as fate, the serpent lies, 
 And he, who first approaches, dies. 
 
 Thus, o er his dying brother s brow, 
 The brave Sanutd bends 
 
THE LAST OF THE YEHA8SEE3. 317 
 
 He wails his prostrate nation low, 
 Lamenting for his kindred now 
 His people and his friends 
 But, with a fearful burst of grief, 
 He mourns o er all, that bleeding chief. 
 
 " And thou," he sung in earnest train, 
 
 * Shalt seek the hunt no more 
 !Nor whet the battle knife again, 
 Nor strike the living, scalp the slain 
 
 Thy battle fields are o er. 
 Yet mong the western hills alone, 
 Thou hast not, all* un tended, gone. 
 
 " Slain by thy self, full many a ghost 
 
 Thy journey must partake- 
 To wafl thee to the happy coast, 
 The spoilers of our land, a host, 
 
 O erspread the ocean lake 
 And many a maiden there, for thoo, 
 Shall make the sweet sagamitd. 
 
 u And I have seen thee bend the bow, 
 
 And I have watch d thee spring, 
 With gleaming knife upon the foe, 
 And far and fell the hatchet throw, 
 
 As swallow, swift on wing, 
 Pursue the triumph with a flight, 
 Unbroken by the long day s fight 
 
 44 And, as becomes the Indian brave, 
 
 When, in the battle s strife, 
 O erpower d, he finds a bloody grave, 
 Thou didst not vainly seek to savo 
 
 The last remains of life- 
 Content, if fortune could not give 
 Thy country freedom, not to live ! 
 27* 
 
31 8 THE BOOK OF MY LADY . 
 
 M The hunter, when the day b done 
 Must bark and drew the pino; 
 
 And thai the wolf Inn rent may shun, 
 When tho dark night comes stealing on, 
 
 Must bid tho fire light shine. 
 But thou art happy now I see, 
 Thy slain foes do thia work for 1 1 ice. 
 
 ** Upon tliis bloody rock 1 stand, 
 And gaze with ling ring eye 
 Before me is my native laud, 
 Now blazing with the fatal brand- 
 While round me, the last gallant band, 
 
 My fellow warriors, lie. 
 I may not stand and dwell alone, 
 When all aro pcrish d thus, and gone. 
 
 "The shaft is fitted to my bow, 
 One shado my koul demands, 
 
 One gallant brave, one mighty foe, 
 To cross with me the river i 6ow, 
 
 And seek the happy lands." 
 
 He speaks no more the shaft it gone, 
 A plume is lost, a chief is down. 
 
 Then rose the cry of rage below, 
 
 And up the dizzy height, 
 Burning for vengeance came the foe, 
 With meditated blast and blow, 
 
 Though late all faint with fight. 
 With folded arms the warrior stands, 
 
 And gazes on the coming bunds ! 
 
 And will he tamely fall or fly, 
 
 Survivor last of all his race ? 
 Recreant, who does not daro to die, 
 When country, honour, liberty, 
 All bleed before Ids face 
 
THE LAST OF THE YEMA8SEES. 319 
 
 Within his grasp, tho foremost foo 
 Goes with him o er the mountain s brow. 
 
 And still by old Salutah s wave, 
 
 Tho boor, with certain hand, 
 Will point tho Indian warrior s grave, 
 And still from old tradition save 
 
 That story of his land 
 The fearful fight still known to fame, 
 
 And how adown tho steeps they came, 
 
320 THE BOOK OP MT LADY. 
 
 THE OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 Upon thi. hint I fpake. 
 
 I have never boon apt at taking tho tide of fortune. 
 when auspiciously totting in tho truo direction. Some* 
 how, I invariably linger until it in turned or turning, and 
 then my course is an up current one ail rifftet t inagt, 
 and jjji^er*, like that of a Mississippi steamboat. In 
 large and little concerns alike, it is my fate never to 
 avail myself of opportunities. I can see them well 
 enough when they have gone by never before. Look* 
 ing back, they are so many mocking commentaries 
 upon my dilly-dallying disposition, that I cannot com 
 plain or repine. They seem to do all that for me, 
 and, in this respect, at least, I am indebted to them. 
 My friends, and enemies, I may add, all know of this 
 failing in my mental make ; and with one accord have 
 denominated me, " Topic the Unready." The stugo 
 and stcnmboat leave me, tho show is gone, before I 
 look to it and all things in nature, animate and in 
 animate alike, seem fumiliur with my deficiencies, and 
 perpetually take advantage of them. 
 
 One of my misfortunes, arising from this unconscious 
 unreadiness, I take more seriously to heart than any 
 other. I loved, and have reason to believe was in a 
 fair way to make a favourable impression. I danced 
 perpetual attendance at the house of tho fair one 
 
THE OPPORTUNITY. 321 
 
 escorted her hero, and followed her there wrote song 
 and sonnet in her favour sighed my love to every 
 zephyr that travelled in the direction of the beauty s 
 abode did every thing in short, that a lover should 
 do except perhaps the simple but most necessary 
 _duty of all I never popped the question. I had how 
 ever determined upon this measure, and had prepared 
 myself accordingly. i; 
 
 The evening came, and I took my place by the 
 centre table in the parlour of Mies Emily s parents. 
 There was something of company present. There 
 was a poet and a painter, and several other persons 
 given to such trifling pursuits. I was, to speak with 
 duo modesty, the only philosopher in the room ; and 
 I was something more than surprised to find my fair 
 devoting more of her time to my neighbours, than, it 
 struck me, was altogether consistent with good sense 
 and a proper understanding. Above all, I was vexed 
 to find her so attentive to my how-d ye-do acquaint 
 ance, Bill Walton, whom, in order that he should 
 judge of the merits of my chosen, I had myself intro 
 duced to her acquaintance. But this attention to him, 
 upon second thought, I set down to her regard for me. 
 
 Some fine engravings from Helvetian scenery lay 
 upon the table before us, to which Walton had called 
 her attention. 
 
 " We have no such achievements from the hands of 
 our artists, Miss Emily, "said he "indeed we have 
 not the material, we want the scenery itself. Such 
 wonderous indications of her power, nature does not 
 exhibit to our eyes in this country." 
 
 " None, none,* she replied, with something of a 
 
322 TUB BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 tone of disappointment and regret, coupled at the .same 
 time with an air of unconscioua rapidity, which, how 
 ever, *eemcd to depart, u Walton, in a whiHpcr, ap 
 pcared to conclude his remark. 
 
 Mr. Cambridge, a member of congress, a gentleman 
 of some pretension and appearance, interfered : 
 
 " Wo uro not deficient, however, in the objects of 
 moral contemplation," he suid with an uir of the 
 schools * though we may lack," he continued, some 
 few of the physical wonders which are here delineated. 
 Has not * Liberty* made an effort, and are not her ex 
 hibitions in America, upon a scale as magnificent as 
 these rude rocks, and snows, and * shelvings down V 
 Her achievements in our land, which, by the way, I 
 must take occasion to say, is just as well supplied with 
 stupendous and striking scenery, as *ny other, have 
 thrown into a just obscurity the mere physical and 
 animal wonders of the world. Our moral and politi 
 cal stature" 
 
 Here I interposed. I saw what was coming, and 
 could not forbear exclaiming, while falling, unhappily 
 for myself, into the very error of habit, 1 was seeking 
 to reprove * Nay, my good sir, let us have no more 
 of this same ad captaiidum about what we are, and 
 what we may be. That would do very well for a 
 Tammany Hall meeting, and would admirably suit and 
 split the ears of the groundlings, but cannot very 
 greatly enlighten or amuse the intellect of a fashion 
 able young lady. What does Miss Emily caie whether 
 Liberty prefers ours to all other countries or not ? 
 The thing affects her neither one way nor another. 
 Besides, freedom is a word not known in their vocabu- 
 
THE OPPORTUNITY. 323 
 
 lary. Ladies have nothing to do with liberty. Their 
 business is conquest and captives. Talk to them of 
 bonds rather, of dungeons in tho arms of love : of 
 chains, though they be made of flowers; and servitude, 
 though it bo in the gardens of beauty, and in the cul 
 tivation of those plants which are the favourite of that 
 worst of tyrants, love I Tell them of bands of roses, and 
 shackles of jessamines and honeysuckle, and prisons of 
 moonlighted and leaf-covered bowers: anything but 
 liberty. We have no liberty. Neither you nor I, nor any 
 of our sex. We are slaves to some despotism or other ; 
 and obtain our emancipation from one, only to run head 
 long and blind into another. If we are not slaves of wo 
 men, we are of men, and vice versa. We have no liberty. 
 We are as much in bondage as any people under the 
 sun. In fact, there can be no freedom for the great 
 mass. They were never intended to be free. Take 
 from them that restraint, which, if it bo not chains ac 
 tually, is nevertheless so in effect, and they arc tho 
 veriest brutes and savages that walk. There aro somo 
 men born expressly to be slaves liberty would b& 
 poison and death to them, as poison in some cases-**- 
 that of Mithridates of Pontus for instance is health 
 ful and nutritious." 
 
 * Dear mo, Mr. Topic, how long you can talk on BO 
 tedious a subject. I m sure I have not heard a single 
 syllable of all you have been saying, except one pretty 
 sentence about jessamines and honeysuckles. Your 
 speech has been like a wide wilderness, into which, 
 being a lover of sterile solitude, you have, with a nig 
 gardly hand, admitted but a few flowers, and those less 
 for the sake of relief than for their own beauty and 
 
824 THE BOOK OF MIT LADY. 
 
 odour." So spake a lively little girl whom I had not 
 before remarked, so earnestly had I been engaged in 
 my observations. * And you, miss," I replied, u have 
 been the industrious bee to ferret and find out those 
 few flowers, without regarding the whole wilderness 
 you speak of beside. Yet is that wilderness, though it 
 forms so trifling an object of our contemplation, spread 
 out in all its variety and loveliness, as, al any time in 
 our country, we may behold it, as abundantly stored 
 with the materiel of the sublime, as this bungling and 
 confused succession of clouds and mountains, which, 
 for the last ten minutes, you have all been so gravely 
 admiring." 
 
 " Oil, how can you think so ?" exclaimed the lady. 
 * l I m sure these are so pretty." 
 
 " What an epithet for a scene like this !" whispered 
 the painter, almost audibly in my ear. The young 
 girl, whose admiration, like that of many fashionable 
 people where the arts are concerned, was artificial, 
 seemed herself conscious of her faux pas and the 
 malapropos phrase of which she had been guilty, and 
 the blush that suffused her cheek, was a suilicicnt 
 atonement for the otTence. She sidled to an opposite 
 corner of the room, and I proceeded in my address to 
 the fair Emily, but to my surprise, discovered, (or the 
 first time, that she was not in hearing, but at the oppo~ 
 bite end of the room, in company and close conversa 
 tion with Walton. To bo caught and to catch myself 
 in a soliloquy, as had been the case, so far as sho 
 was concerned was horrible, and I hastily advanced 
 to apologise, when suddenly retreating, she left the 
 room. Confusion worse confounded!" I turned for 
 
TUB OPPORTUNITY. 325 
 
 explanation to Walton, who soon satisfied all my en 
 quiries by the following reply. 
 
 A thousand thanks, my dear fellow. You have 
 done me a most gracious service. I can well under 
 stand and shall duly appreciate your friendship, in oc 
 cupying the cars of the company with that smart speech, 
 and thus giving me a chance for which you must know 
 I havo been labouring so vainly and so long. In fine, 
 while you spoke, I spoke. I popped the question, my 
 dear fellow, to my sweet Emily, and all s well. She 
 consents to make rno happy, and I have nothing more 
 to say, and indeed can say nothing, but bid you to my 
 wedding, which is to take place on the evening of the 
 ensuing Monday, at eight o clock ; and return you many 
 sincere thanks for the present, long desired, and well 
 employed, opportunity. * 
 
 28 
 
THE BOOK OF MY LADY. 
 
 DREAMS AND DREAMING. 
 
 11 Ob! then 1 we Queen Mab hath been with you 
 She U the Fancy i midwife," Itc. 
 
 To a mere man of the world, dreams may he con 
 sidered rather troublesome matters. Ilia speculations, 
 if a merchant, sometimes depend upon them, but for 
 tunately, to no very great extent. If betrayed into error 
 by them once, it is rarely the case that he does not get 
 wiser thereon the warning, serving well, as all mat 
 ters of experience, to keep him out of farther experi 
 ments of a similar description : and, taking the experi 
 ence which he gets by them into consideration, they 
 may be said to have been rather beneficial to him than 
 otherwise. Not so with the man who lives upon 
 dreams whose life is made up of them whom they 
 put to sleep in the day particularly at lunch or meal 
 time and whom they assist to waken up at night, for 
 the purpose of building castles which afford no shelter. 
 Such are your poor-devil poets the scurvy tribe. To 
 one of these, they prove an active principle of rnis- 
 governrnent. They are agencies, passive it may be, 
 but controlling, directing, and exercising, all of those, 
 on which he depends for his very existence. I know 
 some men who live upon dreams, not as a matter of 
 choice, but of necessity, in a double sense. I don t 
 know but I may be one of that description myself, I 
 
DREAMS AND DREAMING. 327 
 
 certainly drcnm myself, sometimes, out of an appetite, 
 and, vice versa; particularly when my chop-house bears 
 upon its tessclatcd but repelling front, the talisrnanic 
 and awful characters, " no credit/ done in the most 
 legible, and not to be mistaken, Roman characters a 
 not unfrequent event, and, for the remedy of which, my 
 experience in the fine arts although, of late, a profes- 
 scur in -the school of Jeremy Diddler has, as yet, 
 found nothing. Dreams, on occasions such as these, 
 may be held rather pleasant than otherwise. They, at 
 least, with a duo sense of retributive justice, contribute 
 somewhat to silence the appetite they have helped to 
 provoke. With their aid, I can then calculate, to a 
 nicety, the relative distance between a doubt and a no* 
 gative the value of a possibility* and the number of 
 these necessary to the formation of a single probability. 
 Hunger and thirst, have you ever remarked, beget an 
 admirable metaphysical propensity ; and dreams are 
 not apt to lessen, to any great extent, the organ of 
 speculation. This idea, by the way, is not original. 
 There is a Spanish proverb, from Andalusia, which 
 says, 
 
 When the cook s out o the way, 
 Tho preacher comes in play I" 
 
 or something equivalent 1 cannot lay my hands on the 
 original. It is curious, however, to observe, that a 
 supper and no supper, in ninety-nine cases out of the 
 hundred, are productive of the same cllcct. The omis 
 sion and commission both bring night-mare. We sleep 
 indeed, but, 
 
 M In that sleep, what dreams do come !" 
 
328 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 ay, what dreams do come f You have taken a surfeit, 
 have you ? and in spite of the hourly and daily exhorta- 
 tions of the Journal of Health against the practice, you 
 have eaten heartily, cormorant-like, of a heavy supper, 
 and gone immediately to bed. Perhaps you have not 
 taken this trouble. We will couple your supposed case 
 with one of our own, which, unfortunately for our com 
 fort at the time, was any thing but supposed. You 
 have passed the night, in imagination at least. The 
 sun looks red and bloody as ho rises. A cursed weight 
 appears resting on the hinder part of your sJcull, while 
 a Parthian soldiery employs itself in hurling heated 
 darts over and throughout the regions of the temples 
 and the brain. These are your actual bodily under- 
 goings. The dreams those evils which are mental- 
 are worst of all. If you are an imaginative man I do 
 not mean a scribbler of veide nothing is more com 
 mon, than to feel yourself held, by your thinnest and 
 most gossamery hair, over the brink und threshold of 
 some infernal precipice, so deep and capacious, that 
 you may be occupied in falling, a thousand or two 
 years, before you can, by any possibility, arrive at the 
 bottom. Some giant sorno Pasaamontc or Morgante, 
 who, 
 
 ** Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees and oaks, 
 And flings them" 
 
 holds and maintains you, by the aforesaid hair ; while, 
 with a degree of indulgence, for which you expresa but 
 little gratitude, your eyes, to your infinite satisfaction, 
 are permitted to go before your person nnd explore ihe 
 horrible recesses and depths of the deep beneath you. 
 
DREAMS AND DREAMING. 329 
 
 There you behold, in most incongruous confusion, ad 
 ders with green heads and forked tongues ; basilisks, 
 vipers, all sorts of slimy reptiles and monsters, and of 
 wild beasts, an infinite variety ; meant to afford you, 
 possibly, a free choice in the manner of your death. 
 You feel yourself tottering and trembling. Though in 
 other respects, and at any other time, a lean man, you 
 have now learned to dread your own weight and sub 
 stance ; and are led to entertain a wish, that you had 
 not, during the days of the past year, been so heartily a 
 consumer of the various excellent marketabilities of 
 your good landlady s good table. At this time, you 
 perceive that the gruff and insolent monster, who, with 
 the fiendish grin of an ogre, holds you in this predica 
 ment, is exulting over your approaching fate, and play 
 ing, like a cat, with your mouse-like terrors, before you 
 are made to feel the final pang, and consummate the 
 dreadful catastrophe. When you are sufficiently fami 
 liar with the anticipation of the thing, you behold him 
 leisurely taking a huge carving-knife from his breeches 
 pocket ; always, providing he be no sans culotle no 
 highlandcr. You watch him with an eye, that calcu 
 lates to a miracle, the time he occupies in the applica 
 tion of the wire-edge to that gossamery thing of hair, 
 which your heart, all the time, wishes were a chain ca 
 ble of ten-pound links. He cuts you feel yourself 
 going, going, gone. You experience a terrible and an 
 uncomfortable shock. There are strange, uncouth, 
 and fearful ringings in your ears a hideous noise and 
 clamor around, and about, and within you a weight, 
 as of ten thousand ton of rock upon your breast, and a 
 corkscrew of heated iron, seething and crunching in 
 28* 
 
330 THE BOOK OF MY LAD V. 
 
 your head. Your first thought is, that after sending 
 you down so hastily, your vindictive and merciless 
 tyrant has hurled the entire mass of rock down after 
 and upon you ; a conjecture which tends not very ex 
 travagantly towards increasing your comfort or quiet. 
 You attempt to scream in your agony, hut the effort 
 dissipates in a weak and husky murmur, the sound of 
 which dies in your throat, incapable of forcing its v/ay 
 through the aperture of your mouth. In vain would 
 you move or stir your limbs fall relaxed from the 
 effort, as if under the spell of an enchanter. But while 
 you are yet undetermined as to the precise occasion of 
 your present discontent or discomposure, the sounds 
 that stunned your ears, and shattered and distracted 
 your nerves and understanding, suddenly ceased ; the 
 mountain rolls from your chest, and, although the pnin 
 does not exacly depart from your head, you feel, to a 
 certain degree, relieved in that quarter. 
 
 But, where are you ? That is the question. You look 
 around, and the first thing you perceive (always sup 
 posing your dreams have arisen from repletion, and a 
 hearty supper) and the first natural object your eyes 
 may be expected to rest upon, is your own proper 
 person, of course. You are on the floor stretched off 
 at length, rather quietly and composedly than other 
 wise, all circumstances considered. The next thing 
 you perceive, for your eyes fail to take in all these 
 things at onc<3, is the large family dining-tablc at your 
 side, some of the legs of which are civilly resting upon 
 your own. By an ugly abrasion of your right nostril, 
 from which the blood still continues freely to flow, 
 and which tou readily recognise and claim as your 
 
DREAMS AND DREAMING. 331 
 
 own, you perceive that the shin bone of the ham that 
 rests passively before you, has, upon no very remote 
 occasion, been cruelly familiar. A large plate, from 
 which you remember to have eaten an hour or two 
 agone, has quartered itself in epigrammatic angles 
 upon the retouched lines of your face a decanter and 
 sundry glasses, a further survey has made out to num 
 ber among the slain ; some utterly and irretrievably 
 demolished ground to powder. Over all of these, as 
 your senses begin to comprehend the various details, 
 ad libitum, you behold the lean and withered form of 
 your weather-beaten landlady, who is blind and deaf, 
 entering the room with a dim lantern in one hand, 
 and a broom stick in the other, adding to your enjoy 
 ments by a well sustained application of the latter do- 
 meslicality to your back, head, sides, front, and so 
 forth, accompanying the physical development with a 
 rapid and running commentary of " sis cat," * sis cat," 
 "sip cat," in a family tone, to which, from repeatedly 
 having heard, not one of the whole feline tribe for a 
 mile round, but would have treated with due and une 
 quivocal respect. In vain do you cry out, "Mrs. 
 
 Jones, it is I ; Mr. (whatever. the name may be) 
 
 and not the cat. Permit me to assure you, Mrs. Jones, 
 it is not the cat. I am your lodger, my dear madam 
 you are beating your lodger and not the cat." The 
 good old lady has a most religious respect for her or 
 gans of sight and sense of hearing, however deficient, 
 in reality, they may be; and continues to belabour 
 away most unmercifully, until, by a violent and extra 
 ordinary effort, you at once shake off nightmare, table, 
 and landlady, and bruised, battered, and broom-sticked, 
 
334 THE BOOK OP MY LADY. 
 
 have a more earthly, dollar and cent, and far less spi 
 ritual likeness. They are evokable in the shapes of 
 bread, beef, beer, and oilier condiments. Of these we 
 shall speak hereafter. We shall meet at Philippi ! 
 When Jim Taylor was carried to jail by the deputy, 
 on some cruel suspicions which went greatly to affect 
 his credit, he barely and briefly soliloquised, "1 guessed 
 how it would be, from what I seed last night." Jim 
 had been troubled with dreams, and the insolvent 
 debtor s act gave him an opportunity of rendering to 
 his creditors a schedule of them. By tins he had more 
 than enough for the payment of all his debts. He had 
 dreamed, like other specious gentlemen, but when hia 
 tailor refused to credit, Jim s dreams proved unavaila 
 ble. A voyage of discovery, fitted out under his as 
 signment, failed to discover the land of Nod, in which 
 his property lay. In terra Jlrma he was equally un 
 fortunate, and like his part biographer, he became a 
 notorious chronicler of the unsubstuntials ; wrote for 
 the lady public, as we do; but, unlike our. self, and 
 here all comparison ends, through the liberality of 
 reader and publisher, was soon put beyond all farther 
 necessity to dream. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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