Part 9

“Ay, God’s curse be on you—” but his words were lost in the clash of the conflict. For a moment I thought he was more than my match, but his very rage overreached itself, and failing to guard himself sufficiently, he exposed his person, and the next instant my sword passed through his body. He fell backwards without a groan. His men saw him fall, and a score of weapons were pointed at me.

“Down with him—hew him to the ground,” roared the British.

“Hurrah for Parker!—beat back the villains!” thundered my own men, and the contest, which had paused during the combat between the fallen chief and myself, now raged with redoubled frenzy, the whole fury of the enemy being directed against myself. I remember shouts, curses, and groans, the clash of cutlasses and the roar of fire-arms, and then comes a faint memory of a sharp pain in my side, succeeded by a reeling in my brain, and a sensation of staggering, as if about to fall. After that all is blank.

When I recovered my senses, I was lying on the quarter deck, while the cool night breeze swept deliciously over my fevered brow, and my ears were soothed with the gentle ripple of the waters as the ship moved on her course. A solitary star, struggling through a rent in the clouds overhead, shone calmly down on me. I turned uneasily around.

“How are you, Parker?” said the voice of the lieutenant, approaching me. “We are nearing the schooner rapidly, when you’ll have your wound attended to—I bandaged it as well as I could.”

“Thank you,” I said, faintly. “But have you really brought off the prize?”

“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “we got off, although they hailed cannon balls around us like sugar-plums at a carnival in Rome. Never before did I run such a gauntlet. But the sleepy fellows did not get properly awake until we had made sail—had they opened their fire at once, they might have sent us to Davy Jones’ locker in a trice.”

“And the enemy’s crew?”

“All snug below hatches, every mother’s son of them. They fought like devils, and came within an ace of beating us. But, faith, yonder is the old schooner. Ship, ahoy!”

We were soon aboard. My wound proved a serious, though not a dangerous one, and for several weeks I was confined to my hammock.

* * * * *

A DAY AT NIAGARA.

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

“Well, here’s an evil of rail-road travelling that I never thought of before!” screamed a bright girl, with pouting, rosy lips and a dimpled chin, at the risque of spoiling as sweet a voice as ever warbled “Away with Melancholy,” on a May morning; addressing her words to our good cousin, who had taken upon himself the responsible charge of escorting a party of ladies, (among whom were the fair speaker, his sister, and my fortunate self,) to see the great ‘lion’ of this western world.

“You say that we are within five miles of Niagara, yet I cannot hear its voice for the eternal gabble, gabble of this locomotive. Why, all my dreams have been associated with the geographic recollections of childhood, which invariably said, ‘The roar of the cataract may be heard distinctly at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles.’”

“You forget,” replied her brother, “that it is when those wise assurances were written, which make the eyes of the school-girl stand out ‘as visibly as letters on a sign,’ that this rapid, noisy mode of travelling was unthought of: wait a little, my sweet sis., till we reach the point of our destination, and Niagara’s thundering bass will sound all the mightier, for bursting suddenly upon your ear.”

While these remarks were passing, we were nearing the end of our journey; and on reaching the depot, our party was among the foremost to leave the puffing, snorting, “black poney” behind, as we turned our faces towards the hotel. But neither my fair cousin nor myself seemed _astounded_ at the noise of the cataract; much to the surprise of her brother. The truth was, that in this particular of _sound_ our “loud expectations” exceeded the reality; though it may as well be remembered here as elsewhere, that before leaving Niagara, our ears _were_ “filled with hearing,” no less than were our “eyes satisfied with seeing.” The sun was first hiding his face behind the golden curtain of a July evening, and tea already sending its grateful fragrance from the ample board, as we reached “The Cataract House;” so it was agreed that we should refresh ourselves with a dish of the green beverage, before sallying out for a peep at the Falls:—furthermore, that until then, no one of our party should approach a certain window which commanded a view of the rapids, upon the penalty of our good-natured cousin’s displeasure; and as we had one and all promised obedience to his wishes, each poised herself on the tip-toe of curiosity, long enough to swallow a boiling draught, at the expense of sore, though not _disabled_ tongues, for some days thereafter. We were, however, too unmerciful to allow our gallant the comforts of his cigar after tea; but by sundry hints, in the form of bonnets and shawls, compelled his politeness to yield to our impatience for the evening ramble. Our footsteps were first directed to the bridge which extends over the boiling, angry rapids, to Goat Island. Even here, it would seem that as much of the awful, the sublime, and the beautiful, had met together, as human eyes could endure to look upon! As we leaned over the railing of the bridge, (holding on instinctively with convulsive grasp,) and surveyed the yawning whirlpools beneath, encompassed by the ever-restless foam, I, for one, thought I had never seen any thing terrific before! But from the imperfect view of the falls, which the gathering shades of twilight and the American side gave us that evening, my “first impressions” were those of bitter disappointment. “And is this the end of all my vast imaginings?” said I, in haste to myself, but breathed it not aloud; for, indeed, even then and there, the scene was grand and imposing: so I held my peace, resolving to await the morning beams, for its rainbow crown, and retire to my pillow _opinionless_, touching the glories of the grand cataract.

The sun looked down upon us the next morning without the shadow of a cloud between, and preparations commenced at an early hour, for a day at Niagara. Much to our delight, we found a familiar party of ladies and gentlemen, at a sister hotel, who had arrived during the night, and would join us in the pleasures of the day. As it happened that the gentlemen of said party outnumbered the ladies, the _fair_ responsibilities of our obliging cousin (who had performed the part of “beau-general” much to the credit of his gallantry) were _fairly_ divided with the other beaux, and all things being arranged, each lady could boast of her own protector. I know of nothing that quickens the pleasing excitement of these excursions more than an unexpected recruit of acquaintances and friends. Never was there a gayer or happier little company than left the “Cataract House” that shadowless summer morning, to cross the green waters of Niagara river for the Canada side. Oh! how those bright faces come up before me now, as if among the vivid recollections of yesterday! There was the brilliant Mrs. —— with her raven curls, matchless form, and “dangerous eyes of jet,” ever and anon returning a dazzling smile for the involuntary gaze of admiration. And what coquette by _nature_ ever learned, until she had been the happy wife and mother _more_ than two years, to confine her favorable glances to _one_ beloved object. Albeit the beautiful Mrs. —— is “a jewel of a wife,” though I heard her adoring husband confess that very day, that she “caught” him “with her eyes!” There, too, in striking contrast, was the gentle wife of our happy cousin, with her hazel “eyes, like shaded water;” the carnation of modesty on her cheeks, and “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit” beaming on her brow. And then the fair Miss ——, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. ——, from New York, who were exposing, for the first time, their fragile flower of sixteen summers, whose delicate complexion, and lily hands, needed none to affirm that “the winds of heaven never visited her too roughly;” but whose chief attraction seemed in some way connected with the appellation of “heiress!” So no doubt thought a whiskered “fortune-hunter,” who, by dint of bows and smiles, had contrived to insinuate himself into the good graces of our party, and played the devoted to Miss ——, after the most approved fashion. To say nothing of the pretty sister of our cousin, with her tiny feet—“the lightest and gentlest that ever from the heath-flower brushed the dew!” Nor of the radiant and fascinating belle of ——, who had already commenced a flirtation with the rich southerner, who was her chosen _knight_ for the day. Nor of other laughing eyes and mirth-stirring spirits that made up the party. But, alas! the shadow of death falls ever upon life’s retrospect picture. Of one individual, whose gallantry, good sense and extraordinary musical powers, rendered him a favorite of the fair, on that occasion, may it now be said, “the places that knew him shall know him no more.” In early manhood, and in a stranger’s grave, sleeps he whose active step, whose buoyant spirits, whose melody of song and sparkling wit concealed from us the insatiate disease, whose slow, sure worm had even then fastened upon his vitals. Consumption sent him to the balmy south, there to find a resting place ’mid orange groves and perpetual-blooming flowers. Peace be with the ashes of the early, the gifted dead.

No sooner was our little barge on the centre of the rapid tide, and the eye glanced upward and round about, than a scene of magnificence and glory burst upon us, which it had “never entered into the heart to conceive!” Many have attempted to describe it; but if the ablest pen of the most ready writer hath failed to embrace half its wondrous beauties, let not this humble pen dare to desecrate what for sublimity and loveliness is verily _indescribable_! To us it seemed that “the fountains of the deep were again broken up”—as if old _Ocean_ was pouring forth his deep green floods into that awful abyss, so wide, so vast, so terrible was their rush to the brink—so mighty and resistless their plunge into the boiling chasm! There hung the rainbow, with God’s promise in its hues of beauty—

“That arch, where angel-forms might lean, And view the wonders of the mighty scene!”

On reaching the Canada side, our first “post of observation” was Table Rock. The picture it presents—who shall paint it? The most striking feature of the whole is the vast _quantity_ of water which pours unceasing and unspent, and its consequent deeply emerald hue as it passes the rocks, before breaking in its fall to the pure, amber-shaded foam, which sends up an eternal incense of spray to Heaven. Another feature of beauty which arrested our attention was the meeting of the floods at the termination of the “Horse-shoe Fall,” where an angle of the rocks causes a continual _embrace of the waters_. The eye could scarce weary in viewing this _one_ beauty of the scene; but before the mighty _whole_, awe-struck, the heart could only bow in silent adoration to that Great Being who made it all, for “the spirit of God moved on the face of the waters!” We next ascended the craggy steep to a wide-extended plain above, where are placed the barracks of the “Forty-third regiment of Her Majesty’s troops.” Fortunately for us, the day was one of regular review, and the whole regiment was out on duty. As we reached the brow of the hill, where, on the one side, was Niagara in all its glory, and on the other an extensive military display of red coats and arms of steel flashing in the sunlight, I thought that Nature and Art needed no embellishment from the pen of Fancy—“’Twas like enchantment all!” While in the full enjoyment of this glorious scene, her Majesty’s well-disciplined band played the familiar air of “God save the Queen!” as to _us_ it was never played before, and my heart vibrated with as much joy as it ever felt at the sound of our national air, “Hail Columbia!”

Our party returned to the hotel at sunset, all uniting in the opinion that it is impossible to anticipate too much of enjoyment at Niagara, so far as it respects the marvellous and beautiful in nature, and only regretting that we could not pass a month, instead of a day, with its scenes around us. A few hours, previous to our departure the following morning, were spent in exploring Goat Island, so far as our limited time would allow. ’Tis in sooth a “fairy isle,” lashed day and night by the untiring rapids, and affording various and beautiful views of the great cataract it divides. The luxuriant foliage of its majestic trees shelters the admirer of the scenes around from the noonday heat, and the odors from its garden of flowers regale his senses the while.

We bade a reluctant adieu to Niagara, calling to mind all the imaginations that the heart had devised—all the descriptions we had heard from others’ lips—but with the words of “the Queen of the East” on our own, “_The half was not told me_.”

By way of concluding this imperfect sketch, we add some few lines, which were written in despite of a resolution most religiously _made_ against such a presumptive measure; for, somehow or other, the humblest, as well as the loftiest pen, will attempt in numbers to express the _un_numbered thoughts and “strange, which crowd into the brain” at Niagara. And while this prince of cataracts flows on, its terrific beauties will be still the oft-told but unspent theme of the “spirit-stirring muse.”

NIAGARA.

“How dreadful is this place!” for God is here! His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks, As with an iron pen and diamond’s point: While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim, Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills. O! if the forest-trees, which have grown old In viewing all the wonders of this scene, Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves— Familiar as they are with things sublime— Shall not the timid stranger here unloose His sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,” And bow in humble worship to his God?

For unto such as do approach with awe This bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind, Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roar Of “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,” Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not— Know that this God, this awful God, is _yours_!” Yes, here have wrath and peace together met— Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced; For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods, The bow of promise and of beauty hangs: When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues, Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow, Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great, But ah! when understood, his name is Love.”

Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.

* * * * *

MAJOR DADE’S COMMAND.

A requiem for the gallant dead? A dirge for those who died, With banner streaming overhead, Unsoiled, unterrified! A gallant but devoted band, They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.

They hear not now the Indian yell, Nor cannon’s angry roar; The clash of arms, or ’larum bell, Shall startle them no more! Unlike and severed were their homes— One sepulchre contains their bones.

The spangled banner that has led So oft to victory, Its stars undimmed, above their bed, Unfolded to the sky, When in the unconquered hearts below, The tide of life had ceased to flow.

No sculptured imagery on high, Reveals their lonely grave. No epitaph can passer spy, To tell where rest the brave! Such may become the gilded tomb, But not the stern old forest’s gloom.

Like streamers, to the passing breeze, The unshorn grass waves here; As silent mourners, blighted trees, Or monuments appear; The glad, wild birds their requiem sing, And flowers around their incense fling.

The smile that struggles in the eye, When withered is the heart, Reminding us of hopes gone by, No joy, but gloom impart; So nature loses all its bloom, And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.

Though wild and distant is the spot, Where their bleached bones are laid, More hallowed ground is honored not By widow, sire, or maid: And fame shall shield from vulgar tread, The ashes of the valiant dead.

And though around their lowly tomb, No kin or friends are found, Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloom On valor’s sacred ground; Yet loving hearts are chill with woe, And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.

As to some venerated shrine, Whose lights have ceased to hum, Shall pilgrims here, in after time, Their wand’ring footsteps turn, And view in Fancy’s magic glass, The scene of death before them pass.

Perchance, upon the spot they fell, Some monument may then Its lofty column rear to tell The gratitude of men; The noble dead! they need it not; Their valor consecrates the spot.

Conrad.

* * * * *

THE WIDOW.

There sits a mourner, solitary now With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow. Cold is the pillow where she laid her head, When last they sat beneath their favorite shade— Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own Answered in tones of tenderness alone.

Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee, And she is left—of all that family! She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile, No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile, She looks within—and all is mute despair, She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.

M. S. B. D.

* * * * *

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn the death of Willis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos. He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and, after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.

As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say his request was religiously fulfilled?

The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines, for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the departed, or admire true poetry.

A DEATH SCENE IN THE CHAMBER OF A POET.

Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak— My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad! The being best beloved has gone before— Why should _I_ tarry here? An angel form Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams, I hear _her_ voice and see her starry eyes! That voice so full of woman tenderness; Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul! Then look not sad! My peace is made with God, And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven— The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!— The truth will break upon me! The dim stars, Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold, Glitter amid the distance—it may be That I may pass their confines on my course; That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze! Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine! How like to living things! How beautiful! How more than wonderful the mighty hand That placed them there, all radiant with light!

Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I Amid thy wonders vast and infinite! And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within— The quenchless light of an eternal soul! Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!

My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend, Long tried and well beloved—before I leave This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers— Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade— I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy, Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear; It is among the last.

Hither, my child!

There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes, So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair, So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose! Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday, All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day, A banquet for the cold and creeping worm! But far above the grave her spirit dwells, Among the white-robed circles of the blest: In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar, And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.

But to the boon. I would not, when my dust Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories. I would not leave a wound in any breast, But fain with all the world would die in peace, Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness. The only legacy that I may leave My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame: A phantom that has cheated me of life, And fails me now, I fear, before the grave. And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright, Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze. And feel the mortal passing slowly off, How dust still clings to dust, and a desire Burns at my breast, that justice may be done My memory!—that he, in after time— (Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—) May speak his father’s name with love and pride.

* * * * * * * * * *

A hand—a friendly hand!—mine eyes grow dim—

His pale lip quivered, and the hectic tinge Passed from his hollow cheeks. And see, he sleeps! Alas! ’tis Death’s unchangeable repose— The spirit of the poet soars to God!