Part 5

“Not much, only will you allow me to pay you back _that small coin_ you bestowed on me yesterday, in your Christian charity?”

“Oh, I’ll forgive you the debt,” said Kate, laughing.

“No, dear, I’ll not take advantage of your generosity, but pay you to the uttermost farthing.”

“Ah, hold! that is all, now—a thousand times more than I gave you!”

Suddenly the happy lover darted out of the room, and presently returned, saying, “See, Kate! a portrait of you, from memory.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Kate. “But, Harry, you have made my dark hair quite an auburn, and it has only the slightest golden hue when the sunlight falls upon it.”

“Well,” he replied, “to _my_ eyes, there was _always_ sunlight playing around you.”

“Ah, thank you; but again, these eyes are dark _blue_, and mine are gray, or by complaisance, hazel.”

“A very natural mistake, dearest,” said Harry, with an arch smile, “I saw heaven in your eyes, and so came to paint them blue.”

* * * * *

THE CORSAIR’S VICTIM.

(AN EXTRACT FROM “ZILLAH.”)

BY WM. H. C. HOSMER.

When Night, upon her starry throne, Held undisputed sway and lone, And moonlight to the trembling wave A soft but spectral radiance gave, He seized, with iron grasp, his chain, As if endued with giant strength, And after many efforts vain, While glowing madness fired his brain, From bondage burst at length. The cunning Corsair heard the sound Of strong link breaking, with a clang, And stealing lightly, with one bound, Upon his frenzied victim sprang: His right arm, used to felon deed, The Corsair raised with ready skill— One thrust of his stiletto freed The crazed one from his load of ill. The pleading look and wild appeal Of Zillah could not stay the steel; She saw him fall, and from his side The red stream gush in bubbling tide, Then fell herself, as _if the blade_ _A sheath of her own breast had made;_ While fearfully his spouting gore The white robe reddened that she wore. Her ear heard not the gurgling sound Of hungry waters closing round, As hastily the ruffian cast His victim to the ocean vast, Or marked the grim, exulting smile That lighted up his face the while: Extended on the deck she lay, As if the war of life was over, As if her soul had fled away To realms of never-ending day, To join the spirit of her lover.

She woke at last from her long swoon, To hope that Death would triumph soon, And the mad pulses of her frame, With icy touch, forever tame: She woke with features ashy white, And wildly gazed upon the plank That deeply, freely in the night The crimson of his veins had drank: Then raising heavenward her eye, In still, expecting posture stood, As if a troop from realms on high Were coming down, with battle-songs, To wash out sternly in the blood Of coward-hearts her many wrongs: No tear-drop came to her relief In that wild, parching hour of grief, The tender plant of love she knew Would into verdure break no more— The spot was _arid_ where it grew In green luxuriance before. She knew henceforth her lot below Would be to quaff the cup of pain— On thing of Earth she could not throw The sunlight of her smile again: The voice was still whose melting tone Had vied in sweetness with her own— The hiding wave had closed above The only object of her love: And Rispah, as strict watch she kept, While cold, like forms of Parian stone, Her sons on gory couches slept, Felt not more desolate and lone.

In many hearts the gloomy sway Of sorrow lessens, day by day, Until the charms of life at last Blot out remembrance of the past: As winds may kiss the trampled flower, And lift again its bruiséd leaf, So time, with his assuaging power, May stay the wasting march of grief: But hearts in _other_ bosoms beat Where anguish finds a _lasting seat_— That heal not with the lapse of time— Too delicately stung for earth, Whose chords can never after chime With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth. Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight Strove oft, but vainly, to forget The horrors of that fatal night, When her _beloved star_, whose light Made bondage pleasant, set. No murmur from the lip outbroke, Though suddenly her cheek grew thin— No quick, convulsive start bespoke The desolating fire within. Her dark eye rested on the wave By day and in the hush of eve, As if, ere long, the wet sea-cave Her buried one would leave, And, drifting suddenly to view, His murderer with dread subdue. Ah! I have said the stately mien Of Zillah would befit a queen, That lawless _crime_ could ill withstand Her innate bearing of command. Alas! regality of soul Gives agony supreme control, And prompts the wretched one to hide Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze— To nurse, in uncomplaining pride, The scorpion that preys.

* * * * *

A DIRGE FOR O’CONNELL.

BY ANNE C. LYNCH.

Throw open once again The portals of the tomb, And give among the glorious dead Another hero room!

Unclose your shadowy ranks, Illustrious shades unclose! The valiant Leader, crowned with years, Goes down to his repose.

The champion of Peace On many a well-fought field, Whose bloodless victories left no stain On his untarnished shield;

A king, though on his brow No jeweled crown might shine, A king, although his patriot blood Glowed from no royal line;

A sovereign o’er a realm No boundaries can confine. Whose throne was in a Nation’s heart, Who reigned by right divine;

A priest at Freedom’s shrine, Whose kindling words he spoke, Till the dumb millions from their sleep To life and hope awoke;

A soldier of the Cross, Who bore a stainless brand; The Preacher of a new crusade To rescue a lost land.

Rome! to thy care is given The heart whose throbs are o’er; Eternal City! to thy charge Take this one relic more!

And Erin, sad and lorn, Take thou thy sacred trust, And let the soil he loved so well Commingle with his dust!

And, Fame, take thou in charge The patriot’s renown, And gather from your amaranth fields Another fadeless crown.

* * * * *

THE ILLINOIS AND THE PRAIRIES.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE “DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC.

That gallant officer and enterprising traveler, Major Long, did the Illinois great injustice when he described it as “an extended pool of stagnant water,” for it was, when I saw it, one of the prettiest streams to be found in this country of fine rivers. The width is such as to give a full view of objects on both sides in passing; the basin was full without overflowing; and though the current was gentle, its waters were neither muddy nor stagnant. It should, however, be observed, that my journey was in the season when the rivers of the great Mississippi valley, though beginning to subside, were still high, and that those who wish to see them to advantage should visit the South and West before the heats of summer. Else will they be assuredly disappointed, and accuse me of indulging in a favorite amusement of travelers.

The Illinois, until you approach the Rapids, seems made on purpose for steam navigation, which is seldom, if ever, molested either by winds or waves. With the exception of points where the prairies approach the borders, the river is every where skirted by those magnificent forests which constitute one of the most striking and beautiful features of this new world; and completely sheltered from the storm, seems to glide along unconscious of the uproar of the elements around. It flows through a region which, even in this land of milk and honey, is renowned far and near for its almost unequaled fertility, and the ease with which it may be brought to produce the rich rewards of labor. There is, perhaps, no part of the world where the husbandman labors less, and reaps more, than throughout a great portion of this fine state, on which nature has bestowed her most exuberant bounties.

But, strange to say, I found the good-hearted people, almost without exception, complaining of “hard times,” not arising, however, from the usual sources of war, famine, or pestilence, but from actual abundance. They had more than they knew what to do with, and it was an apt, though melancholy commentary on the wisdom of man, as well as the providence of human legislation, that while the citizens of Illinois, and, indeed, the entire great western valley, were overburthened with all the necessaries of life, a large portion of the laboring poor of England were starving for want of them, simply because their rulers had virtually prohibited one country from relieving the necessities of the other. But for the high duties on flour, grain and provisions, the wants of the poor of England might and would be greatly relieved by the superabundance of the United States, and thus the blessings of Providence bestowed on one country be disseminated among others. But legislators, renowned for their far-reaching sagacity, have decreed otherwise; and the plenty which might become a universal blessing, is made a burthen to one country, while useless to all the rest of the world.

This noble state, as is well known, derives its name from a tribe of Indians, originally called the Illeni, which the French missionaries and explorers, who were the first white men that visited this region, changed into Illinois. They were neither warlike nor brave, and were held in great contempt by the invincible Iroquois and Outagamis, as appears from the following relation of an old traveler. “An Outagami,” says Father Charleroix, “who was burnt by the Illinois, perceiving a Frenchman among the spectators, begged of him that he would help his enemies to torment him; and on being asked why he made this request, replied, ‘because I should have the comfort of dying by the hands of men. My greatest grief is, that I never killed a man.’ ‘But,’ said an Illinois, ‘have you not killed such and such persons?’ ‘True; as for the Illinois, I have killed enough of them, but they are not men.’”

The character of the Indians, and the view of the savage state as found in North America, given by this writer, is so philosophical and just, that I am tempted to transcribe it for the instruction and amusement of the reader. It appears at least to be impartial, which is more than can be said of more recent writers, one class of whom can find nothing to praise, the other nothing to blame in our Indians.

“With a savage appearance, and manners, and customs, which are entirely barbarous, there is observable among them a social kindness, free from almost all the imperfections which so often disturb the peace of society among us. They appear to be without passion; but they do that in cold blood, and sometimes through principle, which the most violent and unbridled passion produces in those who give no ear to reason. They seem to lead the most wretched life in the world; and they were, perhaps, the only happy people on earth, before the knowledge of the objects which so much work upon and seduce us, had excited in them desires which ignorance kept in supineness, and which have not, as yet, made any great ravages among them. We discover in them a mixture of the fiercest and the most gentle manners; the imperfections of wild beasts, united with virtues and qualities of the mind and heart which do the greatest honor to human nature. One would think at first they had no form of government; that they acknowledge neither laws nor subordination; and that living in an entire independence, they suffer themselves to be solely guided by chance, and the wildest caprice. Nevertheless, they enjoy almost all the advantages that a well regulated authority can secure to the best governed nations. Born free and independent, they look with horror on the very shadow of despotic power; but they seldom depart from certain principles and customs founded on good sense, which are to them instead of laws, and which in some measure supply the place of a lawful authority. They will not bear the least restraint; but reason alone keeps them in a kind of subordination, which, from being voluntary, it not less effectual to obtain the end intended.”[1]

The Illinois has the same peculiarity I observed in all the rivers of the Mississippi valley. With the exception of here and there a solitary plantation, or a little embryo town, few traces of man appear on its borders until you arrive at the great prairie, above the head of steam navigation, which extends all the way to the lakes. At long distances we came upon one of those evidences of the busy body, man, in the shape of a little village, a clearing, or an establishment for putting up pork for exportation, where I was told, notwithstanding the “hard times,” they throw the ears, feet, and often heads of the swine into the river, to feed the eels and catfish. Indeed, from what I observed throughout the whole extent of my journey, in this suffering region, there is almost as much wasted there as would serve to feed the starving manufacturers of England.

Most of the towns on the river, below the Rapids, have little worthy of attention, and all their glories are prospective; but there is one it would be unpardonable to pass by without a tribute to its surpassing beauties. I refer to Peoria, whose aspect is as soft and gentle as its name. Father Charleroix, I think, calls it Pimitavery, and it lies on the left bank of the Illinois, where it expands into a lake from one to three miles wide, and ten in length. Ascending the bank, you come upon a fine prairie, forming a crescent, of some twelve or fifteen miles, judging by the eye, whose arch is bounded by a bluff, as it is here usually called, but which represents a natural terrace of wonderful regularity, clothed with luxuriant grass, and crowned with open woods, affording as beautiful sites for country residences as can be imagined in dreams. It was Sunday, and in the afternoon, when the sun was low, I took a walk from the town to the terrace, about a mile distant, which is reached by a private road, leading among wheat and corn fields of the greatest luxuriance.

Nothing could be more soft, calm, and alluring than the weather and the scene. The smooth glassy lake lay directly before me, bordered on the farther side by a vast green meadow receding far away, and fringed in the vague distance by a dark barrier of forest, beyond which was nothing but the skies. Between the lake and the terrace on which I stood, lay the thrifty, gay-looking town; to the left, the crescent gracefully curved till it met the lake, while to the right it made a noble sweep, enclosing a level prairie, whose extent I did not pretend to determine; and which, though it had never been sowed or reaped, looked as smooth as a shaven lawn, as green as the most luxuriant meadow. Neither fence nor inclosure of any kind was seen in that quarter, and the cattle dispersed about in all directions, strayed wherever they pleased. While contemplating the scene, the setting sun gradually retired behind the wooded terrace, and the glowing, golden lustre gave place to those transitions of the summer twilight which are so exquisitely touching and beautiful. There was a silence, a repose and loveliness all around, in the earth, in the heavens above, and on the waters, whose effect, if I could only communicate it to my readers, they would thank me for; and never did the sun set on a more holy Sabbath, or one better calculated to call forth grateful homage to the Creator of such an enchanting world.

This little paradise was until recently possessed by the Peoria Indians, a small tribe, which has since receded; and tradition says there was once a considerable settlement of the French on the spot. I was informed there is an extensive old burial-place, not of Indian origin, somewhere on or near the terrace, and noticed that not a few of the names and physiognomies in this quarter were evidently French. There seems a chasm in the forest history of this region, between the relation of Charleroix, which refers to no later period than 1720, and the final cession of the French North American possessions to the English. A series of obscure and unrecorded incidents which have escaped the historian, led to results which for this reason appear unaccountable; and there is, I think, every reason to believe all those discoveries of iron and copper implements, and other evidences of mechanical skill, from which some ingenious writers have inferred that the Indians once possessed arts they have now lost, may be traced to this period, and to adventurous white men, long since forgotten.

Some eight or ten miles above Peoria, just at the point where this charming lake again becomes metamorphosed into its parent river, and in the midst of a solitude which requires only the presence and labors of man to make it one of the gayest as well as most fruitful districts in the world, are the ruins, or rather remains of the modern city of Rome, founded, not built, in the palmy days of speculation wild. These remains consist of the skeleton of a single house, which puts the passing traveler in mind of the voice of one crying in the wilderness of rich, waving prairie, blooming with flowers of every hue and odor. If there is not a city here now, there certainly will be in time; and the long-sighted speculator, whoever he was, only anticipated a generation or two in the march of population. This beautiful region only wants inhabitants, which, whatever people may say, are necessary to the prosperity of cities; and I think it by no means improbable that some hundreds, or perhaps thousands of years hence—which, after all, is nothing compared to eternity—when all the past, present and future glories of the ancient mistress of the world are buried in the bottomless pit of oblivion, the founder of this legitimate successor, though not suckled by a wolf, may take rank with Romulus and Remus, and be immortalized as the parent of a new and more illustrious Rome.

Sailing up the river, among the green meadows, and willows kissing the surface of the waters, amid a silence broken only by the puffing of the steam-pipe, the next object which attracted my attention was a pretty little village pleasantly situated on the right bank, whose name commemorates the residence of old Father Hennepin, who, tradition says, once established a mission here. These early pioneers of the wilderness deserved and attained a great influence over the jealous, independent, impracticable red-man of the new world, and justly claim the respect of those who might never be incited to follow their example. They were unquestionably actuated by the purest, most elevated piety, in thus encountering and overcoming the dangers and privations of the untracked wilderness, and deserve to be respectfully remembered, if not for the success of their endeavors at least for the courage, zeal and perseverance with which they were prosecuted.

Among the earliest and most distinguished of these were Father Louis Hennepin and Joseph Marquette, the former of whom visited Canada somewhere about the year 1676. He remained some time at fort Frontenac, where he constructed a portable chapel, and whence he accompanied the celebrated Louis de La Salle, in a voyage of discovery on the Upper Mississippi, which had been discovered by Father Marquette, six years before. They visited the Falls of Niagara, of which he gives the earliest description on record. It is extremely accurate, as I ascertained by comparison on the spot, and shows what little change the incessant action of these mighty waters has produced in the lapse of almost two centuries. After establishing a post at Niagara, La Salle built the first schooner that ever sailed on the great lakes, and passing through Erie, St. Clair and Huron, entered Michigan, where he erected a fort at the mouth of the river St. Joseph. From thence they proceeded to explore the Mississippi, and it was probably on his return, that Father Hennepin erected his chapel on the spot where now stands the town bearing his name. According to his own account he first descended the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico, and returning, ascended that river as high as the Falls of St. Anthony, which are indebted to him for their name. He returned to France, published a relation of his discoveries, came back to this country, and I have not chanced to meet with any further account of him. Whether he ever visited France again, or whether he ended his days on the banks of the Illinois, I cannot say. I went on shore and visited the town, which stands on a high gravel bank—a great rarity in this region—and endeavored to ascertain the spot of the good father’s residence. But there are no aged persons, no depositories of traditionary lore to be found here; and our people are too much taken up with anticipations of the future, to pay much attention to the past. I found no one who could give any precise information, though all were familiar with his name. Hennepin is the county-seat of Putnam; and as it does not, I believe, aspire to the dignity of a great city, like most of its neighbors, will probably flourish long and happily, a memorial of the good father whose name it bears.