Part 1

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THE KNICKERBOCKER.

VOL. XXII. SEPTEMBER, 1843. No. 3.

THOUGHTS AT NIAGARA.

'THERE'S nothing great or bright, thou glorious Fall! Thou may st not to the fancy's sense recall.' MORPETH.

NUMBERS have labored to describe this imposing spectacle, but no pen can exhaust the subject, or do full justice to its grandeur. It is great, indescribable, mighty; and the sensations it produces are indefinite, confused, and wholly unlike and above the emotions raised by other scenes and other causes. It would be presumption to offer a description; although the image of the passing moment is so deeply fixed in the mind, that all else can be dismissed at pleasure, and the imagination conduct us, as often as we will, to a seat on Table-Rock where we can again see the dashing waters roll up in billows above the verge, then gliding over, literally tumble into myriads of particles before they are lost in the rising spray.

One idea impressed me strongly, while enjoying this triumph of Nature's eccentricities; that the Canada Fall was to the American as Great Britain to the United States. Both of the same majestic pattern, equally lofty, created by the same stream, and side by side; but the former more powerful, more irresistible, more overwhelming; while the latter possesses another kind of beauty, less angry, less furious, less threatening, but yet grand and magnificent, and, take away the other fall, incomparable.

Undoubtedly in ages past this mighty tide rolled over in an unbroken sheet; but having worn away in a slow retreat to its present position, a rock unyielding and immovable separated the stream into two unequal divisions; and, judging from the past, the future would seem to forewarn changes equally great. The Canada Fall, however, can gain nothing by the wearings of time. It can have no larger proportion, no higher ledge; but on the other hand, some shifting rock, some rupture in the bed of the river above, may direct the larger share into the American channel, and the relative character of the two be reversed.

The comparison to some extent will hold of the two governments. Our ancestors were common. The same language, the same literature, and the same religion supplied, and continues to supply us both; and although a rock impassable has divided us, we continue in civilization to stand side by side. Great Britain, however, stretches her dominion through the world. The channel of her power is deeper, and its full current sweeps along with irresistible force. She has attained her full meridian, and stands forth the mammoth power of the present age; with her ensign unfurled to every breeze, and her ambassadors upon every isle. She draws within her influence 'earth's remotest bounds;' but, if we rightly estimate the indications of the times, her political meridian has no higher degree; and when she moves from her present position, it is even more probable that she will 'hasten to her setting' than be borne along in her present attitude by the shifting currents of time.

Our republic, in contrast with it, presents the figure of aspiring, expanding youth, and vigorous age. The youth of the parent stock; but, being educated in a different school, and upon another soil, and having shaped out a separate course, founded upon the experience of the past, has formed juster estimates of the dignity and independence of man; of his social immunities; of his inborn liberty; of his equality of right with all mankind; and of his constituting a part of the national sovereignty, rather than its appendage. His free-born genius has unfolded while struggling for these essential principles; and guided by their inspiration, he stretches forward in the career of intellectual and moral expansion, promising ere long to excel immeasurably the sturdy parent, whose genius is encumbered by prejudice, aristocracy, and regalism, and blunted by long and arduous toil.

Unlike the two Falls in extent, neither Great Britain, nor any civilized nation, possesses such a valuable, continuous, and available territory as constitutes the American republic. It reaches, with hill and plain, river and mountain, from ocean to ocean. The waters of the Missouri wander for five thousand miles through its breadth, and yet find their source and discharge within its limits. If, excepting Russia, we double all the kingdoms and States of Europe, and suppose the area to be extended over the Union, an empire as large as Spain would still be left: indeed it is almost impossible to appreciate the territorial magnitude of this grand confederacy, on the imposing scale on which its government is instituted.

For the beautiful and grand in natural scenery, it is saying little to assert that ours is unrivalled. From that variety which stirs the milder feelings, up to that which rouses the highest emotions, it seems to furnish the whole catalogue of the pleasing and the sublime. It offers to us 'rivers that move in majesty;' the bright and gentle scenery of the inland lake,

'On which the south wind scarcely breaks The image of the sky;'

----'Antres vast, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven;'

and lastly, Niagara's rushing tide, the triumph of the grand in nature.

The comparison might be continued in some other respects. The American Fall presents a plain, bold, and widely extended front, while the Canadian is sinuous, and bears deeper marks of the surges' wild career. In like manner the English government has been irregularly extended by the convulsions of time; enlarging its empire by every vicissitude, and swelling its resources even by calamity. Its institutions also have been essentially modified, almost revolutionized, during the long struggles for the emancipation of mind. On the other hand, ours exhibits the same unbroken and formidable outline by which it was originally bounded. Not a fragment has crumbled, but it has rather been rendered geographically complete. Relying upon no foreign possessions for its magnitude; upon no navy or army for its strength; it trusts the future to the guidance of the American mind; those mighty energies now unfolding in the sunny atmosphere of free institutions, and cultivating in that republican school which recognizes no degradation but ignorance, and no distinction save substantial and virtuous worth.

Leaving any farther comparisons, which are idle except as a mere matter of novelty, it may not be amiss to consider the _pretension_ so often reiterated, that our institutions are levelling. What does this vague charge mean? Do they obstruct personal effort, or the pursuit of happiness, or the cultivation of the mind? Do they draw from the husbandman his earnings, from the artisan the fruits of his skill, from commerce its reward? No; so far from shackling man, the philosophy of all Americanism seems to be to open wide the gates to the field of human exertion; inviting every citizen freely to enter and reap according to his abilities; and emphatically to make the utmost of the powers which the Deity has bestowed. Where then is the prostrating tendency detected by the aristocrat in our institutions? It must be because they do not establish and sustain a Patrician race, exalted by territory, wealth, and prerogative. If this is the levelling into which such charges may be resolved, it has precisely a contrary effect, and is much more a matter of commendation than reproach. Republicanism does not seek the elevation of a few, but of all; and this principle is one of profound wisdom, guiding more directly to national greatness than any other political maxim, aside from its inherent justice to man. We have yet to learn that intellect and moral worth require the sustenance of hereditary wealth and place; while ignorance coupled with arrogance would merit contempt, no matter how it was habited. On the other side, aristocracies organized and sustained by law have in all ages, without doubt, produced more misery among men than all the desolations of faction, the rapacity of military commanders, and the tyranny of kings combined. We need no American mandarins to wrest by legitimatized oppression that free, unbroken spirit from the great mass of citizens which must constitute the energy of the nation. Our republic, however, does recognize an order of Patricians, though it rises high above the region of factitious distinctions. Taking the monument for its emblem, the corner-stone of the order is virtue. The pedestal, intellect. The shaft, mental progress, and usefulness to man. The summit, grandeur, sublimity of character. It is composed of Franklins, Marshalls, WASHINGTONS, and the ascendancy of such Patricians is founded on the grateful appreciation of the people of eminent usefulness and exalted worth. If the Pisos, Antoniuses, and Scipios of Rome, together, with the swarming host of Europe's privileged characters shall fade even from the page of history, our WASHINGTON and FRANKLIN will live 'through the still lapse of ages,' with perpetual freshness in the minds of men. Such men need no commemorative column, sculptured with their deeds or lineage; and as Napoleon dated his patent of nobility from the battle of Monte Notte, so does theirs bear date with the commencement of their public usefulness.

Turning once more to the Falls of Niagara. Our national boundary divides it, assigning a part to the British empire, thus forming a natural but most remarkable division, the centre of a raging river and a mighty fall. We can all cordially approve the poetical exclamation of a distinguished Englishman:

'Oh! may the wars that madden in thy deeps, There spend their rage, nor climb the encircling steeps; And till the conflict of the surges cease, The nations on thy banks repose in peace!'

AQUARIUS.

STANZAS TO A LADY.

BY W. H. HERBERT

I.

How sweet the time, when morning's prime First brightens into day, And fields of dew from skies of blue Receive the glittering ray!

II.

More sweet the hour, when Passion's power First sways the yielding frame, And heart and soul, and mind and sense, Dissolve in Love's soft flame.

III.

Oh! sweet the light, that gilds the night From many a glorious star, And bright the beam, whose golden gleam The sun shoots forth afar!

IV.

But sweeter far than sun or star, The light of that dark eye, Whose dazzling glance and dreamy trance The shining spheres outvie.

MOHAWK.

A CLUSTER OF SONNETS TOUCHING THAT VALLEY.

BY H. W. ROCKWELL.

IV.

HARK! how the cool wind shakes this tent-like screen Of thick and rustling leaves. No sultry heat Flames 'mid this spicy air and twilight sweet, Or steeps the fresh moss, shaded by the green O'erhanging branches. Let the hot sun beat Upon the haze-filmed forest-tops; for me, Amid this hush, inviolate sanctity, Where all that's best and holiest seems to meet, The noontide hours shall gently glide away In quiet meditation. Thou, meanwhile, That wearest 'mid thy banks through many a mile Of wood and moorland the fierce beams of day, Shall be the almoner of many a story, Hallowed with daring deeds and ancient border-glory!

V.

THE MOHAWK GIRL.

'A NOBLE race! but they are gone, With their old forests wide and deep!'--BRYANT.

WHERE are the painted skiffs that rocked between These clumps of willow? 'Neath this twinkling shade Of waving bushes, which o'erhead have made For the smooth waters a light emerald screen, Thick with young leaves, and mingling stems, that lean Mid briers and grass-tufts where the wren hath laid Her speckled eggs--the shell-decked Indian maid Sees her wild costume in the trembling green No longer. Haply by this mossy cove Of rocking silver she hath twined her locks With daisies and wild-roses from the rocks; Roses, the summer growth of this dark grove, And dewy violets from the splintered blocks Of yonder bluff, with vines and weeds inwove.

VI.

CHEEKS olive-bright, o'er which the blaze of noon Kindled a sweeter crimson; jetty braid, And meek eyes where the summer heaven had made Its bluest glory; speech, which like the tune Of winds among the beechen boughs at noon, Scattered soft music through the stooping shade; She seemed some 'delicate Ariel' of the glade, Whose life was one of sunshine. Fair, yet soon, Too soon! that creature of fond romance passed With the brief beauty of her gentle look, Dark lock and wampum by the cool wind shook, And all that I had deemed most sweet to last; Yet not less fleetly have her race forsook Those natural rights which once they held so fast.

_Utica, July, 1843._ H. W. R.

THE INNOCENCE OF A GALLEY-SLAVE.

BY 'THE BULWER OF FRANCE.'

ABOUT two o'clock one morning in the month of September, 1828, the country houses situated on the banks of the Garonne, between Reole and Cadillac were steeped in that profound stillness to which the repose of the city is a stranger; and when, in the words of DELISLE, 'one sees only night and hears only silence.' A single villa standing alone in the middle of a park of moderate extent, seemed to form an exception to the general repose. From a window on the first floor, at the eastern angle of this building, streamed forth a gleam of light so faint that at a short distance it would be necessary to regard it very attentively to be certain of its existence. A lover of adventure, who would take the pains to scale the park-wall, climb the balcony, and then support himself on the outside of this window, might perchance deem himself sufficiently repaid for his trouble by the mysterious picture there displayed to his curiosity. Between two curtains of blue silk the eye might distinguish the interior of a sleeping apartment, furnished with elegance and taste, and dimly lighted by a night-lamp. Upon a bed in a recess of the room, a female in the flower of youth and of surpassing loveliness was lying in a slumber whose feverish agitation betrayed the presence of one of those tenacious emotions, which not even the temporary suspension of thought and sensation can interrupt. Near the bed, watched a man mute and motionless, with forehead pale and furrowed with the traces of old age. With head bent over the pillow, breathless, and apparently attempting to restrain with one hand the throbbings of his heart, he seemed to catch with sinister avidity the half-uttered words which a painful dream apparently forced from the lips of the sleeper.

'His name! she will not pronounce his name!' exclaimed the old man, after a vain effort to distinguish the broken sounds, and casting around him a look of impotent rage.

'Arthur!' murmured the fair sleeper, as if some fatal power had suddenly broken the last seal which still guarded the half-betrayed secret of her dreams.

'Arthur!' repeated the old man, starting as if this name had been a dagger ready to pierce his bosom; 'Arthur d'Aubian! and I refused to give credence to it. Arthur! blind fool that I have been!'

With a convulsive gesture he brushed away the moisture which stood upon his livid brow, and leaning over the bed, more hateful to him than a yawning sepulchre, he again put his ear close to the fresh and rosy mouth from whence issued these empoisoning words.

'I can go no farther!' murmured the young female, making an effort to rise; 'thy life is in peril; mine is nothing; but thine--No, I can no more! He has suspicions; he will kill you!'

She uttered a stifled sob, trembled from head to foot, and suddenly, with a painful exertion, started to a sitting position. The old man, thinking she had awoke, glided behind the bed-curtains to conceal himself from her view; but without opening her eyes, she remained for some moments immovable in the position she had assumed. Gradually the changes in her countenance betokened those of her thoughts; the terror impressed upon her features gave place to an expression of contemplation, which in turn changed to one of anxious and profound attention. At length, as if the excitement of her nerves had reached the degree of intensity at which the phenomena of somnambulism commence, bending her head, as if to catch some distant sound, she suddenly arose, threw over her shoulders a night-robe, and gliding on tip-toe, cautiously approached the window.

'Midnight!' said she, in a low tone; 'there is not a drop of blood in my veins; the wall is so high! Should he fall! Hark! I hear him in the garden. How loudly he walks! It is the gravel they have put upon the paths. Oh! this is, this _must_ be, the last time: I shall tell him so. This fear is worse than death!'

With a precision in her movements manifesting that internal clairvoyance, of which science has not yet offered us a satisfactory explanation, the somnambulist, whose eye-lids were still closed, extinguished the night-lamp and drew the bolt of the door. She then drew aside the curtains, and opened the window, without the slightest sound reaching the ears of her husband, who a few paces behind her followed this pantomime with looks of sullen fury. She next took from her work-box a long riband, which she unrolled from the window, until it might be supposed to touch the ground; a moment afterward she drew it in, and made a movement as if she were attaching the hook of a rope-ladder to the balcony. Then, breathless and palpitating, she withdrew into the interior of the chamber. Suddenly she opened her arms, and threw them around an imaginary being, murmuring in impassioned tones, 'My life! my life!' She embraced but empty space, and remained for some time as if confounded, with arms crossed upon her bosom.

'Arthur!' cried she at length, aloud, and rushed in a wild paroxysm of terror toward the balcony. The feeble hands of her husband found strength for the moment to hold her back.

'I am terrified! I must not be terrified!' exclaimed she, in a low voice, as she struggled in his arms. The anxiety of the loving woman had now given place to the instinct peculiar to persons subject to somnambulism; who with an incomprehensible perception of their situation, dread above all things being suddenly awakened. But the paroxysm had been too violent for a peaceful termination. Those mysterious filaments by which the soul extends itself during the slumber of the organs which are its accustomed agents, were suddenly severed; as the chords of a harp are snapped by the contact of too rude a hand. The young woman awoke, and uttered stifled shrieks at finding herself, in profound darkness, in the clasp of unknown arms, which held her tightly in their embrace.

'It is I, Lucia,' said the old man, with a painful effort; 'it is I; be not afraid.'

Releasing her from his grasp, he then lighted the candles, closed the window, and with an air of composure approached his wife, who was now seated on the bed, gazing around in silent amazement.

'What has happened?' demanded she, pressing her forehead with both hands; 'I have a chaos, a volcano in my head! How came you here?'

'I heard you walking,' replied the husband, in a subdued voice; 'I was afraid that you were ill, and came up.'

'Can you hear one walking here from your chamber?' replied Lucia, with a secret terror.

'It is the first time it has happened. Your sleep has never before been so disturbed.'

'What a dreadful thing to be a somnambulist!' said she, bending down her head; 'and they say there is no remedy for it.' She then added, faintly: 'Did I _speak_ while asleep?'

'No,' replied the old man, whose exterior remained cold, while his nails were tearing his bosom. He then took a light, wished his young wife a more peaceful remainder of the night, and descended to his apartment. On entering the room his strength failed him, and he sank into an arm-chair, where he remained for some time exhausted and almost insensible. At length that moral energy which physical decay does not always destroy, awoke fierce and implacable in the old man's heart, which at first had seemed almost broken by the discovery of his dishonor.

'How can I kill her!' exclaimed he, wringing his hands in agony. 'Her! I cannot; I have not the courage. But he! _he!_ the aggressor! the spoiler! He will refuse to fight. He will talk of my years; and every one will side with him. For it is allowable, ay, it is deemed an honorable thing, to pluck from an old man the happiness of his declining days; to hold up his name to ridicule and contempt; to make him the victim of shame and despair; but to cross weapons with him, _that_ would be to outrage his gray hairs! And have they not reason? My sight is weak; my hand feeble; in a duel, I should fall without avenging myself. He would spare me, perhaps! Ha! ha! No! no duel; no uncertainty; no hazard. His death at all events, even if I must assassinate him!'

The injured husband passed the remainder of the night in revolving in his mind a thousand plans of vengeance. At day-break he arose, and walked for a long time in the park before any one in the house was stirring. At length a gardener whom he had employed in working on the terrace, met him at a turn of the walk. At sight of the old man the workman took off his cap and approached him with an air of mystery.

'Monsieur Gorsay,' said he, 'I am glad that you have come out so early; I have something to tell you, and I had as lief have none of the others present.'

'What is it, Piquet?' demanded the old man, in a quick tone.

'It is this, Monsieur Gorsay: somebody has broken into the little green-house where we keep our tools. Last night, through forgetfulness, I left my jacket there, in which was my watch, a real silver one, bran new, which cost me, 'pon honor, eighteen francs. There were beside in one of the pockets four crowns, and at least three francs in small change. I found the jacket--proof of which, you may see it on my back--but the watch and the money, parbleu! not a shadow of them to be seen.'

'Don't your workmen go into this green-house?' observed M. Gorsay.

'You have hit it; it is one of them that has done it; I'll put my hand into the fire else.'

'Whom do you suspect?'

'Jean Pierre and Vacherôt are both natives here. I have known them for twenty years, and would answer for them as I would for myself. There is no one, saving your presence, but that sulky Bonnemain who could have thought of such a thing.'

'Bonnemain!' repeated the old man, who seemed as if he was reflecting deeply upon something.

'Yes, he; I have always mistrusted that town fellow,' replied Piquet; 'beside, he spoils work so that I am ashamed of him. He calls himself a gardener, and cannot make a graft!'

'But,' said Monsieur Gorsay, who seemed to take a greater interest in this affair than might have been supposed, 'you have only suspicions, and it is necessary to have proofs.'

'Proofs! here is one that I think clear enough,' replied the gardener, taking from his pocket a little nail, which he held between his fore-finger and thumb; 'look at this new nail which I found under the green-house window. Nobody but Bonnemain has got such as these in his shoes, which he bought the other day at La Reole, and by my faith! there is one gone from the right foot; I noticed it yesterday when he took them off to go down into the fish-pond.'

'Have you mentioned this to any one?'

'No, no; I am not such a fool;' replied the gardener, with a knowing air; 'I wished first to take your advice on the subject.'

'You have acted very prudently, Piquet. Say nothing of this until you hear farther from me; and when you see Bonnemain, send him to me: I will make him speak, I warrant you.'