Part 8

Near Garsed's flax mill, the foot-path crosses to the eastern shore of the stream, on a rude log chained to an adjacent stone, and passes up through a forest overhanging the sluggish waters, and through a thick underwood, which, in some places, is almost impenetrable. Occasional openings in the dense foliage, which become more frequent as the pedestrian progresses up the stream, afford highly picturesque and enchanting views of the surrounding hills, such as those who appreciate Nature in her majesty, would journey miles upon miles, and endure pain and fatigue without murmuring, to behold. In every direction the scenes unfolded to the eye are rich and enchanting beyond description, and remind the writer who associates therewith ideas of intellectual pleasure and enjoyment, of the beautiful lines of the poet: {26}

"Dear solitary groves, where peace doth dwell! Sweet harbors of pure love and innocence! How willingly could I forever stay Beneath the shade of your embracing greens, List'ning unto the harmony of birds, Tun'd with the gentle murmur of the stream."

One of the most interesting spots on the Wissahiccon, is in the immediate vicinity of the great perpendicular rock of granite, opposite Rittenhouse's mill. Here the dark shadows of the hill fall, with beautiful effect, upon the gurgling stream, and the rich and deep woodland foliage, the tangled and fragrant shrubbery, the towering cliffs on the one side, and imposing hills and dales on the other, give to the place a charm and fascination, which the reflecting mind may enjoy, but of which it is impossible to convey with the pen, any accurate description. It was near this enchanting place, on the sun side of a high hill, as is currently believed, that Kelpius and his friend, scholars of Germany, located themselves about the close of the seventeenth century, and where for years they dwelt in quiet and religious meditation, awaiting, with anxious prayer, the coming of the "Lady of the Wilderness," and where they died, as we now know, "without the sight." It was here, that, at a period long anterior to the arrival of Kelpius, the untamed monarch of these wilds came to enjoy the rich treasures of nature, and to worship, in silence, the goodness and bounty of the Great Spirit. It was here, perhaps, on the summit of this very hill, that the original owners of the soil convened for the war dance and to make preparations for a furious and bloody contest; or mayhap it was here that the chiefs of different tribes assembled to bury the hatchet of war, and to smoke the calumet of amity and peace. Perhaps it was here that the noble young warrior, flushed with the honors of victory, stole silently at the midnight hour, to breathe his tale of love and his vows of devotion, into the ear of his blushing and affianced bride; and surely no spot can be found, in the whole range of our wide-spread territory, so suitable for scenes of this character. Here is the abode of romance, here the spirit of nature holds undisputed sway--and here, among these rugged rocks, and in this dense foliage--by the side of this poetic stream, with its associations of woody heights and shady dells, it is fitting that pure and holy vows of love should be uttered, where Heaven, in every leaf of the forest, in every blade of grass, may be called upon to bear witness to their sincerity and truth.

But the Wissahiccon has fallen into other hands. The untutored savage no longer strolls over these silent mountains and vales, for his abode has been removed far away, beyond the western waters. The bones of his warrior fathers lie bleached and neglected in the depths of the valley, for the high-bounding spirit of the son is tamed, by the contaminating influence of his civilized brethren. The active deer no longer bounds over the hills and dales of the Wissahiccon, for he has been driven to more sequestered abodes. The stream is, however, much the same--its placid waters are still beautiful as mirrors--its shores are still romantic--its groves are still enchanting--and so may they ever remain, undisturbed, untouched by the dilapidating hand of man! The place should ever be reserved as a refreshing retreat, where the soul may be uplifted in devotion, and the heart gladdened in sweet contemplation--where no sound shall be heard but the notes of melody and joy, in delightful unison with the tones of the murmuring rill.

"To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain, all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude--'tis but to hold Converse with nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd."

Two or three miles above the perpendicular rock, on the eastern shore of the stream, and in a spot equally beautiful and romantic, stands an edifice of great antiquity, connected with which there are a number of interesting associations. It is built nearly on the summit of a slope that stretches into a ravine, walled in on three sides by elevated hills, thickly covered with foliage. The building is of stone, three stories high, with numerous windows, four to each chamber, of uniform size, and appearance; sixty years ago there was a balcony around the second story, and the old-fashioned eaves, plastered in semi-circular form, still to be seen, exhibit the architectural taste and style of a past century. The date of its erection is supposed to be the year 1706, and its founders a society of religious Germans, probably known as _Pietists_ or _Seven day Baptists_, who no doubt selected this secluded situation in order to secure peace and quietness in their religious devotions. Many of the aged inhabitants of the neighborhood remember this monastery, as a building of unchanged appearance, even from the days of their boyhood, and some have connected therewith curious traditions of romance and legends of mystic tale. Notwithstanding the edifice has lately undergone a thorough alteration, and is now the permanent residence of a highly respectable and very intelligent family, it still bears the reputation of being visited by spirits.

The fact of this building having been occupied as a monastery, by a brotherhood of Germans, is, however, involved in doubt. One tradition alleges, that it was tenanted for sometime, by a fraternity of Capuchins, or White Friars, who took upon themselves vows of abstinence and poverty, and who slept upon wooden or stone pillows, with places scolloped out for the head. In confirmation of this tradition, an ancient burial place near the premises, now under tillage, is pointed out, where repose the remains of many of the brotherhood. Another and more probable story is, that the building was actually erected for a religious society, professing a faith similar to that of the Seven day Baptists at Ephrata, near Lancaster, but never occupied, as those for whom it was designed deemed it expedient to leave the neighborhood, and join the settlement at Ephrata. The Chronica Ephrata expressly states that, previous to the formation of that community, in May, 1733, they had dwelt in separate places as hermits, and "the hermits of the ridge" are frequently mentioned. That there was a feeling of affection between these hermits and the brotherhood in Ephrata, is beyond all doubt, as the Chronica, in another place, speaks of some brothers of single devotedness at Roxborough, "who subsequently fell in with the spirit of the world and married."

Kelpius, probably the first of the hermits, on the Wissahiccon, died in the year 1708. He was succeeded by {27} Seelig, who survived him many years, and who was contemporary with Conrad Matthias, another recluse, whose cave was near the Schuylkill. Tradition speaks of these Germans as being men of undoubted piety and great learning. Kelpius wrote several languages, and his journal, in Latin, is now in the possession of a distinguished antiquarian of Philadelphia. He waited the coming of the "Lady of the Wilderness,"--the "woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelve stars," spoken of in the scriptures, as having "fled into the wilderness, where she hath a place prepared of God, that they should feed her there a thousand two hundred and threescore days." (Rev. xii.) We may wonder that such a man as Kelpius should labor under a delusion of this character, but those who will visit the spot he selected for his "prayerful waiting," will agree with me in opinion that it was singularly well chosen to harmonize with and foster his eccentric views, and romantic religious expectations.

There is another interesting legend, connected with the monastery on the Wissahiccon, which I feel inclined to allude to, if I may do so without being held responsible for its veracity. It is a tale of unhappy love, and relates to a young, beautiful, and accomplished French lady, who followed her lover to the Indian wars, who fought in disguise by his side, and who closed his eyes when he fell at her feet, mortally wounded. Being subsequently admitted, for temporary shelter, into the monastery, she passed a year or two in unavailing grief, and died, heart-broken at the loss of all she held near and dear on earth. The particulars of the melancholy fate of the beautiful Louisa I may hereafter unfold to the reader, but I beg my young friends who may discover the mound which covers her remains at the foot of a weeping willow, washed by the gurgling stream, to shed a tear to the memory of one whose beauty and virtues deserved a happier fate.

I have thus attempted to give a sketch of the ever-delightful Wissahiccon, and to cast a hasty glance at a few of the prominent incidents with which it was once associated. If I have failed to excite interest in the mind of the reader, let him not hesitate to attribute the circumstance to the feeble powers of the writer, rather than to the poverty of the subject to which his attention has been called. Beautiful and magnificent beyond comparison are the picturesque views of this romantic stream, and for ages to come may its crystal waters continue to course through the valley, affording peaceful enjoyment to the pedestrian on its banks, and unqualified delight to those who may ramble through its attractive forests.

_Philadelphia, October 1835_.

LE BRUN.

Le Brun, a Jesuit, wrote what he called a Christian Virgil, and a Christian Ovid. The Virgil consists, of Eclogues, Georgics, and an Epic of twelve books, all however on devotional subjects. The Ovid is in the same taste. The Epistles are pious ones--the Fasti are the six days of the Creation--the Elegies are the Lamentations of Jeremiah--the Art of Love is a poem on The Love of God, and the history of some Conversions supplies the place of the Metamorphoses.

MEMORY.

Oh! why should Memory love to dwell On pleasures which can come no more? And why should Fancy's magic spell So brightly gild each scene of yore?

Ev'n Hope's delusive, glittering beam May cease to shed its cheering light; And, dull and cold, Time's onward stream May flow before the aching sight.

But Memory, like a fairy dream, Still haunts the pensive view, And, like mild Evening's lingering beam, Clothes fading scenes in loveliest hue.

The Past, with all its glittering train Of joys, so sweet, so quickly fled, At Memory's touch returns again, To cheer the heart whose hopes are dead.

Fond Retrospection lingers near Each scene of bliss which could not last, And links again that chain so dear, Which Memory flings around the past.

Hopes, Friendships, _Loves_--a seraph band-- Which Time's cold blast had rudely torn, As Memory waves her magic wand, With more than former bliss return.

They come, like Music's distant breath, So soft, so sweet their whisperings are-- And fadeless is that lovely wreath With which they bind the brow of care.

Oh! Memory's joys will _always_ last-- No cloud can dim their brilliant ray; Still bright and brighter glows the Past, As Hope's sweet visions fade away.

THE CITY.

The City--the City--its glare and din-- Oh! my soul is sick of its sights and shows, My spirit is cramp'd, and my soul pent in-- I can scarcely think, and it seems to me My very breathing is not so free, As where the breeze in its freedom blows, And the vines untrammel'd but seem to be Disporting to tell of their liberty. There, _there_ I'd be--Oh! my spirit pines For the rivers, the trees, and the forest vines.

From the crowded streets, and the jostling throng, And garish glitter, and vain parade-- My native woods! how I long, I long To bury me in thy wilds again; Then Art, and Fashion, and Form, oh! then I'll eschew ye all in my wild-wood shade. Like an uncaged bird, I shall scarcely know Which way to bend me, or whither to go; Yet I think my spirit would grateful rise Unto God, who dwells in the clear blue skies.

_Columbia, S. C._

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MACEDOINE:

BY THE AUTHOR OF OTHER THINGS.

I.

"I tell it as 'twas whispered unto me, By a strange voice not of this world I ween."

The Baron has gone to a distant land Beyond the far wave the sun sets on; Last eve but one he kissed his hand To his lady, the lovely Marion, As he urged his proud courser along the plain That leads to the sea, from his wide domain, In the van of a gallant vassal train.

In sooth, her lord is a noble knight As e'er couched lance in tourney or fight-- But yet the lady loved him not, And heaven ne'er blest their lonely lot. "No little voices, no fairy footfalls Broke the deep hush of their silent halls;" For Coldness hung over their bridal couch, And chilled their hearts with his icy touch. The lady scarce smiled when her lord was nigh-- And when she did, her pensive eye Had somewhat in its look the while Which seemed to chide the moment's guile, And check the mimic play of mirth To which the lip alone gave birth. Like light that sports on frozen streams That warm not in its wintry beams, Is the smile of the lip that would fain seem glad-- Albeit the heart is gloomy and sad.

* * * * *

I watched the lady from afar, As she sat in the western balcony-- Oh! none more beautiful could be; The sun had sunk upon the sea, And twilight came with the evening star.

The lady leaned o'er the balustrade,-- I ween 'twas not the voice of the breeze That came from the grove of orange trees; For the lady started as half afraid, And her cheek turned pale, then flushed blood-red, As the voice of lips invisible said: "Meet me to-night by the bastioned wall, When the midnight moon looks over the sea-- When the mermaid sleeps in her ocean hall, And the world seems made but for you and me."

* * * * *

'Twas a lovely night--the moonlit sea Was smooth and fair as beauty's brow; And down in the coral caves below, Where white pearls lie, and seaflowers grow, The mermaid was dreaming quietly. And lo! a knight and a lady fair Stood in the shade of the bastioned wall: I watched them as they lingered there-- Oh! they were to each other all In the wide, wide world their hearts held dear; He clasped her trembling to his breast, And kissed from her lids the glittering tear. She sighed, and pointed to the west, And again her tears flowed unreprest;

* * * * *

II.

SONG.

Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.

Let him drink--and remember his misery no more.

_Proverbs--Chap. xxxi. 6 and 7_.

This is a dark and dreary world To which we're vainly clinging-- We spurn at life, yet dread the fate Each hour is nearer bringing. It is not love--it is not hope, That binds us to our sorrow-- But wild vague fears--a shrinking dread Of an unearthly morrow: Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine-- A truce to sober thinking-- And pledge the joy that lingers yet-- The deep, deep joy of drinking.

Oh! 'tis a dark and fearful curse Hangs o'er this brief existence-- The knowledge of a fixed doom That mocks our poor resistance. In vain the path is strewed with flowers, The truth will ne'er forsake us-- A grisly demon dogs our steps, And must at last o'ertake us: Then wreath the bowl, and pour the wine-- Avaunt all idle thinking-- And pledge the joy that yet remains-- The deep, deep joy of drinking.

III.

RUINS.

Ye grey and mouldering walls!--ye ivied towers! From whence the midnight-loving bird doth pour Her dreary note upon the solemn hour! Ye dim arcades!--ye fancy-haunted bowers! Ruined--but how majestic in decay! I love thee well; and gazing thus on thee In twilight solitude, it seems to me A spirit voice comes stealing up this way-- The voice of vanished years--and many a tale It tells my musing mind of gallant lords And ladies gay--of moonlight-whispered words, And deeds of high renown--of crimes that pale The cheek to dream--and the malignant scowl Of evil eyes beneath the monkish cowl.

IV.

SONNET.

Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair As fancy pictures those of upper air, Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow. Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath Such smiles!--a hidden serpent in a wreath Of Eden flowers!--what art thou, wouldst thou know? In all thy pride of charms?--A living tomb Of buried hopes--the grave of ruined hearts Which trusted, loved thee,--dreaming not that arts Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom The worshipper to--no! not Death, but worse-- And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse.

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LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. VI.

"The letters are original, though sometimes in bad taste, and generally verbose." _Edinburgh Review_.

I had not been a long time at College before I received a large packet from home, enclosing a number of letters from my uncle, Frederick, and Lucy. One of them was folded in an odd fashion--directed in a stiff and inky hand, and surmounted with a mass of red sealing wax, on which was rudely impressed the ragged outline of the Granby arms. This was one of my uncle's pedantic, prolix, advisory, and generous epistles, and I was soon placed in possession of the following neatly written sentences.

_Chalgrave_, ----.

_My Dear Boy_:--When Erasmus visited Sir Thomas More, that obstinate sophist, and that martyr to a scolding wife, (how nobly he bore her!) he said that he could always write a pleasing letter when his hand was the secretary of his heart. _En passant_, Erasmus made a gallant speech on this memorable visit. In admiring the kind fashion of saluting females with a kiss, on your arrival or departure from an entertainment, he said, and that philosophically, that this habit preserved health, in calling a constant and blushing glow to the cheek, and that in his moments of sickness he could wish no happier situation than to be placed near an English nunnery, where if he could not be kissed for charity he might yet live in hopes of it. Now my hand is the obedient secretary, and my heart is anxious to dictate its duties. How true, yet how simple is this conceit! and how far superior to the monkish verbosity, and strangled sentiment of those bad novels which you read merely because they are new. The heart is the _écritoire_ of the letter writer, and have you never paused with feelings of admiration and delight over the affectionate and eloquent letters of a woman? She writes from the heart, and pours out the swelling torrent of all her thoughts and feelings. Man thinks _what_ to write, and will fritter away feeling and sacrifice nature in the struggle for easy periods and mellifluous cadences. It is not learning that shadows with tints of tenderness the beautiful letters of Tully--nor is it philosophy which lends that nameless grace, and elastic interest, to the epistles of Pliny. 'Tis nature whose affections, like the rainbow, beautify and hallow the roughness of every spot over which it spans its creative arch. A letter, says Tully, cannot blush, "_epistola enim non erubescit_," if it could, it would never have this characteristic when I addressed it to you. I cannot write aught that will suffuse either your cheek or mine, though I might whisper something about your fair cousin, Isa Gordon. You love her, Lionel? and she may return your affection, but you must owe it to your distinction. Isa is no sickly and prurient-hearted girl who can solely love the person, for she demands the intellectual man, and in the hymeneal chaplet which is to adorn her brow, the laurel must twine its emblematic vanities. Let this hope excite you to study--let this holy object imp your eagle wing, for on every page of your books you must see her name urging and stimulating the slumbering energies of your ambition. I would not have you free from love, nor untouched, as Spenser calls it, by its pensive discontent, for no young man can prosper without its stirring and startling excitements. I myself, "_vixi puellis idoneus_," and I know that it softens the asperities of temper--gentles the turbulence of youth--breaks down the outworks of vice, and detracts no more from the firmness of mind than the polish of the diamond does from its solidity. You may read philosophy and think of woman--dwell on poetry and find your taste expanding into delicacy and elevation by dreaming of her gentleness, and I suppose that even in the crabbed study of the law, you may find her image peeping over black letter, or smiling through yellow parchment. When I was at college poor Ridon whom Johnstone shot, ('twas a fair duel) being in love, translated most of that portion of Coke upon Littleton which relates to females, into poetry of all styles, and measures. Only think of his drawing poetical conceits from this dull book, and scattering them on the margin of the leaden volume, like so many flowers prodigally thrown into a grave-yard! I have this rare copy, and in a page blotted with notes, references, and _quæres_, these crippled lines, have stumbled themselves into the text.

"_Tenant per la curtesie d'Englettere_." Chap. iv. sect. 35.

A feme that has lands Enters Hymen's bands, And has heirs in the nuptial tye; Then these lands shall descend, When her life's at an end, To her Lord in curtesy.

This species of poetry was all that he ever wrote, and he was wont to say, that he thought it was his duty to the sex, to use the language of rhyme, and thus make the law respectful.