Kitabı oku: «Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852», sayfa 9
Wellington was a great general – not a great man. His was far inferior to the comprehensive, imperial genius of Napoleon, who, though a thorough-paced homicide, yet possessed the broad vision and faculty which distinguish the mightier rulers of men. In the latter years of his life, the emperor exchanged his soldierly statesmanship for fatalism – goaded to this by the fierce opposition of legitimacy – and that renounced and falsified the glorious prestige of his early career. But, take him all in all, – looking at the astonishing picture of his life, in all its breadth and all its magnificent effects of light and shadow – we feel that the Corsican was of a higher order of spirit than the renowned and admirable soldier whose obituary we write.
The duke’s decease was caused by apoplectic fits; and took place at Walmer Castle, where he was attending his duty as Warden of the Cinque Ports. On Sunday, 12th September, he felt very well, and dined heartily on venison. On Tuesday morning he seemed to feel the effects of indigestion, and had an apothecary sent for. He spoke to the latter on his arrival; but afterward lost the power of speech, and died imperceptibly at three o’clock. Wellington was of low stature, like Napoleon; as for his aspect, there is as little need to describe it as that of the emperor. He was simple in his habits, and economic in his household, and usually slept on a little hard camp bed. A friend of his once complained that he had not room to turn in his bed. “Sir,” said the duke, “when a man begins to think of turning in his bed, it is high time for him to turn out of it.” He survived his duchess about twenty years.
He has been succeeded by Arthur, Marquis of Douro, born in 1807, and married in 1839 to the lady Elisabeth Hay, daughter of the Marquis of Tweedale. He has no children. We believe Lord Charles Wellesley has a son. But the English apprehend a failure of the heirs male, and wish to have the dukedom entailed on the issue of the females of the family.
SONNET. – HOMER
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BY WM. ALEXANDER
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Great Melesigenes! erst, poor and blind,
A wanderer didst thou sing thy Epic verse,
Which peasants, princes equally rehearse,
And act thy characters of lofty mind —
War’s trump Calliope aloud doth blow,
When telling of fair Ilium’s famous towers,
Which Greece beleaguered with her mighty powers,
Led by Pelides, Hector’s sternest foe —
Fair Helen’s beauty thou dost there portray,
Whom gallant, bold old generals admire;
Speaking, too, of his rovings wild and ire,
Whose bended bow doth the wild suitors slay —
The story of thy heroes; scenes of old,
Demands, by right, a shining case of gold.
GRACE BARTLETT
AN AMERICAN TRADITION
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BY MARY J. WINDLE
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CHAPTER I
Light of the new-born verdure!
Glory of the jocund May!
What gladness is out in leafy lanes!
What joy in the fields to-day!
W. C. Bennet.
Sunshine and storm – the alternate checker-work
Of human fortune! Shelley.
A lover of the picturesque, whether poet, painter, or simply an enjoyer of Nature’s works, may be justified, perhaps, in extending his quest after the sublime and beautiful beyond the rich and varied landscapes of New England. Yet it is in this unpretending region that we are about to lay the opening incidents of our tale, rather than amid the cloud-capt rocks of Niagara, or upon the indented shores of our romantic lakes.
In the early days of our pilgrim forefathers, ere luxury and fashion had tarnished with their deceptive but defacing touch the primitive customs of the land – and, at the crisis referred to, neat but unpretending villages were beginning to dot at intervals the surface of the adopted country.
It is to the heart of one of these models of rural beauty that we now invite the attention of the reader. The immediate location of the village was in a sort of valley, close within the verge of an immense forest, and surrounded by an intervening underwood, which Nature had fashioned as a sort of defensive barrier. The cottages were without the underwood, and thickly distributed on that side of the forest which skirted the open country, forming, as it were, a slight chain of protection against the inroads of the Indians. So much in the light of a defensive fortress had these indeed come to be regarded by the dusky tribes, that latterly their invasions in the place had been few and far between. Even these occasional attacks had at length seemed completely repressed through the energetic measures of one of the colonists, who had acted on each occasion of surprise with a firmness and self-possession that at once overpowered and dispelled the savages.
This man, Deacon Winthrop, had, however, by the strenuous efforts referred to, incurred the revengeful feelings of the adjacent tribes, and an impending evil at this moment hung over him, unsuspected by himself or any of the villagers.
The beautiful English custom of celebrating the first of May, by a festival of roses, had been preserved in the colonies. To the morning of as lovely a day as ever ushered in that month of flowers, we now revert. It was a day of days – not a cloud to alarm even the most fearful, and holyday dresses were donned without the slightest dread lest they should be spoiled. The weather was neither too hot nor too cold; the old failed to anticipate coughs, and the young anticipated pleasures innumerable. A poetic fancy might have deemed that the trees, the flowers, the grass, were endowed with a brighter beauty in honor of the day. This festival, though nominally and by custom given to children, was witnessed and enjoyed, we may say fairly participated in, by those of older growth. At almost every cottage door might be seen some grandmother singing to the crowing infant in her lap, and old men leaning on their sticks peering out to catch a share of the general joy.
Opposite the pastor’s dwelling was reared the May-pole, gay with flowers and streaming with ribbons, while around it was collecting the limited juvenile population of the little place.
The lively ceremonies of the occasion formed no pompous pageant nor idle mockery – the smiles of the children alone shed a glow over the spot, and their merry peals of laughter rendered their sports hilarious and exhilarating to the more sober and advanced inhabitants, who acted only as spectators of this portion of the festivities.
Several hours passed thus in sportive amusements and in the crowning of the May Queen, Grace Bartlett, the pastor’s only child, who was elected by the unanimous voice of her companions to the honors of the occasion.
A banquet followed, spread upon the grass, and composed of contributions from every cottage matron. When this was ended, the long train of youthful forms, each garlanded with a trimming of flowers, swept up a vast avenue of beech to the village church. There the oration of the day was pronounced by one of their number robed in white. It was a simple and heart-touching sentence that last came from those childish lips – a word of faith to be preserved when all the bright twisted garlands of the day should be withered; when that last tribute, a chaplet bound by cypress leaves, should be laid upon each bier.
Hark! now from the young circle before the low pulpit arise the simple tones of a psalm, swelling on the air in rich gradations, interrupted only by the throbbing of those tender hearts, in the fullness of their innocent joy. Their rosy cheeks and glistening eyes at that moment, what need have these of record? Are they not written still in the memories of the surviving throng? The gushing melody from those infantile voices at length ceased, and the assemblage dispersed from the building.
Again out in the open air, again on the broad common, again scattered hitherward and thitherward, the children sought their homes, many of them possibly regretting that the festival of roses had not to begin again, but all solaced by the thought that it had become for once more an event in their personal history. And so to all intents the events of the day seemed ended. Several of the children had lingered in the meeting-house, after the general crowd had left it. By degrees, however, these few loiterers all departed, either singly or by pairs, excepting young Frank Winthrop and Grace Bartlett, who lingered to collect and garner up a few of those perishable wreaths that garlanded and adorned the modest sanctuary.
The platform in front of the pulpit, erected for the accommodation of the children, was completely hidden in leaves and flowers. Laurel branches as graceful as stooping seraphims swept over the surface of the clerk’s desk; the supporters of the pulpit lifted to its floor long, slender lines of jessamine; while from the rafters of the roof hung rich festoons of daffodil – making altogether a completely new interior; the high-backed chair of the clerk beneath was so richly adorned with roses that one kneeling before it might, without any great effort of imagination, have been mistaken for a votary of Flora.
For some time our young pair amused themselves tripping from spot to spot, their sweet, childish voices waking the echoes of the humble building. At length, tired of the day’s exertion, little Grace Bartlett threw herself into the huge arm-chair behind the desk. She was a lovely child, with large, soft eyes, and fair hair, which fell in light waves, rather than curls, nearly to her waist. Although the special pet of the whole settlement, she was not spoiled, owing to the remarkable sweetness of her disposition, which caused her to receive indulgence as the flower drinks dew, only to become more light and fragrant from the rich overflow of nutriment. Oh! if you could have seen her sitting in that old chair, raised some three feet above the floor, her petite figure vainly endeavoring to accommodate itself to the stiff, high back, one bare arm dimpling its dark covering, as if like some pleasant old gentleman, it could not help laughing at so dainty a thing, and the tips of her tiny fingers finding themselves an agreeable resting-place upon the soft coloring of her cheek.
Her male companion, Frank Winthrop, was a laughing boy, who was two years her senior. He was a plump urchin, welcome to the hearts and arms of all. His life was one long holyday of fun and frolick. He was ever fain to chat with the old, laugh with the young, nor was there even a dog in the village that did not wag its ears knowingly as the pretty fellow drew near.
From under a rude, arched porch outside, the clear laugh and ringing shout of a troop of happy children, who still loitered near, might be heard. One was romping in baby-frock and pinafore among the trees, now thrusting his arm in the leaves to grasp the bared shoulder of a little sister, then, creeping away under the green shadows, as a hare will hide itself, and raising his ringing voice to challenge pursuit, clapping his hands and laughing – scampering off finally on his chubby little feet, to plunge headlong in the fragrant grass, with a happy joyousness truly refreshing. At the farthest extremity of this rustic shed, three or four were playing, with noise enough for Christmas holydays; two boys at football, while the rest were testifying their feelings by sporting around them with the extremest merriment. One of the girls, at a little distance, was going through the A, B, C-dom of a mimic school, now kissing one, patting another, coaxing a third, crying “Oh, for shame!” to a fourth, and then dismissing with gravity the geography and history classes. Although some of the young rebels were larger than she was, and though they did mischievously contrive to loosen the comb with which she had tucked up her tresses, until the whole glittering mass came sweeping round her dimpled shoulders; and though some of the lesser girls would pelt her with clover tops, yet for all that she was as demure as a kitten – not a muscle moved. Ah, childhood! beautiful spring-time of the heart, when deception and suspicion are alike unknown, while yet the flowers of trustfulness bloom side by side with budding hope and fancy – ere the germs of envy and selfishness have come to shadow this bright little Eden of life’s imaginings – how lovely thou art in thy freshness and purity!
Little dreamed the guileless young gambolers at this moment that a savage eye was peering upon them from behind the eves of the meeting-house. An enemy was lurking near, unknown to those innocent hearts, who, ere the village clock should have pointed to the hour of nightly repose succeeding that day of glee, was destined to shed a gloom over the late happy region.
The pretty May Queen, Grace Bartlett, tired at length of her seat in the tall chair under the pulpit and jumping down with a bound and a run, was soon out upon the green amidst the merry group we have described. Frank Winthrop, the other little loiterer, had fallen asleep in one of the high pews, with a large Psalm-book for his pillow, and consequently he took no heed of her departure. There he lay in the calm, beautiful sleep of his young time of life, a model fit for the painter’s or the sculptor’s hand. How beautiful that boyish dreamer looked! – the round, fair outline, the fresh bloom of the features – his dark hair falling aside from his forehead, leaving its surface visible, and bland and fair.
Meantime, the shades of evening drew on, and the pennon of the hour began to bestar the heavens. A signal from the parents now brought the truant children to their homes – all but this reposing boy. It was the moment looked for by the lurking foe. Stealthily emerging from his retreat, he gazed around a moment to convince himself that his way was clear, and then advanced softly to the door of the meeting-house. From his late place of secretion he had caught a glimpse, through the window, of the sleeper, thus opportunely for his purpose, left alone in the building, and he deemed that his moment of revenge had come.
An instant he stood at the threshold – then advanced with measured tread along the aisles. So light were his footsteps, that the very scattered garlands and stray flowers of the late pageant rebounded unharmed beneath his moccason tread.
The space which divided him from the slumberer was soon past, and he stood before the child’s smiling and outstretched form. For a moment a compunctious feeling stole over the warrior. He held his breath as he gazed, and his heart swelled with love and pity. It was an evanescent feeling, however, for in another instant he had raised the boy in his arms, and bearing him gently away, he retraced his steps to the green sward. Another moment, and his retreating feet pressed an opening in the underwood bordering the forest, and in a moment more he was lost in the densely-wooded scenery.
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CHAPTER II
Alas! my noble boy, that thou shouldst die!
Thou wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in that glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in that clustering hair.
Willis.
Cursed be my tribe
If I forgive him.
Shylock.
We must now use an author’s privilege and transport the reader to a lofty room in a spacious mansion attached to a fortress. It was far more commodious and gorgeously furnished than might have been looked for in such an isolated spot, though it was now silent and imperfectly lighted by a single wax-taper. The air was fraught with the fine exotics adorning the flower-stands, and the light, dim as it was, fell upon a hundred objects of splendid luxury.
The solitary occupant of this apartment had the air of one accustomed to action, and yet not a stranger to habits of thought. He was of no more than middle height, but in his air and gesture there was a tone of decision and command which no advantage of stature could bestow. The features were graceful, the color, that which exposure to the air increases in a skin originally soft and fresh. There was altogether a military appearance in the full and fiery eye which plainly showed the character of his adventurous life.
General Lincoln had been sent by the government of England to occupy a fortress on the borders of Canada. Whatever might be the stern peculiarities of his disposition, he was a man well calculated for the important trust reposed in him – for, combining experience with judgment in all matters relating to diplomacy, and being fully conversant with the character and habits of both Indians and settlers, he possessed singular aptitude to seize whatever advantages might present themselves. His policy was to conciliate the adjacent tribes of savages, and through them to destroy the few colonial settlements yet formed. His first object was now in the full tide of successful accomplishment, and when it should be fully ripe, the last would naturally follow.
It was midnight, and General Lincoln was pacing the floor of his luxurious apartment, seemingly insensible of the downy softness of the rich carpets under his feet, or the glitter of the splendid lustres over his head. At length, as he turned at the extreme end of the room, his eyes fell on the frame of a large painting, and for some minutes they were riveted to the picture it contained as by a master-spell. It was a portrait – a full-length portrait representing a female at the climax of youthful loveliness, with a charming infant boy resting upon her knees. Well did the gazer remember how fondly he had assisted in keeping the child quiet during the tedious task of sitting, by holding before his little laughing eyes the very toy now figuring in the hands of the mother in the picture before him.
The power of association brought back with life-like force to the father’s mind the soft, warm grasp of those dimpled, baby hands. Alas! they were now cold in death. The past arose before him – his early ambition – his happy marriage – his rapid and flattering success – his hope for higher honors – his wish for a son to transmit the pride of his name – his gratified desire. Before its fulfillment, the strongest principle of his mind was the longing for a son. Afterward, he had coveted worldly honors – he had garnered wealth that he might transmit to him the one and the other. Often, after the duties of the day, had he repaired to that child’s chamber and watched his slumber. How often for hours had he nursed it in his arms with all a woman’s tenderness and gushing joy. All his softer feelings – all his holier and better ones – such as even in the proudest bosom find root, turned toward this child.
From the soft and sinuous outline of the half-naked babe in the picture, his eye wandered to the face of the angel-like mother. Those clustering curls, those sparkling eyes, those blooming cheeks – for a moment they appeared before him, joyous, brilliant, beautiful and beloved. He pressed his hand hard with the clinch of suppressed emotion over his eyes, as the heavy tears fell upon the rich carpet, evidencing that under the crust of worldly intrigues was a heart that beat strongly. The grave had claimed both the dear ones whose likeness he looked upon – and now only a daughter was left to him. This daughter he loved, it is true, but she could not inherit his name, and every new acquisition of fortune or fame rendered him only the more anxious to perpetuate those empty distinctions to his race.
“My son, my son!” murmured the worldly man, “would to God that I could have died for thee.”
At that instant the great hall bell sounded, and an attendant shortly afterward entered the apartment, saying, “The Indian chief Tuscalameetah is below, and would speak with Gen. Lincoln on business of private import.”
“Let him come up,” was the reply.
In a few moments, a man entered in the wild accoutrements of a native of the woods. His closely-shaven head was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a solitary plume that crossed his crown and hung over his shoulders. A tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt. He wore a hunting suit of forest green, with moccasons gayly ornamented, and his buckskin leggings laced at the side were gartered above the knee. His eye was quick and restless, roaming on every side of him, as from the habit of mistrusting the sudden approach of an enemy.
Notwithstanding these symptoms of suspicion at the moment of his entrance, his countenance was not only without guile, but wore an expression of honesty. He passed from the door, and approached Gen. Lincoln with the dignified tread of his race.
“What bringeth thee here?” asked the proud man of the savage. “Hast thou accomplished the errand I entrusted thee with?”
“Tuscalameetah hath done thy bidding, and with the same arrow he has made sure his own revenge,” answered the other.
“I trust thou hast not committed butchery in this work,” said his employer. “The moment of extermination has not yet come, and I pray God it never may be our last resource. I but desired you to find me an orphan boy among the settlements whom I could make the heir of my name and wealth.”
“The red man acteth as he will, and cometh back as he sees fit,” replied the chief, haughtily. “But the son of the clearings shall bless thy hearth; yet the tomahawk and scalping-knife have not left their resting-place.”
“It is well,” responded Lincoln, “that thou hast shed no blood. And the child, is he fair? and wherefore doth he linger?”
“He shall be in thy wigwam ere the sun setteth again,” said Tuscalameetah. “The lily of the valley cannot compare with him in whiteness.”
“See that thou bringest him hither by the time thou hast specified,” rejoined the general, as opening an escritoir which stood on one side of the room, he handed the Indian a purse of gold. In a few moments he was again alone.
