Loe raamatut: «Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848», lehekülg 2
"No, Ivanhoe," thought I, "thou hast not done wisely – beautiful as is the fair Rowena, to whom thy troth stands plighted – thou shouldst have won the peerless Rebecca for thy bride."
I was aroused from the revery into which I had unconsciously fallen by a hoarse voice at my elbow repeating a Pater Noster, and turning around, I beheld the jovial Friar of Copmanhurst, one hand grasping a huge oaken cudgel, the other swiftly running over his rosary.
Mary of Avenel next appeared, and (or it may have been fancy) near her floated the airy vision of the White Lady.
There was Sir Piercie Shafton, too, and the miller's black-eyed daughter. The voice of the knight was low and apparently his words were tender; for poor Mysie Happer, with cheeks like a fresh-blown rose, and sparkling eyes, drank in with her whole soul the honeyed accents of the Euphoist.
"Certes, O my discretion," said he, "thou shalt arise from thy never-to-be-lamented-sufficiently-lowliness; thou shalt leave the homely occupations of that rude boor unto whom it beseemeth thee to give the appellation of father, and shalt attain to the-all-to-be-desired greatness of my love, even as the resplendent sun condescends to shine down upon the earth-crawling beetle."
I now approached a deep embrasure elevated one step above the level of the apartment, over which magnificent hangings of crimson and gold swept to the floor. Not for a moment could I doubt who the splendid being might be occupying the centre of the little group on which my eyes now rested enraptured.
The most lovely, the most unfortunate Mary of Scotland was before me, and, as if spell-bound, I could not withdraw my gaze. How did all the portraits my fancy had drawn fade in comparison with the actual beauty, the indescribable loveliness of this peerless woman. How was it possible to give to fancy any thing so exquisitely graceful and beautiful as the breathing form before me. Ask me not to depict the color of her eyes; ask me not to paint that wealth of splendid hair – that complexion no artist's skill could match – that mouth so eloquent in its repose – those lips – those teeth. As well attempt to paint the strain of delicious music which reaches our ears at midnight, stealing over the moonlit wave; or to color the fragrance of the new-blown rose, or of the lily of the vale, when first plucked from its humble bed. For even thus did the unrivaled charms of Mary of Scotland blend themselves indescribably with our enraptured senses.
On a low stool at the feet of Mary sat Catharine Seyton, whose fair, round arm seemed as a snow-wreath resting amid the rich folds of her royal mistress' black velvet robe. Yet not so deeply absorbed was she in devotion to her lady as to prevent her now and then casting a mischievous glance on Roland Græme, who, with the Douglas, were also in attendance upon their unhappy queen. Drawn up on one side was the stately figure of the Lady of Lochleven, with a scowl on her face, and a bitter look of hate fastened on the unfortunate Mary.
With regret I at length moved away from this enchanting presence, my sympathies to be soon again awakened for the gentle Amy Robsart, Countess of Leicester.
She was reclining on a sofa of sea-green velvet, seeded with pearls, bearing in its centre the cypher of herself and lord, surmounted by a coronet. At her feet knelt the Earl of Leicester with all the outward semblance of a god. One little hand rested confidingly in his, the other nestled amid the dark locks clustering over his high and polished brow. Ah! little did she dream of guile in her noble lord! How could she, when with such looks of love he gazed upon her – with such words of love delighted her trembling heart.
The fawning villain, Varney, stood at a little distance behind the unconscious Amy, even then, as it seemed to me, plotting her destruction with the old arch hypocrite, Foster, with whom he was holding low and earnest conversation. Tressilian – the brave, good Tressilian – as if sworn to protect the lovely lady, leaned on his sword at her right hand, his fine eyes bent with a look of mingled admiration and pity on her ingenuous countenance.
"The queen! the queen! – room for the queen!" echoed around. Hastily rising to his feet, and imprinting a slight kiss on her fair brow, the earl left his lovely bride, and was the next moment by the side of the haughty Elizabeth – England's maiden Queen.
"Then, earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a prim-rose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?
"But Leicester (or I much am wrong)
It is not beauty lures thy vows,
Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare – thy end is near!'"
"Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.
"And ere the dawn of day appeared
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.
"The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall."
It was pleasant to turn from a scene of such confiding love on one part, and base hypocrisy on the other, to look upon the honest countenance of Magnus Troil, who, with his daughters on each arm – the stately, dark-eyed Minna, and the no less lovely Brenda – were now approaching me. Behind followed Norna of the Fitful-head, in earnest conversation with the Pirate Cleveland. As I looked upon her tall, majestic person, her countenance, so stern and wild, rendered more so, perhaps, by the singular head-dress she had assumed, and her long hair streaming over her face and shoulders, I could no longer wonder at the power she had obtained over the minds of the ignorant peasantry and fishermen of Jarlshof.
"Whist! whist! Triptolemus!" quoth Mistress Barbara Yelloway, pulling the sleeve of the Factor, "dinna be getting ower near the hellicat witch – wha kens but she may be asking for the horn o' siller, man."
This speech had the desired effect; and the trembling Triptolemus hastily placed the bold front of Baby between him and the object of dread.
Here, too, was Mareshal Dalgetty – and nothing but the respect due to so much beauty as was here assembled, I felt sure, could have prevented the appearance of his brave charger, Gustavus, also upon the scene. He was accompanied by Ranald of the Mist.
With her little harp poised lightly on her arm, sweet Annot Lyle tripped by the side of the moody Allan, striving by her lively sallies to break the thrall of the dark fit which was about to seize upon him.
Fair Alice Lee, and the brave old knight, Sir Harry, did not escape my notice – nor Master Wildrake, or the gay monarch, Charles, still under the disguise of Louis Kerneguy; and whose shuffling, awkward gait, and bushy red head, caused no small mirth in the assembly, as wondering to see one of so ungainly an appearance in such close attendance upon the lovely Alice.
"Old Noll" had grouped around him in one corner the "Devil-scaring-lank-legs," the "Praise-God-barebones," and the "smell-sin-long-noses" of the day; but not finding any thing very attractive in that godly company, I passed on to where Isabella of Croye and the gallant Quentin Durward were holding earnest converse – not aware, unfortunately, that the snaky eye of the Bohemian was watching all their movements.
I quickly stepped aside as I saw the miser, Trapbois, eagerly advancing toward the Lady of Croye, his eyes gloating over the rich jewels which adorned her person, and his long, skinny fingers seeming ready to tear the coveted gems from her fair neck and arms. Indeed, but for the presence of his stern daughter, Martha, I doubted whether he would not at least make the attempt.
"Father, come home! this is no place for you – come home!" she said, in deep, slow tones.
"Nay, daughter, I would but offer to serve these rich nobles for a small con-sider-ation; let me go, Martha – let me go, I say!" as placing her powerful arm within his, she drew him reluctantly toward the door.
Suddenly a flourish of warlike music swelled through the lofty apartment – peal on peal reverberated around – and while I listened with awe to notes so grand and solemn, the music as suddenly changed its character. Now only the dulcet tones of the harp were heard, sweet as the soft summer shower when the tinkling rain-drops merrily pelt the flowers – strains so sweetly harmonious as seemed too heavenly for mortal touch. And as fainter and fainter, yet still more sweet, the ravishing melody breathed around, one by one the company glided out silently and mournfully – the tapestried walls gradually assumed the appearance of my own little parlor – the rich and tasteful decorations vanished —and where was I? Seated in my own comfortable rocking-chair, reclining in the same attitude as when so suddenly summoned forth by the gipsy carline. Truly,
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
HOMEWARD BOUND
BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N
For weary years my feet had wandered
On many a fair but distant shore;
By Lima's crumbling walls I'd pondered
And gazed upon the Andes hoar.
The ocean's wild and restless billow,
That rears its crested head on high,
For years had been my couch and pillow,
Until its sameness pained my eye.
The playmates of my joyous childhood,
With whom I laughed the hours away,
And wandered through the tangled wildwood
Till close of sultry summer day;
My aged, gray, and feeble mother,
Whom most I longed to see again,
My sisters, and my only brother,
Were o'er the wild and faithless main.
At length the lagging days were numbered,
That bound me to a foreign shore,
And glorious hopes that long had slumbered
Again their gilded plumage wore;
Fond voices in my ear were singing
The songs I loved in boyhood's day,
As in my hammoc slowly swinging
I mused the still night-hours away.
And sylvan scenes then came before me,
The bright green fields I loved so well,
Ere Sorrow threw his shadow o'er me,
The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;
The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,
Which in the night I passed with dread,
Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,
The white stones watch above the dead;
Were spread like pictured chart around me,
Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,
Till slumber with his fetters bound me,
And dimmed each star in memory's sky.
Then came bright dreams – but all were routed
When morning lit the ocean blue,
And I, awaking, gayly shouted,
"My last, last night in famed Peru!"
"Farewell Peru! thy shores are fading,
As swift we plough the furrowed main,
And clouds with drooping wings are shading
The towering Andes, wood and plain.
The passing breeze, thus idly singing,
A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,
And hope within my heart is springing,
Our white-winged bark is Homeward Bound!"
'Twas night – at length my feet were nearing
The home from which they long had strayed;
No star was in the sky appearing,
My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.
I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,
And entered through its creaking gate,
To find if yet my mother, weary
Of this cold world, had shared the fate
Of those who in their graves were sleeping,
But could not find her grass-grown bed,
Though many a stranger stone was keeping
Its patient watch above the dead.
But hers was not among them gleaming,
And so I turned with joy away,
For many a night had I been dreaming
That there she pale and faded lay!
POOR PENN —
A REAL REMINISCENCE
BY OLIVER BUCKLEY
"I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest; – most excellent humor."
Some years ago, ere yet I had reaped the harvest of "oats" somewhat wildly sown, I resided in one of our principal western cities, and, like most juveniles within sight of the threshold of their majority, harbored a decided predilection for the stage. Not a coach and four, as is sometimes understood by that expression, but that still more lumbering vehicle, the theatre, which hurries down the rough road of life a load of passengers quite as promiscuous and impatient. The odor of the summer-fields gave me less delight than that which exhaled from the foot-lights; and the wild forest-scenes were less enchanting than those transitory views which honest John Leslie nightly presented to the audience, too often "few" if not "fit." There is something, too, in the off-hand, taking-luck-as-it-comes sort of life among actors, which to me was especially attractive; and I was not long in making the acquaintance of many. But the memory of one among the number lingers with me still, with more mingled feelings of pain and pleasure than that of any other. Poor Penn – , I will not write his name in full, lest, should he be living, it might meet his eye and give his good-natured heart a moment's discomfort. To him more than any other my nature warmed, as did his to me, until we were cemented in friendship. What pleasant rambles of summer-afternoons, after rehearsal; what delightful nights when the play was done, what songs, recitations and professional anecdotes were ours, no one but ourselves can know. The character he most loved to play was Crack, in the "Turnpike Gate." Poor Penn – ! I can see him yet – "Some gentleman has left his beer – another one will drink it!" How admirably he made that point! But that is gone by, and he may ere this have made his last point and final exit. After six months of the closest intimacy, I suddenly missed my hitherto daily companion, and all inquiries at his boarding-house and the theatre proved fruitless. For days I frequented our old haunts, but in vain; he had vanished, leaving no trace to tell of the course he had taken. I seemed altogether forsaken – utterly lost – and felt as if I looked like a pump without a handle – a cart with but one wheel – a shovel without the tongs – or the second volume of a novel, which, because somebody has carried off the first, is of no interest to any one. At last a week went by, and I sauntered down to the ferry, and stepping aboard the boat suffered myself to be conveyed to the opposite shore. On the bank stood the United States barracks, and gathered about were groups of soldiers, looking as listless and unwarlike as if they had just joined the "peace-league." But their present quiet was only like that of a summer sea, which would bear unharmed the slightest shallop that ever maiden put from shore, but when battling tempests rise can hurl whole navies into wreck. Suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure at a distance which reminded me of my friend, I eagerly addressed one of the soldiers, and pointing out the object of my curiosity, inquired who he was.
"That's our sergeant," replied the man.
"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a week would not have raised Penn – to that honor, and I sat down on the green bank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between me and the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strange conjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind. How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were but as so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from object to object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such as had been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is my eyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the military stripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to the Uncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely from one to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner's face! That quizzical look – that Roman nose! There was no mistaking Penn – , Sergeant Penn – , of the United States Army! My surprise may easily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all.
Alas! for poor humanity,
Its weakness and its vanity,
Its sorrow and insanity,
Alas!
My friend in an evil hour had been led astray – had imbibed one "cobbler" too many for his leather; and like most men in similar circumstances, grew profoundly patriotic, and in a glorious burst of enthusiasm, enlisted! His fine figure, with a dash of the theatrical air, promoted him at once to the dignity of sergeant; and never did soldier wear his honors "thrust upon him" with a better grace than did Poor Penn – . Whether in his sober moments he regretted the rash act, I do not know; he was too proud to acknowledge it if he did. Taking me by the arm, he conducted the way to the barracks, and with an air of indescribable importance, exhibited and explained the whole internal arrangements. On the first floor, which was paved with brick, there was an immense fire-place, built in the very centre of the great room, and steaming and bubbling over the fire hung a big kettle, capable of holding at least thirty gallons. Over it, or rather beside it, stood the soldier-cook, stirring the contents, which was bean-soup, with an iron ladle. In the room above were long rows of bunks, stacks of muskets, with other warlike implements and equipage. A number of men were lounging on the berths, some reading, some boasting, and others telling long yarns. There was one stout, moon-faced gentleman laying on his broad back "spouting" Shakspeare. This individual, to whom I was introduced, turned out to be Sergeant Smith, another son of Thespis, who had left the boards for a more permanent engagement, not with the enemy, for those were days of peace, but with that stern old manager, Uncle Sam. Sergeant Smith was, perhaps, the most important person in his own estimation, on the banks, not even excepting the captain. There can be no doubt but that the stage suffered a great loss when he left it, for, indeed, he told us so himself. In a little while the call sounded, the roll was called, and all hands turned in to dinner. Penn – had provided me a seat by his side; and, for the first time in my life, I sat down to soldier fare. There was a square block of bread at the side of each pewter plate, a tin cup of cold water, and very soon a ladle-full of the steaming bean-soup was dealt round to each. It was a plain but a substantial dinner. Poor Penn – , as he helped me to an extra ladle of soup, observed, with the most solemn face imaginable, that the man who hadn't dined with soldiers "didn't know beans;" an expression more apt than elegant. During the space of three months I made weekly visits to the barracks, and was gratified to find that my friend Penn – , in spite of his formidable rival, Sergeant Smith, was fast rising in the confidence of the commanding officer and the estimation of the men. Smith, too, was judicious enough to hide any jealousy he might have felt, and like a true soldier, imitated his superior, and treated Penn – with marked distinction.
Such having been the state of affairs for so long a time, my surprise and indignation may easily be imagined, when upon calling, as usual, to see my friend, Sergeant Smith, with a most pompous air, informed me that he was not acquainted with the person for whom I inquired.
"Not acquainted with Penn – ?" cried I, with the most unbounded astonishment.
"No, sir," proudly replied the imperturbable sergeant, assuming the strictest military attitude, looking like a very stiff figure-head, seeming as if it would crack his eyelids to wink.
"Not acq – "
"No, sir," cried he, with great determination, before I could finish the word. "Do you suppose an officer of the United States army, an unimpeached soldier, capable of being acquainted with a deserter?"
"A deserter!" echoed I; "Penn – a deserter!" and the truth flashed across my brain, writing that terrible word in letters of fire, as did the hand on the walls of Belshazzar. The next moment, by permission of the guard, who knew me, I passed down into the long damp basement of the barracks, where the offenders were imprisoned. At the farther end, among a number of fellow-culprits, my eager eye soon discovered the object of its search. He was sitting with folded arms, perched on a carpenter's bench, and with the most wo-begone countenance imaginable, whistling a favorite air, and beating time against the side of the bench with his long, pendulous legs. I can hear the tune yet, "Nix my Dolly;" and who that has ever seen "Jack Shepherd" has forgotten it?
"Hallo!" cried I, "Penn – , how is this?"
He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the stave, he turned to me and exclaimed,
"Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape calumny – and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time.
"But, come," said I, "how did you get here?"
"Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn – crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence – took a glass too many – stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling anxious for Penn – 's welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a deserter – and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled again into his musical reverie.
"Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I.
"The down-shot of me, maybe!" – Nix my Doll – "at least, I shall be shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off with merely having my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor Penn – , at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and whistled with all the vigor he could muster.
"When do you go?" asked I, eagerly.
"Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid you good-by now, for the last time" – and he pressed my hand warmly – "for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on that day, and Penn – would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in his disgrace. There – there – go, my dear boy, let this be the last visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling. In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn – sitting as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible. With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn – than to continue that of the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on the bank of the river, so that I could see Penn – without letting him see me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached to their ankles. I counted them as they came out – counted a dozen – but yet no Penn – ; counted eighteen – nineteen – but the twentieth, and last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators, instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my side, I inquired,
"What does this mean, isn't Penn – one of them?"
"Of course he is," was the reply.
"But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?"
"Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn – , Sergeant Penn – that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg, under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag it – he'd die first!"
Poor Penn – ! I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn – .
