THE GIRDLE OF FIRE.

———

BY PERCIE H. SELTON.

———

The lower counties of New Jersey are proverbially barren, being covered with immense forests of pine, interspersed with cedar swamps. During the dry summer months these latter become parched to an extent that is incredible, and the accidental contagion of a fire-brand often wraps immense tracts of country in flames. The rapidity with which the conflagration, when once kindled, spreads through these swamps can scarcely be credited except by those who know how thoroughly the moss and twigs are dried up by the heat of an August sun. Indeed scarcely a spot can be pointed out in West Jersey, which has not, at one time or another, been ravaged by conflagration. It was but a few years since that an immense tract of these pine barrens was on fire, and the citizens of Philadelphia can recollect the lurid appearance of the sky at night, seen at the distance of thirty or even forty miles from the scene of the conflagration. The legendary history of these wild counties is full of daring deeds and hair-breadth escapes which have been witnessed during such times of peril. One of these traditionary stories it is our purpose to relate. The period of our tale dates far back into the early history of the sister state, when the country was even more thinly settled than at present.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was a sunny morning in midsummer, when a gay party was assembled at the door of a neat house in one of the lower counties of New Jersey. Foremost in the group stood a tall manly youth, whose frank countenance at once attracted the eye. By his side was a bright young creature, apparently about eighteen years of age, whose golden tresses were a fit type of the sunny beauty of her countenance. But now her soft blue eyes were dim with tears, and she leaned on the shoulder of her mother, who was apparently equally affected. The dress of the daughter, and her attitude of leave-taking, told that she was a bride, going forth from the home of her childhood, to enter on a new and untried sphere of life. The other members of the group were composed of her father, her brothers and sisters, and the bridemen and bridemaids.

“God bless you, my daughter, and have you in his holy keeping,” said the father as he gave her his last embrace, “and now farewell!”

The last kiss was given, the last parting word was said, the last long look had been taken, and now the bridal party was being whirled through the forest on one of the sweetest mornings of the sweet month of July.

It was indeed a lovely day. Their way lay through an old road which was so rarely travelled that it had became overgrown with grass, among which the thick dew-drops, glittering in the morning sun, were scattered like jewels on a monarch’s mantle. The birds sang merrily in the trees, or skipped gaily from branch to branch, while the gentle sighing of the wind, and the occasional murmur of a brook crossing the road, added to the exhilirating influences of the hour. The travellers were all young and happy, and so they gradually forgot the sadness of the parting hour, and ere they had traversed many miles the green arcades of that lovely old forest were ringing with merry laughter. Suddenly, however, the bride paused in her innocent mirth, and while a shade of paleness overspread her cheek, called the attention of her husband to a dark black cloud, far off on the horizon, and yet gloomier and denser than the darkest thunder cloud.

“The forest is on fire!” was his instant ejaculation, “think you not so, Charnley?” and he turned to his groomsman.

“Yes! but the wind is not towards us, and the fire must be miles from our course. There is no need for alarm, Ellen,” said he, turning to the bride, his sister.

“But our road lies altogether through the forest,” she timidly rejoined, “and you know there isn’t a house or cleared space for miles.”

“Yes! but my dear sis, so long as the fire keeps its distance, it matters not whether our road is through the forest or the fields. We will drive on briskly and before noon you will laugh at your fears. Your parting from home has weakened your nerves.”

No more was said, and for some time the carriage proceeded in silence. Meantime the conflagration was evidently spreading with great rapidity. The dark, dense clouds of smoke, which had at first been seen hanging only in one spot, had now extended in a line along the horizon, gradually edging around so as to head off the travellers. But this was done so imperceptibly that, for a long time, the travellers were not aware of it, and they had journeyed at least half an hour before they saw their danger. At length the bride spoke again.

“Surely, dear Edward,” she said, addressing her husband, “the fire is sweeping around ahead of us: I have been watching it by yonder blasted pine, and can see it slowly creeping across the trunk.”

Every eye was instantly turned in the direction in which she pointed, and her brother, who was driving, involuntarily checked the horses. A look of dismay was on each countenance as they saw the words of the bride verified. There could be no doubt that the fire had materially changed its bearing since they last spoke, and now threatened to cut off their escape altogether.

“I wish, Ellen, we had listened to your fears and turned back half an hour ago:” said the brother, “we had better do it at once.”

“God help us—that is impossible,” said the husband, looking backwards, “the fire has cut off our retreat.”

It was as he said. The flames, which at first had started at a point several miles distant and at right angles to the road the party was travelling, had spread out in every direction, and finding the swamp in the rear of the travellers parched almost to tinder by the draught, had extended with inconceivable velocity in that quarter, so that a dense cloud of smoke, beneath which a dark lurid veil of fire surged and rolled, completely cut off any retrograde movement on the part of the travellers. This volume of flame, moreover, was evidently moving rapidly in pursuit. The cheeks, even of the male members of the bridal party, turned ashy pale at the sight.

“There is nothing to do but to push on,” said the brother, “we will yet clear the road before the fire reaches it.”

“And if I remember,” said the husband, “there is a road branching off to the right, scarce half a mile ahead: we can gain that easily, when we shall be safe. Cheer up, Ellen, there is no danger. This is our wedding morn, let me not see you sad.”

The horses were now urged forward at a brisk pace, and in a few minutes the bridal party reached the cross road. Their progress was now directly from the fire; all peril seemed at an end; and the spirits of the group rose in proportion to their late depression. Once more the merry laugh was heard, and the song rose up gaily on the morning air. The conflagration still raged behind, but at a distance that placed all fear at defiance, while in front the fire, although edging down towards them, approached at a pace so slow that they knew it would not reach the road until perhaps hours after they had attained their journey’s end. At length the party subsided again into silence, occupying themselves in gazing on the magnificent spectacle presented by the lurid flames, as, rolling their huge volumes of smoke above them, they roared down towards the travellers.

“The forest is as dry as powder,” said the husband, “I never saw a conflagration travel so rapidly. The fire cannot have been kindled many hours, and it has already spread for miles. Little did you think, Ellen,” he said, turning fondly to his bride, “when we started this morning, that you should so narrowly escape such a peril.”

“And, as I live, the peril is not yet over,” suddenly exclaimed the brother, “see—see—a fire has broke out on our right, and is coming down on to us like a whirlwind. God have mercy on us!”

He spoke with an energy that would have startled his hearers without the fearful words he uttered. But when they followed the direction of his quivering finger, a shriek burst from the two females, while the usually collected husband turned ashy pale, not for himself, but for her who was dearer to him than his own life. A fire, during the last few minutes, had started to life in the forest to their right, and, as the wind was from that quarter, the flames were seen ahead shooting down towards the road which the bridal party was traversing, roaring, hissing, and thundering as they drew near.

“Drive faster—for heaven’s sake—on the gallop!” exclaimed the husband, as he comprehended the imminency of their danger.

The brother made no answer, for he well knew their fearful situation, but whipped the horses into a run. The chaise flew along the narrow forest road with a rapidity that neither of the party had ever before witnessed; for even the animals themselves seemed aware of their peril, and strained every sinew to escape from the fiery death which threatened them.

Their situation was indeed terrible, and momentarily becoming more precarious. The fire, when first seen, was, at least, a mile off, but nearly equidistant from a point in the road the bridal party was traversing; and, as the conflagration swept down towards the road with a velocity equal to that of the travellers, it soon became evident that they would have barely time to pass the fire ere it swept across the road, thus cutting off all escape. Each saw this; but the females were now paralized with fear. Only the husband spoke.

“Faster, for God’s sake, faster,” he hoarsely cried, “see you not that the fire is making for yonder tall pine—we shall not be able to reach the tree first unless we go faster.”

“I will do my best,” said the brother, lashing still more furiously the foaming horses. “Oh! God, that I had turned back when Ellen wished me.”

On came the roaring fire—on in one mass of flame—on with a velocity that seemed only equalled by that of the flying hurricane. Now the flames caught the lower limbs of a tall tree and in an instant had hissed to its top—now they shot out their forky tongues from one huge pine to another far across the intermediate space—and now the whirling fire, whistled along the dry grass and moss of the swamp with a rapidity which the eye could scarcely follow. Already the fierce heat of the conflagration began to be felt by the travellers, while the horses, feeling the increase of warmth, grew restive and terrified. The peril momentarily increased. Hope grew fainter. Behind and on either side the conflagration roared in pursuit, while the advancing flame in front was cutting off their only avenue of escape.They were girdled by fire.Faster and quicker roared the flames towards the devoted party, until at length despair seized on the hearts of the travellers. Pale, paralized, silent, inanimate as statues, sat the females; while the husband and brother, leaning forward in the carriage and urging the horses to their utmost speed, gazed speechlessly on the approaching flames. Already the fire was within a hundred yards of the road ahead, and it seemed beyond human probability that the travellers could pass it in time. The husband gave one last agonizing glance at his inanimate wife. When again he looked at the approaching flames, he saw that during that momentary glimpse they had lessened their distance one half. He could already feel the hot breath of the fire on his cheek. The wind, too, suddenly whirled down with fiercer fury, and in an instant the forky tongues of the advancing conflagration had shot across the road, and entwined themselves around the tall pine which had been the goal of the travellers’ hopes. He sank back with a groan. But the brother’s eye gleamed wildly at the sight, and gathering the reins tighter around his hand, he made one last desperate effort to force the horses onward; and with one mad leap, they lifted the carriage from the ground as if it had been a plaything, plunged into the fiery furnace, and the next instant had shot through the pass.

Charnley gave one look backwards, as if to assure himself that they had indeed escaped—he saw the lurid mass of fire roaring and whirling across the spot through which they had darted but a moment before; and overcome with mingled gratitude and awe, he lowered his head on his breast and poured out an overflowing soul in thanksgivings to the Power which had saved them from the most dreadful of deaths. And long afterwards, men, who travelled through that charred and blackened forest, pointed to the memorable scene where these events occurred, and rehearsed the thrilling feelings of those who had been encompassed bythe Girdle of Fire.

TO ——.

———

BY GEORGE LUNT.

———

I call upon the waves and they reply,But not the voice I fain would hear replied,Vainly I seek it in the wind’s deep sigh,Earth, air, the sky’s blue depths and ocean’s tide.These have their various voices, soft or stern,Moulding our feelings to the varied hour,And the wrung heart will hear them and returnTo claim on Nature’s breast a mother’s power.The dewy freshness of earth’s vernal prime,Her budding promise lapp’d in fragrant showers,The sacred sweetness of her summer time,And her bright bosom cover’d o’er with flowers;The viewless music of the breathing air,The rushing wind that sweeps across the plain,The breeze that dallies with the brow of careAnd stirs the languid pulse to life again;Heaven’s glorious arch, when morning through the skiesSkirts all its blue with gold, or sweeter farAt the dim twilight, or when softly riseThe new-born moon and glittering star on star;And the dark-rolling voiceful sea, whose moan,On the wide waste or by the storm-beat shore,Asks the soul’s answer like a spirit tone,And the deep soul speaks inly to its roar;These have their language, mirthful, sad, or wild,Like changing passion in the human breast;We call them to us, as a wilder’d childHis home’s companions, and they give us rest;Yet though they speak, I cannot hear—no moreComes the sweet music of the one loved tone,And standing lonely by the lone sea-shoreSad as my heart falls its perpetual moan.

I call upon the waves and they reply,But not the voice I fain would hear replied,Vainly I seek it in the wind’s deep sigh,Earth, air, the sky’s blue depths and ocean’s tide.

I call upon the waves and they reply,

But not the voice I fain would hear replied,

Vainly I seek it in the wind’s deep sigh,

Earth, air, the sky’s blue depths and ocean’s tide.

These have their various voices, soft or stern,Moulding our feelings to the varied hour,And the wrung heart will hear them and returnTo claim on Nature’s breast a mother’s power.

These have their various voices, soft or stern,

Moulding our feelings to the varied hour,

And the wrung heart will hear them and return

To claim on Nature’s breast a mother’s power.

The dewy freshness of earth’s vernal prime,Her budding promise lapp’d in fragrant showers,The sacred sweetness of her summer time,And her bright bosom cover’d o’er with flowers;

The dewy freshness of earth’s vernal prime,

Her budding promise lapp’d in fragrant showers,

The sacred sweetness of her summer time,

And her bright bosom cover’d o’er with flowers;

The viewless music of the breathing air,The rushing wind that sweeps across the plain,The breeze that dallies with the brow of careAnd stirs the languid pulse to life again;

The viewless music of the breathing air,

The rushing wind that sweeps across the plain,

The breeze that dallies with the brow of care

And stirs the languid pulse to life again;

Heaven’s glorious arch, when morning through the skiesSkirts all its blue with gold, or sweeter farAt the dim twilight, or when softly riseThe new-born moon and glittering star on star;

Heaven’s glorious arch, when morning through the skies

Skirts all its blue with gold, or sweeter far

At the dim twilight, or when softly rise

The new-born moon and glittering star on star;

And the dark-rolling voiceful sea, whose moan,On the wide waste or by the storm-beat shore,Asks the soul’s answer like a spirit tone,And the deep soul speaks inly to its roar;

And the dark-rolling voiceful sea, whose moan,

On the wide waste or by the storm-beat shore,

Asks the soul’s answer like a spirit tone,

And the deep soul speaks inly to its roar;

These have their language, mirthful, sad, or wild,Like changing passion in the human breast;We call them to us, as a wilder’d childHis home’s companions, and they give us rest;

These have their language, mirthful, sad, or wild,

Like changing passion in the human breast;

We call them to us, as a wilder’d child

His home’s companions, and they give us rest;

Yet though they speak, I cannot hear—no moreComes the sweet music of the one loved tone,And standing lonely by the lone sea-shoreSad as my heart falls its perpetual moan.

Yet though they speak, I cannot hear—no more

Comes the sweet music of the one loved tone,

And standing lonely by the lone sea-shore

Sad as my heart falls its perpetual moan.

THE STAGE.

———

BY WILLIAM WALLACE.

———

Oh! I could weep when I perceive the cloudOf dark impurities around our Stage,Where those creations, gay, or sad, or proud⁠—Hamlet’s strange wo, or wronged Othello’s rageHallowed fair Albion’s selectest age:Yet would I not, like certain ones, beholdTheatric pomp proscribed in liberal land,While pale Contempt (as once in ages old)Kills with a single look the buskin band.A beauty sparkles yet around the Place⁠—A mystic charm—a fairy-beaming grace⁠—Appealing loudly to the coldest heart:These boards once held the glory of our race,And still they reverence a Shakspeare’s Art.

Oh! I could weep when I perceive the cloud

Of dark impurities around our Stage,

Where those creations, gay, or sad, or proud⁠—

Hamlet’s strange wo, or wronged Othello’s rage

Hallowed fair Albion’s selectest age:

Yet would I not, like certain ones, behold

Theatric pomp proscribed in liberal land,

While pale Contempt (as once in ages old)

Kills with a single look the buskin band.

A beauty sparkles yet around the Place⁠—

A mystic charm—a fairy-beaming grace⁠—

Appealing loudly to the coldest heart:

These boards once held the glory of our race,

And still they reverence a Shakspeare’s Art.

“TO WIN THE LOVE OF THEE.”

BALLAD.

DEDICATED TO MISS LEO M. CASSIN, OF GEORGETOWN, D. C.

BY J. G. E.

———

John F. Nunns,184 Chesnut Street: Philadelphia.

———

To win the love of thee,I would the wealth of worlds resign,For life has nought for me,But one sole wish to call thee mine.All other joys of life no more,For me a thought shall claim,Thou art the Idol I adore,My happiness and fame.To win the love of thee,I would the wealth of worlds resign,For life has nought for me,But one sole wish to call thee mine.Strive not with ornament to hideThy beauty’s op’ning flower;Simplicity should be thy bride.For therein lies thy power.Of Constancy the model ITo wand’ring eyes should prove,For I should only wish to dieIf e’er I lose thy love.To win the love of thee, &c.

To win the love of thee,

I would the wealth of worlds resign,

For life has nought for me,

But one sole wish to call thee mine.

All other joys of life no more,

For me a thought shall claim,

Thou art the Idol I adore,

My happiness and fame.

To win the love of thee,

I would the wealth of worlds resign,

For life has nought for me,

But one sole wish to call thee mine.

Strive not with ornament to hideThy beauty’s op’ning flower;Simplicity should be thy bride.For therein lies thy power.Of Constancy the model ITo wand’ring eyes should prove,For I should only wish to dieIf e’er I lose thy love.To win the love of thee, &c.

Strive not with ornament to hide

Thy beauty’s op’ning flower;

Simplicity should be thy bride.

For therein lies thy power.

Of Constancy the model I

To wand’ring eyes should prove,

For I should only wish to die

If e’er I lose thy love.

To win the love of thee, &c.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Notes of a Tour through Turkey, Greece, Egypt, Arabia Petræa, to the Holy Land; including a Visit to Athens, Sparta, Delhi, Cairo, Thebes, Mount Sinai, Petræa, &c. By E. Joy Morris. Two vols. 12 mo. pp. 550. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart: 1842.

Were we disposed to be hypercritical, we should begin by finding some fault with the title of these volumes. It is quite too long, besides being tautological. Why speak of a tour through Egypt, and a visit to Thebes! Or of a tour through Greece and a visit to Athens? It would be as proper to announce a journey through England, including a visit to London. He who travels over a country of course visits its capital. If he supposes the readers of his journal do not know what city enjoys that distinction, it is even then better to let them acquire this geographical information by degrees. Too great and sudden developments may defeat his object; a man’s vision is sometimes obscured by excess of light.

Of the improbabilities which are scattered throughout the work we have space only to notice one or two. Mr. Morris informs us that theharemof the Governor of Smyrna, which he encountered on board a steamer, “consisted of some half-dozen ladies, (wives,) and, with attendants, amounted to near thirty persons.” Rather too many wives for the simple Aga of Smyrna, and more than the Koran allows. The holy book of the Mahommedan permits no one, save the Grand Sultan—the representative of the prophet—to have more than two; and that highest of dignitaries, and hereditary favorite of the immortals, has but four. The Governor of Smyrna, we are assured by a competent authority, has butonewife, and she is of Turkish descent, and not, as our author avers, a Circassian. Had she been of Circassia she would have been a concubine, not a wife, or, as the author blunderingly calls her, aSultana. That title belongs only to the favorite wife of theSultan. Our traveller tells us that he offered to this lady some sweet-meats, although her husband and the keeper of his harem were both present! An averment which we would be as chary of believing as if it were that the “light” of the Grand Seigneur’s palace had accepted an invitation to swim with him in the Bosphorus!

Mr. Morris tells us that he found in the slave market of Constantinople two beautiful Georgian girls, “destined for the harems of the rich,” incages, but that he was “only indulged with a glance at them through thebars!” Now a cage, or such a place as he intended to describe by that word, even for the ugliest Numidian, would not be tolerated in Constantinople for an hour; nor has there been for many years a Georgian girl publicly exhibited in the markets of that city. When a writer, sensible of the dulness of his performance, seeks to impart to it some interest by weaving into its chapters romantic fictions, he should be careful to give them an air of probability. We have not time nor inclination to point out other “attractions” in these volumes of a similar description.

While writing of Athens and Constantinople, Mr. Morris doubtless had by his side Mr. Colton’s “Visit” to those places; and in his notices of Arabia Petræa and Egypt he has availed himself of the information acquired by Mr. Stevens and Professor Robinson. He has made what, in the language of thetrade, is called a readable book; but it possesses neither originality, vigor, nor freshness; and his delineations, besides lacking these qualities, are often tediously long and needlessly particular. He does not pretend to give any new topographical information, and his work contains none. It was probably written out from slight notes taken during his tour, and the more elaborate descriptions of other travellers. It evinces some taste and judgment in the selection of themes, and is now and then graced by a classical allusion or quotation, gleaned, perhaps, from the guide-books, which make authorship so easy to the tourist.

Punishment by Death: Its Authority and Expediency. By Rev. George B. Chester. One vol. 12mo. pp. 156. New York: M. W. Dodd.

Several able sermons on this important subject have issued from the press. This is a more extended and elaborate effort. It displays learning, research, and philosophical acumen, and is worthy of general and serious attention. We know of no treatise in our language, on this subject, so well calculated for circulation among the people at large. It is brief, clear, comprehensive, written in an interesting style, and often rising to a strain of vivid and stirring eloquence.

About half the volume is devoted to the argument from Scripture; in which the original Noahic ordinance is taken as the ground-work, commented upon in the Mosaic statutes, and confirmed in the New Testament. The writings and experience of Paul are examined, and the course of the Divine Providence is shown to be consentaneous with this argument. The state of legislation and society in the antediluvian world, as well as afterwards, are investigated, with the origin of government, and the nature of its sanction in the Scriptures.

The remainder of the book is taken up with the argument from Expediency. The question is examined, What constitutes the perfection of criminal jurisprudence! The efficacy of punishment by death in restraining crime is argued, and also that the abrogation of this punishment would prove a premium on the crime of murder, through the desire of concealing other crimes. The law of nature is examined, with the powerful convictions of conscience on this subject, as sustaining the Divine legislation, and demanding support also in human law. Various objections are considered and answered, with the occasion of the prejudice against Capital Punishment. The book concludes with a chapter on the power and solemnity of the argument from analogy, in reference to the sanctions of the Divine Government.

A Popular Treatise on Agricultural Chemistry: intended for the use of the Practical Farmer. By Chas. Squarey, Chemist. One vol. Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia.

An excellent work, in which most of what is really valuable in the treatises of Liebig, Davy, Johnson and Daubeny, has been condensed for the practical reader.

Tecumseh, or the West Thirty Years Since: A Poem: By George H. Colton. 12mo. pp. 412. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842.

We alluded to this work very briefly in a former number, and now recur to it mainly for the purpose of presenting some specimens of the author’s versification, by which the reader may be enabled to judge of its general execution. “Tecumseh” is a narrative, founded on the history of that great chief whose name is chosen for its title, and whose efforts to unite the various divisions of the red race into one grand confederacy, to regain their lost inheritance, though unsuccessful, should secure to him a fame as lasting as is awarded to the most celebrated heroes and patriots of the world.

The measure of the main part of the poem—extending to nine long cantos—is octo-syllabic. It is free, and generally correct, though in some cases marred by inexcusable carelessness, and phraseology more tame and meaningless than, had he kept his manuscript for a few years, the author would have permitted to go before the critics. The hero, with the wily prophet, Els-kwa-ta-wa, who was his evil genius through life, is introduced in the second canto. Distinguished

“By his broad brow of care and thought,By his most regal mien and tread,By robes with richest wampum wrought,And eagle’s plume upon his head,”

“By his broad brow of care and thought,

By his most regal mien and tread,

By robes with richest wampum wrought,

And eagle’s plume upon his head,”

he emerges with his companion from a forest;

“Nor e’er did eye a form beholdAt once more finished, firm and bold.Of larger mould and loftier mienThan oft in hall or bower is seen,And with a browner hue than seemsTo pale maid fair, or lights her dreams,He yet revealed a symmetryHad charmed the Grecian sculptor’s eye,A massive brow, a kindled face,Limbs chiselled to a faultless grace,Beauty and strength in every feature,While in his eyes there lived the lightOf a great soul’s transcendant might⁠—Hereditary lord by nature!As stood he there, the stern, unmoved,Except his eagle glance that roved,And darkly limned against the skyUpon that mound so lone and high,He looked the sculptured God of Wars,Great Odin, or Egyptian Mars,By crafty hand, from dusky stone,Immortal wrought in ages gone,And on some silent desert cast,Memorial of the mighty Past!And yet, though firm, though proud his glance,There was upon his countenanceThat settled shade, which oft in lifeMounts upward from the spirit’s strifeAs if upon his soul there laySome grief which would not pass away.“The other’s lineaments and airRevealed him plainly brother bornOf him, who on that summit bareSo sad, yet proudly met the morn:But, lighter built, his slender frameFar less of grace, as strength, could claim;And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce,Would seem the gazer’s breast to pierce,And low’ring visage, aye the whileInwrought of subtlety and guile,Whose every glance, that darkly stole,Bespoke the crafty, cruel soul.There was from all his presence shedA power, a chill mysterious dread,Which made him of those beings seem,That shake us in the midnight dream.Yet were his features, too, o’ercastWith mournfulness, as if the pastHad been one vigil, painful, deep and longOf hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong.No word was said: but long they stood,And side by side, in thoughtful mood,Watched the great curtains of the mistUp from the mighty landscape move;’Twas surely spirit-hands, they wist,Did lift them from above.And when, unveiled, to them aloneThe solitary world was shown,And dew from all the mound’s green sodRose, like an incense, up to God,Reclined, yet silent still, they bentTheir eyes on Heaven’s deep firmament⁠—As if were open to their viewThe stars’ sun-flooded homes of blue⁠—Or gazed, with mournful sternness, o’erThe rolling prairie stretched before;While round them, fluttering on the breeze,The sere leaves fell from faded trees.”

“Nor e’er did eye a form behold

At once more finished, firm and bold.

Of larger mould and loftier mien

Than oft in hall or bower is seen,

And with a browner hue than seems

To pale maid fair, or lights her dreams,

He yet revealed a symmetry

Had charmed the Grecian sculptor’s eye,

A massive brow, a kindled face,

Limbs chiselled to a faultless grace,

Beauty and strength in every feature,

While in his eyes there lived the light

Of a great soul’s transcendant might⁠—

Hereditary lord by nature!

As stood he there, the stern, unmoved,

Except his eagle glance that roved,

And darkly limned against the sky

Upon that mound so lone and high,

He looked the sculptured God of Wars,

Great Odin, or Egyptian Mars,

By crafty hand, from dusky stone,

Immortal wrought in ages gone,

And on some silent desert cast,

Memorial of the mighty Past!

And yet, though firm, though proud his glance,

There was upon his countenance

That settled shade, which oft in life

Mounts upward from the spirit’s strife

As if upon his soul there lay

Some grief which would not pass away.

“The other’s lineaments and airRevealed him plainly brother bornOf him, who on that summit bareSo sad, yet proudly met the morn:But, lighter built, his slender frameFar less of grace, as strength, could claim;And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce,Would seem the gazer’s breast to pierce,And low’ring visage, aye the whileInwrought of subtlety and guile,Whose every glance, that darkly stole,Bespoke the crafty, cruel soul.There was from all his presence shedA power, a chill mysterious dread,Which made him of those beings seem,That shake us in the midnight dream.Yet were his features, too, o’ercastWith mournfulness, as if the pastHad been one vigil, painful, deep and longOf hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong.No word was said: but long they stood,And side by side, in thoughtful mood,Watched the great curtains of the mistUp from the mighty landscape move;’Twas surely spirit-hands, they wist,Did lift them from above.And when, unveiled, to them aloneThe solitary world was shown,And dew from all the mound’s green sodRose, like an incense, up to God,Reclined, yet silent still, they bentTheir eyes on Heaven’s deep firmament⁠—As if were open to their viewThe stars’ sun-flooded homes of blue⁠—Or gazed, with mournful sternness, o’erThe rolling prairie stretched before;While round them, fluttering on the breeze,The sere leaves fell from faded trees.”

“The other’s lineaments and air

Revealed him plainly brother born

Of him, who on that summit bare

So sad, yet proudly met the morn:

But, lighter built, his slender frame

Far less of grace, as strength, could claim;

And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce,

Would seem the gazer’s breast to pierce,

And low’ring visage, aye the while

Inwrought of subtlety and guile,

Whose every glance, that darkly stole,

Bespoke the crafty, cruel soul.

There was from all his presence shed

A power, a chill mysterious dread,

Which made him of those beings seem,

That shake us in the midnight dream.

Yet were his features, too, o’ercast

With mournfulness, as if the past

Had been one vigil, painful, deep and long

Of hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong.

No word was said: but long they stood,

And side by side, in thoughtful mood,

Watched the great curtains of the mist

Up from the mighty landscape move;

’Twas surely spirit-hands, they wist,

Did lift them from above.

And when, unveiled, to them alone

The solitary world was shown,

And dew from all the mound’s green sod

Rose, like an incense, up to God,

Reclined, yet silent still, they bent

Their eyes on Heaven’s deep firmament⁠—

As if were open to their view

The stars’ sun-flooded homes of blue⁠—

Or gazed, with mournful sternness, o’er

The rolling prairie stretched before;

While round them, fluttering on the breeze,

The sere leaves fell from faded trees.”

At the close of a conference which ensues, Tecumseh expresses his determination to

“go forthThrough the great waters of the North,Round the far South, and o’er the WestBy the lone streams, nor ever rest,Till all the tribes united standIn battle for their native land.”

“go forth

Through the great waters of the North,

Round the far South, and o’er the West

By the lone streams, nor ever rest,

Till all the tribes united stand

In battle for their native land.”

There are scattered through the poem many passages of minute and skilful description of external nature, and interwoven with the main history is a story of love, resulting, in the end, like most tales of the kind, in the perfect felicity of the parties. Some episodes, by which the narrative is broken, are well-wrought, and the entire poem possesses a deep and sustained interest. The rapid action of the narrative is illustrated by the following passive, descriptive of the last conflict, in which Tecumseh fell:

“Forth at the peal each charger sped,The hard earth shook beneath their tread,The dim woods, all around them spread,Shone with their armor’s light:Yet in those stern, still lines assailedNo eye-ball shrunk, no bosom quailed,No foot was turned for flight;But, thundering as their foemen came,Each rifle flashed its deadly flame.A moment, then recoil and rout,With reeling horse and struggling shout,Confused that onset fair;But, rallying each dark steed once more,Like billows borne the low reefs o’erWith foamy crest in air,Right on and over them they bore,With gun and bayonet thrust before,And swift swords brandish’d bare.Then madly was the conflict waged,Then terribly red Slaughter raged!“How still is yet yon dense morassThe bloody sun below!Where’er yon chosen horsemen pass,There stirs no bough nor blade of grass,There moves no secret foe!Yet on, quick eye and cautious tread,His bold ranks Johnson darkling led.Sudden from tree and thicket green,From trunk, and mound, and bushy screen,Sharp lightning flashed with instant sheen,A thousand death-bolts sung!Like ripened fruit before the blast,Rider and horse to earth were cast,Its miry roots among;Then wild, as if that earth were riven,And, pour’d beneath the cope of heaven,All hell to upper air were given,One fearful whoop was rung,And, bounding each from covert forth,Burst on their front the demon birth.‘Off! off! each horseman to the ground!On foot we’ll quell the foe!’And instant, with impetuous bound,They hurl’d them down below.“Then loud the crash of arms arose,As when two forest whirlwinds close;Then filled all heaven their shout and yell,As if the forests on them fell!I see, where swells the thickest fight,With sword and hatchet brandish’d brightAnd rifles flashing sulphurous lightThrough green leaves gleaming red⁠—I see a plume, now near, now far,Now high, now low, like falling star,Wide waving o’er the tide of war,Where’er the onslaught’s led;I see, beneath, a bare arm swing,As tempest whirls the oak,Bosom and high crest shiveringThe war-club’s deadly stroke;The eager infantry rush in,Before their ranks, with wilder din,The wav’ring strife is driven⁠—Above the struggling storm I hearA lofty voice the war bands cheer,Still, as they quail with doubt or fear,Yet loud and louder given;And, rallying to the clarion cry,With club and red axe raging high,And sharp knives sheathing low,Fast back again confusedlyThey drive the staggering foe.”

“Forth at the peal each charger sped,

The hard earth shook beneath their tread,

The dim woods, all around them spread,

Shone with their armor’s light:

Yet in those stern, still lines assailed

No eye-ball shrunk, no bosom quailed,

No foot was turned for flight;

But, thundering as their foemen came,

Each rifle flashed its deadly flame.

A moment, then recoil and rout,

With reeling horse and struggling shout,

Confused that onset fair;

But, rallying each dark steed once more,

Like billows borne the low reefs o’er

With foamy crest in air,

Right on and over them they bore,

With gun and bayonet thrust before,

And swift swords brandish’d bare.

Then madly was the conflict waged,

Then terribly red Slaughter raged!

“How still is yet yon dense morassThe bloody sun below!Where’er yon chosen horsemen pass,There stirs no bough nor blade of grass,There moves no secret foe!Yet on, quick eye and cautious tread,His bold ranks Johnson darkling led.Sudden from tree and thicket green,From trunk, and mound, and bushy screen,Sharp lightning flashed with instant sheen,A thousand death-bolts sung!Like ripened fruit before the blast,Rider and horse to earth were cast,Its miry roots among;Then wild, as if that earth were riven,And, pour’d beneath the cope of heaven,All hell to upper air were given,One fearful whoop was rung,And, bounding each from covert forth,Burst on their front the demon birth.‘Off! off! each horseman to the ground!On foot we’ll quell the foe!’And instant, with impetuous bound,They hurl’d them down below.

“How still is yet yon dense morass

The bloody sun below!

Where’er yon chosen horsemen pass,

There stirs no bough nor blade of grass,

There moves no secret foe!

Yet on, quick eye and cautious tread,

His bold ranks Johnson darkling led.

Sudden from tree and thicket green,

From trunk, and mound, and bushy screen,

Sharp lightning flashed with instant sheen,

A thousand death-bolts sung!

Like ripened fruit before the blast,

Rider and horse to earth were cast,

Its miry roots among;

Then wild, as if that earth were riven,

And, pour’d beneath the cope of heaven,

All hell to upper air were given,

One fearful whoop was rung,

And, bounding each from covert forth,

Burst on their front the demon birth.

‘Off! off! each horseman to the ground!

On foot we’ll quell the foe!’

And instant, with impetuous bound,

They hurl’d them down below.

“Then loud the crash of arms arose,As when two forest whirlwinds close;Then filled all heaven their shout and yell,As if the forests on them fell!I see, where swells the thickest fight,With sword and hatchet brandish’d brightAnd rifles flashing sulphurous lightThrough green leaves gleaming red⁠—I see a plume, now near, now far,Now high, now low, like falling star,Wide waving o’er the tide of war,Where’er the onslaught’s led;I see, beneath, a bare arm swing,As tempest whirls the oak,Bosom and high crest shiveringThe war-club’s deadly stroke;The eager infantry rush in,Before their ranks, with wilder din,The wav’ring strife is driven⁠—Above the struggling storm I hearA lofty voice the war bands cheer,Still, as they quail with doubt or fear,Yet loud and louder given;And, rallying to the clarion cry,With club and red axe raging high,And sharp knives sheathing low,Fast back again confusedlyThey drive the staggering foe.”

“Then loud the crash of arms arose,

As when two forest whirlwinds close;

Then filled all heaven their shout and yell,

As if the forests on them fell!

I see, where swells the thickest fight,

With sword and hatchet brandish’d bright

And rifles flashing sulphurous light

Through green leaves gleaming red⁠—

I see a plume, now near, now far,

Now high, now low, like falling star,

Wide waving o’er the tide of war,

Where’er the onslaught’s led;

I see, beneath, a bare arm swing,

As tempest whirls the oak,

Bosom and high crest shivering

The war-club’s deadly stroke;

The eager infantry rush in,

Before their ranks, with wilder din,

The wav’ring strife is driven⁠—

Above the struggling storm I hear

A lofty voice the war bands cheer,

Still, as they quail with doubt or fear,

Yet loud and louder given;

And, rallying to the clarion cry,

With club and red axe raging high,

And sharp knives sheathing low,

Fast back again confusedly

They drive the staggering foe.”

We conclude our extracts with a graphic description of a forest scene, from the last canto.

“Within a wood extending wideBy Thames’s steeply winding side,There sat upon a fallen tree,Grown green through ages silently,An Indian girl. The gradual changeMaking all things most sweetly strange,Had come again. The autumn sun,Half up his morning journey, shoneWith conscious lustre, calm and still;By dell, and plain, and sloping hillStood mute the faded trees, in grief,As various as their clouded leaf.With all the hues of sunset skiesWere stamp’d the maple’s mourning dies;In meeker sorrow in the valeThe gentle ash was drooping pale;Brown-seared the walnut raised its head,The oak displayed a lifeless red;And grouping bass and white-wood hoarSadly their yellow honors bore;And silvered birch and poplar roseWith foliage gray and weeping boughs;But elm and stubborn beech retainedSome verdant lines, though crossed and stained,And by the river’s side were seenHazel and willow palely green,While in the woods, by bank and streamAnd hollows shut from daylight gleam,Where tall trees wept their freshening dews,Each shrub preserved its summer hues.Nor this alone. From branch and trunkThe withered wild-vines coldly shrunk,The woodland fruits hung ripe or dry,The leaf-strown brook flowed voiceless by;And all throughout, nor dim nor bright.There lived a rare and wondrous lightWherein the colored leaves aroundFell noiselessly; nor any sound,Save chattering squirrels on the trees,Or dropping nuts, when stirred the breeze,Might there be heard; and, floating high,Were light clouds borne along the sky.And, scarcely seen, in heaven’s deep blueOne solitary eagle flew.”

“Within a wood extending wide

By Thames’s steeply winding side,

There sat upon a fallen tree,

Grown green through ages silently,

An Indian girl. The gradual change

Making all things most sweetly strange,

Had come again. The autumn sun,

Half up his morning journey, shone

With conscious lustre, calm and still;

By dell, and plain, and sloping hill

Stood mute the faded trees, in grief,

As various as their clouded leaf.

With all the hues of sunset skies

Were stamp’d the maple’s mourning dies;

In meeker sorrow in the vale

The gentle ash was drooping pale;

Brown-seared the walnut raised its head,

The oak displayed a lifeless red;

And grouping bass and white-wood hoar

Sadly their yellow honors bore;

And silvered birch and poplar rose

With foliage gray and weeping boughs;

But elm and stubborn beech retained

Some verdant lines, though crossed and stained,

And by the river’s side were seen

Hazel and willow palely green,

While in the woods, by bank and stream

And hollows shut from daylight gleam,

Where tall trees wept their freshening dews,

Each shrub preserved its summer hues.

Nor this alone. From branch and trunk

The withered wild-vines coldly shrunk,

The woodland fruits hung ripe or dry,

The leaf-strown brook flowed voiceless by;

And all throughout, nor dim nor bright.

There lived a rare and wondrous light

Wherein the colored leaves around

Fell noiselessly; nor any sound,

Save chattering squirrels on the trees,

Or dropping nuts, when stirred the breeze,

Might there be heard; and, floating high,

Were light clouds borne along the sky.

And, scarcely seen, in heaven’s deep blue

One solitary eagle flew.”

From these passages the general character of the work may be inferred. It is too long: it would be unwise to extend a poem on any theme to nine cantos, of near fourteen thousand lines; and besides its diffuseness, in parts, it has other faults, to which we have already alluded. It is the first production, however, of an author just freed from the University; not yet, apparently, twenty-two years old; and, so regarded, the severest critic must deem it remarkably free from errors in design and execution.

Some half dozen elaborate metrical tales, founded on Indian histories or traditions, have before appeared in this country, of which but one—the “Yamoyden” of Sands and Eastburn—is comparable to this; and that is inferior to it in unity, and, indeed, in almost all its essential features. The admirable proem to “Yamoyden,” in which Sands laments in such touching strains the early death of his associate and friend, is not rightly considered a part of the poem to which it is prefixed. To this Mr. Colton has produced nothing equal; nor is he worthyyetto be ranked with Sands as a poet. But “Tecumseh,” until some nobler work is written, must be considered the best poem of its class written by an American.

Memoir of India and Avghanistoun, with Observations on The Present State and Future Prospects of those Countries. By J. Harlan, late Counsellor of State, Aid-de-Camp, and General of the Staff, to Dost Mahomed, Ameer of Cabul. One vol. 12mo. Philadelphia: J. Dobson, 1842.

General Harlan resided in India and Avghanistoun eighteen years, and his official stations during that period were such as he would have chosen had his principal object been to form a correct judgment in regard to the social and political conditions of those countries. The facts and opinions contained in this work must therefore command regard, especially since the recent military operations in that quarter have drawn so much attention to the British East Indian Empire. The volume comprises remarks on the late massacre of the British Army in Cabul, and the British policy in India; a reply to the Count Björstjerna’s work on that country; the Russian influence in central Asia; the foreign relations of the Indo-British government; the moral, religious and political character and condition of the Indians and Avghans; and the results of missionary exertions and prospects of Christianity among them; together with an interesting sketch of the history and personal character of Dost Mahomed, one of the most remarkable individuals that have appeared in the oriental nations during this century. In an appendix, the author indulges in some speculations on a passage in the Book of Daniel, which he supposes has reference to the present condition of the Mahommedan countries, and indicates the speedy extinction of the Ottoman empire. The book is illustrated with maps and a portrait of the Ex-Ameer of Cabul.

We shall look with some anxiety for General Harlan’s “Personal Narrative of Eighteen Years’ Residence in Asia,” which we believe is now in press.

History of the Expedition under the command of Captains Lewis and Clarke, to the sources of the Missouri, thence across the Rocky Mountains, and down the river Columbia to the Pacific Ocean: Performed during the years 1804, 1805, 1806, by order of the Government of the United States. Two vols. Harper & Brothers: New York.

The expedition of Lewis and Clarke was the first ever made through the Oregon Territory to the Columbia River. An account of their tour was published soon after their return; but as that work has since gone out of print, and as the Oregon Territory is now a subject of much interest, the Messrs. Harpers have issued the present volumes, in which unimportant details in the former edition have been omitted, and explanatory notes have been added, by Archibald M’Vickar, Esq. The volumes form Nos. 154 and 155 of the Family Library.Perkins & Purvis: Philadelphia.

The Life of Wilbur Fisk, S. T. D. first President of the Wesleyan University. By Joseph Holdich. One vol. 8vo. Pp. 455. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Wilbur Fisk was one of the purest and most useful men of our time. With a temperament remarkably sanguine and ardent, all his qualities were so subdued and harmonized by religion, as to form one of the finest models of elevated Christian character that has been presented to the world. He was a native of Brattleborough, Vermont, where he was born in 1792. In his early years he enjoyed no advantages that are not within the reach of almost every young man of New England. When about twenty-two years of age he began to study the law, but soon after turned his attention to the ministry, and in the spring of 1818 was licensed to preach by a Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church. In 1823 he was made a ruling elder, and in 1825, principal of the Methodist Seminary of Wilbraham. In 1829, he received the degree of Doctor in Divinity, from Augusta College, and from Brown University, and the following year was elected to the presidency of the Wesleyan University at Middletown. In the autumn of 1835, he visited Europe, and passed about a year on the continent and in Great Britain. The record of his travels, published soon after his return, has been one of the most popular works of its kind written by an American. He died at Middletown, after a long and painful illness, borne with singular fortitude and resignation, on the twenty-second of February, 1840. The Memoirs before us, by his friend Professor Holdich, are written with ability and candor; but the most interesting portions of the work are Dr. Fisk’s admirable private letters, distinguished alike for a beauty of style, simplicity, earnestness, and affection, that indicates, better than any labored delineation by another hand, his high character and endowments.Philadelphia: H. Perkins.

Back to Index Next