'The castled crag of DrachenfelsFrowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,And fields which promise corn and wine,And scatter'd cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine,Have strew'd a scene which I should seeWith double joy, wertthouwith me.'And peasant girls with deep blue eyes,And hands which offer early flowers,Walk smiling o'er this paradise;Above, the frequent feudal towersThrough green leaves lift their walls of gray,And many a rock which steeply lowers,And noble arch in proud decay,Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;But one thing want these banks of Rhine—Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine.'The river nobly foams and flows,The charm of this enchanted ground,And all its thousand turns discloseSome fresher beauty varying round;The haughtiest breast its wish might boundThrough life to dwell delighted here;Nor could on earth a spot be foundTo nature and to me more dear,Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.'
'The castled crag of DrachenfelsFrowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,And fields which promise corn and wine,And scatter'd cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine,Have strew'd a scene which I should seeWith double joy, wertthouwith me.
'And peasant girls with deep blue eyes,And hands which offer early flowers,Walk smiling o'er this paradise;Above, the frequent feudal towersThrough green leaves lift their walls of gray,And many a rock which steeply lowers,And noble arch in proud decay,Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;But one thing want these banks of Rhine—Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine.
'The river nobly foams and flows,The charm of this enchanted ground,And all its thousand turns discloseSome fresher beauty varying round;The haughtiest breast its wish might boundThrough life to dwell delighted here;Nor could on earth a spot be foundTo nature and to me more dear,Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.'
If misery loves company, as the proverb says, why should not happiness be also sociably disposed? There is to me a special loneliness in being in these regions of song, with a crowd of strangers, but with no 'congenial spirit' who in after days would recall to us the fond recollection of happy hours passed together in the distant land; who with a single word might bring vividly before us a glowing panorama of scenes remembered as a dream. And is there not as much or more enjoyment in these remembrances, than in the 'first impression?'
Beside the Drachenfels, there are a score of ruins this side of Coblentz, such as Rolandzeck, Godesberg, and other hard names; and we also passed the pretty town of Bonn, the seat of an ancient and well-endowed university. From one of the castles, near the river, we were saluted with three cheers by the garrison.
To-morrow I shall write from Aix-la-Chapelle, for here I must say, albeit not in the Byronic vein,
'Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delightedThe stranger fain would linger on his way;Thine is a scene alike where souls united,Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;And could the ceaseless vultures cease to preyOn self-condemning bosoms, it were here,Where nature, not too sombre nor too gay,Wild, but not rude, awful, but not austere,Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.'
'Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delightedThe stranger fain would linger on his way;Thine is a scene alike where souls united,Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;And could the ceaseless vultures cease to preyOn self-condemning bosoms, it were here,Where nature, not too sombre nor too gay,Wild, but not rude, awful, but not austere,Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.'
'Theirvoice shall be heard in other ages,When the kings of Temora have failed.'
'Theirvoice shall be heard in other ages,When the kings of Temora have failed.'
Ossian.
Yesay, we sing no household songs,To those beside our hearths at play;No minstrelsy to us belongs,No legends of our by-gone day:No old traditions of the hills,Our giant land no memory fills—We have no proud heroic lay!Ye ask the time-worn storied page—Ye ask the things of other age,From us—a race of yesterday!Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls,Where many a warlike trophy hung,With shield and banner on the walls,The bard's high harp was sternly strungTo praise of war—its fierce delights—To 'heroes of an hundred fights,'Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung!Gone is the ancient Bardic race—Their song hath found perpetual placeTheir country's proud archives among!The warlike Norsemen of the isles,Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty—A sound is swelling where, erewhile,Their ringing spears made melody:Rude hunters of the seal and whaleAre chaunting out the Saga's tale,To the wild winds sweeping by—How their heroes heard the Valkyriur callTo the feast and song in Odin's hall—To the white mead foaming high!The stirring Scottish border tale,Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall—The wild traditions of the Gäel,The wandering harper's lays recall:All have their legends, and their songs—Records of glory, feud, and wrongs.What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul,When woke the bold 'Parisienne?'The 'Marsellois?'whatfoeman thenRoused him to conquer or to fall?What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills,When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high;A race as ancient as their hills,Still echoes their wild mountain cry:He springs along the rocky height—He marks the lammergeyer's flight—The chamois bounding by:He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn—He winds again the mountain horn,And the loud Alps reply!Our fathers bore from Albion's isle,No stories of her sounding lyres—They left the old baronial pile—They left the harp of ringing wires!Ours are the legends old and dim,The household song—the evening hymn,Sung by your bright hearth-fires!Each tree that in your soft wind stirs,Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres—The ashes of our sires!Yea, forth they went, nerved to forsakeHome, and the chains they might not bear—And woman's heart was strong, to breakThe links of love which bound her there.Here, free to worship and believe,From many a log-built hut, at eve,Went up the suppliant voice of prayer.Is it not writ on history's page,How the strong arm claimedour heritage?—Of the lion claimed his lair!Our people sang no loud war-songs,They shouted no loud battle-cry—A burning memory of their wrongsLit up their path to victory!With prayer to God to aid the right,The yeoman girded him for fight,To free the land he tilled, or die!They bore no proud escutcheon'd shield—No blazoned banners to the field—Nought but their motto—'Liberty!'Their sons—when after years shall flingO'er these romance—when time hath castThe mighty shadow of his wingBetween them and the stoned past—Will tell of foul oppression's heel,Of hands which bore the avenging steel,And battled sternly to the last—By their hearth-fires—on the hill-side free,Till the swell is caught by the echöing sea,And hymned by the wandering blast!
Yesay, we sing no household songs,To those beside our hearths at play;No minstrelsy to us belongs,No legends of our by-gone day:No old traditions of the hills,Our giant land no memory fills—We have no proud heroic lay!Ye ask the time-worn storied page—Ye ask the things of other age,From us—a race of yesterday!
Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls,Where many a warlike trophy hung,With shield and banner on the walls,The bard's high harp was sternly strungTo praise of war—its fierce delights—To 'heroes of an hundred fights,'Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung!Gone is the ancient Bardic race—Their song hath found perpetual placeTheir country's proud archives among!
The warlike Norsemen of the isles,Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty—A sound is swelling where, erewhile,Their ringing spears made melody:Rude hunters of the seal and whaleAre chaunting out the Saga's tale,To the wild winds sweeping by—How their heroes heard the Valkyriur callTo the feast and song in Odin's hall—To the white mead foaming high!
The stirring Scottish border tale,Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall—The wild traditions of the Gäel,The wandering harper's lays recall:All have their legends, and their songs—Records of glory, feud, and wrongs.What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul,When woke the bold 'Parisienne?'The 'Marsellois?'whatfoeman thenRoused him to conquer or to fall?
What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills,When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high;A race as ancient as their hills,Still echoes their wild mountain cry:He springs along the rocky height—He marks the lammergeyer's flight—The chamois bounding by:He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn—He winds again the mountain horn,And the loud Alps reply!
Our fathers bore from Albion's isle,No stories of her sounding lyres—They left the old baronial pile—They left the harp of ringing wires!Ours are the legends old and dim,The household song—the evening hymn,Sung by your bright hearth-fires!Each tree that in your soft wind stirs,Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres—The ashes of our sires!
Yea, forth they went, nerved to forsakeHome, and the chains they might not bear—And woman's heart was strong, to breakThe links of love which bound her there.Here, free to worship and believe,From many a log-built hut, at eve,Went up the suppliant voice of prayer.Is it not writ on history's page,How the strong arm claimedour heritage?—Of the lion claimed his lair!
Our people sang no loud war-songs,They shouted no loud battle-cry—A burning memory of their wrongsLit up their path to victory!With prayer to God to aid the right,The yeoman girded him for fight,To free the land he tilled, or die!They bore no proud escutcheon'd shield—No blazoned banners to the field—Nought but their motto—'Liberty!'
Their sons—when after years shall flingO'er these romance—when time hath castThe mighty shadow of his wingBetween them and the stoned past—Will tell of foul oppression's heel,Of hands which bore the avenging steel,And battled sternly to the last—By their hearth-fires—on the hill-side free,Till the swell is caught by the echöing sea,And hymned by the wandering blast!
Ione.
BY ALPHONSO WETMORE, ESQ., AUTHOR OF THE 'GAZETTEER OF MISSOURI.'
Morethan one half of the inhabitants of the globe have an imperfect idea of the sufferings that are endured by their kindred, even in the vicinity of their own dwellings. The same laudable sentiment that induces display of the elegancies of life, causes concealment of our miseries, or humiliating misfortunes. The social feeling which induces us to lend aid to a neighbor in peril, or in the full tide of prosperous action, tends to the exhibition of our good fortune; it is sympathy in both instances. It is the sufferer who seeks concealment, having no flattering prospects to offer for the congratulations of the sympathetic. It is the jealous distrust of our natures that induces the pedestrian, who is toiling onward with a humid brow, to cast a nervous and discontented glance at the tenants of the post-coach, as it darts onward; and he welcomes the cloud of dust that insures concealment of his woes, created only by contrast. It is only when crime brings suffering on the innocent kindred of the criminal, that there exists serious cause of discontent.
Joseph Joplinwas one of half a dozen sons of a tavern-keeper in the county of Buncombe, North Carolina; and consequently he became initiated in early life into the ways of the world; by which general expression, it may be in this case understood, an acquaintance with whiskey and tar-kilns, long rifles, and quarter-races. When this younger son of the publican of the 'Piny Woods' had nearly attained the stature of the family standard, six feet three inches, and a few months before he had reached his twentieth year, he led up before the township justice of the peace a hope-inspired damsel. She vowed herself his partner, in weal and wo, in life and death. His circumstances at the time were only middling. He owned 'a likely young nag, a dollar bill, and a good rifle-gun.'
A few months after the festivities of the nuptials had left the sober realities of life in bold relief, the young couple began to look beyond the precincts of the paternal double cabins, in order to fix the trace leading to the most inviting region. Their departure was accelerated by 'a small scrimmage,' in which Mr. Joplin was unfortunately a principal actor, at a shooting-match. His antagonist had darkened the manly disc of our hero a little; but then the young bridegroom boasted that he had taken an 'under bit out of his left ear, and stove two of his front teeth down his throat.'
The young couple departed with the buoyancy of hope, (that flattering endorser of accommodation paper,) for the western district; the husband on foot, leading in the devious pathway of his bride, who was mounted on the nag. This animal was well laden with household stuffs, consisting principally of quilts and 'kiverlids.'
The adventurers reached the point of destination, six miles from the last cabin, on the borders of the Indian country, in season to make a crop. When the corn was gathered in, the fall hunt half finished, the venison drying, and the 'bear bacon' cured, the Indian Summer, with its mild haze, shed a soft and cheering influence upon the new-beginners.
On one of the quiet evenings, made more interesting by the tranquillity of the day of rest, the settlers were entertaining a neighboring family with a happy display of the best the house could afford, with 'a streak of fat and a streak of lean.' While the children of their guests were playing antic gambols about the door, a scream of infantile alarm arrested the attention and deep interest of the settlers. As the three males of the party snatched their arms, the anticipated war-cry rang responsive in the precincts of the cabin. The foremost of the assailants fell, and another shot wounded and arrested the advance of the leading warrior, while the affrighted mothers drew in their fugitive infants. As the cabin-door was closed against the foe, a distracted mother saw her youngest child snatched up by a retreating brave, while his comrades dragged off their dead leader. A gun had been hastily charged, and the fearless Joplin, having thrown open the door, drew it to his face; but the wary savage held up, to shield his person, the little captive. 'Fire!' screamed the distracted mother; 'better dead than a prisoner!' At the critical instant when the little sufferer parted asunder its legs, the sharp report of the rifle of the white man was heard, and the crimson current, of a deeper hue than the painted skin of the savage, rippleddown his naked trunk. He reeled, and hesitated, and ere the smoke of the rifle had blown away, the frantic mother, with knife in hand, was seen flying to the rescue. The savage, cool and collected, even in the agonies of death, interposed the infant between the thrust of the Amazon and his person, and the unhappy mother plunged her weapon into the bosom of her own child!
The warrior's knife closed the scene as he fell, and was bathed in the heart's blood of the fearless woman, the wife of Joplin's nearest neighbor. The Indians fled without a single scalp.
After the funeral obsequies of the mother and child had been hastily performed, and they were consigned to the same unostentatious grave, the neighboring settlers assembled, and rendezvoused at Joplin's cabin. They elected him their captain. Here they continued during the autumn and winter, with various fortune in sharp skirmishes with their unrelenting and always vigilant enemy.
Early in the spring, they broke up their little settlement, and retired back to the more populous part of the country. Captain Joplin returned to the paternal mansion in the Piny Woods, to exhibit the beginning of the third generation, in the person of young Buckeye Joplin. After lingering awhile in his old haunts, and recounting the perils he had cheerfully met and overcome, he looked out again upon the land of promise, the western expanse, for another channel of enterprise.
The second expedition of our hero was undertaken by water. Having packed his family across to the Tennessee river, and exchanged his 'nag' for a canoe, or 'dug-out,' he embarked in his long and devious voyage to the Mississippi. Joplin occupied the stern as steersman, but his spouse was provided with a paddle, which she plied alternately with her knitting, as they glided onward to an unknown land. The voyage was barren of incident, and only varied by fishing and hunting for the subsistence of the family. They entered the Mississippi, and descended this river to the mouth of White river; and as this was backed up by the spring freshets, the voyagers turned their course up the stream, and crossed the connecting cut, or bayou, to the Arkansas river. They continued their voyage, until they found a landing-place of an inviting aspect, near Little Rock. Here the emigrants landed and pitched their half-face camp. After a year or two of hardship and privation, incident to the settlement of a new country, the Joplin family, somewhat increased in numbers, began to enjoy the fruits of industry. The improved condition of the captain's pecuniary affairs afforded him the means of indulging in his ardent propensity for attendance on all the gatherings, which he had never dismissed from his mind while his necessities restrained him. In the absence of her husband, the pains-taking woman kept the shuttle flying, or sung an accompaniment to the instrumental music of the spinning-wheel. From these gatherings Joplin sometimes returned with marks of personal rencounters; and time, and the soothing care of the even-tempered woman, were requisite to soften the exasperated backwoodsman, and to obliterate the signs of the feud on the distorted visage of her husband. On these occasions, the ferocity of his disposition predominated on the first day after thegathering; on the second, he was moody and thoughtful; and the third brought on repentance, and promises of reformation.
The great races at length came on; and Captain Joplin's colt, sired by Chain-Lightning, out of the celebrated full-blooded dam Earthquake, had been entered for the jockey purse, and the owner was 'obliged to be present.' This he promised should be his last race, and his last fight on any race-course. The good woman ventured, as she handed him his holy-day jeans, to urge his return home at an earlier hour than usual. Very fair promises were made; but, about the hour of midnight, the 'whole team of bear-dogs' opened a boisterous greeting as the roistering captain approached his cabin. The cold bacon, and cabbage, and buttermilk, were set out by the flickering light of aCorinthiantallow peach-wicked candle, and the meal was despatched in silence. When the gentleman from Buncombe had picked his teeth with his pocket-knife, he whispered an appalling secret in the ear of his wife. She drew a long sigh of resignation, wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron, and began packing his saddle-bags, while Joseph Joplin cleaned his 'rifle-gun,' which he called 'Patsy,' after his wife. He had finished trimming the bullets he had cast, when, all things being ready, he rose to depart.
'Joseph Joplin,' said his wife, 'I always allowed it would come to this; but the Lord's will be done!'
In reply, the captain briefly remarked:
'If he don't die of the stab I give him, Mike Target will pass me word, when the boys go out into the bee-woods. I leave you every thing but the colt and my bear-dog,Gall-buster; and, so as I never comes back, tell the boys 'tis my wish that they never gives the lie, nor takes it.'
The period of Joplin's absence was more than three years; during which space of time his patient spouse kept up the monotonous music of her wheel, and the regular vibrations of the shuttle. Her hearth was kept warm and clean, and her children were amply clad in cleanly attire, and well fed. Every Sunday was set apart for extra washing of faces, combing of tow-heads, reading a chapter or two, and chanting a hymn. She had rented her field, so as to secure her bread-stuffs; and her little stock of cattle had increased, while they supplied milk and butter for the subsistence of her children. Each tedious year had she spun, wove, and made up for her absent husband a new suit of jeans, which she hung in the cabin beside her own holiday apparel, that she carefully abstained from wearing, until she could attire herself and husband in their best, on some joyous day of meeting. His Sunday hat hung on the hook where the breech of his rifle had rested. Every day of rest she made it a point to brush the dust from the smooth beaver, and drop a tear into the crown. From the day of his departure, no account had ever been received of him. The sheriff, with a rude posse, had searched the premises on the day after the affray, and the neighboring country had been scoured in vain. The racer had outstripped all pursuers, and the fugitive was secure in the unexplored regions at the foot of the Ozark mountains.
The wounded sportsman who had defrauded our hero, contrary tothe most flattering hope, had been effectually cured of the wound that Joplin, in his intoxicated rage, had inflicted. The wife, rejoicing in this piece of good fortune, had resorted to every device within the compass of female ingenuity to convey intelligence to the unknown region, the abode of her husband; but she had almost despaired of ever seeing him again, when an old bee-hunter disembarked from his pirogue opposite her cabin, on the Arkansas river, to dry his blankets after a hard storm. Of this old adventurer Mrs. Joplin learned that he had met a trapper on the head waters of White river, who called himself Griffin, and the description of his person induced the fond wife to think it might be Captain Joplin himself. On his way out to the bee-woods the following season, the old hunter carried with him a letter to the following effect:
'Deer Capting Joe Jopling; arter my best respects, hoping these lines may find you: he arn't dead no more nor you and mee; you mout come home, I reckon; the childrin all right smartly groin; you would never know the baby.'Patsy Jopling, at the Piny Bend.'
'Deer Capting Joe Jopling; arter my best respects, hoping these lines may find you: he arn't dead no more nor you and mee; you mout come home, I reckon; the childrin all right smartly groin; you would never know the baby.
'Patsy Jopling, at the Piny Bend.'
Long and anxiously did the poor affectionate wife wait the return of the father of her little brood, and often in the train of her flattering imagination start as some stranger entered her cabin, with the exclamation, 'I thought it was Capting Jopling!' In her leisure moments, too, she was in the habit of fixing her ardent and steady gaze on the point of rocks behind which she had seen him depart. In all the torture of delay, not a reproachful exclamation was ever uttered by the sufferer. A sigh hastily drawn, and a rudely-constructed prayer, evinced the emotion she deeply felt. The fond woman could perceive, as her children increased in growth, strong resemblances of their father developed in every lineament. But the likeness in 'the baby' was absolutely wonderful. 'If,' said she, 'little Joe was grown, and daddy war here present, they would never know themselves apart.'
It was on one of those mild and sunny days of rest, in the Indian Summer of autumn, that the wanderer returned. The careful mother was surrounded with her children, and was, at the moment he entered the cabin, giving the last touches to the flaxen locks of the youngest child.
'You had as well give my hair a little combing, Patsy,' was the calm salutation of our hero.
'Capting Joseph Jopling!' exclaimed the half-frantic wife, 'ar it you at last!' She smoothed down the folds of her garments as she arose, and, with a smile of welcome, as she gave her hand, said, 'Howdy, Joseph?'
On a close and more deliberate scrutiny of his person, Patsy seemed to think, with her husband, that his hair needed the comb. His locks were matted together like the wool on the forehead of a buffalo; not a comb or an intrusive pair of scissors had interrupted the wild luxuriance of its growth, in a period of more than three years. When his hat had given way to the irritation of cane-brakes and green briars, and the peltings of the storms of summer and winter, he had cultivated the covering with which nature had bountifully provided his cranium. By occasional cropping of his locks with his butcher-knife,as they grew out so as to obstruct his vision, he left his upper-works with a singular aspect; and when the growth of three years' beard is considered, with the bears' oil glistening on its uncombed surface, it is not strange that his charitable wife should give him some ironical compliments, such as these:
'Jopling, you're a beauty! Sally, bring the soap. Joseph, you are a picture! The poor baby don't know its daddy; did he think daddy was a painter? Get your daddy's razor out of mammy's box; put on the tea-kettle, Sally, and heat some water, while I make up a pone of bread. Josey, did you cook for yourself all this time?' and as she bustled about, she began to sing a long-neglected air, to which she had trod a measure in the joyous days of early youth, in the Piny Woods of Buncombe.
The first six months after his return home, Captain Joplin was diligently occupied in repairing his farm, which had fallen into a slovenly condition. He was content with the society of his domestic circle, and remained quietly at home. But, when the great annual races came on, he was tempted to spend a day, only as a spectator, on the track, and accordingly appeared there early on the first morning. He had many acquaintances there, all of whom were thirsty beings; and before the sun went down he felt rich, and generous, and glorious. The ferocious stage of the disease came on after dark.
The return of the husband to his cabin that night was at an earlier hour than usual. He was pale and nervous, and blood was on his hand, and his garments were discolored. He notified his wife of the necessity of his immediate departure. She insisted on leave to accompany him, which was readily granted. Such of their effects as could be speedily packed, were hastily put in portable form. In an hour, the family were mounted on their riding animals, and in the road leading down the river. Few words were exchanged among the fugitives; and the place of destination was never mentioned. On reaching the first ferry, at about the hour of midnight, they turned shortly to the left, and crossed to the opposite bank of the river, without requiring the aid of ferrymen. On landing, Joplin scuttled and sunk the ferry-flat, to cut off pursuit. They continued their route until about ten o'clock, with little regard to road or trace; and having found a deep ravine, apparently untrodden by human footsteps, they halted for refreshment. After a brief repast of dried venison, the party continued their route, and at sunset were fifty miles from their habitation. It should have been observed, that the fugitives left their cabin in a blaze, with a hope that in the neighborhood a belief would prevail that the whole family had been consumed. To strengthen this belief, the cunning woodsman had deposited the carcasses of two deer he had killed the day before, and several joints of bacon, in the corner where the family usually slept, that these might be mistaken for their bones. The impression which it was policy to make, on examination of the ashes, obtained currency to a great extent, and it delayed pursuit. When the doubts that were entertained by some of the destination of the fugitives finally induced search, it was too late to discover any trace of the Joplin family. It was believedby many, who supposed they had fled, that they departed down the river in the ferry-boat that had disappeared.
In the mean time the flight was continued, until Joplin reached his old haunts, in a cane-bottom on Flat Creek, a small tributary of White River. Here security was made doubly sure by the bear-rough that sheltered them, and by the distance they had removed from the settlement in Arkansas. They had, moreover, taken the precaution to locate within the boundaries of Missouri. The fugitive from justice was likewise in the vicinity of a cave, known only to himself and the red hunters who had formerly resided in this quarter of the country. In this subterranean chamber, the dry bones from a neighboring battle-field had been deposited by the tribe who had been the greatest sufferers in a sanguinary conflict. As cheerless as this place might appear, Joplin had reposed in it alone many nights on his former visit to this region of country; and in this place he hadcachedhis furs and peltries, which now constituted his surplus for his new beginning in the world. The erection of a cabin was a task not easily completed, without the aid of neighbors for the raising; but, when the roof had been placed over their heads, and fastened there with weight-poles, and the puncheons composing the floor laid down, the mother of this little colony began to sing, and spin, and bustle about over the irregular surface with cautious footsteps, and stealthily, in her daily task. She had not forgotten the essential portions of her wheel and loom in her departure from the ruin of her old habitation, and the mechanical ingenuity of the woodsman, with his axe, augur, hand-saw, and butcher-knife, supplied the deficiency. The good woman continued still to indulge on Sunday in a clean apron, a chapter, and a comb. These were luxuries she could not readily dispense with. In his former visit to this wild region, Joplin esteemed it no hardship to refrain from the use of bread-stuffs; but he was constrained to make some apology to his wife and children for the privation he would be obliged to impose, until he could raise a crop. He however assured them, that with a mixture of bear-meat and venison, and a 'sprinkle' of turkey-breast, they would do very well without bread, provided they could get time to cut bee-trees.
This isolated family had innocence and contentment in full possession, and independence prospectively within reach. The disturber, known in the west by the name of 'long green' and 'blue ruin,' in Pennsylvania, 'old rye' and 'cider royal,' and by the Indians appropriately named 'fire-water,' and more emphatically 'fool-water,' was happily beyond their reach. The only race-path known in this new settlement was that on which the husband and wife contended for the prize of domestic comfort. In this, the fabrication of jeans by one party, and the dressing of buck-skins by the other, furnished profitable amusement. The only visit made by the daring woodsman to the settlements secured him the patriarch of a flock, and a few meek companions, from the fleeces of which 'the winter of his discontent' was made comfortable. In their retreat, the Joplin family were in a fair way to make their circumstances easy, by such skill as is usually acquired in frontier experience, when a hard winter, attended with much variable weather, set in earlier than was anticipated. The woodsman had exerted himself violently in thechase, to secure his supply of 'bear bacon,' while the Indian Summer lasted. To this cause he attributed the 'dumb ague,' that laid him up when the first snow-storm commenced. With this disease he lingered a few weeks. The only medicine within reach of the settlers was a small parcel of walnut pills. Whether the bark of which these were composed had been scraped up or down the tree, so as to fit it for an emetic or a cathartic, does not appear; but no relief was afforded by administering even 'a double dose,' and he grew weaker as much with the repetition as by discontinuance of the remedy. When he could no longer rise without assistance, or stand alone, the anxious and confiding wife inquired, for the first time, how far it might be to the residence of the nearest neighbor. When she was told it was one hundred and sixty miles, it is uncertain which predominated in her mind, hope or despair. She continued silently and thoughtfully to minister to his wants, to the extent of her circumscribed means, until, when, late at night, the wintry winds were rudely perforating the openings around the cabin-door, and the house-dogs growled a dignified response to the dismal howlings of the wolf, the hoarse death-rattle in the throat of the sufferer was perceived. This added consternation to alarm. To the earnest and almost unconscious inquiry now uttered by the trembling wife, 'Shall I send for a doctor?' no answer was given. Her husband had expired!
The embarrassing position now occupied by the widow had never been anticipated. If her strength could have overcome the resistance of the hard-frozen earth that would enable her to say to the Indian deity of the wilderness, 'With pious sacrilege a grave I stole,' her force, and that of her infant children united, was insufficient for the removal of the body. Widowed destitution was never more complete. There was her dead husband on one side, and her weeping and distracted babes on the other. A single night of bitter wakefulness and watching was the last that she ventured to linger out in her dreary abode; and it seemed to her an eternity of darkness. Early on the morning after the death of her husband, the lone widow packed up a supply of provision, and, with her children, mounted, left her cabin and unburied husband to search for a neighbor. She carried the rifle with her, in order to make fire at her encampments on the journey. On closing the door on the house of mourning, the distress of parting was made doubly agonizing by an inquiry of one of the children, made in these words: 'Are you going to leave daddy?'
The first day's route lay up through the valley, and along the bank of the creek on which her dwelling was situated; and she was therefore guided by it. After the first night's encampment, where she had been surrounded with wolves, and nervously agitated by their howlings, and occasionally the startling scream of a panther, she resumed her journey. The little family of wanderers had marched a short distance from their place of lodging, when all knowledge of their route failed. After wandering sometimes in one direction, and then retracing their steps and striking off at some other point of the compass, the bewildered mother encamped for the second night. The next morning the half-distracted traveller determined to retrace her steps. Two days brought her back to the dreary and desolate abode. The cabin was surrounded with a snarling pack of wolves,which were contending for the remains of her little flock of sheep. These were scared away by the faithful dogs that had followed the family. The interior presented the frightful evidence of mortality. A cat had made horrid inroads on the face of the deceased, and was still feeding on the mutilated corpse! The necessity of burial was in no manner diminished by this horrid spectacle. The afflicted woman scarcely knew why she had returned. She passed another long winter night in her house of mourning, hovering with her little brood around the cheerless hearth.
When morning at last arrived, the family again departed, having confined the cat under a tub, to prevent a repetition of her cannibal feast. After a journey of five days in a southwardly direction, and when the widow began to hope she was approaching a settlement, she was cheered with the view of smoke arising from a hunter's camp. He was out in search of game, but there was an abundance of venison hanging over the embers of his camp fire. This proved a seasonable supply, for the poor woman had that morning given the last morsel of her stock of food to her children, while she piously fasted herself. The hunter was as much gratified, on his return to his camp that evening, to find it so well peopled, as he had been in the successful hunt of the day. The hospitality of the camp was profusely urged upon the strangers, and bear-meat, venison, and turkey, and elk marrow-bones, were proffered with the frank and liberal manner of a woodsman.
This camp was sixty miles from the nearest settlement; and it was speedily arranged that the hunter should accompany the family back to the house, to inter the dead husband. As the party approached the cabin, the family halted, and the hunter advanced to look into the condition of the interior, before the mourners ventured to take another gaze of horror. Hunters, as well as sailors, have their superstitions, which deduct somewhat from their general fearless bearing. They believe in charms on their rifles, and sometimes employ a person skilled in magical incantations to 'take off the spell.' It is not, therefore, unaccountable, that this woodsman felt greater apprehension in approaching the cabin where a dead body lay, than he would in conflict with an Indian, or in a close hug with an 'old he bear,' provided his butcher-knife was stiff, of approved temper, and sharp at the point. He 'laid out' an old she wolf with his rifle, that was scratching at the door of the desolate habitation, and was on the point of raising the latch, when he heard issuing from within a low moaning sound. Venturing to peep through an opening where the chinking had fallen out, a single glance at the frightful and mutilated corpse satisfied his heated imagination that the sound proceeded from the dead husband. He ran off with wild affright, under a full conviction that the house was haunted. The earnest entreaties of the widow induced him, in company with herself, to approach the cabin once more. They looked in at the same moment, and beheld, as their superstitious imaginations severally painted the scene before them, in the conception of the hunter, a black, cloven-footed beast, sitting on the body of the deceased, while the widow insisted that something like a swan was hovering over the remains of her dead husband. The moaning was renewed; the confinement of the cat was notremembered, and the spectators of the horrors within ran away in despair. The hunter once more ventured near enough to the cabin to throw a torch upon its roof. When the flames had spread, and were rapidly reducing the house to a mass of vivid ruin, the funeral party mounted their horses, and turned their backs upon the ashes of theDead Husband.
BY THE LATE J. HUNTINGTON BRIGHT, ESQ.
Itmust be sweet in childhood to give backThe spirit to its Maker, ere the heartHath grown familiar with the paths of sin,And soon to gather up its bitter fruits.I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trodUpon the blossoms of some seven springs,And when the eighth came round, and called him outTo revel in its light, he turned away,And sought his chamber to lie down and die.'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends,And on this wise bestowed his last request:'Mother, I'm dying now!There's a deep suffocation on my breast,As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed,And on my brows I feel the cold sweat stand.Say, mother, is this death?Mother, your hand!Here, lay it on my wrist,And place the other thus, beneath my head;And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead,Shall I be missed?'Never beside your kneeShall I kneel down at night and pray,Nor in the morning wake, and sing the layYou taught to me.Oh! at the time of prayer,When you look round and see a vacant seat,You will not wait then for my coming feet—You'll miss me there!'Father, I'm going home!To that great home you spoke of, that blessed land,Where there is one bright summer, always bland,And tortures do not come;From faintness and from pain,From troubles, fears, you say I shall be free—That sickness does not enter there, and weShall meet again!'Brother, the little spotI used to call my garden, where long hoursWe've stay'd to watch the coming buds and flowers—Forget it not!Plant there some box or pine,Something that lives in winter, and will beA verdant offering to my memory,And call it mine.'Sister, the young rose-tree,That all the spring has been my pleasant care,Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,I give to thee;And when its roses bloom,I shall be gone away—my short course run—And will you not bestow a single oneUpon my tomb?'Now, mother, sing the tuneYou sang last night; I'm weary, and must sleep:Who was it called my name?Nay, do not weep—You'll all come soon!'Morning spreads over earth her rosy wings,And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,Lay on his couch asleep. The morning airCame through the open window, freighted withThe fragrant odors of the lovely spring.He breathed it not. The laugh of passer-byJarred like a discord in some mournful note,But worried not his slumber. He was dead!
Itmust be sweet in childhood to give backThe spirit to its Maker, ere the heartHath grown familiar with the paths of sin,And soon to gather up its bitter fruits.I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trodUpon the blossoms of some seven springs,And when the eighth came round, and called him outTo revel in its light, he turned away,And sought his chamber to lie down and die.'Twas night; he summoned his accustomed friends,And on this wise bestowed his last request:
'Mother, I'm dying now!There's a deep suffocation on my breast,As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed,And on my brows I feel the cold sweat stand.Say, mother, is this death?Mother, your hand!Here, lay it on my wrist,And place the other thus, beneath my head;And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead,Shall I be missed?
'Never beside your kneeShall I kneel down at night and pray,Nor in the morning wake, and sing the layYou taught to me.Oh! at the time of prayer,When you look round and see a vacant seat,You will not wait then for my coming feet—You'll miss me there!
'Father, I'm going home!To that great home you spoke of, that blessed land,Where there is one bright summer, always bland,And tortures do not come;From faintness and from pain,From troubles, fears, you say I shall be free—That sickness does not enter there, and weShall meet again!
'Brother, the little spotI used to call my garden, where long hoursWe've stay'd to watch the coming buds and flowers—Forget it not!Plant there some box or pine,Something that lives in winter, and will beA verdant offering to my memory,And call it mine.
'Sister, the young rose-tree,That all the spring has been my pleasant care,Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,I give to thee;And when its roses bloom,I shall be gone away—my short course run—And will you not bestow a single oneUpon my tomb?
'Now, mother, sing the tuneYou sang last night; I'm weary, and must sleep:Who was it called my name?Nay, do not weep—You'll all come soon!'
Morning spreads over earth her rosy wings,And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,Lay on his couch asleep. The morning airCame through the open window, freighted withThe fragrant odors of the lovely spring.He breathed it not. The laugh of passer-byJarred like a discord in some mournful note,But worried not his slumber. He was dead!
'Hear me for my cause, and be silent that you may hear.'—'Julius Cæsar.'
Whateverconflicts with the opinions or prejudices of mankind, must commend itself to public favor by something more than its simple truth, or according to the world's estimate of its danger or folly, persecution or ridicule will ever wait upon its progress to general belief.
The phrenologist has not been compelled to ascend the scaffold, nor has he been tortured with 'a slow fire of green wood,' for his heretical opinions; and for this mercy, he is indebted to the enlightenment of the age in which he first proclaimed his discoveries: but he has been preserved, in order to be 'roasted' by the burning satire of his contemporaries, and to be 'served up' for the gratification of those epicures in wit, who, with the aid of a good tailor, can do more for the cause of truth by a look and a laugh, than a Gall or a Spurzheim, by the labors of a life. To these laughing philosophers, your phrenologist is a very eccentric man indeed—very; to their humble apprehensions, his science appears quite stupid—quite; and all he converses about, appears to them to be nothing more nor less than 'bumpology,' positively. Moreover, they have heard some amusing anecdotes upon the subject. A travelling disciple of this wonderful science, who wrote out characters for eighteen pence per head, once departed from the scene of his labors without paying his bill, and his landlord was represented as so far becoming a convert to his guest's theory, as to believe in the organ of 'unpayativeness!'
These philosophers ill conceal their mirth at the frequent occurrence of mistakes made by those gentlemen termed practical phrenologists, and have been known to violate every rule for the suppressionof ungentlemanly laughter, when the fact has been related, that a manipulator of heads, supposing himself (being blindfolded,) to be in a prison, pronounced the wealthy mayor of a city to be a thief; a retired butcher to be a murderer; and a minister of the gospel to have been convicted of rape!
More important opponents have been found among the traders in the current literature of the day; as well your 'penny-a-liner,' as the man who has had the courage to write a book, and the good fortune to vend a copy-right, have been unmercifully witty at the expense of my brethren; and without waiting to inquire whether any important truth was concerned in phrenological investigation, they have only sought to know whether any thing ludicrous could be derived from it. These oracles Ignorance consulted, and the response was—a laugh.
One American author, whose writings denote the combined action of mirthfulness and destructiveness, very magnanimously allowed the phrenologist the distinction of being one of the 'Three Wise Men of Gotham.' He is portrayed as sallying forth with no less enthusiasm than La Mancha's renowned knight, nor with less 'rueful visage,' upon a forlorn pilgrimage to some Golgotha, in quest of specimens to illustrate the truths of his mighty discovery; while one of his high compeers sails in quest of the great central hole of the earth; and the other stands in a glow of intense rapture, viewing the sudden perfectability of human nature. But alas for such noble enthusiasm! If our grave author's relation of the facts be genuine, (and who doubts his historical accuracy?) the