% i ' ^ C' THE CRAYON EEADIN& BOOK: COMPRISING SELECTIONS FROM THE VARIOUS WRITINGS WASHINGTON IRVING. ^rBprtii hx tiiB d^u nf Irljnnls. NEW-YORK: GEO. P. PUTNAM, 155 BROADWAY. 1849. %', V G^r^ Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by George P. Putnam, in the Clerck's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New- York. John F. Trow, Printer and Si er eotyper , 49 Ann-street, New- York. PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. X In compliance with the suggestion of several teachers, this volume has been prepared as a reading book for schools. " The Sketch Book " having been already chosen as a class- book in some of the higher schools, it was considered that a selection from all the writings of Irving, with special refer- ence to this purpose, would form a very acceptable and attractive book : the variety of topics being such as would excite the attention and interest of the pupil : while as models of Composition, the publisher presumes that these pages will be also well approved by instructors who appreciate the advantages of a chaste and classic English style. CONTENTS. SELECTED FROM Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, . . (ii/e of Columbus. Columbus before the Council at Salamanca, Columbus at the Convent of la Rabida, Columbus first discovers the New World, First Landing of Columbus in the New World, Reception of Columbus by the Spanish Court, Columbus in Irons, ..... Arrival at Court in Irons, Departure of Columbus on his Second Voyage, Discovery of the Mines of Hayna, A Gold Mania in Hispaniola in 1503, Discovery of the Pacific Ocean, Vasco Nunez on the shores of the South Sea, Execution of Vasco Nuiiez, .... The Author's Visit to the Convent of la Rabida, Philip of Pokanoket ; an Indian Memoir, . (Sketch Book.) Traits of Indian Character, .... " The Mouth of the Columbia, .... (Astoria.) Flight of Pigeons, An Indian Council Lodge, Domestic Life of an Indian, Return of a War Party. The Wilderness of the Far West, The Black Mountains, Climate and Productions of Oregon, Prairie Hunting Grounds, A Night Scene on the Prairies, . (Crayon Miscellany.) PAQB. > 9 12 19 23 26 29 35 37 41 44 47 49 52 54 57 66 80 93 97 102 106 107 111 114 119 125 126 Vlll CONTENTS. SELECTED FROM PAOB. A Bee Hunt, {Crayon Miscellany.) 129 Picturesque March on the Prairies, •' 133 Crossing the Arkansas, " 136 Thunder Storm on the Prairies, » 138 Lamentations of the Moors for the Battle of Lucena, .... {Conquest of Granada.) 141 Tlie Christian Army at the City of Cordova , 145 Boabdill's Return to Granada, " 151 Surrender of Granada, » 153 How the Castilian Sovereigns took possession of Granada, .... {Conquest of Granada.) 157 A Practical Philosopher, {Braccbridge Hall.) 161 Filial Affection, .... " 161 Wives, ...... " 164 Invisible Companions, . 166 The Storm Ship, .... " 170 Westminster Abbey, .... {Sketch Book.) 177 Christmas, ...... " 190 Death, " 192 The Widow and her Son, « 195 The Voyage, ..... . 204 The Alhambra by Moonlight, , {The Alhambra) 211 The Court of Lions, . 213 The Situation of New-York, {Knickerbocker.) 215 Italian Scenery, .... {Tales of a Traveller.) 216 Voyage up the Hudson, {Knickerbocker.) 218 The Character of Columbus, {Life of Columbus.) 223 A Thunder Storm on the Hudson, {Bracebridge Hall.) 226 Absent Friends, .... {Salmagundi.) 229 A Summer Evening in America, " 229 Influence of Nature on the Heart, « 230 Love of Fame, ..... " 231 Some Traits of Sir W. Scott's Character, {Crayon Miscellany ) 232 Character of Goldsmith, {Life of Goldsmith.) 234 Birds of Spring, ..... {3Iiscellanies.) 235 Portrait of a Dutchman, {Knickerbocker.) 240 Morn, Noon, and Evening at Granada, {Conquest of Granada.) 241 Scottish Music, .... {Crayon Miscellany.) 243 Parliament Oak, Sherwood Forest, " 245 The Wife, {Sketch Book.) 246 THE CllAYON READING BOOK. Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain. I^'kudinani) was of llu; iniddlo staliin', \V(!ll |>ro|)oi- tioiHMl, and liardy and activ^o from a1hl(!lic. (ixiMciso. His carriage was free, erecl, and majestic. \\v. hud a clear sen-one forehead, which appeared moni iofly from his head heing partly l);dd. His (eyebrows were large and p;irt(M], and, lik(^ iiis li;iir, of a hrigiit (ihestnnt ; his (>y(\s \V(Me rXvwx and ;inim;t(('d ; his complexion was sominviial ruddy, and scorched by the toils of war; his month modeial- jections, he submitted that the inspired writers were not speaking technically as cosmographers, but figuratively, in language addressed to all comprehensions. The com- mentaries of the fathers he treated with deference as pious homilies, but not as philosophical propositions which it was necessary either to admit or to refute. The objections drawn from ancient philosophers he met boldly and ably upon equal terms ; for he was deeply studied on all points of cosmography. He showed that the most illustrious of those sages believed both hemispheres to be inhabitable, though they imagined that the torrid zone precluded comnnniication ; and he obviated conclusively that ditliculty ; for he had voyaged to St. George la Mina in Guinea, almost under the equinoctial line, and had found that region not merely traversable, but abounding in population, in fruits and pasturage. When Columbus took his stand before this learned body, he had appeared the plain and simple navigator ; somewhat daunted, perhaps, by the greatness of his task, and the august nature of his auditory. But he had a degree of religious feeling which gave him a confidence in COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT OF LA RABIDA. 19 the execTition of what he conceived his great errand, and he was of an ardent temperament that became healed in action by its own generous fires. Las Casas, and others of his contemporaries, have spoken of Iiis commanding person, his elevated demeanor, his air of authority, his kindhng eye, and the persuasive intonations of his voice. How must they have given majesty and force to his words, as, casting aside his maps and charts, and dis- carding for a time his practical and scientific lore, his visionary spirit took fire at tlie doctrinal objections of his opponents, and he met them upon their own ground, pouring forth those magnificent texts of Scripture, and those mysterious predictions of the prophets, which, in his enthusiastic mornents, he considered as types and annunciations of the sublime discovery which he pro- posed ! Columbus at the Convent of La Rahida. About half a league from the little sea-port of Palos de Moguer in Andalusia there stood, and continues to stand at the present day, an -ancient convent of Francis- can friars, dedicated to Santa Maria do Rabida. One day a stranger on foot, in humble guise, but of a distin- guished air, accompanied by a small boy, stopped at the gate of the convent, and asked of the porter a little bread and water for his child. While receiving this humble refreshment, the prior of the convent, Juan Perez de Mar- chena, happening to pass by, was struck with the appear- ance of the stranger, and observing from his air and accent that he was a foreigner, entered into conversation with him, and soon learned the particulars of his story. 20 THE CKAYON KEADING BOOK. That stranger was Columbus. He was on his way to the neighboring town of Huelva, to seek his brother-in- law, who had married a sister of his deceased wife. The prior was a man of extensive information. His attention liad been turned in some measure to geographi- cal and nautical science, probably from his vicinity to Palos, the inhabitants of which were among the most enterprising navigators of Spain, and made frequent voyages to the recently discovered islands and countries on the African coast. He was greatly interested by the conversation of Columbus, and struck with the grandeur of his views. It was a remarkable occurrence in the monotonous life of the cloister, to have a man of such singular character, intent on so extraordinary an enter- prise, applying for bread and water at the gate of his convent. When he found, however, that the voyager was on the point oi' abandoning Spain to seek patronage in the court of France, and that so important an enterprise was about to be lost for ever to the coimtrj'', the patriotism of the good friar took the alarm. He detained Colmnbus as his guest, and, dillident of his own judgment, sent for a scientitic friend to converse with him. That friend was Garcia Fernandez, a physician, resident in Palos, the same who fmnishes this interesting testimony. Fer- nandez was equally struck with the appearance and conversation of the stranger ; several conferences took place at the convent, at which several of the veteran mariners of Palos were present. Among these was Mar- tin Alonzo Pinzon, the head of a fomily of wealthy and experienced navigators of the place, celebrated lor their adventurmis expeditions. Facts were related by some of these navigators in support of the theory of Columbus. In a word, liis j)roject was treated with a deference in the COLUMHaS AT TIIK OONVKNT OF LA UABIDA. 21 quiet cloisters of l.n Jiiil)i(]a, and aniojig the seal'aring men oi'Palos, wliicli had Ixien soiiglit in vain among the sages and philosophers of tlie court. Martin Alonzo Pin- zon, especially, was so coiiviiic(!d of its feasibility that he offered to engage in it with ])urse and person, and to bear the expenses of Columbus in a renewed application to the court. Friar Juan Perez was confirmed in his faith by the concurrence of those learned and practical councillors. He had once been confessor to Wio (|ucen, and knew that she was always accessible; to persons of his sacred call- ing. He proposed to write to her immediately on the subject, and entreated Columbus to delay his jouni(;y imtil an answer could be received. The latter was easily persuaded, for he felt as if, in leaving >Spain, he was again abandoning his home. He was also reluctant to renew, in another court, the vexations and disappointments ex- perienced in Spain and Portugal. The little council at the convent of La Kabida now cast round their eyes for an ambassador to depart upon this momentous rrussion. They chose one Sol)astian Rodriguez, a pilot of ItO.pr., one of the most shrewd and important personages in this maritime neighborhood. The queen was, at this time, at Santa Fe, ihc; military city which had been built in the Vega bcfon; (jiranada, after the conflagration of Iho royal camj). The honest pilot ac(pjitted himself AuthfuUy, expeditiously, and suc- ccssfidly, in his embassy. Ho found access to the benignant princess, and delivered the epistle of the friar. Isabella had always been favorably disposed to the pro- position of (yolumbus. She wrote in n^ply to Juan Perez, thanking him for his timely services, and requesting that he would rejjair immediately to the court, leaving (>hris- topher Columbus in confident hope until he should hear 22 TUK CRAYON READING BOOK. further from her. This royal letter was brought back by the pilot at the end of fourteen days, and spread great joy in the little junto at the convent. No sooner did the warm-hearted friar receive it, than he saddled his mule, and departed privately, before midnight, for the court. He journeyed through the conquered countries of the Moors, and rode into the newly-erected city of Santa Fe, wliere the sovereigns were superintending the close in- vestment of the capital of Granada. Tlie sacred ollice of Juan Perez gained him a ready entrance in a court distinguished for religious zeal ; and, once admitted to the presence of the queen, his former relation, as father confessor, gave him great freedom of counsel. He pleaded the cause of Columbus with char- acteristic enthusiasm, speaking, from actual knowledge, of his honorable motives, his professional knowledge and experience, and his perfect capacity to fulfil the under- taking ; he represented the solid principles upon which the enterprise was founded, the advantage that must attend its success, and the glory it must shed upon the Spanish crown. It is probable that Isabella had never heard the proposition urged with such honest zeal and impressive eloquence. Being naturally more sanguine and susceptible than the king, and more open to warm and generous impulses, she was moved by the repre- sentations of Juaii Perez, which were warmly seconded by her favorite, tlie Marchioness of Moya, who entered into the affair with a woman's disinterested enthusiasm. The queen requested that Columbus might be again sent to her, and. with the kind considerateness whicii charac- terized her, bethinking herself of his poverty, and his humble plight, ordered that twenty thousand marave- dies * in tlorins should be forwarded to him, to bear his * Or 72 dollars, and equivalent to 216 dollars of the present day. COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT OF LA RABIDA. 23 travelling oxpoiisc^s, to ])rovi(]o him with a ninl(i i'or his journey, and to lurnisli liini with decent raiment, that he might make a respectable appearance at the court. The worthy friar lost no time in connmmicating tlie result of his mission ; he transmitted tin; money, and a letter, by the hands of an inhabitant of Palos, to the pliysieian Garcia Fernande/, who delivered them to Columhus. The latter complied with the instructions conveyed in the epistle. He exchanged his threadbare garb for one more suited to the sphere of a court, and, purchasing a mule, set out once more, reanimated by hopes, for the camp before Granada. Columbus first Discovers Land in the New World. Columbus was now at open defiance with his crew, and his situation became desperate. Fortunately the manifestations of the vicinity of land were such on the folio whig day as no longer to admit a douht. JJesidcs a quantity of fresh weeds, such as grow in rivers, they saw a green fish of a kind which keeps about ro(;ks; then a branch of thorn with berries on it, and recently separated 1 V(jm the tree, floated by them ; then they picked up a reed, a small board, and, aliove all, a staff artificially carved. All gloom and mutiny now gave way to san- guine expectation ; and throughout the day each one was eagerly on the watch, in hopes of being the first to dis- cover the long-sou ght-for land. In the evening, when, according to invariable custom on board the admiral's ship, the mariners had sung the salve rejn-ina, or vesper hymn to the Virgin, he made an 24 TUK CRAYOiN IMiiAUlNU BOOK. impressive aildress to his crew. He pointed out the goothiess of God in thus conducting them by soft and favoring bret>zos across a tnuuiuil ocean, cheering their hopes continually with fresh signs, increasing as their fears augmented, and thus leading and guiding them to a promised laud, lie now reminded them of (he orders he had given on leavhig tlie Canariivs, that, after sailing westward seven Inmdred leagues, they should not make sail after midnight. Present a))pearances authorized such a ])recaution. He thought it probable they woidd make land that very night ; he ordered, therefore, a vigi- lant look-out to he kept from the forecastle, promising to whomsoever should make the discovery, a doublet of velvet, in addition to the pension to be given by the sovereigns. The breeze had been fresh all day, with more sea than usual, and they had made great progress. At sun- set they had stood again to the west, and were ploughing the waves at a rapid rate, the Pinta keeping the lead, from her superior sailing. The greatest animation prevailed throughout the ships ; not an eye was closed that night. As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin on the high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch. About ten o'clock, he thought lie beheld a light gliimnering at a great distance. l<\'aring his eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro Gutierrez, gentleman of the king's l)ed-chamb(>r, and incpiired wliether he saw such alight; the latter replied in the allirmalive. Doubtful whether it might not yet be some delusion o[ tlu> fancy, Columbus called Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, and made the same inquiry. By the time the latter had asceudod the round-house, the light had disappeared. They saw it COLUMBUS DISCOVERS LANlJ IN THE NEW WORLD. 25 once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing gleams ; as if it were a torch in the bark of a fisherman, rising and sinking with the waves ; or in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as he walked from house to house. So transient and uncertain were these gleams, that few attached any importance to them ; Co- lumbus, however, considered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the land was inhabited. They continued their course until two in the morn- ing, when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of land. It was first descried by a mariner named Rodrigo de Triana ; but the reward was afterwards adjudged to the admiral, for having previously perceived the light. The land was now clearly seen about two leagues dis- tant, whereupon they took in sail, and lay to, waiting impatiently for the dawn. The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little space of time must have been tumultuous and intense. At length, in spite of every difficulty and danger, he had accomplished his object. The great mystery of the ocean was revealed ; his theory, which had been the scoff of sages, was triumphantly established ; he had secured to himself a glory durable as the world itself. It is difficult to conceive the feelings of such a man, at such a moment ; or the conjectures which must have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before him, cov- ered with darkness. That it was fruitful, was evident from the vegetables which floated from its shores. He thought, too, that he perceived the fragrance of aromatic groves. The moving light he had beheld proved it the residence of man. But what were its inhabitants ? Were they like those of the other parts of the globe ; or were they some strange and monstrous race, such as the ima- gination was prone in those times to give to all remote 2 # 26 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. and unknoAvii regions ? Had he come upon some wild island far in the Indian sea ; or was this the famed Cipango itself, the object of his golden fancies ? A thou- sand speculations of the kind must have swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious crews, he waited for the night to pass away ; wondering whether the morning light would reveal a savage wilderness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering fanes, and gilded cities, and all the splendor of oriental civilization. First Landing of Columbus in the Neio World. It was on Friday morning, the 12th of October, that Columbus first beheld the New World. As the day dawned he saw before him a level island, several leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was populous, for the inhabitants were seen issuing from all parts of the woods and running to the shore. They were perfectly naked, and, as they stood gazing at the ships, appeared by their attitudes and gestures to be lost in astonishment. Co- lumbus made signal for the ships to cast anchor, and the boats to be manned and armed. He entered his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, and holding the royal standard ; whilst Martin Alonzo Pinzon, and Vincent Jaiiez his brother, put off in company in their l)oats, each with a banner of the enterprise emblazoned with a green cross, having on either side the letters F. and Y., the initials of the Castilian monarchs Fernando and Ysabel, surmounted by crowns. As he approached the shore, Columbus, who was dis- LANDING OF C0LUM1UI8 IN THE NEW WORLD. 27 posed for all kinds of agn3cal)lo iinprcssious, was delighted with the purity and suavity of the atmosphere, tlie crystal transparency of the sea, and the extraordinary beauty of the vegetation. He beheld, also, fruits of an unknown kind upon ihe trees which overhung the shores. On landing he threw himself on his knees, kissed the earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy. His ex- ample was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed with the same feelings of gratitude. Co- lumbus then rising drew his sword, displayed the royal standard, and assembling round him the two captains, with Rodrigo and de Escobedo, notary of the armament, Rodrigo Sanchez, and the rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the name of the (Jastilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San Salvador. Having complied with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he called upon all present to take the oath of obedience to him, as admiral and viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns. The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extravagant transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men, hurrying forward to destruc- tion ; they now looked upon themselves as favorites of fortune, and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged around the admiral with overtlow- ing zeal, some embracing him, others kissing his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent dur- ing the voyage, were now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some begged favors of him, as if he had already wealth and honors in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had outraged him by their insolence, now crouched at his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble they had caused him, and promising the blindest obedience for the future. The natives of the island, when, at the dawn of day. 28 PHK CRAYON KICAPING BOOK. they had bohekl the ships hovering on their coast, had snpposed them monsters which had issued from the deep during the niglit. They had crowded to the beach, and watched tlieir movements with awful anxiety. Their veering about, apparently without elfort, and the shifting and furling of their sails, resembling huge wings, lilled tliem with astonishment. AVhen tliey beheld their boats approach the shore, and a number of strange beings clad in glittering steel, or raiment of various colors, lauding upon the beach, they tied in allVight to the woods. Find- ing, however, that there was no attempt to pursue nor mo- lest them, they gradually recovered from their terror, and approached the Spaniards with great awe ; frequently prostrating themselves on the earth, and making signs of adoration. During the ceremonies of taking possession, they remained gazing in timid admiration at the com- plexion, the beards, the shining armor, and splendid dress of the Spaniards. The admiral particularly attracted their attention, from his couuuandiug height, his air of authority, his dress of scarlet, and the deference which was paid him by his companions ; all which pointed him out to be the conuuander. When they had still further recovered from their fears, they approached the Span- iards, touched their beards, and examined their hands and faces, admiring their whiteness. Columbus was pleased with their gentleness and confiding simplicity, and sulfered their scrutiny with perfect acquiescence, winning them by his benignity. They now supposed that the ships had sailed out of the crystal firmament which bounded their horizon, or had descended from above on their ample wings, and that these marvellous beings were inhabitants of the skies. The idea that the white men came from heaven was universally entertained bv the inhabitants of the New RKOKPTION or OOLIIMItdS AT HAIUJKT.ONA. 29 World. When in llio roiirso of suhsoqiionl voyages the Sj);uiiards couvcr.scMl vvitli the cacique Nicaragua, h(; in- (luin'd liow they came down from the skies, whether fly- ing or wh(^ther th(y descended on clouds. Reception of Columbus by Iha Spanish Court at Bar- celona,. TiTE letter of Columhus to the Spanish monarchs, had jiroduced the greatest sensation at court. The event li(> announced was considenul the most extraordinary of their prosperous reign, and following so close upon the con(iuest of Granada, was pronounced a signal mark of divine favor for that triumph achieved in the cause of the true faith. The sovereigns themselves were for a time dazzled hy this sudden and easy actpiisition of a new empire, of indefinite extent, and apparently bound- less wealth ; and their first idea was to secure it beyond the reach of dis])ute. Shortly after his arrival in Seville, Columbus received a letter from them expressing their great delight, and recjuesting him to repair immediately to coiut, to conceit plans for a second and more extensive expedition. As the summer, the time favorable for a voyage, was approaching, they desired him to mak(! any arrangerufmts at Sovilh; or (ilsewhen? that iriight hasten the expedition, and to inform tliein, ])y the return of tin; courieT, what was to Ix; doni! on their part. This letter was addressed to him by the title of "Don ('hristoj)li(!r Columbus, oiu" admiral of the ocean sea, and viceroy and governor of the islands discovtired in the Indies;" at the same time he was promised still further rewards. Co- 30 THE CKAYON READING BOOK. Innilnis lost no time in complying with the commands of the soveioigns. He sent a memorandnm of the ships, men, and mnnitions requisite, and having made such dispositions at Seville as circumstances permitted, set out for Barcelona, taking with him the six Indians, and the various curiosities and productions brought from the New World. The fame of his discovery had resounded throughout the nation, and as his route lay through several of the finest and most populous provinces of Spain, his journey appeared like the progress of a sovereign. Wherever he passed, the country poured forth its inhabitants, who lined the road and thronged the villages. The streets, windows, and balconies of the towns were filled with eager spectators, who rent the air with acclamations. His journey was continually impeded by the multitude pressing to gain a sight of him and of the Indians, who were regarded with as much astonishment as if they had been natives of another planet. It was impossible to sa- tisfy the craving curiosity which assailed him and his attendants at every stage Avith innumerable questions ; popular rumor, as usual, had exaggerated the trutli, and had filled the newly-found country with all kinds of wonders. About the middle of April Columbus arrived at Bar- celona, where every preparation had been made to give him a solemn and magnificent reception. The beauty and serenity of the weather in that genial season and fa- vored climate, contributed to give splendor to this mem- orable ceremony. As he drew near the place, many of the youthful courtiers, and hidalgos, together Avith a vast concourse of the populace, came forth to meet and wel- come him. His entrance into this noble city has been compared to one of those triumphs Avhich the Romans KECErTION OF COLIJMBdS AT BARCELONA. 31 were accvistonied to decree to conquerors. J'^'ijst, were paraded the Indians, painted according to their savage fasliion, and decorated with their national ornaments of gold. After these were home various kinds of live par- rots, together with stuffed birds and animals of unknown species, and rare plants supposed to be of precious quali- ties ; while great care was taken to make a conspicuous display of Indian coronets, bracelets, and other decora- tions of gold, which might give an idea of the wealth of the newly-discovered regions. After this, followed Co- lumbus on horseback, suirounded by a brilliant caval- cade of Spanish chivalry. The streets were almost im- passable from the countless multitude ; the windows and balconies were crowded with the fair ; the very roofs were covered with spectators. It seemed as if the public eye could not be sated with gazing on these trophies of an unknown world ; or on the remarkable man by whom it had been discovered. There was a sublimity in this event that mingled a solemn feeling with the public joy. It was looked upon as a vast and signal dispensa- tion of Providence, in reward for the piety of the mon- archs ; and the majestic and venerable appearance of the discoverer, so different from the youth and buoyancy generally expected from roving enterprise, seemed in har- mony with the grandeiir and dignity of his achievement. To receive him with suitable pomp and distinction, the sovereigns had ordered their throne to be placed in pul)lic under a rich canopy of brocade oi' gold, in a vast and splendid saloon. Here the king and queen awaited his arrival, seated in state, with the prince Juan beside them, and attended by the dignitaries of their court, and the principal nobility of Castile, Valentia, Catalonia, and Arragon, all impatient to behold the man who had con- ferred so incalculable a benefit upon the nation. At 32 THE CRAYON UKAniNC} HOOK. length Columbus ontcnnl llu^ hall, suiroiiiulfd by ;i bril- liant crowd of cavaliers, among wiiom, says Las Casas, he was conspicuous for his stntcly and commanding per- son, which with his countenance, rendered venerable by his gray hairs, gave him the august appearance of a senator of Home : a modest smile lighted up his features, showing that lu^ enjoyed the state and glory in which he came; and ctMtainly nothing could be more deeply moving to a mind inllamed by noble ambition, and con- scious of having greatly deserved, than these testimonials of the admiration anil gratitude of a nation, or rather of a world. As Cohnnbus apprmiched, the sov(Mcigns rose, as if receiving a person of the highest raidc. Bending his knees, he offered to kiss their hands; l)nt there was some hesitation on their part to permit this act of homage. Raising him in the most gracious manner, they ordered him to seat hiins(>lf in their presence; a rare honor in this i)roud and i>unctilious court. At their request, he now gave an account of the nu^st striking events of his voyage, and a di^scription of the islands discovered. He ilisj)layed specimens of unknown birds, and other animals; of rare plants t)f nunhcinal antl aromatic virtues; of native gold in dust, in crude masses, or labonnl into barbaric ornaments; and, nlnne all, the natives of these couutrii^s, who were objects of intense and iui'xhaustible intiMcst. All these he pronounced mere harbingers of greater discoveries yet to be made, which would add realms of incalculable wealth to the dominions of their majesties, and whole nations oi' pro- si'lylcs to the true faith. WluMi he had linished, the sovereigns sank on their knees, and raising their clasped hands to heaven, their eyes tilled with tears of joy and gratitude, poured forth thanks and jMaises to God for so great a providiMice : all HKCKmON OF florjIMHUS y\r IiARf;r,I-ONA 33 present IoHowcmI iJuiir exiunplc; u deep iuid solemn enthusiasm pervaded tfmt splendid ass(!rnbly, and prc- vent(Hl all (M)mm()n acclamations of Irimnpli. Tlio .•iiilliein 7V; Dfiirii, bmdnnms^ (^liantin] hy tli(! choir oi' the royal chapel, with \\w, ac<'ompa.niment of instruments, rose in a I'lill body ol" sacred harmony; hearing nj), as it were, the feelings and thoughts of (Ik; aufhtors to h(iav(in, "so thai," says the; venerable Las (Jasas, " it scenied as if m that hour they comnnmicated with (-elestial delights." tSuch was the solemn and pious manner in whicli the brilliant court of Spain celebrated this sublime event; oflering up a grateful tribute; of melody and praises, and giving glory to (jJod for the discovery of another world. When (Jolund)us rctircid from the royal presence, he was attended to his residence by all the court, and fol- lowed by the shouting populace;. For many days ho was the ol)ject of universal curiosity, and wherever he appear(;d, was surrounded by an admiring multitude. While his mind was teeming with glorious anticipa- tions, his pious sch(!m(! for the deliverance of the holy sepulchre was not forgottcrr. It l)as been shown that he suggested it to the Spanish sovereigns at the time of first making his prof)osili()ns, holding it forth as the great object to be ellect(;d by the [)rolils of his (hscoverics. Flushed with the idea of ihe vast wealth now to accrue to himself, Ik; made; a vow to fmiiish within seven yIy in his w riliiigs, and he ivlris to it (>xjnvssly ill a IclttM- lo Pope Alexander VI,, writtiMi in l.'iO'^, in wliieli lie aeeoinits also for its nou- I'liliiliiuMit. It is essential to a tnll comprehension of the eliaraet(M- and motives of (\ihimhus, tliat this visit^iary pi-ojeet shonld he home in v»H-oll(H'tion. 1 1 will he fi>und to have entwined itsell" in his miiul with his enterprise of discovery, and that a holy crnsaile was to he the consummation of tiiose divine purposes, for wiiich he considered himself selected hy Heaven as an ai;enl. It shows how much his mind was elevatcnl ahovt^ selfish and nuMcenary views— how it was tilled with those devout and heroic sciieines, which in the tiini> ol the criisadivs liad intlam(>d tlu^ thoughts and (iinH-t(>d the (Mitcrprises of the hravest warriors and most illustrious princes. Coliiffihiis ill Irons. San DoivtiNOO now swarmeil with miscreants just delivered from the dungeon and the iiihhet. It was a ])erfect jubilee of triumphant villany and dastard malice. Kvery base spirit, which had been awed intt^ ohsi\|uions- ness by Cohimbus and his brothers when in [huvcm-, now started up to revenge Itself upon them when in t'hains. The most injiu'ions slanders wimc loudly jiroclaimed in the streets ; insulting pas(|uinades ami inllammatt>vy li- bels were ]iosted up at every corner; ami horns were blown in the neighborhood of their prisons, to tatmt tluMii with the cxultings of the rabble. AVhen these n^joii-ings of liis enemies reached him in his dnuQcon, and t'ohiin- f.'OI.IIMHnS IN IKDNN. 35 hiis rcdccjcd on llic incoiisidcralc violence ;ili(';i(ly cxliih itcd l»y |{()l);i(lill;i, Ik- I■• sacrificed withoni an opporlnnily of l)eing lieajd, and his nani(! |^o down snilied and dishonored to j)ost(!rit.y. Whin he helield the otlicer enter with lint guard, he llion'_'ht it was to couduci him to the scallold. " Villejo," said he, mom'id'nily, "whither are yon taking me?" "To the ship, your Ivxcellency, lo emhark," repli<;d the oIIkm-. "Toemhark !" rejtealcd the admiral, earnestly ; "Villejo! 36 rHK CRAYON KEAIUNG BOOK. do you spoiik llu> tiiith /'' "" IJy the lifo of your Excol- Icuoy," ivpliiHl tlu> liourst oIliciM-, ''it is true!" With these words tlie admiral was couiloited, and t'eU as one restored tVoui d«\Uli to Ul'e. Nothing can be more tourhiui; and exjMvssivi' than tliis Utile colloquy, roeordtHl by the venerable Las (\isas, who iloubtless had it iVoni the lips of his tVicMid Villejo. The earavids set sail early in October, bearing oil" Cohnnbus shackled like the vilest of culprits, amidst the scolfs and shouts of a miscreant rabble, wlio took a bru- tal joy in heaping insults on his venerable head, and sent curses alter him tViMU the shores of the island he had so recently adileil \o the civilized world. Fortiniately the voyage was favorabUv and of but moderate duration, and was rendered less tlisagreeable by the conduct of those to whom he w^as given in custoily. The w^orthy Villejo, though in the service of Fonseca, felt deeply moved at the treatment of Columbus. The master of the Caravel, Andreas Martin, was equally grieved : they both treated the admiral with profomul respect and assiduous atten- tion. Tiiey wouUl have taken otf his irons, but to this lie would not consent. "No," said he proudly, "their majesties conunanded me by letter to submit to whatever Bobadilla should order in their name ; by their authority he has put upon me these chains, I will wear them until they shall order them to be taken otf, and I will preserve them atUMwartls as ndics and memorials oi' the rewaril of my siMvii-es." "He did so," adds his son l"\Mnandi>; "1 saw them always hanging in his cabinet, and he retpiested that when he died thev miiiht be buri(Ml with him!" COLUMUUS IN IRONS. 37 Sensation in Spain on l.hv Arriva/ of Col.irinJms in. Irons. — His Appearance al. (Jonrt. 'Vwv. .'urival of Coliirnhiis al. (/.-idiz, a prisoner in chains, prodncod almost as gn;al: a sciiisatioii as liis Iri- niiipliant return from his fnst V()yafi;o. It was oik^ of thosf! slrikiiiij; .'ititl ohvious facts, which speak to iho f(M^iings of tli(! nj(iltitnd(!, and pnicludo th(3 necessity of reflection. No one; stoi)p(!d to in(|uire into the c,is(!. It w;is sufiiciciil to he told thnt ('ohimhns was hroui^ht liotne in irons from (hi^ world he iiad (iisc.ov(M"(;d. Thert^ was a general hurst of iii(h"!i;u;itiou iu ('.uh/, ;iud iu \\\r. pow(!rfid iuid opui<'ut Seville, wiiich was ('(^hoed through- out all Spain. II' the ruin of ( !oluud)Us had he)- hunhus, W(!r(! now as loud in tlieir rej)rohation of his treatment, and a strong sympathy was expressed, against which it would havf; htu'ri odious for tlie goverinrieut to coutfwid. The tidings of his ;iriival, and of the ignominious manner in which he; had Imhui hrought, reached the; court at (jranada, and M\v,(\ the halls of tin; Alhamhra with irnuinurs of astonishmcnit. (yolumhus, full of his wrongs, hut ignorant liow far they h;ul h(!(!n :i.uthoriz(!d hy the; sovereigns, had forhorne to write to tlniui. In IIk; course; of his voy;ig(!, howev(!r, lie had jx'uued ii, long lettxT to l)on;i, Ju.-uia de la Torre, the; aya of Prince Ju:in, a, l;idy high in favor with Q,ucen Isabella. This l«;lter, on his 38 THE CKAYON RKAUIXr. HOOK. arrival at Cadiz, Andreas Martin, iho captain ot' the cara- vel, permitted him to send oU' privately by express. It arrived, theretbre, before the protocol of the proceedings instituted by 13obadilla, and from this document the sovereigns derived their fn-st intimation of iiis treatment. It contained a statement of the late transactions of the island, and oi' the wrongs he had sutfered, written w itli his usual artlessness and energy. To specify the con- tents, would be but to recapitulate circumstances ah'cady recorded. Some expressions, however, which burst from him in the warmth of his feelings, are worthy of being noted. " The slanders of worthless men," says he, " have done me more injury than all my services have profited me." Spoaking of the misrejireseutations to. which he was subjected, he observes: "Such is tlie evil name which I have acquired, that if I were to build hospitals and churches, they would be called dens of robbers." After relating in indignant terms the conduct of Boba- dilla. in seeking testimony respecting his administration from the very men who had rebelled against him, and throwing himself and his brothers in irons, without let- ting them know the otiences with which they were charged, " I have been much aggrieved," he adds, " in that a person should be sent out to investigate my con- duct, who knew that if the evidence which he could send lunue should appear to be of a serious nature, he would remain in the government." He comi)lains that, in form- ing an opinion of his administration, allowances had not been made for the extraordinary dilheulties with which he had to contend, and the wild state of tlie country over which he had to rule. "I was judged," he observes, "as a governor who liad b^^en sent to take charge of a well- regulated city, under the dominion of well-establislied laws, where there was no danger of every thing running COLUMBUS AT COURT. 39 to disorder and ruin ; but I ought to be judged as a cap- tain, sent to subdue a numerous and hostile people, of manners and reUgion opposite to ours, Hving not in regu- hir towns, but in forests and mountains. It ought to be considered that 1 have brought all these under subjection to their majesties, giving them dominion over another world, by which Spain, heretofore poor, has suddenly- become rich. Whatever errors I may have fallen into, they wore not with an evil intention ; and I believe their majesties will credit what 1 say. I have known them to be merciful to those who have wilfully done them dis- service ; I am convinced that they will have still more indulgence for me, who have erred innocently, or by compulsion, as they will hereafter be more fully in- formed ; and I trust they will consider my great services, the advantages of which are every day more and more apparent.'* When this letter was read to the noble-minded Isa- bella, and she found how grossly Columbus had been wronged and the royal authority abused, her heart was filled with mingled sympathy and indignation. The tidings were confirmed by a letter from the alcalde or corregidor of Cadiz, into whose hands Columbus and his brothers had been delivered, until the pleasure of the sovereigns should be known ; and by another letter from Alonzo de Vilk^jo, expressed in terms accordant with his humane and honorable conduct towards his illustrious prisoner. However Ferdinand might have secretly felt disposed against Cohnnbus, the momentary tide of public feeling was not to be resisted. IFc joined with his generous queen in her reprobation of the treatment of the admiral, and both sovereigns hastened to give evidence to the world, that his imprisonment had been without their 40 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. authority, and contrary to their wishes. Without wait- ing to receive any documents that might arrive from Bobadilla, tliey sent orders to Cadiz that the prisoners should be instantly set at liberty, and treated with all distinction. They wrote a letter to Columbus, couched in terms of gratitude and aHection, expressing their grief at all that he had suti'ered, and inviting him to court. They ordered, at the same time, that two thousand ducats should be advanced to defray his expenses.* The loyal heart of Columbus was again cheered by this declaration of his sovereigns. lie felt conscious of his integrity, and anticipated an innnediate restitution of all his rights and dignities. He appeared at court in Gra^-ada on the 17th of December, not as a man ruined and disgraced, but richly dressed, and attended by an honorable retinue. He was received by the sovereigns with unqualified favor and distinction. When the queen beheld this venerable man approach, and thought on all he had deserved and all he had suffered, she was moved to tears. Cohnnbus had borne up firmly against the rude conflicts of the world, — he had endured with lofty scorn the injuries and insults of ignoble men; but he possessed strong and quick sensibility. When he fomid himself thus kindly received by his sovereigns, and beheld tears in the benign eyes of Isabella, his long-suppressed feel- ings burst forth : he threw himself on his knees, and for some time could not utter a word for the violence of his tears and sobbings. Ferdinand and Isabella raised him from the ground, and endeavored to encourage him by the most gracious * Two thousand diicnts. or two tluniaand eight hundred nnd forty-six doUarss, eijuivalont to eight thousand five hundred nnd thirty-eight dollars of the present day. THE SECOND V0YA(;E OF COIJIMIiUS. 41 expressions. As soon as lie regained self-possession, ho entered into an eloquent and high-niindcHi vindication oi* his loyalty, and the ztjal he had ever lelt for the glory and advantage of the Spanish crown, d(xlaiing that if at any time he had erred, it had been through irK^xperience in government, and the extraordinary (liHic.ulli(>s by which he had been surrounded. There needed no vindication on liis j)art. 'rh(> in- t(;mperance of his enemies had becMi his bc^st ;i(]vo(';il(\ lie stood in presence of his sov(^reigns a de(![)ly-injured man, and it remained for them to vindicate themselves to the world from the charge of ingratitude towards their most deserving subject. Deparhire of Columlms on his ^Second Voyage — Dis- covery of lite Caribbee hlands. The departure of Columbus on his second voyage of discovery, presented a brilliant contrast to his gloomy embarkation at Palos. On the 25th of September, at the dawn of day, the bay of Cadiz was whitened by his fleet. There were three large ships of lieavy burden,* and fourteen caravels, loitering with flapping sails, and awaiting the signal to get under way. The harbor resounded with the w(;]l-known note of the sailor, hoist- ing sail, or weighing an(;hor ; a motley crowd were * Peter Martyr Bays they were carracka (a large species of merchant vessel, principally used in coasting trade), of one hundred tons hurden, and that two of the caravels were much larger than the rest, and more capable of bearing decks from the size of their masts. 42 THE CRAYON READING HOOK. hurrying on board, and taking leave of their friends in the confidence of a prosperous voyage and triumphant return. There was the high-spirited cavaher, bound on romantic enterprise ; the hardy navigator, ambitious of acquiring laurels in these unknown seas ; the roving adventurer, seeking novelty and excitement ; the keen, calculating speculator, eager to profit by the ignorance of savage tribes ; and the pale missionary from the clois- ter, anxious to extend the dominion of the church, or devoutly zealous for the propagation of the faith. All were full of animation and lively hope. Instead of being regarded by the populace as devoted men, bound upon a dark and desperate enterprise, they were contemplated with envy, as favored mortals, bound to golden regions and happy climes, where nothing but wealth, and won- der, and delights awaited them. Columbus, conspicuous for his height and his commanding appearance, was attended by his two sons Diego and Fernando, the eldest but a stripling, who had come to witness his departure, both proud of the glory of their father. Wherever he passed, every eye followed him with admiration, and every tongue praised and blessed him. Before sunrise the whole fleet was under way ; the weather was serene and propitious, and as the populace watched their parting sails brightening in the morning beams, they looked for- ward to their joyful return laden with the treasures of the New World. DISCOVERY OF THE AIINES OF HAYNA. Discovery of the Mines of Hayna. In the recent hurricane, the four caravels of Aguado had been destroyed, together with two others which were in the harbor. Tlie only vessel which survived was the Nina, and that in a very shattered condition. Columbus gave orders to have her immediately repaired, and another caravel constructed out of the wreck of those whicli had been destroyed. While waiting until they should be ready for sea, he was cheered by tidings of rich mines in the interior of the island, the discovery of which is attrib- uted to an incident of a somewhat romantic nature. A young Arragonian, named Miguel Diaz, in the service of the Adelantado, having a quarrel with another Spaniard, fought with him, and. wounded him dangerously. Fear- ful of the consequences, he fled from the settlement, accompanied by five or six comrades, who had either been engaged in the affray, or were personally attached to him. Wandering about the island, they came to an Indian village on the southern coast, near the mouth of the river Ozema, where the city of San Domingo is at present situated. They were received with kindness by the natives, and resided for some time among them. The village was governed by a female cacique, who soon conceived a strong attachment for the young Arragonian. Diaz was not insensible to her tenderness, a connection was formed between them, and they lived for some time very happily together. The recollection of his country and his friends began at length to steal upon the thoughts of the young Span- iard. It was a melancholy lot to be exiled from civilized 44 THE CRAYON HEADING BOOK life, and an outcast from among his countrymen. He longed to return to the settlement, but dreaded the pun- ishment that awaited him, from the austere justice of the Adolantado. His Indian bride, observing him frequently melancholy and lost in thought, penetrated the cause, with the quick intelligence of female affection. Fearful tliat he would abandon her, and return to his country- men, she endeavored to devise some means of drawing the Spaniards to that part of the island. Knowing that gold was their sovereign attraction, she informed Diaz of certain rich mines in the neighborhood, and urged him to persuade his countrymen to abandon the comparatively sterile and unhealthy vicinity of Isabella, and settle upon the fertile banks of the Ozema ; promising they should be received with the utmost kindness and hospitality by her nation. Struck with the suggestion, Diaz made particular in- quiries about the mines, and was convinced that they abounded in gold. He noticed the superior fruitfulness and beauty of the country, the excellence of the river, and the security of the harbor at its entrance. He flat- tered himself that the communication of such valuable intelligence would make his peace at Isabella, and obtain his pardon from the Adelantado. Full of these hopes, he procured guides from among the natives, and taking a temporary leave of his Indian bride, set out with his comrades through the wilderness for the settlement, wliich was about fifty leagues distant. Arriving there secretly, he learnt, to his great joy, that the man whom lie had wounded had recovered. He now presented him- self boldly before the Adelantado, relying that his tidings would earn his forgiveness. He was not mistaken. No news could have come more opportunely. The admiral had been anxious to remove the settlement to a more DISCOVERY OP THK MINKS OF HAYNA. 45 hcaltliy and advantageous situation. He was desirous also of carrying home some conclusive proof of the riches of the island, as the most effectual means of silencing the cavils of his ene«iies. If the representations of Miguel Diaz were correct, here was a means of eflecting both these purposes. Measures were immediately taken to ascertain the truth. The Adelantado set fortli in person to visit the river Ozcma, accompanied by Miguel Diaz, Francisco de Garay, and the Indian guides, and attended hy a mnnber of men well armed. They proceeded from Isabella to Magdalena, and thence across the Royal Vega to the fortress of Conception. Continuing on to the south, they came to a range of mountains, which they traversed by a defile two leagues in length, and descended into another beautiful plain, which was called Bonao, Pro- ceeding hence for some distance, they came to a great river called Hayna, running through a fertile country, all the streams of which abounded in gold. On the western bank of this river, and about eight leagues from its mouth, they found gold in greater quantities and in larger par- ticles, than had yet been met with in any part of the island, not even excepting the province of Cibao. They made experiments in various places within the compass of six miles, and always with success. The soil seemed to be generally impregnated with that metal, so that a common laborer, with little trouble, might find the amount of three drachms in the course of a day. In several places they observed deep excavations in the form of pits, which looked as if the mines had been worked in ancient times ; a circumstance which caused much speculation among the Spaniards, the natives having no idea of min- ing, but contenting themselves with the particles found on the surface of the soil, or in the beds of the rivers. The Indians of the neighborhood received the white 46 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. men with their promised friendship, and in every respect the representations of Miguel Diaz were fully justilicd. He was not only pardoned, hut received into great favor, and was suhsequently employed in various capacities in the island, in all which he acquitted himself with great fidelity, lie kept his faith with his Indian bride, by whom, according to Oviedo, he had two children. Char- levoix supposes that they were regularly married, as the female cacique appears to have been baptized, being al- ways mentioned by the Christian name of Catalina. When the Adelantado returned with this favorable report, and with specimens of ore, the anxious heart of the admiral was greatly elated. He gave orders that a fortress should be immediately erected on the banks of the Hayna, in the vicinity of the mines, and that they should be diligently worked. The fancied traces of an- cient excavations gave rise to one of his usual veins of golden conjectures. He had already surmised that His- paniola might be the ancient Opliir. He now flattered himself that he had discovered the identical mines, whence King Solomon had procured his gold for the building of the temple of Jerusalem. He supposed that his ships must have sailed by the Gulf of Persia, and round Trapoban to this island,* which, according to his idea, lay o])posite to the extreme end of Asia, for such he firmly believed the island of Cuba. It is probable that Columbus gave free license to his imagination in these conjectures, which tended to throw a splendor about his enterprises, and to revive the lan- guishing interest of the public. Granting, however, the correctness of his opinion, that he was in the vicinity of Asia, an error by no means surprising in the imperfect • Peter Martyr, decad. i. lib. iv. II A GOLD MANIA IN HiaPANIOLA IN 1503. 47 State of geographical knowledge, all his consequent sup- positions were far from extravagant. The ancient Ophir was believed to lie somewhere in the East, but its situa- tion was a matter of controversy among the learned, and remains one of those conjectural questions about which too much has been written for it ever to be satisfactorily decided. A Gold Mania in Hispaniola in 1503. Before relating the return of Columbus to Hispani- ola, it is proper to notice some of the principal occurrences which took place in that island under the government of Ovando. A great crowd of adventurers of various ranks had thronged his fleet — eager speculators, credulous dreamers, and broken-down gentlemen of desperate for- tunes ; all expecting to enrich themselves suddenly in an island where gold was to be picked up from tlic surface ol tVic soil, or gathered from the mountain-brooks. They had scarcely landed, says Las Casas, who accompanied the expedition, when they all hurried off" to the mines, about eight leagues distance. The roads swarmed like ant-hills, with adventurers of all classes. Every one had his knapsack stored with biscuit or flour, and his mining implements on his shoulders. Those hidalgos, or gentle- men, who had no servants to carry their burdens, bore them on their own backs, and lucky was he who had a horse for the jotu'ney ; he would be able to bring back the greater load of treasure. They all set out in high spirits, eager who should first reach the golden land ; thinking they had but to arrive at the mines, and collect riches ; " for they fancied," says Las Casas, " that gold 48 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. was to be gathered as easily and readily as fruit from the trees." When they arrived, however, they discovered, to their dismay, that it was necessary to dig painfully into the bowels of the earth — a labor to which most of them had never been accustomed ; that it required experience and sagacity to detect the veins of ore ; that, in fact, the whole process of mining was exceedingly toilsome, de- manded vast patience, and much experience, and, after all, was full of uncertainty. They digged eagerly for a time, but found no ore. They grew hungry, threw by their implements, sat down to eat, and then returned to work. It was all in vain. "Their labor," says Las Casas, " gave them a keen appetite and quick digestion, but no gold." They soon consumed their provisions, exhausted their patience, cursed their infatuation, and in eight days set off drearily on their return along the roads they had lately trod so exultingly. They arrived at San Domingo without an ounce of gold, half-famished, down- cast, and despairing. Such is too often the case of those who ignorantly engage in mining — of all speculations the most brilliant, promising, and fallacious. Poverty soon fell upon these misguided men. They exhausted the little property brought from Spain. Many suflered extremely from hunger, and were obliged to ex- change even their apparel for bread. Some formed con- nections with the old settlers of the island ; but the greater part were like men lost and bewildered, and just awak- ened from a dream. The miseries of the mind, as usual, heightened the sufferings of the body. Some wasted away and died broken-hearted ; others were hurried off by raging fevers, so that there soon perished upwards of a thousand men. DISCOVERY OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 49 Discovery of the Pacific Ocean. The day had scarce dawned, when Vasco Nunez and his followers set forth from the Indian village and began to climb the height. It was a severe and rugged toil for men so wayworn ; but they were filled with new ardor at the idea of the triumphant scene that was so soon to repay them for all their hardships. About ten o'clock in the morning they emerged from the thick forests through which they had hitherto strug- gled, and arrived at a lofty and airy region of the moun- tain. The bald summit alone remained to be ascended; and their guides pointed to a moderate eminence, from which they said the southern sea was visible. Upon this Vasco Nuiiez commanded his followers to halt, and that no man should stir from his place. Then, with a palpitating heart, he ascended alone the bare mountain-top. On reaching the summit the long-desired prospect burst upon his view. It was as if a new world were unfolded to him, separated from all hitherto known by this mighty barrier of mountains. Below him ex- tended a vast chaos of rock and forest, and green savan- nas and wandering streams, while at a distance the waters of the promised ocean glittered in the morning sun. At this glorious prospect Vasco Nuiiez sank upon his knees, and poured out thanks to God for being the first European to whom it was given to make that great dis- covery. He then called his people to ascend : " Behold, my friends," said he, "that glorious sight which we have so much desired. Let us give thanks to God that he has granted us tliis great honor and advantage. Let us pray to Him to guide and aid us to conquer the sea and 3 50 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. land which we have discovered, and which Christian has never entered to preach the holy doctrine of the Evan- gelists. As to yourselves, be as you have hitherto been, faithful and true to me, and by the favor of Christ you will become the richest Spaniards that have ever come to the Indies ; 3^ou will render the greatest services to your king that ever vassal rendered to his lord ; and you will have the eternal glory and advantage of all that is here discovered, conquered, and converted to our holy Catholic faith." The Spaniards answered this speech by embracing Vasco Nunez and promising to follow him to death. Among them was a priest, named Andres de Vara, who lifted up his voice and chanted Te Deiim laudamus — the usual anthem of Spanish discoverers. The rest, kneeling down, joined in the strain with pious enthu- siasm and tears of joy ; and never did a more sincere oblation rise to the Deity from a sanctified altar, than from that mountain summit. It was indeed one of the most sublime discoveries that had yet been made in the New World, and must have opened a boundless field of conjecture to the wondering Spaniards. The imagination delights to picture forth the splendid confusion of their thoughts. Was this the great Indian Ocean, studded with precious islands, abounding in gold, in gems, and spices, and bordered by the gorgeous cities and wealthy marts of the East ? or was it some lonely sea, locked up in the embraces of savage uncultivated continents, and never traversed by a bark, excepting the light pirogue of the savage ? The latter could hardly be the case, for the natives had told the Spaniards of golden realms, and populous and powerful and luxurious nations upon its shores. Perhaps it might be bordered by various people, civilized in fact, though differing from Europe in their DISCOVER V OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 51 civilization ; wlio might have pociih'ar laws and customs and aits and sciences ; who migiit rorm, as it were, a woild of their own, intercommuning by this mighty sea, and carrying on connnerce between lh(;ir own islands and continents ; but who might exist in total ignorance and independence of the other hemisphere. Such may naturally have been the ideas suggested by the siglit of this unknown ocean. It was the preva- lent belief of the Spaniards, however, that they were the first Christians who liad made the discovery. Vasco Nunez, therefore, called upon all present to witness that he took possession of that sea, its islands, and surround- ing lands, in the name of the sovereigns of Castile, and the notary of the expedition made a testimonial of the same, to which all present, to tin; number of sixty-seven men, signed their names. He then caused a fair and tall tree to be cut down and wrought into a cross, which was elevated on tbe spot whence he had fust bf!h(;ld the sea. A mound of stones was likewise piled up to serve as a monument, and the names of the Castilian sovereigns were carved on the neighboring trees. The Indians beheld all the.se ceremonials and rejoicings in silent won- der, and, while they aided to erect the cross and \n\c xip the mound of stones, marvelled (!xceedingly at the mean- ing of these inoninnents, little thinking that they marked the subjugation of their land. The memorable event here recorded took place on the 20th of Septemher, 1.513; so that the.Sj)am'ards had spent twenty days in performing the jomney from the province of Careta to the summit of the mountain, a distance which at present, it is said, does not reijuire more than six days' travel. Indeed the isthmus in this neighbor- hood is not more than eighteen leagues in breadth in its widest part, and in some places merely seven; but it 52 THE CRAYON RKADING BOOK. consists of a ridge of extremely high and rugged moun- tains. When the discoverers traversed it, they had no route but the Indian paths, and often had to force their way amidst all kinds of obstacles, both from the savage country and its savage inhabitants^ In fact, the details of this narrative sufficiently account for the slowness of their progress, and present an array of difficulties and perils, which, as has been well observed, none but those " men of iron " could have subdued and overcome. Vasco Nunez on the jSho7-es of the South Sea. Vasco Nunez arrived on the borders of one of those vast bays, to which he gave the name of Saint Michael, it being discovered on that saint's day. The tide was out, the water was above half a league distant, and the intervening beach was covered with mud ; he seated himself, therefore, under the shade of the forest trees un- til the tide should rise. After a while, the water came rushing in with great impetuosity, and soon reached nearly to the place where the Spaniards were reposing. Upon this, Vasco Nuiiez rose and took a banner on which were painted the Virgin and child, and under them the arms of Castile and Leon ; then drawing his sword and throwing his buckler on his shoulder, he marched into the sea until the water reached above his knees, and waving his banner, exclaimed with a loud voice, " Long live the high and mighty monarchs Don Ferdinand and Donna Juana, sovereigns of Castile, of Leon, and of Ar- ragon, in whose name, and for the royal crown of Castile, I take real, and corporal, and actual possession of these VASCO NUNEZ ON THE SHORES OF THE SOUTH SEA. 53 seas, and lands, and coasts, and ports, and islands of the south, and all thereunto annexed ; and of the kingdoms and provinces which do or may appertain to them, in whatever manner, or by whatever right or title, ancient or modern, in times past, present, or to come, without any contradiction ; and if other prince or captain. Christian or infidel, or of any law, sect or condition whatsoever, shall pretend any right to these lands and seas, I am ready and prepared to maintain and defend them in the name of the Castilian sovereigns, present and future, whose is the empire and dominion over these Indian islands, and Terra Firma, northern and southern, with all their seas, both at the arctic and antarctic poles, on either side of the equinoctial line, whether witlnn or without the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, both now and in all times, as long as the world endures, and until the final day of judgment of all mankind." This swelling declaration and defiance being uttered with a loud voice, and no one appearing to dispute his pretensions, Vasco Nunez called upon his companions to bear witness of the fact of his having duly taken posses- sion. They all declared themselves ready to defend his claim to the uttermost, as became true and loyal vassals to the Castilian sovereigns ; and the notary having drawn up a document for the occasion, they subscribed it with their names. This done, they advanced to the margin of the sea, and stooping down tasted its waters. When they found, that, though severed by intervening mountains and con- tinents, they were salt like the seas of the north, they felt assured that they had indeed discovered an ocean, and again returned thanks to God. Having concluded all these ceremonies, Vasco Nunez drew a dagger from his girdle and cut a cross on a tree 54 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. which grew within the water, and made two other crosses on two adjacent trees, in honor of tlie Three Persons of the Trinity, and in token of possession. His followers likewise cnt crosses on many of the trees of the adjacent forest, and lopped off branches with their swords to bear them away as trophies. Snch was the singular medley of chivalrous and reli- gious ceremonial, with which these Spanish adventurers took possession of the vast Pacific Ocean, and all its lands — a scene strongly characteristic of the nation and the age. Execution of Vasco Nunez. It was a day of gloom and horror at Ada, when Vasco Nuiiez and his companions were led forth to exe- cution. The populace were moved to tears at the un- happy fate of a man, whose gallant deeds had excited their admiration, and whose generous qualities had won their hearts. Most of them regarded him as the victim of a jealous tjaant ; and even those who thought him guilty saw something brave and brilliant in the very crime imputed to him. Such, however, was the general dread inspired by the severe measures of Pedrarias, that no one dared lift up his voice, either in murmur or re- monstrance. The public crier walked before Vasco Nunez, pro- claiming : '• This is the punishment inflicted by connnand of the king and his lieutenant, Don Pedrarias Davila, on this man, as a traitor and an usurper of the territories of the crown." When Vasco Nunez heard these words, he exclaimed,- EXECUTION OF VASCO NUNEZ 55 indignantly, " It is fcilse ! never did such a crime enter my mind. I have ever served my Jung with truth and loyalty, and sought to augment his dominions." These words were of no avail in his extremity, but they were fully believed by the populace. The execution took place in the public square of Ada ; and we are assured by the historian Oviedo, who was in the colony at the time, that the cruel Pedrarias was a secret witness of the bloody spectacle ; which he contemplated from between the reeds of the wall of a house, about twelve paces from the scaffold ! Vasco Nunez was the first to sufRjr death. Having o confessed himself and partaken of the sacrament, he ascended the scaffold with a firm step and a calm and manly demeanor; and, laying his head upon the block, it was severed in an instant from his body. Three of his officers, Valdcrrabano, Botello, and Hernan Munos, were in like manner brought one by one to the block, and the day had nearly expired before the last of them was executed. One victim still remained. It was Hernando de Ar- guello, who had been condemned as an accomplice, for having written the intercepted letter. The ])opuiace could no longer restrain their feelings. They had not dared to intercede for Vasco Nunez, know- ing the implacable enmity of Pedrarias ; but they now sought the governor, and, throwing themselves at his feet, entreated that this man might be spared, as he had taken no active part in the alleged treason. The day- light, they said, was at an end, and it seemed as if God had hastened the night to prevent the execution. The stern heart of Pedrarias was not to be touched. "No," said he, "I would sooner die myself than spare one of them." The unfortunate Arguello was led to the 56 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. block. The brief tropical twilight was past, and in the gathering gloom of the night the operations on the scaf- fold could not be distinguished. The multitude stood listening in breathless silence, until the stroke of the executioner told that all was accomplished. They then dispersed to their homes with hearts filled with grief and bitterness, and a night of lamentation succeeded to this day of horrors. The vengeance of Pedrarias was not satisfied with the death of his victim ; he confiscated his property and' dishonored his remains, causing his head to be placed upon a pole and exposed for several days in the public square. Thus perished, in his forty-second year, in the prime and vigor of his days and the full career of his glory, one of the most illustrious and deserving of Spanish discover- ers ; a victim to the basest and most perfidious envy. How vain are our most confident hopes, our brightest triumphs ! When Vasco Nunez from the mountains of Darien beheld the Southern Ocean reA^ealed to his gaze, he considered its unknown realms at his disposal. When he had launched his ships upon its waters, and his sails were in a manner flapping in the wind, to bear him in quest of the wealthy empire of Peru, he scofled at the prediction of the astrologer, and defied the influence of the stars. Behold him interrupted at the very moment of his departure, betrayed into the hands of his most invidious foe, the very enterprise that was to have crowned him witli glory wrested into a crime, and him- self hurried to a bloody and ignominious grave at the foot, as it were, of the mountain whence he had made his discovery ! His fate, like that of his renowned pre- decessor, Columbus, proves that it is sometimes danger- ous even to deserve too greatly. VISIT TO THE CONVENT OF RABIDA. 57 The Author'' s Visit to the Convent of Rahida. We alighted at the gate where Cohimbus, when a poor pedestrian, a stranger in the land, asked bread and water for his child ! As long as the convent stands, this must be a spot calculated to awaken the most thrilling interest. The gate remains apparently in nearly the same state as at the time of his visit, but there is no longer a porter at hand to administer to the wants of the way- farer. The door stood wide open, and admitted us into a small court-yard. Thence we passed through a Gothic portal into the chapel, without seeing a human being. We then traversed two interior cloisters, equally vacant and silent, and bearing a look of neglect and dilapidation. From an open window we had a peep at what had once been a garden, but that had also gone to ruin ; the walls were broken and thrown down ; a few shrubs, and a scattered fig-tree or two, were all the traces of cultivation that remained. We passed through the long dormitories, but the cells wei-e shut up and abandoried ; we saw no living thing except a solitary cat stealing across a distant corridor, which fled in a panic at the unusual sight of strangers. At length, after patrolling nearly the whole of the empty building to the echo of our own footsteps, we came to where the door of a cell, being partly open, gave us the sight of a monk within, seated at a table writing. He rose, and received us with much civility, and conducted us to the superior, who was reading in an adjacent cell. They were both rather young men, and, together with a novitiate and a lay-brother, who officiated as cook, formed the whole conununity of the convent. Don Juan Fernandez communicated to them the ob- 3* 58 THE CKAYON READLNG BOOK. ject of my visit, and my desire also to inspect the archives of the convent, to find if there was any record of the sojourn of Cohmibus. They informed us that the archives had been entirely destroyed by the French. The younger monk, however, who had perused them, had a vague recollection of various particulars concern- ing the transactions of Columbus at Palos, his visit to the convent, and the sailing of his expedition. From all that he cited, however, it appeared to me that all the informa- tion on the subject contained in the archives had been extracted from Herrera and other well known authors. The monk was talkative and eloquent, and soon diverged from the subject of Columbus, to one which he considered of infinitely greater importance — the miraculous image of the Virgin possessed by their convent, and known by the name of '• Our Lady of La Rabida." He gave its a history of the wonderful way in which the image had been found buried in the earth, where it had lain hidden for ages, since the time of the conquest of Spain by the Moors ; the disputes between the convent and ditibrent places in the neighborhood for the possession of it ; the marvellous protection it extended to the adjacent country, especially in preventing all madness, either in man or dog, for this malady was anciently so prevalent in this place as to gain it the appellation of La Rabia, by which it was originally called ; a name which, thanks to the beneficent influence of the Virgin, it no longer merited nor retained. Such are the legends and relics with which every convent in Spain is enriched, Avhich are zealously cried up by the monks, and devoutly credited by the populace. Twice a year on the festival of our Lady of La Ra- bida, and on that of the patron saint of the order, the solitude and silence of the convent are interrupted by the VISIT TO THK CONVENT OF RAHIDA. 59 intrusion of a swarming multitude, composed of the in- habitants of Moguor, of Iluclva, and the neighboring plains and mountains. The open esplanade in front of the edifice resembles a fair, the adjacent forest teems with the motley throng, and the image of our Lady of La Ra- bida is borne forth in triumphant procession. While the friar was thus, dilating upon the merits and renown of the image, I amused myself with those day dreams, or conjurings of the imagination, to which I am a little given. As the internal arrangements of convents are apt to be the same from age to age, I pictured to my- self this chamber as the same inhabited by the guardian, Juan Perez de Marchena, at the time of the visit of Co- lumbus. Why might not the old and ponderous table before me be the very one on which he displayed his conjectural maps, and expounded his theory of a western route to India? It required but another stretch of the imagination to assemble the little conclave around the table; Juan Perez the friar, Garci f'ernandez the physi- cian, and Martin Alonzo Pinzon the bold navigator, all listening with rapt attention to Columbus, or to the tale of some old seaman of Palos, about islands seen in the western parts of the ocean. The friars, as far as their poor means and scanty knowledge extended, were disposed to do every thing to promote the object of my visit. They sho\Vcd us all parts of the convent, which, however, has little to boast of, excepting the historical associations connected with it. The library was reduced to a few volumes, chiefly on ecclesiastical subjects, piled promiscuously in the corner of a vaulted chamber, and covered with dust. The chamber itself was curious, being the most ancient part of the edifice, and supposed to have formed part of a temple in the time of the Romans. 60 THE CRAYON READDCG BOOK. We ascended to the roof of the convent to enjoy the extensive prospect it commands. Immediately below the promontory on \vhich it is situated, runs a narrow but tolerably deep river, called the Domingo Rubio, which empties itself into the Tinto. It is the opinion of Don Luis Fernandez Pinzon, that the ships of Columbus were careened and fitted out in this river, as it atlbrds better shelter than the Tinto, and its shores are not so shallow. A lonely bark of a fisherman was lying in this stream, and not far oS, on a sandy point, were the ruins of an ancient watchtower. From the roof of the convent, all the windings of the Odiel and the Tinto were to be seen, and their junction into the main stream, by which Co- lumbus sallied forth to sea. In fact the convent serves as a landmark, being, from its lofty and solitary situa- tion, visible for a considerable distance to vessels coming on the coast. On the opposits side I looked down upon the loneh- road, through the wood of pine trees, by which the zealous guardian of the convent. Fray Juan Perez, departed at midnight on his mule, when he sought the camp of Ferdinand and Isabella in the Vega of Granada, to plead the project of Columbus before the queen. Having finished our inspection of the convent, we prepared to depart, and were accompanied to the outward portal by the two friars. Our calasero brought his rat- tling and rickety vehicle for us to mount ; at sight of which one of the monks exclaimed, with a smile. "• Santa Maria! only to think ! A calesa before the gate of the convent of La Rabida !" And, indeed, so solitary and remote is this ancient edifice, and so simple is the mode of living of the people in this by-corner of Spain, that the appear- ance of even a sorry calesa might well cause astonish- ment. It is only singular that in such a by-corner the scheme of Columbus should have found intellisent listen- VISIT TO THE CONVENT OF RABIDA. 61 ers and coadjutors, after it had been discarded, almost with scoffing and contempt, from learned universities and splendid courts. On our way back to the hacienda, we met Don Ra- fael, a younger son of Don Juan Fernandez, a fine young man, about twenty-one years of age, and who, his father informed me, was at present studying French and math- ematics, He was well mounted on a spirited gray horse, and dressed in the Andalusian style, with the little round hat and jacket. He sat his horse gracefully and man- aged him well. I was pleased with the frank and easy terms on which Don Juan appeared to live with his chil- dren. This I was inclined to think his favorite son, as I understood he was the only one that partook of the old gentleman's fondness for the chase, and that accompanied him in his hunting excursions. A dinner had been prepared for us at the hacienda, by the wife of the capitaz, or overseer, who, with her husband, seemed to be well pleased with this visit from Don Juan, and to be confident of receiving a pleasant answer from the good-humored old gentleman whenever they addressed him. The dinner was served up about two o'clock, and was a most agreeable meal. The fruits and wines were from the estate, and were excellent ; the rest of the provisions were from Moguer, for the adjacent village of Palos is too poor to furnish any thing. A gen- tle breeze from the sea played through the hall, and tem- pered the summer heat. Indeed I do not know when I have seen a more enviable spot than this country retreat of the Pinzons. Its situation on a breezy hill, at no great distance from the sea, and in a southern climate, pro- duces a happy temperature, neither hot in summer nor cold in winter. It commands a beautiful prospect, and is surrounded by natural luxuries. The country abounds 62 THE CRAYON KEADIJVG liOOK. with game, the adjacent river affords abundant sport in fishing, both by day and night, and dehghtful excursions for those fond of saihng. During the busy seasons of rural hfe, and especially at the joyous period of vintage, the family pass some time here, accompanied by nu- merous guests, at which times, Don Juan assured me, there was no lack of amusements, both by land and water. When we had dined, and taken the siesta, or after- noon nap, according to the Spanish custom in summer time, we set out on our return to Moguer, visiting the vil- lage of Palos in the way. Don Gabriel had been sent in advance to procure the keys of the village church, and to apprize the curate of our wish to inspect the archives. The village consists principally of two streets of low whitewashed houses. Many of the inhabitants have very dark complexions, betraying a mixture of African blood. On entering the village, we repaired to the lowly mansion of the curate. I had hoped to find him some such personage as the cm-ate in Don Quixote, possessed of shrewdness and information in his limited sphere, and that I might gain some anecdotes from him concerning his parish, its worthies, its antiquities, and its historical events. Perhaps I might have done so at any other time, but, unfortunately, the curate was something of a sportsman, and had heard of some game among the neighboring hills. We met him just sallying forth from his house, and, I must confess, his appearance was pic- turesque. He was a short, broad, sturdy little man, and had doffed his cassock and broad clerical beaver, for a short jacket and a little round Andalusian hat ; he had his gun in hand, and was on the point of moimting a donkey which had been led forth by an ancient wither- VISIT TO THE CONVENT OF RABIDA. 63 ed handmaid. Fearful of being detained from his foray, he accosted my companion the moment he came in sight. " God preserve you, Sefior Don Juan ! I have received your message, and have but one answer to make. The archives have all been destroyed. We have no trace of any thing you seek for — nothing— nothing. Don Rafael has the keys of the church. You can examine it at your leisure — Adios, caballero !" With these words the gal- liard little curate mounted his donkey, thumped his ribs with the butt end of his gun, and trotted off to the hills. In our way to the church we passed by the ruins of v/hat had once been a fair and spacious dwelling, greatly superior to the other houses of the village. This, Don Juan informed me, was an old family possession, but since they had removed from Palos it had fallen to decay for want of a tenant. It was probably the family resi- dence of Martin Alonzo or Vicente Yafiez Pinzon, in the time of Columbus. We now arrived at the Church of St. George, in the porch of which Columbus first proclaimed to the inhabit- ants of Palos the order of the sovereigns, that they should furnish him with ships for his great voyage of discovery. This edifice has lately been thoroughly repaired, and, being of solid mason-work, promises to stand for ages, a monument of the discoverers. It stands outside of the village, on the brow of a hill, looking along a little valley toward the river. The remains of a Moorish arch prove it to have been a mosque in former times ; just above it, on the crest of the hill, is the ruin of a Moorish castle. I paused in the porch, and endeavored to recall the interesting scene that had taken place there, when Co- lumbus, accompanied by the zealous friar Juan Perez, caused the public notary to read the royal order in pres- ence of the astonished alcaldes, regidors, and alguazils ; 64 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. but it is difficult to conceive the consternation that must have been struck into so remote a Uttle community, by this sudden apparition of an entire stranger among them, bearing a command tliat they should put their persons and ships at his disposal, and sail with him away into the unknown. wilderness of the ocean. The interior of the church has nothing remarkable, excepting a wooden image of St. George vanquishing the Dragon, which is erected over the high altar, and is the admiration of the good people of Palos, who bear it about the streets in grand procession on the anniversary of the saint. This group existed in the time of Colum- bus, and now flourishes in renovated youth and splendor, having been newly painted and gilded, and the counte- nance of the saint rendered peculiarly blooming and lustrous. Having finished the examination of the church, we resumed our seats in the calesa and returned to Moguer. One thing only remained to fulfil the object of my pil- grimage. This was to visit the chapel of the Convent of Santa Clara. When Columbus was in danger of being lost in a tempest on his way home from his great voyage of discovery, he made a vow, that, should he be spared, he would watch and pray one whole night in this chap- el ; a vow which he doubtless fulfilled immediately after his arrival. My kind and attentive friend, Don Juan, conducted me to the convent. It is the wealthiest in Moguer, and belongs to a sisterhood of Franciscan nuns. The chapel is large, and ornamented with some degree of richness, particularly the part about the high altar, which is em- bellished by magnificent monuments of the brave family of the Puerto Carre ros, the ancient lords of Moguer, and renowned in Moorish warfare. The alabaster effigies of VISIT TO THE CONVENT OF RABIDA. 65 distinguished warriors of that house, and of their wives and sisters, he side by side, with folded hands, on tombs immediately before the altar, while others recline in deep niches on either side. The niglit had closed in by the time I entered the church, which made the scene more impressive. A few votive lamps shed a dim light about the interior ; their beams were feebly reflected by the gilded work of the high altar, and the frames of the surrounding paintings, and rested upon the marble fig- ures of the warriors and dames lying in the monumental repose of ages. The solemn pile must have presented much the same appearance when the pious discoverer performed his vigil, kneeling before this very altar, and praying and watching throughout the night, and pouring forth heartfelt praises for having been spared to accom- plish his sublime discovery. I had now completed the main purpose of my jour- ney, having visited the various places connected with the story of Columbus. It was highly gratifying to find some of them so little changed though so great a space of time had intervened ; but in this quiet nook of Spain, so far removed from the main thoroughfares, the lapse of time produces but few violent revolutions. Nothing, however, had surprised and gratified me more than the continued stability of the Pinzon family. On the morn- ing after my excursion to Palos, chance gave me an opportunity of seeing something of the interior of most of their households. Having a curiosity to visit the remains of a Moorish castle, once the citadel of Moguer, Don Fernandez imdertook to show me a tower which served as a magazine of wine to one of the Pinzon family. In seeking for the key, we were sent from liousc to house of nearly the whole connection. All appeared to be living in that golden mean equally removed from 6G THE CRAYON READINfi BOOK. 1 the wants and suportliiitios o( life, and all to be happily interwoven by kind and cordial habits of intimacy. We found the females of the family generally seated in the patios, or central courts of their dwellings, beneath the shade of awnings and among shrubs and llowers. Here the Andalusian ladies arc accustomed to pass their morn- ings at work, siuromided by their handmaids, in the primitive, or rather, oriental style. In the porches of some of the houses I observed the coat of arms granted to the family by Charles V., hung up like a picture in a frame. Over the door of Don Luis, the naval officer, it was carved on an escutcheon of stone, and colored. I had gathered many particidars of the family also from conversation with Don Juan, and from the family legend lent me by Don Luis. From all that I could learn, it would appear that the lapse of nearly three centuries and a half has made but little change in the condition of the Pinzons. From generation to generation they have retained the same fair standing and reputable name throughout the neighborhood, filling offices of public trust anil dignity, and possessing great inlluonce over their fellow-citizens by their good sense and good con- duct How rare is it to see such an instance of stability of fortime in this llnctuating world, and how truly hon- orable is this hereditary respectability, which has been secured by uo titles nor entails, but pevpetuatctl merely by the innate worth of the race ! 1 declare to you that the most illustrious descents of mere titled rank could never conmiand the sincere respect and cordial regard M'ith which I contemplated this stanch and enduring family, which lor three centuries and a half has stood merely upon its virtues. As I was to set otf on my return to Seville betbre two o'clock, I partook of a farewell repast at the house of Don PHILIP OF POKANOKET: an INDIAN MEMOIR. G7 Fuan, between twelve and one, and then took leave of his liousehold witli shicere regret. The good old gentle- man, with the courtesy, or ratiier the cordiality of a true Spaniard, accompanied me to the posada, to see me olf. I had dispensed but little money in the posada — thanks to the hospitality of the Pinzons — yet the Spanish pride of my host and hostess seemed pleased that I had pre- ferred their humble chamber, and the scanty bed they had provided me, to the spacious mansion of Don Juan ; and when I expressed my thanks for their kindness, and attention, and regaled mine host with a few choice segars, the heart of the poor man was overcome. He seized me by botli hands and gave me a parting benediction, and then ran after the calasero, to enjoin him to take particu- lar care of me during my journey. Philip of Pokanoket : an Indian Memoir. As nionumt'iitiil bronze unclianged his look : A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier. The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. Cami'bell. It is to be regretted that those early writers, who treated of the discovery and settlement of America, have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us arc full of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a 68 THE CRAYON READING BOOIC. comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civ- ilization. There is something of the charm of dicovery in lighting upon these wild and mrexplored tracts of hu- man nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving those generous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a stu- died part. The bold and peculiar traits of native charac- ter are refined away, or softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed good-breeding ; and he prac- tises so many petty deceptions, and atfects so many gen- erous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial charac- ter. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow sin- gly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface ; he, however, who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is pain- ful to perceive, even from these partial narratives, how PHILIP OF POKANOKET: an INDIAN MEMOIR. 69 the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the aborigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and ex- terminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of na- ture's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust ! Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror through- out Massachusetts and Connecticut, He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampa- noags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New England ; a band of native untaught heroes, who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they liave left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition. When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and dis- heartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships ; sur- rounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; ex- posed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever- shifting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the strong ex- 70 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. citement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situa- tion they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friend- ship, and extended towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settle- ment of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. What- ever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suflering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the pur- pose of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. At this conference he endeavored to protect the reli- gion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw ofi" his people from their ancient faith; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the residence of a principal settler, recom- mending mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreat- ing that the same love and amity which had existed PHILIP OF POKANOKET : AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 71 between the white men and himself might be continued afterwards witli his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to liis fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. lie was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive pol- icy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld with uneasiness their exter- minating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansets to rise against the Eng- lish and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, how- ever, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel con- scious of the rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They dispatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, un- armed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dig- nity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return home, on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his re-appearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his 72 THE CUAYO.N REAWXlJ BOOK. lotty spirit and ambitious toinpor. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him ail object of great jealousy and appi-eheiision, and he was accused of having always cherished a secret and impla- cable hostility towards the whites. Such may very prob- ably, and very naturally, have been the case. He con- sideit^d them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who had pivsumed upon indulgence, and were extending an intiuence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil was origi- nally puivhased by the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of Indian purchases, in the early periods of colonization .- The Europeans always made thrifty bar- gains through their superior adroitness in tratlic ; and they gained vast accessions oi' territory by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice in- qiiirer into the ix^linenients of law, by whicli an injury may be gradually and legally intlicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Philip to know that bet'ore the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. IJut whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he su{>pressed them for the present, re- newed the contract with the settlei-s, and i-esided j^eacea- bly for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was called by the English. Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dommion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first • Now Bristol, Rhode Island. PHILir OF POKANOKET I AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 73 but vague and iudcfaiite, began to uc({uiio Ibrui and sub- stance ; and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the various Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a sinudtaneoiKs etibrt, to throw off the yoke of tlieir oppressors. It is dillicult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to tliese early accusations against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave weigh! and importance to every idle tale. In- formers abounded where tale-bearing met with counte- nance and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheath- ed when its success was certain, and it carved out em- pire. The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausanian, a renegade Indian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secre- tary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adver- sity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous mvcstigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be ex- amined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; they had ])reviously determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and had done enough to insure his hostility ; according, there- fore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. 4 74 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Sausaman. the treacherous informer, was shortly after- wards found dead, in a pond, having fahen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of wiioni Avas a friend and counsellor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious pun- ishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken- hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, ex- culpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dis- patched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narragansets for safety ; and wherever he appeared, was continually surromided by armed warriors. When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irritation, the least spark was sutficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, arid committed various petty depreda- tions. In one of their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy tmies we meet with many indications of the diseased PHILIP OF POKANOKET : AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 75 State of the public mind. The gloom of religious ab- straction, and the wildness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the in- habitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood, " was heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning by the dis- charge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads ; and certain monstrous births, which took place about the time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena : to the northern lights which occiu" vividly in those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest ; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks ; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with * The Rev. Increase Mather's History. 76 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells with horror and indignation on every hostile act of the Indians, how- ever justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor ; without considering that he was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the M^rongs of his family ; to retrieve the tottering power of his line ; and to deliver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail, a mere suc- cession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip : and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple tacts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a PHILIP OF POKANOKET: an INDIAN MEMOIR. 77 fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hard- ship, and an unconquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a near kins- woman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They immediately recog- nized the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical la- mentations." However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treach- ery of his followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of ho])e was broken — -the ardor of enterprise was extinguished — he looked around, and all was danger and 78 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. darkness ; tliere was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of follow- ers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Moun Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurk- ed about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods, above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquir- ing a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking place. Defeated, but not dismayed — crush- ed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Lit- tle minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in reA'enge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white PHILIP OF PUKANOKET: an INDIAN MEMOIR. 79 men and Indians were immediately dispatched to the swamp where Phihp lay cronched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while lie saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all re- sistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegade Indian of his own nation. Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dis- honored when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty charac- ter sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" are mentioned with exultation as causing him poignant mis- ery : the death of any near friend is triumphantly record- ed as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily sutfering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to en- joy it among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent 80 THE CRAYON KEAPrSG BOOK. and despis^ed in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold acliievements that would have graced a civilized w^axrior. and would have render- ed him the theme ot the poet and the historian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native laud, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest — without a pityhig eye to weep his fall, or a Irieudlv hand to record his struggle. Traits of Indian cJtaracier. •' I appeal to any white man if erer he entered Logan's cabin hongrr, and he gare him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and be clothed him noc" SrEKCH OF AS Ixi>ia:t Chtet. There is something in the character and habits of the North American savage, taken in comiection with the sceneiv- over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, bomidless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sub- lime. He is fonned for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, sunple. and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support priva- tions. There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of the kindly virtues ; and yet if we would but take tl\e trouble to penetrate through tliat proud stoicism and habitual taciturnir\-. which kx-k up his character ftom casual observation, we should find him linked to his fel- low-man of civilized life by more of tliose sympathies and affections than are usually ascribeii to him. It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 81 America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white men. They have been dispossess- ed of their hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre- quently wanton warfare : and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest ; and the au- thor has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize; the latter to villify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and convenience, Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity ; and little mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to in- culcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current * The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, ami civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by in- 4* 89 I'HE CKAYON KEAPINi.i BOOK.. opinion ot" tho Indian character, lunvevor, is t».x> apt to be tornuHi tivni the miserable lioixies wliich infest the fron- tiers, and haui: on the skirts of the settlements. These aiv ttxi connnonly comj.K>set.i of degenerate beings, cor- riiptei.1 and enft»ebled by the vices of society, witliont be- ing Ivnefited by its civilization. That pixnid indejvndence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and tlie whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits art» humiliated and delxistxl by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and daunted by the suix^rior knowledge and jx>wer of their enlightened neighlx^rs. S».XMety has advanced ujxni them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes bretxl desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strtMigth. multiplied their diseases, and sujxn'hiductxi upon their original kirkvrity the low vices of artiticial life. It has given them a thousixnd sujiertiuous wants, whilst it has diminished their memis of mere existence. It has driven Knoiv it the animals of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe iuid the smoke of the settlement, and stx'k ivfuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet un- tnxiden wilds. Thus do we too otten And the Indians on our iWntiers to W the mere wrecks and remnants of once p«.nverful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vag;ilx^nd ex- istence. Poverty, repining and hopeless jx^verty. a canker of the mind unknown in siivage life, coraxles their spirits, and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. They Kvome drunken, indolent, tlvble, thievish, and pu- sillanimous. Tliey loiter Uke ^-ag^ults about tlie settle- ments, among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate diriduals is penuitted ; dot b any person allowed to receit* lands from tbem as a present, without the express sanction of g«>venmient These prevau- tions aie strictly enibrced. TKAITS OK 1M)IAN CM A IJ A("Ti;i! . 83 conilorls, which only rciuh'r (h(>m smisihlc oC ihc coni- paralivc wriMchcdiicss of (licir own conihtion. Luxury spreads ils ;uu])lc hoard lu'lorc (li(>ir eyes; hut they aro cxchidcd iVoni tlu> han(|ucl. Plenty revels over the fields; hul they are starviuii; in the midst of its ahundaiice: tlie whole wildiM'uess has l)lossonie(l into a i^ardeu ; hul they leel as reptiles that iulest it. How dillerent was their slate while y<'l the undisputed lords of the soil ! 'riioir wants were lew, and the means of gratification within their roach. They saw every one round Iheni sharing the same lot, enduring the same liard- ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof ihon rose, hut was open to the homeless stranger; no sinojio curled among the trees, hut he was welcome to sit down hy its fuo and join the hunter in his rejiast. " l'\)r," says an old historian of New I'iiigland, "their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that th(>y make use of those things they enjoy as common gooils, and are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should starve through want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their tinu^ iiKM-rily, not regard- ing our ]iom|), hut are luMt(>r content with their own, which some \\\vi\ esleem so meanly of" Such were the Indians whilst in thi^ pridi^ and (Mu^rgy of their jnimitivc natures: they resemhled thos(> wild jjlauts, which thrive h(>sl in the shades ot' th(> forest, hut shrink Irom the hand of cultivation, and p(Mish heneath the iiillueuce of the Sim. In discussing the savage character, writers have been too |iroiie to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, instead of th(^ candid temp(>r of true phi- losophy. 'lMu>y hav(> not sutliciently consid(M-ed the peculiar circiunslances in which 1h(> Indians have been placed, and the [U'culiar princij)les under which they have 84 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated accord- ing to some general maxims early implanted in ?iis mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ? A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wan- tonness with which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, dis- trustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and frankness which are in- dispensable to real friendship; nor is sufficient caution observed not to ofiend against those feelings of pride or superstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soli- tary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diflused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his aftections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects ; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannnot sufliciently appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole ; and the senti- ment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diflused. One council fire is suflicient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fight- ing men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 85 up to a kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a motive pecuhar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Mas- sachusetts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plun- dered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are re- markable for the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours in silent medita- tion. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. " When last the glorious light of all the sky was un- derneath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou for- get to take revenge of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our 86 THE CKAVO.N REAmNG BOOK. antiquities and honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave hes like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and im- plores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be sutiered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vmiished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my spirits that were tied, and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous motives, which our inatten- tion to Indian character and customs prevents our pro- perly appreciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, were never so formida- ble in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, by the capture and massa- cre of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not tjuis TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 87 sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affec- tion of relatives and friends ; nay, so hospitable and ten- der is their entertainment, that when the alternative is olfered them, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- stition, has been exasperated into a gratification of ven- geance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide- spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin of Eu- ropean warfare. The whites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their villages, and laying waste their slender means of subsistence : and yet they wonder that savages do not show modera- tion and magnanimity towards those who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this they are fully justi- fied by their rude code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical 88 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. weakness in comparison with other animals. Tliey are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to de- pend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow- man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That chival- rous courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil wliich exists but in the imagination. It has been cher- ished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of fiction ; and even the historian has for- gotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monu- ments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, cour- age has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and, arrayed in all the glorious '• pomp and circmnstance of war," this turbulent quality has even TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 89 been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of human happiness. But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a contiimal exhibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his na- ture ; or rather seem necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hos- tile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and sur- prisal, he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean ; — as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; — so the In- dian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight- errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obsta- cles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts, with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase : he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buflalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its cruellest affliction. Indeed we here behold him rising superior to the white man, in con- 90 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. sequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious deatli at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the llesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies without a groan. Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have overshadowed the characters of the un- fortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed awa3^ In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indis- criminate butchery. In one place we read of the sur- prisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being dispatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian piously observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to make a final destruction of them," the un- happy savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, THAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 91 but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pcqnod war- riors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; with hearts bursting with grief at the destruc- tion of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the con- querors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon whom they dis- charged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe." Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without admiring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste 92 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their robes, and seated with stern tranquilhty in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered death without resistance or even supphcation. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous ; in the hap- less Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How diflerent is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomly pictures. The eastern tribes have long since disappeared ; the for- ests that sheltered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly-settled states of New England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potomac and the Rappahannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shen- andoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness : and " the places that now know them will know them no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA. 93 romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. — "We are driven back," said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished — a little longer and the white man will cease to perse- cute us — for we shall cease to exist !" The Moiith of the Columbia. The Columbia, or Oregon, for the distance of thirty or forty miles from its entrance into the sea, is, properly speaking, a mere estuary, indented by deep bays so as to vary from three to seven miles in width ; and is rendered extremely intricate and dangerous by shoals reaching nearly from shore to shore, on which, at times, the winds and currents produce foaming and tumultuous breakers. The mouth of the river proper is but about half a mile wide, formed by the contracting shores of the estuary. The entrance from the sea, as we have already observed, is bounded on the south side by a flat sandy spit of land, stretching into the ocean. This is commonly called Point Adams. The opposite, or northern side, is Cape Disap- 94 THE CRAYON KEADLVG BOOK. pointment ; a kind of peninsula, terminating in a steep knoll or promontory crowned with a forest of pine trees, ai.d connected with the main-land by a low and narrow neck. Immediately within this cape is a wide, open bay, terminating at Chinook Point, so called from a neighbor- ing tribe of Indians. This was called Bakers Bay. and here the Tonquin was anchored. The natives inhabiting the lower part of the river, and with whom the company was likely to have the most frequent intercourse, were divided at this time into four tribes, the Chinooks, Clatsops, Wahkiacums, and Catli- lamahs. They resembled each other in person, dress, language, and manner ; and were probably from the same stock, but broken into tribes, or rather hordes, by those feuds and schisms frequent among Indians. These people generally live by fishing. It is true they occasionally hunt the elk and deer, and ensnare the waterfowl of their ponds and rivers, but these are casual luxuries. Their chief subsistence is derived from the salmon and other fish which abound in the Columbia and its tributary streams, aided by roots and herbs, espe- cially the wappatoo, which is found on the islands of the river. As the Indians of the plains who depend upon the chase are bold and expert riders, and pride themselves upon their horses, so these piscatory tribes of the coast excel ill the management of canoes, and are never more at home than Avhen riding upon the waves. Their ca- noes vary in form and size. Some are upwards of fifty feet long, cut out of a single tree, either fir or white cedar, and capable of carrying thirty persons. They have thwart pieces from side to side about three inches thick, and their gunwales flare outwards, so as to cast off" the surges of the waves. The bow and stern are decorated THE MOUTH OF THE COLUMBIA. 95 with grotesque figures of men and animals, sometimes five feet in height. In managing their canoes they kneel two and two along the bottom, sitting on their heels, and wielding paddles from four to five feet long, while one sits on the stern and steers with a paddle of the same kind. The women are equally expert with the men in managing the canoe, and generally take the helm. It is surprising to see with what fearless unconcern these savages venture in their light barks upon the roughest and most tempestuous seas. They seem to ride upon the waves like sea-fowl. Should a surge throw the canoe upon its side arid endanger its overturn, those to windward lean over the upper gunwale, thrust their paddles deep into the wave, apparently catch the water and force it under the canoe, and by this action not merely regain an equilibrium, but give their bark a vig- orous impulse forward. The eflect of different modes of life upon the human frame and human character is strikingly instanced in the contrast between the hunting Indians of the prairies, and the piscatory Indians of the sea-coast. The former, con- tinually on horseback scouring the plains, gaining their food by hardy exercise, and subsisting chiefly on flesh, are generally tall, sinewy, meager, but well formed, and of bold and fierce deportment : the latter, lounging about the river banks, or squatting and curved up in their ca- noes, are generally low in stature, ill-shaped, with crooked legs, thick ankles, and broad flat feet. They are inferior also in muscular power and activity, and in game quali- ties and appearance, to their hard-riding brethren of the prairies. At one part of the river, they passed, on the northern side, an isolated rock, about one hundred and fifty feet 96 THE CRAYON KEADINO BOOK. high, rising from a low marshy soil, and totally discon- nected with the adjacent mountains. This was held in great reverence by the neighboring Indians, being one of their principal places of sepulture. The same provident care for the deceased that prevails among the hunting tribes of the prairies is observable among the piscatory tribes of the rivers and sea-coast. Among the former, the favorite horse of the hunter is buried with him in the same funereal mound, and his bow and arrows are laid by his side, that he may be perfectly equipped for the "happy hunting grounds'' of the land of spirits. Among the latter, the Indian is wrapped in his mantle of skins, laid in his canoe, with his paddle, his fishing spear, and other implements beside him, and placed aloft on some rock or other eminence overlooking the river, or bay, or lake, that he has frequented. He is thus fitted out to launch away upon those placid streams and sunny lakes stocked with all kinds of fish and waterfowl, which are prepared in the next world for those who have acquitted themselves as good sons, good fathers, good husbands, and, above all good fishermen, during their mortal so- journ. The isolated rock in question presented a spectacle of the kind, numerous dead bodies being deposited in canoes on its summit ; while on poles around were trophies, or, rather, funereal offerings of trinkets, garments, baskets of roots, and other articles, for the use of the deceased. A reverential leeling protects these sacred spots from robbery or insult. The friends of the deceased, especially the women, repair here at sunrise and sunset for some time after his death, siui^in^ his funeral dirge, and uttering loud wailin^s and lamentations. FLIGHT OF PIGEONS. 97 Flight of Pigeons. The pigeons too were filling the woods in vast migra- tory flocks. It is almost incredible to describe the prodi- gions flights of these birds in the western wilderness. They appear absolutely in crowds, and move with aston- ishing velocity, their wings making a whistling sound as they fly. The rapid evolutions of these flocks, wheeling and shifting suddenly as with one mind and one im- pulse ; the flashing changes of color they present, as their backs, their breasts, or the under parts of their wings are turned to the spectator, are singularly pleasing. When they alight, if on the ground, they cover whole acres at a time ; if upon trees, the branches often break beneath their weight. If suddenly startled while feeding in the midst of a forest, the noise they make in getting on the wing is like the roar of a cataract or the sound of distant thunder. A flight of this kind, like an Egyptian flight of lo- custs, devours every thing that serves for food as it passes along. So great were the numbers in the vicinity of the camp that Mr. Bradbury, in the course of a morning's excursion, shot nearly three hundred with a fowling- piece. He gives a curious, though apparently a faithful, account of the kind of discipline observed in these im- mense flocks, so that each may have a chance of picking up food. As the front ranks must meet with the greatest abundance, and the rear ranks must have scanty pick- ings, the instant a rank finds itself the hindmost, it rises in the air, flies over the whole flock, and takes its place in the advance. The next rank follows in its course, and thus tlie last is continually becoming first, and all by turns have a front place at the banquet. 5 98 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Early Adventures among the Indians of the Rocky JMountains. On the afternoon of the following day (June 1st) they arrived at the great bend, where the river winds for about thirty miles round a circular peninsula, the neck of which is not above two thousand yards across. On the succeed- ing morning, at an early hour, they descried two Indians standing on a high bank of the river, waving and spread- ing their buti'alo robes in signs of amity. Tliey imme- diately pulled to shore and landed. On approaching the savages, however, the latter showed evident symptoms of alarm, spreading out their arms horizontally, according to their mode of supplicating clemency. The reason was soon explained. They proved to be two chiefs of the very war- party that had brought Messrs. Crooks and M'Lellan to a stand two years before, and obliged them to escape down the river. They ran to embrace these gentlemen, as if delighted to meet with them ; yet they evidently feared some retaliation of their past misconduct, nor were they quite at ease until the pipe of peace had been smoked. Mr. Hunt, having been informed that the tribe to which these men belonged had killed three white men during the preceding summer, reproached them with the crime, and demanded their reasons for such savage hos- tility. '• "NVe kill white men," replied one of the chiefs, " because white men kill us. That very man." added he, pointing to Carson, one of the new recruits, " killed one of our brothers last summer. The three white men were slain to avenge his death." The chief was correct in his reply. Carson admitted that, being with a party of Arickaras on the banks of the ROCKY MOUNTAIN ADVENTURES. 99 Missouri, and seeing a war party of Sioux on the oppo- site side, he had fired with his rifle across. It was a random shot, made without much expectation of effect, for the river was full half a mile in breadth. Unluckily, it brought down a Sioux warrior, for whose wanton destruction threefold vengeance had been taken, as has been stated. In this way outrages arc frequently com- mitted on the natives by thoughtless or mischievous white men ; tlu^ Indians retaliate according to a law of their code, which requires blood for blood ; their act, of what with them is pious vengeance, resounds throughout the laud, and is represented as wanton and unprovoked ; the ncighbojhood is roused to arms ; a war ensues, which ends in the destruction of half the tribe, the ruin of the rest, and their expulsion from their hereditary homes. Such is too often the real history of Indian warfare, which in general is traced up only to some vindictive act of a savage ; while the outrage of the scoundrel white man that provoked it is sunk in silence. The two chiefs, having smoked their pipe of peace and received a few presents, departed well satisfied. In a little while two others appeared on horseback, and rode up abreast of the boats. They had seen the presents given to their comrades, but were dissatisfied with them, and came after the boats to ask for more. Being some- what peremptory and insolent in their demands, Mr. Hunt gave them a flat refusal, and threatened, if they or any of their tribe followed him with similar demands, to treat them as enemies. Tliey turned and rode off in a furious passion. As he was ignorant what force these chiefs might have behind the hills, and as it was very possible they might take advantage of some pass of the river to attack the boats, Mr. Hunt called all stragglers on board and pi'epared for such emergency. It was 100 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. agreed that the large boat, commanded by Mr. Himi, should ascend along the northeast side of the river, and the three smaller boats along tlie south side. By this aiTangement each party would command a view of the opposite heights above the heads and out of sight of their companions, and could give the alarm should they per- ceive any Indians lurking there. The signal of alarm was to be two shots fired in quick succession. The boats proceeded for the greater part of the day without seeing any signs of an enemy. About fom* o'clock in the afternoon the large boat, commanded by Mr. Hmit. came to where the river was divided by a long sand-bar. which apparently, however, left a suffi- cient channel between it and the shore along wliich they were advancing. He kept up this chamiel. therefore, for some distance, until the water proved too shallow for the boat. It was necessary, therefore, to put about, return down the channel, and pull round the lower end of the sand-bar into the main stream. Just as he had given orders to this eflect to his men, two signal-guns were fired from the boats on the opposite side of the river. At the same time a file of savage warriors Avas observed pouring down from the impending bank, and gathering on the shore at the lower end of the bar. They were evidently a war party, being armed A\ith bows and ar- rows, battle clubs and carbines, and roimd bucklers of buffalo hide, and their naked bodies were painted with black and white stripes. The natural inference was, that they belonged to the two tribes of Sioux which had been expected by the great war party, and that they had been incited to hostility by the two chiefs who had been enraged by the refusal and menace of 31r. Hunt. Here then was a fearful predicament. Mr. Hunt and his crew seemed caught, as it were, in a trap. The Indians, to ROCKY MOUNTAIN ADVENTURES. 101 tlie number of about a hundred, had ah'eady taken pos- session of a point near which the boat would have to pass : others kept pouring down the bank, and it was probable that some would remain posted on the top of the height. The hazardous situation of Mr. Hunt was perceived by those in the other boats, and they hastened to his assistance. They were at some distance above the sand- bar, however, and on the opposite side of the river, and saw, with intense anxiety, the number of savages con- tinually augmenting at the lower end of the channel, so that the boat would be exposed to a fearful attack before they could render it any assistance. Their anxiety in- creased, as they saw Mr. Hunt and his party descending the channel and dauntlessly approaching the point of danger ; but it suddenly changed into surprise on be- holding the boat pass close by the savage horde mimo- lested, and steer out safely into the broad river. The next moment the whole band of warriors was in motion. They ran along the bank until they were oppo- site to the boats, then throwing by their weapons and buffalo robes, plunged into the river, waded and swam off to the boats and surrounded them in crowds, seeking to shake hands with every individual on board ; for the Indians have long since found this to be the white man's token of amity, and they carry it to an extreme. All uneasiness was now at an end. The Indians proved to be a war party of Arickaras, Mandans, and Minnetarees, consisting of three hundred warriors, and bound on a foray against the Sioux. Their war plans were abandoned for the present, and they determined to return to the Arickara town, where they hoped to obtain from the white men arms and ammunition that would enable them to take the field with advantage over their enemies. 102 THE CRAYON" READING BOOK. The boats now sought the first convenient place for encampina:. The tents were pitched ; the warriors fixed their camp at about a hundred yards distant ; provisions were furnished from the boats sufficient for all parties ; there was hearty though rude feasting in both camps, and in the evening the red warriors entertained their white friends with dances and songs, that lasted until after midnight. All Indian Council Lodge. At length they arrived at the council lodge. It was somewhat spacious, and formed of four forked trunks of trees placed upright, supporting cross-beams and a frame of poles interwoven with osiers, and the whole covered with earth. A hole sunken in the centre formed the fireplace, and immediately above was a circular hole in the apex of the lodge, to let out the smoke and let in the daylight. Around the lodge were recesses for sleeping, like the berths on board ships, screened from view by curtains of dressed skins. At the upper end of the lodge was a kind of hunting and warlike trophy, consisting of two butlalo heads garishly painted, surmounted by shields, bows, quivers of arrows, and other weapons. On entering the lodge the chief pointed to mats or cusliions whicli had been placed around for the strangers, and on which they seated themselves, while he placed himself on a kind of stool. An old man then came for- ward with the pipe of peace or good-fellowship, lighted and handed it to the chief, and then talhng back, squatted himself near the door. The pipe was passed from mouth to mouth, each one taking a whiff, which is AN INDIAN COIINCIL LODGE. 103 equivalent to the inviolable pledge of faith, of taking salt together among the ancient Britons, The chief then made a sign to the old pipe-bearer, who seemed to fill, hkewise, the station of herald, seneschal, and public crier, for he ascended to the top of the lodge to make proclamation. Here he took his post beside the aperture for the emission of smoke, and the admission of light ; the chief dictated from within what he was to proclaim, and he bawled it forth with a force of lungs that re- sounded over all the village. In this way he summoned the warriors and great men to council ; every now and then reporting progress to his chief through the hole in the roof In a little while the braves and sages began to enter one by one as their names were called or announced, emerging from under the buffalo robe suspended over the entrance instead of a door, stalking across the lodge to the skins placed on the floor, and crouching down on them in silence. In this way twenty entered and took their seats, forming an assemblage worthy of the pencil ; for the Arickaras are a noble race of men, large and well formed, and maintain a savage grandeur and gravity of demeanor in their solemn ceremonials. All being seated, the old seneschal prepared the pipe of ceremony or council, and having lit it, handed it to the chief He inhaled the sacred smoke, gave a puff upward to the heaven, then downward to the earth, then towards the east ; after this it was as usual passed from mouth to mouth, each holding it respectfully until his neighbor had taken several whiffs ; and now the grand council was considered as opened in due form. The cliief made an harangue welcoming the white men to his village, and expressing his happiness in taking them by the hand as friends ; but at the same 104 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. time complaining of the poverty of himself and his people ; the usual prelude among Indians to begging or hard bargaining. Lisa rose to reply, and the eyes of Hunt and his com- panions were eagerly turned upon him, those of M'Lellan glaring like a basilisk's. He began by the usual ex- pressions of friendship, and then proceeded to explain the object of his own party. Those persons, however, said he, pointing to Mr. Hunt and his companions, are of a dillerent party, and are quite distinct in their views ; but, added he, though we are separate parties, we make but one connnon cause when the safety of either is concerned. Any injury or insult oliered to them I shall consider as done to myself, and will resent it accordingly. .1 trust, therefore, that you will treat them with the same friend- ship that you have always manifested for me, doing every thing in your power to serve them and to help them on their way. The speech of Lisa, delivered with an air of frankness and sincerity, agreeably surprised and disappointed the rival party. Mr. Hunt then spoke, declaring the object of his journey to the great Salt Lake beyond the mountains, and that he should want horses for the purpose, for which he was ready to trade, having brought with him plenty of goods. Both he and liisa concluded their speeches by making presents of tobacco. The left-handed chieftain in reply promised his friend- ship and aid to the new comers, and welcomed them to his village. He added that they had not the number of horses to spare that Blr. Hunt required, and expressed a doubt whether they should be able to part with any. Upon this, another chietUiin, called Gray Eyes, made a speech, and declared that they could readily supply Mr. Hunt with all the horses he might want, since, if they AN INDIAN COUNCIL LODGE. 105 had not enough in the village, they could easily steal more. This honest expedient immediately removed the main difficulty ; but the chief delerrcd all trading for a day or two, until he should have time to consult with his subordinate chiefs, as to market rates ; for the principal chief of a village, in conjunction with his council, usually fixes the prices at which articles shall be bought and sold, and to them the village must conform. The council now broke up. Mr. Hunt transferred his crffnp across the river !it a liltlo distance below the village, and the left-handed chief placed some of his warriors as a guard to prevent the intrusion of any of his people. The camp was pitched on the river bank just above the boats. The tents, and the men wrapped in their blankets and bivouacking on skins in the open air, surrounded the baggage at night. Four sentinels also kept watch within sight of each other outside of the camp until midnight, when they were relieved by four others who mounted guard imtil daylight. Mr. Lisa encamped near to Mr. Hunt, between him and the village. The speech of Mr. Lisa in the council had produced a pacific effect in the encampment. Though the sin- cerity of his friendship and good-will towards the new company still remained matter of doubt, he was no longer suspected of an intention to play false. The in- tercourse between the two leaders was, therefore, resumed, and the affairs of both parties went on har- moniously. 106 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Domestic Life of an Indian. The life of an Indian when at home in his Aallage is a hfe of indolence and amusement. To the woman is consigned the labors of the household and the field ; she arranges the lodge ; brings wood for the fire ; cooks ; jerks venison and buffalo meat ; dresses the skins of the animals killed in the chase; cultivates the little patch of maize, pumpkins, and pulse, which furnishes a great part of their provisions. Their time for repose and recreation is at sunset, when the labors of the day being ended, they gather together to amuse themselves with petty games, or to hold gossiping convocations on the tops of their lodges. As to the Indian, he is a game animal, not to be degraded by useful or menial toil. It is enough that he exposes himself to the hardships of the chase and the perils of war ; that he brings home food for his family, and watches and fights for its protection. Every thing else is beneath his attention. When at home, he attends only to his weapons and his horses, preparing the means of future exploit. Or he engages with his comrades in games of dexterity, agility and strength ; or in gambling games in which every thing is put at hazard, with a recklessness seldom witnessed in civilized life. A great part of the idle leisure of the Indians when at home, is passed in groups, squatted together on the bank of a river, on the top of a mound on the prairie, or on the roof of one of their earth-covered lodges, talking over the news of the day, the aftairs of the tribe, the events and exploits of their last hunting or fighting ex- pedition ; or listening to the stories of old times told by RETURN OF A WAR PARTY. 107 some veteran chronicler ; resembling a group of our vil- lage quidnuncs and politicians, listening to the prosings of some superannuated oracle, or discussing the contents of an ancient newspaper. As to the Indian women, they are far from complain- ing of their lot. On the contrary, they would despise their husbands could they stoop to any menial office, and would think it conveyed an imputation upon their own conduct. It is the worst insult one virago can cast upon another in a moment of altercation. " Infamous woman !" will she cry, " I have seen your husband carrying wood into his lodge to make the fire. Where was his squaw, that he should be obliged to make a woman of himself !" Return of a War Party. On the 9th of July, just before daybreak, a great noise and vociferation was heard in the village. This being the usual Indian hour of attack and surprise, and the Sioux being known to be in the neighborhood, the camp was instantly on the alert. As the day broke Indians were descried in considerable number on the blufts, three or four miles down the river. The noise and agitation in the village continued. The tops of the lodges were crowded with the inhabitants, all earnestly looking to- wards the hills, and keeping up a vehement chattering. Presently an Indian warrior galloped past the camp to- wards the village, and in a little while the legions began to pour forth. The truth of the matter was now ascertained. The Indians upon the d tant hills were three hundred Aric 108 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. kara braves returning from a foray. They had met the war party of Sioux who had been so long hovering about the neighborhood, had fought them the day before, killed several, and defeated the rest with the loss of but two or three of their own men and about a dozen wounded ; and they were now halting at a distance until their comrades in the village should come forth to meet them, and swell the parade of their triumphal entry. The warrior who had galloped past the camp was the leader of the party, hastening home to give tidings of his victory. Preparations were now made for this great martial ceremony. All the finery and equipments of the Avar- riors were sent forth to them, that they might appear to the greatest advantage. Those, too, who had remained at home, tasked their wardrobes and toilets to do honor to the procession. The Arickaras generally go naked, but, like all sa- vages, they have their gala dress, of which they are not a little vain. This usually consists of a gray surcoat and leggins of the dressed skin of the antelope, resembling chamois leather, and embroidered with porcupine quills brilliantly dyed. A butialo robe is thrown over the right shoulder, and across the left is slung a quiver of arrows. They wear gay coronets of plumes, particularly those of the swan ; but the feathers of the black eagle are consi- dered the most worthy, being a sacred bird among the Indian warriors. He who has killed an enemy in his own land, is entitled to drag at his heels a fox-skin at- tached to each moccason ; and he who has slain a grizzly bear, wears a necklace of his claws, the most glorious trophy that a hunter can exhibit. An Indian toilet is an operation of some toil and trouble ; the warrior often has to paint himself from head to foot, and is extremely capricious and difficult to please, RETURN OF A WAR PARTY. 109 as to the hideous distribution of streaks and colors. A great part of the morning, therefore, passed away before there were any signs of the distant pageant. In the meantime, a profound stilhiess reigned over the village. Most of the inhabitants had gone forth ; others remained in mute expectation. All sports and occupations were suspended, except that in the lodges the painstaking squaws were silently busied in preparing the repasts for the warriors. It was near noon that a mingled sound of voices and rude music, faintly heard from a distance, gave notice that the procession was on the march.' The old men and such of the squaws as could leave their employments hastened forth to meet it. In a little while it emerged from behind a hill, and had a wild and picturesque ap- pearance as it came moving over the summit in measured step, and to the cadence of songs and savage instruments ; the warlike standards and trophies flaunting aloft, and the feathers, and paint, and silver ornaments of the war- riors glaring and glittering in the sunshine. The pageant had really something chivalrous in its arrangement. The Arickaras are divided into several bands, each bearing the name of some animal or bird, as the buffalo, the bear, the dog, the pheasant. The present party consisted of four of these bands, one of which was the dog, the most esteemed in war, being composed of young men under thirty, and noted for prowess. It is engaged on the most desperate occasions. The bands marched in separate bodies under their several leaders. The warriors on foot came first, in platoons of ten or twelve abreast ; then the horsemen. Each band bore as an ensign a spear or bow decorated with beads, porcupine quills, and painted feathers. Each bore its trophies of scalps, elevated on poles, their long black locks streaming 110 THE CUAYOiN liEADING BOOK. in the wind. Each was accompanied by its rude music and minstrelsy. In this way the procession extended nearly a quarter of a mile. The warriors were variously armed, some few with guns, others with bows and ar- rows, and war clubs ; all had shields of buffalo hide, a kind of defence general ly used by the Indians of the open prairies, who have not the covert of trees and forests to protect them. They were painted in the most savage style. Some had the stamp of a red hand across their mouths, a sign that they had drunk the life-blood of a foe! As they drew near to the village the old men and the women began to meet them, and now a scene ensued that proved the fallacy of the old fable of Indian apathy and stoicism. Parents and children, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, met with the most rapturous expres- sions of joy ; while wailings and lamentations were heard from the relatives of the killed and wounded. The pro- cession, however, continued on with slow and measured step, in cadence to the solemn chant, and the warriors maintained their fixed and stern demeanor. Between two of the principal chiefs rode a young warrior who had distinguished himself in battle. He was severely wounded, so as with difficulty to keep on his horse ; but he preserved a serene and steadfast counte- nance, as if perfectly unharmed. His mother had heard of his condition. She broke through the throng, and rushing up, threw her arms around him and wept aloud. He kept up the spirit and demeanor of a warrior to the last, but expired shortly after he had reached his home. The village was now a scene of the utmost festivity and triumph. The banners, and trophies, and scalps, and painted shields, were elevated on poles near the lodges, ''['here were war-feasts, and scalp-dances, with THE WILDERNESS OF THE FAR WEST. 1 1 1 warlike songs and savage music ; all the inhabitants were arrayed in their festal dresses ; while the old heralds went round from lodge to lodge, promulgating with loud voices the events of the battle and the exploits of the va- rious warriors. Such was the boisterous revelry of the village ; but sounds of another kind were heard on the surrounding hills ; piteous wailings of the women, who had retired thither to mourn in darkness and solitude for those who had fallen in battle. There the poor mother of the youth- ful warrior who had returned home in triumph but to die, gave full vent to the anguish of a mother's heart. How much does this custom among the Indian women of re- pairing to the hill tops in the night, and pouring forth their wailings for the dead, call to mind the beautiful and affecting passage of Scripture, " In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be com- forted, because they are not." The Wilderness of the Far West. While Mr. Hunt was diligently preparing for his ar- duous journey, some of his men began to lose heart at the perilous prospect before them; but, before we. accuse them of want of spirit, it is proper to consider the nature of the wilderness into which they were about to adventure. It was a region almost as vast and trackless as the ocean, and, at the time of which we treat, but little known, ex- cepting through the vague accounts of Indian hunters. A part of their route would lay across an immense tract, 112 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. stiotching north and south for hundreds of miles along the foot of the Rocky Mountains, and drained by the tri- butary streams of the Missouri and Mississippi. This region, which resendiles one of tlie immeasurable steppes of Asia, has not inaptly been termed " the great American desert." It spreads forth into undulating and treeless plains, and desolate sandy wastes, wearisome to the eye from their extent and monotony, and which are supposed by geologists, to have formed the ancient lioor of the ocean, countless ages since, when its primeval waves beat against the granite bases of the Rocky Mountains. It is a land where no man permanently abides ; for, in certain seasons of the year there is no food either for the hunter or his steed. The herbage is parched and withenHl ; the brooks and streams are dried u{) ; the buf- falo, the elk and the deer have wantlered to distant parts, keeping within the verge of expiring verdure, and leav- ing behind them a vast uninhabited solitude, seamed by ravines, the beds of former torrents, but now serving oidy to tantalize and increase the thirst of the traveller. Occasionally the monotony of this vast wilderness is interrupted by mountainous belts of sand and limestone, broken into confused masses ; with precipitous cliffs and yawning ravines, looking like the ruins of a world ; or is traversed by lofty anil barren ridges of rock, almost im- passable, like those denominated the Black Hills. Be- yond these rise the stern barriers of the Rocky IMountains, tlu> limits, as it were, of the Atlantic world. The rugged defiles and deep valleys of this vast chain form shelter- ing places for restless and ferocious bands of savages, many of them the renmants of tribes, once inhabitants of the prairies, but broken up by war and violence, and who carry into their mountain haunts the fierce passions and reckless habits of desperadoes. Tin: WILDICItNKSH OF Tril': I'AR WKKT. 113 Such is l,li(! ii;itiii(; oClliis iiuriicn.sc; vviltkirnoss of iho far West; vvliidi appaiciilly dcilics ciillivation, Jiiid llic habitation oi' c'\v'\\'v/a'a[ lifi;. Sonic portions (;f it along tho rivers may [)arlially he; siihdutid hy agriculture!, others may form vast pastoral tracts, like; IIkjsc; of tin; I'last; hni it is 1o ix; feared that a great part of it will Corm a lawless inl(;rval l)(!tvv(!(!ii the al)od(!S of civilized man, like the wastes of llu; ocean oi' tlu; desfuts of Arabia ; aufJ, like them, be subject to the de|)redations of IIk; niaraudiM'. I Icre may spring u[) n(!W and mongrel races, like n(;vv formations in g(;ols on their shoulders, a)id mounted on horses of every color. The pack-horses, too, woidd incessantly wander from the line of march, to crop the surrounding herbage, and were banged and beaten back by Touish ami his half-breed compeers, with vol- leys of mongrel oaths. Every now and then the notes of the bugle from the head of the column, would echo through the woodlands and along the hollow glens, summoning up stragglers, and announcing the line of march. The whole scene reminded me of the descrip- tion given of bands of buccaneers penetrating the wilds of South America, on their plundering expeditions against the Spanish settlements. At one time we passed through a luxuriant bottom or meadow bordered by thickets, where the tall grass was pressed down into numerous " deer beds," where those animals had couched the preceding night. Some oak trees also bor(> signs of having lieen clambered by bears, in quest of acorns, the marks of their claws being visible in the bark. As we op(Mied a glade of this sheltered meadow, we beheld several deer bounding away in wild alfright, until, having gained some distance, they would stop and MARCH ON THE PRAIRIES. 135 gaze back, with the curiosity common to this animal, at the strange intruders into their solitudes. There was immediately a sharp report of rifles in every direction, from the young huntsnien of the troop, but they were too eager to aim surely, and the deer, unharmed, bounded away into the depths of the forest. In tlu; course of oin- march we struck the Arkansas, but found ourselves still below the Red Fork, and, as the river made deep bends, we again left its banks and con- tinued through the woods until nearly eight o'clock, when we encamped in a beautiful basin bordered by a fine stream, and shaded by clumps of lofty oaks. Tlie horses were now hobbled, that is to say, their fore legs were fettered with cords or leathern straps, so as to impede their movements, and prevent their wander- ing from the camp. They were then turned loose to graze. A number of rangers, prime hunters, started off in different directions in search of game. There was no whooping nor laughing about the camp as in the morn- ing ; all were either busy about the fires preparing the evening's repast, or reposing upon the grass. Shots were soon heard in various directions. After a time a hunts- man rode into the camp with the carcass of a fine buck hanging across his horse. Shortly afterwards came in a couple of stripling hunters on foot, one of whom bore on his shoulders the body of a doe. He was evidently proud of his spoil, being probably one of his first achieve- ments, though he and his companion were much ban- tered by their comrades, as young beginners who hunted in partnership. 130 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. The Crossing of the Arkansas. We had now arrived at the river, about a quarter of a mile above the junction of the Red Fork ; but the banks were steep and crumbUng, and the current was deep and rapid. It was impossible, therefore, to cross at this place ; and we resumed our painful course through the forest, dispatching Beatte ahead, in search of a fording place. We had proceeded about a mile further, when he rejoined us, bringing intelligence of a place hard by, where the river, for a great part of its breadth, was rendered forda- ble by sand-bars, and the remainder might easily be swam by the horses. Here, then, we made a halt. Some of the rangers set to work vigorously with their axes, felling trees on the edge of the river, wherewith to form rafts for the trans- portation of their baggage and camp equipage. Others patrolled the banks of the river farther up, in hopes of finding a better fording place ; being unwilling to risk their horses in the deep channel. It was now that our worthies, Beatte and Tonish, had an opportunity of displaying their Indian adroitness and resource. At the Osage village which we had passed a day or two before, they had procured a dry buffalo skin. This was now produced ; cords were passed through a number of small eyelet holes with which it was bordered, and it was drawn up, until it formed a kind of deep trough. Sticks were then placed athwart it on the inside, to keep it in shape ; our camp equipage and a part of our baggage were placed within, and the singular bark was carried down the bank and set afloat. A cord was attached to the prow, which Beatte took THE CROSSING OF THE ARKANSAS. 137 between his teeth, and throwing himself into the water, went ahead, towing the bark after him ; while Tonish followed behind, to keep it steady and to propel it. Part of the way they had foothold, and were enabled to wade, but in the main current they were obliged to swim. The whole way, they whooped and yelled in the Indian style, until they landed safely on the opposite shore. The Commissioner and myself were so well pleased with this Indian mode of ferriage, that we determined to trust ourselves in the buffalo hide. Our companions, the Count and Mr. L., had proceeded with the horses, along the river bank, in search of a ford which some of the rangers had discovered, about a mile and a half distant. While we were waiting for the return of our ferryman, I happened to cast my eyes upon a heap of luggage under a bush, and descried the sleek carcass of the polecat, snugly trussed up, and ready for roasting before the evening fire. I could not resist the temptation to plump it into the river, when it sunk to the bottom like a lump of lead ; and thus our lodge was relieved from the bad odor which this savory viand had threatened to bring upon it. Our men having recrossed with their cockle-shell bark, it was drawn on shore, half filled with saddles, saddlebags, and other luggage, amounting to a hundred weight ; and being again placed in the water, I was invited to take my seat. It appeared to me pretty much like the embarkation of the wise men of Gotham, who went to sea in a bowl : I stepped in, however, without hesitation, though as cautiously as possible, and sat down on top of the luggage, the margin of the hide sink- ing to within a hand's breadth of the water's edge. Ri- fles, fowling-pieces, and other articles of small bulk, were then handed in, until I protested against receiving any 138 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. more freight. We then launched fortli upon the stream, the bark being towed as before. It was with a sensation half serious, half comic, that I found myself thus afloat, on the skin of a buffalo, in the midst of a wild river, surrounded by wilderness, and towed along by a half savage, whooping and yelling like a devil incarnate. To please the vanity of little Tonish, 1 discharged the double-barrelled gun, to the right and left, when in the centre of the stream. The report echoed along the woody shores, and was answered by shouts from some of the rangers, to the great exultation of the little Frenchman, who took to liimself the whole glory of this Indian mode of navigation. Thunder-storm on the Prairies. In crossing a prairie of moderate extent, rendered little better than a slippery bog by the recent showers, we were overtaken by a violent thunder-gust. The rain came rattling upon us in torrents, and spattered up like steam along the ground ; the whole landscape was sud- denly wrapped in gloom that gave a vivid effect to the intense sheets of lightning, while the thunder seemed to burst over our very heads, and was reverberated by the groves and forests that checkered and skirted the prairie. Man and beast were so pelted, drenched, and confounded, that the line was thrown in complete confusion ; some of the horses were so frightened as to be almost unmanage- able, and our scattered cavalcade looked like a tempest- tossed fleet, driving hither and thither, at the mercy of wind and wave. THUNDER -STORftI ON THE PRAIRIES. 139 At length, at half past two o'clock, we came to a halt, and gathering together our forces, encamped in an open and lofty grove, with a prairie on one side and a stream on the other. The forest immediately rang with the sound of the axe, and the crash of falling trees. Huge fires were soon blazing ; blankets were stretched before them, by way of tents ; booths were hastily reared of bark and skins ; every fire had its group drawn close round it, drying and warming themselves, or preparing a comforting meal. Some of the rangers were discharging and cleaning their rifles, which had been exposed to the rain ; while the horses, relieved from their saddles and burdens, rolled in the wet grass. The showers continued from time to time, until late in the evening. Before dark, our horses were gathered in and tethered about the skirts of the camp, within the outposts, through fear of Indian prowlers, who are apt to take advantage of stormy nights for their depredations and assaults. As the night thickened, the huge fires became more and more luminous ; lighting up masses of the overhanging foliage, and leaving other parts of the grove in deep gloom. Every fire had its goblin group around it, while the tethered horses were dimly seen, like spectres, among the thickets ; excepting that here and there a gray one stood out in bright relief The grove, thus fitfully lighted up by the ruddy glare of the fires, resembled a vast leafy dome, walled in by opaque darkness ; but every now and then two or three quivering flashes of lightning in quick succession, would suddenly reveal a vast champaign country, where fields and forests, and running streams, would start, as it were, into existence for a few brief seconds, and, before the eye could ascertain them, vanish agai'n into gloom. A thunder-storm on a prairie, as upon the ocean, de- 140 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. rives grandeur and sublimity from the wild and boundless waste over which it rages and bellows. It is not sur- prising that these awful phenomena of nature should be objects of superstitious reverence to the poor savages, and that they should consider the thunder the angry voice of the Great Spirit. As our half-breeds sat gossiping round the fire, I drew from them some of the notions entertained on the subject by their Indian friends. The latter declared that extinguished thunderbolts are some- times picked up by the hunters on the prairies, who use them for the heads of arrows and lances, and that any warrior thus armed is invincible. Should a thunder- storm occur, however, during battle, he is liable to be carried away by the thunder, and never heard of more. A warrior of the Konza tribe, hunting on a prairie, was overtaken by a storm, and struck down senseless by the thunder. On recovering, he beheld the thunderbolt lying on the ground, and a horse standing beside it. Snatching up the bolt, he sprang upon the horse, but found, too late, that he was astride of the lightning. In an instant he was whisked away over prairies and for- ests, and streams and deserts, until he was flung sense- less at the foot of the Rocky Mountains ; whence, on recovering, it took him several months to return to his own people. This story reminded me of an Indian tradition, related by a traveller, of the fate of a warrior who saw the thun- der lying upon the ground, with a beautifully wrought moccason on each side of it. Thinking he had found a prize, he put on the moccasons ; but they bore him away to the land of spirits, whence he never returned. These are simple and artless tales, but they had a wild and romantic interest heard from the lips of half- savage narrators, round a hunter's fire, in a stormy night, LAMENTATIONS OF THE MOORS. 141 with a forest on one side, and a howling waste on the other ; and where, perad venture, savage foes might be lurking in the outer darkness. Lamentations of the Moors for the Battle of Lucena. The sentinels looked out from the watch-towers of Loxa, along the valley of the Xenel, which passes through the mountains of Algaringo. They looked to behold the king returning in triumph, at the head of his shining host, laden with the spoils of the unbeliever. They looked to behold the standard of their warlike idol, the fierce Ali Atar, borne by the chivalry of Loxa, ever foremost in the wars of the border. In the evening of the 21st of April, they descried a single horseman urging his faltering steed along the banks of the Xenel. As he drew near, they perceived, by the flash of arms, that he was a warrior ; and on nearer approach, by the richness of his armor and the caparison of his steed, they knew him to be a warrior of rank. He reached Loxa, faint and aghast ; his Arabian courser covered with foam, and dust, and blood, panting and staggering with fatigue, and gashed with wounds. Having brought his master in safety, he sank down and died before the gate of the city. The soldiers at the gate gathered round the cavalier, as he stood mute and mel- ancholy by his expiring steed : they knew him to be the gallant Cidi Caleb, nephew of the chief alfaqui of the Albaycin of Granada. When the people of Loxa beheld this noble cavalier, thus alone, haggard and dejected, their hearts were filled with fearful forebodings. 1*2 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. " Cavalier," said they, " how fares it with the king and army ?" He cast his hand mournfully toward the land of the Christians. " There they lie !" exclaimed he. " The heavens have fallen upon them. All are lost ! all dead !" Upon this, there was a great cry of consternation among the people, and loud wailings of women : for the flower of the youth of Loxa were with the army. An old Moorish soldier, scarred in many a border bat- tle, stood leaning on his lance by the gateway. " Where • is Ali Atar '?" demanded he, eagerly. " If he lives, the army cannot be lost." " I saw his turban cleaved by the Christian sword," replied Cidi Caleb. " His body is floating in the Xenel." When the soldier heard these words, he smote his breast and threw dust upon his head ; for he was an old follower of Ali Atar. The noble Cidi Caleb gave himself no repose, but, mounting another steed, hastened to carry the disastrous tidings to Granada. As he passed through the villages and hamlets, he spread sorrow around ; for their chosen men had followed the king to the wars. When he entered the gates of Granada, and announced the loss of the king and army, a voice of horror went throughout the city. Every one thought but of his own share in the general calamity, and crowded round the bearer of ill tidings. One asked after a father, another after a brother, some after a lover, and many a mother after her son. His replies were still of woimds and death. To one he replied, " I saw thy father pierced with a lance, as he defended the person of the king." To another, " Thy brother fell wounded under the hoofs of the horses ; but there was no time to aid him, for the LAMENTATIONS OF THE MOORS. 143 Christian cavalry were upon us." To another, " I saw the horse of thy lover, covered with blood and galloping without his rider." To another, " Thy son fought by my side, on the banks of the Xenel : we were surrounded by the enemy, and driven into the stream. I heard him call upon Allah, in the midst of the waters : when I reached the other bank, he was no longer by my side." The noble Cidi Caleb passed on, leaving all Granada in lamentation : he urged his steed up the steep avenue of trees and fountains that leads to the Alhambra, nor stopped until he arrived before the gate of Justice. Ayxa, the mother of Boabdil, and Morayma, his beloved and tender wife, had daily watched from the tower of the Gomeres, to behold his triumphant return. Who shall describe their affliction, when they heard the tidings of Cidi Caleb? The sultana Ayxa spake not much, but sat as one entranced in woe. Every now and then, a deep sigh burst forth, but she raised her eyes to heaven : " It is the will of Allah !" said she, and with these words endeavored to repress the agonies of a mother's sorrow. The tender Morayma threw herself on the earth, and gave way to the full turbulence of her feelings, bewailing her husband and her father. The high-minded Ayxa rebuked the violence of her grief: " Moderate these trans- ports, my daughter," said she ; " remember magnanimity should be the attribute of princes ; it becomes not them to give way to clamorous sorrow, like common and vul- gar minds." But Morajmia could only deplore her loss, with the anguish of a tender woman. She shut herself up in her mirador, and gazed all day, with streaming eyes, upon the vega. Every object before her recalled the causes of her affliction. The river Xenel, which ran shining amidst the groves and gardens, was the same on whose banks had perished her father, Ali Atar ; before 144 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. her lay the road to Loxa, by which Boabdil had departed, in martial state, surrounded by the chivalry of Granada. Ever and anon, she would burst into an agony of grief. " Alas ! my father !" she would exclaim ; " the river runs smiling before me, that covers thy mangled remains : who will gather them to an honored tomb, in the land of the unbeliever'? And thou, oh Boabdil, light of my eyes ! joy of my heart ! life of my life ! woe the day, and woe the hour, that I saw thee depart from these walls. The road by which thou hast departed is solitary ; never will it be gladdened by thy return ! the mountain thou hast tra- versed lies like a cloud in the distance, and all beyond it is darkness," The royal minstrels were summoned to assuage the sorrows of the queen : they attuned their instruments to cheerful strains ; but in a little while the anguish of their hearts prevailed, and turned their songs to lamentations. " Beautiful Granada !" they exclaimed, " how is thy glory faded ! The Vivarrambla no longer echoes to the tramp of steed and sound of trumpet ; no longer is it crowded with thy youthful nobles, ea'ger to display their prowess in the tourney and the festive tilt of reeds. Alas ! the flower of thy chivalry lies low in a foreign land ! the soft note of the lute is no longer heard in thy moonlight streets ; the lively Castanet is silent upon thy hills ; and the graceful dance of the Zambra is no more seen beneath thy bowers. Behold, the Alhambra is for- lorn and desolate ! in vain do the orange and myrtle breathe their perfumes into its silken chambers ; in vain does the nightingale sing within its groves ; in vain are its marble halls refreshed by the sound of fountains and the gush of limpid rills. Alas ! the countenance of the king no longer shines within those halls : the light of the Alhambra is set for ever !" THE CHRISTIAN AEMY AT THE CITV OF CORDOVA. 145 Thus all Granada, say the Arabian chroniclers, gave itself up to lamentation : there was nothing but the voice of wailing, from the palace to the cottage. All joined to deplore their youthful monarch, cut down in the fresh- ness and promise of his youth ; many feared that the prediction of the astrologers was about to be fulfilled, and that the downfall of the kingdom would follow the death of Boabdil ; while all declared, that had he survived, he was the very sovereign calculated to restore the realm to its ancient prosperity and glory. The Christian Army asseinhled at the City of Cordova. Great and glorious was the style with which the Catholic sovereigns opened another year's campaign of this eventful war. It was like commencing another act of a stately and heroic drama, where the curtain rises to the inspiring sound of martial melody, and the whole stage glitters with the array of warriors and the pomp of arms. The ancient city of Cordova was the place appointed by the sovereigns for the assemblage of the troops ; and early in the spring of 1486, the fair valley of the Guadalquivir resounded with the shrill blast of trumpet, and the impatient neighing of the war-horse. In this splendid era of Spanish chivalry, there was a rivalship among the nobles who most should distinguish himself by the splendor of his appearance, and the num- ber and equipments of his feudal followers. Every day beheld some cavalier of note, the representative of some proud and powerful house, entering the gates of Cordova with sound of trumpet, and displaying his banner and 7 146 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. device, renowned in many a contest. He would appear in sumptuous array, surrounded by pages and lackeys no less gorgeously attired, and followed by a host of vas- sals and retainers, horse and foot, all admirably equipped in burnished armor. Such was the state of Don Inigo Lopez de Mendoza, duke of Infantado ; who may be cited as a picture of a warlike noble of those times. He brought with him five hundred men-at-arms of his household, armed and mounted a la gineta and d la guisa. The cavaliers who attended him were magnificently armed and dressed. The housings of fifty of his horses were of rich cloth, embroidered with gold ; and others were of bro- cade. The sumpter mules had housings of the same, with halters of silk ; while the bridles, head-pieces, and all the harnessing, glittered with silver. The camp equipage of these noble and luxurious warriors, was equally magnificent. Their tents were gay pavilions, of various colors, fitted up with silken hangings and decorated with fluttering pennons. They had vessels of gold and silver for the service of their tables, as if they were about to engage in a course of stately feasts and courtly revels, instead of the stern encounters of rugged and mountainous warfare. Some- times they passed through the streets of Cordova at night, in splendid cavalcade, with great numbers of lighted torches, tlie rays of which falling upon polished armor and nodding plumes, and silken scarfs, and trap- pings of golden embroidery, filled all beholders with admiration. But it was not the chivalry of Spain, alone, which thronged the streets of Cordova. The fame of this war had spread throughout Christendom : it was considered a land of crusade ; and Catholic knights from all parts THE CHRISTIAN ARMY AT THE CITY OF CORDOVA. 147 hastened to signalize themselves in so holy a cause. There were several valiant chevaliers from France, among whom the most distinguished was Gaston du Leon, Seneschal of Toulouse. With him came a gallant train, well armed and mounted, and decorated with rich surcoats and panaches of feathers. These cavaliers, it is said, eclipsed all others in the light festivities of the colut : they were devoted to the fair, hut not after the solenm and passionate manner of the Spanish lovers ; they were gay, gallant and joyous in their amours, and captivated by the vivacity of their attacks. They were at first held in light estimation by the grave and stately Spanish knights, until they made themselves to be respected by their wonderful prowess in the field. The most conspicuous of the volunteers, however, who appeared in Cordova on this occasion, was an Eng- lish knight of royal connection. This was the lord Scales, earl of Rivers, brother to the queen of England, wife of Henry VII. He had distinguished himself in the preceding year, at the battle of Bos worth field, where Henry Tudor, then earl of Richmond, overcame Richard III. That decisive battle having left the country at peace, the earl of Rivers, having conceived a passion for warlike scenes, repaired to the Castilian court, to keep his arms in exercise, in a campaign against the Moors. He brought with him a hundred archers, all dexterous with the long-bow and the cloth-yard arrow ; also two hundred yeomen, armed cap-a-pie, who fought with pike and battle-axe, — men robust of frame, and of prodigious strength. The worthy padre Fray Antonio Agapida describes this stranger knight and his followers, with his accustomed accuracy and minuteness. "This cavalier," he observes, "was from the far island of England, and brought with him a train of his 148 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. vassals ; men who had been hardened in certain civil wars which raged in their country. They were a come- ly race of men, but too fair and fresh for warriors, not having the sun-burnt warlike hue of our old Castihan soldiery. They were huge feeders also, and deep carou- sers, and could not accommodate themselves to the sober diet of our troops, but must fain eat and drink after the manner of their own country. They were often noi^y and unruly, also, in their wassail ; and their quarter of the camp was prone to be a scene of loud revel and sud- den brawl. They were, withal, of great pride, yet it was not like our inflammable Spanish pride ; they stood not much upon the pundo7ior, the high punctilio, and rarely drew the stiletto in their disputes ; but their pride was silent and contumelious. Though from a remote and somewhat barbarous island, they believed themselves the most perfect men upon earth, and magnified their chief- tain, the lord Scales, beyond the greatest of their gran- dees. With all this, it must be said of them that they were marvellous good men in the field, dexterous archers, and powerful with the battle-axe. In their great pride and self-will, they always sought to press in the advance and take the post of danger, trying to outvie our Spanish chivalry. They did not rush on fiercely to the fight, nor make a brilliant onset like the Moorish and Spanish troops, but they went into the fight deliberately and per- sisted obstinately, and were slow to find out when they were beaten. Withal they were much esteemed, yet little liked by our soldiery, who considered them stanch com- panions in the field, yet coveted but little fellowship with them in the camp. " Their commander, the lord Scales, was an accom- plished cavalier, of gracious and noble presence and fair speech ; it was a marvel to see so much courtesy in a THE CHRISTIAN ARMY AT THE CITY OF CORDOVA. 149 knight brought up so far from our Castilian court. He was much honored by the king and queen, and found great favor with the fair dames about the court, who in- deed arc rather prone to be pleased with foreign cavaliers. He went always in costly state, attended by pages and esquires, and accompanied by noble young cavaliers of his country, who had enrolled themselves under his ban- ner, to learn the gentle exercise of arms. In all pageants and festivals, the eyes of the populace were attracted by the singular bearing and rich array of the English earl and his train, who prided themselves in always ap- pearing in the garb and manner of their country — and were indeed something very magnificent, delectable, and strange to behold." The worthy chronicler is no less elaborate in his de- scription of the Masters of Santiago, Calatrava, and Al- cantara, and their valiant knights, armed at all points, and decorated with the badges of their orders. These, he affirms, were the flower of Christian chivalry : being con- stantly in service, they became more steadfast and accom- plished in discipline, than the irregular and temporary levies of the feudal nobles. Calm, solemn, and stately, they sat like towers upon their powerful chargers. On parades, they manifested none of the show and ostenta- tion of the other troops : neither, in battle, did they en- deavor to signalize themselves by any fiery vivacity, desperate and vainglorious exploit— every thing, with them, was measured and sedate ; yet it was observed, that none were more warlike in their appearance in the camp, or more terrible for their achievements in the field. The gorgeous magnificence of the Spanish nobles found but little favor in the eyes of the sovereigns. They saw that it caused a competition in expense, ruinous to cavaliers of moderate fortune ; and they feared that a 150 THE CRAYON UEADING BOOK. softness and cHeiiiinacy might thus he introduced, incom- patible Avitli tlie stern nature of the war. They signified their disapprobation to several of the principal noblemen, and reconnncnded a more sober and soldierlike display while in actual service. " These are rare troops for a tourney, my lord," said Ferdinand to the duke of Infantado, as he beheld his re- tainers glittering in gold and embroidery ; " but gold, though gorgeous, is soft and yielding : iron is the metal for the field." " Sire," replied the duke, " if my men parade in gold, your majesty will find they fight with steel." The king smiled but shook his head, and the duke treasured up his speech in his heart. It remains now to reveal the immediate object of this mighty and chivalrous preparation ; which had, in fact, the gratification of a royal pique at bottom. The severe lesson which Ferdinand had recieved from the veteran Ali Atar, before the walls of Loxa, though it had been of great service in rendering him wary in his attacks upon fortified places, yet rankled sorely in his mind ; and he had ever since held Loxa in peculiar odium. It was, in truth, one of the most belligerent and troublesome cities on the borders ; mcessantly harassing Andalusia by its incursions. It also intervened between the Christian ter- ritories and Alhama, and other important places gained in the kingdom of Granada. For all these reasons, king Ferdinand had determined to make another grand at- tempt upon this warrior city ; and for this purpose, he had sunnnoned to the field his most powerful chivalry. It was in the month of Maj', that the king sallied from Cordova, at the head of his army. He had twelve thousand cavalry and forty thousand foot soldiers, armed with cross-bows, lances, and arquebusses. There were BOABmL's RETURN TO GUANADA. 151 six thousand pioneers, with hatchets, pickaxes, and crow- bars, for levelling roads. He took with him, also, a great train of lombards and other heavy artillery, with a body of Germans skilled in the service of ordnance and the art of battering walls. It was a glorious spectacle (says Fray Antonio Aga- pida) to behold this pon)})()ns pageant issuing forth from Cordova, the pcimons and devices of the proudest houses of Spain, with those of gallant stranger knights, flutter- ing above a sea of crests and plumes ; to see it slowly moving, with flash of helm, and cuirass, and buckler, across the ancient bridge, and reflected in the waters of the Guadalquivir, while the neigh of steed and blast of trumpet vibrated in the air, and resoimded to the distant mountains, " But, above all," concludes the good father, with his accustomed zeal, " it was triumphant to behold the standard of the faith every where displayed, and to reflect that this was no worldly-minded army, intent upon some temporal scheme of ambition or revenge ; but a Christian host, bound on a crusade to extirpate the vile seed of Mahomet from the land, and to extend the pure dominion of the church." BoahdiVs Retiirri to Granada. "In the hand of God," exclaims an old Arabian chronicler, " is the destiny of princes ; he alone giveth empire. A single Moorish horseman, mounted on a fleet Arabian steed, was one day traversing the mountains which extend between Granada and the frontier of Mur- c.ia. He galloped swiftly through the valleys, but paused 152 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. and looked out cautiously from the summit of eveiy height. A squadron of cavaliers followed warily at a distance. There were fifty lances. The richness of their armor and attire showed them to be warriors of noble rank, and their leader had a lofty and prince-like demea- nor." The squadron thus described by the Arabian chronicler, was the Moorish king Boabdil and his devoted followers. For two nights and a day they pursued their adven- turous journey, avoiding all populous parts of the coun- try, and choosing the most solitary passes of the moun- tains. They sufiered severe hardships and fatigues, but they suffered without a murmur : they were accustomed to rugged campaigning, and their steeds were of generous and unyielding spirit. It was midnight, and all was dark and silent as they descended from the mountains, and approached the city of Granada. They passed along quietly under the shadow of its walls, until they arrived near the gate of the Albaycin. Here Boabdil ordered his followers to halt, and remain concealed. Taking but four or fiA^e with him, he advanced resolutely to the gate, aaid Ivuocked with the hilt of his scimitar. The guards demanded who sought to enter at that unseasonable hour. " Your king !" exclaimed Boabdil, " open the gate and admit him !" The guards held forth a light, and recognized the person of the youthful monarch. They were struck with sudden awe, and threw open the gates ; and Boabdil and his followers entered unmolested. They galloped to the dwellings of the principal inhabitants of the Albaycin, thundering at their portals, and summoning them to rise and take arms for their rightful sovereign. The summons was mstantly obeyed : trumpets resounded through the streets — the gleam of torches and the flash of arms SURRENDER OF GRANADA. 153 showed the Moors hurrying to their gathering-places — and by daybreak, the whole force of tlie Albaycin was raUied under tlie standard of Boabdil. Such was the success of this sudden and desperate act of the young monarch ; for we are assured by contemporary historians, that there had been no previous concert -or arrangement. " As the guards opened the gates of the city to admit him," observes a pious chronicler, so (jod opened the hearts of the Moors to receive him as their kinar." /Surrender of Granada. The sun had scarcely begun to shed his beams upon the summits of the snowy mountains which rise above Granada, when the Christian camp was in motion. A detachment of horse and foot, led by distinguished cava- liers, and accompanied by Hernando de Talavera, bisliop of Avila, proceeded to take possession of the Alhambra and the towers. It had been stipulated in the capitula- tion, that the detachment sent for this purpose should not enter by the streets of the city ; a road had therefore been opened, outside of the walls, leading by the Puerta de los Molmos, or the Gate of the Mills, to the summit of the Hill of Martyrs, and across the hill to a postern- gate of the Alhambra. When the detachment arrived at the summit of the hill, the Moorish king came forth from the gate, attended by a handful of cavaliers, leaving his vizier Yusef Aben Comixa to deliver up the palace. " Go, senior," said he to the commander of the detachment, " go and take possession of those fortresses, which Allah has bestowed upon your powerful sovereigns, in punishment of the sins 7* 154 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. of the Moors." He said no more, but passed niourntully on, along the same road by which the Spanish cavaliers had come ; descending to the vega, to meet the Catholic sovereigns. The troops entered the AUiambra, the gates of which were wide open, and all its splendid courts and halls silent and deserted. In the meantime, the Christian court and army poured out of the city of Santa Fe, and advanced across the vega. The king and queen, with the prince and princess, and the dignitaries and ladies of the court, took the lead, ac- companied by the ditFerent orders of monks and friars, and surrounded by the royal guards splendidly arrayed. The procession moved slowly forward, and paused at the village of Armilla, at the distance of half a league from the city. The sovereigns waited here with impatience, their eyes fixed on the lofty tower of the Alhambra, watching for the appointed signal of possession. The time that had elapsed since the departure of the detachment seemed to them more than necessary for the purpose, and the anx- ious mind of Ferdinand began to entertain doubts of some commotion in the city. At length they saw the silver cross, the great standard of this crusade, elevated on the Torre de la Vala, or Great Watch-Tower, and sparkling in the sunbeams. This was done by Hernando de Tala- vera, bishop of Avila. Beside it was planted the pennon of the glorious apostle St. James, and a great shout of " Santiago ! Santiago !" rose throughout the army. Last- ly was reared the royal standard by the king of arms, with the shout of " Castile ! Castile ! For King Ferdi- nand and Q.ueen Isabella !" The words were echoed by the whole army, with acclamations that resounded across the vega. At sight of these signals of possession, the sovereigns sank upon their knees, giving thanks to God ^ SURRENDER OF GRANADA. 155 for this great trimn])h ; the whole assembled host follow- ed their exain])l(>, and the clioristcrs of the royal chapel broke forth into the solemn anthem of " Te Deum lauda?nus." The procession now resumed its march with joyful alacrity, to the sound of triumphant music, until they came to a small mosque, near the banks of the Xenel, and not far from the foot of the Hill of Martyrs, which edifice remains to the present day, consecrated as the hermitage of St. Sebastian. Here the sovereigns were met by the unfortunate Boabdil, accompanied by about fifty cavaliers and douK^.stics. As he drew near, he would have dismounted in token of homage, but Ferdi- nand prevented him. He then proffered to kiss the king's hand, but this sign of vassalage was likewise declined ; whereupon, not to be outdone in magnanimity, he leaned forward and kissed the right arm of Ferdinand. Queen Isabella also refused to receive this ceremonial of homage, and, to console him mider his adversity, delivered to him his son, who had remained as hostage ever since Boab- dil's liberation from captivity. The Moorish monarch pressed his child to his bosom with tender emotion, and they seemed mutually endeared to each other by their misfortunes. He then delivered the keys of the city to king Ferdi- nand, with an air of mingled melancholy and resignation : " These keys," said he, " arc the last relics of the Arabian empire in Spain : thine, oh king, are our trophies, our kingdom, and our person. Such is the will of God ! Re- ceive them with the clemency thou hast promised, and which we look for at thy hands." King Ferdinand restrained his exultation into an air of serene magnanimity. " Doubt not our promises," re- plied he, " nor that thou shalt regain from our friendship 156 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. the prosperity of which the fortune of war has deprived thee." On receiving the keys, king Ferdinand handed them to the queen ; she in her turn presented them to her son prince Juan, who dehvered them to the Count de Ten- dilla, that brave and loyal cavaHer being appointed al- cayde of the city, and captain-general of the kingdom of Granada. Having surrendered the last symbol of power, the un- fortunate Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras, that he might not behold the entrance of the Christians into his capital. His devoted band of cavaliers followed him in gloomy silence ; but heavy sighs burst from their bosoms, as shouts of joy and strains of triumphant music were borne on the breeze from the victorious army. Having rejoined his family, Boabdil set forward with a heavy heart for his allotted residence in the valley of Purchena. At two leagues' distance, the cavalcade, winding into the skirts of the Alpuxarras, ascended an eminence commanding the last view of Granada. As they arrived at this spot, the Moors paused involuntarily, to take a farewell gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more would shut from their sight for ever. Never had it appeared so lovely in their eyes. The sunshine, so bright in that transparent climate, lit up each tower and minaret, and rested gloriously upon the crowning battlements of the Alhambra ; while the vega spread its enamelled bosom of verdure below, glistening with the silver windings of the Xenel. The Moorish cavaliers gazed with a silent agony of tenderness and grief upon that delicious abode, the scene of their loves and plea- sures. Wliile they yet looked, a light cloud of smoke burst forth from the citadel, and presently a peal of artil- lery, faintly heard, told that the city was taken posses- TAKING rOSRKSSION OF GRANADA. 157 sion of, and llio lliroim of tlio iYIoslcni kinpis was lost lor ever. Tlio heart of IJoiihdil, softened by iiiisfortimos and overcharged with grief, could no longer contain itself: " AUali Acl)ar ! God is great !" saifl ho ; hut tlie words of resignation died uj)on his lips, and he burst into a flood of tears. His mother, the intrepid sultana Ayxa la Jlorra, was indignant at his weakness : " You do well," said she, " to weep like a woman, for what you failed to defend like a man !" The vizier Al)en (Jomixa end(Nivored to console his royal master. " (Jonsider, sir(>," said he, " that the most signal misfortunes often render men as renowned as the most prosperous achievements, provided they sustain them with magnanimity." The unha})})y monarch, however, was not to be con- soled ; his tears continued to flow. " Allah Acbar !" ex- claimed he ; " when did misfortunes v.viw oquu] mini;?" From this circnmstniiee, (Ik^ iiill, which is not far from the Padul, toolc the name of l'\^g All;di Acbar: but the point of view eonnnanding tlie last prospect of (ira- nada, is known among Spaniards by the name of JJl ul- timo suspiro del Moro ; or, " The last sigh of the Moor." How the Castilian Sovereigns took possession of Granada. When the CastiHan sovereigns had received (he keys of Granada from the hands of IJoabdil el ('hico, the royal army resumed its triumphant march. As it approached the gates of the city, in all the pomp of courtly and chiv- 158 TIITJ CRAYON KEAOINCr BOOK. alrous array, a procession of a different kind came forth to meet it. This was composed of more than five hun- dred Christian captives, many of whom had languished for years in Moorish 'dungeons. Pale and emaciated, they came clanking their chains in triumph, and shed- ding tears of joy. Thoy were received with tenderness by the sovereigns. The king hailed them as good Span- iards, as men loyal and brave, as martyrs to the holy cause : the queen distributed liberal relief among them with her own hands, and they passed on before the squadrons of the army, singing hymns of jubilee. The sovereigns did not enter the city on this day of its surrender, but waited until it should be fully occupied by their troops, and public tranquillity insured. The marquis de Villena and the count de Tendilla, with three thousand cavalry and as many infantry, marched in and took possession, accompanied by the proselyte prince Cidi Yahye, now known by the Christian appella- tion of Don Pedro de Granada, who was appointed chief alguazil of the city, and had charge of the Moorish in- habitants, and by his son the late prince Alnayar, now Don Alonzo de Granada, who was appointed admiral of the fleets. In a little while, every battlement glistened with Christian helms and lances, the standard of the faith and of the realm floated from every tower, and the thun- dering salvos of the ordnance told that the subjugation of the city was complete. The grandees and cavaliers now knelt and kissed the hands of the king and queen and the prince Juan, and congratulated them on the acquisition of so great a king- dom ; after which, the royal procession returned in state to Santa F6. It was on the sixth of January, the day of kings and festival of the Epiph:iiiy, that the sovereigns made their TAKING POSSESSION OF GRANADA. 159 triumphal entry. The king and queen (says the wortliy Fray Antonio Agapida) looked, on this occasion, as more than mortal : the venerable ecclesiastics, to whose advice and zeal this glorious conquest ought in a great measure to be attributed, moved along with hearts swelling with holy exultation, but with chastened and downcast looks of edifying humility ; while the hardy warriors, in toss- ing plumes and shining steel, seemed elevated with a stern joy, at finding themselves in possession of this ob- ject of so many toils and perils. As the streets resounded with the tramp of steed and swelling peals of music, the Moors buried themselves in the deepest recesses of their dwellings. There they bewailed in secret the fallen glory of their race, but suppressed their groans, lest they should be heard by their enemies and increase their triumph. The royal procession advanced to the principal mosque, which had been consecrated as a cathedral. Here the sovereigns offered up prayers and thanksgiv- ings, and the choir of the royal chapel chanted a trium- phant anthem, in which they were joined by all the courtiers and cavaliers. Nothing (says Fray Antonio Agapida) could exceed the thankfulness to God of the pious king Ferdinand, for having enabled him to eradi- cate from Spain the empire and name of that accursed heathen race, and for the elevation of the cross in that city wherein the impious doctrines of Mahomet had so long been cherished. In the fervor of his spirit, he sup- plicated from Heaven a continuance of its grace, and that this glorious triumph might be perpetuated. The prayer of the pious monarch was responded to by the people, and even his enemies were for once convinced of his sincerity. When the religious ceremonies were concluded, the 160 THE CRAYON RKADING BOOK. court ascended to tlic stately palace of the Alhambra, and entered by the great gate ot" Justice. The halls lately occupied by turbaned Infidels now rustled with stately dames and Christian courtiers, who wandered with eager curiosity over this iar-lamed palace, admiring its verdant courts and gushing fountains, its halls decorated with elegant arabesques and storied with inscriptions, and the splendor of its gilded and brilliantly paiiUed ceilings. It had been a last request of the unfortiniate Boabdil, and one which showed how deeply he felt the transition of his fate, that no person might be permitted to enter or depart by the gate of the Alhambra through which he had sallied forth to surrender his capital. His request was granted ; the portal was closed up, and remains so at the present day — a mute memorial of that ev^enl. The Spanish sovereigns fixed their throne in the presence-chamber of the palace, so long the seat of Moor- ish royalty. Hither the principal inhabitants of Granada repaired, to pay them homage and kiss their hands in token of vassalage ; and their example was followed by deputies from all the towns and fortresses of the Alpux- arras, which had not hitherto submitted. Thus terminated the war of Granada, after ten years of incessant fighting ; equalling (says Fray Antonio Aga- pida) the far-famed siege of Troy in dm-ation, and end- ing, like that, in the capture of the city. Thus ended also the dominion of the Moors in Spain, having endured seven hundred and eighty-eight years, from the memora- ble defeat of Roderick, the last of the Goths, on the banks of the Guadalete. FILIAL AFFECTION. 161 A P radical Philosopher. This Buckthorne was a inaii much to my taste ; he had seen the world, and mingled witli society, yet re- tained the strong eccentricities of a man who had hvcd much alone. There was a careless dash of good-humor about him which pleased me exceedingly ; and at times an odd tinge of melancholy mingled with his humor, and gave it an additional zest. He was apt to run into long speculations upon society and manners, and to indulge in whimsical views of human nature ; yet there was nothing ill-tempered in his satire. It ran more upon the follies than tlie vices of mankind ; and even the follies of his fellow-man were treated with the leniency of one who felt himself to be but frail. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted by fortune, without being soured thereby : as some fruits become mellower and more generous in their flavor from having been bruised and frost-bitten, I have always haid a great relish for the conversation of practical philosophers of this stamp, who have profited by the "sweet uses'-' of adversity without imbibing its bitterness ; who have learnt to estimate the world right- ly, yet good-humoredly ; and who, while they perceive the truth of the saying, that " all is vanity," are yet able to do so without vexation of spirit. Filial Affection. I SOUGHT the village church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone, on the brow of a small hill, looking over 162 TUH OltAYON RKAUlNc; IJOOK. fertile fields, (owards where the proud towers of "Warwick castle lilt tiieiiiselves against the distant horizon. A part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. Und(!r one of tlunn my niotlier lay bin'ied. Yon liave no doubt thought nie a light, heartless being. I thought myself so; but there are moments of adversity which let us into some feelings of our nature to which we might otherwise remain perpetual strangers. I sought my mother's grave ; the weeds were already matted over it, and the tt)nd)stone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away, and they stung my hands ; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too severely. 1 sat down on (he grave, and read over and over again the epita})h on the stone. It was simple, — but it was true. I had written it myself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feelings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling during my lonely wanderings ; it was now charged to the brim, and over- flowed, I sank upon the grave, and buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas ! how little do wc appreciate a mother's tenderness while living ! how heedless are we in youth of all her anxieties and kindness ! But when she is dead and gone ; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts ; when we find how hard it is to meet with true sympathy ; how few love us for ourselves ; how few will befriend us in our misfortunes ; then it is that we think of the mother we have lost. It is true I had always loved my mother, oven in my most heedless days ; but I felt how inconsid- erate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the daj^s of infancy, when I was led by ii I'U.IAL Al'PKCTlON. I C)!-} . nioUior's liaiid, and rockiMl lo sleep in a niolhor's arms, and was without (^are or sorrow. "O my motlKsr!" exclaimed I, burying- my face again in tlu; grass of tlu; grave ; "O tlial J were once more by your side; ; sleej)ing never to wake again on llie cares and troubles of tiiis world." I am not nalm-ally ofa morbid temj)eramen(, ;ind the violence of my (^notion gradually exhausted itself. It was a he;irly, iioncst, natural discharge of grief which had biM>n slowly accunndating, and gave me wonderful rcli(;f I rose from tin; grave as if I had been otl'ering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted. I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, one by one, the weeds from lier grave : the tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased to be bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrow and poverty came upon her child, and that all his great expectations were blasted. I leaned my cheek upon my hand, and looked ii[)on the landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. The whis- tle of a peasant from an adjoining field came cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope and condbrt witli the free air that whispered through the leaves, and played lightly with my hair, and dried the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising from the field before me, and leaving as it were a stream of song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy with him. lie hovered in the air just above the place wIkmc the towers of Warwick castle marked the horizon, and seemed as if fluttering with delight at his own melody. "Sur(;ly," thought I, " if there was such a thing as transmigration of souls, this might ]«; taken for some ])ovX let loose from earth, but still revelling in song, and caroling about fair fields and [ordly towers." At this moment the long-forgotten feeling of poetry 164 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. rose within me. A thought sprang at once into my mind. — "I will become an author!" said I. "I have hitherto indulged in poetry as a pleasure, and it has brought me nothing but pain ; let me try what it will do when I cultivate it with devotion as a pursuit." The resolution thus suddenly aroused within me heaved a load from oft' my heart. I felt a confidence in it from the very place where it was formed. It seemed as though my mother's spirit whispered it to me from the grave. " I will henceforth," said I, " endeavor to be all that she fondly imagined me. I will endeavor to act as if she were witness of my actions ; I will endeavor to acquit myself in such a manner that, when I revisit her grave, there may at least be no compunctious bitterness with my tears." I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn attesta- tion of my vow. I plucked some primroses that were growing there, and laid them next my heart. I left the churchyard with my spirit once more lifted up, and set out a third time for London in the character of an author. Wives. I DO not think it likely either Abstemia or patient Grizzle stands much chance of being taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry now and then extending its views beyond the wedding day, and teaching a lady how to make herself attractive even after marriage. There is no great need of enforcing on an unmarried lady the necessity of beijig agreeable ; nor is there any great art requisite in a youthful beauty to enable her to please. WIVES. 165 Nature has multiplied attractions around her. Youth is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding beauty- needs no foreign aid to set it off; it pleases merely be- cause it is fresh, and budding, and beautiful. But it is for the married state that a woman needs the most in- struction, and in which she should be most on her guard to maintain her powers of pleasing. No woman can ex- pect to be to her husband all that he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are always doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the sex, as by their own imaginations. They are always wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals. A woman should therefore ascertain what was the charm which rendered her so fascinating when a girl, and endeavor to keep it up when she has become a wife. One great thing undoubtedly was, the chariness of herself and her conduct, which an unmarried female always observes. She should main- tain the same niceness and reserve in her person and habits, and endeavor still to preserve a freshness and virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remember that the province of woman is to be wooed, not to woo ; to be caressed, not to caress. Man is an ungrateful being in love ; bounty loses instead of winning him. The secret of a woman's power does not consist so much in giving, as in withholding. A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to a thousand little delicacies of conduct that she must trust to keep alive passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous famili- arity, that thorough acquaintance with every weakness and imperfection incident to matrimony. By these means she may still maintain her power, though she has surrendered her person, and may continue the romance of love even beyond the honey-moon. " She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy Tay- 166 THE CRAYON HEADING BOOK. lor," must entice him to an eternal dearncsse by the veil ol" modesty, and tlie grave robes of chastity, the orna- ment of meeknesse, and the jewels of faith and cluirity. She nuist liave no painting but blushings; her brightness must be purity, and she must shine round about with sweetnesses and friendship; and she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired when she dies." Invisible Companions. I HAVE sat by the window and mused upon the dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from the distant village ; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As 1 have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has been crowded by "thick coming fancies," concerning those spiritual beings which " walk, the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." Are there, indeed, such beings '!■ Is this space between us and the Deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings forming the same gradations between the human soul and divine perfection, that we see prevailing from liumanity downwards to the meanest insect ? It is a sublime and beautiful doctrine, inculcated by the early fathers, that there are guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and -nations; to take care of the welfare of good men, and to guard and guide the steps of helpless INVISIBLE COMPANIONS. 167 infancy. "Nothing," says St. Jerome, "gives us a greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care of it." Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning to visit the scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body's existence, though it has been debased by the absurd superstitions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime. However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the attention involuntarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious discussion ; its prevalence in all ages and countries, and even among newly discovered nations, that have had no previous in- terchange of thought with other parts of the world, prove it to be one of those mysterious, and almost instinctive beliefs, to which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline. In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be perfectly eradicated ; as it is concerning a mat- ter that does not admit of positive demonstration. Every thing connected with our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. "We are fearfully and wonderfully made ;" we are surrounded by mysteries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who yet has been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul, its con- nection with the body, or in what part of the frame it is situated ? We know merely that it does exist ; but whence it came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and where it is seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere speculation, and contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus ignorant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how can we 108 Till:: CllAYON KKAUINCl UUOK. pretend to ascertain or to deny its powers and operations wlicn released from its fleshly prison-house ? It is more the maimer, therefore, in which this su})erslilion has been degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has brought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivolous purposes to which it has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it has been surrounded, and none of the whole circle of visionary creeds could more delight- fully eleviite the imagination, or more tenderly aifecl the heart. It would become a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter tear wrung from us by the agony of oin- mortal S(>j)arali()n. Wh;it coidd lu; more consoling than the; idea, that IIm; souls of thosi; whom we once loved wen; permitted to return and watch over our welfare? 'IMiat allectionate and guardian sj)irits sat by our ])illows when we sle[)f, keeping a vigil over our most helpless hours ? That beauty and innocence which had languisluHl into tlu; tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, r(!V(^aliiig Ihemst'lves in thos(; blest dreams wherein we live over again the hours of past endearment ? A belief of this kind would, I should think, be a new incentive to virtue; rendering us circumspect even in our secret moments, from the idea that those we once loved and honored were invisible witnesses of all our actions. It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution which we are apt to feel more and more as we get on in oiu' pilgrimage through the wilderness of this world, and find tliat (hosi; who set forward with us, lovingly, and cheerily, on the journey, have one by one dro])|)ed away from our side. Place the superstition in this light, and I confess I should like to be a believer in if. I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the ten- der and nuM-ciful nature of our religion, nor revolting to the wishes and affections of the heart. ST. MAILK's ICVK. 169 There are departed beings wlioin I have loved as 1 never again shall love in liiis world ; — who have loved me as 1 never again shall be loved ! If such beings do ever retain in their blessed splieres the attachments which they lelt on earth ; ii' they take an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and are permitted to hold communion witli tliose whom they have loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this silence and solitude, 1 could receive their visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed delight. In truth, such visitations would be too hap])y for this world ; they would be incompatible with the natme of this imperfect state of being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual thraldom and restraint. Our souls are shut in and limitod by bounds and barriers ; shackled by mortal infirmities, and subject to all the gross impedi- ments of matter. In vain would they seek to act inde- pendently of tiie l)ody, and to mingle together in spirit- ual intercourse. They can only act here through their fleshly organs. Their earthly loves are made up of transient embraces and long separations. The most in- timate friendship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it consist? We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short moments, and then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know nothing of each other. Or granting that we dwell together for the full season of this our mortal life, the grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are doomed to remain in separation and widow- hood ; until they meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul will dwell with soul in blissful connnunion, and there will be neither death, nor absence, nor any thing else to interrupt our felicity. 8 170 INVISIBLE COMPANIONS. The Storm-iShip. In the golden age of the province of the New Nether- lands, when under the sway of Woiitej- Van Twiller, otherwise called the Doubter, the people of the Manhat- toes were alarmed one sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer solstice, by a tremendous storm of thunder and liglitning. The rain fell in such torrents as absolutely to spatter up and smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs of the houses ; the lightning Avas seen to play about the church of St. Nichola's, and to strive three times, in vain, to strike its weather-cock. Garret Van Home's new chimney was split almost from top to bot- tom ; and Doffue Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of those unparalleled storms, which only happen once within the memory of that ven- erable personage, known in all towns by the appellation of " the oldest inhabitant." Great was the terror of the good old women of the Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length the storm abated ; the thunder sank into a growl, and the setting sun, breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten gold. The word was given from the fort that a ship was standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times of the xnii; .sToRM-siiir. 171 settlement, was an event of vast importance to the in- habitanl.s. It brought them news from the old world, from tlie land of their birth, from which they were so completely severed : to the yearly shij), too, they looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her new cap nor new gown until the arrival of the ship; the artist waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of Hollands, the schoolboy for his top and marl)les, and the lordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the groat yearly event of the town of New Amsterdam; and from one end of the year to the other, the ship— the ship— the ship — was the continual topic of conversation. The news from the fort, th(M(;foic, brought all the populace down to the battery, to behold the wished-for sight. It was not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and the circrnnstancc was a matter of some speculation. Many were the groups collected about the battery. Here and there might be seen a burgomas- ter, of slow and pompous gravity, giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old weather-beaten fel- lows who had been seamen or fishermen in their times, and were great authorities on such occasions ; these gave difierent opinions, and caused great disputes among their several adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed and watched by the crowd, was Flans Van Pelt, an old Dutch sea-captain retired from service, the nauti- cal oracle of the place. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope, cov(!red with tarry canvas, JnnTi- med a Dutch tune to himself, and said nothing. A hutn, 172 THE CRAYON RKADING BOOK. however, from Hans Van Pelt, liad always more weight with the pnblic than a speech from another man. In the meantime the ship became more distinct to the naked eye : she was a stont, round, Dutch-built vessel, with high bow and poop, bearing Dutch colors. The sun gilded her bellying canvas, as she came riding over the long waving billows. The sentinel who had given notice of her approach, declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the centre of the bay ; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just as if she had come out of the bosom of the black thunder-cloud. The bystand- ers looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say to this report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer to- gether, and said nothing ; upon which some shook their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders. The sliip was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun was brought to bear on her, and, with some diffi- culty, loaded and fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artillery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and to skip along the water on the other side, but no notice was taken of it ! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed right against wind and tide, which were both down the river. Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise harbor-master, ordered his boat, and set ofi" to board her ; but after row- ing two or three liours, he returned without success. Sometimes he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be Ij/ilf a mile off. Some said it was because his oarsmen, who were rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit on their hands ; but this it is probable was a mere scandal. He got near enough, however, to see the crew ; who were all dressed in the THE STORM-siiir. 173 Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high hats and feathers ; not a word was spoken by any one on board ; they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the sliip seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on, away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sunshine, imtil she faded from sight, like a little white cloud mi^lting away in tlie summer sky. The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of his administration. Fears were entertain(>d for the security of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take possession. The governor called together his council repeatedly to assist iiim witli their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber from the sacred for- est of the Hague, smoking his long jasmin pipe, and list- ening to all that his counsellors hud to say on a subject about which they knew nothing ; but in spite of all the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor still continued to doubt. Messengers were dispatched to different places on the river ; but they returned without any tidings — the ship had made no port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed, but she never returned down the Hudson. As, however, the council seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had it in abundance. The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing some report of having seen the strange ship at different parts of the river; soiiietimes near the Pallisadoes, sometimes off Croton Point, and sometimes in the Highlands ; but she never was reported as having been seen above the Highlands. The crews of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among themselves in their accounts of these apparitions ; but that may have arisen from the uncertain situations 174 THE CRAYON HEADING BOOK. in which they saw her. Sometimes it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm, Hghting up a pitchy night, and giving ghmpses of her careering across Tappaan Zee, or tlie wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At one moment she would appear close upon them, as if likely to run them down, and would throw them into great bustle and alarm ; but the next flash would show her far off", always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under some high bluff" of the Highlands, all in deep shadow, excepting her topsails glittering in the moonbeams ; by the time, however, that the voyagers reached the place, no ship was to be seen ; and when they had passed on for some distance, and looked back, behold ! there she was again, with her top-sails in the moonshine ! Her appearance was always just after, or just before, or just in the midst of unruly weather ; and she was known among the skip- pers and voyagers of the Hudson by the name of " the storm-ship." These reports perplexed the governor and his council more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the conjectures and opinions uttered on the subject. Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off" the coast of New England, navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutchman, which had so long haunted Table Bay ; but being unable to make port, had now sought another harbor. Others, suggested, that if it really was a supernatural apparition, as there was every nat- ural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of the Halfmoon ; who, it was well known, had once run aground in the upper part of the river, in seek- ing a northwest passage to China. This opinion had very THE STORM-SHIP. 175 little weight with the governor, but it passed current out of doors ; for indeed it had already been reported, that Hendrick Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appeared very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest the river where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the mountain. Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts of the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ceased to be the subject of deliberation at the board. It continued, however, a matter of popular be- lief and marvellous anecdote through the whole time of the Dutch government, and particularly just before the capture of New Amsterdam, and the subjugation of the province by the English squadron. About that time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee, and about Weehawk, and even down as far as Hoboken ; and her appearance was supposed to be ominous of the ap- proaching squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination. Since that time we have no authentic accounts of her ; though it is said she still haunts the Highlands, and cruises about Point-no-point. People who live along the river, insist that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight : and that in a deep still midnight they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along the mountain- ous shores, and about the wide bays and long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very strong doubts upon the subject. It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seen in these Highlands in storms, which are con- sidered as coimected with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft talk of a little bulbous-bottom- 176 THE CRAYON REAPING BOOK. ed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose and sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking trumpet in his hand, which they say keeps about the Dunderberg.* They declare that they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders in low Dutch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or the rattling off of another thun- der-clap. That sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little imps in broad breeches and sliort doublets ; tumbling head over heels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in the air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's Nose ; and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was always greatest. One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, she labored dreadfully, and the water came over the gun- wale. All the crew were amazed, when it was discov- ered that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat on the mast-head, known at once to be the hat of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however, dared to climb to the mast-head, and get rid of this terrible hat. The sloop continued laboring and rocking, as if she would have rolled her mast overboard, and seemed in continual danger either of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way she drove quite through the Higlilands, until she had passed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she passed this bourne, than the little hat spun up into the air like a top, whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the summit of the Dunderberg ; while the sloop righted herself, and * t. e. The " Thunder Mountain," so called from its echoes. WESTMINSTER. ABBEY. 177 sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond. Nothing saved her from utter wreck but the fortunate circumstance of having a horse-shoe nailed against the mast ; a wise precaution against evil spirits, since adopted by all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river. Westminster Abbey. On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed its thresh- old, seemed like stepping back into the regions of anti- quity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered fi'om the inner court of Westminster School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of thie neigliboring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored by damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss has gath- 178 THE CRAYON READING ROOK. ered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- stones have lost their leafy beauty ; every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendor. P>om between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pin- nacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of ruin and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tomb- stones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many genera- tions. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone re- mained, having no doubt been renewed in later times. I remained some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but tliat such beings had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the mon- ument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon these grave-stones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 179 Startling to hear this warning ol departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hoin-, which like a billow, has rolled ns onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interi- or of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height ; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignifi- cance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed si- lence of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noise- less reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, wiicn alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, ajid artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies 180 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscrijjtions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, 1 have always observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about them, A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. Tiiey linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of coin- panionshi]) between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing Ibint and obscure: but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrillced surround- ing enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distaut minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensa- tion of pleasure. Well may ])ostority be grateful (o his memory; I'or he has U-ft it an inherilance, not of empty names and soiiiidiiig acdons, but wiiole treasiu'cs t)f wis- dom, bright g(>msofthought, and golden veins of kuiguage. V'roni Poet's (\)rner I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 1 wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and moim- ments of the great. At every turn I met with some illus- trious name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 181 renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusity chambers of tleath, it catches glimpses of quaint (ilfigies ; some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others strctclied upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together : warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and coro- nets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transnuited into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast : the face was .-ilmost cov- ered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military en- thusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction ; between the history and the fairy tale. There is something cxtrem(;ly picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they arc generally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pag(;antry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of time utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recol- lection ; of customs and maimers with which ours have no affinity. They are like olyects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague; and vis- 182 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. ionaiy. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over-wrought conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on mod- ern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph tliat breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument which is among the most renowned achieve- ments of modern art ; but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave should be surrounded by every thing that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay', but of sorrow and meditation. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 183 silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear ; — the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the mur- nun- of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the death-like repose around : and it has a strange eflect upon the feel- ings, thus to heai- the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually Avearing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en- trance to Henry the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnifi- cent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of ar- chitecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minute- ness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests 184 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned with ar- morial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder— his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagination con- jured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land ; glittering with the splen- dor of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multi- tude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants— sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more dis- tinction in this mansion of shadowy honors : the melan- choly reward of a monument. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 185 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance of the equality of the grave ; which brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the othei« is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls arc stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron rail- ing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the checkered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For in the silent grave no conversation. No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. No careful fathei"'s counsel — nothing's heard. For nothing is, but all oblivion. Dust, and an endless darkness. 186 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. _ Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled in- tensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepul- chre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumphant acclama- tion, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and the soft voices of tlie choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon tlie soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thickening around me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small stair- case that conducts to it, to take from thence a general WESTMINSTER, ABBEY. 187 survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this enrinence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen, lie mouldering in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gotliic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon arrive ; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the mean- est of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the ab- ject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward tlie Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of man- kind. Some are plundered ; some mutilated ; some 188 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. covered with ribaldry and insult — all more or less out- raged and dishonored ! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 189 pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-mor- row. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablets ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now con- sumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."* What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the garish sun- beam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. » Sir T. Brown. 190 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Christmas. It is a beautiful arrangement, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the an- nouncement of the rehgion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family con- nections, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sor- rows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of child- hood. There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we " live abroad and every where." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fra- grance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of re- freshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the land- scape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings CHRISTMAS. 191 also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly- disposed for the pleasm-e of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympa- thies more aroused. We feel more sensibly tlie charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely to- gether by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diftuses an artificial sum- mer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity ? Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- mates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze will 192 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. Death. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superior- ity to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in* solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to re- member be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of con- solation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the DEATH. 193 love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attri- butes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming hurst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the pre- sent ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry 1 No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh the grave ! — the grave ! — It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him ! But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thou- sand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its mute, watch- ful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering,- thrilling — oh! how thrilling! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, strug- gling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! 9 194 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon as even from the threshold of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited — every past endearment unre- garded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affection- ate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one un- merited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; — then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, and every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul — then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite afiliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and aflectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 195 The Widow and her Son. Pitie olde age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. Marlowe's Tamburlaine. Those who are in the habit of remarking such mat- ters must have noticed the passive quiet of an Enghsh landscape on Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel the natural reli- gion of the soul gently springing up within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no where else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. During my recent residence in the country I used frequently to attend the old village church. Its shadowy 196 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. aisles ; its mouldering monuments ; its dark open panel- ling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation ; but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary ; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have sur- vived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to hea- ven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently at- tracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows awkward- THE WIDOW AND HER SON. ~ 197 ly wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the church-yard ; where, from the number of nameless graves around, it woidd appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the dis- tinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an an' of cold indifference. There were no mock mourn- ers in the trappings of atrccted woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penni' less. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarce- ly be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the fune- 198 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. ral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling air which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of business : the striking of spades into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor wo- man who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation — " Nay, now — nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more — my heart swelled into my THK WIDOW AND HEU SON. 199 throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained until the fune- ral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and desti- tution, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their growing minds soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward applicmces to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after- growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years ; these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter : she was just returning from accom- panying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene 1 had witnessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the as- sistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blame- less life. They had one son, who had grown up to be 200 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. the staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir !" said the good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his pa- rents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm, than on her good- man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round." Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hadship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long in this employ when he was en- trapped by a press-gang, and carried ofi' to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heart- less and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her throughout the vil- lage, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest in- habitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neigh- bors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes, was emaciated and THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 201 ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — " Oh my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? your poor boy George ?"' It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sick- ness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blend- ed : still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, Avas exhausted in him ; and if any thing had been want- ing to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sutficient. He stretched him- self on the pallet on which his widowed mother had pass- ed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languish- ed, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought on the mother " that looked on his childhood," that smoothed 9* 202 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by- danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his con- venience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoy- ment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his pros- perity : — and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit him .He could not endure his mother from his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of afflic- tion was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villa- gers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Simday I was at the village church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 203 mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touch- ing than this struggle between pious aflFection and utter poverty : a black riband or so — a faded black handker- chief, and one or two more such humble attempts to ex- press by outward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render her situation more comforta- ble, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never parted. 204 THE CRAYON KEADING BOOK. The Voyage. Ships, ships, I will descrie you Amidst the main, I will come and try you. What you are protecting, And projecting. What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? Old Poem. To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost im- perceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the efiect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, THE VOYACJE. 205 and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- tainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wan- der, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of sub- jects for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a sum- mer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of poi poises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the 203 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, hke a spectre, through the bkie waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phan- tasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, Avould be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious mon- ument of human invention ; which has in a manner tri- umphed over wind and wave : has brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established an inter- change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drift- ing at a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of hand- kerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened them- selves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea- weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — tlieir hones lie whitening among the cav- THE VOYAGE. 207 erns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can teh the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more !" The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- wreck and diaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. " As I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine stout ship across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it im- possible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch for- ward to look out for fishing smacks which are accustom- ed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blow- ing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead !' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor. 208 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crash- ing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swallowed shriek- ing by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all was silent — we never saw or heard any thing of them more." I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds over head seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terri- ble. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of wa- ters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but THE VOYAGE. 209 a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, miglit give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tran- quil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the glad- dening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When tlic ship is decked out in all her canvas, and every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep : I miglit fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is almost a continual reverie — -but it is time to get to shore. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " land !" was given from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an Ameri- can's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of 210 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I recon- noitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was throng- ed with people ; some, idle lookers-on, others eager ex- pectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands v/ere thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thought- fully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and saluta- tions interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interest- ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished- for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now THE ALHAMBRA MY MOONLIGHT. 211 leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances — the greetings of friends — the consulta- tions of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I step- ped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a straheer in the land. The Alhambra hy Moonlight. The moon, which then was invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, and now rolls in full splendor above tlie towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden beneath my window is gently lighted up ; the orange and citron trees are tip- ped with silver ; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose is faintly visible. I have sat for hours at my window inhaling the sweet- ness of the garden, and musing on the checkered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the ele- gant memorials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when every thing was quiet, and have wan- dered over the whole building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a place ! The temperature of an Andalusian midnight, in summer, 212 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer at- mosphere ; there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spir- its, an elasticity of frame that render mere existence en- joyment. Tlie effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather stain disap- pears ; the marble resumes its original whiteness ; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams ; the halls are illuminated with a softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabi- an tale. At such time I have ascended to the little pavilion, called the Glueen's Toilette, to enjoy its varied and exten- sive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like silver clouds against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the mountain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over the parapet of the toca- dor, and gaze down upon Granada, spread out like a map below me ; all buried in deep repose, and its white pala- ces and convents sleeping as it were in the moonshine. Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some party of dancers lingering in the Alameda ; at other times I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful cava- lier serenading his lady's window ; a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on the decline except in the remote towns and villages of Spain. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying that mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate — and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my THE COURT OF LIONS. 213 bed, and been killed to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa. The Court of Lions. The peculiar charm of this old dreamy palace, is its power of calling up vague reveries and picturings of the past, and thus clothing naked realities with the illusions of the memory and the imagination. As I delight to walk in these " vain shadows," I am prone to seek those parts of the Alhambra which are most favorable to this phantasmagoria of the mind ; and none are more so than the Court of Lions and its surrounding halls. Here the hand of time has fallen the lightest, and the traces of Moorish elegance and splendor, exist in almost their original brilliancy. Earthquakes have shaken the foun- dations of this pile, and rent its rudest towers, yet see — not one of those slender columns has been displaced, not an arch of that light and fragile colonnade has given way, and all the fairy fretwork of these domes, apparently as unsubstantial as the crystal fabrics of a morning's frost, yet exist after the lapse of centuries, almost as fresh as from the hand of the Moslem artist. I write in the midst of these mementoes of the past, in the fresh hour of early morning, in the fated hall of the Abencerrages. The blood-stained fountain, the legenda- ry monument of their massacre, is before me ; the lofty jet almost casts its dew upon my paper. How difficult to reconcile the ancient tale of violence and blood, with the gentle and peaceful scene around ! Every thing here appears calculated to inspire kind and happy feelings, for 214 THE CRAYOiN READING BOOK. every thing is delicate and beautiful. The very light falls tenderly from above, through the lantern of a dome tinted and wrought as if by fairy hands. Through the ample and fretted arch of the portal, I behold the Court of Lions, with brilliant sunshine gleaming along its col- onnades and sparkling in its fountains. The lively swal- low dives into the court, and then surging upwards, darts away twittering over the roof ; the busy bee toils hum- ming among the flower beds, and painted butterflies hov- er from plant to plant, and flutter up, and sport with each other in the sunny air. — It needs but a slight exertion of the fancy to picture some pensive beauty of the harem, loitering in these secluded haunts of oriental luxury. He, however, who would behold this scene under an aspect more in unison with its fortunes, let him come when the shadows of evening temper the brightness of the court and throw a gloom into the surrounding halls, — then nothing can be more serenely melancholy, or more in harmony with the tale of departed grandeur. At such times I am apt to seek the Hall of Justice whose deep shadowy arcades extend across the upper end of the court. Here were performed, in presence of Fer- dinand and Isabella, and their triumphant court, the pompous ceremonies of high mass, on taking possession of the Alhambra. The very cross is still to be seen upon the wall, where the altar was erected, and where ofiicia- ted the grand cardinal of Spain, and others of the high- est religious dignitaries of the land. I picture to myself the scene when this place was fill- ed with the conquering host, that mixture of mitred pre- late, and shorn monk, and steel-clad knight, and silken courtier ; when crosses and crosiers, and religious stand- ards were mingled with proud armorial ensigns and the banners of the haughty chiefs of Spain, and flaimted ia ^i THE SITtTATION OF NEW- YORK. 215 triumph through these Moslem halls, I picture to my- self Columbus, the future discoverer of a world, taking his modest stand in a remote corner, the humble and neglected spectator of the pageant. I see in imagination the Catholic sovereigns prostrating themselves before the altar and pouring forth thanks for their victory, while the vaults resound with sacred minstrelsy and the deep-toned Te Deum. The transient illusion is over — the pageant melts from the fancy — monarch, priest, and warrior return into obli- vion, with the poor Moslems over whom they exulted. The hall of their triumph is waste and desolate. The bat flits about its twilight vaults, and the owl hoots from the neighboring tower of Comares. The Situation of New- York. It was mdeed — as my great-grandfather used to say — though in truth I never heard him, for he died, as might be expected, before I was born — " It was indeed a spot on which the eye might have revelled for ever, in ever new and never ending beauties." The island of Mannahata spread wide before them, like some sweet vision of fancy, or some fair creation of industrious magic. Its hills of smiling green swelled gently one above another, crowned with lofty trees of luxuriant growth ; some pointing their tapering foliage towards the clouds, which were gloriously transparent ; and others loaded with a verdant burthen of clambering vines, bowing their branches to the earth, that was 216 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. covered with flowers. On the gentle declivities of the hills were scattered in gay profusion, the dog-wood, the sumach, and the wild- brier, whose scarlet berries and white blossoms glowed brightly among the deep green of the surrounding foliage ; and here and there a curling column of smoke rising from the little glens that opened along the shore, seemed to promise the weary voyagers a welcome at the hands of their fellow creatures. As they stood gazing with entranced attention on the scene before them, a red man, crowned with feathers, issued from one of these glens, and after contemplating in silent wonder the gallant ship, as she sat like a stately swan swimming on a silver lake, sounded the warwhoop, and bounded into the woods like a wild deer. Italian Scenery. I FORGOT in an instant all my perils and fatigues at this magnificent view of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains of the Abruzzi. It was on these heights that Hannibal first pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his followers. The eye embraces a vast extent of country. The minor height of Tusculum, with its villas and its sacred ruins, lie below ; the Sabine hills and the Albanian mountains stretch on either hand ; and beyond Tusculum and Frascati spreads out the immense Campagna, with its lines of tombs, and here and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, and the towers and domes of the eternal city in the midst. Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising ITALIAN SCENERY. 217 sun, and bursting upon my sight as I looked forth from among the majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, too the savage foreground, made still more savage by groups of banditti, armed and dressed in their wild picturesque manner, and you will not wonder that the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment overpowered all his other feelings. * * * * # In its neighborhood are the ruins of the villas of Cicero, Scylla, Lucullus, Rufinus, and other illustrious Romans, who sought refuge here occasionally from their toils, in the bosom of a soft and luxurious repose. From the midst of delightful bowers, refreshed b/ the pure mountain breeze, the eye looks over a romantic land- scape full of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian mountains ; Tivoli, once the favorite residence of Horace and Mecsenas ; the vast, deserted, melancholy Campagna, with the Tiber winding through it, and St. Peter's dome swelling in the midst, the monument, as it were, over the grave of ancient Rome. * « # It was now about noon, and every thing had sunk into repose, like the sleeping bandit before me. The noontide stillness that reigned over tnese mountains, the vast landscape below, gleaming with distant towns, and dotted with various habitations and signs of life, yet all so silent, had a powerful effect upon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, which lie among the moun- tains, have a peculiar air of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid-day to break the quiet of the scene. Some- times the whistle of a solitary muleteer, lagging with his lazy animal along the road which winds through the centre of the valley ; sometimes the faint piping of a shepherd's reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the bell of an ass slowly pacing along, fol- 10 218 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. 1 lowed by a monk with bare feet, and bare shining head, and carrying provisions to his convent. * * * The setting sun, dechning beyond the vast Cam- pagna, shed its rich yellow beams on the woody summit of the Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned with snow shone brilliantly in the distance, contrasting their bright- ness with others, which, thrown into shade, assumed deep tints of purple and violet. As the evening ad- vanced, the landscape darkened into a sterner charac- ter. The immense solitude around ; the wild mountains broken into rocks and precipices, intermingled with vast oaks, corks, and chestnuts ; and the groups of banditti in the foreground, reminded me of the savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. The night was magnificent. The moon, rising above the horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up by the grand features of the mountain ; while lights twink- ling here and there, like terrestrial stars in the wide dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely cabins of the shepherds. Voyage tip the Hudson. Now did the soft breezes of the south steal sweetly over the face of nature, tempering the panting heats of summer into genial and prolific warmth ; when that miracle of hardihood and chivalric virtue, the dauntless Peter Stuyvaeant, spread his canvas to the wind, and departed from the fair island of Mannahata. The galley in which he embarked was sumptuously adorned with pendants and streamers of gorgeous dyes, which VOYAGE UP THE HUDSON. 219 fluttered gayly in the wind, or drooped their ends into the bosom of the stream. The bow and poop of this majestic vessel were gallantly bedight, after the rarest Dutch fashion, with figures of little pursy Cupids with periwigs on their heads, and bearing in their hands garlands of flowers, the like of which are not to be found in any book of botany ; being the matchless flowers which floiuished in the golden age, and exist no longer, unless it be in the imaginations of ingenious carvers of wood and discolorers of canvas. Thus rarely decorated, in style befitting the puis- sant potentate of the Manhattoes, did the galley of Peter Stuyvesant launch forth upon the bosom of the lordly Hudson, which, as it rolled its broad waves to the ocean, seemed to pause for a while and swell with pride, as if conscious of the illustrious burthen it sustained. But trust me, gentlefolk, far other was the scene presented to the contemplation of the crew from that which may be witnessed at this degenerate day. Wild- ness and savage majesty reigned on the borders of this mighty river — the hand of cultivation had not as yet laid low the dark forest, and tamed the features of the landscape — nor had the frequent sail of commerce broken in upon the profound and awful solitude of ages. Here and there might be seen a rude wigwam perched among the clifls of the mountains with its curling column of smoke mounting in the transparent atmosphere — but so loftily situated that the whoopings of the savage chil- dren, gamboling on the margin of the dizzy heights, fell almost as faintly on the ear as do the notes of the lark, when lost in the azure vault of heaven. Now and then, from the beetling brow of some precipice, the wild deer would look timidly down upon the splen- did pageant as it passed below ; and then, tossing his 220 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. antlers in the air, would bound away into the thickest of the forest. Through such scenes did the stately vessel of Peter Stuyvesant pass. Now did they skirt the bases of the rocky heights of Jersey, which spring up like ever- lasting walls, reaching from the waves unto the heavens, and were fashioned, if tradition may be believed, in times long past, by the mighty spirit Manetho, to protect his favorite abodes from the unhallowed eyes of mortals. Now did they career it gayly across the vast expanse of Tappan Bay, whose wide-extended shores present a variety of delectable scenery — here the bold promon- tory, crowned with embowering trees, advancing into the bay — there the long woodland slope, sweeping up from the shore in rich luxuriance, and terminating in the upland precipice — while at a distance a long waving line of rocky heights threw their gigantic shades across the water. Now would they pass where some modest little interval, opening among these stupendous scenes, yet retreating as it were for protection into the embraces of the neighboring mountains, displayed a rural para- dise, fraught with sweet and pastoral beauties ; the velvel-tufted lawn — the bushy copse — the tinkling riv- ulet, stealing through the fresh and vivid verdure — on whose banks was situated some little Indian village, or peradventure, the rude cabin of some solitary hunter. The different periods of the revolving day seemed each, with cunning magic, to diffuse a different charm over the scene. Now would the jovial sun break glo- riously from the east, blazing from the summits of the hills, and sparkling the landscape with a thousand dewy gems ; while along the borders of the river were seen heavy masses of mist, which, like midnight caitiffs, dis- turbed at his approach, made a sluggish retreat, rolling VOYAGE UP THE HUDSON. 221 in sullen reluctance up the mountains. At such times all was brightness, and life, and gayety — the atmosphere was of an indescribable pureness and transparency — the birds broke forth in wanton madrigals, and the freshen- ing breezes wafted the vessel merrily on her course. But when the sun sunk amid a flood of glory in the west, mantling the heavens and the earth with a thou- sand gorgeous dyes — then all was calm, and silent, and magnificent. The late swelling sail hung lifelessly against the mast — the seaman, with folded arms, leaned against the shrouds, lost in that involuntary musing which the sober grandeur of nature commands in the rudest of her children. The vast bosom of the Hudson was like an unruflled mirror, reflecting the golden splen- dor of the heavens ; excepting that now and then a bark canoe would steal across its surface, filled with painted savages, whose gay feathers glared brightly, as perchance a lingering^ ray of the setting sun gleamed upon them from the western mountains. But when the hour of twilight spread its majestic mists around, then did the face of nature assume a thou- sand fugitive charms, which to the worthy heart that seeks enjoyment in the glorious works of its Maker are inexpressibly captivating. The mellow dubious light that prevailed just served to tinge with illusive colors the softened features of the scenery. The deceived but delighted eye sought vainly to discern in the broad masses of shade, the separating line between the land and water; or to distinguish the fading objects that seemed sinking into chaos. Now did the busy fancy supply the feebleness of vision, producing with indus- trious craft a fairy creation of her own. Under her plastic wand the barren rocks frowned upon the watery waste, in the semblance of lofty towers, and high em- 222 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. battled castles— trees assumed the direful forms of mighty- giants, and the inaccessible summits of the mountains seemed peopled with a thousand shadowy beings. Now broke forth from the shores the notes of an innumerable variety of insects, which filled the air Avith a strange but not inharmonious concert — while ever and anon was heard the melancholy plaint of the Whip- poor-will, who, perched on some lone tree, wearied the ear of night with -his incessant moanings. The mind, soothed into a hallowed melancholy, listened with pen- sive stillness to catch and distinguish each sound that vaguely echoed from the shore — now and then startled perchance by the whoop of some straggling savage, or by the dreary howl of a wolf, stealing forth upon his nightly prowl ings. Thus happily did they pursue their course, until they entered upon those awful defiles denominated the HIGHLANDS, wlicrc it would sccm that the gigantic Titans had erst waged their impious war with heaven, piling up cliffs on cliffs, and hurling vast masses of rock in wild confusion. But in sooth very different is the his- tory of these cloud-capt mountains. These in ancient days, before the Hudson poured its waters from the lakes, formed one vast prison, within whose rocky bosom the omnipotent Manetho confined the rebellious spirits who repined at his control. Here, bound in adamantine chains, or jammed in rifted pines, or crushed by pon- derous rocks, they groaned for many an age. At length the conquering Hudson, in its career towards the ocean, burst open their prison-house, rolling its tide trium- phantly through the stupendous ruins. Still, however, do many of them lurk about their old abodes ; and these it is, according to venerable legends, that cause the echoes which resound throughout these THE CHARACTER OF COLUMBUS. 223 awful solitudes ; which are nothing but their angry clamors when any noise disturbs the profoundness of their repose. For when the elements are agitated by tempest, when the winds are up and the thunder rolls, then horrible is the yelling and howling of these troubled spirits, making the mountains to rebellow with their hid- eous uproar ; for at such times it is said that they think the great Mauetho is returning once more to plunge them in gloomy caverns, and renew their intolerable captivity. The Character of Colu?nbus. Great men are compounds of great and little quali- ties. Indeed, much of their greatness arises from their mastery over the imperfections of their nature, and their noblest actions are sometimes struck forth by the collision of their merits and their defects. In Columbus were singularly combined the practical and the poetical. His mind grasped all kinds of know- ledge, whether procured by study or observation, which bore upon his theories ; impatient of the scanty aliment of the day, " his impetuous ardor," as has well been ob- served, " threw him into the study of the fathers of the church ; the Arabian Jews, and the ancient geographers ;" while his daring but irregular genius, bursting from the Umits of imperfect science, bore him to conclusions far beyond the intellectual vision of his contemporaries. If some of his conclusions were erroneous, they were at least ingenious and splendid ; and their error resulted from the clouds which still hung over his peculiar path of enterprise. His own discoveries enlightened the igno- 224 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. ranee of the age ; guided conjecture to certainty, and dispelled that very darkness with which he had been obliged to struggle. Columbus was a man of quick sensibility, liable to great excitement, to sudden and strong impressions, and powerful impulses. He was naturally irritable and im- petuous, and keenly sensible to injury and injustice ; yet the quickness of his temper was counteracted by the benevolence and generosity of his heart. The magna- nimity of his nature shone forth through all the troubles of his stormy career. Though continually outraged in his dignity, and braved in the exercise of his command ; though foiled in his plans, and endangered in his person by the seditions of turbulent and worthless men, and that too at times when suffering under anxiety of mind and anguish of body sufficient to exasperate the most patient, yet he restrained his valiant and indignant spirit, by the strong powers of his mind, and brought himself to forbear, and reason, and even to supplicate : nor should we fail to notice how free he was from all feeling of re- venge, how ready to forgive and forget, on the least signs of repentance and atonement. He has been extolled for his skill in controlling others ; but far greater praise is due to him for his firmness in governing himself. His natural benignity made him accessible to all kinds of pleasurable sensations from external objects. In his letters and journals, instead of detailing circumstances with the technical precision of a mere navigator, he no- tices the beauties of nature with the enthusiasm of a poet or a painter. As he coasts the shores of the New World, the reader participates in the enjoyment with which he describes, in his imperfect but picturesque Spanish, the varied objects around him ; the blandness of the temper- ature, the purity of the atmosphere, the fragrance of the THE CHARACTER, OF COLUMBUS. 225 air, " full of dew and sweetness," the verdure of the for- ests, the magnificence of the trees, the grandeur of the mountains, and the limpidity and freshness of the run- ning streams. New delight springs up for him in every scene. He extols each new discovery as more beautiful than the last, and each as the most beautiful in the world ; until, with his simple earnestness, he tells the sovereigns, that, having spoken so highly of the preceding islands, he fears that they will not credit him, when he declares that the one he is actually describing surpasses them all in excellence. He was devoutly pious ; religion mingled with the whole course of his thoughts and actions, and shone forth in his most private and unstudied writings. When- ever he made any great discovery, he celebrated it by solemn thanks to God. The voice of prayer and melody of praise rose from his ships when they first beheld the New World, and his first action on landing was to prostrate himself upon the earth and return thanksgiv- ings. Every evening, the Salve Regina, and other vesper hymns, were chanted by his crew, and masses were performed in the beautiful groves bordering the wild shores of this heathen land. All his great enter- prises were undertaken in the name of the Holy Trinity, and he partook of the communion previous to embarka- tion. He was a firm believer in the efficacy of vows and penances and pilgrimages, and resorted to them in times of difficulty and danger. The religion thus deeply seated in his soul diffused a sober dignity and divine composure over his whole demeanor. His language was pure and guarded, free from all imprecations, oaths, and other irreverent expressions. With all the visionary fervor of his imagination, its fondest dreams fell short of the reality. He died in ig- 10* 226 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. norance of the real grandeur of his discovery. Until his last breath he entertained tlie idea that he had merely opened a new way to the old resorts of opulent com- merce, and had discovered some of the wild regions of the East. He supposed Hispaniola to be the ancient Ophir which had been visited by the ships of Solomon, and that Cuba and Terra Firma were but remote parts of Asia. What visions of glory would have broken upon his mind could he have known that he had indeed dis- covered a new continent, equal to the whole of the old Avorld in magnitude, and separated by two vast oceans from all the earth hitherto known by civilized man ! And how would his magnanimous spirit have been con- soled, amidst the afflictions of age and the cares of penu- ry, the neglect of a fickle public, and the injustice of an ungrateful king, could he have anticipated the splendid empires which were to spread over the beautiful world he had disco veered; and the nations, and tongues, and languages which were to fill its lands with his renown, and revere and bless his name to the latest posterity ! A Thunder ^torm on the Hudson. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they floated gently with the tide between these stern moun- tains. There was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in the languor of summer heat ; the turning of a plank, or the accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed from the mountain side, and reverberated along the shores ; and if by chance the captain gave a shout of command, there were airy tongues which mocked it from every cliiT. A THUNDER-STORM ON THE HUDSON. 227 Dolph gazed about him in iniite delight and wonder at these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left the Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted forth the bold promontory of An- tony's Nose, with a solitary eagle wheeling about it ; while beyond, mountain succeeded to mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms together, and confine this mighty river in their embraces. There was a feeling of quiet luxury in gazing at the broad, green bosoms here and there scooped out among the precipices ; or at wood- lands high in air, nodding over the edge of some beetling bluff", and their foliage all transparent in the yellow sun- shine. In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of bright, snowy clouds peering above the western heights. It was succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly pushing onwards its predecessor, and towering with dazzling brilliancy, in the deep blue atmosphere ; and now muttering peals of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up it. The fish-hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought their nests on the high dry trees ; the crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks, and all nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder-gust. The clouds now rolled in volumes over the moun- tain-tops ; their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and scattered drops ; the wind fresh- ened, and curled up the waves ; at length it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by the mountain-tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling down. The 228 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed quiv- ering against the rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest-trees. The thunder burst in tremendous explo- sions ; the peals were echoed from mountain to moun- tain ; they crashed upon Dunderberg, and rolled up the long defile of the Highlands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull Hill seemed to bellow back the storm. For a time the scudding rack and mist, and the sheet- ed rain, almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was a fearful gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams of lightning which glittered among the rain- drops. Never had Dolph beheld such an absolute war- ring of the elements ; it seemed as if the storm was tear- ing and rending its way through this mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven into action. The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, until she came to where the river makes a sudden bend, the only one in the whole course of its majestic career.* Just as they turned the point, a violent flaw of wind came sweeping down a mountain gully, bending the for- est before it, and, in a moment, lashing up the river into white froth and foam. The captain saw the danger, and cried out to lower the sail. Before the order could be obeyed, the flaw struck the sloop, and threw her on her beam-ends. Every thing now was fright and confusion : the flapping of the sails, the whistling and rushing of the wind, the bawling of the captain and crew, the shriek- ing of the passengers, all mingled with the rolling and bellowing of the thunder. * This must have been the bend at West Point. A SUMMER EVENING IN AMERICA. 229 Absent Friends. Sweet, O Asem ! is the memory of distant friends ! Like the mellow ray of a departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart. Every hour of absence from my native land rolls heavily by, like the sandy wave of the desert ; and the fair shores of my country rise bloom- ing to my imagination, clothed in the soft, illusive charms of distance. I sigh, — yet no one listens to the sigh of the captive : I shed the bitter tear of recollection, but no one sympathizes in the tear of the turbaned stranger ! A Summer Evening in Am,erica. Who that has rambled by the side of one of our majestic rivers, at the hour of sunset, when the wildly romantic scenery around is softened and tinted by the voluptuous mist of evening; when the bold and swelling outlines of the distant mountain seem melting into the glowing horizon, and a rich mantle of refulgence is thrown over the whole expanse of the heavens, but must have felt how abundant is Nature in sources of pure enjoyment ; how luxuriant in all that can enliven the senses, or delight the imagination. The jocund zephyr, full freighted with native fragrance, sues sweetly to the senses ; the chirping of the thousand varieties of insects with which our woodlands abound, forms a concert of simple melody ; even the barking of the farm-dog, the lowing of the cattle, the tinkling of their bells, and the strokes of the woodman's axe from the opposite shore. 230 THU CRAYON I?EADrN(; BOOK. seem to partake of the softness of the scene, and fall tunefully upon the ear ; while the voice of the villager, chanting some rustic ballad, swells from a distance, in the semblance of the very music of harmonious love. Influence of Nature on the Heart. 1 CAST my eyes around ; all is serene and beautiful : the sweet tranquillity, the hallowed calm, settle upon my soul. No jarring chord vibrates in my bosom ; every angry passion is at rest ; I am at peace with the whole World, and hail all manlcind as friends and brothers. — Blissful moments ! ye recall the careless days of my boyhood, when mere existence was happiness ; when hope was certainty ; this world a paradise ; and every woman a ministering angel ! Surely, man was designed for a tenant of the universe, instead of being pent up in these dismal cages, these dens of strife, disease, and discord. We were created to range the fields, to sport among the groves, to build castles in the air, and have every one of them realized ! Who is there that does not fondly turn at times, to linger round those scenes which were once the haunt of his boyhood, ere his heart grew heavy, and his head waxed gray ; aijd to dwell with fond affection on the friends who have twined themselves round his heart — mingled in all his enjoyments — contributed to all his felicities 1 LOVE OF FAME. 231 Love of Fame. Indignant at the narrow limits which circumscribe existence, ambition is for ever strugghng to soar beyond them ; — to triumph over space and time, and to bear a name, at least, above the inevitable oblivion in which every tiling else that concerns us must be involved. It is this which prompts the patriot to his most heroic achieve- ments ; which inspires the sublimest strains of the poet, and breathes ethereal fire into the productions of the painter and the statuary. For this the monarch rears the lofty column ; the laurelled conqueror claims the triumphal arch ; while the obscure individual, who has moved in an humbler sphere, asks but a plain and simple stone to mark his grave, and bear to the next generation this important truth, that he was born, died, — and was buried. It was this passion which once erected the vast Numidian piles, whose ruins we have so often regarded with wonder, as the shades of evening — fit emblems of oblivion — gradu- ally stole over and enveloped them in darkness. It was this which gave being to those sublime monuments of Saracenic magnificence, which nod, in mouldering deso- lation, as the blast sweeps over our deserted plains. — How futile are all our efforts to evade the obliterating hand of time ! As I traversed the dreary wastes of Egypt, on my journey to Grand Cairo, I stopped my camel for a while, and contemplated, in awful admira- tion, the stupendous pyramids. An appalling silence prevailed around,^such as reigns in the wilderness when the tempest is hushed, and the beasts of prey have retired to their dens. 232 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. The myriads that had once been employed in rearing these lofty mementoes of hmnan vanity, whose busy hum once enlivened the solitude of the desert, — had all been swept from the earth by the irresistible arm of death — all were mingled with their native dust — all were forgotten ! Even the mighty names which these sepulchres were designed to perpetuate, had long since faded from remembrance ; history and tradition afforded but vague conjectures, and the pyramids imparted a hu- miliating lesson to the candidate for immortality. The storied obelisk — the triumphal arch — the swelling dome — shall crumble into dust, and the names they would preserve from oblivion shall often pass away, before their own duration is accomplished. Some Traits of Sir W. Scoffs Character. It was delightful to observe the generous mode in which he spoke of all his literary contemporaries ; quoting the beauties of their works, and pointing out their merits ; and this, too, with respect to persons with whom he might have been supposed to be at variance in literature or politics. His humor in conversation was genial, and free from all causticity. He had a quick perception of faults and foibles ; but he looked upon poor human nature with an indulgent eye, relishing what was good and pleasant, tolerating what was frail, and pitying what Avas evil. — The kindness and generosity of his nature tempered the sharpness of his wit, and would not allow him to be a satirist. I do not recollect a single sneer throughout his conversation, any more than throughout his works. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 233 Of his public character all the world can judge. His works have incorporated themselves v/ith the thoughts and concerns of the whole civilized world for a quarter of a century, and have had a controlling influence over the age in which he lived. Who is there that, on looking back over a great por- tion of his life, does not find the genius of Scott admin- istering to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and soothing his lonely sorrows 1 Who does not still guard his works as a treasury of pure enjoyment, an armory, to which to resort in time of need, to find weapons with which to fight off the evils and griefs of life ? For my own part, in periods of dejection, when every thing around me was joyless, I have hailed the announce- ment of a new work from his pen, as an earnest of cer- tain pleasure in store for me, and have looked forward to it, as a traveller on a waste looks to a green spot at a distance, where he feels assured of solace and refresh- ment. When I consider how much he has thus con- tributed to the better liours of my past existence, and how independent his works still make me, at times, of all the world for my enjoyment, I bless my stars that cast my lot in his days, to be thus cheered and gladdened by the outpourings of his genius. I consider it one of the few unmingled gratifications that I have derived from my literary career, that it has elevated me into genial communion with such a spirit. 234 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Character of Goldsmith. His works have outlasted generations of works of higher power and wider scope, and will continue to out- last succeeding generations ; for they have that magic charm of style which embalms works to perpetuity. The faults of Goldsmith, at the worst, were but nega- tive, while his merits were great and decided. He was no one's enemy but his own. His errors, in the main, inflicted evil on none but himself, and were so blended with humorous, and even afiecting circumstances, as to disarm anger, and conciliate kindness. Where eminent talent is united to spotless virtue, we are awed and daz- zled into admiration ; but our admiration is apt to be cold and reverential ; while there is something in the harmless infirmities of a good and great, but erring indi- vidual, that pleads touchingly to our nature. And the heart yearns towards the object of our idolatry, when we find that, like ourselves, he is mortal, and is frail. The epithet so often heard, and in such friendly tones, of " Poor Goldsmith," speaks volumes. Few Avho con- sider the compound of admirable and whimsical quali- ties which form his character, would wish to prune away its eccentricities, trim its grotesque luxuriance, and clip it down to the decent formalities of rigid virtue, "Let not his frailties be remembered," said Johnson, " he was a very great man." But, for our part, we rather say : " Let them be remembered." For we question whether he himself would not feel gratified in hearing his reader, after dwelling with admiration on the proofs of his greatness, close the volume with the kind-hearted phrase, so fondly, and so familiarly ejaculated, of " Poor Goldsmith." BIRDS OF SPRING. 235 Birds of Spring. Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible of the dehghtf'ul influences that accompany the earhest indications of Spring ; and of these, none are more dehghtful than the first notes of the birds. There is one modest httle sad-colored bird, nluch re- sembling a wren, which came about the house just on the skirts of winter, when not a blade of grass was to be seen, and when a few prematurely warm days had given a flattering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in the dawning, long before sunrise, and late in the evening, just before the closing in of night, his matin and his ves- per hymns. It is true he sang occasionally throughout the day ; but at these still hours, his song was more remarked. He sat on a leafless tree, just before the win- dow, and warbled forth his notes, free and simple, but singularly sweet, with something of a plaintive tone, that heightened their eflJect. The first morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among the young folks of my household. The long, deathlike sleep of winter was at an end ; Nature was once more awakening ; they now promised themselves the immediate appearance of buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed crew of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field-birds came sing- ing round the ship, though still far at sea, rejoicing them with the belief of the immediate proximity of land. A sharp return of winter almost silenced my little songster, and dashed the hilarity of the household ; yet still he poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive notes, be- tween the frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine between wintry clouds. I have consulted my book of ornithology in vam, to 236 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. find out the name of this kindly httle bird, who certainly deserves honor and favor far beyond his modest preten- sions. He comes Hkc the lowly violet, the most unpre- tending, but welcomest of flowers, breathing the sweet promise of the early year. Another of our feathered visitors, who follow close upon the steps of winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe-wee, or Phoebe-bird ; for he is called by each of these names, from a fancied resemblance to the sound of his monoto- nous note. He is a sociable little being, and seeks the habitation of man. A pair of them have built beneath my porch, and have reared several broods there, for two years past, their nest being never disturbed. They arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus and the snow- drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads glad- ness through the house. " The Phosbe-birds have come !" is heard on all sides ; they are welcomed back like mem- bers of the family ; and speculations are made upon where they have been, and what countries ihey have seen, during their long absence. Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is pronounced, by the old weather- wise people of the country, the sure sign that the severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resume his labors with confidence. About this time, too, arrives the bluebird, so poetically yet truly described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole landscape. You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably approaches your habitation, and takes up his residence in your vicinity. The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals the European lark, in my estimation, is the Boblincon, or Boblink, as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice portion of the year, which, in this latitude, answers to the description of the month of May, BIRDS OF SPIilNG. 237 SO often given by the poets. With us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of the yeai- ; and later than this, begin the parchmg, and panting, and dissolving heats of summer. But in this genial interval, Nature is in all her freshness and fragrance : " the rains are over and gone, the flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land." The trees are now in their fullest foliage and brightest verdure ; the woods are gay with the clustered flowers of the laurel ; the air is per- fumed by the sweet-brier and the wild rose ; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms ; while the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and the cherry to glow, among the green leaves. This is the chosen season of revelry of the Boblink. He comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season ; his life seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine. He is to be found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest meadows ; and is most in song when the clover is in blossom. He perches on the top- most twig of a tree, or on some long flaunting weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours forth a suc- cession of rich tinkling notes ; crowding one upon an- other, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and possessing the same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his para- mour ; always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody ; and always with the same appearance of intoxication and delight. 238 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Oi' all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Boblink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when ah Nature called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every bosom ; but when I, luck- less urchin ! was doomed to be mewed up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a school- room, it seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O how I envied him ! No lessons, no tasks, no hateful school ; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather. Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea of this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to impart, for the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration Avhich I once indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his career, when he in a manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from injury ; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disap- pear, and the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate on the ear. He gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and professional suit of black, assumes a russet or rather dusty garb, and enters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes a bon vivant, a mere gourmand ; thinking of nothing but good cheer, and gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he lately swung, and BIRDS OF SPRING. 239 chanted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like " the joys of the table," if I may be allowed to apply that convivial phrase to his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day fare, and sets out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreign luxuries. He is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Dela- ware, banqueting on their seeds ; grows corpulent with good feeding, and soon acquires the unlucky renown of the ortolan. Wherever he goes, pop ! pop ! pop ! the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side ; he sees his companions falling by thousands around him ; he is the reed-bird, the much-sough t-for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian epicure. Does he take warning and reform ? Not he ! He wings his flight still farther south in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging himself in the rice swamps ; filling himself with rice almost to bursting ; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career, we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the gourmand, the most vaunted of southern dainties, the rice-bird of the Carolinas. Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensual and persecuted Boblink. It con- tains a moral, worthy the attention of all little birds and little boys ; warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual pursuits, which raised him to so high a pitch of popularity, during the early part of his career ; but to eschew all tendency to that gross and dissipated mdulgence, which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end. 240 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. Portrait of a Dutchman. He was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches in circumference. His head was a perfect sphere ; indeed, of such stupendous dimensions was it, that dame Nature herself would have been puz- zled to construct a neck capable of supporting it ; where- fore she wisely declined the attempt, and settled it firmly on the top of his back-bone, just between the shoulders, where it remained as snugly bedded as a ship of war in the mud of the Potomac. His body was of an oblong form, particularly capacious at bottom. His legs, though ex- ceeding short, were sturdy in proportion to the weight they had to sustain, so that, when erect, he had not a little the appearance of a robustious beer-barrel standing on skids. His face, that infallible index of the mind, presented a vast expanse, perfectly unfurrowed or deformed by any of those lines and angles which disfigure the human countenance with what is termed expression. Two small gray eyes twinkled feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser magnitude in a hazy firmament ; and his full-fed cheeks, which seemed to have taken toll of every thing that went into his mouth, were curiously mottled, and streaked with dusky red, like a Spitzenberg apple. He daily took his four stated meals, appropriating exactly an hour to each ; he smoked and doubted eight hours, and he slept the remaining twelve of the four-and- twenty. morn: — noon: — evening, at granada. 241 Morn : — Nooji : — Evening, at Granada. 1. Scarce has the gray dawn streaked the sky, and the earhest cock crowed from the cottages on the hill-side, when the suburbs give sign of reviving animation ; for the fresh hours of dawning are precious in the summer season in a suhry cHmate. All are anxious to get the start of the sun in the business of the day. Tlie mule- teer drives forth his loaded train for the journey. The traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle, and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel. The brown peasant urges his loitering beast, laden with panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables, for already the thrifty housewives are hastening to the market. The sun is up, and sparkles along the valley, tipping the transparent foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the pure bright air, announ- cing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his bur- thened animals before the chapel, thrusts his staff through his belt behind, and enters with hat in hand, smoothing his coal-black hair, to hear a mass, and put up a prayer for a prosperous wayfaring across the Sierra. And now steals forth on fairy foot the gentle Senora, in trim basquina, with restless fan in hand, and dark eye flashing from beneath the gracefully folded mantilla. She seeks some well frequented church, to offer up her morning orisons ; but the nicely adjusted dress, the dainty shoe and cobweb stocking, the raven tresses, exquisitely braided, the fresh-plucked rose, that gleams among them like a gem, show that earth divides with heaven the empire of her thoughts. Keep an eye upon 242 THE CIIAYON READING BOOK. her, careful mother, or virgin aunt, or vigilant duenna, whichever you be, that walk behind. II. As the morning advances, the din of labor augments on every side ; the streets are thronged with man, and steed, and beast of burthen ; and there is a hum and murmur, like the surges of the ocean. As the sun ascends to his meridian, the hum and bustle gradually decline ; at the height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude, and for several hours there is a general repose. The windows are closed ; the curtains drawn ; the inhabitants retired into the coolest recesses of their mansions. The brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burthen ; the pea- sant and the laborer sleep beneath the trees of the Ala- meda, lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust. The streets are deserted, except by the water-carrier, who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his spark- ling beverage — " colder than the mountain snow !" III. As the sun declines, there is again a gradual reviving, and when the vesper-beU rings out his sinking knell, all nature seems to rejoice that the tyrant of the day has fallen. Now begins the bustle of enjoyment, when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air, and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the, Darro and the Xenil. As night closes, the capricious scene assumes new features. Light after light gradually twinkles forth ; here, a taper from a balconied window ; there, a votive .•^coTTiau MUSIC. 243 lamp before the image of a saint. Thus by degrees the city emerges from the perv^adiiig gloom, and sparkles with scattered lights, like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden, and street and lane, the tinkling of innumerable guitars, and the clicking of castanets. Scottish Music. We rambled among scenes which had been rendered classic by the pastoral muse, long before Scott had thrown the rich mantle of his poetry over them. What a thrill of pleasure did I feel when I first saw the broom- covered tops of the Cowdenknowes peeping above the gray hills of the Tweed ; and what touching associations were called up by the sight of Ettrick Yale, Gala Water and the Braes of Yarrow ! Every turn brought to mind some household air, some almost forgotten song of the nursery, by which I had been lulled to sleep in my childhood, and with them the looks and voices of those who had sung them, and who were now no more. Scot- land is eminently a land of song, and it is these melodies, chanted in our ears in the days of infancy, and connected with the memory of those we have loved, and who have passed away, that clothe Scottish landscape with such tender associations. The Scottish songs, in general, have something intrin- sically melancholy in them, owing, in all probability, to the pastoral and lonely life of those who composed them, who were often mere shepherds, tending their flocks in solitary glens, or folding them among the naked hills. 244 THE CRAYON HEADING BOOK. Many of these rustic bards have passed away, with- out leaving a name behind them. Nothing remains of them but these sweet and toucliing httle songs, which hve hke echoes about the places they once inhabited. Most of these simple effusions are linked with some favorite haunt of the poet. And, in this way, not a mountain or valley, a town or tower, green shaw or running stream in Scotland, but has some popular air connected with it, that makes its very name a key-note to a whole train of delicious fancies and feelings. Scott went on to expatiate on the popular songs of Scotland : " They are a part of our national inheritance," said he, " and something that we may truly call our own. They have no foreign taint ; they have the pure breath of the heather and the mountain breeze. All the genuine legitimate races that have descended from the ancient Britons — such as the Scotch, the Welsh and the Irish — have national airs. The English have none ; because they are not natives of the soil, or are, at least, mongrels. Their nuisic is all made up of foreign scraps, like a harlequin's jacket, or a piece of mosaic. Even in Scotland, we have comparatively few national songs in the eastern part, where we have had most influx of strangers. " A real old Scottish song is a cairn-gorm, a gem of our own mountains ; or rather, it is a precious relic of old times, that boars the national character stamped upon it, like a cameo, that shows what the national visage was in former days, before the breed was crossed." THE "PARLIAMENT OAK." 245 The ''Parliament Oak:'' (SHERWOOD FOREST.) So called in memory of an assemblage of the kind held by king John beneath its shade. The lapse of upwards of six centuries had reduced this once mighty tree to a mere crumbling fragment ; yet, like a gigantic torso in ancient statuary, the grandeur of its mutilated trunk gave evidence of what it had been in the days of its glory. In contemplating its mouldering remains, the fancy busied itself in calling up the scene that must have been presented beneath its shade, when this sunny hill swarm- ed with the pageantry of a warlike and hunting court; when silken pavilions and warrior-tents decked its crest; and royal standards, and baronial banners, and knightly penons rolled out to the breeze ; when prelates and cour- tiers, and steel-clad chivalry thronged round the person of the monarch ; while at a distance loitered foresters in green, and all the rural and hunting train that waited upon his sylvan sports. The reverie, however, was transient : king, courtier, and steel-clad warrior, and forester in green, with horn, and hawk, and hound, all faded again into oblivion. I was delighted to find myself in a genuine wild wood, of primitive and natural growth, so rarely to be met with in this thickly peopled and highly cultivated country. It reminded me of the aboriginal forests of my native land. I rode through natural alleys and greenwood glades, carpeted with grass and shaded by lofty and beautiful beeches. What most interested me, was to behold around the mighty trunks of veteran oaks, 246 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. the patriarchs of Sherwood Forest. Like mouldering towers, they were noble and picturesque in their decay, and gave evidence, even in their ruins, of their ancient grandeur. In a httle while and this glorious woodland will be laid low ; its green glades turned into sheepwalks, its legendary bowers supplanted by turnip-fields, and " mer- ry Sherwood" will exist but in ballad and tradition. " Oh ! for the poetical superstitions," thought I, " of the olden time, that shed a sanctity over every grove ; that gave to each tree its tutelar genius or nymph, and threatened disaster to all who molested the Hamadryads in their leafy abodes !" The Wife. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — The violet bed's not sweeter. MiDDLETON. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming re- verses of fortune. Those disasters which break dov/n the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all Aveakness and dependence, and alive to THE WIFE. 247 every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- tered boughs; so it is beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- ing the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, in- deed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly because he is more stim- ulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that tliough all abroad is darkness and hu- miliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 248 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. These observations call to mind a little domestic stoiy, of which I was once a witness. Mj^ intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashion- able life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the antici- pation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladjiess. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of trium- phant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well- suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupporta- ble was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the pres- THE WIFE. 249 ence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to over- whelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and mise- ries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ?" — At the question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake !" cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" " And why not ?" said I. " She must know it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intel- ligence may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are de- priving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that some- thing is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and out- 11* 250 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. raged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are con- cealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her hus- band is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart !— " I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have • its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively, " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is neces- sary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your hap- piness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary " " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God THE WIFE. 251 bless her !" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And beheve me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " beheve me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heaven- ly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of pros- perity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my man- ner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go homo and unburden his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasure ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it ?" " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to 252 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhap- py. — But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; she sufiers no loss of accustomed conveniencies nor ele- gancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." " But," said I, " now that you have got over the se- verest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over: whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle be- tween a proud mind and an empty purse — the keep- ing up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie per- fectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards he called upon me in the even- ing. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when THE WIFE. 253 he had leaned over that instrument, and hstened to the meUing tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her ?" asked I ; " has any thing happen- ed to her ?" *' What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation 7" " Has she then repined at the change ?" " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort !" " Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cot- tage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has been em- ployed all day in arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of domes- tic employment — she has, for the first time, looked round 254 THE CRAYON READING BOOK. her on a home destitute of every thing elegant, — almost of every thing convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of fu- ture poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance for the most pasto- ral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grassplot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paus- ed and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twist- ed in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cot- THE WIFE. 255 tage ; and I've been gathering some of the most deUcious strawberries, for 1 know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is so sweet and still here — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy !" Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bo- som — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet never has he experi- enced a moment of more exquisite felicity. THE END. 1 G. P. PUTNAM S 2*EW PUBLICATIONS. tot-JJoob for €nlk^tB uni) fiigtj Itljook, jfV^e Practieal 1^ locution ist^ For Colleges, Academios, and High Schools. BY JOHN W. S. HOWS, Professor of l^loculion in Columbia College. *,' This work is confidently recommended to the attention of the Teaching Public, and intelli- gem students, lor its thorough practical character. It comprises the Author's system of Elocutionary Instruction, which, during a long course of successful professional practice, has been most satisfactorily tested and stamped by public ap- proval. A close analytical dissection of the sense and construction of language is made the leading prin- ciple of instruction, rather than a servile adherence to elaborate mechanical rules. Natukb is at all times followed as the only sure Teacher. The perceptive and reasoning powers of the Pupil are constantly brought into action, and the few essential rules of the art are so simplified and adapted on these principles, as to become only the subordinate auxiliaries in the acquirement of an earnest, natural, and unaffected moile of delivery. A copious and varied selection of Examples, from the best Authors, are given for practice In the illustration of the system, the larger portion of which have never before been incorporatetl into any similar work. They will be found of an uniform high-toned character, and will furnish to the youthful Pupil a vocabulary of thought and intbrraation on topics of general importance anil in- terest. Large 12mo. In August. 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CONTINUED, A Mythological Text-Book : With original illustrations. Adapted to the use of Universities and High Schools, and for popular reading. BY M. A. DWIGHT. With an Introduction by Tayler Lewis, Professor of Greek in the University of New-York. 12nio, half bound $1 50. Also, a fine edition in octavo, with illustrations, cloth, $3 ; cloth gilt, $3 50 • half morocco, top edge gilt, $3 75. ' *.* This work has been prepared with ereat care, illustrated with effective outline drawirr^ and IS designed to treat the subject in an original, comprehensive, and uiie.xceptionable manner °so as to fi I the place as a te.xt-book, which is yet uns„pplied ; while it is also an attractive and readable table book for general use. It is introduced as a text-book in many of the leadir<^ colleges anu schools. "" "^s"" " As a book of reference for the general reader, we know not its equal. The information it con- tains is almost as necessary to the active reader of modern literature, as for the professed scholar " — Home Journal. • ^ ^..n^iai. "A valuable addition to our elementary school books, bein? written in good taste and with ability and well adapted to popular instruction.-i'ro/. Webster, Principal of the Free Acadeniy,N Y Cos's Drawing Cards. Studies in Drawing, in a Progressive Series of Lessons on Cards ; beginning With the most Elementary Studies, and adapted for use at Home and in Schools. BY BENJAMIN H. COE, Teacher of Drawing. In ten Series— marKed 1 to 10— each containing about eighteen Studies, 25 cents each Series. The design is : I. To make the exercise in drawing highly interesting to the pupil II. To make drawmgs so simple, and so gradually prngres.sive, as to enable any teacher, whether acquainted with drawing or not, to instruct his pupils to advantage III. To take the place of one half of the writing lessons, with confi.lence that the learner will acquire a knowledge of writing in le?is lime than is usually required IV. To give the pupils a bold, rapid, and anist-like style of drawiii" They are executed with taste and skill, and form, in our judement,'one of the best series of les- sons in drawmg which we have met with. The author justly remarks, that " the whole is so sim- plified as to enable any teacher, without previous studv, to instruct his pupils with advantage " %, I. a. MMm 'tot-lnnk. An Elementary Treatise on Artillery and Infantry^ Adapted for the Service of the United States. Designed for the u.'^e of Cadets of the U. S. Military Academy, and for the Officers of the Independent Companies and Volunteers. 12mo. BY C. P. KINGSBURY, LIEUT. U. 8. A. •.'This volume is used as a text-book in the TIniteil States Military Academy, and will be intro duced in the other military schools. It is ..he mo.t useful and comprehensive treatise in e her French or Eng.ish ; and is equally adapted for xw. in ihe militia service and in the army G. P. Putnam's new publications. Single- 1 Anglo-Saxon Course of Study. A Compendious Anglo-Saxon and English Dictionary. By the Rev. Joseph Bosworth, D.D., F.R S., &c., &c. 1 vol., 8vo, cloth, $3. A G-rammar of tlie Anglo-Saxon Language. By Louis F. Klipstein, A.M., LL.M., and Ph. D., of the University of Giessen. 12ino, cloth, $1 25. Tha Halgan Godspel on Englisc. The Anglo-Saxon Version of the Holy Gospels. Edited by Benjamin Thorpe, F.S. A. Reprinted by the same. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Analecta Anglo- Saxonica., With an Introductory Ethnological Essay, and Notes, Critical and Ex- planatory. By Louis F. Klipstein, A.M., LL.M., and Ph. D., of the University of Giessen. 2 vols., 1200 pages, $3 50. Natale Saficti Grcgorii PapcB. .iElfric's Homily on the Birthday of St. Gregory, and Collateral Ex- tracts from King Alfred's Version of Bede's Ecclesiastical History and the Saxon Chronicle, with a full Rendering into English, Notes Critical and Explanatory, and an Index of Stems and Forms. By Louis F. Klipstein, A.M., LL.M., and Ph. D., of the University of Giessen. 12mo, 75 cts. A Glossary to the Analecta Anglo- Saax)yiica.^ With the Indo-Germanic and other Affinities of the Language. By Louis F. Klipstein, A.M., LL.M., and Ph. D., of the University of Giessen In preparation. " There i.s no doubt that a few years hence, the persevering and ill-rewarded toils of this learned scholar will be looked back upon with sincere gratitude, by all who love the study of our incom- parable language, in its better and more sinewy part. If Dr. K. is, as we suppose, a foreigner, he has acquired a mastery of English which is marvellous, and which, by the by, shows the advantage to be derived from Anglo-Saxon. These volumes, taken in connection with the grammar, and the forthcomins glossary, will make it ea.sy for any private student to make himself acquainted with that delightful old tongue, to which we owe almost all our words of endearment, such as home, father, mother, brother, sister ; almost all our names of English flowers, as daisy, cowslip, prim- rose, nosegay ; and abundance of the short, monosyllabic, pungent nouns, which half-learneci folka would barter away for sesquipedalian latinisms. We mean such as dell, dale, wrath, wealth, kmire, thrust, churl, wreath, and soul. The preliminary essay prepares the way, by tracing very clearly the lineage of the Anglo-Saxon language : it is a valuable contribution to Ethnology." — Presbyterian. '•Surely it is a matter of concern to know and understand well our own tongue. How much better then would it be, if in our public and private schools, as much attention at least were given to the teachings of English as of Greek and Latin, that our youths might bring home with them a racy idiomatic way ofspeaking and writing their own language, instead of a smattering of Greek and Latin, which they almost forget and generally neglect in a few years' time. * * ' For this, a study of the AngloSixon is absolutely needful ; for after all, it has bequeathed to us by far the largest stock of words in our language." — Loudon. "The most valuable portion of our language comes to us directly through the Anglo-Saxon ; and to make the study of it a part of our general system of education, would be to administer the most powerful antidote to the deteriorating influence of would-be fine speakers and writers, which is gradually robbing our English speech of much of its native energy and precision.— iiY. World. 26 G. P. Putnam's nbw publications. 05 'MitB Xtllm. Cliaucer''8 Poems. Selections from the Poetical Works of Geoffrey Chaucer. By Charles D. Deshler. 1 vol., l2mo, green cloth, 63 cts. Chancer and Spenser. Selections from the Poetical Works of Geoffrey Chaucer. By Charles D. Deshler. Spenser, and the Faery Queen. By Mrs. C. M. Kirkland. 1 vol., lamo, cloth, $1 25. " A mine of wealth ami enjoyment, a golden treasury of exquisite models, of graceful fancies, of fine inventions, and of beautiful diction." — Cincinnati Herald. Fouqiie. — Undine and Sintram. Undine, a Tale ; and Sintram and his Companions, a Tale. From the Ger- man of La Motte Fouqu^. 1 vol., 12mo, green cloth, 50 cts. " Undine is an exquisite creation of the imagmation, and universally regarded as a masterpiece in this department of literature." — Richmond Times. Gilman^ Mrs. — The Sibyl ; Or, New Oracles from the Poets ; a Fanciful Diversion for the Drawmg- Room. 1 vol., l2mo, cloth, extra gilt, $1 50. " A svceet book of short and most pleasant quotations from the poets, illustrative of character, tastes, loves, &c., formed into a drawuig-room game, with questions and answers. It is beautifully designed, beautifully executed, and beautifully robed lor the gift-dispensing Christmas and New- Year public." — Evangelist. Goldsmith. — The Vicar of Walcefield. By Oliver Goldsmith. 1 vol., l2mo, neatly printed, cloth, 50 cts. The same, illustrated with designs by Mulready, elegantly bound, gilt edges, $1. " This tale is the lasting monument of Goldsmith's genius, his great legacy of pleasure to genera- tions past, present, and to come." Hervey. — The JBooh of Christmas : Descriptive of the Customs, Ceremonies, Traditions, Supe'-stitions, Fun, Feel- ing, and Festivities of the Christmas Season. By Thomas K. Hervey. 12mo, green cloth, 63 cts. The same, gilt extra, $L 'Eyery leaf of this book affords a feast worthy of the season." — Dr. Hawks' Church Record. 27 a. p, Putnam's new publications. fotiim ~£tiixm, CONTINUED. Hood. — Prose and Verse. Bv Thomas Hood. l2mo, green cloth, %\.. The same, gilt extra, %\ 25. " A very judicious selection, designed to embrace Hood's more earnest writings, those which were written from the heart, wliich reflect most faithfully his life and opimons." — Broadway Journal. Howitt. — Ballads and other Poems, By Mary Howitt. 1 vol., 12mo, green cloth, 75cts. The same, with fine portrait, gilt extra, $1. " Her poems are always graceful and beautiful. — Mrs. S. C. Hall. " We cannot commend too highly the present pi#lication, and only hope that the reading public will relish ' Mary Howitt's Ballads and other Poems,' now for the first time put forth in a collected form." — Albion. Hunt. — Pnagination and Fancy ; Or, Selections from the English Poets, illustrative of those first requisites of their Art ; with markings of the best Passages, Critical Notices of the best writers, &c. By Leigh Hunt. 1 vol., 12mo, green cloth, 62 cts. The same, gilt extra, $L " One of those unmistakable gems about which no two people differ. It is really and truly an exqui'site selection of lovely passages, accompanied with critical notices of unusual worth ; and it would be difficult to select a work on the subject so beautifully, earnestly, eloquently written." — Westminster Review. " This volume is moat justly to be called a feast of nectared sweets where no crude surfeit reigns." London Examiner. Hunt. — Stories from tJie Italian Poets : Being a Summary in Prose of the Poems of Dante, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, and Tasso ; with Comments throughout, occasional passages Versified, and Critical Notices of the Lives and Genius of the Authors. By Leigh Hunt. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The same, fancy gilt, $1 75. "Mr. Hunt's book has been aptly styled, a series of exquisite engravings of the magnificent pic- (tires painted by these great Italian masters." — Journal of Commerce. 28 G. P. putnajm's new publications. CONTINUED. Tlie History of Neiv- York, From the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. TJie Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. l2mo, cloth, $1 25. Bracdn-idge Hall ; or, Tlie Humorists : A Medley. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Tales of a Traveller. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Tlie Conquest of Granada. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The Alhambra. ^ 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Tlie Crayon Miscdlany. 12nio, cloth, $1 25. Oliver Goldsmith : a Biography. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. Miscellanies. 12mo, cloth, $1 25. .* See " History," " Travels," &c N. B. Any of the above may be hart in extra bindings : half calf, 75 cts. extra ; half moroecOi SI extra; full calf, per volume, ll 25 extra. Keats. — Poetical Worhs. The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, $1. The same, gilt extra, $1 25. " They are flushed all over vpith the rich lights of fancy ; and bo colored and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry, that, even while perplexed and bewil'lered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantment they so lavishly present. — Francis Jeffrey. Keats. — L'ife-, Letters., &e. The Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Edited by Richard MoNCTON MiLNES. Portrait and fac-simile. 1 vol., 12mo, cloth, $1 25. The same, gilt extra, $1 50. "A volume which will take its place among the imperishable ones of the age." * ' * "It is replete with interest." 20 G. P. PUTNAM S HEW PUBLICATIONS. The Nwrsery Book for Young Mothers. BY MRS. L. C. TUTHILL. 18mo, 50 cents. *,' This volume will be a welcome present to young mothers. It comprises familiar letters on all topics connected with the medical and educational departments of the Nursery, and is just such a book as every mother will find practically useful ; and all the more so as it is written by a competent and experienced person of their own sex. "There is much excellent counsel in this volume, with occasional toucnes of nature, which shows that the author is observant, and has accustomed herself to note the errors of physical and domestic education. Indeed there are some happy hits at the mistakes of this sort which are as common as children, and graver admonitions that ' young mothers,' and some assuming to have more experience, might greatly profit by." — N. Y. Com. Adv. "The title of this neat little volume would not at first seem to mdicate any thing new or pecu- liarly intere.sting, but at the very first page the attention is arrested, and from ihence to the very last note in the Appendix the interest does not flag. It is no dry disquisition upon diet and medi- cines, but has for its topic nursery education in every branch. The instruction on these various points is communicated in sprightly letters from an aunt to her niece, who, despondmg like all young mothers when first left to the care of their infants, applies to her for assistance. The niece. Mrs. Haston, is extremely well drawn. From the moment that she fir.st attempts the child's bath, and sits 'shivering and trembling, afraid to touch the droll little object,' to her anxious inquiries with regard to the mental and moral training of her children, she is a true woman, and a true mo- ther. The circumstances which call forth the various points of instruction from her aunt are most naturally developed, and, on the whole, we regard it as the best hook of the kind ever pub- lished. Its peculiar excellence is the sprightly and agreeable style which we have before alluded to, and which would arrest the attention of many a giddy 'girl-mother,' who would throw aside a dry treatise in despair. Mrs. Tuthill quotes the most unexceptionable authorities for her nursery rules for health." — Phila. Sat. Gazette. €^mt 36nnks fnr "^nnng pnmm iint Irjjnnl Xikiims. MRS. L. C. TUTH I L L. Success in lAfe : The Merchant : A Biography ; with Anecdotes and Practical Application for New Beginners. 12mo. In August. " We fare on earth as other men have fared ; Were they successful 1 Let us not despair !" /Success in Life / The Mechanic : A Biographical Example. l8mo. In September. [To be followed by " The Artist," " The Lawyer," &c.] ',* The aim of this Series is to develop the talent and energy of boys just merging into man- hood, and to assi.st them in choosing their pursuits for life. "Success! How the heart bounds at the exulting word? Success! Man's aim from the mo- ment he places his tiny foot upon the floor till he lays his weary gray head in the grave. Suc- cess, the exciting motive to all endeavor and its crowning glory." — Extract from Preface. Evenings with the Old Story Tellers. One volume, 12mo, green cloth, 50 cents. " A quiet humor, a quaintness and terseness of style will strongly recommend thom." — EnglitK Churchman. 32 G. P. PUTNAil'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. CONTINUED. Glimpses of the Wonderful. An entertaining account of Curiosities of Nature and Art. First, Second, and Third Series, with numerous Fine Illustrations, engraved in London Square 16mo tloth, each, 75 cents. MISS SEDGEWICK. The Morals of Manners ; Or, Hints for our Young People. New Edition. Square 1 6nno, with cuts, cloth, 25 cents. Facts and Fancies^ For School-Day Reading; a Sequel to " Morals of Manners." Square 16mo, with cuts, 50 cents. ".* These excellent lilile books, prepared with reference to the important but too much neglected matter of the pood and bad manners of young people, are worthy of a place in every School Li- brary in the land — and should be put in the hands of every child old enough to understand that good manners are, and should be, quite as essential as progress in book-learning. The School Committee of New-York, have ordereil them for all the City School libraries. A cheaper edition ef the Morals of Manners can be supplied for $12 50 per 100. The Some Treasury / Comprising new versions of Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Grumble and Cheery, The Eagle's Verdict, The Sleeping Beauty. Revised and Illus- trated. Small 4to, 50 cents. Young JSfaturalist^s Hannbles through Many Lands / With an Account of the Principal Animals and Birds of the Old and New Continents. With Woodcuts. Cloth, 50 cents. The Oanrne of Natiural History. A Series of Cards, Carefully Drawn and Colored, representing the most Important and Interesting of the Animal Creation. With Questions. Arranged bo as to form a Pleasant and Interesting Entertainment for a Juvenile Party, while it also gives Desirable Information. Price 50 cents, in a Case. 33 rtl ^1o Gi<^^ / LIBRARY OF CONGRESS II llh.lll l|:|;ll.!l'JiJllMlll.ll|{|lilllill 018 597 710 9