Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII. No. 5. May 1848

He's a tremendous snake though – full four feet! u-g-h! only think of his crawling around and catching hold of the calf of your leg! Not so pleasant as picking whortleberries, to say the least of it. See his gray mottled skin! though it looks beautiful, flashing in the rays of the sun – and then the ribbed white of his undershape! However, what shall we do with him! Sloan, hold him tight now, and I'll aim at his head. Good sharp stone this – whew – well aimed, although I say it – I think he must have felt it this time. Halloo! another stone – from Wescott. I fancy that made his head ache! And that one has crushed it as flat as a – griddle-cake.

We again, after this terrific battle, (a dozen against one though I must confess,) scatter among the bushes. Awful onslaughts are again made amongst the berries, and our baskets (those at all events in sight) are plumping up with the delicious, ripe, azure balls. I have forgotten to mention, though, that it is a very warm day. The sky is of a pale tint, as if the bright, pure, deep blue had been blanched out by the heat; and all around the horizon are wan thunder-caps thrusting up their peaks and summits. It looks decidedly thunderish.

What's that again! another alarm? How that girl does scream out there! What on earth is the matter! We rush around a sand-bank, looking warm and yellow in the sun, and we see the cause of the outbreak. There is Caroline G. shrinking back as if she would like to evaporate into thin air, and executing a series of shrieks, with her open mouth, of the most thrilling character. Young Mason is a little in front, with a knotted stick, doubtless just picked up, whilst some ten or twelve rods in advance is a great shaggy black bear, very coolly helping himself to the contents of the two baskets hitherto borne by the couple, giving himself time, however, every now and then to look out of his little black eyes at the rightful owners, with rather a spiteful expression, but protruding at the same time his red tongue, like a clown at the circus, as if enjoying the joke of their picking and he eating. Afterward I learned that they had deposited their baskets on the ground under a loaded bush, for greater facility in securing the fruit, when suddenly they heard a blow and a snort, and looking where the queer sounds came from, they saw his Bruinship's white teeth and black phiz within a foot or two of them, directly over the bush. Abandoning their baskets, they retreated in double quick time, and while Mason sought and found a club for defence, Caroline made haste to clear her voice for the most piercing efforts, and succeeded in performing a succession of sustained vocal flights, that a steam whistle couldn't much more than match. The sight as we came up was in truth somewhat alarming, but Bruin didn't seem disposed to be hostile except against the whortleberries, which he certainly made disappear in the most summary manner; so we, after hushing with difficulty Caroline's steam whistle, (I beg her pardon,) stood and watched him. After he had discussed the contents of the baskets, he again looked at us, and, rearing himself upon his hind legs, with his fore paws hanging down like a dancing Shaker, made two or three awkward movements, as if dancing an extempore hornpipe, either in triumph or to thank us for his dinner; he next opened his great jaws in resemblance to a laugh, again thrust out his tongue, saying plainly by it, "hadn't you better pick some more whortleberries," then deliberately fell upon his fore feet and stalked gravely and solemnly away. As for ourselves, we went where he didn't.

It wanted now about an hour to sundown, and this was the time agreed upon by all of us to reunite at Pritchard's and start for home. The beautiful charm of light and shade cast by the slanting rays already began to rest upon the scene. The small oaks were glowing through and through – the thick spruces were kindled up in their outer edges – the patches of moss looked like carpets of gold spread by the little genii of the woods – the whortleberry bushes were drenched in rich radiance, the fruit seeming like the concentrated radiance in the act of dropping – whilst the straggling, tall, surly grenadiers of hemlocks had put on high-pointed yellow caps, with rays streaking through their branches like muskets. The cow-bells were now tinkling everywhere, striking in an odd jumble of tones – tingle ling, tingle ling ting tingle – as their owners collected together to eat their way to their respective milking places – and all told us that the day was drawing to a close. Independently of this, a dark crag of cloud was lifting itself in the southwest, with a pale glance of lightning shooting out of it occasionally, hinting very strongly of an approaching thunder-storm.

In about half an hour we were all re-assembled at Pritchard's. I believe I have not described the scenery around this little log tavern. There was a ravine at some little distance from it, densely clothed with forest. Through it a stream found its way. Directly opposite the side porch, the ravine spread widely on each side, shaping a broad basin of water, and then, contracting again, left a narrow throat across which a dam had been thrown. Over this dam the stream poured in a fall of glittering silver, of about ten feet, and then, pursuing its way through the "Barrens," fell into the Sheldrake Brook several miles below. Here, at the fall, Pritchard had erected a saw-mill.

Now people don't generally think there is any thing very picturesque about saw-mills, but I do. The weather-beaten boards of the low structure, some hanging awry, some with great knot-holes, as if they were gifted with orbs of vision, or were placed there for the mill to breathe through, some fractured, as if the saw had at times become outrageous at being always shut up and made to work there for other people, and had dashed against them, determined to gain its liberty – whilst some seem as if they had become so tantalized by the continual jar of the machinery, that they had loosened their nails, and had set up a clatter and shake themselves in opposition – these are quite picturesque. Then the broad opening in front, exposing the glittering saw bobbing up and down, and pushing its sharp teeth right through the bowels of the great peeled log fastened with iron claws to the sliding platform beneath – the gallows-like frame in which the saw works – the great strap belonging to the machinery issuing out of one corner and gliding into another – the sawyer himself, in a red shirt, now wheeling the log into its place with his handspike and fastening it – and now lifting the gate by the handle protruding near him – the axe leaning at one side and the rifle at the other – the loose floor covered with saw-dust – the stained rafters above with boards laid across for a loft – the dark sloping slab-roof – the great black wheel continually at war with the water, which, dashing bravely against it, finds itself carried off its feet into the buckets, and whirled half around, and then coolly dismissed into the stream below – the long flume through which the water rushes to the unequal fray, and – what next!

Then the pond, too, is not to be overlooked. There are generally some twenty or thirty logs floating in one corner, close to each other, and breaking out into great commotion every time the gate is hoisted – the otter is now and then seen gliding in the farther nooks – and a quick eye may catch, particularly about the dam, where he generally burrows, a glimpse of the musk-rat as he dives down. Now and then too the wild duck will push his beautiful shape with his bright feet through it – the snipe will alight and "teter," as the children say, along the banks – the woodcock will show his brownish red bosom amongst the reeds as he comes to stick his long bill into the black ooze for sucking, as dock-boys stick straws into molasses hogsheads – and once in a great while, the sawyer, if he's wide awake, will see, in the Spring or Fall, the wild goose leaving his migrating wedge overhead, and diving and fluttering about in it, as a momentary bathing place, and to rest for a time his throat, hoarse with uttering his laughably wise and solemn "honk, honk." Nor must the ragged and smirched-faced boys be forgotten, eternally on the logs, or the banks, or in the leaky scow, with their twine and pin-hooks catching "spawney-cooks," and "bull-heads" as worthless as themselves, and as if that were their only business in life. And then the streak of saw-dust running along in the midst of the brook below, and forming yellow nooks to imprison bubbles and sticks and leaves and what not, every now and then making a jet outward and joining the main body – and lastly the saw-mill yard, with its boards, white, dark and golden, piled up in great masses, with narrow lanes running through – and gray glistening logs, with their bark coats off, waiting their turn to be "boarded."

The cloud had now risen higher, with its ragged pointed edges, and murky bosom – sharper lightning flashed athwart it, sometimes in trickling streaks, and sometimes in broad glances, whilst low growls of thunder were every now and then heard. The sun was already swallowed up – and a strange, unnatural, ghastly glare was upon every object. The atmosphere was motionless – not a stir in the thickets around, not a movement in the forest at the ravine. Through the solemn silence the crash of the falling water came upon the ear, and its gleam was caught against the black background of the cloud. It really seemed as if Nature held her breath in anticipating terror. Higher and higher rose the cloud – fiercer and fiercer flashed the lightning, sterner and sterner came the peals of the solemn thunder. Still Nature held her breath, still fear deep and brooding reigned. The wild tint still was spread over all things – the pines and hemlocks near at hand seeming blanched with affright beneath it. Suddenly a darkness smote the air – a mighty rush was heard – the trees seemed falling upon their faces in convulsions, and with a shock as if the atmosphere had been turned into a precipitated mountain, amidst a blinding flash and tearing, splitting roar, onward swept the blast. Another flash – another roar – then tumbled the great sheeted rain. Like blows of the hammer on the anvil beat it on the water – like the smitings of a mounted host trampled it upon the roof – like the spray flying from the cataract smoked it upon the earth. The fierce elements of fire and air and water were now at the climax of their strife – the dark blended shadow of the banners under which they fought almost blotting out the view. Occasionally glimpses of writhing branches could be seen, but only for a moment – all again was dim and obscure, with the tremendous sights and sounds of the storm dazzling the eye and stunning the ear. The lightning would flash with intolerable brilliancy, and immediately would follow the thunder with a rattling leap as if springing from its lair, and then with a deafening, awful weight, as if it had fallen and been splintered into pieces in the sky. Then would re-open the steady deep boom of the rain, and the stern rushing of the chainless wind. At length the air became clearer – the lightning glared at less frequent intervals – the thunder became more rolling and distant, and the tramp of the rain upon the roof less violent. The watery streaks in the atmosphere waxed finer – outlines of objects began to be defined – till suddenly, as a growl of thunder died away in the east, a rich thread of light ran along the landscape, that looked out smiling through its tears; and thronging out into the damp fresh, sweet air, where the delicate gauze-like rain was glittering and trembling, we saw on one hand the great sun looking from a space of glowing sky upon the scene, and dashing upon the parting clouds the most superb and gorgeous hues – whilst on the other smiled the lovely rainbow, the Ariel of the tempest, spanning the black cloud and soaring over the illuminated earth, like Hope spreading her brilliant halo over the Christian's brow, and brightening with her beautiful presence his impending death.

We all concluded to wait for the moon to rise before we started for home, and in the meanwhile another cloud arose and made demonstration. This storm, however, was neither so long nor so violent as the first, and we found attraction in viewing the lightning striking into ghastly convulsions the landscape – so that the falling rain – the bowed trees – the drenched earth – the streaked mill, and the gleaming water-fall were opened to our view for an instant, and then dropped as it were again into the blackness. But after a while the sky cleared its forehead of all its frowns – the broad moon wheeled up – and in her rich glory we again moved slowly along the rough road, until we came to the smooth turnpike, where we dashed along homeward, with the cool, scented air in our faces, and the sweet smile of the sun's gentle and lovely sister resting all about us, making the magnificent Night appear like Day with a veil of softening silver over his dazzling brow.

STANZAS

Be firm, and be cheerful. The creature who lightensThe natural burdens of life when he may,Who smiles at small evils, enhances and brightensThe pleasures which Heaven has spread in his way.Then why yield your spirits to care and to sorrow?Rejoice in the present, and smile while you may;Nor, by thinking of woes which may spring up to-morrow,Lose the blessings which Heaven has granted to-day.

EURYDICE

BY FRANCES S. OSGOODWith heart that thrilled to every earnest line,I had been reading o'er that antique story,Wherein the youth half human, half divine,Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory,Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell,In Pluto's palace swept, for love, his golden shell!And in the wild, sweet legend, dimly traced,My own heart's history unfolded seemed: —Ah! lost one! by thy lover-minstrel gracedWith homage pure as ever woman dreamed,Too fondly worshiped, since such fate befell,Was it not sweet to die – because beloved too well?The scene is round me! – Throned amid the gloom,As a flower smiles on Ætna's fatal breast,Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom;And near – of Orpheus' soul, oh! idol blest! —While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light,I see thy meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night!I see the glorious boy – his dark locks wreathingWildly the wan and spiritual brow,His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing;His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow;I see him bend on thee that eloquent glance,The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance!I see his face, with more than mortal beautyKindling, as armed with that sweet lyre alone,Pledged to a holy and heroic duty,He stands serene before the awful throne,And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eyes,Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh!Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings,As if a prisoned angel – pleading thereFor life and love – were fettered 'neath the strings,And poured his passionate soul upon the air!Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell,Till the full pæan peals triumphantly through Hell!And thou – thy pale hands meekly locked before thee —Thy sad eyes drinking life from his dear gaze —Thy lips apart – thy hair a halo o'er thee,Trailing around thy throat its golden maze —Thus – with all words in passionate silence dying —Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying —"Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing,Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain,I – I alone, to thy dear face upraisingMy tearful glance, the life of life regain!For every tone that steals into my heartDoth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart.Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floatsThrough the dread realm, divine with truth and grace,See, dear one! how the chain of linked notesHas fettered every spirit in its place!Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies;And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes.Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre!Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine,With claspèd hands, and eyes whose azore fireGleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth leanHer graceful head upon her stern lord's breast,Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest?Play my proud minstrel! strike the chords again!Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill!For Pluto turns relenting to the strain —He waves his hand – he speaks his awful will!My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! still lendThy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend!Think not of me! Think rather of the time,When moved by thy resistless melody,To the strange magic of a song sublime,Thy argo grandly glided to the sea!And in the majesty Minerva gave,The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian treesTheir proud heads bent submissive to the sound,Swayed by a tuneful and enchanted breeze,March to slow music o'er th' astonished ground —Grove after grove descending from the hills,While round thee weave their dance the glad,harmonious rills.Think not of me! Ha! by thy mighty sire,My lord, my king! recall the dread behest!Turn not – ah! turn not back those eyes of fire!Oh! lost, forever lost! undone! unblest!I faint, I die! – the serpent's fang once moreIs here! – nay, grieve not thus! Life but not Love is o'er!

THE VOICE OF THE NIGHT WIND

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. NWhen the day-king is descendingOn the blue hill's breast to lie,And some spirit-artist blendingOn the flushed and bending skyAll the rainbow's hues, I listenTo the breeze, while in my eyeTears of bitter anguish glisten,As I think of days gone by.Change, relentless change is lightingOn the brow of young and fair,And with iron hand is writingTales of grief and sorrow there.On life's journey friends have faltered,And beside its pathway lie,But that breeze, with voice unaltered,Sings as in the days gone by.Sings old songs to soothe the anguishOf a heart whose hopes are flown;Cheering one condemned to languishIn this weary world alone;Tells old tales of loved ones o'er me,Dearest ones, remembered well,That have passed away before me,In a brighter land to dwell.

MAJOR-GENERAL WORTH

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC

All persons naturally exhibit a great desire to become acquainted with the events of the lives of those individuals who have made themselves or their country illustrious. It is very pleasant to inquire into the nature of the studies which matured their minds, to examine the incidents of their early career, and follow them through the obscurer portions of their lives for the purpose of ascertaining if the man corresponds with the idea we have formed of him.

Gen. Worth has recently attracted so much attention, and the events of his whole life have been so stirring, that this is peculiarly the case with him. No one can think without interest of one who, while a boy almost, opposed the British veterans at Chippewa and Lundy's Lane, and in his manhood won a yet higher reputation amid the hamacs of Florida, and in front of the batteries of Molino del Rey and Monterey. It is, however, a matter of much regret that of Worth's early history and family annals but little is known. It is true, no man in the army has been the theme of so much camp-fire gossip, or the hero of so many gratuitous fabrications; but we are able to learn nothing of him previous to his entry into the service. A thousand anecdotes without any basis in truth have been told of him, altogether to no purpose; for one who has so many real claims to distinction need never appeal to factitious honors.

Gen. Worth, at the commencement of the last war with Great Britain, is said to have been a resident of Albany, N. Y., and to have been engaged in commercial pursuits. Animated by the feeling of patriotism which pervaded the whole people, he left the desk and ledger, and is said to have enlisted in the 2nd regiment of artillery, then commanded by Col. Izard, afterward a general officer of distinction. The lieut. colonel of one of the battalions of this regiment was Winfield Scott, the attention of whom Worth is said soon to have attracted. Col. Scott is said to have exerted himself to procure him a commission, and to have taken care of his advancement. This may or may not be true; it is sure, however, that Worth first appears in a prominent position in the military annals of the United States as the aid-de-camp and protegé of General Scott, at the battle of Chippewa, where Scott was a brigadier. Worth was his aid, having in the interim become a first lieutenant.

No man in America is ignorant of the events of that day, which retrieved the disgrace of Hull's surrender, and reflected the greatest honor on all the participants in its events. For his gallantry and good conduct, Mr. Madison bestowed on Lieut. Worth the brevet of captain; and he was mentioned in the highest terms in the general orders of the officers under whom he served. The brevet of Worth was announced to the army and nation in the same order which told of the promotion of McNeil, Jessup, Towson, and Leavenworth. Strangely enough, though death has been busy with the officers of the last war, all who were breveted for their services on that occasion, with one or two exceptions, are now alive. The battle of Chippewa occurred on the 5th of July, 1814, and was the dale of Worth's first brevet.

Though a brevet captain, Worth continued with Scott in the important position of aid-de-camp, and served in that capacity at Lundy's Lane, in the battle of July 25th, 1814. On that occasion he distinguished himself in the highest degree, and won the reputation his whole subsequent career has confirmed, of coolness, decision, and activity. During this engagement the whole British force was thrown on the 9th foot, commanded by the veteran Lieut. Col. Leavenworth. This officer sent for aid to Gen. Scott, who on that occasion gave Gen. Taylor the example after which that gallant general acted at Buena Vesta. He repaired to the menaced point with the strong reinforcement of his own person and aid, and had the proud satisfaction of seeing the attacking column beaten back, and the general who led it made prisoner. At the moment of success, however, both Scott and Capt. Worth fell wounded severely. The country appreciated their services, and each received from Mr. Madison the brevet of another grade, with date from the day of the battle. Major Worth soon recovered, but, attached to Gen. Scott's person, accompanied him southward, as soon as the wound of the latter enabled him to bear the fatigue of travel.

When peace came Worth was a captain in the line and a major by brevet, with which rank he was assigned to the military command of the corps of Cadets at West Point. This appointment, ever conferred on men of talent, is the highest compliment an officer of the service of the United States can receive in time of peace. To Worth it was doubly grateful, because he was not an elevé of the institution. Ten years after the battle of Niagara, Major Worth was breveted a lieutenant colonel, and when in 1832 the ordnance corps was established, he became one of its majors. In July, 1832, on the organization of the 8th infantry, Lieut. Col. Worth was appointed to its colonelcy.

Hitherto we have seen Worth in a subordinate position, where he was unable to exhibit the highest qualification of a soldier, that of command. Since his entry into the service he had been either an officer of the staff, or separated from troops. He was now called on to participate in far more stirring scenes. The war against the Seminoles in Florida had long been a subject of great anxiety to both the government and the people, and thither Worth was ordered, after a brief but effective tour of service on the northern frontier, then infested by the Canadian insurgents. At first he acted subordinately to the late Gen. Armistead, but, on the retirement of that officer, assumed command. The war was prosecuted by him with new vigor, and the Indians defeated ultimately at Pilaklakaha, near the St. John, April 17, 1842. This fight was virtually the termination of the war, the enemy never again having shown himself in force. Gen. Worth was highly complimented for his services on this occasion, and received the brevet of brigadier general.

During the season of peace which followed Gen. Worth remained almost constantly with his regiment, which more than once changed its station; and when the contest with Mexico began, reported to Gen. Taylor at Corpus Christi. His situation here was peculiar, and he became involved in a dispute in relation to precedence and command with the then Col. Twiggs, of the 2nd dragoons. The latter officer was by several years Worth's senior in the line, and, according to the usual opinion in the army, entitled to command, though many of the most accomplished soldiers of the service thought the brevet of Worth, on this occasion at least, where the corps d'armée was made up of detachments, valid as a commission. This dispute became so serious that Gen. Taylor interfered, and having sustained Col. Twiggs, Gen. Worth immediately tendered his resignation to the President.