Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 345, July, 1844

"The blood-thirsty backwoodsman, half horse, half alligator" interrupted Mr Bowsends.

"Costs you dear, his election," said Moreland laughing.

"Smokes out of a tobacco pipe like a vulgar German," ejaculated Mrs Bowsends.

"Not so very vulgar for that," said blundering Moreland; "tobacco has quite another taste out of a pipe."

I gave him a tremendous dig in the back with my elbow. "Do you smoke out of a tobacco pipe, Mr Moreland?" enquired Margaret in her flute-like tones.

Moreland stared; he had a vague idea that he had got himself into a scrape, but his straightforward honesty prevented him from prevaricating, and he blurted out—"Sometimes, miss."

I thought the sensitive creature would have swooned away at this admission; and I had just laid my arm over the back of her chair to support her, when Arthurine entered the room. She gave a quick glance to me; it was too late to draw back my arm. She did not seem to notice any thing, saluted the company gaily and easily, tripped up to Moreland, wished him good evening—asked after his bets, his ships, his old dog Tom—chattered, in short, full ten minutes in a breath. Before Moreland knew what she was about, she had taken one of his hands in both of hers. But they were old acquaintances, and he might easily have been her grandfather. Meanwhile Margaret had somewhat recovered from the shock.

"He smokes out of a pipe!" lisped she to Arthurine, in a tone of melancholy resignation.

"Old Hickory is very popular in Pennsylvania," said Richards, resuming the conversation that had been interrupted, and perfectly unconscious, as Moreland would have said, of the shoals he was sailing amongst. "A Bedford County farmer has just sent him a present of a cask of Monongahela."

"I envy him that present," cried Moreland. "A glass of genuine Monongahela is worth any money."

This second shock was far too violent to be resisted by Margaret's delicate nerves. She sank back in her chair, half fainting, half hysterical. Her maids were called in, and with their help she managed to leave the room.

"Have you brought her a book?" said Arthurine to me.

"Yes, one of Walter Scott's."

"Oh! then she will soon be well again," rejoined the affectionate sister, apparently by no means alarmed.

Now that this nervous beauty was gone, the conversation became much more lively. Captain Moreland was a jovial sailor, who had made ten voyages to China, fifteen to Constantinople, twenty to St Petersburg, and innumerable ones to Liverpool and through his exertions had amassed the large fortune which he was now enjoying. He was a merry-hearted man, with excellent sound sense on all points except one—that one being the fair sex, with which he was about as well acquainted as an alligator with a camera-obscure. The attentions paid to him by Arthurine seemed to please the old bachelor uncommonly. There was a mixture of kindness, malice, and fascination in her manner, which was really enchanting; even the matter-of-fact Richards could not take his eyes off her.

"That is certainly a charming girl!" whispered he to me.

"Did not I tell you so?" said I. "Only observe with what sweetness she gives in to the old man's humours and fancies!"

The hours passed like minutes. Supper was long over, and we rose to depart; when I shook hands with Arthurine, she pressed mine gently. I was in the ninety-ninth heaven.

"Now, boys," cried worthy Moreland, as soon as we were in the streets, "it would really be a pity to part so early on so joyous an evening. What do you say? Will you come to my house, and knock the necks off half a dozen bottles?"

We agreed to this proposal; and, taking the old seaman between us, steered in the direction of his cabin, as he called his magnificent and well-furnished house.

"What a delightful family those Bowsends are!" exclaimed Moreland, as soon as we were comfortably seated beside a blazing fire, with the Lafitte and East India Madeira sparkling on the table beside us. "And what charming girls! 'You're getting oldish,' says I to myself the other day, 'but you're still fresh and active, sound as a dolphin. Better get married.' Margaret pleased me uncommonly, so I"—

"Yes, my dear Moreland," interrupted I, "but are you sure that you please her?"

"Pshaw! Five times a hundred thousand dollars! I tell you what, my lad, that's not to be met with every day."

"Fifty years old," replied I. "Certainly, fifty years old, but stout and healthy; none of your spindle-shanked dandies—your Stauntons"—

But Staunton smokes cigars, and not Dutch pipes."

"I give that up. For Miss Margaret's sake, I'll burn my nose and mouth with those damned stumps of cigars."

"Drinks no whisky," continued I. "He is president of a temperance society."

"The devil fly away with him!" growled Moreland; "I wouldn't give up my whisky for all the girls in the world."

"If you don't, she'll always be fainting away," replied I, laughing.

"Ah! It's because I talked of the Monongahela that she began with her hystericals, and went away for all the evening! That's where the wind sits, is it? Well, you may depend I ain't to be done out of my grog at any rate."

And he backed his assertion with an oath, swallowing off the contents of his glass by way of a clincher. We sat joking and chatting till past midnight during which time I flattered myself that I gave evidence of considerable diplomatic talents. As we were returning home, however, Richards doubted whether I had not driven the old boy rather too hard

"No matter," replied I, "if I have only succeeded in ridding poor Margaret of him."

Cool, calculating Richards shook his head.

"I don't know what may come of it," said he; "but I do not think you are likely to find much gratitude for your interference."

The next day was taken up in arranging matters of business consequent on the arrival of Richards. At least ten times I tried to go and see Arthurine, but was always prevented by something or other; and it was past tea-time when I at last got to the Bowsends' house. I found Margaret in the drawing-room, deep in a new novel.

"Where is Arthurine?" I enquired.

"At the theatre, with mamma and Mr Moreland," was the answer.

"At the theatre!" repeated I in astonishment. They were playing Tom and Jerry, a favourite piece with the enlightened Kentuckians. I had seen the first scene or two at the New Orleans theatre, and had had quite enough of it.

"That really is sacrificing herself!" said I, considerably out of humour.

"The noble girl!" exclaimed Margaret. "Mr Moreland came to tea, and urged us so much to go"—

"That she could not help going, to be bored and disgusted for a couple of hours."

"She went for my sake," said Margaret sentimentally. "Mamma would have one of us go."

"Yes, that is it," thought I. Jealousy would have been ridiculous. He fifty years old, she seventeen. I left the house, and went to find Richards.

"What! Back so early?" cried he.

"She is gone to the theatre with her mamma and Moreland."

Richards shook his head.

"You put a wasp's nest into the old fellow's brain-pan yesterday," said he. "Take care you do not get stung yourself."

"I should like to see how she looks by his side," said I.

"Well, I will go with you. The sooner you are cured the better. But only for ten minutes."

There was certainly no temptation to remain longer in that atmosphere of whisky and tobacco fumes. It was at the Bowery theatre. The light swam as though seen through a thick fog; and a perfect shower of orange and apple peel, and even less agreeable things, rained down from the galleries. Tom and Jerry were in all their glory. I looked round the boxes, and soon saw the charming Arthurine, apparently perfectly comfortable, chatting with old Moreland as gravely, and looking as demure and self-possessed, as if she had been a married woman of thirty.

"That is a prudent young lady," said Richards; "she has an eye to the dollars, and would marry Old Hickory himself, spite of whisky and tobacco pipe, if he had more money, and were to ask her."

I said nothing.

"If you weren't such an infatuated fool," continued my plain-spoken friend, I would say to you, let her take her own way, and the day after to-morrow we will leave New York."

"One week more," said I, with an uneasy feeling about the heart. At seven the next evening I entered what had been my Elysium, but was now, little by little, becoming my Tartarus. Again I found Margaret alone over a romance. "And Arthurine?" enquired I, in a voice that might perhaps have been steadier.

"She is gone with mamma and Mr Moreland to hear Miss Fanny Wright."

"To hear Miss Fanny Wright! the atheist, the revolutionist! What a mad fancy! Who would ever have dreamed of such a thing!"

This Miss Fanny Wright was a famous lecturess, of the Owenite school, who was shunned like a pestilence by the fashionable world of New York.

"Mr Moreland," answered Margaret, "said so much about her eloquence that Arthurine's curiosity was roused."

"Indeed!" replied I.

"Oh! you do not know what a noble girl she is. For her sister she would sacrifice her life. My only hope is in her."

I snatched up my hat, and hurried out of the house.

The next morning I got up, restless and uneasy; and eleven o'clock had scarcely struck when I reached the Bowsends' house. This time both sisters were at home; and as I entered the drawing-room, Arthurine advanced to meet me with a beautiful smile upon her face. There was nevertheless a something in the expression of her countenance that made me start. I pressed her hand. She looked tenderly at me.

"I hope you have been amusing yourself these last two days," said I after a moment's pause.

"Novelty has a certain charm," replied Arthurine. "Yet I certainly never expected to become a disciple of Miss Fanny Wright," added she, laughing.

"Really! I should have thought the transition from Tom and Jerry rather an easy one."

"A little more respect for Tom and Jerry, whom we patronize—that is to say, Mr Moreland and our high mightiness," replied Arthurine, trying, as I fancied, to conceal a certain confusion of manner under a laugh.

"I should scarcely have thought my Arthurine would have become a party to such a conspiracy against good taste," replied I gravely.

"My Arthurine!" repeated she, laying a strong accent on the pronoun possessive. "Only see what rights and privileges the gentleman is usurping! We live in a free country, I believe?"

There was a mixture of jest and earnest in her charming countenance. I looked enquiringly at her.

"Do you know," cried she, "I have taken quite a fancy to Moreland? He is so good-natured, such a sterling character, and his roughness wears off when one knows him well."

"And moreover," added I, "he has five hundred thousand dollars."

"Which are by no means the least of his recommendations. Only think of the balls, Howard! I hope you will come to them. And then Saratoga; next year London and Paris. Oh! it will be delightful."

"What, so far gone already?" said I, sarcastically.

"And poor Margaret is saved!" added she, throwing her arms round her sister's neck, and kissing and caressing her. I hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry.

"Then, I suppose, I may congratulate you?" said I, forcing a laugh, and looking, I have no doubt, very like a fool.

You may so," replied Arthurine. "This morning Mr Moreland begged permission to transfer his addresses from Margaret to your very humble servant."

"And you?"—

"We naturally, in consideration of the petitioner's many amiable qualities, have promised to take the request into our serious consideration. For decorum's sake, you know, one must deliberate a couple of days or so."

"Are you in jest or earnest, Arthurine?"

"Quite in earnest, Howard."

"Farewell, then!"

"'Fare-thee-well! and if for ever Still for ever fare-thee-well!'"

said Arthurine, in a half-laughing, half-sighing tone. The next instant I had left the room.

On the stairs I met the beturbaned Mrs Bowsends, who led the way mysteriously into the parlour.

"You have seen Arthurine?" said she. "What a dear, darling child!—is she not? Oh! that girl is our joy and consolation. And Mr Moreland—the charming Mr Moreland! Now that things are arranged so delightfully, we can let Margaret have her own way a little."

"What I have heard is true, then?" said I.

"Yes; as an old friend I do not mind telling you—though it must still remain a secret for a short time. Mr Moreland has made a formal proposal to Arthurine."

I do not know what reply I made, before flinging myself out of the room and house, and running down the street as if I had just escaped from a lunatic asylum.

"Richards," cried I to my friend, "shall we start tomorrow?"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Richards. "So you are cured of the New York fever? Start! Yes, by all means, before you get a relapse. You must come with me to Virginia for a couple of months."

"I will so," was my answer.

As we were going down to the steam-boat on the following morning, Staunton overtook us, breathless with speed and delight.

"Wish me joy!" cried he. "I am accepted!"

"And I jilted!" replied I with a laugh. "But I am not such a fool as to make myself unhappy about a woman."

Light words enough, but my heart was heavy as I spoke them. Five minutes later, we were on our way to Virginia.

HYDRO-BACCHUS

Great Homer sings how once of old The Thracian women met to hold To "Bacchus, ever young and fair," Mysterious rites with solemn care. For now the summer's glowing face Had look'd upon the hills of Thrace; And laden vines foretold the pride Of foaming vats at Autumn tide. There, while the gladsome Evöe shout Through Nysa's knolls rang wildly out, While cymbal clang, and blare of horn, O'er the broad Hellespont were borne; The sounds, careering far and near, Struck sudden on Lycurgus' ear— Edonia's grim black-bearded lord, Who still the Bacchic rites abhorr'd, And cursed the god whose power divine Lent heaven's own fire to generous wine. Ere yet th' inspired devotees Had half performed their mysteries, Furious he rush'd amidst the band, And whirled an ox-goad in his hand. Full many a dame on earth lay low Beneath the tyrant's savage blow; The rest, far scattering in affright, Sought refuge from his rage in flight. But the fell king enjoy'd not long The triumph of his impious wrong: The vengeance of the god soon found him, And in a rocky dungeon bound him. There, sightless, chain'd, in woful tones He pour'd his unavailing groans, Mingled with all the blasts that shriek Round Athos' thunder-riven peak. O Thracian king! how vain the ire That urged thee 'gainst the Bacchic choir The god avenged his votaries well— Stern was the doom that thee befell; And on the Bacchus-hating herd Still rests the curse thy guilt incurr'd. For the same spells that in those days Were wont the Bacchanals to craze— The maniac orgies, the rash vow, Have fall'n on thy disciples now. Though deepest silence dwells alone, Parnassus, on thy double cone; To mystic cry, through fell and brake, No more Cithaeron's echoes wake; No longer glisten, white and fleet, O'er the dark lawns of Taÿgete, The Spartan virgin's bounding feet: Yet Frenzy still has power to roll Her portents o'er the prostrate soul. Though water-nymphs must twine the spell Which once the wine-god threw so well— Changed are the orgies now, 'tis true, Save in the madness of the crew. Bacchus his votaries led of yore Through woodland glades and mountains hoar; While flung the Maenad to the air The golden masses of her hair, And floated free the skin of fawn, From her bare shoulder backward borne. Wild Nature, spreading all her charms, Welcomed her children to her arms; Laugh'd the huge oaks, and shook with glee, In answer to their revelry; Kind Night would cast her softest dew Where'er their roving footsteps flew; So bright the joyous fountains gush'd, So proud the swelling rivers rush'd, That mother Earth they well might deem, With honey, wine, and milk, for them Most bounteously had fed the stream. The pale moon, wheeling overhead, Her looks of love upon them shed, And pouring forth her floods of light, With all the landscape blest their sight. Through foliage thick the moonshine fell, Checker'd upon the grassy dell; Beyond, it show'd the distant spires Of skyish hills, the world's grey sires; More brightly beam'd, where far away, Around his clustering islands, lay, Adown some opening vale descried, The vast Aegean's waveless tide. What wonder then, if Reason's power Fail'd in each reeling mind that hour, When their enraptured spirits woke To Nature's liberty, and broke The artificial chain that bound them, With the broad sky above, and the free winds around them! From Nature's overflowing soul, That sweet delirium on them stole; She held the cup, and bade them share In draughts of joy too deep to bear. Not such the scenes that to the eyes Of water-Bacchanals arise; Whene'er the day of festival Summons the Pledged t' attend its call— In long procession to appear, And show the world how good they are. Not theirs the wild-wood wanderings, The voices of the winds and springs: But seek them where the smoke-fog brown Incumbent broods o'er London town; 'Mid Finsbury Square ruralities Of mangy grass, and scrofulous trees; 'Mid all the sounds that consecrate Thy street, melodious Bishopsgate! Not by the mountain grot and pine, Haunts of the Heliconian Nine: But where the town-bred Muses squall Love-verses in an annual; Such muses as inspire the grunt Of Barry Cornwall, and Leigh Hunt. Their hands no ivy'd thyrsus bear, No Evöe floats upon the air: But flags of painted calico Flutter aloft with gaudy show; And round then rises, long and loud, The laughter of the gibing crowd. O sacred Temp'rance! mine were shame If I could wish to brand thy name. But though these dullards boast thy grace, Thou in their orgies hast no place. Thou still disdain'st such sorry lot, As even below the soaking sot. Great was high Duty's power of old The empire o'er man's heart to hold; To urge the soul, or check its course, Obedient to her guiding force. These own not her control, but draw New sanction for the moral law, And by a stringent compact bind The independence of the mind— As morals had gregarious grown, And Virtue could not stand alone. What need they rules against abusing? They find th' offence all in the using. Denounce the gifts which bounteous Heaven To cheer the heart of man has given; And think their foolish pledge a band More potent far than God's command. On this new plan they cleverly Work morals by machinery; Keeping men virtuous by a tether, Like gangs of negroes chain'd together. Then, Temperance, if thus it be, They know no further need of thee. This pledge usurps thy ancient throne— Alas! thy occupation's gone! From earth thou may'st unheeded rise, And like Astræa—seek the skies.

MARTIN LUTHER

AN ODE

Who sits upon the Pontiff's throne? On Peter's holy chair Who sways the keys? At such a time When dullest ears may hear the chime Of coming thunders—when dark skies Are writ with crimson prophecies, A wise man should be there; A godly man, whose life might be The living logic of the sea; One quick to know, and keen to feel— A fervid man, and full of zeal, Should sit in Peter's chair. Alas! no fervid man is there, No earnest, honest heart; One who, though dress'd in priestly guise, Looks on the world with worldling's eyes; One who can trim the courtier's smile, Or weave the diplomatic wile, But knows no deeper art; One who can dally with fair forms, Whom a well-pointed period warms— No man is he to hold the helm Where rude winds blow, and wild waves whelm, And creaking timbers start. In vain did Julius pile sublime The vast and various dome, That makes the kingly pyramid's pride, And the huge Flavian wonder, hide Their heads in shame—these gilded stones (O heaven!) were very blood and bones Of those whom Christ did come To save—vile grin of slaves who sold Celestial rights for earthy gold, Marketing grace with merchant's measure, To prank with Europe's pillaged treasure The pride of purple Rome. The measure of her sins is full, The scarlet-vested whore! Thy murderous and lecherous race Have sat too long i' the holy place; The knife shall lop what no drug cures, Nor Heaven permits, nor earth endures, The monstrous mockery more. Behold! I swear it, saith the Lord: Mine elect warrior girds the sword— A nameless man, a miner's son, Shall tame thy pride, thou haughty one, And pale the painted whore! Earth's mighty men are nought. I chose Poor fishermen before To preach my gospel to the poor; A pauper boy from door to door That piped his hymn. By his strong word The startled world shall now be stirr'd, As with a lion's roar! A lonely monk that loved to dwell With peaceful host in silent cell; This man shall shake the Pontiff's throne: Him Kings and emperors shall own, And stout hearts wince before The eye profound and front sublime Where speculation reigns. He to the learned seats shall climb, On Science' watch-tower stand sublime; The arid doctrine shall inspire Of wiry teachers with swift fire; And, piled with cumbrous pains, Proud palaces of sounding lies Lay prostrate with a breath. The wise Shall listen to his word; the youth Shall eager seize the new-born truth Where prudent age refrains. Lo! when the venal pomp proceeds From echoing town to town! The clam'rous preacher and his train, Organ and bell with sound inane, The crimson cross, the book, the keys, The flag that spreads before the breeze, The triple-belted crown! It wends its way; and straw is sold— Yea! deadly drugs for heavy gold, To feeble hearts whose pulse is fear; And though some smile, and many sneer, There's none will dare to frown. None dares but one—the race is rare— One free and honest man: Truth is a dangerous thing to say Amid the lies that haunt the day; But He hath lent it voice; and, lo! From heart to heart the fire shall go, Instinctive without plan; Proud bishops with a lordly train, Fierce cardinals with high disdain, Sleek chamberlains with smooth discourse, And wrangling doctors all shall force, In vain, one honest man. In vain the foolish Pope shall fret, It is a sober thing. Thou sounding trifler, cease to rave, Loudly to damn, and loudly save, And sweep with mimic thunders' swell Armies of honest souls to hell! The time on whirring wing Hath fled when this prevail'd. O, Heaven! One hour, one little hour, is given, If thou could'st but repent. But no! To ruin thou shalt headlong go, A doom'd and blasted thing. Thy parchment ban comes forth; and lo! Men heed it not, thou fool! Nay, from the learned city's gate, In solemn show, in pomp of state, The watchmen of the truth come forth, The burghers old of sterling worth, And students of the school: And he who should have felt thy ban Walks like a prophet in the van; He hath a calm indignant look, Beneath his arm he bears a book, And in his hand the Bull. He halts; and in the middle space Bids pile a blazing fire. The flame ascends with crackling glee; Then, with firm step advancing, He Gives to the wild fire's wasting rule The false Decretals, and the Bull, While thus he vents his ire:— "Because the Holy One o' the Lord Thou vexed hast with impious word, Therefore the Lord shall thee consume, And thou shalt share the Devil's doom In everlasting fire!" He said; and rose the echo round "In everlasting fire!" The hearts of men were free; one word Their inner depths of soul had stirr'd; Erect before their God they stood A truth-shod Christian brotherhood, And wing'd with high desire. And ever with the circling flame Uprose anew the blithe acclaim:— "The righteous Lord shall thee consume, And thou shalt share the Devil's doom In everlasting fire!" Thus the brave German men; and we Shall echo back the cry; The burning of that parchment scroll Annull'd the bond that sold the soul Of man to man; each brother now Only to one great Lord will bow, One Father-God on high. And though with fits of lingering life The wounded foe prolong the strife, On Luther's deed we build our hope, Our steady faith—the fond old Pope Is dying, and shall die.