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Louisiana Anthology

Thomas Crittenden Armstrong.


Chap. IX. Rosalie. or, The Natchez’ Hate.


A general view of the great interior valley of North America may not be inappropriate as an introduction to this work, as that valley is about synonymous with our theme, the former Province of Louisiana. For that reason the following address, delivered by the writer some time since, before the Teachers’ Institute of Sabine Parish, La, may not be considered out of place.

Tho’s Ignotus,

Sunnyside, Pleasant Hill; La;
Mar. — 1904.

divider from tranchepain

The Western Foreland;

Or, a View of the Vale of Vales and its
Relation to the State of States.

Ladies and Gentlemen: — It may seem a little unusual for me to resort, not to philosophy or art, religion or politics, but to the plain science of geography for a subject on this occasion. But as that subject is the greatest of earthly valleys it may not be devoid of interesting features, or unworthy of public discussion. The great Vale of Vales to which I will call your attention today, is not without elements of grandeur and sublimity, being greater and mightier than any other valley of earth, and in these particulars presumably second only to that one visioned by Milton through his sightless eyes, the paridisian valley:

“Where the river of Life, through fields of Heaven, Rolls over Elysian flowers its amber stream.”

This greatest and sublimest of valleys is the one in which we live; the one which extends through the heart of this continent from the 30th parallel of latitude to the Artic Circle, a distance of 3000 miles as the wild goose flies, and of 6000 miles as the waters run: while from each of its extremes to its far eastern outlet into the Atlantic the distance is equally as great. This valley of our theme and our home, although but recently reclaimed from its savage state, is already spoken of as “the Garden of the World”. In minor details and qualities it may be rivalled by many. Its climate is not the nicest one imaginable, but De Tocqueville a greater philosopher than any of us, saw, even in its variable clime an influence that would prevent the lassitude of the tropics, and promote the progress of its people. In beauty and floral luxurance it is often excelled by the real or unreal subjects of the painter’s art or the poet’s song. We would hardly dare to say that in these respects it would compare for instance, with that palm-sheltered one, in which Tom Moore located the finale of his immortal poem, Lalla Rookh, especially as viewed by him through the flattering medium of a poetic fancy; the vale of Cashmere:

“With its roses, the loveliest that earth ever gave.”

In these respects it might not compare either with the enchanting valley of the Damascene, from which, it is said, the prophet withdrew with the exclamation that it was too lovely for mortal man. In this connection I am reminded of another valley, so called, also lying between hillocks of snow, where the lovely Katrina wore her silver crucifix; from the sight and thought of which the author of Knickerbocker, a pious bachelor, like myself, withdrew with a similar exclamation, that it was too lovely.

In startling grandeur, our theme may not compare with the Australian abyss, a mile or so in depth, into which the frightened Govett leaped; or with the wonderful valley of Yosemite, on our western coast, with its shimmering cataracts pouring apparently from the skies and its precipitous mountain-walls from half a mile to a mile in height. In antiquity it may not compare with the Greek’s purpureal Tempe nor with the ancient valley of the Nile.

It may be well, in passing, to pay a deserved compliment to that far-famed valley nestled in the heart of the plateau of Mexico, known anciently as Tenoctilan, and where, it is said, the good omen of the American eagle, with a serpent in his talons, caused the wandering Aztec tribe to found the historic city of the Montezumas. Watered by its chain of glittering lakelets, and warded by those twin mountain peak, of unpionounceable names, the Smoky Giant, and the shrouded White Lady; that famous valley, the pride of Mexico, is well-entittled to rank as an earthly paradise.

A similar beauty-spot perhaps, is to be found a little further to the south, in the Andean valley of Cauca, in the South American republic of Columbia, which was made by Geo. Isaacs, the setting of his romantic story of Maria. But these picturesqe mountain valleys, with their narrow fields, can campare with the theme of our discourse only as the lakelet compares with the ocean.

In the combined elements of beauty and grandeur, our subject may be excelled, in the opinion of some, by the vale of Oratava, in the Isle of Teneriffe, which was given the palm, I believe, by the noted traveller, Humboldt: that valley of surprising beauty and startling magnificence combined, extending from the sea that laves its lower extremity, by a series of gradations, through all temperatures and all flora of earth, from a torrid to a frigid clime; flanked on either side by mountain-walls and extending upward to the base of the sublime volcano of Teneriffe. I think however, that Humbolt would have admitted, that on a comprehensive view, Oratava would have been more sublime if its mountain-walls had been placed, Some hundreds of leagues apart, like our own; if its romantic fields had been extended sufficiently to allow them, to maintain, like ours, a great proportion of the present population of the earth; and if it extended from sun-land to snowland, not on account of ascending a mountainside, but, by over-laping zone after zone of the earth’s surface; like the valley of our theme; which extends from the realm of orange-groves and sugarcane to and beyond the realm of wheat-fields and rose-gardens; to and beyond the realm of potatoes and barley-corn; and while one of its extremes is washed by the tropic gulf, the other is lost amid arctic snows and hyper-borean gloom.

In historic interest, our great vale is excelled of course, by almost any noted locality of the old world, which has heretofore been the seat of civilization. From Scotland’s Dundees and “bonnie Doons”, to the blood-stained Jezreels of Holy Land, are many localities of more extended historic associations. Passing between those limits, we would be compelled to acknowledge the superiority, in this respect, of the “castled rhine” and the “storied Guadilquiver”. In sunny Italy too, wc would perhaps pause in involuntary admiration. In Val D‘Ema or Val D‘Arno, in view either of La Cetosa, with its towers like dreams in stone, or of beautiful Florence, of glorious memory, we would seem transported bodily into the dreamlands of the past, and would live, as it were, in the age of chivalry. Nevertheless, were I to turn poet, and undertake the writing of an epic I would choose as my locale, none of the historic valleys of the east, but instead, the great valley of the west, thronged as it is, not with shadows of the past, but with visions of the future: I would stand, as did Henry Clay, on its rocky boundaries, would stand upon the Foreland of our theme, and, overlooking its expansive plains, would listen like that inspired patriot, to the ingress of its coming millions: would paint the prospective beauty and glory of the Garden of the World, marked as it is by all the signs of progress; tilled by unremitting science and industry; its encircling hill-tops aglow with the coming day, and its fields overarched, and filled with reflected beauty by the glittering bow of peace and promise.

As already stated, ours is the greatest and most productive valley in the world. The hills that constitute its confines and boundary lines are as far distant from each other as the midnight from the sunrise. The most extensive river systems, including that of the Father of Waters himself serve to drain its basin, which contains besides a mighty chain of inland seas without a parallel upon earth. It is said to be a fact that we have here in this region, more than half of all the fresh-water on the globe. It is a misnomer however, to speak of this iumiense region as the Mississippi Valley, simply, for that river basin. constitutes in fact only part of a great three-fold, or perhaps I should say, four-fold valley, embrasing the basins of the Great Lakes, and those trending northward into Hudson’s Bay and the Arctic, as well as the Mississippi Valley; which properly-speaking, includes only the region lying between the Rockies and the Alleghanies. In fact all of North America that is outside of the great valley may be ranked as the porticoes and vestibules of a temple, of which that great basin constitutes the inner court and principal apartment. Influenced, I presume, by the grandeur of this valley of the west; by its well-deserved title as the Garden of the World; and supposing, I presume, that the Creator would naturally have selected the richest region of earth for His experiment at gardening; some wise westerner has advanced the idea that our great west was perhaps the quondam paradise, the Eden of our first ancestor.

The fact that ours is geologically the oldest of the contingents; that some of the eastern nations had traditions relating apparently to America, may lend some color to this idea. The tradition of the lost Atlantis indicates that our country was known to the Egyptians in prehistoric times and may have supported one of the first civilizations.

Add to these considerations the fact that the commonly accepted location of Eden does not correspond with the biblical description of that favored spot; the fact that there were traditions of the Edenic Garden suggestive of our thundering Niagara, or of the giant geysers of our national park, which, as I will show presently, bears a peculiar relation to our great valley; and the further fact that Dr. Talmige has recently found, in the last-named locality, the veritable throne of God Himself; and we have, perhaps, as good a claim to paradise as almost any* land. At all events, this greatest and greenest of earthly paradises, is one of the sublimest objects in nature, with its ocean of verdure a thousand leagues in length and breadth; and the fact that it is at other times a snow-field of equal extent, may be excused in accordance with the philosophy of De Tocqueville, on account of the moral benefit of climatic changes.

According to the Bible statement “God planted a Garden eastward in Eden.” If that be so, we may still say whether the fact be of record or not, that He planted a greater garden westward in America. We note in passing however that He planted the Garden westward in Eden, which is the position of our Garden of the world with reference to its continent.

“And a river went out of Eden to water the garden, and thence it became divided into four heads.” The wise man of the west, above referred to, who considered the national park the Eden of our ancestors, may have been influenced by this peculiar statement. It is a fact that the several river systems which water our great valley, all of which however are so interlocked and intermingled as to make them but one in reality, have a common source on the dome of our continent, and, we may say, in or about the national park. This statement as to their common origin may be considered true even of the Great Lake or St. Lawrence system, for that system is interlocked witJi Lake Winnipeg and the Saskatchewan river, and the last takes its rise along with the Missouri in the neighborhood I have mentioned. It is also a fact that the waters of that valley are discharged into the surrounding seas by four great mouths or outlets, each of them ranking among the largest rivers of this world. The mighty McKenzie drains it into the arctic: a twofold estuary cf like proportions, into the Hudson Bay; the mighty St. Lawrence into the gulf of that name; while the majestic Father of Waters drains it into the Gulf of Mexico. If it is a fact that our Garden of the World was really the Garden of Paradise, these great streams would have borne and have dignified the God-given names of Pison, Gihon, Euphrates, Hiddekel; and their teeming productions would have been worthy of the attention of the Lord God Himself, while walking among them in the cool of the day. But if it cannot be shown that our great valley has given us a Paradise Lost, its advantages and present tendencies indicate that it may enable us to realize a Paradise Regained.

To gain an adequate idea of the grandeur and immensity of that valley, let us imagine ourselves in the Rocky Mountain country, say on some of the beetling heights that crown the Plateau of the Missouri. We would there find ourselves on the uppermost step of a terraced tableland that extends from the Rocky Mountains far out into the great valley about midway its length, being opposite the transverse extension of it which includes the Great Lakes. The snowy and Shoshone ranges above and behind us, capped by the fairylands and obsidian cliffs of the National Park might easily take the form of a rock-walled paradise or a seat of grandeur worthy of the King of kings; while the tableland of our position, with its rounded extremity, and its successive steps or plateaus, might as easily be considered either the terrace in front of His temple, or the dais before His throne.

From that elevated position, with the aid of a supposable telescope that would adjust itself so as to make up for the convexity of the earth’s surface, we might obtain a series of most impressive views. Thus located and equipped, on glancing about, we might find ourselves in a more commanding position than that of the poet:

“By magic casements, looking on the foam Of perilous seas in fairylands forlorn.”

We might obtain on one hand a view of the most romantic mountain region of earth, with its towered and castellated rocks and parti-colored cliffs looking down upon the rolling cloudlands at their feet; and on the other hand a still more wondrous view of the great valley or garden of our theme. With the aid of the supposable telescope mentioned, we might command, to the east, a view of the chain of inland seas known as the Great Lakes, constituting the largest bodies of fresh water on the globe. The entire panorama of that immense valley of almost a thousand leagues in extent, with its wide outlet to the ocean beyond: its thundering niagara turning to give us a view of its inexpressible grandeur: with its foaming seas; its teeming capitals, and its boundless fields of commingled corn and grain; would burst upon our startled vision.

Turning to the south-east and south, we would there behold a scene of equal sublimity in the southern extension of that great vale. In that direction we would look down the wide basin of the Missouri to the Mexican gulf beyond, over almost limitless fields that justify this region’s title as the Garden of the World by their almost incalculable product of the world’s breadstuffs and a great proportion of its clothing besides, for the snow of the southern cotton-fields would there meet our view, and on the limit of the horizon in that direction, a hint of the luxuries and sweetnesses of life in the glint of orange groves, and the sheen of rustling cane-fields.

Turning to the north-east and north, we would witness the continuation of the great valley in that direction.

Would there behold a silent and slumbering ocean of green; the level and limitless prairies constituting the great lone land of Canada, the natural home of the wheat-plant, and which while uninviting as yet to the settler on account of its remotenes and supposedly severe climate, will yet justify its position as a componant part of the world’s garden, by its fabulous product of wheat, the staff of life itself.

In that direction we would also witness a chain of mighty lakes, being in fact a continuation of the chain of inland seas we have mentioned, extending northward 2000 miles to the shores of the frozen ocean, the swash of their waves only breaking the silence of the solitude, and their verdant shores capable of boundless development on being opened to settlement by R. R’s and connecting water-ways.

From that position, along the main valley, we might view to advantage the teeming produce of that region, which even in its natural state, as the uncultured prairie, or the unbroken woodland, would sweep by us like a mighty stream of verdure, foam-flecked with flowers; or ’neath the autumnal sun, would roll at our feet in waves of molten gold. The advance of civilization has embellished the scene by adding to it myriads of happy homes, enlivened it with the shriek of the steam-goblin, and annihilated its immense distances by telegraphic and telephonic communication .

From that elevated position, which seems to have been intended as a post of observation, even a God might have enjoyed such a glorious vision of beauty in the light of the rising, or of the setting sun. Prom that position we might realize the accuracy of the poet’s picture of it.

“Rich prairies decked with flowers of gold, Like sunlit oceans roll afar; Broad lakes its azure heavens behold Reflecting clear each trembling star. And mighty rivers, mountain-born, Go sweeping through it, dark and deep. And we might join him in his appropriate con- clusion: “Still may her flowers untrammelled spring. Her harvests wave, her cities rise, And yet, till Time shall fold his wing, Remain earth’s loveliest paradise.”

Whether the wise man of the west be correct in his surmises or not, I am disposed to think that the great Creator, the Jehovah of Moses, the Jove of Phidias, in the midst of angelic and jubilant hosts, must have occupied that point of vantage? or the cloud capped fairyland beyond, and have looked on with satisfaction, when the Missouri, the fountain-head of the father of waters, issuing from the paradise of the west, and communicating, possibly by extinct channels, with the Winnipeg system; began to pour its accumulating floods into the plain beneath, and under the magic of Heaven’s sunlight, and that immense system of waters, the rainbows began to o’er-arch the scene, and at their feet the flowers began to gleam and the fruitage to glisten throughout the Garden of the World.

A recent event shows the continuity and the vast extent of that valley. The city of Chicago by reopening a former river-bed has connected the systems of the Mississippi and the St.Lawrence, and ’ere long even ocean-steamers will pass from the Gulf of Mexico to the far off Gulf of St Lawrence, by way of that unequalled all-inland water-route; passing on their journey into the very heart of this continent, and then moving out through its eastern portal to the sea. No doubt similar engineering feats will soon connect these systems with those trending northward into Hudson’s Bay and the Arctic: The Great Lake and the McKenzie and Katchewan system can be connected easily by canals aggregating about one hundred miles in length; while the Mississippi system and its northern counterpart are separated from each other by merely a short portage in Brown’s Valley, Dakota, which divides the fountain-heads of the Minnesota River, and the Red River of the north; which slight obstruction can be easily removed.

The total extent of this vast network of streams is almost beyond calculation. the Mississippi system alone aggregating some fifteen thousand miles of navigable water-ways, while its northern counterpart is of almost equal extent; and the third, or Great Lake system, makes up in volume what it lacks in linear measure. The agricultural product of this well-watered and greatest of gardens, consisting of all the necessaries, and, in minor degree, of the luxuries of life, already amount, in value, to thousands of millions of dollars annually; and its output in the future will be increased beyond all computation. The business men of the east have a saying to the effect that all prophecies fall short of the truth when they attempt to forecast the growth and development of the mighty west; by which is meant the great interior valley of this continent: and it is probable that few of us have realized, even yet, the vastness and future importance of our rapidly unfolding and developing Garden of the World.

Within its bounds are included some twenty American states, and about as many British provinces, each one of these possessing the natural riches and resources of an empire; the agricultural product of most of them already comparing favorably with that of the average Kingdom of the Old World.

These commonwealths are increasing rapidly in wealth and population; and on a moderate calculation, they could maintain half of the present population of the earth. “Population”, says De Toqueville, “moves westward as if driven by the mighty hand of God.” To this a recent writer adds: “From the mountain-valleys of Asia, commonly supposed to be our origin, a ceaseless pilgrimage has moved ever on and on.” But on the western coast of this great continent, the timelong journey will at length be done: here in the great west the race will reach its final home. Here have been grouped as nowhere else in all the world, mountain, and valley and plain, river and lake and sea. Here have been stored illimitable wealth in mine and forest, sea and soil, and to these broad foundations for a sure prosperity, has been added a climate adapted to produce the highest possible development of the individual and of the race.

Such are the physical features of the world’s great garden. I would now call attention to the fact that under the hand of Providence it has become the seat of a national fabric which is the fitting counterpart of its physical grandeur: of political institutions as noble and sublime as its natural scenery. In furtherance of divine purposes no doubt. Providence has peopled this great region with the proudest and most progressive of the human race and has made the great Garden of the World the basis and broad foundation of the Great Republic of the world and of the ages.

The simultaneous unfolding of the greatest of countries and of nations, was the work of Fate. The blessings that have attended that nation’s advent indicate its providential origin. The history of the fairyland we have been discussing has been fruitful in prodigies.

A recent historian of France attributed more importance to the few months included in the French revolution, than he allowed to the seventeen centuries of her preceding history, on the ground that the revolutionary period constituted the fruition period, when the results of her former experiences became manifest. The same remark might be made of the history of the United States as compared with the antecedent history of the world. Ours has been the world’s fruition period and our land alone being sufficiently enlightened to profit by experience, our brief history is yet an epitome of the boundless past. It presents the flower and fruition of the world’s experience in all ages. This is especially true of the opening chapters of our political history. The science of government, that plant of centuries, burst into bloom and disclosed the beauty of its hidden heart only when transplanted into American soil. I imagine that soil and clime had been preserved for the purpose of fostering the wonderful developments we have witnessed there. I imagine the Garden of the World was sequestered and kept apart as the only fitting basis of the state of states, the republic of republics; that its gateways were guarded by as many angels, like those of the apocalyptic New Jerusalem. This gem of the natural world, of wealth surpassing the riches of Aladin’s cave, was not to be lightly bestowed on an unworthy object or government. It was not intended that despotism should there take root, to flourish amid barbarism and gloom, like those of Egypt and the east.

So, when Eric the Red landed upon our coast, doubtless with the blood-stained sword of murder in his hand, I imagine it was the angel-guardian of the shore that drove him thence, with the exclamation perhaps, that the time appointed for its settlement had not yet come; that the race had not yet undergone the necessary apprenticeship nor acquired the needful wisdom. But in the fullness of time, after mankind had been sufficiently schooled in affliction, after long-continued oppression had prepared the sens of Eric for the enjoyment of political liberty; after a Tho’s Torquemada, with the hell-torch of persecution, had prepared the way for a Tho’s Jefferson and the God given mandate of religious freedom: I imagine the same angelic warden received and tenderly watched over the pilgrim fathers, when in their flight from persecution, they landed on Plymouth Rick; that he extended one hand in welcome to the Catholic Baltimoreans and the other in blepsing over the Hugenot Carolinians: that, in accordance with a divine command, he opened to these classes of men, and to their successors, and to the oppressed of all lands, the barred gateways of the long hidden and mysterious Garden of the World.

At any rate, the nature of the institutions that have been founded there, the only worthy products we have of the experience of ages, inculcating equal rights and the brotherhood of man, would justify us in believing that angelic and divine agencies were instrumental in their adoption; in believing that in one American political convention at least, the hand of God was manifested. In that one which was presided over by Geo. Washington, and which devised our form of government; that one, which was the first instance in the history of the world when the representatives of a people met, and voluntarily selected their form of government; that one, which consulted history, in extenso, and went to primal Greece for a prototype of the government best suited to our conditions; and then wisely and deliberately founded our confederate republic of co-ordinate states.

Under the supervision of a greater architect than Hiram of Tyre, or Merlin of the magic wand: with its materials ready prepared from the quarry of a world’s experience: that greatest of political structures rose more sublimely than Solomon’s temple, or Arthur’s mystic hall in Camelot. The inspired builders then raised above that fabric of their love and pride, a banner that suggests the beauty of the rainbow and the immutability of the stars. They bequeathed, as it’s appropriate emblem the bird of good omen, the royal eagle of Jupiter; that, on its first descent from heaven, perched on the ensigns of conquering Rome, the great republic of the ancients; that, on its second visit to our sphere, graced the war-galleys of Venetia, the great republic of the dark ages; and, on its last and final visitation, has transferred its allegiance to America, the great republic of the moderns; As the most precious legacy of all, the builders placed upon that temple, as a national motto, a cabalistic phrase which suggests the solution of the problem of democratic government; e pluribus unum; a dearly bought idea, which, with us, is embodied in the potent form of the Union, wielding the sword of an archangel for the protection of an otherwise helpless band of sister-states.

The vale of our theme now constitutes the central court of that edifice, the nave and transept of its temple.It may be observed, in passing, that the flowers of the world’s great garden, which decorate that inner court and holy of holies, cannot surpass in beauty, the divine figures of liberty and her attendants, which ornament that superstructure as with “flights of angels;” and that its basic principles, like the mosaics of Tennyson’s Palace of Art, have embodied suggestions caught from the cycles of human experience, and are, as the bard expressed it.

“So wrought, they will not fail.”

It may be observed besides, that in spite of its growth and grandeur; in spite of the vermin that occasionally infest its dark-places; its trusts, monopolies, boodlers and ballot-box stuffers; this seat of superlative grandeur may still be considered the home of freedom, and the hope of mankind.

We are justified in holding such views with reference to a land and nation that in the short period of a century and a quarter, in accordance with the views of the historian we have mentioned, has done more for the good of mankind, I might almost say, than all preceding ages combined; that within the sphere of its influence, has freed, not only man but the mind of man from oppression; that has glorified the earth with the splendor of its scientific inventions; and beneath whose influence we may truthfully say:

“The world’s great age begins anew, The golden years return”.

The part our great valley will take in perpetuating this government has already been indicated by its influence in the past. Knitting together and consolidating the country, and giving the great majority which inhabit its basin, common interests and common views, it acts as a bond of union, and tends to prevent our dissolution as a nation. This was actually the part it played in the great civil war. But for the stern determination of the people of the great valley to keep its waterways open, and it’s commerce unobstructed, the federal union would then have been destroyed. That sublime valley extending throughout the continent acts as an indissoluble tie that may forever unite our band of sister-states, and yet consolidate the continent politically. That may be a desirable event. According to one of the fathers of our country, the broader our domain, the greater our stability. Liberty, in the infancy of intelligence, was guarded with difficulty, and flourished only amid the mountain valleys of Switzerland and Greece: but in our land and time she thrives and expands, till in the form of a Columbia, she wields the sword of an archangel and stands invincible as the guardian-spirit of a hemisphere.

No doubt Canada will yet be made to realize, may be by the touch of a mystic wand, that our destiny is her destiny, and her family of Provinces will yet enter as colleagues into the great American sisterhood of states. This may be accomplished peacefully, and England more than compensated for her lose, by the realization of her fondest dream; by a re-union of the Anglo-Saxon race in an alliance of such magnitude and power that it will disarm opposition and establish the reign of perpetual peace.

In the mean time, our great Garden-Valley the gem of the civilized world; with a possible population of a thousand million human beings; with its teeming fields, fruit-laden and flower-scented, will still delight mankind with its pictures of peaceful industry inducing abundant prosperity; with its civil and religious liberty inciting universal progress and hastening the long-predicted period when eternal wisdom shall judge the earth, and “the nations shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks:” may even introduce the poet pictured era when upon its smiling plains will rise:

“Fruits of more than paradise. Earth by angels‘ feet be trod, One great garden of her God.”

Title Page

——— O ———
The Last of the Paladins and the
Valley of the West.
A Serial Daydream.
By Tho’s Ignotus.
Part I: Le Lion Guardant: Or, The Warden at the Gateway. Part. II: LeRoy et la Reine: Or, The Forest-King and the Prairie-Queen.
Copyright, 1904, by T.C. Armstrong.
ALL rights reserved.


The following extract from a letter of the learned and venerable Glials Gayarre, the lately deceased historian of Louisiana, will show that the author of this volume is not alone in becoming infatuated with the romances enacted in the whilom French province of Louisiana. Under date of Apr. 27th, 1891, Mr Gayarre writes.

’The colonial history of Louisiana is very romantic. I wrote once to Fenimoie Cooper, inviting him to select a subject for a novel out of the vast mine of rich material to which I called his attention. His reply was very courteous and friendly indeed, but he declined complying with my desire, on the ground that he had long ago discovered that his writings were more appreciated by the Europeans than by his own fellow-citizens; and that if he continued to write his subject would be a foreign one. Undeterred by the experiences of the immortal Cooper, the author of this volume can only hope that the intrinsic merit of his subject, rather than any peculiar ability on his part, will cause it to awaken some interest among his patriotic fellow citizens.

Besides dealing with romantic characters and incidents in our history, this serial poem treats of subjects of increasing interest from a sociological point of view: in its discussion of the comparative merits of our own modes of life and those prevalent in a state of arcadian simplicity; in its forecast of the future of the great Valley of the West, our home, which is kept in view throughout the work, and over which our heroes stood as guardians and protectors: and, in connection with the latter theme, in its presentation of:

‘The vision of the world, and the wonders yet to be.’


An apology may be due the reader for the somewhat desultory and disconnected character of this part of our poem. It necessarily lacks the artistic mould and connected form of the entirely original work of fancy: being based, as it is, on historical facts in the life of the so-called Lion of the South, the worthy pater-Patriæ of the Louisianian: the second part being founded on the career of the equally worthy, and scarcely less notable hero known as the father of the Red River country. The writer is of the opinion that the colonial history of Louisiana is sufficiently romantic to constitute, in itself, an entertaining story, on being merely amplified and furnished with the details necessary to its proper and life-like presentation.

The first book is, as stated, more particularly in commemoration of the first governor and so- called father of Louisiana. The following picture is given of the hero of this book in the works of Charles Gayarre, the best historian of Louisiana. ‘A man of undoubted integrity, a strict observer of his word, punctilious as a knight-errant as to his honor and fair fame, devotedly attached to his country and king: true, heart and soul, to his friends; to his kinsmen, and family connections: bland and courteous in his manners, humane, generous, possessing a highly gifted personal appearance, having all the distinction inherent to a man of refined and elegant tastes, he retained that air of grandeur so peculiar to the age of Louis XIV, which had closed when he had already reached manhood, being over thirty when the grand monarch died. With all these qualifications, he might have been set up as a faithful representation of the gentleman of the time.’ The same historian states: ’When he left Louisiana he had reached the age of sixty-five years: and he carried with him the regrets, the esteem, and the affections of the colonists who called him the father of the country. With it as an object of his creation, he was naturally identified, and he loved it with all the fervor of the parental heart.’ The position he occupied, and the difficulties he encountered during the first period referred to in this work, are tersely summed up by his recent and fair biographer, Miss Grace King. Speaking of the period when he first assumed the reins of authority, she says: ‘Fort St Louis de la Mobile, the head-quarters of Bienville, became the capital of the new French dominion and the young man of twenty-two the chief executive, virtually the first governor of Louisiana;’ a position which according to the same writer, has never been noted for ease of administration or laurel-leaved emoluments. But while every holder of it since Bienville, with the usual notable exceptions in the near past, has commended himself to the sympathy if not to the admiration of the impartial observer, not one of them is more deserving the meed of compassion than this tyro-official.

Speaking more generally of the race to which Sieur de Bienville belongs, the same writer freely awards them and him, a conspicuous member of that order, their well-earned meed of praise. Says she: ‘For bold hardihood, valour, and endurance, for dauntless enterprise, persistent effort, and inextinguishable determination; for the rugged essentials of primitive virility, these recrudescent adventurers s loom up in the dawn of American settlement, with the huge distinction and gigantic proportions of their Homeric ancestors’. Another talented and recent authoress refers to the family of our hero as “those illustrious LeMoynes whose deeds may be traced in our day from the St Lawrence to the Gulf of Mexico.”

Another eminent writer speaking of the gigantic character of the French scheme of colonization in America, says: ‘Whatever may be the judgment of the historian upon the policy or the work of France in this bold scheme, there can be little difference of opinion as to the qualities displayed by the Frenchmen who were leaders in the movement. They were certainly cast in the heroic mould.’ ‘Indeed,’ says that author, it seems well for those of us who have been nurtured on the English literature of the last three centuries, to make now and then some careful study of the lives of the French explorers during the same period, if only to keep our perceptions achromcatic respecting the French character. There are many good people of Anglo-Saxon descent who have a vague feeling that a Frenchman has always been comparatively, a poor creature, a fop, a fribble, destitute of true earnestness of character, and quite beyond the reach of saving grace, whether of the political or theological sort. For such an inadequate estimate of a great nation there can be better corrective than a study of the story of Louisiana.

The characters treated in this book may be justly regarded, not only as the avant-couriers of civilization in a new world, but perhaps among the most romantic and genuine specimens of knight-errantry and true chivalry known to the history of our race. The Imagination of the gifted bard, in delineating and glorifying the knights of Arthur and his Table Round, hardly conceived of such heroic quests and romantic wanderings as the journey of the Iron Hand from his post on the upper Illinois in search of the remnant of the expedition of his friend, La Salle, and the unexplored wilds of Texas: or, such as the equally historic journeyings of a St Denis from the post of Natchitoches to the far-off city of the Montezumas: whether moved by love alone, or the combined influence of the tender passion and a passion for trade and adventure. The miniature court of Bienville, about which clustered so much romance in real life, in which sojourned such heroic knights-errant, and over which presided a kindred spirit in the person of that notable first governor, is accordingly as worthy of the minstrel’s harp and the poet‘s song as that of the mystic Arthur, or that of the semi-barbarous Charlemagne.

Book 1st. Le Lion Guardant.
Or, The Warden at the Gateway.

Stories of the Father of Louisiana.

——— O ———

The isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not;
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears: and sometimes voices
That if I then had waked out of long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then in dreaming,
The clouds, methought, would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

Copyright, 1904,
By T . C. Armstrong
All rights reserved.

At the Gate of Dreams.

In mystic shadows, fettered fast In sleep, the dream-god lay; Yet ’mong the winged oneira passed O’er realms of endless day.
So, adream beneath deep-frowning skies, Amid fast-fading flowers. Yet in the courts of Paradise: We pass the happy hours:
So, in our dream-worlds Aidens bloom. And fields elysian smile, That countervail e’en realms of gloom, And all our griefs beguile.
We turn from the ancient orient, From Araby the Blest, To view, midway the occident; The Valley of the West.
Upon it’s fields the sunlight plays. Awakes it’s philomel, And songs divine inspire my lays, And beauty nonpareil.
Hence visioned through the gate of dreams, Across that mystic line; Full bright it’s spring-tide prairie gleams, It’s grandiflora shine.
Heroic souls watch o’er that land, As, ’mong the tribes of old, Lone watched the mighty Iron-Hand, In trying times untold.
Wakeful the Lion of the South Wards still that favored shore. Hard by his turbid river’s mouth, Fierce threatening as of yore.
Those hero-souls my dreams awake, And in their steps I’d stray. Till on that valley of shadow break The beams of golden day.

Chap. 1st. La Val D’Occident;
Or, The Great Valley,
in Light and in Shadow.

Rich prairies decked with flowers of gold, Like sunlit oceans roll afar; Broad lakes its azure heavens behold. Reflecting clear each trembling star: And mighty rivers mountain-born, Go sweeping through it dark and deep. — Anon.
Two centuries! a space of time but brief In Egypt’s, or old Israel’s chronicles; That scarce affects the rocks of Zion’s Hill, Or speeds the fall of Ghizeh’s monuments; That moves unmarked o’er heaven’s dial-plate. Whose starry figures and night-gleaming signs Note but vast cycles, intervals sublune. The brief centurial eras are yet great, With earth’s ephemeral habitues compared: And changes oft they witness ’mong her states. And in the aspect of her shifting scenes. Here chiefly, in the Valley of the West, Scene of our song, the Garden of the World: Of weird effect and magical appears The varying hand of change. Coeval with The transformation of the semisphere. The inception haply of the promised state. Hath been accomplished on our favored shore. Vast capitals and peopled states have risen Where lay two hundred years ago, The shadows of the primal wilderness, And in our Valley of the Occident Thick myriads of earth’s leading tribes are found. Where once the startled wilderness beheld A savage conqueror stained in kindred gore, A tigress sating with the blood of lambs The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs, Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn Offering sweet incense to the sunrise smiles;’ And if we find not there the metaphor Of primal peace fulfilled, or yet behold The infant with the cockatrice at play; The lion with the lamb, we find even there, A truer symbol of the golden age. In science newly born, with mystic wand, O’er every form of savage life supreme. Beneath that science infantile as yet And that dread sceptre of caducean power, Our mystic vale dismantled of its gloom Glows ’neath the bow of hope, the beams of peace. There now well ordered states in peace repose; Fair slates, in lengthhiing ranks and series ranged Strong Caryatides, sublime they stand, With intertwining arms and hands conjoined, And lightly bear the noblest growth of time, The temple of our Union, whose great nave And mighty transept are each based, as twere, Upon the matchless valley of our song. Would you behold that valley in our day, Its life and art, unrivalled heretofore; Come with us to the noble captital That, like our heroes, from St Louis dubbed, Stands at the juncture of it’s mammoth streams. And midway the great realm of Louisiane. See there, the exposition, in her name That with its thousand domes and towers dream-like Reared, as by magic in a day, presentp A wondrous microcosm, and therewithal In miniature yet huge, fitly portrays The bearing of our Garden of the World, To the earth at large, that destitute of this. The true Hesperian, Field, would seem in truth A desert-waste unable to supply Its toiling children with their daily bread. Behold its portal’s lofty colonnade That, in itself, denotes the giant scheme Of the exposition and the wondrous realm It typifies; and o’er that portal’s height, In fancy see the form of Louisiane, More glorious e’en than that colossal shape Of gold wherein Athena embodied stood Upon the Acropolis, and, like that form. Encircled with great structures; domes and towers, Wherein are stored the science of all time, The lore of all the ages; yet more grand Than any work of art or science there Are those insensate forms there conjured up; The apparition of Louisiane; The vision of the Garden of the World. There on one hand, beneath thy feet outspread, Behold the plain a thousand leagues in length; That robed in cereals green and gold, excels The poet’s dream of the Elysian Fields. On the other, see its former counterpart; The greenwood ocean wide, fairly replaced By gardens and by wheat fields infinite: And all the mighty valley thickly set With glittering towns and countless happy homes, Threaded by flying trains on tracks of steel. And all its homes wide-scattered far and near Brought in communion and close touch as’ twere, By the electric sparky unken‘d unseen. In truth the vale whereon with waking eyes; We look this day, a fairyland in sooth. Appears an epode fit, an antitype, Unto the mystic dreamland of our song; And on it gazing, we behold again Our vision of the Garden of the World, And of its angel-guardian, in fine, Of Louisiana gloriously transformed. In days whereof we sing, the forest-world, A dark demesne of distant kings remained. Unhindered still Castilla reigned supreme O’er those wide plains Muscoso’s band explored. Those boundless fields stretched toward the setting sun; Whence east and north appeared Louisiane, Its wood and plain extending from fair shores On tropic waters lying, far away To Manitoban snows. Majestic streams, Yet strange and unexplored, unending rolled In those far wilds. Interminable shades! In that green sphere where since the birth of time Primeval nature had remained supreme. The adventurer’s fear depicted monstrous forms. Trembling the timorous had approached that vale ’Mid whose vast woodlands, gigantean streams, Rose Adamastor, to the wanderer’s eye. And fear oft viewed such ill-developed forms As once upon our favoring soil reposed; And mylodon and megatherium. Terrific, haunting, monsters of the prime. Albeit our wilderness, though phantom-trod, Had ne’er the grotesque, hideous shapes disclosed Whose terrors filled the Amazonian wold; Which like the golden wealth and gorgeosness By Garcillasso’s erring pen portrayed, Were foreign to our shore; enough remained Of ferine form, of dire ferocity, To appal the coward heart. The savage beast And reptile, with rude man contending there And making hideous the sylvan sphere. Such, in its prime, had been the world we sing. Through that great vale the stern conquistador His phantasies and airy dreams pursued And realms of gold, sun-robed, his steps allured. Aspiring chivalry then oped the way And to Gaul’s courier d’aventure next Attractive made a pathless hemisphere. Whate’er their aim, whether they marked the bounds, Of trackless lands that yet transformed should rise To peopled states supporting regal thrones, Or Argo-like chased golden cloudlands fair As lit the Euxine toward the enchanted shore, The wanderers that traced, guide-less, alone, The shadowy solitudes of that far realm; Although steel-clad, and of heroic mould, Performed knight-service worthy of their fame. Contrasting darkly with the gentle tribes That prostrate hailed the first discoverer. Or fair Peruvia‘s children of the sun, With love o‘er-swayed by Capac’s staff of gold; The warring nations of this mighty vale. Of all mankind were deemed most barbarous. O’er-ruling these and ’mong the heroes there Likewise supreme, I applaud the Longenil’s pride; Brave Iberville, of ’merits manifold, Him and his famed confreres, as they roved, Our bards might sing in fair successive lays, Bnt chiefly sdll, his comrades young, vet brave, His little brother; aye, his “petit frere;" And his bold Louis, last of errant knights; That like Ithuriel and Zephon ’neath A Gabriel’s order, warding paradise, Watched o’er the valley of Louisiane. To them there came from out that valley’s heart. Another, justly faimed, the Iron-Hand, These then and others of like manly mould. Excepting not D’Aubant and Bois-briant, And some of humbler titles now forgot; Were proud co-laborers in that chosen field. Together there they formed upon our shore A circle high as rode with Charlemagne, Or, in Arthur’s castle, graced the table round, Sons of that vale, by adoption or by birth, They trod it’s wastes, from groves sub-tropical. To hyperborean snows, and with strong hands, Founded in it’s dark depths, the state of states: From our still brightning day, I’d fain look back Upon the distant past; where, ’neath the shades. Wandered those paladins, last of their race. Aye, with delight and pride I,d contemplate Those heroes, by theh’ deeds transfiguring The Valley of the West, and at one stroke Transforming it to a fitting home of man, And to a radiant fairy-realm of dreams. The tawny rivers, ominous of hue, Deep-mumuring through that quondam realm of shade, In song and story may not yet approach The yellow Tiber or the castled Rhine, Or in beauty vie with Guadilquiver’s stream: Yet on their shores, ensconced in sylvan shade. As erst by Penens or Alpheus old. Prevailed a golden age; reigned our Just Chiefs, Those avant-couriers of nobler lift. The paladins and heroes of our song. About them ever, sylvan suns and braves, Strange forest-dwellers, in their dress and mien As wildly picturesque as any race That ever o’er Helvetia’s heights bore sway Or trod the heather of the Highland hills. E’en now methinks I see, in light canoe The fisher gliding o’er yon amber stream; Or, in quest of stag or bison, and in scenes That erst had won the heart of Robin Hood The buskined hunter threads the tangled maze. The ideal work of happy hunting-grounds Was realized, oft-times, beneath those shades. But ghastly deeds of blood and death, likewise, And orgies rude anc ethnic there appear. Midway that vale beside the Father-Stream, The Natchez wanders, urged by destiny: Grim Aztec tribe that with perennial fires, And, as ‘tis said, with blood of innocence, Baal-worship renders ‘neath the flamen’s rule. Dread rites! unearthly, as on Shinar’s plain. When first observed, or in Druidic groves. Aye, ‘tis not merely a dream of Arcady, By a Nou’lle Orleans, roofed with latanier leaves Or by the sylvan‘s Natchitoches inspired, That thus enthralls my heart, my storial song; I‘d paint likewise our paladins gore-stained. Albeit conspicuous for their troth and faith, Their gentleness and love: I‘d paint besides, ‘Mong varying scenes of darkness and of light. The nursling nation by their strength sustained. My country, great and free, whose birth sublime Awoke the nations from a living death, Whose youth unsettles thrones, frees man and mind, And with new splendor glorifies the earth; Thy heaven-sent builders, those that in the waste Prepared the way and those esteemed more great. Were one and all, such lords of human-kind. As walked with God, and spake the will of Fate. Thy past should prove the favorite seat of song. If there the poets strayed, a Tennyson Had found new Merlins and new Broceliandes, And wondering much, I ween, had seen revived The errant knights of Arthur’s table round. A Shelley in wide wildernesses there Would rove entranced, or in after-days rejoice To find his dream of liberty fulfilled. The Greekling there might sing of Pan new-born. And in due time would Maro’s muse awake The Epos of a later, loftier Rome. Salve Columbia! last hope of our race, Tho’ pitched in thy quaint age of gold, amid The shadows of thine Arcady, our song, With eye prophetic kens the vision bright Of that great realm, established by the fates, And now beginning its unrivalled reign Of glory as the heaven-born state of states.

The Valley of Silence.

I walk down the Valley of Silence, Down the dim, voiceless valley alone; And I hear not the sound of a footstep Save those of my God and my own. And I say to my soul each ideal That shines like a star on life’s wave, Is wrecked on the shores of the real, And sleeps like a dream in a grave. Ryan

Chap. II. ‘Mon Petit Frere’.
Or, The Lion of the South.

Like him that sans remorse or due contrition, Debased the muse and diminished his own fair fame, By at length adopting that child of perdition, Don Juan, I’m in search of some fit name Wherewith to grace a purposed composition, Possessing verse, if not the poet’s flame: For, while I can ride, I’m no peripatetic; Nor, when lean avoid it, unpoetic.
Yes, like Lord B——, a hero I desire; If a Don Juan still one of some worth; For, be it known, I really aspire Unto a proper story to give birth: Though ere unduly so my soul might tire, Might fitter seem for heaven than lovely earth, Yet while her chief mark is her recency, My muse note have regard for decency.
As doth appear, I’ve chosen as my locale, Louisiane, denoting that green waste. Of field and forest aboriginal, O’er which, with streams in gleaming silver Traced, The old Malbouchia, great and mystical, Her watery network spread, ere man displaced Thee primal wordd or round’s land; Well-pleased I’d paint the Valley of the West. Ogygian, of dark antiquity, The fields and moss-grown groves presented there; Fenced but by distant mountains, yet to me, Well-favored, is Armida’s garden fair. The earliest of its wardens, aye, ’tis he, I’d sing; in visions wild beyond compare, I’ve roved with him, and ’mong the great I’d place His name; but first, his lineage I’d trace.
As I bethink me, ’twas upon a time Far distant, nigh three centuries ago. In La Nou’elle France there blossemed in her prime A Norman maid of winsome ways, I trow, Of beauty fit to grace a poet’s rhyme: A true Evangeline, our Kate Primot: But ere her fourteenth year, fair Kate did join Her hand with that of Longuille, of Le Moyne.

Wedded, I mean, that youth of spotless name, The man of many tongues the interpreter: Of many trades withal, and of much fame. Together this, [……] A pair more promising, or free from blame, Did ne’er the sacred marriage-bond incur; And ne’er had Ville Marie, their little town. Seen marriage of more just and wide renown Our blushing Katie then straightway did show Herself a treasure, yes indeed, a trump; That witching one whose child-face charmed Primot In olden Rouen, grown now a matron plump, Upon her spouse proceeded to bestow Twelve sterling sons, each one a youth of gump- Tion and of grace, and therewithal to rear The bard a theme, of any bard’s the peer Yes, from that union hero-forms arose, Whose worth might grace a nobler song than mine: A galaxy of greatness whose fame grows With young America, for aye will shine Those names, Bienville, Iberville: aye, those. Let chroniclers with Washington’s align, The brothers twelve, of titans half a score, Thus rose gigantic on our primal shore
‘Mong then; our Iberville, with heart of gold, With jaunty chapean, curls depending low: A princely youth in courtly garb of old: Stern hero still, when compassed by the foe, When o’er the waves the battle’s thunder rolled; As we recall the war’s of long ago. We view wiih awe- ’mid terrors manifold, That gallant youth his flower-flag uphold Fain would we sing his vessel fair and tall, The good ship Pelican, so fitly named, Unscathed though shrouded by the battle’s pall, Type of our state, for strength and beauty famed. Aye, Iberville, most careful friend of all, Well might his worthy deeds be loudly acclaimed, Who, thoughtful e’er and studious of our gain, Brought to our shore the cotton and the cane.
With him appeared the hero of our song, By him termed lovingly ’Mon petit frere’. E’en by that name he assigned the youth ere long, To his lone post upon our trackless sphere. There, in savage state, he ruled and righted wrong. Or distant roved ’mong scenes of dread and fear: And when his perfect stature was attained, He vied with mighty chiefs and proally reigned.
With him appeared likewise another one, The second hero of our dual tale; Who, though he was not Katy Longville’s son, Was yet heroic as Sir Percivale; In deeds of worthiness being scarce outdone E’en by the knight that won the holy grail Him, in his turn,we honor, and with pride, But here we’d laud the brothers true and tried In that array of strong and mighty ones, The least might well suffice to grace our strain; Yet ’mong the twelve, thus rivalling Israel’s sons In number even, would we select full-fain The eighth brave form: the patriot’s love o’er-runs: Each sense to grasp the Asher of the train; The far-famed father of our commonweal. Whose sons to him are thus forever leal.
’Tis said that those Canadians of old Were of one name, were John the Baptists all: Such being the ease, we wonder not when told His closest freres and intimates would call Our hero Jean Baptiste. We’ll then be bold Upon occasions fit, as such befal, To exalt that name, to toast, as ’twere, thy health, Brave Jean, thou father of our commonwealth.
Of thee, Bienville, Jean Baptiste LeMoyne, Full panoplied in corruscating steel, The bard with ease might fine-filed phrases coin; Though to the task inadequate I feel, Some note of thee doth patriot love enjoin. Peruked and powdered, thou’rt the beau-ideal Of knightly state and courtly, Gallic grace, And pleasing quite, each feature of thy face. Ave Pater Patriæ! second to none, Save him that hurled the despot from our shore, And raised up Freedom; save but Washington; The peer of those immortals we adore; Of Oglethorpe and Penn; such was the one, Like them the sire of states, that came of yore, And, heaven-sent, with spotless flag unfurled. Drave darkness from the Garden of the World.
Shall we neglect his praise? because, forsooth, That tongue divine, in death yet scarcely stilled. With which, oftener than with the sword, in truth, He ruled his tribes, may’ve been in ours unskill’d; Or pass him by without remorse or ruth Because his freres, ere scripture was fulfilled, Or earth’s tribes blent in our community, Drubbed Washington with stern impunity,
When he the Louisianian realm essayed, Alone, and ever, in boastful train. Such sentiment mote surely be allayed. Since LaFayettes and Rochambeaus amain, Close-leagued with him, on Freedom’s field dis placed Supernal zeal. Was their devotion vain? And will America, in her advance. Disclaim, dispraise the sacred name of France? Bienville, then, of Louisianians first, I’d honor and his rising state portray: A theme as high and wildly fair, as erst Allured the bard to Arthur’s castle gay With citharistic song: albeit I durst Not, in this vein, a mighty theme essay, That worthy of an epic song sublime. Doth ill beseem the comic style of rhyme.
And yet that state, in dignity oft-times Diminished by it’s quaint environment, Seemed ludicrous as often as sublime. At such times, with precipitous descent, From the epos’ height, we fall to comic rhyme, To show, as ’twere, the hero-form unbent: We’d show the Lion, fully aroused, rampant; Also, low-lying, as ’tis said, guardant

Chap. III. Les Paladins;
Or, From Snowland to Sunland.

I and my fellows,
Are ministers of fate, the elements,
Of whom your swords are tempered, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemocked at stabs,
Kill the still closing waterss; as diminish
One dowle upon my plume. — The tempest.
In all the dream-world of the past, unmatched To fancy’s eye, even at the head and front Of memories that wake the poet’s soul, As in old times they woke the minstrel’s harp; Rode forth the steel-clad. paladins, tall plumed. Well-armed, on barbed steeds wandering afar, In lofty quest of glory and romance. Of these the noblest bore the Norman shield; And like the knightly heroes of my song; And the great nation for whose birth sublime. They oped the way, were of the northmen’s blood. The paladins we sing, last of their race; Yet worthy of their name, upon a frozen shore Made their first conquests: ice-bergs, glaciers there In hyperborian shadows dim defined, Lent nameless horror to the sea and shore. Fierce was the strife. St George’s cross unfurled In Bay d’Hudson, from Bourbon’s battlements, Glittering defied the fleur de lis of France. The battle raged and mountain-peaks of ice The din reverberated; suddenly, A moving mountain, with fierce bolts transpierced, Down-toppling like an Alpine avalanche, In mightier thunder fell. Gigantic waves Succeeding, skyward hurled the battling fleets. Unnerved, as t’were, with fear unwonted blanched The foeman paused; the appalling ruin sank: Then through the breach, thus formed, our heroes rushed; With courage fiercer still asailed the foe, And while the latter, ’neath their missiles fled. Waved the white banner o’er a vanquished shore. Thence inland far their expedition passed, Relieving scattered posts, and over all Restoring the ensign and the name of France. Plying far lakes and nameless streams, at length. They steed midway that mightiest of earthly vales That like the inner court of some great shrine Unto its structure, coextensive with A continent, stretched to the southern sea. Midway that vale, where wood and plain conjoined, They stood, at length, lords of the wide expanse. There roving, rapt, as ’twere, our paladins Saw, as I ween, amid the world of shade, A reflex of the future, saw, in thought, The impending glory of the vale of vales; And the sure advent of the state of states. There, as ’tis said, they met an Indian sage, A man of medicine, who as a friend, Approached them and in flattering terms addrest; Who assured them that the valley’s tropic coast, At the embouchure of the great Father-Stream, Was more inviting far, and on that shore A colony, so said the shining ones, Of the French race, should even then appear. To establish there the city of the south. Asked thereupon as to the shining ones, He affirmed that on the western foreland high, Whence issued the Saskatchewan and all The four great streams; and whence, with heaven-bright eyes. They saw the vale below throughout it’s course; The shining ones oft lingered: even there. On that plateau from the Inyan Karajnorth. There, ’mong the clouds, from towers table-like, And battlemented walls, heaven-built and high, They often, he affirmed, kept watch and ward; And there oft-times in mystic halls concealed, In castellated rocks, from mortal eyes; They revelled and the passing hours beguiled. Our heroes heard, incredulous somewhat, The minister of fate; and yet, ere long, They accepted the advice thus rudely given. And Jean thereafter, by that speech impelled, Made exlporations and it’s truth affirmed. Our youthful heroes thus their course pursued. They conquered, albeit fruitlessly well-nigh, Some trading-posts upon an ice-bound shore; Small guerdon offered to the conqueror there. The eldest then, their leader seemingly, Fit cheiftain, as a seraph, tall and strong; His comrades at his side, declared that shore, Though as yet unfit to enthrall their energies, Of import in the ages yet to be. &lquo;Behold,” said he, “this frowning sea and shore, ’Tis yet the threshold of a realm divine; The limit of the Valley of the West. See yon gieat stream that northward flow’s immense Midway that vale of vales it’s springs arise. Thence eastward moves a chain of inland seas; Another towards the orient westward trends; The Father of Waters rising there likewise. Flows southward to a tropic realm remote: Between which realm and this outstretched is found That vale inmensurable, la Val del Oueste, Where in future days will rise the realm of realms, To lead the nations and in times unkenned, Determinate the destiny of man.” He said, and our adventurers gazing down That mystic valley, saw across the waste, A wondrous realm, dream-visioned, passing fate. Another then, a fair-faced boy, in sooth, Albeit dubbed Sieur de Bienville, said; “Could we and our’s but quell effectually The dreaded spectra of savage life that now, Chimera-like, beset that paradise; Could we but plant a gentle people there. And guard it’s infancy ’gainst savage powders, ’Twould prove a work more glorious far, I ween, Than seeking, Nero-like, to bathe in blood. Or reign in splendor wath le Roi Soleil.” ‘Most true!” the first with, emphasis, exclaimed. ’This vale of shadows being unfruitful here, We’ll seek instead it’s summery, southern shore And this great work essay for all men’s good.” His comrades, with avidity, agreed. These, younger than the first, boyish,in sooth. No whit less comely than the chief appeared; And all arrayed in uniform snow-white, Gold-broidered, and insignia’d, I ween, With flowing curls and brighly plumed chapeaus; Appeared more fit to grace the contre-dance, Than even to dream of ordering states, much less, To affect or change the destiny of man. Yet even their foes the valorou youths admired; Esteemed them gifted with supernal powers, And vainly fronted them on hind or sea. Fully concurring thus, the kindred youths. For such were they, by affinity or blood, Their anchors raised, their spreading sails unfurled And toward the tropics, o’er a thousand leagues Of ocean-solitudes, they bent their course, And sought at length that genial, chosen clime; That green, enameled shore, Louisaine. But ere they reached their bourne, remote, newfound, A signal conflict their strange power displayed; And there, in fine, the good ship. Pelican, Of salamandrine fame and phoenix-like, Unsullied passed the dread ordeal of fire. ’Tis thus, at least, the historian asserts: ’On an autumnal day, of beauty such As Indian summer brings to America, A Gallic craft of forty guns or so. Was coasting by New England’s shore alone. Calmly she moved. ‘Twas in the last decade Of that centurial epoch, marked with blood, For Gaul and Briton were again at strife, And land-ward oft the waters were aswarm With vessels of the old Mistress of the Sea.’ Thus to a casual eye the scene unfolds. In substance thus, the chronicler proceeds: But suddenly three vessels hove in sight. Their flight sublime, with canvass wings outspread; In size dilating as they approached, ‘twas seen Each bore St. George’s bloody cross unfurled; And each, of hulk immense, excelled in guns. The undaunted object of their found pursuit; Which, calmly still, it’s easy course pursued. Then came the dread event; the attack, three-fold; With volleying thunders, blinding fire, and death. Two hours the conflict raged. At intervals. As cleared the rack, the stranger-craft appeared As with a charmed existence, bravely borne, Still pouring forth continuous broadsides, whilst Its dread commander cheered his young co-mates. The event was such as we are prone to expect When earthly with unearthly powers engage: Or vainly strike at such as those, well-termed By a mocking Ariel, ministers of fate. One giant foe; amid the storm engulfed, With blazing guns and floating banners, sank. One yielded; one disabled, yet escaped. As stated, soon they sought Louisiane. Arriving there, they explored its solitudes: Entered at length its mammoth stream whereto Their chief had pointed from the frozen zone. As there they stood, that chief, Sieur d’Iberville, Whom duty called away; his comrades urged To grasp, Alcides-like, and bravely hold Those dragon haunted, those Hesperian Fields. The unending richness of those fields portrayed: Portrayed thy matchless vale, O, Louisiane! And thy supernal state in times to come. ‘Behold,’ said he, ‘the field of your knight-service! Behold the wondrous Valley of the West! That will yet prove the Garden of the World. This is your glorious post, mes comarades: I here commit to you the choicest boon Of Providence to man; the field reserved For Truth and Liberty. Reflect, I pray. Upon the state of Europe, despot-ridden; See in our France that monument of shame Supreme, the towered Chauteau de Bastille; An eight-horned beast, horrific and hell-born, That overawes the prostrate people there. In Britain see the hideous Tower, time-stained, That held in darkness a Sir Thomas More, Whose dazzling genius seemed a torch upheld By God’s own hand to illuminate mankind. Emblems of despotism and its wonted deeds! And over all, borne on the wailing winds, Methinks I hear the martyr’s cry, and see In fancy still, that ban of this dread age, The flaming stake reared by intolerance. Know ye, my brothers, those dark powers of ill Will drive at length a race of heroes forth To attain, even here, the haven of their hopes. In his intensity he laid aside His plumed chapeau, and while the wanton wind Engaged in dalliance with his flowing curls, He gazed athwart the valley of his dreams, And prophet-like its future state portrayed: ‘Methinks I here behold the wondrous state Foreshadowed in the Atlantic mystery; Methinks I see here, boundlessly outspread. The Hesperian Gardens with their fruit of gold; Methinks I see the Demogorgon rise. The dread of kings, Ancient of Days, forsooth. That mystic leveller of blood-bought thrones. Aye, truly, I foresee the state of states That here will rise, heaven-blest and consecrate To liberty of person and of mind. This is the lost Atlantica. Watch ye, By its portals here, and aid the heavenly host. To expel its gloom, and ope its gates to man.’ Then Jean replied: ‘We accept the charge with joy: Albeit we know the service it entails Is not so splendid as that given in war, Where Fame’s loud trumpet sings heroic deeds, And soldiers rush to victory or death. As well thou know’st, the strife that waits us here Is more like that of the Indian brave assailed By the fell couger in the woodland’s depths. We essay, like him, to conquer and control The savage and, to attain that end, must heed His every movement, lest he elude the eye, And springing unawares, his fangs transfix The huntsman’s throat and leave him lifeless;aye; Such is the conquest we essay; sublime. Even as thou sayest, its final end and aim. As any waged by mortals; hazardous. As Daniel’s sojourn in the lion’s den: Yet with God’s grace, will we dispel its gloom; And ope its gates, though doubly locked and bar’d. To Bienville at length the chief assigned The warding of the great stream’s embouchure; To St. Denis, the far Sabloniere: Gave to the one the sea-side’s espionage. And to the other that of those wide plains That sea-like spread about the Aztec clime. ’Twas thus they assumed their posts; and at those posts, Would we portray our guardians true and tried; Yet wonder not if those brave paladins Be found, in furtherance of their chief’s command. On the utmost limit of the world of shade. Those paladins upon our land bestowed Its richest staples, which quaint episodes. If aptly written, would our tale adorn. Ungracious truly mote the muse be held, Did she not sing how on fair Louisiane Their hands bestowed her treasures without price, Gold-bearing plants, the cotton and the cane. Where now the Southland’s busy capital, With din unceasing stuns the rustic ear, There first our heroes sowed their field of cane. The cane there sown unfolded in due time, And neath their eyes in long-drawn series rose. There, as in emerald-waves the cane-field flowed, To their delighted eyes a prospect fair, A reflex bright of presaged beauty shone. They gazed upon those arpents fenced about With the dark cypresses’ funeral shades. Awe-stricken ’neath the beetling Father-Stream; They gazed upon that picture wood-enchased, Yet visioned, ’mid its gloom, a coast of gold, A shore of beauty worthy still of praise. Among them, unappreciative yet, The Bayougonlas’ wily chieftain stood. Whose palm-thatched lodge, wood-sheltered, occupied The soil of deepest mould on that fair shore Known later as the fabulous coast of gold. That chief of name polysyllabic stood; Albeit with dignity, and looked askant Upon the field, as thus our chief discoursed, Through M. Bienville, as the interpreter: “See, my red brother, this fair field of cane: Its bounds will yet extend and, tilled with care, Twill one day swallow up the forest trees. Then will these shores, in lieu of wilds, present A sea of living green. Thy children then. If they my wish fulfill, will bide at ease In fairer raiment than the deer-skin robe, In white-walled dwellings nobler than thy god’s, Than Choucouacha’s shrine.” The buskin’d chief, Autobiscania, incredulous, replied: “My brother dreams of things beyond belief. Never, at least, will red men, forest born, Their modes forsake, or such results attain. Thy sons may accomplish these things, but not mine. Our path is through the forest, ’neath whose shade Even Choucouacha, our great god, abides. If on this shore a capital arise, Like those beyond the seas, rock-built, ’tis said, And far excelling Indian villages As thy huge ship exceeds our war canoe; Then will the red-skin fly his native scenes, And with the roe-buck haunt the woodland still.” Autobiscania thus, with dignity. His knowledge and the red-man’s traits displayed. Those bodeful dreams were in each regard fulfill’d. Upon that littoral soon the sugar-farm. With its idyllic beauty, charmed the scene: In front the clustering cottages, white-walled, Were cinctured, haply, by the orange grove; Or oak-embowered deep as fairyland. Beyond, the billowy cane-field, widely spread, A sea of green, like that of Onan, rolled: And in its wealth and beauty lay disclosed The worthy object of our heroes’ cares, The fair result of all their toils and pains. Then at the outlet of Sabloniere, Where suns less ardent shed a milder beam, They sowed the seed of cotton, royal plant, That clothes the world throughout its tropic belt, And over all the milder temperate zone, Its comfort sheds and holds its sovereign sway. That boon they gave, and knowledge of its use; Whereat the skin-clad Houma, doubting, smiled; And said that the Great Spirit of old had given, In answer to just prayers, the native maize, Gold-tasselled and green-mantled, to supply The skin-clad huntsman with his vital need; His daily bread; and that to strive for more, Or change the forest to the treeless field. Were ’gainst the mandate of the Master of Life. At the cloth-bearing plant, so-called, he smiled; But wiser men, succeeding, from that shrub Plucked wealth and comfort in a mystic fleece More valued than the Colchian’s fabled store. The extended treatment of that plant I leave To Abu Zacaria Eben el Awam; Or some such grandly named magnifico; Who in olden time that fruitful theme pursued; Nor will I here expatiate upon The fields thick-broidering now that storied stream; The afforested Sabloniere of our song; And every other slumb’rous stream withal, From Pedee’s shore to Texan Gaudaloupe. It more comports with our appointed task To look upon them as when wood-enchased, They attracted first the love of stately knights. Glittering in mail and burnished bourganets, Whose feats comprise the burthen of our song; But most the love of that young paladin Whose deeds we sing and who was ever first To explore the wilderness, and there behold The primal beauty of its bosky streams, Its lakelets fair, and native fields and fells; Whose light biscayan, that preceded even The crafts of d’Iberville, our shores explored; Whose barge, an avant-courier likewise, Stem’d in advance the new-found Father-Stream; And who, of tastes romantic, Stanley-like, Far-wandering, our darkest dells surveyed, And with delight studied the wildest tribes.

Chapter IV. Le Baton-Rouge.
Or, A Hunting Scene in the Great Forest.

‘Around his breast a wondrous zone is rolled, Where woodland monsters grin in fretted gold. There sullen lions sternly seem to roar, The bear to growl, to foam the tusky boar; There war and havoc and destruction stood. And vengeful murder, red with human blood.’ Such the dread trophy Homer doth bestow On great Alcides for his deeds below.
Therein we observe the glories of the chase Increased the fame of demigod and king; So, to our hero, as of humbler race, A simpler token of this kind we bring: Would tell at least, and with a serious face, How he o’ercame the bear. A deed I sing, That numbered with the toils of Hercules, With them in tenor and in tone agrees.
By old Malbouchia, ’twixt the adjoining shores Of Houmas and of Bayagoulas flowed A stream once famed for piscatorial stores; Hard by whose mouth the huntsman’s offering stood; Le Baton Rouge; adorned with heads of boars. If right I read, and bears, that hideous showed A favorite hunting-ground, for such huge game, As for huge produce now, of widespread fame. There, lingering ’mong red braves, Jean roamed afar, ’Neath moss-hung forest hoary grown with years; His buskined comrades made no sound to mar The bodeful stillness fraught with nameless fears, On which anon the creaking branch did jar. Still onward moved our chief and his compeers; The bear they sought, and under thickest shades, Dared his retreat in farthest glens and glades.
The savage beast they found, and ’round his lair, Encircling, near and nearer still they drew; At last stood round the mightiest tree-trunk there, That hollow, huge, and truncate, rose to view, ’Mid shadowing branches; one that might compare With those old towers that years of blood imbrue. There Bruin crouched in dire ferocity, Yet of the foe respectful, held his tree.
At length our hero, pausing full before The cavernous opening, waited Bruin there. Meantime a native scaled the fastness hoar And seething firebrands dropped into the lair; Whereon the monster howling passed the door And bade Jean quake and for the worst prepare. Both, possibly, did he; yet if he feared, No outward show or sign of such appeared. And, in good sooth, the boy had faced the flare Of British broadsides and unfalteringly Maintained his post amid the battle’s glare; Had been, in fact, advanced for gallantry; For most prudential reasons, not from fear; His subsequent retreat from treachery, Through cane-brakes dense and darkness tangible, At wondrous speed; a score of miles per hour.
So, we conclude ’twas with stern hardihood. And not with any craven sense or thought; Our hero faced the monarch of the wood. His musket, of flint lock, availed him nought; Its single charge the woolly coat withstood. And fired the beast to fury, as I wot; Then, fearful sight! the pair stood front to front, And with light blade Jean bore the battle’s brunt.
Of fangs and talons a most dread array Our chief there saw, and at the closest range; Yet with an art whereof he seemed au fait, He warded them, or with a sudden change Of pose or posture, well sustained the fray Against a foeman forest-born and strange. At length the monster headlong plunged and fell And roaring, woke the echoes of the dell.

Chapter IV. Le Baton-Rouge. Part II
Or, The Meeting with the Daughter of the Sun.

If that the world and love were young, And truth on every shepherd’s tongue; These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. — Nymph to Shepherd.
Again I assume the bodeful Rod of Red, And wave it as a quaint augurial wand; And passing scenes of blood, revive instead Idyllic dreams and visions fair and fond; The dance of sylvans by the waters led, And hearts made gentle ’neath Love’s mystic bond. But, as a prelude fit, I’d first unfold A cherished memory of the age of gold.
Not even the Grecian artist e’er portrayed A lovelier form than Arethusa fair. Bathing in Alpheus where its waters strayed ’Neath shades of Arcady, and loitered there. Had I such art I’d paint anew that maid. As with a smile, white-robed, divinely fair, She approached the summer-stream; her sandal-shoe Deftly she loosed and on the green-bough threw The clinging drapery that but half concealed, In classic style, and half disclosed her charms. Then in the limpid waters stood revealed The beauteous nymph; yet full of fond alarms, Back-shrinking as the river-god appealed Unto her there, and when with open arms, He arose to view, unclad through sun and shade. She fled amain his ill-timed suit to evade.
’Twas where a slumb’rous Southern bayou strayed ’Mid scenes Arcadian, reclined one day A crew of such fair nymphs embowered in shade. About that scene, as native legends say, Oft roved Louisiane, a royal maid; French named, it seems; and suited to our lay. ’Twas when the adventurers first that scene approached. And on its narrow corn-fields first encroached.
Needless to say who these adventurers were; For, did not history elucidate the case, The reader, like the bard, is well aware Our hero, Jean, as usual, held first place In the expedition, whilst beside him there Was seen a taller form, of equal grace, Who, to the swollen waters reconciled. Began, like him, to love the ancient wild. The native princess, with her sylvan train Of fair ones, or bronze-hued ones, if you please, There sang until the woodlands rang again; Or wove the choral dance beneath the trees; Or ’neath the brightening sun, the streamlet sought. And sported like unkirtled naiades; Then, on the mossy bank at ease reclined. In wondrous coiffures their dank locks confined.
We often criticise the nude in art, And often ’tis but proper to do so; And with more cause must critics hurl the dart Against the nude in nature. As I trow, Not for light cause should we in aught depart From ancient custom; yet, as you may know, With bard or artist, forms of winsome grace Are sacred held and seldom out of place.
But, jokes aside, and modern modes withal, Considering ’twas the fashion of their time, Their state was not unseemly after all; And certain ’tis nor pen nor poet’s rhyme E’er showed more artless beauty since the fall. When earth donned clothing, save in torrid clime. The flowers that bloomed about them were less fair Than those wild Arethusas loitering there.
There played the sylvans still, a joyous crew, And to Jean’s wondering vision did appear The train of Diane, undisguised and true, With their bright presence honoring still the sphere. A breath of wind invidious withdrew The screen of boughs, and fluttering as with fear, The vision fleeted; yet their fond alarm Did Jean, with magic, native words, unarm.
One nymph remained. In lieu of robe, ’tis said. That one in haste assumed a serious air, And calmly, although scantily arrayed, Welcomed the white chief with nonchalance rare. He, by her hand, his earnest devoirs paid. And tokens sent unto the sovran fair. Soon in due form appeared a new Diane, As with her train came forth Louisiane.
With beaded buskin and with footstep light She advanced, dream-like, from out the forest’s gloom, And looked and moved a vision of delight. Still in her hand she bore a branch, a bloom, ’ In native woodlands plucked; broad-leaved, milk-white, The blossom bio wed and breathed a rich perfume. A mantle round her shoulder, brown and bare, Was deftly draped and drawn with modest care.
No wild rose did her loveliness outvie; Tho’ in soft legging dight, tho’ forest reared, Tho’ in broidered robe abbreviate well-nigh Unto her naked knee; I weet she appeared Much like fair Love unto Aeneas’ eye, In Maro’s song sublime; albeit she cheered The eye with beauty and did well beseem The woodland bower, this oread of our dream.
A wreath about her braided locks entwined, Unstudied, bore the semblance of a crown; And truly noble, with a blush refined, She approached the chief with modest eyes cast down. A hush of wonder and surprise combined. At her approach, stilled even the rustic clown. Our chief, with all his art and courtly grace. Received her, much impressed with her fair face.
Child of the Sun, the natives held, ’tis said, Her face approved her descent from the day; Her royal mind showed mystic power inbred; Were such the truth, deponent doth not say; Yet she approached with charms empanoplied. And saying this, I assert it in good fay. Although our knight had many a beauty seen, To her he bowed as to a fairy queen.
Then in the native language they conversed, For Jean held all their tongues at his command; She showed him then the bower and spring that erst Were their retreat, from suns of summer land. And all they did is more than poet durst Attempt to tell or raise with magic wand. Let it suffice that, full of legends, she Became at length his Schazerazerde:
Or, rather, the Egeria of his state; And often, like the famed Ausonian king, He sought her when the hour was growing late, And lingered long in mystic dallying. ’Tis not implied in what I here narrate That he did any base, unseemly thing; This did not he, we assume, as no such part Comports with such a leal and loyal heart.
Such was the opening of an episode That influenced oft our hero’s after life; The reason he against the accustomed mode Rebelled, nor openly espoused a wife; Still joyless haunting a forlorn abode, When from the wilds restrained or savage strife; A forest love his tameless heart enthralled, And this the accustomed happiness forestalled.
But not for them the earth’s supremest joy; If true, as claimed, her lineage of the sun. Or aught divine, with that heaven-favored boy It had been bliss to view his work begun, Or if poetic nymph or naiad coy That thus his love returned, ’twas fitly done; For their new world and their fond hearts were young, Nor in love, mayhap, had known a trothless tongue.

Chapter V.
Man De Fer;

Or, A Home in the Far Valley.

Where seldom man had trod the fallen leaf He bent his course, where twilight reigned sublime, O’er forests silent since the birth of Time. — Anon.
The genius high that made the wilderness The setting of his leather stocking tales, Even while his magic pencil limned the scene, Beheld with awe ‘that wild expanse of woods,’ The billowy forest far outstretched between The Father of Rivers and the Atlantic shore. In that Vast picture’ of weird solitudes. As truthfully that gifted one affirmed. The nook he embellished sank to nothingness. He moved, as ’twere, upon our dreamland’s verge, Nor saw the secret of its hidden heart; Nor kenned, I ween, the hero-forms, heaven sent, That wake our song, and in their lives sublime Fulfilled the high ideals of his dreams. Unvarnished truth o’er-goes vain fiction still, And loftier than the child of his romance, The unlettered rustic of the lengthened brand, Rises the Leather Stocking of plain truth, And of our pride, Tonti, the Iron Hand. Another time, adventurous grown, as ’twere. Our novelist portrayed the plain beyond. That westward filled the vale of Louisiane And boundless quite stretched toward the gates of day. A fitting counterpart of the eastern groves. Albeit so vast they dwarfed the woods well-nigh. In the eastern forest wide an errant Puck, That with the morning’s love had fain made sport. Or gazed on Neptune and his salt-green streams; ’And to that end had sought its eastern gate, Treading its endless vistas; had required Or boots of Wade, or Borak of Mahound. Beyond the forest lay that counterpart, The mighty plain; an ocean green and calm, With bays indented, stretched unnumbered leagues Athwart the valley to its utmost verge. That mystic valley with its continent, In length and breadth compared; each way immense. Athwart its center, ’twixt the nearest seas, Its smallest measure was a thousand leagues. “’Twas in that valley’s heart; the moon of leaves Upon the bold rock of St. Louis smiled. And filled with flowers the Illinois’ land; About that fortressed steep quaint towns arose; Piankishaws, and Weas, and Shawanese, With the Illinois, beneath its shadow dwelt. High over all, with native battlements Wood-crowned, sublime, that castled crag arose; And on its crest, embowered in sighing pines, An eagle’s nest, in sooth, the fortress stood; The river gleamed below, and on the height, Stood one whose life, as his abode sublime, Arose, and in its naked grandeur, shamed The fictive legends of the knights of old. Enraptured dreamer never yet had placed His Compeador or his Percivale In seat quite so romantic; while the muse, In singing of Rinaldo’s distant haunt, But faintly typed that which, in simple truth, Here rose midway the Atlantic realm remote And loomed amid a New World’s spectral shades. There stood the Iron Hand, of stalwart frame. Even when his garb the huntsman had beseemed Rather than errant knight; even when he roved In leathern jerkin and in legging laced. In makasin ornate, and furry cap. His bearing as true knightliness displayed. As when, at times, on gala-days, agleam In spotless regimentals laced with gold; Or when in savage wars he sallied forth Clad cap-a-pie in garb of burnished steel. Upon the rock the cannon thundering spake. A loud-voiced welcome it thus gave, As thither came, against the stream impelled, A native barge, eight-oared, and manned besides, With two lithe forms, that clad in glittering mail. And gaily plumed, brought with them as I ween, A vision of romance and chivalry. The eagle eye of him that held the rock Perceiving friends, his thunders waked and rolled. Those friends approached, as agile as robust. And up the steep with startling ease arose. Ere long o’er easy steps they approached the chief. He knew them by just fame, and hailed them there, As comrades true, each with a warm embrace. The Louisianians, such their name deserved. Thus welcomed, passed within the fortress gate. We, too, those bold, though fair-faced youths recall: Them late we observed ’mid hyperborean snows. Again upon the tropics flowery verge. And now, between those wide extremes ensconsed. Yet ever in the valley of our song. Need we narrate who those adventurers were? Or name the heroes of our dual tale? That like Ithuriel and Zephon sent To ward the matchless garden, sallied forth And shapes of gloom and forms of ill dispelled; But first beneath the valued tutelage Of Tonti lay. Within the fort they passed, And as they crossed the greensward of its court. One smiled upon them that herself had been The worthy subject of a poet’s song, Whose art had been enriched, dowered with her store Of piquant beauty and of raven curls. ’Twas Barbe Cavalier, so called of old; Madam de Tonti, then. We then must write Him of the Iron Hand, the gentle heart; And tracing thus the Leather Stocking home, Find his lone rock transformed, as ’twere, beneath The light of love, the glory of romance. Full joyfully the lady hailed them there, And Jean and Louis called them as of old; For in her youth beside the St. Laurent She knew them and their worthy families. The eagle’s nest was strongly fortified: An arpent in extent, ’twas fenced about. With earth-works on the land side; o’er the stream, Crowning the beetling rock, were palisades Connecting block houses and dwellings there; While sundry cannon in their bastioned niches. And floating high the bannered fleur de lis, O’er-looked the encircling landscape far and wide. There then appeared a smiling miniature Of our great valley with its woods and plains. Assembled there, M. Tonti in happy mood, And his fair lady pointed out the tribes In bark-built towns and corn-fields far below. Delighted all surveyed a wondrous scene Of waving woodlands and of flowing fields. The youths transported quite their joy expressed: With interest deep they observed the pioneer, The courier d’aventure, Man de Fer; With wonder heard his tales of forest-life, Of journeyings in the Valley of the West; In realms of shadow and in realms of sun, In woods and plains that he had roved and loved A century ere the English crossed it’s bounds. And decades ere the skin-clad huntsman even, Traversed the Aspalachian heights unawed And heedless plunged into the vale beyond. The Iron-Hand, even then, while yet that vale In savage wildness knew nor settlement. Nor military post except his own; Spake of it’s heart as his preferred abode. Said he: Since with the Chevalier La Salle, I, as his fond Achates, dared these wilds, A score of years have passed. Aye, since that time, I’ve lingered in this vale, alone well-nigh, Companioned often-times by savage beasts, And yet more savage men. Albeit alone, I upheld the spotless banner of our pride, And for our France claimed the wide wilderness. Yet, a lorn sentry ’mid the boundless wild, And seemingly forgot, I at length became, Oblivious of the careless world beyond, And grew to love the wilderness alone. Beheld with pleasure it’s majestic stream, It’s Father of Waters, and its inland seas: With pleasure heard Niagara’s thunders roll; And with like pleasure looked upon the expanse Of billowy forest and of boundless plain, That mark its landscapes till iit length I’ve grown; Nor French, I ween, nor Neapolitan; But deeply ingrained and truly American. My natal country boasts of scenes sublime, Audits Vesuvius vomits floods of fire; But here are glories and sublimities More strongly appealing to the patriot’s pride. Here nature’s grandeur is intensified By its adaptation to the wants of man; By association with the tribes it yields; The wondrous powers it’s fields will yet supply. Being greater, grander far than Shinar’s plain, What art or pen will paint it’s Babylon?’
‘Howe’er,’ said Jean, Europa’s narrow fields In glory excel the Babylonian’s pride: The hosts that haunt the plain of Marathon, And re-enact the viclory of the free. It’s narrow fields transmute and magnify And make it’s unpretending tumulus More glorious that the heights of Himilay’. ‘Most true,’ quoth Man de Fer, ’albeit the fact That thou, youthful American, free-born, Dost magnify the name of Liberty And thus reverest the victory of the free, Doth indie ate that here the spirit rtigns That glorified the Greek and made his clime Illustrious in the annals of all time. That spirit from these woodlands is inhaled As from the heights of Hellas in old days, And each American, even as thyself, That fact evinces and that love displays: And from that fact 1 infer with confidence That freedom here will in the end prevail; That free-born states will on this shore arise, And make the American’s a favored race, And his great realm a fair conpendium Of state-craft and the glory of all time. The Angel of liberty as thus foreshown, As by a stroke of his enchanted wand. Will make of this the Garden of the World. Beneath his influence men will here observe The waste reclaimed, Prometheus unbound, And once again behold the wondrous deeds Of the unfettered Titan of the Mind. Yon free born colonies, English in name, Virginia, Carolina, Maryland; Well-named forsooth, and that fair sister train That here revives the sister states of Greece, Foreshadow even the form of that high realm, And body forth a great Confederacy, Such as in Greece, by emulation strong. In spite of strife, outstripped the world of old. Of this I’ve dreamt and, prithee now observe, That power, by this great valley unified, Even as this mighty continent itself, Is by it’s watery network close-allied, Inseparably conjoined, that future state Will lead the nations in a march sublime. This is the Atlantica, whereof the seers, Whereof a Plato and a Bacon dreamed’. Thus spake the Iron Hand: with whom agreed, And that with emphasis, his young compeers, Our youthful heroes, though of noble rank, Thus favored human rights and prototyped Another of their race, of all beloved, Immortal as the friend of liberty. The patriot-patrician, Lafayette, While thus they spake a score of native maids Clad wildly as the nymphs of Dian came; And bearing baskets filled with fruits and flowers, Supplied the household with choice luxuries. With them the white chief’s wariors, huntsmen all, Came laden with the product of the chase; Replenishing his conimissarial store With fish and fowl and savory venison. ’Twas thus the tribes their loving friendship proved And paid just tribute to our paladin, Their strong protector ’gainst the Iroquois; Even as the kings, in need or such, bestowed Their choicest gifts upon the knights of old. Still on the rock our heroes sat absorbed, And gazed enraptured on a sea of green, A verdant wold immense, unlimited, That round them spread and, far as eye could see, O’er-lapped the circle bounding earth and heaven. They sat, as ’twere, in contemplation rapt. Haply their eyes had caught from out the expanse Prophetic visions of the realm of realms Predestined there, and dreams of days to come. Then looking o’er the vale of Louisiane, With dignity our Man de Fer exclaimed: ‘At sundry times from Reggio’s coast I’ve viewed The weird Fata Morgana; over-sea, From Francia’s shore, a spectral Corsica; But even here more wondrous visions still. Supernal visions I’ve encountered here. Yet sans help from le diable boiteau, Le chase galerie or le loup garou.’ A strange experience he told: ‘One night’, Said he, ’among the western tribes afar, Hard by the centre of this mystic realm I dreamt beside the murmuring Father-Stream. Strange portents woke me at the midnight hour Retiring I reclined on bear-skin couch, In bark-built cabin, bnt arising found, The scene had changed, and wondrously transformed, The whilom lodge a stately palace gleamed. Emerging thence my dazed sense beheld A scene more wondrous than the existing world With all it’s wealth e’er saw. Even on that shore A towered city rose outrivaling far The Paris of our pride, or ancient Rome, When at the acme of her sacred reign. Ye start, but I assert ’twas even so. Bright glowed the scene, whate’er the art that raised. Twas night, yet from a thousadd sources sprung A dazzling bnghtness rivaling the day, And on that shore moved throngs innumerable Mid structures like the fabrics of a dream. I moved among them and though much amazed I learned the apparent cause of all those things Was Liberty and Science clothed in light, And gladening earth with the Promethean flame. Continuing then in reminiscent mood. He told of wanderings romantic all As ever dreaming poetaster raised, Or wild romance, with wonder working wand; Told of his journeyings from his eyrie there Through pathless forests to the Texan plain, To learn the forumes of his friend, La Salle; And his return thence when he trod alone The wiluwood’s vistas for a thousand miles; Heroic spirit! on thy lonely course, The wild wolves howled and round thy camp-fires gleam, Shone haunting eyes and savage monsters stalked, More real than the dragons winged with fire That tried, as poets say, the knigts of old. Then to their cot returned, while skillfully His lady played the throbbing harpsichord, He of the iron-hand, the tender-heart, Sang feelingly of love and Italy; Of which famed song, a travesty remains:

Song: Love in Italy. They halted at the terrace-wall, Below the towered city lay. The valley in the moonlight’s thrall Lay drowsing in a swoon of may. As hand to hand breathed one soft word Beneath the sheltering ilex tree. They knew not of the flame that stirred. What part was love, what Italy. They knew what makes the days more bright Where Beatrice and Juliet are: A sweeter perfume in the night, A brighter star-light in the star. And more, that glowing honr did prove, Beneath the sheltering ilex tree, That Italy transfigures love, As love transfigures Italy.
His lady then retired, and Iron Hand Detailed at length the tender affaire-du-coeur, Which more than aught besides endeared to him The far St Louis of the Illinois What though the great explorer of the wold, By woes embittered, termed a neighboring post Hold of the broken heart; unto an eye Accustomed to the wilds and savage life It’s lonely rock became a blest retreat, With light transfigured ’neath the smile of love. In medias res beginning, in few words. Our hero pictured ’mid the wilderness, A rustic camp wherein reclined his love, Badoura-like beneath the wayside grove; And, as her watchful sentinel, himself, A proud though skin-clad Camaralzamau; A nd fairer than the Kingdom of the East, Than far Cipango or sunlit Cathay, The Hesperian Vale there opening to his view, And which then hailed him an its chief supreme, ’Twas when at the command of Sieur Le Salle, (Her Kinsman great), he bore her to his hold A convent-gratnate and his fiancee, In simple cap and garments nun-like plain, Her piquant beauty and her lissome grace, Approved the truthful apothegm, and showed “Beauty when unadorned, adorned the most,” That night while faithful to his watch and ward, And thereby escaping an insidious foe, He indulged in dreams of blissful days to come. Which even the Iroquois could scarce dispel. He quelled their braves rejoicing since at once, He saved her and his ardent suit assured. That night, blissful, although the war-whoop rang, Her full assent he gained to her uncle’s choice. But twice before had he that mademoiselle Encountered, but each time so circumstanced That their fond hearts were mutually enthralled And glowing ‘spake in moments more than years;’ Attracted by iheir mutual fellowship With Sieur La Salle, each fondly loved the friend Of that dear comrade then forlorn and lost. His eye failed not their mutual love to observe, And thoughtful of their happiness, his word Consigning her to his protecting care, Their bliss secured even at the doleful hour When murder with red hand his conquest checked And slew him by the distant Trinity. Which sad event to them as yet unknown, The ensuing morn, supreme in loveliness, Was eke thrice lovely to their raptured gaze, And each delighted saw new beauties there And that new world an orb of love approved; As rose the sun their line of batteaux brave Moved down the forest river to their goal,
October, in the valley of the West, October of mild nights and mellow days, Of gold-green woods, and happy autumn fields;’ Such was the time, so Man de Fer affirmed. Such was the bright occasion unforgot, When he thus led his willnig Barbe home. To her it seemed a fair enchanted land; Gladly she watched it’s populous beauty unfold While lodge-smoke every-where arose, and he, Her loving escort, pointed out the towns; The Illinois northwest of the Rock, A city of lodges high with oval crests; Showed where Piankishaws and Weas sojourned, And where, back of the Rock, the Shawaneese; And told how many thousands there abode In his well-favored principality. The Indian women by the river-side Forsook their labors in the plats of maize To greet, the white chief, or perchance to hail In his triumphal crew some warrior brave Returning with him seathless from the field. Each inmate came from the French settlement Lying opposite and round the guardian Rock, To greet them: while o’erhead the cannon boomed; They ascended the tall cliff mid trailing ferns And beetling rocks with difficulty at first, And then o’er wide and water-terraced steps; Like those of some high temple, reached the crest. There sans delay, they exchanged their marriage vows, The occasion of much joy: unduly hastened By the Abbe Cavalier her guardian then, And who would fain depart for la belle France, That self same eve the rite was solemnized. And, as I ween, not even the gorgeous court Of the famed sun-king held as worthy a pair, A knight as stately or a dame as fair, As those that plighted thus their sacred faith. A noble figure truly that famed chief In snow white regimentals laced with gold; A fitting bridegroom for a fair consort. That glistening glowed in robss of gold brocade. Thus, in effect, yet modestly our knight That fair romance portrayed. His young compeers. Delighted heard, and commendations heaped On one far-famed alike in love and war. These now, and likewise that brave host arrayed Each in gay uniform with sword and plume, Sat on that height a glitering coterie, Worthy officials of the Sun-king, aye, And fitting minuters of destiny. While there they sat upon them suddenly That one of whom they spake resplendant came Fair as the enchantress of a poet’s dream — Delightful hostess, jovial, debonair, With her she brought perforce a youthful train Of buskined huntsmen and of maidens fair And dream-like; brought a famed musician too. Attuning well his sighing flageolet; Then with a wand of magic seeminly Even from the purleins of her sylvan seat, She raised a pair of Gallic protogees, That to the souls of her brave guests appealed With eyes star-bright, and locks of midnight hue. Gentle albeit imperious still she arrayed The enchanted figures of the mazy dance, And as the stars came forth and shadows veiled The world below, beneath the flam-beaus glore, And Luna’s beam, they danced the minuet, The blythe gavotte, and the farandole.

Chapter VI.
Louisiane et le Fête;

or, A Tryst with the Mystic Maiden.

While thus they danced upon the beetling rock A form, till then unseen, caught Jean’s quick eye; And, in good sooth, it gave him quite a shock: He saw the Daughter of the Sun pass by. Was it a vision sent his soul to mock? Or form angelic from the realm on high? No truly, albeit thrilling was the glance She cast on Jean, who straightway ceased to dance; Who then, imbued with wild Canadian lore, And wondering at the maiden’s advent there, Looked for the aerial canoe ashore Which must, he thought, have borne her through the air; But seeing none and satisfied once more Of his full consciousness, he sought this fair, Albein native maid of high degree, Who moved, as twere, in magic mystery. He found her in Madam de Tonti’s cot. Even she observed, with pleasure undisguised, The beauteous forester, and even forgot Fashion’s last mandate that had emphasized The wildness of a beauty cumbered not With trailing vestments, yet, as she surmised, Unequaled in her flower-broidered robe, And eke superior to vain fashion’s code.
Needless to explain the maiden’s presence there. By means unnatural, or otherwise; So I briefly affirm Jean found the maiden fair: And Barbe kenned love in their mutual eyes, And therewithal the reason this famed pair Together drew enforced by tender ties; And why each widely strayed athwart that vale, May haply appear in progress of our tale.
Suffice it now to say Jean duly installed, A warden of the val d’occident, By order of the Sun-King was thus called To thread the waste and, though on duty bent. He roved, I dare say, with a heart enthralled Along the way the Indian maiden went; And she, the offspring of the King of Day, On a like mission sent, had taken her way:

Yet, as it chanced apparently, they met. Her coming answered a good purpose too, For Jean in native gallantry, had set. Two hearts awry since he attentive grew Unto the adored one of an amoret; And fair ones there being few, the latter seemed O’er cast with gloom and Jean’s intents misdeemed.
Pleasant relations thus were somewhat strained; Besides the gay gavotte was incomplete Until the youth St Denys had attained The end desired and caused some mirth, I weet, By dancing long with gravity well-feigned, With a dark crone in lieu of maiden meet. But rapture reigned, and beauteous romance When Jean with Louisiane rejoined the dance.

And she, the heroine of our wildwood tale, Even in that noble group was easily The cynosure of all; my pen doth fail To paint the native grace and witchery That did even there the gloss of fashion pale And reign supreme in spite of her decree. Jean looked upon her rustic woodland mode. Delightedly and smiled at fashion’s code.
Even so did all the joyous company; In truth, I ween , the modes Parisienne, Were foreign to le roche de St Louis. The Wild Rose of the Deer-slayer when In her sweet prime and maiden purity Was scarce so wildly beautiful I ken, As Louisiane, when with her footstep light She joined the dance, and chased away the night.
Infatuate, our Jean beside her danced And secretly revolved a daring scheme, To break, whene’er the fit occasion chanced, From custom’s away realize his dream Of Arcady by Cupid’s smile enhanced: A poet’s vision did before him gleam. To attain which eurd, he secretly rolved To wed; one day, whate’er the cost involved
The fair Louisiane, and while his time, In realms of spring beside the Father Stream Resolved upon the person and the clime, If not that, he shocked her, as I deem, By hinting broadly at his scheme sublime, And begged an interview that would beseem; Serious discussion a theme so fair As that which thus engaged our happy pair
Albeit shocked, her wits she yet retained, And, loving well our Jean, agreed straightway To greet him soon alone and unconstrained. Since I, said she,cannot protract my stay, If the pretensions are indeed unfeigned, Meet me tomorrow with the wakening day, By M. Tomi’s tent: where the bold rock is sheer, And overlooks the landscape far and near.
Night passed away, and morn at length appeared. Our lovers, even as lovers always are, Were promptly on the spot ordained. All weird And beautiful beneath the morning star, The landscape spread beneath and by it cheered They watched the sun rise o’er the hills afar, The river that as liquid silver rolled. And wood and plain burnished with glittering gold.
Then on a verdant bank the maid reclined And pointing south-ward with a flowery spray; ‘Monsieur’, said she, ‘the hope of humankind Lies at our feet outstretched; dreams may display This vale in its full measure as designed By Providence to meet the coming day,’ Jean, at such lore and learning seemed surprized. Since hitherto her wisdom was disguised.
And she, observing this, essayed to explain By saying that the children of the sun, Her fathers, came from o’er the distant main; Were of superior race, and haply won Supreme dominion o’er the wood and plain By art and knowledge, and when this was done, They strove, though vainly, to extend the light Of science o’er the realm of moral night.
Jean seeing thus that she was qualified To share his visions of the future days, And to attain them, haply, labor at his side: Enjoyed with her a prospect of the maze Of times to come, and viewed the woodlands wide Coleur de rose, beneath the bright‘ning rays Of an impending glory yet unseen, As well as neath the morning’s glittering sheen.
Thus occupied he even forgot awhile The tender subject that had drawn them there. To this he at length recurred, and with a smile. He said as much to his Egeria fair. A blush of course resulted; free from guile, They did, in short; what any youthful pair Under conditions similar might do: They dreamed in rapture while the moments flew.
With woman’s intnition she perceived That he cared not to take the step designed At once or rashly, and with that releived His tension on that score, and eke declined To wed until from savagery retrieved By instruction, or in some degree refined; And so a teacher was provided. Then, With a sweet kiss they vowed to meet again.
A ramble in our earth-old woods will recall the past and furnish an agreeable diversion.

The Forest Primeval.

Our groves primeval, such as formed, tis said, The worthy coronal of nature’s god, Of ancient Pan, though much despoiled survive. Beneath their shade, in deep luxuriance, The ferns broad-branching clothe the pristine scene, While hills and dells are carpeted oft-times, And tesselate with flowers of brilliant hue.
There lone, yet bright as the tall pines are dark, The helianthus glows, and in green courts And leafy vistas sways the golden-rod. And where, midway the groves, some native court; Some green savanna with it’s tangled bowers; Denotes a spot where dwelt the forester In days gone by; there oft the haw-thorn blooms, And thickly clustering groups of paradise And red acacias flowering induce A reminiscence of the by-gone days. But note with us the wood-lands green and old. Tall forms are whispering o’er us, sombre pines, In shadowy clusters rising, or enranked And seriate, like martial hosts arrayed. Impressive are these ever-murmuring groves. Majestic rise their royal canopies, Their green arcades, by forest-kings upborne On widespread arms and interlacing boughs; While far above their towering crests outspread, Warding the day-beam mount these summer-skies. Albeit no worshippers remain, yet here, As ’neath some temple’s arch mysterious. Doth awe prevail, and mirth seem mockery: As reverent all, as rife with tones divine, As palms of Delos, as Dodona’s shrine.
Enrapt, inspired, we tread these verdant scenes, These gloves druidic and oracular Adown the green ijlopes to the river-side. There live-oaks mount broad-spreading, zephyr-fan’d. Giants of broadest shadow, ever rift, With choirs ecstatic in their sunless shades. There, moated by the lily-bordered stream. And rife with music as the bower of love, The starred magnolia blooms, the forest’s pride, That charms the sylvan scene, and bears aloft, Mid gleaming bells, its flowery campanile.
Above the fan-palms of that wooded strand, Grey cypresses, with boughs low-whispering. Archaic scenes revive. Ogygian shapes! In ordered colonnades their glistening trunks Beset that ancient shore; along those aisles, Dim-foliaged branches cast adumbral shades. And soune’s aeolian, deep as hymns of praise. E’en these in mystic loveliness arise; Or else with giant trunks and gnarled arms. Bearded with moss, the sylvan monarchs seem Coeval with the Odyssean groves, Whose murmur but increased the loneliness That on the Atlantic Isle of Silence reigned; Or ancient as the forest undecayed, That shades the garden of the Aztec King, Dim-boughed, unchanged, since Montezuma’s day.
E’en since the Gaul upon yon river-side Placed first his old-world cottage, now antique, Broad-branching forms have risen; tall pecans With hugest shadows have o’er-cast the fields, Yet seem of yesterday by these grey wolds. Weird feelings in such solemn shades arise. Encompassed by such, fair, primeval scenes, And listening to such deep, pandean sounds, The callous breast and hardened heart may stir. These gigantean, mummuring woods of ours Dim thespic shades and scenery afford, And solemn beauty; and the summer-land Their lengthened shadows fill, such deeds have known As move and harrow the distempered bard, And eke for rhymes and tragic artists call. And dreams of love withal, beauteous and fair. Have cast new light upon the bloom-girt bowers Broidering Sabloniere and the Father Stream; And in old time, e’re yet romance had flown, Emparadised the bosky woodlands wide. But in these shades no forms of ill appear And here each sense that brooding spirit notes Whose presence o’er the sacred altar reigns, Whose awe the dim cathedral aisle pervades. Father Supreme! Thy mystic hand disposed “The beams and arche? of the cloistered groves,” And ’neath these lofty boughs, with verdant aisles, With colonnades, and stately peristyles, Upreared a fane outshining love-wrought Taj; The morisk shrine of Cordova, grove-like; Or fair Florentia’s pride, all lilly-white And virgin-pure, La Maria del Fior. To far off climes the vagrant muse yet tends, To paint strange alien forms, or reproduce Dark scenes of frozen or of desert zones. In realms of orient day fain would she rove “Where Poestum’s rose and Persia’s lilac bloom.” Fair eastern groves of shady tamarinds And torrid palms, sheltering milk-white kiosk, And mausoleam rare, may well awake Our dreaniing phantasy; the Academe, Or Dodonean grove of sacred oaks That over-shadowed with their moss-clad boughs Old shrines of Zeus, our raptured thoughts engage: Yet those far scenes and reliquaries hoar, Nor secrets yield, nor yet in grandeur high. These storied groves and haunted wilds exceed. Aye, wondrous scenes here wake the poet’s lyre; The realm of Kronos doth the muse engage, And while her potent art the life unfolds That erst within a world of shade transpired In the green woodland’s depths will be revealed Saturnian visions aod an age of gold, Where, peaceful tribes, amid fair sylvan scenes. Through changeless years, pursued romantic lives. Far Western-Ind! thy shadowy past unfolds, Weird spectacles, with kingdoms antequate, The native product of the soil forsooth, Autochthonous, as were the Attic bards ’Mong their blue waters and purpureal hills. No evil sprites are here, enchained or free; Sad Ariels or Sycoracirin shapes; Nor might the potency of magic wands The latent forces of these airs control; Nor Merlin, deeply-versed in darkened ways Nor Manito, nor Coyocop-techou, E’er raise or still the tempests that o’er-bear These forest kings, and these fair skies deform. And sylvans strange, and hamadryades, In our deep-wooded ways, and russet verse. Far out place may seem; weird foreigners. E’en as Titania with elfin train In courts Thesean. or as Puck afar. In Attic ways and classic shades astray. Through centuries past this scene hath been the same; Since even the least of these guarled forms looked on The Iberian arms and burnished coats of steel, When the lorn Soto, beneath our woodlands led His, roving legions through a new-fonnd world. A verdant scene! well might the muses haunt Such relics of the fair, primeval sphere: Ensconced in such gray groves, well might they sing, Like us, of those grim shades, deep-bowered, earth-old; That rising here, made ours a kingdom fit For scytlie-armed Saturn and his reign of gold. Well might they sing, or inspire the bard to sing The knightly heroes that these shades defied, And planted here the seeds of ordered life.

Chap. VII. L’Alabama or,
The Land of Rest.

How use doth breed a habit in a man: This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. Two Gents, Verona.
Low breathed the winds, nor stirred the green expanse Of primal woodland, scarce a sound was heard, As down an aisle with verdant boughs overhung, A line of warriors ochred, hideous, And well portraying carnage, death, and fate, All silently in shadowy series filed. Upon the war-path bent swiftly they moved, ’Mong them supreme in cap and vest of steel, And time-staintd roquelaur, with eagle eye, A youthful captain moved commandingly. They passed. Anon, treacling their footsteps came, As silently brave Gauls and bands of Swiss. ’Mong whom conspicuous in his gaib of steel A tall-plumed cavalier moved silent on. Well-mounted and of veteran aspect he, A captain famed, attracting every eye, Each woodsman, friend or foe, with awe beheld Tonti, the Iron-Hand. A southron-born, His features swart bespake the olive-grove, His eye the summer-nights of Italy. With watchful care he moved. An equal then In rank and scarcely less in prowess came, Sieur de Bienville, hero of our song, Called often-tunes “the Lion of the South.” Though slight of frame and mild of mien, A king ’mong men, a chief of high renown, That sage in council every warrior ai last Followed with due regard, and gladly obeyed, As by the magic of his word o’er-swayed. Lightly he sat his steed, and ‘neath his cloak Was seen anon a coat of polished mail There glittering with its laminated steel. Upon his head the morion’s open helm, Protecting left his features unconcealed. And showed a clear-cut face of classic mould; And fitly-arrayed, the burnished burganet. Was crested with a fair and flowing plume. ’Twas the installation of the youthful chief In place of note; in such brave form appeared The guardian of the Valley of the West, In due succession to the Iron Hand. The latter for a score of years alone, Watched at that post; the aspiring youth indeed Through varying scenes, for an epoch twice as great. Onward amain through shadowland they passed. On fields emerged, and o’er savannas green Their spotless banner waved its fleur-de-lis. In vain the forest river in their way, Its folds of glittering brightness interposed, Or sought to impede the march: o’er it they passed. And ’neath the compass’ guidance north-ward poured, ’Twas the Alabamons’ war. With treachery foul They forced the Gaul to invade their hunting-grounds; With promised acts of friendliness allured The unsuspeccing stranger to their fields; Allured the needy to their fields of maize And with uplifted axe, turned on them there. Two fell o’er-powered, but one escaped; Into the wilds escaped and still pursued, With rosin of the pine-tree staunched his wounds, Yet slackening not his pace, in time he appeared, Tottering with loss of blood before his chief. Being thus impelled, the Louisianian rose, Howe’er opposed to strife, to avenge that wrong; To acquire at least those needed fields of maize, And if occasion chanced, their scalps likewise. On open fields emerging, less constrained, Yet cautious still, journeyed that armed array. Together then the mounted chieftains rode. And to the youthful veteran St Denis Gave the ordering of their march; Bienville still Conversing gladly with his honored guest. Silent ere long and in long file once more They moved again beneath overshadowing wild. With nightfall came the attack, well-planned and fierce, And shouts and warcries pandemonian rose; Albeit invulnerable and shadow-like, The savage foe in darknness disappeared, And after sacking empty cots and cornfields sere, The invader, well-nigh unavenged, withdrew. Then, to the occasion equal, Jean arose, And from it’s lair called forth a Nemesis That spectre-like stalked forth upon the foe. With tongue well-versed in every rustic speech, And far surpassing the Indian even in guile: He raised against the hostiles death-still bands That like the plague unseen their numbers thinned. As Æolus ruled the winds, our here swayed The tameless tribes: as with a magic wand He stilled their fury, yet that mystic rod, Of true caducean power, often hurled Blood-reeking braves against demonian foes, And quelled the savage with his brother’s axe. Our heroes, on that expedition, pased To the utmost limit of the shadowland So fairly named; passed east and north beyond The Alabama’s tributary vale; And from the summit of a towering peak, Viewed once again the valley of our song; The ocean seemingly whereto, as ’twere, The former appeared an inlet or an arm. Beneath them rolled the sparkling Tennesee And northward stretched the vale immensurable, That through the field-glass viewed, appeared a maze Of glittering streams and verdant woods and fields. There standing the elder paladin exclaimed: “Dost realize that in this mighty vale The whole of Europe, with it’s half a score Of potent kingdoms might extended lie; And that, one day, o’er-flowing with life and light. ’Twill boast of glories hitherto unknown, And beauties unimagined yet by man?” “Most true,” said Jean, “’tis even so, I ken. Unto a point whereon, one day, I stood, By Bay d’Hudson, ’tis twice a thousand miles; And thence far onward the great vale extends: And were this glass to the earth’s convexity Adapted, we might from this height behold That far-off shore, or toward the north-west view, At equal distance, the great foreland where The mountains in wide terraces descend Into the central plain, and form, as ’twere, A rounded dais, with steps successive from The vale below to mountain realms above; Where walls titanic, castled rocks anc towers, Give evidence that higher powers there, Were wont to congregate, and from those heights Or view from far the world-wide vale below. Or like the angels of the patriarch’s dream, Mount or descend at will the mystic sair. ’Tis so, at least, the native legends say. ’Tis further said that guarding on each hand That mighty gateway, are hills that, bastion-like, Shoot outward from the mountain-wall beyond: And that, immoating each of these high holds. On rock-strewn bed, once rolled a lake of fire. Then Iron-Hand: “Dark mysteries haunt this vale: Upon yon mountain-side are found the tracks Of six-toed giants and their mammoth steed: And this great vale, and that wide mountain-stair Whereof you speak, may’ve seen the giant’s war While on those heights mayhap an Eden bloomed, And in this valley of our love and pride Lay God’s great garden, half a hoary wood, And half an endless plain; that eastward spread From Eden’s wall, was watered by the stream, Four-fold, full-fed, devolving from her bowers.” Then Jean, who from the Egeria of the woods Their legends learned: “The natives say besides That higher powers will guard the vale of vales, And hence repel the intruder, till the day Of Freedom dawns; an era which even now Is drawing nigh; but on the advent fair Of that auspicious day, the mystic vale Will be the seat of that unfettered mind, Of ihai unshackled freeman yet to be, Prefigured as Prometheus Unbound. ’Tis so I rend the natives’ speaking bark That tells their lore. That freeman, heaven-sent, Will haply be not of my race, nor thine, Nor of the Briton’s blood; but all of these Will in his nature blend. ’Though, as I ween, Grim revolution will precede his hirth, I’d strive to open in the wilderness A pathway foi his feet, and curb and tame The savage race that doth beset his way,” Then Iron-Hand, and with a look inspired: “’Tis as thou say’st, and yet unwittingly Dost thou, even thon, fulfill the will of fate And with a wall of fire and clouds of gloom Repel even now, him that, ere many years, Refined by revolution, will become The Unbound Prometheus, and the fitting lord Of this, the last and best retreat of man.” To the rude fort returned, the encamped again Within its barricade, where Immobile, Clustering hard by, appeared a pictured page Of some poetic tale wherein was shown Some sunny dreamland or some world long-gone. Alas! upon that shore a conqueror came, A foe unseen, against whose dread advance, The sword amd buckler were of no avail; The insidious fever: even Iron-Hand Inhaled it’s venom and at last succombed: Upon his conch, undaunted still, reclincd, And for the north-wind of the Illinois sighed. Despite his sufferings and the poignant grief That lately oppressed his spirit there, he turned Unto the scene of his wild life and Iove; The far St Louis of the Illinois, And the lone grave beneath that height, wherein The mortal part of Madam Tonti lay. While Jean still faithful at his side remained, He raved, as ’twere, and called upon the name To him most dear; with her he trod in thought The Illinois’ land, the shore where then he lay: At length, as gazing on a fairer realm, The knight edclaimed, exclaimed with emphasis: “This is the Alabama verily; This is the land of rest; of ah most fair.” Undaunted thus, the Iron-Hand, expired.

Chap. VIII. L’Insurrection;
or, The Petticoat-Rebellion.

Lion-Guardant, our somewhat gutteral theme, May sound as if the said Lion should growl; An that be so, it doth the more beseem Our land of shadows when the were-wolf’s howl Rose nightly still, and with the couger’s scream, Awoke the maniac laughter of the owl. The theme bespeaks our hero undismayed, The lion-guardian of the realm of shade.
We observe him now as in Mauvilla’s town; A bark-thatched village of the pristine style. There for a time he ruled and won renown, Essayed the simple natives to beguile; Labored to keep dark-browed sedition down; Or oft divided tribes to reconcile: O‘er many a mighty council there presided. And many a tribal difference decided.
But prithee reccollect our sentinel, Our Louisianian was at first in fact A stripling youth, a forester withal, So if historians find that he then lacked In state-craft, played the enfans terrible, And at the stake, the sullen warriors racked; We answer simply, it had been a wonder. If he so circumstanced had failed to blunder.
But Jean’s worst trials in those youthful days Came with the petticoat rebellion; aye, This tried him sorely, each historian says, And all agree that it upset well-nigh, His lilliputian kingdom. ’Gainst the maize, Or so at least tis said, with hue and cry The dames arose, and vowed by cock and pie Such fare could ne’er their palates gratify;
Their cultured tastes. Aye, ’twas no vain desire, No baseless grievance, bade them emulate Our female-suffragist; our lady dire. Imperious grown from ruling o’er her mate, And all insatiate that would not aspire To rule or ruin the devoted state; The creole fought never for such non-sense But, on dit, o’er her pantry and its contents.
The movement a portentous one became Though a fiasco, still a thing of note, A fierce sedition, though its common name Be borrowed from the blameless petticoat. An article of dress whose end and aim Are laudable and innocent I wot; The womens’ war; so much the name denotes, ’Twas grim rebellion though in petticoats.
That statement haply should be qualified: The fact, of course no classic writer notes, Yet from the circumstances ’tis implied And probable, they had no petticoats. Which grievance with the lesser one described Made their cause irksome as the ‘sans culottes’; It must have been unwonted destitution That caused the fair to rise in revolution.
The unmarried ladies too in secret nursed Another grievance gainst the governor. This they regarded, though of course the durst Not mention such as cause for open war. As we have proudly written from the first He loved none save his mystic monitor. Who yet remained unworthy in their eyes To attain, o’er them, so notable a prize.
The unhappy ladies their tear-stained appeal Presented, at Jean’s sylvan capital. Oft-called in mockery ‘Ville de Immobile,’ A town of huts rude-built and comical To them Jean’s eulogy, pronounced with zeal, Of heaven-sent maize, seemed false and farcical; Though, as oft beset by famine as by strife, ‘Twas then, in truth, our nation’s staff of life.
What e’er the secret cause, beneath the moon Of black-berries the direful climax came, When fruit-filled baskets, the unrivalled boon Of summer-fields, into the village came; And yet nor pie, nor pasty, morn or noon; The house-wives wroth proceeded first to blame Their recreant lords who with no good intent Set them in turn against the government.
The bonneted insurgents early gained The fair Parisiennes but lately sent To cheer the foresters; these too disdained Their humble fare and swelled the discontent. And so at length well organized and trained With broomsticks all, they sought that government; And as our Jean sat in the chair of state, His post became too dread to contemplate,
Or dwell upon at length, so we but strive To summarize the happenings of that day. Tis said that Jean, approaching twenty-five, A comely bachelor, held thus at bay. With forced, yet forceful smiles,did long contrive, Despite the loss of some false locks, they say, A rent surtour, and badly battered nose, To ameliorate and thus withstand his foes.
The youthful governor their vengeful ire Awhile sustained. Among his milder feet, Among the dark-eyed maidens of the Loire, Some seemed to pity the commandant’s woes; But some maids de correction, dark and dire, Still clutched at his thinned locks, and with stern blows And brandished conchac blades, showed then and there.
The savages penchant to acquire his hair: His scalp in truth. Their object he discerned, And saw ’twas scarce a time for smiling mirth; He grew more serious, then became concerned. Though oft beset by temptest, flood and dearth. The head of the fair state, as he then learned, Was ne’er in greater danger from its birth. To elude their grasp and gain a post withal From which to arraign them and their hearts recall,
High on a casque he nimbly sprang and stood, While angered dames and threatening broomsticks round, More dangerous seemed than any storm or flood That ever burst on that devoted ground. While wrathful tones and vengeful cries for blood, Re-echoed and alarmed the village round. Though a lofty post, but few had cared to grace. At that fell moment, the commandant’s place.
A warrior of note and-for his valor famed, His nom de guerre, le Lion de la Sud, Held thus at bay, our king of beasts untamed, The lion rampant and the man of blood, Seemed powerless as one less grandly named. He stood and smiled upon the threatening flood Nor yet essayed, with his accustomed arts To quell the tumult; or regain their hearts.
Meantime a gentler fair one stood apart, And knowing will our Jean’s ability To quell the tumult; knowing well his art; She indulged mayhap in some hilarity: Albeit, as I ween, her tender heart Approved no such ungentle methods. She, As stated, stood apart, and in her mien And manner showed tlie bearing of a queen.
Knowing, mayhap, the causes of complaint, She deemed them vain, for being forest-reared, Accustomed to the maize and vestments quaint. The pasty and the petticoat appeared To her superfluous and of merit faint. And so, as stated, nothing serious feared. I wot she enjoyed Sieur Jean’s embarrassment And deemed the affair a cause for merriment.
Albeit so great the trials of his place, So wrathful and relentless his fair foes, ‘Tis hard to say how Jean escaped disgrace, Discomfiture, and even lethal blows From brawny arms; ‘twas truly a sad case; Yet to the occasion equal he arose, As with magic wand the storm he quelled, And wondrously the infant state upheld.
He paid them first some truthful compliments For strength and will acting thus perforce; He next invoked their lofty sentiments Until the dames relaxed at his discourse; And he saw through their rent liabiliments Their casus belli and the dernier resources ‘Tis so at least the poet doth surmise; And with the event the hypothesis complies.
Oblivious then of rage and violence. He led them to old Louis’ royal store, And acting tliere with plainest common-sense. Hurled forth the kind’s official from the door. And without value paid or recompense. He purchased peace with webs and wares galore; And ’mong the sundries given each, I wot. There gleamed a brightly emblazoned petticoat.
The lack of which had been, as I surmise, The real casus-belli of the strife. The simple want of cereal supplies Had scarce disturbed the tenor of their life, And Jean had noted with discerning eyes Such times had come with monstrous evils rife, When governments, perforce, relax their sway, And monarchs wise the populace obey.
After this rare ensample of his skill In quelling tumults; in affairs of state; After ths triumph o’er the women’s will, By yeilding to it: ’tis net strange that fate, Even frowning fate, did in the end fulfill His mandate, and his glory consummate; For in spite of fate, this Romulus of our homes Built up his empire grander far than Rome’s.

Chap. IX. Rosalie.
or, The Natchez’ Hate.

On Susquehanna’s banks, fair Wyoming, Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall, And roofless homes, a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall: Yet thou wert once the loveliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore, Gertrude of Wyoming.
Fair Rosalie! through cloud-rifts of the past Are seen the epochs of thy history; In number only two; thy birth, thy death; Brief tale! a legend such as blazons oft The tablet of a half-forgot ten grave. I’d here recount thy sad, tempestuous birth; And afterwards thy fate portray, amid The storms that followed our good knight’s recall, The Natchez raised the war-whoop. Stealthily, They slew the unwary Frenchmen, whose lifeblood Thus early stained that high, ill-omened shore Where sprung our village, fair and nobly named, Our Rosalie. Thither was sent our knight By his enemy, at that sad time, his chief: Sent thither, and with less than three-score blades ’Gainst a fierce nation sundry thousand strong; A youthful David ’gainst Goliath hurled. But even so circumstanced, ere many days That nation stood aghast. The stern white chief, Invited now to arms, and now to truce, With warriors reeking from the ambuscade, Evinced at once, and justly, as I ween, A cunning deadlier than the red-man’s own, And in his grasp retained as hostages Their chieftains, of the lineage of the sun. In whom concentering reigned their destiny. Aghast the nation stood; in dread and fear. The captives quaked; at length as suppliants prone, They approached the white chief, offering pipes of peace, And round him thronged with friendly seeming smiles; But he their treachery and their hearts discerned, And still disdained the pipe; at length he arose And while they heard in mock humility, He unfolded their most treacherous, as they deemed, Most deeply-hidden crimes. Continued he: ‘Your lives are safe, because your hands show not The stain of blood; but those, the murderers, That by your tolerance have performed those crimes To uncover which I come, not even their scalps Can still my rage. Before I accept the pipe Or on your shore erect my intented seat, Bring forth the murderers’ heads; their very heads: That I may know the real traitors died: Do this at once, and at your peril fail. You know my influence ‘mong the nations round. You know full well if I a finger raise Against you, or a single war-whoop give; The Father of Rivers will not fail to hear, Nor fail to bear the echo up and down To his tributaries; even the woods themselves Will hear me; will prick up their leafy ears; From the big salt lake, from the Mexique Gulf, To those fresh-water lakes that northward lie; Will hear, and raising their great voices high, As when encountenng the wild hurricane. Will summon forth the children of the forest From every quarter of the horizon round. And crush you with their over-whelming powers. You know I do not boast; that our allies. The fed men round, will gladly fall upon you And raze with fire those beauteous villages In which you pride; and will do so besides, Without the risk of any French-man’s life. “‘Measure for measure’, is our changeless law: ‘Blood will have blood’, nor do I yet believe That you refuse to abide the accustomed rule. That there is danger in its slightest breach And peace and safety in respecting it, You know full well. But time moves on apace. And your white brother waits for your reply”. The chiefs on due consideration then, By fear impelled and not by friendliness: “The voice of the Great Spirit bids us speak. And grant our brother that which he requires.” They spake with heads low-hung, and in their eyes Gleamed hate o’er-awed, not love or friendship’s flame. Thus then was sealed that act of dread import, More gory even than Shylock’s bitter bond, And like it calling for a price of blood: Thus all unwillingly, albeit with gore, They purchased peace and with it, Rosalie. The fearful mandate to the native town The messenger conveyed. On the fourth day, That plumed and tuniced warrior came again; And through the camp thz votive heads conveyed. A forest Perseus and gorgon-like The trophies he displayed; pale visages, Deep-stained and reeking with their clotted gore. The white chief held one pallid face aside. “‘Tis not the face of Oyelape,” said he; “Of him ye call the chief of the White Clay, But of the innocent that died for him.” When the Indian messenger approached the town He passed the while clay’s dwelling where it stood Hard by the village-gate. To a kinsman there Of Oyelape told the latter’s doom. Soon ’mong the braves beneath their council-tree Transpired a scene of fear. A warrior rose To excite his tribe to dire extremities Ere yield the sachem’s life; that honored one, Who from the day his hallowed lineage drew, Whose sacred form their tribe had even borne In proud processions lauding still his fame. The warrior’s tones of wrath about the throng Of suns and village-chiefs re-echoed still, When in their midst appeared a villager Unmarked by rank or fame, a hero still Whose like even loftier states may seek in vain. The hero ready at the call of love To smile on fate, to die for his fellow-man; In heaven-bright realms shall quaff his mead of praise; And that rude savage deep attention claimed Agreeing thus to meet a cruel fate And save a chief beloved whose wisdom ruled The council and their forest-state preserved. Himself, unskilled in war, or counsels high, Awhile their tribe might lose; in fairer fields He yet should reap the compensation due And gain high honors for unselfish deeds. Thus spake the brave, the chiefs were silent all. ’Twas Oyelape’s brother, that unknown to him Thus sought to shield that noble warrior’s life. In that admiring throng no voice was heard His will to oppose, and when his form reclined Upon the block of death reluctant hands Obeyed the sylvan hero’s stern command And ’neath the axe that head dissevered lay Whose crimson face yet undistorted seemed Unmoved and herdless of the stroke of fate. Despite the escape of Oyelape our chief, Appeased by a brother’s Christ-like love and death; Received at last the Natchez’s pipe of peace: And, as ’twas said, to insure fraternity; Reared on their pleasant shore, our Rosalie. A russet bulwark with deepset pieux, Inclosing barracks tiled with press-bark, All grim with ordinance and with flags unfurled. Round this, its nucleus, roce tlie simple town; Ill-omened, I may say, the child of strife. Even whilst the workmen cleared its beauteous site. Rebounding o’er the axe’s stroke, was heard The horrid death-song of the half-breed chief, Grim Long-beard of upbraidings ominous, A prophet truly and of evil note. Bound to his death-tree on the bosky shore The rising town and with it his false tribe He doubly damned and doomed. The French at last, Or as some say, his angered countrymen, Weary of that vile tongue in wrath arose, To still its clamor. Seeing this he grew More clamorous and more inhuman still Till his dread death-song drew all hearers round. Transfixed, as twere, they heard a threnody; The song, it seemed, of one with whom compared, The old man of the mountain had seemed tame And even Blue-beard mild and common-place. Rejoicing that his beard had been gorestained, On sundry occassions, and with human blood; His frenzied objurgations he thus closed: I die content, for I leave but the doomed behind me. I go now to revel with my noble forefathers; They will welcome the Chief of the Beard, Will welcome him to their homestead, ’When they see so many scalps at his girdle. And his beard with blood of the French made red. He ceased, and with the echo of musketry, Undaunted passed into another world. He ceased, and pick and flint-axe thus disturbed, By woeful warnings, builded Rosalie. The wilds and woodlands swiftly disappeared And bark-roofed domes and cottages arose While natives danced beneath the cannons mouth And songs of summer gladdened field and fell. Still o’er that scene a boding shadow hung, Our wise chief marked it well, as there it rose; With deepening gloom portentous as grim fate. Or evil destiny all ominous With threatening aspect frowning on those fields; Like the dread Long-beard, hideous it stood, High towering in air, with baleful eye. And pointed finger, turned upon that shore; On thy maize-mantled shore, O, Rosalie! Or else the spectre of savage hate low-crouched, With naked dagger, to the eye appeared And menaced there thy village infantine. However, while he, the observant chief remained — And o’er that realm of spectra, waved his wand With mystic power, thy threatened homes survived: But, sad to say! his enemy prevailed. His enemy and thine, and with his fall. But for a day, unhappy town! came thine. As God’s good angel stood with potent wand Beside the prophet in the lion’s den. And held him scathless, so the wildwoods’ lord Preserved the hamlet hidden in its shade, And lulled the tribes, like threat’ning beasts to peace. We thus behold, in our young paladin in, Not solely the lieutenant of the king, Or ruler of the sylvan Lilliput, Ville d’Immobile, but eke a nobler form, That looming gigantean o’er our vale, And watchful still, o’er awed the sylvan sphere. Upon this expedition our true knight Another and a fairer conquest made. For sundry moons Lomsiane had roved This spring-tide forests with her gentle tribe, Or in her native town sojourned in peace. Awd now, as Jean remembered well, the day When she should meet him by the Father-Stream And there discuss their future state, drew nigh. As he well knew, the village of her love Lay on the oak-crowned high-land termed by him Le Baton Rouge. There lay the sylvan seat Where, in the Illinois’ land, Louisiane Had vowed to meet him many moons befoie. There then, in that quaint capital, she lay, In royal seat, bark-built, palmetto-thatched. Close pictured o’er with bright-hued birds and flowers; While in its purlieus grandiflora gleamed, And in its front in turbid grandeur rolled The awful volume of the Father-Stream. Our youthful hero, disembarking near, Alone well-nigh, approached the village gate. The princess’ train, a joyous crew, had sought In field and fell the lingering blackberries, And now, with baskets filled, the hour’s beguiled. As ’neath an oak’s broad shade, with grace antique, The nut-brown maidens led their choral dance. Our chevalier approaching paused, well-pleased: Full gaily danced the nymphs and joyous sang: Bounded each heart: was ne’er a scene more fair, Even when o’er earth prevailed the golden age, And brighter suns by clear Peneus’ flood. Gladdened purpureal Tempe’s happy vale. Delightful scene! So thought our Jean at least. Who, to the wilds accustomd long, beheld Their scenes of beauty with a partial eye, And, on the occasion named, with heart attuned To thoughts of gentleness; since, led by love. Or such high thoughts as fired the Ausonian king, He sought the fair Egeria of the wild. The band of maidens he remembered well As that which formed ere while the princess’ train, And still he doubted not, her cortege made. At his approach they ceased their choral song, And in respectful silence waited him. As he drew nigh, versed in their lore, he observed They represented each a different tribe, And some far-distant ones; while each displayed, In quaint insignia, the emblem of her home. There stood Dakota, from the land of snow; Nebraska, from the plain: and Tennesee, From the eastern wood, brown-hued and beautiful; While Minnesota’s Laughing-Water there Consorted with bow-bearing Arkansas: And all with beaded buskins, broidered skirts, Gold-tinseled, formed a gay and glittering throng. From them the princess’ whereabouts he learned; Learned that the waited in a lodge hard by; And eke the fairest damsel smilingly Led him straightway unto the trysting-place. The princess hailed him and with joy received A repetition of their parting kiss. Their lives then, as their hearts and hands, they joined In mutual love and blest companionship; A fact untold, for fear of that dread king Whose maidens de correction et cassette, They thus in act, as well as words contemned. Still as ihey roved the palm-thatched palace, or Enchanted trod the grandiflora grove. Unto the observer’s fancy they recalled Or gallant Rolfe ’neath Pocahontas’ smile, Or Pitcairn and his Otaheitian bride.

The Tropic Valley.

I dreamt of wandering ’mong groves of palms, Whose polished leafage pendant, drooping low Lit by a sun descending o’er far hills, In splendor shone and flamed with ruby glow. The brightly gleaming bosom of the lake Upon its tranquil front took tints of rose, And on the shore where willows spread their shoots, I saw the herons fixed in shadowy pose. Geo. Isaacs.

Armageddon, Past and Present;

Reflections on the Battle-Ground of Nations.
A Divertisement.

We often turn in imagination toward ‘the shinning orient’ for pastime and profit withal; and it is to be hoped the purposes of a divertisement vill be answered by the following view from fancy’s oriel toward the gates of day; which, however, is in the form of an address delivered by the writer, some months since, at the Central High School of Sabine Parish, La.

Ladies and Gentlemen,

As a preliminary I will invite you all to join me this morning in an imaginary pilgrimage to Holy Land, in a short excursion at least to the goal of the palmer’s and the crusaders desires. I would have you wander with me in fancy among the hills of Gallilee, the mountains of Zebulon’s land, and southward over the fields of Manasseh. Would linger in thought by that ancient river, Kislion, that divides the storied plain of Esdraelon. It is to that historic spot I invite your attention most particularly. It is variously known as the vale of Jezreel, as the plain of Esdraelon, as the Armageddon of prophecy, as the Battleground of Nations in profane story; and to the present habitues of that vicinity as the Pasture-Land of the son of Amor.

A modem traveler speaking of a view of the landscape alluded to from one of the beautiful summits of lower Gallilee, says that apart from all sacred and historic associations, and viewed simply as unknown valleys and hills, ht never behefd a more attractive prospect than was there presented. “How much more interesting was the scene in fact, said he, since the flowery field of Esdraelon, known to prophecy as Armageddon, and to profane history’ as “the Battleground of nations” lay outspread before him, while upon it back-ground of hills lay the scene of the childhood and transfiguration of Christ. There, says the French historian Guizot, is the most favorable scene for indulging in dreams of human felicity. That plain, says another, is still of astonishing fertility. Still another speaking of it while in a state of desolation said it resembled a great meadow, and under normal conditions, should resemble a great garden some hundreds of square miles in extent. There teeming harvests should still reward the careful husbandman. There the olive and the vine may still flourish in luxuriance and the stately palm with its plumes of victory. There nature, with her veil of tender verdure conceals the ravages of ancient wars, and the dream of paradisian beauty and happiness is there revived beneath the spell of the tropic flowers, and the song of the eastern nightingale. There every tree and flower is redolent of the part. There the lily of the valley once attracted and still recalls the Shnnemite, the pride and inspiration of Solomon. There the feathery date-tree once sheltered and still suggests the victorious march of Deborah, the heroine of Israel, “going up to the help of the Lord against the mighty,” Perhaps the best epitome of that valley s history is found in her majestic song: There indeed the “kings came and fought;” There “fought the kings of Canaan, in Taanach by the waters of Meggiddo. They took no gain of money. The river of Kishon swept them away.’ Such has been a summary of its history. The kings of the east have there met and fought and fell; and the waters of Meggiddo have swept their dast into the sea, or with it enriched the pasture-land of the son of Amor.

But could the wand of a fairy recall the stirring scenes enacted in that historic field we would there behold an epitome of the struggles of mankind through the ages. We would there behold Sisera, with his nine hundred chariots of iron, overthrown by a woman. Would there see revealed the sword of the Lord and of Gideon, in discomfiture of the hosts of Midian.

Would see the majestic Saul of Israel, in couflict with his mortal foes, the Philistines; would find there embattled through s:uccessive ages the Jews and Gentiles, Egyptians and Persians, Greeks and Romans, Crusaders and Saracens, Turks and Arabs, and of course the Briton and the Gaul. As one writes has said: ’Warriors of every nation under heaven have pitched their tents upon tlic plain of Esdraelon and beheld the banners of iheir various nations wet with the dews of Tabor and Hermon It has been the chosen place for battles and military operations in every age, from the time of Barak to that of Bonaparte.

Among the scenes of Holy Land none really, not even Jerusalem or Zion’s Hill, affords a better topic for discussion than our blood-stained Armageddon, the garden-spot of Gallilee, and the Battleground of Nations. I rather prefer that historic fold in spite of its warlike associations. It is true there are other influences and associations connected with that storied plain. While it has so often resounded to the din of arms and drunk the blood of struggling hosts, upon its verge is seen the sacred mount of the transfiguration and that of the nativity of Christ, flanked on either hand by the mount of Blessings and the mount of Beatitudes. And those that place their trust in Christianity as the salvation of the world, may point to that historic field, and the thousand wars of old, and to the folly and fruitlessness of such struggles and conflicts, and then picture as a striking contract, as the emblem of a better and holier spirit, the christ-child in youthful innocence among the flowers of beautiful Jezreel, and afterwards of mature age preaching peace to the nation? warring there, and rejoice in the victory of his creed as the harbinger of a better and a brighter age. Indeed it would seem not inappropriate if a benign and heavenly influence should take its rise upon that greatest sepulchre of man, the Battleground of Nations with its stupendous struggles and its corresponding moral teachings. The most impressive teachings of that subject, the ancient field of Armageddon with its arpents of human dust, are the vanity and futility of mere earthly and temporal struggles and achievements. Man must perish and his proudest works must fall, though he aspire to heaven, and though his head touch the clouds, yet shall he flee away as a shadow and as a vision of the night.

Vain indeed must our earthly achievements be held unless these tend to improve the heart and fit the soul for the hereafter: unless those achievements can elevate our race, and like the golden chain of Jupiter, raise man from earth to heaven and preserve communication between our own and that eternal shore. Our first duty then should be to seek God and his goodness, whose divine power and grace may yet revive all the myriads of human lives that have been queue hed on the various battlegrounds of earth, and unite the just at last in an eternal relm.

And yet there is a destiny before the living world, there is a victory in store for the struggling nations on earth’s battle-fields: which is worthy of consideration. This moves of necessity, and thus for, though partial and interrupted progress is manifest. Compare the enlightened with the unenlightened portions of the globe, and the intellectual working of today with that of former times. We find the mind in past ages loaded with chains and fetters; at the present, disenthralled and moving with irresistible force, the menace of the universe. At our present rate of progress it seems we must reach the goal of our are at no distant day. The theme of our discourse, in addition to being the Battleground of Nations in the past, has been referred to in prophecy as the scene of the last and greatest of conflicts known as the Great Day of the Lord. It is true our horoscopes bearing upon the darkened future may be somewhat unreliable. Christ, in mockery, asked the pretentious Pharisees why they could not discern the signs of the times. With this we may compare what was, according to Arnold’s Mirza, the statement of the holy angels to Mohammed. Said they: ‘Times and Signs we wot not, only Allah knows,’ But whether our version of the prophetic conflict of Armageddon be the true one or not, I hold that merely as a rhetorical figure the metaphor is an impressive one, and may well be applied to the stirring events of our own day and tinic. Ours is the age of great achievements, of Herculean labors, and of decisive progress towords a higher state.

I have already stated, and I repeat, so great and decisive is the world s progress in these times that it seems we must needs reach the goal of our race at no distant day. The achievements of our modern science are such as to make us believe that mankind are about to leave the dead wastes of the past, the improgressive stages of their career and enter upon perhaps a higher order of existence.

However this may be, the fact remains that the so-called chosen race, with their scythe-armed war-chariots, crushing the flowers of Jezreel; with splintering spears and battle-axes flashing in air; failed to accomplish the victory of peace, or anything like the far-off republic of love.

Throughout subsequent eras too, we find the tribes of earth there engaged without avail in promiscuous battle and bloodshed despite the teachings of Him who from the adjoining height, blessed the peace-maker and reiterated His command: Love ye one another. The kings of the historic east have met and warred, and that gory Battleground of Nations has full often been the scene of carnage and of death. But the sparkling waters of Megiddo still freshened their verdant Jezreel, the gore and carnage but enriched its teeming soil, and tliat typical aid most ancient battleground of earth has remained a picture of unrivalled loveliness. Such have continued to be the typical scenes of history; the battleground reeking with human gore, and nature, drawing her veil of living beauty over the sanguinary scene; war’s dread golgothas full often becoming the most fertile and blooming spots of rarth. The flowering vine there enfolding with its verdant tendrils the ghastly skull and the scattered bones of the slain and the emblems of life there standing in contrast and in mockery beside the horrid emblems of death and decay. And man has seemed as heedless in such matters as inanimate nature. The poetic Byron stood aghast at the profusion in which the flowers bloomed on the blood-enriched field of Waterloo while his more callous countrymen have gazed untouched on their many battle fields strewn with the bones of brothers; and unfeelingly transported the carnage of Plevna into their gardens as a fertilizer.

But signs of progress are manifest. The two leading nations of our modem civilization have recently resorted once more to bloodshed and war as the arbiter of their differences, but at the same time we must remember that eacbof them rules in peace as great a realm as was the civilized world in olden times, and each of them, in conjunction with the other leading nations, have taken the most advanced ground the world has yet known in the interest of peace by establishing an International Court of Arbitration; and from tradition and prophecy we still have the assurance that man will yet forsake his ancient course and no longer commit such stupendous follies and crimes as have the nations of old and those of later date, on their fields of blood. Besides nature herself in effacing the marks of strife, and counteracting the arts of destruction imparts a potent lesson On the smiling battleplain, late the scene of wars revolting horrors, but again, after this, reinvested with a mantle of verdure and bedecked with flowers, we are most impressed by the poet’s lines:

“How strikingly the course of nature shows, By it’s light heed of hum:in suffering, That this was fashioned for a perfect world.”

With regard to a golden age lingering somewhere in the future, I am not disposed, in the light of modern events, to dispute what has been a prophecy and a tradition in all ages. Throughout history is found, along with the memory of a past paradise, the hope of a paradise to be regained. The Hebrew prophet from his remote station in the past, beheld, through the vista of ages, and on the shore of a renewed Eden, that which had been a prime article of his patriachal faith; the blest yet long delayed period, when eternal wisdom shall judge the earth and when the nations shall beat their swords into plough-shares and their spears into pruning-hooks. Even the uninspired Virgil sang of “the bright era when the golden age shall over all the world arise,” and with his prophetic visions of the future gained his reputation as:

“Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the blissful years again to be, Summers of the snakeless meadow, unlaborious earth and oarless sea”

It is but reasonable to presume that perfect and perpetual peact will be one result of our final victory on the battleground of nations.

It is but reasonable to presume that the greatest of blessings will be among the first-fruits of our final success in that strife, whose chief aim should be a more perfect life. And yet the subject we have chosen, the prophetic world-struggle of Armageddon, does not convey the idea that the coming and most perfect social state will be super-induced or heralded by a period of inactivity, or of inglorious quietude, but the contrary. From that subject we are rather led to believe in the inspiration of the bard who wrote with referance to that period, that:

“It shall come in strife and toil, It shall come in blood and spoil, It shall come in empires’ groans, Burning temples, trampled thrones.”

We are not to believe either that the final goal of our hopes will be the realm of luxurious idleness or the poetical and mythical cockaigne. That ideal sphere is not fittingly typified by “the land of Lotos, with its flowery coast.” Says a philosophical French statesman: “whether in humanity or nature, the only organisms that have a durable existence and effect, are those that are born in pain and developed by strife.” But whatever be the true nature of that promised era of happiness, the poet’s golden age, and the Beulah of John Bunyan, we hold only the prophetic Armageddon, the worldwide, and decisive conflict of our race, conveys a fitting notion of the great events, peaceful and industrial as well as warlike, that have been transpiring in the modern world.

In discussing this phase of our subject; in picturing the prophetic Armageddon, whether of the present or of coming times, we wish to call attention to the fact that the pasture-land of the Son of Amor, on which transpired an epitome of the wars of old, is no longer great or broad enough to serve as a battleground of the mordern nations or as a fitting stage for the conflicts of our times. In view of this fact it seems likely that the Apocalpytic writer made use of that battleground of the ancients as a type or symbol of some greater and grander field that should become the battleground of nations in the future. And while discussing as our subject today; the fair valley of Jezreel, the garden-spot of Gallilee, with his ancient river and its mountain walls; I involuntarily dream of that greater and grander valley of the west, which has been called the garden of the world, whose ancient river is the Father of Waters himself; within whose ample bounds ten thousand Esdraelons might be included, and upon whose mighty stage the nations of the world seem collectmg as if in preparation for the great and final day of the Lord. At any rate whether the prophet so intended or not, it seems to be a fact that, instead of flowery Jezreel, the world’s greatest valley, constitnting as it does the principal factor of the world’s greatest nation, is destined to be the future battle-ground of our kind. It seems probable moreover that the conflict that shall then decide the destiny of our race will not be a conflict of arms, but an industrial and an intellectual struggle. The arms that will be wielded in that conflict with most effect will not be the sword or spear, or the deadly firearms of modern warfare; but the wanderworking inventions of modern science; whose object will be improvement and progress, rather than death and destruction. In that struggle it will be demonstrated that the pin is mightier than the sword. In that struggle, instead of the scythe-armed war-chariot we behold the iron-horse of commerce; and instead of the plumed and steel-clad knight, on barbed steed, wielding battle-axe and spear; we find a more potential and beneficent hero in the scientific student of nature’s mysteries, wielding a wand of magic and revolutionizing our modes of life. The heroine and Deborah of our modern Esdraelon is the American spirit of liberty; and not even the martial heroine of old Israel, invoking the God of Hosts, and calling on “the stars in their courses” to fight against the oppressors of her country; presented a more inspiring figure than does our Columbia to-day liberating the New World from oppression, and well-nigh revolutionizing the Old World by the influence of her example. We may not fully appreciate the grandeur of the institutions that over-shadow us, and the beauty and perfection of our system of states; that the solar system with it’s central sun and it’s planetary orbs of light, has an antitype, and not an unworthy oae, in our mighty central government, encircled with sovereign states; and that the fabled melody of the spheres should find a counter-part in tht harmony of half a hundred republics chanting together, through the ages, their songs of uniity and fraternity. We may not fully realize or properly appreciate all the blessings thus bestowed upon us. I am not a prophet, nor the son of a prophet, yet me thinks I may truthfully affirm that ages and millenniums hence, an appreciative and exalted humanity will still acknowledge their indebtedaess to the great American Republic for its correct solution of the chief problem of human government by establishing as its chief corner-stone, the civil and religious liberty of the people, from which notable event they will pererhaps date the progressive civilization of our race.

We may not fully appreciite the fact but it seems true nevertheless that our country is to be, in one sense, the battle-ground of nations; that here probably the fate of the human race is to be decided: the fact that here man has taken his position on a higher plane, and is waging a more successful and glorious struggle than ever before. It hardly admits of question that in our Great Republic are to be decided issues that involve the well-being of the human race, and such being the case, it seems but a reasonable interpretation of scripture to say that within its bounds will be located the Armageddon of prophecy and that the narrow vale of Jezreel might after all have been but a type and symbol of that Great Valley of the West which, in all probability, is it be the scene of the final and decisive conflict of mankind. I am disposed to think that our great country will accomplish the solution of the problem of human government, and with it as a leader and exemplar, the world will yet witness the reign of universal and perpetual peace.

Since the father sage pictured his imaginary Republic of Love, the advocates of human perfectibility have never been so numerous and hopeful as now; and considering the wonderful progress of the last century, what thinking man will dare say that at the end of such another era, frail humanity may not occupy heights and boast of perfections which are now unattained and unattainable. Edward Bellamy, in his remarkable and his prophetic work, Looking Backward, gives us rational and realistic views of the life of a century hence; when most of the evils of our social state shall have been eradicated; when wars and rumors of wars shall no longer prevail; when the love of money the root of all evil, shall have been supplanted by the love of justice and right; when wealth and poverty shall no longer give rise to differences and distinctions: and, in view of the fact that some of his most remarkable prophecies seem or the point of fulfillment, who will say that his dreams and visions may not be substantially realized; even though, like most prophets, he may view the future “as through a glass, darkly,” and prove in error possibly, as to details.

Milton wrote that God’s object in the creation of mankind was to rear an angelic race to supply the places of the fallen angels; and in spite of the curse of sin and death it seems we may yet believe in some measure to raise ourselves to the angelic standard. In spite of the curse of sin and death the old earth may yet fulfill Milton’s discription of the earthly paradise, and become:

A happy rural seat of various view; Of groves whose trees weep odorous gums and balm, Others whose fruit, burnished with golden rind, Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.

When the genius of Bulwer undertook to portray our race as it will be in the future, while he indulged in some burlesque in that connection, the picture he presented of beings of ethereal beauty, soaring on wings of light, each brandishing a wonder-working wand capable of destroying the proudest city at a stroke; was much upon the order of Milton’s description of the hosts of heaven. In that work too, he portrayed the American as the most progressive of men, and his great commonwealth as the most perfect of states. Such then is to be the goal of our endeavors, and the reward that will attend our final victory on that battle-ground of nations. At any rate, while standing as we do today on our great modern Esdraelon, observing the signs of the times there presented for our observation, with the millions of our race there struggling and striving onward and upward, with the words cf the Peace-maker resounding amid the din as forcefully as ever; we have some reason for hope in the future of our race and can exclaim with the philosophic Carlisle. “Deep and sad is the feeling that we stand yet in the bodeful night, yet equally deep and indestructible is the assurance that the morning also will not fail.”

When to soft sleep we give ourselves away, And in a dream as in a fairy bark Drift on and on through the enchanted dark To purple daybreak-little thought we pay To that sweet bitter world we know by day. Aldrick

Chap. X. La Vente et La Motte;

The Encounter with Bigotry and Tyranny.

Whence and what art thou, execrable shape? Milton.
Again we approach onr Ville de Immobile, And, unpoetic sound! a war of words Arrests us and as we approach more near, We observe our hero assailed obstreperously By his enemies, La Vente and La Motte,
Perchance ’twere meet that this illustrious pair, Justify immortal, not for strength indeed. Nor virtue, but for vanity supreme: Should, like the Thersites of Homer’s song, Be honored, not in episode alone, But rather in resounding epopee Their folly will a fitting foil approve Unto the virtue of our youthful chief Of lofty name, the Lion of the South, And show him worthy of our votive song. We observe him first, in loving fellowship With hero-forms, sharing their fame: but now, A Raphael no more in Gabriel’s train; Moving alone and eke confronted by The fiend in reptile or in native form. It seems, in sooth, a mark of merit high That he stood thus, opposed relentlessly, By those fell forms, La Vente and La motte. One, the incarnation of the despot foul. The other, of the bigot, fouler still. With heaven-bright beams we’d flood the gloom profound. Where only such foul forms of evil bide. Assist us then, soft-voiced Calliope! Till we, like thy lamented Linus, sing; Or like thine Orpheus, with melody, If needful, move the listening rocks and trees. We invoke, too, all thy attendant sisterhood To uphold our hand and make our fragile pen As mighty as the sword, or even as The upraised javelin of old Amram’s son Stretched toward the enemies of God and man. As the stern judge of Israel destroyed Lochish and Libnah in the dnys of old. So would I smite, and utterly destrot, The despot and the bigot eijiblemed here. What if those forms be now inanimate, I’d raise them, ruthless quite, to public view, And execration, and to obloquy consign; Even as stern Joshua the dead kings, reviled, Hung them on trees, and then, at set of sun, Blocked them forever in makkedah’s cave. After contemning thus those foes of man, Would I might say with reference to their race, To our compatriots, as did Israel chief. What time the captains of his men of war Trod on the necks of kings: “Be of good cheer, Thus will God do to all your enemies.”
Much we rejoice to find such sentiments Expressed in substance, by that youthful chief, The American, true-born, who even then Sustained the rights of man, and held as foes, LaMotte, the governor, that lightly scoffed At liberty of action and of speech; And fell La Vente that with wrath insane Even on that shore, had fain subverted truth And reason with the fagot and the stake. Our muse would thus, upon her ample page Portray these threatening, although fleeting shades. Of midnight hue and countenance deformed, And ’gainst that shad’wy back-ground full-relieved Paint the just figure of the American, Tho’ youthful untill, the friend of liberty; Whose merit doth her votive song engage. The historian paints our hero’s adversaries, The fiend La Vente and the fool La Motte; And since this is no dream-born phantasy We but transcribe their portraits ready-made; The first of these being that of M. La Motte. A Gascon he, and given to gasconade. For which sufficient reason we may doubt His boastful claim of ancient lineage, Of castles and estates; albeit we accept The chronicler’s plain statement that his lands Included a few arpents by Garonne; That his chateau, so called was squat and low, Its single tower the haunt of kites and crows, And hence known as Cadillac’s rookery. His mind, as narrow as his quaint estate, ’Tis scarce surprizing that he deemed his Mood Of quality supreme, and his thin frame An incarnation of nobilty. Inspired with such vain thoughts, we wonder not To see his form emaciate, rod-like straight. And rigidly eiect. Behold him then. On high occasions, strutting forth in state, A feudal lord, forsooth, he passes through Ville d’Immobile to its rustic council-hall. With air of majesty grotesque, he wears A long-flapped vest, a coal of rainbow hue Embroidered with passants of faded gold. And graced besides with wide, expansive tails; O’er all a wide chapeau and woudrous wig Whose curls spread forth as if in conscious pride, Picture of vanity! Invidious shape! Did not his face a worse estate denote And eke suggest the title of Sir Fool. ’Twas there our hero approached this Brummel gay, Grown great in years but not in wisdom’s ways. Despite their controversies, with due form And courtly grace he greeted that rare chief. And thus addressed him there: Monsieur La Motte: Our citizens assembled in due form, Present through me this fair memorial Demanding natural rights and liberties, And therewithal that all such vested claims. As limitate those natural liberties. Be annulled, or else, most stringently construed. This they demand for here the people rule.” At this La Motte in horror stood aghast. At length in open-eyed astonishment, “Mon Dieu,” the loudly exclaimed: “Decidedly, This colony’s a monster without head Or tail: and” he continued, gathering warmth, It’s government a strange absurdity. The people rule, forsooth! What, then, do I? Am I not, as their governor ordained. An emanation from le Roi Soleil, And clothed, as ’twere, with the reflected beams Of his divine authority Prithee, Will they not bow unto the Sun-King here? Or reverence me, as his true antitype? “Tis not the people, but myself that rules, L’Etat c’est moi” Then Jean respectful still, Hut with a smile, replied: “Monsieur La Motte, This colony, so far removed from France, Scarce feels the radiance of the Sun-King’s throne. This wildling of the wilderness scarce knows The name of king. This fact is known in France, And thou art by express injunctions warned This whim to observe, and treat with due regard. Therefore I say, and once again, repeat. That here the people rule”. That shibboleth, The accustomed one of our great nation now, Was lisped even, then wlien in its swaddling-clothes; And he tint o’er its cradle watched, and with Such views inspired the infant Hercules, Albeit a youth of maiden grace well-nigh, Is worth of our reverence and our song. In his fair face and beaming eye we observe A native dignity and depth profound. An aspect heaven-inspired, that eke recalls Another tyro, of immortal fame. Whose pen, guided by liigher powers, decreed Our country free, and therewithal mayhap, The emancipation of all human-kind. Then M. La Motte perused the document Seditious to his eye and, rising wrathfully, Exclaimed: “Freedom of action and of speech, They would he free to assemble and in form Proclaim sedition; and besides would go And come at pleasure to and from this shore, And at their pleasure thus depopulate The king’s possessions. Wot you not, dear sir, That such seditious utterances expressed In France this day, albeit by noble lords, Would call forth sundry lettres-de-cachet Imumuring all such in their hardihood, In the Chateau Bastille?” Then Jean replied: I deem it well, Monsieur, that on tins shore Is found no dark Bastille; that these grim wilds Encircling us. as ’twere, with arms outstretched, Welcome each exile from the accurst abodes Of despotism; granting each and all The unbounded freedom of the world of shade. And I affirm that if oppression here Upraise its hydra-head, ’twill but disperse These couriers-de-bois. As well set bounds To the migrations of the brand-goost here, Or rule the sea gull’s wanderings, as confine These tanrdess spirits of the wilderness.” But at those words incensed, Monsieur La Motte, Leaped from his chair of state, and thundering cried: “Avaunt, thou forest-born republican, Thus puerile in thy state-craft:” “and”, thus too. The attendant priest, La Vente, shrilly cried: “As in thy slate-craft lax, so in thy faith Schismatic and remiss. Full well thou knowest Not even on easter-day hast thou applied For Holy Sacrament. Avaunt, I say”. And then in turn La Motte raffing exclaimed: “Such foul sedition well entitles thee To it’s extreme and proper penalty, And thou, accordingly, should’st be forthwith, In sunder sawed”; La Vente fiercer still, With epileptic rage more loudly shrilled: “And for thy wonted sin of heresy Thou should’st be held accursed and at the stake Accordingly consumed.” Thus then they raged. La Motte, more violent grown, at length advanced In act to strike the object of his rage. The latter meanwhile looked with dignity Upon the frantic pair. But even then, A maid fair, albiet the child alleged Of M. La Motte, appeared upon the scene. Loving our Jean above her sire she threw Her arms in supplication, and meanwhile His strength o’ercame, his eke his wrath restrained. So effectually she calmed his threatening rage, That he even sat and heard with dne regard, As thus the youth resumed: “In sooth, Messieurs, These ebullitions are but childish moods; I fault not the great king, whom I’ve obeyed In each relation heretofore sustained. His noble traits I esteem and eke regret His course of late the dotard’s hand betrays. As for your threatening speech, decrepit men, Full well ye know that ye are powerless. And that the leash of savages I guard, Once loosed upon, would desolate this shore, And eke subject you to as horrid forms Of vengeance as your cruel hearts suggest. I show the mercy ye would fain deny. I heed you not, but rather those fell shapes That ye would thus embody and assume. The despot and the bigot, hell-born pair! Twin progeny of Erebus and Night. Hideous as those dread spectra darkly-limned. By Milton’s pencil, at the gate of hell; Satan and Death, the enemies of man. One, with fell dart, threat’ning the fragile life. And one, the soul, with penitential pains. Such are the ministers that your hearts; that The despot and the bigot would employ. And to what end? To bind humanity In chains of error still: to arrest the car Of human progress in its race sublime. Aye truly, such their obvious end and aim. The narrow mind, that doth aspire to rule And lord it o’er his subject fellowman To attain that object, must perforce degrade It’s fellows, and their equal rights deny; Must keep the people prostrate still and prone While of their wealth and substance foully acquired, It rears a temple to its vanity, And to maintain that dignity supreme. Must keep its servitors degraded still, Is’t fitting that to accomplish such designs Stern laws be enacted or grim death invoked To enforce their mandates harsh? Nay, verily. Therefore, dread shape, I bid you hence depart, And take with you, like Satan in his flight From Eden, all the bodeful shades of night. But if the dread form of despotism Be foul and full of evil, what of that Justly regarded as its evil shade? At least its dread co-laborer and co-mate, In striving thus to subjugate the race, At once the person and the mind of man; Aye, what of bigotry? Intolerance! Proof positive of false and evil cause; That lights the martyr’s pyre, and with its glare Reveals how deep and dark the savagery That yet enshrouds the sphere. ’Neath whose spell, The enlightened with the savage nation vies In fiendish cruelty. Dread bigotry! That on the eve of St Bartholomew, Even in earth’s most aspiring capital Startled the earth, and shocked all human-kind With three-score thousand midnight murders. Aye, Intolerance, thou foul, incarnate fiend! Denioniac! I say to thee, avaunt! Quit this fair shore, nor dare exhibit here Thy dragon shape, fit only to support A despot’s throne, or haunt a sin-cursed land. These horrid shapes are but the evil pair That held our race as in a nightmare thralled Throughout the gloomy ages haply past. Hence, gorgon shapes! I do forewarn you now, Your reign is past. Upon this favored shore Will rise ere long the sun of liberty; The light of life with healing in its wings. He ceased and ’mid the encomiums of his freres, He scarce observed the threatenings of his foes. In his bold form I observe the fitting type Of that young nation, potent-grown and strong, Fearless of evil in its youthful prime, That hails the coming dawn, and with just laws Reflects its glory o’er a brightening earth; That girds the new world with a bow of hope And as its fitting watchward bears aloft, The epitome of philosophic dreams, Isonomos, embodying equal rights, With civic and religious liberty.

Chap. XI. Le Chevalier et le Cure.

Homeward repairing from the field of strife Jean found his foes no longrr in command, Those foes relentless that had nic.dethe life Of Immobile full trying, ’neath whose hand The infant state had been with evils rife, While constant turmoil had opprest the land. He found his foes were humbled, in good fay. And hors du combat, as the Frenchmen say.
Lamotte, the chief, the deadliest foe of all. Whose will had been supreme, had fallen slow He could no more the citizens appal, By his threatening moods; yet every wind doth blow Some one a blessing, and Cadillac’s fall On Jean again the honors did bestow. Dame Fortune’s wheel revolving suddenly Placed him above his ancient enemy.
We find Jean straightway in most jovial mood In concert with his boon companions three, In mischief all of equal aptitude, Engaged in merry-makings loud and free. Hard by the entrance of the tavern rude They sat and sang beneath a spreading tree. A rude board in their midst sustained, as ’twere, The spirits of the youths assembled there.
Full many a mirthful ditty they intoned, And even impelled the juge-du-paix to smile. Albeit of course the dismal cure groaned And muttered prayers and crossed himself the while. ’Naiheless, as poets write, it must be owned Most jovially did they the hours beguile. But when they observed the approach of M. la Motte, Each mirthful swain imbibed first of the pot
Of simmering ale, then sang with serious air A song, le Chevalier de la Veau d’Or.

’Twas some unbriddled poet there, The hero in question being no knight of yore, But M. Le Motte, did its honors share With Don Quixote, old and ne’er before Approached in frailty or in folly. He, . Upon our shore thus suffered rivalry.

The Knight of the Golden Calf. The knight of the doleful countenance Did valorous acts and deeds galore. And of like strength and puissance Is our chevalier de la veau d’or The knight of the doleful countenance, ’Gainst wind-mills fought and shed his gore: Such direful strife, such sufferance Hath our chevalier de la veau d’or. The knight of the doleful countenance On Merlin’s steed in thought did soar, While moveless fixed, e’en so perchance, Doth our chevalier de la veau d’or. The knight of the doleful countenance Crop-eared, and tooth-less, sad and sore, From battle came: so fate’s mischance Marred our chevalier de le veau d’or. The knight of the doleful-countenance Sufficed to amuse the men of yore. Let some cervantes of romance Paint our chevalier de la veau d’or.
Ne’er could our muse Cadillac’s wrath portray And hopeless quite she’d scarce attempt a role So difficult; suffice it then to say ’Twas evident it ’’harrowed up his soul;” Albeit he proved unable to repay The singers! or such talents to control. As easy ’twere to dim the suns of June, “Or bite,” said he, “a slice from off the moon,”
While thus they sang a wandering harper came Low-bowed beneath his mammoth, corded lyre; Drawing near he planted and attuned the same, While his fair daughter stood beside her sire, Prepared to sing and wake withal the flame Of love in youthful hearts. Tho’ in plain attire The maid possessed a face and figure fair, And pleased the youthful knights assembled there. To attract attention surely without fail, A song of knightly Bayard she essayed. So daintily she smoothed her farthingale And soon her eloquence in song displayed. With swift success did she the heart assail, And of our youths an easy conquest made. No easier one e’e graced le bon chevalier. ’Twas thus she sang the knight without a peer.

Le Bou Chevalier. Fain would our song A lofty subject broche, Le Bon Chevalier, Sans peur et sans reproche The Bayard plumed, Deathless, of world renown, Could scorn vain gold. And even the regal crown. And ne’er could such Enhance his dread and fear, The man of steel, The knight without a peer. Our hero still. Albeit a man of blood, Was not more great Than he was pure and good. In sunbright mail, And snowy plumes bedight; His honor, as his arms. Was ever fair and white.

Loudly the youths encored. Again she sang,
El Conquistador. Bold wanderer, in burnished mail, Treading our new-found sphere, Opening to us our mystic vale. Deathless, forever dear, To memory is the heroes name; So haply shall be thine; The conquests that exalt thy fame On Vega’s page they shine. Thy soul of daring and the lance, Esteemed the pride of Spain, These that shall gladden fair romance Let not the muse disdain. But were thy conquests but a dream Thy name will dcathbss be. Aye, Soto; while the Father Stream Rolls o’er thee te the sea, It’s billows shall with endless dole, Recall the explorer brave, And thou, approved of mighty soul, Can’st boast a hero’s grave.

With like success she sang:
Le Paladin. In glittering arms And ’neath the Norman shield, The Paladin Adorned the martial field Most glorious spirit In the lists of time, The errant knight Enacting deeds sublime. Crested gallant! Hail to thy sttel-glad form! ’Mong death-dealt shafts Impervious to the storm; Or wandering far, On many a well-fought field Waging just war, — While kings their homage yield,
Undying spirit! Scathless from the tomb, Still in our van Appear thy lance and plume; Or if dismantled Of the vest of steel, That spirit still Promotes the sovran-weal;
Treads every shore. The farthest wilderness Saw here revived Deeds of true-knightliness, When dauntless roved, Unheeding thoughts’ of fear, The star-led wanderer Through our sylvan sphere.
Well-worthy even The mead of deathless fame. Much less the cross, Remotest times will name The hero-knight That guards the Frather-Stream; Yon turbid waves His glorious toils beneme: Hail, Warden bold! That ’gainst unfriendly fate, And ills untold, Still guards our rising state.
The singer paused: the hearers’ plaudits rung. But presently another song, she raised, A sombre melody, this time, she sung, For while adawn, that grass-grown street she gazed, She ohserved, approaching there there the trees among, The cure’s form; and by his presence dazed. She vaguely strove his insane taste to please, Or wdth a doleful chant his wrath to appease.
Already had the dreaded priest observed The town enlivened with her dulcet strain: The curé, who still held that whoso swerved From pious ways, should suffer for his pains. His presence thus the gentle maid unnerved, And with him rose a vision weird of chains, Of witch-craft trials and of mantling fire. Such as hell only, and the priest, require.
But when the observant cure drew more near She paused affrighted; when he reached her side, She glanced about and saw with deadly fear, A face which showed that sorrow would betide; A face and narrow forehead did appear Becoming one with powers of ill allied. The maiden shrieked and from the cure shrank. As from a spectre, nerveless all she shrank.
Into a strong, a manly embrace she fell, A face, meanwhile, angelic to her eye. Close-hovering, did the power of ill dispel By imprinting on her cheek full lovingly A burning kiss. Quicker than I can tell Our Jean had seen the maid’s extremity; And springing to her side, his youthful face O’er-sun’d with curls, did the evil one displace.
At this the maniac priest his hands upheld, In horror and his righteous wrath out-poured. The kiss of innocence he thus beheld To his demoniac temper did afford Pretext for wrath; but Jean his ragings quelled, And to the maid her wanted sense restored. By such fond labors did our country’s sire, Upbuild the state and wake the poet’s lyre.
Now must I tell, and picture in good fay, The strangest feature of this episode. As the fair maid awoke beneath the light of day, Albeit fair vestured, a la mode, In European habits; strange to say. Her wakening charms the native princess showed: And Jean beheld, albeit pale and wan, With wondering awe beheld Louisiane.
Albeit he respected her disguise, For love of him assumed, and knowing well To mention it would foil her enterprise; Her evident desire with him to dwell, In shape assumed; he vanquished his surprize, Aug her reputed sire did there compel With tempting terms, and glittering gold withal, To abide with him in his baronial hall.

Chap. XII
Le Cour et la Camp.

And ever and anon a knigh would pass Outward and inward to tht hall; And out of bower and casement shyly glanced Eyes of pure women, wholesome stars of lover Tennison.

Another morn, before a new-made hall, Beside the Father-Stream, our hero sat. A frequent smile his sunbrowned faee illumed; For there, at last, in his chef-lieu, so called, Despite the king’s decree, he sat in state. Determined, from his coming, to erect In those fair groves the city of his dreams, Witli the great stream agleam before it towers, And the calm lake bright-glittering in it’s rear; He freely stretched the brief authority. Then grudgingly bestowed, and builded there. And gladly occupied that rustic seat. The muse would pause to view that pristine bower, Walled, as ’tis said, with cypress logs rough-hewn: Poofed with latanier leaves, and placed midway A dell-like opening of the moss-hung groves; While round it in the vista’d woodland rose The palm-thatched lodges of autochthenes, Of similar, yet more primeval form. Such was our hero’s sylvan capital; A relic seemingly of Arcady, And fitly set in grey, saturnian shades. Lycaeon’s kingdom where the grisly wolf Still roamed and reigned was not more wild, I ween; Yet fair that seat, and more romantic far Than Arthur’s city in his wasted land, Than Camelot in ancient Cameliard . Far western Arcady! on the fair day Whereof we sing, poetic episodes Of sylvan life and love wert there observed, Well vvorrhy of the Aicady of old. A score of maidens, gay and debonair As daik eyed maidens of the Rhone or Loire Are wont to be, unto our hero’s haunt Lent beauty and romance. The casket-girls, Those honored mothers of our forest-land, Sent by the Sun-King to enchant the foresters With smiles of love, made our staid bachelor’s hall, Out before, a bower of romance. Fiom base to rustic roof ablaze with bloom, Twas eke as fair as that flower-scented seat Reared, as ’tis said, by Eve in paradise. In troops, ere long, the enchanted partis came. Not since the suitors thronied Odyssens’ isle, And wooed Penelope despite her tears, Was ever conrt by Cupid so bcset. ’Twas called in fact, appropriately called, By armrous belles and beaux, le Conr d’ Amour. On that soft shore, ’mid flowers and light winged loves, Our hero’s hamlet was as blessed, I ween. As that of the explorer, love enthralled. In flower-wreathed haunts, ’neath palmy sea-girt groves, By the brown beauties of Tahiti’s isle. Hard by the rustic castle of our chief, ’Neath oaks broad branching the quaint vestiges, Of the Indian village, though in ruins stood. As stated, cots roofed with palmetto leaves. Worthy of Arcady or South-Sea isle, Vacant and ruined then, were there disclosed: In truth the structures of his capital Were of the same Arcadian form and style. There ’neath the shade, while yet the moqueur’s song, Suggested dreams of bliss, the harper sat; His instrument and fair Louisiane Beside him, soon the court of love drew near, Our Jean among them and delighted heard, As to the harp the mystic maiden sang:

Song. On this Indian ground, ’mid this dream-haunted air, May our hearts a rude monitor heed; For the science cf earth cannot silence dull care, And our gold but increases our need; And our temples and fanes cannot render more fair Simple virtue, or love’s hallowed creed: While the palm-shelteied homes in tlie wide southern seas, The worn sailor’s elysiums prove; While the Indian’s lodge ’mid the woodland’s thick trees, With the summer’s blue heaven above; and the Bedouin’s: tent in the green oases, Have o’er-canopied rapture and love.
Charmed by the zozo’s notes, again she sang:

Le Moqueur. On his summer-bright shore doth the philomel, As adream in a fairyland seem, There the roseate dawn wakes his madrigal, While above the fright day-stars beam;


’Mong the night-flowers waking his riant call Is yet meet for an idyl’s theme.
Weird as notes of the spirit-tongued manito; Sweet as oread’ mockery; Sportive Echo, the sounds that from green-woods flow, And the birds and their joyous glee, And the happy past, and the long ago Are revived in thy minstrelsy

Where the vilhi^e arose in llie er;s ])ast, . And love n,ve(l tlu- woo^llands );reen; Where ih.. ilovwrcLs smile and their eharnis contrast, On the ^rave of the lore-t-qneen; Hallowed spot! with the ])resenee of death oVi- east! iCven here the bold nioeker is seen.

Sinj^er, lienee with thy mirth and thv mimiery: Do the flowers of the sonthhmds j^leam?

ending earth and her graves wilh sneh hla/onry/ And the smiles of fair heaven beam;

And shall life Iv the snbject of pleasantry? ( )r the i^rave bnt the moeker’^ theme?

knmois of warfare from his favorite hannt

Recalled onr ehief and ’mid a wild a.ray

He sat in armor, in his hall, with n

The palisade of Fort de Immobile.

A Freneh ship, lately arrived, riding at ease

In the wide river at his portal lay..

It’s V iri

And to Bienville, as he sat in stat<^

Paid their devoirs. ’Mon^ these a sad-heid erew

Of Mnt^neno’s, that exih-d from fair iManc e

liv tliL’ al)olili(m of the ediet (i Nantes,

Now sought periiiission to rebuild their homes ’Ivlong’ tlieir compatriots ou this distaut shore. Now, for the second time, they came to learn II’ l)i!:^’otr\’ had 3’et relented, or Would grant tliem space, wliere Sj)ace was 3’et so

\’ast. ’i^hcir sect, tliroiigl: persecution, th:.u-etofore Unrivalled, and their midnight massacre On the ev^ of St Bartholouicw, had waked. Throughour the w.)rld compassion for their kind. At their approach the frere, who sal hard l)y, Upheld his hands in horror, and thus showed Tile truth of the ’’ucient apothegm tliat holds ’i^lie liolv lialred the n\ost savage still: And M. Bienville, b}^ rebuking there The m:M-ciless upholder of the cross Regardless of ihe tenets of the Christ, There show’ed himself a hero in advance Of that dread age whereon intolerance, With the frll stake, still shed it’s baleful glare. Uir chief, (U spite the edicts cf royalty, Anpapacy as well,’ cast on the recreant priest withering glance, ’neath wdiich a hanlier soul I lar’ hailed and, even as the priesr, recoiled; And then, with hand extende:l, and a smile, Welcomed the Huguenot with heart-felt joy. ’Tw.’s (icd’s good angel in his form, methinkj-, Thai tlius received, u])on our .shore, the opprest.

He affirmed that in this Valley of the West, Albeit deemed the abode of savagery, No cloud e’er rested of such harrowing gloom As that which, sad to say, even at that day, O’er-shadowed Europe and her boastful tribes; No cloud or gloom so bodeful of all ill As the black shade of dread intolerance. The Huguenots, through persecution taught The justice of such views, loudly affirmed Their full assent thereto, and gathering round. Hung on his words with rapture and delight. Upon the sectaries kindly he gazed And, as I deem, a tear bedimmed his eye, A pang beset his heart, in looking on The sorrows of his exiled countrymen. "Aye," he exclaimed, ’’behold in me a friend, And as your loyal governor henceforth Be well assured that like Obeidah old. Like the Islamite that practiced tolerance, And blest Damascus in her darkest day; And by that course made the red Damask-rose The emblem divine of brotherhood and love; I Like him I essay to stay the bigot’s hand. And ’gainst his madness shield the innocent. Here roam at will, and should fanatic power Molest you, look, I pray, upon this vale; Note if the eye can compass it’s extremes. That widely expanding hold in their embrace

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A mighty segment of our mundane sphere.

And know, my brothers, in its wastes are found

Full sustenance for our afflicted race.

And therewithal it’s long-sought liberty

Of person and of mind: and know besides,

That in the future, when the Master of Life,

A greater than Mohammed, shall stand here,

As did the prophet by Damascus’ vale.

That mighty one will see these wastes transformed

Into a paradise fit, haply, for His eye;

And ’mong it’s beauties will He observe at length

A blossom lovelier than the Damask-rose,

Or the artizan’s famed flower of gold, silk-wrought,

That blest the White City of Obeidah’s love;

Will there behold in lieu of iron creed,

The tree of Liberty, in life and leaf,

And thereupon the amaranthine bloom

Of art and life undreamt of and untold.”

Then to the bugle’s notes our chief went forth

Followed by a bristling formidable throng

Of fire-locks and of archers famed afar,

Like Coeur-de-Lion, heading merry-men

Of Robin Hood; or errant knight of yore,

Waging wild wars in regions of romance.

A neighboring nation had defied his power

And slain besides his fellow country-men.

In power he moved upon their villages

And with drawn sword before their sovereigns seat

Appeared; yet ere the fatal weapon fell,

He extended, on just terms, the branch of peace;

Which, gladly accepted, he achieved with joy

A bloodless victory; such as oft-times

Shed lustre on a chief whose sylvan wars

Were oftener waged upon the council-ground.

Than on the gore-stained field; a fact sublime.

Which makes him worthier of a nation’s love,

And of a poet’s song, than many a knight

Of loftier name, that flecked with gory stains

Of innocent blood, rides o’er the blood-bought field.

His sylvan fortress, to the native’s eye

Invincible, with log-built walls, rough-hewn,

Machicolate, and moated palisade;

Oft echoed to the jarring clash of arms,

And steel-clad knights passed to and from its hall;

Like Arthur’s court in mystic days of old.

Unto the native’s eye, that bristling hold

Was the rude palace of a sylvan king,

And while the clash of steel far-echoing thence

His spirit awed, a kindlier influence there

Attracted his rude heart, and gazing on

That fortress from encircling woods and wilds-.

He smiled unwittingly and dreamt with love

And admiration of the forest-queen

That there bore sway and wnth her influence mild

Oft seconded the labors of her lord,

And with love’s arms extended still his reign.

What though disguised, while in that hold, she

moved, Each native taciturn knew and revered The secret of the woodland’s king and queen. That secret influence, while it bore his sway Even over distant tribes, and gave him oft Unwonted influence round their council-fires; Oft checked his sword even in it’s swift descent In vengeance on the naked warrior’s head; And in the brown hued princess of that race. He had, Mercutio-like, good cause to spare His sylvan foe whereof the world knew naught. Ere long his rival on that bosky shore. The Spaniard, in a stronghold like his own. But by his sufferance that post retained; And when conflicting interests made them foes, Our hero summoned braves of every race. And while his fellows from the sea approached As if to assault, and thus divert the foe. From the surrounding wolds a thousand braves With shouts demoniac appalled his powers That rushed for safety to their conqueror’s arms.

Kachmire be Nazeer; Or, The Cloud o’er the Happy Valley.

An Episode.

The poet’s thrice-blest Indian queen.

Portrayed in his enchanting book, As through his mystic dream-gate seen;

The spangled princess Lalla Rookh; Borne onward in her silken car,

Had yet her griefs however fleet, And joys, like fruit of Iscahar,

Of mingled flavors, bitter-swr-et.

Her cortege, a fair, jeweled train;

Her path flower-strewn, bine skies above; Her fruitful cause of tears and pain.

The anguish of a wa3side love. A singer in his lowly guise.

With tender songs had won her heart, As even here a lowlier tries.

And for loves sake, th? poet’s art.

The daughter of a royal race,

Her unknown monarch’s destined bride. She yet had felt loves tender grace,"

By the forbidden river’s side. No beauty now, her soul elates;

Mournful on Kachmire be Nezeer She looks, nor cau it’s flowering dares . Sufiice a love-lorn heart to cheer.

It’s stream^; and sacred fountains roll

Into its lake of palmy isles, Yet these cannot enchant her soul,

Nor even awake her wonted smiles. Greived now she contemplates her throne,

Nor more the di-adtm esteems; She sees, she hears the harp alone,

Of him whom bc-st llie c:own beseems;

The poet, more than king, I ween;

E’en though devoid of robe and crown. Supreme in realm of glittering sheen,

And fllb’ng earth with his renown. But mark! her grief a glcry proves;

When that leige-lord she so misdeems, Smiles on her, and the veil removes:

’Tis the sweet singer of her dreams.

Dull sorrow is the foil of joy.

As clouds relieve the sun-bright bow. And love may thus our griefs employ

In fashioning a heaven below. So Lalla finds, and fairer far,

After such grief to her appear The shining halls of Shalamar,

The glorious Valley of Cashmere.

May you that bear’st as soft a name As that which graced the Indian queen.

And rul’st me with the love-lit flame.

Within your eye of splendor seen; May you sweet Lalla’s fortunes share,

As pictured in the poet’s tale; And suffer but such transient care,

As over-cast her Happy Vale.

Meantime, since you njust needs beguile

Your journey hence to heaven’s gate: Since, like our heroine, you smile

On those of less than royal srate: I’d strive, like the Cashmerian kinp-.

To merit favor with a lay, And 10 the kitar’s trembling string,

My softest song of love essay;

And did not penury debar

My hand from proffering royal cheer; Th}^ smile should grace a Shalamar,

And rule a Kachmire be Nazeer.

Chap. XIIL Le Plateau du Missouri;

Or, A Vision of the Garden of the World.

Of en wide the gate of horn, Whence beautiful as planets rise

The dreams of truth vuith starry eyes. And all the woyidrous prophecies,

And visions of the inorn,


Oft-tunes in dreamful mood IVe trod that shore Where, brimmino- o’er, the Mississippi flows, ’Mid scenes id3^11ic toil’s embouchure. Malbonchia! Mississippi! Indian-named, Majestic river! vainly I essay To express my feeling^: when thy sea-like surge, Resounding, fills mine ear; albeit ’t^s not Thy majest}^ alone, unrivalled stream, Tliat thus impresses me; though thou*rt well-named Father of Waters; Ocean’s eldest born; I think besides of tluU whereto thou art Tlie simple dr^-iin; I think of Louisiane,

Yea, of the imperial Valley of the West,

That, yet unfilled, boasts of a score of states;

That, with it’s foar great rivers will at last

Become a paradise, whereof^ I ween.

The edenic garden was a fleeting type.

Yea, ’tis of Louisiane I dream and sing^

And, were my fancy equal to the theme,

I’d picture her as in millenial times.

By her accomplished, sovereign and supreme.

’Twas with such thoughts as these our sentinel,

Our Louisianais wanderrd on that shore.

While stalwart axnieu felled the cypress-tree,

The spreading oak, and reared his capital.

His Non’lle Orleans, As with a young compeer.

Himself a 3’outh, he viewed that busy scene,

He paused straightway and serious became.

Solent upon the wolds, upon scream he gazed:

Then to his comrade thus his thoughts exprest:

*’Dost realize," said hr, that on this scene

Will stand one day the fitting capital

Of this fair, summery southland; that ’twill rise

And with itV favored, subject realm keep pace;

And with the progress of the years, outvie

Sicilian Agrigentum, once esteemed

Of i^.ortal cities fairest; if indeed

Jt faili: to. eel ipse that which tlie world toda}^

Reckons supreme, the city by the Seine;

Or tliat uhete England’s glory monstrous-grown.

And sinokc-begi imed, o’er-awes the silver Thames.

What mortal faney can, thus form afar. Rightly portray the destined capital To o’er-look one day this great stream’s embouchure, In th.e Egypt of that world, as yet to be, Whose light mu.->t needs illuminate mankind. To found that city has been my chief care. And founding it even now tliis act sublim*^ Will memorate my deeds, and make my name, However unworthy, deathless for all time. His frere then, of our pater-Patriæ. Required a discourse on his favorite theme, His care; fit subject of heroic song. And of our love; our mystic Louisiane. Then sans prelude or form he thus began: ^ I esieem it a high honor, in good sooth, To be accounted ruler of this realni. As you well know my authority extends, Or through my letters-patent should extend, Throughout this valley of shadow, on each hand, To it’s mountain-bulwarks; toward the north, To its distant bourn, that never yet explored. Doth drain, ’tis said, into le mer del oueste, And veering joins the realm of the Great Kahn. Rt-oion immense! fairest of temporal realms!

Wherein the thousand millions of the earth

Might safely abide and easily subsist.

Such myriads yet will its vast bounds include.

In that predestined realm, god-like indeed,

Must be the hero worthiest to bear

The title Rome eave t* her noblest son;

And not to him held first in deeds of blood,

But to ’’Sweet Tully pat? r-patrise.

In that great realm I’d bea’" the honored part

Of him that gave Cadmean arts to Greece,

And to that end, I’d strive to roll from it

The night of ignorance and bodeful gloom:

For o’er that vale a pall of darkness spreads.

And superstition, savagery, abound.

In forms well-worthy of Dantesque imagery.

And yet, o’er all, resplendent, cloud-relieved,

A heaven-reflecting iris spans the scene;

And there, even there, I’ve visioned phantasies,

And dreams that seem prognostic and inspired,

Or by the times, or zodiacal signs.

Of these, one seemed assuredly Jove-sent;

In Greece that dream of mine had thus appeared,

And, of portentous and resounding name,

Had been regarded as a sequel fit

Unto the Atlantic story, matchless strain,

Begun in wisdom by the Father-S^ge.

One eve upon tlie Inyan Karats height,

A western bulwark of this shadowy vale,

I encamped and thence a wide-spread land-scape

view’d. There while the mock-bird sang, and sunset^s

glow Transformed the wilderness; of years to come, Methinks I (breamed, or of th^ Atlantis past. There to my ken a wondrous vision sh#ne; A driam-land, yet a ri^ilex of our sphere^ On an exploring expedition there; My genial guide and hopt, ru Indian sage, So-Called, whose name was yet Isonomos; And who, as I aver, in sober sootli. Was a good angel, fair and nobl}- -named. Who watches o’er this Valley of the West: I attributed this vision to his art. Vasty it rose, with mountain-likd immures, Since it yet bore the semblance of this vale; An that a vale be calle 1 between whose bounds So great a segment of the sphere obtrudes. ’Twas our great vale, ^nd through the midst

methought, The lather of Waters still unchanging flowed; The hesperian fields lay boundlessly outspread; The hoary woodlands but appeared more fair. And in configuration much as these; Albeit those wolds were as the wilderness,

Unshorn that cinctured Milton’s realm of bliss,

Or Alghieri’s earthly paradise;

“That heavenly forest, dense and living green.”

The Inyan Kara seemed a bulwark huge,

The bastion of a fortress, mountain walled,

Rock-pinnacled and grand beyond belief.

Yet on one hand appeared a broad plateau,

That stretched far down toward the valley’s heart,

And westward rose in mighty terraces,

Blending, at last, in the great mountain-wall,

That forms the acme of the continent,

And, on that side, the valley’s bounding line,

Huge panorama! Westward I beheld

Rocks high-embattled; rocks with towers and

spires, And loftier still, along the sky-line far. Mountains snow-crowned, including, as twas said, An earthly paradise where ’mid calm lakes Transparent as the skies; ’mid pictured rocks And cliffs obsidian, at brief intervals, A myotic fountain heavenward rose immense, And arched with rainbows, stood apparently That one which in the edenic garden played, And, as tradition says, became at last. The source of the great stream, far-famed, four-fold, Thence wandering eastward through elysian fields, And watering all the lowers of paradise.

There at my feet the turbid river rolled;

Missouri, Indian-named, the fountain-head

Of our great Father-Stream; that arm in arm

With it’s great sister, with Saskatchewan,

The swiftly-flowing river, issues from

That mountain-paradise, and wandering forth

Into the vale of vales, waters it’s wastes;

And then, by four great outlets, even as

The edenic river, falls inio the sea.

Meantime I stood, methought, within the abode

Of the ancient sage* which outwardly appeared

A relic of the old Saturnian age,

Of mound-builders and times long since forgot.

Within, as well I wot, ’twas fitted up

With products of a science likewise lost,

Or otherwise, as yet unknown to man.

’Twas no unnatural art, as I opine.

Yet mystified by optics yet unkenned,

Scarce could the eye it’s whereabouts discern.

I thus beheld the mystic vale of vales,

“Well-watered as the garden of the Lord;"

Beheld, through distance infinite, despite

The swelling earth’s convexity; beheld

It’s mighty rivers and it’s inland seas.

And each of these throughout it’s vast extent;

Whilst fronting us and to that end, as ’twere,

Quite retroverted, it’s Niagara foamed:

Beheld, with awe, it’s thousand leagues of plain,

And therewithal it’s thousand leagues of wood.

The first, apparently, a cultured field;

The last, an endless maze of floral bowers

As fair as thai of Eve in Paradise.

And o’er those scenes the light of Heaven flowed;

Since, as of yore, it’s wonted beams of peace

Revived the lost Atlantis. Brighter far

Than Ivan, boastful of her orient scenes,

Or the ancient land of roses, Suristan;

That vale seemed like the paradise discerned

By the rapt Parsee ’neath his tamarind tree,

Or by Mohammed in his dreams of bliss:

An Aden or a Janat al Ferdoos.

Aye, there; e’en there,I weet, was realized,

Or, as I said, the Atlantic Isle divine,

Or that fond dream, so dear to wildered minds,

That robs our darkness of it’s horrid form;

That bright mirage, unfading evermore,

So long the object of our fond pursuit

Over the sands of life; the joys superne.

The fair elysian state, v/hich vaguely viewed

Through death’s dark vista, glads the child of

faith. The Paradise of the West, as in the lore Of Boodha pictured, those elysian fields The Greekling visioned o’er the western sea; E’en there, methought, in primal beauty smiled.

I’d ne’er assert that ’twas the spirit’s home, The last reward of loving deeds below; But that it’s new-found glories well-fulfilled Whatever bright ideals men have known, Whether as fond traditions of the prime, Or cherished dreams of better days to come.

Ere long the chief of marvels there appeared:

A wondrous city shone, with cloud-cap’t towers.

In magic reared by architects divine.

Out-rivaling Mulciber’s celestial skill.

Blest scat! that far the Utopian’s pride outshone;

Or Caracalla’s cite de Soleil,

Or e’en Dorado’s dream-built capital,

Of structures aureate and argentine;

Midway our vale, at juuciure of it’s streams,

That city lay, on rivers nobler far

Than those of old deemed worthiest paradise.

Pison, Gihon, Euphrates, Hiddekel,

What were your streams lo these? About its walls

Eastward the wold, westward the boundless plain;

The one tilth field, the other, wide pleasance,

Designed in beauty, this to smile for aye.

There from distructive art was nature free,

And oft as in the golden age men dwelt

In bowers rudr-built, like those here seen, or like

The tabernacles reared ’mong Eden’s palms.

Dwelt in most primal mode; like him of old

To Elijah appearing in the wilderness,

With bread and water-cruise, of simple guise, Yet numbered ’mong the flaming seraphim. With art that swayed the seasons, stilled the

storm, And distance overcame; man needed not To change, or with rude hand, to disenchant His rural haunts and bowers of pleasance. On every hand the wold seemed populous. As ’twere with spirits high that roved and sang ’Neath bowering shades, and scarce a foot-print

left, Much less disturbed a scene of God ordained. But as to that dream city of which I spake: There situate afar it’s bounds spread forth; On either hand, by furlongs measured, vast, As to the dreamer of the Apocalyse, That Holy City, New Jerusalem, And like it gorgeous as tho’ framed of gold. And thick inlaid, with glit’ring gems and stones. Yea, on each side, it’s mighty arms stretched

forth. As from Niagara’s foaming flood, ’twas said, And from the far Msssouri’s thundering falls, She drew a power incalculably great, That, once uncurbed, had wrecked the sphere

well-nigh; And therewithal she changed her night to day, Impelled at will gigantic industries.

And cars and messages that, lightning-winged,

In all directions sped. She even essayed

With that weird power to still the hurricane,

At pleasure, and the circling seasons rule,

Methought I trod her ways, and ’neath a dome,

A structure such, mayhap, as mortal hand

Ne’er built before, nor fancy’s magic wand

Reared in the cities of her fairy-land,

I stood at length amid a heavenly throng,

Or such those puissant forms appeared to me.

Yea, stood, and heard the white-robed seraph sing,

’Mid waving palms, the victories of truth.

An exhibition of that art was given,

Even as I watched the scene; and mighty domes,

And cloud-capped towers arose, a vision bright,

Unspeakable, and though of form immense,

Snow-white, as foam clad cytherea fair.

The mystic city, as ’twas truly called,

All glorious as the fabric of a dream.

That common-weal was but the brotherhood

Whereof the sages write and poets sing;

lt’s maxim true, the equality of all

In the ancient phrase exprest, Isonomos.

Such was the Great Republic and it’s chief,

The Ancient of Days, so-called in prophecy.

Was eke the leveller of blood-bought thrones.

Wise ruler! ’mong whose counselors appeared

The brothers famed for fore and after-thought.

The first Promethens-Vinctus, oft protrayed

On Caucasus imbound, and vulture-torn,

Till e’en the foolish Epimietheus saw,

And checked the abuses of the fiery arts

The first had given, but perfecting their use,

As at one stroke, set man and Titan free.

The Atlantid’s; though in seeming such as we,

Were yet in art consummate and supreme.

’’Mou-Dieu!" the knight exclaimed, with sense

acute, Those mortals caught faint whispers from afar, Conversing with compadres overseas; With goblins breathing flame beneath their yoke Were trade’s rich stores, and earth’s productions

borne. While lights pharosian far the unending day Dispensed at will and shamed the fitful sun. The teeming soil, ’neath such ethereal fires, Brought forth the golden grain, unkempt, until’d. They induced the former and the latter rain, They reared the choicest products of the field, And shared the harvest-home; nor ever deigned To weild the ploughshare, or to bind the sheaf. There science esoieric o’er the soil, Wielded supernal powers, as poets say, The rod of Ceres and the bolts of Jove.

Men toiled not, neither did they spin, and yet The field hesperian, o’erspreading half that vale, As it doth still, e’en from the Mexique gulf Expanding northward a full thousand leagues; Stood yearly enrobed in cereals green and gold. Men toiled not, neither did they spin; and yet The dyes purpureal and hyacinthine robes Wherewith the earth of old her kings indued. Were naught unto the wealth of their array When glittering in their fairy palaces. Joyous they trod the groves, the elysian fields. Or else aloft on wings of light arose. They enjoyed the music of the sunbright earth; They e’en traversed with speed the ethral vault; Wandered at will ’mong sister orbs more fair, Like mariners that rove the isle-gem’d seas; And finally, mayhap, defying fate. On winged steeds like the Al Borak of Mahound, Arose and reached high heaven at a bound. Aye, wonders reigned supreme, for happiness And science dawned upon the earth once more; Nor passion unrestrained, nor suffering, Nor death, methought, deformed that radiant

shore. There, if death came, twas at the appropriate

hour, Nor e’er untimely urged by sin, or crime. At last discerning whence their art arose,

And to their modes habituate, said he,

I marvel’d much that they were long unknown,

Nor doubted more a Jared’s thousand years,

Nor e’en the advent of the chiliast’s age;

Yet more admired the ancient sage inspired.

That from our mortal framed a perfect state,

And presaged the Republic there to rise

And blend earth’s races in it’s brotherhood.

A word as to the most stupendous strife

That there arose; the victory of Truth:

’Twas that of Light and Liberty withal;

Th^ Armageddon of the prophet’s dream.

The mightiest of states, even that dread power.

Which in this valley centreing stretched afar

To all surrounding seas, with those it drew

Into its alliance; all the Americas,

The Asian and Australasian isles;

This mighty power o’er all the earth besides

Triumphed at length; albeit the conflict waged

Was such as shamed all antecedent strife.

There myriads fought with novel arts and arms.

Like fell Medea with her dragon team.

And car aerial mid-air they appeared;

Or ranged in conflict, like the embattled hosts

Of Gabriel and Apolyon, strove on high

In cloud-lands mystic; strove with glittering arms

Electric-bayoneted; Jove’s fiery bolts,

They seized god-like and with precision hurled,

And hideous thunder, hideous rain ensued.

The most horrific factors in the strife

Were, on each side , the navies of the air.

Aye, truly, on the far horizon’s verge

Did these appear like vultures broad of wing>-,

Wide-circling in the sky; as they approached,

Their huge proportions, as the storm-cloud vast,

O’er shadowed earth and dim’d the light of day:

And oft, horribile dictu, they paused,

And slaughtered thousands, and from dizzy

heights Demolished cities with a rain of fire. At length the final conflict came, that one. The most eventful of all tides and times, That with it’s thunders did determinate The destiny of man, and thus disclose. Even in this long-lost valley of our dream, Tlie blood-stained field, to prophecy revealed, The Armageddon of the Apocalypse, From the Inyan-Kara’s height I observed the

strife. The patriot-host o’er-spread the vale below, And through the outlets of the rivers four, As well as through the encircling realms of air. The Invader came. Each great contending host Was shrouded in a mantling all of clouds. And as those war-clouds over-spread the scene, The shades of midnight fell. But suddenly The strife began, and vivid lightnings glared

And startling thunders stun’d the list’ning ear. Earth trembled as beneath an earthquake shock. The din increased until the vale beneath, To it’s utmost bounds, a pandemonium seemed, And through the rifted darkness, in the glare Of fearful lightnings, I beheld broad fields With carnage strewn, and rivers running blood. But as the climax came and when it seemed The quivering planet would in ruins fall, I heard, as ’twere, the rustling of swift wings, And saw the terraced plateau toward the north Covered with forms divine that all absorbed In earth’s last conflict, heeded naught besides. Meantime the sage, whose honored guest I’d been, His pLain disguise forsook, and radiant rose, And in celestial arms and armor, stood The angel of Liberty, Isonomos. Into the strife, on wings of light, he plunged; And, thus enforced, tis needless to relate The Atlantids won the victory of truth, And tyranny was driven from the earth. At last the turmoil ceased, and with it ceased The invidious rule of wrong; resounding fell The thrones of czar and kaiser, king and khan. How fair thereafter, in millennial days, ’Neath angel-guardians, grew the vale of vales Is more than tongue can tell, or dreams portray. He ceased, and Louisiane, divinely fair; Armed with the lute, mysteriously appeared.

’Twas thus she sang:

Plus Ultra.

As athwart the wild valley we gaze,

Opening hence in it’s dark semi-sphere. Can we view but the wood-land’s green maze,

And can naught but the savage appear? Ah! the eye o’er it’s green wold of leaves,

In the opaline region afar, Where it merges in heaven, perceives

The gates of Elysium unbar.

’Neath the beacon of hope I behold

Dimly-visioned, bright castles in air, Or Dorado, bright-glittering with gold.

Or Utopia, the blest and the fair. From that far, shining dream-land there fall

Sunny beams of it’s heavenly sheen, On the wold ’neath it’s cloud-pictured wall,

And an iris o’er-arches the scene;

And the wilderness smiles ’neath it’s gleam,

As the valley of paradise, and - ’Twas the rustling of boughs- - I did deem,

’Twas the hymn of a heaven-taught band. Oh! I weet ’tis a vision sublime,

’Tis a glimpse of the maze of fate, And it types the List product of time,

’Tis the blest and tlie coming state.

As dim-seen by the savage of old,

By Amerigo’s sailor forlorn; As ’twill gleam in the ages untold,

In the light of millennial morn.

She ceased. Our good knight seemed inspired

as ’twere: Would, he exclaimed, I had the potent art Of Orleans’ ancient school, or tabulae Toletenae, or hymn theurgical; I Would that dream of fairyland revive. Aye truly, she replied, would it were so. They spake, and from their aspect rapt. The cure deemed they visioned realms unknown.

“Maldicion," exclaimed the holy man,

“If from Jamblichus de Mysteriis,

Or such theurgic hymns, ye have the power

Of second sight, or gifts of like import,

Ye should at least on pulse or pebbles walk,

As penance meet, and by such deeds approve

Your observance of the seventh sacrament.”

Exclaiming thus, he raised tne crucifix.

And chanted excantations of learned phrase,

At which our good knight, unalarmed, but smiled.

Chap. XIV. Carlotta: Or, The Princess of Brunswick.

A pretty Woman’s worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Completes the forehead pale and tresses pure.

Rob’t Browning.

Soon ’neath the blades of fifty choppers fell The adjoining" woodland. Sundry arpents wide, As many miliares long,perhaps, stretched forth The escarpment, for the town’s defense designed, ’Twas made at length to serve another use, And in due time rustled with fields of maize. Upon the rvier-side rose palisades, Encircling barracks, commissarial stores; Among them, sundry abodes of officers. That rudely built, subserved the intended use. There stood our chieftain’s cottage, afterwards, As the Hotel Bienville, widely known. On the fair day whose happenings we recount, ’Twas but a rustic castle girded with Circling verandas and an upper floor, That over-looked the turbid Father-Stream, And immemorial woods. From it’s wide hall. Athwart the seething waters, looked that day> Our group of heroes. There in jocund mood, The effect, mayhap, of full-paid salaries,

A thing unlikely the historian says,

Or wines of Bordeaux recently arrived,

They indulged in rallyings facetious, not.

As well I wot, uncourtly or uncouth.

A bout at arms proposed for jollity,

In that, St Denis excepted, all engaged,

And dangerous play and flashing steel ensued.

Each face with youth and hot blood radiant glowed

In conflict hand to hand, and bright eyes flashed

And glinting sparks leaped from their flashing

blades, And gold-laced uniforms, and broidered hats, Doublets and mantles in the sunlight gleamed. More serious grown by a casual wound thus given, They ceased their sport the bleeding wound to

stanch. Our Jean presiding thus in rustic state, Then asked of Sieur D’Aubant the wondrous tale To which his strange adventures had given form. Be it remembered Sieur D’Aubant alone Dwelling afar by the stream called St John, Knew that strange story of his varying life, And hitherto no entreaty had availed To call it forth, Howe’er, at Jean’s command The lovelorn hermit even rehearsed his deeds; And in so doing held the host entranced, And even the most un heedful ear engaged. Of knightly grace was he, albeit lass-lorn.

His course had been that of the sad recluse.

Gently he laid aside his chapeau-bras

And seemingly in reminiscent mood,

He thus began: ’’The story, I admit,

Of my past deeds, if properly rehearsed,

Would be of interest to romantic youth,

And such, I assume, my auditors remain.

At the outset I will say that each of you

Has doubtless felt the deep enthralling charm

Pervading the imprints even of castles old,

Of lordly halls, such as have thickly graced

Old Europe since her medieval age.

Standing before those huge majestic piles,

What soul is not uplifted? What fond heart

Doth not imagine that within such walls

Romance prevails, and that those pillared fronts

Have each concealed a scene of fairyland;

And when, anon, within their lofty halls

Sweet melodies arise and dulcet tones

Of lute and harpsichord commingling with

The soulful voice of woman, ah, in truth!

What dreams divine on wings of angels borne

Smile on us as the fancied habitants,

The fitting tenants of such glorious towers.

Such thoughts, at least, found lodgment in the

soul Of a young chevalier, who of rugged frame

And martial aspect, spurred his worn steed down The rough declivities that westward bound The storied Iser and it’s vine-clad vale. Before him gleamed that which awoke those

dreams. On Iser’s banks a ducal palace stood: A noble one, forsooth! it’s beauties still By distance softened, it appeared in troth, A pictured scene as ’twere, a dream in stone; A reflex, seemingly, of fairy-land. Majestic rose it’s battlemented walls ’Mid groves of ancient oaks: o’er it unfurled, A glistening banner flowed, while in it’s front, The curving stream that beauteous scene enchased And in clear depths reflected all it’s towers. Enchanted by that vision of delight. Our young adventurer drew up his worn steed, And stood awhile in admiration mute; In doubt, as ’twere, whetlier to advance or pause. ’Tis said Mohammed on the rocky bound Of old Damascus and it’s happy vale, Even thus drew back for fear lest his stern soul, Thus lured and charmed by an earthly paradise, Would forfeit that above, or else approve Unequal to the proud pursuit of fame. Such thoughts, mayhap, our hero’s soul assailed. Howe’er, unlike Mohammed, he advanced And risked, and lost, if not a deathless soul.

At least a heart upon the doubtful chance. Let us in thought recur to seventeen-twelve. The lord of Brunswick, Wolfenbuttel called, From some escutcheon, or for aught we know, From the brave Teuton’s penchant for huge words Rough-sounding as the clash of savage brands; This duke, I say, well-worthy of the name, Dwelt in his hall by Iser’s storied stream: Dwelt nobly in the castle beautiful. That glittering woke the fancv of our swain. The duke himself, a courteous gentleman, Cultured, suave, appeared a nobleman By nature and art, both nobly bred and born; And when at length the young adventurer Approached that stately leader in his hall, Although himself well-bred, he quaked somewhat, As much in admiration as in awe. As stated, an adventurer was he, Seeking his fortune as the knights of old. Thrown with the duke, a kindred soul, mayhap, The latter loved him well, and made him soon, The chief and captain of his household guard. Ere long a heavenly vision, seemingly. Unto his eye appeared, and with it woke, In his young heart, a deathless dream of love. On the next day, being then a guardsman Sworn,

He viewed the schloss, ’Neath lofty colonnades, Greek-capital’d, and rich entablatures, With bated breath, he entered marble halls. As dazed well-nigh with grandeur, he advanced Mid Gobelin tapestries, o’er tesselated floors. He approached at length a glorious masterpiece, A rare chef-donuvre of the architect That reared the edifice: he approached at last, The apartment known as the garden-salon, Where pillars with arboreous capitals, Resembled palms in ranks and series ranged; Where beds and bowers of tropic plants in bloom Charmed every sense with beauty and perfume: While over-arching these, a rainbow, as ’twere, From high pilasters on each hand, arose, Apparently the bow of heaven indeed, Gilding with reflex beams the flowers below. I met Carlotta there, in that rare scene; A queen, apparently, in fairyland. She wore, in truth, a jeweled diadem, And vestments worthy of her high degree; While liveried servants formed a cortege fair About her, yet did she, like her great sire, P’rom our first meeting, deign to notice me. Well-pleased as ’twere, she threw on me, e’en then. The smile that changed my bodeful night to cay And soon became my comrade and my friend.

All accident that in those days occurred,

Deeply imprest her image on my heart,

And in most pleasing form. A neigliboring prince

A rival of the Wolfenbuttel house,

Assailed the latter; and, with force and arms,

Essayed to o’er-come it while its owner’s powers

Were absent on a distant field of strife.

In truth, as captain of the house-hold guard,

A veteran company but far too small

To oppose the foe; I lead it’s sole support.

Even this was taken unawares, and I,

Its chief, while ’mong the neighboring hills

With scant escort, equipped bnt for the chase,

Was fiercely assailed; my followers dispersed;

And I was left unconscious on the field.

Being sorely wounded by a sabre stroke,

I fell as dead; the roar of musketry,

The clash of battleaxe and gleaming sword,

Being the deathful sounds that stun’d mine ear.

I awoke ere long, and o’er my prostrate form

There stooped a figure that with flowing curls,

And face angelic; that with helm of gold

And buckler of like lustre, seemed to me

A true Valkyrie, and my first impulse,

Was to rejoice, despite my sufferings.

That I, by encountering thus a warrior’s deatli,

Had merited a warrior’s paradise

At length, beneath her smile, I found myself,

And my Valkyrie, slill of mortal form;

Yd more I admired the princess when I fonnd

That moved by love and armed with battle-axe,

She rescued me from over-powering; foes.

And in the act displayed a heroism

Well worthy of a truly royal race.

But time wore on, and peace again returned;

And, as I ween, never did mortal love

A fellow-being quite so fondly as I

Fully recovered, loved the princess then,

After thus finding her noble in deed

As well as name, and brave as well as fair.

’Tis needless to recount her varied charms

Since their enumeration would but more

Oppress my soul; or name the accomplishments

Of mind and heart that made her doubly dear

Throughout the realm, alike to low and high.

These are the subjects whereunto my dreams

Are ever wont, in secret, to recur.

In sober sooth I aver she loved me well;

Although a princess, and although to me

It seemed as if some form of heavenly mould

Stooped downward from the bowers of Paradise

To cheer my heart with a celestial smile.

But time passed on, and evil days drew nigh.

The Russian crown-prince, hideous shape! one day

Invaded, and like Satan’s serpent form

Disturbed and desecrated the rare bower

Of love and beauty in which our hearts reposed:

For, as it chanced, even I, the lowly born,

The simple soldier with but a true heart,

A character unstained and a good blade,

Rival’d in love the future emperor,

That boastful of illimitable power.

And wealth beyond the dreams of avarice,

Yet lacked the essential attributes of man,

And in habitual intemperance,

Swine-like and foul, oft wallowed in the mire.

And, be it remembered, merit and modest worth,

Even in that most unequal strife, had won;

Had not the despot of half Europe, aye,

The Czar of all the Russias seconded

The inebriates efforts and foully decreed

The ambrosial charms of one worthy of heaven

Should be surrendered to an imp of hell;

Had not decreed besides, with threats decreed,

That the weak duchy should his wish fulfill

And on its life should tremble and obey.

Thus power at length succumbed; thus brute force,

And gold combined, o’er simple worth prevailed.

Carlotta, at last, unwillingly succumbed.

Partly to shield her parent from the rage

Of a rude despot, partly in the hope

That her weak hand on the rough prince bestowed,

Would mend, mayhap reform a dastard’s life,

Yielded; and on the unworthy one bestowed

Her hand, but not her heart. Soon afterwards,

As at the altar, all dispirited.

She passed in silence through the mockery

Of plighting solemnly her sacred faith;

Even while the hymn of jubilation shook

The great cathedral’s loftiest arcades,

And smiles of seeming joy lit and illumed

A jeweled throng of lords and ladies fair;

Even then I observed upon the princess’ face

A look of silent loathing, ill-disguised,

A movement of repulsion ’gainst the form

That stood beside her there. By these impelled,

I followed in disguise the new-wed pair,

And ’mong the silent Cossacks in their train,

Rode to the heart of Russia, equipped and nerved

To free the princess, or for her to die.

She entertained, but deemed impractical

My bold design, and in old Moscow at length

Our journey ceased. There on the columned porch

Of the green palace of a savage Czar,

The princess’ maiden, who was won’t erewhile

To bear our missives, for the last time came

And gave a note and turned away to weep.

“I love you," thus the scented missive said,

And then went on: “Which, placed as we are, love,

Denotes that we must never meet again.”

Needless to tell my unhappy wanderings thence;

And I conclude this story of my love

And fatal loss, the latter fearful quite.

As the other was exalted, in few words.

In my bark-covered cottage by St. John,

The antithesis of that beyond the sea

Wherein Carlotta, unhappy still, remains;

Ye’ve seen, mayhap, and wondered much to see

The portrait of a queenly lady stand

And gaze upon the insignia of a heart

Down pressed beneath a glittering, jewel’d crown.

Sad emblem of Carlotta’s weary life!

That came, somewhat mysteriously to me.

And with a look of sadness bids me hope.”

He ceased, as by deep feeling overcome,

And round him prest a sympathetic throng

Conjuring him to dream of brighter days.

Chap. XV. La Reine de la Prairie Or, Love on The Texan Plains.

Oh, that the desert were imy dwelling=place, With one fair spirtt for my minister , That I might all forget the huwan race And hating no one, love but only her.

Do I err, In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.


Another eve in his baronial hall

The Louisianian sat with all his freres;

With railery assailed the Benedick,

The knight of St Denis, who smiled well-pleased,

And smoked mean-time a native pipe of peace,

Filled with tobacco from the Natchitoches.

At length at the request of each and all,

He told of his romance in Mexico.

“Oft as yon sun," began Sieur Juchereau,

Sinks ’mid the blooming pampas of the west,

To my fond thought revives a golden dream;

In visions of bright beauty comes again,

The cherished memory of the prairie-queen.

Some suncry seasons gone, a setting sun

That lit those Texan plains, allured a band

Of roving wanderers toward his radiant goal.

From northlands far they came. To their rapt

gaze Thrice-beauteous seemed that floral summer-land. Fair realm! where once reposed the central sea, Whose lapsing waters left the coral beds And plains of ocean, waveless ’neath the sun. Though still their boundless fields of verdure flow, And weigh, and seem fair seas of living green. Those native fields unbroken by the plow Yield teeming harvests; rising o’er the plain, Immantling earth with green; in autumn days Transmute to gold without man’s toil or care. For nature o’er those boundless tracts bears sway, And wild and lone they stretch from zone to zone. Full many days the adventurer may rove Still journeying through that fragrant land of

flowers, While round his path on every hand arise The unending vistas of it’s emerald meads. With transport I recall those western wilds, Those floral meads encompassed by the sky; A paradise as of tht king of kings. Filled with youth’s poesy I seemed to approach, A legion of romance; a realm of bliss; A Mezzoramia, the approach to which I then explored, Gaudentio-like, alone. Aye, with delight we approached those far-famed


Haunts of the herded buffalo, thenceforth

Most sumptuously we fared. On furry robes,

Or slept at ease, or bounteously dined

Of venison and bison’s haunch galore.”

The hearers closer drew, with interest deep,

As eloquent the glittering chief went on.

“But our adventurers dared a hostile clime,

And I, their chief, intent on royal gains.

With caravans of Crozat’s merchandise,

Yet strove to elude the fell Commanches’ bands,

Or clad in mail, with fateful batteaxe,

Their naked warriors thin’d and safely passed.

At length we approached our goal, the Iberian

posts, And careful of my wares and freres, alone, I advanced toward the Presidio del Norte, And soon the sentinel’s sereno rang From a rude fortress rising o’er the plain. The heavenly Queen, Vergen Purissima, Inscribed upon the Spanish banerol, And in her features an Iberian fair, O’erhung the rude, romautic seat of arms. Fair

sign! Bodeful perchance, prognostic of my fate, Determined there by a senorita’s smile. There ’mong the adobes Spanish veterans strolled, And warsteeds lay in fields of rich mesquite, Porgetting battles in their deep repose.

There in his court the grave hidalgo sat,

The worthy senor, Zanchez de Navarre,

The ruler and the prefect of the post.

Advanced in years, a courtier in grace,

Albrit of low degree, his heart had reached

The loftiest rank, type of the true noblesse;

Great-souled, yet with a father’s kindly breast.

Even thus appeared that Spanish veteran,

Whose days were passed in rude America;

Since in his youth he left his natal shore;

Ancient Navarre for distant Mejico;

With the conquistadors those realms explored

Nor ever after quit the Aztec clime.

Thus with regard and kindliness received

My fears at once dispelled, yet said the Don,

“Our service claim in aught we can perform,

And be thy stay an estada of joy;

Yet must I say, to admit thy caravan

Exceeds my power: our governor alone,

Whose residence is hence full three-score leagues,

Can answer thee. Untill his will be known.

My tent thou’lt share and an honored guest.”

That far presidio stood on a height,

A flowery knoll amid the extended plain.

The weighing grasses clothed the pampas round

And rolled a verdant sea, whose circling waves

Flowed ever ’neath the islet’s rocky base.

Mayhap in times long gone, on that fair site,

A summer isle o’erlooked a tropic sea. Delightful haunt, fair scenes were there disclosed, With moss-clad rocks, alooves and chrystal

springs; The orange on those sunny slopes appeared, And oleanders green, the sweet bay rose, Whose home enchanted are the south-sea isles. Withdrawn amid the green declivities Of that fair mount and opening o’er the plain, The chief’s adobe stood, tile-roofed and low. Yet fairly spacious with its court enclosed While thickly round in groves of broad pecans, That close-embowering marked that mystic shore, Rose native villages. The plain beyond, A sea becalmed, stretched toward the horizon’s

verge. Sweet Isle in oceanic fields of green; In all the vast, romantic wilderness The central and most beauteous spot it seemed.” Approaching a most pleasing incident Sieur Juchereau now doffed his laced chapeau, As with increasing interest, and resumed. "Filled with youth’s poesy entranced I viewed That region of romance whereof, I ween, The Algonquins dreamed when in the far south-west, Their sages placed their happy hunting-grounds.

In thought I sang: Where’er I rove I still behold

Fair fields and scenes enchanting, A floral realm, a land of gold

And naught but love is wanting:.

Don Pedro’s quaint abode was furnitured Nor rich, nor gaudy; brighter yet it seemed Than soldier’s lodging in the camps of war, Or dwellings in Arcadian Mexico. More bright than these our chieftain’s home appeared, And fraught with emblems of Iberian life. The estrada there about the apartment’s wall An air of welcome ease dispensed and e’en Of lover’s joys and blythe terulias spake. And there the stranger came an honored guest; And each domestic in his service vied And eke for him the feast of welcome spread. Meanwhile within some nigh adjoining room He heard soft murmurs and the silvery tone Disclosed at length a charming presence there; And wondering still at such unwonted sounds, He gazed entranced when on the scene appeared That beauteous senorita, famed and fair, The brave hidalgo’s daughter. Worthy child Of honored sire; nor backward nor yet bold, Well pleased she seemed to greet the adventurer there.

Of easy grace and bearing non-chalant, She showed Europa’s every art attained, Though enrobed well-nigh as the pavesas maid. Ere long of his most cherished friend she spake Whose heart on Francia’s shore had been his own; Of that loved friend, her own likewise, she knew His name and strange career. Him now she hailed, As one long sought and welcomed with delight. ’Twas thus in truth she seemed. And ne’er before, In court or palace had that stranger bowed With such regard, by beauty thus enthralled, Or, sooth to say, unto a face so fair. A creole and a child of nature she, Of woman’s form, though immature in years. Her face o’er-shadowed by her raven hair. Possessed the deep charm of the loved brunette. A sun whose heat calls forth the orange bloom Quickened her senses, warmed her tender heart And with the love-beams lit her sparkling eyes. Never the Andalusian capital, Proud Seville, famed for maids of beauty rare. Nor e’er the grand Castilian prado when Blythe Madrilenas haunt it’s promenade, Beheld a fairer form or lovelier face. Delighted with a beauty sweet and strange Where still the olive faintly tinged the rose He learned at length her Aztec lineage, And that her grandam’s race was eke her pride,

Descended from no servile origin,

In that ancestral line were ranked great names

Of high renown, and over all, a king,

The last that graced the Montezuma’s throne;

The fate-defying ZinGuatamo;

In death a king indeed, when smilingly

Out-strethed upon his bed of burning coals.

Manuela, beauty’s royalty appeared

When that transported guest thy charms beheld

And bowed beneath thine eyes enchanted sway.

Ere long he found her cultivated mind

Well-worthy of her persons radiant charms.

And that her loved guitara’s dulcet sound

Voicing sweet Andalusian roundelays,

Entranced his soul with thoughts of joy and love

Till bliss seemed near and life became divine;

And that she led the blithesome minuets

And Zarabandas of her Mexique train,

With manchless grace, with joyful castanet,

And delicate zapato, ill-concealed

By these short skirts from his admiring eye.

In such well-versed, he taught her rare coupees,

The gay cotillon much renowned gavotte,

The measures of the antique farandole,

And trod with her, a la Provence likewise,

The rigadon, to youthful lovers dear,

Wherein the twain close-twining move alone.

As time were on, yet stronger grow the spell

In which he found his captive soul enthralled.

What rapture ’twas that fairy form to view,

And list the music of that gentle voice:

Tho that mild nature cast a spell o’er all,

To low and great alike presenting still

A sweet demeanor and a smiling face

He yet with joy and secret rapture knew

Her sweetest smile awaited his approach

And when to him she spoke, its gentlest terms,

That voice assumed, its most endearing tones:

Till more than friendliness their bosoms warmed,

Till scarce reluctant, each at length beheld

Love unconcealed within their mutual eyes,

I care not to detail that love at length,

,Or on the carte du tendre, trace it’s course,

From this, its birth propitious in the realm

Of delicate attentions, as tis said,

Unto its acme on that mount divine,

Once termed reciprocal affection, yet,

I’d note its triumph and its crucial test.

A mid the fragrance of the floral bowers

That graced the patios of that quaint abode,

At eve we roamed beneath the South Sea rose,

The floral tree that blooms in summer-lands,

And brightly decks the broad Pacific’s queen,

Fair Otaheite and her sister isles.

There oft we viewed the plains coleur-de-rose.

One eve, reposing ’mong the clouds of gold

And bending toward Balboa’s distant main, A setting sun his vague attention held, And fancy pictured in pacific seas, The shores of those new-found Hesperides, As fair as e’er Hellenic bards portrayed. He thus recalled the seamen worn and bronzed That furled for aye their tempest-tattered sail, Songht out Tahiti’s bowers and blooming maids. Nor wearied e’er of love and sunny skies. E’en by such charms he found his heart assailed. Less strange the hidalgo’s cultured daughter, aye, And less barbaric far than the nude queens That lured at will the toil-worn mutineers Wihiin Tahiti’s flower-decked coral zone; Yet quaint at times she appeared, and wildly fair, The fitting sovran of her tameless fields. Her sweet face still the same, she at times appeared In beauteous masquerade, with plume bedight, With snowy garments of panola woven And wondrous mantle of rare feather-work. From golden down of tropic birds contrived, Looking the Mexique maiden such as graced That vale when came the fell conquistador, And Cortez o’er Tezcuco’s glistening lake, Beheld the Montezema’s rock-built towers, Yet thinking that fair vision but a dream. But most she seemed the Iberian maiden true,

Less like the belles supine in royal bowers,

Than the blythe queens of the payesas train,

That joyous dance in Andalusian groves.

And even ’mong these I ween, was none so fair,

As Manuela Zanchez de Navarre:

La Tose-ferin; lovelier than fleur-de-lis,

To my rapt thought, the queen of fairy-land,

Regent, imperial, with her native charms.

No less she appeared, that witching one, with me

There lingering ’neath the oleander tree.

There urged to love, “Mi amigo," she replied,

“I own thy friendship dear, and yet," she said,

To speak as Guatamozin’s child had spoken,

Thou winged wanderer from Tlapallan’s Isle,

Canst thou with me remain? Forbear, I pray,"

“Dulzura mia, doubt me not," he cried,

“Know, if I go, my heart must linger here,"

On that jornado he was not disguised,

As afterwards, and from his crested helm,

His corslet ’neath his roquelaur agleam.

She knew he was a martial son of France,

Knew well the land to which his faith was

sworn; Knew if to him, her yielding heart she gave, She must, at length, her Texan clime fosake. How-e’er he pictured his wild Louisiane, In colors glowing, not to say o’erwrought,

Till thitherward she wandered in her dreams

And thought of it, with tender love likewise.

With ardor thus, and love-given eloquence,

He urged his suit and seeming unrepelled,

On her fair hand and flower-soft cheek at length

Imprinted deep love’s signet with a kiss,

And yeilding she became his fiancee.

Their future life and home they then discussed.

Refering to his distant post, said he:

“And dost thou think, mon ange guardienne,

Thy rod caducean adequate to charm

That wilderness into thy fit abode?"

She with a smile: “Didst think thellano’s queen,

Thus am I by my flattering friends oft called,

Whose regal domain is. itself full wild,

Must quake and tremble ’neath the woodlands’

shade. Far be that thought from thee. Ah! we will now Unite our empires of the wood and plain, Regardless of the whims of France and Spain, And build our home beside la rouge riviere. Indeed,’ she exclaimed, we’ll bide delighted there. Where blend la Nouvelle France and Mejico, The first thine own, the last, my native Land.” "Then be it so," her amorado exclaimed, "On some fair height beside Sabloniere, Will we construct our fortress-chateau, there, Where oaks broad-branching intercept the glare

Of summer suns, where grandiflora gleam,

And symboling fair lovers death-darkened sphere,

The cypress shades the myrtle’s roseate bower.

A fortnight thus on angel-wings passed by,

Yet ne’er was happiness without alloy

Of tears and bitter sorrow, and tis said:

“The course of true love never did run smooth.

Soon rose our star of ill; Anaya rose,

The governer of Caouis; even he,

A suitor fierce, albeit hapless, strove

By fraud or force to win my Manuelle’s hand.

Unwearied, unabashed was he, than whom.

Nor blythe Antinous, nor Eurymachus,

Nor one of all the amorous train renowned,

That tireless wooed the sad Penelope,

Was more invidious, more inveterate.

Alas of my advent, and prosperous suit

At once he learned and with demoniac rage,

Sent hostile troops and bore me thence afar

To Coahuila, Near its fortressed walls

The postern opening showed a prison cell

Crowning the fort within; my abode ere long;

By foes received, their enemy forsooth.

An hour later in that darkened cell

By rock-built walls I found my steps restrained.

And night on wing of darkness came full soon,

And from my grated window I beheld

The distant plain, o’er-cast with deepening shades,

And caught the breeze flower-laden from the

wolds. Immured and prisoned close, I watched till dawn, And Heaven’s fair ensign beaming on me there, The star-gem’d crosier of the southern skies, Beheld no scene more sad, more dolorous. Than my alternate rage and pent-up grief, Or Manuelle, sorrowing in her distant home, And weeping vainly o’er IilT love-lorn state. The hours pissed on. At length the chieftain

came, Soulless Anaya, prefect of the post, Who there, invidious, strove with promises Of fair rewards, and liberty forsooth, To o’ercome the pledge to Manuelita given. Therein deep-scorned he essayed dread menacings To enforce subservience to his dark designs, ’For I’, said he, Gaspardo Anaya, I, El Gobornador, sole commandant here, In this far realm supreme, I truly vow. Unless thou yield and my inlents subserve, Thy life hall pay the penalty extreme.” Yet bootless proved his threats and promisings. He then inveterate, sought to o’ercome with fear My Manuelita, threatening thus my life, If she dared disobey his mandate rude,

Or scorn his suit. Albeit a maid so fair, And dove-like mild, her message awed his soul; For with firm voice and meaning look she said:

“Loving Sieur Juchereau, I cannot wed, While he doth live, and if ill-starred he die, While in those walls confined; this dagger’s blade, By mine, or by mine agent’s hand impelled, Shall well requite the fell Anaya’s deeds And cleave his dastard heart.” The days passed

on: By strategies deep-laid she at length obtained From, the Aztec capital a stern rescript Transporting to the vice-king’s high tribune, My hapless cause, to thwart Anaya’s rage. Thither straightway o’er leagues unnumbered

borne, I reached that far imperial capital, The worthy pride of Quetzel’s ancient realm. Yet there the law delayed, and change of place Changed not my luckless state, brought not relief; Still in a dungeon chained I vainly sighed Till hope delusive changed to dark despair. As yet ceased not my accustomed suffering, When, lo! in state the vice king’s aide-de-camp, By chance as it ’were, appeared. He approached

my celL "Whom have we here," to me at length he spake. "I, Juchereau de St Denis," I exclaimed. Praying for justice. Weereupon he paused. Startled, astonished; then advancing scan’d; More closely scan’d my face so Woe-begone, And sobbing cried: “Loose, Jailer, loose his chains,’

And over-joyed, in him I at length discerned, My youth’s best friend, Le Marquis de Larnage.” Then truly was I cheered by fortune’s smile, And by a revolution of her wheel E’en from the prison to the palace reared. For by that long-lost friend, unto the throne Conducted, he that occupied that throne, Became my frere and his chateau my home. There haply I had lived, but from afar. From the presidio’s walls love beck’ning smiled. At length with gold supplied, with loving hearts, A stately cortege and a royal steed, And letters-patent granting powers supreme Over Anaya, homeward forth I fared. Nor many added toils did love require. As you may know the Iberian maiden rare With silken tresses of the raven’s hue, With brilliant eye and sweet and rapturons smile, Ere long a loved and living bride became. Boundless the joys our formal bans supplied And boards homeric heaped with oxen slain, With casques of native pulque and rich wines, Whilst loving guests in tribes convened. Howe’er, A stronger bond than Hymen’s blent our lives. Devotion deeply-tried our clasped hands joined. Divine that potent tie; the pearly chain Round Cupid and fair Psyche thrown was ours, While winged loves attendant hovered nigh,

And to our hearts sang epathalamies.

Florida y Dorado! mystic realms’

Enwreathed with flowers, enriched with naive

gold, Whereto the dreamer’s thought transformed our

shore; To whom the fair Floridian coast became The Bimini, where chrystal fountains pure, Their youthful rose to faded cheeks restored; While southward ’mong Andean heights arose Manoa glittering with it’s towers of gold. The passing centuries his fault revealed And banished quite the Iberian’s cherished dream, And yet reposing ’mong those fragrant bowers, Amid the teeming gardens of the west, With scarce a want by nature unsupplied, Methought, perchance blest realms were there revealed, Or that bright kingdom, El Dorado, or The Algonquin’s paradise, the hunting-ground, Far toward the sunset ’neath Sowanna’s rule. At ease, amid sunbright, edenic scenes, With love delightful roving at my side, Such then the form my varying life assumed. Ah, Manuelita, by the Iberians named "La Reyna del Llano’, magic queen, In beauty reigning o’er a happy sphere; Her royal seat, a plain adobe’s halls,

Rude dwelling-place upon the hillsides green, Her subjects were it’s loving occupants; Yet not the conquering Zenobia, Fair eastern queen luxurious, amid Palmyrian groves and sculptured marble halls, Nor Cleopatra coursing Cyduns’ stream, With silken sails and bannerets of gold; More perfect sway or greater charms possest. Still, Manuela, still thy regal loveliness, Proved greater as thy heart was fully known. Thy charms resistless when no longer veiled, And when departing I beheld thy face, Thy love reigned o’er mv breast with fuller sway, Than when I clasped thy throbbing breast to

mine, And hailed thee first mine own, ma belle des belles. Through all that season’s brilliant, glowing days. We lived enraptured in each other’s arms. Or roving ’mong those floral solitudes. Long days fraught with the enrapturing silences, Stillness unbroken, but by words of love, Rolled by, for that romantic seat of arms Nestling above the islet’s orange groves, Was now forgotten, and our life retired Scarce knew companionship beyond our own. That daily life well-nigh edenic seemed: Oft-times we trod the island’s orange groves. Or dreamt in grots beneath its terraced shore.

O’erlooking vasty fields that sighing waved; Where once, ere ocean from the plain retired, The mermaid woke her mystic melody, And strewed the sea-shells o’er the caverned floor. The chief of marvels on that wondrous isle Was a rude grotto by what race contrived, None of the neighboring tribes could e’en surmise. Mound builders, or some ocean-king of old, Reared it, I ween, in centuries long-gone, While seas primeval rolled about that shore. Conveying thither from the South Sea isles, The Aztec tribes: and yet did some contend That nature and not art, fashioned its walls Of mossy stone, the doorway’s simple arch, And e’en the roof’s concave. There oft we

strayed. To show the figure just wherein ye’ve made Odyseus fortune mine, (except in grief), Whilst in that bower and in that presence rare; I oft recalled Calypso’s grot divine, And oft that nymph of old Meonides, So well portrayed; so beauteously enrobed: "Whose swelling loins a radiant zone embraced, With flowers of gold; whose under-robe unbound, In snowy waves flowed glittering on the ground.” Yet, truthfully, salvo pudore, I own

This beauteous picture of our Manuelle just As to her form and swelling loins alone. Thus with my queen I viewed her fair domain. Those native villages to her recalled Old Andalusia and her cities five; Fair Seville, Gades, Cordova, Malaga and the glory of the Moor. Oft rang the adobes there with festal sounds, And rife with beauty’s bloom, whence then arose The releck’s, the guitara’s symphony, With blended sounds of reveling and joy. Though of simplicity Arcadian, Unvaried plenty o’er those realms prevailed: ’ Don Pedro numbered ’mong his stores withal The sheep and cattle of a thousand hills. There nature’s gardens every want supplied: From her green fields that boundless waved beneath, , Came wild-clad natives with their chickawicks O’erfilled with purslain, fruits and flowers rare. There reigning still with Egil’s ancient arms, The hunter sought the herded buffalo; Yet scarce from need amid that teeming land. The richest viands graced our rustic board And e’en luxurious was that summer-home; And yet each carkless native reveling free In fair abundance ’neath those genial skies, As sweet repasts and bounteous wealth enjoyed.

O’er all the north-ward plain that state prevailed,

While south-ward in still fairer vales enchained,

The Mexicano wrought his pulque wine,

Or of the cochineal a crimson dye,

Or summer vestments from the gossamer

That there adorns his fair algadon tree.

There without toil, or culinary fires,

The broad magney pours forth a beverage

That oft supplants the product of the vine.”

Recalling thus the red canarias,

That tempting glowed beside our worthy knight,

He drained a chalice, and his tale pursued.

“Delightful days amid the chase we passed,

When mounted fair upon her Mexique steed,

La Manuelita, by my side, traversed

The floral pampas gathering the blooms

Whose radiance adorned the summer-fields:

And I in those poetic scenes entranced,

Forsook vain forms and fashions there unknown,

While in oblivion lapsed my former cares,

And thoughts of fame on European shores.

Unnoted there the circling seasons passed

Until I found a score of moons had risen,

Since first I trod that isle’s enchanted shore.

Yet as the bard hath said: “Voisins,

Sont nos plaisirs, et nos chagrins.”

In grief, at length, I bade my love adieu,

To seek once more the distant world of strife.

Yet ever from those wide hesperian fields, When west-winds waft their subtle harmony, And from days portal, shines the evening star, Come memories sweet as flowers by zephyrs borne, That speak of her whose heart is yet mine own; Whose smile of love doth make the wilderness A land of flowers and a realm of gold. "Vivent la joi, le bagatelle l’amour;" Echoed our paladins, the cure too, In the same breath exclaimed: “Romantic love! Thrice blest the souls that such fond dreams enjoy.

How could you then such blissful love forsake?" "A question grave" replied Sieur Juchereau, "As vexed learned minds and tried the Court of

Love. In la Provence, in days of chivalry, Was reared that high tribunal. Justice there, In pride and power upheld the even scale. At Love’s behest sent forth saiset arret, And with strong arm enforced the rightful claim. One cause perplexed the Court of Love full long. Three suitors strove to win a lady fair, With varied arts her yielding heart to gain. While to the first she gave her sweetest smile, Another’s hand she held in secret clasped. Nor might the third repine; her slippered foot, In wantonness was prest upon his own.

Thrice doubtful task to name the favorud cause. As great my task, as difficult the choice, Between Lovers smile and Duty’s urgent call. But soon resolving all my doubts and fears, Will Manuelle seek the pathless wild and me. In wildernesses lorn to live and love, And eke display the fortitude sublime Of him that smiled upon his couch of fire. He said and while the harper’s instrument Responsive rung, sang feelingly and welL Thus flowed the lay:

La Reine de mes Amours. My queen bides in a flowery land,

In western fields afar; The sunset glows at her command,

And eke the evening star. Her sceptre sways the land and sea;

Her smile the heart allures; Ma rose ferin des prairies, oui,

La Reine des mes Amours. She roves the gardens of the west;

She wards the gates of day; And over fields forever blest,

Extends her regal sway. Her sceptre sways the land and sea;

Her smile the heart allures; Ma rose ferin des prairies, oui, La Reine de mes Amours.

’Tis thou, belle amie, from yon fields,

Thus lightening earth I ween, To thee my heart its homage yields,

And finds thee still its queen. Though in Languedoc and Languedoui,

Unsung, that smile allures; Ma rose ferin des prairies, oui, La Reine de mes amours. Bravo! Bravo’! exclaimed his loving freres, And highly pleased the assembly then adjourned.

Chap. XVI. “La Cour d’Amour Or, The Louisianian’s Hall

Fair land! of chivalry the old domain,

Though not for the with classic shorts to vie In charms that fix th’ enthusiast’s pensive eye; Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought.

Mrs. Hemans’ Abencerrage.

Some time thereafter to the sound of harp And citharistic song, (since in his train, The governor then numbered the gray bard,

And his fair daughter), the conseil d’etat

In form convened. Our Jean in chair of state.

And now of mature age, appeared in troth

A stringent chief, yet social and suave.

When thus convened in his white-walled chateau,

His famed hotel, the assemblage there appeared

Much like the household of some pincely duke,

Or feudal lord of old: the officials there

Being mostly still, scions of his great house,

His kinsmen and his freres; his word was law.

Albeit with the consent of all he ruled

And their affection was his title still,

To that supreme control. When thus convened,

A pleasing incident varied somewhat

The accustomed routine there. Aye, sooth to

say, An incident romantic and unique. Before the cheif in his baronial state, Were led together, ’mid a smiling train, The errant princess and the prairie queen; Each with her loving lord. A joyous crew. And in good sooth, on many a royal throne Sat forms less lovely than in simple state, Stood there within the Louisianian’s hall. Presenting his fair lady, Sieur D’Aubant Came forth with her and to the chair announced: "Obedient to the order of your grace I here present the princess of Brunswick

He paused, and Sieur Jean, from his chair of state Descending, shook the hand of Sieur D’Aubant, And likewise that of Sieur de St Denis, And gravely kissed each of the smiling brides. Needless to say the gallant Frenchmen all, And their sweet ladies, quaint and debonair, Paid to the errant princess, queenly still, And to la Manuelita, their devoirs; And with deep gratulations hailed them there. Then Sieur D’Aubant the fair finale gave Of the sad story he had left half-told, While every ear attended, and each eye Roved from the speaker to the winsome face Of his fair heroine, continued he: "I’ve heretofore related how and why Carlotta, present here, though fair and good, Wedded a bestial shape of royal name. Regardful of her wish, I’d briefly speak Upon a theme that ever gives her pain. Her life with the young Blue-beard of our tale. The prince besotted, was even such, I ween, As one of God’s good angel’s had endured, Linked for a season to a fiend of hell. Though enshrined in lordly halls, the ills she endured Were such as crush the life from out young

hearts. At length the climax came: in brutal rage,

He shocked her with opprobrious epithets, And even with blows, whereat her pride arose, And at the risk of life itself rebelled. A Bluebeard truly, he forbade her then To summon or inform the followers Of her brave sire, the latter being drecased: Forbade her even, and upon pain of death, To leave the abode accursed of royalty And cruelty wherein her spirit pined. To escape his presence and his wrath alike, She dared, though weak, to invade the charnel-house, And brook, even there, the gorgon form of death. She dared, like Juliet, with a lethal drug Arrest her senses and in death-like trance, Sleep lifeless in the coffin and the tomb, ’Till a confederate, in the dead of night Seeking her there, applied the antidote. And, Lazarus-like, in shroud and grave-clothes

wrapped. She arose, as at the Saviors call, arose; And ’scaped, though fainting, from the house of

death. Of this event, and in due time, informed; I apprised her of my deathless love unchanged, And of the rustic home that over-sea, Awaited her, beyond the reach of kings; Where now, in peaceful bliss, we live and love.

Then Sieur de St Denis his smiling bride

Presented in like form, at the request

Of M. Bienville and his comarades.

He briefly told them of his latest trip,

Jornado, as ’twas called, to Mexico,

And his return thence with his prairie-queen.

When love had last recalled him to her side.

He essayed with others the wide wilderness.

At Natchitoches procuring cavarans,

Departed once again for Mejico.

Reaching a village of the Asinais,

Encamped and there in native lodge eusconsed,

Adream on couch of bear-skin, he beheld

His love, as twere, in visions of blest realms.

He dreamt, and ere the lagging dawn arose.

Impelled by hopes and fears unutterable,

And his companions loitering there, alone,

With scant escort at least, through frowning

wilds, And the Commanche’s haunt, he sought her side. Soon from her side, enforced by duty’s call, Again I roved and in far Mejico, Was held once more in strict imprisonment, A spy and foe inimical esteemed, For now Linarez’ duke no longer reigned. Albeit the childish haunt and natal town Of Manuelle, mon Ange Guardienne, Was that fair city by Tezcuco’s lake,

Delightful in her mount-encircled vale; That views the dread volcano wreathed in fires, And at his side that mountain-figure rare, Prone on the heights with death-like face upturned, Tht Pallid Lady in her shroud of snow. And there again dame fortune smiled; even there, He found kinsmen and friends forever leal, That loved him for his lady’s sake, and these, O’er all the viceroy’s servitors prevailed, And freed the captive from his chains once more. Yet not without great pains. To Monterey, In the tierras temperadores, the foe Had sent strict orders to arrest his flight, When heedfully he approached the town, but first, A new-found kinsman’s hacienda, where The rock-walled casa hedged with olives smiled. The kinsman hailed him and due warning gave. Post haste he fled and foiled the foe’s design. From the Presidio soon, his love with him, He hastened hither through the wilderness, But ere he reached his distant goal, The sylvan fortress by Sabloniere, He fared but ill; of meagre trains despoiled. He arrived at length as did the brave Geraint, That blameless knight of Arthur’s table-round, Who with his Enid safe behind him rode, And single-handed dared the wilderness.

Romantic truly was that mimic court, When on that self-same eve, a fete occurred, And every class appeared. When Louisiane, The Indian maiden with her buskined crew, Were seen in state, and, without stint, admired: When, with the taste of those poetic days. In masquerade she typed our forest state, And wreathed in flowers, ’neath white magnolia

blooms, Amid her smiling train, received with grace, The cultured dame and eke the woodland belle. There then, bedecked with crowns, our queens of

song, Typeing the Teuton and the Latin race, The east and west, the old world and the new, Smiled on the new-found state. Then music rose, The minstrel’s harp by a new-found lute enforced, Enchanted all; and to those dulcet strains, The knights and dames, and their attendants all, Danced minuets and gavottes; and forms as fair. And glittering chiefs, as stately and as brave. As France, or earth affords, commingled there.

Conclusion. But time wore on. At length the forest-lord Wns stripped of power, through his rival’s calumny; The mighty valley and its buskined tribes

With grief beheld him leave their troubled shore, Threatened with strife and dire calamities. Full soon were heard portentous notes of ill Where late the woodland world rejoiced to see Athwart that vale outstretched, the bow of hope, Prognostic, haply, of Elysian scenes; The heavens grew dark and clouds portentous

frowned. Disorder reigned until the scene appeared Like Milton’s dream of chaos and old night, And, as I deem, the guileless chief unskilled, Succeeding the young Lion of the South, Stood like the arbiter, whose judgments vain. But made confusion worse. The natives rose, The Natchez first, ere long the Chicasaws, The movement grew till even the kindly tribes, The potent Choctaws and the Natchitoches, The vengeful hatchet raised, athirst for blood, And moved in concern ’gainst the Gallic towns. A miracle, as ’twere, those posts preserved, Except the fairest, the most favored one, Ill-omened Rosalie! whose birth ill-starred, Attracted first our muse. Even then ’twas seen That shore was darkened ’neath the frown of fate. Some seasons passed ere yet the dread decree Of the three fatal sisters was fulfilled. A decade sped, and it accomplished stood. To accomplish it, and thy predestined fall,

O, Rosalie! they but removed from power That chief, of measures mild in common life, In warfare called “the Lion of tde South;" But placed o’er thee, in lieu of nobler forms, The vile hulk of the drunken fool, Choparte; He, of thought chaotic and potations deep, From its dark lair goaded the beast of strife; The howling savage from his hut defied, Till nameless terrors clothed the wilderness, And shapes demonian thronged its realm of

gloom. Too late the French perceived their vital need Of the exiled chief beneath whose hand alone Those wilds were hushed to peace, whose art su-

preme, With three-score hunters had o’er-awed a race, That rising now with brandished arms defied The Choctaws thousands, and the powers of Gaul. But Rosalie, bought with a price of blood, Beset by evil passions from its birth, And reared ’neath savage cursings, dark and dire; Was destined from its building both to fall And prove the author of a nation’s doom. Ah, Rosalie’ ne’er sadder fate befel Lorn wanderers on the “dark and bloody ground;" Than chanced thy sons upon the Natchez’ shore. Oace favored village by the Father Stream, The muse recalls thy desolated grounds,

And o’er those harrowing scenes in memory,

Will linger still, despite the lapse of time.

Ill omened, ’mid a hostile nation reared,

Whose treacherous deeds and fell disguise were


At length the savage, full of hate arose,

And brandished the red axe of massacre,

And smote the helpless ’neath the eye of day.

A deed of darkness still; with care devised.

And long in hallowed secresy revolved;

’Till one lethean stroke impelled it’s doom.

’Most horrid form if strife’ War’s Dragon Rouge

Ne’er heralded worse deeds. Gore-reeking braves!

What though some grievous ills their tribe op-

prest, Shall red assassins, worthiest of the name.

In rage assail and strike both friend and foe?

Of that fell hand the chief full worthy seemed.

His treacherous scheme of death had e’en amazed

The assassins’ prince, that hoary sheik of old,

Whose hidden crimes affrighted eastern kings.

A monster foul though termed an orb of day,

Fiendlike, accomplished here his vengeance dire.

His scheme of murder in his fane matured,

His secret guarded by the flamen’s care.

On that dread day of vengeance, dark and dire,

He smoked at ease a peaceful calumet,

And viewed the pallid faces of the slain

About his feet in gory circles ranged.

Short time sufficed to effect the deed of death:

The rising sun beheld the fortress’ fall;

The village wrapped in flames; while shrieking

braves O’er-ran the shore, with wine and strife enflamed. And danced round pyramids of heads up-piled, And wreaked fell vengeance on the mangled slain. When shadowy night o’er-cast the deathful scene, Yet fearful grew the shouts of revelry, And sounds cemoniac smote the startled ear, As though foul fiends had thronged the gloom

of death O’er-spreading pall-like that wild river’s shore, Where late the queen, the royal village stool. ’Mid I the all pervading gloom of that sad time, The second hero of our dual tale, Undaunted still, at his far post remained. Sieur de St. Denis by Sabloniere, Of the dim border of our shadow-land, Had built a royal seat, and round it reared The basis of the forest kingdom wide Wose varying fortunes, in our after-piece, Are dwelt upon with pride; yet he, even he, The errant knight and sylvan king withal, Was there with his fair prairie queen, besieged By a score of tribes that ever theretofore Had followed him with all them painted braves.

The prevalent disorders of the time, Induced by hands unskilled, invaded even, And sorely tried his sylvan monarchy. Tht world of savage life, including even Tne Choctaw, ’gainst the Oklanahullo at last Embittered, rose, and as an angry sea Engulfed or threatened every Gallic post; And, gathering force, in dire ferocity. Encompassed even the trembling palisades Of the big village by the Father-Stream. Such the results of our good knight’s recall. And thus the scene in darkness closed: the vale, As by the warden from it’s gateway viewed, Was then with night and threatening gloom o’er-

cast. The embryonic state there bodied forth. Amid surrounding darkness, to his eye, Forbidding seemed; and, for the nonce, appeared Barbaric still and of most monstrous form. Ah! well I ween, ’twas with dejected mien. The warden of the gateway turned at last, And backward gazing left our mystic vale. Nor ken’d as yet the light of coming day. Albeit, the worthy instrument of fate, Had he there labored in the realm of shade. With cosmoplastic hand; and given form, Incipient yet decisive, to the state, Based on the vast world-valley of our song.

The seers had there beheld a kingdom rise, Commensurate with that mighty vale of vales, And greatest therefore of all earthly powers: With clearer ken may we that state behold, Since it now stands a fact accomplished, aye, And greater even than it’s builders’ dreams. ’Twere meet, in a brief epode to our song, To observe that state, the greatest of all time.

Upon our hero’s exit, as his queen Went not with him to France and fair Paris, The bard opines that ’neath the forest-flowers, Like her whose requiem in her last song Was hymned erewhile, in some lone grave she

lay: Or else, the undying genius of our vale, She but withdrew from mortal sense and sight, And ’mong our angel-guardians, ever fair; In choirs invisible, her post resumed.


Our Progress and Destiny.

A Divertisement. We now introduce our orator who will furnish us, we hope, an agreeable diversion during this hiatus in our song; the following being extracts from an address delivered by him, some time since, before the Central High School referred to in the preceding pages of this work. We will add that this discussion on the subject above given will hardly be considered out of place in this connection as the acquisition of the World’s Garden had more effect than any other event in accelerating the progress and in determining the destiny, both of our great valley, and of our country at large. Ladies and Gentlemen:

I take great pleasure in responding to the invitation of the worthy faculty of this promising institution, in contributing my proratum to the speechifying and, presumably to the interest of this occasion, and in standing again on this his toric ground. Ft Jessup, in it’s pristine day, was in the i’st military district of the south-west; the military capital of the states of Ala, Miss., La, and Ark. Many distinguished ’soldiers then fre quented it’s scenes; and one, subsequently president, as commandant, made it his home for a series of years. On the hill up yonder stood the loftiest and most conspicuous object about the fort. The stars and stripes there waved on it’s flagstaff at a dizzy height. Under the floating folds of that significant and historic banner, while the regimental bands played the anthem suggested by its beauty, the soldier’s bosom swelled with pride, as he matched amid the thronging ranks of his comrades on the parade-ground. From these scenes that heroic band passed to tlie confines of Mexico, bearing wilh them the flag of their country and their pride: the star-spangled banner! now the appropriate emblem of the greatest and most portentous of world-powers; each of whose emblematic stars represents a powerful free state, and whose glittering galaxy, as a whole, typifies an august confederation that has no parallel in the past, and is the most interesting political product of the modern age. The remaining insignia upon its folds, the mysticil stripes that complete its ensemble, properly suggests a section of the bow of hope, delighting the eye with its combination of colors, and smiling upon the blood-stained earth with its promise of better things to come.

Such sentiments are not unworthy of the truest and bravest southerner; inasmuch as the brave are always magnanimous, and as we are all Americans again, in fact as well as name.

Washington, in his farewell address to his fellow-citizens said: the name American, which belongs to you in your collective capacity; must ever excite the just pride of patriotism more than any appellation derived from local discriminations.

And I guess the old gentleman was right about it. At any rate our southern people paid a heavy penalty for neglecting his advice during the late unpleasantness, and after such an experience as we then had, it could only be some fellow with a badly shaped head that would have us again disregard the sage advice of the father of his Country. Let us then subordinate the thought that we are Louisianians, or southerners, or westerners, to the higher consideration that we are also Amercans; members of that great family of mankind that infallibly has yet a mighty mission to accomplish, wiih it’s heaven-inspired ideals on the sub ject of equal rights and of civil and religious liberty: and it may be possible that the mission of our people will yet be manifested in connection with the growth and development of the great republic of the world and of the ages. In keeping with our religious beliefs it can hardly be doubted that Providence exercises an influence in connection with great national and world movemtnts. I accordingly believe it has seconded the efforts of our people in conducting this great popular government; in indirectly raising up the myriad free states of the New World, and, with their support, carrying on it’s crusade in behalf of the rights of man: and, in due time, that mighty and adequate results will be manifested. Cherishing such convictions, it becomes unnecessary to give more particular reasons for my faith in our political institutions, and my pride in that large and interesting family known as the American people. But in confirmation of that belief, I desire to call attention to the achievements of our people hitherto, and to their impending destiny, as foreseen in the past and foreshadowed by current events. The achievements of our people have been foreshown in prophetic visions. A recent poet sings: Circling Sol his steps shall count

Henceforth from Thule’s western mount,

And lead new rulers round the seas

FrDiJi furthest Cassiterides.

Found is now the Golden Tree,

Solved the Atlantic Mystery. It is an interesting bit of historic lore that refers to what is here termed the Atlantic Mystery. It is a remarkable fact that the land that now bids fair to embody the ideals of statesmen and the dreams of poets on the subject of a happy conamonwealth, was unwittingly made the scene of those visions. Our land was their lost Atlantis.

Louisiana, Bought and Sold; Or, Emancipation by Purchase.

A Divertisement.

When Louisiana was purchased, while it followed naturally that she became the property of the purchaser; yet, through the magnanimity of that vendee, she went not into slavery but into the enjoyment of liberty under the law; the enjoyment of advantages and privileges she had never before known. By that act, Louisiana and her family of rustic provinces became identified with the large and interesting community of free American states. That her purchase was really her emancipation is shown, I think, by a resume of the advantages and tendencies of that nation of which she now forms a component part; and, as our divertisements have hitherto been chiefly in the form of orations, we accordingly reintroduce our public speaker, a 4th of July orator this time, for the purpose of showing the advantages and manifest destiny of the American people; and incidentally, the blessings bestowed upon Louisiana by her admission into that nation. We bespeak for him a respectful hearing, and for his views, the thoughful consideration of our people.

Ladies and Gentlemen:

I desire now to portay the advantages and tendencies of that large and interesting- family known as the American people; and I cannot more properly do so than by calling attention to their achievements and by pointing to their impending destiny, as foreseen in the past, and foreshadowed by current events-

The acheivements of our people have been foreshown in prophetic visions. A recent poet sing-s: ’Circling Sol his steps shall count

Henceforth from Thule’s western mounts

And lead new rulers round the seas

From furthest cassiterides.

Found is now the Golden Tree,

vSolved the Atlantic Mystery.”

It is an interesting bit of historic lore that refers to wiiat is here called “the Atlantic Mystery.” It is a remarkable fact that the land that now bids fair to embody die ideals of statesmen and dreams of poets on the subject of a happy commonwealth was unwittingly made the scene of those dreams and ideals from time immemorial. It can hardly be doubted that the old tradition of the lost Atlantis referred to America, which had once been known to the Old World, but was afterwards well-nigh forgotten At any rate the description of that land was suggestive of ours. ’Twas about five-hundred years B. C. when Solon, the Solomon of Greek legislation, recieve that ancient legend, and made that far and mys tic shore the seat of an ideal commonwealth. I is worthy of passing notice that our country thus made it’s advent as the fabulous dream-world of the wisest of the seven sages of antiquity. That captivating theme was afterwards seized upon by -Plato, the father-sage, and made the seat of his far-visioned and dimly-discerned Republic of Love. At a later age, we find the same legendary realm made the seat of More’s Utopia, and of Bacon’s New Atlantis. Incredulous as we may be, we involuntarily grow a little superstitious when we find our country thus pointed to in prophetic vision, and dreamt of as the ideal government by those who are said to have possessed the loftiest intellects of the past:

“Plato, the wise, and large browed Verulam, The first of those who know.”

And what have been our country’s accomplishments thus far? Have they been unworthy of these high prognostications? What was it that dispelled the dark age? It is said that gloomy period extended from the year 495 A. D. to the year 1495: or, as I take it, from the complete establishment of civil and religious despotism in the Roman Empire, to the wonderful awakening caused by the discovery of America.

It is true the discovery of gunpowder and the printing-press occurred about the time of Columbus’ discovery, and helped the good work along. Yet, even with the aid of gunpowder, and musket balls thrown in, the peasants of Europe haven’t yet put down their oppressive lords, and on that side of the water the printing-press even now is throttled by the ipse dixit of kings, and the index expurgatorius of the catholic faith. Under the iron hand of the feudal lord, and the hideous nightmare of the reigning superstition the persons and minds of the common people of Europe had been most effectually enslaved. Those evil influences co-operating together had raised an insurmountable barrier in the pathway of progress; had had the effect of preventing the normal development of mankind for a thousand years: and it seemed at last that the God of goodness found it necessary to bring a new continent to the light; to transplant the human race to a new world and give it a new departure, before the pernicious and age-old customs of medievalism could be successfully shaken off. It may indeed be a fact that the advent of our country dispelled the shadows of that bodeful age.

It next furnished the world an edifying example when after the manner of the infant Hercules, and while still in its swaddling clothes, it strangled the hydra of British tyranny, and saved it’s people from servility and serldom. At the same time it went a step further than any goverment ever did before and freed the minds of it’s people from religious slavery, by abolishing the invidious union of church and state. These accomplishments alone are amply sufficient to render our constitution immortal in the annals of good government.

After accomplishing these great measures, it proceeded to show by the wonderful enterprise of its people that the secret of progress lies in the liberty and enlightenment of the citizen, or what Gibbon refers to as “the competition of a free state,"

The free states of the world have always been the most progressive and enterprising. Witness those of Greece and Rome in ancient times: those of the Venetians, Florentines and Genoese in the middle ages, and England and, above all, America in modern days. But of all the nations of the past, whether bond or free, the leader of the free states of ancient Greece made the highest record for progress in the arts of sciences: and it did so when it rose, and reigned and scintillated with intellectual brilliancy during the age of Pericles. I believe Plutarch, in his life of that farseeing statesman, says he attempted to draw the discordant Greek states into a union like our own for the purpose of preventing internal discord, and external danger.

If that had been accomplished the course of history might have been different. If they had organized such a confederation, and had been enabled thereby to maintain the rate of progress they kept up during tht age; or such as the American people have maintained during this century; the imagination can hardly conceive of the height to which our humanity would have attained during the milenniums that have since elapsed. But they failed and fell.

Two thousand years later, however, we find the Athenians even over-reached and outdone as a progressive people, when we behold the free states of America, with their untrammelled genius, illuminating and irradiating the old earth with the phenomenal developments of the modern age. It can hardly be denied that the American people have been the prime-movers of the wonderful light and progress of the century that has just elapsed. But we need not go to the Old World to study the effects of equal rights upon a state or nation. The Province of Louisiana while under the sway of European despots, although the appropriate seat of wild romance, yet languished and often retrogated in strength; and during the century of it’s existence as an appendage of the Christian and Catholic crowns, in spite of all efforts to foster it, consisted of a few straggling settlements well-nigh lost in the western wilderness: but upon it’s acquisition by the freemen of America, a wonderful change in it’s condition immediately ensued; and during the century of it’s existence as a community of free states, it has astonished the world with it’s rapid progress and it’s wonderful development. We may accordingly congratulate ourselves, Fellow-Louisianians, on the fact that while we, or our predecessors, were bought with a price, our great Garden of the World was, by that act, imbued with, the spirit of liberty and progress and made ’o flourish beyond measure and blossom as the rose.

In addition to being progressive like other free governments, ours is of more practical form than any heretofore known. This advantage is indicated by our national motto, E pluribus unum; out of the many, one; and lies in the fact that we are many, and at the same time but one; that is to say, in the possession of states acting separately and severally; and of a federal government representing the nation as a whole: the first, to prevent the centralization that destroyed the republic of Rome; and the latter to prevent the anarchy that destroyed the republics of Greece.

To me then it does not seem so unreasonable to suppose that our inventive and progressive people applying their ingenuity to the science of government, will finally succeed in solving that vexed problem, if they haven’t already done so; and as an incident of that great work, that they will ultimately abolish war and strife and es_ tablish the reign of universal and perpetual peace; and that they will do so, possibly, through the instrumentality of a world-wide Republic of Love, that in it’s beauty and efficacy, will far exceed the visions of the Father Sage. It is one of the teachings of the modern age, and of American genius, that nothing is too wonderful for accomplishment. But do current events justify such views? in my opinion they do. Recent events have more fully than ever disclosed the wondrous figure of our destiny, as the most impressive spectacle of the future world. It can now be pretty clearly foreseen and pretty safely foretold that the future republic will be co-extensive with it’s continent from north to south as well as from east to west, since its northern boundary has touched the Arctic Ocean, while its southern limit seems blocked out along the line of Cuba paid the Panama Canal. It can also be safely said, since it is already an accomplished fact, that it will dominate and control the East and West Indies, the floral chains of tropic isles, that sertinel the new world’s central coast, and passing east and west mark out a pathway from the orient to the Occident with a succession of fairy-lands.

Nor is this all. It is not improbable that in the course of time it will consolidate into one immense household, it’s family of legitimate descendants, and its natural though sunburnt children to the south of us. Not improbable that all the sister states of the new world will join hands in a more or less compact bond of union, and that each and every American state will yet become part and parcel of a world-wide domain. This may be practical when their civilization equals ours.

The coming Republic may inclnde the western world, and the starry banner may yet wave over a host of free states, embracing a population greater than that of the habitable globe at the present time. This may seem visionary but at our present rate of increase, our own population will equal the present population of the earth in two hundred years; and if, with our institutions, the secret of our progress be given to the other American states that period might arrive almost in the course of another century I agree with Alfred Tennyson, that it would be worth the while; if we could,, to revisit earth at the end of another hundred years, in order to witness: "The vast republics that may grow, The federations and the powers, Titanic forces taking birth. In divers seasons, divers climes; For we are ancients of the earth And in the morning of the times. If such a view would be interesting at the end of a single century , what would it be at the end of a thousand years, when a rejuvinated earth and a glorified humanity will be such as are suggested by the chiliast with his minennial dreams. How far then beyond our present conception will be the beauty and glory of the Louisianian vale; then, as now, the Garden of ihe World. This Great Republic of ours may be the predestined, theatre of events and changes, whose importance we cannot, as yet, appreciate nor even conceive of The vast events that will here transpire will be as far above the trite happenings of bygone history, as our changed conditions and new civilization are superior to the semi-barbarism of the past. But whatever be the nature of the changes that are to come, or the conditions that shall here prevail, even if it should be that consummation of our hope, and which the poets have pictured as the prospective Golden Age, even if that state should prevail, if any government be then reqiured, I would fain predict it will bear some resemblance at least, to that beautiful confederacy ff co-ordinate sister states suggested by our revolutionary sires.

We may not realize what will be the final outcome of this age of progress; what may be the goal and grand finale of our modern enlightment. We may not realize the fact that the 19th century has been more fruitful in benefits and blessings to our race, and in all the active factors of human progress, than all preceeding ages combined; in other words that mankind have made greater progress in the last hundred years than they did throughout the whole of their previous history. But in view of this most significant and startling fact, it is a very dull mind indeed, that does not realize that another century of equal progress and even a much less period of time, may witness the solution of the problem of human government and the beginning of a golden age of prosperity and peace; and in that great work, that the wonder-working nation that has brought about this era. of progress will be perhaps the most conspicuous factor.

At any rate, after such a variety of experiences, and the lapse of a century and a quarter of time, we have reason to beleive that there is a stronger hand than the hand of man at the rudder of our ship of state; that there is a mightier power than any human agency presiding over the governmental affairs, over the fortunes and destiny of this great republic. The fact that it did not fall in 1860 is, to me, sufficient evidence that it was not intended to fall in our day and time; that it’s mission has not been accomplished; that it’s mission is a divine one, and it’s goal probably beyand our mortal ken. Under the supervising eye of a Divine Providence it seems to be working out its own high destiny, and in that destiny is involved the political fate of all mankind. "Sail on, then; O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years. Is hanging breathless on thy fate.” It may seem a very extravagant idea, and yet be hardly too much to hope for, that this profound system of government, with proper attendant conditions, will stand the lest of unlimited expansion, if that be necessary to accomplish its ends; that it will verify the opinion of Cicero as to a republic of equal rights and stand forever; and, in the end, that it will prove not unacceptable to man in his highest state, and to earth in her final and Golden age.


The Skin-Clad Knight: Or, The Angel of Liberty and the Garden of the World.

Ah! blesstd vision! blood of God!

My apirit heats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides.

And, star=like, mingles with the stars.


As a fit epode to our wild-wood tales,

I’d tell how another, not a steel-clad knight,

Paid his devoirs to fair Louisiane:

Yet, should I indulge in metaphor again,

I’d speak not now of the Indian maid, so-called,

Not of the Love of our first Louisianais,

But of the offspring, held of French descent,

That, ever-existing, ever calls him sire.

Aye, as it seems in order, as to time,

With deeds depictod in the tales just told,

And scarce in conflict with our afterpiece,

I’d briefly tell how that affaire-du-cœur,

If such it may be called, transformed the life

Of fair Louisiane, and somewhat changed,

But stilled not, even her tongue. As just affirmed,

That suitor was no steel-clad paladin:

In lieu of helm a furry cap he wore;

A hunting-shirt instead of glittering mail;

And leathern leggings were the russet greaves

Of one who ne’er in knightly orders ranked,

Nor knew of courts or kings.’Mid clouds of morn,

On the apex of the Appalachian heights,

Our rustic paladin in wonder stood,

And thence surveyed the wild-mess beyond.

Before him spread the mighty vale of vales,

To him, as yet, a wonderland indeed;

To his eagle eye it lay unlimited.

On either hand it’s mountain bulwarks stretched,

And from his feet broad rivers westward flowed

Athwart it’s waste, and to his wondering thought,

Brought visions of it’s green immensity.

Joyous he viewed a boundless wilderness:

Joyous beheld a silent sea of green.

That laved bis feet and o’er the horizon’s verge,

Rolled limitless and infinite well-nigh.

Delighted quite he viewed a forest world

Where ’neath the shade the skin-clad hunter still,

With Nimrod’s arms, his savage prey pursued.

Even from his boyhood in the smiling vale

On the east side of the wall-like Cumberland, He looked with awe upon that mountain sheer; The bulwark, seemingly, of mystic realms, Unknown to huntsmen, even, of his race. That mystic realm, even then, he longed to see: And now, in looking on that verdant waste, Rejoiced to find a cherished dream fulfilled. A rustic knight was he; yet, as I ween, With the quaint weapon of flint lock, whereon He looked with pride and leaned full non-chalant, Did he, as with the lightning’s gleam, dispatch, And that unerringly, his sylvan foe: And held as sport the encounter with the bear, Or savage conger in his darksome dell. Even as a daring boy, skin-clad as now, He used that weapon, and with deadly effect: With it, even then, he met and boldly slew The dreaded panther as with wailing cries. It chased his fellows at their forest home. Even then, enamored of such daring deeds. And of the wilderness, he wandered forth, And in a rustic booth, when not engaged In stalking game, of small or savage kind, He lingered, and for many moons, alone. ’Gainst that fell weapon in such skillful hands. The sword anc battle-axe had scarce availed,

Nor any knight of story panoplied

In woven or in laminated steel.

Such was the skin-clad paladin; and yet,

Possessor of a home and loved ones there,

Was he, at heart, rather than errant knight,

A tiller of the soil, and ever sought,

Though amid the forests of the mighty west;

Some smiling oasis, some prairie green.

Wherein from care remote, to uprear a home,

Albeit logbuilt; and in it’s purlieus wild,

To plant fair flowers, and without thought of

strife, To toil, sun-browned, in weighing fields of grain. Behold, in primal state and Adam-like, Yet fetterless and free, the laborer; The Gardener ordained by Heaven’s decree, To dress the famed world-garden of our song. Unknown to him the height whereon he stood. Exalted ’mong the clouds, was hallowed ground. There, as I ween, the angel of the Lord, The Warden of the Garden of the World, Was wont to pause in his aerial flights, About the realm committed to his care. There, oftentimes, far from the courts of light, That radiant sentinel kept watch and ward. There oftentimes, ’mid Sylvan solitudes, From the eye of man remote, he assumed, I ween,

His native guise, and in effulgent light, Far-glittering, stood a shining one revealed: Fven such a one as ’neath the whispering oaks Of ancient Ophrah appeared to Jerub-Baal, And with whose aid the rural warrior quelled The hosts of Midian with his hundred blades. Hard by the hunter, on his blasted tree, A great bald eagle sat. The bird of Jove, To man and his fell deeds a stranger still, Observed the intruder with a fearless eye. And in defiance or in welcome, raised. At his approach, a harsh resounding cry. As signalled by that cry, an anchorite, Armed with a staff, with flowing locks of snow, Appeared and toward the skin-clad form approach.

ed. "Weldome, my son," said he, “thou lookest on The fairest realm of earth: and with this glass, May’st thou with clearer ken it’s beauties trace.” The hunter through the seeming toy but glanced, And back recoiling with astonished mien: "I saw," said he’ or haply seemed to see. The dark and bloody ground outspread, as ’twere. Though of forbidding name, it seems indeed, An earthly paradise in leaf ahd flower; With it’s Kaintuckee, throughout all it’s course, Reflecting Heaven from it’s, azure depths.

Then turning to the anchorite he inquired,

And with deep wonder, whence and who was he.

With dignity and with a kindly smile

He answered: As a friend of liberty,

Long exiled from the insensate older world,

Where I adjudged, and righteously, to death,

Some of it’s so-called kings; I linger here

To assist the skin-clad freeman, such as thou,

Regain man’s heritage, and by his side,

To labor in this Garden of the World.

He said, and toward the valley waved his hand

That held the magic glass, and, as by chance,

The hunter saw again with broader view.

The reflex of the Garden of the Earth,

The world-wide vision of the Vale of vales.

The anchorite continued* “Know, my son,

That Providence hath opened the New World,

And placed in primitive condition, here,

The chosen spirits of the earth, and here..

Remote from Europe and her evil modes,

Here from her despots and her bigots free,

Although skin-clad, must man at length regain

His inborn rights and native liberty.

Our hero then, a freeman bred and born,

With pious fervor in such sentiments,

So like the shibboleth oi his confreres.

Concurred with emphasis; whereat the sage

With pleasure smiled. Needless to say As to a father’s voice our paladin Now listened to the stranger; or detail How thence together on high deeds intent, They journeyed forth into the realm of shade. On their departure, as in friendliness, The king of birds approached and journeyed nigh The sage, and finally, at his behest, Stretched his broad wings and through the mantling cloud, Flew boldly o’er the datk and bloody ground. As with fierce eye and harsh imperious cry, He sailed aloft, he seemed a herald fit Of Freedom’s advent in the vale of vales. Meantime, like fair Andromeda of old, Louisiane lay languishing in chains; O’er-awid by an ogre called the catholic king; Who held her captive and enfettered, not Because of profit to his treasury From her inpoverished, rustic settlements; But, says the historian, on the ground, forsooth, That if released, her vast prosperity,’ Even then foreshadowed, would by contrast shame His Mexique provinces, abject and prone. Aye, for such reasons truly, to prevent Her destined happiness and liberty. And not even for vainglory, gold, or gain,

The afflicted province, lihe a shuttle-cock,

Played, twist those powers of sacreligious name,

The so-called catholic and christian kings.

Our quondam hero and her honored sire,

A gray-haired patrirrch then, with grief beheld

Her misery from his home across the sea,

The object lowly of barter and of sale.

Our pater-Patriæ, grown gray with years,

Strove Against DeChoiseul the evil minister,

In Louisiana’s cause, as he then deemed,

In that he strove to uphold the fleur-de-lis

Upon her shore. Failing at length in this,

The aged hero, on reflection, saw

The interests of that state and that vile king,

Diverse in nature, could not be the same;

And knowing well the western wilderness,

And it’s inhabitants; knowing besides,

The severanct of the English colonies

From Britain’s driveling king even then ap

proached: He, haply for the first time, clearly kenned The fate of Louisiane. With interest then, He inquired the progress of the foresters, Skin-clad, that from the Atlantic littoral, Spread westward toawrd the valley of his love. Spake of them as true-born Americans, That disregarded, even then, the powers,

And scorned the names of kings. Then, as it were,

Prognostic grown with wisdom and with years,

He showed the destined rise of that great power

Which now o’er-shadows all the Americas;

And proudly pictured the great vale of vales

Included in the destined state of states.

The accomplishment of that prophetic dream,

A labor mightier than the several toils

Of Hercules combined; such, in good sooth,

Such was the destined task, bravely sustained,

By him I’d honor as the skin-clad knight.

His country’s freedom was his end and aim.

The Holy Grail for which his toils were borne.

Fit mead of perfect knighthood; nobler far

Than any ancient book of hymns or prayers.

And while our hero on that quest went forth,

To him a voice as that to Galahad,

The apprroving voice of all the wise and good,

Exclaimed: “O, just and faithful knight of God!

Ride on!" it said, “rice on, ihe prize is near.”

On him approvingly a Washington,

Fron the eastern littoral looked, and Jefferson,

As proto-consul of tne sister states,

A helping hand supplied; and evermore

The angelic mentor of our palrdin

Imbued, I ween, with wisdom more than man’s

His mind uncultured, and as need required,

O’er him extended a protecting wing. The Angel of Liberty! Were it false to say, in olden time, at God’s command, he moved ’Mong the Aryan leaders of the human race? Were it false to say, upon the shores of Greece He taught man wisdom, and from rustic states Essayed to establish the first commonweal? And when at times he observed the beauteons

plan Unfold, and saw man, unopprest and free, Develop in the likeness of his God, He smiled well-pleased and radiant glowed? ’Twere but the truth, I ween. But when, at last, Uncultured tribes, albeit attempting, failed To accomplish God’s design, and, sad to say, The first republics all in ruins fell. I weet the angel wept. Essaying next The conquering x Roman and the Latian states, He scorned, and with a Tilly’s eloquence, Declaimed against the false pitrician’s pride; And when at length that primal state of states, Avoiding the Charyblis of the Greek, The anarchy of many warring states, Was hurled upon the Seylla of her doom, And ’neath a Nero’s throne, she and the world Were stilled to lifelessness; the angel looked With fearlul gaze upon a suffering race

Deprived of hope and happiness again.

Once more essaying the great work assigned,

Of raising prostrate man, of placing him

Erect, as ’twere, with faculties at play,

Of driving from his sky the clouds of gloom,

And casting beams of heaven’s light upon

The unfolding flower of the sentient mind;

He came again, came with the brightening dawn

Of earth’s recurrent day, and gladly turned

To fair Florentia and her sister states.

Still with success imperfect, once again.

He saw with indignation, saw the bower

Of Liberty uprooted by the swine

Of bigotry and tyranny combined.

Thereafter, as I ween, across the sea

He winged his flight, where as a bulwark huge,

The wastes of ocean guard the Nsw World’s

shore. Observing there our matchless garden, though Untilled as yet, and wildly over-grown. The fittest seat of empire, and, mayhap. The destined basis of the state of states: He awaited there the dawn of brighter days. He thence debarred the enemies of man, The despot and the biget, till at length The expected era came: and when upon The borders of that vale the freeman stood,

.He welcomed him and led him gladly down It’s fairest rivers to it’s shady depths. On the Kaintuckee, in the wildest west, Midway the dark and bloody ground, so-called, Was raised at length a block-house, a stockade; And there, without delay, our paladin Replaced his household and rebuilt his home. There dwelt in endless shade. His fellows came, Rough-vestured; yet, like him, of manly mould; And thus the far-fetched village grew apace. Anon came evil days: the savage rose, And war-whoops through the forest-vistas rang. The sage, that so mysteriously appeared, In equal mystery withdrew. In truth, Events of dread import had called him thence. The time had come when freemen numerous

grown. Were struggling for man’s rights on the eastern

shore, And ’neath a Washington, with dauntless breasts, Confronted the oppressor of their fields. The sage then, for a time at least, forsook, And seemingly forgot his former care. On the eastern shore, in council and in camp, He aided Freedom’s cause: from the older world Brought LaFayette, Pulaski, brought De Kalb, And Kosciusko, chosen spirits all.

To aid the cause of heaven and of man.

At length the struggle’s crucial era came.

At length he opposed, opposed successfully.

The christian, and at last the catholic king,

Against the tenant of the British throne,

And while fierce despots raged in mutual strife

Truth rose again and Freedom’s field was won.

Returning to his charge aglow with hope,

The angelic mentor filled the forester

With his exuberant soul; gave him a heart

Aspiring and unyielding, and withal.

With ardent love of liberty imbued.

Such the grave Mentor of our paladin.

As when of old the favorite of the gods

’Gainst the Gorgonian monster was dispatched,

The powers above endowed him with their arms;

And he, with Mercury’s talaria winged,

And god-given blade and buckler armed, sped forth

Invisible ’neath Pluto’s shadowing helm:

So, when our paladin, skin-clad, was led,

As by the spirit into the wilderness,

To o’er come the savage and wild nature, and.

In farthest shades to erect the first of states;

The gods imbued him, heaven favored too,

With more than mortal arms. With aid divine,

With aegus and with herpe, heaven bestowed,

He o’er-came the dread Medusa of the wild,

The savage of Gorgdnian mien. At last,

Armed with good gold, as well as glittering brand,

He loosed the chained Andromeda that here

Was represented by a Louisiane,

Dowered with her forest kingdom, wild and wide.

Onr rustic knight thus rescued Louisiane,

Then languishing beneath a distant king.

Through him, fit instrument, at length was reared

The frame-work of a temple heaven designed.

And with his strength and spirit was imbued

The young yet mighty nation of the free.

In his lone watches in the wilderness,

Our guardian-angel assorted wood and plain,

And nearer made the forest, yet unoped,

Beyond the inviting field predominant;

And when at length the clay of Freedom dawned,

And the great valley; simultaneously.

Was-oped, and to a waiting world displayed;

Tht mightiest hegira known to earth,

As prearranged, began: and then ’twas found,

As westward passed the hastening emigrant,

The farthest ever were the fairest fields.

And so the mighty vale with millions filled.

In an incredibly brief space; so too,

As prearranged likewise, the nation sprang,

As in a day, to greatness and to power.

Thus, ere the jarring kings forgot their rage,

And mutual strife, the nation of the free

Arose, as by cuchantment, and in strength

O’er-topped the mightiest of their boastful powers. Our pen, unequal to the task assigned, May fail to fitly paint the work sublime Of our brave forester and of that one, Who, as his mentor, aided him always, And on him threw supernal light and power; Invisible, yet not the less sublime. To lightly paint the Garden of the World, Improved, we assume, by an angel’s hand; Might well an angels art, or pen employ. From the bold towers of the exposition planned To memorate the purchase of our vale We observe, to-day, a scene of fairyland. There, some few seasons gone , we saw out-stretch’d A tangled labyrinth of darksome woods, A shadowy wilderness; there now, behold! ’Mid leaping fountains and white statuary set, Are glorious palaces with cloud-capped towers; Like dreams in stone, yet of Cyclopean size. Wherein, ’mid colonnades and stately peristyles, ’Mid domes and spires cloud-piercing, are beheld The nations of the earth and all their lore. Beneath their many-colored flags, enshrined. Even such the work, so swift and magical, ’ Yet mightier by a thousand fold, the task Whereby a world of shade hath been transformed. As with a mystic wane, and in brief time, Into the world-wide garden of our pride;

That now, fruit-laden and flower-scented spreads

Athwart the broadest vale of earth, and links

It’s tropic to it’s hyperborean shore.

’Twere far beyond my power to paint or sing

Each of it’s thousand rivers, amber-hued,

Enchased throughout it’s course with floral bow’rs,

And fields immantled all with green or gold.

To rightly paint the Southland’s famed Cote-DO’r

Would call for nobler art; to limu it’s seas

Of Waving cane, it’s orange groves, or paint

A slumberous Teche in sacchariferous fields

Adream alway; or tven the rice-fields fair,

Lac D’ Arthur and it’s murmuring Mermentau.

Of equal beamy many another stream

In neighboring states agleam upon each hand,

And broid’ring with green fields that sunlit shore.

As fair well-nigh, those of the zone succeeding

where. Beside the Father Stream, in sunlight roll A Yazoo, a Sunflower, a Sabloniere, Calm Alabamas, sacred Trinities, Broad Tennesees and mighty Arkansas’, Meandering through sweet-scented cotton-fields, That change ’neath autumn’s sun, to stainless

plains Of mimic snow. But more stupendous still, Must prove the task to sing the varied charms

Of the great garden’s central realm sublime, Where in azure calm the river beautiful, Where Illinois, draining inland seas, Where Mississippi and Missouri huge, With affluents many a score, ’neath summer’s

sun. Forever flow through matchless, endless fields Of weighing grain and fair, gold-tasselled maize. Such the world-garden of our song and pride; Such and so beautiful it’s vernal fields. Embroidered all with rose-plats and thick-set With happy homes. A thousand cities gleam, And shrines and seats of learning stud the scene, And palaces of varied industries, Of art and agriculture nestle there. Unmarked well-nigh in it’s immensity. A thousand water-ways and tracks of steel, In labyrinthine mazes spread, convey It’s people and their stores, in water.craft And cars palatial, drawn by the dread power That loosed in nature, rends her quaking hills, Or that which fired the fabled bolts of Jove. In thus concluding our storial song; In this last vision of our vale of vales; We observe the matchless garden as enclosed By the strong walls of the great state of states,

And by it’s teeming millions dressed and tilled.

Like the vast hall, like the inner court sublime,

Of one of those hypoethral palaces,

Above-described, to that far-glit’ring pile;

Like the great nave, high-arched, majestical,

Of some cathedral to it’s edifice;

The vale of vales unto the state of states.

’Twere then unmeet to land it’s varied charms,

And fail to observe the equal majesty

Of that encircling, that o’er-shadowing fane;

The temple of the Union. While we observe

The o’er- flowing granary, and therewithal,

The treasury of earth in that broad vale,

In the great super-structure, heaven-ordained.

That o’er it throws it’s mightiest arcades,

Are equal glories and sublimities;

Albeit these, like tnose of our great vale.

Are yet too numerous to reproduce

Or picture in a simple epode’s bounds.

’Twere endless quite to unfold the history

Of that great structure, or at length portray

It’s ancient prototypes. ’Twere endless too.

To paint or sing each of the beauteous states,

That in fair ranks and series round us rise.

And as majestic caryatides.

Sustain the arches, the entablatures,

Of that endurig fane, “not built wllh hands".

Sublime that structure, stern it’s battlements O’er- looking on each band the ocean-shore: Divine it’s holy of holies, mountain-walled, Wherein we stand this day: and gazing there. With reverence on his works, may we behold The autbor, under God, of man’s best home. And of the matchless garden of our song; The Mentor of the skin-clad knight; behold The Angel of Liberty, the friend of man, The spirit high that raised up Washington; Thar taught Bienville in the wilderness; And him that penned our charter of equal rights, And as a further blessing, bought with gold The mighty remnant of Louisiane, And perfected the garden of our song. Such, as I ween, the Angel of Liberty, Our country’s guardian sublime and high; One of the flaming seraphim, with power To rule the waves and still the tempests; yet With countenance benignant filled with love To God and man: a Cato in dignity, And;like a Roman senator enrobed; Yet, like the youthful Gracchi, upholding still The equal rights of man and toward this shore, Mayhap from paradisian scenes, he turns, And treads oft-times the foreland of the west: And there among companion spirits, ’mong

The deathless Gracchi of the ages past, And those of recent days; he observes oft-times, Observes with pride the vale immensurable, The world-wide basin of it’s Father-Stream, The endless vista of it’s sea-like lakes, And then, I ween, and with a wistful eye, Looks on it’s counterparts, as vast, well-nigh, Yet unreclaimed from loneliness and snow, That trend in silence toward the icy seas.


  1. Capuchin A Catholic friar.

Text prepared by: Spring 2018-2019 Group

  • Jenna Blank
  • Ross Danna
  • Donavan Donahe


Cable, George Washington. "Posson Jone’" and P�re Raphaël: With a New Word Setting Forth How and Why the Two Tales Are One. Illus. Stanley M. Arthurs. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1909. Google Books. Web. 27 Feb. 2012. <http://books. google.com/books?id=bzhLAAAAIAAJ>.

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