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About Southern literary gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1848-1849 | View Entire Issue (June 17, 1848)
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: WM. C. RICIipUS,.EDITOR. (Drigihal Poetry. 1 1 For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE RUSTIC SEAT. BY J . M. LKGARE. Author of “Orta Undis, and Other Poems.” *■ Cool twilight shrouds the wojtled hill ; As here the narrow street: • • Its shadows urge thee ; froiß- vtfie. j-iil Meandering at thy feet. The over-arching branches still Enclose thee in their shade, Where once nty hands, with rustic skill, A seat of “branches made. A long, long day of happiness, (Yet scarce begun ere gone,) While you stood by the work to bless With eyes that smiled thereon. A pleasant song the streamlet, sung ; While in the still retreat, The gnarled and mossy roots among, We hollowed out the seat. Quaint oaken boughs, trained to protrude For syyns, and where inclines The musing head, a cushion rude Os interwoven vines. With happy eyes that wondered oft, “When would it be complete!” You knelt upon a couch of soft Brown foliage at my feet; , , „ ■* ¥*%• Or-, seated in the open sun Amidst the holly trees, With earnest faeo bent down upon The book upon thy knees. Withal, not many leaves that day Were turned in book of thine, So often went thy looks astray in loving search of mine ! And when the work was all complete, And I sat down to rest, Relinquishing your former seat, You nestled to my breast. 1 mind me well the sun went down Behind a wooded hill, The autumn, forest brown, More dusky grew and chill: And when you shivered with the cold, Around you, (nothing loth,) I drew my cloak, whose ample fold Enclosed and warmed us both. It was a privilege of eld, Long into habit grown, That closely to my bosom held, You should be styled “my own.” And now, so from the world apart, Thy rest was doubly sweet: — ‘ Thank God !’ could only say your heart, ‘ Thunks! Thanks /’ at every beat. For me Southern Literary Gazette. REPROOF: A SONNET. BY DAVID R. ARNELL. Yes, 1 have felt how gracious is reproof From the dear lips we love! Lady, I thought so stand from man’s companionship aloof, With sullen brow, and heart with hatred fraught, And hurl back my revilings ; but thy word Hath melted me like poetry. I heed shy meek reproof, aud like a summer bird ro the dull worldling’s ear my song shall plead. Oh! woman is thrice lovely when she stands 1 pon God’s side, and to herself is true ! 1 thank thee for it, and thy high command, by all the love I bear thee, will I do ; Nor in my sadness let my verse repeat W hat I would fear to speak e’en at the Judgement seat ! TO A FRIEND WANTING A BOOK-KEEPER. ‘ commend to your favor the bearer, dear sir, — Asa book-keeper none can excel him ; ’ Fas kept a full score of my books for a year, And when to return them I tell him, He vows and protests that he’ll do so to-morrow : He s a capital book-keeper , sir, to my sorrow ! An JUustratctr tUcckhj Journal of Belles-Lettres, Science anil tl)c Arts. ALL ABOUT: WITH PEN AND PENCIL. BY T. ADDISON RICHARDS. U At a ’ ■ THE CATSKILLS.—PART SECOND. Leaving the “V illage of Palenville—Evening walk through the Clove—Mountain Paths by Moon light —Night Scene at the Catskill Falls —Dark Passage of the Forest, from the Falls to the Moun tain House —Romantic Encounter—Adventure with a Panther—Arrival at the Hotel—Evening View of the Valley of the Hudson—Description of the Mountain House —R ip Van Winkle —Sun-rise on the Hills—Enthusiasm and Night-Caps—Visit to North Mountain —Sailing and Angling on Syl van Lake—Arrival at the Falls—The Cafe —De- scent of the Steps, and Champaigne—Repose and Return. In my last chapter, I was upon the point of removing, bag and baggage, to the “ Moun tain House,” urged by the feeling which prompted the poet’s lines— “ I will seek the cheerful city, And in the Crowded street, See if I can find the traces Os pleasure’s winged feet.” On second thought, however, and after ga zing again upon the much loved mountain peaks, which frown upon the window of my whilome studio, I resolved to make only a brief pedestrian visit, still retaining the “ Mountain Inn” as my head-quarters. The memory of the true delights I had long en joyed, in communion with ever-constant and unsophisticated Nature, who, as some gentle minded youth has sweetly remarked, “ never did betray the heart that loves her,” proved stronger than the prospect of fashion's heart less joys. Instead then, of taking the stage-coach in its round-about traverse, I put some spotless linen and a glittering pair of “ patent leathers” in my knapsack, and starting afoot, as twi light was falling upon the landscape, I again traversed the Clove road for a distance of two miles, until I reached the gorge of which I have already spoken, as entering the Kauter skill, from the eastward. A walk of four miles, leads the tourist, in this direction, from the village to the Moun tain House. Two, as I have mentioned, up the Clove—one other through the wild gorge on which he then enters, to the falls, and still another from thence to his point of destination. The second mile of travel is over a wild and toilsome path, even in the full light of day, and doubly so in the mystic and solemn dark ness of night. But I had made the journey many times and oft —in sunshine and in shade —and I knew well its every winding and pit-fall; the precise points at which to make the necessary passages of the mad tor rent, which dashes through the ravine, in all its varying degrees of elevation or depression, as rain or drought affects its waters. The whole of this passage is remarkably fine and striking. It is more wild and more thickly studded with venerable and fantasti cally formed trees, with more luxuriant pines and hemlocks, with a greater number and more varied cascades, and with more noble glimpses of distant landscape, than almost any ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATI RRVY, JUNE 17, IBIS. other portion of the Catskills. In the uncer tain light of evening, the mountain ridges on either side of me, seemed of amazing height and grandeur, and despite the lateness of the hour, I was often constrained to pause and admire the matchless scenes around. I looked upward— “ And higher yet the pine-tree hung, Its darksome trunk and frequent flung, Where seem’d the cliffs to meet on high, Ilis bows athwart the narrow’d sky.” I gazed below— “ Rock upon rock incumbent hung, And torrents, down the gullies flung, Join’d the rude river that brawl’d on, Recoiling now from crag and stone ” During half an hour, I stepped lightly upon moss-grown and slippery rocks, balanced my self upon the trembling bridges of fallen tret s, pushed aside the dense shrubbery of the jungle, dripping with the dews of night, and aV. ngth stood beneath the glorious cataract of the Katterskills. With the aid of my staff I climbed over the immense mass of decaying timber which lay across my path, and gained the rustic seat from which visitors love to gaze upward upon the falling torrent. The scene which then met my eye, was one of such indiscribable charms that I could not resist the sweet temptation to linger much too long under the influence of its magic beauty. The grand basin of the stream, and the entire sweep of the valley 1 had just tra versed, were buried in the shadows of even, save only as the rising moon cast its strug gling beams faintly here and there upon brush and brake and crested wave. Gazing upward the yet lingering rays of the departing sun, kissed the glad waters “ good night,” ere they leapt to their couch below. To the music of the falling stream, were added the sighings of the night breezes, in the tree-tops and in the hollow caverns, the chants of a thousand whip-poor-wills, and the deep basso of the sonorous bull-frog. To com plete the picture of fairy land, suddenly the bright moon sprung unfetterred from the fleeting clouds which had held her prisoner, and as she looked upon the merry waters, with her smiling eye, they danced into the form of a silvery arch, and her approach was rightly welcomed with a matchless bow of promise. As I gazed upon this beautiful sight, the sweet verses of Charlton fell invol untarily from my lips: “Beautifulbrook ! when the moonlight’s gleam, Glistens upon thy falling stream, And the varied tints of thv rainbow vie With the brightest hues of the evening sky— The woodland elf and the merry fay, Chant on thy banks their roundelay ; And with fairy sword and tiny spear, Fight o’er their bloodless battles here ; The drowsy bird from its leafy nook — Peers on the whole with an anxious look : And the cricket uplifteth his cheerful voice, And the bats at the merry sound rejoice, And the fairy troop on their sylvan green, Frolic and dance in the moonlight’s sheen.” In the spectral light which enveloped the VOLUME I.—NUMBER 6. landscape, I could not resist the impulse to dream a little of the mystic past; to fashion the uncertain forms of the graceful shrubs into the semblance of fair and happy-hearted maidens tripping upon the green sward of Arcadia; or to detect,- in the darker shadows of the rocky glen, the embodiment of a gal lant warrior-band, waiting heroically for the approach of the myriad-ranked foe, whose armor and helmets and spears glistened, in the countless leaves of the mountain gorge below. I never before witnessed such a magical effect at these falls, excepting perhaps once, when I sat upon the same seat, and after the same walk through the lonely valley, as the sun commenced its journey one glad summer day. Then everything around me was clad in the grey still mists of morning, save only the very summit of the cascade, upon which the bright rays of old Sol darted, until the foaming waters glistened like molten silver and gold, completely blinding the eye to every less brilliant object. While I then felt the utter impotency of the painter’s art to struggle with the might and loveliness of Nature, I blessed God that He had given me, in some slight degree, the power to feel and enjoy her matchless beauties; that my soul had been— “ Touch’d by the love of art, to learn to know Nat ure’s soft line and color’s varied glow.” When I had toiled up the innumerable steps leading from the base to the summit of the falls, and stood upon the mountain-top, the scene had changed and my path was again illumined by the last rays of the sinking sun. A few moments more and Nature lost her bright apparelings, while our lady of night held unquestioned sway. The carriage-road from the falls to the Mountain House, on the eastern edge of tho tahln binds which crown this range of hills, is nearly two miles in length, and of easy passage at any hour.— This frequented way leads, also, by the mar gin of the lakes, of which I shall have occa sion to speak anon. There is, however, an other and much shorter path to the right, and throughout the heart of the forest; and this lonely path a fancy led me to choose, des pite its dangers in the dßrkness of the night. The density of the woods completely shut out the moonlight, when after traversing the rustic bridge which spans the stream very near the point of its grand leap, I found my self within their quiet shades. Late rains had left innumerable pools here and there, and as my foot sunk in their treacherous depths, when I thought I was firmly stepping upon a delightful little piece of smooth rock, I could console myself only by the recollec tion of the nice patent leathers safely stowed in my knapsack. Now, I nearly lost my equilibrium, as like a drunken man, I made a high step over some nothing, which in the obscurity, appeared a considerable obstruction in the path. Now a dripping bough cooled my brow with its greetings, and then my thoughtless heel crushed the head of some unsuspecting reptile. That walk was a lonely one, and despite my romance, I felt much relieved when 1 e merged from the woods upon the more trodden path that leads over the plain of the “ Pine Orchard” to the Mountain House. The sight of that beautiful structure, in its wild insula tion, with its illumined windows, obscured only by the passings and repassings of gentle forms, was grateful to my eye, as was the sound of its distant music to my ear. But as it happened, my adventures for the eve ning were by no means ended. • As I ad vanced, giving a mental assent to the philo sophical maxim, “ what’s the odds so you’re
