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HfMTTWDTIPIDW IT A TD)W fP A
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Original
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TO MARY*. —A PARODY.
BY THOMAS I. A WHENCE.
I’m sitting in the old seat, Mary,
Where I sat long ago,
When you were ’cross the way, Mary,
Scarce hall’ a pebble’s throw.
I’m thinking of old times, Mary,
Times that are past and gone,
When your smile lit my way, Mary,
And o’er me brightly chone.
Oh! those were happy days, Mary,
Too swift the hours flew by ;
Could old Time’s wheel turn slow, Mary,
While you were ever nigh ?
At noon, or dusky eve, Mary,
Or soon, or late, i came,
Wi.h a smile you welcomed me, Mary,
A smile always the same.
Your seat is vacant now, Mary,
The old room looks so lone,
And silence takes the platre, Mary,
Os your sweet, gladsome tone.
The btin.ls are open still, Mary,
But I mi -s your pleasant face,
The heaven ot your daik eyes, Mary,
Your form of winsome grace.
When my daily task is done, Mary,
And my step is homeward bound,
I loiter on the way, Mary,
For nowhere are you found.
And now my heart is like, Mary,
Some old deserted hearth,
Whose cheerful light hath fled, Mary,
Its gladness and its mirth.
And the light that brightly burned, Mary,
In your window far on high,
Hath fled, and no blest star, Mary,
Flumes and frowning sky;
I cared not fur the blast, Mary,
When I that light could see,
The stoim how e’er it raged, Mary,
Fell harmlessly on me.
And olt in the old seat, Mary,
I’ll st, and think and sigh,
O'er scenes I’ve hoarded up, Mary,
To live in memory.
Yet my heart thall still live on, Mary,
Still hope that you’ll return,
And the light I miss so much, Mary,
Again will brightly burn.
iet, should you ne’er come back, Mary,
Wherever you may stray,
flits heart wid follow still, Mary,
Near you will ever stray—
Whatever path you choose, Mary,
May peace and joy attend,
I o make it one oi pleasantness
Tiil you shall reach its end.
I miss you from your place, Mary,
M here you sat long ago,
W hen a smde was on your lip, Mary,
A smile upon my brow.
And I turn my gaze in vain, Mary,
To the old accustomed plaee—
W here you sat, soon will smile, Mary,
On me a stranger’s face.
Your place will soon be filled, Mary,
Another will sit there,
But thee i’ll not forget, Mary,
“ Weie she fifty times as fair.”
1 hrough all Lie’s weary years, Mary,
To glad my aching sight
I’ll keep thy image still, Mary,
Forever pure and blight.
Georgia , May, 1849.
A pretty neighbour, who, upon the approach of sum
nier, new oil with tile birds to t.ie country, an t —lias never
tnr!i U back, i .ie ne.-t i occupied atiil, but by a strange
tDripol Cales.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAROON.
A LEGEND OF THE CARRIBEES.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ.
Author ot “The Yemassee,” etc.
XI.
lint lie gathered courage for a second
trial. 1 lie answering echoes were not
follow ed I iv an v evil, though they seem
cil to mock his ears with a laughter
such as he had heard from the tyrant
ot the Dian de Burgos, when he devo
ted him to his melancholy exile. He
passed again into the cavern, taking
care, by his own silence, to provoke no
su ch fearful responses as those which
had driven him forth. A few feet
brought him to a small dark pool which
lay directly in his pathway, and which
left but a narrow space between its own
margin and the walls of the cavern.—
This he sounded with his spear, and
found to be shallow. It was a lakelet
left by the waves of ocean, by which,
at its overflow, the cave was evidently
penetrated. Passing this pool, our
” Maroon ’ found himself upon a dry
floor, the foundation of which was the
solid rock ; but a slender coating of soil
had formed upon it. which was, in turn,
clothed with a nice smooth covering of
green and velvet-like moss. Here he
was gladdened by a glimpse of the sun,
which, breaking through a chink in the
r °ck, a slender crevice, glided along the
rugged vaultside, affording to the timid
adventurer, a more perfect idea of an
angel presence, than he had ever before
possessed. Another opening in the
r oek. almost immediately above, affbrd
cd sufficient light for his examination
ot the whole interior. The cave nar
rowed to a still slenderer gap, as he ad
vanced, than was the one by which he
bad entered. This was the entrance
to another apartment. It was some
time before he ventured to enter this
and not until he had thrust his spear,
lts lull length, into its recesses. He
dien clambered up, for the elevation of
this inner chamber was greater than
the first. Here he was again refreshed
“ith brief glimpses of the sunlight,
a MUM mmAL> mmm to utme t m Am m mmm, mb to mmi mmumiaL
which, peeping in through two open
ings of the rock, looked like two of the
most natural and smiling eyes in the
world. This apartment, though of less
height, was of larger area than the oth
er. It soon afforded him new subjects
of curiosity if not alarm. In the cen
tre of the chamber stood a roek, scarce
ly larger than a blacksmith’s anvil, and
having something of the appearance of
one, on which lay the remains of a fire.
Brands lay half consumed, the fires of
which were now extinguished ; but the
allies were there, still undisturbed, as
if the flame had only recently gone out.
Piles of an aromatic gum, lay upon a
shelf of the rock, and other piles, in
slender fragments, of wood of which
our Maroon knew nothing, lay contigu
ous also. But what, more than any
thing beside, arrested and confounded
our “ Maroon were certain numerous
Hireds of dark hair, soft, fine and very
long, like the hair of women, which
hung, neatly tied in separate volumes,
bom the tops of reeds, which were
stuck about the vaulted roof of the cav
ern, and wherever a crevice could be
found sufficiently large in which to in
troduce their slender extremities. Ex
amining several of these shreds of hair,
the wonder of the explorer was increas
ed to discover that the ends of them
were shriveled as in the flame. There
were other objects to excite his surprise,
if not to occasion his alarm. Baskets
ot shells and pebbles, flowers which had
decayed, a bow and many arrows, —all
of the latter being broken—and a heavy
string of large pearls which had been
slightly injured in the lire, but which
Spanish cupidity readily conceived
would still possess considerable value
in the Cuba market.
XII.
Here then was a curious discoverv.
lhe island was not inhabited, lie had
traversed it for three days and had found
no footstep but his own. Had it ever
been inhabited ? Scarcely :—the im
punity with which beast and bird en
joyed its securities, and of which he had
sufficient proofs in his three days’ expe
rience, was conclusive of that question.
But that it was visited by human be
ings, the witnesses in the cavern were
numerous. Did they come frequently,
for what purpose, and from whence?—
iliese were the next questions. That
they came frequently might be inferred
from various circumstances. The brands
which had been swept from the altar,
were in great heaps in one corner of the
cavern. Ihe shreds of hair were equal! v
numerous and of different degress of
age. This difference was very percep
Able upon the slightest examination.
1 hey came for a religious purpose.—
The shreds of hair, the altar, the aro
matic woods and gum,—were all sig
nificant ot sacred rites. From whence?
Surely, was the thought of the “Ma
roon, bom that isle, or continent, the
dim outlines of which had fixed his
gaze but an hour before. A farther
search led to farther discoveries, but all
of the same character. Vast stores oi
these shreds ol hair, seemingly the ac
cumulation ot centuries, were found in
remote crannies and dark recesses ot
the vault. A thousand little baskets
ot shells, and white and blue fragment?,
—pebbles that seemed like glass,—
and, more precious in the sight of Lo
pez, numerous strands of pearl, such as
he had already discovered—which,
dark and dingy w ith fiequent smoke*
in the cavern, he tbund could-be made
clean by a little water. In a recess ot
the rock, the most obscure, he made
the discovery of a niche which had evi
dently been used for a couch. It was
softly lined with moss and leaves, and
there were flowers in bunches at the
head and feet which might have been
giaspcd by the hands of youth and
beauty, lhe impression of the head
was perceptible upon a pillow of moss
at one extremity, and suggested to our
Maroon the idea of a far more com
fortable couch for himself, than any
which he had yet found upon his island.
The sun had been rapidly sinking
while he had been urging his researches,
and the cheerless dusk of the horizon
without, as he emerged from the ca
vern, determined hint once more to re
turn to its recesses. He did so, and,
ascending the mysterious recess in the
inner chamber, though with some hesi
tation, lie soon sunk into a deep slum
ber, in which, though he dreamed of
strange forms and aspects about him,
lie dreamed of nothing to impair the
virtue of his sleep.
XIII.
But, with his awakening thoughts,
apprehension, rather than pride or ex
ultation, followed the consciousness of
his new discoveries. Ilad he not rea
son to fear the return of the strange
people by whom the isle was visited,
as it would seem, periodically? That
they were a barbarous people he could
not doubt—that they would resent his
presence, and treat him as an enemy,
he had every reason to dread. He
: should be a victim to someone of their
! cruel sacrifices. lie should be immo-
lated on the altars of one of the bloody
deities of the Carribean worship. The
man, brave by nature, and in the situ
ation of Lopez de Levya, might well
entertain such apprehensions. How
much more vividly would they occur
to the imagination of one so timid and
feeble of soul as our “Maroon.” They
kept him—assuming various forms of
terror —in a cold sweat for several
days; and though the impression was
naturally weakened and dissipated the
more familiar the images became, yet
any immediately impelling thought
brought them back upon his spirit with
a ghastly and withering influence.—
Three days elapsed after this discovery
before he found himself able to recur
to it without a vague and overpowering
sense of terror. But the pearls shone
in his eyes. He had grown wealthy
on a sudden. He drew forth the nu
merous strings which he found suspend
ed in the cavern. Every Spaniard of
that day had an instinctive appreciation
of treasure. Lopez had never seen so
much riches at a glance before. He
examined his pearls in the sunlight.—
lie cleansed them of their impurities
by the ocean’s side. And he was the
master of all this glitter. He had
never dreamed of such vast possessions,
in Spain—but when he thought of
Spain, and felt the probability, in all
its force, that he should never again
behold its shores, he was almost moved
in his desperation to fling his newly
found treasure into the deep. But the
latent hope, which dreamed of the pos
sible approach of some future mariner,
forbade the sacrifice; and restoring his
possessions to the dark crevices from
whence he had taken them, he stretched
himself out upon the eminence which
vaulted his possessions, and which had
now become with him a favourite place
of watch, to gaze upon the broad plane
of ocean by which he was girded on
every hand.
XIV.
No sign of hope for the “Maroon.”
The sun shines with a red and scorch
ing influence. There is not a cloud in
the sky to curtain the brazen terrors of
his countenance. lhe ocean sleeps,
smooth as glass, unbroken in its wilder
ness of range, spread out like an end
less mirror of steel, that fired the very
brain to gaze upon. And in the sky,
on the return of night, might be seen
the moon, bright but placid, nearly at
her full, giving to the scene something
of an aspect melancholy, such as she
habitually wears herself. Not a speck
upon the waters, —not a speck,—and,
while the lull continues, no possibility
of a sail in sight. He looks toward
the taint uncertain line of shore, which
he has fancied to be beyond him on the
south. It is no fancy now. It is cer
tain. The subdued waves lessen the
usual obstacles of vision. The line of
iand, if it be land and no mocking
cloud appears to rise. It undulates,
lhere are inequalities which strike his
eye, and which, seen at that distance,
cannot be subject to doubt or disbelief.
Ho trembles with mixed feelings of
hope and terror as he comes to this
conclusion. Once more to behold the
human form—once more to look upon
the friendly aspect of man, and to say
‘Brother! But will the aspects be
friendly that shall look upon him from
that shore? Will they hearken to his
cry of pleading? Will they understand
him when he uses the endearing title of
“ brother” to the savage chief who leads
the marauding party ? These sugges
tions but fill our “Maroon” with dis
may.
Crouching in the shade, his eye fixed
on the opposite shores, as he believes
them, he starts suddenly to his feet.
He passes his hand across his brows—
his lingers press his eyes, as if to re
move some speck, some foreign atom,
f.otn his vision. Can he believe his
eyes ? Does he, indeed, behold an ob
ject upon the waters approaching him
from that doubtful and hostile shore?
He sees; —but now it disappears. It
is gone! He looks in vain, his whole
frame convulsed and quivering with
the emotions of his soul! Again it
rises into view. It disturbs the smooth
suifaee of the deep. The brightness
of the mirror is shaded by a speck,
and that speck grows upon his sight.
He can doubt no longer. It is a boat
which he beholds —it brings with it a
savage enemy —the fierce cannibal of
the Carribean !Sea! He drops his
spear, and his cross-bow —his hand
grapples, not his knife, but his rosary.
He tails upon his knees —he counts the
beads with hurried hand and failing
memory. He clutches the agnus Dei
—he strains it to his lips,and with many
a broken invocation to some favourite
saint, he harries away to put himself
in shelter.
His search has fortunately enabled
him to find many places of temporary
hiding, such as would probably suffice
for safety during the stay —which was
evidently brief always —of the savages
by whom the islet was visited. At
first, he thought of occupying a dense
piece of copse which lay at a little
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, MAY 25, 1850.
distance in the rear of the elevation in
which the cavern was found. But a
doubt whether this would not be pene
tiated, in a desultory ramble of the
intruders after fruit, and a curious de
sire to be in some situation which
would enable him to watch their pro
ceedings, led him to abandon this idea.
The cave itself was obviously one of
their places of greatest resort. It was
here that their religious rites were per
formed. The islet itself was unem
ployed. It was a place set apart
and sacred to some special and su
perior purpose. The vaulted chamber
was the place of their mysteries. He
determined that it should be the place
ot his concealment. lie had sought
out all its secret places. He had seen
that certain of their remains—their
shreds of hair—their baskets of shell —
their broken arrows—had been undis- 1
turbed for a long season; and behind
these, in convenient fissures of the rock,
which were wholly unlighted by the
day, he prepared to bestow himself.
The suggestions of the naturally timid
person, under a consciousness of ap
proaching danger, are usually prompt
enough. Lopez de Levy a hurried to
execute the plan he had conceived. lie
entered the cave ere yet the strangers
could behold any movement on the
shore. His provisions—a supply for
several days at least, had been already
transferred to the safe keeping of the |
vaulted apartment. Ihese were all
disposed of, conveniently to his reach,
in the crevice of the rock in which his
own person was to find security. And,
all prepared, he planted himself w ithin
the mouth of the cave, anxiously look
ing forth—yet not so as to be seen —
for the unknown object of his appre
hension.
XV.
The strange object is indeed’a boat—
a large canoe with two banks of oars— 1
one of those long and stately barges in
which the Carribean was wont to go
forth for war or ceremonial. Its side.-.
w r ere gaudily and richly painted. Its
poop was raised with a triumphal cano
py’ ot dyed cotton above it. Its prow
was lofty and sharp, and bore, for a ,
figure head, the savage jaws of a Cay
man, or American crocodile. The
rowers of the boat were men, but aL
besides were women. These were
eight in number—seven who sat for
ward, and near the prow, and one who
sat in the stern, alone and under the
canopy. The coarse of the boat was
regulated by the oars-men. The wo
men at the prow were all richly clad
in stained cotton garments. Their
heads were tressed with strands of
pearl—their necks, which were bare,
were covered with similar decorations.
Each, in her hands, bore a bunch of
arrows and a basket. Beside them
might be seen other baskets of aro
matic gums, and bundles of wood simi
larlv aromatic. Ihese females were
all evidently matrons, none of them
being less than thirty years of age, and
all of them wearing the experience ot
look and bearing which is common to
those who have been mothers. But
*he w ho sat alone at the stern was evi
dently none of these. She could not
have been more than fifteen years old
and looked wild and startled as a voumr
fawn, for the first time venturing forth
without its dam in company. She was
quite as beautiful as she was young;
her skin less dark than was usual among
the Carribean Indians—not much more
dark, indeed, than was that of the
Spaniard—and the red blood coursing
at moments, from her heart into her
cheeks, suffusing it with the most ex
quisite tints of innocence and youth.
She was well formed and tall. Her
hair streamed down over her back and
shoulders. Her bosom was quite bare,
without pearl or any other ornament.
Her dress was of white cotton, purely
white, without any of those rich and
gaudy dyes, which were so freely used
by her people. Before her was a small
earthen vessel half covered, from which
a slight smoke continued to ascend, as
if from a hidden fire below, into this,
at intervals, the maiden might be seen
to fling a fine powder which she scoop
ed out of a gourd that lay beside her.
Numerous baskets of flowers and shells
lay at her feet, and a bunch of arrows
rested upon her lap. The oars-men
were all habited as warriors. Their
brows were grave. No words passed
among them or among the women, un
til, as they drew nigh the shore, the
latter suddenly broke out into a wild,
and not unmusical chaunt, which made
our “Maroon” recoil within his vaulted
chamber, with an indefinite sense of
terror. At this sound the rowers
dropped their oars —the boat lay upon
her centre, and the women prepared to
leave her, though they were still more
than thirty paces from the shore. But
the water was exceedingly shallow
where the vessel lay;—the beach wffiich
formed the esplanade of the cave,
stretching out boldly for some distance
into the sea. Availing themselves of
their knowledge of the bar, the women
stepped forth upon a ridge, w r here the
ocean, disarmed of its billows, swept
along gently to the level of their knees.
They brought forth their billets of fra
grant wood—their baskets of shell —
their sheaves of arrows —their vessel
of odorous gums and incense. Then,
taking the damsel from beneath the
canopy at the stern, they bore her, with
anxious solicitude upon their shoulders
from the vessel to the shore—her feel
and drapery being kept sacred from the
waves. One of their number seemed
to counsel and direct the rest, and it
was with feelings of new horror, tha
our “Maroon” beheld in her g asp, a*
she led the way to the cavern, a sharp
broad instrument of stone, that greatlj
r>- “hibled a butcher’s cleaver. Hit
apprehensions were not now for him
self. For what was the unhappy dam
sel destined? For the sacrifice? For
what crime—what penance—what ter
rible superstition ? To appease tin.
malice of what bloody god, was thi.
poor child, so young, so beautiful —so
evidently innocent—to be made tht
victim? Her sad and fearful looks—
the tears which now gathered jn hei
eyes —the wild ehaunt of the women,
and the stern, grave aspects of the men
—these all seemed to denote an occa
sion of w r o and terror. The men did no;
leave the boat —they drew no nearei
to the land. The shore seemed to In
a consecrated one, which the masculine
footstep was not allowed to pollute,
lhe girl, still borne upon the arms ol
the women,and following her who seem
ed to be the officiating priestess, was
carried into the cavern; the wild chorut
of the women being resumed as the}
entered the gloomy portals, and rever
beiating from the walls within, with a
sound at once sweet awful and inspiring.
XVI.
Our “Maroon” was already crouch
ed, close, in his place of hiding. He
beheld in silence and safety, but with
an awful beating at the heart, the whole
of the strange procession. lle saw the
women circling the altar stone with
wild contortions and a strange unearth
ly song. He saw them, from several
branches of wood, draw forth the hi -
lets, with which thev kindled a flame
upon the stone, lhe fire was drawi
from the vessel which had been supplied
with fuel on the voyage by the hai.d
of the young damsel. She sat apart,
on a low projection of the wall, to
which she had been conducted, and bu;
a few paces from the cavity in which
Lopez found retreat. She took no par.
in the ceremony, though she seemed
deeply interested in its progress. At
certain pauses in the wild incantation*
particularly when certain emphath
sounds or words closed the chaunt, she
clasped her hands aloft, and her groan
was audible, as if in supplication. Tin
fire began to blaze suddenly above tin
stone, and its strange gleams p’.ayed in
lively tints upon the gloomy walls oi
the cavern. Then the circling dance
and the chorus were renewed. Then
at certain sounds, the women paused
and at such moments, the maiden rose,
and, approaching the flame, threw into
it f agments of wood or gum with
which she had been supplied. At al.
such additions, the flame blazed up
more brightly, and the chaunt wa
more wild and vigorous than ever. Al
length it ceased; and, in an instant,
every woman crouched down around
the stone where she stood, except the
one who seemed to act as priestess.
She did not join in the chorus of the
others, but in a low chaunt of her own
performed some separate office. She
now approached the maiden, and con
ducted her toward the altar. At hei
words, the damsel bent over the heads
of the kneeling women, separately, and
her tears fell fast as she murmured in
their several ears. She took from the
necks of each her strands of pearl. They
themselves unbound them from their
own tresses, which now hung down
mournfully, of great length, from everv
shoulder. The pearls were collected
by the priestess and laid apart. Our
“Maroon,” from his place of watch,
followed with keen eyes, and saw where
she laid them. The women now re
ceded. The girl embraced them each,
with a deep sobbing, and they respond
ed with mingling sighs and songs, while
passing out of the chamber in w hich
they left her with the officiating woman.
When their voices were heard only
faintly from the sea shore, where they
had now assembled, the maiden was
conducted to the altar place by her
matron-like companion. Her mourn
ful utterance announced some sadder
ceremonial. The girl answered her by
a cry and threw herself at her feet be
fore the altar. The woman knelt upon
one knee. The head of the maiden
was supported upon the other from
which the long black hair depended,
half shrouding the drapery of the priest
ess. Very tender were the few words
which then passed between the two.
The girl clasped her hands together,
and her tearful eyes were full of the
sweetest but saddest resignation. The
woman smoothed her tresses out with
her fingers, stooped and kissed affec-
tionately the lips of the child, and
while everything betokened nothing
less than the truest sympathy, and the
most heartfelt and generous affection
between them, what was the horror of
our “Maroon”—now deeply interested
m the event —to see the woman pos
sess herself of the broad knife of stone
which lay on the foot of the altar.
Timid and feeble as he was of soul,
his fingers clutched his knife* with a
convulsive resolution, which, in the ease
of a braver spirit, would have long be
fore declared itself in action!
‘XVII.
The moment in which the Indian
lamsel lay th is prostrate and at the
nerey of one who seemed about to com
plete the rites in which she had been
engaged, by the sacrifice of the innocent
creature in her grasp, was a moment
of the most cruel humiliation to the
imbecile Spaniard. His sensibilities
were violently excited. Every sym
pathy of his heart was awakened. His
letter nature—his human training—
,iis Christian teaching—such as it was
possible for him to acquire in thatday
of constant war and rapine—were all
active in urging him to adventure his
own life, in saving her who seemed
about to perish before him. She too,
;o young, so resigned, and—not the
east consideration—so really beauti
fal. But the necessary nerve was want
ing to the “ Maroon.” He who dared
not the single stroke, though prompt
ed by the woman he professed to love,
when it would have saved her from
shame and himself from the bitter exile
which he now endured, was not likely
„o exhibit any rashness—any ordinary
murage,—though with such a threat
ening spectacle of death before him.
Happily for humanity, his apprehen
sions were all idle. The meditated sac
rifice in which the priestess was about
to officiate, contemplated not the life
out the long and flowing locks of the
lamsel. These were severed at a
stroke, and hung up in the chamber,
from an arrow, the shaft of which was
nade to penetrate a crevice in the roek.
Then the maiden rose v and taking the
ounch of arrows which she had brought,
she snapt then in twain before the altar
which the matron still continued to
.upply, with aromatic gums and fuel,
some further cremonies were perform
ed—there was a solemn imposition of
lands, while the virgin knelt before the
priestess, and the lips of the latter were
slued to the forehead of the girl. A
irief dialogue, in subdued and mur
nuring tones, passed between them,
md then the voices of both rose in a
wild, sad chaunt, the burden of which
was caught up by the voices of the fe
males without. One embrace followed
the subsidence of the strain, and the
natron and the vigin parted—the form
er hurrying from the cavern, and the
latter sinking down, in an agony of
tear and grief, before the fitful blaze
upon the altar.
Lopez de Levya drew a long breath.
He began to grow courageous. The
voices of the women without were
lying away in the distance. Could
hey have retired to the boat, and could
.hey be returning to the distant shore
from whence they came, leaving the
naid alone as he himse.f had been left;
Her evident sorrow and apprehension
ieclared this to be the case. But it
was evident that no such feeling moved
aer abandonment as had occasioned
uis. The proofs of a deep and tender
.nterest had been shown her to the last.
He had heard the sighs, the moans the
murmurs, of the officiating matron.
He had witnessed her fond caresses of
the damsel. He had heard with quiver
ing sensibilities the wild sad chaunt of
the attending women, whose song still
feebly fell upon his senses from with
out.
The scene which he had witnessed
was a religious ceremony. But what
did it contemplate? Was the maiden
thus left to herself- —and to him—de
stined for a sacrifice —to perish at last,
before the altars of some strange and
savage divinity ? It might be so; but
certainly no such purpose was designed
at present, for he did not fail to per
ceive that an ample supply of food was
left with her, sufficient for a month’s
consumption. Or, was she destined,
herself, to become a priestess, officiat
ing, like the matron, who had left her,
In the same, and other mysterious rites,
hereafter? This was the more proba
ble conjecture. At least such was the
thought to which, after a rapid mental
survey of probabilities, our “Maroon”
arrived. Perhaps a little more delibe
ration might have rendered it doubtful,
whether the innumerable signs which
the walls of the chamber presented, of
repeated ceremonials like the present,
were not proofs that the proceeding
could not regard any such appropri
ation of the neophyte. It was a cere
monial evidently common to the tribe
or nation. It was one through which,
at a certain period, each virgin had to
pass. It was indeed, a dedicatory, but
it was an invocatory service also. We
may, in this place, briefly declare the
object of the ceremonial.
THIRD VOLUME-NO. 4 WHOLE NO. 104.
Among the Caribbeans, as among
the Aborigines of the new world in
most quarters, both sexes were dedi
cated, separately, and by different rites,
to fortune. The period in life when
they were to emerge from the salutary
restraints of the parent, and to be left
to the assertion of their own wits and
the exercise of their own intelligence,
was that chosen, in which to solicit so?
them the protection of the gods, who
should confer upon them some espe
cial spiritual guide and guardian.—
To propitiate the gods for this favour—
to move them to an indulgent dispen
sation—to secure a friendly and favour
ing protector, and to inspire the young
w ith wisdom, courage and faithfulness,
were the objects of the ceremonial. In
the case of males, they were thus con
secrated when able to commence the
labours of the chase. They were sub
jected to severer ordeals than the other
sex, since the leading desire, with them,
was their proper endowment with hardi
hood and courage. Long abstinence
froom food, exposure to cold, and se
quent stratagems by which to alarm
them and try their courage, were re
sorted to by those having charge ol
their initiate. The maidens were more
gently entreated. Isolation rather than
exposure, was the influence employed
upon their courage. Food was provi
ded them, but of a sort la’her to en
flame the fancies than the blood. This
was to be chastened rather than exhil
arated. Roots of rare efficacy, the vir
tues of which they knew, —herbs which
assailed the brain and the nervous sys
tem, were silently mingled with the
food which was left for their sustenance;
and the very fumes of the aromatic
woods and gums with w hich they were
appointed to feed their daily ahd night
ly tires, possessed a partially intoxica
ting effect upon those who continued to
inhale them. It was while under such
influences that the visions of the youth
were to be observed with heed. The
images that were most frequent in theii
dreams—tlie scenes which they witness
ed—the voices that they heard. —the
laws which were declared —these were
to be the oracles by which their whole
succeeding lives were to be regulated.
By these the young warrior was to be
guided in the chase or the conflict, and
the young woman, in the keeping ot
her household, the trainingof her young
and the exercise of her sympathies and
tastes. The favourite, or leading as
pect, or object, in their visiions, was to
become their guiding spirit forever af
ter. It was customary in many tribes
—pei haps in most —to adopt this ob
ject as their mark or sign ; —and thi?
was the totem, inscribed upon the arm
or breast, —not dissimilar to ‘those
of knighthood in the middle ages, drawn
fom favourite objects of sight, or the
events most conspicuous in their live
—with this difference, that, in Europe
the totem was inscribed upon the shield,
the surcoat or the pennon, —among the
savages of the new world, upon the na
ked person.
(Continued in our next.)
(Slimpscs of lira ‘Banka.
LITERARY PORTRAITS.
From Gilfillan’s Literature and Literary Men.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Having accepted from Mrs. Biown
ing’s own hand sadness, or at least se
iiousness,as the key to her nature and
genius, let us continue to apply it in
our future remarks. This at once im
pels her to, and fits her for, the high
position she has assumed, uttering the
“Cry of the Human.” And whom
would the human race prefer as their
earthly advocate, to a high-souled and
gifted woman? \Vhat voice but the
female voice could so softly and strong
ly, so eloquently and meltingly, inter
pret to the ear of him whose name is
Love, the deep woes and deeper wants
of“poor humanity’s afflicted will, strug
gling in vain with ruthless destiny ? ’
Some may quarrel with the title, “The
Human,” as an affection; but, in the
tirst place, if so, it is a very small one,
and a small affectation can never furn
ish matter for a great quarrel; second
ly, we are not disposed to make a man,
and still less a woman, an offender for
a word, and thirdly, we fancy we can
discern a good reason for her use of the
term. What is it that is crying aloud
through her voice to Heaven ! Is it
the feral or fiendish element in human
nature ? That has found an organ in
Byrun—an echo in his bellowing verse.
It is the human element in man—
bruised, bleeding, all but dead under
the pressure of evil circumstances, un
der the ten thou and tyrannies, mis
takes, and delusions of the world, that
has here ceased any longer to be silent,
and is speaking in a sister s voice to
Time and to Eterniy —to Earth and
Heaven. The poem may truly be call
ed a prayer for the times, and no col
lect in the English liturgy surpasses it
in truth and tenderness, though some
may think its tone daring to the brink
of blasphemy, and piercing almost to
anguish.
Gracefully from this proud and gid
dy pinnacle, wffiere she has stood as the
conscious and commissioned represen
tative of the h iman race, she descends
to the door of the factory, and pleads
for the children inclosed in that crowd
ed and busy hell. The “ Cry of the
Factory Children” moves you, because
it is no poem at all —it is just a long
sob, veiled and stifled as it ascends
through the hoarse voices of the poor
beings themselves. Since we lead it
we can scarcely pass a factory, without
seeming to her this psalm issuing from
the machinery, as it it were protesting
against its own abused powers. But to
use the language of a writer quoted a
little before, ” The Fairy Queen is
dead, shrouded in a \ard ot cotton
stud’ made by the spinning-jennv, and
by that other piece of new improved
machinery, the souls and bodies of
British children , for which death alone
holds the | stent. ’ From Mrs. Brown
ing, perhaps the most imaginative and
intellectual of British females, down to
a pale-faced, thick-voiced, degraded,
ha dly human, faetory girl, what a long
and precipitous descent! But though
hardlv, she is human : and availing her
self of the small, trembling, but eter
naily indestructible link of connection
implied in a comftion nature, our author
•an indentify herself wilh the cause,
and incarnate her genius in the person
of the poor perishing child. Ilow un
speakably more affecting is the plead
ing in behalf of a particular portion of
the race, than in behalf of the entire
family! Mrs. Browning might have
uttered a hundred “cries of the human, ’
and proved herself only a sentimental
artist, and awakened little save an echo
dying away in distant elfin laughter;
but the cry of a factory child, coming
hrough a woman’s has gone to a na
tion’s heart.
Although occupied thus with the
sterner wants and sorrows ot society,
-.he is not devoid of interest in its minor
miseries and disappointments. She can
sit down beside little Ella (the minia
ture of Alnashcar) and watch the histo
ry of her day-dream, beside the swan s
nest among the reeds, and see in her
disappointment a type of human hopes
in general, even when towering and ra
diant as summer clouds. Ella s dream
among the reeds! W hat else was
Godwin’s Political Justice? What
else was St. Simonianisrn ? What else
is Young Englandism. And what else
are the hopes built by many now upon
certain perfected schemes of education,
which, freely transacted, just mean the
farther sharpening and furnishing ot
knaves and fools; and now upon a
“ Coming Man,” who is to supply every
deficiency, reconcile every contradic
tion, and right every wrong. Yes, he
will come mounted on the red-roan horse
of sweet Ella’s vision !
JIENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The distinguishing qualities of Long
fellow seem to be beauty of imagina
tion, delicacy of taste, wide sympathy,
and mild earnestness, expressing them
selves sometimes, in forms of quaint
and fantastic fancy, but always in chaste
and simple language. His imagina
tion sympathizes more with the correct,
ihe classical, and the retined, than with
that outer and sterner world, where
dwell the dreary, the rude, the fierce,
and the terrible shapes of things. The
scenery he describes best is the storied
richness of the Lhine, or the golden glo
ries of the Indian summer, or the en
virons of the old .Nova fecotian vil
lage, or the wide billowing prairie; and
not those vast forests, where a path
for the sunbeams must be hewn, nor
those wildernesses of snow, where the
storm and the wing of the condor di
vide the sovereignty. In the mid it of
such dreadful solitudes, his genius ra
ther shivers and cowers, than rises and
reigns. He is a spirit of the Beautiful,
more than of the Sublime ; he has lain
on the lap of Loveliness, a.id no- been
Jandmd, like a lion-cub, on the knees of
i’error. r l he magic he wields, though
soft, is true and strong. If not a pio
phet, torn by a secret burden, and ut
tering it in wild, tumultuous strains, he
is a genuine poet, who has sought for,
and found inspiration, now in the story
and scenery of his own country, and
l.ow in the lays and legends of other
lands, native vein, in itself ex
quisite, has been highly cultivated and
delicately cherished.
It is to us a proof of Longfellow T ’s
originality, that he bears so well and
meekly his load of accomplishments
and acquirements. His ornaments, un
like tho-e of the Sabine maid, have not
crushed him, nor impeded the motions
ofhis own mind. He has transmuted
a lore, gathered from many languages,
into a quick and rich flame, which w e
feel to be the flame of Genius.
It is evident that his principal obliga
tions are due to German literature,
which over him, as over so many at the
present day, exerts a certain wild witch
ery, and is tasted with all the sweet
ness of the forbidden fruit. No w l iter
in America has more steeped his soul
in the spirit of German poetry, its blend
ed homeliness and romance, its sim
plicity and fantastic emphasis, than
Longfellow'. And if he does not often
trust himself amidst the w eltering chaos
of its philosophies, you see him, lured
by their fascination, hanging over their
brink, and rapt in wonder at their
strange gigantic, and ever-shifting forms.
Indeed his “ Hyperion” contains two
or three most exquisite bits of transcen
dentalism.
Longfellow’ is rather a romantic and
sentimental, than a philosophical poet.
He throws into verse the feelings,
moods, and fancies of the young or fe
male mind of genius, not the mature
cogitations of profound philosophy.—
Ilis song is woven of moonlight, not of
strong summer sunshine. To glorify
abstractions, to flush clear naked truth
into beauty, to “build” up poems slow
ly and solidly, as though he were piling
pyramids, is neither his aim nor his at
tainment. He gathers, on the contra
ry, roses and lines, —the roses of the
hedge and lilies of the field, as well as
those of the garden,—and wreathes them
into chaplets for the brow and neck of
the beautiful. His poetry is that of
sentiment, rather than of thought. But
the sentiment is never false, nor strain
ed, nor mawkish. It is always mild,
generally manly, and sometimes it ap
proaches the sublime. It touches both
the female part of man’s mind and the
masculine part of woman’s. He can
at one time start unwonted tears in the
eyes of men, and at another kindle on