The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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THE PALISADOES. |
 | THE PALISADOES. The legendary |  |
THE PALISADOES.
BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.
Come on, sir—here 's the place; stand still—
How dizzy 't is to cast one's eyes so low!
— the murmuring surge,
That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes,
Cannot be heard so high; I 'll look no more,
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight
Topple down headlong.
King Lear.
`This, then, at last,' said I, `is the broad and beautiful
Hudson!' I addressed myself to my companion, a tall
fellow, with a healthy look, who stood at my side. But
he had been here before, and a simple nod of acquiescence
was all I received in answer. `There is an air
of singular complacency about some people,' thought I,
`but perhaps it is a necessary virtue in their way of life,
and requires cultivation.' So I surrendered myself, as
well as I could, to my own reflections.
The scene was indeed beautiful. A mellow sunset
was settling upon the hills and waters, and a thousand
flashes played over the distant city, as its spires and
prominent objects caught its glories. Above these
fading lights stretched a heavy line of smoke, already
condensing under the damp atmosphere of the evening,
and reaching far away over the metropolis, till it was
lost in the purpling hues of the sky. At intervals, a dull
sound would seem to come out of the city, and, stealing
over the waters which reposed between us, recalled for a
moment the remembrance of the busy scenes which I had
cliffs, their wood crowned summits tinged with the last
blush of the twilight. Below, in the deep shadow of
the rocks against which they seemed to lean, stood the
old trees, that only served to increase the gloom that
extended itself over all the slope to the waters.
Every dell and nook under the gray canopy, had
deepened into blackness, and a perfect night reigned in
the recesses which embosom this delightful river. On
the opposite bank lay a landscape rejoicing in the luxury
of its bright verdure, and rising in gentle undulations,
till its heights reposed in the dreamy light of the sunset.
Far up in the north stretched the magnificent river,
melting in the distance, amidst its forests and rocks and
hills, undisturbed by a breath, and unbroken in its surface,
save where some dark speck was seen to flit across
its bosom, and leave in its track a dusky vapor, which
was almost instantly absorbed in the gathering gloom.
Night was fast falling on everything round me. My eyes
were fastened on the black bank and those towering
cliffs. I was completely lost in reverie. I felt a relief
in gazing there, and strange, long reaching associations
came round me. At one moment, as we passed a little
point that shot out from the shadow, I thought I saw some
low, white object, like a monument, rising on that desolate
shore, and just reflected in the peaceful waters. Perhaps
this was imagination, for I was ready to picture out anything
wild and solemn, as I floated by those dim solitudes.
I had heard tales of places hereabouts, that froze up my
young blood; and then I had felt it break away again
in the heat of my indignation, till it throbbed audibly
through every vein. These recollections came over me
now in all the vividness of former times. Story became
reality, and I pressed my eyes together, and turned
away under the fearful expectation of witnessing some
`from its propriety.'
`It's gone! it 's gone! Farewell for aye to whatever
falls into the wake of a steamboat.' These words,
accompanied with a gentle touch at my elbow, caused
me to turn again, and a man stood at my side, directing
my attention to a piece of paper, fluttering upon the
waves behind us, and which I had unconsciously dropped
from my hand in the intenseness of my reverie. `It was
of no consequence,' I said; `some foolish thoughts of
my own. Let the water nymphs underneath make as
much as they may of it, and welcome.' `O'er thoughtful,
and much on the abstract, for one so young, methinks,'
said the stranger, fixing a pair of dark eyes upon me.
`But,' continued he in an undertone, and as though he
was talking with himself, as he looked once more back
on the shadowy waves, `of consequence or not, the
youth's paper is setting in with the current towards the
Red Graves, and will find the shore thereabouts before
morning.' Then turning sharply upon me, `Young
man, yours is not the first nor the only piece of fair, white
paper I have seen floating in upon that desolate point.
We can scarce see it now for the darkness.' I had
heard enough of the soliloquy which preceded this address,
to awaken my curiosity, and as these last words
had no tendency to allay it, I observed that his allusions
were nothing less than Greek to me; but, as the trifling
incident which gave rise to them, had also brought us
in some sort into conversation together, I would make
bold to beg him to go into the matter, and if a story was
to be told, to assure him I would become a willing, nay,
a delighted auditor.
Meanwhile I could not but observe with some surprise,
that we were left alone upon deck. It had become
quite dark, and the night breeze was beginning to
reflected faintly on the fading clouds, as I had seen it
when I fixed my gaze on that silent and cheerless shore,
thousands of stars were now twinkling over my head.
Many busy faces were passing before and around me
then, but now one solitary being stood before me. The
man at the helm was above with his light, and, at intervals,
the worn and exhausted furnace feeder would issue
from his dazzling purgatory to wipe his hot brow in the
evening air. These were the two alone, beside ourselves,
who seemed to keep the night watches.
The stranger fairly took the hint I spake upon, and,
beckoning me to the stern of the vessel, desired I would
be seated, while he should relate to me the little story,
the recollection of which I had been instrumental in
recalling to his mind. Following his example, I wrapped
my cloak about me, and stretched myself out on an inclined
seat, in a state of lazy and delicious preparation.
Meanwhile I had taken occasion to scan the exterior of
my companion. He was a man much under the middle
size, of a thin and apparently a wasted frame. His
head was covered with an enormous slouched hat, somewhat
in the Spanish fashion, and under its shadow
appeared a face of uncommon and rather sinister expression.
It seemed to belong to something more than
an octogenarian. It was cadaverous, shrunken, and
pointed, and as incapable of change and muscular pliancy
during the relation which followed, as though it had been
hewn from a block of mummy complexioned marble.
His brow, half hidden under his hat, had contracted
into many furrows; and there they remained, inerasible,
and as immoveable as fate. Eyes of dark gray, the
only moving things, save his thin lips, on the dead surface
of his physiognomy, seemed sometimes to kindle
as with the light of former days, as I from time to
occasionally reflected. The nose was one which had
evidently been compelled by hunger or decay, from
something well nigh related to a parabola, into a decided
triangle, and was a remnant well worthy of Slawkenbergius,
and one of the best from the promontory. The
cheeks were sallow and solemn, well comporting with
the motionless rigidity of the whole superficies. The
mouth was one which would have puzzled Lavater,
guarded inwardly by perfect files of small, white teeth,
those terrifying indices of something miraculous about an
old proprietor; while without, the skinny lips were tightly
drawn into that downward curve so finely expressive
of malice and contempt. Such a mouth was now to
be my oracle! A chin, pointed as its fellow projection
above, completed this wild and singular countenance.
His beard lay like hoarfrost along its extremities, and
a single glance I got convinced me that the principle of
life had deserted it. It lay withered upon that mysterious
chin. Not a single hair escaped from under cover;
of course, I was justified in the conclusion, that he was
as bald as Time. A sad colored cloak of no particular
cloth, enveloped his whole person, and now and then,
as it waved in the wind, I thought I had discerned the
portentous insignia of high Dutch consequence in the
singular developement of the leg. I set him down as
one of the most ancient of the Ten Breeches. In perfect
keeping with his other extremities, he wore a pair
of pointed shoes, that projected from under his mysterious
robe, and bore some marks of antique origin.
Such was the singular being, beside whom I was
now reclining, in expectation of a tale as singular
as its author. There was certainly something more
than common about this man, fitted to waken thoughts
of a strange and undefinable nature within me. His
I thought of the suddenness of his appearance
before me; and I had no recollection of having seen
any such person on board during the day. His voice
was low, too, but wonderfully deep, and I remembered
when he walked the quarter, it shook as though a double
steam engine was playing beneath it. Judge then,
gentle reader, with what feelings I listened to this master
of mysteries! But I was determined not to be awed out
of my story; and as though to restore me to the consciousness
that something human was still in my neighbourhood,
a strong light from the cabin, shot up from
below, and in its glare I could recognise some still
wakeful faces, that I had seen round me in the daylight.
I therefore reclined once more upon my solitary seat.
The stars were shining brilliantly over our heads, the
waves were rushing and gurgling directly under us,
and he began.
`Those gray, perpendicular rocks, that seemed to absorb
so much of your attention at twilight, are called, in
these vile modern times, the Palisadoes. Time was,
the which I can well remember,'—I ventured a look—but
the big hat put it out of the question—`aye, as though it
were but yesterday, when those topping fellows were
known by the downright sensible name of the Bold
Bruisers; and so men were content to call them, till
that matter of independence crazed this feverish people,
and then almost every spot in the land, if it was so unfortunate
as to be high or queer shaped, was dashed at
once from the family nomenclature, and thenceforward
known by some appellation, with which it was tortured
by the exclusive spirit of the time. There was your
Mount Washington, and Mount Defiance, your Charter
and the Free Breakers, certain desperate looking
rocks that jutted out along the coast, called Constitution
Boys, and the Tax Takers; and among a host of others,
these veritable perpendicular masses, denominated
the Palisadoes, for the simple reason that their appearance
served to give you some notion of defence and obstinacy;
defence against they knew not what—nothing
in particular; and obstinacy—but I must refer you to
the Bill of Rights, and be careful, I suppose, how I
take in vain that magical word “Freedom.” Yet one
would think, from this poor name, that the hot republicans
believed they could enclose the North River with
a stone wall! Verily, verily there would have been
some meaning in this matter, if the worthy Dutchman,
who ruled that fair city aforetime, but who shall be
nameless, had only succeeded when he swore he would
swivel the Bold Bruisers on their south pivot across
the Hudson, and block up all passage against the British,
by an effectual embargo. Then you might have
talked about palisades with a vengeance; and what
with such a troublesome fence here, and that wicked
“Gate” on the other side, Gotham at least would have
been safe, merely through the terrors excited by its localities.
But we have nearly passed the rocks, and I
must hasten to my story.
`In 1777, while Howe lay in New York, a short distance
down where the country slopes away from those
same Palisadoes, in a beautiful and romantic dell, lived
Isabel Vaughan and her widowed mother. Old Frank
Vaughan, then one of the noblest hearts that beat in
the land, had died in one of the hard times of '76, and
left this little family with a small farm, and, report said,
some bright dollars, to lead out their days, as well as
they could, in the silent residence which he had chosen.
about this dwelling. The hand of taste was also betrayed
in the arrangement of foliage and flowers around
the doors and windows. Wild blossoms were creeping
in over your head as you sat at the one, or stood before
the other. A little garden smiled in the sunshine which
lay brightly and calmly along the valley; and at morning
or evening might be seen a fair and graceful creature
bending among the shrubbery, and conducting the
roses and honeysuckles with studious care, in every direction,
and with every fanciful variety, to embower the
sweet and solitary spot that seemed to contain all her
happiness.
`I need not describe Isabel to you. She was the delight
and support of her little home, and as beautiful as
the most brilliant of the flowers she watched over. She
had grown up in the bosom of a virtuous family, and
her young mind had become early imbued with that deep
enthusiasm, which the times had generated in the
breasts of all the people, and in which her father largely
participated. The stern and devoted spirit which
had entered and expanded the hearts of the Puritans in
their early struggles, seemed to have come with little
alloy down to the time of the Revolution, and in some
instances to have brought with it that austere sense of
duty and abandonment to the cause, which characterised
the pilgrim fathers. With these feelings Frank
Vaughan rushed to the ranks, and fell; and with these
feelings, somewhat softened indeed, but of the same
character, did his beautiful daughter and her aged
mother look out upon the storm that was gathering and
raging around them, and pray heaven for favor on the
cause, feeling thankful for the quiet they were permitted
to enjoy while that cause was now trying by battle
and blood. It was therefore rather a melancholy habit
which led Isabel to the daily observation of her wild
flowers and her garden. Often, as she wandered among
them at still evening, she would stand and listen with a
beating heart, as the noise of cannon rolled on her ear
from the distant city, and her thoughts would fly to her
bleeding country, and she would go in and weep with
her mother, as these dreary signals recalled to their
minds the image of the husband and the father.
`In the situation they were in, it can hardly be
expected that their habitation escaped the notice of
the British parties which were scouring the country
in every direction. Nor was it passed unheeded.
But its very situation was the surest pledge of its
protection. The lonely condition of its inmates, the
meek and quiet spirit with which it necessarily surrendered
the little hospitality which it could afford, and the
silent, but sorrowful sympathy which its helpless inhabitants
accorded to their suffering country, conciliated
the respect even of their enemies, and Isabel Vaughan
and her lonely parent found friends in those who had
sworn vengeance against their land, and were now
passing through it with violence. Sometimes, indeed,
the abrupt appearance and unceremonious demeanour of
the uncultivated and ferocious soldier, awed them into a
painful sense of their apparently unprotected state, and
their unfortunate position in a part of the country extremely
liable to the commotions of the period. But
the troops that passed that way were taught to regard
the spot as exempt from the privilege of violence, and
strictly charged to refrain from any injury of its peaceful
and retired occupants. The leaders of the small
parties that passed that way in the course of their excursions,
gay, and free of speech and manner as they come
to be in camp and in the ardor of war, still found, that
into that quiet respect, which strict and fearless virtue
never fails to command; and the presence of Isabel
Vaughan always excited a feeling of regard, transient
though it might be, while the recollection of her carried
with it a degree of undefined interest, into the most
careless bosoms among them. It was not strange,
therefore, if the impression made even upon such hearts
on such occasions, should sometimes go with them to
the garrison, and that reports should follow of certain
fair ladies in the wilderness, and beauty hard by, as
worthy a respectful bumper, as any to be found over the
water. It required but a short time for sentiments like
these, escaping even as they did like bubbles from the
surface of volatile recollections, to have their due effect
in exciting the curiosity, that under such circumstances
is never too prone to slumber.
`Thus, the presence of a beautiful girl in such a beautiful
and fairylike seclusion, could not long remain a
secret with those finer hearts, whose existence passes
under the alternate sway of love and glory; and but few
evenings had elapsed after the cottage had first opened
its lowly doors to its enemies, when Isabel, from her
garden, saw a person approaching, whom, by his dress,
she presumed to be an officer of rank. It was not an
unusual occurrence that her solitude should be thus
broken in upon; but they were perilous and hurried
times; strange and terrifying tales had lately found their
way to their retreat; the sense of the helplessness of
herself and her mother was pressing daily more and
more upon her; and, at this moment, her mother was
alone, and twilight was fast closing in. Her impulse
was to retreat rapidly; but the stranger approached
by a side path, and was before her, as she was about
to enter the door. With a slight, graceful bow he
abrupt approach; soldiers were unused to apologies,
and they were not things to be conned, at that day.
Besides, he was sorry to say, he believed he was in an
enemy's country—beautiful as it appeared. A faint
smile mingled with the blush of Isabel, as she received
the acknowledgment, and, stepping hastily forward, invited
the stranger to enter, and partake of the poor, but
only hospitality which their humble roof could afford
either to friends or foes; for she innocently conceived
that nothing more sentimental than forage could have
induced a soldier, even such an one, at such a time, to
seek a spot so unimportant and secluded.
`Murray, for that was the name of the youthful officer,
was unexpectedly embarrassed. He had heard that in
this wild and romantic retreat there was a specimen of
beauty worthy a sphere far above the humble one in
which it shone, and which was fitted to prove attractive
to an ardent and sensitive mind; but he was not
prepared to find one there whose extreme loveliness
forced itself upon him at once, and whose whole appearance
could captivate an eye, that had been by no
means inactive, in its time, among the fair and favored
of his own land. He did not come to see one whose
presence could at once dispel all the lighter feelings
and intentions with which youth and warm hearts, in his
adventurous course of life, approach the shrine of beauty;
and he little expected, when he entered the unprotected
home of a female with a soldier's freedom and
an enemy's license, that he should find there a person,
before whom the idea of such freedom made him feel
abashed, and whose simple and unconstrained manner
demanded his perfect respect, and singularly engaged
his attention. Isabel's attractions were the attractions
of nature and simplicity, mingled with a clear perception
and well informed mind. Taste lent all its aid to strong
and elevated feelings, and formed a character and presence
that could not fail of inspiring more than common
interest.
`Under the impression of an interview and feelings,
therefore, for which he was so little prepared, Murray
was unexpectedly confused; and when he found himself
under the roof that had so frequently opened its unresisting
doors to those whom he commanded, and thought
of the possibility of violence done, or insult offered there,
and then glanced his eye upon the interesting form before
him, he hardly knew how to extenuate the incivility
and sin of his intrusion. In despair of any effectual explanation,
he referred in a hurried manner, to the fears
he entertained of any difficulties or troubles that had
been occasioned there by the rough and importunate
soldiery; they were in some degree under his command;
he felt answerable for them; and concluded with
assuring the family ample protection in future from all
further annoyance as far as his powers would permit.
The assurance was received with a thankful but a distant
spirit. Isabel's was a mind not easily drawn away,
or driven by sudden feelings from its propriety. She
had observed Murray's embarrassment, and sought to
relieve it, at once, as far as she could, for it was as
painful to her to observe, as it was to him to bear it.
The warmth and kindness of manner in which this was
done had struck him, and he remembered it. But Isabel
looked upon her guest as an enemy. She had been
taught to do so; and it had, she thought, grown into an
antipathy. It was difficult to overcome these things,
and though the stranger recommended himself strongly
to her, by his striking demeanour, his conversation, and
the generosity of his sentiments, standing in the relation
was an enemy, and she believed it was impossible that
relation could ever be forgotten. The interview, however,
begun with so much uneasiness on the part of
Murray, became interesting to him. The coldness of
the stranger gave way to the native glow of his temperament,
and his conversation kindled into gaiety. The
intercourse was new to him. It was divested of all that
had sickened him elsewhere. It was the employment
of his mind. On the other side, Isabel, though not gay,
became insensibly interested and even animated when
her mind and her feelings were brought into direct collision
with what she honored and esteemed, wherever she
met them—talent and enthusiasm. She even forgot the
individual while she paid respect to his sentiments.
`Murray, in extending the offer of his protection, spoke
of the defenceless character of the country.
“`Why will you touch us there,” said Isabel, “while
you have driven us to these things, in the midst of our
want of means and our deprivations? but,” continued she,
recollecting her father, “there is a defence, which perhaps
you cannot see, in strong hearts and clear consciences.”
“`Pardon me, pardon me!” said Murray hastily; “I
surely forget where I am, to speak of such subjects here;
but within these walls, I hope I shall not be considered
an enemy; I hope we shall never meet as such.” Then
recollecting himself he added—“if, indeed, we should
ever meet again.”
“`Alas! sir,” said Isabel “you are our superiors;
and a prohibition, I fear me, would be of little avail,
while the foe holds our land under the law of the
strongest.”
“`If then, there is no prohibition,” returned Murray
warmly, “I shall surely take every fair advantage which
the war offers.”
“`We are unused to command,” said Isabel, calmly,
and with a faint smile.
“`Not so unused,” whispered Murray to himself;
“for I obey you already.”
`Murray departed. He had been a delighted witness
of the beautiful simplicity of this little family, and the
loveliness of the young creature that adorned it, and he
quitted the house with feelings of mingled admiration
and regret. He was a person of that free and unprejudiced
spirit, that acknowledged worth and bowed to it
wherever he found it, from an innate love of virtue.
His was a spirit too noble to be restricted to the modes
of admiration which the society he rose in avowed and
practised, and whether he met it in the gay metropolis
of a foreign land, or on the borders of the forests of a
new one, he gave his heart, undisguisedly, to the homage
of virtue and purity in woman. His was the ardent
spirit that saw readily and believed unhesitatingly. In
Isabel Vaughan, therefore, he saw enough even in a
first single interview, to delight him, because he saw
that which reconciled itself at once with the high and
generous conceptions he had formed of valuable character,
and which he had loved to contemplate. If his
spirit was a rapid stream, it was also a deep one; unlike
those that are oftentimes shallow in proportion to their
velocity.
`The recollection of that interview retained a vividness
in the mind of Murray, that soon convinced him the repetition
of it was necessary to his peace. His avocations,
his duties, his pleasures grew dull, and time hung
like a weight upon him. If he smiled at the idea of a
passion, it was the secret smile of satisfaction, and he
felt no disposition then to check its young career. The
introduction, therefore, such as it was, was duly improved.
even the cherished guest of Isabel and her mother; for
Isabel discovered that time was fast robbing her of the
prejudice which she had heretofore believed was her
unalienable inheritance. It was a truth, indeed, of which
that unsuspecting girl was not yet aware—as who would
be, in her situation?—that she was ignorant of her own
heart. She did not seem to recollect the miraculous
operation of the affections, the wayward course and
transforming power of the passions. Least of all did she
think that the deep fountains of her bosom could be
broken up, by an influence that worked unseen and almost
unknown, until the waters suddenly burst the control
in which they might otherwise have slumbered forever.
With her, as with every woman, love had been
a dream, but a beautiful and glorious one, and one
which she tremblingly hoped to realize. But that she
should realize it in Murray, that her fate should be thus
mysteriously linked with his, was more than she had
thought of. It was more than she could believe. But
when, after many continued interviews, each more anxiously
looked for, and each more tenderly recollected
than that which had preceded it, she breathed the low
voiced confession to her own bosom, then it was that she
first woke to the power and progress of her passion. It
is needless to follow its course. It may be enough to
say that but few months had flown over the lovers, and
the peaceful home of Isabel, and all its blooming and
blushing flowers witnessed their plighted faith.
“`I can scarce believe it,” whispered Isabel, smiling
through her tears, “my lover, George, and yet my enemy!”
“`Never! my most beautiful foe; this treaty merges
country and all!” cried Murray.
`Isabel Vaughan was now happy; and, in the pure
warmth of her heart,
“As guileless as unpractised infancy,”
thought that went brightening and exulting before her in
all the delicious transparency of a first and holy passion.
She felt that she loved, before she considered the object
of her admiration; and when she did so, she felt
her resentments die within her. She thought of the
time when she had unconsciously hated the very sound
of “Briton;” and to recoil from him, as from an enemy,
she remembered, had been a part of the great doctrine
of the day, inculcated in her hearing; and now she
found her affections were clinging to such a man; that
her heart was entwining itself with such a heart, and
that she was secretly vowing herself to an enemy, to
the desolater of her house, perhaps to the murderer of
her father. She went to her mother, and confessed, and
wept with her. She felt that every interview had only
linked her fate more indissolubly with his, for Murray
had now become the almost constant companion of
Isabel and her mother.
`As often as duty permitted him, he glided from the
city, to linger round this fair shrine of beauty, amidst
the flowers, and silence, and innocence which embosomed
it. He loved Isabel with a high and honorable love.
Often with that mother and daughter, in the hushed
evenings, did he mourn, as a soldier should mourn, the
fate which made him an enemy to the country they were
proud of; and often would he be ready in the fulness of
his heart to renounce all remembrance of national enmity,
till some sullen roar recalled his scattered feelings,
and he remembered with sternness that he heard the
voice of his country calling him to his faith and his vows
head of Isabel reclined on his bosom in the bower that
she had hung with blossoms and wild leaves, would he
part her dark hair and whisper over her an abjuration of
glory and even of his country, to give himself up to her
and happiness in that little paradise of retirement and
peace. But these were dreams of love. These were
the words of deep, impassioned feeling. They are those
which every heart has felt and every heart has uttered,
in its moments of abandonment. They are the simple
elements, the infant movements of the heart, developed,
and carried out, in the first, the best, the holiest expressions
which the soul lends to the lips. They are
nature; they are truth.
`But the story of love is an oft told tale. I will not
detain you to recount its thousand little incidents and
misgivings; its trifles, swelled into the importance of
events, and the numerous fluctuations of its hopes and
fears. I will pass them over. We will leave them to
their early troth, to the full fruition of their morning promises
and joys, to join the parties again at an advanced
period of their fortunes. Far other things were now
to engage the attention of the young soldier. Howe
was about to evacuate New York, and draw off his
forces for Philadelphia, and Murray must accompany
his regiment. The golden string must be parted. “Glory,”
said he, “is little better than blood, and honor is a
shadow that we are chasing over the graves of our fellows.
Ambition, if it wins the laurel, how often does it
return with a marble brow, and wreathed in cypress!”
“`And these flowers,” said Isabel, “must fade just at
the moment when they began to look brightest in my
eyes, and these buds must be checked in their promise,
for I have no heart to cherish them now. Strange!
that he has such an influence on my little Eden here—
father!”
`Such were the unsophisticated movements of this
young and unsullied heart. So strong an attachment
could not suffer a sudden deprivation without an uncommon
and painful struggle.
“`We must part in a few days, Isabel,” said Murray.
It was two nights before his intended departure. There
was no answer returned. “Tomorrow night, Isabel, is
the last night I may ever see you.” There was no
answer, but the agonized girl was upon his bosom in
tears. “But,” said she, at last, calmly looking into his
face, “you said you should return; and you then spoke
of our never parting again. Let us believe that and be
happy.” It was now Murray's turn to be agitated.
His manner had evidently been constrained. When he
came, he was thoughtful and pale. He now became
hurried and abrupt.
“`But, Isabel, who may talk to us of returns and
welcomes? The chances of life are doubled against us.
Fate plays hard with us, Isabel. We can promise
nothing; we can hope nothing; we must go where life
is doubtful, and dishonor worse than death; and yet
that dishonor might save the life of those we love!
Curse, curse on the alternative!” Murray wrung her
hand, and Isabel was startled at his vehemence. The
last words, uttered in a lower tone, caught her attention,
and she kindled as she spoke, “What is it you say,
George? You talk of dishonor and alternatives; what
have they to do with you, or you with them? Why talk
of them in my presence? Is there any proposal I am to
listen to in which either of those words are implicated?
If so, you may yet learn how firmly I can say farewell.
My father knew not hesitation where such terms were
mentioned, and his daughter—”
“`For God's sake, Isabel, no more, no more;” and
he cast on her a look that convinced that trembling girl
how deeply she had wronged him by her wild and hurrying
suspicions. She now stood in the attitude of one
imploring forgiveness. “Nay, Isabel,” murmured he,
as with a trembling hand he threw back her dark and
disordered hair, “I will say nothing of the injustice you
have done me. This is no time for cruel words or
wounded feelings. I must leave you. A return here,
by our commander, is spoken of as something possible;
but the war goes on with a varied success. I can see
nothing certain through this gloom, and there are dangers
and difficulties in our way that you know nothing
of.” And again he grew thoughtful and troubled, as he
walked away, and his bosom rose and fell as though
he was struggling for mastery with some powerful and
terrible emotion. “Dishonor!” breathed he to himself,
“did she conceive her fame was trying me in this way?
Alas! if she knew the horrible trial of defending it.”
Suddenly, by one of those despairing exertions of which
we are sometimes capable, he turned and approached the
agitated Isabel with a composed mein and a faint smile.
“`But why, my beloved girl, why anticipate all this
sorrow? I shall see you again. I will come to you
once more; tomorrow, tomorrow at twilight, I shall be
with you. Yet should the hurry of departure prevent
even this short interview, for short it must be, still you
shall hear from me. Close at the little landing under
the cliffs, the Palisadoes, you shall find my messenger.
You remember the boat I have so often employed to
convey word to you. You will find it there at dark.
Remember—not too early—descend the winding footpath
to the sands, and receive, and send me in return,
a few words; a few words, Isabel! merely a farewell.
The fellow is trusty; he will find me. And now,” as he
and delicate picture. He gazed on it. “It will speak
to me, Isabel, when I am gone, and admonish me, and
cheer me; and it shall be my shield,” said he, as he
placed it upon his heart. Isabel bowed in silence over it.
She believed that heart was beating in single and utter
devotion for her; last of all did she believe that the
sentiments of the world, the voice of man, could quicken
or retard its pulsations. She believed everything that
woman should believe, and she was happy. Still it was
the happiness of tears; the happiness of a bewildered
and anxious bosom. In a few moments those pulses
seemed still; her arms fell gently upon her breast; she
heard a murmur that sounded like a farewell, and the
noise of a door closing at her side. She looked up, and
Murray was gone.
`The next day rose heavily on Isabel. The winds
played rudely among her flowers, and swept hoarsely
over her wild blossoms, bending them to the ground.
She thought she saw her own fate shadowed out in
these frowns of nature upon some of her fairest works.
She compared herself with every delicate plant that
she saw crouching under the blast, and in the clouds
that sailed, dull and dim, along the leaden sky, she
pictured strange forms, that seemed to scowl upon her
out of their gloomy shrouds. Her haunted fancy ached
with painful and distressful anticipations. She recalled
the mysterious manner in which Murray had parted
from her. She thought of the doubts he had expressed
about meeting her, and she resolved them into a thousand
realities. She remembered his broken and singular
manner, and her excited imagination teemed with forms
of terror, peculiar to the dangerous and heart rending
scenes to which his profession was the direct and deadly
pathway. She endured all that a young and sensitive
surrendered to its loneliest reflections, and led, by a
deep, and before unfelt interest in a loved individual, to
throw around him all its fairy work of hopes and fears,
to repose in him all her sacred promises of joy, and all
her wishes of future happiness, while that object is away,
beyond her control or her knowledge, and exposed to
the saddest chances of the world, the additional hazards
of a desolating war, and the deadly wrath of man. The
day thus passed on, wearisome and lonely. Nature
seemed to mourn with this frail and interesting creature,
who was gazing for hours upon its lights and shadows.
The sun shone out sometimes, but it was with a sad
and discolored beam. The breezes came as usual, but
they wafted away the perfume, and went off in hollow
sounds down the valley. Some of the sweetest flowers
that Isabel loved to tend were beaten down and withered;
and the roses showered their drooping leaves round
the door, and in at the windows. The birds used to
linger among the trees, but now they flew silently over
the garden, and the hum of the bees was not heard
there. It is not strange that melancholy presentiments
crowded round Isabel in her cheerless retreat. She
saw the sun go down with a faint and sullen light, and
she waited with anxious and indescribable feelings for
the coming twilight. At times she listened with intense
earnestness that she might hear footsteps coming on the
wind; but the solitude only deepened as the shades of
evening stole in, and yet Murray came not.
“`It is past the twilight,” said she to herself, as she
paced along the brink of the Palisadoes; “it is past the
twilight, and time he were coming; but I will surprise
him. My white dress shall not betray me on these cliffs;”
and she wrapped a light tartan cloak about her, and
stood back from the summit and gazed out upon the
the shore. There was nothing to be discerned. The
stars were here and there to be seen peeping from
among the clouds as they went driving over the
heavens, and as her eye wandered among them, her
bodings of ill seemed to derive fresh confirmation from
the troubled appearance of the elements. Yet again
she took courage when she thought how much was to
be charged to her busy and melancholy imagination, and,
by an effort, she succeeded in stilling the throbs of her
heart, and waited in calm patience for evening to gather
in, believing that a short time would put a period to her
suffering anxiety. Meanwhile, enough could be gathered
by eye and ear from the elevated situation which
she occupied, to convince Isabel that the busy note of
preparation had sounded in the camp, and that a hurried
and bustling night was to pass in the city. Often, as
the rising wind swept over the long reach of waters and
the crags, there came, borne upon its wings, the faint
roll of the drums, and sometimes the long, deep, reechoing
peal of guns, sending their muttering signals far
and wide, till they died in the murmurs of the small
waves, or the moan of the breeze. Then there might
be seen, curving upwards far into the air, a sudden, distant
line of light, illumining the horizon for a moment,
and then sinking with a lengthened train over the distant
and mustering city. A brilliant, dazzling star
would then hover over the metropolis, and as suddenly
vanish, to be succeeded by some other fiery telegraph.
Then there would come again the swelling noise of the
drum, as the air freshened for a moment, and over and
above all, the small, but clear strain of the bugle would
float away, like notes of glorious music, even to the
clouds. There was something strangely wild and solemn
in this scene, and Isabel felt all her enthusiasm wake
the horn seemed to bring Murray once more before her,
and her vivid associations for a moment annihilated the
very rocks and seas that lay between them. But, as if
on the instant to turn her vision of fancy to the still
more blessed reality, an object can be descried making
its way to the shore. A boat approaches. Drawing as
far back as possible without losing sight of the boat,
which was making rapidly in on the strength of four
oars, Isabel gazed unseen upon its movements. A
doubtful and wondering sensation seizes her, as she
discovers four persons are hastily disembarking. She
feels satisfied that one of them is Murray; but why
come so attended? Darkness cannot aid her; it is now
too late to retreat. If she stirs into the twilight, she
will be discovered. While she remains in silent astonishment,
the party has disappeared in the little recess
at the foot of the path that leads from above. They are
certainly about to ascend. She listens. The sound of
low, quick voices comes up—an interval of silence—
and the sharp report of pistol shots rings along the
rocks. A shriek answers its echoes above, and a white
figure is seen rushing down the narrow path to that enclosure.
Meantime there is hot haste upon the shore.
The boat is immediately filled, and hurryingly shoved
off from the bank. It has hardly entered the stream,
when a sullen plunge of something overboard is heard.
A confused dashing of oars, and the boat has disappeared
in the closing gloom of the evening.
`And there is Isabel upon that now dark and silent
shore! She is bending over the grass as though in
search of something, and dull smoke wreaths are curling
over her head, among the branches of the trees, and
against the old rocks. She has caught at something
which the ray of a star lighted for a moment. She
it is severed, and drops of warm blood are resting on its
lineaments. Another long thrilling shriek rings along
those cliffs, and the agonized girl falls on her face,
alone, and motionless.
`From that long and deadly swoon, Isabel Vaughan
never returned to earth the same being that she was.
The stroke had reached her heart, and all its impulses
were paralysed. Her mind withered, and her reason
fled, and over the waste there played the flickering, unearthly
light of ruined hopes and blasted peace, like
that which wanders round decay, amidst tombs and solitudes.
Well might we then say her sorrowful fears
were truly, beautifully, but sadly fulfilled. She was,
indeed, the blossom cut off, the flower bowed down.
She was the unsullied flower of the light, scathed on the
stalk; the delicate bud crushed into the dust, while it
gave rich promise of expanding into beauty. Well did
she fear for her bower and her home, when she saw the
leaves, and the bloom that enveloped them, falling to the
ground, and leaving their habitations cold and desolate.
Her spirit was now the rifled and desolate dwelling.
Well did she fear for the clouds, and the hollow winds,
and the tearful lustre of the sinking sun! The deep
mist had come over her soul. The music of death was
ringing through the chambers of her heart, and the sacred
fire of intellect was expiring in its ashes!
`Still Isabel was spared. Still that fair, pale relic of
loveliness was left to gaze upon, and to wonder and
weep over. Did you seek her at the now afflicted retreat,
where she had first learned to love, you would
find her, an attenuated form, culling sweet flowers, “To
twine into wreaths,” she said, “for her young soldier.”
Then they were to scatter over his grave; and sometimes
were gathered for her bridal. But did you see her, as
I have often seen her, in the neighborhood of those
frowning Palisadoes, you saw a different, but never a
more heart rending object. Often at nightfall, when I
have strayed towards the crags in days long past, I
have seen Isabel Vaughan standing like a statue upon
the heights, her long hair floating on the evening wind,
and her almost vanishing figure shaking as she drew
her tartan round her, and gazed wistfully over the Hudson.
I have seen her gesticulate on the brink of the
cliffs, at one moment as though she was reproaching
some one near her, and at the next, urging him to keep
silent and listen.
`One evening I had watched her till my eyes ran over
with tears. She was standing in the same spot, talking
wildly and rapidly with herself, and her manner was
more estranged than usual. In moving towards the
footpath that laid below, she passed me, but expressed
no surprise at my presence. She observed my tears.
“Why do you weep?” said she; “you have nothing to
weep for; but here are flowers; they always comfort me;
they used to comfort him;” and she offered me some
wild blossoms. “But,” said she, drawing near me, and
looking wistfully in my face, “think you the water is
deep, and do you know what has changed its color?
And they tell me, too, that he sleeps below there; but
we wont believe it; he is yonder—yonder—I know it,”
and she pointed off towards the city; “and you know he
told me to write him farewell, and I send every night by
the boat. Come! here are more flowers. Take more
flowers!” With these words she turned from me,
and passed down the footway, singing, as she went,
an incoherent and mournful air, that stole up in low
and plaintive cadences as she wound into the dell.
was now near dusk, and I saw her issue from the little
recess of low woods, and stand upon the very brink
of the river. I had followed her down, and could not
but notice now the deep melancholy of her mind. Yet
she shed no tears. She raised her hands to her brow,
and looked for a long time under them at the still
waters. At length she slowly drew from her bosom
a small folded paper, and murmuring a few indistinct
words, threw it forth upon the waves, as far as her
feeble strength would permit. Her eye, and all her
faculties seemed to follow it as it floated away, with
an intensity that betrayed in a manner distressfully
palpable, the “total eclipse” of that beautiful mind.
“There, there,” continued she, in a deep and rapid voice,
“be sure you carry it to him; it is a farewell, and he charged
me to send it. Be quick, or it will go out with the
tide, and tell him,” cried she, sending her voice out into
the darkness, “tell him, I have been waiting a long time
for an answer, and when he comes, tell him to come
alone, for they would not let him stay when he came
last, and it broke my heart, and now they say I am
mad;” and once more the wild notes of her monotonous
song rose from the shadowy shore. I accompanied her
home that night, and returned her to her weeping and
heartbroken mother.
`Often, in the dewy twilight did I witness that scene,
under those dreary Palisadoes. Often have I seen her
little white messengers tossing and eddying upon the
current, as she thought them cheerily on their way to
her lover. Frequently, at the break of morning, I have
seen her fragments of paper circling within reach of the
shore, or floating in upon that point towards which your
attention was directed. On one occasion I had the curiosity
to draw one of these singular missives from the
some little love conceit that I could not construe. With
care I succeeded in opening it, without injury. It was
evidently written in haste. There were but few words,
and they ran thus:—
“`Farewell, George, farewell! you charged me to
write farewell—but you will return when the army
comes back. I heard the drums last night when you
went. Farewell! Here is some of my hair. See how
white it has grown! all my hair is white; for something
strange has passed over my head, and I can feel it now!
Farewell—the boat is coming—farewell!”
`Over these incoherent and almost illegible words lay
a portion of hair, white as the paper which had enfolded
it, and a few rose leaves, dry and withered.
`For many weary months, almost nightly, did Isabel
Vaughan haunt those high rocks of the Hudson. She
seemed to grow wilder, as time went by, and although
when met elsewhere, a settled melancholy was to be observed,
wearing her slowly away, yet upon the Palisadoes,
she roamed along with starts and gestures increasingly
violent and frantic.
`The season was getting to be bleak and cold. The
leaves were beginning to drop from the trees, and the
flowers round Isabel's dwelling had all closed up and
fallen from their places. It was the time of decaying
nature. Still the poor maniac glided nightly along the
cliff, heedless of the elements. She was beyond the
reach of the things of earth.
`The British had returned to New York. There was
high mustering again in the city, and the noise of war
again broke upon the startled land. Again the distant
drum might be heard to roll its far summons, coming
ordnance pealed over the hills and rivers, calling the
frighted inhabitants to the recollection of past horrors,
and the anticipation of others yet to come.
`It was one of those chill and piercing evenings which
I have described, when, following my wayward inclination,
I wandered as usual to the Palisadoes. True to
her melancholy associations, Isabel was there, upon the
upper rock, gazing with an appearance of uncommon
interest towards the city. I thought I could discover
a new expression lighting up her pale countenance.
A distant shot rolled away upon the wind. A few rapid
words escaped her, and she was again silent, listening
and looking with increasing earnestness. The note of
a bugle was then wafted upon a rising gust. It was
answered by a scream, and she clapped her hands and
tossed them madly over her head. “He is coming! he is
coming!” cried she. “I hear his music. Hush! Isabel,
you must not betray yourself. Remember! `not too
early, Isabel,”' and she drew back from the verge, and
became silent. A brilliant light illuminated for a moment
the horizon towards the south, and as she caught
its glare, she cried, “It is his signal! there was one like
that before!” and a convulsive laugh burst from her lips.
As it died away, I saw her sink upon the rocks till she
seemed crouching upon the brink of the precipice, and
gaze with her hands raised to her brow, in the eager
and bewildered manner I had before noticed, as though
she would penetrate farther by thus shading her eyes
in that uncertain light. A sound like the dipping of
oars drew my attention. I turned, and saw a boat slowly
making its way under the cliffs where we stood. At
that moment another terrifying shriek broke upon the
stillness—“I come, George—I am here—here!”—and
as I again turned in horror, a dim white object was seen
cliff! There could be no mistake—she was gone!
With a beating heart, I leaped down the path. I fancied
I heard a low moan; it might have been the wind,
but there was no time to listen. When I reached the
dell, there were feet passing hastily to and fro, and as I
approached I saw some one kneeling. He was at the
side of Isabel! “It is too late!” said the stranger—“I
saw her fall as I sprang from the boat; but she smiles
even in death. Poor Murray! poor Murray!” “You
knew him, then,” said I; “you know something of this
sad tale.” but I could ask nothing. I kneeled to gaze
upon the corpse. She lay within a few feet of the grave
of her lover. Her countenance was but slightly mutilated;
scarcely at all; but her long white hair, that had been
bleached by sorrow, lay upon her bosom, buried in blood.
`The stranger was an elderly British officer. As he
seemed to be deeply affected by the harrowing spectacle
before us, and as I had heard him mention the name
of Murray in a tone of compassionate and melancholy
recollection, I concluded he might acquaint me with
some matters relating to this sad history, of which I remained
ignorant. In a few words he informed me that
he was the friend of the unhappy young man, who met
his untimely fate on the dark spot where we then stood.
There were broken hints, a confused story of hasty
words between Murray and another—of some unholy
attempt to fix a stigma on the pure fame of Isabel
Vaughan. The sin of insult—such insult! could be
washed away only by blood. The infatuation had its
full effect. God was forgotten, and man obeyed, and we
have seen the issue! Murray fell, and the villain triumphed!
The wound proving instantly mortal, the victorious
fiend—for he could be nothing less than a fiend—through
fear of detection, or in the delirium of guilt, flung the
hurried from the scene.
“`This then must be his grave,” said I, pointing to
the low mound at our feet; “she spoke of some one
buried here, and a grave that they had told her about.”
“`To learn the certainty of that fact was the motive
that brought me hither,” returned the stranger. “I had
heard something of the humble burial of an officer
whose body was found hereabouts, soon after; but, as
our forces were hurried away, I was constrained to
delay inquiry till this eventful evening. As for him who
laid him low in that narrow house,” continued he, “he
has long ago expiated his crime. He was discovered—
how could it be otherwise?—and died ignominiously.”
`The stranger looked long and mournfully upon the
grave of his young friend. He spoke in a manly, but
feeling tone, of the warm but mistaken spirit that had
driven him to this wretched end, and expressed a sorrowful
satisfaction in finding that his remains had been
committed decently to the earth. “This is a wild, but
sacred place for him to slumber in,” he said. “Let him
rest! He will not be forgotten.” Having offered the
assistance of his party, we bore the ghastly form of
Isabel to the dwelling it once adorned. Description
would falter, in presenting the scene of that hapless
home; of that mother, beside her lifeless daughter!
The veil is dropped.
`Isabel Vaughan and George Murray sleep side by
side, in that green dell beneath the Palisadoes. There
is nothing to mark their graves, but a little mound, with
a foot and head stone. The tale is too melancholy for
marble; but it is engraven in lines of terror upon the
recollection of those who have survived those stormy
times. Tradition, not content with the gloomy character
of the facts, whispers of secret murder committed in
dark handed violence, the dagger of an assassin, sent
down its victim to oblivion; and the Christian, the man
of God, with the truth of this sad story yet green in his
memory, still tells you of murder done there, and with
pious eloquence depicts to you, glowing, exasperated,
and guilty youth rushing to the hazard, with crime in
his heart and death on his lips, to prove his respect for
man, by daring the laws of the Almighty. There is a
mystery in these things; let the world think of it, if it
will. It is not my business to employ the warning voice
of the preacher; but I tell you, that for many years,
young men and maidens, the curious, the gay, and the
sorrowful, from all the country round, made frequent and
silent pilgrimage to the Red Graves of the Hudson.'
| THE PALISADOES. The legendary | |