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They other Indian was cruelly mangled and murdered by piece-meal.

expectation of being put to death.
brought the corpse of Gilmore down the bank,
covered with blood and scalped, and put it into
the canoe."

The suddenness of the massacre prevented its arrest. The fatal deed covered the fort with

Col. Skillem did not arrest the murderers; perhaps his authority over the volunteers

was too weak. General Hand arrived in a few

death.

The interpreter's wife, who had lately return- gloom. ed from captivity, and entertained a kindly feeling for Cornstalk and his companions, hearing the tumult, ran out to inquire the cause; and days without forces or supplies, and took no nohearing threats from some of the men against tice of this deed. In a few days the soldiers the Indians in the garrison, she hastened to the were ordered to return home. The Court of cabin of Cornstalk, and told him that Elinipsico Rockbridge county made some inquiries respectwas charged with bringing the Indians that had ing the murderers, but did not pursue the subject just killed Gilmore, and that the soldiers were to a judicial conclusion. The Shawanees in the threatening them all with death. Elinipsico war that followed took ample revenge for their denied bringing the murderers with him; de- chief. The blood of multitudes flowed for Cornclared he came alone, and for the sole purpose of stalk and his son and no man was heard to visiting his father, who had been so long absent. glory in being the principal or accessory of his As the canoe that bore the dead body was passing the river, "I observed to Capt. Arbuckle," says Capt. Stuart, that the people would be for killing the hostages as soon as the canoe would land. He supposed that they would not offer to commit so great a violence upon the innocent, who were in no wise accessory to the murder of Gilmore. But the canoe had scarcely touched the shore until the cry was raised-let us kill the Indians in the fort ;-and every man, with his gun in his hand, came up the bank pale with rage. Capt. Hall was at their head and leader. Capt. Arbuckle and I met them, endeavored to dissuade them from so unjustifiable an action; but they cocked their guns. threatened us with instant death if we did not desist, and rushed by us into the fort."

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Cornstalk had led the expedition, years before, by which Gilmore's family had been murdered: Cornstalk was now in the fort. Elinipsico, his son, had come the day before; and now Indians had just killed Gilmore. These men must be a sacrifice. These feelings governed Hall and his men, as they rushed shouting to the cabin of Cornstalk.

MYSTERIOUS MUSIC.

During the summer of 1848, which I spent on the shore of the Mexican Gulf, I had frequent opportunities of listening to what is called the "Mysterious Music." The singular sounds known by this name, are mostly heard on the waters of Pascagoula and Biloxi Bays. By the Creoles, who are very superstitious, they are heard with fear, but others listen with a mingled feeling of pleasure and wonder. This music is generally heard about nightfall, when it strikes upon the ear like the breathing of an Eolian Harp in the distance; scarcely however has s feeling of delight been awakened by the distant strain, when wonder is excited by the seeming approach of this "fairy-like music." A moment before, and the ear could only catch a faint, distant, dying cadence, now it swells

louder, becomes more and more distinct until it seems within a few feet of where you stand. It is then truly

mysterious, for though sensible that it is near you, you

are totally unable to locate the sound, but it seems to

Elinipsico hearing their approach trembled greatly. Cornstalk said-"My son, the Great Spirit has seen fit that we should die together; issue from any point to which you direct your attention; and has sent you here. It is his will. Let us it is in the water; above, below, and all around; wher submit. It is best:"-and turned to meet the ever you listen, thence the music seems to flow. This soldiers at the door. In a moment he received phenomenon has come under the observation of hundreds, seven bullets in his body and fell without a groan yet none have been able to assign any adequate cause Elinipsico sat upon his stool unmoved. His for it, there seems to be no particular spot at which it father's words had calmed his trepidation: his may be heard; you may hear it for a few evenings in sucfather's death called up in his bosom all his sav-cession, and it may not be heard there again for years. age stoicism. He received the shots of the sol- Of course many attempts more or less fanciful, have been diers and died without motion. Redhawk, on made to account for these wild, sweet strains-the most hearing the tumult, concealed himself in the pleasing, but perhaps not most satisfactory of these, is an chimney, which was too small to admit his es- Indian legend related to me by one who has resided for cape. He was soon discovered and shot in his years on the Bay where those sounds are heard, and who hiding place, and fell in the ashes dead. The in common with myself has been a frequent ear-witness

of their plaintive melody. The legend, as related to me is embodied substantially in the lines which follow.

THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC.

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

I.

Where the silver Pascagoula
Gives its tribute to the sea,
Spreads a bay, upon whose borders
Once there dwelt the bold and free.
There is not a lovelier inlet,
On Columbia's southern shore;
None so strongly by tradition
Linked unto the days of yore.
True, the men were forest-dwellers,
Untaught children of the wild;
But a holy love of freedom,
In their hearts dwelt undefiled.
Martyrs true they were, and noble,
As the great Leonidas

Led to die, for Greece, and glory,
In Thermopyla's famed pass,
They have left a noble lesson,
Simple, stirring, and sublime,
Of their hatred of oppression,
To the men of ev'ry clime.
True, no poet, nor historian,
Tells the story how they died;

But tradition's hand hath snatched it
From oblivion's whelming tide;
And the waters whence they perished,
Still their death song wild retain,
And the gentle air of evening
Often wakes the mournful strain.
Sailing once upon these waters,
With an aged, white haired man,
He began the strange, wild story,
And 'twas thus the legend ran.

II.

"Hear you not that strain of sadness,
Gently stealing o'er the wave;
Like a requiem wild, and solemn,
Breathed above a loved one's grave ?"
List'ning, soon I heard it swelling,
'Mid the pauses of the oar;
And I questioned, "friend pray tell me,
Comes that strain from off the shore?"
"No; it is unearthly music,
Mortal hand, nor voice, can wake

Strains like those, which from the waters,

On the ear so sadly break.

Long ago, the brave Biloxes

Dwelt upon the neighb'ring shore;
And the happy shouts of childhood

Rose about each wigwam door.

Where those blackened trunks are standing,
In those happy days was seen,
Spreading o'er those humble dwellings
The magnolia's arch of green.
Then, the maidens brown, yet comely,
To these shades would oft repair,

And with hearts, with love wild beating,
Meet their hunter lovers there.
Birds of sweetest note have warbled,
From each green and fragrant bough;
Buds for beauty thence been gathered;
But they're scathed and leafless now.

There, 'tis said, the bold Altama,
Noblest of the warriors true,
Came the chieftain's child, Anola,
Fairest of the fair, to woo.

None in all the tribe was braver,
Than the chief who sought a bride;
Never Indian girl was fairer,
Than the maiden by his side.
But she was an only daughter,
Her old father's chief delight;
And his lodge, if she were absent,
Would have lost its life and light.
But, at last, the chief consented,
And Altama took his bride,
Vowing ne'er to sever from her,
Until death should them divide.

III.

"Torches now, throughout the village,
Like bright meteors swiftly glance,
To the green they light their bearers,
Where they join the nuptial dance.
Deftly now the dancers mingle,
How the flashing torches fly!
Some are swept in fiery circles;
Some are cast toward the sky.
Nor upon that joyous evening,
Was the voice of music mute,
Sweet as notes of wild birds singing,
Then was heard the Indian flute.
Maiden's voices, in the distance,

To its melancholy strain,

Uttered such wild, sweet responses,
That all paused to hear again.

Thus they stood, when, from the forest,
Other strains than those awoke-
Fearful focs had gathered round them;
On their ears the war-whoop broke.
'Twas the Pascagoula warriors,
Who in fearful numbers stood
Ready at their chieftain's signal,
To begin the work of blood.
Soon that signal dread was given,
Forth like panthers fierce they sprung
On that throng of fawn-like maidens,
Who but late so sweetly sung;
But the hearts of the Biloxes
Though surprised, still knew no fear,
Down they threw the bridal torches,
Up they snatched the bow and spear.

Then the voice of bold Altama
Swelling 'mid the strife arose,
Cheering to his chosen warriors,
Bearing terror to his foes.

IV.

"On, my braves! the Pascagoulas
Oft have met you in the field,
You have ever been the victors,
Scorn then, even now to yield.
Nerveless arms direct their arrows-
Coward hearts beat in their breasts;
And your shouts of bold defiance
Shake with fear their waving crests.
Night they deemed would hide their terror,
But let true hearts follow me;

And, as ever, these false foemen,
Shall before us swiftly flee.'

V.

"Onward pressed the brave Altama, Near him all his warriors stood

And their weapons soon were stained,
With the foul invader's blood.

Long, and well, this brave band battled,
'Gainst a far superior foe;
Woman's danger made them stronger,
Gave fresh vigor to each blow;
Maidens, matrons, helpless children,
Stood behind, like frightened deer:
As the fearful sounds of battle,
Smote upon each startled ear.
Sons, and sires, and husbands, lovers,
Were engaged in deadly strife,

And with ev'ry blow they thought of
Maiden, mother, sister, wife,

And they felt, that, if they yielded,
All these cherished ones must go,
Captives without hope of ransom,
To the wigwams of the foe.
Faster flew the deadly arrows-
Many brave Biloxes fell

Still they yielded not, but listen!
Whence arose that fearful yell?
"Twas another band of foemen;
Fresh for battle, and for blood,
Rushing on the helpless women,
Who behind the battle stood.
To the heart of every warrior,
Pierced their shrill, despairing cry;
And like lions, chafed and wounded,
Fiercely back they turned to die.
Like a storm, Altama leading,
Leaving ruin in their track,
Burst they on their new assailants,
And with fury drove them back;
Then they hurried the defenceless,
Where a rude entrenchment rose,
Near the margin of the waters,
To protect them from their focs.
Scarcely had they gained this refuge,
When above the solemn wood
Rose the waning moon, and shed her
Silver radiance o'er the flood.
Then they saw each other's faces-
Saw their number, oh! how few;

Only fifty, of five hundred,
Who the bow in battle drew,
And of this not one unwounded
Now remained; but of the foe
Fifteen hundred then were lying,
By the hand of death laid low.
These gazed in each other's faces,
But no light of hope was there;
Every brow bore one expression-
That of fixed yet stern despair:
For a thousand Pascagoulas

Closed them round, and could they hope,
Wounded as they were, and wearied,
With such fearful odds to cope?
Then stood forth the bold Altama,
Bleeding still from many a wound;
And in firm, unfaltering accents,
Spoke to those who stood around.

VI.

"We met at day's decline, my braves, A large and joyous band,

And now the remnant of our tribe,

We here at midnight stand.

Full many of our warriors true

Now strew the battle plain;

And we have fought, as men should fight, But fought alas! in vain.

Though wounded, all your hearts I know
Will never brook to yield;

For ye the yoke as proudly scorn,
As flying from the field.

Your noble forms were never made

To tamely bend to those,

Who now with hatred in their hearts
Our little band enclose.

Where is our refuge then? the waves
Which murmur softly nigh,
Like spirits gently call the brave

In their embrace to die.

If here we fall, our scalp-locks soon
Will swell the foeman's pride;

And they will tell their eager youth

That we ignobly died.

Our women and our children too,

A weak, defenceless band,

Torn from their own loved homes away,

Will till the victor's land.

Oh! rather let these waters now

Around us darkly close;

And let our bodies, near the land
We loved in life, repose.

In death I'll be your leader still,
I'll lead into the wave,

Who by my side will first advance,
To freedom and a grave?'

VII.

"Forth then sprang the fair Anola,
To the dauntless chieftain's side,
Saying, yield that sad sweet office,
To thine own, devoted bride,
True, thou art the mountain eagle,
I, the gentle, timid dove,

Yet I've felt my nature stronger,
Since thou gavest me thy love.'

VIII.

Flashed the eye, of bold Altama,
As he raised the wild death song,
With his bride, he sought the waters
Followed by a mingled throng.
Wounded warriors, lovely maidens,
Tender wives, and children dear,

Formed that column, and there rose not

From their lips one note of fear!

But the words of bold defiance,

Ran throughout that dauntless band,

As if marching to a banquet,
They descended to the strand.
Bright the summer moon was shining,
O'er the still and placid wave,

When this tribe's last noble remnant,
Came to seek a welcome grave.
Louder swell their notes defiant,
As they through the waves advance,
Thoughts of freedom swell each bosom,
Prouder seems each haughty glance.
But the depths are reached, and silent
Sink they in their watery bed,
And the waves that murmur o'er them,
Sigh a requiem for the dead.
And the music, which at nightfall,
Oft comes stealing o'er the wave,
Is a strain, the waters rescued
From the death song of the brave."

AZIM.

STORY OF A CLOCK.

narrowness of the sentiment. In fact most of Byron's Poetry reminds me of some of my fellow Time-pieces; frame-work grand and impo

"The great soul does not sell its nobleness. It does sing, but machinery bad,-telling false time. Or not ask to dine nicely, nor sleep warm; the essence of as some great effective Temple, radiant with greatness is the perception that Virtue is enough. Pov-stained glazing, and painting, and statuary; erty is its ornament. Plenty it does not need and can very well abide its loss.-Emerson.

whilst within some dark demon gloats in Heresy. The unearthly organ notes swelling along the trembling aisles and the chancel, veils worldly I am an old Clock, fashioned more than a centhings from our view; but it is in contract with tury gone by. I was considered at the time I One who has said, "All these will I give thee was framed, a masterpiece of the celebrated if thou wilt fall down and worship me!" Such London artist that made me,―for I am not one to my mind is Byron's poetry. I hope the lisof your miserable Yankee notions. Not I. I tener will pardon this little piece of irrelevant count me worthy of superior veneration. I am clock-work Criticism. I spake the poetry in not one that strike my hours in wire-music, to order to reject it, I did it to clear that "melanlull the ear into forgetfulness of that which a choly star" from clouds, for it is to be my guide Clock should always say to those who peer into and good Genius. I did it to show that though its face, or hold their breath at its stroke. It "tremulously far" that "light of other days" is should be as the ancient Conqueror's Mentor in not cold. Great God! who would insult thee the ceaseless, rolling, noisy chariot of the World, so much as to call it so? None save Byron. It ever saying—and with no soft tone-memento is a beam as warm as un-ending as the flame mori. In this I have been ever active, save only that burned on the ancient Altars. Its genial for the time I slept on the bosom of the foaming ray and heat are mine now. ocean, when borne from my native land.

Horace Walpole would have loved to lodge I have stated that I was old. Around me me beneath the dusky arches of Strawberrycling antique carvings of another day; they clasp Hill. Round such a well-wrought case as me-these olden fantasies-as so many pure as- mine his fancy would have wreathed itself, as sociations of youth with manhood. So long as ivy kissing the crumbling Coliseum. You may I am myself, I can never untwine them from past say that it needs some such outlandish one to sensation of joy or sorrow. Nor would I, for appreciate me,-that you should do it, all I ask the world. When I look down at my finely- is the respectful hearing that age can claim. I carved Dragon-head feet, I see what has been will tell you that which is true. I never tell that the toy of a child I loved to watch growing from which is false. All in the family who have infancy to strong boyhood. When I look about watched me time without name will affirm it. at my wrought head-piece, my curiously figured There is but one instance in which I have been side, my little secret holds that were little coufi-conscious even of a self-suspicion of not having dentials between my master and I; I see and given an altogether right impression. For fear recall what it was that has attracted the eyes of of misapprehension I will explain that. I am a so many visitors in times agone, and that made perfect Clock in my construction. Never Clock me one of the most signal ornaments that ever told more or better than I, the tides, the time, parlor had. Those were my sole pleasures in the objective world, if I can be said to have had any there. With me now all my effective delights are caught from the rays of a star that gleams back in the horizon of the Past; and to which my memory turns to bask in its lustre, as the Heliotrope which bends every petal to the golden Eye of day.

"Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam grows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remembered well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warns not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant-clear-but oh, how cold!"

So sang Byron. I know not at which most to

the day, the month, and the lunar phases; in
fact I am possessed of all the appliances of a
perfect Clock. The only sense of imperfection
is this. I am a century old but the moon-face
that peeps out above mine is as young as ever!
It has never grown old, but is as ruddy and fat-
cheeked as if new-born. This is very distress-
ful to me; and seems to contradict or counter-
mine in some sort, when I say,
You are all
growing old-memento mori." How much more
happy would I be if its head had turned white,
if its brow had been wrinkled with time. I
should have felt much more sympathy with it in
my old age. That however I cannot help for
all my grief, and so will pass on to my story.

66

(The old Clock pressed its hands to its forewonder: the beauty of the poetry or the extreme head, as if in a reflective mood, and then with

its open, frank face-though rather pale-con- and physical faculties developed. Time bore tinued :)

STROKE FIRST.

LIFE.

the family on in his quiet chariot which makes no noise in its going. The young men left their father's house bearing unnumbered blessings and prayers with them. They went forth in the great World to grasp its pleasures and to grapThere is a delight that a large portion of the ple its stings. The younger Esmond went into world knows not. God has given it almost ex- the great city. His keen, vigorous mind carried clusively to the mother and the father; and a him swiftly on to prosperity, as the expert Capholy valuable delight it is. I mean the charm of tain soonest guides his boat into the haven. He watching with untold interest and care, the grow-lived with all the happiness that wealth could ing up of the child from the feeble world of No-give, and withal high station. He married early tice, to the powerful world of Energy. The in life. I know nothing of his wedded life, of Father knows the joy that crowds instinctively its happiness or its cares, for I never lived with upon him, as he watches the gradations of his him. He used to visit us sometimes though, and darling's growth; and the Mother only can feel they were a handsome enough couple at any full sympathy with this feeling of his. And so rate. They had no children. the Child is another strong tie-or should be— Richard also married a sweet lovely girl. I between them; for man must love that which can see her now, with the fine calm face, the yieldeth most sympathy. But that is a pleasure bright blue eye, and the fair skin beneath her auin which I am initiated. My heart was full for burn hair-all of which likened her to an angel blessing to those who were around me: I could with me. I can see her loving pressure and his chime in with their feeling, I felt, more than any affectionate kiss, as it was when noue was by other. I loved all, as they all looked up to me, save me. Theirs was a heavenly union, God and therefore knew that feeling. knows,--how many are there such, I wonder.

ses.

his

Esmond (my master) was a very happy man. I do not think that Richard was suited for the It was as plain as day-light-the existence of world as Esmond; at any rate that was the imwhich has never been denied, as the French speculator thanks God-and really there wasn't pression he always made on me. There was the slightest pretext for doubting in the premi- something about him too calm and kindly : someBless your soul how could it have been thing looked forth from his eye when he was by himself, and sometimes (though not so often) else? He had money plenty: he had a sweet wife that he loved till you'd almost call it sin. when others were near. I would sometimes look He had three sweet children of the several ages his books,) to see if upon its page there was not at the book he was reading, (for he was ever at of six, five, and four,-the last being the only daughter. A very bonnie wee thing was little something glowing, red-hot, which shone up in dimpled Fanny, (named after her mother,) and eyes and made them flash and glisten. Havthe dream and day-delight of the two brothers. ing a competency, he entered into a more retired life than his brother. He lived, I believe, in the These were two fine boys-Esmond the eldest, and Richard the other; both comely and smart. country, wrapped up in love for his family-and And all the family as healthy as I! I said that in his reading, If I mistake not he wrote too; wrote books that were sounded abroad everyEsmond's happiness was as plain as day-light. Indeed now that I bethink me, it was much more where, and sealed his name on the tongues of obvious. Day-light is very complicated—as I great and small of all the land. understand it-woven of colors even as the rain- Fanny was almost the very life of the old bow. His happiness was far purer than that: couple. Their heads were now sprinkled with for it was wreathed of affections the purest, of the snow-flakes which the wing of mercy—yes, aspirations the holiest, of love the most untinged. of mercy-scatters on those who have seen the Indeed I wondered when first thrown into this spring-time, and the summer, and the autumn of amiable family, how it was that so much of good life; I do not mean as seasons in cold or warmthwas mingled with so little of evil. I almost but as times of life. She soothed their waythought the general curse had never fallen there! did Fan-and with her trained glance saw the Never again do I expect to see any sight so motive of their pleasures and their joys. She lovely upon this green earth, as I saw in the tenderly spake to them of the days past, of their peaceful and happy home of Esmond. There darling sons:-and oh! her every word was a were no strifes nor aught but harmony; in love pearl, as with the good and munificent girl that they worshipped God for blessings so great that she had read of in the fairy tale years before. they could not conceive them. She thought when she read it, that it was all a The boys and the girl grew; their dispositions foolish fancy; and never dreamt to the day of

the

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