Part 13

Strewn as by sudden tempest is all the listening swarm, The youth hath sobbed his life out upon his master’s arm; Upon his horse he sets him, wound in his mantle’s fold, And fastly binds him upright, and quits with him the hold.

But at the high gate halting, the old man stands sublime, His harp he seizes wildly, of harps the peerless prime; Against a marble column he hath dashed its strength in twain, Then cries aloud that garden and castle peal amain.

“Woe, woe to you, proud halls, no more echo melodious word Through all your vaulted hollows, nor ever song or chord; No, moans alone and wailing, and coward step of slaves, Till sprites of vengeance trample you to dust and mould of graves.

“Woe to you, odorous gardens, in May-tide’s lovely light, As ye behold this dead face, so sadly changed to sight;

Even so untimely wither, with every fountain dry, And naked all and turned to stone through coming ages lie.

“Woe to thee, murderer accurst, of minstrel-craft the bane, For crowns of savage glory strive on, and strive in vain; And be thy name forgotten, in endless midnight sunk, And pass as into vain air that last death-rattle shrunk.”

The old man’s voice hath pealed it, and Heaven hath heard on high; The mighty walls are levelled, the halls in ruin lie; One pillar lone and lofty still tells of vanished power; Ev’n that is cloven, and may fall before the morning hour.

Around for perfumed gardens is a heath of desert land, No tree sheds welcome shadow, no spring leaps in the sand. That king he perished all unnamed in hero-scroll or verse, Forgotten, blindly overwhelmed!—so wrought the singer’s curse.

Shortly before his death Uhland wrote a little epigram on the death of a young child, which it would be inexcusable to attempt to give in any other language than the original, especially as it has not yet appeared in any collected edition of his works.

AUF DEN TOD EINES KINDES.

Du kamst, du gingst mit leiser Spur, Ein flücht’ger Gast in Erdenland Woher? Wohin?—wir wissen nur Aus Gottes Hand in Gottes Hand.

In these lines the childlike spirit of the old poet may have conceived a fitting epitaph for himself, so calm and simple was his life and death. But the “mit leiser Spur,” “with faint footfall,” could not have been applied to his own case except by his own modesty; for, unmistakably, if ever man did so, to use the language of his admirer, Longfellow, Ludwig Uhland has left some very enduring “footsteps on the sands of Time.”

MY INVESTMENT IN THE FAR WEST.

“A golden opportunity, sir; Fortune knocking at your door, as she knocks but once in a man’s lifetime; and if you refuse to let her in, excuse me, sir, but you will repent it—you will.”

Such were the persuasive words of Colonel Coriolanus Sling, as he cracked his filberts and sipped his sherry in the snug dining-room of my villa at Stamford Hill. The Colonel, as his name indicates pretty clearly, was an eminent citizen of the model republic, not long arrived on British ground, and the bearer of an introductory letter from my esteemed friend Cassius Corkey, a late Secretary of Legation. I had given a little dinner in honour of my new acquaintance; the repast had gone off pleasantly enough, and the ladies had left us four gentlemen to our wine and politics, when the Colonel uttered the above remarks.

It was early autumn, and, if the flower-beds of the garden were somewhat faded, the shrubberies of Magnolia Villa had still a cheerful aspect; and the lawn, as seen through the French windows, was smooth and trim as a gigantic piece of Genoa velvet. Not a weed, not a withered leaf, marred the neatness of the bright gravel of the walks: the fountain was in full play, liberally sprinkling the goldfish in the little marble basin; and the transparent walls of the conservatory showed a wealth of many-tinted flowers within. There may be larger and more stately residences than Magnolia Villa, but I flatter myself that few proprietors could make more of four and a half acres of ground, imperial measurement, than your humble servant, George Bulkeley. We were, as I have said, four in company—the Colonel; young Tom Harris of the Stock Exchange; a friend and countryman of the Colonel’s, by name Dr Titus A. C. Bett; and myself.

“Why, Colonel Sling,” answered I, doubtfully, “I don’t quite know about that. The distance, you see, is great, and the risk may be——”

“Nothing at all!” interrupted my guest, warmly; “I pledge you the honour, sir, of a free-born citizen of the U-nited States, nothing at all! The plum, sir, is ripe, and ready to drop into your mouth spontaneous; and I may safely assure you, sir, that nothing but my gratitude for your hospitality would have induced me to promulgate a scheme so out-and-out auriferous as the Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway will eventuate.”

I did not always find it in my power to follow the Colonel through all the windings of an argument. His exuberant diction was occasionally too much for me; but the drift of what he said was pretty clear, and I was greatly struck with it.

Tom Harris, who had been staring at the Colonel with his round eyes very wide open, here ventured to say that he supposed there would be considerable expenditure before any returns could be expected.

“Guess you’d better shut up,” said, or rather snuffled, Dr Titus A. C. Bett. “I have documents in my pocket to substantiate the number of miles metalled, and the bridges, and the viaducts, and general plant. A mere flea-bite of outlay, sir, would suffice to establish another of those mighty arteries of communication in respect to which America, it’s pretty much admitted, whips the world; and none but a soft-horn, sir, would have the least dubiosity about it.”

The Doctor and the Colonel were compatriots, one being a Boston man and the other a New-Yorker, but they were very unlike each other in aspect and manner. For whereas the Colonel was six feet two inches high, at the very least computation, and had an eagle beak, keen dark eyes, and a forest of lank black hair streaming around his sallow face; the Doctor was a little man of five feet three, or thereabouts, with weak eyes, spectacles, a head almost bald, and a little wizened countenance. Furthermore, the Colonel was a soft-spoken man, with conciliatory manners and a peculiarly honeyed tone; and though he smoked prodigiously, he consumed tobacco in no other way. The Doctor, on the other hand, was quarrelsome and warlike to a degree, capped every anecdote, contradicted everybody, hummed and buzzed in society like an angry wasp, and kept a silver box full of quids in his coat-pocket. These two were partners. Ill-natured people were malicious enough to say that the Colonel’s department was cajolery, and the Doctor’s bullying, in the joint interest of the firm. I gave no ear to these unkind rumours, and indeed I justly considered the Colonel to be a man of superior abilities and remarkable eloquence. He did not omit, on this occasion, to spread a little soothing salve on the wounds which his countryman’s rudeness had inflicted.

“Excuse the worthy Doctor,” he murmured, in bland accents, to Tom Harris, whose face was very red with awkward indignation, “he is accustomed to the free discussions of our colossal country, where the restrictive etiquette of older and more despotic lands is spurned beneath the boot-heels of enlightenment. Do not be riled, I beseech you, at the freedom of his remarks; truth inspires them. You do not know, gentlemen” (here the orator’s voice swelled into a sonorous fulness)—“you cannot know—the resources of our glorious country: none but American citizens can fully appreciate the mines of profitable pro-duce always awaiting the civilising pick-axe of the hardy western pioneer. But never, never since first our Pilgrim Fathers began to improve the Indians off the face of nature—never since Manhattan changed its name to New Amsterdam, afterwards to be New York—has such a speculation as this, of which I am the felicitous herald, been going a-begging. Hail, Columbia, happy land! as our inspired bard, who whips your Swan of—ahem!” And here the Colonel ended in some confusion, and hid his fluent lips for a moment in his wine-glass.

Tom Harris was quite appeased. He was not a bright personage, Tom, but he did very well on the Stock Exchange, to which he may be said to have been born and bred. He was the only son of the well-known old Peter Harris, the man who made so much, as a bear, at the time of the Nore mutiny. He, Tom—not old Peter—had inherited a great deal of money; and though he set up for a sporting man, and generally hedged so artfully, and made up such ingenious books on the races that his alternative was between great losses and small ones, he was richer than when he came into his father’s fortune. For money accrues to money, as a snowball gathers in rolling; and it no more requires a genius to thrive in the Stock Market than it does to rule in a Cabinet, if Chancellor Oxenstiern tells the truth. And Tom had married a young lady of property, Miss Mungle, daughter of Chuttnee and Mungle, or rather of the junior partner in that great firm. Tom Harris, therefore, was wild for lucrative investments, and so, in a qualified way, was I; and money was plentiful in the City, as the ‘Times’ correspondent daily informed the reading public. We therefore already began to nibble at the tempting bait which the Colonel placed before us so dexterously.

“But,” said I, “is the traffic certain to be remunerative? The line runs through rather a thinly-peopled tract of country, doesn’t it?”

Colonel Coriolanus Sling slapped his leathery palm upon the polished mahogany with an emphasis that made the glasses ring. “Sir,” said he, “you are the most sensible man I have met in this benighted—I mean this beautiful kingdom. You have hit the exact point, my dear Mr Bulkeley, on which the eligibility of the whole affair pivots, only you must look at it from that sublimely piercing elevation from which the American intellect surveys it. Sir, we must _create_ a population: sir, we must found cities: sir, it must be ours to people the western solitudes and to implant the germs of a nascent commerce, a new learning, a fresh community, where now the coon and the prairie dog dwell unmolested and alone: and, sir, future ages will decree to us colossal statues of imperishable brass; while in this we shall realise the applause of our consciences and of our bankers.” Here the Colonel stopped, overpowered by his feelings, and blew his nose with a martial dissonance.

“By Jove!” said Tom Harris, “I’ll speak to old Muggins about it: if he says ‘all right,’ I’ll take a thousand shares in the concern.”

“Muggins, sir! who is Muggins?” demanded the Doctor, waspishly: “is Muggins, sir, a fit judge when such an enterprise is in question—an enterprise to reflect eternal honour, sir, on its spirited and high-feluting projectors, with the finger of ignominy to point at the craven that draws back. Muggins! some stony-hearted London capitalist—some toad-eater at the beck of a bloated aristocracy—some miserable haunter of the gilded saloons of a Chancellor of the Exchequer” (the doctor was not very particular as to the authenticity of the accusations he flung broadcast). “Muggins, indeed!”

Tom Harris was an ingenuous youth. He looked excessively ashamed of his allusion to Muggins, and was quite borne down by the volubility of his transatlantic opponent. Thus it came about that a meeting was arranged for the next day at Colonel Sling’s chambers, at which we were to discuss the propriety of forming a company to work out the concession of the Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway, of which our American friends were the fortunate owners. I was an older man than Tom Harris, and had necessarily seen more of the world. And I had been “bit,” as the phrase goes, once or twice, by Mexican Debentures, Spanish Deferred, and unsaleable Scrip. I therefore asked, as delicately as I could, why my new acquaintances had not raised among the enlightened capitalists of their own country a sufficient amount to pay all preliminary expenses, thus keeping the golden fruit entirely among Americans. But the Colonel had an answer ready for me. He frowned, pursed up his month, bit his lips, and assumed very much the air of a conspirator.

“Hush!” he uttered, in tragic tones; then rushing to the door, whisked it open, putting to rout Adolphus the page, who always is listening at keyholes, in spite of repeated corporal punishment. Adolphus scuttled away across the hall in great dismay, and the Colonel returned to his seat with an expression that Iago might have envied. “Hush!” said he, “walls have auriculars, and spies are always on the watch to re-port the words of Columbia’s children. It is well known that your arbitrary Government has long adopted the wicked maxim due to the crafty forethought of your Pitt, Earl of Holland, that ‘America’s danger is England’s opportunity.’”

I could not help laughing as I answered, “I am afraid, Colonel, your memory has not rendered the passage in exactly its original form.”

“Excuse me,” croaked the Doctor, “but nothing is more wonderful than the ignorance which prevails in Britain, with regard to the sayings and doings of your grandees and public persons.”

“Allow me, Doctor,” said the Colonel, oracularly, “to finish my explanation. You see, gentlemen, we might have offered this concession in Wall Street in the Empire City, and Wall Street would have snapped it up; yes, sir, as an alligator would chaw pork.”

This was a forcible simile, but it did not quite content us. “Why didn’t you?” was trembling on the lips of both Tom Harris and myself, but politeness restrained us from uttering what our looks must have plainly said.

The Colonel answered our looks thus: “Because, squires, there was this difficulty in the way,—Buck, you know, is our old man.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Tom, reddening again; “but I don’t quite catch your meaning. Buck, did you call the gentleman?”

“Buck! the old man! White House—deputations—soirees—soft sawder,” explained the Doctor; and then we discovered that President Buchanan was the object of discourse.

“Well,” pursued the Colonel, “Buck’s very far gone—notice to quit—time nearly up. His successor is sure to be Abe Lincoln, if the little giant don’t beat him at the election. Nobody else has got a chance. Caucuses all at work! dark as moles. Now, sir, we have plugged the platform.”

“You’ve done what?” exclaimed Tom Harris.

“We’ve made it all safe, and Lincoln stands to win,” exclaimed the Colonel, condescendingly. “Now we suspect those Southerners mean to ride rusty if they get an anti-slavery man, like old Abe, to be President over them; and though our folks air screamers, and that’s a fact, the South’s an ugly customer, and our line of railway is too close to Missouri State to be safe, if owned by Northerners. But in the smartest row the South can make, you Britishers are sure to be handled as tenderly as a hoosier handles a squirrel’s skin; and so it’s best the property should be in the name of British subjects, not free citizens. Don’t you see?”

We did see, and we resolved that on the morrow we would sift the matter thoroughly.

“Try the claret, Colonel,” said I; “you have been drinking nothing but sherry, and this is Chateau Margaux that I got at Bilkingham’s sale. Those are pretty good peaches, Doctor, of my own growing.”

“Don’t talk of peaches,” said the Doctor, who, I will own, was anything but an agreeable guest; “you must cross the broad Atlantic before you talk of peaches, I reckon. I’ve fed pigs with better than your dukes and earls could show. I’ve bought in the market twenty-nine big peaches for thirty cents, I have. We do crow over you in peaches, as in most, only your national vanity won’t permit you to see it.”

The Colonel jumped from his chair. “You be quiet!” said he; “the Doctor is a glowing patriot, Mr Bulkeley; but I know he admires your delightful snuggery, embellished by art and high-flying taste, as much as I do myself. Some day, as a director of the Nauvoo and Nebraska, you may, if you please, build a palace on the site of Magnolia Villa that will take the shine out of the sumptuous halls of your nobility. But enough of business. Gentlemen, if you have liquored sufficiently, we will join the ladies.”

We did join the ladies. We found them strolling over the lawn in the cool of a September evening, and presently we all went in to coffee. I noticed that the Colonel was very polite and attentive, not only to my wife, but to young Mrs Harris, who was exceedingly stupid and plain of feature. As for Mrs and Miss Jarman, they were entertained by the Doctor with an amusing dissertation on the difference between America and England, and especially between London and New York. If Mrs Jarman had hitherto cherished a belief in the pre-eminence of London, as she apparently had, she must have received a considerable shock as the Doctor informed her that Belgravia was but a poor place to Fourth and Fifth Avenue, and that we were benighted creatures in all matters of elegance and taste.

“Not a mahogany door, I guess, have I seen in this smoky beggarly town of yours,” said Dr Bett, with both thumbs in the pockets of his black satin vest; “and as for silver knockers and bell-pulls, I might as well look for liberty in your institutions, or for sincerity in your press. The helps are enough to disgust all free-born men; to see them in plush and powder, with gold-sticks and nosegays, standing behind the gilt vehicles of an effete aristocracy, is alone a spectacle that beats earthquakes; and your Life Guards would sing small, I guess, by the side of the Brooklyn Volunteers.”

The Colonel, however, could be complimentary and gentle, if his brother republican could not; and so well did he play his cards, that when the company drove off, and the last grinding of their carriage-wheels upon the gravel had died away, my wife and daughters turned to me with beaming faces, and began to sing the praises of their departed guest.

“A most superior, well-informed, gentlemanly man, is Colonel Sling,” said the partner of my joys, emphatically.

“A delightful man!” lisped Georgina, my eldest.

“Quite an Admirable Crichton,” said Selina, my second, who is a bit of a blue.

“Delightful! he has _so_ much conversation, and makes one laugh _so_!” cried artless Lucy, the third and youngest of my daughters.