back-bone—to meet an army commanded by such generals. He has got that ass with the brown wig in his clutches, and he’ll take him back to New York as bare as the palm of my hand.”
“Is he not in reality a general?”
“Oh, yes, he is a general, sure enough, and there are plenty like him. But I tell you, sir, if the Northern and Southern States ever come to blows, the former must have very different generals from him, ay, and colonels and captains too, or they’ll fare the worse.”
This man, so gentlemanly, so quiet, so apparently unobservant, when the conversation turned upon such topics as these, became furious—his utterance was rapid, his voice was raised, his usually pale face flushed, and his eyes flashed fire. But there was a strange fascination in the man, and every day I became more and more interested in him. At length the steamer in which he was to proceed to New Orleans arrived, and he prepared for departure. Just before he embarked he came to me, pale with rage.
“Look here,” he said, “here is another instance of the extortion and rascality of these detestable Spaniards. I had got all my luggage on board, and was on the point of stepping into a boat, when I was stopped by a soldier.
“‘Show me your passport,’ said he.
“‘There it is,’ said I.
“‘This won’t do,’ he said.
“‘Why not?’
“‘This passport must be visèd.’
“So I had to go to the office of the captain-general’s secretary, and pay a doubloon for my passport being visèd, which doubloon of course goes into his own pocket. It is an abominable extortion.”
When he had calmed down we shook hands, and he bade me farewell, saying, kindly—
“If ever you should chance to come to Mobile, I shall be glad to see you. I have not got a splendid house, but I have got a comfortable one, and I will give you a hearty welcome. Ask for me, and any person will direct you to my residence.”
“But you forget,” said I, “you have not yet told me your name.”
“True, true,” he said; “it is William Walker.”
Little did I, or could I, suppose, that this man would become the notorious filibuster, carrying fire and sword into a peaceful territory, drenching with blood the fertile plains of Nicaragua, and reducing its towns to ashes; little could I imagine that in a few short years he would be publicly shot by half-clad, savage soldiers as a robber, a pirate, and a murderer. How truly does the poor distracted Ophelia say, “We know what we are, but we know not what we may be.”
KING DYRING.
(TRANSLATED AND VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF EMILE SOUVESTRE.)
I.
Over the main to an island home Dyring the prince has sped,
And there a lovely maiden took, in blessed troth to his bed.
Seven years the wild fowl come and go, and round the princess stand
Six little blooming children, fair as an angel band.
And then this lily ladye bowed down her gentle head,
And Dyring and his orphans wept, both wife and mother dead.
II.
Ere long, all sad with loneliness, he sought a second bride,
And from an isle across the sea, he brought one to his side;
He brought her to his palace home, but she was cold of heart,
And there she found—with tear-worn eyes, and lips that were apart
With bitter sob and wailing—the orphans three and three.
They bade her welcome through their tears—she spurned them from her knee.
III.
“Nor bread nor beer[1] shall be your cheer—hunger and thirst ye may,
Give up, give up, those cushions blue, on straw I bid ye lay,
No waxen tapers, blazing bright, for you shall shed their ray.”
Weeping they laid them on the straw, all in the frightening gloom,
Those trembling, tender orphans—but in her lonely tomb
Under the dank and heavy sod, thro’ coffin and thro’ shroud,
To mother’s ear, to mother’s heart, their plaint reached piercing loud.
IV.
She rose before Lord Jesu’s throne—“Good Lord, I do implore,
Oh! let me pass from out my grave, and stand before my door.”
And Jesus—who had loved well His mother here below—
Had pity on the sorrowing heart, and loos’d her till cock-crow.
Then gathered she her crampèd limbs out of her grave so strait,
Nor was she stayed by coffin stone, coped wall, or barred lych-gate.
V.
Fleet thro’ the sleeping town she sped, across the moon-lit square,
Fleet by the sculptured fountain, to Dyring’s palace fair;
All still and soundless were the streets, no foot-fall as she sped,
And yet the watch-dogs bayed with fear, with knowledge of the dead!
Upon the palace threshold sat, with head bowed on her knee,
A gentle child—with dolor bowed—her eldest daughter she.
VI.
“Dear daughter, say,” the mother spake, in anxious, solemn strain,
“Where are thy little brothers three, where are thy sisters twain?”
“Dear daughter, sayest thou?” cried the child. “No mother mine art thou,
- ↑ Translator’s Note.—I am afraid “beer” may be considered “low” and unpoetical by some of my readers, but “pain et bière” are “in the bond,” and so I stand by them.
