We have offered these remarks on a subject possessing interest for us all, not in a spirit of dictation, but with the hope that they may be of service to some one. If our hope be gratified it is well; if not, we shall console ourselves with the reflection, that it is for lack of force in the expression of our ideas: for we know that there are some whose eye these pages will meet, yet entangled in the meshes of a false method, and a bitter experience has taught us that the ideas themselves are true. JACK F. AN PERCIVAL. VON LEOPOLD WATERMAN. I. EIN Herz das schweglt im Vollgenuss der Freuden, Des Sanges Macht tritt klar hervor im Leiden. Ein süsses Ahnen füllt beim ersten Klange II. Noch lausche ich mit thränenfeuchtem Auge Dem Nachhall deiner süssen Melodien Die leis' und sanft an mir vorüberziehen ; Die Seele bebt, gerührt vom geist'gen Hauche. Laut pocht mein Herz! mein tiefstes Fühlen tauche Ich in den Strom geweihter Fantasieen ;- Vor deinem Sang, aus dem ich Leben sauge. Heil Dir! der sich so mächtig aufgeschwungen Du hast den schönsten Lorbeer dir errungen. A LEGEND OF THE CUMBERLAND. IN that chain of the Cumberland mountains which forms the boundary line between East and Middle Tennessee, a precipice, some eighty feet in height, is situated. Many a legend of patriotic daring is related to have taken place in the neighboring fastnesses during the period of our Revolution. When the southern States were overrun by the British army, and submission appeared inevitable, the hardy mountaineers sallied forth from these rocky retreats, checked our flying recruits, and by the victory of King's mountain once more inspired the drooping colonists with hope. The scenery surrounding this precipice fills the mind of every traveler with enthusiastic admiration. From above, rise rugged and towering peaks. Below, lies a beautiful and undulating valley, decked with shrubs, vines, and wild flowers. Here, in former times, might be seen the proud antler grazing, and the dappled fawn performing its antic feats on the mossy covering. On either side extend ledges of rocks, the cavities of which afford a secure refuge for various kinds of the feathered tribe. During the winter months, a small rivulet takes its rise among the distant cliffs, at one time leaping with headlong fury over the rocky obstacles, now meandering through grassy meadows, and at length "cleaves the wave-worn precipice; The fall of waters! rapid as the light The flashing mass foams, shaking the abyss," and continues its winding course onward until emptied into the bosom of the Holston. A few hundred yards distant, "through the leafy screen of trees," some years ago, might be seen a neat little cottage, with various improvements indicating a refinement rarely found in the rude inhabitants of the forest. At the time of which we are writing, four persons of very different appearance were seated in this little dwelling. The elder was a man upon whose brow cares and dangers had written their unmistakable marks. Near him sat one, whose copper complexion, high cheek-bones, stern and penetrating eye, at once indicated the son of the woods. The two remaining occupants were fairer and more interesting. One was a well-formed youth. His companion was a fair young girl of seventeen summers, with long glossy ringlets, mild and melting blue eyes, from which pure founts pearly drops were trickling down her blooming cheeks. It was easy to perceive that their young hearts were closely bound together by the silken cord of love. The youth clasps her lily hand while making some narration, which causes an expression of sorrow and alarm to overspread her beautiful features. Gossip-like we will give the substance of their conversation. Will you then, Henry, she tenderly asks, madly expose yourself to such dangers? Do not say madly, my dear Rose, he replied, since I shall be accompanied by a gallant band of my young mountain neighbors, whose fiery spirits will no longer submit to the outrages of these blood-thirsty Indians, to whom you know the cause of my private enmity. Memory is ever reverting to the horrid scenes of my childhood. The lapse of years are forgotten, and again I behold my parents weltering in their blood. I hear their shrieks of agony, and the savages' wild yell of triumph, rendered doubly horrible by their gleaming tomahawks and painted faces. I can still see the hissing flames, which cast a lurid glare on the overhanging canopy of night. The recollec tion of this scene chills my blood, and the whisperings of vengeance nerve my arm to deal deadly blows upon the murderers. He ceased this strain of exciting thoughts, and applied himself to the more pleasant task of soothing his lovely and weeping companion. Then addressing the elder gentleman, he informed him that a number of his companions had appointed a meeting to concert measures for checking the depredations of the Indians. After receiving some useful advice, he bade them adieu, and hurried away. While he is holding a council of war with his friends we will take the opportunity of presenting a brief sketch of the life and circumstances of the principal characters included in our little tale. Mr. Graham had been a citizen of wealth and respectability in Virginia, but meeting with a sudden reverse of fortune, had bid adieu to his native State, and taken refuge in the mountainous and thinly settled regions of East Tennessee. His only companion was his young and lovely daughter Rose. The history of Henry Lesly we have already sketched in his own words. His father was a near neighbor and intimate friend of Mr. Graham. The Indians, in one of their inroads, had massacred all of Mr. Lesly's family, with the exception of Henry, who had escaped and found a home with his father's friend. The history of the Indian, above mentioned, was one of sadness. He had not only seen his offspring wither and fade away, but witnessed the entire destruction of his nation. More humiliating still, from a chief he had become a wandering outcast. While on a trading visit, his tribe had been assailed by that of a neighboring chief. The attack proved fatal. All were slain and their wigwams burned. On his return he found his village a smouldering heap of ruins, and himself an outcast. Since then he had lived sometimes in the boundless forest, and occasionally in the house of Mr. Graham. He still cherished the hope of avenging the massacre of his nation. We will now follow Henry Lesly to the appointed place of rendezvous. On his arrival, he found about fifty young mountaineers, by whom he was hailed as leader of the enterprise. After expressing his thanks for their confidence, he addressed them in language fiery and eloquent. He reminded them of their murdered parents and kindred; the unpunished insolence and cruelty of the Indians; the fear and anxiety which now prevailed; the alarm caused by the report of a gun, or the stillness of night being broken by the watch-dog's bark; he then painted in brilliant colors the happiness to be enjoyed during times of peace and tranquillity. Before this desirable object could be obtained, he told them the Indians must be exterminated. Seeing that his words had inflamed their breasts, he concluded by exhorting them to restore peace and happiness to their friends. His course was cheerfully adopted, and they resolved to march immediately against the Indian village, which was situated in a valley about twenty miles distant. The eye of mortal never rested upon a more gallant cavalcade than that of our young hero. Every cheek was flushed, and every heart was filled with chivalrous daring. The spirited chargers stood pawing and champing the bit, as though they had "snuffed the battle from afar," and at the word of command pranced through the forest, making the earth rebound at every spring. The company advanced thus for a few hours, with little or no precaution. Their march then became less boisterous. Having reached a secure hiding place, they resolved to halt, now distant a few miles from the village, and wait until night had thrown her sable veil over the surrounding hills. After several hours of impatience they had the satisfaction of seeing the shadows begin to lengthen, and at intervals hearing the hootings of distant owls. At length the silvery moon peeped through the overhanging trees, and they commenced their deadly march. Every thing conspired to favor their purpose. The devoted village was hushed in silence-not a sentinel was abroad. The company separated, in order to make an attack from every quarter simultaneously. The signal was given, and the work of death commenced. The alarmed warriors rush from their wigwams with tomahawks in hand. Twenty of their number fall at the first discharge. Rifle balls pour upon them from every side. Driven to desperation, they shout the war-whoop and grapple with their white antagonists. Now begins the tug of war. The shrill report of rifles, the clashing of toma hawks, the yell of despair, the groans of the dying, the shout of victory, the shrieks of women, and the cries of children, are mingled together, forming a deafening sound of horror. The firing ceases and the rifle butts become weapons of death. The wigwams take fire, the forked flames crackle over their heads, the dusky warriors cover the earth, their eyes sealed with death. The few who survive escape, and the battle is over. The flames are dying out, and now the scene appalls the hearts of the victors. The bloody slain lie strewed before them. The stillness of night is now and then broken by the groans of some dying wretch and the howling of wolves who have scented their prey. Such is the work of man's hands, when influenced by passion. The conquerors buried their dead companions, watering their graves with tears of brotherly grief. Their progress They then commenced their march homewards. was slow, thoughtful, and melancholy. They took the direction towards Mr. Graham's dwelling, intending to call and give the result of their hairbrained adventure. Day was dawning, when they were within a few hundred yards of the dwelling. At this time a shrill shriek of agony pierced their hearts. They dashed forward, and in a few min The roof of the house utes the horrid sight broke upon their view. was covered with flames. At their approach two Indian warriors, whom they recognized as some of their late antagonists, who had fled and taken this means of revenge, rushed out, bearing the bloody scalp of Mr. Graham. Another followed, holding in his arms the unconscious Rose. They fled towards the precipice-the young men rushed forward in pursuit-they fired, and two Indians fell; the third continued to fly with his lovely burden. At length he reached the edge of the precipice, with his pursuers some sixty yards in the rear. He there turned, and a demoniac smile of exultation lightened up his dusky features. He gave them to understand, that if any one approached he would leap over the precipice with his captive. He stood, like a lion at bay, determined to die before he would yield. The young men stood looking on in horror, each minute expecting him to make the fatal leap. Henry Lesly gazed on his beloved with agonized feelings. He saw that to attempt her rescue would ensure her death. He raised his rifle, but the wily chief shielded himself with the drooping form of Rose. While they thus stood, the friendly Indian, whom we mentioned, was seen to emerge from beneath the precipice. He springs upon the hated chief who had destroyed his nation. The young girl was released, and fell fainting to the earth. The two Indians grappled with each other. Being unable to employ the tomahawk, each strove to drag the other to the precipice. Several of the young men rushed forward to save them, but they were too late. Closely clasped, they plunged into the yawning abyss. One dull, heavy sound was heard, and all was over. In explanation of the appearance of the friendly Indian, we will say a few words. He, seeing the danger to which Rose was exposed, had darted into the woods. Reaching the foot of the precipice, he clambered up by making a foothold of the crevices and grasping the projecting points. Rose soon recovered from her swoon, by the tender care of her lover. For some months sorrow, on account of the father's death, spread a gentle melancholy over her sweet face. When time had soothed her grief, she gave her heart and hand to Henry Lesly. But they never forgot the services of the friendly Indian chief, whom they caused to be buried a few paces distant from the place of his death. A moss-covered mound is still shown as his grave. W. W. H. |