Various

Again ten circles have passed, and thrice ten circles of the earth about the sun; and the boy who proffered grapes, and the infant folded in a mother’s warm embrace, have grown to manhood. The young earth, like young life, passed through many a change in thrice ten years and ten; and, from its teeming loins sent forth a still increasing multitude to worship the great First Cause. Upon every hill an altar smoked; and knowledge, with power to command the laws to which all matter is subdued, had not wholly passed from among the sons of men. Not yet were cities built, nor language confounded, nor the land parceled out among hostile clans, to be worried and made desolate; but the herd and the chase still supplied the simple wants which luxury has debased. In all the arts of that rude time; to run; to cleave the briny sea, a strong swimmer; to throw the spear; to draw the bow, certain of its mark; to know the signs which divide the day and fix the watches of the night; to call each tree and flower, beast and bird, by the name which Adam gave; the youths were well instructed, and poured a flood of joy into hearts which marked, from year to year, their growth in excellence and in strength.

SECTION II.

The youngest, Ariel, his mother most loved; for he was mild of temper, and of a make which would have shamed the Apollo, cut by hands skilled to search out the hidden springs of manly beauty, and cunningly transform the ideal into a reality, to stand forever a wonder before the eyes of men. His auburn locks, parted on either side, fell thick, and rested upon his shoulders; and upon his brow, fairer than woman, sat intellect, softened and refined to express the hopes and sorrows, the sweet delights and bitter ills, which God gave a heritage to Adam and his seed when he drove out the sinning pair from Paradise. Tall, he stood like a cedar upon Lebanon. His eyes, large and lustrous, in color his mother’s and heaven’s, seemed ever dreaming of a life which, cradled upon earth, had elsewhere its happiness; and the long brown lashes that veiled their intenser light, shadowed with melancholy a face which else had been too bright. In childhood, he wept over tales of that fair land lost by his first ancestors; and sought on every side, through the sombre wood, and along the flowery mead, and up the streams to their sources amid the valleys of the hills, for some trace of a glory half-extinct which might lead him onward to its walls, guarded by flame; then, weary and sad, he would stand by the sea, and look out across its waters, and strain his eyes to find a new earth, and catch a glimpse of that strange fire which, under the rule of night, mellows the waves, and makes their path more enticing than the walks of Arcady the blest, or the garden in which Italia’s poet subdued Ruggerio to a witch’s love. Thus found by his mother, after long search, he would rest his head upon her knees, and repeat his hopes and disappointments, while she, softly chiding, wiped his tears away. Growing toward manhood, he, unwillingly and slow, now doubting and now believing, put off his childish faith, and sought for and found a rest more perfect, and more noble far, than that paradise which fled before the knowledge of evil and of good.

SECTION III.

Tubal, the eldest born, was mightier than his brother. Less tall, strong, he stood like Hercules leaning on his club. His lusty shoulders seemed made to bear the weight of any ill which time and the first sin might engender to crush the sons of Adam; and his foot was firmer than the rock. Within his broad breast, capacious, the wildest passions, love and hate, and jealousy and ambition, raged and crouched obedient to a will which held them bound, nor loosed its hold but to fulfill its purpose. His hair curled close, nor played in dalliance with the wanton air. His eyes, blacker than the night which covered Egypt when the chosen were oppressed, burned fierce; and within their depths lay hidden cunning, and power, and the determination to complete what cunning prompts and power may well perform. His nostrils swelled with triumphs not yet won; and on his lips, compressed, and on his swarthy brow, courage had stamped its signet. He loved the chase, and the boar pursued beyond the mountains which barred his father’s steps, and rose a barrier never passed till he burst through to conquer new fields, boundless, and rich in all the wealth of his rude life. Action was his rest; and to him plain fact was beautiful enough, nor sought he, in vain imaginings, to work out of strong matter kindred unto himself, forms of excellence which live only in a poet’s brain, to curse the possessor. His father loved him, for when a boy he drew his father’s bow, and threw his father’s spear, laughed at fatigue, and scorned the pleasures of quiet contemplation which, with his brother, stole half the days away. In him was small obedience, even from his birth; self-willed, he threw off his mother’s hand as a steed of high mettle, untamed, flings at the bit; and thus he grew, a Titan in his passions as a Titan in his make.

SECTION IV.

The morn had ushered in a new year, when Tubal and his brother went forth to worship upon the neighboring mountains, and offer up a sacrifice in acknowledgment of mercies past, of mercies present, and of mercies yet to come. From the sea a mist rolled inward, and covered all the land, and covered the forest wide, and crept up the hill-sides, and hung about their tops, and curled over, descending like a glory, to be lost in the space beyond. Bathed in cloud, seeing their path dimly, they walked hand in hand, loaded with gifts of the chase, and of the vine, and pure water, and sweet-scented wood. Ariel found a new beauty in the thick vapor which shut out the heavens, and so stilled the song of the trees that, listening, he believed he could hear the very mist singing, as it moved onward upon its errand of fruitfulness and health; but Tubal saw power, and felt his strength grow within him, and, invigorated, stood erect, and trod more proudly the earth which he claimed as his own. As they ascended the higher grounds, and climbed the steeps which led upward to the temple they had chosen, the cloud grew thinner, and the light increased, and they halted, silent, and bowed their heads, and pressed their lips to the mountain-side, and kissed God’s foot-prints—there seen, clear and radiant, as they are now to be seen impressed, eternal, upon the granite which, in the far North, lifts its head a mark to the returning mariner, who—far out upon the ocean—hails the beacon with all the joy of home. Then rising, they mounted quickly to the summit, round, and fair with its own flood, and standing, gazed. Gazed upon the cloud spread out beneath their feet, a vast expanse of silver water, covering land and sea; gazed upon the hill-tops which rose above the flood, as isles sleeping upon the bosom of a quiet lake; gazed upon the heavens, serenely blue, over-arching all; and gazed upon the sun, red and huge, struggling with the mist, till its rays, released, flashed upon the isles, and lighted up the heavens, and so wrought that the deep cloud, mastered by their heat, broke from its fastenings, and rolled in masses, and, rifted, opened cavernous, and showed, first the crowning tufts of the forest-trees, and then the lower boughs, and then the plain, reeking with moisture, and then the sea, bright and dancing, until the last wreath of feathery vapor ascending, vanished.

SECTION V.

“For this, it is enough to have lived; thy works, O God, are wondrous fair!” said Ariel.

Tubal, turned away, silent; and casting his offerings upon the ground, threw up the heavy sward in piles high and broad, which he fashioned into a rude altar; then covering it thick with wood, found near at hand, he called unto his brother, and together they laid upon it the chase, the grapes, and the branches sweet-scented and laving, prayed.

“We thank thee, Father, for thy mercies past, thy mercies present, and thy mercies yet to come.”

“I thank thee for strength,” said Tubal.

“I thank thee for the comeliness of this earth,” said Ariel.

“Give me power to rule my fellow-men.”

“Give me knowledge to win thy love.”

“Give me honor, and obedience, with fear—”

“Give me humility, and trust, with faith—”

—“and may my will be a law unto many.”

—“and may my walk be good in thy sight.”

“Father, I thank thee for these limbs; this body, so perfect in its make—”

“Father, I thank thee for this life, so full of all excellence—”

—“clothe it with majesty.”

—“clothe it with purity.”

“Grant that I may live in the speech of generations far removed.”

“Grant that I may live in the hearts of generations far removed.”

“Bless, O God, my purpose.”

“Bless, O God, my father.”

“Strengthen, O God, my hands”—

“Strengthen, O God, my mother”—

—“so that they may well perform what thou hast given them to do.”

—“so that she may well perform what thou hast given her to do.”

“And accept, O God, these gifts, the fruit of thy bounty, by us acknowledged and adored.”

SECTION VI.

Upon the brothers, thus ending, a light, greater than the sun, fell suddenly and smote them blind; and as they lay, prostrate with excessive dread, they heard a voice, soft as the movement of a gentle wind, saying, “Even as ye have asked, ye shall receive;” and then came silence, and darkness with the light of day; and slowly rising, fearful, they found the altar, with its gifts, all consumed. And where the altar stood, a glowing pool of metal burned, and hissed, and bubbled, and ran down the hill-side a thread of fire. Tubal, curious, doubting, with cautious step drew near; and as the metal cooled, and changed from white to red, from red to black, observed it narrowly, and beat upon it, and found it malleable, and broke it, and took it in his hands still warm, and held it out in triumph to his brother.

Such was the birth of iron; and in the air, above, beneath, on either side, far off and near, came music, and the brothers listened, mute with wonder, to a song prophetic of the metal and its uses.

SECTION VII.

Clink, clank.

The crackling of flame, playing with the air that fanned it, swept past.

Glowing, flashing.

Not speech, but sounds inarticulate, in strains wild, sturdy and noble as their subject, filled the ears of Ariel and his brother, to be interpreted as we interpret the voices of matter, miscalled dumb.

Clashing, clanging.

And there was a rushing to and fro of many feet, while the furnace roared with a pouring as of breath in hot haste.

Bubble, bubble—muffled, dull and deep.

The anvil rings, and blow on blow is given.

Sharp and quick.

Then the forging, and the grinding, and the filing, and the whetting, with the shock of blade on blade, till the clatter of that smithy, mingling and dividing, mellowed, rose sweeter than the notes fabled of the sun, when he with his first rays smote upon the head of Memnon in wonder-loving Egypt; or the song heard by the wandering Greek hard by Charibdis, enticing the listening mariner to his death.

Aha! aha! thou hast found a new life, and a new action, greatest of metals.

Who are ye, who thus welcome me with a hymn of glory?

We are the light, the eldest born, begotten in love, in love to endure forever.

We were present at thy beginning, and saw the hand which moulded thee with fire.

We saw the joy of thy young days, and acknowledge thee a child of God, like unto ourselves.

We know thy offices, and the laws which rule thee, liquid or congealed, obedient to God’s will.

In the depths of the earth wert thou engendered, and didst dwell in darkness for this hour.

From the center didst thou spring upward, and wert poured through all the veins of matter, to strengthen and complete.

But now thou art born into a new life, and art appointed to build and destroy.

Another, mightier than thyself, shall shape thee, and thou shall be his bondsman until thy work is done.

In the furnace and at the forge shall thy true worth be tried, and every good by heaven blessed, by thee be multiplied.

Then sing the praise of iron; the sturdy and noble iron—

Clink, clank;

Glowing, flashing;

Clanging, clashing;

Sharp and quick;

With the grinding, and the filing, and the whetting, and the shock of blade on blade; while the clatter of the smithy ringing, cries, it is mine to civilize.

SECTION VIII.

The brothers hastened from the mount, and descending, bore homeward the new-found metal with dances, and with shouts, which called Erix and Zella to meet them, and to listen, with growing eyes and a faith equal to their own, to the marvelous tale of the light which fell from heaven, and their blindness and the voice within them, and the altar burned, and the molten pool, and the strange wild music which they heard, until a knowledge entered into them of the gift they had received.

“Father, my prayer is answered,” said Tubal, and quick, to make his knowledge sure, the four built up the first rude forge, and piled it high with wood, and put fire to it, and, as it burned, cast in the metal, which they watched until it reddened and flashed, coruscating. Then Tubal drew the metal forth, and beat it between two stones, and flattened it, and, twisting, gave it ever new forms, while Erix, with Ariel and his mother, stood admiring, and reasoned of its uses. And thus did Tubal work with cunning and with strength, from day to day, until he had won the skill to fashion the metal to his will; to arm his arrows and his spear, and devise new weapons for the chase. He soon found out the way of beating iron upon itself, nor lacked the wit of many inventions to aid his labor; and the ponderous sledge wielded by his arms, black with soot, from morn to eve resounded along the heaving sea, which knew no heavier din when, long after, Vulcan forged beneath Ætna. His tribe stood around him thick, and wondered at his work, and learned of him; and when, as time rolled on, the elders told his story to their sons, they called him the father of all who worked in metal.

SECTION IX

Ariel went dreaming on his way; nor sought to rival his brother at the forge, nor questioned the right which he assumed to rule among his fellow-men. He acknowledged his brother’s worth, and knew him to be the completest man to meet the stern necessities of life—to lay deeply in that new age a strong foundation upon which others were to build, for good or ill, through many a revolving year, the politics of the earth. To himself it was given to see the future in its action; and it passed before him so distinct and bright, that Zella, sitting at his side, oft turned away with fear, as his tongue grew eloquent over a tale of greatness and of sorrow still hidden within the womb of time. Thrice blessed is he who knows his work and does it; who learns in early youth that the practical is the only good, nor chases phantoms, till, the harvest past, he turns a poor gleaner upon another’s steps, and begs from bounty what should be his of right. But Ariel had other hopes, not willed, but given for a purpose, to which he was bound as the winged chorister is bound to the melody which springs unbidden from its throat. He lived in the ideal, and strove to grasp the mysterious laws by which the world within acts upon the world without. The soul’s own greatness to all of God’s labor a greatness gives, which lesser spirits never know; and the soul’s beauty is poured upon all matter, as the setting sun, in ripe October, pours a purple flood of departing light upon the gorgeous landscapes of my native North. This Ariel knew; and when he listened to the voices of the sea, of the wood, and of the lesser herbage, growing; to the sighing of the air, and the creaking, and the grating of bough on bough, rocked by the wind; he believed that all were parts of one great hymn, whose interpreter was within, and, combined, would a language give more perfect to express the soul’s griefs and joys, the loveliness and magnitude of God’s labors, than that which Adam, articulate, invented.

SECTION X.

Thus Ariel mused, and in his walks under the silent moon, watched close, to catch the notes which rose from every point of earth; and sitting with his mother, to whom he opened his whole heart, talked of this wisdom. And thus, one quiet eve, when the star which ushers in and leads off day’s hours, then called God’s love, now changed to the queen in Paphos worshiped, was just dipping beneath the western hills, and the wind slow rising set outward to the sea, these two, the mother and the son, went forth to drink new draughts of the knowledge he had found, and kept hidden from all else save her whose soul was like unto his own. She leaned upon his shoulder as a loved support, and they passed, mingling in sweet converse, along the wooded paths to the stream which flowed noiseless, and now dark beneath the forest shades, close by the bank upon which she had rested from the chase, and with Erix recounted the endless good with which heaven had blessed the earth.

“This water, so silent, yet speaks.”

“In sadness,” said Zella.

“For the day and for the night it has a several voice.”

“And does the sorrow which comes to us, a heritage of Eden, fall also here?”

“Mother, the star now hidden behind the western hills, its sister orbs, this earth, this wood, and water running, all speak to the soul according to its wisdom. Has sadness no beauty; grief no love? As darkness follows light, so joy and sorrow interchange, to make life perfect. This marvel of our God, in which strength and weakness strive to one end, were incomplete, did not thy tears, like fallen rain glittering in the sun, give brightness to the smile that hastens to drive thy tears away. In matter is to be found the sure interpreter of God’s will, and the purpose for which he made such excellence of earth and sky, with man, the chiefest excellence of all; and I watch to catch the secret which unlocks this knowledge, and will give to me, and to thee, my mother, the fullness of that glory which in the beginning was breathed into Adam, a living soul!”

SECTION XI.

As he spoke the wind sighed deeply along the silent stream, and the reeds there growing upon its sedgy bank gave forth sounds multitudinous, separate and commingled.

“List, mother!”

The symphony, at first low, scarce audible, dying, sprang to life again, and rose in notes Æolic, flooding the air.

“It is this, mother, this that I would win; the common language of every created thing.”

We are the wind, whistling, piping, sounds melodious in the ear of night.

And there was a rustling as of forest leaves; and a murmuring, as of water running; while from the reedy grass came other voices,

Shrill and clear.

We are they with whom God wrought, in his six days of labor.

Then the swelling, round and full,

Sliding, springing,

Turning, beating.

Streams of pleasure,

Without measure,

And the movement quick and pure,

Now increasing,

Now diminishing,

Now combining,

Now resolving,

In sweet concord antiphonal, said that they were harmony.

“My prayer is answered, mother; for I have found the bond which binds heart to heart.”

Then Zella laid her head upon Ariel’s bosom, and in very gladness, wept; and confessed that life and death, her evil and her good, no longer were a mystery.

We are the law by which all things live, and move, and have their being.

And Ariel put out his hands, and plucked, and blew upon the reeds; and again the wind sighed along the silent stream; and again the grass there growing, waving, gave forth other sounds;

Brighter,

Higher,

More ecstatic;

Fiercer, fiercer, fiercer yet;

As if a Titan had strung his lyre to a new creation, or the fingers of a god swept the strings.

It is finished; and to man is given the art to rule the airs of heaven.

They turned, while yet the sledge fell heavy by the beating sea, and Erix wound a horn of joy, calling, then wound, then called, and wound and called again, and the echoes answered, calling;

[Conclusion in our next.]

---

I think of thee, at twilight’s hour,

When the last sunbeam sinks away;

When night-birds sing in every bower,

And herds and herdsmen homeward stray—

When all is beauty, all is peace,

When sorrows, cares, and sadness flee,

Then my lone heart finds sweet release,

In happy thoughts, dear one, of thee.

I think of thee, when dawning day

Calls forth all nature’s freshened throng,

When sporting lambkins skip and play,

And birds pour forth their joyous song—

When every eye with hope is bright,

And every heart is light and free—

When nature wakes from nature’s night,

Then, dearest, then I think of thee.

On the right bank of the Loire, close to one of the stations of the rail-road from Orleans to Nantes, which transports the traveler in a few hours from the centre of civilised France to the heart of Brittany, and all its wild traditions and druidical mysteries, stands an ancient and time-honored town—important in the history both of France and England, during a series of centuries—a town beloved of Anne of Brittany and of Mary Stuart, the scene of stirring and romantic adventures without number, all of which have paled before the interest it has excited of late years as the place of captivity of a great chief, and, within a few weeks, as forming a rich part of that spoil which the immense possessions of the house of Orleans is likely to furnish to the present ruler of the French nation.

Tourists on the Loire know the charming town of Amboise very well; and none ever missed, in days of yore, visiting its fine castle, whose high walls are bathed by the noble river. This pleasure has, however, long been denied them, for the captive whose misfortunes have excited so much sympathy throughout Europe, and whose “hope deferred” is still destined to “make his heart sick,” the ill-fated Abd-’el-Kader, with his followers, are still detained there, and likely so to be, in spite of the “I would if I could” of his supposed struggling friend, the nephew of another great prisoner of days gone by.

Amboise, a few years since, was a smiling, lively little town, and the castle was a pleasure-residence of the last king; the gardens were delicious, the little chapel of St. Hubert a gem, restored in all its lustre, and the glory of artists and amateurs. All is now changed: a gloom has fallen on the scene, the flowers are faded, the gates are closed, the pretty pavilions are shut up; there are guards instead of gardeners, and a dreary prison frowns over the reflecting waters, which glide mournfully past its towers.

If you pause awhile on the bridge of Amboise, and look up to the windows of the castle, you may, perhaps, see one or other of the captives seated sadly and motionlessly, or it may be slowly pacing along a high gallery which runs from tower to tower, but it is rare at present that the dispirited inhabitants of those dismal chambers have energy to seek even such recreation as this, and the traveler may drive through Amboise twenty times, without having his curiosity to see Lord Londonderry’s protÉgÉ gratified.

The writer of these pages happened to be in the neighborhood when Abd-’el-Kader was transferred from Pau, the birth-place of Henri Quatre, in the Pyrenees, to this once gay chÂteau on the Loire, and was amongst those who witnessed the arrival of the party.

The evening was very chilly and misty, and but few persons had been tempted to linger late by the river side; the attention, however, of those who had not yet “betaken them home,” was attracted by a steamboat full of passengers, coming from Paimbeuf, which stopped beneath the walls of the castle, and gave a signal apparently understood by a guard of soldiers, which had been loitering on the shore. The arrival of the steamer was immediately communicated to the governor of the castle, and much unwonted movement ensued.

A rumor of something remarkable soon spread throughout the town, and a concourse of people came hurrying over the bridge, in order to be present at the expected landing of prisoners of importance. There was no attempt to repress this curiosity, for no rescue was evidently feared; a double line of soldiers was, however, formed, and in silence and gloom a sad procession was soon formed of no less than eighty-two individuals, men, women and children, all covered with large mantles of white wool, of a fashion unseen in this part of the world since the great Saracen warrior Abd’eraman was driven back from Touraine by Charles Martel; the strangers thus attired took their way from the sandy shore of the Loire to the precipitous ascent of the dark towers before them.

These captives were the Arab chief Abd-’el-Kader, his mother, one of his brothers-in-law, his uncle, a patriarch of ninety, whose long, white beard fell to his girdle, and four of his wives. Following them came a train of attendants, all prisoners, and all sharing their master’s sorrows and mischances.

The heavy gateway closed upon the new guests, and the inhabitants of Amboise, somewhat awe-struck and impressed with pity, returned mournfully to their respective domiciles, no doubt thanking Heaven that they were denizens of free and happy France, generous, valiant, honorable and victorious!—alas, how long to remain so!

From that time a new amusement was provided for the pleasure-loving natives of the pretty but dreary old town, which still wears the characteristics of the past in its acutely pointed roofs, crowned with quaint belfrys, its arches spanning the streets, its antique chapel of St. Florentin, its palais de justice transformed into a barrack, and its little ChÂteau du Clos-Lucet, where, tradition says, Leonardo da Vinci, the great painter, passed the last years of his long life, and where he died.

Many a summer evening was henceforth spent by the citizens on the bridge, their pastime being to gaze curiously up toward the walls and windows of the castle; for, wandering along the terraces, which hang in mid air, might then be frequently seen, like a gliding spectre, the majestic form of an Arab, wrapped in a white burnous, with solemn steps pacing to and fro, unobservant and indifferent to the curiosity which he excited.

Compassion for these unfortunate strangers suggested, even amongst those in whose charge their safety was placed, alleviations to their griefs. The Arab servants of the chief were allowed to seek provisions for their repasts in the town itself, accompanied merely by a soldier, who did not molest them. All who applied for permission to behold Abd-’el-Kader were admitted to the castle precincts, and were introduced to his presence. At first he probably felt amused at the novelty of this proceeding, but at length he became annoyed at the persevering curiosity which left him no leisure for reflections, however doleful. His spirits, too, in the course of long months of hopeless anxiety, gave way, and he at length refused to be exhibited as a caged lion, to make sport to the inquisitive.

Not alone in the early stage of his captivity, but ever since he became their neighbor, the ladies of Amboise, with continuous kindness, showed their benevolent feeling both to him and to the females of his suite and their children. Delicacies from their kitchens, and little useful presents were showered upon the poor captives, who received the attentions in the spirit in which they were given.

One instance of consideration gave particular gratification to the Emir. Madame de Villeneuve, the chÂtellaine of Catherine de Medicis’ lovely castle of Chenonceau, so well-known to tourists, and so often described, sent Abd-’el-Kader a magnificent plant, a native of his own valleys of the Atlas. It is related that the Emir on receiving it burst into tears. He sent back the expression of his gratitude in the following characteristically poetical words:

“Too poor to offer you in return any thing worthy of your acceptance, not possessing even a flower that I can call mine, I will pray to Allah that for the love of his servant he will one day bestow Paradise upon you.”

Some time after this, the health of the Emir having suffered from confinement, he was allowed to ride on horseback in the neighborhood of Amboise, and the first excursion which he made was to the ChÂteau of Chenonceau, where his presence, no doubt,

And his visit has added another souvenir to the list of those illustrious and interesting personages who have made the romantic retreat of Diana of Poitiers and her rival famous for all time.

Abd-’el-Kader used often to be seen at his devotions at the rising and setting of the sun. He is accustomed to prostrate himself in an angle of that very iron balcony from whence, in the days of the Medici, the conspirators of Amboise were hung as a public example to traitors. Leaning against the stone wall, he remains absorbed in his orisons, and tells his beads with the fervor of a prisoner and an exile.

The numerous portraits of him to be seen in Paris, particularly popular since Lord Londonderry’s letters have made his fine, melancholy, majestic face familiar to the world. He is little more than forty-five, and has a countenance which, but that Eastern countenances deceive, one would feel inclined not only to admire, but to trust. It is hard to say whether the French would do right to confide in it, but certain it is that he is the object of deep admiration. His large, mournful, gazelle eyes, his calm, beautiful mouth, and his rich, jet-black beard, have gained many a heart, both male and female; but his misfortunes are too interesting, too romantic, too piquants to be lightly parted with, and the French will probably keep the lion still caged as an object on which to exercise their sensibilities, unless indeed, the dispossessed owners of Amboise should take his place.

Sometimes the Emir would appear on his balcony accompanied by the ladies of his suite. One of them is said to be still young and very handsome. This is the report of a young Frenchman, whose patient curiosity was rewarded on a happy occasion, when the veiled fair one withdrew the envious screen of her beauties one day, imagining that she was unobserved, that she might the better gaze upon the fine river, and feel the soft breeze of an evening in June upon her cheek. Occasionally some of the children of the captives may be seen playing round their parents, as they stand motionless, looking from their high position. These little captives are of all shades, from white to ebony hue, and are by no means so silent or so still as their elders, for they clamor and climb and twist about upon the parapets in a manner quite startling to those who are watching them from below.

Some time ago the Bishop of Algiers, passing through Amboise, stopped to pay a visit to the Emir; he exhorted him to resignation—alas! what else could he preach?—and received the same answer as the illustrious prisoner always gives to those who seek to console him.

“I gave myself up on the sole condition that I should be conducted to Alexandria, in order to go to Mecca, where I desired to finish my days. The promise was given me: I ask for nothing further and I rely on the justice of Allah.”

The bishop said prayers in the exquisite little chapel of the castle already mentioned, as so beautifully restored by the unfortunate Louis Philippe, and which is in itself the most perfect specimen of art ever beheld, with its marble pictures of St. Hubert’s miracle, its elaborate doorways and vivid glass painting, rivaling the antique. A pretty little sentimental service was got up, of which the Arab captives were made the heroes, numerous prayers being addressed to Heaven for their welfare, both of body and soul. Probably the prisoners really felt grateful for the attention, even though neither the priest nor the shrine had relation to their own belief.

One of the suite, the oftenest seen in Amboise, was the butcher, Ben Salem, who officiated for his tribe, and whose office was looked upon as a solemn one. He had a fine muscular figure, with an intelligent and handsome face, and was upward of six feet high. When he immolated an animal he might be said, as has been apocryphally reported of Shakspeare, to have

About a year and a half ago poor Ben-Salem was found a drowned corpse, in the Loire; he is supposed to have perished while bathing, but the writer recollects at the time, to have heard it whispered that despair had caused him to commit suicide.

The attachment of the Arabs to their chief is intense; an instance of this excited immense interest in Paris some time since. A young man who had belonged to Abd-’el-Kader, was detained at Toulon, from whence he escaped, but instead of endeavoring to regain his own country, his sole desire was to behold his chief once more, and to die at his feet. He arrived at Amboise, no one knew how, having traversed France to its centre, and there, his clothes in tatters, his feet bleeding, and fainting with hunger and fatigue, he was overtaken, secured, and forced back again to his prison at Toulon, without having gained the object of so much energy and resolution.

How could the most severe guardians of the safety of France drive back such a servant from his master?

In the month of August, 1850, a party of the Arabs received permission to return to Africa. After extraordinary struggles between their love of country and of their master, forty men, women, and children, consented to profit by this clemency. Their parting was, however, a scene of desolation, agonizing to witness.

The railroad was to take back these sons and daughters of the Desert partly on their way, and a carriage filled with pale emaciated women, holding their children in the folds of their ample garments, bore them from the castle walls. The men pursued their journey on foot, a cart containing their wretched goods followed, and the patriarch of the tribe accompanied them to the station, where he took leave of them with sighs, tears, and exhortations, mixed with embraces. At the last moment a young woman, who was probably related to the patriarch, lost her presence of mind entirely—her veil thrown back in despair, she cast herself upon his bosom, concealing her face in his venerable white beard, and uttering cries that melted the hearts of the bystanders to hear.

One feature of this parting was remarkable; a young peasant woman of Amboise had been the wet-nurse of a little Arab child, and was now to take leave of the helpless infant whom she had tended till, from a half dying plant, it had become strong and healthy, and full of life. For more than a quarter of an hour the mother of the babe and its nurse remained in an agony of grief, mutually embracing and consoling each other, while the innocent object of their care wept for company. At length the poor sobbing Frenchwoman tore herself away, and the train moved off bearing away forever her cherished nurseling and its grateful but sorrowing parents.

Many of the children in Abd-’el-Kader’s suit died soon after their arrival, and the influence of the moist climate on all the attendants was felt severely by persons accustomed to go half clothed and with naked feet. The sisters of charity of Amboise and the medical men had many mournful scenes to go through, as the little Arab burial-ground, near the “Gate of Lions” of the castle, attests but too clearly.

The health of the Emir himself has, it is said, of late given way, and he has had to deplore the loss of several of its nearest friends. The tenderness and feeling shown to these conquered enemies, proves, it must be confessed, that there is no want of kindliness in the hearts of at least the country people of France, whose impulses are generally for good, as we have every reason to acknowledge in the charitable promptitude and active benevolence shown to the unfortunate survivors of the Amazon, by the whole of the inhabitants of Brest from the highest to the lowest.

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BY PHŒBE CAREY.

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The admirable skill of the South Americans as horsemen is everywhere acknowledged, and has been described by many writers; the following account, however, by Mr. Darwin, is so truthful and spirited, that it conveys the best idea of their exploits:—

“One evening a ‘domidor’ (subduer of horses) came for the purpose of breaking in some colts. I will describe the preparatory steps, for I believe they have not been mentioned by other travelers. A troop of wild young horses is driven into the corral or large inclosure of stakes, and the door is shut. We will suppose that one man alone has to catch and mount a horse which as yet had never felt bridle or saddle. I conceive, except by a Guacho, such a feat would be utterly impracticable. The Guacho picks out a full-grown colt; and as the beast rushes round the circus, he throws his lasso so as to catch both the front legs. Instantly the horse rolls over with a heavy shock, and whilst struggling on the ground the Guacho, holding the lasso tight, makes a circle so as to catch one of the hind legs just beneath the fetlock, and draws it close to the two front. He then hitches the lasso, so that the three legs are bound together; then sitting on the horse’s neck, he fixes a strong bridle, without a bit, to the lower jaw. This he does by passing a narrow thong through the eye-holes at the end of the reins, and several times round both jaw and tongue. The two front legs are now tied closely together with a strong leathern thong, fastened by a slip-knot, the lasso which bound the three together being then loosed, the horse rises with difficulty. The Guacho, now holding fast the bridle fixed to the lower jaw, leads the horse outside the corral. If a second man is present—otherwise the trouble is much greater—he holds the animal’s head whilst the first puts on the horse-cloths and saddle and girths, the whole together. During this operation, the horse, from dread and astonishment at being thus bound round the waist, throws himself over and over again on the ground, and till beaten is unwilling to rise. At last, when the saddling is finished, the poor animal can hardly breathe from fear, and is white with foam and sweat. The man now prepares to mount by pressing heavily on the stirrup, so that the horse may not lose its balance; and at the moment he throws his leg over the animal’s back he pulls the slip-knot and the beast is free. The horse, wild with dread, gives a few most violent bounds, and then starts off at full gallop. When quite exhausted, the man by patience brings him back to the corral, where, reeking hot and scarcely alive, the poor beast is let free. Those animals which will not gallop away, but obstinately throw themselves on the ground, are by far the most troublesome.

“In Chili, a horse is not considered perfectly broken till he can be brought up standing in the midst of his full speed on any particular spot; for instance, on a cloak thrown on the ground; or again, will charge a wall and, rearing, scrape the surface with his hoofs. I have seen an animal bounding with spirit, yet merely reined by a fore-finger and thumb, taken at full gallop across a court-yard, and then made to wheel round the post of a veranda with great speed, but at so equal a distance that the rider with outstretched arm, all the while kept one finger rubbing the post, then making a demi-volte in the air with the other arm outstretched in a like manner, he wheeled round with astonishing force in the opposite direction. Such a horse is well-broken; and although this at first may appear useless, it is far otherwise. It is only carrying that which is daily necessary into perfection. When a bullock is checked and caught by the lasso, it will sometimes gallop round and round in a circle, and the horse being alarmed at the great strain, if not well broken, will not readily turn like the pivot of a wheel. In consequence many men have been killed; for if a lasso once takes a twist round a man’s body, it will instantly, from the power of the two animals, almost cut him in twain. On the same principle the races are managed. The course is only two or three hundred yards long, the desideratum being, to have horses that can make a rapid dash. The race-horses are trained not only to stand with their hoofs touching a line, but to draw all four feet together, so as at the first spring to bring into play the full action of the hind quarters. In Chili I was told an anecdote, which I believe was true, and it offers a good illustration of the use of a well-broken animal. A respectable man riding one day met two others, one of whom was mounted on a horse, which he knew to have been stolen from himself. He challenged them; they answered by drawing their sabres and giving chase. The man on his good and fleet beast kept just ahead; as he passed a thick bush he wheeled round it, and brought up his horse to a dead check. The pursuers were obliged to shoot on one side and ahead. Then instantly dashing on right behind them, he buried his knife in the back of one, wounded the other, recovered his horse from the dying robber, and rode home.” Animals are so abundant in these countries that humanity is scarcely known. Mr. Darwin was one day riding in the Pampas with a very respectable “Estanciero,” when his horse being tired, lagged behind. The man often shouted to him to spur him, when Mr. D. remonstrated that it was a pity, for the horse was quite exhausted, he cried: “Why not?—never mind. Spur him—it is my horse!” When, after some difficulty, he was made to understand that it was for the horse’s sake that the spurs were not used, he exclaimed with great surprise: “Ah! Don Carlos qui cosa!” The idea had never before entered his head.

In this country the powers of horses in swimming are but little tested, but in South America the case is different, as shown by an incident mentioned by Mr. Darwin. “I have crossed the Lucia near its mouth, and was surprised to observe how easily our horses, although not used to swim, passed over a width of at least six hundred yards. On mentioning this at Monteo Video, I was told that a vessel containing some mountebanks and their horses being wrecked in the Plata, one horse swam seven miles to the shore. In the course of the day I was amused by the dexterity with which a Guacho forced a restive horse to swim a river. He stripped off his clothes and jumped on its back, rode into the water till it was out of its depth; then slipping off the crupper he caught hold of the tail, and as often as the horse turned round, the man frightened it back by splashing water in its face. As soon as the horse touched the bottom on the other side the man pulled himself on, and was firmly seated, bridle in hand, before the horse gained the bank. A naked man on a naked horse is a fine spectacle. I had no idea how well the two animals suited each other. The tail of a horse is a very useful appendage. I have passed a river in a boat, with four people in it, which was ferried across in the same way as the Guacho. If a man and horse have to cross a broad river, the best plan is for the man to catch hold of the pommel or mane, and help himself with the other arm.”

The Turkoman horses are most highly prized in Persia, and are regularly trained by the Turkomans preparatory to their plundering expeditions. Before proceeding on a foray, these wild people knead a number of small hard balls of barley-meal, which, when wanted, they soak in water, and which serves as food both for themselves and their horses. It is a frequent practice with them in crossing deserts where no water is to be found, to open a vein in the shoulder of the horse and drink a little of his blood, which, according to their own opinion, benefits rather than injures the animal. It is confidently stated, that when in condition, their horses have gone one hundred and forty miles within twenty-four hours; and it has been proved that parties of them were in the habit of marching from seventy to one hundred and five miles for twelve or fifteen days together without a halt. During Sir John Malcolm’s first mission to Persia, he, when riding one day near a small encampment of Afshar families, expressed doubts to his Mehmander, a Persian nobleman, as to the reputed boldness and skill in horsemanship of their females. The Mehmander immediately called to a young woman of handsome appearance, and asked her, in Turkish, if she was a soldier’s daughter. She said she was. “And you expect to be a mother of soldiers?” She smiled. “Mount that horse,” said he, pointing to one with a bridle, but without a saddle; “and show this European Elchee the difference between a girl of a tribe and a citizen’s daughter.” She instantly sprang upon the animal, and setting off at full speed, did not stop till she had reached the summit of a small hill in the vicinity, which was covered with loose stones. When there, she waved her hand over her head, and came down the hill at the same rate at which she had ascended it. Nothing could be more dangerous than the ground over which she galloped; but she appeared quite fearless, and seemed delighted at having the opportunity of vindicating the females of her tribe from the reproach of being like the ladies of cities.

The Shrubat-ur-Reech, or Drinkers of the Wind, reared by the Mongrabins of the West, are shaped like greyhounds, and as spare as a bag of bones, but their spirit and endurance of fatigue are prodigious. On one occasion the chief of a tribe was robbed of a favorite fleet animal of this race, and the camp went out in pursuit eight hours after the theft. At night, though the horse was not yet recovered, it was ascertained that the pursuers had headed his track, and would secure him before morning. The messenger who returned with this intelligence, had ridden sixty miles in the withering heat of the desert without drawing bit. These animals are stated by Mr. Davidson, to be fed only once in three days, when they receive a large jar of camel’s milk; this, with an occasional handful of dates, is their only food.

The fullest and most interesting account of the Arab horse has been written by General Daumas, and its value is greatly enhanced by containing a letter on the subject, written entirely by the celebrated Abd-’el-Kader, and a very remarkable document this is. According to this high authority, a perfectly sound Arab horse can, without difficulty, travel nearly thirty miles daily for three or four months, without resting a single day; and such a horse can accomplish fifty parasangs—not less than two hundred miles—in one day. When Abd-’el-Kader was with his tribe at Melonia, they made razzias in the Djebel-amour, pushing their horses at a gallop for five or six hours without drawing bridle, and they accomplished their expeditions in from twenty to twenty-five days. During all this time their horses ate only the corn carried by their riders, amounting to about eight ordinary meals. They often drink nothing for one or two days, and on one occasion were three days without water. The Arabic language is very epigrammatic, and the Arabs assign the reasons for instructing their horses early in these proverbs: “The lessons of infancy are graven in stone; but those of age disappear like the nests of birds.” “The young branch without difficulty straightens itself—the large tree, never!” Accordingly, the instruction of the horse begins in the first year. “If,” says the Emir, “the horse is not mounted before the third year, at the best he will only be good for the course; but that he has no need of learning—it is his natural faculty.” The Arabs thus express the idea, “Le djouad suivant sa race.” The high bred horse has no need of learning to run! The esteem of the Arab for his horse is conveyed in the following sentiment of the sage and saint, Ben-el-Abbas, which has been handed down from generation to generation: “Love thy horses—take care of them—spare thyself no trouble; by them comes honor, and by them is obtained beauty. If horses are abandoned by others, I take them into my family; I share with them and my children the bread; my wives cover them with their veils, and wrap themselves in their housings; I daily take them to the field of adventure; and, carried away by their impetuous course, I can fight with the most valiant.”

General Daumas thus describes a combat between two tribes, drawn from life, for he enjoyed many opportunities for witnessing such scenes:—“The horsemen of the two tribes are in front, the women in the rear, ready to excite the combatants by their cries and applause: they are protected by the infantry who also form the reserve. The battle is commenced by little bands of ten or fifteen horsemen, who hover on the flanks, and seek to turn the enemy. The chiefs, at the head of a compact body, form the centre.

“Presently the scene becomes warm and animated—the young cavaliers, the bravest and best mounted, dash forward to the front, carried away by their ardor and thirst for blood. They uncover their heads, sing their war-songs, and excite to the fight by these cries—‘Where are those who have mistresses? It is under their eyes that the warriors fight to-day. Where are those who by their chiefs always boast of their valor? Now let their tongues speak loud, and not in those babblings. Where are those who run after reputation? Forward! forward! children of powder! Behold these sons of Jews—our sabres shall drink their blood—their goods we will give to our wives!’ These cries inflame the horsemen—they make their steeds bound, and unsling their guns—every face demands blood—they mingle in the fray, and sabre cuts are everywhere exchanged.

“However, one of the parties has the worst of it, and begins to fall back on the camels which carry the women. Then are heard on both sides the women—on the one, animating the conquerors by their cries of joy—on the other, seeking to stimulate the failing courage of their husbands and brothers by their screams of anger and imprecation. Under these reproaches the ardor of the vanquished returns, and they make a vigorous effort. Supported by the fire of the infantry who are in reserve, they recover their ground, and throw back their enemy into the midst of the women, who, in their turn, curse those whom just before they had applauded. The battle returns to the ground which lies between the females of the tribes. At last, the party who have suffered most in men and horses, who have sustained the greatest loss, and have seen their bravest chiefs fall, take flight in spite of the exhortations and prayers of those bold men who, trying to rally them, fly right and left, and try to recover the victory. Some warriors still hold their ground, but the general route sweeps them off. They are soon by their women—then each, seeing that all is lost, occupies himself in saving that which is dearest; they gain as much ground as possible in their flight, turning from time to time to face the pursuing enemy. The conquerors might ruin them completely, if the intoxication of their triumph did not build a bridge of gold for the vanquished, but the thirst of pillage disbands them. One despoils a footman—another a horseman: this one seizes a horse—that a negro. Thanks to this disorder, the bravest of the tribe save their wives, and frequently their tents.”

Before 1800, no political mission from a European nation had visited the court of Persia for a century; but the English had fame as soldiers from the report of their deeds in India. An officer of one of the frigates which conveyed Sir John Malcolm’s mission, who had gone ashore at Abusheher, and was there mounted on a spirited horse, afforded no small entertainment to the Persians by his bad horsemanship. The next day the man who supplied the ship with vegetables, and who spoke a little English, met him on board, and said—“Don’t be ashamed, sir, nobody knows you—bad rider! I tell them you, like all English, ride well, but that time they see you, you very drunk.” The worthy Persian thought it would have been a reproach for a man of a warlike nation not to ride well, but none for a European to get drunk.

A touching incident is mentioned by Mungo Park as having occurred whilst he, friendless and forlorn, was pursuing his weary journeyings far in the interior of Africa. The simple narrative tells its own tale of accumulated misery:—“July 29th. Early in the morning my landlord observing that I was sickly, hurried me away, sending a servant with me as a guide to Kea. But though I was little able to walk, my horse was still less able to carry me, and about six miles to the east of Modibor, in crossing some rough, clayey ground, he fell; and the united strength of the guide and myself could not place him again upon his legs. I sat down for some time beside this worn-out associate of my adventures; but, finding him still unable to rise, I took off the saddle and bridle, and placed a quantity of grass before him. I surveyed the poor animal as he lay panting on the ground, with sympathetic emotion, for I could not suppress the sad apprehension that I should myself in a short time lie down and perish in the same manner, of fatigue and hunger. With this foreboding I left my poor horse, and with great reluctance I followed my guide on foot along the bank of the river until about noon, when we reached Kea, which I found to be nothing more than a small fishing-village.”

Torn with doubt and perplexity, heavy of heart and weary in body, the unhappy traveler returned westward to Modiboo, after two days’ journeying in company with a negro carrying his horse accoutrements. “Thus conversing,” says he, “we traveled in the most friendly manner until, unfortunately, we perceived the footsteps of a lion quite fresh in the mud near the river side. My companion now proceeded with great circumspection, and at last, coming to some thick underwood, he insisted that I should walk before him. I endeavored to excuse myself by alleging that I did not know the road, but he obstinately persisted; and after a few high words and menacing looks, threw down the saddle and went away. This very much disconcerted me, for as I had given up all hopes of obtaining a horse, I could not think of encumbering myself with a saddle; and taking off the stirrups and girths, I threw the saddle into the river. The Negro no sooner saw me throw the saddle into the water than he came running from among the bushes where he had concealed himself, jumped into the river, and by help of his spear brought out the saddle, and ran away with it. I continued my course along the bank, but as the wood was remarkably thick, and I had reason to believe that a lion was at no great distance, I became much alarmed, and took a long circuit through the bushes to avoid him. About four in the afternoon I reached Modiboo, where I found my saddle; the guide, who had got there before me, being afraid that I should inform the king of his conduct, had brought the saddle with him in a canoe. While I was conversing with the dooty, and remonstrating with the guide for having left me in such a situation, I heard a horse neigh in one of the huts, and the dooty inquired with a smile if I knew who was speaking to me. He explained himself by telling me that my horse was still alive, and somewhat recovered from his fatigue.” The happiness with which Park met his lost faithful steed may be conceived, for in him he had one friend left in the world.

Another lamented victim to African travel thus touchingly laments a grievous misfortune which befel him. Returning from an excursion to Kouka, Major Denham writes:—“I was not at all prepared for the news which was to reach me on returning to our inclosure. The horse that had carried me from Tripoli to Mourzuk and back again, and on which I had ridden the whole journey from Tripoli to Bornou, had died a very few hours after my departure for the lake. There are situations in a man’s life in which losses of this nature are felt most keenly, and this was one of them. It was not grief, but it was something very nearly approaching to it; and though I felt ashamed of the degree of derangement which I suffered from it, yet it was several days before I could get over the loss. Let it, however, be remembered, that the poor animal had been my support and comfort—may I not say, companion?—through many a dreary day and night—had endured both hunger and thirst in my service with the utmost patience—was so docile, though an Arab, that he would stand still for hours in the desert while I slept between his legs, his body affording me the only shelter that could be obtained from the powerful influence of a noonday sun: he was the fleetest of the fleet, and ever foremost in the race.”^[14]

Captain Brown, in his “Biographical Sketches of Horses,” gives the following interesting account of a circumstance that occurred at the Cape of Good Hope. “In one of the violent storms that often occur there, a vessel was forced on the rocks, and beaten to pieces. The greater part of the crew perished miserably, as no boat could venture to their assistance. Meanwhile a planter came from his farm to see the wreck, and knowing the spirit of his horse, and his excellence as a swimmer, he determined to make a desperate effort for their deliverance, and pushed into the thundering breakers. At first both disappeared, but were soon seen on the surface. Nearing the wreck, he caused two of the poor seamen to cling to his boots, and so brought them safe to shore. Seven times did he repeat this perilous feat, and saved fourteen lives; but, alas! the eighth time, the horse being much fatigued, and meeting with a formidable wave, the gallant fellow lost his balance, and was overwhelmed in a moment. He was seen no more, but the noble horse reached the land in safety.”

Lieutenant Wellstead relates an adventure in his travels in Arabia, which illustrates the importance of being well mounted in that wild land:—“On my return from Obri to Suweik, contrary to the wish of the Bedouins, who had received intelligence that the WahhÁbis were lurking around, I left the village where we had halted, alone, with my gun, in search of game. Scarcely had I rode three miles from the walls, when suddenly turning an angle of the rocks, I found myself within a few yards of a group of about a dozen horsemen who lay on the ground, basking listlessly in the sun. To turn my horse’s head and away was the work scarcely of an instant; but hardly had I done so when the whole party were also in their saddles in full cry after me. Several balls whizzed past my head, which Sayyid acknowledged by bounding forward like an antelope; he was accustomed to these matters, and their desire to possess him unharmed, alone prevented my pursuers from bringing him down. As we approached the little town I looked behind me; a sheikh better mounted than his followers was in advance, his dress and long hair streaming behind him, while he poised his long spear on high, apparently in doubt whether he was sufficiently within range to pierce me. My good stars decided that he was not; for, reining up his horse, he rejoined his party, whilst I gained the walls in safety! The day before Sayyid came into my hands he had been presented to the Im’am by a Nejd sheikh; reared in domesticity, and accustomed to share the tent of some Arab family, he possessed, in an extraordinary degree, all the gentleness and docility, as well as the fleetness, which distinguish the pure breed of Arabia. To avoid the intense heat and rest their camels, the Bedouins frequently halted during my journey for an hour about mid-day. On these occasions Sayyid would remain perfectly still while I reposed on the sand, screened by the shadow of his body. My noon repast of dates he always looked for and shared. Whenever we halted, after unsaddling him and taking off his bridle with my own hands, he was permitted to roam about the encampment without control. At sunset he came for his corn at the sound of my voice, and during the night, without being fastened, he generally took up his quarters at a few yards from his master. During my coasting voyages along the shore, he always accompanied me, and even in a crazy open boat from Maskat to India. My health having compelled me to return to England overland, I could not in consequence bring Sayyid with me. I parted with him as from a tried and valued friend.”

Among the North American Indians the Camanchees take the first rank as equestrians; racing, indeed, is with them a constant and almost incessant exercise, and a fruitful source of gambling. Among their feats of riding is one, described by Mr. Catlin, as having astonished him more than any thing in the way of horsemanship he had ever beheld; and it is a stratagem of war familiar to every young man in the tribe. At the instant he is passing an enemy, he will drop his body upon the opposite side of the horse, supporting himself with his heel upon the horse’s back. In this position, lying horizontally, he will hang whilst his horse is at its fullest speed, carrying with him his shield, bow, and arrows, and lance fourteen feet long, all or either of which he will wield with the utmost facility, rising and throwing his arrows over the horse’s back, or under his neck, throwing himself up to his proper position, or changing to the other side of the horse if necessary. The actual way in which this is done is as follows: A short hair halter is passed under the neck of the horse, and both ends tightly braided into the mane, leaving a loop to hang under the neck and against the breast. Into this loop the rider drops his elbow suddenly and fearlessly, leaving his heel to hang over the back of the horse to steady him and enable him to regain the upright position.

The following very singular custom prevails among the tribe of North American Indians, known as the Foxes. Of this Mr. Catlin was an eye-witness: “When,” says he, “General Street and I arrived at Kee-o-kuk’s village, we were just in time to see this amusing scene on the prairie, a little back of his village. The Foxes, who were making up a war-party to go against the Sioux, and had not suitable horses enough by twenty, had sent word to the ‘Sacs’ the day before, according to ancient custom, that they were coming on that day, at a certain hour, to ‘smoke’ that number of horses, and they must not fail to have them ready. On that day, and at the hour, the twenty young men who were beggars for horses were on the spot, and seated themselves on the ground in a circle, where they went to smoking. The villagers flocked round them in a dense crowd, and soon after appeared on the prairie, at half a mile distance, an equal number of young men of the Sac tribe, who had agreed each to give a horse, and who were then galloping them round at full speed; and gradually as they went around in a circuit, coming nearer to the centre, until they were at last close around the ring of young fellows seated on the ground. Whilst dashing about thus each one with a heavy whip in his hand, as he came within reach of the group on the ground, selected the one to whom he decided to present his horse, and as he passed gave him the most tremendous cut with his lash over the naked shoulders: and as he darted around again, he plied the whip as before, and again and again with a violent ‘crack,’ until the blood could be seen trickling down over his naked shoulders, upon which he instantly dismounted, and placed the bridle and whip in his hands, saying, ‘Here, you are a beggar; I present you a horse, but you will carry my mark on your back.’ In this manner they were all, in a little while, ‘whipped up,’ and each had a good horse to ride home and into battle.

Mr. Catlin gives an interesting account of his faithful horse “Charley,” a noble animal of the Camanchee wild breed, which had formed as strong an attachment for his master, as his master for him. The two halted generally on the bank of some little stream, and the first thing done was to undress Charley, and drive down the picket to which he was fastened, permitting him to graze over a circle limited by his lasso. On a certain evening, when he was grazing as usual, he managed to slip the lasso over his head, and took his supper at his pleasure as he was strolling round. When night approached, Mr. Catlin took the lasso in hand, and endeavored to catch him, but he continually evaded the lasso until dark, when his master abandoned the pursuit, making up his mind that he should inevitably lose him, and be obliged to perform the rest of the journey on foot. Returning to his bivouac, in no pleasant state of mind, he laid down on his bear-skin and went to sleep. In the middle of the night he awoke whilst lying on his back, and, half opening his eyes, was petrified at beholding, as he thought, the huge figure of an Indian standing over him, and in the very act of stooping to take his scalp! The chill of horror that paralyzed him for the first moment, held him still till he saw there was no need of moving; that his faithful horse had played shy till he had filled his belly, and had then moved up from feelings of pure affection, and taken his position with his fore feet at the edge of his master’s bed, and his head hanging over him, in which attitude he stood fast asleep.

When sunrise came the traveler awoke, and beheld his faithful servant at a considerable distance, picking up his breakfast among the cane-brake at the edge of the creek. Mr. Catlin went busily to work to prepare his own, and having eaten it, had another half-hour of fruitless endeavors to catch Charley, who, in the most tantalizing manner, would turn round and round, just out of his master’s reach. Mr. Catlin, recollecting the evidence of his attachment and dependence, afforded by the previous night, determined on another course of proceeding, so packed up his traps, slung the saddle on his back, trailed his gun, and started unconcernedly on his route. After advancing about a quarter of a mile, he looked back and saw Master Charley standing with his head and tail very high, looking alternately at him and at the spot where he had been encamped, and had left a little fire burning. Thus he stood for some time, but at length walked with a hurried step to the spot, and seeing every thing gone, began to neigh very violently, and, at last started off at fullest speed and overtook his master, passing within a few paces of him, and wheeling about at a few rods’ distance, trembling like an aspen leaf. Mr. Catlin called him by his familiar name, and walked up with the bridle on his hand, which was put over Charley’s head, as he held it down for it, and the saddle was placed on his back as he actually stooped to receive it; when all was arranged, and his master on his back, off started the faithful animal as contented as possible.

Narrative of Travels in Africa, by Major Denham.