AMERICAN POEMS-THE WAGONER OF

THE

THE ALLEGHANIES.

BY ROBERT ALLYN, A. M.

HE Wagoner of the Alleghanies: A Tale of Seventy-Six, by Thomas Buchanan Read, is the title of a beautiful American poem recently published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., of Philadelphia. The times of '76 are the most fruitful in poetic interest of all our national history, and from this fact alone we are prepossessed in favor of such a book. The author, also, and his double reputation of poet and painter, serve to deepen the favorable bias. And the reading of the book itself completes the conquest and carries us away captive, a willing friend of the book and an admirer of the simple, artless rhyme, the unaffected style, the noble and amiable characters, the stirring incidents, and the genial, hightoned, moral sentiment which it contains. It is thoroughly American in spirit, in incident, in scenery, and in manners.

A new book brought into the literary world is like another child born into the family. Its entrance is not, however, always without envy, yet it never fails to produce joy in the special circle of the author's friends. The book is a child of the mind, and, so far as minds are kindred, its advent will cause pleasure. A poem is more particularly "sweet fancy's child," and is loved and admired by all who possess imagination or desire the reputation of it. A poem is a creation-not by any means such as the Divine Power can make, but such as human thought can conceive. Infinite strength can create both material and spiritual things-can not only conceive the ideals, but the actuals making them to live before the eyes as well as in the mind. Man's creative ability ends when it has found the ideal, and while he can combine symbols to shadow forth that ideal he can

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do nothing more. Hence, architecture, painting, sculpture, and poetry are only symbolic or representative arts, and body forth ideals by means of divinely-created matter. Yet this symbolized creation of an ideal world, symmetrical, consistent, and full of beauty and truth, is by no means a small or an unimportant work. To bring out clearly and without confusion the conception of hills and valleys, plains and streams, with all the labors of human skill and industry, to people all these with numerous rational creatures, and to ascribe to all these heroic deeds and benevolent actions, suited at once to their circumstances and characters, is a task noble and useful, and one that may not only tax the highest human power to its utmost, but might fill the most self-depreciating soul with exultation after it has been successfully completed. When, therefore, a poet like Mr. Read has built such a world from the materials which God has created and scattered in some apparent disorder throughout this life, and when he has, by means of appropriate words and suggestive images, caused our minds to see that ideal world in all its radiant loveliness, are we not justified in rejoicing? Nay, more, are we not under the highest obligations both to feel and to express a noble delight and gratitude?

Truly the poet is the world's greatest benefactor. He builds the best of homes and the most desirable of empires for the poorest and most forlorn of all mankind to own, and occupy, and rule at will. He makes his every reader rich in all the true and ennobling purposes of wealth. He introduces us into the august society of heroes, and, though we must there be silent listeners, we can claim a companionship at all their feasts and be partakers of all their friendships. We can hear every word they utter, see every noble deed they perform, and watch every emotion as it swells their bosoms or flushes their countenances. The most unfor

tunate man, if he can only read and has metal enough in his imagination to grow warm under the blows of the poet's words, may mingle on equal terms with the refined and exalted and find his own soul grow daily greater by the hallowing association. We ought, therefore, to respect and honor every author of a good book for the benefaction he thus confers upon his race; and we ought, also, to detest and despise the writer of a bad, immoral, or worthless one as we would the man who had introduced us into the society of the base and corrupt. In the class of good books that named at the head of this article must be classed. It is beautiful, and comes most opportunely in this time of our nation's trial, this day of avaricious patriotism, to tell how nobly our fathers dared, how dreadfully they suffered, and how heroically they endured their passage through the furnace on their way to glorious liberty for themselves and their children.

But let us briefly hint the outlines of this patriotic story, and make a few quotations to whet the reader's appetite for more, and thus persuade him to buy the book and enjoy the whole. There were two brothers in a family— Berkley by name-residing in old-time grandeur near the city of Philadelphia. The elder was proud, cold, cruel, cowardly, and haughty. The younger was generous, courageous, impulsive, energetic, and had the tastes of an honest laborer rather than the habits of a lazy gentleman. In a fit of anger this younger brother left the family, and never, save in rumor, was heard of more. The elder married a high-born beauty, who gave him a daughter and died. He some time afterward married a second wifea wayward, country, dark-eyed, raven-haired maiden, whose previous lover he had slain. She at once loves the daughter with fervent earnestness. But Berkley sends the child to England to be educated, and the wayward wife, offended at his cold cruelty, flees from his fireside and is heard of never again. These facts are set forth preliminary to the main action of the poem, which commences a short time previous to the battle of Lexington. A well-known wagoner, by name Ringbolt, having with him a boy of wonderful beauty and famous for his songs, appears at a tavern in Philadelphia called "The Ship and Sheaf." He is thus introduced in a few graphic lines:

T was April, and the evening winds
Were rattling at the open blinds;
The sign upon its hinge of rust
Made dreary answer to the gust
That smote the masts like an ocean squall,

And, whistling, mocked the boatswain's call.

The latch went up, the door was thrown
Awide, as by a tempest blown,
While, bold as an embodied storm,
Strode in a dark and stalwart form,
And all the lights in the sudden wind
Flared as he slammed the door behind.

The noisy revelers ceased their din,
And into the corners skulked the cur,
As the startled keeper welcomed in
The feared and famous wagoner;
Not long they brooked the keen eye-glance
Who gazed into that countenance,

And even in its mildest mood

His voice was sudden, loud, and rude,
As is a swollen mountain stream.
He spoke as to a restive team.

碗

Such was the figure, strange and wild,
And at his side a twelve-years child-
An eagle-eyed, bright, wondering lad,
In rustic Winter garments clad-
Entered, and held the wagoner's hand,
While on his visage, flushed and tanned,
A pleasure, mingled with amaze,
Parted his lips and filled his gaze.
His hair was wavy, long, and black,
And from his forehead drifted back
By the last greeting gale,

Where still the random rain and hail Clung clustering, like the tangled pearls In careless locks of Indian girls." Soon after this time Berkley's daughter, Esther, returns from England, and this boy, becoming her page, follows her fortunes to the conclusion of the tale. She is thus pictured when she

stands on the deck of the vessel to disembark from her homeward voyage:

"At the open gang a maiden stood,
Reflected in the happy flood-
O, enviable flood, how blest
With such a vision on thy breast!—
Stood like a timid, startled fawn
Gazing where its mates had gone;
Stood like a white star in the dawn,
Looking with inquiring eyes
Where its westward pathway lies.

The gold of fifteen Summer suns

Was tangled in young Esther's locks;
Her voice, it was a rill that runs

Half spray among the flowers and rocks;
The hues of the dewiest violet
Within her liquid eyes were set;
Her form was small, her figure light,
As is some fabled fountain-sprite;
The aerial scarf about her twined,
Like gossamer, seemed to woo the wind;
A shape so light, she seemed to be
That vision which poets only see-
The spirit of that iris small
Poised on the mist of a waterfall."

She is welcomed to the old mansion in a feast

given in her honor, where wealth, beauty, and

wit combine to pay homage to her who embodies all their graces and adds to them holy charity. At this feast she is seen and loved by young Edgar, the son of a neighboring clergyman, and she returns the affection. She was invited to sing, and

"Through the crowd on her father's arm-
How proud he was! how very proud!—
She passed like a ray of sunshine warm

Cleaving its way through a broken cloud." She sings a capital patriotic song, which the limits of this essay forbid to quote. A young British officer hears, and is enamored also. The battle of Lexington occurred soon after, and the

effect of it is thus told:

"Each sacred hearth-stone, deep and wide,

Through many nights glowed bright and full;
The matron's great wheel at its side.

No more devoured the carded wool;
And now the maiden's smaller wheel
No longer felt the throbbing tread,
But stood beside the idle reel

Among its idle flax and thread.
No more the jovial song went round,
No more the ringing laugh was heard,
But every voice had a solemn sound,

And some stern purpose filled each word.
The yeoman and the yeoman's son,
With knitted brows and sturdy dint,
Renewed the polish of each gun,

Re-oiled the lock, re-set the flint;
And oft the maid and matron there,
While kneeling in the firelight glare,
Long poured, with half-suspended breath,
The lead into the molds of death."

Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod

Received on Freedom's field of honor."

Edgar's father leaves his pulpit and goes to fight the foe. Edgar abandons his books and with Esther's blessing enters Ringbolt's company of scouts. The boy Ugo goes from Berkley Hall with a rusty sword to a cave, where appears a strange woman, by name Nora. She brightens this sword for him, and as she works relieves her toil with a song, which is among the best patriot songs ever written. It is too long to be quoted here. The battle of Brandywine is described, as is that of Germantown, at which latter battle Sir Hugh is taken from his house and carried into Philadelphia, where he spends a pleasant Winter among his tory friends. Esther is employed in feeding the starving and nursing the sick of the American army for a part of the Winter at Valley Forge, under the immediate direction of Washington and his wife. She is, at length, taken a prisoner while on a journey to convey important information to the American general and carried to the city. There she is again the subject of gallant attentions from the British colonel. She escapes from her captivity and the British retire from the city, but before they go Sir Hugh attempts to secure her signature against her desire to a marriage contract with this colonel. A mailclad figure interferes for her rescue. Sir Hugh in anger draws a pistol and shoots the person in this armor, which proves to be no other than the boy Ugo. Ringbolt the wagoner now appears, and reproaches Berkley with having

THE BRAVE AT HOME.

"The maid who binds her warrior's sash

With smile that well her pain dissembles, The while beneath her drooping lash

One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles; Though Heaven alone records the tear, And Fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear

As e'er bedewed the field of glory! The wife who girds her husband's sword 'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, And bravely speaks the cheering word

What though her heart be rent asunder! Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear

The bolts of death around him rattleHath shed as sacred blood as e'er

Was poured upon the field of battle! The mother who conceals her grief

While to her breast her son she presses, Then breathes a few brave words and brief Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, With no one but her secret God

To know the pain that weighs upon her,

calls for Nora, who has been nursed during a sickness in the house. She appears, but as she sees the face of the dead boy she falls lifeless upon the dead body. Sir Hugh flies and leaves his estates to Esther, who is supposed to be married to Edgar soon after. Ringbolt comes to their mansion at the close of the war of 1812 an acknowledged uncle, and there dies while beginning to explain the mystery of Nora and Ugo, whose true story, therefore, remains forever untold. Every reader will, however, believe that Nora is the second wife of Sir Hugh, and that Ugo was her son, and the true heir of Berkley manor.

Altogether it is a beautiful tale written in well-chosen words, woven skillfully into a delightful rhyme. It will increase the poetic reputation of one of our thoroughly American sweet singers, who, while still a young man, has already won two marked reputations. It is also a monument of the industry and perseverance which have made a man from humble beginnings. Mr. Read's first attempts at art were made upon