No More Learning

broken only by the distant sound of the hammers breaking the
cliffs, and the calls of the sentries on the walls. That silence,
the moonlight, and the night full of beauty, delighted Pan Michael
and Basia. A yearning came upon them, it is unknown why; and
a certain sadness, though pleasant. Basia raised her eyes to her
husband; and seeing that his eyes were open, she said: -
"Michael, you are not sleeping. "
"It is a wonder, but I cannot sleep. "
"It is pleasant for you here? "
"Pleasant. But for you? ”
-
Basia nodded her bright head. "O Michael, so pleasant! ai, ai!
Did you not hear what that man was singing? "
Here she repeated the last words of the little song,-
"Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger,
If only near thee. "
A moment of silence followed, which the little knight inter-
rupted:-
"But listen, Basia. "
"What, Michael? "
"To tell the truth, we are wonderfully happy with each other;
and I think if one of us were to fall, the other would grieve
beyond measure. "
Basia understood perfectly that when the little knight said
"if one of us were to fall," instead of die, he had himself only
in mind. It came to her head that maybe he did not expect to
come out of that siege alive,- that he wished to accustom her
to that termination; therefore a dreadful presentiment pressed
her heart, and clasping her hands, she said: -
(( Michael, have pity on yourself and on me! "
The voice of the little knight was moved somewhat, though
calm.


## p. 13434 (#248) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13434
"But see, Basia, you are not right," said he; "for if you only
reason the matter out, what is this temporal existence? Why
break one's neck over it? Who would be satisfied with tasting
happiness and love here when all breaks like a dry twig,-
who? "
But Basia began to tremble from weeping, and to repeat :-
"I will not hear this! I will not! I will not! "
"As God is dear to me, you are not right," repeated the lit-
tle knight. "Look, think of it: there above, beyond that quiet
moon, is a country of bliss without end. Of such a one speak to
me. Whoever reaches that meadow will draw breath for the first
time, as if after a long journey, and will feed in peace. When
my time comes,—and that is a soldier's affair,-it is your sim-
ple duty to say to yourself, 'That is nothing! Michael is gone.
True, he is gone far, farther than from here to Lithuania; but
that is nothing, for I shall follow him. ' Basia, be quiet; do not
weep. The one who goes first will prepare quarters for the
other: that is the whole matter. "
Here there came on him, as it were, a vision of coming events;
for he raised his eyes to the moonlight, and continued:-
"What is this mortal life? Grant that I am there first, wait-
ing till some one knocks at the heavenly gate. Saint Peter opens
it. I look: who is that? My Basia! Save us! Oh, I shall
jump then! Oh, I shall cry then! Dear God, words fail me.
And there will be no tears, only endless rejoicing; and there will
be no pagans, nor cannon, nor mines under walls, only peace and
happiness. Ai, Basia, remember, this life is nothing! "
"Michael, Michael! " repeated Basia.
-
And again came silence, broken only by the distant, monoto-
nous sound of the hammers.
-:
"Basia, let us pray together," said Pan Michael at last.
And those two souls began to pray. As they prayed, peace
came on both; and then sleep overcame them, and they slum-
bered till the first dawn.
Pan Michael conducted Basia away before the morning kindya
to the bridge joining the old castle with the town. In parting,
he said:
"This life is nothing! remember that, Basia. "


## p. 13435 (#249) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13435
THE FUNERAL OF PAN MICHAEL
From Pan Michael. ' Copyright 1893, by Jeremiah Curtin. Reprinted by
permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
WHEN
[Kamenyets has been basely surrendered to the. Sultan. Pan Michael pre-
pares to send forth his troops, but between him and Ketling there is a secret
understanding: they have sworn to blow up the castle and meet death to-
gether, that the white flag may never be hoisted over the citadel of Kam-
enyets. ]
HEN Volodyovski had mustered the troops, he called Pan
Mushalski and said to him:-
-
―
"Old friend, do me one more service. Go this mo-
ment to my wife, and tell her from me Here the voice stuck
in the throat of the little knight for a while. "And say to her
from me" He halted again, and then added quickly, "This
life is nothing! "
The bowman departed. After him the troops went out grad-
ually. Pan Michael mounted his horse and watched over the
march. The castle was evacuated slowly, because of the rubbish
and fragments which blocked the way.
Ketling approached the little knight. "I will go down," said
he, fixing his teeth.
"Go! but delay till the troops have marched out.
Go! "
Here they seized each other in an embrace which lasted
some time. The eyes of both were gleaming with an uncommon
radiance. Ketling rushed away at last toward the vaults.
Pan Michael took the helmet from his head. He looked
awhile yet on the ruin, on that field of his glory, on the rubbish,
the corpses, the fragments of walls, on the breast work, on the
guns; then raising his eyes, he began to pray. His last words
were, "Grant her, O Lord, to endure this patiently; give her
peace! »
>>>>
Ah! Ketling hastened, not waiting even till the troops had
marched out: for at that moment the bastions quivered, an awful
roar rent the air; bastions, towers, walls, horses, guns, living
men, corpses, masses of earth, all torn upward with a flame, and
mixed,- pounded together, as it were, into one dreadful car-
tridge, flew toward the sky.
Thus died Volodyovski, the Hector of Kamenyets, the first
soldier of the Commonwealth.


## p. 13436 (#250) ##########################################

13436
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
In the monastery of St. Stanislav stood a lofty catafalque in
the centre of the church; it was surrounded with gleaming
tapers, and on it lay Pan Volodyovski in two coffins, one of lead
and one of wood. The lids had been fastened, and the funeral
service was just ending.
It was the heartfelt wish of the widow that the body should
rest in Hreptyoff: but since all Podolia was in the hands of the
enemy, it was decided to bury it temporarily in Stanislav; for
to that place the "exiles" of Kamenyets had been sent under a
Turkish convoy, and there delivered to the troops of the hetman.
All the bells in the monastery were ringing. The church was
filled with a throng of nobles and soldiers, who wished to look
for the last time at the coffin of the Hector of Kamenyets, and
the first cavalier of the Commonwealth. It was whispered that
the hetman himself was to come to the funeral; but as he had
not appeared so far, and as at any moment the Tartars might
come in a chambul, it was determined not to defer the ceremony.
Old soldiers, friends or subordinates of the deceased, stood in
a circle around the catafalque. Among others were present Pan
Mushalski, the bowman, Pan Motovidlo, Pan Snitko, Pan Hrom-
yka, Pan Nyenashinyets, Pan Novoveski, and many others, former
officers of the stanitsa. By a marvelous fortune, no man was
lacking of those who had sat on the evening benches around the
hearth at Hreptyoff; all had brought their heads safely out of
that war, except the man who was their leader and model. That
good and just knight, terrible to the enemy, loving to his own;
that swordsman above swordsmen, with the heart of a dove,-
lay there high among the tapers, in glory immeasurable, but in
the silence of death. Hearts hardened through war were crushed
with sorrow at that sight; yellow gleams from the tapers shone
on the stern, suffering faces of warriors, and were reflected in
glittering points in the tears dropping down from their eyelids.
Within the circle of soldiers lay Basia, in the form of a cross,
on the floor; and near her Zagloba, old, broken, decrepit, and
trembling. She had followed on foot from Kamenyets the
hearse bearing that most precious coffin, and now the moment
had come when it was necessary to give that coffin to the earth.
Walking the whole way, insensible, as if not belonging to this
world, and now at the catafalque, she repeated with unconscious
lips, "This life is nothing! " She repeated it because that beloved
one had commanded her, for that was the last message which he


## p. 13437 (#251) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13437
had sent her; but in that repetition and in those expressions
were mere sounds, without substance, without truth, without mean-
ing and solace. No: "This life is nothing" meant merely regret,
darkness, despair, torpor, merely misfortune incurable, life beaten
and broken,—an erroneous announcement that there was noth-
ing above her, neither mercy nor hope; that there was merely
a desert, and it will be a desert which God alone can fill when
he sends death.
They rang the bells; at the great altar, Mass was at its end.
At last thundered the deep voice of the priest, as if calling from
the abyss: "Requiescat in pace! " A feverish quiver shook Basia,
and in her unconscious head rose one thought alone: "Now, now,
they will take him from me! " But that was not yet the end of
the ceremony. The knights had prepared many speeches to be
spoken at the lowering of the coffin; meanwhile Father Kamin-
ski ascended the pulpit,- the same who had been in Hreptyoff
frequently, and who in the time of Basia's illness had prepared
her for death.
People in the church began to spit and cough, as is usual
before preaching; then they were quiet, and all eyes were turned
to the pulpit. The rattling of a drum was heard on the pulpit.
The hearers were astonished. Father Kaminski beat the drum
as if for alarm; he stopped suddenly, and a death-like silence fol-
lowed. Then a drum was heard a second and a third time;
suddenly the priest threw the drumsticks to the floor of the
church, and called:-
-
"Pan Colonel Volodyovski! "
A spasmodic scream from Basia answered him. It became
simply terrible in the church. Pan Zagloba rose, and aided by
Mushalski bore out the fainting woman.
Meanwhile the priest continued: "In God's name, Pan Volo-
dyovski, they are beating the alarm! there is war, the enemy
is in the land! - and do you not spring up, seize your sabre,
mount your horse? Have you forgotten your former virtue ?
Do you leave us alone with sorrow, with alarm? "
The breasts of the knights rose; and a universal weeping
broke out in the church, and broke out several times again, when
the priest lauded the virtue, the love of country, and the bravery
of the dead man. His own words carried the preacher away.
His face became pale; his forehead was covered with sweat; his
voice trembled. Sorrow for the little knight carried him away,


## p. 13438 (#252) ##########################################

13438
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
sorrow for Kamenyets, sorrow for the Commonwealth, ruined by
the hands of the followers of the Crescent; and finally he
finished his eulogy with this prayer:-
"O Lord, they will turn churches into mosques, and chant
the Koran in places where till this time the Gospel has been
chanted. Thou hast cast us down, O Lord; thou hast turned
thy face from us, and given us into the power of the foul Turk.
Inscrutable are thy decrees; but who, O Lord, will resist the
Turk now? What armies will war with him on the bounda-
ries? Thou, from whom nothing in the world is concealed,—
thou knowest best that there is nothing superior to our cavalry!
What cavalry can move for thee, O Lord, as ours can? Wilt
thou set aside defenders behind whose shoulders all Christendom
might glorify thy name? O kind Father, do not desert us! show
us thy mercy! Send us a defender! Send a crusher of the foul
Mohammedan! Let him come hither; let him stand among us;
let him raise our fallen hearts! Send him, O Lord! "
At that moment the people gave way at the door; and into
the church walked the hetman, Pan Sobieski. The eyes of all
were turned to him; a quiver shook the people; and he went
with clatter of spurs to the catafalque, lordly, mighty, with the
face of a Cæsar. An escort of iron cavalry followed him.
"Salvator! " cried the priest, in prophetic ecstasy.
Sobieski knelt at the catafalque, and prayed for the soul of
Volodyovski.


## p. 13439 (#253) ##########################################

13439
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
(1841-1887)
HE strain sounded by Edward Rowland Sill has a quality of
distinction, and a haunting loveliness of aspiration, such as
to endear him to those who rejoice in art which is but the
handmaiden to dignity of thought and quiet beauty of form. Life
and song with Sill-as with Sidney Lanier, between whom and the
New-Englander there is spiritual fellowship-were in harmony; and
man and writer equally call forth admiration. Sill's life was studious,
shy, withdrawn; his work too made no noisy demand on the public.
It was not startling in manner. Its appeal
was to the inner experience, to the still
small voice, which is the soul's monitor.
His art showed that unobtrusive obedience
to the fundamental technique, which, from
the Greek days to our own, has acted as a
preservative of the written word.

Sill was born in Windsor, Connecticut,
on April 29th, 1841, and was graduated from
Yale College at the age of twenty. At first
he went to California with business plans
in mind; but came back to the East, intend-
ing to become a minister, and studied for a
short time at the Harvard Divinity School.
This idea was soon abandoned; and he
went to New York City and did editorial work on the New York
Evening Mail. Then he went to Ohio to do some teaching, and
thence was called to California again in 1871, as principal of the
High School at Oakland; and after three years' service there, went
to the University of California at Berkeley, to be the professor of
English literature,- a position he held until 1882, when he returned
to Ohio and devoted himself to literary work. He died at Cleveland,
in that State, February 27th, 1887.
EDWARD R. SILL
But it was the life internal, not that external, which was most
significant in the case of Sill. A scholar, an idealist, as a teacher
he was very unconventional but intensely inspiring. He fulfilled the
grand pedagogic conception that the most fruitful teaching means
not so much the imparting of knowledge as the stimulation of a
fine personality. In his latest years, when out of health and thrown


## p. 13440 (#254) ##########################################

13440
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
much upon himself, his broodings were deep and wise, and his choicest
lyrics are the precious register of them; another such registration
being the remarkable letters he wrote to a few privileged friends.
He lived aside from the feverish centres of activity, but kept in the
stream of the nobler activities of the human mind and soul. As he
wrote in one of the finest of his poems, 'Field-Notes: —
"Life is a game the soul can play
With fewer pieces than men say. "
Again in Solitude' he expresses his feeling:
"All alone, alone,
Calm as on a kingly throne,
Take thy place in the crowded land
Self-centred in free self-command.
Far from the chattering tongues of men,
Sitting above their call or ken,
Free from links of manner and form,
Thou shalt learn of the wingèd storm,-
God shall speak to thee out of the sky. "
All that one knows of Sill's personal side is in consonance with the
aspiring note and the intellectual questing that mark his poetry.
Dying comparatively young, at forty-five, there is a sense of in-
completion about his literary output. He did not write facilely nor
polish much. A book of verse in young manhood, The Hermitage
and Other Poems' (1867); a mid-manhood volume privately printed,
The Venus of Milo and Other Poems' (1883); and a well-chosen
posthumous selection, Poems (1888), embracing the bulk of his
worthiest work,-make up the scant list. He produced slowly, and
was chary about collecting the pieces which appeared in the Atlantic
Monthly and elsewhere; only doing so, indeed, on the urgence of his
publishers. But it is quality, not quantity, which defines a writer's
place; and the charm, suggestion, and strength of Sill's verse cannot
be gainsaid. The dominant trait in him is spirituality, coming out
whether he is describing nature - few American poets have been
more happy in this- or dealing with the deep heart of man. It is
the soul's problem in relation to existence which awakens his warm
interest and solicitude. The jocund mood, the touch of humor, were
rare with him as a writer, but not entirely wanting, as the very
strong satiric piece of verse Five Lives' is enough to prove. The
playful side of his nature, too, is glimpsed in many of his private
letters. Intellectually, and in the matter of diction to a degree, there
is an Emersonian flavor to Sill. A lyric like 'Service,' for example,
certainly would not have shamed the Concord Sage. Sill's spiritual
faith had the same robust optimism as Emerson's, though there was


## p. 13441 (#255) ##########################################

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
13441
more sensitiveness to the minor chords of life. This strong, affirming
belief in the triumph of spirit over flesh makes Sill's verse an ethical
tonic, as well as an æsthetic delight. 'Field-Notes' is his noblest
statement of this helpful philosophy, which however crops out con-
tinually in his work. This mood and attitude of mind, expressed with
sincerity and tenderness, with music and imagination, denote Sill as
one whose accomplishment, if slight in extent and unambitious in
aim, is of a very high order, and such as could emanate only from
a poet truly called to song.
[The following poems were copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. in
1887, and are reprinted with their permission. ]
OPPORTUNITY
TH
HIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the King's son bears - but this
Blunt thing! " he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the King's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it; and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
TH
HOME
HERE lies a little city in the hills;
White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door,
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.
There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,
Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er
And touches its still face most tenderly.
XXIII-841


## p. 13442 (#256) ##########################################

13442
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years,
Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar,
With quiet distance blurred, as if through tears.
O heart, that prayest so for God to send
Some loving messenger to go before
And lead the way to where thy longings end,
Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come
His kindest angel, and through that still door
Into the Infinite love will lead thee home.
THE
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
HE royal feast was done; the King
Sought out some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer! "
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose:- "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool:
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.


## p. 13443 (#257) ##########################################

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
13443
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept,-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say,-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?
"Our faults no tenderness should ask,—
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders,— oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
-
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will: but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool! »
The room was hushed: in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool;
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool! "
WHAT
A MORNING THOUGHT
HAT if some morning, when the stars were paling,
And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear,
Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence
Of a benignant spirit standing near:
And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:
"This is our earth-most friendly earth, and fair;
Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;
"There is blest living here, loving and serving,
And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear:
But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer —
His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here! "
And what if then, while the still morning brightened,
And freshened in the elm the summer's breath,
Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel,
And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?


## p. 13444 (#258) ##########################################

13444
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
H
STRANGE
E DIED at night.
Next day they came
To weep and praise him; sudden fame
These suddenly warm comrades gave.
They called him pure, they called him brave;
One praised his heart, and one his brain;
All said, "You'd seek his like in vain,—
Gentle, and strong, and good:" none saw
In all his character a flaw.
At noon he wakened from his trance,
Mended, was well! They looked askance;
Took his hand coldly; loved him not,
Though they had wept him; quite forgot
His virtues; lent an easy ear
To slanderous tongues; professed a fear
He was not what he seemed to be;
Thanked God they were not such as he;
Gave to his hunger stones for bread:
And made him, living, wish him dead.
LIFE
F
ORENOON, and afternoon, and night,- Forenoon,
And afternoon, and night,- Forenoon, and - what!
The empty song repeats itself. No more?
Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime,
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer,
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won.


## p. 13445 (#259) ##########################################

13445
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
(1806-1870)
NE of the stalwart pioneers of American literature was the
South-Carolinian, William G. Simms. He cultivated letters
under comparatively adverse conditions. He produced, under
the whip of necessity and by force of a vigorous gift for literary com-
position, a remarkable number of books, many of them below his nor-
mal power.
Yet some of his Revolutionary and Colonial romances
have a merit likely to give them a lasting audience. Boys, who are
keen on the scent of a stirring plot and a well-told story, still read
Simms with gusto. Moreover, in making lit-
erary use of the early doings of his native
State and of other Southern and border
States, he did a real service in drawing at-
tention to and awakening interest in local
United States history. Simms had the wis-
dom, in a day when it was rarer than it is
now, to draw upon this rich native material
lying as virgin ore for the novelist. No
other man of his time made more success-
ful use of it.

William Gilmore Simms was born at
Charleston, South Carolina, April 17th, 1806.
His father was a self-made man of decided
force, though lacking education. William
had only a common-school training; and before studying law, was a
clerk in a chemical house. He was admitted to the bar when twenty-
one years of age; but cared little for the profession, indicating his
preference the same year by publishing two volumes of poems.
Throughout his career Simms courted the Muse; but his verse never
became an important part of his achievement. In 1828 he became
editor and part owner of the Charleston City Gazette, which took
the Union side during the Nullification excitement. He held the posi-
tion for four years, when the newspaper was discontinued because of
political dissensions, leaving the editor in financial straits. After a
year's residence in Hingham, Massachusetts, where his first novel,
'Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal,' was written, -he returned to
South Carolina; settling finally on his plantation Woodlands, near Med-
way, in that State, where he lived for many years the life of a genial
W. G. SIMMS


## p. 13446 (#260) ##########################################

13446
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
country gentleman, a large slave-owner, his mansion the centre of an
open-handed hospitality. Simms was in these years the representa-
tive Southern author, visited as a matter of course by travelers from
the North. This life was varied also by political office: he was for
many years a member of the South Carolina Legislature, and was
once an unsuccessful candidate for lieutenant-governor.
Personally Simms was an impulsive, choleric, generous-hearted
man, full of pluck and energy, widely interested in the affairs of his
land, doing steadily what he conceived to be right. During his
meridian of strength he prospered, though driven to work hard to
keep up his style of living. But when the war came he suffered the
common lot of well-conditioned Southerners, and was almost ruined.
Thereafter, until his death, it was an up-hill struggle. Simms was
frankly, warmly sectional in his feelings, stoutly maintaining the
right of the South to secede. A sympathetic picture of the days of
his activity, in both sunshine and storm, is given in Professor Will-
iam P. Trent's biography of him prepared for the 'American Men of
Letters' series. Simms published more than thirty volumes of novels
and shorter tales: his verse alone counts up to nearly twenty books,
and in addition he wrote histories,-including several books of South
Carolina biographies,-edited various standard authors, and contrib-
uted almost countless articles to periodicals. The voluminous nature
of his writings explains the ephemerality of much of his work, and
suggests his faults,-carelessness of style and looseness of construc-
tion, and an inclination to the sensational. Simms's bloody scenes are
generally in full view of the audience: he did not see the value of
reserve. But his good qualities are positive: he has lively charac-
terization, brisk movement, a sense of the picturesque, and great
fertility of invention.
It is unnecessary, in the case of a writer so fecund, to catalogue
his works: the most powerful and artistic are those dealing with his
native State; and the chapter quoted from The Yemassee,' the most
popular and perhaps the best of all his fiction, a story describing
the uprising of the Indian tribe of that name, and the bravery of the
early Carolinians in repulsing them,- gives an admirable idea of his
gift for the graphic presentation of a dramatic scene. 'Guy Rivers,'
in 1834, was Simms's first decided success in native romance; and
crude as it is, has plenty of bustling action to hold the attention.
The Revolutionary quadrilogy beginning with The Partisan' (1835).
and ending with Katharine Walton' (1851), including also 'Melli-
champe' and 'The Kinsman,'—all tales of Marion and his troopers
and the British campaign in the Carolinas; the group of short stories
known as Wigwam and Cabin' (1845), dealing with frontier and
Indian life; and the much later The Cassique of Kiawah' (1860),


## p. 13447 (#261) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13447
which depicts colonial days in Charleston,- are superior examples of
his scope and style. Both the American and English public of that
day took to his work: ten of his novels received German translation.
Simms was conscientious and indefatigable in getting the material
for his tales: reading the authorities in print and manuscript, travel-
ing in order to study the physical aspects of the country and gather
oral legends and scraps of local history. Thus he came to know
well, and to be able to reproduce with truth and spirit, the Indians
and white men who filled his mind's eye. The reader of to-day
is more likely to underestimate than to overestimate Simms in this
regard. He was a writer with a very conspicuous talent for char-
acter limning and narrative, which was aided by years of ceaseless
pen-work. Under less practical pressure, and with a keener sense
of the obligation of the artist to his art, he might have ranked with
Cooper. As it is, with all allowance for shortcomings, he is an agree-
able figure whether he be considered as author or man.
-
THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA
From The Yemassee'
IT
WAS a gloomy amphitheatre in the deep forests to which the
assembled multitude bore the unfortunate Occonestoga. The
whole scene was unique in that solemn grandeur, that sombre
hue, that deep spiritual repose, in which the human imagination
delights to invest the region which has been rendered remarkable
for the deed of punishment or crime. A small swamp or morass
hung upon one side of the wood; from the rank bosom of which,
in numberless millions, the flickering firefly perpetually darted
upwards, giving a brilliance and animation to the spot, which at
that moment no assemblage of light or life could possibly en-
liven. The ancient oak, a bearded Druid, was there to contribute
to the due solemnity of all associations; the green but gloomy
cedar, the ghostly cypress, and here and there the overgrown
pine, all rose up in their primitive strength, and with an under-
growth around them of shrub and flower that scarcely at any
time, in that sheltered and congenial habitation, had found it
necessary to shrink from winter. In the centre of the area thus
invested rose a high and venerable mound, the tumulus of many
preceding ages, from the washed sides of which might now and
then be seen protruding the bleached bones of some ancient war-
rior or sage.
A circle of trees at a little distance hedged it in,


## p. 13448 (#262) ##########################################

13448
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
made secure and sacred by the performance there of many of
their religious rites and offices,-themselves, as they bore the
broad arrow of the Yemassee, being free from all danger of over-
throw or desecration by Indian hands.
Amid the confused cries of the multitude, they bore the capt-
ive to the foot of the tumulus, and bound him backward, half
reclining upon a tree. A hundred warriors stood around, armed
according to the manner of the nation,- each with a tomahawk
and knife and bow. They stood up as for battle, but spectators
simply; and took no part in a proceeding which belonged en-
tirely to the priesthood. In a wider and denser circle gathered
hundreds more: not the warriors, but the people,- the old, the
young, the women and the children, all fiercely excited, and anx-
ious to see a ceremony so awfully exciting to an Indian imagina-
tion; involving as it did not only the perpetual loss of human
caste and national consideration, but the eternal doom, the degra-
dation, the denial of and the exile from their simple forest heaven.
Interspersed with this latter crowd, seemingly at regular intervals,
and with an allotted labor assigned them, came a number of old
women: not unmeet representatives, individually, for either of the
weird sisters of the Scottish thane,
"So withered and so wild in their attire;"
*
and regarding their cries and actions, of whom we may safely
affirm that they looked like anything but inhabitants of earth!
In their hands they bore, each of them, a flaming torch of the
rich and gummy pine; and these they waved over the heads of
the multitude in a thousand various evolutions, accompanying
each movement with a fearful cry, which at regular periods was
chorused by the assembled mass. A bugle-a native instrument
of sound, five feet or more in length; hollowed out from the
commonest timber, the cracks and breaks of which were care-
fully sealed up with the resinous gum oozing from their burning
torches; and which to this day, borrowed from the natives, our
negroes employ on the Southern waters with a peculiar compass
and variety of note- was carried by one of the party; and gave
forth at intervals, timed with much regularity, a long, protracted,
single blast, adding greatly to the wild and picturesque character
of the spectacle. At the articulation of these sounds, the circles
continue to contract, though slowly; until at length but a brief
――――


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WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13449
space lay between the armed warriors, the crowd, and the un-
happy victim.
The night grew dark of a sudden; and the sky was obscured
by one of the brief tempests that usually usher in the summer,
and mark the transition, in the South, of one season to another.
A wild gust rushed along the wood. The leaves were whirled
over the heads of the assemblage, and the trees bent downwards
until they cracked and groaned again beneath the wind. A feel-
ing of natural superstition crossed the minds of the multitude,
as the hurricane, though common enough in that region, passed
hurriedly along; and a spontaneous and universal voice of chanted
prayer rose from the multitude, in their own wild and emphatic
language, to the evil deity whose presence they beheld in its
progress:
―――――――――
"Thy wing, Opitchi-Manneyto,
It o'erthrows the tall trees-
Thy breath, Opitchi-Manneyto,
Makes the waters tremble-
Thou art in the hurricane,
When the wigwam tumbles -
Thou art in the arrow fire,
When the pine is shivered —
But upon the Yemassee
Be thy coming gentle-
Are they not thy well-beloved?
Bring they not a slave to thee?
Look! the slave is bound for thee,
'Tis the Yemassee that brings him.
Pass, Opitchi-Manneyto-
Pass, black spirit, pass from us—
Be thy passage gentle. "
And as the uncouth strain rose at the conclusion into a diapason
of unanimous and contending voices, of old and young, male and
female, the brief summer tempest had gone by. A shout of self-
gratulation, joined with warm acknowledgments, testified the popu-
lar sense and confidence in that especial Providence, which even
the most barbarous nations claim as forever working in their
behalf.
-
-
At this moment, surrounded by the chiefs, and preceded by
the great prophet or high-priest, Enorce-Mattee, came Sanutee,
the well-beloved of the Yemassee, to preside over the destinies of


## p. 13450 (#264) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13450
his son.
There was a due and becoming solemnity, but nothing
of the peculiar feelings of the father, visible in his countenance.
Blocks of wood were placed around as seats for the chiefs; but
Sanutee and the prophet threw themselves, with more of impos-
ing veneration in the proceeding, upon the edge of the tumulus,
just where an overcharged spot, bulging out with the crowding
bones of its inmates, had formed an elevation answering the
purpose of couch or seat. They sat directly looking upon the
prisoner; who reclined, bound securely upon his back to a decapi-
tated tree, at a little distance before them. A signal having been
given, the women ceased their clamors; and approaching him,
they waved their torches so closely above his head as to make all
his features distinctly visible to the now watchful and silent mul-
titude. He bore the examination with stern, unmoved features,
which the sculptor in brass or marble might have been glad to
transfer to his statue in the block. While the torches waved,
one of the women now cried aloud, in a barbarous chant, above
him:
――
"Is not this a Yemassee?
Wherefore is he bound thus-
Wherefore with the broad arrow
On his right arm growing,
Wherefore is he bound thus?
Is not this a Yemassee ? »
A second woman now approached him, waving her torch in like
manner, seeming closely to inspect his features, and actually
passing her fingers over the emblem upon his shoulder, as if to
ascertain more certainly the truth of the image. Having done
this, she turned about to the crowd, and in the same barbarous
sort of strain with the preceding, replied as follows:-
"It is not the Yemassee,
But a dog that runs away.
From his right arm take the arrow,
He is not the Yemassee. "
As these words were uttered, the crowd of women and children
around cried out for the execution of the judgment thus given;
and once again flamed the torches wildly, and the shoutings
were general among the multitude. When they had subsided, a
huge Indian came forward and sternly confronted the prisoner.


## p. 13451 (#265) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13451
This man was Malatchie, the executioner; and he looked the hor-
rid trade which he professed. His garments were stained and
smeared with blood, and covered with scalps, which, connected
together by slight strings, formed a loose robe over his shoulders.
In one hand he carried a torch, in the other a knife. He came
forward, under the instructions of Enoree-Mattee the prophet, to
claim the slave of Opitchi-Manneyto,- that is, in our language,
the slave of hell. This he did in the following strain:-
'Tis Opitchi-Manneyto
In Malatchie's ear that cries:
'This is not the Yemassee,—
And the woman's word is true,-
He's a dog that should be mine:
I have hunted for him long.
From his master he had run,
With the stranger made his home;
Now I have him, he is mine:
Hear Opitchi-Manneyto. >>>
And as the besmeared and malignant executioner howled his
fierce demand in the very ears of his victim, he hurled the knife
which he carried, upwards with such dexterity into the air, that
it rested point downward and sticking fast, on its descent, into
the tree and just above the head of the doomed Occonestoga.
With his hand, the next instant, he laid a resolute gripe upon
the shoulder of the victim, as if to confirm and strengthen his
claim by actual possession; while at the same time, with a sort of
malignant pleasure, he thrust his besmeared and distorted visage
close into the face of his prisoner. Writhing against the liga-
ments which bound him fast, Occonestoga strove to turn his head
aside from the disgusting and obtrusive presence; and the des-
peration of his effort, but that he had been too carefully secured,
might have resulted in the release of some of his limbs; for
the breast heaved and labored, and every muscle of his arms and
legs was wrought, by his severe action, into so many ropes,-
hard, full, and indicative of prodigious strength.
There was one person in that crowd who sympathized with
the victim. This was Hiwassee, the maiden in whose ears he
had uttered a word, which, in her thoughtless scream and subse-
quent declaration of the event, when she had identified him, had


## p. 13452 (#266) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13452
been the occasion of his captivity. Something of self-reproach
for her share in his misfortune, and an old feeling of regard for
Occonestoga, who had once been a favorite with the young of
both sexes among his people,—was at work in her bosom; and
turning to Echotee, her newly accepted lover, as soon as the
demand of Malatchie had been heard, she prayed him to resist
the demand.
In such cases, all that a warrior had to do was simply to join
issue upon the claim, and the popular will then determined the
question. Echotee could not resist an application so put to him,
and by one who had just listened to a prayer of his own so all-
important to his own happiness; and being himself a noble youth,
one who had been a rival of the captive in his better days,—
a feeling of generosity combined with the request of Hiwassee,
and he boldly leaped forward. Seizing the knife of Malatchie,
which stuck in the tree, he drew it forth and threw it upon the
ground; thus removing the sign of property which the execu-
tioner had put up in behalf of the evil deity.
"Occonestoga is the brave of the Yemassee," exclaimed the
young Echotee, while the eyes of the captive looked what his
lips could not have said. "Occonestoga is a brave of Yemassee:
he is no dog of Malatchie. Wherefore is the cord upon the
limbs of a free warrior? Is not Occonestoga a free warrior of
Yemassee? The eyes of Echotee have looked upon a warrior like
Occonestoga when he took many scalps. Did not Occonestoga
lead the Yemassee against the Savannahs? The eyes of Echo-
tee saw him slay the red-eyed Suwannee, the great chief of the
Savannahs. Did not Occonestoga go on the war-path with our
young braves against the Edistoes,-the brown foxes that came
out of the swamp? The eyes of Echotee beheld him. Occone-
stoga is a brave, and a hunter of Yemassee: he is not the dog
of Malatchie. He knows not fear. He hath an arrow with
wings, and the panther he runs down in the chase. His tread
is the tread of a sly serpent, that comes so that he hears him
not upon the track of the red deer, feeding down in the valley.
Echotee knows the warrior; Echotee knows the hunter; he knows
Occonestoga,- but he knows no dog of Opitchi-Manneyto. "
"He hath drunk of the poison drink of the palefaces; his
feet are gone from the good path of the Yemassee; he would
sell his people to the English for a painted bird. He is the
―


## p. 13453 (#267) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13453
Echotee
slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," cried Malatchie in reply.
was not satisfied to yield the point so soon, and he responded.
accordingly.
"It is true; the feet of the young warrior have gone away
from the good paths of the Yemassee: but I see not the weak-
ness of the chief when my eye looks back upon the great deeds
of the warrior. I see nothing but the shrinking body of Suwannee
under the knee- under the knife of the Yemassee. I hear noth-
ing but the war-whoop of the Yemassee, when he broke through
the camp of the brown foxes, and scalped them where they
skulked in the swamp.
I see this Yemassee strike the foe and
take the scalp, and I know Occonestoga,-Occonestoga, the son
of the well-beloved, the great chief of the Yemassee. "
"It is good; Occonestoga has thanks for Echotee; Echotee
is a brave warrior! " murmured the captive to his champion,
in tones of melancholy acknowledgment. The current of public
feeling began to set somewhere in behalf of the victim, and an
occasional whisper to that effect might be heard here and there
among the multitude. Even Malatchie himself looked for a
moment as if he thought it not improbable that he might be
defrauded of his prey; and while a free shout from many attested
the compliment which all were willing to pay to Echotee for his
magnanimous defense of one who had once been a rival-and
not always successful in the general estimation, the executioner
turned to the prophet and to Sanutee, as if doubtful whether or
not to proceed farther in his claim. But all doubt was soon
quieted, as the stern father rose before the assembly. Every
sound was stilled in expectation of his words on this so moment-
ous an occasion to himself. They waited not long. The old
man had tasked all the energies of the patriot, not less than of
the stoic; and having once determined upon the necessity of the
sacrifice, he had no hesitating fears or scruples palsying his deter-
mination. He seemed not to regard the imploring glance of
his son, seen and felt by all besides in the assembly; but with
a voice entirely unaffected by the circumstances of his position,
he spoke forth the doom of the victim in confirmation with that
originally expressed.
"Echotee has spoken like a brave warrior with a tongue of
truth, and a soul that has birth with the sun. But he speaks
out of his own heart, and does not speak to the heart of the


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WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13454
traitor. The Yemassee will all say for Echotee, but who can
say for Occonestoga when Sanutee himself is silent? Does the
Yemassee speak with a double tongue? Did not the Yemassee
promise Occonestoga to Opitchi-Manneyto with the other chiefs?
Where are they? They are gone into the swamp, where the
sun shines not, and the eyes of Opitchi-Manneyto are upon them.
He knows them for his slaves. The arrow is gone from their
shoulders, and the Yemassee knows them no longer. Shall the
dog escape who led the way to the English- who brought the
poison drink to the chiefs, which made them dogs to the English
and slaves to Opitchi-Manneyto? Shall he escape the doom the
Yemassee hath put upon them? Sanutee speaks the voice of the
Manneyto. Occonestoga is a dog, who would sell his father-
who would make our women to carry water for the palefaces.
He is not the son of Sanutee-Sanutee knows him no more.
Look, Yemassees, the Well-beloved has spoken! "
―
-
He paused, and turning away, sank down silently upon the
little bank on which he had before rested; while Malatchie, with-
out further opposition,- for the renunciation of his own son,
by one so highly esteemed as Sanutee, was conclusive against
the youth, advanced to execute the terrible judgment upon his
victim.
"O father, chief, Sanutee the Well-beloved! " was the cry that
now, for the first time, burst convulsively from the lips of the
prisoner: "hear me, father, - Occonestoga will go on the war-
path with thee and with the Yemassee against the Edisto, against
the Spaniard; hear, Sanutee,- he will go with thee against the
English. " But the old man bent not, yielded not, and the crowd
gathered nigher in the intensity of their interest.
"Wilt thou have no ear, Sanutee? It is Occonestoga, it is
the son of Matiwan, that speaks to thee. " Sanutee's head sank
as the reference was made to Matiwan, but he showed no other
sign of emotion. He moved not, he spoke not; and bitterly and
hopelessly the youth exclaimed:-
"Oh! thou art colder than the stone house of the adder, and
deafer than his ears. Father, Sanutee, wherefore wilt thou lose
me, even as the tree its leaf, when the storm smites it in sum-
mer? Save me, my father. "
And his head sank in despair as he beheld the unchanging
look of stern resolve with which the unbending sire regarded


## p. 13455 (#269) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13455
him. For a moment he was unmanned; until a loud shout of
derision from the crowd, as they beheld the show of his weak-
ness, came to the support of his pride. The Indian shrinks from
humiliation, where he would not shrink from death; and as the
shout reached his ears, he shouted back his defiance, raised his
head loftily in air, and with the most perfect composure com-
menced singing his song of death,-the song of many victories.
"Wherefore sings he his death-song? " was the cry from many
voices: "he is not to die! "
"Thou art the slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," cried Malatchie
to the captive; "thou shalt sing no lie of thy victories in the
ear of Yemassee. The slave of Opitchi-Manneyto has no tri-
umph;" and the words of the song were effectually drowned, if
not silenced, in the tremendous clamor which they raised about
him.
It was then that Malatchie claimed his victim. The doom had
been already given, but the ceremony of expatriation and out-
lawry was yet to follow; and under the direction of the prophet,
the various castes and classes of the nation prepared to take a
final leave of one who could no longer be known among them.
First of all came a band of young marriageable women, who,
wheeling in a circle three times about him, sang together a wild
apostrophe containing a bitter farewell, which nothing in our lan-
guage could perfectly embody:
-
"Go: thou hast no wife in Yemassee-thou hast given no
lodge to the daughter of Yemassee - thou hast slain no meat
for thy children. Thou hast no name- the women of Yemassee
know thee no more. They know thee no more. "
And the final sentence was reverberated from the entire
assembly:-
―――――
-:
"They know thee no more they know thee no more. "
Then came a number of the ancient men, the patriarchs of
the nation, who surrounded him in circular mazes three several
times, singing as they did so a hymn of like import:-
―
"Go: thou sittest not in the council of Yemassee - thou shalt
not speak wisdom to the boy that comes. Thou hast no name in
Yemassee the fathers of Yemassee, they know thee no more. >>
And again the whole assembly cried out, as with one voice:-
"They know thee no more—they know thee no more. "
These were followed by the young warriors, his old associates,
who now in a solemn band approached him to go through a like
―――――――――
――


## p.