The Book of Enterprise and Adventure Part 2

Sir R.K. Porter, in his travels in Persia, met with the sufferer from despotic tyranny and cruelty whose story is here related. He informs us, that the benignity of this person's countenance, united with the crippled state of his venerable frame, from the effects of his precipitation from the terrible height of execution, excited his curiosity to inquire into the particulars of so amazing a preservation.

Entering into conversation on the amiable characters of the reigning royal family of Persia, and comparing the present happiness of his country under their rule, with its misery during the sanguinary usurpation of the tyrant Nackee Khan, the good old man, who had himself been so signal an example of that misery, was easily led to describe the extraordinary circ.u.mstances of his own case. Being connected with the last horrible acts, and consequent fall of the usurper, a double interest accompanied his recital, the substance of which was nearly as follows:--

Having by intrigues and a.s.sa.s.sinations made himself master of the regal power at s.h.i.+raz, this monster of human kind found that the governor of Ispahan, instead of adhering to him, had proclaimed the accession of the lawful heir. No sooner was the intelligence brought to Nackee Khan than he put himself at the head of his troops, and set forward to revenge his contemned authority. When he arrived as far as Yezdikast, he encamped his army for a short halt, near the tomb on the north side. Being as insatiable of money as blood, he sent to the inhabitants of Yezdikast, and demanded an immense sum in gold, which he insisted should instantly be paid to his messengers. Unable to comply, the fact was respectfully pleaded in excuse; namely, "that all the money the city had possessed was already taken away by his own officers, and those of the opposite party; and that, at present, there was scarce a tomaun in the place."

Enraged at this answer, he repaired, full of wrath, to the town, and, ordering eighteen of the princ.i.p.al inhabitants to be brought before him, again demanded the money, but with threats and imprecations which made the hearers tremble. Still, however, they could only return the same answer--"their utter inability to pay;" and the tyrant, without a moment's preparation, commanded the men to be seized, and hurled from the top of the precipice in his sight. Most of them were instantly killed on the spot; others, cruelly maimed, died in terrible agonies where they fell; and the describer of the dreadful scene was the only one who survived. He could form no idea of how long he lay after precipitation, utterly senseless; "but," added he, "by the will of G.o.d I breathed again; and, on opening my eyes, found myself among the dead and mangled bodies of my former neighbours and friends. Some yet groaned."

He then related, that, in the midst of his horror at the sight, he heard sounds of yet more terrible acts, from the top of the cliff; and, momentarily strengthened by fear of he knew not what, for he believed that death had already grasped his own poor shattered frame, he managed to crawl away, unperceived, into one of the numerous caverned holes which perforate the foot of the steep. He lay there in an expiring state the whole night, but in the morning was providentially discovered by some of the town's people, who came to seek the bodies of their murdered relatives, to mourn over and take them away for burial. The poor man, feeble as he was, called to these weeping groups; who, to their astonishment and joy, drew out one survivor from the dreadful heap of slain. No time was lost in conveying him home, and administering every kind of a.s.sistance; but many months elapsed before he was able to move from his house, so deep had been the injuries inflicted in his fall.

In the course of his awful narrative, he told us, that the noise which had so appalled him, as he lay among the blood-stained rocks, was indeed the acting of a new cruelty of the usurper. After having witnessed the execution of his sentence on the eighteen citizens, whose a.s.severations he had determined not to believe, Nackee Khan immediately sent for a devout man, called Saied Ha.s.san, who was considered the sage of the place, and, for his charities, greatly beloved by the people. "This man," said the Khan, "being a descendant of the Prophet, must know the truth, and will tell it me. He shall find me those who can and will pay the money." But the answer given by the honest Saied being precisely the same with that of the innocent victims who had already perished, the tyrant's fury knew no bounds, and, rising from his seat, he ordered the holy man to be rent asunder in his presence, and then thrown over the rock, to increase the monument of his vengeance below.

It was the tumult of this most dreadful execution, which occasioned the noise that drove the affrighted narrator to the shelter of any hole from the eye of merciless man. But the cruel scene did not end here. Even in the yet sensible ear of the Saied, expiring in agonies, his execrable murderer ordered that his wife and daughters should be given up to the soldiers; and that, in punishment of such universal rebellion in the town, the whole place should be razed to the ground. But this last act of blood on a son of the Prophet cost the perpetrator his life. For the soldiers themselves, and the n.o.bles who had been partisans of the usurper, were so struck with horror at the sacrilegious murder, and appalled with the threatened guilt of violating women of the sacred family, that they believed a curse must follow the abettors of such a man. The next step, in their minds, was to appease Heaven by the immolation of the offender; and, in the course of that very night, a band of his servants cut the cords of his tent, which, instantly falling in upon him, afforded them a secure opportunity of burying their poniards in his body. The first strokes were followed by thousands. So detested was the wretch, that in a few minutes his remains were hewn and torn to pieces. It does not become men to lift the veil which lies over the whole doom of a ruthless murderer; but there is something in the last mortal yell of a tyrant, whether it be a Robespierre or a Nackee Khan, which sounds as if mingled with a dreadful echo from the eternal sh.o.r.e.

~Sketches in Virginia.~

The Rock Bridge is described by Mr. Jefferson, late President of the United States, as one of the most sublime of the productions of Nature.

It is on the ascent of a hill which seems to have been cloven through its length by some great convulsion of Nature.

Although the sides of the bridge are provided in some parts with a parapet of fixed rocks, yet few persons have resolution to walk to them, and look over into the abyss. The pa.s.senger involuntarily falls on his hands, creeps to the parapet, and peeps over it. Looking down from this height for the s.p.a.ce of a minute, occasions a violent headache; and the view from beneath is delightful in the extreme, as much as that from above is exquisitely painful.

The following beautiful sketch is from the pen of the Rev. John Todd, of Philadelphia, author of the Student's Manual, Simple Sketches, and other admired works.

ROCK BRIDGE.

On a lovely morning towards the close of spring, I found myself in a very beautiful part of the great valley of Virginia. Spurred on by impatience, I beheld the sun rising in splendour, and changing the blue tints on the tops of the lofty Alleghany mountains into streaks of purest gold; and nature seemed to smile in the freshness of beauty. A ride of about fifteen miles, and a pleasant woodland ramble of about two, brought myself and my companion to the great NATURAL BRIDGE.

Although I had been anxiously looking forward to this time, and my mind had been considerably excited by expectation, yet I was not altogether prepared for this visit. This great work of nature is considered by many as the second great curiosity in our country, Niagara Falls being the first. I do not expect to convey a very correct idea of this bridge; for no description can do this.

The Natural Bridge is entirely the work of G.o.d. It is of solid limestone, and connects two huge mountains together, by a most beautiful arch over which there is a great wagon road. Its length from one mountain to the other is nearly eighty feet, its width about thirty-five, its thickness forty-five, and its perpendicular height above the water is not far from two hundred and twenty feet. A few bushes grow on its top, by which the traveller may hold himself as he looks over. On each side of the stream, and near the bridge, are rocks projecting ten or fifteen feet over the water, and from two hundred to three hundred feet from its surface, all of limestone. The visitor cannot give so good a description of the bridge as he can of his feelings at the time. He softly creeps out on a s.h.a.ggy projecting rock, and, looking down a chasm from forty to sixty feet wide, he sees, nearly three hundred feet below, a wild stream foaming and das.h.i.+ng against the rocks beneath, as if terrified at the rocks above. This stream is called Cedar Creek. He sees under the arch, trees whose height is seventy feet; and yet, as he looks down upon them, they appear like small bushes of perhaps two or three feet in height. I saw several birds fly under the arch, and they looked like insects. I threw down a stone, and counted thirty-four before it reached the water. All hear of heights and of depths, but they here _see_ what is high, and they tremble, and _feel_ it to be deep. The awful rocks present their everlasting butments, the water murmurs and foams far below, and the two mountains rear their proud heads on each side, separated by a channel of sublimity. Those who view the sun, the moon, and the stars, and allow that none but G.o.d could make them, will here be impressed that none but an _Almighty_ G.o.d could build a bridge like this.

The view of the bridge from below is as pleasing as the top view is awful. The arch from beneath would seem to be about two feet in thickness. Some idea of the distance from the top to the bottom may be formed, from the fact, that as I stood on the bridge and my companion beneath, neither of us could speak sufficiently loud to be heard by the other. A man, from either view, does not appear more than four or five inches in height.

As we stood under this beautiful arch, we saw the place where visitors have often taken the pains to engrave their names upon the rock. Here Was.h.i.+ngton climbed up twenty-five feet, and carved his own name, where it still remains. Some, wis.h.i.+ng to immortalise their names, have engraven them deep and large, while others have tried to climb up and insert them high in this book of fame.

A few years since, a young man, being ambitious to place his name above all others, was very near losing his life in the attempt. After much fatigue he climbed up as high as possible, but found that the person who had before occupied his place was taller than himself, and consequently had placed his name above his reach. But he was not thus to be discouraged. He opened a large jack-knife, and, in the soft limestone, began to cut places for his hands and feet. With much patience and industry he worked his way upwards, and succeeded in carving his name higher than the most ambitious had done before him. He could now triumph, but his triumph was short; for he was placed in such a situation that it was impossible to descend, unless he fell upon the ragged rocks beneath him. There was no house near, from whence his companions could get a.s.sistance. He could not long remain in that condition, and, what was worse, his friends were too much frightened to do anything for his relief. They looked upon him as already dead, expecting every moment to see him precipitated upon the rocks below and dashed to pieces. Not so with himself. He determined to ascend.

Accordingly he plies the rock with his knife, cutting places for his hands and feet, and gradually ascended with incredible labour. He exerts every muscle. His life was at stake, and all the terrors of death rose before him. He dared not look downwards, lest his head should become dizzy; and perhaps on this circ.u.mstance his life depended. His companions stood at the top of the rock, exhorting and encouraging him.

His strength was almost exhausted; but a bare possibility of saving his life still remained; and hope, the last friend of the distressed, had not yet forsaken him. His course upwards was rather oblique than perpendicular. His most critical moment had now arrived. He had ascended considerably more than two hundred feet, and had still further to rise, when he felt himself fast growing weak. He thought of his friends, and all his earthly joys, and he could not leave them. He thought of the grave, and dared not meet it. He now made his last effort and succeeded.

He had cut his way not far from two hundred and fifty feet from the water, in a course almost perpendicular; and in a little less than two hours, his anxious companions reached him a pole from the top, and drew him up. They received him with shouts of joy, but he himself was completely exhausted. He immediately fainted on reaching the top, and it was some time before he could be recovered!

It was interesting to see the path up these awful rocks, and to follow in imagination this bold youth as he thus saved his life. His name stands far above all the rest, a monument of hardihood, of rashness, and of folly.

We lingered around this seat of grandeur about four hours; but, from my own feelings, I should not have supposed it over half an hour. There is a little cottage near, lately built; here we were desired to write our names, as visitors of the bridge, in a large book kept for this purpose.

Two large volumes were nearly filled in this manner already. Having immortalised our names by enrolling them in this book, we slowly and silently returned to our horses, wondering at this great work of nature; and we could not but be filled with astonishment at the amazing power of Him who can clothe Himself in wonder and terror, or throw around His works a mantle of sublimity.

WIER'S CAVE.

About three days' ride from the Natural Bridge brought Mr. Todd and his companions to a place called Port Republic, about twenty miles from the town of Staunton. Here they prepared themselves to visit this other natural curiosity.

The shower was now over, which had wet us to the skin--the sun was pouring down his most scorching rays--the heavy thunder had gone by; we threw around our delighted eyes, and beheld near us the lofty Alleghany rearing his s.h.a.ggy head. The south branch of the Shenandoah river, with its banks covered with beautiful trees, was murmuring at our feet--a lovely plain stretched below us, as far as the eye could reach; and we, with our guide, were now standing about half way up a hill nearly two hundred feet high, and so steep that a biscuit may be thrown from its top into the river at its foot--we were standing at the mouth of WIER'S CAVE. This cavern derives its name from _Barnet Wier_, who discovered it in the year 1804. It is situated near Madison's Cave, so celebrated; though the latter cannot be compared with the former.

There were three of us, besides our guide, with lighted torches, and our loins girded, now ready to descend into the cave. We took our torches in our left hands and entered. The mouth was so small that we could descend only by creeping, one after another. A descent of almost twenty yards brought us into the first room. The cave was exceedingly cold, dark, and silent, like the chambers of death. In this manner we proceeded, now descending thirty or forty feet--now ascending as high--now creeping on our hands and knees, and now walking in large rooms--the habitations of solitude. The mountain seems to be composed almost wholly of limestone, and by this means the cave is lined throughout with the most beautiful incrustations and stalact.i.tes of carbonated lime, which are formed by the continual dripping of the water through the roof. These stalact.i.tes are of various and elegant shapes and colours, often bearing a striking resemblance to animated nature. At one place we saw over our heads what appeared to be a _waterfall_ of the most beautiful kind. Nor could the imagination be easily persuaded that it was not a reality. You could see the water boiling and das.h.i.+ng down,--see its white spray and foam--but it was all solid limestone.

Thus we pa.s.sed onward in this world of solitude--now stopping to admire the beauties of a single stalact.i.te--now wondering at the magnificence of a large room--now creeping through narrow pa.s.sages, hardly wide enough to admit the body of a man,--and now walking in superb galleries, until we came to the largest room, called WAs.h.i.+NGTON HALL.

This is certainly the most elegant room I ever saw. It is about two hundred and seventy feet in length, about thirty-five in width, and between thirty and forty feet high. The roof and sides are very beautifully adorned by the tinsels which Nature has bestowed in the greatest profusion, and which sparkle like the diamond, while surveyed by the light of torches. The floor is flat, and smooth, and solid. I was foremost of our little party in entering the room, and was not a little startled as I approached the centre, to see a figure, as it were, rising up before me out of the solid rock. It was not far from seven feet high, and corresponded in every respect to the common idea of a ghost. It was very white, and resembled a tall man clothed in a shroud. I went up to it sideways, though I could not really expect to meet a ghost in a place like this. On examination I found it was a very beautiful piece of the carbonate of lime, very transparent, and very much in the shape of a man. This is called WAs.h.i.+NGTON'S STATUE--as if Nature would do for this hero what his delivered country has not done--rear a statue to his memory.

Here an accident happened which might have been serious. One of our party had purposely extinguished his light, lest we should not have enough to last. My companion accidentally put out his light, and in sport came and blew out mine. We were now about sixteen hundred feet from daylight, with but one feeble light, which the falling water might in a moment have extinguished. Add to this, that the person who held this light was at some distance viewing some falling water.

"Conticuere omnes, intentique ora tenebant."

We, however, once more lighted our torches; but, had we not been able to do so, we might, at our leisure, have contemplated the gloominess of the cavern, for no one would have come to us till the next day. In one room we found an excellent spring of water, which boiled up as if to slake our thirst, then sunk into the mountain, and was seen no more. In another room was a n.o.ble pillar, called the TOWER OF BABEL. It is composed entirely of stalact.i.tes of lime, or, as the appearance would seem to suggest, of petrified water. It is about thirty feet in diameter, and a little more than ninety feet in circ.u.mference, and not far from thirty feet high. There are probably millions of stalact.i.tes in this one pillar.

Thus we wandered on in this world within a world, till we had visited twelve very beautiful rooms, and as many creeping places, and had now arrived at the end,--a distance from our entrance of between twenty-four and twenty-five hundred feet; or, what is about its equal, half a mile from the mouth. We here found ourselves exceedingly fatigued; but our torches forbade us to tarry, and we once more turned our lingering steps towards the common world. When we arrived again at Was.h.i.+ngton Hall, one of our company three times discharged a pistol, whose report was truly deafening; and as the sound reverberated and echoed through one room after another till it died away in distance, it seemed like the moanings of spirits. We continued our wandering steps till we arrived once more at daylight, having been nearly three hours in the cavern. We were much fatigued, covered with dirt, and in a cold sweat; yet we regretted to leave it. From the farther end of the cave I gathered some handsome stalact.i.tes, which I put into my portmanteau, and preserved as mementos of that day's visit.

To compare the Natural Bridge and Cave together as objects of curiosity, is exceedingly difficult. Many consider the _Bridge_ as the greatest curiosity; but I think the _Cavern_ is. In looking at the Bridge we are filled with awe; at the Cavern with delight. At the Bridge we have several views that are awful; at the Cave hundreds that are pleasing. At the Bridge you stand and gaze in astonishment; at the Cave awfulness is lost in beauty, and grandeur is dressed in a thousand captivating forms.

At the Bridge you feel yourself to be _looking_ into another world; at the Cave you find yourself already _arrived_ there. The one presents to us a G.o.d who is very "wonderful in working;" the other exhibits the same power, but with it is blended loveliness in a thousand forms. In each is vastness. Greatness const.i.tutes the whole of one; but the other is elegant, as well as great. Of each we must retain lively impressions; and to witness such displays of the Creator's power, must ever be considered as happy events in our lives. While viewing scenes like these, we must ever exalt the energy of creating power, and sink under the thoughts of our own insignificance. The works of nature are admirably well calculated to impress us deeply with a sense of the mighty power of G.o.d, who can separate two mountains by a channel of awfulness, or fill the bowels of a huge mountain with beauties, that man, with all the aid of art, can only admire, but never imitate.

~The Christian Slave.~

We venture to extract another of Mr. Todd's Simple Sketches, so charmingly are they described.

The sun had set, and I began to be anxious to find a place of rest for the night, after a day's ride under a sultry sun. I was travelling in South Carolina, and was now not far from a branch of the Cooper river.

The country here is a dead level, and its surface is covered with thinly scattered pines. I came to an old church--it stood solitary; not a house in sight: it was built of wood, and much decayed. The breezes of evening were gently sighing through the tops of the long-leaved pines which stood near; while still nearer stood several large live-oaks, which spread out their aged arms, as if to shelter what was sacred. On their limbs hung, in graceful folds, the long grey moss, as if a mantle of mourning, waving over a few decayed tombs at the east side of the church. These oaks give the place a very sombre and awful appearance; they seemed to stand as silent mourners over the dust of generations that had sunk into the grave, and waiting in solemn expectation that others would soon come and lie beneath their shade in the long sleep of death. The time of day, and the sacredness of the spot, were so congenial to my own feelings, that I involuntarily stopped my horse.

My curiosity was now excited by seeing a very aged negro standing and gazing steadily on a small decaying tomb. He seemed to be intent, and did not observe me; his woolly locks were whitened by age; his countenance was manly, though it bore the marks of sorrow; he was leaning on his smooth-worn staff, the companion of many years. I was somewhat surprised on seeing this aged African silently meditating among the vestiges of the dead, and accordingly roused him from his reverie.

He started at first, but his confidence was soon gained. There is a spring in the bosom of every Christian, which throws a joy into his heart whenever he meets a fellow-christian during his pilgrimage here below. I found the old negro to be an eminent Christian, and we were soon acquainted. I inquired what motive induced him, at that hour of the day, to visit these tombs. Instead of answering my question directly he gave me the following account of himself, in broken language:--

About sixty years ago, this negro was living under his paternal roof in Africa. He was the son of a chief of a small tribe, the pride of his parents, and the delight of his countrymen; none could more dexterously throw the dart; none more skilfully guide the fragile canoe over the bosom of the deep. He was not far from twenty years of age, when, on a fair summer's morn, he went in his little canoe to spend the day in fis.h.i.+ng. About noon he paddled his bark to the sh.o.r.e, and, under the shade of a beautiful palmetto-tree, he reclined till the heat of noon-day should be pa.s.sed. He was young, healthy, and active; he knew none whom he dreaded; he was a stranger to fear, and he dreamed only of security, as he slept under the shade of his own native tree. Thus, while our sky is encircled with the bow of happiness, we forget that it may soon be overspread with darkness. When this African awoke, he found his hands bound behind him, his feet fettered, and himself surrounded by several white men, who were conveying him on board of their s.h.i.+p;--it was a slave-s.h.i.+p. The vessel had her cargo completed, and was ready to sail. As they were unfurling the sails, the son of Africa, with many others of his countrymen, for the last time cast his eyes upon his native sh.o.r.es. Futurity was dark,--was uncertain,--was despair. His bosom thrilled with anguish, as he threw his last farewell look over the plains of his native country. There was his native spot where his had lived, there the home of his infancy and childhood, there the place where he had inhaled his earliest breath--and to tear him from these, seemed like breaking the very strings of his heart.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

After a melancholy pa.s.sage, during which the African was forced to wear double the irons to receive double the number of lashes, that any of his companions received, on account of his refractory spirit, he was at length landed and sold to a planter in the place where he now resides.

There is nothing new, nothing novel or interesting, that ever takes place in the life of a slave--describe one day, and you write the history of a slave. The sun, indeed, continues to roll over him; but it sheds upon him no new joys, no new prospects, no new hopes. So it was with the subject of this narrative. His master was naturally a man of a very humane disposition; but his overseers were often little else than compounds of vice and cruelty. In this situation the negro lost all his natural independence and bravery. He often attempted to run away, but was as often taken and punished. Having no cultivated mind to which he could look for consolation--knowing of no change that was ever to take place in his situation,--he settled down in gloominess. Often would he send a silent sigh for the home of his youth; but his path shewed but few marks of happiness, and few rays of hope for futurity were drawn by fancy's hand. Sunk in despondency and vice, he was little above the brutes around him.