Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 September 1878 — SHOOTING THE RAPIDS. [ARTICLE]

SHOOTING THE RAPIDS.

A. Prophecy and Its Fulfillment. “ Curious, isn’t it, how the old customs still hold their own? Here is the fashion of penance still in vogue, with the additional aggravation of calling it ‘ traveling for pleasure.’ ” ' “ Well, Edward,” said a sweet voice, “ that’s a very pretty compliment to us, your companions. I think I ought to make you do penance for that.” “ That’s right, Miss Wentworth; keep him in order,” chimed in a third speaker. “ However, going abroad has tliis one advantage for us English, that there we can sometimes venture to be amused without thereby committing the seven deadly sins in one.” Such was the chat which passed among the group of four—two ladies and two gentlemen—seated at lunch on the balcony of the Hotel du Rhin, at Schaffhausen, one sunny afternoon in the latter part of May. The first speaker was a fine-looking young man of 23, whose comely features, dark curling hair, and tall, well-shaped figure amply bore out the name of “ Handsome Ned,” given him by his intimates. Young, rich, good-looking, popular with high and low, in the plentitude of health and vigor, lately betrothed to the charming girl whose soft, lustrous eyes were watching him half tenderly, half archly, from the other side of the board—Viscount Montague might fairly account himself an extremely lucky young fellow. But upon that bright young face, firm and manly as it was, brooded the doomed look which haunts one in the portraits of Montrose, of Clavcrhouse, of Charles I.—ominously bearing out the gloomy tradition current among the elders of his native country that “ the last of the Montagues” was so in a double sense, and that with him the grand old line which had left its mark upon every age of English history since the days of the Tudors was doomed to pass away forever. Beside him sat his inseparable associate, Sedley Burdett, whose square, muscular figure and frank, sunburnt face looked the very embodiment of Young England at its best. Side by side the two young men had shot buffaloes on the American prairies, stalked moose through Canadian forests,”bowled over" royal tigers in Bengal, and hobnobbed with negro Kings on the coast of Africa, and they were now, faiite de niieu.r, escorting the “Flower of Kent” and her mother on the inevitable tour through Switzerland, not without a secret hope that some unsealed mountain might afford them a chance of breaking their necks in the good old British way. “Did you see how old Johann eyed \ me as he brought in the lunch?” said Montague. “He’s evidently a devout believer in the Continental creed, that an Englishman’s natural pastime is to knock somebody down, or set a house on fire, or make a heavy bet that he’ll jump headforemost out of the window, and then do it forthwith.” “Aye?” laughed Burdett; "just what Dr. Buchmann said to me yesterday: ‘ Mein Herr, those countrymen of yours! When I was practicing in Saxony I had no peace for them! First thing in the morning, kling! kling! at mjy door. “What is it?” “An Englander, who . has broken his leg in trying to scale the Teufels-horn, which no oneetbrascended yet.” I set the Herr Englander’s leg, and am making him comfortable, when kling! kling! again. “What now?” “An Englander, nearly drowned in swimming across the Elbe for a wager.” I wrap the Herr Englander in hot blankets, and bring him to. Before half an hour is over, kling! kling! once more. ! “Mein Herr! what’s the matter?” “An Englander, who has broken a bloodvessel in trying to run twelve miles an hour, because somebody said he ! couldn’t.” Mein Herr, I am sorry to have to say it, but your countrymen are equally devoid of fear and of reason.’ ” , “ But you won’t do any more of these I horrible things now, Edward,” said Marion Wentworth entreatingly; “you promised to be more careful, you know, while you were with us.” “Don’t be frightened, my child,” answered the Viscount, with his gay laugh; “believe me, I have no intention of being killed any sooner than is necessary. Would yon believe it, Sed? this unreasonable young woman is making herself miserable, and daily expecting a notification to attend my funeral, on no better grounds than an old monk’s prophecy.” “An old monk’s prophecy?” echoed Burdett, inquiringly. * “What, haven’t you heard of it?” cried Montague. “ Well, this is a treat, to find one man to whom that story’s new. You must know, then (as those fellows in ‘ Sandford and Merton ’ keep saying), that the estate which Harry the Eighth bestowed upon my respected ancestor, Sir Anthony Browne, included Battle Abbey and the lands belonging to it; and mighty short work he made of the poor old monks, if all tales be true. But after they were all expelled, it began to be whispered that one monk still remained in the old walls, and that he was not to be driven out by either King or lord.” “My word!” cried Burdett: “ that’s just the Black Friar of Norman Stone over again. Do you remember with what dramatic energy our old tutor used to repeat the verse: Beware, beware of the Black Friar! He still retains his sway, For he is still the Church’s heir, Whoe’er may be the lay. Amuudeville is lord by day, But the monk is lord by night; Nor wine nor wassail can raise a vassal To question that friar’s right.” “Well,” pursued Montague, “when my worthy forefather came into his property, the first thing he did was to Sve a big dinner in the great hall of attle Abbey (if he found it half as tiresome as the dinner I had to give when I came of age, the impiety must have been its own avenger), and they lighted up the old place with a perfect blaze of torches, and held high revel till midnight. And then, all of a sudden, a chill blast of wind came moaning through the hall, making all the old banners and mail-coats along the walls clank and rustle; and the huge door swung slowly open, aud in the midst of the guests, no one could see whence or how, appeared the shrouded figure of a tall monk. It glided like a shadow up to the dais where my ancestor was seated, and said, in a deep, hollow voice

that seemed to make the very torches grow pale as it spoke: “‘Anthonyof Cowdray! thou hast enriched thyself with the spoils of God’s church, and for that deed His judgments are,, upon thee and thine. As snow melts in the sunshine, so shall thy race decay, until the end come; and it shall come suddenly, in one day, by fire and by water!’” It was strange enough to note how Montague’s light tone deepened into tragic solemnity as the dismal tale proceeded, and how the shadowy impress of doom on his handsome face came out plainer and plainer with every word. The anxious look in Marion Wentworth’s eyes grew into absolute terror as he ended; and she seemed about to speak when the waiter’s entrance with a dish of fruit interrupted her. As he entered, Mrs. Wentworth, evidently wishing to change the subject, spoke to him. “Waiter! when did you say the night illumination of the falls was to be ?” “Thursday week, gracious lady; but it will hardly be so good as the one we had last year, when they sent a big boat over the falls, hung all round with lanterns.” “Was there anybody in her?” asked Montague. “What do you say, milord?” gasped the old man, with a stare of blank amazement.

“Was there anybody in the boat?” “The boat, milord? The boat went over the falls, I tell you!” “Well, why shouldn’t somebody go with her to keep her straight ?” “Why?” echoed Johann, goaded beyond endurance. “Because we Rhinelanders are no fonder of being drowned than other people. I’ve seen many a silly thing done in my time, but a man shooting the Schaffhausen falls in a boat is a thing I’ve never seen yet and never shall.”

The sudden gleam in Montague’s dark eye and the glow’ on his handsome features sufficiently betrayed the wild thought suggested to him by the honest German’s last words. The significant glance exchanged between him and Burdett showed that the same idea was in the minds of both, though the latter accompanied his look with a warning gesture, reminding the reckless Viscount of the effect which the words that were just about to break from his lips would have upon the two ladies. But when they had retired Montague could contain himself no longer. “Glorious idea! We’ll do it—eh, Sed?” “Doit? I should think we would! After the ‘ Gueule d’Enfer ’ rapids in Canada this thing’ll be a joke! ‘Never seen it yet, and never shall,’ eh? We’ll give Mr. Johann another story to tell to-morrow, one that’ll last longer than any of his present stock.”

Our two heroes were not the men to loiter over any enterprise, however desperate, upon which they had once resolved, and they lost not a moment in setting out in quest of a boat. But to find one was no easy matter. Some were unseaworthy; others failed to please the critical eye of Sedley Burdett, who, with all his recklessness, knew better than to leave any chance uncared for in a match where life itself was the stake. More than one conscientious native, on learning the nature of the proposed expedition, flatly refused to have anything to do with it, nor was it till late in the afternoon that they at length met with a less scrupulous individual, who, on receiving the full value of his boat in advance, and a handsome gratuity for the use of her, consented to let the “English madmen” have their way. He agreed to leave the boat in readiness at a convenient spot, and then took his leave.

It was considerably past 11 o’clock that night, and Burdett, mindful of the tough work that awaited him next morning l , was preparing for bed, when Montague (who slept in the next room), burst in, with a flush of unusual excitement on his face. “Sed. old fellow, we must alter our time of starting. These meddlesome asses, the local authorities, are going to put a spoke in our wheel!” “Do you mean that they’ll try to stop us?” asked Burdett, with the natural amazement of an Englishman at any one presuming to oppose his will. “I do, indeed! That prating fool of a boatsman (see if I don’t punch his head when it's all over!) must have let the cat out of the bag; for, as I came through the hall jnst now, I heard the landlady say to her husband: ‘ Ought we to let them go ? It’s really no better than a suicide!’ and the old sinner answered with a chuckle: ‘Be easy, my Gretchen—when these young distracted ones get to their boat they will find it in charge of certain Gerichts-Diener (policemen) who are less foolish than they, and no harm will be done.’” “Just like their confounded cheek!” cried Burdett. “What shall we do, then ?”

“Do? Why, set the alarm clock two hours earlier (I’m safe to hear it where I am) and start at 4 instead of 6; and we’ll just meet the ‘ minions of the law ’ on our way back for breakfast, and a jolly sell it’ll be for them! My word, every mortal thing seems to have conspired against this venture of ours; but I’ll go through with it, no matter who stands in my way!”

For one moment a thrill of superstitious awe shot through the stout heart of Sedley Burdett. Could it be that these countless hindrances were really a last barrier vainly opposed to the fatal impulse which was hurrying them both to destruction? The unnatural excitement of his comrade’s manner, the feverish luster of his eyes, the heated flush in his usually pale face, were all terribly suggestive of one goaded to his doom by some irresistible frenzy—flashing upon Burdett’s mind, -with ghastly vividness, the sudden memory of a longforgotten painting of the young German knight lured to his death in the hungry waters of the Rhine by the siren-song of the Lorelei. He opened his lips to propose the abandonment of the whole project; but the fear of ridicule (that fear which has destroyed many a gallant man) withered the wholesome impulse, and the favorable moment went by —forever. Morning at last—a bright, breezy, glorious Sunday morning, over which all things in earth and heaven seemed to rejoice. The blue sky, the waving woods, the green sunny slopes, the broad, bright stream of the great river itself, all seemed to smile a welcome to the eyes that might so soon be closed forever. Even the two English athletes, absorbed as they were in their perilous enterprise, felt the influence of the hour, and muttered with involuntary admiration:

“What a royal day!” One vigorous stroke sent the light boat far out into the swift, dark current, down which it shot like an arrow from a bow. Rocks, trees, houses seemed racing past on either side. No need to strain at the oars now! all that could be done with them was to keep the boat’s bow perfectly straight, so as to offer as little space as possible to the rush of a current which seemed well able to carry away an entire city. Suddenly there came a dizzy plunge —a shock that threw both men from their places—and then all around was one boiling whirl of foam, and the boat was flung to and fro, and dashed up and down, amid an uproar that seemed to rend the very sky. For one feverish moment life and death seemed to hang by a hair; and then the two daring men found themselves floating on the little

border-line of calm water that separated the first fall from the worse peril of the second. “Hurrah!” shouted Montague, gleefully; “who says it can’t be done now? Keep her head straight, Sed, my boy, and we’ll come out all right yet.” The triumphant cheer was answered by a cry of dismay from the shore, and the two oarsmen, looking up, beheld Marion Wentworth rushing distractedly toward the edge of the high bank that overhung the second fall, followed by Montague’s English servant. At the sound of his betrothed’s voice, Montague turned his face toward her and waved his hand cheerily; and seldom has any painter conceived su«h a picture as the one which that moment branded forever on the memory of those who saw it. The stern black rocks on either hand, flecked with living green by the shrubs which clung to their craggy sides; the vast hill of leaping foam, lialf-way down which the frail boat hovered like a leaf; the rainbowarch that spanned the black, howling gulf beneath; the glory of the sunrise stealing softly into the pure, peaceful sky, in strange contrast with the rockrending uproar below; the stalwart figures of the two gallant lads, straining every nerve to achieve their perilous task; the handsome, reckless face of the “ last of the Montagues,” with a gay smile on its short, curved lip, and an ominous glitter in its large, dark eyes. “Good morning, my pet!” cried he, gayly; “you’re just in time for the end of the play.” These were the last words that Viscount Montague ever spoke. That momentary negligence had allowed the boat’s head to deviate slightly from the direct line, and in an instant the whirl of the current threw its exposed side full against the tremendous rush of the cataract. One frantic struggle to regain the lost ground, and then boat and men vanished forever into the mists of the roaring abyss below. From that fatal hour life was over for the “Flower of Kent.” All that remained of the once bright and beautiful girl was a pale, silent, joyless phantom—a body, as it were, without soul. Neither the tender care of her heartbroken mother, nor the skill of the most accomplished physicians, nor even the sight of her dead lover’s ruined home (the burning of which, on the very day of its master’s death, fulfilled, by a sheer coincidence, the dismal prediction) availed aught to break that deadly lethargy which endured for the brief remainder of her life, checkered only by the spasms of convulsive agony invariably produced by the one sound which her ear still had power to recognize—the sound of rushing waters.— Cassell’s Magazine.