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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875[X]
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1Author:  Judd Sylvester 1813-1853Add
 Title:  Margaret  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: My dear Anna:—You told me to write you every thing; but how shall I utter myself? How can I give shape or definition to what I am? Easy were it for me to tell you what I am not. Has a volcano burst within me? Has a tornado prostrated me? If you were to excavate the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be, would you find only charred effigies of things, silent fountains of old emotions, deserted streets of a once busy and harmonious life, skeletons of hopes stricken down in the act of running from impending danger? With Rose, I would forget myself, that to which this writing recalls me. She says I can endure the prospect better than she. If this be so, it must be attributed to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am in ruins, and so are all things about me. Yet in the windfall some trees are new sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding the shattered edifice. View me as you will, I think I am a doit improving. Do I begin existence wholly anew, or rise I up from the chaos of an earlier condition? What is the transition—from myself to myself, or from myself to another? What is the link between Molly Hart and Margaret Brückmann, can you tell? In which of the climacterics do I now exist? I am witheringly afflicted. Chilion is not! “Te sine, væ misero mihi! lilia nigra videntur, Palentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!” The vision of those days distracts me, the remembrance of my brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and the sun is pale at midday. In Scotland are Caves of Music, deep pits where unseen water keeps up a sort of midnight melody. I am such a cave. Chilion flows through me, a nethermost, mournfullest dirge. Then, too, Ma is so silent; her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes and weaves, hour after hour; I fear she will never smile again. Pa has lost his glow of countenance; he has grown absolutely pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip on his leathern apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens me. Nimrod comes down from the Ledge and does his best to enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows not how to be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the time of Chilion's trial, and hobbles out to Chilion's boat, where he sits by the hour. Rose is soothing and active, but she has a load at her own heart, which, in truth, I need help her bear. Isabel rides up almost every day, full of sympathy and generous love. Deacon Ramsdill, Master Elliman, Mrs. Bowker aud others, have made us kind visits. Sibyl Radney comes and milks the cow, and does some of my little chores. Yesterday, Rose and Isabel went with me to the burying-ground. Good old Philip Davis, the Sexton, so I have been told, had the courage and the kindness to go one night and cover Chilion's grave with green sod. It is by itself apart, in one corner of the grounds. Few persons have been near it, and the tall grass has grown rank about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved in weeping. Murmur I could not; an inarticulate, ungovernable anguish was all I could feel. O my brother! I knew not I had such a brother; I knew not I loved such a brother!—We found a dandelion budding on it—when I was little, he taught me to love dandelions! Rose folded me in her arms, Isabel prayed for me. I thought of the blood-sweating agony of Him, the Divine Sufferer; it penetrated and subdued mine. Mrs. Bowker gave me a lady's slipper, taken from the plant Chilion sent her. There is a fancy that flowers die, when those who have tended them do. Will Chilion's flowers live? There are many of us who will fulfil his love towards them. I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive VOL. II. 18 under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I am externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptable, I sleep more soundly, and Margaret says there is some color in my cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric circles, I can say the three outer ones approximate a healthy and natural state. But the fourth, the innermost, the central core, what can I say of that? I dare not look in there, I dare not reflect upon myself. One thing, I have no real guilt to harass me; I only call to mind my follies. My ambition has ever centered upon a solitary acquisition, and for that alone have the energies of my being been spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating, tender, great, solemn sympathy. Beguiled by this desire, I mistook the demonstrations of a selfish passion for tokens of a noble heart. Betrayed beyond the bounds of strict propriety, I became an object of the censure of mankind. Too proud to confess, or too much confounded to explain my innocence, I suffered the penalties of positive infamy. It always seemed ot me that I was placid by nature, and moderate in my sensations. This opposition created in me a new nature; my calamities have imparted heat to my temper and acrimony to my judgment. I became impetuous, vehement, and, as it were, possessed. A new consciousness was revived, both of what I was and of what the world was. Up to that time I had floated on with tolerable serenity, trusting myself and others, and ever hoping for the best. Then commenced my contention and despair. I became all at once sensible of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom literal coals of fire are put. My heart swelled to enormous proportions; it became diseased, and dreadfully painful. It spread itself through my system, tyrannized over my thought, and fed upon the choicest strength of my being. My intellect was darkened, I became an atheist. Under these circumstances, which you already know something about, after having long kept it hidden, I declared myself to Margaret. She had sufficient penetration to understand me and magnanimity to love me; she awed me by her superior, uniform goodness. I availed myself of a moment when she was in tears to unfold the cause of my own. I rejoiced in her weakness, because I thought thereby I could find entrance to her greatness. The melancholy, to me most melancholy, events of her brother's death, I need not recapitulate. The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy of my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities! The Cross is erected on Mons Christi! Yesterday, the Anniversary of our National Independence, was the event consummated. The sacred emblem was made by Mr. Palmer, from a superb block, of the purest marble, out of his quarry, and is twenty feet high. We met near the Brook Kedron, on the Via Salutaris. There were all the members of Christ Church, the Masonic Corps, and a multitude of others. I was to lead the procession, supported by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white horse, dressed in white, with a wreath of twin flower vines on my head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders of twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and wife, the Deacons and their wives, Christ Church members, two-and-two, man and woman; these were succeeded by the Masons, and the line was closed by the people at large. On the Head was a band of Christ Church musicians, playing the Triumphs of Jesus, which we got from Germany. We came over the Brook Kedron, traversed what we have made the broad and ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered the Avenue of the Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted. By a winding gravel-walk I went up—with a trembling, joyous step I went—followed by the Cross-bearers. Reaching the summit, I wound the arms and head of the Cross about with evergreens; the young men raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning, we assembled under the Butternut, in the Avenue of the Beautiful, where Edward made a discourse to the people; some idea of which I would like to convey to you. “Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the VOL. II. 26 movements in this place; but the matter has become too public to excuse any further negligence. Over the Red Dragon of Infidelity they have drawn the skin of the Papal Beast, and tricked the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry! On the ruins of one of our Churches they have erected a Temple to Human Pride and Carnal Reasoning. The contamination is spreading far and wide; and unless something be attempted, the Kingdom of God in our midst must soon be surrendered to the arts of Satan. It is understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—, has openly and repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man who, having denied his Lord and Master, they have had the hardihood to invest with the robes of the Christian Office. Brethren, shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our midst?
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