| | 1 | Author: | Judd
Sylvester
1813-1853 | Add | | | 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? | | | Similar Items: | Find |
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