University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Byron.

And so, while Miss Crum indulged her sudden
mood, jostling the cradle now and then with one
foot—and the two friends conversed, if not gaily,
at least cheerfully, as they partook of a luxurious
dinner—Wurth acquiescing generally in the suggestions
of Arnold, partly that he was too indolent
to think for himself, and partly from a good natured
disposition to please—the young clergyman
was preparing to dine with the governor of the
state, at whose table he expected to meet several
other distinguished persons. There was yet a little
time before that set in his invitation, and he drew
his easy chair near the fire, and rested his elbow
on the table of carved rose-wood, on which blank
paper, unfinished manuscripts, engravings, pamphlets,

and two or three large and richly bound
volumes of theology—from their appearance, “a
little heavy, if no less divine”—were strewn in
disorder. It might have been observed that the
two rings sparkled, as of old, on the left hand, on
which, just now, his head reposed, and here and
there a silver thread might have been seen among
his dark thick hair, though he could not yet have
passed the age of twenty-five.

His toilet had been carefully made, the white
neekcloth arranged with tasteful precision, and the
black coat was without so much as a fleck of lint;
and his kid gloves and rose-scented cambric handkerchief
were on the table. For days past he had
been doing penance, but his gray eyes still glittered
from within the black lashes around them, though
the lids had a bluish tint, and drooped more than
was their wont.

His haughty expression of self-reliance was changed
and faded, as it were, to one of dissatisfied, questioning,
and helpless endurance.

He was half-resolved, even yet, to send an apology
and remain at home, for well he knew the
weakness of his heart, and feared the customary
influences of such scenes would have their usual
effect of leading his affections to “the world.”

From an antique writing-case, of costly and elaborate
workmanship, he drew a miniature portrait,

turned the face to the light, looked at it intently,
rather than fondly, kissed it calmly, and replaced it.

“My life henceforth,” he said, “must conform to
the rules I have laid down, and to the law God has
given. The path is open before me, wherein duty,
religion, every thing, urge me forward; and however
rough and obscure, however much the stones
bruise my feet and the thorns tear my flesh, I will
not linger nor turn aside.”

Before a picture of the death of St. Stephen, he
knelt and besought strength and grace from our
Father in Heaven. But it was not prayer—only
sentences built up with artistic skill, inlaid with
poetic thoughts and pleasant fancies—beautiful,
indeed, but cold, and empty of the eloquence of
feeling. When he arose there was no peace in his
heart, no shining in his face, as of one fresh from
the presence of Divinity.

He had been goaded by conscience into the exercise
of a formula. He had performed a task, and,
when there came no answer, he went forth to dissipate
the trouble of his soul in the atmosphere of
a refined and brilliant society.

Away over the city the sunset glorified the yellow
woods, and illumined, with purple and crimson,
the bordering clouds that edged the blue, filling
the chamber with rosy shadows, where the ancient
nurse rocked the cradle of the little child—a lovely

embodiment of innocence, the eyes fast shut, and
the soft dimpled hands laid together. How often,
in after years, those hands were locked in the
agony of a broken heart—the horror of a tortured
soul! Rosy shadows of sunset! could you not kiss
that quiet sleep to endless repose?

The house in which Mr. Warburton was become
a guest, with its marble porticos, lofty ceilings and
rich furniture, I need not describe; nor its aristocratic
surroundings, nor the gay party assembled in
its drawing-room—men and women, well born, of
high education, and affluent leisure; nor yet the
viands and wines, nor the services of Sèvres porcelain—every
piece a gem of art—nor those of gold,
and silver, exquisitely wrought.

The conversation was for the most part trivial
and lively, but not without flashes of genius, and
that intellectual tone which marks the most casual
discourse of clever and refined men, no matter of
what subjects. I need not, as I said, describe all
this, though it served to widen the distance which
separated the strong-minded man of the world—who
sought and found in it a temporary forgetfulness of
the past—from the young and artless country girl
whose life and endless destiny, perchance, he carried
carelessly the while in his brain.

On their iron path, cut deep through mountains
of rock, or stretching over vast and nearly level

fields, or amid villages, or sweeping under dark
and heavy arches, that obscured not only the sunshine
but the daylight, thundered on the cars, fast
and faster, toward the tumultuous and ever-absorbing
city.

What strange diversities of interest, hope and
fear, pleasure and pain, gayety and despair, were
in its myriad habitations, or its streets. There sat
the care-worn mother, watching in tearless agony
the departure of the soul of her only child, and a
little way beyond a maiden singing from her heart
the gayest songs; there want was gnawing with
sharp fangs the vitals of his victims, and in the
next chamber a red faced epicure was heavy with
a surfeit of luxuries; there lusty youth, ill-mannered
in some quest engrossing all his thought,
jostled decrepit age, sans everything but a tenacity
of existence; in each second some frame was stirred
with every emotion, every vicissitude, every experience,
that belongs to human life.

In the motley crowd which occupied one of the
cars sat a young girl, in a gray dress, and close-fitting
bonnet. She seemed quite alone, neither
noticing nor noticed of any one. One hand, small,
brown with the sun, and hardened by toil, rested
on the willow basket at her side, and now and then
she wiped her eyes with a white silk handkerchief,
bordered with pink flowers.

Her face was turned nearly all the while to the
window, and a veil so completely hid it that,
whether she were plain or beautiful might not be
guessed farther than by the general outline, which
indicated extreme youth and slight and graceful
proportions.

The villages grew thicker, forming almost a continuous
street; and with every pause of the train
the girl looked eagerly about, till the conductor
announced the place of the momentary detention,
when she again turned to the window, and seemed
lost in thought.

Slower moved the train, and slower; and houses,
which were low and only seen at intervals, a little
while ago, began to stand compact, and display a
higher and nobler aspect. More and more persons
appeared in the street, till gradually it was filled
with an undistinguishable crowd; show-windows,
illuminated with gas, were seen on either hand;
great hotels, about which many men were standing,
appeared; and hither and thither ran ragged boys,
bearing great bundles under their arms, and crying
the names of the papers of the evening.

The shadows grew darker and deeper; away
down the long avenues shone the lamps; the motion
ceased; “New York!” cried the conductor;
and the rush and confusion of passengers, porters,
and coachmen followed.

“Have a carriage, Miss? have a carriage?”
“This way—right to the Washington;” “Straight
to the United States;” “Shall I take your basket?
—any baggage?” were the salutations which confounded
and annoyed the inexperienced traveler,
as, putting her veil a little aside, she timidly descended
the steps, and threaded her unknown way
amid the throng.

Outside the densest mass she paused, and an
expression of terror came over her face, such as a
child might feel when lost in the thick woods. A
moment's hesitation, and she went forward, but as
one who knew not whither her steps were tending.
An old woman, wrapped in a black woolen shawl,
sat at her apple-stand, nibbling a piece of cake,
which she clutched, rather than held, in her withered
fingers.

“Can you tell me, madam,” said the girl, pausing
before her, “where Mr. Warburton lives?”

“Who did you say, honey?” mumbled the hag-like
creature.

The name was repeated more distinctly and
loudly.

“No—well—I don't know as I do. I know a
Mr. Warner, who sells oranges and cakes in the
Bowery; he just passed here a bit ago, and gave
me this for my supper,” she said, showing the remnant
of cake. “But I reckon maybe it is not him

you are in search of, so you had best go forward—
you keep people from my stall.”

“No, that is not the person, and for obstructing
your customers I am very sorry.” Then, slipping
a sixpence into the hand of the woman, the girl
passed on. It was some time before she found
courage to repeat the question. No one seemed to
notice her, and how could she obtain their attention?
At length, however, she did so, though
scarcely knowing to whom of the many persons
about her she addressed herself. The nearest man
shook his head, but made no other reply. She
looked after him with beseeching earnestness, and
then, wiping tears from her cheek, walked faster
than before.

Seeing a narrower and less populous street,
which crossed that in which she was walking, she
turned aside, but with no very intelligible or definite
aim. It was growing dark, and she began to
experience a more dreadful sense of desolation.

Talk of loneliness, on the wild hills where no
voice speaks but the wind's, where the long grass
and the pleasant flowers tangle our footsteps, and
the woodbird is startled at our approach! There
is no loneliness—the soul mates itself with the stars
or winds, and wanders at will through the universe,
and no crushing sense of humility, of nothingness,
weighs it down. The feeling comes to us most

oppressively in cities, as we pass among thousands,
unnoticed and unknown. With our sorrowful isolation,
a sense of unworthiness humbles us; we have
no claims on any one, and yet feel wronged and
insulted, as it were, that we are thus aside from the
aims and interests of all about us. No one, I think,
can find himself alone in a great city, for the first
time, and not experience such a sense of loneness
as he has never before known, though he may have
trodden the sands of the desert, sat in the solemn
shadows of the pyramids, or been lost in the windings
of wildernesses.

Before a small house, with a square yard in front
in which grew some shrubs and green grass, a hearse
was standing, and two men were bearing to it a
large coffin covered with black cloth. The window-blinds
of the house were close shut, and as the
men disappeared through a side door, a little boy,
with yellow hair, and one leg drawn up with disease,
hobbled out, with the help of crutches, and turning
about, peered earnestly within, probably attracted
toward and yet repelled away from the dead.

A strange feeling came into the heart of the girl,
as she stopped and looked; a new and bewildering
sensation, but most unlike that fearful and painful
one which had oppressed her when the neighbors
whom she knew bore the red and naked coffin
within the village graveyard at home.

A servant girl came hurriedly out, with a broom
in one hand, and in the other a towel, which she
put aside, and then shook the boy roughly, addressing
some words to him in a harsh tone.

She then brought a chair, and though he was
quite large, lifted him into it, and placing a handkerchief
in his hands, left him sitting on the porch
by the open door, where, as was evidently expected,
he began to cry.

“His father or mother is dead, perhaps,” the girl
thought, and, with a heart aching for him, she
went on.

At the street corner was an old brown pump,
beside which stood a tall and awkward youth
pumping water on his bare feet. To him her
hitherto fruitless inquiry was addressed.

Taking from his trowsers pocket (his coat hung
over the top of the pump) a yellow silk handkerchief,
he wiped the perspiration from his face, for
he had been hard at work, and surveying the girl,
answered respectfully, that he knew no person of
the name, but added in a moment, “It can't be the
Rev. Mr. Warburton, can it?” and on receiving an
affirmative reply he looked at the inquirer more
curiously than before, saying, “If you will but
step in this market-house of mine for a minute, I
will show you where Mystery lives.”

“You do not understand,” said the girl, hesitating,

“it is Nathan Warburton whom I wish to
find.”

“Precisely—I understand, but you don't understand
me; my physiognomy is not very pretty, but
never mind, come in;” and he led the way into a
small grocery, where eggs, butter, vegetables, and
candies, were sold, and before which was the well.

Many books and papers were strewn about the
chairs and counter, and a dozen pots of flowers,
some of them in perfect bloom and exhaling an
exquisite perfume, ornamented a rude table.

Placing the best chair near the door, he said,
“So soon as I can arrange my underpinnings, I
shall be ready,” upon which he began drawing on
his boots, and this done, “I have only to put on the
roof,” he said, taking up a fashionable hat, and then,
having admired the flowers a moment, he led the
way back into the street. The hearse was gone
from before the cottage, and half way up the square,
the pale boy, leaning on his crutches, gazed after it.
“One of my tenants died here to-day,” said the
young man, looking in the direction of the house,
“and that is his little grandson, Dandelion.”

“An odd name,” said the girl.

“I call him so for his yellow hair; I give every
one a name indicative either of some trait of character,
or of some personal beauty or blemish.”

“And Mr. Warburton you call Mystery—why is

that? But do you see? you did not close the door
of your grocery.”

“No one will harm me; these steel hammers
take care of my possessions;” and he presented a
pair of large and ill-shapen hands, as he continued,
“I call that preacher Mystery, because, though he
is eloquent, and perhaps good, there is something
dark in his nature—so thinks Moon-changer.”
And the green grocer drew himself up to his full
height.