 | Poems and prose writings |  |
2. PROSE WRITINGS.
THE WRITER OF THE IDLE MAN,
TO HIS OLD FRIENDS.
Let me say, first of all, that although I address you in this
letter, as the writer of “The Idle Man,” I have concluded (I
hardly know why) to drop the title, in bringing the contents of
that work once more before the public.
It is a little over ten years since I sent forth my last number
of the Idle Man. It was the first number of an intended
second volume: I had not long before closed the first volume, in
these words: — “It is a pleasant thing to have our lonely labours
helped on by the remembrance that they have met with kind
encouragement, and by the belief that they will meet with still
more.” In this belief, however, I was mistaken; and I found
it necessary to stop the work. It was painful to do so; for the
continual stimulus of an interesting purpose before me, kept the
mind clear and active, and the spirits elastic under the weight
that pressed upon them. It is true that I had disagreeable things
to encounter; as what man has not who is somewhat newly
before the public? especially if he discovers individuality of
character, earnestness of feeling, and a steady reliance upon his
own opinions and tastes.
I should, indeed, have been wanting to myself, had I suffered
these obstructions to trouble me, any further than they stopped
the way to needed pecuniary success. And, why should they
have troubled me further? I never much affected notoriety; so,
there were no ambitious desires to be crossed on that road. I
had the approbation of those whose opinions I had always held
in honour; and what was far better and more heart-comforting,
I had their sympathy and their love. Last of all, let me be
allowed to say, that I could not feel such an inferiority to
humble trust in those powers with which God had seen fit to
bless me.
I have alluded to these things, to account for a long silence,
seldom broken. For though I cannot bow to a certain dictatorial
manner in which the claims of the public upon the individual
are now-a-days apt to be asserted, yet I feel as much as
any man the obligation upon each one to do, according to his
ability, for that world in which the Creator has placed him.
If I am now asked, what it is that encourages me to come
once more before the public, notwithstanding my former disappointment;
I would answer, that I am better known now than
I was then, and if I am not mistaken, proportionably, at least,
more in favour; and that, although the majority are, for the
present, running into physical pursuits, yet of those who keep
their hold upon literature, there is a rapidly increasing class between
whose speculations, opinions, and tastes, and my own,
I can feel there is growing up a social and cheering agreement.
And this is a delightful reflection to me; for to feel solitary,
even in that which is in itself innocent, is sad, and hurts our
hearts too, if we keep not a watch over them.
And, here, I would say: Let any one who has an inward conviction
that he holds the truth (no matter what the subject)
gather strength from hence, and feel assured, that although the
multitude immediately around him, with but a few exceptions,
may differ from him, yet there are still seven thousand, somewhere
in Israel, who have not bowed the knee:—It is not
strange that the united company around us should believe themselves
to be “all the world;” but it is strange that those who
agree with them in little beside, should ever think them so too.
I am aware that my writings may never make me, what is
called, “a general favourite;” and, if, from the study of myself
and others, I had not long ago come to this conclusion, the concern
for me of some well-meaning acquaintances would ere this
have led me to it.
When, for instance, I have been heard to speak of that delightful
gentleman, Mr. Geoffrey Crayon, so tender and moving,
when he chooses to be so, yet so delicately blending the humorous
with the sad, (a rare power, and one in which he has scarcely
been surpassed since the days of the old dramatists,) and possessed
withal, of such winning good-nature, and such grace,—I
write a few tales like Mr. Crayon's?
And, so, when I have spoken of Mr. Cooper, of his Leather
Stocking, (a character hardly surpassed in modern fiction, if
taken in its true order, through the three novels,) or, generally,
of his naturalness, of his vivid and clear description, his rapid
action and lightning-like revelation of passion, — I have been
asked, with the utmost simplicity, why I did not undertake a
novel after Mr. Cooper's manner.
And what, I have replied, would Mr. Crayon have brought
to pass, had he, for instance, attempted to write like that extraordinary
man, Charles Brockden Brown? And where would
Mr. Cooper have been by this time, had he followed in the footsteps
of Mr. Crayon, over smooth lawns, and by bright prattling
brooks, or the little calm-surfaced, heaven-reflecting lake?
I do much wonder whether some people ever heard of the
word, Idiosyncrasy. And I wonder, might exclaim Mr. —
whether they ever heard of the word, Phrenology.
I know not how it may be with others; but if I am to
write fiction, which shall have in it the character and the
force of truth, it must, in very deed, be truth to me, at the time.
I have left out of the present volume all the articles in the
Idle Man which were not from my own pen.
Separating from my own that with which my friends furnished
me, is like parting with old companions. “The Hypochondriac”
must here take his leave of the world, for the present,
and the public must give up a little more good prose, and some
true poetry. But the poetry from Mr. Bryant they will not
lose; — that they will find lying amongst his other beautiful
and precious things in the work which he not long ago gave to
the world.
But, “The West Wind!” the title of the last thing which he
wrote for me — I must part with that too. If it had been written
purposely to follow “Paul Felton,” it could not have been
more appropriate, it breathed such a calm through one, after
witnessing the struggles of that wretched man. Beautiful as it
is in itself, it will never be the same gentle air to me any where
else; nor will the pines give out that same saddening, yet soothing
murmur which they did when they grew by the graves of
Paul and Esther: — I wish they were growing there still!
Will my old friends allow me to close with a word to those
whom I hope before long to call my young friends?
Some who were members of one or another of our many colleges
when the Idle Man appeared, have since told me, that
could I have known of the interest which was taken in it at
those institutions, and the feelings it called out towards me, I
should not have given it up as I did. I think I should not have
done so; for I have always looked with deep interest upon the
early forming of the moral and intellectual character; and the
love of the young for me takes a strong hold upon my heart.
And when I remember what seeds of affection and sentiment,
of poetry and all spiritual aspirations, are sown in the young, to
germinate, or to die, as the sun and dews may fall on them, or
not, I cannot but have a deep sensation of delight, that any
thing of mine should have ever so little of these unfolding influences
upon them.
I shall never forget with what feeling my friend Bryant some
years ago described to me the effect produced upon him by his
meeting for the first time with Wordsworth's Ballads. He
lived, when quite young, where but few works of poetry were
to be had, at a period, too, when Pope was still the great idol in
the Temple of Art. He said, that upon opening Wordsworth, a
thousand springs seemed to gush up at once in his heart, and
the face of nature, of a sudden, to change into a strange freshness
and life. He had felt the sympathetic touch from an according
mind, and you see how instantly his powers and affections
shot over the earth and through his kind.
If I could, in my humble way, awaken some young man, of
however inferior powers to our delightful poet, to a sensation
in any poor degree like this, I should bless God for it the remainder
of my days.
Too many of the young of this time, do need awakening; for
this is hardly the age of profound philosophy, of lofty imagination,
or of deep and simple sentiment. But although the age
is generally wanting in these respects, there are a few minds of
a noble order rising up, not only abroad, but even in this land;
and as they ascend, I can see their intellectual rays, while I
watch them at a humble distance, stretching out more and more;
and ere long they will touch the one the other, and make one
common light, that shall flood all lands. A more spiritual philosophy
than man ever before looked on, and a poetry twin
with it, are fast coming into full life. Yes, a day of far-spreading
splendour is breaking; the clear streak of it is already in the
yonder, “the dawning hills!”
Why, my young friends, I well remember the time when
Wordsworth — the great Wordsworth — served for little else
than travesty to the witling, smartness to the reviewer, and for
a sneer to the fastidious pretender to taste; and when, too, the
philosophy of Coleridge was held as little better than a dream.
But now, he who cannot relish Wordsworth, is advised to betake
himself to the Annuals; and the man who is unable to
enter into the deep things of Coleridge, though he may pass for
an alert dialectician, must no longer think of dictating from the
philosopher's chair: To profess to differ from Coleridge may be
safe, but to profess to hold him to be incomprehensible, would
now savour less of a profession than a confession, to be kept for
the ear of some ghostly father alone.
To bring my unintentionally long letter to a close. — In
sending this volume into the world, the Prose goes forth as an
elder brother, with his sister, Poetry. She, it is true, is not the
child of my youth, yet not wanting, I hope, in the feelings of
youth, nor altogether without sentiment and imagination, and
an eye for nature, and a love of it, though lacking, I am sensible,
something of that melody of voice and that harmony of expression,
which so win upon us unawares, and by the opposite of
which finely attuned spirits are so apt to be pained.
I will not affect an indifference which I do not feel. I have
an earnest desire for the success of this volume, and to that end,
for a generally good opinion of it, although in estimating what
is my own, as well as what belongs to others, the opinion of the
many is of less weight with me, than the judgment of the few.
To be liked of those whose hearts and minds I esteem, would
be unspeakable comfort to me, and would open sympathies with
them in my nature, which lie deep in the immortal part of me,
and which, therefore, though beginning in time, will doubtless
live on in eternity. To such hearts and minds I now humbly,
but especially commend myself.
TOM THORNTON.
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind,
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind.
Crabbe.
— defeated pride,
Prosperity subverted, maddening want,
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned,
Love with despair, or grief in agony.
Wordsworth.
Gave the strong yearnings of a ruined mind.
Crabbe.
“Why, Mr. Thornton, are you dreaming?” said
Mrs. Thornton, trying to appear easy, and dropping
in her lap her work, which she had not set a stitch to
for the last half hour. — “I can't see to thread my
needle, for the wick has run up, till it looks like a
very cock's comb, and the fire is so low, that I hardly
feel the end of my fingers. 'T is exceedingly chilly
about the room — pray give me my shawl, or I shall
perish.”
“Do as other wise people do, my dear; look back
a little, and you will find your shawl on the bars of
your chair. As to the candle, I will see to that; and
easily, it would be equally well for your sight.”
“Ha! ha! Now, Mr. Thornton, you should'nt try
to be witty when you're vexed. You don't know
what bungling work angry folks make at wit.”
“True, my dear, — much the same as fond ones, at
government.”
Mr. Thornton took his feet down from the side of
the fire-place, and put his spectacles on his nose, at
the same time looking sharply through them, with
his gray eyebrows thrown into double arches.
“Upon my word, Mr. Thornton, I'm glad you're
at home again; for you sat there playing your spectacles
between your fingers, with nothing but a gruff
hum, now and then, as if you were miles off in the
woods, and contriving how to clear your wild lands.”
“I have enough growing wild at my own door to
see to, without taking to the woods, and harder to
bring into order, than any soil my trees grow upon,
however stubborn.”
Mrs. Thornton saw that she could not rid herself
of the difficulty by laughing. She coloured and remained
silent. She was conscious of being too
indulgent to her son; and might, perhaps, have been
brought to a wiser course towards him, had not her
husband's impatience of her weakness, and vehement
opposition to her folly, and a consequent harshness in
his bearing towards Tom, created a kind of party
feeling within her, which, with a common sort of
sophistry, she resolved wholly into pity for her child.
This was a bad situation for the boy, for the weakness
of his mother's conduct was easily perceived by
him, and looked upon with a little of contempt, at the
same time that it made for his convenience; while his
which he would gladly have been rid of, commanded
a qualified respect. This led him to like what was
agreeable, rather than what was right, and to lose the
distinction of principle in self-gratification. And
though all selfishness hardens the heart, there is no kind
of it which so hardens it as a contempt for those who
love us, and are fondly, though unwisely, contributing
to our pleasures. To hate our enemies is not so
bad as to despise our friends. The cold, hard triumph
of prosperity is a worse sin than that which eats
into us in the rancour of adversity; and it is more deceptive
too; for good fortune has something joyous in it,
even to the morose, who oftentimes mistake their
gladness for a general good will, while they play with
the miseries of some, only to make others laugh.
Even vehement and inconsiderate tempers, who
take fire as quick in another's cause as in their own,
lose their generosity, where too much is ministered
to their will; and what was only a warm resentment
of another's wrong, may come to be nothing else, but
a feeling of power and a love of victory.
Mr. Thornton saw the confused expression in his
wife's face, and his sharp, sudden look relaxed into
one of mild and melancholy reproach, while she sat
pricking her finger, as she tried to seem intent upon
hurrying on her work. He pulled out his watch, and
continued looking at it some time, taking an uneasy
kind of delight in seeing the minute-hand go forward,
and in wishing it later.
“It is not very late, I hope, Mr. Thornton.”
“O, no, — but a little past one — a very reasonable
hour for a boy to be out — and at a cockfight, too.”
“But, Mr. Thornton, had you heard how earneslty
him leave. He promised to return early. But
boys, you know, never think of time when about their
amusements.”
“It is not of much consequence that they should,
when their amusements are so humane and innocent.
A cockpit must be an excellent school for a lad of
Tom's mild disposition.”
Some couples have particular points of union, but
more have those of disagreement; and from the frequency
with which both return to their several kinds,
it would be hard to tell which kind affords the most
pleasure.
There was but one subject on which Mr. and Mrs.
Thornton were at odds with each other, but to make
up for the want of more, it was one of very frequent
occurrence; and had not Tom suddenly made his
appearance, there is no knowing how far the bitter
taunting of the old gentleman would have gone.
Tom entered the room, his crisp, black hair off his
forehead, his swarthy complexion flushed with excitement
from the conflict he had just witnessed; his
mouth firmly set, his nostrils expanded, and his eye
fiery and dilated. He had a marked cast of features,
the muscles of his face worked strongly, and his motions
were hasty, impetuous, and threatening. His
countenance was open and manly, and it seemed to
depend upon the mere turn of circumstances whether
he was to make a good, or a bad man. He was surprised,
and a little abashed for a moment, at finding
his father up. He looked at his mother, as if to say
she had betrayed him; and his mother looked at him,
as if to upbraid him for breaking his word by staying
so late, and thus bringing his father's displeasure upon
both.
“I suppose that I may go to bed now, as you have
seen fit to return home at last, my young gentleman?
And did you bet on the winning cock, or are you to
draw on me to pay off your debt of honour?”
“I betted no higher than I had money to pay;”
answered Tom, proudly: “and I care not if I go with
an empty pocket for a month to come, for he was a
right gallant fellow I lost upon.”
Angry as his father was, the careless generosity of
Tom's manner touched his pride. “You are malapert.
But this comes of late hours, and dissipation.
We'll have no more of it. Get you to bed, Sir; and
look to it that you do not gaff the old rooster, — I'll
have no blood spilt on my grounds.”
“Never without your leave, Sir,” said Tom, his
mouth drawing into a smile at his father's simplicity.
And glad to be let off so easily, he went to bed, laughing
at the thought of their old dunghill, blind of one
eye, dying game. “They must have been but simple
lads in my father's day,” said Tom to himself, as he
blew out his candle, and threw himself into bed to
dream over the fight.
“Tom is not so bad a boy, neither,” said Mr.
Thornton, putting the fender before the fire, and preparing
to go to bed. “And I see not why he should
not make a proper man enough, were there no one to
take all the pains in the world to spoil him.”
In a few minutes all was quiet in the house.
Tom had now reached that age, in which it is pretty
well determined whether the passions are to be our
masters or servants. He had never thought for a
moment of checking his; and if they were less violent
at one time than at another, it was because he
was swayed for the instant by some gentler impulse,
father's late mild treatment of him seemed to have a
softening effect upon his disposition, and for a few
days he appeared at rest, and free from starts of passion.
But some little incidents soon brought back his
father's severity of manner, and this the son's spirit
of opposition, the mother's weakness serving all the
while as a temptation to his love of power. Every
day occasioned a fresh difficulty. Tom decided all
the disputes in the school, it mattered little with him
whether by force or persuasion. And as he feared no
one living, and generally sided with the weakest,
partly from a love of displaying his daring and prowess,
and partly from a hatred of all tyranny but his
own, he frequently came home with his clothes torn
and face bloody and bruised. This, however, might
be said for Tom, he was the favourite of the smaller
boys. He cared not to domineer, where it showed
neither skill nor courage. His poor mother was filled
with constant trembling and alarm, which served as a
petty amusement to him; and, from the most violent
rage, after one of these contests, he often broke out
into a loud laugh at the plaintive sound of his mother's
lament over him.
Among Tom's other accomplishments, he was a
great whip. So, without saying a word to any one,
he contrived, with the assistance of a school-fellow as
wild as himself, to put a young, fiery horse, which his
father had just purchased, to a new gig. The horse
was restiff — Tom grew angry and whipped him — his
companion was thrown out and broke his arm; but
Tom, with the usual success of the active and daring,
cleared himself unhurt. The gig, however, was
dashed to pieces, and his father's fine horse ruined.
Not long after this, and before his father's anger
had time to cool, Tom, with some of his play-mates,
was concerned in breaking the windows of a miserly
neighbour, that they might make him loosen his purse
strings. One of the smallest boys was detected, and
upon refusing to give information of the rest, the
master began flogging him severely. Tom would have
taken the whipping himself, but he knew this would
not save the lad, unless he made the others known;
besides, he had an utter detestation of mean and cowardly
acts, and could not brook that the little fellow
should be punished for not turning traitor. Tom sprung
upon his seat, and crying out, “A rescue!” was followed
by the other boys; and in an instant the master
was brought to the floor. Lying upon one's back is
not a favorable posture for dignity — certainly not in
a schoolmaster. Though a good deal intimidated,
the master frowned and stormed and threatened; but
Tom was not to be frightened at words and looks.
Indeed, the ludicrous situation of his instructer, the
novelty of it, and his mock authoritative manner, put
Tom into such a fit of laughter, that he could hardly
utter his conditions of release. There was nothing
but shouting and uproar through the school; and it
was not till a promise of full pardon to all concerned,
that the master was allowed to rise.
Tom knew that this would end his school-boy days,
and so far, he was not sorry for what had happened;
for he longed to be free and abroad amid the adventures
of the world. “Let it all go,” said he, walking
forward with a full swing; “if I have been wild and
head-strong, I have not altogether wasted my time.
And I'll so better my instruction, that I will one day
be among men, what I have been among boys. And
who will dare say, Nay, to Tom Thornton?”
As he came in sight of the house, he slackened his
pace; and forgetting his views of power, began to
consider how he should meet his father.
“It will be all out in less than four and twenty
hours, and I had better have the merit of telling it
myself. This will go some way towards my pardon,
for the old man, with all his severity, likes openness,
— it has saved me many a whipping, when I was
younger. So, thou almost only virtue I possess, let
me make the most of thee while thou stickest by me.”
He was, indeed, a forthright lad, not because he
considered openness a virtue, but because it agreed
with the vehemence and daring of his character, and
gratified his pride.
With all his self-reliance, his heart beat quick as
he drew near the door. He thought of his father's
strict notions of government, his own numerous offences
of late, the sternness and quickness of his
father's temper, and the violence and obstinacy of his
own; and he could not but dread the consequences of
the meeting.
“Why should I stand like a coward, arguing the
matter with myself, when I know well enough that
there is but one way of acting? The sooner begun,
the sooner over; the worst has an end.”
So saying, he threw open the door, and went
directly to his father's room. Mr. Thornton was not
there. He passed as hastily from one room to another,
as if in pursuit of some one who was trying to escape
him, inquiring quickly for his father of every body he
met. He at last went to his mother's chamber, and
knocking, but scarcely waiting for an answer, entered,
and asked abruptly, “Where is he?”
“Who, my dear?”
“Dear me no dears, I'm not in a humour for it.
Where's my father?”
“Your father, child! He's gone to the village.
But what's the matter? Something dreadful, I'm
sure. O, Thomas, you make my life miserable.”
“Humph!” said Tom, drawing his lips close together.
“Gone to the village! Then every old
woman there has blabbed it over and over again in
his ears, and with a thousand lies tagged to it, and as
many malicious condolences about his hotheaded son.
Nothing puts my father into such a fury as the whining
of these old crones. Ah, I see the jig's up, and
all my honesty comes to nothing. Well, it can't be
helped; — it is coming.”
“What can't be helped? Why don't you speak to
me, Thomas, and tell me what's the matter?”
“Ah! mother, is it you? — I was thinking about
— What's the matter, ask you? Matter enough,
truly. There's young Star sold for a lame cart-horse
— a gallant fiery steed you were too, Star; — the gay
furbished gig dashed into as many fragments as your
chandelier, and gone with Pharaoh's chariot wheels,
for aught I know. Mother, I've been in too great a
hurry ever since, to ask your pardon for running foul
your chandelier yesterday. But my father came in so
close upon me, he liked to have cut his foot with the
pieces. There's another mark to my list of sins.
Then there's the breaking of Jack's head for not minding
me instead of my father, and a score more of worse
things, and all within these six days.”
“O, Thomas, Thomas, what will become of us?”
“Become of us? Why, 't is none of your doings,
Mother. You never broke the gig, or lamed Star,
or cudgeled Jack, that I know of. But reserve your
grief awhile, for the worst is behind.”
“Worst, Thomas! I shall lose my senses. Your
father mutters about you in his very sleep; and he has
threatened of late to send you out of the house, if you
go on at such a rate.”
“I know it. Yet I hardly think he would turn me
adrift. What if he does? There is room enough;
and come fair or foul, I've a ready hand and a stout
heart.”
“You will certainly kill your unhappy mother if
you talk so. Your father says your conduct is all
owing to my indulgence, and you have no gratitude
or pity for me.”
“In faith, Mother, I fear my father has the right
on't. Come, come, don't make yourself miserable
about such an overgrown boy as I am, and I'll tell the
rest of my story.
“Mother, I'm a rebel and an outlaw; and the worst
of it is, my father's notions of government are as high
as the Grand Turk's. Yes, we had old pedagogue
flat on his back; and he could no more turn over than
a turtle. And such a sprawling as he made of it!
And when we let him up, could you but have seen how
he trembled, every joint of him, — knees and elbows!”
Here Tom fell a laughing, and his mother burst
into tears. Though her weak fondness for her son
took away from him nearly all respect for his mother,
still Tom loved her, and often blamed himself severely
that he had given her so much trouble, and so often
brought upon her his father's displeasure. His heart
was touched; and taking her hand, he asked forgiveness
for trifling with her feelings. “Do not think
that it is because I am careless of what concerns you.
You see I play the fool with my own troubles, and I
certainly am not indifferent about them.”
“I know, I know! my son. But you will meet with
nothing except evil in life, if you do not learn prudence
and self-control. You have a good heart, I believe;
yet you are giving constant pain and anxiety to your
best friends, and must, so long as your passions are
your masters, and you, violent and changing as the
sea.”
Her son promised to set seriously about subduing
his passions, and letting his reason have more sway.
As Tom conjectured, Mr. Thornton had heard the
whole story, and with the usual country-village colouring.
It was too much for his irascible temper, goaded
as it had been of late by his son's inconsiderate conduct.
He set off home in great wrath, hurrying over
Tom's misdeeds so rapidly and confusedly, that a
dozen multiplied and changed places with such swiftness,
they showed like a thousand. With his mind
thus filled with blind rage, and his body fevered with
the speed with which he walked, he entered the house,
a very unfit subject for Tom to begin the exercise of
his new resolutions upon.
Tom had seen his father coming along the road, and
had gone to his room, waiting his arrival, with a determination
to relate the whole affair, confess his error
in this and other instances, make known his resolution
to change his conduct, and humbly ask forgiveness for
the past, and all in a dutiful and composed manner.
Mr. Thornton seized the latch, but with a hand so
shaking with rage, that it did not rise at his touch.
Heated and impatient as he was, the least thing was
enough to make him furious; he thrust his foot against
the door, — it started the catch, and sent it half across
the room. The passing sense of shame at his uncontrolled
passion only increased his anger; and seeing
he cried, darting forward, till his face almost
touching Tom's, his clinched fists pressed convulsively
against his thighs, — “blockhead, dare you
fasten me out of my own room?”
The unexpected violence of Mr. Thornton's manner
rather surprised than irritated Tom, and he looked
at his father with a composed and slightly contemptuous
cast of expression, without making any reply.
Mr. Thornton was sensible how groundless his
charge was, the instant he uttered it. He was for a
moment discomposed, too, by his son's calm and
haughty bearing; and probably would have been glad
had Tom replied in the manner he sometimes did.
“Do you stand there to insult me, Sir? You may
well hold your peace; for what could you say to your
infamous and rebellious conduct?”
“Do you mean fastening your door, Sir?” asked
Tom.
“Door, door, puppy! Look ye, their hinges shall
rust off first, ere you shall open them again, unless
you mend your life.”
“Say but the word, Sir, and you need not be at the
trouble of fastening.”
“You're a cold-blooded, thankless wretch,” stormed
out his father. “You were born to be a curse, instead
of a blessing to me, and you joy in it. You
lead a life of violence and riot, and will live and die
a disgrace to your family.”
“I will do something to give it a name,” said Tom,
“if I hang for it. I'll not lead a milksop life of it,
to be called respectable by old dames, young sycophants,
and money-lenders.”
“A name, indeed! You'll go marked like Cain,
man's hand against you, and hang you will, that's past
doubt, unless you mend.”
“Better that, than without a name. And be a
halter my destiny,” said he, looking down upon his
manly figure with some complacency; “I shall become
a cart as well as another man.”
“Fop!” snapped out his father, enraged at Tom's
contemptuous, cool trifling.
“I'm no fop. If I'm a well made fellow, I thank
God for it; and where's the harm of that?”
“Do you repeat my words, Sir, and trifle with
your Maker, in my presence, and set all laws, divine
and human, at defiance? Is't not enough to break and
destroy what's mine, and keep all at home in an uproar,
but you must go abroad to disgrace me, and
make yourself the hate and dread of every body, by
your violence and rebellion? But you shall be humbled,
and that in the eyes of all the world. We'll
have that proud spirit of yours down, before it rides
over any more necks. Yes, my lad, it is all settled.
The whole school, with you at their head, (for you
shall be their leader in this, as you have been in every
thing else,) shall to-morrow morning down on their
knees before their master, and ask his pardon.”
“I! on my knees to that shadow of a man! No, in
faith, I'd stand as straight and stiff before him as a
drill-sergeant, till my legs failed, ere I'd nod my
head to him. What! he that would whip all faith
and honour out of a boy, till he left a soul in him no
bigger than his own! I'll bow to none but to Him
that made me, so help — ”
“Hold, hold, said the father, (whose passions were
now at their utmost,) have a care before you take an
unless you do it.”
“Then I'm my own master, and the ground I
stand on is my own; for, by my right hand, I'll ask
forgiveness of no man living,” said Tom, turning resolutely
away from his father, as if all was ended.
“Mad boy!” called out his father, “hear me now
for the last time; for unless you this instant promise
to obey, I'll never set eyes on you more; — and leave
this house you shall by to-morrow's light.”
“ 'T is a bright night,” said Tom, looking composedly
out of the window, “and the stars will serve as
well. Nor will I eat or sleep where I am not welcome,”
he added, taking up his hat and walking deliberately
out of the room.
His determined manner at once satisfied Mr. Thornton
that Tom would act up to what he had said; and
a father's feelings for the moment took possession of
him, with compunction for the violence which had
driven his son from him. He went toward the door
to call Tom back, but he was already out of hearing.
“Wilful and headstrong boy,” said the old man, turning
back and shutting the door, with a feeling of disappointment,
“time and suffering alone must cure you.”
Thus for the moment he eased his conscience, and
was saved the sacrifice of his pride.
Tom was passing through the entry with a hasty
step, and had nearly reached the outer door, when the
light caught his eye, as it shone from under the parlour
door. The sight recalled him to himself in an
instant, and stirred every home feeling within him.
He heard his mother's voice as she was reading aloud.
The blood throbbed to his very throat. The thought
that she should be so tranquil, and so unconscious of
him to the heart. If she had been a victim which he
was about to sacrifice, he could not have felt more
pain. He listened a moment. “I must not go without
seeing her, without taking her blessing with me, —
else I shall go accurst!” He laid his hand upon the
latch and raised it a little: — his mother still read on.
With all his violence and rudeness, Tom had a
strong affection for his mother. His feelings, too,
were now softened; for he was humbled and pained
at reflecting upon the unjust violence of a father, who,
though of a stern and hasty temper, he had heretofore
respected. To a mind not wholly depraved, the faults
of a parent are almost as mortifying and wounding as
its own; and Tom would have given the world, if the
wrong had now been in himself alone. — “I dare not
trust myself to see my mother now. She would make
a very child of me; my father would be sued too, and
then what would become of all my resolutions and
decision!” “Pshaw!” said he, dashing away a tear
with one hand, as the other dropped from the latch;
“is this the way for one like me to begin the world?”
He walked slowly out of the house, drew the door to
gently after him, and passed down the yard, unconscious
that he was moving forward, till he reached the
gate. He opened it mechanically, then leaning over
it, looked toward his home. “ 'T is an ill parting
with you, this,” said he; “yet I leave you not in
anger. Many a blessing I have had, and many a
happy time of it, and many more there might have
been for me, had I not been a froward child. There
are few such to come, I fear. He stood with his eyes
fixed on the house, while his mind wandered over the
past, and what awaited him. The light flashed out
leaves twinkled brightly in it. He cast his eyes round;
but the earth looked gloomy in the darkness, for no
lights were to be seen but those of the distant stars.
“I said that ye would serve me,” said he, looking
upward, “and if I spoke in anger, Heaven forgive
me for it. I must be on my way, and must go like a
man.”
In the midst of the most violent passions, it is curious
to see how quickly and with what care the mind
will sometimes lay its plans for future resources.
Tom Thornton, when much younger than at this
time, had been made a pet, that he might be used as
an instrument, by a lad a little older than himself, of
the name of Isaac Beckford. Isaac plotted most of
the mischief done at school, and applauded Tom for
his sagacity and intrepidity in the execution of it,
taking care not to demand any praise for his own ingenious
contrivances. In this way they became
necessary to each other; and after Isaac left school to
reside in the city with an uncle, of the same name,
whose ward he was, he wrote frequently to Tom,
urging him to come to town, and share in the amusements
in which a large fortune would soon enable
Isaac to indulge. Tom now resolved to make his
way to the city and have the benefit of his friend's
influence to put himself in a situation to rise in the
world.
Having made up his mind, though it was somewhat
of a journey on foot to the city, and he wholly ignorant
of the way, (the village in which he resided lying
far off from any great road,) Tom marched forward
as confidently as if the church spires of the town had
been in sight. The character of adventure, freedom
air, and the crowd and glitter of the stars in the sky,
gave an expanse and a vivid action to his mind, and
roused up the hopeful spirit which for a time had slept
within him. “Come, come,” said he to himself,
“you're a tall boy, Tom, better fitted to shoulder
your way through the world, than delve Greek under
a starveling pedant.”
So intent was he upon his schemes, that he took
little heed to the by-road he was travelling, and had
walked till about midnight without being conscious of
time or fatigue. The perfect stillness about him at
last drew his attention, and looking round, he found
himself on the top of a small hill, in the midst of a
country barren, broken into knolls, and covered, as
far as the eye could reach, with large, loose stones.
An old tree, at a distance, was all that showed life had
ever been here; and that, with its sharp, scraggy,
and barkless, gray branches shooting out uncouthly
towards the sky, looked like a thing accursed. — “A
hard and lonely life you must have had of it here,”
said Tom, “and been sadly off for music, if you
were at all particular about it; for I doubt whether
any sound has been heard for a long time in your
branches, but that of the ravens and the heavy winds.
It is as deadly still all around here, as the sky; I wish
I could say it looked as well. — What a pity that gibbets
are out of fashion, for this would be a choice
place for them; and could I but hear the creaking of
one, I should not have my ears so palsied with this
dreadful, intense silence. — There winds a yellow
cart-track from hill to hill, as far as I can see. It is
to the left, and omens ill. I'll take this, to the right —
whether to the world's end or not, time will tell.”
And forward he went. He at last grew weary;
and as his pace slackened, he began to think of his
home, his father and mother, and his many offences.
His conscience was touched, and he felt as if undeserving
the light of the quiet heavens that shone on
him. — “Can one prosper, as he goes, when his
father's anger and mother's grief follow him?” —
His heart began to fail, and a thought passed him
of finding his way back again. — “What, and have
my father taunt me, and call me a lad of metal?
And how like a whipped dog I should look, crawling
up the yard! And then that forked master, and
his pardon!” cried Tom, clinching his fists till the
nails nearly brought blood, and muttering a curse
between his teeth, as the tears started to his eyes,
part in grief, and part in unsated rage. — “Would
that I had you in my grapple once more, you soulless
wretch, and you should never make mischief between
men again, — you mere thing! — What, return to all
that! No, in faith, I'd sooner be thrown out here like
a dead beast, and lie till the bones in this body were
as bare and white as these stones, ere I'd go back
so.”
He travelled on, with a loose, irregular step. Sustaining
and hopeful feelings had left him, and melancholy
and self-accusing thoughts were passing in his
soul; yet his mind was made up, and supported by a
kind of dogged obstinacy. — “There will be no end
to this track, as I see. It winds round and over these
hundred hills, as if it were delighted at getting into
so pleasant a country.” He continued his route. —
“Must my voice lose itself for ever in the solitude of
this stillness? Is there a doom of eternal silence on
all things, where I go? Will nothing speak to me?”
He presently heard a low, rumbling sound, as if in
the earth under his feet. He started, but recovering
himself, walked on. It increased to a surly growl,
and seemed to spread underneath the hills and through
the hollows; and the earth jarred.— “Does nature
make experiments with her earthquakes in this out-of-the-way
place, before she overturns cities with
them?” said he, with a bitter scoff, feeling how little
he cared at the moment for what might happen to
him. As he came round a hill, the sound opened distinctly
upon him, sending up its roar into the air; and
raising his eyes, he saw at a distance a tall, giant pile,
looking black against the sky.— “So, my earthquake
turns out to be nothing but a waterfall. And why
cannot I be fooled again, and be made to believe that
clumsy factory, to be the huge castle of some big, hairy
manslayer and violator of damsels? What! shall I be
down-hearted now in my need!—I who have carried
a confident brow and a firm breast against whatever
opposed me! It must be that I need food, else how
could I be so melancholy? I'll have that and sleep
too before long, and a fresh body and bright morning
to start with to-morrow.”
So saying, he took his way toward the building.
The path led him to the stream, just above the fall.
It lay still and glassy to the very edge of the precipice,
down which it flung itself, roaring and foaming.
The trees and bushes hung lightly over it, and the
stars looked as thick in its depths, as in the sky above
him. He was about resting himself upon a stone;
but turning, he saw it was a grave-stone. — “It is a
holy thing,” said he, “and I will rest myself elsewhere.”
— He looked round, — there was not another
grave in sight. — “What, all alone? No companions
each other in the grave, yet there is something awful
in the thought of being laid in the ground away from
the dwellings of all the living, and not even the dead
by our side. But thou hast chosen thy habitation
well, for this stream shall sing a holier and longer
dirge by thee, than ever went up from man; yet this
shall one day be still, and its waters dried up; but
the spirit that was in thee shall live with God.”
He passed along the race-way. The water had
left it; and the grass was growing here and there in little
clumps in its gravelly bottom. Its planks and timbers,
forced up, forked out like a wreck, and the huge
wheel, which had parted from its axle, lay broken
and aslant the chasm. He looked toward the building.
The moon, which was just rising behind it, and
shining through its windows, made it appear like some
monster with a thousand eyes. Its door-path had
grown up, and nothing was heard but the wind passing
through its empty length, and here and there the
flapping of a window. He went round it, and saw
at a little distance, four or five long, low buildings
standing without order, upon little hillocks, without
fence or tree, or any thing near them but short withered
grass. — “One would have thought,” said Tom,
“that nature had done enough without art's coming
in to help the desolation. Not a light hereabouts!
This seems not much like either bed or supper.” Going
forward, he looked in at one house, then at another,
but nothing was to be seen except bare plastered walls.
At last, from one of the houses he spied a light gleaming
through a crevice. The sight warmed his heart.
He went to the door, and knocked.
“Who's there?” asked one, in a female voice.
“A friend.”
“More foes than friends abroad at this hour,
belike,” replied the person within.
“I've lost my way,” said Tom. “No harm shall
come to you, good woman, by letting in a traveller.”
“You promise well and in an honest voice,” said
she, as she opened the door. The light shone upon
her, and Tom saw before him a tall, masculine woman,
with strong features, but with a serious and subdued
cast of countenance.
“Who are you, young man? Out on no good intent,
I fear, at this time o'night.”
“I'm Thornton of Thorntonville,” said Tom, with
his usual readiness, “an you've ever heard of the
place. I was going to the city a-foot for once, and
have missed my way.”
“Thornton of Thorntonville?” said the old woman,
seeming to recollect herself; “I have seen your
father, then, down at the big house yonder. Come
in.”
“Your fire is comforting,” said Tom, sitting down
by it' “and it is the first comfortable thing I have
met with for many long hours past. But you have
made an odd choice of situations, my good woman.”
“The poor have not often their choice,” said she.
“And there are things sometimes which make the
bare heath dearer to us than garden or park.”
“They are sad things then,” said Tom.
“Sad indeed,” said the old woman, looking into
the fire. She sat silent a little time; then breathing
forth a low sigh that seemed to relieve the bosom of
its aching, she said to Tom, “You must be over
weary, and hungry too, if you are from Thorntonville
to-day, for it is a long walk; and you must have come
over the heath; and one may stand there as at sea, —
thing on one of them all, till they run into the very
sky. Wide as it is, it would hardly find summer feed
for my old Jenny, were it not for the circle of grass
that trims round a gray stone here and there.”
“There is not much to be said for its appearance,”
replied Tom. “I am not a little tired, too; and
though I cannot well tell how far I have walked,
there was hardly a streaked cloud in the west when I
left home.”
“It must have been a quick foot and a light heart
that brought you so long a way in so short a time,”
said she, as she was getting ready a bowl of bread
and milk. “The young hurry on, as if life would
ne'er run out; yet many fall by the way; and I have
lived to lay those in the ground, whom I looked to
have had one day put the sod over this gray head.”
Tom's thoughts had gone home, but the old woman's
last words were sounding in his ears. “And
who will do that last office for me, or for them?”
thought he. She saw the gloom over Tom's face;
and believing she had caused it — “Never mind,”
she said, “the complainings of one whose troubles
are nigh over. Here!” giving Tom the bowl. —
“You have but one dish to supper, yet that good of
its kind; for 't is short feed that makes the richest
milk.”
“Whose is that huge building to the left, that
creaks like a tavern sign?” asked Tom.
“It was his who would have made money out of
moonshine. But he has gone before his works.”
“He was not burried yonder, to be mocked by them,
I trust.”
“O, no,” answered the old woman. “She that I
Wentworth was of a meek and simple heart.”
“Forgive me, my good woman, I should not have
spoken of this, had I known how near to your heart
it was to you.”
“You have no forgiveness to ask of me. I am a
lone woman, and there seldom passes here one who
cares to be troubled with my griefs; and it is moisture
to this dried heart to talk to one who can feel for my
afflictions; for Sally was not only my child, but God
has seldom blessed a mother with such a child. When
he took from me my husband, I hope I did not forget
his goodness in what he left to me; yet he saw fit to
call her too, and his will be done. If grief had not
killed her, I could bear my lot better. But how
could it be other than it was, seeing that he whom she
loved was so cruelly taken from her?”
“She died of love, then?” said Tom. “It is a death
seldom met with, and bespeaks a rare mind.”
“I know it,” replied the mother. “True love is a
peculiar and a holy thing; yet those are said to love,
who can lay one in the ground, and look fondly on
another. O, I have seen it, and it has made me
shudder when I have thought of those in the grave.
Yes, and many too would scoff at them that were true
to the dead; yet they would not, were it given them
to know that the grief of such had that in it which was
dearer and better than all their joy. My Sally knew
it, and it has made her a spirit in heaven. I sit and
think over all that happened, but there is not a soul
on earth to whom I can tell it.”
“If you could think me worthy of it, I would ask
you to tell me her story.”
“'T is a sad one, but will not hold you long, for
Sally's life was a short and simple one.
“She was to have been married to an industrious
and kind-hearted lad. They knew each other when
quite children; and grew more and more into a
love for each other as they grew in years. And
if their attachment did not show the breaks and
passions of those which happen later, it was, I
think, deeper seated in its quiet, and seemed to
be a part of the existence of both of them. Could
you have seen them, as I have, sitting on that very
form, where you now sit, so gentle and happy in
each other, you would not wonder that it wrings
my heart, now they are both gone. But there was
a snake crawling and shining in the grass. His
eye fell before the pure eye of Sally, yet he could not
give over. I dare not speak his name, lest I should
curse him; and Sally forgave him, and prayed for his
soul on her death-bed. The Evil one was busy in his
heart, and thwarted and enraged, and with his passions
wrought up, he attempted that by force, which he did
not dare speak out to her. Though she was of a gentle
make, there was no want of spirit in her, and the
wretch liked to have fallen by her hand. `Thank
God,' she has said to me, `that I did not take his
life.'
“She came home, shaking and pale with what had
happened, and frightened at the danger she had
escaped. Frank met her at the door, and asked her
eagerly what was the matter; she hinted, hastily,
enough for him to guess the rest. He sprang from
the door, with an oath — the first I ever heard him
utter. — She called loudly after him, but he was out
of sight in an instant. She looked the way he had
gone, almost breathless. `I spared him,' said she,
at last, `but he may not — he may not.' It was but
into the house, and fell back into a chair.
`What have you done? Speak, tell me what you
have done,' cried Sally. `You have not, you have
not murdered' — Frank grasped his throat, to stop its
beating. `No, No,' said he, scarcely to be heard.
`I struck him but once, and he lay like a dead man
before me; and I thought it was all over with him;
but he presently opened his eyes upon me, and I
dared not stay, for I felt the spirit of a murderer at
my heart!' — He looked at the moment,” said the old
woman, “as if dropping the very knife from his hand.
“And here,” said she, “the storm began to gather
fast and hard. The coward villain found means to
raise suspicions against Frank, which threw him out
of his employments. Yet so secret was he, as not to
be suspected of the deed. The poor fellow wandered
over these bare hills day after day, without knowing
what to turn his hands to. In the midst of all
this trouble the wretch came to him, and begged forgiveness
for his conduct to Sally. `I can forgive you,'
said Frank, `but I do not like looking upon you.'
`That is not forgiveness,' said he, in a beseeching
tone. `I was a villain, for I would have done you
an injury past remedy. And it was more than I deserved,
that you should have spared my life when I
was down. I have not had a quiet rest since that
time, and never shall, if you do not suffer me to do
something to make amends.' `The best amends,'
said Frank, `will be a better life in you.' `I know it,'
he answered, `and I hope it will be so, if remorse can
give it. But you, too, must give me ease. Though
young, my allowance is large. Some evil mind has
worked you mischief, I am told, and you are poor. I
have no right to. But do at least show me that you
have so far forgiven me, as to suffer me to lend it to
you, and see you well established in your trade. It
is the only atonement left me; and you will not cut
me off from that?' Frank refused, and the villain
begged like a slave. Frank began to think it was
sinful pride, and he thought of Sally, and then he consented.
The money was lent, and as soon as Frank
had laid it out in stock for trade, the note was put in
suit, and he was stripped of all he had, and thrown into
gaol. Frank found a friend who released him; and
he went to sea. And think,” said she, turning to
Tom, “he that contrived it all, was scarcely older than
you are now; and yet he wears a gay heart and fair
outside.
“I need not tell of the parting. It was a bitter
one, and no meeting after it. There was a storm at
sea, and the ship went down. And many a night
have I lain and seen the body heaved up wave after
wave, as they took it, one after another, till they bore
it away, far, far out of sight. The news came at last;
yet she shed no tear, nor spoke a word; but her silence
was awful — it was like a spirit near me. For
many days she sat in that corner with her hands clasped
and resting on her knees, looking with a glazed
eye upon the fire; and I could see her pining away
before me as she sat there. At last she would leave
the house at night-fall, when it was chilly autumn,
and when the crisped, frozen grass would crumble
under her feet. And I have found her standing on
the top of a hill near, many and many a night, with
her eyes fixed on the moon, her lips moving and giving
a low sound, of what, I could not tell. Nor would she
home, and laid her shivering in her bed, and she
would take no heed of me. At last the cold winds and
the snow struck her. But as she lay there on the
bed, her mind opened:—it did not wander any more.
She said that but one being had done her wrong, and
though it was an awful wrong, she was sure that she
forgave him, and would pray that he might be forgiven.
“Just before she died, she stretched out her hand
to me, — she saw me look at it. `It was a fresh hand
once, but is dead and shrunken now; and there are
the blue veins,' said she, tracing them with one of her
fingers, `where the blood used to flow warm and quick;
but they are dried up, though they stand out so. I
am going to peace, mother, and to him that loved me.'
The tears fell on her pillow, as she said, `But who
will take care of you now in your old age?' Then
looking upward, with a bright smile over her face,
and without turning toward me, — `God, my mother,
God will take care of you.' I felt it like a revelation
from heaven.
“She died, and I laid her where she wished to be
laid, in that grave you saw by the stream, — for you
spoke of one, did you not? I bring water from that
stream morning and night; and when the weather is
calm, I stop and pray at her grave, and in the driving
storm I utter my prayer in the spirit, as I pass by; —
and with God it is the same, if it comes from a sincere
heart. — My story is done.” “It is late, and you
have walked far, and there is a clean bed for you,
though a hard one, in the next room.” Tom wished
her good night; but she did not answer him: he
saw that she could not. “O, Isaac Beckford,” murmured
she, as Tom shut the door, “there is a heavy
you.” Tom did not hear the name, nor suspect his
friend.
Though he rose early, he found breakfast ready.
The hostess looked cheerful, for every affliction has
its comfort to the Christian. — “And now,” said he,
shoving back his chair from the table, “how am I to
find my way to the city?”
“Look,” said the old woman, going to the door,
“yonder you see the wood which borders this heath;
and there are the chimnies of Beckford mansion, and
the great road winds near it. You will see no smoke
there, though a clear morning. — It is an empty house
now. The heath brought you a short route, for it is
only a dozen miles or so to town. Nigh enough, I
fear, to such a place, for one who has passions like
yours.”
“What know you of my passions, good woman?
What have you heard of me?”
“Naught in the world. But do I not see them in
the moving of your lip, and the gleam of that eye?
Rein them with a steady hand, or they may prove of
too hot metal for you.” Tom thanked her, and then
offered her money. “You came as a cast-away,”
said she, “and I cannot take it.” He tendered it
again. “No, no, I can never take fare-money of
one who has listened to my story.” Tom urged her
no further, but wishing her, kindly, good morning, set
out on his way. As he drew near the city, the roads
became crowded, and his spirits rose. “What a
mighty stir is here — and what a medley! Things of
all sorts, from horse-cart and check frock, to coach
and laces! And who is merriest of the crowd, it
would be hard to tell. At last came the hubbub and
to be heard here,” thought Tom.
By dint of inquiry, a quick eye and ready mind, he
at last found the street, and the number of the house
of Beckford's guardian. The servant made Tom's
arrival known to Isaac. “What, my young protegé!”
exclaimed Isaac to himself — “And in good time;
for soon I shall be a free man, and he must minister
to my pleasure, as must every one whom I favour.
I must see that he is brought up in the way he should
go.”
With a deliberate step and plotting mind, he walked
down stairs; but rushing swiftly into the room, and
running to Tom, seized him round the shoulders, with
a hearty, God bless you, and how are you, my old
buck. This welcome was a cordial to Tom's heart;
for, with all his high spirits, the manner of his leaving
home, and what he had passed through since, had
depressed him and made him thoughtful; and he was
ill at ease with himself. After many questions about
old playmates, and jokes upon past school tricks,
Tom told Isaac that he wished to see him where
they should not be interrupted.
“To be sure you shall,” said Isaac, stepping into
a side room, and locking the door after them. “But
what is all this for? You have no game afoot here
already, surely? Or has some hare scaped you? If
so, 't is I must start her again. I've the scent of a
hound, Tom.”
“A good quality. Not wanted now, however
I will tell you what it is.” And he told the whole
story.
“A pretty child you, to quarrel with your bread
show his spirit, for the sake of getting a broken
head? You must put yourself under my care. I see
no reason why we should not live pleasantly enough
without the old folks, till your father repents; which
I warrant you will be shortly. In the mean time,”
said Isaac, scanning Tom as he spoke,” “there must
be a change from top to toe.”
“I have no money,” said Tom.
“I have, though,” said Isaac; “so give yourself
no concern.” Tom coloured. He had not thought
of this before. Isaac burst into a loud laugh.
“Give me leave,” said he, as soon as he could
speak. “Why, you look as you did when caught by
your master stealing his rod. There is no other way
for you — if you wo'nt suffer me a trifling favour,
you must bilk the tailor.”
“I tell you what,” said Tom; “I would be under
such obligations to no man living but you. And I
like not that even. Money favours are but poor bonds
of friendship.”
“Pshaw,” said Isaac, “your father will pay all;
and should he be stiff about it, if I credit him, and
lose, what's that to you? So, now for a merry year or
two to come.”
“Not so fast,” said Tom; “I want your assistance,
but in another way. You have influential friends.
I did not come here for sport. I am for sea, and sea
fights.” Isaac gave him a questioning look. “'T is
even so, I'm set upon it, Isaac.”
“Well then, so be it. But first, come, see my
guardian.”
Isaac was right in his conjecture about Mr. Thornton.
His wife's anxiety concerning the fate of her
unjust towards him, led the old gentleman to write to
Isaac's uncle; for he had little doubt whither Tom
had gone. Mr. Beckford stated, in his answer, Tom's desire to go into the navy; and it was concluded that
Tom should have a moderate supply of money, and
be furthered in his intent, without knowing any thing
of his father's share in the business. Isaac therefore
appeared as principal, and he took care to increase
his influence by it; but he could not turn Tom from his purpose, and he did not like to thwart his rich
uncle.
Thornton's mind was so full of ships and the seas,
of fights and promotion, that Isaac saw it was impossible
to sink him in dissipation at once. “Whatever
is that lad's object,” said Beckford, “is a passion with
him for the time. I must give him line.”
“Are you going to run me through, Tom?”
“I was only boarding the enemy.”
“That coat is of the true cut, Tom.”
“It sits no more to the shape of a man, than to a
partridge. When I am admiral, Isaac, — as I shall
be” —
“God save you, admiral!”
“I'll do.”
“What will you do?”
“Pay you the tailor's bill, for having made me such
a thing to show clothes on. Let's to the ship. — She
sits on the water,” said Tom, as they were carried
towards her, “as if she were born of the sea. And
then again so tall, and light, and graceful, she seems
a creature of the air.” —
A few days before sailing, he received a guarded
letter from his mother. He threw it angrily upon the
eye of my father.” And he wrote an answer full of
affection and high hopes.
As Tom had always resolved to command a ship of
war, he had made good use of his time at school to learn
all but what practice gives. With a quick insight
into whatever he turned his attention to, his many and
appropriate inquiries and close and wide observation
soon made him familiar with all that could be acquired
in port, and to be ready for much that the sea would
teach him.
There was a stiff breeze and a clear blue sky, and
the air was radiant with the sun, when he bade farewell
to Isaac. Tom's brave, fiery, open temper, made
young Beckford's sly, cautious, and vicious disposition
seem despicable and weak even to himself, and
he was fixed upon revenge. He was one of that race
who carry a hell within them — who, belonging to the
rank of ordinary beings, and wanting the bold and
sustaining spirit of open hostility, bear secret hate to
all above them.
“This is life,” said Tom, as he stood looking out
on the ocean. “The unseen winds make music over
head; the very ship rejoices in the element in which
she moves; and the sea on which we are opening,
looking limitless as eternity, heaves as if there were
life in it.”
Tom had high notions of a ship's discipline, and
submitted with a good grace. “And so will I
be obeyed,” thought he, “when my turn comes.”
Though among his fellow-officers his manner was too
impetuous, yet there was something so hearty and
frank in it, that they could not take offence. He
exacted perfect obedience where he commanded, but
of experienced officers; nor did he suffer the slightest
thing which could be of use, to escape his observation.
He visited foreign ports; and with a curiosity
all alive and perpetually gratified, this earth was like
a new world to him.
At last came the news of a war, and Tom rubbed
his hands like an epicure over a smoking dinner. “A
bloody battle, and I shall mount, — or fall, and another
walk over me: all the same to the world.” At last
was given the cry of `A sail;' and Tom saw a ship
ahead rising up, as it were, slowly and steadily out of
the sea, as she neared. As she tacked to the wind,
he gazed upon her almost with rapture. — “Queen of
the sea, cried he, “how silently and beautifully and
stately she bears herself!”
“A heavy ship,” said an older officer.
“She's a superb bird of passage,” answered Tom,
“fit messenger for the gods. 'T is a pity; but we
must bring her down.” — A distant fire was opened.
He looked disappointed and impatient that so little
was done.
“You will be gratified to your heart's content presently,
young man. We shall have no boys' play to-day.”
“Nor do I want it. Let it come hot and heavy.”
And his eye brightened and spirits rose, the harder
and closer the fight.
In the midst of this, the enemy's mainmast swayed
once or twice, then came a crash and a cry, and it
went by the board. Tom shuddered, and shut his
eyes convulsively, as he saw the poor fellows go with
it. All was in a moment forgotten, when the ship he
was in, falling on the other's bow, the cry, `to board,'
the spring of a tiger. They gave way. He was
foremost through the fight, with a wet brow and
clotted hand. In a few minutes the deck was cleared
of all but the dead and dying. All was bustle and
joy on one side; and Tom's heart swelled, when the
captain in his warmth shook him heartily by the hand.
But no one envied him, so meekly did he bear it. He
stepped back a little. A dying man gave his last groan
at his feet. Tom started, and looking down, saw the
sightless, open eyes of the dead man turned up toward
him. It shrunk his very heart up. “And has this
been my sport?” said he. “God forgive me.” Tom
went home, as one of the officers of the prize, with a
high commendation of his conduct.
“I am worn with this incessant heave of the sea,”
said he, as he hung over the ship's side, “and long
to be ashore, and smell the earth again, and mix in
the occupations of men. The moon shines as fair
here, and looks as happy, showing her dimpled face
in the water, as if she had all the world to worship
her. The sky and earth hold blessed and silent communion,
which we, who crawl about here, think not
of. Would I could share in it, and mingle with the
air, and be all a sensation too deep for sound — a
traveller among the stars, and filled with light. I am
a thing of clay—a creature of sin,” he murmured,
as he turned, and went to the cabin.
The rim of the sea was of gold, when the sun was
wheeled slowly up, and burnished the whole ocean.
The light flashed up into the cabin windows. Thornton's
soul enlarged itself as he looked out upon this
life of the world. Going upon deck, he found an
officer there.
“What, up before me?”
“Yes, I have been watching the harbour light, till
it went out like the morning star.” Tom turned,
and the gay islands that lay softly upon the sea,
looked to him like messengers sent to welcome him to
land; and as he made the shore, even the dark rocks
seemed sociable, as if they had come down to meet
him. He landed with an exulting spirit amidst the
cheers of the populace, and hearty congratulations of
the few acquaintances he had formerly left behind.
Isaac was not among them; and upon inquiry, Thornton
learned that he was out of town at old Mr. Beckford's,
late his guardian. As soon as Tom could leave
the city, he drove out thither.
As he dashed along with a speed that made the
fields and trees appear hurrying by him, he thought
of the time when he trudged the same road a-foot, and
an outcast, and not noticed of a passer-by. “I
always felt that I should rise, and make men look up
at me; and I will be higher yet ere long. Neither
will it be a gallows elevation, as my father prophesied
in his anger. What a triumph I have gained over
them! They shall not fail to hear of it in full, and
that shortly. What a selfish wretch am I! Whose
hearts, in all the world, will be prouder and gladder
than their's at my success?” — He whirled up the
circular way to the house, and sprang to the ground
as light as if buoyed by the air. There was one who
saw him from behind the window curtain. “What a
gallant fellow!” she cried. “He descended to the
earth like one of the gods. What a form! Who can
it be? It must be young Thornton. Yes, the whole
face tallies with what I've heard of his daring and
impetuous character. Heigh-ho, I wonder what 's
become of Mr. Henley. I hope he has not broken his
at once.”
Tom followed the servant, and came so suddenly
upon Isaac, that he was not prepared to make his usual
demonstrations of joy. Tom felt it for an instant. But
Isaac, seeing his error, began repairing it, by asking
question after question, hardly giving Tom time to
answer one of them, and expressing all the while the
warmest joy at his success.
“Well, Tom, half a dozen years have done much
for you.”
“Yes, and I mean that six to come shall do
more.”
“Well resolved, as usual, and surely, I have no
doubt; for you have fire and skill to melt and cast to
your liking. Come along, and take a look at my fair
cousin — cousin I call her, though a third remove.
But, have a care, my boy, for her worn out rake of a
husband knows what a woman is, and has a lynx's
eye.”
There is nothing better calculated to put a man in
a woman's power, than bidding him be on his guard
against her; for he at once imagines that he may be
an object of interest to her, and that there is something
in her worth being a slave to.
When Thornton entered the room, the sun was
down, but the deep clouds were on fire with his light
and threw their warm glow upon a rich crimson sofa,
on which rested, clad in white drapery, the beautiful
Mrs. Henley. She was leaning on her elbow which
sunk into a cushion, raising her a little, and giving a
luxurious curvature to the body, and showing the
limbs in all their fine proportions and fulness. Her
wrist, a little bent, shone with a dazzling whiteness,
a costly book. Her fairy foot, in a white satin
slipper, was playing in the deep flounce of the sofa,
and as she rose with a pretended embarrassment, the
exquisitely turned ancle glanced for an instant on
Thornton's sight. Something shot through his breast
with the acuteness of an electric shock; and it was
with difficulty that he could give utterance to the
passing compliments. His confusion was not unobserved
by Isaac or the lady; and they were both determined
to turn it to their several purposes; but from
very different motives.
Mrs. Henley lived in Isaac's neighbourhood long
before her marriage; and her fine person and beautiful
face, and the slow, wavy outline which deep passion
gave to her movements, had excited in him, to
an intense degree, all that he was capable of feeling
for a woman. The loose and evil passions were strong
in him; and as he was withouttrue courage, he gratified
them by ingenuity and trick. When such persons
are understood, the men despise, and the women
loathe them. All his endeavours to ingratiate himself
with his cousin, only made him the more disgusting
to her; for when he was most intent upon
pleasing her, his manner was a mixture of fawning
and condescension, which moved her contempt and
touched her pride. Sometimes she revenged herself
by cold disdain, at others, by turning him to ridicule
with her playful and ready wit. But Isaac could
submit to be trodden on, so he could gain his object,
or compass his revenge; and he swore Fanny should
be Mrs. Beckford, or rue the day she married another.
He had failed in his first purpose, and was now
wholly bent on vengeance. He saw the effect that
Isaac's plan was formed; and though he
had determined to make Tom a mere instrument for
his own end, he hated him for that very preference
which had been shown to him, though it made him
more easily his tool.
Fanny, with all her hate of Isaac, would have been
Mrs. Beckford, had no better establishment offered.
She was selfish, of strong passions, regardless of
principles, of unbounded extravagance and ambition,
with a mind somewhat tasteful, yet fond of the showy,
of high spirit, and of quick intellect (which is every
thing in fashionable society,) and with art to appear
whatever she chose to be at the time. She was balancing
in secret the pros and cons of a marriage with
Isaac, when Mr. Henley, who had wasted one fortune
early in life, now suddenly presented himself
with a broken constitution and fretfu disposition, but
with a large estate, to which he had just succeeded;
and she in due time became Mrs. Henley. She soon
devoted herself to spending his fortune, and leaving
him to his doctor and nurse.
“Why, Tom,” said Isaac, in a laughing way, but
with a malignant purpose, “you were as careless and
easy in company of the ladies before you went to sea,
as you were at your whist club; but you look as awkward
now as some Jonathan, who is working himself
up to a tender of himself and kine to a country
maiden. Does the salt water always have such an
effect?”
“If it does,” said Fanny, “there are more virtues
in a sea voyage than I have before heard of; and it
might be a benefit to some whom I had long put
down on the list of incurables.
“Why, coz, one so pretty as you should only shoot
cupid's arrows, and not wound us with those of wit.”
“'T is pity it should have mischiefed you; I but
shot it o'er the house.”
“And wounded your brother.”
“Something too much akin, that, Isaac.”
“Then you are not for the platonics?”
“Not with a handsome youth like you.” — Isaac
bit his lip; and Tom laughed.
“Why, Isaac, did I ever before see you so foiled?
Your have grown dull since I left you. Have your
wits sharpened — have them sharpened, Isaac.”
“So do, Isaac, and on your heart,” she whispered;
“it will serve.”
“I will,” he muttered to himself, “and to your cost,
you shall find, ye silly ones.”
At that moment Mr. Henley entered, leaning on
the arm of old Mr. Beckford, who, now far advanced
in life, was of a cheerful, fresh and benevolent aspect,
Mr. Beckford shook Thornton heartily by the hand,
and welcomed him well ashore. The other was a tall,
stooping, gaunt figure, with a sallow and thin face,
dark, hanging eyebrows and a glancing, cautious eye.
With all this, he showed the remains of a handsome
person, and was what is commonly called a polished
gentleman. He received Tom with a courtly distance.
“My dear,” said his wife, affecting concern, “you
don't know how uneasy I have been about you.”
“Perhaps not,” he replied, without seeming to
regard her.
“I am really afraid you have caught your death
this cool evening.”
“O, you are too anxious about me, he answered;
I do not feel myself dying quite yet.” Tom ground
replies.
They met at breakfast. The rich evening dress
was changed for a simple robe; and Fanny looked
as fresh as if she had bathed in the dew of roses.
When the uncle and the husband were out of the way,
Isaac gave such a turn to the conversation, as would
lead to his object. Then he proposed a walk in the little
wood near the house; and when they had entered it,
suddenly remembered some particular business, and
left Tom and Mrs. Henley together. The light shawl
caught in the branches, and what less could Tom do,
than adjust it carefully over the finest shoulders in the
world, unless we except the Venus — but hers are not
living shoulders. There was a brook to pass, and an
unsightly tree lying rudely across the path, and last of
all happened that fatal though common accident —
and the shoe lacing was seen trailing the ground.
Before many days Tom had lost all control over
himself. He had but one feeling and one thought.
Isaac saw that affairs were going too fast. “The
husband will be upon the trail and the sport be all
up. We must have doublings and crossings!
The husband was not so quicksighted as Isaac feared.
He had always been jealous of his wife, and
not without reason. Jealousy, however, like most
passions, discriminates but poorly; and Mr. Henley
had been as much alarmed and as impatient at little
circumstances, a thousand times before, as he was at
what was passing now.
The uncle who was a looker-on, and knew well the
wife's character and Tom's ardent temperament, joined
with Isaac, though from opposite motives, in urging
Tom to hasten his visit to his father from whom he
not lost his affection for his parents, but he was completely
infatuated. Day after day was fixed for
the visit, and it was as many times put off. “I will
propose going with him, and to-morrow,” said Isaac to
himself. “I am not ready for the catastrophe. He
must be more in my power. He must rake, he must
game, he must want money.” For the passion which
Isaac saw in his cousin, for young Thornton, had
worked up towards him the hate of a fiend.
After much urging, Tom was ready, and they
started. It was in vain that Isaac endeavoured to
draw him into conversation. At length his home appeared
in sight. It gave Tom the first happy feeling
he had been conscious of since leaving Beckford
house. It was with sincere joy he saw his parents,
and his mother's tears touched his heart. With all his
affection, he grew restless in a day or two, and pleaded
his duties as a reason for his return. The old gentleman
had received from Mr. Beckford a letter hinting
at Tom's dangerous situation. He took his son aside,
and talked kindly and earnestly with him upon the
subject. Tom at first denied that there was any thing
to fear. “Look carefully into your heart,” said his
father. Tom did, and then swore that he would think
no more of her. — “Oaths will not do it, my son; the
mind must be bent up to fly the temptation, or you
run to your ruin.” — He promised to himself and to
his father that he would; but the next day hastened
to it with speed of fire. — “I cannot show her indifference
at meeting, but at least I will appear composed,”
thought he.
Upon reaching the house, Isaac went immediately
to his chamber, and Thornton, upon entering the
hastily towards him; then shrinking back, and glowing
with what Tom took for shame, let fall her beautifully
fringed lids. He spoke in a tremulous voice.
She uttered a broken word or two; then lifting her
eyes to his, showed them drinking deep of passion.
He would that instant have folded her to him, but a
step was heard in the room. He darted out of the house,
muttering between his teeth something about his
disappointment, and a curse on the fool who caused it.
He walked on, his brain maddened with the tumult
of passions within him. He was not sensible whither
he was going, till he suddenly saw at his feet the
grave of Sally Wentworth. He recoiled from it like
a fallen angel from the presence of the holy; and his
abominations rose up black and awful before him.
He felt like an outcast from heaven; as if the very
dead condemned him, and shut him out as a creature
unfit to lie down to rest with them.
“The dead, the dead, no passions are torturing
them; but shall I ever shake off mine?” He was
leaning upon the grave stone, — his eyes fixed on the
grave, — shuddering at his own passions, and thinking
on the quiet below him, when some one spoke. —
“Thomas Thornton,” said the voice “it is well for us
to be here.” He turned suddenly, and met the solemn,
but mild countenance of Sally's mother. She observed
the dark expression of his face.
“That should not be the face of one who holds communion
with the dead. What ails thee, man? Thou
lookest like one condemned for his crimes, yet afraid
to die. It is an awful thing so to live, as to fear to die.”
“It is not death I fear, good mother, it is life, — it
is myself.”
“And dare you fear to live, and yet not dread to
die, Thornton? There is a double and a woful curse
upon thee then.”
“Do not you curse me, and standing here, too,
lest the dead sanction it.”
“I curse thee? She that lies here, cursed not
him that brought misery upon her. Neither would I,
thee. It becomes not us to condemn one another.
But I fear for you, Thornton, I fear for you. And
did I not, the morning you left me, warn you take
heed to your passions? — I cannot talk with others
here,” she said, looking on her daughter's grave. —
She turned away, and he followed her.
“I have looked to see you, day after day,” she continued,
as they walked towards the house; “for I
have taken more concern in you, than I ever thought
to again in fellow-mortal. It has been whispered me,
how you left home the night you knocked at my door;
and it did my heart good to hear, a few days ago, that
you had gone to see your father and mother. Nor for
that alone was I glad, but that it might break the web
which I saw a subtle spider weaving round you.”
Thornton coloured. “You have not darkened this
door,” said she, as they drew up to the cottage. “My
eye has been upon you, nevertheless, at the house
yonder.” They both turned toward it.
“'T is she!” cried out Thornton, “Where can she
have been?”
“Here, no doubt, and for no good purpose, I fear.
For little have I seen of her for months past; and now
she has but just missed you,” added the old woman,
casting a look of rebuke upon Tom. His cheek
flushed a burning red; but his eager and impatient
eye was fixed, like a hound in leash, on the figure at
forward. “How this heath opens wide round
about her, that the world may see her move! I must
be gone, good mother.”
“Hold, hold!” said the old woman, laying her
hand on his arm, and fastening her eye on his fiery
countenance, “Art mad?”
“Mad? Ay, mad as the winds. She'll be beyond
reach instantly. I must go.”
“By the spirit of her whose grave you just stood
by, I bid you stay.” — His hands fell powerless, but
his eye still rested on the object. She was ascending
a rising ground; and as she reached the top of it, and
her form appeared against a burnished evening sky,
her long purple mantle waving in the winds, “She
touches not earth,” he cried, “but moves in glory
amidst the very clouds.”
“Monster!” cried the old woman, in a tone of horror,
“can you look yonder, and worship any but
God?” The voice went through him like a word from
heaven.
“Mother, forgive me,” said he, humbled and
ashamed.
“Ask forgiveness of Him you have offended, and
not of me.” As she looked upon him, her heart
yearned towards him as a mother's for her child. —
He raised his eyes timidly towards the west once
more, but she, whom he sought, had gone down the
hill, and was out of sight. His countenance fell.
“Would that she could pass so from your mind!”
“Would that I could be taught to wish it,” he murmured.
“Turn then,” said she, pointing to the sky, “and
learn to love the works that God has made, and still
messengers to us, the ministers of his power, the revealers
of his love for us. To rejoice in them, to
feel the heart thus moved by them, is true worship.
O! I have stood, at an hour like this, and looked, till I
have thought the light of heaven was opening upon
me, and God was near me.” — She turned once more
toward Thornton. His countenance had become
calm and elevated. — “My son, could you learn to
fill yourself with such thoughts as are now within you,
the allurements of the world would be a tasteless
show to you. But the heart must love something, —
it must be sin or goodness.” — There was a short
pause. At last said the old woman, “She you hunt
after is another's. She vowed herself his at the altar;
and if it is a stain on her soul, would it for that be
less a sin in you to wrong him?”
“I would wrong no man,” said Thornton.
“What! can you say how far you will go, when
you cannot stop now?”
“I will, I will, even now.”
“Beware that you stumble not through too much
confidence. Turn away from the temptation; for she
who tempts you, I fear, is eager to draw you on. I
would not speak it of her but for your good;” said the
old woman, the colour coming to her pale cheek —
“for she was my foster-child, and has slept in these
arms, and I loved her next to my own. But ambition
and vanity and all unchecked passions have been busy
at her heart. It was for houses and lands and a high
place in the world, that she bartered herself; and
she who will do that by holy covenant, may one day
do it without bond. You are now going into the
world again; but carry with you, if you would have
keep it with you, so will heaven bless you.”
He grasped her hand; and then turned and walked
homeward. She looked after him till he was lost in
the twilight; then shut her door with a misgiving
heart.
Thornton went directly to his chamber. He was
afraid of Isaac's ridicule, and dared not trust himself
with a sight of Mrs. Henley. He was melancholy
and humble; but there was a virtue in his state of
mind, which made him less impatient of himself than
he had been for many weeks past. He thought of
the widow and her daughter — of death, and what is
to come, and his passions subsided, and the storm of
the mind seemed clearing and settling away, and he
had the quiet sleep of a good man. But the light
and stir of day, which scatter our resolves and fill us
with the present, came on; and the gay and beautiful
vision of Fanny broke upon him with the morning sun.
He sprang from bed; and in his eagerness to hasten
down stairs, every thing was out of place, and fretting
him with delay. None but the domestics were up. He
walked out a few steps, returned, then went out again;
and thus continued till the breakfast hour arrived. He
met only Mr. Beckford and Isaac at table. His eye
was constantly on the door. — “Mr. Henley and lady
left us about dusk last night, for the city,” said the
old gentleman. Thornton's countenance changed. —
“I fear you will never be a gallant,” said Isaac.
“To think that you should not be here, to bid so fair
a lady farewell! But you may make such amends as
you can, for we all move town-ward to-morrow.”
The next day they reached the city. — “Make yourself
ready,” said Isaac, “for we are to go to Henley's
streets, the brilliantly lighted shops, the gay faces and
the talk within them, and then the shadow of a building
thrown in straight line across the pavement, and
some one stealing through it in silence, gave a sudden
contrast, and a strange mixture of open gayety,
and mysterious stillness to the scene, which excited
Thornton's mind, at the same time that he felt a cautiousness
stealing over him. Then was heard the
distant rumbling of a carriage. Presently it would
shoot by them with a stunning rattling of the wheels,
and sharp clatter of the horses' hoofs, now and then
striking fire, and all would die away again in the
darkness and distance.
They at length reached the superb mansion of Mr.
Henley. It was like entering into broad daylight.
It shone like a fairy palace in the Arabian Nights.
And there stood Mrs. Henley under a large chandelier,
richly and splendidly dressed; her fair skin
sparkling with an almost metallic brightness, and her
eyes full of light and action. At the first glance she
coloured; but recovering herself with a practised
readiness, gave Thornton a frank welcome, at the
same time introducing him to the circle about her.
Those who observed his confusion, set it down to
bashfulness, and as such, passed it by. She was in
full spirits, talked much and brilliantly; and his fine
figure and face, his honest vehemence and hearty good
nature, drew round them the choicest part of the company.
Then came the dance with all its windings
and wavy motions; and her soft hand rested too long
in his. The fingers of each trembled, and told what
they should not. The flame was again lighted up
within him, and it rose and swept along with the rush
as Isaac dared let him; and was at last half drawn
away by him from the house. He passed the remainder
of the night, at one time calling himself a madman
and villain, and then, in his hot impatience, swearing
that no earthly power should bar him his way. The
thought of her now fully possessed him. She saw the
power she had over him, and loved it too well to risk
it, by too easily yielding to his passion. He had no
rest out of her presence, followed her wherever she
went, and was at her house morning and evening.
“Tom,” said Isaac, one day, “do you know that
the world begin to talk about you, and my sweet coz?”
“I care not for their talk. What have they to do
with me or with her?”
“Much, my young blood, so long as you make a
part of the world. And it is something to me, Tom,
and touches me nearly. You know not your danger;
but I must not let you bring disgrace upon any of our
relations, however distant. Besides, the husband
grows suspicious; and would you spill his blood, or
throw so fine a girl out from fortune?”
“God forbid,” said he warmly. “Yet, I know
not, Isaac, — my power over myself is gone. Save
me, save me.”
“And so I will, if you will be a man. We must
change the scene; and you shall see some good fellows,
and be as merry as ever, I warrant you. Come
along with me.”
Tom followed as if his self-will was lost. He
talked and laughed and had his joke, and was called
a lad of spirit. He drank to excess, and grew restiff.
The cool Isaac kept an eye upon him, without being
observed, and took him off in time. “This will suffice
will minister a little more freely next time.”
Thornton waked languid, and full of remorse; still
he found himself in a few hours at Henley's house.
Isaac did not try to prevent it. He was only retarding
the accomplishment of Tom's wishes, that he
might ruin him altogether. Then came more riot and
excess, and lastly, gambling. And Tom played rashly
and lost; for he was trying to fly from himself, and
cared not for fortune. And Isaac lent him money
now and then, and oftener found other friends to
furnish him. — All was ripening for Isaac's purposes.
In the midst of this, Tom received a letter from his
father, written in the anguish of the mind, and calling
upon his son, if he would not blast an old man's hopes,
to leave the city and come to him. The letter spoke
of Tom's mother, her distress, and the fondness with
which, in the midst of it, she clung to her only child.
Tom stamped upon the floor, with vexation and shame;
cursing himself as the vilest wretch alive. “I will
go to them,” cried he, “I'll go, by to-morrow's light.”
The morning came, and then he thought of taking an
eternal farewell, and the like. He lingered, and Mrs.
Henley's carriage drove by. There was a familiar
nod, and a smile, and his resolutions were again gone
with the wind. That night he played, and lost, and
grew angry almost to madness. Then came a duel.
He was wounded, and called a man of honour.
In a few days, however, he was able to visit at
Henley's. Nothing interests a fashionable woman half
so much, as a genteel young fellow with his arm in a
sling, particularly if he received his hurt in a duel.
Mrs. Henley turned pale when she saw Thornton;
spoke breathingly of his wound, and asked a thousand
too low, methinks; let me shorten the handkerchief.”
And standing by his side, her arms were round his
neck, as she was trying to untie the knot. Their
hearts beat quick. Thornton could control himself
no longer, but pressed her madly to him. Her head
sunk upon his shoulder, while she murmured that he
would be her ruin. There were vows of eternal love,
and protestations of honour, and an assignation. The
last at least, was not kept, for Mr. Henley left town
early the next day, compelling his wife to accompany
him. He had heard and seen enough to raise his
suspicions. He did not want courage to call Tom
out, but relished little the thought of being pointed at
as the unhappy man who had been engaged in an affair
of honour with his wife's friend.
When Thornton called in the morning, the house
was shut up. He rung, but no one came to the door.
After walking some time before the house, he returned
to inquire of Isaac whither they had gone. Isaac
could only conjecture. Tom uttered the direst imprecations
upon the jealous dolt's head. Isaac affected
to be amused at Tom's wrath.
“Why, the wench has jilted you, my young sprig.
You stood shill-I-shall-I too long.” But he bit his
lips, and swore inwardly; for all his plotting had come
to nothing.
“I'll hunt them the world through,” cried Tom,
“ere I'll be thus thwarted.”
He went to his chamber, and found on his table a
letter showing the greatest alarm in his mother, for
his father's life. “What! does death cross between
me and her,” exclaimed he, wildly. His blood curdled
with horror at the thought of what he had uttered. —
agony of the passions fighting within him. “Let me
be gone, let me be gone from this place of sin.” He
reached home in time to close his father's eyes and
lay him in his grave. There was something more
than grief in him for his father's death. It was the
fear that he had hastened it on. “He was proud of
me,” said Tom to himself, “harebrained as I was.
And I gave him hope, and in the midst of it, let a
woman, who perhaps has forgotten me, cut it off; and
I have laid him in his grave, sorrowful and disappointed.
He had a soul of honour; and I, who was
his son, did all I could to wound him.”
The grief of his mother and her imploring helplessness
took Thornton's mind off from its regret and
painful thoughts, while it softened his heart, and laid
it open to those kind and gentle affections, against
which it had for a long time been shut. His manner
to her was as mild, and soothing, and regardful, as if
no headlong passions had ever stirred him: There
was something almost parental in it. And when the
time came that he should adjust his father's affairs,
in order to go to sea again, he was delicate and generous
towards his mother, to an extreme.
When the hour arrived for him to leave her, she
hung round him, and wept bitterly. “There is now
no one in all the earth left for me to lean upon, but
you, Thomas; and my soul cleaves to you as all
betwixt me and death. Remember your fond old
mother, when you are gone from her. You will
think of me on the seas, but, forgive me, Tom, you
may not in the city.”
“Think not so hardly of me, my mother; my heart is
not all seared yet. Can I lose all thought of you
from his lash, “It is I who have made you so soon to
be alone? No, I will remember you not only in sorrow
and in hours of solitude and thoughtfulness, but
bear you with me in my daily life, and think how dear
are a mother's pride and joy in a good son.”
And when he left her, he begged her blessing with
as submissive and meek a feeling as ever entered
man's soul. Intimate affections and beautiful thoughts
were forever shooting up within him; but his passions
would sweep over them like a strong wind, and leave
them torn and dead in the dust.
He reached the city a few days before sailing.
His composed, serious manner awed Isaac, and made
him hate him more than ever. Thornton discharged
his debts contracted with money-lenders, and found
enough left out of his father's estate to pay Isaac.
Isaac would have put off receiving it. — “I shall never
forget your kindness,” said Tom. “But I cannot see
why you would keep a friend under such an obligation,
and that too unnecessarily, and against his will.”
Isaac took the money without farther parley, with a
resolution of perseverance in Tom's ruin, which, in a
good cause, would have done honour to a saint.
Thornton more than once passed Henley house, as
he strolled out in the night; and he would stand and
look toward it, till the bright figure of her he thought
on grew luminous to his mind; and he would follow
it till his eyeballs ached, as it past off into the darkness.
The passion had been laid for a time, but only
to burst out more violently than ever. Before, it
took possession of him in the uproar of the mind, but
now, it had become mixed with his deepest sensations
and most serious purposes.
In a few days the ship bore him from shore. He
was gone two years; but in all countries, through the
hot and successful fight, in storm and calm, the sense
of this woman clung to him like his very being. And
when at last, he once more spied the gay city rising
as it were out of the water, he leaped, like a child,
for joy. — “Neither man, nor land, nor sea, shall
keep me from her longer. Some devil may have possessed
me, but I cannot, I will not struggle any more.
She's mine, come on't what may.” — And he was
given over to his terrible passions, with little to thwart
them; for he found the elegant Mrs. Henley a gay
and splendid widow.
Thornton had returned, it was true, without money,
but then he had the grandest face and figure in the
world, and he was the talk of every body. Besides,
as fascinating as the widow was, few men liked her
extravagant and high spirit.
Isaac put in for her favours, and was repulsed.
He was silent, but the wound rankled. Old Mr.
Beckford warned Thornton. Tom grew angry and
avoided him; and Isaac helped on the match without
appearing to do so. The old gentleman gave Mrs.
Thornton notice; and she wrote to her son, imploring
him to come to her, or, at least, not to plunge himself
headlong into ruin. She called upon him in the
name of his father, and as he cared for her life. It
was all in vain; he would hear nothing, he would see
nothing; he was married, and undone.
For a time, all was blaze and motion and sound.
No house was furnished like the dashing Mrs. Thornton's,
no parties half so splendid; and no dinners so
costly, and got up in such taste, as the Thorntons'; and
no one drove such a four-in-hand. And if high life
to live than the Thorntons. But it becomes our disease,
it breaks up our thoughts, and kills our hearts,
and makes what should be individual and fresh in us,
common and stale. Politeness becomes feigning,
and the play of the affections is lost in the practice of
forms.
Thornton began soon to find it so; and to relieve
its satiety, he pushed father into excesses. A kind
of feeling, too, rather than reflection, was growing up
in him, that beauty, and high spirits, and a bright,
ready intellect in a woman, would not stand in the
stead of principle, and delicacy, and a fond heart.
His pride also was hurt, that instead of being looked
up to with kind regard, he was treated rather as an
important part in a splendid establishment; that his
fine person was praised, and elegant manners admired,
and even his very mind valued, just so far as they
served for an ornament, and a help to notoriety.
He received frequent letters from his mother complaining
of his seldom writing, and of his not coming to
visit her in her deserted state. She spoke of her low
spirits, her feeble health, and her concern for him.
Melancholy reflections were made, of a general nature,
but such as he well knew how to apply to himself.
He saw that her love of him, her disappointment
and anxiety, were wearing her away; and the
awful thought that he was hurrying her to the grave,
crossed him in his riot and excess.
His power over himself was gone; he had become
the slave of his passions; and they bore him along
with a never resting swiftness. He found the woman,
for whom he had sacrificed all that was worthy in his
character, selfish and regardless of his feelings. The
the craving appetite of a diseased man; and Isaac
was always a friend at hand, to assist him. His wife
was no less extravagant than he; and at last came
borrowing and mortgages; and squandering seemed
to increase as their fortune lessened. He ran into
gaming to retrieve his circumstances, but with galled
feelings and a fevered brain; and it made his condition
the more desperate.
Isaac's spirits rose, as he saw Thornton sinking.
He assisted him as before in procuring loans, and lent
him money besides. — “The day is near,” said Isaac,
to himself, “in which I shall live to see that lordly
spirit brought down. And my other end shall be compassed
too, let it cost me ever so dear. Yes, my
proud madam must be supported in her magnificence;
but the scorned and loathed Isaac must be wooed then
like the dearest of men. What care I, though she
feign it like the commonest of her sex, while in the
bitterness of her heart, she secretly curses me in the
midst of it? Does it not make fuller my revenge!”
And on he went, wily and playfully, to his object.
Though he had a spirit of avarice not to be glutted,
yet he would throw out his wealth like water, to sate
his hate or lust. He caused information of Thornton's
circumstances to be given to one of the creditors.
He took care to be at the house when service
was made. Thornton's wrath was beyond all bounds;
he threatened the officer's life, swore it was his wife
who had brought him to disgrace and ruin, and cursed
his folly that he had ever married. She said something
sneeringly about half-pay officers. Tom's eyes
flashed fire, and Isaac became mediator. — “Upon
my word, Thornton, my dear friend, you must command
be on you, like harpies. For heaven's sake, command
yourself. — My dear Sir, how great is the
debt? Upon my soul, no trifling sum. Let me see —
I have a deposit for a certain purpose. I must contrive
to meet that in another way; my friend must not
be ruined thus.” He made himself answerable to
the officer. — “And here, Tom, you must give this
as hush-money to the man. You have used him too
roughly.” — All this was done in the presence of the
wife.
Affairs had now nearly reached the worst; and
Thornton's disappointments and troubles had almost
made a madman of him. When heated with wine, or
loss at play, his rage made him dangerous, and he
became the dread of his companions. Nothing but
Isaac's plausible and smooth manner had any control
over him; and with Isaac, Thornton was like a tiger
with his keeper.
Old Mr. Beckford, with the best intentions, frequently
wrote Tom's mother about him. It only served
to hasten the wretched woman's decline, and drive
him on the faster, that he might shake off the remorse
which his mother's letters caused him.
Isaac never shut his eyes upon his object; and as
Tom's utter ruin drew on, and the time had nearly
come for Isaac's fulfilling his plans, and accomplishing
his last wish, it required all the hypocrisy of his nature
not to break his purpose too soon to the wife.
He knew that he had no strong virtue to struggle
against, but something as stubborn, a woman's dislike.
And he played his part well; he was humble, he was
grieved for their situation, he spoke timidly of his long
contest with himself to overcome his love for her, and
saw scorn on her lip. Then he spoke of his fortune,
and his wish that he had been worthy to have saved
such a woman from poverty, and the neglect which a
hard world might one day show her. And so he
wound his way.
She hid not her contempt from him; she scrupled
not to say that it was dread of poverty and of a fall
from high life, that made her yield to the man she despised;
that she had seen through his designs long
ago. Still he supplied her with money to support her
extravagance; and she made him throw her husband's
obligations into the fire, before her, with his own
hands. She yielded, and the man obtained that for
which he had hunted hard for years, and the devil
had his triumph.
It lasted not long. Thornton's suspicions were
awakened. He did not burst out in fury. Every
passion within him settled down into a deathlike stillness.
His mind seemed suddenly to take all the
shrewdness and ingenuity of the crazed in effecting
their object. And he traced out, step by step, the
windings of the subtle Isaac.
At last, he tracked him to the place of assignation.
The entrance was barred. He broke it down with the
strength of an enraged giant. Isaac fled through
another passage, as Thornton entered. Thornton
heeded not his wife; his soul was bent up to a single
purpose, and that a terrible one, and he saw no other
object in the world. He followed with the speed of
lightning; but passing swiftly by a narrow, dark side-passage,
through which Isaac had escaped, missed
his prey. He wound through the passages of the
house, with the eagerness of a blood-hound, — then
house. He asked of the servants, in a composed
manner, for Mr. Beckford. He had gone out some
time before, and had not returned. Thornton saw
that they were not deceiving him. He walked the
city the rest of the day, and returned at night to prepare
himself for a journey, for he then concluded that
Isaac must have left town. In a little while he was
ready; but passed the night in further search. In
going to and from the house, he did not seem to be
sensible of the absence of his wife, or so much as to
recollect that he had one.
In the course of the morning, he learned that one of
Beckford's best horses was missing. In an instant
he was mounted, and was soon out of sight of the city.
Yet he could only conjecture Isaac's route. He continued
his pursuit till about night-fall, in perfect silence,
and with his mind full of undefined thoughts of
vengeance.
He was riding along a dangerous, narrow track,
near the edge of a precipice, at the foot of which was
running a swift current, when, just as he was turning
the corner of a rock, his horse's head suddenly crossed
the neck of another horse, held by a man who
was walking cautiously by his side. Though it was
growing dark, and the man was muffled, Thornton
knew him the instant his eye fell upon him; and springing
to the ground, with a shout, stood full before Isaac.
The great coat fell from Isaac's ashy face. He could
neither speak nor move. — “Have I you then?” cried
Thornton, grappling the trembling wretch by the
throat, and lifting him upright off his feet. He gave
a keen glance, for an instant, down the precipice,
without speaking, and then looked doubtingly. — “No,
curse of man,” said he, drawing out his pistols, and
handing one to Isaac. Isaac put out his hand to take
it, without seeming to be conscious of what was to be
done. “Stand there,” said Thornton, “and make
sure your aim, for the last hour of one or both of us is
come.” — Isaac's hand trembled so that his pistol fell
to the ground. — “Have ready, man, or you're gone,”
screamed Thornton, frantic with rage. Isaac could
not move. — “Down then,” cried Thornton; and the
fire of the pistol flashed over Isaac's wild eyes and
convulsed, open jaws. His arms tossed upward in the
agony of terror and death, and he fell over into the
stream. His horse, rearing with fright, plunged with
his master.
Thornton looked over the precipice. Nothing was
to be seen or heard but the whirl and rush of the dark
tide. — “And can we go so quickly from life to death?
Why then should a man live to misery?”
He turned slowly away. The intense longing for
revenge was satisfied, and he was now left feeble as
a child. He mounted his horse with difficulty, and
turned homeward, his brain stunned with horror. At
last his mind grew slowly more distinct; and with the
recollection of what had past, came frightful figures,
which fell away, then suddenly rose again, and spread
themselves close before him. He pressed his eyeballs
till they darted fire, then passed his hand quickly before
his face, as if to drive away what he saw; but
the terrible sight returned upon him.
He delayed entering the city, till about dark the
next day. As he entered it, the sudden change from
the quiet of the country to the noise, the quick and
various movements of the crowd, the broken lights and
of his mind, till it so wandered, that he scarcely
knew where he was when he reached his own
door.
He leaned forward on his horse for some time,
trying to regain his self-possession. At last, looking
up at the house, and observing it quite still and dark,
the thought of his wife crossed him, for the first time.
He leaped from his horse, and rushing up the steps,
rang violently at the door. It was opened cautiously
by one he had never seen before; but such was the
state of his mind that he paid no regard to the circumstance.
Throwing open the door of the sitting room,
he found it stripped of all its furniture. He hurried
from room to room; all was bare and deserted. Then
came the dreadful truth upon him, that he was beggared.
The shock nearly unsettled him.
He ran toward the street door, scarcely knowing
whither he was going, when he was arrested by a
couple of men, for debt. He made no resistance,
but talking incoherently to himself, suffered them to
carry him peaceably to prison. He laid down upon
the bed that was furnished him, and soon fell asleep
as quietly as if in his own house; for both body and
mind had lost their sensibility, through violent effort
and fatigue.
The sun had shot into his prison with a red and
dusty ray, before he awoke; and for a long time he
could not recollect where he was, or what had passed.
“In prison, and for murder, and die on a gallows!”
— The turning of the key roused him a little. —
“My brain's disordered.” — A man handed him a
letter, and left the room. He gazed on it some time,
without noticing whose hand it was.— “My God, my
murderer too!”
Mrs. Thornton had heard from old Mr. Beckford of
the attachment laid upon her son's property immediately
after his leaving the city, and she had written in
a state of mind that showed she could not much longer
endure her sufferings. Mr. Beckford, at her
earnest request, had gone to her. His nephew had
left town unexpectedly; but the only suspicion was
that he had fled with Mrs. Thornton, and that her
husband had now returned, after an unsuccessful
search. Thornton's anguish was dreadful. His
mother dangerously ill, and made so by him, and yet
he not allowed to see her.— “She will die, believing
that I cared not for her; and yet I dare not let her
know why I cannot see her.”
In a day or two came another letter, and from Mr.
Beckford; for the mother was too feeble to write.
Thornton's impatience was now almost maddening.
At times he raved like a maniac, then suddenly sunk
down into a state of torpor, till the remembrance of
his father, his leaving home, the misery he had
brought upon himself and his friends, again rushed
upon him. Then would suddenly appear the face of
Isaac, as he saw him die; and he would spring up,
and stand as if frozen with horror.
This was not to endure long. Mr. Beckford wrote
a letter to him, stating that his release was procured,
and urging him to set off immediately by the conveyance
furnished; for that his mother, unfortunately,
had heard of his imprisonment, and that the shock
had been a violent one to her, in her weak condition.
Thornton was standing in a state of apparent insensibility,
did not notice that any one was in the room; but
when his eye fell upon it, as it was handed to him, he
seized it as a caged lion would his food. He ran his
fiery eyes over it, then shook it from his hand as if it
had been a snake he held.— “This is not her blood,”
muttered he, looking closely at one hand, then at the
other, as if counting the spots. “No, no, this is
Isaac's, I know it well — my old school-fellow, Isaac's
blood.” He stood a few minutes perfectly still, then
pressed his hand to his forehead, as if trying to recollect
himself.— “Where have I been? — Ha! I remember
now.”
“My horse, my horse, — is he ready?” he asked
eagerly of the servant, who was entering the apartment.
“At the gate, Sir. But you are not ready.”
“True, true!” And he suffered the man to equip
him. He looked at himself for a moment, as if not
knowing for what purpose he was so dressed. Then,
as the thought struck him, he darted out of the prison,
and running to the gate, threw himself upon the horse,
and dashing the rowels into his sides, was out of sight
in a moment.
There was now but one purpose in his mind, and
he clung to it with a spasmodic grasp; and the speed
with which he rode, and his intense eagerness, nearly
fired his brain. His eye was fixed on home — he
saw nothing round him — he minded not hill nor hollow.
The horse's nostrils closed and dilated fast, and the
sweat ran down his hoofs, when Thornton came in
sight of the house. Once more he urged him on; —
and then he reached the door. He tossed the reins
off, was in an instant at the head of the stairs.
The chamber door was shut. As he flung it open,
he rushed toward the foot of the bed. On it lay,
with a white sheet over it, the corpse of his mother.
His hands spread, his eyes glared wide, and his hair
stood on end. One shudder passed through his frame
as if it would have snapped every stretched fibre.
Tearing with a grasp the hair from his head, he gave
a shriek, enough to have awakened the dead, and ran,
mad, from the chamber.
Old Mr. Beckford, hearing a noise over-head, stepped
to the parlour door, and saw Thornton coming
down stairs. He called out. Thornton said not a word,
but rushed by him, the hair sticking to his clinched
fingers. As he passed, he turned his eyes on the old
man — the sockets sent out nothing but flame. The
old gentleman followed, trembling, to the door, and
looked out, but he was gone. The noise came and
went like a thunder-clap, and all was still again.
He pushed eagerly on, not regarding whither he
was going; and the horse took the same course Thornton
did the first time he left home.
At last Thornton struck upon the heath, and rode
onward till he came where the way forked. His recollection
returned in an instant. He checked his
horse suddenly, and looked over the track he had once
passed. His lip quivered, and tears stood in his
eyes. “Ages of misery have rolled over me since
then,” said he, looking forward upon the track till it
was lost in the distance. “To the left, to the left,”
cried he to his horse, pressing him on; “for that, I
then said, was ill omen, and now it suits me.”
After Mr. Beckford had laid the unhappy mother
some information concerning her son, he went to the
city to make inquiries about his nephew.
The horse was washed up near the precipice, but
Isaac's body was never found. It was supposed that
the animal had taken fright, and had fallen with his
rider into the stream.
Mrs. Thornton was soon heard of as appearing the
dashing mistress of a young man in a distant city.
Her extravagance and violent temper caused frequent
changes in this sort of connexion, and she soon sank
down into the lowest class of females of her order, and
died as they die.
As no account of Thornton could be gained, it was
conjectured that he had either destroyed himself, or
had wandered away a maniac. It was autumn when
he disappeared; the winter had set in stormy and
cold, and some supposed he might have perished.
In the early part of the day, towards the close of
spring, as the widow Wentworth was taking care of
a brood of chickens just hatched, a man, in a fisher's
garb, drove up to her door. He was seated in a light
horse-cart, old and shattered, and drawn by a small,
lean horse. He inquired whether she could inform
him where lived a woman of the name of Wentworth.
“It is for me you are looking, I suppose, good man.
What is your will?”
“I would ask you to give me a morsel,” said he,
getting down from his cart, “before I tell my errand;
for I have rode ever since daybreak, and it has been
but a chilly morning.”
After finishing his meal, he began as follows: —
“There was a strange young man made his appearance
in our parts last Autumn; and he has been thereabouts
right here,” said the man, touching his forehead;
“but then he would harm nobody, and kept
wandering about all alone; and so we never troubled
him.”
“Well, what of him?” said the old woman eagerly;
— for she immediately conjectured who it might be.
“I fear he's dying,” said the man. “He was
not seen all along shore for many days; and some of
us went to his hut; and there he was lying, looking
like one of the dead. But he was sensible enough
then, and begged that we would find a widow of the
name of Wentworth, (who I thought from his account
must live hereabouts,) and bring her to him before
he died; `for,' said he, `she is the only one of all the
living that has any love for me.' ”
“And did he tell his name?”
“No,” said the man. “We asked him; but he
said it was no matter, and that you would remember
him to whom you told your story, and talked so holily
when the sun was going down. `She'll not have forgotten
it,' he said, `as I did, when I most needed it.' ”
“And think you he's dying?” asked she. — “It
matters not,” she said to herself.
“There must be life in him yet,” replied the fisher.
“I saw the tear glisten in his eye,” she continued
to herself, “when I told him of Sally; and I have
talked with him by her grave; and I will lay him in
the ground, too, when he dies. — Which way, and
how far is it to the place, good man?”
“A dozen miles, or so, due east, as I guess.”
“How am I to get there and back?” asked she.
“Even with me,” he answered; “for this is the
only coach in all our neck of land, and this the only
man's; and he's in no better condition now.”
The old woman having found a friend to take charge
of her house, began her journey.
“We were all out a fishing, except our old woman,”
said the man, as they rode along. “When we got
back, she told us that a young man, a gentleman, and
well dressed, had been to the hut two or three times
for food, and that he always took it away with him.
She would not receive his money, for he appeared
not to be in his right mind. But he never failed leaving
some on the table. Whether or not he knew of
our return, I can't say; but we saw nothing of him,
till one day, passing an old hut which we had left for
a better, we spied him sitting at the door, and his
horse feeding on the coarse grass near it. As soon
as he discovered us, he went in, and he ever shunned
us. We have seen him looking for shellfish among
the rocks, and carrying home wreck-wood for firing.
How he kept himself warm through the nights of
winter, I cannot tell. But for aught we could find,
dried seaweed must have been his bedding. We have
sometimes left food near his hut; and his horse used
now and then to share the scant fare of this pony
here; for I could not but pity him, though a beast,
when the sleet drove sharp against him.”
As they drew near the shore a heavy sea-fog was
coming in. In a few minutes the sun was hid, and
the damp stood on the nag's long, shaggy coat, like
rain-drops. They soon heard the low growl of the
sea; and turning a high point of land, they saw near
them multitudes of breakers, foaming and roaring,
and flinging themselves ashore, like sea-monsters
after their prey.
They were descending slowly through the heavy
sands to the beach, when they heard two persons calling
to each other in a sharp, high key. The voices sounded
as at a great distance; but in a moment, they saw
just ahead of them, and coming towards them, out of
the spray and mist, a man, in a sailor's jacket, and a
woman in one of the same, with a man's hat fastened
under her chin by a red handkerchief. A startling,
mysterious feeling passed over the old woman, as if
those she saw were something more than human, and
were given another nature to be dwellers in the sea.
“Is there life in him?” cried her guide, as they
passed.— “Scant alive,” called out the woman. The
old widow looked back. They were passing into the
mist, and were instantly lost sight of.
They had not ridden far along the beach, before the
fog began to break away, and the sea and sand flashed
upon them with a blinding brightness. They dragged
on a mile or two further, when the sky became
gloomy, and the wind began to rise.
“And is all as desolate as this?” asked the
old woman, looking over the shapeless sand-hills,
which stretched away, one behind another, without
end, and seeming as if heaved up and washed by the
sea, then left bare to sight.
“There is little that's better,” answered the man.
“And have you no other growth than this yellowish,
reedy grass, that spears up so scantily out of these
sand-hills?”
“'T is not so ill a sight to us, neither, who have
nothing greener,” answered the man, a little hurt.
“And there's a bright red berry that looks gay enough
amongst it. But peace,” said he, “for here's the
dwelling of the dying man.”
The building was of rough boards, some of which
hung loose and creaking in the wind. It was turned
almost black, except on the side towards the sea,
which shone with a grayish crust; and a corner of a
decayed chimney was seen just above the roof. On
the ridge of one of the sand-hills by the house, stood,
with his drooping head from them, the starved, sharp-boned
horse, the sand whirling round him like drifting
snow. — “Poor fellow,” said the man; “when I first
saw him, he was full of metal, and snuffed the air and
looked with pricked ears and wild eye out upon the
sea, as if he would bound over it.”
The old woman opened the door cautiously. A
gray-headed man was sitting by a sort of crib of
rough boards, in which lay Thomas Thornton, his
eyes closed, his cheek hollow and pale, and his mouth
relaxed and open.
“Is this he,” said she to herself, as she looked
upon him, “of the burning eye and hot cheek and
firm set mouth, of fiery and untamed passions? I did
not look to see you come to such an end, much as I
feared for you. — May your suffering here be some
atonement for your sins. — All was not evil in you.
Many have died happier than you, who had less of
good in them; and have left a better name behind
them than you will leave.” — A tear dropped from
her on his forehead. He opened his eyes sleepily
upon her. The colour came to his cheek; he lifted
his hand to hers with a weak motion, and looked towards
the old man. — “Leave us alone a little while,”
said the widow.
He spoke. “I have been a sinful man,” he said
in a faint, broken voice. He paused, and his look became
wild. — “My father, — and Isaac, Isaac — he
eye appeared to fasten on an object in the distance.
He then closed his lids hard, as if trying to shut out
something frightful.
“What looked you at?” asked the widow.
“O, you could not see her. She is seen of none
but me. I've looked upon the sight a thousand times.
I've seen her shrouded body rising and falling with
the waves, stretched out as it was on her death-bed;
and it has bent not, and it has floated nearer and nearer
to me, till I could look no longer. — And there, too, has
she stood for hours on that small white rock yonder,
that rises out of the sea,” said he, trying eagerly
to raise himself, and look out towards it. “Yes,
there has she stood beckoning me when the sun beat
upon it; and I was made to look on it till its glare
turned all around me black. I've tried to rush into
the sea to her, though the waves ran so heavy between
us; but I was held back till the sweat streamed
down my body, and I fell on the sand.” — He gasped
for breath, and lay panting. At last he recovered a
little; and opening his eyes, looked slowly about him.
His lips moved. The old woman bent over him, and
heard him breathe out, “God forgive my sins.”
“God will forgive the repentant, however wicked
they have been,” said the widow. He gave a look
of hope. — I've asked it of Him day and night, when
I had my mind; I've prayed to Him, stretched on
the bare, cold rocks, and when I dared not look up.
Will not you pray for me? Will none of the good
pray for me?”
She knelt down by him, with her hands clasped,
and looking upward. There was an agony of soul
for a moment — she could not speak. The tears
aloud. And from the shore went up a prayer fervent
and holy as ever ascended from the house of God.
And the dying man prayed with her, in the spirit. She
ended, and laying her hand on his forehead, said in a
solemn voice, “My son, I trust there is mercy for
you with God.”
He looked upward and tried to clasp his hands. It
was his last effort, and he sunk away with a countenance
as placid, as if falling into a gentle sleep.
The old widow stood for a few minutes gazing on
the lifeless body. At last she said to herself, without
turning away, — “He must not lie here, as an outcast;
for the sands will drive over him, and there will be
no mark where he rests. I will take him with me,
and lay him by the stream near my home. And when
I die, I will be gathered with him and with my child
to the same grave.”
EDWARD AND MARY.
The uncertain glory of an April day;
Which now shews all the beauty of the sun,
And by and by a cloud takes all away.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
And I as rich, in having such a jewel,
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.”
Same.
To love deeply and to believe our love returned,
and yet to be sensible that we should not make our
love known, is one of the hardest trials a man can
undergo. It asks the more of us, because the passion
is the most secret in our natures. All sympathy is
distasteful except that of one being, and that, in such
a case, we must deny ourselves. In our sorrow at
the loss of friends, if we shun direct and proffered consolations,
we love the assuagings which another's pity
administers to us, in the gentle tones, mild manners,
kind looks, and nameless little notices which happen
in the numberless affairs of daily life. But the man
that loves and is unhappy, starts at a soothing voice
as if he were betrayed; eyes turned in affectionate
regard upon him, seem to search his heart; his way is
borne unseen and alone.
This severance from the world, this desertion of
intercourse with man, gives a bitterness to grief
greater than any evil life shares in, and yet here, we
drink it of ourselves; we make our own solitude, root
up the flowers in it, and watch them as they wither;
we lay it bare of beauty and make it empty of life,
and then feel as if others had spoiled us and left us to
perish. Relief from troubles may be found in society
and employment; but unprosperous love goes every
where with a man; his thoughts are forever upon it;
it is in him and around him like the air, breaking his
night-rest, and causing him to hide himself from the
morning light. The music of the open sky sings a
dirge over his joys, and the strong trees of the forest
droop over the grave of all he held dear.
Thwarted love is more romantic than even that
which is blessed; the imagination grows forgetive, and
the mind idles, in its melancholy, among fantastic
shapes; all it hears or sees is turned to its own uses,
taking new forms and new relations, and multiplying
without end; and it wanders off amongst its own
creations, which crowd thicker round it the farther it
goes, till it loses sight of the world, and becomes
bewildered in the many and uneven paths that itself
had trodden out.
Edward Shirley was of a grave cast of character,
much absorbed in his own feelings, yet with a
strong affection for the few whom his reserve, and
what some would call his prejudices, allowed him to
take as intimates. He had read so much of wrong,
and had learned to think that there was so little of
true delicacy and deep and enduring love amongst
was sensible of something like a distaste for the world
at large. This was not a cause of triumph, but of
melancholy to him, and an expression of mild delight
was visible in his countenance whenever he saw at his
father's a stranger of an open and benevolent aspect.
His feelings were apt to fasten upon that which
could not break upon his train of silent thought; and
they grew more and more into an attachment to inanimate
objects and to brutes. He was forever in the
fields; the beauties of nature made his chief delight;
he was open to their purifying influences; and the innocence
which God seemed to have stamped upon
them, was almost religion to him.
But we are made for other purposes than to have
our interests begin and end in these; and he who has
let his affections grow where the brooks run and the
buds are opening to the sun, will find at last that the
love of some human being will twine the closer because
of it about his heart, and other joys and sorrows
than those he had fostered under the blue sky, enter
the deeper into his soul.
It has been said that no man of genius or sentiment
ever lived to twenty years, without being in love. It
is in some sense true; for if he does not find a living
idol, he will make one to himself, and be a constant
and fervent worshipper of that. When Edward was
asked how it happened that such a romantic youth as
he had never been in love, he answered, “I have
been so, and for a long time, but my mistress is here,
in the brain, and it is the only one I shall ever make
knee to; for,” he added, “the only woman that I
could love, must come so nigh in all high qualities to
her who lives in my imagination, that did she really
thing as I am; so, as for women, I think not of them.”
— This he said with a smile, but with a heavy heart;
for there were strong cravings of the affections, and
he felt daily more and more the inanity of life. As
he patted the head of his brother's boy, he said to
himself, “Am I never to be a father? And shall I
die, and leave no child to bless me? Shall I go out
of the world with no one of all the living to feel a
peculiar grief for me?” The time, however, was at
hand, when Edward was to learn that real love was a
more serious thing than that love which the imagination
conjures up.
Mrs. Aston, with her daughter Mary, had lately
taken a small house near the estate of Edward's father.
She was left with an income so small as to require of
her the most simple mode of life; and her grief at the
death of her husband had so absorbed every other
feeling, as to render this no hardship to her.
The father of Mr. Aston left a good estate, but a
great number of children. The son married young,
during his father's life, with no definite views of the
means of supporting a family. He had been used to
plenty and elegance at home, and like most young men,
never once considered how small an estate a division
of his father's property would leave him.
Soon after his father's death, he found that his
estate was fast diminishing, while he had a wife and
children to support. Being but little acquainted with
the world, his plans were badly laid and worse managed;
poverty was eating in upon him, not rapidly,
but as surely and fatally as the sea gains upon the
shore; and his spirits began forsaking him almost as
fast as his acquaintances and friends. Though he
nor estimated himself by its opinions, yet remembered
courtesies, taken with present neglect, went to his heart,
when he thought of his wife and children, and looked
forward to what awaited them. He grew languid in
body, and brooded over immediate and dreaded evils,
till a gloom settled down upon his mind, and his faculties
seemed falling into a kind of uneasy sleep. He was
roused from this for a short time by the last feeble
and irregular efforts of worn out nature. As he sat
in the easy chair by his bed, a few days before his
death, there was a tranquillity in his voice and manner,
and a benign composure in his countenance, as if
the inspiring light of the world to which he was going,
had already entered into his soul. As his wife gave
him his cordial, — “Heaven,” he said, “seems to
have ordained it in mercy to those we love, that we
should need their care so much, and ask of them so
many attentions in our last hours. It breaks the
thought that would otherwise fasten wholly on the loss
they must soon bear; and their affliction is a little
soothed, so long as they administer good and ease
to those who are about to die. And I feel,” he
added, “how much, as the last and true tokens of
love, they take from the bitterness of the separation
which death makes sooner or later between us all.”
“Why do you talk thus, Alfred?” said his wife.
“You have been much stronger for two days past.
Hopes of better years than those gone, will be medicine
to you. And why should you not hope? A change
may come for you as well as others; and those who
knew your father may do a kind office to his son, be
it but in honour of his memory.”
“There is but one change for me, my love,” he replied;
of the memory of this world, as surely as they themselves
enter into another. The concerns of the world
are ever shifting — its interests and relations; and he
who was in regard yesterday, will not be thought of
to-morrow. But though there is too much of forgetfulness
and selfishness amongst men, I would not
blame them now, nor question the providence of God,
which out of this evil brings good, by making men active
and considerate of ends. Let me rather take
blame to myself; for though it may be from a defect of
nature in me, and not from any want of disposition or
endeavour, that my condition in life has been a hard
one, yet I might have known my weakness, and have
avoided a responsibility I could not answer. To love
you as I have done from the time I first saw you, to
this my last hour, has surely been no crime in me, and
if making that love known to you and shutting my
eyes on those consequences I should have foreseen,
has been a fault in me, the sufferings I have undergone
will, I trust, be some atonement for it.
“My children,” said he, turning towards them,
“beware lest the ingenuity of men lead you to act
against what you feel to be a virtuous impulse, for
there is almost as much error of the head as of the heart
in man. At the same time, do not trust wholly to what
seem innocent impulses, especially when they fall in
with your desires, for what is in itself innocent may
become evil from the relation it may hold to others;
so that it is not enough to consider it abstractly, but
to cast about and ask yourselves what may be its effect
in new connexions now and in future. Guide in
this way your virtues by your wisdom, and you will
have much of deep enjoyment now, and little to repent
of hereafter.”
Though this was a scene of severe grief, (for Mr.
Aston was loved by his wife and children with an ardour
and sincerity which few deserve or enjoy,) yet the
composure of his manner tranquillized them, and their
tears fell in silence.
“I have talked too much, and must lie down.”
They helped him to his bed; and he soon fell into a
gentle sleep, with his wife's hand in his, and never
waked again.
As soon as the painful concerns following Mr. Aston's
death were closed, his widow moved to the house
I have spoken of. It was a place not without its many
recollections to her, for she had been often in it when
a child, and had frequently met Mr. Aston there when
he was a cheerful young man.
Entering a dwelling in which we had lived many
years ago, brings together the past and present with
a distinctness nothing else can. It is always with
some tinge of melancholy, even to those who have
prospered in the world; for let that world have gone
with us as well as it may, more of disappointments
and troubles, than of pleasures come to our minds at
such a time; and those pleasures which are remembered
as having happened in the spot we stand on, are
thought of, not as so many which we had enjoyed, but
as so many lost to us forever. The trial was a hard one
indeed to Mrs. Aston. When left alone, and when the
events and feelings of many years came altogether to
her mind, in the agony of nature she uttered a sorrowful
cry. She had lived to see her full hopes blasted; the
misery of anxiety had mingled with her love; and the
man who had made, as it were, her existence, and who
might, she thought, have led a happy life had he never
known her, had died of a broken heart. — “I could
sickness taken you from me. I could have lived for
our children; and the memory of you would have been
an angel of comfort to me. But to know that a wasting
sorrow of the mind made life comfortless to you who
had a heart for its best joys, and cut you off so soon;—
how can I bear it! O, look down upon me, and teach
me how!”
The affectionate manners and constant kind attentions
of her eldest daughter, Mary, at last touched her
mother's heart, roused her from her abstracted grief,
and made her once more sensible that there were living
beings for her to love, and towards whom she had
many duties to fulfil.
“Have you seen your new neighbours?” said Harriet
Shirley one day to her brother.
“They were at Church last Sunday, but so veiled
that I could not see their faces. To tell you the truth,
I should hardly dare see the daughter's. Her form
is the finest I ever beheld; and I am sure there was
never so much beauty of movement without a mind
answering to it.”
“There's a scrap of your theory again. Upon my
word, Edward, you will go mad in love theoretically.”
“I am half afraid of it myself, for in my walks I
have seen her more than once floating before me in
the sunbeams.”
“O, shame on you, for a lover! Sunbeams, indeed!
Moonlight, my dear brother — you must set
out with melancholy and moonlight, or you will never
come to a proper end. That half-drawn black veil
against a pale forehead! How interesting! And all
over black, indeed — the very Black Nun herself.
How could you think of throwing any thing less sof
me that look of grave reproof. If I do trifle out of
season, it is not that I do not feel.”
“Heedlessness often causes as much pain as bad
intention, Harriet; and think of it as you may, will
more or less harden the heart of those who are guilty
of it. I know you are a good girl, for all your rattle,
and much better than you seem. But there is no need
child, of playing the `hypocrite reversed,' when there
are hardly examples enough of goodness to keep virtue
in countenance.”
“You are right, Edward, you are always right;
and I will try to follow your advice; but you must first
follow mine. I am a generous-hearted girl, and will
give it you without your asking. By a mere glimpse
of this Miss Aston, she has gotten into your imagination;
and unless in good time you see something more
of what you would call the humdrum reality, you will
be so far gone in love shortly, that when you do at
last meet with her, you will be lost, to a certainty.
So, before it is too late, come along with me, and rid
yourself of your fairy vision.”
They turned up the narrow, grassy lane which led
to Mrs. Aston's house. It was bounded by an old
irregular stone-fence, over which ran a few straggling
wild vines, while the setting sun was pouring its rich
light upon the yellow, green, and stone-coloured mosses
which coated over the wall. The branches of the
cedars, under which they were walking, lifted and fell
with a fanning motion to the night breeze, and here
and there a bird was singing her farewell to the sun,
as she swung upon them. A turn in the lane brought
them opposite the house. It was an old structure,
projecting in front over the basement story, and running
looking as bold and fantastic as the general officers
in the old prints of the Duke of Marlborough's battles.
Edward felt as much reverence for the edifice,
as he would have done for one of those venerable old
gentlemen of Queen Anne's time, had he made his
appearance.
Mary Aston did not see Edward and his sister, as
she was intent upon training up a honey-suckle to one
of the carved urns pendent from the projection of the
house. Edward stopped to watch for a moment her
delicate white fingers, as they moved among the
leaves and flowers. Her mother was sitting in the
porch, with her eyes fixed upon the shaggy house dog,
which was once her husband's. The dog was lying
upon the step, with his neck stretched out over the
door-sill, and resting partly on his mistress' feet. He
was the first to notice the visiters. He turned round
his head, got up and shook himself very deliberately,
and then looked up in his mistress' face, as if asking
how he was to receive the new comers.
“Mary,” said her mother, rising. — Mary looked
round, and then came forward a little. Harriet introduced
herself and brother with her wonted easy cheerfulness,
tempered by the situation of the strangers.
She apologized for having put off her call so long, by
saying it was from the hope that her mother would
before then have been well enough to have accompanied
her.
“I heard that your mother was not well; and do
not know but that I should have waved ceremony,
and called in to see her, when walking out with Mary
some evening; for I remember having met her in this
very house; and I believe we liked each other well
to us late in life, that I should not willingly give up
those I could retain.” This was a general reflection,
but brought with it the remembrance of her husband;
and the momentary effort in overcoming her feelings
showed itself in her countenance.
“Will you walk into the house?” said Mary to
Harriet and her brother, “or should you like better
a seat here in the open air this bright evening?”
“For my part,” said Edward, taking hold of the
broken string around which the honey-suckle had
wound itself, “as I have interrupted you in your
work, I will now help you finish it, if you will permit
me.” There was a delicate respect in Edward's
manner, which gave an air of kindness and attention
to what in others would have looked like mere
officiousness. Besides, he had a tact for character,
which kept him from any show of sudden intimacy,
where it would not be understood and frankly received.
It is said that sagacious dogs possess the same
quality. It was certainly so with Argus; for what
with his fawning, and the fair hands of Mary kindly
saving the plant from harm, Edward scarcely knew
what he was about. He began with tying the bow of
the knot first — it slipt, and the vine fell upon Mary's
arms. This was not making the matter any better,
and in the second attempt the knot was tied in the
wrong place.
“The dog is troublesome,” said Mary. “Get you
out of the way, Argus.”
“ 'T is all my awkwardness, Miss Aston. You
must not drive Argus away. It makes me better
pleased with myself to be liked by a dog; and Argus
seems to take to me so much that I hope, — I hope,
so again.” — The knot was tied, and so was
one which Edward could never undo all his life
after.
What little things, falling in with our dispositions,
determine the course of our affections. The liking of
an old family house-dog, acting with a first impression,
did more to fix Edward in favour with Mrs. Aston
and her daughter, than any one of the party was
aware of.
“What has my brother been about? Why, I declare,
Miss Aston, you will make a very florist of him.
At home he never thinks of moving one of my plants
into the sun for me of a cold day. He scarcely looks
at them; and says that he had almost as lief be shut
up in a room full of stuffed birds, as in one so stuck
round with flowers and flower-pots. To be sure, he
brings home a pocket-full of mosses now and then, and
sometimes, a poor little field-flower; but if I ask what
it is called, I get but the ploughboy's name for it;
for under its formal botanic title it is no longer a poetic
being to him.”
“You forget my study window woodbine, which is
of my own planting and training.”
“Why, so I did; though, if I chose to deny that
you had one, nobody would believe you, after such
bungling work as you made with Miss Aston's just
now. And now that I think on't, you have nursed
yours in that particular place, merely because when
you were young and foolish enough to believe the story
of little `Jack and the Bean,' you stole half a dozen
green beans from the cook, and planted them there to
see if you couldn't climb up to the moon, as well as
Jack; and failing of growing beans, you set out the
and a memento of early hopes disappointed.”
“Do you make sport of all your friends in this way?”
asked Mary; “or has your brother good-naturedly
consented that you should spend your merriment upon
him, that you may spare your other friends? I hope
there is some such compact between you, else I must
always be upon my guard with you.”
“As to a compact, you will know all about that one
of these days. I've no doubt your sagacity will find
it out soon enough for me. In the mean time, I would
advise you to go on independent of my foolish humour;
for, be assured, however like paradox it may look,
nothing so lays people open, as aiming to act always
upon their good behaviour.”
“You speak with a wit's confidence, Miss Shirley;
but as your observation sorts well with my own judgment,
I'll e'en follow it. And if my heedlessness
brings down your ridicule upon me, I shall, at any
rate, have one to help me bear it,” said she, slightly
colouring, as her eyes met those of Edward, turned
with a serious earnestness upon her.
How hard it is at certain times, when we are most
in need of it too, to find something to say! — except
to the practised, who are never tortured by embarrassment,
and never wanting to themselves. Harriet had
moved forward to speak a word or two to Mrs. Aston,
and Mary and Edward remained together, feeling sufficiently
awkward, and all the while conscious that
the embarrassment of each was known to the other.
We are forever searching after great and marked
causes for important events, and cannot be content to
let our deepest and strongest feelings come from the
small, unnoticed incidents of life. Yet an unthought
the momentary look that goes with it, oftentimes thrills
us more, and enters with a more quickening sense
into our hearts, than all the purposed and well ordered
terms of rhetoric. To those who have something which
makes them kindred to one another, these are beautiful
revelations of each other's nature. Delicate and
according minds hold intelligent discourse, in half uttered
words, and shifting movements, and passing
expressions of the face: It is like the imagined intercourse
of angels, whose thoughts and feelings are
interchanged by strange and wonderful sympathies,
and need no tongue to speak them. It is so in early love,
with those whose characters are in agreement. And
so was it in the present case. Not that Edward and
Mary entered into a self-examination of their hearts;
but a peculiar delight was felt by each for the first
time, and life seemed a new existence to them.
“It is a fortunate thing for me,” said Edward, at
last, “that I have a multitude of foolish things about
me, for my sister to make amusement out of. She
would scarce care a jot for me, were I a piece of perfection.
She says that she cannot away with those
proper folks who never commit themselves.”
“Her interest in the world will not be likely to
lessen, if it measures itself by people's inadvertencies
or follies,” said Mary.
“What she are you talking about?” said Harriet,
turning round. “Are you putting your heads together
to make mutual defence and secret alliance against
my declared hostility? Come, I must break this up
in good time. Your mother is going into the house,
Miss Aston, for it is growing chilly. And don't you
see the mist wreathing up along the meadow yonder.”
“It will do no harm to us to-night, Harriet, for the
moon is rising betimes to keep it down in the lowlands;
and if you will ask Miss Aston to walk to the end of
the lane with you, I will insure her a walk back safe
from all colds.”
“I hardly know whether I shall ask her,” said
Harriet, at the same time taking her arm within her
own and walking on;” for you must know, Miss Aston,
that though my brother generally avoids our sex, yet,
when caught amongst them, he is one of the most
scrupulously polite gentlemen in the world. Now,
think of his situation when we reach the end of the
lane! Could he see you returning by the dark, giant
trunks of all these trees, without a protector? And yet
it would never do to leave me standing alone, though I
am his sister. What a ridiculous embarrassment he
would be thrown into, a step forward and then a step
back, till brought to a perfect stand-still.”
“A Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy, my
sister.”
“True, but with an opposite leaning. And as you
would have to choose one and refuse the other, if I
were to represent Comedy, as in such case, I presume
I needs must, it is plain enough, Sir Melancholy, what
would be my fate.”
“Your imagined difficulty is all over now, Miss
Shirley, for here comes one who has been my brave
gallant this many a day,” said Mary, patting Argus
on the head as he made up to her side. “I have half
a mind to turn you off with him and ask Mr. Shirley
to wait upon me, to punish you for all you have said
to-night.”
“That would hardly be fair, Miss Aston. My
sister's ridicule might hurt the poor fellow's feelings;
him at an encounter of wits.”
Here, with one common and blending sense of happiness,
they reached the gateway, and then parted
for the first time. How vaguely busy the mind is at
parting, after a first meeting, where the heart has
been at all touched.
From the air of politicians, it must be a mighty
easy matter to see into the causes of the great changes
in the world. There is scarce a word of truth in all
they say, let them talk about it ever so plausibly.
From your intangible, theoretic German, down to
your mere matter-of-fact man, who dates Buonaparte's
overthrow from the rise of sugars in France, they are
all wrong. The causes assigned by each may have a
share in what is done. So, we may cut a twig, and
set it in the ground, and keep the earth loose about it;
and in a few years what diminutive things we look
like under its long, cool branches! Its growth is as
hidden as it is silent, and when it lays itself out upon
the air, a beautiful mystery, with its web of glossy
leaves interwoven with golden sunshine, do we look
up into it with any other feeling than that of glad
worsihp? And yet we know more of its origin, and
had more to do with making it what it now is, than we
have part or knowledge in a tythe of what we decide
on so familiarly.
If outward and noted events keep us so in ignorance
of their nature, what are we to do with the
subtile movements of the mind? They are quick or
slow, they agitate us violently or are scarcely felt,
hurry us suddenly forward after what we a little before
followed sluggishly and at intervals, or turn us about
in pursuit of that which we had passed by with indifference;
that we cannot comprehend them, nor search them out.
Edward, within an hour or two, had passed through
some of the most simple and ordinary events that take
place in our common intercourse; yet he had come out
of them altogether changed. He who had looked
with an idle eye, and with an estranged mind upon
what was the concern of others, found his being, in
an instant, swallowed up in that of another. — “How
gross is every thing else on earth,” said he to himself,
“compared with the beautiful refinement of a
woman!” And how monotonous and tame and indistinct
was the former being of his imagination, at that
moment, compared to Mary Aston!
After walking home in silence with his sister, he
continued rambling about. The house was too close
and confined for him. There was a quick and warm
pulsation through him, and his frame was expanding
and beating with new life. Beautiful images of the
brain were coming and going fast and bright as the
light, and all things that drank the moist night air and
slept under the moon, or shone and moved beneath it,
gave him a new delight, and he loved them more than
ever. He was not sensible how far he had wandered,
till the low, broad chimney of Mrs. Aston's house
met his eye, as it stood out in strong and sharp relief
against the moonlight. Though alone, the colour
rose in his cheek and he felt a beating at his heart.
His soul was in a moment laid open to him. What
he had not been conscious of as being any thing
more than one of those bright and hopeful moments
which visit us sometimes, we know not why, when
“an unaccustomed spirit lifts us above the ground
with happy thoughts,” he now found to be one of the
of sentiment; and he was forced to acknowledge
to himself that he was in love.
Almost all men, at some time or other, are carried
out of their course by influences that act upon them,
with the power and silence of the currents of the ocean,
and ignorant how to keep their reckoning or careless
about it, the bigger part are wrecked. Edward found
that he had been swept unconsciously along. Still, all
was so beautiful, that he did not consider whither the
stream was carrying him; for the clouds, and jutting
rocks, and islands with all their trees upon them,
glassed themselves in the sea, and made a fairy show
for him to gaze down upon.
He drew near the house. As he moved along under
the branches of the large trees, their noise over
his head was like that of the surf. There was something
ominous and wizard-like in the confused and
wild multitude of their motions and sounds; and a
melancholy foreboding crossed his mind like the
shadow of a cloud. As he passed out from underneath
their shade, his cheerfulness returned; and as
he looked toward the dwelling of Mary Aston, he felt
a blessing on him. The uncouth variety and conceit
in the old building looked more grotesque than before,
in the moonlight; and the shadows of the odd peaks
and projections, falling at random upon it, seemed
like the fantastic creatures of the night, holding their
games in its sides and nooks. It was a tolerable
representation of the mind of him who was looking at
it. For images and thoughts were going through that
without order, and of which he knew not whence they
came, or whither they tended. His intellect and his
sensations were under the sway of some powers without
hopes, and then again withered him with fearful and
causeless despair. He lingered near the house a
long time, till at length the sense of the endless duration
and of the continued going on of life, with which
nature impresses us, gradually gave a steadiness and
cheerfulness to his thoughts; and the fixed sky, and
bright moon, and the image of Mary Aston, altogether
wrought his soul to harmony, and he returned home
tranquil and happy.
A real lover is quite an unaccountable creature
when awake; it would be altogether in vain to attempt
describing his dreams. Edward did not wake in the
morning, however, in that state of composed indifference
in which we generally are when coming out of
sleep. Before he was roused to a full possession of
his faculties, there was a vague notion of something
important to be done, or of some uncommon event in
which he was concerned.
He did not find his sister at the breakfast-table, to
tease him and divert him from his silent abstraction. —
He grew more and more restless as the day advanced—
his books seemed dull — he was wearied of sitting
still, and as tired of walking. When we are in perplexity
from having forgotten what we came after, we
go back to the place we started from, to set all right.
Had he followed this method and gone to Mrs.
Aston's, he would have rid himself at once of all his
uneasiness. He was sensible enough of this. — “It
is not within rule,” said he to himself. “What preposterous
things these rules of society are — for all
but blockheads and impertinents.” One in love must
be allowed to say so, yet he is wrong. We all stand
in need of these rules, more or less; and if they sometimes
well for the best of us. Facilities, for the most part,
do more harm than good: children of the next generation
will find it so, and thank us little for what our
half vanity and half affection are now so busy about
for them.
Addison has written an essay showing why it is
harder to conceive of eternity as never beginning,
than as never ending. Edward was as much puzzled
to set bounds to his day, as we are to think of eternity
without days. It closed upon him at last; and the
next went on the same way, till he found himself, near
the end of it, in a narrow lane back of Mrs. Aston's
dwelling.
Though Mary Aston possessed much of that equability
and patience of temper, for which women are so
proverbial, it would look like a repetition of what has
just been said, to describe her feelings since she had
parted from Edward. She had walked out towards
night-fall, that the cool air might refresh her, and
without being at all conscious of it, from a feeling
which goes for hope, but which perhaps has more of
wishing than of expectation in it, that before she returned
she might see Edward. Our wishes often give us
expectations, but they as often direct our conduct
where we have nothing to hope for. If they can do
it in no other way, they will bring it about by putting
us into a kind of fanciful state, and making the imaginary
pass for the actual. It is not very wide of that
condition which a child is in when he is mounted upon
a walking-stick and plays it is his horse. It is a little
ludicrous and mortifying, that wise and tall men should
be caught in this way riding their own canes, so we
will say nothing more about it.
The colour rose in the cheek of each, and their
manner was slightly embarrassed, as they suddenly
met in the lane; but the tremulousness of the voice
told better than these, what was at their hearts. Edward
of course passed the evening with Mary and
her mother. “You must pardon my staying to so
late an hour. I am not a frequent visiter, but I never
know when it is time to go.” This he said as he rose,
and against all rule, leaned over the back of his chair.
It was some time before he quitted this, and there was
longer lingering at the door-step; for Mary's voice
made music so soft and clear in the still night air,
and her eyes, turned upward to the moon, were so
like a kindred Heaven, answering to that over their
heads, — how could he quit it all, to be alone again?
“Is it you, Mrs. Aston, or Mary,” said Harriet
one day, “who has wrought such a change in my
once steady brother? Formerly he was never abroad,
and now is never at home. I can answer the question
myself. He comes to moralize upon the sin and
vanity of the world, along with your mother, Mary.
He rarely talks to girls like us; for he says he seldom
meets with any who do not show that they are all
the time having an eye to themselves, let the subject
they are conversing about be ever so serious or important.
In his brotherly fondness, he would make
me an exception, I dare say, did I ever talk seriously.
The most I ever arrive at is to make him laugh, and
be called a rattle-head, for my pains.”
“His remark, I fear, is as true as any general one
may be,” answered Mary. “And he might have extended
it to those of his own sex, though a little
qualified, perhaps, had he been as much inclined to
observe them. The truth is, both girls and young
the old of an opposite sex, than with those of their
own age. I always take most satisfaction in talking
with men who are turning gray.”
“Should not Mary in all fairness except my grave
brother, Mrs. Aston, who goes about looking as if he
was always thinking upon something, as our old housekeeper
says?”
“That were scarce necessary,” said Mrs. Aston,
not observing the flush which her reply threw over
Mary's face. “I never met with a man who seemed
more sincere and in earnest in what he was about.
Besides, there is so much of the propriety of principle
in his manner, which keeps off all encroachment,
without any appearance of his being on his guard,
and such a simple and unostentatious delicacy, altogether
unlike that showy complaisance which passes
for good breeding, but is exceedingly vulgar, because
it supposes an inferiority in him towards whom
it is displayed, — that I should argue ill of the discernment,
and almost of the character of one who did not,
upon a first acquaintance, feel the beauty of his conduct.”
“What a compliment I have to carry home to my
brother,” said Harriet, going.
“You must not carry any from me, Harriet.”
“Why not, Madam? They are the best things in
the world to put folks in good humour. I always manufacture
one for my prim aunt, when I go to pass the
day with her, as I sometimes am obliged to do, because
my mother says it is proper to visit our relations.”
“Perhaps your aunt is too old to be injured by
them,” said Mary; “yet there is nothing in the
world which has turned so many wise folks into
fools.”
“I will be even with you for your hit at my aunt's
vanity, Miss Mary. And to pay you for your philosophy,
which ill becomes a Miss in her teens, I shall
dress up the compliment as well as I know how, and
with a happy vagueness, leave my brother to conjecture
whether it be from mother or child.”
“Don't put your brother upon any such guesses. If
you needs must repeat it, let him know that it came
from an elderly lady, and not from a young one.”
“Now, I did not expect that from you, Ma'am,
who had just said so much about his wisdom; and
when it was but the other night too, that he talked so
gravely about virtue's only being sure when resting
wholly on itself, and finding its satisfactions within,
and not in distinctions that attend it abroad. Come,
Mary, you sha'n't look so gravely at me,” said Harriet,
as Mary followed her to the door. “You need
not fear me. And even if I should divert myself with
some idle story, my brother thinks too justly of you,
I trust, to take any thing of the kind that I may say,
for more than mere foolery.” Mary returned the
pressure of Harriet's hand, and wished her cheerfully
a pleasant walk home, as she sprang lightly from the
step.
Mary went happy to her chamber, reflecting upon
the warm manner in which her mother had spoken in
praise of Edward, and thinking her the best mother
that ever lived.
Though Harriet was no go-between, and despised
match-making as heartily as it deserves to be; yet she
had such a love for her brother, and took so deep an
interest in all that concerned him, and was so desirous
that he might shake off that melancholy which too
often preyed upon him, by finding an object for his
how happy it made her to find that there was so
much of sympathy between Mary and her brother.
Upon her return home, she could not help letting fall
certain expressions and remarks which referred to
Mrs. Aston's opinion of him, and at the same time,
showing what she surmised were Mary's feelings.
This she did cautiously and in a playful way, for
she well understood that Edward was not a man to be
talked to, or to talk of his affections; and she knew
how to respect him for it.
“Am I not sure that she loves me?” said he one
day, as he shut his study door. “And why should I
delay? Is it not trifling with myself, and what is
more, with a woman of delicate and ardent feelings?”
He had asked himself these very questions before.
And those who go to proffer terms of marriage with
certificates of property and letters of recommendation
in their pockets, must think him a very odd sort of
fellow to make such a pother about that which so
many have done before him off hand. Some are
blessed with an undisturbed worldly wisdom, while
others are carried to and fro, or hurried or delayed
by impulses and sensations made up of exquisite pleasures
and acute pains over which they have little control.
Heaven help these last. The first can take
care of themselves, at least for this world.
There are men of a certain refined sense, brave
men too, and with not a whit of awkward bashfulness
in them neither, who, even where they knew the
affection to be mutual, could no more tell a woman
that they loved her, just when they chose to fix the
time for doing so, than Cowper could have spoken in
the House of Commons.
Urgent business of his Father's prevented Edward
for some time from seeing Mary. When he did, it was
the mild evening of a warm day. The parlour door was
open, and he entered the room and drew near the
window where she was sitting, without being observed
by her; for she was lost in painful reflection. To feel
neglected by him would have been hard enough to
bear; but the fear that Harriet, in her thoughtless
chat, had said something which had lowered her in
the opinion of Edward, was intolerable. The ill opinion
of such a man was almost enough to make even
the innocent feel the shame of guilt.
The melancholy of those we love, when a token of
their interest in us, gives us almost as deep a delight
for a time, as when we think we make them happy —
perhaps a deeper. For almost any one may move
another to pleasure, and the degrees of pleasure cannot
always be distinguished. But when one is in grief
from some small circumstance, in love, we have an
assurance that there can be no mistake. When Edward
looked upon Mary's fine face, and saw it overcast,
and said to himself, “This is because of me,” an
exquisite joy thrilled through his heart, at the same
time that she was dearer to him than ever. His voice
betrayed his emotion as he spoke to her; and suddenly
raising her eyes, she saw his grand, serious countenance
lighted up with a smile full of love. There was
an answering one in Mary's face, mingled with an
expression of confusion, and something like pain from
surprise and the suddenness of the change in her
feelings. This was a fine moment for a lover. Not
so for Edward; he was too full of delightful sensations,
and could only look on in still rapture. When
he at last spoke, his words had little to do with his
as before. She moved a little, and Edward sat
down by her in the old window-seat. Her beautifully
turned arm, and tapering, dimpled fingers, were resting
on the window-ledge. — “Did I ever see that
ring before?” said he.
“No, for I have just received it. `It was a seal-ring
of my grandfather's,' ” she added, half laughing.
“Whether your grandfather's or a younger man's,”
he replied, looking somewhat anxiously in her face,
“it is a very curious one.” She was half offended
and half pleased at this show of jealous regard. —
“Upon my word, Mr. Shirley, do you think that it
is my way to wear young men's rings?”—Then
changing her voice to her usual tone; — “It is rather
a singular one. Will you look at it?” she said
frankly, at the same time drawing it from her finger.
If we are not very careful, we cannot take so little
a thing as a ring from another, without the hands
touching slightly; nor is it very easy for two persons
to examine curiously so small a matter without their
heads coming very near to each other. It is ten to
one that, at any rate, you will feel some stray, curling
lock touching every now and then against your forehead.
You may know that is not your own, by the
thrill it sends through the brain and bosom. There
is a breath too, pure as air, which reaches you: —
there is no such atmosphere in the whole world for
sensations. There needs no talking at such a moment;
there is a close and silent communion of the thoughts
and wakened senses, by which we understand each
other better than we could by words, though we culled
the choicest from the language of every nation on the
globe. Even the tones of love, in their utmost softness,
charm, at such a time, and turn all to common life
again.
It was Mary who took the ring off, but it was
Edward who put it on again; and it was done with so
much respectful delicacy, and with so gentle a touch
of the hand, that a dedicated nun could not have been
offended at it. Mary's heart beat quick, and as her
eyes fell on the ring, that heart asked, Is it not a
pledge of his love?
It was, indeed, love that had done it all; but it was
inaudible love, love that understood not itself, nor why
it had done thus. It was the bud of love, and the
hour had not yet come for its opening.
The conversation took a motalizing turn, and a
good deal was said about the feelings — not in a prosing
way. There was a closer intimacy in the cast of
it, than there had been before. They knew the character
of each other's minds and dispositions as well as
if they had lived together for years. Some will say
this is impossible. The opinion of such persons may
be true enough, so far as concerns themselves, and
half the world beside. Most people might as well be
married by proxy, like princes, as to any knowledge
they have of one another's character at the time.
And it is a pity that many of them could not remain
in their ignorance, so badly are they sorted. The
most they ever arrive at is a sort of unwillingness to
be long apart, from a habit of having been much
together. There are peculiar people, however, who
get as much into what is essential in each other's
character in half an hour's acquaintance, by what is
said, and the manner in which things are said or done,
as others would, should they pass together the lives
are a believer in love at first sight? — I believe that
such a thing may be, or something very like it.
There were walking in front of the house, when the
time came for Edward to return home. “Stay a
moment, Mr. Shirley; late as it is, you must help me
about my woodbine once more, before you go; for see,
the wind has thrown it down.”—As they were training
it up, their eyes met, and their looks showed to each
other that the time when they first saw one another,
and all which had passed since, were in their thoughts.
“What did you think of me then?” said he.
“When?” she asked. And half ashamed of feigning
ignorance of what she perfectly well understood —
“Think of you? Why, much as I do now, and as I
trust I always shall.”
“If I interpret this according to my wishes, shall I
be right?”
“I hope so,” she said, colouring; “or what could
your opinion be of me, else?”
“The same as it always has been and must be.
For much as I should suffer to be without your esteem
and kind regard, Mary, you will always have mine.
I would say more, but, I know not why, I cannot
now. Need I say it? You know what I feel, for I
have ever shown myself to you what I am, though I
cannot to all the world. — All is not well at my heart
now. 'T is strange. I was the happiest man alive a
moment ago. No matter; — we shall meet again
to-morrow. Whether we meet or not, whether good
or ill come to me,” he said, taking her hand within
both of his and pressing it earnestly, “may God's best
blessing rest upon you, Mary.”—His voice faltered.
— Mary tried to speak. It was in vain. Her lips
to his with an almost imploring look. She was not
given to tears, like the rest of her sex, yet they filled
her eyes now. Edward kissed away one that stood
on her cheek, and hurried from her with a bewildered
mind.
Are not our feelings sometimes sent, like holy prophets,
to make us ready against evils which we see not,
but which are nigh at hand? Edward continued his
walk till a late hour, that he might rid himself of the
feverish restlessness which tormented his body and
mind.
Mr. Shirley had been from home for a couple of
days, and had returned during Edward's absence.
As Edward drew near the house, he saw a light in
his father's study. He perceived by the frequent
darkening of the lamp that some one was walking the
room with a rapid pace. His feelings were in a state
to bode ill. It was unusual for his father to be up at
so late an hour, and Edward remembered that for
several days before his leaving home, he had appeared
anxious and abstracted. Edward's character was so
matured and of so serious a cast, that his father treated
him rather as a companion than a son. He entered
the house, and went immediately to the study-door
and knocked. — “Who's there?” called out his father.
“It is I, sir.” — “O, Edward! Come in!” — Instead
of turning and giving Edward his hand as usual,
Mr. Shirley continued walking the room without
noticing him. Edward looked at his father. The
room shook as he walked it to and fro, and the foot
seemed to grasp the floor at every step. His arms
were folded with a convulsive closeness over his
breast. The muscles of his face worked hard, and
the blood was beating quick through the clear, high
this hour,” said he at last in an under voice, and
without turning his head. His pace grew quicker
and quicker; and every fibre of his body vibrated with
agony, and seemed stretched till ready to snap. —
“You are all beggars,” he cried out at last, throwing
himself into his chair and gasping for breath.
Edward's alarm for his father scarcely left him conscious
of what he had said. He went to him, and
leaning over him, spoke in so affectionate a voice
that it touched him to the quick. The tears started
to his father's eyes: — it was the first time he had
ever suffered man to see one there. He grew composed
at last, and bracing himself to the act, told his
son all that had happened.
It appears that Mr Shirley's fortune had been an
ample one; but having attached certain notions of
princely grandeur to wealth, he had, in a moment of
ambition, put the whole at stake in expectation of doubling
it; the speculation failed and he lost nearly all.
“You are much exhausted, sir,” said Edward,
after talking with his father a long time; “you must
go to bed and endeavour to sleep. In the morning
we will see what can be done. I hope all is not so
bad as you think.” “Good night to you, Edward,”
said he, much moved. “I hope this news has not
come too late to prevent your involving another in our
calamity. If not, I know you have too much principle
in you to bind such a woman to your hard fortune,
let the effort to stop short cost you what it may.” “I
know not — I hope, — I fear. —” “We will not talk
of that now,” said his father pressing his hand; and
Edward left the room.
For a man of a shy disposition and retired habits,
musing, whose intellectual being is made up of
sentiment and imagination, and who has never thought
nor cared for business nor gain, to attempt of a
sudden to change his very nature, and ignorant as an
infant, to find out for himself through the intricacies
of trades or professions a way amid shrewd, and calculating,
and knowing men, is almost a hopeless undertaking.
Though Edward did not want energy or
perseverance, he was not presumptuous; and understanding
his own character thoroughly, and how far
nature and education had unfitted him for a man of
business, he was too well principled and generous to
endure the thought of connecting another with his
desperate fortune, and of feeling that while he was
vainly struggling on, her life was wearing away in
delayed hopes.
As the door shut upon him, it seemed as if every living
thing had quitted him, and he was left alone upon
the bare earth. Though his passions were deep-rooted,
and the smallest fibres of them were alive
with the love of Mary, his father's sufferings had
made him for the moment forgetful of his own. And
now that he was left to himself, and saw that he was
shorn of all hope, it was the thought of Mary that
wrung him. — “A few hours ago, Mary, and you
came to me with the elastic spring of a glad and fond
spirit, and your countenance opened and brightened
like the morning upon me. It is all over now; the light
is shut out, and you must wither in the cold and damp
which is ready to fall on you. I could endure my
own sufferings, and go to my grave alone, sooner or
later, as God might will for me; but I cannot, I cannot
bear the thought of what you will suffer — you
walking the room till the birds began sending out
short, broken notes, and stirring themselves in the
trees. He went to his chamber, and over wearied,
fell into a short, uneasy sleep.
Though Edward's feelings were stronger than fall
to the lot of many, they were of that deep kind, and
with such a mixture of the intellectual, as left to his
firm mind a self-control. He met the family at breakfast
with a composed countenance; and immediately
after, went with his father to the study, and assisted
him, as far as he was able, in adjusting his papers.
All was in order in a few days to deliver up to the
creditors. As they were few, and gentlemen who had
a full reliance upon Mr. Shirley, every thing was
done so as to spare his feelings. He was sensible of
it, with mixed pride and gratitude. The family were
to leave the mansion and retire to a small house,
which, with a trifling income, was all that was left of
the estate.
“Harriet,” said Edward, the morning after he was
made acquainted with his father's loss, “will you
write to Mary and tell her what has happened? I
cannot see her till every thing is adjusted. It would
unman me; and there is much to be done, and my
poor father must have all my assistance. — You must
command yourself better,” said he in a low and steady
tone. — “I will, I will, Edward; but I could not have
loved a sister better; and I have almost lived upon
the thought of late, that I was to see you both so happy
soon! It is all over now.” — Edward hurried out of
the room.
In a few days the family were ready to depart.
They entered an old family coach, and drove off as
was to remain behind till every thing was delivered
up. The furniture was sent away to the city to be
sold, and he was now ready to follow his parents and
sister.
So long as there remained any duties for Edward
to fulfil, he bore up firmly against this sudden destruction
of his hopes. The unrelaxed and intense effort
had nearly exhausted both mind and body, and yet
the hardest trial of all was to come. He was to meet
Mary, and to part with her, perhaps, forever. “Only
a few days ago, thought he, while I was absent from
her, I was impatient of every thing till the hour came
that I was to meet her. I scarcely dare think of
doing it, now.”
The solitude of the house oppressed him, and
seemed to forebode evil. “I can bear it no longer;
something terrible haunts me.” — As he was hurrying
out of the house, old Jacob, the only domestic left
behind, met him at the door. “Where are you
going this sad night, Mr. Edward? The mist drops
from the leaves like rain, and a heavy storm is setting
in. It has been brewing all day long, and begins
to stir hard in the trees.”
“So much the better, so much the better,” muttered
Edward, pressing forward; then stopping a
moment, — “have every thing ready to start by sunrise,
Jacob.”
“It will be hard to tell that time to-morrow, Sir,”
answered Jacob, as Edward was shutting the door,
“if I know what the weather will be from one hour
to another.”
The night had nearly shut in, and the rocks and
trunks of trees, which were almost black from the
seemed to Edward's disturbed mind like gloomy
monsters watching his steps, as he half caught their
forms through the thick twilight, while he was hastening
by them. “Is this the place where I first walked
by the side of Mary and heard her voice?” thought
he, as he passed along the avenue. “It is all changed,
and I am left alone.”
He drew near the house. It was lost in the darkness,
except where the heavy mist reflected back the
light of a candle in the parlour window, giving through
the dimness to the peaks and juts the appearance of
pale, uncertain flames shooting up into sharp points.
No other light could be seen. — “How quietly it
shines! And is all within as tranquil as that flame?
No, Mary, I will not wrong you; you could not so
forget me.”
As he came nearer to the house, his blood throbbed
quicker; and he started at the sound of the beating of
his heart. He waited a moment to gain a little self-command.
The door was opened to him, and he entered
the parlour. Mrs. Aston was in the room alone.
As she turned and saw the pale and worn countenance
of Edward, she started; but suddenly recovering herself,
she went up to him and took him kindly by the
hand. “Why have you kept away from us so long?”
inquired she in a gentle but agitated voice. “You
do not take us for summer flies, I know Mr. Shirley.”
“O, if I did, madam, I should not come now to
trouble you this last time.”
“Do you go so soon? Are we not to see you
again?” “I must go to-morrow,” he answered hurriedly.
“Whether I shall see you again, I know
not, I cannot tell.”
“Better days will come to you; you are but a very
young man yet, Mr. Shirley.”
Edward shook his head, but made no reply. They
both continued for some time silent. Edward at last
approached Mrs. Aston, and said, “Can I see Mary
for a few minutes before I go?” — A slight colour
rose in his cheek, but the sad expression of his face
was unchanged when he said, “It would be childish
in me, dear Mrs. Aston, to suppose that you are
ignorant of my feelings. But,” he added, the flush
of pride heightening his colour as he spoke, “I believe
you know me too well to fear that, unskilled in
affairs as I am, and with little reason from my cast of
character for hope of success, I can be so weak or
selfish as to bind another to me in my evil fortunes.”
“I need not answer that, Mr. Shirley.” The tears
filled her eyes as she put out her hand once more and
gave him her blessing. She left the room, and meeting
Mary, told her that Edward was below.
He was walking the room with a hurried step as
Mary entered. She attempted to go towards him,
but her frame shook, and she tottered towards a chair.
He sprung forward and caught her before she sunk to
the floor. Her face was deadly pale, and her eye
for a moment glazed. The sound of his voice recalled
her senses, but as she raised her head, there was
a wild and haggard look of misery in his countenance
that made her shudder, and she covered her eyes with
her hand. — “Do you shrink from me Mary?” “O!
no, no, Edward. But do not, do not look so strangely
on me. Look as calm and kind as you spoke then,
and I will never turn from you.” — Her head fell
upon his shoulder, and she sobbed audibly. — Edward's
face was turned upward; his mouth moved
and comfort on her. An inarticulate sound was
all that reached Mary's ear. She raised her head
suddenly and gazed upon his face. How was it
changed! Affliction had not left it, but there was a
brightness, a rapture in it, which she could almost
have worshipped. It was one of those passing exaltations
of the spirit which sometimes in our misery lift
us for a moment above the earth. It left him, and
his countenance fell. “Is it gone, is it gone?” cried
Mary; “and is there no comfort left us?”
“None; none, at least for me, in this world.”
“O, do not add to my misery, Edward, by being
ungenerous to me. Do not say that I can change and
find comfort, when you cannot.”
“Forgive me, Mary, I did not mean to be unkind.
I scarce know what I say — my brain has been sadly
bewildered with what I have gone through in a few
short days. But this parting would not, you know it
would not be so hard to me, could I believe you a
creature made to change. Sit down by me and hear
me a moment, and then I must leave you.” — He
spoke so low and with so much effort that his voice
was scarcely audible; yet there was something fearfully
determined in it. — “I cannot blame myself for
having given way so far to my feelings to-night. After
what passed between us when we last met, Mary, it
would have been unmanly, it would have been a base
insult to the delicacy of your character, for me to
have treated you otherwise now than if you had acknowledged
a return of my love for you. — I have
told my father — I scarce know what I have told him.
Your mother knows all. And here, — all must end
here. We must part, Mary!”
“All? Then all is to be as though it had never
been. Say you so, Edward?”
“Do not mistake me, Mary;— we must not part in
unkindness. There is enough of woe without that.
Though I will not give over without a hard and long
struggle, yet I am poor now, and something tells me,
that with all my efforts, I shall die so. The seal is
on me, and I shall carry it to my grave. I hope, I
hope it is not far off. Could I but see you happy, it
would be some consolation to me. No, no, it would
not. I could not bear that all which I have dwelt upon
as so peculiar and lovely in your character should
change, even to relieve you from what you suffer. Yet
you must not be bound to me by any understanding
between us. I know there is that in you which will
always make me dear to you. Surely I need not speak
of myself, — but, I see it! You will never be mine!”
“Are we to meet each other no more then? Are
we to live only in the memory of each other, and
without hope? I will be sincere with you, Edward,
and will not add to what you suffer, by saying that
you could not make this sacrifice, did it cost you
what you tell me it does. I know,” said she, raising
her eyes to his with a look of confidence, “the
struggle will be as hard to you, and endure as long,
as with me. I could not say more. Miserable as it
will make us, I know that your feeling is grounded in
honour. And though it may seem to have connected
with it a doubt whether time and absence may not
change my love for you, I could not wrong you so
much as to think you could be so suspicious of me. I
know you better, Edward, indeed I do.”
“This is noble and generous in you, Mary,” said
he, pressing her to his heart. “I did not look for all
I must — It must be done now,” he cried, starting suddenly
from her. In an instant he was ready. As he
turned, she came to him. There was a hopeless misery
in her face. She flung her arms about his neck,
and hung powerless upon him as he held her to his
bosom.
“Mary! Mary!” he repeated. She made no answer.
The wind drove violently against the window,
and the rain dashed against it like a flood. She shivered
as if the cold blast struck her. “Must he go,
and in the storm and rain too,” murmured she to herself.
— At length she raised herself a little. — “Do
not fear for me, Edward;— it is past,— I am better
now. Go! go!” He stood for a moment — he would
have said something — it was all in vain. He caught
her madly to him, and then darting from her, left the
house.
Mrs. Aston heard the door shut after him. She
went down to her daughter, and found her sitting,
leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the door. She
did not move them as her mother entered; and there
was a stupor over her countenance. Mrs. Aston
took her by the hand, but she did not appear to heed
it. — “You must go to bed,” said her mother, putting
her arm round her and gently raising her from the
chair. She made no answer, but suffered herself to
be partly carried to her chamber. When she was in
bed, her mother sat down by her; but she seemed not
to notice it; and presently fell asleep, as if unconscious
of what had happened.
The night was so dark that the atmosphere was
like some deep black body directly before the eye.
Edward hurried forward down the avenue. The trees,
storm, served to guide him by their sound. As he
quitted them, and their noise died gradually in the
distance, he groped his way homeward. He reached
the house with a mind as bewildered as in a fearful
dream. The instant change from the tumult and uproar
of the storm to the stillness and calm within
doors, brought back what had past, with terrible suddenness.
He went into the room where Jacob was
sitting, waiting for him, and taking up a lamp, passed
by without looking at him. — “Poor Mr. Edward,”
said Jacob to himself, as he took the remaining light
to go to bed; “it is hard that you, who are so good,
should suffer so.”
Edward could not go to rest. He went into his
father's study, and then from one room to another,
trayersing the whole house. He was for a while in
that vague and idle state which the mind is thrown
into at intervals, in extreme suffering, taking notice
of trifles, and remembering a multitude of unmeaning
things, while it is unconscious of the affliction which
is ready to press again upon it. His eyes wandered
vacantly over the naked walls, till they at last rested
on the discoloured places where the pictures had
hung. He was not sensible at first at what he was
looking; but his mind was by degrees moved, and he
was presently brought again to the recollection of his
condition. If the earth had been swept of every living
thing but himself, the sense of desertion could
not have weighed heavier upon him. He passed on
to his chamber; the wind moaned in the chimneys;
and as he trod over the bare floors, the empty house
was filled with the sharp echoes of his steps, which
seemed to chatter and mock at him.
The next morning he began his journey. The
violence of the storm was over, but it was a dull, drizzly
day. He passed it in silence, busy with his melancholy
thoughts. He took little notice of what was
about him. The home of Mary Aston, as he had
seen it in storm and sunshine, was in his mind. He
thought of her deep love for him, her serious and unchanging
mind, her frank and confinding looks and
manner towards him. He would have laid down his
life to give her that peace which was hers before
she knew him, — he would have done more — he
would have dragged on a life of misery.
Jacob spoke the first word that was uttered. — “We
are half through our journey, Sir. I know it by the
wood just ahead of us.” — Edward looked out upon
the wood, by way of answer to Jacob. It was now
autumn, and the leaves in all their gaudy and varied
colours, hung dripping and flagging in the damp air.
It seemed a cruel taunt upon the gay hopes and forced
mirth of the world. Edward shut his eyes upon the
sight, heart-sick. There was none of the spirit of
scorn in him; he felt it rather as an emblem of his
own withered joys. The day dragged on heavily;
and he reached his new home about dark, tired in
body and mind.
One who had seen him when he met the family,
would have known little of what his inward sufferings
were. Beside his aversion to discovering his
deeper feelings, even to his own family, he was conscious
of the duty upon him to strengthen the fortitude
of his parents. His endeavours were of little
benefit to his father. Mr. Shirley was of a high, restless
spirit; and his sudden fall from wealth and distinction
and the stir of society, heated his warm temperament,
months' illness Edward was as a nurse to his father
through his sickness; and after Mr. Shirley's death,
was as kind and attentive to his mother, and as anxious
about every little thing which he thought would
turn away her mind from her afflictions, as if his spirit
had been free of all trouble, except as it concerned her.
Harriet spoke of it in a letter, in answer to one she
had received from Mary, not long after Mr. Shirley's
death. — “My mother feels his kindness deeply.
She cannot speak of it to me, without shedding tears.
He is soon to leave us. I do not know how my
mother will bear his departure. Something, all the
while, is making him secretly miserable. I can only
conjecture what has taken place, for your letter reveals
nothing, and his is so sacred a melancholy, that I
dare not break in upon it.”
These exertions were for Edward's good. For
sensitive minds are prone to a melancholy, which may
in the end weaken the intellect, unless they have
some object to engage them, and give action to the
affections.
The winter was gloomy and cold, the spring opened
late, and the weather continued raw and uncomfortable,
and there appeared to be a sympathizing dejection
throughout every thing in nature. The time
came for Edward's departure, and he prepared to
leave home. Though he had sustained so hard a
struggle in parting with Mary, it was not because he
thought, for a moment, of sitting down in hopeless
inaction; but his father's sickness and death had prevented
his putting his plans in immediate execution.
In the midst of this dreariness and dejection, a relation
of Mrs. Shirley's returned from abroad, after
was Pennington. Though much older than Edward's
father, they were many years fast friends. Unfortunately,
some trifling controversy took place between
them; and both having a little too much pride,
and enough of the punctilious character which was
so marked in the old-fashioned gentry, a hasty altercation
ended in a lasting separation; for neither of them
could think of making advances toward a reconciliation.
Though this was a cause of mutual uneasiness,
and each in a short time felt as strong a regard and
attachment to the other as ever, Mr. Pennington
went abroad on some commercial speculations, without
their bidding each other farewell. Edward's
father was too proud to suffer his old friend to be
made acquainted with his difficulties. He could not
bear to think of the obligation which he knew he
should be laid under, were his circumstances made
known to the kind-hearted Mr. Pennington. — “It
was my hasty temper,” said Mr. Shirley to his son,
a little before his death, “which made the breach
between us. I have stood out foolishly against a
reconciliation; and repentance comes too late.”
Mr. Pennington was much affected on his arrival
in the country, at hearing of Mr. Shirley's loss of
property, and death. He wrote immediately to Mrs.
Shirley, and spoke in the most delicate manner of the
regret and self-reproach he felt in having suffered
any criminal pride on his part, to separate him from a
man for whom he had always had so great esteem and
friendship. He expressed the earnest wish that he
might be allowed to visit the family, and to atone for
the past, so far as was now left to him, by every mark
of kindness and regard which he could pay.
He arrived in a few days, and was received as one
of his character deserved to be. Edward and Harriet
were delighted with him. Though a man of deep
feelings, he had an energetic and clear mind; and at
the same time that he was not forgetful, or careless
of the loss of friends, or the sufferings of others, he
was possessed of that practical philosophy, which by
a constant aim at the improvement and happiness of
those about us, begets healthful activity of mind, and
an habitual cheerfulness of the spirits. Although he
had been so long abroad, he had lost nothing of his
former character; and his snuff-coloured, broad-skirted
coat, waistcoat-flaps, and ample silver shoe-buckles,
and long, golden-headed cane, showed him as little
changed in dress. His address had the courtly formality
of the old school—not a mere cumbersome
ceremony, because it was made up of so delicate and
respectful regards to others' feelings, that with all its
manner, it seemed a simple effluence of the heart.
He was altogether an excellent sample of an old-fashioned,
thorough-bred gentleman.
As far advanced in life as he was, he had not lost
his interest and sympathy in the feelings of the young;
and the uncommon cast of Edward's character, the
beautiful propriety of his manner, and the deference
which he showed to age, won so immediately upon
the old man's heart, that upon hearing from Mrs.
Shirley that her son was about leaving home to try his
fortune, he cried out,— “What! my friend's son turn
adventurer, and I sitting at home at my ease, with
nothing but my wealth to plague me! No that must
never be. If he loves the girl, he shall have her, and
that without ever setting foot a ship-board; for they
tell me she is worthy of him; and that is saying enough
mind, and with his heart full of the matter, with that
alacrity which belongs to a vigorous old man, he left
the room immediately for the purpose of falling in with
Edward.
They met at the outer door.
“You are going to walk,” said Mr. Pennington.
“You are rather a grave and silent companion, but
as I am a talkative old gentleman, and like to be
listened to, it is so much the better. Will you allow
me to join you?”
“If you think me worthy being a listener, sir, it
will give me great pleasure.”
After walking a little way into a wood back of the
house, Mr. Pennington began speaking of his large
fortune, and his great success in the management of
it abroad. “I have done with business, Mr. Shirley,
and am growing so old and lazy, that half my fortune,
I am afraid, will only be a trouble to me. I have
been impertinent enough to seek out from your mother
and sister the cause of your low spirits. I depend
upon your forgiveness, by telling you I have that
will cure you.” — Edward coloured, and was about
speaking. — “Stop,” said Mr. Pennington, “you
forget your part, — you are the listener. It is I must
do all the talking. I have taken it into my head to do
the very thing your father would have done for a child
of mine, had our situations been reversed: I'm going
to make you my principal heir. But as I am growing
old, and might in some fond moment fall in love with
my house-keeper, to make you sure, I have determined
to settle an annuity upon you this very day. —
Hold your peace, sir; I am not done yet. — The
principal creditor took the mansion-house and furniture.
quitted yesterday. So every thing is standing just as
it did in better days. I intended that your mother
should have gone back to the mansion; but as she has
determined to occupy the small house near it, you
have nothing to do but to start off in the morning, and
take possession of the homestead. I give you joy of
such a fine girl as they say Miss Aston is. There's
my hand, Mr. Shirley.” — Edward pressed it, and his
eyes filled with tears.— “Come, come.” said the old
gentleman, forcing a laugh; “'t is altogether a melancholy
affair, I know; but then, we will try to drown it
in a glass of wine after dinner. The deuse is in it, if
I don't make you drink with me for once.”
He turned off suddenly down a straggling foot-path,
and left Edward so surprised, that he scarcely knew
whether it was joy or sorrow that so confounded his
senses.
“Your brother is certainly dumbfounded,” said
Mr. Pennington, after dinner. “You and I, Harriet,
have had all the talking thrown upon us, as usual.”
“Harriet is a good girl,” said Edward, “and has
done her duty, as she always does, in like cases.”
“You must excuse my brother, Mr. Pennington.
He is melancholy at the thought of leaving us. Cheer
up, Edward; you sha'n't long be left all alone. We
shall be after you in a few days, to take possession of
our new habitation. Pray tell me, are you and Jacob
to occupy the big house together, (like the Master of
Ravenswood and old Caleb,) with Peggy for housekeeper?
By the by, Edward,” (tapping his shoulder,
as she ran by him out of the room,) “and before you
swallow that wine, glass and all, if you chance to see
Miss Aston, give her my love, and tell her we are
more.
“A madcap, that girl,” said Mr. Pennington.
“Come, Mr. Shirley, one glass to your to-morrow's
journey, and I am done.”
At night Edward bade his mother good by, and
prepared for his morning's journey with feelings so
tumultuous that they were almost painful to him. He
was stirring with the birds, and faithful Jacob being
punctually at the door, he sprang lightly into the carriage.
It was a fine morning, after a shower, the sky of a
clear deep blue, and the piled clouds tinged in the sun.
The rain-drops were falling from the trees, like pearl,
and the blossoms sailing gently down, and scattering
themselves like snow-flakes over the grass. The air
was breezy and fresh, filling the frame with sensations
of delight; and the brooks ran shining on, prattling
like young living things noisy with joy. But an image
more beautiful, and fairer than all these, was
before Edward's eyes. He saw it between the green
trees, and resting upon the white clouds; its voice was
in the clouds, and by the sides of the rocks. There
are chosen hours, when some men have a consciousness
of more life than falls to others in a multitude of
years. Edward's fine steeds swept quickly round the
turnings of the road; there was a swift and constant
changing of objects going on; every thing upon the
earth seemed in action, and he felt as if there was a
spirit of motion within him, bearing him forward.
Long before sunset, they began to enter upon the
scenery familiar to them. They soon came in sight
of the house. It was no longer gloomy and deserted,
the doors locked, and shutters barred; but the windows
were a holy-day; and the tenants, and the domestics
who had remained in the neighbourhood, could be
seen pointing out to each other the carriage, as it
wound up the road. In a few minutes Edward sprang
out into the midst of them; and there were more glad
faces about him, than, a week before, he could have
believed were contained in the whole world. So does
our state change our notions of things.
When wishing joy, and `how do ye do,' were over,
old Jacob was in the full tide of narrative, making short
stops now and then, — which served as reliefs to his
story, — to answer the little by-questions thrown in by
some impatient auditor. As soon as Edward could
leave those who had come together at the house,
without its putting a check upon their merriment,
he stole away, that he might be prepared to visit
Mary.
Soon after the rich Mr. Pennington's return, there
had been rumours afloat that he had bought the old
estate — then others of a visit to Mrs. Shirley; and
when the occupant moved out, two days before Edward's
arrival, the story was rife, though all matter of
guess, that Mr. Pennington had restored the estate
to the family. These and other rumours reached
Mrs. Aston's. Mary began to think it not impossible
that some of them might be partially true; then her
hopes grew stronger, and with them her fears. For
if accounts were true, why had she not heard from
Edward? She never for a moment doubted his affection.
As she was sitting at the window, and looking
toward the road, she heard two men, who were
passing down the lane which led by the house, say
carriage.— “He is come then!” said she aloud, as
she sprang from her seat and ran to the door, as if to
meet him.— “Who is come?” asked her mother.—
Mary had forgotten at the instant that her mother was
in the room.— “No one,” she answered, in a sunken
voice; and hurrying into the opposite room, shut the
door. Mrs. Aston withdrew to her chamber. As
Mary walked the room, the fluctuation of doubt and
hope was torture to her. After a time she grew more
composed; a light seemed to break in upon her, and
hope became almost certainty.
It was about the same hour, and the evening much
the same with that when Edward met Mary the first
time. He remembered it, as he walked towards the
house; and delightful recollections, mingling with his
expectations, heightened them, and made them more
real. Mary caught a glimpse of him through the
trees, at the instant he saw her at the window. They
both started back. He then hurried eagerly forward;
but she was gone. He entered the house, and opening
the door of the room suddenly, Mary stood before
him motionless and pale.— “Mary!” he cried.— The
blood rushed to her cheeks at the sound; she started
forward, and threw herself into his arms. There was
a perfect stillness. He felt her heart beat as he held
her to him. Nature at last gave way; she sobbed
out aloud, and in a voice broken with a wild laugh,
she cried — “Is it Edward? And is it true I am his?
And are we no more to part?”— “You are, indeed,
mine, now, Mary — look at me, and make it real to
me.”— She raised her head, her hands resting on his
shoulders; her eyes swam with tears, but a bright joy
broke through them, which came from the very soul,
of love. Edward kissed away the tear on her lid;
and as he gazed upon her face, and fondly parted back
the hair from her fine forehead, tears started in his
eyes, answering to hers. It was a moment too full of
feeling, for words.
When they grew more calm, and Mary sat by him
with her hand in his, he told her hastily what his good
old relation had done for them. Mary breathed out
a blessing upon him. Then turning, and looking up
in Edward's face — “To remember,” said she, “how
haggard and strange you seemed when we parted,
and now to see you look upon me so fond and happy —
O, it makes me forget myself, in my joy for what you
feel.”
In talking of the past and giving utterance to the
present fulness of feeling, they forgot that the night
was wearing away. — “It is time for you to go,” said
Mary, at last. — “I know it, the thought that we are
to meet to-morrow makes me, I could almost say, more
than willing to part now.”
As they separated half way down the walk, it was
the happiest good night they had ever bid each other.
Life now was one deep and wide joy to them; all
things that grew looked like sharers in a common
delight, and a cheerful and sympathizing benevolence
made the world appear as if there were nothing but
gladness and good will amongst men. Their souls
seemed from day to day to become closer united, and
to be fast making, as it were, but one being. — It was
not long before Mary became the wife of Edward.
PAUL FELTON.
—; the sick,
In my mind, are covetous of more disease.
Young.
— From his intellect,
And from the stillness of abstracted thought,
He asked repose.
Wordsworth.
And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
Dim sadness, and blind thoughts I knew not nor could name.
Same.
Who thinks, and feels,
And recognises ever and anon
The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul,
Why need such man go desperately astray,
And nurse “the dreadful appetite of death?”
Same.
Do not torment me!
Shakspeare.
Pray, and beware the foul fiend.
Same.
Paul Felton was the son of a well educated
country gentleman of moderate fortune, who, having
lost his wife early in life, took upon himself the education
of his son and daughter, as a relief to his melancholy,
and that he might not be deprived of their
society.
The retired life which the father led, prevented the
son's forming many acquaintances, and checked those
open, communicative feelings which make schoolboys
so pleasing. The serious and reserved manners
than from any thing native in his disposition, made an
early impression on the son; and from childhood Paul
was retired, silent and thoughtful. His character was
of a strong cast; and not being left to its free play
among equals, it worked with a violence increased by
its pent up and secret action.
The people of the neighbourhood were illiterate
and uncouth, having for the most part, that rough and
bold bearing which comes from an union of ignorance
and independence. Paul's distant manner appeared
to them like an assumption of superiority; and on all
occasions which offered, they were careful to show
their dislike of it. This not only increased his reserve,
but gave to his mind a habit of looking on strangers
as in some sort enemies; and when passing any one
who was not a familiar, he felt as if there were something
like mutual hostility between them. With all
this he had good affections; and when looking out
from his solitude, upon the easy and mingling cheerfulness
of some, and the strong attachments which here
and there bound others fast together, he saw how
beautiful was that which was companionable and kind
in the heart of man, and his eye rested on it, and his
soul longed after it.
So evil, however, is the nature of men, that almost
the love of what is excellent may lead us astray, if
we do not take heed to the way in which we seek it;
and we may see, and understand, and wish for it, till
we come to envy it in another: we may gaze upon a
character that is fair, and elevated, and happy, till we
feel its very goodness stirring in us dislike. Paul had
no settled ill-will towards any one; though, perhaps,
there was mingled with his repining, somewhat of envy
at the happiness and ease of mind in others.
As he advanced in life his passions waxed stronger,
and he craved an object about which they might live
and grow. His retired habits, however, had left him
without any of that careless confidence which in so
wonderful a manner helps along the men of the world;
and with a consciousness of his own powers, he was
distrustful of his ability to make them known, and of
the estimate which others would put upon them. This
same distrust ran into all his feelings; and with a
character to love earnestly and tenderly, the fear that
his personal appearance and somewhat awkward manners
deprived him of the power of showing what his
heart was susceptible of, made him almost miserable
at the thought that such feelings were ever given to
him. — “When I am tired of solitude,” he would say,
“and my heart aches with the void I feel, shall that
which I am conscious of within me as beautiful and
true, be made scoff of by another, because I have not
the fair form and manner of other men, and my tongue
cannot so well tell what is within me? — Shall all that
is sincere in me be questioned, or looked on with indifference?”
So far had even his good affections become
a torment to him, that all was at war and in opposition
in his character. At one time he was busy
in scornful speculation and doubt upon his passions;
and at another, he would urge them on, and give them
rein, that he might feel the self-torture they would
bring. No one thing was left to its natural play — as
making a part of his daily life — but existed in excess,
or not at all. This change and opposition broke up
that settled state in which the sense of truth puts us,
and left him disturbed; till at last his mind seemed
given for little else, but to speculate upon his feelings,
to part or unite them, to quell or inflame them.
He who so far questions his own nature, will question
every thing; and bring the most pain and misery
on those who are dearest to him; because he is for
ever asking for an assurance of returned affections,
and seeking that assurance in the power he can exert
over the object he loves. He inflicts his tortures, and
still doubts; and goes on to the end, working his own
misery, and seeing the object of which he is most fond,
perishing, like himself, the victim of his diseased
cravings.
Paul was nearly alone in the world. His father
was for the most part lost in his own thoughts. His
sister, though lively and talkative, had neither depth
of feeling, nor strength of intellect enough for him.
Much action and sound to little purpose wore on
his spirit, and though he was not without affection
for her, a sneer would sometimes escape him in his
impatience. He would shut himself up in his chamber,
or without so much as a dog for a companion,
wander off where no human being was to be met with.
He had now lived many years a self-tormentor, and
without communion with any one to relieve his mind,
when Esther Waring, the daughter of his father's
friend, came on a visit to Paul's sister. Her disposition
was cheerful and social; and she had an active,
thoughtful mind, which drew and fixed the attention
of those with whom she talked. Her feelings were
quick and kind, and the tenor of her thinking and remarks
showed that they were deep. Her black hair
fell round her dark, quiet eyes, which seemed to rest
on what the mind was showing them; and when she
spoke, a light shone through them from the very recesses
of the soul, as the stars shoot up from the
depths of the waters, brightening what they shine
her movements had that pliableness and delicacy which
so touch and interest men of grave or melancholy
natures.
Paul would often ramble among the hills, dwelling
upon his own thoughts, and seeking for sympathy in
nature; but she did not always answer him; and then
it was that he stood like a withered thing amid her
fresh and living beauty. Sometimes he would sit
alone on one of the peaks in the chain of the neighbouring
hills, and look out on the country beneath
him, as if imploring to be taken to a share of the joy
which it seemed sensible to, as it lay in the sunshine.
He would call, in the spirit, to the birds that passed
over him, and to the stream that wound away, till lost
in the common brightness of the day, to stay and comfort
him. They heard him not, but left him to cares,
and the waste of time, and his own thoughts.
It was after one of these melancholy days that he
returned home about dusk, and not having heard of
the arrival of a stranger, entered the parlour with a
gloomy countenance, his eyes cast down, his full black
eyebrows bent together, and his lips moving, as if he
were lost in talk with himself. Without observing
that there was any one in the room, he walked directly
to the window, and stood looking out on the evening
sky. His powerful face and the characteristic movement
of his body attracted the attention of Esther;
and her eyes fixed on him unconsciously as he stood
partly turned from her. He was below the common
height, with a person of a somewhat heavy mould,
square, and muscular; but he had the air and bearing of
one of a deep, resolute and thoughtful mind — as being
one of those men, whom, if a woman loves at all,
she loves with the devotion of a martyr.
“Paul!” said his father. — “Sir?” answered Paul,
without turning his head. — “Here is my old friend's
daughter, Miss Waring.” — Little used to society,
and watchful lest others should mark his defects, his
manner, when in company, was at all times somewhat
embarrassed. He turned, and saw the fair face of
Esther. It was slightly flushed; and the light which
filled her eye and played over her countenance, broke
upon the gloomy face of Paul, and touched the sluggish
spirit within him with a sensation of warmth and
life. He made such apology for his inattention as his
sudden introduction would allow of. His manner was
constrained, and a little awkward. It was, however,
the constraint of that certain sensitiveness which gives
more interest and delight than the sort of acquired,
conventional ease and grace so common in the world.
A country tea-table is a social affair; and Paul soon
lost a little of his taciturnity. The presence of an
agreeable stranger is a great restorer of the spirits
to those who are little in the world; and the mixture
of the playful and the serious in Esther's conversation,
and the freshness which we feel coming from a new
mind, kept Paul till a late hour in the parlour. His
next day's walk was somewhat shortened, and the regular
tread of his step, as he paced his chamber, was not
heard so long, and was often broken. It was evident
that the settled gloom of the mind was from day to
day breaking up, new thoughts and objects coming in,
and that which had bound the soul like ice, melting
and loosening and passing off. He continued his walks
more from habit than to relieve the intenseness of his
thoughts; and his path lay less over the heath and
sand than usual; and more among the grass, and trees,
and flowers; his sense of the beautiful was becoming
softening.
The change went on so gradually and secretly,
that it was a long time before he was conscious any
was taking place. After breakfast he loitered in the
parlour, and his evening passed quietly away in mild
conversation with Esther. The beautiful blending of
the thoughtful and gay in her manner and remarks
played on him like sun and shade on the earth beneath
a tree; and tranquillizing and gentle emotions were
stealing into him unawares.
Nor was it he alone whose heart was touched.
Paul was not a man whom a woman could be long
with, and remain indifferent to. The strength of passion
and intellect so distinctly marked in his features,
in the movements of the face, and in every gesture —
the deep, rich, mellow tone of his voice, with a certain
mysterious seriousness over the whole, excited
a restless curiosity to get more into his character;
and a woman who is at the trouble of prying into the
constitution of a man's heart and mind, is in great
danger of falling in love with him for her pains. Esther
did not make this reflection when she began; and
so taken up was she in the pursuit, that she never
once thought what it might end in, nor of turning
back.
Paul was differently educated from the run of men;
his father disliked the modern system, and, so, Paul's
mind was no encyclopedia, nor book of general reference.
He read not a great deal, but with much care;
and his reading lay back among original thinkers, and
those who were almost supernaturally versed in the
mysteries of the heart of man. Their clear and direct
manner of uttering their thoughts had given a distinctness
them; and what he had to say savoured of individuality
and reflection. He was a man precisely
calculated to interest a woman of feeling and good
sense, who had grown tired of the elegant and indefinite.
He never thought of the material world as formed
on purpose to be put into a crucible; nor did he
analyze it and talk upon it, as if he knew quite as
much about it as He who made it. To him it was a
grand and beautiful mystery — in his better moments,
a holy one. It was power, and intellect, and love,
made visible, calling out the sympathies of his being,
and causing him to feel the living Presence throughout
the whole. Material became intellectual beauty
with him; he was as a part of the great universe, and
all he looked upon, or thought on, was in some way
connected with his own mind and heart. The conversation
of such a man, (begin where it might)
always tending homeward to the bosom, was not likely
to pass from a woman like Esther, without leaving
some thoughts which would be dear to her, to mingle
with her own, or without raising emotions which she
would love to cherish.
Two minds of a musing cast will have some valued
feelings and sentiments, which will soon make an intergrowth
and become bound together. Where this
happens in reserved minds, it goes on so secretly, and
spreads so widely before it is found out, that when at
last one thought or passion is touched by some little
circumstance, or word, or look, a sympathizing feeling
runs through the whole; and they who had not
before intimated or known that they loved, find themselves
in full and familiar union, with one heart and
one being.
Esther's visit had now continued so long, that she
was sensible it was proper for her to return home, unless
urged to remain; but it so happened that she
never thought of going, without at the same time
thinking of Paul; and with that came a procrastinating,
lingering spirit. There was always something happening
which was reason enough for her putting off
the mention of the affair. She would half persuade
herself that Paul had nothing to do with the delay;
but her heart would beat quicker, and then she would
feel that she was trying to deceive herself. “There
is something strangely inscrutable in him. Would I
could see into that sealed up heart.”
The hour came; but, in spite of her efforts, her
voice was tremulous when she spoke of leaving the
family. Paul was sitting opposite to her at the table.
He looked up, and his eyes met hers. The colour
came to his cheek: She blushed, and her eyes fell
beneath his. Mr. Felton and his daughter protested
against her going.—“I hope,” said Paul at last.— She
looked up at him once more. He coloured deeper
than before, and was silent. It stung him to the
quick that any one should see the struggle of his feelings;
and he left the room.
As he traversed his chamber, his step grew quicker
and quicker, and instead of gaining composure, his
mind was more and more agitated. He became too
impatient to bear it any longer, and was hurrying out
to find relief in the open air, when he met Esther
coming from the parlour. Ashamed to let Paul see
her emotion, she was passing him with her face turned
from him. — “The show of concern,” said Paul,
without calling her by name — Esther stopped —
“the show of concern for us, in some, may seem impertinent,
or dislike. If I was too obtrusive just now, let me
hope for your forgiveness.”
“Mr. Felton officious! And can he think me so
frivolous or vain a girl as not to feel any token of regard
from him a cause for self-esteem?”
“I did not humble myself to extort praise, Miss
Waring; it is enough if I have not offended.”
“Neither did I mean it as praise; I was not so
weak as to think your self-approval needed my good
opinion to support it.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” replied Paul. “I
spoke in true humility, and not in pride. Not to have
offended you was all I dared look for.”
“Has it ever seemed to you that any of your many
notices were other than grateful to me? If so, my
manner but poorly expresses what I feel. Go where
I may, Mr. Felton, I shall remember how much my
mind owes to you — how much the thoughts you have
given it have done for my heart. And I hope it is
not in my disposition to be thankless for any good I
may receive.”
“Had I a claim,” answered Paul, “it is not your
gratitude I would ask for. The heart that longs for
sympathy and finds it not, what else can touch it? —
Forgive me; I know not what I say. — To be remembered
in kindness by you, Esther, shall be a drop to
comfort this thirsty soul.”
“And can a soul large as yours, and filled with
all things to delight another's mind, seem desolate to
you?”
“Is the mind enough to itself, think you, Esther?
Or can the imagination satisfy the cravings here, at
the heart?”
“The heart that does crave fellowship strongly,
may surely find it, if we do not perversely, and for our
self-torture shut it out.”
“Yes, but it is not every passer-by that I would
go with. O, she must be one so excellent, so much
above me! And yet I would not take her, did she
come to me in mercy only. I cannot think on't. For
me there is no fellow. I must go alone, alone, through
this wide and populous earth,” he said, leaving her
suddenly.
As he went along, his eye past swiftly from one
object to another, seeking something to rest upon,
which might fix his hurrying and disordered thoughts.
The notion had fully possessed him, that he was doomed
to live without sympathy in the world, that the power
was denied him to reveal to another what was in his
heart, that his person, his manner, and all which made
the outward man, barred him from a return of love;
and the interest he thought Esther showed in him,
while it came like an unlooked for joy, brought with it
doubt, humiliation and pain. He imagined what he
must seem to be to another, and then distrusted the
plainness and steadiness of her nature. — “There is
not enough within them for their minds to dwell upon;
there must be something outward and near to entertain
their thoughts; and their fickleness makes them
careless how poor it is, so it will but serve for the
time. She will go back to the world, and, among
showy and accomplished men, will smile secretly at
herself, to think that such an one as I am ever quickened
a beat of her heart. — Yet it may not be so;
souls may hold communion hidden and mysterious as
their natures. Can looks and movements and voice
like hers, so blended in harmony, speak any thing but
me, that I might read it and be satisfied!”
He had walked on through brake and over crumbling
moss, and was climbing up the shadowy side
of a steep hill, when, reaching its brow, the sweep of
the western sky opened upon him in full splendor,
and he seemed standing on the verge of a new world,
a world of light and glory. As he looked forward, all
that lay between him and it sunk away, he felt himself
expanding with the air, and becoming, as it
were, one of the sons of light. But the spirit that
lifted him up for a moment, passed like a bright cloud
from him; a weight was on his soul heavier than the
earth with all its hills; and reality breathed upon him
like the air of death. As he stood on the bare hill
alone, and saw all beneath him making a fair society, the
trees in brotherhood: — “Must I only,” he cried, “of
all the works of God, be an outcast?” — He looked
again upon the sky; but the quiet clouds seemed to
him to be telling of joy and peace to each other.
He stood with folded arms, gazing on the setting sun.
“The whole earth mourns thy going, thou gladdener
of all things. Thy light is poured out over it; thou
touchest the trees and the grass and the rocks, and
they each answer thee; thou fillest the air, and sounds
are heard in it as if coming forth from thy very light;
and all mingle in thee as in one common spirit of
cheerfulness and love.” — The sun was now gone.
He set himself down upon a stone, till the visionary
twilight and shadows were lost in the common darkness.
There was the same vagueness of purpose in
his mind as when he left home, yet there was less
tumult of the passions; and gentler feelings had entered
him. As he turned to go homeward, the few stars
hope gushed up in his heart like returning life; the
affections were in motion; and, for a while, the sense
that he was in fellowship with his kind thrilled through
him with rapture.
Esther was at the door when Paul returned. —
“What, alone?” asked he.
“Yes, you have all deserted me.”
“And can you feel deserted, Esther, who have the
company of happy thoughts?”
“All thoughts that we do not share, in time turn
to sadness.”
“They do indeed, or to something worse than sadness
— to discontent — almost to hate sometimes.”
“That is a fearful sin, in the solitude of our souls
to grow in evil.”
“It makes us mad almost,” said he, his eyes shooting
a wild light on her. His look and voice made her
tremble.
“Mr. Felton! what ails you? Can a heart like
yours find no sympathy in all this world? Is there no
being to share in its goodness with you, and give it
ease?”
“And with whom shall I find rest,” he asked, looking
earnestly on her.— Her eagerness had carried her
too far; she blushed deeply, and stood silent before
him. — The struggle with himself was a severe one;
he had never laid open one deep feeling, and how
could he make known that of love? At last he said,
after a pause, “Though of manners unwinning and
reserved, and seemingly cold and hard, I have at
times been foolish enough to think that there was one
being who could read something of my soul, and love
me for what she found there. Tell me, Esther, have
I been mistaken? have I presumed too much?”
“And do you ask me so doubtingly, to reprove me
for speaking as I did, in the suddenness of my feelings?
You cannot think that it was designed in me?
I did not consider, though I should have done so, that
it was a freedom ill suiting me; but it came from an
earnest heart, Paul.”
“My words were not those of reproof. O, Esther,
they were uttered in the lowliness of a soul, which,
though too often restless and proud, is at times humble
as a worm. It is a trial of my faith in you to believe
that you could ever love me. The world could
hardly have persuaded me once, that a creature like
you, made almost to be worshipped of men, could
ever look in fondness on one like me.” — He paused
for a moment; then his manner changed suddenly.
“But, so much as I doubt my powers to touch
another's heart, so much the more, so much the more
must I have assurance of her love.”
“Why so wild, Paul? What pledge can I give
you, that I would not give?”
“Ay, ay, but the pledge must not only be a sure
one, it must be of a love which shall make me all in
all. Can you,” he cried, seizing her hand and wringing
it hard, “can you have me in all your thoughts —
make your whole soul mine?” —She shook, and turned
pale. She struggled to pass it off lightly; but a
tear was in her eye, as she said, with a forced smile —
“Why, Paul, you are beside yourself! Any body
might think I was making myself over to the Evil One,
and not to the man that loves me.”
“Forgive me, forgive me, Esther,” he murmured,
putting his arm round her, and resting his hot brow on
her shoulder, — “I — I feel myself sometimes too
poor a thing for mortal regard; and then, and then I
cherish me, and tell me that I am not wholly worthless
— that you will love me.”
“Paul, Paul, this is madness. You have brooded
all alone over your melancholy thoughts, till they
have bewildered you. If you care for me, shall I
not make you happy? Look up, and let a cheerful
spirit enter you.” — He lifted his head slowly from
her shoulder, and stood gazing on her beautiful,
tremulous countenance. — “O, you are an angel
come in mercy to me. My spirit will never suffer so
more.”
“This is too eager, Paul,” said she kindly. “Let
your soul have rest; and try to be of a calmer mind.”
— And he was quiet. The tossing of the soul settled
away, and he stood with a spirit gentle as the moonlight
which poured over them, as it came up in the
east; — for what spirit will not a woman's kindness
calm?
At last Esther's father came to take her home.
Paul was urged by him to join them; but a certain
over delicacy, some might call it, prevented his going
for the first time to the house in company with the
woman to whom he had been but a little while engaged;
and so, with an embarrassed and half uttered
apology, he said he should soon follow them.
He had time for only a word or two at her leaving
him; and yet he looked and spoke as if it would take
ages to pour out what was in his soul. All the good
affections in our nature seemed at work there — it
was love, and pitty, and parental care, and the heart-sickness
of parting. As he put his arm gently round
her, and looked in her face, there was in his manner
more of the father, who is about parting with an only
voice was low, and thrilling, and admonitory. “You
are going from me, Esther, for the first time since we
have met. A single and near object moves our affections
strangely. In a little while you will be among
those with whom you grew up; and old sympathies of
thought and feeling may return to you. Look carefully
into your heart, Esther, and think it your best
faith to me, to abide by what that tells you.”
“And can you regard and love me, Paul, and yet
judge me of so light and changeable a disposition?”
“No, Esther; but the very intenseness of love calls
up misgivings; and better I were left out on the bleak
heath yonder, than be gathered to your bosom, to be
thrown away again.”
They parted; and though Esther loved him with a
devoted spirit, she breathed more freely when out of
his presence. He was dearer to her for his melancholy;
and his kind and fond manner, when his abstraction
of mind was gone, touched her heart. Yet
there was something fearful and ominous to her in his
gloom; and though she knew it had been caused by
long solitude, and a mistaken estimate of the relation
in which he might stand to others, still it was mysteriously
foreboding to her, and there was an indistinct
impression on the mind that some dreadful event, connected
with it, awaited her.
As they drove from the door, he followed with his
eyes the daintily moving steeds, and gay chariot, till
a turn in the road shut them out from his sight. —
“These things belong to what we call the elegancies
of life,” said he to himself. “There is much going
under that term which serves to break up the thoughtfulness
of the mind, and what is native and sincere in
but dissatisfied and doubting. And now that he was
alone again, and without the kind persuasions of Esther,
his old depression and gloom were returning,
and with them all the torture that doubting minds undergo
in love. Sometimes he saw her before him
with the distinctness almost of real presence; her
voice and countenance beautifully touched with her
fondness for him; and then again he remembered her
cheerful, social spirit, and he thought himself driven
from her mind by those who were strangers to him.
A thousand times a day he would ask himself, “Is
she thinking of me now, or is she busy amid the millions
of things which waste our time and draw to them
our wishes and hopes, yet have nothing abiding in
them like the nature of our souls?”
These conjectures and sad reflections were now to
give way to feelings immediate, active and intense;
for Paul set off from home, and soon reached Mr.
Waring's.
Unless a man has met, after a long or distant separation,
the woman who loves him with all her heart,
he never saw the soul shine out in the countenance,
in all its glow and beauty. So thought Paul when
they met. And as Esther looked on him, his face,
too, was changed like the edge of a cloud by the
shining of the sun upon it; and she felt that no joy is
like her joy who reads such silent tokens of love returned,
heart answering to heart, and thanks for the
deep gladness she has given.
The house of Esther's father, whither Paul had
come, was situated but a few miles from the city, in a
pleasant village, made up chiefly of people of wealth
and fashion. Though Mr. Waring's fortune was not so
but Esther he was able to gratify his fondness for
company and gay life, and had made these agreeable
to her from early habit. She loved society the better,
also, because she made it pleasant, and not for the
reason that those do who are as dull company to others
as to themselves.
The consequence of this was, that Paul and she
had fewer hours together, than when at his father's.
He was shy of being near her in company; and to
talk with the woman to whom he was known to be engaged,
before strangers, would have been martyrdom
to him. He found that her countenance brightened
and spirits rose high in society. Her gay laugh and
cheerful voice were in some states of his feelings, like
the hissing of an adder in his ear. He was pained
and made uneasy, because he saw her taken up with
that in which he felt himself unfitted to hold a part.
She was giving delight and receiving it in return, and
he could not share in it. He would stand aside and
watch her, till he fancied that her look and tone of
voice were the same with which she looked and talked
with him.
His mind was in a peculiar degree single. Whatever
passion or thought was in him, it filled him entirely;
and now that it was love, all in the world that
held not connexion with that was as nothing to him;
he neither heard, nor saw, nor felt any thing that
concerned not his love for Esther. The alacrity
with which she entered into whatever was going on,
was to him a want of steadiness of mind and depth of
feeling. He understood nothing of those to whom
the passion of love gives a gay spirit — a feeling of
kindness and fellowship toward all the world — from
forth something of its bright influence over all around
it: — In him it was a self-absorbing and lonely fire,
flaring only through the recesses of his own soul, and
shining alone upon his own solitary thoughts.
“And has God given them another constitution of
mind also?” said he to himself one night, as he left
the house, too restless to stay any longer. “Have
they no fastnesses nor places of rest to come home to?
Day and night are they on the wing, and never tire.
The bird that passed over me just now, and called to
me out of the darkness, though he make himself companion
of the stars the night long, will go to his nest
by morning. — I would not be a thing to lay my heart
open to the common eye. Its beatings warm me the
more, to think that I can be in the midst of men, and
they not count its pulses. Rather than lie out forever
sunning in the day, I would be covered up in my
grave.” — Paul could not accuse Esther to himself,
without a feeling of compunction. This did not drive
away his doubts, but made him turn some of the impatience
he felt, upon her. Yet in the midst of it,
the truth of her character would break out upon him
in its fair simplicity, and his adoring spirit would
look up to her as something set apart and sacred.
Her spirits were in full flow when Paul quitted
the room; for it gave animation and cheerfulness to
her in all she did, when she thought him near her.
The conversation began to flag; she turned to look
for him, but he was gone. She remembered that a
feeling like depression had been gradually gaining on
her; and a superstitious thought crossed her, that she
had been mysteriously conscious of missing something,
she knew not what, though she had not before perceived
the company gradually withdrew; the family retired
to rest, and she was left alone.
It was midnight, and Paul had not returned. There
was no sound in the house. She raised the window
and looked out. It was a black, misty night, and
there was that intense stillness abroad, which, at such
a time, is felt by us as a supernatural presence, and
makes us think of death. She scarcely breathed as
she listened for his footstep, and the beatings of her
heart struck audibly upon her ear. At last she heard
him as he came round the house, and the blood
bounded through her frame. — “Paul!” she cried,
and her silver voice rang in the still air. Paul entered,
— “Where have you been, you runaway,”
said she, springing lightly toward him, — “to give
me the heartach for two long hours, — and all in the
chilly night fog, too. See,” said she, running her
fingers playfully through his straight, black hair, on
which the dampness stood in drops — “these pearls
shall all be mine, and make me a happy girl again.”
“They will not be the first that have eased a woman's
heart, Esther. Come, come, these are no
brown curls to ring the white fingers of a fair hand.”
“I thought to cheer you; I am sorry it offends
you.”
“Did I speak harshly, Esther? If I did, it was far
from what I feel.”
“Not harshly, but mournfully, and as if I had given
you cause; and to think so is harder to bear, than
what comes from an over hasty temper.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, for that is one of
the many tokens whereby we find out love.”
“And are you in search of mine still? I had thought
it had been yours long ago.”
“And I think so too, Esther; but then it can rest
only on our belief; and upon that there will always be
hanging some ugly shred of doubt.”
“O! I had believed it was a faith, not to speak profanely
— a faith that surpasseth knowledge, that it
was in us as our consciousness, our very life. Is it
folly in me to think so?”
“No, Esther, it is your virtue. Bad as I am, I
have moments of such blessedness. And this, this is
one of them. It is on me now!” he cried in a broken
laugh. She started from him as from a deranged
man. — “Be not alarmed,” said he, seizing her arm,
and looking on her eagerly, “I am not mad, not quite
mad, though joy shoots through me sometimes like
fire.”
“I wish it might burn in you gently and constantly,
Paul, for then I should see you a happy man; and I
would die, to-night, and e'en forego all my love for
you — if love must die with us — could I but leave
you happy.” She covered her face, and sobbed as if
all comfort had forsaken her.
“O, Esther, I am not worthy this; I'm so poor a
thing I ought not to make you unhappy even. — That
was an evil time in which you saw me first. When
I was alone, I went about the earth as a doomed thing;
and now that I am connected with my kind, the curse
that was on me singly, seems to be stretching out over
all in communion with me. When I see you happy,
my heart aches for you, to think how heedless you are
of the hour that is awaiting you.”
“And what hour have I to fear, Paul, but the hour
of death, which is to part us?”
“I cannot tell; only I have lived impressed from
the time I was a boy, that it was writ I should be
me like a star trailing your glory across my gloom,
only to fall and go out in it. Better, I fear, that I
should have lived on in darkness, than that your light
should ever have shone on me. — O, I talk! No more
of this now, the morning will overtake us. You look
pale and heart-sunken. Let me not make your hour
of rest miserable, Esther. Think this, as I hope it
is, but the boding of midnight. To-morrow I'll be
as cheerful as the lightest of them. Sweet sleep comfort
you. And now, my love, good night.” — Esther
looked at him, melancholy, yet something cheered,
but she could not speak as they parted.
For several days, Paul's affectionate manner was
not broken by any sudden starts or gloomy reserve;
and if after a time these returned upon him, it was
seldomer; and his disposition seemed softened and
quieted. The day was coming that Esther was to be
his wife; and as it drew near, he felt more surely
how deeply rooted she was in his heart.
There are at times, a tenderness and a delicacy about
a serious man, the beauty of which affects us even
more than when we see them in a woman. This is
partly from contrast. They are in agreement with a
woman's person and general character, and are
habitual to her. It may be that when the man is under
their influences, he has a more exquisite sense of
them — may we say, a finer touch for them?
Though Paul showed the greatest fondness for
Esther, except at moments when haunted by some
fearful passion or thought, there was now so kind a
regard, so delicate a propriety of the affections in his
manner toward her, that she almost thought some
new and higher sense of his love had been given her: —
it made her the nearer to him. He knew that the
tender affections have more or less of melancholy in
them, and that his own were tinged by it.
“Let me fasten on these bracelets,” said he, taking
out a pair he had just purchased, “for there is a charm
in their circles to bind you to me.”
“Nay, nay, Paul; no manacles, though to bind
me to you even,” she said, unclasping one of them
and whirling it round her finger. — “Don't look so
serious about it. — There, clasp it again, and you
shall be the first to take it off, though thou wouldst
have me spell-bound, thou wizard man. I wish it had
been something else, though.”
“And what would you have had it, Esther?”
“This,” said she, passing her hand playfully over
his face.
“What, a face like mine, and `in little,' and set
round with gold and diamonds! And where would
you have worn it? — Why, it would have made your
heart beat with fear to have such a looking thing so
near it. And to have made love to it, Esther,” he
said, half smiling, “that's past all faith!”
“Then there is no truth in my love, Paul.”
“Yes, but there is; it is all truth. And yet,” he
added, as if pondering upon it, “it is very strange.”
“What is strange?”
“That Esther should ever look on me, and after,
love me. And yet you will vow it to-morrow, will
you not?”
“If you question it so, it may be better for us both
that I should not. For when I have done it, should
Paul doubt, he had better be in his grave than live.”
“Nor should I deserve to see the light, nor feel
Do not lay to heart what I say at such times. My
joy was too much for me, and made me play with
misery. Did'st never in grief have a wild and horrid
mirth fork like lightning by thee? I have, that
my eyes have blenched at it. I shall be used to
this joy soon; and then my spirit will be as quiet before
you as that cloud yonder, which rests above us
in the light. O, you shall be my sun and all else
that is good and cheering to me; and when I hold
you to me thus, to-morrow, I'll not call you Esther,
but my wife.”
The next day they were married, and Paul took
Esther to their new home, not quite a mile from the
village. The house was plain, but well proportioned;
set down in the middle of a level grass-plat, which
was broken only by the gravel-way winding up to the
door, and a clump of young trees a little on one side.
The whole was open to the sun; and about it was an
air of perfect simplicity and quiet. All along the
even road to the village lay a beautiful prospect; and
there was a row of elms and sycamores, stretching
the entire length of the route; so that, though they
had but one near neighbour, Mr. Ridgley, they had
quite as much company as if in the midst of the village.
Their house terminated these pleasant views; for
a little back of it ran a ridge of steep rocks; and beyond
that the country was desolate, stretching out into
wide sand tracts, broken by patches of scant, yellowish
grass; and half round the whole, swept a forest of
low, ragged pines. The place was difficult of access,
and appeared like a land accursed; neither the foot-print
of man nor beast was to be seen there. It was
one of those good-for-nothing tracts of country, which
farmer in the neighbourhood had put a couple of men
on it to cut down the wood; and this business he
carried on for several years, till falling into a dispute
with a neighbouring farmer, notice of the trespass
reached the owner, who would not have remembered
that the estate was his, had it not been for his taxbills.
A suit was instituted, the farmer at last driven
off from what was not worth having, and the true proprietor
ruined. A story was current thereabouts, that
the land was good enough before the owner gained
his cause; but that he was a hard man, that the
Devil had a hand in the suit, helped him gain it, and
then danced over the land where now lay the sand,
and singed the grass, as he went off in fire and smoke.
The men said they did not know why they should go
where there was nothing to be got; and a foolhardy
boy who had once been a birds-nesting there, was
ever afterwards looked on with suspicion, as, in some
way or other, belonging to the Evil One.
When Paul now looked back, and remembered
that till a little while before the world had been bare
of joy to him; that the soul, living without sympathy,
had been at prey upon itself; and that a solitude,
more dreadful than if he had stood the only living
thing upon the earth, had surrounded him — the solitude
and void which estrangement from others makes
about us, — it was as if he had passed into another
state of being; and a new nature and new delights
filled him with sensations of which before he had no
thought. He looked upon Esther, and his mind was
one rapture. Neglected and passed by, as he had
been, she had stopped, and spoken comfort to him, and
taken him by the hand, and he followed her like a
Esther, and brought me out of darkness into the
comfortable light. The spring of my feelings was
sealed up, but you have opened it, and it runs on now,
taking the hues and forms of all the beautiful and
blessed things with which God has filled this earth
for us. My heart is fuller of joy than I well know
how to bear — it aches to speak it to you; and yet
its throbbings can tell you better than words can.”
This was the over contentment of a mind melancholy
by nature, and not knowing how to measure its
joys when they came. The happiness of such minds
is always in excess; then it seems strange to them;
they question its truth; it does not belong to them;
they fear it cannot last; they look back upon their
melancholy as their true condition, as one which they
are bound to by some fatality; and in their hopelessness
they rush into it further than before.
Paul's state was so opposite to what he had been
wonted to, that it seemed to produce some indistinctness
of the thoughts and senses, and he could hardly
have a clear persuasion of the reality of his happiness.
It partook of the visionary; and he began to fear that
his hopes and imagination had cheated him into it.
In his saner moments, when he could not question its
truth, he doubted its stability; and a vague notion that
this was to pass away, and something, he knew not
what, to take its place, unsettled the quiet of his mind,
and disturbed its full content. A feeling, like those
ill forebodings which sometimes come over us and
then go off again, was more and more gaining possession
of him, bringing back his old melancholy,
troubling his reason, and distorting what he saw.
There is a strange infatuation in gloomy minds,
to their melancholy; and they seek out causes of
depression with an industry more eager and unrelaxed
than that with which cheerful souls hunt after pleasure:
It is the craving of a diseased appetite, which is never
sated.
Paul felt his melancholy returning at intervals. At
first, he shrunk from it with the dread that the lunatic
flies his fits of coming madness; but at last, as dark
thoughts began to gather round him, he no longer
tried to scatter them; the fate that he imagined himself
born to was oftener in his mind, and his former
distrust of himself; and with these came his doubts
of others. — “It cannot be,” he said to himself, “that
I was made to be loved of one so beautiful and of so
light a heart. The gloom that shadowed me about
was a mystery to her, and she was curious to know it.
She saw that I was depressed and miserable, and
that moved her heart to pity me; she found that her
kindness touched me and made me happy, and this
stirred an innocent pride within her, and she mistook
it all for love. — And, fool! fool! so did I. Ay, and
there was no one near to place this uncomely form by;
and no gay, accomplished and ready mind, to play
round the sluggish, unchanging movements of mine.
Poor girl, she knew not me, nor herself then; but the
knowledge will one day be revealed to her, and with
a curse as heavy as fell on man in paradise.”
Though Paul passed many such hours when alone,
and was restless and impatient in company, yet the
thought that Esther was his wife was still a healing
to his heart. He loved her with all that intenseness
his nature was made to feel; and it was with a joyous
adoration that he looked on her in his undisturbed
for him; and he thought of it as more than an
earthly blessing.
It was about this time that Frank Ridgley returned
home, after an absence of two years. He had been
an early and ardent lover of Esther. She had a great
regard and liking for Frank, but not a particle of love
for him. His case was a more hopeless one than if
he had been her aversion; for opposite passions run
so into each other, particularly in women, that it is
oftentimes hard to tell which is which. Perhaps
Frank felt the truth of this (though he was not much
in the way of philosophizing) when Esther refused
him, telling him, at the same time, that she had a
great esteem for him. For the matter of that, thought
he, though he dared not say it, you might profess
as much to my grandmother. He was angry, and
mortified, and in despair; and confounded, and not
knowing what feeling he was suffering under, swore
most solemnly that he would never survive his disappointment.
— “That's an unwise resolution in you,
Frank,” said Esther. “Only allow yourself time to
think about it till you are a little older, and you will
live to see the folly of it. — Forgive me, Frank; I do
not mean to make sport of your feelings; but, for the
life of me, I cannot help thinking how bright and
well you will look a twelvemonth hence.”
The truth is, Frank was one of those whose feelings
spend themselves on the outer man, and whose
passions, violently as they seem moved, are but healthful
excitement, compared with what those feel who
look clayey and hard when they are agitated most.
Esther knew very well that he was sincerely and
warmly attached to her at the time, and that, would
and wear black for her a full year after she was
gone; but that his mind was not one of those abiding
places in which we find decayed, gray trees, and
young shoots, running vines, and mosses, and all those
close and binding growths which look so lasting,
faithful and affectionate. She pitied him as we do
one who has a twinge of the toothach — which nobody
dies of. However bent we may be upon dying
of crossed love, it is no easy matter; next to starving
one's self to death, there is nothing which requires
more resolution and perseverance. Accordingly,
Frank returned in due time, glad to see his friends,
with his head full of novelties, with much useful information,
and a ready, lively way of showing it.
It was a damp, uncomfortable evening; and Paul and
Esther were round the fire; Paul a little on one side, and
partly in the shade, now and then making some short,
serious remark, after his usual manner, with his eyes
resting on Esther's countenance, as she sat looking
into the fire, pondering on what he said, and the many
things it led the mind to. Her face was all thought,
and her features had a beautiful distinctness, as they
appeared in strong outline against the warm fire-light
that shone on her. At no time had love seemed to
Paul so quiet and domestic. He thought that he had
never before been conscious how lovely and dear to
us humanity may be.
There was a smart rap at the door, and in came, in
full spirits, Frank Ridgley. Esther, who was surprised
and sincerely glad to see him, showed it in her
benevolent countenance. His manner was a little
embarrassed; for he had not forgotten that he had
once been in love, though now cured of it; and remembering
not a little ashamed to think that she should see him
alive and well again. Paul felt something like uneasiness
at the expression of Esther's face, and an
impatient doubt passed through his mind as he observed
Frank's embarrassed manner. It was that old
distrust of himself and of his power to interest another
deeply, making him question the possibility of a sincere
and enduring passion for him, which haunted
him, and not a proneness to think lightly of another's
virtue. Frank was a man much below Paul in force
of character, and feeling, and intellectual power; yet
he was his very opposite in mind and person; and
this left Paul room to harass himself with surmises,
and torture himself with the agony with which humbling
thoughts afflict proud men.
“Mr. Felton,” said Esther, a little agitated at introducing
her husband to an old friend, “this is an
old acquaintance of mine, Mr. Ridgley.” His eye
fastened on Esther, as if he was reading her very
soul. He saw her agitation, but mistook the cause.
He rose slowly from his chair, out of the dark corner
in which he was sitting, and giving his hand deliberately
to Frank, and looking downward, said gravely,
“Sir, I am happy to see you.” — As the light struck
upon his figure, and he took Frank's hand, Frank
shrunk back a little, as if not altogether safe. The
deep, and scarcely audible voice in which he spoke,
his dark countenance, and low, muscular form, seemed
possessed of some strange power. Frank involuntarily
turned toward Esther, as if in wonder that any
thing so gentle, and fair, and cheerful as she, could
belong to such a being. Esther trembled as she observed
Paul, though she hardly knew why; and seeing
Frank looking at her, blushed deeply, for she knew
swiftly over both of them, and bowing low, drew back
into his seat.
The room was immediately lighted, and Frank,
who was of too cheerful a disposition to be made long
uneasy by unpleasant thoughts, began, in full spirits, to
talk about old times and what he had seen since leaving
home. His gayety was not of that sort which we sit
and look at with a good natured acquiescence, and
are pleased to see so well played off; but it was communicative,
driving away our troubles, and making us
feel, for the time, as if we ourselves were of too happy
a temperament ever to be melancholy. He was a
man of good sense, too, and of right honest and kind
feelings, and therefore much better fitted for the true
purposes of travel than those who go equipped with
every thing that can be thought of, except straight
heads and honest hearts. His gayety and humour
were mingled with just observations, and softened
down by the propriety and delicacy natural to his
character; and these, with a graceful and elegant person
and handsome countenance, and a certain deference
of manner, made him a favourite wherever he
went, particularly among the women.
Notwithstanding the effect Paul's appearance had
on him, he knew Esther too well to think that any
attention he might pay her would reconcile her to a
neglect of her husband. This might be one of her
singularities; but it was not to be disregarded. Besides,
however reserved and silent Paul might be, no
one could sit near him, and forget who was by his
side. Though Paul was distant and cold at first, the
ease and propriety of Frank's remarks were not unobserved
by him, and he was gradually led to take a
longer wondered at his power over Esther; though at
the same time, (he knew not why,) he was conscious
of something like uneasiness and distrust on her
account. Yet, on the whole, the evening passed off
very well; and Esther's heart was lightened to think
it had ended so much better than it began.
When Frank withdrew, Paul became silent. — “It
is not yet quite two years since she first saw me,”
said he to himself; “and who can tell how many times
since she was a child, to that hour, she has sighed as
she thought on some other man?” — He stirred in
his chair. Esther looked at him; but he was buried
in thought. — “And is it mere chance that has fixed
her love at last on me? Have the same hopes and
same desires which rest on me, been breathed forth
in silence for another, when I was unknown? And
had she never seen me, might she not have looked as
fondly on some other man, and hung on him as she
will on me now?” — It was hateful to him to think
on it. There is no man of sentiment who would not
gladly be rid of such thoughts, if he could; he practises
upon himself to believe it was otherwise; and though
half conscious of the self-deception, yet even from that
little gathers some relief. But Paul was made for
self-torture; besides, he had lived a lonely man so
long, that what he felt was not to be so shuffled off.
He considered with himself, and considered truly, that
there is not one woman in a thousand, who has not, at
some time or other, imagined herself in love with
another man than him she at last marries. It made
him writhe with impatience.
At last Esther said aloud, but without raising her
eyes from a print of Moreland's, on which she was
looking, “He is certainly very amiable.”
“Do you mean that swine-feeder?” asked Paul
sarcastically, as he looked up.
“I was not then thinking of him or his pigs,” she
replied, smiling.
“You should be more definite then, my dear.
You forget that every one's thoughts do not take the
same road with yours. Yes, he is one of the handsomest
men I have met with, and of a very winning
address.”
“Handsome, did I say?”
“I know not that you did; yet you think him so,
surely; do you not?”
“Certainly I do; but I was speaking of his
heart.”
“O, of his heart. Of that you know more than I
do.”
“And well I may, Paul, for I have known Frank
Ridgley from a boy.”
“Very like,” said Paul; then spoke of the weather,
and soon left the room. He at this time believed
Esther to be of a mind as open as the day, yet because
his own person and bearing had nothing graceful or
attractive in it, he made these properties of too much
importance, forgetting how much less women regard
such things in us, than we do in them. He remembered
Frank's appearance; and the idea took possession
of him, that there must have been a time when
he had place in her youthful imagination. This
was a poisonous thought to take root in a mind like
his.
The next day, as he was returning home from a
morning walk, he saw at a distance, Frank leaving
the house. — “I thought as much — a lady's man,
who plays his glove, and shows a white hand. We
and what is worse, our sober, retired thoughts
are put out o'doors, and our minds fitted up for shows
and gala-days.”
Frank soon came along, looking fresh as the morning,
and as he passed Paul, wished him, gayly, a
pleasant day. Paul bowed his head slowly, and
walked on homeward.
“And what have you there?” asked Esther, going
toward him as he entered the room.
“Constancy, Esther, constancy.”
“Give it me then,” said she, catching it out of his
hand. “Yet I'll not take it all. There, it shall be
between us. Stay, let me have it again, and I'll plant
it under this window, that it may grow all together.
And I'll water it daily.”
“Look well to it, lest a blight take it.”
“It is not so tender that it need watching so,
surely?”
“Yes, but it is, Esther — it is often blasted.”
“I read not so of it.”
“Then your books are a lie; do not trust them.”
“I will not, nor myself, neither. It is yours again;
and you shall tend it. I am too heedless and gay for
such continual care. Come, lay by that sombre
countenance, and fit you with a more cheerful look,
for we are to have a splendid ball at the village.
Frank has been here, and spoiled my morning with
talk of figures and dresses. And I know not but that
you would have found me in full practice, had I not
protested against dancing at high noon. — Now, take
me not in earnest, Paul.”
“Would that I could tell when I might, Esther.
My heart is ill at ease, and I cannot trifle now.”
“And is it I, who have broken its peace?” asked
she, as she leaned fondly on him. “It was my hope,
and all which made me happy, that I should be its
place of rest and joy. I seem to you too much a
trifler for your graver nature. I, too, was graver
than now, before I knew you, Paul. It is the over-joy
that you have filled my heart with, which makes me
so prattling and wild, like a child: It is that I feel
too much, and not too little. Yet sometimes it makes
me thoughtful, nearly to melancholy, instead of gay.
I wish it always did, for then I should be like you,
and content you better. And you would never then
cast on me that look of sorrow and reproof which you
did just now, would you, Paul?” The tears started
to her eyes.
“Be like me, Esther! You little know what you
are wishing for. Be like yourself,” said he, laying
his hand on her open brow, “be good and be happy.
Misery is but another name for sin, — for imperfect
virtue. Could we cast off our frailties, man might
walk through the afflictions, the losses, and wrongs of
life with the calm of heaven within him, and its glory
round about him. I have had visions of it, and they
have changed this vile thing you lean on, to the bright
soul and shape of angels.”
She gazed on him without breathing. His face
was turned upward, and he seemed as if seeing into
the world above him. His look was fixed and calm
as the sky. He stood for a time as if rapt in holy
converse. By and by a cloud passed, his countenance
became dark, and his head sunk on his bosom.
Esther could look no longer. Paul seemed sinking
beneath her weight. She raised herself, and he
turned, and walked slowly out of the room. She
would have followed him, but she could not move.
He took a path which led through the fields back
of his house, and wound among the steep rocks part
way up the range of high hills, till it reached a small
locust grove, where it ended. He began climbing a
ridge near him, and reaching the top of it, beheld all
around him a scene desolate and broken as the
ocean. It looked, for miles, as if one immense gray
rock had been heaved up and shattered by an earthquake.
Here and there might be seen shooting out
of the clefts, old trees, like masts at sea. It was as
if the sea in a storm had become suddenly fixed,
with all its ships upon it. The sun shone glaring
and hot on it, but there was neither life, nor motion,
nor sound: the spirit of Desolation had gone over
it, and it had become the place of death. His heart
sunk within him, and something like a superstitious
dread entered him. He tried to rouse himself, and
look about with a composed mind. It was in vain —
he felt as if some dreadful, unseen power stood near
him. He would have spoken, but he dared not in such
a place.
To shake this off, he began clambering over one
ridge after another, till passing cautiously round a
beetling rock, a sharp cry from out it shot through
him. Every small jut and precipice sent it back with
a satanic taunt; and the crowd of hollows and points
seemed for the instant alive with thousands of fiends.
Paul's blood ran cold; and he scarcely breathed, as he
waited for their cry again; but all was still. Though
his mind was of a superstitious cast, he had courage
and fortitude; and ashamed of his weakness, he
reached forward, and stooping down, looked into the
cavity. He started as his eye fell on the object
within it. “Who and what are you?” cried he.
devil.” And out crawled a miserable boy, looking as
if shrunk up with fear and famine. “Speak, and tell
me who you are, and what you do here,” said Paul.
The poor fellow's jaws moved and quivered, but he
did not utter a sound. His spare frame shook, and
his knees knocked against each other, as in an ague
fit. Paul looked at him for a moment. His loose,
shambly frame was nearly bare to the bones, his light,
sunburnt hair hung long and straight round his thin
jaws, and white eyes, that shone with a delirious
glare, as if his mind had been terror-struck. There
was a sickly, beseeching smile about his mouth. His
skin, between the freckles, was as white as a leper's, and
his teeth long and yellow. He appeared like one who
had witnessed the destruction about him, and was
the only living thing spared, to make death seem more
horrible. — “Who put you here to starve?” said Paul
to him.
“Nobody, sir.”
“Why did you come, then?”
“O, I can't help it; I must come.”
“Must! And why must you?” The boy looked
round timidly, and crouching near Paul, said, in a
tremulous, low voice, his eyes glancing fearfully
through the chasm. “'T is He, 'tis He, that makes
me!” — Paul turned suddenly round and saw before
him, for the first time, the deserted tract of pine wood
and sand, which has been described. — “Who and
where is he,” asked Paul, impatiently, expecting to
see some one.
“There, there, in the wood yonder,” answered
the boy, crouching still lower, and pointing with his
finger, whilst his hand shook as if palsied.
“I see nothing,” said Paul, “but these pines.
What possesses you? Why do you shudder so? and
look so pale? Do you take the shadows of the trees
for devils?”
“Don't speak of them. They'll be on me, if you
talk of them here,” whispered the boy eagerly.
Drops of sweat stood on his brow from the agony of
terror he was in. As Paul looked at the lad, he felt
something like fear creeping over him. He turned
his eyes involuntarily to the wood again. “If we
must not talk here,” said he at last, “come along
with me, and tell me what all this means.” The
boy rose, and followed close to Paul.
“Is it the devil you have seen, that you shake so?”
“You have named him, I never must,” said the
boy. “I have seen strange sights; and heard sounds
whispered close to my ears, so full of spite, and
so dreadful, I dared not look round, lest I should see
some awful face at mine. I've thought I felt it touch
me sometimes.”
“And what wicked thing have you done, that they
should haunt you so?”
“O, Sir, I was a foolhardy boy. Two years ago I
was not afraid of any thing. Nobody dared go into
that wood, or even so much as over the rocks, to look
at it, after what happened there.” — “I've heard a
foolish story,” said Paul. — “So once, Sir, the thought
took me that I would go there a birds-nesting, and
bring home the eggs and show to the men. And it
would never out of my mind after, though I began
to wish I hadn't thought any such thing. Every
night, when I went to bed, I would lie and say to
myself, To-morrow is the day for me to go; and I did
not like to be alone in the dark, and wanted some
And when I waked in the morning, I felt as if something
dreadful was coming upon me before night.
Well, every day, I don't know how it was, I found myself
near this ridge; and every time, I went farther and
farther up it, though I grew more and more frightened.
And when I had gone as far as I dared, I was afraid to
wait, but would turn and make away so fast, that many
a time I fell down some of these places, and got lamed
and bruised. The boys began to think something;
and would whisper each other and look at me, and
when they found I saw them, they would turn away.
It grew hard for me to be one at their games, though
once I used to be the first chosen in. I can't tell
how it was, but all this only made me go on; and as
the boys kept out of the way, I began to feel as if I
must do what I had thought of, and as if there was
somebody, I couldn't think who, that was to have me,
and make me do what he pleased. So it went on,
Sir, day after day,” continued the lad, in a weak, timid
tone, but comforted at finding one to tell his story to,
“till at last I reached as far as the hollow where you
just now frighted me so, when I heard you near me.
I didn't run off, as I used to from the other places,
but sat down under the rock. Then I looked out,
and saw the trees. I tried to get up and run home,
but I could'nt; I dared not come out and go round the
corner of the rock. I tried to look another way, but
my eyes seemed fastened on the trees: I couldn't
take 'em off. At last I thought something told me it
was time for me to go on. I got up.”
Here poor Abel shook so, that he seized hold of
Paul's arm to help him. Paul recoiled, as if an unclean
creature touched him. The boy shrunk back.
“Go on,” said Paul, recovering himself. The
boy took comfort from the sound of another's voice.
— “I went a little way down the hollow, Sir, as if
drawn along. Then I came to a steep place; I put
my legs over to let myself down; my knees grew so
weak I dared not trust myself; I tried to draw them
up, but the strength was all gone out of them, and,
then, my feet were as heavy as if made of lead. I
gave a screech; and there was a yell close to me and
for miles round, that nigh stunned me. I can't say
how, but the last thing I knew was my leaping along
the rocks, while there was nothing but flames of fire
shooting all round me. It was scarce mid-day when
I left home; and when I came to myself under these
locusts, it was growing dark.”
“Rest here awhile,” said Paul, looking at the boy
as at some mysterious being, “and tell out your
story.”
Glad at being in company, the boy sat down upon
the grass, and went on with his tale. — “I crawled
home as well as I could, and went to bed. When I
was falling asleep I had the same feeling I had when
sitting over the rock. I dared not lie in bed any
longer; for I couldn't keep awake while there. Glad
was I when the day broke, and I saw a neighbour
open his door, and come out. I was not well all day;
and I tried to think myself more ill than I was, because
I somehow thought that, then, I needn't go to
the wood. But the next day He was not to be put
off; and I went, though I cried and prayed all the
way, that I might not be made to go. But I could
not stop till I had got over the hill, and reached the
sand round the wood. When I put my foot on it, all
the joints in me jerked as if they would not hold together;
came under the trees, there was a deep sound, and
great shadows were all round me. My hair stood on
end, and my eyes kept glimmering; yet I couldn't go
back. I went on till I found a crow's nest. I climbed
the tree, and took out the eggs. The old crow
kept flying round and round me. As soon as I felt
the eggs in my hand, and my work done, I dropped
from the tree, and ran for the hollow. I can't tell
how it was, but it seemed to me I didn't gain a foot of
ground — it was just as if the whole wood went with
me. Then I thought He had me his. The ground
began to bend and the trees to move. At last I was
nigh blind. I struck against one tree and another till
I fell to the ground. How long I lay there I can't
tell; but when I came to, I was on the sand, the sun
blazing hot upon me, and my skin scorched up. I
was so stiff, and ached so, I could hardly stand upright.
I didn't feel or think any thing after this; and
hardly knew where I was, till somebody came and
touched me, and asked me whether I was walking in
my sleep; and I looked up, and found myself close
home.
“The boys began to gather round me, as if I were
something strange; and when I looked at them, they
would move back from me. — `What have you been
doing, Abel?' one of them asked me, at last. — `No
good, I warrant you,' answered another, who stood
back of me. And when I turned round to speak to
him, he drew behind the others, as if afraid I should
harm him: — and I was too weak and frightened to hurt
a fly. — `See his hands; they are stained all over.'
`And there's a crow's egg, as I'm alive!' said another.
`And the crow is the Devil's bird, Tom, isn't it?'
wood, and made yourself over to Him.' — They moved
off, one after another, every now and then turning
round and looking at me as if I were cursed. After
this they would not speak to me, nor come nigh me.
I heard people talking, and saw them going about, but
not one of them all could I speak to, or get to come
near me; it was dreadful, being so alone! I met a
boy that used to be with me all day long; and I
begged him not to go off from me so, and to stop, if
it were only for a moment. `You played with me
once,' said I; `and won't you so much as look at me,
or ask me how I am, when I am so weak and ill, too?'
He began to hang back a little, and I thought, from
his face, that he pitied me. I could have cried for joy;
and was going up to him, but he turned away. I
called out after him, telling him that I would not
so much as touch him with my finger, or come any
nigher to him, if he would only stop and speak
one word to me; but he went away shaking his head,
and muttering something, I hardly knew what, how
that I did not belong to them, but was the Evil One's
now. I sat down on a stone and cried, and wished
that I was dead; for I couldn't help it, though it was
wicked in me to do so.”
“And is there no one,” asked Paul, “who will
notice you, or speak to you? Do you live so alone
now?” It made his heart ache to look down upon
the pining, forlorn creature before him.
“Not a soul,” whined out the boy. “My Grandmother
is dead now; and only the gentlefolks give me
any thing; for they don't seem afraid of me, though
they look as if they didn't like me, and wanted me
out of the village. But I dare not go far, because I
don't know when He will want me. But I am not
alone; He's with me day and night. As I go along
the street in the day time, I feel Him near me, though
I can't see Him; and it is as if He were speaking
to me; and yet I don't hear any words. He makes
me follow Him to that wood; and I have to sit the
whole day where you found me; and I dare not complain
nor move, till I feel He will let me go. I've
looked at the pines, sometimes, till I have seen spirits
moving all through them. O, 'tis an awful place: They
breathe cold upon me when He makes me go there.”
“Poor wretch,” said Paul.
“I'm weak and hungry, and yet when I try to eat,
something chokes me; I don't love what I eat.”
“Come along with me, and you shall have something
to nourish and warm you; for you are pale, and
shiver, and look cold here in the very sun.”
The boy looked up at Paul, and the tears rolled
down his cheeks, at hearing one speak so kindly to
him. He got up, and followed meekly after, to the
house.
Paul seeing a servant in the yard, ordered the boy
something to eat. The man cast his eye upon Abel,
and then looked at Paul as if he had not understood
him. — “I spoke distinctly enough,” said Paul. “And
don't you see that the boy is nigh starved?” — The
man gave a mysterious look at both of them, and with
a shake of his head, as he turned away, went to do
as he was bid.
“What means the fellow?” said Paul to himself,
as he entered the house. “Does he take me to be
bound to Satan, too? Yet there may be bonds upon
work within us, of which we little dream. And are
there no beings but those seen of mortal eye, or felt
by mortal touch? Are there not passing in and around
this piece of moving mould, in which the spirit is pent
up, those whom it hears not? those whom it has no finer
sense whereby to commune with? Are all the instant
joys that come and go, we know not whence nor
whither, but creations of the mind? Or are they not,
rather, bright and heavenly messengers, whom, when
this spirit is set free, it will see in all their beauty? —
whose sweet sounds it will then drink in? — Yes, it
is, it is so; and all around us is populous with beings,
now invisible to us as this circling air.”
So fully had such thoughts absorbed Paul's mind,
that when, upon entering the room, he met Esther
and her father, he started as if the sight of flesh and
blood were new to him. At dinner he seemed but
half conscious of what was before him; his look and
manner were abstracted; and when he replied to
any remark, his answers were abrupt and from the
purpose.
“You are a good deal of a dreamer, I know,” said
Mr. Waring at last; “but I think I never saw you
less awake to what is homely and substantial in this
world we live in.”
“They sleep, and their eyes are sealed, who do
not look beyond it,” said Paul.
The old gentleman looked at Esther; but her eyes
were fixed on her husband, who did not observe it, for
his were cast downward. Her heart beat with uneasy
sensations, and uncertain thoughts troubled her. She
tried to command herself; and as soon as she could,
she spoke to him in an affectionate, cheerful voice.
an angel had spoken to him out of a cloud. —“Ah,”
said she, “have I called you back to earth again?”
“Scarce to earth,” he said, his suffused eye resting
on her beautiful face. — He had quite forgotten that
any one was by, till the old gentleman spoke. The
blood went quick to his cheek.
“What, so long married, and a lover yet?” cried
Mr. Waring. “I thought love would have become
a dearer sort of friendship ere this.”
“I doubt,” answered Paul, glad to turn the affair
into a speculation, “I doubt whether, in certain minds,
love ever so changes its nature. It is a part of their
constitution, and endures as long as they do; at least,
I think so; though I cannot tell what old age and
gray hairs may do toward a change. It is the only
thing that has made me recoil from the thought of
being old.”
“And what would you make of a pair of married
lovers of threescore?”
“I like not thinking of it,” he said, with a fitful
expression of pain. “I would rather part soul and
body, than lose long cherished and dear thoughts.
Nor do I believe they will be lost. Those who are
made ready for a happy state hereafter, must rest their
chief hopes and pleasures, even in their attachments
here, on that which is fitted to live forever. The
corruption of humanity that is now about us will drop
off, but essentially, I trust, our feelings and joys will
remain the same. What makes my soul's chief
earthly happiness would be my misery, did I not believe
it eternal, like the soul itself. To die, will be
but the full opening of this same mind, with all its
good affections, (which scarcely bud here,) to the
on here, truth? and our imaginations a lie? I would
believe that these high and gladdening conceptions
were not all a cheat, but that they will one day open
in glory on our cleared and delighted vision. What
is beautiful and true here, though it perish for a
season, will put forth again in more perfect beauty in
the morning light of that sun which shall never go
down. Pardon my warmth, Sir,” said he, suddenly
checking himself.
“Then,” said Mr. Waring, “you think that not
a little of the after existence of the happy will be
made up of the same affections that possess us here,
purified, exalted and influenced, no doubt, you mean,
by a constant and a fuller love, and a clearer knowledge
of God.”
“Much so, Sir. The same affections, conforming
themselves to a change of state and circumstances.
But that love of God, hereafter, of which you speak,
that consciousness of Him, must be the principle of
life in them here, too, or they will live only in time,
by and by to rot forever.”
“Has not your religion too much to do with the
senses?”
“I think not. — As if sin had not set us far enough
off from God and the spiritual, we give to all that
relates to these an abstract character, and then put
our faculties upon the stretch, to reach to some
realizing apprehension of them: we make God a sort of
universal intelligence, take for mere metaphor those
terms in which he speaks of his affections as so like
our own, and, then, try after a love of Him: — we destroy
all personation, as if it were an easier thing to
fasten our affections upon an abstract principle; and
our nature, — the manifestations of himself in the outward
world, and the pervading character, the leading
facts and declarations of his written Revelation:—
We have not learned that the main distinction between
us, the created, and Him, the Creator, is that
between sin and holiness, finite and infinite; and we
shall awake in utter amaze in the other world, to find
how little we differ from God, in kind, though infinitely
in degree: In short, shall we not awake `in his likeness?'
Though God, as it were, lifts up the small
flower at our feet, and asks us to look on it, and see
how he cares for every little thing, and how he delights
in its beauty; though he has done more than
this, and has come very nigh to us, taking upon Him
our own natures, yet, through the fatuity of sin, we
persist in making him a God afar off: — We do not,
if I may so speak, humanize our religion enough; and,
thus, we deprive ourselves of much assured rest and
strong heart-comfort. We have burned our idols of
wood, and broken those of stone, and, now, worship an
Idea. Though our God has come to us, standing between
these two extremes, it may be said of us, as
was said, by John, of those of old, `There standeth
one among you whom ye know not;' and so long as
we know not Him, we cannot know ourselves, or understand
the unity of duality in our own natures —
the Divine-Human, — we cannot learn the meaning
of the first words spoken concerning us in the Book
of God — `Let us make man in our own image, after
our likeness.'
“You may perhaps, Sir, think me presumptuous,
in reasoning about that of which we know so little;
though, if I deceive not myself, it is a reasoning
and not of self-dependent pride. But I began
with simply saying what were my hopes and wishes,
and what gave me here, that which seemed to me
like a foretaste of joys hereafter, and had at times
persuaded me, that what I felt was not a vain imagination.
I cannot so separate the natures of the mind
and senses as some would do. There is not an
earthly beauty I look upon that has not something
spiritual in it to me. And when my mind is fair and
open, and soul right, there is not a flower I see, that
does not move my heart to feel towards it as a child
of God. All that is, to my mind, is a type of what
shall be; and my own being and soul seem to me as
if linked with it to eternity. I know that to many
this is mere folly, and that even to those of highest
reach it is but vague; for what can we have while
here but intimations and dim semblances of eternity?
Yet, to question it because he knows no more, a man
might as well deny he has a heart; for he will find
that growing the more a mystery, the more he studies
it. We think of angels as having shapes and voices;
and if the unbelieving would say that the Writ is false,
how came the mind of man, from the beginning, to
conceive of such things as true? Is that connected
with our highest faith, and what seems inborn in the
mind, a lie?”
Paul became silent; and he was filled with happier
and calmer emotions than he had known for a long
time. Esther observed his tranquillity, and for a while
she was blest with the belief that it would be lasting.
She knew that such thoughts were not strangers to
him; but she had seen them, before, only when they
came and went swiftly, lifting him suddenly and wildly
leaving him to sink deeper than ever. When his
dark thoughts and passions seized him, they seemed
to her more like outward powers which drove him
whither they would, than like things springing from
his own mind and heart. There was a mystery about
them that made her fear when they took him, and her
heart bled with pity for him.
There are souls which have hours of bright and
holy aspirations, when they feel as if nothing of earth
or sin could touch them more; but in the midst of
their clear and joyous calm they find some dark and
frightful passion, like an ugly devil, beginning to stir
within them. Their minds try to fly from it, but, as if
it saw its hour, it seizes on its prey with a fanged
hold, and there is no escape. Perhaps there are no
minds, of the highest intellectual order, that have not
known moments, when they would have fled from
thoughts and sensations which they felt to be like
visitants from hell.
Paul's mind was of this structure; and so long and
violently had he suffered under such influences, that
his natural superstition, heightened by them, had
almost persuaded him his passions were good or evil
spirits, which had power to bless or curse him. The
story and the appearance of poor Abel haunted him.
He called it insanity in Abel; but he could not shake
off the feeling that the miserable wretch was the victim
of a demon. He began to tremble for himself; and
when he felt his violent passions in motion, the thought
that they were powers it was in vain to struggle
against, almost drove him mad.
The night for the ball at last came, and Esther's
spirits rose as the hour drew nigh. She had left
love for Paul was almost devotion, and there was a
peculiar sentiment and delicacy in his little attentions
to her and the fondness he showed her, yet an undefined
awe, a dread of the happening of something fatal,
oppressed her daily more and more; and any change
seemed to be the lifting of a weight from the heart, to
let it beat freely again. Her mind and senses were
peculiarly sensitive, and exquisitely alive to enjoyment:
her soul seemed to be in whatever she said and
did. When Paul was happy, he dwelt on this with a
delight that cannot be told; but when a gloom hung
on his mind, and he saw her eloquent, impassioned
face and earnest gestures, he remembered how deceitful
and prone to sin are the best hearts, how
soon the warmed passions may turn from good to evil,
and he hardly dared look on what he indistinctly
dreaded.
Esther came bounding towards Paul with a step as
light as if she needed only the air to tread on.
“Rouse you, dreamer,” said she, playfully jogging
him, — “we are late. Look up, and vow to me that
I was never half so beautiful before.
“O, that I can vow to you from day to day; for
you grow in beauty on me, as you grow closer and
closer to my heart.”
“What an angelic creature I shall seem to you at
fifty, then! How lucky for me that I am yours; for
who else would praise my beauty, when I am turned
of two score?”
“Be not too sure, Esther; my eyes may be shut
to all beauty before that time comes. Then you may
find others to praise it in you — if you will believe
them.”
“Not of death now, Paul, not of death now! —
Come, let us be going. We have lived here in this
stillness so long, that the sound of pipe and tabor will
stir my blood like a new come Greenland summer.”
“It is at a full and quick beat now, if I feel it right,”
said he, holding her by the wrist; “a little faster
might do you harm.”
“Beat it slow or fast, Paul, there's not a drop of
it courses through the heart, that is not warm to me
with a love for you. — Think you I profess too much?”
“No, not too much.”
“Why then look you so sad upon it?”
“To remember that I cannot always think so.”
“And why not always? Do you hold me of so unstable
a nature?”
“Ask me not what I cannot answer you. It is not
myself,” he cried; “they haunt me. I cannot scape
them. — Away, away, I'm not your prey yet!” —
He walked the room violently, his clasped hands
pressing down upon his head, as if his brain would
burst with its working. His eyes were set, and his
teeth ground against each other. He stopped, and
his frame loosened from its tenseness. — “It's over!”
he sighed out, spreading his arms wide, as if just set
free.
Esther shook with fear as she stood fixed, gazing
at him. When the change to quiet came on, she
went to him. — “Paul, my husband, come to me; tell
me what terrible thoughts they are that tear you so.”
“Thoughts, call you them? Visions, shadows,
horrible, horrible shadows! Speak not of them; call
them not round me again. — O, Esther, I am sore afflicted;—
I would I might not suffer so. Pray for my
soul's peace, Esther. It longs, it longs to rest quietly
There! there!”
“If they would keep you thus, I would shelter you
day and night, Paul, and look and think on nothing
but you.”
“Even here I am not safe; there's no place of refuge
for the hunted soul.”
“Above, there is, Paul, if we but reach upward.”
“I've striven in agony to reach it; but when they
will, these horrors, that have no name, pluck me
down! But, come, they've left me now; and the
bosom's free again.” — He held her at arm's length,
and stood gazing at her. — “And could dark, terrible
thoughts shake me so, before all this light and
beauty! Why, Esther, I feel by you, like a cast out
angel by the side of one who had stood faithful. —
I've held you too long. Your father waits for you;
away, and forget my madness.”
“Not without you, Paul.”
“What, I! No, in faith! A married pair go regularly
coupled at the hour set! No, no, I'm not
such a rustic as you take me for.”
“Do not so suddenly trifle in this way, Paul; it
grieves me more than all; it is not your disposition.”
“In earnest, then, the blood heaves too violently
through me yet; when it flows quietly I'll come to
you.”
He pressed her hand gently, as he put her into the
carriage, and gave her one of those smiles which always
went like sunshine to Esther's heart. — He saw
her look back after him as the carriage turned down
the road, and stretched his arms out towards her as if
to clasp her to him. As he raised his hands upward, —
“O, heaven,” he said, “thou hast given her to me
curse upon my soul!” — He felt something clasp his
knees; and looking down, he sprang as from the coil
of a serpent. — Were you sent to snare me now, you
imp of Hell? How crawled you here, and for what?”
“I watched for you under this thorn,” whined out
poor Abel; “for I shall die if I cannot see you and
speak to you. And when you prayed, I came up to
you, to have you pray for me, that I might be spared
going, if't were only for this one night.”
“I've sins and tortures of my own enough. Pray
for yourself, wretch.”
“I dare not, I dare not,” cried Abel, “lest He
come and torment me. O, help me. You were good
to me once.”
“And what mortal might can shield you against unearthly
powers?”
“I feel safer when near you, though you make me
tremble. Not a soul beside will so much as hear me
when I call after them. I've thought that, perhaps,
nobody but you could hear me any more.”
“And why I? — Don't put your lean hand on me!”
Abel shrunk back. The loathing that Paul felt
turned to pity. “Come, you are hungry, and must
have something to strengthen you.” Paul took the
boy into the house; and having seen him fed, gave
him an old rug to lie upon. “Sleep there, Abel; you
shall not to the wood to-night.” Abel felt comforted
and protected for the first time since the thought of
the wood entered his head. In a few minutes he was
in a sound sleep.
Paul took his way along the greensward to the village.
As he passed the bush under which Abel had
been sitting, he involuntary moved a little aside from
not. There will no good come of it. When he is
near me, I feel him as one who is cursed, and bringing
a curse. The powers of darkness put him between
me and mine; and promptings of dreadful portent
are whispered in my ear.” His mind grew more
disturbed as he went forward, ruminating on these
things; till having nearly reached the end of his walk,
he stopped under a large tree, that he might gain
sufficient composure and a clear brow to enter the
room.
Not a leaf moved, and the stars shone in silence.
Suddenly the music burst forth from the hall: to
Paul it was like a crash that jarred the still universe.
“'T is hateful to me; — noise, and folly, and hot, hot
blood! Warm hands, and flushed cheeks, and high-beating
bosoms! And she, who an hour ago would
have sheltered Paul, and looked and thought on
none but him! No more to her now than if he
had never been — or had slept a twelvemonth in his
grave! These creatures are beautiful and fair, and
would be innocent as flowers, did none but heaven's
winds visit them; but the world's breath blows on
them, and taints them. Beings all of sensations; and,
so, love is grateful to them. But it roots not deep and
silently as in man; from whom to pluck it out, tears
up heart and all. — Leave me, leave me, let me not
think on't!” He rushed forward, as if to fly from
the thought.
Scarcely considering whither he was going, he was
soon before the folding-doors of the hall. Coming
out of the quiet and the dim light, the flare of the
lamps, the whirl and confused motions, and the babel
sounds of a ball-room, breaking suddenly upon him,
to recover his senses a little, and then entered the
room.
One who is unused to such scenes is hardly able,
at first, to tell his familiar acquaintances. Paul was
in anxious search of one, as he passed round the
room, close to the wall. He had just gone by her
without perceiving her, when a well known laugh,
though louder than usual, made him suddenly stop.
As he turned, Esther sprang forward in the dance as
if going up into the air. The bright smile of pleasure
was on her face, as she gave Frank her hand; and
as they bounded swiftly by Paul, without observing
him, he saw the warm glow upon her cheek, her eyes
turned a little upward, suffused and sparkling, her
dark, floating curls rising, then just touching her
snowy forehead, then lifted with the motion again,
her bosom tinged with a delicate tint, and moving
with a fluttering beat. “Heaven and hell!” said he
to himself, “ye work side by side in this world, though
with opposite intent,” Every nerve in his body
seemed to shoot and burn with electric fire. The
sensation passed off, and left a weak, sick feeling; so
that he could scarcely stand. A cold damp stood on
his pale brow and trembling hands. He drew behind
a couple of gentlemen, who were talking together
while looking on the dance, and leaned himself against
the wall. For a time he dared not look up; nor did
he hear any sound till the conversation of the gentlemen
suddenly drew his attention.
“What an exquisite figure, and how pliable and
graceful,” remarked one. “Every limb is full of
life.”
“Yes,” said the other; “and how sinuous the motions!
sea. Oh, she's a very Perdita in the dance. Before
he went away Frank was an elegant looking
fellow, and travel has improved him wonderfully. I
would bet my head on it, that she is sighing this moment
at thinking she said him, nay, or had not waited
to see him what he is now, that she might to-night
unsay it again.”
“Then she is a betrothed damsel, ha? Poor girl,
that she should be in such haste. I warrant you, this
dancing partnership will put thoughts into her head
which a lover would hardly like finding there. It will
be well for her, by and by, if she does not talk in her
sleep.”
“If she can't teach her tongue silence at such a
time, it is a gone case with her already, for she was
married long ago.”
“And what gallant knight won her? He must
keep watch and ward, for in faith I'm half a mind to
make off with her myself, could I bring her to it.”
“No hard matter that, if report speaks her lord
truly. 'T is a sort of Vulcan and Venus match, I
am told, and that he looks as black as if just out of a
smithy, and is glum, and says nothing. By all accounts,
they are dead opposites, both in mind and body.
She will be on the wing all night, I vouch for it, and
make up for the last month's caging.”
“Poor girl, I pity her. But how could she find it
in her heart to refuse Ridgley? I should have
thought that for a man like him, once asking would
have been enough, any where.”
“Why, lord, she no more meant it, than she did to
die a maid. The blockhead might have known she
was a coquette, as every one else did, and that she
have seen what a favourite he was with her. Why,
she would have gone to church barefoot rather than
not have had him. The fool took her in earnest, and
went upon his travels, and she married to vex him.
Silly things! Unless she wears the widow's stole,
they may pine their hearts out now — or else the stars
must wink at it. But come away; I'll look no longer,
lest I covet my neighbour's wife.” — And off they
moved, arm in arm, casting their eyes back upon
Esther as they went.
Every word they uttered entered Paul's soul. His
brain felt tightened, like sinews, with the dreadful
thoughts that rose in his mind; and the misgivings
and surmises of his doubting and gloomy soul, on
which, till now, he scarcely dared send a glance,
were turned to certainties; and he fastened on them,
as if under the working of a charm. He pressed with
his back against the wall, his eyes fixed, as if crowds
of spectres were rising up before him; and his hair
stood on end, as if life were in it. Those near him
observed his strange appearance, and drew slowly
back, looking at him and then at each other in silence,
as in wonder and fear at what they saw. He took
no notice of what was passing, but seemed to be gazing
on something terrible which none saw but he.
The dancing had stopped, and a mysterious silence
spread like a shadow over that part of the room.
Esther spoke in a clear, gay tone to some one by her.
The sound struck his ear; he leaped forward, his eye
still fixed on the floor. — “Ha! are ye there?” he
muttered. — Presently a change seemed taking place
in him, and he looked round, as if asking where he
was.
Mr. Waring, who observed that something unusual
had happened, went that way, and found Paul standing
alone, his eye wandering, his body trembling,
his lips livid, and the sweat standing in big drops on
his broad, pale forehead. Seizing Paul by the arm,
as he called him by name, and shaking him to rouse
him, Paul started, giving the old gentleman a look of
amazement. — “What mean ye, what's the matter,
that you handle me thus? Ha, ha, — I did not know
you, old man. Your daughter's fair and honest, is
she not? And loves her husband truly, ah, truly, does
she not? for she herself told him so.”
“This pent atmosphere has overcome him,” cried
Mr. Waring; “he's unused to it.” And he turned
Paul, to lead him into the open air. Paul looked at
him, as if to ask what he was doing, and then suffered
himself to be led out of the room. He took, without
seeming conscious of it, what Mr. Waring gave him;
and they walked to an outer door.
“This night air is cold,” said Paul, shuddering.
“Cold!” asked the old gentleman, surprised. He
felt of Paul's hand and forehead; it was like touching
the dead.
“You are ill, quite ill, Mr. Felton; you must go
home. Let me find Esther.”
“I've found her out before you, old man. — Stay,”
said he, in an eager whisper, seizing Mr. Waring by
the arm, and looking close in his face; “the net's
nigh set which is to catch that bird; don't scare her.”
“This will never do; you must go with me, then.
Your state is worse than you are aware of.”
“No, in faith, it is not,” said Paul bitterly. “It
was, but I know the worst now. — Let us to the room;
the fit's over, and I'm well again.”
“Not well, I fear,” said Mr. Warring.
“Yes, quite well, mind and body both,” replied Paul,
drawing himself up; “and I'm calm, perfectly calm.”
He turned, and leaving the old gentleman at the door,
walked into the room as composedly as if nothing had
happened. Those who had seen him, supposed that
the close, hot air had oppressed his brain, and thought
nothing more of the matter. Mr. Waring remembered
his mysterious words, and was alarmed; for he
had some little insight into the structure of Paul's
mind.
Esther, who had heard nothing of what had past,
had mingled with the crowd at a distant part of the
room; but Paul soon discovered where she was; for
she was carrying on a lively conversation with those
round her. He drew near enough to hear her gay
laugh, and the bandying of smart and pleasant sayings.
Other thoughts and feelings filled his soul. He stood
amid the light and rattle like some black, solid body
that nothing penetrated. Mysterious shapes, which
told him in part of something dreadful, were wandering
through his mind with a fearful, shadow-like stillness;
the scene directly before him seemed set off
at an infinite distance; and his lonely soul held its
own musings, known to none of earth.
“Can we love,” said he to himself, “and one be
sad, and yet no secret sympathy tell the other of it?
Were Esther cast down, though I saw her not, the
spirits that are about us, and know what is in our
hearts, would whisper it to me. — Idiot! boy! Talk
I of love? Is not her heart another's? Ere I knew
her, it was his. In mind — in mind she's his now —
at this instant, his.” — He darted from the place he
was in, and taking his stand just outside the circle,
being seen. Frank was by her side, playing with her
fan. — “What, so constant!” said Paul to himself.
“Could neither seas nor travel cure you! But I have
that that will. Yet ye're a faithful pair; and it would
break two loving hearts. No, no, I'll not be cruel. —
Why talk I of you, ye coxcomb? — What are you to
me? 'Tis she! 'tis she! and I'll see what's in that
heart, though I tear it from her.”
“And where is Mr. Felton to-night, that he is not
with us?” asked one. — “O, at home, no doubt,”
answered a peevish maiden. “ `He loves no plays, as
thou dost, Antony,' ” said she, maliciously, looking
first at Frank and then at Esther. Esther could not
but observe her very significant manner; and innocent
as her heart was of all improper thoughts, she
felt pained and embarrassed. Paul watched the
changes of her countenance. “And is her name
so stale already? Do they tell her to her very teeth
that she's a —?” — There was a short pause.
Esther was looking beyond the circle to relieve herself
of the sight of those immediately about her, when
her eyes suddenly met those of Paul, which were fixed
on her with a deadly look. She started back with a
shriek. There was a general alarm, and Paul pressed
in toward her. — “What's the matter? What was
it?” cried they all at once. “I know not,” said
Esther, trying to recover herself a little. “'Twas
a — spider, a — a — I believe.”
“Ugly things, those,” muttered Paul to her in an
under tone, as he half supported her, — “that lie hid
in corners, with meshes spread for silly flies. Beware,
for they draw the blood, and leave their prey hanging
for the common eye.” Esther shuddered at his words,
passion. She nearly sank to the floor, confounded,
mortified and afraid. Never had Paul looked on her
so before. She had seen hate, and revenge and triumph
in his eye. Then, lest those about her should
suppose the consciousness of detected, guilty thoughts
had overcome her — it was more than she could bear.
“I'm ill. O, take me away,” she cried, in an
imploring tone. Frank came eagerly forward. “Not
you, not you,” she said impatiently, waving him back,
while Paul supported her in his arms, his eyes resting
on her pale, sorrowful countenance.
“Where's my child?” cried her father, rushing
forward, as Paul was bearing her to their carriage.
“Safe with her husband,” answered Paul, in a firm
but gentle voice. The old gentleman looked up at
him, and saw a tear in his large, dark eye. Taking
out his cloak, Paul wrapt it carefully about Esther,
and placed her in the carriage.
“Will you go with us, Sir?” said Paul, respectfully.
Mr Waring put his foot upon the step. — “I had
better not,” thought he, and drew back. Esther observed
her father's hesitation; and putting out her
hand to him, said, with a forced smile, “I shall be
quite well presently. Good night, Sir.”
She sat silent, as they drove homeward. She had
not half surmised the character of Paul's thoughts.
It was humbling enough to her, that her husband
should have heard such gross insinuations against her,
and should have looked as if some impropriety or
trifling in her conduct, had laid her open to the slants
of the malignant. “He it is that was insulted,”
thought she; “and it is I who subjected him to it,
and left no way of revenge to his proud spirit.” —
out of the carriage window. There was no
longer any anger in his countenance, but it told of
heart-sickening melancholy, and pity for the faults of
those we love. — “Paul,” she said; but could not go
on. He appeared not to notice her; but after a
while, asked — still looking on the trees playing in
the breeze and moonshine — “what were you about
saying, Esther?”
“Nothing, nothing, only that I fear the change to
this damp air may be dangerous to you.”
“Never fear that; there's a fever here,” said he,
striking his forehead rapidly with his fingers, “that
must be cooled quickly, or 't will sear the brain up.”
“They drove on, Paul sitting as before. — “Have
ye no sense of your glad motions?” said he, as he
still looked out on the trees. “Can ye be so innocent
and look so gay, and yet feel no joy? Sure, ye
have your delights unto you, and the morning sun
shall take you in them fresher than when he left you.
Blessed creations of a kind Father, ye know not sin
nor sorrow; but man lies down and rises to them
both.” — Esther could bear this no longer. — “My
husband,” she sobbed out, as she sunk upon his
bosom, “O, take me to you, and bless me with them;
for I too am innocent, though not as pure as they
are.” — He folded her in his arms as tenderly as a
father would a lost child returned, and she felt a tear
drop on her forehead.
“You need rest, my love,” said he, kindly, as he
led her into the house. She turned and looked at
him.
“There is no rest for me, Paul, when I have broken
yours, though I never meant it.”
“The whirlwind is gone over. You see me calm,
now.”
“Calm and fond, but not happy, Paul. I never
thought to live to grieve you.”
“Our griefs are mostly of our own creation, Esther;
and so may mine be. “I'll call myself to count for
them, while you go sleep. To-morrow all will be
well. Good night.”
“ `Innocent, though not as pure as they are?' Said
she not so? As yet she has sinned in mind only. —
Body and soul not both bound over to hell yet.
Conscience, or fear, I know not which, holds her still.
Did she not wave him back, as if she dared not trust
herself? And speaks not that conceived guilt? And
did they not twit her of it? All of them to hear it;
and I, her husband, standing by? And when she
saw me, O, shame! — She confessed it all, all. —
Down, down, ye thoughts, that rise like fiends within
me — tempt me not — drive me not mad!” He
rushed wildly from the room, as if pursued by
spectres.
As he hurried through the passage to his study, his
foot caught in the rug on which Abel was sleeping.
He started back, as if the powers of darkness had
crossed him. “Have ye snared me then? Is there
no way left me?” Abel lay with his limbs drawn up,
and the muscles of his face distorted, as if some sharp
pain wrung him. Every now and then his mouth
drew convulsively, and he uttered broken, weak cries,
as if he dreamed some one was tormenting him. As
Paul looked on his shrunken body and ghastly face,
it seemed like the carcass of a wretch who had pined
to death, and into which some imp had entered as his
place of sin and torment. — “Sent to make me a
and yet you cling to me! And I cannot shake you
off.” He raised his lamp to get a more distinct view
of the object before him. The light flashed upon
Abel. As he opened his eyes on Paul, he gave a
long, shrill cry, hiding his face in his hands. — “Not
yet, not yet!” begged he, twisting himself round, till
on his knees. “One more day, before you take me
with you! The deed's not done yet; I cannot go till
that's, that's done.”
“And has the soul's working so changed my visage
that he does not know me? Is my fate fresh writ
with a mark like Cain's upon me? — Rouse you!
Whom do you take me for?” — At the sound of Paul's
voice, Abel curled down upon the floor.
“I thought He had come for me,” cried Abel;
“for They've told me He would come; and yet
it could not be now; for they have been whispering
me all night long that I must do it before I
went.”
“It? — What?” asked Paul impetuously. “Art
mad?”
“I cannot tell you, Sir; I don't know. It is
something dreadful, that I'm afraid to do; and yet it
must be done. And, then, then I'm lost.”
“And quickly,” said Paul; “for you're about it,
now, though you know it not. You're here, — within
me. Dar'st look on him you're blasting?”
“I'me gone, I'me gone!” shrieked Abel, clinging
to Paul's feet. “Help me, save me!” — A loathing
hate entered Paul. His teeth set, and his foot
drew up, as if he would have crushed the boy. Abel's
hold relaxed, and he lay panting and exhausted.
Paul watched him till his breathing became freer. —
me.”
Violent passions and dreadful thoughts had now
obtained so complete a mastery over Paul, that they
came and went like powers independent of his will;
and he felt himself as a creature lying at their mercy.
He prayed to them to spare him, as if they had been
beings that could enter him, and move about him, and
torment him, as they would. They took shadowy
forms and wild motions, becoming dimly visible to his
mind's eye. — “If I'm lost,” cried he, as he left the
house, “if ye have made me a child of hell, speak to
me and tell me of it. If cursed deeds must be done
of me, whip me not blind and bound to my work, but
let me know it all, and what I am, that I may put
my heart into the act, and share your devilish triumph.”
Paul pressed on so fast, that Abel, with his shambling
gait, could hardly keep up with him. The
eastern horizon was shut in; and when they came in
sight of the rocky ridge, the moon, which was just
setting, threw its light over the multitude of its grayish
broken points, giving to its whole length the white
lustre of the milky-way.
“It seems the path of Heaven,” said Paul to himself,
as his eye glanced over it, “but it tends not
thither. The whole earth's a cheat, and I! — I'm its
dupe. Yet, I'll be fooled no longer. — Yes; and
they take angels' shapes. — She that looks as if made
to be an inhabitant of the pure, holy stars, why she —
she that looks all innocence in her sleep, — for then
they feign too — whom and what dreams she of now?
And she'll wake presently, and talk to her pillow, and
call it soothingly by his name, and fold it in her arms,
tell me, ye that haunt me, is it not so? Can ye not
give me to look into her very soul, and see its secret
workings, as ye see mine?” — Abel trembled from
head to foot as he watched Paul's motions, and heard
his terrific voice, without understanding what it was
he spoke of.
The moon was down and the sky overcast when they
began to wind among the rocks. Though Paul's
walks had lain of late in this direction, he was not
enough acquainted with the passage to find his way
through it in the dark. Abel, who had traversed it
often in the night, alone and in terror, now took heart
at having some one with him at such an hour, and
offered, hesitatingly, to lead. — “The boy winds round
these crags with the speed and ease of a stream,”
said Paul. — “Not so fast, Abel.”
“Take hold of the root which shoots out over your
head, Sir, for 't is ticklish work getting along just
here. — Do you feel it, Sir?”
“I have hold,” said Paul.
“Let yourself gently down by it, Sir. You needn't
be a bit afraid, for 't will not give way; man could'nt
have fastened it stronger.”
This was the first time Abel had felt his power, or
had been of consequence to any one, since the boys
had turned him out from their games; and it gave him
a momentary activity, and an unsettled sort of spirit,
which he had never known since then. He had been
shunned and abhorred; and he believed himself the
victim of some Demoniac Power. To have another
in this fearful bondage with him, as Paul had intimated,
was a relief from his dreadful solitariness in his terrors
and sufferings, — “And he said that it was I who was
be, surely, that such a thing as I am can harm a man
like him!” — And though Abel remembered Paul's
kindness, and that this was to seal his own doom too,
yet it stirred the spirit of pride within him. — “What
are you muttering to yourself, there, in the dark,”
demanded Paul; “or whom talk you with, you withered
wretch?” — Abel shook in every joint at the
sound of Paul's harsh voice.
“It is so dreadfully still here,” said Abel, “I hear
nothing but your steps behind me; and they make me
start.” — This was true; for notwithstanding his touch
of instant pride, his terrors, and his fear of Paul,
were as great as ever.
“Speak louder then,” said Paul, “or hold your
peace. I like not your muttering; it bodes no good.”
“It may bring a curse to you, worse than that on
me, if a worse can be,” said Abel to himself; “but
who can help it?”
Day broke before they cleared the ridge; a drizzling
rain came on; and the wind, beginning to rise, drove
through the crevices in the rocks, with sharp, whistling
sounds which seemed to come from malignant spirits
of the air.
They had scarcely entered the wood, when the
storm became furious; and the trees, swaying and
beating with their branches against one another,
seemed possessed of a supernatural madness, and
engaged in wild conflict, as if there were life and
passion in them; and their broken, decayed arms
groaned like things in torment. The terror of these
sights and sounds was too much for poor Abel; it
nearly crazed him; and he set up a shriek that for a
moment drowned the noise of the storm. It startled
of a ghostly whiteness. The rain had drenched him
to the skin; his clothes clung to his lean body, that
shook as if it would come apart; his eyes flew wildly,
and his teeth chattered against each other. The fears
and torture of his mind gave something unearthly to
his look, that made Paul start back. — “Abel — boy —
fiend — speak! What has seized you?”
“They told me so,” cried Abel — “I've done it —
I led the way for you — they're coming, they're coming
— we're lost!”
“Peace, fool,” said Paul, trying to shake off the
power he felt Abel gaining over him, “and find us a
shelter if you can.”
“There's only the hut,” said Abel, “and I would'nt
go into that if it rained fire.”
“And why not?”
“I once felt that it was for me to go, and I went
so near as to see in at the door. And I saw something
in the hut — it was not a man, for it flitted by the
opening just like a shadow; and I heard two muttering
something to one another; it wasn't like other sounds,
for as soon as I heard it, it made me stop my ears. I
couldn't stay any longer, and I ran till I cleared the
wood. — O! 't is His biding place, when He comes to
the wood.”
“And is it of His own building?” asked Paul,
sarcastically.
“No,” answered Abel; “'t was built by the two
wood-cutters; and one of them came to a bloody end;
and they say the other died the same night, foaming
at the mouth like one possessed. — There it is,” said he,
almost breathless, as he crouched down, and pointed
at the hut under the trees. — “Do not go, Sir,” he
never dared go nigher since.” — “Let loose, boy,”
cried Paul, striking Abel's hand from his coat, “I'll
not be fooled with.” — Abel, alarmed at being left
alone, crawled after Paul, as far as he dared go;
then taking hold of him once more, made a supplicating
motion to him to stop; he was afraid to speak. Paul
pushed on without regarding him.
The hut stood on the edge of a sand-bank that was
kept up by a large pine, whose roots and fibres, lying
partly bare, looked like some giant spider that had
half buried himself in the sand. On the right of the
hut was a patch of broken ground, in which was still
standing a few straggling, dried stalks of indian corn;
and from two dead trees hung knotted pieces of broken
line, which had formerly served for a clothes-line.
The hut was built of half-trimmed trunks of trees laid
on each other, crossing at the four corners, and
running out at unequal lengths, the chinks partly filled
in with sods and moss. The door, which lay on the
floor, was of twisted boughs; and the roof, of the
same, was caved in, and but partly kept out the sun
and rain.
As Paul drew near the entrance, he stopped,
though the wind just then came in a heavy gust, and
the rain fell like a flood. It was not a dread of what
he might see within; but it seemed to him, that there
was a spell round him, drawing him nearer and nearer
to its centre; and he felt the hand of some invisible
power upon him. As he stepped into the hut, a chill
ran over him, and his eyes shut involuntarily. Abel
watched him eagerly; and as he saw him enter,
tossed his arms wildly, shouting, “Gone, gone!
They'll have me, too — they're coming, they're
ground.
Driven from home by his maddening passions, a
perverse delight in self-torture had taken possession of
Paul; and his mind so hungered for more intense
excitement, that it craved to prove true all which its
jealousy and superstition had imaged. He had walked
on, lost in this fearful riot, but with no particular
object in view, and taking only a kind of crazed joy
in his bewildered state. Esther's love for him, which
he at times thought, past doubt, feigned, the darkness
of the night, and then the driving storm, with its
confused motions and sounds, made an uproar of the
mind which drove out all settled purpose or thought.
The stillness of the place into which he had now
entered, where was heard nothing but the slow,
regular dripping of the rain from the broken roof,
upon the hard trod floor; the lowered and distant
sound of the storm without; the sudden change from
the whirl and swaying of the trees, to the steady
walls of the building, put a sudden stop to the
violent working of his brain, and he gradually fell into
a stupor.
When Abel began to recover, he could scarcely
raise himself from the ground. He looked round,
but could see nothing of Paul. — “They have bound
us together,” said he; “and something is drawing me
toward him. There is no help for me; I must go
whither he goes.” — As he was drawn nearer and
nearer to the hut, he seemed to struggle and hang
back, as if pushed on against his will. At last he
reached the door-way; and clinging to its side, with a
desperate hold, as if not to be forced in, put his
head forward a little, casting a hasty glance into the
Abel.
Paul's stupor was now beginning to leave him; his
recollection was returning; and what had passed
came back slowly and at intervals. There was
something he had said to Esther before leaving home—
he could not tell what; then his gazing after her as
she drove from the house; then something of Abel;
and he sprang from the ground as if he felt the boy's
touch again about his knees; then the ball-room, and
a multitude of voices, and all talking of his wife.
Suddenly she appeared darting by him; and Frank
was there. Then came his agony and tortures again:
All returned upon him as in the confusion of some
horrible trance. Then the hut seemed to enlarge,
and the walls to rock; and shadows of those he knew,
and of terrible beings he had never seen before, were
flitting round him, and mocking at him. His own
substantial form seemed to him undergoing a change,
and taking the shape and substance of the accursed
ones at which he looked. As he felt the change going
on, he tried to utter a cry, but he could not make a
sound, nor move a limb. The ground under him
rocked and pitched; it grew darker and darker, till
every thing was visionary; and he thought himself
surrounded by spirits, and in the mansions of the
dammed. Something like a deep, black cloud began
to gather gradually round him. The gigantic structure,
with its tall, terrific arches, turned slowly into
darkness, and the spirits within disappeared, one after
another, till, as the ends of the cloud met and closed,
he saw the last of them looking at him, with an infernal
laugh in his undefined visage.
Abel continued watching him in speechless agony.
began to swim — he reeled; and as his hand swept
down the side of the hut, while trying to save
himself, it struck against a rusty knife that had been
left sticking loosely between the logs. — “Let go,
let go!” shrieked Abel; “there's blood on't — 't is
cursed, 't is cursed.” — As Paul swung round, with
the knife in his hand, Abel sprang from the door with
a shrill cry, and Paul sank on the floor, muttering to
himself, “What said They?”
When he began to come to himself a little, he was
still sitting on the ground, his back against the wall.
His senses were yet confused. He thought he saw his
wife near him and a bloody knife by his side. After
sitting a little longer, his mind gradually grew clearer,
and at last he felt, for the first time, that his hand held
something. As his eye fell on it, and he saw distinctly
what it was, he leaped upright, with a savage
yell, and dashed the knife from him, as if it had been
an asp stinging him. He stood with his bloodshot
eyes fastened on it, his hands spread, and his body
shrunk up with horror. — “Forged in Hell! And
for me, for me!” he screamed, as he sprang forward,
and seized it with a convulsive grasp. — “Damned
pledge of the league that binds us!” he cried, holding
it up and glaring wildly on it. “And yet a voice did
warn me, — of what, I know not. — Which of ye put
it in this hand? — Speak — let me look on you? —
D'ye hear me, and will not answer? — Nay, nay,
what needs it? This tells me, though it speaks not. I
know your promptings now,” he said, folding his arms
deliberately; “your work must be done; and I am
doomed to it.”
There was an awful calmness in his voice and bearing
as he stood. His mind at last rolled back upon
crossed him, he clutched the knife hard. — Then he
heard her call out, “Paul!” And she looked all
truth and fondness. — “O! hang with your arms
about my neck thus, Esther, and I 'll never again
doubt you. — Stand off a little. Is not my eye murderous?
— Have a care; touch not this bloody hand.
— Come to me, my wife; I 'll not believe it; 't is false;
they lie, all lie, all! O, spare me, spare me!” he
groaned out, throwing himself down and beating the
ground madly with his arms. “Let her die, if ye 've
ordained it so, but not by me, not by me!” — His
limbs gradually relaxed, and he lay silent. The fit of
agony had passed. He rose slowly up, putting the
knife into his bosom. “ 'T is all in vain. I yield me
to you; be it when you will.”
He quitted the hut. The storm had passed over;
and as he stood with folded arms before the door-way,
he saw the sun playing in chequered spots under the
trees; and the myriads of silver rain-drops, falling, or
quivering on the leaves, dazzled his sight. — “ 'T was
your accursed power that raised the storm and whirlwind,
when you made a man a child of hell; your
work is done, and now they're laid again.” — He
turned his melancholy eye upward. The clouds lay
like snow-drifts along the air, setting off and deepening
the clear blue sky. — “Ye bright messengers
from another world, ye bring not glad tidings to me
now, as once ye did; your holy influences no more
fall on me. Ye pass me by in silence; yet once ye
had a voice for me. Ye go to tell of hope and
speak holy promises to the pure in heart. Sin holds
no communion with you. Once, all this beauty had
been deep joy to me; but now, it lies upon the eye,
here now, and other sights. Tormenting flames, like
those I'm soon to go to, shoot up, and burn me —
burn me. And this narrow body seems a dark, deep
cavern. And the eye turns inward, and what sees it
there? Spirits, uncouth things, sporting and fighting
there. — Yes, 't is like the place ye just now took
me to, when ye made me yours, and put upon me
this deed of horror. — Let me do it quickly, quickly.
Make me not walk longer in all this brightness, a
fiend of darkness. Hide me from it, and I'll, I'll
come to you.”
He soon grew calm again. The look of despair
passed off, and a mysterious gloom and fixed and
dreadful purpose seemed to settle on him. He walked
forward. As he drew near Abel, who was sitting
where Paul left him, the boy quaked and looked
aghast at him, as at one who had just risen out of the
abode of evil spirits. And well he might, for there
was a visionary horror, mingled with desperate resoluteness,
in his face, which would have startled a firm
man, who saw him then for the first time. He
turned his dark eye slowly down on Abel, without
speaking, and then moved on. The boy felt as if all
strength went out of him. He got up with difficulty,
and followed Paul with a watchful look, and at a
greater distance than usual. He could scarcely draw
his breath; and when Paul's pace slackened a little,
now and then, as he was lost in thought, Abel would
stop, fearing to be any nearer.
When they at length reached the top of the ridge,
Paul stopped, and looked down upon the fields and
houses which lay beyond it. Abel retreated a little;
yet he dared not fly. At length Paul turned on him.
his eye seemed drawn back and fastened upon Paul's.
He writhed, and twisted, and clasped his hands, and
looked in Paul's face, as if imploring to be spared.
Still he drew nearer and nearer, as if a snake's eye
charmed him, till he stood close to Paul's side. —
“Think you, Abel,” said Paul at last, raising his
arm and pointing toward the houses, “that the storm
drove thither, or that it was up in that cursed place,
back yonder, alone?” — To hear Paul speak once
more was like returning life to Abel. — “I'm afraid,”
said he, “I'm afraid, but I can't guess; — and I shall
never know,” he added, tears trickling through his
lashes; “for not a soul that I should ask would ever
tell me: — No one speaks to Abel but you. May be
they had better not, for I might be made to harm them,
too. — O, save me from it,” he cried, falling on his
knees before Paul. “You fed me, and spoke to me.
O, I would die sooner.”
“'T is done already,” answered Paul. “Your
work is done, and mine is doomed to me. There's
no escape.” Abel fell, like one dead, at Paul's
feet. — “Poor wretch,” said Paul, looking down
upon him. “The instrument of my doom too. And
yet I would not curse you. Twinned with me in
misery, and bound to crime by chains that can't be
broken, I'll feel a fellow's kindness for you while
we're here. — What's to come beyond, I know not. —
And is it us alone you take in our vices? Or are
babes and innocents all, all swept into your toils, ye
powers?”
He stooped down, and raising Abel, set him with
his back against a rock. The boy opened his eyes
and looked round him, as if not knowing where he
was. Paul spoke kindly to him; and when he had a
then went back to get some water for him. He
reached the place; and tearing some hairy moss from
the rock the water trickled over, soaked it in one of
the little hollows, and carried it in the palms of his
hands. When Abel saw it, he gave an hysteric
laugh; and seizing it, sucked it greedily through his
long teeth.
“Can you walk now, Abel?” asked Paul at length.
“I'm quite well again,” answered he, looking up
at Paul, as if to thank him.
When they had reached the clump of locusts, Paul
said to him, “You must leave me now. You must be
faint for want of food;” and he gave Abel a piece of
money. Abel looked at the money, and then at
Paul. — “And what good will this do me?” asked
Abel. “Nobody will sell to me.”
“Not sell to you, foolish boy! Why, that buys
souls daily! Men and women sell themselves to one
another for that, and swear before God 't is all for
love. Did you go to them, child, tailed and clawed
like the Devil himself, they'd feed you for that, though
't would be your last hour else.” — Abel seemed comforted
at this; and putting the money into his pocket,
as he thanked Paul, took his way to the village.
Paul followed the path that led home.
When he turned a little wood, and the house appeared
in sight, he stopped suddenly. A sense of
guilt and fear checked him; and it was some time
before he had resolution enough to go forward. —
“What! shall I be driven from my own door like a
beast of prey! They know me not, nor the work I
am ordained to. Why does my very own make me
tremble thus?”
It was a warm sunshiny noon when he reached the
house, and there was that stillness round, which, in
the country, sometimes pervades all nature like a diffused,
spiritual presence. Paul felt as if this brightness
and quiet betrayed him. Every thing he passed
by seemed to have a knowledge of him, and strange
eyes were on him: He hardly dared look round. He
cast his eyes up at his wife's window. The shutters
were closed, — “Sleeps yet!” said he. “That is
well!” and he entered the house with more composure.
He went with a cautious step to his own room, and
locked himself in. As he passed near his glass, he
started back. — “Have they not only changed my
soul,” cried he, “but transformed this body, too,
that the world may know and shun me? Is the deed
writ here — here on this forehead, that men may read
it when they look on me? — I'll not live on, the
dread and mock of mortals. Now I'll do it, now,
while she sleeps, and end it. — Then take me to you,
fit for the hell I go to.” — His eyes gleamed fire as
he clinched the knife in his raised hand, as if about
to give the blow. At the sight of himself again, he
dropped the knife and covered his eyes with his hands.
“Take, take that vision from me, that tells me what
I am, and shall be! O, show me not myself, cursed
and fallen! I'll do it; but blind me to the sense of
what I am and must be.” He had undergone too
much to bear it longer, and sinking into a chair, his
limbs relaxed, his eyes grew heavy, and he fell into
a deep sleep.
Esther waked refreshed; for Paul's affectionate
tones and kind manner when she left him quieted her
spirit. When she inquired for her husband, the servant
he was in his room. Esther went to the door and
knocked gently; there was no answer. She tried to
open it, but it was locked. She called out, “Paul!” —
“Is the hour come?” cried he, starting out of his
sleep. — “I'm ready then;” and putting his hand to
his bosom, the knife was gone. — “Where have I
been?” said he to himself, looking round, — “Was't
all a dream? Was there then no instrument of murder
given me? And is there no deed of death on my
hands? — She's not to die then, and I am free of
them!” cried he with a shout.
“Paul! Paul!” called out Esther, terrified at the
sound, “let me come to you.”
“Yes, yes, and you may come safely now. I'll
not harm you; upon my life, I'll not harm you,” he
said partly to himself, and moving towards the door.
As he advanced, his eye fell on the knife, as it lay on
the floor. His blood ran cold, and a sick feeling
came over him. Then sight and sense left him.
Esther listened; but all was still. — “He's dead,
he's dead!” shrieked she, trying to force the door.
The noise brought him to himself. — “Hush! hush!”
he whispered, as he picked up the knife with a shaking
hand, and concealed it in his bosom, “let there
be no noise.” — He stepped slowly and softly to the
door, and opened it cautiously. He raised his finger
in sign of silence. — “Hush! or you'll rouse Them.
Do not tremble so at me. There is no danger yet;
the hour is not come.”
Esther entered the room. As Paul took her hand,
she felt his cold and damp. “Paul, my husband,
what is it? Why do you look so wild and lost?
Rouse yourself; tell me what has happened.”
“Happened?” repeated he, unconsciously. He
stood a little while silent and abstracted. “Did you
ask what had happened?” — Then putting his mouth
close to her ear, and whispering eagerly — “To hear
it would be your last. What's seen in the spirit,
cannot be spoken to flesh and blood.” — She shuddered,
for there was something unearthly in his voice.
“Merciful Heaven!” cried she, looking upward,
“save him, save him; let him not go mad! Do with
me as thou wilt, but spare my husband!” — Her prayer
passed through Paul's dark and troubled mind like
the light.
“Is there yet a Heavenly Power? And are there
holy angels to guard us still? The fiends have not
all then, and their domain fills not the whole air! No,
't is not all dark; there's light beyond. See there,
Esther,” said he, seizing her arm, as he pointed
eagerly upward; there are bright forms, dazzling
bright, moving in it. Canst see them?” He looked
as if more than mortal vision was given to him. The
sense of all about him was gone, and he went on
talking to himself, as he gazed. “There they are,
passing away, till swallowed up in the very brightness!
Now they come again, hosts, myriads, and
with the speed of fire! — The darkness, and the evil
ones, too, are flying — they are gone! Now the light
gushes! 'T is all, all one flood of glory round me!
I'm safe, I'm safe, Esther!” he gasped out, as he
fell on her neck.
“O, my wretched, lost husband!” she cried, as she
folded her arms round him, and looked upward with
streaming eyes; “Is there no help for you? Will not
Heaven have pity on you?” Paul remained silent
and motionless. “O, speak to me, be it but one
will you not, Paul?” He did look, but it was as
upon one he did not know. — “Why do you glare
upon me so? Do you not know me, Paul? — Esther,
— your wife?”
“I think — I remember something — Yes, 't is all
clear now. But They have not betrayed me to you?
They've not told you what's to be done? Believe
them not, they belie me. Did I not just now tell you
I was safe? — and, then, no harm can come to you,
you know.”
“Harm! Safe! What mean you? Do not keep
me in this ignorance. By the love you bear me, tell
me what it is that shakes your reason so.”
“That must not be now. I serve the powers of
the air. When you're a spirit in Heaven, and I in
darkness, you'll know all. — There! They flit, like
shadows, in the light, and keep the sun from me; yet
you are in it. That tokens what is to be.”
He paused. His wildness left him, and he seemed
to be musing. At last he spoke. — “The hour is
coming, Esther — it breathes upon me now, when
death will part us, and we shall never meet more
through all eternity. Thy immortal countenance will
then be radiant with holy joy; but I shall no more
look on it; and thy voice of love will no more sound
for me. — Weep not for me; it can avail me nothing;
the doom is on me. — Nay, nay, ask me not what I
mean. The book in which my fate is written, is sealed
to you; you may not read it. — I must be alone
awhile,” said he, opening the door. “Do not linger
so. The time is coming when you would fain flee
from me, and may not. No more tears, Esther,” he
said, taking her hands in his, as she looked up silently
who hope for rest beyond it?” He pressed his lips
to her forehead, and, turning back, shut the door after
her.
When Abel came to the village street he walked
through it with more confidence than he had done for
many a day; for he remembered Paul's last words to
him, and felt as if he had that in his pocket which
would find him friends again. When he reached the
shop-door, where he intended buying something to
eat, it was near noon, and the little room was filled
with the wise-ones who had come together to take
their dram, and settle church and state. He stopped
at the door and looked anxiously in, beginning to feel
for his money; for he no more expected to gain admittance
without it here, than one does at a show.
He stepped upon the door-stone, and began playing
his change from one hand to the other, looking first
at it and then at the shopkeeper.
“Where got you those white-boys, you starveling?”
asked the man. “Come in, and let me take a peep
at them. Is't honest money?”
“I came honestly by it,” said Abel, trembling, and
venturing a little within the door.
“That's no concern of mine,” said the man. “And
many a glass of liquor I should miss the selling of,
gentlemen, if none but fair gains bought it.”
“Who have you here?” said one, setting down his
mug, which had just touched his lips, and moving off,
as Abel sidled up to the counter. — “Why, 't is the
curst boy! You'll not take his money, Sam!”
“Will I not?” replied Sam. “Hand over the bit,
and tell us what you want. I hold man or boy, who
has money in his purse, to be every inch a gentleman.”
some were going out at the door he called after them.—
“Stay,” said he, throwing the piece on the counter,
“and hear it ring. There's music for you, my lads,
sweeter than a church bell.”
“Don't take it, Sam,” said the customer. “He's
sent; and it will fare ill with you if you have dealings
with him.”
“Not take it! Why, Mr. Stitchcloth, you would
rig him up out of your cabbagings, fit to be the Old
One's harlequin, for another such piece as this,”
said Sam, letting it drop through the hole in the
counter, into the drawer. — “There, didn't you hear
them welcome him, the bright lads! What care I
whose coining it is? The Devil may have his mint,
if he chooses, and at little cost too. Who, think ye,
but he, set the wheels of that coach a-going, that is
passing there? Did not she within it, looking so fair
and smiling, sell herself to one as old as Satan, though
to my mind, not so handsome or proper a gentleman.—
'T is the way of the world, and I'll not be singular!
Bread, did you ask for, my pretty youth? There it is,”
said he, with a cast of his eye at the baker. “But
have a care that it doesn't poison you, for the Devil
is the father of cheats, and his child had the making
on't.” — Abel looked pleased as he took it. “There's
a sweet smile! Call again, my lad, but at another
hour; for these gentlemen have no great liking to you,
and you may stop the running of my tap.”
“I'll never take change of you again,” said the
tailor, as he left the shop, “till that drawer is empty;
for I would as soon handle iron at white-heat as touch
that piece.” — Sam laughed heartily, and called out
to Abel, as he crawled from the shop, “Give my compliments
should be happy to supply him, or any of his likely
family.” — Abel bent his way toward the house of
his protector, and took a seat under the hedge, waiting
his coming.
When Paul was once more alone, his last mournful
words to Esther still sounded in his ears. Her
prayer for him (of which he heard something, as in a
dream) as she folded her protecting arms round him,
the home and shelter he felt her to be to him, when
he fell on her neck and cried out that he was safe;
the expression of woe, and pity, and love with which
she looked up in his face at leaving him, came
all at once to his mind with a clear and calming influence.
He felt the spring of blood once more at
his heart; and his old affections flowed through him
again with a living warmth. The passions that had
raged in him like fire, went suddenly out; the horrors
that had whirled round him and crazed his brain,
passed off; he felt again the earth firm under him,
and saw that he stood in the cheerful light which fell
like a blessing upon all things that lay in the beautiful
and assured tranquillity of nature. It was like coming
out of one of those terrific dreams, in which we
have passed through multitudes of horrid sights and
dangers, and finding it bright morning, and all as safe
and quiet as it was yesterday. The mere returning
of the simple sense of reality brought tears of joy and
thankfulness to his eyes. — “Am I again amongst
the abodes of men? and standing amidst the works
of God? Are light, and truth, and beauty once more
round me? And were all the horrors I have passed
through, a conjuration and a lie, raised to damn me?
Come, and assure me of it, Esther; for though thou
with higher beings. O, I have gazed upon thee, till
thy rapt looks and beautiful motions have made me
think thee an imbodied spirit, revealing to me the
creations that fill the world beyond us — a fair and
passing vision, returning to the world, which, for a
while, thou camest from. — Let me go to thee,” said
he, rushing from his room, “and have thine eye rest
on mine; and hear thy clear voice, and listen while
you tell me you will not yet go from me.”
Esther was lying on a sofa, her full dark hair hanging
over her face, and snow-white arm on which her
forehead rested. — “My wife,” said Paul, as he
kneeled down by her, “have I lived only to afflict
you? I could throw away my life, and count it nothing,
to bring you peace. I should have been the
soother of all your sorrows, and brought you your
little daily joys. And is it I who have broken your
heart, and made life comfortless to you?”
Esther sobbed audibly. — “No answer for me,
Esther? Then it is so. Why do I ask? And yet a
vain wish is struggling within me that you might say
something to quiet a self-accusing mind. My will is
not in my act; but when I wound your heart, mine
bleeds doubly.”
“I do believe it, Paul,” said she, raising herself,
and resting on him. “I have not lost your love yet;
but dear as it has ever been to me, it is of small
worth without your confidence. It cannot content me
unless I feel, as it were, our hearts' blood mingling
and flowing on warm together. To be loved as I
would be, we must have one life, one being; our sorrows
must no more part us than our joys. But you
have troubles of the mind, and shut me out, like a
you, and fatal purposes, to which you seem
driven; and vain surmises and dark givings-out are
all I know of them. Is this love, Paul? Is it all your
heart asks for? And can it be in your noble nature,
to give only the poor remnant of your mind and heart
to her whose whole soul would alone content you? —
Yet this is nothing,” she cried, hiding her face.
“Those eyes which had ever but one look for me,
last night were turned in anger, and with a searching
sternness, on me. — Last night was it? Fears and
grief have made it seem an age since! This I did
not deserve, Paul, however too poor a thing I may
be for a mind of a reach like yours, to rest on.”
“Your words go like swords through me. Do not
break down this overburdened spirit with your just
complainings, Esther. I would not be what I am.
Think you it is in my disposition to torture and afflict
you as I have done? — Look up, my love, and tell
me if I am not changed. There is an inward peace
here, which I never felt till now. I've been out of
the world — out of myself; and this naked soul has
driven through fire and whirlwinds; but it has come
back to its place of rest, to its quiet trust in thee, and
the repose of thy full love. Could I look on this face
and — let me not name it. Is not this eye open as
the day? And do I not read truth written on this
brow? When I first saw you, Esther, you seemed
made up of sensations more exquisite than other
mortals knew how to think of, as if of a nature between
us and angels, and moulded to live a perpetual
self-delight. And when you touched a flower or took
its perfume, I thought of the light and breeze which
shone with its beauty and was filled with its odour.
felt our passions or known our sins. And when I
have sat by you, as I do now, with the soft touch of
your hand in mine, and your eyes resting fondly on
mine, I have felt as if undergoing a gentle change,
and becoming a nature like unto yours; it was to me
such as I have thought would be the intercourse of
mortals, when these bodies become incorruptible and
glorified in another world. — Why should I try to tell
what I now feel? It is a vain thing. Let me be still,
while my senses are drinking in delight.”
Esther hung over him, and tears of joy filled her
eyes. One fell on Paul's forehead. She wiped it
gently away, and then touched her lips where it fell.
“Take them not away yet, Esther,” he murmured;
“they are the seal of pardon for my wrongs to you,
the pledge of your enduring love for me, the promise
of unchanging joy through life, a joy that is to purify
me, and fit me to live on with you for ever.” — His
voice faultered, and she saw a tear trickle from under
his closed lids.
“O, I could have lived ages of misery, for an hour
like this, Paul, were life to end when that hour had
run out; but I feel that years are in store for us,
blissful as our souls can bear.”
“I hardly dared look up,” said he, “till I heard
your voice, lest, waking, I should find it a heavenly
trance I had been rapt in. Come, let me rouse myself
and make sure that all is real,” he said, putting his
arm round her, as he rose and walked with her to the
window.
“How fresh and new all things look; or rather,
how like it is to our return to old and remembered
places, where nature still looks young and healthful,
old, Esther, for life is again beginning in us. Is it a
new creation, or are other senses given me with which
to see and feel it? The boughs swing up, and the leaves
play as cheerfully as if a breeze, for which they had
drooped and waited, had just blown on them, and the
declining sun lights up all things gloriously. What a
glow it sends over the hedge,” said he, as his eye
passed along it. — “Hide me! He's come again!
he follows me!” cried Paul, turning terror-struck
from the window. Esther looked at him. His face
was wild and ghastly, and he tottered as he threw
himself on her shoulder for support.
“Speak, speak, Paul, — who — what is it —
where?”
“There! there! do you not see him?” he uttered
in a hard-breathed whisper, and pointing back with
his finger, without daring to look round.
“That boy?” asked Esther, trembling; “I've seen
him before. Who, and what is he, that looks so like
a tormented thing thrown out upon the earth to pain
and mischief?”
“Speak not of him — power is given him. I feel
him on me now,” he screeched, as he sprang with
an enormous leap from her. — “Off! off!” he cried,
struggling as if to loose himself from some strong
grasp. —“They call me, — thousands of voices in my
ears! Hear them, hear them, Esther! — I come! I
come!” he yelled out, darting from the room, his
hair on end, his spread hands and arms stretched out
before him. — Esther tried to call to him, as she ran
toward him. Her lips moved, but there was no
sound: she fell to the floor.
The shouts and cry alarmed the servants, who
her on the sofa. She gasped once or twice; her eyes
opened, then closed again. At last the colour came
to her cheek, and starting up and staring round her:
— “My husband! Where is he? Fly, seek him!”
“Which way is he gone, madam?”
“I know not. Bring him; on your lives, bring him
to me!” She rose and hurried towards the outer
door.
“Stay, dear madam,” said her waiting woman.
“Whither are you going at this hour?”
“Going to my husband, if he is on the earth — or
to my grave.”
“Do not leave the house bareheaded, madam.”
“Well, well, bring me something, quickly.” The
woman returned, and was about following Esther. —
“Stay here,” said she; “he may return while I am
gone, and miss me — I can go alone,” she murmured,
as she left the door. “When Paul leaves me, what
has the earth for me to fear or care for?” — She took
her way to a large, intricate wood, which lay off at a
distance from the house, and bordering upon part of
the rocky ridge.
Soon after Esther left the house, Frank called to
see her. The woman told all she knew. — “Gone
out, and alone, and in such a state of mind! Which
way?” — “Toward the wood you see yonder, Sir.”
Frank left the house in pursuit of her. He was
alarmed for her, for he feared Paul, though he knew
not why. He entered the wood, and wandered through
it a long time without seeing her. The light was
growing fainter and fainter, and he became more
uneasy. At last he found her, leaning against a tree,
pale and still. He went up to her, and spoke kindly.
“Is he no where to be found?” — “Search is
making,” replied Frank. “Let me help you home,
for you are exhausted; and you can be of no service
here.” — She put her arm within his and walked on
slowly, trembling from weakness and fear. Her
tears fell fast; for Frank's friendly and gentle
manner to her, in her desolate sorrow, touched her
heart.
When Paul left the house, his mind was so hurried
and confused from the sudden shock and change he
had undergone, that he missed the passage across the
ridge, and continued wandering along over and
between the broken clefts, till at last he came upon
the wood to which Esther had gone. He was pushing
swiftly through it, when he caught sight of Frank and
Esther at a distance. He sprang forward, once, with
the leap of a tiger, then stood still. Every passion
within him seemed suddenly struck dead, and the
mind appeared collecting itself for something fatal;
all was gloomy and hushed. When he followed them,
it was slowly and with a cautious step, as if he feared
his tread would be heard. He kept at a distance,
without losing sight of them, till they left the wood;
then stood concealed at the edge of it, watching them
as they went toward the house.
Esther's strength gradually returned; and she no
longer needed the support of Frank's arm. As Paul
saw her draw her arm from Frank's, “'T is a pity,”
he said, in bitter scorn, “the wood could not have
gone with you, that the world might not interrupt your
loves.” He did not follow them, but continued
pacing to and fro. Sometimes a muttering sound
came from him; and then again a vehement gesture
wake again to a clearer sense of the past, and his step
quickened. “Yes,” he cried, “she did cross me —
I saw her. She passed like an angel before me —
and then! then she vanished. Why am I fooled with
this show of innocence and beauty? The fiends
have all! — The universe is a hell; and all else is to
mock and torture us with longings. What! flesh and
blood, and look so pure, when the pulse beats high, —
hot! hot! And seem as ignorant as infancy, as if the
rebel body told them nothing. Well may the spirits
laugh at our self-cheating! And me, too, dark and
ungainly as I am — gloomy — silent! — O, 't was a
pretty fancy, to have a fantastic passion to fondle my
ugliness for a while, then turn to the other, and
clasp him in heightened beauty! — Ease me, ease
me of this torture!” he cried, darting from the
wood.
It was near midnight when he turned homeward.
He stopped under an elm near the house, without any
settled purpose. Esther's father had been sent for,
but was absent; and Frank, unwilling to leave the
house, remained till late. The clock in the village at
last struck twelve, the moon was down, and one black
cloud over the sky. At last the door opened, and as
Frank came out, Paul saw him by the light in the
entry. He came so close to the tree, that Paul drew
up straight, as he passed; but so dark was it, that he
only seemed like a blacker shadowy substance going by.
“Now might I do it,” thought Paul; “but he is not
my victim; some other, doomed like me, must do that
deed.” When the sound of Frank's tread at length
died away, Paul went to the door, and tried cautiously
to open it. It was fastened. — “Shall I knock? No,
her false ere I do it. — To the hut, — to the hut!
I'll watch her nightly. And Abel, he who serves
me, and whom my soul serves, him I will use
too.”
“It may not be,” he muttered, as he groped his
way along, “that the last sin's committed. And shall
I kill her for her thoughts? Who then would live the
day out, if evil thoughts were death to us? Do they
not mingle, like blaspheming spirits, with our adoring
moments? And shall we creatures of corruption ask
of our fellows, love constant and untainted? But to
feign it so! To weep over me in excess of joy and
fondness! — so she protested. And I with a simple
faith believed it, did I? Women's tears! Why, they
are very proverbs. — The wood! the wood! Puts
her arm in his, does she? — and leans on him, too, in
heart-sick languishment! Would, and yet dares not;
loves the sin to very madness, and sighs, `O, that it
were no sin!' — Away, away; let me not look on't!
'T is all a lie, a phantasm raised by the powers of hell
to make my soul theirs. — What! innocent, and died
by my hand? Hear them — how they mock and
laugh at me! I'll know more — all!”
He made his way forward as well as he could, but
the darkness and stillness oppressed him. It was as
if all life in the universe was at an end; nothing but
death everywhere, and like a power. He was
climbing a rock, when a cold, lean hand suddenly
pressed against his face, and a shriek went up that
made the whole atmosphere one shrill sound; it
pierced his very body. He could not speak, nor
move a limb. “You child of hell,” he called out, at
last, “who set you on to this? Speak, where are you?
Will you not answer?”
Abel, believing that he had touched one of those
beings who continually haunted him, had in his terror
fallen from the rock. — “Was it not one of them?”
he cried, in a feeble voice. “Is it you, my master?
Do come and help me. I'm bruised, dreadfully bruised.
I meant no harm.”
“And what brought you here at this hour, so dark
a night?” asked Paul, getting down by him.
“I was after you, Sir.”
“And why do you hunt me thus? Is it to make
me like yourself, a child of the damned? Why were
you under the hedge to-day? O! that was a moment
of more than earthly joy to me, and your blasted form
crossed me, and flung me out from heaven!”
“Do not speak to me so,” said Abel. “I do what
I must do: and they will never let me leave you any
more.”
“Well! well! but what made you look so soon for
me here again?”
“I heard you cry out, and saw you run from the
house; and then your wife fell, I thought, as she was
passing the window; and then I remembered what you
told me, and what They are always telling me about
something to be done. And it was put into my mind
that that was it; and somehow, I can't tell how, that
I had made you kill her.” — Paul shuddered. — “I
would have run after you; but I was afraid they would
see me and catch me; so I crawled through the hedge,
and went away round the house; and when I got there
I could see nothing of you. And I looked all along
this passage and over the wood. At last, Sir, I went
to the very hut, and looked in,— I did, truly, Sir,
though something glimmered over my eyes so, I could
hardly see. I could n't find you anywhere; so I
night.” — There was nothing more said. Abel soon
fell asleep, while Paul sat musing till daybreak.
The clouds now began to break up and move off
like an army of giants; and the sun soon appeared,
flinging his light across them, and throwing over them
gorgeous apparel of purple and gold, making them
fit attendants on such a king. — “Rouse you and
follow me,” said Paul, shaking Abel by the arm.
As he drew near the hut, the vision he had seen
there, the world of terrors that had been opened to
him in trance, and the instrument then put into his
hand, and for a purpose of which he could not doubt,
came to his mind like a fatal certainty from which
there was no turning away. He did not recoil in
horror; there was no shuddering at the thought of the
deed, no agony of prayer for escape. It acted like
long dungeon darkness upon him. A sullen stillness
spread over his mind, dulling his senses, and filling
the soul with one dark, sleepy thought, dreamlike
and dim. He entered the hut slowly, and stood in
the middle of it. No muttering sound came from
him, nor did he move a limb; his eyes rolled like a
blind man's, seeing nothing, and searching for light.
Abel, who had ventured as far as the door, stood
aghast and breathless, gazing on him; looking for the
moment that he would sink into the ground, or be
swept off in sheets of fire. It was nearly an hour before
there was any motion in him. At last his head
sunk on his chest, his eyes were cast down, and Abel
heard him breathe, once, long and heavy. He came
toward the door with a slow, wandering step. Abel
shrunk from him as if he had been a dead man put in
motion. He went to the edge of the bank, and sat
the sand. Abel still kept his eye upon him in awful
suspense. There was a slender stone lying amongst
the roots. Paul's eye fell on it, and became fixed.
By and by he put out his hand and took it up. He
continued a long while turning it over, and feeling
it, and looking at it on all sides. He put his hand
to his bosom, then drew it back, giving a nod, as
if saying, all was as it should be. “Come hither,
Abel,” he said. Able went, as if drawn to him.
“Here's more money for thy day's meal,” he said,
taking some from his pocket. Abel put out his hand,
but jerked it back as Paul's came near it; and the
money fell on the sand. He stooped and picked it
up. Paul took no notice of his fears. — “Go, next,
to my house; find out all you can, and bring me word.
Think not to betray me,” he continued, without looking
up. “I am with you whereever you go.” — Able
seemed to wither at the words. Paul's eye was fixed
on him in side glance, till out of sight. Then looking
cautiously round, he drew the knife slowly from
his bosom. It was pointed. He felt of it. The point
was dull. He drew it once across the stone. The
sound curdled his blood. He went on with his work.
The sun flashed upon him from the sand; there was
no breeze among the branches, nor anything stirring
for miles round. No sound reached his ear, but the
hot, singing noise of the insects under the tree, and
the whetting of the knife. Blazing noon came, and
Paul still went on with his work, stopping only to feel
the point of the knife, examine its handle, and scrape
off the rust about it. The sun was at last about setting;
no cloud near it. It was glowing; and its rim
clearly marked. He looked on it wistfully, as if praying
then shot suddenly and silently down. His
eyes shut; his face for a moment was tremulous and
mournful, but he did not sigh. When he looked up
again, there were no bright tree-tops, no holy vesper
of birds; it was all sad, still twilight. Presently a
light night-breeze passed over the pines, which gave
out a low, mourning sound. It struck on his ear like
the notes of spirits wailing the newly departed. He
started up, and looked into the shadowy wood, as if he
saw there the passing pall. He waved his hand once
or twice before his eyes, to scatter the vision; then
turning round again, and placing the stone back among
the roots, and putting the knife in his bosom, went
and seated himself before the hut.
Abel returned at night, but with little news. The
servants, he said, were continually going out and in,
but they would not look at him, nor answer him when
he spoke to them.
“Did you see none besides the servants?”
“Only young Mr. Frank Ridgley. He went into
the house about noon; but I saw nothing more of him.”
“I will know where he is to be seen, then,” muttered
Paul, rising.
He passed on through the wood and the rocky passage,
then took his way to the house. All was quiet.
He walked round it, but saw nothing. It was to him
like a place he was shut from for ever, the only blessed
spot in a world where all else was cursed. He stood
looking on it, with longing and home-sickness. By
and by a light appeared in his wife's chamber. He
raised his eyes to it as to a loved star. Presently
Esther passed near the window. At the sight of her
he covered his eyes with his hand. He could bear it
to the hut.
The next morning Abel was sent again; and the
day was wearing away with Paul, like the former,
scarcely conscious what he was doing, or what was
the purpose of his mind. Abel returned a little past
noon, telling him that he saw his wife, with Frank,
going toward the wood on the other side of the ridge,
about an hour before. Paul sprang up, and ran forward,
Abel following him. He went over every
mound and through every valley. Frank, however,
had, in the meantime, returned with Esther from
searching after her husband; (her father having before
taken another route,) and recollecting the Devil's
Haunt, as it was called, set off alone for it immediately.
After much elambering and toil he reached it,
traversed the ground, and examined the hut; but no
trace appeared of Paul. He returned late, tired and
disappointed.
The sight of the wood, and what he had witnessed
there, excited Paul's mind, so that he continued like
a dog in full chase through it till near midnight, without
considering how idle was his search at that hour. At
last he became exhausted; his torpor returned, and he
went back to his hiding-place, like one walking in his
sleep.
About dusk, the following day, Abel returned with
the information that Esther's father was to set off the
next morning on a journey of a few days. — “Then,”
thought Paul, “will be my time to make all sure.
No husband, no father by, still rooms, and moonlight.
Will these not put toys into the brain, and make the
heart beat?”
“You must see him start,” he said to Abel, “and
mark who goes with him.”
Abel was in full time to see Mr. Waring enter his
carriage. He had set off to acquaint Paul's father
with what had happened, and to consult with him
what course to pursue. He would have gone sooner,
had he not been afraid to leave Esther, whom he staid
with to soothe and comfort; for her mind was nearly
unsettled. Frank promised, at his going, that no
pains should be spared to discover Paul, and that he
would be as a brother to Esther. The old gentleman
left home with a sorrowful, misgiving heart; and
Abel hastened to make known his departure, which
took place about noon.
Paul sat as he had done each day before, in the same
spot, passing the knife slowly over the stone, then
stopping and feeling of it, and looking it over. His
expression, though dark, was dull and abstracted,
and his motions heavy, slow and uncertain. The
blood moved sluggishly, and life seemed scarcely
going on in him. When Abel came up, Paul did not,
as usual, conceal the knife. Abel knew it instantly,
though now bright and sharpened. All his horrors
rushed upon him; his knees knocked against each
other, his hands struck against his thighs, and he fell
on the sand, at Paul's feet — “The knife!” he cried;
“hide it! hide it! There's murder!—the deed's doing,
now, now! Save me! take me out o' this blood!”
Paul leaped upon the bank, and stood looking down
on Abel, in stupid horror. He seemed to him struggling
in a red, clotted sea, which presently appeared sinking
into the ground, leaving drops here and there
rolling on the sand, till at last he saw nothing more of
them.
Abel recovered slowly; and raising himself on his
knees, looked imploringly in Paul's face. He saw
nothing there but an unchanging, sullen gloom.
“And what do you bring me?” asked Paul.
“I saw him leave the house in his carriage this
noon.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, Sir, alone.”
“To-night it must be done then. Do you not hear
them telling me, Abel?”
“Send me not again!” cried Abel. “O, spare
me!”
“Is it not fated, boy! Think you the bonds of
hell, that now hold you, can be broken? Look in. Is
not He there, busy at your heart? Your work is
doing — mine's to come, quickly.”
“We're lost, then!” cried Abel, springing up. “Let
me go with you.”
Paul continued wandering through the wood; Abel
following close after him, whereever he turned. They
went on in silence; Paul now and then sending a
glance back on Abel, as if he were some evil thing
dogging him at his heels.
He at last bent his way to the passage over the
ridge; and when he had passed it, stopped suddenly,
turning his eye on Abel. Abel came up. Paul
pointed towards the house. — “Bring me word quickly.”
He then sat down upon a rock, gazing,
like an outcast, upon the distant chimney-tops of his
own home, while Abel crawled away to his appointed
task. Before long, Abel returned, saying he had
been round the house, but saw nothing, till at last, as
he was coming away, Mr. Ridgley passed him, and
went in. A flush crossed Paul's cheek, but he said
nothing.
Frank, according to his promise to her father, went
to see Esther. She was walking the room, when he
round her pale face and sunken eye. She looked up at
him, as asking if there were any good thing to tell
her. Frank understood it. “Nothing as yet,” he
said; “but I hope —” She shook her head despondingly,
as she turned away and walked to the window.
“Do not despair so,” said he, going toward her;
“all may be right again in a few days.” — She drew
up, as she turned round upon him. Her look had
something of reproach in it, as if it were not in his
nature to know what she felt, and that he was thinking
to cheat a common sorrow. — He shrunk back, and
moved toward the door. She followed hastily after
him, and touched his arm. “Nay, nay, go not from
me so; trouble has made me strange. My more than
brother,” said she, giving him her pallid hand, “if
you never see me again, do not remember that I ever
looked in unkindness on you. Or if I ever spoke
lightly when you were earnest, forget it, will you? —
It seems to me, I think,” she said, after a pause, and
passing her hand over her brow, as if trying to recall
her thoughts, — “I think I once made light of what
you said to me. — Well, well, there's no more trifling in
this world. — Yes, others may, but I may not. — All's
dark here; — go where 't is brighter!” He looked at
her earnestly. He saw the hurried state of mind
pass of, and her calm sorrow returning. He bade
her a kind good night, saying he would see her again
in the morning. — “Perhaps so,” said she to herself,
as he left the house.
She stood at the door looking upward at the stars, and
then upon the fair, silent moon, whose light fell like
sleep upon the earth. “So I stood,” said she “and so
the moon shone on us, when he first told me that he
as her eye caught the figure of a man descending a
hill on the road. He sunk gradually down, till lost
behind the hedge. At last she heard his step, as he
drew near the house. “Paul!” she called out, in an
eager, shrill voice. There was no answer but that
of the sharp taunting echoes which rang off among the
rocks. “He's dead, he 's dead, and they mock me
with it!” She listened with a beating heart. The
man passed by, and the sound of his steady tread
died slowly away along the road. She walked back
into the parlour; and lying down on the sofa, her
sufferings and present state wandered like a dream
through her mind.
Mr. Waring began his journey; but the farther he
went from home, the more troubled he became. A
misgiving, which he could not control, took possession
of him; and he at last ordered his servant to drive
back. As soon as he reached home, he set off for
his daughter's house.
Paul had remained seated on the rock. Abel was
a little below him, looking wistfully and eagerly at
him, as if his life depended upon each look and motion
of Paul's. For a long time, there was no more movement
or change of expression, than if he had been a
statue cut out of the rock he sat on. But as the time
drew near, the heavy, settled gloom broke slowly up,
and troubled and fearful thoughts began to stir themselves
in his mind. Abel saw sudden tremblings pass
over his frame, and a twitching of the muscles of the
face. As the huge, mysterious shadows of evening
gathered round him, he looked hastily about, and
there were sudden flashings of the eye. He muttered
something, as if the shadows had been spirits come to
with clasped hands, as if praying it might not be, till
he became so weak that he could hardly keep his seat.
“They are on him now!” cried Abel to himself. “O,
how they torture him! And they are coming — I feel
them coming — they are seizing me!” — A cold
sweat ran over his body.
The twilight died away. For a while Paul became
motionless again, and lost in thought; till leaping
suddenly to the ground, with his eye eagerly fixed,
grasping the knife and crying out, “On! on! I'll follow
you!” he rushed swiftly forward. — “Stay! stay!”
shrieked Abel, darting after him, and seizing upon
the skirts of his coat. Paul ran on, till he dragged
Abel to the earth, and his hold loosened. He turned,
and saw the poor boy stretched on the ground. —
“Stop, let me go with you,” gasped out Abel. — “Do
not murder — murder!”
“Murder? The deed's yours — Theirs. They
who set you on to curse me — all do it. — 'T is done!
One hell swallows up all!” he screamed, spurning
Abel from him, and rushing on again. This was too
much for Abel's weakened reason. To believe he
had been used as the eternal curse of the man who
had been kind to him and nourished him, when no
one else would so much as look on him, and to be
thrown off at last by him, too! — He sprang from the
ground, he leaped, he danced, he shouted, and ran in,
mad, among the rocks.
When Mr. Waring reached the house, he found
his daughter lying in a state of mind but faintly conscious
of what had passed. He took her hand, and
called her by name. She looked up at him surprised.
— “I thought you had gone, Sir! — Why are you
found? is he mad — dead?”
“We have discovered nothing; but I was unwilling
to leave you.”
“Then you would not leave me; yet he could —
he could leave me — break my heart, and leave me
to die alone, all alone. — Do not blame me, Paul;
indeed, indeed, I meant nothing. I know, mortal
cannot tell or think how much you love me. — Come,
let me part back your hair — So! so! I must smooth
that brow, too. There! there! Now you look as
you do when you call me your own Esther!”
“My child, my daughter,” said her father, “try
to recollect yourself.”
“I do now; but my mind wanders strangely. O,
my father, he had a soul so large! And when wild
thoughts, I know not what they were, did not possess
it, it was so full of love for me! They fired his brain,
and he's gone away to die, none know whither; and
I cannot go to him. — But I, too, shall die soon; and
then I'll meet him where there's no more trouble,”
she sobbed out, as she fell on her father's neck, while
he supported her in his arms.
At this instant Paul reached one of the windows;
the curtains were partly closed. There was a dim
light in the room. He had heard that the father had
gone on his journey; and not long before, Abel had
seen Frank go into the house. He could just perceive
his wife hanging round some one's neck, and
the man's arm round her waist. At the sight, he gave
a shout of demoniac triumph, and ran from the window.
Loud as it was, Esther was too much lost in her
wretchedness to hear it. Her father was alarmed;
and without telling her what he had heard or suspected,
the servants. They returned disappointed. He told
Esther he would not leave the house that night, as
she was not well. At a late hour, all being still
abroad, they retired to rest; and Esther, worn with
her distress, soon fell into a deep sleep.
Paul drew near the house once more, and watched
till the last light was put out. — “The innocent and
guilty both sleep, all but Paul! Not even the grave
will be a resting place for me! They hunt and drive
me to the deed; and when 't is done, will snatch the
abhorred soul to fires and tortures. Why should I
rest more? The bosom I slept sweetly on — blissful
dreams stealing over me — the bosom that to my delighted
soul seemed all fond and faithful — why, what
harboured in it? Lust and deceit, and sly, plotting
thoughts, showing love where they most loathed.
They stung me, — ay, in my sleep, crept out upon
me, and stung me, — poisoned my very soul — hot,
burning poisons! — Peace, peace, your promptings,
Ye that put me to this deed, — drive me not mad!
Am I not about it?”
He walked up cautiously to the door, and taking a
key from his pocket, unlocked it, and went in. There
was now a suspense of all feeling in him. He entered
the parlour. His wife's shawl was hanging on the
back of a chair; books in which he had read to her
were lying on the table, and her work-table, near it,
open. His eye passed over them, but there was no
emotion. He left the room, and ascended the stairs
with a slow, soft step, stealing through his own house
cautiously as a thief. He unlocked the door of his
dressing-room, and passed on without noticing any
part of it. His hand shook as he partly opened his
He cast his eye round, then entered and shut the
door after him. He walked up by the side of her bed
without turning his eyes towards it, and seated himself
down upon it, by her. Then it was he dared to look
on her, as she lay in all her beauty, wrapt in a sleep
so gentle he could not hear her breathing. She
looked as if an angel talked with her in her dreams.
Her dark, glossy hair had fallen over her bright, fair
neck and bosom, and the moonlight, striking through
it, penciled it in beautiful thready shadows on her.
Paul sat for a while with folded arms, looking down
on her. His eye moved not, and in his dark face
was the unchanging hardness of stone. His mind
appeared elsewhere. There was no longer feeling in
him. He seemed waiting the order of some stern
power. The command at last came. He laid his
hand upon her heart, and felt its regular beat; then
drew the knife from his bosom. Once more he laid
his hand upon her heart; then put the point there.
He pressed his eyes close with one hand, and the
knife sunk to the handle. There was a convulsive
start, and a groan. He looked on her. A slight
flutter passed over her frame, and her filmy eyes
opened on him once; but he looked as senseless as
the body that lay before him. The moon shone fully
on the corpse, and on him that sat by it; and the silent
night went on. By and by, up came the sun in
the hot flushed sky, and sent his rays over them.
Paul moved not, nor heeded the change. There was
no noise, nor motion — there were they two together,
like two of the dead.
At last Esther's attendant, entering suddenly, saw
the gloomy figure of Paul before her. She ran out
filled with servants. The old man came in, trembling
and weak; no tear was wrung from him, nor a groan.
He bowed his head, as saying, It is done.
The alarm was given, and Frank, with the neighbours,
went up to the chamber. Though the room
was nearly full, not a sound was heard. The stillness
seemed to spread from Paul and the dead, over them
all. Frank and some others came near him, and
stood before him; but he continued looking on his wife,
as he sat with his crossed hands resting on his thigh;
while the one which had done the murder, still held
the bloody knife.
No one moved. At last they looked at each other,
and one of them took Paul by the wrist. He turned
his slow, heavy eye on them, as if asking who they
were, and what they wanted. They instinctively
shrunk back, letting go their hold, and his arm fell
like a dead man's.
There was a movement near the door; and presently
Abel stood directly before Paul, his hands drawn between
his knees, his body distorted and writhing as
with pain; the muscles of his face hard and twisted,
and his features pinched, cold, and blue. There was
a gleam and glitter, and something of a laugh, and
anguish, too, in his crazed eye, as it flitted back and
forth from Esther to Paul. At last Paul glanced upon
him. At the sight of Abel he gave a shuddering
start that shook the room. He looked once more on
his wife; his hair rose up, and eyes became wild. —
“Esther!” he gasped out, tossing up his arms as he
threw himself forward. He struck the bed, and fell
to the floor. Abel looked, and saw his face black
with the rush of blood to the head; then giving a leap
shriek that rung through the house, darted out
of the chamber, and, at a spring, reached the outer
door.
They felt of Paul. — Life had left him.
Frank took the father from the room. Preparations
were hastily made; and about the close of the day, Esther's
body, followed by a few neighbours and friends,
was carried to the grave. The grave-yard was not far
from the foot of the stony ridge. As they drew near
it, the sun was just going down, and the sky clear,
and of a bright, warm glow. Presently a figure was
seen running and darting in crossing movements along
the top of the ridge, leaping from point to point, more
like a creature of the air than of the earth, for it hardly
seemed to touch on any thing. It was mad Abel.
So swift and shooting were his motions, and so quickly
did he leap and dance to and fro, that it appeared
to the dazzled eye as if there were hundreds holding
their hellish revels in the air; and now and then a
wild laugh reached the mourners, that seemed to come
out from the still sky. When it was night, the men
who had made Paul's grave a little without the consecrated
ground, came to the house, and taking up
the body, moved off toward the place in which they
were to lay it. — No bell tolled for the departed; no
one followed to mourn over him, as he was laid in the
ground away from man, or to hear the earth fall on
his coffin — that sound which makes us feel as if our
living bodies, too, were crumbling into dust.
It had been a chilly night; and while the frost was
yet heavy on the grass, some of the neighbours went
to wonder and moralize over Paul's grave. There
appeared something singular upon it. They ventured
was apparently dead; and some of the boldest took
hold of him. He opened his eyes a little, and uttered
a faint, weak cry. They dropped their hold; his limbs
quivered and stretched out rigid — then relaxed. His
breath came once, broken and quick — it was his last.
THE SON.
I dare say that which thousand fathers cannot,
And that's my precious comfort; never son
Was in the way of more celestial rising;—
The Old Law.
There is no virtue without a characteristic beauty
to render it particularly loved of the good, and to
make the bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do
what is right argues superior taste as well as morals;
and those whose practice is evil feel an inferiority of
intellectual power and enjoyment, even where they
take no concern for a principle. Doing well has
something more in it than the mere fulfilling of a duty.
It is a cause of a just sense of elevation of character;
it clears and strengthens the spirits; it gives higher
reaches of thought; it widens our benevolence, and
makes the current of our peculiar affections swift and
deep. A sacrifice was never yet offered to a principle,
that was not made up to us by self-approval, and
the consideration of what our degradation would have
been, had we done otherwise. Certainly it is a
pleasant and a wise thing, then, to follow what is right,
when we only go along without affections, and take
the easy way of the better propensities of our nature.
The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as
it may. It is not because of his integrity alone that
in his judgment and wise conduct, in the long run,
than in the schemes of those of greater intellect, who
go at large without any landmarks of principle. So
that virtue seems of a double nature, and to stand
oftentimes in the place of what we call talents.
This reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is
right; for the honest man only falls in with the order
of nature, which is grounded in truth, and will endure
along with it. And such a hold has a good man upon
the world, even where he has not been called upon to
make a sacrifice to a principle, or to take a stand
against wrong, but has merely avoided running into
vices, and suffered himself to be borne along by the
delightful and kind affections of private life, and has
found his pleasure in practising the duties of home,
that he is looked up to with respect, as well as regarded
with kindness. We attach certain notions of
refinement to his thoughts, and of depth to his sentiment,
and the impression he makes on us is beautiful
and peculiar. Although we may have nothing in
particular to object to in other men, and though they
may be very well, in their way, still, while in his
presence, they strike us as lacking something, we
can hardly say what — a certain sensitive delicacy of
character and manner, wanting which, they affect us
as more or less insensible, or even vulgar.
No creature in the world has this character so finely
marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son —
particularly in his relation to his mother. Every little
attention he pays her is not only an expression of
filial attachment, and a grateful acknowledgment of
past cares, but is an evidence of a tenderness of disposition
which moves us the more, because not so much
as an added grace which is bestowed only upon a few.
His regards do not appear like mere habits of duty,
nor does his watchfulness of his mother's wishes seem
like taught submission to her will. They are the
native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing themselves
amid stern virtues and masculine energies,
like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are
delightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary
homage to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee
is bent, and the heart of the mailed man laid bare.
Feelings that would seem to be at variance with
each other, meet together and harmonize in the breast
of a son. Every call of the mother which he answers
to, and every act of submission which he performs,
are not only so many acknowledgments of her authority,
but so many instances, also, of kindness, and
marks of protecting regard. The servant and defender,
the child and guardian, are all mingled in him.
The world looks on him in this way; and to draw
upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the love
of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is a
good Son.
“The sun not set yet, Thomas?” “Not quite,
Sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder, as
if the branches were all on fire.”
Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and with his
hat still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes
toward the setting sun. It was only the night before
that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive
but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart
mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and
feelings were so much in it, that except in relation to
his own home, there were the same vague and
strange notions in his brain concerning the state
of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign
land.
The main feeling which this self-made world excited
in him was love; and as with most at his time of life,
his mind had formed for itself a being suited to its
own fancies. This was the romance of life; and
though men, with minds like his, often-times make
imagination to stand in the place of real existence,
and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet
in the domestic relations, which are so near, and
usual, and private, they feel longer and more deeply
than those do who look upon their homes as only a
better part of the world which they belong to. Indeed,
in affectionate and good men of a visionary cast, it is
in some sort only realizing their hopes and desires, to
turn them homeward. Arthur felt that it was so; and
he loved his household the more, that they gave him
an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and
attachments.
Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in
having a character so much like his own. For though
the cares and attachments of life had long ago taken
place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural
turn of mind was strong enough to give to these
something of the romance of her disposition. This
had led to a more than usual openness and intimacy
between Arthur and his mother, and now brought to
his remembrance the hours they had sat together by
the fire-light, when he listened to her mild and
undergone at the loss of her parents and husband.
Her gentle rebuke of his faults, her affectionate look
of approval when he had done well, her care that he
should be a just man, and her motherly anxiety lest
the world should go hard with him, all crowded
into his mind, and he thought that every worldly
attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing to
him.
He had passed the night, before his journey,
between tumultuous grief, and numb insensibility.
Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion,
like one who was quitting his sick chamber for the
first time, he began his way homeward. As he lifted
his eyes upward, the few stars that were here and
there over the sky, seemed to look down in pity, and
shed a religious and healing light upon him. But
they soon went out, one after another, and as the last
faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every
thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint
tint in the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the
sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in
full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as
if it were in mockery of his misery.
Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over
his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was
day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by
his side, went on talking in a low monotonous tone;
but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears,
scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He had
a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the
carriage, but in all things else the day passed as a
melancholy dream.
Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I
sun, he shuddered through his whole frame, and then
became sick and pale, for he knew the hill near him;
and as they wound round it, some peculiar old trees
appeared; and he was in a few minutes in the midst
of the scenery near his home. The river before him,
reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured
out from a molten mine; and the birds, gathering in,
were shooting across each other, bursting into short,
gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees:
It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful,
and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs
struck upon the old wooden bridge: The sound went
to his heart. It was here his mother took her last
leave of him, and blessed him.
As he passed through the village, there was a feeling
of strangeness, that every thing should be just as it
was when he left it. An undefined thought floated in
his mind, that his mother's state should produce a
visible change in all that he had been familiar with.
But the boys were at their noisy games in the street,
the labourers returning together from their work, and
the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He
concealed himself as well as he could, and bade
Thomas hasten on.
As they drew near the house, the night was shutting
in about it, and there was a melancholy, gusty sound
in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's
tomb. He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy
and still as a deserted house. Presently he heard a
slow, cautious step, over-head. It was in his mother's
chamber. His sister had seen him from the window.
She hurried down, and threw her arms about her
brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as
not say, my mother. “She is sleeping,” answered
his sister, “and must not know to night that you are
here; she is took weak to bear it now.” “I will go
look at her then, while she sleeps,” said he, drawing
his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy
had made him shed the first tears which had fallen
from him that day, and he was more composed.
He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe
upon him; and as he drew near his mother's bed-side,
and looked on her pale, placid, and motionless face,
he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the
secret communion that the soul was holding with the
world into which it was soon to enter. His heavy
grief, in the loss that he was about to suffer, was
forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he
was, as it were, in the midst of invisible spirits ascending
and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly
as she uttered as indistinct sound. He drew back,
and his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It
was the same gentle voice which he had known and
felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left
him, he sunk down, and his misery went over him like
a flood.
The next day, as soon as his mother became
composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her
chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and
turned toward him, with a look that blessed him. It
was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered
her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down
between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became
tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being
spared to see him before she died.
“My dear mother,” said Arthur. But he could
tears. “Do not be so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss of
me. We are not to part for ever. Remember, too,
how comfortable and happy you have made my days.
Heaven, I know, will bless so good a son as you have
been to me. You will have that consolation, my son,
which visits but a few — you will be able to look
back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain
only, but with a holy joy. And think, hereafter, of
the peace of mind you give me, now that I am about
to die, in the thought that I am leaving your sister to
your love and care. So long as you live, she will
find you a father and brother to her.” She paused
for a moment. “I have long felt that I could meet
death with composure; but I did not know,” she said,
“I did not know, till now that the hour is come, how
hard a thing it would be to leave my children.”
After a little while she spoke of his father, and
said, she had lived in the belief that he was mindful
of her, and with the conviction, which grew stronger
as death approached, that she should meet him in
another world. She spoke but little more, as she
grew weaker and weaker every hour. Arthur sat by
in silence, holding her hand. He saw that she was
sensible he was watching her countenance, for every
now and then she opened her eyes upon him, and
endeavoured to smile.
The day wore slowly away. The sun went down,
and the still twilight came on. Nothing was heard
but the ticking of the watch, telling him with a resistless
power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasped,
as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it
was not for human strength to struggle against.
It was now quite dark, and by the pale light of the
room threw huge and uncouth figures over the walls.
All was unsubstantial and visionary; and the shadowy
ministers of death appeared gathering round, waiting
the duty of the hour appointed them Arthur shuddered
for a moment with superstitious awe; but the solemn
elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the
dying took possession of him, and he became calm
again.
The approach of death has so much which is exalting
that our grief, for the time, is forgotten. And
could one who had seen Arthur a few hours before,
now have looked upon the grave and even grand
repose of his countenance, he would hardly have
known him.
The livid hue of death was fast spreading over his
mother's face. He stooped forward to catch the
sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint. —
“My mother.” — She opened her eyes for the last
time, upon him, and a faint flush passed over her
cheek — there was the serenity of an angel in her
look. Her hand just pressed his: — it was all over.
His spirit had endured to its utmost; it sunk down
from its unearthly height; and with his face upon his
mother's pillow, he wept like a child. He arose with
a softened grief, and stepping into an adjoining
chamber, spoke to his aunt. “It is past,” said he.
“Is my sister asleep? — Well, be it so: let her have
rest; she needs it.” He then went to his own
chamber, and shut himself in.
It is a merciful thing that the intense suffering of
sensitive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief
brings on a torpor and indistinctness, as from long
watching. It is not till the violence of affliction has
room to mix with our-sorrow, and holy consolations
can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our
loss, and see clearly what has been torn away from
our affections. It was so with Arthur. Unconnected
thoughts, with melancholy but half-formed images,
were floating in his mind; and now and then a gleam
of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a
troubled trance, and all was right again. His worn
and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep.
It is an impression which we cannot rid ourselves
of, if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend,
that he has still a consciousness of our presence — that
though the common concerns of the world have no
more to do with him, he has still a love and care of
us. The face which we had so long been familiar
with, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a
state of rest. We know not how to make it real to
ourselves, that in the body before us there is not a
something still alive.
Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone
in the room by his mother, the day after her death.
It was as if her soul was holding communion with
pure spirits in paradise, though it still abode in
the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified
by the presence of one to whom the other
world had been laid open — as if under the love
and protection of one made holy. The religious
reflections that his mother had early taught him, gave
him strength; a spiritual composure stole over him,
and he found himself prepared to perform the last
offices to the dead.
Is it not enough to see our friends die, and part
with them for the rest of our days — to reflect that
never look on us again — to see that turning to corruption
which was but just now alive, and eloquent,
and beautiful with the sensations of the soul? Are
our sorrows so sacred and peculiar as to make the
world as vanity to us, and the men of it as strangers,
and shall we not be left to our afflictions for a few
hours? Must we be brought out at such a time to
the concerned or careless gaze of those we know
not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolation
from acquaintances, who will go away and forget
it all? Shall we not be suffered for a little while,
a holy and healing communion with the dead? Must
the kindred stillness and gloom of our dwelling be
changed for the show of the pall, the talk of the passers-by,
and the broad and piercing light of the common
sun? Must the ceremonies of the world wait on
us, even to the open graves of our friends?
When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step
and fixed eye, though his face was tremulous with the
struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took
her arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy,
undulating sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt
a violent beating through his frame, which shook him
so that he reeled. It was but a momentary weakness.
He moved on, passing those who surrounded him, as
if they had been shadows. While he followed the
slow hearse, there was a vacancy in his eye, as it
rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly conscious
of what was before him. His spirit was with
his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk
back and turned deadly pale; but dropping his head
upon his breast, and drawing his hat over his face, he
stood motionless as a statue till the service was over.
He had gone through all that the forms of society
required of him. For as painful as the effort was,
and as little suited as such forms were to his own
thoughts upon the subject, yet he could not do any
thing that might appear to the world like a want of
reverence and respect for his mother. The scene
was ended, and the inward struggle over; and now
that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss
came up full and distinctly before him.
It was a gloomy and chilly evening when he returned
home. As he entered the house from which his
mother had gone for ever, a sense of dreary emptiness
oppressed him, as if his abode had been deserted by
every living thing. He walked into his mother's
chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which
she used to sit, were all that were left in the room.
As he threw himself back into the chair, he groaned
in the bitterness of his spirit. A feeling of forlornness
came over him, which was not to be relieved by
tears. She whom he watched over in her dying hour,
and whom he had talked to as she lay before him in
death, as if she could hear and answer him, had
gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses to
fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him to
think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeavours
brought this consolation; and the little of
life that a wasting disease left him, was past by him,
when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity; and among his
friends he appeared with that gentle cheerfulness
which, before his mother's death, had been a part of
his nature.
A LETTER FROM TOWN.
“Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?”
Shakspeare.
“If your concern for pleasing others arises from innate benevolence, it
never fails of success; if from vanity to excel, its disappointment is no less
certain.”
The Spectator.
“In a word, good-breeding shows itself most, where, to an ordinary eye,
it appears the least.”
Same
My Dear Friend,
When I left you and the country, for the city, I
promised to send you a portion of what I might gather
up here in the course of my walks, business, and
visitings; and I now take the first odd moment of
composure that I have been blessed with since reaching
this bustling city. I say — of composure; for
though I am naturally of a steady disposition, as you
well know, you can hardly conceive what a whirligig
town-life makes of a plain country-gentleman, like
myself. Where I see that men have a clear apprehension
of their motives to action, it never jars
the even motions of my mind, however varied and
great the action around me may be; and for the very
simple reason, I suppose, that wherever there is a
main, distinct purpose, there must be conducive order,
however complicated and rapid the movements. But
mere accidental and hurried touch-and-go meeting
with one another, I myself, sky, earth, and all
upon it, get into a whirl, and I find myself fast undergoing
the general metamorphosis, and becoming, like
every one around me, a humming-top. Yes, my dear
friend, you have heard a great deal about the city,
and about its inhabitants; — they are all humming-tops:
And the best of it is, they are all humming
one another. But as I have just spun out my turn,
and am, at present, lying still on my side, I will endeavour
to do as those do who think to make amends
for spending the greater part of life in a round of folly,
by being wise and moralizing for the little time they
are in their senses.
You were a great reader of Doctor Johnson, in
your younger days; and though you quarrelled with
many of his criticisms, you were less qualified in your
admiration of that great man, I believe, than you are
at this day. I cannot say that time has had the same
abating influence respecting him upon me. He is no
less frequently in my thoughts, than formerly. To
this circumstance you must consider yourself indebted
for the subject of the present letter, and thank the
Doctor for whatever may please you in it; for I
seldom think of him, without calling to mind his love
of an inn; it is one of the best-natured traits in his
character.
There certainly is no place in the world where a man
feels so independent and easy, and so inclined to take
clear comfort. It is equally well fitted to nearly all sorts
of characters. The blackguard goes to it to lord it over
his own gang, put the host in good humour, have full
swing amongst the grooms and waiters, and sharpen
much for his improvement in his calling, as for his
pleasure; and goes home as satisfied when he has
done well, as those who have finished more serious
duties with duller heads. The humorist may have
his own way there, and the surly man keep his corner,
and pass himself off for one of grave taciturnity; in
short, no where else can so various and opposite dispositions
herd together, with so little annoyance to
each other.
It is the world in little. Men of all sizes, complexions,
and callings, are as close stowed as beasts
at a cattle-show, and give as good opportunity to observe
their points and varieties. Here are to be met
with, politicians, who never had place or pension,
with plans to keep order without law — beaux in rusty
hats, and coats white in the shoulders — gray-headed
midshipmen who could “sink a navy” — Laputa
philosophers — hen-pecked husbands, venting their
lungs and spiriting up their courage — quiet, staid
bachelors, who eat and drink by weight and measure,
and sleep by the clock — the dapper gentleman,
whose unsoiled suit has been as long known as the
wearer, fresh and smooth as a lady's-man — and your
swaggerer, always dirty, and always rude. Besides
these, and many more in contrast, come the fillers-up
of society, your ordinary men, with differences so
faintly marked that it is quite a science, and an ill-paid
one, to trace them out.
One who wishes to study his fellow-men may do it
here and save himself a deal of travel. He has nothing
to do but to take his seat snugly in a corner, and
look and listen, and now and then throw in a remark
in way of suggestion, just to see what it will come to.—
sort of men who keep about in society for the sole
purpose of speculating upon human nature. Here
they find every one off his guard; and they themselves
are not kept back by the restraints of ceremony.
One of these observers will enter a room of motley
company, with a grave, downward aspect, and pace
it to and fro with a measured step, as if lost in abstraction,
or busy about some embarrassing circumstance.
If you watch him narrowly, you will presently catch
his eye scaling along over the group of talkers you
are standing amongst, as if he were taking note of
each one in the circle.
I dined out to-day, and told our old friend, Thomson,
I would meet him at the tavern, that he might
take me to his club more conveniently. It was a raw
evening after a warm day, a time, of all others, when
a fire is most cheering. Each one drew near the inn
fire with open hands; and rubbing them together in a
kind of self-congratulatory way, with a working of the
shoulders, and a backward throw of the head, was
prepared for a set-to at a long talk upon whatever
was going.
I was sitting in an old round-a-bout which stood
in one corner, waiting the coming of my friend, without
taking any part in the conversation, when a person
like one I have just before described, walked
slowly into the room. He was past the middle age,
and his tailor was probably as old as himself, for his
dark drab coat was of the fashion of some twenty
years back. There was a staidness in his manner, as
much out of fashion as the cut of his clothes, but suiting
well with the strong sagacity of his countenance.
The nose and the lines from it expressed sarcasm,
about the lips; and his eyes had that look of
inward contemplation, which makes the finest eyes in
the world. For the most part, there was a rich haze
over them; but when they turned their notice outward,
they sent forth rays, like the sun bursting through
a mist.
The expression of his eyes and mouth made me observe
him more closely, and with a good degree of
interest. For it is not often that we meet with men
who pass much of their time in society, only because
of a certain talent at discriminating and observing,
who have not hard, self-pleased countenances, showing
a sort of merry-making out of the weaknesses of
our kind, which no good man can take a share in.
Yet they make smooth way through the world. It
is ten to one that he whom they next meet with is
glad of a laugh, though at another's cost; beside,
that he feels safe and in favour while under the wing
of one of these world-wits. They know full well that
few men are brave enough to go to war with ridicule,
and that as few will put themselves at risk for a general
principle.
An habitual, close observation of the customs,
manners, and characters of society, will beget in even
the best men a relish for the ridiculous. It is past
question that a common-sense man, who stands by
and sees how much folly is wrapt snugly up in ceremony
— how much pretence covers indifference, and
how far, even among the knowing, the conventional
passes current for the true —must have a scorn of the
foppery with which the plain fact of life is so fantastically
tricked out.
He, then, who has lived long among men as a
irony, and his earnestness to indifference, has given a
thousand fold better proof of sound principle and a thoroughly
good heart, than he who, in a fancied benevolence
while apart from the world, sees nothing but the
growth of virtue, and exalts himself in lauding his species.
Even a little taunting of the world may go with a
right love of it; and he may be humble under his own
vices who rebukes another's; else who would be our
censors but the unkind, or our teachers but the proud?
In a benevolent heart, our very frailties beget an
anxiety which quickens and fills out the growth of the
affections; and the keen sighted to our faults are not
those who love us least, or are most blind to our
virtues.
These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind
while I was looking upon the shrewd, sarcastic, benevolent
face before me. The honest owner of it
soon saw that I was observing him; and whether it
was that he perceived any expression in mine that
pleased him, or that he was inclined to sift me, I
cannot tell, (I rather think there was a sympathy
between us;) after traversing the room once or
twice more, he made his way next to me into the circle.
Taking up the poker, and passing it between
the bars in the same deliberate manner as Vicar
Primrose did, when about upsetting his daughters'
washes — “What companionable, talkative creatures
a brisk fire makes folks of a dull day,” said he. This
was spoken in that low tone, and half soliloquizing
manner, in which one utters himself, who wishes to
bring on a conversation with his next neighbour, yet
does not feel at liberty to do it by way of direct address,
and, so, throws out a remark for him to take
up or not, as he pleases.
“Yes,” I replied, turning toward the fire, too;
“they cluster together with spirits as much astir, as
flies on the sunny side of a tree, of a frosty morning.”
Putting down the poker and straightening himself
up, he looked at me with a sociable expression of
face, as if we understood each other perfectly well;
and drawing a chair into the circle, said, as he set
himself down by me, — “You are from the country,
Sir, I presume?”
“I am so. I come to town, now and then, to see
an old friend, and to give my faculties a jog in the
crowd.”
“Two very good reasons,” he remarked. “And
may I ask, without being impertinent, whether you
have two more as good for making the country your
home?”
“I prefer the country, inasmuch as a man sees
there less of the frivolities of his species, and more of
nature, than in town, and stands a better chance to
have a more equable temper, and a more independent
turn of mind.”
“True,” he answered. “The flies you just now
spoke of will never let a man into their little vanities,
impertinencies, and enmities, however long he may
stand, feeling his heart fill with gladness and good-will,
while looking on so much of the enjoyment which
God gives to all creatures.”
“That is from no want of honesty in them,” said
I. “They would not lie to us, could we understand
their language. They do not keep two characters on
hand, the one bad, the other good, like a man with
his home coat and another for visiting. I could be
tolerably well content with the world, bad as it is,
would men but show themselves a little more plainly.”
“The difficulty in knowing men,” he replied, “arises
not only from a design in them to deceive us, but also
from a proneness to deceive themselves. Now, look
you round,” said he, with a half good-natured, half
sarcastic smile, as he gave a side-glance at the company,
“upon any dozen of men you may happen
amongst, and it is odds but you will find that ten of
them have been all their lives industriously making
up for themselves false characters, have thrown away
what belonged to them, and might have done good
service, to put on that which perhaps was well enough
in itself, but has become fantastical and absurd, because
it fits ill and is out of place. This lost labour
is sometimes from self-ignorance, but as often, to be
sure, from want of thorough honesty. The best of us
begin with cheating the world more or less, and end,
for the most part, our own dupes.”
“The world is perpetually struggling against nature,”
said I. “Who stops to consider, that individual
peculiarities of mind and manner are not to be
changed, without making an inconsistency of the
parts taken together?”
“You are right,” he answered. “Every man has,
by nature, his peculiar manner, and certain modes of
expression, and motions of the body proper to himself.
No one is, perhaps, free from little awkwardnesses,
as they are called, of one kind or another. Now,
though these are not well in themselves, yet, considered
in their relations, there is a fitness in them
which makes them even agreeable to a discerning
man. They are, in general, in harmony with the
structure of the body, but, what is better, they are
so many honest indications of a man's mind and disposition,
which are continually coming from him, and
them. They are, in some sort, a part of the very constitution
of the being they belong to, and so intimately
connected with his thoughts and feelings, that he will
find it hard to rid himself of them without injuring the
mind itself. He will be instantly put into a forced
state by so doing, carrying on a double operation,
and working under rule, for life. For, after all, he
will never be able to make it to himself so much a
habit, as to forget his fashion of doing a thing, in his
concern for what he does. In this way, he will for
ever be putting teasing checks upon the free play of
his ordinary feelings, and breaking up the simple
movements of his impulses. And, so, he will lose
his credit with the world even for the little sincerity
that he has left to himself, and fail, in the end, of his
effect, from his too great anxiety about it. My
dear sir,” said he abruptly, “did you, for instance,
ever see a perfectly graceful speaker, as the ladies
would call him, without being heartily tired of him
after twice or thrice hearing him?”
“No,” answered I; “your elegant speakers are
very much like your Blair writers; there is no fault
to find with them, only that we are soon weary of
them both.”
“They always affect me in the same way,” he replied.
“Nor can I call to mind a man who has made
himself felt after being heard many times, who, either
from the too frequent repetition of some gesture proper
enough in itself, perhaps, or from some very odd
one, has not set all rules of gesticulation at defiance.
The most stirring speaker I ever heard was remarkable
for a very singular motion of the hand; yet it
was natural to him, and always produced an effect;
and free from any thing of the ludicrous. A man
should take care how he new-models his manner; for
unless he is peculiarly fortunate, the chance is that
he will cast off what we could very well put up with,
fancying to himself that he is about delighting us
with what, in truth, we shall never tolerate: A bad
natural manner is bad enough, but a bad artificial one
is abominable.”
“There are certain ungainly tricks of the body,”
I replied, “generally, however, proceeding from an
embarrassed mind; but the worst of them never make
a man half so ridiculous, as is the awkward man who
puts himself to school to the graces. The most remarkable
thing about the latter will be a stiff sort of
motion, aiming at ease, and a clumsy endeavour after
elegance. There are others, of a happy temperament
and a suppleness of the body, who undertake to refine
upon what nature has done for them, and, so, part
with that which made every one pleased and at home,
not knowing why, to take up with obtrusive graces
and impertinent grimace; and, thus, they turn their
manners into forms and dresses, instead of leaving
them the mere representatives of a polite, well-ordered
mind.”
“Very true,” said my new acquaintance; “and if
the mind is well improved, and right feelings brought
forward, what we call the manners will take care of
themselves. Make it a child's main principle to love
the truth and always hold to it, and he will have an
open and manly decision of manner, which will clear
his way for him wherever he goes. Give him a tasteful
mind, and there will be beautiful emanations from
it playing about him, even on ordinary occasions.
and makes the most polite sometimes vulgar; that in
common intercourse he is to be more mindful of
others than of himself, that he is not to press hard
his own tastes and opinions, till they give uneasiness;
that it is best to find out the bent of another's feelings,
and not cross it, except where it is at variance with
the truth; that he is rather to talk upon what his companions
are familiar with, than unfeelingly to parade
before their ignorance a show of what he himself
knows; that, unless some occasion calls for it, he is not
to keep ahead of those he is with, instead of walking
by their side; that his principal object should be to
produce a good and happy state of things wherever
he goes, and that in this way he will make sure his
own satisfying enjoyments, without the mortifying
sense of a selfish aim — and you will do more, upon
these few, simple principles, to make a thorough gentleman,
than all the pedantry of polite education, than
all the outside endeavours of the professors and scholars
of elegant accomplishments could ever teach or
comprehend.”
This may sound a little climacteric to you, my dear
friend; but coming from a thoughtful man, past middle
life, who had not lost his feelings with his hairs, it
took hold of me from its simple earnestness; and more
so, as I marked in his face the play of his feelings
growing stronger and quicker as he went on, and a
flush of excitement spreading gradually over his pale
countenance.
He paused and looked down for a moment, as if
sensible that his zeal had led him into something like
an harangue, and to take more to himself than a well-bred
man should ordinarily do, especially when with a
his manner moved me a good deal, particularly when I
considered that it was shown toward one younger than
himself.
More to relieve him, than from any wish to talk,
(for I had much rather have listened to him,) I began
saying something about the tiresome sameness of what
is called high life in a city. He raised his head a
little, and turning toward me with a smile, looked at
me as if he thanked me. This put me off again from
what I was about remarking, and I was never more
glad in my life, than when I saw my friend, Thomson,
coming in at the door to relieve me from my uneasy
sensations. There was something very delightful in
them too, notwithstanding; and when my friend introduced
me to the stranger as an old and particular
acquaintance of his, and I took his extended hand, we
were better known to each other, than most of those
who have lived next door neighbours for some dozen
years.
It was quite time to join the club. My new acquaintance,
Mr. Thornton, turning out to be a member
as well as my friend, we walked in sociably
together.
In my next, I hope to send you some account of
the club; though this is quite uncertain, as the spirit
of order bears as little rule over me at present as it
does over the place I am in; besides, I may meet with
something, if not more worthy of your attention, more
amusing, perhaps.
Yours,
A. B.
MUSINGS.
Shall then be your's among the happy few
Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air,
Sons of the morning. —
— He sate — and talked
With winged messengers; who daily brought
To his small Island in the ethereal deep
Tidings of joy and love.
— then, my Spirit was entranced
With joy exalted to beatitude;
The measure of my soul, was filled with bliss,
And holiest love; as earth, sea, air, with light,
With pomp, with glory, with magnificence.”
Wordsworth.
Have we looked upon the earth so long, only to
reckon how many men and beasts it can maintain,
and to see to what account its timber can be turned,
and to what uses its rocks and waters may be put?
Do we, with Baillie Jarvie, think it a pity that so
much good soil should lie waste under a useless lake,
and set against the cost of draining the in-comings of
the crops? Have we lived so many years in the world
and been familiar with its affairs, only to part off men
into professions and trades, and to tell the due proportions
required to stock each? Must we for ever
travel the straight-forward, turnpike road of business,
meadows, and leads us sociably by the doors of retired
farms? Must all the hills be levelled, and hollows
filled up, that we may go like draught-horses the dull
and even road of labour, the easier and with the more
speed? May we not sit awhile to cool and rest ourselves
in the shade of some shut-in valley, with its
talking rills, and fresh and silent water-plants, — or
pass over the free and lit hill-tops, catching views of
the broad, open country alive with the universal
growth of things, and guarded with its band of mountains
resting in the distance, like patriarchs of the
earth? Must all we do and all we think about have
reference to the useful, while that alone is considered
useful which is tangible, present gain? Is it for food,
and raiment, and shelter alone, that we came into the
world? Do we talk of our souls, and live as if we,
and all that surrounded us, were made up of nothing
else but dull matter? Are the relations of life for our
convenience merely, or has the fulfilling of their
duties none but promised and distant rewards?
Man has another and higher nature even here;
and the spirit within him finds an answering spirit in
every thing that grows, and affectionate relations not
only with his fellow-man, but with the commonest
things that lie scattered about the earth.
To the man of fine feeling, and deep and delicate
and creative thought, there is nothing in nature which
appears only as so much substance and form, nor any
connexions in life which do not reach beyond their
immediate and obvious purposes. Our attachments
to each other are not felt by him merely as habits of
the mind given to it by the customs of life; nor does
he hold them to be only as the goods of this world,
outcast from the social state; but they are a part of
his joyous being, and to have them torn from him, is
taking from his very nature.
Life, indeed, with him, in all its connexions and
concerns, has an ideal and spiritual character, which,
while it loses nothing of the definiteness of reality, is
for ever suggesting thoughts, taking new relations,
and peopling and giving action to the imagination.
All that the eye falls upon and all that touches the
heart, run off into airy distance, and the regions into
which the sight stretches, are alive and bright and
beautiful with countless shapings and fair hues of the
gladdened fancy. From kind acts and gentle words
and fond looks there spring hosts many and glorious
as Milton's angels; and heavenly deeds are done,
and unearthly voices heard, and forms and faces,
graceful and lovely as Uriel's, are seen in the noonday
sun. What would only have given pleasure for
the time to another, or at most, be now and then
called up in his memory, in the man of feeling and
imagination, lays by its particular and short-lived and
irregular nature, and puts on the garments of spiritual
beings, and takes the everlasting nature of the soul.
The ordinary acts which spring from the good will of
social life, take up their dwelling within him and
mingle with his sentiment, forming a little society in
his mind, going on in harmony with its generous enterprises,
its friendly labours, and tasteful pursuits.
They undergo a change, becoming a portion of him,
making a part of his secret joy and melancholy,
and wandering at large among his far-off thoughts.
All that his mind falls in with, it sweeps along in its
deep and swift and continuous flow, and bears onward
sea.
So universal is this operation in such a man, and so
instantly does it act upon whatever he is concerned
about, that a double process is going on within him,
and he lives, as it were, a two-fold life. Is he, for
instance, talking with you about a North-west passage,
he is looking far off at the ice-islands, with their
turreted castles and fairy towns, or at the penguin,
at the southern pole, pecking the rotting seaweed on
which she has lighted, or he is listening to her distant
and lonely cry, within the cold and barren tracts of
ice — yet all the while he reasons as ingeniously
and wisely as you. His attachments do not grow
about a changeless and tiring object; but be it filial
reverence, Abraham is seen sitting at the door of his
tent, and the earth is one green pasture for flocks and
herds; or be it love, she who is dear to him is seen
in a thousand imaginary changes of situation, and
new incidents are happening, delighting his mind with
all the distinctness and sincerity of truth. So that
while he is in the midst of men, and doing his part in
the affairs of the world, his spirit has called up a fairy
vision, and he is walking in a lovely dream: — it is
round about him in his sorrows for a consolation; and
out of the gloom of his affliction he looks forth upon
an horizon touched with a gentle, morning twilight,
and growing brighter on his gaze. Through pain
and poverty and the world's neglect, when men look
cold upon him, and his friends are gone, he has where
to rest a tired spirit, that others know not of, and
healings for a wounded mind, which others can never
feel.
And who is of so hard a nature that he would deny
which are never ministered to other men, it has tortures
and griefs and a fearful melancholy, which need
them more. He brought into the world passions deep
and strong, senses tremulous and thrilling at every
touch, feelings delicate and shy, yet affectionate and
warm, and an ardent and romantic mind. He has
dwelt upon the refinements and virtues of our nature,
till they have almost become beauties sensible to the
mortal eye, and to worship them he has thought could
hardly be idolatry.
And what does he find in the world? Perhaps, in
all the multitude, he meets a mind or two which answers
to his own; but through the crowd, where he
looks for the free play of noble passions, he finds men
eager after gain or vulgar distinctions, hardening the
heart with avarice, or making it proud and reckless
with ambition. Does he speak with an honest indignation
against oppression and trick? He is met by
loose doubts and shallow speculations, or teasing
questions as to right and wrong. Are the weak to be
defended, or strong opposed? One man has his place
yet to reach, and another his to maintain, and why
should they put all at stake? Are others at work in a
good cause? They are so little scrupulous about means,
so bustling and ostentatious and full of self, so wrapt
about in solemn vanity, that he is ready to turn from
them and their cause in disgust. There is so little
of nature and sincerity — of ardor and sentiment of
character — such a dulness of perception — such a
want of that enthusiasm for all that is great and lovely
and true, (which, while it makes us forgetful of ourselves,
brings with it our highest enjoyments) such
an offensive show and talk of factitious sensibility —
away depressed and disappointed, and becomes shut up
in himself; and he, whose mind is all emotion, and
who loves with a depth of feeling that few souls have
ever sounded, is pointed at, as he stands aloof from
men, as a creature cold and motionless, selfish and
reserved.
But if manner too often goes for character, hardlearned
rules for native taste, fastidiousness for refinement,
ostentation for dignity, cunning for wisdom,
timidity for prudence, and nervous affections for tenderness
of heart, — if the order of nature be so much
reversed, and semblance so often takes precedence of
truth, yet it is not so in all things, nor wholly so in
any. The cruel and ambitious have touches of pity
and remorse, and good affections are mingled with our
frailties. Amid the press of selfish aims, generous
ardor is seen lighting up, and in the tumultuous and
heedless bustle of the world, we here and there meet
with considerate thought and quiet and deep affections.
Patient endurance of sufferings, bold resistance of
power, forgiveness of injuries, hard-tried and faithful
friendship, and self-sacrificing love, are seen in beautiful
relief over the flat uniformity of life, or stand out
in steady and bright grandeur in the midst of the dark
deeds of men. And then, again, the vices of our
nature are sometimes revealed with a violence of
passion and a terrible intellectual energy, which fasten
on the imagination of a creative and high mind, while
they call out opposing virtues to pass before it in
visions of glory: — For “there is a soul of goodness
in things evil;” and the crimes of men have brought
forth deeds of heroism and sustaining faith, that have
made our rapt fancies but gatherings from the world
in which we live.
And there are beautiful souls, too, in the world, to
hold kindred with a man of a feeling and refined mind;
and there are delicate and warm and simple affections,
that now and then meet him on his way, and enter
silently into his heart like blessings. Here and there,
on the road, go with him for a time some who call to
mind the images of his soul, — a voice, or a look, is a
remembrancer of past visions, and breaks out upon
him like openings through the clouds; and the distant
beings of his imagination seem walking by his side,
and the changing and unsubstantial creatures of the
brain put on body and life. In such moments his
fancies are turned to realities, and over the real the
lights of his mind shift and play; his imagination shines
out warm upon it, and it changes, and takes the freshness
of fairy life.
When such an one turns away from men, and is
left alone in silent communion with nature and his
own thoughts, and there are no bonds on the movements
of the feelings, and nothing on which he would
shut his eyes, but God's own hand has made all
before him as it is, he feels his spirit opening upon a
new existence, becoming as broad as the sun and air,
as various as the earth, over which it spreads itself,
and touched with that love which God has imaged in
all he has formed. His senses take a quicker life,
and become one refined and exquisite emotion; and
the etherealized body is made, as it were, a spirit in
bliss. His soul grows stronger and more active within
him, as he sees life intense and working throughout
nature; and that which is passing away links itself
with the eternal, when he finds new life beginning
even with decay, and hastening to put forth in some
other form of beauty, and become a sharer in some
sensations, and cheerful and innocent and easy
thoughts. Soul and body are blending into one; the
senses and thoughts mix in one delight; he sees a
universe of order and beauty, and joy and life, of
which he becomes a part, and finds himself carried
along in the eternal going-on of nature. Sudden and
short-lived passions of men take no hold upon him;
for he has sat in holy thought by the roar and hurry
of the stream, which has rushed on from the beginning
of things; and he is quiet in the tumult of the multitude,
for he has watched the tracery of leaves playing safely
over the foam.
The innocent face of nature gives him an open and
fair mind; pain and death seem passing away, for all
about him is cheerful and in its spring. His virtues
are not taught him as lessons, but are shed upon him
and enter into him like the light and warmth of the
sun; and amidst the variety of the earth, he sees a
fitness, which frees him from the formalities of rule,
and lets him abroad, to find a pleasure in all things;
and order becomes a simple feeling of the soul.
Religion, to such an one, has thoughts and visions
and sensations, tinged, as it were, with a holier and
brighter light than falls on other men. The love and
reverence of the Creator make their abode in his
imagination, and he gathers about them earth and
air and ideal worlds. His heart is made glad with
the perfectness in the works of God, when he considers
that even of the multitude of things that are
growing up and decaying, and of those which have
come and gone, on which the eye of man has never
rested, each was as fair and complete as if made to
live for ever for our instruction and delight.
Freedom and order, and beauty and grandeur, are
in accordance in his mind, and give largeness and
height to his thoughts; he moves among the bright
clouds; he wanders away into the measureless depths
of the stars, and is touched by the fire with which
God has lighted them — all that is made partakes of
the eternal, and religion becomes a perpetual pleasure.
A LETTER FROM TOWN.
Constant to lightness still!”
“You're for mirth
Or I mistake you much.”
The Old Law.
So dull, so dead in look, so wo-begone,” —
Henry IV.
In the first letter which I wrote you from town, I
spoke of our old friend's taking me with him to his club.
As we entered late, and a good part of the members
could be seen but dimly through the cigar-smoke,
I shall put off a general description of their persons,
till I get a view of them in a clear atmosphere. Besides,
while it is fresh in my mind, I wish to give you
the latter part of a dialogue, which was going on, as
we entered, between a snug-built, well-dressed, fresh-looking
man of about five and forty, and another of
nearly the same age, I am told — but, apparently, ten
years older — of a thin visage and spare frame, with
an impatient hurry in his speech, followed by a
whining drawl; and to set his figure off the better, I
suppose, he was clad in a mixed-gray suit, with black
buttons. He nestled about in his seat, with a fidgety
motion, and there was a nervous twitching of the eyelids,
the while looking at one object, very much as folks do
when repeating from memory. The first gentleman,
who seemed to have most of the talk to himself, was
going on thus, as we drew near them —
“There is no telling how large a pack of troubles
a man may have upon his shoulders at the end of life,
who keeps it always open like an alms-basket, and
has no hole at bottom to let out a little of what he
takes in. He need not ape a lame leg or a broken
back. If he keeps his wallet stuffed with odd scraps
of bad meat and mouldy bread, when he can get
better, for the sake of groaning over his hard fare, he
will go doubled and limping to his grave, in good
earnest.”
“A pleasant fellow, you, Tom, with a nosegay in
your button-hole, and snuff between finger and thumb,
who never found it too cold without-doors, nor too hot
within. You go as gay as an ostrich, and with not
a whit more thought neither.”
“I've done my part, Abraham, and it is my wife's
duty to look at things at home, and to keep the children
out of the fire, or cure them when they get in.
Besides, I never saw any good come of too much care
of the brats, — it only makes them helpless. And if
all's at sixes and sevens at home, and my mate's voice
and face grow sharp and angry, I come and take heart
at the sound and sight of your clear voice and gay
countenance, over a bottle of the best.”
Abraham did not much like this taunt at his complainings;
and his cheek began to kindle and grow
redder and redder in spots, the louder and longer Tom
laughed. Tom seemed to care little for this, so it did
but put a stop to the drone-pipe which Abraham was
have a merry night of it.
“No surer cure for our troubles, Abraham,” says
he, “than to get into a rousing passion; and you
have not a better friend in the world than I, who am
always helping you into one. Why, you would have
gone all night like an ill-greased wheel, spoke following
up and down after spoke to the melancholy creaking,
had n't I vexed you. Now, we shall see you in a
fine whirl presently, striking fire out of every stone
you hit against. Do n't you remember how sad you
were a half-score years ago, because the gout would n't
carry off your uncle; and when it did the business for
him, and took you softly by the toe, only to tell you
of it, how wo-begone you looked, just as if your mourning
suit was to be banded over to your man John, to
appear respectably in at his master's funeral? Yet
you got here to-night without halting; and if you
do n't make your way home as quick as the rest
of us, it will not be the gout that will hinder you.”
Abraham had three charges to answer to — his
complaining disposition, his eagerness for his uncle's
death, and an over-fondness for good wine. Now,
whether it was his anger that made him take up the
last word, as is generally the way with a man in a
passion, or that the two first charges were not to be
denied, Abraham chose to clear himself of the last,
and to have his revenge on Tom, by railing against
a weakness, which he himself was kept from by at
least as great failings. He knew the cost of his liquor,
and that too much wine helped to rid him of his uncle,
and Abraham was said to be both a miser and a coward.
“Have you no shame in you, Tom, that you will
snake-track you made back the very last night you
were here? And by the going of your clapper, and
the shine of your eye, you bid fair now to get home
again the same way. When have you seen me make
such a beast of myself as to hold up by my neighbour's
knocker instead of my own? I set my children a
better example, teach them to strive against temptation,
and to keep a watch upon any besetting sin. I
tell them that life is a state of trial and affiction—
that if they have riches and blessings to-day, they may
be all gone to-morrow — that though they are now in
health, sickness is nigh at hand, and that death may
overtake them at noonday — that they must learn
temperance in all things, and never forget they are in
the midst of evils. But what good will it do to tell
you this. You never will have forethought; and though
there is little else but pains and misfortunes in life,
you go on as reckless of all, as if harm could never
come to you.”
“There you are at your saws again! I tell you
what, father Abraham, he's a fool who is always busy
making troubles for himself, when there is no danger
but what he will have enough gratis. I've weathered
more storms than will ever beat on your head, though
I have not sat like an old crow foreboding them while
the sun shines. To take you in your own way, I
have not forgotten what I read when a boy, `Sufficient
for the day is the evil thereof.' My creed is, `To
enjoy is to obey.' And I can say more than can be
said for most of you, I make my faith the rule of my
conduct, and take care to act up to it. And if I do
sometimes love my friends so much as to forget myself
and be a little too merry with them, it stirs my blood,
time by it, for it is all done up at night; and if I am
not quite right, my children will have a warning in
me at home, and not be obliged to pull their neighbours'
characters to pieces to mend their own with.
Besides, it is as well to have a failing or two, to keep
the world in good humour with one; for nothing puts
people out more, than a man's being too good for
them. And what would come of all my virtues, if
they only made men enemies to me, and, so, to themselves?
“You talk about my children. Why, man, don't
they owe their lives to me, and what's more, don't I
teach them how to enjoy life? Would you have me
moan over them all day, till they were as long-visaged
as saints at conventicle? Stout-hearted, full-blooded
lads! — and you would have them crawling along as
meek and pale as a Philadelphia patient after a semi-weekly
slop-bleeding! Then again, there's my wife:
— but one purse between us and no questions asked.
Rides or walks as she pleases; and not a word about
cost.” Here Abraham coloured. “I'm all attention;
see her at parties abroad, and dine with her at
home — whenever there's company. She orders
what suits her, and is undisputed mistress of the
household. I'm always pleased to see her in spirits;
and if affairs go wrong, and she's in ill humour, I
take care not to put any restraint upon her by being
in the way. I was here an hour earlier than usual
to-night because the servant let fall the tea-tray and
broke half a dozen tea-cups, — and as I have missed
my tea, thank you Mr. B. to fill my glass.”
While he twirled a light, silver-headed cane in his
right hand, he reached out his glass with his left, and
and sallow visage of Abraham, caught my eye.
Turned partly round, and leaning forward, contrary
to his custom — for he seldom looked at the person
he was talking with, — his eyes were fixed steadfastly
upon the rattle-headed Tom, with that mixed expression
of pity and imploring, with which one gazes upon
a man that is going to be hanged: — if Tom was just
then to have been swung off, it could not have been
more mournful. I was so intent upon the face of
Abraham, that I forgot what I was about, till Tom,
feeling the wine running over his hand, and moving
suddenly, brought me to myself. Before I could
mutter an apology, he caught the direction of my eye,
and turning towards Abraham, burst out into a loud
laugh. It was not to be withstood. Tom had broken
the enchantment; and in spite of good breeding and
good feeling, there was an instant roar of laughter
through the room. This was too much even for Abraham;
he sprang upon his feet, uttering something
between a mutter and a curse, (he never dared swear
out-right,) and twitching down his hat, which had
grown nap-worn and round-edged through use, and
at the same time seizing his long, slender, oak cane,
with something like a threatening motion, he darted
out of the room.
As soon as he could speak, Tom cried out — “I told
him, a little while ago, that I was the best friend he
had in the world, and I shall always prove so. By
putting him into such a rage, he is off without paying
his share of the reckoning. There need be no making
up between us, for he will no sooner remember
this, than he will forgive me from the bottom of his
heart. Poor fellow, I pity him. Nobody ever set
about him; and yet he is the most forlorn
being living. Didn't you hear him prose just now
about his anxiety for his children? — while all his aim
is to see that they shall be no happier than himself; for
he takes another's enjoyment as a reproach upon his
own self-made misery. And as to his care about their
worldly estate, it is all because he feels their possessions
will be, in a sort, his even after death. For my
part, I'm content, when I die, to give up all my claims
to those I leave behind me. And while I live, I
mean to make them and myself as merry as we can
know how to be.”
With a rap upon his box, and shaking the snuff
from between his fingers, Tom ended his moral lecture;
and with a well satisfied nod of the head took
himself off to wind up the night at another club,
with a hand at whist.
The rest of the company soon went out, one after
another, without any noise, like sparks upon burnt
paper, leaving my old friend and me to finish the bottle.
Without thinking of it, we at the same moment
drew up to within a companionable distance of each
other; and while carefully pouring a little, first into
my glass and then into his, that we might share alike,
till the bottle was drained, he began in that same composed
manner and low voice which were familiar to
me some years ago, by observing, that though Tom's
last remarks might seem harsh and in the extreme to
me, yet he feared there was too much truth in them.
“I knew Abraham,” said he, “when a child. He
was then a spare lad, with a wrinkled brow, and weak,
anxious voice. As he was feeble, his mother nursed
him up with caudles and a tippet — bade him never
his clothes. Thinking him not fit to push his way in
the world, and knowing that wealth stands one well in
hand, who has little force of character or intellect,
Abraham was instructed, like other careful boys, to
get himself a box to drop his money in, and never to
spend his change foolishly on holydays. His love for
every thing great and generous being destroyed by
his attention being taken up with little things; seeing
another so much concerned about him, making him
overrate his own importance; and being continually
anxious about his money and health, soon centring all
his thoughts and affections in self; and, with all his
pains-taking, finding others happier than he, it was
not long before he became a discontented, ill-natured
man.
“The other never had the headach in his life; and
fair weather or foul, it mattered little with him. Constitutionally
happy, all that he could, he turned to
enjoyment, and what he could not, he let alone. So
much of his happiness came from his health, that he
never cared for the more abstract pleasures of the
mind; and with that triumphant, joyous feeling which
flows from full blood, he began with looking down
upon feeble constitutions, and ended with a contempt
for those who suffered under the real afflictions of
life. From the same cause, he apparently takes to
those who, like himself, are fond of merriment; and
really supposes himself to be a kind-hearted, friendly
fellow, when in truth he cares nothing about others,
only just so far as they serve to make up a part of his
own pleasures, and to help on the game of life. Tom
is as selfish as Abraham, but not so annoying, because
easy-natured. You may think I should allow some
of it. Men will always give it its full due; and as
for its opposite, if it does not make its own punishment,
the world will lay it on with no sparing hand.
Here our wine was gone, and the last candle was
burning in the socket. We took our hats, and laying
our reckoning on the table, walked quietly home to
my friend's house.
Yours,
A. B.
KEAN'S ACTING
“For doubtless, that indeed according to art is most eloquent, which turns
and approaches nearest to nature, from whence it came.”
Milton.
* * * * * * * * *
We ransack tombs for postime; from the dust
Call up the sleeping hero; bid him tread
The scene for our amusement: How like Gods
We sit; and, wrapt in immortality,
Shed generous tears on wretches born to die;
Their fate deploring, to forget our own!”
Young.
In looking over, for the present edition, the following
article, published when Kean was in this country, the
lines which I have quoted from Young were brought
forcibly to my mind. There was something painful
to me in my own words, which speak of him as living
and acting, for the curtain is, indeed, dropped now;
and many, who heard and saw him then, have gone to
their graves, too. It is startling to have our thoughts
follow into eternity, a man of genius and fiery passions;
for there needs must be an intensity of Life
there, which will make this world's existence seem to
us, as we look back upon it, little more than a dream
of life — a beginning to be.
What a sad reflection upon our nature it is, that an
play is, and capable of being made to administer so
much to our moral state, should be so tainted with impurity
— that the theatre should be a place where congregate
the most licentious appetites and passions, and
from which is breathed out so foul an atmosphere.
Such as it is, I am now done with it. I would sooner
forego the intellectual pleasure I might receive from
another Kean, (were there ever to be another Kean,)
than by yielding to it, give countenance to vice, by
going where infecting and open corruption sits, side
by side, with the seemly.
It is not to read a lecture to others, but that I
might not appear to approve of what I disapprove,
that I have written these few lines; preferring to do
so, to introducing any essential change into the main
article, for the sake of adapting it to my present views.
I Had scarcely thought of the theatre for several
years, when Kean arrived in this country; and it
was more from curiosity than from any other motive,
that I went to see, for the first time, the great
actor of the age. I was soon lost to the recollection
of being in a theatre, or looking upon a grand display
of the “mimic art.” The simplicity, earnestness,
and sincerity of his acting made me forgetful of the
fiction, and bore me away with the power of reality
and truth. If this be acting, said I, as I returned
home, I may as well make the theatre my school, and
henceforward study nature at second hand.
How can I describe one who is nearly as versatile
and almost as full of beauties as nature itself — who
grows upon us the more we are acquainted with him,
any part, however much he may have moved us, we
had but a vague and poor apprehension of the many
excellencies of his acting. We cease to consider it
as a mere amusement: It is a great intellectual feast;
and he who goes to it with a disposition and capacity
to relish it, will receive from it more nourishment for
his mind, than he would be likely to in many other
ways in four-fold the time. Our faculties are opened
and enlivened by it; our reflections and recollections
are of an elevated kind; and the very voice which is
sounding in our ears long after we have left him,
creates an inward harmony which is for our good.
Kean, in truth, stands very much in that relation
to other players whom we have seen, that Shakspeare
does to other dramatists. One player is called classical;
another makes fine points here, and another
there. Kean makes more fine points than all of them
together; but, in him, these are only little prominences,
showing their bright heads above a beautifully
undulated surface. A constant change is going on in
him, partaking of the nature of the varying scenes he
is passing through, and the many thoughts and feelings
which are shifting within him.
In a clear autumnal day we may see, here and there,
a deep white cloud shining with metallic brightness
against a blue sky, and now and then a dark pine
swinging its top in the wind, with the melancholy
sound of the sea; but who can note the shifting and
untiring play of the leaves of the wood, and their
passing hues, when each one seems a living thing
full of delight, and vain of its gaudy attire? A sound,
too, of universal harmony is in our ears, and a widespread
beauty before our eyes, which we cannot define;
in these, day after day, the longer we give ourselves
to them, till at last we become, as it were, a part of
the existence without us. So it is with natural characters.
They grow upon us imperceptibly, till we
become fast bound up in them, we scarce know when
or how. So it will fare with the actor who is deeply
filled with nature, and is perpetually throwing off her
beautiful evanescences. Instead of becoming tired of
him, as we do, after a time, of others, he will go on,
giving something which will be new to the observing
mind; and will keep the feelings alive, because their
action will be natural. I have no doubt that, excepting
those who go to a play as children look into a
show-box, to admire and exclaim at distorted figures,
and raw, unharmonious colours, there is no man of a
moderately warm temperament, and with a tolerable
share of insight into human nature, who would not find
his interest in Kean increasing with a study of him. It
is very possible that the excitement would in some degree
lessen, but there would be a quieter delight, instead
of it, stealing upon him, as he became familiar
with the character of his acting.
The versatility in his playing is striking. He
seems not the same being, taking upon him at one
time the character of Richard, at another that of
Hamlet; but the two characters appear before you as
distinct individuals, who had never known nor heard
of each other. So completely does he become the
character he is to represent, that we have sometimes
thought it a reason why he was not universally better
liked here, in Richard; and that because the player
did not make himself a little more visible, he must
needs bear a share of our hate toward the cruel king.
of the character, whether right or wrong, creates
in us an unmixed dislike of Richard, till the anguish
of his mind makes him the object of pity; from which
moment to the close, Kean is allowed to play the part
better than any one has before him.
In his highest wrought passion, when every limb
and muscle are alive and quivering, and his gestures
hurried and violent, nothing appears ranted or overacted;
because he makes us feel, that with all this,
there is something still within him vainly struggling
for utterance. The very breaking and harshness of
his voice in these parts, though upon the whole it
were better otherwise, help to this impression upon
us, and make up in a good degree for the defect.
Though he is on the very verge of truth in his passionate
parts, he does not pass into extravagance; but
runs along the dizzy edge of the roaring and beating
sea, with feet as sure as we walk our parlours. We
feel that he is safe, for some preternatural spirit upholds
him as it hurries him onward; and while all is
uptorn and tossing in the whirl of the passions, we
see that there is a power and order over the whole.
A man has feelings sometimes which can only be
breathed out; there is no utterance for them in words.
I had hardly written this when the terrible and indistinct,
“Ha!” with which Kean makes Lear hail
Cornwall and Regan, as they enter, in the fourth
scene of the second act, came to my mind. That cry
seemed at the time to take me up, and sweep me
along in its wild swell. No description in the world
could give a tolerably clear notion of it; it must be
formed, as well as it may be, from what has just been
said of its effect.
Kean's playing is frequently giving instances of
various, inarticulate sounds — the throttled struggle
of rage, and the choking of grief — the broken laugh
of extreme suffering, when the mind is ready to deliver
itself over to an insane joy — the utterance of
over-full love, which cannot, and would not speak in
express words — and that of wildering grief, which
blanks all the faculties of man.
No other player whom I have heard has attempted
these, except now and then; and should any one
have made the trial in the various ways in which
Kean gives them, no doubt he would have failed.
Kean thrills us with them, as if they were wrung from
him in his agony. They have no appearance of study
or artifice. The truth is, that the labour of a mind of
his genius constitutes its existence and delight. It
is not like the toil of ordinary men at their task-work.
What shows effort in them, comes from him with the
freedom and force of nature.
Some object to the frequent use of such sounds;
and to others they are quite shocking. But those who
permit themselves to consider that there are really
violent passions in man's nature, and that they utter
themselves a little differently from our ordinary feelings,
understand and feel their language, as they
speak to us in Kean. Probably no actor ever conceived
passion with the intenseness and life that he
does. It seems to enter into him and possess him, as
evil spirits possessed men of old. It is curious to observe
how some, who have sat very contentedly year
after year, and called the face-making which they
have seen, expression, and the stage-stride, dignity,
and the noisy declamation, and all the rhodomontade
of acting, energy and passion, complain that Kean is
little more than a simple personation of the feeling or
passion to be expressed at the time.
It has been so common a saying, that Lear is the
most difficult of all characters to personate, that we
had taken it for granted no man could play it so as to
satisfy us. Perhaps it is the hardest to represent.
Yet the part which has generally been supposed the
the most difficult, the insanity of Lear, is scarcely
more so than the choleric old king. Inefficient rage
is almost always ridiculous; and an old man, with a
broken down body and a mind falling in pieces from
the violence of its uncontrolled passions, is in constant
danger of exciting, along with our pity, a feeling of
contempt. It is a chance matter to which we are
moved. And this it is which makes the opening of
Lear so difficult.
We may as well notice here the objection which
some make to the abrupt violence with which Kean
begins in Lear. If this is a fault, it is Shakspeare,
and not Kean, who is to blame. For we have no
doubt that he has conceived it according to his author.
Perhaps, however, the mistake lies in this case, where
it does in most others — with those who put themselves
into the seat of judgment to pass upon greater men.
In most instances, Shakspeare has given us the
gradual growth of a passion, with such little accompaniments
as agree with it, and go to make up the
whole man. In Lear, his object being to represent
the beginning and course of insanity, he has properly
enough gone but a little back of it, and introduced to
us an old man of good feelings, but one who had lived
without any true principle of conduct, and whose
ungoverned passions had grown strong with age, and
of an intellect always weak. To bring this
about, he begins with an abruptness rather unusual;
and the old king rushes in before us, with all his
passions at their height, and tearing him like fiends.
Kean gives this as soon as a fit occasion offers itself.
Had he put more of melancholy and depression,
and less of rage into the character, we should have
been very much puzzled at his so suddenly going
mad. It would have required the change to have
been slower; and besides, his insanity must have been
of another kind. It must have been monotonous and
complaining, instead of continually varying; at one
time full of grief, at another playful, and then wild as
the winds that roared about him, and fiery and sharp
as the lightning that shot by him. The truth with
which he conceived this, was not finer than his execution
of it. Not for an instant, in his utmost violence,
did he suffer the imbecility of the old man's anger to
touch upon the ludicrous; when nothing but the most
just conception and feeling of character could have
saved him from it.
It has been said that Lear was a study for any one
who would make himself acquainted with the workings
of an insane mind. There is no doubt of it. Nor is
it less true, that the acting of Kean was a complete
embodying of the these working. His eye, when his
senses are first forsaking him, giving a questioning
look at what he saw, as if all before him was undergoing
a strange and bewildering change which confused
his brain — the wandering, lost motions of his
hands, which seemed feeling for something familiar to
them, on which they might take hold and be assured
of a safe reality — the under monotone of his voice,
surrounded him — the continuous, but slight oscillating
motion of the body — all these expressed, with
fearful truth, the dreamy state of a mind fast unsettling,
and making vain and weak efforts to find its
way back to its wonted reason. There was a childish,
feeble gladness in the eye, and a half piteous smile
about the mouth at times, which one could scarce
look upon without shedding tears. As the derangement
increased upon him, his eye lost its notice of
what surrounded him, wandering over everything as
if he saw it not, and fastening upon the creatures of
his crazed brain. The helpless and delighted fondness
with which he clings to Edgar as an insane
brother, is another instance of the justness of Kean's
conceptions. Nor does he lose the air of insanity,
even in the fine moralizing parts, and where he inveighs
against the corruptions of the world: There is
a madness even in his reason.
The violent and immediate changes of the passions
in Lear, so difficult to manage without offending us,
are given by Kean with a spirit and with a fitness to
nature which we had hardly imagined possible. These
are equally well done both before and after he loses
his reason. The most difficult scene, in this respect,
is the last interview between Lear and his daughters,
Goneril and Regan — (and how wonderfully does
Kean carry it through!) — the scene which ends with
the horrid shout and cry with which he runs out mad
from their presence, as if his very brain had taken
fire.
The last scene which we are allowed to have of
Shakspeare's Lear, for the simply pathetic, was played
by Kean with unmatched power. We sink down
dead weight upon our bosoms. We are denied even
the relief of tears; and are thankful for the startling
shudder that seizes us when he kneels to his daughter
in the deploring weakness of his crazed grief.
It is lamentable that Kean should not be allowed
to show his unequalled powers in the last scene of
Lear, as Shakspeare has written it; and that this
mighty work of genius should be profaned by the
miserable, mawkish sort of by-play of Edgar's and
Cordelia's loves: Nothing can surpass the impertinence
of the man who made the change, but the
folly of those who sanctioned it.
When I began, I had no other intention than that
of giving a few general impressions made upon me
by Kean's acting; but, falling accidentally upon his
Lear, I have been led into more particulars than I
was aware of. It is only to take these as some of the
instances of his powers in Lear, and then to think of
him as not inferior in his other characters, and a
slight notion may be formed of the effect of Kean's
playing upon those who understand and like him.
Neither this, nor all I could say, would reach his
great and various powers.
Kean is never behind his author; but stands forward
the living representative of the character he has
drawn. When he is not playing in Shakspeare, he
fills up, where his author is wanting, and when in
Shakspeare, he gives not only what is set down, but
whatever the situation and circumstances attendant
upon the being he personates, would naturally call
forth. He seems, at the time, to have possessed himself
of Shakspeare's imagination, and to have given it
for instance, the last of Lear that is played, and see
how few words are there set down, and then remember
how Kean fills it out with varied and multiplied
expressions and circumstances, and the truth of this
remark will be obvious at once. There are few men,
I believe, let them have studied the plays of Shakspeare
ever so attentively, who can see Kean in them
without confessing that he has helped them almost as
much to a true conception of the author, as their own
labours had done for them.
It is not easy to say in what character Kean plays
best. He so fits himself to each in turn, that if the
effect he produces at one time, is less than at another,
it is because of some inferiority in stage-effect in the
character. Othello is probably the greatest character
for stage-effect; and Kean has an uninterrupted power
over us, in playing it. When he commands, we are
awed; when his face is all sensitive with love, and
love thrills in his soft tones, all that our imaginations
had pictured to us is realized. His jealousy, his hate,
his fixed purposes, are terrific and deadly; and the
groans wrung from him in his grief, have the pathos
and anguish of Esau's, when he stood before his old,
blind father, and sent up “an exceeding bitter cry.”
Again, in Richard, how does he hurry forward to
his object, sweeping away all between him and it!
The world and its affairs are nothing to him, till he
gains his end. He is all life, and action, and haste —
he fills every part of the stage, and seems to do all
that is done.
I have before said that his voice is harsh and breaking
in his high tones, in his rage, but that this defect
is of little consequence in such places. Nor is it well
is scarce worth considering; for how very little is
there of mere declamation in good English plays!
But it is one of the finest voices in the world for all
the passions and feelings which can be uttered in the
middle and lower tones. In Lear —
And again,
Thou art a soul in bliss.”
Why should I cite passages? Can any man open
upon the scene in which these are contained, without
Kean's piteous looks and tones being present to him?
And does not the mere remembrance of them, as he
reads, bring tears into his eyes? Yet, once more, in
Othello —
To try me with affliction,” & c.
In the passage beginning with —
Farewell the tranquil mind,” —
there was “a mysterious confluence of sounds” passing
off into infinite distance, and every thought and
feeling within him seemed travelling with them.
How very graceful he is in Othello. It is not a
practised, educated grace, but the “unbought grace”
of his genius, uttering itself in its beauty and grandeur
in each movement of the outward man. When he
says to Iago so touchingly, “Leave me, leave me,
Iago,” and turning from him, walks to the back of the
stage, raising his hands, and bringing them down upon
his head, with clasped fingers, and stands thus with
grandeur in his figure which we gaze on with admiration.
Talking of these things in Kean, is something like
reading the “Beauties of Shakspeare;” for he is as
good in his subordinate, as in his great parts. But
he must be content to share with other men of genius,
and think himself fortunate if one in a hundred sees
his lesser beauties, and marks the truth and delicacy
of his under playing. For instance; when he has no
share in the action going on, he is not busy in putting
himself into attitudes to draw attention, but stands or
sits in a simple posture, like one with an engaged
mind. His countenance is in a state of ordinary repose,
with only a slight, general expression of the
character of his thoughts; for this is all the face shows,
when the mind is taken up in silence with its own reflections.
It does not assume marked or violent expressions,
as in soliloquy. When a man gives utterance
to his thoughts, though alone, the charmed rest
of the body is broken; he speaks in his gestures too,
and the countenance is put into a sympathizing action.
I was first struck with this in his Hamlet; for the
deep and quiet interest, so marked in Hamlet, made
the justness of Kean's playing, in this respect, the
more obvious.
Since then, I have observed him attentively, and
have found the same true acting in his other characters.
This right conception of situation and its general
effect, seems to require almost as much genius as his
conceptions of his characters. He deserves praise
for it; for there is so much of the subtilty of nature
in it, if I may so speak, that while a very few are able
admire the justness of his acting in it, the rest, both
those who like him upon the whole, as well as those
who profess to see little that is good in him, will be
very apt to let it pass by them, without observing it.
Like most men, however, Kean receives a partial
reward, at least, for his sacrifice of the praise of the
many, to what he thinks the truth. For when he passes
from the state of natural repose, even into that of gentle
motion and ordinary discourse, he is at once filled
with a spirit and life which he makes every one feel
who is not armour proof against him. This helps to
the sparkling brightness and warmth of his playing;
the grand secret of which, like that of colours in a
picture, lies in a just contrast. We can all speculate
concerning the general rules upon this; but when the
man of genius gives us their results, how few are
there who can trace them out with an observant eye,
or look with a full pleasure upon the grand whole.
Perhaps this very beauty in Kean has helped to an
opinion, which, no doubt, is sometimes true, that he
is too sharp and abrupt. For I well remember, while
once looking at a picture in which the shadow of a
mountain fell, in strong outline, upon a stream, I overheard
some quite sensible people expressing their
wonder that the artist should have made the water of
two colours, seeing it was all one and the same thing.
Instances of Kean's keeping of situations were very
striking in the opening of the trial scene in the Iron
Chest, and in Hamlet, when the father's ghost tells
the story of his death.
The determined composure to which he is bent up
in the first, must be present with every one who saw
him. And, though from my immediate purpose, shall
madness seized upon his brain, with the deadly swiftness
and power of a fanged monster? Wonderfully as
this last part was played, we cannot well imagine how
much the previous calm, and the suddenness of the
unlooked for change from it added to the terror of the
scene. — The temple stood fixed on its foundations;
the earthquake shook it, and it was a heap. — Is this
one of Kean's violent contrasts?
While Kean listened, in Hamlet, to the father's
story, the entire man was absorbed in deep attention,
mingled with a tempered awe. His posture was quite
simple, with a slight inclination forward. The spirit
was the spirit of his father whom he had loved and
reverenced, and who was to that moment ever present
in his thoughts. The first superstitious terror at meeting
him had passed off. The account of his father's
appearance given him by Horatio and the watch, and
his having followed him some distance, had, in a
degree familiarized him to the sight, and he stood
before us in the stillness of one who was to hear, then
or never, what was to be told, but without that eager
reaching forward which other players give, and which
would be right, perhaps, in any character but that of
Hamlet, who always connects, with the present, the
past and what is to come, and mingles reflection with
his immediate feelings, however deep.
As an instance of Kean's familiar, and, if I may be
allowed the term, domestic acting, the first scene in
the fourth act of his Sir Giles Overreach, may be
taken. His manner at meeting Lovell, and through
the conversation with him, the way in which he turns
his chair, and leans upon it, were all as easy and
natural as they could have been in real life, had Sir
in conversation in Lovell's room.
It is in these things, scarcely less than in the more
prominent parts of his playing, that Kean shows himself
the great actor. He must always make a deep
impression; but to suppose the world at large capable
of a right estimate of his various powers, would be
forming a judgment against every-day proof. The
gradual manner in which the character of his playing
has opened upon me, satisfies me that in acting, as in
every thing else, however great may be the first effect
of genius upon us, we come slowly, and through study,
to a perception of its minute beauties and fine characteristics;
and that, after all, the greater part of men
seldom get beyond the first vague and general impression.
As there must needs go a modicum of fault-finding
along with commendation, it may be proper to remark,
that Kean plays his hands too much at times, and
moves about the dress over his breast and neck too
frequently in his hurried and impatient passages, —
that he does not always adhere with sufficient accuracy
to the received readings of Shakspeare, and that the
effect would be greater upon the whole, were he to
be more sparing of sudden changes from violent voice
and gesticulation to a low conversation tone and
subdued manner.
His frequent use of these in Sir Giles Overreach is
with great effect, for Sir Giles is playing his part; so,
too, in Lear, for Lear's passions are gusty and shifting;
but, in the main, it is a kind of playing too marked
and striking to bear frequent repetition, and had better
sometimes be spared, where, considered alone, it
might be properly enough used, for the sake of bringing
it in at some other place with greater effect.
It is well to speak of these defects, for though the
little faults of genius, in themselves considered, but
slightly affect those who can enter into its true character,
yet such persons are made impatient at the
thought, that an opportunity is given those to carp
who know not how to commend.
Though I have taken up a good deal of room, I
must end without speaking of many things which occur
to me. Some will be of the opinion that I have
already said enough. Thinking of Kean as I do, I
could not honestly have said less; for I hold it to be
a low and wicked thing to keep back from merit of
any kind its due, — and with Steele, that “there is
something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds
which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to
those who please them.”
Although the self-important, out of self-concern, give
praise sparingly, and the mean measure theirs by
their likings or dislikings of a man, and the good even
are often slow to allow the talents of the faulty their
due, lest they bring the evil into repute, yet it is the
wiser as well as the honester course, not to take away
from an excellence, because it neighbours upon a
fault, nor to disparage another with a view to our own
name, nor to rest our character for discernment upon
the promptings of an unkind heart. Where God has
not feared to bestow great powers, we may not fear
giving them their due; nor need we be parsimonious
of commendation, as if there were but a certain quantity
for distribution, and our liberality would be to
our loss; nor should we hold it safe to detract from
another's merit, as if we could always keep the world
blind; lest we live to see him, whom we disparaged,
praised; and whom we hated, loved.
Whatever be his failings, give every man a full
and ready commendation for that in which he excels;
it will do good to our own hearts, while it cheers his.
Nor will it bring our judgement into question with the
discerning; for strong enthusiasm for what is great
does not argue such an unhappy want of discrimination,
as that measured and cold approval, which is
bestowed alike upon men of mediocrity, and upon
those of gifted minds.
DOMESTIC LIFE.
O, friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,
Domestic life. —
Cowper.
It is for a short part of life only that the world is a
wonder and delight to us, and its events so many causes
of admiration and joy. The mist of morning soon
breaks into little wreaths, and is lost in the air; and
the objects which it drest in new beauties, are found
to be things of our common notice. It passes off
from the earth, and the fairy sea is swallowed up, and
the green islands, scattered far and wide over it, are
again turned into tall trees and mountain brushwood.
In early life we are for ever giving objects the hue
that best pleases us, and shaping and enlarging them
as suits our imagination. But the time comes when
we must look upon the unsightly without changing it,
and when the hardness of reality makes us feel that
there are things not to be moulded to our fancies.
Men and their actions were figured to our minds in
extremes. Giants and dwarfs peopled the world and
filled it with deeds of heroic virtue and desperate vice.
All that we looked forward to kept our spirits alive,
and our imagination found food for our desires. At
magnificent crimes; at another, bearing up firmly
against oppression, with the honest and tried.
We come at length into the world, and find men
too busy about their own affairs, to make those of
another their concern, and too careful of themselves,
to go a tilting for another's rights. Even the bad
have a mixture in their character which takes away
its poetic effect, and we at last settle down in the dull
conviction, that we are never to meet with entire and
splendid virtue, or unmixed vice. With this sudden
check upon our feelings, we may live in the world
disappointed and estranged from it; or become like
others, cold and wise, putting on timidity for caution,
and selfishness for prudence; be guarded in speech,
and slow in conduct, seeing the wrong, yet afraid of
condemning it. Or, shaking ourselves loose from
this hypocrisy of life, we may let go with it the virtues
it mimics, and despising the solemn ostent and formalities
of society, may break through its restraints,
and set its decencies at defiance. Or, too wise to be
vicious, and too knowing to be moved, we may look
with complacent unconcern upon what we hold to be
the errors of the world; forbearing to shake the faith
of the religious, because it has its social uses, or to
point out the fallacies of moral codes, because they
serve to the same end.
The virtuous tendencies of our youth might in this
way run to vice, and our early feelings grow cold,
were there not in us affections of a quieter nature,
resting on objects simple and near at hand, receiving
more happiness from one being than from a thousand,
and kindling a light within us, making one spot a
perpetual brightness, and secretly cheering us through
which are refreshed every morning, and grow daily
under a gentle and kindly warmth, making a companionship
for what is lonely, at the same time leaving
it all the distinctness and intenseness of our
highest solitary joys. We may suffer all the hopes
and expectations which shot up wild and disorderly
in our young imaginations, to live about our homes;
and leaving them their savour and bright hues, may sort
each with its kind, and hedge them round with the close
and binding growth of family attachments. It is true,
that this reality has a narrower range, and an evener
surface, than the ideal; yet there is a rest, and an assured
and virtuous gladness in it, which make an
harmonious union of our feelings and our fancies.
Home gives a certain serenity to the mind, so that
every thing is well marked, and sparkling in a clear
atmosphere, and the lesser beauties are brought out
to rejoice in the pure glow whcih floats over and beneath
them from the earth and sky. In this state of
mind afflictions come to us chastened; and if the
wrongs of the world cross us in our door-path we put
them aside without anger. Vices are every where
about us, not to lure us away, nor make us morose,
but to remind us of our frailty, and keep down our
pride. We are put into a right relation with the
world; neither holding it in proud scorn, like the solitary
man, nor being carried along by shifting and hurried
feelings, and vague and careless notions of things,
like the world's man. We do not take novelty for
improvement, or set up vogue for a rule of conduct;
neither do we despair, as if all great virtues had departed
with the years gone by, though we see new
light which is spreading through the earth.
Our safest way of coming into communion with
manking is through our own household. For there
our sorrow and regret at the failings of the bad is in
proportion to our love, while our familiar intercourse
with the good has a secretly assimilating influence
upon our characters. The domestic man has
an independence of thought which puts him at ease
in society, and a cheerfulness and benevolence of feeling
which seems to ray out from him, and to diffuse
a pleasurable sense over those near him like a soft,
bright day. As domestic life strengthens a man's
virtue, so does it help to a sound judgment, and a
right balancing of things, and gives an integrity and
propriety to the whole character. God, in his goodness,
has ordained that virtue should make its own
enjoyment, and that whereever a vice or frailty is
rooted out, something should spring up to be a beauty
and delight to the mind. But a man of a character
rightly cast, has pleasures at home, which, though
fitted to his highest nature, are common to him as his
daily food. He moves about his house under a continued
sense of them, and is happy almost without
heeding it.
Women have been called angels, in love-tales and
sonnets till we have almost learned to think of angels
as little better than women. Yet a man who knows
a woman thoroughly, and loves her truly — and there
are women who may be so known and loved — will
find, after a few years, that his relish for the grosser
pleasures is lessened, and that he has grown into a
fondness for the intellectual and refined without an
virtue through his pleasures; and the delights of the
eye, and the gentle play of that passion which is the
most inward and romantic in our nature, and which
keeps much of its character amidst the concerns of
life, have held him in a kind of spiritualized existence:
he shares his very being with one who, a creature of
this world, and with something of the world's frailties, is
—yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.
Wordsworth.
With all the sincerity of a companionship of feeling,
cares, sorrows, and enjoyments, her presence is as
the presence of a purer being, and there is that in her
nature which seems to bring him nearer to a better
world. She is, as it were, linked to angels, and in
his exalted moments, he feels himself held by the
same tie.
In the ordinary affairs of life, a woman has a greater
influence over those near her than a man. While our
feelings are, for the most part, as retired as anchorites,
hers are in constant play before us. We hear them
in her varying voice; we see them in the beautiful
and harmonious undulations of her movements, in the
quick shifting hues of her face, in her eye, glad and
bright, then fond and suffused: Her whole frame is
alive and active with what is at her heart, and all the
outward form speaks. She seems of a finer mould
than we, and cast in a form of beauty, which, like all
beauty, acts with a moral influence upon our hearts;
and as she moves about us, we feel a movement
within, which rises and spreads gently over us, harmonizing
us with her own. — And can any man listen
and he not be touched, and be made better?
The dignity of a woman has its peculiar character:
it awes more than that of man. His is more physical,
bearing itself up with an energy of courage which we
may brave, or a strength which we may struggle
against: he is his own avenger, and we may stand
the brunt. A woman's has nothing of this force in it:
it is of a higher quality, too delicate for mortal touch.
There is a propriety, too, in a woman's mind, a
kind of instinctive judgment, which leads us along
in a right way, and that so gently, and by such a continuous
run of little circumstances, that we are hardly
conscious we are not going on in our own course.
She helps to cure our weaknesses better than man,
because she sees them quicker, because we are more
ready to show her those which are hid, and because
advice comes from her without its air of superiority,
and reproof without its harshness.
Men who feel deeply, show little of their deepest
feelings to each other. But, besides the close union
and common interests and concerns between husband
and wife, a woman seems to be a creature peculiarly
ordained for a man to lay open his heart to, and share
its joys with, and to be a comforter to his griefs. Her
voice soothes us like music; she is our light in gloom
and our sun in a cold world. In time of affliction she
does not come to us like man, who lays by, for the hour,
his proper nature to give us relief. She ministers to
us with a hand so gentle, and speaks in a voice so
calm and kind, and her very being is so much in all
she does, that she seems at the moment as one born
only for the healing of our sorrows, and for a rest to our
for comfort and support, must be sadly hard and depraved,
if he does not feel his inward disturbance sinking
away, and a quietude stealing through his frame.
The relations of parents and children are the holiest
in our lives; and there are no pleasures, or cares, or
thoughts, connected with this world, which reminds
us so soon of another. The helpless infancy of children
sets our own death before us, when they will be
left to a world to which we would not trust ourselves;
and the thought of the character they may take in
after life, brings with it the question, what awaits
them in another. Though there is a melancholy in
this, its seriousness has a religious tendency. And
the responsibility which a man has laid himself under,
begets a resoluteness of character, a sense that this
world was not made to idle in, and a feeling of dignity
that he is acting for a great end. How heavily does
one toil who labours only for himself; and how is he
cast down by the thought of what a worthless creature
it is all for!
We have heard of the sameness of domestic life.
He must have a dull head and little heart who grows
weary of it. A man who moralizes feelingly, and has
a proneness to see a beauty and fitness in all God's
works, may find daily food for his mind even in an
infant. In its innocent sleep, when it seems like some
blessed thing dropped from the clouds, with tints so
delicate, and with its peaceful breathing, we can
hardly think of it as of mortal mould, it looks so like
a pure spirit made visible for our delight.
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy,” says Wordsworth.
And who of us, that is not too good to be conscious
humbled under the clear and open countenance of a
child? — who that has not felt his impurities foul upon
him in the presence of a sinless child? These feelings
make the best lesson that can be taught a man; and tell
him in a way, which all else he has read or heard, never
could, how paltry is all the show of intellect compared
with a pure and good heart. He that will humble
himself and go to a child for instruction, will come
away a wiser man.
If children can make us wiser, they surely can
make us better. There is no one more to be envied
than a goodnatured man watching the workings of
children's minds, or overlooking their play. Their
eagerness, curious about every thing, making out by
a quick imagination what they see but a part of —
their fanciful combinations and magic inventions, creating
out of ordinary circumstances, and the common
things which surround them, strange events and little
ideal worlds, and these all working in mystery to form
matured thought, is study enough for the most acute
minds, and should teach us, also, not too officiously
to regulate what we so little understand. The still
musing and deep abstraction in which they sometimes
sit, affect us as a playful mockery of older heads.
These little philosophers have no foolish system, with
all its pride and jargon, confusing their brains.
Theirs is the natural movement of the soul, intense
with new life, and busy after truth, working to some
purpose, though without a noise.
When children are lying about seemingly idle and
dull, we, who have become case-hardened by time
and satiety, forget that they are all sensation, that
common sun and air, that every sound is taken note
of by the ear, that every floating shadow and passing
form come and touch at the sleepy eye, and that the
little circumstances and the material world about them
make their best school, and will be the instructers
and formers of their characters for life.
And it is delightful to look on and see how busily
the whole acts, with its countless parts fitted to each
other, and moving in harmony. There are none of
us who have stolen softly behind a child when labouring
in a sunny corner, digging a lilliputian well, or
fencing in a six-inch barn-yard, and listened to his
soliloquies, and his dialogues with some imaginary being,
without our hearts being touched by it. Nor have
we observed the flush which crossed his face when
finding himself betrayed, without seeing in it the delicacy
and propriety of the after man.
A man may have many vices upon him, and have
walked long in a bad course, yet if he has a love of
children, and can take pleasure in their talk and play,
there is something still left in him to act upon — something
which can love simplicity and truth. I have seen
one in whom some low vice had become a habit, make
himself the plaything of a set of riotous children, with
as much delight in his countenance as if nothing but
goodness had ever been expressed in it; and have felt
as much of kindness and sympathy toward him, as I
have of revolting toward another, who has gone
through life with all due propriety, with a cold and
supercilious bearing towards children, which makes
them shrinking and still. I have known one like the
latter, attempt, with uncouth condescension, to court
an openhearted child, who would draw back with an
a curse upon him. Better to be driven out from
among men, than to be disliked of children.
When my heart has been full of joy and good-will
at the thought of the blessings of home, and at the
remembrance that the little which is right within me
was learned there — when I have reflected upon the
nature of my enjoyments abroad, and cast them up,
and found them so few, and have then turned home
again, and have seen that its pleasures were my best
lessons of virtue, and as countless as good, I have
thought that I could talk of it for ever. It is not so.
Though the feeling of home never wearies, because
kind offices, and the thousand little ways in which
home attachments are always uttering themselves,
keep it fresh and full in its course; yet the feeling itself,
and that which feeds it, have a simplicity and
unity of character of which little is to be told, though
they are always with us.
It may be thought that something should be said of
the influence of domestic associations on a child, and
on its filial attachments. I would not overcast the
serenity I now feel by calling up the days when I was a
boy; when the spirits were unbroken, and the heart pure,
when the past was unheeded, and the future bright;
I would not do this, to be pained with all that has
gone amiss in my later days — to remember how
poorly I have borne the ills of life, and how thankless
has been my spirit for its good.
It is needless to talk of the afflictions of domestic
life. Those which Providence sends, come for our
good, and their best consolations are found in the
abode into which they enter. Of the troubles which
we make to ourselves, we have no right to complain.
from those of convenience will hardly come love.
But when the deep and tranquil enjoyment, the light
and playful cheerfulness, the exaltation of feeling, and
the clear calm of thought, which belong to those who
know each other entirely, and have by nature something
of the romance of love in them, are all told,
then will I speak of the troubles of home.
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