University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
NEW AND STRANGE ADVENTURES.

Whatever the mass of mankind, who
have had no experience, may think to the
contrary, the life of him who gains his
bread by the labor of his brain, is by no
means an easy one. To many who know
not its trials, struggles and vexations, it
may seem very romantic, pleasant and delightful:
but it is like a mountain seen
from afar, which appears smooth and beautiful
in the distance, but which a near inspection
proves to be craggy, rough, and
both laborious and dangerous of ascent.
It is one thing to read and another to
write. In the former instance all is plain

and smooth before you, word follows word,
sentence follows sentence, idea succeeds
idea, and without any effort on your part,
your eye skims the page and your mind
grasps the sense, and you say to yourself,
“Where is the effort of the author in what
is so simple and easy?” Ah, you little
dream what that same sentence may have
cost him, simple as it seems! Perhaps
hours of severe application and brain-racking
thought. It is not always the
smoothest and simplest passages that have
been easiest penned. On the contrary, it
is these which may have cost the severest
toil—for as an instrument only becomes
resplendent through intense attrition, so
the ideas of an author can only come
forth refulgent and polished by the same
skill, care and attention.

You that think the life of an author to
be envied, sit down, when you have leisure
and feel in fine humor, and attempt to
compose. And then, when depressed in
spirits, oppressed with grief, care and anxiety,
ailing in body, and your brain seems
clogged and heavy, or, on the contrary,
parched with a burning fever, sit down
and try it then. Remember your task is
before you, that you must go on, for on
this hangs the power to provide for yourself,
and, peradventure, those as near and
dear to you as your own heart's blood.
And remember, too, you must not slight
your task, or that great tribunal, the public,
before which you must be judged, will
not fail to censure and thus destroy your
occupation. Remember, furthermore, you
are continually called upon for new
scenes, new ideas and new events, which
your already aching and overtaxed brain
must supply. And lastly, remember this
is not for a day, nor a week, nor a month,
but for years, perhaps a lifetime. Make
this trial we say, take into consideration
all these facts, together with the pittance
you will receive, even if fortunate enough
to dispose of your labor, and then, if you
envy an author's fate, go follow his profession,
and make an early grave for yourself,
and a name that will live perchance
till your body has turned to corruption and
dust.

Similar to these were the reflections of
Edgar Courtly, as, pen in hand, and weary
with thought, he paused over the task he
had undertaken. We have said elsewhere,
that in his leisure hours he had written
poetry—but that had been done simply
through inclination and for his own
amusement, and was very different from
his present attempt, where, with nothing
to inspire him save the hope of reward,
on which his very life as it seemed to him
depended, and the shuddering fear of failure,
he toiled on, straining each mental
faculty to its utmost tension.

“And even when completed,” he sighed,
“I may fail, and all my anxiety and
brain-torture go for naught.”

But he determined to fail not through
indolence or carlessness; and hence he
wrote and read, revised and re-wrote, until
there seemed no possibility of his improving
what he had done; and gladly
then, yet not without misgivings, he pronounced
the poem complete. This occurred
at a rather late hour on the third
night from his meeting with Elmer; and
having read it aloud to Virginia, and received
her joyful approval, he retired for
the night—but not to sleep soundly—for
hope and fear were too busy in his breast
to allow him more than a feverish, fitful
slumber. At dawn he was up and dressed,
and without partaking breakfast, so anxious
was he to have the article put in hand
as early as possible, he set out for the
lodgings of Elmer. Elmer slept late, and
so of course an interview at that hour was
out of the question; but he left the parcel,
properly superscribed, in the hands of a
servant, with imperative instructions, that
so soon as Elmer should rise, it must be
given to him as a matter of great importance.
Pondering upon what would
be his success against so much competition,
he turned away, and, in a musing
mood, strolled down the street in the direction
of the Battery.

It was a clear, cold, but beautiful and invigorating
morning; and the sun, as he
rose, wore a cheerful aspect, and brightly
gleamed down upon tall spires, making
their bright balls seem fire; and upon the
houses and trees, turning their net work
of frost into diamond dew drops; and upon

the harbor and rivers, forming their waters
into polished mirrors; and upon the
rushing steamers, arching rainbows in the
spray of their wheels; and upon the oars
of the boatmen, making every stroke dip
silver; and upon the sails of the stately
ships, giving them a light and swan-like
appearance; and, in a word, upon every
thing abroad, animate and inanimate,
brightening, enriching and beautifying
all.

As Edgar arrived at the Battery, and
took in all this at a glance, he felt his
spirits revive with a feeling akin to the
scene; and for an hour he forgot his sorrows
in a happy reverie. Then, remembering
he had not yet broken his fast, and
that his sister, having prepared the frugal
meal, would be patiently awaiting him, he
set out upon his return; but instead of retracing
his steps, shaped his course along
the shipping of the East river. Pushing
forward, little heeding any thing around
him, his mind occupied with grave reflections,
he had passed some half a dozen
squares, when his progress was arrested
by a groan from a man lying on the pavement
just to his right. His first impression
on coming to a halt, was that the man
was drunk, and he was about to pass on,
when something in the appearance of the
stranger led him to think otherwise, and
he approached and accosted him in a kindly
tone.

“What is the matter, my friend?” he
asked.

“God bless you,” returned the other, in
a feeble voice, “for those kind words—the
first I have had addressed to me for many
a day! I am sick, kind sir, and, I fear,
nigh unto death. I lately arrived in port
from a long voyage, and was immediately
taken ill with a fever. I sought lodgings
in yonder house, (pointing to a villainous-looking
groggery) for I had not much money,
and did not know where to go. While
my money lasted, I received some attention;
but it gave out last night, and ere
daylight this morning, I was rudely thrust
into the street, with the cold hearted remark,
that, being now a beggar, I must
seek other quarters. I tried to get elsewhere,
kind sir, but my strength failed
me, and here I am., O God!” he added, in
a sort of prayer, “if my time has come to
die, take me to thyself!—but I would, merciful
God, that thou sparest me longer,
that, if possible, I may bring the guilty to
account, and right the wronged!—but do,
O God, as to thee seemest best!”

“Poor fellow!” sighed Edgar, struck
with the stranger's manner and the mysteriousness
of his last words; “here is
another example of the world's humanity.
Who are you, friend?” he asked; “for
though dressed in the garb of a common
sailor, your language bespeaks one bred in
a different school.”

“I am not what I seem,” rejoined the
other, in a still more feeble voice, and evidently
in much pain; “but I can explain
nothing now. If you can assist me, kind
sir, do so—if not, leave me alone to die.
Ah, me! God's mercy on me!”

“Alas! stranger,” rejoined Edgar, “it is
little assistance I can render to any one;
but what I can do I will; you must not
be left alone to die. Have patience a
moment; I will see what can be done;”
and seeing a well-dressed gentleman at a
short distance, he hurried to him, explained
the case and asked his advice.

“He had better be sent to the hospital,”
was the reply.

“But will they receive him?” queried
Edgar.

“If a sailor, they are bound to do so;”
and he gave Edgar instructions how to
proceed to gain him admittance.

Acting upon the other's advice, Edgar
procured an elliptic spring dray, a vehicle
much in use in the great metropolis, and
placing the stranger upon it, accompanied
and saw him safely deposited in the
hospital, where he would receive the best
of care and medical attendance.

“And now,” he said, as he was about to
take his leave, “I shall make it my business
to call upon you daily. For whom
shall I inquire?”

“Alanson Davis,” answered the invalid,
feebly pressing the hand of Edgar. “And
now yours, my kind benefactor, whom
may God reward for your humanity!”

“Edgar Courtly,” replied our hero.

The invalid started, clasped his forehead

with one hand, and, weak though he was,
partly raised himself with the other, while
his eyes fastened upon Edgar with a wild,
eager expression.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” he said, in
a hoarse whisper. “Repeat your name
once more!”

Edgar did so.

“And your native place!”

“Is Baltimore,” said Edgar.

“You—you have—an uncle?” almost
gasped the other.

Edgar set his teeth hard, and frowned
darkly, as he replied:

“My mother, God rest her soul! had an
unnatural brother.”

“Whose name is—”

“Oliver Goldfinch.”

The sick man nodded his head and sank
back, too much exhausted to make an immediate
reply. At length he feebly muttered:

“Go! go!—but be sure you return to
me! God grant I live, for your sake!—
Heaven be praised that we have me! I
have much to tell you—but not now. Go!
go!” and so exhausted was the invalid
with excitement and the effort to speak,
that his last trial died away in a whisper.

Edgar, surprised and bewildered at
these mysterious words, would fain have
lingered, in the hope of hearing something
farther; but the physician touched him on
the shoulder, and warned him that his
presence was endangering the life of the
patient. He therefore took his departure,
and bent his steps homeward, musing upon
the strangeness of his adventure, and wondering
what secret the stranger had to reveal.
That there had been crime committed
somewhere, he believed; and might
not this man have been a tool of his uncle,
and have aided in wresting from him
his rightful possessions? He had spoken
of wrong that had been done ere he knew
whom he addressed; and when the name
was made known to him, his agitation
was such as could spring from no ordinary
cause. And the dark hints he had himself
thrown out to his uncle on the night
his mother died, and the singular effect
they produced, all recurred to the mind of
Edgar, with the convincing force, that
where was so much uneasiness, there
must be some secret but potent cause; and
now that he was once upon the trail, he
resolved to ferret this out, let the consequences
be what they might.

The hospital, of which mention hasjust
been made, stands on Broadway, but retired
from the constant jar of busy life by
a large enclosure or park, which slopes
away in front, forming a beautiful lawn
and sylvan grove, from among the shrubbery
of which the picturesque structure
peeps forth with a rather delightful and
inviting appearance, more especially in
the summer season, when the green fluttering
leaves seem to speak of pure air
and gentle, refreshing quietude. His homeward
course from this park, led Edgar directly
past the Tombs of Centre street,
upon which he now gazed with a strange,
unacountable feeling of awe, that he had
occasion soon after to remember as an evil
presentiment.

The Tombs—so called from its resemblance
to the Mausoleums of Egypt's
mighty kings, and, also, as some say, from
the number of suicides committed by prisoners
within its damp and filthy cells,
thus making it a sort of charnel-house—
is a building well calculated to arrest the
attention of a stranger viewing the curiosities
of the great metropolis. It is a
massive structure of stone, built in the
Egyptian style of architecture, and serves
the several purposes of a city prison, police
court, the court of sessions, law and
other offices. It is a grand but gloomy
pile, lifting its huge turrets high in the
air, surmounted by a cupola, whose summit
overlooks a great portion of the city.
A high wall encloses three sides of it,
forming an area, the fourth side of which
is guarded by the main building, into which
from this opening, entrance can only be
had through heavy iron doors, kept double-locked
and bolted to prevent the escape
of prisoners. This area answers many
prison purposes, and among the rest that
of admitting light and air to the cells
looking out upon it, and as a place of private
execution to those convicted of capital
offences, whose death in such cases

is only witnessed by a few prisoners and
officials. The building is so constructed
that a criminal may be led from his cell
to the court room, have his trial and be remanded,
without once beholding the world
without, until he is taken hence to serve
out his term of sentence, either at Blackwell's
Island or Sing-Sing. In front you
enter by a long flight of stone steps, and
pass directly under a fine colonnade,
which, together with the quaint appearance
of the whole building, as seen at a
short distance, and the remembrance of
the purpose for which it is used, gives it
an imposing and solemn aspect, that makes
a deep and lasting impression upon the
mind of him, who, in a reflective mood,
views it for the first time.

While occupied in gazing upon this
gloomy structure, and thinking of the poor
wretches therein confined, Edgar was suddenly
startled by the piercing shrieks of a
female; and looking round, he beheld a
horse tearing down the street at the very
top of his speed, with a light vehicle attached,
in which sat a lady, nearly frightened
out of her senses, from whom issued
these frightful sounds of agonized despair.
That she must soon be thrown out and
dashed to pieces, or terribly mangled, seemed
inevitable—for the carriage rocked from
side to side, occasionally balancing on two
wheels for a moment, so evenly that a
pound seemed sufficient to upset it, and
then, just as all hope was over, settling
back to its original position, or swaying as
far the other way, while on dashed the
frightened animal more fiercely than ever.
Hundreds had tried to check him or change
his course; but on, on he still furiously
sped, heeding no obstacle, and turning
neither to the right nor left. Thousands
had collected behind the lady, and were
gazing after in breathless awe, expecting
every moment to witness a sight that would
make their blood run cold with horror.
In front, men, women and children were
rushing to the sidewalks, to place their
own persons in safety; while others, from
every direction, were hurrying to the scene
to gratify a morbid curiosity.

From the moment Edgar put eyes upon
the lady, he determined to save her, even
at the risk of his life—and a fearful risk
it was, in the manner he attempted it.
The horse was descending Centre street
from the direction of the Park, and unless
his course were changed, must pass within
a few feet of where he stood. There was
but little time for reflection—but Edgar
thought rapidly, and his plan was soon laid,
though it must be confessed one of peculiar
danger to himself. Perceiving a club
upon the pavement, he seized it, and steping
forward a few paces, awaited the approach
of the furious beast, well knowing
that should he fail in his design, his own
life in all probability would be the penalty.
On came the maddened beast, rolling
fire from the flinty pavement beneath his
hoofs, and making each one he passed
shudder with an undefined terror.

Edgar had taken his position directly in
front of the animal, so that, unless one or
the other turned aside, the latter must pass
directly over his body. To turn aside neither
seemed inclined; and when the beast,
still tearing ahead with unabated velocity,
had reached within a few feet of our intrepid
hero, there was a general cry of alarm
for his safety. The next moment the cry
was changed into a universal shout of applause,
and men marvelled at what their
own eyes revealed to them. The horse
lay sprawling, panting and kicking upon
the pavement—the vehicle, upset and broken,
was partly piled upon him—while the
lady, safe and unharmed, was resting, all
unconscious, in the arms of her deliverer.

The manner this had been effected was
simple, though seemingly a miracle to those
who beheld it. As the foaming horse came
bounding up. Edgar struck him a violent
blow upon the head, which felled him to
the earth; then springing quickly back, he
caught the lady in his arms, as she was
thrown forward by the sudden stopping of
the vehicle. It was a most dangerous feat,
but one he had correctly counted on performing,
and he now stood the proud hero
of a thousand admiring eyes.

His first movement was to bear the lady
up the steps of the Tombs, where water
being procured and dashed in her face, she
presently revived, only to stare in wonder
and maidenly timidity upon the dense

crowd that had gathered around. A single
glance at her person and dress, showed
her to be young, beautiful and wealthy—
or at least a lady of some distinction, and
Edgar was perplexing himself how to proceed
next, when a middle-aged gentleman
came pushing through the crowd, which
gave panting and way with deference, and
catching her in his arms, wildly called her
his own dear child, and seemed fairly beside
himself with joy at her providential
escape.

Seeing she was now in proper hands,
and that there was no longer need for his
services, Edgar took advantage of the confusion,
and quietly and modestly withdrew.

When the father, having learned the details
of how his daughter had been saved
by a heroic daring on the part of another
which astonished him, and full of profound
gratitude, inquired for her noble deliverer,
he was gone, much to his regret and disappointment,
and none could say where he
might be found. In a word, while men
were eagerly seeking him, that he might
receive a due reward for his noble daring,
Edgar was quietly wending his way homeward,
satisfied In his own conscience that
he had performed his duty, and disposed to
seek no other recompense.

The sun was several hours advanced
towards meridian when he reached his
humble lodgings, and Virginia, having prepared
the morning meal, was awaiting him
with an anxiety full of a thousand fears
for his safety. To her he explained at
once all that had happened to detain him;
and throwing her arms around his neck,
she pressed upon his lips the sisterly kiss
of approval, and both partook of their frugal
repast with increased appetites and
lightened hearts.