University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

For several days subsequent to the occurrences
narrated in our last chapter, Clifton's energies were
depressed and his mind filled with gloomy forebodings;
but he soon became convinced of the necessity
of action, both from a conviction of its favourable
effect on his spirits, and the demand for the
means of subsistence, which now became imperative.
Under this state of feeling, his next literary production
was entitled “Fatality, or the Death Warning!”
a tale, which for thrilling interest, deep pathos,
and powerful delineation of human character,
in those fearful moments when Reason totters on
her throne, and Superstition hurls the sceptre
from her grasp—almost rivalled the celebrated productions

of the masters of the German school of
literature. The sensation created in the public mind
by its appearance, was remarkable. It was devoured
with intense avidity by all classes, and the publishing
office of the magazine in which it first saw
the light was daily thronged with purchasers.

Conjecture was busy in seeking to ascertain the
author, and many and conflicting were the opinions
of the knowing ones in such matters.

One celebrated author whispered in the ear of
all his friends, that he could divulge the secret if he
would, but it must not be—at least for a time.
“Oh,” said Miss Jemima Bluestocking, “I see
through his reserve. He is himself the author. I
can generally trace these mysteries through all
their ramifications.”

On the day succeeding this oracular declaration
of Miss Bluestocking, Mr. Montblanque, the author
alluded to, was met in St. James's Park by an acquaintance,
who thus addressed him—

“Montblanque, is thith you? 'Pon my thoul
I'm glad to thee you. I'm told you know the author
of `Fatality, or the Death Warning.' I thall
conthider it pothitively unkind—I thall, on my honour—if
you refuthse to tell me in confidenth. You
know, my dear fellow, I'm clothse asth Motheth
the utherer, and asth thrusty asth hith iron chesth.
Tho, my dear Montblanque, do rethore the equilibrium
of my mind, which hath been thockingly

agitated sinth thith confounded thecret hath been in
the wind.”

The speaker was Elton Arabesque, one of the
most noted of the race of exquisites. His attire was
in the most approved mode, and as he moved along,
the “observed of all observers,” the air was redolent
of perfume. While addressing Montblanque he
elevated a quizzing-glass to his eye, gently threw
forward the right leg, and attitudinized most imposingly.

Whether his lisp was natural or affected was a
question which was still mooted among his friends;
and so high ran the controversies on this interesting
subject, that they resulted in three challenges being
passed—one of which ripened into a veritable duel.
Whether the weapons were charged with leaden or
pomatum bullets was the theme of another series of
disputes, which were fortunately settled by the interference
of mutual friends.

“Mr. Arabesque,” replied the litterateur, “I beg
you will not press that question any farther. When
I tell you that I have refused to hold any conversation
on this subject with my devoted friend Lord
Fitzweller, you can judge the delicacy of my position,
and how impossible it is for me to enter into
any explanation that can, in the remotest degree,
contribute to withdraw the mask which the author,
whoever he may be, has seen fit to assume. So,
with your permission, we will talk on some other
topic. You perceive my embarrassment, and no

doubt appreciate my feelings. You know I am the
last man in the world to covet laurels which should
deck other brows; and if you should hear Miss
Bluestocking hereafter allude to my name in connection
with this production, do me the favour to
state distinctly that I decline avowing any claim to
the honours awarded the unknown author.”

“Oh, I pertheive. I sthmoke the thecret. I take.
I'm dumb. I am, pothitively. Not a word of your
being the author. I'll look knowing; but on my
honour the thecret's thafe.”

“But, my dear Mr. Arabesque, you'll really believe
me, when I say I must not be considered the
author of `Fatality.' ”

“Yeth. Yeth, I underthand. You're non-committal.
Good bye, Montblanque—good bye. I'm
a walking thtatue of thilence—I am, pothitively.”

And thereupon this butterfly without wings
buzzed the supposed secret into the ear of every
acquaintance who crossed his path, in the strictest
confidence; adding that his friend Montblanque
would be savage if he knew that he divulged it. In
this way the worthy Montblanque contrived to reap
what he had not sown; taking especial care to so
fortify himself with saving clauses in his conversations,
that if the real author chose to avow himself,
he could refer to positive declarations in which he
disavowed the authorship.

Oh Charlatanism—thou modern divinity—we recognize
in thee the dispenser of more than life and

death! At thy nod nations bow with reverence;
and wo be to him who in an evil hour rebels against
thy government, and sets at nought thy edicts. Let
him at once repent his temerity, ere thy chariot
wheels crush him to powder. Are not thy disciples
seated in the high places of power? Who now
dares with sacrilegious hand to profane the memory
of thy departed ministers? Do not the pupils of thy
Hahnemann—the apostles of thy Spurzheim—the
successors of thy St John Long—swarm like locusts
over the land—each one with a train of followers at
his heels, which, in numbers, would throw the disciples
even of Daniel O'Connell himself into the shade!
Again we repeat, all hail Charlatanism!

Like Byron, our hero “awoke one morning, and
to his surprise, found, if not himself, at least his
production famous.”

And did he turn a deaf ear to the praises awarded
his literary offspring? Assuredly not. His first
impulse was to consider the plaudits of the multitude
as a part of the heartless pageant in which he considered
himself no longer an actor, and whose praise
or censure it was equally his duty to disregard. That
he was the victim of a resistless and remorseless destiny
was his firm conviction, and he considered every
effort to escape its decrees both futile and absurd.
To repent of his crime in destroying the life of
Ellingbourne, and to prepare for futurity, were now
his paramount duties.

But as days passed, and his mind became divested

of a portion of its morbid apprehensions, his interest
in the scenes around him returned, until at length
he could no longer disguise from himself the truth
that the voice of fame was music to his ears; and
like a war horse at the blast of the trumpet, his spirit
bounded to the call of a whole people who unitedly
demanded that he should again exhibit his powers
in the literary arena. Then first fell in all its gloom
across his mind the dark shadow which ever attends
early success in the literary world—the dread of failure—where
not to soar yet higher is to sink! True,
the fame attending his successful effort yet rested on
a masked brow, but the sweet conviction of ultimate
triumph in an open arena, where the combatants
should be divested of their visors, was cherished not
the less that it was still unrealized by himself.

With such feelings he proceeded to the task of
perfecting another specimen of what his intellectual
powers were capable of creating; and many were
the erasures, interlinings, and additions, which the
composition underwent, from its early inception until
it came forth in a dress deemed fit for the public
eye. Being persuaded, from the success of his
late effort, that the pathetic and the mysterious
were calculated more fully to display his powers
than any other species of composition—as they entered
with more force into his present feelings—he
again essayed to unveil the subtle connection which
existed between the Past, the Present, and the Future,
by delineating the remorse that tortured the

bosom of the guilty—peopling the Present with the
grim images of the Past, and throwing over the
Future the dark shadows of them both.

This tale was entitled the “Conscience Stricken,”
and so eager were the public to possess it, that
an immense edition of the magazine in which it appeared—being
quadruple the number usually issued—was
absorbed in a day. To his great joy,
the papers united in pronouncing it a more able and
powerful effort than its predecessor, while the controversy
as to its paternity waxed warmer and more
angry.

Behold our hero on the high road to celebrity:—
but was he more happy now that the fiery ordeal was
passed? Did the breath of public applause appease
the cravings of a spirit, conscious of its mighty and
mysterious powers? There were moments when it
failed to soothe his wounded spirit; and the bitter
reflection that the fair fabric would tumble in ruins,
if the authorship was avowed and his history exposed,
dashed the cup of enjoyment from his lips.

And even if his former disgrace could be effectually
concealed from the British public, who was to be
the partaker of his new-born honours? Would the
loud trump of fame sound conviction of his innocence
to the bosom of Julia's parents? The idea
was madness.

To what purpose, then, was he pouring forth the
treasures of a rich intellect? Like the Eastern
pearl-diver, he had descended to the innermost recesses

of his soul, and though precious were the
gems which sparkled in his casket, they were valueless
to their possessor. Monarch of the hour, his
sceptre, like that of the Ice King, waved over a region
of eternal snows, unblessed by the genial beams
of love, or the sunny smile of friendship.

Such were his meditations in periods of mental
gloom; but their influence on his spirits daily declined,
and more philosophical and enlarged views
and feelings resumed their empire over his heart.

Again returned the consciousness that he possessed
an immortal soul, invested with noble attributes;
and while dwelling on its high destinies he
estimated the world's opinion of his guilt or innocence,
at its real value. When in this judicious
mood of mind he would retire to rest with calm reliance
on the goodness of Providence; and, forgetting
the unprofitable studies of the astrologer, would enter
the dominions of sleep, prepared to partake of its holy
and serene enjoyments.