University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The exciting occupations and events of the few
days which had elapsed since Clifton's return from
Lord Templeton's, had prevented him from presenting
a letter of introduction with which that nobleman
had furnished him to the Honourable Lucius
Courtenay, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary from the United States, near the
Court of St. James. Indeed, when first offered, he
hesitated in accepting it, but as Lord Templeton
had frequently expressed great regard for the Minister,
and had voluntarily presented him with the

letter when he was leaving his hospitable mansion,
courtesy required its early delivery.

It now occurred to his mind, that an introduction
to the representative of his native country, might facilitate
the receipt of advices from his friends in New-York,
and he therefore determined to avail himself
of his noble friend's introduction.

At a suitable hour, Clifton visited the residence of
the ambassador, presented his letter, and was received
with great cordiality by the gentleman, who informed
him that he had, when a boy, resided in the
city of New-York;—adding, that he trusted to have
the pleasure of his company the next day at dinner.
This friendly invitation our hero declined, on the
plea of ill health; but on Mr. Courtenay's assurance
that he should be at perfect liberty to withdraw
whenever he deemed it prudent, while his recent recovery
would present a legitimate plea for his abstemiousness,
he at length reluctantly consented.

“You will meet a very select, although somewhat
unique, circle of my diplomatic, literary, and scientific
friends, and I promise you an intellectual banquet,
which will be not the less relished, that some of
the dishes are rather highly spiced. You must
know that I am a bachelor, and will perceive that
I am rather young for a diplomatist; but, like the
captain of one of our most successful packet ships,
who boasted, that it was only necessary for him to
give her the proper direction when leaving Sandy
Hook, as she knew the road as well as he did—so I

may, with truth, declare, that the direct policy of our
government in its intercourse with foreign nations,
renders skill and experience comparatively useless
auxiliaries to our ambassadors, who require prudence
and integrity alone in their negotiations. As
this is the best excuse that can be offered for the selection
of my poor self, I trust you will consider
it in as favourable a light as your conscience will
permit.”

The latter part of these remarks was delivered
with a smile, and Clifton parted from the ambassador
with feelings of high gratification. While conversing
with Mr. Courtenay, he could not resist the
conviction that they had met before, but the circumstances
of their former intercourse—if such had existed—were
blotted from his memory, and he at length
concluded, that the apparent recognition of his countenance
was caused by a striking resemblance to
some individual of his acquaintance, whom it was,
for the moment, impossible to designate.

On the following day Clifton joined the social circle
at the hospitable mansion of Mr. Courtenay,
which, in addition to the host, consisted of Prince
Ptolenski, charge d'affairs from the court of St.
Petersburgh—Count Rosini, ambassador from the
Grand Duke of Tuscany—Theophilus Elgin, esquire,
recently returned from a tour through Egypt,
Asia, Turkey in Europe, and the Grecian Isles in
the Archipelago—and Stewart Macartney, a celebrated
author and antiquary, from the renowned

city of Edinburgh. After the cloth was removed,
Mr. Courtenay sportively proposed the “health of
his new guest, Mr. Clifton, who, like Richard the
Lion-hearted, by the might of his single arm, had
put to flight two modern Saracens and captured a
third—while, more fortunate than the Royal Crusader,
he rescued Beauty and Innocence from the
grasp of the infidels.”

The explanation of course followed, but Clifton, on
returning thanks, begged permission to decline appropriating
the compliment in its full extent.

“Our host,” he remarked, “is so versed in the
beauties of ancient and modern lore, that he contrives
to throw over the most common-place incident
the lustre of his vivid imagination. Lest I
should be unduly honoured, it is proper to state that
the affair to which my friend alludes was as unromantic
and common-place as can well be imagined;
being nothing more than an almost accidental
encounter with some cowardly vagabonds, who lacked
the courage to execute what their villanous hearts
had planned.”

“Decline neither the compliment nor the illustration,”
said Mr. Elgin, gravely; “for happy would
it be for the young men of the present day if
they would equally emulate the chivalric spirit manifested
by yourself in the rescue of Lord Templeton,
and the intimate acquaintance with the history of
the glorious of ancient days which has caused Mr.

Courtenay to tender so apt and faithful a comparison.”

“You see Mr. Clifton,” said the author from beyond
the Tweed, “that you can no more unbind
the laurels which are wreathed around your brow,
than the captured assassin could escape from your
strong hand. By the way, Mr. Courtenay, can you
enlighten our mental darkness by unmasking the
author of the two able productions whose appearance
has lately thrown the literary public into such
a ferment of curiosity?”

“I am not capable of even forming a conjecture.
The only name I have heard suggested was that of
Montblanque, but I consider the rumour highly improbable.”

“Not improbable, but impossible,” replied Mr.
Macartney. “I know his style perfectly, and cannot
trace the least resemblance. We all know that
his manner is affected and egotistical, while that of
the unknown author is plain, simple, and natural.
The whole charm of the first—if charm it can be
termed—consists in its elaborate and artificial polish,
while the latter enchains the attention by the force
and truth of his masterly delineations. Faults there
are in the new productions, but they are the result
of haste and inattention, which can, and I have no
doubt will, be remedied, if the writer continues to
pursue the career he has so successfully commenced.
As every person ventures a conjecture on this subject,
I will follow the example so far as to prophecy

that when the secret is divulged the honours will be
worn by some hitherto untried champion.”

“How do you like the mystical region in which
the author essays his new-fledged wing?” said Mr.
Courtenay.

“Your question is difficult to answer. If the mental
powers of the artist are equal to his task, the
sublimity and elevation of the subject impart a legitimate
interest to its analyzation which cannot fail
to enlighten while it charms. If, on the contrary, a
feeble writer attempts to disentangle intricacies to
which his powers are inadequate, he leads his ignorant
readers into a labyrinth of inconsistencies, which
is apt to result in either credulity or scepticism. On
the whole, it is perhaps doubtful whether the mystical
tales and romances, and the metaphysical discussions
of the present century have not contributed
rather to vitiate than to elevate the public taste. But
Mr. Clifton has not yet ventured an opinion on the
grave question, who is the anonymous writer of
`Fatality.' ”

“When Mr. Macartney is informed that I claim
no pretensions to necromancy, he will acquit me of
any attempt to unravel a mystery which the present
distinguished company have failed to penetrate.”

“A compliment, most decidedly,” said Prince
Ptolenski.

“Come, come,” said Count Rosini, “we'll drop a
thread-bare theme to discuss one that's ever new

By Bacchus, it warms my very soul to inhale the
aroma of this iced champaign. Even in Italy—my
own Italy—have our exquisite wines been thrown
in shadow by this charming foreigner. Elgin, I
pledge thee. May thy last resting-place be in some
sunny vale of the Campagna, with the luscious
fruit of which this is the essence, and the dew bending
gracefully over it.”

“'Tis a goodly wish, and gracefully tendered,”
replied the orientalist, “and far be from me the churlishness
which hesitates to return so friendly a pledge.

“I have scarcely tasted the equal of this since my
ever-to-be-remembered visit to the Pyramids. My
escort was a portion of the body guard of Mehmet
Ali, and the butler of his Highness presented me
with a choice specimen of Egyptian taste, in the
shape of a dozen of exquisite Maraschino, remarking
with an arch look that I might as well enjoy
the contents, as they were considered contraband by
the Mahommedan creed. I reserved the precious
gift until the Pyramids were reached, when, by
Jove, my turbaned companions came near swallowing
the bottles after the taste was ventured.

“'Twas delicious, and added to the inspiration of
the time and place. I have rarely enjoyed the equal
of that hour.”

“So, so,” said the Count Rosini, smiling, “we
now can duly appreciate the character of the new
hieroglyphics, the discovery of which has created
such a sensation in literary and scientific circles. I

trust that the bottle was not the microscope through
which they were viewed? By the cestus of Minerva
this must be looked to.”

“You forget `in vino veritas,' ” said the sententious
representative of Russian majesty.

“Why, Count, you worse than heathen, to doubt
my authority on matters of this sort. Were you an
Englishman I might pardon the jest, but for a native
of Italy—land of the beautiful in nature and
exquisite in art—land of brilliant recollections—over
whose past glory we mourn as of a bright Pleiad
lost from the sky—for you to bandy jests on a subject
connected with associations sublime as those
which cluster around your own loved land!—the
thing's monstrous, foul and unnatural.”

“But we have almost forgotten our duty to our
worthy host. Mr. Courtenay permit me to pledge
you in a glass of Burgundy. May your shadow
never be less.”

“If that same wish should inadvertently be tendered
to our friend Malvoisin, who weighs three
hundred and ninety pounds avoirdupois, both the
desire and its fulfilment would I fear be considered
mal-apropos,” said Mr. Macartney.

“But,” said Mr. Courtenay, “my friend Clifton
has recently left New-York, and I must be permitted
to make some inquiries concerning its prospects and
the changes which eighteen years must have made
in its appearance. At that time Canal-street, on the

north side, was the highest point which contained
a thickly settled population.”

“The changes in that period have been great.
The compact portion of the city extends for miles
above Canal-street, and the buildings comprised in
the new section are incomparably the most beautiful
and highly finished. Although the trade of London
is so much greater than that of New-York, yet
the entrance to the latter presents a much more
imposing array of shipping than its gigantic rival;
from the fact that in this city they are scattered, and
encased in dry docks, while in New-York the whole
are visible at a glance.”

“And Broadway, I suppose, has also increased in
attraction?”

“Certainly. It is now paved and closely built
upon for nearly four miles. On pleasant days the
throng of carriages and pedestrians which pour
along its pavements and side-walks is immense, and
whatever of beauty and fashion we possess is fairly
represented on such occasions in Broadway.”

“I should like to revisit the scenes of my boyish
gambols. The palace has no doubt usurped
the site of my former humble habitation, and enterprise,
like Midus, transmuted the very earth into
gold.” Here the minister sighed, and for a moment
was pensive.

“True,” replied Clifton, “but unhappily our
national prosperity has engendered an inordinate
desire of gain, which pervades all ranks in society,

until heaven-born Genius descends from its native
eyry to join the debasing strife which ever follows
the footsteps of cupidity.”

“I coincide with you in the sentiment,” rejoined
Mr. Courtenay, “but somewhat doubt the correctness
of its application. Cupidity is the vice of the
age rather than the peculiar attribute of the American
people. Man has in all ages reared some idol
before whom the mass offered incense; and since
war has doffed his helmet, and military glory ceased
to dazzle, wealth, with its handmaid splendour, is
the popular divinity. That the worship of this baseborn
goddess has drawn down some bright spirits
from the heaven of intellect, is unquestionable, and
like the fallen angels, their energies, equally potent
for evil as for good, lend an artificial lustre to pursuits
which in their essence are vicious and degrading.

“But young America can yet boast of luminaries
whose steady effulgence has irradiated the hemisphere
of literature, and penetrated the regions of
science and of art.”

“For my own part,” remarked Mr. Macartney,
“I am half disposed to defend the world's estimation
of literary pursuits, little as I expect to become a
practical illustrator of their theory. Much as I
delight in the development of those mental and
physical objects which glow and sparkle beneath
the plastic hand of their delineator, I must at times

admit that fame is an ignus fatuus which lures
only to betray.

“When, after great mental exertion, my nerves
are unstrung, my energies depressed and my fancy
incapable of conjuring up one bright image, I sit
listlessly and reflect that I am in pursuit of a phantom
which withers the powers of manhood and repels
the hope of a green old age, I feel that the
shadowy reward is dearly earned, and almost envy
the worldling his unintellectual enjoyments.”

“If I might venture an opinion in opposition to
such well-established authority,” said Clifton, “I
should doubt whether the votary of wealth enjoys
the repose you award him.

“While in the acquisition of gain, his hopes and
fears are continually excited, until sleep is frequently
banished from his couch, and care and anxiety
plough their furrows prematurely on his brow.
And even when he has amassed a sufficiency, and
attempts to enjoy the otium cum dignitate of retirement,
his former pursuits unfit him for either
solitude or social intercourse, and you behold him
the victim of inanity and mental idleness, dragging
out a weary existence—unblessing and unblessed.
Contrast with this the bright visions which visit the
solitary study of the child of genius, until they become
a part and parcel of his existence—throwing
over the most common-place subjects which glows
beneath his touch the combined charms of fancy
and reality—impelling him, like Pygmalion, to become

enamoured of the grace, beauty, and majesty
of his own creation, and causing him to repine at
the thought that he cannot bid it leap into life and
return his warm embrace. Oh the exquisite sense
of enjoyment which follows the first successful flight
into the regions of fancy and invention. Like first
love it visits the soul but once. Memory consecrates
it in her baptismal font—nor can after sorrow—or
poverty—or despair efface the impress from our
hearts”

“In faith,” said the mercurial Italian Count, “I
begin to suspect that our trans-atlantic friend is an
author in disguise. Who knows whether we are
not indebted to him for the celebrated productions
which are setting all London by the ears?”

“If I were that invisible personage I fear a removal
of the mask would effectually quench the public
enthusiasm,” said Clifton, blushing at the truth of
the random shot; “nothing takes like mystery.”

“You are right,” returned the Count. “Years
since, while passing a convent near Genoa, I caught
a glimpse of a lady in a veil, walking pensively in a
garden attached to the ancient structure. My
fancy instantly converted the damsel into a beauty
in distress, and I remained watching her movements
until she disappeared beneath the gloomy arches of
her prison-house. The next day found me hovering
near the scene of her solitary musings—like the
spirits of the departed around the confines of Elysium,
until she again appeared. In a few moments,

on stooping to tie her slipper, I perceived a foot
whose diminutive and well-moulded proportions
would have captivated the heart of a Chinese emperor.

“This completed the spell, and the next moment
found me at the foot of the wall, affixing to a small
stone a most pathetic invitation to the fair incognito,
to leave the convent in my company—stating that
if she would but appear at the same point, I would
at midnight be prepared with a fleet steed to bear
her to a safe and honourable retreat. Hurling the
missive and letter over the wall, I glided behind the
thick foliage and remained for a time quiet, lest
some intruder might have detected the attempt at
communication. At the appointed hour I was on
the ground equipped for flight; and the first salutation
I received was the grasp of three stout monks,
whom my incognito, the Abbess, aged fifty, had
stationed to seize me. With unfeigned contrition I
begged for quarter, which was after a time granted;
and even unto this day the sight of a veiled beauty is
repugnant to my feelings. If the world was of my
way of thinking the wand of mystery would be
hereafter powerless.”

“And yet,” said Mr. Elgin, “mystery is the parent
of knowledge. What attracted my footsteps to
the Egyptian shores, and caused the visit to her
time-defying Pyramids? Mystery. What induced
me to hang with rapture over those beautiful productions
of art which ancient Greece has preserved
—the relics of ages lost even to tradition? To

penetrate the mystery that surrounds them. What
impelled a Galileo to investigate the laws that
govern the systems of which our globe is the centre,
and brave persecution in defence of his theory?
Mystery. This being the case, my dear Count,
never rail at mystery again.”

“I stand rebuked,” replied the good-natured
Count.

“But a truce to metaphysics. What say you,
gentlemen, to a song?”

“Mr. Courtenay must I think be taxed for its
production. Gentlemen the call is peremptory.”

“With your permission, gentlemen, I'll amend
the motion, by soliciting Mr. Clifton to sing in my
stead,” replied Mr. Courtenay. “Unfortunately for
my fame in the social circle, my voice is incapable
of warbling forth sweet sounds.”

“Whatever may be my defects, either in voice or
execution, they will not prevent the attempt to
amuse this goodly company,” was Clifton's reply,
and he accordingly sang the following

Wit, sentiment and good humour regined at the
festive board during Clifton's stay, and he left impressed
with respect for his kind host and his
friends. As he reached his residence he turned to
take a last look at the heavens glittering with
myriads of stars—but as his glance was momentarily
directed to the opposite side of the street—behold,
beneath the lamp again appeared the form of
Ellingbourne—his pale countenance and its haggard
expression more striking than before. Clifton
but looked, and with a shriek, fell senseless on the
threshold!