University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Sedley.

I know not whether any philosopher has
ever made the observation, that, the heart which
is the most susceptible of gratitude, is also
the most readily excited to revenge. But
it is a truth which, for its confirmation, requires
not the testimony of philosophers. It
has human nature for its foundation, and experience
for its support. Indeed it is reasonable
to suppose that he who is very sensible of
kindness will be equally so of injuries. Both
feelings spring from the same source, acuteness
of sensation. Hence the frequent saying in relation
to a man of sensibility, that he is either a very
warm friend, or a very bitter enemy. There are
indeed exceptions. But to what rule is there
not? There may be, nay, there actually are,
kind and amiable people whose sensibilities are
altogether on the side of good nature. But

these are generally tame and inefficient beings,
who are either devoid of sagacity to see when
they are injured, or destitute of courage to
show resentment.

Such was not Adam Balantyne, the worthy
and able master of a classical academy, which,
sixty years ago, flourished near the village of
Dilworth on the banks of the Brandywine.

Balantyne was a man of sensibilities almost
morbidly acute. He was kind, benevolent,
and rigidly honourable. The poor and oppressed
always shared his aid and commanded
his sympathy, while the splendid and the
haughty, were the objects of his aversion or
contempt.

Balantyne was a native of Scotland, and descended
of a respectable family which had long
flourished in the neighbourhood of Kilmarnock,
in Ayrshire. Being a younger son, he knew
from his earliest days, that on his own exertions
alone must he depend for subsistence.
He, therefore, industriously availed himself of
the opportunity which his father afforded him,
of acquiring a good classical education, and in
due time entered the University of Glasgow,
with the view of becoming a minister of the
Scottish church.

Possessing all the characteristic good sense
and industrious habits of his countrymen, Balantyne's
progress in learning, and his correctness

of deportment while at college, were all
that his friends could wish, and afforded promising
omens of his future comfort and respectability
in life. His studies, however, were
chiefly of that theological and mathematical description,
which tends more to store the mind
with abstract knowledge, and strengthen the
moral and religious feelings, than to enlarge
the understanding, impart experience of the
world, or refine the taste and polish the manners.
In short, although not exactly qualified
to shine in a world where showy talents and
bustling accomplishments, rather than strict
integrity and solid acquirements, are the instruments
of success, he was well fitted for the quiet
and useful profession he had chosen; and had
the fairest prospects of passing a contented and
happy life as the venerated pastor of some
peaceful congregation in his native land.

But destiny had otherwise ordered it; for according
to his own frequent and forcible saying:

The first thing that seriously disturbed the
mind of Balantyne, and produced any agitation
in the even tenor of his course, was that feeling
which almost invariably creates the earliest
important commotion in the lives of men,
namely, love. From the same feeling also
proceeded all the untoward events which embittered

his latter days. Yet, Oh! love—
thou divine, but mysterious passion! let me not
do injustice to thee! If to Balantyne thou wert
the cause of long and acute suffering, thou wert
also the source of unspeakable joys. Thou
gavest to his arms, in holy wedlock, a being
on whom he doated almost to sinfulness, for
he adored her as, his conscience often told him,
his Maker alone should be adored, with the
whole intensity of his heart—the whole energy
of his soul.

This beloved being was a native of Perthshire,
and had come to Glasgow, where she
had some affluent relations, for the completion
of her education. Balantyne was in the
last year of his studentship, when he became
acquainted with her. The susceptibility of his
feelings has been already mentioned. The impression
made upon them by the charms of
Mary Stuart, for that was the name of the
lovely one of whom we are speaking, were
never, while life lasted, to be effaced. He
wooed her affections, and he gained them. But
their marriage was, for the present, opposed
by her father. In about two years, however,
Balantyne had the good fortune to receive a
call to the ministry of a very respectable congregation
at Crieff, in the vicinity of the residence
of his beloved, whom shortly after his

ordination, he had the happiness of making
his own.

The felicity of our young clergyman continued
uninterrupted for nearly three years, in
which time he was made the delighted father
of a blooming daughter, the perfect image of
her mother. But then there came a blight—a
cruel, incurable blight, upon the too exquisite
happiness of the sensitive Balantyne. The
charms of his young and lovely wife, had attracted
the attention and awakened the licentious
passions of a gay officer of a band of
military stationed at Crieff, who immediately
formed the resolution, in despite of all consequences,
to gain her over to his wishes. Her
virtue, however, prevailed against his arts; and
he was foiled in every attempt to seduce her
affections. But aware of the sensitive feelings
of her husband, she was unwilling to inflict
upon them a wound so severe as she knew would
follow a disclosure of the unhallowed attempts
that had been made upon her fidelity. She
concealed them, therefore, in her own breast,
at the same time taking every precaution to
avoid giving the officer an opportunity of repeating
his insults. But lieutenant Hazelton,
was too deeply enamoured, and too slightly
imbued with either moral or honourable principles,
to be deterred from his pursuit by the
proofs he had received of her inflexible virtue.

He soon discovered that she had not apprised
her husband of his conduct. From this circumstance,
he augured favourably of his final success.
He now determined to ingratiate himself
into Balantyne's good opinion, by affecting
seriousness and piety. The unsuspecting clergyman
thought him sincere, and admitted him
to his intimacy.

Mrs. Balantyne herself began to be less
alarmed at his presence. He had by letter
assured her that he exceedingly regretted his
behaviour towards her; and she believed it
possible that he might be really sincere in his
professions of reform. Still she entertained
sufficient doubts to render her vigilant and
guarded against any renewal of his misconduct.
Her reserve but inflamed his desires. His
impatience became too strong for restraint; and
he, at length, since he found artifice ineffectual,
began to meditate violence. For this purpose,
he secretly watched her movements, followed
her in her walks, and even lay in wait around
her dwelling, to discover when she might be
solitary, and unprotected by her husband or
domestics.

Alas! that wickedness should ever triumph!
But such is the ordination of Providence. It
is to us mysterious that it should be so. But
we have only imperfect conceptions of the final
result of things. With such conceptions we

cannot but feel troubled when the wicked succeed
in guilt, and are permitted, for the gratification
of their criminal purposes, to destroy
the happines of the innocent. If, in our trouble,
we should grieve at the existence of undeserved
calamity, we trust that the limited conceptions
with which the Dispenser of all gifts, has endowed
us, will be admitted in extenuation. It is
surely natural to deplore whatever appears to us
unmerited evil, although it be presumptuous and
sinful to doubt that it tends to a just and beneficent
end.

The unrelenting wolf seized the lamb by
surprise, when the shepherd was away, and the
fold unguarded. Mr. Balantyne was absent on
professional business. He had but two men
servants, who were both gone on some distant
duty. A female servant alone remained at
home with her mistress. Lieutenant Hazelton
found means to attach this girl to his interest.
The opportunity was tempting. He embraced
it. At his approach, the girl withdrew from
the house, and left her mistress to receive him
alone, which she did with dignified but constrained
composure.

“My dear madam,” said he, “excuse my
bold intrusion at this happy moment. I have
been so long banished from your society that I
have on this occasion, resolved to encounter all
hazards to be alone with you, if but for an instant,

that I may ascertain whether there be no
possibility of softening your feelings towards
me.”

“Do you mean, Sir,” she replied, “to repeat
your former insults? If so, I shall be
obliged to call my servant to my protection,
and have your base conduct exposed to the
world.”

“Your servant,” he observed, pointing to a
window which looked into a lawn of considerable
extent, “you perceive is beyond your
hearing. Your husband and your other domestics,
I know, are all at a distance, and cannot
interrupt our interview. Be patient, therefore,
while I say that my passion for you is as ardent
as ever.”

“Lieutenant Hazelton,” said she, “do you
not consider this conduct dishonourable? Your
intrusion, under the circumstances you describe,
is mean, and may, in the eyes of an ill-judging
world, be injurious to my reputation.
I beseech you, therefore, if you have any regard
whatever for my welfare, to show it by
immediately departing from this house.”

“What!” he exclaimed, “shall I forego an
opportunity of happiness like this! No, by
heavens, loveliest of women, you know not
the extent of my passion, nor the terrible
lengths to which it is capable of driving me,
or you would not ask it. Oh! resist me not—

rather sooth, and molify, and quiet the burning
that is within me—the flames enkindled by
thy beauty, or I shall become distracted—frantic—mad—unfit
to answer for my conduct.
Oh! drive me not to violence!”

Seeing determination in his countenance, as
well as fury in his words, she was seized with
despair; she grasped a kitchen knife which lay
on a table near her. But she was irresolute to
use it, and he soon wrested it from her. The
scene became appalling. I shall cease the description.
A terrible crime was perpetrated,
and the happiness of Mr. Balantyne in this
world had terminated for ever. He returned
to receive the heart-rending account of the fatal
calamity from the pale and trembling lips of a
dying wife. She breathed her last in his embrace.
He took his infant daughter in his
arms. He laid her beside her dead mother.
The child placed its little hand gently on the
cheek now insensible to its pressure. The
father thought of the murderous worker of that
terrible change—the spirit of revenge seized
his whole soul. The meekness of the Christian—the
forbearance and the magnanimity of
the clergyman were forgotten—the feelings of
the man, the lover, the husband—the outraged,
the bereaved—the cruelly bereaved husband,
raged furiously in his bosom, and triumphed
over wisdom, patience and Christian duty.

The destiny of Balantyne was changed, and so
seemed his nature. He imprinted one long
kiss on the lips of his wife and child. He then
hastened to a closet, whence he took two pistols,
and loaded them. He then wrote as follows
to his father-in-law.

“I go in search of vengeance or of death.
Either or both will be welcome. Take care of
my child!”

He proceeded to the quarters of Hazelton.
He was not there. But he told the tale of his
grief, and the intention of his visit, to another
officer, whom he requested to convey a challenge
to the murderer. The officer readily undertook
the task, expressing his admiration of
the courageous magnanimity of the clergyman
who sought satisfaction in this chivalrous manner,
rather than, by bringing the criminal to the
bar of justice, reduce him to the disgrace, which
he justly deserved, of dying as a felon.

“Haste to the murderer,” cried Balantyne.
“Bring him to my presence. No hand but
mine must inflict upon him the vengeance
for which the spirit of my murdered saint so
loudly calls. Oh! I burn for justice! The
operations of the law would be too slow to allay
the fever of revenge that glows within me, and
agonizes my whole frame!”

“I admire your energy and your courage—”

“Speak not of my courage!” exclaimed

Balantyne, impatiently interrupting the officer.
“I have none, for death will be welcome to
me. Only let me destroy the fiend who has
murdered my beloved, and I shall even be glad
to receive death at his hands, that my fate
may be like hers. Haste on thy errand, if ye
have any compassion for my wretchedness.”

“The villain shall meet you,” said the officer,
“and that, too, immediately. If he refuse,
I will brand him as a coward, spit in his face,
and drag him by the hair into your presence.”

In about fifteen minutes the meeting took
place. The culprit approached the injured
husband, pale, trembling and conscience-struck.
Until informed by the officer, he knew not that
Mrs. Balantyne, whom he had left in a state of
indescribable mental agony, was actually dead.
The news struck him like a thunderbolt to the
heart; and, in passive silence, he attended his
conductor to the presence of the avenger.

“Ha! comest thou, fiend of destruction!”
cried the enfuriated Balantyne, in tones that
made the criminal tremble in every joint. “I
am commissioned by Eternal Justice, as the
avenger of blood. But I will not destroy thee
defenceless. Take either of these weapons,
and kill me, and end the wretchedness thou
hast caused; for whether thou dost or not, by
my hand thou shalt assuredly die!”

Hazelton spoke not—he scarcely raised his
eyes from the ground. But he took one of the
pistols. The officer separated the opponents ten
paces, gave the signal, and Hazelton fell to the
earth with his death-wound, without having
lifted his weapon against his adversary.

“God of mercy!” exclaimed Balantyne,
when he heard the groans of the fallen criminal,
and saw that he had not defended himself.
“I am a murderer!—I have embrued my hands
in the blood of a human being! My wretchedness
is complete—for I am an offender against
Heaven!”

His words failed him. He groaned bitterly.
All his desire of vengeance, and with it, all his
energy had fled. His eyes rolled fearfully in
their sockets. The light left them. His teeth
chattered, his hands became clenched, his
knees trembled and bent under him, and he
fell upon the ground convulsed with the most
intense pangs of terror and remorse.

Hazelton looked up and saw his pitiable
state. “I am the author of all this calamity,”
he cried. “My death is approaching. I am
justly slain. Tell that good man, that he has
not committed a murder, but a righteous act;
and inform my friends, that it is my dying
request, that he shall not be prosecuted. Oh!
what a change from the innocence and happiness

of yesterday, to the guilt and wretchedness
of to-day! Oh! beware; beware of hearkening
to the suggestions of unruly passions!”
—So saying, he caught the hand of the officer
with a death-grasp, and expired.