University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Shakspeare.

The agony of remorse in the mind of Balantyne,
being thus superadded to the pangs of
grief, threw him into an alarming fever, accompanied
with frightful delirium. The care
of his friends, however, and the natural vigour
of his constitution, carried him safely through
this complication of bodily and mental suffering.
But it was not until the lapse of several weeks,
that his delirium subsided sufficiently to permit
such an exercise of the memory as enabled
him to form an accurate conception of what had
happened. Since the occurrence of the fatal
events until the taking place of this favourable
crisis, a continual chaos of distressing images
had agitated his mind, and communicated to
his ravings the terrific wildness of maniacal
frenzy. Time, however, the great soother of
all sorrow, gradually restored him to health
and tranquillity, though not to happiness. His
daughter was now the sole object of his attachment;
and on her account only, was he desirous

to live. Indeed, except in what concerned
her, he felt no interest in the affairs of the
world; but for her sake, he was willing to
struggle, for some time longer, with the miseries
of an undesirable existence.

On recovering sufficiently to bear the fatigue
of a journey, he felt it necessary to withdraw
from scenes which perpetually reminded him
of his former happiness and his present misery.
He, therefore, removed with his daughter, to
the place of his birth, in expectation that the
revival of youthful associations, might mitigate
the severity of the grief which preyed upon
his heart. Time and the attention of his friends,
aided this change of scene, and restored his
feelings to, at least, a partial state of tranquillity.
But to remove his grief altogether, was out of
the question. It had taken too firm a hold on
his heart. Like an instrument of torture it had
grappled too fiercely with his feelings, not to
leave behind deep and permanent vestiges
of its power. Who, indeed, has endured
a calamity like his, that could ever forget it?
Nor was it the calamity alone that rendered his
reflections tormenting. His conscience told
him that he was guilty of blood; that he had
slain a human being; thereby infringing the
majesty of the law, and snatching from offended
justice, the sword which she alone ought to
wield. In vain did his friends urge, when attempting

to sooth the stings of the compunctious
visitings that festered in his bosom, that
the injury he had sustained was so peculiar and so
aggravated, as to form an extenuation, approaching
almost to a justification, of the punishment
he had inflicted on the perpetrator of the horrible
outrage that had destroyed his happiness;
and that, although he had acted under the influence
of feelings driven almost to madness, he
had regulated his conduct by the most rigid
rules of honour. The verdict of the world was
therefore in his favour; and while all liberal
minds commiserated his misfortunes, they
awarded him applause rather than censure for
the manliness of his proceedings.

These suggestions had little other offect than
what proceeded from the kindness which they
manifested on the part of his friends, in tranquillizing
his mind. The idea of having destroyed
human life, was intolerable to his contemplations.
The sense of the injury he had
endured daily became weaker, while that of the
deed he had committed waxed stronger. Time
may be a curer of grief, but it is no remedy
for remorse. The heart which is innocent may
become resigned to remediless misfortune, but
every recollection of guilt is a renewal of torment
and terror.

The sorrows of Balantyne had, as may well
be supposed, incapacitated him for his professional

duties. Time, therefore, by lying heavily
on his hands, contributed greatly to preserve
his thoughts in the melancholy direction
they had taken. He became, at length, sensible
that idleness but fostered the malady that
tormented him, and, if relief from his sufferings
was at all to be obtained, it could only be
from occupation. He had been advised to
travel; and he began to believe that remoteness
from the land of his misfortunes, if it should
not obliterate their remembrance, might, at
least, weaken their impression.

With this view he turned his eyes towards
the North American colonies, then beginning
to acquire a high degree of importance in the
estimation of the people of Europe. The colony
of Pennsylvania, in particular, was viewed with
much interest, on account of the wise and humane
policy of its institutions, the benevolent and
peaceful character of its principal settlers, and
the rapid growth and prosperity of its chief city.

To this land, therefore, which to the imagination
of Balantyne, seemed a new Arcadia just
arisen in a virgin world, as yet unstained with
those crimes and calamities, the memorials of
which met him at every step in his native
island, he resolved to go, and endeavour to
bury, amidst its tranquil shades, all recollections
of the disasters and sorrows with which he had
been so severely tried. All his effects were

soon turned into money. A passage was secured
in a vessel bound from Greenock to
Philadelphia, and the heart-rent Balantyne, accompanied
by his child and her nurse, bade
adieu to his early friends and his native land
for ever.

After a tedious passage of ten weeks, the
fugitive from sorrow was landed in October
1764, at Newcastle. He made but a short stay
in that place, nor did he explore the country
long in search of a residence. His imagination
had long figured to him some sequestered spot
amidst the peaceful shades of Pennsylvania, as
his destined home, where he should enjoy
tranquillity of mind, and watch over the tender
years of his daughter, drawing comfort from
her evolving intellect, her innocent cheerfulness,
and her filial attention. He, therefore,
hastened at once beyond the line of Delaware,
and on entering Pennsylvania, he almost felt,
so strong was the power of long-cherished
imaginings, as if he trod on charmed ground.
He resolved to wander no farther in search
of an abode. He heard of a small plantation
which was for sale in the vicinity. He
visited it. It was situated on the north bank
of the Brandywine; and the neat dwelling
that was upon it, appearing to his fancy both
secluded and picturesque, he resolved that it
should be the termination of his pilgrimage.

He became its purchaser, and hiring a couple
of servants as cultivators of his small farm, his
mind became tranquilized in the possession
of a home which seemed to be beyond the
reach of any of those stormy currents of life
which agitate and beset the more busy and
populous districts of mankind.

His daughter was at this time about five
years of age, healthy, lively, interesting and
faultlessly beautiful. Many a long look of parental
fondness and solicitude, did Balantyne
take of this dear relic of his days of happiness;
and many a solitary hour did he pass in meditating
on her present state of innocence and
freedom from care, and in praying to Heaven
that it might never be reversed by any calamities.

Neither the education nor habits of Balantyne
had qualified him for secular business, and his
heaviness of heart, rendered him still more indisposed
for active exertions as a husbandman,
than he might otherwise have been. In a few
years, he became weary of attending to the
affairs of his plantation. He rented it, therefore,
to one of his servants, retaining in his
own possession only the dwelling house with a
few surrounding acres. He now gave himself
up entirely to studious habits, and to the education
of his daughter. Such a course of life,
however, was soon found to produce injurious

effects on both his mind and his body. His
health began to give way, and the remembrance
of the deed which occasioned his remorse,
returned with almost its former violence.

It happened, fortunately for Balantyne, that
he had for some time past attracted the sympathy
of a benevolent and intelligent Quaker, resident
in the neighbourhood, who courted his
intimacy, and gained his confidence. The
name of this respectable member of the peaceful
sect, was Elias Meredith. He had been
made acquainted with the story of Balantyne's
sorrows, and he felt a strong interest in his
welfare. He became grieved to witness the
daily increase of the melancholy that preyed
upon one he esteemed; and he had the sagacity
to perceive that want of occupation afforded
the heart-burning malady an unobstructed opportunity
to commit its ravages.

“Friend Balantyne,” said he one day that
he found the latter labouring under an unusual
depression of mind, “thee knowest that I
feel for thy condition. I will, therefore, venture
to give thee advice, which, I believe,
thou wilt take in good part, whether thou wilt
adopt it or not. I have observed, that thy
heaviness of spirit hath increased greatly, since
thou hast given up attending to worldly matters.
Thee attendest to no business, and thee

followest no amusement. There is nothing,
therefore, but thy attention to thy child, to
divert thy thoughts from subjects of sorrow.
This is not sufficient to preserve either thy
body in health, or thy mind in tranquillity.
Does thee not think, that a more active life
would be better for thee?”

“It might be so,” replied Balantyne. “But,
alas, I have no energy for such a life. My
chief desire is to implant the principles of virtue,
and the precepts of wisdom, in the mind of
my daughter, and my only enjoyment is to behold
them take root and flourish there.”

“It is a natural desire—it is a laudable enjoyment,”
replied his friend. “But I may say unto
thee, as the wise man saith, `The way of the slothful
man is a hedge of thorns.' Thee hast found
it so; for since thou hast had nothing to do,
thou hast been pierced to the quick.—I would
advise thee to follow some employment by
which thy thoughts may be diverted, and thy
time rendered useful.”

“I appreciate the wisdom of your advice,
and I am aware of your friendly motives,”
said Balantyne. “But I am reluctant to relinquish
meditations which, however painful
to my heart, and detrimental to my health, are
sacred to my imagination; while to the sorrows
they inflict, I feel it a duty to submit as to a
penalty due for my transgressions. And to

what end should I employ myself in the affairs
of the world? I am unskilled in its ways, and
have no relish for its doings. If I were to embark
on its current, having neither energy nor
experience to direct my course, I should in all
probability, be baffled in my efforts, and perhaps,
lose the little competence with which
Providence has supplied me for the use of my
child.”

“I would not have thee undertake what thee
knowest not how to perform,” answered the
prudent Quaker. “But I know thee has skill
in many things. Thee is a learned man, and
could teach the youth of the country, by
which thee might become useful to thy neighbours,
and increase thy own provision; whilst
thy mind would be employed on subjects that
would not, as now, render thee miserable.”

“I should, indeed, wish to be useful in that
way,” said Balantyne; “but I fear I am incapable
of undergoing the drudgery of such an
employment. And I know not whether I should
sufficiently evince my attachment to the memory
of my beloved wife, if I were to permit any other
subject of contemplation to occupy her place.
No; thou beatified spirit of my murdered
saint! thy husband shall never cease to contemplate
thy virtues and deplore thy loss!”

“Friend Balantyne,” said Elias, “thee
seems, at present, too much affected to receive

the counsel I would give thee. But if thee
will be calm I will reason with thee. Does
thee think that thy wife's spirit knows what
thee now does or feels?”

“I would not for worlds believe otherwise,”
answered Balantyne. “To hold, in imagination,
that communion with her, of which in
her home of bliss, I feel her to be conscious,
lends to my heart the sweetest throb that my
earthly existence can afford.”

“Thee is fanciful in thy enjoyments,” observed
Elias. “But thee knows that thy
thinking too much really makes thee unhappy.
Besides thee neglects thy duty to thy neighbours,
for thee has power to be useful, and I
think thee has also the desire. If thee would
make an effort, I think thee would become
pleased with occupation which would be a relief
to thy mind, and profitable in a worldly
point of view.”

“As to worldly profit,” said Balantyne, “I
care but little. I have a competence for myself
and my child. I have no desire for splendour;
I have no ambition for power. What
then would the accumulation of riches avail
me?”

“Thee mistakes me,” said Elias; “I would
not have thee to be industrious altogether from
mercenary views. But, as I said before, thee
has a duty to perform. Thee can be useful,

and should not permit the talent that is given
thee to remain unprofitable.”

“Your remarks, I acknowledge, are just,”
said Balantyne. “There is wisdom in your
speech, but, alas, as you cannot feel what I
feel, you cannot judge as I judge. Yet I am
pleased with the interest you take in my concerns,
and am thankful that there is one man
in the land wherein I am a stranger, who
wishes too see me happy.”

“I am, indeed, interested in thy welfare,”
said his friend, “and as thee takes my interference
in good part, I do not despair of being
useful to thee. The spirit of thy wife, now in
Heaven, feels, as thee believes, an interest in
thy present well-being, and in that of thy
child:—does thee not wish thy conduct to have
her approbation?”

“Truly I do; and I trust it has;” replied
Balantyne.

“I fear thee is mistaken,” said Elias; “a
blessed spirit like hers never can approve of
grieving uselessly, or of living uselessly.”

“Ah! what hast thou said?” asked Balantyne
with emotion. “That touches me sorely.
Can she disapprove of my grief, when it is for
her I grieve? or can life be spent uselessly,
which is spent in penitence for a deed of rashness
and of guilt?”

“Friend Balantyne,” said Elias, calmly, but

firmly, “I wish not to inflame but to sooth the
wounds of thy mind. Bethink thee that thy
wife is now happy. Does thee grieve for
that?”

“Oh! no—I should not,” ejaculated Balantyne,
thoughtfully. “Perhaps I have been sinful
in grieving so much.”

“As to thy deed of rashness,” continued
the Quaker; “can thee think that by the guilt
of ruining thy health, and, perhaps, shortening
thy life, thou canst atone for it? Assuredly
one crime cannot be propitiated by the commission
of another. Thee is a Christian, and
knows where lies the true propitiation for sins.
Thee is a divine, and art aware that amendment
and utility of life, rather than lamentation
and penance, are the acceptable offerings
to the Deity.”

“My sincere friend and counsellor,” cried
Balantyne, catching the Quaker by the hand,
“thou speakest truth. I delight to hear thee.”

At that moment his little Mary, for his
daughter bore the name of her mother, came
into the apartment, and ran smiling towards
her father. He caught her in his arms, and
affectionately embraced her. His friend availed
himself of the incident.

“It is for that child's sake as well as thy
own,” said he, “that I would counsel thee. She
is now lively, cheerful and happy. She is

yet too young to have caught any of thy mournful
manner. But a short time will enable her
to perceive thy affliction. If thou throw it not
off, she will feel for thee, grieve with thee,
and become as unhappy as thyself. For her
sake, therefore, suppress thy discontent; cast
off thy gloom. Set her an example of industry,
and, if thee can, of cheerfulness, and her
mother's spirit will undoubtedly bless thee.”

“Ah! you have touched a chord that thrills
through my heart,” cried Balantyne. “Best
of my friends, you have prevailed. I shall endeavour
to forget my sorrows; and if I should
not mix much with the world, I shall endeavour
to be useful to it. I am resolved to adopt
your suggestions, and become an instructor of
youth, so that whatever else my conscience
may lay to my charge, it shall not henceforth
have to accuse me of idleness.”

Balantyne kept his resolution. He established,
convenient to his residence, a classical
Academy, where many of the youths of that
day, who afterwards became active in the busy
scenes that agitated the country, received those
stores of knowledge, and that cultivation of intellect,
which enabled them to acquit themselves
with so much ability, amidst the important
scenes in which they became involved.