 | CHAPTER IV. Logan |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Behold Harold now in his room—his head resting
upon his hands—a tear! can it be possible?—a tear
trickling through his fingers. Verily, the Indian must
be broken in spirit! Hark! that is the pulsation of his
heart—and that—listen! that is his breathing, so almost
articulate, as if he were suffocating in his sleep.
`Where am I?' he cries, striking the table with his
hand—`what have I done? Am I mad? Yes, I am—
mad, mad, beyond the reach of palliation, or excuse.
He could not have been a lover—he is not—by heaven,
he is not! woe to him, if he be! People that love, do not
show it so openly, at least, in publick. And yet, damn
it, he cannot be a relation; relations do not yearn for such
familiarities—her hand held in his, unresistingly—
pshaw! who cares for her hand now? Once, it was
distinction, to touch it—shame, shame, on her! base,
unfeeling woman!'
`But * * but—what am I?—I!—can I complain?
Where is my fidelity? Loena!—O, thou art bitterly
avenged. This is jealousy, devouring jealousy—
feeding like a serpent upon my brain. Who is he? No
matter. Brother, lover, friend—it has taught me one
lesson. I have been a scoundrel! Heaven forgive me!
I repent, deeply repent. Loena! love! living or dead,
thy triumph is now complete! I am thine, and thine
alone; mine only love, my dark-eyed Indian girl.'
Yes! the conquest was now complete. Harold was
now firm of heart. Nothing could shake him. Once determined,
he was forever immovable. Composed by
this resolution, self-sustained, and self-restored, He
slept this night a more refreshing sleep than he had,
since he met lady Elvira on board the vessel. And this
night, for his reward, he dreamt that he held her whom
he did love, though for a while he had forgotten, in the
his heart; and felt her bosom throb against his, in purity
and love, in timidity and passion, of purity in its
perfection, and love in its sublimity.
He was awakened, in broad day, from a blissful
dream, in which he had recapitulated all, all of his
transgressions to her, and been forgiven, and blessed—
by a servant, who handed him a note. It was as follows:
`I was distressed at your conduct last evening: we
go into the country after dinner, and we expect you to
go with us. Before, or on the way, if I have an opportunity,
I shall speak of some occurrences that have taken
place.'
Was such a note to be disregarded? No, surely not.
And Harold, of course, was again by the side of Elvira.
Not, however, the feeble and irresolute creature that
he may seem for awhile; but he was there. She never
appeared more captivating, more majestick. Her blandishments
were, what few could resist, but yet, Harold,
whose spirit was now in armour, did resist them. He
had been told, and he delighted to repeat it—Beware
of precipitate promises, beware of rash resolutions—Be
slow to resolve, but speedy to execute. But having
once made a resolution, (as he now had to overcome
his attachment to Elvira, for Loena's sake,) whatever
it be, keep it—keep it, for life and death. Was it weak,
rash, precipitate? keep it and punish yourself. It will
teach you more caution and wisdom. Not so, if you
could set yourself free from it, when you pleased. You
would then, never be wise. Besides, it takes away all
dignity from your resolutions and promises, if you are
known ever to break them, under any pretence. Do you
fear a change? Then learn to make them conditional.
Such was Harold's reasoning, and, therefore, it was his
way, nay it was his religion, to keep his promises, good
or bad.
Was this right? Harold had persuaded himself that
it was. But he was asked, `Suppose you had promised
to kill a man, would you kill him?' `Assuredly,' was his
reply.
They, that heard him, shuddered. They forgot to
ask, if he would ever promise to kill a man. That he
would never do, even in a passion. Why? Because, experience
had made him wary. He was careful not to
promise, because, he knew that he must pay the penalty
of his wickedness and folly, by performance. Others
might commit murder in their hearts, threaten, and lie,
and repent. He did not. They were contemptible. He,
at the worst, was only wicked.
`I have much to communicate to you,' said lady Elvira,
in an impressive tone, as she seated herself by his
side. `Be prepared for something that will try you. Do
you know who you are—your parentage?'
`Yes,' said Harold proudly, `a Logan.'
`But your father?'
`An adopted Logan.'
`But have you no curiosity! He was a white, an Englishman.”
`Tant pis,' said Harold, half smiling in scorn, and
mockery. `Harold,' said Elvira, reproachfully, `Harold,
you do not wish to hurt my feelings, I hope.'
`A white!' said he, laying his hand upon her shoulder,
and looking her full in the face, `Yes, Elvira, he
was, but in appearance only, not in heart.'
`Do you know that he was an Englishman?'
`Yes, from what you told me—in no other way. I
never asked. I care not who, or what he was. All white
men were alike to me, (men, I speak of,) treacherous,
cowardly, cruel: all countries were alike, where they
dwelt, the abode of wickedness and tyranny.'
`Patience, Harold, patience. Why what has taken
possession of thee, so on a sudden. Come, come, be more
temperate; remember, we are not in America now. Let
us talk this matter over calmly. You have come here
providentially. You are young, nameless, friendless—
hush, dont interrupt me, in the estimation of men, you
are so. Now prepare yourself, be composed. What
would you say, were I to tell you that your father was
a nobleman?'
`Say!—nothing, except that I was sorry for it.'
—`That you have relations still living—'
`Gracious heaven! I! Where, lady, where?'
`Oh, I thought that I should disturb your apathy.
But remember your promise. Be firm. We shall see
some within another hour—you have a sister.'
`A sister!' cried Harold, leaping upon his feet, and
seizing her hand, with the most impassioned earnestness—`Lady!
on thy soul, do not trifle with me—have
I a sister! O, my God, my God! Yes, dear Elvira. I
will believe thee, I must; thy countenance is too solemn,
for a doubt—a sister! O my heart is yearning to pour
out its gathered fountains of tenderness. Where is she?
O, tell me, dear, dear woman! How passionately I long
to find some living creature related to me—a sister!
O, how I shall doat upon her! I shall lavish all these
inexhaustible stores of affection upon her—all these,
that have been accumulating ever since my birth, in
darkness, desolation, and loneliness. Their seals shall
be melted—but no! no, no—it cannot be. Thou wouldst
not mock me—but, nay, forgive me, I have no sister,
I can have none. My mother died, and my brothers,
and my sisters, all, all! in flame and blood! I alone escaped.
I feel it, I know it. The dream is passed, my
heart is cold again. I am alone again. No living creature
is related to me—alone, alone!'
He covered his face, and sank into a chair.
`No Harold, believe me. I do not speak unadvisedly,
I have the proof. Thou hast a sister—another child of
thine own father, but not the child of thy mother; one
whom thou wilt love, Ah how devotedly! Yea, more—
perhaps thou hast a brother (her voice faltered)—it is
possible; but of him there is a melancholy tale to tell.
Rank and fortune are within thy reach, dependent, however,
in some measure, upon the certainty of his fate.
You do not comprehend. You are bewildered; but, there
are the papers, (as she said this, she opened a secretary,
and handed him a bundle; and Harold fancied, that she
turned deadly pale, as she touched them, and that she
approached them, with a strange reluctance, nay even
with terrour.) `The governour knew the whole, as I
have before told thee, and when he died, he gave me a
part of these papers, with his own hand, bidding me
Nay, do not interrupt me—I have obeyed him.
I have succeeded. I have invoked his spirit to thine
aid, and it appeared. To its prompting I have yielded.
We shall take council, and proceed thoughtfully in the
business. Some years may pass, before you are acknowledged.
But, in the mean time, you are young, ardent,
ambitious, and resolute, with the alphabet of greatness
already at your command; but you want discipline, system,
time and experience. You must prepare yourself,
Harold, for playing no second part in the great drama
of life. What say you? will you, can you devote five
years, with all your heart and soul, to solitary study?—
toil, night and day, for distinction?—forget all your early
habits? and tie your spirit down, hand and foot, to it?
If you will only say that you will do this, we will believe
you, we know that you can; and we, I am authorised
to say this, we will give you elevation, riches, and
opportunity to be what you please. What say you? We
want your promise. That is enough for us, for we know
you. Five years may seem long; but we do not press
you to an immediate decision; we do not even attempt
to influence you. Take your own time for consideration.
But no shorter probation will do for us. There is much
for you to do. To do it well, you must have consummate
experience and self-collectedness. The time appointed
is short enough. You are thunderstruck; but I am obliged
to adopt this manner toward you now. We must
forget all that has passed. Henceforth, there must be no
allusion to it; on your future conduct alone, do we rely.
Read those papers, when you have recovered your composure.
You will have need of much to support you.
There is a stupendous mystery concealed within them.
Perhaps your self-love may be wounded; but that will
soon pass away. You are, naturally, too great a man
to be afflicted long with such weaknesses. No, you need
not look thus. I do not flatter you, you know that I do
not. I never did. I never will. Among them, you will
find two miniatures, one of your sister, and one of your
brother. O, you are roused, I perceive! Well, well,
you may look at them a moment—but dont tear the
done!'
Harold tore open the bundle, and soon discovered the
miniatures, and pressed the first, without looking at it,
to his lips—his eyes filled—he wiped them and looked
at it —he wiped them again—
`My sister! that my sister!' he cried, in a tone of
unutterable horrour. He groaned aloud: the picture fell
from his hand, and he sat staring at Elvira, his noble
countenance full of preternatural vacancy and terrour.
It was the picture of Elvira herself.
She shrieked aloud, at his aspect. His eyes were
motionless, and, as her hand approached him, he shuddered,
and shrank from her, and his knees smote together.
`In the name of heaven! what ails thee Harold, dear
Harold?' she said; but he gave no answer; he only covered
his ears with his hands, as if he had gone raving
mad, at the sound of her voice.
Her eyes fell upon the picture. She took it up. She
was amazed. `Merciful providence!' she exclaimed,
how came it there! It was shivered and bloody when
I saw it last! It was upon his bosom. Who can have
had it! Whence came it?' She began searching, with
hands that shook so as to prevent her from untying the
ribbands, and she was obliged to tear them asunder,
breaking seals and all. She soon found a third miniature.
`There, Harold, there! dear, dear Harold. Look at
that—that is thy sister—poor girl. No wonder thou
wast death-struck. Harold! Harold! rouse thee!'
She held the miniature to his eyes—they shut involuntarily;
she shook him; and, at last, a deep sigh burst
from his labouring heart; he attempted to rise, and
walk, but he did not appear to feel the floor; his joints
yielded, and he fell. `Where am I?' said he, putting
his hand faintly to his forehead, upon which the thick
clammy moisture of death was standing, `where am I?
lady!—Who art thou? Why am I pinioned thus. I
knew it not. No, by my hopes of salvation! No! What
have I done? I know not. Speak to me, lady, hast thou
tears, bless thee lady! I am not then utterly reprobate.
That picture—take it away—there is one exactly like
it, hot, hot, burning in my brain; put thy hand here
lady, here!—dost thou not feel it—Ah!'
Elvira wept over him, soothed him; and after a
while, ventured to repeat the name of sister. His lips
quivered a little. She then produced the picture, the
true picture. He appeared to recover. The wildness,
and fixedness of his look departed. He pressed her
hand, and arose, and sat down by her, upon the sofa—
still partially bewildered.
He was holding the miniature of his sister now in his
hand. He looked at it—brought it nearer, and then turning,
with a melancholy smile to Elvira, he said, `pray
tell me, lady, Elvira, what has happened to me? Have
I been sick? The last that I can recollect is, that—pray
is this the portrait of my dear sister—what is her name?
`It is—her name is Caroline.'
`Well, I could weep heartily over it. Do you know
that just now, when I first took it into my hands, its
countenance appeared to change—yes change!—aye, Elvira,
I protest to thee, that it looked for a moment like
thee. What a strange delusion! I fear that I am not well,
my temples are sore; there is an odd, whirling sensation
in my head; and I remember that it grew suddenly dark
about me, when the face changed. What did I say?—
Have I had a fit? Surely,—lady, look at me—what has
happened?—Thou hast been weeping.'
`No matter now—' said the delighted woman, `all is
well now—'
`What a heavenly countenance!' cried Harold, poring
devoutly over the beautiful picture, `such serene
dark eyes? What colour are they?—not blue surely—'
`No—I hardly know what they are—I only know
that I have mistaken them, at night, for black, when she
was a child, and that they were always exceedingly
beautiful.'
`How smooth and high the forehead!—the blue veins
rippling over it—like delicate stains over the transparent
leaf of a magnolia—how beautifully arched—her
O, what sweetness and purity! what intelligence—love
her!—O, I love her already, as if we had
been a thousand years acquainted. But come, let us
see my brother, ha! ha! ha!'
`What do you laugh at, Harold?
`Ha! ha! ha! I am thinking of the strange sensations
that I just had. It appears to me that I have lost my
memory. I have heard of shocks, apoplectick, I believe
they call them. Perhaps this was one—'
`What! Harold. You amaze me. You cannot surely
laugh at such an event.'
O, no. not at that, but I laugh at—wasn't it very
strange, dear, that I should think this face looked like
thine, and yet I did—I protest to thee, that I thought
it exactly like thee. But, while I was looking at it,
it changed—indeed it did?'
While he was speaking, he took the other miniature
from the hand of Elvira, who appeared unable either
to look at it or relinquish it. He turned his eyes to it
—he appeared bewildered for a moment—he put his
hand to his forehead—he held the picture at different
lengths, now afar off, and now near, with a continually
increasing astonishment, now shutting his eyes, and now
turning them off, as if unwilling to believe his senses—
`By heaven, and all its angels!' he cried, at last, in a loud
voice, springing from his seat, `it is he!'
`Lady—is that—that!—(the picture dropped from
his hands into her lap,) is that the picture of my brother?
The brother of Caroline, the sweet Caroline?'
`Again, Harold!—you alarm me. Another paroxysm—'
`O, Oscar! Oscar,' cried the agitated Indian, `O, would
that I had known thee! Thou fierce and implacable
spirit, would that I had known thee!'
Elvira stood apalled at his convulsive agitation. His
voice rung through and through her brain. `Oscar!
she echoed, `who hath dared to pronounce thy name,
before my presence? Oscar!—O, let my malediction
—'
`Forbear! forbear!' cried Harold, plucking down her
agitated hands. She obeyed, and they sat down, unwillingly,
as if they had no power to support themselves,
or resist some outward pressure; as if their very bones
were made of wax—unwillingly, and in silence.
Harold told her when, and where, he had met the
original of the picture. She was stupified with astonishment.
She could not believe him. It was impossible—
impossible!' she said, vehemently, `on board of the same
vessel, with me, and I not know it! Oh no! Harold, by
my hope of salvation, I do tell thee that it could not
be; I should have felt Oscar's presence thrilling my
very blood, had he been so near me.'
`Stay,' said Harold, `perhaps this will assure thee.'
He opened a little folded pocketbook, and took out
some scraps of paper with an agitated hand. `I found
these,' said he, `upon the deck, after he left me; I saw
him throw away a handful of paper, but the wind blew
a part of them back to us. Do you know the handwriting?'
`Alas! it is true, true,' she answered, in a broken
voice, `but stay,' (she began to read here, and the colour
came and went, with terrifying rapidity over her
face,) `O yes! yes!' she cried, clasping and lifting her
blue eyes to heaven—Father! thy will be done! It was
he, he himself!'
A part seemed to be in a female hand; but there were
marginal notes in another character. Harold attempted
to read them again, and succeeded in decyphering a
few legible sentences.
— — thy destiny!—what knowest thou
of thy destiny? — — Infatuated man!
—A murderer—the slayer too of thy sister —
— — O, Oscar! Oscar! — defend
suicide!—
To this was the following note: `Yes!—I do defend
it. What right hath any one to bid me live? Who cares
for Oscar? May I not, at my own free will and pleasure,
risk my life and limbs, in charity, battle, or adventure?
Then have I a property in them—but—'
`That I have loved thee (was written in the former
character)—passionately, I do not pretend to deny.
That I no longer love thee, I will not attempt to say.
It would be false, if I did. No, Oscar, I do love thee,
I shall love thee to my dying day—But — —
— — I dread thee — More to be
feared than beloved. — — Who would
dare to couple her fate with thine? — —
— — — — — —
Hast thou not — said that it was perilous —
— and when I told thee what she said, didst thou
not reply, and tell me, yes, yes! it is too true. She is
thy best friend — She does not wrong me.
Thy courage is terrible—to think of marrying one like
me — — Didst thou not? — —
— And when I have seen thy rivetted brows
—thine intensely bright eyes fixed, in deadly wrath,
upon some other eye—and heard thy suppressed, but
terrible voice, denouncing some one, upon whom it
seemed to fall, syllable by syllable, like a curse—did I
not tremble—joint and marrow—and can I love thee?
O, Oscar! — — — farewell! farewell
forever! — — — —
— Hast thou — forgotten that night? O never
shall I forget it?—thine unhallowed trespass—thy
strange levity—thy suffocation—agony—thy brief repentance—O
Oscar!—Thy convulsive sobs—I hear
them yet?—thy hot tears—I feel them yet—my heart
was blistered as they fell. — — —
— and yet, I forgave thee!—Is it forgotten?
Was not that a proof of my love, unbounded, and impassioned
as thine own? — — —
—No, no, it is all over now. — farewell forever! —
Repent, repent, I conjure thee. A murderer thou art
already—a madman perhaps—but O, Oscar, O my beloved,
thou, whom I must never see again. Oh, put
not the seal of blood and death, forever and ever, to
thy consummate guilt—O, be not, I conjure thee, thou
most wayward, and desperate man, be not a self murderer'
— — — — —
To this was a note also, in the following words—
`No, no. She did not, I should have worshipped thee
—did I ever aught—said I ever aught, unkindly to thee,
woman? No, never, never! I should have died over and
over again, without one look of reproach, or coldness
—nay—have I not been dying—and loved thee yet.
Was not my heart bursting more than once, and did I
ever wrong thee. — — — —
A murderer!—no—I am a martyr.' — —
The tears fell fast from the beautiful eyes of Elvira,
as she assisted, in assembling the fragments, and decyphering
them, which she did, with an avidity and readiness,
that Harold afterwards thought extraordinary.
`That was thy brother, Harold,' said she, as he deposited
them again in his pocket-book, `thine own
brother; and never walked there, upon this earth, a more
god-like spirit. May God forgive him! The fine gold
became dim, clouded; with a profane foot, and a desperate
hand, he plucked down the image of his Maker,
from the place of his sacrifice, and put up a man in
armour, reeking with blood—a creature whom he called
Ambition. But, he is gone, gone, with all his colossal
attributes and transgressions—O, may it be that
he went, as thou thinkest, in a delirium, insensible to
the awful weight of his obligation to the Eternal!'
`These papers,' she added, laying her hand, with a
convulsive shudder, upon a part of the bundle, which
was tied with a blue ribband, stiffened and discoloured,
`relate to his life. They were tied with his own hands.
They have never been untied since. That ribband is
wet with the heart's blood of an enemy—one whom he
slew, before his own family altar, in the very presence of
his household gods!—Read them. Beware. Thou art
fashioned like him, Harold, and the lesson should sink
deep, very deep, into thy soul.'
Harold was chilled to the heart. There was something
so awful and admonitory in her voice.
`But who art thou, lady?—who, and whence?—that
transgressions.'
`No matter,' she replied with dignity—`no matter.
Remember mine admonitions, as thou wouldst prosper.
Watch thy temper. Crucify thy pride. Trample to the
earth thine arrogant, overbearing spirit—O Harold, I
beseech thee, as I have besought him, with a sore heart,
aching and trembling with prayer for ye both—Be a
good man.'
She was upon her knees. All at once, a light broke
in upon him. He caught out his pocket-book again, and
examined the writing of the female.—It was not to be
mistaken!—he was breathless.
`Lady Elvira—have I not heard thee pronounce the
name of Oscar before—even in America!'
She covered her face with her hands.
`O, now I see it, all! noble, excellent creature! I see
it, all! I feel it, all!—my sister—beloved of my brother
—thou, who didst abandon—but dost lament my brother—heaven
bless thee!'—He embraced her, and mingled
his tears with hers.
Their silence was interrupted, by the entrance of a
servant, to announce that the carriage was drawn up,
and Mr. Hammond waiting: once more, then, they
joined hands, like a brother and sister, and soon came
in sight of several beautiful cottages, near a large mansion,
upon a hill.
It was visible, like a bright spot, in a wide amphitheatre
of glowing verdure, long before they were near
it. The hand of Elvira was upon Harold's arm; and
already had he learnt somewhat of the feelings that are
fraternal—his passionate, tumultuous, overwrought sensations
were chiefly allayed, or assuaged; and now, he
was doubly thankful that he had thus anticipated, as it
seemed, the resolution of Elvira,—and taught his heart
a new lesson of constancy, while it was yet apparently
in his power to be inconstant. Such is ever the reward
of virtuous resolution.
`That cottage,' said Elvira, as they turned the corner
of a narrow road, over which, two rows of aged
elms—interwove their dark and irregular branches,
bright glimpses of the sky were caught, looking as if
the whole heaven were one mirrour, with parts of the
quicksilver, here and there, rubbed off.—`That cottage'
—they caught another view of it—her lips moved—but
no sound followed. Harold understood the silent pressure
of her hand upon his arm—but he, too, could not
utter a word; his heart was too full. It seemed a profanation
to speak aloud, in such a scene, so still, so
beautiful, so serene!
`But,' said the stately old man that accompanied
them, `you ought to be more fully apprised, than I believe
you are, of whom you are to meet.'
Harold, who had begun to endure the scrutiny of
his eyes with tolerable composure, bowed in silence.
It was irksome to be interrupted at such a moment,
with the matters of the world—and insufferably so, if
not impious, he thought, to touch upon lighter affairs,
in a season of such religious beauty. The fine
countenance of the old man was illuminated with a
most benignant smile, as he observed the imploring of
Harold's eye, when he bowed his assent; and still more
was he pleased, when Harold, as he began, threw himself
back in his seat, pulled his hat over his eyes, as if
to hide his emotion, and sat, with his arms folded, listening
to what affected him so thrillingly.
`You are a Cumberland,' said Mr. Hammond. `Your
father was George Clarence of Salisbury, third son of
the last Cumberland. He held a seignory in his own
right: the family were wealthy—but your father was an
extraordinary man—he loved and was beloved—he had
rivals among the blood royal—princes—Enough for the
present. His ungovernable ambition led him to America.
You are henceforth to assume the name.—If you
choose to retain your commission, which seems to be a
somewhat questionable one, to say nothing of its danger—you
will be colonel Cumberland; or, if you will
indulge us so far, we will delight to recognize you as
Harold of Salisbury. Your sister is known as Caroline,
of Salisbury—Cumberland is the family name, to be
worn or not, at pleasure. We cannot invest you with
way of living like a gentleman, and of occupying the
place, to which it is probable, that heaven has destined
you—if you deserve it—a place of authority and power.
I am not at liberty to speak more plainly now. In the
mean time, I do trust, young man (this was said in a
manner strikingly solemn and impressive) that you are
not forgetful of your acknowledgments—no, no—I do
not mean that. You do not understand me. I do not
mean gratitude of so earthly a character—nor does she,
I am sure. Your cheek burns—it is a good symptom,
at the slightest impeachment of your gratitude, for the
favours and indulgences of your earthly friend—but—
remember my words. I would have them engraven on
thy heart. They are the essence of all that I have
learnt, all that I can teach thee, and I am now three
score and ten.—Remember thy Creator.'
Harold felt the rebuke. His heart rose in his throat.
He could have thrown himself into the old man's arms
—as a son, into those of a father—but he dared not.
There was so much sublimity—something so serene
and benignant, so dignified and amiable, in the countenance
before him, that he felt, for the first time, the reverential
emotions of awe and love, at the same moment,
flooding his heart, and rising to his eyes:—that
tribute which they, who are not utterly forsaken and
reprobate, involuntarily pay to the aged and good—the
truly religious and venerable—for the old seem to stand
as especial monuments of divine pleasure—living beyond
their allotted term, almost by a continually repeated
miracle. It is, for we all feel it more or less,
the homage that vice itself cannot withhold from virtue.
In the presence of a religious man, one who has
been sorely tried and perplexed, during many generations
with the doings of Providence, and yet stands upright
and smiling under his gray, thin hair, we seem to
breathe the same air with him, who has long held a
communion, which we are too undeserving, or too
thoughtless to desire, with his Father in heaven—Jehovah—the
living God!—Is there not—I appeal to thee,
reader—is there not somewhat purifying and exalting
perhaps, from a conversation with the Deity—is it not
as if we were one of the men of Israel, that saw the
lawgiver descend from the mountain, where he had
been, while it smoked and thundered with the everlasting
presence.—There is—and Harold felt it.
Harold was constituted of such materials as martyrs
are compounded from. But, like others, his visitations
were forgotten. Whatever kindness came unexpectedly
to him, he was grateful for: but his gratitude diminished,
as the cause increased. He seemed thankful for
nothing that was habitual and familiar to him; to grow
insensible of aught but special favours, and to become
weary, even of acknowledgment. Nay worse—even
the cold, lifeless, habitual exercise of devotion, became
inexpressibly irksome, and dissatisfactory to him, (for
while he felt it so, his heart reproached him for it;) if
heaven were indulgent, for any continued time, to his
infirmities and wants.
From his very boyhood, any unexpected incident,
seeming like kindness, in Him who is habitually kind,
in things where we are most insensible—good fortune,
no matter of what nature—an escape from a precipice,
or a wild beast—the meeting of one that he loved, would
prostrate him upon his face, in the dim solitude, and
he would pray, as the children of nature always do
pray, in breathless and awful silence, pouring out his
very heart in thankfulness.
But, in adversity—in calamity, Harold was apt to
forget his God; to rely upon himself alone. To pray
then, seemed to him, in his strange language, like
coaxing his Maker. `He knows what is best for me—
is unchangeable, and why need I importune him?' Harold
was young yet—thoughtless, and obstinate. He
knew not then, for he had never asked himself the question,
that a father may appoint some mode of application,
for his child to pursue in his petitioning, even
when he knows every of its wants, and has already resolved
upon his course. Prayer is the appointed medium,
(this is no cant, reader—I am not, and never
was, what people call a religious man—still less am I a
Jew nor Turk, Christian nor Mahometan—all my religion
consists in the belief of one supreme Being, to
whom we are all accountable—and that, if we do as we
would be done by, it is all that He requires—for man
to show his dependence upon, submission to, and confidence
in, his heavenly Father. But, let us return.
Harold was none of those that suffer their conscience
to repeat their condemnation, over and over again. No!
And when that monitor once stood up, she was recognized
and acknowledged, if her countenance were solemn,
and her port princely. On this occasion he felt
that he had been forgetful of his kindest benefactor, his
truest friend, and he determined, on the spot, no longer
to stifle the natural gushings of an affectionate spirit,
toward that good and great Being. Here began the
reformation, the radical and thorough reformation of
Harold. His heart was sore with its own effort to purify
itself, and had been so, for a long while; but never
had he seriously and solemnly undertaken to cleanse it
of all impurity and wickedness till now. His first step
was his self-denial respecting Elvira; that accomplished,
all others were easy in comparison. It is with virtuous
as with vicious resolves, each hour's acquaintance with
one, makes us fitter to be acquainted with another.
Every act, of either character, is but the link of a long
chain, which by a propensity of our nature, easily perverted,
we seem determined to carry—and every link
that is lifted, renders the remainder easier and lighter
to be borne. A few bright thoughts, like angels busy
on messages of mercy, passed rapidly through his brain,
during this short ride, and purified and illuminated it,
with the speed and effect of lightning. He was a better
and wiser man, from that moment. The scales fell
from his eyes. Thus, a casual movement of the waters,
had tempted him to go down and wash, and be well,
when they might have been troubled forever, more violently,
without affecting him. A slight reproof, apparently
accidental, though not truly so, (for the old man
was a being of that provident benignity, which will not
obtrude its kindness or admonition unreasonably,) had
with severe disappointment, travail, weariness and affliction
had ever done for him.
He lifted his eyes to those of Mr. Hammond, to
thank him, but was startled at a new, yet strangely familiar
expression in his face. `Surely,' said he, almost
audibly, `I have seen that face before.'
Elvira heard his voice, and asked the reason of his
astonishment. He repeated his remark with an air of
singular perplexity. `Do you not remember the little
man of the woods—your familiar—you are amazed, I
perceive. He is a relation of your guardian here, I
find—and, accompanied your father to America. He
returned with us in the same vessel, without my knowledge,
until a few days before our arrival, when he
made himself known to me, and commanded me, in his
strangely imperious way, not to inform thee. He appears
to be strongly attached to you, Harold—but I
must apprise you that he has been delirious at times,
and that he prophecies much evil against you. You
smile—but he says that you shall die a violent and sudden
death; and bids you be prepared for it, declaring
that he is commissioned to tell you so. Nay, do not
look so very serious—some impression I should wish it
to make, but it would be weakness to let it disturb you.'
`He is commissioned,' said Harold, solemnly.
The mansion was again in sight; for they seemed to
have been travelling round and round it, without approaching,
for a whole hour. Harold had kept his eye
upon it for some time, watching it, as the carriage gradually
rose and sunk, in the undulating and circuitous
road, by which they wound up the beautiful hill upon
which it was built. The cottages about, were literally
embosomed in greenness, and encumbered, roof and
lattice, with a profusion of brilliant wild flowers, shrubs
and vines. Far to the left was a clump of disordered,
broken, and decayed trees, from whose remains the
mouldering bark was, here and there peeled off, leaving
the wood beneath of an intensely white appearance, in
patches and stripes—and these were all hung around
with the brightest verdure—newly sprouted, of a most
tresses, and bunches;—so exceedingly fantastick, and
vivid, and beautiful, as to seem the sport of the mischievous
creatures, that delight in mocking at decay
and ruin, and busy themselves in burying dirt and rubbish,
under a vegetation of tenfold brilliancy and richness.
From this spot, there commenced, and ran entirely
over the hill, in a waving line, a mass of shrubbery,
chiefly in flower, and changeable with all the varieties
of purple, yellow, white and green, here and
there intermixed with some delicate trees, that, shooting
up with a lone, bewildered aspect, from the flowers
below, and spouting, at the termination of the limbs, in
gushes of clustered foliage, vivid as emerald, and
changeable all over, as the wind blew upon them, like
bunches of coloured feathers—and looking, at a distance,
where the branches, which were often exceedingly
slender, could not be seen, like something afloat in
the air, motionless in general, but incessantly active at
times. A sheet of water lay below—far, far below,
shadowed, on one side, by an irregular entrenchment of
young willows, that gave the very depth a tinge of
green—till it looked, all about, like floating herbage:—
a dark cloud hung over another part, blackening it to
the far shore—while, over the other side, the waves
were rippling in the light of a setting sun, now brilliant
as a sheet of flame, and now, as the faint wind went
slowly over it, resembling an agitated mass of clouded
gold,—while the wavy outline of shadow was confined
by a broad halo of ruddy and sparkling light—and
sprinkled all over with white and blue pond lilies, drifting
in ambuscade under their green leaves.
A thunder shower had just passed off, and there was
a transparency in all the green things about, surpassing
all that Harold had ever seen. The foliage looked, or
at least so Harold loved to conceit, as if it were thankful
for having been newly washed from the dust, and
gave out its beauty and freshness, as an offering to Him,
who had just purified the air and earth. At the extreme
north of the sky, directly in the centre of a perfectly
it to the very bottom, as could be seen from the
high hill that overlooked it, like a pile of huge and
broken rock, rampart and parapet—there was a part,
and only a part, of a broad and beautiful rainbow, of
the most brilliant tinting, to be seen. It appeared to
be a solid column of coloured spar—a pillar of fire and
crystalization. It shone, as if inlaid, in the very blackest
part of the cloud, and terminated abruptly; not as
rainbows generally do, in a fading and aerial tint, that
defies you to say where the splendid arching hath
ceased:—a little higher up, it could be traced again in
a brighter part of the sky, after the eye had been long
searching for it, by a faint, delicate gleaming of rose
colour and gold, much narrower than the base in the
shadow, and resembling, from the tendency of the
sweep, another rainbow. Add to all this picture, which
is no creature of the fancy, the variety of verdure and
hue—the nearer leaves, in the fore-ground, shining and
dancing in the wind, like coloured ising-glass—the farther
ones, of a bluer and graver aspect and movement,
and all finely dying away, on the one side, in a glowing
sunset, and on the other, under a preternatural darkness.
On the very verge of the horizon, the village steeple
shot up, like a white steady flame, into the blue air;
and just by the bend in the pond, a fort had been erected,
from which floated a broad banner of many colours,
upon the wind, with a singularly cheerful effect. The
smoke too, from the little hamlet of white, nestling
cottages, was beautiful, just emerging from the chimneys,
and running along, almost in a straight line upon
the damp atmosphere, with a density and whiteness,
made remarkable, at this time, from the deep green and
blue of the far landscape, and the black sky beyond.
Harold had the eye of a painter, although he could not
paint; the heart and soul of a poet, although he held,
to his dying day, that it was no proof of ardent, pure,
or natural feeling, nay, nor of religious feeling, to talk
over your raptures, at such a moment, either in verse
or prose. No!—the heart swells and swells—the wing
language or sound, even of musick, breaks in upon, like
some unholy visitant—it is, like the feeling of first love,
when the loving and beloved wander together, for the
first time, in the starlight—too happy, far too happy—
to talk, with just enough of life to press each others'
hands with full eyes, and fuller hearts.
Harold was startled from his reverie, by the stopping
of the carriage. Reader, let us stop with him. The
old man's eyes were yet upon his countenance, with a
smile of complacency, as if he understood and approved
his meditations.
Harold offered to assist Elvira—she was deadly pale,
spoke not, but gave him her cold hand, and alighted.
A moment more, and a slight, beautiful form flashed
down the avenue, broke through the trees, and was instantly
pressed to Elvira's heart.
Elvira whispered something to her, and then gently
led her to Harold. `Are you prepared, my dear Caroline,'
said she, `to welcome your new brother?'
Caroline raised her sweet, clear, timid, innocent eyes;
and Harold dropped upon his knees before her.
`My brother!'—said she, in a voice hardly audible,
`my dear brother!'
`Thy brother! dearest! O, yes, I am thy brother! I
feel it here—and here—all over, in every artery and
pulse.'
He arose and embraced her, holding her to his desolate
heart, as if all that earth contained dear to him,
was then within the circumference of his arms.
Elvira stood near, contemplating the scene with a
mixture of delight and sorrow; her look was that of
one who rejoices in the happiness of others, even while
the sight of it brings back many melancholy, and some
deadly recollections.
Our party were soon in the house, and every servant,
old or young, soon discovered something to be done in
the very room where they were. Some, with sidelong
look and averted faces, were adjusting the vines, at the
long window shutters, directly fronting Harold, although
road—while others, which were behind him, were utterly
neglected, although in need of all their attention.
Harold observed all this, and felt an innocent gratification
in detecting the artifice. Every face looked
kindly upon him; but he was more especially gratified,
when a decrepid old woman, of amazing vivacity and
almost blind, stood before him. She trembled all over
at the touch of his hand, and when he spoke, she uttered
a faint cry.
`A Cumberland! a Cumberland!—aye, go where ye
will, the world over, ye would know one of the blood,
by his voice. Were I blind and deaf, I could tell him
—yes, that I could, (running as she said this, her trembling,
withered, little hand, over his high forehead, and
peering closely in his face)—by the touch alone. Very
dark—very dark, but masculine'—She stopped abruptly.
`Young man,' said she, `my master—Salisbury—
Cumberland—Harold, or whatever may be thy name,
God is good. Remember him. Mayest thou have all
the virtues of thy blood—none of its follies!'
`Follies, dame,' said Mr. Hammond, `speak plainly
to the young man. This is no time for mincing matters.'
`Well then, if it please your worship, vices. Remember
thy father—thy brother—do thou rightly, as
thou wouldst shun their sorrow. O, heaven have mercy
on them both! They were noble creatures!'
`Dame!' replied his worship with solemnity. `It is
false—false!—They were not noble. Great qualities
they had, but them they perverted, polluted, degraded,
trampled in the dust. No! they were ignoble, for they
were wicked.'
`Sir,' cried Harold, respectfully—`Spare me. I am,
as I now find, a son, a brother. Whatever may have
been their transgressions, now surely is not the time to
rake among their ashes.'
Caroline lifted her soft eyes to him, so meekly, that
he could hardly refrain from kissing them. They were
wet—and as she did so, she leaned somewhat more
Harold was very apt to excite at first, by his stern expression,
and erect, imperious carriage, was fast melting
away, before the thought of the affectionate girl. He
put his lips to her white forehead; and it crimsoned all
over, like a flash of red fire—her very neck and bosom
grew ruddy too. Harold's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
So innocent too! said he, and so lovely. But loveliness,
and innocence, and purity, cannot be separated.
Mr. Hammond turned a look of approbation upon
him, and was silent; not, it was evident, that he was
intimidated by Harold's reply, or sorry, or exhausted,
but merely because he had said all that the occasion
seemed to require. He never lost an opportunity of
this sort. He always rose to reprove the unthinking,
when, dazzled and confounded by some magnificent
criminal, they lifted up their voices in his defence. He
had lived long, he used to say, and he had seen more
evil principle, more wretched paradox, gain a seat and
an abiding place in the hearts of society, by the unprincipled
or thoughtless approbation of high talent, or
enthusiastick tempers, than from any other cause. He
looked to the goodness of a man, as the only standard
of his greatness: and he stood, like a giant, in his denunciation
of them that dared to hold up greatness as
distinct from goodness. `No!' he cried, `the simplest,
humblest act, of the humblest human creature, is really
greater, if it make a fellow creature wiser or happier,
than any deed, though it convulse an empire to its
foundations, and shake the four corners of the earth
with the noise of its trumpeting.' Such was his doctrine.
The sadness of lady Elvira now became painful to
all. She observed it, and knowing her own power,
either to cloud or brighten whatever she approached,
she strove to recover her self-possession; but, the effort
was too distressing, and why should she make it? was
she not among them that loved her? them that were indulgent,
and kind-hearted? yet, she was repeating the
attempt, when a harp suddenly sounded in the apartment
from her seat, and an involuntary exclamation of terrour
broke from her lips—and even Caroline, Harold
thought, looked paler than usual; but, unacquainted as he
was, with the delicate proprieties of life, he had an instinctive
and quick perception of what is proper on such
occasions, and therefore took no notice of the sound, nor
of the emotion and dismay that it seemed to have caused.
After a few moments' conversation, Mr. Hammond
took his arm, and led him out upon the lawn, in silence.
The clouds were passing away. Over one part of the
sky, however, there still hung a portentous and strange
darkness, while the other was of the deepest and most
luminous blue, apparently solid, like a vault of sapphire,
with the star light shooting out of it, into the dimness
of their uplifted eyes, like rays from a broken diamond.
`What a sky!' cried Mr. Hammond. `Almighty
Father! this is the work of thy hands.'
These were the thoughts of a man, in his simplicity
and strength. These were the aspirations of true religion.
In exclamations like these, so fervent, and unpremeditated,
Harold, who knew little and cared less,
for all the artificial distinctions of men, could mingle
all the immortality of his nature. His bible he had
read, but not as a critick—not as a theologian—not as
a votary of science—no, but, as one who was affected
by its simplicity, and uplifted by the sublime walking
of its spirit. No!—but he read his bible, when he read
it, which, it is true, was not often, and loved it, as a
book containing all that was needful for the government
and instruction of man, whether in sorrow or suffering,
or throned and sceptred. That he was perplexed with
parts—disturbed by parts—he did not deny; but he
found all that was necessary for his happiness, here
and hereafter, so plain, so beautifully plain, and simple,
that he could not misunderstand it. As for the
meaning of heresy and heterodoxy, and orthodoxy, he
cared nothing. They were but other names to express
what the bible did not—the infallibility of man. No!—
exactly in proportion to the immateriality of a doctrine,
obstinacy and ingenuity of them that professed it.
Therefore did Harold, in the first yearning of his heart
for higher attainments, learn to abhor and reject whatever
was inscrutable and mysterious as either unnecessary
or pernicious, in morals and religion, just as in
the commonest affairs of life. The commandments
were plain—so were some other principles and laws.
Do as thou wouldst be done by!—that was his favourite.
It was his religion in so many words; a religion too,
from which, if he departed under some fierce and unexpected
excitement, his heart never let him rest, until he
had returned to it again.
`What a sky!' echoed Harold—long, and long after
his companion had forgotten his own voice. `A studded
canopy of blue crystal, dropt with fire.' Harold
was not trying how well he could express the thought
of his nature at such a moment, but rather he spoke as
if the thought would have way, as if it had fashioned
itself in the solitudes of his heart, associated itself with
a resemblance, like a chosen and natural companion,
and then burst, spontaneously, into being.
`I do not know,' said his companion, `that I ever
before saw such a sky in this country. I have, in Italy
—or perhaps, and I dare say there is much reason in
it; perhaps, I am at this moment, one of the happiest
that I ever spent, particularly disposed to turn mine
eyes and thoughts upward; to ramble about infinity, and
to doat and dwell on every green thing, and every living
thing, that is within the embrace of my thought,
or reach of my vision. Ah, we are happy, here, say what
we will, my dear child; and happiness so far over-balances
all our sorrows, that it is a sin to complain, under
any affliction.'
`I do believe it!' responded Harold, devoutly. There
was an energy in his manner, too convincing to be
doubted.
`Yes, my son, it is so; and the sooner you begin to
yield yourself entirely to that belief, the sooner you
will be what you desire, a good, and therefore a great
man; for you will be nearer the best and greatest of
communion with his angels. Beside all this, you will
have an unfailing support in all tribulation.'
`I have found it so. I can now look back upon all
my disappointments, and trace them step by step, to
their consequences and causes, said Harold, `until I
can see them end in something beneficial. Yes, I do
believe, that I am, at this moment, the better and happier,
for what I once thought would break my heart,
or had broken it—events, which I did not wish to survive,'
said Harold.
`Yours is an enviable disposition,' answered Mr.
Hammond; `encourage it. Whatever happen, look for
consolation. Do not, as many do, seek to aggravate it.
Think how it might have been worse—think of what
you have left. Remember those who suffer more, and
have less to comfort and uphold them, than yourself.
If you lose a friend, and he be wicked, comfort yourself,
that he has escaped an additional weight of guilt,
if good; that he has not lived to fall.'
`My own experience, sir, short as it is,' answered Harold,
`has taught me this; to look with distrust upon
all events. Hitherto, what I have deemed, at the moment
of enjoyment, or in the avidity of anticipation, as
the especial and long-sought happiness of my life, has
never ultimately proved so; and what I have too often
received as a calamity, has generally proved the reverse.'
`Perhaps, my young friend, there is a reason for
this in our own constitution. If suffering come upon us,
we become wiser, more cautious, kinder, avoiding temptation
and offence. But if good fortune visit us, we are apt
to fall into forgetfulness, insensibility, negligence, excess,
and arrogance. Take a familiar example. A man is led
into some expense, that upon cool reflection, he finds
his circumstances would not justify. As an honest man,
he not only determines to avoid a repetition of it, but
fixes immediately upon some plan of retrenchment,
which probably leaves him a richer one at the end of
the year, than he would have been, had he not first
been extravagant, or unfortunate. On the contrary, it
lose it in lotteries—so too, by any other means,
without labour, as by inheritance or marriage. A sudden
accession of wealth, is, in nine cases out of ten,
the destruction of the soberest man. And I will venture
to declare, that within my experience, there is no
man who has not died poorer for all the prizes that he
has drawn in any of these lotteries. Who are the rich
men? They who were born poor—the aged?—they who
were once at the point of death, and learnt caution—
the good? they that have been wicked.'
`They, who have robust constitutions, are less likely
to live to a good old age, than others who are sickly.
The former are rash, and perpetually plunging into
danger; the latter are cautious, on all occasions. Take
another example. A boat upsets. Who are the drowned?
they that could swim—for they abandoned the boat,
while they that could not, clung to it, and were generally
saved; and usually, if you hear of one being drowned,
it is some one that could swim, and was headstrong,
and daring. So with morals—Reputation, and confidence
in ourselves, are often our destruction; while distrust
ever preserves us, from every trial and temptation.'
`A lottery, sir—I have heard you mention the word
before—pray, what is it?'
`Are you really so ignorant? I am glad of it. It is a
legislative gambling.'
`Gambling! I do not understand—is not gambling a
vice?'
`Yes, when perpetrated on a small scale. It is prohibited
in private, and among them who have few
amusements. Laws are made against it. It is reprobated.
The pulpit and the stage, and the forum ring with
denunciations against it. A professed gambler is little
better than an outcast, living by his plunder and
depredations. But, mark the difference. The very
government that prohibits small gambling, as ruinous
and improvident, in every shape, and leading to the
worst encouragement of man's worst vices—his avarice,
cunning, and laziness, will set on foot, countenance,
a gambling table for millions!'
`How!—for what purpose?'
`Why, to build a church! a bridge, or a monument.'
`A monument! what is that? I am exceedingly ignorant,
I confess.'
`Some useless edifice; a column for example, of
stone masonry, erected at an expense that would build
an hospital for the scarred, and wind-beaten veteran—
to perpetuate what?—the virtues of men that cannot be
forgotten.'
`A great man. Is it necessary? Are great men so
soon forgotten, here? Are monuments common?'
`I am amazed at thy simplicity, Harold. Thou art
indeed, a child of nature, a republican after God's own
heart. It is, to speak seriously, an idle and profligate
waste of money; a shameful and useless piece of ostentation;
as if the truly great, and their memories, would
not outlast all monuments. And yet, thousands of poor
creatures are made to contribute, by ministering to
their vices, to the erection of some Babel—and deluded
into the most destructive habits, under the fascination
of the game. No—if we must have monuments, let
them be useful asylums for the indigent. Was the great
man a hero, the deliverer of his country, there should
be a refuge for them that toiled with him in that delivery,
or for the afflicted of their posterity. Beside, it
is a wicked and foolish precedent. Every publick man
must have his monument, in time.'
Harold stood leaning over the gate, under a huge
oak, and listening, with all his soul, to the calm, honest
speculations of his companion, respecting lotteries,
and gambling, and monuments.
`Gracious heaven!' cried Harold, at length; `but
what respect can men have for such laws? The same
deed punished as a crime, denounced and scorned,
when done in one way; and yet encouraged, proclaimed,
and trumpeted forth, as pious, charitable, and patriotick,
if done in another!'
`Nay, this is not half,' quoth the other. `A debtor is
not deterred from adventuring desperately in a lottery;
will be his spirit of adventure. He will invest his funds,
as a sure resource, in lottery tickets, reasoning thus:
`What I win is mine; what I lose is my creditors'.
And this is strictly true. In the former case, he goes
on, and flourishes away, till new distresses drive him to
a repetition of the same adventure; in the latter, he becomes
a bankrupt. It is no reproach to have grown rich
by a prize; hence, he is not to be deterred from the lottery
office, though he be from the gaming table. Of
whom, does the winner in a lottery, take his winnings?
generally, from the poor and needy; them that are not his
equals, and cannot afford to lose. Nay, from men who have
starved their families to raise the money, which he has
won. How many of the poor and miserable, infatuated
by the success of some unknown speculator, by worrying
penny from penny out of famine and nakedness;
have finally accumulated enough to buy a chance in
some lottery—bought it—and spent the period of expectation
in a fever of restlessness and idleness, expecting
`a prize!' for it is in vain to deny it—every man expects
a prize, or he is a fool for buying a share.'
`Is not all this worse than gambling? In gambling, you
win from your equals. In a lottery, from the very blind,
and maimed, and starving of society; at least, in part.
Gambling is, therefore, less base and sordid of the two.
And is it not, as if heaven so judged it, and dealt
out the maledictions of the poor and disappointed?
Look about, and see what has become of the fortunate.
The reason is plain. There is no miracle, no judgment,
no especial interposition of heaven. He who has drawn
a prize, becomes a gambler in every thing. Sober acquisition
is drudgery to him. No maxim is more universally
just than this; whatever is with difficulty acquired,
is with difficulty lost. Who are the rich and
great?—they that were poor and little. Let no man gamble,
if he would be permanently respectable, and least
of all, in lotteries. Another reason why they are worse
than faro tables, is, that there is no publick obloquy attached
to him who has enriched himself by the former,
that beset him, But—'
`But, what a sky!' he repeated again, laying his
hand affectionately upon Harold's uncovered head.
The moon was at the full. The abundant foliage, the
changeable willow braid, the distant elevations, were
all shifting from alternate shadow of the deepest hue,
to the lustre of a mild and beautiful light. Not a sound
fell upon the ear. The water below, lay like a sheet of
pearl, gently tremulous, and glimmering, as if to the
tread of something spiritual, or to some subterranean
agitation; while an occasional bubble, breaking in the
deeper part, or a sharp, quick ripple, as some insect was
suddenly snatched by a glittering creature, that just
twinkled along the surface, disturbing the shadow and
smoothness, like a flash of fire, under the willow trees,
now and then arrested the eye.
`Do you see that star?' said the venerable man?
`How very bright!'
`I have seen that very star in daylight,' said Harold
—it is an old acquaintance of mine; at least, so it appears,
even in this hemisphere.'
`In day light! where?'
`In my own country. At four o'clock in the afternoon,
I have seen the whole sky of this same deep
purple, nay, deeper, almost black, and with all the evenness
of a midnight sky—the sun burning with a golden
splendour, and a star or two, within its very halo,
distinctly visible.'
`Can it be!—how do you account for it?'
`We attribute it there, to the elevation of the land,
but I am inclined to ascribe it to the singular clearness
of the atmosphere. Some of its phenomena are very
striking. For leagues and leagues, nay, from horizon
to horizon, you can see the most delicate smoke. At
first sight, judging from the experience of a more northern
climate, I have been led to estimate distances as
at home: and have believed, that a few hours' travelling
would bring us to a smoke, toward which we have
actually travelled for whole days afterward, without
appearing to approach it. You would hardly credit it,
animal, which we have butchered and left bleeding,
would dry up without any symptom of putrescency—
giving out no offensive odour, and literally exhaling
their juices, as by a chemical operation.'
`It is very warm then, I suppose.'
`No; not more so, than in more northern climates;
or at least, not so, as to be sensible to us.'
`What a beautiful firmament it must be.'
`Yes; but, like all others, it has its drawback. It is
blinding, in its effect upon the eyes. Many of the natives
are blind; and, of our party, when I visited it,
many became totally so.'
`Another instance of that equality of distribution
in the gifts, and blessings of heaven, which we have
been speaking of. But you mentioned other phenomena.'
`Yes; and I will enumerate some. Our liquors would
dry so fast, that some of our party could scarcely be
persuaded, that others had not robbed them. I remember
once, when the colour of the sky was particularly
striking, for its exceeding clearness and depth of blue,
that three of us left our encampment, for the purpose of
visiting a huge mass of rocks, that appeared, at the furthest,
only a few hours travel from us, and actually
lowering above our heads. We could distinguish the festoons
of wild, creeping plants upon them: and the divisions,
strata, and coloured veins, were distinctly to be
traced; but we travelled a whole day and night, and then
gave up the attempt, unable even to conjecture the distance.
It happened, however, soon after, that we visited
part of this same mountain. It was one of a vast
chain. Our company were about eighty hunters, with
their horses, buffaloes, tents, and game. A part of
us ascended the mountain, when we found that the
trailing vines, as we had supposed them to be, were
trees of gigantick dimensions; and that what we mistook
for veins, were, in reality, immense cavities, fissures,
and chasms. That we might the more easily return
to the spot, whence we departed, we took for our
guide, a glittering white rock, resembling, in its altitude
the heads of our party. We soon lost sight of it, however,
and on our return, were first struck, while looking
for it, with what appeared to be a bright star. We
approached; it grew larger, but not brighter, until we
found it to be the whole rock. In other climates, you
know, an object like this, waxes dimmer and dimmer
as we leave it. This did not—it only grew smaller and
smaller, and was as bright when we first saw it, as when
we were near—Ah!—do you hear nothing?—'
`Yes, something from the water, like mournful musick.'
Harold trembled—`It is very mournful,' said
he—`gracious heaven! I have heard that before—that,
in the very wilderness of America—O, I remember it
well—my father used to sing it to me, in my childhood.
I have never heard it since—my mother too!—perhaps
it is her voice—hush!—hush!—Dost thou believe, good
old man, that the disembodied are ever permitted to
revisit the earth for any purpose?'
`Art thou serious?' said his companion, in an agitated
voice.
`Yea, to the furthest and holiest solemnity of my
thought.'
`Well then, I will utter that to thee, which I never
uttered to any human being before—I do believe it!—I
have seen and heard the departed.'
Harold quaked as if he were communing with some
spiritual one, and saw all the mystery and terrour of
the charnel house, laid slowly open before his eyes.
The musick seemed to approach. A clear and tender
voice accompanied it. `It is of earth!' said Harold,
`but I could almost believe that my own dear mother,
to whom I am sure, my father, when he was happy,
taught that song, was visiting me. O, there are no associations
of memory so tender, so soothing, so beautifully
touching, as those of musick. You feel as if her
harp, hung up in the desolate apartments of your heart,
were taken tenderly down, by some loved and departed
spirit, and touched kindly again, with all the inimitable
delicacy of another world, and all the truth of life.'
It was a harp! and Harold heard it for the first time.
There was nothing artificial, nothing difficult, even to
away, and he stood like one entranced, waiting on tip
toe, to catch the first sound of something heavenly in
its approach. A momentary intermission, and then followed
a recitative so expressive, so sweet, and so passionate
withal, that he clasped his hands involuntarily,
and the tears stood in his eyes—the voice rang in his
very heart, like the note of a silver bugle, blown at
midnight, over the dim water.
`Let us go in, Harold—the night dews are heavy,'
said the old man, taking his arm. `Caroline's voice hath
more witchery, there.'
`Caroline! was it she, then, that passed by me in the
wind!—dear Caroline!'
They entered, and Caroline timidly gave her hand to
Harold, who, scarcely daring to believe that a form so
frail, a countenance so delicate and meek, could have
poured out such a profusion of sound, with such compass,
and power, and yet with such exquisite and feeling
modulation, threw his arm around her beautiful
waist, and said in a low, agitated voice, `was it thy
voice, Caroline?'
She smiled, and put back the dark hair that fell over
his forehead, as he leaned toward her, with his whole
soul breaking out of his eyes. `Yes, brother, it was.
Did it reach your ear?' `Yes, and my heart—it is there
yet. I hear it, feel it, in all those sweet, impassioned,
enthusiastick undulations, revelling in its caverns!—
Come, dear, let me hear it once more.'
She shook her head.
`Nay, Caroline, only once more.'
It was in vain to refuse—she was too gentle for that;
so, putting away his fond arm, and adjusting her beautiful
hair, which had fallen over her eyes, she began
another song. Her voice trembled at first, a very little,
but soon became steady; while her bosom heaved, and
her tremulous lip betrayed the deep emotion of her
heart. She felt every word, and every note. It was a
simple and melancholy song, and the expression of her
eyes was so mournful and touching, the smooth, flutelike
tune of her throat so tender and clear, that all
who heard her, held their breath without knowing it.
upon hers, and their intensely deep expression of tenderness:
their hue had changed, they were almost black,
and when her long sweet toning, which appeared so
natural, and so endless, as if her breath would never
fail her, growing louder and clearer, without effort or
suspension;—with her forehead elevated, her eyes uplifted,
and her lashes glistening—when all this awoke
before him, Harold could have thrown himself upon
her bosom, sobbing with delight, and called her his
own, his only sister.
She arose, and when she met her brother's eye, wet
and gleaming like a dark brilliant, she blushed. It was
now time to separate—Harold pressed her pure forehead,
and turned to depart.
`O, no, Harold—no!'—said Caroline. `That must
not be. We have arranged all this. Our guardian
here, says that this is your home.'
`Home!' cried Harold, inaudibly—the sound was so
delightful to him—to be at home, at last, when he had
looked for it only in the green earth. His heart breathed,
as it were, in tears that had flowed from the soft
eyes of beauty. Here was his sister—a creature sprung
up, all at once before him, as if by enchantment; a
flower found in a desolate place, by running water—
Their friends had gone, gone in silence, and Caroline
and Harold sat, holding each other's hands, and watching
their carriage, as it rolled away through the dim
avenue, the harness here and there glittering, for a brief
moment, in the moonlight, and the wheels alternately
rattling over the stone bridge, or cutting with a dull,
heavy sound, their path through the fine wet sand.
Caroline was leaning, with a mingled sensation of love
and shame, delight and modesty, upon his shoulder,—
her sweet face lifted to heaven, with the dewy traces
of recent weeping yet to be seen, about her smooth
eyes.
`Sleepy? my sister'—It was delightful to pronounce
the endearing name. `Caroline, love—art thou sleepy?'
said Harold, softly pressing her to his bosom.
`O, no! or if I were,' said she, meekly, `I could
dropping her lids with the affectionate delicacy of a
young and innocent creature, who, unaccustomed to
the caresses of a man, is trembling even within the
arms of a brother.
Their cheeks touched; her hair blew over his face—
his fingers strayed a moment among the soft tresses,
and he drew her eye-lids again, and again to his lips,
with a feeling of the purest tenderness. Her colour
came, and the poor girl half broke from his arms, before
she recollected that he was her brother; but when
she did, she replaced herself in the same situation,
with a charming expression of confidence, consummate
confidence.
`How like you are to Oscar!' said Caroline, after
gazing at him, with uncommon steadiness, for a moment.
`You have all but his fierceness—his implacable dominion
of eye and forehead—and your mouth, it is a
kinder mouth; and then, you are so much younger—
how old are you, brother?'
`Twenty-two, dear.'
`And I only eighteen—why, really, I think that I
am about as old as you.'
Harold was thoughtful—`why, how is this?' said he,
`do you recollect our father?'
`No, I never saw him,' answered Caroline, trembling.
`The last time my mother met him, it was unexpectedly.
He had been in the east, as she then supposed—and
he departed immediately after I was born.
We have never heard of him, or from him, since.'
Harold knew not that his father had ever returned,
even for an hour, from America; but now he recollected
that there was a story among his enemies that he
had died, and was buried; and that two or three autumns
afterward he reappeared; and was found, sitting
upon his own grave, by some hunters, who had wandered
and tracked him in the frost and leaves.
`Did'st thou love Oscar? Caroline.'
`Love him! O, that I did. Harold, dear, dear Harold—(she
kissed him with a convulsive lip) beware of
art too like him, I am told.'
`But go—go, now, my beloved brother,' she added,
smiling. `You will want refreshment; and to tell you
the truth, I do think that a few hours repose will not
be amiss for me; and yet I cannot sleep—I am too
happy to sleep; and last night, I was too anxious. I
have'nt set down, since day light, expecting my brother,
and have not eaten a mouthful—I could not eat, could
you? my heart was too full. I was too happy to eat
too, I believe. So, good night, Harold!'
Saying this, she arose, and, Harold reluctantly prepared
to obey, as she touched the bell; but she arrested
him, adding with a serious countenance, `stay, dear
brother—there are some old habits, notions, repugnances
to be overcome in this family—and the sooner we
begin to overcome them, the better. Will you sleep in
Oscar's room?'
`In Oscar's! my brother's? Certainly, with all my
heart.'
`Thank you, thank you, Harold! That is another
trait of resemblance, so prompt and decisive!' A silence
of some minutes followed.
`It has never been opened since the evening—nay, I
cannot tell thee when'—(her face grew palid) `until
within a few days, except by the servants to dust and
air it. Every thing within it, every thing, I believe, is
exactly as he left it. You will sleep in the same bed—
read the same books—by the same lamp—and,' she
added, cheerfully patting his arm, `by and by, we will
sit and sing together, as he and I used to—poor Oscar!
do you sing, Harold?'
`No, dear!'
`No!—not sing! why, what do you do with that
voice of yours. It is one of the finest in the world; Elvira
says it is—nay, dont blush, I'm sure 'tis the truth.
So, I shall teach you to sing. Do you play?'
`Yes, the broadsword.'
`Ah, brother!' cried the poor girl, `every word that
you utter, reminds me so of Oscar, that I quake in
imagining some fearful resemblance. That was exactly
his life. We were at a table, together. He was only a
boy. A gentleman present, who was certainly not very
scrupulous in his matters of fact, complained, when
pressed to eat of a certain dish, that he could not.'
`Why, said my aunt?'
`I have a blister on my tongue, madam.'
`Perhaps you have been telling a fib,' said a little
pert cousin of mine.'
`No,' said Oscar, rivetting his fierce eyes upon the
man's face, and speaking in a deliberate, low voice,
that made every heart thrill—no! I suspect that the
gentleman has been telling the truth. O, Harold! never
shall I forget the tone in which that was said, the burning
sarcasm of look—nor the scene that followed. The
man was carried home, as we thought, mortally wounded,
for he had the audacity to strike Oscar.'
`Strike him!' cried Harold, raising his arm, `and
what did Oscar then?'
`Smote him to the heart!' said Caroline, trembling
all over, `as I fear you would do!—O, Harold!—Harold—I
could not bear to lose thee!—I loved him with
all his faults, and he was very stern and awful to me at
times. But I loved him, when all else had ceased to
love him; and I will love thee, my brother, wert thou
more terrible than was ever Oscar—redder—aye, redder
with the blood of mine own heart—of him I so
loved!—Ah, mercy! mercy!'
Harold caught her in his arms—bore her to the window,
where she soon recovered. She then rang the bell,
and, with her own hand, lighted him to his apartment.
Her tread faltered as she entered—and she leant more
heavily upon his arm, and trembled, as he thought. A
superb harp, much larger and more costly than that below,
rested in a niche, with a coloured, arching window
near, reaching from the top to the bottom of the wall.
A table, with musick open, lay before it; a candle partly
burnt down; a flute; a dirk; from which Mary turned
her eyes with a quick shudder, as Harold laid his hands
upon it. A flood of moonlight, pouring through the
white curtains, fell upon the floor, and upon a picture
It was Oscar himself; Oscar in his strength and
sublimity; his dark eye searching your heart; his lips,
partly unclosed, as about to speak what his proud nature
scorned to conceal; and his bold front; thick locks;
grandeur of forehead, together with the spirited, firm
and accurate cut of outline, formed altogether an assemblage
of character, never to be forgotten. The expression
was collected, thoughtful, wrought with fire,
just as he had seen it in life.
Harold could not forbear looking up to it, and dwelling
upon the deep composure of its countenance, the far
thought that seemed impatiently working itself upward
from the depth of a mighty heart, and the yearning
eagerness of look, as of one intent upon wonderful
things. `How like his attitude and bearing in life,' exclaimed
Harold, locking his hands, `so stern, so high,
so cold! rebuking all around him into silence and awe.'
`Once more Caroline, dear Caroline, good night.'
`Good night! good night! Harold.'
Harold threw himself upon a couch; but it was in
vain to think of sleeping. He arose, and set his lamp
in the niche, and his thoughts took a course, in which
they had long been familiar, over the wide Atlantic,
to his Indian girl. `O, Loena!' he said aloud, `would
that thou wast near me! that thou couldst write to me,
or I to thee!' He arose and walked the room, waxing
feverish, as he reflected on the time that must elapse,
in a season of war, before he could know aught of her
destiny. `I will write this moment to De Vaudreuil,'
said he, and seated himself at the table. He attempted
to open the drawer, and at length succeeded, but the
bolts of the lock were rusty from long disuse. He found
what he wanted, some paper, but it was spotted and
discoloured, and soaked, as if some glutinous liquid had
penetrated the wood and stained it, long, and long before.
He found some words, faintly traced, as by a female
hand upon the top of one of the pages. It was as
follows: `En esto quisiera ser instruida con toda exactitud.
— — Amais todavia a vuestra.—E.'
This was sufficient for Harold; he shrank from a further
the language of love.
He next observed the green cloth that covered the
desk; that too, was stiff and dark, as if saturated with
—he shuddered—his brain grew dark—perhaps this
was the very room where the murder was perpetrated
—it was—it must be so—and that was the very dagger!—`yet
why are they here?' said he.
`Blood! blood!' cried Harold, convulsively retreating
from it, fearing even to set his foot upon the floor, as
if it were yet slippery,—to lay his hand upon a chair,
lest he might find it adhesive, when he would pluck it
away.
He turned to the window, giddy and sick; the cool
air was delicious. It came, like a blessing, to his forehead
and lips; but, as he threw aside the heavy white
curtains, to obtain a freer view of the prospect, he observed
a deep shadow upon them, a shadow which remained
after he had separated the folds; he laid his
hand upon it, it was harsh and unpleasant to the touch;
he revolted, as his hand came in contact with it, and
then, like one maddening in delirium, impatient to know
the worst at once, he ran to the bed and threw down
the sheets, expecting to find a body bleeding and wounded
in his very bed—he was beside himself, indeed,
with fear; but he was disappointed. The bed was untenanted,
and the linen, white as the driven snow, unstained,
unpolluted. `But why are they left thus?' he
cried, `is it to appal me? What fearful crime is this,
whose vestiges beset me? And why am I made to sleep
in the very presence of the murderer, and the murdered?
Is it, that they whom I have slain, may start up in their
winding sheets? He leant his forehead upon his hands,
his temples throbbing with dreadful violence, and his
arteries aching with the heavy current of his blood.
He arose to take down a book, determined to read,
when he recollected the bundle of letters which Elvira
had given him. They were in his baggage, and he soon
tore them open, and began reading; he trembled; a
fierce and apalling intensity increasing, as he proceeded
—The manuscripts were numbered, and he was proceeding
stood before him!—the paper fell from his hands
—he gasped for breath—what had disturbed the dreadful
spirit? Was he tresspassing upon his exclusive dominion?
He had come too, unannounced, unheralded,
and there he was! Harold attempted to speak, but he
could utter no sound. A cloud passed over the shadow,
and it was gone. Could he have been deceived? Was
it not the very form and attitude of his dead brother?
The light again shone out, and the spectre reappeared
in the same place—he approached it with a leap, and
as he thought, passed through it! His blood curdled,
and his knees smote together at first; nor was it until
he had uncovered his eyes, and changed his position,
that he discovered the truth—it was his own shadow
upon the wall! The hot blood rushed over his cheeks,
as he made the discovery—`accursed effects of education,'
he cried, `how terribly have I been unmanned,
again and again, with some such delusion as this; and
yet I have no more command of myself now, than I had
in my childhood, when I used to hear of spectres, and
devils.'
He reseated himself, still trembling, and began to
read. Alas, Alas! it is no wonder that he shook. It was
his own destiny. The hand writing was new to him.
It was a bold, strong, uniform character; and Harold,
who had long observed that all our habits are but an
epitome of our character, felt instantly convinced that
the writer was alike, intellectually bold, and uniform.
He whose character is established, he had observed,
does every thing methodically, and alike—he walks,
and writes, and talks, neither faster nor slower; while he,
who is variable and capricious, writes a variety of
hands, never walks twice alike, and is eternally going
faster or slower in his speech. He opened number 1.
It was a letter of advice, and opinion, and related,
Harold soon found reason for believing, to Oscar. It
described some young man, as compounded of the most
contradictory and heroick qualities;—suspicious, yet
full of unexampled confidence at times; generous, and
magnanimous, yet revengeful to an excess; unsparing
soul for the benefit of his mortal enemy; courting danger
and difficulty; delighting in contradiction and paradox
in all sciences, and on all subjects; eloquent, passionate,
persevering; superstitious to the last degree,
and subject to such tremendous transports of rage, that
they had finally destroyed him. Allusions were darkly
made to some mysterious crime—but as if it were perpetrated
in delirium.
He took up another. It was in a female hand, written
evidently with a perturbed spirit, and probably copied,
as it appeared to be a narrative, interrupted and
broken, though joined altogether by the last copier. It
was as follows:
`How still it is! The very winds are lifeless. A moment
since, and they came over my hot forehead, from
the north, like the breathing of a strong man. The
beating of my temples hath ceased. My arteries too,
are tranquil, now, but very cold and icy. Why is this?
O Nature! Is it sympathy between ye and me, ye
winds! clouds! and thou, sky of the Almighty! dwelling
of the unapproachable—thou! the self-upholden
vault!—
`O Nature! my passions awake and are rebellious with
thee; and thou, O moon! who holdest thy continuity of
march, forever and ever, whence is thy dominion over
me! With thee, I wax and wane! With thee I conjure
up the elements—holding communion with spiritualities,
broad and boundless. With thine, my light is diminished
and shut out, and I am doomed to accompany
thee, in thine eternal pilgrimage of shadow and
change. My passions slumber or storm with thee!
When thou art upon the great deep, lo! my spirit is
with thee!
`— O, why is this! But a little while, and I
was lifted above mortality; for thy winds went by me,
and over me, thou blue heaven! and encompassed me
round about. A cheerful tide, a very wonderful tide,
flowed over my poor withered, desolate heart. It was
refreshed, and filled up, and I was happy. It was upborne,
and whirling, and eddying therein.'
`How still it is! Behold yon beautiful assembly of
trees, the waving tresses of yon high battlements,
swinging, all flower and greenness, in the star-light.
The sky, the illimitable, the inaccessible sky! with all the
drifting clouds, hurrying away beneath it, like a routed
multitude, with banners and smoke; rallying anon,
and parting again, and disappearing—with here and
there, a luminous ridge, as of drifted pearl, washed up
on the sea shore—and there, a vast tent, shattered in
the wind, and covering the blue void with luminous
and flying fragments. And the blue, dim water yonder,
all now rolling, and heaving, and murmuring with
inward vitality—even that is hushed now, into an awful
repose. The moonlight too, but now trembling with
activity, like a vapour of quicksilver, hath grown brighter,
unspeakably brighther, but motionless. O, this is no
natural shining—it is the breath of a spirit! Can it be
her's?—no, no—it is the cold, still lustre of a northern
sky, in the depth of winter—not a tender, warm, autumnal
light, befitting the season—no!—
`My thoughts too—where are they? hitherto rioting
and soaring, full of wing and motion—aspiring, gallantly,
to an equality with the highest and brightest of
yonder high and bright divinities of fire. Stars!—I
kneel to you. Ye, that are established round about the
dwelling of my Father, ye cherubim—ye that tread, forever
and ever, the fathomless vacancy of heaven. Ye
seraphim!—O scorn me not—for lo, I am as one of you.
The divinity is stirring within me, and behold, I mount!
I mount! — — — — O,
my beloved! where art thou? The winds have died
away, and I hear not yet thy foot-step in the air. O
moon!—a death-like expression is sitting even in thy
countenance. Thou art unusually pale. And thou, dearest—thou,
whom I can see, with thy fair tresses, floating
like a halo, about thee, thou art dim, and distant to
my weary and disconsolate heart. O shine out! shine
out! — — — — where
am I?—what am I?—subdued—sickening—fainting—
clinging to the vile earth for support, and sustenance—
yea, to the very rocks, from whose crown I have just
How still it is!—'
Such was the language of this paper. Another followed,
marked 3, appearing to have been written by another
person. It was almost illegible, and after this fashion.
`He stood, with his cheek resting upon his hand, and
leaning against a high rock, from which, I verily believe,
that he had just leaped. How he escaped, is unaccountable
to me; for I have known animals to be dashed
in pieces, by falling from it. His forehead was gathered
and wrought, and somewhat agitated at times; for,
now and then, there was a hasty quivering over its
mortal paleness, as if it was the surface of some liquid,
inwardly disturbed. Within his sunken, wild, and singularly
beautiful eyes, there was a sad and settled expression,
as of one, originally filled with high thought,
and clothed with prerogative—who had been stricken
from his sphere. As his forehead darkened, his black
eye would shine out, for a moment, and then wane
away, as if it were holding a brief communion, by
glimpses, with some spiritual thing, invisible to the
rest of the world, and passing very near to it. His
thick, shining hair, neglected, and black as jet, gathered,
with the effect of sculpture about his low, pale forehead,
and, as he stood before me, shadowing the upper part
of his remarkable face, gave such bold, and effectual
relief to his spirited features, and such additional
brightness to the thin emaciated hands, which, in the
abstraction of his spirit, as his eyes were devoutly raised,
were buried in the thick locks, as to give to his
whole person, so motionless and picturesque, all the effect
of beautiful sculpture by moonlight. Thus stood
he; and thus looked he, when I first encountered him,
on that memorable evening. Judge of my emotion, my
terrour. I knew his character, his mortal hatred for
me; and I had fallen upon him thus, unexpectedly, unarmed,
and upon the brow of a precipice. My knees
knocked together, and I lost my breath entirely. And
yet, there was such a fascination about him that I could
not leave him, nay, I did not even wish to leave him.
attitude, in the unostentatious, careless grace, and
waving outline of his person—in the singular firmness
and precision of his features—the shadows so bold—
and the lights so lucid, and yet, of such death-like,
marble whiteness, there was a combination too unearthly
to be forgotten. And I—I would as soon have looked
from the lake of Geneva, up to some inaccessible
height, and expected the genius of statuary herself, to
burst, from the solid rock, upon my vision, as to have
seen him, in such a scene, at such a moment. Such
was my infatuation, too, that, I verily believe, that had
I seen the red clouds rolling under his feet, and the blue
lightnings discharged from his hands, it would not have
augmented my astonishment. He stood so like a being
of another world, half embodied in the moonlight.'
`All around were huge, mis-shapen rocks, bleak
mountains, and precipices; riven, and splintered peaks
—hung with funereal verdure, and garlanded with blasted
underwood—reflected in a deep, fathomless, cold
water. The sky was of a remarkable colour—very
clear, and glittering with a metallick splendour, and a
tinge of crimson, that kept shifting incessantly over it,
like the red light of battle on the steely armour of
charging cavalry:—a vault, built of blue satin spar, illuminated
by coloured vapours, and broken diamonds.
`His form, I had leisure now to study. He took no
notice of me. I wondered at it, for he evidently saw
me, but as if he saw me not. It was attenuated grievously,
by his wandering and confinement. He looked
like one who can see his own heart decaying, dropping
away, piecemeal, before his own eyes. His voice was
musick itself, but a musick so melancholy, of a sweetness
so broken-hearted, so like the voice of one that is
going alive, trembling, and reluctant to his own coffin—
going!—in the full possession of every sublime and
towering faculty—knowing his destiny—knowing that
he must die—that there is no health in him—no help
for him—going—into the chamber of death! Gracious
heaven! what a situation for one like him—lingering and
decaying; exhausting his spirit in prayer, knowing for
with a few more years, a little patience, a little love,
a little charity and forbearance, a kind heart to beat
with his, to be his heaven and refuge; in the ranks and
on the roll of glory, mingling in the shock of armies,
thundering in the senate chamber, battling for liberty
and renown, side by side, with the youthful and the
great, the covetous of dominion; or standing in the commission
of the MOST HIGH, and stretching out his hands,
like the apostle, above the altars and the gods of idolatry,
which shook, and fell, and crumbled, and disappeared
before his denunciation; or tuning a loud and
lofty harp, under the visiting of inspiration, in wind
and fire. O think of him! weep for him! pray for him,
as I did, knowing that the hand of death was upon him,
and that he was waning away, like an ethereal presence
before some unholy rite. And such a voice! O I shall
never hear it again. Oscar, mine enemy! I could have
loved thee! I would, had not thy terrible hand cut
asunder the ties that were attaching my spirit to thine.
Methinks I can hear thy voice now, whenever the moon
is at the full, and I am wandering where I last saw
thee! so bewildering, melancholy, sweet, and uncertain,
like the lingering intonations of a broken heart.' —
The narrative was here taken up with allusions that
were utterly unintelligible, for a whole page; but these
were succeeded by another hand-writing—as follows:
`His sister was sitting by his side; her eyes were
meekly lifted, and rivetted upon his with the most affectionate
solicitude. A stranger might have suspected
an interest more tender, treacherous, thrilling, intertwining,
with a more delicate avidity, with the keenest
tendrils of sensibility—somewhat, more impassioned
than sisters ever feel for brothers, in the beautiful and
devout earnestness of her watching. It was a sister
studying the deep, deep spirit of her brother, in its
most awful and mysterious abstraction—contemplating
him as a creature of other elements, more sublimated,
more spiritualized, than herself; or, indeed, than any
other being on earth, compounded of dust and ashes.
so mixed up with fire and gold, and glittering
and precious essences, as to be unlike aught of earthly
creation, except its idols. He was a genius; but O,
how unlike them that are so called. He did not affect
to be gloomy, wretched, or stern; no! but with all
things to make him so, he was forever the reverse.
He was a creature of the rarest intellectual combination
—made up of properties, active and illimitable; sensibilities,
of a touch and tenderness so exquisite, as to
madden in their excitement; an imagination without
limit or shape, beating with vast and articulate conceptions;
a heart swelling, when smitten or oppressed,
like a trampled empire, with august and terrible apparitions;
with thoughts rising from the dust, and standing
up, in the plenitude of authority, like monarchs
that have been buried together, with all the trappings
of royalty; and rising at the trumpet of the last day.
In one word, Oscar was a genius. The fountains of his
inspiration ran fire, and were to be approached, when
in blast, but at the peril of blindness and destruction.
The promptings of his god were for the hallowed and
secret recesses of his heart; a fearful solitude, full
of strange shapes, and echoing only to the thunder;
and illuminated only by the pale lightning. Yes! Oscar
was a genius; from head to foot, a creature of desperate
energies, irregular appetite, and sublime incoherency—feeling
his unquestioned, unquestionable prerogative,
and trampling, in the pride of his heart, in mockery,
upon the prejudices of men; filled with a devouring
intensity of thought that burned like a furnace, overflowing
with molten gold, running with lava—fervid and
blinding! stationed, in unapproachable supremacy, occupying,
as by the mere action of his own will, where
none might dare to gainsay it, the chiefest elevation
among the gifted and endowed, the sons of God! yet
torn, distracted, as by a beleaguering host without,
and a rebellious spirit within, forever battling there
with unappeasable ambition.
`He had already, young as he was, sallied out upon
the highway of nations; tendered his contribution to
battled, and conquered. He had been shipwrecked,
shattered, and thrown, with all the accumulated riches
of his life, his honour, love, hope, ambition, upon an
iron shore. The temple, toward which he had trodden
in pilgrimage, with bleeding and naked feet, incessantly
receding as he approached, had, at last—when
he thought to set his foot, with the very next step, upon
its glittering, burnished threshold, and lay hold upon
the horns of the altar, smoking with incense, and resounding
with musick, and hung with garlands of fire
and beauty—vanished—vanished forever! What then?
He awoke from his long and burning trance. He lifted
his arms to heaven. He invoked the presence of his
beloved. He was in a desert—but she obeyed—for she
loved him. A fountain arose at their feet—he stooped
with his parched lips—and it disappeared forever, in the
dry sand! The waters of his heart turned to bitterness.
The fountain of tears and tenderness stagnated on the
spot, and a vapour of repulsion and death arose from
its effervescence—yea, death!
Those hands—those very hands—so innocent, pale,
and youthful, and emaciated, they have been reeking
in blood. Yea—and the blood would be upon them yet,
had they not been washed in the rain of heaven. Once
they were red, hot, and smoking; and he flourished
them, in the delirium of his soul, to the sky—in the
loud wind—and over the roaring flood, swearing that,
by no other than the rain drop, and the dew, the dampness
of twilight, and the mountain mist, and the spray
of the cataract, would he suffer the pollution to be
washed away! And they had done it!—heaven had
done it! The rain and the dew had fallen, and the red
stains were effaced, once more, from his transparent
fingers.'
Here was an interruption—some erasures—followed
with occasional remarks in a hand like Elvira's. They
were as follows: `The very character and turn of
thought so peculiarly distinguishing this isolated and
strange being, are expressed here, with astonishing
fidelity. It has all his brokenness, mystery, abruptness
thing possible, that Oscar himself had dictated the language,
in which he is described, so deeply imbued is it
with the fierce and preternatural ardour and spirit, that
prevailed in his conversation after he slew —.'
A word was here very carefully obliterated, but still
Harold was able to discover that it was a name, and if
he were not led wildly astray, it was the name of Elvira.
But that could not be. She was living.
His agitation prevented him, for some minutes, from
continuing the inquiry; and when he did, he fell upon
the following, in another hand: `A part is here omitted,
my dear, it remains in my possession, however, and,
when necessary, shall be put into your hands. For myself,
I am satisfied that he thinks her dead—and it
would be well to suffer the room to remain exactly as
it is—precisely—with all its terrible array of furniture
and blood—even to the spots and stains, where it spouted
upon the window curtains. I gave immediate orders
to that effect, under the advice of Doctors S.—
and R.— who agree that if we have any thing to
hope, it must be from the violent shock that he will
receive when, as we have concerted the plan, we shall
bring him, blindfolded, to the spot of the murder, and
there, at night, in the very room, at the very hour, with
all the furniture in the same situation, by the same
light, unbandage his eyes, and leave him there, alone! It
cannot make him worse, and it may have some good
effect. It is desperate, I—.' The rest was illegible;
but in rummaging over the papers, he found a remarkably
neat manuscript, which he felt, instantly in his
heart, was by Caroline herself. The hand-writing was
very peculiar, firm, upright, and singularly unaffected.
`I shall give it to you precisely as it was written,
long, long after the melancholy event took place. I had
leisure then to dwell upon it, and touch out the parts,
almost as I would an ideal history; for, would you believe
it? it appears to me now, more like a transaction
that has occurred to somebody else, than to myself;
more like something dreamt of, in some frightful malady,
than the experience of myself. Much of it is in his
good reason, dear?—never to forget it.'
`Here!—here we are at last, then! Are we not high
enough yet, love? We are above the world. Look yonder—the
dark spots upon that hill are moving—lo, they
are human creatures!—upon the moon too! Who knows
but we may appear to them, poor pilgrims! as they do
to us. There!—now we are upon the very pinnacle.
How strong the wind is! Mind thy foothold, Caroline
—and cling to me—if we fall—that we may fall together.
What an infinity is above us. And this rock—
yea, this is the very rock!—how like an altar it is.' His
eyes sparkled strangely, as he said this, and he knelt
down and kissed it. `Stay Caroline—there is another
altar—a higher—a holier one—built by God's angels,
with their own hands—a little higher up. Wilt thou
ascend with me? It is a place of sacrifice. If thy heart
fail thee, abide thou here!' I answered `Yes! I will go
up with thee, go were thou wilt.' `That is an altar,'
he said, pointing upward, to a jutting cliff, `I have
been there, at night—at midnight, holding counsel with
the red stars, clouds, winds! And who came to me, Caroline,
who, thinkest thou, came down to me, and scooped
her hand into the solid rock, and laved my temples
with a water so mortally cold, that—they have been
aching ever since!' We approached a broad white stone,
leaning like an inclined plane, upon a stratum of crumbling
slate or pumice; the moon shone upon it, and the
deep sculpture of many a wayward hand, the broken
and blunted letters—defaced by the elements—appeared
like a rude inscription upon some entrance to the
caverns of the earth—the Golgotha of the mountain. I
trembled with a superstitious and unknown terrour.
He sat down.'
`Let us be seated, Caroline. Let us pray. I would
pray—canst thou, dear?' A dead silence followed. I
was afraid to interrupt him. He lay with his whole
length upon the stone, leaning upon his elbow, his eyes
fixed upon the distant sky, as if expecting some portent.
It was all of a turbid blue; with dim, sunken gold, here
and there gleaming doubtfully through the clouds. I
to return. `Awake! awake!' he cried, springing upon
his feet, and shouting so, that the mountains around,
answered on all sides, `awake! there is a noise in heaven!
awake!'
`Awake! awake!' said the echo, so distinctly that I,
who had heard it often in day light, was startled.
`I hear you,' he answered. `Be ye also ready! rebellious
spirits. Ye are summoned.'
The mountain answered, syllable, by syllable, as with
the voice of a trumpet, in the caverns of the earth,
`Ye are summoned!' Why did I shudder. I knew it
was an echo, only an echo. I had heard it a thousand
times, in its most apalling distinctness, and yet I fell
upon my knees, involuntarily, now at the sound, and felt
as if a was summoned indeed.
`Caroline—see'st thou that star—away there?' said
he, `nay, not there—higher, higher!—all alone—so
beautifully tranquil. Well, (his voice grew deeper and
deeper. It was an articulate breathing, and very terrible
in its wild, musical solemnity,) well! when last I
saw that star, it was upon the wide ocean. It was very
cold, and I was alone. I saw it, felt it. Its light fell,
like cold rain upon a naked heart. That night I was
shipwrecked! It is the star of my nativity. It appears to
me again! It is the third time.' (When was the second,
brother, said I, in a terrified whisper.) `Girl!—the second
was on the 22nd of October.' (I uttered an involuntary
cry of horrour.) Thou knowest the reason.
That was the night of his guilt. And now I tremble—
now, in all my joints, at the thought of it; and still,
such was my infatuation, that I never thought of myself,
when he so darkly disclosed his purpose.'
`Caroline,' said he, resuming, `there are strange,
unnatural, incredible experiences in my life, interwoven
with the brief, hurried influences of that star. I came
here to-night, knowing that it would appear. I came
to night, to meet it once more. O, how many tender,
dear, weeping recollections come with it! God of benevolence!—By
the light of that star—ere it blazed
with pestilence and death—and denunciation—ere its
star in heaven—the most delicate—there was once
none of that fiery red in it—By the light of that star,
I loved—by it, I was loved again. I wept under it, and
was blessed. I was the happiest of human creatures!
It turned red—and I was wrecked and bloody, ere the
revolution of another moon! O, our father! did I sin
in my idolatry? and was the idol to be sacrificed? O,
why was I not commanded to offer up the blind and
impious idolater? But no—it is impossible. I worshipped
her, it is true—but in her, I worshipped thee.
I saw only thy purity, in her innocent heart—thy benignity,
in her loving eye. By that star, Caroline, He
blessed me, and by that He—even He, commanded—
beheld, nay assisted in the sacrifice. He was the high
priest. The stars were his Urim and Thummim. By
that star, have I loved—battled—conquered—been
driven over the waters, in foam and blood—and drifted
under it—that pale, treacherous, wicked light, a naked
and insensible corse, upon the rocky, and desert islands
of the sea. I feel thy raying in my very hair—and
yet, even yet, my allegiance to thee is unshaken. Still
thou hast dominion over me. Thou art very beautiful,
star of my idolatry—and very fatal, yet I do not curse
thee. And why? Only because, with thy dim and quiet
light, thou didst once shine down upon the naked forehead
of Elvira, when her cheek rested upon mine.
But for that—that, thou accursed light, I would have
made war upon thee—war! perpetual war, till thou or
I were quenched. It was upon this very altar. There
she sat—there, she put down her sweet hand—poor Elvira.
Caroline, do not move, I charge thee, do not. A
strong hand is over thee. It were death to stir.'
`Nay, my brother,' said I, startled at his imperative
manner, and now beginning to fear for him, and lamenting
my own rashness in accompanying so far at
such an hour. `Nay, I cannot, do not mean unkindly.
I would not leave thee. I know the awful structure of
thy thought. Thou art strong—very strong, on all subjects
but one. On that, I dare not trust thee. Thou art
vitally wrong. Remember thy endowments; whose
the peculiar and mysterious incidents, which to me,
with my susceptibility to thy influence, were only
strange and unaccountable, have been regarded by thee
—nay, deny it not, as of a nature not of this world.
This has made thee visionary. Bear with me, Oscar.
It is weakness—nay, it is worse, ten thousand times
worse. It is impiety to believe it. My brother, what
means this emotion? Is there something yet untold—
even yet? If there be, speak to me, in mercy. Tell me
the worst at once. Let not my imagination worry itself
again, in darkness, with the wrestling fiends that
invade her empire.'
Oscar made no reply, but throwing himself upon his
feet, and raising his locked hands to his forehead, he
cried, in a tone of sudden eagerness and solemnity, that
thrilled me to the heart—`Come, come, let us begone!
The night air blows too coldly upon thee, my love—
Come, come. Nay, Caroline, dear. Thy very hair is
wet, thy very garments drenched, in the dew of night.
Cold! cold! and art thou not afraid? How long have we
been here? Is it possible—three whole hours.'
`Even so,' said I, taking his arm; `but they are
three such hours, as I could not pass again.'
`What! not with me, in loneliness and silence. Girl!
they are hours of religious festival, worth a whole life
of less awful, less agitating devotion. I would not exchange
this temple, this altar—such scenery, and such
feelings, so melancholy and wrapt, for all that the world
could give!'
`My brother,' said I, `let us begone.'
`How hollow thy voice sounds, Caroline,' said he,
pressing close to me, and speaking in a deep whisper.
`Nay, nay—not now I beseech thee!' he cried, in a
tone of expostulation, so wild and unearthly that I shall
never, never forget it—`not now! not now! I cannot!'
This he said, as if to some invisible creature near him.
`Not to-night! Oh no! not to-night!' he repeated, in a
whisper, turning his face as he spoke, as if something
stood at his shoulder —`what! must it be? O, Caroline!'
He covered his face with his hands—fell upon his
and sobbed out my name, in a paroxysm of tenderness.
I wondered at his emotion, and would have knelt by
him but he prevented me, and I fell upon his neck.—
`Heavenly Father,' said he, raising his dark eyes in
the starlight. `I obey! Caroline—look up! look up! thy
star is in its wane!'
`I see nothing unusual,' said I—`my star—where is
it?'
`What, nothing—nothing! look at its sulphurous
hue, its flashing—there! there! does it not sensibly diminish—there!
what sayest thou now, Caroline?'
`Some cloud hath passed it,' said I, with a faltering
voice, for I was intimidated by his manner, and affected
by his wildness.
`No, no,' said he, rising—`no cloud hath passed it.
It was ever thus with mine.'
`My brother! do not look so terribly upon me. I
cannot bear the awful brightness of thine eyes. They
frighten me,' said I, inconceivably terrified, and endeavouring
to soothe him.
`Caroline—Caroline!—Caroline!'—said he, in a loud
voice—`listen!'
`Caroline!' echoed back the mountain, in a sepulchral
tone—`listen!'
`I quaked in every limb—I could have covered my
eyes, and leaped down the precipice for relief; but, with
a strong hand Oscar held me, as he uttered, in a
low voice, `Caroline, there is something preternatural
in the darkening of thy star to-night. I feel a—nay,
why tremble?—the commission has gone forth. I am
summoned. Thou art summoned. I am commanded;
and I shall obey!'
`Obey!' answered the mountain.
`Ha! art thou so near!' cried Oscar—`Lo! I am ready.'
`Lo! I am ready!' answered the mountain, in a voice,
so fearfully near and distinct, that I shrieked aloud!—
innumerable shrieks followed! of such appalling and
continued shrillness, as if a congregation of unhappy
spirits had, all at once, uttered their voices in dismay
and horrour.
Oscar relinquished my hand, and fled from me a
few paces. `What!' said he, `art thou too, sold to him!
O Caroline! Caroline!' but he instantly returned, and
of all that followed, I can only remember what I am
now going to describe. For some time he held a conversation,
in a loud and authoritative tone, as in remonstrance
with the air—stood, and interrogated the mountain,
and when the echo came back to him, he would
reply again and again to it, as to something visible.
All hope forsook me. I had never seen him so far gone.
`The extinction of that star,' said he, in a lower
voice, looking at the flat rock, and speaking as to some
person sitting upon it, `is ominous. Thou art a hard
master—yes! yes! thou canst not terrify me now—thou
art! thou art!'
`Look brother! look!' said I, willing, terrified as I
was, to divert the dreadful fixedness of his eye to heaven—`Look!
it is bright again!'
`True,' said he, without lifting his eyes, or turning
his head. `But I care not. It portends no re-illumination
here. It is always thus; it foretells some calamity
—some! do I not know what? Alas, too well—The
Almighty is upon me. I must do it. She shall be saved
—I care nothing for myself. Her hour has come!'
`Her hour has come!' answered the echo, and Oscar
stood upright before me, like a priest about to perform
the rite of sacrifice.
I shook from head to foot; my limbs tottered. A
cold mist arose from my heart, and choked and blinded
me The sweat dropped from my forehead upon my
hands. Even now I can hear his voice, and see him
standing before me, in my sleep; and I awake, night
after night, half dead with terrour. It sounds like the
breathed admonition of some dying man. He looks like
some young martyr, that hath burst his sepulcre, and
reappeared, for a more solemn repetition of his martyrdom.
He comes, and looks, as from the charnel
house—and my blood loiters now, even while thinking
of him, in broad day-light, as if he were near—the current
thickened and coagulated with his influence.
`Stop, stop!' said he, `I command thee, stop! Look
again to that star—watch it—I will watch thine eyes at
the same time—it will change, they will change. I
will be believed. I will foretel the changes of both.
Now look—it waxes dim—it vanishes—nay—nay, do
not shut thy eyes, another will follow it!'
Judge of my astonishment! It was so. The stars
waned, one after the other, dropped, and went out! But
how could he see it? His eyes were rivetted on mine.
How could he foretel it?'
`O, God!' cried Oscar, in that tone of melancholy,
heartfelt tenderness, which I so loved—`That pale,
lovely star, then, is blotted out! O, would that some
other hand had quenched it! Night after night, have I
watched it, studied it, wept before it, prayed to it! And
now, O God, misfortune and weariness and sleeplessness
have made me so wretchedly familiar with its
changes, that I know them, and all its courses, as a
parent the wandering of its little one. O, I feel its
light in my heart; and now that it hath gone out, the
chambers of my soul are dark!'
`Hush!' said he, `there is a cloud passing the moon.'
`No, brother—none, none!' said I.
`There is! there is—I feel it.'
`No, brother—it shines with the most innocent and
spotless lustre—a liquid brightness.'
`Nay, look again—we have yet a few minutes—look
steadily—I tell thee girl that, anon—there! there! is not
even her light dim and wavering.'
Whether I was so affected by his disorder, as to be
deceived, I cannot say; much may be justly attributed
to the influence of terrour; and yet, at this moment, my
blood runs cold, as I remember the appearance of the
moon, while he spoke—its changes to me were like
those of a human face, death-struck.
`It is,' I cried, `it is—heaven and earth!—are they
not clouds, brother?'
`Clouds! no. It is ever thus. From my infancy, on
this night—it is my birth night, Caroline.'
`So it is!' I cried, and my heart leaped in my bosom;
me!
`Nay, Caroline—I cannot endure thy kisses now—
O, do not look at me thus! I cannot, cannot bear it.
There is a duty to perform, which even now, I am
hardly man enough to think of, but thy kisses would
destroy me utterly. I could not perform it, if thy
mouth had touched mine, to-night. So he says.'
`That is my natal star,' he added, suddenly changing
his voice—`and this my birth night. On this night,
Caroline, I never knew that star-light cloudy or dim
in heaven. Those intermittent flashes! these changes—
do you know, sister, that they are prophetick?'
`How so?'
`They foretel my fortunes for the year. Nay, do not
smile thus. Such a smile is awful in moonlight, on
such an occasion. My experience is of many years. It
is not of the heart. I never smiled here, but tears followed—tears
of blood! You tremble, Caroline. A smile
here is impious, blasphemous—we are in the presence
of Jehovah, and his angels. A smile is ghastly, when
the countenance contradicts the heart—when the eyes
wrestle with the lip—do you believe me now?'
`You think that I am mad. Others think so. I am not.
I have been so, but I have recovered—look at my forehead—lay
thy hand upon it—there! does that beating,
that sweat and coldness speak plainly?'
`My sister, if I had time, but I have not, I would
tell thee how I purchased this terrible knowledge; why,
in spite of reason, philosophy, reflection, scorn, and
mockery, I have turned, amid all the suffering and
humiliation of life, to this beautiful star—and that I
turn to it still, no! to where it was, as to the star of
Bethlehem: why, there has been ever, on the night of
my birth, a prophetick delirium in my brain—and why,
I am sick with terrour and dismay, if it falter or
wane in its intelligent and lustrous beauty. No! no!
not that way!' (I was gradually winning him toward
the descent) `here is the path—there the pond, and
yonder the fountain and seat. How this august repose
affects me! The whole world sleeping below me, like
me and over me; the heavens turning round about us,
over our heads and under our feet; and we, standing as in
the centre of the universe, maintaining our sublime and
solitary sway, over the fish of the sea, and the beast of
the field, and the fowl of the air. Alas, how inefficient!
when all our united force, all our wisdom, and all our
policy, cannot stay or impede the smallest of yonder
lights in its journeying. To be alone—so far above all
the creatures of earth—to hold, as it were, a conversation
with the stars, face to face, in their own audience
chamber—to be in the presence of the living God—O,
kneel with me, Caroline!'
These were the symptoms that I looked for. The
paroxysm, I now thought, had passed, and I answered
`willingly, most willingly, chilly and damp as it is,—
what a night for contemplation and worship!'
`Dear Caroline!' said he, affectionately, touching his
cold cheek to mine. I would have answered, but he
continued, softly—`O, do not break this silence. Remember,
dear, we are in the presence—the unencompassable
throne is before us.'
The silence became painful. `Brother,' said I,
`speak to me—touch me—come nearer. I am terrified.
I know not what this means, but I tremble all over.
Let us go down—the eagles launch by us, as they return
to earth: their highest nest is far below our feet.'
`Not yet! there is a mist rising in the moonlight.
That vault trembles with an approach. Footsteps are
on the air. He cometh! lo, he cometh! O, I had half
forgotten my trial. Lord be merciful to me, and to her
—I will obey. For her sake, I will now do it. Nay,
nay, if thine avenger is already at my side, bid him instruct
me softly, for she is here.'
`Brother, thy voice is frightful. Who is talking with
thee: it has grown very dark since thou left me—where
art thou? I cannot see thee. I hear other voice than
thine,' said I, and I really believed what I said.
`Caroline,' said he, solemnly, pressing his lips to my
forehead; `Arise! I have a vow to perform.' His look
I could not see, but his tone and attitude were composed
this mountain?'
`O, yes! to look around us—to breathe the very air,
and be wet to the heart, with the very dew of heaven,
in its purity!'
`True, but for other and more terrible purposes.'
`What are they?'
`For sacrifice!' said he, in a tone that made my heart
retreat.
`For sacrifice!' echoed I, faintly, but desperately, for
I was choking.
`For sacrifice!' answered the spirit of the place, approaching.
`Silence, Caroline, and hear me. This night hast
thou gazed with me on the star of my nativity. We
have both, both seen it for the last time. Thou hast
seen it quenched, utterly quenched—it dropped into
the lake below. It was a portent. Thus am I to perish,
perhaps in that very water—this knife—nay, stand up,
Caroline, there is no help for thee' (I shut my eyes, as
a dark, glimmering flourish passed before them, and
fell at his feet—all the horrours of my situation broke,
at once, upon me;) `Nay, come to it boldly, Caroline.
Thou art no dastard. I have seen thee do braver things.
Arise! I say, kneel not to me, no! there is thy Saviour!
kneel to him—behold him, where he sits, throned in
the bluest sky, beyond the darkness! I can see him
plainly; address thy prayers to Him! He will hear thee,
dear: drooping, drooping still! and I too! where am I?
Does my heart fail me? why these yearnings and tuggings?'
`O Caroline, how it bleeds for thee; would I could
strike thee, while thou art insensible; but I must not.
The vow would not be accomplished, the price not paid.'
(He thought me insensible, but I was not, for I heard
it all; his words rang in my ears, and I never forgot
them. It appeared to me that he wept, and that his
dark eyes shot flames into my heart, at the same moment.)
`But no, no! I may not. Thou wilt recover:
thou shalt! I will not kill thee sleeping. Thy spirit
shall go before thy Saviour, awake, imploringly, serenely,
awake! Here on the high mountain top, I call to
thee! Awake! she stirs,—this blade hath already drunk
deep of innocent blood; be this mine expiation!'
`My brother! my brother!' I cried, clinging to his
knees; `O spare me! I have trusted thee, I alone, of
all the world. I have defended thee, and wept for thee,
with the truest heart; I alone, of all that have known
thee, I alone have continued to love thee; and canst
thou kill me! Canst thou spill the blood of the only
heart on earth, that does not quake at thy voice, and
hide itself at thy tread? In thy delirium, who hath been
thy companion? In thy sickness, and suffering, who
hath watched and tended thee? In thy nakedness and
desolation, who hath been always near thee? In sorrow,
and guilt and madness, who? When all the world hated
thee, and scorned and mocked at thee, who laid her
head upon thy bosom, and cried herself asleep in thy
arms? When all doubted and dreaded, naked and helpless
as I was, was not my heart always open to thee,
poor maniac!'
`And can it be! Have I trusted myself to thee, thus
far, in all thy terrible moods; have I wandered with
thee, till now, barefooted, over the precipice and the
torrent, even while that deadly light shone in thine
eyes, and the mortal paleness of thy lip, made thy very
dogs avoid thee, have I? To perish now! How wholly
have I confided in thee, doubting thee not; fearing thee
not; sleeping by thy side, while the point of thy dagger
or thy pistol touched my breast; believing always in
thy love for me, and sure of thy restoration! O, have I
endured all this! all! and canst thou, when all is past,
canst thou kill me!'
`His tears fell upon my face.'
`My dear, dear sister!' he replied, in a trembling
voice, so deeply pathetick and musical that, would you
believe it, I felt, in a measure, reconciled for a moment
to my fate; it was so tender, so loving, so mournful!
that, mistaken he might be, but I was sure that if he
killed me, it would be out of his great love to me,—
`How I have loved thee, God is my witness! Just so I
That her star, once quenched in blood, might burn on,
forever and ever, in heaven, unquenchably. Did I love
thee, Caroline, less tenderly, less distractedly, with a
less suffocating devotion to thine everlasting happiness,
I would not put thee to sleep with mine own hand. I
could not! I should bid thee do it, and if thou wert
told all, thou wouldst obey me, and go, a self-murderess,
to the bar of judgment; thy beautiful bosom lacerated,
and gushing with the unholy retribution of thine
own hand. O, I would leave thee, my sister, behind
me, did I love thee less. I cannot go alone, alone and
unsupported, before the tribunal of the skies. Thy innocence
will support me, and, my love, He knows, is
the cause of this unnatural crime, dear Caroline!'
`O, my brother! my brother! do not kill me! Father
of mercies, restore him! O, withhold his hand! Receive
my spirit! and do not thou require my blood at his dear
hands! attribute not my death to aught but love, and
affection! And O, withhold his weapon from his own
heart!'
`Caroline,' said he, `thou art mistaken. My appointed
time is come. My commission is expired. I am
reclaimed, repurchased. A good spirit has been with
me, and bought me away forever, for the enemy of
mankind. Before the revolution of another year, I shall
have received my judgment. Can I leave thee? yet do
not believe that I shall lift mine own hand against
mine own life. I am forbidden to spill my blood. Perhaps,
I am journeying to morrow to a far country—
perhaps I am not forbidden to die, without spilling my
blood. Would that I knew it now!—O, how readily
would I plunge into that dark water below, with thee
in my arms, dear, just where my star fell, and was
quenched. Prepare thyself; the hour has passed. The
moon shines out, as I was promised—forgive me, Caroline;
wilt thou?'
`I do, I do forgive thee, I answered, while he pressed
his lips to my forehead, and shut my eyes, as
the knife gleamed in the star-light—another moment,
and it had been buried in my heart; but heaven, that
me with a sudden thought; I fell upon my face, and
counterfeiting another voice, shouted, as loud as I
could—`forbear!'
`Forbear! forbear! forbear!' echoed the mountain.
The knife fell from his hand; stuck into the earth at
my feet, and quivered. I plucked it out, and hurled it
into the lake. He observed the action, but stood motionless,
with his hands extended toward the heaven:
and then, bowed thrice. `Am I to forbear; forever?'
said he, in a low voice.
`Forbear, forever,' said the echo, faintly.
`Forever, and ever!' answered I, aloud, with my
hands over my mouth.
`Forever, and ever—forever, and ever!' echoed the
mountain.
Thanks be to God! may I never forget that moment.
I was safe. Oscar caught me to his bosom. `I
am absolved,' said he, forever, and ever!'
`Forever, and ever!' answered the mountain, immediately,
in the very tones of a near human voice, suppressed,
and agitated—I confess, that I was startled;
I, who knew the cause; but it seemed that I could never
become familiar with its variety of voices.
We descended—O, I was the happiest of human beings.
The noise of our descent came about us, like thunder.
We heard, as we thought, some one following us.
Oscar seated me upon a rock, and stood, for a moment,
watching the sound, like a lion preparing to leap upon
his prey. `I know thee, shape of hell,' he cried; I know
thee, thou accursed one, and I defy thee! baffled, baffled!'
`Baffled! baffled! baffled!' replied the echo, growing
fainter, and fainter, like the voice of an ascending and
retreating spirit. Oscar clapped his hands, and laughed
in derision. The noise awoke all the caverns and solitudes,
it seemed, within the circumference of heaven,
for they rang all about us, with incessant reverberation,
like a rejoicing multitude, for many seconds.
`Caroline, thou blessed one; let us hasten from this accursed
place. The fiends are rejoicing with me, but I
forswear the place!'
Is it not extraordinary?—this stratagem, directed at
the root of my brother's melody, restored him. He never
relapsed afterwards. But the cause was as singular;
you have heard it perhaps: He had been out in the
morning: when he returned, the tenants observed a certain
wildness in his air, and that he passed them without
seeing them, or even hearing them, when he addressed
him. What he saw, we know not; but he never
spoke again for a whole year. The consequence
of — — — —
—`A heart.'— — —
Such was the manuscript. Harold was amazed at
many resemblances between the feelings of Oscar, as
described, and his own. He was sleepy; but nevertheless,
in the distempered ardour of his curiosity, he tore
the other package apart, which was tied with a blue
ribbon, that stuck together, probably with the red cement
of some breast, that had spouted upon it.
They were letters: and numbered, and dated, showing
the progress of Oscar's acquaintance with Elvira.
The first was dated, `February, 8th,' and commenced
abruptly, after this fashion. `I have seen her. Is she
beautiful? no. Wonderful?—no. What is there then, about
her sweet lips, to remind me of the bright intelligence
that haunted me in my boyhood? Is it that loftiness,
purity, that throned and sceptred something, on her
forehead? I know not. I only know that I tremble—
can you believe me? at her approach. I do not speak to
her, I dare not. My voice would be inarticulate, if I
should attempt it. My temples would beat; nay, they
do beat, at this moment, at the thought of it. Why do
I not arise and startle, and astonish her? She is young,
artless, inexperienced, and thrilling with sensibility.
Where are my powers? vanished! quelled! I cannot trifle
with her; and you know, Oxford, that she is the only
woman that I ever knew, whom I could not trifle
with. I shall watch her narrowly. She is helpless, timid,
and dangerously situated. May I not place her
where she deserves to be? But, there are suspicions in
shall see, and if I find it so, farewell, to her, forever.'
March 25th—No! her heart is untouched. I rejoice
that it is so. The conquest of such a woman is no light
triumph. I believe that I shall attempt it. But how? why?
honourably, or may heaven reduce me to ashes, with
the first impure thought that arises in my heart! why?
that I may make her happier. She pretends that she
will never be married. I look her in the face when
she says this, and portray the solitariness of a single
life, particularly to a woman—as an unnatural widowhood,
and wonder at her composure, so innocent, so
unaffected, as she listens to me. I think that I shall try
hard to change her resolution. We had a conversation
last evening, upon the subject of matrimony. I avoid all
particularity in my approaches, and pay her pretty cousin
much more attention than her; carefully watching,
and studying her deportment with others. I am sure that
she does not suspect me; nor do I mean that she shall,
till I can see my way clear. But, as I was telling you, we
were chatting, somewhat earnestly upon matters and
things in general, when I purposely, and I think,
adroitly, led the subject of conversation to celibacy.
My remarks had some effect, I am sure. She had never
thought deeply on the sorrow and desolation of a
single life; but she had spent much time in meditating
upon those of the married. `Surely, said she, `there is
no reason why an old maid may not be cheerful, kind-hearted,
and agreeable.' Indeed, there is,' said I; `all
these qualities in an old maid, only render her a fitter
subject of derision. If she be kind and agreeable, the
world charge her with attempting to win a husband by
artifice. All that another would do spontaneously, will
be attributed to consummate address in her. If she be
dignified and reserved, she is called stiff and prudish;
if lively and spirited, girlish, and flippant; until all her
pretensions are ridiculed, and all her best actions misinterpreted.
This is all true, Oxford, is it not?'
I have frightened her by my temper. You know that
silent haughtiness often appears like sullenness; and my
sudden explosions, if not petulance, are worse; or more
terrible. Perhaps the worst of it is, that I appear to
remember wrong, and feel hostility, long after I have forgotten
and forgiven. For, when once my countenance
is touched with solemnity, I do confess that it is no easy
matter to change it.
I have walked with her, and find her mind what I
looked for—chaste, elevated, and singularly perspicuous.
She has remarkable self-possession too, I find. I
am compelled to respect her, even more than I—yes,
I may at well say it, love her! for I do feel now, that I
am beginning to love her. A strange, pure, tenderness
is swelling out of my heart, like fountains that flow
at the sound of musick, when I hear her voice.
April 1st—Is the day auspicious? you are welcome
now, in answer to the inquiries of them that love me,
to say that I have at length found the woman, whom, if
I can, I will make my wife.
I am in great doubt. I am far from being confident
that I shall be accepted. Sometimes I fear that I have
deceived myself, and that the brief emotion that I have
sometimes detected, when I was near her, was altogether
illusory or accidental. Perhaps I have mistaken
friendship for tenderness. I hope not. By heaven, I
would rather die. I know not what will become of me.
This suspense is insupportable. I am assailed on all
sides. Is it honourable to keep her in ignorance of my
designs? Is it safe? were it not wiser and more worthy
of me to try my fate at once? If she say no, the sooner
she says it, the better; and I shall not ask her to say
yes. Enough for me, if she will not refuse me, at once.
I will answer for the rest, if she once let me get a footing
in her heart! Yes! I know myself too well to think
that I should ever deserve to forfeit it. Could she banish
me then? no, never, never, if she be really worthy
of me.
Midnight—do I love her? yes, I do; but it is with a
strange, indefinite, delightful feeling. I have loved before.
That love was a passion. This is not. This is a
religion. In the presence of Elvira, I have felt, I know
not what, a kind of purifying and sublimating intellectual
process going forward, within the chambers of my
soul. What would I do? I know not. Could I make her
happy? I ask myself this question a thousand times in
a day; and I answer as often, yes! yes! I could, if a love,
as pure and deep, as ever occupied the heart of man; a
constancy, as capable of enduring all temptations, and all
trials as ever was, may do it, I could make her happy.
Would I part with her? yes, this moment, if parting
with her would make her happier. Nay, Oxford, I
would give her to thee, to any man, whom I thought
worthy of her, without one tear, that she should see, or
one pulsation of my arteries, more or less, that should
ever be known, were I assured that thou or another
could make her happier than I can. Such is my love!
call it not romantick. It is not. It is higher, nobler. I
would pluck her away from the vile rabble that beset
her; I would place her, where they cannot, among the
great. But can I? yea. Thou knowest, Oxford, that I
have that within me which convinces me of my power
to place whom I will, almost where I will.
April 10th—I thank you, Oxford, for your advice.
That, and your solicitude are abundant manifestations
of your good opinion. No, I have not spoken falsely. I
have only concealed some circumstances, which, at
some future day, I shall disclose. `Can I make her
happy? am I sure of it?' you ask. I see the cause of your
disquietude. You are afraid of my attachment to—
I do not trust myself to write her name, lest some accident
should happen to the letter. But, be you assured,
guilty as I have been there, that I shall never offer my
hand to this woman, till I am sure that my heart is utterly
purged of all its impurities, and of all its desires, so far
as she is concerned. I am now about to let her guardian
understand my purpose. The sooner, the better for
him; it will put him upon inquiry, and prevent any unpleasant
to-morrow, I shall address him on the subject.
It is done. I have explained my views. He does not
object, and of course, I am so far in smooth water. But
have I advanced one jot? I see no encouragement
that would justify me in declaring- for if—God of heaven!
if I should fail, I should go distracted. No, no, I
won't. I will not advance, till I see a hand open to
greet me; let the world say what it will, I can better
bear importunity than humiliation—self-humiliation.
`Is she ambitious,' you ask. Yes, but her ambition
is of a more quiet aspect, and temperature than mine.
Her ambition, I think, would be to make me, if she
chose me, consummately happy. This would content
her. But, I would have her not only happy, but great.
Yet I think she has the courage, and I know she has
the capacity, to go with me, hand in hand, upon any
pilgrimage. Yes, Oxford, I believe that she would attend
me to the field of battle, though she would turn pale
and sick at the sight of blood: and toil, and die for me;
stand by me in the war; nurse me on the bed of death;
receive my last kiss at the scaffold, or the block; and
withhold her tears, should I be arraigned for rebellion.
O, Elvira, thy proud heart would beat high at the blast
of that trumpet, which I have heard, nightly, for many
years—but thou wouldst quake to think of what it summons
me to, and what I am determined to encounter.
Gracious god! she loves me. I cannot believe my senses.
Yet I must believe this, for I am told it by one
whom I cannot doubt. `Can I abandon her?' you ask—
O, no; hardly, I fear, even if she were unworthy. No, I
should deserve to be burnt by the lightnings of heaven,
could I trifle with, or abandon such a creature. No, if
we ever part, it shall be her will, not mine. I would not,
could not, leave her, unless she bad me leave her; and
then, I should obey, merely that she might be the happier.
I have made up my mind. She has heard some
unfavourable things of me. I shall tell her the truth.
But how? am I authorised to make myself the subject
it? Pshaw! what coquetry. I know that she will listen
to me. I am determined. I have done some things unworthy
of her; but I will tell her with my own lips,
what they are—if she forgive me, well; if not, why
then, farewell.
It is done! thank heaven! it is done. I have revealed
myself, and am not rejected. O, how full my heart is!
I cannot talk, I cannot even write—my hand is unsteady,
and the letters glimmer like a mist before my eyes
—tears! yes, tears are upon the paper—it is blistered,
as you see, all over; but they are tears, not of sorrow,
not of humiliation, but of love, and tenderness, unutterable—farewell,
awhile; when I am more composed,
I shall— — — — —
When I put myself in her guardian's power, I told
him, that, if he refused me, it was enough. I should
submit. He was the best judge of her happiness, and I
should ask no questions. He might have reasons enough
to determine him, without being at liberty to mention
them. And so I told her. If she said no, she could not
say it too soon; and I should submit, without a murmur.
In that case, she was to consult nobody. If otherwise,
if she hesitated, for I did not wish her to say yes,
until she knew me better, I entreated her to consult
whom she would. — — — —
— — — I have disclosed the facts, but
I am afraid that she is deceived. I hope not, for I have
put all the letters into her hand, and asked her in so many
words—`Have you any questions to ask—any? Are all
your fears to this point only, whether I yet love or have
loved that woman? If they are, I can answer you at
once, without trembling. I never did love her. I do
not love her. It was a terrible trial to her, nevertheless.
She was sick with her love and apprehension. I am
now satisfied. She has no more ordeals of that nature
to endure. But one or two remain—her constancy under
absence and neglect; and her love, even when she believes
me yet more violent than I am, in my temper.
heard my determination, and approved it, never to
marry any woman, to whom my whole past life had not
been laid open, nakedly, and without concealment; any
woman who does not know every vicious and evil propensity
of my nature. True, I may not reveal them all
at once; that were too terrible—but before I marry, she
shall assuredly think me worse than I am. That will
try her love and constancy; will it not? —
— — — — Her only prayer is
now, that `we may live and die together;' I use her
own words---lie side by side, in the same grave, locked
in each other's arms. But who shall be the survivor?
that thought makes her tremble. — —
— — — — — —
How provoking, is'nt it Oxford, when a lovely creature
has been silent a long time, and your heart is overflowing
with sympathy, as you persuade her to lift up
her beautiful eyes once more, which you expect to see
swimming in luminous moisture, to find them perfectly
dry, and wondering at your agitation. My advice in
such a case is, that a fellow should slily wet the ends
of his fingers, no matter how, and moisten his lashes
therewith—it would be inexpressibly touching, and
might lead to a very tender eclaircissement. But away
with this—I cannot trifle, where she or aught that concerns
her, is the theme—no, there is something of tenderness
and solemnity, so sanctified and tranquil about
her, that I cannot.
May 2nd—What a woman she is, Oxford! so pure,
so elevated. Am I worthy of her? Indeed I am now, but
I have not always been. Should she know this, exaggerated
as it will be, under the reproachful testimony
of my own heart? She should; but does she? No, she
does not. I have deceived her, unintentionally, it is
true, and where I wanted her to know the truth, and I
cannot bear to undeceive her. I have let her cheat herself,
and can I, ought I, to tear away the delusion;—
what good purpose can it answer? I know not, and yet,
we are married; so that she may be able to say then,
when any babbling gossip shall invade her ears with
some story of me; `No, I do not believe it, for he never
told me of it!' That shall be the confidence that my
wife shall feel. Let others shrink, if they will, from it.
I will not. And what is strange, while I do this, I do
not ask it; I do not wish it of her!
Of one thing I can assure you, seriously; my temper,
so far as I can judge, is materially improved, kinder,
and less easily agitated. What then should I hope from
a union with this woman, if an acquaintance so short as
ours, has already affected so much? Is there aught that
she could not do?
Of the relations and character, standing and property
of all parties, I have only one or two words to say
to you. I am not mercenary, as you know well, and it
would be idle for me to tell one, who has been my companion
so long, that wealth and rank, without affection
and talent, are of no value to me. Without the two
former, I can be happy: without the two latter, I should
be miserable. It is true that my limited patrimony
would have to be husbanded in the most frugal manner,
to support us properly; and should any accident, the
death of their natural guardian, throw a certain helpless
family, to which she is nearly related, upon the
world, I should be their only protector. I have thought
of all this—I have thought on the possibility, nay, the
probability, that she might be visited by another lingering
and protracted illness, an event that would go
nigh to drive me distracted now, were we, or were we
not married: I have reflected, till my eyes overflowed,
on the tenderness of her nature, and the necessity of
unremitting gentleness and indulgence on my part,
amid all the perils of my profession, and all the uncertainties
of absence. And yet, I am ready to marry her,
not immediately, but after a reasonable time has elapsed,
when she will be safe in her knowledge of me. I
know her better than she knows me; and were it not
for my wish to have nothing at risk, that can affect her,
I would marry her to-morrow.
You are surprised at the suddenness of my resolution,
you say. My friend, if you had thought as many
hours upon this subject, as I have days, you would approve
my determination. I used to think differently,
but I am now convinced that it is the duty of a man to
marry young. Amid many reasons, the following may
be worth your thought for a moment. When we are
young, we more easily assimilate; our sensibilities and
sympathies are more attractive:—Our habits and opinions
less obstinate. But what is of the greatest importance,
we have a better chance of educating our children,
forming their characters, and directing their establishment
in the world. My views of this subject,
have become peculiarly solemn of late. I have reflected
till my heart ached, and the life ebbed out of it, on the
dreadful consequences of leaving a youthful woman,
helpless and burdened with young children, upon the
unhallowed mercy, and cold charity of the world. How
often, no matter what may be her situation, how often
is she obliged to prostitute herself, to a second man,
merely for the protection of her babes! She could endure
the desolation of widowhood, take comfort in her
bereavement, were her children dead and buried, or
were her sons and daughters fashioned and prepared
for conflicting with the ruder elements of society, in
their commotion; but they are young, and helpless, and
while her heart shrinks and withers, at the thought of
permitting the caresses of any other than him, who is in
his grave, she is obliged to be won, obliged to have the
solitudes of her affection trodden by an unwelcome,
confident footstep; obliged to give herself another husband,
against all the yearning of her heart; all the revolting
sensations that arise, when memory touches
upon the past, with all its endearment—merely that her
babes may have a father. Is it not shocking! Oxford;
I would rather that my wife should die in my arms,
and that my child should die at her bosom, while I had
life enough to see it! I should know then that they
were translated beyond this damnable cruelty and temptation:
of mine shall be resold, no treasury rifled—
May 5. She will have to abide that other trial, after
all. I have made up my mind to it, much as I love
her; and I cannot suppress my tears, as I tell you that
if she falter, I will leave her, forever. The promise
was deliberately made. I warned her then, of the consequences.
I predicted all that has happened—all this
importunity; all this misconstruction; but still she promised.
The original question is now merged in another.
I care little about that, but this is of vital importance;
no other, indeed, than whether she shall keep
her word, when deliberately pledged. I tremble, Oxford:
I tremble for her, but I am resolved. You shall
hear the result. It will be determined, before I sleep.
— 6. Thank God, thank God! my dear friend! I
have prevailed; or rather she has prevailed. What an
heroick girl! I love her more than ever. After the trial
was over, I told her what had been my resolution. She
was thunderstruck. But how could I marry a woman
whose word, whose resolution, was to be doubted? I
could not. I might have gone crazy, and I am sure that
I should, if we were to be parted by any unworthiness in
her, but I would never have touched her hand again,
had she faltered.
I left her last evening, after a singular conversation,
but a very necessary one. We were speaking of the
innumerable accidents, such as death or sickness, misrepresentation,
interference of friends, enemies, that so
often tear asunder hearts that have almost grown together.
`It is possible,' said I, in conclusion, `dear
Elvira, that we may not be married after all.' `Yes,'
she replied, `I think it very probable.' `O, no,' said I,
smiling at her meek acquiescence, `not probable, but it
is possible. And now, I have a pledge to exchange,
while our thoughts are turned to such an event. We
are both proud, and, a resolution once taken, may be
perpetual. Let us agree not to come to any determination
by any possibility, occur, until each has had an opportunity
of being heard. Let us believe nothing but what
comes from each other. If I do aught unworthy of
you, I will be the first to tell you of it, and throw up
your hand. She agreed to this, cordially and immediately.
This led her to inform me that she had been
cautioned against me, with much emphasis; and told
that my views were not serious; that I had trifled with
many women, and would trifle with her. I trembled as
she said this, because I was convinced that, if she had
the slightest suspicion of that sort, she would, to avoid
all risk herself, dismiss me, on the first plausible pretext
that offered. This is the nature of women; they
become coquettes, lest they should be coquetted. However,
I was able to assure her, entirely, on that score.
`She had never doubted my sincerity, and probably
never should;' were her words. What could be more
noble and frank? I would detain you longer on this
subject, dear Oxford, but I know the propensity of lovers,
and am on my guard against it. Still, however,
there is one circumstance, that I cannot easily resist
the temptation of telling. It is her own character in the
fewest possible words. A very dear friend of hers,
who was entitled to all her love and veneration, one
who was almost a mother to her indeed, in a long conversation
lately, of which I was the subject, made this
remark among many others: `You must have a great
deal of courage, child, to think of marrying him.'
In her innocence and simplicity, she told me this.
What could I say? Are you prepared to conjecture? I
told her, that it was true—that the woman who married
me, must have a great deal of courage; and that she,
who gave her the advice, which the remark implied,
was entitled to all her confidence and respect. And
yet, for my magnanimity had carried me quite far
enough then, I thought! I begged her to recall, if she
could, any look, or tone, or expression of mine, that resembled
unkindness to her, during all our love, beginning
at our earliest acquaintance—nay, I told her
her, I felt assured that it would be only appearance,
whatever I suffered. I might leave her, I might die,
but I could not wound her, I was sure. But enough of
this: the stuff of your sentimental creatures, I have always
felt an unconquerable loathing for, and I am not
so blindly infatuated, as to imagine that mine is much
less sickening than that of others. So, farewell, for the
present.
I must continue to keep you informed, I find, under
pretence of relieving your apprehensions concerning
this affair, but in reality, to relieve my own heart. I
am in solitude, and she is the only companion of my
thought. I should scorn to make many persons on this
earth, acquainted with my contemplations on any subject,
and last of all, on this! and yet, I find no enjoyment
so tranquillizing as this of communicating to you,
dear Oxford, all that I think, or feel in relation to Elvira.
The time of her most terrible trial approaches. I
cannot but be agitated when I reflect on the possible
consequences. Sometimes my heart upbraids me, for
risking aught, and I am even tempted to forbear, what
I am sure is not an act of cruelty or duty, but rather
one of necessity. You know that I would ask no sacrifice
that I would not make—that I would put no one
to any trial, which I would not cheerfully endure myself.
If she come out bright from this ordeal, her
perils in marriage will end, where those of the world
generally begin. The husband, I am sure, will be more
indulgent than the lover. It has always been my maxim,
for which, by the way, you are not the only one
who has reproached me, to begin so low, that I cannot
fall, in the estimation of her, whose love I would win.
I would rather never rise, than fall—rather never be
loved, than loved and forgotten.
I have put the letters, of which you have so frequently
spoken, all, all! even yours and Emily's, where
you have treated me with the most severity and earnestness,
She loves too much to be easily wrested away. She
was troubled, and sick, but she forgave me. But one
question still presents itself before me; does she yet
suspect the extent of my intimacy with—? I know
not. Sometimes I persuade myself that she does, and
that she benignantly shuts her eyes upon all that is
past. But this is only a hope. I am not a coward, you
know, Oxford; I am not disingenuous; and yet, in this
case, I fear to act entirely like a man; and I persuade
myself that it is to avoid shocking her innocent nature.
But tell me; ought I to disclose the whole, in plain
terms? In one of the letters, are these very expressions:
can they be misunderstood? `Do you ever dream of
me? With me, there is scarce a night, but my spirit
sees and converses with yours. I hear you talk; I feel
your touch, and press you to my aching heart; but
when I awake, and find it all illusion, I could almost
weep tears of blood.'
Suppose I should tell her, at once, in so many words,
that I have sinned. Would it not seem a defiance?
And after all, what signifies the past? Since I have
known her, I have never wandered in thought, or word
or deed. This was long before, after I had seen her, it
is true, but long before we ever met; and of a nature,
so utterly within mine own keeping, that it could never
be known but by my own voluntary confession. What
have I to fear then? you will ask. My friend, I know
not. This woman is not fashioned like other women.
I cannot reason therefore, respecting her, from my
knowledge of them; and I feel an unaccountable alarm
when this thought obtrudes itself upon my contemplation.
Returning lately from a walk, during which I had
been so happy, that my eyes glistened, and my heart
heaved with a new feeling, a feeling of kindness and
love to every human being, with a dash of piety that
was not common with me, till of late—we, by some
accident, fell upon a conversation respecting deception.
any body, if I would.' This was a piece of unnatural
and childish boasting in me, and I repented, as
soon as it had passed my lips. Not that I had said
what was false, but it was unnecessary; and Elvira had
not then known me sufficiently long, to feel that confidence,
which she will feel, one day or other, in my principles.
It struck her with unexpected force: I could
perceive it, and though I strove to dissipate the shadow
that it had thrown upon the brightest spot of her
affections, I am sure that I did not succeed. A most unwelcome
suspicion, that she strove to quell, with all
her force, but in vain, immediately arose in her innocent
heart. What a blockhead I was! All her experience
had been in my favour. She had the most sublime
and affecting confidence in me, till that moment;
and now, though she loves me perhaps more tenderly
than ever, I am sure, by the trembling of her lips,
and her lamping eyes, that her heart is in a tremour.
I told her that if I deceive her, I deceive myself, and
must therefore be consummately foolish; and that if I
deceive her, she will never be undeceived, unless I
wish to escape from her. How unlucky! every word
that I added, in the way of explanation, only served to
make matters worse, and I left her with a far less contented
spirit than usual.
Of that vile habit which I have mentioned to you,
she has given her decided opinion at last, in a manner
worthy of her. How singular! that one so pure, so
meek, so sensitive, should have been so little prepared
for the shock that she experienced. I felt that no human
being, but myself, ought to approach her with familiarity;
that she, for I was so, should be consecrate to
one alone. The hour was one of the bitterest of my
life, when I saw him touch her cheek. I could have
prevented it, easily, but no! I chose to leave that to
her own discretion. She yielded, in my presence, to
be sure, and in the presence of his own wife; and, had
it not been, that I had never made her acquainted with
my sentiments on that subject, by heaven, I would
body had been reptured by the separation. She perceived
the effect, and felt it. I was silent: suffocating:
you can imagine the reason, knowing my earlier history:
but I was able, at last, to speak a few plain words
to this inestimable creature. They were effectual. Her
resolution was taken, and will be kept. `Why, really,'
said she, I never thought of it, before. He is as a brother
to me always. `No,' I replied, `you are mistaken,
brothers are not so fond. Besides, such a favour ought
to be considered inestimable. It should be reserved for
one, and one only. The lips of no woman should be
touched, when she loves, but by him she loves. `Lips!'
said she, in surprise: was'nt I delighted! Her lips were
sacred to me! `I would not thank any woman for any
favour that another could share in,' said I. `Either it
is an especial, thrilling privilege, or it is not. If it be
not, then these friends, brothers, cousins, uncles, &c.
cannot complain, if it be refused. If it be, then is the
lover, or the husband only, entitled to it. But all this
did not seem to satisfy her that I was reasonable; she
considered my opinion extravagant. One only argument
remained; `Do as thou wouldst be done by' said
I. `What would be your sensations to behold me caressing
other women, and clinging to their lips or
cheeks, because they happened to be friends or relations?'
This was enough! I felt an involuntary pressure
of my arm; and an inarticulate murmur broke from her
lips, as if her dear heart stopped all at once, at the
thought. So that affair is settled, and forever!
You speak harshly, Oxford, but I deserve it. Am I
then the guilty creature that you imagine? No, I am
not so base. This you will acknowledge, one day or
other. At present, I cannot hope it; you are indignant
at the deception that I have practised, and I cannot
blame you: but the time will come, when a more temperate
judgment will pronounce that I am more deserving
of your love and esteem than ever.
You speak of seduction. Whom have I seduced?
None. Whom of the young, and the innocent, have I
breathed upon, and blasted? What mother have I plucked
from her children; what wife from her husband?
what child from her parent? None! none! and I thank
my God that I have not. But am I altogether what I
should be? Oh no! in shame and sorrow I confess it,
I am not.
But hear the whole. She was heart sick of late, and
I! I was near to death and distraction. She charged
me with loving — yet, I denied it, and I spoke the
truth. But my heart smote me, as I remembered the
letters which that extraordinary woman had to exhibit
against me. They were ardent, impassioned, burning;
but were they true or false? If true, then I had loved
her, and was fickle. If false, then was I capable of the
most cruel deceit. So you would reason.
And yet, Oxford, by my hope of heaven, I never
loved that woman; nor did I wish to deceive her, except
for her benefit, here and hereafter. She was very
dear to me, I confess it; and my hand often shook
when I wrote to her, but it was solely because she was
helpless, desolate, and in despair, dependent upon me,
so young and headstrong, for all that made life dear to
her. Thus, without counterfeiting a passion that I did
not feel, I do confess that I wrote more warmly than I
felt, and often so indiscreetly, that I cannot expect my
protestations now, to be taken by any body but you,
when I aver, upon my honour, that I never loved her,
and never meant to deceive her.
You know, Oxford, that I am no libertine; that sensuality
has no temptation for me; that I scorn the ribald
profligacy of young men, and that no woman could
ever keep me in thraldom for an hour, unless her very
heart and soul were pure, beyond suspicion. But how
can I convince Elvira of this? Will she believe that I
have never been guilty, as I would not be, for the
world, in weightier matters.
Let me speak boldly then; my sin is venial. It is not
it has been with me rather a question of prudence, than
morality; and when I have yielded, it has been, not
from any constitutional predisposition, not from any
natural tendency to licentiousness, for I loathe and
scorn it all; but merely as a matter of inconsiderateness
or curiosity, as we sometimes drink more wine than we
ought.
But women look upon the affair in a more serious
light. Why? They remember the deadly, corrosive,
and dissolving nature of that poison, with which the reputation
of woman is sprinkled when she has erred.
But this is not a fair estimate for man. Look into society.
What only renders a man more an object of curiosity
and attraction, (it is in vain to deny it; the faculties
of seduction are courted to their employment,
even by the wise;) is death and horrour to a woman.
What gives him a passport to celebrity, as a fascinating
creature, whom it is difficult to resist, and in the society
of whom, it is so miraculous to be chaste, that women
are impatient to demonstrate it, by putting themselves
in his way, will blast the life and beauty of a
woman, and wither all the blossom and fruit of her family,
poison forever the fountain of her being, and
give her name to the world, as a bye-word and a reproach.
Accursed partiality! Why is not the man execrated,
trampled on, hated and shunned! and the poor
broken-hearted woman, upon whose head, as she flies
with dishevelled hair, and aching temples, before the
malediction of society, all the vials of heaven's wrath
are successively discharged; desolation, widowhood,
nakedness, shame, sickness, and death, with all the
pangs of the mother, unhusbanded, unshielded, unsustained
in her agony of humiliation! why is not she pitied
and prayed for?
If one be married, it is true, that there is a seeming
difference. If the husband break his vows, the rich
overflowing of a parent's affection is not poured out,
upon the head of shame and dishonour; the wife is not
abused in her affections, and left to nourish, and weep
so, if the wife be unfaithful. The deluded husband may
toil onward, night and day, in blood and sweat, for the
creatures, whose very breathing is an augmentation of
his dishonour: and the babes of his own blood, the children
of his own loins, may be defrauded of their patrimony
by the spurious issue of corruption and shame.
Where people are married, therefore, there is a reason
why the same transgression in the woman should be
visited with a more vindictive and terrible punishment,
than that of the man.
But with the unmarried, no such reason exists. Then
why do not the wise and virtuous discountenance the
misdeeds of men, in a manner as peremptory, as they
do those of women? The errour lies in the constitution
of society, and it is now too late to reform it.
Enough for me, no matter what may be the act in
itself, enough for me, that society has made this sin a
greater crime in woman, than in man. What constitutes
a crime? The transgression of some law. That is evidently
considered the greater crime, to which the
greater penalty is attached. What is the penalty in this
case? To woman, it is reprobation and death. But what
is it to man? A subject scarcely of serious remonstrance,
in general, and never, of downright exclusion
from society.
Now it matters not what may have been the act, to
which society had affixed this penalty of opprobrium
and dishonour; let it be ever so innocent and natural;
such, if you please, as going abroad without a veil,
(which is the last indecency in Turkey,) and the woman,
who wilfully violates the law, becomes, thereby
entirely worthy of the punishment. Why? Because she
manifests her disregard for the opinion and interdict
of society: and if this disregard be so contemptuous
and efficient, that it leads her to do what that society
denounces, as shameless and unpardonable, she thereby
shows a spirit, that must be fatal to all government;
and, on the other hand, if she cannot resist the temptation
an injunction, no matter what the prohibited act may
be, she proves thereby that she is not to be trusted. In
either case, therefore, she deserves the punishment
which she receives. The penalty is the measure of
guilt.
Now let us apply this. I admit that this sin is, in itself,
alike in man and woman, separate I mean, from
the laws of society. But those laws have made it greater
in her, inconceivably greater: and this they can do.
It is the office of law to define and cause transgression;
for without law, there could be none. A woman, therefore,
who transgresses, does so, knowing from her earliest
infancy, that, from that moment she is lost, utterly
lost and forsaken—shut out from society—banished
from all hearts—pursued with execration and abhorrence—doomed,
in all probability, to wear out her life
in the company of the lewd and the profane; and dissolve,
at last, a pestilential and detestable mass of festering
corruption. This a woman knows, when she sins.
Is it then of any consequence what the sin is? Indeed,
it is not. Her guilty disregard to publick opinion, and
her utter inability to resist temptation, are conspicuous
alike, whatever may be the sin, if the penalty be the
same.
But is it so with man? What is the penalty for him?
I do not ask what it ought to be, but what it is. Is his
character blasted? No! Do the virtuous shrink from his
countenance, as from pollution? No! Are daughters,
and sisters and wives prohibited to his approach? No!
Are there any confederacies of the pure in heart, to
blast and scathe the villain, if he dare to profane their
abiding places? No! Is the fire side darkened when he
appears? Are the household deities veiled? Do they
quake and crumble, of themselves, when he invades
their sanctuary? No—no! Do mothers avoid him as the
pestilence—and daughters, as one, whose coming is an
unholy portent to their reputation? whose very touch
is unclean? whose thought is so polluted, that she who
is thought of, that moment is deflowered and defiled—
as one, before whose voice the intellect sickens, and
shivers with dismay—instinctively shuddering at the
approach of sensuality, as at the touch of rottenness
and death? No!—But he is left to infuse his drugs before
our very eyes, into the wine-press of our joys,
though we know that they are a mortal poison, and we
feel that, when they are thrown in among our myrrh
and frankincense, they blind and deafen the understanding—and
we see that the golden vessels themselves,
the chalice, and bowl, and censer, of our family worship,
as if conscious of their profanation, darken and weep in
their places, as the thick, hot vapour gathers about
them, and is condensed by their coldness and purity.
No—nothing of this. The most rigid forgive him.
The curses of the father, the brother, the bereaved and
dishonoured mother, are heard only, at intervals, and
faintly, upon his track along the world; and the villain
scarcely remembers the cause, while the tears of her,
whom he has ruined, and abandoned, are yet undried
upon his cheek. And this too, when some lovely and
innocent creature, the child of his old age, has been
polluted upon the bosom of her father, and left, rifled,
slandered, prostrate, distracted, to die, and rot, with the
vilest of creatures—this! when he has torn some wife
from her lord—some mother from her babes—broken
the heart that doated on him—forgetting his own nuptial
vow, and treading hers under his feet, or wasting
himself in the embraces of a harlot—even then, righteous
heaven! man is forgiven!
Such is the award of society. And what is the consequence?
Our youth learn to regard as trivial, what, in
reality, is a most disgraceful and brutal crime. The
penalty is nothing, for indulgence in sensuality, and,
therefore, they consider the crime as nothing. Mistaken
boys! Is it nothing to poison your own blood—nothing
so to stupify and prostrate all your faculties, that the
face of innocence and love is insupportable to you;—
nothing so to debase and darken the immortal purity
of your nature, that the dearest and tenderest of beings;
here and hereafter, is degraded, in the sacrilegious
ministering of your passions, to a detestable, and humbling
companionship? Nothing, to persevere in this till
you have lost all reverence for her—dishonoured your
mothers and sisters, by the ribald association of your
thought, and learnt the tremendous creed of the libertine,
that `every woman is at heart a rake.' Is this nothing?
Where is your dream of happiness, in which
woman is not a part? Of glory, where she does not sit,
weaving the chaplet, or offering the crown? Of rapture,
where her lips, and eyes, are not eternally moving before
you? and where is there one noble, one exalted, or
one worthy thought, of which woman, in her purity,
and magnificence, in her nakedness and beauty, unvisited,
unprofaned, is not the soul, and the idol, the vital
impulse, the religion, and the meaning?
Young man, think of this. It is no light matter to
trample on the delicate flowers that spring up in pure
hearts;—no light matter to dash down the beautiful
imagery of our innocent youth, and shiver their splendours
in the drunken wantonness of boyhood—to
quench all the bright aspirations of divinity, that mount
up from our hearts, when they are first touched with a
live coal from the altar that God has erected to woman
—But enough—I have wandered widely, dear Oxford,
but I have felt what I have said; for, to my eyes, she
was near me, with her look of speechless tenderness,
rivetted upon the characters, as they were traced—it is
her prompting that I have listened to, and it is her
parting lips that have been before me all the while—
It is not addressed to you,—it were an insult to mean
it for a moment; but, after I had begun my own defence,
I was carried away by my abhorrence of the
very crime that I was defending. But then, how ends
the argument? As well as I can understand it, thus—
Women are wrong, or rather she is wrong, if she regard
my transgression, as equal to the transgression of
a woman; and I fear she will. Because, I think she
will say, `what would he say, had I been guilty! As he
in his respect.' This I am afraid of. She would rather
die, I am sure, than be less reverenced, less loved than
she is now, by me.
The next in order, was a short letter, so very hurried,
and broken, that Harold was barely able to decypher
the following:—
— O, what a trial! merciful powers! how my heart
quakes at the recollection! I came near losing her—
her words are ringing in my ears at this moment. O
bless her! bless her! the sweet, broken, mournful tenderness—the
tone and look and touch, of her dear
cheek, as she murmured `I do forgive you.' O, my
friend, I never shall forget it!
I cannot, even yet. I cannot recal the circumstances
of last night, without shuddering and weeping:— but,
she forgave me. O, she has little else to fear from me.
Her trials are now over. One more, only one more remains—and
if she prevail again, I am hers forever and
ever. Her constancy, her hopelessness, shall now be
tried. If she fail, then—O, my Maker! let me die—
But, if she withstand it, all—
She refuses to write me; but the reason is a bad one.
She has seen some unfortunate disclosures in the case
of a dear friend, similarly situated. She fears that we
may separate. This is bad policy. It puts us upon
thinking of a separation. By risking nought, you do
nothing to attach a heart to you: and the surest way of
breaking off a love affair, depend upon it, is for each
party to proceed as cautiously and discreetly as if each
expected it. The sure way of making a man dishonest,
I have found, is to show him that you think him so.
Where people love, and love honourably, this is a cold
and disheartening evidence of suspicion, that few generous
spirits could brook. She ought to write me, but I
shall not insist upon it, for her reasons are certainly
good, and I shall leave all argument to the time when
to me. Let her refuse to write me then, if she
can!'
To this succeeded the following, an illegible scrawl:
`Something has happened. Whatever you hear, regard
it not. Remember the past—my character—my life—
believe nothing against me, until you hear from me, or
see me. Farewell! Farewell.—Heaven, in its mercy,
bless you!
May 18—Midnight—
Farewell, Oxford. I have done with the world! farewell.
Before this reaches you, I shall be a dead man.
Elvira and Oscar are asunder forever. She has broken
my heart. The thunder has fallen, at last, and I think
that I shall be in heaven or hell, before that clock strikes
two—it is now three quarters after one. I am not determined—for
myself I am, but I am afraid of her senses,
if I should. This is all that deters me now, and this
may not long. She is acting from a mistaken principle.
I have done all that I could, but we never meet again.
Oxford, farewell!—farewell!—farewell!—Do justice to
my memory—farewell!'
There were still many letters and billets and fragments
of manuscript behind, which Harold carefully
collected and laid aside for future perusal; but in tumbling
them over, to find some connected detail, of the
melancholy transaction, which, in its indistinctness was
so thrilling, he fell upon a little note, literally glued to
the fragment of another, written with a lead pencil,
evidently in the extremest agitation, upon the leaf of
some book, and soaked with blood—and marked at the
edge with the print of bloody fingers.
`She is dead!—dead—I have slain her—with these
hands—Yes—say, that I slew her, I! with my own
hands—I who so loved her! Oxford, farewell! farewell,
forever! I am going mad. May be, I shall not kill myself.
She was faithless. It were childish to die for her
now. I slew her. I slew him. He is weltering at my
side. I can put out my hand, and lay it upon his
mouth. It is covered with blood, froth, clotted, and
—they are hot and smoking from his heart! would I
could write, with the dagger's point. Almighty God!
I drove it through and through him! Farewell—I go
this moment. Hark! they are at the door. The fools—
the baffled fools—if they had left me alone, another
hour, I should have gone mad, and dashed out mine
own brains, at their bidding. But now, I will escape,
if it be only to show them their weakness. To-morrow
I shall return. To-morrow I will give myself up to
justice, and they shall see, and know, and feel, that it is
I, and not they, who surrender Oscar! Once more, farewell!
I do love thee, Oxford; I do indeed—but woe to
thee, if I meet thee before my death. My appetite for
life is a raging fire—it will not be quenched or allayed
but in mine own blood, and that of them I most love
now. Am I mad? I hope that I am—God will requite
me cruelly else—yes, yes, I am mad—I see that, plainly.
His blood here, it has made me so. My nostrils are
full of it—pshaw, it is singularly offensive, is it not?—
for the blood of an enemy. Canst thou read this? the
characters smoke as I trace them. I tried a pen, but
the ink was red and thick. I could not bear it. I then
took this pencil—but lo! the characters are clotted—no
matter—if we must have miracles—why, the more the
—'
The paper was torn here; and Harold, drowsy and
yet unable to compose his agitated mind to sleep, threw
himself back in the sopha, and fell to ruminating. A
strange terrour, like a wintry chill, stole slowly over
him; a something, as if a sea of cold water were rising,
like a tide about him, higher and higher, as he shivered,
to the region of his heart. The night—when would it
end! That candle! it was lighted last by the murderer
himself, perhaps, had been bedewed with some drop of
the spirting blood—it now burned bluishly and fitfully;
the lamp was glimmering at his side: the shadow of
the furniture blackened, in wide and waving masses,
over the floor and curtains. Harold let his hand fall
from his forehead—it struck the handle of the dagger.
and, as he did, whether it was the jar of his sudden
motion, or what, he knew not, there awoke a deep, thrilling,
and spontaneous vibration of the harp strings, followed
by a loud crash, as if a heavy hand had that instant
been taken from them. He turned aside with a
feeling of horrour, that he was unable to suppress,
holding the dagger in his hand—his eye rested on it—
and, in the momentary delirium that followed, he strove,
as he afterwards, said, to disengage his fingers from it,
but he could not, for some moments!—at length, with
a convulsive, desperate effort, he hurled it from him,
and with such force, that it stood quivering in the wall
—the light hastily flashed in the action of his arm—it
struck, point first, as a murderer's knife always will,
and glimmered, with a convulsive tremulous motion, in
the moonlight. Could he be dreaming! was he mad
too? He knew not—but, as he stood, overwhelmed with
horrour and dismay, the figure of a man emerged from
the solid wall, walked sternly and leisurely athwart the
chamber, plucked the dagger out, and disappeared!
just as Harold uttered a shriek, leaped forward, and
fell senseless upon his face, as he put his hand upon the
wall, probably to determine if his sight had not deceived
him.
The whole house was in an uproar; and the servants
came thronging about the door, each afraid to enter,
while the lights glimmered fitfully and dismally within,
making innumerable fantastick shadows, and keeping
them all in incessant motion, until the lovely Caroline
entered in her night dress, her hair flying all loosely
about her, and shrieking `my brother! my brother!'
| CHAPTER IV. Logan | |