University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Sardanapalus.

The day was just breaking, when I mounted my
horse. The whole eastern sky was of a blood red,
through which an intermittent flashing of pale flame—
thin and beautifully faint, was kept up;—while all the
broad circumference of heaven, was rolling, like a dark
ocean, except just where the red sun, like a great furnace,
gave out an awful, troubled brightness, with a
white rolling vapour—that mounted up, just over the hill
tops, and then rushed away toward the western horizon,
as if driven there before a high wind.

I rode onward, hardly willing to look into my own
heart for the motive which made me avoid the road that
kept longest in sight of the house; and only pausing
once to look at it—as it came, by a sudden turn in the
way almost in front of me. I rested then, and, perhaps
the keen wind had done it—I felt my eyes smarting;
my heart too, (perhaps it was the mountain air,
and the deep snow,) labouring as in travail, with one
continual, uninterrupted throe. It was not to be borne
—I had outridden my men, already; but here, regardless
of the steep perilous roads, (which, I assure you,
was far more so, than that by which Putnam once escaped—I
have seen them both since—and I assure you, that
I would not ride down this, a second time, as I did the
first, for all this world—and that I would ride down
that, where Putnam did, at any time, for a mere trifle—

That was a foolish, but not a perilous feat of his—but
mine was that of a madman, as well as a fool,—I struck
spurs into my horse, and went down, with such terrible
speed, that I lost my breath—and should infallibly
have been dashed to pieces, had not the snow been soft,
as well as deep—so that, at every plunge, my horse
went into it breast high. And, as I live—I touched the
crupper with my back, all the way down—and my
feet were on each side of his head.

This could not last long, and I was recalled to a
sense of my inhumanity and rashness, by seeing the
white snow tinged all along my route, with the blood
that had gushed out, hot and smoking from the lacerated
flanks of my horse---and my men almost in the
clouds, as it appeared to me, in the momentary glimpse
that I had of them, reining their horses—as if they
were near the brow of a precipice; and leaning forward
over their necks, to see by what miracle I should
escape.

I was fain to dismount; and it was a full hour before
I got into the level country again—a part of which
time, my mind was meditating, with a profound melancholy
sorrow and haughtiness, on all that had occurred
—nor—for, it is no light object with me, my dear children,
to make you familiar with all the working of
my heart—nor can I deny that there was a brief
warring, for a moment or two—when the golden haired
Ellen—and the pale, princely Clara came into competition.
I had heard much of the doctrine of election—
in theology, I had found it to mean—something that
was intelligible to them, to whom nothing else was
intelligible—in law, the right of harassing a poor devil
more ways than one; in love, much the same thing.
But here was a case of no ordinary difficulty.

Had it been one of the black vapours of theology—
I should have peopled it, immediately with beautiful
shapes—a question of law—for I was unfortunate
enough to have an uncle for a lawyer, of whom, I will
here take an occasion to relate an anecdote—I should
have been quieted at once:—He was a surly, strong

minded man, educated in the courts of Westminster
Hall; and used to say—`John—Clients are gamblers.
The spirit of litigation is the spirit of gambling. Once
provoke it, and the devil can't lay it. Once get a man
into Court; and, no matter how he is used—he will go
there again—if he lose, to retrieve his loss—if he win,
to win again. A man wrote me a letter once, to this
effect—he was worth a hundred pounds a year to me—
and about half that to his family—they starved—his
creditors starved—but his lawyers were sure to be paid.
—`Sir—I gave my brother Dick leave to go upon
my meadow and shoot muskrats—He went. Do ye
think the damned rascal didn't gig 'em?—I want you
to bring as many actions against him, as it will bear.'
—yours &c. `Never study the law, John, it will be
sure to make you a scoundrel—you have some talents
that way, now,' (meaning the law, I suppose.)

`Pray,' said my mother, I remember,—`pray, do
you not, you lawyers, class ideots, lunaticks, children
and women altogether?—'

`Yes sister—when married—and why not?—said
my uncle. I never could bear the law after that; and
and now that the doctrine of election, rushed in upon
me, like a dark wind, I felt—I cannot well describe
how I felt—but as if I could go to the end of all the world
—throw off the profession of arms, and set down to
some less destructive occupation. My thoughts were
all in an uproar—New passions arose—a new ambition
—new powers—I thought of being eloquent—the bar
—the pulpit—the—pho, pho—why should I relate
to you all the disordered wandering of my mind—
why?—that you may know the heart of your father—
the heart of man, without the peril of encountering
it—diseased and festering as it is—with the nakedness
of your own.—Boys—I have wrestled with
angels—till the sun went down—with devils, till the day
broke—and I would have you learn all the wisdom,
without any of the sorrow, that I learnt.—Follow
me then—I will lead you, for I can do it, as distinctly
as if it were but yesterday, through all the vicissitude

of my thought, as I walked my horse, leisurely,
along the untrodden road.—

`To the church—no!—There is no field for ambition—the
climate is too changeable—the fashion of our
worship too formal and staid—no, I will never go into
a place, under pretence of ministering with angels—
unless I have angels to minister unto—never, till I
have been chastened, even unto death. Clara said
right. I have not known myself. These thoughts are
new to me—the war once over, I must be something,
less helpless and contemptible than a shattered veteran.
—The church!—where, as my uncle, the lawyer, used to
say—the people go, for every thing but what they pretend
to go for—where, if a man want to know who
has any new clothes, he has only to go on a cold sunday—every
new coat, bonnet and shawl will be
there:—

After this, I know not well, where I rambled for
awhile; but at last, I came to the family again—with
a sort of start—

That rascally French and Italian—I could hear any
thing better. Why not talk English?—The French!
—O, I could not love a woman, who had one atom of
the French nature in her heart—there was madame
G—She was telling me a story one day, and, having
omitted some word, upon which the whole joke depended—and
a villanous joke it was—she referred me to
her husband, who sat at my elbow, for it—with leave
to tell me, when she had left he room. He began, and
when he came to the part—he forgot it—and bowing to
me, ran into the next room, the door of which stood
open, where I heard him ask his wife what it was.
She told him—and he returned, laughing all the way,
and told it to me!—It was a shameful, black guard
story, founded on a mistake.—That was French
sentiment!—I watched it ever afterward.—I would
as soon love a woman, that should send me an indecent
picture, while I could hear her voice giving the direction
to a servant—under pretence that she could not
put it into my hands, herself—as her who could do,

this.—Yet—Mrs. Arnauld often speaks of their
beautiful propriety—saying that a French girl never
ventures to say of a man, that he is well made, a fine
person, or any such thing—nor, as we do in Philadelphia,
go to see naked pictures, and naked statuary,
by ourselves. No—in France, ladies would be ashamed
to go to such places, except in the company of men—
not merely for protection, but lest it should be imagined
that they went in secret, to indulge a vicious appetite.—Nay
more—she even justifies the toilette regulations
of French women—the etiquette of the boudoir—O
shame!—I remember when Miss — was
languishing upon a sofa, near me once—a fat, unwieldly,
turbulent maiden of fifty, that, Mrs. Arnauld—the
mother of—pshaw—I will forget her!—She opened
her deep exquisite eyes upon me, with that irresistible
wickedness of meaning, so common to her—and
reminded me of a French author that we had been
reading together (I read the language, but could not
speak it)—where he speaks of a pretty woman languishing
in bed—and putting out a white hand to you,
familiarly, when you enter the room—now and then too,
as if by accident, half revealing the prettiest foot in
the world—`all very well,' said she, `very well indeed,
in the lovely and youthful—but an old woman!—law!'
—`You may kick and sprawl,' said I to myself—`all
over the room, if you will—but it wont do'—Yes!
—the mother of—of—out with it, heart—Clara!—she
has put that into my thought. So much for France,
and French women, and French sentiment!—

By Heaven, but I did love her—O, (Clara I meant)
—O—I knew her approach, I could feel it—with my
eyes shut, and ears sealed—the sweet influences!—the
atmosphere—her fine heart—from my very boyhood
—and yet—yet!—I am already an outcast. Well—
I thank her, that I am not humbled.—

Ellen—Nelly—Nell—what beautiful hair—what a
faint, bashful, luminous eye—and that dimple—O, the
little creature stood, like something transparent, before
me—I thought that I could see her young heart beating,

and bobbing about, as if it were encased in chrystal.—Why,
did she speak to me?---why?---why do
women ever interfere?---why---as they always do in
love affairs?---why! the moment that they suspect a
partiality in either party do they report an engagement?—O,
it is easily told---the startled fawn is not
more timid and distant---nor more easily turned aside
from the gushing water---than a young heart in its
first love.—Every match that a woman breaks off,
no matter how, by her meddling impertinence---folly---
lying or coquetry, augments her own chance---because
it keeps undiminished the number of unmarried men.
Nell Sampson—beware!—there is more evil within this
heart than thou art thinking of—more than I, myself,
ever dreamt of.—If it be not explained, that, which
gave a troubled lustre to the impatient eye of Clara---
ere we meet again, wo to thee!—Winter may pass
away—Summer may come—but the scent will lie forever---and
you may as well hope to turn the staunch
blood hound from her chace---while the spattered silver
is upon the green hills---as my heart aside from its purpose.
I knew it not, till this moment---I knew not that
I had aught of this spirit within me. But now---now
I feel, as if I were newly born, indeed, for all that
Clara has foretold---born for mischief—as if I could
stand up, before the assembled world---herself---my
face undisturbed---my forehead unmoved till the vessels
of my brain were all ruptured---ruptured by my
thought---charged with extravasated blood---the furnace
of my heart burning to the last sob.'—I started
---my own breathing was terrible, as these forbidden
speeches came out, from the darkness where they had
slept so long---breathing!---no, it was snorting---it was
like the fierce gasping of a tired panther—

Ellen---how beautifully she danced too!---the motion
of her limbs made musick. But Clara---she never
dances. She is too stately for the dance---too awfully
chaste, for the profligate revelry of the dance---and yet
I loved her---loved her! Aye, till the very pulse of my
life stood still, at her bidding.—This, they call un

bending, when a tall, princely creature is fool enough
to jump about a large room—to the sound of musick
---fools!---it is bending, rather---bending to the earth.
I cannot bear to see a lofty mind employed, so like the
babies of this world---I—

Clara!---I would never have parted with thee, had
I known the full extent of what I have already suffered
---and now---now, dear Clara—it is far less in sorrow,
than in anger---that I---I---by the bright sun of heaven!
I do fear that we have trampled down, all the beautiful
vegetation of the heart---shut our eyes to the loveliest
apparition of all our experience---sealed up our senses
to the odour that issues from all that is touched by the
hot, beating hand of genuine passion---forever and ever!
O, Clara—Thy heart, dear!---O give me the unvisited,
untouched one---thou wilt never be happy---and I---O,
why have I left thee?---Then, why not return?---(I half
wheeled my horse)—no---no---sooner would I die ten
thousand times over!—'

There, my children---there! You have now a fair
chart of the rambling incoherent journeying of my
thought for some hours---when, happening to put my
hand into the breast pocket of my military surtout, I
was startled at the rustling of papers. I pulled them
out---and, instantly---as if my brother had stood before
me, and called me with a pistol shot, from a troubled
dream, I started broad awake. They were his letters,
to my mother and Lucia. How strangely I had forgotten
them.—But what was to be done? my men
were no where within sight or halloo---(I confess moreover,
that I was not very solicitous that they should be
---for, to say nothing of my soliloquy, which I now felt,
as I came to my senses, had occasionally been, far from
inaudible—I was not very sorry for an opportunity to
return---proudly—for a moment.) They will believe,
said I, when they see me riding up, that I have come
to sue for mercy. I will not undeceive them---I will
enter the house, present them with my own hands,
and return, do what they may, to my saddle.

I did so---I rode back---no living creature saw me,

or announced my approach, until I stood before them---
just about the hour of dinner. Clara fell back upon
the sofa. I bowed—and gave the letters to Lucia—
who was preparing some herb tea, I thought, in a little
silver can. Her hand shook, when she saw the hand
writing.

`Here is another,' said I, `which you will be so kind
as to deliver, after I have gone—' (giving her that to
my mother.)

She tore open her's, read it—as if it were her death
warrant, covered her face, and left the room, forbidding
me with her hand to follow.

Again I was upon my way—benighted, and, but
why need I relate the paltry adventures of the day?
The next evening, I was in the arms of my brother,
determined never to leave him again.

`How fares it brother?' said he—`you are not the
man that you were. What has happened?'

`Fellowship!'---I exclaimed, giving one hand to him,
and another to Arthur, who sat by---`Fellowship!---
`By heaven,' he cried, rising in his bed, and rivetting his
steady eyes upon me--`O, by heaven, it has fallen at last!
---all women are alike!---are they not?'

`They are,' said I—; and then we embraced. `Well,
well---so much the better,' said Archibald. `for Washington.
No man can serve two masters. Woman and
war, woman and manhood, woman and God are fire
and water; they cannot live together for a moment.'

`Cousin,' said Arthur---I started to hear the sound
of his voice---I could not reconcile myself to it---it was
the voice of a stranger---`the reapers are ready---the
harvest nodding; we must go down to it, speedily.'

`How,' said I--`shall we do any thing; can we, before
the spring opens?'

`I hope so,' said Archibald---`or we shall starve and
rot where we are. `See there!' he cried---pointing to
a foot soldier that was hobbling by at the moment---
`that poor fellow has gone, literally barefooted, day
after day—among the ice and snow; one third of our
men are in the same situation---not one in five has a

blanket---and we have been two whole days without
provision---the wretched parsimony of these farmers
about here, and the villainous new management of the
Philadelphians, have brought our little army to death's
door.'

`Philadelphia!' said I, recollecting my engagement,
and inconceivably agitated, with the crowding thoughts
that rushed in upon my brain—dilating all the veins,
till they ached. `Arthur—what say you for a ride
there? Brother, can you spare him?'

`I!—Certainly I can. I shall be out in a week;
and—but you must seek higher authority than mine, for
leave of any absence now.'

`Not for myself'—I answered—`I have a furlough.'

`True—and I will answer for Arthur—what say
you Arthur?'

Arthur agreed to it, immediately, as if, like myself,
he was ready for any change of scene,—any, in the
world, rather than such cold, wintry inaction. And
I proceeded to relate the meeting with my mother.

Archibald shut his eyes, and pressed his hands, locked
and trembling, upon his breast; but, uttered no
sound, more, either of surprise or sorrow. The blow
was too deep for that—the bleeding was inwardly.

I then led him to my interview with Clara—he smiled—shook—started
up—but when I came to the trial—
and forbore, as I was obliged to, all explanation of the
cause which led to the misunderstanding, he caught
my hands, wildly.

`Brother John—brother!—you are a madman---you
have thrown away, like a child, a jewel beyond all
price—the heart of a proud woman—O, how I pity
you. You are a madman; brother, think of it, down
upon your knees and think of it—if it be not too late,
too late, beyond all that I can imagine. I know not
what you have done, or said, or thought—I care not.
She has loved you, and she! Clara Arnauld is not a
woman to forget her love. She has loved you, and she
will love you, forever and ever. To horse then, to
horse! before you sleep, ride for your life---if it be not

indeed, too late---too late---and throw yourself into her
arms. O, brother, brother! that men should be so
wasteful of that happiness, that!---the rapture and
passion of a devout woman---as to kill it, so unworthily
—! — O, if such a creature—such a creature!
any that wore the shape of a woman, were but to move
her sweet lips at me, as I have seen the proud Clara,
moving them at thee---O, I would lie down upon my
face, and set her foot upon my neck---rend my own
heart from its socket---and give it to the wolf or the
vulture before her eyes.'

I was deeply affected with his manner---I cannot
deny it. But I was ashamed to follow his advice---
ashamed to tell the truth—for that would be, or might
be to breathe upon the spotless bright mirrour, where
his soul had grown blind in gazing—and ashamed too,
to confess, before his lordly forehead, that I had been
capable, first of trifling, innocently, with such a heart,
as Clara's; and next, of meditating its reduction, like a
famished garrison, by cutting off its nourishment, light
and air—as if a heart so wasted—so thinned away,
were to be coveted. But I dared not trust myself to any
longer contemplation of the subject—chiefly, I believe,
because there was something pleasant in this new companionship
with Arthur and Archibald—as if my
desolation could compare with their's!—O, shame!—
the paltry caprice of a heart, drunk with enjoyment, full
to repletion, and bursting with triumph and deep rapture
—to be compared with the darkness and fire, of a spurned
and trodden one—over the embers of which, the wind
of passion blew, again—and again, till they blazed
with a brightness too terrible for the eye of meditation:
—or that appalling, substantial shadow, which lay,
like a malediction upon the spirit of Arthur, pressing
his broad forehead to the dust—pinioning his faculties,
and darkening his thought forever—O, no!—but I
heard one rail so eloquently at woman—and the other
look so majestically down, upon all the plebian sorrowing
of men, in consequence, it seemed, of his trial—

that I almost prayed for a reason as terrible!—that
I might join in denouncing them too!

I then spoke of Clinton—(my brother held his breath)
---told all that I had seen—(his eyes flashed fire— his
lips quivered, his teeth rattled—and when I had done,
he wiped off the sweat from his face—as if the rain had
fallen there—shook his head, and replied,---faintly,
but audibly---nevertheless---) `Enough, I can see her,
hear her very words—see every movement of her eyes,
hands. She is right. You are right. He cannot
prevail; there is no hope for him. My letter has done
its office.'

`Your letter,' said I—unwilling to deceive him. `You
are mistaken. When all this happened, I had not delivered
the letter.'

`What,—do I understand you rightly?—Then—
(thoughtfully, while his white brow clouded, as if
overrun by a dark blood, all at once)—then, there is a
mystery at the bottom of this, which I will drag forth.
When will Clinton be out?'

I told him all that I knew—and we spent the
greater part of the night talking about the family, and
their several characters.

`Brother,' said I, seeing that Arthur was asleep—
`Brother, I believe that Lucia loves you.'

`You do,' said he, calmly. `You are right. I have
no doubt of it,—more than she ever dreamt of. The
time will come when she shall love me more—ten thousand
times more than ever. I know her nature now,
every thought of her heart.'

`Then—let me return your advice—why waste the
priceless jewel—?' —

`John—! John Oadley,' he replied, rising like a
spectre, and stretching out his wasted arms to me—
while the fitful lamp-light flashed strangely over his
features, in shadow and brightness—`You do not
well know me yet. But the time is coming, when you
will. You know how I have loved Lucia—that I have
loved her, as never man loved woman—would have
died at her bidding, and yet—yet! by all the Angels of

heaven! I would see her dead and buried—before
I would take her to my heart, after Clinton had
put his lips upon her face.' The blood spouted from
his nostrils as he spoke, and sprinkled the coarse linen
of the bed.

His look was frightful, his voice solemn, beyond expression,
convulsed, and broken; and when he had
done, he shed tears.

The next day, I took particular pains to look into
the state of the troop, enquire the true situation of
Archibald, who, I found, was in no danger—obtain
permission to go to Philadelphia, with Arthur for a
companion; and the third day after my return, just
when they began to light the market, we entered the
city, at a handsome trot, our sabres ringing, and the
iron hoofs of our well shod chargers, rattling, like a
whole troop of cavalry along the pavement.

`That is the number,' said I, at last—stopping under
a lamp, and reading the card—`Take the reins a
moment Arthur, while I knock.'

There was neither knocker nor bell, though the
house was large, and rather imposing—and I struck
the door with my loaded whip, till the whole neighbourhood
rang again. Several windows were thrown open;
but when they saw that we were Continentals—mounted—they
were instantly shut again—for they dreaded
our visitation, as little better than a robbery, or at least
a requisition for every blanket and shoe in the family.

A stout, handsome black fellow soon appeared, and,
as if he had been prepared to expect us, threw open
the door, and descended to take our horses. `Is Mrs.
Eustace within?' said I—

`Yes—massa, massa he find her in the parlour—'
(pointing up a broad stair case, beyond which, we saw
a large door standing open)—a room brightly illuminated,
as if, with a large fire—and several persons,
women, I thought, moving hurriedly about it—like
shadows upon a bright wall. We entered, and Arthur,
at the sound of two or three voices apparently ascending
the stairs over my head, caught suddenly at my

arm, as if he were falling. I turned, a little surprised,
and beheld a change in his countenance surpassing all
that I had ever seen—it was stone—absolute stone.
His lips were parted, and while he held my arm till the
very bone ached, he stood, like one struck dead, while
listening to musick, coming out of the grass—in the
low wind.

We entered the room; and, before I had time to make
my salutation, a pair of soft, delicately soft hands were
put into mine—and a voice, that I could not be mistaken
in, said to me—(the lights were all gone—and
the red blaze of the fire had diminished, so that I could
not well see her countenance—and the whole room
smelt of burnt camphor, as if that had been thrown
upon the fire to dazzle and blind us, as we came up the
stairs.)

`And is that Mr. Rodman?'—`Yes,' I replied,
`but when? in the name of heaven, and how came you
here?'

`Hush—You have a deep part to play—a tragedy,
it may be. You have been expected for two days. I
had almost given up the hope of seeing you. I came
away after dinner the same day that you did—the
house had got too hot to hold me—Clara!—ha!—
then there is something in it! Clara Arnauld is—---
Have you heard nothing?—Not a word, since?'

`No,' I replied—`how should I?'----

`Then Mr. Oadley, I pity you—you have broken a
proud woman's heart.'

My own was in my throat, as she spoke, and I was
fain to sit down.

`Ha—Arthur, what ails you, what are you looking at?'

He never moved—but, in a far corner of the room,
in a sort of recess, like a library, or venition window
with dark curtains, sat a female figure—looking up at
the moon, that just then, stood still in the blue heaven,
as if held there by the incantation of beauty.

The figure moved, sighed; and Arthur, rising slowly,
and involuntarily, upon his feet, gradually stretching
out his arms, as if—gracious God! The low mournful

warbling of a sweet voice came to my ears, like
something that I had heard, I know not when—I know
not where, before—and Arthur fell flat upon his face.

I saw him fall, but I was unable to stir hand or
foot—I stood hushed as death—tranced—with a deep,
deep terrour and torment at my heart—as if I had
broken in upon some haunted place—somebody caught
my arm—`Awake!' said a voice—`awake!—speak
to it! it is Mary!'

I staggered to the window—I fell upon my knees,
not daring to breathe, or lift up my eyes—the shadow
arose, turned, with a mournful slow motion, so that
the moon shone full upon her face.

It was Mary! it was! I had only life enough left,
to put my hands, like a dreamer fearing to awake,
upon her flesh—and see her, the blessed martyr, stooping
over me, with her troubled melancholy lips—it was
not to be mistaken—O, no!—no, no! the unearthly
paleness of her forehead, the preternatural darkness
of her eyes, their slow, incessant motion.

`Mary!' I cried—`O, Mary, speak to me,' I said,
attempting to rise, but her whole weight was upon me.
At the sound of my voice, she started—her eyes flashed
—her lips moved—she put her hands upon my forehead
—pushed aside my thick hair—stooped down, pressed
her wet lips to my eye lids and whispered—`O, Arthur,
Arthur—how could you leave me?'

Her tears ran down her cheeks like rain—and
when I looked up, I saw Ellen struggling with all her
might, her hair dishevelled, her pale eyes streaming
with tears and light—against Arthur, who stood stooping
toward her—as if he had been struck blind.

Mary had not seen him; I arose, her soft hand
beating in mine, her young heart fluttering against
mine—her pale neck, against which I had wept—
glittering with the tears that I had shed, and put her
into the arms of Arthur.

The moment that his face touched her's—the very
moment, she uttered a loud cry, leaped into his bosom,
shivering like a drowned creature, and skrieking and

wailing, so piteously, that I—I—could neither hear nor
see, till I felt some one dragging at my arm—it was
Ellenour.

`Come, come,' said she—`come! every thing depends
upon this shock; let us leave them together—O,
merciful heaven! let us be gone.'

I suffered myself to be led away, and we stood at the
window of the next room, in the darkness. I know not
how it was, except that sorrow, and sympathy are apt
to be companionable, and they that have wept together,
are many years in advance of them that have only
laughed together. I could hear them sobbing yet—and
then a sweet gentle murmuring, that I knew to be her's
—and then a passionate shriek, and the name of Arthur
pronounced, again and again, as in delirium. I would
have returned, but Ellen—Miss Sampson, I should say,
forbad me.

`O, no!' said she, laughing and crying at the same
moment---`do not go, do not go, I entreat you---the
prettiest catastrophe in the world,' releasing herself
from my arms, and skipping to one side of the room,
where she could see them.

`O, O! come here, come here! this minute —there
is love for you—that's your true love—a dead woman,
burnt to ashes, coming to her senses, in the arms of her
lover. O, O, O, (rubbing her hands, while the dark
shadow of Arthur was on her, as he stood, with one
knee resting upon a deep sofa in the corner, leaning
over, with an air of the deepest and most affectionate
tenderness, the beautiful frail creature that lay upon it,
half supported by one of his arms; her magnificent tresses
floating brightly over the back of the sofa, in the
strong current of air that swept up the chimney; and
her wild eyes glittering in their humidity, like a young
leopard's, in the red fire light; her face upturned to his,
and mouth parted like statuary, at the very moment
when it is about to be turned into flesh, and the heart
is ready to gush out with love and musick at the lips.)

`O, look, look!' repeated the eager, delighted girl
at my side, catching my hand passionately, and flinging

it away again, alternately, with a pettish carelessness,
as she was carried away by her enthusiastick heart,
at some sudden emotion of Mary, or sufficiently mistress
of herself, to discover that she was almost caressing
me—a man, a stranger, in the unbridled extravagance
of her sympathy.

`But how in the name of heaven,' said I, `how is
this? That is Mary Austin, I'll swear to it!'

`Don't ask me, dont ask me,' she answered—`see,
see! she knows him, the dear creature! hear, hear,
hear her! dear, dear Arthur! O let us go, let them be
alone, and happy for a while;' saying this, she shut the
door softly, and coming up to me, past her white hand
over her eyes, and then putting it into my hand. `It
was dripping wet,' said — while I smiled at her
simplicity, lively, and deep feeling, so innocent, yet so
disordered. Remember that there was no fire in this
room, no light, none but that which the moon threw in,
doubtfully, through a long row of curtained windows—
`come! now I'll tell you all about it. You thought
me crazy; I am not —that poor creature—bless me, why
don't you keep the step, (we were walking, to and fro,
in the room.)

`Let us sit down,' said I, leading her, a step or two,
toward the window seat.

`No, no, aunt is below—and brother—they must
hear us walking, or we shall be interrupted. What
the deuce are you laughing at! till that poor creature:
O, if you had seen her, when we first found her—she
would not open her mouth; she did nothing but cry all
day long, and stare at us—just so! why, what's the
matter? were you never stared at before?'

`Found her!' said I, `what do you mean?'

`Lord! that's just like you—you wont let a body say a
word; I wish you'd hold your tongue a moment. Brother,
you know brother? yes you do, you need not shake your
head, I saw you watching him, poor fellow; and let
me tell you, Mr. Oadley, as handsome as you be, and
as big as you be, and as proud as you be, brother Nick
has got as big a heart, and as brave a heart, and as

good a heart, as your own. He was the one that saved
her—he shot the wicked man, that had her on his horse
behind him, and was carrying her off; but then the
horse ran away, and when he fell off, she was lashed to
him, by a great ugly leather belt—how you breathe,
what's the matter?'

We were now standing still; and, I confess, that, in
the deep intoxication of my heart, I had forgotten Clara,
Arthur, Mary, and all the world, for a moment, in
looking down upon this innocent little creature, whose
delicate lips, were muttering music below me, just even
with my breast; every word fell into my heart; I could
feel it—I led her slowly, step by step, to the window,
and gradually, without knowing my own design, or having
any design in reality, had drawn her, as I would
have drawn a small child, to sit upon my knee; she was
surely unconscious of it, for she never changed her tone,
or faltered, or shifted her soft eyes, but continued thus.

`We couldn't find out her name; and all the enquiry
that we could make, was of no use, for my father
said, that she looked like a French girl, and was probably
the wife of the trooper, that brother shot; and then
there were several farm houses burned that same night;
and the horse ran a mile before the rider fell; and when
brother, who can run very fast, faster than a horse,
through the woods, came up to the poor girl, she was
dead—dead as, as—what's the deadest thing in the
world? and then he took her up in his arms, and carried
her to maj. Winchester's; and when father came, he
sent off an advertisement to the paper in the city, describing
her, but nobody came to ask how she did; poor
creature! and so we slept together, and she never spoke;
yet she wasn't mad, not very mad, for she sung sweetly,
and was afraid as death of men—and one day, when
she was in the street, for she was very quiet, quiet as a
lamb; but I was away then, I was at Mr. Arnauld's,
and aunt wrote me all about it—she was out there at
the next corner, and the prisoners were brought in—
them that Washington took up at Trenton, and by and
by, when the horses were galloping through the street,

she shrieked out, all at once, and fell dead again; and
a man that was there on horseback, his horse ran away
with him; and all the neighborhood began to talk about
it, and make inquiries about him, but he was gone—so
my aunt told me, and she said, that the poor thing's
name was Mary, and that she was constantly talking
about Arthur, Arthur, and Rodman, and Frederick, and
Crawford—so my aunt wrote me all about it. It was
just a day or two before you came—O, I forgot to tell
you, that we found out her name was Mary, for she
started and trembled at that name—well, just before I
saw you—'

`Where,' said I, `do, dear Ellenor, do tell me, so
that I can understand you—your eagerness carries you
away, I—'

`O Lord! was there ever such a wretch—you won't
let me say a word—you take my breath away—ha! she
is singing—bless her dear heart—there! there! did
you ever hear such singing as that?'

Somebody opened the door a little, just then, and
retreated, leaving it ajar, so that the red light from the
next room, flashed along the floor, like a stream of
crimson lustre, coming to a point, just at our feet.

`Beautiful! is it not?' she cried, putting her little
foot on it---do you sing? Come let me hear you. `O,
happen what may, love!' Do you know that? Stay, I'll
sing that to you, bye and bye---O---I was telling you
about poor Mary---So, I was down to Mr. Arnauld's,
and just when you were setting off, with that troop of
horse, I heard somebody,---one of the girls, pointing
to you, as I thought, say—somebody asked who you
were, she said that you were Arthur Rodman---and
then, when you had gone---but now I remember that
Arthur was near you, but I don't mind him much, nor
that white faced little fellow there, that they called
Archy---Archibald, or some such name—I could see
nobody but you, and when I heard from aunt, two or
three days after, and that the strange sick girl was
talking about Arthur Rodman, I began to enquire all
about him, thinking all the while it was you---at last,

I could not ask any more—I felt melancholy, and I
never mentioned your name, but romped and laughed
all the day long, while Clara and Lucia, were moping
in a corner. But, at last, when I saw you, and saw
you meet Clara, in the bed room, I was provoked at
you, and her; and so I determined to know who this
girl was, that had gone crazy for you; but it never entered
my head, that you were Mr. Oadley, or that the
poor mad creature, was Mary Austin, till that very
evening, when I found out, that uncle Arnauld was
Frederick Crawford. O, the villain! then it came to
me all at once—and then, I had made up my mind before,
to bring about a meeting between Mr. Rodman
and Mary; but mind I don't know who she was, and
never knew, till I came to put the whole story together
here, the night when brother found her, and the time
that your house was burnt, when it came to me all at
once, like a blaze of light, and then—Lord, how like a
fool you look!'

Indeed, I did look like a fool—the whole family
were standing at another door, and looking at us! How
long they had been there, I know not; it was in the
dark side of the room, and it was only at that moment,
that my eyes had fallen upon what appeared to move,
a mass of shadowy creatures and human faces.

They all came forward now, and threw open the
broad door, which shewed the whole room to us, where
Arthur and Mary sat.

I trembled from head to foot; but she—was she a
fool? or a maniac? she sat as still and careless upon
my knee, turning up her lovely hair, band after band,
like a mass of drawn gossamer, over her white forehead.

`Well Nick! what are you grinning at?' said she.

Nick shrugged his shoulders, lolled out his great
tongue, and jogged his father, who only asked her, what
the devil she was in my lap for.

`His lap! gracious! so I am'—the colour rushed to
her temples, her hands fell, her hair veiling her whole
face; and when she parted it again, her lashes, and lips,

and cheek were all wet with tears and shame. Sweet
innocent! as I am a living man, I do believe that she
knew it not, till she was told, that she was sitting in
my lap. Her enthusiasm, so passionate, fervid; her
rapid articulation, her incessant volatility, the electrick
operation of her mind, her whole frame, quivering at
every shock of her heart, as if her veins ran quicksilver
—all this had made her utterly forgetful of propriety;
and I, I was the villain, in the deepest tumult of my
heart; yea, when it was tormented with a feeling, as if
it were naked, and soft female lips and eye-lids, were incessantly
touching it all about, I had still sufficient self-command
to count the throbbings of her delicate pulse,
and drink, to delirium, the passion that her blue eyes
shed into my bosom—was it love? no; but I felt that
she loved me, loved me, unwittingly, to death; and
that set my heart heaving, as if a sudden tide of high
wine were beating within it.

I arose and apologized; but whether it was that this
family were all mad, or all unlike the rest of human
creatures, no further notice was taken of it, than a heavy
curse or two from the old gentleman on my modesty,
and a good natured warning from the aunt, for
young ladies, in dark moonlighted apartments, to keep
walking if they can, as long as they can.

Ellen kicked up her heels, and was skipping off to
the room in front, when she suddenly stopped, shook
her finger at us, and leaned forward, like a spirit worshipping
at the altar of true love, for the first time.
They appeared not to heed our approach; they sat upon
the same sofa, holding on each other's hands—and
just then—Mary, who had been looking in the face of
Arthur, as if she feared that it would lade away, if she
took off her eyes for a moment; the tears running continually
down her pale cheeks, drop after drop; gushed
out, all at once, into a passionate burst of sorrow, and
articulated his name. Arthur, poor fellow! as if he too
thought it all an apparition, caught up her hands to
his mouth, and covered them with kisses, while his
eyes ran over, open as they were, and rivetted upon
hers.

The trial was becoming too terrible for us—and we
rushed in to separate them—but they clung to each
other, like two phantoms. Mary shrieked, and Arthur
grasping her with one arm, drew forth his bright sabre,
and flourished it over his head,—with a perpetual
motion—as if he feared to be torn from her again. At
length, however, he became more rational, sheathed
his sword, laughed, wept, danced—and embraced us
all, one after the other, in spite of the cries that Nick
uttered, as if all his joints were crushed, or the awkwardness
of the aunt, whom he held up, two feet from
the floor, while she covered her face with her hands,
and squalled with downright vexation.

`Fire and fury! cried old Mr. Sampson—`give me
a sword! give me a sword, Nick! are you all mad?
Bedlam---Bedlam broke loose!'

What might have happened, I know not, had the old
man succeeded in drawing Arthur's sword from the
sheath, while he was dancing about, with Ellen in his
arms, like a madman, had not young Nick caught his
hand, when it was about half out of the sheath, and
made him, by main force, relinquish his design, by
holding his arms behind him, while he stamped and
swore.

`Fire and fury, sir, put her down! what the devil,
Nell, are you mad? this comes of your plot and catastrophies
and—put her down? damn you, put her down!
let go my hands Nick.'

`Let go my hair!' father—yelled the boy—`let go
my hair!' while the father suddenly released himself,
(just as Ellen fell out of Arthur's arms, exhausted, upon
the sofa,) and stood in the middle of the room, with both
hands full of hair.

As soon as Ellen could get her breath, she burst
into a loud laugh, in which Nick soon joined, with a
noise like the yelping of twenty water spaniels; then
the father, then the aunt, and finally, all but Arthur,
who began to recover, and poor Mary, who sat, staring
at us, through her white fingers, as if every moment
she expected to see us all vanish, in a flash of sulphur.

But enough of this—Mary was not mad, not actually
deranged, the blood of her heart had only stagnated
for awhile; and, before we parted, she was able to relate,
by starts,—with some interruptions of passionate
sorrow, and a few slight aberrations of reason, what
she recollected of that terrible night. She saw Arthur's
face in the blaze; and, the next moment, saw him fall,
as she believed, and fled; was pursued; and all that she
recollected afterward was, that there was a great outcry,
and an explosion behind her, the sky all red with
the flame of the dwelling, and a man on horseback,
after her—he overtook her, but, hearing a trumpet, appeared
to hesitate for a moment, and then, as if he had
no design to join his comrades, set off, with her at a full
gallop in a contrary direction, through the wood; several
shots were fired, and once, she thought, by men in a
military dress, at a considerable distance—and then
she heard them cry, a deserter, a deserter! a Hessian!
and a few moments after, they fell together, and he—
he, to whom she was lashed, was a dead man;—in the
distraction of her mind, she strove to unloose the belt
that bound her; but she could not—and, then the thought
of dying in the lonely wilderness, bound to a dead
body, with no power, none, for she was helpless as if
bound up in a winding sheet, to scare away the wild
beast, or wipe off the blood that she felt soaking to
her very heart, and trickling over her forehead and
eyelids, down her cheek. And that was all. What happened
afterward she knew not, till somebody called her
Mary---Mary! The darkness drifted away then—but
there were fire and smoke rolling and rushing all about
her---and then, then—a horseman went by her---
where she knew not where! It was in a strange place,
and many beautiful women were about her---large
horses, and a great crowd of armed and unarmed men
with downcast faces---and then, she grew gradually,
more sensible of the past; but, afraid to speak of Arthur
whom she had seen fall, she determined,---for the people
about her were very gentle—to live and die among
them, without telling her story. But, some how or other

—her brain grew strangely dark, and she did tell it
and—`O! Arthur!' she cried, throwing herself into
his arms—`I remember it all now—all! will you
forgive me—can you?'

`As I hope for mercy!' Mary, he cried, raising his
large, noble eyes to heaven—and then bowing his head
upon her hands, and kissing her white neck. `As I
hope for mercy, Mary! this miraculous restoration of
what I most loved, upon all the earth—so surpasses all
that my disordered dreaming has ever pourtrayed to
me—that, if I were the wickedest of mortal men, the
most implacable—I could not but become religious,
and humble, and forgiving—O, Mary! Mary!—I
cannot bear to let go your hand—even yet, I cannot
fully persuade myself that you are a living woman—
it is too like the dreams that I have had, night after
night, till my blood has been dried away, and my heart
exhausted by them!'

`There—there! that will do, dear Mr. Rodman,
dear Mary—now what do you think of me, Mr. John?
am I a fool? am I crazy. Show me a woman that has
done as much good as the giddy Nell has—there, do
go now, will you?'