 | CHAPTER XIV. Seventy-six |  |
13. CHAPTER XIV.
“O, night and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!
“Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
“Of a dark eye in woman!”
—a noise among the leaves, like “twangling pearls.”
It was now the middle of May; a warm sultry day,
and a hot sun had gone over it, leaving a cool, shadowy
greenness upon all the wood, near which we sat, about
four o'clock in the afternoon, upon the shorn turf, that
extended, in a pleasant slope, from the front of our
dwelling, a little aslant, to a blue, beautifully blue pond
and fountain, half buried in deep green transparent
foliage, through which the water glittered, like a gush
and sprinkle of quick-silver—while we sat there, with
all that we loved upon this earth, save Copely and
Rodman, about us—our children were rolling and
creeping about the sward—their little fat, naked feet,
ruddy with the touch of the grass—all hearts happy
—all eyes, full of love and thankfulness.
`That beautiful mist! Archibald,' said Lucia, lovingly,
with her arm carried athwart his face, while he
sat near her, with his hand resting on her soulder—
`and that hollow!—how cool and pleasant it looks!'
`While the sun rains fire,' answered Archibald, `upon
the green topped trees behind.'
`Rains fire!' said my mother, smiling—and then,
with a slow, serious motion, relapsing into her occupation
of knitting.
`Archibald is given to such extravagancies of late,'
continued Clara, touching my hand at the same time,
that I might observe the vivid beauty of his deep eyes,
while they dwelt upon those of Lucia, which were
turned, full of devotion, and mysterious, sweet meaning,
toward the wood.
It was beautiful! Far away to our right, the green
turf faded off to a rich, sweltering brown—and gradually
subsided into a flat, yellowish soil, where a brook
had once run, and left millions and millions of water
worn pebbles:—over the dried bed, there still stooped
a mass of the brightest green rushes;—here and there,
the wild flag, spreading its broad, smooth leaf—and
a rich body of sedge, with many wild, blue flowers—
showing that there was a hidden moisture, yet, at the
root. Still further off, there were a few pale green
birches, with their silvery bark, stooping different
ways, and shooting up, into the blue air, their white,
slender shafts, like pillars of light; in another spot, a
mass of herbage, half trodden down; a few scattered
rock heaps—a lonely tree, leafed to the root; a broken
stone wall; a disordered and ricketty fence; while far
beyond, overgrown with ruffled foliage, and rasberry
bushes, and wild cherry tree—and thorn (a very unc mmon
shrub in America) ran a regular and established stone
wall, at least half a century old—of the substantial
New England fashion, with a line of poles all along the
top—set in cross sticks—answering the various purposes
of protecting the enclosure, defining the limits,
and clearing the land. At the extreme left, there was a
purple gleam on the dim horizon—with many little,
faint spots about it—denoting that the Delaware might be
seen; if we had patience to look for it. About us was
a group of great venerable oaks, with two English elms.
The fashion of the latter, was strangely beautiful, and
picturesque: and one of the oaks had been struck with
lightning some years before; half of it had been torn
down, from the top to the very root; and, out of this,
had gushed up innumerable branches of willow—and
birch. They were now about the height of a man—
their hardy vegetation—shewing that vitality was not
altogether extinct. The colour was rather of a brown
and withered hue: but, over our heads, the other sister
trees had intertwined their branches, with the effect of
a woven, Gothic canopy—a firmament of leaves: some
little art had been added to the natural inclination of
the branches, when we were children: and now, there
was a sheltering, chequered lattice-work above, exceedingly
green and vivid—and transparent with a late
shower—through which, where the sun shone, we could
see every movement of every cloud in heaven, by a correspondent
shadow upon the grass at our feet, as if the
leaves were vitrified. And the tinting too, had became
beautifully varied, as the thickness was greater
or less, over us—while the multiplied shadow and
light about us, were eternally shifting, with a capriciousness,
that we could not have accounted for, had
we been forbidden to look up, and see the interlacing
branches, separate for a moment—as the matted leaves
ruffled in the wind, just long enough for the light to
break in—or, for us to catch a glimpse of the blue
heaven over us—the fiery sun-set behind—the distant
shining water—the far smoke, hovering, like in
cense, in the solitude—or, the red glittering windows,
at the right and left, into which the sun looked,
as he went down; ruddy and beautiful—beyond the
tall trees—scattering his lustre, with a greater and
greater prodigality, every moment—like one, ashamed
of his accumulated riches, and willing to make all the
world lament his departure.
`You look melancholy, dear Archibald,' said Ellenour,
affectionately, putting her little girl into his lap.
`There! take Lucia to your heart—and—Lord!
how he blushes—little Lucia, I mean.'
`Melancholy!' said Mrs. Arnauld—`ah, yes—'
`I feel so,' said Archibald.
`What! melancholy! Archibald?' said Lucia, her
eyes full of inexpressible meaning—`melancholy, at
an hour like this!'
`Yes—far more so, than, in the depth and dreariness
of winter, while the bleak wind pours through our
dwelling, and the sky snows, day and night, upon
us—but, it is a pleasant melancholy—'
`You are strangely poetical of late,' said I. `I do
not remember that you ever indulged yourself in such
language, when you were young.'
`I felt less, then, brother—inconcieveably less—the
endearment of that hour, had no influence upon me; the
passionate endearment of—' (he faltered.)
`But why melancholy, at such an hour as this?'
`The natural waywardness of the human heart,'
said Mr. Arnauld. `When the sun shines, it will run
into the shadow; and, when the firmament is over
cast, it wishes for sunshine; men affect distinction—
and, for want of that, are content with peculiarity.
Power is not less conspicuous, where all is light, by
its darkness, than, where all is dark, by its lightness.
It is a cloud, by day; a pillar of fire, by night. You
love to be apart from other men—do you not?'
Archibald smiled, and shook his head. `An admirable
illustration,' said he, `of that ambition—the
disease of noble minds, which, in its dotage, degenerates
into a love of notoriety.'
`Ah!' cried Ellen, her round, sweet voice, ringing
like the roundelay of some pipe, in our ear—so cheerful—so
varied in all its smooth, delicate modulations,
`I remember something of the sort—I have been at
balls, where my heart felt heavier, than at funerals.'
`Whenever there is an overacted seriousness,' said
Clara, in her sensible, mild way, `it provokes us to
oppose it:—and, therefore, where we are witnesses to
any unmeaning, or unreasonable merriment—'
`In the company of puritans, I should feel a prodigious
fancy for a game of romps, I am sure,' said
Ellen, interrupting her—`and, many a time, have I
run away from a noisy, blinding assembly of romps, at
a ball room, just to cry by myself.'
`It is no less true, than strange,' said Archibald,
looking Lucia in the face; `that, wherever we see any
are apt, by way of shaming or rebuking it, more
effectually, to run directly into the contrary extreme.
Moderation, begets moderation—extravagance, extravagance—violence,
violence.'
`But why are you sad?—why melancholy?' repeated
Mrs. Arnauld.
There was a terrible, brief movement, in his thoughtful
eyes, ere he replied; and, when he did reply, it
was with the air of one that feels much, very much,
but would not have it known—one that would convey
deep counsel in a light way—fluid gold in a wooden
cup—mystery and power—in the language of common
conversation—from what motive?—that it might be
chosen, or not; followed, or not; taken, or rejected,
without the cold formality of advice, or preparation.
`I am melancholy, my dear madam, whenever I see
the sky of that colour; because, it reminds me of the
day, that I first did battle on. I am melancholy,
whenever I feel the warm summer air blowing in my
face, and stirring the thin hair upon my forehead;
for, it reminds me that—(putting his hand upon
Lucia) — that—in the morning of my day, she
would sometimes, at an hour like this, stir it with her
breath. I—pardon me Lucia—I am melancholy,
madam, because I have feelings here---here—that nobody
will understand; because, I am not believed; because—
In short, tears have fallen upon my forehead;
and, I am unhappy, when the rain---(wiping
some drops from his face, at the moment, as they fell
through the washed leaves)---reminds me of them—
mother, I would rather die with blood upon my
hands, than the tears of a broken hearted woman.'
`What book is that?' said Mrs. Arnauld, abruptly,
in the pause that followed, as if anxious to turn our
thought into another channel.
`The Vicar of Wakefield,' said Mary, putting her
white hand upon it.
`By whom?'
`By one Goldsmith,' said I---`Oliver, I believe.'
`The poet?' said Archibald. `He wrote some verses
once, called—I forget the name.'
`The Traveller; or, The Deserted Village?' said
Lucia.
`Yes,' said Mrs. Arnauld---`and what think you of
it, Mary?'
`You know, my dear madam, that I am not well
qualified to judge; but I think it very beautiful, and
very natural---the book, I mean---I have never read
the poem.'
`I am glad to hear you say so,' said Mr. Arnauld---
`it is the best novel that ever was written.'
`Novel, pa,' said Lucia, `what is a novel?'
`Any tale, my child, like the parables of our Saviour
---the fables of men---any invention, of prose or verse
---though we call the latter a poem. This work is, of
the class to which it belongs---the most perfect novel,
that ever was written. It is worth all his other writings---all
his poems---all his essays---his Citizen of the
World, into the bargain.'
`Do you include dramas, father?' said Lucia, turning
about, so that the rich shadow of the setting sun
shone on her, like the lustre of a dimmed furnace, making
a picture so beautiful and eloquent, that her father
locked his hands, and called upon us, by a motion of
his eyes, to look at it, before it vanished.
`No, my child,' said he, `dramas are a species of
novel writing---so indeed are all compositions, where
imaginary creatures, invested with all the attributes
of humanity, agitated by the passions of our nature,
are put to the task of entertaining or terrifying us.'
`I have thought,' said Archibald, `that novel writing
has been shamefully mistaken.'
`And abused, and degraded,' said Mr. Arnauld,
impressively. `We have the highest authority for
novel writing. To write a good novel, a man should
be a poet, a dramatist, a painter, a tragick and comick
writer, a philosopher, a preacher, and an orator.
He should be able to pourtray intellectual and invisible
things, as vividly, as the substantial landscapes and
novel writing to women and children; and they,
after beginning their career with a novel, disdain to
continue, but soar, as they imagine, higher, by dabbling
in poetry or the drama. No! my notion is, that it requires
greater talent to write a great novel, than to
write an epick poem, a tragedy or a comedy—many a
sermon, and many an oration.'
`And then the influence of novel writing—there is
Richardson—and—'
`The influence, of which you speak, is greater than
that of all other literature. People read novels, who
never go to play or to church. People read novels,
who never read plays, sermons, history, philosophy,
nor indeed any thing else: And people read novels secretly,
in all weathers, from morning till night—who
do nothing else. How material then is it, that their
power should be understood; their eliment purified;
the conduits, by which we receive this intoxicating aliment,
under the superintendence of people, that know
the consequence of drugging the human heart, to delirium,
with poison and death, in the shape of exhilaration.'
`Ah—that shadow! look Archibald—look!' said
Ellen.'
It was the shadow of many birds, passing swiftly at
the time; and the water below us—nay, the very turf
appeared to move, for a moment, under our eyes.
A shot rang just behind the trees, where we sat, and
the next moment, down came two or three wild birds,
fluttering through the blue air, almost at our feet.
They were followed by a troop of boys, who ran off
with them, pursued by him that had shot at the birds.
`Oo nat les buissons, et 'es autres prennent les oiseaux,'
said Mrs. Arnauld, smiling, while Mr. Arnauld, throwing
a pleasant eye at his wife, observed.
`You have really a wonderful memory, my dear;
nay, I don't wonder that you laugh; that formed the
motto to the ring, that I gave you, after I came from
Italy. You have applied it adroitly enough.'
`No—I beg your pardon: that was Italian—a—uno
—what was it, Lucia?'
`Indeed, my dear mother, I do not recollect it;
what was the sentiment?'
`The sentiment! O, it was a hit at me, for my coquetry;
he had been beating the bush.'
`There is an Italian proverb,' said Lucia—`perhaps
that is it. Uno leva la lepre; e, un altro la piglia.'
`Oui ma chere,' said the mother, bridling, with an
innocent affectation, that half displeased Arnauld;
while Clara dropped her head, and began pulling flowers
for her boy.
`Wee m'a chare,' said my mother, to herself, but just
loud enough to be heard; `wee—march—air—beautiful!—
wee march hair—beautiful!'
I began to pull flowers too.
`See! see!' cried the delighted Ellen.
I turned my face, and saw the two children, each
with both hands full of flowers—crushed in the pressure;
the little girl stopped, and, holding up her hand,
to take what the boy was offering her, let her own
drop; all about them, the earth was like trodden velvet.
`The dog and the shadow!' said Clara, smiling;
`how natural and innocent is such avidity. See the
dear creatures!'
`I remember once,' said Archibald, `seeing a beautiful
picture, which represented a mother and her babe.
The story was this: that child's handful of flowers,
held so differently from our manner of holding them—
reminds me of it. The child had crept to the brink of a
precipice, before the mother had missed it: when she
turned her face, she discovered her babe upon the very
verge. God touched her heart—she tore away the
covering from her bosom; and the little nestling turned,
saw the place of beauty, and remained immoveable,
till she had crept near enough to catch him, and faint.'
The painter ought to have seen these children. I am
no painter; but, beautiful as that picture was, it troubled
me. The child sat upon the verge of the precipice—leaning
a handful of the plucked flowers. This was
wrong. I felt it then; but, then I did not know, as I
now do, why it was wrong. That child held the flowers,
just as a grown person would, by the stems; but
these children do not. No children, so young, would
ever. Why? Because they catch at that part which
attracts their eye: the light of a candle—the coloured
leaf, or the blossom. It is the flower, that they seize
and tear up. Of course, the flowers should be seen only,
crushed and broken, in the hand; and, at the sides,
or through their fat fingers, where they parted. Another
fault.—
`I remember that picture,' said Clara; `I have seen
it—but proceed.'
`Another fault,' continued he, `is this: the child is
sitting upon the precipice. That was wrong. When
the child had gone so far, as to sit upon it, and let its
little feet hang over, the danger was already past; the
extreme danger I mean. The peril is not half so great
to the child, while it is looking over the precipice, as,
at the moment, when it is beginning to sit down, as
children always do sit—by turning backward to the
object, and rolling over. Nay, a man that could stand
forever there, could not sit down. Now, my notion is,
that the child should not be sitting, but creeping; nay.
I would have it so, that the spectator should start, and
hold his breath, and put out his hands to save it, if he
came suddenly into the room, where the picture was.'
`Ah!' said Ellen, smiling; `and wouldn't you have
the cry of the mother painted too? so that he should
hear that?'
`You know,' said Archibald, tapping her hand, as it
lay upon the grass near him, while she kept pulling
back her little girl, like a truant robin, at every moment
or two, and then letting her creep away: `you
know that, if we see a man falling, our horrour is inconceivably
greater, if his head be downward; or, if he
be likely to fall upon his head. So in a picture. If
we see a real child, about to fall upon its feet, we should
which would happen to us, if we saw the picture of one,
falling on its head. I would suppose then, that the
child has crept to the precipice, step after step, in gathering,
flower after flower: I would suppose that one
hand was resting, with all the weight of its blessed little
body, upon the loosened turf, which, I would paint
so that it should appear falling and detaching itself,
under the pressure; nay, I would represent the loose
earth yielding below: I would show that other pieces
had fallen—clod after clod—from the overhanging
flowery, unsupported brink—and this I would show, by
the roots, and withered grass, and fibres straining and
clinging together yet, and hanging down; nay, I would
have some earth dropping, if it might be; and the calm
deep water below—broken like a mirrour, by the falling
gravel or dirt. You shudder! I am glad of it:
the picture would make your blood run cold. I would
have the mother appear just at this moment—not standing
upright, but almost upon her hands and knees, almost
creeping, through the near hedge, beneath which
he had crept; her bosom should be swelling, on a line
nearly level with the child's eye. I would have her
nearness and expression so great, that you would exclaim,
on seeing her—wait one moment—only one moment!
and her hand will be upon his! and then, we
should all know, from the motion of her body—the paleness
of her lip—that she would drop dead upon the spot
—yet clinging to her boy—nevertheless. Ah! see that
hand! there I would have the crushed flowers dropping
loosely from his little hand, just as it is from that child's
now, while it is outstretched to you.'
Just then, the wind began to rise, pleasantly stirring
the branches over our green seat; and sprinkling us
with a few water drops.
`Let us go in,' said Mrs. Arnauld; `the sky is
overcast, and there is a particular blackness at the
west.'
`O, no, no! mother,' said Lucia; `let us remain.
It is the breath of God. I feel it, like returning life in
all my dilated heart---I—'
`There will be no rain, I believe,' said Mr. Arnauld
interrupting her, and looking upward, while his hat
blew off and rolled away, to the delight of the little
children, as it passed them---`but the wind is rising as
I never saw it before: and the clouds are gathering
athwart the sky---gracious God!—'
A thunder clap broke over us, at that moment, with
a rush of lightning so voluminous, and so tremendously
bright—like ten thousand rockets, that, for a moment
I believed that we were all struck blind.—When I
came fully to the possession of myself, I saw the further
elm tree blazing in the wind—fifty yards higher
than its top; and all our little family lying about—
under a shower of rain, which, as it struck the low roof
of one of the outer buildings, just below us—broke over
it, like a cascade of fire. I never saw such a tremendous
rush of water from the skies. The dried brook
was like a mill race, before I had sense enough to
hobble round among our sweet scattered family, all of
whom, blessed be God! were unharmed, though the
lightning had broken about us, and above us, like a
volley of musquetry. We were soon in the house;
but, only in time, to see the passing of a whirlwind,
that, the old men of the country will turn pale now, at
the mention of. Lord! how it thundered!—It came
onward, like a vast black column, with a blood coloured
brightness resolving in its centre, and the point
advanced.—In a moment, we saw the sky all black
with the branches of trees—torn fences; shattered
frame houses; and every species of rubbish, which
clattered and shivered and broke, with one incessant
revolution for a minute, over our head. A fearful concussion
in the heavens—a crash—followed—and all
was silent.
It was some minutes before we dared to look into
each others faces, amid the silent and awful darkness
that followed; fearing, I know not what; to me, it
was like the last day; and when Clara put her babe into
my arms; and, dropped, kneeling, at my feet; it was
away, and the stars dropping, one after the other, into
the ocean.
The rain fell upon us—and the wind blew through
and through our apartment. We lifted up our eyes.
The windows were stove in; three, out of four chimneys,
were blown down; a part of the roof swept off; and
the very earth, where we lately sat, was torn up, as by
the hoofs of innumerable horses.—Yet—O, yet—not
a living soul had been harmed, and when Mr. Arnauld
called over our names, in the darkness, with a convulsive
emotion—servants and all—not one of the
whole family failed to answer `here am I.'—no, not
one.
Righteous heaven!—how wonderful and mysterious
are the sources of our consolation. At another
hour, the least of these many calamities had made
us repine; but now, in the shipwreck of our dwelling;
the destruction, probably, of all our hope for the season,
there was not one heart among us, that did not
beat loudly in thanksgiving. Nay, in four hours from
the time of the devastation—a devastation, which has
never been forgotten in that part of the country—we
were reassembled in one of the large, neglected apartments
of the mansion—happier by far, than we had
been the night before, with a strong roof over our
heads, and a clear summer sky shining in at the
windows.
`Let a man go with me,' said Archibald, with a
depth and sincerity, that I shall never forget—`out
into the wilderness, on such a night as this—sit with
me, as we sat together this afternoon, before the hurricane
broke down upon us; and feel the soft air
whispering about his heart; or hear the thunder breaking
at his feet; and see the great trees bending and
parting, in the wind and blackness of God's power—
I care not who he is, or what he is—where born—or
how educated—I defy him to stand upright!—I defy
him not to fall down, with his forehead in the dust, and
acknowledge the presence of a God.'
`Yet, Archibald,' said I—`you stood upright'—
`Did I?'—
`Yes,' I repeated—`and Lucia too, stood upright,
while her hair blew about like the torn flush foliage of
yon honeysuckle.'
`I did not know it,' said Lucia—`but I remember
that Archibald did; and I clung to him—for he saw
something.'
`Saw something! what did you see?' said my
mother—who had a terrible notion of portents and
prodigies; and battles in the heaven; for, when she
was young, (she was a native of Connecticut) she had
been awakened out of her sleep, by a sudden red light
in the sky; the heavens were all on fire—probably
by some passing meteor; and when others told her
that armies were seen that night, and chariots and
horsemen—with the noise of artillery; and, that the
smoke rolled down upon the earth, like a heavy fog;
she listened to it so long—that, at last, she began to
confound what others said, with what she had seen; and
before her death, did religiously believe, that she had
heard drums and trumpets on that night—and seen a
battle above the stars.—`What did you see, Archibald?'
said she, pressing close to him.
`God and his angels out upon the wind! the sky
smoking under his chariot wheels! while they rained
fire upon us'—said Archibald.
`Heavens! Archibald!' said Lucia, stepping up to
him, and putting her hand upon his forehead—`what
ails you! you were not looking up, when I saw you—
your eyes were upon the ground—what did you see?'
`Clinton! I saw Clinton there.'
She fell upon his neck.
`George Clinton! his white bosom naked; the hilt
of my sword pressing into it; the blood—blood!—
as plain as when he lived, trickling, drop by drop—
O, God!--down over his side; his hands thrust into his
own hair, with the suddenness of instant and violent
death.—O, Lucia, Lucia!—no wonder that I
heard the chariot wheels of God; the trumpeting of
to foot; and, the turf, it appeard to me, as I bore
thee over it—wherever I set my foot, gushed out with
fire, and, smoke and, I walked over broken
sword blades, human faces, and the manes of dead
horses.'
`You are mightily disordered, my dear Archibald,'
said Lucia, affectionately pushing aside the wild brown
hair, that shadowed his white brow—`I have never
heard you talk so strangely; how wild you look!—
Did the lightning strike you?'
`Strike me---feel here---here, Lucia. It is dust---
dust and ashes. Strike me!---it rushed through and
through me---I---O, I am very faint---very.'
He grew deadly pale, and his head sunk upon her
shoulder, as he finished.
As for us, we were altogether unable to reason or
think steadily, for a moment. There was a preternatural
vividness in our recollection of the last few
hours; and a dim, shadowy---impenetrable indistinctness,
of those, of all our lives before. For myself, I
am willing to declare, that I could not have answered
the simplest question, till after I had slept that night;
and that all the feelings of my heart seemed crushed
and stupified, except the love of my boy and wife.
Even my mother was forgotten, in the terrour and
darkness of our disorder. Was it the effect of the
lightning? I know not; but, I know this---that the
clap was ringing in my ears, for a week after, with a
noise that kept me from sleeping or thinking; and
that the discharge of lightning, was incessant---and
blinding---painfully so, even to my shut and bandaged
eyes—long afterward.
But Archibald was soon more calm;---and toward
morning, after we had sent out, as far as we could, to
inquire into the situation of our neighbours, which was
deplorable indeed, where they lived in frame houses;
and to offer them an asylum, such as we had left, in
ours---we all withdrew to our rooms; but not to sleep.
Neither Clara nor I, could sleep; and I felt her tears
dear head lay upon my arm, while our little boy nestled
at her bosom, and slept so quietly, that---O! it
was a comfort to feel him stir sometimes, to assure us
that he was a living child, and that his sleep was not the
sleep of death.
There was a strange brightness in the west, all the
night long; and, through our windows, which were
almost the only ones in the house, which had not been
broken in, sashes and all, by the hurricane, there was
a constant glimmering upon the wall, that troubled me
more than I was willing to confess. The night appeared
immeasurably long—I thought that the morning
would never arrive: nay, I began to have strange
fancies; and to doubt if—in truth, the sky might not
have been torn away by the tempest.
`Would that the day would break!' said Clara, in a
low whisper, as if to see if I were asleep.
`It is breaking, dear,' said I—`look there.'
`Do I tire your arm,' said she, gently raising her
head.
`No indeed, dear, I moved it, unconscious of the
weight upon it, to point to the east, where that luminous,
incessant surging of light appears—like a sea
breaking over its barriers.'
`That is no day break, my husband,' said she,
holding her breath, and drawing near to me. `It has
been a terrible night—a very long one—I---pray look at
your watch. It appears to me, many hours beyond the
time of day light.'
I affected to laugh; but I cannot deny that my
heart quaked, with an awful feeling, as I pulled out
my watch. You cannot readily understand me, my
children. It is impossible that you should. You have
never passed such a night. I hope that you never may.
But you will believe that my terrour was not of a
light nature, when I tell you that—I have seen some
terrible things, at night—my father's dwelling in
flames; thronging with banditti and murderers:—that
I have done battle in the night, with twenty cannon
dead and dying men: yet, never—never! in all my
life, have I endured a sensation of such intolerable
weight, and coldness, and horrour, as when I plucked
out my watch, and held it up to the light. As I am a
living man, children, had the last day been at hand,
in reality—and, I had seen the skies rushing away, in
silence; and I had been suddenly forgiven, I could not
have felt a more terrible convulsion of joy, than when
I saw the watch hand pointing at three o'clock—instead
of six or seven—and heard it, as I put it to my ear,
clicking with life. My hand shook; and, I was not
aware of my condition, till Clara exclaimed—
`As I live, John, you are crying!—what disturbs
you so mightily?'
I could not reply. I was ashamed to own the true
cause—but I embraced her, as I would, had we been
plucked out of the water: We only, from the population
of a world, at the deluge—or, been sent away, rejoicing,
at the last day.
Our silence continued, until the breathing of our dear
boy called our attention to him.
`How untroubled the sleep of that child,' said she.
`Thus will it be forever, that the wise and powerful
are disquieted, in exact proportion to their wisdom and
power.'
`It was a tremendous visitation!' said Clara, fervently
pressing her lips to my cheek. `Did you see
how Archibald bore it?'
`That did I! He stood up like a creature of the
elements, unawed and undisturbed. I was amazed at
his calmness.'
`And I—I was terrified.'
`Terrified!—why?'
`It was unnatural. Husband, there is something
in his manner of late, that will not let me sleep. Do
you not observe it?'
`I observe that he is exceedingly devout—that he is
forever with Lucia—and that the sweet wisdom of her
heart.'
`I am not satisfied with it,' said she. `While they
are most deeply engaged in conversation, there are fits
of musing that come over him, as if he were holding
communion with some invisible being—and, then he
walks in his sleep.'
`Yes—at times, I know that he does. But that is
on account of Clinton. He has never slept quietly
since. He never will. The night sweat is upon him
—and, I have heard him sob, in his dreaming, as if
some strong hand were pressing his great heart to suffocation.
But I have observed a change in Lucia, that
delights me. She is altogether better, happier, and
less abstracted in her look. She talks no more of dying.'
`Nor Archibald,' said Clara, in a tone that startled
me. `He talks no longer of it. They are strange
people.'
`They are, indeed,' said I. `I know not what they
contemplate; but a complaint like theirs, I think, may
always be brought on, by deep thought; and unsparing,
uninterrupted, long continued trouble and sorrow, are
often attended with a melancholy, intemperate enthusiasm,
which terrifies by its sublimity, while it awes
by the serenity, and sweetness, and tenderness of
its approach. Nor am I satisfied. What should be
done?'
`I have thought—' said Clara, hesitatingly. `You
know Lucia's pride—having prepared so steadily for
death—honestly, I am sure—she would not consent to
live—she would be ashamed to live, now, lest all her
declarations should be considered as a piece of cunning.
We have a delicate part to act. But, my opinion is
clear. I would have them marry.'
`Marry!' said I; surprised, indeed, at the suddenness
of the proposition. `Would it be possible?'
`Yes. I will answer for Lucia. Better health,
better spirits have given her better views of happiness.
But, the proposition must come frankly, without any
It may save both of their lives.'
`You astonish me,' I replied. `I have never
thought of this. I have suffered myself to believe that
both would live: nay, that both were fond of each
other; for, their growing tenderness and veneration
have been evident to me—but so long a time has passed
—so many years, that—'
`It matters not,' said Clara. `I believe that it is
not too late—will you promote it?'
`With all my heart,' said I; `but how?'
`There is only one way. Archibald would have
married her, notwithstanding all that had happened,
the extent of which, it is probable—nay, it is certain,
that he knows, though I do not—long ago; but a
certain high, noble principle of honour, arising from a
belief that he should soon leave her a widow, prevented
him from making the offer. He believes that he will
die yet—and, before many months. It is a childish
notion—the consequence of disappointed affliction—
weakness of heart—and protracted decay.'
`You are right, dear Clara—I have no doubt that
Archibald might live many years: nay, go into battle
again, with reputation and strength—if—he could be
persuaded to forget the thought of death—to overlook
his own reiterated prediction. The fact is, that people,
who have been a long time preparing for another
world—like them that are about to set out on a long
journey—are impatient for their departure, after they
have made up their minds, and exhausted our sympathy,
and found us, in a measure, reconciled to the separation.
They are sorry to go—but dare not acknowledge
it—willing to remain, but ashamed to say so.'
`My notion is—ah, the little wretch!—how he
bites!'
Master Jemmy had just discovered that the fountain of
her beauty was near to him—and he was puffing away
at it---hands and feet, like a fine fellow—when I
arose, and looked upon him, leaning over the mother
only, can experience.
It was time to get up. The blue east was breaking into
an ocean of tumultuous loveliness, the light; here and
there, issuing through the clouds, like dammed-up waters
forcing their way into the world. It was cold, all
very cold, but preternaturally beautiful and flashing.
`Good morrow, love!' said I—kissing her chaste
forehead, as I was about to leave the room—after
standing over her for some minutes, while her fringed
lids, half shut over the dear babe that lay, cuddled all
up in a heap, under her snow white arm—and her
red lip were full of maternal endearment—`Good
morrow!'—
`Good morrow,' she murmured inaudibly—pressing
the boy more closely to her heart, and half
opening her sweet eyes—for a moment; and then,
while her voice died away in a faint breathing, like
a low summer wind among hawthorn flowers—dropping
her head down upon his ruddy forehead.—I
could have fallen upon the bed and wept with delight,
at the picture before me—a mother and her babe! so
young, so beautiful—so innocent;—her white bosom
heaving with love; and her gentle arm intertwined
about my offspring, as if it were her own heart that
had crept out into the air for a moment, and lay under
her soft hand.
| CHAPTER XIV. Seventy-six | |