University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Park Benjamin.

The reader may imagine Paul Redding being
seated in the comfortable old-fashioned bar-room of
the “Bull's Head.” There are coats and hats of

every shape and quality decorating the walls;
here is the broad-brimmed, furless hat of the
Quaker; there the long whip and weather-beaten
overcoat of the wagoner. All of these bespeak the
character of the house, which is a sort of country
inn, for the accommodation of the good, homely-minded
market people, who make a weekly, monthly,
or half-yearly tour to the city with their produce,
from the rich old counties of Lancaster and Chester.
Many years ago, when but a child, we well
remember with what admiration, nay, almost awe,
we then gazed at the bull's head on the swinging
sign-board; the mad eye, the foam dropping from
the mouth, seemed to be the highest reach of art;
and the chain around his neck appeared to be a
very necessary appendage. But we must return
to the youth. The reader may now imagine what
was Paul's surprise to encounter the same strange
person, that but a day or two since, he had first
met in the neighborhood of an obscure village,
some thirty miles back in the country. The
stranger's air was now less terrific, his eyes less
wild, and his dress less peculiar, not to say fantastic;
but his face bore still that same haggard hue, and
there was something yet sufficiently strange in his
manner to make him attract the attention of most
persons, and elicit queer conjectures from the more
curious. Fitful was keenly sensible of this. The
glance of every eye annoyed him, and he interpreted
every whisper to be some surmise or unpleasant
suggestion of which he was the subject.
Therefore he gave Paul to understand, that he was
not altogether what he seemed, and persuaded the
young man to accompany him to his own private
lodgings. And Paul, actuated somewhat by
curiosity, and, perhaps, from a sense of his own
loneliness, but more from a deep sympathy for the
mysterious man, at last consented; and the two
strangers, followed by the inquiring gaze of twenty
eyes, glided out, and were soon lost amid the darkness
of the street. They entered a narrow alley-way,
and passing through the back room of an old
building, Fitful led the way cautiously up a dark
flight of stairs into the little apartment mentioned in
the last chapter. On one side there were two windows
that were tightly fastened up with old-fashioned
board shutters; in one corner of the room was
situated a small bed, and opposite to that was the
little fire-place, mounted with an old black mantle-piece,
over which hung two antique-looking pistols,
well coated with rust; and between these stood a
small quaintly-figured dingy clock, that ticked so
slow and mournfully, that you might have imagined
it was complaining over the loss of its better and
brighter days. On the base of the clock, which
was of brass, these mysterious lines were dimly
carved, or rather scratched:
The appearance of the place impressed Paul with
an irresistible feeling of awe, and served in no
way to solve the mystery, that hung around the
stranger; but notwithstanding all this, the young
man's curiosity was still more excited, and,
assuming an air of confidence, he accepted the
proffered chair, while Fitful drew up another and
seated himself familiarly by his side.

“I was somewhat surprised to find you in the
city,” said he.

“Yes, I was almost surprised at it myself,” answered
Paul; “but I arrived here last evening, in
hopes of finding some situation where I might better
my fortune; for I have had rather a hard lot of it
since being left an orphan, when a mere child.”

“An orphan,” sighed Fitful; “poor boy!”

“An orphan is to be pitied, to be sure,” replied
the young man, coloring slightly, “but not so much
pitied while he has health and strength, and hands
to work with.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the other, “the energy of
a determined, youthful, innocent mind — mark me,
I say a pure mind — can easily surmount every
barrier that misfortune may throw in its way.”

“I think that I have energy enough, if I may be
allowed to say so much in my own favor,” answered
Paul.

“And a pure mind to back it, I have no doubt,”
said Fitful.

“But,” continued he, changing the subject, “if I

was surprised to see you here, I may readily guess
that you were equally so to encounter me; that is,
if you recognise me again.” Paul answered that
it was not an easy thing to forget so soon, the face
that he had seen under such peculiar circumstances,
at the village inn but a short time before.

“Ah yes, indeed!” sighed Fitful, “that was
a dreadful black night — a most horrible night,
Paul!”

“It was, indeed!” answered the young man.

“I would tell you something of it,” continued
Fitful, casting a sly glance over his shoulder, “for
it relieves my mind, and drives away those dreadful
fancies, when I can talk with some friend familiarly
about them. But no, no, it would frighten you,
Paul, terrify you, if you could see, for one moment,
those hideous creatures at my shoulder. I 'll not
talk of them!” And the poor man passed his hands
nervously over his brow and head, as if to repel
the rising recollection.

“I pray you,” said Paul, “if it affords you but a
moment's ease of mind, I pray you, speak on.”

Fitful gazed cautiously around the room, and
remarked again in an undertone, “Oh, what a
fearful night that was, Paul, was n't it?”

“Very!” replied the young man, shuddering at
the recollection.

“How it stormed!” continued the other, “were
you not frightened at my sudden appearance?”

“I was somewhat surprised,” said Paul mechanically,

striving to avoid giving a pang to the feelings
of the poor man.

“Yes, you were surprised! and very reasonably
thought me mad, no doubt.”

“Indeed, sir,—”

“Make no apology, Paul,” interrupted the other,
“make no apology; you could n't have thought me
more mad than I really was; — yes, it was a burning
fit of the direst madness. But tell me, Paul,
what did I talk about?”

“Indeed, I can hardly recollect,” replied the
youth, “but you complained somewhat about evil
spirits that haunted you.”

“Was that all?” said Fitful, again cautiously
looking over his shoulder. “Did n't I speak any
thing of him: I mean of an old man, eh?” And
he gazed wildly in Paul's face, as the young man,
rather hesitatingly, replied, “yes.”

“What was it, Paul? what was it?” and he
grasped the young man tightly by the arm.

“You said something of an old man that stood
looking over your shoulder, I believe.”

“Was that all? — all?” asked Fitful, eagerly.

“Yes, all that I can remember,” replied Paul.

The poor man laughed hysterically for a moment,
but suddenly settled down into a gloomy, thoughtful
mood. At last he said in a low and melancholy
voice, “There are dangerous things that assail us
when our backs are turned — evils that meet us
face to face we can manfully combat; but slander

and the tiptoe assassin at our backs, are more to be
feared than a legion of foes standing before us. I
could boldly meet and grapple with flesh and blood
like myself; but my greatest and nearest enemy is
not tangible; it is here — here —” (he pressed his
finger on his forehead, as he spoke.) “Yes,
Paul, it is here. Imagination makes such cowards
of us all, that we fear the immaterial shadow which
the mind projects much more than the material.
Would it were not so. I would not have you think,
Paul, that I am usually the miserable thing that you
saw me a few evenings since. No! that was one
of my worst fits. How the evil fiends haunted me
that night! I strayed off to the woods and hills;
but still I was haunted. Every sound became
terrible! It seemed as though the heavens thundered
only to speak of me; the watch-dogs at the
farm-houses, far and near, seemed only to howl
and bark, because I was prowling through the
woods like a thief. Each rustling leaf whispered
something of the thing I least wished to hear.
Every branch that broke beneath my footstep gave
vent to a horrible tell-tale voice. As I sat trembling
on the ledges of rocks, I dared not to lift my
eyes upward, lest I should behold a ghastly demon
looking down into my face. The boughs, that
swayed back and forth in the storm, seemed to be
long arms and hands, that strove to grasp me. The
trees appeared to take fiendish shapes, and to link
their long, lank fingers together; they nodded their
heads, jeering at me as they danced around, and
their ragged beards floated wildly on the wind.
The solitude was more populous than the habitations
of man, and I fled from it; yes, Paul, from such
terrors as these was I striving to escape when I
rushed so wildly in the bar-room of the village inn.
Oh, Paul, Paul, as you cherish hopes for the bright
things of earth, and the brighter things of heaven,
never, never, let your passions direct your hand or
tongue to do aught that shall sow the nettle-seeds
of remorse in the fair bed of conscience!” Fitful's
descriptions of these fantasies were not without
their effect upon the nerves of the youth; nor was
the strange man so lost amid the recollections of
his past terrors as to escape observing this; but on
the contrary, he found it prudent to conceal as
much as possible the workings of his own imagination,
and change the conversation to some topic of
a less exciting nature.

“We will talk no more of these things,” said
Fitful, striving to appear as calm as possible.
“And now that I think of it,” continued he, “what
do you propose doing in this great city?”

“Indeed, I have not the faintest idea,” replied
Paul.

“You will excuse the liberty, my young friend,”
said Fitful, “but I judge, as a matter of course, that
the purse of a youth, who is seeking his fortune, is
not over-full, and I suppose that you would like
some employment immediately, if you could procure
it?”

“You speak truly,” answered Paul, unhesitatingly;
“I should be glad of any situation that would
give me an honest living.”

“I think,” said Fitful, “that I can help you to a
place that may suit you for the present, until you
find some employment that will be more agreeable
to your inclination.”

“I would regard it as a great favor,” replied the
young man.

“There are those,” continued the other, as a
scowl gathered on his brow, “there are those who
are under obligations to me, that perhaps would be
glad of your services.”

“I wish it may prove so,” answered Paul.

“Prove so!” reiterated Fitful, with an angry
stare; “prove so! I tell you, Paul, they dare not
refuse me! — that is,” continued he, suddenly
checking his vehemence, “I think they will not —
I am quite certain they will not; or, if they do, no
matter, you can call to-morrow morning and ascertain
for yourself. In the mean time, allow me to
ask what are your plans for to-night?”

“How do you mean?” said Paul.

“What I mean, is this: do you stop at the tavern,
to-night?”

“I see no other alternative,” said Paul, hesitatingly;
“but to be plain with you, I have been driven
to my wit's end to know what I should do in my
present case. I was in hopes that one day's search
would procure me some employment; but I have

been sorely disappointed; and to tell you the truth,
I have not the means to pay for my lodging at the
inn, should I go there.” As Paul stammered out
this, Fitful's face relaxed almost to a smile, as near
indeed as he ever came to smiling in his calmer
moments; and he said, “I am almost selfish enough
to be glad of it!”

“Indeed!” answered Paul, good-naturedly,
“why so?”

“Because I may have the pleasure of providing
for you to-night; my only regret is,” as he spoke
he cast a sad look around the room, “my only
regret is, that I have no better accommodations to
afford you.”

“Were that all,” answered the other, “you need
give yourself no uneasiness on that score.”

“That is all,” replied Fitful, “and believe me,
Paul, nothing now could give me greater happiness
than to do you a service.”

“Thank you,” said the youth, with heart-felt
gratitude; “I am exceedingly obliged to you, and I
would accept your kind offer, were it not but for
one thing.”

“What is that, pray?”

“You will excuse me for saying so; but if that
is your bed, as I suppose it is, it seems to be hardly
large enough to accommodate two of us.”

“Do n't trouble yourself about that, Paul,” said
Fitful, with a sigh; “if there is bed enough for
you, that is all that is necessary. I never lie down
at night — never sleep unless it be in the broad

daylight, for reasons that you may one day know;
as it is, for the present — no matter; there is your
bed, when you are ready betake yourself to it, and
do n't mind me.” The strange man's manner was
so decisive, that Paul deemed it prudent to make
no farther remonstrance, but thanked him and talked
of other matters. Such was the young man's confidence
in his mysterious friend, that at an early
hour he made no hesitation to retire to rest; and
notwithstanding the strangeness of his companion,
or the singular appearance of the apartment, without
entertaining the slightest scruples, he permitted
himself to fall into that state of half-unconsciousness,
when the mind takes no cognizance of outward
things, but wanders almost as free as the disembodied
spirit, mingling in scenes, and calling up
incidents that otherwise seemed buried in oblivion.
In such a state it would seem that the claims of
mortality were, for the time, cast off, and the soul
was permitted to wander, for awhile, in that fair
country, where the past and the future are spread,
like pleasant fields, on either side of the present.
In the one, the spirit becomes a child again, and
rambles by familiar brooks and trees, while flowers,
birds, and butterflies, welcome it as their natural
playmate. In the other, it walks amid poetic
structures, through gorgeous temples, where
And who may say that such are not the realities of
the land of spirits?

From some cause or other, perhaps stung by
some cruel change in his dream, Paul suddenly
awoke; and casting his gaze to the opposite corner
of the room, he beheld Fitful sitting at a small
table, bending very intently over some manuscripts,
in which he seemed ever and anon to be making
corrections. The rattling of the straw mattress, as
the young man changed his position, betrayed the
movement to his strange companion, who, as if
caught in some criminal act, grasped the papers
hurriedly together, and thrust them into his bosom.
Then taking up the half-filled lamp, he approached
the bed, but seeing that Paul's eyes were closed,
he returned to the table, and again busied himself
with the papers. A second time did the youth fall
into that state of half-unconsciousness. A motley
dream of consistencies and inconsistencies now took
possession of his brain. At one time he thought
that his mother stood weeping over him, and he had
no power to speak to her — how young and beautiful
she looked! Yes, as beautiful and young as
when he, a fair-haired, happy child, ran laughing
to his fair-haired, happy mother. But soon there
came a melancholy scene, where his father appeared,
a tall, dark-browed man, who smoothed the
hair from the forehead of his son, and whispered
in his ear, “farewell!”

Again Paul started from his sleep, and he beheld

Fitful standing over him, gazing in his face, and
smoothing aside the hair from the young man's
brow, as his father had done in the dream.

“I was only looking to see if you slept well,”
said Fitful, and he turned away.