 | The actress of Padua, and other tales |  |
PREDICTION.
In the year 1812, shortly after the declaration of
war with Great Britain, I made an excursion, partly
on business, partly of pleasure, into that beautiful
and romantic section of Pennsylvania, which lies
along its north-eastern boundary. One morning,
while pursuing my journey, I heard at a distance
the sound of martial music, which gradually became
more distinct as I ascended the Blue Ridge, and
seemed to proceed from a humble village, situated
in the deep valley beneath, on the bank of the Delaware.
Nothing could exceed the splendour of the
scene that lay below. The sun was just rising; his
first beams were gradually stealing through the break
or gap in the distant mountains, which seems to have
been burst open by the force of the torrent; and as
they gilded the dark green foliage of the wilderness,
presented a view which might well awaken the genius
of art, and the speculations of science, but was far
too pure to be estimated by those, whose taste had
been corrupted by admiration of the feeble skill of
man.
There are indeed throughout the globe various
features which the most plausible theories are scarce
sufficient to account for, and among them may truly
be classed that to which we have alluded, where the
Delaware has cut its way through the rugged bosom
of the Kittatinny mountain. The scene is indeed
sublime, and while raising the eye from the surface
height of twelve hundred and fifty feet,
the question forcibly occurs, was this wonderful
work the effect of an inward convulsion of nature,
or was it occasioned by the irresistible pressure of
water, ages before the European dreamed of the
existence of a western world?
After gazing and reflecting for some time on the
wonders of nature, thus suddenly spread before me,
I resumed my journey. The music which still continued,
proceeded, as I found, from a band of soldiers
drawn up in the main street of the village,
surrounded by their friends and families, who had
evidently assembled for the purpose of taking a melancholy
farewell. I descended the mountain by
the circuitous path, and rode up to the inn before
which the crowd had gathered, but they were all too
busily engaged with their own feelings to notice the
arrival of a stranger. Wives were listening to the
last injunction of their husbands, the widowed mother
to the voice of her valued son, the prop of her
declining years, and many a bashful maiden lent her
ear to the protestations of eternal affection which,
at that time, sounded tenfold sweeter as they flowed
from the lips of the warlike lover. The shrill fife
was playing, the drum beating, and amid the jargon
of voices, the corporal was heard swearing like a
trooper, in order to keep up the dignity of his station.
The little bandy-legged drummer beat with
uncommon earnestness: it was uncalled for at the
time, and I was at a loss to account for his making
such a deafening noise, when I perceived a shrewish
looking beldame at his elbow, whose shrill voice
satisfied me that he would find comparative tranquillity
in the field of battle, to being within its appalling
influence. The fifer, out of compassion, lent
the aid of his shrill music to relieve his friend from
this last unpleasant lecture.
Removed from the crowd, I observed a young
man, an officer of the corps, in conversation with a
young woman, who did not strive to conceal her sorrow
were strongly depicted in her countenance,
and her rustic garb concealed a form, even thus decorated,
far more attractive than many who move for
a season the constellation of a ball-room, and imagine
they have attained the extent of worldly ambition.
The young man's face was animated, yet, in
the enthusiasm of the moment, he could not conceal
the sadness of his heart, while gazing on the lovely
being standing in tears beside him; the order was
given to march; he embraced her, imprinted a fervent
kiss upon her pale forehead, placed her in the
arms of an aged woman, who stood hard by, and
hurried to the ranks. The soldiers left the village,
followed by a troop of little urchins, who were either
pleased with the parade, or were desirous of prolonging
the melancholy moment of separating from
a parent or brother. The women remained in the
street watching them as they slowly ascended the
mountain path until they were out of sight, and then
returned to their lonely cottages: one only lingered
on the spot until the last sound of the distant drum
was no longer repeated by the echo of the mountains.
I inquired of the innkeeper concerning the young
woman just mentioned, who informed me that her
name was Lucy Gray, the only child of a poor
widow, who in former days had been in more prosperous
circumstances: that she had been betrothed
to Hugh Cameron, the young soldier, from their
childhood, and that their nuptials were to have been
celebrated in a few weeks, but as he was draughted
for the frontiers, prudence obliged them to postpone
the ceremony until the campaign should be
over.
Mine host was as loquacious as most village landlords,
and as he was familiar with the life, birth, and
parentage of every individual in the village, it was
not long before I received a full account of the young
officer, who, to use the narrator's own words, “had
hearts on that side of the Blue Mountain.”
Hugh Cameron had been protected from his infancy
by his grandmother, who was a native of the
Highlands of Scotland, and whose mind was strongly
imbued with the numerous superstitions of the uneducated
of her country. He was the child of her
only daughter, who had fallen a victim to unlimited
confidence in him she loved, and finally expiated
her offence by a broken heart. Hugh soon learnt
the history of his mother's shame from his playmates,
who, upon the slightest offence, would remind him
of it, in derision, for man appears determined most
religiously to adhere to the law, as laid down in
Deuteronomy, where it is written, that the unfortunate
in birth, “even to his tenth generation, shall
not enter into the congregation of the Lord.”
The taunts of his school-mates, preyed upon the
mind of the boy; he avoided them and sought seclusion.
What time was allowed from study, was
passed in the deepest recesses of the mountain, or
on the giddy precipice, where the eagle made his
eyry. Often was he seen by the astonished villagers,
apparently hanging in mid air, by some projecting
rock, hitherto untrodden by mortal foot, shouting
with joy at the affrighted birds of prey, as they wildly
dashed in circling flight around his head. They had
nothing to fear from the approach of the daring boy,
for his was not a heart wantonly to inflict a wound
upon the humblest of God's creatures. His feelings
were acute, and his imagination vivid. For hours
he would listen to the tales of his grandmother, of
warlocks, witchcraft, omens, and prognostics of
death. With her, not a breeze agitated the woods
or the river; not a drop of rain fell, nor an insect
moved, but for a special purpose. He never became
weary of listening to her, nor she of relating the
wonderful legends with which her mind was stored.
The village schoolmaster was also every way calculated
to give a freshness of colouring to the rude
narratives of the old crone, and increase their fascination
long and seen much of the world: a Hungarian, a
classical scholar, and fond of that lore which too frequently
destroys the worldly hopes, and enervates
the mind of the possessor. He fed on thriftless
verse until his mind sickened at the realities of life.
His reading had been various and profound, but that
which was speculative and visionary, possessed more
charms for his mind, than that which partook of
earthly matter. He was an accomplished musician,
and many a time at midnight was his solitary flute
heard in the deep recesses of the mountain, and on
the surface of the river.
He was an isolated man, and imagined no earthly
being possessed a feeling in unison with his own.
When he discovered the wildness and delicate texture
of his pupil's mind, they became almost inseparable
companions. The youth improved rapidly
under his guidance, not only in literature and music,
but in the facility of creating theories, which, at the
time they expanded and enlarged his mind, involved
it in an ocean of difficulty and doubt, without a compass
to guide it to a haven.
With years the feelings of the youth became more
sensibly alive to the charms of nature. For hours
he would contemplate the rolling river, and as wave
succeeded wave, the Hungarian would discover some
analogy to human life, which served to illustrate his
visionary theories. The hollow moan of the forest,
at midnight, which foretold the coming storm, was
music to their ears, and those hours which the
wearied villagers devoted to repose, were passed by
the old man and his pupil in gazing at the stars.
The Hungarian fancied he had ascertained the star
of his nativity, and for years whenever visible, he
regularly rose at the hour of twelve, to note its station
in the heavens. He had made his calculations
and predicted the day of his death. He communicated
the time to his pupil, who, though a convert
to his opinions, and fearful that the prediction would
be verified, treated it lightly, and endeavoured to
was fruitless. The night preceding his death, at
the hour of twelve, he called at Hugh Cameron's
cottage, awoke him, and they proceeded to the grave-yard
together in silence, for the Hungarian's mind
was so engrossed with thought, that Hugh did not
venture to break the chain of reflection.
They paused beneath the tall cypress that stood
in the eastern corner of the yard: the old man examined
the position of the star upon whose movements
he said depended his destiny, and then turning
to his companion, added—
“It is a weakness to feel any concern about the
disposition of the body when life is extinct, for though
the dust of which this frail tenement is composed,
be scattered to the four corners of the earth, there
is that magnetism inseparable from each particle
which at one day will cause re-union; yet it is natural
that the mind at parting from the body, should
feel some interest in its future destiny, and I have
often marked spots where I fancied the sleep of the
dead would be more undisturbed than in others; and
this is one of them. I make but one request; when
the few sands which yet linger of my life are run,
see that my remains be decently interred beneath
the cypress tree. This is all I ask of you in this
world.”
Hugh replied that he hoped he would live long to
command many a service of a less melancholy nature.
The old man continued in a solemn tone: “Do you
see that star; it is already low in the west, and its
rays are fitful and feeble. When the first gray light
of the morning shall have extinguished it, my light
will also be extinguished. I have predicted it for
years, and at this moment there are too many omens
concurring to leave a doubt of the accuracy of my
calculation. At times the mind is so delicately attuned
as to shrink instinctively from unseen approaching
danger, without the slightest sound or
touch to communicate it to the outward senses, and
has been a long one; not altogether unprofitably, and
I humbly trust, harmlessly spent. `My basket and
my store' are not quite empty, and to you I bequeath
the gleanings of my life. Among my papers you
will find one to this effect. I have not much to leave,
but what little there is will be of consequence to one
whose mind is constituted like yours.” He struck
his cane into the earth, and added: “Remember this
spot, Hugh Cameron; here let my head lie. Come,
my last request is made.”
He left his stick where he had planted it, and they
returned in silence to the village. When they came
in front of Hugh's cottage, they parted. It was a
parting under a full conviction of meeting no more
in this world. Much time elapsed before Cameron
could compose his troubled mind to sleep, and when
finally exhausted, he slumbered in a state of unconsciousness.
He arose about two hours after the sun,
and hurried towards the residence of his friend. His
heart felt like a lump of lead in his bosom, as he discovered
at a distance the shutters of his chamber
window bowed. The chamber was on the ground
floor of the cottage, and opened into a little flower-garden,
the cultivation of which, was the Hungarian's
chief delight. He was curious in flowers, and
had acquired the art of varying their colours by the
application of minerals to the root. Hugh crossed
the garden, and with trembling hands, pulled open
the shutters. He stood for a moment transfixed
with grief, then shrunk from the sight that presented
itself.
On a broad board supported by chairs, lay the
mortal remains of his friend, already clad in the garments
of the grave. He silently closed the window,
and on entering the house, learnt, that as the Hungarian
had not appeared at his usual hour of rising,
the family had entered the room, apprehensive that
he was ill, and discovered him lying in bed, his body
already stiff and cold. Upon a small table, near the
head of the bed, a lamp was still burning, though
bible, which rested upon his bosom; the book still
open at the page he was last reading. Every circumstance
proved that his death was as calm as the
sleep of the spotless infant. He was buried in the
place pointed out the preceding night, and all the
villagers from infancy to age, followed him in sorrow
to the grave. On examining his papers his will
was found, in which he bequeathed his little possessions
exclusively to his pupil, Hugh Cameron.
This is briefly the substance of the prolix narrative
of mine host. My horse being refreshed, I
mounted and pursued my journey, reflecting upon
how frail a thread human happiness depends. As I
passed along the street, all was silent and dejected;
not even a dog stirred to bark at me, but as the village
gradually receded from my view, other thoughts
engrossed my mind, and the lovely Lucy Gray and
her sorrows were forgotten.
Shortly after the peace, business obliged me to
take a similar journey. The sun was about setting
as I found myself upon the summit of the Blue
Mountain, and the welcome village in the deep valley,
again presented itself. My jaded horse leisurely
descended, carefully kicking every stone out
of the way that lay in his rugged path. When half
way down the height, I paused to rest the weary animal.
A young woman suddenly emerged from a
cluster of blooming laurels and wild honey suckles,
which grew round the base of a large projecting rock.
Her dark hair was luxuriant, and bound with neatness
and simplicity; her face lovely and blooming,
yet slightly overcast with sadness, and the matchless
symmetry of her small and elastic frame, was heightened
by the uncommon neatness of her rustic apparel.
On one arm hung a basket, well stored with
rich and various mountain flowers, while the other
was extended, to assist a young man to rise who was
seated at a short distance from the rock, and upon
whose enfeebled frame the hand of death pressed
heavily. He was a cripple, deprived of his right
wound. He rose with difficulty, and stood silent;
absorbed in thought.
“I fear,” said Lucy, for it was the widow's child,
“we have extended our walk too far. The mountain
path was too rugged for you yet. You are fatigued,
but in a few weeks you will be strong enough to revisit
the haunt you loved so when a boy.”
“No, Lucy, no,” he replied in a hollow, tremulous
voice, “I shall never again clamber to the rugged
brow of yonder ridge, upon which the beams of
the setting sun are now dancing. It would give a
new impulse to my heart to be for a moment there,
and the flagging stream of life would flow more freely;
but I shall never again gaze on the setting sun
from that loved spot; never again listen to the roar
of the torrent that dashes down that precipice.”
They disappeared behind the rock and struck into
another path; I urged my horse forward, and as I
descended, the drowsy tinkling of bells was heard,
as the sheep-boy, whistling, leisurely followed his
charge to the fold. The village boys were driving
the herds to water; some were paddling the light
canoe across the river, while others, more idle, were
busied with their childish sports upon the lawn.
Several women were at work with their wash-tubs on
the bank, and, as I drew nigh, a momentary cessation
from labour ensued. One of them in particular
was calculated to attract notice. She was tall and
meagre; her visage was sharp, swarth, and wrinkled,
and every line of it denoted that the family into
which it was the fate of Socrates to wed, had not become
extinct even to the present age. My eyes
were turned upon her, and I recognised her countenance.
I accosted her, and she no sooner gave loose
to her inharmonious tongue, than my doubts vanished.
It was impossible to forget the sound having
once heard it. It was the voice of the village shrew,
the bandy-legged drummer's wife.
“And are you the stranger,” she exclaimed, drawing
her skinny arms from the suds in which they
the stranger, who baited at our village years agone,
when our husbands and our sons were marching to
the wars in the Canadas?”
“I am the same.”
“Well my old eyes have not failed me yet, in
spite of all my sorrow. That was a woeful day to
many of us, and many a woeful day did it bring after
it.” I inquired after the fate of her husband. “Good
man,” she continued, “he has gone to a more peaceful
world than this. He was a hard-working man,
and well to do, and never wronged another of the
value of that suds, and that is more than some can
say that ride in their gilt coaches. But he is now
gone where honesty will turn to better account, than
all the gold and dross of this world. If he were but
back again, I should not be slaving here like a galley
slave as I am, to find bread for his poor dear orphan
boy. Gilbert!” she cried in a shrill tone, and continued:
“but I will train him up in the right path,
and he will not depart from it. Gilbert!” she again
cried with increased energy. “He is the comfort of
my age, the joy of my widowed heart. Gilbert, you
Gilbert,” she shrieked, “which way can the brat
have gone?” She espied the luckless little ragged
urchin hard by, laughing aloud and wrestling with a
water dog, dripping wet from the river. “I'll change
your note, you undutiful hound, take that,” she exclaimed,
at the same time suiting the action to the
word. The boy made a hasty retreat, crying, and the
dog ran after him, barking, and rubbing his wet skin
on the green sward, in the fulness of joy, which can
hardly be attributable to the lad's misfortune.
I inquired of the virago how her husband, the
drummer, died.
“Like a soldier on the frontiers. He was shot with
a musket ball, and fell by the side of Hugh Cameron,
who, Heaven bless him, was at the same time
maimed, and made a cripple for life. See, yon he
goes, leaning on the arm of Lucy Gray. Poor souls,
their only joy is to be together, but that joy will not
many, but never a pair like them. Their troth was
plighted before the wars; he loved Lucy more than
life, from the time he was a boy, and used to break
the hush of the mountains with the sound of his flute
at midnight, with him who now rests under the big
cypress tree. Yet when he found himself a cripple,
and unable to support his Lucy by the labour of his
hands, he sent a letter from the hospital where he
was lying, many a long mile from this, releasing Lucy
from her vows, and making her quite free to marry
another if she fancied him.”
“It was nobly done on his part: what answer returned
Lucy?”
“She wrote to him, that as Hugh Cameron was no
longer able to work for Lucy Gray, she was able and
willing to work for Hugh Cameron. He no sooner
received the letter than he left the hospital, and travelled
homewards, for he was impatient to see her
that he now loved more than ever. He travelled far
and fast, night and day, which brought on a fever,
and when he arrived at last, he looked like the shadow
of what he was. He lay on his sick bed for
weeks; the fever was cured, but it left behind a disease
which no medicine can cure.”
Lucy and the invalid had by this time entered the
village; I felt a curiosity to see more of them, and
taking an abrupt leave of the loquacious widow, I
rode up to the inn, and was cordially welcomed by
my quondam host. I lost no time in directing my
steps towards the widow Gray's cottage: As I approached
the unceasing hum of the widow's wheel
denoted that she was at her station. I entered, and
on making myself known as an early acquaintance
of her husband, she recognised me, though her features
had escaped my memory. The room was uncommonly
neat. The fragrance of the wild flowers,
culled by Lucy, was perceptible. They were placed
in water upon a bureau, in front of a looking glass,
in a well polished mahogany frame. Lucy and the
young soldier were in the garden. We passed into
arbour, over which the vines were already gradually
stealing. The lovely girl was at the extremity of
the little garden, bending over a flower that required
her attention.
“Every evening it is thus,” said the widow,
“whenever she can spare an hour from her labour,
she devotes it to the garden, and really the care she
takes adds much to the appearance of our dwelling.”
“Truly,” I observed, “her labour has not been
idly spent.”
“A blessing,” continued the widow, “appears to
attend all she does.”
The invalid appeared intent upon what Lucy was
doing, but the praise which escaped the widow's
lips, did not escape him. He turned towards us and
said—
“True, mother, even the drooping narcissus revives
at her touch, your aged heart grows glad in her
presence, and the weight of years is forgotten; nay,
even I dream of coming happiness when I see her
smile, but the narcissus will bloom only for a few
days longer, then wither and sink to the earth.”
“But the flower will revive again in spring,” said
Lucy, “more beautiful than at the time it faded.”
“All things look glad in spring,” he continued,
“the notes of the various birds are more melodious,
the buds burst forth, the mountain trees put on their
rich attire, the flowers of the valley dispense their
hidden fragrance, the ice-bound brook is freed from
its fetters, and every breeze is fresh with fragrance;
but I, amid this general revival, must fade and die
alone. I would the autumn were already arrived,
and the leaves were falling, for then to die would be
natural, and I should leave the world with less regret.”
We returned to the cottage, and the widow resumed
her station at the wheel, while Lucy prepared
the tea-table, which was covered with fine bleached
linen, which the widow mentioned with an air of
pride, was the product of her hands. The humble
and delight by the cottagers; a joy unknown
to those who have not by their own labour first produced
the sustenance of life.
The meal being over, the widow returned to her
wheel, and recounted the occurrences of former days,
until the sadness of the present was forgotten in the
remembrance of the past. The brow of the invalid
became more cheerful, and Lucy's spirits resumed
their natural buoyancy from the transient gleam of
sunshine that lit up the face of her lover. She sang.
Her voice was sweet, and there was a heart-thrilling
wildness in it, seldom to be found in those more refined
and cultivated. It was powerful and spirit-stirring.
Hugh Cameron dwelt upon each note with
intense interest. His features became animated,
and he mingled his voice with her's. The widow
stopped her incessant wheel and lifted her head to
listen. The invalid suddenly raised his voice, and
cried, “That note again, Lucy, that note again.”
She repeated it with so full a tone, and so clearly,
that the glasses in the window, and on the cupboard,
vibrated with the sound.
“Hush; that is the note, I know it well. Now
listen.” He attempted to imitate the note, but he
failed, for his voice was too feeble. He then added,
“Not yet, Lucy, not yet; my time is not come yet.”
The cheerfulness of the poor girl was suddenly
changed to sadness; she ceased to sing; the widow's
countenance fell, and she resumed her labour in
silence.
The evening was now considerably advanced, and
I arose to take my departure. The invalid accompanied
me towards the inn. I expressed my curiosity
to know what he meant by his observation,
when he failed to imitate the note.
“That,” said he, “was the note to which the
heavenly spheres were attuned, when concord prevailed
throughout the creation; when the plan was
first set in motion, and God pronounced all good.”
I looked at him with astonishment. He continued:
from the voice of my dog, as he howled beneath my
chamber window at the moon. It was ominous. I
have heard it in the voice of the screech-owl, while
perched on the large cypress tree in the churchyard;
I have heard it in the echoes of the mountains
when I have shouted; in the howling of the
tempest, in the murmuring of the waters, and the
rustling of the trees; for every thing, animate and
inanimate, retains that sound, to which universal
harmony will again be attuned by the masterhand.
And when that sound proceeds from this voice, I
shall cease to think of earthly matters. I perceive
you doubt the truth of my theory. If you suspend
a piece of metal or glass by a thread, and strike the
note which lies dormant therein, upon a musical instrument,
you will draw it forth; the substance will
respond; and when the heavenly harps are attuned,
and their notes are permitted to extend to the numberless
spheres, all created things, both animate and
inanimate, will join in the concord, the discordant
particles will be reconciled and all be harmony again.
All things partake of heaven. Even the daisy of the
valley and the wild flowers of the mountain, retain
and diffuse a portion of the aromatic atmosphere,
which prevails in purer regions than this. As we
approach death, the sense of smelling becomes more
acute and delicate; so much so, that I can already
discover in the flowers of the season, that fragrance
which belongs to this world, and that which is ethereal.
There are numberless omens in nature, which
warn the wise man of approaching change, and they
are not to be idly slighted.” With these remarks
we arrived at the inn; he pressed my hand at parting,
and slowly retraced his steps to the widow's
cottage.
I arose early the succeeding morning, and continued
my journey towards the border line of New
York. I was absent about two weeks from the village,
and it was a calm evening as I again approached
it, through the valley formed by the Delaware.
tolling of a church bell, which grew louder and
fainter, as the breeze that swept up the valley rose
and died away. Every hill responded to the knell.
I quickened my pace, and as I drew nigh to the village,
it appeared quite deserted. I rode up to the
tavern, but my attentive host did not make his appearance.
I remained seated on my horse, with my
face towards the Blue Ridge. The winding road
which led across the mountain, though nearly concealed
by the towering trees, was at intervals to be
seen, perfectly bare, from the village. A long retinue
appeared crossing one of those interstices; it
moved slowly along, and was lost in the shades of
the forest. When the last had disappeared I alighted,
and discovered at a short distance a lad with
his eyes fixed intently on the spot, over which the
mournful train had passed. It was little Gilbert,
the drummer's child. I inquired the reason of the
village being deserted, and he sobbed, “Hugh Cameron
is dead, and they are now burying him where
he wished to be buried.” The boy, still weeping,
led the way to the stable, and supplied the horse
with food.
What are the promises of this world! There was
a time when fancy whispered to Hugh Cameron,
the ceaseless hum of the widow's wheel would be
silenced; her chair would occupy the most conspicuous
place around his fire-side, and clambering
on her knees would be seen, a little image of his
lovely Lucy. The dream was a joyous one, and
life is but a dream. He whose fancy can paint the
hopes of to-morrow in the most vivid colours, attains
the summit of all earthly bliss; for there is much,
very much in anticipation, but little, very little in
fruition.
In the evening I went to condole with the mourners.
Lucy had already retired, for her's was a sorrow
to obtrude upon which, would add to its poignancy.
“The day you left us,” said the widow, “the departed
They strolled up the cypress hollow until they arrived
at his favourite retreat, where the torrent dashes
impetuously down the side of the mountain, and the
surrounding precipices send back numberless echoes.
He seated himself, and listened intently to the roar
of the waters. Not a sound escaped him, and every
note was tried by his ear. He stooped by the stream
where the water gurgled over its pebbly bed, and
discovered notes imperceptible to any ear less acute
than his own. A sudden gust of wind agitated the
tall pines; he stood erect, paused, and pointing to
the bending tops of the trees, exclaimed, `it is there
too, Lucy; even in that hollow moan of the monarch
of the forest I detect it.' He shouted, and the valley
rung with echo; he repeated it, listened to every
sound, and his face became animated as he caught
the faint return made by the most distant hill. His
dog raised his ears and barked. `It is there too,
Lucy,' he exclaimed, `even the voice of poor Carlo
is full of melody, and your voice, Lucy, even when
you first told me that you loved, sounded not so
musically, so heavenly sweet.' He directed Gilbert
to gather for him the mountain honey-suckle,
the cypress branches, the laurel, and such flowers
and blossoms as were putting forth. The boy soon
came with his arms full, and laid them at the feet
of the invalid. `My sense of smelling,' he said,
`was never so acute. The fragrance arising from
these branches almost overpowers me. Yet I enjoy
it, and although widely different in their odours, I
can perceive a portion of the same subduing fragrance
proceeding from each. Their colours are
more vivid, sounds are more distinct, and my touch
more sensible than formerly. These changes tell
me that I shall never visit this valley again.' He
rose from the rock upon which he was seated, took
Lucy by the arm, and proceeded towards the village
in silence. Carlo walked closely and dejectedly
by his master's side, and even the reckless Gilbert
did not venture to break the silence, until he had
alone to secure the canoe.
“From that day,” continued the widow, “he grew
worse, and it was evident to all that the dear boy
would not be long with us. The evening preceding
his death, he was lying on the bed, and Lucy and
myself were taking our solitary meal with little appetite,
for he who dispensed joy around our board,
was unable to take his wonted place. He turned
in his bed, and said in a voice scarcely above his
breath, `Mother, what time does the moon go down?'
I told him the hour, and inquired why he asked.
`Nothing,' he added, `only this, mother, say all you
have to say to me before the moon goes down.' His
voice was scarcely articulate. Lucy burst into
tears, and removed her chair to the head of his bed.
He perceived her grief, and pressing her hand to his
feverish lips, said, `Do not weep, Lucy, indeed I
have more cause to grieve than you, though my heart
feels little of sorrow at present.' She asked him
his cause of grief. `It is this, Lucy, that I cannot
repay your matchless love and unwearied care of
me.” The poor girl's tears flowed afresh, and her
heart sobbed as if it would break. The evening was
spent in reading such passages of the scriptures to
him as he pointed out. His mind continued firm
and clear. About midnight he desired that the casement
of the window might be thrown open. It
opened upon a full view of the river. The night
was sultry, and almost as bright as day. An owl
was hooting from the grave-yard, and the whip-poor-will
was flying low and screaming. Poor Carlo
howled sorrowfully. The sounds did not escape the
notice of the dying man. Two or three canoes were
in the middle of the river, with a bright blazing fire
kindled in the stern of each. He said in a low
voice, `The villagers are preparing to spear the
salmon trout; then the moon must be nearly down.'
His bed lay beside the window, and he desired to
be removed to the extremity that he might look out
upon the sky. He did so. His face became animated,
he said, `The works of God never before appeared
to me so exquisitely beautiful;' and yet his
whole life had been passed in admiring the works of
God. He whispered to me, that it was time for us
to take our last farewell. My heart, in the course
of a long life, met only once with so trying a moment
as that of parting with the boy; but my Lucy
—my poor Lucy; I thought her heart would break
outright. He then desired the window to be closed;
the light to be removed into the next room, and not
to be disturbed. At a short distance, we listened
to the rattling in his throat, for about an hour, when
it suddenly ceased. Lucy imagined he slept, and
softly approached the bed. I put my hand under
the bed cover, and felt his feet. They were stone
cold. Animal heat had forsaken his extremities, and
the chills of death were fast invading his heart. I
induced my child to retire to her chamber, under
the belief that he slept, and she did not learn his
fate until she arose in the morning.” Thus ended
the widow's simple narrative.
Poor Lucy Gray! No being is more deserving
of commiseration, than an amiable female brooding
over the sorrows of hopeless love. If her afflictions
are occasioned by the treachery of man, the bitterness
of thought poisons the very sources of life, and
works a sure and rapid decay. Even a deviation
from the path of rectitude, may be philosophised into
a virtue, when occasioned by one beloved, but it will
rise up in judgment when passion has lost its influence,
and the fatal conviction flashes upon the mind,
that the object was unworthy of the sacrifice. But
she who has watched by the death-bed of him she
doated on, and by her angel presence drawn his
thoughts to heaven, and taught him resignation;
who kissed his soul when parting from his lips, and
watched the glazed eye that even in death expressed
his tenderness, until she fancied that he lingered
still, and paused to hear him breathing—such a one
may mingle in society, and pass along unnoticed
dance, and seem to partake of its merriment;
the wound may apparently be healed, and the smile
of cheerfulness may enlighten her countenance; but
still her midnight thoughts are working in the grave,
and straining near to madness to picture the being
that is mouldering there. She fades, without being
conscious herself of gradual decay, and like the tulip,
becomes more lovely, in consequence of disease
engendered at the root. Such has been the fate of
myriads of the fairest and best of creation; and such
was the destiny of Lucy Gray.
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