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GRAHAM'S
AMERICAN MONTHLY
MAGAZINE
Of Literature and Art,
EMBELLISHED WITH
MEZZOTINT AND STEEL ENGRAVINGS, MUSIC, ETC.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT, J. FENIMORE COOPER, RICHARD H. DANA, JAMES K. PAULDING,
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, N. P. WILLIS, CHARLES F. HOFFMAN, J. R. LOWELL.
MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, MISS C. M. SEDGWICK, MRS. FRANCES S. OSGOOD,
MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY, MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY,
MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN, ETC.
PRINCIPAL CONTRIBUTORS.
GEORGE R. GRAHAM, AND ROBERT T. CONRAD, EDITORS.
VOLUME XXXII.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEORGE R. GRAHAM & CO. 98 CHESTNUT STREET.
* * * * *
1848.
CONTENTS
OF THE
THIRTY-SECOND VOLUME.
JANUARY, 1848, TO JUNE, 1848.
* * * * *
A Drama of Real Life. By N. P. WILLIS, 61
Autumnal Scenery. By JOSEPH R. CHANDLER, 64
Biographical Sketch of Gen. Wm. O. Butler. By FRANCIS P. BLAIR, 49
Battle of Fort Moultrie. By C. J. PETERSON, 198
Clara Harland. By G. G. FOSTER. (Illustrated.) 241
Cincinnati. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 352
Captain Samuel Walker. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, (With an Engraving.) 301
Dissolving Views. By F. E. F. 172
Effie Morris. By ENNA DUVAL, 87
First Love. By ENNA DUVAL, 282
Game-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 68
Game-Birds of America. By PROF. FROST, 185
Home. By Mrs. H. MARION WARD, 129
Jacob Jones. By T. S. ARTHUR, 193
Jehoiakim Johnson. By MARY SPENCER PEASE, 313
Lace and Diamonds. By THEODORE S. FAY, 1
Le Petit Soulier. By IK. MARVEL, 165
Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 23
Mathew Mizzle. By JOSEPH C. NEAL, 57
Montezuma Moggs. By JOSEPH C. NEAL, 116
Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 130
Mrs. Pelby Smith's Select Party. By Mrs. A. M. F. ANNAN, 152
Marginalia. By EDGAR A. POE, 178
My Lady-Help. By ENNA DUVAL, 180
Mary Warner. By Mrs. E. L. B. COWDERY, 201
Major-General Worth. By FAYETTE ROBINSON, 275
Power of Beauty, and a Plain Man's Love. By N. P. WILLIS, 99
Pauline Dumesnil. By ANGELE DE V. HULL, 121
Pauline Grey. By F. E. F. 229, 265
Phantasmagoria. By JOHN NEAL, 26O
Phantoms All. By CAROLINE H. BUTLER, 304
Poor Penn--. By OLIVER BUCKLEY, 309
Stoke Church and Park. By R. BALMANNO, 73
The Rival Sisters. By HENRY W. HERBERT, 13, 105
The Little Gold-Fish. By J. K. PAULDING, 31
The Teacher Taught. By MARY S. ADAMS, 39
The Islets of the Gulf. By J. F. COOPER, 42, 93, 159
The Cruise of the Gentile. By FRANK BYRNE, 133, 205
The Little Cap-Maker. By Mrs. C. H. BUTLER, 221
The Portrait of General Scott. 234
Theresa. By JANE TAYLOE WORTHINGTON, 247
The Changed and the Unchanged. By PROFESSOR ALDEN, 277
The New England Factory Girl. By Mrs. JOSEPH C. NEAL, 287, 343
The Lone Buffalo. By CHARLES LANMAN, 294
The Fortunes of a Southern Family. By A NEW CONTRIBUTOR, 325
The Double Transformation. By JAMES K. PAULDING, 350
Whortleberrying. By ALFRED B. STREET, 270
POETRY.
A Funeral Thought. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 10
An Hour. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 98
A Butterfly in the City. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 104
A Parting. By HENRY S. HAGERT, 238
A Vision. By R. H. STODDART, 286
A Song. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, 311
Burial of a Volunteer. By PARK BENJAMIN, 128
Beauty's Bath. (Illustrated.) 131
Contemplation. By JANE R. DANA. (Illustrated.) 190
City Life. By CHARLES W. BAIRD, 204
Coriolanus. By HENRY B. HIRST, 319
Cleopatra. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 363
Decay and Rome. By R. H. STODDART, 220
Elsie. By KATE DASHWOOD, 67
Early English Poets. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 92
Early English Poets. By ELIZABETH J. EAMES, 171
Epitaph on a Restless Lady, 179
Expectation. By LOUISA M. GREEN, 187
Eurydice. By FRANCES S. OSGOOD, 274
Encouragement. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 276
Fair Margaret. By Wm. H. C. HOSMER, 293
Homeward Bound. By E. CURTISS HINE, 308
Isola. By JOHN TOMLIN, 190
Lenovar. By WM. GILMORE SIMMS, 218
Lines to ---- By CAROLINE F. ORNE, 63
Love. By R. H. STODDARD, 131
Lines to an Ideal. By ELIZABETH L. LINSLEY, 151
Lethe. By HENRY B. HIRST, 179
Lines. By GRETTA, 184
Lennard. By Mrs. MARY G. HORSFORD, 320
Lamartine to Madame Jorelle. By VIRGINIA 303
Lines to ----, By W. HORRY STILWELL, 349
Midnight. By THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, 286
No, Not Forgotten. By EARLE S. GOODRICH, 228
O, Scorn Not Thy Brother. By E. CURTISS HINE, 235
Poetry. A Song. By GEORGE P. MORRISS, 66
Revolution. By ARIAN, 292
Spirit-Yearnings for Love. By Mrs. H. MARION WARD, 12
Sonnet to Graham. By ALTUS, 22
Sonnet to S. D. A. By "THE SQUIRE," 48
Shawangunk Mountain. By A. B. STREET, 59
Sonnet to ----. By CAROLINE F. ORNE, 67
Sunset After Rain. By ALFRED B. STREET, 115
Sonnet to Night. By GRETTA, 120
Spirit-Voices. By CHARLES W. BAIRD, 158
Song of the Elves. By ANNA BLACKWELL, 203
Song for a Sabbath Morning. By T. B. READ, 204
Sonnets. By JAMES LAWSON, 259
Sonnet. By C. E. T. 269
Sonnet. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 281
Stanzas. By W. H. DENNY, 293
Song. By C. E. T. 342
The Memorial Tree. By W. GILMORE SIMMS, 11
The Rainbow. By Mrs. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 12
The Penance of Roland. By HENRY B. HIRST, 25
The Sea-Nymphs Song. By W. H. C. HOSMER, 30
The Vesper Bell. By PARK BENJAMIN, 38
The Sunbeam. By MARY E. LEE, 41
The Land of Dreams. By WM. C. BRYANT, 48
The Mourner. By Dr. JOHN D. GODMAN, 67
The Saw-Mill. By WM. C. BRYANT, 86
The Portrait. By R. T. CONRAD. (Illustrated.) 92
The Lost Pleiad. By HENRY B. HIRST, 115
The Bride's Confession. By ALICE G. LEE, 120
The Hermit of Niagara. By Mrs. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY, 127
The Bridal Morning. (Illustrated.) 128
The Alchemist's Daughter. By T. B. READ, 148
The Belle. By MARY L. LAWSON, 164
The Voice of the Fire. By J. B. TAYLOR, 177
Triumphs of Peace. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 187
To My Wife. By ROBT. T. CONRAD, 190
The Darling. By BLANCHE BENNAIRDE, 197
The Poet's Love. By HENRY B. HIRST, 200
To the Author of "The Raven." By MISS HARRIET B. WINSLOW, 203
The Fire of Drift-Wood. By HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 204
The Last of His Race. By S. DRYDEN PHELPS, 220
The Sailor-Lover to His Mistress. By R. H. BACON, 233
The Spirit of Song. By Mrs. E. C. KINNEY, 238
The Ancient and the Modern Muse. By LYMAN LONG, 246
The Oak-Tree. By PARK BENJAMIN, 264
The Voice of the Night Wind. By E. CURTISS HINE, 274
The Dayspring. By SAMUEL D. PATTERSON, 281
The Adopted Child. By Mrs. FRANCES B. M. BROTHERSON, 295
The Pole's Farewell. By WM. H. C. HOSMER, 324
The Real and the Ideal. By MARION H. RAND, 341
The Human Voice. By GEO. P. MORRIS, 341
The Enchanted Isle. By LYDIA J. PEIRSON, 311
The Continents. By J. BAYARD TAYLOR, 312
Venice as It Was and as It Is. By PROFESSOR GOODRICH, 342
White Creek. By ALFRED B. STREET, 147
Years Ago. By GEORGE P. MORRIS, 190
REVIEWS.
The Poetical Works of Fitz-Greene Halleck, 70
The Poetical Works of Lord Byron, 71
The Life of Henry the Fourth, King of France
and Navarre. By G. P. R James, 72
Artist Life. By H. T. Tuckerman, 72
Poems of Early and After Years. By N. P. Willis, 132
Practical Physiology. By Edward Jarvis, 191
The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America. By A. J. DOWNING, 191
Historical and Select Memoirs of the Empress
Josephine. By M'lle. M. A. Le Normand, 239
Memoir of Sarah B. Judson. By "Fanny Forester," 240
The History of a Penitent. By George W. Bethune, D. D. 240
Keble's Christian Year, 240
Edith Kinnaird. By the Author of "The Maiden Aunt," 298
Jane Eyre. An Autobiography, 299
The Princess. By Alfred Tennyson, 300
The Origin, Progress and Conclusion of the
Florida War. By John T. Sprague, 300
The Poetical Works of John Milton, 300
An Universal History of the Most Remarkable Events of All
Nations, from the Earliest Period to the Present Time, 354
Lectures on Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson, 354
Military Heroes of the Revolution. By C. J. Peterson, 356
Old Hicks, the Guide. By C. W. Webber, 356
MUSIC.
Woman's Love. Poetry by Anon. Music by Mathias Keller, 188
Ben Bolt. The Words and Melody by Thomas Dunn English, 236
When Shall I See the Object that I Love. A
favorite Swiss Air. Music by J. B. Müller, 296
ENGRAVINGS.
Innocence, engraved by W. E. Tucker.
General Butler, engraved by Thomas B. Welsh.
A Portrait, engraved by Ross.
Beauty's Bath, engraved by Sartain.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Bridal Morning, engraved by A. B. Ross.
Expectation, engraved by J. Addison.
Contemplation, engraved by Addison.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Gen. Winfield Scott, engraved by Thos. B. Welsh.
Pauline Grey, engraved by J. B. Adams.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
General Worth, engraved by Sartain.
Clara Harland, engraved by Addison.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Captain Walker, engraved by A. B. Walter.
Cincinnati, engraved by J. W. Steel.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, JANUARY, 1848. No. 1.
LACE AND DIAMONDS.
OR TAKE CARE WHAT YOU DO.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
"Don't be angry, ma'ma--I wont jest any more, if it displease you, but
I will make a plain confession."
"Well," said Mrs. Clifford, "let me hear it."
"I have not one feeling which I wish to conceal from you. There have
been moments when I liked Mr. Franklin," and a pretty color crossed
her cheek, "but I have been struck with a peculiarity which has
chilled warmer sentiments. He appears phlegmatic and cold. There is
about him a perpetual repose that seems inconsistent with energy and
feeling. I am not satisfied that I could be happy with such a
person--not certain that he is capable of loving, or of inspiring
love. When I marry any one, he must worship, he must adore me. He must
be ready to go crazy for me. Let him be full of faults, but let him
have--what so few possess--a warm, unselfish heart."
"I have heard you, through," said Mrs. Clifford, "now you must hear
me. It is very proper that you should not decide without full
consideration. Examine as long as you think necessary the qualities of
Mr. Franklin, and never marry him till he inspire you with confidence
and affection. But remember something is due also to him; and the
divine rule of acting toward others as you wish them to act toward
you, must be applied here, as in every affair in life. While you
should not, I allow, be hurried into a decision, yet your mind once
made up, he should not be kept a moment in suspense."
"Do you think, ma'ma," asked Caroline, "that he has much feeling?"
"I think he has. I think him peculiarly gifted with unselfish ardor.
That which appears to you coldness, is, in my opinion, the natural
reserve of a warm heart--so modest that it rather retires from
observation than parades itself before the world. Sentiment and fire,
when common on the lips, are not more likely to be native to the soul.
It is precisely that calm, that repose you allude to, which forms, in
my judgment, the guarantee of Mr. Franklin's sincerity, and the
finishing grace of his character--a character in all other respects,
also, a true and noble one."
Caroline did not listen without interest.
Mrs. Clifford was a native of New York, and had come over just a year
ago to enjoy a tour in Europe. Franklin had been a fellow-passenger;
and a sort of intimacy had grown up between the young people, which
the gentleman had taken rather _au serieux_. He had gladly availed
himself of an accidental business necessity which called the son and
proposed traveling companion of Mrs. Clifford suddenly home, to join
her little party, and had accompanied them through Italy, France,
Germany, Belgium, and Holland. The result was, that the happiness of
his life now appeared to depend upon an affirmative monosyllable in
reply to the offer he had just made of his heart and hand. Mrs.
Clifford was the widow of a captain in the American navy, who had left
her only a moderate income--sufficient, but no more, for the wants of
herself and daughter. Mr. Franklin was a lawyer of six-and-twenty, who
had been advised to repair the effects of too severe professional
application, by change of air, and a year's idleness and travel.
The conversation was scarcely finished, when the subject of it was
announced.
After the usual salutations, Mr. Franklin said he had come, according
to appointment, to accompany the ladies on a walk, and to see the
lions of London, where they had arrived some days before. In a few
minutes, hats, shawls, and gloves, being duly put in requisition, they
had left their lodgings in Grosvenor Street, Grosvenor Square, and
were wending their way toward Regent Street and the Strand, through
the crowds of this wonderful and magnificent metropolis, of which
every thing was a delightful curiosity, and where, amid the millions
around, they knew and were known by scarcely a human creature.
Every stranger, newly arrived and walking about London, has noted the
effect of this prodigious town upon him; and how singularly he is lost
in its immensity, overwhelmed by its grandeur, and bewildered amid its
endless multiplicity of attractions. So it was with our little party.
Excited by the thousand novel and dazzling objects, the hours fleeted
away like minutes; and it was late before they had executed or even
formed any plans.
"Let us at least go somewhere," said Caroline. "Let us go to St.
Paul's, or Westminster Abbey, or the Tower; and we have, beside,
purchases to make--for ladies, you know, Mr. Franklin, have always
shopping to do."
"Well, as it is so late," said Mrs. Clifford, "and we have promised to
call on Mrs. Porter at half past two, I propose to leave the lions for
another morning, and only enjoy our walk to-day."
"Then, ma'ma, let us go to that splendid shop, and look at the lace
once more. Only think, Mr. Franklin, we yesterday saw lace, not
broader than this, and I had a half fancy to buy some for a new
dress--and what do you suppose it cost?"
"I am little versed," said Franklin, "in such mysteries--five pounds,
perhaps--"
"Twelve pounds--twelve pounds and a half sterling--sixty American
dollars. I never saw any thing so superb. Ma'ma says I ought not even
to look at such a luxury."
"But is lace really such a luxury?" inquired Franklin, smiling.
"You can have no idea how exquisite this is!"
"As for me," rejoined Franklin, "I can never tell whether a lady's
lace is worth twelve pounds or twelve cents. Although, I hope, not
insensible to the general effect of a toilette, yet lace and diamonds,
and all that sort of thing, are lost upon me entirely."
"Oh, you barbarian!"
"Real beauty was never heightened by such ornaments, and ugliness is
invariably rendered more conspicuous and ugly."
"You will not find many ladies," said Mrs. Clifford "to agree with
you."
"Oh, yes! How often do we hear of belles, as distinguished for the
simplicity of their toilette, as for the beauty of their persons. How
often in real life, and how frequently in novels. There you read that,
while the other ladies are shining in satin and lace, and blazing in
diamonds, the real rose of the evening eclipses them all in a plain
dress of white, without jewels, like some modest flower, unconscious
of her charms, and therefore attracting more attention."
"Well, I declare," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling, "it is just as you
say!"
"And what does Miss Caroline think of my attack on lace and diamonds?"
"Why," said Caroline, laughing, "since you do me the honor to require
my opinion, I will give it you. I agree that such pretending ornaments
ill become the old and ugly. There you are right. I agree that the
extremely beautiful may also dispense with them. These ball-room
belles of yours--these real roses of the evening--are, I suspect, so
lovely as to make them exceptions to the general rule. But there is a
class of young ladies, among whom I place myself, neither so old and
ugly as to make ornament ridiculous, nor so beautiful as to render it
unnecessary. To this middle class, a bit of lace--a neat tab--a string
of pearls here and there--a pretty worked cape--or a coronet of
diamonds, I assure you, do no harm."
"That you are not so ugly as to render ornament ridiculous," replied
Franklin, "I allow; but that there is, in your case, any want of
lovelines to require--to render--which--"
"Take care, Mr. Franklin!" interrupted Caroline, mischievously, "you
are steering right upon the rocks; and a gentleman who refuses all
decoration to a lady's toilette, should not embellish his own
conversation with flattery."
"Upon my word," replied he, in a lower voice, "to whatever class you
belong, Miss Clifford, you do yourself injustice if you suppose lace
and diamonds can add to the power of your beauty, any more than the
greatest splendor of fortune could increase the charms of your--"
"Ma'ma," exclaimed Caroline, "we have passed the lace shop."
"So we have," said Mrs. Clifford; "but why should we go back--you
certainly don't mean to buy any--?"
"No, ma'ma; but I want some edging, and I might as well get it here,
if only to enjoy another look at the forbidden fruit."
The shop was one of those magnificent establishments of late years
common in large metropolises. A long hall led from the street quite
back through the building, or rather masses of buildings, to another
equally elegant entrance on the parallel street behind. The doors were
single sheets of heavy plate-glass. In the windows all the glittering
and precious treasures of India and Asia seemed draped in gorgeous
confusion, and blazed also through unbroken expanses of limpid glass
of yet larger dimensions than the doors. Silks, laces, Cashmere
shawls, damask, heavy and sumptuous velvets of bright colors, and fit
for a queen's train, muslins of bewildering beauty, dresses at £200 a
piece, and handkerchiefs of Manilla of almost fabulous value. The
interior presented similar displays on all sides, multiplied by
reflections from broad mirrors, gleaming among marble columns. Perhaps
those numerous mirrors were intended to neutralize the somewhat gloomy
effect of the low ceiling, not sufficiently elevated to admit the
necessary light into the central spaces. At various points, even in
the day-time, gas-lights burned brilliantly. Before the door were
drawn up half a dozen elegant coroneted equipages, the well-groomed,
shining horses, and richly-liveried coachmen, indicating the rank of
the noble owners; and on the benches before the windows lounged the
tall and handsome footmen, with their long gold-headed sticks,
powdered heads, gaudy coats, brightcolored plush breeches, and white
silk stockings, and gloves.
In the shop there were, perhaps, fifty persons, as it happened to be a
remarkably fine day in June--one of those grateful gifts from heaven
to earth which lure people irresistibly out of the dark and weary
home, and which, when first occurring, after a long and dismal winter,
as in the present instance, appear to empty into the sunshiny streets,
every inhabitant, the sick and the well, the lame and the blind alike,
from every house in town.
Caroline asked to be shown some of the lace which she had looked at
the day before. It was produced, and Mrs. Clifford and Franklin were
called to examine it. The wonder consisted as much in the endless
variety of the patterns, as in the exquisite fineness and richness of
the material. The counter was soon strewn with the airy treasures, one
piece after another, unrolled with rapidity, appeared to make a lively
impression on the young girl, who at last, with a sigh, apologized to
the polite person patiently waiting the end of an examination which
his practiced eye had, doubtless, perceived was only one of vain
curiosity.
"It is too dear," said Caroline, "I cannot afford it. Pray let me see
some narrow edging."
"That lace is very pretty," remarked a lady of a commanding figure,
evidently a person of rank.
"Very pretty, my lady," replied the clerk who had waited on Caroline.
"What is it?"
"Twelve and a half, my lady."
"It is really pretty--give me twenty yards."
"Very good, my lady."
The article was measured and cut almost as soon as ordered, and the
remnant rewound into a small parcel and thrown upon the counter.
At the same moment, and as a boy handed Caroline the edging, wrapped
in paper, for which she had already paid, and which she took
mechanically, she heard one of the bystanders whisper to another: "The
Countess D----!" (one of the most celebrated women of England.)
"Ma'ma," said Caroline, "did you observe that lady?"
And they left the shop.
"Bless me!" said Mrs. Clifford, looking at her watch, "do you know how
late it is? Half past two. We promised to be at Mrs. Porter's at this
very time. She said, you remember, she was going out at four; and it
will take us, I'm afraid, nearly an hour to get there."
"Then let us make haste, ma'ma!"
And with a very rapid pace they hurried back toward Regent Street and
Portland Place. They had gone on in this way, perhaps, twenty minutes,
when a white-headed, respectable-looking old gentleman was thrust
aside by a rude fellow pushing by, so that he ran against Caroline,
and caused her to drop her pocket-handkerchief. He stopped, with
evident marks of mortification, and picked it up, with a polite
apology. Caroline assured him she was not hurt.
"But, my dear young lady," said the benevolent-looking old gentleman,
"let me return your parcel."
"Oh, that is not mine," replied Caroline.
"I beg your pardon, it fell with your handkerchief."
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Caroline, "what have I done! I have
brought away a piece of that lace! Ma'ma, let us go back directly."
Although the incident had occupied but a minute, Mrs. Clifford and
Franklin, engaged in conversation, had not perceived it, and had gone
several paces on. The old gentleman smiled, bowed, and disappeared
around a corner.
At this moment a man stepped up, and laying his hand roughly on
Caroline's arm, said,
"Young woman, you must come with me!"
And a second iron-hand grasped her other arm.
Shocked and affrighted, she saw they were policemen.
Then the voice of a person very much out of breath, cried,
"This is the one!--I can swear to her! And look!--there is the very
lace in her hand!"
Pale as death, bewildered with terror, the poor girl could only
attempt to say, "Ma'ma! ma'ma!" but her tongue clove to the roof of
her mouth, and her voice refused its office. A crowd had already
collected, and the words, "Lady been a stealing!" and, "They've nabbed
a thief!" were audible enough.
"Come, my beauty!" said the man, pulling her forward, "we've no time
to lose."
"Scoundrel!" cried the voice of Franklin, as he grasped him by the
throat, "who are you?"
"You see who we are;" was the stern reply; "we're policemen, in the
execution of our duty. Take your band off my throat."
Franklin recognized their uniform, and relaxed his hold.
"Policemen! and what have policemen to do with this lady? You have
made some stupid blunder. This is a lady. She is under my protection.
Take your hand off her arm!"
"If she's under your protection, the best thing you can do is to
accompany us," replied the man, bluntly; and he made another attempt
to drag her away.
Franklin restrained himself with an effort which did him honor,
conscious that violence would be here out of place, and perceiving
that it would be utterly useless. He strove a moment to collect his
thoughts as one stunned by a thunderbolt.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.
"If you ask for information," remarked the man, impressed by his
agonized astonishment, "I will tell you; but wont the young woman get
into a hack, out of the crowd?"
An empty carriage happened to be passing, into which, like a man in a
dream, Franklin handed the ladies. One police officer entered with
them--the other took his seat on the box with the coachman. Caroline,
although still colorless, had partly regained her courage, and
endeavored to smile. Mrs. Clifford, in a most distressing state of
agitation, only found breath to say, "Well, this is a pretty
adventure, upon my word!"
As the carriage moved away, followed by a troop of ragamuffins,
leaping, laughing, and shouting, Franklin said,
"And now, my good fellow, I have submitted peaceably to this atrocious
outrage, tell me by whose authority you act, and in what way this
young lady has exposed herself to such an infamous insult?"
"Well, in the first place," said the man, coolly, "I act by the
authority of the Messieurs Blake, Blanchard & Co.; and in the second
place, the young lady has exposed herself to such an infamous insult
by stealing ten yards of Brussels' lace, at £12 a yard, value £120
sterling."
"Scoundrel!" exclaimed Franklin, again grasping his collar.
"Hollo! hollo! hollo!" cried the man--hands off, my cove! and keep a
civil tongue in your head, you'd best. It aint of no use, I give you
my word of honor."
"Miss Clifford--"
But Miss Clifford had covered her face with her white hands, which did
not conceal her still whiter complexion.
"Why, look ye, sir,", said the man, "if you really aint a party to the
offence, I'm very sorry for you. The business is just this here. The
shop of Blake, Blanchard & Co., has been frequently robbed, and
sometimes by ladies. I was called, not four mouths ago, to take a real
lady to prison, who had stole to the amount of £10. And to prison she
went, too, though some of the most respectable people in town came
down and begged for her. Now this here young lady came yesterday to
the shop of Blake, Blanchard & Co.--tumbled every thing upside down,
and bought nothing--went away--to-day came again--asked to see the
most valuable lace--bought ten shillings' worth of narrow edging, and
left the premises. At her departure she was seen to take ten yards of
lace--value, £120. I was called in, and followed her, with one of the
clerks, to identify her person. We perceived her walking fast--very
fast, indeed. It was as much as we could do to overtake her. The clerk
can swear to her identity--and the lace was found in her hand. Both
the young man and myself can swear to it, if she denies it--though I
caution you, Miss, not to say any thing at present, because it can be
used against you at your trial."
"I do not deny it," said Caroline, with flashing eyes. "I took the
lace, but did not know I took it."
"Oh! ho-ho!" said the man. "I hope you can make 'em believe that.
Perhaps you can."
"My dear friend," cried Mrs. Clifford, now nearly beside herself, "I
assure you, this is a frightful mistake. She carried the lace away
from mere carelessness. Here is all the money I have about me. Take it
for yourself, only let us go. My daughter, I assure you, is utterly
incapable of stealing. You don't know her. As for the lace, I am
willing to pay for it. My name is Mrs. Clifford. I live No. ----
Grosvenor Street, Grosvenor Square. My dear, kind, good sir, turn the
carriage and let us go home. My husband was Captain Clifford, of the
American navy. Do you think we would be guilty of stealing? I will
give you any money you desire. I will give you £50--only let us go."
"If your husband was Admiral Nelson himself," replied the man, with
dignity, "I could not let you go now--not if you were to give me £500.
I have only to do my duty. It's a very painful one--but it must be
done. I aint a judge. I'm a policeman; and my business is to deliver
you safe into the hands of Blake, Blanchard & Co."
To describe the whirl of thoughts which swept through the mind of
Franklin during the interval would be impossible. He saw that a simple
act of carelessness had been committed by Caroline; but he was enough
of a lawyer to perceive that the proof against her was singularly
striking and unanswerable--and he knew the world too well, not to feel
extraordinary alarm at the possible consequences. In London, alone,
without friends or acquaintances, a glance into the future almost
drove him to distraction. At moments he was half mastered by the
impulse to bear Caroline away, by a sudden _coup de main_; but his
hand was held by the reflection, that even were such a wild scheme
possible, success would be no means of security, inasmuch as Mrs.
Clifford had given her address; while the attempt would exasperate the
other party, appear but a new evidence of guilt, and in every way
enhance the danger of their position.
As they approached the fatal shop, a large crowd had collected around
the door. Franklin felt that he was in one of those crises on which
hang human destiny and life, and that he had need of more prudence and
wisdom than man can possess, except it be given him from above. Deep,
therefore, and trusting, was his silent prayer to Him who hath said,
"_Be strong and of a good courage. I will not fail thee, nor forsake
thee._"
Caroline appeared ready to sink into the earth when the carriage
stopped.
"My dearest Miss Clifford," said Franklin, "these men have fallen into
a bungling error, and it will require some prudence on our part to
make them see it. But compose yourself. Put down your veil; say
nothing till I call you--and may God, in his mercy, grant that our
ordeal be short!"
These words were uttered with a composure and cheerful presence of
mind which reassured in some degree the fainting girl. She had at her
side a protector who would never desert her--a pilot with a strong
arm, a steady eye, and a bold heart--who would steer her through the
wild storm, if any human being could.
Mrs. Clifford, speechless with terror, let down her daughter's veil as
well as her shaking hands permitted, and was led by Franklin from the
carriage into the house. He then handed, or rather lifted, out
Caroline, who clung to him with helplessness and terror. The trembling
party--a hundred unfeeling eyes bent upon them--were conducted
through the shop to a back parlor, into the presence of Mr. Jennings,
the only one of the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co. who happened to be
at home. As Franklin saw him his heart sank in his bosom, and the
courage which had begun to mount with the danger, seemed a mockery.
Mr. Jennings was a respectable looking man of forty, of a thin, hard
countenance, repelling manners, and sharp voice, which, when excited,
rose to a piercing and discordant note. There was no sign of mercy or
moderation in his physiognomy. This man, who, after faithful
subordinate services, had become the inferior and hardest working
partner, happened to be afflicted with a very violent temper, which
had been wrought into a rage by various recent purloinings, apparently
like the present, attributed to female customers, and perpetrated with
a combined cunning and daring which baffled detection, and he had long
yearned to lay his hand upon one of them. His passions and interests
were mingled together in this desire, which, in addition, he supposed
fully sanctioned by duty; and when a man, and particularly such a man,
of a narrow mind and cold heart--loving power, and rarely enabled to
taste its sweets, once gets into his head the idea that he is acting
from duty--God help the poor victim that falls within his grasp.
Such was the individual before whom, in the attitude of a detected
criminal, was dragged the sweet and trembling girl. Such was the man
before whom Franklin stood, curbing within the limits of prudence his
high wrought feelings.
"Now, my honest women," said Jennings, seating himself magisterially
in a large arm-chair by a table, while the rest stood in a circle
around, like prisoners at a bar before their judge, "what have you to
say with regard to the atrocious act of felony--"
"One moment, sir," said Franklin. "You will have the kindness to order
chairs for those ladies."
Mr. Jennings paused, fixed a surprised glance at the speaker, and
obeyed.
"Well then, _now_--" demanded he.
"I beg your pardon!" again interrupted Franklin, "permit me, in your
own interest, to make another suggestion. Before you proceed in this
examination, I warn you, with all deference to the sincerity of your
present error, that you have before you two ladies of respectability,
and unblemished reputation, and who are entirely innocent in this
matter."
"Bah!" ejaculated Mr. Jennings.
"Silence, sir," cried Franklin, with an indignation irrepressible.
"You have dragged before you through the streets of London, a young
and innocent girl, like a criminal. If circumstances seem for a moment
to give you the right, humanity, as well as decency requires, at least
till the question of her guilt be settled, that you address her with
respect, and hear her defence with candor and attention."
Mr. Jennings turned pale, swallowed his rage, and replied: "Speak,
sir! speak, sir! I am all candor and attention."
"I beg your pardon," resumed Franklin, "if I have answered with too
much asperity. But this young lady is perfectly innocent. She has high
friends. You will consider her under the protection of the American
Ambassador at this Court! State to me, if you please, your reasons for
dragging her before you in the custody of policemen."
Awed by Franklin's tone, but rather infuriated than melted, Mr.
Jennings answered with sarcastic politeness--
"Certainly, sir, your request is a just one. The case is this. The
young lady came to my shop this morning, and had brought out for her
examination the most expensive lace, of which, however, she purchased
none, but, instead, expended ten shillings for some narrow edging. I
must inform you that persons in the dress of ladies, and even persons
in the rank of ladies, have more than once committed thefts of this
kind, and I have ordered one of the young men to watch. This
individual saw in a mirror the young lady, as she was about to leave,
seize a parcel of lace, and carry it out under cover of her
pocket-handkerchief. We sent directly for policemen--but so rapid was
the flight of the party, including yourself, that it was not without
considerable difficulty and delay that they were overtaken, when the
stolen lace was found in her hand. We are often obliged to forego the
gratification of punishing such misdemeanors by the technical
difficulty of proving the crime upon the criminal. You perceive how
the present case stands. I am willing to allow it is but fair you
should be heard, if you have any thing to say in reply."
"I have much to say," resumed Franklin, smiling with assumed
confidence, "enough to satisfy any reasonable man, and I hope I stand
before such a one. That the young lady took the lace no one can deny.
But I will tell you how she took it. For the first time in London, her
mind naturally excited, she was bewildered amid the novel and
interesting objects around her. The splendor of your establishment
dazzled her eyes and distracted her attention. In company with her
mother and myself she came here to see the lace in question, but she
could not have intended to steal it, if I must answer to such a
charge, because it would have been impossible for her to use such an
article without the knowledge of her mother. If she is a thief her
mother and I share her guilt. I therefore repeat to you that these
ladies can command references to raise them above the slightest breath
of suspicion--references sufficient to satisfy the most
incredulous--the most unreasonable. She is a person of the purest life
and strongest principles. Not one of her friends, and, after a proper
examination, not one of the public, will ever believe her guilty of
any thing worse than a mere moment of bewilderment and absence of
mind."
"Upon my word, sir," said Mr. Jennings, "you have undertaken a pretty
difficult task--no less than to convince me that black is white, and
that two and two don't make four. Who are you?--and where are your
references?"
Franklin did not succeed in concealing a certain trepidation at this
blunt demand, and it was not lost upon Jennings.
"My references do not reside in England."
"Ah! ha!"
"I am a stranger in your metropolis."
"Oh! ho!"
"And therefore," added Franklin, "every noble-minded and fair-play
loving Englishman will say, possessing greater claim upon your
moderation. I can bring you, from my own country--through the official
intervention of the American Minister, references to outweigh a
thousand fold--ten million fold--all opposite appearances. I can give
a moral demonstration that the intentional commission by this young
lady of the act with which she is charged, is an utter, and a
ridiculous impossibility."
"I have now heard you," said Jennings, "and I am sorry to say, I must,
notwithstanding, send the lady before a magistrate. The ingenious
arguments you have used are equally applicable to every theft. No
reference--no rank--no character can weigh against so plain a fact,
proved by ocular demonstration. No rational judge or jury can doubt
she _stole_ the lace. It is my duty to make an example of her. This is
not the first, nor the second time, we have been robbed by ladies in
affluent circumstances, and respectably connected. It is a peculiar
crime, and generally committed in a way which renders it both
difficult and dangerous, even when we know the criminal, to attempt to
fix the fact upon her. This time we have caught her in the very _act_.
We have eye-witnesses enough to render doubt impossible. She does not
deny it. She fled with precipitation. She was overtaken a long
distance off--nearly half an hour after the offence--the lace was
found in her hand--and her companion tried to bribe the policeman with
£50 to let her escape. And do you now talk to me of 'respectability,'
and 'connections,' and such nonsense? I would go as far as you or any
man to save an innocent person from destruction. But when once
convinced, by my own eyes, of deliberate guilt, it is too late for
mercy. The ignorant beggar, who steals to save himself from starving,
I could pity--I could almost release; but when the rich and the
educated resort to stealing, to gratify their vanity and avarice,
hoping to shelter themselves from punishment by their 'connections,'
and their high position in society--they must be taught, sir, that
they do it at a fearful peril, and that detection will bring down upon
them the same vulgar and rigorous penalties as if they were the lowest
dregs of the people."
"I agree with you perfectly," replied Franklin, with forced composure,
although the plain picture appalled him, and robbed his countenance of
every trace of color, "but permit me to remark that you must be quite
sure the person before you belongs to this guilty class. Her innocence
can be rendered morally certain. The whole world will brand as cruel
injustice any harsh treatment. A careless girl has been absent-minded.
All people are liable to be so. You look for your spectacles when they
are on your nose--or seek your pocket-handkerchief, and find it in
your hand--"
"Our opinions differ on that point," said Mr. Jennings coldly, "and a
jury must decide between us. Policemen, take the party before the
magistrate. I will follow with my witnesses, and I pledge myself to
visit so heinous a crime with the utmost rigor of the law."
The policemen stepped to the side of Caroline.
"I appeal to your generosity--to your mercy," cried Franklin, "that
she may at least be taken to the American Minister, instead of being
dragged before a magistrate. I request only that you act with
gentleness."
Mr. Jennings pointed the policemen to the door.
"And I not only request, I demand it!" cried Franklin. "If you refuse
me, you refuse me at your peril--"
"You have nothing to command here, sir," replied Mr. Jennings. "The
American Minister can make his statement before the magistrate. I am
not disposed to exercise the least mercy. Policemen, your duty. If her
fate be a terrible one, she has herself to thank for it. I hope it may
deter others from following her example."
"And what will be my daughter's fate?" asked the unsteady voice of
Mrs. Clifford.
"Transportation for life," was the reply.
Mrs. Clifford shrieked. Caroline rose wildly and staggered toward the
door. Mr. Jennings, as if thirsting for her destruction, and fearing
her escape, seized her so roughly that she screamed with pain and
terror, when Franklin dragged him back and hurled him to the wall. His
impulse was to strike him to the earth, but with one of the highest
qualities attained by man, self-government, he recollected himself and
refrained.
"Policemen," shouted Mr. Jennings, very white, "I command you to take
the whole party into custody. You witnessed the assault. I am in
danger of my life. They are a gang of thieves and cut-throats. Off
with them this instant."
"Stop!" cried Franklin, and there was something in his voice which
arrested the step of the policemen, and _compelled_ Jennings to stand
in breathless attention. "I demand the presence of one or both of your
partners, before the young lady be removed. You will not, because you
_dare_ not, refuse me this reasonable request. If you do, sir, it were
better you never had been born. Guilty, or not guilty, the person
whom, before she has been tried, your infamous lips have branded as a
common thief, has a right to all mild and gentle treatment, consistent
with law and justice. You say the jury will decide. But the question
is now whether your house is prepared to send her before a jury. That
is the question to be discussed, and you are not in a temper of mind,
sir, to enable you to decide it impartially. The affair will ring from
one end of England and the United States to the other, and the
execrations of thousands, who have as yet never heard of you, will
fall upon your name. You will find that there are two sides to the
question. You will find that if the lady has a malignant accuser she
has also indignant and powerful defenders. The world will say you
might have been excusable not to release her, but you had no right to
hurry her before the public with needless and brutal precipitation.
They will say--and I will take care to tell them--that, overcome by
your violent temper, you insulted--you _assaulted_--a helpless young
girl in your power, whose guilt had not been proved, and that, because
I dragged you back--blind with wrath, and burning with revenge--you
dared to take upon yourself, alone, the whole responsibility of this
outrage, which will bring punishment on you, and disgrace on your
house. They will say let no lady hereafter trust herself across the
threshold of Blake, Blanchard & Co., where the watch is set and the
trap laid for the unwary. They will say that Mr. Jennings is a foul
calumniator of woman as a sex--that he has charged the noble ladies of
England with crime. They will judge whether the young girl could be
guilty without the participation of her mother and myself, who, as you
say, fled with her. The case is one of mere carelessness, or we are
three thieves. Go on, if you dare, without your partners. Your house,
will become infamous, and you--yourself--mark me, sir, shall not
escape the chastisement you deserve!"
He ceased, and the silence remained for a while unbroken.
This appeal was not, on the part of Franklin, the mere result of
passion and despair, although from both it received a strange power.
It was a wise calculation that Jennings, who could not be reasoned or
melted, might be terrified from his purpose, till the arrival of his
partners, before whom the matter might take a different turn. By a
happy inspiration Franklin had read the man aright, and he saw changes
of countenance, as he proceeded, which gave boldness to his heart and
fire to his lips. Jennings was a coward. He was terror-struck at the
idea of acting on his "sole responsibility," in an affair which seemed
likely to be so hotly contested. The blood curdled in his veins at the
thought of the deadly enemies, darkly hinted at, and the consequences
clearly threatened. He saw Caroline was no common thief, and Franklin
no common man. There were moments when he actually believed the fact
really was as Franklin represented--and, thus quailing under the
torrent of eloquence to which the voice and manner gave something
absolutely irresistible, half suffocated with rage and fear, he said
with ill assumed indifference:
"Oh! very well, sir, very well. I will wait for my partners. Nothing
shall be done rashly. Nothing from revenge. But the young lady shall
not escape. Mr. Williams, go and see if Mr. Blake or Mr. Blanchard
have come in."
And thus at least more time was gained.
Mr. Williams went out, and returned to say that Mr. Blake had not yet
come in, but Mr. Blanchard had, and would join them immediately.
The door opened and the person in question entered. He was a young man
of thirty, of unusually prepossessing exterior. A stream of hope shot
through Franklin's heart as he read his face.
Mr. Blanchard seated himself gravely in the large chair which was
abdicated in his favor by Jennings, who related to him the facts,
respectfully and clearly, and called up the policemen and Mr. Williams
in confirmation.
"It is a bad case," said Mr. Blanchard. "Our duty is clear. Is there
any thing said in the defence?"
"Oh yes, there is a powerful defence!" replied Mr. Jennings, with a
sneer, "the young lady took the lace, and kept it half an hour,
running away as fast as she could, but she _but she didn't know she
had it_!! ha! ha! ha!"
Mr. Blanchard shook his head.
"Sir, may I speak?" said Franklin.
"Speak," returned Mr. Blanchard, in a low voice. "If you have any
thing to say I will hear it with the sincerest desire to find it of
weight. But you have a difficult task before you. These occasions are
extremely painful. The necessity of sending to prison a respectable
young lady, as you represent this person to be, is harrowing indeed;
but private feelings must give way to higher considerations. I have a
duty to perform--a duty to society--a duty to my partners--a duty to
God!"
"You have," rejoined Franklin, "but if you properly examine your
conscience, and ask light of Him who knows the truth, you will hear
the voice of God himself, warning you not to perform that duty
prematurely, carelessly, or cruelly. I ask time. I offer references to
prove that the person in question, from education, character, habits,
opinions, religious principles, and her whole, pure and artless life,
is not, and could not be intentionally guilty of the act in question.
I request time to produce these references. My young companion took
the lace in a moment of bewilderment--of absence of mind. She has just
arrived in London--is dazzled and excited. If, sir, you have a sister,
a daughter, a mother, a wife, picture her--after such a careless
accident--grasped by a policeman, dragged through the streets, exposed
to the eyes of the jesting crowd--the blackest construction put upon
her action, shrinking before a magistrate, cast into prison, and, God
knows what else!--and all because of an act, not in reality more
inexplicable than that of a man who walks off with a hat not his own,
or another person's umbrella--in a fit of forgetfulness."
Jennings leaned over and whispered something to Mr. Blanchard.
"It is quite probable," said Mr. Blanchard, "that you believe her
innocent, but the various and glaring circumstances do not permit me
to be of your opinion. The expressive flight, the intervening time,
long enough to discover a mistake merely accidental--the bribe of
£50--no--no--it is impossible," said he, rising, "I am sorry for you,
sir, but this matter rests no longer with me. The prisoner must be
removed."
"What I ask," said Franklin, "is not her release. It is only time to
make you acquainted with the proofs of which the case is susceptible.
The 'prisoner,' as you call her, is as innocent as the snow yet
unfallen from heaven. I do not ask you to sacrifice what you fancy
your duty, I ask you only to pause ere you execute it. I request you
ere you thrust a shrinking girl, as a suspected thief, before the
public, that you more carefully examine her side of the question. Her
bankers, the Messrs. Baring, will answer for her presence whenever you
desire. My banker will answer for her. The American Minister will
satisfy you of the strong impropriety of any other proceeding. Oh!
sir, in the name of a mother's breaking heart--in the name of sweet
girlish innocence--in the name of God, believe what I say! If you err,
err on the side of mercy. Think, when you lay your head this night on
your pillow, the day has not been lost, for it was marked by an act of
mercy. Think, when on your death-bed, you plead at the throne of God,
He has said, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.'
If she really had committed the offence, I should not fear to ask you
for mercy on her young head--her inexperienced life. Our Divine Master
granted mercy even to the guilty. Will you refuse it then to this
trembling and innocent girl, for whose guileless intention, in this
terrible accident, I answer before man and God, and with my life and
soul. Come here, Miss Clifford! Take off your veil. Tell Mr.
Blanchard, in the simple language of truth, how this incident took
place."
"Yes, come here, my young friend," said Mr. Blanchard, "and tell me
how this sad mistake arose."
Perhaps it was Franklin's eloquence--perhaps it was Caroline's
appearance--perhaps it was both, which drew the silent tear from Mr.
Blanchard's eyes, and those two significant words from his lips. But
oh! to Franklin's soul, wrought up almost to despair--almost, to
madness--they were rapture, they were ecstasy, they were like the
first streak of golden sky which announces to the half-wrecked sailor
that the tempest is over.
"Speak, my dear young lady," said Mr. Blanchard, "do not tremble so!
you have nothing to fear from me!"
"I left the door," said Caroline, in a low voice, "without knowing I
had the lace. A gentleman ran against me and knocked it out of my
hand. He picked it up. I then saw what I had done. I exclaimed,
'ma'ma, let us go back!'--but ma'ma had gone on--I was alone--two men
seized me--and--and--"
She covered her face with her hands, and sunk into the chair.
"But, so far from coming back," said Mr. Jennings' piercing voice,
"you were walking rapidly away."
"No," said Caroline.
"But I say yes!" screamed Jennings. "Mr. Williams, was not the young
woman walking rapidly away?"
"She _had been_ walking rapidly," said Mr. Williams, "but when we came
up she was, as she says, standing still, looking at the lace. It is
also true that an old gentleman ran against her, knocked the lace out
of her hand, and picked it up again. That I saw from the distance."
"Mark you!" exclaimed Franklin, "how each small feature of her story
is confirmed."
"But you left our door," exclaimed Mr. Jennings, "at a furious pace."
"That I can explain to your satisfaction," said Franklin. "We were
engaged to call upon a lady, Mrs. Porter, No. ----, Portland-Place, at
half past two. This Mrs. Porter herself can testify. We left your door
too late, and walked rapidly to keep our appointment. You can
ascertain from your clerks at what hour we left."
"It was just half past two," said Mr. Williams. "I looked at the
clock."
"Mark!" cried Franklin, with an air of triumph.
"Upon my word, Mr. Jennings," said Mr. Blanchard, "we have been too
hasty--"
At this moment the door opened, and another person entered.
"Just in time," muttered Mr. Jennings.
It was Mr. Blake, chief partner in the firm of Blake, Blanchard & Co.
He was a venerable old gentleman, of an agreeable person, with a
certain dignity which well became his snow-white hair, but through
which, on the present occasion, appeared a settled firmness, almost a
sternness, boding no good.
"You have come in time," said Jennings. "Do you know what is going on
here?"
"I do. The facts have been related to me."
"And the famous defence?" added Jennings, with one of his worst
sneers, "do you know that also?"
"I do. It is a clear case. There is but one course for us."
"And yet," cried Jennings, "Mr. Blanchard has been thinking it will
not do to send so respectable a young lady to prison. But I say you
will not have a case in forty years so proper to make a wholesome
example of. If you let this one go, whom can you punish? Precautions
were useless, if thieves can commit their depredations under our very
noses with impunity."
"I am of your opinion," said Mr. Blake. "The offence is of a very
aggravated description; and I deem it absolutely necessary to send the
delinquent before a magistrate to be punished as she deserves."
"I have explained--" said Franklin.
But while he commenced once more his agonizing task, Mr. Jennings took
Mr. Blake aside, and whispered to him some minutes vehemently.
Franklin attempted to speak again.
"I will hear no explanation," said the old gentleman. "No argument--no
character--no references can prevail against so wicked a felony so
clearly proved. The youth, condition in life, and education of the
person, only render the crime more detestable, and the necessity for a
terrible example more unavoidable. Your own good sense should have
taught you, sir, that threats are here out of place, and violence can
only make matters worse. I have solemnly vowed that I would meet the
next case with the utmost rigor of the law. I am determined to
prosecute. Where is the prisoner? Policemen, take her into custody."
"But," cried Franklin.
"I will hear no more," said Mr. Blake, coldly and firmly. "Mr.
Jennings, who has gone over the case with the most attention, is
thoroughly convinced--"
"Thoroughly!" said Mr. Jennings.
"Policemen--"
Franklin's brain whirled in wild despair. He clasped his hands--he
conjured the mild, mistaken man, whose slightest word could save
Caroline from destruction.
"Mercy! I ask only one day."
"Young man, you plead in vain! Ask mercy of God, but not of me."
"Then listen, heart of stone!" cried Franklin, "and hear my final
words. You are old. Your head is white; your feet are already in the
grave. You will, ere long, be called before your Maker--yourself a
trembling suppliant for mercy. If, with cold-blooded, stupid
obstinacy, in the face of my warning, you drag this innocent and
modest girl, prematurely, into a police office--at a bar for
criminals--to stand a spectacle for the public, amid robbers, and
murderers, and to run the fearful chances of the law, I solemnly warn
you, old man, you will have innocent blood on your conscience--you
will call down God's curse upon your head."
"What can I do?" said Mr. Blake, overwhelmed by his irresistible
earnestness.
"You can do unto others, as you would have them do unto you--you can
give us time for proof, and yourself for reflection. You can suppose
it was your own daughter in her place. You can examine more carefully.
You can break from the leading-strings of that malignant Mr. Jennings.
You can consult with Mr. Blanchard, a man of reason and feeling, who
disapproves your severity. You can wait to satisfy yourself that this
young lady is distinguished for a stainless character, a pure life,
strict religious principles, humble faith in God, and habitual
communion with him. You can judge for yourself whether this is a case
of _monomania_--whether a person thus distinguished, could be guilty
of intentional purloining. Sir, ocular demonstration weighs _nothing_
against such a character. You can ask yourself more dispassionately
whether it be not a possibility--a very natural one--for an
absent-minded person to commit such an act mechanically and
unconsciously. You can hear her artless story from her own lips, and
candidly consider if it _may not_ be the truth."
Carried away by Franklin's eloquent vehemence, Mr. Blake did look.
Caroline had risen. The last spark of earthly hope had fled. She
stood, without gesture or tear. It seemed as if death had already
laid his icy hand upon her, only her eyes were lifted above, while she
breathed a silent prayer to Him whose mighty hand can raise the
trusting heart, in one instant, from the lowest depths of despair.
"Ha! What! God bless my soul!" suddenly ejaculated the old gentleman,
in great astonishment. "What do I see! My dearest, sweetest young
lady! Mr. Blanchard! Mr. Jennings! Mr. Williams--"
Caroline gazed at him a moment--uttered a shriek which thrilled to
every heart with an electric shock, cried, "Oh, sir, save me--_you_
can save me!" and fell insensible into the arms of Franklin.
"Policemen!--off with you!" cried Mr. Blake, with tears in his eyes.
"Mr. Jennings, you are a fool! I answer with my life for this young
lady. I ran against her in the street. I picked up the lace, and saw
her look of astonishment and horror; and heard her exclaim, '_ma'ma!
let us go back directly!_' Go, proclaim to every one in the
establishment that she is innocent. We are the guilty party--and we
are at _her_ mercy!"
To terminate the exciting scene, Franklin proposed to return home. A
carriage was called. Caroline had revived, and her feelings,
fortunately, found vent in tears. She wept bitterly on her mother's
bosom, who gave it back with interest. But in the midst of their joy,
not one of the three forgot to offer up their secret, thankful prayer,
to that overruling Providence, whose watchful mercy had rescued them
from a fate too horrible for imagination.
Franklin could scarcely wait till they walked to the carriage. He
wished to carry--to drag Caroline away. He shifted his position
continually, without apparent cause; at last shook hands with his
companions, saying he would follow the carriage, as he wanted air and
exercise.
They soon arrived home, where Caroline, in a high state of excitement,
was ordered to bed by a physician; but, after soothing medicines had
calmed certain hysterical symptoms, she fell into a deep sleep, which
the doctor said was worth more than all the apothecaries could
compound. In fact, she did not wake till late next morning, and in a
day or two was comparatively restored.
But poor Franklin had gone home in a raging fever, which increased
during the night to delirium. His ravings were of magistrates, the
jeering crowd, dungeons, chains, and the convict-ship. Then he was at
the penal settlement. He heard the frightful oaths, obscene jests, and
blasphemous laughter of the convicts. Among them he beheld Caroline
Clifford--haggard, and in rags--now toiling at her task, now shrieking
beneath the bloody lash--and he seemed to grasp the throat of
Jennings, and implored him to stay his hellish hand.
More than a month passed before he was sufficiently recovered to leave
his room. Every day Mrs. Clifford had visited him, and watched over
him with a mother's love. Every day the carriage of Mr. Blake brought
the old gentleman to the bed-side of the poor invalid, where he
listened to the ravings of his disturbed imagination, and shuddered
to think of what horrors--but for a providential coincidence--he might
have added to the history of human wo.
At length Mr. Franklin was allowed to take a drive. It is scarcely
necessary to say that he called on the ladies. Mrs. Clifford,
previously apprized of his intended visit, at the sound of the bell,
accidentally remembered that she had left her scissors up stairs. So
Franklin found Caroline alone.
"You are very, very pale," cried the greatly agitated girl, her eyes
filling with good, honest tears, as she gave him her hand.
He raised it to his lips.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Clifford."
But, like Beatrice, she seemed to hold it there again with a fervor
which even the modest Franklin could not wholly misunderstand.
"I owe you more than my life," cried Caroline, with such a look as she
had never bestowed upon him before.
"And yet," cried Franklin, "you fraudulently withhold from me the only
payment in your power."
"Nonsense--what payment," cried she, blushing deeply.
"Your dear self!" answered Franklin, in a timid voice.
"Then you must collect your debt, as other hard-hearted creditors
do--by force."
"In that case," rejoined Franklin, with a boldness which astonished
himself, "an execution must issue, and proceedings commence directly."
Mrs. Clifford, having found her scissors, just then entered the room,
but not before the ardent lawyer had performed the threatened
duty--not quite so harrowing a one as that attempted by Mr. Jennings,
though it led to the same result, viz., she was obviously
_transported_, and, as it turned out---_for life_.
Nor is this all.
Old Mr. Blake had learned how the land lay from Mrs. Clifford, and he
resolved to make the young people reparation. He owed it to them in
all conscience. They were married in about six weeks; and when the
ceremony was over, a parcel was brought in, directed "_To Mrs.
Franklin, with the compliments of Messrs. Blake, Blanchard & Co.,_"
which, on being opened, was found to contain a superb Cashmere
shawl--thirty yards of the £12 lace, and a neat mahogany box, with a
coronet of diamonds for the young criminal.
We wont go into the history of the ladies' objections to accepting
these costly testimonials. Mr. Blake pleaded almost as eloquently as
Franklin had done, till at last Franklin "put his foot down," as I
recommend all young husbands to do on such occasions, and showed Mr.
Blake who was master.
Nor was this all either.
A number of years afterward, when Mr. and Mrs. Franklin had returned
to New York, and while the fond wife and happy mother was one day
profoundly engaged in arranging a highly ornamented and curious little
cap, her husband entered with a letter, and read as follows:
TO MRS. CAROLINE FRANKLIN.
_London, Feb_. 10, 184-.
MADAM,--It has become my duty to inform you, that,
by the will of the late Mr. Blake, of the firm of
Blake, Blanchard & Co., you have become entitled to
his blessing, and a legacy of £2500 sterling,
which, upon proving your identity, you can either
draw for on me, at thirty days, or have remitted in
any other way you desire.
I have the honor to be, madam, very respectfully,
your obedient servant,
JOHN LOCKLEY,
Solicitor, No. ---- Russel Square.
A FUNERAL THOUGHT.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
When the pale Genius, to whose hollow tramp
Echo the startled chambers of the soul,
Waves his inverted torch o'er that wan camp
Where the archangel's marshaling trumpets roll,
I would not meet him in the chamber dim,
Hushed, and o'erburthened with a nameless fear,
When the breath flutters, and the senses swim,
And the dread hour is near!
Though Love's dear arms might clasp me fondly then,
As if to keep the Summoner at bay,
And woman's wo and the calm grief of men
Hallow at last the still, unbreathing clay--
These are Earth's fetters, and the soul would shrink,
Thus bound, from Darkness and the dread Unknown,
Stretching its arms from Death's eternal brink,
Which it must dare alone!
But in the awful silence of the sky,
Upon some mountain summit, never trod
Through the bright ether would I climb, to die
Afar from mortals, and alone with God!
To the pure keeping of the stainless air
Would I resign my feeble, failing breath,
And with the rapture of an answered prayer
Welcome the kiss of Death!
The soul, which wrestled with that doom of pain,
Prometheus-like, its lingering portion here,
Would there forget the vulture and the chain,
And leap to freedom from its mountain-bier!
All that it ever knew, of noble thought,
Would guide it upward to the glorious track,
Nor the keen pangs by parting anguish wrought,
Turn its bright glances back!
Then to the elements my frame would turn;
No worms should riot on my coffined clay,
But the cold limbs, from that sepulchral urn,
In the slow storms of ages waste away!
Loud winds, and thunder's diapason high,
Should be my requiem through the coming time,
And the white summit, fading in the sky,
My monument sublime!
THE MEMORIAL TREE.
BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF "THE YEMASSE," "RICHARD HURDIS," ETC.
Great trees that o'er us grow--
Green leaves that gather round them--the fresh hues,
That tell of fruit, and blossoms yet to blow,
Opening fond bosoms to the embracing dews;
These, now so bright,
That deck the slopes about thy childhood's home,
And seem, in long duration, to thy sight,
As they had promise of perpetual bloom;
So linked with all
The first dear throbs of feeling in thy heart,
When, at the dawn of summer and of fall,
Thou weptst the leaf that must so soon depart!
What had all these,
Of frail, deciduous nature, to persuade,
Howe'er their sweets might charm, and beauty please,
The memories that their own could never aid?
They kept no tale--
No solemn history of the fruitful hour;
The lover's promise, the beloved one's wail--
To wake the dead leaf in each lonely bower!
The autumn breath
O'erthrew each frail memorial of their past;
And every token was resigned to death,
In the first summons of the northern blast.
They nourished naught
That to the chain of moral being binds
The recollections of the once gay spot,
And its sweet offices, to future minds.
Thou may'st repair--
Thou, who hast loved in summer-eve to glide
With her whom thou hast still beheld as fair,
When she no longer wandered by thy side.
And thou wilt weep
Each altered aspect of that happiest home,
Which saw the joys its memories could not keep,
Save by the sympathy which shares their doom.
Thus Ruin stands
For Ruin--and the wreck of favorite things,
To him who o'er the waste but wrings his hands,
Proofs of the _fall_, and not the spring-time brings.
Ah! who will weep,
In after seasons, when thou too art gone,
Within this grot, where shadowy memories keep
Their watch above the realm they keep alone?
Who will lament,
In fruitless tears, that she the dear one died,
And thy surviving heart, in languishment,
Soon sought the grave and withered at her side?
A newer bright
Makes young the woods--and bowers that not to thee
Brought fruit or blossom, triumph in the sight
Of those who naught but fruit and blossom see;
To whom no voice
Whispers, that through the loved one's would the root
Of that exulting shrub, with happiest choice,
Has gone, with none its passage to dispute.
While thine own heart,
In neighboring hillock, conscious, it may be--
Quivers to see the fibres rend and part
The fair white breast which was so dear to thee.
Of all the past,
That precious history of thy love and youth,
When not a cloud thy happy dawn o'ercast,
When all thou felt'st was joy, thou saw'st was truth;
These have no speech
For idiot seasons that still come and go--
To whom the heart no offices can teach,
Vainer than breezes that at midnight blow!
And yet there seem
Memorials still in nature, which are taught,--
Unless all pleasant fancies be a dream,
To bring our sweetest histories back to thought.
A famous tree
Was this, three hundred years ago, when stood
The hunter-chief below it, bold and free,
Proud in his painted pomp and deeds of blood.
By hunger taught,
He gathered the brown acorn in its shade,
And ere he slept, still gazing upward, caught
Sweet glimpses of the night, in stars arrayed.
His hatchet sunk
With sharp wound, fixing his own favorite sign,
Deep in the living column of its trunk,
Where thou may'st read a history such as thine.
He, too, could feel
Such passion as awakes the noble soul--
And in fond hour, perchance, would hither steal,
With one, of all his tribe, who could his ire control.
And others signs,
Tokens of races, greatlier taught, that came
To write like record, though in smoother lines,
And thus declare a still more human flame.
Here love's caprice--
The hope, the doubt, the dear despondencies---
Joy that had never rest, hope without peace--
These each declared the grief he never flies.
And the great oak
Grew sacred to each separate pilgrimage,
Nor heeded, in his bulk, the sudden stroke
That scarred his giant trunk with seams of age.
And we who gaze
Upon each, rude memorial--letter and date--
Still undefaced by storm and length of days,
Stand, as beneath the shadow of a fate!
Some elder-born,
A sire of wood and vale, guardian and king
Of separate races, unsubdued, unshorn,
Whose memories grasp the lives of every meaner thing!
With great white beard
Far streaming with a prophet-like display,
Such as when Moses on the Mount appeared,
And prostrate tribes looked down, or looked away!
With outstretched arms,
Paternal, as if blessing--with a grace,
Such as, in strength and greatness, ever charms,
As wooing the subdued one to embrace!
Thus still it stood,
While the broad forests, 'neath the pioneer,
Perished--proud relic of the ancient wood--
Men loved the record-tree, and bade them spare!
And still at noon,
Repairing to its shadow, they explore
Its chronicles, still musing o'er th' unknown,
And telling well-known histories, told of yore!
We shall leave ours,
Dear heart! and when our sleep beneath its boughs
Shall suffer spring to spread o'er us her flowers,
Eyes that vow love like ours shall trace our vows.
THE RAINBOW.
BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.
Mountain! that first received the foot of man--
Giving him shelter, when the shoreless flood
Went surging by, that whelmed a buried world--
I see thee in thy lonely grandeur rise--
I see the white-haired Patriarch, as he knelt
Beside his earthen altar, 'mid his sons,
While beat in praise the only pulse of life
Upon this buried planet,--
O'er the gorged
And furrowed soil, swept forth a numerous train,
Horned, or cloven-footed, fierce, or tame,
While, mixed with song, the sound of countless wings,
His rescued prisoners, fanned the ambient air.
The sun drew near his setting, clothed in gold,
But on the Patriarch, ere from prayer he rose,
A darkly-cinctured cloud chill tears had wept,
And rain-drops lay upon his silver hairs.
Then burst an arch of wondrous radiance forth,
Spanning the vaulted skies. Its mystic scroll
Proclaimed the amnesty that pitying Heaven
Granted to earth, all desolate and void.
Oh signet-ring, with which the Almighty sealed
His treaty with the remnant of the clay
That shrank before him, to remotest time
Stamp wisdom on the souls that turn to thee.
Unswerving teacher, who four thousand years
Hast ne'er withheld thy lesson, but unfurled
As shower and sunbeam bade, thy glorious scroll,--
Oft, 'mid the summer's day, I musing sit
At my lone casement, to be taught of thee.
Born of the tear-drop and the smile, methinks,
Thou hast affinity with man, for such
His elements, and pilgrimage below.
Our span of strength and beauty fades like thine,
Yet stays its fabric on eternal truth
And boundless mercy.
The wild floods may come--
The everlasting fountains burst their bounds--
The exploring dove without a leaf return--
Yea, the fires glow that melt the solid rock,
And earth be wrecked: _What then?_--be still, my soul,
Enter thine Ark--God's promise cannot fail--
For surely as yon rainbow tints the cloud,
His truth, thine Ararat, will shelter thee.
SPIRIT-YEARNINGS FOR LOVE.
BY MRS. H. MARION WARD.
Love me, darling, love me, for my wild and wayward heart,
Like Noah's dove in search of rest, will hover where thou art;
Will linger round thee, like a spell, till by thy hand caressed,
It folds its weary, care-worn wings, to nestle on thy breast.
Love me, darling, love me! When my soul was sick with strife,
Thy soothing words have been the sun that warmed it into life;
Thy breath called forth the passion-flowers, that slumbered
'neath the ice
Of self-distrust, and now their balm makes earth a _Paradise_.
Love me, darling, love me! Let thy dreams be all of _me_!
Let waking thoughts be round my path, as mine will cling to thee!
But if--oh, God! it cannot be--but if thou _shouldst_ grow cold
And weary of my jealous love, or think it over-bold--
Or if, perchance, some fairer form should charm thy truant eye,
Thou'lt find me _woman_--proud and calm, so leave me--let me die.
I'd not reclaim a wavering heart whose pulse has once grown cold,
To write my name in princely halls, with diamonds and gold.
So love me, only love me, for I have no world but thee,
And darksome clouds are in my sky--'tis woman's destiny;
But let them frown--I heed them not--no fear can they impart,
If thou art near, with smiles to bend hope's rainbow round my heart.
THE RIVAL SISTERS.
AN ENGLISH TRAGEDY OF REAL LIFE.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR,"
"MARMADUKE WYVIL," ETC.
It has been gravely stated by an Italian writer of celebrity, that
"the very atrocity of the crimes which are therein committed, proves
that in Italy the growth of man is stronger and more vigorous, and
nearer to the perfect standard of manhood, than in any other country."
A strange paradox, truly, but not an uningenious--at least for a
native of that "purple land, where law secures not life," who would
work out of the very reproach, an argument of honor to his country. If
it be true, however, that proneness to the commission of unwonted and
atrocious crime is to be held a token of extraordinary vigor--vigor of
nerve, of temperament, of passion, of physical development--in a race
of men, then surely must the Anglo-Norman breed, under all
circumstances of time, place, and climate, be singularly destitute of
all these qualities--nay, singularly frail, effeminate, and
incomplete.
For it is an undoubted fact, both of the past and present history of
that great and still increasing race, whether limited to the narrow
bounds of the Island Realm which gave it being, or extended to the
boundless breadth of isles, and continents, and oceans, which it has
filled with its arms, its arts, its industry, its language--it is, I
say, an undoubted fact, that those dreadful and sanguinary crimes,
forming a class apart and distinct of themselves, engendered for the
most part by morbid passions, love, lust, jealousy, and revenge, which
are of daily occurrence in the southern countries of, Europe, Asia,
and America, are almost unknown in those happier lands, where English
laws prevail, with English liberty and language.
It is to this that must be ascribed the fact, that, in the very few
instances where crimes of this nature have occurred in England or
America, the memory of them is preserved with singular pertinacity,
the smallest details handed down from generation to generation, and
the very spots in which they have occurred, howmuchsoever altered or
improved in the course of ages, haunted, as if by an actual presence,
by the horror and the scent of blood; while on the other hand the fame
of ordinary deeds of violence and rapine seems almost to be lost
before the lives of the perpetrators are run out.
One, and almost, I believe, a singular instance of this kind--for I
would not dignify the brawls and assassinations which have disgraced
some of our southern cities, the offspring of low principles and an
unregulated society, by comparing them to the class of crimes in
question, which imply even in their atrocity a something of perverted
honor, of extravagant affection, or at least of not ignoble
passion--is the well-known Beauchamp tragedy of Kentucky, a tale of
sin and horror which has afforded a theme to the pens of several
distinguished writers, and the details of which are as well known on
the spot at present, as if years had not elapsed since its occurrence.
And this, too, in a country prone above all others, from the migratory
habits of its population, to cast aside all tradition, and to lose
within a very few years the memory of the greatest and most
illustrious events upon the very stage of their occurrence.
It is not, therefore, wonderful that in England, where the immobility
of the population, the reverence for antiquity, and the great
prevalence of oral tradition, induced probably at first by the want of
letters, cause the memory of even past trifles to dwell for ages in
the breasts of the simple and moral people, any deed of romantic
character, any act of unusual atrocity, any crime prompted by unusual
or extraordinary motives, should become, as it were, part and parcel
of the place wherein it was wrought; that the leaves of the trees
should whisper it to the winds of evening; that the echoes of the
lonely hills should repeat it; that the waters should sigh a burthen
to its strain; and that the very night should assume a deeper shadow,
a more horrid gloom, from the awe of the unforgotten sin.
I knew a place in my boyhood, thus haunted by the memory of strange
crime; and whether it was merely the terrible romance of the story, or
the wild and gloomy character of the scenery endowed with a sort of
natural fitness to be the theatre of terrible events, or yet again the
union of the two, I know not; but it produced upon my mind a very
powerful influence, amounting to a species of fascination, which
constantly attracted me to the spot, although when there, the weight
of the tradition, and the awe of the scene produced a sense of actual
pain.
The place to which I allude was but a few miles distant from the
celebrated public school, at which I passed the happiest days of a not
uneventful life, and was within an easy walk of the college limits; so
that when I had attained that favored eminence, known as the sixth
form, which allows its happy occupants to roam the country, free from
the fear of masters, provided only they attend at appointed hours, it
was my frequent habit to stroll away from the noisy playing-fields
through the green hedgerow lanes, or to scull my wherry over the
smooth surface of the silver Thames, toward the scene of dark
tradition; and there to lap myself in thick coming fancies, half sad,
half sweet, yet terrible withal, and in their very terror attractive,
until the call of the homeward rooks, and the lengthened shadows of
the tall trees on the greensward, would warn me that I too must hie me
back with speed, or pay the penalty of undue delay.
Now, as the story has in itself, apart from the extraneous interest
with which a perfect acquaintance with its localities may have
invested it in my eyes, a powerful and romantic character; as its
catastrophe was no less striking than un-English; and as the passions
which gave rise to it were at once the strongest and the most
general--though rarely prevailing, at least among us Anglo-Normans, to
so fearful an extent--I am led to hope that others may find in it
something that may enchain their attention for a time, though it may
not affect them as it has me with an influence, unchanged by change of
scene, unaltered by the lapse of time, which alters all things.
I propose, therefore, to relate it, as I heard it first from an old
superannuated follower of the family, which, owning other, though not
fairer demesnes in some distant county, had never more used
Ditton-in-the-Dale as their dwelling place, although well nigh two
centuries had elapsed since the transaction which had scared them away
from their polluted household gods.
But first, I must describe briefly the characteristics of the scenery,
without which a part of my tale would be hardly comprehensible, while
the remarkable effect produced by the coincidence, if I may so express
myself, between the nature of the deed, and the nature of the place,
would be lost entirely.
In the first place, then, I must premise that the name of
Ditton-in-the-Dale is in a great measure a misnomer, as the house and
estate which bear that name, are situated on what a visiter would be
at first inclined to call a dead level, but on what is in truth a
small secondary undulation, or hollow, in the broad, flat valley
through which the father of the English rivers, the royal-towered
Thames, pursues, as Gray sang,
The turf, the flowers, the shades among,
His silver-winding way.
But so destitute is all that country of any deep or well defined
valleys, much less abrupt glens or gorges, that any hollow containing
a tributary stream, which invariably meanders in slow and sluggish
reaches through smooth, green meadow-land, is dignified with the name
of dale, or valley. The country is, however, so much intersected by
winding lanes, bordered with high straggling white-thorn hedges full
of tall timber trees, is subdivided into so many small fields, all
enclosed with similar fences, and is diversified with so many woods,
and clumps of forest trees, that you lose sight of the monotony of its
surface, in consequence of the variety of its vegetation, and of the
limited space which the eye can comprehend, at any one time.
The lane by which I was wont to reach the demesne of Ditton, partook
in an eminent degree of this character, being very narrow, winding
about continually without any apparent cause, almost completely
embowered by the tall hawthorn hedges, and the yet taller oaks and
ashes which grew along their lines, making, when in full verdure,
twilight of noon itself, and commanding no view whatever of the
country through which it ran, except when a field-gate, or cart-track
opened into it, affording a glimpse of a lonely meadow, bounded,
perhaps, by a deep wood-side.
On either hand of this lane was a broad, deep ditch, both of them
quite unlike any other ditches I have ever seen. Their banks were
irregular; and it would seem evident that they had not been dug for
any purposes of fencing or enclosure; and I have sometimes imagined,
from their varying width and depth--for in places they were ten feet
deep, and three times as broad, and at others but a foot or two
across, and containing but a few inches of water--that their beds had
been hollowed out to get marl or gravel for the convenience of the
neighboring cultivators.
Be this as it may, they were at all times brimful of the clearest and
most transparent water I ever remember to have seen--never turbid even
after the heaviest rains; and though bordered by water-flags, and
tapestried in many places by the broad, round leaves of the white and
yellow water-lilies, never corrupted by a particle of floating scum,
or green duckweed.
Whether they were fed by secret springs I know not; or whether they
communicated by sluices or side-drains with the neighboring Thames; I
never could discover any current or motion in their still, glassy
waters, though I have wandered by their banks a hundred times,
watching the red-finned roach and silvery dace pursue each other among
the shadowy lily leaves, now startling a fat yellow frog from the
marge, and following him as he dived through the limpid blackness to
the very bottom, now starting in my own turn, as a big water-rat would
swim from side to side, and vanish in some hole of the marly bank, and
now endeavoring to catch the great azure-bodied, gauze-winged
dragon-flies, as they shot to and fro on their poised wings, pursuing
kites of the insect race, some of the smaller ephemera.
It was those quiet, lucid waters, coupled with the exceeding shadiness
of the trees, and its very unusual solitude--I have walked it, I
suppose, from end to end at least a hundred times, and I never
remember to have met so much even as a peasant returning from his
daily labor, or a country maiden tripping to the neighboring
town--that gave its character, and I will add, its charm to this half
pastoral, half sylvan lane. For nearly three miles it ran in one
direction, although, as I have said, with many devious turns, and
seemingly unnecessary angles, and through that length it did not pass
within the sound of one farm-yard, or the sight of one cottage
chimney. But to make up for this, of which it was, indeed, a
consequence, the nightingales were so bold and familiar that they
might be heard all day long filling the air with their delicious
melodies, not waiting, as in more frequented spots, the approach of
night, whose dull ear to charm with amorous ravishment; nay, I have
seen them perched in full view on the branches, gazing about them
fearless with their full black eyes, and swelling their emulous
throats in full view of the spectator.
Three miles passed, the lane takes a sudden turn to the northward,
having previously run, for the most part, east and west; and here, in
the inner angle, jutting out suddenly from a dense thicket of
hawthorns and hazels, an old octagonal summer-house, with a roof
shaped like an extinguisher, projects into the ditch, which here
expands into a little pool, some ten or twelve yards over in every
direction, and perhaps deeper than at any other point of its course.
Beyond the summer-house there is a little esplanade of green turf,
faced with a low wall toward the ditch, allowing the eye to run down a
long, narrow avenue of gigantic elm-trees, meeting at the top in the
perfect semblance of a Gothic aisle, and bordered on each hand by
hedges of yew, six feet at least in height, clipped into the form and
almost into the solidity of a wall. At the far end of this avenue,
which must be nearly two-thirds of a mile in length, one can discern a
glimpse of a formal garden, and beyond that, of some portion of what
seems to be a large building of red brick.
At the extremity of the esplanade and little wall, there grows an
enormous oak, not very tall, but with an immense girth of trunk, and
such a spread of branches that it completely overshadows the
summer-house, and overhangs the whole surface of the small pool in
front of it. Thenceforth, the tall and tangled hedge runs on, as usual
denying all access of the eye, and the deep, clear ditch all access of
the foot, to the demesnes within; until at the distance of perhaps a
mile and a quarter, a little bridge crosses the latter, and a green
gate, with a pretty rustic lodge beside it, gives entrance to a smooth
lawn, with a gravel-road running across it, and losing itself on the
farther side, in a thick belt of woodland.
It is, however, with the summer-house that I have to do principally,
for it is to it that the terror of blood has clung through the lapse
of years, as the scent of the Turkish Atar is said to cling,
indestructible, to the last fragment of the vessel which had once
contained it.
When first I saw that small lonely pavilion, I had heard nothing of
the strange tradition which belonged to it, yet as I looked on the
plastered walls, all covered with spots of damp and mildew, on the
roof overrun with ivy, in masses so wildly luxuriant as almost to
conceal the shape, on the windows, one in each side of the octagon,
closed by stout jalousies, which had been once green with paint, but
were now green with damp and vegetable mould, a strange feeling, half
of curiosity and half of terror, came over me, mixed with that
singular fascination of which I have spoken, which seemed to deny me
any rest until I should have searched out the mystery--for I felt sure
that mystery there was--connected with that summer-house, so desolate
and so fast lapsing into ruin, while the hedges and gardens within
appeared well cared for, and in trim cultivation.
I well remember the first time I beheld that lonely and deserted
building. It was near sunset, on as lovely a summer evening as ever
shed its soft light on the earth; the air was breathless; the sky
cloudless; thousands of swallows were upon the wing, some skimming the
limpid surface of those old ditches, others gliding on balanced
pinions so far aloft in the darkening firmament that the eye could
barely discern them.
The nightingales were warbling their rich, melancholy notes from every
brake and thicket; the bats had come forth and were flitting to and
fro on their leathern wings under the dark trees; but the brilliant
dragon-flies, and all the painted tribe of butterflies had vanished
already, and another race, the insects of the night, had taken their
places.
The rich scent of the new-mown hay loaded the air with fragrance, and
vied with the odors of the eglantine and honeysuckle, which, increased
by the falling dew, steamed up like incense to the evening skies.
I was alone, and thoughtful; for the time although sweet and
delicious, had nothing in it gay or joyous; the lane along which I was
strolling was steeped in the fast increasing shadows, for although the
air aloft was full of sunshine, and the topmost leaves of the tall
ashes shimmered like gold in the late rays, not a single beam
penetrated the thick hedgerows, or fell upon the sandy horse-road. The
water in the deep ditches looked as black as night, and the plunge of
the frogs into their cool recesses startled the ear amid the solitude
and stillness of the place.
It was one of those evenings, in a word, which calls up, we know not
why, a train of thought not altogether sad, nor wholly tender, but
calm and meditative and averse to action. I had been wandering along
thus for nearly an hour, musing deeply all the while, yet perfectly
unconscious that I was musing, much more what was the subject of my
meditations, when coming suddenly to the turn of the lane, the old
summer-house met my eyes, and almost startled me, so little did I
expect in that place to see any thing that should recall to my mind
the dwellings or the vicinity of man.
The next minute I began to scrutinize, and to wonder--for it was
evident that this building must be an appendage to the estate of some
gentleman or person of degree, and, knowing all the families of note
in that neighborhood, I was well assured that no one dwelt here of
sufficient position to be the owner of what appeared at first sight to
be a noble property.
Anxious as I was, however, to effect my entrance into that enchanted
ground, I could discover no means of doing so; for the depth of the
water effectually cut off all access to the hedgerow banks, even if
there had been any prospect of forcing a passage through the tangled
thorn-bushes beyond. Before I could find any solution to my problem,
the fast thickening shadows admonished me that I must beat my retreat;
and it was only by dint of redoubled speed that I reached college in
time to escape the consequences of absence from roll-call.
An early hour of the evening found me at my post on the following day;
for having a direct object now in view, I wasted no time on the road,
and the sun was still some distance above the horizon, when I reached
the summer-house.
It had been my hope, as I went along, that I might find some shallow
spot, with a corresponding gap in the hedge, before reaching the
place, by means of which I might turn the defences, and take the enemy
in the rear; but it was all in vain; and I came upon the ground
without discovering any opening by which an animal larger than a rat
could enter the forbidden ground.
Difficulty, it is well known, heightens desire; and, if I wished
before, I was now determined that I would get in. Quickening my pace,
I set off at a smart run to reconnoitre the defences beyond, but
having found nothing that favored my plans, in some half mile or so, I
again returned, now bent on forcing my way, even if I should be
compelled to undress, and swim across the pool to the further side.
Before having recourse to this last step, however, I reconnoitered my
ground somewhat more narrowly than before, and soon discovered that
one of the main limbs of the great oak shot quite across the pool, and
extended some little distance on my side over terra firma.
It is true that the nearer extremity of the branch was rather of the
slenderest, to support the weight even of a boy, and that the lowest
point was a foot or two above my head. But what of that? I was young
and active in those days, and somewhat bold withal; and without a
spice of danger, where were the pleasure or excitement of adventure?
It did not take me long to make up my mind, and before I had well
thought of the risk, I had swung myself up into the branches, and was
creeping, with even less difficulty than I had anticipated, along the
great gnarled bough above the mirrored pool.
Danger, in fact, there was none; for slender as the extremities
appeared, they were tough English oak, and the parent branch once
gained, would have supported the weight of Otus and Ephialtes, and all
their giant crew, much more of one slight Etonian.
In five minutes, or less, I had reached the fork of the trunk, and,
swarming down on the further side, stood in the full fruition of my
hopes, on that enchanted ground.
It was as I had expected to find it, a singular and gloomy spot; the
tall elm trees which formed the avenue, and the black wall of clipped
yew, which followed their course, diverging to the right and left,
formed a semicircle, the chord of which was the low wall and hawthorn
hedge, the summer-house standing, as I entered, in the angle on my
left hand.
Although, as I have said, the sun was still high in heaven, the little
area was almost dark already; and it was difficult, indeed, to
conjecture for what end the wisdom of our ancestors had planted a
sun-dial in the centre of the grass-plat, where it seemed physically
impossible that a chance sunbeam should ever strike it, to tell the
hour.
If it had not been for the narrow open space between the oak tree and
the summer-house, the little lawn would even now have been as black as
night; as it was, a sort of misty-gray twilight, increased, perhaps,
by the thin vapors rising from the tranquil pool, filled all its
precincts; and beyond these, stretching away in long perspective until
the arch at the further end seemed dwindled to the size of a needle's
eye, was the long aisle of gloomy foliage, as massive and impenetrable
to any ray of light as the stone arches of a Gothic cloister.
The only thing that conveyed an idea of gayety or life, to the cold
and tomb-like scenery, was the glimpse of bright sunshine which lay on
the open garden at the extremity of the elm-walk, with the gaudy and
glowing hues, indistinctly seen in the distance, of some summer
flowers.
Yet even this was not all unmixed with something of melancholy, for
the contrast of the gay sunbeams and bright flowers only rendered the
gloom more apparent, and like a convent-garden, seemed to awaken
cravings after the joyous world without, diminishing nothing of the
sorrow and monotony within.
But I was not in those days much given to moralizing, or to the
investigation of my own inward feelings.
I had come thither to inquire, to see, to learn, to find out
things--not causes. And perceiving at one glance that my first
impression was correct, that the grass-plots were recently mown, the
gravel-walks newly rolled, and spotless of weeds, the tall yew hedges
assiduously clipped into the straightest and most formal lines; that
every thing, in short, displayed the most heedful tendance, the
neatest cultivation, with the exception of the summer-pavilion, which
evidently was devoted to decay, I became but the more satisfied that
there was some mystery, and the more resolute to probe it to the core.
It was quite clear that when that garden was laid out, and that avenue
planted, how many years ago the giant size of the old elms denoted,
the summer-house was the meaning of the whole design. The avenue had
no object but to lead to it, the little lawn no purpose but to receive
it. Doubly strange, therefore, did it seem that these should be kept
up in all their trimness, that suffered to fall into decay.
It was the tragedy of Hamlet, with Hamlet's part omitted!
I stood for a little while wondering, and half overcome by a sort of
indescribable fanciful superstition. A cloud had come over the sun,
the nightingales had ceased to sing, and there was not a sound of any
kind to be heard, except the melancholy murmur of the summer air in
the tree-tops.
In a moment, however, the transitory spell was shaken off, and, once
more the bold and reckless schoolboy, I turned to the performance of
my self-imposed task.
The summer-house, as I have said, was octagon, three of its sides,
with a window in each, jutting out into the clear pool, and three,
with a door in the centre, and a window on each side, fronting the
little lawn. But, alas! the windows were all secured with jalousies,
strongly bolted and barred from within, and the door was secured by a
lock, the key of which was absent.
A short examination showed, however, that the door was held by no
bolts at the top or bottom; and the rusty condition of both lock and
hinges rendered it probable that it would not stand a very violent
assault.
Wherefore, retreating some twenty paces, I ran at it _more Etonensi_,
at the top of my speed, planted the sole of my foot even and square
against the key-hole, with the whole impetus of my charge, and had the
satisfaction of feeling the door fly open in an instant, while a
jingling clatter within showed that my entrance had been effected with
no greater damage to the premises than the starting of the staple into
which the bolt of the lock shot.
Having entered thus, my first task was to repair damages, which was
effected in five minutes, by driving the staple into its old place by
aid of a great stone; my second, to provide means for future visits,
which was as speedily managed by driving back the bolt of the lock
with the same great stone; and my third, to look eagerly and curiously
about me. To do this more effectually, I soon opened the two windows
looking upon the lawn, and let in the light, for the first time, I
fancy, in many a year, to that deserted room.
If I had marveled much before I entered, much more did I marvel now;
for although every thing within showed marks of the utmost negligence
and decay, though spiders had woven their webs in every angle, though
mildew and damp mould had defaced the painted walls, though the
gilding was black and tarnished, though the dust lay thick on the
furniture, still I had never seen any thing in my life, except the
state-rooms at Hampton Court and Windsor Castle, which could have vied
with this pavilion in the splendor of its original decoration.
Its area was about thirty feet in diameter, and in height nearly the
same, with a domed roof, richly fretted with what had once been golden
scroll-work upon an azure ground. The walls were painted, as even _I_
could discover, by the hand of a master, with copies from Guido and
Caracci, in compartments bordered with massive gilded scroll-work, the
ground between the panels having been originally, like the ceiling, of
bright azure. The window-frames had been gilded; and the inside of the
door painted, like the walls, in azure, with pictures of high merit in
the panels. Every side of the octagon but two, the opposite walls to
the right and left, were occupied by windows or a door; but that to
the right was filled by a mantel-piece, exquisitely wrought with
Caryatides in white Carrara marble, with a copy of the Aurora above
it, while the space opposite to it had been occupied by a superb
mirror, reaching from the cornice of the ceiling.
Nearly in the centre of this mirror, however, there was a small
circular fracture, as if made by a stone or a bullet, with long cracks
radiating, like the beams of a star, in all directions over the
shivered plate; and when I looked at it more closely, I observed that
it was dashed in many places with large drops of some dark purple
fluid, which had hardened with time into compact and solid gouts.
I thought little of this at the time, and only wondered why people
could be so mad as to abandon so beautiful a place; and why, since
they had abandoned it, they did not remove the furniture, of which
even a boy's eye could detect the value.
There was a centre-table of circular form, the pedestal of which,
curiously carved, had been wrought, like all the rest, in gold and
azure, while the slat, when I had wiped away with some fresh green
leaves the thick layer of dust which covered it, positively astonished
my eyes, by the delicacy and beauty of the designs with which it was
adorned. Beside this, there were divans and arm-chairs of the same
fashion and colors, with cushions which had been once of sky-blue
damask, though their brilliancy, and even their hues, had long ago
been defaced by the dust, the dampness, and the squalor of that
neglected place.
I should have mentioned, that on the beautiful table I discovered
gouts of the same dark substance which I had previously observed on
the broken mirror: and that there were still clearly perceptible on
one of the divans, dark splashes, and what must, when fluid, have been
almost a pool of the same deep, rusty hue.
At the time, it is true, I paid little attention to these things,
being busily employed in the boy-like idea of putting my newly
discovered palace of Armida into a complete state of repair, and
coming to pass all my leisure moments, even to the studying my
Prometheus Bound, and composing my weekly hexameters and Alcaics in
this sweet sequestered spot.
And, in truth, within a week I had put the greater part of my plan
into execution; purloined dusters from my dame's boarding-house, green
boughs of the old elms for brooms, and water from the ditch, soon made
things clean at least; and the air, which I suffered, so long as I was
there, daily, to blow through it in all directions, soon rendered it,
comparatively speaking, dry and comfortable; and when all its windows
were thrown wide, it would be scarcely possible to find a more
lightsome or delicious spot for summer musing than that old English
summer-house.
Thus things went on for weeks, for months, unsuspected--for I always
latched the door, and secured the windows from within, before leaving
my fairy palace for the night; and as all looked just as usual
without, no one so much as dreamed of trying the lock, to ascertain if
a door were still fastened, the threshhold of which, as men believed,
no human foot had crossed since the days of the second James.
I could often, it is true, discover the traces of recent labor in the
immediate neighborhood of my discovery; I could perceive at a glance
where the grass had been newly shorn, the yew hedges clipped, or the
gravel-walks rolled, but never, in the course of several months,
during which I spent every fine evening, either reading, or musing, or
composing my boy verses, in that my enchanted castle--for I began
really to consider it almost my own--did I see any human being on the
premises.
The cause of this, which I did not suspect until it was revealed to
me, after chance had discovered my visits to the place, was simply
this, that my intrusions were confined solely to the evening,
whereas, so great was the awe of the servants and the workmen for that
lonely and terror-haunted spot, that nothing short of absolute
compulsion, or the strongest necessity, would have induced them to go
near the place, after the sun had turned downward from the zenith.
In the meantime, gratified by the complete success of my first inroad,
and the possession of my first discovery, I felt no inclination to
push my advances further, or to make any incursion into the body of
the place.
Every evening, as early as I could escape from the college walls, I
was at my post, and lingered there as late as college hours would
permit. It was a strange fancy in a boy, and stranger yet than would
at first appear in this, that there was a very considerable admixture
of something nearly approaching to fear, and that of a painful kind,
in the feelings which made me so assiduous in my visits to that old
pavilion.
There was, it is true, nothing definite in my fancies. I knew nothing,
I cannot say even that I suspected any thing, concerning the
mysterious closing of the place; and often, since I have been made
acquainted with the tale, I have marveled at my own obtuseness, and
wondered that a secret so transparent should have escaped me.
So it was, however, that I suspected nothing, although I felt sure
that mystery there was; and being of somewhat an imaginative temper, I
used to amuse myself by accounting for it in my own mind, weaving all
sorts of strange and wild romances, and inventing the most horrible
stories that can be conceived, until, as the shadows would fall dark
around me, daunted by my own conceptions, I would make all secure and
fast with trembling fingers, swing myself back across over the pool by
my accustomed oak-branch, and run home as hard as my legs could carry
me, haunted by indistinct and almost superstitious horror.
Thus things went on, until at the end of summer I was at last detected
in my stolen visits, and the whole mystery was cleared up.
I remember as clearly as if I heard it now, the exclamation of terror
and dismay uttered by the old gardener, who, having left some
implement behind him on the lawn during the morning labors, had been
forced to bend his unwilling steps back to the haunted ground to
recover it.
I could not but smile afterward, when he recounted to me his
astonishment and terror at seeing the old summer-house, which never
had been opened within the memory of man, with all its windows wide to
the free air and evening sunshine--when he told me how often he turned
back to seek aid from his fellows--how he almost believed that fiends
or evil spirits were holding their foul sabbath there, and how he
started aghast with horror, not now for himself, but for me, as he
beheld the young Etonian stretched tranquilly upon the blood-stained
couch--for those dark stains were of human gore--conning his task for
the morrow.
I rushed out of the place at his hurried outcry; a few words told my
story, and plead my excuse--with the good, simple-minded rustic little
excuse was needed--but it was not till after many sittings, and many a
long afternoon's discourse, that I learned all the details of the sad
event which had converted that fair pavilion into a place as terrible,
to the ideas of the country folks, as a dark charnel-vault.
"Ay!" said the old man, as he gazed fearfully about him, after I had
persuaded him at length to cross the dreaded threshhold, "Ay! it is
all as they tell, though not a man of them has ever seen it. There is
the glass which the bullet broke, after passing right through his
brain; and there is his blood, all spattered on the mirror. And look,
young master, those spots on the table came from _her_ heart; and that
couch you was lying on, is where they laid her when they took her up.
See, it's all dabbled yet; and where your head was resting now, the
dead girl's head lay, more than a hundred years since! Come away,
master--come away! I never thought to have looked on these things,
though I know all about them."
"Oh, tell me--tell me about them!" I exclaimed. "I am not a bit
afraid. Do tell me all about them."
"Not now--not now--nor not here," said the old man, gazing about as if
he expected to see a spirit stalk out of some shady nook of the
surrounding trees. "I would not tell you here to be master of all
Ditton-in-the-Dale! But come up, if you will, to the great house
to-morrow, and ask for old Matthew Dawson, and I'll show you all the
place--the family never lives here now, nor hasn't since that deed was
done--and then I'll tell you all about it, if you must hear. But if
you're wise, you'll shun it; for it will chill your young blood to
listen, and cling to your young heart with a gloom forever."
"Oh, I will come, be sure, Matthew! I would not miss it for the world.
But it is getting late, so I'll fasten up the old place, and be
going;" and suiting the action to the word, I soon secured the
fastenings, while the old gardener stood by, marvelling and muttering
at the boldness of young blood, until I had finished setting things in
order, when I shook hands with the old man, slipping my _one_ half
crown into his horny palm, and saying,
"Well, good night, Matthew Dawson, and don't forget to-morrow
evening."
"That I wont, master," he replied, greatly propitiated by my offering.
"But which way are you going?"
"Oh, I'll soon show you," I replied; and swinging myself up my tree, I
was beyond the precincts of the haunted ground almost in a moment.
"The very way _he_ came the time he did it," cried the old gardener,
with upturned hands, and eyes aghast. But I tarried then to ask no
further questions, being quite sufficiently terrified for one night;
although my pride forbade my displaying my terrors to the old rustic.
The next day I was punctual to my appointment; and then, for the first
time, I heard the melancholy tale which, at length, I purpose to
relate.
It was a proud and noble Norman family which had held the demesnes of
Ditton-in-the-Dale, since the reign of the last Plantagenet--a brave
and loyal race, which had poured its blood like water on many a
foreign, many a native battle-field. At Evesham, a Fitz-Henry had
fought beside Prince Edward's bridle-rein, against the great De
Montfort, and his confederate barons; and afterward through all the
long and cruel wars of the Roses, on every field a Fitz-Henry had won
honor or lost blood, upholding the claims of the true sovereign
house--the house of York--until at fatal Bosworth the house itself
went down, and dragged down with it the fortunes of its bold
supporters.
Thereafter, during the reign of the Tudors, the name of Fitz-Henry was
heard rarely in the court, or on the field; impoverished in fortune by
fines and sequestrations, suspected of disloyalty to the now sovereign
house, the heads of the family had wisely held themselves aloof from
intrigue and conspiracy, and dwelt among their yeomen, who had in old
times been their fathers' vassals, stanch lovers of field-sports, true
English country gentlemen, seeking the favor and fearing the ill-will
of no man--no, not of England's king.
Attached to the old religion, though neither bigots nor zealots, they
had escaped the violence of bluff Harry, when he turned Protestant for
Bullen's eyes; and had, though something to leeward of her favor, as
lukewarm Romanists and no lovers of the Spaniard, passed safely
through the ordeal of Mary's cruel reign.
But with the accession of the man-minded Elizabeth, the fortunes of
the house revived for a while. It was the policy of that great and
gracious queen to gather around her all that were brave, honest, and
manly in her realm, without regard to family creeds, or family
traditions. Claiming descent as much from one as from the other of the
rival houses of Lancaster and York, loyalty to the one was no more
offence to her clear eyes than good faith to the other. While loyalty
to what he honestly believed to be the true sovereign house, was the
strongest recommendation to her favor in each and every subject.
The Fitz-Henry, therefore, of her day, a young and gallant soldier,
who visited the shores of the New World with Cavendish and Raleigh,
fought for his native land, although a Catholic, against the terrible
armada of the Most Catholic King, with Drake, and Frobisher and
Howard, waged war in the Low Countries, and narrowly missed death at
Tutphen by Philip Sidney's side, stood as high in the favor of his
queen as in the estimation of all good and honorable men. It is true,
when the base and odious James succeeded to the throne of the
lion-queen, and substituted mean and loathsome king-craft for frank
and open English policy, the gray-haired soldier, navigator,
statesman--for he had shone in each capacity--retired, as his
ancestors had done before him, during the reigns of the seventh and
eighth Henrys, to the peaceful shades and innocent pleasures of
Ditton-in-the-Dale.
So true, however, was he to the time-honored principles of his high
race, so loyally did he bring up his son, so firmly did he strengthen
his youthful mind with all maxims, and all laws of honor, linking the
loyal subject to the rightful king, that no sooner had the troubles
broken out between the misguided monarch and his rebellious
Parliament--although the veteran of Elizabeth had fallen asleep long
before, full of years and honors--than his young heir, Osborn
Fitz-Henry, displayed the cognizance of his old house, mustered his
tenantry, and set foot in stirrup, well nigh the first, to withdraw it
the very last, of the adherents of the hapless Charles. So long did he
resist in arms, so pertinaciously did he uphold the authority of the
first Charles, so early did he rise again in behalf of the second,
that he was noted by the Parliament as an incorrigible and most
desperate malignant; and, had it not been that, by his gallantry in
the field, and his humanity when the strife was ended, he had won the
personal good-will of Cromwell, it is most likely that it would have
gone hard with his fortunes if not with his life.
After the restoration, he was of course neglected by the fiddling,
gambling, wenching, royal buffoon, who succeeded the royal martyr, and
whose necessities he had supplied, when an outcast pauper exile in a
foreign land, from the proceeds of those very estates which he had so
nearly lost in fighting for his crown.
Osborn Fitz-Henry, too, was gathered to his fathers. He died little
advanced beyond the prime of life, worn out with the toil he had
undergone in the camp, and shattered by the wounds which he had
received on almost every battle-field from Edge-Hill to Dunbar and
Worcester.
He had, however, married very young, before the breaking out of the
rebellion, and had lived to see not his son only a noble and superior
man, ready to fill his place when vacant, and in it uphold the honor
of his family, but his son's children also advancing fast toward
maturity.
Allan Fitz-Henry, the son of Charles' stout partisan, the grandson of
Elizabeth's warrior, was the head of the house, when my tale
commences.
He, too, had married young--such, indeed, was the custom of his
house--and had survived his wife, by whom he had two fair daughters,
but no heir; and this was a source of vexation so constantly present
to his mind, that in the end it altered the whole disposition of the
man, rendering him irritable, harsh, stern, unreasonable, and unhappy.
Fondly attached to the memory of his lost wife, whom he had loved
devotedly while living, it never entered his mind to marry a second
time, even with the hope of begetting an heir by whom to perpetuate
the honors and principles of his house; although he was continually on
the fret--miserable himself, and making others miserable, in
consequence of the certainty that he should be the last of his race.
His only hope was now centered in his daughters, or to speak more
correctly, in his eldest daughter--for her he had determined to
constitute his heiress, endowing her with all his landed property, all
his heirlooms, all that could constitute her the head of his house; in
return for which he had predetermined that she should become the wife
of some husband of his own choosing, who should unite to a pedigree
as noble as that of the Howards, all qualifications which should fit
him to represent the house into which he should be adopted; and who
should be willing to drop his own paternal name and bearings, how
ancient and noble soever, in order to adopt the style and the arms of
Fitz-Henry.
Proud by nature, by blood, and by education--though with a clear and
honorable pride--he had been rendered a thousand times prouder and
more haughty by the very circumstances which seemed to threaten a
downfall to the fortunes of his house--his house, which had survived
such desperate reverses; which had come out of every trial, like pure
gold, the better and the brighter from the furnace--his house, which
neither the ruin of friendly monarchs, nor the persecutions of hostile
monarchs, nor the neglect of ungrateful monarchs, had been able to
shake, any more than the autumnal blasts, or the frosts of winter, had
availed to uproot the oak trees of his park, coeval with his name.
In the midst of health and wealth, honor and good esteem, with an
affectionate family, and a devoted household around him, Allan
Fitz-Henry fancied himself a most unhappy man--perhaps the most
unhappy of mankind.
Alas! was it to punish such vain, such sinful, such senseless, and
inordinate repinings?
Who shall presume to scrutinize the judgments, or pry into the secrets
of the Inscrutable?
This much alone is certain, that ere he was gathered to his fathers,
Allan Fitz-Henry might, and that not unjustly, have termed himself
that, which now, in the very wantonness of pampered and insatiate
success he swore that he was daily--the most unhappy of the sons of
men.
For to calamities so dreadful as might have disturbed the reason of
the strongest minded, remorse was added, so just, so terrible, so
overwhelming, that men actually marveled how he lived on and was not
insane.
But I must not anticipate.
It was a short time after the failure of the Duke of Monmouth's weak
and ungrateful attempt at revolution, a short time after the
conclusion of the merciless and bloody butcheries of that disgrace to
the English ermine, the ferocious Jefferies, that the incidents
occurred, which I learned first on the evening subsequent to my
discovery in the fatal summer-house.
At this time Allan Fitz-Henry--it was a singular proof, by the way, of
the hereditary pride of this old Norman race, that having numbered
among them so many friends and counsellors of monarchs, no one of
their number had been found willing to accept titular honors, holding
it a higher thing to be the premier gentleman than the junior peer of
England--At this time, I say, Allan Fitz-Henry was a man of some
forty-five or fifty years, well built and handsome, of courtly air and
dignified presence; nor must it be imagined that in his fancied
grievances he forgot to support the character of his family, or that
he carried his griefs abroad with him into the world.
At times, indeed, he might be a little grave and thoughtful,
especially at such times as he heard mention made of the promise or
success of this or that scion of some noble house; but it was only
within his own family circle, and to his most familiar friends, that
he was wont to open his heart, and complain of his ill-fortune, at
being the first childless father of his race--for so, in his contempt
for the poor girls, whom he still, strange contradiction! loved fondly
and affectionately, he was accustomed in his dark hours to style
himself; as if forsooth an heir male were the only offspring worthy to
be called the child of such a house.
Though he was fond, and gentle, and at times even tender to his
motherless daughters--for, to do him justice, he never suffered a
symptom of his disappointment and disgust to break out to their
annoyance, yet was there no gleam of paternal satisfaction in his sad
eye, no touch of paternal pride in his vexed heart, as he looked upon
their graceful forms, and noted their growing beauties.
And yet they were a pair of whom the haughtiest potentate on earth
might have been proud, and with justice.
Blanche and Agnes Fitz-Henry were at this time in their eighteenth and
seventeenth years--but one summer having passed between their births,
and their mother having died within a few hours after the latter saw
the light.
They were, indeed, as lovely girls as the sun of merry England shone
upon; and in those days it was still _merry_ England, and famous then
as now for the rare beauty of its women, whether in the first dawn of
girlhood, or in the full-blown flush of feminine maturity.
Both tall, above the middle height of women, both exquisitely formed,
with figures delicate and slender, yet full withal, and voluptuously
rounded, with the long taper hands, the small and shapely feet and
ankles, the swan-like necks, and classic heads gracefully set on,
which are held to denote, in all countries, the predominance of gentle
blood; when seen at a distance, and judged by the person only, it
would have been almost impossible to distinguish the elder from the
younger sister.
But look upon them face to face, and never, in all respects, were two
girls of kindred race so entirely dissimilar. The elder, Blanche, was,
as her name denotes, though ladies' names are oftentimes misnomers, a
genuine English blonde. Her abundant and beautiful hair, trained to
float down upon her snowy shoulders in silky masses of unstudied
curls, was of the lightest golden brown. There was not a shade of red
in its hues, although her complexion was of that peculiarly dazzling
character which is common to red-haired persons; yet when the sun
shone on its glistening waves, so brilliantly did the golden light
flash from it, that you might almost have imagined there was a circlet
of living glory above her clear white brow.
Her eyebrows and eyelashes were many shades darker than her hair,
relieving her face altogether from that charge of insipidity which is
so often, and for the most part so truly, brought against fair-haired
and fair-featured beauties. The eyes themselves, which those long
lashes shrouded, were of the deepest violet blue; so deep, that at
first sight you would have deemed them black, but for the soft and
humid languor which is never seen in eyes of that color. The rest of
her features were as near as possible to the Grecian model, except
that there was a slight depression where the nose joins the brow,
breaking that perfectly straight line of the classical face, which,
however beautiful to the statue, is less attractive in life than the
irregular outline of the northern countenance.
Her mouth, with the exception of--perhaps I should rather say in
conjunction with--her eyes, was the most lovely and expressive feature
in her face. There were twin dimples at its corners; yet was not its
expression one of habitual mirth, but of tenderness and softness
rather, unmixed, although an anchorite might have been pardoned the
wish to press his lips to its voluptuous curve, with the slightest
expression of sensuality.
Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant; but it was
the brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose, though at the
least emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the eloquent blood would
rush, like the morning's glow over some snow-crowned Alp, across
cheek, brow, and neck, and bosom, and vanish thence so rapidly, that
ere you should have time to say, nay, even to think,
"Look! look how beautiful, 't was fled."
Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the ancient house,
the promised mother of a line of sons, who should perpetuate the name
and hand down the principles of the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages.
Such were the musings of her father,
Proh! coeca mens mortalium!
and at such times alone, if ever, a sort of doubtful pride would come
to swell his hope, whispering that for such a creature, no man,
however high or haughty, but would be willing to renounce the pride of
birth, even untempted by the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-Dale, and many
another lordly manor coupled to the time-honored name of Fitz-Henry.
Her sister, Agnes, though not less beautiful than Blanche--and there
were those who insisted that she was more so--was as different from
her, in all but the general resemblance of figure and carriage, as
night is from morning, or autumn from early summer-time.
Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering in
closer and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's wing, and,
like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up when the sun
played on them with a sort of purplish and metallic gloss, that defies
alike the pen of the writer, and the painter's pencil to depict to the
eye.
Her complexion, though soft and delicate, was of the very darkest hue
that is ever seen in persons of unmixed European blood; so dark that
the very blood which would mantle to her cheek at times in burning
blushes, was shaded, as it were, with a darker hue, like damask roses
seen through the medium of a gold-tinted window-pane.
Her brows and lashes were as black as night, but, strange to say, the
eyes that flashed from beneath them with an almost painful splendor,
were of a clear, deep azure, less dark than those of the fairer
sister, giving a singular and wild character to her whole face, and
affecting the style of her beauty, but whether for the better or the
worse it was for those who admired or shunned--and there were who took
both parts--to determine. Her face was rounder and fuller than her
sister's, and, in fact, this was true of her whole person--so much so
that she was often mistaken for the elder--her features were less
regular, her nose having a slight tendency to that form which has no
name in our language, but which charmed all beholders in Roxana, as
_retroussie_. Her mouth was as warm, as soft, as sweetly dimpled, but
it was not free from that expression which Blanche's lacked
altogether, and might have been blamed as too wooing and luxurious.
Such were the various characters of the sisters' personal
appearance--the characters of their mental attributes were as
distinctly marked, and as widely different.
Blanche was all gentleness and moderation from her very cradle--a
delicate and tender child, smiling always, but rarely laughing; never
boisterous or loud even in her childish plays. And as she grew older,
this character became more definite, and was more strongly observed;
she was a pensive, tranquil creature, not melancholy, much less
sad--for she was awake to all that was beautiful or grand, all that
was sweet or gentle in the face of nature, or in the history of man;
and there was, perhaps, more real happiness concealed under her calm
exterior, than is often to be found under the wilder mirth of merrier
beings. Ever ready to yield her wishes to those of her friends or
companions, many persons imagined that she had little will, and no
fixed wishes, or deliberate aspirations--passionless and pure as the
lily of the vale, many supposed that she was cold and heartless. Oh!
ignorant! not to remember that the hearts of the fiercest volcanos
boil still beneath a head of snow; and that it is even in the calmest
and most moderate characters that passion once enkindled burns fierce,
perennial and unquenchable! Thus far, however, had she advanced into
the flower of fair maidenhood, undisturbed by any warmer dream than
devoted affection toward her parent, whose wayward grief she could
understand if she could not appreciate, and whom she strove by every
gentle wile to wean from his morbid fancies; and earnest love toward
her sister, whom she, indeed, almost adored--perhaps adored the more
from the very difference of their minds, and for her very
imperfections.
For Agnes was all gay vivacity, and petulance, and fire--so that her
young companions, who sportively named Blanche the icicle, had
christened her the sunbeam; and, in truth, if the first name were ill
chosen, the second seemed to be an inspiration; for like a sunbeam
that touched nothing but to illuminate it, like a sunbeam she played
with all things, smiled on all things in their turn--like a sunbeam
she brought mirth with her presence, and after her departure, left a
double gloom behind her.
More dazzling than Blanche, she made her impression at first sight,
and so long as the skies were clear, and the atmosphere unruffled, the
sunbeam would continue to gild, to charm, to be worshiped. But if the
time of darkness and affliction came, the gay sunbeam held aloof,
while the poor icicle, melted from its seeming coldness, was ever
ready to weep for the sorrows of those who had neglected her in the
days of their happiness.
Unused to yield, high-spirited when crossed, yet carrying off even her
stubbornness and quick temper by the brilliancy, the wit, the lively
and bold audacity which she cast around them, Agnes ruled in her
circle an imperious and despotic queen; while her slaves, even as they
trembled before her half sportive but emphatic frown, did not suspect
the sceptre of the tyrant beneath the spell of the enchantress.
Agnes, in one word, was the idol of the rich and gay; Blanche was the
saint of the poor, the lowly, the sick, and those who mourn.
It may be that the peculiarity of her position, the neglect which she
had always experienced from her father, and mediately from the
hirelings of the household, ever prompt to pander to the worst
feelings of their superiors--the consciousness that born co-heiress
with her sister, she was doomed to sink into the insignificance of an
undowered and uncared-for girl, had tended in some degree to form the
character which Agnes had ever borne, and which alone she had
displayed, until the period when my tale commences.
It may be that the consciousness of wrong endured, had hardened a
heart naturally soft and tender, and rendered it unyielding and
rebellious--it may be that injustice, endured at the hands of
hirelings in early years, had engendered a spirit of resistance, and
armed her mind and quickened her tongue against the world, which, as
she fancied, wronged her. It may be, more than all, that a secret,
perhaps an unconscious jealousy of her sister's superior advantages,
not in the wretched sense of worldly wealth or position, but of the
love and reverence of friends and kindred, had embittered her young
soul, and caused her to cast over it a veil of light and wild
demeanor, of free speech, and daring mirth, which had by degrees grown
into habits, and become part and parcel of her nature.
If it were so, however, there were no outward indications that such
was the case; for never were there seen two sisters more united and
affectionate--nor would it have been easy to say on which side the
balance of kindness preponderated. For if Blanche was ever the first
to cede to her sister's wishes, and the last, in any momentary
disappointment or annoyance, to speak one quick or unkind word, so was
Agnes, with her expressive features, and flashing eye, and ready,
tameless wit, prompt as light to avenge the slightest reflection cast
on Blanche's tranquillity and coldness; and if at times a quick word
or sharp retort broke from her lips, and called a tear to the eye of
her calmer sister, not a moment would elapse before she would cast
herself upon her neck and weep her sincere contrition, and be for
hours an altered being; until her natural spirit would prevail, and
she would be again the wild, mirthful madcap, whose very faults could
call forth no keener reproach than a grave and thoughtful smile from
the lips of those who loved her the most dearly.
Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henry--daughters whom not a peer
in England but would have regarded as the brightest gems of his
coronets, as the pride and ornament of his house; but whom, by a
strange anomaly, their own father, full as he was of warm affections,
and kindly inclinations, never looked upon but with a secret feeling
of discontent and disappointment, that they were not other than they
were: and with a half confessed conviction, that fair as they were,
tender, and loving, graceful, accomplished, delicate and noble-minded,
he could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave, so that a son
could be given to the house, in exchange for their lost loveliness.
In outward demeanor, however, he was to his children all that a father
should be; a little querulous at times, perhaps, and irritable, but
fond, though not doting, and considerate; and I have wandered greatly
from my intention, if any thing that I have said has been construed to
signify that there existed the slightest estrangement between the
father and his children--for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected the
possibility of such a thing, he had torn the false pride, like a
venomous weed, from his heart, and had been a wiser and a happier man.
In his case it was the blindness of the heart that caused its partial
hardness; but events were at hand, that should flood it with the
clearest light, and melt it to more than woman's tenderness.
[_To be continued._
SONNET TO GRAHAM.
On, in thy mission! 'T is a holy power
That which thou wieldest o'er a people's heart:
And wastes of mind, that never knew a flower,
Bloom now and brighten, 'neath thy magic art.
Hearthstones are cheerful that were chill before;
And softened beams, like light that melteth through
The stained glass of old cathedrals, pour
Stream upon stream of beauty. All that's true,
All that is brave and beautiful, 't is thine--
High office, high and holy! thus to shed,
Sun-like, and sole, in shadow or in shine,
Thoughts that bedew and rouse minds cold and dead,
Startling the pulse that stirred not. This is thine!
Be proudly humble: 't is a power divine!
_New Orleans, October_ 1, 1847. ALTUS.
MARGINALIA
BY EDGAR A. POE.
We mere men of the world, with no principle--a very old-fashioned and
cumbersome thing--should be on our guard lest, fancying him on his
last legs, we insult, or otherwise maltreat some poor devil of a
genius at the very instant of his putting his foot on the top round of
his ladder of triumph. It is a common trick with these fellows, when
on the point of attaining some long-cherished end, to sink themselves
into the deepest possible abyss of seeming despair, for no other
purpose than that of increasing the space of success through which
they have made up their minds immediately to soar.
* * * * *
All that the man of genius demands for his exaltation is moral matter
in motion. It makes no difference _whither_ tends the motion--whether
for him or against him--and it is absolutely of _no_ consequence
"_what_ is the matter."
* * * * *
In Colton's "American Review" for October, 1845, a gentleman, well
known for his scholarship, has a forcible paper on "The Scotch School
of Philosophy and Criticism." But although the paper is "forcible," it
presents the most singular admixture of error and truth--the one
dovetailed into the other, after a fashion which is novel, to say the
least of it. Were I to designate in a few words what the whole article
demonstrated, I should say "the folly of not beginning at the
beginning--of neglecting the giant Moulineau's advice to his friend
Ram." Here is a passage from the essay in question:
"The Doctors [Campbell and Johnson] both charge
Pope with error and inconsistency:--error in
supposing that _in English_, of metrical lines
unequal in the number of syllables and pronounced
in equal times, the longer suggests celerity (this
being the principle of the
Alexandrine:)--inconsistency, in that Pope himself
uses the same contrivance to convey the contrary
idea of slowness. But why in English? It is not and
cannot be disputed that, in the Hexameter verse of
the Greeks and Latins--which is the model in this
matter--what is distinguished as the 'dactylic
line' was uniformly applied to express velocity.
How was it to do so? Simply from the fact of being
pronounced in an equal time with, while containing
a greater number of syllables or 'bars' than the
ordinary or average measure; as, on the other hand,
the spondaic line, composed of the minimum number,
was, upon the same principle, used to indicate
slowness. So, too, of the Alexandrine in English
versification. No, says Campbell, there is a
difference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like
the dactylic line, pronounced in the common time.
But does this alter the principle? What is the
rationale of Metre, whether the classical hexameter
or the English heroic?"
I have written an essay on the "Rationale of Verse," in which the
whole topic is surveyed _ab initio_, and with reference to general and
immutable principles. To this essay (which will soon appear) I refer
Mr. Bristed. In the meantime, without troubling myself to ascertain
whether Doctors Johnson and Campbell are wrong, or whether Pope is
wrong, or whether the reviewer is right or wrong, at this point or at
that, let me succinctly state what is _the truth_ on the topics at
issue.
And first; the same principles, in _all_ cases, govern _all_ verse.
What is true in English is true in Greek.
Secondly; in a series of lines, if one line contains more syllables
than the law of the verse demands, and if, nevertheless, this line is
pronounced in the same time, upon the whole, as the rest of the lines,
then this line suggests celerity--on account of the increased rapidity
of enunciation required. Thus in the Greek Hexameter the dactylic
lines--those most abounding in dactyls--serve best to convey the idea
of rapid motion. The spondaic lines convey that of slowness.
Thirdly; it is a gross mistake to suppose that the Greek dactylic
line is 'the model in this matter'--the matter of the English
Alexandrine. The Greek dactylic line is of the same number of
feet--bars--beats--pulsations--as the ordinary dactylic-spondaic lines
among which it occurs. But the Alexandrine is longer by one foot--by
one pulsation--than the pentameters among which it arises. For its
pronunciation it demands _more time_, and therefore, _ceteris
paribus_, it would well serve to convey the impression of length, or
duration, and thus, indirectly, of slowness. I say _ceteris paribus_.
But, by varying conditions, we can effect a total change in the
impression conveyed. When the idea of slowness is conveyed by the
Alexandrine, it is not conveyed by any slower enunciation of
syllables--that is to say, it is not _directly_ conveyed--but
indirectly, through the idea of _length_ in the whole line. Now, if we
wish to convey, by means of an Alexandrine, the impression of
velocity, we readily do so by giving rapidity to our enunciation of
the syllables composing the several feet. To effect this, however, we
must have _more_ syllables, or we shall get through the whole line too
quickly for the intended time. To get more syllables, all we have to
do, is to use, in place of iambuses, what our prosodies call
anapoests.[1] Thus, in the line,
Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main,
the syllables '_the unbend_' form an anapoest and, demanding unusual
rapidity of enunciation, in order that we may get them in in the
ordinary time of an iambus, serve to suggest celerity. By the elision
of _e_ in _the_, as is customary, the whole of the intended effect is
lost; for _th'unbend_ is nothing more than the usual iambus. In a
word, wherever an Alexandrine expresses celerity, we shall find it to
contain one or more anapoests--the more anapoests, the more decided
the impression. But the tendency of the Alexandrine consisting merely
of the usual iambuses, is to convey slowness--although it conveys this
idea feebly, on account of conveying it indirectly. It follows, from
what I have said, that the common pentameter, interspersed with
anapoests, would better convey celerity than the Alexandrine
interspersed with them in a similar degree;--and it unquestionably
does.
[Footnote 1: I use the prosodial word "anapoest," merely because here
I have no space to show what the reviewer will admit I have distinctly
shown in the essay referred to--viz: that the additional syllable
introduced, does _not_ make the foot an anapoest, or the equivalent of
an anapoest, and that, if it did, it would spoil the line. On this
topic, and on all topics connected with verse, there is not a prosody
in existence which is not a mere jumble of the grossest error.]
* * * * *
To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent--to talk well, the
glowing _abandon_ of genius. Men of _very_ high genius, however, talk
at one time _very_ well, at another _very_ ill:--well, when they have
full time, full scope, and a sympathetic listener:--ill, when they fear
interruption and are annoyed by the impossibility of exhausting the topic
during that particular talk. The partial genius is flashy--scrappy. The
true genius shudders at incompleteness--imperfection--and usually
prefers silence to saying the something which is not every thing that
should be said. He is so filled with his theme that he is dumb, first
from not knowing how to begin, where there seems eternally beginning
behind beginning, and secondly from perceiving his true end at so
infinite a distance. Sometimes, dashing into a subject, he blunders,
hesitates, stops short, sticks fast, and, because he has been
overwhelmed by the rush and multiplicity of his thoughts, his hearers
sneer at his inability to think. Such a man finds his proper element
in those "great occasions" which confound and prostrate the general
intellect.
Nevertheless, by his conversation, the influence of the
conversationist upon mankind in general, is more decided than that of
the talker by his talk:--the latter invariably talks to best purpose
with his pen. And good conversationists are more rare than respectable
talkers. I know many of the latter; and of the former only five or
six:--among whom I can call to mind, just now, Mr. Willis, Mr. J. T.
S. S.--of Philadelphia, Mr. W. M. R.--of Petersburg, Va., and Mrs.
S----d, formerly of New York. Most people, in conversing, force us to
curse our stars that our lot was not cast among the African nation
mentioned by Eudoxus--the savages who, having no mouths, never opened
them, as a matter of course. And yet, if denied mouth, some persons
whom I have in my eye would contrive to chatter on still--as they do
now--through the nose.
* * * * *
All in a hot and copper sky
The bloody sun at noon
Just up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the moon.--COLERIDGE.
Is it possible that the poet did not know the apparent diameter of the
moon to be greater than that of the sun?
If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the
universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment,
the opportunity is his own--the road to immortal renown lies straight,
open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write
and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple--a few
plain words--"My Heart Laid Bare." But--this little book must be _true
to its title_.
Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety
which distinguishes so many of mankind--so many, too, who care not a
fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one
man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To _write_,
I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written,
would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during
their life, and who could not even conceive _why_ they should object
to its being published after their death. But to write it--_there_ is
the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man
_could_ write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze
at every touch of the fiery pen.
* * * * *
For all the rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name the tools.--HUDIBRAS.
What these oft-quoted lines go to show is, that a falsity in verse
will travel faster and endure longer than a falsity in prose. The man
who would sneer or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put, will
admit that "there is a good deal in that" when "_that_" is the point
of an epigram shot into the ear. The rhetorician's rules--if they
_are_ rules--teach him not only to name his tools, but to use his
tools, the capacity of his tools--their extent--their limit; and from
an examination of the nature of the tools--(an examination forced on
him by their constant presence)--force him, also, into scrutiny and
comprehension of the material on which the tools are employed, and
thus, finally, suggest and give birth to new material for new tools.
* * * * *
Among his _eidola_ of the den, the tribe, the forum, the theatre,
etc., Bacon might well have placed the great _eidolon_ of the parlor
(or of the wit, as I have termed it in one of the previous
Marginalia)--the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by dazzling
him with the _apposite_. But what title could have been invented for
_that_ idol which has propagated, perhaps, more of gross error than
all combined?--the one, I mean, which demands from its votaries that
they reciprocate cause and effect--reason in a circle--lift themselves
from the ground by pulling up their pantaloons--and carry themselves
on their own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beersheba to Dan.
All--absolutely all the argumentation which I have seen on the nature
of the soul, or of the Deity, seems to me nothing but worship of this
unnameable idol. _Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu_, says Bielfeld, although
nobody listens to the solemn truth, _il faut être Dieu même_--and to
reason about the reason is of all things the most unreasonable. At
least, he alone is fit to discuss the topic who perceives at a glance
the insanity of its discussion.
THE PENANCE OF ROLAND.
A ROMANCE OF THE PEINE FORTE ET DURE.
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
PART I.
When the weird and wizard bats were flitting round his dusky way,
Over a moorland, like a whirlwind, rushed the knight, Sir Roland Grey;
When the crimson sun was setting, as the yellow moon arose,
Far and faint, behind Sir Roland, sank the slogan of his foes--
Far and faint; and growing fainter as he reached the forest sward,
Spreading round for many an acre over the lands which owned him lord.
As he dashed along the woodland, fitfully, upon the breeze,
Swept the tu-who-o of the owlet through the naked forest trees;
And the loudly whirring black-cock through the creaking branches sprung,
Frightened by his horse's hoofs, that like the Cyclop's anvil rung--
Like a hurricane on he hurried, wood and valley gliding past,
While around him, o'er him, on him, burst the sudden autumn blast.
Down upon him, in a deluge, rushed the cold November rain;
But the wind about him whistled, and the tempest swept in vain.
What to him was wind or tempest, when his brain was seared with flame?
What to him was earth or heaven, when his soul was sick with shame?
In the dreary, desolate desert on his ears had burst a tale,
That, like falling thunder, stunned and left him terrified and pale;
How, while he was battling bravely, like a true and holy knight,
For the sacred tomb of Christ, against the swarthy Moslemite;
How, while round him lances shivered, armor rang, and arrows fell,
And the air was mad with noises--Arab shout and Paynim yell--
She, the partner of his heart, descended (so the legend said)
From the ancient Saxon monarchs, sank in shame her sunny head.
From his friends--his growing glory--over dark and dangerous seas--
From his red-cross banner proudly flowing, floating on the breeze--
Over field and flood he traveled, flinging fame and honor by,
With a heart as full of hell as full of glory was the sky.
All his mind became a chaos; but along its waste there stole
What his bloody purpose shook, and what was manna to his soul,--
Memories of his youthful moments, when through grassy glen and wood
He wandered with the Lady Gwineth, dreaming none so fair and good;
And he saw her sweetly smiling, as when at her feet he knelt,
And with bold but modest manner on his burning passion dwelt--
Felt her fall upon his bosom--felt her tears upon his cheek,
As he felt them when his tongue was all too full of joy to speak!
And his heart was slowly softening--when a hoarse voice bade him "yield!"
And a claymore clanked and clattered on the bosses of his shield;--
Rising round him, closing on him, sprang an ambush of his foe,
The despoiler of his honor! All his answer was a blow!
All his soul was in his arm; and, as his foemen closed around,
Vassal after vassal, wounded, yelling, fell and bit the ground;
But when through the wood there rushed an hundred thronging to the fight,
Charging through them, still defying, Roland safety sought in flight.
When the crimson sun descended, as the yellow moon arose,
Far and faint behind Sir Roland sank the slogan of his foes--
Far and faint, and waxing fainter, as he reached the forest sward,
Spreading round for many an acre, over the lands that owned him lord.
Like a whirlwind on he hurried, though the storm was raging sore:
In his heart he carried torture: there was music in its roar--
Like a hurricane on he hurried, spurring on with loosened rein,
Till he checked his jaded courser on his old paternal plain.
Clouds were scudding o'er the heavens; wild the tempest roared around;
And the very earth was shaking with the thunder's heavy sound;
But between the lightning flashes, frowning grimly, here and there,
Loomed his old ancestral castle, with its old ancestral air.
There, the barbican--the draw-bridge--there, the ancient donjon-keep,
With its iron-banded portals--there, the moat in sullen sleep!--
Galloping onward, lo! he halted, for they kept strict watch and ward,
And his courser's clanking hoofs had roused the ever-wary guard.
Loud above the increasing tempest rose the warder's threatening hail;
Louder rose the ringing answer from a lip that scorned to quail:
"Grey of Grey!" the warrior thundered, "he who fears nor bolt nor dart--
He who is your master, vassal--Roland of the Lion Heart!"
Clanking, clattering, grating, slowly up the huge portcullis went,
And the draw-bridge over the moat creaking, shrieking, downward bent;
On his armor flashed the torch-light, over helmet, cuirass, shield,
With its _lion d' or couchant_ upon a stainless _argent_ field.
Over rode he, frowning fiercely, throwing from him ruddy light,
Flashing, like a burning beacon, on his startled vassal's sight.
Rose the draw-bridge, fell the barrier, closed the oaken gates behind.
--All was silence save the roaring of the wild November wind.