“Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.”--SPENSER.
“There forth issued from under the altar-smoke
A dreadful fiend.”--_Ibid. on Superstition_.
NINE times out of ten it is over the Bridge of Sighs that we pass the
narrow gulf from Youth to Manhood. That interval is usually occupied
by an ill-placed or disappointed affection. We recover, and we find
ourselves a new being. The intellect has been hardened by the fire
through which it has passed. The mind profits by the wrecks of every
passion, and we may measure our road to wisdom by the sorrows we have
undergone.
But Maltravers was yet on the bridge, and, for a time, both mind
and body were prostrate and enfeebled. Cleveland had the sagacity to
discover that the affections had their share in the change that he
grieved to witness, but he had also the delicacy not to force himself
into the young man’s confidence. But by little and little his kindness
so completely penetrated the heart of his ward, that Ernest one evening
told his whole tale. As a man of the world, Cleveland perhaps rejoiced
that it was no worse, for he had feared some existing entanglement
perhaps with a married woman. But as a man who was better than the
world in general, he sympathised with the unfortunate girl whom Ernest
pictured to him in faithful and unflattered colours, and he long forbore
consolations which he foresaw would be unavailing. He felt, indeed,
that Ernest was not a man “to betray the noon of manhood to a
myrtle-shade:”--that with so sanguine, buoyant, and hardy a temperament,
he would at length recover from a depression which, if it could bequeath
a warning, might as well not be wholly divested of remorse. And he also
knew that few become either great authors or great men (and he fancied
Ernest was born to be one or the other) without the fierce emotions and
passionate struggles, through which the Wilhelm Meister of real life
must work out his apprenticeship, and attain the Master Rank. But at
last he had serious misgivings about the health of his ward. A constant
and spectral gloom seemed bearing the young man to the grave. It was
in vain that Cleveland, who secretly desired him to thirst for a public
career, endeavoured to arouse his ambition--the boy’s spirit seemed
quite broken--and the visit of a political character, the mention of a
political work, drove him at once into his solitary chamber. At length
his mental disease took a new turn. He became, of a sudden, most
morbidly and fanatically--I was about to say religious: but that is
not the word; let me call it pseudo-religious. His strong sense and
cultivated taste did not allow him to delight in the raving tracts of
illiterate fanatics--and yet out of the benign and simple elements of
the Scripture he conjured up for himself a fanaticism quite as gloomy
and intense. He lost sight of God the Father, and night and day dreamed
only of God the Avenger. His vivid imagination was perverted to raise
out of its own abyss phantoms of colossal terror. He shuddered aghast
at his own creations, and earth and heaven alike seemed black with
the everlasting wrath. These symptoms completely baffled and perplexed
Cleveland. He knew not what remedy to administer--and to his unspeakable
grief and surprise he found that Ernest, in the true spirit of his
strange bigotry, began to regard Cleveland--the amiable, the benevolent
Cleveland--as one no less out of the pale of grace than himself. His
elegant pursuits, his cheerful studies, were considered by the young but
stern enthusiast as the miserable recreations of Mammon and the world.
There seemed every probability that Ernest Maltravers would die in a
madhouse or, at best, succeed to the delusions without the cheerful
intervals of Cowper.