_By John Galt, Esq._
My furlough had nearly expired; and, as I, was to leave the village the
next morning to join my regiment, then on the point of being shipped off
at Portsmouth, for India, several of my old companions spent the evening
with me, in the Marquess of Granby. They were joyous, hearty lads; but
mirth bred thirst, and drinking begot contention.
I was myself the soberest of the squad, and did what I could to appease
their quarrels. The liquor, however, had more power than my persuasion,
and at last it so exasperated some foolish difference about a song,
between Dick Winlaw and Jem Bradley, that they fell to fighting, and so
the party broke up.
Bradley was a handsome, bold, fine fellow, and I had more than once
urged him to enlist in our corps. Soon after quitting the house, he
joined me in my way home, and I spoke to him again about enlisting,
but his blood was still hot--he would abide no reason--he could only
swear of the revenge he would inflict upon Winlaw. This led to some
remonstrance on my part, for Bradley was to blame in the dispute; till,
from less to more, we both grew fierce, and he struck me such a blow
in the face, that my bayonet leaped into his heart.
My passion was in the same moment quenched. I saw him dead at my feet--I
heard footsteps approaching--I fled towards my father's house--the door
was left unbolted for me--I crept softly, but in a flutter, to bed--but
I could not sleep. I was stunned;--a fearful consternation was upon
me;--a hurry was in my brain--my mind was fire. I could not believe
that I had killed Bradley. I thought it was the nightmare which had so
poisoned my sleep. My tongue became as parched as charcoal: had I been
choking with ashes, my throat could not have been filled with more
horrible thirst. I breathed as if I were suffocating with the dry dust
into which the dead are changed.
After a time, that fit of burning agony went off;--tears came into my
eyes;--my nature was softened. I thought of Bradley when we were boys,
and of the summer days we had spent together. I never owed him a
grudge--his blow was occasioned by the liquor--a freer heart than his,
mercy never opened; and I wept like a maiden.
The day at last began to dawn. I had thrown myself on the bed without
undressing, and I started up involuntarily, and moved hastily--I should
rather say instinctively--towards the door. My father heard the stir,
and inquired wherefore I was departing so early. I begged him not
to be disturbed; my voice was troubled, and he spoke to me kindly and
encouragingly, exhorting me to eschew riotous companions. I could make
no reply--indeed I heard no more--there was a blank between his blessing
and the time when I found myself crossing the common, near the place
of execution.
But through all that horror and frenzy, I felt not that I had committed
a crime--the deed was the doing of a flash. I was conscious I could
never in cold blood have harmed a hair of Bradley's head. I considered
myself unfortunate, but not guilty; and this fond persuasion so pacified
my alarms, that, by the time I reached Portsmouth, I almost thought
as lightly of what I had done, as of the fate of the gallant French
dragoon, whom I sabred at Salamanca. But ever and anon, during the
course of our long voyage to India, sadder afterthoughts often came upon
me. In those trances, I saw, as it were, our pleasant village green,
all sparkling again with schoolboys at their pastimes; then I fancied
them gathering into groups, and telling the story of the murder; again,
moving away in silence towards the churchyard, to look at the grave of
poor Bradley. Still, however, I was loth to believe myself a criminal;
and so, from day to day, the time passed on, without any outward change
revealing what was; passing within, to the observance or suspicions
of my comrades. When the regiment was sent against the Burmese, the
bravery of the war, and the hardships of our adventures, so won me
from reflection, that I began almost to forget the accident of that
fatal night.
One day, however, while I was waiting in an outer room of the colonel's
quarters, I chanced to take up a London newspaper, and the first thing
in it which caught my eye, was an account of the trial and execution of
Dick Winlaw, for the murder of Bradley. The dreadful story scorched my
eyes;--I read it as if every word had been fire--it was a wild and
wonderful account of all. The farewell party at the Granby was
described by the witnesses. I was spoken of by them with kindness and
commendation; the quarrel between Bradley and Winlaw was described, as
in a picture; and my attempt to restrain them was pointed out by the
judge, in his charge to the jury, as a beautiful example of loving old
companionship. Winlaw had been found near the body, and the presumptions
of guilt were so strong and manifold, that the jury, without retiring,
found him guilty. He was executed on the common, and his body hung in
chains. Then it was that I first felt I was indeed a murderer--then
it was that the molten sulphur of remorse was poured into my bosom,
rushing, spreading, burning, and devouring; but it changed not the
bronze with which hardship had masked my cheek, nor the steel to
which danger had tempered my nerves.
I obeyed the Colonel's orders as unmoved as if nothing had happened.
I did my duty with habitual precision,--my hand was steady, my limbs
were firm; but my tongue was incapable of uttering a word. My comrades
as they came towards me, suddenly halted, and turned aside,--strangers
looked at me, as if I bore the impress of some fearful thing.
I was removed, as it were, out of myself--I was in another state
of being--I was in hell.
Next morning we had a skirmish, in which I received this wound in the
knee; and soon afterwards, with other invalids, I was ordered home. We
were landed at Portsmouth, and I proceeded to my native village. But in
this I had no will nor choice; a chain was around me, which I could not
resist, drawing me on. Often did I pause and turn, wishing to change my
route; but Fate held me fast, and I was enchanted by the spell of many
an old and dear recollection, to revisit those things which had lost all
their innocence and holiness to me.
The day had been sultry, the sun set with a drowsy eye, and the evening
air was moist, warm, and oppressive. It weighed heavily alike on mind
and body. I was crippled by my wound,--the journey was longer than my
strength could sustain much further,--still I resolved to persevere, for
I longed to be again in my father's house; and I fancied were I once
there, that the burning in my bosom would abate.
During my absence in India, the new road across the common had been
opened. By the time I reached it, the night was closed in,--a dull,
starless, breezeless, dumb, sluggish, and unwholesome night; and those
things which still retained in their shapes some blackness, deeper
than the darkness, seemed, as I slowly passed by, to be endowed with
mysterious intelligence, with which my spirit would have held communion
but for dread.
While I was frozen with the influence of this dreadful phantasy, I saw
a pale, glimmering, ineffectual light rising before me. It was neither
lamp, fire, nor candle; and though like, it was not yet flame. I took
it at first for the lustre of a reflection from some unseen light,
and I walked towards it, in the hope of finding a cottage or an
alehouse, where I might obtain some refreshment and a little rest.
I advanced,--its form enlarged, but its beam became no brighter;
and the horror, which had for a moment left me when it was first
discovered, returned with overwhelming power. I rushed forward, but soon
halted,--for I saw that it hung in the air, and as I approached, that it
began to take a ghastly and spectral form! I discerned the lineaments
of a head, and the hideous outlines of a shapeless anatomy. I stood
rivetted to the spot; for I thought that I saw behind it, a dark and
vast thing, in whose hand it was held forth. In that moment, a voice
said,--"It is Winlaw the murderer; his bones often, in the moist summer
nights, shine out in this way; it is thought to be an acknowledgment
of his guilt, for he died protesting his innocence."--The person who
addressed me was your Honor's gamekeeper, and the story I have told,
is the cause of my having desired him to bring me here.
(_To be concluded in the next Supplement_.)
* * * * *
We have also received for notice Two Religious Annuals--the _Iris_
and _Emmanuel_; both which shall appear in our Second Supplement to
be published within two or three weeks.
Two Juvenile Annuals--_the Keepsake_ and _Forget-me-not_, have
likewise the same claim on our attention. These works, with two or three
others not yet published, will form another sheet of interesting
extract.
We thank the Correspondent who has forwarded to us a notice of _The
Sylph_, a Musical Annual, which justice to ourselves and the public
forbids us to insert, as we have not yet seen the work in question and
are consequently unable to judge of the writer's criticism. Humble and
unheeded as our opinions of New Works may be, we are always ready to
prove that no undue influence is used in the adjudication of their
merits. This has uniformly been our maxim, and our success is the best
criterion of its policy.