When a man is disposed to reveal a secret, and expects that it shall be
kept, he should first enquire whether he can keep it himself. This is
good advice, perhaps a little in the Irish way.
All the wisdom in the world will do little while a man wants presence of
mind. He cannot fence well that is not on his guard. Archimedes lost his
life by being too busy to give an answer.
Notwithstanding the difference of estate and quality among men, there is
such a general mixture of good and evil, that in the main, happiness is
pretty equally distributed in the world. The rich are as often unhappy
as the poor, as repletion is more dangerous than appetite.
It is wonderful how fond we are of repeating a scrap of Latin, in
preference to the same sentiment in our own language equally well
expressed. Both the sense and words of Omnia vincit amor (love conquers
all) are worthy only of a school-boy, and yet how often repeated with an
affectation of wisdom!
Revenge, speaking botanically, may be termed wild justice, and ought to
be rooted out, as choaking up the true plant. A first wrong does but
offend the law, but revenge puts the law out of office. Surely, when
government is once established, revenge belongs only to the law.
For more than a century, has Billingsgate been proverbial for the
coarseness of its language. Whence is this? What connexion is there
between fresh fish and foul words? Why should the vending of that useful
commodity, and elegant luxury, prompt to oaths, execrations, and every
corruption of language, more than any other? And to think that the
parties concerned are of the fair sex---O fye!
Reason has not more admirers than there are hypocrites. Hypocrites
admire only the profits of wisdom, and approve just so much of her, as
is agreeable and serviceable to their ends.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 95.)
“You know that he has been in our house some time ago, informing us of
your exaltation to the ducal dignity, and at the same time, placed the
declaration of the ghost, concerning the murder, in its proper point of
view. However, you are still ignorant of the most important
circumstance. I will not dwell on the uncommon praise he bestowed on
your family, and you in particular, but only mention that he concluded
his panegyrics with the observation, that the Countess herself would
deem you deserving her love, if she should be acquainted more intimately
with your Grace. This unexpected turn perplexed Amelia evidently. She
replied, she did not doubt the amiable qualities of the Duke, however
she vowed eternal fidelity to the Count. ‘If that is your sole
objection,’ the Irishman replied, ‘then I shall soon remove it. The
deceased himself shall release you from your vow, from the performance
of which he can derive neither benefit nor pleasure; it is in my power
to make him declare it himself.’ ‘No, no!’ exclaimed Amelia, terrified,
‘the rest of the deceased shall not be interrupted; I should not be able
to stand the sight of him.’ ‘No apparition, my Lady,’ the Irishman
replied, ‘you shall neither hear nor see the deceased!’--With these
words he took a blank piece of paper out of his pocket-book, requesting
Amelia to write upon it the following words:----‘Spirit of the Count of
Clairval, shall I preserve my heart and hand faithful to thee till
death, according to my vow?’ As soon as the Countess had been persuaded
to it with great difficulty, and wrote these words, the Irishman
prevailed upon her to carry the paper to an apartment to which no one
could have access without her knowledge and leave. Amelia chose the
apartment contiguous to her bed-chamber. The shutters were bolted from
within, the paper placed upon a table, and the room strongly fumigated
by the Irishman, who uttered some mysterious words. When they had
retired, the Irishman requested her to return and look after the paper;
however she could see nothing but the words written by herself, upon
which she shut the door, and put the key in her pocket.
“‘Sleep easy,’ the Irishman added, ‘and don’t open the chamber before
to-morrow morning, when you will find an answer to your question.’
“The Irishman left us at eleven o’clock, and Amelia went to her
bed-room, which she left not for a moment all night.--She went to bed,
but uneasiness and curiosity did not suffer her to close her eyes. Not
the least noise was heard in the adjoining apartment, and when Amelia
entered it early in the morning, she had observed beneath the lines she
had wrote, pale but legible characters, which she instantly knew to be
the hand-writing of her deceased Lord------‘Thy vow, which binds me to
be a living being upon earth, and, thee to one who is deceased, shackles
my liberty. I break these chains. The man by whose orders I have been
assassinated is Vasco**ellos.’
“Imagine how Amelia was astonished at an incident which evidently was
the effect of a superior power; the apartment, the shutters, and the
door of which had been carefully secured, and which was guarded by
Amelia herself, being entirely inaccessible to any mortal, except by
violent means, of which no traces could be perceived on the window
shutters. This miraculous event was decisive for my friend, who
professed herself entirely at liberty from that moment.
“Your Grace will easily believe me, that the tender attachment to you,
which had found access to her heart, guarded by a solemn vow, acquired
additional activity when the shackles were thrown off. The ghost himself
appeared to have silently approved, by naming the real murderer, the
passion for a Prince, whose father had been injured by an unjust
suspicion. Amelia endeavoured, nevertheless, to conceal from me the real
state of her heart, and, out of caprice, rather would leave me to guess,
than to confess herself, what might have been misinterpreted as a
weakness. However, that very constraint which she experienced by
concealing a secret that struggled to break its confinement, some words
which she dropped unknowingly, her gloomy looks and silent
melancholy----in short, all those traits which seem to have told you so
very little of Amelia’s secret sentiments, convinced me soon that love
was the silent tormentor of her heart. I communicated my discovery to
her, and she confessed at last that I was not mistaken.”
“Gracious Heaven!” I exclaimed, “she confessed---”
“And at the same time desired me earnestly to conceal it carefully from
you; and do you know for what reason?”
“No!”
“Amelia feared she was not beloved by you. Your having proceeded on your
travels during her illness without so much as taking leave of her, made
her already suspect your indifference. This suspicion gained additional
strength by your never having wrote a single line to her after your
departure. Your behaviour during your present stay with us too, has
cured her of that error as little as the information of your departure.”
“Should it be possible my love could have escaped Amelia’s looks?”
“It did not escape my observation.----I gathered carefully all the marks
of it, and communicated them to my friend. However, they appeared to her
to be nothing farther than proofs of gallantry, which every
well-educated man is wont to offer at the shrine of beauty. ‘Is it
possible,’ she said, ‘that true, ardent love, could refrain so long from
coming to an explanation?’ And indeed, my Lord, can you say any thing
against this objection?”
“My Lady, I could not entertain the least idea of such an explanation,
while the misunderstanding concerning the murderer of Count Clairval was
not removed, although I had not been ignorant of the residence of
Amelia, which was unknown to me ever since the removal from the castle
in the forest, and the mysterious conduct of the Countess has prevented
me from declaring now, what I ardently wished to avow publicly ever
since I got acquainted with her. What has made _you_ guess my happiness
has induced _me_ to apprehend my misfortune----I even feared to offend
the Countess by my presence. I expected secret dislike to me, at most
pity, but never a return of my love.”
“I see you are but a novice in love,” Lady Delier said smiling, “and I
have of course acted wisely that I opened your eyes!”
“O! my dearest Baroness!” I replied, kissing her hand, my gratitude will
end only with my life.”
“Silence! Silence!” she exclaimed, putting her hand on my lips, “I have
told you, as yet, only good news----the worst is coming now!”
“What can that be?” I asked with consternation.
“You shall hear Amelia’s own words: ‘The Duke’ said she, ‘does not love
me, and even if he should have a passion for me, and avow it, he should
hear the confession of my reciprocal tenderness, but never receive my
hand. I am indeed released of my vow, but my present liberty will raise
my fidelity to my deceased Lord, which was till now mere duty, to merit,
and I will remain constant to him, as far as it will be in my power.
I cannot command my love for the Duke, however my hand is at my
disposal.”
“Heavens! how you have damped my happiness!” I replied after a painful
pause.
“Should a mere whim of the Countess really be able to dishearten your
Grace? You do not consider how soon the love of a living adorer can
subdue the fidelity to a deceased husband. Amelia’s heart is yours, and
her hand will certainly follow.”
“It is not only this incertitude that makes me uneasy; the Countess
loves me because she cannot help it. Can a love which I do not owe to a
voluntary attachment render me happy?”
“How you are roving! what ought to make you proud and happy damps your
spirits. What was it that impelled Amelia irresistibly to love you? can
it have been any thing else but the consciousness of your perfections,
and an irresistible sympathy which has united your hearts; and what can
be more desirable, what more sincere and durable than such bonds? My
Lord, love has done every thing for you, and you have done nothing for
love. Disclose to Amelia your sentiments, communicate to her your
tenderness, and her involuntary attachment to you will soon be changed
into a voluntary passion.”
“My dearest friend! My comforter!” I exclaimed, “what friendly genius is
it that speaks through you, and animates my whole nature?”
“The genius of love--I have loved too, and know how to advise in affairs
of the heart. But tell me sincerely, my Lord, would your father consent
to a match beneath your dignity?”
“It would be of no consequence if he should not; I am Duke.”
“I understand you; however I fear Amelia would never consent to a union
which should be destitute of the benediction of the Marquis of
Villa**al.”
“My father loves me, and he will never oppose his only son in a matter
upon which depends the happiness of his life.”
“Well then! I will leave you to your good fortune. I shall not fail to
contribute as much as is in my power to promote that union. However,
(added she with dignity) I expect from your candour, that you will not
misinterpret my interview with you, and the interest I take in that
affair.”
“I look upon it as a proof of your inestimable friendship.”
“O! my children!” the Countess resumed with great emotion, “I love you
as a mother. I could not bear any longer that two people, who seem to
have been born for each other, should misunderstand one another in a
manner so tormenting to both of you. You will render Amelia happy, my
Lord, or I am dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of you. With this hope I
put the fate of my friend entirely in your hands. I confide to your care
an angel, whose early improvement was my work; and constitutes my pride,
and whose perfections you scarcely know by half. I entrust to you a
being of the purest and most excellent of hearts. Conclude from this,
upon the confidence I repose in you.”
“I shall endeavour to deserve it.”
“Retire now, else we shall be surprised by Amelia; but take care not to
make her suspect our interview and conversation. You even must not visit
us this evening earlier than usual.”
I promised it, and retired. My whole frame had been in a feverish tremor
from the beginning of our conversation. I could scarcely utter the most
necessary answers to the discourses of the Baroness. To be beloved by
Amelia! This intelligence imparadised me, and my heart could scarcely
contain the unspeakable bliss which had been showered down upon me.
I went home like a dreaming person, went again abroad, and my feet
carried me, unknowing to me, to the spot whither a secret impulse urged
me to go. However, the severe command of the Baroness had drawn a large
circle around Amelia’s abode, which repelled me. I hovered at the margin
of it like a spell-bound spirit, and sighed for the arrival of the
appointed hour. Never had the setting in of night been expected with
more impatience, and the sun appeared to me to retire unusually late
from the horizon.
At length the wished-for hour arrived; however, the moment when I was
going to the house which contained all that was dear to me, an
unspeakable anxiety damped suddenly my rapturous joy. I had promised not
to betray by my behaviour the intelligence which the Baroness had
imparted to me, and yet I deemed it impossible to preserve such a
dominion over myself if the vehemency of my state of mind should not
abate. This was the source of my anxiety, which added to the danger of
exposing myself, because it deprived me of the small remnant of self
dominion which my rapturous joy had left me. I entered the house. The
woman of the Countess told me her Lady was in the garden. I went through
several rows of trees without finding her. The moon peeped now and then
through the fleecy clouds, and concealed her silvery orb again. The
great extent of the garden, and the impetuous state of my mind,
increased the difficulty of finding the idol of my heart. At length,
stepping forth from a side path, enclosed with high hedges, I fancied I
saw something stirring at a distance, near a statue. Having advanced
some paces the light of the moon reflected from the marble statue upon
Amelia, removed every doubt. I approached with tottering steps, and
found Amelia reclining against a pedestal of a Diana, and immersed in
profound meditation. The rustling of the dry leaves beneath my
footsteps, roused her from her reverie.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._