a tone of composure, though somewhat surprised; “but the situation is
something new to me. If you know who we are, you also know, sir, what
brought us here.”
“Curiosity to know the fate of a Scottish gentleman of rank, now,
or lately, upon the Continent,” answered the seer. “His name is Il
Cavaliero Philippo Forester, a gentleman who has the honour to be
husband to this lady, and, with your ladyship’s permission for using
plain language, the misfortune not to value as it deserves that
inestimable advantage.”
Lady Forester sighed deeply, and Lady Bothwell replied,--
“Since you know our object without our telling it, the only question
that remains is, whether you have the power to relieve my sister’s
anxiety?”
“I have, madam,” answered the Paduan scholar; “but there is still a
previous inquiry. Have you the courage to behold with your own eyes what
the Cavaliero Philippo Forester is now doing? or will you take it on my
report?”
“That question my sister must answer for herself,” said Lady Bothwell.
“With my own eyes will I endure to see whatever you have power to show
me,” said Lady Forester, with the same determined spirit which had
stimulated her since her resolution was taken upon this subject.
“There may be danger in it.”
“If gold can compensate the risk,” said Lady Forester, taking out her
purse.
“I do not such things for the purpose of gain,” answered the foreigner;
“I dare not turn my art to such a purpose. If I take the gold of the
wealthy, it is but to bestow it on the poor; nor do I ever accept more
than the sum I have already received from your servant. Put up your
purse, madam; an adept needs not your gold.”
Lady Bothwell, considering this rejection of her sister’s offer as a
mere trick of an empiric, to induce her to press a larger sum upon him,
and willing that the scene should be commenced and ended, offered some
gold in turn, observing that it was only to enlarge the sphere of his
charity.
“Let Lady Bothwell enlarge the sphere of her own charity,” said the
Paduan, “not merely in giving of alms, in which I know she is not
deficient, but in judging the character of others; and let her oblige
Baptista Damiotti by believing him honest, till she shall discover him
to be a knave. Do not be surprised, madam, if I speak in answer to your
thoughts rather than your expressions; and tell me once more whether you
have courage to look on what I am prepared to show?”
“I own, sir,” said Lady Bothwell, “that your words strike me with some
sense of fear; but whatever my sister desires to witness, I will not
shrink from witnessing along with her.”
“Nay, the danger only consists in the risk of your resolution failing
you. The sight can only last for the space of seven minutes; and should
you interrupt the vision by speaking a single word, not only would the
charm be broken, but some danger might result to the spectators. But
if you can remain steadily silent for the seven minutes, your curiosity
will be gratified without the slightest risk; and for this I will engage
my honour.”
Internally Lady Bothwell thought the security was but an indifferent
one; but she suppressed the suspicion, as if she had believed that the
adept, whose dark features wore a half-formed smile, could in reality
read even her most secret reflections. A solemn pause then ensued, until
Lady Forester gathered courage enough to reply to the physician, as he
termed himself, that she would abide with firmness and silence the sight
which he had promised to exhibit to them. Upon this, he made them a low
obeisance, and saying he went to prepare matters to meet their wish,
left the apartment. The two sisters, hand in hand, as if seeking by that
close union to divert any danger which might threaten them, sat down on
two seats in immediate contact with each other--Jemima seeking support
in the manly and habitual courage of Lady Bothwell; and she, on the
other hand, more agitated than she had expected, endeavouring to fortify
herself by the desperate resolution which circumstances had forced her
sister to assume. The one perhaps said to herself that her sister never
feared anything; and the other might reflect that what so feeble-minded
a woman as Jemima did not fear, could not properly be a subject of
apprehension to a person of firmness and resolution like her own.
In a few moments the thoughts of both were diverted from their own
situation by a strain of music so singularly sweet and solemn that,
while it seemed calculated to avert or dispel any feeling unconnected
with its harmony, increased, at the same time, the solemn excitation
which the preceding interview was calculated to produce. The music
was that of some instrument with which they were unacquainted; but
circumstances afterwards led my ancestress to believe that it was that
of the harmonica, which she heard at a much later period in life.
When these heaven-born sounds had ceased, a door opened in the upper end
of the apartment, and they saw Damiotti, standing at the head of two or
three steps, sign to them to advance. His dress was so different from
that which he had worn a few minutes before, that they could hardly
recognize him; and the deadly paleness of his countenance, and a certain
stern rigidity of muscles, like that of one whose mind is made up
to some strange and daring action, had totally changed the somewhat
sarcastic expression with which he had previously regarded them both,
and particularly Lady Bothwell. He was barefooted, excepting a species
of sandals in the antique fashion; his legs were naked beneath the
knees; above them he wore hose, and a doublet of dark crimson silk close
to his body; and over that a flowing loose robe, something resembling a
surplice, of snow-white linen. His throat and neck were uncovered, and
his long, straight, black hair was carefully combed down at full length.
As the ladies approached at his bidding, he showed no gesture of that
ceremonious courtesy of which he had been formerly lavish. On the
contrary, he made the signal of advance with an air of command; and
when, arm in arm, and with insecure steps, the sisters approached the
spot where he stood, it was with a warning frown that he pressed his
finger to his lips, as if reiterating his condition of absolute silence,
while, stalking before them, he led the way into the next apartment.
This was a large room, hung with black, as if for a funeral. At the
upper end was a table, or rather a species of altar, covered with the
same lugubrious colour, on which lay divers objects resembling the usual
implements of sorcery. These objects were not indeed visible as they
advanced into the apartment; for the light which displayed them, being
only that of two expiring lamps, was extremely faint. The master--to use
the Italian phrase for persons of this description--approached the upper
end of the room, with a genuflection like that of a Catholic to the
crucifix, and at the same time crossed himself. The ladies followed in
silence, and arm in arm. Two or three low broad steps led to a platform
in front of the altar, or what resembled such. Here the sage took his
stand, and placed the ladies beside him, once more earnestly repeating
by signs his injunctions of silence. The Italian then, extending his
bare arm from under his linen vestment, pointed with his forefinger to
five large flambeaux, or torches, placed on each side of the altar. They
took fire successively at the approach of his hand, or rather of his
finger, and spread a strong light through the room. By this the visitors
could discern that, on the seeming altar, were disposed two naked swords
laid crosswise; a large open book, which they conceived to be a copy of
the Holy Scriptures, but in a language to them unknown; and beside this
mysterious volume was placed a human skull. But what struck the sisters
most was a very tall and broad mirror, which occupied all the space
behind the altar, and, illumined by the lighted torches, reflected the
mysterious articles which were laid upon it.
The master then placed himself between the two ladies, and, pointing to
the mirror, took each by the hand, but without speaking a syllable. They
gazed intently on the polished and sable space to which he had directed
their attention. Suddenly the surface assumed a new and singular
appearance. It no longer simply reflected the objects placed before it,
but, as if it had self-contained scenery of its own, objects began
to appear within it, at first in a disorderly, indistinct, and
miscellaneous manner, like form arranging itself out of chaos; at
length, in distinct and defined shape and symmetry. It was thus that,
after some shifting of light and darkness over the face of the wonderful
glass, a long perspective of arches and columns began to arrange itself
on its sides, and a vaulted roof on the upper part of it, till, after
many oscillations, the whole vision gained a fixed and stationary
appearance, representing the interior of a foreign church. The pillars
were stately, and hung with scutcheons; the arches were lofty and
magnificent; the floor was lettered with funeral inscriptions. But there
were no separate shrines, no images, no display of chalice or crucifix
on the altar. It was, therefore, a Protestant church upon the Continent.
A clergyman dressed in the Geneva gown and band stood by the communion
table, and, with the Bible opened before him, and his clerk awaiting in
the background, seemed prepared to perform some service of the church to
which he belonged.
At length, there entered the middle aisle of the building a numerous
party, which appeared to be a bridal one, as a lady and gentleman walked
first, hand in hand, followed by a large concourse of persons of both
sexes, gaily, nay richly, attired. The bride, whose features they could
distinctly see, seemed not more than sixteen years old, and extremely
beautiful. The bridegroom, for some seconds, moved rather with his
shoulder towards them, and his face averted; but his elegance of form
and step struck the sisters at once with the same apprehension. As he
turned his face suddenly, it was frightfully realized, and they saw, in
the gay bridegroom before them, Sir Philip Forester. His wife uttered an
imperfect exclamation, at the sound of which the whole scene stirred and
seemed to separate.
“I could compare it to nothing,” said Lady Bothwell, while recounting
the wonderful tale, “but to the dispersion of the reflection offered
by a deep and calm pool, when a stone is suddenly cast into it, and
the shadows become dissipated and broken.” The master pressed both the
ladies’ hands severely, as if to remind them of their promise, and
of the danger which they incurred. The exclamation died away on Lady
Forester’s tongue, without attaining perfect utterance, and the scene in
the glass, after the fluctuation of a minute, again resumed to the eye
its former appearance of a real scene, existing within the mirror, as if
represented in a picture, save that the figures were movable instead of
being stationary.
The representation of Sir Philip Forester, now distinctly visible
in form and feature, was seen to lead on towards the clergyman that
beautiful girl, who advanced at once with diffidence and with a species
of affectionate pride. In the meantime, and just as the clergyman had
arranged the bridal company before him, and seemed about to commence the
service, another group of persons, of whom two or three were officers,
entered the church. They moved, at first, forward, as though they came
to witness the bridal ceremony; but suddenly one of the officers, whose
back was towards the spectators, detached himself from his companions,
and rushed hastily towards the marriage party, when the whole of them
turned towards him, as if attracted by some exclamation which had
accompanied his advance. Suddenly the intruder drew his sword; the
bridegroom unsheathed his own, and made towards him; swords were also
drawn by other individuals, both of the marriage party and of those who
had last entered. They fell into a sort of confusion, the clergyman, and
some elder and graver persons, labouring apparently to keep the peace,
while the hotter spirits on both sides brandished their weapons. But
now, the period of the brief space during which the soothsayer, as he
pretended, was permitted to exhibit his art, was arrived. The fumes
again mixed together, and dissolved gradually from observation; the
vaults and columns of the church rolled asunder, and disappeared; and
the front of the mirror reflected nothing save the blazing torches and
the melancholy apparatus placed on the altar or table before it.
The doctor led the ladies, who greatly required his support, into the
apartment from whence they came, where wine, essences, and other means
of restoring suspended animation, had been provided during his absence.
He motioned them to chairs, which they occupied in silence--Lady
Forester, in particular, wringing her hands, and casting her eyes up
to heaven, but without speaking a word, as if the spell had been still
before her eyes.
“And what we have seen is even now acting?” said Lady Bothwell,
collecting herself with difficulty.
“That,” answered Baptista Damiotti, “I cannot justly, or with certainty,
say. But it is either now acting, or has been acted during a short space
before this. It is the last remarkable transaction in which the Cavalier
Forester has been engaged.”
Lady Bothwell then expressed anxiety concerning her sister, whose
altered countenance and apparent unconsciousness of what passed around
her excited her apprehensions how it might be possible to convey her
home.
“I have prepared for that,” answered the adept. “I have directed the
servant to bring your equipage as near to this place as the narrowness
of the street will permit. Fear not for your sister, but give her,
when you return home, this composing draught, and she will be better
to-morrow morning. Few,” he added in a melancholy tone, “leave this
house as well in health as they entered it. Such being the consequence
of seeking knowledge by mysterious means, I leave you to judge the
condition of those who have the power of gratifying such irregular
curiosity. Farewell, and forget not the potion.”
“I will give her nothing that comes from you,” said Lady Bothwell; “I
have seen enough of your art already. Perhaps you would poison us both
to conceal your own necromancy. But we are persons who want neither the
means of making our wrongs known, nor the assistance of friends to right
them.”
“You have had no wrongs from me, madam,” said the adept. “You sought one
who is little grateful for such honour. He seeks no one, and only gives
responses to those who invite and call upon him. After all, you have
but learned a little sooner the evil which you must still be doomed to
endure. I hear your servant’s step at the door, and will detain your
ladyship and Lady Forester no longer. The next packet from the Continent
will explain what you have already partly witnessed. Let it not, if I
may advise, pass too suddenly into your sister’s hands.”
So saying, he bid Lady Bothwell good-night. She went, lighted by the
adept, to the vestibule, where he hastily threw a black cloak over his
singular dress, and opening the door, entrusted his visitors to the care
of the servant. It was with difficulty that Lady Bothwell sustained her
sister to the carriage, though it was only twenty steps distant. When
they arrived at home, Lady Forester required medical assistance. The
physician of the family attended, and shook his head on feeling her
pulse.
“Here has been,” he said, “a violent and sudden shock on the nerves. I
must know how it has happened.”
Lady Bothwell admitted they had visited the conjurer, and that Lady
Forester had received some bad news respecting her husband, Sir Philip.
“That rascally quack would make my fortune, were he to stay in
Edinburgh,” said the graduate; “this is the seventh nervous case I
have heard of his making for me, and all by effect of terror.” He next
examined the composing draught which Lady Bothwell had unconsciously
brought in her hand, tasted it, and pronounced it very germain to the
matter, and what would save an application to the apothecary. He then
paused, and looking at Lady Bothwell very significantly, at length
added, “I suppose I must not ask your ladyship anything about this
Italian warlock’s proceedings?”
“Indeed, doctor,” answered Lady Bothwell, “I consider what passed as
confidential; and though the man may be a rogue, yet, as we were fools
enough to consult him, we should, I think, be honest enough to keep his
counsel.”
“MAY be a knave! Come,” said the doctor, “I am glad to hear your
ladyship allows such a possibility in anything that comes from Italy.”
“What comes from Italy may be as good as what comes from Hanover,
doctor. But you and I will remain good friends; and that it may be so,
we will say nothing of Whig and Tory.”
“Not I,” said the doctor, receiving his fee, and taking his hat; “a
Carolus serves my purpose as well as a Willielmus. But I should like to
know why old Lady Saint Ringan, and all that set, go about wasting their
decayed lungs in puffing this foreign fellow.”
“Ay--you had best set him down a Jesuit, as Scrub says.” On these terms
they parted.
The poor patient--whose nerves, from an extraordinary state of tension,
had at length become relaxed in as extraordinary a degree--continued to
struggle with a sort of imbecility, the growth of superstitious terror,
when the shocking tidings were brought from Holland which fulfilled even
her worst expectations.
They were sent by the celebrated Earl of Stair, and contained the
melancholy event of a duel betwixt Sir Philip Forester and his wife’s
half-brother, Captain Falconer, of the Scotch-Dutch, as they were
then called, in which the latter had been killed. The cause of quarrel
rendered the incident still more shocking. It seemed that Sir Philip
had left the army suddenly, in consequence of being unable to pay a very
considerable sum which he had lost to another volunteer at play. He had
changed his name, and taken up his residence at Rotterdam, where he
had insinuated himself into the good graces of an ancient and rich
burgomaster, and, by his handsome person and graceful manners,
captivated the affections of his only child, a very young person,
of great beauty, and the heiress of much wealth. Delighted with
the specious attractions of his proposed son-in-law, the wealthy
merchant--whose idea of the British character was too high to admit
of his taking any precaution to acquire evidence of his condition and
circumstances--gave his consent to the marriage. It was about to be
celebrated in the principal church of the city, when it was interrupted
by a singular occurrence.
Captain Falconer having been detached to Rotterdam to bring up a part
of the brigade of Scottish auxiliaries, who were in quarters there, a
person of consideration in the town, to whom he had been formerly
known, proposed to him for amusement to go to the high church to see a
countryman of his own married to the daughter of a wealthy burgomaster.
Captain Falconer went accordingly, accompanied by his Dutch
acquaintance, with a party of his friends, and two or three officers of
the Scotch brigade. His astonishment may be conceived when he saw his
own brother-in-law, a married man, on the point of leading to the altar
the innocent and beautiful creature upon whom he was about to practise a
base and unmanly deceit. He proclaimed his villainy on the spot, and
the marriage was interrupted, of course. But against the opinion of
more thinking men, who considered Sir Philip Forester as having thrown
himself out of the rank of men of honour, Captain Falconer admitted
him to the privilege of such, accepted a challenge from him, and in
the rencounter received a mortal wound. Such are the ways of Heaven,
mysterious in our eyes. Lady Forester never recovered the shock of this
dismal intelligence.
“And did this tragedy,” said I, “take place exactly at the time when the
scene in the mirror was exhibited?”
“It is hard to be obliged to maim one’s story,” answered my aunt, “but
to speak the truth, it happened some days sooner than the apparition was
exhibited.”
“And so there remained a possibility,” said I, “that by some secret and
speedy communication the artist might have received early intelligence
of that incident.”
“The incredulous pretended so,” replied my aunt.
“What became of the adept?” demanded I.
“Why, a warrant came down shortly afterwards to arrest him for high
treason, as an agent of the Chevalier St. George; and Lady Bothwell,
recollecting the hints which had escaped the doctor, an ardent friend
of the Protestant succession, did then call to remembrance that this
man was chiefly PRONE among the ancient matrons of her own political
persuasion. It certainly seemed probable that intelligence from the
Continent, which could easily have been transmitted by an active and
powerful agent, might have enabled him to prepare such a scene of
phantasmagoria as she had herself witnessed. Yet there were so many
difficulties in assigning a natural explanation, that, to the day of her
death, she remained in great doubt on the subject, and much disposed to
cut the Gordian knot by admitting the existence of supernatural agency.”
“But, my dear aunt,” said I, “what became of the man of skill?”
“Oh, he was too good a fortune-teller not to be able to foresee that his
own destiny would be tragical if he waited the arrival of the man with
the silver greyhound upon his sleeve. He made, as we say, a moonlight
flitting, and was nowhere to be seen or heard of. Some noise there was
about papers or letters found in the house; but it died away, and Doctor
Baptista Damiotti was soon as little talked of as Galen or Hippocrates.”
“And Sir Philip Forester,” said I, “did he too vanish for ever from the
public scene?”
“No,” replied my kind informer. “He was heard of once more, and it was
upon a remarkable occasion. It is said that we Scots, when there was
such a nation in existence, have, among our full peck of virtues, one
or two little barley-corns of vice. In particular, it is alleged that we
rarely forgive, and never forget, any injuries received--that we make an
idol of our resentment, as poor Lady Constance did of her grief, and are
addicted, as Burns says, to ‘nursing our wrath to keep it warm.’ Lady
Bothwell was not without this feeling; and, I believe, nothing whatever,
scarce the restoration of the Stewart line, could have happened so
delicious to her feelings as an opportunity of being revenged on Sir
Philip Forester for the deep and double injury which had deprived her
of a sister and of a brother. But nothing of him was heard or known till
many a year had passed away.
“At length--it was on a Fastern’s E’en (Shrovetide) assembly, at which
the whole fashion of Edinburgh attended, full and frequent, and when
Lady Bothwell had a seat amongst the lady patronesses, that one of the
attendants on the company whispered into her ear that a gentleman wished
to speak with her in private.
“‘In private? and in an assembly room?--he must be mad. Tell him to call
upon me to-morrow morning.’
“‘I said so, my lady,’ answered the man, ‘but he desired me to give you
this paper.’
“She undid the billet, which was curiously folded and sealed. It only
bore the words, ‘ON BUSINESS OF LIFE AND DEATH,’ written in a hand which
she had never seen before. Suddenly it occurred to her that it might
concern the safety of some of her political friends. She therefore
followed the messenger to a small apartment where the refreshments were
prepared, and from which the general company was excluded. She found
an old man, who, at her approach, rose up and bowed profoundly. His
appearance indicated a broken constitution, and his dress, though
sedulously rendered conforming to the etiquette of a ballroom, was
worn and tarnished, and hung in folds about his emaciated person. Lady
Bothwell was about to feel for her purse, expecting to get rid of the
supplicant at the expense of a little money, but some fear of a mistake
arrested her purpose. She therefore gave the man leisure to explain
himself.
“‘I have the honour to speak with the Lady Bothwell?’