High and distinguished as was the favour shown to Edmund Montagu, it
was by no means greater than he deserved. His face and figure were such
as the imagination delights to picture as a hero of antiquity; and his
character accorded well with the majestic graces of his person. Haughty
and commanding in his temper--ambition was his God, and love of glory
his strongest passion; yet his very pride had a nobleness in it, and
his soldiers loved though they feared him.
Very different was the character of his younger brother Edric, whose
romantic disposition and contemplative turn of mind often excited the
ridicule of his friends. As usual, however, in similar cases, the
persecutions he endured upon the subject, only wedded him more firmly
to his own peculiar opinions; which, indeed, he seemed determined
to sustain with the constancy of a martyr; whilst he put on such a
countenance of resolution and magnanimity whenever they were assailed
by jests or raillery, as might have been imagined suitable to an
expiring Indian at the stake. Unfortunately, however, his friends did
not always properly estimate this dignified silence; and their repeated
bursts of laughter grated so harshly in the ears of the youthful
Diogenes, that he became gradually disgusted with mankind. He secluded
himself from society; despised the opinion of the world, because he
found it was against him; and supposed himself capable of resisting
every species of temptation, simply because, as yet, he had met with
nothing adequate to tempt him. Older and more experienced persons have
made the same mistake.
The education of these two young men had been entrusted to tutors of
characters as essentially different as those of their pupils.--Father
Morris, who had had the care of the elder, was an intelligent Catholic
priest, the confessor of the family. Whilst Doctor Entwerfen, who took
charge of the younger, was a worthy inoffensive man, whose passion for
trying experiments was his leading foible; but whose good-nature caused
him to be beloved, even by those to whom his follies made him appear
ridiculous.
Sir Ambrose Montagu, the father of Edmund and Edric, was a widower, and
these two sons constituted his whole family. The worthy Baronet was no
bad representative of what an old English country gentleman always has
been, and of what it still continued, even in that age of refinement.
He was as warm in his feelings as hasty in his temper, and as violent
in his prejudices, as any of his predecessors. In fact, the same causes
must always lead to the same results; and there is something in a
country life that never fails to produce certain peculiar effects upon
the mind.
Sir Ambrose, however, was far superior to the generality of his class,
and amongst innumerable other good qualities, he was an indulgent
master and an affectionate father. His foible, however,--for alas!
where shall we find character without one,--was a desire to show
occasionally how implicitly he could be obeyed. In general, he was easy
to a fault; and it was only when roused by opposition, that the natural
obstinacy of his disposition displayed itself. Edmund was his favourite
son; the early military glory of the youthful hero was flattering to
his parental pride, and his eyes would glisten with delight at the bare
mention of his darling's name.
It was one fine evening in the summer of the year 2126, when Sir
Ambrose Montagu, such as we have described him, was sitting in his
library, anxiously expecting intelligence from the army. To divert his
impatience, he had ordered the attendance of his steward Mr. Davis,
and endeavoured to amuse himself by hearing a report of the affairs of
his farm; whilst Abelard, an old butler, who had been in the Baronet's
service more than forty years, stood behind his master's chair holding
a small tray, on which was placed an elegant apparatus for smoking, and
a magnificent service of malleable glass, made to fold up to a pocket
size, when not in use, containing the baronet's evening refreshment.
Sir Ambrose was above seventy; and his long white hair hung in waving
curls upon his shoulders, as he now sat in his comfortable elastic
arm-chair, leaning one elbow upon the table before him. His features
had been very handsome, and his complexion still retained that look of
health and cleanness, which, in a green old age, is the sure indication
of a well-spent life. His countenance, though intelligent, was unmarked
by the traces of any stormy passions; the cares and troubles of life
seemed to have passed gently over him, and content had smoothed the
wrinkles age might have made upon his brow; whilst the tall thin
figure of Mr. Davis, as he stood reverentially bending forward, his
hat in his hand, and his whole demeanour expressing a singular mixture
of preciseness and habitual respect, contrasted strongly with the
dignified appearance of his master.
The windows of the library opened to the ground, and looked out upon a
fine terrace, shaded by a verandah, supported by trellis-work, round
which, twined roses mingled with vines. Below, stretched a smiling
valley, beautifully wooded, and watered by a majestic river winding
slowly along; now lost amidst the spreading foliage of the trees that
hung over its banks, and then shining forth again in the sun like a
lake of liquid silver. Beyond, rose hills majestically towering to the
skies, their clear outline now distinctly marked by the setting sun, as
it slowly sunk behind them, shedding its glowing tints of purple and
gold upon their heathy sides; whilst some of its brilliant rays even
penetrated through the leafy shade of the verandah, and danced like
summer lightning upon the surface of a mirror of polished steel which
hung directly in face of Sir Ambrose.
"What a lovely evening!" exclaimed the worthy baronet, gazing with a
delighted eye upon the rich landscape before him; "often as I have
looked upon this scene, methinks every time I see it I discover some
new beauty. How finely that golden tint which the sun throws upon the
tops of those trees is relieved by the deep masses of shadow below!"
"It is a fine evening," said Davis, bowing low, "and if your honour
pleases, I think we had better get the patent steam-mowing apparatus in
motion to-morrow. If the sun should be as hot to-morrow as it has been
to-day, I am sure the hay will make without using the burning glass at
all."
"Do as you like, Davis," returned his master, taking his pipe, "you
know I leave these matters entirely to you."
"And does not your honour think I had better give the barley a little
rain? It will be all burnt up, if this weather continues; and if your
honour approves, it may be done immediately, for I saw a nice black
heavy-looking cloud sailing by just now, and I can get the electrical
machine out in five minutes to draw it down, if your honour thinks fit."
"I have already told you I leave these things entirely to you, Davis,"
returned the baronet, puffing out volumes of smoke from his hookah.
"Inundate the fields if you will; you have my full permission to do
whatever you please with them, so that you don't trouble me any more
about the matter."
"But I would not wish to act without your honour's full conviction,"
resumed the persevering steward. "Your honour must be aware of the
aridity of the soil, and of the impossibility that exists of a proper
development of the incipient heads, unless they be supplied with an
adequate quantity of moisture."
"You are very unreasonable, Davis," aid Sir Ambrose; "most of your
fraternity would be satisfied by being permitted to have their own way;
but you----"
"Excuse my interrupting your honour," cried Davis, bowing profoundly;
"but I cannot bear it to be thought that I was capable of persuading
your honour to take any steps, your honour might not thoroughly
approve. Now as to the germinization and ripening----"
"My good fellow!" exclaimed Sir Ambrose, smiling at the energy with
which Davis spoke--his thin figure waving backwards and forwards in the
sunshine, and his earnest wish to convince his master, almost depriving
his voice of its usual solemn and sententious tone. "As I said before,
I give you full and free liberty to burn, dry, or drown my fields, as
you may think fit; empowering you to take any steps you judge proper,
either to germinate or ripen corn upon any part of my estate whatever,
only premising, that in future you never trouble me upon the subject;
and so good night."
This being spoken in a tone of voice Davis did not dare to disobey, he
slowly retired, apparently as much annoyed at having his own way, as
some people are at being contradicted; when suddenly a brilliant flash
of light gleamed on the baronet's polished mirror. "Ah! what was that?"
exclaimed Sir Ambrose, starting up, and dashing his pipe upon the
ground.
He gazed eagerly upon the mirror for a few seconds in breathless
anxiety, bending forwards in a listening attitude, and not daring to
stir, as though he feared the slightest movement might destroy the
pleasing illusion. The flash was repeated again and again in rapid
succession, whilst a peal of silver bells began to ring their rounds
in liquid melody. "Thank God! thank God!" exclaimed the aged baronet,
sinking upon his knees, and clasping his hands together, whilst the big
tears rolled rapidly down his face, "My Edmund has conquered! my Edmund
is safe!"
The faithful servants of Sir Ambrose followed the example of their
master, and for some minutes the whole party appeared lost in silent
thanksgiving; the silver bells still continuing their harmonious
sweetness, though in softer and softer strains, till at last they
gradually died away upon the ear. Sir Ambrose started from his knees
as the melody ceased, and desiring Abelard to summon Edric and Father
Morris, he rushed upon the terrace, followed by Davis, to examine a
telegraph placed upon a mount at little distance, so as to be seen
from one end of it: the light and music just mentioned, being a
signal always given, when some important information was about to be
transmitted.
The sun had now sunk behind the hills, and the shades of evening were
rapidly closing in as the baronet, with streaming eyes, watched, the
various movements of the machine. "One, two, and six!" said he; "yes,
that signifies he has won the battle, and is safe. My heart told me
so, when I saw the signal flash. My darling Edmund!--two, four, and
eight--he has subdued the Germans, and taken the whole of the fine
province of France. Six, six, and four--alas! my failing eyes are
too weak to see distinctly. Davis, look I implore you! The signal is
changing before we have discovered its meaning! For mercy's sake, look
before it be too late! Alas! alas! I had forgotten your eyes are as
feeble as mine own. Oh, Davis! where is Edric? Why is not he here to
assist his poor old father at such a moment as this?"
In the meantime, Edric was, as usual, engaged in those abstract
speculations with Dr. Entwerfen, which now formed the only pleasure of
his existence, and which he pursued with an eagerness that made all the
ordinary affairs of life appear tasteless and insipid. His imagination
had become heated by long dwelling upon the same theme; and a strange,
wild, indefinable craving to hold converse with a disembodied spirit
haunted him incessantly. He had long buried this feverish anxiety in
his own breast, and tried in vain to subdue it; but it seemed to hang
upon his steps, to present itself before him wherever he went, and, in
short, to pursue him with the malignancy of a demon.
"What is the matter with you, Edric?" said Dr. Entwerfen to his pupil,
the day we have already mentioned. "You are so changed, I scarcely know
you, and your eyes have a wild expression, absolutely terrific."
"I am, indeed, half mad," returned Edric, with a melancholy smile;
"and yet, perhaps, you will laugh when I tell you the reason of my
uneasiness. I am tormented by an earnest desire to communicate with
one who has been an inhabitant of the tomb. I would fain know the
secrets of the grave, and ascertain whether the spirit be chained after
death to its earthly covering of clay, condemned till the day of final
resurrection to hover over the rotting mass of corruption that once
contained it; or whether the last agonies of death free it from its
mortal ties, and leave it floating, free as air, in the bright regions
of ethereal space?"
"You know my opinion," said the doctor.
"I do," replied the pupil; "but forgive me if I add--I do not feel
satisfied with it: in fact mine is not a character to be satisfied with
building my faith upon that of any other man. I would see, and judge
for myself."
"I do not blame you," resumed the doctor; "a reasonable being should
believe nothing he cannot prove;--however, to remove your doubts, I am
convinced we have only occasion to step into the adjoining church-yard,
and try my galvanic battery of fifty surgeon power, (which you must
allow is surely enough to re-animate the dead,) upon a body, and
then----"
"Hold! hold!" cried Edric, shuddering. "My blood freezes in my veins,
at the thought of a church-yard:--your words recall a horrible dream
that I had last night, which, even now, dwells upon my mind, and
resists all the efforts I can make to shake it off."
"Tell it to me, then," resumed the doctor; "for when the imagination is
possessed by horrible fantasies, it is often relieved by speaking of
them to another person."
"I thought," said Edric, "that I was wandering in a thick gloomy wood,
through which I had the utmost difficulty to make my way. The black
trees, frowning in awful majesty above my head, twined together in
masses, so as almost to obstruct my path. Suddenly, a fearful light
flashed upon me, and I saw at my feet a horrid charnel house, where the
dying mingled terrifically with the dead. The miserable living wretches
turned and writhed with pain, striving in vain to escape from the mass
of putrescence heaped upon them. I saw their eye-balls roll in agony--I
watched the distortion of their features, and, making a violent effort
to relieve one who had almost crawled to my feet, I shrank back with
horror as I found the arm I grasped give way to my touch, and a
disgusting mass of corruption crumble beneath my fingers!--Shuddering
I awoke--a cold sweat hanging upon my brows, and every nerve thrilling
with convulsive agony."
"Mere visionary terrors," said the doctor. "You have suffered
your imagination to dwell upon one subject, till it is become
morbid.--However, though I do not see any reason why your dream should
make you decline my offer, I will not urge it if it give you pain."
"Is it not strange," continued Edric, apparently pursuing the current
of his own thoughts, "that the mind should crave so earnestly what
the body shudders at; and yet, how can a mass of mere matter, which
we see sink into corruption the moment the spirit is withdrawn from
it, shudder? How can it even feel? I can scarcely analyse my own
sensations; but it appears to me that two separate and distinct spirits
animate the mass of clay that composes the human frame. The one, the
merely vital spark which gives it life and motion, and which we share
in common with brutes, and even vegetables; and the other, the divine
ethereal spirit, which we may properly term the soul, and which is a
direct emanation from God himself, only bestowed upon man."
"You know my sentiments upon the subject," replied the doctor,
"therefore I need not repeat them."
"I know," resumed Edric, "you think the organs of thought, reflection,
imagination, reason, and, in short, all that mysterious faculty which
we call the mind, material; and that as long as the body remains
uncorrupted they may be restored, provided circulation can be renewed:
for that you think the only principle necessary to set the animal
machine in motion."
"Can any thing be more clear?" said the doctor. "We all know that
circulation and the action of the lungs are inseparably connected,
and that if the latter be arrested, death must ensue. How frequently
are apparently dead bodies recovered by friction, which produces
circulation; and inflation of the lungs with air, which restores their
action. If your idea be correct, that the soul leaves the body the
instant what we call death takes place, how do you account for these
instances of resuscitation? Think you that the soul can be recalled to
the body after it has once quitted it? Or that it hovers over it in
air, attached to it by invisible ligatures, ready to be drawn back to
its former situation, when the body shall resume its vital functions?
You cannot surely suppose it remains in a dormant state, and is
reawakened with the body; for this would be inconsistent with the very
idea of an incorporeal spirit."
"Certainly," resumed Edric, "the spirit must be capable of existing
perfectly distinct from the body; though how, I own candidly my
imperfect reason cannot enable me to comprehend."
"I wish you would overcome your childish reluctance to trying an
experiment upon a corpse, as that must set your doubts at rest. For
if we could succeed in re-animating a dead body that has been long
entombed, so that it might enjoy its reasoning faculties, or, as you
call it, its soul in full perfection, my opinion would be completely
established."
"But where shall we find a perfect body, which has been dead a
sufficient time to prevent the possibility of its being only in a
trance?--For even if I could conquer the repugnance I feel at the
thought of touching such a mass of cold mortality, as that presented in
my dream last night, according to your own theory, the organs must be
perfect, or the experiment will not be complete."
"What think you of trying to operate upon a mummy? You know a chamber
has been lately discovered in the great pyramid, which is supposed to
be the real tomb of Cheops; and where, it is said, the mummies of that
great king and the principal personages of his household have been
found in a state of wonderful preservation."
"But mummies are so swathed up."
"Not those of kings and princes. You know all travellers, both ancient
and modern, who have seen them, agree, that they are wrapped merely in
folds of red and white linen, every finger and even every toe distinct;
thus, if we could succeed in resuscitating Cheops, we need not even
touch the body; as the clothing it is wrapped in will not at all
encumber its movements."
"The idea is feasible, and, as you rightly say, if it can be put into
execution, it will set the matter at rest for ever. I should also like
to visit the pyramids, those celebrated monuments of antiquity, whose
origin is lost in the obscurity of the darker ages, and which seem to
have been spared by the devastating hand of time, purposely to perplex
the learned."
"You say right," cried the doctor with enthusiasm. "And who can tell
but that we may be the favoured happy mortals, destined to raise the
mystic veil that has so long covered them? we may be destined to
explore these wonderful monuments--to revive their mummies, and force
them to reveal the secrets of their prison-house. Cheops is said to
have built the great pyramid, and it is Cheops whom we shall endeavour
to re-animate! what then can be more palpable, than that it should be
he who is destined at length to reveal the mystery."
"Every word you utter, doctor, increases my ardent desire to put our
scheme into immediate execution: but how can we accomplish it? How
obtain my father's consent? You know it has long been his intention to
marry me to the niece of his friend the Duke of Cornwall, and you know
how obstinate both he and the duke are."
"Then if you remain in England, it is your intention to marry
Rosabella?"
"I would perish first."
"If that be the case, I confess I do not see the force of your
objection."
"True; for as long as I refuse to marry her, their anger will be the
same, whether I travel or remain in England. In fact, I shall be
happier at a distance than here, where I shall be annoyed by having the
subject constantly recurred to. Yet it pains me to speak upon it to my
father. He has so long cherished the idea of my marriage, and dwelt
upon it so fondly--"
"Then you had better stay,--relinquish all thoughts of scientific
discoveries, and settle contentedly on an estate in the country;
employing your time in regulating your farm, settling the disputes of
your neighbours, and bringing up your children, if you should happen to
have any."
"How can you torment me so?--If you could imagine the struggle in my
bosom, between inclination and duty, you would pity me."
"Do you think your presence necessary to your father's happiness?"
"No--if Edmund be with him, he will never think of me."
"And do you not think--nay, are you not certain, that an union with
Rosabella would make you miserable?"
"It is impossible to doubt it. Her violent temper, and the mystery
which hangs over the fate of her father, which she cannot bear to have
even alluded to, forbid the thought of happiness as connected with her."
"It is strange, so little should be known of her father. I never heard
the particulars of his story."
"No human being knows the whole, I believe, but the duke and my father.
However, I remember to have heard it rumoured when I was a child, that
he had committed some fearful crime, and that he was either executed,
or had destroyed himself."
"Then it is not surprising that it should pain Rosabella to hear him
spoken of. But to return to our subject: your answers have removed the
only doubts that can arise; and after what you have confessed yourself,
I cannot imagine what further hesitation you can feel--"
At this moment they were both startled; and the words were arrested on
the doctor's lips by a gentle tap at the door. It was old Abelard the
butler. Half ashamed of the unphilosophic terror he had evinced, the
doctor felt glad to be able to hide his emotion under the appearance
of anger, and demanded peevishly, what was the matter. "Have I not
told you a hundred times," continued he, "that I do not like to be
interrupted at my studies! and that nothing is more disagreeable than
to have one's attention distracted, when it has been fixed upon an
affair of importance!"
"I do not attempt to controvert the axiom you have just propounded,"
returned Abelard, speaking in a slow precise manner, as though he
weighed every syllable before he drawled it forth: "for undeniable
facts do not admit of contradiction. However, as the message with
which I stand charged at the present moment relates to master Edric,
instead of yourself, I humbly opine, no blame can attach itself to me,
on account of the unpremeditated interruption of which you allege me
culpable."
"And what have you to say to me?" demanded Edric.
"That the worthy gentleman, your respectable progenitor, requests you
instantly to put in exercise your locomotive powers to join him on the
terrace, to the end, that there your superior visual faculties may
afford _soulagement_ to the mental anxiety under which he at present
labours, by aiding him to develop the intelligence conveyed to him by
the telegraphic machine."
"What!" exclaimed Edric, eagerly, and then, without waiting a reply, he
darted forward, and in a few seconds was by the side of his father.
Abelard gazed after him with amazement: "There is something very
astonishing," said he, addressing Dr. Entwerfen, "in the effervescence
of the animal spirits during youth. I labour under a complete
acatalepsy upon the subject; I should think it must arise from the
excessive elasticity of the nerves. Ideas strike--" but here, happening
unfortunately to look up, he too was struck to find Dr. Entwerfen had
vanished with his pupil, and unwilling to waste his eloquence upon the
empty air, he also departed; slowly and solemnly, however, according to
his custom, to join the party assembled on the terrace.