"Oh! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of
infinite space, were it not that _I have bad dreams_."--_Hamlet_.
"I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings."--SHAKSPEARE.
I have been a dreamer all my life. The earliest recollections of my
childhood are of dreams of greatness. My boyhood's visions were peopled
with warlike tumults. There were no spring mornings to my brain even in
early youth; my heart was clouded with shadow, and sadness reigned when
mirth and careless glee should have been pre-eminent. My manhood has
been a fitful, feverish, and painful existence. I have outlived all whom
I ever cared for; I have seen those whom I idolized lie before me cold
and senseless; and now, with every event vividly impressed upon my
memory, each tone of the voice of her I loved dropping like liquid fire
into my brain, and drying up the tears that would weep away my
anguish--feeling all this with intensity, and longing for the free air
of heaven, I find myself alone--desolate--and HERE!!
Oh! the horror of this prison-solitude--the anxious watching for the
pale morning after sleepless nights--the horrible nights when fantastic
shapes are alone visible, mocking at and jeering me--when the only
sounds I hear are the ravings of some wretched maniac, confined, like
myself, because we have made for ourselves a world, and our imaginations
have created a presiding divinity; and, should a laugh disturb the
silence, it is the outbreak of a maddened spirit seeking relief from
thought--a laugh frightful, because a mockery--sad in its
boisterousness--"_the laugh which laughs not_."
For many weary years I have been pent up in this prison, pining for
freedom, hoping for things which never existed, conjuring up
anticipations of a brighter future, calling upon her who made
"The starlight of my boyhood,"
to look down upon me from her blest abode, and woo me back to calmness
by one gentle word, one loving glance; and then sinking into hopeless,
bitter despondency, when I remembered that she was gone, and that I
should see her no more.
Sometimes I can think of her in her exquisite beauty, and my soul drinks
in, as it were, the sweet and liquid tones of the voice which once spoke
peace to me, and, fancying her again before me, I sink into an unquiet
slumber, till some hideous dream oppresses me, and I see the fair brow
of my "Julia" contracted, withered; and instead of her silvery voice of
enchantment, a hissing sound escapes the lips I have worshipped. I rise,
and try to approach, but she recedes. I awake--I start from my uneasy
bed--I find this horrible picture, which bore the impress of reality, is
but a dream. I awake to the consciousness that my beloved is dead, and
that my eyes will gaze upon her beauty no more.
How few there are in this busy world who, when passing those abodes of
wretchedness--"private madhouses"--can imagine the agony, the misery,
the despair that dwells there! But to my history.
I was the only child of General Sir Frederick and Lady Charlotte B----.
I was reared in luxury; the rude air was scarcely allowed to blow upon
my delicate frame. I can remember now, though years have passed, and
sorrow has bowed me--I can remember the happy days when my wearied head
was pillowed on the bosom of my mother, and, after she had sung me to
sleep with some wild melody, she would place me in my small luxurious
cot, and watch over me with those deep-loving eyes, and be the first to
comfort and re-assure me if uneasy dreams--for even then I was a
dreamer--made me awake to sorrow. But my mother died. Even now I shudder
at the recollection of the desolateness of my agony when I knew I had
looked on her for the last time. Even now I can feel the coldness which
crept over me as I laid my cheek to hers. My blood was frozen. I could
not weep. Oh! tears would have been a relief, but they were denied me;
and though I saw her taken from my embrace, and her beloved form laid in
the vault, I could still gaze with speechless agony--but I wept not.
How I wished for the quiet of the grave; for even then there was a
whirlwind within my bosom, and my sensitive heart shrank from holding
converse with, or bestowing confidence on another as freely or
unreservedly as I had done with the dear being whom I had lost.
Shortly after this event my father was ordered upon foreign service, and
my childhood was passed among relatives who were strangers to me. It was
a childhood without love. I remembered my mother, and none could supply
her place. I could not trust in another as I had trusted in her. In my
sorrows, real or imaginary, none other could comfort me. I longed for my
childhood's resting-place, where I might again pillow my aching head,
and sleep once more the calm sleep hallowed by a mother's matchless
love.
At an early age I was sent to one of our great public schools, and
there, although I endured some hardships, yet I experienced also
something like the pleasures and pastimes of boyhood.
From having been a weakly, delicate child, I grew strong and active; but
a gloom was ever upon me.
In my moments of relaxation I would join some of my companions in their
games of play; but even then a dark phantom pursued me, and I would
fancy a shadowless spirit was after me: if I ran it always followed me
with its noiseless steps, and my constant fear was, that it would
overtake me. This was _madness_--aye, I can see it now--_it was madness
coming upon me_.
I frequently used to endeavour to dispel the illusion by reading; but if
I raised my eyes from my book there was the figure, looking at me and
sighing, and its lips would move to speak--_but there was no sound_.
I have sat for hours watching this bane of my existence. I have sat till
my eyes were fixed from fright, and I have tried to move, but I felt
chained to the spot, and the fetters that appeared to bind me, seemed of
cold heavy steel, that fell on my whole body and paralyzed me. Then I
could feel my heart growing dead, and yet throbbing with those dull,
audible throbs, till at last I have shrieked in the agony of my horror,
and only then would the dark being leave me--but _it left me moody and
mad_.
I had one friend at school who would soothe me by gentle words, and tell
me my fears were but fancy, and he would hold my hands until I slept,
and lost, for a time at least, the phantom which pursued me.
That friend is dead. I have outlived _him_. _Why should the madman
live?_
When I was about sixteen a new life opened to me. There came as a
visitor to one of the ladies belonging to the establishment, a young and
lovely girl. I first saw her at the private chapel belonging to the
school. The moment I looked at her a gush of hitherto unknown pleasure
came to my heart. I felt that I could love her.
I saw her again and again. I have stood for hours by the house in which
she was, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Sometimes I was
successful--more frequently not--but it was something to hope for. Once
I fancied that her eye fell upon me. Oh, how I was repaid by that one
pure glance!
While she remained at ----, my life was one of bright and vivid fancy,
and I was cheered by the angel Hope; but at length her visit came to a
termination; yet, though I knew she had departed, I would go daily to my
accustomed watching place, and gaze until I fancied the beautiful girl
was again before me.
At the usual period my school days ended, and my college life began. I
was entered at Christ Church, Oxford. I read hard, and obtained the
highest honours. My fame was brilliant. I was talked of, and marked by
my superiors as a rising man.
Shortly afterwards, I was returned as one of the members of a family
borough in my native county, and my first speech in Parliament met with
general applause. The world called me a fortunate man. Oh! they little
knew the nights of horror I passed--the battling I had with my attendant
phantom, which still pursued me, blighted me. But I was mad; and the
excitement of madness was called energy.
How often I have laughed them to scorn, as I have sat alone with the
dark spirit!
My sole ambition was that the girl whom I had seen and admired might
hear of my career; and that, with honours crowded upon me, I might see
her again, that I might place my laurel crown at her feet, lay bare my
heart's best feelings, my undying love for her, and prove to her how
entire was my devotion, how earnest my worship.
I saw many young and lovely girls; and I was told that mothers looked
upon me as a desirable match--but I was true to my first love. I
remembered her in the perfection of maiden beauty--I wished for none
other; and to see _her_ again was my sole hope in life.
After a season of unceasing gaiety and dissipation--sick of London and
its vanities--I determined to travel, and for seven years I was absent
from my native land.
I was recalled to attend the deathbed of my father. I had seen but
little of him; he had no sympathy with me, and in heart we were
strangers to each other. He was proud of my talents, and I was an only
son; but he never bestowed any real affection on me. I honoured him
because he was my parent; but I never loved him as I ought to have loved
a father.
He died, and I succeeded to the baronetcy and estates; but I was already
tired of life--wretched in the midst of my splendour. In a word--_I was
mad_.
At the table of a friend I met a man a few years my senior, whom I had
known at school. We renewed our acquaintance; and I accepted an
invitation to dine at his house, to meet some old schoolfellows.
I consented to go, but not cheerfully, for a moody state of mind was
coming over me. I can remember the struggle, the exertion it was to
dress for the party. Twenty times I was tempted to send a message saying
I was too unwell to go, but my better angel prevailed--and I went. To
what an eventful period was that evening but the prelude!
My friend met and welcomed me with a cordiality which somewhat cheered
me; but I had a weight on my spirits from which I could not rouse
myself, and most reluctantly accompanied Sir Charles Tracey, with
faltering steps and an aching heart and brow, into the inner
drawing-room, to be introduced to his wife, Lady Tracey.
She was seated on a low ottoman, with her back to the door, reading. She
arose as her husband presented me to her as his old friend, Sir
Frederick B----. She turned towards me, and for a moment I was
overpowered. I beheld before me the creature I had so long pined for--so
earnestly searched for--whose memory I had so devotedly and entirely
worshipped.
With exquisite grace she extended her hand to welcome her husband's
guest, and as I held those small taper fingers in mine, thick coming
fancies crowded upon me. I was again the schoolboy--the anxious, ardent
schoolboy, longing even for a look from this lovely woman, whose hand I
now held in mine.
Hot tears rushed into my eyes, and I bent over the fair hand to conceal
them.
This momentary cloud passed away, and while seated by her, I forgot that
we had ever been parted, and imagination peopled a world of love--a
paradise of hope.
"But she in these fond feelings had no share."
The years which had passed, had changed her from a lovely girl into the
more matured loveliness of the matron.
When I had last seen her, her hair, which was a rich and shining black,
hung in natural and graceful curls over her beautiful and classically
formed head. Now the thick and luxuriant mass was gathered into a knot
behind, and laid in soft bands over her pure and polished brow.
Her eyes were of that deep full blue which is so rare, and were large
and bright, and full of fire and spirit, which at times gave an
appearance of haughtiness to her noble countenance; her throat, neck,
and arms, were white as ivory, and formed in the most perfect mould; her
height was commanding, and her figure exquisitely proportioned.
Before she spoke I could only look at her with wonder, that any thing so
glorious could be earthly; but the instant she addressed me, a peculiar
witchery played over her features and about her mouth; and my wonder was
instantly changed into love and adoration, and I drank in with eagerness
the silvery sweetness of her voice.
I fancied on this night that Lady Tracey bestowed more attention on me
than on her other guests; for women have an intuitive tact in
discovering when a man admires devotedly.
For that night I lost my dark phantom, I slept a sweet sleep, dreaming
of things which could never be accomplished; and my waking vision, as
wild and improbable, was that she might one day return my love.
I would not lose sight of my newly found treasure. I called at her
residence. I was admitted. Again I gazed; and worshipped. Lady Tracey
looked more lovely by daylight than with the full blaze of candle-light
upon her beauty. There was a delicacy about her complexion no daylight
could impair; but it spoke also of a delicacy of constitution which made
me tremble as I gazed.
The fascination of her manner, the elegance of her movements, her light
and airy tread, her musical voice, her bright but subdued laugh; all
these combined made me idolize her.
There is but one sun in heaven: there was but one Julia to my eyes on
earth. Her shadow had fallen on my heart, as the sun on an island far
away from land in the lonely sea. It was filled with light and verdure,
and all my best feelings were warmed to ripeness by her glowing smile.
We conversed together on poetry, music, history, the arts; and I
discovered she possessed a refined and superior intellect. A sparkling
tincture of satire mingled with her mention of men and things; but while
she did this with perfect temper and gentleness, it gave a brilliancy to
her conversation not to be described. She expressed a wish for a book
which I had the happiness to possess; here was an opportunity for
another visit. Again and again we met, and I was intoxicated with love;
but I saw no reciprocal feeling on her part. She was the same gentle and
charming being; but she bestowed no _love_ upon the poor visionary who
adored her.
On the days we met I was gay and happy; but on the intervening ones I
was in despair. All my darkest thoughts came back upon me, fraught with
even greater horrors. I tried to battle with my evil spirit, but I could
not subdue it. It grasped me tightly in its fetters; and I had no
respite until I was again in the presence of my Julia. The smallest
sound of her voice, with its silvery sweetness, broke the sad chain
which had bound me, and I was free to look--to love--to worship again.
Oh, why did not these moments of rapture last for ever! This holy calm,
like an enchanted circle, into which my spirit of evil dared not
venture, why was it broken? Why did sickness, and sorrow, and
_madness_--yes, furious, hopeless, desponding madness--darken those
sunny days? Why did death come to her, and thick clouds to me?
The sky mocks me with its gemmed radiance. The stars shine on brightly;
but they fail to give light and hope to me. I have gazed on them with
her. I have seen her stand with her fair brow raised, and her lovely
face bathed in moonlight; but, as the pale beams danced around her, to
my eyes her own glory dimmed all other brightness.
The winds howl, and the trees wave to and fro in the tempest, and with
every blast comes a shriek, as if Julia were in despair, and I arise to
rush to her rescue; but the clanking chain of the maniac binds me. I try
to break my bonds, but they clasp me; and my hideous companion, the
phantom, jeers at me; and I hear the voice of my beloved receding
further and further from me, till, with an agonized moan, it dies away
in the distance.
And this the world calls fancy--the fantastic vision of a madman's
brain!
There was never a voice like _her_ voice; and though the winds rage
tempestuously among the waving branches of the storm-tossed trees, I
hear the liquid music of her accents above all, and I strain my eyes to
catch a glimpse of her person, but there is nothing; and I crouch down
again in my chains and my madness on my desolate bed, feeling how
utterly--how entirely, I am alone.
An interruption occurred in our intercourse, in consequence of Sir
Charles Tracey being obliged to go abroad, on business connected with
the state. His lady accompanied him, and they were absent for some
months. How I spent these months, I scarcely know. I avoided all
society--I felt moody--wretched--despairing. I grew violent. Restraint
became necessary. Then, indeed, I _knew_ that _I was mad_. Life was a
blank; and some weeks passed while this dark cloud was upon me.
At last, though my recovery had been a work of time, I was _called_
convalescent, and the violence of my frenzy abated.
I heard with joy that Sir Charles and his lady had returned to town. I
thought the hour would never come when I might set out on my visit.
I flew, rather than walked, to her residence. I felt startled and
alarmed as I trode the streets; for I had not been out for months, and I
fancied every one stared at me--that everyone knew _I was mad_; but the
one darling hope of seeing _her_ cheered me on.
At last I reached the house. I was admitted; and in a moment I was by
the side of Julia. She was looking pale and ill, but very lovely.
I rushed towards her. I knelt by her side. I took her cold hand in mine,
and kissed it ardently. A bright colour suffused her cheek. She
endeavoured to withdraw her hand from my grasp; but the demon was within
me. I held that pale, small, fragile hand firmly; and pressed it again
and again to my lips, and my throbbing, bursting heart. I laughed aloud
and wildly, and she looked at me fearfully. She had discovered my
secret, and she saw that _I was mad_.
"You, too, have been ill?" she said.
The honied accents of that beloved voice fell on my ear like dew to the
parched flower. I was calmed in a moment, and I endeavoured to look
coldly on her who was life--light--all to me in this world.
I found she had been dangerously ill, and I felt, as I looked on her
imperial loveliness, that she was not destined long for this world.
Daily I saw her. I could not see enough of one I loved so desperately;
and I feigned calmness while I endured agony--but my madness ruined me
at last.
One wretched day--I spoke to her of love. I told her of my devotion--my
hopeless devotion for so many years. I knelt by her side--I passed my
arm round her waist--and for one brief moment I rested my scorching,
maddened brow upon her bosom. It was only a moment of reality--but an
eternity of bliss in the recollection.
I strained her fragile form to my breast. I kissed her pale cheeks--her
brow--her lips. She moved not. I found she had fainted. I thought she
was dead, and my brain reeled.