Man is a harp, whose cords elude the sight,
Each yielding harmony disposed aright;
The screws reversed (a task which if he please,
God in a moment executes with ease),
Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose,
Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use.
COWPER
The aberration of mind of the unhappy Mr. Armstrong was at last with
inevitable and steady step approaching its dreaded culminating point.
To the outward eye he exhibited but little change. He was indeed, at
times more restless, and his eyes would wander round as if in quest
of some object that was trying to elude his sight; at one moment
listless, silent, and dejected, and again animated, almost gay, like
one who, ashamed of an exhibition of moody temper, tries to atone
by extraordinary efforts of amiability for the error. His intimate
friends had some knowledge of these changes, and to Faith, above all,
living with him in the same house, and in the tender relation of
a daughter to a parent, each of whom idolized the other, they were
painfully apparent, and great was the anxiety they occasioned. How
bitter were the tears which in solitude she shed, and frequent and
fervent her supplications to the universal Father to pity and protect
her father! How willingly, even at the sacrifice even of her own life,
would she have restored peace and happiness to him!
But to the neighbors, to those who saw Armstrong only in public, no
great change was manifest. He was thinner and paler than usual, to be
sure, but every one was liable to attacks of indisposition, and there
was no reason why he should be exempt; he did not speak a great deal,
but he was always rather taciturn, and when he did converse, it was
with his usual sweetness and affability. They guessed he'd be better
after a while.
Such was the common judgment in the little community among those who
had any knowledge of Armstrong's condition. They saw him daily in the
streets. They conversed with him, and could see nothing out of the
way. But some few who recollected the history of the family, and the
circumstances attending the latter years of Armstrong's father, shook
their heads, and did not hesitate to intimate that there had always
been something strange about the Armstrongs. Curious stories, too,
were told about the grandfather, and there was a dim tradition, nobody
knew whence it came, or on what authority it rested, that the original
ancestor of the family in this country, was distinguished in those
days of ferocious bigotry, when the Indians were regarded by many as
Canaanites, whom it was a religious duty to extirpate, as much for an
unrelenting severity against the natives, bordering even on aberration
of mind, as for reckless courage.
It is sad to look upon the ruins of a palace in whose halls the gay
song and careless laugh long ago echoed; to contemplate the desolation
of the choked fountains in gardens which _were_ princely; and with
difficulty to make one's way through encroaching weeds and tangled
briers, over what once were paths where beauty lingered and listened
to the vow of love; or to wander through the streets of a disentombed
city, or seated on a fallen column, or the stone steps of the
disinterred amphitheatre, to think of the human hearts that here, a
thousand years agone, beat emulously with the hopes and fears, the
loves and hates, the joys and sorrows, the aspiration and despair
that animate or depress our own, and to reflect that they have
all vanished--ah, whither? But however saddening the reflections
occasioned by such contemplations, however much vaster the interests
involved in them, they do not affect us with half that wretched sorrow
with which we gaze upon the wreck of a human mind. In the former case,
that which has passed away has performed its part; on every thing
terrestial "transitory," is written, and it is a doom we expect, and
are prepared for; but in the latter it is a shrouding of the heavens;
it is a conflict betwixt light and darkness, where darkness conquers;
it is an obscuration and eclipse of the godlike. We therefore feel no
desire to dwell upon this part of our history, but, on the contrary,
to glide over it as rapidly as is consistent with the development of
the tale.
Next after Faith, the faithful Felix noticed, with disquietude, the
alteration in his master, and many were the sad colloquies he held
with Rosa on the subject. Holden in some way or another was connected
in his mind with the cause of Mr. Armstrong's melancholy, for although
for several years the latter had not been remarkably cheerful, yet it
was only since Holden's acquaintance had become intimacy, that that
melancholy deepened into gloom. The simple fellow naturally looked
round for some cause for the effect, and none presented itself so
plausible as the one he adopted.
"I wish," he had repeatedly said to Rosa, "that the old man would stay
away. I'd see the divil with as much satisfacshum as him. Miss Faith
too, I am sorry to say, is out of her wits."
One morning when Felix went up stairs, in answer to his master's bell,
he could not avoid remarking on his altered appearance.
"I hope you will 'scuse me, sir," he said, "but me and the servants
very much alarm about you, sir."
"I am obliged to you, Felix, and to all of you, but really there is no
occasion for any alarm," said Mr. Armstrong.
"The case is the alarmingest when the patient doesn't know how sick he
is. There was my old friend, Pompey Topset. He was setting up on the
bed, when I come in to see him, smoking a pipe. And says he, says
Pompey to me, says he, Felix, how do you do? this child never feel
better. Then he give one puff and his head fall on the breast, and
the pipe jump out of his mouth and burnt the clothes, and where was
Pompey! He never," added Felix, shaking his head, "was more mistaken
in all his life."
Mr. Armstrong was obliged to smile. "So you think me in as dangerous a
condition as Pompey was, when he took his last smoke."
"Bless you, Mr. Armstrong for the sweet smile," exclaimed, the negro.
"If you know how good it make me feel here, (laying his hand on his
heart) you would smile pretty often. I can remember when the wren
wasn't merrier than you, and you laughed almost as much as this fool
Felix." At the recollection of those happy days, poor Felix pressed
his hands upon his eyes, and tried to hide the tears, that in spite of
his efforts stole through the fingers. "But," continued he, "I hope in
the name of marcy, that you ain't so bad off as Pompey. That can't be.
I only spoke of him for the sake of--of--the illumination."
"And what would you have me do?" inquired Armstrong, desirous to take
all possible notice of the affectionate fellow.
"I pufess a high 'pinion of the doctor," answered Felix. "There is no
man who gives medicine that tastes worse, and therefore must be the
powerfullest. I would proscribe the doctor, sir."
"You would prescribe the doctor? Ah, Felix, I am afraid my case has
nothing to do with his medicines."
"There is one other thing I should like to mention if I wasn't 'fraid
it might offend Mr. Armstrong," said Felix, hesitatingly.
"And what is that, Felix? I will promise not to be offended."
Thus encouraged, Felix ventured to say.
"I have remark that Mr. Holden come often to see you, and you go to
see him. His visits always seem to leave you kind o' solemncolly like,
and all the world is surprise that you are so condescensious to the
basket-man."
"Enough of this," said Armstrong, abruptly and sternly. "You permit
too much freedom to your tongue respecting your superiors. Leave the
room."
Poor Felix, aghast at the sudden change in the manner of his master,
precipitately retired, casting back a grieved look, and ejaculating
under his breath, as he closed the door, "Good Lord!"
"What is the matter with me?" said Armstrong, presently to himself,
upon being left alone. "I invite this poor fellow, whose only fault is
that he loves me too much, to speak freely, and then treat him harshly
for his unintentional impertinence, assuming an importance that
belongs to no one, and as if we were not worms creeping together
towards the edge of that precipice from which we must fall into
eternity. Whence springs my conduct but from pride, self-will,
selfishness? I would arrogate a superiority over this poor negro. Poor
negro! There spoke the pride of your heart, James Armstrong! But well
is he called Felix in comparison with you. Happy in being born of a
despised and persecuted race; happy in being condemned to the life of
a servant, to an ignorance that diminishes responsibility; happy in
receiving no good thing here. Strut about, James Armstrong, in purple
and fine linen, but know that for all these things, God will assuredly
call thee to judgment."
That whole day Armstrong seemed debating some question with himself.
He paid less than even his usual attention to what was passing around,
and more than once was spoken to without heeding the address. In the
afternoon, he started off by himself, saying he might not return
until evening. Felix, whose anxiety the rebuff in the morning had
strengthened and confirmed, watched his master as he left the house,
and would have followed to guard him against a danger, the approach of
which he instinctively felt, but which he could not see, unless Faith,
to whom he thought proper to communicate his intention, had forbidden
him. She found it difficult to prevent him, so greatly were the fears
of the black excited, on whose mind the motives of delicacy that
induced Faith to desire to guard the movements of her father from
observation, cannot be supposed to have exerted so much force.
Much doubting and questioning the wisdom of the young lady, yet
not venturing to disobey her, Felix blamed himself for making her
acquainted with his design.
"This child head," he said, apostrophizing himself, "ain't no better
than a squash. What made me tell Miss Faith what I were going to do?"
After Armstrong left the house, he continued in the street only a
little way, soon striking across the fields and thus greatly abridging
the distance he must have passed over had he pursued the high road.
The truth is, he was directing his steps towards the very spot he
had visited with Judge Bernard. He reached it, notwithstanding he was
afoot, in much less time than the drive had taken, so rapidly did
he walk when out of sight, and so much was the length of the way
shortened. Upon arriving at the place, he sat down upon the same
log which had been his former seat, and folding his arms sunk into a
reverie. After the space of an hour, perhaps, thus passed, he rose and
commenced piling up near the brook some pieces of wood which he
took from the heaps about him, making another, differing from them
principally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularly
at right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with the
loose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceeded
until he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and four
high.
During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to be
contending with violent emotions and driven along by some power he
vainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayed
upon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finished
he stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushed
at, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in every
direction around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting his
hat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at the
top of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush and
trunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadful
object, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, he
lay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hysterical
passion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy
sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passed
away, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was still
going on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance and
returned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length,
indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched his
unprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, he
returned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwilling
to trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter,
he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct the
pile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other as
before, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. After
all was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitude
of supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and his
pale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, that
until now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook and
washed his hands in the running water.
"Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I wash
these stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outer
pollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that.
Why was it that this dreadful law was imposed upon our race? But I
will not dwell on this. I have interrogated the universe and God, and
entreated them to disclose the awful secret, but in vain. My heart
and brain are burnt to ashes in the attempt to decipher the mystery. I
will strive no more. It is a provocation to faith. I dare not trust
to reason. There is something above reason. I submit. Dreadful,
unfathomable mystery, I submit, and accept thee with all the
consequences at which the quivering flesh recoils."
Upon the return of Armstrong, all traces of violent emotion had
disappeared, and given place to exhaustion and lassitude. Faith had,
by this time, become so accustomed to the variable humors of her
father, that, however much they pained her, she was no longer alarmed
by them as formerly. It was her habit, whenever he was attacked by his
malady, to endeavor to divert his attention from melancholy thoughts
to others of a more cheerful character. And now, on this day, so
fraught with horrors of which she was ignorant, although the silence
of the unhappy man interrupted by fits of starting, and inquiries of
the time o'clock, revealed to her that he was suffering to an unusual
degree, she attempted the same treatment which, in more than one
instance, had seemed to be attended with a beneficial effect.
Armstrong was peculiarly sensitive to music, and it was to his love of
it that she now trusted to chase away his gloom. When, therefore, in
the evening, she had vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation,
receiving only monosyllables in return, she advanced to the piano, and
inquired if he would not like to hear her sing?
"Sing! my child?" said Armstrong, as if at first not understanding the
question; "Oh, yes--let me hear you sing."
Faith opened the piano, and turning over the leaves of a music book,
and selecting a sacred melody as best befitting the mood of her
father, sung, with much sweetness and expression, the following lines:
How shall I think of Thee, eternal Fountain
Of earthly joys and boundless hopes divine,
Of Thee, whose mercies are beyond recounting,
To whom unnumbered worlds in praises shine?
I see thy beauty in the dewy morning,
And in the purple sunset's changing dyes;
Thee I behold the rainbow's arch adorning;
Thee in the starry glories of the skies.
The modest flower, low in the green grass blushing,
The wondrous wisdom of the honey bee,
The birds' clear joy in streams of music gushing,
In sweet and varied language tell of Thee.
All things are with Thy loving presence glowing,
The worm as well as the bright, blazing star;
Out of Thine infinite perfection flowing,
For Thine own bliss and their delight THEY ARE.
But chiefly in the pure and trusting spirit,
Is Thy choice dwelling-place, Thy brightest throne.
The soul that loves shall all of good inherit,
For Thou, O God of love art all its own.
Upon Thine altar I would lay all feeling,
Subdued and hallowed to Thy perfect will,
Accept these tears, a thankful heart revealing,
A heart that hopes, that trembles, and is still.
At the commencement of the hymn, Armstrong paid but little attention,
but as the sweet stream of melody flowed on from lips on which he had
ever hung with delight, and in the tones of that soft, beloved voice,
it gradually insinuated itself through his whole being, as it were
into the innermost chambers of his soul. He raised the dejected eyes,
and they dwelt on Faith's face with a sort of loving eagerness, as if
he were seeking to appropriate some of the heavenly emotion that to
his imagination, more and more excited, began to assume the appearance
of a celestial halo around her head. But it is not necessary to assume
the existence of insanity to account for such an impression. If there
be anything which awakens reminiscences of a divine origin, it is from
the lips of innocence and beauty, to listen to the pure heart pouring
itself out in tones like voices dropping from the sky. The sweetness,
the full perfection of the notes are not sufficient to account for the
effect. No instrument made by human hands is adequate to it. There
is something more, something lying behind, sustaining and floating
through the sounds. Is it the sympathy of the heavenly for the
earthly; the tender lamentation not unmixed with hope; the sigh of the
attendant angel?
Upon the conclusion of the piece, Faith rose and took a seat by her
father.
"Shall I sing more, father?" she inquired.
"No, my darling," answered Armstrong, taking her hand into his.
"Dearly as I love to hear you, and although it may be the last time,
I would rather have you nearer me, and hear you speak in your own
language; it is sweeter than the words of any poet. Faith, do you
believe I love you?"
"Father! father!" cried she, embracing him, "how can you ask so cruel
a question? I know that you love me as much as father ever loved a
daughter."
"Promise me that nothing shall ever deprive you of a full confidence
in my affection."
"I should be most wretched, could I think it possible."
"But suppose I should kill you this instant?"
"Dear father, this is horrid! You are incapable of entertaining a
thought of evil towards me."
"You are right, Faith, but only suppose it."
"I cannot have such a thought of my own father! It is impossible. I
would sooner die than admit it into my mind."
"I am satisfied. Under no circumstances can you conceive a thought
of evil of me. But this is a strange world, and the strangest things
happen in it. I speak in this way because I do not know what may come
to pass next. I have always loved my fellow-men, and desired their
good opinion, and the idea of forfeiting it, either through my own
fault or theirs, is painful to me. But men judge so absurdly! They
look only at the outside. They are so easily deceived by appearances!
Do you know, that of late I have thought there was a great deal of
confusion in the ordinary way of men's thinking? But I see clearly the
cause of the errors into which they are perpetually falling. All the
discord arises from having wills of their own. Do you not think so?"
"Religion teaches, father, that our wills are sources of unhappiness
only when opposed to the Divine will."
"I knew you would agree with me. And then think of the folly of it.
The resistance must be ineffectual. That is a sweet song you sung,
but it seems to me the theology of it is not altogether correct.
It celebrates only the love of God, and is, therefore, partial and
one-sided. He is also a consuming fire."
"A consuming fire to destroy what is evil."
"I hope it is so. But do you know that I have been a good deal
troubled lest there might be truth in the doctrine, that Necessity, an
iron Necessity, you understand, might control God himself?"
"Why will you distress yourself with these strange speculations,
father? There are some things, it was intended, we should not know."
"Why," continued Armstrong, "it is an opinion that has been
entertained for thousands of years, and by the wisest men. The old
philosophers believed in it, and I do not know how otherwise to
explain the destiny of the elect and reprobate. For you see, Faith,
that if God could make all men happy, he would. But he does not."
"I think we ought not to engage our minds in such thoughts," said
Faith. "They cannot make us wiser or better, or comfort us in
affliction, or strengthen us for duty."
"They are very interesting. I have spent days thinking them over. But
if the subject is unpleasant we will choose another. I think you look
wonderfully like your mother to-night. I almost seem to see her again.
It was very curious how Mr. Holden discovered your likeness to her."
"I was quite startled," said his daughter, glad to find her father's
mind directed to something else. "I wonder if he could have seen my
mother."
He explained the way in which he found it out. "Was it not ingenious?
No one else would have thought of it. He has a very subtle intellect."
"I was not quite satisfied," said Faith. "His explanation seemed far
fetched, and intended for concealment. I think he must have seen my
mother."
"If that is your opinion, I will inquire into it. But I do not wish
to speak of Holden. You have been to me, Faith, a source of great
happiness, and when you are gone, I know I shall not live long."
"We shall live many happy years yet, dear father, and when our time
comes to depart, we will thank God for the happiness we have enjoyed,
and look forward to greater."
"Your time is at the door, my daughter," said Armstrong, solemnly.
"I know that at any moment I may be called, but that does not affect
my happiness, or diminish my confidence, that all is well according to
the counsel of His will."
"I see thee in the shining raiment of the blessed! I behold thee in
the celestial city!" exclaimed Armstrong.
It was later than usual when the father and daughter separated that
night. It seemed as if he were unwilling to allow her to depart,
detaining her by caresses when she made suggestions of the lateness of
the hour, and assenting only when the clock warned that midnight was
passed. Then it was he said:
"I do wrong to keep you up so long, Faith. You should be bright and
well for an excursion I intend to take with you to-morrow. You will go
with me, will you not?"
"I shall be delighted. The clear sky," she added, walking to the
window, "promises a fine day."
"Upon how many new-made graves will to-morrow's sun shine? I wish mine
was one of them"
"O, do not say so. You will break my heart."
"Not willingly. O! I do not pain you willingly. You were not born to
suffer much pain. Living or dying, you will be a pure offering to your
Maker, my daughter."
"Father, how strangely you talk! You are ill."
"As well as I shall be in this life. But do not be troubled. To-morrow
will make a change."
He was near the door when he uttered the last words; and now, as
if not daring to trust himself in a longer conversation, he hastily
opened it, and proceeded to his chamber. Faith followed his example,
pondering sadly over the conversation. It did not escape her, that it
was more incoherent than usual, but she had seen persons before under
great religious distress of mind, whose peace was afterwards restored,
and she doubted not that, in like manner, her father's doubts would
be solved, and his spirit calmed. With, her heart full of him, and her
last thought a petition on his behalf, she fell asleep.