Unus, et alter, sed idem.
Gentle Reader, hitherto thou hast been addressed by us in the plural
number, now, for the first and last time, thou wilt not surely grudge
that the author should for once in _propria persona_ address thee.
I confess that I am in the habit of looking upon the division of
a story into chapters, as similar to the subdivision of a journey
into miles: by the aggregate of the one the length of the story is
ascertained, by the aggregate of the other the distance of the journey
is distinctly known. Nor does the similarity terminate here; the
heading or motto of each chapter points out to the reader what kind
of "entertainment" he may expect, just as a sign hung out at the door
of an inn indicates; and in the same way too the milestone points out
to the wearied traveller the proximities to his inn, as the "_carte du
jour_" apprises him of the dinner with which he may be regaled. The
heading of the chapter also tells whether it is by land or by sea the
reader is to travel; the heading of a milestone whether by mountain,
moor, morass, valley, town, or city, the traveller has to steer. These
said chapters were, no doubt, a truly commendable invention, which give
a kind of _carte du pays_, as they show and point out to the reader how
the land lies, in the same manner that those communicative milestones
and signposts point out to the traveller the distance of town from
town. Both in their way are extremely useful indeed, combining the
_utile_ with the _dulci_. But it is imagined that both reader and
traveller little take into account that it was not without some toil
and labour these respective accommodations were completed for their use
and convenience. After this sage remark, be it known, gentle reader,
that this story now rapidly draws to a close, and that the next mile
(to carry on the simile) thy journey will end. The best indeed that
the case would admit of has been done for thy "entertainment," and it
is hoped that, thy journey concluded, thou shalt have found the roads
to have been not wholly intolerable, the fare not indifferent, and the
journey not wholly unprofitable!
Now, resuming the plural, we will venture to say, that "if it be true
that _good wine needs no bush_, it is true that a good play needs no
epilogue." However, whether, and in what degree, this may be applicable
to us, oh, courteous reader, is not for us, but for thee, to determine
and adjudge in the chapter which succeeds.
From this long digression it is time to resume our eventful story. The
consternation occasioned by the sudden and unaccountable departure of
Sir David Bruce from Tyrconnel Castle, can better be imagined than told.
The duke arose at an early hour, as he was wont, and took his
constitutional walk before breakfast. Upon his return it was with no
small astonishment he heard that Sir David Bruce had departed at deep
midnight, and on horseback, not having taken with him a travelling
carriage, nor luggage, save a small valise, as preparatory to a
journey. He immediately communicated it, with as much due precaution
as the time would admit of, to the duchess, who had now entered the
breakfast parlour.
Her Grace turned pale, and seemed nigh fainting. As soon as she could
recover from her surprise and trepidation, she said: "All, my dear, is
not well, I fear; I will go up and question Adelaide."
Here, as the duchess had gone out of one door, the Reverend chaplain,
Doctor M'Kenzie, entered at another. The chaplain wished his Grace good
morrow, and spoke of the weather, expatiating upon the beauties of
Nature.
"'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires th' horizon.----
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck."
The duke looked--but he saw not, he spoke not, he heard not. No!--the
serenity of the season was not in accordance with the sorrow of his
heart. At once the chaplain saw it all, for the duke was deadly pale;
but the cause of this despondence he did not know, nor did he dare to
inquire.
But while he was about to ask the duke if he was unwell, the door
opened, and the duchess re-entered; and bursting into a flood of tears,
she flung herself into a chair. In so doing, a dagger fell from her
apron on the ground. She fainted, and it was some time before she
came to herself. When she did, she then said: "It is all involved in
darkness and mystery; I cannot unravel the clue. Adelaide cannot--will
not tell. She has sworn on the dagger's point never to reveal it until
placed upon her death-bed. She has sworn upon this."
Here the chaplain took up the dagger; it was incrusted with blood.
He examined the handle; it was of silver, and upon it was engraved
FUIMUS. It likewise fell from his hand, and trundled on
the ground. Here he fearfully and involuntarily repeated, and in a
sepulchral tone,
"FUIMUS NON SUMUS!"
The duke sternly said: "In the name of heaven, I charge you, Reverend
Sir, that you will forthwith explain what all this may mean? Although
the days of superstition still exist, yet nevertheless I must protest
against supernatural agency."
Doctor M'Kenzie said: "Permit me to ask one question of the duchess,
and then I will, as far at least as I can, throw some light on this
dark mystery. May I be permitted to ask your Grace, if Sir David Bruce
will return?"
"Never--oh, never! Reverend Sir," was the reply; "I just have heard so
from my daughter."
"Then," said the chaplain, "I am at liberty to explain, without any
violation of promise. I have no doubt that your Graces both recollect
the narrative of my voyage from Scotland, from the port of Ayr, and of
my having been shipwrecked on the coast of Austrian Flanders."
The duke and duchess nodded assent.
"You may also recollect the mysterious passenger who appeared so deeply
overpowered by grief--Colonel Davidson."
They both remembered.
"You may also doubtless recollect the words of that terrific song--that
was pronounced by no earthly voice--that was sung to no earthly sound!
To the last solemn hour of my existence I never can forget it. The
words and tune are in my ears when I awaken in the morn--they ring
their horrid vespers in my ears at night, and dirge me in my sleep. Can
your Graces remember some of the words?--namely the voice of the Spirit
of the Storm, and
THE AWFUL DIRGE.
Once we held fair Scotland's throne,
Ay, once we claimed that realm our own,
_Fuimus non sumus_!
* * * * *
* * * * *
We were--have been--were crown'd--are not;
Dispers'd, forsaken, and forgot!
_Fuimus non sumus_!
* * * * *
* * * * *
Behold! the last of all our race
Is forced to fly his natal place!--
He bears the vengeful, fatal knife,
Deep stain'd by bloody feudal strife!
_Fuimus non sumus_!
"Know then, may it please your Graces, that when I was introduced by
the duke to Sir David Bruce, I recognised him at once to be----"
"Colonel Davidson!!" vociferated the duke in a tremendous voice,
without waiting for the chaplain to finish.
"Yes, my lord," replied the chaplain, "another, and yet the same."
The duchess fell back in her chair, overpowered with grief.
When the duchess had become somewhat calm, after a pause the chaplain
continued: "Little indeed at that time did I ever dream that my
fellow-passenger was destined at a future day to become your Graces'
son-in-law, and under such unhappy auspices. But the will of heaven
must be done, and it is for some wise purpose it is done, although not
revealed to mortal eyes."
The duchess now returned to the unhappy Adelaide, in every respect,
from her virtues, talents, and accomplishments, worthy far of a better
fate.
The duke, when breakfast was taken away--for the duke eat not--proposed
to the chaplain to proceed to the little room which had been occupied
by Sir David Bruce as his library during his stay at Tyrconnel Castle,
in order to ascertain if there had been left there any letter or
document explanatory of his very sudden and unaccountable departure.
The duke, accompanied by his chaplain, entered Sir David's little
library, taking a melancholy survey of the chamber. They at last,
upon approaching a writing-table, found thereon the following song in
manuscript:--
SONG,
WRITTEN ON MY BRIDAL-DAY--TO AN OLD IRISH AIR.
I ask'd my Adelaide what was her wish?
She replied, "Oh, ever love me kindly!"
Again I ask'd my love what was her wish?
She answer'd, "Oh, ever love me kindly!"
Again I ask'd my love what was her wish?
And she said, "Oh, love me not too blindly!"
My love I ask'd once more what was her wish?
(While her fond, lovely arms, did entwine me,
And down trickling tears rapidly did gush,)
"'Tis--may my husband's dear hands yet enshrine me,
And to the silent grave, with sad and solemn stave,
He in years far remote may consign me!"
D. B.
The duke felt extremely affected. The pathos of the Irish air, the
feeling expressed in the song, and the mournful moment in which it was
perused, all most powerfully conspired to operate upon those noble
feelings which he too acutely possessed. And as he brought away the
MS. the chaplain observed that the duke secretly brushed away the
silent tear which trickled down his manly cheek.
The surprise occasioned by the very sudden and extraordinary
departure of Sir David Bruce, afforded a topic of conversation and
altercation among the gossips and _quid nuncs_ of the vicinage, for
at least a fortnight.--By that time the novelty appeared to melt
away; but while it lasted all various changes were rung with endless
interpolations, until they could not possibly be interpreted.--Some
were inclined to throw the entire blame to the account of Adelaide,
as the sole cause of her husband's departure. But others, both male
and female recriminators, would entirely (if in their power) fling
the whole balance of censure against Sir David Bruce. At length the
parish and the county became quite sick and weary of such peevish
conjectures;--until "cormorant-devouring Time" put an end to them, at
least fulfilling his part, inasmuch showing that he is the destroyer
of prejudice and of party, and of all sublunary things:--
"Tempus edax rerum."
But it is in vain to disguise, and it would be highly culpable, if it
were within the power of human ingenuity, to deny it, that often, too
often, _human passion_, or it should be called brutal rage, assails the
noblest minds and the most generous dispositions; those who are but too
inflammably alive to whatever they conceive to be base, grovelling,
or unjust--such are probably the most liable to "the sin that easily
besets them." It is indeed to be lamented how suddenly passion in
the moral, like the whirlwind in the physical world, can rend up by
the roots all that graced and adorned human life, boldly and rudely
usurping the seat of reason, and leaving only to cool and repentant
reflection the unavailing sighs and sorrowing tears of self-crimination!
The foregoing story, tragical as it is true, incontestibly proves that
"trifles light as air" assumed in the commencement, subsequently, if
encouraged, increase and multiply in a _ratio_ and amount of accession
and aggression, until recrimination is produced; then follow mutual
hatreds, quarrels, and bickerings, until awakened and aroused at a
fatal moment and at a savage period, as we have described, all these
bad passions burst forth resistless into a fatal blaze, which was only
to be quenched by the shedding of fraternal blood!
A dramatic poet has so beautifully expressed our meaning, that we
cannot resist quoting his language, and with the passage concluding
this chapter:--
----"O, be obstinately just!
Indulge no passion, and betray no trust;
Let not man be bold enough to say,
Thus, and no farther, shall my passion stray!
The first crime past, compels us on to more,
And guilt proves fate, that was but choice before!"