THE LETTER.
As I hurried to my quarters, I made a hundred guesses from whom the letter
could have come; a kind of presentiment told me that it bore, in some
measure, upon the present crisis of my life, and I burned with anxiety to
read it.
No sooner had I reached the light, than all my hopes on this head vanished;
the envelope bore the well-known name of my old college chum, Frank Webber,
and none could, at the moment, have more completely dispelled all chance
of interesting me. I threw it from me with disappointment, and sat moodily
down to brood over my fate.
At length, however, and almost without knowing it, I drew the lamp towards
me, and broke the seal. The reader being already acquainted with my amiable
friend, there is the less indiscretion in communicating the contents, which
ran thus:--
TRINITY COLLEGE, DUBLIN, No. 2,
October 5, 1810.
My Dear O’Malley,--Nothing short of your death and burial,
with or without military honors, can possibly excuse your very
disgraceful neglect of your old friends here. Nesbitt has never
heard of you, neither has Smith. Ottley swears never to have seen
your handwriting, save on the back of a protested bill. You have
totally forgotten _me_, and the dean informs me that you have never
condescended a single line to him; which latter inquiry on my part
nearly cost me a rustication.
A hundred conjectures to account for your silence--a new feature
in you since you were here--are afloat. Some assert that your
soldiering has turned your head, and that you are above corresponding
with civilians. Your friends, however, who know you better and
value your worth, think otherwise; and having seen a paragraph
about a certain O’Malley being tried by court-martial for stealing a
goose, and maltreating the woman that owned it, ascribe your not
writing to other motives. Do, in any case, relieve our minds; say,
is it yourself, or only a relative that’s mentioned?
Herbert came over from London with a long story about your
doing wonderful things,--capturing cannon and general officers by
scores,--but devil a word of it is extant; and if you have really
committed these acts, they have “misused the king’s press damnably,”
for neither in the “Times” nor the “Post” are you heard of.
Answer this point, and say also if you have got promotion; for what
precise sign you are algebraically expressed by at this writing, may
serve Fitzgerald for a fellowship question. As for us, we are jogging
along, _semper eadem_,--that is, worse and worse. Dear Cecil
Cavendish, our gifted friend, slight of limb and soft of voice, has
been rusticated for immersing four bricklayers in that green
receptacle of stagnant water and duckweed, yeleped the “Haha.”
Roper, equally unlucky, has taken to reading for honors, and obtained
a medal, I fancy,--at least his friends shy him, and it must be
something of that kind. Belson--poor Belson (fortunately for him he
was born in the nineteenth, not the sixteenth century, or he’d be most
likely ornamenting a pile of fagots) ventured upon some stray
excursions into the Hebrew verbs,--the professor himself never having
transgressed beyond the declensions, and the consequence is, he is
in disgrace among the seniors. And as for me, a heavy charge hangs
over my devoted head even while I write. The senior lecturer, it
appears, has been for some time instituting some very singular
researches into the original state of our goodly college at its
founding. Plans and specifications showing its extent and magnificence
have been continually before the board for the last month; and in such
repute have been a smashed door-sill or an old arch, that freshmen
have now abandoned conic sections for crowbars, and instead of the
“Principia” have taken up the pickaxe. You know, my dear fellow,
with what enthusiasm I enter into any scheme for the aggrandizement
of our Alma Mater, so I need not tell you how ardently I
adventured into the career now opened to me. My time was completely
devoted to the matter; neither means nor health did I spare,
and in my search for antiquarian lore, I have actually undermined
the old wall of the fellows’ garden, and am each morning in expectation
of hearing that the big bell near the commons-hall has descended
from its lofty and most noisy eminence, and is snugly reposing in
the mud. Meanwhile accident put me in possession of a most
singular and remarkable discovery. Our chambers--I call them
ours for old association sake--are, you may remember, in the Old
Square. Well, I have been fortunate enough, within the very precincts
of my own dwelling, to contribute a very wonderful fact to the
history of the University; alone, unassisted, unaided, I labored
at my discovery. Few can estimate the pleasure I felt, the fame
and reputation I anticipated. I drew up a little memoir for the
board, most respectfully and civilly worded, having for title the
following:--
ACCOUNT
Of a remarkable Subterranean Passage lately discovered in the
Old Building of Trinity College, Dublin;
With Observations upon its Extent, Antiquity, and Probable Use.
By F. WEBBER, Senior Freshman.
My dear O’Malley, I’ll not dwell upon the pride I felt in my new
character of antiquarian; it is enough to state, that my very
remarkable tract was well considered and received, and a commission
appointed to investigate the discovery, consisting of the
vice-provost, the senior lecturer, old Woodhouse, the sub-dean, and
a few more.
On Tuesday last they came accordingly in full academic costume.
I, being habited most accurately in the like manner, conducted
them with all form into my bed-room, where a large screen concealed
from view the entrance to the tunnel alluded to. Assuming a very
John Kembleish attitude, I struck this down with one hand, pointing
with the other to the wall, as I exclaimed, “There! look
there!”
I need only quote Barret’s exclamation to enlighten you upon my
discovery as, drawing in his breath with a strong effort, he burst
out:--
“May the Devil admire me, but it’s a rat-hole!”
I fear, Charley, he’s right, and what’s more, that the board will
think so, for this moment a very warm discussion is going on among
that amiable and learned body whether I shall any longer remain an
ornament to the University. In fact, the terror with which they
fled from my chambers, overturning each other in the passage,
seemed to imply that they thought me mad, and I do believe my
voice, look, and attitude would not have disgraced a blue cotton
dressing-gown and a cell in “Swift’s.” Be this as it may, few men
have done more for college than I have. The sun never stood still
for Joshua with more resolution than I have rested in my career of
freshman; and if I have contributed little to the fame, I have done
much for the funds of the University; and when they come to compute
the various sums I have paid in, for fines, penalties, and what
they call properly “impositions,” if they don’t place a portrait of me
in the examination hall, between Archbishop Ussher and Flood, then
do I say there is no gratitude in mankind; not to mention the impulse
I have given to the various artisans whose business it is to
repair lamps, windows, chimneys, iron railings, and watchmen, all
of which I have devoted myself to with an enthusiasm for political
economy well known, and registered in the College Street police-office.
After all, Charley, I miss you greatly. Your second in a ballad is
not to be replaced; besides, Carlisle Bridge has got low; medical
students and young attorneys affect minstrelsy, and actually frequent
the haunts sacred to our muse.
Dublin is, upon the whole, I think, worse; though one scarcely
ever gets tired laughing at the small celebrities--
Master Frank gets here indiscreet, so I shall skip.
And so the Dashwoods are going too; this will make mine a
pitiable condition, for I really did begin to feel tender in that
quarter. You may have heard that she refused me; this, however, is not
correct, though I have little doubt it might have been,--had I
asked her.
Hammersley has, you know, got his dismissal. I wonder how the
poor fellow took it when Power gave him back his letters and his
picture. How _you_ are to be treated remains to be seen; in any
case, you certainly stand first favorite.
I laid down the letter at this passage, unable to read farther. Here, then,
was the solution of the whole chaos of mystery; here the full explanation
of what had puzzled my aching brain for many a night long. These were the
very letters I had myself delivered into Hammersley’s hands; this the
picture he had trodden to dust beneath his heel the morning of our meeting.
I now felt the reason of his taunting allusion to my “success,” his cutting
sarcasm, his intemperate passion. A flood of light poured at once across
all the dark passages of my history; and Lucy, too,--dare I think of her! A
rapid thought shot through my brain. What if she had really cared for me!
What if for me she had rejected another’s love! What if, trusting to my
faith, my pledged and sworn faith, she had given me her heart! Oh, the
bitter agony of that thought! To think that all my hopes were shipwrecked
with the very land in sight.
I sprang to my feet with some sudden impulse, but as I did so the blood
rushed madly to my face and temples, which beat violently; a parched and
swollen feeling came about my throat; I endeavored to open my collar
and undo my stock, but my disabled arm prevented me. I tried to call
my servant, but my utterance was thick and my words would not come; a
frightful suspicion crossed me that my reason was tottering. I made towards
the door; but as I did so, the objects around me became confused and
mingled, my limbs trembled, and I fell heavily upon the floor. A pang of
dreadful pain shot through me as I fell; my arm was rebroken. After this I
knew no more; all the accumulated excitement of the evening bore down with
one fell swoop upon my brain. Ere day broke, I was delirious.
I have a vague and indistinct remembrance of hurried and anxious faces
around my bed, of whispered words and sorrowful looks; but my own thoughts
careered over the bold hills of the far west as I trod them in my
boyhood, free and high of heart, or recurred to the din and crash of the
battle-field, with the mad bounding of the war-horse, and the loud clang of
the trumpet. Perhaps the acute pain of my swollen and suffering arm gave
the character to my mental aberration; for I have more than once observed
among the wounded in battle, that even when torn and mangled by grape
from a howitzer, their ravings have partaken of a high feature of
enthusiasm,--shouts of triumph and exclamations of pleasure, even
songs have I heard, but never once the low muttering of despair or the
half-stifled cry of sorrow and affliction.
Such were the few gleams of consciousness which visited me; and even to
such as these I soon became insensible.
Few like to chronicle, fewer still to read, the sad history of a sick-bed.
Of mine, I know but little. The throbbing pulses of the erring brain, the
wild fancies of lunacy, take no note of time. There is no past nor future;
a dreadful present, full of its hurried and confused impressions, is all
that the mind beholds; and even when some gleams of returning reason flash
upon the mad confusion of the brain, they come like sunbeams through a
cloud, dimmed, darkened, and perverted.
It is the restless activity of the mind in fever that constitutes its
most painful anguish; the fast-flitting thoughts that rush ever onwards,
crowding sensation on sensation, an endless train of exciting images
without purpose or repose; or even worse, the straining effort to pursue
some vague and shadowy conception which evades us ever as we follow, but
which mingles with all around and about us, haunting us at midnight as in
the noontime. Of this nature was a vision which came constantly before
me, till at length, by its very recurrence, it assumed a kind of real and
palpable existence; and as I watched it, my heart thrilled with the high
ardor of enthusiasm and delight, or sunk into the dark abyss of sorrow and
despair. “The dawning of morning, the daylight sinking,” brought no other
image to my aching sight; and of this alone, of all the impressions of the
period, has my mind retained any consciousness.
Methought I stood within an old and venerable cathedral, where the dim
yellow light fell with a rich but solemn glow upon the fretted capitals,
or the grotesque tracings of the oaken carvings, lighting up the fading
gildings of the stately monuments, and tinting the varied hues of time-worn
banners. The mellow notes of a deep organ filled the air, and seemed to
attune the sense to all the awe and reverence of the place, where the very
footfall, magnified by its many echoes, seemed half a profanation. I stood
before an altar, beside me a young and lovely girl, whose bright brown
tresses waved in loose masses upon a neck of snowy whiteness; her hand,
cold and pale, rested within my own; we knelt together, not in prayer, but
a feeling of deep reverence stole over my heart, as she repeated some few
half-uttered words after me; I knew that she was mine. Oh, the ecstasy of
that moment, as, springing to my feet, I darted forward to press her to my
heart! When, suddenly, an arm was interposed between us, while a low but
solemn voice rang in my ears, “Stir not; for thou art false and traitorous,
thy vow a perjury, and thy heart a lie!” Slowly and silently the fair form
of my loved Lucy--for it was her--receded from my sight. One look, one last
look of sorrow--it was scarce reproach--fell upon me, and I sank back upon
the cold pavement, broken-hearted and forsaken.
This dream came with daybreak, and with the calm repose of evening; the
still hours of the waking night brought no other image to my eyes, and when
its sad influence had spread a gloom and desolation over my wounded heart,
a secret hope crept over me, that again the bright moment of happiness
would return, and once more beside that ancient altar I’d kneel beside my
bride, and call her mine.
For the rest, my memory retains but little; the kind looks which came
around my bedside brought but a brief pleasure, for in their affectionate
beaming I could read the gloomy prestige of my fate. The hurried but
cautious step, the whispered sentences, the averted gaze of those who
sorrowed for me, sunk far deeper into my heart than my friends then thought
of. Little do they think, who minister to the sick or dying, how each
passing word, each flitting glance is noted, and how the pale and stilly
figure which lies all but lifeless before them counts over the hours he has
to live by the smiles or tears around him!
Hours, days, weeks rolled over, and still my fate hung in the balance; and
while in the wild enthusiasm of my erring faculties, I wandered far in
spirit from my bed of suffering and pain, some well-remembered voice beside
me would strike upon my ear, bringing me back, as if by magic, to all the
realities of life, and investing my almost unconscious state with all the
hopes and fears about me.
One by one, at length, these fancies fled from me, and to the delirium of
fever succeeded the sad and helpless consciousness of illness, far, far
more depressing; for as the conviction of sense came back, the sorrowful
aspect of a dreary future came with it.