“murder!” but it was impossible. Even the rapidity of my steps was
under control, and I marched slowly, deliberately, and solemnly, as to
martial music of the dead.
I passed from my sleeping-room to my study, obedient to the slightest
inclination of the supernatural power that controlled the thread by
which I was led.
When I reached my study-chair at my desk, I obediently sat down. Then
for the first time I beheld the object that was exerting this power
over me. I have seen many an object before and since very similar to
it, but never at any time another just like it.
As I sat in my chair, my eyes riveted on the thread of light, suddenly
that object appeared at the other end of the thread on a pile of
blank writing paper that lay on my desk, and eyed me intently. I was
horrified, and if possible, less capable of resisting than before. What
I beheld, and what was exerting this supernatural influence over me was
nothing more nor less than a horrible, ugly spider!--a supernatural
spider, most certainly; different, I tell you, from any I have ever
before or since seen.
As I sat watching the spider, it began moving up and down, back and
forth, and round and round on the paper in the most irregular motions
imaginable. Being rather large and clumsy-looking, his movements, so
very irregular though really not ungraceful, made the spider at first
look awkward.
Wonder upon wonder! As the spider began moving, another one, somewhat
smaller than the first, and more dimly seen, with even a finer thread
of light (attached, too, to the first spider’s thread), made its
appearance on another pile of paper. Could it be that a whole army of
spiders had convened to work my destruction, and that these two were
only the picket-guards? Yet it did seem that this one was not present,
but only the vision of a spider, existing somewhere in reality, but
present only to my mind. This, too, I am persuaded to believe, was
really the case. But the other one, the larger one, I swear was there
moving on my paper; and I still have the paper in my possession as
proof. As this one began to move, the visionary one also began to move;
as if each, unconscious of the acts of the other, was nevertheless
controlled by the action of the other, and the influence upon each
other was mutual. As they both moved, I noticed they left their
shining, filmy thread upon the paper. But I was so intent upon every
motion that I paid no attention to the web left behind, until each
spider, having almost reached the right-hand side of the paper, cut his
thread, went to the left, and began again to go through similar motions.
What could be the meaning of this mystic spider-dance? Such, indeed,
it now seemed to be; for my first impression of irregularity and
clumsiness had now worn away, and their motions now seemed to be in
perfect unison, and measured with the grace and harmony of rhythm. The
room was but dimly lighted by the rays of moon that slipped in under
the curtains, yet I could see the spiders and their work plainly. I
glanced at the glowing web the first spider had left, and--wonderful to
relate!--as true as the sun shines above us, there at the top of the
page in writing that, had it been in ink, I would have sworn was my
own, the glowing web had been woven in and out so as to read, _Happy
Days of Yore!_
Could it be possible?--was I not dreaming? I looked and read and read
and looked again and again. But there it was, plain as day, in a style
of writing, too, I say, that I would have sworn was my own had it been
in ink instead of woven in a glowing web. But why those words? Could
there be something in my life, past or present, that those words were
to taunt me about? My whole life’s history trailed before my eyes, a
galaxy of pleasant memories. No, nothing there that these words could
make regretful. Could it then portend something of a dark future? God
alone knows!
Thus meditating, my eye caught the less distinct glow of the web of the
other spider. Heavens! what next! There, as distinct as if written by
the hand of my old chum, were the words, _Memories of the Past_. Here
was a mystery growing deeper and deeper each moment. I would willingly
have taken my oath, and will to this day, that the handwriting was that
of my boyhood chum and present dear old friend.
_Happy Days of Yore_,--_Memories of the Past_. How was I to solve
the mystery of the weaving of these words and fathom their intended
meaning? Both suggested to my mind a similar train of thought. But why
this mysterious writing?
As I sat thus meditating, I again became conscious of that weird
sound of which I have previously spoken, but which (my mind being so
preoccupied with what was before it) I had not again noticed until I
fell into this meditation.
It sounded like the sweet, sad blending of mournful voices singing,
or chanting, rather, to the deep tones of a distant organ. I recalled
myself and looked at the large spider, when I discovered that--mystery
of mysteries!--the echo-like organ voice and solemn chanting music
came from the spider alone as he moved across the paper, weaving his
golden web into rhythmic words! There, as the music went on, I read in
illuminated characters of the weaving spider’s web.--
Oh those happy days of yore
Will come back to me no more!
Ah no more, no more for aye!--
They have fled with time away,
And my heart is sad and lone
As I dream forevermore,
With a heaving sigh and groan,
Of those happy days of yore.
Most wonderful!--wonderful not in the words so much, for they were
simple, plain, and as they moved to the music, graceful withal, seeming
to be words that might come from a sincere and true but untutored
poetic heart; wonderful, therefore, rather, that they should be woven
by a spider, and that, too, with a web of light.
As in eager wonder I leaned my ear closer, the vision of the second
and more delicate spider, likewise weaving, passed before my eyes, and
I caught the distant strains of a deeper, sadder, sweeter melody, with
these words woven in the finer, more delicate thread of light.--
Oh how sweet those days of boyhood,
Oh how dear those happy hours
When I rambled through the forests
’Mong the birds and trees and flowers!
Life lay smiling all before me,
No regrets, no cares behind;
All the earth seemed bright with beauty,
Life was freedom unconfined.
I rejoiced whene’er the sunlight
Scattered wide its golden beams,
Thinking not that I should ever
Miss its light or prize its gleams.
Still more wonderful and remarkable than anything before was the
similarity of music as well as of thought: more wonderful and more
remarkable because neither spider seemed conscious of the other’s
action or presence. Indeed, as I have already said, only one
really was present; the other existing in another place, and only
_psychologically_ present to me. This latter fact, shown in all that
follows, I tell you, is the most remarkable psychological problem I
have ever met--except one!--nor have I ever yet found sage or savant
able to solve it. Many have tried it, wondered at it more and more as
they got more and more into its depths and subtle intricacies, and
finally in their weakness have given it up. Herbert Spencer, McCosh,
and other lesser philosophers cannot satisfy themselves upon it.
My interest was now, if possible, even greater than before. Again I
turned my attention to the present spider as in melody it wove.--
Oh those days of sweetest thought!
Oh those days with rapture fraught!
Had I known when but a child
What great blessings round me smiled,
With a wild, exulting leap
I’d have struck on wisdom’s door;
Piled up knowledge heap on heap
In those happy days of yore.
Both were weaving rapidly, as if their very lives were an ephemeral
inspiration, and they were thus weaving it away in illuminated letters,
that at least that inspiration might live, though the very weaving
should cost both their lives. So I hastened again to look, and to
listen to the other richer and deeper melody.--
Ah, those days are gone forever;
Time has wafted them away;
Happiness now seems a phantom
Of a joyous yesterday.
If I could but live them over,
All those careless, happy hours,
Start again in life’s fair morning
O’er life’s path of thorns and flowers,
Not a moment would be wasted
Chasing bubbles in the air--
I would seek the pearls of knowledge,
And the gems of wisdom wear.
Could it be that those two spiders were endowed with human faculties,
and that those faculties were now working in unison, inspired by the
same thought, the same feeling? I had little time to meditate this, for
both wrote (I can’t help saying they _wrote_) as rapidly as slow music
goes, or about as rapidly as I am writing this; and the first spider
had already begun the third stanza.--
Could I live again those days
That I spent in idle plays
And could know of learning’s worth,
I’d not waste my time in mirth;--
I would climb the hill of fame
And on wisdom’s wings would soar
Till I caught the beacon flame
In those happy days of yore.
I then involuntarily turned to the other; but finding that it had
completed a page, as indeed both had done, I removed the finished sheet
of the visible one and at the same instant and by the same act removed
that of the psychologically visible one; though how this latter was
accomplished even psychologists are at their wits’ end to explain. Even
to the close I continued thus to remove the finished sheets as soon as
they were completed. And now from the second I heard.--
Had I known of wisdom’s power
In those days with pleasure fraught,
From the mines of truth and beauty
Golden trophies I’d have brought.
All the lore of bygone ages
From my books I would have learned;
O’er the bards I would have pondered
Tho’ my lamp till morning burned;
All the broad empire of Nature
With its wealth of laws divine
Should have shown to me the beauty
Of Omnipotent design.
While I listened to this, the first spider, apparently conscious of
my abstraction, had waited; but on again bending my eyes in that
direction, again the sad melody floated upwards and away to the
heart-felt words.--
Oh, my heart grows weak and faint,
And it sighs in sad complaint
As it dreams its dreams of woe
Of the silent long ago.
And a pain is at my heart,
Not alone for wisdom’s lore,
For ’twas pierced by sorrow’s dart
In those happy days of yore.
What strange tale could this be I was listening to? I turned to the
second weaver of words to mournful melody, and caught the same spirit
in these similar words.--
I’d have read that revelation
Traced by our Creator’s hand
Over all our glorious planet,
In the sky and sea and land.
High and bright the lamp of knowledge
Shone for all who’d seek its light;
Ah, how oft I scorned to seek it
In the glare of pleasures bright!
Oft upon the dreary mountain
Have my weary footsteps strayed:--
But ’tis not for wisdom only
That my vain regrets are made.
So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called
up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into
expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words.
Ah yes! to the first, listen!--
_She_ was like a radiant rose
That with sweetness overflows.
Her bright eyes were darkest blue
And her hair a golden hue.
She was lovely as the day,
And within her breast she bore
Heart as light and bright and gay
As those happy days of yore.
Breathlessly I turned to the cadence of the other.--
In those days of idle dreaming,
Ere life’s toils I’d entered in,
Fancy framed for me an image
Of the one I’d woo and win.
It was in an idle romance
My ideal played a part;
But that image, framed in fancy,
Soon was graven on my heart,
And I said, “That maiden only
Of my ideal’s charms complete
Shall have power to lead me captive
And to bring me to her feet.”
Ah, ’tis the old, old story that ever sings itself in the human heart,
the story of love. But can it be these spiders are human that they
should thus weave their gold-enlighted words to silver chords of
harmony?
Once more!--To the first rhythmic weaver, a pleasing recollection.--
We were playmates, she and I,
In that happy time gone by:
Oft we’d walk the meadows over
Hunting for the four-leaved clover
As we’d seen the lovers do;
We the woods would oft explore
Where the fragrant flowers grew
In those happy days of yore.
And then to the second, the same image, lifting upward and away, above
the clover-blooms and forest-flowers of sweet memory, comes like the
peace of a benediction; and the words weave to quicker though to still
sad notes.--
Time passed on and boyish fancies
Were by youth’s bright hopes replaced;
Gay companions were around me,--
Every pleasure we embraced.
And among those friends and schoolmates,
There was one surpassing fair:
Light her heart and light her footstep,
Blue her eyes and gold her hair.
Then her pure and gentle spirit
Shone abroad like smiles from heaven.--
Ah, such divine gifts of beauty
Seldom are to mortals given.
The first one had now finished two pages; the second, three. How
much more they would weave I neither knew nor thought. I was too
much fascinated by the weirdness and reality of it all to think of
anything but the two stories that were being thus wonderfully--thus
psychologically though not supernaturally--revealed to me in beauty by
ugly spiders that wrought together; each, I knew, unconscious of the
other. This fact of each being unconscious of the words, thoughts, and
music of the other, and the fact that the web of one was woven into
characters to represent my handwriting, while that of the other was the
illuminated work of my old chum, gave the two songs an interest that no
one else can even approach. No, not even if the same situation should
present itself to him, and the spiders should be actually before him,
as their work, robbed of all these fascinating features, now is.
Both now wove more and more rapidly, and it was only when the first
had woven the following whole page of manuscript that I turned to the
other.--
Oft when twilight slowly crept
Over hill and vale that slept,
We would wander side by side
In the golden eventide
By the school-house on the hill
Where so oft we’d been before,
Or beside the water-mill
In those happy days of yore.
Oh those days,--sweet, happy days!
Ever round my mind there plays
Fitful Fancy’s dear delight,
Bringing back the time so bright
When we wandered hand in hand
To the little country store,
And the mystic future planned
In those happy days of yore.
New years came as old ones went;
Childhood’s years at last were spent;
We from friends to lovers grew
And nor pain nor sorrow knew.
Oh how fondly did I dream
Folding close my fond Lenore
As we sailed adown life’s stream
In those happy days of yore!
Here the sad-voiced dreamer paused a moment, then glided to the
top of the page and waited for me to remove the leaf, while I read
and half aloud chanted from the illuminated page of the other this
master-melody:--
When she came, ’twas like the sunbeam
Shedding gladness o’er the lea;
When she’d gone, ’twas like the ceasing
Of enchanting melody.
Oft when daily tasks were over,
She and I together strolled
From the hamlet to the seaside
Where the restless billows rolled.
Hours and hours we’d wander, gathering
Treasures from the shifting sand
As each ebbing tide receding
Left its wonders on the strand.
Long we’d watch the stately vessels
Riding proudly o’er the foam,
Some for distant countries steering,
Some returning--bound for home.
Then we’d seek the peaceful harbor
Where our little sail-boat lay,
And while skimming o’er the waters
Laugh and sing the hours away.
Then at twilight, when all nature
Save the sea was hushed and still,
We would turn our footsteps homeward
To the hamlet on the hill.
So pleasing was this recollection that I could not yet turn away, but
listened rather than read, as the musician continued on the next page;
for he had finished this, and the harmony continued unbroken.
And that image framed in boyhood
Of the one I’d woo and win,
Ah, my ideal!--I had found her
In my darling Evylyn.
But the dim, uncertain future!--
Oh that we could raise the veil
And by gazing down the valley
Know what fortune would prevail;
Whether joy or blinding sorrow,
Gladness or unending woe,
Should forever be our portion
While we linger here below.
Two short summers I had known her,
Years that seemed like one bright day;
But at last the spell was broken,
And my gladness fled away:
Duty called me from that hamlet
Where youth’s happy days were spent
Out into the great, free, wide world,
And with brightest hopes I went.
Ah, that parting by the seaside
One bright evening in the spring
By the dear old friendly ocean--
There I gave the engagement ring.
Just here a sharp pain in my right forefinger interrupted the music,
and reminded me that I had not removed the completed page of the first
harmony-breathing minstrel. I immediately did so, and at once the
billows of subdued music swept through the room to the perfect time of
the weaver’s words in portentous minstrelsy.--
In the bright and merry spring,
Then I gave the engagement ring;
And in sweet and holy bliss
Sealed our vow with Love’s own kiss.
Heart and hope and thought were one
As we walked as heretofore
Where the brooklet used to run
In those happy days of yore.
But the future none can tell
And, or weal or woe, ’tis well;
For, if it were otherwise,
When the mystic veil should rise
And reveal what is to come,
Happiness would be no more;--
Hearts would call to hearts but dumb
In those happy days of yore.
Could we gaze on life’s emprise,
Frozen tears would dim our eyes;
Rippling laughs on lips would freeze
As the future’s death-cold breeze
Chilled the life of loving hearts;
Happy days would come no more,
And we’d sigh with fitful starts
For those happy days of yore.
Here I noticed the striking difference (the only difference throughout
the two poems) between the wishes of the two, both passionately and
beautifully put, and paused a moment to grasp the full meaning. But
only a moment, for I was too interested in this enchanting symphony
to wait longer. Already the poet in spider’s form that was the more
delicate, beautiful, and pathetic was continuing.--
In a distant western city
Far away from that loved spot,
I began the strife in earnest,
Not complaining of my lot;
For in two years from our parting
I’d return and claim my own.
So I worked and dreamed and waited,
Cheered by that one thought alone.
Fortune smiled on my endeavors,
And each week a message brought
From that one beside the seashore
Who was ever in my thought.
But at last the darkness gathered,--
Clouds as dark as Ethiop’s land.
One dark day there came a letter
Written by a stranger’s hand.
Evylyn, it said, was drooping,
Drooping, fading very fast;
Though she would admit no danger,
Her short life would soon be past.
Many months, the message stated,
She had faded day by day;
Yet to me each cherished letter
Had been cheerful, bright, and gay.
I found myself so in sympathy with the two spiders--or poets and
musicians, rather, in spider form--that I pitied them deeply,
and--shall I say?--loved them. The first melodist continued more
mournfully, and to slower, sad, and muffled music.--
All the spring and summer long
Did I list the seraph-song.
But when autumn came around
With a sighing, mournful sound,
My sweet blossom faded fast;
And my radiant, fond Lenore
Yielded to the chilling blast
In those autumn days of yore!
As the flowers fade and die
’Neath the cold and cloudless sky,
So my Darling drooped and died!
And my dear intended bride
With a long and last farewell
Crossed the silent waters o’er
While we tolled her funeral knell
In those parting days of yore!
In the deepest dearth of night
When the starry dome was bright,
Came the angels round her bed;
And they numbered with the dead
My angelic, radiant Love
Whom the seraphs named Lenore,
Wafting here away above,--
Saddest, saddest days of yore!
I am not a man who easily gives way to feeling; but the plaintiveness
of the music and the mournfulness of the simple words made me forget
the mysterious bard that was weaving this tale of pathos, and I bowed
my head in sorrow, with my heart full of pity and love for both the
afflicted and the noble-hearted sweet departed. As I did so, the
threnodic notes, as if dying away in the echoing distance of the blue
dome above, thus came from the heart of the other minne-singer.--
With an aching heart I started
For her home beside the sea,
Once again to see my Darling
Ere Death snatched his prize from me.
But a cruel fate hung o’er me;
Ere I reached that eastern home,
Her angelic soul was wafted
Far beyond the starlit dome.
Through the distant shining portals,
Breathing of eternal love,
Passed my Evylyn, my treasure,
To the brighter world above.
Surely, surely, I thought, these breathers of harmony cannot be ugly
spiders. They are too human--or shall I say too divine?--for that. I
had been so absorbed in the two songs that, strange perhaps to say,
though I think not, I had scarcely noticed the spiders themselves nor
their illuminated web-woven words. I felt now that the songs were
nearly ended; and through tear-dimmed eyes, I looked once more at the
page on my desk. How strangely brighter the light seemed to be, yet so
softer!
Could it be possible! Wasn’t this, after all, some dream?--I dashed the
tears from my eyes with my left hand.--No, I was wide awake. No doubt
about that. There, too, that light from the words was even brighter
than when it was seen through my tears.
Surely, surely, these were not spiders; but spirits, rather, in this
disguise. As this thought flew through my brain, I removed the fifth
finished page of manuscript, when lo! I almost screamed for mercy that
no more revelations be made to me. For the spider glided to the top of
the new page, and as he did so, I saw and marveled how much smaller
he had grown, as if he had spun his whole body away in his glowing
web. But still stranger transformation: All about him, like a spirit
embodying the body, was a dim halo of light, such as a star often forms
of the mists, that doubtless had been forming from the first although
I had not noticed it, having been too absorbed in the songs themselves.
As I looked steadily, transfixed by this new revelation, I saw that
haloing light, as true as I live, shape itself in a half human form;
and like a light-enhaloed star moving across the scroll of the Almighty
in spheric music set to angel words, this transformed being of light
trembled across the page before me and trailed these gold-enlighted
words through the solemn rhythm of the olden melody.--
By the babbling little brook,
In a quiet, shaded nook,
Sleeps my loved and lost one now.
Over pallid lip and brow
Grow the scented flowers wild
Bright as when I wandered o’er
This same spot when but a child
In those happy days of yore.
Many years have come and gone
Since that face I’ve looked upon;
Many weary paths I’ve trod
Since we laid her ’neath the sod.
Still I wander, sad and lone;
Still my heart is grieved and sore,
For she sleeps beneath the stone
Since those happy days of yore.
Thoughts of the dead always affect me beyond expression. The thought
of the death of this darling girl, glorious in her own true heart, I
can but feel, and glorified even more by the unfailing constancy and
eternal love of him who, grown old and gray, still keeps her ever in
his heart, so affected me that my own heart seemed almost broken.
I could endure no more, and turned away. But as I did so,--O sweet
angels of mercy! was there no escape?--there the other heaven-gifted
musician, spirit-embodied, halo-enshrouded like the first, met my eyes,
and I was forced against my will to listen to the most plaintive, most
pathetic melody that had yet grieved my heart.--
In a grave down by the seashore,
She was laid by loving hands
Where old ocean sings a requiem
Evermore upon the sands.
There the summer tide is flowing
As I stand upon the shore,
And it calls up sacred mem’ries
Of the happy times of yore.
Fragments of a wreck are drifting
On the surface of a wave--
Emblem of my hopes and prospects,
Wrecked, and lying in her grave.