BESIEGED.
Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp,
When Agrican, with all his northern powers,
Besieged Albracca, as romances tell.
PARADISE REGAINED.
An hour after the last scene, Manton returned to his room, and, seeming
greatly hurried, lit his lamp, and throwing himself into a chair,
seized his pen, muttering between his teeth, “It must be finished
to-night! a _man_ has no right to be tired!” He was drawing his writing
materials towards him, to proceed with his work, when a something of
strange disorder among his papers caught his quick eye.
“Ah! who has been disturbing my papers?” and as a flash of suspicion
shot through him, he sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “my trunks, no
doubt, have shared the inquisition!” and stepping quickly to them, he
threw up the lids.
“By Heaven, it is so! what accursed carelessness this is of mine,
leaving everything unlocked in this fashion!”
His first glance had shown him that the trunks had been disturbed,
and a cautious effort been made to replace the contents as they were
before. Uttering some energetic expletives of wrath, he knelt beside
one to ascertain how far the examination had been carried, when,
reaching the packages of letters and papers at the bottom, he saw
there, too, unmistakable evidence of a pretty thorough examination
having been held of their contents.
If he had been enraged before, this filled him with uncontrollable
fury. He stamped his foot heavily upon the floor, and his whole frame
shook violently, while with gnashing teeth he called down a fearful
imprecation upon the head of this wretched violator, whoever it might
be, of the sad and mournful secrets of his past life, which he had held
sealed in his own bosom, so sternly, so long, and, alas! so vainly.
Those letters revealed all. Some prying reptile had thus slimed the
holy penetralia of his proud life!
The very thought was horror—loathing! A shudder of unutterable disgust
crept through him; an uncontrollable fury blazed through his soul;
his eyes glittered with almost demoniac fire; his face turned deathly
white, and his teeth ground and clattered like the clamp of a wild
boar’s tusks, and yet he made no tragic start; he stood still, with his
arms clutching each other across his breast, and his eyes looking out
into the blank distance, through which their concentrated light seemed
to pierce to some far object. He at length pronounced slowly—
“Yes, my curse shall follow you; be you man or woman, it shall overtake
you in terror! I feel the prophecy in me! The wretch who has thus
contaminated those chaste and loved mementoes, shall yet feel my curse!
My consciousness is filled with it! I know not how, or when, or where!
my curse shall reach and blast the author of this sacrilege!—bah!” and
his face writhed into the devilish mockery of a smile; “it is almost
sufficient vengeance, one would think, that the wretch found no money!”
Starting suddenly forward, he commenced pacing to and fro with long
strides, with knitted brows, compressed lips, and eyes bent upon the
floor.—For more than an hour he thus silently communed with himself,
without the change of a muscle in expression, when drawing a long sigh,
he threw off this frigid look in a degree, merely saying in a low
voice, “My curse is good!” and returned to the table to resume his seat
and his labors.
As he did so, his eye fell upon a note directed to himself, which, as
it had been placed in no very conspicuous position among the objects on
the table, had, till now, escaped his attention. He reached it, and the
dainty crow-quilled hand of the superscription, the snowy envelope,
and the pure white seal, disclosed at once the woman.—He regarded
it for a moment, coldly, and without any expression of interest or
surprise, and with a slight sneer upon his face, broke the seal, when
out slipped a gilt-edged note, which he opened and read aloud with a
jeering tone:
FRIEND—May I not claim to be thy friend in common with the whole
world, who have learned to love thee, through thy beautiful thoughts?
Stricken, sad, and suicidal child of genius, may I not steal into
the tiger’s lair of thy savage isolation, to bring one single ray of
blessing, to tell thee how, at least, one human soul has throbbed
to the seraphic eloquence of powers, that, alas!—I appeal to your
inmost consciousness!—are being rapidly destroyed by your obstinate
seclusion in labor, and by the vices of wine and tobacco, which
are its necessary attendants. You have it in you to be saved; your
soul is tall and strong as an archangel; your vices are the withes
of grass that bind you; and love, social love, the calm and genial
reciprocation of domestic sympathies, can alone redeem you.
You are proud—I know it! but pride will yield to gentleness, and in
a distant land among strangers, the tearless, motherless boy, will
not reject a mother’s proffer of a mother’s yearnings. You naughty,
haughty child, we must save you from yourself, in spite of yourself!
Yours spiritually,
MARIE.
Manton, whose face had, during this reading, writhed with almost every
conceivable expression, tossed the letter from him as he finished it,
with the exclamation—“Pah! this must be Doctor E. Willamot Weasel’s
lecture-woman! Impudent adventuress in every line, as I expected!” And
he resumed his pen and his labors, continuing in a low voice as he
commenced his writing—“Unfortunate allusion, by the way, to the withes
of grass—we cannot help being reminded of a certain Mr. Samson, and a
Miss or Mrs. Delilah. Curse her! how came she to speak of my mother?”
and grinding his teeth heavily, he proceeded with the work before him,
without paying any further attention to the circumstance.
The greater portion of the night was spent in intense labor; but, when,
after a very late bath and breakfast, the next morning, Manton went
out to the office of the Journal for an hour, and returned, he was not
a little surprised to find another missive, as neat and snowy as the
first, awaiting him, on the table.
He thought it must surely be the first, that he had, in some
unconscious mood, re-enclosed in the envelope; but, glancing around, he
saw it lying open, where he had tossed it.
“Gramercy! but she fires fast!” he said, with a droll look passing
across his features, as he stooped down, his hands cautiously
clasped behind his back, to survey more closely the delicate
superscription—_Mr. Stewart Manton, Graham House, Present_.
“Present! present! but this sounds rather ominous! Can it be that
my spiritual correspondent of last night is an inmate too? My
correspondent is evidently both in earnest and in a hurry! What shall I
do? By my faith, I have a great mind to throw it upon the centre-table
of the common parlor below, and let this benevolent lady reclaim her
own, or else leave it to the irresistible access of curiosity, common
to the sex, and peculiar to this queer house, to explore its unclaimed
sweets. The first taste has quite sickened me. I have something other
to do than listen to such inane twattle.”
He continued for some moments to gaze upon the letter, while a
half-sneering smile played upon his grave and melancholy features.
“Well, but this must be a quaint specimen of a feminine, to say the
least of it! I have heard of these spiritual ladies before! The
character must be worth studying, though it seems to be transparent
enough, too. Well! we’ll see what she has to say this time, at any
rate! It can hardly be richer than the first! Here it is!”
FRIEND—I know your heart. That proud heart of yours is at this moment
filled with scorn for my poor words and humble proffers. But it does
not affect me much, for well I know that this pride is the evil which
ever strives in the unregenerate soul, to fence against the approaches
of good. As yet this demon possesses thee, and, until conquered
and humbled by love, you can never be saved. Thy physical life is
poisoned—is poisoned with tobacco—and it is through such poisons that
this evil spirit of pride enters into thy soul. Thy spiritual vision
is thus obscured, that you may not perceive the truth. I shall pray
for you. My spirit shall wrestle with thine when you know it not, and
God will help his humble instrument. May He soon move that obdurate
heart of thine, proud boy!
MARIE
“Well! but this is cool! decidedly refreshing! This pertinacious
creature is surely some mad woman confessed, as she certainly is a most
raging and impertinent fanatic! Boy, forsooth! patronising. I should
almost be provoked, were not the thing so egregiously ludicrous! Well,
well! it is consoling, at least, that I have found my good Samaritan
at last. I shall preserve these precious epistles, as decidedly
curious memoranda of this original type of the Yankee adventuress,
for Yankee she must be, who has set out thus boldly on a speculation
in the spiritualities. I think I have had enough of this trash now,
as I intend to take no notice either of it or of the writer. I should
suppose she might get discouraged.”
The letters were thrown carelessly into a drawer, and Manton sat down
to his work.
The next morning, when Manton returned from the office, at the usual
hour, what should meet his eye, the first thing on entering the room,
but a _third_ snowy missive, placed now more conspicuously, on the very
centre of the table. The poor man stopped, frowned, then gradually his
eyes distended into a wild stare, and lifting his hands at the same
moment, he shouted out—
“Good God! What, another?” and then, with a sudden revulsion of
feeling, he burst into a loud, unnatural laugh. “This is patience for
you! By heaven! she dies game to the last! Well! let’s see what now,
for I am beginning to be charmed with the progress of this thing.
There’s an absolute fascination in such daring.”
He snatched up the note, and opening it, read it _sotto voce_, with an
indescribable intonation of contempt:—
FRIEND—Ah, glorious soul, that I might call thee so indeed! I have
just read your poem in the Journal. Read it, did I say? My soul has
devoured it! Again and again have I returned to the feast unsated.
Ah me, that mighty rhythm! It has filled me with new strength and
light! On its harmonious flow the universe of beauty, love and life
has been brought closer to me—has been revealed in splendor and
unutterable music, until I have sobbed for joy thereof, and prayed and
wrestled for thee, with my Father above, that thou mightest be saved.
It is terrible to think that a soul so god-like as thine should be
unregenerate. I bless thee! I bless thee, my son! I pray for thee!
I am praying for thee! I shall pray for thee always, until thou art
saved!
MARIE.
“Good! I am in a fair way for salvation now, one would think! This
seems a strange character—such a mixture of fanaticism, cant, and,
withal, appreciation! That poem of mine was certainly an extraordinary
one. I hardly expected to find any one that would appreciate it at
first. But see! she has already caught its subtle reach and meaning.
Pooh! what a fool I am! This is perfectly on a par with all the other
hysterical cant which I have received from this person. The probability
is, if the lines had been written by Mr. Julian Augustus Maximilian
Dieaway, upon whose soft sconce she desired to make an impression (in
the way of speculation), the same extravagant tropes and metaphors
would have found their way to the snowy surface of this gilt-edged
paper, through the delicately-handled crow-quill! Curse it! I shall
order the chambermaid to stop the nuisance of these missives!”
This letter was impatiently tossed into the drawer with the others, and
Manton threw himself into his chair; when, after sitting with his head
leaning on his hands, moody and motionless, for some time, he suddenly
straightened himself, and drew from the heap of magazines and books
before him a fresh-looking copy of the —— Journal. Turning over its
leaves eagerly to that which contained his new poem, he perused it and
re-perused it over and over again, with an expression of restlessness
and intense inquiry in his manner during the time. At last he drew a
long breath, and threw the book back upon the table, exclaiming in
a firm voice, “No! I am satisfied. This is no namby-pamby die-away
rhyming—there is genuine stuff there; that is true poetry, or I have
it not in my nature to produce it. That cursed meddlesome woman has
made me distrust myself for the moment; by her extravagant praises,
has made me doubt the genuineness of my own inspiration. Her letter is
so evidently disjointed ranting, that it has shaken my self-reliance
to have even read it. Curse her silly and impertinent legends, I shall
read no more of them!”
Poor Manton was evidently troubled now, at length; and can the reader
conjecture why this last letter had so excited him? Had a subtle arrow
found its mark? Was there any thing in the poem really to justify the
high-flown and ecstatic panegyrics of missive No. 3, in the snow-white
envelope? You shall see—you shall judge. Here is a true copy of the
poem:—
NO REST.
O soul, dream not of rest on earth!
On! forth on! It is thy doom!
Too stern for pain, too high for mirth,
On! thou must, through light and gloom.
Would’st thou rest when thou hast strength
Mated with the seraphim?
Time outlasting, all whose length
Fades, within thine ages, dim?
O strong traveller, can’st thou tire,
When, but touching at the grave,
Thy worn feet, re-shod, aspire,
Winged, to cleave as Uriel[3] clave?
Rest! ah, rest then! be alone—
God the Worker, thou the Drone!
Soon yon atom, swiftly driving
Past thee, in the upward race,
Braver for the perfect striving,
Shall assume the higher place.
God, the Worker, knows no rest—
Pause, and be of Him unblest.
Lo! how by thee all is flying!
Even matter outspeeds thee!
Stronger thou, yet thou seem’st dying—
Fading down immensity.
Rouse the quickened life to know!
God works subtly, work thou so!
Thou art subtler than the wind,
Than the waters, than the light,
Than old Chaos, whom these bind,
Beautiful, on axle bright.
Yet thou sleepest, while they speed—
God, of sleepers has no need!
Waiteth cloud, or stream, or flower,
Robing meadows and the wood?
Waiteth swallow past its hour,
Chasing spring beyond the flood?
Yet thou waitest, weak, untrue—
God rebuketh sloth in you!
Sing the stars wearily,
Old though and gray?
Spin they not cheerily
Cycles to-day?
Look they like failing,
Pause they for wailing,
Since none may stay?
Systems are falling—
Autumns have they;
Stars yet are calling
Life from decay.
Dead worlds but gild them
Dusted in light;
Dead times have filled them
Fuller of might.
Brightening, still brightening,
Round, round, they go—
Eternity lightening
The way and the wo!
DE NOTO.
[3] “Thither came Uriel, gliding through the even.”
PARADISE LOST.