is completely destitute of human interest from the nature of the
subject, and derives none from the comparisons and illustration
which are so profusely introduced. Classical names and fables
are strewn about with prodigality; but they are always produced
not to show how like, but how _unlike_ they are to the
personages and actions described in the poem.'... 'In order to
make out his 'apt number and fit quantity of syllables,' Mr. M.
frequently employs the Procrustean method of lengthening the
short and shortening the long. _Hermit_ is _eremite_, _mortal_
is _unimmortal_, _survive_ is _over-live_, _marsh_ is _marish_,
etc. In like manner, _malignant_, _ungrateful_, _magnificent_,
_interrupted_, are docked into _malign_, _ingrate_, _magnific_,
_interrupt_; and we have '_dark_ with excessive _bright_' for
_brightness_. Yet, in spite of the ample use of this liberty,
the verse often halts for want of feet.'
A capital specimen of verbal criticism, involving comments upon
the 'jingling-sounds,' and 'perpetual bulls' of the author, closes
the critique and the article. Although these _pseudo_ reviews are
intended merely to form a light, amusing paper, they have yet to our
conception a deeper meaning; and as valuable lessons in literature,
are well worthy of perusal and preservation.
A NIGHT ADVENTURE IN ENGLAND: THE MYSTERY OF STYLE.--We scarcely
know why it was, that a perusal of the remarkable adventure which
ensues should so forcibly have struck the electric chain of memory,
and carried us back to early childhood, and the book which was its
especial delight, the 'Pilgrim's Progress' of BUNYAN. If the reader
will turn with us, however, to the scene in that most felicitous
of narratives, where CHRISTIAN and HOPEFUL find their way into
the dungeons of 'Doubting Castle,' they will be able perhaps to
discover the secret of the association. Let us condense therefore a
passage of that scene, in illustration of these remarks. 'Now I saw
in my dream,' says BUNYAN, 'that the pilgrims went on their way to
a pleasant river, and their path lay just upon the bank; and here
CHRISTIAN and his companion walked with great delight. On either
side of the river was a beautiful meadow, curiously beautified with
lilies; and it was green all the year long. Now I beheld in my dream
that they had not journeyed far, when the river and the way for a
time parted; at which they were not a little sorry; yet they durst
not go out of the way. Now the way from the river was rough, and
their feet tender by reason of their travels: so the souls of the
pilgrims were much discouraged because of the way. Now a little
before them, there was on the left hand of the road a meadow, and
a stile to go over into it; and behold a path lay along by the way
on the other side of the fence; so they went over the stile; and
when they were gone over, and were got into the path, they found
it very easy for their feet; and withal, looking before them, they
espied a man walking as they did, whose name was VAIN CONFIDENCE. So
they followed; and he went before them. But behold, the night came
on, and it grew very dark; so that they that were behind lost the
sight of him that went before; who, not seeing the way before him,
fell into a deep pit, and was dashed in pieces with his fall. Now
CHRISTIAN and HOPEFUL heard him fall; so they called to know the
matter; but there was none to answer; only they heard a groaning.
And now it began to rain, and thunder and lighten in a most dreadful
manner; and the waters rose amain! Then said CHRISTIAN, 'Who would
have thought that this path should have led us astray? Oh, that we
had kept on our way!' But now, for their encouragement, they heard
the voice of one saying: 'Let thine heart be toward the highway;
even the way that thou wentest, turn again!' But by this time the
waters were greatly risen; by reason of which the way of going back
was very dangerous. Yet they adventured to go back; but it was so
dark, and the flood so high, that in their going back they had like
to have been drowned nine or ten times. Neither could they, with all
the skill they had, get again to the stile that night; wherefore,
at last lighting under a little shelter, they sat down there till
the day-break; but being weary, they fell asleep.' Here it was, it
will be remembered, that GIANT DESPAIR found them sleeping in his
grounds, and with his 'grievous crab-tree cudgel' drove them before
him into 'a very dark dungeon' of Doubting-Castle.
But let us come to the adventure to which we have alluded. Perhaps
some of our readers will remember a work published in England a
half century or more ago, entitled 'The Adventures of HUGH TREVOR,'
written by THOMAS HOLCRAFT. At the recommendation of a friend, on
whose literary opinion we place the firmest reliance, we obtained
the volumes; and not without difficulty, there not being a copy
of the work to be found in any of the metropolitan libraries,
nor indeed any where short of that unequalled _omnium gatherum_,
'BURNHAM'S,' of the modern Athens. From this work, of which we may
have more to say hereafter, we condense the following striking
scene. It should be premised that TREVOR and his companion, a man
named CLARKE, after a variety of reverses of fortune, are on their
way on foot from a town in one of the retired shires of England
to the great metropolis. At nightfall they find themselves on the
borders of a forest. As they proceed, they meet with a countryman,
who learning their destination, informs them that by striking a
little out of the road they may save themselves much travel; that
he is going part of the way himself, and that the remainder is too
plain to be mistaken. Accordingly they place themselves under his
guidance. But suppose we now permit the narrator to tell the story
in his own words:
'THE sun had been down by this time nearly an hour and a half.
The moon gave some light; but the wind was rising, she was
continually obscured by thick, swift-flying clouds, and our
conductor advised us to push on, for it was likely to be a
very bad night. In less than a quarter of an hour his prophecy
began to be fulfilled. The rain fell, and at intervals the
opposing clouds and currents of air, aided by the impediments
of hills and trees, gave us a full variety of that whistling,
roaring, and howling, which is heard in high winds. The darkness
thickened upon us, and I was about to request the countryman
to lead us to some village, or even barn, for shelter, when he
suddenly struck into another path; and bidding us good night,
again told us 'we could not miss our road.' We could not see
where he was gone to; and though we repeatedly called, we called
in vain; he was too anxious to get shelter himself to heed our
anxiety, and was soon out of hearing.
'So long as we could discern, the path we were in appeared to be
tolerably beaten; but we now could no longer trace any path; for
it was too dark for the ground to have any distinct color. We
had skirted the forest, and our only remaining guide was a hedge
on our left. In this hedge we placed our hopes. We followed its
direction, I know not how long, till it suddenly turned off at
an angle; and we found ourselves, as far as we could conjecture,
from the intervening lights and the strenuous efforts we made to
discover the objects around us, on the edge of some wild place,
probably a heath, with hills, and consequently deep valleys,
perhaps streams of water, and precipices. We paused; we knelt
down, examined with our eyes, and felt about with our hands, to
discover whether we yet were in a path; but could find none.
We continued our consultation, till we had begun to think it
advisable to return, once more guided by the hedge. Yet this was
not only very uncertain, but the idea of a retrograde motion was
by no means pleasant.
'While we were in this irresolute dilemma, we thought we saw a
light, that glimmered for a moment, and as suddenly disappeared.
We watched, I know not how long, and again saw it twinkle,
though, as we thought, in something of a different direction.
Clarke said it was a will-o'the-wisp. I replied it might be
one, but as it seemed the only chance we had, my advice was to
continue our walk in that direction; in hopes that if it were
a light proceeding from any house or village, it would become
more visible as we approached. We walked on, I know not how
far, and then paused; but discovered no more of the light. We
walked on again; again stood still, and looked on every side
of us, either for the light or any other object; but we could
see nothing distinctly. The obscure forms around us had varied
their appearance; and whether they were hills, or clouds, or
what they were, we could not possibly discover; though the first
we still thought was the most probable. By this time we had no
certain recollection of which way we had come, or to what point
we were directing our course. We were continually in doubt;
now pausing, now conjecturing, now proceeding. We continued
to wander, we knew not whither. Sometimes it appeared we went
up hill, and sometimes down. We had stepped very cautiously,
and therefore very slowly; had warned each other continually
to be careful; and had not dared to take twenty steps at a
time, without mutually enquiring to know if all were safe.
We continued, environed as it were by the objects which most
powerfully inspire fear; by the darkness of night, the tumult of
the elements, the utter ignorance of where we were or by what
objects surrounded, and the dejectedness which our situation
inspired. Thieves and assassins might be at our back, and we
could not hear them; gulfs, rocks, or rivers, in our front, or
on either side, and we could not see them. The next step might
plunge us, headlong, we knew not whither.
'These fears were not all imaginary. Finding the ground very
uneven on a sudden, and stumbling dangerously myself, I stood
still. I did not hear my companion! I called--I received no
answer! I repeated, in a louder tone, 'CLARKE! where are you?'
Still no answer! I then shouted, with all the fear that I felt,
and heard a faint response, that seemed to be beneath me, and
at a prodigious distance. It terrified, yet it relieved. We had
spoken not three minutes before. I stood silent, in hopes he
would speak again; but my fears were too violent to remain so
long. I once more called; and he replied, with rather a louder
voice, which lessened the apparent distance, 'Take care! You'll
dash yourself to pieces!'
Reader, isn't this very graphic description? Yet what could be more
straight-forward and simple? But to proceed: TREVOR ascertains from
his companion that he is not seriously injured, and avows his own
determination at once to get to him; but the other exclaims: 'For
GOD in heaven's sake don't! I suppose I am in a chalk-pit, or at
the bottom of a steep crag.' TREVOR however proceeds to crawl on
his hands and knees in the direction of his voice, determined if
possible to reach him:
'I FOUND the rough impediments around me increase; till
presently I came to one that was ruder than the rest. I crawled
upon it, sustained by my knees and right hand, and stretching
forward with my left. I groped, but felt nothing. I cautiously
laid my belly to the ground and stretched out my other arm.
Still it was vacancy. I stretched a little more violently;
feeling forward and on each side; and I seemed to be projected
upon a point, my head and shoulders inclining over a dark abyss,
which the imagination left unfathomable. I own I felt terror;
and the sensation certainly was not lessened, when, making an
attempt to recover my position and go back, my support began
to give way. My effort to retreat was as violent as my terror;
but it was too late. The ground shook, loosened, and, with the
struggle I made carrying me with it, toppled headlong down. What
the height that I fell was, I have no means of ascertaining;
for the heath on which we were wandering abounds with quarries
and precipices; but either it was in fact, or my fears made it,
prodigious.
Recovering from the violent shock of his fall, he replies to the
vehement questions of his companion, who had heard his perilous
descent. After mutual inquiries, it is found that both are on their
legs, and that although violently wrenched, no bones are broken. But
where _were_ they? and how were they to discover their whereabout?
Perhaps in a stone-quarry, or lime-pit; perhaps at the edge of
waters. It might be, too, that they had fallen down only on the
first bank or ridge of a quarry, and had a precipice ten-fold more
dreadful before them:
'WHILE we were conjecturing, the stroke of a large clock,
brought whizzing in the wind, struck full upon our ear. We
listened with the most anxious ardor. The next stroke was very,
very faint; a different current had carried it a different
way; and with all our eager attention, we could not be certain
that we heard any more. Yet, though we had lost much time, and
our progress had been excessively tedious, it could not be two
o'clock in the morning. It might indeed very probably be twelve.
The first stroke of the clock made us conjecture it came from
some steeple, or hall tower, at no very great distance. The
second carried our imaginations we knew not whither. We had
not yet recovered courage enough to take more steps than were
necessary to come to each other; and while we were considering,
during an intermitting pause of the roaring of the wind, we
distinctly heard a cur yelp. Encouraged by this, we immediately
hallooed with all our might. The wind again began to chafe, and
swell, and seemed to mock at our distress. Still we repeated
our efforts, whenever the wind paused; but, instead of voices
intending to answer our calls, we heard shrill whistlings, which
certainly were produced by men. Could it be by good men? By
any but night marauders; intent on mischief, but disturbed and
alarmed? They were signals indubitably: for we shouted again,
they were again given, and were then repeated from another
quarter; at least if they were not, they were miraculously
imitated, by the dying away of the wind. In a little while we
again heard the cur yelp; and immediately afterward a howling,
which was so mingled with the blast that we could not tell
whether it were the wind itself, the yelling of a dog, or the
agonizing cries of a human voice; but it was a dreadfully dismal
sound. We listened with perturbed and deep attention; and it was
several times repeated, with increasing uncertainty, confusion,
and terror.
'What was to be done? My patience was exhausted. Danger itself
could no longer detain me; and I told CLARKE I was determined to
make toward the village, or whatever the place was, from whence,
dangerous and doubtful as they were, these various sounds
proceeded. Finding me resolute, he was very earnest to have led
the way; and when I would not permit him, he grasped me by the
hand, and told me that if there were pitfalls and gulfs, and if
I did go down, unless he should have strength enough to save me,
we would go down together.'
Cautiously and slowly, step by step, they pursue their way,
alternately catching and losing a dancing light in the distance,
which they imagine to proceed from some mansion, apparently a large
one, which they at length reach, only to find it dark, still, and
closed. Searching on the outside, however, they come to a large open
gate, which they enter, and after feeling their way for a short
distance, arrive at a door that evidently belongs to an out-house or
detached building. It is shut, but the key has been inadvertently
left in the lock. Fatigued, shelterless, and bruised, they have
little hesitation in profiting by the accident. A noisome effluvia
assails them on entering, which at first almost drives them back;
but growing less the longer they continue, they accept the shelter,
and grope their way behind some barrels and lumber, where they find
straw, upon which they rest their drenched and weary limbs. They are
scarcely nestled together, before they again hear the yelping of
a cur, and the same dismal howls and shrill whistling signals, by
which their imaginations had previously been wrought up; together
with the voices of men, in coarse, rude and savage words, denoting
anger and anxiety for the perpetration of some dark purpose, in
keeping with the fierce and threatening sounds: 'They approached.
One of them had a lantern. He came up to the door; and finding it
open, boisterously shut it; with a broad and bitter curse against
the carelessness of some man, whose name he pronounced, for leaving
it open; and eternally damning others for being so long in doing
their business. We were now locked in; and we soon heard no more
of the voices.' In spite of these alarms, however, fear at length
gives place to fatigue; but their rest is of short duration.
TREVOR'S brief slumber is disturbed by his companion, whom he finds
'shaking in the most violent agitation he ever beheld in any human
being,' and who only replies with a groan to his question of 'What
is the matter?' Awakened from his own wild slumbers, and strongly
partaking of his companion's sensations, TREVOR yet endeavors to
rouse him to speech and recollection, by asking again: 'What have
you heard?--what ails you?' 'It was some time before he could utter
an articulate sound. At last, shaking more violently as he spoke,
and with inexpressible horror in his voice, he gasping said: '_A
dead hand!_' 'Where?' 'I felt it--I had hold of it--it is now at
my neck!' TREVOR, trembling in sympathy with his companion, hardly
dares to stretch out his arm to examine. At length he ventures:
'Never shall I forget the sensation I experienced, when to my full
conviction I actually felt a cold, dead hand between my fingers!
I was suffocated with horror! I struggled to overcome it, but it
again seized me, and I sank half entranced!' At this instant the
shrill sound of the whistle rings piercing through the dismal place
in which they are confined. It is answered; and the same hoarse
voices are once more heard. The prisoners lie silent, not daring
to breathe, when they hear the door unlock; and with a dialogue of
mingled oaths and reproaches, at the want of care in leaving the
door unlocked, and the prospect of being 'smoked' and 'blown,' two
men enter with a lantern, bearing a sack, one of whom exclaims:
'Lift the sack on end! Why the h--ll don't you lend a hand and keep
it steady, while I untie it? Do you think a dead man can stand on
his legs?' After much colloquy of this sort, the men quit the place,
leaving the two travellers not only with the dead body, but with
bones and human skeletons, revealed by the light of the lantern, on
every side! The dancing lights they had seen, the shrill signals,
and the dreadful howls they had heard, are no longer mysterious.
It was no _ignis fatuus_, but the lantern of those assassins; no
dog or wolf baying the moon, but the agonizing yells of murder!
After the departure of the desperadoes, they hear various noises
in the adjoining house; among others, the occasional ringing of a
chamber-bell. Soon other sounds approach more nearly; and presently
the inner door once more opens, and a livery servant, bearing two
lighted candles, comes in, followed by a man with an apron tied
round him, having a kind of bib up to his chin, and linen sleeves
drawn over his coat. The master (for such he evidently is) has a
meagre, wan countenance; and the servant seems in great trepidation;
to whom the gentleman observes: 'Don't be afraid, MATTHEW; you will
soon be accustomed to it, and you will then laugh at your present
timidity. Unless you conquer your fears, you will not be able to
obey my directions in assisting me; consequently, you will not be
fit for your place; and you know you cannot get so good wages in any
other.' To all this the prisoners are not inattentive listeners;
and as the servant turns round, he beholds TREVOR standing with his
eyes fixed, watchful for the interpretation of these enigmas. The
man stares, gasps, turns pale, and at last drops down, overcome
with terror; while the master, whose attention is thus directed
to the apparition of TREVOR, stands motionless, his face assuming
a death-like hue, and the power of utterance apparently lost.
This incident hastens the _éclaircissement_. In their benighted
wanderings, they had at last found a refuge in the _dissecting-room
of an anatomist_, who had risen before day to operate upon the
subject which had been secured for him in the course of the night by
the desperadoes before mentioned.
The picture, it will be perceived, was reflected through the medium
of consternation and terror. The imaginations of the travellers
had been strongly preyed upon by their distress, by the accident
of falling, and by the mingled noises they had heard; proceeding
from the church-yard robbers, the village dogs disturbed by them,
and the whistling, roaring, and howling so common to high gusts of
wind; all which was sufficient to distract minds already in a state
of visionary deception and alarm. Being engaged in a desperate
deed, for selfish purposes, the 'body-snatchers' had the _manners_
of murderers, which the more effectually deceived the terrified
travellers. Add to this the spectacle of a dissecting-room; here
preparations of arms, pendent in rows, with the vessels injected;
and there legs, feet, and other limbs; and a satisfactory _catalogue
raisonné_ will have been established. For the rest, the anatomist
subsequently explains to his unexpected auditors, that finding his
health such as to compel him to forego the winter lectures of able
surgeons in London, he had continued his practical studies in the
country, by the means which they had discovered, and the necessity
of procuring which he defended, on the ground that a surgeon _must_
be acquainted with the direction, site, and properties of the
muscles, arteries, ligaments, nerves, and other parts, before he can
cut the living body with the least possible injury; and that a dead
body, being no longer subject to pain, could no more be disgraced
by the knife of a surgeon than by the gnawing of the worm. Rather
specious reasoning, it strikes us; at least an argument not likely
to be particularly convincing to surviving relatives and friends.
HOOD'S soliloquy of an exhumed 'subject' comes also in aid of the
other side of the question:
'I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home,
I didn't stay long in it.
'The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!'
* * * * *