Look!
I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit
The innocent mansion of my love--my heart:
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief.
_Cymbeline_, Act III.
Thus was Edward Walladmor, as we may now call him, restored to his
father and the castle of his ancestors as a prisoner under sentence of
death.[1]--This however was known only to Tom Godber, who had learned
it from an accidental oversight of his mother's during her frantic
exultations when alone with himself. The same spirit of fiendish
triumph had led her to make the discovery to the unhappy Sir Morgan
prematurely, and when there was still some chance of defeating her
final vengeance. But the _public_ discovery she had prevailed on
herself to delay until the day of execution.
This was now fast approaching; and no intentions had yet been
manifested on the part of government for granting a pardon or
mitigation of the sentence. Monday was now come; Wednesday was the day
originally appointed for the execution; and as yet no orders had
arrived to the contrary. Sir Morgan meanwhile was lying in a state of
alternate delirium and unconsciousness from the effects of a brain
fever which had seized him immediately after the dreadful revelation
made to him by Gillie Godber. And Sir Morgan's friends, though all
feeling great interest for the prisoner, and prepared to think it a
case of extreme harshness on the part of government if the sentence
should be enforced, were unacquainted with the dreadful secret of the
prisoner's relation to Sir Morgan; and had thus no motive, beyond
general pity, for showing any distrust of the royal mercy--by exerting
any special interest in the prisoner's behalf.
Meantime there were hearts that beat in trembling hope for Edward
Walladmor; hands were busy for him in silence; steps and whispering
sounds were moving in the darkness on his behalf. There had been time
for the news of his capture and too probable fate to reach the
Netherlands; and a ship of doubtful character, with a captain and crew
that had once served under Captain Walladmor, instantly left the port
of Antwerp--and sailed, upon good information as to the place and
circumstances of his confinement, to the coast of North Wales. On this
Monday she had communicated with the shore; and soon after night-fall
she stood in for the bay of Walladmor.
He however who was acquainted with the strength of the castle, and had
witnessed the preparations of the sheriff, might reasonably despair of
a liberation that was to be effected by force. The castle itself,
strengthened by such a garrison as now occupied its defences, was
capable of making some resistance: but the Falcon tower, with its
succession of iron doors, its narrow and difficult approaches, and the
aerial situation of its prison, might be considered absolutely
impregnable to any thing short of an army with a regular train of
storming artillery.
Confiding in this superabundant strength, the sheriff--to whom Sir
Charles Davenant had resigned the disposal of the soldiers--had not
thought it necessary to take any other precautions than that of locking
all the doors in the tower, and placing a guard of five men in the
little guard-room which opened upon the rocky gallery. There was no
possibility of any attempt on the part of the prisoner to escape; nor
of any sudden alarm in this quarter: the men were therefore allowed to
sleep; with directions to admit nobody who did not produce an order
bearing the seal of the sheriff or the lord lieutenant. One centinel
was placed inside the great gate; and, in case of any alarm, he was to
ring the great bell of the chapel.
It was now midnight: profound silence reigned in the castle: and the
sheriff, finding that all was quiet on the outside, retired to rest.
Meantime in what state was the prisoner? He knew nothing of any designs
to liberate him: but he was more cheerful notwithstanding than he had
been for some time past. Compared with that in which he had surrendered
himself, his present state of mind might be called a happy one. He had
learned that Miss Walladmor had not disregarded his letters, still less
rejected him, in the way he had been made to believe. His own letters
to her had been duly delivered: but her replies, which (by his own
desire) were entrusted to Mrs. Godber, had been intercepted by her:
some communication between her son Tom and Grace Evans had raised a
suspicion of that nature; Tom had made a search in a neighbouring
cottage where his mother now resided; had found the letters; and had
secretly conveyed them to Captain Walladmor. From these he had learned
how much injustice he had done to Miss Walladmor in supposing her
capable of withdrawing from him, under any cloud of calamity, an
affection such as she had granted to him; and he was assured that one
heart at least, and _that_ the heart to which his own was linked by
indissoluble bonds, would mourn for his fate. He had learned also from
Tom Godber the secret of the filial relation in which he himself stood
to Sir Morgan. Even this contributed to tranquillize him, by taking
away all color of presumption from his own addresses to Miss Walladmor,
and all color of degradation from her with which hereafter the
censorious might else have reproached her. He felt also a secret joy,
such as a lover's heart is apt to feel, in the circumstance of being
Miss Walladmor's cousin--even in bearing the same name with her--as he
would have done in any slighter bond that connected him (though it were
but by a fanciful tie) with the woman whom he loved. And the chief
bitterness of death to him was this--that, loving her so passionately,
he should see her face no more.
That pang at least shall be spared to him. Edward Walladmor shall see
Miss Walladmor again! once again shall kiss the tears from her face;
and though they meet in sorrow, yet shall this meeting record the
tenderness of her affection in terms much stronger and more solemn than
happier hours could have furnished, and shall put the seal to the long
fidelity of her heart. Now is Edward Walladmor to learn by a proof,
sweet yet miserable to remember, that there is no such potent shield
under calamity as a woman's love; and that, under circumstances of
extremity which transcend all cases that human laws can be supposed to
contemplate, nature will prompt a conduct which as far transcends the
necessity of human sanction. Miss Walladmor had learned through Grace
the discovery which Mrs. Godber had made of the prisoner's relation to
Sir Morgan Walladmor. That gentleman was incapable of acting: and,
apart from her own love to Edward Walladmor, she knew under these
circumstances, how it became her to act as the person on whom the
interests and power of the unhappy parent had devolved. She had taken
her resolution at once: all preparations had long been made: all was
ready: nothing remained but the last agitating step: and the heart,
that hung upon the issue, had been waiting till now in trembling hope;
but from this moment, when the castle clock struck one, in fear and
dread suspense.
Two minutes after the clock had ceased, Captain Walladmor heard the
sound of bars clanking at the guard-room door: a foot crossed the
gallery: the bars of his own door were unfastened; the bolts were
drawn; the key was turned in the lock: the door opened: a lamp streamed
in a gleam of light, as the massy door slowly swung back on its hinges:
and Tom Godber entered. How had he been allowed to pass? He carried an
order in his hand which bore the lord lieutenant's signature. But how
obtained or by whom forged? No matter!--a tear, which dropped from
Captain Walladmor's eye upon the paper when Tom put it in his hand,
showed that _he_ at least knew what sweet hand it was that had forged
it.
Tom closed the door cautiously, and rapidly made known his mission.
Captain Walladmor wore no fetters: the keys were presented to him which
would pass every door to the picture gallery, from one window of which
depended a rope-ladder. A fleet horse was stationed in a grove near the
castle: boat-men well armed were on the beach; and, in case of any
sinister accident obliging him to proceed inland, relays of horses had
been placed both on the southern road through Dolgelly, and on the
north road to Bangor Ferry. The main danger, which awaited him, was in
the little guardroom: _that_ passed, it was not likely that any thing
would occur to intercept him. The soldiers had necessarily been
awakened by Tom's passing through: and Captain Walladmor would be
detained some time by fastening and unfastening the two doors. However
all the aid, which could be given, had been prepared. Captain Walladmor
had dressed himself on the day of his trial in a hussar uniform of the
patriot army in which he bore his last commission: this he still
retained; and it was not so unlike the dragoon uniform of Tom, but that
under a dim light it might well deceive the eye of a sleepy man, if any
should chance to be awake. Not to rely too much on that however, Tom
had wrapped himself up in his dark military cloak which he now flung
over Captain Walladmor. This served also to conceal his face, as well
as the sword and brace of pistols with which Tom now presented him.
These arrangements made, Tom conjured him to lose no time--as there was
some suspicion that the sheriff might make a circuit before two
o'clock. But Edward Walladmor had yet one question to put; Where was
Miss Walladmor? The countenance of Tom showed that he anticipated this
question. But he had been instructed if possible to evade it. Miss
Walladmor's heart had told her that Captain Walladmor would seek an
interview with her: and Grace had made Tom understand that he was to
pretend ignorance and fling all the difficulties he could in the way of
it: for the peril of discovery became too much augmented by any delay.
In case of necessity, however, Grace had acquainted Tom with the most
private road to Miss Walladmor's suite of apartments. Unwilling as he
was, Tom now found himself obliged to make this known: for Captain
Walladmor, seeing that he knew, positively refused to move until he
told him.
Now then all was ready: Tom took the prisoner's place; Captain
Walladmor shook hands with him fervently; muffled himself up in his
cloak; took the lamp and the keys; issued upon the gallery; closed and
fastened the prison door; crossed to the door of the guard-room, and
paused for one moment before he opened it. He, who so lately had been
without hope, conceiving himself rejected by Miss Walladmor, had now a
mighty interest at stake: if he passed this room, he might at the worst
die like a soldier; and he should see Miss Walladmor! His firmness was
now tried to the uttermost, and somewhat shaken: his heart palpitated a
little; and he smiled to see that his hand trembled like the hand of a
coward.
He passed in: the men were all stretched on the ground; but one at
least was awake; for he d---d him for making a noise and breaking his
sleep. However he did not raise his head: and Captain Walladmor passed
on, stepping carefully over them, to the opposite door. Here it became
necessary, from the complexity of the fastenings, to set down the lamp
for a few moments; in doing which the cloak fell a little way from the
face of Captain Walladmor, and unveiled a set of features too unlike
Tom's to impose upon the dullest eyes, if any were fixed upon them. A
little rustling was heard at this moment in one corner of the room:
Captain Walladmor was all ear, and looked round. A dragoon was sitting
up on his pallet; his wild black eyes were fixed keenly on Captain
Walladmor; and a smile was upon his face of ambiguous character, which
the Captain knew not how to interpret, but which sufficiently betrayed
that the soldier knew him. The next moment the man sprang up to his
feet, and Captain Walladmor hastily put his hand to his sword. He
advanced; continued to smile; put his forefinger on his lips as a sign
for the prisoner to make no noise; and, coming close up to him,
whispered--"I know you, Captain! But all's right:" and then, nodding
with a confidential air, he said--"Push on."
It was Kilmary, who had sometime back enlisted into the dragoons.
Captain Walladmor opened the door; and passed out--closely followed by
the dragoon. Then, reclosing the door, he descended safely with his
companion, through all the numerous impediments of bolts and bars, to
the picture-gallery. At the very first window that they came to, the
ladder was fixed: this, by way of showing some confidence in him, he
pointed out to Kilmary; and told him, if he wished to be of service to
him, to descend--and prepare the boatmen on the shore. Then, rightly
judging that the man had made himself a party to his escape for the
sake of reaping a large reward, he put into his hand one of the
rouleaus of gold which Miss Walladmor had sent by Tom, and enjoined him
to be secret and vigilant. The man expressed his gratitude; disappeared
through the window; and Captain Walladmor was left alone in the
picture-gallery to trace out the road to his cousin's apartments.
His agitation had subsided: all was silent: and he now felt assured
that nothing could defeat him of his interview with Miss Walladmor. As
he moved down the gallery amongst the portraits of his ancestors, he
paused for a moment before one which fronted him and struck him
powerfully. It was the portrait of a lady, young and of pensive beauty:
the costume was splendid and somewhat fanciful, so that it was not easy
by candle-light to determine the generation to which she had belonged.
But no doubt she had at some period been a member of his house: and
Captain Walladmor was fascinated by the expression; for she seemed to
look down upon him with pitying love.--The expression was not false. It
was a face (but he knew it not) that had for one brief fortnight, some
three-and-twenty years ago, looked down upon _his_ with maternal love.
Some wandering dream of such a possibility passed through his mind; he
sighed; and moved on.
With a cautious step he threaded the labyrinth of passages till he came
to the door which, by certain signs, he knew must be _that_ which
opened into Miss Walladmor's apartments. It stood ajar: he pushed it
gently open: the room was empty: there was no noise; and a lamp was
burning silently on the table. Through this anti-room he passed on
to the next in the suite. This was _not_ empty: and he paused at the
door-way.
How often is the eye fixed unconsciously upon mute inanimate objects
that, if they had a voice, could utter a tale of passionate
remembrances--and to some eye perhaps _do_ utter such a tale![2] This
was the very room from which--about four-and-twenty years ago he, who
now stood at the door, had been borne by the cruel nurse, who had
entered for a moment whilst the unconscious mother slept. There stood
the very sofa (but he knew it not) upon which the unhappy lady had
reposed; and there had she breathed her last, just where the lady in
black, not less unhappy, is seated at this moment. Who is she? Captain
Walladmor's eye rested upon her with a mixed expression of rapture and
of grief which betrays that it is Miss Walladmor.
But one minute before Miss Walladmor had been standing at the door,
intent upon every sound that stirred. Excessive agitation had obliged
her to retire to the sofa: she had seated herself: her beautiful
arms were laid upon a table; her head rested sideways upon her arms;
and for a few brief moments her fluttering and exhausted spirits had
lulled her into slumber. Apparently she dreamed: for she murmured, at
intervals,--"Hush! hush!--what noise was that?--Put out the lights!
They are coming!--Draw the curtains; and tell nobody!--Oh! what a groan
was that!"--Edward Walladmor gazed upon her in silence: her face was
pale but flushed: her person, naturally full, was wasted and shrunken:
her cheek seemed hollow: and a tear was upon his own as he stooped to
kiss it. He sate down by her side, passed his arm tenderly around her
waist: the action awoke her; and she started up in sudden alarm.
"Are you afraid of me, dearest Genevieve?" asked Edward Walladmor. "Oh
no!" she murmured, when she saw that it was her cousin: "Oh no!" and
through her fearful agitation she smiled upon him with tender
confidence, and sate down again by his side.
* * * * *
One hour they had sate, hand locked in hand, and had blended their
tears--their hopes--and the trembling doubts of their youthful hearts.
And Miss Walladmor was beginning to murmur something about the
necessity of parting: when suddenly _that_ summons was uttered by a
more alarming sound. The sound of the castle bell rang out at this
moment loud and fast. Voices were heard. And immediately after
thundering and redoubling peals of blows against the great gate echoed
through the castle-hall.
Captain Walladmor was silent and disturbed: for any sound, whether from
friend or foe, was to them the signal of separation: but the effect on
Miss Walladmor was terrific. She, innocent creature! started up like a
guilty thing: for one moment her countenance flushed with fugitive
colors, and then settled into a deathly paleness: she stood as if
frozen: her hands were raised: her eyes were fixed on the door: and she
looked like a statue of panic before a judgment seat listening for some
irrevocable doom. A second time the hideous uproar was heard: and a
crash, as of some mighty ruin. Captain Walladmor groaned as he gazed
upon the beautiful figure and the sweet countenance before him, both
petrified into marble, speechless, breathless, sightless,--giving no
sign of life but by spasmodic startings, that shot momentarily over her
bosom and lovely mouth: for his sake was she tortured thus--for his
sake, that in a minute--oh! how brief a minute--must part from her,
must see that form--that countenance no more! A third time the dreadful
summons sounded: the hall of Walladmor rang with tempestuous voices:
steps ran along the galleries: the clattering of heavy heels was heard
on the great stair-case; the clashing of swords; tumult, and hurrying;
curses, and pursuit: and suddenly from the upper galleries was heard a
thundering discharge of carbines. That sound awoke Miss Walladmor from
her trance: she kept her eyes on the door--she stretched out her hand,
with the rapidity of flight and terror, to Captain Walladmor--and said,
but with the stifled whisper of one in agony: "Oh!--come--come--come--
come--come!" He rose, and for one moment paused. A presentiment was at
his heart that it were better he should go. Yet he had not the
resolution to refuse _that_ hand which was stretched out to save him,
nor voluntarily to forego the sweet--sweet feeling that he was
protected by Miss Walladmor. In such torments of farewell anguish, what
a heaven to be shielded--if it were but for a moment--by the tenderness
of Miss Walladmor's love! Passively as a child he yielded himself to
her guidance as she led him into her dressing-room. Grace was sitting
there weeping: and rose as they entered. "Run Grace," said Miss
Walladmor rapidly--"Run to the outer door, lock it, lock it: open it
for nobody." So much had sorrow for her mistress absorbed all feminine
feelings, that the poor girl showed no terror--but hastened to obey:
and Edward Walladmor took her hand as she passed, and pressed it to
thank her for her sympathy.
Whence was the uproar? Some eye had detected the ladder: the alarm was
given: at the very same moment the crew of the strange ship from
Antwerp, half blacks and people of colour, remorseless and used to
deeds of violence but devotedly attached to their former commander, had
been met by Kilmary: the partial escape had been reported to them: but
after waiting some time the delay alarmed them; they had pushed on
beneath the walls of the castle; the removal of the ladder confirmed
their fears: and, soon after the sheriff's discovery of the escape, the
attack had been made on the gate: this had given way to the strength
and impetuosity of the assailants: and the great hall with its flights
of stair-case and ranges of galleries, rising tier above tier, was now
filled with slaughter and confusion. The uproar and clamour increased:
like death-notes every sound and every echo smote the heart of Edward
Walladmor: every life, that was lost, was lost for him: and to linger
any longer was to endanger his father's castle and all whom it
contained.
Hastily the parting kiss was given: hastily the parting tears were
shed: they parted as those part who part for ever: and with a
shuddering gesture Edward Walladmor threw open the door which laid bare
the bloody tragedy on the stairs. The hall, of immense altitude, was
filled with surges of smoke: overhead it formed a thick canopy or
awning, with pendent volumes, that here and there were broken and
showed a stair-case slippery with blood and a chaos of black faces,
mulattoes, dragoons, torches, gleaming arms, and accoutrements. Every
gloomy corridor that issued upon the landings of the stair-case,--every
dusky archway, some in utter darkness, some pierced with partial
flashings of the flambeaux, were the scenes of mortal struggle, flight,
or dying agony. Such a spectacle, by the demands which it made on his
firmness and presence of mind, restored Captain Walladmor to the
tranquil composure of the quarter-deck. Miss Walladmor followed him
with her eyes, and stood, with uplifted hands, beneath the archway. He
moved on with his usual self-possession and dignity: he called loudly
in Spanish to his former crew: they knew the voice of their heroic
commander; and sent up a loud huzza of welcome. That sound drew upon
him the attention of the dragoons. One, who stood in an upper gallery,
levelled his carbine and fired: a shot took effect in his left
shoulder, and wounded him slightly: another shot was repelled by a
brazen gird on the glazed cap which he wore; he was stunned however for
the moment, and reeled against the wall. This man in the upper gallery
had been hidden from Miss Walladmor by the moulded architrave of the
door-way near which she stood: but, at this moment, in a lower gallery
appeared the ominous face of Gillie Godber: behind her stood a dragoon.
Once again her eyes glared, and her vindictive voice resounded, in
Walladmor hall. "That's him," she shouted--eagerly laying one hand upon
the arm of the soldier to guide him into the right direction, whilst
with the other she pointed and followed her object as he moved: "that's
the Captain, that's the traitor!" The man watched him calmly as he
passed a range of pillars, and was emerging upon an open space of
gallery. He levelled, and settled himself firmly for his aim:--Miss
Walladmor heard the voice: she saw the action: through a cloud of smoke
she caught the preparation: she shrieked; raised her hands; ran
forwards; with a piercing cry she exclaimed--"Oh no, no, no, no!" and
Captain Walladmor turned, and caught her on his left arm just as the
fatal bullet fled across the hall and sank into her bosom.
The anguish of despair, and the frenzy of vengeance, as of one wounded
where only he was vulnerable, chaced each other over Edward Walladmor's
countenance: with the "inevitable eye" of vindictive wrath, he drew a
pistol in tumultuous hurry from his belt; fired; and shot the man
through the heart. Then, turning to Miss Walladmor, he gazed with
distraction upon her pallid lips, and her black robe now crimsoned with
blood. He seated himself, with his lovely burthen, upon the lower stair
of a flight which led off at right angles from the landing on which he
stood. Miss Walladmor's eyes were closed; and she was manifestly dying.
Half unconsciously Edward Walladmor murmured disordered words of
tenderness and distraction: some sounds fell upon her ear, and she
raised her heavy eyelids. A glare of torches and black faces fell upon
her eyes with the confusion of a dream: shrinkingly she averted them,
and they rested upon what she sought; she saw the features of her
cousin bending over her with the misery of love that feels its
impotence to save. Life was now ebbing rapidly: a gleaming smile of
tenderness fled across her face: she half raised her hands and moved
her lips; Edward Walladmor bent downwards to meet the action: she put
her arms feebly about his neck; whispered something to him; and then,
as he kissed her lips in anguish, her arms parted from their languid
grasp, and fell powerlessly on each side; she sighed deeply; her eyes
closed; opened upon him once again; once again smiled her farewell love
upon him; and, with that smile upon her face, rendered up her innocent
spirit in the arms of him for whom she died.
All strife was hushed by this solemn scene: Sir Charles Davenant had
now appeared; and called off the soldiers from a hopeless contest. The
sailors gently released Miss Walladmor from the arms of her now
insensible lover, and resigned her into the hands of her women. Captain
Walladmor they bore off to their boat: three hours before day-light
they were on board their ship and under weigh for the south: and, as no
pursuit was attempted or indeed possible, the vessel was first heard of
again from the coast of South America.
* * * * *
Thus was the old rhyme fulfilled which Gillie Godber had so often
chaunted, and in a comprehensive sense that perhaps she had not hoped.
"Grief _was_ over at Walladmor." Her own fate ratified the prophecy and
sealed its truth. She also was among the killed: some merciful bullet
had liberated her from the storm of guilt and sorrow which for more
than twenty years had brooded over her brain, and ravaged her heart:
and after so long a period of calamity, during which she had been
rejected from human sympathy, she was again gathered within the fold of
Christian fellowship in the pastoral churchyard of Utragan. On a grey
and silent afternoon a funeral was beheld by those who stood upon the
mountains above Utragan winding through the valleys to the quiet chapel
at their foot. It stopped in a secluded angle of the churchyard at a
spot known to all the country. The grave of the "blooming boy," whose
filial prayer upon the scaffold for his mother's peace of mind had
_not_ been granted, was now opened to receive her; and the mother and
the son, after their long separation, once more were reunited. This
spectacle brought back forgiving thoughts: the pity, which had once
been granted to her, was now restored: and the uncharitable thoughts,
which had attended her when living, gave way before the affecting
memorials of the open grave--suggesting the awful trial which had
overthrown her reason before her conscience had finally given way.
After some weeks of illness Sir Morgan Walladmor was restored to a
state of convalescence; and, by slow degrees and after many months, to
his wonted firmness of mind. He was then able to bear the recital of
all which had happened; and the news which had recently arrived of
Captain Walladmor's death. Large funds had been sent out to him in
South America by Sir Morgan's friends: with these he had raised a horse
regiment: and at the head of this in the decisive engagement of
Manchinilla he had found at last "the death that he was wooing!" With a
miniature of Miss Walladmor pressed to his lips, he was discovered
lying on the ground of the last decisive charge: and Sir M organ was
satisfied to hear that his son had met the death of a soldier and in a
cause which he approved.
That Bertram was twin brother to Edward Nicholas, the reader will long
have suspected. By the letters of Captain Donneraile and the verbal
communications of Bertram it appeared sufficiently that the wife of
Captain Donneraile (at that time a mate on board the Rattle-snake) and
Winifred Griffiths, being the only two women on board, had cast lots
for the appropriation of the children. The happier lot had fallen upon
Bertram: for, though it gave him up to the cruel spoiler that had
pierced the hearts of his parents, yet had it thrown him upon a quiet
life in a humble village of Germany where he was spared that spectacle
of storm and guilt which had pursued the youthful steps of his unhappy
twin brother. Prosperity had left to Winifred Griffiths for many years
leisure for meditation upon the wrongs she had done to Sir Morgan. And
when affliction visited her, it came in a shape that taught her to
measure the strength of parental anguish: she lost her only child; and
on her death-bed, being now left a widow, she had bequeathed to Bertram
the whole sum of which she had robbed his father: upon which sum he had
supported himself at the Saxon university of Halle, But the disclosure
of his birth and connexions, which she had deferred until her latter
moments, had been cut short by death. What she said however had been
sufficient to direct the course of Bertram to his native country. The
discovery, which she had left imperfect, was now completed by others:
and it shed comfort upon the declining days of Sir Morgan--that, from
the amiable disposition and good sense of the son who was thus restored
to him, when matured by more intercourse with the world, he could
venture to hope for increase of honour and generations of happier days
to the ancient house of Walladmor.
FOOTNOTES TO "CHAPTER XXI.":
[Footnote 1: It is not well to move a sleeping lion. Yet, if either
hereabouts or elsewhere in the novel, any disagreeable reader should
find out something or other not quite in the spirit of our manners--or
rather inartificial in the conduct of the story,--let him understand
that it is due to the German author. But might it not have been altered
and adapted to our notions? Let him be assured that all possible
experiments in that way have been used in the treatment of Walladmor.
It is always satisfactory to know that the patient has had every
advantage which humanity guided by skill could suggest. No attention
has been omitted even in this chapter which the nature of the case
allowed. But there _are_ incidents which cannot be altered; as they
would draw after them other alterations; and compel the artist, who had
simply undertaken to "clean the works" of the watch, absolutely to put
in a new "mainspring."--_English Translator_.]
[Footnote 2: A sentiment which has been expressed by Mr. Foster in his
ingenious essays; and most affectingly expressed by a great poet of
this age in the "Excursion."]
POSTSCRIPT.
'_E quovis ligno non fit Mercurius._' This Roman proverb, Courteous
Reader! is adequately rendered by a homely one of our own--"_You cannot
make a silk purse out of a sow's ear._" Certainly it is difficult to do
so; and none can speak to _that_ more feelingly than myself; but not
impossible, as I would hope that _my_ Walladmor will show when compared
with the original. In saying this I disclaim all vanity; for, waiving
other and more positive services to the German Walladmor, I here found
my claim to the production of a "silk purse" simply on the negative
merits of omission and compression. This is a point which on another
account demands a word or two of explanation; as the reader will else
find it difficult to understand upon what principle of translation
_three_ 'thick set' German volumes can have shrunk into _two_ English
ones of somewhat meagre proportions.
The German hoaxer was aware that no book could have a chance of passing
for Sir Walter Scott's[1] which was not in three volumes octavo. A
Scotch novel from Mr. Constable's press, and _not_ in three volumes,
would be as absurd as a novel from _any_ man's press in folio--as
ominous as 'double Thebes'---as perverse as drinking a man's health
"with two times two" (which in fact would be an insult)--as fraudulent
as a subscription of 99_l._ 19_s._ (where it would be clear that some
man had pocketed a shilling)--and as contrary to all Natural History as
that twenty-seven tailors should make either more men or fewer than the
cube root of that number. What is the occult law of the Constable
press, which compels it into these three-headed births, might be
difficult to explain: Mr. Kant himself[2] with all his subtlety could
never make up his mind why no man thinks of presenting a lady with a
service of 23 cups and saucers, though it is evident that she is just
as likely to have a party of 23 people as 24: nay, if the reader
himself were to make such a present to an English grand jury, where the
party never _could_ be more than 23, he would infallibly order a
service of 24: though he must be certain that the 24th cup-and-saucer
was a mere Irish bull--an empty piece of impertinence--a disgusting
pleonasm--and a downright logical absurdity. For a 24th grand jury man
is as much a metaphysical chimaera as an "abstract Lord Mayor," or a
30th of February. Not only, therefore, _without_ reason, but even
_against_ reason, people have a superstitious regard to certain
numbers: and Mr. Constable has a right to _his_ superstition, which
possibly may rest on this consideration--that 3 is the number of the
Graces. But, let the _rationale_ of the case be what it may, we all
know that it is a fact; and a Constable novel in _two_ volumes (being a
mere _ens rationis ratiocinantis_) would have been detected as a hoax
_in limine_ by the very printer's devils in any printing-office in
Europe.
So much was settled then: to hoax Germany, 'Walladmor' must be in three
volumes. But what, if there were not time for the quickest hoaxer to
compose three volumes before the Leipsic Fair? In that case, two men
must do what one could not. But now, as the second man could not
possibly know what his leader was talking about, he must be allowed to
produce his under stratum of Walladmor, without the least earthly
reference to the upper stratum: his thorough-bass must go on without
any relation to the melodies in the treble. Yet this was awkward: and,
when all was finished, the most skilful artist might have found it
puzzling to harmonize the whole. To meet this dilemma therefore, it
seems that the leader said to his second--'Write me a heap of long
speeches upon astrology and Welch genealogy; write me another heap on
English politics: I have some people in my novel (Sir Morgan and
Dulberry) upon whom I can hang them: I shall take care to leave hooks
in plenty, do you leave eyes; and with these hooks and eyes we can
fasten your speeches on my men, when both are finished.' This I
conceive to have been the pleasant arrangement upon which 'Walladmor'
was worked so as to fetch up the ground before the fair began; and thus
ingeniously were two men's labors dovetailed into one novel: "aliter
non fit, Avite, liber." When the rest of the rigging was complete,
the politics, genealogy, and astrology, were mounted as "royals" and
"sky-scrapers;" and the ship weighed from Berlin for Leipsic under a
press of sail.
Now, as to these long speeches and Welch conversations, I know not who
is their author; but in conscience I cannot pay him a less compliment
than this--that,
"From Cain the first man-child
To him that did but yesterday suspire,"[3]
there has not been such another idiot. All attempt at mending them, or
transfusing any sense into their dry bones, was hopeless: translated
into English, bottled, and corked up, they would furnish _virus_
enough, if distributed by inoculation amongst the next three thousand
novels of the English press, to ruin the constitution of them all.
I know not whether, in thus accounting for my omissions, I shall be
thought pleading for my defects, or proclaiming my deserts. In the
German author it was a manifest act of pocket-picking to stuff his
novel with such insufferable rubbish. And it seemed to me that, by
translating it, I should make myself a party to his knavery as well as
to his dulness. However, if any man complains of this omission, for an
adequate "consideration" (as the lawyers say) I shall be happy to cart
the whole of it upon his premises--deliver it in choice English--and
shoot it into the coal-cellar or any more appropriate place.
Mean time for the _public_ use I have thought it as well to leave it
untranslated. And the reader now understands how the novel comes to be
cut down from a three-decker to a two-decker; and upon what argument I
pretend to have produced a 'silk purse.' For undoubtedly the difference
between Walladmor with and without the rubbish--political,
astrological, "and diabolical" (as Mrs. Malaprop says), is as the
difference between a sow's ear (excuse the coarseness of the proverb)
and a silk purse. And I shall think the better of the German author and
myself, as long as I live; of him for the very _ideal_ artist of sow's
ears, and of myself as a most respectable manufacturer of silk purses.
Thus much to account for my omissions and compressions. I am afraid,
however, there will be some readers who will be so far from asking any
apology on those heads, that they will facetiously regard them as my
only merits: and that would be as cruel as Lessing's suggestion to an
author for his table of errata--"_Apropos_, of errata, suppose you were
to put your whole book into the list of errata." More candid readers, I
am inclined to hope, will blame me for not having made larger
_alterations_ in Walladmor: and _that_ would be a flattering criticism,
as it must suppose that I could have improved it: indeed, compliment
never wears so delightful an aspect, as when it takes the shape of
blame. The truth is--I _have_ altered; and altered until I had not the
face to alter any more. The ghost of Sir John Cutler's stockings began
to appear to me; and elder ghosts than _that_--the ghost of Sir Francis
Drake's ship, the ghost of Jason's ship, and other celebrated cases of
the same perplexing question: metaphysical doubts fell upon me: and I
began to fear that if, in addition to a new end, I were to put a new
beginning and a new middle,--I should be accused of building a second
English hoax upon the primitive German hoax. In general I have
proceeded as one would in transplanting a foreign opera to our stage:
where the author tells the story ill--take it out of his hands, and
tell it better: retouch his recitative; bring out and develope his
situations: in this place throw in a tender air, in that a passionate
chorus. Pretty much in this spirit I have endeavoured to proceed. But
it is a most delicate operation to take work out of another man's loom,
and put work in: joinings and sutures will sometimes appear; colors
will not always match. And, after all, it is impossible to alter every
thing that one may think amiss. In general, I would request the reader
to consider himself indebted to me for any thing he may find
particularly good; and above all things to load my wretched 'Principal'
with the blame of every thing that is wrong. If he comes to any passage
which he is disposed to think superlatively bad, let him be assured
that it is not mine. If he changes his opinion about it, I may be
disposed to reconsider whether I had not some hand in it. This will be
the more reasonable in him, as the critics will "feel it their duty" to
take the very opposite course. However, if he reads German, he can
judge for himself: and I can assure him my copy of the original
Walladmor is quite at his service for "a term of years;" having read it
myself as much as I ever mean to do in this life. As to all those who
have not that means of settling the question, or do not think it worth
so much pains, I beg them to rely on my word when I apply to the
English Walladmor the spirit of the old bull--
"Had you seen but these roads before they were made,
You would lift up your eyes, and bless Marshal Wade!"
* * * * *
"A friend of mine" (as we all say, when we are looking out for a masque
under which to praise ourselves or to abuse the verses of any 'dear'
acquaintance)--"a friend of mine" has written a very long review (or
analysis rather) of the German Walladmor in a literary journal of the
metropolis. He concludes it with the following passage, which I choose
to quote--partly on account of the graceful allusion which it contains,
and partly because it gives me an opportunity of trying _my_ hand at an
allusion to the same beautiful and romantic legend:
"Now turning back from the hoaxer to the hoax, we shall conclude with
this proposition.--All readers of Spenser must know that the true
Florimel lost her girdle; which, they will remember, was found by Sir
Satyrane--and was adjudged by a whole assemblage of knights to the
false Florimel, although it did not quite fit her. She, viz. the snowy
Florimel,
----exceedingly did fret;
And, snatching from her hand half angrily
The belt again, about her body gan it tie.
Yet nathemore would it her body fit:
Yet natheless to her, as her dew right,
It yielded was by them that judged it.
_Faery Queene_, B. IV. C 5.
"'_By them that judged it!_' and who are they? Spenser is here
prophetic, and means the Reviewers. It has been generally whispered
that the true Scotch Florimel has latterly lost her girdle of beauty.
Let this German Sir Satyrane, then, indulgently be supposed to have
found it: and, whilst the title to it is in abeyance, let it be
adjudged to the false Florimel: and let her have a licence to wear it
for a few months until the true Florimel comes forward in her original
beauty, dissolves her snowy counterfeit, and reclaims her own 'golden
cestus.'"
This was very well for "my friend" to wish at the time he _did_ wish
it: for that was more than two months ago. At present (December 11)
matters are changed: the true Florimel is said to be just on the point
of embarking at Leith in Mr. Constable's ship: and we must again
consult Spenser to see what is likely to happen in this case to the
false Florimel:
Then did he set her by that snowy one,
Like the true saint beside the image set.
Of both their beauties to make paragone
And triall--whether should the honor get.
Streightway, so soone as both together met,
Th' enchanted damzell vanisht into nought:
Her snowy substance melted as with heat;
Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought,
But th' emptie girdle which about her wast was wrought.
_Faery Queene_, B. V. C. 3.
Shocking! I abominate the omen; [Greek: apeptusa]. What, my two
volumes, post 8vo. "vanish into nought?" Delectable news this!--No, no:
Spenser may be a pretty fair prophet as prophets went in Queen
Elizabeth's days: about the reviewers I hope he is: but prophets, I
trust, have their weak points as well as other people. The _Sortes
Spenserianae_ are no Sortes Virgilianae. And, if my prayers to Neptune
are heard, the case will take a different turn. I wish for no ill luck
to Mr. Constable--his ship--or her cargo. I wish him a safe voyage: but
I hope it is no sin to wish him a long one. It could do no harm to
him--his ship--ship's company--or Florimel, if Neptune would order a
tumbling sea and a good stiff South-West wind to blow them safe and
sound into some excellent harbour on the coast of Norway. In that
harbour, good Neptune, keep Mr. Constable for a month. By that time I
and my snowy Florimel shall have transacted all our business. The two
Florimels will never meet; and the fatal results of 'melting,' and
'vanishing into nought,' will thus be obviated. That done, by all means
I would have Neptune take off the embargo, and let Mr. Constable out.
The German Florimel will have cleared the stage; and no one will
witness with more pleasure than myself the spectacle of the true Scotch
Florimel resuming the girdle which she can have dropped only from
accident or venial negligence.
FOOTNOTES TO "POSTSCRIPT."
[Footnote 1: In here speaking of Sir Walter Scott by name as the author
of the Constable Scotch novels, the writer would be sorry to have it
supposed that he was inattentive to the courtesies of literature.
Whatever disguise an author chooses to assume, it is a point of good
breeding to respect it in any case where there is not some higher
reason for declining to do so. In this case there _is_. It is now
become essential to Sir Walter Scott's honour no longer to speak of the
author of the Scotch novels as 'unknown.' Sir Walter is not under any
necessity of avowing himself the author: but no man who does not mean
to insult him is now at liberty to doubt whether he is. For Sir W. S.
cannot now be supposed ignorant that he has long and universally had
the credit of being the author: and a man of honour would not, even by
his silence, acquiesce in the public direction to himself of praise due
to some other. Consequently it is not possible to make it a question
whether Sir W. S. were the author, without at the same time making it a
question whether he were a man of honour. This single consideration
would have saved a world of literary gossip.]
[Footnote 2: See his Anthropologie.]
[Footnote 3: K. John.]
THE END.
ERRATUM.
In the Advertisement (Vol. I.) for Koenigsburg. read Koenigsberg.