as usual; but when on the following morning Dr. Kent appeared according to
promise in his friend's parlor at the appointed hour, he saw at once that
it had been passed by both in a manner very different from those lately
preceding it. Lucy looked as if some new impetus had been given to her
whole being; too much agitated for happiness, yet with animation glowing
in every feature, while the poor old father's care-burdened brow
proclaimed that anxious apprehension had completely usurped the hours
destined to repose. Dr. Kent really began to fear he had been too violent
in his measures; at any rate, feeling sure, as he said to himself, that
the instrument had been wound up to the striking point, he took his old
friend by the arm, saying he wished to speak to him in the next room on
business. Of course Mr. Lee was no sooner out of hearing of his daughter,
than he began to question his visitor with the utmost eagerness; upon
which the doctor slowly and warily proceeded to unfold his suspicions, or
rather his convictions.
It was curious to observe the changes passing over the countenance of the
hearer as Dr. Kent made this disclosure. Pleased surprise was evidently
the first emotion excited, but painful perplexity soon usurped its place.
'My good friend,' said he, as Dr. Kent finished speaking, 'I am greatly
relieved to find that you think the cause of my child's illness so
superficial; but as to the remedy you propose, believe me, I cannot
consent to it; I do not believe it necessary.'
'Believe it or not, as you will; I tell you it _is_ necessary.'
'But I tell you, Doctor, that my child is a part of myself, my own flesh
and blood; and can you counsel me to become an apostate to my own
principles? It has been my dearest thought that I should one day enjoy in
my own seclusion the reflected lustre of my child's brilliant position in
the world, and that that position should be by the side of one whose
course in life my own ripe judgment approves entirely. A man of Mr.
Lillburgh's principles cannot make her happy; I will not believe that he
can. No, I have always cared for my daughter's happiness; I will care for
it still, by settling this matter for her as I best know how. No; again I
say no; my only child shall not be so sacrificed!' And Mr. Lee stamped on
the floor, as if to add force to his speech.
'When you are cool,' said Dr. Kent, looking any thing but cool himself, 'I
will remind you of your promise, your positive promise; there is Mr.
Lillburgh now approaching the house; ask both your heart and conscience
how he ought to be received. Good morning to you.'
Without stopping to consult either of these counsellors, Mr. Lee hastily
rang the bell. 'We are both engaged, and cannot see the gentleman who is
now coming to the door,' said he to the servant. The doorbell was heard at
the instant, and the servant hastened to obey his master's directions.
The doctor was gone. Mr. Lee, pacing the parlor alone, imagined to himself
all sorts of arguments to satisfy his conscience that he was in the right.
Yet, thought he, my little darling must be made happy; all young girls
love trinkets and finery; I will take her out with me this morning, and
she shall indulge every caprice of her pretty fancy; pretty in every thing
else but fixing itself on that Mr. Lillburgh. 'Pshaw! he shall _not_ have
her; call Miss here,' he continued to a servant who entered at the moment.
The servant returned after a few minutes, saying that he had knocked
repeatedly at her door, but received no answer. Vaguely apprehensive of
something wrong, Mr. Lee hastened himself to her chamber; but how was he
shocked on entering, to find his daughter lying senseless in a swoon near
an open window. Ah! what voice whispered him that she had seen and heard
at that window what her delicate nerves could not endure! He raised her
tenderly in his arms, and having with some difficulty restored her to
consciousness, placed her on the bed. 'Good heavens!' thought he, 'can it
be indeed so serious!' But he could not long speculate upon this subject;
Lucy's cheek, but just now so pale and marble-like, soon began to glow
with fever; her pulse, but just restored to action, now told with momently
increasing hurry that illness had seized the delicate frame; the sudden
revulsion from new-born hope to despair had been too much for it. Poor Mr.
Lee! what did his heart say now? Did it yet upbraid him? Dr. Kent, who had
set out on a course of visits, could not at once be found, and the
wretched father sat gazing in agonizing helplessness on his suffering
child until the decline of the day. What would he have given to live over
again the last few hours! At length the physician appeared: 'Now,' said
he, on accosting Mr. Lee, 'do you think I know my own business or not? Do
I make mountains of mole-hills or not? I knew what I was about, didn't I?'
'Alas, yes!' replied the other, in a self-accusing tone, 'and _I_ did not;
but oh! merciful Providence! is it too late now?'
'Too late? Heaven knows, poor young lady! she'd have been better off if
she'd been an ugly twelfth daughter, with no one to trouble themselves
much about her, instead of a beautiful darling, that must have one
particular sort of happiness and no other.'
'Spare me! spare me, my friend!' implored Mr. Lee.
'I wish you had spared yourself,' grumbled Dr. Kent.
The Doctor was, it must be allowed, a little rough; but he had been so
thoroughly annoyed, after having, as he thought, with unparalleled cunning
and discretion detected the difficulty and provided a remedy, to find his
plans thwarted by an obstinate wilfulness, that he could not help boiling
over a little: his kind feelings however soon got the ascendency; the deep
contrition of the poor father touched his heart, and the lovely girl who
had only increased his interest in her by making good his words, received
from him the most attentive care; nor could he doubt that at length his
advice was appreciated, when he heard Mr. Lee take every opportunity of
mentioning Mr. Lillburgh's name with approbation and kindness, always
regretting that he had made such a mistake as to send him away the last
time he had called at the house.
But who may venture to choose their own time for showing kindness? Who
may, having refused to 'do good when it was in the power of his hand to do
it,' resume at will the precious privilege? Dr. Kent, satisfied with his
friend's repentance, was willing to take any step which might avail to
retrieve the mischief; but when this last would have lured back by
civilities the repulsed lover, he was found to have left home the very day
after his mortifying dismissal.
Let those who only by looking _back_ can see the road by which misery
might have been escaped, while _before_ the vista seems quite closed up,
conceive the deep and agonizing perplexity of the anxious father. His
daughter, comforted no doubt by his frequent recurrence to the subject
near her heart, and the manner in which he treated it, slowly raised her
drooping head; but he, (the entire amende being still out of his power)
hung over her night and day, oppressed by a constant sensation of guilt,
scarcely aware of her partial restoration. For some days this ordeal
lasted; there seemed a risk that the lover might in the bitterness of his
disappointment prolong his stay indefinitely; what availed it then that
the prejudice and ambition which had exiled him were now annihilated? The
eagerly coveted-prize for which he would have sacrificed his daughter's
peace, had turned to ashes in his grasp.
But the door to returning happiness was not completely closed. Dr. Kent's
skill, aided no doubt by Lucy's young confidence in her lover's
steadfastness, kept danger at bay, until one of those opportune accidents
of life, which like many of the best things in it look threateningly until
time takes off the veil, occurred in the shape of a fire on the premises
of the wanderer; which news, forcing him to return, the indefatigable Dr.
Kent at once offered to divert his mind from this untoward circumstance,
by taking him to join the family dinner of his friend Mr. Lee. The sequel
may be imagined; on the strength of this friendly invitation, aided no
doubt by sundry blushes and smiles on Lucy's part, Mr. Lillburgh ventured
to resume his visits, and Lucy's cheek always looked so particularly rosy
on such occasions, that Mr. Lee soon became too entirely happy in the
result, to cavil any longer at the cause of her renovated health and
spirits. Sometimes, also, memory would recall for an instant that terrible
period of anxiety, and then he would treat Mr. Lillburgh with such pointed
cordiality, that before very long that young gentleman was emboldened to
take advantage of his civility, and make some disclosure of his _own_
plans for the fair Lucy's happiness, according to the liberty of speech
young gentlemen generally allow themselves when desirous of securing their
own. Mr. Lee had gone too far to recede, and he soon found himself reduced
to the necessity of resting all his hopes for the gratification of his
favorite fancies and prejudices upon the anticipated course through life
of another generation, whose future being happily so distant, promised him
a long period of hope.
THE FRATRICIDE'S DEATH.
A RHAPSODY.
The following effort of a wild and maddened imagination, rioting
in its own unreal world, is by the 'AMERICAN OPIUM-EATER,' whose
remarkable history was given in the KNICKERBOCKER for July, 1842.
The MS. is stained in several places with the powerful drug, to
the abuse of which the writer was so irresistibly addicted. The
subjoined remarks precede the poem: 'This extravaganza is worthy
of preservation only as 'a psychological curiosity,' like
COLERIDGE's 'Kubla Khan,' which was composed under similar
circumstances; if that indeed can be called composition, in which
all the images rose up before the writer as THINGS, with a
parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any
sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to
have a distinct recollection of the whole: taking his pen, ink and
paper, he instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here
preserved. The state of corporeal sleep but intellectual activity,
during the continuance of which the phenomenon above described
occurred, was caused by a very large dose of opium, and came upon
me while reading the 'Confession of a Fratricide,' published by
the priest who attended him in his last moments. I should warn the
reader that the fratricide, like the author, could not be said to
possess the 'mens sana in corpore sano,' both having been
deranged.'
ED. KNICKERBOCKER.
The universe shook as the monarch passed
On the way to his northern throne;
His robe of snow around him he cast,
He rode on the wings of the roaring blast,
And beneath him dark clouds were blown.
His furrow'd and hoary brow was wreathed
With a crown of diamond frost;
Even space was chill'd wherever he breathed,
And the last faint smiles which summer bequeathed,
Ere she left the world, were lost.
The leaves which wan Autumn's breath had seared
Stern Winter swept away;
Dark and dreary all earth appeared--
The very beams of the bright sun feared
To pursue their accustom'd way.
Mirth's merry laugh at that moment fled,
And Pleasure's fair cheek grew pale:
The living sat like the stony dead,
The rough torrent froze in its craggy bed,
And Heaven's dew turned to hail.
The forest trees waved their heads on high,
And shrunk from the storm's fierce stroke;
The lightning flash'd as from GOD'S own eye,
The thunderbolt crash'd through the startled sky,
As it split the defying oak.
The proud lion trembled and hush'd his roar,
The tigress crouch'd in fear;
The angry sea beat the shuddering shore,
And the deafening voice of the elements' war
Burst terribly on the ear.
I stood by the bed where the prisoner lay;
The lamp gave a fitful light:
His soul was struggling to pass away;
Oh, GOD! how I pray'd for the coming of day!
Death was awful in such a night.
His cheek was hollow, and sunk, and wan,
And his lips were thin and blue;
The unearthly look of that dying man,
As his tale of horror he thus began,
Sent a chill my warm heart through:
'The plague-spots of crime have sunk deep in my heart,
And withered my whirling brain;
The deep stamp of murder could never depart
From this brow, where the Angel of Death's fiery dart
Had graven the curse of CAIN.
'Remorse has oft waved his dusky wings
O'er the path I was doom'd to tread;
Despair has long frozen Hope's warm springs;
I have felt the soul's madness which Memory brings,
When she wakes up the murder'd dead.
'Tell me not now of GOD'S mercy or love!
All hope of pardon is past:
A brother's blood cries for vengeance above;
This brand on my brow will my foul crime prove--
_My_ torment for ever must last!
'Thou needst not tremble; this arm is bound,
And its iron strength is gone;
Despair came down in the hollow sound
Of my fetters, which clank'd on the loathing ground
Where my wearied limbs I had thrown.
'I snatched the knife from my jailor's side
And buried it in my breast,
But they cruelly staunched the gushing tide,
And closed the wound, though 'twas deep and wide,
And _still_ I might not rest!
'Day after day I had gnawed my chain,
Till I sharpened the stubborn link;
But when I had pierced the swollen vein,
And was writhing in death's last dreadful pain,
While just on eternity's brink:
'Even then the leech's skill prevailed;
I was saved for a darker fate!
My very guards 'neath my stern glance quailed,
And with their cloaks their faces veiled
As they passed the fast-barred grate.
'I LOVED! Thou know'st not half the power
Of woman's love-lit eye;
Her voice can soothe death's gloomy hour,
Her smiles dispel the clouds which lower
When Affliction's sea rolls high.
'My heart seemed cold as the frozen snow
Which binds dark Ætna's form,
But _Love_ raged there with the lava's flow,
And madden'd my soul with the scorching glow
Of strong passion's thunder-storm.'
'I told my love: O GOD! even still
I hear the Tempter's voice,
Which whispered the thought in my mind, to fill
My page of crime with a deed of ill
That made all hell rejoice.
'I knelt at her feet, and my proud heart burn'd
When she spoke of my brother's love;
Affection's warmth to deep hate was turn'd;
His proffered hand in my wrath I spurn'd--
Not all his prayers could move.
'At dead of night to his room I crept,
As noiseless as the grave;
Disturbed in his dreams, my brother wept,
And softly murmur'd _her_ name while he slept;
_That_ word new fury gave!
'The sound from his lip had scarcely passed,
When my dagger pierced his heart:
One dying look on me he cast--
That awful look in my soul will last
When body and soul shall part!
'When the deed was done, in horror I gazed
On the face of the murder'd dead;
His dark and brilliant eye was glazed:
When I thought for a moment his arm he raised,
I hid my face in the bed.
'I could not move from the spot where I stood;
A chilliness froze my mind:
My clothes were dyed with my brother's blood,
The body lay in a crimson flood,
Which clotted his hair behind!
'And over my heart that moment pass'd
A vision of former years,
Ere sin upon my soul had cast
It's withering blight, it's poison-blast,
It's cloud of guilty fears.
'The home where our youth's first hours flew by,
In its beauty before me rose;
The holy love of our mother's eye,
Our childhood's pure and cloudless sky
And its light and fleeting woes.
'When our hearts in strong affection's chain
Were so closely, fondly tied,
That our thoughts and feelings, pleasure and pain,
Were one: why did we not remain
Through life thus side by side?
'And my brother's gentle voice then fell
Upon my tortured ear;
Those tones I once had loved so well,
Now wither'd my soul like a flame from hell
With vain remorse and fear!
'All, all that memory still had kept
In her hidden and silent reign,
My youth's warm feelings, which long had slept,
Like a torrent of fire that moment swept
In madness o'er my brain.
'For before me there _his_ pallid face
In death's cold stillness lay;
Even murder could not all efface
Its beauty, whose sad and shadowy trace
Still lingered round that clay.
'Sternly I bent me over the dead,
And strove my breast to steel,
When the dagger from hilt to point blood-red,
Flash'd on my sight, and I madly fled,
The torture of life to feel.
'Since that dread hour o'er half the earth
My weary path has lain;
I have stood where the mighty Nile has birth,
Where Ganges rolls his blue waves forth
In triumph to the main.
'In the silent forest's gloomy shade
I have vainly sought for rest;
My sunless dwelling I have made
Where the hungry tiger nightly stray'd,
And the serpent found a nest.
'But still, where'er I turn'd, there lay
My brother's lifeless form;
When I watched the cataract's giant play
As it flung to the sky its foaming spray,
When I stood 'midst the rushing storm:
'Still, still that awful face was shown,
That dead and soulless eye;
The breeze's soft and soothing tone
To _me_ still seemed his parting groan--
A sound I could not fly!
'In the fearful silence of the night
Still by my couch he stood,
And when morn came forth in splendor bright,
Still there, between me and the light,
Was traced that scene of blood!'
* * * * *
He paused: Death's icy hand was laid
Upon his burning brow;
That eye, whose fiery glance had made
His sternest guards shrink back afraid,
Was glazed and sightless now.
And o'er his face the grave's dark hue
Was in fixed shadow cast;
His spasm-drawn lips more fearful grew
In the ghastly shade of their lurid blue;
With a shudder that ran that cold form through,
The murderer's spirit passed!
SICILIAN SCENERY AND ANTIQUITIES.
NUMBER TWO.
We proceed, in another and concluding paper, as promised in the last
number of the KNICKERBOCKER, to direct the reader's attention to the
_Architectural Antiquities of Sicily_, especially those of Grecian
structure, which will be described in the order in which they were
visited. The first are those of Egesta, or Segeste, as it is sometimes
called; a city said to have been built in the remote age of the Siculi,
and which was destroyed by Agathocles, the potter's son, who reduced all
Sicily two hundred and eighty years before the Christian era. It lies
about forty or fifty miles from Palermo, among the mountains which cluster
round the famed Mount Erix, on which once stood a temple dedicated to
Venus. On leaving Alcamo, which may be called a city of convents, midway
between Palermo and Segeste, the broad slopes of an ample valley lie
before the traveller, which though almost treeless, are waving with beans,
and grain and grass. In the depth, is a river meandering among fragrant
oleanders; on the left, the valley is intersected by a range of distant
mountains; on the right is a beautiful bay of the Mediterranean. Across
the valley the mountains form a green amphitheatre, and high in its
remotest part is seen the Temple of Segeste, but merely as a point of
light and shade upon the bosom of the mountain. The next view, if he takes
our route, is from the ancient Grecian city of Catafimi, itself perched on
a mountain's top. He looks down a deep luxuriant vale, and on a grassy
knoll about three miles distant, lifted from the depths of the valley by
precipitous crags, stands the solitary temple; and if seen as we saw it,
receiving the last golden rays of the setting sun while all below is
wrapped in shade. The next day, would he visit the temple, his road lies
through the valley of which I have last spoken. And surely he never passed
through such an Arcadian scene as this. Almond and orange trees fill the
air with fragrance; his path struggles through the tangled flowers, the
cistus and the blue convolvulus, and he disturbs the nightingale in her
pleasant haunt. At length, emerging from the valley, and climbing the
steep side of a mountain, he stands before the temple. It is a majestic
pile, about two hundred feet in length and eighty-eight in breadth, having
fourteen columns on each side and six at each end, in all thirty-six
columns, of about six feet in diameter; not fluted, as is usual in Grecian
Doric temples, but having a very peculiar form. It stands on a platform
raised on three gigantic steps. All the columns are standing; the
entablatures and pediments are in pretty good preservation, but it is
roofless, and flowers and weeds are now waving where once trode the
white-robed priests. The breezes from the fragrant mountains and the
distant sea, of which it commands a fine view, sigh through it in harmony
with its sad and solitary grandeur.
On a neighboring hill are the vestiges of the ancient city, a few ruined
towers, probably of the citadel, and a theatre, the stone seats of which
are almost entire; part of the sculptured figure of a faun still remains
on the proscenium; wild shrubs shade a great part of the ruin, and where
manhood and beauty once sat, listening to the tragedies of an Eschylus or
Euripides, the adder and the lizards sun themselves. The next ruins we
visited were those of Selinunte, anciently Selinus or Selinuntium, which
lies on the southern coast of the island. This city was founded by a
colony of Greeks about twenty-five hundred years ago. It was taken during
the Carthaginian wars, and in a great measure destroyed by Hannibal the
son of Giscon, four hundred and nine years before CHRIST. The country on
approaching Selinunte is a dreary plain covered with the palmetto. On
gazing toward the sea, when distant two or three miles, the traveller's
eye catches what he would take for a rocky hill, were it not for a few
mutilated columns which rise above the blue horizon. As he approaches, the
stupendous scene of ruin strikes him with awe. There in a mighty heap lie
column and capital, metope and cornice; and the mind is lost in wonder at
the power that raised these giant structures, and the power that overthrew
them. Only one complete column, and that without its capital, and several
mutilated ones, remain standing of the great temple supposed to be of
Neptune; the rest are prostrate; and all lying in one direction, bear
evidence that they have been thrown down by an earthquake.