We must allow the truth of the remark of that immortal poet, whose

commanding intellect and reach of thought, soared far above that of any

“man of woman born;”—“there are more things in heaven and earth than

are dreamt of in our philosophy.” The boastful wisdom of vain-glorious

men, like Voltaire, and such deistical writers, must bow before the

Almighty fiat, “Thus far shalt thou go, and NO farther.” That fiat can

never be violated by man.

As I am about to give the result of some rather extraordinary

circumstances which have either occurred to myself, or to personal

friends with whose names the world is well acquainted, it may not be

altogether out of place to introduce them, by a short notice of those

very singular annoyances to which the family of the Reverend Samuel

Wesley, of Epsworth Parsonage, in the county of Leicester, in England,

were subjected for a considerable length of time.

And it is remarkable that these extraordinary circumstances were not

confined to the experience of one, nor two, nor three individuals, but

to a whole family, consisting of nine persons, besides a neighboring

clergyman; and it is still more extraordinary that they were not made

apparent to one sense alone, but to several, inasmuch as they _heard_,

they _felt_, and they _saw_. Confederacy or collusion appears to have

been out of the question, and, indeed, to have been strictly guarded

against, at the suggestion of Mr. Wesley’s two sons, then absent, whose

suspicions were deeply excited.

Both these gentlemen were men of strong sense and highly cultivated

mind. Samuel, the elder of the two, was at the time an usher in

Westminster High School, and John, so celebrated afterward as the

founder of Methodism, was a student of Christ Church, the most

aristocratic of all the colleges in Oxford.

These gentlemen, in writing to their parents concerning the appearances,

suggested the possibility of collusion, or the work of young men wishing

to get access to the house, to enable them to make love to their

sisters, who were, however, young ladies of unsullied purity and virtue.

Dismal groans were heard, and strange knockings, three or four at a

time. Loud rumblings above and below stairs. Clatterings amongst

bottles; footsteps of a man going up and down stairs at all times of the

night; dancings in an empty room, whose door was locked; and gobblings

like a turkey-cock. Mr. and Mrs. Wesley endeavored _at first_ to

persuade the children and servants it was rats _within_, and mischievous

persons _without_, or that some of their daughters sat up late, and made

the noises as a hint to their lovers; but these ideas soon underwent a

change. Mrs. Wesley supposed she saw a black badger run from under the

bed; and the man, Robert Brown, saw a white rabbit, with its ears erect,

and its scut standing straight up, run from behind the oven. A shadow

might explain the first, and the last might be owing to the propensity

of ignorant persons to exaggerate.

But no such animals had ever been kept on the premises, nor were any

such in the neighborhood. Yet, granting them to have been shadows, _or

an affection of the retina_, these in no degree invalidate the other

parts of the story, which rest on the concurrent testimony of many

intelligent persons.

They cannot be explained by confederacy, collusion, legerdemain, nor

ventriloquism, nor by any secret of accoustics. Such things may be

preternatural, and yet not miraculous; they may not be in the ordinary

course of nature, yet imply no violation of its laws.

The sounds seemed sometimes in the air of the room, and the family could

not by any contrivance make such sounds themselves. The pewter trenchers

were rattled down—the doors clapped—curtains were drawn—the nursery

door was thrown open—the mastiff dog barked violently when the noises

_first_ commenced, but ever afterward, and sometimes before the family

were sensible of its approach, he ran whining behind some of the

company, or into the servant’s bed; and this is a remarkable feature in

the case, because the intelligence of a dog is such, and his ear so

fine, that he is invariably the first to discover the advance of a

stranger—he never shrinks at the approach of man, but becomes fierce

and forward to defend his protectors.

It never came by _day_, until Mr. Wesley ordered a horn to be blown

about the premises, and then it was as frequent in the day as in the

night. After that, none of the family could go from one room to another

without the latch of the room they were going to being lifted before

they entered it. It never went into Mr. Wesley’s study, until he

reproved it sharply, and called it “_a deaf and dumb devil_,” and bid it

cease to disturb the innocent children, and come to _him_ in his study,

if it had any thing to say to him; after which it visited him in his

study frequently, nay, once it _pushed_ him in, almost headlong. At

other times it slammed the door in his face. There is the mother’s

account of it to her son John Wesley, a student at Oxford, his sister

Emilia’s account, his sister Mary’s account, his sister Susan’s account,

his sister Ann’s, the Rev. Mr. Horne’s account, and Robert Brown, the

servant’s account.

All these give long details in letters to the brothers, and other

persons.

On one occasion it seemed as if a vessel full of silver were poured on

Mrs. Wesley’s breast, and ran jingling about her feet, as she was going

down stairs to breakfast with her husband.

The noises continued from the second of December till the end of January

following, nearly two months.

None of the family _felt_ the goblin until Mr. Wesley had called it a

deaf and dumb devil; after that, they were sensible of being _touched_,

pushed forward. Once or twice, when Mr. Wesley, in his clerical

capacity, rebuked it severely, he heard two or three feeble squeaks, a

little louder than the chirping of a bird, but not at all resembling the

noise made by rats.

The details are so perplexing, that Dr. Southey, from whom the account

is in part extracted, does not attempt to explain them. They are better

authenticated than any similar story on record, by persons whose

testimony, on _any other_ subject, could not for one moment be

questioned.

What interest could a quiet, retired, respectable clergyman, of the

established Church of England, have for imposing on the world? His

acknowledged piety precludes the suspicion; he was fast approaching, and

was very near that period of life when he knew he had to account to his

Creator for his truth or falsehood. His testimony is supported by that

of a brother clergyman, equally pious and respectable, who came to

assist in detecting the cheat, if cheat there had been. Can it be for

one instant believed, that if there had been collusion, the ladies of

the family would not in after life have confessed it to their husbands

or children? No less than nine respectable witnesses lived and _died_ in

the belief of its supernatural origin, and at their respective deaths,

they were as unable to account for the mystery as at the time of its

occurrence.

It commenced without apparent or ostensible cause, and terminated with

no other effect than the annoyance of an amiable family.

I shall now endeavor to relate a few remarkable circumstances which have

occurred either to myself or to personal friends, on whose veracity I

place implicit reliance; they are altogether unlike the preceding, and I

think I shall be enabled to show that, by a quiet, cool, persevering

investigation, we may _generally_ be enabled to account in a natural

way, for imaginary preternatural circumstances and appearances, although

the senses may have been many times deceived.

Every story or averment of the sort ought to be taken _quære tamen_, or

_sed quære_, as the lawyers have it—searched, sifted, scrutinized.

In Scotland, the land of second-sight, of brownies, bogles, kelpies, and

fairies, a superstition prevailed when I was a child, which was called

the Dead Candle. It was said that when a person was in the last agony,

in the act of departing this life, a pale blue gleam of light,

resembling the flame of a small spirit-lamp, was seen to flit slowly

across the room and through the passages, and disappear, without its

being evident whence it came, or whither it went. It was said and

supposed to be the soul of the departed, taking its flight for eternity.

Many were the dismal narratives of the dead candle, to which, while a

mere boy, I had listened amongst the servants of my father’s household.

In a certain ancient city in Scotland which I could name, the houses are

very large and very old; they are built entirely of granite, having very

thick walls, in a far more substantial manner than houses of the present

day.

The different floors, or _flats_, as they are there called, are shut off

from the general stair-case, and are let out to separate families, each

having a complete suite of apartments within itself.

In a large antique house of this sort, in the city alluded to, whilst I

and my brother were at school, under the charge of a sister considerably

older than ourselves, there resided in the flat above us, a young lady

who was lying dangerously ill of a brain fever. One night, about eleven

o’clock, during her illness, some time after my brother and I had

retired to bed, and as I lay thinking of the poor girl, I distinctly saw

a faint gleam of light pass across the foot of the bed in which I and my

brother were reposing. The house at the moment was perfectly still, and

the beam of light passed without the slightest sound; its appearance

exactly corresponded with what, in my childhood, I had been told was

presented by a “dead candle.” I was considerably alarmed, but probably

not so much as might have been expected in a boy twelve years of age,

inasmuch as from my earliest years, my parents had endeavored to

disabuse my mind of all superstitious fancies, and the venerable and

venerated clergyman, at whose school I then was, had, I believe, almost

eradicated them.

I watched the light as it slowly moved across the inequalities of the

bed-clothes, over my own and brother’s feet; and as its appearance

recalled all the dismal stories of dead candles, I fully expected the

young person who lay sick had just then expired. But next morning I

found that although she had been exceedingly ill, she was still alive.

On the following night, about the same hour, I again saw the self-same

appearance, in every respect as on the preceding night. The pale beam of

light was clearly and palpably defined, moving slowly athwart the foot

of the bed, as it had done on the former occasion; it was impossible I

could be mistaken—seeing is believing.

The young lady certainly did die that night, about the very hour that I

saw what I then verily believed to be her dead candle. I found it

impossible to divest myself of the impressions with which my infant mind

had been imbued; but what was, perhaps, rather singular in so young a

person as I then was, I concealed the circumstance of seeing her spirit

even from my brother; he was my senior by some years, and I well knew he

would have jeered and laughed at me, if I had told him—I was a trifle

more sensitive to ridicule then than now. My brother had been asleep on

both occasions and did not see it.

Of course, I pondered much on so extraordinary an appearance, which I

then actually believed to be a _real_ dead candle, and it was not long

before I had all doubt respecting its reality removed. On the following

night, at the same hour, I saw the apparition a third time, and—the

explanation shall be detailed in the sequel.

I was indebted to my late eminent friend, Henry Fuseli, R. A., the

celebrated historical painter, for the following story of a spectral

apparition which he himself saw.

During the time of his residence in Italy as a student at Rome, he had

gone on an excursion to Frascati, where he intended to remain all night,

but having changed his intention, he returned to Rome, rather late in

the night. Being fatigued with the journey, which he performed as a

pedestrian, and having gained access to his apartments without calling

for a light, or otherwise disturbing the family in whose house he

resided, he undressed in the dark and retired to rest.

On awaking, between two and three o’clock in the morning, he was

horror-stricken to behold in the dim light afforded by the now risen

moon, the figure of an angel of majestic proportions, arrayed in a loose

flowing robe of radiant whiteness, hovering over the foot of his bed.

He gazed on the seraphic vision with straining eyes, lost in amazement

to observe that, at one moment it seemed to approach with outstretched

arms, as if intending to descend and embrace him, and then gracefully

and slowly recede, gazing all the time with deep, fixed attention on his

countenance.

As far as his terror permitted, he observed that always between the

approach and retreat of the vision there was a pause, as if it

hesitated, and stopped in uncertainty.

All the while the Seraph was palpably floating “in thin air.” The artist

was both astonished and alarmed at so terrifying a phantom, even

although the purity of its robe threw a halo of glory around it

exceedingly Corregiesque.

In that Catholic country, where visions of saints are seen, and

apparitions visible, the phantom, to a good Catholic, would probably

have been hailed as a manifestation of Divine presence, a Beatification

of the blessed Virgin.

Not so, however, to a sturdy Swiss—a Protestant Master of

Arts—educated in the school and church of John Calvin, the

contemporary, school-fellow, and friend of Lavater, Hess, Bodmer, and

Bretinger.

But notwithstanding all this, it shook his nerves to their inmost

extremity, and made each particular hair like quills; and as he once

said to me with deep-toned emphasis, “_it made my marrow cold_.” For a

length of time he continued spell-bound, with his large blue eyes

riveted on the vision as intensely as his own sublime Hamlet glares on

the ghost of his father. Those in this country who remember the

penetrating eyes and look of the late lamented Dr. Follen, can easily

picture to themselves Henry Fuseli, for there was a striking resemblance

between them.

Becoming at last overpowered by the agony of his fears, and almost mad

with excitement and apprehension, involuntarily and sudden as lightning,

he sprung from the bed, and with outstretched arms clutched at the

angelic form, as it came floating majestically toward him, and seemed to

court his embrace.

Alas! poor youth, he little dreamt what an angel is composed of—the

beatific form was evanescent; he caught the _radiance_, but it was

unearthly—fleshless—boneless—a shadow, “an unreal mockery;” like

Ixion, he had embraced—that which shall appear hereafter.

The next incomprehensible circumstance which I shall relate, occurred to

myself. When I first became a resident in the Temple, “eating” my way

into the technicalities of English jurisprudence, I rented chambers,

consisting of a suite of three rooms and a spacious entrance hall, in

one of those ancient brick tenements, which have what I believe

architects call a well-staircase, built of solid timber from bottom to

top, intended to last, as they have lasted, for ages. Each suite has two

doors, a strong outer one, with a very substantial lock, and an inner,

which can also be locked, should occasion require, or when the occupant

is absent on circuit.

They are snug, cosy places—for bachelors—these Inns of Court, whether

it be in the Temple, the most ancient of all, or Lincoln’s, Grey’s,

Clement’s, Clifford’s, Furnival’s, Serjeant’s, or Staple’s Inn.

Most of them have extensive squares, besides gardens of great extent,

with fountains and jets of water playing under old ancestral trees. All

are extra parochial, and the whole have peculiar privileges—let the

limbs of the law alone for _that_! There are gates at the various

entrances, strong enough to defy the force of a battering-ram, which are

carefully barred, bolted, and locked, every night at ten o’clock, and

none, save inmates having chambers, are admitted after that hour.

The benchers, barristers, and students, resident within the precincts of

the Temple, number from one thousand two hundred to fifteen hundred

persons, which will give some idea of the extent of the societies of the

Inner and Middle Temple. Respectable elderly females, called

laundresses, who mostly reside in the neighborhood, come every morning

to clean the rooms, light the fires, prepare breakfast, &c., &c.

That glorious spirit, Charles Lamb, was a Templer, at the time I speak

of, and rented chambers not far from my own. Perchance I may hereafter

give some reminiscences of dear Elia.

The first night I slept in the Temple was the most melancholy and

uncomfortable which, in the whole course of my life, I remember ever to

have passed.

It was toward the end of the long vacation, during autumn, when most of

the profession were in the country. I felt a solemn awe steal over me as

I locked the outer-door upon myself in a suite of large, lofty, gloomy

rooms, some centuries old, which were wainscoted and paneled from floor

to ceiling, with fifty, perhaps five hundred coats of paint, that had

_once_ been white.

Melancholy and heavy did the hours pass, until I lit my reading lamp,

and took up that detested collection of Commentaries, the text book of

lawyers; but I soon laid it aside in disgust. A Black-snake could not

have been more loathsome to me than was Blackstone, that dismal,

solitary, sad, and heavy evening.

Finding it impossible to read, or write, or do any one thing in the way

of study, I passed through the hall into the very dark bed-room, and my

uncomfortable fears, or fancies, induced me to take down a long antique

rapier, which I had hung up at the head of my bed, and I was silly

enough to plunge it underneath, in case any assassin or robber might be

lying perdu under it. So “stern was the dint,” that I had some

difficulty in withdrawing the point from the wainscot, into which it had

penetrated on the further side of the bed. Ridiculous as it now seems, I

continued this practice of pinking the panels for some nights afterward.

There were five or six floors in the house, on all which were suites of

chambers. Mine were on the floor which, in this country, would be called

the second; in England it is known as the first. On entering from the

courtyard, you ascended _three_ stone steps into a long passage, in

which were a set of chambers, directly underneath mine. At the end of

the passage you ascended a short flight of _nine_ steps to a landing,

and then went up _nine_ more, making in all eighteen steps from the

entrance hall. These eighteen steps landed you close to the door of my

apartments. I am thus particular for very good reasons, to be stated

presently.

It was during the second, or possibly the third night after I had taken

possession of the rooms, between ten and eleven o’clock, that I heard a

_very heavy_ foot coming along the paved court. Whoever it was, ascended

the three stone steps, came along the entrance hall, up the stairs, and

made a sudden dead stop at my door. I waited, expecting every moment to

hear some one knock, but all was silent, the intruder stirred no

further. I went softly, a tip-toe, to the door, listened, put my ear to

the key-hole, but could hear no one move or breathe.

I thought it very singular, and stood considering what I should do.

After remaining ten minutes breathless, with the light in my hand, I

came away, thinking as there were two stout doors between us, each of

which had strong patent locks, the person outside would find it a

difficult matter to get at me, if so disposed; but I kept a lamp burning

all night, and had my rapier ready at hand.

The following night, after I was in bed, I distinctly heard from the

window of the room, which opened upon the stair-case, the same heavy

tread coming up the stairs, and again it stopped close to my door. What

can the man want haunting my door? thought I. I lay long immovable, with

my head raised from the pillow, scarcely drawing my breath—but I could

hear no further movement. Finally, I concluded it might be some drunken

man, who, having no home, had somehow contrived to get into the Temple

before the gates were closed, and had probably since then been sitting

under the cloisters, and was now come to lie down and sleep on the mat.

I determined to get up early in the morning and give him into the

custody of the porters at the gate-house.

As the Temple bell struck four, I rose, dressed hastily, and went to the

door; but the bird was flown—no trace of him was there. I thought I

_might, possibly_, have been deceived, although the sound of the heavy

tread coming up the stairs, and stopping exactly at my door, was so

distinct, and the death-like stillness of the house at the time, seemed

to preclude the possibility of mistake; but to guard against any chance

of future deception, I counted the number of steps on the stairs, and

found them to be eighteen, as I have stated.

Although I watched attentively the next night, the unwelcome footsteps

were not heard; but on the succeeding one I heard them

distinctly—counted the sound of the foot on the three stone steps—the

walk along the passage—then the first nine risings—the turn—and the

succeeding nine steps landed him close to my door. No mistake now,

thought I to myself. I was burning with rage at the fellow’s

pertinacity, and going boldly to the door, whipt it open in a twinkling,

and found—what thinkest thou, reader? Exactly that which the Dutchman

caught in his famous bear-trap—“nothing at all.” Not a soul was there.

And yet that a heavy man _had_ entered, _had_ come along the hall, _had_

ascended the stair, and _had_ stopped at my door, I felt as morally

certain as I could have been of any thing whatever. I could have sworn

to it, because on this last occasion the night was remarkably still, so

still, indeed, that I could distinctly hear the pattering of the drops

of water, as they fell into the basin from the _jet d’eau_ in the

quadrangle of Garden Court. I had heard the footsteps on the pavement of

the court-yard, _before_ the person entered the door. The adjoining

houses were too large and too solid for a sound from them being audible,

and I had now several times heard the same footsteps, agreeing in every

particular, and always stopping at my own door. I was completely baffled

and at fault.

I tried to account for it in every way I could think of, and failed in

all. So I determined, the next time I heard the mysterious unknown, to

dash down stairs and seize him in the act of entering from the

court-yard. I had become excited, nervous, and was perpetually on the

watch. Sooner than expected, my curiosity was amply gratified; for the

very next night, as I patiently sat on the watch, scarcely drawing my

breath, I heard the well-known sounds,

“Tramp, tramp, along the court,

Stump, stump, into the hall.”

I bounded down the stairs like a tiger on his prey, and as I leapt into

the passage, the frightful unknown was discovered—the mystery cleared

completely and satisfactorily. I could scarcely believe my own eyes; but

as I had expended much valuable time, and much deep thought in

endeavoring to elucidate the mystery, I shall beg permission to leave

the solution, and the reader to ponder, think, weigh, and determine, as

_I_ had done. He shall be gratified hereafter; _and I doubt not will

wonder at much as I did_.

* * * * *

This affair of mine was, however, mere child’s play, compared with the

long series of mysterious occurrences which happened to a very dear

friend, whom I shall call Mr. Crofton. He is yet alive, and I hope he

will long live to enjoy the happiness and felicity to which he is

eminently entitled. He is a gentleman who has been long and favorably

known in the literary world as author of many popular and highly

embellished works; and he is, moreover, in common parlance, as good a

fellow as ever stirred a tumbler—and many is the _recherché_ goblet

compounded by his delicate hand, which I have sipped, listening to his

sparkling wit, and most interesting conversation long years ago. This

gentleman being then a bachelor, and of very studious habits, occupied

lodgings in a remarkably quiet house, in a quiet street, leading from

Holborn to Bloomsbury Square, where he had a large, elegant, richly

furnished room, with a spacious bay-window, and excellent attendance; in

short, he found himself as comfortably situated as is possible or

compatible for a bachelor—_to_ feel. There was no other lodger in the

house—no children—no pet-animals—no parrot—and no piano. The family

consisted of a respectable old gentleman who had a respectable old wife,

both of whom were strictly

“Sober, steadfast, and demure.”

The female attendant was one of those sweet, artless, rosy-cheeked

damsels, which I verily believe no country on the face of the earth can

produce equal to England, in the same station of life.

Mr. Crofton was eminently happy. In process of time, however, as is

generally the lot of humanity, where people begin to feel themselves too

happy, he was somewhat annoyed by frequently finding his books and

papers in disorder, his pens split up to the plume, and his ink

sputtered or overturned.

Now, Mr. Editor, I am very sure _you_ can sympathize with my friend in

these petty annoyances. Did you never feel your bile, if you _have_ any,

bubbling up, on returning to your sanctum, after having left your papers

and proofs in apple-pie order, finding them all knocked into pi, as your

affectionate friends, the compositors, would call it?

But Mr. Crofton being a gentleman of an uncommonly amiable disposition,

said little, in fact nothing, about it, believing it to be occasioned by

the maid, in her assiduity to keep his room “tidy.”

As, however, repeated and increased annoyances of this kind will, in

time, ruffle the sweetest temper, Mr. Crofton one day, in the mildest

possible manner, ventured to tell the damsel it would much oblige him,

if she would be kind enough always to leave his papers and books exactly

as she found them. To his surprise, the girl burst into tears, and said

she was very glad he had named it, as she had now an excuse for giving

her mistress warning to quit her service.

On inquiring her reason for conduct which seemed to him rather

extraordinary, she said, “There is something wrong about this house,

sir. I never touch your books or papers, and sometimes when I am

cleaning the room, I hear whisperings near me, sometimes groans and

moanings, as of a person in distress. I have searched every corner, but

can discover nothing. I am sure the house is haunted by the spirit of

some woman who has been murdered.”

Mr. Crofton was more surprised at this recital, than he chose to

express, as he had himself reason to suspect there was some secret

mystery to be cleared up; but he comforted Marianne with the assurance

that, if she would say nothing about it, and would endeavor to arrange

the room whilst he was taking his breakfast in the bay-window, he would

lock the door when he went out to his office, and carry the key with

him.

This plan proved extremely acceptable to Marianne, because Mr. Crofton’s

kind, gentlemanly manners, and very handsome Christmas present, had

probably made a deeper impression on her simple heart, than she was,

perhaps, aware of, or would have been willing to admit.

Soon after this arrangement was entered into, Mr. Crofton was seized

with a complaint to which he was occasionally subject; it was, in fact,

a fit of the gout; and during the first night of his confinement to the

house, as he lay reading, with his candle on a small round-table, which

stood close by the bed-side, he noticed that the light was becoming

paler and fainter; when looking up from his book, he was astonished and

amazed beyond the power of utterance, to observe that the table was

moving, silently and slowly away, and by degrees gliding from the

bed-side.

At first he could scarcely believe his own eyes, he fancied he was

laboring either under an optical delusion, delirium, or hallucination of

the brain, induced by his illness; but on reaching out his hand to

_feel_ whether the table was absolutely removed, he became sensible,

beyond all doubt, that it had not only moved away, but was then silently

traversing the room. He watched its slow progress along the floor with

intense emotion, and noticed that, when it reached the right hand side

of the fire-place, its usual stand, it became stationary.

The effect of this unaccountable movement of the table, combined with

previous circumstances, operated on Mr. Crofton’s corporeal system, just

as if he had swallowed a dozen papers of James’s powders. At first he

became cold as lead, but when the table stopped, and the candle appeared

to be burning blue, and he was every instant expecting _something_ would

appear, he burst into a violent perspiration, and the fear of taking

cold prevented him from getting up to investigate the cause of the

table’s volition; so he continued gazing and perspiring until the

candle, which was nearly burnt out, dropped down into the socket; and as

the light alternately flickered up or fell, he again saw the table, _of

its own mere motion_, making its way back toward the bed-side, as slowly

as it had retreated, and then it stopped at the exact spot from whence

it had taken its mysterious departure, of which he made certain by

rising on his elbow, and raising the slide in the candlestick; and just

at that moment he fancied he heard a mouse run along the carpet; yet the

idea of a mouse moving a table backward and forward, across a large

room, was too absurd to be entertained for a moment. In a state of most

painful perplexity and suspense he passed the first part of the night,

but at last fell asleep; and on awakening late the next day, he found

the copious perspiration which he had been thrown into, had had the most

salutary effect on his gout. When he got up, he minutely examined the

table; but after a long inspection of it, he failed to discover the

slightest cause for its extraordinary perambulations backward and

forward along the room.

A short time after this unaccountable movement of the table, a friend

came to breakfast with him one morning, and as the maid servant could

not with propriety be in the room to arrange it, during the time his

friend was there, they went out together, leaving the breakfast equipage

on the table, to be removed, and the room put to rights, at leisure.

When Mr. Crofton returned in the afternoon, Marianne’s handsome

features, as she let him in, indicated that all was not right. She

followed him up stairs.

“Oh, sir,” were her first words, “I have been _so_ frightened; I’ll

never enter this room alone again.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Marianne?”

“The matter, sir! Why, as soon as you and Mr. Brooke went out, sir, I

set about cleaning the room, and directly heard those dreadful

mutterings all around me, with _such_ sighs, and _such_ groans, and

weeping and distress, and as I was removing the ashes from under the

grate, one of your books was thrown at me with _such_ force, I do

believe if it had hit me, it would have been the death of me. The house

is haunted by evil spirits; I am sure some horrid murder has been

committed.”

“Do you hear any thing of this in any other of the rooms, Marianne?”

“No, sir, only in yours, sir; and I cannot think of staying longer in

such a shocking place—_there_, sir,” said she, starting, “did you hear

_that_?”

Now Mr. Crofton did hear _something_, at the very moment, but the noise

was of a vague, confused nature, difficult to comprehend. It annoyed him

exceedingly, however, as he found it impossible to account for or

explain the cause of the disturbances, but he was possessed of an

indomitable courage, and affected to treat it all lightly, so begging

the girl to say nothing about the matter, nor by any means to think of

leaving her place; he put a guinea into her hand, and told her to

continue as good and virtuous a girl as she had ever been, and to fear

nothing.

Always on his return home in the afternoon, the girl was in the habit of

lighting the fire, and having done so, one evening, Mr. Crofton

immediately afterward went out to call on his friend Mr. Priestly, the

bookseller, with whom he staid and took tea. He came home about nine

o’clock, and on unlocking his door, was horrified to behold a creature,

which to all outward appearance was the devil, standing on his cloven

hoofs at the farther side of the table, engaged in munching some pears

which Mr. Crofton had left on a plate. The creature, or being, was large

and black, it had horns, which were sharp and slightly crooked, and an

enormous beard. This frightful apparition stared Mr. Crofton full in the

face, with a pair of large, black, oblique, glittering eyes, the glance

from which seemed to pierce his very soul! And still it kept its place

at the table devouring the fruit. There was a peculiarly offensive

effluvia in the room—it was not exactly brimstone, but equally nauseous

and strong. From the extremely offensive odor which was emitted,

however, it was soon apparent that the intruder was no other than an

enormous he-goat! but how it had obtained access to the room was

inexplicable. Mr. Crofton hesitated not a moment what was to be done; he

instantly relocked the door, went down stairs and procured a musket,

which having charged with buck-shot, he almost immediately, or in less

than five minutes, as he told me, returned to his room, fully determined

to shoot the hateful beast, but what was his astonishment on entering

the door, to meet, instead of a goat, a very fine, large bashful

Newfoundland dog, wagging his bushy tail in the most friendly manner.

Mr. Crofton could scarcely credit his own eyes—the room still smelt of

a goat, but there was no mistake about the noble, honest dog! Now it

happened that Mr. C. was uncommonly fond of dogs—who that has a heart

is not? So he laid aside the musket and all hostile intentions, but he

made an immediate examination of his canine visiter’s paws, to verify

whether there was not among them a cloven foot! The scrutiny was

satisfactory, but whether it was dog or devil, he was allowed to escape,

and happy he seemed thereat.

The mystery seemed to thicken, and Mr. Crofton now felt really uneasy.

He spoke to his landlord on the subject, but it was quite clear from the

old gentleman’s artless manner, and the real alarm he manifested, that

he was entirely ignorant of the cause of the disturbances.

He sent for a police officer, and had every part of the room and the

whole house carefully examined, but no clue to a discovery could be

obtained.

To guard against future surprises, Mr. Crofton procured and kept a brace

of pistols, constantly loaded, at the head of his bed, and directed

Marianne, as she lighted the fire, to put the poker between the bars, in

order that it might be always red hot.

Now let me assure you, Mr. Editor, that a red hot poker is a potent

weapon in the hands of an angry man.

I can of my own personal knowledge vouch, that from some singular

crotchet in his head, arising probably from apprehension of personal

danger, the late eminent antiquary and author, Francis Douce,

invariably, during the winter months, kept _his_ poker in the fire! I

observed he always took it out and laid it aside to cool, whenever I

entered his noble library to settle a Shakspearean difficulty, or

resolve a disputed point of antiquity; and I noticed, that from long

service in the fiery ordeal, his poker was half burnt away, and become

very short, and as thin as a skewer toward the point; in fact it bore a

striking resemblance to some men’s love—it was become—“too hot to

hold!”

Neither dog nor devil ever again made their appearance in the room; but

one afternoon, when Mr. Crofton had caught a cold, and was lying down on

his bed, he was startled to notice the closet-door near the fire-place

slowly and cautiously opening—and at last, the apparition of a human

head, upon the upper shelf of the closet! Its large, round, black eyes

were fixed on his, exactly like those of a rattlesnake intent on its

prey. The head had a horrible indescribable grin, or ghastly smile. For

a second, surprise at the apparition paralyzed him, but his natural

intrepidity rallied the next, he seized a pistol, and pointing it at the

head—which still grinned—he pulled the trigger, but the weapon flashed

in the pan; he instantly seized the other, but before he could point it

and draw the trigger, the door closed, and the pistol only flashed like

the former. Mr. Crofton sprung from his bed, seized the red-hot poker,

rushed to the closet and whipt open the door, but the head had vanished,

whither did not appear; he thrust the poker against the back of the

closet, between the shelves, where the head had appeared, but the brick

wall was solid.

The clew was, however, at last found; it was plain and palpable all the

annoyances had proceeded from that closet. Detection soon

followed—ample and astounding—but as its details lead back to, and are

connected with the fiercest and bloodiest period recorded in history, I

shall for a short time defer the explanation, whilst I relate the

circumstantial account of a spectral vision which appeared to two

intelligent persons, at or near the same moment of time. I give it on

the authority of a lady of the highest respectability, who is connected

with some of the first families in the city of New York. She related it

one evening, when ghost stories and second-sight—fruitful themes—were

the subject of discussion; and I was not a little surprised to learn, at

the same time, that there is a family in New York, consisting of two

maiden sisters, of high respectability, natives of New Jersey, who are

subject to those mysterious, melancholy and terrible visitations,

identical in every respect with what is known in the Highlands of

Scotland, as the “second-sight.” Equal ridicule has been attached to the

second-sight as to Mesmerism and clairvoyance; the very name is almost

enough to raise a smile, yet I am assured that the ladies in question,

could, if they chose, relate circumstances of a character so dismal,

that they would change smiles into tears, and ridicule into awe.

It ought to be remembered that the fearful visitation of the

second-sight is involuntary to the party who is subject to it. It is

sudden, unexpected, and unforeseen at the time of its occurrence, and

renders its victim miserable and melancholy to the last degree.

Of this I can vouch, that my friend, the late James Miller, M.D., of

Islington, near London, has often assured me he knew from boyhood a

servant of Sir John Sinclair’s, who resided at his castle near Thurso,

in Caithness, who was one of these pitiable beings, and the doctor

related to me many of the man’s fearful and fatal predictions, which

came to pass, literally, under his, the doctor’s, own personal

knowledge, when he was resident in that part of Scotland. But I digress.

The vision related by the lady I allude to, I considered so singular,

that I requested the favor of her to write it down for me. She kindly

complied with my request, and the following is a verbatim copy of her

letter. The names, of course, I suppress.

“Dear Sir,—The vision or dream which you wished me to relate, is, as

nearly as I can recollect it, as follows: James, the second son of Mrs.

G****, who lives in the south of England, was suddenly awakened one

night, by the apparition of his elder brother Charles, who seemed

visibly to approach his bed, dressed in his night-clothes, looking pale

and death-like. Charles was at the time absent in the West Indies, and

when the family last heard from him, was in perfect health, so that

James had no anxious fears respecting him, and although the vision made

a powerful and painful impression on his mind, as it was likely to do

from its vividness, he determined to think no more of it, but compose

himself again to sleep. He had, however, been so much startled by the

unearthly look of his brother, that he found sleep impossible, and

therefore rose to take a few turns about his room, in order to shake off

the melancholy impression, and he remarked, on looking at his watch,

that it was then just three in the morning!

“When the usual breakfast hour arrived, he went down to the parlor,

where the family were assembled. His mother appeared exceedingly

dejected, and complained of violent headache, which she accounted for by

saying she had been much shocked during the night, at having been

awakened by the appearance of her eldest son, who seemed as if alive in

her room, and to approach her bedside in his night-clothes, looking at

her with fixed eyes, and a countenance so pallid and corpse-like, that

she could not get rid of the impression and belief that he was either

dead or dying!

“James and her other children rallied her upon her superstitious fears

and faith in dreams and visions, and endeavored to dissipate her fears.

James appeared carelessly to inquire, whether she knew at what hour of

the night the vision appeared, and was answered it must have been a few

minutes before three in the morning, as she heard the hall clock strike

three directly after the spectre vanished.

“Nothing further was said on the subject, but as soon as James left the

parlor, he went to his own room, and wrote a minute account of his own

and his mother’s dream or visitation, mentioning the precise hour and

day of the month when it occurred.

“He sealed up the paper and asked his eldest sister to certify in

writing, that he had delivered that sealed paper to her that day.

“Both of them had almost forgotten the circumstance, when, about two

months afterward, a letter arrived from Jamaica, conveying the sad

intelligence that their brother had died there, at the very

moment—allowing for the difference of time—of his death-like

appearance to his mother and brother!

“Mr. James G**** was a student of medicine at the University of

Edinburgh, and resided in the same house in which I lived, at the time

he related to us the circumstances. I regret that although only a few

years have elapsed since I heard him relate it, the exact dates which he

then communicated have escaped my memory, and I will not attempt to

supply them. He was a young gentleman of undoubted veracity, and I

believe the circumstances to be true as stated.

“_New York, 22d December, 1840._”

In remarking on this communication, I will not say it is impossible that

the extraordinary circumstance of two persons having each the same

_dream_—I will call it—at the same hour, and that both believed they

were awakened by the phantom of a distant relative, may not be explained

by natural causes, as some things of a similar character were attempted

to be explained, under the word “spirit,” in an early edition of the

Encyclopædia Britannica, but in the absence of _facts_, what do such

attempts amount to? Probabilities and possibilities!

But in this instance, although the young man’s death may have been

imprinted on his mother’s and brother’s imagination—from apprehension

of his fate, we will say, by reading or hearing of the ravages of yellow

fever—which, however, is not alluded to in the lady’s interesting

letter, the singularity is, how the dream, or phantom, should come to

visit _both_—at precisely the _same hour_—and dressed exactly _alike_,

and that so vividly, as to awake them in fear and terror!

It would be folly to attempt a rational explanation—such things are

beyond human comprehension. We may speculate, but we can never penetrate

the veil under which the Divine Will has shrouded such mysteries; yet I

have not the shadow of a doubt that in some future state of existence,

they will, to those who walk aright in this, be made clear and manifest,

and we will then, possibly, wonder how near, how very close we have been

allowed to approach the threshold, without being able to cross it!

“_Thus_ far shalt thou go, and _no_ farther!”

I well remember one lovely starlight night, walking on the terrace in

front of Somerset House with Henry Fuseli, and whilst speculating on

futurity, he told me that he and Lavater had made a solemn agreement,

that whichever should die first, would, if permitted, make himself

manifest to the other, in some way. Lavater died many years before his

friend, but Mr. Fuseli informed me with a sigh, he had never, in any

way, waking or dreaming, made himself manifest. It is, perhaps, useless

to mention that Fuseli was a classical scholar of very high attainments,

and I know that he was a firm, undoubting believer in the immortality of

the soul. He died at the ripe age of 86, whilst on a visit to the

Dowager Countess of Guilford, and whilst on his death-bed, within an

hour of the time his immortal spirit took its flight for a better world,

he had an impression that he heard soft sweet music in the room, and

faintly inquired of the countess, why she had placed musical snuff-boxes

on the bed. Yet the dying man never had an ear for music, and could not

distinguish one air from another—music was all perfectly monotonous to

him—but the music which he imagined he _then_ heard was to him

heavenly. This impression on the _ear_ seems altogether different to

that made on the visual organ of many persons on the approach of death.

Fervently do we pray that such impressions as visited the dying hour of

Henry Fuseli, may equally be the blissful harbinger to eternity of all

such good men.

The above story related by a lady, coincides in some degree with a

visitation which occurred to Sir Walter Scott and his lady, at

Abbotsford, who were both awakened by some extraordinary noise on the

premises. He says in a letter—“The night before last, we were awakened

by a violent noise, like the drawing of heavy boards along the new part

of the house. I fancied something had fallen, and thought no more about

it. This was about two in the morning. Last night, at the same witching

hour, the very same noises occurred. So I got up, with Beardies’

broad-sword under my arm, but nothing was out of order, neither could I

discover what occasioned the disturbance.

“I protest to you, the noise resembled half a dozen men putting up

boards and furniture, and nothing can be more certain than that there

was nobody on the premises at the time.”

It subsequently appeared, that _at the exact hour mentioned_ by Scott,

Mr. George Bullock died suddenly in London. He was a particular friend

of Sir Walter’s, and had been very active in planning, and procuring

articles of antiquity and old furniture for the embellishment of

Abbotsford. The circumstance appeared to have made a strong impression

on Sir Walter’s mind. But I think I could show—as I certainly

believe—that the death of Mr. Bullock, at the time when Sir Walter

_and_ Lady Scott _fancied_ they heard noises, was merely a coincidence.

A near and dear relative of my own, a manufacturer, whose dwelling-house

adjoined the factory, was so successful in business, that his wife,

according to the superstition of the period, thought he was assisted by

fairies during the night! The excellent lady and her maid servants from

hearing the sound of the machinery all day, thought they heard the “good

people” making the same noise in the night; and, as I was told, they

more than once went slyly and softly to the factory-door, which they

opened with the greatest caution, in order to gratify that laudable

curiosity, _falsely_ attributed to the fair sex!—they longed to _see_

the little folks whom they _heard_ so well, but the moment they peeped

in, that instant _the fairies_ ceased! The accuracy of the _eye_,

exactly as in the case of Scott, destroyed the deception of the _ear_!

But Sir Walter’s eye, in consequence probably of irregularity of the

stomach, was sometimes more at fault than his ear. Once, while crossing

the hall at Abbotsford, he believed he saw Lord Byron standing before

him, but the imaginary form soon faded into a plaid cloak hanging on a

screen. At another time, on his way to Abbotsford, he supposed he saw a

shepherd in his plaid, standing on the moor a short distance from the

road, but the man vanished as soon as Scott came opposite to him, but

reappeared after he had passed a little way. Sir Walter turned his horse

to ride up to the man, who again vanished, into a pit as he supposed,

but on searching for it, he found it was merely an optical delusion, the

ground was all smooth and firm.

It is now high time I should enter the Confessional, and render to the

reader—if he or she have followed me so far—my account—detailing the

mystery of the “dead candle,” and sundry other marvels contained in this

article.

Imprimis, then. Of the annoyances to which the family of Mr. Wesley were

subjected, I have little further to add. The story must stand or fall on

the degree of credibility attached to the witnesses, but, as Doctor

Southey says, it is better authenticated than any similar story on

record.

In reading the letters written from Egypt, by the sister of Mr. Lane,

author of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, she details a

series of annoyances to which she and her brother’s family were

subjected, in a house at Cairo, supposed to be haunted by an ’Efreet, or

evil spirit, in consequence of a murder having been committed in it.

Some of the events closely resemble those which befel the family at

Epsworth parsonage, consisting of knockings, and other annoyances, at

all hours of the night, which eluded investigation; none of the native

maid servants would remain in the house over a week, and although it was

in every respect a delightful and most desirable residence, Mr. Lane and

his sister were reluctantly compelled to abandon it.

My own detection of the “dead candle” arose in this way. On the third

night of its appearance, the beam of light was as clearly defined to my

sight as it had been on the two preceding nights, but it was now passing

across the bed clothes more _quickly_, and was accompanied by a faint

_rustle_, and that sound flashed the truth upon my mind in a moment. It

was my own sister crossing the hall, and the ray of light from her

_live_ candle shining through the key-hole of the door!

I had formed a boyish admiration for the young lady who was ill, and

apprehension for her fate, and thoughts of her, kept me much longer

awake than usual. On the two first nights my sister crossed the hall

slowly and noiselessly, in order that she might not disturb the dying

sufferer, but now that the sad catastrophe was over, she moved quicker,

and I could _hear_ her!

* * * * *

The ANGEL—whose radiant effulgence had excited such fearful emotion in

the mind of Henry Fuseli, was neither more nor less than the white dress

of an Italian lady, which his hostess, not expecting his return from

Frascati before the following day, had hung up on a cord stretched

across the room, to dry, and its slow floating movements were occasioned

by the air from the window, which was left open to facilitate the

drying.

Fatigued by his long walk, he undressed the moment he gained his own

apartment, and retired to rest without observing the signora’s robe, or

that the window was open. The moon had risen whilst he was asleep, and

was faintly shining on the white drapery when he awoke, and the effect,

to an imaginative mind like his, gave it the appearance of animation.

The whole story, as related by him, was glorious—but who _could_ relate

a ghost story, or _any_ story, like Fuseli? His choice and powerful

language, and his _acting_ of the scene, were inimitable. He was equally

successful in any comic story, although in a dryer way; even his

description of the manner in which the present Lady Jersey catches a

flea! was irresistible. What action, what emphasis, what a look. You

could have almost sworn you saw the indignant flash of her ladyship’s

bold, brazen eye, and her long nose, when she discovered the little

blood-sucker upon her cream-colored skin. The recollection of it is so

perfect at this moment that I cannot resist a laugh as I write; but the

_manner_ of the thing I must defer until I give my Reminiscences of

Harry Fuseli, in which I shall try to detail some of his literary

combats at the table of Joseph Johnson, where he vanquished the great

Porson, with his, Porson’s, own chosen weapon, Greek.

But his angelic ghost story was absolutely terrific; after having worked

one up to the highest pitch of excitement, the denouement came so

entirely unexpected. With a low, sepulchral tone, he would say, “I was

mad with apprehension; and in an agony which I could not repress, I

sprung up like a maniac, clutched the apparition in my arms, and came

down _like a dog_, and broke both my shins on a d—d chair!—instead of

an angel, I grasped a white gown, perhaps smock, of some Italian

trollop.”

* * * * *

The invisible and mysterious personage who had, as I supposed, so

pertinaciously haunted the door of my chambers, was a large, heavy man,

employed as a porter in a shop near Temple Bar. His wife was a

respectable laundress, who, unknown to me, occupied the basement of the

house. The entrance hall was rather dark, and as I had just taken

possession, I had not observed a narrow passage which, by proceeding a

few steps beyond the foot of the stairs leading _up_, led to a staircase

going _down_, having exactly the same number of steps, and, in

consequence of the whole staircase from bottom to top being a species of

conductor, the sound of footsteps going down was conveyed up so

perfectly, that to any one sitting in my rooms it was impossible for the

nicest ear to tell, whether the person was coming up or going down; and

the floor of the basement being of brick, the sound was lost the moment

it was trodden on.

I was perfectly dumb-foundered when I saw the big fellow pass quietly by

me without taking the least notice; and I felt a mighty inclination for

a fight, in consequence of his having so cruelly disappointed and mocked

my determined belief in a ghost. But, like Mr. Van Buren, “sober second

thought,” induced me to retrace my steps, and walk quietly up stairs,

somewhat like a president walking down, when he is unexpectedly turned

to the right-about. My Andrea Ferrara was hung upon its peg, from which

it was never afterward removed, during all the unhappy years I

afterwards passed as a Templar in those old-fashioned rooms. What

reminiscences do they not now revive?

* * * * *

The vexatious annoyances to which my friend, Mr. Crofton, was so long

subjected, arose from an admirably concocted scheme of female waggery,

in which a youth bore a principal part; but to render its details

intelligible, it is, as formerly hinted, necessary to digress a little

into history.

In the year 1794, during the frenzy excited by the French Revolution,

when every throne in Europe was shaken to its centre, a society was

formed in London for the pretended _reform_, although it was in _fact_

for the overthrow of the English Government.

It was called the London Corresponding Society for Constitutional

Reform, and it was in secret correspondence with Robespierre, and other

monsters of that terrible tribunal which never spared, until it had

deluged France with the blood of 1,022,351 of its best citizens. Start

not, reader, in doubt, there is no mistake in the figures—ONE MILLION,

TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE victims, male and

_female_, adults and _children_, perished under the axe of the accursed

guillotine, or other wholesale murders, perpetrated during the Reign of

Terror.

May its bloody horrors be a lesson and A WARNING to nations, in all

future time, to beware or the perils attending MOB LAW!

The London Corresponding Society was headed by Hardy, Horne Tooke,

Thelwall, and other turbulent spirits of the time. But by the firmness

of the Prime Minister, William Pitt, son of the Earl of Chatham, the

leaders were apprehended in their own homes, during the night, and tried

for high treason. But the society, although with greater privacy, still

held its sittings, and in order to defeat the government police, one of

its agents hired two houses adjoining each other, where, with

extraordinary care and secrecy, a secret passage was constructed between

the two, by means of closets, so artfully contrived, that at a moment’s

warning the members could escape with their papers from one house to the

other, and elude the chance of capture.

In the room where the traitors met, the back of the closet was built up

of bricks, resting on strong shelves, which were fixed to a door of

strong plank. This door, with its shelves and brick back, swung on well

oiled pivots. The bricks were whitewashed, and were firmly attached to

the shelves, which were furnished with China and crockery, coated with

fine dust, to make it appear, on looking into the closet, as if it had

not been opened for a long time.

The closet in the adjoining house, resembled it exactly, except in the

arrangement of its contents. The back or swing door, on that side next

to the committee-room, had strong secret bolts, which kept all firm in

its place.

The two houses had passed into the occupation of different persons,

years after the society ceased to exist, without the secret of the

“corresponding” closets having been divulged; but at the time when Mr.

Crofton occupied his apartment, the servants of the adjoining house had

discovered the secret of the bolts and swing door, in consequence of a

brick coming loose, in driving a nail, and with that amiable curiosity

generally _attributed_ to the fair sex, and probably from envy of her

beauty, and of hearing some compliments paid to Marianne’s graceful

figure, they determined on the species of pantomime which they so

successfully put in practice, being mainly aided in it by a youth of

great inventive genius, and a very dare-devil at mischief.

The disarrangement of the books, papers, pens and ink, with suppressed

mutterings, groans, weepings and wailings, can therefore be easily

understood.

The movement of the table was effected by means of a long piece of

string, of the color of the carpet, which the young genius first passed

round one of the table-casters, then around the foot of the bed, and the

two ends of the string brought through the closet under the door, by

pulling either one end or the other, he could withdraw or advance the

table at pleasure; when the manœuvre was complete, he let go one end,

and, in nautical phrase, “hauled in the slack.” The withdrawing of the

cord was what Mr. Crofton took for a mouse.

The goat was obtained from the stable-yard of the George and Blue Boar,

a well-known Inn on the other side of Holborn, in the immediate

neighborhood; and the dog was one which the lad had enticed from the

street. Being perfectly cognizant of every thing said or done in Mr.

Crofton’s apartment, they overheard the conversation about the pistols

and poker, and found it necessary to be rather cautious. They were

perfectly aware of Mr. Crofton’s out-goings and in-comings, and during

his absence, the charges were withdrawn from his pistols, and plugs of

lead, covered with cotton, introduced, and firmly rammed down. When the

girl stealthily opened the closet door, she was not aware Mr. Crofton

was at home, and the appearance of her head on the shelf, in the act of

reconnoitering, led to the detection and exposure of the whole thing;

for the landlord was so exasperated, he had them all up before the

police. Ample apology, however, was made, and the joke, from its

ingenuity, forgiven. But the party-walls of both houses were restored to

their original condition, putting an effectual stop to all further

_correspondence_, or tricks, upon Mr. Crofton; but I believe it may have

been this very extraordinary affair, that induced him to write one of

his most popular works; and I only wonder he was never induced to work

up the details of the mystery (which I have so imperfectly attempted)

into a tale, or drama, of exciting interest. With reference to my

chambers in the Temple, when I spoke of the unhappy years I had passed

in them, I alluded to the contrast which they presented to the felicity

which a married life soon afterward conferred on—

An Unbeliever in Spectral or Supernatural Appearances.

* * * * *

PICTURE OF TASSO.

“Are there not deep, sad oracles to read

In the clear stillness of that radiant face?

Yes, ev’n like _thee_ must gifted spirits bleed,

Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!”

Those poet-eyes, with inspiration burning—

Half wild, half pensive, still they haunt my dream—

Eyes, in whose depths the soul of passionate yearning,

Intense unrest, and high devotion gleam.

The Spirit of the Ideal, throned in glory,

Shines with superior brightness on that brow:—

O, laurel-crowned! thou famed in song and story,

How sweetly float thy spell-strains o’er me now!

Doth this rapt, earnest, mournful face resemble

In all its shaded lineaments thine own?

Did the soft love-vow on that proud lip tremble—

Yet fear to deepen to a tenderer tone?

And the rare love that haunts thy magic numbers—

Didst thou not hope to make such worship thine?

The passionate paleness on thy cheek that slumbers,

Tells that thy heart was but Love’s lonely shrine!

The love of Genius!—with its dream and vision—

Its hopes and fears—vainest of earthly things.

Only in spiritual visitings Elysian

Are realized the bard’s imaginings.

Meanwhile thine image rises oft before me,

With memories that to mine own heart belong;

And as I muse on thy life’s hist’ry, o’er me

Comes the conviction, O, sad son of song!

That the celestial gift can never, _never_

For all the _unrest_ it hath cost atone;

The Unattained still haunts us _here_ forever—

_There_, in _thy_ world, vain yearnings are unknown!

ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

* * * * *

THE MUSICIAN.

A TALE FOUNDED UPON FACT.

BY HENRY COOD WATSON.

I was traveling outside the coach from B——, early in the year 18—,

after a season of fashionable dissipation, tired with the important

nothings which eke out the existence of the beau monde, and determined

to seek relief in change of scene, from the daily increasing ennui that

oppressed me. I am not one of those who travel from Dan to Beersheeba

without seeing any thing worthy of attention. To me the face of every

human being is a book, in which strange and eventful histories are

written legibly by the hand of time and passion, and with the assistance

of my somewhat active imagination, I often fancy that I can trace the

actions and events, the hopes and fears, that have made up their sum of

life. It is a pleasing and grateful task to watch the face of youth; to

trace love, hope, and confidence, in every line of the countenance.

There is not to be seen one doubt, one look of distrust in this the

brightest page of life’s eventful history.

My companions were a young girl, a free and generous-hearted sailor, two

ordinary, every-day travelers, and a pale, and to all appearances, an

intellectual youth. I make it a rule, when thrown into the company of

strangers, if but for an hour, to make that hour, by conversation, pass

as pleasantly as possible; and as I was likely to remain with my present

companions for some hours, I determined to draw them into a familiar

discourse. Our sailor was a character such as Dibden loved to

draw—light-hearted and careless to a fault. At each place, while the

horses were being changed, he would dismount, and insist upon treating

every one around, spending his hard-earned cash without a thought for

to-morrow. He kept us in a roar of laughter for some hours, by the

strange tales he told. One, I remember, but it was so interlarded with

technical terms, which he explained at the time, that I fear it will

lose half its gist by their omission, and the substitution of my

shore-going phraseology.

“We were cruising off the Bermudas,” said he, “in the summer of 179-.

And a blazing summer it was—so hot, that all the sugar on board was

turned into hard bake, and the purser’s skin was so dried, that he kept

his tally on his face for the rest of the voyage; to say nothing of the

captain’s dog, Toby, who was sitting on deck one day, when the pitch in

the seams melting, he was held so fast by the stern, that he was unable

to cut and run, and was in consequence exposed to the heat of the

varticle sun, whereby he caught what the parley-voos call a ‘coop do

sol’s heel,’ which, I suppose, means a ‘kick from the sun’s heel.’

Howsomever, that’s as may be. Well, as I said before, we were sailing

with a fine steady breeze, at the rate of eight knots an hour, when, all

of a sudden, we felt ourselves brought up, as it were, with a round

turn. All hands immediately jumped on deck; the skipper came up in a

devil of a hurry, swearing that we had struck upon some hidden rock. We

sounded but could not find the bottom. The wind was rising and filled

the canvas almost to bursting, but not an inch did she move. The skipper

was flabbergasted, and the master, an old Northman, said that he thought

we were over some magnetical rocks, and, according to the doctrine of

substraction, they would draw all the iron out of the bottom, and we

should fall to pieces. When, all of a sudden, it strikes Harry

Dare-em-all—ah, by the by, he was a fellow—bathing one day in those

very seas, he saw a shark as big as a whale coming right upon him. Away

swims Harry; down he dives, and up he comes again, but Mr. Sharkey, was

close upon his heels, and at last had turned over, ready for a grip,

when Harry darts under him, and gives him such a kick in the small of

his back, just to help him on the faster, that he broke him in half. The

gentleman was hauled on board, and to this day I uses one of his

grinders for a baccy-stopper. Well, says Harry, I shouldn’t wonder if

it’s one of them feline animals of the shark species—for you see Harry

knew something of fishogomy—as has bolted the junk we threw astarn to

catch them beggars with. Away we all flies to the starn, and sure

enough, there was the rope as taut as nothing. We pulled and hauled, but

it was no go; so at last we gave it a turn round the capstan, and all

hands were ready to toe it merrily round; but devil a bit of a round

could they go, for the more they pushed the more he pulled. He must have

had pretty tough muscle to stand against a stiff breeze and the whole

ship’s crew—but he did, and beat us too. So at last the skipper ordered

the carpenter to cut the rope—and so he did. But, my eyes! no sooner

was it cut than away goes the barkey at such a rate, for two hours, that

we thought we should have lost every stick. Howsomever, the shark got

nothing by his move, for I met one Bill Jones, some years after, which

had been cruising in them seas, and he says that there is a atomy of a

shark, as goes diving about like one demented, with an iron hook, and a

hundred fathom of cable hanging to his jaws, so that he hasn’t disgested

’em yet.”

The young girl, when she started, was weeping most bitterly, and sobbed

as though her heart would break. Being a stranger, I dared not intrude

upon her sorrow, but I longed to speak comfort to the poor wanderer. To

take one shade of grief from a sorrowing heart, affords me more sincere

pleasure, than all the luxuries of a winter campaign, however brilliant

it may be. The sight of her grief brought on a train of thought, and

suggested the following lines to my mind:—

What makes thy bosom heave, thy tears o’erflow,

Say, hast thou ever felt the throb of wo?

Has sorrow ever come, fair girl, to thee,

To dash thy cup of joy with misery?

But such is life!—too sure the brightest sky

That ever beamed to bless a mortal eye,

Must pass away;

The sweetest flower that ever yet has bloomed,

By Nature’s law, is all too early doomed

To know decay.

Has she, the idol of thy friendship, proved

A traitress, where she fondly vowed she loved?

Or is it but affection’s tear,

That falls at leaving friends so dear?

Grievest thou to leave this lovely scene,

Where all thy early joys have been,

Thy youthful hours?

Where thou hast frolicked through the days,

With childhood’s many pleasant ways,

In summer bowers?

What, weeping still? believe ’tis folly

To give full way to melancholy.

Youth should be as an April day,

Then smiles should chase those tears away;

For if in youth deep sorrows come,

Oh, where shall mem’ry find a home,

In after years,

To linger on, and raise a smile,

Amidst the world’s deceit and guile,

And other cares?

Say, hast thou left thy parents dear,

And need their smiles thy heart to cheer?

For all these woes there is a cure—

They never can ’gainst Time endure.

If one of these is not thy grief,

Then cannot Time bring thee relief;

For should it prove,

What now I deem thy cause for cares,

There is no cure in after years

For hopeless love.

I accosted the youth, whose appearance so interested me, and found him

intelligent, but of a wildly romantic turn of mind, on which fancy might

work her wildest spells. He told me that he was a musician, and

proceeding to the metropolis to get his works published. Without friends

or connections, I greatly feared—for I know something of these

publishers—that his speculations would prove but a source of annoyance

to him, without yielding him any profitable return. I offered to give

him letters of introduction to my friends, to introduce him to my circle

of acquaintance, and it was extensive; in short to be a patron to him in

his outset of life. But, with expressions of fervent gratitude, he

modestly declined my assistance, saying, “that he had determined to rely

solely on his own resources, to depend upon no one, but to let whatever

talent he possessed make a road to fortune for itself.” How confident is

youth! How trusting in its own powers. He fancied that he knew, and was

prepared for all the delays and disappointments endured by those who

have to dance attendance upon the all-powerful publishers. However,

while we were taking refreshments, I wrote a note to one of my most

powerful friends, an amateur devotedly attached to the study of music,

and prevailed upon him to accept it, and made him promise to use it if

he did not find fortune so smiling as he expected. I gave him my address

when we parted, and begged him to remember me when he was in need of a

sincere friend.

Shortly after this, business called me to the Continent, and, being

there, I was induced to make a tour of Europe, which detained me abroad

some years. On my return I made inquiries about him; but all I could

learn was, that he had published many beautiful compositions, and was

looked upon as one whose genius promised greatly for the future. At one

time he seemed fortunate and prosperous, but for some months past he had

disappeared; no tidings could be learned of him, and it was supposed

that he had left London.

I had not been in town many weeks, when one evening a person brought me

a note from Ernest Moreton, requesting me to visit him immediately. I

followed the bearer of the message, through many low streets in the

neighborhood of Fleet street, until we arrived at a narrow,

wretched-looking court. In a small, dark room, without furniture, on a

miserable couch, lay my poor friend. He pressed my hand, and a sad smile

passed over his wan, emaciated features, as I seated myself upon the

only chair in the room, by his side. Poor fellow! he was, indeed, sadly

changed! From the confident and aspiring youth, eager in the pursuit of

fame, and strong in hope, I beheld him shrunk to the miserable occupant

of a sick, untended bed. Where now are all those bright delusive dreams

which thy too warm fancy wove? Have they not all faded into nothingness?

Alas! do they not always fade?

“My friend,” he said, “I see by your countenance that you think me much

changed since our parting. I am also aware of it; but you do not think

me so ill as I really am. Dear sir, I feel that I am dying, and rapidly

will life’s flame be extinguished. But do not mourn for me, my friend;

it does not grieve me now. There was a time, indeed, when youth’s

delusions were strong within me; when ambition and love struggled for

mastery, and quite bewildered my too excitable imagination with glorious

dreams of the future; that thoughts of death seemed to fall upon my soul

like a blight. But the hand of God has been upon me; sorrow has

chastened the heart that transient prosperity had too much elated. In my

home, and, as you see, not very happy home, without a friend, without

money, food, fire, clothing, in sickness and desolation, the folly and

vanity of my pursuits have come most forcibly upon me. I am much

altered; though nothing can banish from my breast the old enthusiasm for

my profession, yet ambition has now no place there. You see, even here I

have written much; but of what avail, further than as a relief to my

overburthened heart? Music holds still her spell upon me, but hope has

quite departed. I am dying of no disease, save that of a broken heart. I

have for months been wasting away; as hope upon hope has taken flight,

deeper and deeper has sunk the barbed arrow of sorrow into my heart, and

life has ebbed away, purely from the want of a wish to live. To you, my

generous friend, in this last hour I call. With you by my side, I would

breathe my last breath. I have not power to say much more. A short

account of my life you will find amongst my papers; read it, and you

will learn by what means I was brought to this despairing state. My

music you will burn; and my last request is, that you will, if it be

possible, have my body placed by _her_ side. Do not leave me, my friend,

for the world is passing rapidly away.”

I took his thin, white hand in mine, and the slight pressure it returned

showed how weak he was. He lay still as death; but ever and anon a smile

would illumine his countenance, as if the memory of some happy hour shed

its bright influence over his latest moments. And he would murmur the

name of Adeline, in accents so tenderly bewailing, that it melted me to

tears. “My poor girl,” he said, “thy broken heart is now at rest; and I

am coming, freed from my many sorrows, to lie me down beside thee. I

have never smiled since you left me—my smiles were all buried with

thee, Ada, in the grave; but I am happy, now, for I come to join thee in

heaven! The tomb separated us, but the barrier is passed, and hope is

mine again.” As morning approached, his sentences grew fainter and less

frequent. As the dawn appeared he sunk into a quiet slumber, which

proved, as I feared, the sleep of death.

And thus died one, who, under happier circumstances, might have lived

honored, prosperous, and happy. Who, for want of some true friend to

regulate his wild enthusiasm—to save him from himself—perished like a

beggar, in a hovel, when his talents ought to have secured him an

independence. He belonged to a class of beings little understood or

appreciated by the world. The bright imaginings of the poet’s mind can

be understood by the million, for he writes in a language that is common

to all. But the musician pours forth his thoughts through a medium so

refined, so exquisitely delicate, that it requires a fancy as chastely

imaginative, a mind as richly stored with bright thoughts, a soul as

open to the liveliest and warmest emotions, and stored with feelings of

depth and intensity, with emotions which have a mixed derivation—the

effect of a devoted love and reverence of mistress, parents, sisters,

friends, of nature, and of God—it requires all this to comprehend his

dreamings, or to enter in any degree into the emotions of his soul. The

poet has a thousand means by which he can place his works before the

world. Publications are appearing daily wherein their works would be

gladly received; the musician has but one—the music publisher. Those

who have had any dealings with them, can bear witness how generously

disinterested they are. No young composer can “get any thing out,”

unless he pays for it, and then, as it is of little consequence to the

publisher whether it sells or not, it is of course allotted the least

prominent place in the shop; and, saving the immediate friends of the

author, if he has any, none know that the work is in existence. Or, if

too poor to indulge in the luxury of publishing on his own account, he

offer to _give_ some works, for the sake of their publication, such a

one is sure to be chosen as will offer the least evidences of his

capability. So he has no resource but to watch and wait upon these

mighty men, gathering a harvest of sorrow and bitterness of heart;

living through disappointments and hopes deferred, and dying in poverty

from neglect and a broken spirit.

I paid the last offices of friendship to my departed friend, and he

rests quietly beside her he so dearly loved in life. There are persons

who seem to be born for each other—whose souls own the same emotions,

the same passions excite them, the same destiny impels them—their fates

seem to be linked together by preordination. It is a strange fact, but

of the many instances which have come under my personal observation, of

hearts apparently fore-doomed for each other, in not one case has

happiness resulted. It appeared as though they were only to love and to

be wretched. So in this instance it proved; for they were to each other

as a sorrow, even while most devoted. But they rest, now, where sorrow

cannot reach them.

I shall give the short history nearly as I found it.

On entering London, my friend’s first care was to procure lodgings in

one of the most humble streets of the metropolis—the best suited to his

narrow means. When the excitement of the change of scene had subsided,

he began to feel that he was alone. “I,” to use his own words, “wandered

about the first few days, in an ecstasy of delight; but chilling

sensation of loneliness crept on apace; I felt myself alone amidst the

thousands; I looked around, and sought in vain for one familiar face to

give a smile of recognition; not one among the million that surrounded

me, would return a friendly pressure of my hand; there were none to

smile at my prosperity, to weep at my misfortunes, or to tend me should

I sink upon a bed of sickness. I have walked amidst the loneliest scenes

of nature, where not one sign of mortality intruded; I have wandered

alone upon the barren heath; have buried myself within the bosom of the

deepest wood, have singly stood upon the lofty mountain’s brow, but

never felt that I was truly, utterly alone till now.” After a few days

he began to present himself to the notice of the publishers. He was

received with the utmost politeness by many, and was requested to bring

some of his works, that they might judge of their merits. He left them,

flushed with hopes of success, and returned with some of his best

compositions, but, unfortunately, the gentlemen were from home. Again

and again, and yet again he called, until at last, when hope was

departing, he was honored by a hearing. The songs were “beautiful,

charming,” but they feared that they would not sell—this symphony was

too long, that required altering; these harmonies were too full, that

passage was too difficult; but if these, not perhaps faults, only

publishing faults, were altered, they would get them out for him. He

left them much depressed, and felt lowered in his own opinion—for a

young and sensitive mind is depressed or elated by the good or bad

opinion of the world. To cut and hack his songs to pieces went sorely

against his feelings. The very symphonies which the buying public would

not play, contain most frequently the most refined and choice thoughts,

and to omit these were to give forth a false impression of his talents.

But the mighty fiat had gone forth, and altered they must be.

Accordingly, he in a measure re-wrote them; but it was then found,

without a hearing, that their printers were employed for many months to

come. Thus, after keeping him months in continued suspense, he was in

every case put off with some palpable lie, or some frivolous excuse.

These annoyances, nay, misfortunes, are told in few words, but the time

of their duration was some eighteen months.

For some months his funds had been getting alarmingly low; and at this

period he was forced to part with much of his wardrobe, his books, and

other articles. This continued until he had parted with every thing that

would procure the means of existence. “I left my home in a state of mind

bordering upon insanity. I walked rapidly, with a scowling brow, through

the crowded streets, and felt the demon of despair brooding over my

heart. I knew myself to be disunited from my kind by misfortune; none

could feel sympathy with the starving musician; he is a being apart from

the rest—let him die! I had wandered unconsciously out of the city, and

found myself in view of the river. My soul seemed to start with joy at

the sight. Deliverance was at hand—total oblivion was within my grasp,

eternity already seemed gained, and I rushed on wildly to the banks of

the Thames. For awhile I remained gazing abstractedly upon the darkly

flowing stream, till the floodgates of memory opened upon my soul; my

happy, joyous childhood, my mother’s fond and tender smile, my sister’s

pure and deep devotion, seemed to call me back to earth. But with my

childhood, memory’s pleasures ceased. I recalled my youth passed amidst

strangers, in the cold and calculating world; the severing by death of

all those sweet endearing ties, and finally, my manhood, barren in aught

save misery, without parents, sisters, friends, starving and desolate,

my talents unappreciated, my hopes blasted! What had I to live for? Oh!

welcome then the oblivion of thy wave, dark river! One plunge, one

struggle with mortality, and the world, with its petty, though maddening

miseries, is lost forever. Oh, if it be a sin for the soul to resume its

immortality, yet surely it were better thus to die, having some hope of

forgiveness, than starving, die. Parting with life inch by inch;

enduring days of mortal agony, till the overburthened soul, cursing its

Maker, dies despairing. I took out my pocket-book, to pencil a short

note to the owner of my wretched home, begging her to accept my small

stock of worldly goods as a remuneration for her slight pecuniary loss,

when, as I opened it to tear from it a leaf, a letter fell upon the

ground. I snatched it up; a gleam of hope flashed upon my soul. It was

the letter of introduction given to me by my generous friend of a day. I

felt the hand of heaven had interposed between me and damnation. The

magnitude of the crime I was about to commit came fully before me; my

feelings softened, my soul melted into tears; and on my knees, with a

heart bowed down by misfortune, and filled with feelings of remorse and

gratitude, I poured forth my prayers and thanks to God.”

He returned home once more, with a heart humbled and trusting. In the

morning he waited upon the gentleman to whom the note was addressed, and

was received in the kindest manner. He led him to speak of his

prospects, and asked why the letter had not been delivered before. My

poor friend then related how he had relied upon his talents, and

recounted all the misfortunes and disappointments which had befallen

him. Mr. Singleton seemed much touched by the recital, and begged him to

dine with him that day, and in the meantime he would think how he could

assist him. With expressions of gratitude Moreton took his departure.

The events of the party had better be told in his own words. “On

reaching Mr. Singleton’s house, I was introduced to his daughter, a

creature so lovely, that to gaze upon was to adore. Of the middle

stature, with a form of the most perfect symmetry; her face was oval,

with a complexion neath which the warm blood came and went, as warm

tints play upon the snow-crowned Alps. An intellectual brow, sad and

contemplative; with eyes of great beauty, bespeaking a depth and

intensity of passion, whose wildest fires were hidden, and were only to

be roused by the emotions of the soul. There was some unutterable charm

about every movement of her form or features which entranced me. I felt

at once that I had found my destiny, and therefore did not attempt to

place any restraint upon my feelings. I could not deny myself the luxury

of drinking in love with her every look or word. I felt myself urged

toward her by an irresistible impulse, and did not, therefore, attempt

to check it. In the evening, Mr. Singleton begged me to publish a song,

and dedicate it to him, and said that he should like me to overlook the

musical studies of his daughter. Had the proudest fortune been placed at

my disposal, it would not have inspired me with the deep joy this

privilege bestowed upon me. I should then be near her; should see her

often, and be blessed by a smile from those speaking eyes. The past was

all forgotten. The sorrows of my past life were all merged in dreams of

future happiness.

“In the course of the evening I was introduced to the nephew of my host,

a low-browed youth, with a keen grey eye, and a look of habitual

cunning, but poorly concealed under a manner of assumed frankness.

Months, nay, two years passed away, and found me still attending at the

house. My prospects were much improved. I had many pupils, and the few

things I had published were highly spoken of. Those years were passed in

a state of intoxicating delight. I lived but for her; it was her image

that inspired me when I wrote; it was ever before me, and formed at once

my blessing and my bane. When I thought of the immense distance which

wealth had placed between us, I felt how utterly hopeless was my

love—and I was wretched. Then it was that music came to my aid. I would

sit for hours at my piano, and in its harmony forget all else beside.

While there, what are to me the pomp and luxury of the rich and great?

What to me their parties and their feastings? Do they enjoy for one

moment the blissful rapture which fills my heart then? Do they revel in

rapture, purged of all earthly grossness? These are the remunerating

moments of a musician’s wretched life. The soul seems floating in an

atmosphere of delicious harmony; a sad but pleasing melancholy comes on;

a grateful languor falls upon his heart, and softens it to happiness.

How indefinable those feelings; the emotions then felt have no sympathy

with things that be; the present has no connection with it; it is like

the dream of some dim, far-off land of beauty, the mortal eye never saw,

but with which the memory of the soul seems charged. I cannot word the

feeling—it is nameless.”

But I must bring the history to a conclusion. A month or two after the

date of the last quotation, he was tempted to declare his love, which,

to his great joy, was returned with an ardor equal to his own. He had

gained her heart’s first love—her young heart’s deep devotion was his,

and given with a fervor which nothing could exceed. For months they

enjoyed uninterrupted happiness, when, after a short illness, her father

died. His property was left entirely, saving an annuity to the nephew,

to Adeline, with this proviso, that if she died without heirs, the whole

was to revert to the nephew. Expressing at the same time a wish that

their fortunes should be united. Time wore on, and at the end of the

mourning, Adeline promised to wed Moreton. Her cousin had, by every

means in his power, endeavored to gain possession of her hand, but had

met with a decided refusal, and to avoid further persecution, Adeline

left London on a visit for a few months. The lovers parted with every

expression of tenderness and unalterable affection—but they parted to

meet no more in happiness. Her cousin, Arlington, maddened by the

indignant refusal he had met with, and the probable loss of the

property, determined to use every means in his power to frustrate the

intended marriage. This he was enabled to effect, by bribing the

waiting-maid of Adeline. She was, indeed, the confidant of her mistress.

From childhood had she lived with her, and had been treated more as an

humble friend than a servant. Many and sore were the poor girl’s

struggles of conscience, but the offered reward was too much for honesty

to resist, and she fell. A few weeks after Adeline’s departure, Moreton

was seized with an illness which proved to be a malignant fever, at that

time very prevalent, which confined him to his bed for many weeks. No

letters came to him. Between the wanderings of his mind at the fever’s

height, he would ask for the letters from Adeline, his wife, and would

not believe but that they were kept from him. As health began, though

slowly, to come, he wrote to Adeline, telling her of his illness, and

complaining of her neglect; to which he received in reply a renouncement

of every vow, at the same time declining any further correspondence with

the _fortune-hunter_. The shock occasioned by this letter, so unexpected

and so cruel, acting upon a constitution debilitated by a long illness,

brought on an inflammatory fever, which rendered him helpless for

months. As he recovered, his landlady, a good old babbling soul, used to

bring the newspapers and read to him in the hope to divert his mind, and

rouse him from his habitual melancholy. He listened, for he would not

hurt the feelings of one who had been as a mother to him during his long

illness. One morning she read, among other things, that “Miss Adeline

Singleton, the rich heiress, would be led to the hymenial altar by her

cousin, Alfred Arlington, Esq., to-morrow morning at Hanover Church.”

Ernest scarcely started, but begged for the paper, and to be left alone.

His course was fixed. . . . . . . .

The bride and bridegroom approached the altar! Ah! never was there a

sadder bride—the roses that were placed upon her brow were not more

pale than she. Life held but a slight tenure in that fair form, for the

hectic spot upon her cheek betrayed that the grave was not far distant.

The priest had raised his voice to breathe the prayer that was to join

their hands forever, when a form was seen hastening up the aisle, with a

tottering and uncertain step—he approached the altar; with a wild,

haggard and death-like look, gazed upon the bride, and uttering her name

sunk at her feet. The poor girl shrieked out, “Ernest!” and swooned in

the arms of her bridemaids. She was carried to her home, never to stir

from thence, but to a quieter home—the grave. Moreton, who had left his

sick couch to meet her at the altar, was removed to his dwelling, and

for three days remained in a state of listless stupor. On the fourth

day, a note from Adeline, begging him to come to her, roused him from

his lethargy, and, reckless of consequences, he complied with her

request. With a beating heart he entered the house; he found her

reclining on a couch, with the traces of recent tears upon her cheeks,

and very, very pale. On seeing him a bright smile irradiated her

countenance; he approached not—anger and love were struggling in his

breast for mastery. She held out her hands to him and murmured, “dear

Ernest!” Love had triumphed! he was kneeling by her side. Then came that

outpouring of the heart—that blissful confidence; sighs, tears, and

deep regrets spoken by each, removed ages of sorrow from their hearts.

On the disastrous termination of the wedding, the faithless servant,

conscience-stricken, disclosed the whole of the scene of heartless

treachery acted by her at the instigation of the villain Arlington. How

she, assisted by him, had intercepted letters; written others in their

place, and, by a system of the most artful deception, contrived to make

Moreton appear despicable, and to raise Arlington, in the estimation of

Adeline. The continued illness of Moreton materially assisted their

plot, as he could not defend himself. His guilt and falsehood were made

so apparent, that Adeline could not doubt their existence, and with a

woman’s heart, as quick in revenge as in love, and unswerving in both,

in mortified pride and wounded feelings, she gave her consent to marry

her cousin. But now all doubts were at an end, and they could smile

again and hope for the future.

Too true is it, that even in life we are in the midst of death! The

thought of Moreton’s falsehood had fixed sorrow too deeply in her heart

for health to live there too. During their separation, after the

scheming of the plotters began to take effect, she sought earnestly to

banish every feeling of love from her heart. But who shall control the

heart—a woman’s heart? Her love is not a thing of calculation; she

looks not to external circumstances; she asks not even if he be worthy

of her affection. If once her love be given, it is given without

reserve. The whole volume of that mighty and absorbing passion is laid

at his feet. Her all of earthly happiness is placed in his possession;

no other passion divides with it the interest of her heart; no other

feelings or sensations, save those which have their rise in this

all-powerful passion, can dwell therein. All ties of relationship or

friendship are trifling, compared to that tie which binds her heart to

his, and sink to nothing in the scale when opposed to it. To him she

awards all the attributes of virtue and honor; friends may condemn him;

fortune may leave him; the present may be a blank, and the future

without a hope, but she clings only the closer to him. She feels a sort

of selfish joy at being his only comfort; the only thing left him to

love, that leads her almost to rejoice in the misfortunes which make her

his all in all. Her heart teems with exhaustless affection, that only

flows more freely the more sorrow assails the object of her love. Though

where this deep feeling exists it must be paramount, yet the correlative

passions of self-love and jealousy are also there; and though dormant

when no exciting cause is in action, yet, when aroused, they go near to

banish love forever from the heart, however deeply based. Adeline’s

self-love had been aroused most powerfully; the thought of being loved

only for her wealth galled her proud, but warm and confiding soul.

Here at once were scattered all her most cherished hopes. She had

hitherto looked upon life as a bright and happy dream, thinking but to

wake from it when the grave should have opened to her dazzled sight the

glories of our heavenly home. But now the veil was torn aside, and cold

deceit was placed before her view, which had hitherto only looked on

love and joy. To be thus suddenly awoke from the beautiful but

fallacious dreamings which our first love ever weaves around us: to have

the world with all its selfishness thrust thus rudely upon our

shuddering hearts, is hard indeed. No shock of after years can ever

equal its intensity. All the ties and pleasant memories that our past

life has created are at once severed; the past has no connection with

the present; one is all dream, the other stern and rugged truth. It is

not, then, to be wondered at, that so frail a thing as a woman’s heart,

under the feeling of her first and only love, should sink beneath the

disruption of all her fondest wishes. The idol she worshiped has been

unsanctified; its altar desecrated, and her heart lies shattered at its

feet, a useless sacrifice. And the same spirit which led her to give her

hand to another, to hide from the common gaze her hopeless sufferings,

was silently, but surely, undermining her health, and sowing the seeds

of that remorseless disease which in a few months removed her broken

spirit from its earthly travail. . . . . . .

The disease rapidly assumed a more alarming aspect. Physicians were

called in; they advised a change of climate, but at the same time feared

that nothing could save her life. She felt that hope was past, and

refused to leave her home. For the few months she lived, Ernest never

left her. The days were passed in performing acts of the tenderest

solicitude, and the nights in feverish slumbers, whose visions showed

him his Adeline in all her former loveliness, and pictured forth scenes

of deep and holy love, such as might have been his, had Heaven so willed

it, only to sink him deeper in despair by the contrast the waking truth

presented.

He would read to her the wild and visionary tales of Germany, and her

eyes would brighten as she listened to some speculative but beautiful

theory of the future, or she would clasp his hand within her own, and

gaze up into his eyes with unspeakable affection, as she listened to

some tale of deep devotion, and murmur out, “they must have loved as we

love.” She would listen to his music for hours, with a breathless

attention, absorbed and unconscious of the passing time, as if unwilling

to lose one note of that harmony which must soon sound for her in vain.

Nothing so heightens and refines the passion of love as music; that

passion which would be firm and vigorous without its aid, becomes under

its influence more refined, luxurious, more blissful, more yielding, but

not less holy. All grossness and sensuality are purged from it; the

heart is softened to languor, but at the same time etherealized.

Thus days and weeks flew rapidly on unmarked; each day adding to their

deep devotion, and lessening the time to that day which was to separate

them forever in this world. It came at last.

The morning had been unusually overcast. Not an air stirred, and the

atmosphere was sultry and oppressive. They had felt a vague sensation,

such as is experienced previous to some unknown calamity, all the

morning, which prevented them following their usual occupations. Adeline

looked unusually well; there was a flush upon her lovely cheek, and her

eye beamed with unwonted brightness. They had drawn the sofa to the

window, which looked upon a charming lawn, and was thrown open as a

relief to the sultriness of the weather. They sat there, his one hand

holding her waist, the other clasping her slender hands. Her cheek

rested upon his shoulder, and oh! as he gazed upon that cheek, what a

gush of tenderness filled his heart! He thought what a scene of misery

his life had been until she rose upon his sight, an angel of light,

dispelling all grief and sorrow. He thought of what they had suffered

for each other; her deep devotion; her unswerving love; her pure and

classic mind; her virtuous principles; her beauty, whose spell was now

upon his heart; the scenes of dreamy bliss they had passed together, and

the whole intensity of his love filled his heart almost to bursting. All

that the mind can imagine of the extremest joy, thankfulness, hope and

love, was concentrated in that one fond look. She seemed to understand

the thoughts that were passing in his mind, and as he stooped to kiss

those murmuring lips she pressed his hand to her throbbing heart, and a

tear, the offspring of feelings too deep for expression, stole slowly

and silently down her glowing cheek. At that moment the sun shone

suddenly forth, and brightened again the face of nature. Till then they

had not spoken. “Dear Adeline,” he said, “let this be an omen of the

future, as the preceding gloom was of the past. There are, believe me,

many happy years in store for us. The bloom of health is mantling upon

your cheeks, and there is new vigor in the sparkling of your eyes; and

though this little and transparent hand, be but the shadow of its former

self, will not the summer’s genial warmth, and the tranquillity that

waits upon reciprocated love, and unclouded prosperity, soon, very soon

restore it? I have a strange sensation at my heart, which your altered

appearance translates into a precursor of happiness. My spirit seems to

have burst from the trammels of earth, and to revel in an atmosphere

where love and hope are fadeless. You do not smile, love! Does not your

heart echo my joy? Does not the same happy presentiment pervade your

heart, and gild the future in brilliant colors?”

“I have the same presentiment, but my heart refuses to give to it the

flattering meaning with which your hopes have invested it. I always

feared that our love was doomed never to meet with happy consummation.

Even in the first hours of our passion, when not one thought of grief

should have intruded, there was a fear that would not leave me, of

future sorrow. Our love was never meant for happiness on earth; it was

too exclusive—too perfect. The future would hold out no attraction or

hope, did death rudely destroy the state of present perfect bliss. But

to the weary and heavy-hearted, death opens a path to peace, and even to

the happy and joyful, a home of more blissful and lasting happiness. I

look on death as a kind and tender friend, who releases my soul from its

weak material companion, which, with its decay and rottenness, clogs

that immortal part. That it separates me from thee is my only grief; my

poor heart rebels against it, and clings to thee with a tenacity which

nothing can relax. But oh! my beloved, if, as we are told, the infinite

space is peopled with disembodied spirits, who wander round those spots

where centers all they loved—all that life has rendered dear, shall I

not be with you ever? Sleeping or waking, I will hover round you, and as

you wander over those spots sacred to our young hearts’ deep devotion, I

will be upon your heart as I am now; my spirit shall be upon your

memory, and awaken it to thoughts of those passionate hours. I will

throw a charmed halo round the Past, will sweeten the Present, and will

gild the Future with visions of fadeless bliss in heaven with our God.

Death cannot separate our souls! It shrinks the body into dust, but

there is an immortal link which binds soul unto soul, that death can

never break.”

As she uttered these words, her cheek became flushed, her eyes

brightened, and her whole air partook of a spiritual grace, and a deep

and holy enthusiasm. There was something unearthly in her look and

manner that chilled the heart of Ernest. At length with a voice

faltering with emotion, he replied, “Whatever be the end of these

forebodings, dear Ada, my heart is unchangeably yours. You are my first

love, the chosen of my heart, and living or in the grave, I dedicate

that heart to you alone. No other being shall have a vow of mine—this

hand shall clasp no other hand in love—no other lip shall join to mine

with passion’s kiss—no other form shall rest within these arms, or find

a pillow on my troubled breast; this I swear to you, by all my hopes of

our eternal joy hereafter. I will live and die your own in heart and

thought. And let this fond and holy kiss seal my vow of eternal

constancy.” He imprinted a long and ardent kiss upon her _paling_ lips.

The tears coursed each other rapidly down her pale cheeks, for the false

hectic bloom had fled, and the ravages of the fell disease were now

terribly visible in her sunken cheeks—her heart beat convulsively at

intervals—she pressed him closer to her, and gazing up into his face

with a look in which the whole intensity of her mighty and absorbing

love was centered, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion, she

murmured out—“I could die now.” Again his lips sought hers, and clung

there as though they had been incorporate—her head drooped upon his

breast—her hand relaxed its grasp—she had died then! . . . . . . . . .

How he died, I have before related.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Past and Present, and Chartism. By Thomas Carlyle. New York:

Wiley & Putnam. 2 parts, 12mo._

In these works Carlyle states his views regarding the source and

character of the evils afflicting the British nation, and the means by

which they may be mitigated and removed. “Past and Present” is the most

splendidly written and carefully meditated of the two. It contains many

sentences of remarkable force and beauty, with numerous touches of that

savage humor peculiar to Carlyle. The tone of the work, however, is one

of perfect discontent. The style bristles with the author’s usual

extravagance about society and government, declaring both to be shams

and unveracities, and sneering at all plans for improvement which the

ingenuity or benevolence of others have framed. If we understand Carlyle

aright, he considers that the constitutional government of England is a

humbug; that William the Conqueror, and Oliver Cromwell were the best

governors that England has ever had; that since Cromwell’s time the

country has been governed by Sir Jahesh Windbag, strong in no faith but

that “paragraphs and plausibilities will bring votes;” and that

everybody is a fool or a flunkey except Thomas Carlyle. He hates every

form of government which it is _possible_ to establish in this

world—democracy among the rest. If his work may be said to have any

practical bearing on politics, it is this—that a governor is wanted

with force enough to assume arbitrary power, and exercise it according

to the dreams of mystics and sentimentalists. His system is a compound

of anarchy and despotism. His ideal of a governor is of a man, with an

incapacity or indisposition to explain himself, who rises up some day

and cries—“the government of this country is a lie, the people cannot

make it a reality, but I can and will.” His notion of the wretched

condition of society is disheartening enough. Man, he tells us, has lost

all the soul out of him. “This is verily the plague-spot—centre of the

universal social gangrene, threatening all modern things with frightful

death. You touch the focal-centre of all our disease, of our frightful

nosology of diseases, when you lay your hand on this. There is no

religion; there is no God; man has lost his soul, and vainly seeks

antiseptic salt. Vainly: in killing kings, in passing Reform Bills, in

French Revolutions, Manchester Insurrections, is found no remedy. The

foul elephantine leprosy reappears in new force and desperateness next

hour.” Sad condition of poor depraved humanity! A whole generation,

except one man, without souls, and that one exception without his

senses! It is curious to notice the illusions of an understanding so

powerful when governed by a sensibility so tempestuous. It would be

unjust, however, to deny the depth of many detached thoughts, and truth

of some of his speculations in this volume.

It would doubtless be unjust to deny Carlyle’s claim to be considered a

thinker, but he is an intense rather than a calm and comprehensive one.

A comprehensive thinker looks at every thing, not singly, but in its

relations; an intense thinker seizes hold of some particular thing,

exaggerates it out of its proper place in the economy of the world, and

looks at every thing in its relation to his own hobby. In reasoning on

the evils of society and government, it is useless to growl or snarl at

what you desire to improve. If a man cannot look an evil in the face

without rushing off into rage at its prevalence, and considering that

evil as the root of all others, he will do little for reform. Indeed,

Carlyle appears to us to find delight in getting the world into a

corner. Nothing pleases him more than to shoot a sarcasm at statesmen

and philanthropists who are grappling practically with some abuse; in

this way warning everybody to avoid particular medicines, and come to

him for an universal panacea. Thus his works on social evils are

substantially little more than savage jests at the depravity of mankind,

and contemptuous fleers at those who are attempting to mitigate it. It

is needless to remark that he is not always consistent; but this, it

seems to us, is the general character of his political writings. He

criticises human life as he would a play or a novel, and looks to his

own taste alone in passing his judgments.

Many objections have been made to Carlyle’s style. Now style, to be good

for any thing, should be characteristic of the writer; and certainly

Carlyle’s style, viewed in this light, is very good. It is an exponent

of himself. The fault lies in the man, not in the style. Those who

contrast the diction of the Life of Schiller with Past and Present,

should recollect that a change as great has occurred in the character of

the author. No other style than his present could fully express the

whole meaning of his thoughts. Most of his ideas are commonplace enough

in themselves; and their originality consists in the peculiar

modification they have received from his own mind.

* * * * *

_The Constitutional History of England from the Accession of

Henry VII. to the Death of George II. By Henry Hallam. From the

Fifth London edition. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo._

This great work was originally published in 1827. Since that period the

author has made many additions to it. The present edition is printed

from the latest London issue, in 1846, and is therefore the best and

most complete edition in the country. The Harpers have printed it in

clear, readable type, on good paper, and have placed it at a price so

moderate as to bring it within the means of the humblest student. Of the

value and importance of the work it is hardly necessary to speak, as it

has forced reluctant praise even from those whose principles and policy

it condemns. It has taken a prominent place among those standard books

which no library can be supposed to be without. There are probably few

books since Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which have equaled this in

the task of demolishing prejudice, and guiding public opinion aright.

The space of political history which the volume occupies, has long been

the battle-ground of opposing sects, factions, and parties. Historians,

who have explored it most successfully, have generally been unduly

influenced by their political or religious prejudices, in their accounts

of events and estimates of persons. The Whig and the Tory, the Catholic,

the Churchman, and the Puritan, each has bent the truth of history to

the purposes of party, and accommodated, like poets, the shows of things

to the desires of the mind. This has turned English political history

into historical romance. Cranmer, Burleigh, Charles I., Strafford, Laud,

Hampden, Cromwell, Sidney, Marlborough, Somers, Sunderland, have been so

often passed from the partisan who daubs to the partisan who damns, as

to appear like the heroes of bad novels, rather than mortal men.

Mr. Hallam has been especially able and courageous in his opposition to

all this perversion of facts and character. Though himself a moderate

Whig, and a sturdy friend of the popular element of the Constitution, he

is as remorseless in breaking the idols of the Whigs as of the Tories.

He holds no terms with the declamation of either side; and, indeed,

takes a peculiar delight in weighing in his impartial scales every

English politician who has been the object of stereotyped admiration or

hatred. Parties naturally individualize their principles, and depend a

good deal for their influence on the character of their great men, and

the charm of their catch-phrases. They naturally dislike that their

saints and martyrs should be subjected to calm scrutinizing criticism,

and deprived of their exaggerated virtues, and exhibited, naked and

shivering, to the profane eyes of the crowd. Mr. Hallam, from his mind

and disposition, was admirably calculated to perform this work well.

Without doing positive injustice to any statesman, and heartily praising

all who have labored in their generation for the public good, he has

considered truth of more importance than the service of party, and has

not spared the excesses of tyranny and fanaticism, even when committed

by the champions of freedom and toleration. Many a fine bubble, blown up

to a beautiful magnitude by the breath of political superstition, bursts

the moment it feels the prick of his pen, and is “resolved into its

elemental suds.” A critic very happily characterizes his work as

eminently judicial. “Its whole spirit is that of the bench, not of the

bar. He sums up with a calm, steady impartiality, turning neither to the

right nor the left, glossing over nothing, exaggerating nothing, while

the advocates on both sides are alternately biting their lips to hear

their conflicting mis-statements and sophisms exposed.”

* * * * *

_Clarsach Albin, and Other Poems. By James M. Morrison.

Including his Correspondence with Clark, McCammon, and Longlap.

Phila.: Zieber & Co._

We advise those who understand the Scottish dialect to read this

unpretending little book. The subjects of the poems are not such as to

excite much attention, and the interest of the very clever rhyming

correspondence carried on by the author with Messrs. Clark, McCammon,

and Longlap, must, of course, be in a great measure evanescent; but

there is a sly humor, a readiness of rhythm, and very often a burst of

pure poetical feeling, which will repay the reader. While we thank him

for this little book, from which we have derived much pleasure, the

author will allow us to say, that he is capable of far better things;

and we hope to have from his pen, at some future day, a collection of

pure lyrics, in good broad Scotch, both serious and playful.

* * * * *

_Feudal Times; or the Court of James the Third. A Scottish

Historical Play. By Rev. James White. New York: William Taylor &

Co._

The merits of this play consist in the general vigor of its style, the

elevation of its sentiment, and the bustle of its action. It appears

well calculated to succeed in representation. The characters, however,

and many of the incidents, show little invention or imagination; and the

whole drama presents greater evidence of the playwright than the

dramatist. Compared, however, with the usual run of plays, and tested by

the rather gentle rules now applied to dramatic compositions, it would

honorably pass muster. The interest centres in Cochrane and Margaret,

two lofty natures, placed among a herd of feudal barons, and becoming

their victims. There are many striking passages of poetry in the play.

* * * * *

_Aunt Kitty’s Tales. By Maria J. McIntosh. New York: D. Appleton

& Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

The authoress of these pleasant stories has won a deserved celebrity by

her novel, entitled “To Seem and To Be”—a book which deserves a high

place among works on practical morals. The present volume is designed

more particularly for the young, and, we trust, will find its way to

that interesting portion of society. We cordially join in Aunt Kitty’s

wish that her efforts for the improvement of her young friends will not

prove unsuccessful, and that her stories will be found “not altogether

unworthy teachers of those lessons of benevolence and truth, generosity,

justice, and self-government, which she designed to convey through

them.”

* * * * *

_Streaks of Squatter Life, and Far-West Scenes. By John S. Robb.

Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

These sketches, hastily dashed off in a few hours of the author’s

leisure from engrossing business, show quite an eye for character, and

are exceedingly amusing. With more care in composition, and a higher

aim, Mr. Robb might write a fine humorous novel. The “Streaks” in this

volume are full of life, but they are too coarse. Every writer in this

style would do well to study the art with which Dickens delineates the

lowest and most vulgar characters, without any sacrifice either of taste

or propriety.

* * * * *

_Modern Chivalry, or the Adventures of Captain Farrago and Teage

O’Regan. By H. H. Breckenridge. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 2 vols.

12mo._

This novel belongs to Carey & Hart’s Library of Humorous American Works.

It is a reprint of an old book. The style is clear and familiar, the

humor such as touches the risibilities, and the strokes of satire

sometimes peculiarly happy. Though the author formed himself on the

model of Fielding, the allusions and subject matter are essentially

American. The illustrations by Darley are excellent. Like all true

humorists the author makes his pleasantries the vehicle of knowledge and

wisdom. He has sound political maxims embodied in jokes, and curious

bits of learning swimming on the surface of his humor.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET

Boulevart S^{t}. Martin, 61.

_Chapeaux de M^{me}._ Penet, _r. N^{ve}. S^{t}. Augustin, 4;—Plumes et

fleurs de M^{me}._ Tilman, _r. Ménars, 5;_

_Robes de_ Palmyre;—_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.;_

_Ombrelle de_ Lemarechal, _b^{t}. Montmartre, 17_.

Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and obvious

type-setting errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have

been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may

be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for

preparation of the eBook. A cover has been created for this eBook and is

placed in the public domain.

page 332, ce que tu mange, ==> ce que tu manges,

page 333, will soon loose her ==> will soon lose her

page 335, true diplomate will ==> true diplomat will

page 344, They had drank of ==> They had drunk of

page 346, pay the exhorbitant ==> pay the exorbitant

page 347, lady rung the bell ==> lady rang the bell

page 347, own and her childrens’ ==> own and her children’s

page 351, quarter of the word, ==> quarter of the world,

page 356, than he out knife and ==> than he pulled out a knife and

page 363, built of sold timber ==> built of solid timber

page 360, added [_To be continued._

page 375, barren in ought save ==> barren in aught save

page 375, by an irresistable impulse, ==> by an irresistible impulse,

Le Follet, _Chapeau de M^{me}._ ==> _Chapeaux de M^{me}._

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 6, June 1847]