"This is weary work. Three days have I been alone; without the
sight of any human face but that of the turnkey. How burdensome
becomes the weight of thought as each hour goes by! It presses
upon the brain as if a heavy stone were laid upon the head. What a
terrible thing is solitude, notwithstanding all that Zimmermann has
said of it--notwithstanding all that can be done to alleviate it! But
this is something more than solitude. Alexander Selkirk on his desert
island could change the scene, could vary the occupation every hour.
Now, he could go up the Blue Mountain, and gaze afar, 'the monarch of
all he surveyed.' Then he could wander down to the sea-shore, and send
hope and expectation forth on a voyage of discovery over the green
waters before his eyes, to see if ship or boat from the far native
land were winging its way like a bird towards his place of exile. Or
else memory, like a bark freighted with treasure, would touch the
land, and he would see the stores of other days, the joys, the loves,
the dreams of youth and manhood spread out upon the beach. He could
tame his wild birds or his free goats; he could plant or reap his
little field; he could garner or grind his corn. He was no worse in
fate than Eve-less Adam; and though it may not be good for man to be
alone, yet, when there is variety and occupation, the evil is but
small. Here, what is the variety? Four or five short steps from wall
to wall; the heavy door on one side; the high grated window on the
other. But yet, it might be worse. What a terrible thing solitary
confinement must be! Here the jailor comes in and speaks civilly; will
stop a minute or two to tell you what is going on without; will press
me to walk in the yard, and tell me it is quite airy and _cheerful_.
Cheerful! Good God, what a word in the stony heart of a prison! I
declare I should regard the man who could be cheerful in such a place
as ten times worse than even his crimes had made him. To be cheerful
here would be an aggravation of every offence--and yet, perhaps, I am
wrong. Cheerfulness in some men is constitutional.
"Oh! yes, it might be worse. To be condemned to perfect solitude, and
silence too, with nothing but thought, thought, thought, rolling one
upon the other, like the eternal billows of a dark and gloomy sea: not
a sight for the eye, not a sound for the ear, till the one became
blind, the other deaf, for want of objects. It is horrible! What
monster could devise such a means of starving the senses one by one,
till the living death of hopeless idiocy became the wretch's fate?
What were the cord, or the axe, or the rack itself to that? Yet,
even that might have an aggravation--if there were guilt upon
the mind--some dark terrible crime--murder!--the death of a
fellow-creature, sent before to be our accuser at God's throne! What
awful storms would then move that black ocean of thought, prolonged
through the whole of life! What would it be with me, even through
three or four short days, when, innocent as I am, the passing of these
solitary hours is well nigh intolerable.--Innocent as I am! Who is
innocent? Who can lay his hand upon his heart, with God and his own
conscience to witness, and say, 'I am innocent; I have done no
wrong?'--Who can arraign the decree of the Almighty which strikes him
for many a hidden fault, through the instrumentality of the false
judgment or iniquitous persecution of his fellow-man? Not I, for one! I
raised my hand against Lord Overton unjustly; I shed his blood, though
I did not take his life; I was a murderer in intention, if not in act;
and now I am accused of--perhaps may suffer for--the death of one whom
I would have shed my own blood to defend. The ways of God are strange
and wonderful, but very just.
"How curious it is that in solitude all the things we have done amiss
in life return upon the mind, distinct and clear--magnified even, if
faults can be magnified--when in the pleasures, and the business, and
the every-day cares of life, we forget them totally! And yet man was
evidently meant for society. Is it that the ever-present consciousness
of our errors in this mortal state, would be a burden too heavy to
bear, were there not an alleviation in the thoughtful absorption of
the world's concerns--a burden which even faith in a Saviour (as far
as man's weakness will permit him to have faith) would not be
sufficient to relieve, unless his worldly carelessness lightened the
load, by deceiving him as to the weight? Perhaps it may be so; and
yet, it is strange how often in this life, our weakness is our
strength. Since I have been here, how reproachfully acts which I
thought before perfectly venial have risen up in judgment against me I
how dark have seemed many deeds committed! how sadly ungrateful many
an omission has appeared! And shall not the same be the case
hereafter? When a few hours of solitude are sufficient to draw back
thus far the glittering veil which habit and the world cast over our
faults, what will be the terrible sight when that veil is torn away
altogether, and the dark array of a whole life's sins and follies
stand naked and undisguised before us!--when the voice of conscience,
fully awakened, never to sleep again, exclaims, 'Lo your own acts! The
children of your mortal life! The witnesses against you for
eternity!'"
The above is an extract from a journal of Chandos Winslow, kept during
his imprisonment. I know that such grave subjects are not palatable to
most readers: they call them _longueurs_; they skip them; they want
the story, nothing more. Let them do as they please; the extract was
necessary to the depiction of the character. But I must show another
side of it also--a somewhat lighter and more cheerful one; but still
one which is as likely to be skipped as the other, by the mere
novel-reader. For some time Chandos went on in the same strain of
gloomy thought; and occasionally dark forebodings would mingle with
the text: for the more he reflected upon the course he had determined
to pursue, the more difficult, nay, hopeless, seemed to be the attempt
to defend himself. At length, however, came the following passage:--
"But I will have no more of such reveries. It is very strange, that
for the last four days I have not been able to read. The small space
of my brain seems too much crowded with thoughts of my own, to give
other people's thoughts admission. I will force myself to read,
however; and think of what I read."
Then came another passage, evidently after he had been reading for
some time.
"I know not how it is, but none of these Italian poets interest me
much--perhaps the most, that mad-cap Ariosto. There is a reckless
vigour about him which none of the rest possesses; and their
prettinesses tire. Tasso is certainly very sweet and very graceful,
but seldom powerful; and Dante, dark, terrible, and stern, wants the
relief of beauty. His Inferno is certainly a grand poem, the
personification of thousand hates and vengeances; but the Paradise is
a poor affair.
"It is very strange how much more difficult men find it to imagine and
to paint perfect happiness than exquisite torture. Perhaps it is
because in this life we are much more familiar with pain than
pleasure. Pain and grief are to human beings, positive; our greatest
happiness here below rarely more than negative--at all events, never
unmixed. But in none of the Italians do we find the grand march, the
sustained majesty of the Greeks and the Romans. I cannot help thinking
that Boccaccio had more poetry in his nature than most of his
brethren; and there are some fine passages in his great poem,
notwithstanding its many wants. Many of his novels, too, are full of
poetry. But, after all, ten lines of Homer are worth all the Italian
poetry that ever was written. Alfieri seems to have felt this
inferiority of the poets of Italy to the ancients, even too much; and
the effect has been a stiffness in his writings, produced by aiming at
dignity in a language which is not dignified. When the thought itself
is grand, its grandeur can only be preserved in so weak a tongue by
clothing it in the very simplest words. Dante was not alone aware of
this, but was impelled to that course by his own sharp character. He
never strove to embellish by mere words, though sometimes, as if to
impress the idea upon the reader's mind, he reiterates it in another
form, venturing upon pleonasm as a means of force, in which he was
probably mistaken; at least, the effect upon my mind is always
disagreeable. It would be better if the verses were spoken. I cannot
but think--though perhaps it is national partiality--that the poets of
England are superior to any that have ever lived since the fall of the
Roman empire. The French have no poetry. The Germans have two or three
great poets; but their literature may be considered as yet in its
infancy. The Spaniards have some beautiful poems, it is true; but in
all of them are blemishes which overbalance the perfections. In the
English tongue there has been excellent poetry enough written in every
different style and manner, to supply the whole world. A crowd of our
poets are unknown even to ourselves; and many of the very best are
imperfectly known, and that but to a few. The sonnet, indeed, attained
its highest point with Petrarch; and yet how beautiful are some of Sir
Philip Sidney's!--for instance, the one beginning--
'No more, my dear, no more these councils try,
Oh give my passions leave to run their race.'
I forget the rest. My memory fails me sadly. What a strange thing
memory is! It seems as if the brain had a court painter, who sketches
rapidly everything presented to the senses; and then the pictures are
pushed into the lumber-room of the past, to grow dim and mouldy, with
the smoke and damp of years, till they are wanted, when they are taken
forth again, and the dust is brushed off, though sometimes not
entirely--But who have we here? It is not the turnkey's hour."
Here ends the journal for the time; and it may be as well to
inquire, what was the circumstance which caused the interruption; for
it gave Chandos sufficient thought for the rest of the day.
Just as he had written the last words his solicitor was admitted, a
shrewd little elderly man, not without some kindness of disposition,
and with a great talent for making himself useful in small things,
which is one of the most serviceable qualities to himself that a man
can possess. His ostensible object was to tell Chandos that he had
been to London for the purpose of holding a consultation upon his
case, and to cheer him up with the prospect of certain acquittal; for
as physicians often think it necessary (and with good reason) to keep
up the spirits of their patients, as long as there is any hope, by
assuring them of recovery, so the solicitors in criminal causes judge
it right to comfort the accused by promising them acquittal. I do
believe that, there never yet was a man hanged, who had a hundred
pounds to fee lawyers, without being promised, in the words of the
toast, "long life and prosperity," till the very moment when the jury
gave their verdict. But the worthy solicitor had another object too,
it would seem; for as soon as he had disposed of all the evidence
which had struck the great barrister as so important with a mere
"Pshaw! we will soon get over that," he slipped a letter into
Chandos's hand, saying, "That came to my office for you while I was
gone, and I brought it myself; for you know they have a trick of
opening prisoners' letters here. I gave General Tracy a hint, that all
your friends had better address under cover to me; and if you have any
answer to send, let it be ready and give it to me to-morrow. Keep it
close until I am gone, and then you can read it at your leisure."
Chandos Winslow had glanced at the address, and had seen that the
handwriting was that of a lady. He had never seen Rose Tracy's
writing. The letter might come from either of a dozen other persons,
friends or relations, who had heard of his situation, and might wish
to express sympathy and kindness. Nevertheless Chandos did not doubt
who was the writer; and as soon as the solicitor was gone, he tore it
open, and pressed his lips on the name at the bottom.
"Dear Mr. Winslow," the letter began.--There had evidently been a
struggle how to commence it. She had even blotted the words Mr.
Winslow, though Rose Tracy was not apt to blot her letters. The
prisoner thought that he could discern the name of Chandos traced and
erased beneath; and he murmured to himself, "She might have left it."
"Dear Mr. Winslow," wrote Rose Tracy, "although I write under great
distress of mind, from the very painful circumstances in which my
father has been placed by the failure of some extensive speculations
in which he was unfortunately led to engage, I cannot quit Northferry
without writing you a few lines (for doing which I have my uncle's
sanction) to say, that I am ready and willing to come down and give
evidence at the approaching trial; being perfectly certain of your
innocence, and believing in my heart that the crime of which you are
accused was committed by one of those persons whose voices we both
heard when we last met. I have thought it necessary to write upon this
subject, because your friend, Sir ---- seemed to doubt whether you
would wish to call me as a witness. I thank you most sincerely for
seeking to spare me the agitation which public examination in a court
of justice must always cause; and I thank you still more for that
delicate sense of honour which I know is one great cause of your
hesitation. But I do beseech you, do not let any such feelings prevent
you from using the means necessary to your exculpation. I know the
world may blame me, when it is made public, that I was aware of your
name and family; that I did not inform my father of the fact; and that
I saw you at the same spot more than once--I dare not say by accident.
The blame will perhaps be just, and probably will be more severe than
if all the truth could be stated; but I will put it to your own heart,
my friend, how much less grief the severest censure of the world would
cause than to think that you had been lost for want of my testimony.
Oh, spare me that pain, Chandos! spare me the most terrible anguish
that could be inflicted on
"ROSE TRACY."
Chandos kissed the letter over and over again. It is wonderful in the
moments of distress and abandonment, when false friends forsake, and
the light world of acquaintances shun us, how sweetly, how cheeringly,
even small testimonies of undiminished regard come to us from the true
and firm. Oh, how Chandos Winslow loved Rose Tracy at that moment! How
he longed to tell her the sensations that her generous anxiety to save
him even at the expense of pain and shame to herself inspired in his
bosom! He dared not, however, write all he felt; but in the course of
that evening he expressed his thanks in a way which he thought would
shadow forth, to her eye at least, the deeper feelings which he could
not venture to dwell upon. To write the letter was a happiness to him;
but when he came to conclude it with a "farewell," something seemed to
ask him, if it might not be the last. He fell into deep, sad thought
again, and gloomy despondency took possession of him altogether. He
thought he could have been careless of life but for Rose Tracy; and he
felt sadly how acuminated and intense become the affections which
attach us to existence here when they all centre in one object.