of descent through generations of esquires and knights, who had been
renowned in war; and there seemed, too, to be running through the family a
certain tendency to letters, for three were designated as of the colleges
of Oxford or Cambridge; and against one there was the note, "he that sold
himself to Sathan;" and another seemed to have been a follower of
Wickliffe; and they had murdered kings, and been beheaded, and banished,
and what not; so that the age-long life of this ancient family had not
been after all a happy or very prosperous one, though they had kept their
estate, in one or another descendant, since the Conquest. It was not
wholly without interest that Septimius saw that this ancient descent, this
connection with noble families, and intermarriages with names, some of
which he recognized as known in English history, all referred to his own
family, and seemed to centre in himself, the last of a poverty-stricken
line, which had dwindled down into obscurity, and into rustic labor and
humble toil, reviving in him a little; yet how little, unless he fulfilled
his strange purpose. Was it not better worth his while to take this
English position here so strangely offered him? He had apparently slain
unwittingly the only person who could have contested his rights,--the
young man who had so strangely brought him the hope of unlimited life at
the same time that he was making room for him among his forefathers. What
a change in his lot would have been here, for there seemed to be some
pretensions to a title, too, from a barony which was floating about and
occasionally moving out of abeyancy!
"Perhaps," said Septimius to himself, "I may hereafter think it worth while
to assert my claim to these possessions, to this position amid an ancient
aristocracy, and try that mode of life for one generation. Yet there is
something in my destiny incompatible, of course, with the continued
possession of an estate. I must be, of necessity, a wanderer on the face
of the earth, changing place at short intervals, disappearing suddenly and
entirely; else the foolish, short-lived multitude and mob of mortals will
be enraged with one who seems their brother, yet whose countenance will
never be furrowed with his age, nor his knees totter, nor his force be
abated; their little brevity will be rebuked by his age-long endurance,
above whom the oaken roof-tree of a thousand years would crumble, while
still he would be hale and strong. So that this house, or any other, would
be but a resting-place of a day, and then I must away into another
obscurity."
With almost a regret, he continued to look over the documents until he
reached one of the persons recorded in the line of pedigree,--a worthy,
apparently, of the reign of Elizabeth, to whom was attributed a title of
Doctor in Utriusque Juris; and against his name was a verse of Latin
written, for what purpose Septimius knew not, for, on reading it, it
appeared to have no discoverable appropriateness; but suddenly he
remembered the blotted and imperfect hieroglyphical passage in the recipe.
He thought an instant, and was convinced this was the full expression and
outwriting of that crabbed little mystery; and that here was part of that
secret writing for which the Age of Elizabeth was so famous and so
dexterous. His mind had a flash of light upon it, and from that moment he
was enabled to read not only the recipe but the rules, and all the rest of
that mysterious document, in a way which he had never thought of before;
to discern that it was not to be taken literally and simply, but had a
hidden process involved in it that made the whole thing infinitely deeper
than he had hitherto deemed it to be. His brain reeled, he seemed to have
taken a draught of some liquor that opened infinite depths before him, he
could scarcely refrain from giving a shout of triumphant exultation, the
house could not contain him, he rushed up to his hill-top, and there,
after walking swiftly to and fro, at length flung himself on the little
hillock, and burst forth, as if addressing him who slept beneath.
"O brother, O friend!" said he, "I thank thee for thy matchless beneficence
to me; for all which I rewarded thee with this little spot on my hill-top.
Thou wast very good, very kind. It would not have been well for thee, a
youth of fiery joys and passions, loving to laugh, loving the lightness
and sparkling brilliancy of life, to take this boon to thyself; for, O
brother! I see, I see, it requires a strong spirit, capable of much lonely
endurance, able to be sufficient to itself, loving not too much, dependent
on no sweet ties of affection, to be capable of the mighty trial which now
devolves on me. I thank thee, O kinsman! Yet thou, I feel, hast the better
part, who didst so soon lie down to rest, who hast done forever with this
troublesome world, which it is mine to contemplate from age to age, and to
sum up the meaning of it. Thou art disporting thyself in other spheres. I
enjoy the high, severe, fearful office of living here, and of being the
minister of Providence from one age to many successive ones."
In this manner he raved, as never before, in a strain of exalted
enthusiasm, securely treading on air, and sometimes stopping to shout
aloud, and feeling as if he should burst if he did not do so; and his
voice came back to him again from the low hills on the other side of the
broad, level valley, and out of the woods afar, mocking him; or as if it
were airy spirits, that knew how it was all to be, confirming his cry,
saying "It shall be so," "Thou hast found it at last," "Thou art
immortal." And it seemed as if Nature were inclined to celebrate his
triumph over herself; for above the woods that crowned the hill to the
northward, there were shoots and streams of radiance, a white, a red, a
many-colored lustre, blazing up high towards the zenith, dancing up,
flitting down, dancing up again; so that it seemed as if spirits were
keeping a revel there. The leaves of the trees on the hill-side, all
except the evergreens, had now mostly fallen with the autumn; so that
Septimius was seen by the few passers-by, in the decline of the afternoon,
passing to and fro along his path, wildly gesticulating; and heard to
shout so that the echoes came from all directions to answer him. After
nightfall, too, in the harvest moonlight, a shadow was still seen passing
there, waving its arms in shadowy triumph; so, the next day, there were
various goodly stories afloat and astir, coming out of successive mouths,
more wondrous at each birth; the simplest form of the story being, that
Septimius Felton had at last gone raving mad on the hill-top that he was
so fond of haunting; and those who listened to his shrieks said that he
was calling to the Devil; and some said that by certain exorcisms he had
caused the appearance of a battle in the air, charging squadrons,
cannon-flashes, champions encountering; all of which foreboded some real
battle to be fought with the enemies of the country; and as the battle of
Monmouth chanced to occur, either the very next day, or about that time,
this was supposed to be either caused or foretold by Septimius's
eccentricities; and as the battle was not very favorable to our arms, the
patriotism of Septimius suffered much in popular estimation.
But he knew nothing, thought nothing, cared nothing about his country, or
his country's battles; he was as sane as he had been for a year past, and
was wise enough, though merely by instinct, to throw off some of his
superfluous excitement by these wild gestures, with wild shouts, and
restless activity; and when he had partly accomplished this he returned to
the house, and, late as it was, kindled his fire, and began anew the
processes of chemistry, now enlightened by the late teachings. A new agent
seemed to him to mix itself up with his toil and to forward his purpose;
something helped him along; everything became facile to his manipulation,
clear to his thought. In this way he spent the night, and when at sunrise
he let in the eastern light upon his study, the thing was done.
Septimius had achieved it. That is to say, he had succeeded in amalgamating
his materials so that they acted upon one another, and in accordance; and
had produced a result that had a subsistence in itself, and a right to be;
a something potent and substantial; each ingredient contributing its part
to form a new essence, which was as real and individual as anything it was
formed from. But in order to perfect it, there was necessity that the
powers of nature should act quietly upon it through a month of sunshine;
that the moon, too, should have its part in the production; and so he must
wait patiently for this. Wait! surely he would! Had he not time for
waiting? Were he to wait till old age, it would not be too much; for all
future time would have it in charge to repay him.
So he poured the inestimable liquor into a glass vase, well secured from
the air, and placed it in the sunshine, shifting it from one sunny window
to another, in order that it might ripen; moving it gently lest he should
disturb the living spirit that he knew to be in it. And he watched it from
day to day, watched the reflections in it, watched its lustre, which
seemed to him to grow greater day by day, as if it imbibed the sunlight
into it. Never was there anything so bright as this. It changed its hue,
too, gradually, being now a rich purple, now a crimson, now a violet, now
a blue; going through all these prismatic colors without losing any of its
brilliance, and never was there such a hue as the sunlight took in falling
through it and resting on his floor. And strange and beautiful it was,
too, to look through this medium at the outer world, and see how it was
glorified and made anew, and did not look like the same world, although
there were all its familiar marks. And then, past his window, seen through
this, went the farmer and his wife, on saddle and pillion, jogging to
meeting-house or market; and the very dog, the cow coming home from
pasture, the old familiar faces of his childhood, looked differently. And
so at last, at the end of the month, it settled into a most deep and
brilliant crimson, as if it were the essence of the blood of the young man
whom he had slain; the flower being now triumphant, it had given its own
hue to the whole mass, and had grown brighter every day; so that it seemed
to have inherent light, as if it were a planet by itself, a heart of
crimson fire burning within it.
And when this had been done, and there was no more change, showing that the
digestion was perfect, then he took it and placed it where the changing
moon would fall upon it; and then again he watched it, covering it in
darkness by day, revealing it to the moon by night; and watching it here,
too, through more changes. And by and by he perceived that the deep
crimson hue was departing,--not fading; we cannot say that, because of the
prodigious lustre which still pervaded it, and was not less strong than
ever; but certainly the hue became fainter, now a rose-color, now fainter,
fainter still, till there was only left the purest whiteness of the moon
itself; a change that somewhat disappointed and grieved Septimius, though
still it seemed fit that the water of life should be of no one richness,
because it must combine all. As the absorbed young man gazed through the
lonely nights at his beloved liquor, he fancied sometimes that he could
see wonderful things in the crystal sphere of the vase; as in Doctor Dee's
magic crystal used to be seen, which now lies in the British Museum;
representations, it might be, of things in the far past, or in the further
future, scenes in which he himself was to act, persons yet unborn, the
beautiful and the wise, with whom he was to be associated, palaces and
towers, modes of hitherto unseen architecture, that old hall in England to
which he had a hereditary right, with its gables, and its smooth lawn; the
witch-meetings in which his ancestor used to take part; Aunt Keziah on her
death-bed; and, flitting through all, the shade of Sibyl Dacy, eying him
from secret nooks, or some remoteness, with her peculiar mischievous
smile, beckoning him into the sphere. All such visions would he see, and
then become aware that he had been in a dream, superinduced by too much
watching, too intent thought; so that living among so many dreams, he was
almost afraid that he should find himself waking out of yet another, and
find that the vase itself and the liquid it contained were also
dream-stuff. But no; these were real.
There was one change that surprised him, although he accepted it without
doubt, and, indeed, it did imply a wonderful efficacy, at least
singularity, in the newly converted liquid. It grew strangely cool in
temperature in the latter part of his watching it. It appeared to imbibe
its coldness from the cold, chaste moon, until it seemed to Septimius that
it was colder than ice itself; the mist gathered upon the crystal vase as
upon a tumbler of iced water in a warm room. Some say it actually gathered
thick with frost, crystallized into a thousand fantastic and beautiful
shapes, but this I do not know so well. Only it was very cold. Septimius
pondered upon it, and thought he saw that life itself was cold, individual
in its being, a high, pure essence, chastened from all heats; cold,
therefore, and therefore invigorating.
Thus much, inquiring deeply, and with painful research into the liquid
which Septimius concocted, have I been able to learn about it,--its
aspect, its properties; and now I suppose it to be quite perfect, and that
nothing remains but to put it to such use as he had so long been laboring
for. But this, somehow or other, he found in himself a strong reluctance
to do; he paused, as it were, at the point where his pathway separated
itself from that of other men, and meditated whether it were worth while
to give up everything that Providence had provided, and take instead only
this lonely gift of immortal life. Not that he ever really had any doubt
about it; no, indeed; but it was his security, his consciousness that he
held the bright sphere of all futurity in his hand, that made him dally a
little, now that he could quaff immortality as soon as he liked.
Besides, now that he looked forward from the verge of mortal destiny, the
path before him seemed so very lonely. Might he not seek some one own
friend--one single heart--before he took the final step? There was Sibyl
Dacy! Oh, what bliss, if that pale girl might set out with him on his
journey! how sweet, how sweet, to wander with her through the places else
so desolate! for he could but half see, half know things, without her to
help him. And perhaps it might be so. She must already know, or strongly
suspect, that he was engaged in some deep, mysterious research; it might
be that, with her sources of mysterious knowledge among her legendary
lore, she knew of this. Then, oh, to think of those dreams which lovers
have always had, when their new love makes the old earth seem so happy and
glorious a place, that not a thousand nor an endless succession of years
can exhaust it,--all those realized for him and her! If this could not be,
what should he do? Would he venture onward into such a wintry futurity,
symbolized, perhaps, by the coldness of the crystal goblet? He shivered at
the thought.
Now, what had passed between Septimius and Sibyl Dacy is not upon record,
only that one day they were walking together on the hill-top, or sitting
by the little hillock, and talking earnestly together. Sibyl's face was a
little flushed with some excitement, and really she looked very beautiful;
and Septimius's dark face, too, had a solemn triumph in it that made him
also beautiful; so rapt he was after all those watchings, and emaciations,
and the pure, unworldly, self-denying life that he had spent. They talked
as if there were some foregone conclusion on which they based what they
said.
"Will you not be weary in the time that we shall spend together?" asked
he.
"Oh no," said Sibyl, smiling, "I am sure that it will be very full of
enjoyment."
"Yes," said Septimius, "though now I must remould my anticipations; for I
have only dared, hitherto, to map out a solitary existence."
"And how did you do that?" asked Sibyl.
"Oh, there is nothing that would come amiss," answered Septimius; "for,
truly, as I have lived apart from men, yet it is really not because I have
no taste for whatever humanity includes: but I would fain, if I might,
live everybody's life at once, or, since that may not be, each in
succession. I would try the life of power, ruling men; but that might come
later, after I had had long experience of men, and had lived through much
history, and had seen, as a disinterested observer, how men might best be
influenced for their own good. I would be a great traveller at first; and
as a man newly coming into possession of an estate goes over it, and views
each separate field and wood-lot, and whatever features it contains, so
will I, whose the world is, because I possess it forever; whereas all
others are but transitory guests. So will I wander over this world of
mine, and be acquainted with all its shores, seas, rivers, mountains,
fields, and the various peoples who inhabit them, and to whom it is my
purpose to be a benefactor; for think not, dear Sibyl, that I suppose this
great lot of mine to have devolved upon me without great duties,--heavy
and difficult to fulfil, though glorious in their adequate fulfilment. But
for all this there will be time. In a century I shall partially have seen
this earth, and known at least its boundaries,--have gotten for myself the
outline, to be filled up hereafter."
"And I, too," said Sibyl, "will have my duties and labors; for while you
are wandering about among men, I will go among women, and observe and
converse with them, from the princess to the peasant-girl; and will find
out what is the matter, that woman gets so large a share of human misery
laid on her weak shoulders. I will see why it is that, whether she be a
royal princess, she has to be sacrificed to matters of state, or a
cottage-girl, still somehow the thing not fit for her is done; and whether
there is or no some deadly curse on woman, so that she has nothing to do,
and nothing to enjoy, but only to be wronged by man and still to love him,
and despise herself for it,--to be shaky in her revenges. And then if,
after all this investigation, it turns out--as I suspect--that woman is
not capable of being helped, that there is something inherent in herself
that makes it hopeless to struggle for her redemption, then what shall I
do? Nay, I know not, unless to preach to the sisterhood that they all kill
their female children as fast as they are born, and then let the
generations of men manage as they can! Woman, so feeble and crazy in body,
fair enough sometimes, but full of infirmities; not strong, with nerves
prone to every pain; ailing, full of little weaknesses, more contemptible
than great ones!"
"That would be a dreary end, Sibyl," said Septimius. "But I trust that we
shall be able to hush up this weary and perpetual wail of womankind on
easier terms than that. Well, dearest Sibyl, after we have spent a hundred
years in examining into the real state of mankind, and another century in
devising and putting in execution remedies for his ills, until our maturer
thought has time to perfect his cure, we shall then have earned a little
playtime,--a century of pastime, in which we will search out whatever joy
can be had by thoughtful people, and that childlike sportiveness which
comes out of growing wisdom, and enjoyment of every kind. We will gather
about us everything beautiful and stately, a great palace, for we shall
then be so experienced that all riches will be easy for us to get; with
rich furniture, pictures, statues, and all royal ornaments; and side by
side with this life we will have a little cottage, and see which is the
happiest, for this has always been a dispute. For this century we will
neither toil nor spin, nor think of anything beyond the day that is
passing over us. There is time enough to do all that we have to do."
"A hundred years of play! Will not that be tiresome?" said Sibyl.
"If it is," said Septimius, "the next century shall make up for it; for
then we will contrive deep philosophies, take up one theory after another,
and find out its hollowness and inadequacy, and fling it aside, the rotten
rubbish that they all are, until we have strewn the whole realm of human
thought with the broken fragments, all smashed up. And then, on this great
mound of broken potsherds (like that great Monte Testaccio, which we will
go to Rome to see), we will build a system that shall stand, and by which
mankind shall look far into the ways of Providence, and find practical
uses of the deepest kind in what it has thought merely speculation. And
then, when the hundred years are over, and this great work done, we will
still be so free in mind, that we shall see the emptiness of our own
theory, though men see only its truth. And so, if we like more of this
pastime, then shall another and another century, and as many more as we
like, be spent in the same way."
"And after that another play-day?" asked Sibyl Dacy.
"Yes," said Septimius, "only it shall not be called so; for the next
century we will get ourselves made rulers of the earth; and knowing men so
well, and having so wrought our theories of government and what not, we
will proceed to execute them,--which will be as easy to us as a child's
arrangement of its dolls. We will smile superior, to see what a facile
thing it is to make a people happy. In our reign of a hundred years, we
shall have time to extinguish errors, and make the world see the absurdity
of them; to substitute other methods of government for the old, bad ones;
to fit the people to govern itself, to do with little government, to do
with none; and when this is effected, we will vanish from our loving
people, and be seen no more, but be reverenced as gods,--we, meanwhile,
being overlooked, and smiling to ourselves, amid the very crowd that is
looking for us."
"I intend," said Sibyl, making this wild talk wilder by that petulance
which she so often showed,--"I intend to introduce a new fashion of dress
when I am queen, and that shall be my part of the great reform which you
are going to make. And for my crown, I intend to have it of flowers, in
which that strange crimson one shall be the chief; and when I vanish, this
flower shall remain behind, and perhaps they shall have a glimpse of me
wearing it in the crowd. Well, what next?"
"After this," said Septimius, "having seen so much of affairs, and having
lived so many hundred years, I will sit down and write a history, such as
histories ought to be, and never have been. And it shall be so wise, and
so vivid, and so self-evidently true, that people shall be convinced from
it that there is some undying one among them, because only an eye-witness
could have written it, or could have gained so much wisdom as was needful
for it."
"And for my part in the history," said Sibyl, "I will record the various
lengths of women's waists, and the fashion of their sleeves. What next?"
"By this time," said Septimius,--"how many hundred years have we now
lived?--by this time, I shall have pretty well prepared myself for what I
have been contemplating from the first. I will become a religious teacher,
and promulgate a faith, and prove it by prophecies and miracles; for my
long experience will enable me to do the first, and the acquaintance which
I shall have formed with the mysteries of science will put the latter at
my fingers' ends. So I will be a prophet, a greater than Mahomet, and will
put all man's hopes into my doctrine, and make him good, holy, happy; and
he shall put up his prayers to his Creator, and find them answered,
because they shall be wise, and accompanied with effort. This will be a
great work, and may earn me another rest and pastime."
[_He would see, in one age, the column raised in memory of some great
dead of his in a former one_.]
"And what shall that be?" asked Sibyl Dacy.
"Why," said Septimius, looking askance at her, and speaking with a certain
hesitation, "I have learned, Sibyl, that it is a weary toil for a man to
be always good, holy, and upright. In my life as a sainted prophet, I
shall have somewhat too much of this; it will be enervating and sickening,
and I shall need another kind of diet. So, in the next hundred years,
Sibyl,--in that one little century,--methinks I would fain be what men
call wicked. How can I know my brethren, unless I do that once? I would
experience all. Imagination is only a dream. I can imagine myself a
murderer, and all other modes of crime; but it leaves no real impression
on the heart. I must live these things."
[_The rampant unrestraint, which is the characteristic of
wickedness_.]
"Good," said Sibyl, quietly; "and I too."