Produced by Charles Bowen, from scans obtained for the Internet Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Scans provided by The Web Archive:
http://www.archive.org/details/walladmor01dequ
2. The 3-volume German original was fictitiously attributed to Sir
Walter Scott, but actually written by G.W.H. Haering (under the pseud.
of Willibald Alexis). It was freely adapted into English by Thomas De
Quincey.
3. The diphthong oe is indicated by [oe].
WALLADMOR:
"FREELY TRANSLATED INTO GERMAN
FROM THE ENGLISH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT."
AND NOW
FREELY TRANSLATED
FROM THE GERMAN INTO ENGLISH.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
My root is earthed; and I, a desolate branch,
Left scattered in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolished house.--_Massinger_.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR TAYLOR AND HESSEY,
93 FLEET STREET, AND 13 WATERLOO PLACE, PALL MALL.
1825
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE READER.
The following novel was originally produced in the German language, as
a _soi disant_ translation from Sir Walter Scott, to meet the demands
of the last Easter fair at Leipsic.
In Germany, from the extreme difficulties and slowness of communication
between remote parts of the country, it would be altogether impossible
to effect the publication of books, upon the vast scale of the current
German literature, without some such general rendezvous and place of
depot and exchange as the Leipsic fair presents to the dispersed
members of the publishing body. By means of this fair (which is held
half-yearly--at Easter and Michaelmas) a connexion is established
between the remotest points of the German continent--which, in a
literary[1] sense, comprehends many parts of Europe that politically
are wholly distinct from Germany. The publishers of Vienna, Trieste,
and Munich, here meet with those of Hamburgh and Dresden, of Berlin and
Koenigsburg: Copenhagen and Stockholm send their representatives: and
the booksellers of Warsaw and even of Moscow are brought into direct
contact with the agents of the foreign booksellers in London.
Hence, as may be supposed, it is an object of much importance that all
books, which found any part of their interest upon their novelty,
should be brought out at this time: and something or other is generally
looked for from the pen of every popular writer as a means of giving
zest and seasoning to the heavy Mess-Catalog. If it happens therefore
upon any account that an author fails to meet these expectations of the
Leipsic fair,--obliging persons are often at hand who step forward as
his proxy by forging something in his name. This pleasant hoax it was
at length judged convenient to practise upon the author of Waverley;
the Easter fair offering a favourable opportunity for such an attempt,
from the circumstance of there being just then no acknowledged novel in
the market from the pen of that writer which was sufficiently recent to
gratify the wishes of the fair or to throw suspicion upon the
pretensions of the hoaxer. These pretensions, it is asserted, for some
time passed unquestioned; and the good people of Germany, as we are
assured, were universally duped. A work, produced to the German public
and circulated with success under such assumptions, must naturally
excite some curiosity in this country; to gratify which it has been
judged proper to translate it.
It may be as well to add that the name "_Walladmor_" is accented upon
the first syllable, and _not_ upon the penultimate, by the German
author; who may reasonably be allowed to dictate the pronunciation of
names invented by himself.
FOOTNOTE TO "ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER":
[Footnote 1: Many literary men of Russia, Denmark, &c write
indifferently in their native or the German languages.]
DEDICATION
TO
_W----s, the German 'Translator' of Walladmor._
SIR,
Having some intention of speaking rather freely of you and your German
'Translation' in a postscript to the second volume of my English one--I
am shy of sending a presentation copy to Berlin: neither you, nor your
publisher, Herr Herbig, might relish all that I may take it into my
head to say. Yet, as books sometimes travel far,--if you should ever
happen to meet with mine knocking about the world in Germany, I would
wish you to know that I have endeavoured to make you what amends I
could for any little affront which I meditate in that Postscript by
dedicating my English translation to yourself.
You will be surprised to observe that your three corpulent German
volumes have collapsed into two English ones of rather consumptive
appearance. The English climate, you see, does not agree with them: and
they have lost flesh as rapidly as Captain le Harnois in Chapter the
Eighth. The truth is this: on examining your ship, I found that the dry
rot had got into her: she might answer the helm pretty well in your
milder waters; but I was convinced that upon our stormy English seas
she would founder, unless I flung overboard part of her heavy ballast,
and cut away some of her middle timbers, which (I assure you) were mere
touchwood. I did so; and she righted in a moment: and now, that I have
driven a few new bolts into her--'calked' her--and 'payed' her, I am in
hopes she will prove sea-worthy for a voyage or so.
We have a story in England, rather trite here, and a sort of
philosophic common-place, like Buridan's 'Ass between two bundles of
hay,' but possibly unknown in Germany: and, as it is pertinent to
the case between ourselves, I will tell it: the more so, as it involves
a metaphysical question; and such questions, you know, go up to
you people in Germany from all parts of Europe as to "the courts
above."----Sir John Cutler had a pair of silk stockings: which
stockings his housekeeper Dolly continually darned for the term of three
years with worsted: at the end of which term the last faint gleam of silk
had finally vanished, and Sir John's _silk_ stockings were found in their
old age absolutely to have degenerated into _worsted_ stockings. Now
upon this a question arose among the metaphysicians--whether Sir John's
stockings retained (or, if not, at what precise period they lost) their
"personal identity." The moralists also were anxious to know whether
Sir John's stockings could be considered the same "accountable"
stockings from first to last. And the lawyers put the same question in
another shape by asking--whether any felony, which Sir John's stockings
could be supposed to have committed in youth, might lawfully be the
subject of an indictment against Sir John's stockings when
superannuated: whether a legacy, left to the stockings in the second
year, could be claimed by the stockings at the end of the third: and
whether the worsted stockings could be sued for the debts of the silk
stockings.--Some such question, I conceive, will arise upon your
account of St. David's Day, as darned by myself.
But here, My good Sir, stop a moment: I must not have you interpret the
precedent of Sir John and Dolly too strictly: Sir John's stockings were
originally of silk, and darned with worsted: but don't conceit _that_
to be the case here. No, no, my good Sir;--I flatter myself the case
between us is just the other way: your _worsted_ stockings it is that I
have darned with silk: and the relations, which I and Dolly bear to you
and Sir John, are precisely inverted.
What could induce you to dress good St. David in an old threadbare
coat, it passes my skill to guess: it is enough that I am sure it would
give general disgust; and therefore I have not only made him a present
of a new coat, but have also put a little embroidery upon it. And I
really think I shall astonish the good folks in Merionethshire by my
account of that saint's festival. In my young days I wandered much in
that beautiful shire and other shires which he contiguous: and many a
kind thing was done to me in poor men's cottages which to my dying day
I shall never be able to repay individually: hence, as occasions offer,
I would seek to make my acknowledgments generally to the county. Upon
Penmorfa sands I once had an interesting adventure, and I have
accordingly commemorated Penmorfa. To the little town of Machynleth I
am indebted for various hospitalities: and I think they will
acknowledge that they are indebted to me exclusively for their mayor
and corporation. And there are others in that neighbourhood that, when
they read of St. David's day, will hardly know whether they are
standing on their head or their heels. As to the Bishop of Bangor of
those days, I owed his lordship no particular favor: and I have here
taken my vengeance on that see for ever by making it do suit and
service to the house of Walladmor.
But enough of St. David's day. There are some other little changes
which I have been obliged to make in deference to the taste of this
country. In the case of Captain le Harnois it appears to me that, from
imperfect knowledge of the English language, you have confounded the
words 'sailor' and 'tailor'; for you make the Captain talk exactly like
the latter. There is however a great deal of difference in the habits
of the two animals according to our English natural histories: and I
have therefore slightly retouched the Captain, and curled his whiskers.
I have also taken the liberty, in the seventh chapter, of curing Miss
Walladmor of an hysterical affection: what purpose it answered, I
believe you would find it hard to say: and I am sure she has enough to
bear without that.
Your geography, let me tell you, was none of the best: and I have
repaired it myself. It was in fact a damaged lot. Something the public
will bear: topographical sins dwindle into peccadilloes in a romance;
and no candid people look very sharply after the hydrography of a
novel. But still it did strike me--that the case of a man's swimming on
his back from Bristol to the Isle of Anglesea, was more than the most
indulgent public would bear. They would not stand it, Sir, I was
convinced. Besides, it would have exposed me to attacks from Mr. Barrow
of the Admiralty, in the Quarterly Review: especially as I had taken
liberties with Mr. Croker in a note.--Your chronology was almost
equally out of order: but I put _that_ into the hands of an eminent
watchmaker; and he assures me that he has 'regulated' it, and will
warrant its now going as true as the Horse Guards'.
Well, to conclude: I am not quite sure but we ought to be angry at your
taking these sort of hoaxing liberties with our literati; and I don't
know but some of us will be making reprisals. What should you say to it
in Germany if one of these days for example you were to receive a large
parcel by the '_post-wagen_' containing Posthumous Works of Mr. Kant. I
won't swear but I shall make up such a parcel myself: and, if I should,
I bet you any thing you choose that I hoax the great Bavarian
professor[2] with a treatise on the "Categorical Imperative," and "The
last words of Mr. Kant on Transcendental Apperception."--Look about
you, therefore, my gay fellows in Germany: for, if I live, you shall
not have all the hoaxing to yourselves.
[Footnote 2: Mr. Schelling: for whom however, without any joke at all,
I profess the very highest respect.]
Meantime, "mine dear Sare," could you not translate me back again into
German; and darn me as I have darned you? But you must not "sweat" me
down in the same ratio that I have "sweated" you: for, if you do that,
I fear that my "dimensions will become invisible to any thick sight" in
Germany; and I shall "present no mark" to the critical enemy. Darn me
into two portly volumes: and then I give you my word of honor that I
will again translate you into English, and darn you in such grand style
that, if Dolly and Professor Kant were both to rise from the dead,
Dolly should grow jealous of me--and Kant confess himself more puzzled
on the matter of personal identity by the final Walladmor than ever he
had been by the Cutlerian stockings.
Jusqu'au revoir! my dear principal: hoping that you will soon invest me
with that character in relation to yourself; and sign, as it is now
_my_ turn to sign,
Your obedient
(but not quite faithful),
TRANSLATOR.
FOOTNOTE TO "DEDICATION":
[Footnote 1: Mr. Schelling: for whom however, without any joke at all,
I profess the very highest respect.]
GERMAN "TRANSLATOR'S"
DEDICATION
TO
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
Sir,--Uncommon it may certainly be, but surely not a thing quite
unheard of, that a translator should dedicate his translation to the
author of the original work: and, the translation here offered to your
notice--being, as the writer flatters himself, by no means a _common
one_,--he is the more encouraged to take this very uncommon liberty.
Ah Sir Walter!--did you but know to what straits the poor German
translator of Walter-Scottish novels is reduced, you would pardon
greater liberties than this. _Ecoutez._ First of all, comes the
bookseller and cheapens a translator in the very cheapest market of
translation-jobbers that can be supposed likely to do any justice to
the work. Next,--the sheets, dripping wet as they arrive by every post
from the Edinburgh press, must be translated just as they stand with or
without sense or connexion. Nay it happens not unfrequently that, if a
sheet should chance to end with one or two syllables of an unfinished
word, we are obliged to translate this first instalment of a future
meaning; and, by the time the next sheet arrives with the syllables in
arrear, we first learn into what confounded scrapes we have fallen by
guessing and translating at hap-hazard. _Nomina sunt odiosa_: else--but
I shall content myself with reminding the public of the well-known
and sad mishap that occurred in the translation of Kenilworth. In
another instance the sheet unfortunately closed thus:--"_to save
himself from these disasters, he became an agent of Smith-_;" and we
all translated--"um sich aus diesen truebseligkeiten zu erretten, wurde
er Agent bei einem Schmiedemeister;" that is, "_he became foreman to a
blacksmith_." Now sad it is to tell what followed: we had dashed at it,
and waited in trembling hope for the result: next morning's post
arrived, and showed that all Germany had been basely betrayed by a
catch-word of Mr. Constable's. For the next sheet took up the imperfect
and embryo catch-word thus:--"_field matches, or marriages contracted
fur the sake of money_;" and the whole Gasman sentence should have been
repaired and put to rights as follows: "Er negocirte, um sich
aufzuhelfen, die sogenannten Smithfields heirathen oder Ehen, welche
des Gewinnstes wegen geschlossen werden:" I say, it _should_ have been:
but woe is me! it was too late: the translated sheet had been already
printed off with the blacksmith in it (lord confound him!); and the
blacksmith is there to this day, and cannot be ejected.
You see, Sir Walter, into what "sloughs of despond" we German
translators fall--with the sad necessity of dragging your honor after
us. Yet this is but a part of the general woe. When you hear in every
bookseller's shop throughout Germany one unanimous complaint of the
non-purchasing public and of those great profit-absorbing whirlpools,
the circulating libraries,--in short all possible causes of diminished
sale on the one hand; and on the other hand the forestalling spirit of
competition among the translation-jobbers, bidding over each other's
heads as at an auction, where the translation is knocked down to him
that will contract for bringing his wares soonest to market;--hearing
all this, Sir Walter, you will perceive that our old German proverb
"_Eile mit Weile_," (i.e. Festina lente, or _the more haste, the less
speed_) must in this case, where _haste_ happens to be the one great
qualification and _sine-qua-non_ of a translator, be thrown altogether
into the shade by that other proverb--"Wer zuerst kommt mahlt zuerst"
(_First come first served_).
I for my part, that I might not lie so wholly at the mercy of this
tyrant--_Haste_, struck out a fresh path--in which you, Sir, were so
obliging as to assist me. But see what new troubles arise out of this
to the unhappy translator. The world pretends to doubt whether the novel
is really yours:[1] people actually begin to talk of your friend Washington
Irving as the author, and God knows whom beside. As if any man, poets out
of the question, could be supposed capable of an act of self-sacrifice so
severe as that of writing a romance in 3 vols. under the name of a friend.
All this tends to drive us translators to utter despair. However I, in
my garret, comfort myself by exclaiming "Odi profanum--," if I cannot
altogether subjoin--"et arceo." From your obliging disposition, Sir
Walter, I anticipate the gratification of a few lines by the next post
establishing the authenticity of Walladmor. Should these lines even not
be duly certified "coram notario duobusque testibus," yet if
transmitted through the embassy--they will sufficiently attest their
own legitimacy as well as that of your youngest child Walladmor.
Notwithstanding what I have said about _haste_, I fear that haste has
played me a trick here and there. The fact is--we are in dread of three
simultaneous translations of Walladmor from three different publishers:
and you will hardly believe how much the anxiety lest another
translation should get the start of us can shake the stoutest of
translating hearts. The names of Lindau--Methusalem Mueller--Dr.
Spieker--Von Halem--and Loz[2] sound awfully in the ears of us
gentlemen of the trade. And now, alas! as many more are crowding into
this Quinquevirate.
Should it happen that the recent versions of your works had not
entirely satisfied your judgment, and that mine of Walladmor _had_,--I
would in that case esteem myself greatly flattered by your _again_
sending me through the house of B---- a copy of the manuscript of your
next romance; in provision for which case I do here by anticipation
acknowledge my obligations to you; and in due form of law bind myself
over:
1. To the making good all expenses of "copy," &c.;
2. To the translation of both prose and verse according to the best of
my poor abilities; that your eminent name may not fall into discredit
through the translator's incompetence;
3. To all possible affection, friendship, respect, &c. in so far as you
yourself shall be pleased to accept of any or all of these from
_The German Translator of Walladmor._
FOOTNOTES TO THE "GERMAN DEDICATION":
[Footnote 1: Oh! spirit of modern scepticism, to what shocking results
art thou leading us! Already have Lycurgus, Romulus, Numa, &c. been
resolved into mere allegorized ideas. And a learned friend has
undertaken to prove, within the next 50 years, according to the best
rules of modern _scepsis_, that no such banker as Mr. Rothschild ever
existed; that the word _Rothschild_ in fact was nothing more than a
symbolic expression for a habit of advancing loans at the beginning of
the 19th century: which indeed the word itself indicates, if reduced to
its roots. I should not be surprized to hear that some man had
undertaken to demonstrate the non-existence of Sir Walter Scott:
already there are symptoms abroad: for the mysterious author of
Waverley has in our own days been detected in the persons of so many
poets and historians the most opposite to each other, that by this time
his personality must have been evaporated and volatilized into a whole
synod of men.--_Note of the Dedicator._]
[Footnote 2: Names of persons who have translated one or more of Sir
Walter Scott's novels into German.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE.
Shipwreck and Storm. 1
CHAPTER II.
Smuggler's Hut. 23
CHAPTER III.
Captain le Harnois. 47
CHAPTER IV.
Welch Coast at Christmas. 73
CHAPTER V.
Night Walk to Machynleth. 101
CHAPTER VI.
Bar of the Walladmor Arms. 125
CHAPTER VII.
St. David's Day. 161
CHAPTER VIII.
Suitors in Court, and Suitors out of Court. 191
CHAPTER IX.
Funeral of Captain le Harnois. 219
WALLADMOR.
CHAPTER I.
As when a dolphin and a sele are met
In the wide champian of the ocean plaine,
With cruell chaufe their courages they whet,
The maysterdome of each by force to gaine,
And dreadfull battaile twixt them do darraine;
They snuf, they snort, they bounce, they rage, they rore,
That all: the sea, disturbed with their traine,
Doth frie with fome above the surges hore:
Such was betwixt these two the troublesome uprore.
_Faerie Queene_.--B. v. C. ii.
Perhaps the reader may still remember the following article in the
Times newspaper, which about a year or two ago raised a powerful
interest on the Welch coast.
"Carnarvon.-Yesterday the inhabitants of this city were witnesses to a
grand but afflicting spectacle from the highlands of the coast. The
steam-vessel, Halcyon, from the Isle of Wight, and bound to the north
coast of Wales, was suddenly in mid-channel--when not a breath of wind
ruffled the surface of the sea--driven into our bay. Scarcely had she
rounded the point of Harlech when we beheld a column of smoke rising;
and in a moment after a dreadful report, echoing from the mountains,
made known that the powder magazine was blown up, and the ship
shattered into fragments. The barks, which crowded to the spot from all
quarters, found nothing but floating spars; and were soon compelled to
return by the coming-on of a dreadful hurricane. Of the whole crew, and
of sixty passengers (chiefly English people returning from France), not
one is saved. It is said that a very atrocious criminal was on board
the Halcyon. We look with the utmost anxiety for the details of this
melancholy event."
To the grief of several noble families in England, this account was
confirmed in its most dreadful circumstances. Some days after the
bodies of Lord W----, and of Sir O---- ---- (that distinguished
ornament for so long a period of the House of Commons), were found upon
the rocks. So much were they disfigured, that it was with difficulty
they were recognized.
On that day there stood upon the deck of the Halcyon a young man, who
gazed on the distant coasts of Wales apparently with deep emotion. From
this reverie he was suddenly roused as the ship whirled round with a
hideous heaving. He turned, as did all the other passengers who had
been attracted on deck by the beauty of the evening, to the man at the
helm. He was in the act of stretching out his arms to the centre of the
ship, whence a cloud of smoke was billowing upwards in voluminous
surges: the passengers turned pale: the sailors began to swear:
"It's all over!" they shouted: "old Davy has us. So huzza! let's
have some sport as long as he leaves us any day-light." Amidst an
uproar of voices the majority of the crew rushed below; stove in the
brandy-casks; drank every thing they could find; and paid no sort of
regard to the clamorous outcries of the passengers for help! help!
except that here and there a voice replied--Help? There _is_ no help:
Old Nick will swallow us all; so let _us_ swallow a little comfort
first.
The master of the vessel, who retained most presence of mind, hurried
on deck. With his sabre he made a cut at the ropes which suspended the
boat: and, as he passed Bertram, the young man already mentioned (who
in preparation for the approaching catastrophe had buckled about his
person a small portmanteau and stood ready to leap into the boat), with
a blow of his fist he struck him overboard. All this was the work of a
minute.
Scarcely had the young man been swept to a little distance by a wave,
when the ship blew up with a tremendous crash. The shattered ruins were
carried aloft to an immense elevation: Bertram was stunned by the
explosion: and, upon recovering his senses, he saw no object upon the
surface of the waters: the ship had vanished; and nothing remained but
a few spars floating in the offing.
Urgent distress throws us back upon our real and unfanciful wants.
In the peril of the moment Bertram forgot all the prospects, sad or
gay--painful or flattering, which had occupied his thoughts on board
the ship; and exerted his utmost force to swim through the tumbling
billows to a barrel at a little distance which appeared and disappeared
at intervals, sometimes riding aloft, and sometimes hidden by the
waves. At the moment when his powers began to fail him, he succeeded in
reaching the barrel.--But scarcely had he laid hold of the outermost
rim with both hands, when the barrel was swayed down from the opposite
side. A shipwrecked man, whose long wet hair streamed down over his
face, fixed his nails, as it were the talons of a vulture, on the hoops
of the barrel; and by the energy of his gripe--it seemed as though he
would have pressed them through the wood itself.--He was aware of his
competitor: and he shook his head wildly to clear the hair out of his
eyes--and opened his lips, which displayed his teeth pressed firmly
together.
"No: though the d--l himself,--thou must down into the sea: for the
barrel will not support both."
So speaking he shook the barrel with such force--that the young man,
had he not been struggling with death, would have been pushed under
water. Both pulled at the barrel for some minutes, without either
succeeding in hoisting himself upon it.--In any further contest they
seemed likely to endanger themselves or to sink together with the cask.
They agreed therefore to an armistice. Each kept his hold by his right
hand,--each raised his left aloft, and shouted for succour. But they
shouted in vain; for the storm advanced, as if it heard and were
summoned by the cry; the sky was black and portentously lurid; thunder
now began to roll; and the waves, which had hardly moved before the
explosion, raised their heads crested with foam more turbulently at
every instant. "It is in vain," said the second man; "Heaven and Earth
are against us: one or both must perish: Messmate, shall we go down
together?"
At these words the wild devil all at once left loose of the barrel; by
which means the other, who had not anticipated this movement, lost his
balance, and was sinking. His antagonist made use of his opportunity.
He dashed at the sinking man's throat--in order to drag him entirely
under the water; but he caught only his neck-handkerchief, which
luckily gave way. The other thus murderously assaulted, on finding
himself at liberty for an instant, used his time, and sprang upon the
barrel; and just as his desperate enemy was hazarding a new attack, in
a death struggle he struck him with his clenched fist upon the breast;
the wild man threw up his arms; groaned; sank back;--and the waves
swallowed him up.
In the moments of mortal agony and conflict human laws cease, for
punishments have lost their terrors; even higher laws are then silent.
But, in the pauses of the struggle, the voice of conscience resumes its
power,--and the heart of man again relents. As Bertram went rocking
over the waves numbed in body and exhausted in spirits, all about him
hideous gloom, and the fitful flashes of lightning serving but to light
up the great world of terrors--this inner voice was not so silenced but
that he felt a pang of sorrow at the thought of having destroyed the
partner of his misfortunes. A few minutes however had scarcely passed
before he heard a groaning near him. Happily at this instant a flash of
lightning illuminated the surrounding tract of water; and he descried
his antagonist still fighting with the waves: he was holding by a spar
too weak to support his weight, but capable of assisting him in
swimming. His powers were apparently failing him, as he looked up to
his more fortunate enemy: He stretched out his hand to him, and said:
"Stranger! show me this pity. All is over with me; or in a moment will
be: should you have a happier fate, take from my pocket-book this
letter--and convey it to the lady. Oh! if thou hast ever loved, I
beseech thee to do this: tell her that I never ceased to think of
her--that I thought of her only when I was at the point of death: and,
whatsoever I may have been to man, that to her I have been most
faithful." With frantic efforts he strove to unclasp his pocket-book:
but could not succeed. Bertram was deeply touched by the pallid and
ghastly countenance of the man (in whose features however there was a
wild and licentious expression which could not be mistaken); and he
said to him:
"Friend below, if I should have better luck, I will endeavour to
execute your commission. Meantime I can swim; and I have now rested
myself. Give me your hand. You may come aloft; and I will take a turn
in the waters until I am tired. In this way, by taking turn about,
possibly both of us may be saved."
"What!" cried the other--"are you crazy? Or are there really men upon
this earth such as books describe?"
"No matter:" said Bertram, "give me your hand; and spring up. I will
catch at the barrel when I feel weak."
The other grasped the outstretched hand; and, supporting himself for a
few moments upon his elbows, gradually ascended the barrel. Bertram, on
his part, resigning the portmanteau to his companion, slipped off into
the waves.
Meanwhile the storm continued, and the natural darkness of night was
now blended with the darkness of tempest. After some minutes, the man,
who was at present in possession of the barrel, began thus:
"You fool, below there, are you still alive?"
"Yes: but I am faint, and would wish to catch hold of the barrel
again."
"Catch away then:--Do you know any thing of the sea hereabouts?"
"No: it was the first time in my life that I was ever on shipboard."
The other laughed. "You don't know it? Well! now I _do_: and I can tell
you this: there's no manner of use in our plaguing ourselves, and
spending the last strength we have in keeping ourselves afloat. I know
this same sea as well as I know my own country: and I am satisfied that
no deliverance is possible. There is not a spot of shore that we can
reach--not a point of rock big enough for a sea-mew; and the only
question for us is--whether we shall enter the fishes' maw alive or
dead."
"It is still possible," said the other--"that some human brother may
come to our assistance."
The other laughed again and said--"Human brother, eh? Methinks, my
friend, you should be rather young in this world of ours--and have no
great acquaintance with master _man_: I know the animal: and you may
take my word for it, that, on such a night as this, no soul will
venture out to sea. What man of sense indeed would hazard his life--for
a couple of ragamuffins like you and me? and suppose he would, who
knows but that it might be worse to fall into the hands of some _men of
sense_ than into the tender mercies of the sea? But I know a trick
worth two of that."
"Tell it then."
"Let us leave fooling: This cask, on which I sit, to my knowledge
contains rum; or arrack; which is as good. We can easily knock a hole
in it; then make ourselves happy and bouzy--fling our arms about each
other like brothers, and go down together to the bottom: after _that_,
I think we shall neither trouble nor be troubled; for we shall hardly
come up again, if we go down groggy."
"Shocking? why that's suicide!"
"Well! is your conscience so delicate and scrupulous? However as _you_
please: for any thing I care, and as you like it better, some dog of a
fish may do for us what we might as well have done for ourselves. But
now come aloft, my darling. I'll take my turn at swimming--as long as
the state of things will allow it; and wait for you below." They
changed situations.--But even upon the barrel, Bertram began to feel
his powers sinking. He clung as firmly as he could. But the storm grew
more and more terrific: and many times he felt faint in his wild
descents from the summit of some mounting wave into the yawning chasm
below: Nature is benign even in the midst of her terrors: and, when
horrors have been accumulated till man can bear no more, then his
sufferings are relieved for a time by insensibility. On awakening it is
true that the horrors will return; but the heart has gained fresh
strength to support them.
So it fared with Bertram, who continued to grow fainter and fainter;
until at length in the midst of silent prayer he finally lost all
consciousness.
When Bertram next awoke from his fainting fit, he heard the sea no
longer thundering about him, and no longer felt himself tossing upon
its waves. There was darkness around him, but not the darkness of that
mighty night which the elements in uproar form. What first met his eyes
was the obscure outline of a rude hut. For a long time he stared
without consciousness upon the rafters of the ceiling, on which fish
and ragged aprons were hung up to dry, and swinging to and fro in the
current of air. This monotonous motion, which under other circumstances
might have lulled him to sleep like the ticking of a clock, gradually
awoke him to entire consciousness. The awful scene, which had just
passed over him, came up to his mind in sudden contrast with that
bright moment on the deck of the Halcyon in which he had first beheld
the coasts of Wales lying in sunshine before him; and his thoughts soon
took a coherent arrangement; though he could not yet make out the
connexion between the barrel on which he had navigated the ocean and
his present bed, nor between that fearful night abroad and the dried
herrings and patched aprons which now dangled above him. These thoughts
however gave way at this moment to anxiety about his portmanteau. This
to his great satisfaction he found beneath his head; and he now turned
his attention to the other objects about him.
The cottage was of that humble order which in this kingdom are found
only at the extremities of the Scotch Highlands, and tenanted by a race
of paupers who gain a scanty subsistence from the limpits and other
marine products which they take at low water. The frame-work of the
hovel was rudely put together of undressed pine-boughs: the walls were
a mixed composition of clay, turf, sea-weed, muscle-shells, and flints:
timbers had been laid for the main-beams of a ceiling; but they were
not connected by joists, nor covered in; so that the view was left open
to the summit of the roof, which being composed of sedge and moss
allowed a passage to the wind and rain. In the little room were hanging
all kinds of utensils, but in so confused an arrangement and in so
dubious a light that Bertram could make out but little of what he saw.
The sole light in the hut proceeded from a fire in the corner. But this
fire was so sparingly fed, that it seldom blazed up or shot forth a
tongue of flame except when a draught of wind swept through; which
however happened pretty often. The smoke escaped much less through the
chimney than through the chinks of the wall; enveloping every object in
a dusky shade, and deepening the gloom. Perfect silence reigned in the
house; and no living creature appeared to be present. But once, when
the fire happened to shoot forth a livelier gleam, the clouds of smoke
parted and discovered a female countenance--old, and with striking
features, and fixing a pair of large dark-grey eyes upon a pan or
cauldron which hung over the fire. Sometimes, when a cloud of vapour
arose from the pan, and collected in a corner into fantastic wreaths,
she pursued it with her eyes, and a smile played over her withered
cheeks: but, when it dispersed or escaped through the chinks, a low
muttering and sometimes a moaning might be distinguished. She had, as
Bertram observed, a spinning-wheel between her feet: but busy as her
hands seemed, and mechanically in motion, it was evident that she did
little or no work. At intervals she sang: but what she sang was more
like a low muttered chaunt, than a regular song: at least Bertram
understood not a word of it, if words they were that escaped her.
After one of these chaunts, the old woman rose suddenly from her seat,
wrung her hands, seemed to trace strange circles in the air, and then
scattered some substance into the fire which raised a sudden burst of
flames that curled over the cauldron, lit up the house for a few
moments, and then roaring up the chimney left all in greater darkness
than before. During these few moments however Bertram had time to
observe the whole appearance of the woman with some distinctness. She
seemed to have the stature of a well-grown man; but her flesh had
fallen away so remarkably that the red frieze gown which she wore hung
in loose folds about her. Much as Bertram was shocked at first by the
spectacle of her harsh bony lineaments, her fiery eye, and her grey
disheveled hair,--he yet perceived in her face the traces of former
beauty. She raised her bony arms, as if in supplication, to that
quarter of the room where Bertram was lying: he perceived however that
it was not himself, but some object near him which drew her attention.
To his great alarm he now discovered close to himself a chair--the only
one in the room,--and sitting upon it some motionless figure in the
attitude of a living man. The old woman stretched out her hands with
more and more earnestness to this object, as though she looked for some
sign from it: but, receiving none, she struck her hands violently
together; in a transport of rage upset the spinning-wheel; and fell
back into her seat. If Bertram had at first felt compassion on
witnessing the expressions of her grief and the anguish of her
expectation, this feeling was soon put to flight by the frantic
explosion of anger which followed. So great was his consternation that
he resolved to attempt escaping unobserved from the cottage; and he
first hoped to recover his full self-possession when he should find
himself at liberty and in the open air. With this intention, it may be
readily imagined how much his consternation was increased on finding
himself unable to stir either hand or foot. His head even moved with
difficulty: and it seemed as though no faculty had been left unaffected
but that of eye-sight, which served but to torment him by bringing
before him this scene of terror. He could almost have wished to
exchange his present situation for his recent exposure to the fury of
the elements. He attempted to sleep; but found himself unable; and
after the lapse of two long hours he heard a knocking at the door.