“Who thundering comes on blackest steed.”—Byron.
While Major Lindsay was galloping from Blakeley
Hall, Captain Preston, by the same road, was advancing
toward it. He had been out on a scouting
expedition, and hearing that Kate was still with her
aunt, determined, in a moment of relenting, to visit
her. He had not yet heard of her father’s capture—of
course he was ignorant of her own peril; and
Kate determined that he should still remain so.
The rapidity of Major Lindsay’s pace was in
unison with the tumult of his thoughts. Now that
all was settled, conscience was stilled; and he felt
only the wild exultation of success. Exposure was
the only thing he had to dread; but of that he felt
no alarm, the unsettled state of the country affording
secrecy as well as impunity.
He had no doubt Kate would soon love him.
With other women he had generally been successful;
he attributed his failure in her case to her
remembrance of Preston as her old playmate. But
once finding herself the husband of another, duty
would soon teach her to forget the past. Occupied
with these reflections, Major Lindsay’s spirits rose.
Triumphant guilt is rarely given to remorse.
“But one thing only is wanting,” he said. “If I
could meet this Preston—this braggadocia—I would
at once have my revenge, and get rid of all possibility
of future rivalry.”
As if in answer to this half expressed wish, there
was at that moment seen, on the crest of a slight
elevation in front, a single horseman, who, even at
that distance, was recognized as wearing the uniform
of Marion’s brigade.
“Wheel to the right,” said Major Lindsay sharply
and suddenly to his dragoons, “into this old wood-road.
Halt! We will lie in ambush here until we
know something of the strength of the enemy. They
do not yet see us.”
His orders were immediately executed. The
troopers dashed into the pine barren, where they
were easily concealed behind some high brush.
Major Lindsay alighted and stealthily advanced to
reconnoitre.
First he saw a trooper idly descending the hill;
then another immediately cut the clear acclivity
with his figure; and soon a third, fourth, and fifth
appeared in rapid succession. The last comer was
at a gallop, and dashed by the others until he reached
their head. Even at that distance Major Lindsay
thought there was something familiar in this person.
He could not believe, however, that he had seen
the whole of the enemy’s force, until the five horsemen
had nearly descended the hill, when he concluded
that they were merely a scouting party of
the foe. He beckoned to him his orderly.
“Do you know those fellows?” he said.
The approaching horsemen were still at a considerable
distance, so the man, shading his eyes
with one hand, while with the other he held back
the brushwood to get an opening for his face, peered
long and eagerly. Then he drew back, nodding his
head.
“I know ’em,” he said, “least ways one o’ ’em,
who is that Capt. Preston that used to plague us so,
up at the hall, yonder,” and he jerked his finger over
his shoulder in the direction of Mrs. Blakeley’s,
which they had left about an hour before.
“Are you sure?” said Major Lindsay, eagerly.
“I would rather lose a dozen guineas than that you
should be mistaken.”
“Then you’ll keep your guineas, sir,” said the
orderly, “that’s Capt. Preston, and nobody else.”
“Is that fellow, Macdonald, with him? He is
worth two men, and it would be a lucky hit to get
both.”
“No, sir, I know his cut well—but he’s not along.
And that’s odd too, for he and Capt. Preston always
go together like dogs hunting in couples.”
“Then we have him!” said Major Lindsay, exultingly.
“He cannot escape us.”
“Shall we blow trumpet and charge at once
then?” said the orderly. “Our men will go at ’em
like hungry wolves. They’ve a long score to settle.”
“Not yet,” said Major Lindsay, “we will wait
till those fellows come up; then, boot and saddle,
and upon them. I would not have them escape us
for my life.”
The dragoons, informed who the enemy was,
chafed impatiently to begin the attack—for they had
a hundred insults to avenge on the bold partisan before
them. Meanwhile, our hero, for the orderly
had been right in saying Capt. Preston led the troop,
approached on a trot, completely unconscious of the
presence of his hidden enemy. He was engaged
in a scouting expedition of some extent, and had
no idea an armed royalist was within twenty miles.
Suddenly, however, he drew in his rein, for he
thought he heard a horse stamping in the forest;
but it was too late; Major Lindsay saw they were
discovered, and immediately gave the long wished
for word.
“Charge!” he said, plunging his rowels into the
sides of his horse, and clearing at one bound the
space between him and the road.
With a loud huzza, the dragoons shouting, “no
quarter,” followed his example, horse and man suddenly
filling the road like apparitions. Preston saw
he was surrounded. Their cries told him, moreover,
that it was to be a life and death struggle.
Five against fifteen was fearful odds, yet he cried,
“Marion for ever!” and drawing his sabre, he
dashed at Lindsay, whom he recognized. “Ha!
have we met!” he cried.
“Yes! and I have you,” was the reply hissed between
his adversary’s teeth.
As Major Lindsay thus spoke, he raised himself
in his stirrups, and throwing all his strength into one
gigantic blow, he brought his heavy sabre down,
right on the almost unprotected head of Preston.
For a moment it seemed as if the trenchant blade
would cut through cap and skull, even to the
shoulder—and had it struck fair it would; but with
a dexterous movement, our hero evaded the stroke,
and in return dealt a side cut that, if Major Lindsay’s
horse had not fortunately swerved, would have
ended his life at once.
But though foiled in this first attempt, each was
eager to return to the charge, and wheeling their
horses, they rushed again upon each other. It was
Preston’s turn now to deal the first blow. He rode
with very short stirrups, of which he took advantage
to throw himself backward, and then, projecting
himself forward, and casting all his strength into
the blow, he brought his sabre down on the helmet
of Major Lindsay with a force that was irresistible.
Cutting clean though the crest as if it had been a
smoke wreath, the well-proved blade descended
with full violence on the steel cap, through which
it crashed like an egg-shell; but here it stopped,
broken into fragments by the tremendous stroke
and the resistance of the iron casque combined.
Nothing but that well-tempered steel head-piece
could have saved Major Lindsay’s life. As it was,
stunned and bewildered, he reeled in his saddle.
“Hew him down!—Use the cold lead!—Have at
him there, one and all!”
Such were the exclamations that met our hero’s
ear, as he recovered himself from that blow, and
found only the hilt and a fragment of his broken
blade left in his hand. He looked around hastily.
His four followers had already been put hors de
combat, and the dragoons were now, like dogs around
a wild boar, waiting a chance to rush in on him,
encouraging each other by shouts; for such was
the terror of Preston’s name, and so terrific was the
blow they had just seen dealt their leader, that each
man hung back an instant, preferring that his
neighbor should go in first. Preston saw this advantage,
and hastened to avail himself of it, for, as
pistols were already drawn, he knew his chance
would last scarcely a moment.
“Ho, Thunderer!” he said, addressing his steed—a
powerful animal, jet black all over—and turning his
head toward that part of the circle of his foes which
seemed the thinnest, he added, “stand by me now,
and we escape them yet.”
As he spoke, he dashed his spurs into the animal’s
sides till the blood spurted beneath the sharp steel,
and with a pistol in his right hand, sprang fiercely
forward. Right and left the dragoons, panic-struck,
gave way, as when a flock of sheep fly before the
onset of an angry wolf—only one man attempting
to stop his progress. But, without so much as being
wounded, the trooper went down headlong, overthrown
by the shock of Preston’s powerful charger;
and our hero, yielding to an uncontrollable impulse,
as he saw the way thus cleared before him, rose in
his stirrups, and waving his arm on high, looked
back, and gave utterance to a shout that long after
he had vanished, like a bolt shot from some huge
catapult, echoed and re-echoed in the startled
woods.
“He is off, by God,” said the orderly. “Saw you
ever the like?”
For a second the dragoons stood stupidly looking
at each other; then, all at once, a dozen pistols were
snapped at the fugitive, and a dozen steeds put to
the pursuit. Moreover, Major Lindsay, though his
head still swam from that tremendous blow, had recovered
sufficiently to understand what was passing,
and he now lent his voice to encourage the chase,
and himself pressed forward among the first.
All this had occupied less time than it has taken
us to relate it. The attack, the fight, the escape succeeded
each other like flashes of summer lightning;
and when Preston, adroitly turning his horse into
the narrow and winding road where his foes had
lain in ambush, passed momently out of sight, unharmed
by the shots that whistled past, it seemed to
him almost as if he were in a dream. But the shouts
of pursuers, and the rapid tread of hoofs, speedily
convinced him of the reality, and plying voice and
spur, he went onward at a slashing pace, now and
then looking behind to see if the dragoons gained
on him.
There is something inexpressibly still and refreshing
in an old, deserted road, winding through a cool
pine-forest. The tall trees lapping overhead, the
thick carpet of splintering leaves below, and the
delicious fragrance all around, have always had a
charm for us; and Preston felt it so, especially after
the fierce excitement of that life and death struggle;
so that when he came to a little dark stream, gliding
softly across the road, he longed to stop and bathe
his throbbing temples, and take one long, sweet
draught, as he had often done upon a hot day in the
forest when a boy. But the red foe was behind him,
and he shot on like an arrow.
Presently he came to an old clearing, which had
been long abandoned. Here, for about a quarter of
a mile, was an open space, where ploughed fields
had once been, but the furrows of which now were
overgrown with a dry, stunted grass. He would
have preferred the winding forest road, but there
was no alternative, and on he dashed. He had
nearly regained the shelter of the forest on the other
side, when he heard a wild burst of cheering, and
looking back, he saw the dragoons, with Major
Lindsay and one other in advance, entering on the
open space. They had caught sight of him for the
first time since he entered the old road, and their
shouts betokened renewed hope and determination
on their part.
Breathlessly Preston kept on, but with less assurance
than before, for his horse was already hard
worked, and he soon saw with dismay that blood
was flowing from his fore-shoulder freely from a
wound. A half mile further on the poor animal
began to flag sensibly; yet, cruel as it seemed, and
much as it pained his own generous nature, Preston
was forced to urge on the dying steed. He knew
that at the distance of a mile and a half ahead was
a swamp, into the recesses of which, if he could
once plunge, he would be safe. But now he heard
behind him a rapid hoof. It came nearer and
nearer, though still out of sight. One, if not more,
of his pursuers was gaining upon him. Again he
spurred his steed, and encouraged him with words.
The noble animal answered with a feeble cry, and
staggered on. Scarcely half a mile now remained to
gain the swamp. If he could only reach it, Preston
knew all danger would be past. But this was impossible.
That rapid gallop came nearer and nearer, like
the clock that ticks the hour of the criminal’s fate.
He heard a shout behind him, and looking over his
shoulder saw the trooper, whom he had last noticed
side by side with Major Lindsay, come thundering
on. He cheered his dying steed to a last effort—but
it was in vain; the dragoon made two strides to his
one. A few paces only now separated them; the
swamp lay thrice the distance before. Already the
trooper had risen in his stirrups, broadsword in hand.
Preston had no such weapon. Suddenly he recollected
the pistol in his other holster, and drawing it
with the velocity of thought, he turned half around
in his saddle and fired. With unerring aim the ball
entered the brain of the dragoon, who fell dead to
the earth.
It was the work of a moment to leap to the ground
and catch the fallen soldier’s horse, on which Preston
sprang. Poor Thunderer was already dead; he
had sunk to the earth as his master fired the last shot.
Thus fate interposed to prevent an interview between
Preston and our heroine, at a time when it
would have been of incalculable advantage to both,
and have circumvented a plot as base and cruel as
it was now certain of success. At the very hour
when Preston, after having ridden over thirty miles
from the spot where he was attacked, threw himself
wearied from his horse, in one of the most secret recesses
of the forest, Kate and her aunt were setting
forth for Georgetown, where they arrived on the
succeeding day.
Never was human creature in a more isolated
and mournful situation than Kate now found herself.
Indulging in what she thought a hopeless passion,
every motive of delicacy forbade her revealing it to
those who alone could befriend her. She well knew
that if her father became aware how much her marriage
with Major Lindsay was against her inclinations,
he would interpose even at the very altar, and
ascend the scaffold to save her. Neither would it
do to let her aunt guess her abhorrence at this
union. Both her father and Mrs. Blakeley had,
indeed, at one time hoped that a matrimonial connection
would be formed between her and Preston,
but the mutual coldness of the parties had long since
dissipated this expectation. It was no time now to
reveal her secret preference; such a confession
would only have sealed her father’s fate without
rendering her happy. Kate was forced therefore to
wear a smiling face, when her heart was lacerated.
As Major Lindsay was compelled to be at Camden
in six days, his leave of absence closing at that
period, the marriage was fixed for the evening
before his departure. This was an earlier day
than Kate had looked for, but she could not object
without exposing her secret. She submitted therefore
in silence.
But who can tell the agony of her spirit, when in
company with her aunt and parent she was forced
to wear a smiling aspect! yet when alone she gave
free vent to her sorrow. The image of Preston
often intruded on those bitter moments. Alas! that
one so young should be so miserable. She could
have prayed for death but that it would have been
impious.
Oh, the heart, the heart! what a mystery it is.
There are blows worse than those on the wheel; it
is when a gay heart is broken with anguish.
[Conclusion in our next.
WHAT THE OLD WOMAN SAID TO THE SCHOOL-GIRL.
———
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
———
Little maiden, you may laugh
That you see me wear a staff!
For your laughter’s but the chaff
From the melancholy grain!
Through the shadows long and cool
You are tripping down to school,
But your teacher’s cloudy rule
Only dulls the shining pool
With its loud and stormy rain!
There’s a higher lore to learn
Than his knowledge can discern;
There’s a valley deep and dern
In a desolate domain!
But for this he has no chart!
Shallow science—shallow art!
Thither—oh be still my heart—
One too many did depart
From the halls of Linden Lane!
I can teach you better things;
For I know the secret springs
Where the spirit wells and sings
Till it overflows the brain!
Come when eve is closing in,
When the spiders all begin,
Like philosophers, to spin
Gilded tissues vain and thin
Through the shades of Linden Lane.
While you sit as in a trance,
Where the moon-made shadows dance,
From the distaff of Romance
I will spin a silken skein!
Down the misty years gone by
I will turn your azure eye;
You shall see the changeful sky
Falling dark or hanging high
O’er the halls of Linden Lane!
Come, and sitting by the trees,
O’er the long and level leas,
Stretched between us and the seas,
I can point the battle-plain:
If the air comes from the shore
We may hear the billows roar;
But oh! never, nevermore
Shall the wind come as of yore
To the halls of Linden Lane!
Those were weary days of wo,
Ah! yes, many years ago,
When a cruel foreign foe
Sent his fleets across the main!
Though all this is in your books,
There are countless words and looks,
Which, like flowers in hidden nooks,
Or the melody of brooks,
There’s no volume can retain!
Come, and if the night be fair,
And the moon be in the air,
I can tell you when and where
Walked a tender loving twain:
Though it cannot be, alas!
Yet, as in a magic glass,
We will sit and see them pass
Through the long and rustling grass
At the foot of Linden Lane!
Yonder did they turn and go,
Through the level lawn below,
With a stately step and slow,
And long shadows in their train:
Weaving dreams no thoughts could mar
Down they wandered long and far,
Gazing toward the horizon’s bar
On their love’s appointed star,
Rising in the Lion’s Mane.
As across a summer sea,
Love passed o’er the quiet lea,
Light as only love may be,
Freighted with no care or pain.
Such the night; but with the morn
Brayed the distant bugle horn!
Louder! louder! still ’twas borne!
Then were anxious faces worn
In the halls of Linden Lane!
With the trumpet’s nearer bray,
Saw we arms and banners gay
Flashing but a league away,
Stretching far along the plain!
Neighing answer to the call
Burst our chargers from the stall;
Mounted, here they leaped the wall,
There the stream! While in the hall
Eyes were dashed with sudden rain!
Belted for the fiercest fight,
And with swimming plume of white,
Passed the lover out of sight
With the hurrying host amain!
Then the thunders of the gun
On the shuddering breezes run;
And the clouds o’erswept the sun
Till the heavens hung dark and dun
O’er the halls of Linden Lane!
Few that joined the fiery fray
Lived to tell how went the day;
But that few could proudly say
How the foe had fled the plain!
Long the maiden’s eyes did yearn
For her cavalier’s return;
But she watched alone to learn
That the valley deep and dern
Was her desolate domain!
Leave your books awhile apart;
For they cannot teach the heart!
Come, and I will show the chart
Which shall make the mystery plain!
I can tell you hidden things
Which your knowledge never brings;
For I know the secret springs
Where the spirit wells and sings
Till it overflows the brain.
Ah, yes, lightly sing and laugh,
Half a child and woman half;
For your laughter’s but the chaff
From the melancholy grain!
And, ere many years shall fly,
Age will dim your laughing eye,
And like me you’ll totter by;
For, remember, love, that I
Was the Maid of Linden Lane!
———
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
———
Theseus set sail for Athens in the same mournful ship in which he came to Crete, but forgot to change his sails, according
to the instructions of his father; so that when his father beheld from a watch-tower the ship returning with
black sails, he imagined that his son was dead, and cast himself headlong into the sea, which was afterward called
Ægean sea, from his name and destiny.—Andrew Tooke.
“A mast above the waters
Is rising tall and fair,
And hither bound, with glory crowned,
Welcome my princely heir!”
A king these glad words uttered,
His white locks streaming free,
Beneath a golden circlet,
In his watch-tower by the sea.
When nearer drew to Athens
The bark that bore his son,
The monarch, with an altered look,
This loud lament begun.
“Those sails are sails of mourning,
They flap above the dead;
And winds, that fill them, murmur
Low lies the laureled head!
“Vain, vain the hope long cherished,
That this old hand of mine
To Theseus, in dying hour,
Would royal robe resign.
“Though black the sails and rigging
Of yon ill-omened bark,
In my despairing bosom
There is a night more dark.”
High, high the broken billow
Its wreath of foam did fling,
When, headlong from the dizzy tower
Plunged, in his wo, the king.
Thenceforth, august Athena!
Thy sea, for beauty famed,
The bards of classic story
“Ægeum Mare” named.
A waste of troubled waters
Is, aye, the poet’s dower,
And royal thought keeps vigil
Within a lonely tower.
Rich fancies have been trusted
To Fortune’s varying gale,
And eagerly the watcher marks
Yon home-returning sail.
Perchance on board are riches,
To cheer the minstrel’s lot,
And glory’s crown of amaranth,
Whose purple fadeth not.
Winds drive the vessel nearer,
And well their wrath she braves—
“Ho, watchman! swells her canvas
A white cloud o’er the waves?
“Thy visions, bard, are perished,
Thy golden hopes have fled—
Those sails are sails of mourning,
They flap above the dead.”
———
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
———
Those who, day by day, glance carelessly over a
newspaper, as they puff a cigar, or give relish to a
lazy breakfast, by running the eye over the brief
sketches of crime which appear in the morning
journals, with so much regularity, and in such equal
proportions, that we are almost led to conjecture
that each day receives by lot its due share of such
matter, seldom, if ever, think of the actual romance
of the events which come to them in such a barren
shape. How many broken hearts and peculiar
agonies are involved in the intimate details of that
arrest, the narrative of which appears among twenty
others, and is so told, that, perhaps, the only impression
which it makes upon the mind is one of
wonder at the feats of the police. What a fearful
stage in the history of some human spirit is following
the publication of that hasty but remorseless
paragraph, which may scarcely arrest the attention
as we trace the columns down for more stimulating
news, and yet, first, perhaps, publicly connects an
honorable name with low vice, and removes the
last motive to reform with the last hope of concealment.
It is well for those of gentle sensibilities that
fancy is not more discursive at such moments, and
that, by a kind law of our natures, the door of sympathy
seldom opens but to intrusive griefs.
In spite, however, of the callousness which the
monotony of crime induces, and which ranges, increasingly,
down from those who read of it with indifference
to those who commit with composure, it
is sometimes brought so near to us in all its bleak
reality of depravity and affliction, that we cannot
well avoid communion with its voices. There are
those who consider emotional culture a duty of self-education,
and who would have us, upon systematic
principle, subject ourselves to frequent contact with
guilt and its results. This doctrine may be carried
to excess; and yet but few can say that experience
has not proved that the impressions of an occasional
intimacy with life’s deep tragedies around us are
salutary and instructive.
I had stopped for the night, on a journey westward,
at the little town of ——. I was to leave it
again in half an hour, and in this short interval that
remained before the coach would arrive which was
to carry me on my way, I was comfortably seated
by a table in my own private apartment, alternately
sipping from a cup of coffee and searching for some
item of interest in the columns of a dull weekly,
still damp from the village press. My eye passed
hastily over the stereotype remarks of the country
editor, the absurd extravagance of its political articles,
and the unmeaning gossip of the neighborhood,
and rested, at last, with somewhat more interest,
upon a paragraph which, under conspicuous capitals
and innumerable marks of exclamation, had
been thrust into the paper at the last moment. It
contained the announcement of a robbery of the
United States mail, from the confusion and empty
verbiage of which I extracted these brief facts. The
mail had been attacked, just before dawn, by two
ill-looking men, who deliberately dragged the driver
from his seat, tied him to a tree, and then, without
further violence to his person, proceeded to rifle the
bags. This done, they had fled, leaving the open
letters scattered in the road, and the driver still
bound. There was nothing, to be sure, very extraordinary
in all this, except that it had occurred but
a few hours before, and within two or three miles
of where I sat. But when, soon after, the servant
came in, and, eager to convey such unusual news,
informed me that the men had been hotly pursued
and taken, and were then in close custody in one
of the rooms of that very house, on their way to the
county prison, my curiosity, I confess, was fairly
roused.
Intensity of character is always interesting, whatever
may be its tendency. Profound intellectuality
and abandoned villainy are, perhaps, equally attractive,
when viewed in the light of mere food for
speculation. Our deepest feelings discover themselves
in our intercourse with the eccentric traits
of those of our own species. It is seldom the fear
of the elements, or of wild beasts, with which we
frighten children and distress ourselves. It is the
terror of strong men, of mad men, or of dead men,
that is, at all times, most natural and most urgent.
There is subject for deep reason and earnest philosophy
in these leadings of a wayward nature.
Some, it is true, are so conversant with such
scenes that they lose the fresh effect which this
occurrence had upon me. It was a new thing to
have crime at my very door. It was no ordinary
event for me to mingle my breath with that of outlaw
men; of my own shape, indeed, but of wild
passions and strange excitements, who gambled
with such desperate stakes. I dropped the paper,
pushed myself back from the table, and bade the
servant go for the landlord.
He soon appeared, and I requested that he would
get me a sight of the prisoners. My curiosity was
certainly not unusual, or unnatural, and I flattered
myself that my appearance gave weight to the wish.
He disappeared, but soon returned with a favorable
answer. With some caution, adopted to satisfy
my host, lest I should be observed by those who
might wish to indulge a similar desire, and might
lead him to regret his effort in my behalf, I approached
the room in which they were confined,
and at a signal agreed upon was admitted.
It was a small apartment. The men were standing
at separate windows, looking out upon that open
world from whose highways and endless fields they
had been taken so suddenly. They were heavily
manacled at wrist and ankle. Deep suffering is not
sensitive, or easily startled, or perhaps their apathy
in this instance arose from sullenness, but neither
of them turned or moved as I entered. I nodded
to an officer watching at the door, thanked him in
low words for his courtesy in indulging my curiosity,
and then leaned back against the wall by his side,
and silently scrutinized the prisoners.
They stood, as I have mentioned, unmoved as
statues. Though their faces were concealed from
my view as they looked out, and their backs only
were presented, I could see that in age and general
appearance they were very different. They were
both dressed with tolerable decency, except that
their clothes were soiled and torn in the hurry of
their flight, and the struggle of their capture. One
of them was evidently very young, probably not
more than twenty, and the long, neglected hair
which fell upon his coat was light and soft. His
feet were small, his hands white and delicate, his
person slender and somewhat emaciated. They
showed gentle training.
His companion was older, and his figure shorter
and more sturdy. He had an awkward stoop, and
his whole appearance was slouching and ungainly.
A profusion of coarse black hair fell straight over
his shoulders, without curl or gloss, and a thick
beard seemed to cover his face. He bore marks of
great strength in his short, thick neck and heavy
limbs. This was all that I could see, and I waited
patiently for a change in their positions.
“They’re both of ’em,” whispered the officer,
“strangers in the neighborhood. I guess it’s a new
trade with ’em, for they’re not very keen. They
got nothing for their risk and then didn’t know how
to take themselves off. They’re bad looking chaps
though, and I wouldn’t wonder if they’d seen the
inside of a jail before to-day.”
“One of them is very young,” said I, “and looks
like a gentleman’s son. Do you see his hands and
feet?”
“You wouldn’t think that of him,” said he, “if
you were to see his face once. It’s the worst face
that I ever saw in a young man. They’re both
game, too, and fought like the devil before we got
the irons on ’em. That black, Spanish-looking
rascal is as strong as a wild beast. He came mighty
near getting off.”
“Where did you catch them?” said I, “you seem
to have been prompt.”
“We found ’em by accident, in the end,” said the
officer. “And it was their own foolishness, too,
that brought it about. We had given ’em up, and
were coming home, when we came across this
letter. The fellows had dropped it two or three
hundred yards from the house where we nabbed ’m.
They thought they were safe, and were just trying
to get something to eat. We wouldn’t have touched
’em, it’s likely, seeing ’em in a decent house, but
they started, like fools, and looked scared, and all
that, and we knew what to do.”
I took the letter from him as he spoke. The seal
had been broken when it was found. The address
immediately arrested my attention. It was really a
very singular coincidence, and I could hardly believe
my eyes when I opened it. The letter was from
my most intimate college friend to his father. I had
not seen him for full two years, but in that interval
I had corresponded with him freely, and I knew his
present situation and something of his family history.
His father resided in the far west. The son was at
the east. He had remained at college when we
parted, where he was still preparing himself for the
bar, and the post-mark showed that it had been
written at that place.
My first impulse, on seeing the signature, was one
of honorable delicacy, and I had half folded the
letter to return it to the officer, when it occurred to
me that it had, no doubt, been already read and re-read;
that it would necessarily form part of the
chain of the testimony against the accused; that it
would be exposed to inspection by bench, bar, and
jury, and might at length find its way even to the
public papers.
These thoughts decided me, and I opened it and
read it. It surprised me somewhat; and though it
may be made a question whether I was right or
wrong in my mode of settling the point of delicacy,
there is nothing which should prevent me now from
placing it before the reader as accurately as my
memory will allow after so long a lapse of time.
It will not interest him as it did me, but its contents
bear upon other parts of my story.
It was as follows:
“My Dear Father,—I received your letter of
the — instant in regular course of mail. I was
sincerely glad to hear that you had so far recovered
from an indisposition which at first threatened to be
serious.
“I am sorry that my reply will convey news which
must distress you. George has returned from sea.
I met him in the street a few days ago with an ill-looking
companion. He came upon me suddenly.
I am never very self-possessed, and I was extremely
doubtful how to treat him. He saw me, however—knew
me at once—seized me by the hand and drew
me into a public room which opened upon the place
where we stood. I could not break away from him
without attracting attention. He affected a pleasure
which I suppose was assumed, in order to overcome
a repulsiveness of manner that he could not fail to
notice, and which I could not help. He asked about
you and Mary, and told me he was utterly destitute,
and needed money for his necessary wants. I gave
him a small sum to keep him from starving, and tried
to shake him off. This, however, I could not easily
do. He went on to say that he had determined to
see you again, and throw himself on your charity,
and was then actually on his way to the west. I
told him that your feelings had not changed, and
that his appearance would only make trouble and
give you pain. His resolution, notwithstanding
what I said, seemed unaltered, and I am afraid his
presence will soon annoy you.
“His appearance shocked me excessively. He
looks bloated and depraved beyond description, and
I fear from the expression of his face, and the
air of his companion, that he has gone far in vice
since he left you.
“I wish Mary could have seen him as I saw him.
She has been so unreasonable already, however, that
it might be well to send her from home in anticipation
of the threatened visit. Unless she is kept in ignorance
of it in this, or some other way, she may yet
give us much trouble and anxiety.
“Give my love to her, and believe me
“Your affectionate son,
“Henry Eagleton, Jr.”
I have said that I was somewhat surprised. My
friend had occasionally mentioned the name of
George Ellis, his father’s ward, and had more than
once spoken of his own sister Mary. But though
I had deemed our intimacy sufficient for almost any
confidence, he had never touched upon circumstances
bearing in the remotest degree upon those
which had thus accidentally met my eye. Indeed I
recollected, or thought I recollected, that there had
always been a certain reserve in his conversation
about Ellis, which had at times excited a casual
curiosity. Now the mystery was in a measure explained.
From the letter in my hand I could gather
at a glance the main features of this family trouble.
I afterwards learned that its most important events
had happened after I parted with my friend.
“What names have they given?” said I to the
officer, handing back the letter.
“None at all,” he replied. “The short one can’t
or won’t talk English, and the other is stubborn and
says nothing. They’ve jabbered together a little
in some foreign gibberish, but we can’t get any
thing out of ’em, do our best. If they knew what
they were about they’d just give in their names at
once as John Smith, or John Jones, and have done
with it. That’s the way the knowing ones do.”
At this instant some one tapped at the door,
opened it slightly, and informed me that the coach
was waiting for me. Attracted by the sound the
younger of the prisoners turned fully round. I had
been looking for such a movement, and whispering to
the servant that I would be there presently, and
that in the meantime he could take down my trunk,
I stood for a moment longer by the side of the
officer, and with as little that was offensive in my
glance as possible, returned steadily the gaze of the
culprit.
The officer was right. In so young a man I had
never seen so bad a face. Marks of brutal passion
and dissipation mingled with an expression of sullen
fear upon a countenance which might once have
been handsome, but was now far otherwise. His
eyes were heavy and bloodshot, and his skin red
and bloated. But he could not bear my scrutiny,
and cut it short by turning again to the window.
I had already delayed longer than I should have
done, and bidding the officer a hasty good-bye, I
left the room.
In ten minutes more I was driving rapidly away.
On my return, I again passed through the town,
and found upon inquiry the result of the arrest.
The elder of the prisoners had been convicted upon
the testimony of the younger; the former was in
prison, the latter at large.
In the pressure of business, however, and of life’s
pursuits, the connected impressions of that scene
soon went from me. Matters of deeper interest
occupied my mind and enlisted my attention. My
correspondence with Eagleton, in which of course
I never hinted at my singular adventure, became
less and less frequent, and at last ceased entirely;
and before the time over which I now pass so hastily
had gone by, I had well nigh forgotten my early
friendship.
It was some five years after the occurrence of
the scene which I have described, that on a visit to
the city in whose college I had received a part of
my education, I had occasion to employ counsel to
advise me in the conduct of perplexed and unpleasant
business. Seven years’ absence from the place
had nearly obliterated my slight knowledge of its
society, and I was obliged to make some inquiry in
reference to the character and comparative ability
of different members of the bar. Among other
names mentioned to me with commendation was
that of Henry Eagleton, my chum and classmate.
I sought no further, but determined without loss
of time to see him, revive our acquaintance, and
obtain his services. With the name, too, came back
my recollection of the scene at ——, and I felt a
deep desire to discover, if I could do so with delicacy,
the sequel to the brief narrative of that stolen
letter. I obtained his address, and soon stood at
the door of his office. I knocked, and in obedience
to a call from within, entered.
By a large table on which lay open books and
scattered papers, in the confusion and disorder of
hasty use, sat my friend writing. He rose as I entered,
and though time had made some change in
my appearance and much more in his, we knew
each other at once.
He was thinner and paler than when I had last
seen him, and all the buoyancy of his disposition had
gone. Then he was the soul of fun and innocent
mirth, now he was grave, reserved, and business-like,
and his features wore a deep tinge of melancholy.
He was chatty and companionable, however,
to me; and as passing from one lively topic to
another we talked of old times and college freaks,
his reserve wore away, and his face lighted up with
smiles which probably had not played upon it for
years before, and which made him look much more
like my old friend Harry Eagleton. Maturity and
old age are marvelously indulgent to the faults and
follies of their youth, and while we recalled one
scene after another of high frolic or absurd amusement,
we almost felt ready for their mischief again.
As we warmed in a conversation of such a character,
old sympathies revived, and our remarks became
closer and more personal. I freely went over
the general course of my life since we had parted,
and with apparently equal openness he spoke of his
own career. He had partly prepared himself for
the bar in the proper department of the institution
in which he had been graduated, had completed his
training in a private office in the same city, had determined
to settle there permanently in his profession,
had come to the bar under favorable auspices,
and with a delay much less than he had feared,
and was now in the full tide of successful practice,
reaping the fruits of an honorable and a lucrative
business.
I asked him, after some time, after his father and
sister. In a moment all sprightliness passed from
his countenance, and he answered me with the
deepest gravity.
His father had been dead for several years; his
sister was living with him, a confirmed and hopeless
invalid.
I did not mention Ellis’s name, or push my inquiries
further, but after a short and awkward silence
touched abruptly on my own matters, and produced
the papers which bore upon the business that had
led me to his office. It was soon arranged. His
clear comprehension of facts which I deemed complicated,
and his better information as to their bearing
and effect soon simplified a case of much importance,
put it in a light more favorable to my own
interest than I had anticipated, and directed my
future course toward those concerned with me in
the result.
This over, our social chat re-commenced; and
though I feared to intrude upon his time, he pressed
me to remain seated, with an urgency which I could
not resist. We were soon wandering away again
with the memories which had already proved so
pleasant, and which seemed to freshen and increase
as we went on. After a prudent hesitation as to
the propriety of doing so, which perhaps yielded in
the end rather to inclination than to judgment, I
availed myself of some accidental turn in our conversation,
and related the adventure of my journey
to the west.
I began the story without hinting to him that his
name was involved. As I went on step by step,
his eye became fixed on mine with increasing interest.
I mentioned the letter and its address, and
was about to tell its contents, when Eagleton rose
suddenly, took me by the hand and led me into
an inner room. As I left the office I saw what I
had not noticed until then. In the shadow of a large,
high case, in a remote part of the apartment, with
his hands folded listlessly before him, and his head
drooping heavily over his lap, sat a young man apparently
about twenty-five years of age. In all our
lively and even noisy conversation, not a breath or
motion had apprised me of his presence. Without
seeming to observe him, however, I followed my
friend. I felt satisfied that I was now about to be
gratified by some disclosure connected with a history
in regard to which all my former curiosity had
returned.
He closed the door between the rooms, handed
me a chair, drew another opposite to it, and as we
sat down facing each other, he begged me to
resume my narrative. He eyed me steadily as I
proceeded, and at times expressions passed over
his features whose meaning, with all my skill, I
could not fathom—expressions of changing but controlled
emotion.
I told the story to its end. With an accuracy of
memory which surprised me, and seemed strangely
supplied for the call of the occasion, I repeated this
letter as I have given it already. When I mentioned
the arrival of the servant to hurry me away,
a shade of disappointment was evidently perceptible.
When I spoke of the sudden movement of the
younger of the prisoners, the hasty opportunity I
had obtained, by his change of position, of examining
his face, and then described his forbidding and depraved
appearance, all his eager interest returned,
and he bent forward as he sat, intent upon every
word that passed my lips.
I paused at length, for my narrative was at an
end; yet though I had ceased, so absorbed was he
in that rapid description, that he still leaned toward
me as though he hoped that I would give one touch
more to the picture. Then he fell back in his chair
absorbed in deep thought, which overlooks all apology
for its silence, and peremptorily forbids interruption—sat
thus for some minutes—rose and paced
the room with rapid and unequal strides, and stood
in the end abruptly before me.
“Did you pass through —— on your return?” said
he with the tone and manner of one who rather
thought the question aloud than uttered it.
I replied that I had, and mentioned in a few words
what I had heard in reference to the prisoners, and
the result of the proceedings against them.
Again Eagleton paced the room. I watched him
with earnest curiosity, but did not by motion or remark
interfere with his mood. It was one which
must shortly explain itself. His step became gradually
calmer and more steady, and at length he
quietly sank into his chair. His countenance was
grave, but without any manifest traces of agitation
or excitement, and he looked steadily at me as he
spoke.
“You saw, no doubt,” said he, “in the room we
just left, a young man seated by a case. I am about
to call him in for a moment. Will you be kind
enough to observe him narrowly, and tell me when
he is gone whether you have ever seen him before?”
He rose once more, and with an appearance of
composure, which was evidently assumed, opened
the door through which we had just passed, called
to the person who was sitting there, and then
quietly resumed his seat. I heard a slow, shuffling
step across the floor within, and presently the person
called, whoever he was, appeared. I looked at
him eagerly.
He was an idiot. I could see that clearly and at
a glance. His vacant face gave undoubted evidence
of the visitation of that peculiar judgment under
whose influence the light within goes out; yet his
features were not bad, and if one particle of intelligence
had shown in his sunken eye, he might,
perhaps, have passed without notice or remark in
spite of his wan and unhealthy complexion, his unmeaning
expression, and his listless gait and carriage.
It was that dull, preternatural stare that
made him so melancholy a spectacle.
I recollected well the face of the younger prisoner.
It had made a fast and painful impression on my
mind. Many a time it had been present with me;
seldom as part of the scene in which it first appeared,
but coming suddenly and unattended, looking
at me as I mused. In my fancies my character
had assumed it wholly or in fragments. If I slept I
had fitted it to the creatures of my dream. A face
alone—nothing else; but a face clearly chiseled,
and with every point and line distinct.
If the man before me and he were the same, a
fearful change had passed over him. But Eagleton
had evidently connected the idiot with my story, and
after the eagerness of his manner as I told the result
of that last accidental scrutiny of the features of the
man at ——, and his subsequent singular request, I
should have been dull indeed if I had not seen the
drift of his thoughts, though I was in utter ignorance
of the precise course they had pursued, and of the
remote reasons of his conduct. The robber had an
eye full of meaning and evil purpose—the face before
me wore no shade of depravity; and yet as I
looked resemblances occurred, became gradually
more striking and more convincing, fastened themselves
upon me with a tenacity that I could not
shake off, and at last blended the two faces into
one. I became satisfied of their identity as fully as
if the awkward figure before me, guarded and
manacled, were gazing yet from the window at
which years before it had met my eye. It was not
mere fancy, or an opinion forced upon me by the
circumstances.
And yet I feared that it was, and to dispel any
cloud that might rest upon my mental vision, or
any nervous delusion which interfered with the
correctness of the result at which I aimed, I rose
and looked out for a few moments upon some
climbing vines and clustered roses that grew by an
open door, and then resumed my seat.
My friend, rather to aid my observation than to
give a reason for his call, had been speaking slowly
to the object of my attention, until becoming satisfied
from my manner that I was prepared to answer
his question, he quietly dismissed him, and turned
toward me again with the same affected composure
in his movements, but with an eye full of eager
inquiry.
“Eagleton,” said I, “if I am right, a greater change
has passed over that face in five years than death
itself could have produced. But you have made a
request, and I comply with it. I believe, before God,
that the person I have just seen is the same to
whose description you have just been listening.
That description does not now apply, and yet it is
a true one. I have doubted my conclusion, and
distrusted memory, but I cannot relieve myself of
the conviction I have expressed.”
He was evidently prepared for the answer, and
did not seem shocked or surprised, though the shade
of gloom increased upon his countenance. He rose
again, and paced the floor so long that I became impatient.
“I need not tell you,” said he, at last resuming his
seat once more, “that what you have seen, and what
you are about to hear, are in the deepest confidence.
I do not ask your pledge to keep it, but I leave it
to your honor till I am dead. You have not only become
acquainted, by accident, with family troubles
which I hoped until to-day would die with those
connected with them, but by that same accident
have been enabled to tell me that of which I did
not know before, but which, now that I have heard
it, solves many doubts, and explains facts before
inexplicable. I am composed, but the answer
to my question, for the candor of which I thank you,
has pained me excessively; and yet, when you have
listened to what I have to say, you will doubtless
wonder at my sensibility upon such a subject as
much as you now wonder at my indifference to your
announcement.
“The young man you have just seen is George
Ellis. My sister is his wife. Until your visit to-day,
however much I may have suspected, no words
brought to my ear had ever certainly fastened crime
upon, or tainted his name with any thing but vice
and dissipation, in which I know he has been
deeply steeped. To-day you have added that stain
to his character. But why should I fret over what
cannot be recalled. I have one real consolation.
My sister has never known this new degradation,
and will die in ignorance of your disclosures. As
to Ellis, he is past feeling. You have seen his
situation. But I must proceed with my narrative.”
I do not tell the tale in Eagleton’s words. In
spite of all his efforts to control his feelings, they
occasionally broke out in exclamations of deep
pathos and bitter invective, and led him wandering
off from the direct thread of his story. Besides, I
subsequently learned many facts which neither of us
knew at that time, but which were closely interwoven
with the scenes through which I am about to
carry the reader.
The father of George Ellis and the father of my
friend were once partners in mercantile business,
in a thriving town of the West. The firm was
Ellis & Eagleton. It did a large business, was
widely known and much respected. Mr. Ellis was
a man of information and integrity, but a free liver
and a man of the world. He never married. He
had, however, this son, whom he seemed to love
more warmly because there was a stigma upon his
birth, or, perhaps, because its history was connected
with associations that were painful. But whatever
was the reason for his father’s blind attachment,
George was humored and indulged, until, even
while a child, he became the pest and terror of the
neighborhood.
It is said that the offspring of illicit passion are
generally marked by insanity of character. Be that
as it may, it matters not here. There was enough
to account for the worst traits of his disposition, in
the unbridled license of his early training, and the
foolish devotion of a worldly father. If ever there
was an evil spirit in human shape, that spirit was
George Ellis. From the very cradle the fiend
showed itself. Boys of his own age fled from him
as if he had been a wild beast. Eagleton, though
older, was afraid of him. No one could govern
him, least of all his own parent; and his reputation
for mad freaks and reckless mischief soon spread
far and wide, and rapidly increased as he became
older. And yet with all this, with that dark, bad
eye and bold air, he was as handsome a fellow as
ever grew to be a man.
His father died when he was about eighteen. He
died utterly bankrupt. With scrupulous honor,
however, even in the excesses which had led to
such a result, he had not involved his firm. On his
deathbed he sent for Mr. Eagleton, told him that he
died without a dollar to leave behind him, and with
an earnestness which, perhaps, at such a moment,
could not have been refused, committed his son to
his partner’s care.
It was a terrible legacy from a ruined man. My
friend’s father might have known that Mr. Ellis’s
wish could not be complied with, and that it would
be absolutely impossible for him to assume such a
trust. It would have been happy for him if he
could have felt so. It would have saved him much
affliction, and have given to his life happy years
that sorrow soon cut off. But the destiny was
otherwise.
I never saw Mary Eagleton. I know, however,
that, at the time of which I speak, she was the belle
of her village, the pet and pride of her father and
brother. At the date of my interview with Henry
in a distant city, she was a mere shadow of what
she had once been—a wreck in mind and body—oppressed
with pain and increasing infirmities.
These were all portions of that same fearful
legacy.
Before the death of Mr. Ellis she had often seen
his son. She was about his age, and had been
attracted by his appearance. This was all. He
was deemed a dangerous acquaintance, and a close
and watchful care prevented intimacy. Now, by
the last prayer of a dying parent, the profligate was
brought to her very door, and sat at her very table
and fireside. Her father might have prevented this,
and yet have fulfilled his duty to the dead. He
was blind.
They soon understood each other. But their conduct
was cautious and baffled a watchfulness that
was keenly awake. I need not clog my narrative
with details. Her brother was away; her father
could not be always near her. George was depraved
and heartless, she was young and foolish.
A private marriage terminated their intercourse, for
the heart broken father cast the bridegroom off, at
once, sternly, and forever. His wife never saw
him again until, years after, in a distant city, he was
brought to her bedside—an idiot. The bequest was
not yet exhausted. But it might have been worse.
Ellis soon after went to sea in a merchant vessel
bound for a foreign port. He was too abandoned
even for such a society. On the first arrival of the
ship at her destination he was set on shore. Without
money, or character, yet with enough shrewdness
to keep him from starving, he plunged desperately
into all the temptations of a depraved city.
Vice and poverty soon led to crime. It was not
many months before he concealed himself, a fugitive
from justice, on board of a vessel bound for his own
country, and with a companion in his guilt, a
Spaniard, arrived in the United States but a few
days before the meeting mentioned in my friend’s
letter.
A few hours after that meeting he and his companion
were on their way westward. Ellis hoped to be
received again. The Spaniard had nothing to lose,
and some adventure in a new country might turn
to his advantage. But hard want pressed them
sorely. Begging was a slow and servile support.
Labor was not so much as thought of. To such
minds an answer to the fearful questionings of hunger
was not doubtful, or long delayed. Their first
adventure was the crime at ——. As Ellis turned
over the letters which they had scattered in the
road his eye was attracted by the address of one of
them. He opened it, read it, and quietly put it in
his pocket. It proved, as we have seen, the means
of their arrest.
The Spaniard’s name was Antonio. I never
heard any other. He was more mature than Ellis
in years and in depravity. But the most striking
trait of his character was one that will appear hereafter.
From the moment of their arrest the prisoners
preserved a dogged silence. Antonio could not
speak a word of English. Ellis had his own reason
for the course he pursued. The driver of the mail,
whose person they had treated so unceremoniously,
and who, upon their first capture, had been loud in
his confidence of their identity with those who had
bound him, a few days after declared that his first
impressions were hasty, and declined backing his
assertion by an oath. The mail which they had
robbed had afforded them nothing worth having,
and, at the time of their seizure, they had about
them no evidence of guilt. The only grounds of
suspicion against them were the fact that they were
strangers; the letter found near them; their seeming
alarm upon seeing the officers; their dogged and
persevering silence, and their reckless and abandoned
appearance.
The prisoners were confined in separate cells.
The officers, who have always motives for industry
appealing to them in such cases, saw, at a glance,
which was the oldest and most hardened offender,
and from which of them they were most likely to
gain their object. Ellis was wary and knew their
game, but he was without honor, and intensely
selfish. His sullenness at last relaxed. He gave
them, cautiously, to understand that he would convict
Antonio to secure his own escape, and it was
determined to use him as a witness against his accomplice.
I need not give the details of the trial. Ellis appeared
in the box and gave evidence, coolly, against
the accused. The Spaniard was too much a stranger
to the form of the proceeding to understand the
scheme at once. But light at last broke in upon him
and revealed the treachery. From that moment
one burning dream, overcoming all fear of punishment,
and strangely composing the bitterness of
solitude rested upon him. It was a delirious prayer
for revenge, in a heart as malignant as was ever
shut from human eye. The witness would have
trembled if he could have looked within it.
The evidence was effectual. Antonio was convicted,
and received the severest sentence that the
law allowed—ten years imprisonment. He was
taken to his cell. Ellis went at large.
A copy of Eagleton’s letter to his father had been
re-mailed, several weeks after the arrest, by some
person to whose hand it had come, more considerate
than those who had first held it. At the foot a brief
explanation was given of the circumstances which
rendered it necessary to retain the original, and an
apology for the delay in communicating its contents.
When it reached its destination Mr. Eagleton
was laboring under a second and more serious
attack of the same illness which the letter mentioned.
It had been brought about by mental suffering,
and, so alarming were the symptoms, that
his daughter had just despatched a letter to hasten
her brother home.
It was at this juncture that the copy was received.
As she had frequently done before since her father’s
sickness, Mary opened the letter to read it aloud.
It surprised her. It began as only her brother’s
letters began, and yet the handwriting was not his.
As she read she grew pale, her lips trembled, and
at length bursting into tears, she left the room.
The invalid took it from the bed, on which she had
dropped it, sat up, and, much moved, read it through.
The news was such as he did not wish to believe.
The whole matter was singular, and with a flushed
face and increased fever he dropped again upon his
pillow. If it were really from his son, all reserve
or secrecy toward his daughter was at an end, and
all that could be done was to await her husband’s
arrival.
The excitement was injurious, Mr. Eagleton
became so much feebler from day to day that Mary’s
greatest fear now was that her brother might not
come until too late. It was as she had apprehended.
Death came rapidly on, and she was
alone at its crisis. In a few days she sat beside the
dead body of her father, and in a few more, the only
mourner, followed him to his grave.
And yet her brother did not come. Again and
again she wrote to him, with an urgency which
showed how lonely and unprotected she felt.
There was a trial which she anticipated, and
which she feared to meet without his aid. She
felt assured that her first letter had not reached him,
and the journey was one of many days.
A traveler arrived at last, but it was not Henry.
In the hall of the mansion from which he had been
thrust out with bitter curses, tattered and wretched
and bleached with prison gloom, stood the outcast,
the fugitive, the robber, the dishonored witness—George
Ellis. His wife had pledged her word to
her dying father that she would not see him again,
and here he stood in her very house, her rightful
husband. Her heart throbbed fearfully between
returning love and religious duty. But she kept
her word to the dead, refused to see him, and
shutting herself in her own room, awaited the
coming of her brother.
Mr. Eagleton had left a will, but it bore date before
the marriage, and did not provide for the state
of things which that event produced. Ellis was
aware that as her husband he had legal rights, and
that her father’s death had given them effect; but
he was ignorant of their actual nature, and caution
taught him to refrain from violence. He did not
intrude upon his wife’s privacy, but, with all the
coolness of villainy, he made himself at home in the
house from which the dead had just been borne,
and trusted to her woman’s weakness, and a love,
the strength of which he knew too well, to cure her
of her solitary mood.
But my friend appeared, and the face of affairs
soon changed. He met Ellis on his arrival, and,
surprised at his presence, soon gathered from the
servants a history of what had occurred. His first
impulse was to eject him forcibly, but better suggestions
made him change his purpose. Without
allowing them to inform his sister of his arrival, he
hastened to the office of his father’s attorney and
apprised himself of the precise nature of the intruder’s
rights. He knew his want of money, and
with a paper carefully drawn, releasing all claim to
the estate of Mr. Eagleton, he returned home. He
soon had an interview with Ellis, and offered him
a certain sum, to be paid upon the spot, if he would
sign the instrument. He refused at first, peremptorily,
then asked an advance in the offer, and, at
last, finding that he could do no better, put his name
to the paper, coolly pocketed the money and left
the house.
The estate was soon settled. Their native place
was connected with associations so painful that
they were glad to leave it, and in a few weeks they
were quietly domiciled in the city where I found
them.
It was a year, at least, after the death of Mr.
Eagleton, when early one morning on the high-road
leading to the village in which he had lived, the
dead body of a wealthy farmer was found by some
one passing by. It bore marks of violence which
none could doubt. A murder had been committed.
Excitement burned in the town and in the neighborhood.
Within the memory of the oldest inhabitant
no similar act of violence had been committed.
Suspicion first ran riot, then settled, as if
by common agreement, upon George Ellis. It was
not strange that conjecture should have taken that
course.
Ellis did not leave the town when he last turned
from the door which had twice cast him off. He
remained, for the simple reason that he knew not
where else to go. He lurked about its vilest places
and made low friends by his ill-gotten money. But
he soon lost both, and yet he stayed. No one knew
how he lived. He crossed the paths of citizens in
strange places and unusual hours. He went in and
came out like no one else. His worst companions
had shaken him off. He was the very one upon
whom any crime would have been first cast.
He felt the suspicion and tried to live it down.
His efforts gave it a new stimulus. He braved
public opinion, sought public places, became noisy
and obtrusive. Many thought this sudden change
of manner justified his arrest, and so strong became
at last the feeling against him that the suggestion
was followed. He was seized without oath, examined
without effect, and committed in the end to
await his trial upon evidence that would have convicted
half of the community. Public opinion is
hard law.
New facts came out. The prisoner had been
seen abroad much later than usual on the night before
the murder. He had mentioned it to some one
early on the morning after it had been committed.
His manner, it was said, had been more hurried and
excited for a day or two before it occurred. What
a silly thing suspicion is. How easy to feed it. And
yet these and a dozen other like stories were passed
about by grave men in eager gossip. The net was
cast and brought in of every kind.
An indictment was found; who dare have said
nay. The trial drew near—it came too slowly.
Yet all this while nothing serious or substantial had
come to light in any way connecting Ellis with
the deed.
He protested his innocence firmly and without
contradiction. His counsel encouraged him. Public
opinion was not to try him. The flimsy rumors that
had ruled the market-house and the tavern door
would be winnowed and sifted. No conviction
could be had upon such testimony.
The day came, and in a court-room thronged as
it had never been before, a jury was sworn with
much difficulty—for few had not formed or expressed
an opinion. This done, the trial proceeded.
The testimony began after a short opening. First
in order, in grave detail of examination and cross-examination,
came that which bore upon the finding
of the body—its appearance—the wounds it showed—the
opinion of medical men that such wounds
caused the death, and the nature of the weapon
used. It was in evidence that a small and peculiar
pistol had been found not far off from the place
where the murdered man lay. It had no doubt been
fired close to his head, for the upper part of it was
entirely blown away. The pockets had been rifled,
and all that was valuable about his person had been
removed.
Then followed the proof connecting the prisoner
with the crime. It consisted entirely of such facts
as those we have given, and even these presented
with doubt and contradiction. The last witness
had retired from the box, and the counsel for the
state was about to close his case, when a bustle was
heard in the crowd, and a pedlar with his pack upon
his back, forced on by the crowd, made his way toward
the bar. A bailiff stopped him, when a citizen
well known in the town, and who had from the first
been earnest in his voice against the accused,
stepped forward and spoke to the officer. The pack
was removed, and the pedlar was admitted within
the enclosure in which the prosecuting attorney sat.
An earnest conversation followed. Ellis and his
counsel were anxious, but not more so than their
professional opponent, who was a gentleman of
high principle, and a humanity unusual in such a
station. The latter now rose and asked permission
to be absent for a short time, and taking the pistol
from the table, he beckoned the new comer to
follow him, and left the court-room. They were
absent some twenty minutes, and when they returned
the stranger was put at once into the witness
box.
His story was simple, and no severity of cross-examination
could baffle its force or procure a contradiction.
He had sold that very pistol to the
prisoner, whom he had met in the public road two
days before the murder. Ellis he could not mistake—the
weapon he could swear to on his deathbed.
He was in the village now by accident, had
come to the trial from curiosity, had made an unguarded
explanation when he first saw the accused,
and in spite of his unwillingness to give testimony
in a case of life and death, he had been forced up
by those around. This was simple, but direct and
damning.
The witness had one of those heavy faces which
are the most difficult to decipher. Ellis scrutinized
him closely. He was confident he had never seen
him before. Sick at heart, and bewildered by what
he deemed a gratuitous and wanton effort to swear
away his life, yet powerless in the grasp of villainy,
he turned from him, and as he did so his eye fell
on another face, whose glance drove the blood
throbbing to his heart. It was the face of Antonio.
With a fevered brow and a dry tongue he leaned
toward his counsel, and hastily whispered his fears.
It was too late now to ferret out a conspiracy, and
when he turned again the Spaniard was gone, and
that impenetrable witness stood coolly in the box
awaiting his dismissal. God of compassion! he was
taken in the snare.
An agony to be loose when no hand was on him;
a frenzy to be free when no bars were round him.
Was he going mad? Then a film came over his
mind thicker—thicker. He buried his face in his
hands, and the veins upon his forehead were swollen
and knotted. Memories went over him like the
rushing of a host.
The evidence on the part of the state now closed.
None was offered on behalf of the prisoner. The
counsel summed up the evidence;—the charge of
the court followed;—the jury retired, soon returned,
and their foreman gave in a verdict. Guilty!
Ellis had undermined his constitution by excesses.
But from the instant when that word fell upon his
ear a decay, far less gradual, began in mind and
body. He did not faint or weep; he did not reason,
resist, or complain. The withering blight of years
came upon him in a few short days, but no eye saw
the change.
It was some weeks after the trial that as Eagleton
glanced over one of the morning papers, a paragraph
met his eye which riveted his attention. It was an
announcement of the execution of George Ellis, to
take place in a month from that time.
He was deeply shocked. Feelings struggled in
his breast that were never there before. He asked
himself questions until then never suggested.
Might not this result have been averted? Had his
conscience no one weak point in all the history of
his course toward one over whom a parent had
thrown the sacred protection of a dying trust? Had
they done the outcast a justice that could bear the
light of humanity as well as of reason? Was there
no shadow of selfishness in the motives that had
twice cast him upon the world?
One duty, however, was clear. He could not let
the wretched man die alone. He must see him if it
were only to stand by him on the scaffold. That
over, a dying parent’s prayer would no longer appeal
to him, except perhaps to bury the dead out of sight.
He plead business to his sister, and started on his
way. Night and day he traveled, those solemn
questions still communing with his spirit. He was
a deep-hearted man, and sorrow had made his sensibilities
sore. Night and day—night and day. If
he dreamed, George Ellis was there, straight and
handsome, his dark eye softened into sympathy, and
Mary on his arm—a lovely bride; and suddenly the
scene changed, and a creature bloated and miserable
stood upon a scaffold, with a sea of heads heaving
before it, and its bloodshot gaze upon him, not in
anger, but in mournful rebuke;—and again it was
George Ellis.
He reached the town, and was admitted to his
cell. The prisoner was pale and emaciated, and
a sluggish apathy was in his air, which seemed
indifference to life. He recognized Eagleton, but
greeted him coldly, and declined all his proffered
visits. And yet there was no resentment in his
manner. The misery of life had burnt away the
wished for rest and quiet sleep. Before Henry left
him, however,—abruptly, and without question, but
with an energy that appeared to wake up for the
purpose, and a call upon God to attest his truth—he
swore that he was innocent of the crime he was to
expiate.
Eagleton left him in deep emotion. He busied
himself at once in collecting information as to the
murder, the trial, and the ground of conviction. He
made diligent search for the strange witness, and
strove for a pardon or reprieve. It was in vain. A
sentence was a sterner thing then than now, and the
verdict of twelve men more inviolable.
The day fixed for the execution arrived. It was
near noon when a gloomy procession left the prison
gate and wound through the opening crowd to the
foot of the gallows. The scaffold bore at last the
prisoner, the sheriff, a deputy, found at the last moment
to relieve him from the hateful duty of taking
life, a clergyman, and Eagleton. The first was still,
stupid, and indifferent. No sound escaped him as
his irons were removed, and his hands bound; no
voice passed his lips as time was given him to bid
those around farewell. The man of God knelt in
prayer, then rose and fell back. The executioner
approached.
My friend watched him with intense interest. He
was masked. His manner was singular, and a
deep excitement pervaded his movements. A
strange and unaccountable suspicion of the man
crept over Eagleton, he knew not why.
He raised the cap which was to shut out the
world forever from the wretched being by his side.
But before it rested on the head for which it was intended,
he who held it seemed to have a purpose to
fulfil. He leaned quickly forward, whispered in that
passive ear, and for a single instant raised his mask.
Eyes of fire glared from under it. It was Antonio
once more. What he said no mortal knows; but if
ages of burning malignity and pent passion can be
distilled into one word, that word, no doubt, was in
the prisoner’s ear. He started and looked up, and
a shudder passed over his frame. Then, in one
instant, all his apathy was gone, and he struggled
like a madman to free his hands. The Spaniard
saw his error, and strove to retrieve it. But the
frantic exertions of the prisoner foiled him.
Eagleton himself could be passive no longer. He
had seen it all, and felt that the sudden change that
had passed upon Ellis was not the mere change of
fear grown riotous at the last. He seized the
stranger, tore off his mask, and called for aid.
Quicker than thought the executioner drew a pistol
from his breast and fired it. The prisoner fell upon
the scaffold. He then quietly surrendered himself.
As the sheriff, until now transfixed by the scene,
approached and drew from the hand of his strange
deputy the weapon just used, he started at its resemblance
to the one which had been produced at
the trial, the peculiar marks of which were strongly
impressed upon his memory.
The intervention of those who could act with
authority was procured. There was clearly a plot
against the prisoner’s life, in which the strange witness
was the first actor, and the executioner the
second. Humanity rode down the sharp points of
legal form. The scaffold was soon cleared. The
multitude retired. The gallows fell beneath axe and
hammer; and the only evidence of that stirring scene
was the grass trampled by the eager crowd.
My friend next day visited Antonio in his cell.
He asked after his victim, and being told that the
wound was mortal, and that he was dying, made a
full confession. He had escaped from his prison;—he
had been the murderer;—the witness was his
tool;—he had gone upon the scaffold to finish his
revenge, and to glut his passion with the agonies of
a frightful death. It was singular, but for some
reason best known to himself, he left Eagleton in
ignorance of the cause of his malice, and of the
crime at ——.
Ellis did not die. His wound was thought to be
mortal—it was only severe. He recovered, but
his mind was dead, and Eagleton took him to his
own home, harmless and passive as a new-born
child.
They are all gone now—the brother, the sister,
and her idiot husband. The green sod has grown
for years over their graves, and I tell their story in
the full conviction that no heart will be wounded,
and no delicacy hurt by a recital of facts which to
me are full of interest.
———
BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.
———
Lady fair! why linger’st thou?
Hearest not? they call thee now:—
Thy father’s park is filled to-day
With noble lords and ladies gay—
A princely band, with horn and spear,
Are out to hunt the fallow deer;
Put on thy graceful green array
And hie thee to the chase away,
Lord Guilford Dudley waits below,
Lady, close the book and go!
What! bending still above the page?
Doth it thy woman-thoughts engage?
Is it ancient Plato’s classic lore
Thine eager eye is poring o’er?
Well may old Roger Ascham smile
To see thee sit amid that pile
Of musty tomes, and gravely ask
Which study next must be thy task.
Methinks he pierced futurity
When he bade thee scorn earth’s vanity!
Lady fair! go forth to-night—
The royal halls are glittering bright,
Quick—don this gorgeous robe of state—
Northumberland will on thee wait.
Wreathe the crown jewels on thy brow,
And gem with these thy neck of snow:
Now fasten down this diamond zone—
So—there thou’rt ready, trembling one!
The festival is made for thee—
Come—join the queenly pageantry!
Oh, loveliest lady! turn not pale—
Why should thy lofty courage fail?
See England’s proudest chivalrie
Wait at thy feet to bend the knee—
To raise thee to the Tudor’s throne
Their duty, and their hearts thine own!
Even haughty Mary boweth low
And offereth thee her loyal vow—
Noble and prince thy claim have owned—
Lo! there thou standest crowned and throned.
The Tower!—a cell in yon gray tower
Is the price of Edward’s fatal dower!
A bloody doom is on thee cast—
The sentence for thy death hath passed!
Yea, death for one so young and fair—
Yet wearest thou no look of care:
Still on thy book thine eye is bent,
Bespeaking wisdom and content—
Wo! that on cold Ambition’s shrine
Is sacrificed a mind like thine.
Come, lady, come! the muffled bell
Is tolling now thy husband’s knell!
Another hour, and there will be
No earthly care for him or thee!
Go—all undimmed in thy beauty go—
With holy truth upon thy brow:
A lot of glittering wretchedness
Is well exchanged for Heaven’s own bliss;
Thou’st won the martyr’s crown and wreath—
Joy to thee, peerless bride of Death!
A TALE.
———
BY MRS. JANE L. SWIFT.
———
Among the vast number of individuals continually
visiting the regions of the old world, how few are
prepared by an enlightened education and a cultivated
taste, to appreciate its strong claims upon
the admiration of the traveler. A love of the
beautiful in nature, and a veneration for the ancient
in art, may combine to give a glowing interest to
each step that is taken upon the soil of older climes;
but to minds that feel how much we owe to the
early annals of those climes—how the accumulated
treasures of historic lore have pointed out the quicksands
of legislation—how experience has sounded
its alarm from the rocks upon which nation after
nation has struck and gone down; to minds that
feel how time has traced upon the chart of the
world’s destiny a warning record for those that come
after—the government and institutions, the splendor
and the decay, the rise and the downfall of the
countries over which they wander, cannot fail to
awaken the deepest interest, and to imbue with
the holiness of truth the associations that must
continually arise. It is one thing to have read
the history of a country—to have a knowledge of
its successive kings, emperors, or rulers; to know
the results of its convulsions and its battles; to be
able to date the events that have crowned with
glory or branded with ignominy its name—and it is
another thing to have digested the information thus
obtained; to have acquired a succinct view of the
bearing of social and political institutions upon the
genius of the people existing under them; and to
have become acquainted with the predominant influences
which conducted that country to its ascent,
or hastened it to its decline. A noble structure is
left for us to gaze upon; a relic of by-gone ages, full
of rents and fissures, and bearing upon its time-worn
towers the ivy of decay. It speaks to us of
the course of empire, of the march of intellect, of
the sway of mind, of the abuse of power, of the
horrors of war, of the extinction of nations. It
stands as a beacon to enlighten the world’s rulers;
to teach them that what has been shall be; and to
display its warning torch for the Future in the history
of the Past.
History is to the mental what Revelation is to the
spiritual vision. The former clears away the darkness
which rests upon our perceptions with regard
to the well-being and destiny of nations; the latter
dispels the cloud which hangs over the unevangelized
world with regard to the well-being and destiny
of man. It does not require a moment’s thought
to be convinced, that he who visits classic ground
with a mind conversant with and delighting in the
glowing pages of ancient lore, will experience an
enjoyment tenfold to that of him who finds all things
new, and who, content with the attraction of novelty,
neither knows nor cares to know of the mighty
deeds that have cursed or consecrated its soil.
True, there are sunny landscapes smiling for him,
and works of art beautiful in their decay around him;
but they cannot be to him as familiar things, for he
had perchance never heard of their existence until
he gazed upon them. The charm of association
can beautify and hallow the most barren spot. What
may it not do, then, when its golden hue is cast
upon the monuments of former greatness—monuments
crumbling to their fall, but speaking of a
people, and of a grandeur, which centuries ago
had passed away.
Thoughts like these were floating through the
mind of a young traveler, as he gazed out of the
window of the post chaise that was rapidly approaching
the place of his destination. He was the
eldest son of a wealthy English commoner, who,
having traced in the early years of his child the
bright promise of a noble intellect, had assiduously
applied himself to its cultivation and improvement.
A man of no inconsiderable literary attainment himself
he could fully appreciate the advantages of a
highly finished education, and as the mind of his
son daily developed its natural endowments, it became
his delight and pride to direct that young
mind in its pursuit of knowledge. As Arthur Melburn
advanced toward manhood, the energies of
his nature seemed concentrated upon the all-absorbing
love of study; and in the classic writers of
Greece and Rome, he found a never failing source
of interest and of pleasure. A sojourn in those
regions of former splendor had been from boyhood
the brightest day-dream of his young spirit; and
often had that spirit taken its airy flight among the
scenes described by the matchless pens of Grecian
and Roman historians. In the noble, heart-stirring
legends of ancient Rome, he learned to feel a veneration
for the clime and for the people which had
been marked out for such exalted destinies; while
in the shade of the academic grove he bent with
profound admiration before the master-minds of
philosophers and sages. Upon his return from the
University of Cambridge, at the age of three-and-twenty,
he set out upon his long anticipated tour,
well prepared to enjoy and to appreciate the beautiful
in nature, the wonderful in art, and the mighty
in mind.
Unlike the generality of earth’s gifted ones, Arthur
Melburn possessed a well balanced, well regulated
judgment, with a discretion beyond his years. Yet,
as every character must have its own tinge of imperfection,
he possessed that chilling reserve of disposition
which characterizes his nation, and was
too prone to seek his enjoyment in himself, without
due regard to the claims of those around him. This
feeling, so apt to degenerate into confirmed selfishness,
had frequently been the subject of earnest
expostulation between the father and son; but not
until Arthur Melburn had visited the gay salons of
Paris, and the still gayer coteries of Vienna, was he
aware how unpopular and repulsive such an abord
must be. The conviction thus forced upon him,
soon wrought a change in the young Englishman’s
address; and although the “so far shalt thou come
and no further” of old England still clung to him,
yet he was in every respect the accomplished
scholar, the courteous and polished man.
It was a bright and lovely day in October, such
an one as gives elasticity to the frame, and tinges
the cheek with a ruddier glow. The sun was declining
in the heavens, and streaks of golden light
fell upon the landscape, which met the traveler’s
eye as he reached the heights near Boccano, and
looked for the first time upon the domes and towers
of Rome. It is not easy to describe the varied
associations that poured their tide of hallowed memories
into his mind. He was not an enthusiast.
He was one who felt deeply, although he felt calmly;
yet an attentive observer might have marked a faint
flush pass over his brow, while the veins of his
temples swelled, and his eye dilated as he gazed.
A young Italian had been his companion on the
route from Florence, and our traveler had become
singularly interested in his new acquaintance. He
was a native of Rome, possessing all the fire and
passionate ardor of that clime, combined with a
melancholy that seemed ill-suited to his years. He
was slight, and of small stature, but with a countenance
of intellectual beauty that could not be surpassed.
The rich, glossy curls fell upon a brow as
white as ivory; and the dark eye gleamed from beneath
that brow as if it would pierce into your soul.
But his cheek was very, very pale, and the chiselled
lips had lost their ruby hue. He was evidently in
declining health, and Arthur Melburn felt his heart
warm toward the unknown but interesting companion
of his journey.
“The air is chilly, too chilly I fear for you,” said
Melburn kindly; “let me draw up the window, or
else change seats with me.”
“Thank you,” replied the young Italian, “the air
does me good—it strengthens me; and see,” he
added, “we are nearly at our journey’s end.”
“I trust,” returned Melburn with a smile, “that
the acquaintance so agreeably commenced between
us may not be discontinued upon our arrival in
Rome. I anticipate making a stay of many weeks
there, and it will give me unfeigned satisfaction to
renew our intercourse.”
A crimson flush passed over the pallid cheek of
the Italian as he warmly grasped Melburn’s hand
and said, “Yes, yes, I have felt my spirit yearn
toward you with an unaccountable sympathy. I
have loved but few, and fewer still have cared for
me. Yours is a brighter and a happier destiny than
mine. What have you to gain by knowing me? Yet
I would gladly look upon you as a friend—indeed,
indeed I would.”
Melburn cordially pressed the feverish hand
within his own; and giving his address to the Italian,
asked for his in return.
“My name is Giovanni Rosa, and—”
The Englishman uttered an exclamation of surprise,
and said, “You are not, then, entirely unknown
to me. I have heard of you as the most promising
of the young painters of Italy.”
“Ah!” sighed the Italian, “to win immortality for
the name of Giovanni Rosa would reconcile me to
life, barren and blasted as it is.”
“You are too young to speak thus despondingly
of life, Signor Rosa; believe me, all have their
peculiar trials, and with an honorable career before
you, these trials should be met and overcome. We
will talk of this hereafter.”
The carriage stopped; Melburn alighted at the
door of his hotel, and, after arranging an interview
for the morrow, the two newly made friends
separated.
It was a great disappointment to our young
traveler to find, upon his arrival at Rome, that his
uncle’s family, which he had expected to meet
there, had left but a week or two before. He was
to have joined their party; but, owing to the miscarriage
of his letters, they had proceeded on their
journey, leaving information for him that they
should soon retrace their steps, and probably pass
the winter in Rome. After some deliberation, Melburn
concluded that it was as well for him to remain
and wait their return, although his heart beat more
quickly as he thought of his long anticipated meeting
with his beautiful cousin, Alice Templeton, whom
he had not seen for more than a year. He had
cherished a preference for her from early boyhood;
but as they had met rarely, and then at long intervals,
that preference had not yet acquired the
strength of love. Yet there were pure, sweet memories
connected with her; for in childhood he had
often smoothed her golden curls as her little head
lay upon his bosom, and in later years he had seen
the mantling blush overspread her countenance, as
he pressed the kiss of meeting or of parting upon
her brow. But he was in Rome—this reconciled
him to the delay; and as his mind wandered back
again to its treasured lore, he felt that he trod the
courts of a temple consecrated to dead empires,
and that the very dust beneath his feet was hallowed.
Accompanied by the enthusiastic Italian, with
what exquisite satisfaction did he visit the ruined
monuments of the ancient mistress of the world, the
queen of nations! How time flew by, as from
spot to spot he traced the steps of desolation and
decay; and when memory reverted to the three
hundred triumphs that had been celebrated within
the walls of the seven-hilled city, he felt how hollow
and frail a thing was the pageantry of earth. The
empty sepulchres, the ruined temples, the mouldering
arches, the tottering piles—these were but the
scattered fragments of Rome’s glory; the broken
and tarnished jewels of her matchless crown.
It was on a mild, beautiful afternoon, about a
month after his arrival, that Arthur Melburn sat
alone in the studio of the young painter. They had
made an engagement to visit the Coliseum together
by moonlight; and Melburn, not finding him at
home, concluded to wait for his return. As he
looked upon the pictures which the glowing pencil
of Rosa had traced upon the canvas, he saw how
each bore the stamp of the wild beauty that characterized
the mind of the painter. In his designs
there was a dreamy mystery and gloom that seemed
to cast a shadow upon the sunny tints; and made
you feel as if storm and calm, hope and despair,
were struggling for the mastery. One picture, a
mere sketch, soon attracted the attention of Melburn.
There was a wild torrent rushing over dark
and pointed rocks. Upon one side of the stream
was a towering oak whose leaves were still green
and luxuriant, although it had been riven to its very
centre by the thunderbolt; while its scorched and
blackened trunk stood in strong contrast with the
fresh verdure that surrounded it. Upon the stream,
where all was calm, there floated a little bark,
moored safely in its glassy haven, with a female
figure reclining listlessly at its prow; while, driving
on among the rocks and whirlpools, and hurrying
to destruction, was another boat, in which knelt the
figure of a man. His face was turned toward the
serene and quiet haven, but he was not aware of
the perils that surrounded him; for his gaze was
riveted upon that vision of beauty, and the oar,
fallen from his hand, had already been carried over
the edge of the fearful torrent. Melburn was so
intent contemplating the powerful effect produced
by the lights and shades of the painter’s pencil, that
he did not notice his entrance until he stood with
folded arms beside him.
“It is thus with life, is it not, Melburn?” murmured
the soft, low tones of Giovanni. “A few
sunny hours upon the glassy bosom of its stream,
and then the threatening waves and foaming surges
bear us wildly on. In the distance is some bright
vision—the Egeria of our hearts—embodying all
that youth, and hope, and love can sigh for. Alas!
the unattained; how it woos and mocks, but to woo
and mock again. We are but the sport of destiny;
and as that destiny grows dim and dark, fate looks
on with a smile, and we are hurried into the still
waters of oblivion.”
Melburn turned his calm eye upon the excited
countenance of the speaker. “Giovanni, life is indeed
a troubled stream, and man is launched in a
frail bark upon its waves; but the means to stem
those waves, and to guide that bark, are given him,
and if those means be cast aside, why call it destiny
that hurries him to destruction? Your matchless
picture has called up stern and solemn thoughts.
Look at it, Giovanni; the oars are fallen overboard,
the rudder is useless at the helm, the compass
vibrates, but meets not the eye it was given to
guide. Is the recklessness that suffers the vessel
with its priceless freight to near the torrent’s brink—is
that recklessness destiny?”
“Are we not what we are, Melburn, by an inevitable
necessity? Can I change the course of events,
which in themselves are fixed and unalterable?
As soon may you gather up the burning fluid of the
thunderbolt in your hand, as arrest or turn aside
the decrees of fate.”
“Look, Giovanni; since you have entered, the
heavens are darkened by an approaching tempest.
Yonder spire out-tops the surrounding buildings,
and presents a mark for the lightning’s unerring aim.
But see! upon its point there is an iron rod, and
that rod can preserve the magnificent structure
from desolation. Would it be well to leave it unprotected,
and call it destiny that would at some
future day make it a heap of smouldering ruins?”
“No,” replied the Italian despondingly; “but
man, man is ever fulfilling his unalterable destiny.”
“You are only a superficial disciple of the fatalists,”
answered Melburn, smiling; “for you have
failed to cultivate the equanimity and indifference
to fate which they teach. Believe me, dear Giovanni,
man is not a puppet in the hands of fate.
He is a rational, accountable being, destined for
immortality; dependent, I admit, upon a wise over-ruling
Providence for the allotment of good or evil
in this life; but he may of his own free will abuse
the good to his destruction, or make the evil profitable
to his improvement. As the warm breeze of
the south enervates the frame it blows upon, so
would a life without trial rob manhood of the discipline
that braces and nerves the soul to godlike
strength. As each difficulty or disappointment
comes upon us, we should strive to hear the voice
that spoke to Constantine in his memorable vision,
‘In this, overcome.’ ”
The Italian grasped the hand of Melburn; “Speak
on,” he murmured, “for your words fall in gentle
tones upon my heart, and the slumbering memories
of other years, when a mother’s voice lulled me to
repose, are crowding upon my soul. Speak on, for
holier thoughts come at your bidding—thoughts of
a being who was not always shrouded in blackness
and tempest—thoughts long buried in the ashes of a
consuming ambition and a hopeless love. Yet
there are moments, Melburn, when a ‘still small
voice’ is heard above the storm of earthly passions,
and the weary spirit yearns to catch the blessed
accents as they fall; but the blast sweeps on, and the
voice is drowned in the contending din.”
“It is your misfortune, Giovanni, to possess the
keen sensibilities, and the finely strung nerves of
genius. You worship the beautiful, and you feel
the slightest discord in the harmony of your emotions
with an intensity unknown to mankind in
general. You perceive quickly, you appreciate
vividly, you love passionately. But the pearls of
existence are strung upon a slender thread, and the
anxious grasp that would secure, too often scatters
them in the dust. You are a child of impulse, and
the same fire that kindles the flame of ambition
within your soul, is searing your spirit with its
fervid glow. If the dew of heaven water the
parched flower, it will bloom again; and the dew of
a better, purer hope will revive the blossom of happiness
in your heart, Giovanni.”
“Never! never! the wilted flower may revive,
but when the worm has been busy at the root,
what then?”
“The broken spirit may lean upon Omnipotence,
Giovanni. He who holds in his hands the destinies
of worlds, and whose infinite mind originated the
eternal mysteries of the universe, he supports the
sparrow on the wing, and it falls not to the ground
without his knowledge. Shall man, the most
glorious of his works, the image of himself, the
denizen of immortality, shall man pine under the
weight of his earthly fetters, and find no ark of
refuge? Forbid it, Heaven!”
A silence of some minutes ensued, and a burning
drop fell upon Melburn’s hand, which was clasped
in that of the Italian.
The rain, which had been falling in torrents,
ceased, the clouds cleared away, and the last rays
of the setting sun streamed in bright effulgence as it
sank to its repose. Slowly faded the gorgeous tints
that had robed the sky in glory, and as the drapery
of heaven darkened in its hue, here and there a
faint star peeped out, and then the full-orbed moon
shed her pure and mystic light upon the scene. At
this moment, beneath the window where they sat,
appeared a young Italian girl, who, after gazing for
an instant upon the face of Giovanni, struck with a
master-touch the guitar which she held, and poured
forth, in a voice of exquisite melody, the following
wild strain:—
Weep, weep for the cheek that has paled ’neath the kiss
Given by thee;
Weep, weep for the past, with its moments of bliss,
Once shared by me.
Weep, weep for the sinless, who cast her heart’s pearl
On love’s purest shrine;
Thine, thine was the altar upon which it lay—
The offering was mine.
Smile, smile for the transplanted flower that blooms—
It blooms not for thee;
There’s death in the poisonous incense it breathes—
To thee and to me.
Weep, weep that the shroud, with its lily-white hue,
Must ere long be mine;
Aye, weep for the destiny, blighting and drear,
That made my heart thine.
The next moment she had disappeared, and Melburn
turned to look at Giovanni. His head was
bowed upon his hand, and he breathed quickly, as
if overpowered by suppressed emotion. There was
a long and heavy pause. “Melburn,” said he at
last, “have you ever loved?”
A stern, cold expression passed over the countenance
of the young Englishman, which did not
escape the quick eye of Rosa, and he resumed; “A
portion of the veil has been lifted which hides from
you the secret of my unhappiness. Despise me not,
Melburn, when I tell you that I have ceased to love
her. Why, why was I born to bring blight upon
others as well as upon myself? Left an orphan at
an early age, penniless and friendless, I have struggled
thus far through life, just earning the bread that
supports me. Burning with an ambition to excel in
the godlike art I worship, I have drained but one
or two scanty drops of fame for years of intense
study. I have seen influence and patronage draw
out of obscurity talent less deserving than mine,
while I have been left to grovel in the dust of neglect
and poverty. With bitterness of spirit I have tasted
the injustice of the world, and its bought smiles
have withered almost to the root the hopes that I
dared to cherish. In the midst of my loneliness
and sorrow there beamed a vision of comfort upon
my soul; and the impassioned being, whose song
just met your ear, wreathed a charm around my
heart which I mistook for love. You of a colder
clime know not the fearful fire that gives intensity
to every emotion, and makes the life-blood rush
with the impetuosity of a torrent. Conventional
prejudices would make you judge harshly of the
love that overpowers reason, propriety, and prudence;
but Bianca was a child of nature, and in
loving me, she cast all her heart’s treasure into my
arms. We were both poor—we could not marry;
but she was to have been my wife. Fate threw in
my way another from your own cold clime. Ah,
the beautiful! how I worshiped it in her. We met
at the Vatican, where she was copying a sketch by
Rubens. A celebrated painter introduced me to
her. She visited my pictures, and the meed of approval
that fell from her lips sank into my soul.
She was gentle, with all the winning gentleness of
woman; but the chaste snow was not more cold.
I gazed upon her beauty as we gaze upon a pure
and distant star; and as each speaking lineament
told of elevated desires, and proud aspirations, I
bent in adoration at her shrine, and laid my offering
there. We had met frequently; and although I
feared that my love was hopeless, still I could not
tear myself from the fascination of her presence.
She saw, with a woman’s quick perception, that I
loved her deeply; and she strove to destroy by
coldness the illusion that might be fatal to my peace.
I could not bear it; it was better to know the worst.
We were left alone one evening, and with trembling
lips and incoherent words, I strove to tell her of my
love. She did not suffer me to proceed, but kindly
took my hand in hers and said, ‘Signor Rosa, from
childhood my heart has been another’s.’ Darkness
came over me, and the sable pall will never be
drawn aside.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued; “I
would not, could not see Bianca. The romance of
life was at an end. I shut myself up among the
creations of my pencil, but they failed to awaken
my spirit from its lethargy; and I find the energies
of my soul withering daily, and my frame consuming
with the fire that will not be quenched.”
Tears glistened in the eyes of the sensitive Italian,
and he hurried on. “I love you, Melburn; you
would save me from myself, and you have made
me feel that there is disinterested kindness in humanity.
There have been times, my friend, when
a whispering demon seemed urging me to rid myself
of the load that oppressed me—‘it is but a drop of
opiate—it is but the keen point of the dark blue
steel—it is but the flash of a moment, and all will
be over.’ Then there came thoughts of the dread
loneliness and degradation of the grave—perhaps
the judgment! and—”
“Giovanni,” said Melburn solemnly, interrupting
him, “brave not the Most High. Life is a precious
deposit, and it is not for man to interfere with the
will of Omnipotence. Suicide is the crime of a
coward, perpetrated in moral darkness; it is a crime
which leaves not a moment for repentance or for
pardon, but ushers the blood-stained soul unshriven
into the presence of its God.”
A shudder passed over the frame of the Italian as
he drew from his bosom a small poignard of exquisite
workmanship; “Take it—take it, Melburn,”
he exclaimed, “you have saved me.”
A lingering pressure of the hand was Melburn’s
only answer.
It was now too late for them to think of visiting the
Coliseum—besides, their minds were not in a state
to do so; and after making an appointment for the
morrow, they separated.
When Melburn reached his room at the hotel, he
was delighted to find letters from his relatives, who
had just arrived in Naples from Sicily, announcing
their intention of remaining there for some weeks,
and begging him to join their party immediately.
Nothing could have happened more opportunely;
for, for some days past, he had been thinking
seriously of setting out to overtake them wherever
they might be. And then the image of Alice—how
often did it mingle in his dreams, and haunt his
waking hours.
The next day he spent with Giovanni Rosa in
wandering among the ruins of Rome; and it was
with sincere regret that the enthusiastic Italian heard
of the contemplated journey to Naples. “You will
forget me, Melburn,” he said sorrowfully; “the
remembrance of me will be but as a passing shadow,
while you will live within my heart. But you will
return, will you not?”
“Yes, Giovanni—perhaps soon. At all events, I
shall spend some time again in Rome before I bid
adieu to beautiful Italy forever.”
“I hope so,” exclaimed Rosa, as he grasped Melburn’s
hand at parting; “I will remember your
counsel—I will strive ‘in this to overcome.’ ”
“Ay, Rosa, for my sake, and for your future
fame, struggle on, it will not be in vain.”
The Italian gazed at the receding form of the
young Englishman until it disappeared; and then
hurrying home, he rushed to his room and burst
into tears.
It was on the evening of the second day after his
departure from Rome that Arthur Melburn arrived
in Naples. Travel-worn and covered with dust as
he was, he sought instantly the salon where he expected
to meet his relatives. No one was there
but Alice; and as she rose hastily to meet him, he
could scarcely believe that the beautiful being before
him was the gay, romping cousin of earlier days.
What the countenance had lost of ruddiness and
glow, it had gained in the intellectual, I may almost
say the spiritual expression that now characterized
it. Eloquent thought had stamped a serene loveliness
upon her brow, and feeling had robbed the
cheek of its roses to impart a softer lustre to her
eye. Arthur clasped her hands in his, gazed at her,
hesitated, and then raised one fair hand to his lips.
“Dear Alice,” he said, and as those tones fell upon
her ear, a crimson blush passed over her face, and
then left it paler than before. And what were the
feelings of Melburn? Ah, at such moments how
memories throng upon the overpowered heart, concentrating
in one glowing point the beautiful rays
that have illumined life, and fastening as with a
diamond rivet the slender links of love’s frail chain.
Frail? Ay, frail; unless the hallowed influences
of years have given to it enduring strength, and
then it must be a power almost super-human that
can sever it.
How much there was to hear, how much to tell;
and as each member of the family welcomed the
new comer, how pleasant it was to feel almost at
home again, though in a land of strangers. In the
society of Alice, whose mind was capable of appreciating
his superior attainments, Melburn visited all
the places worthy of notice in and around Naples;
and each day, as it verged to its decline, added
some memorial of happiness to be garnered in
their hearts. Theirs was not a love blinded by passion,
exaggerated in its impulses, and consuming to
ashes while it burned; but it was the genial ray
lent by Heaven to gladden with its pure light the
darker pathways of this world. It was love such as
an angel might have looked upon, without feeling that
the spirit had been tinged by aught of earthly stain.
Week after week rolled on with a rapidity almost
incredible, for time to the happy is winged with
swifter pinions, and the winter had nearly passed
away before they returned to Rome.
Melburn’s first visit was to the studio of the young
painter. His cheek was paler, and his frame more
attenuated, but the expression of his countenance
was less wild and haggard. In the endearing epithets
of his sweet language he welcomed the traveler,
and gazed upon him with a melancholy tenderness.
“Ah, Melburn,” he said, after their first congratulations
had been exchanged, “ah, Melburn, I began
to fear that I should never look upon your face
again. It would have grieved me to descend into
the cold, dark grave without having once more
heard the tones of sympathy and kindness. I have
struggled to smother the contending passions within
my breast; I have suffered; but I have been calm.”
“You apply yourself too closely to your art, Giovanni;
why not abandon it for a time, and seek renovated
health in change of air, and change of scene?”
“I shall carry the same heart with me, Melburn;
it is too late. I feel that I am dying—the withering
blight of years has struck home. But let us not
dwell upon that now. It does me good to see you
once more; and to feel that I have one friend in the
wide world.”
“Yes, Giovanni,” answered the young Englishman,
“the bond of friendship has become strong
between us, although but a few months ago we met
as strangers. I know not what mysterious sympathy
attracted us to each other, but I felt from the
moment I saw you, as if there was a connecting
link in our destinies. An impulse which I cannot
define induced me to offer you the seat in my traveling
carriage, as I was leaving Florence; and when
we reached Rome, I could not think of parting from
you as a stranger. I see with pain that your health
is failing; dear Rosa, let me persuade you to accompany
me next month to England. Circumscribed
means need be no obstacle, for I have
wealth enough to spare; nay, interrupt me not—he
is not my friend who would refuse to receive so
small an obligation at my hands. The journey
might restore your waning strength, and after a
residence of a few months there, you might return
to your country with a renovated frame and a happier
mind. Since I left you, Giovanni, I have become
affianced to one whom I have long loved;
and she will unite with me, I am sure, in striving
to make you happy.”
“I wish you joy, Melburn,” exclaimed the Italian
with much feeling; “God grant that she may be
worthy of you. But, my friend, I cannot accept
your kind offer. I would die here—here in the
beautiful land that gave me birth; surrounded by
the objects I have worshiped, and on the spot where I
first met her. Here must be my grave; and perhaps
at some future day she may revisit this sunny clime,
and remember the heart that beat and broke for her.”
Melburn saw that it was useless to contend for
the present against the morbid melancholy which
seemed to have settled upon the spirit of the painter,
and he began to converse upon lighter themes. All
proved powerless to win him from his gloomy abstraction;
at length rousing himself as if from a
dreamy reverie, he said, “Happiness is attained by
some; you are happy, Melburn.”
“Yes, Giovanni, I am happy; but I do not look
for an unchequered path in this world. I know
that cares, anxieties, and afflictions fall sooner or
later to the lot of all; and I would be prepared to
lose the blessings I enjoy by not loving them too
well. A just balance in which to weigh the objects
of fluctuating desire is necessary to our forming
just views of their value; and will prevent our
giving undue preponderance to those which are
secondary or trivial in themselves. We are so apt
to surround some wished for boon, while unattained,
with vague anticipations of delight, which the possession
too often fails to realize.”
“That is true, Melburn; but many a heart lives
on hope that never enjoys fruition.”
Melburn smiled as he answered, “In gazing upon
the forbidden garden that crowns some lofty hill
inaccessible to us, we may forget the fruits and
flowers that are lying in profusion at our feet, untasted,
unappreciated. Is it not so, Giovanni?”
“I mean the hopes that stand out in bold relief
wearing the hues of immortality; I mean the undying
yearnings of the loving heart, the glorious aspirations
of the godlike mind. Nothing short of fruition
in these can satisfy a nature such as mine.”
“Then, Giovanni, your hope must cast its anchor
in the ‘deep profound’ of another world—it must
seek its fruition in the Eternal. You may as well
search for coral in the bowels of the earth, or for
gold in the bosom of the sea, as to seek a resting-place
for the immortal spirit in the regions of mortality.
I am not a religionist—I am not the bigoted
follower of any creed; but in the exalted aspirations
of our nature, I recognize the immaterial principle
that will hereafter assimilate us to God. It instills a
perception of the beautiful, a yearning for the good,
an appreciation of the true, that cannot be realized
in this imperfect state of existence. Looking abroad
upon the stupendous universe, I see every thing
fulfilling its destined end. Surely, these heaven-born
aspirations will not be quenched in the forgetfulness
of the grave, but, disencumbered of their
material elements, will find their completeness and
felicity in the source from which they sprung. Would
to God, my friend, that you could feel as deeply as I
do, how infinitely the interests of our future destiny
transcend those of our present state of being.”
“I have reflected, Melburn, upon our frequent
conversations, and I feel, that had my mind been
trained as yours has been, I should not be the creature
of wayward impulse that I am. My temperament
is an unhappy one—a temperament that
might induce insanity, should my life be spared.
But that life is fast ebbing to its close, and I am
content to die. I have prayed that God may be
merciful.”
He paused, and threw back from his brow the rich,
dark locks that had fallen over it; and assuming a
tone of cheerfulness, he said, “Tell me of your bride,
Melburn; you had not spoken to me of her.”
Melburn smiled as he answered, “She is not an
angel, Giovanni, but I think that there are few who
can be compared to my sweet Alice.”
“Alice! did you say?”
“Yes, Alice Templeton.”
A change, a fearful change came over the face
of the Italian. The crimson blood rushed to his
brow, while his eyes glared with the furious passion
of a demon. Rage, hate, despair, were all concentrated
in the wild glance which he threw upon
Melburn, as he advanced toward him; then the
blood retreated to his heart, and left his cheek as
white as marble. His breath came short and heavy;
and he stood rooted to the spot like a thing of stone.
“For God’s sake, Giovanni,” exclaimed Melburn,
“what is the matter? You appal—you terrify
me.”
The painter grasped his hand, and dragging him
to an adjoining apartment, tore aside the snow-white
veil that hung over a picture. Melburn looked upon
the face of Alice—his Alice—the idolized love of
the Italian. But it was Alice as an angel—for her
beauty was so spiritualized, that the earthly seemed
lost in the heavenly. Melburn hid his face in his
hands for a moment; then stretching out his arms,
the stricken child of destiny rushed into them, and
sank insensible upon his bosom.
Hour after hour passed on, and still consciousness
did not revive in that feeble frame. There was a
glimmering of life, nothing more; and as Melburn
watched beside his couch, tears, more burning than
any he had ever shed, fell upon the inanimate form
on which he gazed. “Poor Rosa,” he murmured,
“thou hast indeed been the sport of adverse circumstances.
This, then, is the link of the mysterious
chain that bound me to thee; our hearts drank at
the same fountain, and became united in the same
stream. Peace, peace to thy parting spirit. God
receive thy weary soul.”
The light of life never gleamed again. He
lingered through another day. As the veil of night
descended upon the world, the spirit of the unfortunate
Italian took its flight to the shadowy far-off
land.
It was midnight. Tapers were burning upon the
coffin in which lay all that remained of Giovanni
Rosa. Melburn, with two friends of the deceased,
kept a sorrowful vigil beside the clay-cold form; and
as the tedious hours crept on, the death-like silence
became almost insupportable. At length a soft step
was heard, and a female form in white glided noiselessly
to the coffin’s side. She lifted the crape that
shrouded the face beneath, and gazed fearlessly upon
the lineaments so beautiful in their repose; then
kissing the cold brow, she replaced the snowy
covering, and silently departed as she came.
The next morning they heard that Bianca was
dead. She had taken poison.
In the Chiesa di Santa Maria is a costly monument
of marble, erected over the remains of the young
painter by his English friend. Before they returned
to England, Melburn and his betrothed visited the
spot together, fulfilling the wish of the departed,
“that she might stand beside his grave, and remember
the heart that beat and broke for her.”
ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM JOHN KEATS—BY LEIGH HUNT.
The sonnets below are on a blank leaf, in an edition of the early poems of John Keats “printed for C. & J. Ollier, 3
Welbeck street, London, 1817.” The book was presented to me by my friend, the late George Keats, (brother of the
poet,) who resided for many years prior to his death in this city. They are in the handwriting of Hunt, and are not
contained in any edition of his poems which I have seen. You can readily ascertain whether they have appeared in
print—if they have not, I think they may be acceptable to many of your readers, and therefore send them.
G. R. Graham, Esq.
F. COSBY, Jr., Louisville, Ky.
A crown of ivy! I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it—young, ’tis true,
But with a right, for ’tis a poet’s too.
How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,
Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,
And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,
Thus to be topped with leaves—to have a sense
Of honor—shaded thought—an influence
As from great Nature’s fingers—and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
’Tis what’s within us, crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love’s self, and ardor for a state
Of natural good befitting such desires,
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.
