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diff --git a/old/61003-0.txt b/old/61003-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 089e883..0000000 --- a/old/61003-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5851 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories of Tragedy, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Stories of Tragedy - -Author: Various - -Editor: Rossiter Johnson - -Release Date: December 22, 2019 [EBook #61003] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF TRAGEDY *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - LITTLE CLASSICS - - EDITED BY - ROSSITER JOHNSON - - STORIES OF - TRAGEDY - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - The Riverside Press Cambridge - 1914 - - COPYRIGHT, 1874, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE _Edgar Allan Poe_ 7 - - THE LAUSON TRAGEDY _J. W. DeForest_ 56 - - THE IRON SHROUD _William Mudford_ 108 - - THE BELL-TOWER _Herman Melville_ 128 - - THE KATHAYAN SLAVE _Emily C. Judson_ 149 - - THE STORY OF LA ROCHE _Henry Mackenzie_ 165 - - THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH _Thomas De Quincey_ 182 - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE. - -BY EDGAR ALLAN POE. - - “What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when - he hid himself among women, although puzzling questions, are - not beyond all conjecture.”—SIR THOMAS BROWNE. - - -The mental features discoursed of as the analytical are, in themselves, -but little susceptible of analysis. We appreciate them only in their -effects. We know of them, among other things, that they are always to -their possessor, when inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest -enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his physical ability, delighting -in such exercises as call his muscles into action, so glories the analyst -in moral activity which disentangles. He derives pleasure from even the -most trivial occupations bringing his talent into play. He is fond of -enigmas, of conundrums, of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions -of each a degree of acumen which appears to the ordinary apprehension -preternatural. His results, brought about by the very soul and essence of -method, have, in truth, the whole air of intuition. - -The faculty of re-solution is possibly much invigorated by mathematical -study, and especially by that highest branch of it which, unjustly, -and merely on account of its retrograde operations, has been called, -as if _par excellence_, analysis. Yet to calculate is not in itself to -analyze. A chess-player, for example, does the one, without effort at -the other. It follows that the game of chess, in its effects upon mental -character, is greatly misunderstood. I am not now writing a treatise, but -simply prefacing a somewhat peculiar narrative by observations very much -at random; I will, therefore, take occasion to assert that the higher -powers of the reflective intellect are more decidedly and more usefully -tasked by the unostentatious game of draughts than by all the elaborate -frivolity of chess. In this latter, where the pieces have different and -_bizarre_ motions, with various and variable values, what is only complex -is mistaken (a not unusual error) for what is profound. The _attention_ -is here called powerfully into play. If it flag for an instant, an -oversight is committed, resulting in injury or defeat. The possible moves -being not only manifold, but involute, the chances of such oversights are -multiplied; and in nine cases out of ten, it is the more concentrative -rather than the more acute player who conquers. In draughts, on the -contrary, where the moves are _unique_ and have but little variation, -the probabilities of inadvertence are diminished, and the mere attention -being left comparatively unemployed, what advantages are obtained by -either party are obtained by superior _acumen_. To be less abstract: Let -us suppose a game of draughts where the pieces are reduced to four kings, -and where, of course, no oversight is to be expected. It is obvious that -here the victory can be decided (the players being at all equal) only -by some _recherché_ movement, the result of some strong exertion of the -intellect. Deprived of ordinary resources, the analyst throws himself -into the spirit of his opponent, identifies himself therewith, and not -unfrequently sees thus, at a glance, the sole methods (sometimes indeed -absurdly simple ones) by which he may seduce into error or hurry into -miscalculation. - -Whist has long been noted for its influence upon what is termed the -calculating power; and men of the highest order of intellect have -been known to take an apparently unaccountable delight in it, while -eschewing chess as frivolous. Beyond doubt there is nothing of a -similar nature so greatly tasking the faculty of analysis. The best -chess-player in Christendom _may_ be little more than the best player -of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all -these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind. When -I say proficiency, I mean that perfection in the game which includes a -comprehension of _all_ the sources whence legitimate advantage may be -derived. These are not only manifold, but multiform, and lie frequently -among recesses of thought altogether inaccessible to the ordinary -understanding. To observe attentively is to remember distinctly; and, -so far, the concentrative chess-player will do very well at whist; -while the rules of Hoyle (themselves based upon the mere mechanism of -the game) are sufficiently and generally comprehensible. Thus to have -a retentive memory, and to proceed by “the book,” are points commonly -regarded as the sum total of good playing. But it is in matters beyond -the limits of mere rule that the skill of the analyst is evinced. He -makes in silence a host of observations and inferences. So, perhaps, -do his companions; and the difference in the extent of the information -obtained lies not so much in the validity of the inference as in the -quality of the observation. The necessary knowledge is that of _what_ to -observe. Our player confines himself not at all; nor, because the game is -the object, does he reject deductions from things external to the game. -He examines the countenance of his partner, comparing it carefully with -that of each of his opponents. He considers the mode of assorting the -cards in each hand; often counting trump by trump, and honor by honor, -through the glances bestowed by their holders upon each. He notes every -variation of face as the play progresses, gathering a fund of thought -from the differences in the expression of certainty, of surprise, of -triumph, or chagrin. From the manner of gathering up a trick he judges -whether the person taking it can make another in the suit. He recognizes -what is played through feint, by the air with which it is thrown upon the -table. A casual or inadvertent word; the accidental dropping or turning -of a card, with the accompanying anxiety or carelessness in regard to -its concealment; the counting of the tricks, with the order of their -arrangement; embarrassment, hesitation, eagerness, or trepidation,—all -afford, to his apparently intuitive perception, indications of the true -state of affairs. The first two or three rounds having been played, he is -in full possession of the contents of each hand, and thenceforward puts -down his cards with as absolute a precision of purpose as if the rest of -the party had turned outward the faces of their own. - -The analytical power should not be confounded with simple ingenuity; for -while the analyst is necessarily ingenious, the ingenious man is often -remarkably incapable of analysis. The constructive or combining power, -by which ingenuity is usually manifested, and to which the phrenologists -(I believe erroneously) have assigned a separate organ, supposing it a -primitive faculty, has been so frequently seen in those whose intellect -bordered otherwise upon idiocy, as to have attracted general observation -among writers on morals. Between ingenuity and the analytic ability there -exists a difference far greater, indeed, than that between the fancy and -the imagination, but of a character very strictly analogous. It will be -found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly -imaginative never otherwise than analytic. - -The narrative which follows will appear to the reader somewhat in the -light of a commentary upon the propositions just advanced. - -Residing in Paris during the spring and part of the summer of 18—, I -there became acquainted with a Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin. This young -gentleman was of an excellent, indeed of an illustrious family, but, by -a variety of untoward events, had been reduced to such poverty that the -energy of his character succumbed beneath it, and he ceased to bestir -himself in the world, or to care for the retrieval of his fortunes. By -courtesy of his creditors, there still remained in his possession a small -remnant of his patrimony; and, upon the income arising from this, he -managed, by means of a rigorous economy, to procure the necessaries of -life, without troubling himself about its superfluities. Books, indeed, -were his sole luxuries, and in Paris these are easily obtained. - -Our first meeting was at an obscure library in the Rue Montmartre, -where the accident of our both being in search of the same very rare -and very remarkable volume brought us into closer communion. We saw -each other again and again. I was deeply interested in the little -family history which he detailed to me with all that candor a Frenchman -indulges whenever mere self is the theme. I was astonished, too, at the -vast extent of his reading; and, above all, I felt my soul enkindled -within me by the wild fervor and the vivid freshness of his imagination. -Seeking in Paris the objects I then sought, I felt that the society of -such a man would be to me a treasure beyond price; and this feeling I -frankly confided to him. It was at length arranged that we should live -together during my stay in the city; and as my worldly circumstances were -somewhat less embarrassed than his own, I was permitted to be at the -expense of renting, and furnishing in a style which suited the rather -fantastic gloom of our common temper, a time-eaten and grotesque mansion, -long deserted through superstitions into which we did not inquire, and -tottering to its fall in a retired and desolate portion of the Faubourg -St. Germain. - -Had the routine of our life at this place been known to the world, we -should have been regarded as madmen,—although, perhaps, as madmen of a -harmless nature. Our seclusion was perfect. We admitted no visitors. -Indeed, the locality of our retirement had been carefully kept a secret -from my own former associates; and it had been many years since Dupin had -ceased to know or be known in Paris. We existed within ourselves alone. - -It was a freak of fancy in my friend (for what else shall I call it?) to -be enamored of the night for her own sake; and into this _bizarrerie_, as -into all his others, I quietly fell; giving myself up to his wild whims -with a perfect _abandon_. The sable divinity would not herself dwell -with us always; but we could counterfeit her presence. At the first dawn -of the morning we closed all the massy shutters of our old building; -lighted a couple of tapers which, strongly perfumed, threw out only the -ghastliest and feeblest of rays. By the aid of these we then busied our -souls in dreams,—reading, writing, or conversing, until warned by the -clock of the advent of the true Darkness. Then we sallied forth into the -streets, arm and arm, continuing the topics of the day, or roaming far -and wide until a late hour, seeking, amid the wild lights and shadows -of the populous city, that infinity of mental excitement which quiet -observation can afford. - -At such times I could not help remarking and admiring (although from -his rich ideality I had been prepared to expect it) a peculiar analytic -ability in Dupin. He seemed, too, to take an eager delight in its -exercise,—if not exactly in its display,—and did not hesitate to confess -the pleasure thus derived. He boasted to me, with a low chuckling laugh, -that most men, in respect to himself, wore windows in their bosoms, -and was wont to follow up such assertions by direct and very startling -proofs of his intimate knowledge of my own. His manner at these moments -was frigid and abstract; his eyes were vacant in expression; while his -voice, usually a rich tenor, rose into a treble which would have sounded -petulantly but for the deliberateness and entire distinctness of the -enunciation. Observing him in these moods, I often dwelt meditatively -upon the old philosophy of the Bi-Part Soul, and amused myself with the -fancy of a double Dupin,—the creative and the resolvent. - -Let it not be supposed, from what I have just said, that I am detailing -any mystery, or penning any romance. What I have described in the -Frenchman was merely the result of an excited, or perhaps of a diseased -intelligence. But of the character of his remarks at the periods in -question an example will best convey the idea. - -We were strolling one night down a long dirty street, in the vicinity of -the Palais Royal. Being both, apparently, occupied with thought, neither -of us had spoken a syllable for fifteen minutes at least. All at once -Dupin broke forth with these words:— - -“He is a very little fellow, that’s true, and would do better for the -_Théâtre des Variétés_.” - -“There can be no doubt of that,” I replied unwittingly, and not at first -observing (so much had I been absorbed in reflection) the extraordinary -manner in which the speaker had chimed in with my meditations. In an -instant afterward I recollected myself, and my astonishment was profound. - -“Dupin,” said I, gravely, “this is beyond my comprehension. I do not -hesitate to say that I am amazed, and can scarcely credit my senses. How -was it possible you should know I was thinking of—” Here I paused, to -ascertain beyond a doubt whether he really knew of whom I thought. - -—“of Chantilly,” said he; “why do you pause? You were remarking to -yourself that his diminutive figure unfitted him for tragedy.” - -This was precisely what had formed the subject of my reflections. -Chantilly was a _quondam_ cobbler of the Rue St. Denis, who, becoming -stage-mad, had attempted the _rôle_ of Xerxes, in Crébillon’s tragedy so -called, and been notoriously Pasquinaded for his pains. - -“Tell me, for Heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “the method—if method there -is—by which you have been enabled to fathom my soul in this matter.” In -fact, I was even more startled than I would have been willing to express. - -“It was the fruiterer,” replied my friend, “who brought you to the -conclusion that the mender of soles was not of sufficient height for -Xerxes _et id genus omne_.” - -“The fruiterer!—you astonish me,—I know no fruiterer whomsoever.” - -“The man who ran up against you as we entered the street: it may have -been fifteen minutes ago.” - -I now remembered that, in fact, a fruiterer, carrying upon his head a -large basket of apples, had nearly thrown me down, by accident, as we -passed from the Rue C—— into the thoroughfare where we stood; but what -this had to do with Chantilly I could not possibly understand. - -There was not a particle of _charlatânerie_ about Dupin. “I will -explain,” he said, “and that you may comprehend all clearly, we will -first retrace the course of your meditations, from the moment in which -I spoke to you until that of the _rencontre_ with the fruiterer in -question. The larger links of the chain run thus,—Chantilly, Orion, Dr. -Nichols, Epicurus, stereotomy, the street stones, the fruiterer.” - -There are few persons who have not, at some period of their lives, -amused themselves in retracing the steps by which particular conclusions -of their own minds have been attained. The occupation is often full -of interest; and he who attempts it for the first time is astonished -by the apparently illimitable distance and incoherence between the -starting-point and the goal. What, then, must have been my amazement when -I heard the Frenchman speak what he had just spoken, and when I could not -help acknowledging that he had spoken the truth! He continued:— - -“We had been talking of horses, if I remember aright, just before leaving -the Rue C——. This was the last subject we discussed. As we crossed into -this street, a fruiterer, with a large basket upon his head, brushing -quickly past us, thrust you upon a pile of paving-stones collected at a -spot where the causeway is undergoing repair. You stepped upon one of the -loose fragments, slipped, slightly strained your ankle, appeared vexed -or sulky, muttered a few words, turned to look at the pile, and then -proceeded in silence. I was not particularly attentive to what you did; -but observation has become with me, of late, a species of necessity. - -“You kept your eyes upon the ground,—glancing, with a petulant -expression, at the holes and ruts in the pavement (so that I saw you -were still thinking of the stones), until we reached the little alley -called Lamartine, which has been paved, by way of experiment, with the -overlapping and riveted blocks. Here your countenance brightened up, and -perceiving your lips move, I could not doubt that you murmured the word -‘stereotomy,’ a term very affectedly applied to this species of pavement. -I knew that you could not say to yourself ‘stereotomy,’ without being -brought to think of atomies, and thus of the theories of Epicurus; and -since, when we discussed this subject not very long ago, I mentioned to -you how singularly, yet with how little notice, the vague guesses of that -noble Greek had met with confirmation in the late nebular cosmogony, -I felt that you could not avoid casting your eyes upward to the great -_nebula_ in Orion, and I certainly expected that you would do so. You did -look up; and I was now assured that I had correctly followed your steps. -But in that bitter _tirade_ upon Chantilly, which appeared in yesterday’s -_Musée_, the satirist, making some disgraceful allusions to the cobbler’s -change of name upon assuming the buskin, quoted a Latin line about which -we have often conversed. I mean the line, - - ‘Perdidit antiquum litera prima sonum.’ - -I had told you that this was in reference to Orion, formerly written -Urion; and, from certain pungencies connected with this explanation, I -was aware that you could not have forgotten it. It was clear, therefore, -that you would not fail to combine the two ideas of Orion and Chantilly. -That you did combine them I saw by the character of the smile which -passed over your lips. You thought of the poor cobbler’s immolation. -So far, you had been stooping in your gait; but now I saw you draw -yourself up to your full height. I was then sure that you reflected -upon the diminutive figure of Chantilly. At this point I interrupted -your meditations to remark that as, in fact, he _was_ a very little -fellow,—that Chantilly,—he would do better at the _Théâtre des Variétés_.” - -Not long after this, we were looking over an evening edition of the -_Gazette des Tribunaux_, when the following paragraphs arrested our -attention:— - -“EXTRAORDINARY MURDERS.—This morning, about three o’clock, the -inhabitants of the Quartier St. Roch were aroused from sleep by a -succession of terrific shrieks, issuing, apparently, from the fourth -story of a house in the Rue Morgue, known to be in the sole occupancy of -one Madame L’Espanaye, and her daughter, Mademoiselle Camille L’Espanaye. -After some delay, occasioned by a fruitless attempt to procure admission -in the usual manner, the gateway was broken in with a crow-bar, and -eight or ten of the neighbors entered, accompanied by two _gendarmes_. -By this time the cries had ceased; but, as the party rushed up the first -flight of stairs, two or more rough voices, in angry contention, were -distinguished, and seemed to proceed from the upper part of the house. -As the second landing was reached, these sounds, also, had ceased, and -everything remained perfectly quiet. The party spread themselves, and -hurried from room to room. Upon arriving at a large back chamber in the -fourth story (the door of which, being found locked, with the key inside, -was forced open), a spectacle presented itself which struck every one -present not less with horror than with astonishment. - -“The apartment was in the wildest disorder,—the furniture broken and -thrown about in all directions. There was only one bedstead; and from -this the bed had been removed, and thrown into the middle of the floor. -On a chair lay a razor besmeared with blood. On the hearth were two or -three long and thick tresses of gray human hair, also dabbled in blood, -and seeming to have been pulled out by the roots. Upon the floor were -found four Napoleons, an ear-ring of topaz, three large silver spoons, -three smaller of _métal d’Alger_, and two bags, containing nearly four -thousand francs in gold. The drawers of a bureau, which stood in one -corner, were open, and had been, apparently, rifled, although many -articles still remained in them. A small iron safe was discovered under -the bed (not under the bedstead). It was open, with the key still in the -door. It had no contents beyond a few old letters, and other papers of -little consequence. - -“Of Madame L’Espanaye no traces were here seen; but an unusual quantity -of soot being observed in the fireplace, a search was made in the -chimney, and (horrible to relate!) the corpse of the daughter, head -downward, was dragged therefrom, it having been thus forced up the narrow -aperture for a considerable distance. The body was quite warm. Upon -examining it, many excoriations were perceived, no doubt occasioned by -the violence with which it had been thrust up and disengaged. Upon the -face were many severe scratches, and upon the throat dark bruises and -deep indentations of finger-nails, as if the deceased had been throttled -to death. - -“After a thorough investigation of every portion of the house without -further discovery, the party made its way into a small paved yard in the -rear of the building, where lay the corpse of the old lady, with her -throat so entirely cut that, upon an attempt to raise her, the head fell -off. The body, as well as the head, was fearfully mutilated, the former -so much so as scarcely to retain any semblance of humanity. - -“To this horrible mystery there is not as yet, we believe, the slightest -clew.” - -The next day’s paper had these additional particulars:— - -“THE TRAGEDY IN THE RUE MORGUE.—Many individuals have been examined in -relation to this most extraordinary and frightful affair” [the word -_affaire_ has not yet, in France, that levity of import which it conveys -with us], “but nothing whatever has transpired to throw light upon it. We -give below all the material testimony elicited. - -“_Pauline Dubourg_, laundress, deposes that she has known both the -deceased for three years, having washed for them during that period. The -old lady and her daughter seemed on good terms,—very affectionate towards -each other. They were excellent pay. Could not speak in regard to their -mode or means of living. Believed that Madame L. told fortunes for a -living. Was reputed to have money put by. Never met any persons in the -house when she called for the clothes or took them home. Was sure that -they had no servant in employ. There appeared to be no furniture in any -part of the building, except in the fourth story. - -“_Pierre Moreau_, tobacconist, deposes that he has been in the habit of -selling small quantities of tobacco and snuff to Madame L’Espanaye for -nearly four years. Was born in the neighborhood, and has always resided -there. The deceased and her daughter had occupied the house in which the -corpses were found for more than six years. It was formerly occupied by -a jeweller, who under-let the upper rooms to various persons. The house -was the property of Madame L. She became dissatisfied with the abuse of -the premises by her tenant, and moved into them herself, refusing to let -any portion. The old lady was childish. Witness had seen the daughter -some five or six times during the six years. The two lived an exceedingly -retired life,—were reputed to have money. Had heard it said among the -neighbors that Madame L. told fortunes; did not believe it. Had never -seen any person enter the door except the old lady and her daughter, a -porter once or twice, and a physician some eight or ten times. - -“Many other persons, neighbors, gave evidence to the same effect. No one -was spoken of as frequenting the house. It was not known whether there -were any living connections of Madame L. and her daughter. The shutters -of the front windows were seldom opened. Those in the rear were always -closed, with the exception of the large back room, fourth story. The -house was a good house, not very old. - -“_Isidore Musèt_, _gendarme_, deposes that he was called to the house -about three o’clock in the morning, and found some twenty or thirty -persons at the gateway, endeavoring to gain admittance. Forced it -open, at length, with a bayonet,—not with a crow-bar. Had but little -difficulty in getting it open, on account of its being a double or -folding gate, and bolted neither at bottom nor top. The shrieks were -continued until the gate was forced, and then suddenly ceased. They -seemed to be screams of some person (or persons) in great agony; were -loud and drawn out, not short and quick. Witness led the way up stairs. -Upon reaching the first landing, heard two voices in loud and angry -contention; the one a gruff voice, the other much shriller,—a very -strange voice. Could distinguish some words of the former, which was -that of a Frenchman. Was positive that it was not a woman’s voice. Could -distinguish the words _sacré_ and _diable_. The shrill voice was that of -a foreigner. Could not be sure whether it was the voice of a man or of a -woman. Could not make out what was said, but believed the language to be -Spanish. The state of the room and of the bodies was described by this -witness as we described them yesterday. - -“_Henri Duval_, a neighbor, and by trade a silversmith, deposes that -he was one of the party who first entered the house. Corroborates the -testimony of Musèt in general. As soon as they forced an entrance, they -reclosed the door to keep out the crowd, which collected very fast, -notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. The shrill voice, this witness -thinks, was that of an Italian. Was certain it was not French. Could not -be sure that it was a man’s voice. It might have been a woman’s. Was not -acquainted with the Italian language. Could not distinguish the words, -but was convinced by the intonation that the speaker was an Italian. Knew -Madame L. and her daughter. Had conversed with both frequently. Was sure -that the shrill voice was not that of either of the deceased. - -“_—— Odenheimer_, _restaurateur_. This witness volunteered his testimony. -Not speaking French, was examined through an interpreter. Is a native of -Amsterdam. Was passing the house at the time of the shrieks. They lasted -for several minutes,—probably ten. They were long and loud, very awful -and distressing. Was one of those who entered the building. Corroborated -the previous evidence in every respect but one. Was sure that the shrill -voice was that of a man,—of a Frenchman. Could not distinguish the words -uttered. They were loud and quick, unequal, spoken apparently in fear as -well as in anger. The voice was harsh,—not so much shrill as harsh. Could -not call it a shrill voice. The gruff voice said repeatedly, _sacré_, -_diable_, and once _mon Dieu._ - -“_Jules Mignaud_, banker, of the firm of Mignaud et Fils, Rue Deloraine. -Is the elder Mignaud. Madame L’Espanaye had some property. Had opened -an account with his banking-house in the spring of the year —— (eight -years previously). Made frequent deposits in small sums. Had checked for -nothing until the third day before her death, when she took out in person -the sum of 4,000 francs. This sum was paid in gold, and a clerk sent home -with the money. - -“_Adolphe Le Bon_, clerk to Mignaud et Fils, deposes that on the day in -question, about noon, he accompanied Madame L’Espanaye to her residence -with the 4,000 francs, put up in two bags. Upon the door being opened, -Mademoiselle L. appeared, and took from his hands one of the bags, while -the old lady relieved him of the other. He then bowed and departed. Did -not see any person in the street at the time. It is a by-street, very -lonely. - -“_William Bird_, tailor, deposes that he was one of the party who entered -the house. Is an Englishman. Has lived in Paris two years. Was one of the -first to ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff -voice was that of a Frenchman. Could make out several words, but cannot -now remember all. Heard distinctly _sacré_ and _mon Dieu_. There was a -sound at the moment as if of several persons struggling,—a scraping and -scuffling sound. The shrill voice was very loud,—louder than the gruff -one. Is sure that it was not the voice of an Englishman. Appeared to be -that of a German. Might have been a woman’s voice. Does not understand -German. - -“Four of the above-named witnesses, being recalled, deposed that the -door of the chamber in which was found the body of Mademoiselle L. was -locked on the inside when the party reached it. Everything was perfectly -silent,—no groans or noises of any kind. Upon forcing the door no person -was seen. The windows, both of the back and front room, were down, and -firmly fastened from within. A door between the two rooms was closed, -but not locked. The door leading from the front room into the passage -was locked, with the key on the inside. A small room in the front of -the house, on the fourth story, at the head of the passage, was open, -the door being ajar. This room was crowded with old beds, boxes, and so -forth. These were carefully removed and searched. There was not an inch -of any portion of the house which was not carefully searched. Sweeps -were sent up and down the chimneys. The house was a four-story one, with -garrets (_mansardes_). A trap-door on the roof was nailed down very -securely,—did not appear to have been opened for years. The time elapsing -between the hearing of the voices in contention and the breaking open -of the room door was variously stated by the witnesses. Some made it as -short as three minutes, some as long as five. The door was opened with -difficulty. - -“_Alfonzo Garcio_, undertaker, deposes that he resides in the Rue Morgue. -Is a native of Spain. Was one of the party who entered the house. Did not -proceed up stairs. Is nervous, and was apprehensive of the consequences -of agitation. Heard the voices in contention. The gruff voice was that of -a Frenchman. Could not distinguish what was said. The shrill voice was -that of an Englishman,—is sure of this. Does not understand the English -language, but judges by the intonation. - -“_Alberto Montani_, confectioner, deposes that he was among the first to -ascend the stairs. Heard the voices in question. The gruff voice was that -of a Frenchman. Distinguished several words. The speaker appeared to be -expostulating. Could not make out the words of the shrill voice. Spoke -quick and unevenly. Thinks it the voice of a Russian. Corroborates the -general testimony. Is an Italian. Never conversed with a native of Russia. - -“Several witnesses, recalled, here testified that the chimneys of all -the rooms on the fourth story were too narrow to admit the passage of a -human being. By ‘sweeps’ were meant cylindrical sweeping-brushes, such -as are employed by those who clean chimneys. These brushes were passed up -and down every flue in the house. There is no back passage by which any -one could have descended while the party proceeded up stairs. The body of -Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was so firmly wedged in the chimney that it could -not be got down until four or five of the party united their strength. - -“_Paul Dumas_, physician, deposes that he was called to view the bodies -about daybreak. They were both then lying on the sacking of the bedstead -in the chamber where Mademoiselle L. was found. The corpse of the young -lady was much bruised and excoriated. The fact that it had been thrust -up the chimney would sufficiently account for these appearances. The -throat was greatly chafed. There were several deep scratches just below -the chin, together with a series of livid spots which were evidently -the impression of fingers. The face was fearfully discolored, and the -eyeballs protruded. The tongue had been partially bitten through. A -large bruise was discovered upon the pit of the stomach, produced, -apparently, by the pressure of a knee. In the opinion of M. Dumas, -Mademoiselle L’Espanaye had been throttled to death by some person or -persons unknown. The corpse of the mother was horribly mutilated. All -the bones of the right leg and arm were more or less shattered. The left -_tibia_ much splintered, as well as all the ribs of the left side. Whole -body dreadfully bruised and discolored. It was not possible to say how -the injuries had been inflicted. A heavy club of wood, or a broad bar of -iron, a chair, any large, heavy, and obtuse weapon, would have produced -such results, if wielded by the hands of a very powerful man. No woman -could have inflicted the blows with any weapon. The head of the deceased, -when seen by witness, was entirely separated from the body, and was also -greatly shattered. The throat had evidently been cut with some very sharp -instrument,—probably with a razor. - -“_Alexandre Etienne_, surgeon, was called with M. Dumas to view the -bodies. Corroborated the testimony, and the opinions of M. Dumas. - -“Nothing further of importance was elicited, although several other -persons were examined. A murder so mysterious, and so perplexing in all -its particulars, was never before committed in Paris,—if indeed a murder -has been committed at all. The police are entirely at fault,—an unusual -occurrence in affairs of this nature. There is not, however, the shadow -of a clew apparent.” - -The evening edition of the paper stated that the greatest excitement -still continued in the Quartier St. Roch; that the premises in question -had been carefully researched, and fresh examinations of witnesses -instituted, but all to no purpose. A postscript, however, mentioned -that Adolphe Le Bon had been arrested and imprisoned, although nothing -appeared to criminate him, beyond the facts already detailed. - -Dupin seemed singularly interested in the progress of this affair,—at -least so I judged from his manner, for he made no comments. It was only -after the announcement that Le Bon had been imprisoned, that he asked me -my opinion respecting the murders. - -I could merely agree with all Paris in considering them an insoluble -mystery. I saw no means by which it would be possible to trace the -murderer. - -“We must not judge of the means,” said Dupin, “by this shell of an -examination. The Parisian police, so much extolled for _acumen_, are -cunning, but no more. There is no method in their proceedings, beyond -the method of the moment. They make a vast parade of measures; but, not -unfrequently, these are so ill adapted to the objects proposed, as to put -us in mind of Monsieur Jourdain’s calling for his _robe-de-chambre—pour -mieux entendre la musique_. The results attained by them are not -unfrequently surprising, but, for the most part, are brought about by -simple diligence and activity. When these qualities are unavailing, their -schemes fail. Vidocq, for example, was a good guesser and a persevering -man. But, without educated thought, he erred continually by the very -intensity of his investigations. He impaired his vision by holding the -object too close. He might see, perhaps, one or two points with unusual -clearness, but in so doing he necessarily lost sight of the matter as a -whole. Thus there is such a thing as being too profound. Truth is not -always in a well. In fact, as regards the more important knowledge, I -do believe that she is invariably superficial. The depth lies in the -valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is -found. The modes and sources of this kind of error are well typified in -the contemplation of the heavenly bodies. To look at a star by glances, -to view it in a sidelong way, by turning toward it the exterior portions -of the _retina_ (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than -the interior), is to behold the star distinctly, is to have the best -appreciation of its lustre,—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion -as we turn our vision _fully_ upon it. A greater number of rays actually -fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former there is the more -refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and -enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish -from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too -direct. - -“As for these murders, let us enter into some examinations for ourselves, -before we make up an opinion respecting them. An inquiry will afford us -amusement” [I thought this an odd term, so applied, but said nothing], -“and, besides, Le Bon once rendered me a service for which I am not -ungrateful. We will go and see the premises with our own eyes. I know -G——, the Prefect of Police, and shall have no difficulty in obtaining the -necessary permission.” - -The permission was obtained, and we proceeded at once to the Rue Morgue. -This is one of those miserable thoroughfares which intervene between the -Rue Richelieu and the Rue St. Roch. It was late in the afternoon when we -reached it, as this quarter is at a great distance from that in which we -resided. The house was readily found; for there were still many persons -gazing up at the closed shutters, with an objectless curiosity, from -the opposite side of the way. It was an ordinary Parisian house, with -a gateway, on one side of which was a glazed watch-box, with a sliding -panel in the window, indicating a _loge de concierge_. Before going in, -we walked up the street, turned down an alley, and then, again turning, -passed in the rear of the building,—Dupin, meanwhile, examining the -whole neighborhood, as well as the house, with a minuteness of attention -for which I could see no possible object. - -Retracing our steps, we came again to the front of the dwelling, rang, -and, having shown our credentials, were admitted by the agents in charge. -We went up stairs,—into the chamber where the body of Mademoiselle -L’Espanaye had been found, and where both the deceased still lay. The -disorders of the room had, as usual, been suffered to exist. I saw -nothing beyond what had been stated in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_. Dupin -scrutinized everything,—not excepting the bodies of the victims. We then -went into the other rooms, and into the yard; a _gendarme_ accompanying -us throughout. The examination occupied us until dark, when we took our -departure. On our way home my companion stepped in for a moment at the -office of one of the daily papers. - -I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and that _Je les -ménagais_,—for this phrase there is no English equivalent. It was his -humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, -until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had -observed anything _peculiar_ at the scene of the atrocity. - -There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word “peculiar” -which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. - -“No, nothing _peculiar_,” I said; “nothing more, at least, than we both -saw stated in the paper.” - -“The _Gazette_,” he replied, “has not entered, I fear, into the unusual -horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It -appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very -reason which should cause it to be regarded as easy of solution,—I mean -for the _outré_ character of its features. The police are confounded -by the seeming absence of motive,—not for the murder itself,—but for -the atrocity of the murder. They are puzzled, too, by the seeming -impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with -the facts that no one was discovered up stairs but the assassinated -Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and that there were no means of egress without -the notice of the party ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the -corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney; the frightful -mutilation of the body of the old lady,—these considerations, with those -just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to -paralyze the powers, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen -of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common -error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these -deviations from the plane of the ordinary, that reason feels its way, if -at all, in its search for the true. In investigations such as we are now -pursuing, it should not be so much asked ‘what has occurred,’ as ‘what -has occurred that has never occurred before.’ In fact, the facility with -which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, -is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the -police.” - -I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. - -“I am now awaiting,” continued he, looking toward the door of our -apartment,—“I am now awaiting a person who, although perhaps not -the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure -implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst portion of the crimes -committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right -in this supposition; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the -entire riddle. I look for the man here—in this room—every moment. It is -true that he may not arrive; but the probability is that he will. Should -he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols; and we -both know how to use them when occasion demands their use.” - -I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I -heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy. I have -already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was -addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that -intonation which is commonly employed in speaking to some one at a great -distance. His eyes, vacant in expression, regarded only the wall. - -“That the voices heard in contention,” he said, “by the party upon the -stairs, were not the voices of the women themselves, was fully proved by -the evidence. This relieves us of all doubt upon the question whether -the old lady could have first destroyed the daughter, and afterward -have committed suicide. I speak of this point chiefly for the sake of -method; for the strength of Madame L’Espanaye would have been utterly -unequal to the task of thrusting her daughter’s corpse up the chimney as -it was found; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely -precludes the idea of self-destruction. Murder, then, has been committed -by some third party; and the voices of this third party were those heard -in contention. Let me now advert, not to the whole testimony respecting -these voices, but to what was _peculiar_ in that testimony. Did you -observe anything peculiar about it?” - -I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff -voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagreement in regard to -the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice. - -“That was the evidence itself,” said Dupin, “but it was not the -peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinctive. Yet -there _was_ something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, -agreed about the gruff voice; they were here unanimous. But in regard to -the shrill voice, the peculiarity is, not that they disagreed, but that, -while an Italian, an Englishman, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman -attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that _of a foreigner_. -Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. -Each likens it, not to the voice of an individual of any nation with -whose language he is conversant, but the converse. The Frenchman supposes -it the voice of a Spaniard, and ‘might have distinguished some words -_had he been acquainted with the Spanish_.’ The Dutchman maintains it -to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that, ‘_not -understanding French, this witness was examined through an interpreter_.’ -The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and ‘_does not understand -German_.’ The Spaniard ‘is sure’ that it was that of an Englishman, -but ‘judges by the intonation’ altogether, ‘_as he has no knowledge -of the English_.’ The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but -‘_has never conversed with a native of Russia_.’ A second Frenchman -differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was -that of an Italian; but, _not being cognizant of that tongue_, is, like -the Spaniard, ‘convinced by the intonation.’ Now, how strangely unusual -must that voice have really been, about which such testimony as this -_could_ have been elicited!—in whose _tones_, even, denizens of the five -great divisions of Europe could recognize nothing familiar! You will -say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic, of an African. -Neither Asiatics nor Africans abound in Paris; but, without denying -the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. -The voice is termed by one witness ‘harsh rather than shrill.’ It is -represented by two others to have been ‘quick and _unequal_.’ No words—no -sounds resembling words—were by any witness mentioned as distinguishable. - -“I know not,” continued Dupin, “what impression I may have made, so -far, upon your own understanding; but I do not hesitate to say that -legitimate deductions even from this portion of the testimony—the portion -respecting the gruff and shrill voices—are in themselves sufficient to -engender a suspicion which should give direction to all further progress -in the investigation of the mystery. I said ‘legitimate deductions’; but -my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the -deductions are the _sole_ proper ones, and that the suspicion arises -_inevitably_ from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, -however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind -that, with myself it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form—a -certain tendency—to my inquiries in the chamber. - -“Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall -we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It -is not too much to say that neither of us believes in preternatural -events. Madame and Mademoiselle L’Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. -The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how? -Fortunately, there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that -mode _must_ lead us to a definite decision. Let us examine, each by each, -the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in the -room where Mademoiselle L’Espanaye was found, or at least in the room -adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these -two apartments that we have to seek issues. The police have laid bare the -floors, the ceilings, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. -No _secret_ issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trusting -to _their_ eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, _no_ secret -issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely -locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, -although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, -will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The -impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being thus absolute, we -are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could -have escaped without notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers -_must_ have passed, then, through those of the back room. Now, brought -to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our -part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. -It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ‘impossibilities’ -are, in reality, not such. - -“There are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by -furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower portion of the other is -hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust -close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. -It resisted the utmost force of those who endeavored to raise it. A -large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its frame to the left, and a very -stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining -the other window, a similar nail was seen similarly fitted in it; and -a vigorous attempt to raise this sash failed also. The police were now -entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, -_therefore_, it was thought a matter of supererogation to withdraw the -nails and open the windows. - -“My own examination was somewhat more particular, and was so for the -reason I have just given,—because here it was, I knew, that all apparent -impossibilities _must_ be proved to be not such in reality. - -“I proceeded to think thus,—_à posteriori_. The murderers _did_ -escape from one of these windows. This being so, they could not have -re-fastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fastened,—the -consideration which put a stop, through its obviousness, to the scrutiny -of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes were fastened. They _must_, -then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no escape from -this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the -nail with some difficulty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted -all my efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now -knew, exist; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me that my -premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the -circumstances attending the nails. A careful search soon brought to light -the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the discovery, -forbore to upraise the sash. - -“I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing -out through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would -have caught,—but the nail could not have been replaced. The conclusion -was plain and again narrowed in the field of my investigations. The -assassins _must_ have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, -the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be -found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of -their fixture. Getting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over -the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down -behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, -as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked -at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the -same manner,—driven in nearly up to the head. - -“You will say that I was puzzled; but, if you think so, you must have -misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sporting phrase, I -had not been once ‘at fault.’ The scent had never for an instant been -lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret -to its ultimate result,—and that result was _the nail_. It had, I say, -in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window; but -this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) -when compared with the consideration that here, at this point, terminated -the clew. ‘There _must_ be something wrong,’ I said, ‘about the nail.’ I -touched it; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of the shank, -came off in my fingers. The rest of the shank was in the gimlet-hole, -where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges -were incrusted with rust), and had apparently been accomplished by the -blow of a hammer, which had partially imbedded, in the top of the bottom -sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head -portion in the indentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance -to a perfect nail was complete,—the fissure was invisible. Pressing the -spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches; the head went up with -it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of -the whole nail was again perfect. - -“The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through -the window which looked upon the bed. Dropping of its own accord upon -his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become fastened by the -spring; and it was the retention of this spring which had been mistaken -by the police for that of the nail,—further inquiry being thus considered -unnecessary. - -“The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I -had been satisfied in my walk with you around the building. About five -feet and a half from the casement in question runs a lightning-rod. From -this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window -itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the -shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian -carpenters _ferrades_,—a kind rarely employed at the present day, but -frequently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in -the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door), except that -the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis, thus affording an -excellent hold for the hands. In the present instance these shutters are -fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the -house, they were both about half open; that is to say, they stood off -at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well -as myself, examined the back of the tenement; but, if so, in looking at -these _ferrades_ in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), -they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, -failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once satisfied -themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they -would naturally bestow here a very cursory examination. It was clear to -me, however, that the shutter belonging to the window at the head of the -bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet -of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very -unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from -the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance of -two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent) -a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, -then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, -and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to -close it, and, if we imagine the window open at the time, might even have -swung himself into the room. - -“I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a _very_ -unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazardous and -so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you, first, that the thing -might possibly have been accomplished; but, secondly and _chiefly_, -I wish to impress upon your understanding the _very extraordinary_, -the almost preternatural character of that agility which could have -accomplished it. - -“You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that, ‘to -make out my case,’ I should rather undervalue than insist upon a full -estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the -practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ultimate object -is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in -juxtaposition that _very unusual_ activity of which I have just spoken, -with that _very peculiar_ shrill (or harsh) and _unequal_ voice, about -whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose -utterance no syllabification could be detected.” - -At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin -flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, -without power to comprehend,—as men, at times, find themselves upon the -brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember. My -friend went on with his discourse. - -“You will see,” he said, “that I have shifted the question from the mode -of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to convey the idea that -both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now -revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. -The drawers of the bureau, it is said, had been rifled, although many -articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is -absurd. It is a mere guess,—a very silly one,—and no more. How are we to -know that the articles found in the drawers were not all these drawers -had originally contained? Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter lived an -exceedingly retired life,—saw no company,—seldom went out,—had little -use for numerous changes of habiliment. Those found were at least of as -good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief -had taken any, why did he not take the best, why did he not take all? -In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber -himself with a bundle of linen? The gold _was_ abandoned. Nearly the -whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, -in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your -thoughts the blundering idea of _motive_, engendered in the brains of the -police by that portion of the evidence which speaks of money delivered -at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this -(the delivery of the money, and murder committed within three days upon -the party receiving it) happen to all of us every hour of our lives, -without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in general, are -great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been -educated to know nothing of the theory of probabilities,—that theory to -which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the -most glorious of illustrations. In the present instance, had the gold -been gone, the fact of its delivery three days before would have formed -something more than a coincidence. It would have been corroborative of -this idea of motive. But, under the real circumstances of the case, if we -are to suppose gold the motive of this outrage, we must also imagine the -perpetrator so vacillating an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his -motive together. - -“Keeping now steadily in mind the points to which I have drawn your -attention,—that peculiar voice, that unusual agility, and that startling -absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this,—let -us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death -by manual strength, and thrust up a chimney, head downward. Ordinary -assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all do they -thus dispose of the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corpse up -the chimney, you will admit that there was something _excessively outré_; -something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human -action, even when we suppose the actors the most depraved of men. Think, -too, how great must have been that strength which could have thrust the -body up such an aperture so forcibly that the united vigor of several -persons was found barely sufficient to drag it _down_! - -“Turn now to other indications of the employment of a vigor most -marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses—very thick tresses—of gray -human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the -great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty -hairs together. You saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their -roots (a hideous sight!) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of -the scalp,—sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted -in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of -the old lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from -the body; the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at -the _brutal_ ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body -of Madame L’Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy -coadjutor Monsieur Etienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by -some obtuse instrument, and so far these gentlemen are very correct. -The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon -which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. -This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police, for the -same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them,—because, by -the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been hermetically sealed -against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all. - -“If now, in addition to all these things, you have properly reflected -upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine -the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity -brutal, a butchery without motive, a _grotesquerie_ in horror absolutely -alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of -many nations, and devoid of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. -What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your -fancy?” - -I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. “A -madman,” I said, “has done this deed; some raving maniac, escaped from a -neighboring _Maison de Santé_.” - -“In some respects,” he replied, “your idea is not irrelevant. But the -voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to -tally with that peculiar voice heard upon the stairs. Madmen are of some -nation, and their language, however incoherent in its words, has always -the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not -such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the -rigidly clutched fingers of Madame L’Espanaye. Tell me what you can make -of it.” - -“Dupin,” I said, completely unnerved, “this hair is most unusual; this is -no _human_ hair.” - -“I have not asserted that it is,” said he; “but, before we decide this -point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon -this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been described in -one portion of the testimony as ‘dark bruises, and deep indentations of -finger-nails,’ upon the throat of Mademoiselle L’Espanaye, and in another -(by Messrs. Dumas and Etienne) as a ‘series of livid spots, evidently the -impression of fingers.’ - -“You will perceive,” continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon -the table before us, “that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and -fixed hold. There is no _slipping_ apparent. Each finger has retained, -possibly until the death of the victim, the fearful grasp by which it -originally embedded itself. Attempt now to place all your fingers, at the -same time, in the respective impressions as you see them.” - -I made the attempt in vain. - -“We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial,” he said. “The -paper is spread out upon a plane surface; but the human throat is -cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is -about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the -experiment again.” - -I did so; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. “This,” I -said, “is the mark of no human hand.” - -“Read now,” replied Dupin, “this passage from Cuvier.” - -It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the -large fulvous Ourang-Outang of the East Indian Islands. The gigantic -stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the -imitative propensities of these mammalia are sufficiently well known to -all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once. - -“The description of the digits,” said I, as I made an end of reading, -“is in exact accordance with this drawing. I see that no animal but -an Ourang-Outang of the species here mentioned could have impressed -the indentations as you have traced them. This tuft of tawny hair, -too, is identical in character with that of the beast of Cuvier. But I -cannot possibly comprehend the particulars of this frightful mystery. -Besides, there were _two_ voices heard in contention, and one of them was -unquestionably the voice of a Frenchman.” - -“True; and you will remember an expression attributed almost unanimously, -by the evidence, to this voice,—the expression _mon Dieu_! This, -under the circumstances, has been justly characterized by one of the -witnesses (Montani, the confectioner) as an expression of remonstrance -or expostulation. Upon these two words, therefore, I have mainly built -my hopes of a full solution of the riddle. A Frenchman was cognizant of -the murder. It is possible, indeed it is far more than probable, that he -was innocent of all participation in the bloody transactions which took -place. The Ourang-Outang may have escaped from him. He may have traced it -to the chamber; but, under the agitating circumstances which ensued, he -could never have recaptured it. It is still at large. I will not pursue -these guesses,—for I have no right to call them more,—since the shades -of reflection upon which they are based are scarcely of sufficient depth -to be appreciable by my own intellect, and since I could not pretend to -make them intelligible to the understanding of another. We will call them -guesses, then, and speak of them as such. If the Frenchman in question -is indeed, as I suppose, innocent of this atrocity, this advertisement, -which I left last night, upon our return home, at the office of _Le -Monde_ (a paper devoted to the shipping interest, and much sought by -sailors), will bring him to our residence.” - -He handed me a paper, and I read thus:— - - CAUGHT.—_In the Bois de Boulogne, early in the morning of - the —— inst._ (the morning of the murder), _a very large, - tawny Ourang-Outang of the Bornese species. The owner (who is - ascertained to be a sailor belonging to a Maltese vessel) may - have the animal again, upon identifying it satisfactorily, and - paying a few charges arising from its capture and keeping. Call - at No. ——, Rue ——, Faubourg St. Germain,—au troisième._ - -“How was it possible,” I asked, “that you should know the man to be a -sailor, and belonging to a Maltese vessel?” - -“I do _not_ know it,” said Dupin. “I am not _sure_ of it. Here, however, -is a small piece of ribbon, which from its form, and from its greasy -appearance, has evidently been used in tying the hair in one of those -long _queues_ of which sailors are so fond. Moreover, this knot is one -which few besides sailors can tie, and is peculiar to the Maltese. I -picked the ribbon up at the foot of the lightning-rod. It could not have -belonged to either of the deceased. Now if, after all, I am wrong in my -induction from this ribbon, that the Frenchman was a sailor belonging -to a Maltese vessel, still I can have done no harm in saying what I did -in the advertisement. If I am in error, he will merely suppose that I -have been misled by some circumstance into which he will not take the -trouble to inquire. But if I am right, a great point is gained. Cognizant -although innocent of the murder, the Frenchman will naturally hesitate -about replying to the advertisement,—about demanding the Ourang-Outang. -He will reason thus: ‘I am innocent; I am poor; my Ourang-Outang is of -great value,—to one in my circumstances a fortune of itself,—why should -I lose it through idle apprehensions of danger? Here it is, within my -grasp. It was found in the Bois de Boulogne,—at a vast distance from the -scene of that butchery. How can it ever be suspected that a brute beast -should have done the deed? The police are at fault,—they have failed -to procure the slightest clew. Should they even trace the animal, it -would be impossible to prove me cognizant of the murder, or to implicate -me in guilt on account of that cognizance. Above all, _I am known_. -The advertiser designates me as the possessor of the beast. I am not -sure to what limit his knowledge may extend. Should I avoid claiming a -property of so great value, which it is known that I possess, it will -render the animal, at least, liable to suspicion. It is not my policy to -attract attention either to myself or to the beast. I will answer the -advertisement, get the Ourang-Outang, and keep it close until this matter -has blown over.’” - -At this moment we heard a step upon the stairs. - -“Be ready,” said Dupin, “with your pistols, but neither use them nor show -them until at a signal from myself.” - -The front door of the house had been left open, and the visitor had -entered, without ringing, and advanced several steps upon the staircase. -Now, however, he seemed to hesitate. Presently we heard him descending. -Dupin was moving quickly to the door, when we again heard him coming up. -He did not turn back a second time, but stepped up with decision, and -rapped at the door of our chamber. - -“Come in,” said Dupin, in a cheerful and hearty tone. - -A man entered. He was a sailor, evidently,—a tall, stout, and -muscular-looking person, with a certain daredevil expression of -countenance, not altogether unprepossessing. His face, greatly sunburnt, -was more than half hidden by whisker and _mustachio_. He had with him -a huge oaken cudgel, but appeared to be otherwise unarmed. He bowed -awkwardly, and bade us “good evening,” in French accents, which, although -somewhat Neufchatelish, were still sufficiently indicative of a Parisian -origin. - -“Sit down, my friend,” said Dupin. “I suppose you have called about the -Ourang-Outang. Upon my word, I almost envy you the possession of him,—a -remarkably fine, and no doubt a very valuable animal. How old do you -suppose him to be?” - -The sailor drew a long breath, with the air of a man relieved of some -intolerable burden, and then replied, in an assured tone,— - -“I have no way of telling, but he can’t be more than four or five years -old. Have you got him here?” - -“O no; we had no conveniences for keeping him here. He is at a livery -stable in the Rue Dubourg, just by. You can get him in the morning. Of -course you are prepared to identify the property?” - -“To be sure I am, sir.” - -“I shall be sorry to part with him,” said Dupin. - -“I don’t mean that you should be at all this trouble for nothing, sir,” -said the man. “Couldn’t expect it. Am very willing to pay a reward for -the finding of the animal,—that is to say, anything in reason.” - -“Well,” replied my friend, “that is all very fair, to be sure. Let me -think!—what should I have? Oh! I will tell you. My reward shall be this. -You shall give me all the information in your power about these murders -in the Rue Morgue.” - -Dupin said the last words in a very low tone, and very quietly. Just as -quietly, too, he walked toward the door, locked it, and put the key into -his pocket. He then drew a pistol from his bosom and placed it, without -the least flurry, upon the table. - -The sailor’s face flushed up as if he were struggling with suffocation. -He started to his feet and grasped his cudgel; but the next moment he -fell back into his seat, trembling violently, and with the countenance -of death itself. He spoke not a word. I pitied him from the bottom of my -heart. - -“My friend,” said Dupin, in a kind tone, “you are alarming yourself -unnecessarily,—you are indeed. We mean you no harm whatever. I pledge -you the honor of a gentleman, and of a Frenchman, that we intend you no -injury. I perfectly well know that you are innocent of the atrocities in -the Rue Morgue. It will not do, however, to deny that you are in some -measure implicated in them. From what I have already said, you must know -that I have had means of information about this matter,—means of which -you could never have dreamed. Now the thing stands thus. You have done -nothing which you could have avoided,—nothing, certainly, which renders -you culpable. You were not even guilty of robbery, when you might have -robbed with impunity. You have nothing to conceal. You have no reason for -concealment. On the other hand, you are bound by every principle of honor -to confess all you know. An innocent man is now imprisoned, charged with -that crime of which you can point out the perpetrator.” - -The sailor had recovered his presence of mind, in a great measure, while -Dupin uttered these words; but his original boldness of bearing was all -gone. - -“So help me God,” said he, after a brief pause, “I _will_ tell you all -I know about this affair; but I do not expect you to believe one half I -say,—I would be a fool indeed if I did. Still, I _am_ innocent, and I -will make a clean breast if I die for it.” - -What he stated was, in substance, this. He had lately made a voyage -to the Indian Archipelago. A party, of which he formed one, landed at -Borneo, and passed into the interior on an excursion of pleasure. He -and a companion had captured the Ourang-Outang. This companion dying, -the animal fell into his own exclusive possession. After great trouble, -occasioned by the intractable ferocity of his captive during the home -voyage, he at length succeeded in lodging it safely at his own residence -in Paris, where, not to attract toward himself the unpleasant curiosity -of his neighbors, he kept it carefully secluded, until such time as it -should recover from a wound in the foot, received from a splinter on -board ship. His ultimate design was to sell it. - -Returning home from some sailors’ frolic on the night, or rather in the -morning, of the murder, he found the beast occupying his own bedroom, -into which it had broken from a closet adjoining, where it had been, as -was thought, securely confined. Razor in hand and fully lathered, it was -sitting before a looking-glass, attempting the operation of shaving, in -which it had no doubt previously watched its master through the keyhole -of the closet. Terrified at the sight of so dangerous a weapon in the -possession of an animal so ferocious, and so well able to use it, the -man for some moments was at a loss what to do. He had been accustomed, -however, to quiet the creature, even in its fiercest moods, by the -use of the whip, and to this he now resorted. Upon sight of it, the -Ourang-Outang sprang at once through the door of the chamber, down the -stairs, and thence, through a window, unfortunately open, into the street. - -The Frenchman followed in despair, the ape, razor still in hand, -occasionally stopping to look back and gesticulate at its pursuer, until -the latter had nearly come up with it. It then again made off. In this -manner the chase continued for a long time. The streets were profoundly -quiet, as it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. In passing down -an alley in the rear of the Rue Morgue, the fugitive’s attention was -arrested by a light gleaming from the open window of Madame L’Espanaye’s -chamber, in the fourth story of her house. Rushing to the building, it -perceived the lightning-rod, clambered up with inconceivable agility, -grasped the shutter, which was thrown fully back against the wall, and, -by its means, swung itself directly upon the head-board of the bed. The -whole feat did not occupy a minute. The shutter was kicked open again by -the Ourang-Outang as it entered the room. - -The sailor, in the mean time, was both rejoiced and perplexed. He had -strong hopes of now recapturing the brute, as it could scarcely escape -from the trap into which it had ventured, except by the rod, where it -might be intercepted as it came down. On the other hand, there was much -cause for anxiety as to what it might do in the house. This latter -reflection urged the man still to follow the fugitive. A lightning-rod -is ascended without difficulty, especially by a sailor; but, when he had -arrived as high as the window, which lay far to his left, his career was -stopped; the most that he could accomplish was to reach over so as to -obtain a glimpse of the interior of the room. At this glimpse he nearly -fell from his hold through excess of horror. Now it was that those -hideous shrieks arose upon the night, which had startled from slumber the -inmates of the Rue Morgue. Madame L’Espanaye and her daughter, habited -in their night-clothes, had apparently been occupied in arranging some -papers in the iron chest already mentioned, which had been wheeled into -the middle of the room. It was open, and its contents lay beside it on -the floor. The victims must have been sitting with their backs toward the -window; and, from the time elapsing between the ingress of the beast and -the screams, it seems probable that it was not immediately perceived. The -flapping-to of the shutter would naturally have been attributed to the -wind. - -As the sailor looked in, the gigantic animal had seized Madame L’Espanaye -by the hair (which was loose, as she had been combing it) and was -flourishing the razor about her face, in imitation of the motions of a -barber. The daughter lay prostrate and motionless; she had swooned. The -screams and struggles of the old lady (during which the hair was torn -from her head) had the effect of changing the probably pacific purposes -of the Ourang-Outang into those of wrath. With one determined sweep of -its muscular arm it nearly severed her head from her body. The sight of -blood inflamed its anger into frenzy. Gnashing its teeth, and flashing -fire from its eyes, it flew upon the body of the girl, and embedded its -fearful talons in her throat, retaining its grasp until she expired. -Its wandering and wild glances fell at this moment upon the head of the -bed, over which the face of its master, rigid with horror, was just -discernible. The fury of the beast, which no doubt bore still in mind -the dreaded whip, was instantly converted into fear. Conscious of having -deserved punishment, it seemed desirous of concealing its bloody deeds, -and skipped about the chamber in an agony of nervous agitation, throwing -down and breaking the furniture as it moved, and dragging the bed from -the bedstead. In conclusion, it seized first the corpse of the daughter, -and thrust it up the chimney, as it was found; then that of the old lady, -which it immediately hurled through the window headlong. - -As the ape approached the casement with its mutilated burden, the sailor -shrank aghast to the rod, and, rather gliding than clambering down it, -hurried at once home,—dreading the consequences of the butchery, and -gladly abandoning, in his terror, all solicitude about the fate of the -Ourang-Outang. The words heard by the party upon the staircase were the -Frenchman’s exclamations of horror and affright, commingled with the -fiendish jabberings of the brute. - -I have scarcely anything to add. The Ourang-Outang must have escaped -from the chamber, by the rod, just before the breaking of the door. It -must have closed the window as it passed through it. It was subsequently -caught by the owner himself, who obtained for it a very large sum at the -_Jardin des Plantes_. Le Bon was instantly released, upon our narration -of the circumstances (with some comments from Dupin) at the bureau of the -Prefect of Police. This functionary, however well disposed to my friend, -could not altogether conceal his chagrin at the turn which affairs had -taken, and was fain to indulge in a sarcasm or two, about the propriety -of every person’s minding his own business. - -“Let him talk,” said Dupin, who had not thought it necessary to reply. -“Let him discourse; it will ease his conscience. I am satisfied with -having defeated him in his own castle. Nevertheless, that he failed in -the solution of this mystery is by no means that matter for wonder which -he supposes it; for, in truth, our friend the Prefect is somewhat too -cunning to be profound. In his wisdom is no _stamen_. It is all head -and no body, like the pictures of the goddess Laverna; or, at best, all -head and shoulders, like a codfish. But he is a good creature after all. -I like him especially for one master stroke of cant, by which he has -attained his reputation for ingenuity. I mean the way he has _de nier ce -qui est, et d’expliquer ce qui n’est pas_.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LAUSON TRAGEDY. - -BY J. W. DEFOREST. - - -Cupid and Psyche! The young man and the young woman who are in love with -each other! The couple which is constantly vanishing and constantly -reappearing; which has filled millions of various situations, and yet -is always the same; symbolizing, and one might almost say embodying, -the doctrine of the transmigration of souls; acting a drama of endless -repetitions, with innumerable spectators! - -What would the story-reading world—yes, and what would the great world -of humanity—do without these two figures? They are more lasting, they -are more important, and they are more fascinating than even the crowned -and laurelled images of heroes and sages. When men shall have forgotten -Alexander and Socrates, Napoleon and Humboldt, they will still gather -around this imperishable group, the youth and the girl who are in love. -Without them our kind would cease to be; at one time or another we are -all of us identified with them in spirit; thus both reason and sympathy -cause us to be interested in their million-fold repeated story. - -We have the two before us. The girl, dark and dark-eyed, with Oriental -features, and an expression which one is tempted to describe by some -such epithet as imperial, is Bessie Barron, the orphan granddaughter -of Squire Thomas Lauson of Barham, in Massachusetts. The youth, pale, -chestnut-haired, and gray-eyed, with a tall and large and muscular build, -is Henry Foster, not more than twenty-seven years old, yet already a -professor in the scientific department of the university of Hampstead. -They are standing on the edge of a rocky precipice some seventy feet in -depth, from the foot of which a long series of grassy slopes descends -into a wide, irregular valley, surrounded by hills that almost deserve -the name of mountains. In the distance there are villages, the nearest -fully visible even to its most insignificant buildings, others showing -only a few white gleams through the openings of their elms, and others -still distinguishable by merely a spire. - -There has been talk such as affianced couples indulge in; we must mention -this for the sake of truth, and we must omit it in mercy. “Lovers,” -declares a critic who has weight with us, “are habitually insipid, at -least to us married people.” It was a man who said that; no woman, it is -believed, could utter such a condemnation of her own heart: no woman ever -quite loses her interest in the drama of love-making. But out of regard -to such males as have drowned their sentimentality in marriage we will, -for the present, pass over the words of tenderness and devotion, and only -listen when Professor Foster becomes philosophical. - -“What if I should throw myself down here?” said Bessie Barron, after a -long look over the precipice, meanwhile holding fast to a guardian arm. - -“You would commit suicide,” was the reply of a man whom we must admit to -have been accurately informed concerning the nature of actions like the -one specified. - -Slightly disappointed at not hearing the appeal, “O my darling, don’t -think of such a thing!” Bessie remained silent a moment, wondering if she -were silly or he cold-hearted. Did she catch a glimmering of the fact -that men do not crave small sensations as women do, and that the man -before her was a specially rational being because he had been trained -in the sublime logic of the laws of nature? Doubtful: the two sexes are -profoundly unlike in mental action; they must study each other long -before they can fully understand each other. - -“I suppose I should be dreadfully punished for it,” she went on, her -thoughts turning to the world beyond death, that world which trembling -faith sees, and which is, therefore, visible to woman. - -“I am not sure,” boldly admitted the Professor, who had been educated in -Germany. - -In order to learn something of the character of this young man, we must -permit him to jabber his nondescript ideas for a little, even though we -are thereby stumbled and wearied. - -“Not sure?” queried Bessie. “How do you mean? Don’t you think suicide -sinful? Don’t you think sin will be punished?” - -She spoke with eagerness, dreading to find her lover not orthodox,—a -woful stigma in Barham on lovers, and indeed on all men whatever. - -“Admitting thus much, I don’t know how far you would be a free agent -in the act,” lectured the philosopher. “I don’t know where free agency -begins or ends. Indeed, I am so puzzled by this question as to doubt -whether there is such a condition as free agency.” - -“No such thing as free agency?” wondered Bessie. “Then what?” - -“See here. Out of thirty-eight millions of Frenchmen a fixed number -commit suicide every year. Every year just so many Frenchmen out of a -million kill themselves. Does that look like free agency, or does it -look like some unknown influence, some general rule of depression, some -law of nature, which affects Frenchmen, and which they cannot resist? -The individual seems to be free, at every moment of his life, to do as -he chooses. But what leads him to choose? Born instincts, conditions of -health, surroundings, circumstances. Do not the circumstances so govern -his choice that he cannot choose differently? Moreover, is he really an -individual? Or is he only a fraction of a great unity, the human race, -and directed by its current? We speak of a drop of water as if it were an -individuality; but it cannot swim against the stream to which it belongs; -it is not free. Is not the individual man in the same condition? There -are questions there which I cannot answer; and until I can answer them I -cannot answer your question.” - -We have not repeated without cause these bold and crude speculations. -It is necessary to show that Foster was what was called in Barham a -free-thinker, in order to account for efforts which were made to thwart -his marriage with Bessie Barron, and for prejudices which aided to work a -stern drama into his life. - -The girl listened and pondered. She tried to follow her lover over the -seas of thought upon which he walked; but the venture was beyond her -powers, and she returned to the pleasant firm land of a subject nearer -her heart. - -“Are you thinking of me?” she asked in a low tone, and with an appealing -smile. - -“No,” he smiled back. “I must own that I was not. But I ought to have -been. I do think of you a great deal.” - -“More than I deserve?” she queried, still suspicious that she was not -sufficiently prized to satisfy her longings for affection. - -He laughed outright. “No, not more than you deserve; not as much as you -deserve; you deserve a great deal. How many times are you going to ask me -these questions?” - -“Every day. A hundred times a day. Shall you get tired of them?” - -“Of course not. But what does it mean? Do you doubt me?” - -“No. But I want to hear you say that you think of me, over and over -again. It gives me such pleasure to hear you say it! It is such a great -happiness that it seems as if it were my only happiness.” - -Before Bessie had fallen in love with Foster, and especially before her -engagement to him, there had been a time when she had talked more to the -satisfaction of the male critic. But now her whole soul was absorbed -in the work of loving. She had no thought for any other subject; none, -at least, while with _him_. Her whole appearance and demeanor shows how -completely she is occupied by this master passion of woman. A smile seems -to exhale constantly from her face; if it is not visible on her lips, -nor, indeed, anywhere, still you perceive it; if it is no more to be seen -than the perfume of a flower, still you are conscious of it. It is no -figurative exaggeration to say that there is within her soul an incessant -music, like that of waltzes, and of all sweet, tender, joyous melodies. -If you will watch her carefully, and if you have the delicate senses of -sympathy, you also will hear it. - -Are we wrong in declaring that the old, old story of clinging hearts -is more fascinating from age to age, as human thoughts become purer -and human feelings more delicate? We believe that love, like all other -things earthly, is subject to the progresses of the law of evolution, -and grows with the centuries to be a more various and exquisite source -of happiness. This girl is more in love than her grandmother, who made -butter and otherwise wrought laboriously with her own hands, had ever -found it possible to be. An organization refined by the manifold touch of -high civilization, an organization brought to the keenest sensitiveness -by poetry and fiction and the spiritualized social breath of our times, -an organization in which muscle is lacking and nerve overabundant, she -is capable of an affection which has the wings of imagination, which can -soar above the ordinary plane of belief, which is more than was once -human. - -Consider for an instant what an elaboration of culture the passion of -love may have reached in this child. She can invest the man whom she has -accepted as monarch of her soul with the perfections of the heroes of -history and of fiction. She can prophesy for him a future which a hundred -years since was not realizable upon this continent. Out of her own mind -she can draw shining raiment of success for him which shall be visible -across oceans, and crowns of fame which shall not be dimmed by centuries. -She can love him for superhuman loveliness which she has power to impute -to him, and for victories which she is magician enough to strew in -anticipation beneath his feet. It is not extravagance, it is even nothing -but the simplest and most obvious truth, to say that there have been -periods in the world’s history, without going back to the cycles of the -troglodyte and the lake-dweller, when such love would have been beyond -the capabilities of humanity. - -It must be understood, by the way, that Bessie was not bred amid the -sparse, hard-worked, and scantily cultured population of Barham, and -that, until the death of her parents, two years before the opening of -this story, she had been a plant of the stimulating, hot-bed life of a -city. Into this bucolic land she had brought susceptibilities which do -not often exist there, and a craving for excitements of sentiment which -does not often find gratification there. Consequently the first youth who -in any wise resembled the ideal of manhood which she had set up in her -soul found her ready to fall into his grasp, to believe in him as in a -deity, and to look to him for miracles of love and happiness. - -Well, these two interesting idiots, as the unsympathizing observer might -call them, have turned their backs on the precipice and are walking -toward the girl’s home. They had not gone far before Bessie uttered a -speech which excited Harry’s profound amazement, and which will probably -astonish every young man who has not as yet made his conquests. After -looking at him long and steadfastly, she said: “How is it possible that -you can care for me? I don’t see what you find in me to make me worthy of -your admiration.” - -How often such sentiments have been felt, and how often also they have -been spoken, by beings whose hearts have been bowed by the humility of -strong affection! Perhaps women are less likely to give them speech than -men; but it is only because they are more trammelled by an education of -reserve, and by inborn delicacy and timidity; it is not because they feel -them less. This girl, however, was so frank in nature, and so earnest and -eager in her feelings, that she could not but give forth the aroma of -loving meekness that was in her soul. - -“What do you mean?” asked Foster, in his innocent surprise. “See nothing -to admire in _you_!” - -“O, you are so much wiser than I, and so much nobler!” she replied. “It -is just because you are good, because you have the best heart that ever -was, that you care for me. You found me lonely and unhappy, and so you -pitied me and took charge of me.” - -“O no!” he began; but we will not repeat his protestations; we will just -say that he, too, was properly humble. - -“Have you really been lonely and sad?” he went on, curious to know every -item of her life, every beat of her heart. - -“Does that old house look like a paradise to you?” she asked, pointing to -the dwelling of Squire Lauson. - -“It isn’t very old, and it doesn’t look very horrible,” he replied, a -little anxious as he thought of his future housekeeping. “Perhaps ours -will not be so fine a one.” - -“I was not thinking of that,” declared Bessie. “_Our_ house will be -charming, even if it has but one story, and that under ground. But _this_ -one! You don’t see it with my eyes; you haven’t lived in it.” - -“Is it haunted?” inquired Foster, of whom we must say that he did not -believe in ghosts, and, in fact, scorned them with all the scorn of a -philosopher. - -“Yes, and by people who are not yet buried,—people who call themselves -alive.” - -The subject was a delicate one probably, for Bessie said no more -concerning it, and Foster considerately refrained from further -questions. There was one thing on which this youth especially prided -himself, and that was on being a gentleman in every sense possible to -a republican. Because his father had been a judge, and his grandfather -and great-grandfather clergymen, he conceived that he belonged to a -patrician class, similar to that which Englishmen style “the untitled -nobility,” and that he was bound to exhibit as many chivalrous virtues -as if his veins throbbed with the blood of the Black Prince. Although -not combative, and not naturally reckless of pain and death, he would -have faced Heenan and Morrissey together in fight, if convinced that -his duty as a gentleman demanded it. Similarly he felt himself obliged -“to do the handsome thing” in money matters; to accept, for instance, -without haggling, such a salary as was usual in his profession; to be as -generous to waiters as if he were a millionaire. Furthermore, he must -be magnanimous to all that great multitude who were his inferiors, and -particularly must he be fastidiously decorous and tender in his treatment -of women. All these things he did or refrained from doing, not only out -of good instincts towards others, but out of respect for himself. - -On the whole, he was a worthy and even admirable specimen of the genus -young man. No doubt he was conceited; he often offended people by his -bumptiousness of opinion and hauteur of manner; he rather depressed -the human race by the severity with which he classed this one and that -one as “no gentleman,” because of slight defects in etiquette; he -considerably amused older and wearier minds by the confidence with which -he settled vexed questions of several thousand years’ standing; but with -all these faults, he was a better and wiser and more agreeable fellow -than one often meets at his age; he was a youth whom man could respect -and woman adore. To noble souls it must be agreeable, I think, to see -him at the present moment, anxious to know precisely what sorrows had -clouded the life of his betrothed in the old house before him, and yet -refraining from questioning her on the alluring subject, “because he was -a gentleman.” - -The house itself kept its secret admirably. It had not a signature of -character about it; it was as non-committal as an available candidate for -the Presidency; it exhibited the plain, unornamental, unpoetic reserve of -a Yankee Puritan. Whether it were a stage for comedy or tragedy, whether -it were a palace for happy souls or a prison for afflicted ones, it gave -not even a darkling hint. - -A sufficiently spacious edifice, but low of stature and with a long -slope of back roof, it reminded one of a stocky and round-shouldered old -farmer, like those who daily trudged by it to and from the market of -Hampstead, hawing and geeing their fat cattle with lean, hard voices. A -front door, sheltered by a small portico, opened into a hall which led -straight through the building, with a parlor and bedroom on one side, -and a dining-room and kitchen on the other. In the rear was a low wing -serving as wash-house, lumber-room, and wood-shed. The white clapboards -and green blinds were neither freshly painted nor rusty, but just -sedately weather-worn. The grounds, the long woodpiles, the barn and its -adjuncts, were all in that state of decent slovenliness which prevails -amid the more rustic farming population of New England. On the whole, -the place looked like the abode of one who had made a fair fortune by -half a century or more of laborious and economical though not enlightened -agriculture. - -“I must leave you now,” said Foster, when the two reached the gate of the -“front-yard”; “I must get back to my work in Hampstead.” - -“And you won’t come in for a minute?” pleaded Bessie. - -“You know that I would be glad to come in and stay in for ever and ever. -It seems now as if life were made for nothing but talking to you. But -my fellow-men no doubt think differently. There are such things as -lectures, and I must prepare a few of them. I really have pressing work -to do.” - -What he furthermore had in his mind was, “I am bound as a gentleman to -do it”; but he refrained from saying that: he was conscious that he -sometimes said it too much; little by little he was learning that he was -bumptious, and that he ought not to be. - -“And you will come to-morrow?” still urged Bessie, grasping at the next -best thing to to-day. - -“Yes, I shall walk out. This driving every day won’t answer, on a -professor’s salary,” he added, swelling his chest over this grand -confession of poverty. “Besides, I need the exercise.” - -“How good of you to walk so far merely to see me!” exclaimed the humble -little beauty. - -Until he came again she brooded over the joys of being his betrothed, and -over the future, the far greater joy of being his wife. Was not this high -hope in love, this confidence in the promises of marriage, out of place -in Bessie? She has daily before her, in the mutual sayings and doings of -her grandfather and his spouse, a woful instance of the jarring way in -which the chariot-wheels of wedlock may run. Squire Tom Lauson does not -get on angelically with his second wife. It is reported that she finds -existence with him the greatest burden that she has ever yet borne, -and that she testifies to her disgust with it in a fashion which is at -times startlingly dramatic. If we arrive at the Lauson house on the day -following the dialogue which has been reported, we shall witness one of -her most effective exhibitions. - -It is raining violently; an old-fashioned blue-light Puritan -thunder-storm is raging over the Barham hills; the blinding flashes -are instantaneously followed by the deafening peals; the air is full -of sublime terror and danger. But to Mrs. Squire Lauson the tempest is -so far from horrible that it is even welcome, friendly, and alluring, -compared with her daily showers of conjugal misery. She has just -finished one of those frequent contests with her husband, which her -sickly petulance perpetually forces her to seek, and which nevertheless -drive her frantic. In her wild, yet weak rage and misery, death seems a -desirable refuge. Out of the open front door she rushes, out into the -driving rain and blinding lightning, lifts her hands passionately toward -Heaven, and prays for a flash to strike her dead. - -After twice shrieking this horrible supplication, she dropped her arms -with a gesture of sullen despair, and stalked slowly, reeking wet, -into the house. In the hall, looking out upon this scene of demoniacal -possession, sat Bessie Lauson and her maiden aunt, Miss Mercy Lauson, -while behind them, coming from an inner room, appeared the burly figure -of the old Squire. As Mrs. Lauson passed the two women, they drew a -little aside with a sort of shrinking which arose partly from a desire to -avoid her dripping garments, and partly from that awe with which most of -us regard ungovernable passion. The Squire, on the contrary, met his wife -with a sarcastic twinkle of his grim gray eyes, and a scoff which had the -humor discoverable in the contrast between total indifference and furious -emotion. - -“Closed your camp-meeting early, Mrs. Lauson,” said the old man; “can’t -expect a streak of lightning for such a short service.” - -A tormentor who wears a smile inflicts a double agony. Mrs. Lauson wrung -her hands, and broke out in a cry of rage and anguish: “O Lord, let it -strike me! O Lord, let it strike me!” - -Squire Lauson took a chair, crossed his thick, muscular legs, glanced at -his wife, glanced at the levin-seamed sky, and remarked with a chuckle, -“I’m waiting to see this thing out.” - -“Father, I say it’s perfectly awful,” remonstrated Miss Mercy Lauson. -“Mother, ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” - -Miss Mercy was an old maid of the grave, sad, sickly New England type. -She pronounced her reproof in a high, thin, passionless monotone, without -a gesture or a flash of expression, without glancing at the persons whom -she addressed, looking straight before her at the wall. She seemed to -speak without emotion, and merely from a stony sense of duty. It was as -if a message had been delivered by the mouth of an automaton. - -Both the Squire and his wife made some response, but a prolonged crash of -thunder drowned the feeble blasphemy of their voices, and the moving of -their lips was like a mockery of life, as if the lips of corpses had been -stirred by galvanism. Then, as if impatient of hearing both man and God, -Mrs. Lauson clasped her hands over her ears, and fled away to some inner -room of the shaking old house, seeking perhaps the little pity that there -is for the wretched in solitude. The Squire remained seated, his gray -and horny fingers drumming on the arms of the chair, and his faded lips -murmuring some inaudible conversation. - -For the wretchedness of Mrs. Lauson there was partial cause in the -disposition and ways of her husband. Very odd was the old Squire; -violently combative could he be in case of provocation; and to those who -resisted what he called his rightful authority he was a tyrant. - -Having lost the wife whom he had ruled for so many years, and having -enjoyed the serene but lonely empire of widowhood for eighteen months, -he felt the need of some one for some purpose,—perhaps to govern. -Once resolved on a fresh spouse, he set about searching for one in a -clear-headed and business-like manner, as if it had been a question of -getting a family horse. - -The woman whom he finally received into his flinty bosom was a maiden -of forty-five, who had known in her youth the uneasy joys of many -flirtations, and who had marched through various successes (the -triumphs of a small university town) to sit down at last in a life-long -disappointment. Regretting her past, dissatisfied with every present, -demanding improbabilities of the future, eager still to be flattered -and worshipped and obeyed, she was wofully unfitted for marriage with -an old man of plain habits and retired life, who was quite as egoistic -as herself and far more combative and domineering. It was soon a -horrible thing to remember the young lovers who had gone long ago, but -who, it seemed to her, still adored her, and to compare them with this -unsympathizing master, who gave her no courtship nor tender reverence, -and who spoke but to demand submission. - -“In a general way,” says a devout old lady of my acquaintance, “Divine -Providence blesses second marriages.” - -With no experience of my own in this line, and with not a large -observation of the experience of others, I am nevertheless inclined to -admit that my friend has the right of it. Conceding the fact that second -marriages are usually happy, one naturally asks, Why is it? Is it because -a man knows better how to select a second wife? or because he knows -better how to treat her? Well disposed toward both these suppositions, I -attach the most importance to the latter. - -No doubt Benedict chooses more thoughtfully when he chooses a second -time; no doubt he is governed more by judgment than in his first -courtship, and less by blind impulse; no doubt he has learned some -love-making wisdom from experience. A woman who will be patient with -him, a woman who will care well for his household affairs and for his -children, a woman who will run steadily rather than showily in the -domestic harness,—that is what he usually wants when he goes sparking at -forty or fifty. - -But this is not all and not even the half of the explanation. He has -acquired a knowledge of what woman is, and a knowledge of what may fairly -be required of her. He has learned to put himself in her place; to -grant her the sympathy which her sensitive heart needs; to estimate the -sufferings which arise from her variable health; in short, he has learned -to be thoughtful and patient and merciful. Moreover, he is apt to select -some one who, like himself, has learned command of temper and moderation -of expectation from the lessons of life. As he knows that a glorified -wife is impossible here below, so she makes no strenuous demand for an -angel husband. - -But Squire Thomas Lauson had married an old maid who had not yet given -up the struggle to be a girl, and who, in consequence of a long and -silly bellehood, could not put up with any form of existence which was -not a continual courtship. Furthermore, he himself was not a persimmon; -he had not gathered sweetness from the years which frosted his brow. An -interestingly obdurate block of the Puritan granite of New England, he -was almost as self-opinionated, domineering, pugnacious, and sarcastic as -he had been at fifteen. He still had overmuch of the unripe spirit which -plagues little boys, scoffs at girls, stones frogs, drowns kittens, and -mutters domestic defiances. If Mrs. Lauson was skittish and fractious, he -was her full match as a wife-breaker. - -In short, the Squire had not chosen wisely; he was not fitted to win -a woman’s heart by sympathy and justice; and thus Providence had not -blessed his second marriage. - -We must return now to Miss Mercy Lauson and her niece Bessie. They are -alone once more, for Squire Lauson has finished his sarcastic mutterings, -and has stumped away to some other dungeon of the unhappy old house. - -“You _see_, Bessie!” said Miss Mercy, after a pinching of her thin lips -which was like the biting of forceps,—“you _see_ how married people can -live with each other. Bickerings an’ strife! bickerings an’ strife! But -for all that you mean to marry Henry Foster.” - -We must warn the reader not to expect vastness of thought or eloquence of -speech from Miss Mercy. Her narrow-shouldered, hollow-chested soul could -not grasp ideas of much moment, nor handle such as she was able to grasp -with any vigor or grace. - -“I should like to know,” returned Bessie with spirit, “if I am not likely -to have my share of bickerings and strife, if I stay here and don’t get -married.” - -“That depends upon how far you control your temper, Elizabeth.” - -“And so it does in marriage, I suppose.” - -Miss Mercy found herself involved in an argument, when she had simply -intended to play the part of a preacher in his pulpit, warning and -reproving without being answered. She accepted the challenge in a tone -of iced pugnacity, which indicated in part a certain imperfect habit of -self-control, and in part the unrestrainable peevishness of a chronic -invalid. - -“I don’t say folks will necessarily be unhappy in merridge,” she went -on. “Merridge is a Divine ord’nance, an’ I’m obleeged to respect it -as such. I do, I suppose, respect it more ’n some who’ve entered into -it. But merridge, to obtain the Divine blessing, must not be a yoking -with unbelievers. There’s the trouble with father’s wife; she ain’t a -professor. There, too, ’s the trouble with Henry Foster; he’s not one of -those who’ve chosen the better part. I want you to think it all over in -soberness of sperrit, Elizabeth.” - -“It is the only thing you know against him,” replied the girl, flushing -with the anger of outraged affection. - -“No, it ain’t. He’s brung home strange ways from abroad. He smokes an’ -drinks beer an’ plays cards; an’ his form seldom darkens the threshold -of the sanctuary. Elizabeth, I must be plain with you on this vital -subject. I’m going to be as plain with you as your own conscience ought -to be. I see it’s no use talking to you ’bout duty an’ the life to come. -I must—there’s no sort of doubt about it—I _must_ bring the things of -this world to bear on you. You know I’ve made my will: I’ve left every -cent of my property to you,—twenty thousand dollars! Well, if you enter -into merridge with that young man, I shall alter it. I ain’t going to -have my money,—the money that my poor God-fearing aunt left me,—I ain’t -going to have it fooled away on card-players an’ scorners. Now there it -is, Elizabeth. There’s what my duty tells me to do, an’ what I shall do. -Ponder it well an’ take your choice.” - -“I don’t care,” burst forth Bessie, springing to her feet. “I shall tell -_him_, and if it makes no difference to _him_, it will make none to _me_.” - -Here a creak in the floor caught her ear, and turning quickly she -discovered Henry Foster. Entering the house by a side door, and coming -through a short lateral passage to the front hall, he had reached it in -time to hear the close of the conversation and catch its entire drift. -You could see in his face that he had heard thus much, for healthy, -generous, kindly, and cheerful as the face usually was, it wore now a -confused and pained expression. - -“I beg pardon for disturbing you,” he said. “I was pelted into the house -to get out of the shower, and I took the shortest cut.” - -Bessie’s Oriental visage flushed to a splendid crimson, and a whiter -ashiness stole into the sallow cheek of Aunt Mercy. The girl, quick and -adroit as most women are in leaping out of embarrassments, rushed into a -strain of light conversation. How wet Professor Foster was, and wouldn’t -he go and dry himself? What a storm it had been, and what wonderful, -dreadful thunder and lightning; and how glad she was that he had come, -for it seemed as if he were some protection. - -“There’s only One who can protect us,” murmured Aunt Mercy, “either in -such seasons or any others.” - -“His natural laws are our proper recourse,” respectfully replied Foster, -who was religious too, in his scientific fashion. - -Bessie cringed with alarm; here was an insinuated attack on her aunt’s -favorite dogma of special providences; the subject must be pitched -overboard at once. - -“What is the news in Hampstead?” she asked. “Has the town gone to sleep, -as Barham has? You ought to wake us up with something amusing.” - -“Jennie Brown is engaged,” said Foster. “Isn’t that satisfactory?” - -“O dear! how many times does that make?” laughed Bessie. “Is it a student -again?” - -“Yes, it is a student.” - -“You ought to make it a college offence for students to engage -themselves,” continued Bessie. “You know that they can hardly ever marry, -and generally break the girls’ hearts.” - -“Have they broken Jennie Brown’s? She doesn’t believe it, nor her -present young man either. I’ve no doubt he thinks her as good as new.” - -“I dare say. But such things hurt girls in general, and you professors -ought to see to it, and I want to know why you don’t. But is that all the -news? That’s such a small matter! such an old sort of thing! If I had -come from Hampstead, I would have brought more than that.” - -So Bessie rattled on, partly because she loved to talk to this admirable -Professor, but mainly to put off the crisis which she saw was coming. - -But it was vain to hope for clemency, or even for much delay, from Aunt -Mercy. Grim, unhappy, peevish as many invalids are, and impelled by a -remorseless conscience, she was not to be diverted from finishing with -Foster the horrid bone which she had commenced to pick with Bessie. You -could see in her face what kind of thoughts and purposes were in her -heart. She was used to quarrelling; or, to speak more strictly, she was -used to entertaining hard feelings towards others; but she had never -learned to express her bitter sentiments frankly. Unable to destroy -them, she had felt herself bound in general not to utter them, and -this non-utterance had grown to be one of her despotic and distressing -“duties.” Nothing could break through her shyness, her reserve, her habit -of silence, but an emotion which amounted to passion; and such an emotion -she was not only unable to conceal, but she was also unable to exhibit -it either nobly or gracefully: it shone all through her, and it made her -seem spiteful. - -As she was about to speak, however, a glance at Bessie’s anxious face -checked her. After her painful, severe fashion, she really loved the -girl, and she did not want to load her with any more sorrow than was -strictly necessary. Moreover, the surely worthy thought occurred to her -that Heaven might favor one last effort to convert this wrong-minded -young man into one who could be safely intrusted with the welfare of -her niece and the management of her money. Hailing the suggestion, in -accordance with her usual exaltation of faith, as an indication from the -sublimest of all authority, she entered upon her task with such power as -nature had given her and such sweetness as a shattered nervous system had -left her. - -“Mr. Foster, there’s one thing I greatly desire to see,” she began -in a hurried, tremulous tone. “I want you to come out from among the -indifferent, an’ join yourself to _us_. Why don’t you do it? Why don’t -you become a professor?” - -Foster was even more surprised and dismayed than most men are when thus -addressed. Here was an appeal such as all of us must listen to with -respect, not only because it represents the opinions of a vast and justly -revered portion of civilized humanity, but because it concerns the -highest mysteries and possibilities of which humanity is cognizant. As -one who valued himself on being both a philosopher and a gentleman, he -would have felt bound to treat any one courteously who thus approached -him. But there was more; this appeal evidently alluded to his intentions -of marriage; it was connected with the threat of disinheritance which he -had overheard on entering the house. If he would promise to “join the -church,” if he would even only appear to take the step into favorable -consideration, he could remove the objections of this earnest woman to -his betrothal, and secure her property to his future wife. But Foster -could not do what policy demanded; he had his “honest doubts,” and he -could not remove them by an exercise of will; moreover, he was too -self-respectful and honorable to be a hypocrite. After pondering Aunt -Mercy’s question for a moment, he answered with a dignity of soul which -was not appreciated,— - -“I should have no objection to what you propose, if it would not be -misunderstood. If it would only mean that I believe in God, and that -I worship his power and goodness, I would oblige you. But it would be -received as meaning more,—as meaning that I accept doctrines which I am -still examining,—as meaning that I take upon myself obligations which I -do not yet hold binding.” - -“Don’t you believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob?” demanded -Miss Mercy, striking home with telling directness. - -“I believe in a Deity who views his whole universe with equal love. I -believe in a Deity greater than I always hear preached.” - -Miss Mercy was puzzled; for while this confession of faith did not quite -tally with what she was accustomed to receive from pulpits, there was -about it a largeness of religious perception which slightly excited her -awe. Nevertheless, it showed a dangerous vagueness, and she decided to -demand something more explicit. - -“What are your opinions on the inspiration of the Scriptures?” she asked. - -He had been reading Colenso’s work on Genesis; and, so far as he could -judge the Bishop’s premises, he agreed with his conclusions. At the same -time he was aware that such an exegesis would seem simple heresy to Miss -Mercy, and that whoever held it would be condemned by her as a heathen -and an infidel. After a moment of hesitation, he responded bravely and -honestly, though with a placating smile. - -“Miss Lauson, there are some subjects, indeed there are many subjects, -on which I have no fixed opinions. I used to have opinions on almost -everything; but I found them very troublesome, I had to change them so -often! I have decided not to declare any more positive opinions, but only -to entertain suppositions to the effect that this or that may be the -case; meantime holding myself ready to change my hypotheses on further -evidence.” - -Although he seemed to her guilty of shuffling away from her question, yet -she, in the main, comprehended his reply distinctly enough. He did not -believe in plenary inspiration; that was clear, and so also was her duty -clear; she must not let him have her niece nor her money. - -Now there was a something in her face like the forming of columns for -an assault, or rather like the irrational, ungovernable gathering of -clouds for a storm. Her staid, melancholy soul—a soul which usually lay -in chains and solitary—climbed writhing to her lips and eyes, and made -angry gestures before it spoke. Bessie stared at her in alarm; she tried, -in a spirit of youthful energy, to look her down; but the struggle of -prevention was useless; the hostile words came. - -“Mr. Foster, I can’t willingly give my niece to such an one as you,” she -said in a tremulous but desperate monotone. “I s’pose, though, it’s no -use forbidding you to go with her. I s’pose you wouldn’t mind that. But I -expect you _will_ care for one thing,—for her good. My will is made now -in her favor. But if she marries you I shall change it. I sha’n’t leave -her a cent.” - -Here her sickly strength broke down; such plain utterance of feeling and -purpose was too much for her nerves; she burst into honest, bitter tears, -and, rushing to her room, locked herself up; no doubt, too, she prayed -there long, and read solemnly in the Scriptures. - -What was the result of this conscientious but no doubt unwise -remonstrance? After a shock of disagreeable surprise, the two lovers -did what all true lovers would have done; they entered into a solemn -engagement that no considerations of fortune should prevent their -marriage. They shut their eyes on the future, braved all the adverse -chances of life, and almost prayed for trials in order that each -might show the other greater devotion. The feeling was natural and -ungovernable, and I claim also that it was beautiful and noble. - -“Do you know all?” asked Bessie. “Grandfather has never proposed to leave -me anything, he hated my father so! It was always understood that Aunt -Mercy was to take care of me.” - -“I want nothing with you,” said Foster. “I will slave myself to death for -you. I will rejoice to do it.” - -“O, I knew it would be so!” replied the girl, almost faint with joy and -love. “I knew you would be true to me. I knew how grand you were.” - -When they looked out upon the earth, after this scene, during which they -had been conscious of nothing but each other, the storm had fled beyond -verdant hills, and a rainbow spanned all the visible landscape, seeming -to them indeed a bow of promise. - -“O, we can surely be happy in such a world as this!” said Bessie, her -face colored and illuminated by youth, hope, and love. - -“We will find a cloud castle somewhere,” responded the young man, -pointing to the western sky, piled with purple and crimson. - -Bessie was about to accompany him to the gate on his departure, as was -her simple and affectionate custom, when a voice called her up stairs. - -“O dear!” she exclaimed, pettishly. “It seems as if I couldn’t have a -moment’s peace. Good by, my darling.” - -During the close of that day, at the hour which in Barham was known -as “early candle-lighting,” the Lauson tragedy began to take form. -The mysterious shadow which vaguely announced its on-coming was the -disappearance from the family ken of that lighthouse of regularity, that -fast-rooted monument of strict habit, Aunt Mercy. The kerosene lamp -which had so long beamed upon her darnings and mendings, or upon her -more æsthetic labors in behalf of the Barham sewing society, or upon the -open yellow pages of her Scott’s Commentary and Baxter’s Saints’ Rest, -now flared distractedly about the sitting-room, as if in amazement at -her absence. Nowhere was seen her tall, thin, hard form, the truthful -outward expression of her lean and sickly soul; nowhere was heard the -afflicted squeak of her broad calfskin shoes, symbolical of the worryings -of her fretful conscience. The doors which she habitually shut to keep -out the night-draughts remained free to swing, and, if they could find an -aiding hand or breeze, to bang, in celebration of their independence. The -dog might wag his tail in wonder through the parlor, and the cat might -profane the sofa with his stretchings and slumbers. - -At first the absence of Aunt Mercy merely excited such pleasant -considerations as these. The fact was accepted as a relief from burdens; -it tended towards liberty and jocoseness of spirit. The honest and -well-meaning and devout woman had been the censor of the family, and, -next after the iron-headed Squire, its dictator. Bessie might dance -alone about the sober rooms, and play operatic airs and waltzes upon her -much-neglected piano, without being called upon to assume sackcloth and -ashes for her levity. The cheerful life which seemed to enter the house -because Aunt Mercy had left it was a severe commentary on the sombre and -unlovely character which her diseased sense of duty had driven her to -give to her unquestionably sincere religious sentiment. It hinted that -if she should be taken altogether away from the family, her loss would -awaken little mourning, and would soon be forgotten. - -Presently, however, this persistent absence of one whose very nature -it was to be present excited surprise, and eventually a mysterious -uneasiness. Search was made about the house; no one was discovered up -stairs but Mrs. Lauson, brooding alone; then a neighbor or two was -visited by Bessie; still no Aunt Mercy. The solemn truth was, although -no sanguinary sign as yet revealed it, that the Lauson tragedy had an -hour since been consummated. - -The search for the missing Aunt Mercy continued until it aroused the -interest and temper of Squire Lauson. Determined to find his daughter -once that he had set about it, and petulant at the failure of one line of -investigation after another, the hard old gentleman stumped noisily about -the house, his thick shoes squeaking down the passages like two bands -of music, and his peeled hickory cane punching open doors and upsetting -furniture. When he returned to the sitting-room from one of these -boisterous expeditions, he found his wife sitting in the light of the -kerosene lamp, and sewing with an impatient, an almost spiteful rapidity, -as was her custom when her nerves were unbearably irritated. - -“Where’s Mercy?” he trumpeted. “Where _is_ the old gal? Has anybody -eloped with her? I saw Deacon Jones about this afternoon.” - -This jest was meant to amuse and perhaps to conciliate Mrs. Lauson, -for whom he sometimes seemed to have a rough pity, as hard to bear as -downright hostility. He had now and then a way of joking with her and -forcing her to smile by looking her steadily in the eye. But this time -his moral despotism failed; she answered his gaze with a defiant glare, -and remained sullen; after another moment she rushed out of the room, as -if craving relief from his domineering presence. - -Apparently the Squire would have called her back, had not his attention -been diverted by the entry of his granddaughter. - -“I say, Bessie, have you looked in the garden?” he demanded. “Why the -Devil haven’t you? Don’t you know Mercy’s hole where she meditates? Go -there and hunt for her.” - -As the girl disappeared he turned to the door through which his wife had -fled, as if he still had a savage mind to roar for her reappearance. But -after pondering a moment, and deciding that he was more comfortable in -solitude, he sat slowly down in his usual elbow-chair, and broke out in a -growling soliloquy:— - -“There’s no comfort like making one’s self miserable. It’s a —— sight -better than making the best of it. We’re all having a devilish fine time. -We’re as happy as bugs in a rug. Hey diddle diddle, the cat’s in the -fiddle—” - -The continuity of his rough-laid stone-wall sarcasm was interrupted by -Bessie, who rushed into the sitting-room with a low shriek and a pallid -face. - -“What’s the matter now?” he demanded. “Has the cow jumped over the moon?” - -“O grandfather!” she gasped, “I’ve found Aunt Mercy. I’m afraid she’s -dead.” - -“Hey!” exclaimed the Squire, starting up eagerly as he remembered that -Aunt Mercy was his own child. “You don’t say so! Where is she?” - -Bessie turned and reeled out of the house; the old man thumped after her -on his cane. At the bottom of the garden was a small, neglected arbor, -thickly overgrown with grape-vines in unpruned leaf, whither Aunt Mercy -was accustomed to repair in her seasons of unusual perplexity or gloom, -there to seek guidance or relief in meditation and prayer. In this arbor -they found her, seated crouchingly on a bench near the doorway, her -arms stretched over a little table in front of her, and her head lying -between them with the face turned from the gazers. The moon glared in -a ghastly way upon her ominously white hands, and disclosed a dark yet -gleaming stain, seemingly a drying pool, which spread out from beneath -her forehead. - -“Good Lord!” groaned Squire Lauson. “Mercy! I say, Mercy!” - -He seized her hand, but he had scarcely touched it ere he dropped it, -for it was the icy, repulsive, alarming hand of a corpse. We must -compress our description of this scene of horrible discovery. Miss Mercy -Lauson was dead, the victim of a brutal assassination, her right temple -opened by a gash two inches deep, her blood already clotted in pools or -dried upon her face and fingers. It must have been an hour, or perhaps -two hours, since the blow had been dealt. At her feet was the fatal -weapon,—an old hatchet which had long lain about the garden, and which -offered no suggestion as to who was the murderer. - -When it first became clear to Squire Lauson that his daughter was dead, -and had been murdered, he uttered a sound between a gasp and a sob; -but almost immediately afterward he spoke in his habitually vigorous -and rasping voice, and his words showed that he had not lost his iron -self-possession. - -“Bessie, run into the house,” he said. “Call the hired men, and bring a -lantern with you.” - -When she returned he took the lantern, threw the gleam of it over his -dead daughter’s face, groaned, shook his head, and then, leaning on his -cane, commenced examining the earth, evidently in search of footmarks. - -“There’s your print, Bessie,” he mumbled. “And there’s my print. But -whose print’s that? That’s the man. That’s a long slim foot, with nails -across the ball. That’s the man. Don’t disturb those tracks. I’ll set the -lantern down there. Don’t you disturb ’em.” - -There were several of these strange tracks; the clayey soil of the walk, -slightly tempered with sand, had preserved them with fatal distinctness; -it showed them advancing to the arbor and halting close by the murdered -woman. As Bessie stared at them, it seemed to her that they were -fearfully familiar, though where she had seen them before she could not -say. - -“Keep away from those tracks,” repeated Squire Lauson as the two laborers -who lived with him came down the garden. “Now, then, what are you staring -at? She’s dead. Take her up—O, for God’s sake, be gentle about it!—take -her up, I tell you. There! Now, carry her along.” - -As the men moved on with the body he turned to Bessie and said: “Leave -the lantern just there. And don’t you touch those tracks. Go on into the -house.” - -With his own hands he aided to lay out his daughter on a table, and -drew her cap from her temples so as to expose the bloody gash to view. -There was a little natural agony in the tremulousness of his stubbly and -grizzly chin; but in the glitter of his gray eyes there was an expression -which was not so much sorrow as revenge. - -“That’s a pretty job,” he said at last, glaring at the mangled gray -head. “I should like to l’arn who did it.” - -It was not known till the day following how he passed the next half-hour. -It seems that, some little time previous, this man of over ninety years -had conceived the idea of repairing with his own hands the cracked wall -of his parlor, and had for that purpose bought a quantity of plaster -of Paris and commenced a series of patient experiments in mixing and -applying it. Furnished with a basin of his prepared material, he stalked -out to the arbor and busied himself with taking a mould of the strange -footstep to which he had called Bessie’s attention, succeeding in his -labor so well as to be able to show next day an exact counterpart of the -sole which had made the track. - -Shortly after he had left the house, and glancing cautiously about as -if to make sure that he had indeed left it, his wife entered the room -where lay the dead body. She came slowly up to the table, and looked at -the ghastly face for some moments in silence, with precisely that staid, -slightly shuddering air which one often sees at funerals, and without any -sign of the excitement which one naturally expects in the witnesses of -a mortal tragedy. In any ordinary person, in any one who was not, like -her, denaturalized by the egotism of shattered nerves, such mere wonder -and repugnance would have appeared incomprehensively brutal. But Mrs. -Lauson had a character of her own; she could be different from others -without exciting prolonged or specially severe comment; people said to -themselves, “Just like her,” and made no further criticism, and almost -certainly no remonstrance. Bessie herself, the moment she had exclaimed, -“O grandmother! what shall we do?” felt how absurd it was to address -such an appeal to such a person. - -Mrs. Lauson replied by a glance which expressed weakness, alarm, and -aversion, and which demanded, as plainly as words could say it, “How can -you ask _me_?” Then without uttering a syllable, without attempting to -render any service or funereal courtesy, bearing herself like one who had -been mysteriously absolved from the duties of sympathy and decorum, she -turned her back on the body of her step-daughter with a start of disgust, -and walked hastily from the room. - -Of course there was a gathering of the neighbors, a hasty and useless -search after the murderer, a medical examination of the victim, and a -legal inquest at the earliest practicable moment, the verdict being -“death by the hand of some person unknown.” Even the funeral passed, with -its mighty crowd and its solemn excitement; and still public suspicion -had not dared to single out any one as the criminal. It seemed for a day -or two as if the family life might shortly settle into its old tenor, the -same narrow routine of quiet discontent or irrational bickerings, with -no change but the loss of such inflammation as formerly arose from Aunt -Mercy’s well-meant, but irritating sense of duty. The Squire, however, -was permanently and greatly changed: not that he had lost the spirit of -petty dictation which led him to interfere in every household act, even -to the boiling of the pot, but he had acquired a new object in life, -and one which seemed to restore all his youthful energy; he was more -restlessly and distressingly vital than he had been for years. No Indian -was ever more intent on avenging a debt of blood than was he on hunting -down the murderer of his daughter. This terrible old man has a strong -attraction for us: we feel that we have not thus far done him justice: he -imperiously demands further description. - -Squire Lauson was at this time ninety-three years of age. The fact -appeared incredible, because he had preserved, almost unimpaired, not -only his moral energy and intellectual faculties, but also his physical -senses, and even to an extraordinary degree his muscular strength. His -long and carelessly worn hair was not white, but merely gray; and his -only baldness was a shining hand’s-breadth, prolonging the height of -his forehead. His face was deeply wrinkled, but more apparently with -thought and passion than from decay, for the flesh was still well under -control of the muscles, and the expression was so vigorous that one was -tempted to call it robust. There was nothing of that insipid and almost -babyish tranquillity which is commonly observable in the countenances -of the extremely aged. The cheekbones were heavy, though the healthy -fulness of the cheeks prevented them from being pointed; the jaws, not -yet attenuated by the loss of many teeth, were unusually prominent and -muscular; the heavy Roman nose still stood high above the projecting -chin. In general, it was a long, large face, grimly and ruggedly massive, -of a uniform grayish color, and reminding you of a visage carved in -granite. - -In figure the Squire was of medium height, with a deep chest and heavy -limbs. He did not stand quite upright, but the stoop was in his shoulders -and not in his loins, and arose from a slouching habit of carrying -himself much more than from weakness. He walked with a cane, but his -step, though rather short, was strong and rapid, and he could get over -the ground at the rate of three miles an hour. At times he seemed a -little deaf, but it was mainly from absorption of mind and inattention, -and he could hear perfectly when he was interested. The great gray eyes -under his bushy, pepper-and-salt eyebrows were still so sound that he -only used spectacles in reading. As for voice, there was hardly such -another in the neighborhood; it was a strong, rasping, dictatorial _caw_, -like the utterance of a gigantic crow; it might have served the needs of -a sea-captain in a tempest. A jocose neighbor related that he had in a -dream descended into hell, and that in trying to find his way out he had -lost his reckoning, until, hearing a tremendous volley of oaths on the -surface of the earth over his head, he knew that he was under the hills -of Barham, and that Squire Lauson was swearing at his oxen. - -Squire Lauson was immense; you might travel over him for a week without -discovering half his wonders; he was a continent, and he must remain for -the most part an unknown continent. Bringing to a close our explorations -into his character and past life, we will follow him up simply as one of -the personages of this tragedy. He was at the present time very active, -but also to a certain extent inexplicable. It was known that he had -interviews with various officials of justice, that he furnished them -with his plaster cast of the strange footprint which had been found in -the garden, and that he earnestly impressed upon them the value of this -object for the purpose of tracking out the murderer. But he had other -lines of investigation in his steady old hands, as was discoverable later. - -His manner towards his granddaughter and his wife changed noticeably. -Instead of treating the first with neglect, and the second with -persistent hostility or derision, he became assiduously attentive to -them, addressed them frequently in conversation, and sought to win their -confidence. With Bessie this task was easy, for she was one of those -natural, unspoiled women, who long for sympathy, and she inclined toward -her grandfather the moment she saw any kindness in his eyes. They had -long talks about the murdered relative, about every event or suspicion -which seemed to relate to her death, about the property which she had -left to Bessie, and about the girl’s prospects in life. - -Not so with Mrs. Lauson. Even the horror which had entered the family -life could not open the hard crust which disease and disappointment had -formed over her nature, and she met the old man’s attempts to make her -communicative with her usual sulky or pettish reticence. There never -was such an unreasonable creature as this wretched wife, who, while she -remained unmarried, had striven so hard to be agreeable to the other -sex. It was not with her husband alone that she fought, but with every -one, whether man or woman, who came near her. Whoever entered the house, -whether it were some gossiping neighbor or the clergyman or the doctor, -she flew out of it on discovering their approach, and wandered alone -about the fields until they departed. This absence she would perhaps -employ in eating green fruit, hoping, as she said, to make herself -sick and die, or, at least, to make herself sick enough to plague her -husband. At meals she generally sat in glum silence, although once -or twice she burst out in violent tirades, scoffing at the Squire’s -management of the place, defying him to strike her, etc. - -Her appearance at this time was miserable and little less than -disgusting. Her skin was thick and yellow; her eyes were bloodshot -and watery; her nose was reddened with frequent crying; her form was -of an almost skeleton thinness; her manner was full of strange starts -and gaspings. It was curious to note the contrast between her perfect -wretchedness of aspect and the unfeeling coolness with which the Squire -watched and studied her. - -In this woful way was the Lauson family getting on when the country -around was electrified by an event which almost threw the murder itself -into the shade. Henry Foster, the accepted lover of Bessie Barron, a -professor in the Scientific College of Hampstead, was suddenly arrested -as the assassin of Miss Mercy Lauson. - -“What does this mean!” was his perfectly natural exclamation, when seized -by the officers of justice; but it was uttered with a sudden pallor which -awakened in the bystanders a strong suspicion of his guilt. No definite -answer was made to his question until he was closeted with the lawyer -whom he immediately retained in his defence. - -“I should like to get at the whole of your case, Mr. Foster,” said the -legal gentleman. “I must beg you, for your own sake, to be entirely frank -with me.” - -“I assure you that I know nothing about the murder,” was the firm reply. -“I don’t so much as understand why I should be suspected of the horrible -business.” - -The lawyer, Mr. Adams Patterson, after studying Foster in a furtive way, -as if doubtful whether there had been perfect honesty in his assertion -of innocence, went on to state what he supposed would be the case of the -prosecution. - -“The evidence against you,” he said, “so far at least as I can now -discover, will all be circumstantial. They will endeavor to prove your -presence at the scene of the tragedy by your tracks. Footmarks, said to -correspond to yours, were found passing the door of the arbor, returning -to it and going away from it.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed Foster. “I remember,—I did pass there. I will tell you -how. It was in the afternoon. I was in the house during a thunder-storm -which happened that day, and left it shortly after the shower ended. -I went out through the garden because that was the nearest way to the -rivulet at the bottom of the hill, and I wished to make some examinations -into the structure of the water-bed. A part of the garden walk is -gravelled, and on that I suppose my tracks did not show. But near the -arbor the gravel ceases, and there I remember stepping into the damp -mould. I did pass the arbor, and I did return to it. I returned to it -because it had been a heavenly place to me. It was there that I proposed -to Miss Barron, and that she accepted me. The moment that I had passed it -I reproached myself for doing so. I went back, looked at the little spot -for a moment, and left a kiss on the table. It was on that table that her -hand had rested when I first dared to take it in mine.” - -His voice broke for an instant with an emotion which every one who has -ever loved can at least partially understand. - -“Good Heavens! to think that such an impulse should entangle me in such a -charge!” he added, when he could speak again. - -“Well,” he resumed, after a long sigh, “I left the arbor,—my heart as -innocent and happy as any heart in the world,—I climbed over the fence -and went down the hill. That is the last time that I was in those grounds -that day. That is the whole truth, so help me God!” - -The lawyer seemed touched. Even then, however, he was saying to himself, -“They always keep back something, if not everything.” After meditating -for a few seconds, he resumed his interrogatory. - -“Did any one see you? did Miss Barron see you, as you passed through the -garden?” - -“I think not. Some one called her just as I left her, and she went, I -believe, up stairs.” - -“Did you see the person who called? Did you see any one?” - -“No one. But the voice was a woman’s voice. I took it to be that of a -servant.” - -Mr. Patterson fell into a thoughtful silence, his arms resting on the -elbows of his chair, and his anxious eyes wandering over the floor. - -“But what motive?” broke out Foster, addressing the lawyer as if he were -an accuser and an enemy,—“what sufficient motive had I for such a hideous -crime?” - -“Ah! that is just it. The motive! They will make a great deal of that. -Why, you must be able to guess what is alleged. Miss Lauson had made a -will in her niece’s favor, but had threatened to disinherit her if she -married you. This fact,—as has been made known by an incautious admission -of Miss Bessie Barron,—this fact you were aware of. The death came just -in time to prevent a change in the will. Don’t you see the obvious -inference of the prosecution?” - -“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Foster, springing up and pacing his cell. “I -murder a woman,—murder my wife’s aunt,—for money,—for twenty thousand -dollars! Am I held so low as that? Why, it is a sum that any clever man -can earn in this country in a few years. We could have done without it. -I would not have asked for it, much less murdered for it. Tell me, Mr. -Patterson, do you suppose me capable of such degrading as well as such -horrible guilt?” - -“Mr. Foster,” replied the lawyer, with impressive deliberation, “I shall -go into this case with a confidence that you are absolutely innocent.” - -“Thank you,” murmured the young man, grasping Patterson’s hand violently, -and then turning away to wipe a tear, which had been too quick for him. - -“Excuse my weakness,” he said, presently. “But I don’t believe any worthy -man is strong enough to bear the insult that the world has put upon me, -without showing his suffering.” - -Certainly, Foster’s bearing and the sentiments which he expressed had the -nobility and pathos of injured innocence. Were it not that innocence _can -be_ counterfeited, as also that a fine demeanor and touching utterance -are not points in law, no alarming doubt would seem to overshadow the -result of the trial. And yet, strange as it must seem to those whom my -narrative may have impressed in favor of Foster, the sedate, Puritanic -population of Barham and its vicinity inclined more and more toward the -presumption of his guilt. - -For this there were two reasons. In the first place, who but he had any -cause of spite against Mercy Lauson, or could hope to draw any profit -from her death? There had been no robbery; there was not a sign that the -victim’s clothing had been searched; the murder had clearly not been the -work of a burglar or a thief. But Foster, if he indeed assassinated this -woman, had thereby removed an obstacle to his marriage, and had secured -to his future wife a considerable fortune. - -In the second place, Foster was such a man as the narrowly scrupulous -and orthodox world of Barham would naturally regard with suspicion. -Graduate of a German university, he had brought back to America, not -only a superb scientific education, but also what passed, in the region -where he had settled, for a laxity of morals. Professor as he was in -the austere college of Hampstead, and expected, therefore, to set a -luminously correct example in both theoretical and practical ethics, he -held theological opinions which were too modern to be considered sound, -and he even neglected church to an extent which his position rendered -scandalous. In spite of the strict prohibitory law of Massachusetts, he -made use of lager-beer and other still stronger fluids; and, although he -was never known to drink to excess, the mere fact of breaking the statute -was a sufficient offence to rouse prejudice. It was also reported of him, -to the honest horror of many serious minds, that he had been detected in -geologizing on Sunday, and that he was fond of whist. - -How apt we are to infer that a man who violates _our_ code of morals will -also violate his own code! Of course this Germanized American could not -believe that murder was right; but then he played cards and drank beer, -which we of Barham knew to be wrong; and if he would do one wrong thing, -why not another? - -Meantime how was it with Bessie? How is it always with women when -those whom they love are charged with unworthiness? Do they exhibit -the “judicial mind”? Do they cautiously weigh the evidence and decide -according to it? The girl did not entertain the faintest supposition that -her lover could be guilty; she was no more capable of blackening his -character than she was capable of taking his life. She would not speak to -people who showed by word or look that they doubted his innocence. She -raged at a world which could be so stupid, so unjust, and so wicked as -to slander the good fame and threaten the life of one whom her heart had -crowned with more than human perfections. - -But what availed all her confidence in his purity? There was the finger -of public suspicion pointed at him, and there was the hangman lying in -wait for his precious life. She was almost mad with shame, indignation, -grief, and terror. She rose as pale as a ghost from sleepless nights, -during which she had striven in vain to unravel this terrible mystery, -and prayed in vain that Heaven would revoke this unbearable calamity. -Day by day she visited her betrothed in his cell, and cheered him with -the sympathy of her trusting and loving soul. The conversations which -took place on these occasions were so naïve and childlike in their -honest utterance of emotion that I almost dread to record them, lest -the deliberate, unpalpitating sense of criticism should pronounce them -sickening, and mark them for ridicule. - -“Darling,” she once said to him, “we must be married. Whether you are to -live or to die, I must be your wife.” - -He knelt down and kissed the hem of her dress in adoration of such -self-sacrifice. - -“Ah, my love, I never before knew what you were,” he whispered, as she -leaned forward, caught his head in her hands, dragged it into her lap, -and covered it with kisses and tears. “Ah, my love, you are too good. -I cannot accept such a sacrifice. When I am cleared publicly of this -horrible charge, then I will ask you once more if you dare be my wife.” - -“Dare! O, how can you say such things!” she sobbed. “Don’t you know that -you are more to me than the whole universe? Don’t you know that I would -marry you, even if I knew you were guilty?” - -There is no reasoning with this sublime passion of love, when it is truly -itself. There is no reasoning with it; and Heaven be thanked that it is -so! It is well to have one impulse in the world which has no egoism, -which rejoices in self-immolation for the sake of its object, which is -among emotions what a martyr is among men. - -Foster’s response was worthy of the girl’s declaration. “My love,” he -whispered, “I have been bemoaning my ruined life, but I must bemoan it -no more. It is success enough for any man to be loved by you, and as you -love me.” - -“No, no!” protested Bessie. “It is not success enough for you. No success -is enough for you. You deserve everything that ever man did deserve. And -here you are insulted, trampled upon, and threatened. O, it is shameful -and horrible!” - -“My child, you must not help to break me down,” implored Foster, feeling -that he was turning weak under the thought of his calamity. - -She started towards him in a spasm of remorse; it was as if she had -suddenly become aware that she had stabbed him; her face and her attitude -were full of self-reproach. - -“O my darling, do I make you more wretched?” she asked, “when I would die -for you! when you are my all! O, there is not a minute when I am worthy -of you!” - -These interviews left Foster possessed of a few minutes of consolation -and peace, which would soon change into an increased poverty of despair -and rage. For the first few days of his imprisonment his prevalent -feeling was anger. He could not in the least accept his position; he -would not look upon himself as one who was suspected with justice, or -even with the slightest show of probability; he would not admit that -society was pardonable for its doubts of him. He was not satisfied -with mere hope of escape; on the contrary, he considered his accusers -shamefully and wickedly blameworthy; he was angry at them, and wanted to -wreak upon them a stern vengeance. - -As the imprisonment dragged on, however, and his mind lost its tension -under the pressure of trouble, there came moments when he did not -quite know himself. It seemed to him that this man, who was charged -with murder, was some one else, for whose character he could not stand -security, and who might be guilty. He almost looked upon him with -suspicion; he half joined the public in condemning him unheard. Perhaps -this mental confusion was the foreshadowing of that insane state of mind -in which prisoners have confessed themselves guilty of murders which they -had not committed, and which have been eventually brought home to others. -There are twilights between reason and unreason. The descent from the one -condition to the other is oftener a slope than a precipice. - -Meanwhile Bessie had, as a matter of course, plans for saving her -lover; and these plans, almost as a matter of course too, were mainly -impracticable. As with all young people and almost all women, she -rebelled against the fixed procedures of society when they seemed likely -to trample on the dictates of her affections. Now that it was her lover -who was under suspicion of murder, it did not seem a necessity to her -that the law should take its course, and, on the contrary, it seemed to -her an atrocity. She knew that he was guiltless; she knew that he was -suffering; why should he be tried? When told that he must have every -legal advantage, she assented to it eagerly, and drove at once to see -Mr. Patterson, and overwhelmed him with tearful implorations “to do -everything,—to do everything that could be done,—yes, in short, to do -everything.” But still she could not feel that anything ought to be done, -except to release at once this beautiful and blameless victim, and to -make him every conceivable apology. As for bringing him before a court, -to answer with his life whether he were innocent or guilty, it was an -injustice and an outrage which she rebelled against with all the energy -of her ardent nature. - -Who could prevent this infamy? In her ignorance of the machinery of -justice, it seemed to her that her grandfather might. Notwithstanding -the little sympathy that there had been between them, she went to the -grim old man with her sorrows and her plans, proposing to him to arrest -the trial. In her love and her simplicity she would have appealed to a -mountain or to a tiger. - -“What!” roared the Squire. “Stop the trial? Can’t do it. I’m not the -prosecutor. The State’s attorney is the prosecutor.” - -“But can’t you say that you think the proof against him is insufficient?” -urged Bessie. “Can’t you go to them and say that? Won’t that do it?” - -“Lord bless you!” replied Squire Lauson, staring in wonder at such -ignorance, and dimly conscious of the love and sorrow which made it utter -its simplicities. - -“O grandfather! do have pity on him and on me!” pleaded Bessie. - -He gave her a kinder glance than she had ever received from him before -in her life. It occurred to him, as if it were for the first time, that -she was very sweet and helpless, and that she was his own grandchild. He -had hated her father. O, how he had hated the conceited city upstart, -with his pert, positive ways! how he had rejoiced over his bankruptcy, -if not over his death! The girl he had taken to his home, because, after -all, she was a Lauson by blood, and it would be a family shame to let -her go begging her bread of strangers. But she had not won upon him; she -looked too much like that “damn jackanapes,” her father; moreover, she -had contemptible city accomplishments, and she moped in the seclusion -of Barham. He had been glad when she became engaged to that other “damn -jackanapes,” Foster; and it had been agreeable to think that her marriage -would take her out of his sight. Mercy had made a will in her favor; he -had sniffed and hooted at Mercy for her folly; but, after all, he had in -his heart consented to the will; it saved him from leaving any of his -money to a Barron. - -Of late, however, there had been a softening in the Squire; he could -himself hardly believe that it was in his heart; he half suspected at -times that it was in his brain. A man who lives to ninety-three is -exposed to this danger, that he may survive all his children. The Squire -had walked to one grave after another, until he had buried his last son -and his last daughter. After Mercy Lauson, there were no more children -for him to see under ground; and that fact, coupled with the shocking -nature of her death, had strangely shaken him; it had produced that -singular softening which we have mentioned, and which seemed to him like -a malady. Now, a little shattered, no longer the man that he so long had -been, he was face to face with his only living descendant. - -He reached out his gray, hard hand, and laid it on her glossy, curly -hair. She started with surprise at the unaccustomed touch, and looked up -in his face with a tearful sparkle of hope. - -“Be quiet, Bessie,” he said, in a voice which was less like a _caw_ than -usual. - -“O grandfather! what do you mean?” she sobbed, guessing that deliverance -might be nigh, and yet fearing to fall back into despair. - -“Don’t cry,” was the only response of this close-mouthed, imperturbable -old man. - -“O, was it any one else?” she demanded. “Who do you think did it?” - -“I have an idea,” he admitted, after staring at her steadily, as if to -impress caution. “But keep quiet. We’ll see.” - -“You know it couldn’t be he that did it,” urged Bessie. “Don’t you know -it couldn’t? He’s too good.” - -The Squire laughed. “Why, some folks laid it to you,” he said. “If he -should be cleared, they might lay it to you again. There’s no telling -who’ll do such things, and there’s no telling who’ll be suspected.” - -“And you _will_ do something?” she resumed. “You _will_ follow it up? You -_will_ save him?” - -“Keep quiet,” grimly answered the Squire. “I’m watching. But keep quiet. -Not a word to a living soul.” - -Close on this scene came another, which proved to be the unravelling of -the drama. That evening Bessie went early, as usual, to her solitary -room, and prepared for one of those nights which are not a rest to the -weary. She had become very religious since her trouble had come upon her; -she read several chapters in the Bible, and then she prayed long and -fervently; and, after a sob or two over her own shortcomings, the prayer -was all for Foster. Such is human devotion: the voice of distress is far -more fervent than the voice of worship; the weak and sorrowful are the -true suppliants. - -Her prayer ended, if ever it could be said to end while she waked, she -strove anew to disentangle the mystery which threatened her lover, -meanwhile hearing, half unawares, the noises of the night. Darkness has -its speech, its still small whisperings and mutterings, a language which -cannot be heard during the clamor of day, but which to those who must -listen to it is painfully audible, and which rarely has pleasant things -to say, but threatens rather, or warns. For a long time, disturbed by -fingers that tapped at her window, by hands that stole along her wall, by -feet that glided through the dark halls, Bessie could not sleep. She lost -herself; then she came back to consciousness with the start of a swimmer -struggling toward the surface; then she recommenced praying for Foster, -and once more lost herself. - -At last, half dozing, and yet half aware that she was weeping, she was -suddenly and sharply roused by a distinct creak in the floor of her room. -Bessie had in one respect inherited somewhat of her grandfather’s iron -nature, being so far from habitually timorous that she was noted among -her girlish acquaintance for courage. But her nerves had been seriously -shaken by the late tragedy, by anxiety, and by sleeplessness; it seemed -to her that there was in the air a warning of great danger; she was half -paralyzed by fright. - -Struggling against her terror, she sprang out of bed and made a rush -toward her door, meaning to close and lock it. Instantly there was a -collision; she had thrown herself against some advancing form; in the -next breath she was engaged in a struggle. Half out of her senses, she -did not scream, did not query whether her assailant were man or woman, -did not indeed use her intelligence in any distinct fashion, but only -pushed and pulled in blind instinct of escape. - -Once she had a sensation of being cut with some sharp instrument. Then -she struck; the blow told, and her antagonist fell heavily; the fall was -succeeded by a short shriek in a woman’s voice. Bessie did not stop to -wonder that any one engaged in an attempt at assassination should utter -an outcry which would almost necessarily insure discovery and seizure. -The shock of the sound seemed to restore her own powers of speech, and -she burst into a succession of loud screams, calling on her grandfather -for help. - -In the same moment the hope which abides in light fell under her hand. -Reeling against her dressing-table, her fingers touched a box of waxen -matches, and she quickly drew one of them against the wood, sending a -faint glimmer through the chamber. She was not horror-stricken, she did -not grasp a comprehension of the true nature of the scene; she simply -stared in trembling wonder when she recognized Mrs. Lauson. - -“You there, grandmother!” gasped Bessie. “What has happened?” - -Mrs. Lauson, attired in an old morning-gown, was sitting on the floor, -partially supported by one hand, while the other was moving about as if -in search of some object. The object was a carving-knife; she saw it, -clutched it, and rose to her feet; then for the first time she looked at -Bessie. “What do you lie awake and pray for?” she demanded, in a furious -mutter. “You lie awake and pray every night. I’ve listened in the hall -time and again, and heard you. I won’t have it. I’ll give you just three -minutes to get to sleep.” - -Bessie did not think; it did not occur to her, at least not in any clear -manner, that this was lunacy; she instinctively sprang behind a large -chair and uttered another scream. - -“I say, will you go to sleep?” insisted Mrs. Lauson, advancing and -raising her knife. - -Just in the moment of need there were steps in the hall; the still -vigorous and courageous old Squire appeared upon the scene; after -a violent struggle the maniac was disarmed and bound. She lay upon -Bessie’s bed, staring at her husband with bloodshot, watery eyes, and -seemingly unconscious of anything but a sense of ill-treatment. The girl, -meanwhile, had discovered a slight gash on her left arm, and had shown it -to the Squire. - -“Sallie,” demanded the cold-blooded old man, “what have you been trying -to knife Bessie for?” - -“Because she lay awake and prayed,” was the ready and firm response of -downright mania. - -“Look here, Sallie, what did you kill Mercy for?” continued the Squire, -without changing a muscle of his countenance. - -“Because she sat up and prayed,” responded Mrs. Lauson. “She sat up in -the garden and prayed against me. Ever so many people sit up and lie -awake to pray against me. I won’t have it.” - -“Ah!” said the old man. “Do you hear that, Bessie? Remember it, so as to -say it upon your oath.” - -After a second or two he added, with something like a twinkle of his -characteristic humor in his hard gray eyes, “So I saved my life by not -praying!” - -Thus ended the extraordinary scene which brought to light the murderer of -Miss Mercy Lauson. It is almost needless to add that on the day following -the maniac was conveyed to the State Lunatic Asylum, and that shortly -afterward Bessie opened the prison gates of Henry Foster, and told him of -his absolution from charge of crime. - -“And now I want the whole world to get on its knees and ask your pardon,” -she said, after a long scene of tenderer words than must be reported. - -“If the world should ask pardon for all its blunders,” he said, with -a smile, “it would pass its whole time in penance, and wouldn’t make -its living. Human life is like science, a sequence of mistakes, with -generally a true direction.” - -One must stick to one’s character. A philosopher is nothing if not -philosophical. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE IRON SHROUD. - -BY WILLIAM MUDFORD. - - -The castle of the Prince of Tolfi was built on the summit of the towering -and precipitous rock of Scylla, and commanded a magnificent view of -Sicily in all its grandeur. Here, during the wars of the Middle Ages, -when the fertile plains of Italy were devastated by hostile factions, -those prisoners were confined, for whose ransom a costly price was -demanded. Here, too, in a dungeon excavated deep in the solid rock, the -miserable victim was immured, whom revenge pursued,—the dark, fierce, and -unpitying revenge of an Italian heart. - -VIVENZIO,—the noble and the generous, the fearless in battle, and the -pride of Naples in her sunny hours of peace,—the young, the brave, the -proud Vivenzio,—fell beneath this subtle and remorseless spirit. He was -the prisoner of Tolfi; and he languished in that rock-encircled dungeon, -which stood alone, and whose portals never opened twice upon a living -captive. - -It had the semblance of a vast cage; for the roof and floor and sides -were of iron, solidly wrought and spaciously constructed. High above -ran a range of seven grated windows, guarded with massy bars of the -same metal, which admitted light and air. Save these, and the tall -folding-doors beneath them, which occupied the centre, no chink or chasm -or projection broke the smooth, black surface of the walls. An iron -bedstead, littered with straw, stood in one corner, and, beside it, a -vessel of water, and a coarse dish filled with coarser food. - -Even the intrepid soul of Vivenzio shrunk with dismay as he entered -this abode, and heard the ponderous doors triple-locked by the silent -ruffians who conducted him to it. Their silence seemed prophetic of his -fate, of the living grave that had been prepared for him. His menaces -and his entreaties, his indignant appeals for justice, and his impatient -questioning of their intentions, were alike vain. They listened but spoke -not. Fit ministers of a crime that should have no tongue! - -How dismal was the sound of their retiring steps! And, as their faint -echoes died along the winding passages, a fearful presage grew within -him, that nevermore the face or voice or tread of man would greet his -senses. He had seen human beings for the last time! And he had looked -his last upon the bright sky and upon the smiling earth and upon a -beautiful world he loved, and whose minion he had been! Here he was to -end his life,—a life he had just begun to revel in! And by what means? -By secret poison? or by murderous assault? No; for then it had been -needless to bring him thither. Famine, perhaps,—a thousand deaths in one! -It was terrible to think of it; but it was yet more terrible to picture -long, long years of captivity in a solitude so appalling, a loneliness -so dreary, that thought, for want of fellowship, would lose itself in -madness, or stagnate into idiocy. - -He could not hope to escape, unless he had the power, with his bare -hands, of rending asunder the solid iron walls of his prison. He could -not hope for liberty from the relenting mercies of his enemy. His -instant death, under any form of refined cruelty, was not the object -of Tolfi; for he might have inflicted it, and he had not. It was too -evident, therefore, he was reserved for some premeditated scheme of -subtle vengeance; and what vengeance could transcend in fiendish malice, -either the slow death of famine, or the still slower one of solitary -incarceration till the last lingering spark of life expired, or till -reason fled, and nothing should remain to perish but the brute functions -of the body? - -It was evening when Vivenzio entered his dungeon; and the approaching -shades of night wrapped it in total darkness, as he paced up and down, -revolving in his mind these horrible forebodings. No tolling bell from -the castle, or from any neighboring church or convent, struck upon his -ears to tell how the hours passed. Frequently he would stop and listen -for some sound that might betoken the vicinity of man; but the solitude -of the desert, the silence of the tomb, are not so still and deep as the -oppressive desolation by which he was encompassed. His heart sunk within -him, and he threw himself dejectedly upon his couch of straw. Here sleep -gradually obliterated the consciousness of misery; and bland dreams -wafted his delighted spirit to scenes which were once glowing realities -for him, in whose ravishing illusions he soon lost the remembrance that -he was Tolfi’s prisoner. - -When he awoke, it was daylight; but how long he had slept he knew not. It -might be early morning, or it might be sultry noon; for he could measure -time by no other note of its progress than light and darkness. He had -been so happy in his sleep, amid friends who loved him, and the sweeter -endearments of those who loved him as friends could not, that, in the -first moments of waking, his startled mind seemed to admit the knowledge -of his situation, as if it had burst upon it for the first time, fresh -in all its appalling horrors. He gazed round with an air of doubt and -amazement, and took up a handful of the straw upon which he lay, as -though he would ask himself what it meant. But memory, too faithful to -her office, soon unveiled the melancholy past, while reason, shuddering -at the task, flashed before his eyes the tremendous future. The contrast -overpowered him. He remained for some time lamenting, like a truth, the -bright visions that had vanished, and recoiling from the present, which -clung to him as a poisoned garment. - -When he grew more calm, he surveyed his gloomy dungeon. Alas! -the stronger light of day only served to confirm what the gloomy -indistinctness of the preceding evening had partially disclosed,—the -utter impossibility of escape. As, however, his eyes wandered round -and round, and from place to place, he noticed two circumstances which -excited his surprise and curiosity. The one, he thought, might be fancy; -but the other was positive. His pitcher of water, and the dish which -contained his food, had been removed from his side while he slept, -and now stood near the door. Were he even inclined to doubt this, by -supposing he had mistaken the spot where he saw them over night, he could -not; for the pitcher now in his dungeon was neither of the same form nor -color as the other, while the food was changed for some other of better -quality. He had been visited therefore during the night. But how had -the person obtained entrance? Could he have slept so soundly that the -unlocking and opening of those ponderous portals were effected without -waking him? He would have said this was not possible, but that, in doing -so, he must admit a greater difficulty, an entrance by other means, of -which, he was convinced, none existed. It was not intended, then, that -he should be left to perish from hunger; but the secret and mysterious -mode of supplying him with food seemed to indicate he was to have no -opportunity of communicating with a human being. - -The other circumstance which had attracted his notice was the -disappearance, as he believed, of one of the seven grated windows that -ran along the top of his prison. He felt confident that he had observed -and counted them; for he was rather surprised at their number, and there -was something peculiar in their form, as well as in the manner of their -arrangement, at unequal distances. It was so much easier, however, to -suppose he was mistaken, than that a portion of the solid iron, which -formed the walls, could have escaped from its position, that he soon -dismissed the thought from his mind. - -Vivenzio partook of the food that was before him without apprehension. It -might be poisoned; but, if it were, he knew he could not escape death, -should such be the design of Tolfi; and the quickest death would be the -speediest relief. - -The day passed wearily and gloomily, though not without a faint hope -that, by keeping watch at night, he might observe when the person came -again to bring him food, which he supposed he would do in the same way -as before. The mere thought of being approached by a living creature, -and the opportunity it might present of learning the doom prepared or -preparing for him, imparted some comfort. Besides, if he came alone, -might he not in a furious onset overpower him? Or he might be accessible -to pity, or the influence of such munificent rewards as he could bestow -if once more at liberty, and master of himself. Say he were armed. The -worst that could befall, if nor bribe nor prayers nor force prevailed, -was a faithful blow, which, though dealt in a damned cause, might work -a desired end. There was no chance so desperate but it looked lovely in -Vivenzio’s eyes, compared with the idea of being totally abandoned. - -The night came, and Vivenzio watched. Morning came, and Vivenzio was -confounded! He must have slumbered without knowing it. Sleep must have -stolen over him when exhausted by fatigue; and, in that interval of -feverish repose, he had been baffled: for there stood his replenished -pitcher of water, and there his day’s meal! Nor was this all. Casting -his looks toward the windows of his dungeon, he counted but FIVE! _Here_ -was no deception; and he was now convinced there had been none the day -before. But what did all this portend? Into what strange and mysterious -den had he been cast? He gazed till his eyes ached; he could discover -nothing to explain the mystery. That it was so, he knew. Why it was so, -he racked his imagination in vain to conjecture. He examined the doors. A -simple circumstance convinced him they had not been opened. - -A wisp of straw, which he had carelessly thrown against them the -preceding day, as he paced to and fro, remained where he had cast it, -though it must have been displaced by the slightest motion of either of -the doors. This was evidence that could not be disputed; and it followed -there must be some secret machinery in the walls by which a person could -enter. He inspected them closely. They appeared to him one solid and -compact mass of iron; or joined, if joined they were, with such nice art -that no mark of division was perceptible. Again and again he surveyed -them, and the floor and the roof, and that range of visionary windows, as -he was now almost tempted to consider them: he could discover nothing, -absolutely nothing, to relieve his doubts or satisfy his curiosity. -Sometimes he fancied that altogether the dungeon had a more contracted -appearance,—that it looked smaller; but this he ascribed to fancy, -and the impression naturally produced upon his mind by the undeniable -disappearance of two of the windows. - -With intense anxiety, Vivenzio looked forward to the return of night; -and, as it approached, he resolved that no treacherous sleep should -again betray him. Instead of seeking his bed of straw, he continued to -walk up and down his dungeon till daylight, straining his eyes in every -direction through the darkness, to watch for any appearances that might -explain these mysteries. While thus engaged, and, as nearly as he could -judge (by the time that afterward elapsed before the morning came in), -about two o’clock, there was a slight, tremulous motion of the floors. -He stooped. The motion lasted nearly a minute: but it was so extremely -gentle that he almost doubted whether it was real, or only imaginary. -He listened. Not a sound could be heard. Presently, however, he felt a -rush of cold air blow upon him; and, dashing toward the quarter whence -it seemed to proceed, he stumbled over something which he judged to be -the water ewer. The rush of cold air was no longer perceptible; and, as -Vivenzio stretched out his hands, he found himself close to the walls. He -remained motionless for a considerable time; but nothing occurred during -the remainder of the night to excite his attention, though he continued -to watch with unabated vigilance. - -The first approaches of the morning were visible through the grated -windows, breaking, with faint divisions of light, the darkness that -still pervaded every other part, long before Vivenzio was enabled to -distinguish any object in his dungeon. Instinctively and fearfully he -turned his eyes, hot and inflamed with watching, toward them. There were -FOUR! He could _see_ only four: but it might be that some intervening -object prevented the fifth from becoming perceptible; and he waited -impatiently to ascertain if it were so. As the light strengthened, -however, and penetrated every corner of the cell, other objects of -amazement struck his sight. On the ground lay the broken fragments of -the pitcher he had used the day before, and, at a small distance from -them, nearer to the wall, stood the one he had noticed the first night. -It was filled with water, and beside it was his food. He was now certain, -that, by some mechanical contrivance, an opening was obtained through the -iron wall, and that through this opening the current of air had found -entrance. But how noiseless! for, had a feather even waved at the time, -he must have heard it. Again he examined that part of the wall; but both -to sight and touch it appeared one even and uniform surface, while, to -repeated and violent blows, there was no reverberating sound indicative -of hollowness. - -This perplexing mystery had for a time withdrawn his thoughts from the -windows; but now, directing his eyes again toward them, he saw that -the fifth had disappeared in the same manner as the preceding two, -without the least distinguishable alteration of external appearances. -The remaining four looked as the seven had originally looked; that is, -occupying at irregular distances the top of the wall on that side of -the dungeon. The tall folding-door, too, still seemed to stand beneath, -in the centre of these four, as it had first stood in the centre of -the seven. But he could no longer doubt what, on the preceding day, -he fancied might be the effect of visual deception. The dungeon _was_ -smaller. The roof had lowered; and the opposite ends had contracted the -intermediate distance by a space equal, he thought, to that over which -the three windows had extended. He was bewildered in vain imaginings to -account for these things. Some frightful purpose, some devilish torture -of mind or body, some unheard-of device for producing exquisite misery, -lurked, he was sure, in what had taken place. - -Oppressed with this belief, and distracted more by the dreadful -uncertainty of whatever fate impended than he could be dismayed, he -thought, by the knowledge of the worst, he sat ruminating, hour after -hour, yielding his fears in succession to every haggard fancy. At last -a horrible suspicion flashed suddenly across his mind, and he started -up with a frantic air. “Yes!” he exclaimed, looking wildly round his -dungeon, and shuddering as he spoke,—“yes! it must be so! I see it! I -feel the maddening truth like scorching flames upon my brain! Eternal -God! support me! it must be so! Yes, yes, _that_ is to be my fate! Yon -roof will descend! these walls will hem me round, and slowly, slowly, -crush me in their iron arms! Lord God! look down upon me, and in mercy -strike me with instant death! O fiend! O devil!—is this your revenge?” - -He dashed himself upon the ground in agony, tears burst from him, and the -sweat stood in large drops upon his face: he sobbed aloud, he tore his -hair, he rolled about like one suffering intolerable anguish of body, -and would have bitten the iron floor beneath him; he breathed fearful -curses upon Tolfi, and the next moment passionate prayers to Heaven for -immediate death. Then the violence of his grief became exhausted; and -he lay still, weeping as a child would weep. The twilight of departing -day shed its gloom around him ere he arose from that posture of utter -and hopeless sorrow. He had taken no food. Not one drop of water had -cooled the fever of his parched lips. Sleep had not visited his eyes for -six-and-thirty hours. He was faint with hunger; weary with watching, and -with the excess of his emotions. He tasted of his food; he drank with -avidity of the water, and reeling, like a drunken man, to his straw, cast -himself upon it to brood again over the appalling image that had fastened -itself upon his almost frenzied thoughts. - -He slept; but his slumbers were not tranquil. He resisted, as long as he -could, their approach; and when, at last, enfeebled nature yielded to -their influence, he found no oblivion from his cares. Terrible dreams -haunted him; ghastly visions harrowed up his imagination; he shouted and -screamed, as if he already felt the dungeon’s ponderous roof descending -on him; he breathed hard and thick, as though writhing between its iron -walls. Then would he spring up, stare wildly about him, stretch forth -his hands to be sure he yet had space enough to live, and, muttering -some incoherent words, sink down again, to pass through the same fierce -vicissitudes of delirious sleep. - -The morning of the fourth day dawned upon Vivenzio; but it was high noon -before his mind shook off its stupor, or he awoke to a full consciousness -of his situation. And what a fixed energy of despair sat upon his pale -features as he cast his eyes upwards, and gazed upon the THREE windows -that now alone remained! The three!—there were no more! and they seemed -to number his own allotted days. Slowly and calmly he next surveyed the -top and sides, and comprehended all the meaning of the diminished height -of the former, as well as of the gradual approximation of the latter. The -contracted dimensions of his mysterious prison were now too gross and -palpable to be the juggle of his heated imagination. - -Still lost in wonder at the means, Vivenzio could put no cheat upon his -reason as to the end. By what horrible ingenuity it was contrived, that -walls and roofs and windows should thus silently and imperceptibly, -without noise and without motion, almost fold, as it were, within each -other, he knew not. He only knew they did so; and he vainly strove to -persuade himself it was the intention of the contriver to rack the -miserable wretch who might be immured there with anticipation merely of a -fate from which, in the very crisis of his agony, he was to be reprieved. - -Gladly would he have clung even to this possibility, if his heart would -have let him; but he felt a dreadful assurance of its fallacy. And what -matchless inhumanity it was to doom the sufferer to such lingering -torments; to lead him day by day to so appalling a death, unsupported by -the consolations of religion, unvisited by any human being, abandoned to -himself, deserted of all, and denied even the sad privilege of knowing -that his cruel destiny would awaken pity! Alone he was to perish! Alone -he was to wait a slow-coming torture, whose most exquisite pangs would be -inflicted by that very solitude and that tardy coming. - -“It is not death I fear,” he exclaimed, “but the death I must prepare -for! Methinks, too, I could meet even that, all horrible and revolting -as it is,—if it might overtake me now. But where shall I find fortitude -to tarry till it come? How can I outlive the three long days and nights -I have to live? There is no power within me to bid the hideous spectre -hence; none to make it familiar to my thoughts, or myself patient of -its errand. My thoughts rather will flee from me, and I grow mad in -looking at it. Oh! for a deep sleep to fall upon me! That so, in death’s -likeness, I might embrace death itself, and drink no more of the cup that -is presented to me than my fainting spirit has already tasted!” - -In the midst of these lamentations, Vivenzio noticed that his accustomed -meal, with the pitcher of water, had been conveyed, as before, into his -dungeon. But this circumstance no longer excited his surprise. His mind -was overwhelmed with others of a far greater magnitude. It suggested, -however, a feeble hope of deliverance; and there is no hope so feeble as -not to yield some support to a heart bending under despair. He resolved -to watch, during the ensuing night, for the signs he had before observed, -and, should he again feel the gentle, tremulous motion of the floor, or -the current of air, to seize that moment for giving audible expression to -his misery. Some person must be near him, and within reach of his voice, -at the instant when his food was supplied; some one, perhaps, susceptible -of pity. Or, if not, to be told even that his apprehensions were just, -and that his fate _was_ to be what he foreboded, would be preferable -to a suspense which hung upon the possibility of his worst fears being -visionary. - -The night came; and, as the hour approached when Vivenzio imagined he -might expect the signs, he stood fixed and silent as a statue. He feared -to breathe, almost, lest he might lose any sound which would warn him of -their coming. While thus listening, with every faculty of mind and body -strained to an agony of attention, it occurred to him he should be more -sensible of the motion, probably, if he stretched himself along the iron -floor. He accordingly laid himself softly down, and had not been long in -that position when—yes—he was certain of it—the floor moved under him! He -sprang up, and, in a voice suffocated nearly with emotion, called aloud. -He paused—the motion ceased—he felt no stream of air—all was hushed—no -voice answered to his—he burst into tears; and, as he sunk to the ground, -in renewed anguish, exclaimed, “O my God! my God! You alone have power to -save me now, or strengthen me for the trial you permit.” - -Another morning dawned upon the wretched captive, and the fatal index of -his doom met his eyes. TWO windows!—and _two_ days—and all would be over! -Fresh food—fresh water! The mysterious visit had been paid, though he -had implored it in vain. But how awfully was his prayer answered in what -he now saw! The roof of the dungeon was within a foot of his head. The -two ends were so near that in six paces he trod the space between them. -Vivenzio shuddered as he gazed, and as his steps traversed the narrow -area; but his feelings no longer vented themselves in frantic wailings. -With folded arms, and clenched teeth; with eyes that were bloodshot from -much watching, and fixed with a vacant glare upon the ground; with a -hard, quick breathing, and a hurried walk,—he strode backward and forward -in silent musing for several hours. What mind shall conceive, what tongue -utter, or what pen describe, the dark and terrible character of his -thoughts? Like the fate that moulded them, they had no similitude in -the wide range of this world’s agony for man. Suddenly he stopped, and -his eyes were riveted upon that part of the wall which was over his bed -of straw. Words are inscribed there! A human language, traced by a human -hand! He rushes toward them; but his blood freezes as he reads,— - -“I, Ludovico Sforza, tempted by the gold of the Prince of Tolfi, spent -three years in contriving and executing this accursed triumph of my -art. When it was completed, the perfidious Tolfi, more devil than man, -who conducted me hither one morning to be witness, as he said, of its -perfection, doomed _me_ to be the first victim of my own pernicious -skill; lest, as he declared, I should divulge the secret, or repeat the -effort of my ingenuity. May God pardon him, as I hope he will me, that -ministered to his unhallowed purpose. Miserable wretch, whoe’er thou art, -that readest these lines, fall on thy knees, and invoke, as I have done, -His sustaining mercy who alone can nerve thee to meet the vengeance of -Tolfi, armed with his tremendous engine which, in a few hours, must crush -_you_, as it will the needy wretch who made it.” - -A deep groan burst from Vivenzio. He stood, like one transfixed, with -dilated eyes, expanded nostrils, and quivering lips, gazing at this fatal -inscription. It was as if a voice from the sepulchre had sounded in his -ears, “Prepare.” Hope forsook him. There was his sentence, recorded in -those dismal words. The future stood unveiled before him, ghastly and -appalling. His brain already feels the descending horror; his bones -seem to crack and crumble in the mighty grasp of the iron walls! -Unknowing what it is he does, he fumbles in his garment for some weapon -of self-destruction. He clenches his throat in his convulsive gripe, -as though he would strangle himself at once. He stares upon the walls; -and his warring spirit demands, “Will they not anticipate their office -if I dash my head against them?” An hysterical laugh chokes him as he -exclaims, “Why should I? He was but a man who died first in their fierce -embrace; and I should be less than man not to do as much!” - -The evening sun was descending, and Vivenzio beheld its golden beams -streaming through one of the windows. What a thrill of joy shot through -his soul at the sight! It was a precious link that united him, for the -moment, with the world beyond. There was ecstasy in the thought. - -As he gazed, long and earnestly, it seemed as if the windows had lowered -sufficiently for him to reach them. With one bound, he was beneath them; -with one wild spring, he clung to the bars. Whether it was so contrived, -purposely to madden with delight the wretch who looked, he knew not; but, -at the extremity of a long vista cut through the solid rocks, the ocean, -the sky, the setting sun, olive groves, shady walks, and, in the farthest -distance, delicious glimpses of magnificent Sicily, burst upon his sight. -How exquisite was the cool breeze as it swept across his cheek, loaded -with fragrance! He inhaled it as though it were the breath of continued -life. And there was a freshness in the landscape, and in the rippling of -the calm, green sea, that fell upon his withering heart like dew upon the -parched earth. How he gazed, and panted, and still clung to his hold! -sometimes hanging by one hand, sometimes by the other, and then grasping -the bars with both, as loath to quit the smiling paradise outstretched -before him; till, exhausted, and his hands swollen and benumbed, he -dropped helpless down, and lay stunned for a considerable time by the -fall. - -When he recovered, the glorious vision had vanished. He was in darkness. -He doubted whether it was not a dream that had passed before his sleeping -fancy; but gradually his scattered thoughts returned, and with them came -remembrance. Yes! he had looked once again upon the gorgeous splendor -of nature! Once again his eyes had trembled beneath their veiled lids -at the sun’s radiance, and sought repose in the soft verdure of the -olive-tree or the gentle swell of undulating waves. O that he were a -mariner, exposed upon those waves to the worst fury of storm and tempest, -or a very wretch, loathsome with disease, plague-stricken, and his body -one leprous contagion from crown to sole, hunted forth to gasp out the -remnant of infectious life beneath those verdant trees, so he might shun -the destiny upon whose edge he tottered! - -Vain thoughts like these would steal over his mind from time to time, in -spite of himself; but they scarcely moved it from that stupor into which -it had sunk, and which kept him, during the whole night, like one who -had been drugged with opium. He was equally insensible to the calls of -hunger and of thirst, though the third day was now commencing since even -a drop of water had passed his lips. He remained on the ground, sometimes -sitting, sometimes lying; at intervals sleeping heavily, and, when not -sleeping, silently brooding over what was to come, or talking aloud, in -disordered speech, of his wrongs, of his friends, of his home, and of -those he loved, with a confused mingling of all. - -In this pitiable condition, the sixth and last morning dawned upon -Vivenzio, if dawn it might be called,—the dim, obscure light which -faintly struggled through the ONE SOLITARY window of his dungeon. He -could hardly be said to notice the melancholy token. And yet he did -notice it; for, as he raised his eyes and saw the portentous sign, -there was a slight convulsive distortion of his countenance. But what -did attract his notice, and at the sight of which his agitation was -excessive, was the change the iron bed had undergone. It was a bed no -longer. It stood before him, the visible semblance of a funeral couch or -bier! When he beheld this, he started from the ground; and, in raising -himself, suddenly struck his head against the roof, which was now so low -that he could no longer stand upright. “God’s will be done!” was all he -said, as he crouched his body, and placed his hand upon the bier; for -such it was. The iron bedstead had been so contrived, by the mechanical -art of Ludovico Sforza, that, as the advancing walls came in contact -with its head and feet, a pressure was produced upon concealed springs, -which, when made to play, set in motion a very simple though ingeniously -contrived machinery that effected the transformation. The object was, of -course, to heighten, in the closing scene of this horrible drama, all the -feelings of despair and anguish which the preceding one had aroused. For -the same reason, the last window was so made as to admit only a shadowy -kind of gloom rather than light, that the wretched captive might be -surrounded, as it were, with every seeming preparation for approaching -death. - -Vivenzio seated himself on his bier. Then he knelt and prayed fervently; -and sometimes tears would gush from him. The air seemed thick, and he -breathed with difficulty; or it might be that he fancied it was so, from -the hot and narrow limits of his dungeon, which were now so diminished -that he could neither stand up nor lie down at his full length. But his -wasted spirits and oppressed mind no longer struggled with him. He was -past hope, and fear shook him no more. Happy if thus revenge had struck -its final blow; for he would have fallen beneath it almost unconscious of -a pang. But such a lethargy of the soul, after such an excitement of its -fiercest passions, had entered into the diabolical calculations of Tolfi; -and the fell artificer of his designs had imagined a counteracting device. - -The tolling of an enormous bell struck upon the ears of Vivenzio! He -started. It beat but once. The sound was so close and stunning that it -seemed to shatter his very brain, while it echoed through the rocky -passages like reverberating peals of thunder. This was followed by a -sudden crash of the roof and walls, as if they were about to fall upon -and close around him at once. Vivenzio screamed, and instinctively spread -forth his arms, as though he had a giant’s strength to hold them back. -They had moved nearer to him, and were now motionless. Vivenzio looked -up, and saw the roof almost touching his head, even as he sat cowering -beneath it; and he felt that a further contraction of but a few inches -only must commence the frightful operation. Roused as he had been, he now -gasped for breath. His body shook violently; he was bent nearly double. -His hands rested upon either wall, and his feet were drawn under him to -avoid the pressure in front. Thus he remained for more than an hour, -when that deafening bell beat again, and again came the crash of horrid -death. But the concussion was now so great that it struck Vivenzio down. -As he lay gathered up in lessened bulk, the bell beat loud and frequent; -crash succeeded crash; and on and on and on came the mysterious engine -of death, till Vivenzio’s smothered groans were heard no more. He was -horribly crushed by the ponderous roof and collapsing sides; and the -flattened bier was his iron shroud. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE BELL-TOWER. - -BY HERMAN MELVILLE. - - -In the South of Europe, nigh a once frescoed capital, now with dank mould -cankering its bloom, central in a plain, stands what, at distance, seems -the black mossed stump of some immeasurable pine, fallen, in forgotten -days, with Anak and the Titan. - -As all along where the pine-tree falls its dissolution leaves a mossy -mound,—last-flung shadow of the perished trunk, never lengthening, never -lessening, unsubject to the fleet falsities of the sun, shade immutable, -and true gauge which cometh by prostration,—so westward from what seems -the stump, one steadfast spear of lichened ruin veins the plain. - -From that tree-top, what birded chimes of silver throats had rung. A -stone pine; a metallic aviary in its crown: the Bell-Tower, built by the -great mechanician, the unblessed foundling, Bannadonna. - -Like Babel’s, its base was laid in a high hour of renovated earth, -following the second deluge, when the waters of the Dark Ages had dried -up, and once more the green appeared. No wonder that, after so long and -deep submersion, the jubilant expectation of the race should, as with -Noah’s sons, soar into Shinar aspiration. - -In firm resolve, no man in Europe at that period went beyond Bannadonna. -Enriched through commerce with the Levant, the state in which he lived -voted to have the noblest bell-tower in Italy. His repute assigned him to -be architect. - -Stone by stone, month by month, the tower rose. Higher, higher; -snail-like in pace, but torch or rocket in its pride. - -After the masons would depart, the builder, standing alone upon its -ever-ascending summit, at close of every day, saw that he overtopped -still higher walls and trees. He would tarry till a late hour there, -wrapped in schemes of other and still loftier piles. Those who of saints’ -days thronged the spot,—hanging to the rude poles of scaffolding, like -sailors on yards or bees on boughs, unmindful of lime and dust and -falling chips of stone,—their homage not the less inspirited him to -self-esteem. - -At length the holiday of the Tower came. To the sound of viols, the -climax-stone slowly rose in air, and, amid the firing of ordnance, was -laid by Bannadonna’s hands upon the final course. Then mounting it, he -stood erect, alone, with folded arms, gazing upon the white summits of -blue inland Alps, and whiter crests of bluer Alps off-shore,—sights -invisible from the plain. Invisible, too, from thence was that eye he -turned below, when, like the cannon-booms, came up to him the people’s -combustions of applause. - -That which stirred them so was, seeing with what serenity the builder -stood three hundred feet in air, upon an unrailed perch. This none but he -durst do. But his periodic standing upon the pile, in each stage of its -growth,—such discipline had its last result. - -Little remained now but the bells. These, in all respects, must -correspond with their receptacle. - -The minor ones were prosperously cast. A highly enriched one followed, -of a singular make, intended for suspension in a manner before unknown. -The purpose of this bell, its rotary motion, and connection with the -clock-work, also executed at the time, will, in the sequel, receive -mention. - -In the one erection, bell-tower and clock-tower were united, though -before that period such structures had commonly been built distinct; as -the Campanile and Torre dell’ Orologio of St. Mark to this day attest. - -But it was upon the great state-bell that the founder lavished his -more daring skill. In vain did some of the less elated magistrates -here caution him, saying that, though truly the tower was Titanic, yet -limit should be set to the dependent weight of its swaying masses. But -undeterred he prepared his mammoth mould, dented with mythological -devices; kindled his fires of balsamic firs; melted his tin and copper, -and, throwing in much plate contributed by the public spirit of the -nobles, let loose the tide. - -The unleashed metals bayed like hounds. The workmen shrunk. Through -their fright, fatal harm to the bell was dreaded. Fearless as Shadrach, -Bannadonna, rushing through the glow, smote the chief culprit with his -ponderous ladle. From the smitten part a splinter was dashed into the -seething mass, and at once was melted in. - -Next day a portion of the work was heedfully uncovered. All seemed right. -Upon the third morning, with equal satisfaction, it was bared still -lower. At length, like some old Theban king, the whole cooled casting was -disinterred. All was fair except in one strange spot. But as he suffered -no one to attend him in these inspections, he concealed the blemish by -some preparation which none knew better to devise. - -The casting of such a mass was deemed no small triumph for the caster; -one, too, in which the state might not scorn to share. The homicide -was overlooked. By the charitable that deed was but imputed to sudden -transports of æsthetic passion, not to any flagitious quality,—a kick -from an Arabian charger; not sign of vice, but blood. His felony remitted -by the judge, absolution given him by the priest, what more could even a -sickly conscience have desired? - -Honoring the tower and its builder with another holiday, the republic -witnessed the hoisting of the bells and clock-work amid shows and pomps -superior to the former. - -Some months of more than usual solitude on Bannadonna’s part ensued. -It was not unknown that he was engaged upon something for the belfry, -intended to complete it, and to surpass all that had gone before. Most -people imagined that the design would involve a casting like the bells. -But those who thought they had some further insight would shake their -heads, with hints that not for nothing did the mechanician keep so -secret. Meantime, his seclusion failed not to invest his work with more -or less of that sort of mystery pertaining to the forbidden. - -Erelong he had a heavy object hoisted to the belfry, wrapped in a dark -sack or cloak,—a procedure sometimes had in the case of an elaborate -piece of sculpture or statue, which, being intended to grace the front of -a new edifice, the architect does not desire exposed to critical eyes, -till set up, finished, in its appointed place. Such was the impression -now. But, as the object rose, a statuary present observed, or thought he -did, that it was not entirely rigid, but was, in a manner, pliant. At -last, when the hidden thing had attained its final height, and, obscurely -seen from below, seemed almost of itself to step into the belfry as if -with little assistance from the crane, a shrewd old blacksmith present -ventured the suspicion that it was but a living man. This surmise was -thought a foolish one, while the general interest failed not to augment. - -Not without demur from Bannadonna, the chief magistrate of the town, with -an associate,—both elderly men,—followed what seemed the image up the -tower. But, arrived at the belfry, they had little recompense. Plausibly -intrenching himself behind the conceded mysteries of his art, the -mechanician withheld present explanation. The magistrates glanced toward -the cloaked object, which, to their surprise, seemed now to have changed -its attitude, or else had before been more perplexingly concealed by the -violent muffling action of the wind without. It seemed now seated upon -some sort of frame or chair contained within the domino. They observed -that nigh the top, in a sort of square, the web of the cloth, either -from accident or from design, had its warp partly withdrawn, and the -cross-threads plucked out here and there, so as to form a sort of woven -grating. Whether it were the low wind or no, stealing through the stone -lattice-work, or only their own perturbed imaginations, is uncertain, but -they thought they discerned a slight sort of fitful, spring-like motion, -in the domino. Nothing, however incidental or insignificant, escaped -their uneasy eyes. Among other things, they pried out, in a corner, an -earthen cup, partly corroded and partly incrusted, and one whispered to -the other that this cup was just such a one as might, in mockery, be -offered to the lips of some brazen statue, or, perhaps, still worse. - -But, being questioned, the mechanician said that the cup was simply used -in his founder’s business, and described the purpose; in short, a cup to -test the condition of metals in fusion. He added that it had got into the -belfry by the merest chance. - -Again and again they gazed at the domino, as at some suspicious incognito -at a Venetian mask. All sorts of vague apprehensions stirred them. They -even dreaded lest, when they should descend, the mechanician, though -without a flesh-and-blood companion, for all that, would not be left -alone. - -Affecting some merriment at their disquietude, he begged to relieve them, -by extending a coarse sheet of workman’s canvas between them and the -object. - -Meantime he sought to interest them in his other work; nor, now that the -domino was out of sight, did they long remain insensible to the artistic -wonders lying round them; wonders hitherto beheld but in their unfinished -state; because, since hoisting the bells, none but the caster had entered -within the belfry. It was one trait of his that, even in details, he -would not let another do what he could, without too great loss of time, -accomplish for himself. So, for several preceding weeks, whatever hours -were unemployed in his secret design, had been devoted to elaborating the -figures on the bells. - -The clock-bell, in particular, now drew attention. Under a patient -chisel, the latent beauty of its enrichments, before obscured by the -cloudings incident to casting, that beauty in its shiest grace, was -now revealed. Round and round the bell, twelve figures of gay girls, -garlanded, hand-in-hand, danced in a choral ring,—the embodied hours. - -“Bannadonna,” said the chief, “this bell excels all else. No added touch -could here improve. Hark!” hearing a sound, “was that the wind?” - -“The wind, Eccellenza,” was the light response. “But the figures, they -are not yet without their faults. They need some touches yet. When those -are given, and the—block yonder,” pointing toward the canvas screen, -“when Haman there, as I merrily call him,—him? _it_, I mean,—when Haman -is fixed on this, his lofty tree, then, gentlemen, shall I be most happy -to receive you here again.” - -The equivocal reference to the object caused some return of restlessness. -However, on their part, the visitors forbore further allusion to it, -unwilling, perhaps, to let the foundling see how easily it lay within -his plebeian art to stir the placid dignity of nobles. - -“Well, Bannadonna,” said the chief, “how long ere you are ready to set -the clock going, so that the hour shall be sounded? Our interest in you, -not less than in the work itself, makes us anxious to be assured of your -success. The people, too,—why, they are shouting now. Say the exact hour -when you will be ready.” - -“To-morrow, Eccellenza, if you listen for it,—or should you not, all the -same,—strange music will be heard. The stroke of one shall be the first -from yonder bell,” pointing to the bell adorned with girls and garlands; -“that stroke shall fall there, where the hand of Una clasps Dua’s. The -stroke of one shall sever that loved clasp. To-morrow, then, at one -o’clock, as struck here, precisely here,” advancing and placing his -finger upon the clasp, “the poor mechanic will be most happy once more to -give you liege audience, in this his littered shop. Farewell till then, -illustrious magnificoes, and hark ye for your vassal’s stroke.” - -His still, Vulcanic face hiding its burning brightness like a forge, -he moved with ostentatious deference toward the scuttle, as if so far -to escort their exit. But the junior magistrate, a kind-hearted man, -troubled at what seemed to him a certain sardonical disdain, lurking -beneath the foundling’s humble mien, and in Christian sympathy more -distressed at it on his account than on his own, dimly surmising -what might be the final fate of such a cynic solitaire, nor perhaps -uninfluenced by the general strangeness of surrounding things,—this good -magistrate had glanced sadly, sidewise from the speaker, and thereupon -his foreboding eye had started at the expression of the unchanging face -of the hour Una. - -“How is this, Bannadonna?” he lowly asked, “Una looks unlike her sisters.” - -“In Christ’s name, Bannadonna,” impulsively broke in the chief, his -attention for the first time attracted to the figure by his associate’s -remark, “Una’s face looks just like that of Deborah, the prophetess, as -painted by the Florentine, Del Fonca.” - -“Surely, Bannadonna,” lowly resumed the milder magistrate, “you meant the -twelve should wear the same jocundly abandoned air. But see, the smile of -Una seems but a fatal one. ’Tis different.” - -While his mild associate was speaking, the chief glanced, inquiringly, -from him to the caster, as if anxious to mark how the discrepancy would -be accounted for. As the chief stood, his advanced foot was on the -scuttle’s curb. Bannadonna spoke:— - -“Eccellenza, now that, following your keener eye, I glance upon the face -of Una, I do, indeed, perceive some little variance. But look all round -the bell, and you will find no two faces entirely correspond. Because -there is a law in art—But the cold wind is rising more; these lattices -are but a poor defence. Suffer me, magnificoes, to conduct you at least -partly on your way. Those in whose well-being there is a public stake -should be heedfully attended.” - -“Touching the look of Una, you were saying, Bannadonna, that there was a -certain law in art,” observed the chief, as the three now descended the -stone shaft, “pray, tell me, then—” - -“Pardon—another time, Eccellenza; the tower is damp.” - -“Nay, I must rest, and hear it now. Here,—here is a wide landing, and -through this leeward slit no wind, but ample light. Tell us of your law, -and at large.” - -“Since, Eccellenza, you insist, know that there is a law in art, which -bars the possibility of duplicates. Some years ago, you may remember, I -graved a small seal for your republic, bearing, for its chief device, -the head of your own ancestor, its illustrious founder. It becoming -necessary, for the customs’ use, to have innumerable impressions for -bales and boxes, I graved an entire plate, containing one hundred of -the seals. Now, though, indeed, my object was to have those hundred -heads identical, and though, I dare say, people think them so, yet, upon -closely scanning an uncut impression from the plate, no two of those -five-score faces, side by side, will be found alike. Gravity is the air -of all; but diversified in all. In some, benevolent; in some, ambiguous; -in two or three, to a close scrutiny, all but incipiently malign, the -variation of less than a hair’s breadth in the linear shadings round the -mouth sufficing to all this. Now, Eccellenza, transmute that general -gravity into joyousness, and subject it to twelve of those variations I -have described, and tell me, will you not have my hours here, and Una one -of them? But I like—” - -“Hark! is that—a footfall above?” - -“Mortar, Eccellenza; sometimes it drops to the belfry-floor from the arch -where the stonework was left undressed. I must have it seen to. As I was -about to say: for one, I like this law forbidding duplicates. It evokes -fine personalities. Yes, Eccellenza, that strange and—to you—uncertain -smile, and those fore-looking eyes of Una, suit Bannadonna very well.” - -“Hark!—sure, we left no soul above?” - -“No soul, Eccellenza; rest assured, no _soul_. Again the mortar.” - -“It fell not while we were there.” - -“Ah, in your presence, it better knew its place, Eccellenza,” blandly -bowed Bannadonna. - -“But Una,” said the milder magistrate, “she seemed intently gazing on -you; one would have almost sworn that she picked you out from among us -three.” - -“If she did, possibly it might have been her finer apprehension, -Eccellenza.” - -“How, Bannadonna? I do not understand you.” - -“No consequence, no consequence, Eccellenza: but the shifted wind is -blowing through the slit. Suffer me to escort you on; and then, pardon, -but the toiler must to his tools.” - -“It may be foolish, Signor,” said the milder magistrate, as, from the -third landing, the two now went down unescorted, “but, somehow, our great -mechanician moves me strangely. Why, just now, when he so superciliously -replied, his walk seemed Sisera’s, God’s vain foe, in Del Fonca’s -painting. And that young, sculptured Deborah, too. Ay, and that—” - -“Tush, tush, Signor!” returned the chief. “A passing whim. -Deborah?—Where’s Jael, pray?” - -“Ah,” said the other, as they now stepped upon the sod,—“ah, Signor, I -see you leave your fears behind you with the chill and gloom; but mine, -even in this sunny air, remain. Hark!” - -It was a sound from just within the tower door, whence they had emerged. -Turning, they saw it closed. - -“He has slipped down and barred us out,” smiled the chief; “but it is his -custom.” - -Proclamation was now made that the next day, at one hour after meridian, -the clock would strike, and—thanks to the mechanician’s powerful art—with -unusual accompaniments. But what those should be, none as yet could say. -The announcement was received with cheers. - -By the looser sort, who encamped about the tower all night, lights -were seen gleaming through the topmost blind-work, only disappearing -with the morning sun. Strange sounds, too, were heard, or were thought -to be, by those whom anxious watching might not have left mentally -undisturbed,—sounds, not only of some ringing implement, but also—so they -said—half-suppressed screams and plainings, such as might have issued -from some ghostly engine overplied. - -Slowly the day drew on; part of the concourse chasing the weary time with -songs and games, till, at last, the great blurred sun rolled, like a -football, against the plain. - -At noon, the nobility and principal citizens came from the town in -cavalcade, a guard of soldiers, also, with music, the more to honor the -occasion. - -Only one hour more. Impatience grew. Watches were held in hands of -feverish men, who stood, now scrutinizing their small dial-plates, and -then, with neck thrown back, gazing toward the belfry, as if the eye -might foretell that which could only be made sensible to the ear; for, -as yet, there was no dial to the tower-clock. - -The hour-hands of a thousand watches now verged within a hair’s breadth -of the figure 1. A silence, as of the expectation of some Shiloh, -pervaded the swarming plain. Suddenly a dull, mangled sound,—naught -ringing in it; scarcely audible, indeed, to the outer circles of the -people,—that dull sound dropped heavily from the belfry. At the same -moment, each man stared at his neighbor blankly. All watches were upheld. -All hour-hands were at—had passed—the figure 1. No bell-stroke from the -tower. The multitude became tumultuous. - -Waiting a few moments, the chief magistrate, commanding silence, hailed -the belfry, to know what thing unforeseen had happened there. - -No response. - -He hailed again and yet again. - -All continued hushed. - -By his order, the soldiers burst in the tower-door, when, stationing -guards to defend it from the now surging mob, the chief, accompanied -by his former associate, climbed the winding stairs. Half-way up, they -stopped to listen. No sound. Mounting faster, they reached the belfry, -but, at the threshold, started at the spectacle disclosed. A spaniel, -which, unbeknown to them, had followed them thus far, stood shivering -as before some unknown monster in a brake; or, rather, as if it snuffed -footsteps leading to some other world. - -Bannadonna lay, prostrate and bleeding, at the base of the bell which was -adorned with girls and garlands. He lay at the feet of the hour Una; his -head coinciding, in a vertical line, with her left hand, clasped by the -hour Dua. With downcast face impending over him, like Jael over nailed -Sisera in the tent, was the domino; now no more becloaked. - -It had limbs, and seemed clad in a scaly mail, lustrous as a -dragon-beetle’s. It was manacled, and its clubbed arms were uplifted, as -if, with its manacles, once more to smite its already smitten victim. One -advanced foot of it was inserted beneath the dead body, as if in the act -of spurning it. - -Uncertainty falls on what now followed. - -It were but natural to suppose that the magistrates would, at first, -shrink from immediate personal contact with what they saw. At the least, -for a time, they would stand in involuntary doubt; it may be, in more or -less of horrified alarm. Certain it is, that an arquebuse was called for -from below. And some add that its report, followed by a fierce whiz, as -of the sudden snapping of a main-spring, with a steely din, as if a stack -of sword-blades should be dashed upon a pavement,—these blended sounds -came ringing to the plain, attracting every eye far upward to the belfry, -whence, through the lattice-work, thin wreaths of smoke were curling. - -Some averred that it was the spaniel, gone mad by fear, which was shot. -This, others denied. True, it was, the spaniel never more was seen; and, -probably, for some unknown reason, it shared the burial now to be related -of the domino. For, whatever the preceding circumstances may have been, -the first instinctive panic over, or else all ground of reasonable fear -removed, the two magistrates, by themselves, quickly re-hooded the -figure in the dropped cloak wherein it had been hoisted. The same night, -it was secretly lowered to the ground, smuggled to the beach, pulled far -out to sea, and sunk. Nor to any after urgency, even in free convivial -hours, would the twain ever disclose the full secrets of the belfry. - -From the mystery unavoidably investing it, the popular solution of the -foundling’s fate involved more or less of supernatural agency. But some -few less unscientific minds pretended to find little difficulty in -otherwise accounting for it. In the chain of circumstantial inferences -drawn, there may or may not have been some absent or defective links. -But, as the explanation in question is the only one which tradition has -explicitly preserved, in dearth of better, it will here be given. But, in -the first place, it is requisite to present the supposition entertained -as to the entire motive and mode, with their origin, of the secret design -of Bannadonna; the minds above mentioned assuming to penetrate as well -into his soul as into the event. The disclosure will indirectly involve -reference to peculiar matters, none of the clearest, beyond the immediate -subject. - -At that period, no large bell was made to sound otherwise than as -at present,—by agitation of a tongue within, by means of ropes, or -percussion from without, either from cumbrous machinery, or stalwart -watchmen, armed with heavy hammers, stationed in the belfry, or in -sentry-boxes on the open roof, according as the bell was sheltered or -exposed. - -It was from observing these exposed bells, with their watchmen, that the -foundling, as was opined, derived the first suggestion of his scheme. -Perched on a great mast or spire, the human figure viewed from below -undergoes such a reduction in its apparent size as to obliterate its -intelligent features. It evinces no personality. Instead of bespeaking -volition, its gestures rather resemble the automatic ones of the arms of -a telegraph. - -Musing, therefore, upon the purely Punchinello aspect of the human -figure thus beheld, it had indirectly occurred to Bannadonna to devise -some metallic agent, which should strike the hour with its mechanic -hand, with even greater precision than the vital one. And, moreover, -as the vital watchman on the roof, sallying from his retreat at the -given periods, walked to the bell with uplifted mace to smite it, -Bannadonna had resolved that his invention should likewise possess the -power of locomotion, and, along with that, the appearance, at least, of -intelligence and will. - -If the conjectures of those who claimed acquaintance with the intent -of Bannadonna be thus far correct, no unenterprising spirit could have -been his. But they stopped not here; intimating that though, indeed, -his design had, in the first place, been prompted by the sight of the -watchman, and confined to the devising of a subtle substitute for -him, yet, as is not seldom the case with projectors, by insensible -gradations, proceeding from comparatively pygmy aims to Titanic ones, -the original scheme had, in its anticipated eventualities, at last -attained to an unheard-of degree of daring. He still bent his efforts -upon the locomotive figure for the belfry, but only as a partial type of -an ulterior creature, a sort of elephantine Helot, adapted to further, -in a degree scarcely to be imagined, the universal conveniences and -glories of humanity; supplying nothing less than a supplement to the Six -Days’ Work; stocking the earth with a new serf, more useful than the ox, -swifter than the dolphin, stronger than the lion, more cunning than the -ape, for industry an ant, more fiery than serpents, and yet, in patience, -another ass. All excellences of all God-made creatures, which served man, -were here to receive advancement, and then to be combined in one. Talus -was to have been the all-accomplished Helot’s name. Talus, iron slave to -Bannadonna, and, through him, to man. - -Here it might well be thought that, were these last conjectures as to -the foundling’s secrets not erroneous, then must he have been hopelessly -infected with the craziest chimeras of his age, far outgoing Albert Magus -and Cornelius Agrippa. But the contrary was averred. However marvellous -his design, however apparently transcending not alone the bounds of human -invention, but those of divine creation, yet the proposed means to be -employed were alleged to have been confined within the sober forms of -sober reason. It was affirmed that, to a degree of more than sceptic -scorn, Bannadonna had been without sympathy for any of the vainglorious -irrationalities of his time. For example, he had not concluded, with the -visionaries among the metaphysicians, that between the finer mechanic -forces and the ruder animal vitality some germ of correspondence might -prove discoverable. As little did his scheme partake of the enthusiasm -of some natural philosophers, who hoped, by physiological and chemical -inductions, to arrive at a knowledge of the source of life, and so -qualify themselves to manufacture and improve upon it. Much less had he -aught in common with the tribe of alchemists, who sought, by a species -of incantations, to evoke some surprising vitality from the laboratory. -Neither had he imagined, with certain sanguine theosophists, that, by -faithful adoration of the Highest, unheard-of powers would be vouchsafed -to man. A practical materialist, what Bannadonna had aimed at was to have -been reached, not by logic, not by crucible, not by conjuration, not by -altars; but by plain vice-bench and hammer. In short, to solve Nature, -to steal into her, to intrigue beyond her, to procure some one else to -bind her to his hand,—these, one and all, had not been his objects; but, -asking no favors from any element or any being, of himself to rival her, -outstrip her, and rule her. He stooped to conquer. With him, common-sense -was theurgy; machinery, miracle; Prometheus, the heroic name for -machinist; man, the true God. - -Nevertheless, in his initial step, so far as the experimental automaton -for the belfry was concerned, he allowed fancy some little play; or, -perhaps, what seemed his fancifulness was but his utilitarian ambition -collaterally extended. In figure, the creature for the belfry should -not be likened after the human pattern, nor any animal one, nor after -the ideals, however wild, of ancient fable, but equally in aspect as in -organism be an original production; the more terrible to behold, the -better. - -Such, then, were the suppositions as to the present scheme, and -the reserved intent. How, at the very threshold, so unlooked-for a -catastrophe overturned all, or rather, what was the conjecture here, is -now to be set forth. - -It was thought that on the day preceding the fatality, his visitors -having left him, Bannadonna had unpacked the belfry image, adjusted it, -and placed it in the retreat provided,—a sort of sentry-box in one corner -of the belfry; in short, throughout the night, and for some part of the -ensuing morning, he had been engaged in arranging everything connected -with the domino: the issuing from the sentry-box each sixty minutes; -sliding along a grooved way, like a railway; advancing to the clock-bell, -with uplifted manacles; striking it at one of the twelve junctions of the -four-and-twenty hands; then wheeling, circling the bell, and retiring to -its post, there to bide for another sixty minutes, when the same process -was to be repeated; the bell, by a cunning mechanism, meantime turning on -its vertical axis, so as to present, to the descending mace, the clasped -hands of the next two figures, when it would strike two, three, and so -on, to the end. The musical metal in this time-bell was so managed in -the fusion, by some art, perishing with its originator, that each of the -clasps of the four-and-twenty hands should give forth its own peculiar -resonance when parted. - -But on the magic metal, the magic and metallic stranger never struck but -that one stroke, drove but that one nail, severed but that one clasp, -by which Bannadonna clung to his ambitious life. For, after winding up -the creature in the sentry-box, so that, for the present, skipping the -intervening hours, it should not emerge till the hour of one, but should -then infallibly emerge, and, after deftly oiling the grooves whereon it -was to slide, it was surmised that the mechanician must then have hurried -to the bell, to give his final touches to its sculpture. True artist, he -here became absorbed,—an absorption still further intensified, it may be, -by his striving to abate that strange look of Una; which, though before -others he had treated it with such unconcern, might not, in secret, have -been without its thorn. - -And so, for the interval, he was oblivious of his creature; which, not -oblivious of him, and true to its creation, and true to its heedful -winding up, left its post precisely at the given moment; along its -well-oiled route, slid noiselessly toward its mark; and, aiming at the -hand of Una, to ring one clangorous note, dully smote the intervening -brain of Bannadonna, turned backward to it; the manacled arms then -instantly upspringing to their hovering poise. The falling body clogged -the thing’s return; so there it stood, still impending over Bannadonna, -as if whispering some post-mortem terror. The chisel lay dropped from the -hand, but beside the hand; the oil-flask spilled across the iron track. - -In his unhappy end, not unmindful of the rare genius of the mechanician, -the republic decreed him a stately funeral. It was resolved that the -great bell—the one whose casting had been jeopardized through the -timidity of the ill-starred workman—should be rung upon the entrance of -the bier into the cathedral. The most robust man of the country round was -assigned the office of bell-ringer. - -But as the pall-bearers entered the cathedral porch, naught but a broken -and disastrous sound, like that of some lone Alpine land-slide, fell -from the tower upon their ears. And then, all was hushed. - -Glancing backward, they saw the groined belfry crushed sidewise in. It -afterward appeared that the powerful peasant who had the bell-rope in -charge, wishing to test at once the full glory of the bell, had swayed -down upon the rope with one concentrate jerk. The mass of quaking metal, -too ponderous for its frame, and strangely feeble somewhere at its top, -loosed from its fastening, tore sidewise down, and tumbling in one sheer -fall, three hundred feet to the soft sward below, buried itself inverted -and half out of sight. - -Upon its disinterment, the main fracture was found to have started -from a small spot in the ear; which, being scraped, revealed a defect, -deceptively minute, in the casting; which defect must subsequently have -been pasted over with some unknown compound. - -The re-molten metal soon reassumed its place in the tower’s repaired -superstructure. For one year the metallic choir of birds sang musically -in its belfry-boughwork of sculptured blinds and traceries. But on the -first anniversary of the tower’s completion,—at early dawn, before the -concourse had surrounded it,—an earthquake came; one loud crash was -heard. The stone-pine, with all its bower of songsters, lay overthrown -upon the plain. - -So the blind slave obeyed its blinder lord; but, in obedience, slew him. -So the creator was killed by the creature. So the bell was too heavy for -the tower. So the bell’s main weakness was where man’s blood had flawed -it. And so pride went before the fall. - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE KATHAYAN SLAVE. - -BY EMILY C. JUDSON. - - -At the commencement of the English and Burmese war of 1824, all the -Christians (called “hat-wearers,” in contradistinction from the turbaned -heads of the Orientals) residing at Ava were thrown unceremoniously into -the death-prison. Among them were both Protestant and Roman Catholic -missionaries; some few reputable European traders; and criminals shadowed -from the laws of Christendom “under the sole of the golden foot.” These, -Americans, English, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, and Armenian, were -all huddled together in one prison, with villains of every grade,—the -thief, the assassin, the bandit, or all three in one; constituting, in -connection with countless other crimes, a blacker character than the -inhabitant of a civilized land can picture. Sometimes stript of their -clothing, sometimes nearly starved, loaded with heavy irons, thrust -into a hot, filthy, noisome apartment, with criminals for companions -and criminals for guards, compelled to see the daily torture, to hear -the shriek of anguish from writhing victims, with death, death in some -terribly detestable form, always before them, a severer state of -suffering can scarcely be imagined. - -The Burmese had never been known to spare the lives of their -war-captives; and though the little band of foreigners could scarcely be -called prisoners of war, yet this well-known custom, together with their -having been thrust into the death-prison, from which there was no escape, -except by a pardon from the king, cut off nearly every reasonable hope -of rescue. But (quite a new thing in the annals of Burmese history), -although some died from the intensity of their sufferings, no foreigner -was wantonly put to death. Of those who were claimed by the English at -the close of the war, some one or two are yet living, with anklets and -bracelets which they will carry to the grave with them, wrought in their -flesh by the heavy iron. It may well be imagined that these men might -unfold to us scenes of horror, incidents daily occurring under their own -shuddering gaze, in comparison with which the hair-elevating legends of -Ann Radcliff would become simple fairy tales. - -The death-prison at Ava was at that time a single large room, built -of rough boards, without either window or door, and with but a thinly -thatched roof to protect the wretched inmates from the blaze of a -tropical sun. It was entered by slipping aside a single board, which -constituted a sort of sliding-door. Around the prison, inside the yard, -were ranged the huts of the under-jailers, or Children of the Prison, -and outside of the yard, close at hand, that of the head-jailer. These -jailers must necessarily be condemned criminals, with a ring, the sign of -outlawry, traced in the skin of the cheek, and the name of their crime -engraved in the same manner upon the breast. The head-jailer was a tall, -bony man, with sinews of iron; wearing, when speaking, a malicious smirk, -and given at times to a most revolting kind of jocoseness. When silent -and quiet, he had a jaded, careworn look; but it was at the torture -that he was in his proper element. Then his face lighted up,—became -glad, furious, demoniac. His small black eyes glittered like those of -a serpent; his thin lips rolled back, displaying his toothless gums -in front, with a long, protruding tusk on either side, stained black -as ebony; his hollow, ringed cheeks seemed to contract more and more, -and his breast heaved with convulsive delight beneath the fearful word -MAN-KILLER. The prisoners called him _father_, when he was present to -enforce this expression of affectionate familiarity; but among themselves -he was irreverently christened the Tiger-cat. - -One of the most active of the Children of the Prison was a short, -broad-faced man, labelled THIEF, who, as well as the Tiger, had a -peculiar talent in the way of torturing; and so fond was he of the use -of the whip, that he often missed his count, and zealously exceeded the -number of lashes ordered by the city governor. The wife of this man was -a most odious creature, filthy, bold, impudent, cruel, and, like her -husband, delighting in torture. Her face was not only deeply pitted with -smallpox, but so deformed with leprosy, that the white cartilage of the -nose was laid entirely bare; from her large mouth shone rows of irregular -teeth, black as ink; her hair, which was left entirely to the care of -nature, was matted in large black masses about her head; and her manner, -under all this hideous ugliness, was insolent and vicious. They had two -children,—little vipers, well loaded with venom; and by their vexatious -mode of annoyance, trying the tempers of the prisoners more than was in -the power of the mature torturers. - -As will readily be perceived, the security of this prison was not in the -strength of the structure, but in the heavy manacles, and the living -wall. The lives of the jailers depended entirely on their fidelity; -and fidelity involved strict obedience to orders, however ferocious. -As for themselves, they could not escape; they had nowhere to go; -certain death awaited them everywhere, for they bore on cheek and -breast the ineffaceable proof of their outlawry. Their only safety was -at their post; and there was no safety there in humanity, even if it -were possible for such degraded creatures to have a spark of humanity -left. So inclination united with interest to make them what they really -were,—demons. - -The arrival of a new prisoner was an incident calculated to excite but -little interest in the hat-wearers, provided he came in turban and -waistcloth. But one morning there was brought in a young man, speaking -the Burmese brokenly, and with the soft accent of the North, who at -once attracted universal attention. He was tall and erect, with a -mild, handsome face, bearing the impress of inexpressible suffering; a -complexion slightly tinted with the rich brown of the East; a fine, manly -carriage, and a manner which, even there, was both graceful and dignified. - -“Who is he?” was the interpretation of the inquiring glances exchanged -among those who had no liberty to speak; and then eye asked of eye, -“What can he have done?—he, so gentle, so mild, so manly, that even these -wretches, who scarcely know the name of pity and respect, seem to feel -both for him?” There was, in truth, something in the countenance of the -new prisoner which, without asking for sympathy, involuntarily enforced -it. It was not amiability, though his dark, soft, beautiful eye was -full of a noble sweetness; it was not resignation; it was not apathy; -it was hopelessness, deep, utter, immovable, suffering hopelessness. -Very young, and apparently not ambitious or revengeful, what crime could -this interesting stranger have committed to draw down “the golden foot” -with such crushing weight upon his devoted head? He seemed utterly -friendless, and without even the means of obtaining food; for, as the day -advanced, no one came to see him; and the officer who brought him had -left no directions. He did not, however, suffer from this neglect, for -Madam Thief (most wonderful to relate!) actually shared so deeply in the -universal sympathy, as to bring him a small quantity of boiled rice and -water. - -Toward evening, the Woon-bai, a governor, or rather Mayor of the city, -entered the prison, his bold, lion-like face as open and unconcerned as -ever, but with something of unusual bustling in his manner. - -“Where is he?” he cried sternly,—“where is he? this son of Kathay? this -dog, villain, traitor! where is he? Aha! only one pair of irons? Put on -five! do you hear? five!” - -The Woon-bai remained till his orders were executed, and the poor -Kathayan was loaded with five pairs of fetters; and then he went out, -frowning on one and smiling on another; while the Children of the Prison -watched his countenance and manner, as significant of what was expected -of them. The prisoners looked at each other, and shook their heads in -commiseration. - -The next day the feet of the young Kathayan, in obedience to some new -order, were placed in the stocks, which raised them about eighteen inches -from the ground; and the five pairs of fetters were all disposed on -the outer side of the plank, so that their entire weight fell upon the -ankles. The position was so painful that each prisoner, some from memory, -some from sympathetic apprehension, shared in the pain when he looked at -the sufferer. - -During this day, one of the missionaries, who had been honored with an -invitation, which it was never prudent to refuse, to the hut of the -Thief, learned something of the history of the young man, and his crime. -His home, it was told him, was among the rich hills of Kathay, as they -range far northward, where the tropic sun loses the intense fierceness of -his blaze, and makes the atmosphere soft and luxurious, as though it were -mellowing beneath the same amber sky which ripens the fruits, and gives -their glow to the flowers. What had been his rank in his own land, the -jailer’s wife did not know. Perhaps he had been a prince, chief of the -brave band conquered by the superior force of the Burmans; or a hunter -among the spicy groves and deep-wooded jungles, lithe as the tiger which -he pursued from lair to lair, and free as the flame-winged bird of the -sun that circled above him; or perhaps his destiny had been a humbler -one, and he had but followed his goats as they bounded fearlessly from -ledge to ledge, and plucked for food the herbs upon his native hills. -He had been brought away by a marauding party, and presented as a slave -to the brother of the queen. This Men-thah-gyee, the Great Prince, as -he was called, by way of pre-eminence, had risen, through the influence -of his sister, from the humble condition of a fishmonger, to be the -Richelieu of the nation. Unpopular from his mean origin, and still more -unpopular from the acts of brutality to which the intoxication of power -had given rise, the sympathy excited by the poor Kathayan in the breasts -of these wretches may easily be accounted for. It was not pity or mercy, -but hatred. Anywhere else, the sufferer’s sad, handsome face, and mild, -uncomplaining manner, would have enlisted sympathy; but here, they would -scarcely have seen the sadness, or beauty, or mildness, except through -the medium of a passion congenial to their own natures. - -Among the other slaves of Men-thah-gyee was a young Kathay girl of -singular beauty. She was, so said Madam the Thief, a bundle of roses, -set round with the fragrant blossoms of the champac-tree; her breath was -like that of the breezes when they come up from their dalliance with -the spicy daughters of the islands of the south; her voice had caught -its rich cadence from the musical gush of the silver fountain, which -wakes among the green of her native hills; her hair had been braided -from the glossy raven plumage of the royal edolius; her eyes were twin -stars looking out from cool springs, all fringed with the long, tremulous -reeds of the jungle; and her step was as the free, graceful bound of -the wild antelope. On the subject of her grace, her beauty, and her -wondrous daring, the jailer’s wife could not be sufficiently eloquent. -And so this poor, proud, simple-souled maiden, this diamond from the -rich hills of Kathay, destined to glitter for an hour or two on a -prince’s bosom, unsubdued even in her desolation, had dared to bestow her -affections with the uncalculating lavishness of conscious heart-freedom. -And the poor wretch, lying upon his back in the death-prison, his feet -fast in the stocks and swelling and purpling beneath the heavy irons, -had participated in her crime; had lured her on, by tender glances -and by loving words, inexpressibly sweet in their mutual bondage, to -irretrievable destruction. What fears, what hopes winged by fears, -what tremulous joys, still hedged in by that same crowd of fears, what -despondency, what revulsions of impotent anger and daring, what weeping, -what despair, must have been theirs! Their tremblings and rejoicings, -their mad projects, growing each day wilder and more dangerous,—since -madness alone could have given rise to anything like hope,—are things -left to imagination; for there was none to relate the heart-history of -the two slaves of Men-thah-gyee. Yet there were some hints of a first -accidental meeting under the shadow of the mango and tamarind trees, -where the sun lighted up, by irregular gushes, the waters of the little -lake in the centre of the garden, and the rustle of leaves seemed -sufficient to drown the accents of their native tongues. So they looked, -spoke, their hearts bounded, paused, trembled with soft home-memories: -they whispered on, and they were lost. Poor slaves! - -Then at evening, when the dark-browed maidens of the golden city -gathered, with their earthen vessels, about the well,—there, shaded by -the thick clumps of bamboo, with the free sky overhead, the green earth -beneath, and the songs and laughter of the merry girls ringing in their -ears, so like their own home, the home which they had lost forever,—O, -what a rare, sweet, dangerous meeting-place for those who should not, and -yet must be lovers! - -Finally came a day fraught with illimitable consequences,—the day when -the young slave, not yet admitted to the royal harem, should become more -than ever the property of her master. And now deeper grew their agony, -more uncontrollable their madness, wilder and more daring their hopes, -with every passing moment. Not a man in Ava, but would have told them -that escape was impossible; and yet, goaded on by love and despair, they -attempted the impossibility. They had countrymen in the city, and, under -cover of night, they fled to them. Immediately the minister sent out his -myrmidons; they were tracked, captured, and brought back to the palace. - -“And what became of the poor girl?” inquired the missionary with much -interest. - -The woman shuddered, and beneath her scars and the swarthiness of her -skin she became deadly pale. - -“There is a cellar, Tsayah,” at last she whispered, still shuddering, -“a deep cellar, that no one has seen, but horrible cries come from it -sometimes, and two nights ago, for three hours, three long hours—such -shrieks! Amai-ai! what shrieks! And they say that he was there, Tsayah, -and saw and heard it all. That is the reason that his eyes are blinded -and his ears benumbed. A great many go into that cellar, but none ever -come out again,—none but the doomed like him. It is—_it is like the -West Prison_,” she added, sinking her voice still lower, and casting an -eager, alarmed look about her. The missionary too shuddered, as much at -the mention of this prison, as at the recital of the woman; for it shut -within its walls deep mysteries, which even his jailers, accustomed as -they were to torture and death, shrank from babbling of. - -The next day a cord was passed around the wrists of the young Kathayan, -his arms jerked up into a position perpendicular with his prostrate body, -and the end of the cord fastened to a beam overhead. Still, though faint -from the lack of food, parched with thirst, and racked with pain, for his -feet were swollen and livid, not a murmur of complaint escaped his lips. -And yet this patient endurance seemed scarcely the result of fortitude -or heroism; an observer would have said that the inner suffering was so -great as to render that of the mere physical frame unheeded. There was -the same expression of hopelessness, the same unvarying wretchedness, too -deep, too real, to think of giving itself utterance on the face as at his -first entrance into the prison; and except that he now and then fixed on -one of the hopeless beings who regarded him in silent pity a mournful, -half-beseeching, half-vacant stare, this was all. - -That day passed away as others had passed; then came another night of -dreams, in which loved ones gathered around the hearth-stone of a dear, -distant home; dreams broken by the clanking of chains and the groans -of the suffering; and then morning broke. There still hung the poor -Kathayan; his face slightly distorted with the agony he was suffering, -his lips dry and parched, his cheek pallid and sunken, and his eyes wild -and glaring. His breast swelled and heaved, and now and then a sob-like -sigh burst forth involuntarily. When the Tiger entered, the eye of the -young man immediately fastened on him, and a shiver passed through his -frame. The old murderer went his usual rounds with great nonchalance; -gave an order here, a blow there, and cracked a malicious joke with a -third; smiling all the time that dark, sinister smile, which made him so -much more hideous in the midst of his wickedness. At last he approached -the Kathayan, who, with a convulsive movement, half raised himself from -the ground at his touch, and seemed to contract like a shrivelled leaf. - -“Right! right, my son!” said the old man, chuckling. “You are expert at -helping yourself, to be sure; but then you need assistance. So,—so,—so!” -and giving the cord three successive jerks, he succeeded, by means of -his immense strength, in raising the Kathayan so that but the back of -his head, as it fell downward, could touch the floor. There was a quick, -short crackling of joints, and a groan escaped the prisoner. Another -groan followed, and then another,—and another,—a heaving of the chest, a -convulsive shiver, and for a moment he seemed lost. Human hearts glanced -heavenward. “God grant it! Father of mercies, spare him further agony!” -It could not be. Gaspingly came the lost breath back again, quiveringly -the soft eyes unclosed; and the young Kathayan captive was fully awake to -his misery. - -“I cannot die so,—I cannot,—so slow,—so slow,—so slow!” Hunger gnawed, -thirst burned, fever revelled in his veins; the cord upon his wrists cut -to the bone; corruption had already commenced upon his swollen, livid -feet; the most frightful, torturing pains distorted his body, and wrung -from him groans and murmurings so pitiful, so harrowing, so full of -anguish, that the unwilling listeners could only turn away their heads, -or lift their eyes to each other’s faces in mute horror. Not a word was -exchanged among them,—not a lip had power to give it utterance. - -“I cannot die so! I cannot die so! I cannot die so!” came the words, at -first moaningly, and then prolonged to a terrible howl. And so passed -another day, and another night, and still the wretch lived on. - -In the midst of their filth and smothering heat, the prisoners awoke from -such troubled sleep as they could gain amid these horrors; and those who -could, pressed their feverish lips and foreheads to the crevices between -the boards, to court the morning breezes. A lady, with a white brow, -and a lip whose delicate vermilion had not ripened beneath the skies of -India, came with food to her husband. By constant importunity had the -beautiful ministering angel gained this holy privilege. Her coming was -like a gleam of sunlight,—a sudden unfolding of the beauties of this -bright earth to one born blind. She performed her usual tender ministry -and departed. - -Day advanced to its meridian; and once more, but now hesitatingly, and as -though he dreaded his task, the Tiger drew near the young Kathayan. But -the sufferer did not shrink from him as before. - -“Quick!” he exclaimed greedily,—“quick! give me one hand and the -cord,—just a moment, a single moment,—this hand with the cord in it,—and -you shall be rid of me forever!” - -The Tiger burst into a hideous laugh, his habitual cruelty returning at -the sound of his victim’s voice. - -“Rid of you! not so fast, my son; not so fast! You will hold out a day -or two yet. Let me see!” passing his hand along the emaciated, feverish -body of the sufferer. “O, yes; two days at least, perhaps three, and -it may be longer. Patience, my son; you are frightfully strong! Now -these joints,—why any other man’s would have separated long ago; but -here they stay just as firmly—” As he spoke with a calculating sort of -deliberation, the monster gave the cord a sudden jerk, then another, -and a third, raising his victim still farther from the floor, and then -adjusting it about the beam, walked unconcernedly away. For several -minutes the prison rung with the most fearful cries. Shriek followed -shriek, agonized, furious, with scarcely a breath between; bellowings, -howlings, gnashings of the teeth, sharp, piercing screams, yells of -savage defiance; cry upon cry, cry upon cry, with wild superhuman -strength, they came; while the prisoners shrank in awe and terror, -trembling in their chains. But this violence soon exhausted itself, -and the paroxysm passed, giving place to low, sad moans, irresistibly -pitiful. This was a day never to be forgotten by the hundred wretched -creatures congregated in the gloomy death-prison. The sun had never -seemed to move so slowly before. Its setting was gladly welcomed, but -yet the night brought no change. Those piteous moans, those agonized -groanings, seemed no nearer an end than ever. - -Another day passed,—another night,—again day dawned and drew near its -close; and yet the poor Kathayan clung to life with frightful tenacity. -One of the missionaries, as a peculiar favor, had been allowed to creep -into an old shed, opposite the door of the prison; and here he was joined -by a companion, just as the day was declining towards evening. - -“O, will it ever end?” whispered one. - -The other only bowed his head between his hands,—“Terrible! terrible!” - -“There surely can be nothing worse in the West Prison.” - -“Can there be anything worse,—can there be more finished demons in the -pit?” - -Suddenly, while this broken conversation was conducted in a low tone, -so as not to draw upon the speakers the indignation of their jailers, -they were struck by the singular stillness of the prison. The clanking -of chains, the murmur and the groan, the heavy breathing of congregated -living beings, the bustle occasioned by the continuous uneasy movement -of the restless sufferers, the ceaseless tread of the Children of the -Prison, and their bullying voices, all were hushed. - -“What is it?” in a lower whisper than ever; and a shaking of the head, -and holding their own chains to prevent their rattle, and looks full of -wonder, was all that passed between the two listeners. Their amazement -was interrupted by a dull, heavy sound, as though a bag of dried bones -had been suddenly crushed down by the weight of some powerful foot. -Silently they stole to a crevice in the boards, opposite the open door. -Not a jailer was to be seen; and the prisoners were motionless and -apparently breathless, with the exception of one powerful man, who was -just drawing the wooden mallet in his hand for another blow on the temple -of the suspended Kathayan. It came down with the same dull, hollow, -crushing sound; the body swayed from the point where it was suspended by -wrist and ankle, till it seemed that every joint must be dislocated; but -the flesh scarcely quivered. The blow was repeated, and then another, and -another; but they were not needed. The poor captive Kathayan was dead. - -The mallet was placed away from sight, and the daring man hobbled back to -his corner, dangling his heavy chain as though it had been a plaything, -and striving with all his might to look unconscious and unconcerned. An -evident feeling of relief stole over the prisoners; the Children of the -Prison came back to their places, one by one, and all went on as before. -It was some time before any one appeared to discover the death of the -Kathayan. The old Tiger declared it was what he had been expecting, that -his living on in this manner was quite out of rule; but that those hardy -fellows from the hills never would give in, while there was a possibility -of drawing another breath. Then the poor skeleton was unchained, dragged -by the heels into the prison-yard, and thrown into a gutter. It did not -apparently fall properly, for one of the jailers altered the position of -the shoulders by means of his foot; then clutching the long black hair, -jerked the head a little farther on the side. Thus the discolored temple -was hidden; and surely that emaciated form gave sufficient evidence of a -lingering death. Soon after, a party of government officers visited the -prison-yard, touched the corpse with their feet, without raising it, and, -apparently satisfied, turned away, as though it had been a dead dog, that -they cared not to give further attention. - -Is it strange that, if one were there, with a human heart within him, not -brutalized by crime or steeled by passive familiarity with suffering, he -should have dragged his heavy chain to the side of the dead, and dropped -upon his sharpened, distorted features the tear, which there was none -who had loved him to shed? Is it strange that tender fingers should -have closed the staring eyes, and touched gently the cold brow, which -throbbed no longer with pain, and smoothed the frayed hair, and composed -the passive limbs decently, though he knew that the next moment rude -hands would destroy the result of his pious labor? And is it strange that -when all which remained of the poor sufferer had been jostled into its -sackcloth shroud, and crammed down into the dark hole dug for it in the -earth, a prayer should have ascended, even from that terrible prison? -Not a prayer for the dead; he had received his doom. But an earnest, -beseeching upheaving of the heart, for those wretched beings that, in the -face of the pure heavens and the smiling earth, confound, by the inherent -blackness of their natures, philosopher, priest, or philanthropist, who -dares to tickle the ears of the multitude with fair theories of “Natural -religion,” and “The dignity of human nature.” - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE STORY OF LA ROCHE. - -BY HENRY MACKENZIE. - - -More than forty years ago an English philosopher, whose works have since -been read and admired by all Europe, resided at a little town in France. -Some disappointments in his native country had first driven him abroad, -and he was afterward induced to remain there from having found, in this -retreat, where the connections even of nation and language were avoided, -a perfect seclusion and retirement highly favorable to the development of -abstract subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his time. - -Perhaps, in the structure of such a mind as Mr. ——’s, the finer and -more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have place, or, if -originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the -exertions of intense study and profound investigation. Hence the idea of -philosophy and unfeelingness being united has become proverbial, and, in -common language, the former word is often used to express the latter. -Our philosopher had been censured by some as deficient in warmth and -feeling; but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by all, and it -is certain that, if he was not easily melted into compassion, it was at -least not difficult to awaken his benevolence. - -One morning, while he sat busied in those speculations which afterward -astonished the world, an old female domestic, who served him for a -housekeeper, brought him word that an elderly gentleman and his daughter -had arrived in the village the preceding evening, on their way to some -distant country, and that the father had been suddenly seized in the -night with a dangerous disorder, which the people of the inn where they -lodged feared would prove mortal; that she had been sent for, as having -some knowledge of medicine, the village surgeon being then absent; and -that it was truly piteous to see the good old man, who seemed not so much -afflicted by his own distress as by that which it caused to his daughter. -Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and broke off the chain of -ideas it had inspired. His nightgown was exchanged for a coat, and he -followed his _gouvernante_ to the sick man’s apartment. - -It was the best in the inn where they lay, but a paltry one -notwithstanding. Mr. —— was obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was -floored with earth, and above were the joists not plastered, and hung -with cobwebs. On a flock-bed, at one end, lay the old man he came to -visit; at the foot of it sat his daughter. She was dressed in a clean -white bedgown; her dark locks hung loosely over it as she bent forward, -watching the languid looks of her father. Mr. —— and his housekeeper had -stood some moments in the room without the young lady’s being sensible of -their entering it. - -“Mademoiselle!” said the old woman at last, in a soft tone. - -She turned and showed one of the finest faces in the world. It was -touched, not spoiled, with sorrow; and when she perceived a stranger, -whom the old woman now introduced to her, a blush at first, and then the -gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which the affliction of the time -tempered but did not extinguish, crossed it for a moment and changed its -expression. It was sweetness all, however, and our philosopher felt it -strongly. It was not a time for words; he offered his services in a few -sincere ones. - -“Monsieur lies miserably ill here,” said the _gouvernante_; “if he could -possibly be moved anywhere.” - -“If he could be moved to our house,” said her master. He had a spare -bed for a friend, and there was a garret room unoccupied, next to the -_gouvernante’s_. - -It was contrived accordingly. The scruples of the stranger, who could -look scruples though he could not speak them, were overcome, and the -bashful reluctance of his daughter gave way to her belief of its use to -her father. The sick man was wrapped in blankets, and carried across the -street to the English gentleman’s. The old woman helped his daughter -to nurse him there. The surgeon, who arrived soon after, prescribed a -little, and nature did much for him; in a week he was able to thank his -benefactor. - -By that time his host had learned the name and character of his guest. He -was a Protestant clergyman of Switzerland, called La Roche, a widower, -who had lately buried his wife, after a long and lingering illness, for -which travelling had been prescribed, and was now returning home, after -an ineffectual and melancholy journey, with his only child, the daughter -we have mentioned. - -He was a devout man, as became his profession. He possessed devotion in -all its warmth, but with none of its asperity,—I mean that asperity which -men, called devout, sometimes indulge in. - -Mr. ——, though he felt no devotion, never quarrelled with it in others. -His _gouvernante_ joined the old man and his daughter in the prayers -and thanksgivings which they put up on his recovery; for she too was -a heretic, in the phrase of the village. The philosopher walked out, -with his long staff and his dog, and left them to their prayers and -thanksgivings. - -“My master,” said the old woman, “alas! he is not a Christian; but he is -the best of unbelievers.” - -“Not a Christian!” exclaimed Mademoiselle La Roche, “yet he saved my -father! Heaven bless him for it! I would he were a Christian.” - -“There is a pride in human knowledge, my child,” said her father, “which -often blinds men to the sublime truths of revelation; hence opposers of -Christianity are found among men of virtuous lives, as well as among -those of dissipated and licentious characters. Nay, sometimes I have -known the latter more easily converted to the true faith than the former, -because the fume of passion is more easily dissipated than the mist of -false theory and delusive speculation.” - -“But Mr. ——,” said his daughter, “alas! my father, he shall be a -Christian before he dies.” She was interrupted by the arrival of their -landlord. He took her hand with an air of kindness. She drew it away from -him in silence, threw down her eyes to the ground, and left the room. - -“I have been thanking God,” said the good La Roche, “for my recovery.” - -“That is right,” replied his landlord. - -“I would not wish,” continued the old man hesitatingly, “to think -otherwise. Did I not look up with gratitude to that Being, I should -barely be satisfied with my recovery as a continuation of life, which, -it may be, is not a real good. Alas! I may live to wish I had died, -that you had left me to die, sir, instead of kindly relieving me,”—he -clasped Mr ——’s hand,—“but, when I look on this renovated being as the -gift of the Almighty, I feel a far different sentiment; my heart dilates -with gratitude and love to him; it is prepared for doing his will, not -as a duty, but as a pleasure, and regards every breach of it, not with -disapprobation, but with horror.” - -“You say right, my dear sir,” replied the philosopher, “but you are -not yet re-established enough to talk much; you must take care of your -health, and neither study nor preach for some time. I have been thinking -over a scheme that struck me to-day when you mentioned your intended -departure. I never was in Switzerland. I have a great mind to accompany -your daughter and you into that country. I will help to take care of you -by the road; for as I was your first physician, I hold myself responsible -for your cure.” - -La Roche’s eyes glistened at the proposal. His daughter was called in and -told of it. She was equally pleased with her father, for they really -loved their landlord,—not perhaps the less for his infidelity; at least, -that circumstance mixed a sort of pity with their regard for him,—their -souls were not of a mould for harsher feelings; hatred never dwelt in -them. - -They travelled by short stages; for the philosopher was as good as his -word in taking care that the old man should not be fatigued. The party -had time to be well acquainted with each other, and their friendship -was increased by acquaintance. La Roche found a degree of simplicity -and gentleness in his companion which is not always annexed to the -character of a learned or a wise man. His daughter, who was prepared to -be afraid of him, was equally undeceived. She found in him nothing of -that self-importance which superior parts, or great cultivation of them, -is apt to confer. He talked of everything but philosophy and religion; he -seemed to enjoy every pleasure and amusement of ordinary life, and to be -interested in the most common topics of discourse; when his knowledge of -learning at any time appeared, it was delivered with the utmost plainness -and without the least shadow of dogmatism. - -On his part, he was charmed with the society of the good clergyman -and his lovely daughter. He found in them the guileless manner of the -earliest times, with the culture and accomplishment of the most refined -ones; every better feeling warm and vivid, every ungentle one repressed -or overcome. He was not addicted to love; but he felt himself happy in -being the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, and sometimes envied her -father the possession of such a child. - -After a journey of eleven days, they arrived at the dwelling of La -Roche. It was situated in one of those valleys of the canton of Berne, -where Nature seems to repose, as it were, in quiet, and has enclosed her -retreat with mountains inaccessible. A stream, that spent its fury in -the hills above, ran in front of the house, and a broken waterfall was -seen through the wood that covered its sides; below it circled round a -tufted plain, and formed a little lake in front of a village, at the end -of which appeared the spire of La Roche’s church, rising above a clump of -beeches. - -Mr. —— enjoyed the beauty of the scene; but to his companions it recalled -the memory of a wife and parent they had lost. The old man’s sorrow was -silent; his daughter sobbed and wept. Her father took her hand, kissed it -twice, pressed it to his bosom, threw up his eyes to heaven, and, having -wiped off a tear that was just about to drop from each, began to point -out to his guest some of the most striking objects which the prospect -afforded. The philosopher interpreted all this, and he could but slightly -censure the creed from which it arose. - -They had not been long arrived when a number of La Roche’s parishioners, -who had heard of his return, came to the house to see and welcome him. -The honest folks were awkward, but sincere, in their professions of -regard. They made some attempts at condolence; it was too delicate for -their handling, but La Roche took it in good part. “It has pleased God,” -said he; and they saw he had settled the matter with himself. Philosophy -could not have done so much with a thousand words. - -It was now evening, and the good peasants were about to depart, when -a clock was heard to strike seven, and the hour was followed by a -particular chime. The country folks, who had come to welcome their -pastor, turned their looks toward him at the sound. He explained their -meaning to his guest. - -“That is the signal,” said he, “for our evening exercise. This is one of -the nights of the week in which some of my parishioners are wont to join -in it; a little rustic saloon serves for the chapel of our family and -such of the good people as are with us. If you choose rather to walk out, -I will furnish you with an attendant; or here are a few old books that -may afford you some entertainment within.” - -“By no means,” answered the philosopher; “I will attend Mademoiselle at -her devotions.” - -“She is our organist,” said La Roche. “Our neighborhood is the country of -musical mechanism, and I have a small organ fitted up for the purpose of -assisting our singing.” - -“’Tis an additional inducement,” replied the other; and they walked into -the room together. - -At the end stood the organ mentioned by La Roche; before it was a -curtain, which his daughter drew aside, and, placing herself on a seat -within and drawing the curtain close so as to save her the awkwardness -of an exhibition, began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in the highest -degree. Mr. —— was no musician, but he was not altogether insensible -to music; and this fastened on his mind more strongly from its beauty -being unexpected. The solemn prelude introduced a hymn, in which such of -the audience as could sing immediately joined. The words were mostly -taken from holy writ; it spoke the praises of God, and his care of good -men. Something was said of the death of the just, of such as die in the -Lord. The organ was touched with a hand less firm; it paused; it ceased; -and the sobbing of Mademoiselle La Roche was heard in its stead. Her -father gave a sign for stopping the psalmody, and rose to pray. He was -discomposed at first, and his voice faltered as he spoke; but his heart -was in his words, and its warmth overcame his embarrassment. He addressed -a Being whom he loved, and he spoke for those he loved. His parishioners -caught the ardor of the good old man; even the philosopher felt himself -moved, and forgot, for a moment, to think why he should not. - -La Roche’s religion was that of sentiment, not theory, and his guest -was averse from disputation; their discourse, therefore, did not lead -to questions concerning the belief of either; yet would the old man -sometimes speak of his, from the fulness of a heart impressed with its -force and wishing to spread the pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of -a God and a Saviour were so congenial to his mind, that every emotion -of it naturally awakened them. A philosopher might have called him an -enthusiast; but, if he possessed the fervor of enthusiasts, he was -guiltless of their bigotry. “Our Father, which art in heaven!” might the -good man say, for he felt it, and all mankind were his brethren. - -“You regret, my friend,” said he to Mr. ——, “when my daughter and I -talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from music,—you regret your want -of musical powers and musical feelings; it is a department of soul, -you say, which nature has almost denied you, which, from the effects -you see it have on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why -should not the same thing be said of religion? Trust me, I feel it in -the same way,—an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all -the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the world; yet, so far from -lessening my relish of the pleasures of life, methinks I feel it heighten -them all. The thought of receiving it from God adds the blessing of -sentiment to that of sensation in every good thing I possess; and when -calamities overtake me,—and I have had my share,—it confers a dignity on -my affliction, so lifts me above the world. Man, I know, is but a worm; -yet, methinks, I am then allied to God!” - -It would have been inhuman in our philosopher to have clouded, even with -a doubt, the sunshine of this belief. His discourse, indeed, was very -remote from metaphysical disquisition or religious controversy. Of all -men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was the least tinctured with -pedantry, or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter, -it was perfectly familiar. The country round them, the manners of the -villagers, the comparison of both with those of England, remarks on -the works of favorite authors, on the sentiments they conveyed and the -passions they excited, with many other topics in which there was an -equality or alternate advantage among the speakers, were the subjects -they talked on. Their hours, too, of riding and walking were many, -in which Mr. ——, as a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and -curiosities of the country. They would sometimes make little expeditions -to contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing mountains, the -cliffs of which, covered with eternal snows, and sometimes shooting into -fantastic shapes, form the termination of most of the Swiss prospects. -Our philosopher asked many questions as to their natural history and -productions. La Roche observed the sublimity of the ideas which the view -of their stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot, was calculated -to inspire, which naturally, said he, leads the mind to that Being by -whom their foundations were laid. - -“They are not seen in Flanders,” said Mademoiselle with a sigh. - -“That’s an odd remark,” said Mr. ——, smiling. - -She blushed, and he inquired no further. - -It was with regret he left a society in which he found himself so happy; -but he settled with La Roche and his daughter a plan of correspondence, -and they took his promise that, if ever he came within fifty leagues of -their dwelling, he should travel those fifty leagues to visit them. - -About three years after, our philosopher was on a visit at Geneva; the -promise he made to La Roche and his daughter, on his former visit, was -recalled to his mind by the view of that range of mountains on a part of -which they had often looked together. There was a reproach, too, conveyed -along with the recollection, for his having failed to write to either for -several months past. The truth was, that indolence was the habit most -natural to him, from which he was not easily roused by the claims of -correspondence, either of his friends or of his enemies; when the latter -drew their pens in controversy, they were often unanswered as well as -the former. While he was hesitating about a visit to La Roche, which he -wished to make, but found the effort rather too much for him, he received -a letter from the old man, which had been forwarded to him from Paris, -where he had then fixed his residence. It contained a gentle complaint -of Mr. ——’s want of punctuality, but an assurance of continued gratitude -for his former good offices; and, as a friend whom the writer considered -interested in his family, it informed him of the approaching nuptials -of Mademoiselle La Roche with a young man, a relation of her own, and -formerly a pupil of her father’s, of the most amiable dispositions and -respectable character. Attached from their earliest years, they had -been separated by his joining one of the subsidiary regiments of the -canton, then in the service of a foreign power. In this situation he had -distinguished himself as much for courage and military skill as for the -other endowments which he had cultivated at home. The time of his service -was now expired, and they expected him to return in a few weeks, when the -old man hoped, as he expressed it in his letter, to join their hands and -see them happy before he died. - -Our philosopher felt himself interested in this event; but he was not, -perhaps, altogether so happy in the tidings of Mademoiselle La Roche’s -marriage as her father supposed him. Not that he was ever a lover of the -lady’s; but he thought her one of the most amiable women he had seen, -and there was something in the idea of her being another’s forever that -struck him, he knew not why, like a disappointment. After some little -speculation on the matter, however, he could look on it as a thing -fitting if not quite agreeable, and determined on this visit to see his -old friend and his daughter happy. - -On the last day of his journey, different accidents had retarded his -progress: he was benighted before he reached the quarter in which La -Roche resided. His guide, however, was well acquainted with the road, -and he found himself at last in view of the lake, which I have before -described, in the neighborhood of La Roche’s dwelling. A light gleamed on -the water, that seemed to proceed from the house; it moved slowly along -as he proceeded up the side of the lake, and at last he saw it glimmer -through the trees, and stop at some distance from the place where he then -was. He supposed it some piece of bridal merriment, and pushed on his -horse that he might be a spectator of the scene; but he was a good deal -shocked, on approaching the spot, to find it proceed from the torch of a -person clothed in the dress of an attendant on a funeral, and accompanied -by several others who, like him, seemed to have been employed in the -rites of sepulture. - -On Mr. ——’s making inquiry who was the person they had been burying, one -of them, with an accent more mournful than is common to their profession, -answered,— - -“Then you knew not Mademoiselle, sir? You never beheld a lovelier—” - -“La Roche!” exclaimed he in reply. - -“Alas! it was she indeed.” - -The appearance of surprise and grief which his countenance assumed -attracted the notice of the peasant with whom he talked. He came -up closer to Mr. ——. “I perceive, sir, you were acquainted with -Mademoiselle La Roche.” - -“Acquainted with her!—Good God!—when—how—where did she die? Where is her -father?” - -“She died, sir, of heart-break, I believe. The young gentleman to whom -she was soon to have been married was killed in a duel by a French -officer, his intimate companion, to whom, before their quarrel, he had -often done the greatest favors. Her worthy father bears her death as he -has often told us a Christian should; he is even so composed as to be now -in his pulpit, ready to deliver a few exhortations to his parishioners, -as is the custom with us on such occasions. Follow me, sir, and you shall -hear him.” - -He followed the man without answering. - -The church was dimly lighted, except near the pulpit, where the venerable -La Roche was seated. His people were now lifting up their voices in a -psalm to that Being whom their pastor had taught them ever to bless and -to revere. La Roche sat, his figure bending gently forward, his eyes half -closed, lifted up in silent devotion. A lamp placed near him threw its -light strong on his head, and marked the shadowy lines of age across the -paleness of his brow, thinly covered with gray hairs. - -The music ceased. La Roche sat for a moment, and nature wrung a few -tears from him. His people were loud in their grief: Mr. —— was not less -affected than they. La Roche arose. - -“Father of mercies!” said he, “forgive these tears; assist thy servant -to lift up his soul to thee, to lift to thee the souls of thy people. -My friends, it is good so to do; at all seasons it is good; but in the -days of our distress, what a privilege it is! Well saith the sacred book, -‘Trust in the Lord; at all times trust in the Lord!’ When every other -support fails us, when the fountains of worldly comfort are dried up, -let us then seek those living waters which flow from the throne of God. -’Tis only from the belief of the goodness and wisdom of a Supreme Being -that our calamities can be borne in that manner which becomes a man. -Human wisdom is here of little use; for, in proportion as it bestows -comfort, it represses feeling, without which we may cease to be hurt by -calamity, but we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. I will not bid -you be insensible, my friends. I cannot, if I would.” His tears flowed -afresh. “I feel too much myself, and I am not ashamed of my feelings; but -therefore may I the more willingly be heard; therefore have I prayed God -to give me strength to speak to you, to direct you to him, not with empty -words, but with these tears, not from speculation, but from experience, -that while you see me suffer you may know also my consolation. You behold -the mourner of his only child, the last earthly stay and blessing of -his declining years. Such a child too! It becomes not me to speak of -her virtues; yet it is but gratitude to mention them, because they were -exerted toward myself. Not many days ago you saw her young, beautiful, -virtuous, and happy. Ye who are parents will judge of my felicity then; -ye will judge of my affliction now. But I look toward him who struck me; -I see the hand of a father amidst the chastenings of my God. Oh! could I -make you feel what it is to pour out the heart, when it is pressed down -with many sorrows, to pour it out with confidence to him in whose hands -are life and death, on whose power awaits all that the first enjoys, -and in contemplation of whom disappears all that the last can inflict. -For we are not as those who die without hope; we know that our Redeemer -liveth,—that we shall live with him, with our friends, his servants, in -that blessed land where sorrow is unknown, and happiness is endless as it -is perfect. Go, then, mourn not for me; I have not lost my child; but a -little while, and we shall meet again, never to be separated. But ye are -also my children: would ye that I should not grieve without comfort? So -live as she lived, that, when your death cometh, it may be the death of -the righteous, and your latter end like his.” - -Such was the exhortation of La Roche: his audience answered it with -their tears. The good old man had dried up his at the altar of the Lord: -his countenance had lost its sadness and assumed the glow of faith and -hope. Mr. —— followed him into his house. The inspiration of the pulpit -was past; at sight of him, the scenes they had last met in rushed again -on his mind; La Roche threw his arms around his neck, and watered it -with his tears. The other was equally affected. They went together, -in silence, into the parlor, where the evening service was wont to be -performed. The curtains of the organ were open; La Roche started back at -the sight. - -“Oh! my friend!” said he, and his tears burst forth again. - -Mr. —— had now recollected himself; he stepped forward, and drew the -curtains close. The old man wiped off his tears, and taking his friend’s -hand, “You see my weakness,” said he, “’tis the weakness of humanity; but -my comfort is not therefore lost.” - -“I heard you,” said the other, “in the pulpit; I rejoice that such -consolation is yours.” - -“It is, my friend,” said he; “and I trust I shall ever hold it fast. If -there are any who doubt our faith, let them think of what importance -religion is to calamity, and forbear to weaken its force. If they -cannot restore our happiness, let them not take away the solace of our -affliction.” - -Mr. ——’s heart was smitten, and I have heard him, long after, confess -that there were moments when the remembrance overcame him even to -weakness; when, amidst all the pleasures of philosophical discovery and -the pride of literary fame, he recalled to his mind the venerable figure -of the good La Roche, and wished that he had never doubted. - -[Illustration] - - - - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE VISION OF SUDDEN DEATH. - -BY THOMAS DE QUINCEY. - - -What is to be thought of sudden death? It is remarkable that, in -different conditions of society, it has been variously regarded as the -consummation of an earthly career most fervently to be desired, and -on the other hand, as that consummation which is most of all to be -deprecated. Cæsar the Dictator, at his last dinner-party (_cæna_), and -the very evening before his assassination, being questioned as to the -mode of death which, in _his_ opinion, might seem the most eligible, -replied, “That which should be most sudden.” On the other hand, the -divine Litany of our English Church, when breathing forth supplications, -as if in some representative character for the whole human race prostrate -before God, places such a death in the very van of horrors. “From -lightning and tempest; from plague, pestilence, and famine; from battle -and murder, and from sudden death,—_Good Lord, deliver us_.” Sudden death -is here made to crown the climax in a grand ascent of calamities; it is -the last of curses; and yet, by the noblest of Romans, it was treated -as the first of blessings. In that difference, most readers will see -little more than the difference between Christianity and Paganism. But -there I hesitate. The Christian Church may be right in its estimate of -sudden death; and it is a natural feeling, though after all it may also -be an infirm one, to wish for a quiet dismissal from life,—as that which -_seems_ most reconcilable with meditation, with penitential retrospects, -and with the humilities of farewell prayer. There does not, however, -occur to me any direct Scriptural warrant for this earnest petition -of the English Litany. It seems rather a petition indulged to human -infirmity, than exacted from human piety. And, however _that_ may be, two -remarks suggest themselves as prudent restraints upon a doctrine, which -else _may_ wander, and _has_ wandered, into an uncharitable superstition. -The first is this: that many people are likely to exaggerate the horror -of a sudden death (I mean the objective horror to him who contemplates -such a death, not the subjective horror to him who suffers it), from the -false disposition to lay a stress upon words or acts, simply because by -an accident they have become words or acts. If a man dies, for instance, -by some sudden death when he happens to be intoxicated, such a death is -falsely regarded with peculiar horror; as though the intoxication were -suddenly exalted into a blasphemy. But _that_ is unphilosophic. The man -was, or he was not, _habitually_ a drunkard. If not, if his intoxication -were a solitary accident, there can be no reason at all for allowing -special emphasis to this act, simply because through misfortune it became -his final act. Nor, on the other hand, if it were no accident, but one -of his _habitual_ transgressions, will it be the more habitual or the -more a transgression, because some sudden calamity, surprising him, has -caused this habitual transgression to be also a final one? Could the man -have had any reason even dimly to foresee his own sudden death, there -would have been a new feature in his act of intemperance,—a feature of -presumption and irreverence, as in one that by possibility felt himself -drawing near to the presence of God. But this is no part of the case -supposed. And the only new element in the man’s act is not any element of -extra immorality, but simply of extra misfortune. - -The other remark has reference to the meaning of the word _sudden_. And -it is a strong illustration of the duty which forever calls us to the -stern valuation of words, that very possibly Cæsar and the Christian -Church do not differ in the way supposed; that is, do not differ by any -difference of doctrine as between Pagan and Christian views of the moral -temper appropriate to death, but that they are contemplating different -cases. Both contemplate a violent death, a Βιαθανατος—death that is -Βιαιος: but the difference is that the Roman by the word “sudden” means -an _unlingering_ death: whereas the Christian Litany by “sudden” means -a death _without warning_, consequently without any available summons -to religious preparation. The poor mutineer, who kneels down to gather -into his heart the bullets from twelve firelocks of his pitying comrades, -dies by a most sudden death in Cæsar’s sense: one shock, one mighty -spasm, one (possibly _not_ one) groan, and all is over. But, in the sense -of the Litany, his death is far from sudden; his offence, originally, -his imprisonment, his trial, the interval between his sentence and -its execution, having all furnished him with separate warnings of his -fate,—having all summoned him to meet it with solemn preparation. - -Meantime, whatever may be thought of a sudden death as a mere variety in -the modes of dying, where death in some shape is inevitable,—a question -which, equally in the Roman and the Christian sense, will be variously -answered according to each man’s variety of temperament,—certainly, upon -one aspect of sudden death there can be no opening for doubt, that of all -agonies incident to man it is the most frightful, that of all martyrdoms -it is the most freezing to human sensibilities,—namely, where it -surprises a man under circumstances which offer (or which seem to offer) -some hurried and inappreciable chance of evading it. Any effort, by which -such an evasion can be accomplished, must be as sudden as the danger -which it affronts. Even _that_, even the sickening necessity for hurrying -in extremity where all hurry seems destined to be vain, self-baffled, and -where the dreadful knell of _too_ late is already sounding in the ears -by anticipation,—even that anguish is liable to a hideous exasperation -in one particular case, namely, where the agonizing appeal is made not -exclusively to the instinct of self-preservation, but to the conscience -on behalf of another life besides your own, accidentally cast upon _your_ -protection. To fail, to collapse in a service merely your own, might seem -comparatively venial; though, in fact, it is far from venial. But to -fail in a case where Providence has suddenly thrown into your hands the -final interests of another,—of a fellow-creature shuddering between the -gates of life and death; this, to a man of apprehensive conscience, would -mingle the misery of an atrocious criminality with the misery of a bloody -calamity. The man is called upon, too probably, to die; but to die at -the very moment when, by any momentary collapse, he is self-denounced as -a murderer. He had but the twinkling of an eye for his effort, and that -effort might, at the best, have been unavailing; but from this shadow -of a chance, small or great, how if he has recoiled by a treasonable -_lâcheté_? The effort _might_ have been without hope; but to have risen -to the level of that effort would have rescued him, though not from -dying, yet from dying as a traitor to his duties. - -The situation here contemplated exposes a dreadful ulcer lurking far down -in the depths of human nature. It is not that men generally are summoned -to face such awful trials. But potentially, and in shadowy outline, such -a trial is moving subterraneously in perhaps all men’s natures,—muttering -under ground in one world, to be realized perhaps in some other. Upon -the secret mirror of our dreams such a trial is darkly projected at -intervals, perhaps, to every one of us. That dream, so familiar to -childhood, of meeting a lion, and, from languishing prostration in -hope and vital energy, that constant sequel of lying down before him, -publishes the secret frailty of human nature,—reveals its deep-seated -Pariah falsehood to itself,—records its abysmal treachery. Perhaps not -one of us escapes that dream; perhaps, as by some sorrowful doom of man, -that dream repeats for every one of us, through every generation, the -original temptation in Eden. Every one of us, in this dream, has a bait -offered to the infirm places of his own individual will; once again a -snare is made ready for leading him into captivity to a luxury of ruin; -again, as in aboriginal Paradise, the man falls from innocence; once -again, by infinite iteration, the ancient Earth groans to God, through -her secret caves, over the weakness of her child; “Nature, from her seat, -sighing through all her works,” again “gives signs of woe that all is -lost”; and again the countersign is repeated to the sorrowing heavens -of the endless rebellion against God. Many people think that one man, -the patriarch of our race, could not in his single person execute this -rebellion for all his race. Perhaps they are wrong. But, even if not, -perhaps in the world of dreams every one of us ratifies for himself the -original act. Our English rite of Confirmation, by which, in years of -awakened reason, we take upon us the engagements contracted for us in -our slumbering infancy,—how sublime a rite is that! The little postern -gate, through which the baby in its cradle had been silently placed for a -time within the glory of God’s countenance, suddenly rises to the clouds -as a triumphal arch, through which, with banners displayed and martial -pomps, we make our second entry as crusading soldiers militant for God, -by personal choice and by sacramental oath. Each man says in effect, “Lo! -I rebaptize myself; and that which once was sworn on my behalf, now I -swear for myself.” Even so in dreams, perhaps, under some secret conflict -of the midnight sleeper, lighted up to the consciousness at the time, but -darkened to the memory as soon as all is finished, each several child of -our mysterious race completes for himself the aboriginal fall. - -As I drew near to the Manchester post-office, I found that it was -considerably past midnight; but to my great relief, as it was important -for me to be in Westmoreland by the morning, I saw by the huge saucer -eyes of the mail, blazing through the gloom of overhanging houses, -that my chance was not yet lost. Past the time it was; but by some -luck, very unusual in my experience, the mail was not even yet ready -to start. I ascended to my seat on the box, where my cloak was still -lying as it had lain at the Bridgewater Arms. I had left it there in -imitation of a nautical discoverer, who leaves a bit of bunting on the -shore of his discovery, by way of warning off the ground the whole human -race, and signalizing to the Christian and the heathen worlds, with -his best compliments, that he has planted his throne forever upon that -virgin soil: henceforward claiming the _jus dominii_ to the top of the -atmosphere above it, and also the right of driving shafts to the centre -of the earth below it; so that all people found after this warning, -either aloft in the atmosphere, or in the shafts, or squatting on the -soil, will be treated as trespassers,—that is, decapitated by their very -faithful and obedient servant, the owner of the said bunting. Possibly -my cloak might not have been respected, and the _jus gentium_ might have -been cruelly violated in my person,—for in the dark, people commit deeds -of darkness, gas being a great ally of morality,—but it so happened that, -on this night, there was no other outside passenger; and the crime, -which else was but too probable, missed fire for want of a criminal. By -the way, I may as well mention at this point, since a circumstantial -accuracy is essential to the effect of my narrative, that there was no -other person of any description whatever about the mail—the guard, the -coachman, and myself being allowed for—except only one,—a horrid creature -of the class known to the world as insiders, but whom young Oxford called -sometimes “Trojans,” in opposition to our Grecian selves, and sometimes -“vermin.” A Turkish Effendi, who piques himself on good-breeding, will -never mention by name a pig. Yet it is but too often that he has reason -to mention this animal; since constantly, in the streets of Stamboul, -he has his trousers deranged or polluted by this vile creature running -between his legs. But under any excess of hurry he is always careful, -out of respect to the company he is dining with, to suppress the odious -name, and to call the wretch “that other creature,” as though all -animal life beside formed one group, and this odious beast (to whom, as -Chrysippus observed, salt serves as an apology for a soul) formed another -and alien group on the outside of creation. Now I, who am an English -Effendi, that think myself to understand good-breeding as well as any -son of Othman, beg my reader’s pardon for having mentioned an insider -by his gross natural name. I shall do so no more; and, if I should have -occasion to glance at so painful a subject, I shall always call him “that -other creature.” Let us hope, however, that no such distressing occasion -will arise. But, by the way, an occasion arises at this moment; for the -Reader will be sure to ask, when we come to the story, “Was this other -creature present?” He was _not_; or more correctly, perhaps, _it_ was -not. We dropped the creature—or the creature, by natural imbecility, -dropped itself—within the first ten miles from Manchester. In the latter -case, I wish to make a philosophic remark of a moral tendency. When I -die, or when the reader dies, and by repute suppose of fever, it will -never be known whether we died in reality of the fever or of the doctor. -But this other creature, in the case of dropping out of the coach, will -enjoy a coroner’s inquest; consequently he will enjoy an epitaph. For -I insist upon it, that the verdict of a coroner’s jury makes the best -of epitaphs. It is brief, so that the public all find time to read; it -is pithy, so that the surviving friends (if any _can_ survive such a -loss) remember it without fatigue; it is upon oath, so that rascals and -Dr. Johnsons cannot pick holes in it. “Died through the visitation of -intense stupidity, by impinging on a moonlight night against the off-hind -wheel of the Glasgow mail! Deodand upon the said wheel—twopence.” What a -simple lapidary inscription! Nobody much in the wrong but an off-wheel; -and with few acquaintances; and if it were but rendered into choice -Latin, though there would be a little bother in finding a Ciceronian -word for “off-wheel,” Marcellus himself, that great master of sepulchral -eloquence, could not show a better. Why I call this little remark _moral_ -is, from the compensation it points out. Here, by the supposition, is -that other creature on the one side, the beast of the world; and he -(or it) gets an epitaph. You and I, on the contrary, the pride of our -friends, get none. - -But why linger on the subject of vermin? Having mounted the box, I took -a small quantity of laudanum, having already travelled two hundred -and fifty miles,—namely, from a point seventy miles beyond London, -upon a simple breakfast. In the taking of laudanum there was nothing -extraordinary. But by accident it drew upon me the special attention of -my assessor on the box, the coachman. And in _that_ there was nothing -extraordinary. But by accident, and with great delight, it drew my -attention to the fact that this coachman was a monster in point of size, -and that he had but one eye. In fact, he had been foretold by Virgil as— - - “Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens cui lumen ademptum.” - -He answered in every point,—a monster he was,—dreadful, shapeless, huge, -who had lost an eye. But why should _that_ delight me? Had he been one -of the Calendars in the Arabian Nights, and had paid down his eye as -the price of his criminal curiosity, what right had _I_ to exult in -his misfortune? I did _not_ exult; I delighted in no man’s punishment, -though it were even merited. But these personal distinctions identified -in an instant an old friend of mine, whom I had known in the South for -some years as the most masterly of mail-coachmen. He was the man in all -Europe that could best have undertaken to drive six-in-hand full gallop -over _Al Sirat_,—that famous bridge of Mahomet across the bottomless -gulf,—backing himself against the Prophet and twenty such fellows. I -used to call him _Cyclops mastigophorus_, Cyclops the whip-bearer, until -I observed that his skill made whips useless, except to fetch off an -impertinent fly from a leader’s head; upon which I changed his Grecian -name to Cyclops _diphrélates_ (Cyclops the charioteer). I, and others -known to me, studied under him the diphrelatic art. Excuse, reader, a -word too elegant to be pedantic. And also take this remark from me, as -a _gage d’amitié_, that no word ever was or _can_ be pedantic which, -by supporting a distinction, supports the accuracy of logic; or which -fills up a chasm for the understanding. As a pupil, though I paid extra -fees, I cannot say that I stood high in his esteem. It showed his dogged -honesty (though, observe, not his discernment), that he could not see -my merits. Perhaps we ought to excuse his absurdity in this particular -by remembering his want of an eye. _That_ made him blind to my merits. -Irritating as this blindness was (surely it could not be envy!) he always -courted my conversation, in which art I certainly had the whip-hand -of him. On this occasion, great joy was at our meeting. But what was -Cyclops doing here? Had the medical men recommended northern air, or -how? I collected, from such explanations as he volunteered, that he had -an interest at stake in a suit-at-law pending at Lancaster; so that -probably he had got himself transferred to this station, for the purpose -of connecting with his professional pursuits an instant readiness for the -calls of his lawsuit. - -Meantime, what are we stopping for? Surely, we’ve been waiting long -enough. O, this procrastinating mail, and O, this procrastinating -post-office! Can’t they take a lesson upon that subject from _me_? Some -people have called _me_ procrastinating. Now you are witness, reader, -that I was in time for _them_. But can _they_ lay their hands on their -hearts, and say that they were in time for me? I, during my life, have -often had to wait for the post-office; the post-office never waited -a minute for me. What are they about? The guard tells me that there -is a large extra accumulation of foreign mails this night, owing to -irregularities caused by war and by the packet service, when as yet -nothing is done by steam. For an _extra_ hour, it seems, the post-office -has been engaged in threshing out the pure wheaten correspondence of -Glasgow, and winnowing it from the chaff of all baser intermediate towns. -We can hear the flails going at this moment. But at last all is finished. -Sound your horn, guard. Manchester, good by; we’ve lost an hour by your -criminal conduct at the post-office; which, however, though I do not mean -to part with a serviceable ground of complaint, and one which really _is_ -such for the horses, to me secretly is an advantage, since it compels us -to recover this last hour amongst the next eight or nine. Off we are at -last, and at eleven miles an hour; and at first I detect no changes in -the energy or in the skill of Cyclops. - -From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not in law) is the -capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven stages of eleven miles -each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in -Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and -the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in -Preston (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name, -_proud_ Preston), at which place it was that the separate roads from -Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these -first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termination of -our night’s adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops -was mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep,—a thing -which I had never previously suspected. If a man is addicted to the -vicious habit of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself, -with the horses of Aurora to execute the motions of his will, avail him -nothing. “O Cyclops!” I exclaimed more than once, “Cyclops, my friend; -thou art mortal. Thou snorest.” Through this first eleven miles, however, -he betrayed his infirmity—which I grieve to say he shared with the whole -Pagan Pantheon—only by short stretches. On waking up, he made an apology -for himself, which, instead of mending the matter, laid an ominous -foundation for coming disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding -at Lancaster: in consequence of which, for three nights and three days, -he had not lain down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his -uncertain summons as a witness on the trial in which he was interested; -or he was drinking with the other witnesses, under the vigilant -surveillance of the attorneys. During the night, or that part of it when -the least temptations existed to conviviality, he was driving. Throughout -the second stage he grew more and more drowsy. In the second mile of the -third stage, he surrendered himself finally and without a struggle to his -perilous temptation. All his past resistance had but deepened the weight -of this final oppression. Seven atmospheres of sleep seemed resting -upon him; and to consummate the case, our worthy guard, after singing -“Love amongst the Roses” for the fiftieth or sixtieth time, without any -invitation from Cyclops or me, and without applause for his poor labors, -had moodily resigned himself to slumber,—not so deep doubtless as the -coachman’s, but deep enough for mischief, and having, probably, no -similar excuse. And thus at last, about ten miles from Preston, I found -myself left in charge of his Majesty’s London and Glasgow mail, then -running about eleven miles an hour. - -What made this negligence less criminal than else it must have been -thought, was the condition of the roads at night during the assizes. At -that time all the law business of populous Liverpool, and of populous -Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was -called up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To -break up this old traditional usage required a conflict with powerful -established interests, a large system of new arrangements, and a new -parliamentary statute. As things were at present, twice in the year so -vast a body of business rolled northwards, from the southern quarter of -the county, that a fortnight at least occupied the severe exertions of -two judges for its despatch. The consequence of this was, that every -horse available for such a service, along the whole line of road, was -exhausted in carrying down the multitudes of people who were parties to -the different suits. By sunset, therefore, it usually happened that, -through utter exhaustion amongst men and horses, the roads were all -silent. Except exhaustion in the vast adjacent county of York from a -contested election, nothing like it was ordinarily witnessed in England. - -On this occasion, the usual silence and solitude prevailed along the -road. Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And to strengthen this -false luxurious confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that -the night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. I myself, though -slightly alive to the possibilities of peril, had so far yielded to the -influence of the mighty calm as to sink into a profound revery. The month -was August, in which lay my own birthday; a festival, to every thoughtful -man, suggesting solemn and often sigh-born thoughts. The county was my -own native county,—upon which, in its southern section, more than upon -any equal area known to man past or present, had descended the original -curse of labor in its heaviest form, not mastering the bodies of men -only as slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery -will. Upon no equal space of earth was, or ever had been, the same -energy of human power put forth daily. At this particular season also -of the assizes, that dreadful hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it -might have seemed to a stranger, that swept to and from Lancaster all -day long, hunting the county up and down, and regularly subsiding about -sunset, united with the permanent distinction of Lancashire as the very -metropolis and citadel of labor, to point the thoughts pathetically upon -that counter-vision of rest, of saintly repose from strife and sorrow, -towards which, as to their secret haven, the profounder aspirations of -man’s heart are continually travelling. Obliquely we were nearing the -sea upon our left, which also must, under the present circumstances, be -repeating the general state of halcyon repose. The sea, the atmosphere, -the light, bore an orchestral part in this universal lull. Moonlight -and the first timid tremblings of the dawn were now blending; and the -blendings were brought into a still more exquisite state of unity by a -slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy, that covered the woods and -fields, but with a veil of equable transparency. Except the feet of our -own horses, which, running on a sandy margin of the road, made little -disturbance, there was no sound abroad. In the clouds and on the earth -prevailed the same majestic peace; and in spite of all that the villain -of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer thoughts, which -are the thoughts of our infancy, we still believe in no such nonsense -as a limited atmosphere. Whatever we may swear with our false feigning -lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must forever believe, -in fields of air traversing the total gulf between earth and the central -heavens. Still, in the confidence of children that tread without fear -_every_ chamber in their father’s house, and to whom no door is closed, -we, in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour upon -nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow-stricken fields -of earth upwards to the sandals of God. - -Suddenly from thoughts like these I was awakened to a sullen sound, as -of some motion on the distant road. It stole upon the air for a moment; -I listened in awe; but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could -not but observe with alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years’ -experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion; and I saw -that we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence -of mind. On the contrary, my fear is, that I am miserably and shamefully -deficient in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and -distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances -upon my energies, when the signal is flying for _action_. But, on the -other hand, this accursed gift I have, as regards _thought_, that in -the first step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see its total -evolution; in the radix I see too certainly and too instantly its entire -expansion; in the first syllable of the dreadful sentence, I read already -the last. It was not that I feared for ourselves. What could injure _us_? -Our bulk and impetus charmed us against peril in any collision. And I had -rode through too many hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach, -that were matter of laughter as we looked back upon them, for any anxiety -to rest upon _our_ interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured, -nor bespoke, that could betray _me_ who trusted to its protection. But -any carriage that we could meet would be frail and light in comparison -of ourselves. And I remarked this ominous accident of our situation. We -were on the wrong side of the road. But then the other party, if other -there was, might also be on the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a -right. _That_ was not likely. The same motive which had drawn _us_ to the -right-hand side of the road, namely, the soft beaten sand, as contrasted -with the paved centre, would prove attractive to others. Our lamps, still -lighted, would give the impression of vigilance on our part. And every -creature that met us would rely upon _us_ for quartering. All this, and -if the separate links of the anticipation had been a thousand times more, -I saw, not discursively or by effort, but as by one flash of horrid -intuition. - -Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which _might_ be -gathering ahead, ah, reader! what a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh -of woe, seemed to steal upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a -wheel was heard! A whisper it was,—a whisper from, perhaps, four miles -off,—secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less -inevitable. What could be done—who was it that could do it—to check the -storm-flight of these maniacal horses? What! could I not seize the reins -from the grasp of the slumbering coachman? You, reader, think that it -would have been in _your_ power to do so. And I quarrel not with your -estimate of yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman’s hand was -viced between his upper and lower thigh, this was impossible. The guard -subsequently found it impossible, after this danger had passed. Not the -grasp only, but also the position of this Polyphemus, made the attempt -impossible. You still think otherwise. See, then, that bronze equestrian -statue. The cruel rider has kept the bit in his horse’s mouth for two -centuries. Unbridle him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth -with water. Or stay, reader, unhorse me that marble emperor: knock me -those marble feet from those marble stirrups of Charlemagne. - -The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of -wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart? Was -it youthful gayety in a gig? Whoever it was, something must be attempted -to warn them. Upon the other party rests the active responsibility, -but upon _us_—and, woe is me! that _us_ was my single self—rests the -responsibility of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might I -not seize the guard’s horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making -my way over the roof to the guard’s seat. But this, from the foreign -mail’s being piled upon the roof, was a difficult and even dangerous -attempt, to one cramped by nearly three hundred miles of outside -travelling. And, fortunately, before I had lost much time in the attempt, -our frantic horses swept round an angle of the road, which opened upon -us the stage where the collision must be accomplished, the parties that -seemed summoned to the trial, and the impossibility of saving them by any -communication with the guard. - -Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, -perhaps, in length; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular -line from either side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character -of a cathedral aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early -light; but there was still light enough to perceive, at the farther end -of this Gothic aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young -man, and, by his side, a young lady. Ah, young sir! what are you about? -If it is necessary that you should whisper your communications to this -young lady,—though really I see nobody at this hour, and on this solitary -road, likely to overhear your conversation,—is it, therefore, necessary -that you should carry your lips forward to hers? The little carriage is -creeping on at one mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus -tenderly engaged, are naturally bending down their heads. Between them -and eternity, to all human calculation, there is but a minute and a -half. What is it that I shall do? Strange it is, and, to a mere auditor -of the tale, might seem laughable, that I should need a suggestion from -the _Iliad_ to prompt the sole recourse that remained. But so it was. -Suddenly I remembered the shout of Achilles, and its effect. But could I -pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas? No, certainly: -but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant; a -shout would suffice, such as should carry terror into the hearts of two -thoughtless young people, and one gig horse. I shouted,—and the young man -heard me not. A second time I shouted,—and now he heard me, for now he -raised his head. - -Here, then, all had been done that, by me, _could_ be done: more on _my_ -part was not possible. Mine had been the first step: the second was -for the young man: the third was for God. If, said I, the stranger is -a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side,—or, -loving her not, if he feels the obligation pressing upon every man -worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided -to his protection,—he will at least make some effort to save her. If -_that_ fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for -having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to -the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to -save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his -duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness -of poltroonery. He will die no less: and why not? Wherefore should we -grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No; _let_ him perish, -without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and, in that case, -all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl, who -now, upon the least shadow of failure in _him_, must, by the fiercest -of translations,—must, without time for a prayer,—must, within seventy -seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God. - -But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden -was his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin -that was coming down: already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and -already he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar -thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it -for a shilling a day: ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when -some fearful crisis on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if -running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some mountainous -wave, from which, accordingly as he chooses his course, he describes -two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “This way lies hope; take -the other way and mourn forever!” Yet, even then, amidst the raving of -the seas and the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his -situation,—is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and -to seek all his counsel from _him_! For seven seconds, it might be, of -his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, -as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him. For -five seconds more he sat immovably, like one that mused on some great -purpose. For five he sat with eyes upraised, like one that prayed in -sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide him towards -the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and, by a sudden -strain upon the reins, raising his horse’s forefeet from the ground, -he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind legs, so as to plant the -little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus far -his condition was not improved; except as a first step had been taken -towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was -done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path, -though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late: -fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted; and one almighty -bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry then, hurry! for the -flying moments—_they_ hurry! O, hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for -the cruel hoofs of our horses—_they_ also hurry! Fast are the flying -moments, faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for _him_, if human -energy can suffice: faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty; -faithful was the horse to _his_ command. One blow, one impulse given with -voice and hand by the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if -in the act of rising to a fence, landed the docile creature’s forefeet -upon the crown or arching centre of the road. The larger half of the -little equipage had then cleared our over-towering shadow: _that_ was -evident even to my own agitated sight. But it mattered little that one -wreck should float off in safety, if upon the wreck that perished were -embarked the human freightage. The rear part of the carriage—was _that_ -certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin? What power could answer the -question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing of angel, which of these -had speed enough to sweep between the question and the answer, and divide -the one from the other? Light does not tread upon the steps of light -more indivisibly, than did our all-conquering arrival upon the escaping -efforts of the gig. _That_ must the young man have felt too plainly. His -back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any longer communicate -with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of our harness, too truly had -his ear been instructed,—that all was finished as regarded any further -effort of _his_. Already in resignation he had rested from his struggle; -and perhaps in his heart he was whispering, “Father, which art above, -do thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted.” We ran past -them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight. O, raving of -hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the moment of -our transit! Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of our near -leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood rather -obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel -with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded -terrifically. I rose in horror, to look upon the ruins we might have -caused. From my elevated station I looked down, and looked back upon the -scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its records on my -heart forever. - -The horse was planted immovably, with his forefeet upon the paved crest -of the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the -passion of death. The little cany carriage,—partly perhaps from the -dreadful torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the -thundering blow we had given to it,—as if it sympathized with human -horror, was all alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man -sat like a rock. He stirred not at all. But _his_ was the steadiness -of agitation frozen into rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look -round; for he knew that if anything remained to do, by him it could no -longer be done. And as yet he knew not for certain if their safety were -accomplished. But the lady— - -But the lady,—O heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my -dreams, as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up -her arms wildly to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the -air, fainting, praying, raving, despairing! Figure to yourself, reader, -the elements of the case; suffer me to recall before your mind the -circumstances of the unparalleled situation. From the silence and deep -peace of this saintly summer night,—from the pathetic blending of this -sweet moonlight, dawnlight, dreamlight,—from the manly tenderness of -this flattering, whispering, murmuring love,—suddenly as from the -woods and fields,—suddenly as from the chambers of the air opening in -revelation,—suddenly as from the ground yawning at her feet, leaped upon -her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death the crownéd phantom, with all -the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger roar of his voice. - -The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses -had carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right -angles we wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried -the scene out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams -forever. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Stories of Tragedy, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES OF TRAGEDY *** - -***** This file should be named 61003-0.txt or 61003-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/0/0/61003/ - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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