Strange Visitors
by Henry J. Horn · English · Gutenberg #13237 · 350,705 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Strange Visitors
Author: Henry J. Horn
Release date: August 21, 2004 [eBook #13237]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STRANGE VISITORS ***
STRANGE VISITORS:
A SERIES OF ORIGINAL PAPERS, EMBRACING PHILOSOPHY, SCIENCE, GOVERNMENT,
RELIGION, POETRY, ART, FICTION, SATIRE, HUMOR, NARRATIVE, AND PROPHECY.
BY THE _SPIRITS OF IRVING, WILLIS, THACKERAY, BRONTE, RICHTER, BYRON,
HUMBOLDT, HAWTHORNE, WESLEY, BROWNING_, AND OTHERS NOW DWELLING IN THE
SPIRIT WORLD
DICTATED THROUGH A CLAIRVOYANT, WHILE IN AN ABNORMAL OR TRANCE STATE.
1871
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
HENRY J. RAYMOND _To the New York Public_
MARGARET FULLER _Literature in Spirit Life_
LORD BYRON _To His Accusers_
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE _Apparitions_
WASHINGTON IRVING _Visit to Henry Clay_
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE _To The French Nation_
W. M. THACKERAY _His Post Mortem Experience_
ARCHBISHOP HUGHES _Two Natural Religions_
EDGAR A. POE _The Lost Soul_
JEAN PAUL RICHTER _Invisible Influences_
CHARLOTTE BRONTE _Agnes Reef. A Tale_
ELIZABETH B. BROWNING _To Her Husband_
ARTEMUS WARD _In and Out of Purgatory_
LADY BLESSINGTON _Distinguished Women_
PROFESSOR OLMSTEAD _Locality of the Spirit World_
ADAH ISAACS MENKEN _Hold Me Not_
N.P. WILLIS _Off-Hand Sketches_
MARGARET FULLER _City of Spring Garden_
GILBERT STUART _Art Conversation_
EDWARD EVERETT _Government_
FREDERIKA BREMER _Flight to my Starry Home_
REV. LYMAN BEECHER _The Sabbath--Its Uses_
PROF. GEORGE BUSH _Life and Marriage in Spirit Life_
JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH _Acting by Spirit Influence_
REV. JOHN WESLEY _Church of Christ_
N. P. WILLIS _A Spirit Revisiting Earth_
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM _Alone_
BARON VON HUMBOLDT _The Earthquake_
SIR DAVID BREWSTER _Naturalness of Spirit Life_
H.T. BUCKLE _Mormons_
W.E. BURTON _Drama in Spirit Life_
CHAS. L. ELLIOTT _Painting in Spirit Life_
COMEDIAN’S POETRY _Rollicking Song_
LADY HESTER STANHOPE _Prophecy_
PROFESSOR MITCHELL _The Planets_
DR. JOHN W. FRANCIS _Causes of Disease and Insanity_
ADELAIDE PROCTER _The Spirit Bride_
INTRODUCTION.
_BY THE EDITOR_.
In placing before the public a work with such novel and extraordinary
demands upon its consideration, a few explanatory words seem
appropriate.
Its title and contents will doubtless at first sight cause a smile of
incredulity, and will be regarded by many as one of the devices which
are sometimes put forward to entrap an unsuspecting public into the
perusal of a sensational hoax.
For a number of years past the community has been surprised with
accounts of most incredible marvels; and from time to time the press
has reported various phenomena in connection with an _unrecognized
force and intelligence,_ as occurring in almost every locality
throughout the habitable globe.
These phenomena are thought by many to be mere illusions, and by some
attributed to peculiar electrical conditions; while others seek their
solution in an abnormal state of the brain; and others still believe
them dependent on an actual intercourse between mortals and those who
have passed beyond the grave.
Having become interested in this mysterious and exciting subject, and
finding the means at hand for testing the various phenomena, I resolved
to undertake a series of experiments, with the hope of exposing a
delusion, if such it were, or perchance, of clearing up a mystery
which, by the magnitude and importance it has already assumed, is
disturbing the foundations of old beliefs and steadily diffusing it’s
theories and doctrines into the very heart of society.
Among other expedients to attain this end (assuming the hypothesis
that spirits of the departed were in a condition to communicate with
mortals), I interrogated, through the instrumentality of a clairvoyant
gifted with the remarkable power of passing at will into an unconscious
or trance state, the spirits of a number of well-known individuals
concerning their views and sentiments in their present state of
existence.
In response to my questions, an intelligent answer was received from
the Countess Ossoli (Margaret Fuller), with the assurance that my
desire was apprehended and would receive the hearty co-operation of
those to whom it was addressed.
The process by which the papers were given was that of dictation
through the clairvoyant while in an abnormal or trance condition and
with her eyes closed. The matter was written in pencil as it fell from
her lips, and subsequently transcribed for the press.
The difficulties attending the transmission of ideas through the medium
of another mind, even under ordinary circumstances, must be apparent
to all, and the unprejudiced reader may readily perceive obstacles to
the literal reproduction of their respective styles and language by the
various contributors.
Yet, notwithstanding the impediments to felicity of expression, I feel
assured that persons at all familiar with the characteristics of the
originals will readily perceive a marked resemblance in style to that
of the authors named.
In the delivery of the articles, their composers would usually assume
or personate their own individual characteristics; thus, Artemus Ward’s
conversation and gestures were exceedingly ludicrous. He was the very
personification of mirth, occasionally going to the wall and humorously
“chalking out” his designs. Archbishop Hughes expressed himself in
a quiet, earnest, and eloquent manner. Lady Blessington was full of
vivacity, and Margaret Fuller was our Presiding Angel; while Booth
would become vehement to an intense degree, and at times would mount
some article of furniture in the room, becoming passionately eloquent,
as if again upon the “mimic stage of life.”
An intelligent public will perceive the mental effort incident upon
the production of a series of articles so unusually varied; embracing
the distinctive qualities of Philosophy, Science, Religion, Political
Economy, Government, Satire, Humor, Poetry, Fiction, Narrative, Art,
Astronomy, etc., etc.; and the query has fitly been advanced,--what
mind, in the exercise of its normal functions,--has furnished a
consecutive number of essays so surprising in novelty, so diverse
in sentiment, so consistent in treatment, and so forcibly original,
as those embraced in this volume? What intellect so versatile as to
reproduce in song and narrative the characteristic styles of so many,
and yet so dissimilar authors?
In designating the locality of the Second Life, frequent repetition of
certain terms, such as spirit world, etc., were unavoidable. For weeks
and months the unseen visitors were punctual to their appointments,
and this novel mode of book-making proceeded steadily in interest and
variety until the volume was completed.
The work is now inscribed to a discriminating public, with a lively
confidence that the advanced intelligence and freedom of the age will
yield it an ingenuous reception.
HENRY J. HORN.
NEW YORK, _October 1st_, 1869.
STRANGE VISITORS.
HENRY J. RAYMOND.
_TO THE NEW YORK PUBLIC_.
I have often thought that if it should ever be my privilege to become
a ghost I would enlighten the poor, benighted denizens of the earth as
to how _I did it_, and give a more definite account of what I should
see, and the transformation that would befall me, than either Benjamin
Franklin or George Washington had been able to do in the jargon that
had been set before me by Spiritualists as coming from those worthies.
“Stuff!” I have exclaimed again and again, after looking over spirit
communications and wondering why a man should become so stilted because
he had lost his avoirdupoise.
The opportunity which I boasted I would not let slip has arrived. The
public must judge of how I avail myself of this ghostly power.
Now and then I was troubled with strange misgivings about the future
life. I had a hope that man might live hereafter, but death was a
solemn fact to me, into whose mystery I did not wish too closely to pry.
“Presentiments,” as the great English novelist remarks, “are strange
things.” That connection with some coming event which one feels like a
shadowy hand softly touching him, is inexplicable to most men.
I remember to have felt several times in my life undefined
foreshadowings of some future which was to befall me; and just previous
to my departure from earth, as has been generally stated in the
journals of the day, I experienced a similar sensation. An awful blank
seemed before me--a great chasm into which I would soon be hurled. This
undefined terror took no positive shape.
After the death of my son I felt like one who stood upon a round ball
which rolled from under him and left him nowhere.
The sudden death of James Harper added another shock to that which
I had already felt. I did not understand then, though I have since
comprehended it, that I was like some great tree, rooted in the ground,
which could not be dragged from the earth in which it was buried until
it had received some sudden blow to loosen its hold and make its grip
less tenacious.
But in the very midst of these feelings I sought the society of
friends, and endeavored around the social board to exhilarate my senses
and drown these undesirable fancies.
Life seemed more secure among friends, but death was not to be dodged.
It caught me unarmed and alone at midnight in the very doorway of my
house.
I had crossed the threshold, and remember trying to find the stairs
and being seized with a dizziness. The place seemed to spin around and
I felt that I was falling. Next, a great weight seemed to press me
down like some horrid nightmare. I endeavored to groan, to cry out and
struggle from under it, but it held me fast. After this I seemed to be
falling backward through a blackness--an inky blackness. It came close
to me, and pressed close upon my lips and my eyes. It smothered me; I
could not breathe.
Then ensued a struggle within me such as Lazarus might have felt when
he endeavored to break through his grave cerements. It was frightful,
that effort for mastery!
I understand it now. It was the soul fighting its way into birth as a
spiritual being, like a child fighting its way out of its mother’s womb.
I remember feeling faint and confused after that, like one who has long
been deprived of food. An unconsciousness stole over me for a moment,
from which I was awakened by a sudden burst of light. I seemed to open
my eyes upon some glorious morning. I felt an arm around me; I turned
and met the smiling face of my son. I thought myself in a dream, and
yet I was filled with awe.
I had a consciousness that some strange transformation had taken place.
My son’s voice murmured in my ear, “Father, go with me now.” As he
spoke, his voice sounded like the vibration of distant bells. When he
touched me a fire seemed to thrill through my veins. I felt like a boy;
a wild, prankish sensation of freedom possessed me. My body lay upon
the ground. I laughed at it; I could have taken it and tossed it in the
air.
“Come, let’s go,” said I; “don’t stay here.”
My chief desire was to get out of the house. Like a boy who must fly
his kite, out I would go. I feared I might be caught and taken back if
I did not hasten, and moved toward the door. The seams of that door,
which I had always thought well joined, seemed now to stand twelve
inches or more apart. Every atom of that wood which had appeared so
solid to me was now more porous than any sponge or honey-comb. Out
we went through the crevice. A party of men were standing upon the
doorsteps. One put forth his hand to grasp mine. I laughed aloud when I
recognized the person as James Harper! Another was Richmond; another,
one of my associates in the editorial corps. I was perfectly amazed,
and set up a hilarious shout, which they echoed in great glee. We
started forth, a convivial party. The atmosphere hung in heavy masses
around the houses, like the morning mists about the base of a mountain.
We did not walk on the ground; the air was solid enough to bear us. I
felt that we were rising above the city. My senses seemed magnified.
The comprehension of all I did was very acute. We kept along the
earth’s atmosphere for quite a distance.
“Let us sail out,” said I, at last.
“We cannot yet; we must wait till we reach the current. If we go
outside of that, we may be lost in the intense cold and the poisonous
gases, or we may be swallowed up in the vortex of some flaming comet,”
answered my wise companions.
The statement looked very reasonable, so I allowed myself to be
guided and we soon found ourselves in a great belt of light of a pale
rose-color, in which we sailed seemingly without any effort, moving
the hands and arms at times and at other times folding them across our
breasts.
As we advanced the channel in which we moved increased in depth and
brilliancy of color, and I grew more and more exhilarated. Finally we
paused and commenced to descend. The air was very luminous, radiating
and scintillating like the flashing of diamonds, and so electric that
the concussion of sound vibrated like the peal from some distant organ.
Looking down through the glittering atmosphere that surrounded me, I
perceived what appeared to be the uplifting peak of a mountain. A halo
of light rested upon its summit, and we seemed drawn toward it with a
gentle force.
This mountain, I was informed, was one of a magnetic chain which belts
the spirit world. In color and material it was like an opal.
I was told that a peculiar sympathy existed between it and the human
spirit. When individuals on earth are in juxtaposition with this
mountain they feel a strange yearning for the spirit home.
Now then the mysterious riddle is solved, thought I; and this must be
the spiritual north pole!
We soon stood upon _terra-firma_, if these translucent rocks could
be called _terra-firma_ which rose in glittering and polished peaks
all around us. They were wonderfully iridescent, so that no bed of
gorgeously-colored flowers could have filled the eye with a greater
variety of tints.
A few steps around a projecting bluff brought us within sight of what
appeared to me a magnificent palace of alabaster. This palace I soon
learned was a hotel, or place of resort for travellers.
In ascending its polished steps I was met by some half dozen persons
whom I had known. You may be sure a wonderful handshaking ensued. We
remained here but a few moments, partook of refreshments, and then
proceeded to the court-yard, where I was told a car awaited to carry us
to our destination.
The car seemed to be a frame-work, apparently of silver wire. We now
comfortably seated ourselves, when two large wings struck out from it
like those of some great condor. We moved rapidly over the acclivity.
This is a new way of crossing the mountains, thought I; I will have to
introduce it in the Sierra Nevada and Colorados.
I inquired how the machine was propelled, and was informed, “Simply by
a chemical arrangement similar to your galvanic battery.”
You may conceive my astonishment when we descended into a park of a
vast city.
“My God!” exclaimed I, “it cannot be that I am in the spirit world!
Why, look at the houses and churches, and temples! What magnificent
buildings!” But I must say the material alone struck me as something
sublime and unearthly. So transparent and rich in color, reflecting
light as if through a veil or mist! “This caps all,” said I, as doctors
and lawyers, artists and authors, whom I had known, stepped up to greet
me, smiling and full of life. “Why, how is this?” “Is this you?” “Where
did you come from?” Questions like these came from all sides. Francis
and Brady, Willis, Morris, and a host of New Yorkers who had slipped
out of sight and almost out of mind, now gathered around me as if by
miracle. I rubbed my eyes in wonder. Spying Brown, I cried out, “Why,
how is this, Brown? It can’t be that I am in heaven! Do you have such
things here? Houses, stores, and works of art on every side?”
“Yes; people must live,” said he, “wherever they be.”
“And are men here the same, with all their faculties?” I asked.
“Yes; why not? Have you any you’d like to lose?”
I shook my head and walked on absorbed in thought. And are all our
paraphernalia for funerals, our solemn black, and our long prayers but
useless ceremonies? Why, according to this, the beliefs of the Chinese,
Hottentot, African, and Indian are nearer the truth than our civilized
creeds!
I find that there are few things in which society in this world so much
differs from that of earth as in its social and political arrangements.
All the great system of living for appearances, and the habit of
self-deception whereby men live outwardly what their secret lives
disavow, are here entirely done away with.
In the first place the marriage relations differ materially from those
of earth, and no false sentiment nor custom, nor religious belief,
holds together as companions those who are dissimilar in their nature.
Neither do men crucify their tastes and feelings from a mistaken idea
of duty.
The miseries and disasters which are attendant on a life on earth they
view as a parent would view the whooping-cough or scarlatina which
afflict the body of his child--as necessary steps toward his growth and
progress from youth to manhood.
A remarkable instance of this came under my own observation. You
remember that the singular and sudden death of Abraham Lincoln was a
matter of surprise to us. We could not see the purpose of an all-wise
Providence in this sudden closing of an eventful career. It was
discussed in every newspaper in the land, and the conclusion was that
the Creator had some special purpose in his removal, and this we all
believed.
But here the enigma is solved.
Standing face to face and walking side by side, as I have done for the
last few days with this man, raised as some suppose for the special
purpose of freeing the slave--a martyr for principle--I find that he
enjoys as a good joke, this martyrdom, and I have also ascertained the
solemn fact that he was removed, not by God, but by spirit politicians,
God’s agents.
And the state of the case is this: the Southern rebels, hot-blooded
and revengeful, who were arriving daily by scores and hundreds, in
the spirit world, finding their cause discomfited and worsted, became
mutinous. They were too raw and new to fall into the harmony of the
spirit life, and they threatened a second war in Heaven; a war which
those young Lucifers would have waged with terrific power.
To quell this disturbance and produce a counteraction, it was necessary
that one whom they looked upon as the great leader of the Northern
cohorts should be withdrawn from the post which he occupied.
A man of calm, dispassionate judgment, not vindictive, who could hold
the reins with a firm hand, yet look with a lenient eye on the follies
which he did not share, was needed in the spirit world, and that man
was Abraham Lincoln.
When those young Southern bloods had conspired with their co-patriot to
his downfall, had instigated and accomplished his assassination, and
when he appeared in their midst, the simple, unaffected, _uncrafty_ man
that he was, a revulsion of feeling immediately took place.
The liberal party in the spirit world, friends to humanity and
progress, could have prevented his removal had they wished; but not
desiring to do so, they prepared his mind by dreams and visions for
what was about to take place.
For a short time in the spirit world he held the position of
Pacificator and chief ruler over that portion of the American, spirit
world represented by the North and South.
But after averting this peril, which would have involved the States in
anarchy and war such as they had not yet experienced, he retired to
private life.
Another instance, proving that the inhabitants of the spirit world,
like their great prototype, the Creator, do not look at immediate
distress, but at the advantages that may accrue therefrom, presents
itself in my removal from the sphere in which I had probably worked out
all that would be useful to humanity.
Like a _chargé d’affaires_ called back to Washington because he can
fill a better post, so I, through the solicitations of relatives and
fellow-citizens who have preceded me to this new world, was called here
for the purpose of editing a journal and assisting in ameliorating the
condition of the inhabitants of the Southern States, and also to use my
influence in the Congress and Senate at Washington toward producing a
better comprehension of their needs.
I have one thing to say to my brother journalist, Horace Greeley, and
that is that the Utopian ideas which have for so many years formed the
principal topic of his radical sheet are here put in operation.
Each one seems desirous of cooperating with his neighbor, and people
of like tastes and feelings associate together and live in vast
communities or cities. They do not settle down to one routine, as they
do with you. The cost of travelling depending chiefly on the will
and energy of the individual, the inhabitants are ever in motion,
ever ready for a change, if wisdom or pleasure should dictate it.
The condition of the common people is vastly improved, and America
has been the chief agent in placing the lower classes in a condition
which adapts them to a higher spiritualized life. I say lower classes,
because under the system of monarchical governments, the peasants and
laborers of Europe have been kept in a state of besotted ignorance,
developing chiefly in the animal propensities, and not fitting
themselves for the higher enjoyments of the spirit life.
Finding that the spirit world was likely to be overrun by this class of
ignorant and superstitions people, its wise rulers have instigated the
legislators of the United States to provide means for the education and
development of these lower classes of society.
It is only by assimilating with those of a higher intellectual
development that the ignorant become enlightened, and America, in
throwing down all barriers to political and social advancement, has
been the chief instrument of lifting the great mass of humanity to
a position of power in the spirit world; still there are crowds of
beings, ignorant and superstitious, who enter the spirit world, and
their intellects can only be unfolded by the labor and guidance of some
master mind.
I was surprised to find that physical labor here, as on earth, was
one of the chief means employed to assist in mental growth; and I
found swarms of English, Irish, and German people happily at work,
cultivating the land and erecting houses for themselves and others, and
assisting in the great machinery of life, which here, as in the other
world, revolves its constant round.
I had nearly forgotten to mention that since leaving your world I
returned on one occasion to attend a _séance_, as it is termed, for
physical manifestations, and had the pleasure of seeing how our
chemists combine from the elements the semblance of the human form. I
had been interested when on earth in an experiment recently made by
scientific men, whereby, through a peculiar combination of metals,
a flame is caused to assume the shapes of flowers, leaves, fishes,
and reptiles, apparently developed from the air, and I discovered an
intelligent solution of the remarkable experiment in the manifestations
I witnessed at this _séance_.
It appears that every particle in nature throws off a gaseous
emanation, partaking of its particular shape. These gaseous particles
are not discernible with the material eye, excepting when by chance
they coalesce, and then a phosphorescent light ensues, which renders
them apparent.
A similar effect to this is seen in electricity, which lies latent and
viewless till by a sudden coalescing of its parts it manifests itself
in zigzag lines and flashes of light which illuminate the heavens.
Now certain material bodies have the power of drawing those atoms in
close affinity, and when they are thus drawn, the shapes alluded to are
clearly discernible by the human eye.
I discovered another fact, and that is that every human being emits a
light, and in the case of those called “mediums,” it is intense like
the Drummond light, and a spirit standing in its rays will become
visible to mortal sight.
These experiments interested me highly, as they had been heretofore
inexplicable to my mind.
_Apropos_ of the topics of to-day, I must here relate what I have heard
of the “Lord Byron scandal,” which is creating so marked a sensation
at present. I am told by Byron and others that Lady Byron, recently
arriving in the spirit world and finding matters very different from
what she had expected, and that she was received nowhere as the wife of
Lord Byron (who having resided there some thirty years had formed a new
and happy alliance), was stung with jealousy and vexation and hastened
to inspire Mrs. Stowe to repeat the story which had become a matter of
faith with her, hoping thereby to inflict a punishment on Byron, who
ignored his relation to her.
If she had waited until she had resided a little longer in spirit life
she would not have pursued so foolish a course. But I must bring this
long letter to a close, assuring my friends that I have the prospect of
as active a life before me as the one I have just closed on earth.
MARGARET FULLER.
_LITERATURE IN SPIRIT LIFE_.
To a mind familiar with the literature of the ancient Greeks and
Romans, which has studied the Scandinavian Edda, and is intimate with
the more modern German, French, and English authors, the literature of
the spirit world opens up a mine of interminable wealth.
The libraries in this world are vast catacombs or repositories of
buried knowledge. Here are found histories of decayed races, dynasties,
and nations which have vanished from earth, leaving scarce a monument
of their progress in art, science, and mental culture. In these
libraries the student of history will find the exploits of ancient
peoples recorded, and a description of their cities, with the temples
and towers which they built and the colossal images which they created.
I own to the surprise which I experienced when I discovered that
printed books were a part of the treasures of the spirit world. But
the scholar will rejoice as I did to find the literary productions of
remotest ages garnered in the spacious halls of science that adorn our
cities.
It is a principle of being--a condition of immortality--as inseparable
from spirit existence as from earth life, that thought should express
itself in external forms. Even the Great Spirit, the Creator of all,
gives shape to his thoughts in the formation of trees, flowers, men,
beasts, and myriad worlds with their constant motion, their sound and
song.
It has been aptly said that the “stars are the poetry of God.” He, the
Great Spirit of all, writes his thoughts legibly; and so man, like his
originator, whether living in the natural body or existing as a spirit,
gives outward shape to his ideas; hence books become a necessity of
spirit existence, and the writers from earth have still a desire to
perpetuate their thoughts.
Oral communication is too evanescent, and therefore the dear old books
still find a place in the spheres.
There are various modes of making these volumes, and the writer may
become his own printer.
Some authors prefer to dictate, and a little instrument marks off the
variations of sound which make the word, and thus, as he speaks, the
word is impressed on the sheet.
Others, if the thought be clear and distinct enough, and the will
sufficiently under abeyance, act through the mind upon a conductor,
which dots down the thought in a manner somewhat similar to telegraphic
printing.
The material used to receive the impression is of a soft, vellum-like
nature, which can be folded up in any manner without destroying its
form; it is very light and thin, but opaque, like the creamy petals of
a lily.
The phonetic alphabet is used extensively, though we have many books
printed in the mode usually adopted on earth.
All nature is constantly changing and progressing. The bards who sang
upon the earth centuries ago--Homer, Virgil, the Greek and Roman, the
Celtic and Saxon writers of old--have passed beyond the spirit sphere
which I inhabit to a spirit planet still more refined, and have left
behind only the records of their strange experience.
The eighteenth century cannot walk side by side with the third or
fourth century more readily in the spirit world than on earth.
The character of the spirit literature of the present day is
essentially scientific and explorative. We have in our world, as you
have in yours, intrepid travellers--learned men, who make voyages to
almost inaccessible planets--and they return even as those of earth,
with sketches and graphic outlines of the strange sights they have
witnessed; and those less venturesome who remain at home are as anxious
as your citizens might be to hear accounts of wonderful regions that
have been visited. And such books of travel are sought eagerly.
We have but few works on theology; the nature and essence of God is
discussed with us, but not so elaborately as with you.
Spirits who have passed into a second life have so nearly approached
the mystery of a Divine Being that they do not desire to debate the
subject.
A large proportion of our writers are devoted to what you would here
term transcendental thought, a kind of literature which lies between
poetry and music, which awakens a feeling of ecstasy, and gives, as it
were, wings to the soul.
The poets who sang upon earth during the last century, of whom Shelly,
Keats, and Byron are an English type, and Halleck, Pierrepont, Dana,
and Willis the American representatives, are among the most inspired
and far-reaching of our present writers of poetry and song.
Our literature has one great advantage over that of earth, in that our
separate nationalities become merged in one grand unit. We do not need
translators, as we have adopted a universal written language. There
are some writers who still retain, as I have said, the modes adopted
on earth, but those who have been resident any length of time in the
spirit sphere employ the plan of writing by signs, which are understood
and acknowledged by every nationality.
I should like, in closing, to introduce an extract from an old volume
which I found in a library in the city of Spring Garden.
It was written by Addison during his sojourn in that city, in the
year 1720, and is in the form of a letter, supposed to be written to
a friend on earth. In it he essays to portray the expansion of mind
he has experienced in his new home through the magnetic influence of
thought language:
“Behold the far off luminary suspended millions and billions and
trillions of miles in space; then turn the eye yonder and see that
infinitesimal point of vegetation, earth--a speck, countless multitudes
of which heaped and piled together would form but a point compared with
that majestic sun!
“Yet behold it move and expand beneath the long fibrous rays which that
effulgent orb sends down through so many billions of miles to the place
of its minute existence. Even as that poor little existence shoots out
its fibres to meet those rays which have travelled such great lengths,
so a spirit in the spheres feels the quickening, effulgent rays thrown
out by the brain of some prophet or poet existing millions and billions
and trillions of miles away on some distant spirit planet, and his
thought expands and enlarges beneath the warming action of that far-off
brain, until it assumes a shape and form which its own emulation never
prophesied.”
BYRON.
_TO HIS ACCUSERS_.
I.
My soul is sick of calumny and lies:
Men gloat on evil--even woman’s hand
Will dabble in the mire, nor heed the cries
Of the poor victim whom she seeks to brand
In thy sweet name, Religion, through the land!
Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey,
Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand,
While vaunting her misdeeds before the day,
Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.
II.
My sister, have I lived to see thy name
Dishonored? Thou, who wast my pride, my stay;
Shall Jealousy and Fraud thy love defame
And I be dumb? Just Heaven, let a ray
From thy majestic light illume earth’s clay,[A]
That through her I may scorch the slander vile,
And light throughout the land a torch to-day,
Which shall reveal how false and full of guile
Are they who seek thy name, Augusta, to defile.
[Footnote A: The Clairvoyant.]
III.
She who has borne my title and my name,
In deeds fraternal saw some monster crime;
To her base level sought my heart to tame,
Made mock of each aspiring thought sublime,
And sought to bury me beneath the slime
Of her imaginings. All--all are gone
Who could defend me. From the grave of time
I am unearth’d--by sland’rous miscreants torn,
And rise to feel again the ills I once have borne.
IV.
Is this a Christian deed, to flaunt a vice,
And with another’s failings gild your own?
To hearken to the whisperings and device
Of old age, selfish, to suspicion grown?
To misconstrue each friendly look--each tone--
And out of natural love create vile lust?
Must brother’s heart his very kin disown,
While rudest hand disturbs her mouldering dust?
Is this a Christian deed? Shall mankind call it just?
V.
But let that pass. I hear a nation’s voice
Raised to defend the absent, wronged child;
My hopes and aims were high, albeit my choice
Was fixed on one who felt not for my wild
And wayward nature; one who never smiled
On imperfection. From my home of light
Unscathed, I see life’s blackening billows piled,
Ready to sweep the daring soul from sight,
Sinking his name and memory in darkest night.
VI.
I rise again above the woes of earth,
Like unchained bird, seeking my native air.
Men seldom see their fellow-creatures’ worth,
But blot sweet nature’s page, however fair.
Away, my soul, and seek thy nobler state,
Where loving angels breathe their softest prayer,
Where sweetest seraphs for thy coming wait,
And ne’er suspicion’s breath can pass the Golden Gate.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.
_APPARITIONS_.
Returning one evening from a visit to a friend on earth, I was impelled
to take a route with which I was unfamiliar. It led me far beyond
the habitations of the city, into an open country whose surface was
diversified by sloping hills and broad valleys.
The sun was quite low in the horizon, and dark purple clouds, gathering
in the west, indicated an approaching storm. Anxious to reach my
spirit-home before such an event, I was nevertheless compelled to keep
within the earth’s atmosphere.
The aspect of the country became more uneven as I advanced, and the
disappearing sun threw out the hills in cold blue relief against the
evening sky. One peak to the northward stood high and isolated from
the surrounding hills, and was crowned by a spacious dwelling house;
the high peaked roof and dark gloomy color of its exterior comported
strangely with the landscape.
To this building an unseen influence drew me. As I approached nearer
I discovered the figure of a man walking with restless step upon
the piazza which surrounded the dwelling. At times he would suspend
his walk, and crouch, shuddering as with fear, against the shadowed
balustrade. His face was of ashy paleness, and his hair, black as
night, fell in neglected masses around his head. His eyes were bright
and glassy, and their expression frightful to look upon.
Unconscious of my proximity, he arose from his crouching position,
stood for a moment irresolute, and then walked up to the heavy oaken,
door and knocked.
Presently the door was opened by a lady; she looked out, but could see
no one. “It must have been the wind,” said she, shuddering slightly,
and drawing her shawl closely around her, was about to close the door.
But before she could accomplish her purpose the unseen guest had
entered, with myself following closely behind, hoping to give comfort
where it appeared most sorely needed.
Up a broad staircase he ascended and at a chamber door he paused--then
entered. I followed. His presence seemed to cause the very furniture to
shake and rattle.
“Here,” thought I, “I will solve the enigma. Here, without doubt, has
occurred some grand disturbance of nature. The walls of this apartment,
its casements, its decorations, have been witness to some fell crime.
The spectre of evil impresses itself upon matter.”
While reflecting upon this wonderful law, which all my life I had
perceived dimly, I observed with care the evidently unhappy man. A
bedstead of rich workmanship occupied one side of the apartment.
Rushing toward it he burst forth in a cry of frenzy, swaying his hands
fearfully and ejaculating and groaning in most piteous accents.
At this juncture steps were heard outside ascending the stairs, and
several members of the household entered, bearing lights. They looked
about the room, at first timidly; then, gathering courage, peered under
the bed, opened closets, and scrutinized every nook and corner of the
apartment. Foiled in their efforts to discover the inmate they turned
to each other with amazement.
“I am positive the sounds came from this room,” said one. “There is no
one to be seen here,” replied another; “what can it mean?”
The culprit stood in the corner, gesticulating violently, but they with
their mortal eyes could not see him. They passed close to him, but
their lighted candles could not reveal the shadowless!
Having satisfied themselves that the room was tenantless, they
departed. Then I approached the unhappy wretch:
“Friend,” said I, “let me aid you. Unburden your woo to me; I too have
suffered and am not without sin.”
Casting his eyes upon me now for the first time, the man scowled with
dogged sullenness, and said:
“I want no help.”
“Nay,” said I, “your looks belie your words; come, go with me to my
quiet cottage; there you shall refresh yourself; you shall sleep
to-night in peace.”
“Peace!” he repeated scornfully. “I know no peace; nor can I leave this
spot till every eye beholds the horrid deed that I committed here.”
“Friend,” said I, “tell me the nature of your crime; reveal to me your
secret and your heart will be lighter for it.”
“Ha! ha!” he answered, his voice dying away in a low wail. “Look upon
that wall opposite the bed; it will speak better than I can.” I looked,
and beheld a faint photograph or impression of the couch, with its
handsome drapery. Upon it reclined the figure of a female, and bending
over her appeared the form of a man, whose livid face and black,
disordered hair I recognized as an unmistakable reflection of the
unfortunate man before me.
“You see that ‘the very stones cry out against me,’” said he. “Every
night for two years have I enacted that same scene, and I am held by
some unseen, influence to this baneful spot.”
“Tell me your story,” said I; “hide nothing--I am your friend.”
He ran his thin fingers through his tangled hair, and with a voice
husky with emotion answered:
“I will tell you. Some years ago, when a young man, haughty and
passionate, I had the misfortune to love a girl whose youth and beauty
proved my bane, and in a moment of recklessness I married her. In her
nature were mingled the qualities of the serpent and the dove. She was
my inferior, and I could not own her outwardly nor inwardly as my wife;
but, unhappily for the peace of both, I could not rid myself of her. I
gave her money, but it availed not; she was ignorant, and persisted in
following me.” Here the man looked around with a nervous air, as if he
expected to see the unwelcome face peering at him through the shadows.
“To avoid her,” he continued, “I secretly purchased this dwelling,
remote from the place of her abode. There I lived for a brief time,
happy; a new life with loftier purposes dawned upon me; I formed
another attachment--a higher and more noble one.
“One evening as I was walking upon the balcony thinking of my new-found
joys, a figure came creeping up through the shrubbery towards me. To my
amazement it proved to be the girl who claimed me.
“When I saw her, rage entered my heart, and I felt as if I could
annihilate her. But, suppressing all show of feeling, I went with her
into the house, and appointed her this room for the night. A demoniac
idea had presented itself to my mind; it came unsought, but under the
excitement of the moment it seemed like a good angel of deliverance.
“To further this idea, I lay down beside her. Presently she fell into
a light slumber. At first a slight expression of pleasure played upon
her lips, but ere long the fatigue of her journey overcame her, and she
slept heavily.
“Then,” said he, his countenance assuming a convulsive and ghastly
aspect, “I arose on tiptoe, and collecting the heavy comforters and
large downy pillows of the bed, I deliberately piled them on her one
upon the other, and pressing them down with all my gathered force, I
stifled her in her sleep!
“No cry, no groan from my victim betrayed the unhallowed deed, and
before the first dawn of day I was driving furiously over the road to
the river’s bank, from which into the watery depth below I threw this
millstone of my life.
“When I drove back the morning had dawned. The daylight seemed to pry
into the secrets of the past night. I would fain shun it--the garish
light disturbed me. The morning sun, which had ever been my delight,
seemed now a mocking imp of curiosity; the house and grounds looked
bare and desolate; a blight had fallen upon their former comeliness.
“A strange fascination again drew me into the chamber which had been
the scene of my crime. When there I re-enacted the last night’s work.
The bed and furniture seemed to come toward me and taunt me with the
fell crime I had committed. ‘I was justified in the act,’ said I to
these dumb accusers, as though they had been, living witnesses. ‘She
was the bane of my existence.’ And with cunning precision I arranged
the disordered room, smoothed the pillows, and levelled the coverlet.
‘The dead cannot speak,’ said I. ‘This thing is hidden.’
“After this performance I went forth, hoping by a sharp walk to drown
the memory of the momentary deed. I passed through the garden and
reached the sloping hill. There, where the low fence joined the open
road, I was met by the lady whom I loved. She was taking the morning
air, and with her smiling face seemed drinking in its balmy freshness.
“‘You look ill,’ said she, with a pitying glance. ‘See what I have
brought for you,’ and she held forth a newly-plucked bouquet of flowers.
“I took the proffered blossoms hurriedly, dreading to meet her clear
eye, which I felt must surely read my guilt. Burying the flowers in my
breast, and with an effort to smile that sickened me, I bowed low to
the ground and hurried on.
“When beyond her sight I drew the nosegay from its hiding place--it was
withered as if scorched by a burning heat! Upon looking closer at this
strange phenomena, I beheld, to my horror, in dim outline, the face of
the murdered! Whence came the impression? Had my riotous heart burnt
the secret upon those blushing petals?
“Frantically I tore open my shirt, when lo! upon my breast I beheld
imprinted a picture of the direful deed--seared in by rays more potent
than the sun’s--photographed there, as if by the lightning’s fierce
stroke!
“Presently a band of children on their way to school overtook me, and
began to whisper to each other as they passed. I saw that they looked
at me with suspicion in their eyes. ‘They too can see the brand,’
thought I; ‘they are mouthing about it now.’
“Urged to desperation, I plunged into a thicket near by. Amid a group
of trees in its centre, one lifted itself higher and straighter than
its companions. Upon its topmost branch, as I chanced to lift my eyes,
I beheld to my terror the woman whom I had sent into eternity, looking
down upon me with scoffs and grimaces!
“The ghostly apparition wrought me to frenzy. In hot haste I climbed
the tree. Its straight, smooth sides, under ordinary circumstances
would have proved a barrier to my efforts, but in my excitement they
formed no obstacle. Reaching the top, I endeavored to grasp her.
Stretching out my arms and clasping frantically the air, I fell dead to
the ground.
“Thus was I born into the spirit world. The idea that last possessed me
on earth, first possessed me in the spirit life.
“No mortal man can describe the horror I experienced on finding myself
in the midst of a boundless space, face to face with mine enemy. Her
narrow intellect and strong animal nature seemed to have expanded,
even as I have seen the face of a child expand from pleasing infancy
into idiotic youth. This animal part of her immortality roused my
ire--struck some savage chord in my nature--and I rose up like a wild
beast to attack her; but the creature laughed and jeered at my vain
efforts. She led me thus, in fruitless pursuit, further and further
into space; inciting me on by her taunts and ringing laugh, until I
found myself in a dark and noisome pit, when she suddenly vanished.
“Ignorant of the peculiarities of spirit condition, I could not grope
my way out of this place, which appeared to me a very hell. I wandered
in this gloomy labyrinth, breathing the foul air, and uttering fearful
cries which struck my ears with anguish. Black, threatening shapes
appeared to stand in the intricate windings of that gloomy cavern,
ready to seize me if I dared to essay my escape. When my agony had
reached its utmost bounds of endurance, I felt myself growing strangely
light, and like some thin vapor I ascended to the mouth of the pit and
made my exit into the outer air.
“The place I then discovered to be merely a cavern or deserted mine,
but to my unhappy condition of mind it had appeared as the home of the
damned.
“Out into space again, I saw afar off, as across the continent, the
dwelling where I had passed the last days of my eventful life. A
current of air like the shock from an electric wire carried me back to
the spot.
“Returned to the scene of my crime, I became possessed with the desire
to expose to view the deed I had committed, and to reveal my villany
to the community. For two weary years I have hovered around this place
for that purpose; but I have failed hitherto, as you have seen me fail
to-night.”
As he finished his narrative I observed he seemed about to relax into
a morbid condition again. To prevent this, I seized him kindly by the
shoulder and exclaimed, “Friend, you must come with me. Your life,
your future welfare is imperiled. You are like one shut up in a vault,
breathing his own exhalations. You do not understand the science of
mind.”
“The science of mind?” said he. “What have I to do with that? ’Tis the
curse of Cain resting upon me. I cannot undo the evil that I have done.
I am an outcast!”
“The wrong you have done,” said I, “becomes doubly, trebly magnified
by thus living it over day by day. You have committed a crime. Do you
wish to perpetuate that crime? You pursue the very course to make it
permanent and enduring. Mind acts upon matter and matter reacts upon
mind. You have made the house a partner to the deed you have committed
by constantly associating it with the act. You have tainted its walls
and poisoned it within and without.
“It becomes sentient and reacts upon you. It becomes a magnet, a
loadstone to draw you. Your constant habit of associating it in your
mind with the past, creates around it an atmosphere which is a part of
your being and welds you to it, so that you, the house, and the deed,
become one mighty monster, inseparable. The idea that you can expiate
the deed by this self-torture is vain. You can neither confer good upon
yourself nor your victim. Leave off and follow me.”
These last words seemed to have the desired effect, for he raised his
eyes with a sad smile, placed his hand in mine, and said:
“I will go with you.”
Happy that my efforts proved availing, I hurried on in a joyous mood,
soon rising above the earth and bearing my companion to my spirit home.
The pure air of the fragrant fields revived him, and by the time we
arrived at my own garden-home he seemed born into a new life.
I set him down under my arbor, now dripping with golden fruits,
and having refreshed him with cordial (angels’ food), I called his
attention to the beauties around us; the birds, the flowers, and the
luxurious growth of nature, which shed such abundance around my home.
“See,” said I, “how nature works. If the roots of the tree meet with
obstacles they start off in another direction. They do not wind and
wind themselves around one spot. If they did death would ensue.
“In every man’s life there are deeds to be regretted--wrongs which he
would gladly undo--but painful imaginings and fruitless remorse will
not set them right. Only by being actively engaged in some nobler
direction can atonement be made.
“This woman, whom you have injured, is in magnetic rapport with you;
and while you are in this moody, self-denunciatory frame of mind, your
restless, unhappy condition acts upon her, preventing her from becoming
contented and happy; then her state reacts back upon you, and thus an
evil equilibrium is maintained.”
“I see my error,” he exclaimed. “Tell me what to do and I will do it.”
It was arranged that he should remain with me. We worked together; he
became happy and his mind no longer reverted to the past, but active
and healthful employment engaged his hours.
When he had recovered sufficiently I took him to see his former
companion. He found her in a pleasant home, looking buoyant and happy.
All that was demoniac had vanished from her face. Surprised, he burst
into tears as he beheld her. “Weep not,” said she, “for I am happy now.
The past is forgotten.”
They compared notes, and found that peace had entered into her soul
when he had obliterated the past from his memory and commenced his
labors in a new life.
Thus we see that the evil passions and attributes of one nature may
awaken and kindle like passions in another, which can only be subdued
by letting them pass unnoticed, and also by arousing the higher
faculties into activity.
WASHINGTON IRVING.
_VISIT TO HENRY CLAY_.
Having recovered my health after a sojourn of two weeks amid the
charming scenery of Mount Rosalia, or the “Rose-colored Mount,” I set
forth one morning, accompanied by a competent guide, to visit the home
of my friend, Henry Clay. The morning was uncommonly fine, even for the
sweet Land of the Blest, and the fragrance from the roses blooming upon
the hill-side was fairly intoxicating.
Our phaeton was a small, white, swan-shaped carriage, ornamented with
golden designs, and propelled by a galvanic battery in the graceful
swan-head, which at my request took the place of the ordinary steed.
This was, to me, an exceedingly novel mode of travel, which my short
sojourn in the spirit world had prevented me from before enjoying.
We glided over the electric ground with the speed of lightning and
smooth harmony of music. The road over which we rolled was white and
lustrous as parian marble, and adorned on either side with most rare
and beautiful forms of foliage; ever and anon we passed gay cavalcades
and bands of spirits, who were evidently, from their festal garments,
and the bright emanations which they diffused through the air, bound
for some harmonial gathering on one of the numerous islands which dot
the sparkling river Washingtonia, so named after George Washington.
The distance from the point whence I started, according to earth’s
computation, was over one hundred miles; but though I desired my guide
to move onward as slowly as possible, that I might enjoy the prospect
before me, we reached our destination in less than a quarter of an hour!
I had received a special invitation from Henry Clay to visit him on
this occasion, as he had called together some choice friends to give
me welcome; yet, although I knew I was expected, my surprise cannot
be described upon beholding the air filled with bevies of beautiful
ladies, like radiant birds, approaching, with the sound of music and
flutter of flowers, to receive me. Thus surrounded and escorted, I was
borne to the noble palace (for such it may be justly termed) of Henry
Clay.
The structure is of white alabaster, faced with a pale yellow
semi-transparent stone, which glistened most gorgeously. The form of
the building is unlike any order of architecture with which I had
been acquainted. The avenue by which it was approached was decorated
alternately with statues of representative Americans, and a peculiar
flowering tree, whose green leaves and yellow blossoms, of gossamer
texture, resembled the fine mist of a summer morning. Terminating,
this avenue was the main entrance, surmounted by the grand dome of
the edifice. In the rear of this rotunda, extending on either side,
appeared the main building, rising, turret on turret, like a stupendous
mountain of alabaster beaming as with soft moonlight in the clear
summer air.
We entered by ascending a staircase composed of twelve broad steps.
And here let me pause, before recounting my interview with the
celebrated statesman, to describe the main hall, whose magnificence I,
upon entering, hastily surveyed, but which I afterward studied more
completely. The floor of this hall was formed of delicate cerulean
blue gems. From its centre sprang, like a fountain, a most wonderful
representation of a flowering plant resembling the lotus, composed
of precious and brilliant stones. The green leaves forming the base
were of transparent emerald, and the white lily which surmounted
the stem blossomed out clearer than any crystal. The yellow centre,
corresponding to the pistils, formed a divan. This beautiful ornament
was intended for the desk of the orator. The dome, which was several
hundred feet high, was open to the summer sky, and arranged in tiers
graduated one above the other. The lower tier was filled with paintings
indicating the progress of the United States of America. Surmounting
this was a gallery of small compartments, each hung with silver
and gold gauze drapery, and similar in construction to the boxes
of a theatre; these opened into halls or alleys leading to private
apartments connecting with the main building. Above these boxes were
placed artistically-carved animals, representing the native beasts of
America. Above these again, appeared groups in marble of the fruits of
the country.
No sooner had I entered the building which I have been describing, than
a peculiar rushing sound like distant music reached my ear; on lifting
my eyes in the direction of the sound, I beheld descending through
the air the majestic form of Henry Clay. He approached with extended
hand and fascinating smile to receive me. How like and yet how unlike
the famous man I had known on earth! The gray hair of age had given
place to the abundant glossy locks of youth. The intellectual eye
beamed with a new life and his whole person sent forth an effulgence
most attractive. Those of my readers who knew him on earth will well
remember the peculiar fascination of his sphere, but they can form from
the remembrance but a slight idea of the attractive aura he sheds forth
in this existence. I immediately felt myself drawn by an invisible
power toward him. He grasped my hand with the frank cordiality and
grace of former days, and leading me thus, we arose together and,
passing through one of the arched compartments of the upper tier,
entered another portion of the building. As we moved on I seemed to
live portions of my earthly life, long past. The gorgeous and fantastic
architecture which everywhere met my eye reminded me of the halls of
the Alhambra. Swiftly passing, we emerged through a spacious arch upon
an open arbor, where were congregated the priests whom I had been
invited to meet. I started back with a shock of delight when I beheld,
in the centre of the group, the immortal figure of George Washington.
I knew him instantly, partly from the likenesses which had been extant
on earth, and partly from the noble spirit which emanated like a sun
from his person. The group parted as we entered and I immediately felt,
resting upon my shoulder like a benediction, the soft, firm hand of the
Father of his Country. “Washington!” I exclaimed, fervidly grasping his
hand. “At length we have met!” he responded, and a smile of ineffable
joy lighted his countenance. He then spoke of the many changes through
which the United States had passed since his removal to the spirit
land. I was surprised at the extent of knowledge he displayed. Not the
slightest variation in the scale of political economy had escaped his
notice. He expressed himself pleased especially at the great progress
and development of the people within the last twenty years. He alluded
to their rapid march through the western territories; the founding
of new and important States; the development of the agricultural
and mineral resources of countries supposed to be almost valueless;
of the invention and construction of machinery adapted to the wants
and necessities of those new and rapidly-increasing States. “This
marvellous growth is owing to their being essentially a mediumistic
people--is it not so?” said he, smiling and turning to the assembled
guests. “Yes, yes!” I heard repeated on all sides. On this commenced a
general conversation. I listened as one in a dream. Around me I beheld
the faces and forms of the heroes of past history, each bearing the
shape and semblance of humanity, though removed from earth millions of
miles into space. One and all emitted, like stars, their own peculiar
luminous aura. Collected in motley groups were Benjamin Franklin, John
Hancock, William Penn, Old General Jackson, John Jacob Astor, De Witt
Clinton, and many of the old Knickerbocker residents of New York; with
Sir Robert Peel, Lord Brougham, the Duke of Wellington, Hunt, Keats,
Byron, Scott, Cowper, Hume, Goethe, De Stael, Mrs. Hemans, and many
others.
“The people of America have progressed to an astonishing degree,” said
a musical voice at my left. “We must initiate Irving into the means by
which we impart knowledge to the mediumistic nation through the Cabinet
at Washington.”
“Certainly,” responded Henry Clay. “Let all formalities cease. We will
partake of refreshments, and then Franklin will make him acquainted
with the wonderful aids to science and humanity with which he has
supplied my residence.”
As he ceased speaking, a shower of sound, like the music from the
ringing of innumerable crystal bells, filled the air. Accompanying
this, and apparently descending from the ceiling, a soft light of
aromatic odor diffused itself through the apartment. This was followed
by the appearance of a shining disk of amber and pearl, revolving
rapidly in its descent till it reached the congregated party. This
magic circle (which Thomas Hood, who was present, facetiously termed
the “wheel of fortune”) was supplied with refreshments truly supernal.
Here were fruits of most brilliant dyes; some of soft, pulpy flesh,
and others of the consistency of honey; some more transparent than the
diamonds of earth; others substantial, seemingly intended to supply the
demands of hunger. Here were confections resembling foam and cloud,
whose very taste was elysium. The guests ate and chatted vivaciously. I
received much information concerning the various products of this great
land which were displayed upon the table. The most luscious fruits,
I considered, both in flavor and quality, were those produced on an
island in the spirit land corresponding to your island of Cuba, which
was under the protection of a band of spirits called the “Good Sisters.”
The company having regaled themselves at the table, arose and divided
into groups, laughing and chatting like ordinary mortals. I felt
immediately attracted to a cluster of which Benjamin Franklin was
the magnetic centre. I reminded him of the duties imposed on him by
our host, and told him playfully that I desired to investigate the
mysteries of this wonderful palace. He cordially acquiesced, and, in
company with a few friends, we commenced our explorations. I inquired
as to the construction of the table from which we had just arisen,
so superior to the cumbersome ones of earth. “It is a very simple
contrivance,” he smilingly remarked. “You observe inserted in these
twisted columns, ornamented with leaves, which support the ceiling,
an electric wire, similar to that of a telegraph. From each of these
central columns, this wire connects with the upper gallery. Here,” said
he, pointing to one of the leafy ornaments, “you perceive the means
of communicating. Unobserved by you, our gracious host touched one of
these springs which are connected with the crystal bells, and announced
to his servants his desire for refreshments.” “Servants!” exclaimed I.
“How singular! I little supposed, from the religious teachings I had
received, that there would be menials in heaven!”
“Thee has a poor memory,” remarked William Penn, with a bright smile,
“Did not the Bible teach thee that there was an upper and a lower seat?
These servants are composed mostly of those who were held in slavery on
earth and who desire to receive instruction that they may progress in
the spheres. They are willing assistants; giving, that they may receive
in return. If thee dislike the term ‘servant,’ thee may use the term
‘friend,’ for they are friends and co-workers. Through those doors in
the gallery they bring the refreshments which they gather from the
hanging gardens without, where they live like the Peries of the East.
The luxury of the princes of earth cannot compare with the life of
enjoyment and freedom led by those whom I have termed ‘servants.’”
I here took the opportunity to ask Franklin if it was necessary,
in communicating with absent individuals, to use those external
appliances? “Not always; thought can commune with thought if upon the
same plane; but a mind like that of our great statesman cannot readily
communicate with one whose mind on earth never rose above the domestic
affairs of life. In such cases, external means are necessary.”
“Come,” said he, turning; “I will show you something more remarkable
than this.” So saying, he led me through an open door into one of the
spacious gardens which grace the palace on either side. We walked but
a few moments, arm in arm, over a soft velvet like lawn, of the color
of a delicate violet. Exquisite tints everywhere met my eye. The air
was like wine, and so luscious and entrancing were the surroundings
that I felt inclined to tarry, but my sage guide, calling my attention
to the majestic dome towering in the air, desired me to exert my will
to ascend. I did so, and immediately felt myself rising as if pressed
up by some elastic substance, until I reached the top. The dome, which
appeared to be composed of glass, I perceived, as I approached, was
covered with a thin web resembling that of a spider. The apex of this
dome was surmounted by a globe representing the planet earth, with its
continents and seas. Openings corresponding to the different continents
admitted persons into the globe. We entered that corresponding to
the continent of North America. Each of these entrances, I was told,
was particularly adapted to the admission of the inhabitants of the
different localities they represented. On looking down I beheld the
apartment I had first entered. It was no longer vacant--each gallery
was filled with spectators. On the lily-shaped rostrum stood Henry
Clay and George Washington--Washington speaking to the people. “You
observe,” said my guide, “a secondary stem from that lily branches
off and extends to this point. It appears to you a mere ornament, but
it transmits the thoughts and words of the speaker to the city of
Washington. Other branches, as you notice, lead in other directions. If
the speaker desires his thoughts to be transmitted to any given point,
he leans toward the stem leading to that point. This silken web which
you have admired, is a sensitive electric telegraph. It is composed of
the elements of mind; in the world you have lately inhabited it would
be intangible, but it has a subtle connection with the human brain,
and spirit thoughts directed through it go with the promptness of
electricity to their destination. Thought is electric, but its power
of transmitting itself is, like that of the human voice, limited;
the voice requires the artificial assistance of a speaking-trumpet
to throw its sound beyond the ordinary distance; thought requires a
similar artificial conductor. You remember,” said Franklin, “in my
early experiments with the kite and key, I could not obtain the spark
until I had established the necessary attraction, although the air
was filled with the electric current. So of the thought-electricity,
which is constantly flowing; we have to apply means to concentrate it
and give it form and expression. On earth, word and gesture are media
for thought, but the savans have not yet discovered the means by which
unspoken thought can take form and expression. No galvanic wire nor
chemical battery has yet been invented by them, through which these
electric sparks may be drawn down from their unseen habitations among
the clouds; but in the world of spirits this great discovery, as I
have shown you, has been made. In this appliance you find the thoughts
of the speaker running through these sensitive wires until, like
telegraphic messages, they reach their destination on earth.”
I listened to Franklin’s explanation of this gigantic sensorium with
my soul filled with love and admiration for the great Creator who
had formed the human mind with its vast capacity for penetrating the
sublime mysteries of nature.
After leaving the dome I continued my inspection of the edifice. But of
its halls and galleries, its boudoirs, libraries, and peerless gardens,
I will speak at some future time.
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
_TO THE FRENCH NATION_.
Triumph sits regent upon the Napoleonic banner. Napoleon the First is
dictator to Napoleon the Third. By my side stands Josephine. We were
not destined to part eternally. In Louis Napoleon Bonaparte her blood
and mine commingle. _Restez-vous, mon patrie; Napoleon shall decide
aright. _No, petit garçon, _Napoleon le Grand will place you upon the
highest pinnacle of peace.
Fate is inexorable. The decrees of destiny are more potent than the
wisdom of man. France and Napoleon are indissoluble. The star of
Bonaparte is destined to shine yet for the next half-century. None but
a patriot shall rule France. No proud Austrian, nor weak and haughty
Bourbon shall flame their colors from the palaces of France. No, my
countryman! he who serves you, who leads your armies to victory, who
raises your citizens to distinction, he whose courage is undaunted, he
who has the power of prescience--is Napoleon.
When Louis shall join me his spirit and mine will still animate the
Bonapartes who shall come after us.
Repose entire confidence in his discretion. Napoleon the Third lives
only for France.
You cry for liberty of speech and liberty of the press. But liberty is
anarchy. Would you demand liberty for the army? Without a head to guide
and control it, the army of France would be a scourge.
Through calamity the most depressing, the hand of destiny has led Louis
Napoleon to the throne of France, and against sickness and disease,
against the hand of the assassin, and against vilifications of his
enemies, it will hold him there, firm. His time has not yet come.
Before he bids adieu to life he will secure an able leader for France.
I give him my hand. I embrace him in spirit. The shadow of Napoleon
attends him by day and by night.
Adieu, NAPOLEON.
W. M. THACKERAY.
_HIS POST MORTEM EXPERIENCE_.
Poor Will Thackeray, when a stripling, was fit to kneel in the street
before his mistress, that bright luminary who shone to his boyish eyes
like a star of the first magnitude! Alas, he discovered her to be one
of the sixteenth, and by the time he had ceased to care for polished
boots and stiff, broad collars, she had dwindled down to an ordinary
piece of humanity!
He found his boon companions, like himself, liable to mistake an ant
for a whale and think the King of England next in royalty to a god!
What a fool he made of himself in the eyes of those who were wiser than
he, when he swore the crown of England was made of unalloyed gold! The
water he drank was filled with animalculae, yet he swore it was pure
as the gods’ nectar. The best and freshest air he breathed contained
poison, yet his boyish wisdom knew better than that.
Poor Thackeray! wiser men than he knew that youthful imagination was
a cheat; that the mistress of his heart was not a goddess; and wiser
beings than they all knew--angelic beings, living in the golden streets
of Paradise, knew--that the conception of what the spirit after death
would be able to do was as far from the truth as were his boyish dreams
of the mistress of his heart!
Poor Thackeray! he has attained that superior wisdom now! He walks,
himself a ghost, among the ghosts of the past; and these “airy
nothings” nod and smile, and shake hands, and say:
“Yes, we are ourselves.”
He thrusts his hands into his trowsers pockets, and remembers the time
when he thought it would be indecent to go naked in the New Jerusalem!
Trowsers, forsooth! Yes, here they are, pockets and all; and he dives
his hands in deeper, jingling something which strongly resembles cash;
and struts about and hobnobs with Addison, Spencer, Sterne, old Dean
Swift, and he asks himself, “are these the great men of my fancy?” On
reflection he finds he had expected to meet these luminaries shining
like actual stars in the firmament, attended by some undefined splendor.
Poor Will Thackeray! he finds the same dross in the gold, the same
animalculae in the water, the same poison in the air, the same fact
that men are not gods in that much-vaunted place called heaven, as on
the much-abused earth. But he wipes his spectacles, and clears away the
mist of speculation and fancy, which has bedimmed his eyes, and looks
about him more hopefully and trustfully than in the days when he walked
through Vanity Fair and saw how Mr. Timms, with not a penny in the
bank, pinched himself to give a little dinner in imitation of a great
lord who gave a great dinner, and had gold beyond his count; snobs, who
wore paste jewels and cotton-backed velvet, who cursed a fellow and
strutted about in imitation of noble lords, who wore real diamonds and
silken velvets! mimicking the follies of the great, but never their
noble deeds and heroisms.
He is beyond snobs now. He is in the land of heroisms and heroes. Yet
he feels he has been cheated by the fat parson who stole sovereigns
from his pocket to keep him out of h----! His spiritual bones fairly
ache with the leagues he has travelled, hunting up the throne of God!
“Where the deuce,” he mutters, “is the showman?” He can’t find the lake
of fire and brimstone without a guide.
Poor Thackeray! he again wipes his spectacles and feels he has been
sold! This life on the other side of Jordan he finds to be what his
American cousins would call a “humbug,” a downright swindle upon
the sympathies and good taste of those who wear long streamers of
crape, and groan and sob over his funeral rites! He feels in duty
bound (out of consideration for those mourners who expect nothing
else) to go scudding through the air in a loose white shroud, or to
rest cosily housed away in the “bosom of his Maker,” like a big,
grown-up infant that he is, or else to be howling at the top of his
lungs hallelujahs!--he that could never raise a note. And, if not so,
certainly, out of compliment to the judgment of his boon companions,
he should be engaged in the dread alternative of sitting astride a
pair of balances and being “weighed and found wanting;” or having been
sent by the relentless Judge into everlasting torment “where there is
cursing and gnashing of teeth,” he should be found there tormenting his
fellow-imps!
But alas! to his mortification, nothing of the kind is occurring or
seems likely to occur.
He has been as active as the next man since his arrival in ghostdom.
He has peeped under the _chapeaux_ of every solemn pilgrim whom he has
passed, but failed to find the four-and-twenty elders who have washed
their robes in the blood of the Lamb. What has he found? He really is
ashamed to own up to the number of mountain sides and sloping hills
he has inspected in the vain search for a place he used to call h----
(he thought it blasphemy to add the other three letters); but neither
cloven foot, nor forked tail, nor horns, nor any kind of fearful person
in black, has pounced upon him; nor has he been seized by any claimant
for leaving the world unshriven, as he did.
Poor Will Thackeray! it has been a great disappointment to him! He
expected some kind of sensational reception--thunder or lightning, or
some big God whose towering front might vie with Chimborazo--to awe him
into the consideration that he had become a spirit and was launched
into the awful precincts of eternity! No wonder he feels dogged and
put upon to find himself thus bamboozled! He undertook a long and
venturesome journey to “see the elephant,” but it wasn’t there!
He can’t complain against the citizens of this famous “undiscovered
bourne”; they have done all that’s fair and square by him; they have
shown all that they have got; and he is too much of a gentleman
to taunt them. He knows they feel ashamed that they haven’t those
curiosities that their Vicegerents on earth had vouched for their
having; he can see it in their faces; but he considers himself in duty
bound to prepare his fellow-citizens for what they are to expect.
ARCHBISHOP HUGHES.
_TWO NATURAL RELIGIONS_.
There are two great natural religions before the world, the Roman
Catholic and the Spiritualistic; and both are adapted to the wants of
the race.
Man naturally gives expression to his thoughts by external forms
corresponding to his ideas.
The Roman Catholic religion is accused of being a system of forms and
ceremonies, but therein lies its wonderful adaptation to humanity.
Thought ever seeks expression in form, even as a mother’s love for her
infant finds expression in her ardent embrace.
Love is the prevailing element of the Catholic religion, as shown by
the love of the Son of God for poor, ignorant, sinful creatures.
We do not present this to the mind ideally. We call in the outcast and
the beggar, and we expose to their view, in the great cathedrals, the
Son of God, as he appeared in all his various experiences of human life.
The parent who can earn but a scanty pittance for his offspring, sees
before him Jesus lying in the manger, equal in squalid poverty with the
lowest of mankind.
The majesty and glory of the courts of Heaven are symbolized in the
Roman Church. _There_ is gathered the wealth of the world! All that is
yet attained in the representation of the grand, the beautiful, the
majestic, the sublime, and the devotional, is collected in the Mother
of Churches.
What earthly king, in his noble palace, with its costly architecture,
its ornaments of silver and gold, its rare paintings and statuary,
the wealth and accumulation of many sovereigns, would admit into its
sacred precincts the poor and the lowly, the beggar and the thief, the
Magdalen and the Lazarus to sully with their presence his royal abode?
But we erect palaces to the King of Heaven! regal in architecture,
and adorned with beauty surpassing in magnificence earthly royalty,
in which the lowliest may enter on an equality with the prince; his
untutored mind, his uncultivated senses may listen to music of the
highest order. The pealing tones of the organ resound under the touch
of the highest masters of art for his simple ear. Listening to those
strains, his mind forms a conception of the harmony and beatitude of
Heaven!
Even death is not looked upon with horror by the Catholic. If he lose a
friend in this life, unlike the Protestant, he does not abandon him in
oblivion, but his sympathies still extend to him by offering masses for
his soul. And it is because it is so adapted to man’s spiritual nature
that the Catholic religion has withstood the shock and surge of ages!
The restless, heaving billows of time have washed against the
seven-hilled Church in vain.
My soul rests in peace. It has taken its abode in Elysium. And in this
world among the stars, seeing clearer and further than when I inhabited
the lowly planet earth, I look down upon the struggling, dying race I
have left behind, and feel still, that the _Roman Catholic religion is
the religion for the masses_.
A great majority of men are born into the world but little higher than
the beasts that perish. Their spiritual natures, though feeble, need
food that is adapted to their wants. That food we furnish.
Our priests, our sisters of charity, our holy fathers, our Benedictine
monks, our nuns, are to be found in every quarter of the globe. On the
mountains of everlasting snow, among the icebergs of the Polar Sea, and
in the sandy deserts; on inhospitable shores, in the torrid zone, under
the burning rays of the equatorial sun; with the savage and with the
sage they are found ever ready to stimulate the spiritual nature, to
give earthly advice, and supply material wants.
As a spirit I speak of what I think best adapted to the needs of man.
I endeavor to throw aside the prejudices of education. I look upon the
Protestant religion as unnatural; a monstrous belief which deforms man.
So far as I can see, its influence has been blighting. It takes youth,
joy, and animation from the world. It grants no indulgence for sin, nor
for the mistakes of ignorance. It is cruel and harsh, and men become
narrow and self-elated under its teachings.
The Spiritualistic religion resembles the Catholic in its breadth and
amplitude, and in its humanizing and equalizing influence. I expect the
day will come when all minor beliefs will be swallowed up in these two
great religions.
The Catholic Church in the spirit world is not so extensive as it
is upon earth. Its usefulness is more especially adapted to earthly
conditions.
There are some noble cathedrals in the spirit world. Mass is offered up
every morning at the cathedral of the Five Virgins in my bishopric.
The sisterhood of the Five Wise Virgins, newly organized, inhabit
beautiful and commodious edifices adjacent.
It is their business to escort from earth youthful souls who have been
baptized in the Church, and who are friendless and vagrant, having
inhabited while on earth such parts of New York City as the Five Points
and Water street, and having neither kindred nor connection to claim
them.
These are received into the beautiful home of the sisterhood. They
bathe in the golden fountains of youth, and are instructed in various
ways. They are taught the uses of magnetism, mesmerism, and psychology,
and return to earth to rap, write, and speak, through media, and to
bring back the stray lambs to the fold.
EDGAR A. POE.
_THE LOST SOUL_.
Hark the bell! the funeral bell,
Calling the soul
To its goal.
Oh! the haunted human heart,
From its idol doomed to part!
Yet a twofold being bearing,
She and I apart are tearing;
She to heaven I to hell!
Going, going! Hark the bell!
Far in hell,
Tolling, tolling.
Fiends are rolling,
Whitened bones, and coffins reeking,
Fearful darkness grimly creeping
On my soul,
My vision searing,
She disappearing,
Drawn from me
By a soul I cannot see,
Whom I know can never love her.
Oh! that soul could I discover,
I would go,
Steeped in woe,
Down to darkness, down to hell!
Hark the bell! Farewell! farewell!
JEAN PAUL RICHTER.
_INVISIBLE INFLUENCES._
A ship is on the ocean. The wind is fair. All hands are in motion.
But a few hours since, it left port. Among its passengers is a gay
traveller; he wears a silken cloak fringed with gold. The sailors
admire his splendor; they gather around him as he walks the deck with
his flying robe. They put forth their rough hands to feel its soft
texture; its warm, bright color gives pleasure to their eyes. As they
gaze their pulses heighten, their steps become unsteady, their eyes
wander from duty, their great sturdy frames quiver with emotion. The
captain rallies them, but in vain.
What secret foe is in their midst? Their parched tongues, cleaving
to the roofs of their mouths, call for the surgeon. He comes--he
questions, “From whence comest thou?” “From the Orient,” the traveller
replies. The surgeon gasps and shakes his head. He, too, is stricken
with fear. “’Tis the _plague_!” he whispers. An unseen, deadly foe is
stalking beneath that gay cloak! The traveller hears and shudders; he
flings off his gay vestment. The waves gather up the silken folds. But
the sacrifice is useless. A fell hand strikes down both traveller and
sailor. As they gasp and die they are hurried to the ship’s side; they
are plunged overboard; a seething, foaming grave yawns to receive them.
The ship glides on. Those who remain wash the deck with water. They
cannot wash away the demon, which is everywhere and yet nowhere....
Poisons as subtle attend the human spirit, baneful and contagious as
the plague!
See yonder peaceful cottage, nestling by the hillside; hope and
contentment dwell therein; within its walls beauty and grace awaken
harmony. Lured by the bright sunshine, a stranger enters the door. He
sits and chats awhile with the inmates. His talk is pleasant, and as he
converses a cloud falls upon the house, the sunshine becomes darkened,
and the dwellers within the pretty cottage shiver as with cold. They
heed not the change, for the chat of their guest delights them. But
when he departs he leaves behind him a poison more baneful than the
plague.
The inmates of the peaceful cottage look with gloomy eyes one upon the
other; they become dissatisfied and distracted among themselves, and
discord takes the place of harmony.
Secret influences are at work, poisons thrown out by the sphere of
the guest. A worse fate befalls them than befell the sailors who were
invaded by the insidious Plague.
I have seen in nature a fair face clouded suddenly--made gloomy
and unlovely--by the unspoken thought of another. Thought is
contagious--some varieties of it poisonous! I have seen the countenance
of an innocent child transformed into ugliness by a poisonous thought.
I have seen those who have looked upon her receive that thought and
become likewise infected.
I have seen also to this picture another and a brighter side. I have
seen secret influences drawing individuals together, sustaining and
upholding them; as the long line filaments of wool clasp each other
and draw together the separate particles, so have I seen individuals
united. Thus was the first Napoleon united to Josephine. A secret
influence as potent as the plague passed from one to the other; but it
breathed health and not poison.
Napoleon, with his powerful will, disrupted these magnetic relations;
he tore apart the unseen filaments that bound them; and, the sustaining
influence gone, he fell--a mighty wreck--on the bleak shore of St.
Helena.
What man or woman can comprehend the secret influences that surround
the soul. Keep guard; and when the blood stagnates within, when secret
shudders, and gloomy thoughts, and inharmonious feelings arise, be sure
that some poison-breathing foe is at hand.
Set the door ajar, and resolutely turn your face from the secret
influence that would destroy you.
CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ.
(CURRER BELL.)
_AGNES REEF.--A TALE_.
CHAPTER I.
I was brought up and educated by my bachelor uncle. He was a reticent,
moody man, and with his aged housekeeper and myself, led a solitary and
unsocial life in the old rambling house which had been his father’s
before him.
I was but a child of six years when destiny placed me under his charge,
and with him I remained eleven years; a scared, repressed little thing,
revelling in strange fancies in the spidery attic rooms, and looking
down through the dusty cobwebbed windows upon the life and movement
below, unconscious that I formed a part of that active humanity.
Thus I lived until I entered my seventeenth year. For the last two
years my mind had been expanding and growing discontented with my lot.
The moroseness of my uncle, the sullenness of his housekeeper, the
gloom and dinginess of the bare rooms had grown insupportable to me.
These alone I might have endured, but added to them were other sources
of disquiet, not the least of which being hints from the housekeeper
that it was time I began to do something for myself. Youth, pride, and
ambition stirred within me, and I actively set about looking, for a
situation.
I had not long to wait; in one of the weekly papers, of which my uncle
took many, I one day discovered an advertisement, which to my morbid
fancy seemed sent by fate especially to me.
A young lady was wanted to take charge of the education of a boy of
eleven years. Upon reading this advertisement, I immediately sat down
and wrote a letter, offering my services.
By return mail I received a note acknowledging the receipt of mine,
and stating that as I was the only applicant and my testimonials
satisfactory, I was accepted.
I informed my uncle of my good fortune. He received the news with a
gruff approval, adding that he hoped I would do well, as I could expect
no further pecuniary aid from him than would be sufficient to carry me
there.
My emotions, as I packed my little trunk on that memorable Saturday,
were of a mixed character; but pleasure predominated. Hope beckoned me
on; and the sadness attendant on breaking loose from the unfriendly
home in which I had lived so long was but transitory.
Monday morning saw me seated composedly in the rail-coach on the way
to “Bristed Hall,” my destination. Towards nightfall we stopped at a
station in a desolate, sparsely-inhabited district. My road diverging
here, I hurried out, and the long train which connected me with my past
life sped out of sight.
Drawing my veil closely to my face to hide a few falling tears, I
looked around the desolate waiting-room, to see if any fellow-creature
was expecting me. As I did so a heavy, thumping footstep sounded upon
the platform, and a surly voice inquired:
“Are you Miss Reef?” accompanying the question by a slight pull at my
shawl.
Turning, I beheld a deformed little man with long arms and a high back,
awaiting my answer to his question. I summoned courage to ask:
“Were you sent for Miss Reef?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I am Mr. Bristed’s man. He told me to drive here
and fetch home a Miss Reef--if you are that person, miss!” touching his
hat with an effort at politeness.
“I am,” I answered, and without further ado we proceeded to the
carriage, which he had left waiting at the rear platform.
The evening air was chilly, for it was quite sunset. Drawing my shawl
around me, I ensconced myself in a corner of the vehicle, and watched
the fading landscape with stolid indifference to whatever might befall
me.
We drove on thus for a good hour and a half, halting at length before a
dark, massy object, the form of which my dozy eyes could not discern.
However, it proved to be Bristed Hall.
I emerged from the carriage and passed up the steps to an open door
which, at the pausing of our carriage wheels, had been set ajar. An
old woman, the feminine counterpart of my sulky driver, stood in the
dimly-lighted passage-way to receive me. She vouchsafed me but a grum
welcome, but I felt already too desolate and weary to experience any
further depression from her humor.
Bidding me follow her, and ordering the man to carry my luggage, she
led me directly through the hall up the stairway to a chamber evidently
prepared for my use. The apartment was prettily furnished, and its tidy
appearance and the cheerful fire burning on the hearth quite roused my
drooping spirits.
After assisting me to remove my bonnet and shawl, my conductress left
me, returning ere long with a tray containing refreshments. These she
set before me with silent hospitality; then bade me goodnight, saying
she would call me in the morning at eight o’clock for breakfast.
My sleep that night was disturbed by dreams, which though vague filled
me with terror.
I imagined that I was walking through a long corridor, opening into a
sumptuous apartment, its interior partly concealed by rich folds of
damask curtains. I lifted the heavy drapery and essayed to enter, but
a cold hand grasped mine and prevented me. A woman’s figure, slight
and youthful, with white face, great sad eyes, and long yellow hair,
stood in the arched doorway and pressed me back with her clammy hand.
I started up from my pillow in alarm to find myself alone; the pale
moonbeams streaming through the looped curtains of the window and
glancing upon my forehead, I thought, probably accounted for the cold
hand of my dream. I slept, and dreamed again. The scene was changed:
a field of stubble lay before me; through it I must make my way; the
rough ground hurt my feet; I stumbled and fell; attempting to rise, I
saw painted in clear relief against the horizon the same female figure.
Her pale, golden hair hung long and loose over her shoulders. As she
caught my eye she lifted her finger as if in warning, and disappeared
from sight.
CHAPTER II.
From these dreams I awakened in the morning perplexed, disturbed, and
unrefreshed. After dressing, I was summoned to breakfast by the person
who had received me the previous night. She led me down the stairway
and through the hall into the breakfast room.
It was a long, narrow apartment, with wainscots and floor of polished
oak. A bright fire blazed upon the hearth. A small round stand was set
forth, upon which was placed my solitary repast. I seated myself and
partook, with a relish, of the nice cakes, fragrant coffee, and sweet
clover butter.
Having finished my meal, I arose and walked to one of the deep-set
windows which lighted the apartment. Lifting the curtain, I looked out.
A grassy lawn overhung with trees; clear gravel paths and well-trimmed
shrubbery; beyond, rocks relieved by a patch of blue sky; a thin
line of light, neutral tinted, winding through the distant meadows,
indicating a streamlet; these constituted the landscape.
Having spent a full quarter of an hour in abstractedly gazing at this
scene, I was called to reality by the opening of the room door, and a
strange voice repeating my name. The person presenting herself appeared
to be an upper servant--a tall, thin woman, with dark hair sprinkled
with gray, and an amiable, weak face.
“If you have finished your breakfast, Miss, I will show you to Mr.
Bristed’s room.”
I assured her it was completed, and, following her. I crossed the hall
and entered a door at the left. A pleasant odor of flowers met my
grateful senses. The room was spacious, wide and deep, and handsomely
carpeted. The walls were ornamented with paintings and engravings.
An ample arm-chair, which the owner had evidently just vacated, and
a table containing books and papers, gave a tone of both comfort and
elegance to the room, which was decidedly congenial to my taste.
Two great glass doors, reflecting clearly the morning sunbeams, led
into a conservatory from whence issued the fragrance I perceived on
entering.
Among the flowers moved a tall, manly figure. As I entered, the
gentleman came forward.
“Miss Reef, Mr. Bristed,” said my companion, by way of introduction.
So this was my employer. As he stood before me, I surveyed him; a
well-formed gentleman, above the ordinary height, with pale complexion,
set off by dark, penetrative eyes; a shapely head covered with long,
heavy masses of straight dark hair. The impression his appearance
conveyed to me was that of a person benevolent but apathetic; unhappy
without the will or power to shake off his burden.
He bade me be seated. “You are young,” said he, reflectively. “May I
ask your age?”
“Seventeen,” I replied.
“Very young,” he reiterated, thoughtfully shaking his head; “however,
as you are here, if you wish to remain, Mary will introduce you to your
pupil.”
“I certainly wish to remain,” said I, impatiently; “I have journeyed
quite a distance for that purpose, and shall be happy to commence the
instruction of my pupil immediately.”
“Very well,” said he. “Mary, take her to the nursery, and attend to any
of her wants.”
The girl opened a door adjoining that which we had entered by; a narrow
hall and a flight of stairs led us to the room indicated.
A little solitary figure, breathing upon the window-glass, and tracing
thereon letters with long, thin fingers, was the first object that
presented itself to my eye,
“Here is your governess, Herbert,” said Mary.
The little boy turned and surveyed me with his large, blue, mournful
eyes. They sent a quiver through my frame from their strange
resemblance to eyes I had seen but the night before in my dream.
He was apparently satisfied with his inspection, and his thin scarlet
lips parted into a smile.
I called him to me. He came forward timidly.
Taking his small hand, I asked him a few questions about his studies.
I found him intelligent, but grave beyond his years; very docile and
obedient, and ere the end of the day we became excellent friends.
CHAPTER III
I had lived six weeks at Bristed Hall, and, excepting on my first
arrival, had not interchanged a word with its master. ’Tis true I would
see him at times from the school-room window, walking through his park,
or smoking upon the long piazza, but he might have been across the
ocean for all the intercourse we had together.
It was early June; roses bloomed on every hedge. A season of dry
weather had succeeded the showers of spring, the mornings were
sparkling, the air delicious. I arose early one particularly sunny
morn, that I might take a walk, before the studies of the day
commenced, to a natural lake which I had discovered about a mile from
the Hall.
Herbert begged to accompany me, and I, who loved at times the quiet of
my own thoughts, reluctantly granted his request.
We strolled out of the inclosure, and were leisurely wending our way
over the road, when our attention was attracted by the sound of wheels
emerging from a cross path. A carriage rolled briskly in view. The
little hand of my companion, which I held locked in mine, trembled
violently.
“Oh, Miss Agnes, Miss Agnes!” he cried, pointing to the occupant of the
carriage, “there is Uncle Richard.”
As it neared us, the driver reined in his horses, which snorted
impatiently as he paused, and a musical voice called out:
“Hallo! you young varlet; where are you going so early in the morning?”
Herbert answered faintly, “I am going with Miss Reef to the lake.”
The gentleman at this reply waved his jewelled hand gracefully toward
me. “Miss Reef, I am happy to make your acquaintance. So you are the
young lady who has undertaken to be bored with my little nephew?”
“He is not a bore,” said I, smilingly, captivated by the grace and
abandon of the traveller. And truly his handsome countenance might have
captivated a girl more experienced in the world’s ways than myself.
His was a gay, spirited face, complexion fair and rosy; full red lips,
graced with a curling moustache; golden locks fit for an Adonis; sunny,
dancing eyes, and a figure rather massive, but well formed. Such was
the impression I received of this “Uncle Richard.”
“Allow me to give you a seat in my brougham,” said he.
I thanked him, but refused.
“Bound on some romantic expedition,” he said, laughing; “I can see
it in your beaming eyes. Well, I suppose I must continue my solitary
drive; but don’t tarry long at the dismal lake; hasten back, as I shall
want a companion to chat with in the empty Hall.”
I found Herbert unwilling to talk about his uncle, so I tried to
dismiss the new comer from my thoughts, and engaged with my pupil
in gathering wild flowers and grasses wherewith to form wreaths and
bouquets to adorn our school-room. After rambling about for an hour, we
turned homeward.
I felt quite excited upon reaching the Hall, and hurried to my room to
smooth my hair preparatory to commencing the labors of the day. If I
stood over my mirror longer than usual, remember I was young, and had
a laudable desire to please. As I surveyed myself in the glass, I was
guilty of a pleasurable cognizance of the figure and face reflected
there. The walk and unexpected encounter had given an unwonted
brilliancy and vivacity to my countenance. My cheeks glowed; my eyes
sparkled; and from my chestnut curls depended wild flowers, and wreaths
of Herbert’s twining; altogether a pleasing picture presented itself to
view, which, without vanity, I was thankful to behold.
We had not been long at our lessons when a voice, gaily singing,
approached the door, and without the ceremony of knocking, the
gentleman whom we had passed in our morning ramble entered the room.
“I have been looking all over for you; why are you hiding yourself
away up here?” said he, merrily. “Can you not take another pupil, Miss
Reef?” at the same time drawing up his chair to the table at which
Herbert and myself were seated.
“If he is as tractable as Herbert, I might venture,” I replied,
assuming the gay, mocking tone of my questioner.
I soon saw that he was bent on remaining; so, taking from my desk a
drawing-book and pencil, I placed them before him.
“There is your task; please not to interrupt me.” I was determined not
to be beguiled from my duty by this gay cavalier. He permitted us to
pursue our studies uninterruptedly till he had finished his drawing.
“There,” he exclaimed, placing it before me. “Will you not reward me
for my industry?”
I looked at the sketch. It was bold and clear, shaded with a firm hand,
spirited and original. I was truly surprised at the skill evinced.
After that day he visited our room often, calling in during the morning
to exchange a pleasant word, or at the close of the school hours to
loiter over our drawings and chat of books and music. His visits began
to grow too pleasant to me. Some effort must be made on my side to
render them less attractive.
One afternoon he entered as usual, and waited patiently till Herbert
had recited his closing lesson. Then he arose, and taking a guitar from
its case, commenced playing and singing a song in a most bewitching
manner.
“Come, Miss Reef,” said he, when he had finished, “that beautiful hand
is just made to glide over this instrument. Allow me to give you a
lesson.”
Feeling that if I permitted him to encroach upon my position as
governess I would be lost, I refused. I must give him to understand
that I know my place and will not be trifled with, I thought; so
I arose and rang the bell for Mary. She soon appeared, apparently
surprised at seeing Mr. Richard Bristed so much at home in the
school-room.
“Mary, sit down; I wish you to hem this handkerchief for Herbert,” said
I.
She seated herself with my work-box before her, and commenced plying
her needle industriously. The young gentleman looked on my arrangement
with a lurking smile for a few moments, and then uttering a long,
low whistle, arose from his chair and sauntered out. Passing me, he
whispered:
“I will remember you for this, Miss Reef.” He did seem to remember it,
as several days elapsed without his presenting himself.
Once I met him in the hall, and he merely bowed. If he had wished to
arouse in me an interest in himself, he could not have pursued a better
plan; for I grew restless and uneasy, regretting heartily that I had
offended him.
CHAPTER IV.
After three days had passed thus, I concluded I would explain to him my
motive. Accordingly, in the afternoon, when my hour of recreation came,
I brushed my hair carefully, changed my dress, and descended to the
piazza on which he generally lounged in the afternoon with a cigar.
As he was not there, I seated myself on a rustic chair to watch for
him. I had not sat many minutes when I heard the wheels of a carriage
on the gravel path; then the gay voice of Mr. Richard met my ear. I
turned: he was seated in the vehicle with a valise beside him, and was
apparently bound on a journey. As he caught sight of me, he raised his
hat, bowed distantly, and drove off.
A dreary sense of loneliness crept over me. The setting sun filled the
west with its golden splendor. Great yellow bars of sunlight streamed
through the railing, and lit up the floor of the piazza. Sitting there
I was bathed in its ruddy flood. Happy birds poured forth their evening
song in the bushes near by; but I was miserable and alone. All nature
seemed to rejoice, while I, her child, was desolate.
“You appear sad, miss,” said a voice close beside me. I looked up and
beheld the elder Mr. Bristed. He had evidently observed my emotion, and
his dark eye looked a reproof that his lips did not utter.
Presently, he seated himself near me, and asked a few questions as to
the progress my pupil was making. Having satisfied him on those points,
he inquired kindly if I was lonely or discontented.
“Oh, no,” I answered, heartily, hoping to place a barrier to any
further inquiries on that point.
“But you have been weeping,” said he, in a subdued voice.
“Not because I am lonely,” said I, resolved to have the truth out; “but
I fear I have wounded the feelings of your brother.”
“My brother!” he repeated. “Ah! you have become acquainted with him?
He is bright and glittering like the sun; but be careful, my child, be
careful! Young birds should avoid the glittering steel of the fowler.
But youth will seek its own experience,” he remarked, with a deep
sigh. “No friendly warning will teach the young to beware of danger.
But consider me your friend, Miss Reef, and let me likewise be your
monitor.”
Without waiting for my reply, he hastily left me and entered the house.
CHAPTER V.
Four weeks elapsed ere Richard’s return. During his absence Mr. Bristed
showed his sympathy for my lonely situation by many little attentions;
sending up to the school-room, now and then, choice fruit from his
hot-house, or a bouquet of conservatory flowers, and, several times in
the early evening, he sent for me to read aloud to him.
I found him to be a quiet, polished gentleman; and I grew to like
him, and to look for his tokens of kindness after my daily labors
with growing interest, and, if they came not, to feel disappointed
and unhappy. He had travelled much and could talk well, and under the
influence of a sympathetic listener, his countenance lit up with kindly
emotion, and the sad lines of his face disappeared beneath a happy
smile.
But in the glowing midsummer his truant brother returned, and my
new-born interest vanished like snow before the harvest sun.
Again Mr. Richard exerted his varied powers to fascinate and amuse
me. Again I listened, and struggled, as formerly, against his wiles,
and finally bent a too willing ear to his soft words of praise and
admiration. With secret pleasure I reveled in his ardent language,
hugging to my heart the belief that I was loved.
How that summer sped by on its golden wings! Time passed on, as in some
delicious opium dream! And when the short clays and long nights of the
Christmas holidays set in, I found myself secretly engaged in marriage
to Richard Bristed.
Of our plans and attachment his brother was not at present to be
informed: this stern brother who shut himself up apart from his
species, and who, Richard told me, was of too cold a nature to
sympathize with love.
“He will dismiss you, Agnes, if he hears of it,” he said. “Wait till I
have settled up my affairs, and then he can do his worst.”
I believed this statement; I forgot all my former good impressions of
Mr. Bristed, and listened to the tales that were told me of how he
had wronged Richard. I learned to regard him as a robber, a hypocrite
whose statements could not be relied on; a false, dark, bad man. As for
Richard, he seemed a king in comparison; a noble, magnanimous being,
whom some kind fairy had bestowed upon me.
But that cold, relentless Fate, which comes to tear off the painted
wrappings of life, revealing the bare and ugly reality beneath, was
fast pursuing me.
At the close of a cold, snowy day, I had retired early to my room, and
having locked the door that I might be free from interruption, sat
down to look over the dainty articles of dress which I had been shyly
accumulating for my approaching marriage.
It was but a scanty outfit, but to me it appeared munificent as that of
a princess. I could never weary of looking at these beautiful garments;
I placed them in one light, and then in another; I folded and unfolded
them, and finally ended by trying them on, and admiring in the mirror
their perfect adaptation to my face and figure. A long time must have
passed in this way, when the hall clock struck the hour of midnight.
Astonished at the lateness of the night, I threw down the laces and
ribbons which I was combining into some airy article of dress, and was
preparing to remove my bridal attire, when I was amazed to hear a key
turning in the lock of my door. Fear and surprise nailed me to the
floor. The door glided softly open and in stepped Mr. Richard Bristed!
He seemed surprised to see me thus.
“What! up and dressed?” he exclaimed, in a loud whisper. “O my beauty!
my wife! I have come to claim you to-night. You shall be mine. No power
on earth shall withhold us now!”
“How strangely you talk, Richard,” said I. “You forget it is so late.
We cannot go to church at this hour.”
“Ah, dearest, this is church! See, I have brought you this ring. We
will stand up before God and our own hearts, and I will marry you here.
We need no other witnesses than ourselves and this ring!”
Though my youthful heart was blinded by love and passion, I was not
prepared for this. Excitement and the strangeness of the proposition
overcame me, and I broke forth into sobs.
He endeavored to soothe me, urging his request with a pleading force
which I could scarcely withstand.
“I am not prepared, Richard,” said I, drying my tears; “this is so
sudden, so unlooked for, I must have time for thought.”
But thought only revealed a gaping abyss, from which I must fly.
He continued to urge his plea; but seeing I would not yield, his
countenance changed. The sweet, seductive smile vanished. He grew white
as the moonbeam, and, clenching his hand and setting his teeth, bent
over me, whispering huskily:
“Agnes, I shall not step from this room to-night. I have the key. You
have promised to be mine. You shall keep that promise. To-night you
shall keep that promise!”
If he was pale, I became paler. A cold chill crept over me. But I took
my resolution, unyielding as death, not to grant his request.
A chasm seemed to yawn before me. The loneliness and friendlessness of
my position were presented to my mind with terrific reality. A deadly
swoon-like feeling ensued. To yield in this might seal my fate. I paced
the floor rapidly, praying for help.
Help came suddenly. As I passed the door of my wardrobe, I remembered
that the same key unlocked this and the door of my apartment. I drew it
forth, and in the twinkling of an eye I was free.
The cool air from the outside passage, and the prospect of liberty,
cooled my excited nerves, and revived me for the work I had to
accomplish.
“Richard,” said I, my hand upon the latch, “you or I must leave.”
He made no reply, but violently rising from his chair, grasped
something that lay near him, and tearing it to atoms, rushed by me
without word or look, and reaching the stairs, hastened out of sight.
Mechanically I sat down, and with sad, straining eyes surveyed the
wreck before me. My bridal wreath was shivered into fragments; its
white petals, like fruit blossoms caught in an untimely blast,
sprinkled the floor; my laces were in shreds like the riven mast of
some shipwrecked vessel.
Of course there was no sleep for me that night. When worn out with
thinking and weeping, I drew a large easy chair up to the door and sat
there as guard, listening, with the hope which moment after moment grew
fainter, that he would return and whisper in my willing ear a sweet
demand for pardon, some word in extenuation for his unseemly conduct;
but he came not.
Toward daybreak, I was aroused from the lethargy into which I had
fallen from sheer exhaustion by the sound of excited voices and hurried
movements in the room below. As these subsided and the gray morning
broke, I was startled by the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the graveled
walk.
A fearful foreboding possessed me; what could it mean? Somebody was
riding away; who was it? Through the gate and down the avenue I heard
the galloping steed.
I dragged my nerveless limbs to the window and peered forth. Clear
against the horizon, now streaked with pale crimson rays of dawn,
rising in bold relief I beheld the receding figure of Richard Bristed.
He was leaving me without word or sign. My head reeled; I grasped the
window casement to steady myself, and sank insensible upon the floor.
CHAPTER VI.
I must have remained in this condition some hours, for the sun was high
in the heavens when I opened my eyes and became conscious. Where was I?
Not in my own room, surely; the fragrance of exotics did not penetrate
my lattice; the simple honeysuckle that twined around my window
breathed forth a different perfume from this. My heart gave one glad
leap. Oh, it is all a dream! I thought; Richard’s galloping down the
road, and all the past night’s misery is a dream! With this reflection
a happy tranquillity was stealing over me, when I heard a well-known
voice exclaim:
“Look, Mary, attend her; she has opened her eyes, thank God.”
It was Mr. Bristed’s voice, and as he spoke Mary approached me, and
bending over, bathed my head with scented water. “Hope you feel better,
Miss,” said she.
“Have I been ill, Mary? Where am I?”
“In master’s library.”
Surely it was so. I was lying upon a divan near the conservatory. Alas,
I was not dreaming! I sat up and looked drearily around, and as I did
so Mr. Bristed drew near with a beautiful lily in his hand, which he
offered to me. He inquired kindly after my health and looked pleased
when I told him I felt quite strong. Indeed I did feel strong for the
moment, and arose determined to leave the room.
“Sit still--where are you going?” he asked anxiously.
“Going to the school-room--going to see Herbert,” I replied.
“Herbert,” said he, and his countenance darkened; “you cannot see
Herbert, he is ill.”
Not see Herbert, and he ill? What could be the matter? He was well but
yesterday.
Mr. Bristed’s strange manner, coupled with Richard’s absence and the
fearful events of the night, seemed likely to turn my brain.
He saw my startled look of inquiry, and said, “Be quiet awhile; I have
something of importance which I will communicate to you by-and-by, when
you are composed.”
“Mary,” he ordered, “ring the bell for breakfast to be sent hither;
meanwhile, Miss Reef, while awaiting our coffee, if you will walk with
me in the conservatory I will take pleasure in showing you my tropical
curiosities.”
I followed him languidly with wandering thoughts. Gradually, however, I
grew interested and listened with increased attention to his animated
description of the homes and haunts of the wonders by which he was
surrounded. He had visited many climes, and gathered each strange
flower and plant he had seen in its native clime. He became eloquent
and genial as he described the strange habits and peculiarities of his
floral companions, which he seemed to regard as a species of humanity;
to him they were not inanimate existences--creations--but objects
endowed with soul and sensation.
While we were thus conversing, Mary announced that breakfast was ready,
and I reluctantly accompanied him to the library. He almost compelled
me to eat, selecting for me dainty morsels to tempt my appetite.
Mr. Bristed evidently labored under some mental disquiet, which he
evinced by undue efforts at cheerfulness.
Breakfast being removed I sought to withdraw from the room, but he
requested me to remain, and dismissing Mary, seated himself in an easy
chair next the ottoman on which I rested, and warming his hands over
the fire, his eyes bent upon the blaze, said, with an abruptness that
was natural to him:
“I am not accustomed to concern myself about strangers, Miss Reef, but
in you I have felt a peculiar interest since the day we first met.
You will remember I warned you then that you were too young for the
responsibility which I foresaw awaited you. I feared at that time that
Richard, on seeing so bright a flower, would endeavor to snatch it from
its stem. My fears have been realized; you see I am acquainted with
what has taken place, and now the hour has come when you and I must
part.”
“Oh no,” cried I gaspingly, “not yet, not yet.”
“Miss Reef,” he demanded solemnly, “why will you delay? I understand
what you would say; you desire to see Richard again, but that can
never be; you have looked your last upon him in this life. I know his
magnetic influence over you; once again under that influence you are
lost!”
I did not like what he said. He overstepped the bounds of courtesy, I
thought. The warning which Richard had given me against him revived in
force and I recoiled from him, saying:
“Sir, your brother is my friend; I can listen to nothing in his
disfavor.”
He sighed, “Ah, Agnes, you are but a child. The sun just rising above
yonder horizon must soon be darkened; I see the gathering cloud and
would warn you of the approaching storm. Why will you turn from me when
I desire to help you?”
His musical voice was so sympathetic that it moved me deeply; but I
shook my head and answered passionately, “I cannot trust you. You wrong
him, and would compel me to wrong him too.”
“My child,” said he sadly, “I had hoped to have saved you from further
anguish, but perhaps it is best that you should know all. Come with me.”
He opened the door and led me to a room on the opposite side of the
hall. I knew it to be the room where Herbert slept.
“Let us go in,” he whispered.
We entered softly: the apartment was darkened, but a dainty crib which
occupied the centre of the floor could be dimly seen. As we stepped in,
his nurse, who was bending over the cot, moved with hushed footsteps
away to give us room.
There he lay, my dear, sick lamb! I was so glad to be permitted to see
him. But the result of no ordinary sickness met my eye.
Great purple rings had settled around his closed eyelids, his lips
were blue, his sweet mouth partly opened, he seemed to breathe with
difficulty. I could not speak. Mr. Bristed turned down the coverlet
from the little shoulders.
“Look, Miss Reef,” said he hoarsely, his voice quivering with
agitation, pointing to some hideous marks on the little sufferer’s
throat--“those are _his_ finger marks.”
I sickened. What crime was this that he hinted at so strangely? But the
insinuation was too incredible. The thought that he was working on my
credulity exasperated me.
“If you want me to leave your house, Mr. Bristed, command me and I will
go, but you cannot force me to believe this horrid inference.”
He must have felt the disdain with which I spurned him, for he turned
upon his heel and left the room.
I then spoke to Herbert. At the sound of my voice he moved, and I
seated myself by his side. Quietness seemed desirable, and I was not
inclined to break it. Now and then I moistened his lips with a little
wine and water. Seeing that I still sat by the crib, the nurse lay down
upon a settee and fell asleep.
Hours thus passed. The days were short and twilight came on rapidly.
Sitting there in the gathering gloom, I began to hum inadvertently a
little song which Herbert loved me to sing to him. Hearing my voice
chant his favorite ditty, the poor little creature stirred in his crib,
and his pale lips parted into a smile. Presently, in broken tones he
asked, “Is that Miss Reef?”
“Yes, Herbert, darling, I have come to sing to you,” said I, mastering
my emotions and chirruping more loudly his beloved song.
The effect seemed truly magical--he endeavored to raise up his little
body. “Oh sing it again,” he cried.
“Would you like to sit upon my knee?”
He nodded assent, and I made an effort to lift him up, but he was weak
and heavy, and I not sufficiently strong to sustain him. As he fell
back, my eyes caught sight again of those fearful marks. Some power
outside of myself forced me to ask, “Herbert, what ails your throat;
has any one hurt you?”
At the question, a tremor fearful to witness passed through his frame,
and looking at me with an expression of preternatural intelligence, he
whispered, “He tried to choke me.”
Stunned with horror at this again repeated assertion, I sank down and
buried my face in my hands. I could think but one thought, and that was
a wish that I were dead!
CHAPTER VII
But my nature would not permit me at such a crisis to remain passive
long. I must arouse myself and act. Calling the nurse to take my place,
I went to seek Mr. Bristed. I found him, as usual, in his library.
“Sir,” said I, “I am calm now; will you not explain to me this
frightful mystery? I will listen and thank you.”
He placed a chair for me to be seated, and taking my hand, said
gently:--
“Miss Reef--Agnes, you are too weak to hear this that you seek to know.”
“No, no,” I exclaimed, vehemently; “I am not weak; I must know all.”
He arose and paced the floor hurriedly for a few moments; then
muttering, “It is best--I will tell her,” he said:
“You have been surprised, no doubt, Agnes, at the frankness with which
I have expressed my opinion of Richard’s character--let me inform you
that he and I are not brothers. He is a half-brother, the offspring of
my father’s second marriage; though indeed I doubt if he have a right
to even that relationship. I have heard dark hints thrown out that my
father had been deceived, and that this child who claimed to be his son
should look in a lower quarter for his father. Richard’s mother was
not a woman of high moral principle, and he partakes of her nature. My
father provided for him well, but as I was the elder son the bulk of
his large property became mine by inheritance; but Richard has always
made the Hall his home when in England--indeed, he has a legal right
during his lifetime to the use of the room he occupies. He has not,
however, often availed himself of this right since I have had his son
Herbert under my protection.”
“His son Herbert?” I repeated, mechanically.
“Yes, poor child, his son; though the boy has always been taught to
call him uncle. Neither Richard nor myself desire the relationship to
be known, and it is only in hope of serving you that I reveal it.”
“Richard married?” I said, falteringly.
“Ah, Agnes, there are many women whom he should never have seen, as
he could not marry them,” said he, with the slow determination of a
man resolved on uttering a repulsive truth. Herbert’s mother was a
beautiful but penniless orphan of good family, who visited this house
some years since in the capacity of companion to our great-aunt.
“During that visit I became enamoured with her, and we were secretly
engaged in marriage. It was before the death of my father, and I was
not my own master; but I loved her truly, and meant well by her, only
desiring her to wait till I should be free to please myself. But
Richard stepped in between me and my happiness. He stole this girl’s
heart from me; gained her love as he has endeavored to obtain yours,
by flattery and dissimulation you see I am not wily and smooth enough
to please women--but also he destroyed her peace under promise of
marriage; leaving her soon after and going abroad without acquainting
her with his purpose.
“I was temporarily from home when this occurred. On returning in the
course of a month, Richard fled, as I have stated; but I was ignorant
then of the cause, and it was not till in the agony of shame she came
to me for help with her secret, that I became aware of his perfidy.
“I need not tell you that I gave her all the aid in my power; her
child Herbert was born and secretly cared for. When he was about two
years old, the great-aunt of whom I have spoken died, leaving a large
proportion of her property to Alice, of whose misfortune she had never
dreamed.
“Wealth came to the unfortunate girl too late. The shock she had
received from Richard’s deceit had preyed upon her health, and she was
failing rapidly, when he, hearing of her good fortune, returned home.
“With his specious address he might have regained his old ascendancy
over her had I not interfered. You know well, Agnes, his peculiar gift
of fascination. I believe he could by some unexplainable psychological
process make any great wrong appear right to a woman. But I induced her
to bequeath her wealth to Herbert, and secure it, for a time at least,
beyond Richard’s control--and he owes me a grudge for it.
“Herbert, she left under my care, unless, of his own free will, he
chose to reside with Richard, who in that case was to become his
guardian; and in the event of Herbert’s death before reaching his
majority, the whole property was to revert to Richard Bristed. You see
she loved him still. Unjust but womanlike, her love was stronger than
her judgment.
“Well,” said he, after eyeing me thoughtfully, “you listen as if you
did not rightly comprehend what I have been saying!”
I was indeed stunned by his communication. Could it be, I thought,
with suppressed fear, that the shadowy figure which had haunted my
bed-chamber and had visited me in dreams was the same wronged Alice?
Had she arisen from her grave beneath the granite of the church-yard
to warn me? Or are the dead jealous of their rights? Do they cling to
their earthly love? I queried. But when he spoke I shook off these
thoughts that were rising like mist to obscure my judgment, and
answered, “_I_ am. I am listening; proceed.”
“Agnes, through your influence Richard has hoped to obtain possession
of Herbert and control over his fortune. He has thought to entrap you
as he did Alice, and through his power over you has calculated to carry
out the project of his prolific brain.”
Till this moment I had listened silently to his strange recital, but
I could not brook this insinuation. The story, to my mind, did not
appear clear. How could Richard expect to obtain, through my agency,
possession of a son whom he had never acknowledged? Tis true I
remembered him to have said that he feared I would miss my pupil very
much. He had asked playfully what would Herbert do without me, but he
had not suggested taking the child away with us, and therefore Mr.
Bristed’s charge appeared to my mind unfounded, and I told him so.
“Ah, my child!” he replied, “you know not the devising power of this
man. He has an agent here in this place, in the shape of old Crisp, the
hunchback. It has been his plan, under promise of marriage, to decoy
you from this house; he would probably have left his child to Crisp’s
good agency, with orders to join you. Herbert loves you, and would
have gone willingly in your company, but alone with Richard he would
not have moved one step. Once out of my reach in some distant city,
he would have had the reins in his own hand. It was by an unexpected,
but I hope fortunate chance, that I overheard a conversation to this
effect between him and the deformed servant. I could not ascertain the
day set for this adventure, but I surmised that it was at no remote
date, and I have kept alert. You have avoided me, Miss Reef, and I have
been obliged to watch your movements distantly. Not from suspicion of
you, for I know you to be pure and honorable, but because you are under
my protection, and because”--he hesitated--I wondered what was coming
next. I had a presentiment that he was about to make an avowal which I
ought to shun, but before I could evade him he turned suddenly toward
me, his face white with emotion, and continued--“I love you, Agnes,
though it is no time now to speak of my passion, and have watched over
you as a father, a brother, a _lover_ would watch.”
This announcement affected me more than I care to confess, considering
I did not return his love, but it was the allusion to his sheltering
care that moved me.
“Yes, I have watched over you; orphan that you are, you need some
guardian care. I knew by your frequent journeys to the village, by your
cloistering in your own apartment, and more than all, by your speaking
countenance, that you were preparing for some great event in your life.
“Last night I could not sleep; I laid my head upon my pillow, but
finding it impossible to close my eyes I arose and dressed. Sitting by
my window I thought I heard a commotion in your room. I listened until
my surmises grew into certainty. The hour was midnight, and your door,
which at that season is usually closed like a cloister-gate, swung on
its hinges.
“This alarmed me; I unlocked my door and looked out. Soon a hasty step
retreating from your chamber met my ear. Descending the stairs, this
untimely visitor entered the room where Herbert lay sleeping. A strange
suspicion came over me. Can the intruder be Richard? I thought. If so,
what was he doing at that hour of the night? I seized a lighted candle
and rushed to the boy’s apartment, and there I found Richard, maddened,
and beside himself with liquor and frenzy. I was just in time to save
Herbert’s life from his insane fury.
“I know not what had occurred between you and him, Agnes, but this I
know, he had failed in some diabolical plot he had contemplated. Chance
or a friendly Providence had thwarted his purpose. I had him in my
power, and compelled him to leave the house, not to return until you
have been removed where he will never find you.
“I cannot leave my beautiful bird, my pet dove, where the charms of
this wily serpent may ensnare her.”
He ceased. My eyes were dry, my heart turned to stone. I arose, and
mechanically moved toward the door.
“Where are you going, Agnes? Tell me of your plans; regard me as your
friend, I beg.”
“Take me away--take me away,” I cried hysterically; “I must go! Oh, oh,
oh!” I should have fallen, but he caught me in his arms.
CHAPTER VIII.
On reviving came the dread feeling that I must go. Go whither? I had
no home. I could not return to my uncle who had cast me adrift. The
inquisitive glance of his grim housekeeper would annihilate me. But go
I must, and that speedily.
With weary head and aching heart I commenced packing my little
wardrobe. My bridal attire I hastily covered from sight that it might
remain until time and mildew should obliterate it. My dream of love was
past. I felt that my youth and beauty were buried in that crushed pile
of broken flowers, pale silk, and dishevelled lace.
I had concluded my work, and was tying my bonnet-strings, when a knock
at the door announced Mr. Bristed. He appeared surprised at seeing me
arranged for my journey.
“So soon, Agnes?” said he. “You are not yet able to leave.”
But as I expressed very emphatically my ability and determination to
start immediately, he saw expostulation would be useless.
“Well,” said he, “let me hear where you contemplate going.”
I told him I should take the railway or coach to some point, I cared
not where; any distant city or village from whence I could advertise
for another situation. I was too hopeless then to care whither I went.
“And do you think I would permit you to leave me thus at random, going,
you know not where, without any preconceived plans? Oh my poor, poor
child, to be thrown thus upon the world!”
He walked the floor several times, apparently in great agitation; then,
suddenly pausing, said abruptly, almost violently, “It must not be!
Agnes, don’t go,” lowering his voice, and placing his hand gently on my
shoulder; “stay with me--become my wife. I love you and will cherish
you. No rude blast that my arm can shield you from shall assail you. My
life has been one of gloom, you can render it one of sunshine. Stay,
dear one, oh, stay!” and in his transport he seized my hands.
“What do you mean, Mr. Bristed?” said I, recoiling from him. “Surely,
you must forget yourself and the circumstances which have so recently
occurred; you have accused me of loving your brother, how, then, can I
transfer my affections to you? Oh, you are cruel, cruel!”
“Forgive me,” said he, penitently; “I will do anything for you,
Agnes--take you away, if you wish; only let me go with you and see that
you are properly cared for.”
I shook my head.
“Richard may seek to find you; you may fall again into his evil hands
if you insist on going thus alone.”
“Mr. Bristed,” said I, “thus far I have acted as you directed. I will
depart at your solicitation; but further than this, I must be free. If
Richard seeks me out, and I can aid him, I will do so. Degraded and
fallen though he be, my love will not shrink from him. I will help him
to rise.”
“You are a noble woman, Agnes,” he said with a sad smile, “God protect
you!” and he left me.
As he went out, I heard him order the carriage. The serving-man came
for my luggage, and I summoned courage to pay a farewell visit to
Herbert.
The poor little invalid became very much excited at seeing me, and
clung so tightly about my neck that it was with effort I could leave.
I did not then inform him of my intended departure, and with an aching
heart and forced smile I parted from the dear sufferer.
I met Mary in the hall; she told me Mr. Bristed had ordered her to
accompany me on my journey.
I did not want her company, my mind craved solitude; I would not have
her. I sought her master, and told him so. “At a time like this I must
be alone,” said I, excitedly; “I want no spy upon my actions. I will go
wherever you wish me to go, but let me proceed alone.”
“Well,” said he, musingly, “I desire but to serve you. Go to the town
of M., present this letter according to its directions. You refuse my
further aid, but if ever you need a friend, send for me; otherwise, I
will never trouble you.”
I answered that I would do as he requested, and with a heavy heart
entered his carriage, which was waiting to drive me to the railway
station.
CHAPTER IX.
I will pass over my journey, and the lonely, miserable days which
succeeded my arrival in M. I made fruitless effort to obtain service,
and waited and watched for an application in my dreary lodgings until
my small hoard of wages was nigh exhausted.
I had been in the city a fortnight, broken in spirit and dejected
by want of success, when I happened to bethink me of the letter Mr.
Bristed had given me.
I took it from its undisturbed nook in my trunk, and having read the
superscription, set about to find the party to whom it was addressed.
The direction led me to a large manufacturing establishment.
The gentleman to whom it was written appeared to be a foreigner. Having
presented the epistle to him, he perused it hastily, then taking my
hand with great eagerness, he exclaimed:
“O Mees! I am greatly honored. Mons. Bristeed is my very good friend;
I well acquaint with him in Paris. I congratulate you on having one
so grand a gentleman for your acquaintance. He tell me you look for a
school.”
“Yes, sir,” said I, glad to find my tastes had been studied; “I do
desire a school.”
“I will assist with pleasure, Mees. Be seated; in a few moments I will
accompany you.”
I sat down, wondering whither the gay, loquacious gentleman would lead
me.
He soon rejoined me, hat in hand.
“Will you accept my escort, Mees; the place is near by,” said he,
reading the note. “No. 14 B----, street. Will you walk, or shall I call
a cab?”
“I will walk,” I answered, scarcely knowing what reply was expected. As
we turned the corner of the street I ventured to ask:
“Is it to some school you are guiding me?”
“Ah, Mees,” said he, rubbing his hands together and laughing, “it is
some great secret. Mons. Bristeed would surprise you. Have a leetle
patience, and all will be divulged.”
We walked rapidly for a space and then paused before a handsome
building.
Entering the courtyard, we rang the silver bell. A servant answered our
summons and invited us in. Seated in the drawing-room, I heard the buzz
of many voices.
“Is it an academy?” I whispered to Monsieur Pilot, my conductor. He
smiled encouragingly.
“This is a young ladies’ seminary, Mees.”
Before I could question further, the room door opened, and a lady of
tall, imposing figure entered.
Monsieur Pilot commenced a vehement conversation with her in French.
She responded in the same tongue. The dialogue ended, he turned to me
and said:
“Mees Reef, permit me to introduce you to Madame Fontenelle.”
Madame smiled very graciously upon me, and then recommenced the
gesticulation and babble of the two. At length she appeared satisfied
with the understanding at which they arrived. I was growing uneasy at
their prolonged volubility, when Monsieur Pilot pirouetted up to me,
and said:
“Mees Reef, I beg to congratulate you. Madame consents to transfer
this mansion into your hands, She accepts our recommendation and that
of your own intelligent countenance. Mons. Bristeed was not mistaken
in the impression you would make. I wish you joy in having become the
proprietress of this splendid institution.”
“How,” I cried in astonishment; “I proprietor? I do not understand.
Please explain.”
Madame looked blandly on; my remarks were evidently unintelligible to
her.
“It is a very onerous and responsible position,
Mademoiselle”--shrugging her shoulders--“I should not like to advise
you. Do you comprehend the extent of the undertaking? I should not be
willing to trust my pupils in timid hands.”
Her remarks stung me, and gave, I presume, the favorable turn to my
destiny, for I felt the power to undertake a task which I would before
have shrunk from.
“I will do my duty in all cases to the best of my ability, madame!” was
my brief reply.
“Ah, you do not comprehend, Madame,” said Monsieur Pilot, coming
briskly to the rescue. “This is a surprise to Mees Reef. My very good
friend Monsieur Bristeed has not apprised the young lady of his bounty.
I have his commission to purchase for her this establishment, which he
is aware you desire to dispose of, Madame. His recommendation of the
young lady is surely sufficient.”
“The whole establishment?” I asked, with an effort at composure.
“Yes,” replied Madame. “I am obliged to start for the West Indies, and
must dispose of all. The present instructors are thoroughly competent
for their various positions; they merely need a supervisor. You appear
young, but I presume experience has fitted you for the office.”
“Eminently so, eminently,” answered Monsieur Pilot promptly, as if he
had been guardian of my reputation for years. “We will consider the
arrangements as complete, my clear Madame. I will call tomorrow and
close the transaction. _Bon jour_, Madame.”
And with rapid strides he hurried me away.
CHAPTER X.
The school became mine. By vigilance and perseverance, I not only
retained the pupils Madame had transmitted to my care, but added many
thereto.
Monsieur Pilot, lively and friendly, visited me frequently. I liked the
little Frenchman; his gaiety served to divert my mind from reflections
on the past, which like spectres would sometimes stalk grimly before me
when unoccupied, I sought the quiet of my own chamber.
With my increasing success, my pupils’ interest fully occupied every
moment of my time. Meantime, not a line or word reached me from Bristed
Hall. Upon my installment as proprietor of Madame’s seminary, I had
written to Mr. Bristed, thanking him for his kindness, and informing
him that I should take measures to repay the expenditures he had
incurred in my behalf, by placing quarterly in the hands of Monsieur
Pilot a sum such as I could spare from my income, by means of which I
hoped in time to repay my external indebtedness.
The only reply I received to this letter was a peremptory refusal, sent
through Monsieur Pilot, to accept any return.
I had been more than a year in my new home. Constant employment had
developed my mind, and I flattered myself on having acquired a wisdom
and sedateness such as ten years of quiet experience could not have
given me. But of this I was lamentably mistaken.
Of my silly yielding to circumstances which follow, the reader must not
judge too harshly. I was still but an immature woman, not yet twenty;
the glamour of youth still hung over me. I craved human love, and took
the first that presented itself, just as any other ardent, imaginative
girl in my place would have done.
One night late in autumn, when the sharp winds were already giving
signals of the coming winter, of leafless trees and frozen ground,
feeling the usual sadness which accompanies this season of the year,
I walked out upon the piazza in front of the house, looking down upon
the street. I thought the keen air would put my blood in more active
circulation, and thus dispel from my mind the brown and yellow fancies
that filled it as the dying leaves of October strewed the ground.
My pupils had all retired to their rooms, and relieved of my charge,
my thoughts were free to recreate. I walked quickly back and forth,
drawing in long draughts of the invigorating air, and reviewing the
morning’s duties. While thus engaged, my attention was arrested by the
appearance of a tall man on the opposite side of the street, standing
still and watching me. As he caught my startled gaze he lifted his hat
and bowed, and before I had time to reflect on his strange proceedings,
had crossed the street and was standing on the pavement below.
“Agnes!”
My God, he called me by name! My blood became like ice. Shaking from
head to foot I covered my eyes with my hands, and would have run in,
but the whistling wind brought the cry again:
“Agnes! Let me speak with you.”
Quick as the words were uttered the dark figure mounted the stone
steps, only the little iron railing of the balcony dividing us.
I knew then who it was.
“Will you open the door, or shall I?” said a voice which I remembered
too well.
I saw no alternative, without disturbing the neighborhood and betraying
myself; so, like a criminal, I stepped softly to the hall and unlocked
the door. He came in with a light, free step, and seated himself upon a
couch with the ease of an old friend and accomplished gentleman. It was
Richard Bristed!
I will not detail what passed at this interview. But I fell again under
his fascination; his magnetic presence lulled my faculties, and, alas,
I must relate that this nocturnal intrusion was followed quickly by
others!
He assumed his old ascendancy over me. The past became like an
unpleasant dream in my mind, dimly remembered, but never distinctly
recalled.
Occasionally, however, a sharp doubt obtruded itself, and roused me for
an instant. One evening I ventured to ask:
“Richard, why are your visits so brief, and made only in the night?”
“Why?” he repeated, as if startled by the suddenness of the question,
then adding carelessly: “Because you always have that deuced old
fellow, Monsieur Pilot, running here. I am not very jealous, yet it
would torment me to meet one who dares raise his thoughts to my Agnes.
He wants to marry you. Do dismiss him!”
This conjecture proved true, and I was obliged to give a cold rebuff to
the man who had befriended me. It is possible Richard Bristed did not
care to be recognized by his brother’s agent, but I did not think of
this at that time.
CHAPTER XI.
After this affair happened Richard visited me more openly, and my
pupils, when by chance they met him, were charmed with the stranger. He
was only known as “Mr. Richard.” “Call me that, Agnes, I hate the name
of Bristed. Introduce me to your friends as Mr. Richard,” he said, and
I had done so.
About this time he explained satisfactorily, to my credulous mind, the
cause of his sudden retreat from Bristed Hall, and gave me reason to
believe that the statements his brother had made concerning him were
untrue and evil in design.
“My brother, as you have surely discovered, Agnes, is a cold, proud
man, and as I was not his equal in wealth or position he selected an
heiress, both old and disagreeable, whom he designed me to marry. Your
youth and beauty he intended to appropriate to himself. I feared if I
made him acquainted with my purpose to unite myself to you he would
frustrate all my wishes, and when I discovered that he knew of my
plans, I determined to forestall him by making you my wife that very
night. I intended to have gone through the form of marriage, which the
next day could have been legalized, for I feared the influence of his
wealth and position upon your unsophisticated mind.
“However, you refused to trust me, and I left your room maddened by
anger and the fear of losing you.
“I met my brother in the hall-way; he said Herbert was ill, and I
accused him of trying to injure the boy that he might defraud me.
Sharp words passed between us. I left him, and in blind haste mounted
my horse, thinking I would ride over to N., a distance of some twenty
miles, to get the clergyman of the parish, an intimate friend of mine,
to drive with me to the Hall and perform the important ceremony.
“The ride I accomplished in a few hours, but I found my friend absent
from home. The excitement and disappointment, added to the severe cold
to which I was exposed, broke me down, and I was taken suddenly ill.
When I recovered, I returned to Bristed Hall only to find my priceless
bird flown, and no clue to be had to her whereabouts.
“As to the tale about Herbert, that is all a _ruse_; he is not my
son, and only distantly connected with either of us. He is heir to a
considerable estate, and Mr. Bristed is managing so that upon Herbert’s
decease (and poor child, he cannot live long) the inheritance will fall
to his lot.”
Such was his version of the story, and as I loved him I believed it
willingly.
CHAPTER XII.
In his gay society the winter passed quickly. With the opening spring
he departed--on business, as he said. I felt his loss, but as it was a
busy time with me it did not affect me as it otherwise would have done.
Many changes were being made in my seminary. I was obliged to employ
workmen to add new dormitories to the great house, for pupils were
crowding in from every point.
The reputation of the school was growing; I was immersed in business.
Some months elapsed; I ceased to hear from Richard, almost to think of
him, amid the activity of the spring term.
“Circumstances,” some say, “are the Devil,” and I almost believe
that saying. While employed I was happy, my mind well balanced and
energetic; but unfortunately for me, summer vacation drew near. It came
finally; a sultry sun, parched earth, and scorched verdure made life in
the city undesirable. My pupils fled to the country and to their homes
until the fall session, and I was left alone. Even my servants were
absent, all save one.
Shut up in the empty mansion alone with my own thoughts, I was growing
morbidly lonesome.
It was at this unpropitious moment that Richard Bristed returned.
CHAPTER XIII.
He arranged quiet strolls to the country--little excursions here and
there with himself as my sole companion--and many sweet happy days of
unsullied pleasure I passed in his society.
One sultry morning, to my delight, he came in an open carriage, saying
that the atmosphere was so heated he would drive me out of town to a
charming little village with which he was familiar.
The prospect of such a jaunt was to me indeed agreeable; and as he
liked to see me in becoming dress, I arrayed myself in white, placed
a fillet of pale blue ribbon round my hair and a bouquet of blue
forget-me-nots in the bosom of my dress, and thus adorned set forth,
sitting by Richard’s side.
I was as happy as a young queen; all the black suspicions which had
darkened my horizon were absorbed in the fierce heat of that summer
morning. His beauty, his fascinating smile, his lively conversation,
filled me with rapture.
Arrived at the village, we stopped at a small but pretty tavern and
alighted. While I entered the dwelling Richard drove his horses under
shelter. He soon joined me, looking much disconcerted.
“Agnes, my darling, what shall we do? We cannot ride back to-night; the
carriage is out of order, and I fear the horse is injured by the heat
and rapid driving.”
“O Richard, I must return home to-night!” I answered decidedly.
“Well, I will see what can be done, but we will rest awhile and take
some refreshments.”
A delightful half hour passed while we were regaling ourselves with
country fare and looking at the strange place from the window of the
little inn. Then Richard proposed that we should walk out while waiting
for repairs to our vehicle. Together we strolled through the quiet
lanes and open commons till we came upon a pretty, unpretending church,
half hidden in ivy and creeping vines. The door stood open. “Come,”
said he, “let us go in.” I followed him in. To my surprise I discovered
a clergyman in his robes at the altar. Richard whispered in my ear some
words which I could not understand and their import I could only guess
at, but his tender manner brought the hot blood to my face.
“Agnes,” he continued, speaking with quiet determination; “you must
be mine; everything is in readiness. We cannot return to-night; Fate
ordains it!”
It did appear to me that Fate, as he said, ordained the events which
followed that country drive. All the love and sentiment of my nature
was aroused; but reason told my intoxicated senses that I must not act
without forethought, so I shook my head to his passionate urgency and
endeavored to withdraw. But my companion pressed me gently back into an
open pew, and hastened past me up the aisle.
A rapid conversation then took place between himself and the clergyman,
who, after casting his eyes in my direction, went to his desk and took
up his prayer-book.
Richard returned with quick steps to where I was sitting.
“Come,” said he, smiling; “he is waiting.”
Startled and trembling, I made no answer save an effort to reach the
door.
“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not make a scene! Recover your usual
good sense. Do you not see that it is best?” whispered Richard, with
earnestness almost fierce.
And so hurried, flushed and doubting, overcome with heat and
excitement, I permitted myself to be led to the altar.
The ceremony soon ended. As the clerk shut his book and we turned to
depart, I could not realize that this abrupt, informal marriage was a
reality. As I passed down the aisle, a white, fluttering, impalpable,
and yet clearly-defined form arose from one of the empty seats, and
unobstructed by carved wood or heavy upholstery, passed out through
frame and plaster! The slight figure, the golden hair, I remembered too
well--it was that of the _ghost of Bristed Hall_!
I clenched Richard’s arm so that he muttered an oath, and said sharply,
“My God, Agnes, what are you doing?”
“Did you not see that figure? It passed straight through the wall,” I
whispered in affright.
“Move on--none of your d--d nonsense, Agnes,” said Richard, scowling;
then hastily adding, “Excuse me, love, you confuse me. My happiness
makes me forget myself.”
My mind surged with conflicting emotions. I felt a secret joy in the
knowledge that I was united to the man I loved. This romantic, half
run-away match pleased the romance of my nature, and yet I was unable
to resist the feeling that I had done wrong. A strange foreboding of
evil intruded upon my joy.
Richard that evening was gay almost to wildness. “O Agnes! Agnes! we
have outwitted them, the fools! They thought they had conquered me, but
you are mine, and I have won!”
He talked so disconnectedly, I thought he had taken too much wine.
Indeed, to this he owned.
“I could drink flask after flask of it, I am so happy!” he exclaimed.
We were happy that night and drove home in the cool of the morning.
It was arranged that our marriage should for the present be kept
private, as Richard thought if it were known it might disorganize my
school.
CHAPTER XIV.
We had been wedded but two weeks when one morning Richard asked me to
show him my deed of the property.
“How strange,” said he, as he looked it over. “Do you know, Agnes,
before I wedded you I might have married many a woman of wealth, but I
would not unite myself with a lady who would not honor me by giving me
sole control of all her possessions.”
“Well, Richard,” answered I, laughing, “you can control mine if you
like. It matters little to me who holds the deed, so long as my
dominion over the young ladies is not invaded.”
“That is what I expected of your, loving nature, Agnes, and yet I
suppose you would hesitate to convey your property to me.”
“No; why should I?” I exclaimed. “I will go with you to an attorney
this moment, if you desire it.”
“Well, come, we shall see; get your bonnet,” said he gaily.
I tied on my bonnet, and accompanied him down the street into a little
dingy office in a narrow thoroughfare.
At the door, laying his hand upon my shoulder, he said jokingly:
“Agnes, go back, I was only trying you; I wanted to see if you meant
what you said.”
“Of course I meant it, and I will not go back till it is done.”
“Well, well, you must have your own way, I see!” and with a gay,
exulting smile he led me into the office.
I signed the paper giving to him the house and lands, and was glad when
it was done, for I felt that it might atone for any suspicion or doubt
of his goodness which had crossed my mind, for he had made me very
happy since our marriage.
I returned to my school and its duties. In the interval between the
recitations, I had time to reflect. I had acted impulsively, and
perhaps unfairly. What right had I to give away a property given to me
for an especial purpose?
Had I done right? That was the question which annoyed me--the question
which constantly thrust itself before me during the live-long day.
My sleep that night was disturbed. The form of the elder Mr. Bristed
appeared in my dreams. He seemed to reproach me by his looks, and when
I endeavored to speak to him, vanished from my sight.
Richard had left me after my signing the paper. He told me he was
obliged to leave town on business, and I had no one to council with. My
own thoughts startled me; I became nervous, and finally quite ill.
CHAPTER XV.
At length, after two days of unrest and self-condemnation, I quieted
myself with the assurance that I would go to the Hall and see Mr.
Bristed; then also I could see dear Herbert, to whom my heart went
often out with longing. His name was never mentioned between Richard
and myself. I avoided the subject; a dread which I could not overcome
forbade me to speak of it. But now a strange, irrepressible desire to
see the child filled my mind.
Yielding to this intense feeling, I arranged my affairs, and taking a
coach, set off early in the morning for the train which would convey
me to Bristed Hall. To my astonishment I met Richard at the depot.
Overwhelmed with surprise at the encounter, and ashamed to confess
my intended journey, I made some petty excuse for being there, and
returned home again. Richard handed me into the cab, but excused
himself from accompanying me as he had a friend awaiting him.
That day, after luncheon, taking me aside he informed me that a noble
lord had placed in his charge a lad who was partially idiotic and sole
heir to an immense estate; that it was necessary he should have at his
disposal a room in the upper part of the building in which he could
keep him from observation, as it had been discovered the sight of
strangers increased the boy’s malady, and perfect seclusion would be
the only means of restoring him to reason.
I immediately directed a servant to put in order one of the rooms in
a remote portion of the dwelling; this was done, and towards dusk
Richard, who had left the house, returned in a handsome coach with the
poor, helpless, deranged boy. From the window I saw them alight. A
slight, tall figure, wrapped in a cloak, descended from the coach. This
undoubtedly was the afflicted youth. He walked so feebly I should have
hastened to his assistance, but Richard’s command that I should not
permit him to see strange faces withheld me.
However, I stood in the partly opened door, hoping I should be called.
As the muffled figure passed me on the way up the staircase I vainly
sought to catch a glimpse of the youth’s face, but he turned neither to
the right nor left.
Richard, however, saw me and shook his head, indicating with an angry,
peremptory gesture, that I should withdraw.
For days I felt a strange curiosity about this youth, but as Richard
gave my inquisitiveness no food, and conducted his attentions to his
charge in an orderly, business-like manner, I dismissed the subject
from my mind.
CHAPTER XVI.
Nothing new transpired the remainder of those autumn days. November
was now close upon us. About this time I remarked a sudden falling
off of my hitherto prosperous school. Determined to know the cause, I
inquired of one of my assistants, in whom I confided, if she was aware
of the cause of this decline. She hesitated to reply to my question,
but when pressed for her opinion she informed me that my pupils were
dissatisfied with my relations with Mr. Richard, and also with his
conduct respecting the youth who had been imprisoned on the upper
floor. They asserted they had heard groans proceeding from the room he
occupied, and feared to remain in a house where mystery and secrecy
were rife.
I was astonished and alarmed at this information. You, reader, will be
surprised to learn that I was at that time more ignorant of events that
transpired around me than my own pupils. But I was not of a suspicious
nature, and happy in my new life of love, the few weeks that had
elapsed since my marriage passed as in a delicious dream.
But now I was thoroughly aroused and ready to return to duty. I thanked
the teacher for her information and then dismissed her, as I wished to
be alone.
When left to the quiet of my own thoughts I reflected how best to
proceed in the matter. Richard was not at home, I could not question
him, and he had the key of his ward’s room with him.
I finally concluded I would go to the door of this private room and
listen if I could detect any unusual noise from within.
With trepidation I ascended the back staircase leading to the secluded
apartment.
Near the door I paused against the alcove of the great window that
lighted the hall, and looked out. The sky was dull and leaden; a scanty
snow was falling, and the wind, blowing furiously, drove it hither and
yon. I stood for some moments looking out upon the gloomy prospect so
in accordance with my state of mind. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of
Richard crossing the street. I started when I saw him and was about
to retreat, when a thought arrested me. Why should I hurry away? Was
I afraid of Richard? Was he not the proper person to consult in my
dilemma? I would let him know that I desired to enter the room!
So thinking, I approached the door and tried it. It was locked, but at
the sound of the turning knob a sad, dreary moan arose from within--a
cry of mingled fear and weakness. The sound of that moaning voice
seemed familiar to my ear. What could it mean?
As I stood thus in suspense, listening for further development of the
mystery, I heard a step close beside me. I turned, and discovered
Richard. His fair, handsome face scowled at me fiendishly; his
countenance seemed transformed; his eyes gleamed like those of a
panther.
“What are you doing here?” said he, laying a heavy hand upon me and
speaking through his set teeth. “Go down stairs!” and he pushed me from
him violently.
I suppose his physical power and angry mood awed me, for I forgot my
determination to solve the mystery--forgot my own rights, and hurried
precipitately down the stairs.
CHAPTER XVII.
With my mind filled with dreadful forebodings, I reached my own private
chamber, entered it, and bolted the door, that I might consider,
undisturbed, the best course of action to pursue under these fearful
suspicions that haunted me. Hour after hour passed as I sat thus
absorbed in thought which seemed to turn my very hair gray from its
intensity.
I heard Richard descend the stairs and go out into the street. Not
long; after this the door-bell rang violently and the servant knocked
at my door to say that a gentleman in the drawing-room wished to see
me. Smoothing my hair and arranging my toilet, I obeyed the summons,
but started back on discovering the stranger to be no other than Mr.
Bristed. He pressed my hands and said:
“Agnes, can I converse with you in private here a few moments?”
My first surprise over, I answered, “Come with me; we will not be
disturbed here.” Withdrawing to a small room adjoining, he drew forward
an ottoman and seating himself beside me, said:
“Agnes, Herbert is missing; can you tell me where I can find him?”
“Herbert missing!” said I with a shudder.
“Yes,” said he, “I have heard, Agnes, that a gentleman visits you whom
I surmise to be my brother, and, if so, I thought perhaps you would
know through him of Herbert’s place of hiding.”
“Has Herbert left you?” said I. “Tell me--what do you mean, Mr.
Bristed?”
“Yes,” said he; “some few weeks since, I left the Hall to visit an old
friend. I expected to be absent a fortnight. While I was gone Herbert
disappeared, the servants knew not how nor where. At first, hoping
to discover that he had strayed off of his own accord and would soon
be found, they searched the country in every direction, but in vain.
They were at last obliged to send me word of his disappearance. You
can imagine my sensations on arriving at the Hall and finding the dear
child’s room vacant. I made inquiries in every quarter, sent couriers
out in all parts of the neighboring country, but no trace of him could
be found.
“I at length thought of you, that you might have seen or heard of my
brother. He is the one person likely to be concerned in the singular
disappearance of Herbert.”
I trembled from head to foot. What could I say? Evidently he was not
aware of my marriage with his brother. How should I act? Richard might
come in at any moment and discover himself. I recollected him to have
incidentally mentioned that the following day he had an engagement at
the race-course with a friend; I therefore said hurriedly:
“Mr. Bristed, I have seen Richard recently, but tonight can tell you
nothing further. If you will call to-morrow morning at eleven, I will
tell you all I know.”
He seized my hand, exclaiming, “Tell me to-night, Agnes, and set my
mind at ease.”
My head seemed on fire--I groaned audibly.
“I can tell you nothing of a certainty. It is all surmise, and my brain
is distracted to-night. Give me till to-morrow.”
“I will, Agnes; I feel that I can confide in you.”
“Now go,” I replied. “My position is such that your presence here will
only destroy the purpose of your visit.”
He clasped my hand in his and left me.
The next morning before leaving for the racecourse, while adjusting his
neck-tie, Richard said:
“I fear we shall lose our imbecile pupil up-stairs, Ag. I brought a
doctor in to see him last night, and he says he cannot live long.”
I could not see his face, for he looked persistently away.
“If he is ill, I must see him, Richard,” I managed to reply.
“Oh, no!” said he; “I thought you were foolishly scared to hear him
groan yesterday, but if he does not get better I will send him home to
his friends.” This he said carelessly, as he walked out of the room
humming a lively air.
How coolly he talks about the lad! thought I, half ashamed of my
suspicions. Perhaps I have wronged him. I have been too impetuous in my
surmises.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The time drew near for his brother’s arrival. He was prompt to the hour.
“Well, Agnes,” said he, “I have passed a sleepless night. I hope you
will relieve my mind of its anxiety.”
“Mr. Bristed,” said I, covering my eyes with my hand, for I could not
endure his eager gaze, “I must first tell you I am married to your
brother Richard.”
“Married to Richard!” he exclaimed, starting up violently agitated; and
seizing my shoulder with nervous gripe he set me off from him at arm’s
length--“You married to Richard! why, Agnes, that cannot be; has he not
a wife now living in France? But be calm, child,” said he, “be calm,”
patting me gently on the head; “perhaps I am misinformed; we will talk
of this hereafter. Now about Herbert. Tell me what you know.”
This question recalled me. I then informed him of the idiotic pupil
who had been received in the house about a fortnight since, and how my
suspicions as to his identity had been aroused the day previous.
He could scarcely wait till I had finished my account. “Come, quick!
come! show me the way to the room!”
I led him up the stairs in the direction of the suspected chamber. As
we neared the door a low moan could be heard distinctly.
“O my God, it is Herbert!” he exclaimed. “Quick, where is the key?”
“I have no key--you must pry the lock open.” No sooner said than
done--he burst open the door and entered. I followed. Alas! our
surmises proved too true! There upon the couch lay the wasted form of
poor Herbert.
As he recognized us his wan face lighted up with an angelic smile, and
he endeavored to raise himself at our coming, but he was too weak, and
his head sank nerveless back upon the pillow.
Silently and hushed, as in the chamber of death, we stepped to his
bedside. He held out his thin hand to his uncle, who clasped it between
his own, and, kneeling by his couch, bowed his head and sobbed aloud.
His first moments of bitter grief subsiding, he said to me, “Send for
some wine.” Then, stroking the child’s fair forehead, he groaned, “O
Herbert, Herbert, have I found you at last, sick and alone!”
Herbert attempted to reply, but his voice was weak and faint; we could
not distinguish his words. A servant brought the wine, and I moistened
his colorless lips with it. How I felt, it is useless to describe.
Words would fail to express my terror.
The rich, warm juice of the grape and the application of stimulants
seemed to restore him to life. His first effort on recovering was to
call me by name. I answered by bending over him and bathing his pale
forehead. At this he smiled, pleased and happy.
“Now, Herbert, my poor boy,” said Mr. Bristed, “if it will not fatigue
you too much to talk, tell us how you came here. Who brought you? Why
did you leave Bristed Hall?”
“Uncle Richard brought me,” said he, heaving a melancholy sigh. “He
came after you had gone, uncle, and told me that Agnes Reef was sick
and going to die, and wanted to see me and you, and that if you were
home you would let me go, because you loved her; and I thought so too.
He gave me this ring which Agnes sent so I would know it was her.” And,
saying this, he held up a thin, transparent hand, and there, indeed,
upon it gleamed one of my rings, so loose that the wasted fingers could
scarce retain it.
“My ring! So Richard gave you that,” said I, with scorn I could not
conceal, even in the sick chamber.
“Yes,” he murmured, “and he told me he would bring me straight back
before uncle got home, and he brought me here into this room, but Agnes
was not here. I could not find her. Then he locked the door and would
not let me out, and I have been hungry and cold. And when I cried, he
would kick me, and that made me sick, I think. Do take me home, uncle,
before he comes, and I will never go away again!”
CHAPTER XIX.
During this recital Mr. Bristed and I exchanged glances of horror. We
could not speak. When it was finished, he said:
“Agnes, order the coach. I must take him away from this place.”
I felt that the boy was too feeble to move, but I dared not suggest it.
I too wanted him removed from the baneful influences of the house. We
proposed to carry him down on the pallet, and thus convey him to the
carriage. One hour or more elapsed before everything was in readiness.
While we were moving him Richard appeared, unannounced. A wild,
unearthly scream from Herbert first gave notice of his arrival.
“O uncle! Miss Reef! save me! He will beat me to death!”
His uncle endeavored to calm him with his assurance of protection, and,
turning to Richard, in a voice husky with emotion said:
“Look, this, is your work! If there is a God ruling the universe, your
punishment, though tardy, must be sure.”
“I see nothing strange about it,” said Richard, with an assumption of
indifference which made his handsome face look to me at that moment
like that of a Judas. “If he is my child, as you say, why should he not
be here? Who has a better right to him than I? The little imp professes
to dislike me, but that is some of your teaching, and I will soon cure
him of it.”
“You cannot have him, Richard. He must go with me.”
“I know my rights, and I will use them,” he replied, excitedly.
“Move that boy at your peril;” and he clapped his hand upon his
silver-mounted pocket-pistol. He had evidently been drinking. His day
at the race-course had maddened him. He was in a dangerous mood to
oppose. This Mr. Bristed evidently saw, as I did, for he beckoned me
to go out for assistance. As I was moving toward the door for that
purpose, Richard’s eye lit upon me.
“Ah, ha!” shouted he, coming toward me. “So you are the one who
has been prying into my affairs. It is you I must thank for this
interference. Out of this room directly! Get you gone!”
I should have obeyed, but a sound from Herbert’s bed arrested me--a
sound that awed me more than the angry voice of Richard! I hurried to
the bedside. Mr. Bristed was there before me. I looked at the sinking
boy. A stronger hand than his father’s grasped him now. _That_ hand was
_Death’s_!
No need now to remove the little sufferer from his couch to the
carriage in waiting. He would be borne soon by the white-robed angels
from the reach of us all!
Even Richard, whose cruel grasp he had eluded, seemed awed as the
little spirit burst from its tenement, and a transcendent smile settled
on the thin, waxen face, and the white hands folded themselves across
the breast with an air of unutterable peace.
CHAPTER XX.
Early the next morning Mr. Bristed accompanied the lifeless body of
little Herbert to Bristed Hall. He begged me to go with him, but I
refused his solicitations. I had other duties before me, which I must
perform. I should have been glad to have rid myself from every one, but
that could not be. Richard did not return, and I was alone; the days
dragged heavily away. I felt that I stood on the brink of a yawning
chasm from which I could turn neither to the right nor the left. The
thought of remaining with Richard was abhorrent, and the prospect of
leaving him and commencing life anew was also a dreadful alternative.
What shall I do?--I reflected, as I went my weary way through the
classes. Richard solved that question for me when he returned after an
absence of three days.
My pupils had just retired when a message came that he had returned and
desired to see me in the library. With a heavy heart I went to meet
him. He was not alone. A tall, passionate-looking woman, with dark hair
and restless eyes, sat beside him. She was richly appareled, and gazed
at me with a haughty stare as I entered.
Richard nodded to me a bare recognition and said, “I have sent for
you, as I wish you to inform your pupils that they must leave in the
morning. I have other uses for this building.”
At this cool announcement I staggered. Good God! would he undo me? What
plan had he now in view? “Remove my pupils!” I exclaimed.
“Yes; do I not speak clearly? And as you have been plotting and
scheming for some time against me, I would advise you to leave, also.
Bristed Hall,” said he sneeringly, “is likely to prove an agreeable
shelter to you.”
“_I_ leave!” said I, now fairly awake to the danger. “What do you mean,
sir?”
“I mean,” he replied with diabolical blandness, “that this lady is my
wife, and will from this time take charge of this establishment.”
“Richard Bristed, you cannot, dare not make that assertion! I am your
wife, though I acknowledge it with shame and sorrow. He has misled you,
madam,” said I, turning to the lady. “You are mistaken if you suppose I
shall abandon my rights.”
“Ha, ha!” he laughed, “_she_ knows all about you. You cannot enlighten
her, so you had better hasten and pack your trunks.”
“I shall not leave, sir; I shall defend my position here. I am a woman,
and you shall not sully my fair name,” said I, maddened by his manner.
“Your brother will help me--the law will aid me. Here I remain!”
“You will?” said he; “we will see. This house is mine,” and he drew out
his pistol with which to frighten me.
“Richard,” said I, hoping to restore him to calmness, “put up that
pistol. You cannot, dare not use it.”
“Dare not!” he exclaimed, coming up to me, his hot breath smelling of
wine; “I will show you if I dare not!”
I was alarmed as he suddenly cocked the weapon. What might he not do in
his drunken excitement?
“She is a coward, Dick,” said the lady. “Don’t trouble yourself about
her,” and then turning to me and stamping her foot, “How dare you say
you are his wife!” she exclaimed. “Go out from here!”
I shook from head to foot, but did not leave.
“Come, Dick, give me the pistol,” said the lady; “You don’t know what
you might do with it.”
“Don’t meddle with me,” said he, as she attempted to wrest it from his
grasp. “Why does that girl stand glowering at me?”
“O Richard,” I sobbed, “my heart is ready to burst! Don’t act so;
remember Herbert!”
“Remember Herbert!” he muttered; “I do remember him. You killed him
with your pranks, and now you would accuse me. Go, leave my house, or I
will compel you.”
I believe he would have fired upon me at that moment, but the lady
sprang forward and caught his arm. A slight struggle ensued, then
followed a sharp report, and the pistol fell to the ground; a fearful
shriek rent the air, and Richard fell heavily to the floor, covered
with blood. I rushed to help him. He raised his glassy eyes to mine,
and faintly murmuring “My God! I am lost!” expired.
CHAPTER XXI.
The shock was too much for me. I was seized with fearful dizziness.
The objects in the room became black before my eyes, and I fell to the
floor beside the bleeding corpse, insensible.
Convulsions, I was afterwards told, followed this swoon. A raging fever
attacked me, and for weeks my life was despaired of. At length the
crisis passed; my youthful constitution conquered the disease, and I
was again restored to the world in which I had experienced so much joy
and so much misery.
One morning the delicious feeling of returning consciousness revived
me. Where was I? The room looked familiar, yet strange. Surely I had
seen that silken coverlet before! The carved footboard of the bed on
which I was lying was not new to my sight. My weak brain was busy with
conjectures, when a woman approached, carrying a glass and spoon. It
was Mary, the housekeeper of Bristed Hall.
“Why, Mary, are you here?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes, Miss, but you must not talk. Take these drops. I am heartily glad
you are better, Miss.”
A sense of rest and peace stole over me, followed by a few hours of
natural sleep.
On opening my eyes from this refreshing slumber, I found Mary still
sitting near me.
“Mary,” said I, “you must tell me where I am; everything here looks so
natural, and yet as if I were in a dream.”
“You are not dreaming, Miss. You are in your own chamber in Bristed
Hall.”
Bristed Hall! A warm gush of gratitude pervaded my being. So I was not
friendless! I was cared for.
“Where is Mr. Bristed?” I asked after a pause.
“We have persuaded him to drive out, miss, as the doctor said you were
out of danger. Anxiety for you and grief for Herbert’s death have quite
taken his strength away.”
“I must get up, Mary. You must help me to dress.”
“Oh no, miss!” she replied; “you are not strong enough yet.”
“I am quite strong. Besides, it will revive me; I am weary of the bed,
and need a change.”
She acquiesced in my wish, dressed me neatly, and smoothed my hair.
“Now, take me down,” I requested. “I wish to surprise Mr. Bristed.”
Of course she remonstrated, said I would bring on the fever again, and
all that; but as I persisted in my determination, she led me down the
stairs. The fresh air invigorated me; I felt every minute increased
power. At my request, she took me to Mr. Bristed’s conservatory. The
bright flowers, the singing birds in their ornamented cages, and the
adjoining study with its well-filled shelves, all reminded me of the
past. Tears came to my eyes as I recalled the bitter changes I had seen
since leaving that sunny home!
CHAPTER XXII.
I had not been long in the conservatory when I heard the wheels of a
carriage. Mr. Bristed had returned. He ascended the steps: I heard his
voice in the hall. His first words were an inquiry after my welfare.
He was told that I was better. Passing through his apartments, he
entered the study. I could see him plainly from the windows of the
conservatory. He looked, I thought, thin and sad; his hair had become
sprinkled with gray since the time when I resided in his mansion.
Turning to Mary, who was waiting there for me, he said: “I feel faint;
bring me a cup of tea.”
Mary left the room on her mission, and I stole from my hiding place.
“Mr. Bristed,” whispered I, coming softly up behind his chair.
He started. “Whose voice is that? Agnes, where are you?”
“Here, sir,” I answered, as I touched him lightly.
He turned toward me, his face flushed with pleasure, his eyes expectant.
“You, Agnes--you, verily? How came you here? I thought you were ill off
your pillow. What pleasant trick is this you have been playing me?”
Then taking both my hands in his and surveying me, his eyes the while
beaming with soft pleasure, he said:
“Oh, I am so happy that you are better. But you are wrong to come here;
you will make yourself ill again.”
I told him how I had awakened, and of my glad surprise in finding
myself in my old chamber again, and how I had insisted on coming down
to thank him for his kindness in bringing me hither.
“Don’t thank me, Agnes; for you I could do anything. This place shall
always be your home. Some day, Agnes, you may learn to appreciate the
worth of a heart that truly loves you.”
I fell upon my knees before him. “O Mr. Bristed, I do appreciate!” I
cried. “I do know that you love me. Let me live for you. Let me by a
life of devotion atone for the mistakes of the past!”
He lifted me up, and folded me to his breast.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A few weeks of balmy spring air and soft sunshine completely restored
me to health.
One day when strolling in company with Mr. Bristed through a path
blooming with early hyacinths and crocuses, I ventured to ask him about
my school.
“It is entirely broken up, Agnes. After the fearful tragedy that
transpired within its walls, your pupils scattered like dust in
the wind. I arrived the next morning after the death of Richard,
unconscious of what had occurred in my absence, but intending to take
you home with me. I found you, as I then thought, on your death-bed. I
settled with your separate teachers, and closed the school. With the
French woman who claimed to be Richard’s wife, and with whom he had
probably gone through the form of marriage, as with you, I made an
arrangement satisfactory to her to sell the property and give her an
equivalent for its value.”
“But what motive,” I asked hesitatingly, “could Richard have had for
his course?”
“Motive? The same that had actuated him through life. With you, Agnes,
he would have lived probably as he did with others, until his versatile
heart demanded a change. Then, with your little estate in his hands and
Herbert’s property in his power, he would have deserted you for some
new beauty.
“But let the grave cover his mistakes and evils. I believe that a
good God will not punish him too severely for propensities which he
inherited.”
Once more I yielded to the charms of companionship and love. Severe
trials had proved Mr. Bristed’s worth, and when he again asked me to
make the remnant of his life happy by my care and love--to become his
wife, and share his home, and reign queen of his heart--I consented.
When the June roses blossomed, we were married. The balmy air and
opening buds spoke of a new life. They typified my new life, truly. The
glitter and gloss which had deceived me in youth would never beguile me
more. I had learned that it was not the external man, but the internal
that was worthy of love.
The shadowy form of Alice never troubled me again, I believe reparation
can be made beyond the tomb, and that in some far-off world the
new-born spirit of Richard atones to Alice and Herbert for the wrong he
did them in this.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
_TO HER HUSBAND_.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see her in her glad surprise,
Kissing the tear-drops from your weeping eyes;
Moving about you through the ambient air,
Smoothing the whitening ripples of your hair.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You cannot see the flowers she daily twines
In garlands for you, from immortal vines;
The danger she averts you never know;
For her sweet care you only tears bestow.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Vainly you’ll wait until the last trump sound!
Vainly your love entombed beneath the ground!
Vainly in kirk-yard raise your mournful wail!
Your loved is living in some sunnier vale.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
You think her gone to her eternal rest,
Like some strange bird forever left her nest!
Her sweet voice hush’d within the silent grave,
While o’er her dust the weeping willows wave.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
And yet she lives, and loves! Oh, wondrous truth!
In golden skies she breathes immortal youth!
Look upward! where the roseate sunset beams,
Her airy form amid the brightness gleams!
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Oh, speak not thus! her tender heart you grieve,
And ’twixt her love and yours a barrier weave!
Call her by sweetest name, your voice she’ll hear,
And through the darkness like a star appear.
Dead! dead! You call her dead!
Lift up your eyes! she is no longer dead!
In your lone path the unseen angels tread!
And when your weary night of earth shall close,
She’ll lead you where eternal summer blows.
ARTEMUS WARD.
_AND OUT OF PURGATORY._
ARTEMUS WARD’S LECTURES TO POOR, PERISHING HUMANITY.
LECTER I.
You’ll remember, relatives and nabors, how I crost the Atlantic Ocean
and never agin set foot on my native soil. I naterally thought my
opportunities there, in the British Mooseum and with those Egyptian
Carcusses dun up in rags, and remaining for the space of six days
and six nights with a skeleton grinning at me and pointing its long
skinless fingers in my face and looking in an awful licentious manner,
showing its pivoted legs--I say I naterally thought such an unheard-of
experience would have prepared me for “the awful change” that follered.
But it didn’t.
One nite, cummin’ hum from the Mooseum, where I had been instructin’
and elevatin’ several thousand pussons, male and female, I innocently
swallered a fog--swallered it hull. I’d bin swallerin on ’em ever since
I’d bin in England, but that night I took in a bigger one than ever,
and it made me _sick_.
I sent for the physicians that received the patronage of the
noble lords and dooks and they made me _sicker_; and finally for
the physicain “to her most gracious majisty the Queen of Great
Britain,”--but their aristocratic attention to me was of no use. As I
lie tossing on what is known as “the bed of pain,” I seed a big light
coming through the dark towards me. Behind that light appeared a grim
skeleton, just like the pictur of Death in the Alminack, walkin’ on
tiptoe toward me; and quicker than a wink he put out his long bony
hand and touched me--firstly, in the pit of the stomach, so I couldn’t
holler; nextly, he pressed his finger tips on my eye-balls, and they
sunk right back into their sockets.
I tried to shake him off, and to yell, but I couldn’t! Then I knew I
was “dun fur.” Next came what a printer’s devil would call a ---- blank.
I was skeered out of my seven senses, and when I cum to and tried to
recolect myself, I was like the old woman in the song who fell asleep,
and
“By came a pedlar and his name was Stout
And he cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to her knees,
Which made the old woman begin for to freeze.”
I was in the same predicament, for I was now only in my bare bones, and
knew I was a rolecking old skeleton.
Wall, it gin me an awful shock to find myself like a skull and
cross-bones on a tombstone, sittin’ on my own coffin!
Presently I was grappled by a big worm with a hundred legs. He then
sent for his feller worms, and they licked me from skull to toe-jint.
After I had stood the lickin’ as long as I could (they tickled so),
I concluded to run away, so I started on a full gallop, and arter
I had run awhile, where should I fetch up but in the vicinity of
Vic’s Palace. I know’d by pussonal experience suthin’ of the feelin’
manner with which the British public look upon the Royal Family, and
a sensation of relief cum over my mind as I thought if I once entered
their ground no one dared foiler me. So I gin a spring and leaped right
atop of the middle chimny. Owin’ to private considerations, I did’nt
mind the soot, but I clambered down, and there I was, to my amazement,
rite in the private apartments of the Queen. She was sittin’ at a table
lookin’ at a dogerotipe of Prince Albert; and I walked straight up to
her, not feel in’ a bit afeared, and making my manners, axed her if I
didn’t resemble the Prince?--rememberin’ that the preacher had kindly
said over my coffin that “there was no distinction in the grave.”
I thought that as I was a pooty gay image of Death, I might remind her
of the “Prince Consort.”
She looked up kinder sideways as I spoke, but she must have bin a
leetle hard o’ hearing, for she shook her head.
Then I thought I’d try her on another tack. So I placed my hands on
my shakey knees, and bendin’ over in this guise, so she could see me
plainly, while my teeth rattled in my skull as I shook my head at her
and growled:
“Haint you afeared of me, Madam?” With the pirsistent obstinacy of the
feminine gender, she refused to notice me. So I thought she was kinder
“set up on her pins,” and I shouted louder:
“Victoria _Brown_! Aint you afeared of me? Aint you afeared I’ll tell
Prince Albert of your _dooins_?”
At that she gin an awful yell, and flung herself down upon a yaller
satin divan, trimed with gold, and slobbered it all over with tears.
I know’d then I had a “_mission to perform_,” and that my fleshless
bones were not given me for useless pleasure, but as a “warnin’ to my
race.”
Arter this adventer I left the palace as I had entered it, “leavin’ not
a trace behind me.”
Since that affair, I have bin goin’ about “doin’ good,” frightnin’ the
wicked into fits, and follerin’ in the steps of the parsen, and thus
working my way out of Purgatory.
LECTER II.
ARTEMUS WARD.--OUT OF PURGATORY.
Relatives and nabors,--Thinkin’ you’ll, like to know whether I’d bin
roastin’ in brimstone, along with Solomen and Lot’s wife, and that you
might feel consarned to know sumthin’ about my further adventers, I’ll
continoo.
One mornin’ soon after this, havin’ spent a restless nite, I was
thinkin’ what I had best do, when I seed, cumin’ rite out of a big
marble edifice, a nice little woman about as raw-boned as myself. As
she carried an open paper in her hand which was certified to by two
bishops and three clergeymen that she’d bin baptised and her sins
washed away, I felt it would be safe for me to foller her, knowin’ I
had no such dockerment to admit me into the good graces of Abraham or
Peter, or whatever porter might keep the gates of Paradise.
She seemed kinder skeered and tremblin’ like for a minit, not knowin’
what to do; then with a sudden start she spread herself out just like
the eagel of Ameriky, and soared rite up into the sky with nothin’ to
histe her by. I felt in my heart to foller her, and spread out just as
she did, keeping near her on the sly.
As she went on she began to shine like a star, shootin’ on through the
azure heavens for all the world like a sky-rocket.
That put me on my pluck, and I bust out just like a sky-rocket too. My
blazers! If it didn’t make my head spin.
When I collected my idees, I thought I’d look and see if I resembled
a glow-worm behind, and there, by thunder, was a long stream of
light, just like the tail of a comet! I tell you, I felt happy! She’s
regenerated me, thought I; and I, too, am one of the “shining hosts”!
And then directly, without any warnin’ or noise of any kind, all around
began to look about the color of a yaller sun-flower, and I began to
scent a powerful smell of roses and violets.
The female sank down in the golden air, and I kept cluss beside her,
and as she kept droppin’ she suddenly changed, like the old woman in
the fairy-book, into a bouncin’ girl, the very pictur of the goddess of
liberty!
Arter this, she turned and smiled on me. She looked just like alabaster
cream; the most dazzlingest creetur that ever startled the beholder!
I was took quite aback when she held out her little hand for mine;
I felt kinder delicate like that she should see my big jints. But
howsomever, “here goes,” said I, and I stuck out my bony fist, and, by
Jupiter, it was kivered with flesh, jest as soft and delicate as Uncle
Sam’s babies!!!
I stood starin’ from my hands to her about a minit, and then she bust
out a-laughin’, and I bust out a-laughin’ too!
“How shaller you be!” said she.
“It’s duced amoosin’,” said I.
“Who be you?” said she.
“Artemus Ward, the great lecterer on ‘Women’s Rites and Mormons,’” said
I.
At this she seemed mighty tickled.
“I heerd you speak on those momentous subjects in Liverpool,” said she.
“And arter that when I read the affectin’ account of your death in a
strange land, I cried.”
“Cried?” said I, “I’m much obleeged to you, but there’s nothin’ to cry
for as I know.”
“So there be’nt,” said she, puckerin’ up her pretty little mouth; “but
tell me, now, is this reely you?”
“I don’t know,” said I, “whether its reely myself or not, for I haven’t
seed myself--how do I look?”
She naterally blushed and answered:
“Ansom.”
That was too much for me. I took her round her waist and whispered--I
wont tell you what. She shook her head so that the ringlets fell
downall over her neck like the ashes from a tobaccy pipe, and in a
mighty reprovin’ manner said:
“Artemus Ward, I am a poetess!”
(By Jupiter! that was a stunner.)
“Is it Mrs. _Browning_?” said I, ready to drop on my knees (thinkin’ of
Robert).
She shook her head agin, and moved off, and I follered, kinder ashamed
of bein’ so abrupt. Lookin’ loftily at me, she said:
“I must leave you.”
“Leave me!” said I, “You cruel monster of beauty! Leave when I am
_sealed_ to you?”
(That kinder frightened her--I learned suthin’ from bein’ among the
Mormons.)
“You may foller me,” said she, while descendin’ in the midst of a
garden which opened rite before us. I did as she advised, and stepped
rite down in a place where there was a mighty display of trees,
flowers, and fountains, and a pretty big sprinklin’ of people.
Good Heavens! thought I. Is this the New Jerusalem? and lookin’ around
timidly for the man with the key, fearin’ I might be turned out, but
seein’ nothin’ but common lookin’ men and women, and no “flamin’
cherubim,” and creaters with wings stuck on their heads, and no bodies,
such as I had naterally expected to find in such a place, I took
courage and stept forward boldly.
The people all commenced cryin’ out as loud as they could:
“Artemus Ward! Artemus Ward!”
I felt kinder abashed at this, but advanced and called out, “Hear!
hear! Friends, it’s an amazin’ mystery how you know’d my name.” (I
felt diffident at not havin’ my lecter in my pocket, and not bein’
accustomed to speakin’ verbatim.) Howsumever, as they continooed
to clap their hands and shout, I got together all the brass I used
to carry “down East,” and jumped right atop of one of the roarin’
fountains--the very biggest on ’em all. I surmised it was kinder
dangerous, havin’ always experienced a religious awe of the “water of
life,” and not knowin’ but what this might be it. “Here goes,” said
I; “faint heart never won fair lady,” for rite at the foot was that
bootiful poetess to whom allusion has been made, lookin’ straight at me
with all her eyes.
I wanted to make a grand impression and let ’em know that I cum from
a nation that could fight for the Constitution, and wasn’t afeard
of spirits. And as for the “gold and pearls,” the “jasper and the
sardonix,” they needn’t expect to snub me off with this, for I had been
all through the gold and silver regions of Ameriky, and could tell as
big a story as any on ’em.
“The fact is, friends and nabors,” said I, “it is one thing to read of
a place, and another to see it. Now I must say, that geography and book
of travels called the ‘Bible’ is suthin’ like ‘Gulliver’s Travels,’
rather loose in description; and, for all I see around me, the grand
nation of Ameriky can beat you all holler in wonders.”
Havin’ thus spoken a good word for my country, I dismissed them, and
hurried back to commence these lecters, which is only a beginnin’ of
what I intend to do for the Amerikan People.
LADY BLESSINGTON.
_DISTINGUISHED WOMEN_.
It is remarkable to what a degree woman develops her intellect in the
spirit world.
Freed from the cares of maternity, she seems like some young goddess
fresh from the hand of Jupiter. All nerve, electricity, and motion--her
thoughts sparkling and full of flavor, and light, and life, this
new-born Eve of the celestial kingdom inspires the down-trodden Eve
of earth, and kindles to a blaze the whole male population of the
spiritual globe.
Prominent among the women of the times who have emigrated to these
shores from populous America, stands Margaret Fuller--a tall and
impressive blonde--a woman of strong bias, and resolute as a lion when
she has set foot upon a project. Earnest, passionate, and brilliant
in conversation, she wields a powerful influence over many minds of
a peculiar order; and through the few mediums whom she selects to
represent her characteristics, she displays a calmness and coolness of
reasoning and an excellence of judgment such as few are able to exhibit
thus second handed.
She has, through the exercise of her genius, erected a beautiful villa
upon a southern island, wherein she has displayed her poetic taste to
advantage. There, in the midst of a luxuriant garden, she resides with
her beautiful Angelo, a child of graceful form who was washed ashore
from the sad wreck years ago, but now approaching the years of manhood,
and in his looks the very personification of a young Mercury, blending
the fire and passion of a Southern nature with the zeal and activity of
the Northern.
Count Ossoli and his noble wife tear themselves away from the pleasures
of this delightful state of existence and devote their sacred energies
to the enfranchisement of Italy.
No Roman patriot, neither Garibaldi nor any of his compeers, equals
them in their efforts for the freedom of that sunny land.
Madame Ossoli is sanguine of success.
Defeat she considers merely the plough and harrow for the ripe harvest
of victory which will follow.
From her own eloquent lips I have heard her address to the Italian
soldiers who, defeated and killed, marched to the spirit land.
She told them how she, in the midst of her new-born joy, in sight of
her own native land, fought the fierce battle of the briny waves, and
felt as she sat dying on the sinking wreck, that all she had striven
for was in vain; how she had found that defeat, that engulping billow,
had proved in the end a victory, and had placed her where she could
watch over the destiny of Italia, her adopted country, and work for its
regeneration, and fight for its liberty, as she could not have done had
she been more successful in her plans on earth.
Another American woman, of less note, but also a reformer, is Eliza
Farnham. She is not so emotional, has less sentiment and considerable
originality, and is honest in her opinions and determined in her
efforts to uplift her sex and ameliorate their condition.
She wields a powerful influence over a certain clique in the spirit
world and on earth, and therefore deserves to be noticed among the
women of the times. In person she is of dark complexion, with black
hair and eyes, and strongly-marked brows, possessing much vivacity and
caustic wit.
She is matron of a large Institution, or Circulorium, erected for the
use of those spirits who make a practice of communicating with the
inhabitants of earth. They there meet to converse upon the various
means which they employ for transmitting intelligence, and to relate
their successes and defeats with the various trance and clairvoyant
mediums through whom they operate. There congregate those lecturers
and orators who discourse through the organisms of numerous trance
and inspirational mediums on earth. There also convene physicians and
“medicine men” who control the large number of healing mediums who
exercise their power throughout the United States and Europe. There,
also, gather the prophets and seers, who, with vision clearer than that
of ordinary spirits, warn mankind of danger and impress individuals
to pursue certain courses of action, to go or come, to undertake and
prosecute great designs for the seeming weal or woe of humanity.
From this lofty aviary she still sends forth her delicious, strains.
The children of earth hear them in fainter notes through young poets
who catch her inspiration. What she is doing for women in the world she
inhabits will be felt ere long in both the continents of Europe and
America.
Another remarkable person in this coterie of illustrious women must
be mentioned--Charlotte Bronté--a lady who feels the true dignity
and intellect of her sex with a force akin to manliness. Modest and
retiring, she would yet pick up the gauntlet like any knight against
the man who should say of a work of literary merit, “that it could
never have been penned by a woman.”
Soft and delicate, yet strong and full of heroism, she represents
woman, quicker to perceive the right than man, and capable of
undergoing greater perils in executing her duty.
Charlotte Bronté is a slight, brown-haired girl, with an eye full of
clairvoyant power. With her father, sisters, and poor reprobate of a
brother, all united like a cluster-diamond, she lives in a home which
they have selected, remarkable for its wild and picturesque beauty.
As a family they are like the ancient Scots, clannish--not in a vulgar
acceptation of the term, but for the reason that they are kindred
souls. The torch of genius flames in every member of that family,
but Charlotte is the mover, the inspirer of them all. She possesses
a greater degree of concentration and energy, and is more chivalrous
and venturesome. She is exceedingly interested in woman, and devotes
daily a portion of her time to visiting earth and suggesting ideas and
thoughts to those whom she can influence.
In her new home she draws around her a circle of chosen spirits, among
whom may be mentioned Thackeray (who esteems her as about the finest
specimen of womanhood he has seen), Prince Albert, Scott, Hawthorne,
the German Goethe, De Quincy, and others.
Few writers of romance have done more than she towards raising her sex
above the frivolities of dress and fortune, and placing them where they
shine conspicuous for their intellect and noble affections.
Bold and unsparing in analyzing woman’s heart in its uncontaminated
simplicity as well as in its subtlety, she lighted a torch in behalf
of her sex which flamed throughout the literary world, startling and
dazzling the beholder--a light which will never be quenched.
Charlotte Bronté was on earth what is now known as a medium. Her belief
in the supernatural she evinced in her works. If she had not indicated
so much intellect, the critics would have termed her superstitious.
They have inferred that it was the loneliness and sadness of her
life which caused her to imagine she saw her beloved dead and heard
unearthly voices calling her. But she has since told me that those
mysterious influences were not morbid fancies, but realities. Being
thus endowed clairvoyantly, and not only receptive but able to impart
that which she receives, she exerts at the present moment an influence
in the world of letters little dreamed of on earth.
I may here, without infringing on the requirements of good taste,
allude to the tale she has dictated through this medium. That it is a
story of powerful interest, all who read it will confess.
To many minds it will prove that her power is unabated, but every
reader will perceive the characteristics of the Bronté family in
the tale--characteristics which cannot be imitated--which are
individualized in that family, and breathe of the lone moor on which
they spent their earth ife, one of sad struggle of genius against
circumstance and destiny.
PROFESSOR OLMSTEAD.
_THE LOCALITY OF THE SPIRIT WORLD, AND ITS MAGNETIC RELATIONS TO THIS_.
How near is the spirit world to earth? is a question often put by the
inquiring mind. Some suppose it lies contiguous, just in the suburbs;
others imagine the spirit world to be within the atmosphere of this
earth; others again set it afar off in a given locality.
The last theory is correct, and the spirit world is really several
billions of miles from earth; yet the suppositions are true (in a
certain sense), for the inhabitants of the spirit world are migratory,
and there are many millions of them living within the earth’s
atmosphere, drawn thither on errands of pleasure and duty.
But there is a spiritual earth revolving around its spiritual sun, just
as this earth revolves around its sun.
It has shape and form like this planet, and is indeed the spiritual
body of the earth.
It existed before the creation of man on this globe, and was ready
for the reception of the soul or spirit of the first human being who
perished on earth.
As a spirit’s body is constructed from the spiritual emanations of man,
so the spiritual globe is formed of the magnetic emanations of the
earth. The refined gases which were thrown off during the process of
the formation of the material globe which man no
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