Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1835], Norman Leslie: a tale of the present times volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf096v1].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
NORMAN LESLIE.
A TALE OF THE PRESENT TIMES.
“You shall see anon; 'tis a knavish piece of work.”
Hamlet.
SECOND EDITION.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1835.
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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1835,
By Harper & Brothers,
In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
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TO COLONEL HERMAN THORN.
My dear Sir,
The warm hospitality and generous attention which,
during my ramblings in Europe, in common with many
of my countrymen, I have received from you; the numerous
instances which have come to my knowledge
of the benevolence and kindness of your heart; your
liberal encouragement of the arts; and the high estimation
in which you are held abroad, induce me to
offer you this simple tribute of regard and friendship.
Permit me, therefore, to dedicate to you the following
pages, with only a regret that they are not more
worthy.
I am, my dear sir,
very sincerely and respectfully,
your obedient servant,
The Author.
ParisMarch 26th, 1835.
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Main text
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
On returning to New-York, after an absence
of some years, I was agreeably surprised to find
not a copy unsold of a large edition of this work.
In presenting a second, I avail myself of the occasion
to apologize for its defects, of which I am
perfectly conscious. It was written with the unsettled
mind of a traveller, in the stolen intervals
of more imperative occupations; and circumstances,
moreover, compelled me to part with it before
it had received the time and care which it was my
intention to bestow. It thus possesses the claims
to forbearance of a painting prematurely dismissed
from the easel, when the artist has but little more
than marked his first rapid outlines; when the background
and many of the figures are indistinct, because
almost untouched; and when only the prominent
heads are finished. I felt, also, as I toiled,
the disadvantages of a pencil unguided by experience
and uninspired by success. The book was
offered to the public with great timidity; indeed,
the manuscript was once laid on the fire; and only
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rescued from the summary criticism of the flames
by one more confident than myself in its chance
of favour. For its rapid sale, and the general indulgence
of the press, I tender my grateful acknowledgments.
They must form my apology for
a second attempt, in which I shall venture upon a
yet unappropriated incident of our revolution—a
theme wonderfully rich in romantic story, whose
reality scarcely needs the aid of imagination to
startle and enchant.
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PREFACE.
The most improbable features of the following
story, viz., the leading incident and the career of
Clairmont, are founded on fact. The author has
availed himself of the license allotted to writers of
fiction, and transformed character at pleasure, particularly
that of the young lady on whose most
mysterious fate the story is founded. He has not
bound himself to a delineation of society as it existed
at the period of the real occurrence, which
took place many years since in New-York; nor
does he profess to have grasped the more noble
materials which the higher circles of his country at
this moment offer to the novelist; but he has rather
sketched, perhaps with a somewhat mischievous
hand, certain peculiarities adapted to his purpose.
He frankly bespeaks the indulgence of all the sapient
and solemn critics.
The art of novel-writing, however long associated
with heart-broken boarding-school girls and sentimental
chambermaids, is now as dignified as that
of Canova, Mozart, or Raphael. In learning to
arrange a succession of heavenly sounds, to imbody
sweet shapes in marble, to breathe fervid beauty on
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the easel, how many an inspired genius has devoted
all his hours. Is it not as exalted a study to
copy from the great world those “infinite doings”
of the mind and heart which make up the material
of human existence?
That the writer has succeeded in accomplishing
this, he dares not hope. As an humble student,
and peradventure with a feeble hand, he has thrown
his groupings upon the canvass, and now, like the
boy painter in the “Disowned,” stands concealed
behind the curtain, to hear, perhaps, some erudite
Sir Joshua say—“He had better burn it!”
Paris, March 26, 1835.
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NORMAN LESLIE.
CHAPTER I.
An American City—New-York Winter—Sleighing—Certain
Characters whom the Reader will do well to remember—
An Incident, which perhaps he will forget before the
end of the book.
“ 'Twas in the flush of the summer's prime,
Two hundred years ago,
When a ship into an unknown bay
Came gliding—soft and slow.
“All was still, on river and hill,
At the dawn of that summer's day;
There was not a sound, save the ripple around
The ship, as she cut her way.
“Then the sails flapped back, for the wind was slack,
And the vessel lay sleeping there;
And even the Dutchmen exclaimed, `Mein Got!'
As they gazed on a scene so fair.”
A Vision of the Hudson: by William Cox.
A brilliant January morning broke over the
beautiful city of New-York. Her two magnificent
rivers came sweeping and sparkling down into her
immense bay, which, bound in like a lake on every
side with circling shores, rolled and flashed in the
unclouded sunshine. The town itself rose directly
from the bosom of the flood, presenting a scene of
singular splendour, which, when the western continent
shall be better known to European tourists,
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will be acknowledged to lose nothing by comparison
with the picturesque views of Florence or Naples.
Her tapering spires, her domes, cupolas, and housetops,
her forest of crowded masts, lay bristling and
shining in the transparent atmosphere, and beneath
a heaven of deep and unstained blue. The lovely
waters which washed three sides of the city were
covered with ships of all forms, sizes, and nations;
delighting the eye with images of grace, animation,
and grandeur. Huge vessels of merchandise lay
at rest, in large numbers, all regularly swayed
round from their anchors into a uniform position by
the heavy tide setting from the rivers to the sea.
Others, leaning to the wind, their swollen and
snowy canvass broadly spread for their flight over
the vast ocean, bounded forward, like youth, bright
and confident against the future. Some, entering
sea-beaten and weary from remote parts of the
globe, might be likened, by the contemplative, to
age and wisdom, pitying their bold compeers about
to encounter the roar and storm from which they
themselves were so glad to escape: and yet, to
carry the simile further, even as the human mind,
which experience does not always enlighten or adversity
subdue, ready, after a brief interval of idleness
and repose, to forget the past, and refit themselves
for enterprise and danger. Hundreds, whose
less perilous duties lay within the gates of the harbour,
plied to and fro in every direction, crossing
and recrossing each other, and enlivening with delightful
animation the broad and busy scene. Of
these small craft, indeed, the waves were for ever
whitened with an incredible number, in the midst
of which thundered heavily the splendid and enormous
steamers, beautifully formed to shoot through
the flood with arrowy swiftness, their clean bright
colours shining in the sun, bearing sometimes a
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thousand persons on excursions of business and
pleasure, spouting forth fire and steam like the
monstrous dragons of fable, and leaving long tracks
of smoke on the blue heaven. Among other evidences
of a great maritime power, reposed several
giant vessels of war,—those stern, tremendous
messengers of the deep, formed to waft, on the
wings of heaven, the thunderbolt of death across
the solemn world of waters; but now lying, like
fortresses, motionless on the tide, and ready to bear
over the globe the friendly pledges or the grave
demands of a nation which, in the recollection of
some of its surviving citizens, was a submissive
colony, without power and without a name. You
might deem the magnificent city, thus extended
upon the flood, Venice, when that wonderful republic
held the commerce of the world. In a
greater degree, indeed, than London, notwithstanding
the superior amount of shipping possessed by
the latter, New-York at first strikes the stranger
entering into its harbour with signs of commercial
prosperity and wealth. In the mighty British metropolis,
the vessels lie locked in dockyards, or half
buried under fog and smoke. The narrow Thames
presents little more than that portion actually in
motion; and, in a sail from Margate to town, the
vast number are seen only in succession; but here,
the whole crowded, broad, and moving panorama
breaks at once upon the eye; and through a perfectly
pure and bright atmosphere, nothing can be
more striking and exquisite.
It was a frosty winter morning, and the general
splendour of the scene was heightened by the fact
that, for some days previous, a heavy fall of snow
had come down silently and thickly from heaven,
without wind and without rain. The whole picture
was now glittering with tracts of stainless white.
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The roofs were hidden beneath fleecy masses.
The trees were cased with brilliant lustre, and held
out their naked branches sparkling in the sun.
The shores, sloping down to the water's edge,
leaned brightly to the beams of morning. Even
the waves themselves bore on their bosoms, urged
gently along, and dashed ever and anon against
each other, thick cakes of snow-covered ice, which
had drifted down from the rivers, but yet not in
sufficient quantities to interrupt the navigation.
The roar and thunder of the town could be heard
from the bay, as the hundreds of thousands of her
citizens awoke to their accustomed occupations.
The shouts of artisans and tradesmen, the clink of
hammers from the thronged and busy wharves and
shipyards, the inspiring “heave-yoes” with which
the brawny tars cheered their labours amid the
mass of shipping (itself a city), the clanging of
hoofs, the shuffling of feet, the ringing of bells, the
clash of voices, and all the medley of sounds peculiar
to the newly-awakened concourse of a vast and
growing population, rose cheerfully on the air.
Wherever the eye wandered, it met only scenes of
bustle, haste, gayety, and earnest occupation.
But if the exterior of the city presented so lively
a picture, the interior was yet more inspiriting.
Broadway, the principal street, was now the centre
of one of those gay and giddy scenes known only
to the inhabitants of cold countries, and which to
many offer greater attractions than the odoriferous
vales and plains of Italy or Asia. True, those
romantic climes where the human race enjoy a
temperature so mild and pleasant as to permit of
their almost dwelling in the open air even in the
coldest season, have, in their softer charms, something
unspeakably sweet and alluring. Those evergreen
valleys, those luxuriant hills, those rich
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slopes, clothed with the most gorgeous fruits and
the tenderest and deepest verdure, and, more than
all, those gentle and transparent skies, seem beneficently
designed for man in his more uncivilized
state, or for the poor. It must be delightful for the
penniless, the aged, and the houseless, unable to
procure clothing or fuel, to find the dawn ever
diffusing a genial and balmy warmth over nature.
The tenant of the rude and scantily furnished hut
flings open his window and admits the fragrant
sweets. Mere day is to them a gift and a blessing;
the sun is their cloak and their fire. Those
old Italian landscapes, with the warm yellow light
gleaming deliciously in through an open casement,
are finely characteristic. But are we not apt to
magnify the advantages of this universal and perpetual
blandness of heaven? True, the half-clad
fisherman flings himself carelessly down, and sleeps
upon the beach; the beggar lies stretched against
a sunny wall, drying the night-dews from his tattered
garments, and partaking in peace the slumbers
which he could not enjoy beneath the less
benignant influence of the stars; the wrinkled and
time-stricken dames, “the spinsters and the knitters
in the sun,” bring their work in front of their
cottages, and, to see them, the pilgrim from a
northern clime fancies them happy as the children
of Eden. But I doubt whether the vigorous and
enlivening joys of winter are not more conducive
to health and happiness. An Italian vale, breathing
its sweetest odours, and sparkling under its pleasantest
sunshine, is but a dull picture compared with
Broadway on the bright morning after a heavy fall
of snow. No scene can be more full of life and
action. Every thing appears in a whirl of delight.
A spirit of joy and impulse hangs in the air, pervades
all the city, and pours its fires through the
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veins of every living creature. The exhilarating
atmosphere braces the limbs, quickens the step,
flushes the cheek, fills the eye with lustre, puts aside
care, thought, and dulness, and produces a high
state of animal enjoyment. Those old snowstorms
have unfortunately of later years made their merry
visits less frequently. The fleecy world now descends
in smaller quantities, and disappears in a
shorter period. I can fancy the rising generation
smiling when we, of the old school, lament the
forms and fashions of the last century. The young
rogues, peradventure, may be amused by wondering
what value we can attach to a powdered queue
or a plaited wristband; but, by this hand! when
the elements themselves alter and remould their
usages—when seasons roll in different shapes, when
honest old Winter, instead of striding forward, as
was his wont, wrapped in cloak and fur, his cheek
glowing with the cold, and the sparry icicle glittering
around his cap and beard, steals forward with
only a fashionable mantle and an umbrella—
Heaven save the mark! we may well lament. I
cannot write calmly of those glorious old snowstorms.
One of them had now descended upon New-York,
and the inhabitants, as the day advanced,
seemed conscious of no other earthly object than the
enjoyment of sleighing. Countless throngs of the
wealthiest and most fashionable were gathered into
that broad and beautiful street, which extends three
or four miles in a line straight as an arrow, its long
vista of elegant houses remarkable for their uniform
aspect of affluence and comfort, and presenting, in
their extreme neatness, and, particularly, in the
beauty of their entrances, a striking contrast to the
street views of Paris, with only two exceptions,
and to those of other continental cities without any.
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Its world of lovely women were abroad. Such
rosy cheeks, such melting eyes, as passed up and
down that dazzling day! Hundreds of sleighs,
drawn sometimes by one horse and sometimes by
four, darted by each other with the swiftness of a
bird's sweep; the princely horses, fired with the
air and the scene, neighing, tossing their heads,
champing their bits, and leaping on their way, mad
as Bucephalus, every mother's son of them—the
bells around their necks ringing out a music as
merry and soul-stirring as the blast of a trumpet.
An amusement so heartily entered into by the
wealthy classes soon assumes an artificial hue of
taste. The choice of horses became a matter of
the utmost ambition, and the sleighs were wrought
into every form devisable by an elegant or a fantastic
fancy. Now swept by a painted boat, and
now a classic chariot: here darted a pearly shell, fit
to bear Venus over the waves; and there, an ocean
car, from which father Neptune might have appropriately
guided the dolphins and winged horses
of the sea. Nowhere are there more lovely women
than in those American cities. They contribute
largely to the fascination of this exciting sport; and
neither at the ball, nor the theatre, nor the midnight
revel, do they appear more beautiful than here.
Their graceful and glowing faces float by with a
rapidity which prevents all criticism, if not all
comparison. The gaze is bewildered with an endless
succession of lovely lips and radiant smiles,
and eyes which the young and sensitive of the
other sex, with the fidelity characteristic of ardour
and youth, might remember for ever, but that
each succeeding glance heals the wound received
from the last. In the midst of this gay and noisy
scene, the pedestrians along the spacious sidewalks
found their interest so much excited by
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the vast number, variety, and beauty of the equipages,
and their charming groups, that the pavements,
in their long extent, were lined with animated
spectators—some lounging slowly onward, as
if reluctantly withdrawing from such a pleasing
spectacle, while many remained stationary, watching
each bright car as it went ringing and flashing
by, and commenting upon each passing company.
“See, Leslie—look yonder!” cried a fashionably-dressed
young man to his companion, whose finely-proportioned
figure and extremely handsome face
had attracted more than one pair of those mischievous
eyes we spoke of. “Do you not see her?
There—behind the yellow sleigh—in that green
sea-shell, with those superb horses! Do you not
catch a glimpse of her now?—they have stopped
to address that party.”
“Yes,” said the other, “you are right. What a
queenly woman!”
“How she glows in this bracing air, and seems
to exult in the mere act of living! Her cheeks
put poetry to shame! I wish I were a painter,
Leslie.”
“There are painters a plenty,” rejoined Leslie,
“who would despair by the face of Mrs. Temple.
You must be a cunning artist indeed to catch that
smile—that air—that expression. To-day she looks
actually radiant. Those eyes must have made
hearts ache in their time.”
“They make mine ache yet,” said Howard.
“Is not that Flora, with her head turned away?”
The sleigh which they had been observing now
swiftly approached, and dashed by over the hard-pressed
snow, discovering a nearer view of a
gentleman and two ladies: the former a man of
style and ton, though somewhat advanced in years—
the ladies, an extremely fine-looking woman,
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magnificently dressed, whose age one might scarcely
venture to suppose, so brilliantly did the charms of
youth and gayety linger around her person; the
other, a fair girl of exceeding beauty—her rich
complexion heightened by air and exercise—whose
bewitching smile and laughing blue eyes, having
already intoxicated half the Broadway exquisites,
boded no good to the susceptibilities of our young
loungers. Greetings were graciously interchanged
as they flew by; and the two friends uncovered
their heads, with that air of heartfelt homage with
which gay and ardent young men return the smile
and salutation of the loveliest of the reigning belles.
“I would I had lived in the days of good old
Greece,” exclaimed Howard, “when the chisel of
Praxiteles made marble breathe.”
“I had rather live in the good old town of Manahatta,
after a merry snowstorm like this,” replied
Leslie. “But why your wish?”
“That I might have Flora Temple wrought in
Parian for my gallery. To have that exquisite
Psyche face in marble—immutable—immortal
marble—never to be changed by sickness—by care—
by time. I would spend hours by it daily, worshipping.”
“Do you know, Howard,” said Leslie, “I think
that `Psyche face' of yours a very expressive
phrase?”
“And, pray, the why and the wherefore?”
“Because it illustrates the soul,” returned Leslie,
warmly, “which peculiarly marks the expression
of Miss Temple's face.”
“But look, yonder comes another!” said Howard.
“Old Mr. Romain and his daughter,” added
Leslie; “another subject for your Parian. But no
Psyche there.”
A stately creature, with a face that might have
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been Cleopatra's in her girlhood, bowed smilingly
to the two young men, and directed to them the attention
of her father.
“After all,” exclaimed Howard, as they disappeared
amid the throng of sleighs, “I do not know
but those large eyes of Rosalie Romain's eclipse
them all.”
“She is one of your bewildering girls,” said
Leslie, “whom it would be prudent for such young
gentlemen as you to beware of.”
“Too late, my friend; your caution, as good advice
very often does, comes quite too late. Her
first smile is as fatal as Kate Kearney's. But, by-the-way,
Leslie, they say that you—”
“Nonsense—'tis not true,” interrupted Leslie;
“so they give you to Flora Temple—”
“Ha!” said Howard, affectedly, with a volume
of egotistical implication in the motion of his chin
(nothing more eloquent than your chin)—“as improbable
things might happen! But where is my
rascal? I bade him drive up and meet me as soon
as possible. The loitering scoundrel! I hope those
mettlesome fellows of mine have played him no
trick.”
“What is doing yonder?” said Leslie; “is some
one holding a levee in the open air this cold
morning?”
“I wager my life,” cried Howard, “that the
sleigh around which the others are all crowding so
eagerly contains that d—d French count.”
“His lordship, true enough, at full length,” added
Leslie, “coated like a Russian emperor, and showing
off those four fiery animals to everybody's admiration.”
“And envy,” said Howard. “That fop, now,
could marry any of those blooming belles at ten
minutes' notice.”
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“You do your countrywomen injustice,” replied
his friend, dryly.
“But here comes the pretty Helen Mellerie, all
fur and feathers!” resumed Howard. “Truth to
say,” he continued, with that discriminating consistency
with which he seemed to judge of women,
always submitting to the eyes which attacked him
last, as men swear allegiance to the reigning monarch,
“truth to say, Helen Mellerie is beauty's
own.”
“And behind,” added Leslie, “how right gallantly
come up our old friends the Mortons!”
“And that pretty creature Maria Morton—she,
too, has a pair of eyes,” said Howard, sagaciously
striking his colours in advance, “not to be encountered
rashly.”
“Too insipid,” answered Leslie; “beauty, without
at least some sparkle of sense or heart, is such
a silly doll.”
“And yet,” said Howard, “wise men fall in love
with and marry it. But look—there comes your
own peerless sister, with your father, Leslie; and
what a magnificent pair of horses! I thought mine
passable, but really!”
“I bought them only yesterday,” remarked Leslie.
“They are chosen from every thing this side
the water; and, with all their fire and mettle, are
as kind in the harness as lambs,—Julia could drive
them. If I am extravagant in any thing, it is in
the love of that noble animal. There is nothing
on earth so striking as a beautiful horse.”
“Except a beautiful woman!” interrupted Howard,
with his eyes fixed full on the face of a lady,
who, on foot, and leading by the hand an uncommonly
handsome child, was attempting to cross the
street.
At the sight of Leslie, his father had ordered the
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glossy and steaming horses to the sidewalk. The
young foreigner Clairmont, who had been pointed
out by Leslie, drove up at the moment, and the lady
crossing with the child stopped in the middle of the
street, at the great peril of her life, and followed
the equipage with her eyes. At that instant a sharp
cry of terror burst suddenly from all quarters. A
pair of horses appeared approaching at full speed,
dragging the fragments of a broken and untenanted
sleigh, their manes streaming on the air, their ears
back, their heads stretched forward, with open
mouth and dilated nostril—the half-loosened traces
flying about their heels, dashing first to one side of
the street, then to the other—ungovernable, desperate,
and abandoned to all the wild madness of
flight. Each bound threatened the extinction of
some human life, or that the affrighted creatures
themselves would be dashed to pieces. As they
passed, a sympathetic fury ran through all the startled
horses around, which were with difficulty reined
in by their drivers. The foot-passengers rushed
precipitately to the wall. Men shouted, children
cried, women screamed, and all the gay mirth was
suddenly transformed to fear and horror. Scarcely
a moment had elapsed from their first appearance
till their arrival at the spot where stood Leslie and
his friend. All seemed to have escaped from their
perilous career but the lady with the child, who had
attracted the attention of Howard. Whether unconscious
of her imminent danger, or rendered by
it unable to move, she remained completely exposed;
and the crowd, at a glance, and with a burst
of new interest, saw the fiery and furious animals
plunging with headlong speed directly towards her.
Cries of “Stop them! stop them! Save the woman
and the child!” rung on the air; but, as is
generally the case in such emergencies, there were
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found many more to suggest this counsel than to
execute it. Their destruction appeared inevitable;
and that stir, shudder, and hum, with which men
look on a bloody and terrible accident, broke from
the crowd, when Leslie sprang hastily forward,
grasping unsuccessfully at the reins of the fugitive
beasts, but dragging the mother and child almost
from beneath their hoofs. The lady, thus suddenly
rescued from the jaws of death, immediately swooned,
and was conveyed with the child into an adjoining
mansion. Attention to them would have been
more undivided, but for the catastrophe of one of
the animals from whose fury they were saved.
Starting aside from the grasp of Leslie, the finer of
the two leaped forward with an almost supernatural
effort, and the shaft of a gig entered into his body
directly through the ample chest, as a sword
plunged and buried to the hilt in a human bosom.
The noble creature uttered a scream painfully expressive
of agony and fear; and, bleeding, sweating,
foaming, trembling, and panting, came heavily
to the ground. A rush of people now closed in
upon them. The dying steed was at once disentangled
from his harness, the purple tide poured
forth in a dark red flood, crimsoning the pure snow,
and with each gush the pain of the superb animal
appeared more insupportable, while the vapour
curled from his reeking flanks. He struggled, and
snorted, and strove to rise and resume his winged
and fiery flight, and his immense and flashing eyes
turned gleaming upon the faces of the spectators,
as if soliciting aid, or, at least, compassion. But
presently his panting breast heaved with a feebler
motion. Weaker, and yet more weak, grew his
convulsive shudders, and his vain attempts to regain
his feet; till—drenched, quivering and gory—foam
on his lip—terror and despair in his eyes—he
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stretched himself upon the ground in the last throes
of that dark crisis which must come alike to man and
beast. His fleet limbs stiffened; his asthmatic
breathings were silent; his broad and majestic chest
moved no more; the damp lips curled from the
large ivory teeth; the eyes stared, started, and grew
fixed and glassy; and that mighty form which but a
moment before had carried terror through the crowd,
lay now transmuted to a senseless clod. A silence,
as if a human soul had passed away, remained on
the circle of compassionate spectators.
Leslie inquired after the lady. She was yet invisible,
but, the physician informed him, had sustained
no serious injury. He caressed a few moments
the exceedingly beautiful little boy, who had
been severely but not dangerously cut upon the
forehead, and in whose eyes he found something
singularly sweet and expressive. Escaping from
the scene which might have awaited him had the
lady been recovered, he entered his father's sleigh,
accompanied by Howard, relieved John of the
reins, and, handling the long whip with the air of
one not unaccustomed to its use, he laughed away
the apprehensions of his father and sister, and dashed
in among the idle racers in the gay arena of
pleasure.
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CHAPTER II.
A Lion, and an Accusation.
“Believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences,
of very soft society, and great showing: indeed, to speak
feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall
find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see.”
Hamlet.
Ring—ring—ring.
“Is Count Clairmont of the French army at
home?” inquired a footman at one of the most
fashionable hotels in Broadway, while the horses
of an elegant barouche stood tossing their heads,
and stamping impatiently against the pavement at
the door; for city sleighing is brief as the “posy
of a ring” or “woman's love” (though this last is
a slander).
“No, sar, he is not,” replied the consequential
black servant.
“Please hand the count this note, with the respects
of Mrs. Temple.”
Ring—ring—ring.
“Does not Count Clairmont of the French army
lodge here?” asked a second visiter.
“He does.”
“Can I see him?”
“You cannot—he is not in.”
“My card—I shall see him at the opera.”
Ring—ring—ring.
A tall, pale-faced gentleman in black, with a
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hooked nose and no teeth. “Can you direct me
where to find Count Clairmont?”
“This is his hotel, sir.”
“Is he to be seen?”
“Not till the afternoon,”
“Has Count Clairmont come in yet?” inquired a
breathless messenger in livery, in a profuse perspiration,
and who had been seven times before
during the last half hour.
“He will not be visible, I have already told you,
this morning.”
“Miss Morley's compliments, and returns the
volume.”
Several carriages drove up in the course of the
morning, a score of domestics, and friends without
number, among whom were many of the most distinguished
inhabitants of the city, all inquiring and
leaving cards, notes, or some nameless message or
package for Count Clairmont of the French army.
One or two young female servants entered timidly,
and closely veiled, presenting small billets-doux,
ingeniously folded in triangles and other expressive
figures (the boyish eyes of Love, the young dog!
peeping from under the big wig of mathematics),
and each leaving her tribute of rose-coloured or
pale blue gold-edged note-paper (containing heaven
knows what), to be most particularly delivered into
the hands only of Count Clairmont of the French
army.
“I wish to see Count Clairmont,” said a dark-complexioned
and very handsome girl, with a silvery
voice and a foreign accent, her veil drawn
aside from her close bonnet to address the servant,
which she did in a tone of eagerness, and almost of
command.
“It is not possible,” said the servant. “He
aint visible to no one whatsomever.”
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“He will see Mr. Frederick Morton,” interrupted
a very foppishly-dressed young man, who had been
leisurely surveying the remarkable face of the
female: “say Mr. Morton—he will see me, I am
sure.”
“Not by no manner of means,” said the negro.
“He aint in, because, you see, he aint up. Consequently,
no gentleman can't never be in when he
aint up.”
The truth of this syllogism was indisputable; and
Mr. Frederick Morton, after another lingering gaze
at the fair stranger, took his departure.
There was now a furious ringing at the bell
which communicated with the suites of private
apartments.
“John!” bawled the bar-keeper.
“Coming, coming, sir!”
“Count Clairmont's bell!”
“D—n this Count Clairmont of the French
army!” muttered the man. “He has nothing to
do but turn women's heads, and men's too, for that
matter, and to keep us poor devils all day trooping
up and down stairs. Legs aint made of iron, I
guess.”
He was met by Count Clairmont's servant from
the stairs.
“Here, John! you black scoundrel, what the
devil is the reason Count Clairmont's breakfast has
not been brought up? Bring it up instantly. His
lordship has rung twice.”
“I wish his lordship was—”
John scratched his head, and left the sentence
unfinished. The valet suddenly caught a view of
the young girl, at whom he gazed with strong and
increasing astonishment.
“What!—no!” muttered he. “Yes—surely—
it can't be; but—”
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“Raffaello!” said the girl, vehemently, and walking
up close to him. “It is!”—and she suddenly
broke into a rapid flow of Italian, though uttered in
a low voice.
“Per Dio!” said the valet, “I dare not.”
“He will break my heart!” said the girl.
“He will break my head!” said Raffaello.
“If you displease me you will repent of it hereafter,”
answered she.
“If I offend my master I shall repent of it at
once,” said the man.
“It is in vain to deny me—I will see him immediately.”
“Signora Louise!” replied the valet, after a
moment's hesitation, in which surprise and perplexity
seemed struggling with a desire to oblige—
“enter into this apartment. I will return to you
directly.”
There was something striking in the appearance
of the stranger. Her figure was tall, round, and
beautifully formed, and her face well repaid a second
glance. The complexion, though brown to the
last borders of a brunett, was clear and transparent;
her hair of the colour of a raven; and
much there was in her countenance of sweetness,
and in her manner of dignity, although her dress
did not denote affluence. But the principal feature
was her eyes. They were remarkable for their
largeness, their intense blackness, the light which
shot from them with every rolling thought and sudden
feeling, the firm full gaze with which they
expressed seriousness or anger, and the suffusion of
softness and tenderness which sometimes quenched
their fiercer beams.
The valet presently returned, and beckoned her
to follow; and the plebeian world below went on
for a time without further molestation from the
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agents or affairs of Count Clairmont of the French
army.
There is no keener wine-lover than your Turk.
Nowhere are there found wilder democrats than in
the ranks of a despot; and nowhere are the badges
of nobility more reverently and indiscriminately
hailed than by the gay votaries of fashion in a republic,
where all men are “born equal,” and where
titles are excluded by the constitution.
A count—a real count—had made his appearance
in New-York. Rumour preceded, enthusiasm
welcomed, and admiration followed him. He was
young, handsome, rich, and a foreigner. The two
former would have been much, the latter were
every thing. It was whispered that, notwithstand
ing his high title and princely fortune, he would
write a book on America. Books on America
were even then the vogue. The opinion of the
count was looked for with intense eagerness; for
it is a characteristic of my countrymen, while they
assume a settled confidence in their merit, to shrink
from the lash of every nameless satirist. Then,
perhaps, he might marry! The very men went
crazy—and the women!
Although in the French service, the Count Clair
mont had spent much of his youth in England, and
the language was said to be more familiar to him
than his own. Others he spoke too with irresistible
grace; but that of love more freely than all. Then
he had travelled over the world, danced with dutchesses
and princesses, feasted with dukes and kings,
fought in a score of indefinite battles, and triumphed
in victories which nations had owed to his arm.
He had been wounded by a retreating foe (ah!
what was that wound to those he daily inflicted!)—
had sighed on the banks of the Ilissus, and mused
amid the ruins of Rome; had beheld Vesuvius
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spout his fires, and Olympus rear his head. His
motion was grace, his voice music, his eyes bliss,
his touch rapture: then he was fascinating; then
he was foreign; then—he was single; then—he
was a count. It is certain that he was a modest
man—that is, modest for a count in the French
army—modest for a man who had half the lovely
women of New-York at his feet. Relieved for a
time, in consequence of a wound, from the claims
of his own country, he no longer fleshed his sword
in war; but he had seized a nobler weapon, and
wreathed his brows with more graceful laurels.
This nobler weapon was a goose-quill. Blood he
could not now shed, but his ink flowed freely in the
cause of innocence and beauty—and midnight oil
he wasted like water. Dull were the eyes that
might not strike a rhyme from the soul of Count
Clairmont of the French army. Every smile was
caught and imprisoned in a verse; every blush
brightened again in a sonnet. Many a slender foot
had been celebrated—many a tender glance embalmed—
many a passion nursed—and many a
cigar smoked, in all the raptures of sentiment, and
in all the reveries of champaign, by Count Clairmont
of the French army. Envy, jealousy, even
love, could frame only one accusation against him.
It was a charge that moistened the eyes and heaved
the bosom of many a charming belle. It shaded
his triumph at the ball, and dimmed his joy at the
banquet. The tall and lovely Henrietta Bellville
actually broke away from a tête-à-tête, the only one
envious fate ever granted, at the very thought; and
that glowing creature Helen Mellerie was seen to
withdraw her hand from his—in the little summer-house—
by the river—at her father's country-seat—
in August—the moon quite above the trees—
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immediately—that is, almost immediately—at the
recollection of its truth;—
Count Clairmont of the French army was—a
flirt!
CHAPTER III.
A dutiful Daughter.
“Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters,
By what you see them act.”
—Othello.
“Dear, dear!” exclaimed Rosalie Romain, looking
up after a brown study of a minute, “it is
horrid!”
“Explain, my pretty penserosa,” said the count,
laughing.
“The evidences are strong as proofs of holy
writ,” she sighed, fixing her tender eyes on his,
just sufficiently moistened to be uncommonly
bright.
“Evidences of what?” asked the count.
“You know as well as I,” said Rosalie, winding
a rose-coloured riband round the end of her finger,
and looking down.
“No, on my life!”
“That you are a flirt.”
“As I live!” exclaimed the count, remonstratingly.
The beautiful girl turned partly away, half
pouting.
“Nay, more,” said he, in a softer tone, “as—
as I—”
He took her hand. He was certainly on his
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knees, or rather on one knee; he pressed it, as,
faintly, and only at intervals, she struggled to
escape.
“As you what?” cried she, impatiently, and
slightly stamping her foot.
But a smile, which had been lurking all the time
around her lips, broke over her features like sunshine
through a sudden cloud.
“As I love,” said the count, after a brief pause,
and in his lowest tone.
Notwithstanding the smile, a tear had been
slowly filling in her eyes. It stirred—it fell. It
dropped upon his hand. He kissed it off.
The tableau was picturesque. They lingered in
it a moment, as if they knew it became them.
“Dear! dear! there's pa!” exclaimed Rosalie,
in a sudden fright—and she threw open a large
portfolio of plates.
“An extraordinary taste, count,” said the old
gentleman, “my daughter has for the fine arts.”
“Oh, pa!”
“I never knew such an ear; and as for drawing—”
“Oh dear, pa; how can you!”
“Then for the plain, sweet old English ballad,
my lord—”
“Good gracious, pa! don't you see the count
wants to go?”
“What, are you off, count? Bless me! we must
keep you for dinner.”
“Necessity, Mr. Romain. You know the tyranny
of appointments.”
“My love, can't you persuade him to remain?”
“I have not tried, pa.”
“Heydey! these saucy girls! But we must
not let you off. Besides, the sky looks showery.”
“But showers sometimes,” said Clairmont, with
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a slight glance at Miss Romain, “are more beautiful
than sunshine.”
“Let him go, pa; I am sure it will not rain
again to-day.”
“Why, you jade,” cried the old gentleman, “you
will drive him away in earnest. Impudent minx!”—
he drew her towards him as he spoke, and printed
a kiss on her lips—“she is getting incorrigible.”
“Lock her up, Romain; she is mischievous,”
said the count, shaking his finger playfully at the
laughing girl as he withdrew.
“The sky has cleared,” said Mr. Romain.
“Yes, pa.”
“What an elegant young man Count Clairmont
is!”
“Yes, pa.”
“You are going to Mrs. Temple's to-night, Rosalie?”
“Yes, if you please, dear pa.”
“You will see the count there.”
“I hope not, pa; I think him rather disagreeable.”
“The women are pulling caps for him, notwithstanding,
they say, in all directions. He is very
rich; he appears quite fond of us; perhaps—”
“Oh no, pa; only polite.”
“Well, every thing is for the best.”
“Yes, pa.”
“I think Temple's girl will manage to—”
“To what, pa?” said Rosalie, with sudden eagerness.
“Go and get ready for dinner, child,” said the
musing father, recollecting himself; “it is no affair
of ours.”
“Yes, pa—no, pa,” replied the dutiful daughter,
with innocent simplicity, and retired to dress.
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CHAPTER IV.
A Dream—and, as Dreams sometimes are, broken.
“And thus from Fancy's realms
Fall'n back to Earth.”
There is nothing like a rout. Those given by
Mrs. Temple were the most brilliant in America.
But we must know Mrs. Temple before we attend
her parties.
You have seen a sweet, quiet, unambitious
woman, formed for the wife of a poet, whose life
would glide happily away amid the green shades
of the country—a woman to read to during the
long winter nights—to converse with when the
overworked mind and heart are wearied and exhausted
in the brawling world—to look at with inward
delight, while she teaches the children their
evening lessons—their innocent prayers,—kisses
them—blesses them—and packs them off to bed.
Her hair may be parted on her forehead with a
simple grace, that touches by a total absence of all
attempts to touch, and surprises the heart at once
into respect and admiration. Even in the early
morning you find such a one ready to receive you
with a fresh glow on her cheek, as if she had been
already abroad worshipping nature; and then you
feel rebuked in soul that you have been losing, in
swinish sleep, the golden hours of the opening
day. Her home is her world; her existence is in
the love and happiness of her husband and
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children. In the dazzling sphere of fashion she may
win admiration, but she seeks it not; for she knows
it is often the meed of the superficial and the false,—
that the noblest qualities which adorn character
and dignify human life there often pass unregarded,
or become the themes of ridicule. Her principal
charm is mind and feeling; but there are moments
when purity and love lend her a beauty that illumines
her presence like sunshine. There is nothing
like the loveliness of a woman with a spring
of satisfied affection flowing freshly at her heart.
Sunshine is too dim for a comparison.
Such a woman we have all seen; but such a
woman was not Mrs. Temple. Her portrait might
be appropriately hung opposite to this,—as you see
pendants of sunrise and moonlight—calm and
storm—side by side, on the walls of an academy.
Mrs. Temple was a city wife, formed to dazzle and
triumph in companies. She had trodden the flowery
path of an admired belle; had early married a
wild, good-hearted fellow, very much like herself,—
some said for love, some for money. They were
affluent beyond measure; loved each other well
enough to be perfectly happy when together or
when apart. The blooming girl had scarcely
changed, as the beautiful wife and the still glowing
and graceful mother, till time, the destroyer of others'
charms, but shedding only a deeper richness
upon hers, matured her into the stately and magnificent
woman, who reigned in the New-York circles,
fashion's chief minion, and proud as Egypt's
queen. One daughter crowned her affections; and
Flora Temple rose by the side of her brilliant
mother, lovelier, but not so gay; and winning all
hearts with a less striking but far deeper power.
Men hesitated upon which to bestow their worship.
So sometimes lingers the summer day, drawing all
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eyes to the encrimsoned west, even when the moon
has long filled, with her holier radiance, the ascending
heaven. The singularity of this association
could not escape the notice of the yet ambitious
woman of fashion; and Mrs. Temple regarded
Flora with a curiously mixed feeling, wavering between
the enthusiastic fondness of the mother and
the lingering rivalry of the belle. There was, perhaps,
a certain conscious magnanimity in the delight
with which she gazed upon her daughter's expanding
charms—passionately fond as she herself
was of admiration, and accustomed to be its centre.
But yet, though they charmed alike, they
could scarcely interfere with each other. The one
was always sure to overcome, when she desired to
do so, by the long-practised energies of her highly-gifted
nature; the other always won love without
wishing, and even without knowing it. The daughter
valued not what she had never striven to obtain,
and beheld with pleasure the triumphs of her
queenly mother; who, in her turn, yielded the path
with a sigh and a smile to the more unpretending
excellences of Flora. Some sharp and unfavourable
features there were in Mrs. Temple's disposition,
for she was haughty when excited, and aristocratic
to a folly. But if she had particular enemies,
her general kindness and her fascinating manners
rendered the world at large her friend. The
life of her family, the object of her husband's love
and pride (after his dogs and horses) left to her
own control, in the possession of boundless wealth,
with a constitution unimpaired, a beauty mellowed,
a wit sharpened, and a mind enriched,—she was a
giddy, sweet, proud, high-tempered, happy, fashionable
woman, who never seriously conceived a
more severe wish against those among her neighbours
whom she had the least reason to like, than
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that the routs which she gave two or three times a
year might make them positively die of admiration
and envy.
“What! nine o'clock!” cried the count, looking
at his watch; “I must actually go this instant.”
Mrs. Hamilton sighed, and turned towards him
a pair of hazel eyes which had done mischief in
their day, and were yet dangerous, though they
were now, or at least ought to have been, sheathed
in the scabbard of matrimony.
“Why do you sigh?” said the count.
“Because I hate solitude; and when you go I
shall be alone.”
“But this,” said the count, “is Mrs. Temple's
night, and I have positively promised.”
“You are too early,” said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Twelve will be quite time enough for that proud
and giddy Mrs. Temple.”
“But I have two or three other imperative engagements
before Mrs. Temple's. There is the
young Mrs. Wilson.”
“And you leave me for her!”
“Then there are the Evertons.”
Mrs. Hamilton sighed again.
“Is my sweet coz so pensive?”
“I do not know; I am very unhappy.”
“Can you be unhappy?”
The handsome young nobleman took her hand.
There was not a purer woman on earth than
Mrs. Hamilton. Her very purity made her careless.
A school-girl could not be more artless.
Her lips opened to every thing that stirred in her
heart as naturally as rosebuds unfold when they
are ripe.
“Ah! Lucy, what a happy man is your husband!”
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“Not so happy as you think.”
“How! Hamilton not happy! Why, he is the
gayest dog among us.”
“Yes, away at his club with you.”
“My lovely friend, you wrong him.”
“Ah! you little know.” A tear glittered in her
eye.
“By heavens! dear girl, you terrify me!—the
mere suspicion that you were not happy would for
ever prevent my being so.”
“Oh, my lord! I must not hear—you must not
dare.”
“And why should you not possess a friend in
me as well as in another? I sympathize in your
sorrows as I would in those of a friend of my own
sex. This dear hand has, I fear, been wasted.”
“Count, I beg—I entreat—do not make me
angry.”
“Loveliest of lovely creatures!” said the count,
“you have not the heart to reward admiration and
sympathy with anger. What, weeping!”
“My lord, if you have any friendship for me,
leave me.”
“Friendship! can you doubt it?”
He dropped on one knee. This seemed a favourite
position when there was a woman in the
case. His homage, doubtless, would have met with
a severe rebuke, but a step was heard in the hall.
“There—there's James, my lord!”
The entrance of the domestic restrained the
ardours of the noble foreigner, who was upon his
feet, and several yards off, with an adroitness that
argued considerable practice.
“Pray tell my dear Hamilton,” he cried, “that
I waited for him an hour. I must bid you adieu!”
and he bowed himself out.
“Take away the tea-things, James,” said Mrs.
Hamilton.
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The man obeyed, and disappeared.
His lovely young mistress remained a moment
in an attitude of thought. Suddenly rising, she
gazed at herself in the mirror; and, as she gazed,
her feelings appeared to assume a new mood.
She adjusted the blonde and curls around a very
charming face. A soft colour suffused her countenance.
Her eyes emitted a lustre which had not
brightened there for many a day. She sighed;
but as she sighed a smile beamed upon her features,
and she seemed lost in the mazes of some
sad but pleasurable thought.
“Yes,” at length she said to herself; “happy,
happy woman! What would life have been to me
then? What a contrast! I should have had my
portrait taken—just so. There! with that ringlet
hanging—so—and the lace brought down a little
in the front—à la Marie Stuart—so. There—the
Countess Clairmont! with the drapery over the
arm, and the eyes lifted—thus.”
The reflection of another figure in the glass
caused her to start with a slight scream.
“Good heavens, Edward, how you frightened
me! Is that you?”
“Why, who the devil should it be?” replied the
husband; “and what are you at there, parading
before the glass like a tragedy queen?”
“I was—I was trying on my cap; but you
startled me so! You are always so rough, Edward.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am not. Get me some tea,” flinging himself
heavily down on the sofa; “I'm tired.”
“Yes, dear Edward, instantly,” said the affectionate
wife, passing her arm tenderly around his
shoulder.
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“Then why the devil don't you go?”
“I have already rung for it. You always come
home as cross as—”
The husband swore. The wife sighed. James
brought the tea.
Oh, matrimony! thou—
But they are waiting for us at the Temples'.
CHAPTER V.
A New-York Rout—And a nearer View of several
Characters.
“For my mind misgives,
Some consequence yet hanging in the stars
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels.”
—Romeo and Juliet.
The company were assembled by ten; not all,
but nearly twice as many as could press at one
time into the ample and splendid apartments.
A fashionable New-York mansion is not surpassed
anywhere in graceful elegance and complete
comfort. There were many rooms blazing
with light. The opening hall was carpeted with
oilcloth of such rich figures and glossy smoothness
as resembled the pictured marble floors of Italian
palaces; but the stairs and drawing-rooms, instead
of being like those of many European nobles, of
cold marble or naked granite, were thickly covered
with the most gorgeous carpets. But few paintings
and statues graced the walls. There was,
however, a profusion of mirrors, marble tables,
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curtains of crimson velvet studded with gold,
vases, urns, and jars of rare flowers; exquisitely-wrought
lamps, dispensing a soft and veiled radiance,
like moonlight, from large globes, sometimes
stained with deeply-coloured pictures, and sometimes
of a frosty white; couches, ottomans, and
sofas of embroidered satin; and a variety of such
other costly objects as could be obtained by wealth
from any part of the world for the indulgence of
pride or the gratification of luxury. The balustrades
of the steps which led to the upper apartments
were of beautifully-carved mahogany, stained
with the rich colour of a ripe chestnut; and,
by means of secret apertures, invisible fires diffused
through the corridors a mild warmth, permitting all
the interior doors of the house to stand open, without
afflicting even the sensitive victims of rheumatism
or toothache with the horrors of a draught.
Immediately on their arrival, the guests were
ushered into separate apartments above, where,
according to their sex, they re-arranged their toilet,
which even the motion of a carriage might have
disturbed. Here, previous to their entrance, floated
groups of sylphs and sirens, to reclaim a wandering
curl or replant a drooping rose. Then The
gentlemen's apartment—the extraordinary preparations
to be elegant—the collars bent to the precise
angle—the cravats tied in the exquisite knot—
the shining feet—the curled heads—the crooked
elbows—the audacious whiskers. Cupid, hast
thou no pity? There is nothing so merciless as a fop.
The two principal saloons were thrown into one,
by means of the double doors of glassy mahogany.
A band of musicians, stationed in an adjoining hall,
ever and anon breathed a low air that banished care
and gravity, inspired wit and pleasure, and animated
rather than interrupted conversation.
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At the lower end of the apartment stood Mrs.
Temple; her majestic figure multiplied in the
mirrors,—her face, always a radiant one, now glowing
with pride and conscious beauty. A coronet
of diamonds on her queenly brow flashed, burned,
and trembled with every motion in the light; and
above nodded a snowy plume. She looked thus, in
her glory, like the rising sun.
By her side stood Flora; not so tall as her
mother, nor so commanding, but yet invested by
the charm of youthful loveliness with more direct
power over the feelings. For her style of beauty,
she was admirably dressed in simple white; her
hair parted plainly on her forehead, and a rose,
fresh culled from nature, the only ornament of her
strikingly beautiful head. Venus might have so
stood by Juno.
It was a study to see Mrs. Temple “receive:”
that stately air—that gracious recognition and graceful
acknowledgment—the ready word—the quick
repartee—the brilliant smile—the beaming look.
Then Flora—without any of that dramatic effect—
more reserved—more natural—more lovely—
growing like a Guido on the contemplation—more
difficult to imitate, and—to forget.
Had the proud dame known her true moral glory
that night, she would have attached no value to the
splendour which surrounded her, but triumphed
alone, conspicuous and envied as the mother of
Flora Temple.
The rooms were filled—the halls—the steps
before the door. Family after family of the very
highest ton (and are there not the loftiest exclusives
in a republic?) came pouring up. Wealthy merchants—
eminent counsellors, just from profound
tomes, gladly escaped to this scene of light and
joy—astute judges, who had perhaps recently
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sealed the fate of wretched criminals, chatted with
the bright-eyed girls, and sipped their coffee to
dulcet music—physicians, from the death-bed of
the dying or the dead—distinguished members of
Congress—ex-governors and bank-directors—popular
authors (for even America began to have
popular authors)—elégants—beaux-esprits—and
“young men of talent” by the score—and lions in
such plenty that they were in each other's way;—
all mingled in the enchanting tide of sparkling
pleasure and radiant beauty. The waltz—that airy
child of fashion and caprice—even here, where the
pioneer had scarcely flung away his axe, floated
like a zephyr, though, truth to say, within a sadly
circumscribed compass. Music breathed—champaign
exploded—the pressure for pleasure grew
greater and more insupportable—the sides of the
obese were penetrated by the elbows of the enthusiastic—
the gentlemen were wedged in closely,
with one hand and an opera-hat above their head—
imperial carpets were soaked with wasted wine—
each charming mouth dropped words of wit and
mirth—those who were out pressed to get in—those
who were in pressed to get out—the roar of new
carriages thundered at the door, and—what is there
after all like a rout?
But, heavens! what a voice! what loveliness!
what execution! A young girl, of peculiar grace
and beauty, ran her slender fingers rapidly over the
keys of a piano, and sang with such tones of sweetness
that the auditors almost ceased to breathe. A
difficult and brilliant bravura elicited from every
lip repeated and irrepressible exclamations of delight
and pleasure. They had not yet died away,
when a plaintive ballad, simple as the murmurs of
a running brook, and soft as the voice of the dove
mourning her mate in the forest, once more hushed
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every sound and touched every heart, till the last
sweet note, melting away, left a general pause—
the truest tribute of praise.
“Who is she?” cried one.
“Who can she be?” exclaimed another.
It was old Mr. Romain's daughter. Every one
knew old Mr. Romain.
If any thing can heighten the spell of good wine,
it is music a little while after. If any thing can
extract from music its last alloy of earth, and leave
it purely an ethereal rapture, it is good wine a little
while before.
“By heavens,” said Albert Moreland, “this is
wonderful!—Norman, did you ever hear such
sounds?”
“Many a time and oft,” replied Leslie, with indifference.
Rosalie Romain was the centre of all eyes; even
Flora stood by almost unobserved. Never
was collected a fairer array than shone here to-night,
and none so marked as Rosalie Romain. Her
beauty was indeed of a kind to bewilder the unwary.
Her person was graceful and majestic, and
somewhat above the ordinary stature. A warm
and passionate languor was felt in her manner and
expression; except at times, when suddenly excited
to peculiarly winning loveliness and naïveté. Eyes
large and dark—pearly teeth—a bewitching smile—
the most engaging air—and a voice that might
sound an alarm to the heart of a cynic, invested
her with uncommon powers of allurement. She
was peculiarly favoured, too, with a complexion of
such transparent brightness, lips so red and pouting,
and cheeks so fresh and rosy, as would have imparted
a character of beauty to features much less
intrinsically perfect.
“What, Norman, silent!” cried Moreland again
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to the young man whom he had previously addressed,
who was rather gravely regarding Miss
Romain, while others could not find words to praise
her sufficiently; “and, now I remember, this enchantress
the world has given to you. Is it not so,
Miss Temple?”
“Even so, Mr. Moreland,” answered Flora, with
a smile; “and a more elegant girl Mr. Leslie could
scarcely desire.”
Leslie coloured in some confusion.
“See,” exclaimed Moreland, “the guilty wretch!”
“Upon my soul,” said Leslie, “you do me too
much honour.”
“Nay, but I saw,” said Moreland, “even this
minute—the language of Miss Romain's eyes is
not easily to be mistaken; and Mr. Norman Leslie
himself, for all his present gravity, has a pair of
orbs which converse indifferently well. Look at
them, Miss Temple.”
“Nonsense, it is untrue,” said Norman. “I
solemnly assure you it is untrue. Miss Temple,
protect me from the raillery of this sarcastic
lawyer.”
“I must reserve my forces, Mr. Leslie, for a
juster cause,” replied Miss Temple, smiling.
“There, I told you so, Leslie; Miss Temple
knows it—I know it—everybody knows it.”
“Albert, upon my honour—”
“Why,” interrupted Moreland, “now I remember
me, I have myself seen a copy of verses, addressed
by N. L. to R. R., enough to make stones
weep. I hereby formally accuse you of the dreadful
and very uncommon crime of love.”
“What shall be the penalty?” asked Norman.
“We shall be obliged to procure one by special
act of Congress,” replied the lawyer, quickly; “for
the offence is so heinous, that, like parricide, the
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legislator might well forget to include it in his
code.”
“Whatever it may be,” said Norman, “the endictment
is false.”
“You will plead guilty, then, to flirtation?—
remember Congress Hall.”
“Of flirtation,” said the youth, blushing perceptibly,
“perhaps; but, if that is a crime, I have
repented and done penance—I hold myself absolved.”
“Jealousy!” said Moreland: “the dear creatures
have quarrelled; I vow I will bring them
together. Miss Temple knows—”
But Miss Temple had disappeared.
“Albert,” said Norman, in a low voice, “never
again jest with me on that subject. I hate that
girl—I actually hate her. She is the wiliest coquette
that ever breathed. I did think once I loved
her; her beauty and winning allurement of manner
fired my boyish feelings. But I needed only a
slight experience in the capacity of a lover, to read
in her actions a cold heart and a shallow understanding.
She is vain, proud, and silly; though
brilliant, accomplished, and lovely. She is a show—
a dazzle—a bright, but hollow and useless mask,
without either head or heart. She has taught me
a lesson in woman which I shall not lightly forget.”
“But I see you with her often, and in friendship,”
said Moreland.
“Certainly,” replied Norman, laughing; “you
would not have me challenge her? When I say
hate, I mean I dislike the class of characters to
which she belongs. Individually, I would not injure
her either in reputation or feelings. She is a
gay, and can be a fascinating woman; and perhaps
I am somewhat severe upon female character.
Besides, the world has placed me among her
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rejected lovers. I would do away the impression, as
I do not deserve the honour. I meet her often in
society. We have had no definite misunderstanding.
This change in my sentiments has been the
work of silent observation. I found a glittering
toy, thought it diamond—examined it, and discovered
it to be but common glass. Yet I do not
wish, and indeed have no right, to withhold from
her the civilities due to a lady.”
“Come, come,” said Moreland, “I think I see
through all this. You are a little jealous. That
French count, who has set the whole town crazy—”
“What! that Clairmont!” interrupted Norman,
with an expression of contempt—“that fop! that
coxcomb!”
“Ay!” cried Moreland, “that is the very language
of the green-eyed monster.”
“I tell you,” said Norman, “I would attend his
union with Rosalie Romain as cheerfully as you.”
“But you will not have an opportunity,” returned
Moreland; “I have myself, to be sure, remarked
his admiration for Miss Romain.”
“And hers for him?”
“What could she do, Norman? You know in
your heart that he is the most elegant dog in the
world, and turns every woman's head he looks at;
his address—his person—his accomplishments—
his fortune—the exceeding propriety and elegance
with which he speaks the English—his high rank—
and that guitar! and he has nothing on earth to do
but to idle and make love. The girls are flattered—
men envious—husbands look on him obliquely—
and lovers (the Lord help them!) are jealous,—
Mr. Norman Leslie among the rest. But hear me
to the close. As for that beautiful creature Miss
Romain—why, we are not Turks—the formidable
rival can marry but one—and this one cannot be
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Miss Romain; for, to my certain knowledge, he is
paying particular attention to—”
“And so, I am to take the lady if he will not!”
“Well, well, Norman! you need not flash your
eyes so sternly on me; I am not a count in the
French army.”
“Nor he neither,” said Leslie, quickly, and in a
low tone, “I'll wager my life. The strongest suspicions
have crossed me. You know how he appeared
here—under what odd circumstances; his
baggage lost—his boat overturned—and the devil
to pay: so that he might or might not be what he
professes. Count or no count, I have an instinctive,
unconquerable aversion to him. I have noted
trifles in him which argue dark things.”
“Oh ho!” said Moreland, laughing; “what
havoc love can make in the brain of a sensible fellow!
Here you are, crammed with sentiment and
romance, and as full of quarrel `as my young mistress's
dog!' You doubt the honour of a noble
whom no one else could dream of doubting, and
you scornfully dismiss the character of a young girl
whom all the rest of the company are dying in love
for. `Good Heaven! the souls of all my tribe defend
from jealousy.' ”
“Love or hate,” said Norman, thoughtfully, “I
do not like this sprig of nobility. If this be the
stuff of European nobles, Heaven send that they
keep hereafter the other side of the Atlantic. I half
fancy sometimes my aversion is reciprocated; and
I have a gloomy presentiment that we shall one
day cross each other.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed Moreland; “you
must be wary how you approach him, for his anger
is no jest. He is, as perhaps you know, the most
deadly shot in the country; this is the most conspicuous
among his accomplishments. He plants
-- 047 --
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a pistol-bullet at the farthest distance, ten times out
of twelve, upon a silver sixpence. I have seen him
do it; and they do say that he has no desire whatever
to keep this remarkable skill a secret.”
“Doubtless,” replied Norman; “he fancies, I
suppose, that such a power will awe the plebeian
crowd whose dinners he eats—whose wives and
daughters he makes love to—”
“And whose matches he breaks off,” interrupted
Moreland. “He has already, as you know, killed
a man at the South; and I believe that is one reason
the women love him so.”
“Is there a character on earth,” said Norman,
“so base and execrable as a professed shot? It
would be no bad deed to send back this malapert
popinjay with a broken wing. One looks without
horror at the worst calamity of a professed duellist
in a duel.”
“What a husband he will make!” said Moreland;
“and how many of these women are dying for him
because only of his nickname—those five cabalistic
letters which compose the word count! Yet, truth
to say, he is an elegant fellow.”
“I wish Miss Romain no worse fate,” answered
Norman, “than success in her evident designs to
entrap him.”
“And you are really off there, then?”
“I tell you, Albert, if this bright-lipped girl who
enchants the people here so to-night, with the
wealth of Crœsus, were to be had for the asking,
and Flora Temple, without friend or fortune, were
to be wooed and won by perseverance, I could
rather choose the latter, and live with her in a desert,
than trust my happiness with yonder unfeeling
flirt. As for the Frenchman, I wish him success—
they are fit for each other; and the Lord help them,
say I, by their winter fireside.”
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“Phoo! phoo!” said Moreland, “such people
have no winter fireside; they live in the world and
for it, and not for each other, nor with each other:
and, between you and me, dear Norman, I am glad,
and so will Mary be, that you have escaped from
this siren; but then, as I live, it's Flora Temple.”
“No, Albert—no!” replied Norman, rather hastily;
and then falling into a more contemplative
manner—“Flora Temple is not for me neither.
She is one of your intellectual women—a passionless,
self-possessed, unloving nature—soft and winning,
I grant, but without warmth. She has a heart,
doubtless, but it is not formed for love. No gentle
thought-wanderings—no fond wishes or alarms;
you never saw a cloud or a flush upon her brow. I
am sure she would ridicule a lover to death. I like
a woman with a soul. Some rich automaton, with
all the external trappings of dignity and fashion,
will marry her, just when mamma says, ere the
bloom of bellehood has passed utterly away. She
will not resist; she will have no reason for resistance,
for she will adapt herself to the caprices of
one man as well as of another. There will be a
wedding—company—calls—cards—and jams; ices
will be eaten—champaign spilt—compliments paid;
there will be blushes, smiles, wishes, witticisms,
and congratulations; years will roll on, and Mistress
Flora, whatever her name may be, will bud
and bloom, fade and fall—a good wife, an exemplary
mother, and—I heartily hope—an indulgent and
contented grandmamma. She will live and die—
be mourned and forgotten, all in the forms and fashions
prescribed by propriety and custom; and there
will be the end of her. I hate cold women, and
Miss Temple is cold as ice.”
Poor Flora! how he slandered her!
The two friends parted; and Norman followed
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
the tide as it flowed around the room, sometimes
pausing to address an acquaintance, sometimes to
exchange a word with a belle.
“Ah! Mr. Leslie,” cried Miss Romain, “you
come opportunely. Here are Miss Morton and
myself actually deserted, wandering about like two
princesses of romance. You are a true knight-errant,
and shall be our champion.”
“Happy chance!” replied Leslie, extending his
arms, and they accompanied him on his rounds.
“Dear me!” cried Miss Morton, “I thought
Count Clairmont was to be here. It is now twelve
o'clock.”
“He never comes till late when he means to remain,”
said Miss Romain; “but, favoured as we
are, I had quite forgotten him,” added she, looking
expressively at Norman. “Come, Mr. Leslie, for
mercy's sake say something; you are as dull as a
philosopher.”
“I am a philosopher, Miss Romain,” said Norman,
gravely.
“Since when, pray? and wherefore, my noble
knight?” asked Miss Romain, again looking up familiarly
in his face, and hanging on his arm as a
happy wife might lean on the support of a loving
husband.
“All men—that is, all wise men,” pursued the
youth, “grow philosophical as they grow old; and
one surely needs philosophy when danger hangs
on either arm, and looks him in the face.”
“Meaning us! well, that is about as inappropriate
a speech for a philosopher,” said Miss Romain,
“as I ever heard. Did you hear, Maria, his pretty
speech?”
“Yes, often. To-day, when he called at our
house—”
“Called—who called?”
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
“Why, the count. Dear me! you were speaking
of Count Clairmont, were you not?”
“There must be two philosophers in our circle,”
said Miss Romain to Leslie, with a significant
smile, and in a whisper, which again brought her
mouth almost against his own. Her languishing
eyes were lifted to his; he felt her breath on his
cheek. At this moment his glance encountered
that of Miss Temple. Her gaze was calm as a sister's.
Why did a feeling of disquietude—of confusion—
shoot through his heart?
A few moments after his gay companions were
called away to the dance, and he was left again
alone. As he stood, his eyes, involuntarily passing
over the varied assembly of countenances, sought
out and reposed on the face of Miss Temple.
“After all, how much more truly beautiful she
is!”—thus the youth thought, as he stole his unobserved
study of her features—“how much more
noble and wife-like than Rosalie!” As he gazed,
the rose which ornamented her hair fell unnoticed;
he picked it up.
“Miss Temple, you have dropped your rose;
allow me—” She reached forth her hand, received
it with a graceful acknowledgment, and was about
placing it in her hair. What would he not have
given to place it there himself! He never saw
her look so serenely, so perfectly lovely.
“Why, Leslie!” exclaimed the brother of Miss
Morton—a handsome young fop, with his hair curled
profusely around his forehead—and bowing low
with the conscious elegance of a compliment,
“your heart must be marble! Had that fair tribute
fallen to me, I should have cherished it as a
relic out of Holy Land.”
How often it happens that the bosom struggling
with pure feeling is denied the power of expressing
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
it; while nature gives the envied eloquence to the
careless and the gay, who neither know how to
value nor how to use it.
“If you esteem the poor rose so highly, Mr.
Morton,” said Flora, “pray take it. Perhaps it will
be as potent as other relics.”
Morton bowed; received the flower—kissed it—
and placed it in his bosom. That careless act of
Flora's cost him a heartache. Norman knew the
simple youth, and smiled.
“What a fine creature, Leslie—hey?” said Morton,
affectedly, a few moments afterward. “But
don't deduce any false conclusions from this kindness
of hers to me. It is mere civility on her part;
nothing more, upon honour. But she is a splendid
article, I declare—isn't she? Halloo! who is that
dashing fellow with her?”
“Count Clairmont,” said his sister. “Now, just
as if you did not know the count, and he at our
house every day of his life!”
“Why, so it is!” exclaimed Morton. “Well, I
never—I did not know him with his back turned, I
declare. He's a fine-looking fellow, though—isn't
he! And how he does dress! Did you ever! How
he talks and laughs to Flora—don't he! Why,
he'll get her for the next cotillon—won't he? and
I have very particular reasons for wishing to dance
with her myself. Excuse me, ladies; by-by, Leslie.
Why, only look! 'Pon my soul, I declare, I
never—”
He broke away abruptly through the press.
Leslie saw him reach the spot where Flora stood,
and bow with a violent and rather determined attempt
at grace. Flora's slight responsive bend of
the head implied assent; and whatever were the
“very particular reasons” for Mr. Morton's wish to
dance with her, they were now to be gratified.
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[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
“Come, your hand for this cotillon,” cried Howard
to Miss Romain.
“With all my heart,” answered she.
“That is saying a great deal,” said Miss Temple,
with an arch smile, as she was passing.
Miss Romain blushed, or seemed to blush.
“Gentlemen will please take their partners,”
cried the manager of the ball.
The field was now much clearer. Some had
gone off to the card-rooms, and some were at the
buffet. A space had been gradually occupied by
the dancers sufficiently large to enable them to
walk through the figures; and a group of girls
ranged themselves in their places: Howard with
Miss Romain, Morton with Miss Temple, and the
count with a tall young lady newly out from boarding-school—
full of sentiment, blushes, and delight.
It was evident, from her frequent repetition of
“my lord,” that the phrase was a favourite one,
and redolent of recollections of Lord Mortimer and
other heroes of circulating libraries.
“How uncommonly lovely the American women
are,” said the count.
“Oh! my lord,” with a slight courtesy.
“When I was in Greece—”
“Have you really been in Greece, my lord?”
“Why, I almost lived in the Parthenon.”
“The what, my lord?”
“The Parthenon. I worshipped—I was fairly
in love with it.”
“In love? oh, my lord!” and the blooming
young lady cast down her eyes, and blushed decidedly.
“And, as I was saying, there was a young
Greek girl—”
“A young Greek girl, my lord?”
“A most lovely and glowing creature—”
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
“Oh! my lord.”
“And she was very, very like you.”
“Dear me, my lord! like me?”
“You have the same expression about the eyes;
and the mouth has the same—”
“Forward two, and cross over,” cried Miss Romain:
“why, Miss Thomson, are you not in the
cotillon?”
Miss Thomson was so lost in conjecturing what
sort of an expression the count could mean, that
she missed her turn.
“We have such delightful weather, Miss Temple,”
cried Morton.
“Truly charming, Mr. Morton. Broadway was
brilliant this morning.”
“Indeed!”
“I never saw a gayer scene.”
“Ah! really.”
“There is a new—”
“Miss Temple,” stammered Morton, apparently
unconscious that he interrupted her.
“Mr. Morton!” she replied, in some surprise at
the extreme embarrassment which had suddenly
come over him.
“I—I—I was going—to beg—Miss Temple—I
was going—I was going—”
“Well, why don't you go?” said Miss Temple,
unable to repress a smile; “the whole cotillon
waits for you.”
And the young man skipped forward and hopped
back awkwardly, blundering through the figure
with a burning face. The count, eying him through
his glass, whispered Miss Thomson, who suddenly
laughed outright; but covered her mouth in girlish
confusion with her folded handkerchief.
-- 054 --
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When Morton had accomplished his manœuvres,
with a secret curse upon the inventor of dancing,
he returned with redoubled determination to strike
the blow. Miss Temple, with a large fortune settled
separately upon her, and with yet higher expectations
from parents, uncles, and scores of
wealthy relatives, so young, so gentle, and so
beautiful withal, was a prize indeed.
“I was about to say, or rather to ask,” resumed
Morton—“to ask whether your affections—”
“My what!” cried Flora, aloud, and really
thrown off her guard by this sudden sentimental
turn in the conversation.
“Hush, for heaven's sake!” cried Morton, in a
vehement whisper; and he was then compelled to
jump forward again.
Miss Temple opened her large blue eyes in astonishment
and some alarm. But the last thing a
modest woman thinks of a man is, that he loves
her—especially when such a sentiment has never
entered into her own bosom. She continued the
dance therefore frankly, not fully trusting to the
evidence of her ears, with an inward prayer that the
palpable squeeze which Morton bestowed on her
hand might be the result of awkwardness rather
than intention. She saw, however, the full necessity
of being on her guard; for though no one
could ever be farther removed from her “affections”
than Mr. Frederick Morton, yet she was
aware that mistakes on such subjects had happened
before, and might again. The youth, half-desperate,
but resolving not to be repulsed by what he
deemed the coquetries and caprices of her sex—
building largely upon the rose which he had ostentatiously
stuck into his buttonhole, and at heart as
assured as Malvolio that his mistress regarded him
with favouring eyes—approached her again, and
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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
with a decisive resolution in his manner, said, in a
low tone,—
“To be short with you, Miss Temple (for it will
be time to forward two again presently), I wish to
inquire—for very particular reasons—whether—
you are engaged?”
“I am,” said Flora.
“Miss Temple!” exclaimed Morton; “I declare—
upon my soul—the deepest regret—”
“If you had only spoken before, Mr. Morton,”
said Flora.
“Oh, Miss Temple! may I ask—so far—as to
inquire—to whom?”
“Indeed, I do not think I can remember their
names; but I am engaged to several.”
“Oh, Miss Flora! I declare,” said Morton, “my
heart is relieved from a whole mountain.”
“Heavens! Mr. Morton, a whole mountain!
That must be a very great relief.”
“Very,” said Morton; “but the engagement I
meant—” he laid his hand upon his breast.
“Why, Morton!” said the count, “what can be
the matter with you? forward, my good sir—forward.”
And the disappointed lover chassezed forward
with a rueful countenance, inwardly vowing vengeance
against the count, and scarcely knowing
whether he was on his head or his heels. He cut
a pigeon-wing at the end of the figure, and again
approached his mistress with a more collected and
bolder mind.
“Miss Temple,” he cried, “my feelings—”
The sudden cessation of music here rendered
the two last words rather more distinctly audible
than the susceptible speaker intended. Flora actually
blushed; for it was evident that so pathetic
an exclamation could scarcely be the beginning
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[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
of a conversation, and, by the surprise manifested
in their countenances, it was clear that many of
the by-standers had heard it. Howard, who was
standing near, seized the unfortunate Morton with
his thumb and finger by the lapel of his coat, gazed
into his face with a look of burlesque sympathy,
and exclaimed,--
“Your feelings, Mr. Morton? you don't say so!”
“I do believe, my lord,” said Miss Thomson,
with the air of one who has just discovered and is
considerably astounded by an extraordinary secret—
“I do believe, my lord, that Mr. Morton has
been making love.”
“You are with me for the next cotillon, Miss
Temple?” cried the count.
“It is of no use,” muttered Morton; “I declare—
I never—that infernal count in the French army!
But I'll teach him—” and his passions were really
inflamed by beholding his rival basking in the
smile of the delightful girl whom, in the language
of the novelist, he wished one day to “make his.”
After the cotillon, the count resigned Flora and
took her mother. Mr. Temple was in another
room at the whist-table. What those husbands'
hearts are made of!
“Count!” said Mrs. Temple
“Dear madam?”
“You have been dancing with Flora.”
“An angel!”
“Is she not? and just as pure and amiable as
she is lovely.”
“When I was in Vienna,” said the count, with
his hand on his cravat, “I knew a young dutchess—”
“Like Flora?”
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
“Not half so distinguée, but still like her.”
“Well!”
“I knew her—I admired—and—”
“And you loved—”
“No, I could not love; because—although the
lady herself was kind enough—yet she had not that
sense—that soul—that radiance of mind, if I may
say so, which Flora has.”
“Would they admire Flora at Vienna?”
“She would turn their heads.”
“And they hers.”
“What a sensation she would produce at court!”
“I have half a mind to let her go.”
“Do! Let me take her.”
“But what should I do without her?”
“Come you with us, and see the great world.”
“One never knows when you are in earnest,
count.”
“You are looking splendidly to-night,” said he,
half whispering in her ear.
“Nonsense,” said she, tapping him on the shoulder
with her fan.
“With you two, your country would be well
represented at any court in Europe.”
“Ah! you men! What can silly girls do, when
we women let you talk so!”
“I could worship Flora to-night,” he said, in a
yet lower tone; “only—”
“Only what?”
Again he half whispered in her ear.
“Go,” she exclaimed, tapping him once more
with her fan—“go; you are positively dangerous.”
She left him as she spoke, and the last words
were uttered looking back.
“But where is Flora?” said Mrs. Temple.
Flora had disappeared.
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
In the midst of the gayety and flash of the revel,
a servant entered with a note for Mr. Leslie.
“By your leave, fair wax,” said the youth.
A few lines were scrawled in evident haste—
“Urgent affair—without a moment's delay—at the
B. Hotel—room No. 39—up stairs—wait with impatience—
particulars when we meet—Yours till
death—Frederick Morton.”
CHAPTER VI.
A ludicrous Incident, which, as ludicrous incidents often do,
grows more serious towards the close.
“He is a devil in a private brawl: souls and bodies hath he
divorced three.”
—Twelfth Night.
When Leslie reached the B. Hotel, which was
about one minute's walk from Mrs. Temple's, he
was ushered by a man in waiting to “No. 39, up
stairs;” where he found Morton, with his hands
thrust into his pantaloons pocket, pacing, with long
strides, to and fro across the floor, half beside himself
with passion.
“Thank you, thank you, Leslie,” he cried, grasping
his hand with strong emotion—“thank you, my
dear fellow. I declare! you are a brave man and
a true friend.”
“You have not called me, I trust, to the B. Hotel,
room No. 39, up stairs,' merely to tell me that?”
said Leslie, smiling.
“No, my dear boy; that puppy—that coward—
hat insolent—impudent—impertinent—”
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Tears of rage spoke what simple adjectives could
not express.
“Who?”
“Why, that d—d French count.”
“What, Clairmont?”
“You know the scoundrel makes love to all the
women in town, without reference to age, size, or
situation. For the last week he has taken my
sister—”
“Well.”
“She is already crazy about him, and puts on
airs as if she were a countess. We did think he
was going to marry her quite, but—(by heavens!
if I had him here—)”
“Well, well, my good fellow, go on.”
“This night his lordship (I'll lordship him!) has
paid such marked attention to Flora Temple, that,
as a brother, I was compelled to resent it.” He
raised his chin a little in the air, and, lowering his
voice, added, “Besides other very particular reasons
concerning Flora herself.”
“Other reasons! why, what is Miss Temple to
you?”
“That,” very emphatic, “you will know presently.”
“And how did you resent it?”
“In the first place,” said Morton, “I gave him
a look—you should have seen me—such a look!
Even that alone, if he has the soul of a hare, he
must notice. Besides—”
“But he has not the soul of a hare. He is a
very brave man. He is a lion. He is a perfect
devil,” said Norman.
“I'll have satisfaction, notwithstanding,” cried
Morton.
“Satisfaction!” echoed Leslie; “I do not know
what you call satisfaction; but are you aware that
he is a dead shot?”
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“You don't say so!” said Morton, turning slightly
pale, and his boisterous fury undergoing a sensible
abatement.
“He can snuff a candle ten times in succession,”
said Norman, dryly.
“You don't say so!”
“He can shoot a bullet out of one pistol into the
muzzle of another.”
“Good God! Now, Leslie, you are joking; you
are, I declare.”
“Not joking in the least,” replied Norman; “did
you never hear of the French general whom he
killed one morning before breakfast, for looking
under the veil of a Veronese lady he was in love
with?”
“Never, as I am alive, I do declare.”
“But you are not alive—you are a dead man—
you might as well leap into the crater of a volcano
as go a step farther in this business. Then there's
the duel at the South—have you forgotten that?”
“He shot his man there, too, didn't he?”
“Directly through the heart,” said Norman. “I
trust in heaven, Morton, you have not done any
thing worse than look at him.”
“Yes, but I have, though,” answered Morton,
now actually frightened at the recollection of his
own audacity; “I brushed against him particularly
as I came out, in the presence of Flora.”
“You are a dead man,” said Norman.
“Well, now, I declare, that is exceedingly disagreeable.”
“You will receive a challenge before morning.”
“And here it comes,” cried the astounded young
man, again turning pale as a servant entered and
handed him a note.
“Take it, Leslie.”
“What!” exclaimed Leslie; “he is elegant in
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his indignation,—rose paper—a cameo seal—`Mr.
Frederick Morton—B Hotel, room No. 39.' Why,
this is a female hand; and, if I could credit my own
eyes I should pronounce it—”
“It is no challenge,” said the relieved lover,
blushing and brightening up. “Give it me. A
challenge, indeed! I should like to catch him at it.
I knew it was not. It is from Flora.”
“Flora, again! Flora Temple—and to you!”
“Why, certainly, Mr. Norman Leslie. Is there
any thing so very extraordinary in that? We men,
you know! Hey, my boy? Now mum, and you
shall hear. There is more in this world than is
dreamed of in your philosophy.”
“There is, indeed,” said Norman, lifting his eyes
in astonishment.
“Be mute, then,” rejoined Morton, “and be instructed.”
“Is it possible!” thought Norman, musing, while
Morton threw his eyes over the letter. “What,
Flora—Flora Temple! the high, the accomplished,
the gifted! Who shall read woman!”
“Fire and thunder!” cried Morton. “Death and
fury! Leslie, a flirt, by heavens! You yourself
saw—” and the agitated and enraged youth crushed
the letter in his hand, stamped his foot, and leaned
his forehead upon his clinched fist.
“What is it, Morton? what is it, my good fellow?”
asked Norman, really pitying his dilemma,.
but with the greatest difficulty repressing a smile;
for, however severe the pang inflicted, a rejected
lover has but a slender chance of sympathy.
“Leslie,” said Morton, apparently swallowing,
or rather gulping down his disappointment, with a
ludicrous effort, and one or two bitter contortions
of countenance—“Leslie, my dear fellow, it is a—
that is—in short—it is nothing—a mere joke;” he
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forced an unhappy laugh; “but—it all comes,” and
he set his teeth, “I know it all comes from that
d—d French count—”
“Don't swear,” said a third voice.
“Halloo! who the devil's that?” cried Morton.
“The d—d French count, at your service, Mr.
Frederick Morton,” said Clairmont, who had entered
unperceived, and now stood, his arms folded,
a cool sneer on his lip, and his eyes sternly fixed
upon Morton.
“Well, sir,” demanded Morton, starting up, and
assuming a blustering air and attitude, “by what
authority, sir, do you intrude yourself into my
room, sir?—this is my room, sir, while I am in it.
I command you to leave it, sir—this instant, sir!”
He made a motion of his head to Norman, as if calling
upon his attestation to a courage, which, in
fact, seemed not a little to surprise himself.
“I will leave the room, Master Morton,” replied
the count, coldly, “when I have accomplished the
purpose which brought me into it.” At the same
moment he discovered a riding-whip, which he
held in his hand. “You owe your life to Miss
Temple.”
“Leave the room, sir!”
“She observed your rudeness to me as you
came out, and laid me under an obligation not to
pursue it, as I should deem myself bound to do
were you a gentleman.”
“Leave the room, I tell you!” roared Morton,
stamping his foot furiously.
“I do not, however, pass your insult altogether
without notice. You are an impertinent rascal—”
“Leave the room, sir! or I will call the watch.”
“You are an insignificant scoundrel and coward—”
“If you don't leave the room this very instant,
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sir—” shouted Morton, frantic with rage, and
placing himself, with many pugilistic flourishes, in
an attitude sometimes of attack and sometimes of
defence.
“And I shall inflict upon you,” continued Clairmont,
with the most perfect composure, “the chastisement
which your vulgarity deserves.” He raised
his whip, and followed the retreating Morton to the
farthest corner of the room.
“Ask my pardon instantly, sir, or I flog you like
a dog.”
“I shall not ask your pardon, sir,” bawled Morton,
in a tone between the threat of a bully and the
whine of a whipped schoolboy. “If you touch
me, sir, I'll have the satisfaction of a gentleman.
I shall ask nobody's pardon. D—n, sir! Leave the
room—don't strike me, sir—don't strike—Leslie,
take off this bloodhound—waiter!—waiter!—here—
watch!—watch!—Leslie, for God's sake!—you
are a d—d scoundrel, sir!”
“If Mr. Leslie interferes,” said the count, calmly
proceeding in his design, and raising the whip,
“Mr. Leslie will share your fate.”
“Count Clairmont,” said Leslie, who had already
walked to his side, and in a voice so deep that the
count turned and remained motionless to hear his
words. “Count Clairmont, however reluctant I
may be to interfere in the quarrel of another, I shall
not be backward in assuming my own. Your remark
is a personal insult. I have already remained
too long inactive by the side of my friend.
Permit me to inform you that this apartment is
private.”
“Mr. Leslie,” replied the count, “your sneers
and your threats are equally below my regard.
This person I shall punish by the whip. Your
claims upon my attention, sir, will be answered in
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a different way. You may not be so fortunate as
to have a lady for a protector.” Again he turned
to Morton, and raised the whip.
“Count Clairmont,” cried Leslie, “if you indeed
be a count, hear me. I think you a scoundrel.”
A blow of the whip was the only reply, and in
an instant the young nobleman lay at his length
upon the floor.
“Norman Leslie,” cried he, rising, his face white
as death, yet speaking with a low and altered voice,
and regarding him with the fiendish fixedness of a
serpent about to dart his death-fang—“Norman
Leslie, you have disgraced me, and I will have
your heart's blood!”
“As you please, sir,” replied Norman, sternly;
“but now begone!” and, flashing back glance for
glance, he stepped two strides towards his foe.
The discomfited noble paused a moment upon
the threshold, and looked once more into Leslie's
face, with a gaze which, in spite of himself, chilled
even the boiling blood in the youth's veins. It was
the black scowl of a demon. His features then
relaxed slowly into a sBODl smile—if possible, yet
more malignant and inhuman.
“Remember, Norman Leslie,” he said, “I will
have your heart's blood!” I am a Catholic. Here
is a cross. Look—I swear it!”
He pressed the jewelled relic convulsively to his
lips, and disappeared.
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CHAPTER VII
In which the Reader will note the Difference between a young
Gentleman's Thoughts of a Night and his Actions of a
Morning.
“God bless me from a challenge.
Much Ado about Nothing.
“Watchman, what light burns yonder in the
sky?” asked Leslie, as he walked home alone
from Mrs. Temple's; “can it be a fire?”
“Why, it's the morning!” growled the surly
guardian of the night.
“And so it is!” exclaimed Norman, looking at
his watch.
The young man walked on; there was a fever
on his cheek and in his heart. There is a singular
power in the calmness of night, and in the holy silence
and order of nature, upon the imagination of
one suddenly freed from the giddy throng and glare
of a revel. How it hushes the ordinary passions!
The mind, which has been like a stream disturbed,
settles into wonderful clearness; and you see defined
thoughts and minute feelings far down in its
transparent depths. But night is nowhere so impressive
and solemn as in the worn haunts of a
mighty city. You behold the abandoned paths
with something of the feeling with which you
pause among the ruins of an ancient town. True,
in the one case, ages have rolled away since the solitude
was broken by eager and thoughtless steps;
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and in the other, only hours: yet the effect upon
the observer is strangely alike. The human sea
has washed from its shores, and left the marked
and naked channels exposed to the eye. The clash
and roar of worldly interests have died away. You
tread the solemn aisles, half disengaged from earthly
anxieties and excitations, with the cold and passionless
loneliness of a spectre. Are there those
sleeping around who have awakened your hatred?
how its secret fires seem dimmed and burnt out!
Can you look upon the heavens, strown with mysterious
and eternal worlds, lying in their same bright
places for ever!—on which all the great of history,
Homer, Socrates, and Alexander, Sylla, Cæsar,
and Pompey, Mahomet and Jesus, have fixed their
eyes—upon which, the startled imagination cannot
conjecture for how many thousand years to come,
other immortal heroes and poets may gaze,—can
you look upon them, and hate one of the myriads
who are floating away with you, beneath their calm
faces, like the specks that hang in their beams?
Can you—exalted, purified as your mind then is—
hate any less object than those evil principles, those
tremendous passions and vices, which have clouded
the paths of human beings with darkness and wo?
But if you have been guilty of a rash action, if
you have been the yielding victim of some momentary
impulse or local interest, how wondering
and abashed are you in those holy moments! How
noble, then, does virtue appear! How vast and
high seems love! How unutterably insignificant
and mean those motives and influences which tempt
the energies and guide the destinies of the human
race!
The waning moon was high in heaven; and her
faint light yet touched the surrounding objects
with edges of silver. The long vistas of
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densely-built streets, with their silent and deserted pavements
and closed shutters, stretched away from
Leslie's eyes. No one was to be seen, but a dog
that stole up timidly crouching, and placed his
head under the hand of the night-wanderer, as if
with a human weariness of the deathlike solitude;
and here and there a watchman leaning in the
shadow, and ever and anon striking his club sharply
against the stones—a signal answered by others in
a similar way, and faintly heard through the distance
of the echoing streets. Above, the stars had
faded in the opening light, all but a few large and
lustrous orbs, which lay scattered about the pearly
void, kindling and burning like lumps of soft fire.
Norman paused, and bent his eyes upward; one
bright planet, the largest in heaven, hung before
him.
“How apt the emblem is!” he thought. “And
the great poet in this, as in all things, how wonderfully
he has written! Yon `bright particular star'—
in one exquisite phrase, what eloquence! what
power! How it images the beauty, and fervour,
and worship of love! Thus she glides on—ever
calm, bright, and pure—above the earth, though
shining on it. Who will reach her! Who will win
confiding looks from those laughing eyes, and veil
their young mirth in the tenderness of love! Whose
hand will put back, unreproved, the hair from that
brow! Whose bosom will beat beneath that graceful
head! Whose rich blessed lips will print on
that sweet mouth the kiss of an adored, a happy
husband! What! Clairmont! Can her dreams
be of him? Can he comprehend her angelic nature?
What if she love him? What have I done?
Rather my hand should wither than injure one
sanctified by her affections. My worship for her
cannot pause upon her own matchless person. It
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would protect all she loves. Yet what must I now
do? A duel! I—who have pretended to think—
who have professed principle and morality; I—
who have thought myself the independent master
and controller of my own actions; I am now
plunged into a duel! I have chosen murder, or
self-murder, for a companion. Reason, religion,
bid me withdraw; but yet I cannot; I have gone
too far; I must proceed. My father—my sister—
should I fall, what will be their feelings? Should
I triumph, what will be my own? In death all will
despise, and in life all will execrate me: she, perhaps,
of all, the most. This Clairmont—why do I
hate him? Why should I seek his blood? Why
should I blacken and sear my soul for ever with a
deed inhuman, abhorrent, ghastly, against man,
against nature, against God? What goads me to
this?—the finger of the scorner! the laugh of the
fool! Clairmont falls beneath my aim; and with
Clairmont, how many others fall? If Flora loves
him, her young heart is crushed. How many others
are connected with him by human sympathies?—
perhaps a mother, a sister, a friend. My own
hand will be smeared with human blood—vast classes
of society mark me for a murderer—the domestic
circle, now so happy, of my own bright home
overshadowed with the gloom of death! But what
do I say? My blood must flow. He is a sure and
deadly enemy. The grave is then for me—a sudden,
a gory, a youthful grave! Startling—tremendous—
sublime thought! Earth, ever burning sky,
light, sound, morning, the realm of the human race—
beings that I have known and loved—farewell!
I quit you—I quit myself. This breathing form
struck to nothing! this ranging and mysterious soul
hurled into the dim realm of spectres! Broad and
magnificent nature! high and fairy dream of
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existence! ere to-morrow night I plunge from you,
headlong, into the presence of God. Surely, it is
a horrid vision!”
Bitterly, bitterly did the youth lament his dilemma
at that still and lonely hour. The crisis in
which he stood, and its possible consequences, rose
upon him in all their vast and naked horror; for the
fumes of passion had vanished from his mind, and
left it intensely alive to the reaction of reason.
The stars paled, the moon dissolved in a flood of
new light, and the fiery beams of morning darted
up the sky as he reached his home.
With the elasticity of youth, however, as the
day broadened, his mind recovered a more cheerful
tone, and he began to take brighter views of his situation.
Unable to sleep, he found the refreshment
of a warm bath a tolerable substitute; and after a
substantial breakfast, and renewing his toilet with
even more than ordinary care, he awaited in a more
agreeable mood the expected message. Singular
inconsistency of human nature, which permits trifles
so unimportant to share our minds with events
of such fearful interest! A man carefully arranging
his cravat-knot upon the brink of eternity!
At twelve, Captain Forbes of the army inquired
for Mr. Leslie. He was shown into a private apartment.
“You are Mr. Norman Leslie?”
“I am, sir.”
“You are aware—”
“I am.”
“You understand that—”
“I do.”
“This note my friend Count Clairmont begged
me to deliver, with express injunctions to receive
no apologies.”
“Your friend's injunctions were as insolent, sir,
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as they were unnecessary,” said Leslie, sternly and
loftily.
“He apprehends—”
“His apprehensions are groundless.”
“My friend Count Clairmont requests me to see
this little matter brought immediately to a close.”
“To-night, if you please. This morning—this
instant!”
“No, no,” said the captain; “that is `immediately'
with a vengeance. I am engaged to-night at
the theatre; but to-morrow morning, at daybreak,
if you can conveniently; for just now I am overwhelmed
with occupations.”
“Any accommodation of that kind which I can
offer, either to Count Clairmont or to Count Clairmont's
friend, will afford me infinite satisfaction.”
“You will send me then a friend?”
“With the necessary instructions.”
“Mr. Leslie, I have the honour—”
“Captain Forbes, your most obedient.”
They exchanged the parting salutations stiffly,
but courteously. As the officer withdrew, his retreating
bow brought his body into contact with that
of a new-comer, whose precipitate haste rendered
his momentum considerable.
“I do declare,” cried Morton; “my dearest sir,
I beg ten thousand million pardons.”
“Not in the least,” cried the captain, with military
brevity, and made his exit.
“So-ho!” said Morton, regarding the note; “it
has come then.”
“My dear Morton,” exclaimed Norman, “at
present you must excuse me—”
“ `Not in the least,' Leslie, as the captain says;
not for the world,” answered Morton. “You must
not, you shall not fight that Clairmont. I have
made some inquiries respecting his skill at
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pistolfiring. I thought you were joking last night all
the while. I declare I had no idea. I took it all
for one of your solemn jests—”
“My good Morton—this afternoon—to-morrow
morning—”
“But it is true. It is more than true. There
are no two ways about it. Whew! Why, he is a
devil incarnate! You are a dead man! He can
snuff a candle! Remember the Veronese lady,
hey?—the duel at the South—shoot a bullet out of
the muzzle of—”
“Morton, let go my button, my good fellow—”
“But, seriously, Leslie, I have something to say
to you. Here, help me wheel around this big
chair; and I'll tell you what you must let me do.
You see, I, being—”
But he was alone; Leslie having vanished the
instant his back was turned.
“Well, I declare!” said the surprised young
gentleman, after a full examination of the room,
from the ceiling to the floor, the interior of the
bookcases, and under the tables—“well, I declare—
I never—that's polite, anyhow! If he meet that
infernal French count, there's an end of Norman
Leslie!”
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CHAPTER VIII.
A Resolution, which will be condemned by some, applauded
by others, and imitated by none.
“ 'Fore God! man, do it. 'Tis a perilous strait;
But being the only one—dragon or not,
Forth your good sword, and on!”
Duelling has not wanted many grave and able
defenders. I do not allude to victims of passion
on the field. I speak of cool observers in the
closet; advocates who, without denying its partial
absurdity and its inadequate local effects, without
contending that it is either a redress for private
grievances, or a test of individual courage—in
short, fully granting it to be an evil, yet assert that
it is a necessary one, and that as an institution of
society it produces a public benefit more than sufficient
to counterbalance its particular disadvantages.
But, say its opposers, are we to admit an
evil for the sake of a consequent good? This, it
is replied, is the pervading principle of human
communities, and of nature herself. Evil, in working
out good through the realms of both, is perhaps
more efficacious than good itself. What is it that
has left the heavens a vault of stainless azure?
The same tempest which shattered the oak and
swept away the harvest. What, at the present
most remarkable period of human history, has sent
abroad among mankind light, knowledge, and power—
has lowered the audacious pride and weakened
the monstrous sway of the few—has broken the
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fetters of the many—and raised the people to that
broad and rightful possession of the globe plainly
indicated as the intention of their Creator; what
has effected this? an appeal to arms—the shock
of bloody battles. War is an evil; but without
war all mankind would now be slaves. What are
the good effects of duelling? Its champions declare
that it raises the tone of society, and polishes
the manners. The consciousness of this standard
of appeal is a check upon insolence and passion.
Law punishes; duelling prevents. There are many
species of assault upon a man's reputation or his
person which either cannot be brought within the
reach of law, or which, being brought within its
reach, are but inadequately noticed. The law
makes distinctions which gentlemen would not and
ought not to make. The law looks to dollars and
cents—not to feelings and sentiments: yet which,
the former or the latter, exert the greater influence
over human happiness? The law is a selfish creature.
Infringe its own rights, however slightly,
nay, however accidentally, and it crushes you with
an unexamining, inexorable cruelty. The law is
also an uncouth and gigantic animal. He stalks
onward over the broad highways of life. He has
to watch the whole country. He cannot always
penetrate into the quiet by-paths and recesses of
love and peace. Call a man a bad lawyer, or an
unskilful physician, and the law awards damages,
because the terms are injurious to the means by
which he gains his livelihood. But post him as a
paltry scoundrel, or a mean, shuffling fellow, and
the law holds forth no redress. If one, however
unjustly, stigmatize you as a liar in the face of the
world—if he slander you to your mistress, or insult
the lady who depends upon you for protection—
the door of the legal tribunal is closed against you:
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but should you, with a manly indignation, or a
chivalric impulse to defend woman, level the assailant
to the earth—you are yourself the victim, and
the law, which refused to defend you, punishes you
for having defended yourself. The law was made
to regulate the traffic of merchants, not the intercourse
of gentlemen. Again, say the advocates of
duelling, all men have not equal personal strength:
something is requisite to place the weak upon a
level with the strong. It is true that this ordeal is
as likely to eventuate in the ruin of the innocent as
the guilty; or even that the quarrelsome and brutal,
by making pistol-firing a study, may acquire precision
and skill not likely to be possessed by the
peaceful, unaccustomed to unlace their reputations
in brawls. But it is answered to this, that the
more perilous the conflict of men is made, the less
frequent will be those conflicts; and that what is
lost by the individual parties engaged in a duel, is
gained by society at large in the general caution
against quarrels, inasmuch as men will more care
what they say and do when they know that an indiscretion
may forfeit their lives.
These were the thoughts that revolved through
the mind of Leslie as he walked forth with the
purpose of seeking a friend. He was not one to
sink before approaching danger; but notwithstanding
the hackneyed sophistries with which he endeavoured
to hush the voice of reason, upon
the folly and guilt of staking his life upon the impulses
of a brawl and the passion of a moment, yet
his constitutional sensitiveness, his imaginative and
warm disposition, and his plain common sense,
combined to make him quail ever and anon at the
stunning prospect of death or murder, which now
seemed to block up and conclude his earthly
career. I am not drawing the character of a
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coward, though I am aware that there are many gentlemen
whom such a dilemma would agitate with
fewer scruples of conscience,—those who follow
war as a profession, and whose moral sense is
blunted by habit; or the mere elégant, whose intellect
and feelings are long ago usurped by the
heartless dogmas of fashionable life. Much less
courageous and elevated men may find themselves
in the situation of Leslie without shuddering.
What they dignify as courage does not merit the
name. In some it is want of reflection; in some,
a savage habit; in some, brute obtusity, and an inability
to reason on high and broad grounds. Many
narrow and mediocre minds find in it a hope of importance
which they can never obtain by other
means, and are willing to risk an existence of which
they have never learned to appreciate the value—
or to commit a crime of which they have not the
sensibility or reflection to perceive the horror—
that they may enjoy the temporary triumph of
newspaper notoriety, or strut the hero of a bar-room,
insolent with impunity, among braggarts and bullies
less bloody and renowned. Bodily courage is one
of the lowest qualities which pass among the virtues.
It is least connected with the nobler and
more useful attributes of humanity, is shared by a
greater number, and is more linked with the bestial
portion of our nature. I am speaking only of that
mere bodily courage which makes soldiers brave
in war; or which induces a man to station himself
deliberately, on some delicious summer morning,
upon a piece of greensward, and let another leisurely
aim and fire a pistol at his heart. This brute
courage, in which, after all, bulls and bears (amiable
rivalship!) equal or excel us, gained its high
reputation among the ancient nations who lived to
grasp the possessions of their weaker neighbours;
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who had no other name for virtue; who were ignorant
of that mighty sense of right which now,
century by century, is entering more deeply into
the human mind; and who fancied that the Superior
Powers attended each contest, and took care
that the honest party should have fair play. These
opinions have been exploded, but the custom remains—
a dark, unchristian wreck, like some time-worn
pagan altar, where, strange to think, even today
the high-priest officiates and the human victim
bleeds.
As Leslie ran over in his mind the common arguments
in support of the step he was about to
take, his clear reason detected their fallacy. He
acknowledged, as a rational being, their absurdity,
their cold cruelty, and their monstrous guilt. He
recoiled instinctively from pouring forth the blood
of a fellow-creature or his own. He doubted,
with great propriety, too, whether the public could
be a gainer by such a practice. He knew that,
eventuate as it might, his own peace must be shattered
for ever. He was about to rush on a crisis
which reason and religion alike condemned. It
was an act which neither Heaven nor earth would
deem noble. None would even approve it but
those whose approbation he despised. The world's
applause and future fame were denied him. He
had not even a high and honourable motive in his
own bosom to support him in this deep and secret
despondency. Life was doubly dear to him now,
for it began to be interwoven with the thought of
Flora Temple; and in his heart he felt no stronger
sentiment against Clairmont than simple contempt.
He had not a friend on earth whom this measure
would not distress and shock; and he was driven
to it neither by his interests nor his inclinations.
Had he been the deadly marksman instead of his
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antagonist, he would have refused a meeting. He
could not apologize; nor would apology have been
accepted. If not, there would be a new degradation,
a new insult—and both useless. Besides,
even had he been wrong, would he be excusable in
tendering an apology? It had been expressly declared
that “no apology” would be received. But
he was not prepared to confess himself wrong.
“No,” he said at length to himself, with the deep
determination natural in a high-tempered young
man as society is organized; “this meeting must
take place. It must—it shall. I am the blind victim
of a dire, a fatal necessity. If there be guilt,
let it rest on the community who countenance this
atrocious custom. Let it rest on the women who
smile upon the duellist, and among whom Clairmont
ranks higher because he has killed a human
being, and to whose laurel my death may add another
leaf. I am myself without skill. He is a
cool, a practised, a professed duellist. As such he
is received and honoured in my own circle. Mrs.
Temple avowedly admires him for his courage.
Even Flora hangs on his arm, and smiles, and jests;
even Flora touches that hand in the dance scarcely
yet washed from the stain of a brave man's blood.
They all know he glories in taking human life; and
that he particularly piques himself upon an aim
never known to miss its mark. That very peril
which renders my destruction inevitable, renders
my retreat impossible; for that would now seem
cowardice which in less dangerous circumstances
might be acknowledged as principle. Yet it is not
courage which impels me. No—I will not deceive
myself. What will pass for courage in me is only
hypocrisy. My heart sickens—my soul recoils—
I shudder. It is fear which whips me on, and
which startles me back. Not the fear of death.
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Were that death to be encountered for Flora—were
I to meet a lion on the arena for her—were I to
brave pestilence—chains—torture—how calm—
how high—how brave I should be! But here I
tremble at the sin—the ignominy—the deep wound
I must inflict upon the heart of a father and a sister.
I tremble to have all my glittering dreams
and broad proud plans crushed by a cool, vile,
heartless villain. But”—and he stepped with a
higher and more solemn emotion—“my struggles
are over. This `terrible feat' must be done. My
agonies and my doubts are alike useless and idle.”
And with the power of mind which perhaps
more accomplished duellists could have commanded,
he dismissed, at least for a period, the reflections
which unnerved him. Indeed, after the
first recoil, his strong nerves and manly heart grew
stronger and manlier. Enthusiastic men—those at
first most startled—are apt to meet sudden and extraordinary
dangers, when once shown to be inevitable,
with a mounting spirit, and a concentrated
faculty of thinking and acting, which breaks thrillingly
in upon the common monotony of existence,
and stirs up their souls like the blast of a trumpet.
As he proceeded on his way, however, he could not
banish the thought of Flora Temple. This charming
and lovely girl had already gained strangely
upon his affections, and her image was now received
into his mind with new and inexpressible
tenderness. It seemed that the very seriousness of
his danger quickened and brought to the surface of
his heart all those latent and powerful fires which
had hitherto lurked in its most secret recesses. It
was the dawning of a new and powerful passion in
a young and ardent character. It was a second
love—which (the poets to the contrary notwithstanding)
may be infinitely stronger than the first.
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The sentiment rests more upon the results of observation
and comparison; and, by being better defined,
is deepened and concentrated. It was but a
few hours since he had left her—the fairest in the
brilliant circle. How exquisitely her loveliness recurred
to him as he had last beheld her: that perfect
form, full of feminine grace and poetic character—
that bright, sweet head—the tender, blue,
speaking eyes—the smile, the parting smile which
he had exchanged with her—perhaps a parting for
ever! Then rose the other shifting images of the
night. The glittering and remarkable beauty of
Rosalie Romain—now cold to him—the ludicrous
fury and perplexity of poor Morton—the cutting
insult and sarcastic insolence of the count, which
struck on his veins like lightning—the retort—the
flash—the blow—the fray—Clairmont's demoniac
look—and the hushed and starry heavens in his
lonely walk home—all recurred to him, not with the
sense of reality, but as the incidents of some melodrame,
or idle romance, or yet more idle dream.
As he hastened on amid all the noontide splendour
of the gay Broadway, he found it almost impossible
to believe that he was in reality standing at last
upon the edge of that fearful brink which appals
alike the king, the philosopher, and the beggar—
where they all must meet in the equal nakedness
and weakness of mortal impotence and apprehension;
that while around him glittered so much elegance,
gayety, and commonplace bustle—while
many a sweet, familiar face smiled on him as he
proceeded, and many a friend of his own sex gave
him, in careless haste, the passing nod of salutation—
that he was stealing onward like a thing of death,
lent for a few hours to roam the earth, and destined,
ere to-morrow's sunset, to be the tenant of a hasty
and dishonoured grave.
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A few moments (for we think much faster than
we write) brought him to the house of Howard.
He was not at home. Near the residence of Howard
was that of Kreutzner, a brave and gallant
young German student from one of those celebrated
universities famed for romantic occurrences.
He was a bold and attractive character, and one of
Leslie's intimates. To Kreutzner, therefore, he
went, and, beyond his hopes, found him in. They
walked forth together, and Leslie had no sooner
related the whole incident than Kreutzner remarked,—
“It is as I suspected. I meet Clairmont often at
B—'s. I heard him this morning, with a most
singular expression of countenance, say to Forbes—
`That Leslie is a man I have always hated. I
would wing him, and so let him off; but I think I
will make an end of him!' Not to Philip's right
eye, but to Philip's heart, he is to send his arrow.”
“And shall I then,” cried Norman, flushing with
indignation, and speaking, as he generally both
spoke and acted, from impulse, while in one instant
all his fine moral principles melted to air—“shall I
throw away my life tamely? shall he live hereafter
the gay Adonis of the ball, and extend to the touch
of favouring girls the hand which has consigned me
to a bloody grave?”
“What can you do?” asked Kreutzner; “are
you an adept at the pistol?”
“No—and that Clairmont well knows.”
“He will kill you as sure as he fires,” rejoined
Kreutzner.
“And I cannot, for ten thousand lives,” added
Leslie, “make the slightest move to retreat or explain.”
“He has sworn to have your heart's blood. He
will keep his oath.”
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“Kreutzner,” said Leslie, after a long pause, and
without any other alteration of countenance and
manner than a slight paleness, a scarce perceptible
tremour of the voice, which, however, vanished as
he continued, and a calm and almost fearful determination
in his eye—“Kreutzner, I have examined
this subject, you will readily believe, with the
greatest attention. Since this Clairmont last night
fell prostrate beneath my arm, I have viewed my
situation in all its bearings. Cruelty forms no part
of my character. I cannot plant my foot upon a
spider without a thrill and a shudder of painful
compassion. I think life of all things the most
mysterious and sacred; and to quench it, or lose it,
of all calamities the most undefinably and tremendously
awful. I know all this—all you will say—
all the world will say; yet I see that I must die—
and I will not die alone.”
“Leslie, for Heaven's sake—”
“Hear me: do not attempt to reason with me—
do not attempt to change my resolution. You cannot
do it. I never felt so perfectly, so strangely,
so unutterably calm and fixed as I do now. I hate
duelling. I know it is immoral. I know the penalty;
but I now find in my soul what I never found
there before—that concentrated principle of fierce
and desperate self-defence which excludes every
consideration except itself. I die, Kreutzner, my
friend—I die, young, unhonoured; but he who has
pushed me to this extremity does not know me.
My mind is completely settled. Clairmont and
myself to-morrow night sleep in the same red grave—
make your arrangements—foot to foot—breast
to breast. God, Kreutzner, it is awful! but it is
soul-stirring and sublime.”
Kreutzner looked at his friend—his lofty step,
his flashing eye, his noble countenance, and stately
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form; and he thought, with almost a feeling of
woman's tenderness, of the approaching moment
which would lay them low in the dust.
“I have written letters to my father and to Julia,”
continued Leslie. “You will find them on my table
in a large volume of Josephus. I will leave
there also a note for Howard. He is a good fellow.
Tell him I called on him first to support me in this
somewhat serious affair, and that I love him. God
bless him! with all my heart. And also, Kreutzner,
I will—but no—why should I? No—I will
not! Yet—should you ever see in the conduct of
our friend Miss Temple—Miss Temple—any thing
to make you believe she really regrets my death—”
“You are getting devilish sentimental,” interrupted
Kreutzner, hastily passing his hand over his
eyes.
“Yes, Kreutzner, my dear friend,” said Norman,
“you deserve my confidence. Indeed, at this moment,
I could not, if I would, withhold it from you.
I do not wish to do so. I love Miss Temple,
Kreutzner—I love her—dearly—deeply—tenderly;
her image will be the last, the very last in my
memory. Tell her so, Kreutzner—not at once—
but hereafter—on some mild and mellow afternoon
in summer, when you shall be alone—with her—
and when I—”
“Norman Leslie!” cried Kreutzner; “confound
it, man, who'd have thought this of me?” and, taking
out his handkerchief—hemming and clearing
his throat—he blew his nose sonorously, and availed
himself of the opportunity to dry his eyes once
more. “Can I alter your determination to meet
Clairmont as you propose?”
“No!” replied Norman.
“Then, d—n me, if I don't think you'll frighten
him out of it. For if Count Clairmont of the
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French army be not at heart a complete coward,
then John Kreutzner is no judge of cowards.
Walk up Broadway with me: I'll tell you a story—
a devilish good one, by-the-way; and,” he added,
par parenthese, blowing his nose again, “I can
finish it long before I get to Forbes's!”
CHAPTER IX.
The German Student's Story.
“If this were played upon a stage, now, I would condemn it as an
improbable fiction.”
Twelfth Night.
“I have myself,” said Kreutzner, “witnessed
many duels; but we are not so bloodthirsty, generally
speaking, as you moral Americans. We
usually settle these matters with a sword, a better
method, by-the-way, and more worthy of a soldier
than your cold, murderous pistol-firing. Any poltron
may pull a trigger, but it requires the firm
hand and steady eye of a man to manage the steel.
However, as I was saying, when I was at Jena
they called each other out as merrily as beaux and
belles to a dance. It was but the treading on a
toe—the brushing of an elbow; nay, an accidental
look that fell on them when they wished not observation,
and the next day, or, by St. Andrew, the
next hour, there was the clash of steel, and the
stamping of feet on the greensward; and the kindling
and flashing of fiery eyes—and plunge and
parry, and cut and thrust, till one or both lay
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stretched at length—a pass through the body—a gash
open in the cheek—the scull cleft down, or a hand
off, and the blood bubbling and gushing forth like
a rill of mountain water. There were more than
one of those fellows—devils, I must say, who, when
they found among them some strange student,
timid or retired, whose character they were unacquainted
with, or whose courage they doubted,
would pass the hint out of mere sport—brush his
skirt—charge the offence upon him—demand an
apology too humble for a hare, and dismiss him
from the adventure only with an opened shoulder,
or daylight through his body.”
“The ruffians!” cried Norman.
“Not in the least,” returned Kreutzner, laughing;
“you would have loved them, like brothers,
had you known their hearts. It is all education
and custom.”
“But to the story, Kreutzner.”
“There was among us one fellow named Mentz,
who assumed, and wore with impunity, the character
of head bully. He was foremost in all the
deviltry. His pistol was death, and his broad-sword
cut like the scissors of fate. It was curious
to see the fellow fire—one, two, three, and good-by
to his antagonist. His friendship was courted by
all; for to be his enemy was to lie in a bloody
grave. At length, grown fearless of being called
to account, he took pride in insulting strangers—
and even women. His appearance was formidable:
a great burly giant, with shaggy black hair,
huge whiskers, and grim mustaches, three inches
long, twirled under his nose. A sort of beauty he
had too: and among the women—Lord help us—
wherever those mustaches showed themselves,
every opponent abandoned the ground. It was, at
last, really dangerous to have a sweetheart; for out
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
of pure bravado, Mentz would push forward, make
love to the lady, frighten her swain, and either terrify
or fascinate herself. Should the doomed lover
offer resistance, he had no more to do but call a
surgeon; and happy enough he considered himself
if he escaped with the loss of an ear or an eye.
He had killed four men who never injured him—
wounded seventeen, and fought twenty duels. He
once challenged a whole club, who had black-balled
him anonymously; and was pacified only
by being re-admitted, though all the members immediately
resigned, and the club was broken up.
I dwell on this character because—”
“Because you think he resembles Clairmont,”
said Norman; “go on, I am interested.”
“At last there came a youth into the university—
slender, quiet, and boyish-looking, with a handsome
face, though somewhat pale. His demeanour,
though generally shy, was noble and self-possessed.
He had been but a short time among us,
however, before he was set down as a cowardly
creature, and prime game for the `devils broke
loose,' as the gang of Mentz termed themselves.
The coy youth shunned all the riots and revels of
the university—insulted no one; and if his mantle
brushed against that of another, apologized so immediately,
so gracefully, and so gently, that the
devil himself could not have fixed a quarrel upon
him. It soon appeared, too, that Gertrude, the
lovely daughter of the Baron de Saale—the toast
of all the country—upon whom the most of us had
gazed as on something quite above us—it soon
appeared that the girl loved this youthful stranger.
Now Mentz had singled Gertrude out for himself,
and avowed his preference publicly. Arnold, for
thus was the new student called, was rarely, if
ever, tempted to our feasts; but once he came
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[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
unexpectedly on a casual invitation. To the great
surprise and interest of the company, Mentz himself
was there, and seated himself, unabashed, at
the table, though an unbidden guest. The strongest
curiosity at once arose to witness the result;
for Mentz had sworn that he would compel Arnold,
on their first meeting, to beg pardon on his
knees for the audacity of having addressed his
mistress. It had not appeared that Arnold knew
any thing of Mentz's character, for he sat cheerfully
and gayly at the board, with so much the manners
of a high-born gentleman, that every one admitted
at once his goodness, his intelligence, his grace,
and his beauty; and regretted the abyss on the
brink of which he unconsciously stood.
“ `What, ho!' at length shouted Mentz, as the
evening had a little advanced, and the wine began
to mount: `a toast! Come—drink it all; and he
who refuses is a poltron and a coward. I quaff
this goblet—fill to the brim—to the health and
happiness of Gertrude de Saale—the fairest of the
fair! Who says he knows a fairer is a black liar,
and I will write the word on his forehead with a
redhot brand.'
“Never before had even Mentz betrayed his
brutal soul so grossly in words; but the guests,
who knew that he was heated with wine, passed
over his coarse insult with shouts of laughter, and
drank, with riotous confusion, to Gertrude, fairest
of the fair. As the gleaming goblets were emptied,
and dashed rattling down again upon the table,
Mentz arose, and, with the bloated importance of
a despot, gazed around to see that all present had
fulfilled his orders. Every goblet was emptied
but one, which stood untasted—untouched. On
perceiving this, the ruffian, leaning forward, fixed
his eyes on the cup, struck his brawny hand down
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fiercely on the table, which returned a thundering
clash and rattle, and then repeated, in a voice husky
with rage—
“ `There is a cup full: by St. Anthony! I will
make the owner swallow its measure of molten
lead, if it remain thus one instant longer!”
“ `Drink it, Arnold—drink it, boy; keep thy
hand out of useless broils,' whispered a student
near him, rather advanced in age.
“ `Drink, friend!' muttered another, dryly, `or
he will not be slow in doing his threat. I promise
thee—'
“ `Empty the cup, man!' cried a third; `never
frown and turn pale, or thy young head will lie
lower than thy feet ere to-morrow's sunset.'
“ `It is Mentz the duellist,' said a fourth. `Dost
thou not know his wondrous skill? He will kill
thee as if thou wert a deer, if thou oppose him in
his wine. He is more merciless than a wild boar.
Drink, man, drink!'
“These good-natured suggestions were uttered
in hasty and vehement whispers; and, while the
students were thus endeavouring to palliate the
bloody catastrophe, the furious beast again struck
his giant hand down violently on the table, without
speaking, as if words were too feeble for his rage.
“During this interesting scene, the youth had
remained motionless, cool, and silent. A slight
pallour, but evidently more of indignation than fear,
came over his handsome features; and his eyes
dilated with emotion, resting full and firm upon
Mentz.
“ `By the mass, gentlemen!' he said at length,
`I am a stranger here, and ignorant of the manners
prevalent in universities; but if yonder person be
sane, and this no joke—'
“ `Joke!' thundered Mentz, foaming at the lip,
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[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
“ `I must tell you that I come from a part of the
country where we neither give nor take such jokes
or such insults.'
“ `Hast thou taken leave of thy friends?' said
Mentz, partly hushed by astonishment; `and art
thou tired of life, that thou hurriest on so blindly to
a bloody pillow! Boy! drink, as I have told thee,
to Gertrude, fairest of the fair!' And his huge
round eyes opened like those of a bull upon a
daring victim.
“ `That Gertrude de Saale is fair and lovely,'
cried the youth, rising, `may not be denied by me.
But—I demand by what mischance I find her
name this night common at a board of rioters, and
polluted by the lips of a drunkard and a ruffian?'
“ `By the bones of my father,' said Mentz, in a
tone of deep and dire anger, which had ere then
appalled many a stout heart—`by the bones of my
father, your doom is sealed! Be your blood on
your own head. But,' said he, observing that the
youth, instead of cowering, bore himself more
loftily, `what folly is this! Drink, lad, drink! and
I hurt thee not! I love thy gallant bearing, and my
game is not such as thou.'
“He added this with a wavering of manner which
had never before been witnessed in him, for never
before had he been opposed so calmly and so
fiercely; and, for a moment, he quailed beneath
the fiery glances darted at him from one whom he
supposed meeker than the dove. But, ashamed
of his transient fear, he added:—
“ `Come to me, poor child! Bring with thee thy
goblet—bend at my foot—quaff it as I have said,
and—out of pity, I spare thy young head.'
“What was the astonishment of the company
on beholding Arnold, as if effectually awed by a
moment's reflection, and the ferocious enmity of so
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celebrated and deadly a foe, actually do as he was
commanded. He rose, took the cup, slowly approached
the seat of his insulter—knelt and raised
the rim to his lips. Murmurs of `Shame, shame,
poltron, coward!' came hot and thick from the
group of spectators, who had arisen in the excitement
of their curiosity, and stood eagerly bending
forward, with every eye fixed upon the object of
their contempt. A grim smile of savage triumph
distorted the features of Mentz, who shouted, with
a hoarse and drunken laugh—
“ `Drink deep—down with it—to the dregs!'
“Arnold, however, only touched the rim to his
lips, and waited a moment's silence, with an expression
so scornful and composed that the hisses
and exclamations were again quelled; when every
sound had ceased to a dead silence—
“ `Never,' he said, `shall I refuse to drink to the
glory of a name I once loved and honoured—Gertrude,
fairest of the fair! But,' he added, suddenly
rising, and drawing up his figure with a dignity that
silenced every breath, `for thee, thou drunken, bragging,
foolish beast! I scorn—I spit upon—I defy
thee! and—thus be punished thy base, brutal insolence,
and thy stupid presumption.'
“As he spoke he dashed the contents of the ample
goblet full into the face of Mentz; and then,
with all his strength, hurled the massy goblet itself
at the same mark. The giant reeled and staggered
a few paces back; and amid the shining liquor on
his drenched clothes and dripping features, a stream
of blood was observed to trickle down his forehead.
“Never before was popular feeling more suddenly
and violently reversed. The object of their
vilest execrations flashed upon them with the immediate
brightness of a superior being. A loud
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and irrepressible burst of applause broke from every
lip, till the broad and heavy rafters above their
heads, and the very foundations of the floor, shook
and trembled. But the peal of joy and approbation
soon ceased; for, although this inspiring drama
had so nobly commenced, it was uncertain how
it might terminate. Before the tyrant recovered
from the stunned and bewildered trance into which
the blow, combined with shame, grief, astonishment,
and drunkenness, had thrown him, several
voices, after the obstreperous calls for silence usual
on such occasions, addressed the youth, who stood
cool and erect, with folded arms, waiting the course
of events.
“ `Brave Arnold! Noble Arnold! A gallant
deed! The blood of a true gentleman in his
veins!'
“ `But, canst thou fight?' cried one.
“ `I am only a simple student, and an artist by
profession. I have devoted myself to the pencil—
not the sword.'
“ `But thou canst use it a little—canst not?' asked
another.
“ `But indifferently,' answered the youth.
“ `And how art thou with the pistol?' demanded
a third.
“ `My hand is unpractised,' replied Arnold. `I
have no skill in shedding human blood.'
“ `'Fore God! then, rash boy, what has tempted
thee to this fatal extremity?'
“ `Hatred of oppression,' replied the youth, `in
all its forms; and a willingness to die rather than
submit to insult.'
“ `Die then thou shalt! and that ere to-morrow's
sun shall set!' thundered Mentz, starting up in a
phrensy; and with a hoarse and broken voice, that
made the hearts of the hearers shudder as if at the
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
howl of a dog or a demon. `I challenge thee to
mortal combat.'
“ `And I accept the challenge.'
“ `It is for thee to name time, place, and weapon;
but, as thou lovest me, let it not be longer than tomorrow
night, or I shall burst with rage and impatience.
'
“ `I love thee not, base dog!' replied Arnold;
`but thou shalt not die so inglorious a death. I
will fight with thee, therefore, to-night.'
“ `By the mother of Heaven, boy!' cried Mentz,
more and more surprised, `thou art in haste to sup
in hell!' and the ruffian lowered his voice. `Art
thou mad?'
“ `Be that my chance,' answered Arnold; `I
shall not be likely to meet, even in hell, a companion
so brutal as thou—unless, which I mean shall
be the case, thou bear me company.'
“ `To-night then be it,' said Mentz; `though to-night
my hand is not steady; for wine and anger
are no friends to the nerves.'
“ `Dost thou refuse, then?' demanded the youth,
with a sneer.
“ `By the mass, no! but to-night is dark; the
moon is down; the stars are clouded; and the wind
goes by in heavy puffs and gusts. Hear it even
now.'
“ `Therefore,' said the youth, apparently more
coldly composed as his fierce rival grew more perceptibly
agitated—`therefore will we lay down our
lives here—in this hall—on this spot—on this instant—
even as thou standest now.'
“ `There is no one here who will be my friend,'
said Mentz; so evidently sobered and subdued by
the singular composure and self-possession of his
antagonist, that all present held him in contempt,
and no one stirred.
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“ `No matter,' cried Arnold; `I will myself
forego the same privilege.'
“ `And your weapons?' said Mentz.
“ `Are here,' cried Arnold, drawing them from
his bosom; `a surer pair never drew blood. The
choice is yours.'
“The company began now to fancy that Arnold
had equivocated in disclaiming skill as a duellist;
and from his invincible composure thought him a
more fatal master of the weapon than the bully
himself. The latter also partook of this opinion.
“ `Young man,' he cried, in a voice clouded and
low; but stopped, and said no further.
“ `Your choice!' said Arnold, presenting the
pistols.
“Mentz seized one desperately, and said—
“ `Now name your distance.'
“ `Bloodthirsty wolf!' said Arnold, `there shall
be no distance!' He then turned and addressed
the company.
“ `Gentlemen,' he said, `deem me not either savage
or insane, that I sacrifice myself and this brutal
wretch thus before your eyes, and to certain and
instant destruction. For me, I confess I have no
value in life. Her whom I loved I have sworn to
forget; and, if I existed a thousand years, should
probably never see again. This ruffian is a coward,
and fears to die, though he does not fear daily to
merit death. I have long heard of his baseness,
and regard him as an assassin—the enemy of the
human race and of God—a dangerous beast—
whom it will be a mercy and a virtue to destroy.
My own life I would well be rid of, but would not
fling it away idly when its loss may be made subservient
to the destruction of vice and the relief of
humanity. Here, then, I yield my breath; and
here too this trembling and shrinking craven shall
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close his course of debauchery and murder. My
companions, farewell: should any one of you hereafter
chance to meet Gertrude de Saale, tell her I
nobly flung away a life which her falsehood had
made me despise. And now, recreant,' he said, in
a fierce tone, turning suddenly towards Mentz,
`plant thy pistol to my bosom, as I will plant mine
to thine. Let one of the company cry three, and
the third number be the signal to fire.'
“With an increased paleness in his countenance,
but with even more ferocity and firmness, Arnold
threw off his cap, displaying his high brow and
glossy ringlets. His lips were closed and firm;
and his eyes, which glistened with a deadly glare,
were fixed on Mentz. He then placed himself in
an attitude of firing; broadened his exposed chest
full before his foe; and with a stamp of fury and
impatience raised the weapon. The browbeaten
bully attempted to do the same; but the pistol,
held loosely in his grasp, whether by accident or
intention, went off before the signal. Its contents
passed through the garments of Arnold, who, levelling
the muzzle of his own, cried calmly—`On
your knees, base slave! vile dog!—down! or you
die!'
“Unable any longer to support his frame, the unmasked
coward sunk on both knees, and prayed for
life with right-earnest vehemence. Again wild
shouts of applause and delight, and peals of riotous
laughter, stunned his ears. As he rose from his
humiliating posture, Arnold touched him contemptuously
with his foot. Groans and hisses now began
to be mingled with several missives. Mentz
covered his face with his hands and rushed from
the room. He was never subsequently seen among
us.”
“And Arnold?” inquired Norman.
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“Had been jilted, like many a good fellow before
him, and as most men are who have to do with
women. He was but a poor artist, after all; and
though my pretty mistress encouraged him at first,
taken by his person and manners, yet he was not
high enough for the daughter even of a baron.”
“And what became of Mentz?”
“That I know not. He, too, soon afterward
vanished. Thus we meet and part in this world.
But I shall never forget the shout when Mentz's
knees touched the floor. It seems to me that the
echoes may scarcely yet be quiet in the woods of
Saxony.”
“I understand the import of your story, Kreutzner,”
said Norman, after a moment's pause; “and
am glad to find you coincide with my own views.
It is my only chance, though a slender one. Fall
one, fall both. I will not be shot down with impunity
by this professed, cold-blooded duellist.”
Kreutzner received his instructions accordingly.
CHAPTER X.
In which the extremes of Happiness and Misery meet.
“Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure—
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure.”
Burns.
After Kreutzner left him Norman hastened
home, and employed an hour in writing several
brief letters, and making notes of certain
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arrangements which he desired to have attended to, in case
of the event he anticipated. Having finished these
duties, he resolved to call on Miss Temple; a melancholy
satisfaction which, while the party of the
preceding evening rendered it necessary, was peculiarly
in consonance with his own feelings. Accordingly
he once more bent his steps up Broadway,
and almost the first persons he met were Mr.
Romain and his daughter, in their carriage. The
beautiful girl bowed her nodding plumes to him
with that same dangerous smile to which, if report
spoke truth, he, in common with many an unwary
swain, had ventured too near. At a word from Mr.
Romain, the coachman drew in his horses near the
sidewalk, and a motion from Rosalie arrested his
steps.
“Well, Mr. Philosopher,” she said, gayly and
familiarly, “how does your wisdom hold out after
such a night of worldly pleasure?”
“Failing—vanished and gone,” he said, with
animation.
“Come, Leslie,” exclaimed the old gentleman,
“we are about, after one or two turns, calling on
the Temples, and—”
“And as pa is no `philosopher,' and I am a sad
hand at the business, we beg Mr. Leslie's company.”
“With pleasure,” cried Leslie; and in a few
minutes he was rolling rapidly along towards the
mansion.
“Mr. Leslie,” said Miss Romain, after a brief
silence, “do you know that you are very dull today,
and very—”
“Stupid,” said Leslie, rousing himself from his
revery. “Guilty—guilty,” he continued, gayly,
“and I put myself upon your mercy.”
“These women, Mr. Leslie,” said Mr. Romain,
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“imagine all who talk nonsense fluently to be men
of parts, and all who think more than they speak
to be stupid—”
“No, pa—no,” said Rosalie, “I am fully aware,”
and her eyes crossed those of Leslie, “that a gentleman
may be a stupid companion to ladies without
being actually a stupid gentleman.”
“True,” added Norman; “Miss Romain is
right. All mankind, and womankind too, value
things according to their power upon their own
happiness. A Newton or a Galileo, listless, and
wrapped up in the solitude of his own meditations;
would meet, and would merit, less favour and cooler
welcome from a lady than the youth who joined her
in music, who sat by her side while she drew, who
spoke to her in a language congenial to her taste,
and who awoke in her images more interesting than
the stars or mathematics.”
“That is right,” Mr. Leslie; “I would rather
have a sweet bird for a companion than a philosopher;”
she glanced her eyes again, half archly,
half reproachfully, at Norman; “for a bird comes
at my call—feeds from my hand—sings for me the
warbles I have taught him—loves me only, and
nestles in my bosom.”
“Phoo, child, nonsense,” said Mr. Romain;
“men cannot always be chatting to girls. They
have other matters in hand. They are involved in
reflections upon business or science.”
“Old men, pa, like you, who have already wives
and daughters; but the young gentlemen are not—
or, at least,” with another slight look and emphasis,
“ought not to be so forgetful.”
“Stuff, girl, stuff,” answered the old gentleman,
bluntly; “aged men or young, in these times, have
enough else to do than to flutter and chirp about
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women. The wisest do not most excel in the
parrot-talk of fashionable life.”
“Parrot-talk,—why, pa!—Why, Mr. Leslie!
how can you sit there, like an owl, and hear such
calumnies on yourself, and me, and all our friends!
As soon as gentlemen are married, and settled in
life, they think all talk `parrot-talk' that is not
about commerce and politics.”
“You are both right and both wrong,” replied
Norman: “you, Miss Romain, to judge so harshly
of all men who are not versed in the easy elegance
of the drawing-room, and your father in too great
lenity towards men of sense, who, in the pride of
learning, and in the importance of their various
avocations, forget what is due to woman, even
though she be not wife, mother, or sister; for,
after all, we must acknowledge that, although she
does nothing at our elections, and can neither build
nor command our ships, yet she exerts a greater
influence upon our happiness than they who can—”
The young lady clapped her hands in affected
delight.
“There, pa! Do you hear that? Now you see
a little severity upon these sensible men is very
useful. See what a pretty piece of eloquence I
have lashed out of Mr. Leslie.”
The young lady went on with her usual liveliness.
Sometimes she found in the huge omnibuses,
of which large numbers traversed the town in all
directions, loaded often with ten, fifteen, or twenty
people, an object of merriment. Never had Norman
known her to rattle on more unceasingly and
more gayly. There was Miss L—, who had
rejected thirty gentlemen actually already, at Washington,
during the present session: her character
was dissected in ten words. There was Mr. R—,
the author, turning the corner, whose new poem
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she had just been reading, and which she criticised
with wit and judgment. Her father, a plain and
blunt man, rarely said much, and suffered her to run
on from topic to topic as wildly as she pleased. In
truth, she never appeared to Norman more like the
singular girl she really was than on this day. She
combined the most diametrically opposite features
of character. At one time appearing contemptible
and disagreeable; at another, amiable, elegant, and
delightful. With great intelligence, she was eccentric,
and at times shallow; with much sensibility
and temporary feeling, she was capable of committing
the most deliberately cruel and heartless
actions where the impulse seized her. No one, in
theory, was more alive to the sense of right, and
all the distinctions and shades of moral character.
No one could deliver more fine sentiments; yet,
in practice, she forgot all the rules which embellished
her conversation. She was afflicted, too,
with the mania for display. That passion weakened,
hid, and, at last, nearly swallowed up all the
rest. But for that, her character was not without
much to excite esteem. But esteem was too homely
a reward for her taste: she must create a sensation;
she must hear the murmur of applause;
behold the gaze of admiration; and detect the
glance of envy. She was ambitious, by her personal
charms and the allurements of her address,
to attract attention from all about her; particularly
from those the “daily beauty” of whose lives rebuked
her meretricious accomplishments. From
violations of strict propriety she advanced to those
of delicacy, though none could more sincerely
shudder at the approach of vice. Alas! she had
yet to learn that the path from the road of virtue
does not boldly strike out at once, but that its early
deviations are scarcely perceptible: that it
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conducts the unsuspecting traveller many times aside
through the most enchanting prospects, and returns
her again safely to the right road, before it stretches
away at last to the fatal precipice, from whose brink
retreat is vain. She was sufficiently artful, too, to
trespass, both in dress and manners, over the
boundary line of modest decorum; but in a degree
so imperceptible, as to pass well enough among
her indulgent flatteres for commendable grace and
innocent unconsciousness. She thus succeeded in
securing the admiration of a host of lovers, but
she had long since forfeited the respect of Norman
Leslie. Her evident hints to him, and her rather
open compliments, at this solemn crisis of his life,
struck him very unfavourably.
“The siren,” he thought, as she leaned familiarly
over towards him, with more than the unrestrained
carelessness of a favoured sister: “these
are the women who lower the sex. Can they be
all thus? The sweet unconsciousness and irrepressible
spirits of Flora, that careless, happy girl—
can they be affected?”
He remembered Julia. Her he knew—her he
loved; and her image re-established that confidence
in woman which such as Miss Romain are too apt
to undermine.
Miss Romain appeared conscious of the unfavourable
effect which her usual artifices had produced
on Norman, and gradually elevated the tone
of her manner and conversation: and, when she
pleased, she could be really a charming companion.
The carriage stopped at Mrs. Temple's, and the
party were ushered into the presence of the ladies.
Norman was surprised to find the count there; and
apparently interested in conversation with Flora;
who looked, at least in Norman's eyes, beautiful
beyond herself. A slight colour overspread her
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cheeks. Miss Romain thought it sprung from the
sudden sight of Leslie. Norman presumed it had
been called up by the previous conversation of the
count. The customary formalities were performed.
Norman bowed loftily to his now deadly foe, when
the latter stepped forward with an easy air, and,
extending his own, shook the hand of Leslie with
the careless ease of friendship. Never had he appeared
more gay and self-possessed. Indeed, all
the party were unusually animated; while Norman,
with a heart of lead, strove in vain to throw
off his gloom.
It was now that, with the unrestrained license
of imagination, he acknowledged, and painted in
the most lively colours, his love for Flora; nor
could he help once or twice, when their eyes met,
betraying with their wordless language the affection
of his soul. After one of these looks, hastily
withdrawn, as if the heart feared the treachery of
the eyes, Count Clairmont casually uttered a sentiment
evidently directed to Flora, and implying
by his air and manner, perhaps more than by his
words, that he was on familiar terms with her as a
favoured lover. It shot through Norman's ear and
heart; and, forgetful of his restraint, with a cloud
of melancholy on his brow, and a thought that a
few hours would relieve him from a proud and
unrequited love, he looked towards her again, and
once more fully and unequivocally caught her
glance. If ever woman's eyes had meaning, that
glance said, “Dear Norman, believe it not! I love
only you.” For one instant their gaze rested and
clung together, the delicious sense of vision entering
with a heavenly power into each other's hearts
and minds—an embrace of souls, perfectly returned,
perfectly understood, and steeped in the confidence,
the bliss, the enchantment of mutual love.
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The blood leaped to the cheek and temple of the
before desponding youth; his heart ached, his soul
trembled with the shock of delight. “She loves
me!” he inwardly exclaimed, with such exquisite
happiness as he had never before known; and, as
much changed as if suddenly relieved from the
malign influence of a vile enchanter, and lifted into
the protection of some blessed spirit, he entered at
once into the conversation with more than his usual
ardour. But such ethereal gleams of joy shine on
mortals only with a transient brightness.
“Norman,” cried Miss Romain, coming suddenly
round to him, and putting her arm unconsciously
across his chair, so as to bring it nearly
around his shoulder. This was the first time she
had ever called him “Norman.” He would have
withdrawn, but she whispered in his ear—
“I have just heard a most profound secret.”
“What?”
“Flora Temple—”
“What of her?”—he asked eagerly, off his
guard, and forgetting his distant manner.
“She is engaged to be married in two months”—
and again, according to her frequent custom, she
placed her lips to his face, so close as nearly to
touch his cheek—“to Count Clairmont.”
What a vast fabric of bliss dissolved in a moment!
What a mighty world of gayety and splendour
quenched in the blackest night!
“Pray, what is all this whispering about?” said
Flora; but her manner was changed, and ill at
ease. “Miss Romain, I have to beg the pleasure
of your company to-morrow evening to a little musical
party.”
“Oh, delightful, delightful!” answered the gay
girl, with a secret triumph at the havoc which she
felt instinctively she had made.
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“And Mr. Leslie,” said Flora, “will do us the
favour—”
“I cannot promise,” replied Norman, coolly.
“To-morrow evening I shall be necessarily absent.”
“Well, sir, just as you please; if you can find
leisure from more agreeable occupations, we shall
bid you welcome. Come, gentlemen,” she continued,
“you are all to contribute something, as
well as the ladies, towards the entertainment.
Count, you shall sing those beautiful airs of yours;
Miss Romain, the harp; and—Mr. Leslie, do you
not sing?”
“Why, you have heard him frequently,” said
Miss Romain: “how forgetful!”
“True, true; I beg his pardon—I had forgotten.”
“Let me tell you, in a duet,” resumed Miss
Romain, “he has few competitors.”
“Are you practised in any with him?”
“Oh, a whole host!” cried Miss Romain.
“There's `Dear maid, by every hope of bliss,'—
`By Love's first pledge, the virgin kiss,' your favourite,
you know, Norman—”
They were interrupted by the count, who, seating
himself at the piano, ran his fingers over the
chords, and sung with great taste a French air—
directly at Miss Temple. It was expressive of
successful love, and called forth “a beautiful” from
every lip. Flora received it with a gracious admiration;
that, while in reality it might spring from
wounded pride or love, and that retaliating propensity
which perhaps not only woman, but all the
victims of either sex, have experienced under the
operation of the capricious little deity, who transforms
character as he does all other worldly circumstances,
still went to the heart of Norman.
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“I am, as the French say, quite desolé about
this,” said Flora, holding in her hand a small manuscript
piece of music. “It is the most touching
and plaintive air I ever heard; but is without
words. It has the melancholy pathos of a last
adieu. I should fancy, now, that some lover—
some passionate, faithful, chivalric lover—full of
distant pride and timid delicacy, and doubtful of
his mistress's favour, had sung it to her in the great
hall, with his minstrel harp—with `sandal shoon
and scallop shell.' I will bestow my thanks upon
any one who will supply appropriate words. Come,
count, your pen has been idle too long.”
“Why, Norman,” cried Miss Romain, “you
know this little air. It is the sweet morceau from
Rosini, which you admire so much.”
“But is Mr. Leslie an improvisatore?” asked
Flora.
“I assure you,” answered Miss Romain, with
an ostentatious blush, “I know it by many evidences;
and I am certain he will not refuse me
one more.”
“I fear,” cried Norman, “the subject is beyond
my comprehension.”
“If I dare ask, after Miss Romain has pleaded
unsuccessfully,” said Miss Temple, with a sarcasm
foreign from her nature, and very unusual in her;
but she perceived instantly she had given pain, and,
with another of those looks which from such eyes,
vibrate along the nerves of the lover with tremours
of heaven, she added, “Come, Mr. Leslie, it is my
first request.”
“Give it me,” said Norman; “I will—I will
try; and it shall be my last effort at poetry.”
Impulse, which so often betrays into dilemmas,
sometimes conducts to points which sober dulness
would never think of reaching. In a few moments
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Norman availed himself of a pause in the conversation,
and addressed Flora:—
“Miss Temple, at your request, and on the hint
of your imagination, I have thrown together a few
lines, superficial and imperfect of course; but, as
the last effort, they may be pardoned any fault.
You are to suppose, then, exactly the circumstances
suggested by yourself. A fair lady is beloved
by a knight, who doubts, perhaps with too much
cause, whether his mistress approves, or even
knows his attachment. On the eve of a fierce battle,
in which he feels a certain presentiment that
he must fall, he ventures, what before he had never
by word or look ventured, to express a part of his
feelings to the lady. She listens coldly—applauds
without understanding; for she knows not that the
humble minstrel is a knight who loves her, and
who stands on the brink of danger. Thus eluding
his purpose, she suffers him to depart from her
presence, quite unconscious of their import and
their application, till the subsequent day, when she
hears that the gentle minstrel was a true knight,
and that the lips which breathed music and love to
her averted ear now lie cold in the earth.”
“And what then?” cried Flora, unconsciously
betraying her interest in the fiction.
“I do but jest, Miss Temple,” said Norman.
“Such events have often occurred, and will again.
How ladies feel when too late aware of faithful
love, cherished for them against hope by the unhappy,
must depend upon them.”
He raised his glance to her once more, and once
more their eyes met. Miss Romain, uneasy at
this communion, whether intentional or accidental,
exclaimed—
“I dare pronounce that the false creature smiled
just over his grave, as she had done on his living
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love, and wedded, peradventure, the warrior who
slew him.”
“And I,” said Flora, “that she had loved him
all the while in secret; and, plunged in sudden
anguish at his fate, withdrew from the world, and
devoted herself to Heaven. That is the way,” she
added, with a smile, “in all those old stories.”
What passing shadow is too light for the aliment
of love? As in the visions of the sleeper the most
improbable and opposite fragments of adventures
sweep on and mingle together, changing and shifting
with a facility that renders all probable and
real, now leading the spirit along skyish cliffs and
endless oceans, through storms, deserts, battles,
and death, and now melting into gardens, bowers,
music, and bliss, so the victim of Cupid, however
sober and sensible his mind may be in sanity, now
finds the surrounding world breaking apart, and
blending together with mighty and incredible revolutions—
the vastest impossibilities at once within
his grasp, the most trivial commonplaces grown
vast and impossible.
Norman, who one moment before saw the bolt
of destruction fall on his hope, now—by the tone
of a voice, the beam of a pair of tender eyes, by
some half-unrepressed meaning in a word or an
attitude—saw piles of gorgeous hopes, heaven-kissing
mountains of joy, peer up before him, as he
listened to the simple and sweet conjectures of the
lovely girl. Without further preface, he begged
her to accompany him; for though quite without
the rapid execution of Rosalie, as often happens in
similar persons, she was infinitely her superior in
the intuitive power, taste, and feeling of an accompaniment.
All felt curiosity to hear the lines;
and as Flora ran over a sweet and plaintive prelude,
her countenance, half flung back over her
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shoulder as she played, was raised towards his
face, and in a rich sweet voice he sang the following
lines:—
I.
“Farewell! farewell! some happier breast
Will beat beneath that lovely cheek;
Some worthier hand to thine be pressed,
Requited love to speak.
Oh, never more within thy smile,
Who thrills to feel it now shall dwell;
But, mouldering in his grave the while,
Forget this sad farewell!
II.
“The die is cast—the fate is sealed—
The dark, the fatal doom is spoken!
Oh! never be my heart revealed,
Until that heart be broken.
How much I loved, how low I knelt,
No ear shall hear—no tongue shall tell:
Such love as this, oh! who hath felt,
Or such a sad farewell!
III.
“Too true they prove thou lov'st me not—
Those sunny eyes, that tranquil brow;
Too soon will be my name forgot—
Alas! forgotten now.
And thou wilt own no fond regret,
No bursting pang thy breast will swell:
But, when to-morrow's sun is set,
Remember this farewell!”
There was something in Norman's manner and
appearance at all times high and commanding; but,
at the moment of his pronouncing the last line, his
tall form and noble features were so strongly expressive
of melancholy yet lofty emotion, so regardless
of all disguise and all propriety, that every
one present, except the gentle girl herself, felt instinctively
that he loved her devotedly. Even she,
as he thanked her for the sweetness with which
she had accompanied him, saw in his eyes a humid
brightness, and betrayed embarrassment and
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softness unusual to her. The colour on her cheek,
higher and warmer than he had ever seen it before,
told a tale that made each glance of Norman's a
sweet and giddy rapture. Miss Romain again
hastened to interrupt an interview which, although
enjoyed in the presence of so many, was thus, by
the natural freemasonry of love, invested with half
the dear charm and confidence of a tête-à-tête.
The count, in turn, sat down at the piano, with a
jest and a compliment to Rosalie, and struck the
keys to a merry and brilliant French air, as if to
break the train into which the thoughts and feelings
of all seemed to have fallen.
Old Mr. Romain had kept Mrs. Temple busily
conversing in a distant corner of the adjoining room.
As they entered, Norman remembered the necessity
of his departure, took his leave, and with a
swelling heart regarded Flora, into whose sweet
blue eyes he might never look again.
But Fortune, who in some moods refuses what
mortals deem their simple rights, and in others
grants far beyond their expectations, now bestowed
upon the youth the precise blessing which, of all
others, at this moment he most earnestly desired.
A servant entered and informed Miss Temple that
her father wished to speak with her in the library.
Scarcely believing his own eyes, and while the rest
were absorbed in conversation together, Leslie saw
Flora rise, disentangle herself from the group, and
follow him into the hall. Some accident closed
the door behind her. They stood together—alone.
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CHAPTER XI.
A Quarrel with an Object of Love at the Moment of Reconciliation
with one of Hate; and wherein is shown, for the
forty-seven thousandth time, what a Foot-ball Man is to
Fortune.
“She's fair and fause that causes my smart;
I lo'ed her meikle and lang:
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.
A coof cam in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.”
—Burns.
The romantic heart of Norman Leslie could but
inadequately bid Flora an adieu that might be
eternal before a crowd of gazing spectators. He
had, therefore, in the fulness of his triumph and his
anguish, veiled all agitation, and bowed at a distance,
and with scarcely a look.
“She will remember me,” he thought; “she
will understand me—to-morrow.”
When he found himself alone, for the first time
in his life, with the idol of his secret thoughts and
dreams—who swayed his feelings as the moon
swells the tides, and leaves them again to their retiring
ebbs—now that he had half expressed his
love, and half believed the expression returned, he
knew not what to say. Had he known, it is doubtful
whether he could have said it, his heart beat so
violently in his bosom. Women have naturally
more presence of mind than men in such matters:
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those little emergencies which silently checker the
existence of the quiet student in peaceful modern
times—to him all as striking and memorable as
breaking a lance or storming a town to a knight of
other days. Flora broke the silence; but, even
through her graceful and becoming self-possession,
a certain agitation and embarrassment exhibited
themselves, enchanting to the young lover beyond
expression.
“I have to thank you, Mr. Leslie, for the song.”
He blushed. He could not well speak. Love
is a great taker away of the voice. He found,
however, sufficient self-possession to reach forth
his hand, and gently to enclose in it that of Flora.
She cast down her eyes. Norman's very heart
trembled; but at this moment he remembered
Morton, and contented himself with pressing the
hand he held, as if he had taken it in the ordinary
kindness of a farewell. He could not, however,
wholly command his manner, as he said,—
“Dear Miss Temple, it may be very long before
I see you again.”
“Are you leaving town, Mr. Leslie?”
“No, not immediately,” he replied, and with
less embarrassment; “but a painful duty may exclude
me, perhaps, from the pleasures of society.”
“Mr. Leslie!”—her eyes rested full on him.
“And from yours,” he added.
“And that beautiful song,” she said, as if conscious
that propriety would permit her to press him
no further, “is it a present for me?”
“If you deem it worthy—”
“I shall value it,” she answered, “as your gift.”
For all his manhood, a moisture gathered in his
eye. She looked up again. He forgot every
thing but that look. He once more seized her
hand. She turned away her face. “Dear, dear
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Flora! how I love you!” had nearly escaped his
lips, when the front door suddenly opened, and
Morton burst furiously in. Flora vanished in an
instant.
“Well, I do declare,” exclaimed Morton, coming
suddenly to a stop at the demure group which he
had broken up in the hall—“who was that? Oh
ho! Master Gravity—mum's the word—spoiled
sport, eh? Well, I never—my dear, dear Norman—
if I had only known; if I had only suspected—”
“Nonsense,” cried Norman, blushing; for he
was one of those men who inherit that woman's
virtue.
“That's it, my fine fellow,” cried Morton, his
finger on his nose—“I am up to all that sort of
thing. What, three—one too many, hey? Well,
I declare—”
“I tell you—” cried Norman, quickly and sternly;
for he loved not jesting on such points.
“Oh,” interrupted Morton, “you need not tell
me. There's no necessity for it at all. Fy! you
cunning dog—you—but, mon Dieu!—I forget. Is
not Miss Temple here?” and in he went with little
ceremony.
Norman waited a moment anxiously in hope
that Flora might return. He was at once the
happiest and most miserable of human beings. He
was on the eve of the wildest bliss he ever knew;
and he was also rushing madly into the grave. He
loved Flora Temple now more devotedly than ever.
He owned it. He felt it. That which had before
dwelt in his heart a half-buried spark, was now
fanned into a blaze. What singular fatality connected
him with the silly and good-humoured Morton,
that by his agency he should be frustrated in
the happiest moment of his existence, and his existence
itself be brought to a fearful termination.
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Now, too, the conviction rushed on his soul, that
Flora Temple loved him. He believed and hailed
it in the face of reason, of probability, and of the
express authority of Miss Romain. But what is
reason, probability, or authority to a lover, against
the plain and sweet eloquence of the eyes, which
should know best of all? What was he now to
do? Wait? see Flora once more, reveal his love
frankly, and bid her farewell for ever? or should
he—thus in doubt whether his passion was requited—
fly at once from her dear and dangerous presence,
and, yielding his throat to the slaughter of a fierce,
bloody, and certain hand, die just at the gates of
paradise? “Oh! were I escaped from this fatal
duel,” he thought, “I would ask no more of fortune.
May Providence interfere now, and rescue
me from this awful dilemma, and my cup of bliss
will be full to overflowing. Never again will I
complain of destiny!”
As he lingered one moment, at a loss what to do,
he was startled by the sudden appearance of a
female figure.
“Flora?” he said.
It was not Flora. The tall form of Mrs. Temple
rose before him with a step more than usually
stately, and an expression in her face severe and
repelling.
“Bless me,” she said, “Mr. Leslie!”
If the youth had blushed before, he now crimsoned
with tenfold embarrassment.
“Well met, Mr. Leslie,” resumed Mrs. Temple,
in a tone of sarcasm; “I have been about to request
the honour of a personal interview, and now
fate favours me beyond my deserts, though you,
perhaps, will not share in the pleasure of my surprise.”
“Madam,” replied Norman, bowing, “why
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should I feel other than pleasure at the sight of
Mrs. Temple?”
“Because, by the name on your lips, I presume
your thoughts were upon a different and more welcome
person. I understand you; but I regret the
painful necessity of putting you right. A dangerous
disorder, Mr. Leslie, must be cured, although,
in the operation, the patient shrink, and the surgeon
hold the knife with reluctance. You are not at a
loss for my meaning.”
“Indeed, madam, but I am, most profoundly,”
replied Norman; feeling, however, that her proud
and haughty character was bearing her beyond the
pale of delicacy and good-breeding.
“In plain terms, then, Mr. Leslie, Mr. Temple
has requested me to express our high appreciation
of your character; but to say that we have observed
with regret your marked attentions to Flora.
We appeal to your generosity, Mr. Leslie” (Leslie
bowed); “we confide in your honour. Flora's
hand is already pledged to another. To save yourself
future pain, and her unnecessary embarrassment,
I seize the earliest opportunity to explain this
to you frankly. Flora will, I am certain, always be
most happy to see Mr. Leslie as a friend. Good-morning,
sir.”
Again Norman bowed low, nor lifted his face till
he was alone. To him this appeared an insult.
The supercilious condescension, the haughty dismissal
of Mrs. Temple, showed her impetuous
character in its least favourable light. Flora was,
then, in truth, the affianced bride of another. Her
softness towards him was either imaginary, or assumed
out of pity or sport. Stung by the thought,
he was in the act of flying for ever from the inauspicious
mansion, when a slight shriek arrested
his step. Was it fancy? or was it the voice of
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Flora? He re-entered the apartment, alarmed and
surprised by the confusion which prevailed. The
ladies were standing, and apparently agitated with
the most sudden and lively apprehension. The
count appeared erect, proudly listening to entreaties
directed to him with the utmost fervour by all present;
and, as if a sight of death or pestilence had
blasted his eyes, Norman beheld Flora, pale and
frightened, foremost in her earnest solicitations,
with her hand on the count's arm, in the ardour of
her exclamations.
“Oh, Mr. Leslie!” cried Mrs. Temple, “could
we have expected this from you!”
“A pretty fright, indeed,” said Miss Romain.
“Oh, Norman, dear Norman! abandon this horrid
affair.”
“For me, count, for me,” cried Flora, “spare his
blood!”
“I perceive,” said Norman, who always rose in
energy and ease in proportion to the emergency,
and whose present manner was cold and freezing—
“I perceive, by some mischance, that which should
have been concealed is betrayed; but let me entreat
Miss Temple, when she solicits my lord count
there, to place her request on any other ground
than my safety.”
A reproachful and surprised look from Flora,
shot at his heart, broke harmless as an arrow
against a steel corslet. He felt his soul fully armed
against her fascinations.
“Oh, Mr. Leslie!” said Mrs. Temple, “for our
sake, forbear from this fatal, this dreadful meeting!”
“You must allow me to assure you,” rejoined
Norman, “that no other power rests in my hand
than that of obstinate acquiescence in the Count
Clairmont's invitation. In this affair he has been
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quite the aggressor, and I can request nothing at
his hands.”
“Mr. Leslie,” said Flora, “you will surely listen
to our request.”
“Much as it would flatter me to have an opportunity
of obliging Miss Temple, I have neither the
power nor the wish to do so here.”
“But for me, dear Norman,” cried Miss Romain,
sobbing aloud, and approaching him with a familiarity
which might be excused by the general agitation.
“For you, Miss Romain,” said he, still burning
with resentment against Flora, “I wish to do
much; but you address yourself to one who has no
more power than yourself over the circumstances.”
Mr. Romain, who had stood a silent spectator of
this scene, at length said, in his blunt way,—
“Come, come, young gentlemen—this matter
must be settled, or we shall be compelled to seek
aid from the authorities.”
“Mr. Leslie,” said the count, “you have done
me wrong. You think me unforgiving; I am not
so. As a proof—partly at the command of these
ladies, whom I am bound to obey, and partly because
I am convinced that I might myself last
night have furnished more cause of offence than I
intended—I waive all other considerations, and
withdraw my invitation. My warmth last evening
was premature. I apologize for the hasty expression.
I shall receive your acknowledgments in return
as an ample seal of reconciliation. Come,
Leslie, let us think of this idle matter no more.”
He extended his hand with ease and frankness.
Leslie stepped forward, and exchanged the proffered
salutation. “I should hold myself,” he said,
“greatly your inferior, Count Clairmont, both in
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good sense and candour, if I did not cheerfully improve
such an opportunity to avoid bloodshed.”
“You will find,” said the count, in a more confidential
voice, “that I had already thought better of
it, and had communicated such instructions to my
friend Captain Forbes as would probably have effected
this same event, and prevented a deed so fatal,”
in a still lower tone, “as you, Mr. Leslie, intended
to perpetrate.”
The magnanimity of the count was applauded in
the liveliest terms. Flora cast on him a look, in
the opinion of Norman, full of speechless tenderness;
and the young nobleman appeared to the
most graceful advantage, even in the eyes of Leslie
himself.
“He is too deep for me,” he thought, “or I
have wronged him most shamefully.”
He remained a few minutes a moody spectator
of the close of a scene in which he had not borne
the most becoming part. Withdrawing a last gaze
from Flora's beautiful face, he accidentally detected
the count, in a distant part of the room, watching
him, as he thought, unobserved. He was struck
with a glance of malignant meaning, which, like
the rattle of the dreadful snake, bade him beware.
At length, after an awkward adieu to the ladies,
whose salutations in return, particularly Flora's, he
thought cold and stiff, with a mountain-load from
his mind, yet a coal of fire at his heart, he withdrew,
and sought his own home.
“Strange world!” he thought: “brief and wild
vicissitudes! What a sport—what an idle chance—
what a reckless, valueless, wanton confusion is
the destiny of mortals! Yesterday I was well, safe,
tranquil, and happy. This morning I was suddenly
transformed into a beast, bound and dragged to the
altar for sacrifice. A few moments ago I prayed to
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be released and set free, as the highest boon Heaven
could bestow. Lo! I am loose; the chain is broken;
the knife sheathed; the fire extinguished;
and yet, while the bright blade glittered before my
eyes, one thought made me happier in danger than
I am now in freedom. That look of the count's
too—will he play me false?—a malignant devil
lurks in his glances. As for Flora,” a tear stood
on his eyelash, he dashed it away—“pshaw! boy
that I am! let me tear her sweet image for ever
from my heart.”
At eleven Kreutzner entered by appointment.
“There are to be two more breathing folks in
the world, Leslie, than you intended. The noble
count and the noble captain put their noses together
at your close terms, and request another interview.”
“It will be useless,” said Norman, and related
the occurrence of the morning.
“Now, is that magnanimity,” said Kreutzner,
when he had done speaking, “or love for the fair
girl, or sheer cowardice?”
“Alas for poor human nature!” answered Leslie.
“The world may well be topsy-turvy, when, even
by such observers as you, Kreutzner, the purest
virtues and the meanest vices cannot be distinguished
from each other: but come, a truce to
moralizing. I propose we shall sup together.”
“And the prospect,” said Kreutzner, “of a comfortable
breakfast in the morning instead of a bullet,
will not lessen your appetite, I assure you.”
The two friends linked arms, and calling for
Morton, who, with all his folly, had the pleasing
faculty of rendering himself more agreeable in
most companies than he had managed to do in that
of Miss Temple, they adjourned to one of the numerous
saloons which in New-York tolerably supply
the place of the Parisian café.
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“What! made up,” said Morton, “at Temple's!
fal, dal, diddle, diddle, fal, dal, dal. Now, that's
all my doings. I let out the whole affair, though I
durst not stay to see the consequences. Faith, I
felt like a fellow who lights a train of gunpowder,
and runs, without stopping to make observations
upon the explosion.”
“Morton!” said Norman, “you did not dare to
commit such a piece of stupidity.”
“Yes, but I did, though. I had no notion of seeing
a fellow like you, Leslie, shot down like a wild
pigeon in my quarrel.”
“Then you are, Morton, I must say, a greater
fool than I took you for!”
“Well, now, Leslie—now—my dear fellow—
really—that's a poor return for saving you from a
dead shot—a fellow who can put a bullet, you
know, out of the muzzle of one pistol into that of
another! You would have been snuffed out! you
know you would! What chance would such a
strapping surface as yours present against a power
of aim that always touches a silver sixpence. Remember
the Veronese lady! And now—this is my
thanks!—Well, I declare—I never—”
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CHAPTER XII
A disagreeable way of spending the Evening, and a change
from bad to worse.
“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
“That Norman Leslie is a strange being,” said
Mrs. Temple one evening, as he left their circle,
after a visit of a half hour, during which he had
appeared peculiarly reserved.
“He is dying of love for Miss Romain,” said
the count; “he is very eccentric also, and exceedingly
flippant.”
“Flippant!” exclaimed Flora, in unfeigned surprise,
“Mr. Leslie flippant?”
“I fear he is much worse, my love,” said Mrs.
Temple; “he is deceitful and treacherous.”
“Deceitful and treacherous?” echoed Flora
again; “Mr. Leslie?”
“Yes, my dear, Mr. Leslie,” rejoined Mrs. Temple;
“we cannot judge of men's characters by
seeing them in the drawing-room. Mr. Leslie in
company is very demure; but I am credibly informed
among men he is altogether a different person;
and it is among men that a man's character is
most correctly estimated. What was it, count,
that story about him?”
“No,” said the count, “my dear madam, excuse
me. Scandal is my abhorrence, and I am not
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prepared to say that is any thing but scandal; indeed,
I scarcely believe it at all. Besides, after what
took place between Mr. Leslie and myself some
weeks since, my motive for repeating it might be
misconstrued.”
Flora looked up, but said nothing.
“Respecting Mr. Leslie's integrity,” continued
Clairmont, with marked emphasis, “I shall not
therefore speak; but of his flippancy I can easily
cite an example. He is in the habit of boasting
that he is obliged to decline the affections, nay, advances
is his word, of more than one among the
fairest of the New-York ladies.”
“The wretch!” cried Mrs. Temple. “Flora,
my love, you will certainly break that folder.”
“Do you know, Miss Temple, that I have heard
your name on his lips so familiarly, that one would
deem him a much more intimate friend than I perceive
he is, by his very different manner to you
when in your presence.”
Flora turned a little pale; it was barely perceptible,
but Clairmont's keen eye detected it.
“I should regret,” said she, “to hear any thing
serious against Mr. Leslie's reputation. His sister
Julia and his father are almost faultless, and they
are perfectly bound up in him. I think I never
knew a family in the domestic circle so really and
unostentatiously affectionate and happy.”
“He will certainly marry Miss Romain; and I
think she will tame him,” said Mrs. Temple, with
a cool smile.
“It is said that she has already more than once
refused him,” rejoined Clairmont.
“How singular!” exclaimed Flora, but blushed
as she finished the sentence.
“And pray why, my love?” said Mrs. Temple,
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smiling again; “because this Mr. Leslie is so interesting?”
“No.”
“Because he is so gay and lively?” interrupted
the count, with a sneer.
“Miss Romain makes no secret,” said Flora,
“of her intention to marry him, and yet I have
heard her boast openly of having rejected him!”
“And do you think,” said the count, with something
of marked meaning in his manner, “that a
lover should never strive against the first harsh
sentence?”
“I do,” said Flora, gravely; and, changing the
conversation, she continued—“Mamma, did you
hear of the accident which—”
But mamma had disappeared, and Flora found
herself alone with the count. She half started, as
if with an impulse to fly; but recollecting herself,
remained with a most graceful air of forced composure,
not less becoming from the fact that
through it any one might detect no ordinary degree
of agitation. She dropped her eyes upon the volume,
whose damp leaves she had been carefully
separating with a pearl folder. A glow of hope
and triumph gleamed over the face of her companion
as he approached, and, with the most guarded
gentleness and delicacy, laying his fingers upon the
book, slowly lowered it from her gaze.
“Flora!”
There was a moment's silence.
“Dear Flora!” He took her hand. She attempted
to withdraw it; but, alas for his suit, nei
ther turned away, nor blushed, nor trembled. Her
face was slightly pale; but on her sunny brow
there was a shadow; and the smile which usually
played about her beautiful mouth was gone utterly.
“You forget, Count Clairmont,” she said, “I
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have already told you that this is language I will
not hear.”
“My beloved Flora!” he cried, apparently much
affected, and dropping on his knee, “once more—
once more let me—”
She rose. Never had she seemed so tall.
“You misjudge me, Count Clairmont,” she said,
“most strangely. I am no silly girl, withdrawing
to be wooed, and speaking to be contradicted.
Your language is displeasing and painful. Having
already expressed my sentiments decidedly, I
trusted the subject was at rest. I beg you to rise.
I will ring for my mother.”
There was a firmness in her voice and manner
that would have rung the death-knell to hope in
any bosom but that of Count Clairmont.
“No, no, angelic girl,” and he retained her hand,
while a flush of emotion crossed his handsome face,
“you must not, you shall not stir, till I have again
poured into your ear all that I feel and suffer.
Flora, I love you!”
“Count Clairmont—”
“I have loved you always. From the first your
mother knew and approved my addresses. I threw
myself at your feet. You, enchanting girl, turned
coldly, cruelly away. Never shall I forget the anguish,
the agony of that moment. I would have
fled the country, nay, I would have buried myself
for ever from the world, but your generous mother
soothed my distress, checked my despair, and gradually
reawakened my hope. It is now by her
permission, and that of your honourable father, that
I enjoy this interview, which I have been so anxious
to procure.”
“And I to avoid,” said Flora.
“Miss Temple,” added the count, rising, and
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still holding her hand, “am I so unhappy as to
have offended you?”
“Detention by physical force, sir,” said Flora,
coldly, “is the least plausible method either to
awaken affection or to preserve esteem.”
He released her hand. She walked to the bell,
and was about to ring.
“Flora,” he said, earnestly, “as a friend, I entreat
you to hear me.”
She paused, and he continued:—
“Miss Temple, if I am so unfortunate as to have
yet made no progress in your esteem, I cannot
abandon the hope of being more favoured hereafter.
So deeply am I interested in the success of this
suit, that my happiness, my very reason, are utterly
at stake. Your parents have assured me that your
affections are disengaged; let me add, that their
strongest wishes are enlisted in my behalf. My
present almost unlimited fortune, my immense expectations
in Europe, the advantages which my title
affords me of showing you the most exclusive
circles of foreign society, in their most favourable
aspect—”
He paused before a look so calmly cold as to
embarrass even him.
“Count Clairmont,” she said, “has but poorly
improved his intercourse with our sex, if he suspects
a woman's heart to be influenced by such
considerations. I am not ambitious either of
wealth or title. Upon this subject I have already
spoken decisively: let me repeat my sentiments
now. They are confirmed by reflection. I have
feared this interview, and done every thing in my
power to prevent it. Your first suggestions of partiality
I was contented simply to decline. I meet
your present solicitations with a firmness not unmingled
with both surprise and displeasure.
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Permit me, sir, to add, that any future renewal will be
received either as ridicule or insult.”
“Must I then despair,” said the count, deeply
mortified, “of permission to prosecute my addresses
with the aid of time?”
“My sentiments,” rejoined Flora, “nothing on
earth can alter. I have never felt, I never can feel
for you the slightest love. I would not now permit
this painful interview to be so prolonged, but in order
to satisfy you that a repetition must be utterly
impossible.”
“One more prayer,” said he, again kneeling, in
a voice husky with emotion; “I cannot, I will not
abandon all hope, till I know whether I yield only
to your abstract preference for a single life, or to
the happier star of some favoured rival.”
“Count Clairmont!” said Flora, a flush of indignation
rising to her cheek.
“Nay, cold and cruel girl—”
Before he had finished the sentence, he was
alone.
Stung with disappointment and rage, he withdrew
and left the house. He had not walked many
minutes when he felt a hand upon his shoulder,
and a woman in a thick veil stood before him. Bewildered
and off his guard, his first thought was of
Flora; but the veil, slowly drawn aside, revealed
the large black eyes of the young female who has
slightly and somewhat mysteriously appeared on
the stage of our drama in the second chapter. She
now stood confronting him most haughtily. For a
moment they regarded each other in silence, the
light of a lamp falling strongly on their features.
“Clairmont,” at length cried the intruder, “your
time has expired. I have yielded to your request.
I will yield no longer.”
“Louise!” he answered; “not here—not here!”
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“Yes, here!” echoed she, vehemently; “here or
anywhere, wherever you may be. I claim my
promise. Your time has expired.”
“By the holy mother! girl, but—damnation!”
The last exclamation was called forth by the appearance
of Morton, who, accidentally passing at
the time, distinctly recognised both individuals, and
paused in surprise to gaze on their faces. Louise
drew down her veil. Clairmont stepped up sternly,
and addressed to him some casual but angry remark.
The young gentleman replied awkwardly,
bowing and shuffling back, and declaring that he
was not aware of being an intruder.
“See, girl,” said Clairmont, “see what you have
done! Would you betray, would you ruin me?”
“Yes,” she replied; “if it brought your head to
the block—your neck to the gibbet—your flesh to
the worms! I would betray—I would ruin you—
unless—”
A livid paleness overspread his features, which
were transformed by the convulsions of hideous
passion. He spoke in an under voice and close to
her ear,—
“Silence, woman—if you would live—silence!”
“Live!” echoed she, scornfully; “hark in your
ear.” She whispered. He started, and stamped
his foot.
“No,” he replied, “it is impossible yet. But
this is no place. Meet me at the hotel again.”
“I understand you,” said the female; “I will.
But—”
She bent her keen bright eyes full on his, with a
power which almost made him quail.
“If you deceive—”
“No, no, no, no,” returned he, “I will not—I
will not. To-morrow—to-morrow!”
The voice of a passing pedestrian, chanting a
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barcarole of the reigning opera, announced some
new intruder. The speakers broke off, and separated
abruptly.
CHAPTER XIII.
A Chapter mostly of digressions, which the Reader is entreated
to excuse, as the Author could not help it. Yet
should it not be altogether skipped.
“Quench, Corydon, the long unanswered fire!
Mind what the common wants of life require;
On willow twigs employ thy weaving care;
And find an easier love, though not so fair.”
Dryden's Virgil.
Beautiful Spring! We do love to watch thy
coming. Only the other day we were dilating
upon the cold; now, away with the appendages of
the frowning old Winter! Our habits are gradually
undergoing a change. The fire sinks in the
grate, and burns dimly and unnoticed; the heavy
cloak hangs unregarded in the hall; people come
in from the open air with noses of a natural colour;
the earth is brightening everywhere; and our very
soul melts on discovering a dash of tender new
grass on the sunny side of some old wall. A
hundred—a thousand sunny reminiscences rise up
warmly in our tired, chilled heart; we enjoy all a
schoolboy's simple delight at thy first footstep.
Dear Spring! thou art a companion endeared to
us by innumerable tender and unworldly recollections.
The season now, over the country, began to
exhibit itself in a thousand agreeable forms. A
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shade of lovely verdure enlivened the fields; the
buds were breaking beautifully out from the juicy
branches: in the gardens, the simple snowdrop,
the crocus, sprinkling the brown earth with many
colours, the yellow daffodil, the fragrant mezereon,
with its flower before the leaf, already appeared—
graceful harbingers of the most welcome of seasons;
and soon to be followed by the modest violet,
the lowly heartsease, the golden Adonis, the crimson
piony, hyacinths, tulips, and all the beautiful
and variegated children of nature.
In the barnyard now the cattle rested themselves
with ardent gratification. The contented
hen dug a hole in the gravel, and laid, in enviable
and luxurious idleness, in the general sunshine;
and the cock swaggered and strutted about in his
fine regimentals with superadded dignity, his great
soul shining through every look and action, lifting
his feet as if the very earth were not good enough
for him to tread on, and ever and anon slapping his
martial sides triumphantly with his wings, and
challenging all the world with high-sounding exclamations.
Ah, happy fellow! he is your only
philosopher. He enjoys life truly. He has no
books to balance; no notes to pay; no duns to
meet; no bills in chancery to draw; no romances
to write; no proofs to read: nothing but to rove
about all day, whithersoever he pleaseth; free from
trouble, debts, labour, fear, dyspepsy, laws, bonds,
house-rent, and all the fiends engendered to haunt
the citizen of a civilized community. Happy fellow!
even now we hear thy voice—the outbreakings
of a great, independent, happy heart. Peace
be with thee! gay sultan, amid thy seraglio of
dames. Elegant courtier! Proud herald of the
morn!
In the city, the evidences of the season were
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numerous, although of a different description.
The shopkeepers flung open their doors, and displayed
their goods in the air. The windows of
the wealthy were also unclosed, and the breathing
and blossoming plants placed in the sun. Dirty-faced
chubby children, ragged, barefoot, and hatless,
came forth in troops by the cellar doors, and
in all the sunshiny places: and the poor generally
wore cheerful countenances; for they were already
enjoying existence more with less expense. But
of all the places where these revolutionary proceedings
in the weather were perceptible, the west
side of Broadway, perhaps, exhibited the most
changes in the dresses of the promenaders, masculine
and feminine, black and white. It seemed that
no experience could enlighten certain classes upon
the fickleness of Spring; and every accidental
gleam of warm weather was sure to elicit divers
pieces of apparel, more peculiarly appropriate to
the heat of summer. The cumbersome cloak was
left behind. Then the thin shoe appeared in place
of the boot. In a little while a parasol went gayly
along through the sunshine; and, by-and-by, straw
hats and white pantaloons prematurely displayed
themselves upon odd-looking persons. We are
apt to regard with some curiosity, if not suspicion,
your fellow who puts on thin pantaloons so early
in the season, hoping thereby to force on the summer.
He is like the first swallow. His reasoning
powers cannot be much cultivated; or else he is
only striving after notoriety; or, perhaps, he may
have a better reason, viz., his thin pantaloons may
be thicker than his thick ones! Whatever may be
the origin of so extraordinary a proceeding, we
humbly warn our readers against being led too
easily away by the alluring promises, and tender
but deceitful solicitations, of Spring. Let not the
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expanding buds, the new grass, the peeping flowerets;
the broad, still, universal sunshine; the fresh,
fragrant, and bland zephyr, delude you into any of
these fashionable eccentricities in apparel. Believe
not the appearance of the earth; trust not the seducing
smiles of heaven. The whole season resembles
a lively coquette, full of smiles, airs, and
affections; and much more ready to make promises
than to keep them. We have now in our memory
an unhappy wretch, whom we once met in the
course of an afternoon peregrination. He was
hastening homeward, shivering in a pair of white
trousers, pumps, and thin silk stockings; his nose
turned blue; and his coat buttoned, desperately,
every button, to the very throat. Do not, we entreat,
be too rash in taking down stoves, and abandoning
thick stockings. Remember the words of
the friar in Romeo and Juliet—“Wisely and slow;
they stumble that run fast.”
Yes, the spring was here; and the gay world of
fashion was as busy as the blossoms on the trees,
or the birds in the groves. Flora Temple continued
to bloom with the modest sweetness of a
wild rose. Her striking beauty, which each day
seemed to unfold some lovelier charm; her accomplished
education; her clear, bright mind, and
gentle nature—to say nothing of her immense fortune,
and yet more immense expectations—rendered
her an object of universal attraction, and
enchained the particular attentions of a host of
gentlemen, who, from various considerations, wrote
themselves her admirers. The world, always peculiarly
shrewd upon these matters, exhausted its
curiosity and its conjectures upon the subject of her
union; and gave her away, unceremoniously, to
many a claimant, who, however charmed with the
honour, knew too well at heart that it could be
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enjoyed but in imagination. Poor Morton, after his
first storm of disappointment and wounded vanity,
had swallowed his regrets with a resignation which
springs sometimes from philosophy, and sometimes
from folly; and, if rumour spoke truth (which, by-the-way,
that slandered divinity often does), he had
no reason to be ashamed of the names associated
with his own on the long list of rejected suiters.
Lieutenant Halford of the navy, after beating about
for some time against baffling breezes, bore down
gallantly towards the prize, but suddenly veered
upon a new tack, and shortly after struck his
colours beneath a heavy fire from the eyes—oh
woman! woman!—of Miss Maria Morton. Captain
Forbes of the army besieged the fortress; but
upon a short parley from the walls, he turned at
once to the right-about, and obliqued off to the left,
double-quick step, upon some more feasible expedition.
An eloquent young lawyer, who had been
a good deal in the papers, and was supposed to
possess a weighty influence in the first ward, rose
to advance a motion, which the public, like a court
of inferior jurisdiction, immediately decided in his
favour: but love and law have both their uncertainties;
for, upon an appeal to the highest tribunal,
the opinion was reversed. A club of literati—a
street of young merchants—a board of brokers—
and a whole medical college, were reported to have
suffered a veto in regular succession; while penniless
poets, promising editors, law-students, and
young men of talent, were declined ad infinitum
with sweet condescension, gracious regret, and a
world of kind wishes for their future welfare, and
that their subsequent paths might be “strewn with
flowers!” It was asserted by Howard, that Miss
Temple was obliged to keep a confidential clerk;
and that the dismissals were issued in the form of
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printed blanks, filled up, according to circumstances,
with name and date, without any further trouble
or knowledge of the young lady herself than a
careless weekly perusal of the list of suiters' names,
alphabetically arranged. But Morton declared this
to be a bouncer; as his own had been carefully
written in her own hand, on rose paper, sealed with
a cameo cupid, and composed, evidently, at the express
command of her mother, who was mad after
that d—d French count.
“Why don't she marry?” said the world. “Time
flies; and she must be eighteen at least.”
“Why don't she marry?” said Mrs. Hamilton
one morning to her husband.
“Because she is not a fool, my dear,” growled
the happy husband. “She is young, rich, free,
and admired. Why should she marry? Like others
I could mention, she better becomes the station
of a belle than of a wife. Women nowadays are
only made to look at.”
“And men to fret and scold,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
with a scowl.
“Come, come, my love,” rejoined the husband,
“no pouting. What's done, you know, my angel,
can't be undone.”
“Mr. Hamilton, you are a—”
“A what, my dear?”
The lady was silent. The husband thrust his
hands into his pantaloons pockets, kicked his robe
de chambre from the middle of the floor into a
corner (this dialogue matrimonial is presumed to
have taken place in what the French call the chambre
à coucher), muttered an oath, shrugged his
shoulders, and made his exit whistling “The
Campbells are coming.”
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“There he goes,” said Mrs. Hamilton to herself,
as the front door slammed heavily after her retreating
lord, and his choleric step died away on the
pavement—“there he goes, and it will be midnight,
now, ere I see him again. Who could have
believed it before we married! Then—
“Miss Temple, too,” murmured the neglected
wife, as she continued her revery, sighing the
while, and glancing her eyes upon the still lovely
image presented by a large mirror. “Happy
girl!” (she rang the bell) “she will win the count
yet” (another sigh). “Well—as Hamilton says—
what's done—”
The maid entered, and the complicated machinery
of a small family went on with its operations.
To say that Norman Leslie had not visited at
Mrs. Temple's, after the occurrences related in the
foregoing chapters, would not be to say the truth;
nor, indeed, that he never visited at Mr. Romain's.
On the contrary, he had occasionally beguiled an
evening with each family; and at both—a young
and refined man, with a leaning to poetry, without
a wife, and with an intuitive delicacy which
preserved him from the grosser pleasures of a large
city—he found much to attract and gratify him.
There were music, charming society, and the gayest
spirits; which, when the mood was on him, he
was fully competent to share, and even to enliven.
He had observed, during his infrequent visits to
Miss Romain, that her character had undergone a
change, which sometimes induced the opinion that
he had wronged her; and there was in his bosom
ever a generous yearning to excuse and to acquit.
The once lively girl had now become more staid
and grave, sometimes even unhappy. Norman
could not be ignorant that he had once excited the
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love of a bosom which, however light and inconstant,
was full of womanly feelings. In the fervour
of boyhood, her brilliant charms and accomplishments
had certainly impressed him with a too
warm sense of her loveliness; but then his loftily
sentimental character might have started aside too
suddenly, and mistaken the really careless folly
and unguarded thoughtlessness of a giddy girl for
inherent affectation and heartlessness. He was no
fop; but we shall not undertake to say whether he
could entirely exclude from his mind a vague surmise,
which, however forcibly dismissed, returned
again and again, that this permanent sadness, the
pensive reserve of manner, might result from a
half-revived affection for him. Love her he could
not; but youths of his calibre can stretch their
hearts to a wonderful complacency in regarding
the favour of a sweet girl, even when that favour
finds affection already flown. Her manner towards
him had been soft and alluring, particularly so in
the company of other ladies, and most particularly
in that of Miss Temple, who was struck at the
undisguised partiality which she often exhibited for
him. Whether this was really reawakened passion,
or incorrigible coquetry, or a desire to reclaim
a half-freed captive, and display him before
the world a double conquest—or whether the keen
eye of a heartless flirt had detected in the mind of
her late lover deeper thoughts than he chose to
acknowledge of Flora Temple, whom she envied,
and whose envy she triumphed in the thought of
exciting—must yet be left to conjecture. She
continued by turns sad and gay, sentimental, fond,
and peevish, playing off the airs of a capricious,
spoiled, and impassioned woman; while Flora
moved calmly in her orbit, as the moon mounts
steadily up the heavens, veiled sometimes in a
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silver cloud, from which even the shadow is beautiful;
or pouring her soft light from an azure sky,
whose utmost clearness is not freed from a touch
of melancholy. Norman Leslie and she appeared
farther separated in destiny than ever; yet he still
secretly nourished for her an absorbing and increasing
passion, which he sometimes half imagined,
for such dreams come soon, was not unrequited:
yet, while he more frequently and familiarly
visited the dwelling of Mr. Romain, he called on the Temples but rarely; and always during his
stay was uninteresting, cold, or embarrassed. He
generally met the count there, which by no means
diminished his disquietude, particularly as it seemed
to be understood that he was certainly and
speedily to marry Flora Temple.
CHAPTER XIV.
An insight into the Character of an old but slight Acquaintance—
A tender Revery interrupted.
“Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repelled
The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow States, hard to be spelled.”
Milton to Sir Henry Vane the Younger.
Mr. Mordaunt Leslie sat alone in his study.
Hitherto Norman, instead of his father, has occupied
our reader; let me now call his attention to
the latter. Perhaps the United States held no
character more peculiarly the growth of a republic,
where talent and eloquence make themselves felt.
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Early in life he had entered the field of politics.
Being the son of a man who had figured brilliantly
in the Revolution, in the companionship of Washington,
Kosciusko, Hamilton, and Lafayette; and
belonging to one of the old, wealthy, and influential
(if they could not be called aristocratic) families
of the country, he commenced his career with
numerous and powerful advantages. Long and
deeply had he struggled in the game, and always
been the winner. Stronger and stronger grew his
sway—louder and louder his voice was heard;
and more and more reverently it was listened to
in every exciting emergency. At the time of our
story he stood among the highest American statesmen:
profound and grave, learned, eloquent, and
persevering, he had risen through the intermediate
grades between the obscurity of a private citizen
and his present rank in the Senate of the United
States. From that commanding summit, his dignified
but never sleeping ambition formed new
plans, beheld higher eminences. Few had climbed
so loftily with a character so unsullied. A foreign
ministry to Paris or London was talked of by his
friends. In the secret conclave of his confidential
circle, an ascent yet more audacious had fixed
their eyes; nor did their aspiring hopes pause
lower than the highest seat in the republic. Many
candidates had striven openly for the presidential
chair with fewer claims, and more slender hopes,
than might be advanced and cherished by Mordaunt
Leslie.
Late on the night to which we allude, business
of paramount importance having called him, for a
few days, from his duties at Washington to New-York,
he sat in his library, earnestly engaged in
studying a subject of deep interest about to come
under the consideration of the Senate. A rival
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statesman from the South had attempted the passage
of a bill which Mr. Leslie deemed not only
striking at the foundation of the interests of the republic,
but at the same time calculated to shake,
and perhaps tumble to the dust, the whole fabric
of his own private views, which he had been so
long and so successfully building up. Should this
bill succeed, it would produce the most material
and the most unpleasant influences upon his life and
happiness. It was, indeed, one of those questions
wherein the whole strength of two mighty parties
come to be thrown, for the moment, into the hands
of two individuals, as ancient armies occasionally
confided their quarrel to the puissance of two single
combatants. Thousands anxiously waited the
result; and the exciting sensation produced through
the country had already crowded the city of Washington
with strangers, eager for the coming on of
the conflict.
On the succeeding day, MR. Leslie, with his son
and daughter, were to set out for the capital; and
it was understood that a large party from New-York
intended also to be present, to hear the eloquence,
and probably witness the triumph, of their
celebrated representative. Mr. and Mrs. Temple
were enthusiastically enlisted in the interests of the
party opposed to Mr. Leslie; they had also prepared
to proceed to Washington, and were to start
early on the morrow.
As the statesman sat in the silent seclusion of
his study, while his son was wandering alone, indulging
blissful visions of Flora Temple, he was
merged in dreams of stern and grasping ambition;
not the ambition of Cæsar, Napoleon, or Cromwell,
but that of Brutus and of Washington. At least,
this was the exalted sentiment with which he had
stepped upon the arena; this was the motive which
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he had set up before his own heart; but, as he grew
nearer and yet more near to the issue of the game,
as the bright reward of his daring mind shone
almost within his reach, who can say what changes
went on in his character? Who can note the degree
in which, while his hopes strengthened, his ambition
also deepened? As he now bent over masses
of heavy documents; as he sought a passage in a
ponderous tome; now elucidating a point of history;
now illustrating a question of law; now noting
down a classical quotation; now pausing to
examine, enlarge, imbody in words, and commit to
memory a new and more fiery thought; now turning
over the leaves of Shakspeare for some wondrous
phrase, with which to link and send down
the tide of popular feeling a modern opinion;—as
he pondered over all the various arts by which a
great orator steeps and imbues himself in his
theme, hour after hour of the silent night rolled
unheededly away.
Few men find their hearts trembling with a more
eager anxiety upon the result of an event or an action,
than that of the soaring statesman as he looked
forward to this struggle on the floor of Congress.
The lover, waiting the word from the lips of his
mistress; the mother, watching the leech as he
feels the pulse of her dying child; the gambler, his
all pledged, pausing ere he uncovers the dice; the
culprit, bending to hear the verdict on his life—perhaps
none of these are stirred with thoughts much
more deep and absorbing than those which rolled
through the mind of the ambitious, haughty, eloquent,
and indignant senator. He felt in this crisis
like Leonidas at Thermopylæ; he stood within the
narrow gorge which he was to defend with his own
arm, and fearful he saw were the odds against him.
He was eloquent, and he knew it. His heart
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swelled with the grandeur of conscious power; he
longed, he yearned for the moment of action. He
sat like Jove above the Titans, aware of the forces
against him, but still grasping the thunder; and,
though they might pile up mountains on mountains,
still calmly and majestically awaiting the time to
launch the immortal bolt.
He had closed a volume of Montesquieu, after
some hours of severe application; and as he laid
down his pencil, and put aside the volume, he
breathed,as one whose attention relaxes from a long
and fatiguing task; and a smile slowly, and just
perceptibly, softened and lighted his majestic face.
The effect of the light, throwing its subdued stream
upon his noble features, formed a superb subject
for the pencil. It had the warm splendour and
high character of a Titian. The imposing person
which we have admired in Norman appeared even
more dignified in the father: he was taller, and his
demeanour more uniformly and calmly commanding.
His manners were remarkable for a bland and
smooth courtliness. Intercourse with the world
had imparted to his address high-tempered polish
and elegance, which fitted him admirably for the
diplomatic station to which it was said the country
would soon call him. By Norman that fascinating
ease and self-possession were not yet fully possessed;
they flashed through him only at intervals.
At one hour they would hallow his society so, that
woman yielded to the delusive and dangerous influence;
and at the next, it would pass away as if the
flame had been withdrawn from the vase; and others
would wonder what people could find in him to
admire so boundlessly. Mr. Mordaunt Leslie would
have been instantly received with delight at the
most fastidious and polished court of Europe; but
his son might have remained a time in the shadow,
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and been compelled to rise by degrees, unless some
sudden crisis brought his talent into notice. Both
were of the same rich material: the former was
perfected from the hand of the artist; the latter, yet
partly unwrought.
In Mr. Leslie only one passion coped with his
ambition: it was paternal love. He had married,
at the early age of twenty, a woman whose rare
charms and excellences neither poet nor painter
can too highly depict. She was the only one he
had ever loved. Mutually endeared by the reciprocal
influences of genius and romance, by remarkable
beauty of person and gentleness of character,
they had dwelt together contentedly—happy, nay,
blessed beyond common mortals. While she lived
his life had been a sunshiny romance—a fairy
dream—nothing but sunshine, poetry, and love. But
a rapid malady—which, even while it cut off her
life, had beautified and etherealized both her mind
and person—deprived him of this beloved being.
From the whole ardour and very romance of love,
his mind had rolled gradually into a new channel.
Never, subsequently, had women been to him more
than sisters. All the tenderness of his nature had
centred upon Julia and Norman. In the former he
found a fair copy of his wife—in the latter of himself.
For a year after his bereavement, in the loneliest
hours of the night, he had visited the turf beneath
which, cold to his anguish and his love, slept
the bosom of the beautiful and vanished object of
his early worship. And then the lover, the quiet,
shrinking, world-despising lover—the haunter of
brooks, the feeder of birds; the modest, unpresuming
youth, who had murmured the very breath of
poetry to the ear of beauty; who had pored over
the hues of a flower, or the shape of a cloud; who
had sought to master the art of music, that he
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might, in a new language, tell to her how he loved
her footmarks, and how he was enraptured beneath
her gaze; he, to whom mankind had been but the
actors in a gory tragedy or a grotesque farce, from
both of which he turned, in the fulness of his bliss,
still to linger and murmur his passion to one modest
rose in the wild wood;—he reappeared among
his fellow-creatures the resolute votary of ambition—
forgetting music, woman, nature—the midnight
student, the severe satirist, the haranguer of mobs,
the candidate for office, the foremost in the jar, dust,
tumult, and sinewy struggle of brawling and smoky
cities. Thus are men's characters formed. What
now was the wife of his boyhood?—a flower he
had watched years ago, as it faded by the road-side—
a laughing brook, whose channel was dusty—a
lyre, whose strings were broken—a sylvan dell,
once fringed with foliage and scented with sweet
roses, but whose green and silent depths, where his
boyish foot had trod when the world was all new,
he could never—never visit again. He had ceased
to be a lover; he had ceased to be a husband. He
was now only the father and the statesman.
As he saw at length the and of his studies for
the night, he closed the volume; and the smile
which stole across his features announced the pleasure
of anticipated triumph.
He rose, lighted a fragrant cigar, and sat down
again, rather to muse than to study; for he had arrived
at that age when but little sleep is requisite,
and he who would gain and preserve ascendency
over his fellow-men must learn to waste but few
hours in slumber.
Thus ran the midnight musings of the statesman:—
“Oh that this battle were fought and won! But
it will be—it shall! Cunning and ambitious as he
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is, I will meet him front to front, breast to breast.
He shall find me no recoiling boy. I will make
him feel and fear me. Let it come. Perhaps best
it should. I will attack him in his fortress; I will
scale his impregnable walls. Why, what but personal
ambition can lead him to such audacious designs?
And yet, he has no young eagle, as I have,
ready to launch upon the tempest; if he had, I
could fancy the ground of his ambition.”
He paused; and then continued—
“That boy is already a man. I mark his mind
mature. I mark his energies unfold—his person
develop—his character broaden and deepen. All
that I have been, he shall be—and more, much
more. He shall commence where I rest. But he
must travel—and study. Of late he has idled his
hours in indolent city pleasures:—Right—he is of
the true metal. He will sicken of them as I did.
Let him see what a heartless thing it is. Already
his better, his higher, his hereditary nature breaks
forth. He reads much. He mopes. He thinks.
Perhaps it is love—well, be it so! If he escape
that enchanted island—if some Calypso do not persuade
him to linger for ever in her perennial bowers—
then will he mount on the wind, and gaze on the
very sun unblinded, as I do.
“My sweet Julia—was ever man so blessed in
son and daughter? Who might not be proud to ask
her hand? That young Howard is well enough,
too—fire and genius in him—rich, bold, eloquent;
and then she loves him; I see it in all her looks,
words, and actions. Yes—happy, happy beings!—
they love each other. Blessings on them! blessings
on them! I would not shadow one ray of
their bright hearts—no, not even for ambition.
“My old friend Judge Howard, too, is no mean
ally; a proud, firm old man. Yes, yes, I am
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happy—too, too happy, considering that she is not of
our circle. Beloved, beautiful, sanctified Julia, art
thou a spirit?—dost thou lean from the wind to gaze
on, and bless us, dearest, most adored? Dost thou
watch the heart which has been none but thine?
Dost thou still behold, still know, still love me,
sweet, sweet spirit of my gone days? Speak,
speak—give me some sign, some token—”
A shriek of such intense and piercing horror
broke in upon his meditations, that the dreamer, already
half lost in unearthly visions, started as if
some pale ghost had indeed replied. The next moment
there stood before him an image—to his disturbed
imagination strangely resembling the being
then uppermost in his fancy. It was an instant before
he recognised his daughter Julia, in a loose
night-dress of white, her face deadly pale, and a
spot of blood on her cheek.
Such are the discords which break upon the music
of hope's enchanted strain.
CHAPTER XV.
The Dreams of the Young as contrasted with those of the
Old in the foregoing Chapter, and an Interruption more
awkward than the last.
“Monoah. Some dismal accident it needs must be;
What shall we do, stay here, or run and see?”
Samson Agonistes.
The reader has already classed Norman Leslie
among those characters so frequent at the present
day, thoughtful, ardent, contemplative, and
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inactive young men, viewing all things through the
medium of a strong imagination, much swayed by
impulse, and accustomed to exaggerate all that
befalls them. A vein of poetry and romance ran
through his character, which active and laborious
occupation had never broken up. Reared in the
lap of wealth and luxury, he lacked the stimulus
to action which forces most men, for the support
of life, amid the harsh realities and homely conflicts
of business. Full of musing melancholy,
sensitive to every passing impression, much of boyish
illusion yet lingered about his steps; and love,
when once kindled by a worthy object, became
immediately the absorbing principle of his nature
and of his existence. The shock which his young
confidence had received from Miss Romain had
both sharpened his observation and deepened his
character. For a time his soul recoiled, not only
from the giddy and frivolous girl who had so deceived
him, but from the very passion into which
he had been deceived. Then Flora Temple's
image rose before him with a new, a more delicious
and bewildering power. He repelled it; he
even attempted to deride and undervalue it. Unable
to banish it, he admitted it but only at first to
scrutinize and condemn. He would not acknowledge
to himself, that, after having bent before the
fascinations of one, he could so soon yield to those
of another. Hence his almost bitter delineation
of Flora's character at Mrs. Temple's to Moreland;
hence his frequent coldness of manner towards herself.
He struggled against the fetters which her
every action, look, and smile, wove around his soul.
He strove to force his mind into the conviction
that she was less perfect than she appeared.
There was a time when Rosalie Romain had just
so spell-bound him; so once, at the sound of her
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step, at the tone of her voice, his pulse had leaped,
his heart had trembled. He would break away
from the enchantress—he would fly from the effeminate
allurements of all women. Broad and noble
paths were opened to his pride and his ambition.
Deep in his heart, although yet not fully awakened,
lay a thousand high aspirations. The yearning
after the world's applause, the quiet but never-ceasing
thirst for the scholar's lore, philanthropy,
and the hope of being one day useful to his race—
all these, without ostentation, mingled in the material
of Norman Leslie's character. And there
were moments when he resolved to turn away
even from love, even from the love of Flora Temple,
as from a selfish passion that would enervate
and entangle his mind. But these were only moments;
and from undervaluing her, he swept to
the other extreme. Nothing vacillates more widely
and frequently than the mind of a youthful lover.
The idea of her union with Clairmont clothed her
with new attractions, by that strange principle of
our nature which renders things more precious
when beyond our reach. He had already learned
to regard her as one too angelic to share his human
path.
These were his reflections, as, silent and alone,
on the evening designated in the preceding chapter,
he wended his way, by the uncertain light of
the stars, from a gay revel, where he had again lingered,
enchanted, by the side of Flora. All the
tenderness of his love descended upon him. The
hushed solitude around, the broad heavens above,
contributed to soften his mind into one of those
romantic reveries with which imaginative men
often repay themselves in their secret hours for
the harsh disappointments of the inexorable world.
Around rose a creation of his own fancy, peopled
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with his fondest dreams—his most secret and tender
aspirations. Thus lost in meditation, and insensibly
charmed by the quiet beauty of the night,
he paced slowly onward, he scarcely knew whither,
but in a direction opposite to that of his own dwelling.
Oh, the dreams of a young lover in a solitary
night-ramble! Where else does the world brighten
into such an elysium?
“Then, indeed,” continued the musing youth,
as the current of his thoughts flowed silently and
sweetly on—thoughts which took their tinge of
happiness from the grace and innocent loveliness
of their beautiful subject—“then, indeed, what an
Eden would be the earth! what a blissful dream
would be existence! what sunny joy, what golden
radiance would steal across my path!—Flora
Temple should confess she loved me. To sit
alone by her side, steeped in the rapture of fully
requited affection—to thrill with the sense of her
bashful confidence, of her timid and yielding love—
to wind my arm unreproved around her graceful
form—to feel her breath on my cheek, to linger
beneath the touch of those young and loving lips,
to hear them pour out the breathings of that pure
and exalted soul, to sit hours and hours, looking
into the beauty which floats in her eyes—now murmuring
my impassioned worship—now listening to
her fond return; my hand clasped in hers as I noted
the rise and passing away of some wandering blush,
as a happy feeling stirred in her breast. With
such a being for my wife, existence would fleet
away like an exhalation. What joy to read to
her all that poetry has reared of golden enchantment!
to wander with her through the magnificent
realms built so superbly up by the hand of fiction—
to ride forth in the summer morning amid the
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fragrant woods; or, in the mellow, deep sunsethour,
from the portico of some dear and sylvan
abode, to note the tinges fade from the clouds; to
bend and admire together the floweret by the road-side,
to trace the wanderings of the humming bee;
or to look together up to the hushed and holy heavens,
our characters and affections, as our thoughts,
purified and elevated!—thus, with that dear angel
ever by my side, to choose out our favourite stars
among those ever-burning myriads. Yon kindling
orb should be hers; and that faint spark close to
its side should teach her how dim and yet how
near my soul was to her own.
“Then, travel—I would take her over the world.
We would study together the history and languages
of the mighty Europe. We would wander, still
hand-in-hand, over its traces of dazzling splendour
and solemn desolation—the wrecks of time and
history, the sublime footmarks of the great of old.
“And wherefore should I doubt? Mystery hangs
around her, but it is not in her. Has not her
manner melted, has not her voice trembled to me?
And yet they tell me she is the affianced bride of
Clairmont!”
He had now rambled on unknowingly far out of
his way to a remote and solitary part of the town,
and was thridding a dark and narrow lane, where
only a distant lamp shed any beam of light. Perceiving
that he had lost his way, he paused; and
at that moment received a heavy blow, staggered
several paces back, and fell to the earth nearly
senseless. In an instant, however, recovering from
the shock, he felt a powerful hand, and trembling
with intense eagerness, busy at his throat, while the
murderer seemed feeling with the other in his bosom.
Something fell to the pavement, ringing like
the blade of a dagger, and was instantly grasped
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up again. With the vehement fury of despair, the
prostrate victim suddenly clutched the throat of
his assailant, and a fierce, rapid, and tremendous
struggle ensued, such as swells the veins of men
striving for life and death. For a moment the profound
silence was disturbed only by the stamping
and trampling of heavy and desperate feet. Roused
to the full exertion of his athletic form, Leslie had
acquired a slight advantage over his opponent, and,
with an exclamation of deep triumph, was about to
dash him to the earth, when a cold and thrilling
sensation in his side for a moment checked his
breath, and shot through his soul the terrible sense
of death. His voice rose, and rang far and wide
on the air, startling the solemn silence with the
cry, so blood-curdling when heard through the
night, of “Murder! murder!”
“Ha!—hell!” cried a voice. With each exclamation
Leslie felt the desperate plunge of his assailant's
arm, and scarcely knew whether or not
the blade drank his life.
The cry, however, alarmed the neighbourhood.
A watchman awoke and struck his club upon the
pavement; windows were slammed open, and
nightcaps emerged into the air. But ere assistance
reached him, Leslie grew deadly sick. His
eyes swam, his brain reeled, unnatural figures,
ghastly faces, and lurid lights, glided and glared
around him. With an intensely clear conception
that he was floating into the realms of death, all
grew gradually dark, cold, and silent. Then sensation
passed utterly away.
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CHAPTER XVI.
A Family Picture—The discriminating Delicacy of Party
Politicians.
“There is one piece of sophistry practised by both sides, and that
is, the taking any scandalous story that has been ever whispered or
invented of a private man for a known undoubted truth, and raising
suitable speculations upon it.”
— The Spectator.
The gray light of dawn stole into the chamber.
Norman lay stretched upon his back on the couch,
his features settled into a livid and ghastly hue, as
if death had already struck him: cold—passionless—
senseless—rigid; the eyes closed, the cheeks,
forehead, and mouth sharpened. Recall him as he
moved a few hours before in the flush of strength
and health, or wandered in blissful reveries beneath
the stars, weaving visions of future joy. How
strange that all, even when they least dream of it,
may have run to the edge of the abyss. What a
happy constitution of our nature which can ever
forget this frightful truth—which can lose itself in
the dance and the song; which can watch the
melting cloud, the fading rainbow, the withering
flower, and never tremble—never remember that
we ourselves are as fleeting.
Over the prostrate and almost unbreathing form
of the youth bent four figures. The first was a
surgeon, eminent both in Europe and America for
his extraordinary skill, and the success with which
he had for many years performed most difficult and
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daring operations. Long habit had rendered him
callous to every sign of distress, either in the
patient or the bleeding hearts of the circle around.
He could take you off a limb with a quiet smile,
and draw the glittering and fearful instrument
through the flesh of the living, with the same accustomed
composure with which he laid open the
mysteries of God's mightiest machine in death.
He stood over Norman calmly, and with that slight
air of professional importance which few, if any,
can separate from their exertions of skill. The
patient breathed with a momentarily lengthened
respiration, and a low faint moan broke from his
pallid lips. The half-smiling practitioner had just
dressed the wounds, with as much apparent solicitude
to preserve his own wristbands unstained, as
to secure the life which ebbed so low in the youth's
veins. You would have imagined Dr. Wetmore,
from his bland and pleasant air, superintending
some pretty chymical operation, rather than striving
to reunite those half-severed ties which held a human
soul from its flight into eternity.
By his side Dr. Melbourne, the first physician of
the city, watched the face, and ever and anon felt
the pulse, of the object of their solicitude. His
prepossessing features were, although in but a
slight degree, more touched with solemnity; and,
if calm and deliberate in every motion, still he did
not smile. He exhibited undivided attention in the
suffering of the patient. Perhaps, being more
familiar with pain in a less bloody form, and in a
sphere immediately comprehended within his own
circle of skill, the sight now before him struck
upon those sympathies undulled by use. On the
other side—kneeling, her hair dishevelled, her dress
thrown hastily on, pale, agitated with suspense, anguish,
and horror—the light shone faintly on the
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features of Miss Leslie. Lastly, the noble form
of the father—in that majestic and almost proud
attitude unconsciously assumed by those exercising
a strong power over passion or feeling. His face
was pale indeed; his lips compressed; but the
muscles of his features moved not—there was not
a start, a stir, a tear—when the two learned gentlemen
raised themselves as the task was finished.
Norman still lay insensible, and the picture of
death. Indeed, for a moment both father and
sister thought the spirit fled.
“Is he gone? is it over?” asked Mr. Leslie, his
paleness increasing as his medical advisers slowly
withdrew from the bed. He followed them; Miss
Leslie did so likewise, with a faint and choked
sob, her hands clasped, and her eyes streaming with
tears.
One or two significant looks passed between the
doctors, and then the surgeon replied in a low
whisper,—
“Why, Mr. Leslie, as yet—”
A scarcely perceptible convulsion flitted across
the face of the father.
“As yet he lives, but—”
Miss Leslie sank back in a chair in agony, bent
down her head, and covered her face with her
hands—
“My brother—my brother—oh, my brother!”
Mr. Leslie drew his companion yet farther away,
where their voices might not disturb the invalid.
Melbourne returned to the bedside.
“Dr. Wetmore,” said the father, “speak the
worst. Must he die?”
“Impossible to say, my good sir. The scales
hang even. A moment—a breath—a hair may decide;
but the danger is certainly not immediate.”
“He may then recover?”
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“Possibly,” replied the surgeon, passing his fingers
over the sleeve of his coat to brush away a
thread.
Night again arrived. The most gloomy forebodings
were entertained of the patient. Norman remained
weak and in great pain. All conversation
was forbidden him. It was the day of their intended
visit to Washington; Julia had forgotten it.
The gayeties of fashionable life had occupied but
little of her thoughts; she enjoyed, but never abandoned
herself to them. Her anticipations of the
seat of government were largely made up of the
expected triumph of her father in the long looked
for debate. Never beat a more tender and affectionate
heart than hers. Whatever she loved, she
loved enthusiastically, romantically. Although her
young soul had learned to yield itself to the solicitations
of Howard, she found no diminution of her
affection for her brother and father. The attachment
was not like other attachments. There were in
its progress no doubts, no dislikes, no heart-burnings,
no oppositions. It was the growth of a kind
and gentle climate, shooting up and blossoming
richly in perpetual sunshine. Her nature was all
love. Terrible were the thoughts which broke
upon her young dreams while watching Norman's
pillow. She had never before suffered a misfortune;
had never even seen sickness; and death—
it seemed to her the calamity of some lower world.
The ghastly and frightful spectre had scarcely ever
entered the sunny circle of her thoughts. She
had never lost a friend. Her mother had passed
away long before her memory; and she pictured
her, not in the startling and awful vestments of the
grave, but as an angel in heaven. Happy girl!
happy girl! she had never seen her heart's dearest
adored struck by the sudden shaft from smiling
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health to the dark and hushed bed of agony. She
had never seen the form the most doted on, wasted,
palsied, and strengthless; the voice, interwoven
with years of love, changed, till it met her with a
strange and unnatural tone; the lips shrunken to an
expression never seen before; the eyes gleaming
with a solemnity new and appalling, as if some demon
had entered the body; the form so hallowed,
so tenderly dear, racked with all the tremendous
engines of disease and death.
Mr. Leslie's emotions were for a time equally
undivided. He forgot his lofty schemes; his
haughty ambition—all the statesman passed from
his bosom, and left him exposed to the agony of a
father's solicitude. But as the second night wore
away, other thoughts began to mingle with those
to which he had at first been a prey. The habits
of thirty years are deep and obstinate. This
dreadful calamity had occurred at a moment when
his presence at Washington was pledged, not only
to his own hopes, but to the hopes of a mighty portion
of his country. Not only would he by his absence
suffer a blow from which, probably, he would
never be able to recover, but his constituents would
never retrieve the loss. Perhaps these thoughts
would have had less influence over his mind, perhaps
they would not even have gained entrance
there at all, but for an occurrence which, although
he might have done so, he had not in the least foreseen.
Party spirit in the United States sometimes
rages with unlimited fury; sometimes (shame to
those among my countrymen who countenance
such violations of decency!) descends to the most
unjustifiable means to put up or put down a powerful
politician. The misfortunes or accidents of private
life are by a certain class seized upon with indiscriminating
avidity. Personal feelings, even
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domestic casualties of the most sacred nature, are not
unfrequently dragged forth to feed the thirst for
ridicule and slander which these thoughtless agents,
tools of political leaders, think it not beneath them
to resort to. I am not here speaking of my country;
I allude but to those (and they are very often
foreigners) who by this licentiousness disgrace and
insult it. On the present occasion, the fond father,
while overwhelmed in unutterable anxiety and anguish,
found a certain set of daily journals ridiculing
his distress, and endeavouring to link it with
fabrications dishonourable to him. One organ of
the opposite party observed—“The report, so currently
circulated to-day, of the robbery and assassination
of Mr. Norman Leslie, son of the celebrated
Mr. Mordaunt Leslie, proves to be but a trick.
Mr. Norman Leslie was hurt, as our respectable
contemporary the `Democratic Journal' has it, in a
fray. If young gentlemen will sow, they must expect
to reap. The wounds, however, we are credibly
informed, are altogether unimportant; but the
eloquent statesman is happy to avail himself of any
excuse for not meeting the thunders of Mr. B—,
which he well knows would burst upon him were
he to show himself at this period in the Senate of
the United States.”
These and other paragraphs forced the subject
of his political affairs upon his attention in a new
light; and as he hung over the pillow of his son,
his mind was torn with contending emotions.
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CHAPTER XVII.
The American Capitol—The President's Levee, a Trifle
which may chance to be of more Importance than the
Reader thinks.
“'Tis slander
Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting wind, and doth belie
All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons; nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters.”
—Cymbeline.
Never had there been a gayer season at Washington.
The session of Congress was one of the
most interesting since that which had issued the
Declaration of Independence. Of course, the crowd
was immense. The city, as everybody knows, or
ought to know, although the plan of a leviathan
town, of unequalled splendour, is as yet but a mere
sprinkling of houses over a large plain and two or
three abrupt hills, in location not unlike Rome.
There is but one street, Pennsylvania Avenue, worthy
of the name; which, from its length and
breadth, and the fact that it is the grand thoroughfare,
assumes an air of importance, without presenting
any particular claims to attention. The
private residences of the great are away off in this
direction and in that, at such inordinate distances
from each other as to render boot-making and hackney-coach
driving more than usually profitable
trades. The citizens themselves live comfortably
and snugly together, with no marked difference to
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distinguish them from the inhabitants of other large
villages, except a somewhat arrogant demeanour on
account of the Capitol, and peradventure a contemptuous
smile in the face of a New-Yorker or
Philadelphian, who should praise the City Hall or
the United States Bank of their respective cities.
There is a small theatre, some pretty churches, and
several large hotels. The President's house would
pass for a palace in Europe; and the Capitol, a
structure of white marble, situated on a high and
lofty eminence, is at once magnificent and stupendous.
You can scarcely tire of perusing its imposing
and gigantic proportions. You may ride round
it again and again, view it from every position, at
every period of the day, it continues to grow upon
the imagination. Its ponderous dome reminds you
of St. Peter's. Both the interior and exterior views
are full of grandeur. The Rotunda is lofty and
superb. Then, how alive it is with echoes! Every
accidental sound is repeated and magnified; reverberating
strange noises, that mingle into moans and
wailings like the grieving of spirits in the air. Men
and women, too, look so little on the broad floor
and beneath that soaring vault.
The finest prospect is from the terrace. It is
really remarkable and beautiful. The hill is abrupt,
and sufficiently high to command a panoramic view
of the city and surrounding country, the residence
of the chief of the republic showing finely from a
distant hill; and the Potomac sweeping on with its
broad current, to which the Seine and the Thames
are but rivulets.
It was a mild and pleasant afternoon towards the
end of March, and a few evenings after the singular
attempt upon young Leslie's life. The sun had
gone down radiantly, leaving all the west a wall of
golden light, and the earth lay beneath steeped in
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purple softness and tranquil beauty. Congress had
adjourned for the day, and hundreds were pouring,
all in the same direction (and all busily engaged in
commenting upon the occurrences of the debate
just concluded), from the steep Capitol-hill and into
the broad Pennsylvania Avenue. Many members
were dashing down on horseback, and a train of carriages
conducted others to their hotels or houses.
We have said that the crisis was an interesting
one. At this period it had reached its acme. The
next day was that fixed for the long expected and
much talked of speech of Mr. Leslie. The news
of the catastrophe which at this unfortunate moment
had happened to his son had reached Washington,
with many various modifications and exaggerations.
His strong attachment to his family
was well known. It was doubted whether young
Mr. Leslie was not dying—nay, was not dead.
Flying reports glanced from lip to lip. The question
of the great statesman's arrival became one of
general conversation and interest; and, perhaps,
of the throngs who now issued from that immense
and most beautiful edifice, nearly all were either
speaking or thinking of the accomplished and soul-stirring
orator, who had already flung down his
gauntlet fiercely to the most eloquent leader of the
opposite party; and whose absence now, while it
deprived the concourse of a conflict, perhaps as
interesting as that of the two last gladiators on a
Roman amphitheatre, left also a strong disappointment
upon his excited and expecting party.
It is scarcely necessary to remind the European
reader that, in a republic like the United States,
eloquence is an art peculiarly important, and consequently
peculiarly cultivated. Questions of the
deepest weight have agitated her councils, fully betraying
the fiery energies and outbreaks of a
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youthful people; and her legislative floor has already
trembled beneath bursts of passionate and lofty
eloquence, such as shook the Roman Forum when
Rome was free. These periods, however, thus far,
have only illustrated the strength of the political
fabric, and fully confirmed the confidence of her
people. Like every other human bark, she floats
upon an ocean, and beneath a sky, where danger
sometimes yawns in her path and thunders above
her head; but she has ridden securely and majestically
the elemental war. The fury of political
zeal, and the clash and fluctuations of commercial
interests, have sometimes shrouded her in alarm
and darkness; but the clouds soon broke away, and
instead of discovering but the scattered fragments
of a wreck, we find her swollen canvass still lofty
in the sun, and her star-spangled banner streaming
on the wind. Her only object is the freedom and
happiness of the human race; and the experience
of past ages furnishes her a chart by which she
may hope to avoid the quicksands of treachery and
the rocks of foreign and domestic ambition. Other
nations boast of their country; why should not the
American be proud of his? Conceit is a charge
most commonly and sneeringly urged against us.
What other nation does not equally merit it? Who
so arrogant, so overbearing, so uncompromisingly
exacting in his claims to national superiority, as the
Englishman? Who so ludicrously tenacious, so
likely to run you through the body in the defence
of the grand glory of his country, as a Frenchman?
It is a very honourable, happy, and useful feeling.
Why shall not we also regard the future with hope?
Who can so justly point to the past and the present
with exultation?
The crowd passed away. The sun went down.
Soft as the eyes of a widowed wife, full and
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melancholy rose the moon. It was the night of the
President's levee—and all the world were to be
there. This is the American court. Here gathers
into a focus the flower of American talent, although
necessarily blended with dashes of more homely
material.
At nine, Howard and his father drove to the large
and palace-like building of the President; and making
their way with some difficulty through the
throng of equipages, they passed in beneath the
arch, and soon found themselves in the brilliantly
lighted and crowded apartments. The coup d'œil,
indeed, was dazzling: so many rooms were thrown
open—so much gay company had already assembled—
nymphs and sylphs floating all over in groups—
officers in glittering uniforms—and a heterogeneous
mixture of the great and the lovely—tributes
from town and country—exquisites from Philadelphia,
New-York, and Boston—dashing élegants
from Charleston and Baltimore. The sturdy planter
from the South—plain grave men from the
western settlements—the culled for talent from the
sparse population—belles from the meridian of city
fashion, with the true Parisian air and elegance.
Indeed, the classes meeting here are strikingly
opposite and picturesque—the gleanings of a country
comprising an area of two millions of square
miles.
“Come, my son,” said the judge, “our first
duty is to the President.”
“I do not see him, sir,” said Howard, looking
around.
“Yonder, Hal, at the lower end of the room;
that plain old gentleman standing to receive the
presentations. Look, Governor L— is taking
up Mrs. and Miss Temple. See how kindly and
simply familiar he is with all alike. He chats as
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gracefully and easily now as a young beau. It is
a fine sight, Hal.”
“It is interesting from its perfect simplicity and
absence of ostentation,” replied Howard.
They made their way up to the first man of the
republic, and the judge introduced his son. The
President was surrounded by a circle of ladies and
gentlemen, and a light and agreeable conversation
was going on; in which, for a few moments, young
Howard bore his part with ready address. There
was perceptible in the whole circle nothing more
than an intelligent and hospitable host welcoming
his guests. But the number of introductions prevented,
of course, any prolonged conversation.
“Look around you, my son,” said the judge,
who, in the exercise of his duties, a cold, firm,
astute, and devoted labourer, yet nurtured, as such
men, even when least suspected, very often do, a
green spot in his heart, where affection and poetic
feeling were as fresh and verdant as in the bosom
of a boy, and who watched over the education of
his son with the fondest and tenderest care—“look
around you, Hal; you are in a spot which should
put your meditations in motion. Few on the globe
are more worthy your observation. Here is the
palace, court, and throne of your country—the
highest ornament, its moral glory. Here learn to
love simplicity and national freedom. Here you
breathe the pure atmosphere of liberty and reason.
You are the equal of him whom you have chosen
your chief. Guard your actions, improve your
mind, and you may one day stand in his place.”
“There is one person here,” said Howard, who
was accustomed to reason with his father familiarly
on all subjects—“there is one person here to-night
who jars somewhat on the pleasure which the
scene affords.”
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“Who, my son?”
“Look,” rejoined Howard
His father, following the direction of his eyes,
beheld the tall, startling, and majestic figure of an
Indian chief. He was in full costume, with his
guide, and stepped about the rooms—cold, stern,
and erect, with his dark piercing eyes, straight hair,
and copper complexion. A pipe and fan, however,
he held in his hand instead of a weapon, as an evidence
that he considered his nation no longer at
war with the United States. While he stood, a
painter, who had just obtained from him a promise
to sit for a portrait, observed to him,—
“But, instead of your pipe and fan, you must
hold your spear.”
“No,” said the dark warrior; “no spear for me;
I have done with spears for ever.”
“Did you hear that proud and melancholy reply?”
continued Howard. “I could wish the Indian
out of the picture.”
“You are yet unstudied in these matters, Hal.
Your feeling is noble, romantic, and natural. But
the ardent and susceptible do not understand how
these things, being entailed on us by others over
whom we had no control, now remain, and must
remain, till gradually cleared from our political system
by time and wisdom. You are right in supposing
them evils; but wrong in the belief that
they are to be ascribed to us, or that we even have
the ready power of disentangling ourselves from
them. But come, I see you are anxious to get to
the ladies; and yonder is Miss Temple, looking as
sad, and casting her eyes as often to you as if—”
“I promised to let her know the intelligence in
my letter from the Leslies,” said Howard.
“Well, well; let me present you to one or two
of my intimates, and then you shall be at liberty to
seek out your own.”
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So saying, after selecting a dozen of the first
men in the rooms, and formally presenting his son,
he entered himself into their circle; where he was
hailed as one of the most enlightened and profound
members of their party.
Thus at leisure, Howard made his way through
scores of acquaintances, and endeavoured to gain
the arm of Miss Temple; but he was assailed by
Miss Romain. Half giddy with the flatteries of
gentlemen who, struck by her conspicuous charms,
had pressed successfully for an introduction to the
beautiful belle from New-York, she now sprang
upon him with that half-hoyden familiarity with
which she often covered her coquettish designs.
The young man found it impossible to escape.
“Oh, Mr. Howard, so glad to see you! I am
quite tired of governors, generals, and commodores,
and a plain mister is quite a relief. Ha!
Count Clairmont!—good evening, sir. Why, you
are quite a stranger: do you remember me? or
shall we be introduced again? I am `Miss Romain,
from New-York;' ” and she playfully (and very
well, too) mimicked the phrase which had been
that evening so often repeated.
“Beautiful being,” whispered the count; “shall
I ever forget—”
“Nonsense, disagreeable creature!” said she,
bending her mouth towards Howard. “Don't you
hate that Count Clairmont?”
“Yes,” said Howard, “with all my heart.”
Miss Romain looked surprised a moment.
“O Lord!” she continued, “here is that horrid
Indian; I shall be tomahawked, I am sure. What
can bring such people here? And there is Mr.
D—, the great editor; and here, see this tall
gentleman, Colonel E—, who this very morning
had his vest-button shot off by Mr. K—; and—
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O dear! my charming Mrs. Hamilton, how do
you do? Are you not delighted here? And why
were you not at the Secretary D—'s last night?”
It was with some difficulty that Howard disengaged
himself from Miss Romain; who, knowing
that he was affianced to Miss Leslie, thought it a
pretty triumph for herself, could that young lady
be told by some officious friend that the lover had
flirted all the evening with her. At length, however,
a young Englishman carried her off to eat an
ice; and Howard found himself with Flora and
her mother.
“Come, Mrs. Temple,” said Clairmont, “let us
make the tour.”
“And shall I be so bold,” asked Howard, “as
to offer my arm to one of the ladies—Miss Temple?”
Flora knew well Miss Leslie's engagement to
Howard, and availed herself of his invitation with
secret joy.
“And pray, Mr. Howard,” asked she, as they
glided away in a direction opposite to that taken
by her mother and Clairmont—“pray, how is Miss
Leslie? I have suffered to learn how she bears her
terrible misfortune.”
Howard related all he knew, which was in truth
little, and much conversation ensued between them.
They had wandered into a distant room, and came,
without perceiving it, near the spot where stood
Mrs. Temple and Clairmont, with their backs towards
them, so as to be quite unaware of their
proximity.
A distinguished southerner had just asked a
question—the last words were audible to Flora—
respecting Norman's accident, and the probability
of Mr. Mordaunt Leslie's reaching Washington in
time for the next day's debate
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“It would be a glorious thing,” said Mrs. Temple,
“were he to be away; though, in good truth,
I pity him for his domestic calamity.”
“For his son,” said the cold voice of Clairmont,
“he is not worthy of pity; he was hurt in some
drunken brawl; he is a mere dissipated roué. I
know him to be a—” The count's voice sank to a
lower tone; but Flora could not help detecting the
words, “at cards.”
“Good God!” said the gentleman.
“True, true,” said Mrs. Temple; “perfectly
true, I am sorry to say.”
Howard had not heeded this extraordinary conversation.
He had been, for the moment, absorbed
in contemplating the intelligent countenance of a
young politician, already reported to be a Catiline.
“Did you hear that?” asked Flora, paler than
she had yet been.
“No, I beg your pardon,” replied Howard;
“what was it?”
“Nothing,” said Flora, faintly, and in a short
time rejoined her mother.
“Bless me, my dear love!” said the latter, “why,
you look ill! how unlucky!”
Howard remained till late; but he was abstracted,
and in no mood to enjoy society. Around
him gathered groups of interesting and most distinguished
men, both foreigners and natives,—orators,
members, senators, secretaries, office-holders,
and office-seekers; but his thoughts were occupied
with his friend Norman's perilous situation, and the
distress of Julia. At length he retired, with a resolution
to attend the debates one day more, and if
then Mr. Leslie did not arrive, to set off himself
for New-York
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CHAPTER XVIII.
The American Senate—Two or three popular Statesmen—
Sketches, whose Originals may be as well found at the
present Day as at a former Period.
—“On the contrary, I commend Demosthenes for leaving
the tears, and other instances of mourning which his domestic misfortunes
might claim, to the women, and going about such actions
as he thought conducive to the welfare of his country: for, I think, a
man of such firmness and other abilities as a statesman ought to possess,
should always have the common concern in view, and look
upon his private accidents or business as a consideration much inferior
to the public.”
—Plutarch.
On the subsequent morning the Senate assembled
at eleven. With great difficulty Howard
procured a seat. An immense crowd had thronged
to hear the debate; to witness the struggle upon
an arena where, in the full and fierce conflict of
intellect and genius, met the men in whose hands
reposed the destinies of the republic. B—, the
great opponent of Mr. Leslie, was present; and a
sudden sensation ran round the room as Mr. Leslie
himself entered and took his seat. Among the
multitudes of auditors, a majority were ladies.
The section allotted to them is on the same floor
with the speakers; and the fair daughters of Columbia
were accommodated with seats by the
politeness of the learned senators, to the utter discomfiture
of whole benches of dandies and others
of the male kind, who, by a more early attendance,
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had fancied themselves secure. After much pressure
and toiling, much rustling of silk, nodding of
feathers, and glancing of jewels, the mass at length
settled into unmoving silence, each one convinced
that, however abominably uncomfortable the situation
he occupied, it was useless to strive after a
better. A speaker rose. Heads were turned—
necks stretched—mouths (women's and all) closed—
to hear Mr. R— address the Senate. Few in
our country have ever excited such universal and
irrepressible curiosity as this extraordinary man.
He could never even pass along the street without
attracting all eyes. It has been said that, “While
he was a bitter opponent, he was an unserviceable
friend;” and that “with all his brilliant talents, he
never made a proselyte or gained a vote;” yet his
appearance in the halls of legislation ever created
a murmur of interest. And as his tall and gaunt
form rose, it seemed to strike his opponents with
a feeling of dismay, as if some being of a different
nature had alighted on the earth to take part in the
battle. On this day he divided the floor with two
other speakers, Mr. Leslie and his great opponent
Mr. B—. The former possessed a heavy and
vehement power, which struck down opposition
with the deliberate strength and self-possession of
a giant; and from the lips of the latter flowed
persuasion in an ever-deepening stream, bearing
the soul onward as if through fairy-land. But
the favourite weapon of Mr. R— was sarcasm.
He differed from Mr. Leslie as Saladin did from
Richard: the British monarch cleaving a helmet
with his ponderous blade, while his agile rival
severed a piece of silk with his sabre. Nobody
could hear the Virginian orator without being
fascinated. His voice was of a feminine sweetness
and pliancy, singularly expressive as he warmed
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in debate. His speech was full of classical and
poetical imagery; but, in consequence of his numerous
and curious digressions, it was, at times,
difficult to determine what was the subject of his
discourse. Every bosom, however, seemed alive
to the impressions of wonder and delight which he
created. Howard, if not instructed, was at least
charmed. The orator's exquisite and original wit—
his strange sweet flow of poetic thought and musical
language—the matchless beauty of many passages—
his keen hints and hits—his critiques on
matters in general; and, more than all, his biting,
withering, and relentless satire, can never be forgotten
by those familiar with him as a speaker.
That strange and lofty form—the oft-extended long
finger of that skeleton hand—the snakish intensity
of those piercing black eyes—the fiendishness of
his sneer—the winning softness of his smile—the
silver melody of his high voice!—they had much
to regret who were prevented from hearing him,
by the pressure of the crowd, on that memorable
day. As he seated himself, Mr. Leslie arose with
all the talent of his predecessor, but much more
carefully directed. His sole object at first was to
convince the reason. He had the argumentative
power of the practised lawyer. He deliberately
related his opinions, demonstrated them with the
force of a problem; and only gradually, as he proceeded,
rose into a more elevated strain, and at
length burst forth into enthusiasm that fired every
soul. His subject led him to touch upon the nature
and permanency of the Union. He deepened
into feeling and poetry; splendid passages flashed
from him with fiery vehemence, stricken fiercely
out by conflict with men who arraigned his political
opinions, shocked his associations of country,
and approached, with the brand lighted and raised,
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to fire the temple of American glory. Nothing
could be more dazzling than his deep and strong
pictures. They should be hung up before every
eye. He was triumphant and irresistible. He
bore down all before him: not only the heart of
his auditors, but of all the country, of every lover
of freedom and humanity throughout the globe,
seemed swelling in his bosom and thundering
from his lips. One might have imagined that the
spirits of Washington and Hamilton, of Jefferson
and Franklin, of a whole crowd of departed heroes
and statesmen of the republic, were leaning
from the walls and cheering him on. For several
hours he calmly and forcibly assailed the bill introduced
by Mr. B—, which had occasioned so
much excitement in the public mind. It was seen
by the friends of the measure that he was no common
assailant. His powerful and heavy appeals
were deeply felt in the quarter where they were
directed; like the blows of a battle-axe wielded
by the arm of a giant, while the gates shook and
the fortress trembled to its base. He resembled
the black knight at the storming of Front de
Bœuf's castle, whose ponderous and fatal strokes
were heard above all the din of the battle. At
length he rested—the work seemed done; when
his mortal opponent, Mr. B—, sprang suddenly
on the floor with an eagerness which showed very
plainly that it was not done. The auditors who
had been sitting, standing, stretching—some hanging
by a toe to a chair, some leaning on a shoulder
against a pillar, squeezing, squeezed, and distorted
into all sorts of unnatural and distressing
attitudes and situations—prepared to go. At the
sight of Mr. B—'s tall, peculiar, and commanding
person, at the sound of his low deep voice, at
the thoughts of his known genius, and the
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anticipation of the reply which appeared to have been
some time burning in his bosom, the motion of the
crowd was checked. The relaxed toe was again
braced—the relieved shoulder again put in requisition—
the fatigued ear once more erect—the fair
neck stretched—the seal of silence again set upon
the pretty mouths. Every thing again was still
and unmoving. His qualifications were numerous,
and of nearly the highest kind, both physical and
mental. A fountain of fervid feeling at his heart
enabled him to inspire, to enchant—threw his
hearers off their guard by sudden and passionate
appeals to the poetry of their natures—an ever-ready
and lavish flow of words furnished a vehicle
which never failed. He had all the poetry of
thought, aided by all the art and melody of language.
His sentences fell on the ear and the
heart, at once gratifying the intellect and rousing
the soul; and often, after a burst of eloquence,
which rolled over the heads of the crowd, leaving
a deep silence like that which succeeds thunder,
his voice was lulled to a low sweet tone, his vehement
manner was softened, and his words
“Drew audience and attention still as night
Or summer's noontide air.”
A deep and powerful voice was one of Mr.
B—'s peculiarities. It was at times what operagoers
call a sweet bass, and was heard distinctly
in every modulation. Indeed, in any stranger it
would have been by itself all-sufficient to arrest
every ear. His pronunciation was also of a singular
kind, and will never be forgotten by those in
whose minds it was associated with his eloquence.
His face and head were more peculiar than all.
No one would call them handsome. Did they belong
to anybody else—to a lower intellect—to an
obscurer man—they might induce the opposite
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term. But he who has stood all day on one leg to
listen, who has felt his seducing poetry steal into
the soul, and his voice bursting on his ear like a
war-trumpet, till the blood now mounted to the
temple, then left the cheek colourless, till the flesh
crept upon his shoulder, and the heart leaped in
his bosom, will never hear a pronunciation, or see
a head or a face, or an expression like B—'s,
without peculiar pleasure. His countenance was
rugged and rough-hewn. None of the smoothness
of youth, and health, and simple content was there;
on the contrary, it was marked with time, thought,
and care. He resembled one of Milton's great
orators—
“Deep on his front engraven,
Deliberation sat and public care;
And princely counsel in his face yet shone,
Majestic though in ruin.”
While they under his influence confessed he was
not handsome, they at the same time felt that the
beauty of Apollo would detract from his identity,
and diminish the interest with which he was then
regarded. There were times when the expression
of his face was nearly savage. His eyes glared
and flashed, and his glances fell on his opponent
with the fierceness of a tiger.
But with all his power he failed. The bill, so
heavily opposed by Mr. Leslie, it was understood,
as subsequently proved the case, would not pass.
That day elevated Mordaunt Leslie yet higher in
the public opinion; advanced him yet nearer the
ultimate object of his ambition. As Howard passed
home from the inspiring conflict, he heard from
many a lip words of praise and prophecy linked
with the name of the father of his affianced bride.
They roused in his young imagination many a
dream of honour and happiness.
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CHAPTER XIX.
A new Link in the Chain.
“By Astaroth! ere long thou shalt lament
These braveries.”
— Samson Agonistes.
Several months elapsed. Leslie recovered
from his wounds, but was still pale, when accident
brought to his ear the atrocious slander circulated
against him. The same charge of gambling and
dishonesty at cards, magnified by other insinuations
urged by Clairmont at Washington, in the hearing
of Miss Temple, had been subsequently reiterated,
and at last began to gain credit. So popular was
the count, that his ill word was sufficient to inflict
a serious injury. Not that any one who knew
Leslie lent it an ear—but one is not known even
by all one's acquaintance; and there is a large class
always ready not only to believe calumnies, but to
speed them on their way with a secret and eager
hand. The affair burst upon Leslie suddenly. He
happened to be one day in company with a number
of ladies and gentlemen, among whom was Miss
Romain. He had just invited the young lady to
ride with him on the subsequent day.
“Do you know, Leslie,” said Moreland, privately,
a few moments afterward, “I this morning heard of
a most extraordinary allegation against you from
the lips of this same Miss Romain whom you are
so civil to?”
“Allegation!—name it.”
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Moreland repeated, though rather incoherently,
as he had not distinctly understood it, what Miss
Romain was said to have spoken. It referred to a
certain mysterious incident at cards reported to
have been charged upon Mr. Leslie, and never to
have been refuted, or even noticed.
“Take care,” continued Moreland, “of that
beautiful siren—she is really dangerous. She flatters
you in your presence, and loves to behold
you in her train, but makes free with your name
the moment you withdraw.”
“Indeed!” said Norman, gravely.
“It was my intention,” added Moreland, “to let
you know the moment I ascertained precisely the
nature of this report. You should know it, not
only that you may refute it, but that you may hereafter
beware of her. I will endeavour to discover
at once its precise nature.”
“When will you see me?”
“To-morrow.”
“This bodes trouble,” said Norman, as if forgetting
that he was not alone.
The next morning Moreland called on Leslie,
and made him acquainted with the particulars of
the calumny. He had also traced it directly to
Clairmont. Miss Romain was ascertained to have
been more wantonly mischievous than could have
been supposed. Whether she really believed it,
or whether she was stung by jealousy at finding
that Norman had totally laid aside the character
of her lover, it was certain that to the charge in
question she had given marked emphasis.
“And will you still ride with her,” demanded
Moreland, “after such a singular evidence of her
disposition?”
“Yes,” said Norman, dryly—“I have already
invited her to accompany me this afternoon, and
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I will not retreat. It is too tempting an opportunity
to let her know my surprise. From this time,
however, she shall learn how utterly a friend may
be thrown away. As for Clairmont, he is a scoundrel.
I shall publicly chastise him the instant we
meet. The thing is scarcely worth noticing, but
the manner in which this man is received here
gives his words an importance which they would
not otherwise deserve.”
At four he called for Miss Romain, according to
appointment.
The next morning Clairmont stood on the steps
of his hotel in Broadway, surrounded by a number
of gentlemen. He was in a riding-dress, with
whip and spurs; and after a careless leave of his
companions, was in the act of mounting his horse.
At that moment Leslie approached, and the two
enemies stood face to face. Clairmont turned a
little pale upon the sight of one he had so deeply
wronged, advancing with determined step and air,
and contracted brow, whose meaning could not be
mistaken. A small circle of spectators closed
around them. The accusation of Clairmont had
been publicly made during Leslie's illness, and his
great skill with the pistol was known. The resolution,
the high-wrought temper, and lofty character
of Leslie, were also well understood, and the
interview was regarded with strong signs of interest.
The nobleman paused, with a glistening eye,
and a shade of white increasing on his lip. Leslie's
air was high and stern, but calm and noble.
As the two thus stood, their prominent characteristics
might be detected in their very appearance:
the one so frank, fearlessly open-hearted, and yet
so quietly resolved; the other, deep, malignant,
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and dangerous—the one frowning with the fiery
firmness of a lion; the spirit of the other coiled up
with the stillness of a snake, which lifts its crest
against the foot that would crush it in the grass.
“I have been given to understand,” said Leslie,
very composedly, “that you, sir, who call yourself
Count Clairmont, have made use of certain expressions
derogatory to my character.”
“Well, sir.”
“Your silence implies assent. I give you one
moment to deny them—to confess them wilful,
base falsehoods.”
“Mr. Leslie,” said Clairmont, “if you are a gentleman,
you have a remedy.”
“I have once told you the only terms on which
I will consent to meet you. Though I believe you
no gentleman, yet my belief of your cowardice at
heart is so strong, that I again dare you to accede
to them. Those terms, gentlemen—”
But the wary Clairmont, with great cunning, had
already adopted his plan. It was his object to escape
even hearing terms which most probably he
might not be anxious to accept, but if possible to
provoke Leslie to attack him on the spot. Accordingly,
first placing a hand in his bosom, he interrupted
the speaker—
“Mr. Leslie,” he said, “you desire to know
whether the assertions to which you allude were
made by me, and whether they are persisted in.
Know that I never speak that in a man's absence
which I fear to repeat in his presence. I avow,
then, that I detected you in such a trick at cards
as ought to, and must, exclude you for ever from
the society of gentlemen.”
Without further reply, Leslie stepped forward,
and at the same moment produced from behind
him a riding-whip, with the evident intention of
applying it to immediate use.
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Pale, but with the most determined and deliberate
composure, Clairmont drew forth a pistol,
which he coolly cocked.
“No—no, sir,” he said, in a low tone—“I am on
my guard now—the attacks of a ruffian I am taught
how to meet. Take care, sir—take care—approach
me not—one step, one inch, one motion, and I
swear by the God of heaven I lay you dead at my
feet!”
Leslie paused—Clairmont smiled—the crisis
was interesting, and considerable curiosity prevailed
to witness the event. But the inactivity of
Leslie was only momentary. With a leap, swift
as the tiger when he darts upon a startled steed,
he sprang to the throat of his foe. The pistol was
discharged; but so rapid and unexpected had been
the assault, that the aim, never before known to
miss, now failed at the moment of utmost need.
The ball passed through the lapel of Norman's
coat; and the baffled possessor of a now useless
weapon had thrown away his sole chance, and
with it the sympathies of every spectator. Unarmed—
of a livid whiteness—he stood in mute
and impotent hate; first, aghast with the certainty
that he had launched the death-bolt, and afterward,
to find himself utterly in the power of a man so
deeply resolute and indignant, and against whom
he had just given such a dire evidence of malice.
“I shall now proceed,” said Leslie, without exhibiting
the slightest astonishment or alarm, but
laying an iron hand on the bosom of his foe, “to
inflict upon you, my friend, the chastisement you
so richly merit. You are a coward—you are an
impostor—you are guilty of the baseness which
your rancorous tongue has charged on me—you
have swindled at cards. Hereafter, Sir Count,
never show your face in the society of gentlemen;
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but, lest you should, I mark you for what you are—
a craven and a scoundrel!”
He raised the whip.
“Leslie,” said Clairmont, almost inaudibly, “do
not—do not, for your own sake. Mark me—I warn—
I warn you, Leslie—do not—”
Rage, fear, and intense emotion had so transformed
his countenance, that, with his ashy face,
and a ring of black beneath each eye, he looked
more like a devil than a man.
“Carry your warnings, sir, to those who regard
them,” said Leslie.
Deliberately, and with a powerful hold on his
throat, he applied the long whip to his writhing
and quivering foe with all the strength of his athletic
and indignant arm. No one interfered. For
several moments the determined youth continued
the application of his blows, till, foaming at the
mouth, covered with dust, struggling, trembling,
and ever and anon uttering a half-suffocated groan
of anguish and revenge, his exhausted victim hung,
with drooping body and unbraced limbs, apparently
senseless on his arm.
“I have castigated this man, gentlemen,” said
Leslie, with a voice actually gentle in its tone—so
calm is true passion—“I have castigated this man
for no ordinary personal pique, no mere common
hatred. I hold him up to you not only for a swindler,
a slanderer, an impostor, and a scoundrel—
I have good reason to believe him a midnight
assassin.”
In the scuffle Clairmont's hat had fallen—his
valet now appearing, picked it up, and lent an arm
to the support of his master, who, finding himself released,
lifted his head, gazed wildly around, gnashed
his teeth, half incoherently uttered, “God!
oh God!” and striking his face deliriously with
his hands, rushed mad and foaming into the hotel.
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CHAPTER XX.
The Plot opens.
“Old men and beldams in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously;
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths;
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear:
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action,
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.”
King John.
The Americans are called great travellers.
They early imbibe the taste in their own country;
whose extent and innumerable beauties may well
lure mutual visiters from her remotest parts. At
present, too, the facilities for travel are so extraordinary,
that it would be madness to stay at home.
If the country is gigantic, so are its curiosities,
and the means of viewing them. The springs, the
falls, the lakes, the rivers, the mountains, Quebec
and her fortifications (a tour to the Canadas, by-the-way,
in the abrupt transition of manners and
customs, is, to an American, very like a tour to
Europe), the stupendous mountain scenery in New-York
and New-England, where nature may be
viewed in all her sublime and awful grandeur.
European scenery is different from that of America,
but not more strikingly magnificent; and the tourist
of the Western Continent—let itinerant scribblers
say what they will—finds accommodations,
ease, honesty, and comfort infinitely superior to
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that met with on the great continental routes of
Europe. In the commercial cities they may command
luxuries and refinements equal to those of
Paris and London. Rail-roads, canals, and steamboats
convey them in every direction. During the
months of August and September these temptations
are found irresistible by the fashionable world,
who take wing from the dusty town, and sweep in
gay flocks through scenery splendid beyond description.
Less than twelve hours suffice to land
the passengers at Albany from New-york, a distance
of one hundred and sixty miles; thence, a
succession of dazzling views attracts each votary
of health and pleasure: and when he has been
drenched by the terrible Niagara, floated on the
St. Lawrence, wandered by Lake George, mused
in the natural amphitheatre of Trenton Falls,
soared to the Pine Mountain House on the Cats-kill—
where, from the edge of a precipice three
thousand feet perpendicular, he looks down upon
the lower earth, hills and vales, towns and forests,
and the broad and glorious Hudson meandering on
its course of light like a silver snake;—when these
excursions are over, the beau ton and the beaux
esprits rest their pinions a few weeks at the Saratoga
Springs, about thirty-six miles above Albany.
Perhaps there is no spot which gathers a greater
focus of beauty, fashion, wealth, and genius, than
Congress Hall.
After all, the greatest amusement of those who
abandon a city is to watch for and devour every
item of intelligence from their deserted homes.
A party of ladies and gentlemen were seated on
the long portico one day, when Judge Howard received
a package of papers.
“Well,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “we shall hear
from town again, at last. They say Americans
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are fond of news; I do not think it peculiar to
them, but to human nature. I never received a private
letter from a distance in my life without trembling;
and a newspaper, when far from home, is
really an agitation.”
“Let us share the benefit of your courier, judge,”
said a wealthy southern planter, as the judge unfolded
one of the sheets.
“Oh dear, yes; a newspaper is as good as a
play!” exclaimed Miss Morton.
“Well, then, let us see, let us see,” said the judge,
passing his finger over his lip as he ran through
the contents; “we must select for the ladies.
Here is a long report from the Secretary of the
Navy.”
“Oh, never mind the navy,” cried Miss Morton.
“Well, then, we have an inquiry into the effects
of the late rise of cotton.”
“Worse and worse!”
“Fire, and lives lost; a fireman killed.”
“Oh, poor fellow! Where was it?” asked a fop,
yawning.
“Nothing about the theatres?” demanded Morton.
“Read the marriages,” said his sister.
“And the deaths,” mumbled an old gentleman,
who took the waters for his health.
“Bless me! bless my soul!” said the judge, in a
tone of sudden and extreme interest.
“Oh, now we shall have it!” said several, laughing;
“out with it, judge.”
“Good Heaven!” exclaimed the kind old gentleman,
with real distress.
“Oh, judge, how can you keep us all in the
dark, in this way!” said Mrs. Hamilton.
The judge read,—
“ `Most mysterious and terrible incident.' ”
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“Dear me!” cried one, laughing; “that promises
well, indeed.”
“I was fearful the colonel was going to be stupid
to-day,” said another.
“ `Our readers are perhaps aware,' ” continued the
judge, reading, “ `that a most mysterious circumstance
has, within three days, occurred in this city.
The daughter of one of our most wealthy and respectable
townsmen, whose name will probably be
too soon before the public, has suddenly disappeared,
under circumstances of the most incredible
and inexplicable mystery, leading to the conjecture
that death has closed her career on earth. She
was young, of most excelling beauty, and distinguished
in the higher circles as one of the most
remarkable and charming ladies of the day. We
cannot add more at present.' ”
“Well, that is extraordinary and mysterious
enough,” said one; “what can it mean?”
“Who can it be?” added another.
“There is a postscript,” said the judge; and the
extremest interest was now exhibited to learn if it
conveyed more information upon the affair.
“Yes, here is a second paragraph,” and he read
the following:—
“ `Since the above was in type, it has become
our painful duty to state, that the name of the young
lady alluded to above as having so mysteriously
disappeared, is Miss Rosalie Romain. A committee
of investigation, immediately formed, have fully
sanctioned the general opinion that she must have
been murdered. The liveliest, nay, the deepest
sensation prevails through all circles upon this subject;
which, perhaps, for intense interest, is without
a parallel in the history of our country or age.
Dark suspicions are entertained respecting an individual
attached to a most distinguished family.
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We withhold the name, partly because, however
loud and deep may be the public suspicions, no tribunal
of justice has as yet taken any step to warrant
them. Nothing has been spoken of to-day
but this most singular and terrible event. The
police are on the track, and, it is said, have made
discoveries of a most appalling description; tending
to confirm the worst conjectures, and to fix the
odium on one wealthy, high, and hitherto unsuspected.
This is an event of peculiar interest. Its
awful mystery—the agonizing circumstances by
which it has been marked—the extreme youth,
beauty, and innocence of the guileless victim—the
anguish of the bereaved and broken-hearted parent—
the rank of him to whom the public finger
points as the murderer—the great respect in which
his family have been held—all tend to create violent
excitement. We never saw the public mind in a
greater ferment. From the lofty political standing
of the father of the accused (at least accused by the
general voice), in any other country he would possess
power among those before whom this question
will be probably tried; and if the criminal were
guilty beyond a doubt, yet, with his influence, he
would find means to escape. Let the admiring
world now look on the administration of justice in
a republic. Let them see the laws enforced with
equal severity and promptitude against the rich
and poor—the strong and weak—the high and low.
We would not forestall the opinions of those who
are yet undecided what to think; nor do we take
it upon ourselves to say that he who has been selected
as the perpetrator is really guilty; but if he
be guilty, there is no possibility of his escape. Let
every apprehension be quelled. If he were the
head of our nation, on this proof he would be tried—
an impartial jury would decide upon his
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innocence; and if a verdict be pronounced against him,
he must die the death of a felon.' ”
The utmost contrariety of opinion prevailed as to
the person against whom these terrible innuendoes
were directed; but an arrival from the city brought
the fearful intelligence in all its blistering and naked
details. It struck the gay circle with a feeling of
dismay and horror.
CHAPTER XXI.
The Tempest gathers.
“Can this be haughty Marmion?”
—Scott.
As the last peal of St. Paul's Church, on a morning in the early part of autumn, about this period
of our story, announced the hour of nine, the usually
desultory occupants of Broadway and Chatham-street
gradually gave place to a more eager and uniform
crowd; and hundreds of persons appeared
hastening with quickened step out of the adjoining
streets, and bending their course towards the pretty
and palace-like looking building which lifted its
white front in the centre of the Park. Two large
and sombre structures, on either side of the just-mentioned
edifice, obtruded themselves on the gaze;
and, from their gloomy appearance, might be recognised
at once as dismal abodes of guilt. Few,
in a philosophical and disinterested mood, can behold
a prison without feeling their horror of the
crime yield for the moment to compassion for the
criminal. It is the dreary tomb of many a hope;
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within its walls have been endured nameless and
unimaginable anguish. The enlightened tenderness
of modern legislation prohibits the wheel, the
dagger, or the bowl; yet here the wretched, whose
guilt is sometimes the infirmity of nature, and
sometimes the error of education, have writhed under
the prolonged torments of remorse and fear:
and what are the dagger and the wheel to them?
The massy portals, too, may—nay, considering the
mischances of human affairs, must have sometimes
closed upon the innocent, and returned them to the
scaffold, or disgorged them upon a world whose unthinking
selfishness as often pursues unfortunate
virtue, as it sanctions for a time the triumphs of
successful guilt. Even the sight of vice itself, thus
baffled and chained, without the support of hope or
the consolations of conscience, shrinking from the
aspect of an external world, all threatening and
dark, to the communion of a heart lost in the turbulence
of yet more gloomy horror, and awaiting,
in impotent and illimitable despair, its dismissal
from a dreadful existence to a state yet more thrillingly
appalling, is, perhaps, of all spectacles the
most fearful and ghastly.
The black and revolting buildings, so conspicuously
placed in the heart and gay centre of the city,
had long jarred upon the minds of the inhabitants;
and one, indeed, at the present day, under the wand
of some cunning architect, has assumed a more
lively and lovely shape, and been converted to other
purposes; but at the time of which we write, the
authorities found a certain appropriateness in their
proximity to their graceful neighbour. The latter
is familiar to the New-York reader as the City Hall,
the seat of many public offices, but particularly of
the courts of justice; and at that time both the civil
and criminal courts were held within it. The black
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and ugly buildings which flanked it on either side
were used, the one for a jail, where, with the stupid
and useless cruelty of a pagan sacrifice, the unfortunate
debtor was condemned to perpetual idleness
and wo; while the one on the west received criminals,
who there awaited their arraignment or their
execution, within a minute's walk of their place of
trial.
On the present day, the avidity with which all
classes hastened towards the City Hall rendered it
evident that it was about to become the scene of
some interesting judicial proceeding; and the pressure
to procure seats in the criminal court-room
proved that the circumstances of some dark crime
were about to be investigated; probably some reckless
enemy to society exposed to general execration,
and consigned to just punishment, perhaps a
weary and toilsome imprisonment — perhaps to
death. It had been long a custom in America, as
in England, to conduct the convict condemned to
expiate his crime on the scaffold, in broad daylight,
and in full view of the people, to some open spot
in the suburbs of the town, affording space for the
accommodation of the immense multitude generally
drawn together by the occasion; and thus, with the
deliberate pomp of law, and the solemn ceremonies
of religion, to consummate upon the bound and
trembling wretch the tremendous doom. After all,
the spirit which drew the Romans to the amphitheatre
still holds its place in the human breast. Far,
very far, are we yet from true civilization.
Few crimes in the United States are visited with
the punishment of death; and, while older nations
often launch the bolt against the feeble head of ignorance
or poverty for the most trivial errors of
judgment, or sometimes for the cravings of hunger,
let it be recorded to the honour of American
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legislators, that the power which society has lodged in
their hands is wielded with more caution.
But in proportion to the infrequency of these
spectacles is the excitement they produce. The
guilty wretch, arrested on a charge of murder, and
thrown into prison to await his trial, becomes at
once a topic of universal, and, among the lower orders,
of intense interest. To feed this appetite for
scenes of carnage, blood, and distress—the peculiar
attribute of human nature—the public press is prolific
of facts, true or false; and in all their harrowing
features, and too often with the exaggeration of
accident, prejudice, or passion, retails the incidents
of the deed, and conjectures the motives of the perpetrator.
It was on the event of one of these long-expected
trials that an immense crowd assembled. Such
violent anxiety had been produced by rumour and
the recitals of the public journals, that before the
doors of the court-room were thrown open, large
throngs had collected on the outside, and, pressing
for entrance, filled the avenues and corridors to
overflowing. At an early hour, when the public
were admitted, the spacious chamber was immediately
crowded almost to suffocation. The space
within the bar, usually allotted only to gentlemen
of the profession, witnesses, jurors in attendance,
and persons connected with the proceedings of the
hour, was also densely filled; and when the judges
assumed their seats, and the cry of “Silence—hats
off!” announced that the court were about to enter
upon the interesting examination, the multitude presented
a slope of heads, back to the farthest reach
of the ample hall, such as had rarely before been
assembled in the apartment.
Among the individuals within the bar were several
who drew peculiar attention and remark from
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the auditory. The entrance of Mr. Barton, the district
attorney, occasioned some interest. He was a
young, but distinguished and eloquent man, celebrated
for the force and fire of his appeals, and
whose powers were said to be rarely awakened in
vain. With him came his associate, Mr. Germain,
also a profound, sagacious, and eminent counsellor,
employed, it was said, by those whom the prisoner's
crime had most bereaved, to render his destruction
doubly sure. A more dangerous opponent could
scarcely have appeared against the unhappy object
of all this solicitude; for, a shrewd and practised
lawyer, watchful to avail himself of every accident
and subterfuge, skilful to lead away attention from
a bad point, or to invent a construction favourable
to his views—of a deep foresight, an insidious cunning,
a ready wit, and a presence of mind never at
fault in the examination of witnesses—Germain
knew well how to rise from a defeat, or to press the
moment of triumph. In a just cause, his talents
and acquirements were always sure of delighting.
The wily votary of falsehood, on the witness's stand,
found his mask torn off and his arts baffled. Betrayed
by ingenious artifices into the disproval of
his own testimony, and bewildered and startled by
the clashing contradictions of his own statement,
he at length yielded the conflict, abashed and in
despair; confessed the truth, and was dismissed,
writhing under the lash of ridicule and rebuke.
But the same power, exerted on the wrong side,
was equally fierce, watchful, and uncompromising;
and it must be allowed that the eager lawyer, absorbed
in the excitement of his cause, did not always
stop to inquire into its justice, but used the
same weapons alike on all occasions; bewildered
the honest witness in wiles laid for the deceitful,
and frequently woke all his energies to attack the
innocent or defend the guilty.
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By their side sat Mr. Loring, also one of the
most remarkable counsellors of the day; grave,
learned, and eloquent; his fine head, partly bald,
was expressively clothed with the “silver livery of
advised age.” He was the only one who as yet appeared
for the defence.
The three counsel conversed together across the
table with the cool courtesy of the profession; who,
while property, reputation, and life are committed
to their hands with trembling solicitude, find the
exercise of their respective powers but the struggle
of a game which, however tremendously important
to the parties concerned, is by them played with
but transient personal feeling, and to-morrow forgotten.
A gentleman of prepossessing form and appearance
was pointed out to each other by the crowd,
with symptoms of curiosity, as a foreigner of high
rank and unbounded wealth; a casual visiter to this
country, whom accident had rendered necessary in
the present case as one of the witnesses. This was
Count Clairmont. Near him, and frequently exchanging
the sentiments of a brief conversation, sat
a white-headed old man, whose care-worn and griefstricken
countenance was perused by every eye
with extreme interest. He was the father of the
young and lovely girl whose murder, by a brutal
and unparalleled assassin, was the subject of the
present endictment. The hearts of the more enlightened
upon the circumstances of the case were
shocked and agitated with deep and powerful sympathy
on recognising, in the tall and noble figure
of a gentleman—who, though somewhat advanced
in life, was erect and almost haughty in his air—
the father of the culprit. He stood in a recess
within the bar, calm, but pale; and around him
waited, with the most evident marks of respect and
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commiseration, a train of the most wealthy and
distinguished inhabitants of the town. These interesting
objects had places reserved for them in
the midst of the uncommon throng of miscellanceous
individuals—lawyers lounging from idleness
and curiosity, witnesses and jurors attending on
subpœnas, and law-students inured to scenes of
iniquity and distress, who made themselves merry
with the various rumours of the case, wagered
with each other on the fate of the accused, and advanced
jests against the sheriff on his approaching
duty.
The outside of the bar was occupied by the
middling classes,—sailors, butchers, bakers, and
other honest tradesmen and good citizens, whose
minds had been highly inflamed by the reports of
the case, without being much instructed as to its
merits; and who were eagerly anxious to behold
the extraordinary ruffian—the cold-blooded seducer
and assassin of an innocent and beautiful girl.
Concerning the manners and appearance, the character,
family, and demeanour of the accused, the
most contradictory rumours were rife. Some declared
him a ferocious and black-browed giant,
with a cruel and malignant countenance, a harsh
voice, and relentless heart. Others asserted that
he had been the most reckless profligate of the day;
that the influence of a wealthy family had already
several times screened him from merited punishment;
that he had once or twice nearly effected his
escape, by the attempted massacre of the officers
who had arrested him; and that the authorities
were obliged to secure his confinement by means
of heavy irons.
A circumstance was observed, too, of a very rare
occurrence in this country—a disposition among the
lower classes to predetermine the guilt of the
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accused, and to distrust the integrity of the court.
Several journals had given publicity to articles
darkly intimating the difficulty of finding a jury
sufficiently firm and disinterested to render a true
verdict against a man acknowledged to belong to
so high a circle of society. Some spoke aloud of
the power of wealth and influence; others turned
the affair into a political question; and many (for
such clamorous demagogues did not pass away
with the days of Greece and Rome) openly proclaimed
that, even if the guilty wretch were condemned
by the judge, he would be pardoned by the
governor. As the trial-day approached, these disturbing
influences seemed agitated and fomented
by some secret hand. Singular innuendoes lurked
in the paragraphs of the daily journals, engendering
among the population a fierce and ferocious
spirit. The friends of the prisoner beheld, with
feelings of the deepest alarm, these clouds gathering
around the head of one who had hitherto known
only the balmy pleasures of life's sunniest hours.
The district attorney had moved in the same circle
with the accused in the gay precincts of fashion.
Would he follow to the death his associate? The
very judge on the bench, it was whispered, loved
him like a father, and was endeared to him by family
relations of the most tender nature. Would he
too—thus murmured the thousands, nay, the millions
(for the event had already swept like fire in
the wind), who allowed themselves to be excited by
the absorbing question—would this judge, could he
preside at a trial, thus linked with his own feelings,
with cool and impartial deliberation?
There were not wanting third and fourth rate
journals which grasped the subject with the sole
view of rendering it a party question. The father
of the unhappy criminal was spoken of at the period
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for an important office in the gift of the people.
So tempting an engine could not remain unworked,
and the astounded statesman heard denunciations
and anathemas of the most bitter malignity thundered
against him by those who could oppose his
political success with no other means than those
furnished by this domestic tragedy.
On the other hand, a party of his townsmen, and
indeed the most discreet and intelligent, while they
regarded the endictment with wonder, seemed assured
that a trial would establish the innocence of
the accused. All their sympathies and their fears
were now awakened in his behalf, for the public
excitement grew more and more dark and threatening,
and a trial for life and death, even to the innocent,
was not without its perils. Accident might
incline the scales against him. The very trial itself
was a withering anguish; the very suspicion
a gangrene to the heart.
The public indignation and expressions of distrust
exercised too upon the interests of the unhappy
defendant a most unfavourable influence.
Those who really knew Judge Howard, knew that
if it had been his own son instead of his friend's, he
would construe the law, and preside at the trial,
with the sternness of a Roman; and it was feared
that he, as well as the district attorney, might be
insensibly led, by the open charges against their
integrity, to pass to the opposite extreme, and
suffer impartiality to strengthen into severity.
In the thousands that filled the room—stood
waiting on the outside and strove vainly for entrance—
what a variety of opposite emotions! from
the simple curiosity of the indifferent stranger,
stimulated by the mere desire to behold a human
being tried for his life, to the astonishment and
anxiety, the conjectures of the future and the
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memories of the past, felt by his acquaintance, and
to the whirl and tempest, the anguish and agony,
in the breasts of those who knew and loved him!
Across the minds, too, even of the most rational,
would sometimes glance the thought—“Is not the
prisoner indeed guilty?” The very apparent impossibility,
by a kind of paradox, rendered it probable.
What but the glaring and fatal truth of
the charge would select him, so far beyond the
reach of ordinary suspicion, as the perpetrator of
the deed? If not he, who was the culprit?
Notwithstanding the immense pressure, perfect
order prevailed, and all seemed settling themselves
in their places, as they best might, like the audience
at the commencement of a celebrated tragedy,
and with the composed satisfaction of listening to
the investigation, and perhaps of soon beholding
the doom of one of the most black, remarkable,
and harrowing crimes that had ever occupied the
attention of a court of justice.
“Place the prisoner at the bar!” exclaimed the
crier, in a loud voice.
There was an instantaneous sensation perceptible
through the mass of people, but it immediately
subsided into a breathless silence, as the side-doors
within the bar were flung open, and the officers
entered in front of the crowd with the prisoner between
them. An impulse of surprise ran again
through the multitude, now also accompanied by
an evident murmur of sympathy, elicited by the
appearance of a very handsome young man, considerably
above the middling size, of an erect and
commanding form, who, with a firm and rather
haughty air, walked to his seat within the prisoner's
box. A single glance discovered that he wore the
dress and possessed the manners of a gentleman;
that his features were mild, intelligent, and
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uncommonly prepossessing, but that his face was of a
deadly paleness, and his lips compressed with the
action of one who is the victim of a powerful and
unnatural excitement.
To many of the spectators he was personally
known; and more than one voice murmured, in
tones of the deepest commiseration, “Poor, poor
Leslie!”
On entering the box and seating himself, the
prisoner looked around and continued his gaze, as
if in search of some one within the bar, till he encountered
the full and terrible glance of Mr. Romain,
the father of her of whose death he was accused.
For a moment he met and returned the
fixed gaze of the old man, who actually shook with
the tremours of his increasing emotion; but as if
the forced effort to bear up against his fate and his
feelings exceeded his power, the unhappy youth
suddenly bowed down his head, and covered his
face with his hands. The whole scene had been
of such absorbing interest, that the court, as well as
the prisoner and the spectators, appeared, for the
moment, to abandon themselves to their feelings,
and the young man was the centre of a thousand
warm and bleeding sympathies. But the recollection
of the heinous deed which he was called upon
to answer, and the sight of the aged father of the
murdered girl, awoke sterner thoughts. Nor were
there wanting some who ascribed his emotion not
to the anguish of innocence, but to the remorseful
agonies of guilt.
The court immediately ordered silence. The
voice of the crier resounded through the hall.
The crowd again arranged themselves on their
seats; and though a few handkerchiefs, especially
of females, still hid the faces of the softened own
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ers, the cold ceremonials of a legal tribunal at once
resumed their course.
With the numerous and tedious formalities preliminary
to a great trial, incidental to the empannelling
of a jury, &c., we will not detain the reader.
They were, on this occasion, so multifarious and
prolonged, that, upon their final arrangement, the
court dismissed the cause for the day, in order that
it might be fairly commenced on the succeeding
morning. The persons concerned were requested
to be punctual in an early attendance; and the vast
and heterogeneous crowd separated, to carry into
all quarters of the town their new impressions concerning
the appearance of the unhappy prisoner,
who, thus fearfully suspended over eternity, was
remanded back to prison
CHAPTER XXII.
Adversity acquaints a Man with strange Fellows—A Friend
wavers.
“And you too, Brutus!”
The Bridewell, in which malefactors were confined,
from its open and central situation, commanded
one of the most cheerful scenes imaginable.
The barred windows of the prisoners enabled
them to behold the pleasing enclosure already mentioned,
spread verdantly beneath them, overshadowed
with rows of trees—a common thoroughfare
for the busy citizens, a lounge for the meditative
or the idle, and a resort for children, who there
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pursued their careless sports, yet happily ignorant
of the dark world around them. A part of the
gay and elegant Broadway rolled along its never-ceasing
tide of human beings. The spire of St.
Paul's Church appeared at a short distance above
masses of thick foliage; and, on the other side, to
the poor captives a shocking contrast, rose the
theatre, whose moving crowds and bright lights in
the evening rendered it easily distinguishable as the
haunt of fashion and pleasure.
One of those reverses of fortune which, however
astounding to the individual victims, are common-place
to the general observer of human nature,
had plunged Norman Leslie—the proud, the sentimental,
the musing, the noble Leslie—into the
common prison, upon a charge of murder. The
crime was fixed upon him by such a concurrence
of glaring and extraordinary facts, that each day
had found more and more people ready to believe
him guilty. Had any one in other times suggested
the probability of his committing such a deed, they
who knew him would have ascribed the suggestion
to madness or malice; but now that he was actually
accused in public, it appeared much less improbable.
His high temper, his brooding mind,
were well known. Eccentricities had been remembered
of him, which before had never excited
attention; and even those who had most depended
upon his purity of character, now found in him a
new illustration of the truth, that “It is not a year
or so that shows us a man.” Covered with obloquy,
execrated by the public, Norman Leslie sat in
a lonely apartment of the prison above described,
on the afternoon of the day of his arraignment,
gazing upon the outward scene of joy and freedom.
His meditations were suddenly interrupted by the
clash and clank of chains, the springing of locks,
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and the withdrawal of bolts. The intruder was the
keeper.
“There has been here,” he said, “the Rev. Mr.
Harcourt, sir; and he requested me to—to—”
“I do not know him,” said Norman; “it must
be a mistake.”
“No mistake at all, sir. He came to request
your leave to visit you, to converse with you.”
“With me!” said Norman, as if endeavouring
to recollect himself; “upon what subject?”
“Lord, Lord, sir!” said the man, apparently unable
to conceal a smile, “I thought by this time
you might wish to see gentlemen of his cloth without
any request from them.
“God of heaven!” cried Leslie, starting up, so
that the man stepped back in some alarm, and lifted
his heavy bunch of keys in defence; but, perceiving
that the abrupt action of his prisoner was simply
the effect of agitation and astonishment, he
resumed his first manner.
“Why, yes, sir. He bade me ask you, in short,
if you felt yourself in a state of mind to speak with
him upon your situation.”
The rattling of the heavy chain appropriately
hung at the outer door of the prison, to signify to
the keeper the wish of some applicant for admission,
broke off the discourse.
The new-comer was Mr. Grey, a counsellor,
belonging to the lower ranks of the profession. He
motioned the keeper to withdraw. When they
were alone, he approached his seat close to that of
Norman, and looking around cautiously, said,—
“You do not know me, Mr. Leslie?”
“I have had the pleasure, I think,” replied Norman,
“of seeing you before in the courts. You
are Mr. Grey?”
“Ah! that is well; if you know me,” said Mr.
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Grey, “we shall have less difficulty in coming to
an understanding.”
He passed the palm of his hand across his mouth,
as if preparing to open a discourse, in the commencement
of which he experienced some embarrassment.
“You are aware, then, Mr. Leslie, that you stand
endicted for—”
The listener raised his hand with deprecatory
gesture—
“Spare me the repetition of that word.”
“But you are not fully aware of the evidence
accumulated against you.”
“I shall learn it soon enough,” said the youth,
bitterly.
“You do not quite understand me,” continued
the lawyer, in a conciliatory tone; “soon enough
can only be in time to counteract it.”
“I am in the hands of God,” said Norman, with
a look that betrayed a heart sick and wearied—
“He created—he can destroy—he can rescue me.”
“Ay, ay,” answered Mr. Grey, hitching his
chair yet a few inches closer, again looking round,
as if to assure himself that they were alone, and
reducing his tone to a yet more confidential key—
“but Providence, my young friend, works by human
means. It would be rather dangerous to trust
to Him alone in your case. You must have another
lawyer. His aid may be invoked, but it
must be by active exertion, not by idle prayers.”
“What can I do?” asked the prisoner, with
moody calmness; “I am a prisoner; I cannot
break through stone walls and iron bars.”
“There is one thing which you can do,” cried
the lawyer.
“To free me from this dilemma?” said Norman.
“Ay, to put you forth as unrestrained as the bird
that flies at will.”
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“What can I do?”
“You can confess,” said Grey, in a close whisper.
Norman started again, with lively signs of agitation
and anger.
“Am I to understand that you believe me
guilty?” he demanded.
“Mr. Leslie,” said the lawyer, “what you say
to me is secret as if whispered only to your own
heart. I am not here to accuse, but to defend you.
Confess to me as your lawyer, as your friend, that
in a moment of wild delirium, perhaps maddened
by wine, you perpetrated a deed foreign from your
nature, which, the moment before, you did not
dream of, and which now you cannot look back
upon without regret and horror. It will contribute
greatly towards your defence. It may save your
life, my young friend, which now stands in imminent
danger.”
“And what good can my confession do?” asked
Norman, in an under tone of forced composure.
“Much, much,” cried the wily lawyer. “The
sailor who would navigate a dangerous sea must
know the quicksands and rocks which lie in his
path. To cure a wound—and the more loathsome,
the more need of examination—it must be probed,
young man, with a firm and friendly hand, though
you shudder and faint under the operation. I am
your friend, your pilot, your surgeon. I come to
save you. Say you are guilty. The law has its
accidents, its shifts, its subterfuges; the clerk's pen
may mistake; the jury's mind may be embarrassed,
if it cannot be satisfied. Embarrassment is doubt,
and doubt is acquittal. You are young; life is
sweet; sweeter than wealth, power, reputation.
You have been under the influence of a moment's
temptation; you have been touched with lunacy;
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you have committed a crime. Well, thousands of
good men have sinned. It is the lot of mortals.
You are but a boy yet. You must live and repent.
The world is broad. Time heals every wound;
and repentance converts even sin into joy. Dismiss
romantic sensibility. Perhaps you have resolved
to abandon the world, either guilty or innocent.
If guilty, you imagine death alone can expiate
your deed; if innocent, calumny and unjust
accusation have at once stripped life of its charms
and death of its terrors. Think better of it. Let
not the idea of guilt prostrate your moral character
too much. Guilt? cant! we lawyers understand
it. It is a physical thing, and depends on the
nerves and the blood. Any man, when the lightning
of passion darts through his veins, when reason
reels—any man may yield. The very apostles
sinned. The saints in heaven have felt the pollution
of this earthly evil. It is a fever, a plague.
The best of us may catch it. Come, confess without
shame the whole truth. Your life, your reputation,
commit to my hand. Your father's life, your
sister's, their happiness, their fame, are all connected
with your fate. You have no right to yield
to an unmanly despair. In the sacrifice of yourself,
you drag others with you to the altar.”
Norman heard him to the end, as if partly with
wonder at the tenour of his discourse, and partly
with a resolution not to interrupt him; at length
he said,—
“And if I do confess that I deliberately murdered
that unfortunate girl, goaded by interest and
revenge, can you save me?”
“While there's life there's hope,” said the lawyer.
“You have money. Money is a god. It
commands the strength, the genius, the knowledge,
the souls of men.
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“And how may money stead me in this extremity?”
“It is to be considered,” replied the lawyer—
“it is to be considered. Have you never a friend,
bound to you by obligations, poor and needy, yet
honest in the world's eye, who could confirm a story
on oath?”
Mr. Grey smiled, meaningly, and rubbed his
palm over his mouth and cheek.
“As you say,” replied Norman, “I have money;
but if I procure such a one, can you use him to
your purpose? Can you bend aside the flow of
public justice? Can you leave the blood of the
innocent unavenged? Can you set the guilty free,
unaneled, and high among his friends? If I give
you money for this redemption from wo, ignominy,
and the scaffold, can you effect it?”
“Can I?” said the counsellor, with slow and
emphatic deliberation, and a glance of pleased and
sly assent—“can I not?”
“And will you?” cried the youth, grasping the
arm of his disinterested friend with the iron power
of one clinging for life; “knowing me to be guilty,
deeply, damnably guilty, will you?”
“To-morrow,” said the lawyer, rubbing his
hands, “you shall be free as air. I shall but want
something to satisfy expenses—a hundred dollars
or so.”
“And I,” said Norman, with a countenance of
bitter contempt, and flinging from him, with an
expression of disgust, the arm of his cunning adviser,
“if I had a thousand lives, would rather lose
them all on the scaffold than share in the corruption
of such a base scoundrel. Begone, sir! or I
may really be what you, and such as you, think
me.”
The astounded personage to whom this was
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addressed started from his seat with mingled anger
and fright, but immediately recovering himself,
said,—
“Your only hope, young man. You are young
and romantic. Imprisonment and misfortune have
shattered your nerves, and violent repentance, perhaps,
inflamed your imagination. If one hundred
is too much, say fifty.”
“I would be alone,” cried Norman.
“I may, at least, entreat of you a pledge,” said
the lawyer, “that what I have offered in kindness
will never be betrayed. My only object, sir, I
give you my sacred word of honour, was to do you
service.”
“You have nothing to fear from me,” returned
Norman, “if you will take yourself away.”
“Then, farewell. You may have carried my
intimations further than I intended, Mr. Leslie;
but, remember, should you think better of my means
of serving you, I am ready to do my utmost. I
can save you from death. Without a free understanding
between counsellor and client, the case is
hopeless. To-morrow you will tremble at the
array of proof against you. We may have no
opportunity of meeting again in private. Your
counsel, at present, have nothing to urge in your
defence. I have taken the pains to inquire; they
have literally nothing. Innocent or guilty, die you
must, unless you adopt means. In twenty-four
hours, perhaps, the verdict may be rendered. As
the case stands now, it must be fatal. The form
of your own scaffold may well startle your reason.
I can save you. I am your only hope. Good-morning,
sir; good-morning. I rest satisfied, sir,
with your word of honour, that what has passed
between us will go no further. Let me leave my
card. Good-morning, sir.”
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At the door Grey met another learned member
of the profession, whose eloquence and talents
placed him already in its front ranks. They were
but slightly acquainted; for Mr. Grey belonged to
those base pettifoggers and hangers-on of the profession
who at once disgrace it and human nature.
“Ah, Mr. Moreland,” he said, “are you too bent
to this wretched man?”
Moreland signified the affirmative.
“A strange fellow!” continued Mr. Grey, with a
significant smile; “guilty, I fear, and reckless of
death. He is like a baited bull, ready to gore alike
friend and foe.”
“Does he confess?” asked Moreland, with agitation.
“No,” replied the other, “he confesses nothing
He still affects ignorance and perfect innocence,
assumes the lofty moralist, and vainly hopes with
this brazen hypocrisy to elude his fate, or cast a
doubt over his crime. His father and sister are
evidently dear to him, and rend his thoughts more
than his own misery. He seems ready to die rather
than compromise their good name by confessing
his guilt. He is a noble but a desperate being, and
requires watchfulness and care, or he may give
the impatient mob the slip `after the high Roman
fashion.' ”
Moreland is already partly known to the reader.
He differed in many respects from his more aged
and experienced associates; and rather sought excuses
for undoubted sin, than invented selfish motives
for apparent virtue. As he pictured the cheerful
aspect of his own home, which he had that instant
left,—the elegant gayety ever presiding at his
domestic circle—the innocent love and arch vivacity
of his sweet wife, the voices of his beautiful
children, and his own bright prospects of future
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wealth, fame, and happiness,—as he compared
these blessings with the miseries of his once pure
and noble friend, now a prisoner, perhaps about to
be sacrificed on the scaffold—these dismal walls,
this desolate cold solitude, and the reflections which
must rend the mind of the accused,—his heart softened
yet more tenderly towards him; he mourned
over the bleak vicissitudes of life, and trembled at
the inscrutable decrees of Providence. His soul
yearned to believe him guiltless; but such an astounding
array of proof had been elicited against
him that even he wavered, and knew not what to
think.
As the lawyer entered the cell of the captive, he
turned actually pale at the sight which met his
view. It was not that his friend suffered any of
those dismal privations of food, light, and air, so
commonly identified with the idea of a prison;—
indeed, he occupied a room well furnished for his
use; and the care of his affectionate and heart-broken
family had supplied him with all the luxuries
of life compatible with his situation;—but he
himself was so changed and faded—so haggard and
ghastly with the gnawings of a haughty and proud
spirit—that, for the moment, in that dim light, he
was scarcely recognised. Still, however, around
him hung that beauty which had rendered him re
markable in better days, a reflection of the manly
graces of his father, and which now seemed even
heightened by the subduing and chastening hand
of thought and sorrow. His handsome hair now
fell over a forehead which seemed, from its whiteness,
yet more broad and high; his eyes wore an
expression more pensive and touching; the smile
had gained in winning grace all that it had lost in
spirit; and his whole manner announced a character
deepened, purified, and elevated.
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He raised his hand calmly to his friend, who
seized it with silent anguish; and Moreland fell on
his neck and wept, while the prisoner soothed and
rebuked him, though with a tremulous voice.
“Dear, dear Norman!” muttered Moreland, his
words broken by sobs; “pardon me—forgive me!”
“God bless you, Moreland,” replied Norman, as
his friend grew more composed; “how I have
wished for you!”
“Your father and Julia, Norman, and Howard?”
“They are all with me hours every day, but
their grief agonizes me.”
“And your counsel, Mr. Loring?”
“Oh, he talks to me, but racks and excruciates
me also. I have told him I know nothing whatever
of this charge. It must fall by itself; I cannot
stoop to confute it, nor have I the means. But
you, Moreland, you will join yourself with Loring,
and clear me from so ridiculous, so absurd an accusation.
I have had hard thoughts of you, too,”
he continued, still holding his friend's hand in his
own firmly and affectionately. “That the world
at large should desert me, as I am told they do,
was to me a theme neither of much grief nor wonder;
but you, Albert, you and Mary!”
“We were far, far away, and flew to town the
very moment we heard of this inexplicable—this
terrible—this—”
“Ay, Albert,” said Norman, a cloud darkening
his face, “pause and seek for words, as I have done.
But how is Mary?”
“Well in health, but shocked, agitated, and thunderstruck
at your present situation, and at the startling
evidence against you. It is astounding, it is
stunning to hear the array of facts; but Mary would
be your defender were they ten thousand times
more appalling.”
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“And yet—confess it, Albert—even you have
been staggered?”
“Norman, I have been stunned; but I come to
you, not only as a friend, but as a counsel. I shall
add myself to the gentleman already employed by
your father. But, before we proceed, let me ask
one question. If any extraordinary circumstance—
any horrid dilemma—any sudden intoxication of
love, or passion, or despair, or madness, has hurried
you to—”
Norman started once more to his feet. It was
no longer with agitation. Deep despair had thrown
around him a character of mysterious and unearthly
coldness, of passionless solemnity and calmness,
like that which invests a statue gazed on by moonlight,
in which there is ever a thrilling and spectral
power.
“It is enough!” he said; “my cup is full. I
drink it to the dregs without a murmur. Leave me,
Moreland.”
He was obeyed. We shall not intrude upon his
meditations.
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Storm increases.
“They have tied me to the stake, I cannot fly.”
Macbeth.
The morning came—the hour of trial arrived.
The human tide had already rolled into the court-room,
and, amid shuffling and pushing, and the
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frequent interference of the police-officers, and all the
agitation and clamour of a mob much excited, the
crowd at length once more occupied, not only every
seat, but every spot where a foot or a shoulder could
be braced, or a hand could cling.
The judges assumed their seats; the jury were
called; silence was ordered by the criers; the agitated
mass at length settled into quiet; the prisoner
again entered, and was placed at the bar; and all
the customary forms and preliminaries being at
length accomplished, the endictment was regularly
read, and the district attorney rose to open the case,
and to explain the circumstances which he expected
to prove. The public were thus put in possession
of all the authentic facts which the industrious investigations
of the state attorney had elicited. The
speaker's youthful zeal and his professional ambition,
the interest which hurries along an ardent lawyer
for the time to make the cause of his client his
own—which warms with its progress and strengthens
by opposition, and which at length renders the
desire of success an absorbing and exclusive passion,
almost resembling the desperate anxiety of
the gambler—combined to inspire him with enthusiastic
eloquence. His recital of the circumstances
which he hoped to prove was conducted with the
art of rhetoric, and coloured with the hues of imagination.
It was a fearful and soul-stirring narrative,
that chilled the blood of the coldest auditor.
With what awful force must it have fallen upon the
ears of the prisoner! The orator did not express
the wary suggestions of one seeking truth, but the
excited and exciting denunciations of a mind fully
predetermined, and highly inflamed with a mere
one-sided view of the case; placing upon every incident
the deepest and guiltiest construction; supposing
the basest motives for every action;
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disavowing a belief of whatever tended to exculpate;
magnifying, through the medium of a heated fancy,
every damning proof; overlooking, thrusting aside,
explaining away, or ridiculing, every palliating circumstance;
sketching, with a bold pencil of vindictive
hate, a picture of unparalleled, irredeemable
iniquity, and shedding upon it a glare of poetic light,
calculated to startle and appal every heart. How
far such a course is favourable to the elucidation of
truth, the interests of society, and the spirit of a
court of justice, and how far a more merciful principle
might be incompatible with the safe and beneficial
operation of the legal machinery, I leave to
the determination of the profession itself and of the
world. It is certain, however, that long before the
eloquent counsel had closed his opening speech,
the prisoner, whose doomed head was the single
and unsheltered mark for bolt after bolt, launched
from the hand of one he had never injured, and
against whose fiery assaults he could rear no defence,
found himself the centre of all eyes, and
evidently the object of universal and unmingled
horror. Alone, writhing in unspeakable agony,—
compelled to hear himself, his character, his
thoughts, words, and actions, misrepresented,
blackened, and denounced—forbidden the privilege
of explaining, of denying—without the power either
to resist or to fly—he lay like Prometheus chained
on the cold rock, his heart pierced by the beak of
a fierce foe, and with all the thunders of heaven
rolling over his head.
“You have seen, gentlemen,” continued the orator,
with excited voice and flashing eyes, and, ever
and anon, a glance of lofty and pitiless scorn on
the ghastly face of his victim—“you have seen, in
the perpetrator of this dreadful deed, the aspect of
youth, the outbreak of feeling, a mild and gentle
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demeanour, patience, modest silence on the lip,
and cheeks blanched by suffering. You are moved.
Your bosoms soften. You relent. You think of
his heart-broken father: you are fathers yourselves;
you cannot credit the accusation. That
gentle face never glared over the agonies himself
had occasioned; those hands never accomplished
the deed of death. Beneath that youthful bosom,
now heaving with emotion, never lurked the
gloomy fierceness of an assassin. Alas! gentlemen,
that my painful duty should break your
dreams of mercy. Human nature teems with
contrasts and paradoxes like these, and the cunning
devices of Satan are formed at once to delude
the criminal and his fellow-creatures. It is even
in such a form that he too often pours his poison.
It is in such a bosom that he plants his wildest
passions. He secretes the coiled serpent under
a bed of flowers. Sin often lies where men least
suspect its existence. Look not only among the
rude, the uncouth, the deformed, the poor, or the
ignorant, for the perpetrators of crime. The very
passions we most admire lead us astray. Love,
the tenderest of human sentiments, sometimes
guides the dagger and drugs the bowl. It is in
one like the accused that this passion, with all its
frightful consequences, springs with the greatest
facility and attains the most monstrous power. It
is in the specious form of grace, knowledge, and
virtue that the tempter steals upon his victim. A
rich and luxuriant soil, gentlemen, teeming with
fruit and flowers, yields also the most poisonous
plants, in the most remarkable vigour. Has the
prisoner's former life been pure and amiable? has
his character been marked by no atrocity? has he
rather been compassionate and tender, and would
my able opponents thence conclude the
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impossibility of his having committed this deed? They
who know human nature will not be deceived by
their eloquent sophistry. Your experience, your
observation, your reading, have already taught you
the fallacy of such reasoning. Nero, one of the
bloodiest tyrants that ever darkened the historic
page, was, like this man, once a youthful votary of
tenderness and refinement; and his heart, which,
when more fully developed, could never sufficiently
sate itself with human sacrifice, melted and recoiled
from attaching his signature to a just death-warrant.
I refer to this well-known inconsistency
in human nature, gentlemen, to guard your minds
against attempts, on the part of my ingenious opponents,
to excite your sympathies in favour of
the character of the accused. Gentlemen, when
God gave the garden of Eden to the beings he had
created, on one condition—the golden fruit was
forbidden to man and beast—who was it that
disobeyed the command? It was none of the
lower class of beings; it was not even man himself.
It was Eve who reached forth her hand,
plucked, and ate—Eve, the fairest, the purest. But
the penalty of crime must fall upon the guilty,
however surrounded with earthly beauty. The
golden tresses of the mother of mankind did not
shield her head from the anger of Heaven; neither
must your hearts be turned away from justice
and your oath, by the eloquence or the subterfuges
of my legal opposers. It is the lot of guilt to suffer;
and in yielding on this occasion to the weakness
of personal feeling, you must remember that
you not only betray the great interests of society,
but you violate your own oaths.”
As the speaker closed, the sudden bustle of the
auditory announced their release from the spell
which he had exercised over them; and the
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universal change of position, and the general freedom
of respiration, betrayed that he had held them
almost breathless and motionless.
It may be necessary to inform the reader unacquainted
with the forms of judicial proceedings, that
the counsel for the prosecution possess the right to
open the case; that the witnesses in the support of
the endictment are then examined. The counsel
for the defendant then produce their testimony, and
address the jury in his behalf; and, by a rule of
law, which at first appears contrary to its general
maxims of mercy, the prosecution exercises the important
privilege of advancing the last appeal to
the reason and feelings of the jury. The prisoner
sits, with such suspense as may be best imagined
by the intelligent reader, the silent spectator of the
fiercely-contested conflict, upon the issue of which
he depends for security from death upon the
scaffold.
It was with the calmness of desperate anguish
that the accused turned on his seat, after the address
of the prosecuting attorney, to listen to the
evidence by which it had been elicited, and which
was deemed so abundantly sufficient, in the eyes
of a sagacious lawyer, to stamp upon him the undoubted
odium of this heinous crime.
The limits of the story will not permit us to
detail the extraordinary mass of evidence now
brought forward in support of the endictment; but
we briefly relate the leading facts, sworn to by
many unimpeachable witnesses.
It appeared that the prisoner was of a sanguine
and passionate temperament, prone to act upon impulse—
of liberal education and uncommon talents—
his family wealthy, and his father one of the
most eminent of American statesmen. Notwithstanding,
however, his graceful and gentle
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manners, and apparently kind heart, he had several
times exhibited a high-wrought temper, a total disregard
of morality and religion, and an inherent
ferocity—which, argued the counsel, might fully
sanction the probable truth of the present charge.
Count Clairmont was the witness called upon to
describe the difference which formerly took place
between himself and the prisoner; and the extraordinary
barbarity or madness of the latter, who insisted
on either not fighting at all, or else with the
muzzles against each other's breast: in this state the
affair was pending, when arranged by the accidental
interference of friends. He related also the
recent fracas between them, with singular and artful
malice. Both these incidents made a powerful
impression against the accused.
It appeared, by other witnesses, that the prisoner
had conceived an affection for Miss Romain. It
could not be distinctly sworn how far his love was
requited, but plausible and terrible surmises were
entertained on the subject; and the prosecution
attempted to produce evidence leading to the darkest
conjectures; but, as it depended upon hearsay,
the witnesses were either prohibited from answering,
or their answers were set aside by the court,
as not legal proof. They doubtless, however, were
not without effect upon the jury.
It was next proved that a change of sentiments
had taken place between Miss Romain and the
prisoner; after which she expressed herself in bitter
terms against him—spoke of her wrongs, and
her folly in submitting to them; and exhibited, before
a confidential female domestic, keen disappointment
and anguish, great anxiety, and a mysterious
agitation: sometimes bursting forth into
anger, and sometimes settling down into long fits of
melancholy. At length she appeared free from all
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embarrassment; and the prisoner, in common with
many other gentlemen, visited the house as usual.
During several days, however, previous to the
afternoon of the murder, she let fall, before Jenny,
frequent expressions by which the faithful maid's
curiosity was greatly awakened, and her affection
alarmed. She commenced several times as if to
reveal an important secret; then suddenly turning
pale, stopped, and, on being interrogated, refused
any explanation, sometimes replying with sighs.
Once, when she thought herself alone, she was
heard to exclaim, “If he but prove honest—if he
but mean well;” and other similar sentences.
Witness, Jenny, slept in a small room immediately
adjoining that of Miss Romain. On the morning
of the fatal day, she was awakened before light by
the sound of her mistress's voice, apparently speaking
to some one below. Her mistress stood at a
window leading out upon a little balcony. Witness
was alarmed, rose, asked what was the matter,
and came to the window—saw the shadow of a
man stealing away. In great alarm and astonishment
asked who it was, and whether it was Mr.
Leslie? The other replied, eagerly, “Yes—yes,
it was Mr. Leslie. He came to tell me something;”
and then added, “but, Jenny, if you ever
breathe a word of this to anybody, I will never
forgive you while I live; and, when I am dead, I
will haunt you.”
A crowd of witnesses testified that the prisoner
had called for the deceased in a gig, on the afternoon
of the murder: from that moment she had
never been seen or heard of. The prisoner was
seen returning in the evening alone. One testified
that, aware of his having driven out with Miss Romain,
he asked why he had left his companion?
that the prisoner exhibited strong signs of
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embarrassment; and made a confused and unintelligible
reply. The hat and feathers of the deceased were
found floating upon the East River, near the spot
where she was last traced with the prisoner; an
extraordinary appearance of a scuffle was discernible;
and a handkerchief, stained with blood, marked
with the initials R. R., and pronounced to be
that of Miss Romain, was picked up near the
river-bank.
The circumstance most forcible against the prisoner
was the subsequent discovery of a human
body, which had floated far down with the tide,
upon the shores of Long Island, in a state to preclude
the possibility of identifying it; but in which,
notwithstanding, many undertook to recognise the
remains of the unfortunate Miss Romain. One individual
swore to it positively.
An appalling array of other evidence was adduced,
tending to establish all the points necessary
to the successful prosecution of the endictment;
and when the prosecuting attorney rested his case,
it is probable that very few, amid the vast and various
multitude who had listened with profound
attention to the development of these deeply interesting
incidents, entertained the slightest doubt that
the doomed culprit was about to meet a terrible and
a just fate. All eyes regarded him without the
softness of mercy, or even the interest of doubt.
To all he seemed a victim bound for slaughter.
The populace had long before lost all sense of pity
in wonder and indignation. The broad gaze of
cold curiosity, the exclamation of surprise, the murmur
of horror, the smile of virtue triumphing in the
downfall of a villain—all these were scarcely attempted
to be concealed from the observation of
him who had called them forth.
“Poor Mr. Leslie!” said Jenny, her eyes red
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with weeping, and after a long gaze upon his calm
and noble features, till her pretty blue eyes could no
longer see through her tears; “I shall never trust
to man's face again. Oh, Mr. Leslie, forgive me,
forgive me! If you are guilty there is no truth on
earth. I cannot believe it.”
It was now late in the afternoon, and the court
adjourned, to meet again at six in the evening.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A Letter, and Woman's Friendship.
“Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be washed off
the next tide.”
Instead of immediately following the prisoner
to his cell, we beg the reader's company to the mansion
of Moreland. The young advocate had been
in court at his station all the morning, and to his
watchful care and acute genius the counsel, Mr.
Loring, owed many valuable suggestions in the
course of his cross-examination of the witnesses.
Sometimes his mind was staggered by the testimony,
combined with what he had elsewhere heard.
He remembered also the strong expressions of disgust
and hatred which Norman had used respecting
Rosalie Romain at Mrs. Temple's, when the deceased
had so brilliantly displayed her charms and
her talents. Again, the utter impossibility of Norman
Leslie's having committed a murder flashed
on his mind with the force of intuition; and his
heart smote him for having ever, even in the weakness
of a moment, doubted the invincible purity
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and innocence of his friend, whom he had so many
reasons to admire and love. He had at length
come to the conclusion, that either Norman was entirely
guiltless, or that he had committed the deed
under the impulse of some momentary delirium;
or, perhaps, that it was the result of inexplicable
accident; or, that the affair involved other secrets
and mysteries, which honour, or a highminded romantic
sensibility, forbade him to betray, even to
save himself from an unjust fate.
“Dare I ask how it has gone with him to-day?”
said Mrs. Moreland, as her husband reached his
home.
“Badly, gloomily, desperately. His sky is black
as midnight, and all the fiercest lightnings of heaven
are leaping around his head. Mary, I fear the
worst!”
“Oh, great Providence!—Albert, you will not
let those cold and cruel lawyers sacrifice that gentle
and noble being! Powers of heaven! if I were
a man! You, dear Albert, have genius, eloquence,
fire—Oh speak!—exclaim—denounce—thunder—
deafen their ears—appal their hearts—make them
blush—make them tremble! Oh, Albert, save your
friend! save the reputation of your country! save
this cold-blooded court from committing the very
crime that they pretend to punish!”
“Alas! my sweet wife,” said he, pressing the
animated girl to his bosom, and looking down
mournfully on her beautiful and illumined face,
“all the thunders of Demosthenes could not save
poor Norman's head from this bolt. Mary, I fear,
I fear our friend must die.”
An hour brought a messenger with a letter. It
was from Norman, and read thus:—
“My dearest Albert, excuse my warmth to you
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the other day. I have now seen sufficient reason
why even you should be bewildered at the mystery
in which I am lost. I beg your pardon sincerely.
Visit me once more: I have requested my father
and sister to meet me also, for the last time. This
day must disentangle my mind from all earthly feelings
and agitations. I am resigned to the fatal and
inevitable termination of this trial. The verdict cannot
but be, Guilty. Come to me immediately, my
dearest friend. I shall then have done with earth.
I must say farewell for ever, to-night. Bid dear,
dear Mary, for me, an everlasting adieu. I call
down God's blessing on her head. I will not insult
her by condescending to assert my innocence.
Such declarations are useless. Such as she do not
require, and the rest of the world will not believe,
them. I send her a little volume of `Paradise
Lost,' which I have pencilled somewhat freely, not
thinking to part with it on so sad an occasion. Does
she remember our ancient rambles on the banks of
the Hudson? our famous quarrel when we were
children, and when we did not speak for three days?
Happy, happy years! How their tranquil light and
beauty contrast with the present! But I must be
a man. Come immediately. The court meet at six—
it is now four. Mary would have been astonished
to hear what a dreadful ruffian I was proved to
be! And that affair of the duel!! I could have
smiled, but they would have ascribed that to my
`inherent ferocity of character.' What a farce,
after all, are often the best ceremonies of a human
tribunal. Good-by, for a half hour. Be not longer.
It may be my last request. God bless you, dear
Mary! and a long farewell! Excuse this scrawl;
and in great haste,
“Your ever affectionate friend,
“Norman Leslie.”
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“Poor—poor fellow!” murmured both at once,
their eyes streaming with tears.
“And see,” said Mary, smiling, with that strange
intrusion of transient mirth into the midst of grief,
not uncommon in similar scenes, “Norman is sure
to have that `excuse this scrawl, and in great haste,'
to all his letters.”
“Good-by, dear wife.”
“Fly, Albert, fly, and the great God of eloquence
and justice attend your steps!”
CHAPTER XXV.
Prison Scenes—The Trial continued—A new Witness.
“Sable night involves the skies;
And heaven itself is ravished from their eyes.
The face of things a frightful image bears,
And present death in various forms appears.”
Dryden's Virgil.
Moreland found the father and sister of Norman
already in the prison, with his friend Howard.
The sad scene had been witnessed but by the
black walls alone; nor shall we attempt to describe
this meeting of a father and sister with a beloved
and only son and brother, but recently dragged from
the bosom of a happy family, with all the refinement
of education, all the sensitiveness of delicacy
and feeling, and about to perish like a common ruffian
upon a scaffold.
The clock tolled six. It was the hour appointed
for the reopening of the court. At the earnest
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solicitations of the father and sister of Norman, he
consented that the latter should be present during
the whole of the trial. The request was also
urged by Moreland, who conceived that her appearance
would prepare the jury to receive with more
liberality the arguments and proof of the defence.
“Well, father,” said Norman, with a forced smile,
“and dear, dear Julia, now we part, and certainly
for ever. After the verdict, I cannot, I will not, trust
myself again within the sound of any human voice
I love. No one, with my permission, shall look
upon my face again. Farewell, farewell!—may
Almighty God bless—protect—relieve you—nay,
Julia, nay—father, support yourself—my sweet
Julia—Howard, for God's sake—”
They were interrupted by a summons for the
prisoner. The young lawyer, his own eyes bathed
in tears, drew away with gentle violence the father,
while Howard supported the shuddering and fainting
sister, after an embrace more than twice repeated,
which seemed to drain the life-blood from
their lips and hearts. As they were thus led from
the cell, Julia, with a shriek of agony, fell senseless
into the arms of Howard.
Returning, to his surprise, Moreland found the
countenance and demeanour of Norman calm—
even cold.
“Thank God!—thank God!” he said, in a steady
voice, “it is done. The bond is severed—the darkness,
the bitterness of death is passed. It is this,
dear Albert, that I most feared—not death itself,
but these scenes of frightful grief and harrowing
affection. But we, too, must part. I must meet
my fate alone—without a friend—without a hope—
to the bar—to the sentence—to the scaf—” A
quivering agony shot across his features; then again
all was calm and cold as marble.
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“Gentlemen,” he cried, after a moment's pause,
to the officers in waiting to conduct him back to
court, “may I beg one word in private with this
my friend and counsellor?”
The permission was granted, and they were
locked in the cell.
“Albert,” cried Norman, in a voice as changed,
wild, and hurried as if his senses were wavering,
“Albert, hear me!—by your friendship—by your
love—by the happiness of my family—by my life-blood—
by your own honour and peace of mind—
by earth—by the God that made it—grant, grant
my request!”
“Speak—speak, my injured, my noble friend!”
said Moreland, partaking his agitation.
“You saw my poor father but now?”
“Well, Norman?”
“And my sweet sister?—a beautiful, blooming
girl, with the bright world before her.”
“Well, dear Norman?”
“That noble man's proud head, Albert—that
dear girl's pure, fond, high heart, as susceptible to
pride, Albert, as sensitive to grief and disgrace,
as—”
He struck his hand upon his forehead; his
bosom heaved and panted; and his nostril dilated
with the hard-drawn breath.
“Well, Norman, hope for the best.”
“Albert,” said Norman, “trifle not with me. I
must be crushed in this dreadful fate. Earth cannot
save me. Heaven will not! To-night I shall
be adjudged guilty; and in a few more days the
crowd—the cord—the scaffold—end Norman Leslie.
Death alone I do not fear. Oh, God! how I
have wished for it!—but I must die on the scaffold,
before the mob—the shouting, laughing, reckless,
jesting mob—a spectacle of horror and ignominy—
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a public proverb! Oh, Albert, Albert!—my friend—
my guardian—my saviour—my last—best—only—
only hope—”
His paleness grew frightful.
“Norman,” cried Moreland, in a tone of alarm,
“in the name of mercy, what would you ask?”
“Think—my friend—think,” said Norman.
“I am dizzy, dear Norman, I cannot think.”
A new summons interrupted them.
“Albert—we will meet again. I must die—but
not on the scaffold. Forbid it, friendship—manly
honour! After this mummery is over—this farcical,
ridiculous ceremony of a trial, where every
word that is spoken is a black slander, an unholy
lie, where falsehood and prejudice appear to testify,
and where even truth herself comes only in a
vile and monstrous disguise—when this stupid
mockery is over, come to me, Albert, bring me
the means of escape.”
“Norman, I do not understand.”
“Not from these dismal walls, Albert”—he approached,
and whispered in his ear, with a look of
wild meaning, and struck his hand upon his breast—
“from this!”
“Great God!”
“Fail me, Albert, and I die—despising; assist
me, and I bless you with my expiring breath.
This thought has supported me; this cooled the
scorching fever in my veins and bursting temples
during the last two days.”
A more imperative call now cut short the interview.
He smiled as the officers now entered; and,
bearing up proudly and loftily under the gaze of
the crowds assembled outside the prison to see
him pass, he stepped with a calm and thoughtful
air through the passage opened for him by the
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throngs in the corridors of the hall, and in the
chamber of justice, and assumed his accustomed
seat. His coolness created in some surprise, in
others indignation, according as in their shortsighted
and superficial observations they ascribed
it to hackneyed villany, or impudent confidence in
his connexions and rank in society. Who shall
read the heart in those ever-changing and accidental
moods which chance upon the manners or countenance?
“He depends upon a pardon,” said one.
“Influence at court,” cried another.
“Kissing goes by favour!” exclaimed a third.
“But he'll swing for it yet,” cried a fourth, “or
my name aint Jemmy Jackson!”
“The bloodthirsty villain,” observed one; “how
he glares at the prosecuting attorney!”
“That proud rascal yonder,” said Jemmy Jackson,
who, from some capricious association, had
conceived an especial antipathy to the prisoner,
“and that girl in the black veil—that's his father
and sister, ye see.”
“Poor people!” rejoined the person to whom
was made this communication; “they must feel
terrible, sure enough.”
“Hoot, man, I'll warrant them as bad as he,”
returned the implacable Jemmy Jackson; “such
fruit could spring from no good tree. In my opinion
they ought to be all hanged together. I should
not wonder if he paid his way through yet.”
“Jemmy Jackson, you are an old fool,” said a
Marine Court lawyer, himself rather advanced in
years.
“Then it's pot calling kettle black, I'm thinkin,”
said Jemmy, winking to his companions. “And
why am I a fool, Mr. Oakum?”
“Because ye are, Jemmy; and that's a better
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reason than you can give for saying that anybody
pays his way. Here no one pays his way; not
even yourself, Jemmy, if you should be called on
to be hanged one day, which is not unlikely.”
“But there is such a thing as bribing a witness,”
said Jemmy, who, without the least cause but his
own whim, had so dogmatically determined upon
the guilt of the prisoner and all his relations, that
if the murdered girl herself had made her appear
ance to disprove the charge of her death, he would
have laid it to bribery. “You remember the gold
snuff-box which one of you lawyers quietly passed
to a juror, Mr. Oakum?”
“Not I, Jemmy; I never passed a gold snuff-box
to a juror.”
“No,” said Jemmy, “the gold snuff-boxes you
may have, friend Oakum, you are more likely to
keep yourself; not on account of your conscience
but your pocket.”
“Hoot, hist, silence!” cried Mr. Oakum, pretending
not to hear the laugh which Jemmy Jackson's
wit occasioned; “don't you see they're going
to begin. Mr. Loring is going to open the defence.
There are two sides to a stone wall, you know,
Mr. Jemmy Jackson. Sit down there! no standing
up within the bar! Silence!” and his whisper
was echoed in an obstreperous tone by the crier.
The counsel for the prisoner, Mr. Loring, commenced
his arduous and apparently hopeless duties.
We must here again express in a few lines what
occupied the court a long time. It was admitted
that Miss Romain disappeared the afternoon of her
ride with the prisoner. That he had gone out
with her and returned alone. His own explanation
stated that Miss Romain had ridden with him
upon a casual invitation; that on reaching an unfrequented
place, they met a lady riding alone in
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a gig, and, what he considered very extraordinary,
driving herself. The deceased entered the gig,
and, after a few moments' private conversation
with her, and with many apologies to the prisoner,
expressed a wish to return with her. That prisoner
had then gone back alone by a different route,
and had not suspected her disappearance till some
time after, when he immediately called on her
father to explain what he knew of so extraordinary
a circumstance.
Mr. Loring opened the defence by stating that
the incident was plunged in doubt and mystery.
The idea that a man of the prisoner's character,
even were he inclined to commit a murder, would
select such a time and such means, was absurd.
He might as well have perpetrated it in the city
streets at noonday. It was evident that some unfathomable
mystery was connected with it, with
which the prisoner had nothing to do, and which
the court had not yet approached. It was one of
those inexplicable occurrences which, when genius,
and acuteness, and professional learning had
vainly endeavoured to solve, unfolded of itself in
the course of time. “The explanation of the prisoner
may appear a clumsy fabrication, too clumsy
to believe; yet, gentlemen, beware how you admit
that supposition. To me its very clumsiness and
improbability furnish a reason for its truth. You
smile. But do improbable things never happen?
Are all the actions of the great, confused, clashing,
mutable world, probable? Must a man perish because
an improbable fact has taken place? I say,
gentlemen, the greater the improbability of this
story, the more implicitly I believe it. Had he
wished to invent a story, it would have been more
cunningly devised,” etc.
The evidence for the prisoner was very limited.
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The officers swore to his horror and astonishment
at being arrested; but, in the cross-examination,
confessed that he betrayed extraordinary signs of
confusion, strongly resembling guilt. Others had
seen him on his return from the fatal ride, without
observing any embarrassment or abstraction.
The evidence of Miss Leslie, although indirect,
was received with lively marks of sympathy. She
had met her brother, on his arrival from the afternoon
ride, and had particularly remarked his health
and cheerfulness. She described him as peculiarly
gay, having been one of a party of ladies and gentlemen
who walked on the Battery in the evening,
and discovering, in all the thousand offices of courtesy,
a heart entirely at rest.
“Oh,” continued the young and lovely girl, enthusiastic
affection quite drowning every consideration
of personal embarrassment, “they who believe
Norman capable of committing that or any
other crime, little know his character. Even supposing
it possible in a moment of delirium, it is
not possible that afterward he could be so natural
and easy, so completely unembarrassed and happy.
From boyhood, Norman has been remarkable for
betraying in his countenance what was passing in
his heart, and even for blushing when any thing
confused him. But we saw no kind of agitation
whatever; and I am certain that he could not
have concealed from us, had any secret weighed
upon—”
“This is all very well,” said Mr. Germain, who
had been particularly vehement and bitter during
the whole trial, against everybody and every thing
tending to exculpate the prisoner—“this is all very
well; but I ask the court if it is evidence. The
young lady, I believe, comes here as a witness, not
as counsel.”
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This was received—as any levity that breaks
the monotonous solemnity of a court of justice is
sure to be received—with a slight general titter;
although one of the jurors was observed to pass
his fingers hastily over his glistening eyes. The
prisoner smiled bitterly, and shook his head, as if
in wonder. Moreland rose for the first time.
“May it please the court,” cried Moreland, in a
voice low almost to a whisper, but so perceptibly
tremulous that a general hush succeeded his first
words—“may it please the court: we are a tribunal
of justice. I am aware that we are judges, jury,
counsel, and spectators; and from such assemblies
I know it is proper to exclude all feeling. But,
nevertheless, we are—we ought to be men. If the
prisoner be guilty—though young, proud, beautiful,
and noble, with other deep hearts wound convulsively
around him, and bound up in him—yet, if
he be guilty, let him die the death of violence and
ignominy.”
A shudder and a drawing in of the breath was
heard from the sister, like that of the victim when
the edge of the axe first glitters before his eyes.
The spectators grew more profoundly motionless
and silent, and Moreland, rising and warming with
his emotions, went on:—
“I would not from private feeling, not even from
private opinion, turn aside the sword of public justice.
But I will not, I dare not, I cannot sit silently
by, and behold the best emotions of nature outraged,
ridiculed, trampled down, by the habitual coldness
or hardened zeal of the profession to which I
belong. If the sister of this unhappy man in her
secret soul believes him guilty,” still her trembling
voice, her streaming eyes, her woman's heart raised
in his behalf, demand the respect and attention of
a civilized people. But if this amiable and lovely
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girl here plead for the life of a brother, on whose
utter and complete innocence she relies as she has
faith in her own existence and in her God—if
she possess knowledge, if she can advance arguments
to rescue him from a dishonourable and
untimely grave, or even to relieve her own broken
heart with the outpourings of its swollen and agonized
fulness—let the hand that would stay her
fall palsied—let the tongue that would deride her
blister. The motive which now inspires this affectionate
sister to throw herself—timid and trembling
woman as she is—before a tribunal of justice,
and before such a crowd as now hears me, to
speak in defence of a beloved brother, is pure, exalted,
unalloyed, and noble; and, in the name of
every thing good and generous—in the name of
mercy, of charity—in the name of woman, I claim
for her protection from the derision and sneers
which the learned gentlemen on the other side of
the question have thought it not beneath them to
express against the defence.”
A burst of irrepressible applause, notwithstanding
the solemnity of the place, followed this outflash
of indignant feeling; but it was instantly and
sternly silenced and rebuked by the court, who
threatened to commit immediately to prison any
one guilty of such a contempt in future, and directed
the officers to be watchful.
The prosecuting counsel, Mr. Germain, against
whose head this bolt had been evidently directed,
rose, rubbing his hands with a distrustful smile,
and a confidential look along the jury.
“May it please the court—but one word, your
honour,” he said; “the gentleman misunderstands
me. My heart bleeds as well as his own at the
sight of private suffering; but I know how necessary
it is in matters of justice to guard against
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personal feeling. Virtue and domestic love are beautiful
words; but there are also such words as law
and justice. I perceive the artifice of the ingenious
counsel in producing before the jury the father and
sister of the prisoner, to soften our hearts and inflame
our feelings. It is a trick of the profession.
Legal questions should be discussed only by the
light of reason. They require only a deliberate
and unprejudiced examination of proof, and a cold
knowledge of statutes—the colder and more
unfeeling, the better. Whatever may be the sufferings
of the prisoner or his family, what bearing
can they have, ought they to have, on the naked
question, `Is he or is he not guilty?' In respect to
the evidence of Miss Leslie, whom, of course, we
are bound to believe very pure in her intentions, I
wish only to restrict her within the legal limits of
a witness. If sisters turn pleaders, stealing in under
license of witnesses, a new and most dangerous
era will be introduced into our jurisprudence. Private
feeling, however harrowing, is but insignificant
when compared with the public good. Neither
should we forget to distinguish between the
pain resulting directly from guilt in those connected
with the guilty party, and that inflicted by him
upon others. The parent and sister of the unhappy
culprit are not the only bereaved victims of this
crime now within hearing of my voice. The griefstricken
heart of that old man, whose only daughter
fell beneath the prisoner's hand—have we no sympathy
with his dark age, with his deserted hearth?
Let the unfortunate man at the bar regard the
wreck he has caused in his own circle with feelings
of bitter anguish, and may Heaven support
him under the trial! But we have nothing to see,
nothing to feel, but whether, on the proof adduced,
he be guilty or not guilty.'
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The court begged that nothing more might be
said on the subject. They had heard the counsel
for the defence, because they wished to extend towards
the prisoner every possible clemency, and
the prosecution had a certain right to reply; but
the question respecting the evidence of the witness
was unimportant. She must be allowed to relate
her statements in her own way; and if, from her
feelings or her inexperience, out of order, she would
be restrained by the court.
“What else do you know respecting the case?”
inquired Mr. Loring of the witness.
“Nothing,” was the reply, and thus the long
debate had been unnecessary.
After a confused mass of contradictory testimony,
Mr. Loring announced his intention of producing
one more witness, who had voluntarily
come forward in the cause of innocence, and to
prevent the unjust effusion of human blood—one
whose station and character were unimpeachably
pure; whose motives could not be impugned or
traduced; who was swayed neither by the power
of domestic love, nor by any intimate acquaintance
with the prisoner; a lady, the daughter of one of
the most distinguished families in the city: her
testimony, he added, would be conclusive. It had
come to his knowledge by accident, and only this
moment, and could not fail to acquit the prisoner.
This announcement produced much excitement.
The judge turned to gaze with an eagerness almost
incompatible with his dignity; the jury looked
anxiously forward; the prosecuting counsel smiled
shrewdly, and muttered aloud, “A new device of
the enemy;” and the auditory at large stretched
their necks to behold the new-comer, whom more
than one pronounced to be Miss Romain herself.
Not among the least surprised was the prisoner,
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who leaned forward with evident curiosity. The
side-doors being opened, a female, enveloped in a
close bonnet and veil, entered, and took her seat on
the witness's stand
CHAPTER XXVI.
Hope dawns.
“But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair!”
—Collins.
“The gentleman appears peculiarly favoured by
the fair sex,” said Mr. Germain, half aloud.
“Is it another sister?” asked a juror.
“No,” replied the counsel, quickly, and, in a
voice too low to be distinctly heard, added something
which occasioned a laugh among those immediately
around him, and even from one or two
of the jurors.
The witness was narrowly scrutinized by all
eyes, and, though wrapped in her veil and bonnet,
was observed to shrink at thus appearing before
the public. Her step faltered; her voice, as she
replied to the judge's question concerning her
name, trembled, and was so low as to render her
reply at first unintelligible. She made a gesture,
too, of faintness, at the rude laugh directed apparently
against herself.
“Sit down, madam,” said Moreland, in a soothing
tone; “you have nothing to fear.”
“What is the young lady's name?” asked the
judge.
“Miss Temple—Flora Temple,” answered
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Moreland; thus kindly furnishing her time to recover
her voice and composure.
An exclamation of surprise from the prisoner
announced that to him her name brought astonishment.
He stirred, changed his position, and leaned
forward.
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Temple,” said Mr.
Loring; “take your own time to reply. You are
a resident of New-York? You are daughter of Mr.
Herman Temple? You are acquainted with the
prisoner?”
These and one or two other similar interrogatories
were put by the careful counsel, in order to
lead the witness from her embarrassment. They
were answered, at first, in a voice almost inaudible.
“Louder, louder,” said Mr. Germain. “If the
young lady will have the goodness to speak louder,
we may at least hear what this wonderful secret
is.”
“You are acquainted with the prisoner?” said
Mr. Loring.
“I have known him for some years,” was the
reply, in a tone much more loud and distinct, but
so soft and full of music that a murmur of interest
was heard in her behalf.
“Are you related to him in any way?” asked
Germain.
“Not in the least.”
“Are you likely, or rather have you ever been
likely to be?” added Germain, bluntly, and with
another laugh.
“The witness is ours,” said Moreland; “and I
must again beg and entreat of the court protection
from derision.”
“Have you any interest in the result of this
cause?” asked Loring.
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“Oh yes, yes!” was the answer.
“Then, may it please the court,” said Germain,
starting up, “I move that—”
“She is interested only, as we are all interested,
in the triumph of truth,” said Moreland.
“You are putting words into the witness's mouth,”
interrupted Germain.
A brisk interchange of elocution here took place,
too common in courts of justice, when every trivial
point is attacked and defended with the thunder of
battle-axe and the clash of swords, and the most
unjust devices of ingenuity (in other transactions
what would it be termed?) are not abandoned without
a skirmish. Lawyers' tongues are sharp as
soldiers' swords, and sometimes cut as deep; and
wo betide the modest, the pure, the defenceless,
who come between the “great opposites” in the
keen excitement of an interesting case. It would
not be fair to advance this charge against the whole
American bar, but there is too much truth in it.
Great is the praise, therefore, due to those who redeem
the character of the profession by a more
moderate and generous course, who pursue their
client's interest only as far as sanctioned by propriety
and honour; and who, in the most absorbing
interest of their pursuit, preserve a reverence for
truth, and never, never offend the delicacy due to
woman. Yet the most honest witness in a court
of justice frequently finds himself stung with sarcasms,
attacked with the bitterness of malice, flatly
charged with perjury, overwhelmed with odium,
and dismissed with disgrace from a station to which
the court has forced him, after delivering testimony,
perhaps, the most repugnant to his own private feelings;
and for this degradation, neither the law nor
the customs of society offer redress.
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“Have you any personal, any pecuniary interest
in the event of this action?” asked the counsel.
“Oh no, no!” replied Miss Temple.
“And now,” said Mr. Loring, “pray tell the jury,
in a distinct voice, what you know of the prisoner.”
“I have met Mr. Leslie frequently in company,
and at my father's house. His manners have been
always gentle, and his character high and noble;
certainly the character of a man quite, quite incapable
of—”
Germain rose. Moreland rose also. The judge
sternly commanded both to be seated.
“You say you know the prisoner's character to
be good?”
“I do.”
“Were you acquainted with Rosalie Romain?”
“I was.”
“Familiarly?”
“Quite so.”
“What was her character?”
Flora looked down at the unhappy father, and
hesitated; but, remembering the imperative nature
of her duty, continued,—
“She was light, and very eccentric.”
“Do you believe her, from what you know, capable
of so remarkable a measure as eloping?”
“I do. She wanted steadiness of mind, and was
actuated by sudden impulses.”
“Were you familiarly acquainted with her features?”
“Quite familiarly. Her appearance and face
were very peculiar. She was tall, graceful, majestic,
and very beautiful.”
Mr. Romain, who had followed the testimony of
this witness with mute and strained attention, now
leaned his forehead on the table, wept, and murmured,
“My child, my child!”
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“Go on,” said the judge.
“The afternoon on which she was said to have
been murdered, I was one of a party walking rather
late in the evening on the Battery. The gentleman
who happened to be my companion led me
from the rest towards the water-side, to behold an
effect of the light on the opposite shore.”
“Tell who the gentleman was,” said Mr. Germain.
“It was Mr. Leslie, the prisoner.”
“Oh ho! I see through this!” muttered Germain,
laughing and rubbing his hands knowingly.
“It was an uncommonly clear, moonlight evening;
and while we gazed at the light, I saw very
distinctly Rosalie Romain.”
“God of heaven!” cried Mr. Romain, rising suddenly;
“this has crossed me before. My blessed
young lady, are you sure?”
“Mr. Romain,” said the court, affected evidently,
but with an effort, “we must endeavour to suppress
these sudden bursts of feeling; they greatly impede
the proceedings.”
But the contagion of surprise had passed through
the whole audience. There was a general pause—
a movement and agitated commotion, quelled not
without some delay and difficulty.
“Proceed, Miss Temple,” said Mr. Loring.
“You saw Miss Romain?”
“Wrapped in a veil. She saw us, started, and
turned away.”
Mr. Loring rose. “I have produced this witness,
may it please the court, to establish beyond
the shadow of a doubt” (with that deliberate emphasis
familiar to lawyers) “the innocence of the
prisoner. She is an unimpeachable witness. We
rest our defence. I yield her to the ingenuity of
our learned opponents. They will, doubtless,
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endeavour to bewilder and distress her; but I repose
with unshaken confidence in the result of this important
testimony. Far from the prisoner's having
been guilty of murder, it appears that no murder
has been committed at all. The witness, gentlemen,
is yours.”
It is a painfully interesting moment when the witness,
whose testimony, if left as it has been delivered,
would certainly acquit the being trembling
with every tone of her voice for his life, is turned
over to the destroying malignity of the other party.
The fabric, apparently impregnable, in which the
persecuted, hunted-down prisoner has taken refuge,
becomes the scene of a furious attack. Blow after
blow, all the machinery of wit, cunning, and learning,
are brought to play upon it, till, yielding to fate,
its gates broken in, its foundations undermined, at
length it falls to the ground.
“This is a ghost-story,” said Germain, with an
incredulous smile. “Let us see, miss, if we cannot
unravel the mystery.”
And the lively interest of all present, including
Mr. Loring, notwithstanding his “unshaken confidence,”
acknowledged their strongly excited curiosity.
“You say,” said Germain, with a taunting, sneering
air, “that you were walking with the prisoner
when you beheld this apparition?”
“I have not referred to any apparition,” said the
witness, quietly.
“Oh ho! we congratulate your reviving spirits.
When you saw Rosalie Romain, then, if you prefer
that form of expression?”
“I said so, sir.”
“And pray what time was it?” with a look and
almost a wink at the jury.
“The clock had struck nine.”
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“Ah, after nine at night! And the phantom was
accompanied by whom?”
“By another female.”
“You saw Rosalie Romain, after nine o'clock at
night, with another female! Well, upon my word,
young lady, this is a probable story! What was
she doing there? Riding on a broomstick?”
“She was doing nothing. She passed us.”
“Veiled?”
“Yes, sir, thickly veiled.”
“Your eyes, I presume,” with another sly wink
to the jury, “possess some extraordinary organic
power above those of common mortals, not gifted
with the privilege of seeing phantoms. So you recognised
Rosalie Romain through the folds of a thick
veil, and in the darkness of night! More men in
buckram, gentlemen.”
“Passing a lamp, the glare fell on her face. She
drew the veil aside a moment as she came near;
then covering herself again hastily, quickened her
step, and was immediately out of sight.”
“Oh, that was very kind in her, to let you see
her face, was it not? You have told a probable and
very interesting story — very romantic, at least.
What did the prisoner do all this time? Did he
say nothing?”
The witness was silent.
“Ah! he said something you are unwilling to
reveal. Come, what was it? Remember, you
are on oath—the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth.”
“He said,” replied the witness, in a lower tone,
“that he did not think the person we had seen was
Miss Romain.”
“Oh ho! now you are coming to the crisis. So
the prisoner did not think the person you had seen
was Rosalie Romain?”
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“No, sir.”
“And you did?”
“I did.”
“And do?”
“And do.”
“Who saw her first?”
“Mr. Leslie.”
“Ah ha! And pointed her out to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then immediately rejected the idea, as if
he knew the impossibility of her being there?”
“He exhibited no certainty; he said, indifferently,
it could not possibly be her.”
“Ah ha! so, so! As I said, you see, gentlemen.
Pray, madam, have you ever been contracted
in marriage?”
“No, sir.”
“You must excuse me if I enter a little into particulars.
Have you ever been under any engagement
of matrimony?”
“Never.”
“Perfectly free? Has Mr. Leslie never—”
Again Moreland interfered. Again Germain defended
his question.
“What do the prosecution wish to prove?” asked
the judge.
“That this worthy young lady,” said Germain,
“who may be honest enough in the ordinary affairs
of life, comes here now under the influence of
strong feelings of love, to save a man whom—”
“I protest!” said Moreland.
“I insist!” said Germain.
“Do you wish to impeach the testimony of this
witness?” asked the judge.
Flora trembled and shrank. The prisoner rose
again. His eyes flashed upon Germain a look of
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such withering anger, that the lawyer quiled a
moment beneath its fire.
Moreland begged the interference of the court.
“We wish to show, may it please the court,”
added Germain, “that the young lady is about as
disinterested a witness as the learned gentleman is
a counsel—the one testifying for her lover, the
other pleading for his friend.”
“Order, gentlemen,” cried the judge.
“And what,” resumed Germain, “is this love-sick
young lady and her affections, which the next
breeze will bear away—what are her pretty sensibilities
to the great cause and majesty of public
justice, to the proper administration of laws, and
to purging the commonwealth from black and
hateful crimes! I do not mean, may it please
your honour, to charge this young lady with perjury;
but I do mean to suggest that a sentiment
of love has existed, and still exists, between the
witness and the prisoner; that her feelings warp
her judgment, and have presented to her what
she desires to have seen rather than what she
saw. Some remote resemblance between a night-wandering
female on the Battery and the deceased,
struck her eye, and is now remembered in this
emergency. If there were probability in her
conjecture, probability even to seize upon the
memory of the wretched culprit himself, why has
this witness been delayed so long? Why was it
left to the discovery of accident? Why did not
the prisoner call upon her to advance? Why was
she not subpœnaed by the defence? A love-sick
girl, with her head full of novels, and her heart—”
The prisoner once more rose and interrupted the
speaker with a haughty and determined air, and,
in a voice deep and rich, that sounded strangely
impressive in the sudden hush, said,—
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“Being here a defenceless man, I invoke the aid
of the court against these attacks upon my friends.
I solicit no sympathy or mercy on my own part.
I yield my blood to the demands of fate and of
mistaken justice. But, as the last request of a
doomed, a dying, and an innocent man, I entreat
that the malignity which animates the learned
gentlemen of the prosecution may pour out its exclusive
fury on my head. I entreat that those who
appear in my behalf may be protected from unjust
suspicion and wanton insult. There never has
been any such sentiment as the learned gentleman
so frequently refers to, exchanged between that
young lady and myself. On the contrary, she has
uniformly treated me with the utmost reserve, and
I am most unwilling that she should now suffer for
her magnanimity in appearing before a tribunal
where the modesty of woman is so little respected,
and in favour of one who to her has always been,
and must ever be, less than nothing.”
He sat down with flashing eyes, but a haughty
and proud demeanour; and there had been such a
fascination in the smooth, fierce, indignant flow of
his words, and in the deep vehemence, feeling,
and solemnity of his face, voice, and manner, and
such interest was universally experienced to hear
what he had to say, that he was not interrupted.
But immediately on his close, his interference was
pronounced out of order, and the stir following his
words was with some difficulty quieted. The witness
drew her veil closer at the sound of his voice,
but said nothing, and awaited motionless the next
interrogation.
“I have only one or two more questions,” said
Mr. Germain. “Can you swear, Miss Temple—
but,” he added abrupty, “I will thank you to put
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aside your veil. I cannot examine a witness properly
without seeing her face.”
Miss Temple, after a moment of hesitation,
completely, and, for the first time, fully revealed to
the spectators the features of an exquisitely lovely
young creature, beautiful beyond description. Her
light auburn hair parted with simplicity on her
forehead, a pair of large, tender blue eyes, drooping
beneath the general gaze, and lifted only once,
as if to glance reproachfully upon the countenance
of the harsh querist. Modesty and sweetness
were expressed upon her face with the most graceful
and feminine charm. All eyes regarded her
with strong and new sympathy and admiration.
Some surprise was manifested at her extreme paleness.
The prisoner riveted his eyes on her a few
moments with an expression of deep melancholy,
and then leaned down his forehead upon his hand
in silence.
Germain, who, by his rudeness, had given the
unconsciously beautiful girl this decided advantage
over him, found himself in the situation of a
warrior, who, pressing his pursuit too eagerly, sinks
into some snare of the enemy. He was himself
slightly surprised and embarrassed at the sweetness
and refinement of her towards whom he had
exhibited so little tenderness, and it seemed that
his conscience smote him.
“You will pardon my abruptness, my dear
young lady,” he said; “I am truly sorry that duty
compels me to put painful questions. You must
inform the jury whether you have been always
entirely free from matrimonial engagements with
the prisoner.”
“The question is not painful,” she replied, in a
mild and slightly tremulous tone. “Nothing of
the kind has ever taken place between Mr.
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Leslie and myself; on the contrary, it was always
understood that Mr. Leslie was attached to Miss
Romain.”
“And do you believe it?”
“I do.”
“One more question—and remember, young
lady, you are on your oath, and the Creator of
all things sees your heart. Tell me now, solemnly,
are you prepared to swear actually, absolutely, and
positively, that the person you saw, on the night
of the supposed murder, was Rosalie Romain? can
you swear to this to a certainty?”
“I can swear to nothing,” replied the witness,
“with actual certainty; but—”
“She cannot swear with certainty!” cried Germain,
triumphantly, turning to the jury.
“She cannot swear with certainty!” echoed
one.
“She cannot swear with certainty!” reiterated
another.
“But I clearly think so,” cried the witness,
with a faint attempt not to be borne down by the
undiscriminating vehemence of her opponents.
“She only thinks—she only fancies,” interrupted
Germain; “it is precisely as I thought, a mere
conjecture. You see, gentlemen, after all, this
important witness is nothing—nothing whatever.”
Some other questions were advanced in turn by
either party, but nothing new was elicited. After
the examination of two or three witnesses, to settle
and define minor points, the evidence was
closed, and the counsel for the defence addressed
the jury.
It rarely happens that two advocates upon the
same evidence can frame appeals very different
from each other. Yet perhaps few instances could
be produced where speeches were made more
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opposite in their nature than those now heard from
the two counsel for the prisoner. Mr. Loring was
cool, technical, and wary. He examined the
proof, item after item, with a cautious hand and a
keen eye, but yet with a sophistry which his opponent
knew how to counteract by similar weapons.
Moreland took a higher ground; and the contagious
sympathy and confidence which he had now
fully imbibed himself, kindled a kindred fire in the
bosoms of his hearers. He did not fail also to
persuade reason by deliberate examination of the
proof, but it was with the ardour of one who felt
and believed what he asserted. His able and eloquent
discourse was listened to with the profoundest
attention. The jurors sometimes nodded their
heads in acquiescence, and sometimes, by their
countenance, expressed surprise and pleasure at
the unexpected inferences which, under his acute
and ingenious intelligence, many points in proof
were made to yield. Several facts, apparently
most fatal to the prisoner, were now presented in
a light so new as to elucidate his innocence; and
long before he had finished with a technical consideration
of the testimony, he had awakened in
every breast a lively confidence in the innocence
of the prisoner, and had thrown about him a kind
of interest like the halo of a martyr.
Horse-racing, theatres, and gambling, enchain
men by their excitement; but it may be questioned
whether any can exceed the interest with which a
mind fully understanding the bearings of a case,
and interested from affection, or even ordinary
sympathy, follows the perpetual and sudden vicissitudes
in the course of such a trial. It presents
a continued and striking series of changes; rapid
and shifting alternations of light and shadow, of
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tempest, calm, and sunshine—a vast, deep, wild
ebb and flow of hope. The future changes, and
brightens, and sinks in gloom, as facts break
through the mist, and melt away again with the
breath of the witness, or the magic of the orator.
The truth resembles a mountain-peak enveloped
in clouds: now the billowy vapours bury its
sharp outlines in gloom; again the breeze wafts
them away, and leaves its airy and unbroken summit
shining in the sun. Thus had the prospect of
the prisoner, his character and his crime, appeared
to the spectators and jury, till, under the transforming
wand of Moreland, they beheld the darkness
vanish. The prisoner himself was softened.
His noble and handsome face yielded to the illumination
of hope and joy. Mr. Romain went up
to him and spoke words of kindness; and the
sister and father hung breathless and almost gasping
upon the music and the magic of the speaker's
lips.
“Gentlemen,” continued the orator, “at length,
at this late hour, exhausted as you must be with
your arduous duties, perhaps I should desist from
further trespassing upon your time. But I remember
with a shudder that mine are the last
words of defence and of hope which the prisoner
at the bar may ever hear. I start at the tremendous
responsibility, and almost sink beneath it.
But faith, hope, justice, and mercy whisper me to
proceed. The life of an innocent human being, of
an amiable and affectionate son, of a beloved brother,
of a citizen of this republic, is at stake. It is
my sacred duty to defend; it is your solemn province
to judge. A word from your lips launches
him into eternity. If he be guilty, I do not ask his
life. Though his sister's heart will break at the
blow,—though his father's silvery forehead will
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bend down to a dishonoured grave,—though a
youth, invested with a thousand noble qualities,
will be cut off from repentance and hope for ever,—
yet, if he be guilty, I do not ask his life. But,
by your own hopes as fathers, as friends, as men—
by the peace which you love on your pillow and in
your dying hour—by the sanctity of innocence and
the rebuking anger of Heaven—I conjure you to
pause and tremble ere you do find him guilty. It
has been alleged against me this day that I am
privately a friend to the prisoner. It has been
charged upon me as an odium, in ridicule and
scorn. I appeal to your own bosoms: who so
well as a friend should be able to judge of his character?
who so well know his ways of thinking and
acting? Is friendship to be a stigma—as we have
this day beheld the heart-broken love of a sister—
a jest, and a mockery?
“As for my own belief, I solemnly declare before
you, and before Him who knows all hearts,
that, after the most indefatigable examination of the
circumstances during a much longer period of
time than you have been able to devote, I believe
the accused totally innocent. When you consider,
gentlemen, the extraordinary facts of the case; the
character of the prisoner; the accidental and public
nature of the fatal and mysterious ride; his
demeanour subsequently; the fact that Miss Temple
saw Rosalie Romain in the evening;—you
must acknowledge that his guilt is doubtful. The
blackest doubt still hangs upon the whole affair.
It is doubtful whether the murder has been committed;
it is doubtful whether the prisoner is the
perpetrator. Miss Romain might have fallen by
another hand; she may have perished by her own;
she may have fled. The law commands you only
to find a verdict in case of certainty; are you cer
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tain? Are you even certain that Rosalie Romain
is dead? Who has identified the body? Is there
a single person who can prove her decease? Miss
Romain, at some future time, may reappear before
you. What horror would shade your future years!
I call upon you now, while yet in your power, to
save your souls from such a grievous burden. I
warn you of the innocence of the prisoner. In a
few moments you will be compelled to decide.
The doom of death, gentlemen, is mighty, is tremendous,
is irrevocable. You may extinguish a
light which can never be relumed; you may, in
one moment, perpetrate an action which all the
years of your future life may be too short and too
few to sufficiently regret. Before I yield the floor
to my adversaries, let me also warn you against
their ardour and their sophistry. They possess the
prerogative of directing against you the last appeal.
I tremble lest the cunning of art and eloquence
may baffle and blind the truth. I have already
shuddered to hear the noblest virtues derided.
They have already told you that education, refinement,
a warm heart, and an unspotted character,
are the attributes of crime and the signals for suspicion.
I watch the progress of their insidious attacks
upon your reason with the most unalloyed
and intolerable solicitude and distress. Error,
gentlemen, may lurk on either side: but the error
of one is ghastly and fatal, damning to yourselves
and all concerned; while that of the other—if, indeed,
error there be—would, even in its fallacy, approach
the benign spirit of that Redeemer who
looked with pity upon the woes of earth, and who
said, even unto the most abandoned, `Go, and sin
no more.”'
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CHAPTER XXVII.
The Verdict—Midnight Scene in a Court of Justice.
“Hark! Hush! Be still! They come.
One moment, and 'tis o'er.”
It is a mournful thing to turn from the last clinging
hope and defence of the accused, to the cold,
severe, exaggerating attacks of the prosecution.
Perhaps there never was a case upon a capital
offence, where the eloquence and ingenuity of the
defendant's counsel did not strike out upon the
misery of the accused some bright sparks of hope.
The mass of evidence cannot be borne in mind at
once. A perception of the truth often requires a
series of deliberate and abstruse arguments, which
the audience never discover, or fail to retain amid
the confusion of evidence and the instinct of mercy.
The sight of a criminal, too, when punishment
seems certain, softens the heart to pity, and prepares
it to magnify and dwell upon the grounds of
hope. An ingenious orator, in an artful survey of
the case, lingers with disproportionate force upon
the favourable circumstances, and leaves the more
unexplainable and condemnatory parts in the shade.
For a moment the sky of the accused brightens;
the roaring of the tempest is lulled; his half-wrecked
mind rests, as the surrounding sea of
doubt and despair closes its yawning abysses, and
he beholds again the green and sunny shore where
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safety and bliss await his weary steps. Ah, delusive
calm! ah, treacherous hope! An awful
pause succeeds the words of mercy and hope.
Dreadful the task of him who has to dissolve this
vision!
The prosecution commenced their duty. As
their skilful batteries were opened against the victim,
the brightness passed from his features; one
after another his hopes melted away; the relentless
tempest darkened over his head; the mad wind
began to roar and thunder in the air; his broken
hulk once more hung on the uplifted and giant
wave; the distant shore receded from his despairing
eyes, and he felt that ruin and death again
yawned beneath his feet.
Two experienced, unfeeling, and sagacious lawyers
exhausted their powers in demonstrating the
guilt of the accused, in which they both fully and
conscientiously believed. Germain wove around
him the meshes of sophistry, and rendered it once
more a glaring certainty; and the district attorney
closed with a startling eloquence.
The orator allowed the prisoner's apparent good
character; allowed the horrid spectacle of a youth
so formed to adorn society, cut off and crushed
beneath a fate so terrible. But these considerations,
he said, severely, were not for the jury-box.
Let them deepen the interest of a poem, or embellish
the pages of a novel; but a tribunal of
justice had a sterner task than the indulgence of
feeling, however amiable. That the murder had
been committed, every circumstance proclaimed.
The ride; the disappearance; the blood-stained
handkerchief; the hat floating abandoned on the
stream; the body—as far as the testimony of credible
witnesses go—identified as that of Rosalie
Romain; the confusion of the assassin; his
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conduct on the arrest; the evidence of the female domestic
respecting the demeanour of the unfortunate
victim; her clandestinely meeting the prisoner
at that suspicious hour of the morning;—every
thing, as far as human proof could, proclaimed the
dreadful act, and the deep cunning of the prisoner.
“What proof can you demand of murder? It is
a deed which the perpetrator commits alone. He
comes not in the broad streets, where positive evidence
can be produced against him. He steals,
with stealthy pace, in darkness and solitude; he
disguises his intention under smiles and the mask
of virtue; he plants the dagger in a moment unseen
by all—by all but his avenging God. Murder
rarely admits evidence stronger than that produced
against this man. If you acquit him upon
the principle of doubt, future assassins have only
to stab in solitude, and they will stab in safety.
We shall behold shameless seducers and murderers
walking among us unwhipped of justice.
Leave crime unpunished, and you open the flood-gates
through which devastation and despair rush
in upon the retreats of domestic life. The pity
which makes you tremble at inflicting a necessary
penalty, which causes you to yield to the pleadings
of compassion, and to melt at the sight of guilt
bound on the altar—to forget law, society, the
claims of the innocent, and the just indignation and
agony of the bereaved, rather than speak the word
and strike the blow to which you have pledged
your oaths, and which great justice demands—is a
weak, an idle, a pernicious feeling, full of danger
and deceit, unworthy of fathers, citizens, men.
You are the guardians of the community. To
your hands she has committed her safety; and,
with such a feeling in your bosoms, will you betray
your trust? She has placed you as sentinels
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on her walls and at her gates; do not kneel and
admit the foe which you are sent to overcome.
Had the gaunt form of murder stalked in unabashed
and unintimidated amid the gayety of your own
festive board—had your startled eyes suddenly beheld
him vanish, and lo! the brightest seat at the
banquet is left vacant—had you beheld the demon
who had thus bereaved and made you desolate for
ever, stride unfearing and unabashed through the
mid-day streets, triumphing in his deed, and, perhaps,
grown bold by experience, meditating to repeat
it, because, forsooth, the shrinking sensibilities
of a too sentimental jury could not harden their
hearts to arrest his career,—you would feel as you
ought to feel on this solemn occasion. The hospitality
of friendship, the rights of society, the laws
of man and of God, have been grossly violated by
the unhappy criminal at the bar. The perpetration
of the deed has been proved, and the guilt has
been fastened upon him as far as human proof can
lead the human reason.
“The gentlemen on the other side harp much on
the idea of doubt. It is doubt which is to bring
off their wretched client. Their only hope is doubt.
It is the last inevitable refuge of the defenders of a
bad cause. If they can make you doubt, if they
can entangle and cloud over, if they can envelop
in mystery, if they can bewilder you in doubt, they
fancy their triumph secure. But you must distinguish
between the just doubt arising from a deficiency
of evidence, and that confused sense of indistinctness
which only those experience whose
eyesight is failing—between the doubt of a firm
and of a foolish mind. Doubt you might conceive
on every subject. There are not wanting metaphysicians
who assert that nothing ever was, is,
or ever can be certain. You may doubt the
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evidence of your eyes and ears; you may bewilder
your mind amid endless mazes and metaphysical
conjectures. You may doubt that you sit there to
judge, that I stand here to proclaim a heinous and
hideous sin. All around us may be but the phantoms
of a fever or the forms of a passing dream.
But this species of doubt, so equally applicable to
the most feeble and the most overpowering proof,
is not the doubt which becomes your manly souls.
The cunning of a persuasive tongue will not be
able to betray your matured understandings into
such childish, such fantastic vagaries. Such doubts
would dispute all law, all justice. This court
would be a mockery and an idle farce; vainly
would wronged misery apply here for redress;
justice would be but the theme of derision and
scorn. The ruffian would smile at the uplifted
sword of the goddess, which her degenerate hand
durst never wield, till men, grown once more wild
and savage, and knowing no other remedy for private
injury, will assume again the reins of affairs,
which the authorities are unworthy and unable to
hold. A Gothic spirit of revenge will displace the
mildness of civilization; youth, innocence, and defenceless
beauty, will yield their breasts to the
dagger, and the whole mass of society will be resolved
into its original elements of anarchy and
discord.
“No, gentlemen, in your characters as stern and
unyielding sentinels of the public safety, I call upon
you to speak the dreadful doom against yonder sin
ful man. He has sown, let him reap. If you
would not have your wives, sisters, mothers, and
daughters murdered before your faces, speak,
promptly, fearlessly, and solemnly, the fatal verdict.
However man may exclaim, and attempt to
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affright you from your duty, remember the Almighty
himself has said, `Blood for blood!' ”
Again, as the counsel sat down, the silence was
simultaneously broken by a wide peal of applause.
From bench and floor, pedestal and column, wherever
the mighty throng of human beings had clustered
and pressed themselves densely in together, came
the murmur and the shock of approbation, too
plainly announcing the public sanction of the prisoner's
doom. Several persons were committed for
this breach of decorum.
The charge of the judge was short and lucid,
and wholly confined to the evidence. He reviewed
it calmly, and instructed the jury to find the fact
of the murder according to their opinion on the testimony,
with this reserve, that if they were “not
fully satisfied, beyond a doubt, they must find for
the prisoner.”
With the necessary formalities, the jury were
conducted into their private room; and an hour
passed, during which curiosity kept together, probably,
every individual of the vast multitude.
At length the court prepared to adjourn, and
the prisoner had been already ordered back to prison,
when it was announced that the jury had agreed
upon a verdict. There was a hum among the concourse—
relaxed attention was again suddenly and
fearfully roused. The jury entered, silent and solemn
themselves, amid the silence and solemnity of
all around. This is a moment of excruciating interest.
The most light and careless spectator feels
it drain his heart, and suspend his very being. What
must it be to him whom one moment more is to
plunge into eternity, or to give back in triumph to
life and happiness! Many an eye turned upon the
jurors to detect in their countenances, in their gait,
in some casual action, a hint of that mighty secret
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locked in their bosoms. Many an eye was riveted
upon the face of the prisoner, to study how he bore
that tremendous moment, how humanity stood to
gaze amid life full on the grim and spectral features
of death.
The names of the jurymen were regularly called
amid a profound silence. Not a motion, not a
breath, disturbed the deep hush. The clerk requested
the prisoner to rise.
“Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner.
Prisoner, look upon the jury. Have you agreed
upon your verdict?”
“We have.”
“How say you, gentlemen? Do you find him
guilty or not guilty?”
There was a pause, as if the very pulse of life
stood still. It was thrilling and painful. All leaned
forward. A shuddering sound of agony, short and
checked, broke from the lips of Miss Leslie. All
eyes dilated and fastened on the foreman, except
one or two, who looked piercingly, and yet with
horror, upon the face of the prisoner. At that moment
the clock tolled three, with a heavy sweep of
sound that floated in quivering waves through the
hall. Its last vibration died away, and the foreman
spoke.
“Not guilty.”
“God—God!” cried the sister, with a shriek of
joy, while an electric shock darted through the
crowd, and broke the spell of silence. The prosecuting
counsel started up. The clerk repeated it
aloud, with surprise. Moreland clasped his hands,
with a report that echoed through the room. Mr.
Romain covered his face. Mordaunt Leslie raised
his hands and eyes to Heaven in silent prayer.
In the midst of this sudden universal jar and
lively commotion, the accused stood in the same
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attitude, fixed and motionless—all eyes again centred
upon him.
“Norman!” cried the sister, with an hysteric
laugh, and springing towards him—“dear Norman,
hear! You are acquitted—you are guiltless—you
are free!”
But the youth neither stirred limb nor feature.
At length a slight tremour, a quivering, passed over
his face, a shade of ghastlier white, a faint sob, a
convulsive effort to laugh—and he fell back senseless
into his father's arms.
END OF VOL. I.
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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1835], Norman Leslie: a tale of the present times volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf096v1].
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