Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1839], Sydney Clifton, or, Vicissitudes in both hemispheres: a tale of the nineteenth century, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf097v2].
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SYDNEY CLIFTON
CHAPTER I.
THE TRIUMPH OF VILLANY.—ITS HAZARDS.
“He hath a daily beauty in his life,
That makes me ugly.”
“For this slave,
If there be any cunning cruelty,
That can torment him much, and hold him long,
It shall be his.”
Othello.
The elder Mr. De Lyle, whose early attachment
to Clifton was evinced by placing him in so favourable
a situation in his counting-room, that, with ordinary
application, he would speedily acquire all the
knowledge requisite to success in mercantile pursuits,
learned with the most poignant regret the conspicuous
part assigned to his protegé, both in the offences
connected with the gamblers, and the duel which
succeeded.
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That kind and benevolent merchant had previously
observed, with high gratification, the promptitude,
tact, and judgment displayed by our hero in
critical business emergencies, which was not a little
increased on ascertaining that his leisure hours were
spent in strengthening and perfecting the powers of
his intellect, rather than in the idle pursuit of frivolity
and amusement. That Clifton's services were
almost indispensable to the successful prosecution of
Mr. De Lyle's extensive business operations will be
readily conceived; but it is no more than justice to
the latter gentleman to state that his regret for the
young man's supposed criminality arose from no
selfish or interested considerations. A long and harmonious
intercourse had resulted in a warm but respectful
attachment on the part of the clerk, and a
confiding and no less ardent regard on that of the
employer; and Mr. De Lyle's unhappiness on learning
the disgrace of poor Clifton could scarcely have
been augmented if it had fallen to the lot of his only
son. The unpleasant feelings caused by these untoward
events had prevented the worthy gentleman
from enjoying his usual rest, on the night that followed
Clifton's departure for Europe; and arising
early, he proceeded to the counting-room to wile
away the time previous to the customary breakfast
hour. The more he dwelt on the subject of Clifton's
alleged delinquencies, the more fully he became
convinced that there were unexplained circumstances
connected with the transactions in which he was
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implicated; for that a high-minded, frank, and moral
individual should suddenly descend to the lowest
depths of depravity and baseness, appeared to his
experience in human nature improbable and unnatural.
Occupied with these thoughts, he reached his
office as the porter was unlocking the door; and
throwing himself into his chair, he still continued to
meditate on Clifton's unfortunate situation. He had
not long been seated when his son entered the counting-room,
and appeared not a little disconcerted at
meeting his father at so unusual an hour. The
elder Mr. De Lyle thought it no less surprising that
the young gentleman, whose devotion to morning
slumbers was proverbial, had accidentally selected
the same day with himself to break through an obstinate
habit.
“Why, my son,” said Mr. De Lyle, “to what
strange circumstance may I attribute this early visit
to the counting-room? It is rare indeed to find you
abroad at this hour.”
“Oh, you know that poor Sydney has been compelled
to abandon his post rather abruptly, so I
thought it necessary for me to bestir myself until
some capable person is installed in his situation,”
replied the ready-witted roué.
A long conversation on various topics ensued, a
large portion of which was devoted to Clifton's arrest
and disgrace; and the wily junior more than
emulated his parent's liberality in framing excuses
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for his apparent offences. After perusing the morning
papers, the younger Mr. De Lyle unlocked the
ponderous iron safe in which were placed the most
valuable and important papers belonging to the firm,
and opening a private drawer, exclaimed, with well-feigned
surprise,
“Dear father, I thought you placed the three
thousand dollars paid us on Saturday afternoon after
bank hours, in this drawer. How does it happen
that it is not here now? Have you removed it?”
“Look again, my son,” replied the senior; “I
have not been near the office since I placed it in the
drawer, and if it is not there we are certainly robbed.”
“It is surely missing,” was the reply, “and has
been abstracted in a most mysterious manner, for
neither the lock of the chest nor that of the drawer
appears injured in the least.”
On questioning the porter, he stated that the doors
of the counting-room and storehouse were locked
when he arrived, and that all things appeared in
the same state about the premises that they were in
when he closed the office on the preceding Saturday
evening. As Clifton was the only person entrusted
with duplicate keys, and as the robbery had evidently
been perpetrated by a person whose knowledge
of the premises was perfect, it is not surprising
that the faith of the elder Mr. De Lyle in our hero's
integrity was somewhat shaken by the strong presumptive
proofs that were arrayed against him. To
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confirm these suspicions, his son artfully introduced
several circumstances which tended to Clifton's crimination,
although he continued most vehemently
to protest that he did not for a moment believe him
guilty of the robbery. The substance of these statements
was, that the younger De Lyle had, on reaching
the boat, previous to Clifton's embarkation, incidentally
communicated to him the fact that a large
sum of money was deposited in the iron safe, at the
same time requesting from him the keys of the storehouse,
office, safe, and drawers, to which Clifton had
replied that they were left at his boarding-house. De
Lyle farther said, that having accidentally observed
Clifton withdraw a bunch of keys from his pocket,
and hastily thrust them back again, while at the
house of his foster parents, which he at the time
supposed were the office keys, he requested him to
examine his pockets again, lest they might inadvertently
be still in his possession, which Clifton
affected to do, and again stating that they were at
his lodgings, abruptly directed the boatmen to push
from the wharf, and waved a hasty and unceremonious
adieu.
On the recital of these circumstances, the porter
was despatched to Clifton's former residence, and
soon returned with the missing keys, stating that
he was informed by the servant who gave them to
him, that a man, dressed in the apparel of a seaman,
had left them at the house on the previous
morning at a very early hour. Not with standing
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these criminating circumstances, the younger De
Lyle did not fail to accompany his detail of every
additional proof of Clifton's guilt, with the remark
that he was still unconvinced of his participation in
the robbery.
“Poor Clifton,” he said, “cannot be capable of so
base and ungrateful an act, the more especially as
you, father, have ever been his firm and undeviating
friend. No, no; I'll not believe it. That he may
have been led to the gaming-house and become
fascinated with the excitement which has lured so
many to their ruin, is not improbable; but to suppose
him guilty of so daring a robbery is what
I will never do, except on the most conclusive testimony.”
On farther consultation, it was deemed expedient
to offer a reward of three hundred dollars for the recovery
of the money and the detection of the robber,
or two hundred, for the delivery of the money only.
The following day an individual, apparently of the
middle rank in life, called at the counting-room of
De Lyle, Howard & Co., and solicited a private
interview with the senior partner of the firm. Being
introduced to the elder Mr. De Lyle, he stated that he
called in consequence of perceiving, by an advertisement
in the papers of the day, that the firm had been
robbed of a large sum of money, and having cause
to believe that he was acquainted with some facts
connected with the robbery, he deemed it his duty
to furnish the information. He then related, that
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about five o'clock on the morning of the preceding
Sabbath, just before the dawn of day, he observed by
the light of a lamp three individuals, two of whom
were evidently seamen, while the third was a tall
and well-dressed young gentleman, emerging from
a store in the neighbourhood of that of De Lyle,
Howard & Co., but from the circumstance of his
not being a resident of the city, he could not positively
identify the premises. His first impressions
were, that they harboured an evil design; but the
apparent knowledge displayed by the young gentleman,
of the fastenings of the establishment, and the
business-like air with which he returned to a second
examination after leaving the premises, convinced
him that all was right. Curiosity having induced
him to watch the movements of the party, he followed
them at a short distance, and observed them
enter a row-boat, and proceed towards a vessel that
lay in the stream.
During this recital, the features of Mr. De Lyle
attested the anguish of his feelings, for it dissipated
the last doubt that still lingered on his mind of our
hero's participation in the robbery. The relater,
who called himself James Wallis, farther stated,
that he recollected distinctly hearing the name of
De Lyle mentioned by one of the party, as they
closed the door; remarking, that a letter to his address
would, if left in the post-office, reach him
through a friend residing in the city, should his testimony
be found useful at any subsequent period.
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This statement was afterward communicated by
Mr. De Lyle to his son, who, with much assumed
reluctance, asserted that he could no longer doubt
Clifton's guilt, however painful such a conclusion
was to his feelings, in consequence of the friendship
he professed to have before entertained for the
culprit.
Being now confident that the last link in the
chain of Clifton's ruin was complete, De Lyle
called at the dwelling of Mr. Elwell, to communicate
the additional testimony of his guilt to some
member of the family, who, he was persuaded would
repeat the tale to Miss Borrowdale; but his pleasure
was somewhat lessened on learning that the unhappy
girl had returned to the residence of her
parents in Massachusetts. Helen, however, on the
receipt of his card, descended to the parlour, and on
inquiring the news of the day, was informed of
those circumstances with which the reader is acquainted,
and which were so fatally calculated to
criminate our doomed hero.
During the recital, the piercing eye of Helen Elwell
was steadily fixed on the features of the relater; and
perceiving that he evidently quailed before the intensity
of her gaze, she ventured, as he paused, to
remark, with much solemnity of tone and manner:—
“Mr. De Lyle, circumstances unnecessary to detail
have placed in my possession the most conclusive
proofs of your agency in effecting the destruction of
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Mr. Clifton; and pardon me when I declare that a
more malignant or discreditable conspiracy toruin a
reputable and virtuous citizen, has never come to
my knowledge. That these efforts have been caused
by the unmanly passion of jealousy, is also within
my knowledge; and although your skill in deception
has diverted the attention of Mr. Clifton from
yourself to another individual, yet the time is approaching,
when the world will be informed of your
criminality. Being perfectly advised of all the facts,
I, of course, require no admissions from yourself;
but as you value your reputation and future prospects,
devise some speedy method of exonerating
Mr. Clifton from the imputations which rest on his
character. A week, even a day, may be too late;
for the train is already laid, which, if permitted to
explode, will overwhelm you with inevitable destruction.”
The artful girl clearly perceived, as she proceeded,
that the conjectures aroused by the sudden start of
De Lyle at the interview which has been described
in a previous chapter, were confirmed by his deportment
on the present occasion; nor did her judgment
fail to detect, in his frequent visits to Miss Borrowdale,
the object whose attractions had led him to
such desperate measures for the prostration of his
rival. Rising, therefore, as she closed her address,
with a stern countenance and gesture of command,
she appeared to the alarmed roué the priestess of
destiny, pronouncing the doom whose unspeakable
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horrors had frequently been revealed to his mental
sight in the shadowy land of dreams, and which now
excited in his bosom the most intense feelings of apprehension.
Impressed with the belief that Burchard
had, by some means, been induced to betray
him, and determined, if practicable, to learn the
truth, as well as the extent of Helen's information,
he said,
“I regret, Miss Elwell, that some malicious talebearer
has been insinuating in your ear charges
against me of so discreditable a character as your
language implies. Surely, no reputable individual
could have thus calumniated me.”
Helen, who recollected Burchard's testimony on
the examination of the gamblers, as related in the
daily papers, replied,
“Sir, the tools which envy and malice select, are
not, usually, either reputable or honourable. That
they are ready to join in the basest and most desperate
undertakings for a bribe, should cause their employers
to distrust them; for he, who, to accommodate
you, slanders Clifton to-day, may be equally
willing to confess the truth to-morrow, if he finds
a more liberal patron. But enough has been said.
I have pointed out the course your safety demands:
if you follow my advice, it is well:—if not, your ruin
be on your own head!”
The earnestness of her manner completely divested
De Lyle of his usual confidence, and baffled
all attempts to preserve his accustomed noncha
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lance; and on her affecting to retire, he caught her
hand, and in the most abject and beseeching tone,
exclaimed,
“My dear Miss Elwell, for Heaven's sake tell me
at once what you know concerning this unfortunate
business. If any one has charged me with slandering
Clifton, I declare most solemnly that he has asserted
a falsehood.”
“This, sir, is mockery,” was Helen's reply. “If
you had frankly admitted the facts, of which I am in
full possession, I intended to point out a course which
would save you from the threatened exposure. As,
however, you choose to preserve an attitude of defiance,
it is well. Neither soliciting nor desiring your
confidence, it is useless to prolong this interview.
Before to-morrow's sun shall have gone down, you
will vainly wish you had been more ingenuous with
one who can have no earthly motive to inflict on
you an injury.”
“Miss Elwell, I will place myself entirely under
your guidance, if you will but tell me of what I am
accused and who is my accuser. I know of but one
person in this city who harbours ill-will against me,
and his character is such that it appears almost impossible
that a lady of your rank and respectability
can have listened to any tale which he could invent.”
“Well would it be for you, Mr. De Lyle, if his
testimony was unsupported by others of less
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questionable respectability; but he who deals with treacherous
hirelings must expect them to emulate his
cunning, by fortifying themselves with sufficient
proofs, to be used if subsequent occasion requires.”
As Miss Elwell finished speaking, the entrance of
a visiter suspended the conversation, and this contest
of wits, which promised victory to the lady, was
still partially a drawn battle, although the fair antagonist
of De Lyle had discovered the defect in his
armour, and was fully prepared to avail herself of
the advantage. Compelled to await farther developments
until the arrival of a more favourable opportunity,
De Lyle bowed himself out of the room, saying
to Helen, as he left, that he would do himself
the pleasure of again paying his respects on the following
day.
On the departure of her visiter, Miss Elwell retired
to her boudoir, not a little gratified at the prospective
success of her efforts to draw from De Lyle
a confession which would lay bare the plans he had
conceived and matured for the ruin of his rival. Her
motives for her conduct in this matter were so complicated,
that it is difficult to sift the pure from the
selfish, or determine precisely the line which separated
the one from the other. Her passion for Clifton,
although not of that absorbing nature which
would rush to the possession of its object through
peril and disgrace, was yet sufficiently powerful to
seek a return at the expense of much personal
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exertion, if it involved no consequences calculated to
jeopard her standing in fashionable society. The
arguments she had advanced to impress on the mind
of Julia a conviction of Clifton's unworthiness, if
not successful to the desired extent, had sufficed to
induce a tacit acquiescence in their force; and measuring
the feelings of her cousin by the standard
erected in her own breast, she did not hesitate to
conclude that a few months' residence in the secluded
mansion of her parents would effectually wean
her from an attachment of such recent and rapid
growth. This prominent obstacle to her wishes
being, as she believed, fully removed, her better feelings,
combined with a decided penchant for the
handsome and intelligent exile, induced her, as has
been perceived, to place in requisition all her shrewdness
and tact, to exonerate him from unmerited disgrace.
That she had struck the true chord was
evident, nor was she displeased when the presence
of a third party interrupted the conversation with
De Lyle, before he had the opportunity to insist upon
an explanation which she would have been compelled
to evade. Possessed of a cool, calculating
mind, whose discriminating perceptions were undimmed
by the shadows of feeling, she rarely judged
erroneously when the premises were unfolded to her
mental gaze; nor was she wrong in the supposition
that De Lyle's suspicions of the fidelity and secrecy
of his vicious subordinate, which she had fully
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awakened, would excite a continued distrust and
apprehension, fatal to his peace, and eminently calculated,
by unnerving the roué, to plunge him head-long
into the trap by which she hoped to ensnare
him.
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CHAPTER II.
WOMAN'S DEVOTION.
“She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Prey on her damask cheek.”
On learning the certainty of Clifton's departure for
a distant land, Julia's spirits, late so buoyant, were
entirely prostrated, while the continued efforts of her
cousin to depreciate him in her estimation tended to
augment the despondency that rested like an incubus
on her mind.
After again and again perusing the only brief record
in her possession of her lover's fond remembrance,
the last doubt of his perfect innocence of all
intentional participation in the offences of which the
gamblers stood charged vanished; and from that
moment his image became enshrined in her inmost
soul, which mirrored to her sense a being pure as
comely, unstained by aught but the unintentional
death of one who sought his own life, and glowing
with little less than the brightness of angelic beauty!
Fearing that the prejudices which her cousin Helen
entertained against Clifton had induced her to
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interpose obstacles to his obtaining an interview with
herself, she summoned her maid to her presence,
and inquired whether any gentleman had called to
see her during her absence, or when she was engaged,
within a day or two past. The guilty girl,
perceiving a letter in Julia's hand which she observed
was in Clifton's hand-writing, delivered, as will
be recollected, through Helen, without her knowledge,
and presuming that it communicated his frequent
attempts to obtain an interview, was not a
little puzzled to frame a suitable reply. Her hesitation
and embarrassment were remarked by Julia,
whose suspicions of her cousin's agency in banishing
Clifton from her presence, and of the girl's participation
in the scheme, were now fully aroused.
“Well, Mary,” she said, in a tone of unusual asperity,
“why do you hesitate? Surely my question
is simple and intelligible. As you are not accustomed
to be deficient in readiness of reply, there
must be some extraordinary cause for your present
embarrassment.”
The deceitful girl plainly perceived that her mistress
was too much in earnest to tolerate any subterfuge,
and having received substantial evidences of
De Lyle's liberality, and the promise of further reward,
she deemed it most advisable to affect displeasure
at Julia's remark, and accordingly replied,
“I don't see what right you have to abuse me,
because I can't in a minute tell the name of every
man that called at the door; besides I can't
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remember them all if I try. There's that Clifton, the black-leg,
wanted me to carry up his card, but I guess I
served him about right for his impudence, by throwing
it in the gutter. If you ain't pleased, I am ready
to go away, for I don't choose to dance attendance
on thieves and blacklegs.”
The girl's insolence would at any time have insured
her dismissal, but the coarse epithets applied
to her lover so far excited Julia's indignation, that
she bade her depart without a moment's delay; and
as the offender cherished golden anticipations of De
Lyle's future generosity, she was not averse to a
separation; and in a few moments she emerged from
the door, while Julia communicated to Helen her
determination to accompany a friend who was going
by the steamboat the same afternoon to Boston.
The bustle of preparation for her departure so
fully engrossed the attention of Mr. Elwell's household,
that little inquiry was instituted into the cause
of her maid's discharge; and as the girl had not
considered it prudent to select any confidante to her
transactions with De Lyle, all remained ignorant of
the reasons for her dismissal.
On the arrival of Julia at the residence of her affectionate
parents, they perceived, with anxiety and
alarm, that the bloom had left her cheek; while
the cheerful smile which shed its sunny influence on
all previous to her temporary absence, was succeeded
by a profound melancholy, which her vain efforts to
dispel rendered doubly apparent.
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Attributing her languor and debility to the fatigue
of travelling, she retired to her room to meditate on
Clifton's love, which, like Aaron's rod, was destined
to swallow up all less powerful affections and
desires.
On reflection, she determined to inform her parents
of the aspersions thrown on Clifton's character,
and her conviction of their injustice; but that maiden
reserve which hesitated to whisper the secret of
its love even to her own breast, forbade her acknowledging
the passion she entertained for our hero. Although
the mature and unbiassed judgment of Mr.
Borrowdale failed to perceive the force of many
circumstances on which Julia relied to establish
Clifton's innocence, yet the opinion he had previously
formed of his character, united with the facts
which were, as may be supposed, placed in the most
favourable light, induced him to hope that his faults
were rather the offspring of rashness and precipitation,
than the baser lineage of innate depravity.
While his partiality for our hero dictated this apology
for his apparent delinquencies, he was compelled
to doubt the justice of Julia's suspicions of De Lyle;
nor could he select from her narrative any well-authenticated
fact, which in his judgment, exculpated
Clifton from the censure due to an association with
professed gamblers. Although this unfavourable decision
was, in tenderness to Julia's opinions, rather
hinted at than expressed, yet the quickened perceptions
of the lovely girl did not fail to construe
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its full import; and, despairing of creating converts
to her favourable estimate of her lover's character,
she determined to nurse her passion in secret,
nor participate in any conversation of which he was
the subject.
This natural determination of a sensitive and delicate
mind induced a reserve and shyness foreign to
her former habits, until at length she almost entirely
confined herself to the solitude of her chamber,
brooding, like the struck eagle, over pangs whose
intensity receive little alleviation from the consciousness
that her own breast feathered the arrow that
created them. These lonely musings were remarked
by her fond parents, who saw with alarm that
some fatal but invisible malady was preying on her
system, the progress of which was marked by increased
debility and nervous excitement, and which,
if not speedily arrested. would consign the envied
heiress of Mr. Borrowdale's immense wealth to the
narrow confines of a premature grave.
After repeated solicitations by Mr. Borrowdale and
his lady, that she would permit the attendance of an
eminent physician, she reluctantly assented, but the
acknowledged skill of the disciple of Hypocrates,
failed to remove a disease, whose origin was beyond
the reach of his art.
How wonderful, how delicate, how sensitive, yet
how fearful, is the love of woman! Pervading
every recess of the soul; gathering strength from
resistance, and buoyancy from pressure: high, holy,
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and beautiful in its purity, erratic and fearful in its
licentiousness: rivalling the hurricane in its impetuosity,
the avalanche in power, it sweeps over the
heart, prostrating every obstacle in its career, and
burying in one common grave all opposing affections,
prejudices, hopes, and desires. Emblem of
permanence where all else is mutable! type of immortality
in a world on whose banners are inscribed
decay and dissolution! unfathomable as eternity!
inscrutable as fate! transmuting selfishness into
disinterestedness, and fear into bravery:—when
chaste, in its crucible the grosser desires become
etherealized and refined, until the passions of earth
assume the purity of heaven, and mortal devotion
lights its censer at the altar of divinity!
For Julia, there was nothing left but hopelessness
and sorrow. He who alone made existence tolerable,
was removed to another clime, and henceforth, days,
weeks, months might pass, but no sunny influences
would cheer her path.
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CHAPTER III.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE WITH A NEW FACE.
THE DECEIVER DECEIVED.
“Here dives the skulking thief with practised sleight,
And unfelt fingers make thy pocket light:
Where's now the watch with all its trinkets? flown!
And thy late snuff-box is no more thy own.”
Gay.
The morning sun had just paid his devoirs to the
labour-doomed race, who alone welcomed his diurnal
advent to the metropolis, as Thomas Burchard
unbarred the door of the dilapidated domicil of which
he was an inmate, and, with many a yawn, gave
intimation of his readiness to accommodate early
customers, by throwing open the shutters, and thus
exhibiting, as conspicuously as the soiled window-panes
would permit, the decanters containing that
inviting beverage, which, in the language of his intimates,
was declared, like the hair of certain of the
canine species, a sovereign remedy for the bite inflicted
in the previous night's debauch.
That this early devotion to the “main chance,”
secured its appropriate reward, was evinced by the
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numerous “peep-o'-day boys” who entered the tavern,
while the motley appearance of these morning
devotees at the shrine of Bacchus would have offered
a rare study for the disciple of Hogarth.
The unfortunate schemer, whose tattered habiliments
testified that the desire to appropriate his neighbour's
goods to his own use had met with little success,
stood in amiable proximity to the spruce and
genteelly clad legatee of some wealthy citizen's wardrobe:—
here sat an attenuated being, rejoicing in
apparel whose dimensions were sufficiently ample
for the person of Daniel Lambert in the palmy days
of his corpulency—while by his side lounged a herculean
associate, over whose huge limbs were drawn
a coat and pantaloons whose lack of width and
length exhibited the proportions of the wearer in
painful relief:—over the brow of one a broad-brimmed
beaver threw its ample shadow, while on his
neighbour's cranium perched a razeed castor, of
scarce sufficient capacity to reach the wearer's forehead.
After the morning stimulus had been swallowed,
the fashionably-attired lounger gradually withdrew
to as great a distance from the more humble can
àille as the limited dimensions of the apartment
would permit.
The uninitiated in the etiquette which reigns in
flash circles, may suppose that the doctrine of equal
rights, privileges, and courtesy, would here be displayed
in its utmost latitude. Far from it. The
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fashionably-dressed felon spurned, with becoming
disdain, the attempted familiarities of his less fortunate
associates, while the nonchalance with which
the intimate of yesterday was cut by the lucky rascal
of to-day, might have served as a model for the
most elegant exquisite who sports his figure on the
sunny side of Broadway.
That the fancied ascendancy of “the observed of
all observers” among these “children of fortune,”
was peculiarly brief in its duration, will be admitted,
but this circumstance neither humbled his pretensions,
nor palliated the severity of his edicts.
With that indifference to the future, which in the
deposed monarchs of the old world passes for royal
firmness among their admirers, but is denominated
stupidity by the advocates of the “mouvement”—
the leader of ton in flash society riots in authority
during his little hour, is dethroned, superseded and
forgotten.
To Thomas Burchard those shades of character
exhibited among the devotees at the temple of which
he was the officiating dignitary, passed like an idle
pageant, of which he took no cognizance. Viewing
them all as “fish to his net,” his attentions
were alone directed to the gains arising from their
presence, and the most courted of the circle lost his
charm for Thomas, whenever he ceased to replenish
the drained goblet.
While thus occupied, a boy of some twelve years
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of age entered the tavern, and inquiring for Burchard
gave him a note and immediately withdrew.
Observing the superscription to be in a handwriting
different from any with which he was familiar,
he seized the first moment of leisure to peruse its
contents. That its import was far from uninteresting
to him, the reader will perceive on perusing
the following copy of the epistle.
New-York, —, —.
Mr. Thomas Burchard,
“Aware that you are on terms of familiar incourse
with Mr. Edward De Lyle, I take the liberty
of hinting that circumstances have occurred which
may tend to inculpate either yourself or him before
the public, in relation to transactions with which you
are fully acquainted.
“The fact of my being personally unknown to
yourself, while I admit a knowledge of Mr. De Lyle,
might lessen your confidence in my communication,
did I fail to inform you that I have wrongs to redress,
and vengeance to inflict on their author.
This warning, to be effectual or useful, must for
the present be withheld from Mr. De Lyle. Recollect,
I do not say that he has threatened an exposure,
but you will judge whether it is probable
that he will plead guilty himself for the magnanimous
purpose of screening you from punishment.
All that I would recommend for the present is unceasing
vigilance, and if I hereafter impart facts
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which incontrovertibly prove his treachery and your
danger—then be prepared to act promptly and fearlessly,
and no harm shall befall you.
“Till then farewell,
“A— V—.”
The offspring of Glenthorne in early life, by a
female of the lowest rank in society, whose grovelling
appetites were connected with serpent-like craftiness,
the savage ferocity which Burchard inherited
from the one parent was tempered and controlled by
the stealth and wariness so conspicuous in the
other.
On receiving what he considered a personal insult,
the indignant blood would rush manfully to
his cheek and his sluggish eye flash momentary
defiance, when that sleepless caution which ever
guarded him from the consequences of his more violent
passions, would successfully interpose ere the
hesitating tongue could second the rash and hazardous
impulse. Summoning an assistant to discharge
the duties of bar-keeper, he retired to his chamber,
where, after giving vent to his feelings in a few
hearty curses on the head of De Lyle, he deliberately
reflected on the most effectual method of turning
the tables on that worthy.
The result of his cogitations was a conviction that
the roué was completely in his power, and with
that natural shrewdness and cunning which had
been sharpened by a long intercourse with felons
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and swindlers, he conceived a plan, which could
not, in his opinion, fail to accomplish the destruction
of his treacherous patron and associate, whenever
the measure was expedient. That he had frequently
reflected on the probability of such a crisis
is more than probable, from his knowledge of the
character of De Lyle, as well as from his general
estimate of human nature, which could not be otherwise
than unfavourable from the school in which his
knowledge of mankind had been learned.
His course determined on, he again descended to
the tap-room, and it would have required an acute
observer to discover the traces of agitation in his
sallow cheek and dull grey eye.
If the reader has carefully noted the relations existing
between De Lyle and Burchard, he or she
will have perceived that the roué was compelled, by
the nature of the services required from his instrument,
to lay bare the machinery which gave effect
to his operations, and thus furnish an array of evidence
which could not fail to be destructive to his
future success, whenever Burchard should deem it
advisable to hazard an exposure. That De Lyle,
at times, was impressed with these obvious reflections
is most true, but he consoled himself with the idea
that there could scarcely exist a sufficient motive
for Burchard to hazard what little reputation he
possessed, for the sole purpose of implicating his employer.
In addition to the consolation drawn from such a
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train of reasoning, De Lyle had formed a very
humble estimate of the mental powers of his willing
subordinate, and was extremely doubtful of his abilities
to conceive or mature a successful plot for his
overthrow, even if circumstances should arise which
might render it his future interest to make the attempt.
Lest the reader should be surprised at De
Lyle's erroneous conclusions in relation to the mental
calibre of one with whom he had so long held
intercourse, it is proper to premise that no event had
occurred during their intimacy to excite the passions
or energies of Burchard, who received full instructions
from the former in every emergency, and confined
his agency to obedience to orders, without question
or hesitation.
Such was the happy state of De Lyle's mind on
this subject, until the mysterious language of Helen
Elwell awoke the most alarming suspicions, which
farther conversation with the artful girl almost matured
into conviction. To assure himself of the
truth, however painful might be its import, appeared
his only course, and he awaited with no little impatience
the arrival of the succeeding morning,
when he could visit Burchard's residence unobserved.
It is proper here to remark, that the success of his
scheme for Clifton's destruction had, as he conceived,
rendered Burchard's further agency in his affairs
unnecessary, and he now determined to sever the
untoward connection with as little delay as his personal
interests would permit.
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The shades of evening had no sooner settled over
the metropolis, than De Lyle directed his steps to the
domicil of his vicious associate. He was, as usual,
received by Burchard in an apartment adjoining
the tap-room of the tavern, but no one who was
familiar with the cordiality which characterized their
former interviews, would have failed to observe the
embarrassment and hesitation of De Lyle on his entrance,
nor the suspicious, although less obvious,
twinkle of Burchard's usually dull eye. As it was
the invariable practice of the subordinate to await
De Lyle's commands, whenever he chose to visit
his humble dwelling, he quietly seated himself on
the settee, after directing his visiter to enjoy the comforts
of an arm-chair. The silence that ensued after
they were seated, tended to increase the discomposure
of De Lyle's features, while the malignant
feelings of Burchard were more strikingly manifested
as he viewed what he conceived full confirmation of
his quondam friend's treachery.
“Well, Burchard,” at length began De Lyle,
“we've been sad dogs in our day, but, as there's a
time for all things, I suppose we must soon do as
other reformed rakes have done before us, turn saints,
and prosecute all such ungodly reprobates as will
not fit our Procrustean bed.”
The roué's delivery of this speech savoured much
of previous preparation, for he continually shifted
his eyes from Burchard to opposite sides of the room,
while the words fell from his lips like the
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hard-studied task of a school-boy who recites the lesson
without any apparent sympathy in feeling with the
sentiments designed to be illustrated. To this sally,
which was intended as an entering-wedge to further
conversation, Burchard made no reply; but the first
essay had somewhat tended to re-assure and compose
the speaker's mind, and he continued,
“Come, Burchard, what do you think of this
plan? Won't we make as good professors as most
of those who pay the barber double price for shaving
their long faces?”
“Humph,” replied Burchard, “I've nothing to do
with hypocrites. I'm a poor man, and have enough
to think of to take care of number one.”
“But without joking, Burchard, I feel like backing
out of all my old practices—for two reasons—
one is, I can't raise the wind as I used to, and the
other is, that I'm afraid I might lead you into some
difficulty by and by. You've already run a great
many risks, of which nothing but good fortune has
cleared your skirts, and I feel continually alarmed
lest some harm may yet befall you, in consequence
of your being exposed.”
The over shrewd roué spoke thus to impress Burchard's
mind with the danger he would incur, if
their crimes were discovered; but it had, as may be
imagined, the opposite effect, by convincing the
latter that De Lyle's visit was intended to divert his
attention from himself whenever his treachery should
accomplish its purpose.
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“Well, that's friendly of you, any how,” said
Burchard, who now determined to foil him with his
own weapons. “I suppose if I get into trouble,
you'll come out at once and be my bail. I tell you
what it is, I shouldn't like to lay in that old Bridewell
for only one night.”
“Oh yes, you may depend on me,” said De Lyle,
“you will not lack a friend if you get in trouble.”
Satisfied from the countenance of Burchard, which
had resumed its accustomed appearance of stolidity,
that he had effectually swerved him from his treacherous
purpose, if such had entered his mind, De
Lyle returned to his father's mansion, and enjoyed
that calm undisturbed repose, which failed to visit
his couch on the previous night.
“The infernal scoundrel!” was Burchard's exclamation,
as his visiter crossed the threshold, “he
thinks he's got me as safe as a thief in a mill; but
if I don't turn up the trump card and win the game,
after giving him two, then my name ain't Thomas
Burchard.”
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CHAPTER IV.
TREACHERY MAY CLOSE ITS EYES, BUT NEVER
SLEEPS.
“Thus, in a pageant show, a plot is made,
And peace itself is war in masquerade.”
Dryden.
Although De Lyle's interview with Burchard
had somewhat allayed the excitement of his feelings,
it had not succeeded in completely removing his
apprehensions of his confederate's treachery. Despite
his attempts to banish unwelcome fears, the
malignant and apparently triumphant expression of
Burchard's countenance, during a portion of the
time occupied in endeavouring to win him from his
treacherous purpose, would recur vividly to his
imagination, affording a more faithful, but less satisfactory
view of the depths of his character, and
seeming to indicate passions and energies which, if
fully aroused, would render him a troublesome and
dangerous antagonist. Such were De Lyle's feelings
on the morning succeeding his visit to the
residence of Burchard; but as weeks and months
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passed away, and still no circumstance arose to
confirm his suspicions, he began to breathe more
freely, and at length, if his thoughts dwelt at any
time on the painful subject, the emotion it excited
was feeble, and the danger, if any, appeared too
remote to renew apprehension.
On the day following his visit to Burchard, De
Lyle called at the residence of Mr. Elwell, and succeeded
in finding Helen at home, but the presence of
a number of morning visiters effectually prevented a
tête-à-tête, and after awaiting an opportunity for a
private interview, until his patience became exhausted,
he made his congé and withdrew.
In two or three subsequent calls he was equally
unfortunate, either from the same cause, or in consequence
of Miss Elwell's absence, until his fears becoming
less vivid, he deemed it unwise to precipitate
a crisis which might, he trusted, be avoided, by a
show of confidence.
Meanwhile, his daily visits to the residence of
Rachel Samuel, which were less frequent during
the prevalence of his apprehensions in relation to
Burchard's disclosures, were resumed; and, as confidence
in his good fortune, and exemption from
impending calamity became restored, his unbridled
passions again assumed their empire.
That he enjoyed happiness in its true sense will
not be supposed, but his jaded appetites required
some powerful stimulant to arouse them from their
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lethargy, and his invention was continually taxed
to furnish aliment wherewith to appease them.
Like the horse-leech at the vein, they cried “give,
give,” thus rendering the roué at once their slave
and prisoner.
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CHAPTER V.
THE FATHER OF CITIES BY MOONLIGHT.—ITS
EFFECT ON A WAYFARER.
“When night first bids the twinkling stars appear,
Then swarms the busy street; with caution tread
Where the shop-windows, falling, threat thy head.”
“Celestial queen! put on thy robes of light,
Now Cynthia named, fair regent of the night;
Oh may thy silver lamp, from heaven's high bower,
Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour.”
Gay.
While the events we have chronicled were
taking place in the western hemisphere, the gallant
ship which conveyed Clifton from his native land
had arrived at Liverpool, after a tedious passage,
whence he proceeded to the great metropolis of the
British empire.
As the shores of his beloved country receded from
his view, his lonely and desolate situation arose
vividly before him, and, descending to the state-room,
he threw himself into his berth in an agony
of grief. As the passing days winged their flight
to join the countless throng that had preceded them,
the poignancy of his feelings abated, but sufficient
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gloom remained to prevent any approach to familiar
intercourse with his fellow-passengers, all of whom
attributed his reserve to bodily illness and debility.
But it is not in human nature, more especially
in youth's blooming season, to brood long over even
the most serious calamities. That elasticity of spirit
which is vouchsafed to the youthful voyager on
life's tempestuous ocean, will ensure a rebound from
the most intolerable pressure. The sorrowful Clifton,
whose prospects for the future were so cruelly
blasted, felt sensibly the change from the monotony
and confinement of a ship's cabin to the free and
invigorating air of his father-land; nor could the
varied specimens of human character, and the attractive
objects, both animate and inanimate, which
continually arrested his attention, fail to dissipate
a portion of the grief that preyed on his spirit.
As the mail coach, in which he was a passenger,
entered the suburbs of that mighty city, which has
been not inaptly compared to Babylon the Great, in
the zenith of its power and splendour, the evening
shadows began to darken the horizon; but the time
that intervened between the first evident approaches
to London, and the arrival of the coach at the tavern
where it put up, afforded some clew to the magnitude
of the vast emporium. The soft clear light of
the full moon, as she pursued her course in cloudless
majesty—like the departed spirit of the just in its
flight to brighter spheres—threw its witchery around
every object on which it fell, awakening in the
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bosom of Clifton the dormant romance of his nature,
and soothing, if not entirely banishing, for the moment,
the memory of past sorrows and the anticipation
of those which were in prospect. As the coach,
with its wearied occupants, passed through the
streets of the crowded mart, the bold outline of
many a specimen of architecture of a by-gone age,
threw its shadow across their path; while at intervals
some huge pile of masonry lifted its Titan form
against the sky, giving the vivid imagination of
Clifton a wide range of conjecture in tracing the
eventful scenes of which its antiquated halls had
probably been the witness.
Although born and bred in a populous and extensive
city, yet its contrast in form and magnitude
with that which he was now entering, was peculiarly
striking and impressive. In his native city,
the few ancient buildings owning a Dutch origin,
which had survived the last century, were already
sacrificed to the spirit of innovation and improvement,
until modern taste had moulded its erections
almost into uniformity of model, although in magnitude,
finish, and quality of material, they were
widely variant.
London, on the contrary, presented the singular
aspect of an enormous Mosaic tablet, in which all the
different specimens of ancient and modern architecture,
were so blended as to produce a striking and
picturesque, if not beautiful effect.
Although these obvious reflections did not occur to
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Clifton, until the arrival of day-light and more extensive
observation had exhibited the great city in
its general aspect, yet sufficient was seen on his first
entrance to create a desire for a more minute survey
of the various objects which were dimly distinguished
in the moonlight.
Not withstanding the temporary relief the sights
and sounds of the city had afforded to his wounded
spirit, yet no sooner had he attained the quiet of his
lonely couch, than busy memory recalled the sorrowful
images of the past in all their primeval horrors,
banishing sleep from his eyelids, and renewing pangs
that had for a time been steeped in forgetfulness.
In vain he attempted to reason away his fears and
regrets. Despair, with raven wing, hovered grimly
over the future, and disgrace, misery, and banishment
stalked, ghost-like, in the distance.
Who that was interested in his welfare had any
clew to the mystery which veiled the true history
of his past conduct? Not one! His foster-father
could of course know nothing of the parties, whose
machinations had disgraced him in the eyes of the
world, and except him, his wife, and Julia, there
were none in the wide world on whose attachment
he could rely. And could he really rely on Julia's
fidelity and affection? Would not the opinion of
the world at length overthrow even the confidence
she reposed in his innocence? Was he even certain
that she believed his solemn asseverations?
These were questions that occurred to his mind day
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after day, and received replies as various and contradictory
as were the changing phases of his mind
and feelings. At times all was hope and confidence—
and again all was doubt and despair.
Such is human nature!—ever distrustful of the
goodness of Providence, when imagination tyrannizes
over the reason and judgment. The night at
length was past, and the dawn of day served somewhat
to tranquillize his agitated mind. As he arose
and prepared to mix with the busy throng, his native
firmness of character began to re-assume its
sway, and he determined to make a strenuous effort
so to apportion and employ his time that as little
space should be left to solitary reflection as was practicable.
During his leisure-hours in New-York, he had
successfully cultivated his talent for literary composition,
both in prose and verse, and his friends had
assured him that he had been eminently successful.
Here, then, was a solace for his wounded spirit,
pure and honourable in its nature, and leaving no
sting behind; and by this he proposed banishing
unavailing regrets. That his talents had found a
rare opportunity for development in the numerous
and varied phenomena which were continually afforded
in the western emporium will be readily conceived.
The dweller in cities is enabled at a glance to
view all the varieties that are comprehended within
the wide-spread boundaries of human character. If
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his mind is formed of plastic and yielding materials,
he soon becomes in habit and manners a fac-simile
of the mass by whom he is surrounded, and might
be safely exported to any portion of the civilized
globe as a living sample of his genus. But while
the attrition of continual contact and intercourse
thus casts the ordinary specimens of humanity in
one uniform mould, its effects on the more gifted
order of mankind are “wide as the poles asunder.”
In remote districts, where primeval nature is exhibited
in all its rude sublimity, the child of genius
adapts his conceptions to the bold and striking objects
that reign in silent and solemn majesty around
him; but in the thronged mart, where the lights
and shadows of human character are continually
presented to his vision, he attains the higher power
of depicting the feelings and passions of his kind,
and grasps as it were in the palm of his hand those
moral elements which exercise, in their subtle and
expanded operations, so potent an influence on the
destinies of his species. Presented in this view, the
gifted citizen is capable of wielding a more extended
influence in forming national and individual character,
than he whose lot has been cast in less multitudinous
communities; nor can it justly be averred
that he is less felicitous in the description of those
natural objects which constitute so imposing a feature
in most literary efforts.
The constant practice of catching “the manners
living as they rise” imparts a ready appreciation of
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the beautiful and sublime, in both the moral and
physical world, while the rare opportunities afforded
the citizen of beholding nature in her simple attire,
lend attraction to the prospect unknown to the daily
observer of her beauties.
Trained in this school, Clifton in early life employed
a portion of his leisure hours in throwing off
graphic sketches of the beautiful scenery which skirted
the banks of the noble river whose waters lave the
northern boundary of the city of New-York, or in
delineating the prominent characteristics of those
moral excrescences which are indigenous to all
overgrown and densely populated communities. In
the indulgence of this talent, the habit of reflection
had been acquired and exercised, until the regions
of solitude became for him peopled with more
interesting companions than those by whom he was
daily jostled along the crowded thoroughfares, or in
the thronged courts where pleasure holds her revels.
The circumstances under which he had been compelled
to expatriate himself, induced him to procure
lodgings in a quiet and retired situation, where the
ministers of justice would find difficulty in ascertaining
his whereabout, if unhappily Ellingbourne's
death should cause pursuit. Fortunately for his
purpose of employing his time in literary undertakings
the son of his landlady was connected with
the publication of one of the most celebrated magazines
of the day, and on learning that Clifton had
finished some sketches in prose and verse, he kindly
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volunteered to introduce them to the notice of the
senior editor.
To Clifton's great gratification they were accepted,
and after a brief period the emolument arising
from their publication was sufficient to defray the
expenses of his economical mode of living.
To give the reader some idea of his talents, we
subjoin a poetical effusion, which is selected not as
the best specimen of his composition, but as affording
a mirror in which his feelings were reflected.
THE PAST.
The past, the past, th' insatiate past,
Within its broad domain
Crushed hopes and bleeding joys lie cast,
Like war's unburied slain!
We saw their plumes in triumph wave,
A bright and fair array;
The morning mists are curling o'er
The hill: but where are they?
The past, the past, th' embalming past—
Behold its march sublime:
Garnering the harvest, prostrate cast
By the bald reaper Time!
Wit's diamond shaft, and learning's tome,
Devotion's lore divine,—
Fame's glittering wreath and poesy's crown—
In added lustre shine.
The past, the past, the joyous past,
How bright its visions seem,
When age and youth the hours contrast,
Like some enchanted dream:
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Love's honey'd kiss, and manhood's pride,
And pleasure's syren strain;—
The civic wreath, the sparkling cup—
All—all are ours again.
The past, the past, the shadowy past,
How dim the scene appears,
When eyes that on us look'd their last
Relume in after years.
The dazzling cheat in mockery throws
Its light o'er hopeless gloom,
Like a faint taper's flickering ray
Above the silent tomb.
The past, the past, the mighty past;
How boundless is its sway:—
Hark! to its trumpet's summoning blast,
While listening worlds obey!
The conquering chief his helmet doffs—
The brandish'd sceptre falls:
And silence reigns where wassail shouts
Rang through the festal halls.
The past, the past, the storied past—
Here genius sits enshrined,—
On this bright fane your offerings cast,
The Mecca of the mind!
Beneath these arches' vaulted roofs
Immortal spirits throng;
Here Shakspeare's radiant fancy beams—
Here Homer weaves his song!
The past, the past, the new-fledged past,
Even now, with raven wing
Its lengthening shadows grown more vast
Around my footsteps cling.
My fingers vainly sweep the lyre,
No answering tones arise;
Pale memory flees to happier breasts,
And hope to brighter skies
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CHAPTER VI.
FANCY'S FREAKS.—A TRAGEDY.
“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?”
Macbeth.
“Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.”
Macbeth.
“Ingratitude” is said to be a “marble-hearted
frend,” and though we shall not venture to maintain
the converse of the proposition, we still contend that
there are imps, its “next-o'-kin,” whose bad eminence
is equally conspicuous. Among these children
of darkness, superstition, that nightmare of
the soul, exhibits demoniac attributes of equal power,
and is more justly dreaded; its influence being
active, while that of ingratitude is passive.
To exhibit the highest evidence, we might adduce
the circumstance that there are certain periods when
it wields a resistless power over our own intellect,
albeit the reader has no doubt assigned us a station
high above the reach of all malign influences. To
reveal a secret which, until now, has been treasured in
our heart of hearts, we do love the silver moon with an
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intensity of affection passing the love of woman: there
is not a wandering ray that dances joyously on its
bright course through the transparent ether, but
is precious in our eyes as the jewel on a sultan's turban—
but if her virgin-beams first dance over our
left shoulder, to hold soft dalliance with our glowing
cheek, the coy advance meets a cool return; our
cheerful spirits lose their wonted elasticity, and
coming events cast their shadows gloomily before
us. Does the world do us wrong, and despitefully
entreat us? Even our warm regard cannot prevent
the imputation that it isthe work of the luckless moonbeam.
Have we no visible sorrows to mourn over?
There were doubtless unknown joys in full career
along our path, but the prophetic ray has diverted
them to more fortunate bosoms. If, therefore, we
are not exempt from the dominion of such untoward
sprites, it is not surprising that Clifton was at all
times their unwilling victim. Indeed it is capable
of the most palpable demonstration that those who,
like him, are rudely tossed on the billows of fate,
and subject to sudden and unexpected vicissitudes,
are ever prone to cast their horoscopes, and link,
in imagination, their capricious destinies with the
stars.
That Napoleon, in all the phases of his extraordinary
career, was the sport and foot-ball of this
shadowy influence, is a matter of history. When
in the zenith of his power, it was his constant practice
to watch the aspect of his natal star, whose
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steady effulgence lighted him to victory; and when
his fortunes experienced that decline which is the
legitimate offspring of unbounded success, he viewed
in its shorn beams, the herald of defeat.
On one of those cheerless nights, whose prototypes
have at times denied the solace of slumber to
the most equable of our species, Clifton lay tossing
from side to side on his lonely couch, wooing the
drowsy god with genuine devotion, but receiving no
answering sign to his prayers for repose. The
night was clear, but there was that oppressive feeling
in the atmosphere which creates lassitude and
despondency, without precisely indicating the cause
of such a phenomenon. Finding the attempt to
sleep impracticable, his truant thoughts began to
wander, and like other rebellious rovers, were not
content, until the broad Atlantic separated them
from their liege lord. Onward and still onward
they continued their flight, nor rested their unwearied
wing until the antique outline of Mr. Borrowdale's
mansion was recognized and reached.
After hovering timidly over the hospitable mansion,
they made bold to enter the sleeping apartment of
the fair Julia, gently lifting the curtain that shrouded
her virgin couch, and peering most curiously into
her face.
But horror of horrors! what a sight presented itself!
Instead of the glowing cheek and swan-like
throat of his beloved, there lay her attenuated and
emaciated form, robbed of its matchless charms, and
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struggling to retain a feeble existence. In vain he
attempted to persuade himself that it was an illusion,
a mockery of the brain—the whole scene, with all
its terrible accessaries, was as palpable to his sense
as the sun at noon-day.
After repeated efforts to withdraw from the enchanted
chamber, he at length succeeded, but not
until the finger of his mistress pointed to a new made
grave, seen distinctly in the distance, which he shuddered
to think was prepared for her reception. The
morning light brought relief and calm to his excited
feelings, but superstition still clung to the recollection
of the vision, declaring it a fatal omen, whose
fulfilment was not more terrible than sure. Moody
and abstracted, he found the usual solace in the employment
of his pen impracticable, and after an
early dinner entered an omnibus and proceeded to
the remotest suburbs, hoping to calm his ruffled spirit
by a resort to the excitement of motion and the
presence of new objects.
On the vehicle reaching its destination he alighted,
and proceeded, without aim or purpose, in a
direction leading from the city. While thus rambling
along, he at length observed that clouds were
gathering over the western horizon, which warned
him of the propriety of retracing his steps.
Darker and more gloomy rolled the sable clouds
along as the day declined, dimming the glories of
the setting sun, and robbing twilight of its shadowy
and evanescent beauties. As the evening wore
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apace, a thick fog, such as often occurs in London,
overspread the vicinity of the metropolis, enveloping
the city and its environs in impenetrable darkness.
The stars were totally obscured, and the city lamps,
with flickering and unsteady light, appeared like
faithless sentinels, whose eyes were rendered dim by
the effects of a midnight revel. Untoward and
cheerless as was the prospect at the close of day, the
rapid transition from light to darkness was as unexpected
as unwelcome to those whom business or pleasure
had benighted on their journey to or from the
busy mart.
Clifton, in particular, was not a little chagrined at
his late abstraction, which had caused him to take
no note of time, nor was he aware of the distance he
had traced, after descending from the omnibus. To
move cautiously in the direction of the city, if the
various points of the compass could be guessed at
in this epitome of Egyptian darkness, was his only
course. That he could reach his lodgings through
the gloom was not supposed, and he therefore determined
to seek lodgings for the night in the first public-house
he should encounter. While pressing
forward with as much speed as the darkness permitted,
the footsteps of two or three individuals were
heard in advance. As he pushed onward and came
nearer, one of the party, in a rough voice, although
apparently in a subdued tone, exclaimed,
“Why, Bill, my cove, you didn't use to miss fire,
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but I'm blowed if I don't begin to think the rum uns
have given us the slip.”
“I shouldn't wonder,” replied another, “if, as
they say in Kentucky, we've barked up the wrong
tree. These tarnal dooks and barrens know how
to play possum as well as us common chaps.”
“Blood and thunder, you misbelievin varmin,”
grumbled a third, “do you think I've lived to this
time of day to be bamboozled by these sprigs of nobility?
It takes an old fox to gammon me, and
I've wintered and summered these fellows too long
to fly off the track when I fairly get the scent. As
Joe Simmons says, I know them inside and outside—
top and bottom, and I could tell one of their hides
in a tan-yard.”
“Hush, hush,” said the first speaker, in a lower
key, “I think I hear a footstep. Mum's the word.
It wouldn't read well in history if the beaks nabbed
us. Only think of our last dying speech and confession
being on sale by all the principal booksellers.”
“If I catch a spy listening,” almost whispered his
associate, “I'll play Hamlet with him. `A rat, a
rat; dead for a ducat.' Wouldn't I do for the
stage?”
“If you don't quit spouting, I reckon you'll mount
a pla'form before the next grass,” was the reply,
which caused no little merriment at the expense of
Shakspeare's admirer, who retorted, “Come, come,
no professional jokes, if you please. If I catch you
-- 051 --
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at Moll Parson's you'll pay a bumper all round for
insulting a gentleman.”
Clifton inferred from this conversation that it
would be advisable to increase the distance between
these night-hawks and himself, and accordingly remained
stationary until they had proceeded onward
sufficiently to render their voices inaudible. But a
few moments elapsed before the rumbling of carriage
wheels was heard in the distance, and as the
sound approached, the shrieks of a female, and the
loud and angry tones of men's voices, attested the
danger that threatened the newly arrived party.
“Your money or your life, on the instant,” were
the first words that saluted the ears of Clifton, as he
proceeded with all possible rapidity to the rescue,
and they were followed by the discharge of a pistol,
the light from which, and the coach lamps, exhibited
a carriage and pair, with one robber standing
over the prostrate postillion, who begged most lustily
that his life might be spared. A second ruffian
grasped the reins, while the third was stationed at
the door of the coach with a dark lanthorn in his
hand and apparently in the act of rifling the inmates.
All this passed in a second, when Clifton sprang
forward, and with one blow prostrated the villain at
the door of the carriage, placing his knee on his
breast and pinning him to the earth. Observing
the condition of his prostrate comrade, the antagonist
of the postillion released his prisoner, and discharged
a pistol at Clifton, who received the ball in
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his thigh. During these events the gentleman in
the coach and the rescued postillion, with shouts and
outcries so alarmed the two robbers who were at
liberty, that they wisely took to their heels, leaving
their less fortunate associate in the gripe of his
wounded, but still powerful assailant. A moment
sufficed to bring the rescued gentleman to the aid
of Clifton, and the timely arrival of two or three labourers
relieved both from the task of securing the
prisoner. Fortunate was it for all parties that the
latter auxiliaries appeared, for no sooner had they
taken possession of the robber than Clifton fainted
from the loss of blood, and falling on the earth became
totally insensible. The gentleman (who with
his daughters was indebted to Clifton's courage and
gallantry for their release from the ruffians,) with
the assistance of one of the new comers, bound up
the wound, and placed the invalid in the carriage;
and as the seat of Lord Templeton, the rescued
party, was near by, the grateful nobleman despatched
one of the labourers for a neighbouring surgeon,
while he conveyed Clifton to his residence. While
these arrangements were in progress, the arms of
the prisoner were pinioned, and he was escorted to
the nearest police station, to be dealt with as the law
directed.
A partial view of the captured robber exhibited a
short but athletic person, whose countenance was
purposely disguised by a mass of grizzled iron-grey
hair flowing over his forehead, and a slouched hat
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which threw his face in shadow. Beneath the
shaggy locks twinkled a pair of dark eyes, whose
restless glances, although betraying great agitation
and excitement, did not entirely lose their natural
shrewdness and recklessness of expression. To all
inquiries he refused reply, and was conducted by his
escort in sullen silence to the place of his confinement.
A discharged pistol, which was found near
the spot where Clifton assailed him, was taken in
charge by the party, and in a brief period the scene
of so much alarm and hazard was left to its accustomed
silence and repose.
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CHAPTER VII.
A CRISIS IN OUR HERO'S HISTORY.—THE
SCALES BALANCED.
“Two or three groans;—it is a heavy night;
'Tis some mischance; the cry is very dreadful.”
Othello.
“How does your patient, doctor?”
Macbeth.
“Does your patient sleep?” inquired Lord Templeton
of his eldest daughter, as she returned from
the apartment in which Clifton lay, on the morning
succeeding the attempted robbery.
“He has this moment closed his eyes, for the first
time, as I am informed by the nurse, since he was
conveyed hither, and you cannot imagine how much
I am relieved. I am informed by Dr. Hildreth that
his sufferings have been intense throughout the
night; and when I entered the room this morning
I am certain the pain of his wound was excruciating,
from the rigid expression that his features assumed
while endeavouring to disguise its effects from
the nurse and myself. Although I remained but a
moment in his room, I shall never forget the
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convulsive action of the muscles of his face. Oh, dear
papa, if he should not recover, how deeply will we
all regret his interference, for I suppose the robbers
would have been satisfied with fleecing us of our
money and jewels, and what would have been their
loss compared with the life of so noble-looking a fellow-being?”
“Let us hope for the best, my dear child,” was
the reply, as the fond father kissed the polished forehead
of his charming daughter. “If our deliverer
recovers, only think how happy we shall all be to
minister to his comfort and happiness.”
“How much like her departed mother,” thought
Lord Templeton, as he slightly turned to brush away
a tear that glittered in his eye at the recollection of
one too fondly loved—too quickly lost.
The entrance of Doctor Hildreth, who had risen
after a brief sleep, served to arouse the noble lord
from his reverie, and many and eager were the inquiries
of that gentleman and his enthusiastic daughter,
as to the particular symptoms of his patient's
case, and the probabilities of his recovery. To all
these questions the scientific practitioner gave truly
professional replies, which were couched in terms
sufficiently obscure to the fair querist, and not as definite
or intelligible to Lord Templeton himself as
he could have desired.
Doctor Hildreth was one of those unbending apostles
of the healing art, who, to an elevated consciousness
of the dignity of their profession, unite a
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scrupulous regard for all its forms; nor did he attempt
to modify or disguise the supreme contempt
with which he viewed those pretenders who were
springing up like mushrooms in every quarter of
the civilized globe, poisoning, as he contended, the
very atmosphere with their vile nostrums, and sacrificing
hecatombs of human beings at the shrine of
ignorance and cupidity. The learned surgeon indeed
lived, and moved, and had his being alone in
the regions of medical science; and while his skill,
judgment and tact were the theme of universal
eulogy, yet all admitted that the friends of his suffering
patients had some reason to murmur at
the unsatisfactory manner in which he replied to
their anxious inquiries. At an earlier period indeed,
not a few of his female friends had openly remonstrated
against his technical explanations, but the
doctor effectually silenced all such rebellious indications
by the sternness of his manner, or abandoned
the patient if further annoyed.
Lord Templeton had, in early life, become warmly
attached to the celebrated surgeon, and truly estimated
his professional skill, while he honoured and
esteemed his independence and manliness; nor did
he fail to see beneath the surface a genuine benevolence
that delighted in acts of charity, which were
studiously concealed from the knowledge of the
world. Doctor Hildreth had failings, but they were
those of a high-minded man, who saw with disgust
the successful efforts of quackery and empiricism to
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impose on the credulous; and who, in his indignation
at hypocrisy and deception, at times overstepped
the boundaries of good breeding, while he failed to
make a sufficient allowance for the constitutional
defects and frailties of his species. On the present
occasion Lord Templeton determined to fathom, if
possible, the doctor's precise meaning, and as he
understood the whole length and breadth of his character
and feelings, he from time to time permitted
the conversation to flow into other channels, returning
to the charge whenever an opportunity presented,
and again masking his purpose behind less interesting
topics. In this way he would have soon
learned all he wished to ascertain, if the eager anxiety
of his beautiful daughter could have been suppressed;
but on the doctor's explanation nearly
reaching the desired point, a direct question, hastily
urged by her, would again start the surgeon off on
his professional hobby, when ligaments, muscles,
tendons, nerves, veins, sinews, and arteries, would
be described with true technical fidelity, and their
history, affinities, relations, dependencies, sympathies,
connections, and functions, descanted on with
the enthusiasm of a devotee.
At length sufficient light was vouchsafed to indicate
the dangerous character of the wound, and to
make the querists aware that the necessity of amputation
depended on the symptoms which might be
developed within the succeeding twenty-four hours.
“But, doctor,” said the young lady, “will not
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the operation be attended with imminent peril to his
life?”
“That, my good young lady, depends entirely on
the state of the patient. Should the nervous excitement
continue or increase—or should the general
symptoms concentrate in the vicinity of the wound,
and thereby become local—or should the strength of
the patient rapidly give way, or the severing of the arteries
cause too copious depletion—or the febrile irritation
exceed a given point—or the prostrate system
refuse to rally its energies—or the pain of the operation
overpower the resistance which youth and robust
health will oppose to its effects—if either or all
these counteracting influences interpose, it is impossible
to determine how far or to what extent they may
operate. We practitioners of medicine, my dear
lord,” he continued, turning to Lord Templeton, “are
like the mariner on the wide Atlantic. We may be
skilful—we may be prudent—we may be invested
with every requisite attribute to insure success, and
yet, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, a squall
in the shape of an unexpected and fatal symptom,
may shatter our most skilfully wrought professional
fabric—shipwreck our hopes, and consign the despairing
patient to an untimely grave. And yet,
with all these inherent obstacles strewn along our
path, the blind disciples of a blind fatality, recklessly
rush into the professional arena, and instead of exorcising
the foul spirit of disease, the mangled corses
of their victims are the only trophies they exhibit.”
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“But if our patient should fortunately escape the
necessity of having his limb amputated, then, I presume,
we may fairly calculate on his recovery,” replied
Lord Templeton.
“My dear lord, make no rash calculations, either
as to the patient's recovery or demise. I have already
succeeded in extracting the ball, which lay
buried in immediate proximity to the thigh bone,
and so far the prospect of ultimate recovery is favourable.
But it is difficult for me to explain, except
to a regular practitioner, the various causes
which, although now dormant, may soon awaken
to activity and embarrass our best efforts. For example,
the state of the young gentleman's nerves
may render amputation hazardous, while danger of
ultimate mortification intimidates us if we delay.
Thus, you see, we have our professional Scylla and
Charybides to steer through, and fortunate is he
who can avoid both. But, my lord, do not for a
moment suppose, because I place before you all the
dangers which beset us, that therefore the chances
are against the recovery of our patient. Has he not
youth and a firm constitution? And while we see
the feeble and tottering victim of age and disease resuscitated,
the Lord forbid that we should despair of
this young man's recovery.”
With this information he again visited the bedside
of his patient, who still slept, if that could be so
termed which was the unquiet effect of powerful
opiates.
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Scarce any one who had known Clifton in the
flush of health and enjoyment, and who saw him
now, would have believed that he and the pale and
haggard being before him were one and the same
person. No vestige of colour was visible in that
cheek once so ruddy—the lips bore a wan and deathlike
aspect—his raven hair lay lifelessly over his
forehead; while the convulsive movement of the
corners of his mouth indicated the pain which he
was suffering.
During the whole of that day, and the greater
part of the succeeding night, neither Lord Templeton
nor his eldest daughter ceased to exhibit the
most intense anxiety for the fate of Clifton. Even
the beautiful Euphemia, who, just blushing into
early womanhood, was sportive and thoughtless as
a young fawn, deeply sympathized with her more
sedate sister, while the theme occupied her mind,
but being at that happy period in life in which sunshine
predominates, her spirits quickly bounded to
more joyous impressions, and her expectations of a
favourable issue were more confident and sanguine.
Doctor Hildreth had peremptorily directed the
nurse to exclude every person from visiting or conversing
with the patient, but the anxious Miss Jerningham
hovered like a good angel around the entrance
to his chamber, and embraced every opportunity
that offered to inquire into the particulars of
his case, while the varying changes her beautiful
countenance assumed during the day and evening,
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were a faithful index of her excited feelings. On
learning from the nurse any symptom which she
deemed important, either for good or ill, she hastened
to her father, and communicated the facts, to
learn his opinion of their nature and probable results.
Clifton appeared during the day to exhibit every
indication of extreme suffering; and the rapid pulse,
inflamed and wandering eye, and confused intellect,
bore witness to the dangerous character of his wound,
and the uncertainty of its final issue.
Although Lord Templeton was usually capable
of commanding his feelings, yet his anxiety for Clifton
was plainly visible, and he almost emulated his
daughter's eagerness to learn each varying phase of
the invalid's condition.
In the morning the learned surgeon was again assailed
by Lord Templeton and his daughters, whose
impatience to ascertain Clifton's situation was manifest,
no less by words than the expression of their
countenances.
To their great joy, the report was favourable.
During the latter portion of the night, Clifton's
rest had been less disturbed, and he awoke in the
morning, extremely weak, but almost free from fever.
Thus much Lord Templeton and his daughters
gathered from the physician's report, whose
native benevolence induced a ready reply, when its
import was of so satisfactory a character.
The interdiction against all intercourse with the
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patient was repeated with renewed emphasis, and
all were too much rejoiced at the favourable prospect
to murmur against a command enforced by so
many important considerations.
From that period, our hero's recovery slowly advanced,
but several weeks elapsed before he could
move with the aid of a crutch. When that period
arrived, however, his recovery was much more
rapid, from the favourable effect of air and exercise;
and the approach of spring with its bland and cheering
influences, although still lingering in the lap of
winter, was sufficiently genial to awaken the dormant
energies of his nature, and throw the rays of
consolation along his chequered existence. To
Lord Templeton, in confidence, he stated the unhappy
result of his duel with Ellingbourne, which,
for the present, rendered it desirable to keep his place
of residence as much concealed as circumstances
would admit.
To this request the noble lord readily acceded,
and although he severely censured the practice of
duelling, he yet frankly admitted the difficulty
which custom threw in the way of its suppression.
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CHAPTER VIII.
A BRIEF SKETCH OF THE HISTORY OF THOSE
WITH WHOM IT IS DESIRABLE TO BE BETTER
ACQUAINTED.
“He, who is the theme of honour's tongue;
Amongst a grove the very straightest plant;
Who is sweet fortune's minion and her pride.”
First part of King Henry 4th.
Lord Templeton was descended from a long
line of illustrious ancestors. Unlike many of his
class, the splendour of his rank and title was more
than reflected by the personal graces, virtue, and
talents of their possessor.
The death of his father left him, at an early period
of his life, master of his own actions, and sole
heir to a princely fortune; but a decided predilection
for literary pursuits, and a taste for the beautiful in
art and noble in nature, preserved him from all debasing
associations, and directed his attention to
more elevated objects than those which too often
attract the regard and engross the time of the spoiled
children of fortune. While travelling on the continent,
he casually became the companion of a
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private gentleman, a resident of one of the remote
counties in England, for whose beautiful and accomplished
daughter he formed an ardent and lasting
attachment. The young lady being equally
fascinated with the talent and comeliness of her
noble admirer, they were immediately united on
their return to their native country.
His daughters, Adeline and Euphemia, were the
fruit of this union, over which no cloud of discontent
or dissension ever lowered; but shortly after the
birth of Euphemia, a rapid and irresistible decline
consigned Lady Templeton to an early grave, leaving
her fond husband for a long period inconsolable
for his loss. True to his early and only attachment,
his thoughts never wandered to the subject of a second
marriage, but, secluded in his residence several
miles from the city, and occupied with the education
of his daughters and the necessary supervision of his
large estates, he looked forward with calm composure
to the time when, his children being settled in
life and his earthly affairs satisfactorily arranged, his
wearied spirit should wing its flight to that eternal
home which contained the beloved of his soul.
The congeniality of tastes between Clifton and
himself resulted in a more unreserved intercourse
and intimacy than the difference of rank and station
would generally permit. More of his young guest's
early history he would have been gratified to learn,
but as Clifton had formally introduced the subject to
his notice, and confidentially communicated all that
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he deemed desirable, delicacy prevented any farther
allusion to a topic which the person, most interested,
appeared to consider without the pale of friendly discussion.
As Clifton's health became improved, the young
ladies were added to the conversational circle, and
the beauty, enthusiasm, and talents of the elder, with
the artlessness and naïveté of her more youthful
sister, aided materially in withdrawing his mind
from the contemplation of its peculiar sorrows. Lord
Templeton was perhaps more strongly attached to
Miss Jerningham, the eldest, than to her sportive sister,
much as he loved the latter, from her more striking
resemblance to his departed lady. The pensive dark
brown eye—the countenance playful, yet full of intelligence—
the pale high forehead and ruby lips
were all living remembrancers of her sainted mother.
As weeks glided on, Lord Templeton did not fail
to perceive, that the interest first awakened in himself
and his family, by the service rendered them by
his young guest, was daily gaining force, now that
his talents and accomplishments were more fully developed;
nor could he disguise from himself the
probability that a more tender sentiment might arise
in the breast of Miss Jerningham, if the handsome
young American remained for a length of time under
his roof, the companion of his daughters in their
solitude, and a sharer in their recreations and amusements.
As the noble lord had no sons to enjoy his
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title and entailed inheritance, and as the rank devolved
on a distant relative, with whom he had never
held personal intercourse, it is not to be denied that
he looked forward to an alliance for one or both of
his daughters, with a titled personage, as desirable
and judicious.
For rank itself, without merit, Lord Templeton
entertained a humble estimate; nor did he consider
a titled connection for his daughters of so paramount
importance as to be willing to jeopard their happiness
in securing it. With such sentiments, his objections
to Miss Jerningham's possible attachment
for Clifton was not, as may be supposed, founded entirely
on his want of title or wealth. The prominent
difficulty was in the mystery which veiled his
career, and he felt that the veil must be removed before
he could determine how far it would be expedient
to waive his original intentions in relation to
his daughter's future union, if her sentiments of
esteem for our hero should ripen into love. With
these views, it is not surprising that he attempted as
much as possible to withdraw Clifton from the society
of his daughter, lest her affections should be irrecoverably
engaged. Had no suspicious circumstances
occurred, subsequent to Clifton's confidential communication
with Lord Templeton, on the subject of
his reason for absenting himself from his native
land, it is probable that the withheld development
would have been considered unimportant; but an
inadvertent inquiry by the artless Euphemia, as to
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the disease of which his parents died, on his stating
the fact of their death, caused so manifest an embarrassment
of manner, that it could not fail to
challenge the attention of his host, and arouse suspicions
of a painful nature.
It was about this period that Clifton, one afternoon,
while in the company of the young ladies,
alluded to a celebrated poet, whose name was a
household word in every corner of Europe, and as
the only being on earth whom he really envied.
This led to farther remark on the subject, which inadvertently
caused him to admit the metrical sins of
which he had himself been guilty.
On hearing this confession, both his auditors
claimed an example of his skill—Miss Jerningham
blushing at the request after it was spoken, and Euphemia
playfully enforcing her solicitation by holding
up her finger in the attitude of mock command.
With mischief and joy dancing in her laughing eye,
she assured him that unless he took the earliest opportunity
to display his poetical talents for their edification,
he was no true knight-errant, notwithstanding
his Quixotic attack and dispersion of three barbarians
in their defence.
To this demand on his gallantry, Clifton could
not fail to respond, and accordingly on the following
day the delighted Euphemia was greeted with the
following playful apologue, entitled.
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CUPID'S REVENGE
A lady fair one April day
Stole Cupid's bow and quiver:
The plundered urchin begged to learn
What ransom he should give her.
He proffered rank and tendered wealth—
The lady's smile was sunny—
She sportively the rank declined,
Nor would accept the money.
Unto his mother's court he flew,
(This secret is between us,)
Imploring counsel, power and aid,
From sceptre-wielding Venus.
The goddess summoned mighty Mars,
His sword by peace was rusty:
To Vulcan, then, her suit preferred,
His negative was crusty!
Dread Jupiter was next addressed,
To claim the missing plunder:
A trifle would the purpose serve—
A bolt or two of thunder!
The courteous god with ease replied,
“I'd fain oblige you, you know,
“But all my bolts are lent to-day
To my beloved Juno.”
The baffled goddess vainly roamed,
From dewy morn till even;—
No succour could her prayers command
In ocean, earth, or heaven.
Old Neptune vexed with feeble health
Must loll in grotto shady;
The rest declined (these were their words)
To persecute a lady.
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With lengthened face poor Cupid now
Returned to beg the favour,
That if the lady still must keep
What fickle fortune gave her:—
She'd kindly loan the useless toys,
Lest he his art should forget;
In luckless moment she complied—
Her breast became his target!
In tears the stricken lady prays
That he would draw his arrow:
“Such wounds no gallant would inflict
Even on a worthless sparrow:”
He scornfully the boon denies;
But soon is heard a carriage—
Its inmate plucks the envious shaft;
Who should it be but Marriage!
His magic ring the pain expels,—
Such wounds should ne'er be slighted:—
Then vengeance sought upon the boy—
Who fled away affrighted.
Now all you ladies, far and near,
Should wicked Love assail you,
Call faithful Marriage to your aid,
His ring will never fail you.
Euphemia was no sooner in possession of her offering
than she ran to her boudoir, and perused
it with great glee. It was, she thought, so racy,
and chimed so well with her playful feelings. Returning
to the drawing-room, she could not keep the
matter a secret, but skipping to her father's side exclaimed,
“Guess, papa, what Mr. Clifton has given me.
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Now, Adeline, you must not give any of your hints,
as I want papa to guess it without any help.”
“Why, my love, that is more than I can divine.
If Mr. Clifton has made you a present, I have no
doubt it is such a one as was proper for him to bestow
and you to receive.”
This was said by Lord Templeton with great
gravity, and the manner, more than the sentiment,
first suggested the idea to Clifton, that his noble host
deemed his longer intercourse with his daughters neither
proper nor desirable.
On the day previous, he had first succeeded in
walking without the aid of a crutch, and this circumstance
afforded a proper opportunity for the
annunciation of his immediate departure. He therefore
said:—
“I should render a sad return for all the kindness
bestowed upon me by your Lordship, could it enter
into my imagination, to offer for your daughter's
acceptance any other present than such a one as my
sister might claim at my hands, had I the happiness
to possess one.
“As my health is quite restored, and I have succeeded
in walking without the aid of my wooden
supporter, I purpose returning, to-morrow, to my
residence in the city; and, unhappily for my fame,
in an evil hour I promised Miss Jerningham and
her sister each a literary offering, before my departure.
“As my word is pledged, I must, of course,
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fulfil the task as best I may, and Miss Euphemia's
being the first completed, was this moment given.”
“My excellent young friend,” said Lord Templeton,
who observed with pleasure the delicacy of feeling
which dictated Clifton's resolution, “you must
not commit any such imprudence as returning toyour
residence, while your health is still so feeble.
No, no—a week or two hence we will permit you
to talk about fixing the time of departure, but not
yet. The thing is impossible. So, having settled
that matter, we'll hear the poetical present recited.”
Of course, all professed great admiration
for the morceau. Euphemia said it was the prettiest
effusion she ever read, except one or two of
Moore's, and declared that she would keep it as long
as she lived.
Miss Jerningham archly remarked that she was
pleased with the whole of it, except one idea. She
did not like the assertion that marriage frightened
away love.
Clifton so far acceded to Lord Templeton's urgent
solicitations as to consent to a few days addition to
the time originally assigned for his departure. Both
the young ladies, although they said nothing on the
subject, evinced by their looks how grateful Clifton's
stay was to their feelings. Lord Templeton from
this period appeared entirely divested of his incipient
apprehensions, in relation to Clifton's intercourse
with his daughters; and as the lameness of our hero
had so far decreased as to permit exercise on foot
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without much inconvenience, the extensive grounds
attached to the mansion were visited in company
with his lovely companions, Lord Templeton usually
declining to partake of their rambling pleasures. It
was now the month of March, and while the victim
of consumption was wasting beneath its false and
fickle smile, Clifton's health and spirits daily improved
under the combined influence of spring and the
conversational attractions of his fair auditors.
As the visitor approached the mansion of Lord
Templeton, through the lawn, he met the form of a
lion rampant, which threw from its marble jaws a
column of the pure element into the basin of an
exquisitely chiselled fountain, of the same durable
material.
The beautifully decorated garden grounds were
reached on passing through the great hall, and, half
concealed by the budding foliage, urns and statues
of bronze and marble, threw their classic witchery
around the scene.
A second fountain, of smaller dimensions, divided
the gravelled walk in the centre of the garden, and
on its skilfully wrought pedestal hovered the form of
a massive eagle, which, with extended wings and
parted beak, threw the liberated waters in showers
over the area of the circular basin.
At the extremity of the main avenue, after passing
through a giant gateway, a lake of the purest
water reflected on its mirror-like surface the varied
phenomena of the heavens, while the well-beaten
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path that wound around its sedgy border frequently
attracted our hero and his fair companions by its
quiet and romantic loveliness.
On the day previous to that on which Clifton proposed
to depart for his residence in the city, Miss
Jerningham reminded him of his promise to oblige
her also with a specimen of his poetical ability; and
as they were at that moment in the hall, and suspended
before them on the wall hung an exquisite
painting of a crusader setting out for Palestine—his
hand on his charger's rein, Clifton selected it as the
subject of the following effusion.
THE CRUSADER TO HIS MISTRESS.
With the folds of my banner unfurled to the wind,
I leave the dear form of my lady behind:
My foot in the stirrup—my hand on the rein,
I conquer the Moslem or come not again.
Though thy tears, my beloved, still tempt me to stay,
My good steed impatient rebukes the delay:
To the plains of Judea with ardour I fly,
And thine eyes like bright Pleiades are lost from my sky.
Dost thou view in the distance my legions advance?
Fame mounts on each helmet, and death on each lance:
From the harems of Selim shall rise a deep wail
As the dirge of the chieftain floats sad on the gale.
Bright gem of existence—enshrined in my heart,
Oh weep not that glory commands us to part;
Shall love cause thy warrior from honour to stray,
When religion and valour both beckon away?
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I read thy reply in that love-beaming smile,—
On the sands of Damascus its light will beguile,
And when by its halo my sabre shall gleam,
The blood of the foeman will crimson each stream.
As the hills of Jerusalem rise on the view,
And from cloud-kissing Hermon descends the soft dew—
How fearful my trumpet defiance will roll
To the dark-visaged infidel's terror-wrought soul.
Now I bound in the saddle—my dearest, farewell—
On no ear shall thy name with its melody swell;
But how oft shall my eyes from the blue heaven glance
To thy breeze-wafted pennon that floats from my lance.
The following morning found Clifton on his way
to the city, and the circle at Lord Templeton's could
not conceal their regret at his absence.
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CHAPTER IX.
SPRING.—THE RETURN.—A SUPERNATURAL
VISITATION.
“When with his lively ray the potent sun
Has pierced the streams.”
Thomson.
“If I stand here I saw him.”
Macbeth.
Spring, with its dreamy influences, was again
on the wing to the shores of merry England. True,
its early glance, like the smile of virgin modesty,
was tempered with a dash of frigidity; but who has
not desired, in the innermost recesses of his heart,
that both the type and the substance might inherit
immortality; so fragrant are the flowers of enjoyment
which are snatched from the brink of uncertainty!
Twilight had descended upon the city with gentle
and cautious footsteps, as if reluctant to dim the
fading glories of the expiring day; and the vast
crowd which poured along the streets of the metropolis,
by their subdued voices and lighter tread,
evinced their unconscious sympathy with the sweet
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and pensive hour. The discordant sounds which
render London a second Babel during the day, were
modulated, until they mimicked the solemn swell of
the ocean, when the death-song of its complaining
surges are faintly heard in the distance.
Clifton's little study, of which he was again an
occupant, overlooked the street, and directly opposite
his window, a massive Gothic structure, with its
pointed arches, towers, turrets, and battlements,
looked down with a most protecting air on two
diminutive modern erections which stood in humble
attitude on either hand beneath its shadow.
Seating himself near the window, he gazed listlessly
on the moving panorama before him, until his
thoughts became entirely absorbed in the contemplation
of the varying events connected with his own
sad destiny. As may be inferred, this reverie was
ill calculated to secure mental or bodily repose; and
unfortunately, recent circumstances had occurred to
increase the gloom caused by those which threw
their shadows permanently over his prospects. He
had left the charming social circle at Lord Templeton's,
and now felt, most poignantly, the loss of their
sympathetic alleviation of his sorrows; and, on
reaching the city, had been cruelly disappointed at
receiving no letters from his friends in America.
At De Lyle's suggestion, his foster-parents had
determined not to forward any communications to
his address, until a sufficient time had elapsed to
allay the excitement of the public in relation to the
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duel with Ellingbourne; but this surely could not
account for so protracted a silence.
All these and a thousand other themes, in which
melancholy was the predominant ingredient, passed
through his mind with the speed of thought, until
he came to the conclusion that he was especially
singled out by untoward fate, as a victim to its most
despotic and harrassing influences.
To strengthen this idea, he dwelt on the fatal vision
which agonized his mind on the night previous
to his conflict with the robbers. Did not this conclusively
prove that he was the sport of evil destiny?
Just as his reflections had reached this gloomy point,
the singular and hesitating manner of a pedestrian
on the opposite side of the street, and directly beneath
the portico of the Gothic building, arrested his
attention. Although the evening was bland and
lovely, yet a large Spanish cloak was wrapped
closely around the individual in question, and by
the manner in which he proceeded, it was evident
that debility caused the hesitation of manner which
first attracted Clifton's attention. The latter was
about withdrawing his eyes, when, as the stranger
passed beneath a gas-lamp, which threw a strong
light on his face, Clifton, with horror, recognized the
pale features of Julius Ellingbourne!
At any other time, perhaps, he might have met
as striking a resemblance to his unfortunate antagonist,
without its exciting any superstitious feelings,
but now, the ghost-like fac-simile of him he ha
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slain acted fearfully on his nerves, already weakened
by the effects of his painful wound.
“'Tis as I feared,” he said, musingly, to himself,
“murder will have its victim, sooner or later. How
haggard and death-like were his features! and methought
he gazed up in my face with a threatening
and terrific look, which froze my very blood. In
my happy hours of boyhood, I sportively selected a
star, and watched its bright course, until I became a
convert to the dreams of the astrologer, and fancied
that my fate was linked with its career.
“Let me look on it now:—perchance it may corroborate
or refute the gloomy view I have taken into
futurity.” Thus saying, he sought out the sparkling
luminary which, for a moment, shone with undiminished
brilliancy. While he looked, a dark,
but diminutive cloud, no larger than a lady's veil,
was wafted by an unfelt breeze along the horizon,
until it reached the luckless star over which it
hovered, obscuring its beams and rendering it invisible.
“The omen is complete!” sighed Clifton. “My
career is approaching its close, and I may bid adieu
to all the bright visions which, in years gone by, solaced
and cheered me with their lustre!
“Hereafter my existence will be like the bubble on
the stream, which the slightest agitation of the waves
of destiny will annihilate.
“Farewell the anxious hope for a Name among
the Deathless! Farewell the enchanting dream
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of a future union with Julia. A long farewell to
that ambition which, like the eagle, nestled among
the mountain-crags of Futurity—cradled by the
thunder-cloud—companion of the sunbeam! Farewell
to the sunny smile of affection—the warm
grasp of friendship—the applause of the mighty in
intellect.
“Ye flowers of life that have here and there shed
your fragrance over my path, farewell! Henceforth
your thorns are alone to be my bitter inheritance!”
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CHAPTER X.
A SUCCESSFUL EFFORT—A DAW IN BORROWED
PLUMAGE.
“You are of too quick a sight
Not to discover which way your talent lies.”
Roscommon.
“Lest when the birds their various colours claim,
Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn
Should stand the laughter of the public scorn!”
Francis.
For several days subsequent to the occurrences
narrated in our last chapter, Clifton's energies were
depressed and his mind filled with gloomy forebodings;
but he soon became convinced of the necessity
of action, both from a conviction of its favourable
effect on his spirits, and the demand for the
means of subsistence, which now became imperative.
Under this state of feeling, his next literary production
was entitled “Fatality, or the Death Warning!”
a tale, which for thrilling interest, deep pathos,
and powerful delineation of human character,
in those fearful moments when Reason totters on
her throne, and Superstition hurls the sceptre
from her grasp—almost rivalled the celebrated
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productions of the masters of the German school of
literature. The sensation created in the public mind
by its appearance, was remarkable. It was devoured
with intense avidity by all classes, and the publishing
office of the magazine in which it first saw
the light was daily thronged with purchasers.
Conjecture was busy in seeking to ascertain the
author, and many and conflicting were the opinions
of the knowing ones in such matters.
One celebrated author whispered in the ear of
all his friends, that he could divulge the secret if he
would, but it must not be—at least for a time.
“Oh,” said Miss Jemima Bluestocking, “I see
through his reserve. He is himself the author. I
can generally trace these mysteries through all
their ramifications.”
On the day succeeding this oracular declaration
of Miss Bluestocking, Mr. Montblanque, the author
alluded to, was met in St. James's Park by an acquaintance,
who thus addressed him—
“Montblanque, is thith you? 'Pon my thoul
I'm glad to thee you. I'm told you know the author
of `Fatality, or the Death Warning.' I thall
conthider it pothitively unkind—I thall, on my honour—
if you refuthse to tell me in confidenth. You
know, my dear fellow, I'm clothse asth Motheth
the utherer, and asth thrusty asth hith iron chesth.
Tho, my dear Montblanque, do rethore the equilibrium
of my mind, which hath been thockingly
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agitated sinth thith confounded thecret hath been in
the wind.”
The speaker was Elton Arabesque, one of the
most noted of the race of exquisites. His attire was
in the most approved mode, and as he moved along,
the “observed of all observers,” the air was redolent
of perfume. While addressing Montblanque he
elevated a quizzing-glass to his eye, gently threw
forward the right leg, and attitudinized most imposingly.
Whether his lisp was natural or affected was a
question which was still mooted among his friends;
and so high ran the controversies on this interesting
subject, that they resulted in three challenges being
passed—one of which ripened into a veritable duel.
Whether the weapons were charged with leaden or
pomatum bullets was the theme of another series of
disputes, which were fortunately settled by the interference
of mutual friends.
“Mr. Arabesque,” replied the litterateur, “I beg
you will not press that question any farther. When
I tell you that I have refused to hold any conversation
on this subject with my devoted friend Lord
Fitzweller, you can judge the delicacy of my position,
and how impossible it is for me to enter into
any explanation that can, in the remotest degree,
contribute to withdraw the mask which the author,
whoever he may be, has seen fit to assume. So,
with your permission, we will talk on some other
topic. You perceive my embarrassment, and no
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doubt appreciate my feelings. You know I am the
last man in the world to covet laurels which should
deck other brows; and if you should hear Miss
Bluestocking hereafter allude to my name in connection
with this production, do me the favour to
state distinctly that I decline avowing any claim to
the honours awarded the unknown author.”
“Oh, I pertheive. I sthmoke the thecret. I take.
I'm dumb. I am, pothitively. Not a word of your
being the author. I'll look knowing; but on my
honour the thecret's thafe.”
“But, my dear Mr. Arabesque, you'll really believe
me, when I say I must not be considered the
author of `Fatality.' ”
“Yeth. Yeth, I underthand. You're non-committal.
Good bye, Montblanque—good bye. I'm
a walking thtatue of thilence—I am, pothitively.”
And thereupon this butterfly without wings
buzzed the supposed secret into the ear of every
acquaintance who crossed his path, in the strictest
confidence; adding that his friend Montblanque
would be savage if he knew that he divulged it. In
this way the worthy Montblanque contrived to reap
what he had not sown; taking especial care to so
fortify himself with saving clauses in his conversations,
that if the real author chose to avow himself,
he could refer to positive declarations in which he
disavowed the authorship.
Oh Charlatanism—thou modern divinity—we recognize
in thee the dispenser of more than life and
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death! At thy nod nations bow with reverence;
and wo be to him who in an evil hour rebels against
thy government, and sets at nought thy edicts. Let
him at once repent his temerity, ere thy chariot
wheels crush him to powder. Are not thy disciples
seated in the high places of power? Who now
dares with sacrilegious hand to profane the memory
of thy departed ministers? Do not the pupils of thy
Hahnemann—the apostles of thy Spurzheim—the
successors of thy St John Long—swarm like locusts
over the land—each one with a train of followers at
his heels, which, in numbers, would throw the disciples
even of Daniel O'Connell himself into the shade!
Again we repeat, all hail Charlatanism!
Like Byron, our hero “awoke one morning, and
to his surprise, found, if not himself, at least his
production famous.”
And did he turn a deaf ear to the praises awarded
his literary offspring? Assuredly not. His first
impulse was to consider the plaudits of the multitude
as a part of the heartless pageant in which he considered
himself no longer an actor, and whose praise
or censure it was equally his duty to disregard. That
he was the victim of a resistless and remorseless destiny
was his firm conviction, and he considered every
effort to escape its decrees both futile and absurd.
To repent of his crime in destroying the life of
Ellingbourne, and to prepare for futurity, were now
his paramount duties.
But as days passed, and his mind became
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divested of a portion of its morbid apprehensions, his interest
in the scenes around him returned, until at length
he could no longer disguise from himself the truth
that the voice of fame was music to his ears; and
like a war horse at the blast of the trumpet, his spirit
bounded to the call of a whole people who unitedly
demanded that he should again exhibit his powers
in the literary arena. Then first fell in all its gloom
across his mind the dark shadow which ever attends
early success in the literary world—the dread of failure—
where not to soar yet higher is to sink! True,
the fame attending his successful effort yet rested on
a masked brow, but the sweet conviction of ultimate
triumph in an open arena, where the combatants
should be divested of their visors, was cherished not
the less that it was still unrealized by himself.
With such feelings he proceeded to the task of
perfecting another specimen of what his intellectual
powers were capable of creating; and many were
the erasures, interlinings, and additions, which the
composition underwent, from its early inception until
it came forth in a dress deemed fit for the public
eye. Being persuaded, from the success of his
late effort, that the pathetic and the mysterious
were calculated more fully to display his powers
than any other species of composition—as they entered
with more force into his present feelings—he
again essayed to unveil the subtle connection which
existed between the Past, the Present, and the Future,
by delineating the remorse that tortured the
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bosom of the guilty—peopling the Present with the
grim images of the Past, and throwing over the
Future the dark shadows of them both.
This tale was entitled the “Conscience Stricken,”
and so eager were the public to possess it, that
an immense edition of the magazine in which it appeared—
being quadruple the number usually issued—
was absorbed in a day. To his great joy,
the papers united in pronouncing it a more able and
powerful effort than its predecessor, while the controversy
as to its paternity waxed warmer and more
angry.
Behold our hero on the high road to celebrity:—
but was he more happy now that the fiery ordeal was
passed? Did the breath of public applause appease
the cravings of a spirit, conscious of its mighty and
mysterious powers? There were moments when it
failed to soothe his wounded spirit; and the bitter
reflection that the fair fabric would tumble in ruins,
if the authorship was avowed and his history exposed,
dashed the cup of enjoyment from his lips.
And even if his former disgrace could be effectually
concealed from the British public, who was to be
the partaker of his new-born honours? Would the
loud trump of fame sound conviction of his innocence
to the bosom of Julia's parents? The idea
was madness.
To what purpose, then, was he pouring forth the
treasures of a rich intellect? Like the Eastern
pearl-diver, he had descended to the innermost
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recesses of his soul, and though precious were the
gems which sparkled in his casket, they were valueless
to their possessor. Monarch of the hour, his
sceptre, like that of the Ice King, waved over a region
of eternal snows, unblessed by the genial beams
of love, or the sunny smile of friendship.
Such were his meditations in periods of mental
gloom; but their influence on his spirits daily declined,
and more philosophical and enlarged views
and feelings resumed their empire over his heart.
Again returned the consciousness that he possessed
an immortal soul, invested with noble attributes;
and while dwelling on its high destinies he
estimated the world's opinion of his guilt or innocence,
at its real value. When in this judicious
mood of mind he would retire to rest with calm reliance
on the goodness of Providence; and, forgetting
the unprofitable studies of the astrologer, would enter
the dominions of sleep, prepared to partake of its holy
and serene enjoyments.
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CHAPTER XI.
A NEW CHARACTER—EPICUREAN ENJOYMENTS.
DIPLOMACY MADE EASY.
“Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise;
Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer,
From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.”
Pope.
“Fill high the sparkling bowl,
The rich repast prepare.”
Gray.
The exciting occupations and events of the few
days which had elapsed since Clifton's return from
Lord Templeton's, had prevented him from presenting
a letter of introduction with which that nobleman
had furnished him to the Honourable Lucius
Courtenay, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary from the United States, near the
Court of St. James. Indeed, when first offered, he
hesitated in accepting it, but as Lord Templeton
had frequently expressed great regard for the Minister,
and had voluntarily presented him with the
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letter when he was leaving his hospitable mansion,
courtesy required its early delivery.
It now occurred to his mind, that an introduction
to the representative of his native country, might facilitate
the receipt of advices from his friends in NewYork,
and he therefore determined to avail himself
of his noble friend's introduction.
At a suitable hour, Clifton visited the residence of
the ambassador, presented his letter, and was received
with great cordiality by the gentleman, who informed
him that he had, when a boy, resided in the
city of New-York;—adding, that he trusted to have
the pleasure of his company the next day at dinner.
This friendly invitation our hero declined, on the
plea of ill health; but on Mr. Courtenay's assurance
that he should be at perfect liberty to withdraw
whenever he deemed it prudent, while his recent recovery
would present a legitimate plea for his abstemiousness,
he at length reluctantly consented.
“You will meet a very select, although somewhat
unique, circle of my diplomatic, literary, and scientific
friends, and I promise you an intellectual banquet,
which will be not the less relished, that some of
the dishes are rather highly spiced. You must
know that I am a bachelor, and will perceive that
I am rather young for a diplomatist; but, like the
captain of one of our most successful packet ships,
who boasted, that it was only necessary for him to
give her the proper direction when leaving Sandy
Hook, as she knew the road as well as he did—so I
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may, with truth, declare, that the direct policy of our
government in its intercourse with foreign nations,
renders skill and experience comparatively useless
auxiliaries to our ambassadors, who require prudence
and integrity alone in their negotiations. As
this is the best excuse that can be offered for the selection
of my poor self, I trust you will consider
it in as favourable a light as your conscience will
permit.”
The latter part of these remarks was delivered
with a smile, and Clifton parted from the ambassador
with feelings of high gratification. While conversing
with Mr. Courtenay, he could not resist the
conviction that they had met before, but the circumstances
of their former intercourse—if such had existed—
were blotted from his memory, and he at length
concluded, that the apparent recognition of his countenance
was caused by a striking resemblance to
some individual of his acquaintance, whom it was,
for the moment, impossible to designate.
On the following day Clifton joined the social circle
at the hospitable mansion of Mr. Courtenay,
which, in addition to the host, consisted of Prince
Ptolenski, charge d'affairs from the court of St.
Petersburgh—Count Rosini, ambassador from the
Grand Duke of Tuscany—Theophilus Elgin, esquire,
recently returned from a tour through Egypt,
Asia, Turkey in Europe, and the Grecian Isles in
the Archipelago—and Stewart Macartney, a celebrated
author and antiquary, from the renowned
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city of Edinburgh. After the cloth was removed,
Mr. Courtenay sportively proposed the “health of
his new guest, Mr. Clifton, who, like Richard the
Lion-hearted, by the might of his single arm, had
put to flight two modern Saracens and captured a
third—while, more fortunate than the Royal Crusader,
he rescued Beauty and Innocence from the
grasp of the infidels.”
The explanation of course followed, but Clifton, on
returning thanks, begged permission to decline appropriating
the compliment in its full extent.
“Our host,” he remarked, “is so versed in the
beauties of ancient and modern lore, that he contrives
to throw over the most common-place incident
the lustre of his vivid imagination. Lest I
should be unduly honoured, it is proper to state that
the affair to which my friend alludes was as unromantic
and common-place as can well be imagined;
being nothing more than an almost accidental
encounter with some cowardly vagabonds, who lacked
the courage to execute what their villanous hearts
had planned.”
“Decline neither the compliment nor the illustration,”
said Mr. Elgin, gravely; “for happy would
it be for the young men of the present day if
they would equally emulate the chivalric spirit manifested
by yourself in the rescue of Lord Templeton,
and the intimate acquaintance with the history of
the glorious of ancient days which has caused Mr.
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Courtenay to tender so apt and faithful a comparison.”
“You see Mr. Clifton,” said the author from beyond
the Tweed, “that you can no more unbind
the laurels which are wreathed around your brow,
than the captured assassin could escape from your
strong hand. By the way, Mr. Courtenay, can you
enlighten our mental darkness by unmasking the
author of the two able productions whose appearance
has lately thrown the literary public into such
a ferment of curiosity?”
“I am not capable of even forming a conjecture.
The only name I have heard suggested was that of
Montblanque, but I consider the rumour highly improbable.”
“Not improbable, but impossible,” replied Mr.
Macartney. “I know his style perfectly, and cannot
trace the least resemblance. We all know that
his manner is affected and egotistical, while that of
the unknown author is plain, simple, and natural.
The whole charm of the first—if charm it can be
termed—consists in its elaborate and artificial polish,
while the latter enchains the attention by the force
and truth of his masterly delineations. Faults there
are in the new productions, but they are the result
of haste and inattention, which can, and I have no
doubt will, be remedied, if the writer continues to
pursue the career he has so successfully commenced.
As every person ventures a conjecture on this subject,
I will follow the example so far as to prophecy
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that when the secret is divulged the honours will be
worn by some hitherto untried champion.”
“How do you like the mystical region in which
the author essays his new-fledged wing?” said Mr.
Courtenay.
“Your question is difficult to answer. If the mental
powers of the artist are equal to his task, the
sublimity and elevation of the subject impart a legitimate
interest to its analyzation which cannot fail
to enlighten while it charms. If, on the contrary, a
feeble writer attempts to disentangle intricacies to
which his powers are inadequate, he leads his ignorant
readers into a labyrinth of inconsistencies, which
is apt to result in either credulity or scepticism. On
the whole, it is perhaps doubtful whether the mystical
tales and romances, and the metaphysical discussions
of the present century have not contributed
rather to vitiate than to elevate the public taste. But
Mr. Clifton has not yet ventured an opinion on the
grave question, who is the anonymous writer of
`Fatality.' ”
“When Mr. Macartney is informed that I claim
no pretensions to necromancy, he will acquit me of
any attempt to unravel a mystery which the present
distinguished company have failed to penetrate.”
“A compliment, most decidedly,” said Prince
Ptolenski.
“Come, come,” said Count Rosini, “we'll drop a
thread-bare theme to discuss one that's ever new
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By Bacchus, it warms my very soul to inhale the
aroma of this iced champaign. Even in Italy—my
own Italy—have our exquisite wines been thrown
in shadow by this charming foreigner. Elgin, I
pledge thee. May thy last resting-place be in some
sunny vale of the Campagna, with the luscious
fruit of which this is the essence, and the dew bending
gracefully over it.”
“'Tis a goodly wish, and gracefully tendered,”
replied the orientalist, “and far be from me the churlishness
which hesitates to return so friendly a pledge.
“I have scarcely tasted the equal of this since my
ever-to-be-remembered visit to the Pyramids. My
escort was a portion of the body guard of Mehmet
Ali, and the butler of his Highness presented me
with a choice specimen of Egyptian taste, in the
shape of a dozen of exquisite Maraschino, remarking
with an arch look that I might as well enjoy
the contents, as they were considered contraband by
the Mahommedan creed. I reserved the precious
gift until the Pyramids were reached, when, by
Jove, my turbaned companions came near swallowing
the bottles after the taste was ventured.
“'Twas delicious, and added to the inspiration of
the time and place. I have rarely enjoyed the equal
of that hour.”
“So, so,” said the Count Rosini, smiling, “we
now can duly appreciate the character of the new
hieroglyphics, the discovery of which has created
such a sensation in literary and scientific circles. I
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trust that the bottle was not the microscope through
which they were viewed? By the cestus of Minerva
this must be looked to.”
“You forget `in vino veritas,' ” said the sententious
representative of Russian majesty.
“Why, Count, you worse than heathen, to doubt
my authority on matters of this sort. Were you an
Englishman I might pardon the jest, but for a native
of Italy—land of the beautiful in nature and
exquisite in art—land of brilliant recollections—over
whose past glory we mourn as of a bright Pleiad
lost from the sky—for you to bandy jests on a subject
connected with associations sublime as those
which cluster around your own loved land!—the
thing's monstrous, foul and unnatural.”
“But we have almost forgotten our duty to our
worthy host. Mr. Courtenay permit me to pledge
you in a glass of Burgundy. May your shadow
never be less.”
“If that same wish should inadvertently be tendered
to our friend Malvoisin, who weighs three
hundred and ninety pounds avoirdupois, both the
desire and its fulfilment would I fear be considered
mal-apropos,” said Mr. Macartney.
“But,” said Mr. Courtenay, “my friend Clifton
has recently left New-York, and I must be permitted
to make some inquiries concerning its prospects and
the changes which eighteen years must have made
in its appearance. At that time Canal-street, on the
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north side, was the highest point which contained
a thickly settled population.”
“The changes in that period have been great.
The compact portion of the city extends for miles
above Canal-street, and the buildings comprised in
the new section are incomparably the most beautiful
and highly finished. Although the trade of London
is so much greater than that of New-York, yet
the entrance to the latter presents a much more
imposing array of shipping than its gigantic rival;
from the fact that in this city they are scattered, and
encased in dry docks, while in New-York the whole
are visible at a glance.”
“And Broadway, I suppose, has also increased in
attraction?”
“Certainly. It is now paved and closely built
upon for nearly four miles. On pleasant days the
throng of carriages and pedestrians which pour
along its pavements and side-walks is immense, and
whatever of beauty and fashion we possess is fairly
represented on such occasions in Broadway.”
“I should like to revisit the scenes of my boyish
gambols. The palace has no doubt usurped
the site of my former humble habitation, and enterprise,
like Midus, transmuted the very earth into
gold.” Here the minister sighed, and for a moment
was pensive.
“True,” replied Clifton, “but unhappily our
national prosperity has engendered an inordinate
desire of gain, which pervades all ranks in society,
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until heaven-born Genius descends from its native
eyry to join the debasing strife which ever follows
the footsteps of cupidity.”
“I coincide with you in the sentiment,” rejoined
Mr. Courtenay, “but somewhat doubt the correctness
of its application. Cupidity is the vice of the
age rather than the peculiar attribute of the American
people. Man has in all ages reared some idol
before whom the mass offered incense; and since
war has doffed his helmet, and military glory ceased
to dazzle, wealth, with its handmaid splendour, is
the popular divinity. That the worship of this baseborn
goddess has drawn down some bright spirits
from the heaven of intellect, is unquestionable, and
like the fallen angels, their energies, equally potent
for evil as for good, lend an artificial lustre to pursuits
which in their essence are vicious and degrading.
“But young America can yet boast of luminaries
whose steady effulgence has irradiated the hemisphere
of literature, and penetrated the regions of
science and of art.”
“For my own part,” remarked Mr. Macartney,
“I am half disposed to defend the world's estimation
of literary pursuits, little as I expect to become a
practical illustrator of their theory. Much as I
delight in the development of those mental and
physical objects which glow and sparkle beneath
the plastic hand of their delineator, I must at times
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admit that fame is an ignus fatuus which lures
only to betray.
“When, after great mental exertion, my nerves
are unstrung, my energies depressed and my fancy
incapable of conjuring up one bright image, I sit
listlessly and reflect that I am in pursuit of a phantom
which withers the powers of manhood and repels
the hope of a green old age, I feel that the
shadowy reward is dearly earned, and almost envy
the worldling his unintellectual enjoyments.”
“If I might venture an opinion in opposition to
such well-established authority,” said Clifton, “I
should doubt whether the votary of wealth enjoys
the repose you award him.
“While in the acquisition of gain, his hopes and
fears are continually excited, until sleep is frequently
banished from his couch, and care and anxiety
plough their furrows prematurely on his brow.
And even when he has amassed a sufficiency, and
attempts to enjoy the otium cum dignitate of retirement,
his former pursuits unfit him for either
solitude or social intercourse, and you behold him
the victim of inanity and mental idleness, dragging
out a weary existence—unblessing and unblessed.
Contrast with this the bright visions which visit the
solitary study of the child of genius, until they become
a part and parcel of his existence—throwing
over the most common-place subjects which glows
beneath his touch the combined charms of fancy
and reality—impelling him, like Pygmalion, to
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become enamoured of the grace, beauty, and majesty
of his own creation, and causing him to repine at
the thought that he cannot bid it leap into life and
return his warm embrace. Oh the exquisite sense
of enjoyment which follows the first successful flight
into the regions of fancy and invention. Like first
love it visits the soul but once. Memory consecrates
it in her baptismal font—nor can after sorrow—or
poverty—or despair efface the impress from our
hearts”
“In faith,” said the mercurial Italian Count, “I
begin to suspect that our trans-atlantic friend is an
author in disguise. Who knows whether we are
not indebted to him for the celebrated productions
which are setting all London by the ears?”
“If I were that invisible personage I fear a removal
of the mask would effectually quench the public
enthusiasm,” said Clifton, blushing at the truth of
the random shot; “nothing takes like mystery.”
“You are right,” returned the Count. “Years
since, while passing a convent near Genoa, I caught
a glimpse of a lady in a veil, walking pensively in a
garden attached to the ancient structure. My
fancy instantly converted the damsel into a beauty
in distress, and I remained watching her movements
until she disappeared beneath the gloomy arches of
her prison-house. The next day found me hovering
near the scene of her solitary musings—like the
spirits of the departed around the confines of Elysium,
until she again appeared. In a few moments,
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on stooping to tie her slipper, I perceived a foot
whose diminutive and well-moulded proportions
would have captivated the heart of a Chinese emperor.
“This completed the spell, and the next moment
found me at the foot of the wall, affixing to a small
stone a most pathetic invitation to the fair incognito,
to leave the convent in my company—stating that
if she would but appear at the same point, I would
at midnight be prepared with a fleet steed to bear
her to a safe and honourable retreat. Hurling the
missive and letter over the wall, I glided behind the
thick foliage and remained for a time quiet, lest
some intruder might have detected the attempt at
communication. At the appointed hour I was on
the ground equipped for flight; and the first salutation
I received was the grasp of three stout monks,
whom my incognito, the Abbess, aged fifty, had
stationed to seize me. With unfeigned contrition I
begged for quarter, which was after a time granted;
and even unto this day the sight of a veiled beauty is
repugnant to my feelings. If the world was of my
way of thinking the wand of mystery would be
hereafter powerless.”
“And yet,” said Mr. Elgin, “mystery is the parent
of knowledge. What attracted my footsteps to
the Egyptian shores, and caused the visit to her
time-defying Pyramids? Mystery. What induced
me to hang with rapture over those beautiful productions
of art which ancient Greece has preserved—
the relics of ages lost even to tradition? To
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penetrate the mystery that surrounds them. What
impelled a Galileo to investigate the laws that
govern the systems of which our globe is the centre,
and brave persecution in defence of his theory?
Mystery. This being the case, my dear Count,
never rail at mystery again.”
“I stand rebuked,” replied the good-natured
Count.
“But a truce to metaphysics. What say you,
gentlemen, to a song?”
“Mr. Courtenay must I think be taxed for its
production. Gentlemen the call is peremptory.”
“With your permission, gentlemen, I'll amend
the motion, by soliciting Mr. Clifton to sing in my
stead,” replied Mr. Courtenay. “Unfortunately for
my fame in the social circle, my voice is incapable
of warbling forth sweet sounds.”
“Whatever may be my defects, either in voice or
execution, they will not prevent the attempt to
amuse this goodly company,” was Clifton's reply,
and he accordingly sang the following
SERENADE.
Wake! lady, wake! the crescent moon
Crowns Ida's regal brow,
And Hudson's mirrored breast is bathed
In liquid radiance now!
O'er giant Catskill's throne of clouds
The stars their vigils keep—
Then, lady, lift the envious veil
That shrouds thine eyes in sleep.
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Rise! lady, rise! night's sombre train
At thy approach will flee;
But moon-beams smile and planet's ray
Are darkness without thee.
My voiceless lute in vain essays
To trill love's honeyed words,
If from thy lips no answering tone
Is breathed among the chords.
I view thy lattice—bars unfold—
Thy footstep lingers near:
Fond trembler lull those feverish throbs,
No ill can reach thee here.
My shallop bounds upon the wave—
Its light sail woos the wind;
Rest! lady, rest! thy lover's arms
Are round thy form entwined.
Wit, sentiment and good humour regined at the
festive board during Clifton's stay, and he left impressed
with respect for his kind host and his
friends. As he reached his residence he turned to
take a last look at the heavens glittering with
myriads of stars—but as his glance was momentarily
directed to the opposite side of the street—behold,
beneath the lamp again appeared the form of
Ellingbourne—his pale countenance and its haggard
expression more striking than before. Clifton
but looked, and with a shriek, fell senseless on the
threshold!
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CHAPTER XII.
THE TRIAL—AN UNLOOKED FOR INCIDENT.
“For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty.”
Merchant of Venice.
Several days had elapsed after the supernatural
visitation of Ellingbourne to the horror-stricken view
of his slayer, before the latter could summon sufficient
energy to venture again into the crowded
thoroughfare of the great city.
The trial of the culprit for the attempted robbery
of Lord Templeton, was announced for an early
day, and it therefore became necessary for Clifton,
who was the principal witness, to rouse himself from
the mental stupor which succeeded the first convulsive
agitation of his overwrought system, and prepare
to pass through the trying ordeal of a rigid cross
examination, confronted by that array of official dignitaries,
which renders an English judicial tribunal
so imposing to the eye of a stranger.
The London daily press—ever eager to minister to
the public taste for the marvellous, had dilated with
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great apparent satisfaction on the chivalrous conduct
of our hero, who, according to their statements,
performed feats of personal prowess, which
would have eclipsed the fame of Goliath of Gath, in
the palmy days of his strength.
Add to this, the audacious nature of the attack—
the desperate attempt of the criminal on Clifton's
life—the elevated rank of the noble prosecutor—
the romantic rescue of the young ladies—and the
mystery which was supposed to envelope our hero,
from his name being withheld—all of which were
duly chronicled and commented on; and we need
not be surprised that he should, as the day of trial
approached, experience a degree of excitement unknown
to the mass of residents of the great metropolis,—
who, intent on their multitudinous pursuits,—
scarcely paused to mark either the advent, progress,
or consummation of criminal proceedings of a far
more extraordinary description.
True there are, in London, as in all overgrown
communities, a sufficient number of individuals
who, from various causes, are prone to linger around
the precincts of the criminal courts, and who appear
to enjoy the uncertainty and hazard which surround
the accused. To these may be added the unemployed
mechanic, who is fain to while away an idle
hour in listening to the eloquence of the learned
counsel, or the wisdom of the equally learned judge—
the traveller, who desires to become acquainted with
the forms of judicial tribunals in a strange land—
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and the scattered troop of idlers who, having no precise
object in view, happen to have their attention
arrested while passing by the court-room—and it
will readily be inferred, that a large auditory is frequently
congregated, without the concurrence of extraordinary
circumstances.
At length the eventful day arrived, and a large
crowd were assembled in the immediate vicinity of
the hall in which the criminal was to encounter the
ordeal of a public trial. Here and there might be
seen groups of loiterers, who were discussing the probabilities
of guilt or innocence—of condemnation or
acquittal—while others were dwelling on topics of
more immediate personal interest—or occupied in
the laudable object of settling the affairs of the
nation.
Equality, if not liberty, was, for the time being,
conspicuous, for the millionaire was elbowed by the
footman, and the scion of nobility relinquished the
trottoir to his tailor's shop boy.
“Mr. Jones,” remarked a brawny, and rather
negligently than ill-dressed mechanic to his neighbour,
“do you think the fellow what's accused of
robbery by Lord Templeton will have a fair trial?”
“I mis-doubt it confoundedly. The aristocracy
have too much power over men as good as good
as themselves, to give a poor devil fair play for his
life.”
“But you forget, Thomson, that the jury are composed
of men like ourselves, and they certainly
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won't be unjust and condemn an innocent man.
If the fellow is really guilty, then hang him, say I,
for if he's permitted to go at large, he, and such as
he, may knock you or me down in the streets, next,
without our being able to obtain redress.”
The speaker was also a mechanic, whose shrewd
and good-humoured countenance was both English
and pleasing—which some persons may consider
as incompatible. His dress was of rather coarse materials,
but neat and becoming; and there was that
undefinable display of manly, yet modest independence
in his manner, which would at once convince
the beholder, that he was in the presence of one
whose industry, sobriety, and moral habits insured to
their possessor a comfortable subsistence for himself
and family.
“Ay, ay,” was the answer, “if he's guilty, he
must swing, I s'pose—but somehow I can't believe
it yet. Mr. Pennifeather, the attorney that speaks
at our meetings, says, that he'll lay a wager that the
man that's taken up is innocent, and the man that's
going to swear against him is one of the gang. Because,
says Mr. Pennifeather—says he—if the witness
is an honest man why didn't he tell his name?
Depend on't, Mr. Jones, the real rascal will go clear
and the innocent man be jerk'd up. These lords
and dukes never miss when they aim at a poor
man.”
“Well, well,” was the reply, “let's wait and see.
If the man is not guilty, I don't believe an honest
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jury or upright judge, will wish to condemn him.
For my part, I can't think of any motive they can
have to do so. Remember, we must have charity
for the judge and jury, as well as the prisoner.”
The further conversation of these individuals was
prevented by the annunciation which ran through
the crowd, that the doors of the court room were
opened.
Those interested from any cause in the trial
pressed forward in the van to procure an eligible
situation for listening to its details—while those accidentally
placed in advance did not fail to defend
their position, although totally indifferent to the fate
of the accused. The little bickerings thus created
served to elicit the notice of the peace officers in
attendance,—who in humble imitation of their
betters in high places took summary measures to
crush rebellion against authority in its incipient
stages. Such of the crowd as desired admittance
were at length seated, while those whose curiosity
was satisfied with a view of the officials of all grades
as they passed, wended their way in pursuit of new
objects of interest.
And now the judges appeared in their robes of
office—the counsel for the crown and the advocate
of the accused entered with their briefs—Lord
Templeton and Clifton were seated within the bar—
the crier recited his usual monotonous harangue—
the prisoner, pinioned and guarded by the officers
of justice, was placed in the dock—the jury were
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duly impannelled, and all the usual preliminaries
gone through. After the arraignment of the accused,
who answered to the name of Abel Watson,
the counsel for the crown arose, and the low hum
which was before audible throughout the room was
instantly hushed into profound silence.
With great dignity of manner the learned gentleman
addressed the court.
“My lord, and you gentlemen of the jury: I rise
to discharge a painful, but imperative public duty.
No one who is acquainted with the natural impulses
of my heart, will discredit me when I assert that I
always commence the trial of a capital offence,
burthened and oppressed with the magnitude of the
stake to the unfortunate culprit, and fearfully conscious
of the awful responsibility it is my official duty
to assume. But, gentlemen of the jury, if on the
one hand the fate of the prisoner—hanging as it
were by a thread—should warn us against admitting
into our bosom that prejudice, or delusion
which may operate to produce unjust conviction;
an equal regard for the obligations imposed on us as
members of society, should prevent the sway of that
hesitation or weakness, which sends forth the hardened
criminal to renew his depredations on the lives
and property of virtuous citizens: thus rendering
the innocent the prey of the guilty, and reversing
the laws that protect every well-regulated community.
The charge which I am prepared to substantiate
against the prisoner at the bar is that
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of highway robbery, committed under peculiarly aggravated
circumstances, on a distinguished member
of the peerage, whose elevated mind and pure
morality give lustre to his station, and make him
the favourite of his tenantry, and the idol of a
select social circle.
“Fortunately for Lord Templeton and his accomplished
daughters, their defender, who is a distinguished
American, heard their cries, and courageously
and successfully attacked the robbers—
pinning the prisoner at the bar to the earth; and
although dangerously wounded, retaining his grasp
until aided by the noble Lord and others, who opportunely
arrived at the spot.
“If, gentlemen of the jury, I shall prove these facts
to your satisfaction, there can be no alternative: a
verdict of guilty, is as inevitable as it is just.”
While the counsel for the crown was opening the
case, the censorious Mr. Thomson remarked to his
friend Jones:
“Do you hear how he praises Lord Templeton,
by calling him a distinguished member of the peerage?
This is a trap to catch flats in. I think for
my part that the fellow in the dock looks as honest
as my Lord Templeton.
“If I didn't know either of them, I should full as
soon secure my pocket-book in a crowd if he came
too near, as I would if the prisoner drew up along
side.”
“Well, well,” replied Jones, “there's no
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accounting for difference of opinion. I thought the prisoner
had as hang-dog and cut-throat a look as I ever
saw. Why, certainly Thomson, you must be
joking, when you compare his scowling and
savage face to the open countenance of Lord
Templeton. But see, that nobleman is about
being sworn.”
Lord Templeton stated briefly the circumstances
connected with the attempt at robbery, and was dismissed
from the stand without cross-examination.
As Clifton ascended the witnesses' stand, a decidedly
favourable impression was made by his lofty
brow, intellectual eye, and graceful carriage; but
the difficult Mr. Thomson was not among the
number of his admirers.
“He's too prim by half,” was his exclamation;
“I shouldn't wonder if he was a genteel roadster.”
The testimony of Clifton corroborated that of
Lord Templeton in all essential particulars; but as
the reader is already apprised of the main features
of the transaction, it is unnecessary to enter into
farther detail.
When his direct testimony was concluded, the
counsel for the prisoner proceeded to the cross-eamination.
“Pray sir,” said he to Clifton, “can you state
under the solemnity of an oath, that the prisoner
might not, like yourself, have been attracted to the
spot by the cries of the assailed party? And can
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you swear that the pistol was not discharged before
he came up?”
“There is certainly a bare possibility that such
was the case, but my impressions are, that he is the
individual who first discharged fire arms.”
“We want facts, not impressions. I will thank
you to confine your answers to the point. Was not
the confusion great, and might not a robber have
discharged the pistol and retreated, and the prisoner
have appeared on the spot, during the time between
the discharge of the weapon and your attack on
the prisoner?”
“Such might have been the case, although the
movement must have been performed with great
rapidity. My reason for stating my impression as
to the identity of the prisoner is, that he is about the
size of the person who discharged the first weapon.”
“Did I not understand you to state that the night
was very dark? How then could you distinguish
the height of the individual who fired?”
“By the flash of his weapon, which exposed the
outline of his person.”
“So, sir, I am to understand that in a dark night,
with no other light than the flash of a pistol, you
could at several yards distance so far identify the
prisoner, as to be willing to swear away his life?”
“My reply is, that I found the prisoner by the
side of the coach, certainly not in the attitude or
position of a defender of the assailed party—that
after I felled him to the earth he gave no
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explanation which led me to believe him innocent—and I
have no reason to doubt his participation in the
robbery.”
“Most persons,” replied the foiled counsel, “would,
like my client, have been silent after being stunned
by a blow which levelled them with the earth; and
afterwards confronted by a posse whose looks and
actions condemned them in advance. But, sir, one
more question. Are you a native of this country?”
“No, sir: my birth-place is the city of New-York.”
“Have you parents residing there?”
“My parents are long since dead.”
“How long?”
“It is many years since they died.”
“Will the court be good enough to note the witness's
answer? he states that his parents are many
years dead.”
Here the evidence for the prosecution closed.
The counsel for the prisoner, in opening the defence,
briefly adverted to the lonely and unprotected condition
of his client, who found himself unexpectedly
charged with a crime at which his soul revolted.
He described the accused as an honest, sea-faring
man, whose calling and humble station in life prevented
him from bringing into requisition the influence
of friends, or that evidence of former good character
which so frequently shielded the innocent,
and not unfrequently rescued the guilty from merited
punishment.
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In addition to the innate justice of his cause, he
was prepared to impeach the testimony of the witness,
Clifton, and to show that he could not be relied on
for the conviction of the prisoner for a capital offence.
The learned gentleman stated his solemn conviction
that the appearance of his client on the scene
of the attempted robbery was caused by the outcries
of the assailed party, and that his intentions were
to aid Lord Templeton, in which he was foiled by
the violent assault of Mr. Clifton.
“But,” said he, “even the last witness, anxious
as you perceive he is to establish this charge, states
that he cannot say with certainly that the prisoner
was not in the act of rescuing instead of assailing
the noble lord and his family. The circumstance of
finding a discharged pistol near his person, is by no
means inconsistent with his innocence, as the robber
would naturally have been standing at the door of
the carriage, while the darkness of the night gave
him an opportunity of escaping unobserved after the
unsuccessful attempt at assassination. Thus, gentlemen
of the jury, you will perceive that a conviction,
under all the circumstances of this case, would
be a fearful precedent to establish, while the blood
of my client would be demanded at your hands.”
The counsel here called James Lloyd to the stand.
“Mr. Lloyd,” said he, “do you know Sydney
Clifton, the witness who last testified?”
The witness, who was dressed in the garb of a
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seaman, and apparently about thirty years of age,
replied in the affirmative.
“How long have you known him, and where?”
“It is several years since I have known him by
sight. I was formerly before the mast in a ship belonging
to Howard, De Lyle & Co., for whom Mr.
Clifton was clerk.”
“Do you know whether he has parents now living?”
“His father was the cartman of Howard, De
Lyle & Co., and I saw him about six months since
in New-York.”
“Can you be mistaken as to his person?”
“No. I know him perfectly well.”
The testimony of this witness created a marked
sensation throughout the auditory, who were evidently
unprepared for an impeachment of the veracity of
one whose appearance and manner had left a favourable
impression.
“Do you hear that, Jones?” triumphantly asked
his captious associate. “Didn't I tell you that black
coated, demure looking young man was not the
thing?”
The pride of opinion had caused the speaker to
elevate his voice, which aroused the ire of one
“clothed in a little brief authority.” “Silence!”
he shouted with no little asperity, which prevented
the reply of the good-humoured Jones. The counsel
for the crown now recalled Clifton, who explained
the apparent discrepancy of his testimony with
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that of the last witness, by stating that the person
alluded to was his foster-father, whose name he
had assumed at the period of his adoption.
This being perfectly satisfactory to the learned
gentleman, he turned him over to the tender mercies
of his opponent, who appeared any thing but
gratified at the explanation. Having learned from
the counsel for the crown, in casual conversation,
that our hero had represented his parents as deceased,
he had with much labour and exertion found
among the crowd of American shipping a seaman
who knew Clifton and asserted positively that his
parents were living. Upon this foundation he had
in his own mind reared a tower of strength in defence
of the prisoner, and the overthrow of his fair
fabric caused visible irritation.
Affecting to doubt the truth of Clifton's reply,
which he termed an artful expedient to cloak untruth,
the counsel, with an intimidating look and
manner, inquired:
“If you are not the son of Mr. Clifton senior,
perhaps you will favour the court and jury with the
name of your real father.”
To this unexpected question the embarrassed
witness hesitated to reply; which the examining
counsel perceiving—reiterated his inquiry with renewed
emphasis.
“My dear sir, the question is very simple. Have
you not yet learned the name of your father? I
know it is said, `that it is a wise child that knows
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its father;' but we will not demand the proofs of
legitimacy, but take your word for the fact.”
The few moments thus occupied served to reassure
Clifton, and he perceived the necessity of immediately
answering the question.
“My delay,” he said, “to answer your question,
was not from any particular objection to its import,
but rather arose from a doubt whether you had a
right to enforce a reply. To prevent cavil, however,
I will state that the name of my father was
Glenthorne.”
“Well well, my learned young gentleman, this
is pretty fair considering that you were about throwing
yourself back on your reserved rights. You
would make a shrewd lawyer. Pray, sir, what
might be your method of procuring a livelihood?”
“Neither by defending wretches from the legitimate
consequences of their crimes, nor occupying my
time in the enjoyment of wealth wrung from the
hard-earned substance of honest industry.”
“This, sir, is rather caustic for a tyro. May it
please the court to instruct this obstinate witness in
his duty? Perhaps a mittimus for contempt might
improve his manners.”
“I'll not trouble the court to entertain the question.
My present visit to London is not connected with
any business, and I am at present unoccupied.”
Just at this moment a little sallow personage with
green spectacles and a nasal organ which protruded
itself forward in a remarkable manner, as if it was
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originally formed to nose out hidden mysteries,
bustled through the crowd until he reached the
counsel for the prisoner.
Placing himself by his side he whispered rather
audibly in his ear: “Ask him when his father died,
and what was his christian name.”
With this advice he turned from the counsel and
earnestly gazed in Clifton's face, as if life and death
awaited the reply.
On Clifton's stating that his name was Rupert
Glenthorne, and that he died about the year 18—,
the sallow querist snapped his fingers with no little
gusto, saying, “I thought so—I thought so—I knew
there could not be any mistake.” Thus saying, he
drew from his pocket a thick memorandum book,
and exhibited to the gratified view of the irritated
counsel the record of Glenthorne's crime and suicide,
among a list of all the malefactors whose histories
had been chronicled during the previous thirty years.
“Perhaps, my pugnacious gentleman, you will
have no objection to state, of what disease your father
died? I do not expect you to speak from personal
knowledge, but from what you learned was the
cause of his death.” Here the court interposed its
authority, informing Clifton that he was not compelled
to answer the question. Rising with great
gravity and dignity, our hero stated, that he should
waive the question of right, and briefly reply to the
counsel's interrogatory.
“As it is not in evidence,” he said, “that I have
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either inherited the virtues or the vices of my parents,
the reply which the counsel attempts to extort, although
highly improper, will neither be evaded nor
declined. It is my misfortune to be the offspring of
a parent, whose passions or whose vices brought infamy
on his name, which resulted in the commission
of suicide.
“What concatenation of circumstances led to this
act—whether it was the consequence of rashness or
innate depravity, are questions to which I have no
means of furnishing a reply. Of his guilt or innocence
of the crimes laid to his charge I am equally
ignorant, and as he has long since appeared before
that tribunal from whose righteous judgment, neither
the arts of pettifoggers nor their browbeating of witnesses,
can snatch the guilty, I shall not volunteer
either to be his defender or accuser.”
It should have been before remarked, that on the
name of Glenthorne being mentioned by Clifton, the
prisoner appeared much agitated, but attributing it
to a sudden pain in his side, it elicited, at the time,
little notice.
After the pause which succeeded our hero's reply
had passed, a juror rose and stated, that his associates
had deputed him to request the counsel for both
the crown and the accused, to omit summing up, if
consistent with their views; and although the counsel
for the prisoner was reluctant to commit the fate
of his client to the jury under the affecting appeal to
their sympathies which Clifton had just concluded,
yet a refusal would have been equally dangerous,
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and he therefore united with his opponent in committing
the cause to the charge of the judge. After
a brief but impartial statement of the case by the
court, the jury returned a verdict of Guilty, without
leaving their seats.
As the crowd was retiring, a diminutive Frenchman
said to his companion, “Pauvre diable, he
is condemn because he is pauvre diable. If he is
rish, he no hand! Dat is Anglais justice. It is
not so in La Belle France!”
“If you say that again I'll knock you down, you
d—d parlevoo! You lie if you say we have no
justice in England,” roared a voice in the crowd.
It was our testy friend Thomson, who refused to
permit his own sentiments to be echoed by a Frenchman.
As Clifton proceeded towards his residence,
he was overtaken by the little man of the nose, who,
pulling off his hat and bowing to the very ground,
begged pardon for the liberty he had taken in introducing
himself.
“My name,” said he, “is Marlow—Job Marlow,
at your service. I am now preparing, and have
nearly ready for the press, an interesting work, embracing
the history of the lives and exploits of the
celebrated personages whose peccadillos have rendered
them obnoxious to the arbitrary codes of laws
which govern modern society; and being anxious to
place your father's history by the side of the most
distinguished characters of that class, I take the
liberty of soliciting your address, that I may
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here-after have the pleasure of learning the particulars
from an authentic source.”
Clifton's first impulse was to kick the intruder into
the gutter for his untimely insolence, but as the
little querist proceeded, his earnest and deferential
manner convinced him that he was an original, and
he therefore contented himself with bidding him
“begone,” in so stern a voice, that the interrogator
started back some paces, exclaiming,
“Devilish odd! Must be unused to civilized society.”
Here he leaned forward, until his body
formed a right angle with his legs—his coat flaps
extending in a horizontal position—his nose greatly
in advance of the rest of his face—and his spectacles
on the very tip of their supporter. “Very odd,
indeed! might treat a man civilly who desired to immortalize
his ancestors.”
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CHAPTER XIII.
THE WORLD'S OPINION NOT TO BE TOO HIGHLY
ESTIMATED—DISGRACE SOMETIMES HEREDITARY—
FURTHER DISASTERS.
“Fatis accede diisque,
Et cole felices; miseros fuge.”
Lucan.
If it has been our duty in the preceding pages, to
exhibit the character of Clifton in less attractive
colours than we could have desired, the reader will
admit that the causes are mainly to be found in a
combination of untoward events, whose united influences
were calculated to fetter his energies, and over-shadow
the more noble attributes of his mind. Like
most men of genius in early life, the imaginative
faculty was, in him, more fully developed than was
consistent with a perfect mental organization; and
the accumulated evils that beset his path, tended still
farther to alienate his judgment from its true balance.
That he was, at times, a dreamer and an enthusiast—
the vassal of superstition, and the captive of
wayward fancy—is unquestionable; but it was only
in those hours of solitude to which he was driven by
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the malice of his unprovoked enemy, and the frowns
of fate, that he submitted to the temporary sway of
unguarded impulses.
Nor must it be forgotten that it has been our purpose
to lay bare the most hidden secrets of his heart:
and who of us, dear reader, could pass through so
searching an ordeal, without exhibiting judgment
perverted—passions unrestrained—and opportunities
neglected?
The exposure of the trial, while it aroused his
feelings, furnished an opportunity for the exercise of
the more vigorous powers of his intellect, and a display
of that judgment, fortitude, and tact, whose
united influences never failed him in a moment of
emergency.
Hitherto his intercourse with the world had exposed
somewhat of its envy, malice, and deception,
but his experience had not yet reached that unhappy
elevation which exhibits, at a glance, the
prominent faults of human nature, causing distrust
and suspicion to poison the most sacred social enjoyments.
A neophyte, he had as yet only been permitted
to enter the vestibule of the temple, but the
period of his probation had now passed, and he was
introduced to a more distinct view of the defects of
his species.
Notwithstanding his respect for Lord Templeton,
and his unwillingness to attribute unworthy prejudices
to one so liberal in his feelings and opinions,
there was no mistaking the change in his lordship's
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manner, after the disclosure of our hero's parentage.
That he endeavoured to assume his former manner
towards Clifton was evident, but the effort was
so visible that it but marked the contrast which it
was designed to conceal.
As he passed through the streets on the following
morning, Clifton met the Hon. Mr. Courtenay, and
although that gentleman lifted his hat and tendered
a most gracious bow, yet his open and expressive
countenance could not conceal his knowledge of
Clifton's unlucky birth, and his embarrassment at
the necessity of recognizing, with courtesy, one
whom the world would consider disqualified for unreserved
personal intercourse with the respectable
members of society.
The conviction thus forced on him, of the humble
station he must hereafter occupy in the world's regard,
increased the reserve that was before sufficiently
conspicuous in his manner, until he at length
determined to anticipate his persecutors and shun
the acquaintance of the few individuals who had
distinguished him by their notice. Lord Templeton
and Mr. Courtenay were both sensible of the injustice
of visiting the sins of the father upon the innocent
offspring, but how were they to stem the torrent
of public prejudice? If in a spirit of independent
feeling they should invite Clifton to their dwellings
and treat him as an associate, would not the
elevated circle of their friends indignantly repudiate
the attempt to thrust upon them the companionship
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of an interdicted personage? Such were the natural
reflections of these honourable individuals, who
rather hesitated than declined to execute what their
hearts had conceived.
Clifton in the meantime more fully and calmly
canvassed the subject, and while he denied the justice
of the world's verdict, did not fail to find palliatives
for their decision in the conventional laws of
society. The prejudices of his New York friends,
although founded on false testimony, were in their
nature not only justifiable but honourable, and he
viewed them now in a more correct light than before
they were contrasted by the conduct of the London
public.
Meanwhile the doomed prisoner received his sentence,
and metropolitan curiosity was directed to
other and more recent offenders. As Clifton was
entering the door of his lodgings, one fine evening,
shortly after the condemnation of the robber, a lad
gave him a note from the ordinary of Newgate,
stating that he was desired by a miserable criminal,
who was extremely ill, to request the immediate attendance
of Mr. Clifton at his cell, where he would
learn some circumstances of his early history with
which it was most important to his future happiness
that he should be made acquainted. A postscript
to the letter urged his immediate presence, if
he wished to hear the disclosure, as the prisoner
failed rapidly, and it was doubtful whether he would
survive the night. As the messenger volunteered to
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be his guide, he immediately proceeded to the gloomy
abode of vice, misery, and despair.
The appearance of these human caravans, where
are caged like wild beasts the outlaws of society, is
at any time sufficiently repulsive; but when darkness
spreads its pall over their massy walls and
barred windows, to one breathing the air of liberty,
they assume a frightful and terrific aspect. Who
can tell what feelings are lacerated, what sympathies
ruthlessly sundered or hearts crushed by the dread
fiat which consigns husbands, fathers, brothers or
lovers to the cheerless confines of yon solitary cells?
Such were Clifton's thoughts as the ponderous door
with its grating hinges opened to admit him into
the outer portion of the prison, and by the time he
had reached the narrow abode of the criminal who
had desired his presence, his feelings had almost
overpowered his strength. No sooner, however, had
he recognized in the emaciated figure stretched before
him, the robber whom his testimony had consigned
to a premature grave, than he felt that sickness of
heart which is the result of a natural repugnance to
inflict even merited punishment on an unresisting
and powerless fellow being.
The unhappy wretch was indeed an object fitted
to excite unmitigated compassion. His features
were distorted by disease and remorse, and, as he
attempted to address Clifton, the effort caused a still
greater convulsion of the muscles of his face; and his
voice was scarcely audible, although our hero placed
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his ear near the mouth of the speaker, and awaited
his disclosure with breathless anxiety. The only
words he could distinguish were “father,”—“mother,”—
“stolen,”—“carried off,”—“poor girl,”—
“drowned,” and many other detached expressions
which conveyed no definite meaning, and only
served to throw Clifton into an agony of apprehension,
lest the angel of death should sever the spirit
from its earthly tenement ere the secret should be
divulged on which his happiness depended.
After various abortive efforts to render himself intelligible,
the culprit's head sank back on its hard
pillow, and the death rattle in his throat, and his
irregular and struggling respiration too visibly foretold
the brief period of his earthly probation. As
Clifton continued to apply that moisture to his lips
which was the only relief his extreme weakness
permitted him to receive, he watched each changing
expression of his countenance, as if he might perchance
gather from them some key to the mystery
that lay concealed in his bosom. But alas, no sign
was visible. Feeble and more irregular with each
passing moment seemed his respiration—until, as
the physician, in going his rounds, stopped and gave
a glance at his dying patient, a momentary light
gleamed wildly from his eyes, and with a groan and
a sigh, his breath departed—his cheeks collapsed—
his chin dropped, and the professional gentleman
pronounced his earthly career closed.
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Almost maddened with anxiety and excitement
Clifton rushed from the prison, and in the agony of
his feelings was tempted to precipitate himself into
the Thames, and end his miseries and his existence
at the same moment.
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CHAPTER XIV.
SCENES THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD FAIN LEAVE
UNDEPICTED.
“Think not of his eyes of fire
Nor his wily heart's desire,
Nor the locks that round his head
Run like wreathed snakes, and fling
A shadow o'er his eyes glancing.”
“Farewell, lost Prosperine.”
Barry Cornwall.
Again the course of our history leads us to that
youthful empire, the dawn of whose might and
prosperity has already fixed the gaze of the world in
wonder and admiration. To America, then, dear
reader, with the speed of thought let us together
wing our flight, nor pause until the spires, cupolas
and vanes of her commercial emporium glitter before
us in the sunbeam! There she rises like Venus
from the ocean, captivating in her loveliness,—her
isle-gemmed girdle sparkling in light—her handmaid
Commerce on the one hand speeding her white-winged
couriers on their mission to distant lands,
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while on the other appear the twin sisters, Agriculture
and manufactures depositing at the feet of their
queen the accumulated treasures their toil and
skill have won!
How humiliating is the conviction that the crimes
and passions of our species are able to descrate a
spot which nature and art had otherwise rendered
an earthly paradise.
The vicious De Lyle still pursued his course of
folly and iniquity, unchecked, and apparently unamenable
to retribution.
The morning is bright and serene, and there remains
in the atmosphere but that slight chill which
the dying winter leaves as a legacy to its buoyant
successor, like the well meant advice of a departing
miser to the listless ear of his spendthrift heir.
Every sojourner in the American metropolis, from
limping age to heedless childhood, greeted the advent
of the beautiful morn with smiles, and even
the usually monotonous ring of the dustman's bell,
awoke to rude melody beneath the elastic swing of
its cheerful owner. To the daughter of Isaac
Samuel in particular its roseate flush was attended
with new delight, for De Lyle, to whom, under the
assumed name of Stillman, she had pledged her
virgin heart, with all its treasure of affection, had
increased the frequency of his visits since his last
interview with Burchard, and appeared to the deluded
girl actuated by the most ardent and honourable
attachment. While labouring under
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apprehensions of his associates's treachery, his feelings were
too painfully excited to permit that constant attention
to Rachel Samuel, which had before characterized
his intercourse with her, but now he compensated
for his previous absence, by daily exhibiting
that tenderness of manner which he could so well
assume, and which so fatally enthralled his beautiful
and credulous admirer. About the hour of ten
o'clock a slight knock at the door of the Jew's
residence was heard with rapture by Rachel, who
with buoyant heart and sparkling eyes admitted
her lover.
“Oh, Mr. Stillman,” exclaimed the tall and
queen-like girl, “You have just come in time to
catch the new-born fragrance of my early flowers.
Before I was so foolish as to occupy my time and
thoughts in the contemplation of our mutual attachment,
the garden in front of our house was my
chief care; but since it is desirable to us both to
avoid the prying gaze of impertinent curiosity, I
have transferred my regard to the little mimick
lawn in the rear; and this morning the early
flowers have burst forth on purpose to welcome you.
Do you not think this an emblem of hope and happiness?”
Thus saying, she took his proffered arm, and
listened with downcast looks and burning blushes
to the oft-repeated tale of his unconquerable passion.
On reaching the little garden, she conducted him
along the narrow and newly gravelled walk, and
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leaning over the well trimmed rows of box—whose
thick branches were modelled into miniature walls,
castles, bridges and turrets, she continued to direct
his attention to the beauties of flowers, whose fragrance
was so grateful to the newly awakened sense
of their fair cultivator. The rose had elicited from
De Lyle an appropriate encomium—the violet received
the fitting meed of its unpretending loveliness—
the honey-suckle attracted merited admiration,
while the lovely Jewess seemed the goddess of
the place, dispensing her favours in the shape of
bouquets to the most devoted of her idolaters. Soft
and musical did the words of love flow from the
lips of De Lyle while returning to the house; and
as he seated himself in the parlour, the confiding girl
permitted him to clasp her to his bosom, with a fervour
and boldness, which at an earlier period would
have aroused the jealous opposition of maiden pride
and purity. “Now,” thought De Lyle, “my task
is nearly finished. The outworks are in my
power, and the garrison will soon surrender at discretion.”
At this moment a knock at the door interrupted
the tête-à-tête, and as Miss Samuel entered
the hall, she was met by a young female of apparently
humble rank, who desired the pleasure of
a few moment's conversation on a subject of importance,
and excusing herself to De Lyle, Rachel
joined the visitor in an apartment adjoining that in
which he was seated. But a short time had elapsed,
when the door of the little parlour opened, and
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exposed to the view of the alarmed De Lyle the exasperated
countenance of the maid who had formerly
attended Julia Borrowdale, and who, after his
double purpose of destroying Clifton, and ruining
the treacherous girl was served, had been abandoned
by him to her fate, without receiving the least attention
to her angry remonstrances. By her side,
pale as a marble statue, stood the beautiful Jewess,
whose features displayed the keenest suffering;
and her grieved and despairing countenance was
strikingly contrasted by the fierce and almost
savage look of the triumphant Abigail.
“There sits the wretch who has villanously
abandoned me,” were her first words; “may be, Mr.
De Lyle, you will deny your name to me, won't
you?”
With this exclamation, she placed herself directly
before him, and with the most furious gestures continued
to utter threats and execrations.
De Lyle, whose experience in such matters prevented
undue agitation, coolly rose, and addressing
Miss Samuel, solicited permission to withdraw, if
the insane person before him was longer permitted
to utter her incoherent ravings under her roof.
“It is impossible for me to say,” he continued
calmly, “whether this female is deranged in her intellect,
or whether she is employed by some jealous or
artful person to destroy my character, and drive me
from the presence of one whom I shall ever remember
with the fondest regard. But whichever may
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be the true solution of the enigma, I owe it to my
own dignity and honour to abandon a house which
I can no longer visit without being subject to the
most cruel and unjust suspicions.”
The cool impudence of this experienced tactician
threw the astonished waiting maid in nautical
phrase, “all aback,” and her hesitation and surprise
began to create a doubt in the mind of
Rachel as to the truth of her statements. At this
moment the door quietly opened, and the attenuated
form of Isaac Samuel glided into the circle, like the
ghost of some murdered traveller into the presence
of his assassins. De Lyle instantly perceived that
evil destiny had doomed his ruin, and that the hour
had arrived for the execution of its stern decree.
“Mr. De Lyle, said the Jew, with a malicious
sneer on his countenance, “this is an unexpected
honour.
“May I be permitted to inquire the cause of this
unlooked for condescension on your part?
“Little did I hope to meet so distinguished and
honourable a visitor in my poor domicil.”
As the exasperated Israelite pronounced the name
of De Lyle, a piercing shriek was uttered by his
agonized daughter; and he had but ceased speaking
when she fell senseless on the floor, the blood
flowing copiously from her mouth, it being evident
that the shock had caused the rupture of a blood
vessel. With the most intense agony depicted in
his countenance, Isaac Samuel rushed to her
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assistance, while the servant was despatched for the
nearest physician.
During the bustle and confusion consequent on
these events, De Lyle withdrew unnoticed, and
with rapid footsteps traversed the streets which led
to his father's residence. As he opened the door of
the Jew's residence when making his exit, the hated
countenance of Burchard peered instantly over the
picket fence in front of the dwelling, nor could a
doubt remain in De Lyle's mind of his agency in
this ruinous exposure, when he caught the malignant
triumph depicted in the traitor's countenance.
Too much alarmed to pause in his retreat, he passed
on without noticing his quondam associate, and
Burchard, satisfied with his success, slowly sauntered
to his home. The reader will no doubt have
conceived the causes which led to the exposure of
De Lyle by his treacherous instrument. A second
anonymous epistle informed him that the time had
arrived to strike the blow, if he wished to avoid incarceration,
and the knowledge of De Lyle's amour
with the waiting maid, and of his designs upon
Rachel Samuel, furnished him with means to accomplish
his purpose without personal hazard.
Knowing how completely De Lyle was in the
power of the wily and grasping Israelite, Burchard
saw the impossibility of his escape from the gripe of
his inexorable creditor, when the wrath of the latter
should be aroused by so unpardonable an offence
as a dishonourable attempt on the virtue of his child.
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CHAPTER XV.
THE VICTIM BLEEDS—UNAVAILABLE REMORSE.
We call thee vainly; on the ground
She sinks without a single wound.”
“And is this fountain left alone
For a sad remembrance, where
We may in after-times repair,
With heavy heart and weeping eye
To sing songs to her memory.”
Barry Cornwall.
In a neat and tastefully furnished chamber, whose
lack of recent care attested the absence of that daily
attention which it formerly received from its fair occupant,
lay the attenuated form of Rachel Samuel.
The physician had, with great difficulty effected her
resuscitation on the morning when De Lyle's visit
ended so unhappily for her peace of mind, and her
debility appeared rather to increase than diminish
with the lapse of time.
By her side sat her distracted father, whose indignation
at De Lyle's treachery and baseness knew
no diminution; but who feared to leave the couch
of his beloved child, even for the desirable purpose of
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wreaking vengence on the destroyer of her peace, if
not of her life.
The appearance of the Jew was to the last degree
wretched. The furrows which avarice had ploughed
on his brow were daily deepened by the anxiety
and grief attendant upon his daughter's critical situation,
increased by the gloomy reports of the physician,
which from hour to hour came like birds of
evil omen to sound their dismal tidings in his ear.
So intent had he been in the pursuit of gain, that he
was not sensible of the hold his daughter retained in
his affections, until the fear of her loss awakened in
his bosom that intensity of feeling which at times
gushes from the hard heart of the selfish, like the
refreshing stream that poured from the rock, when
its flinty side was smitten by the prophet on Mount
Horeb. Although several days had elapsed since
Rachel's illness commenced, he had scarcely quitted
her bedside for a moment, and the length of his
beard, which continued unshaven, gave a still more
haggard aspect to his care-worn features. Many
had been the entreaties of his afflicted child that he
would retire to his bed until exhausted nature could
rally its energies by repose, but he insisted on retaining
his position, alleging that he slept comfortably in
his easy chair. But if his anxiety for the fate of
his daughter was agonizing, what language can express
his remorse at the maddening reflection that
for filthy lucre he had ministered to the depraved
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appetites of De Lyle, and thus indirectly been the
instrument of her misery.
Oh, if there is one crowning drop in the cup of
human grief, which causes it to overflow with unspeakable
bitterness, it is the reflection that our
passions, or our crimes, have, in their fearful recoil
destroyed the only being, the light of whose love
cheered the darkness of our earthly pilgrimage!
May it never be the lot of our most implacable foe
to realize this truth in the terrible force with which
it rushed on the conscience-stricken soul of Isaac
Samuel!
As yet a slight gleam of hope of his daughter's
ultimate recovery continued to flash across his
mind, but the time was now at hand which would
dispel the last ray, and force the dread conviction
that he soon was to be childless, friendless, forsaken!
A beautiful evening had succeeded a day of
gloom—and as the setting sun threw a roseate flush
over the windows of the invalid's chamber, her feeble
energies appeared somewhat to revive: and to
her father's anxious inquiries she replied, with a
sweet smile, that her feelings were more buoyant
than they had been for many days.
This cheerful response caused the relieved father
to hope that the disease had reached its crisis, and
that returning health would hereafter mark its
glowing impress on her pallid cheek. His head
now rested on his hand, and fancy was busy with
the future; painting the close of his earthly career
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in brighter colours than those with which memory
arrayed the past; until his soothed feelings caused a
gentle slumber, whose dreams, brighter than their
predecessors, were, alas! neither more fleeting nor
unsubstantial.
His slumbers had continued but a few moments,
when he was aroused by the stifled groans of his
unhappy child; and, although he sprung from his
seat with the utmost haste, the spirit of the sufferer
had pierced the mysteries of eternity before his arm
could raise her head from the pillow. To picture the
agony of the despairing father exceeds our art, and
we leave the imagination of the reader to perform
the dismal task!
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CHAPTER XVI.
A VIEW INTO THE DEPTHS OF A VIRTUOUS WO
MAN'S HEART—THE ENLIGHTENED PRACTITIONER.
“But love is indestructible.
Its holy flame forever burneth,
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;
Too oft on earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.”
Southey.
The narration of the events we have thus far
chronicled, has perhaps prevented us from bestowing
due attention on the lovely being whose image was
so deeply engraved on the heart of Clifton.
In truth few and far between were the incidents
which varied the monotony of her secluded existence.
The record of events connected with her history
would but unfold the emotions, fears, hopes, doubts,
and anxieties of a susceptible girl, the most imposing
vicissitudes of whose life could be legitimately
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embraced in the story of a heart. The passing days,
as they came and went, found and left her the
same in feeling and affection—except that perchance,
as the frail tenure of her earthly existence became
more vividly impressed on her mind, the flame of
her love for Clifton beamed with a deeper, holier,
purer effulgence—as if, like the fire upon the altar,
it had caught its inspiration from the breath of HIM
WHOSE THRONE IS LOVE. The change in her
health, although heretofore almost imperceptible to
those who, like her fond parents, were hourly in her
presence, when the fickle month of March arrived
assumed a more decided and alarming aspect, until
Mr. and Mrs. Borrowdale's fears were intensely excited;
and they besought the attending physician
with tears to call into requisition all the resources
of his art, lest in an evil hour their last hope should,
with the spirit of Julia, wing its flight beyond the
confines of earth. Archibald Nelmoth, M. D.,
who officiated in the capacity of family physician to
Mr. Borrowdale, was a graduate of Harvard University.
On receiving his diploma from the college of
physicians and surgeons of Boston, he immediately
commenced practice in that city, and if patient and
untiring application, united to an ardent attachment
to his profession, and a skilful adaptation of means
to accomplish desired results could have insured success,
Doctor Nelmoth's claims to favour and patronage
would have been unanimously acknowledged and
correspondingly rewarded. That no such good
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fortune awaited the worthy physician may be the subject
of surprise to our sanguine readers, but will fail
to astonish those initiated in the secrets appertaining
to worldly success.
Unfortunately for the doctor's pecuniary interests,
his love of truth and abhorrence of deception, even
in trifles, were of too stubborn a growth to be uprooted;
and while the superficial disciples of Esculapius
were paying their court to the fashionable
circles of the literary emporium, Doctor Nelmoth was
patiently mastering the intricacies of medical science,
or wasting his skill on some forsaken child of poverty,
whose gratitude bore a most undue proportion to his
means. But a few weeks subsequent to his entrance
on his professional career, the child of a wealthy
and influential lady, residing in the vicinity of his
office, met with a serious accident, and the desire to
secure speedy surgical aid induced a resort to Doctor
Nelmoth; and so successful was he in relieving
the little sufferer that he became regularly installed
as attending physician to the family. This event
gave a most favourable turn to his prospects, for the
mother of the child was a leader in the fashionable
world, whose fiat was fate; but destiny, which delights
in thwarting the most well-founded anticipations,
erected a barrier to the success of our medical
friend, at the very crisis of his fortunes. Being suddenly
summoned to attend his lady patroness, who
was represented as alarmingly ill, he found her reclining
on a sumptuous couch, with a phial of
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hartshorn in one hand, while with the other she was
gracefully fondling her favourite poodle. On examining
her pulse and learning the symptoms of
the case, he candidly declared that late hours and
the excesses of fashionable dissipation were the sole
causes of her debility; and that nothing but a resort
to plain food, exercise on foot, and retiring early to
rest would be of permanent service. Against this
uncourteous and unwelcome advice the lady vehemently
remonstrated, and on the doctor persisting
in his decision, she gave him to understand that his
professional services were no longer needed; and the
same day beheld the introduction of a more pliant
practitioner, who not only pronounced the views of
his predecessor absurd, but obligingly coincided with
his fair patient's fluctuating opinion of the state of
her health—never resorting to remedies until he
first learned that they were adapted to her taste.
As will readily be inferred, the practice of Doctor
Nelmoth languished beneath the withering blight of
the fashionable lady's displeasure, while the star of
his rival shone proudly in the ascendant.
It was a few years subsequent to this untoward
event, while he was struggling with pecuniary difficulties,
that he became acquainted with Mr. Borrowdale,
who, delighted with his talents no less than
the variety and extent of his general and professional
information, invited him to settle near his
seat, where, by the aid of his generous friend, he
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speedily attained a respectable station among his
competitors.
Although rather past the prime of life, the good
doctor was still a bachelor, and while his amiable
disposition and cheerful temper would have constituted
him a charming companion to a female, his
devoted attachment to literature and science, rendered
him invulnerable to the meaning glances of the
fair maidens with whom he was acquainted. A
high forehead, slightly bald at the temples, and a
fine dark eye, which sparkled with benevolence and
intelligence, were perhaps the only features of his
face that could be considered otherwise than plain;
but so pleasing were his conversational powers,
when in company with those he loved, that one
could scarcely refrain from pronouncing him positively
handsome. It was only, however, when enjoying
the companionship of congenial spirits, that
the natural reserve of his character allowed him to
appear with advantage; while the presence of fashionable
triflers of either sex was sufficient completely to
seal the fountains of his intelligence for the time.
That the prejudices he naturally entertained against
parvenu assumption were confirmed and strengthened
by the recollection of his early adventure with
the leader of fashionable society in the city, is probable;
and as poverty had failed to wring civilities
from which his hudgment dissented, it is not surprising
that he declined the effort in the palmy days
of worldly competency.
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For Mr. Borrowdale and his amiable family, he
entertained the most affectionate regard; nor will it
be doubted, that his anxiety for Julia's recovery
elicited the exercise of his utmost professional skill,
and constant and unwearied attendance.
On the afternoon of one of those bland and balmy
days at the close of winter, which, like the dove
from the ark, bear on their wings glad tidings to the
whole human race—but in an especial degree to the
faint spirit of the invalid—the fair Julia half reclined
on the sofa in her little boudoir, moralizing on the
uncertainty of all earthly expectations.
The setting sun poured its farewell beams through
the spacious and somewhat antiquated windows of
the apartment, (like the dying dolphin reserving its
brightest glories for the last,) its golden hues assuming
a richer warmth as they reflected the glowing
tint of the crimson drapery which relieved the otherwise
sombre aspect of the deeply imbedded and
heavily moulded casements.
There are moments, when the curtain of the past
is drawn from before our mental vision;—when the
emotions of by-gone years resume their empire over
the heart;—when “the lost, the loved, the distant
and the dead” pass in review before us, untouched
by time, unscathed by sorrow, unchanged by circumstance.
Oh! is not this re-creative power at
once the type and the seal of immortality? Can
the soul, with its high capacities, its aspirations that
soar to the third heaven of intellect; its grasp
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encircling the vast myriads of material systems, and
skirting along those shadowy regions where conjecture
alone wields the sceptre; can it be that, like
the butterfly, it is destined to sport its little hour
and descend to the debasement of the clod and the
worm?
Let him doubt on whose spirit the icy hand of
scepticism has fallen—chilling its divine sympathies,
and chaining its powers of discrimination—but let
the gifted and the pure and the lovely clasp the
hopes of a brighter world to their bosoms with joy
and confidence.
To Julia, although attenuated by that silent and
insidious disease which, in mockery, decorates its
victim with the ensigns of health, while decay and
dissolution are fastened on the vitals, this power of
retrospection was especially vouchsafed; and with
that single-heartedness and disinterestedness found
alone in the softer sex, her thoughts, whether resting
on the joys of the past, or shuddering at the drear
prospect of the future, were associated with Clifton
in all their wanderings; she forgetting her own
peril in the absorbing intensity of her love for him,
and centreing her every wish in the desire for his
happiness.
Some there may be who doubt whether beneath
our northern skies the passion of love is susceptible
of so spontaneous a growth as that of Julia for Clifton,
but he little understands the mysterious labyrinths
of the human heart, and the latent fires which
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lie concealed within its depths, who deems the glowing
sun of a tropical climate necessary for its precocious
maturity. Oh no. Love is, itself, the sun
and centre of a moral system—imparting light and
heat by its own essence. Beneath its creative
beams, bud, blossom, and fruit, leap into life and
loveliness—offspring of a moment, but heirs of immortality!
Such is love:—and he who has never been a sojourner
beneath its pleasant skies—nor inhaled the
perfume of its flowers—nor sported with its nymphs—
nor sipped its nectar—nor bathed in its fountains—
nor reclined beneath its shade—has bartered
the gems of existence for worthless baubles! For
him no poet shall tune the lyre, nor fame with brazen
trumpet herald his deeds to after ages.
As Julia reflected on the difficulties which environed
her lover, she at times despaired of his power
to convince a censorious world of his innocence, or
burst through the meshes of the fatal web which
exiled him from his country and his friends.
“If,” she thought, “malice and perjury have
combined to blacken his fair fame, what hope is
there that remorse or penitence will enter into the
bosom of a wretch guilty of a crime so heinous, inducing
him to proclaim Clifton's innocence and his
own infamy. No, no. The bare idea is inadmissible.
Oh, Clifton—Clifton! would that these eyes
might again be blessed with your presence, even
were it but for a moment, that the mystery might be
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unveiled which now shadows your reputation. But
alas! an exile from your home—a wanderer in another
clime—a vast ocean separates you from my
sight, and much I fear that the angel of death will
bear my spirit to its eternal home, before I shall be
enabled to inform you of my devoted love, and my
unshaken confidence in your innocence.”
The ardour of her feelings caused her to utter the
latter portion of this soliloquy aloud, and Doctor
Nelmoth, who was at that moment approaching her
apartment, became an involuntary listener. The
excellent physician was not a little embarrassed at
this occurrence, for his respect for the sanctities of the
heart was peculiarly profound and sensitive; and
while he was disposed to be gratified at learning the
nature and cause of her malady—trusting that he
could now shape his professional course with some
prospect of benefit to his fair patient—he yet was almost
pained at the conviction that he was the depository
of a secret which his lovely young friend
desired sedulously to conceal.
Fearing that his embarrassment would be observed
by Julia, if he entered at the moment, he, with a
light step, receded to some distance, and in a few
moments returned with a heavy tread to the door,
knocked, and was admitted. As he entered, the
charming girl half arose from her seat, near the window,
and a straggling sunbeam that momentarily
rested on her face and neck, exhibited, with fearful
distinctness, the transparent and unearthly delicacy
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of her features. Reluctant to remain, lest his truant
tongue should, by some inadvertent allusion, divulge
his knowledge of her secret, he went through the
ordinary routine of professional inquiries, and attributing
his haste to urgent business, departed.
After Doctor Nelmoth had retired to the privacy of
his chamber, he long continued to reflect on the
most effectual method of rendering the information
he had received subservient to Julia's restoration.
Something he had learned in casual conversation
with Mr. Borrowdale, of the debt of gratitude which
that gentleman admitted he owed Clifton for rescuing
Julia from her perilous situation; nor was he a
stranger to the events which had since shaken his
confidence in the integrity and virtue of our hero.
As during all this period Julia had never alluded to
Clifton, he was, until the present moment, entirely
ignorant of her attachment. Fully aware of the
sensibility and delicacy of her feelings, and satisfied
that Mr. Borrowdale's sentiments in relation to
Clifton were too firmly implanted to be removed
without convincing proofs of his error, the doctor
long debated in his own mind as to the expediency
of disclosing his knowledge of the cause of Julia's
illness, either to herself or to her parents. His
judgment at length determined him to confine the
secret for the present to his own breast, leaving his
future course to be governed by circumstances.
The next morning found the doctor an early
visiter to Julia's apartment, whom he observed, with
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deep regret, moody and melancholy, and unable to
more than counterfeit the sweet smile which usually
welcomed the entrance of her adviser and friend.
Seating himself by her side on the sofa, he took the
hand she extended, and while his finger lay almost
passively on her pulse, remarked,
“What a lovely evening we were blessed with
yesterday. It appeared to me the sweet harbinger
of happiness to the victim of declining health, who,
like yourself, has youth and strength sufficient to
repel the enfeebled assaults of the expiring winter.
In a few—very few days, the birds will again charm
you with their melodies—the flowers waft their perfumes
through your lattice—while such middle-aged
gentlemen as myself will be laid aside, as neither
seasonable nor useful.”
“Oh, my dear doctor,” replied Julia, “do not jest on
a subject with which the affections and friendship of
life are entwined. If you should no longer cheer
me with your society, another prop of my existence
would be removed, and I doubt if I could survive the
shock.”
Thus saying the tears coursed down her cheek,
and it was some moments ere the doctor could sufficiently
compose himself to say:—
“You are right, my child—you are right. Believe
me, I but intended to while away the hours,
but unhappily struck a harsh and unharmonious
chord. Forget it, and I will be more wary in future.
It is unnecessary for me to assure you of the
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deep interest I feel in your recovery, nor is it proper
for me to disguise my conviction that a much longer
residence in this fluctuating climate will be attended
with imminent hazard. In mid-winter, a voyage to
Europe would have been highly improper, but the
season has now arrived when it is no longer dangerous.
I have not broached the subject to your parents,
feeling desirous first to ascertain your own
views in relation to it.”
In vain, lovely sufferer, your tongue like a wakeful
sentinel, now guards with sleepless vigilance the
treasure of your love from the gaze of prying curiosity—
a moment of forgetfulness has unlocked the
portals of your affections, and the treacherous pulse
and tell-tale cheek conspire to break down the remaining
defences!
Thus thought the physician, as cheek and pulse
fluttered with the excitement that her agitated
feelings underwent at this suggestion. Again her
tears flowed afresh, and all the reply she could make
was,
“Leave me now, dear doctor, and I will reflect on
your suggestion. My poor nerves are too tremulous
to permit me to decide just now.”
“God bless you!—God bless you, my child,” was
the response of the affectionate physician, as he
arose and left the apartment.
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CHAPTER XVII.
FAME NOT ALWAYS DESIRABLE—THE RECOGNITION.
“Oh thoughtless mortals! ever blind to” fate,
Too soon dejected and too soon elatc.”
Pope.
“The prostrate soul, beneath
A load of huge imagination heaves.”
Armstrong.
The literati of London still continued occasionally
to discuss the question relating to the paternity
of the two popular tales which had set the reading
world agog; and many were the inquiries into the
cause which induced the pen of the unknown author
to remain idle, when fame and fortune were waiting
on his nod. After he left the party at Mr. Courtenay's
mansion, on the evening before mentioned, the
question seriously arose in his mind whether he
should not doff the mask, and in his proper person
wear the honours which the literary public had
awarded to the incognito; but the appearance of
Ellingbourne's double, and the depressing incident
in the trial which disclosed the infamy of his parent,
dispelled the incipient desire for notoriety.
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That he would still attract attention notwithstanding
the stigma of his birth, he did not doubt, but the
applause of the good—the fellowship of the refined—
the sympathies of the gifted, would be withheld; and
what would he gain but the gaping wonder of the
vulgar throng? These considerations deterred
him also from attempting for the present any new
effort in the walks of literature; and when the unfortunate
issue of his visit to the imprisoned robber
severed the hope of learning the particulars of his
early history, the death-knell of his hopes, enterprize
and ambition, appeared to sound audibly in his ears.
What mystery could surround his birth and infancy
was more than he could conjecture, but it was evident
from the anxiety of the dying criminal, that it
was of the most vital importance to his happiness
that it should be disclosed. Night after night would
he lie on his pillow, imagining every possible contingency
that could have happened to prevent his
knowledge of his real birth and parentage, and at
the last he was obliged to confess the little probability
that any disclosure would remove the stigma that
rested on his name as the offspring of a suicide and
a murderer. From this theme he would revert to
his love for Julia, and although at times his confidence
in her firmness and affection remained unshaken,
yet he shuddered at the bare possibility of
his being deluded. For several days he had scarcely
left his room, so reluctant was he to mingle with
the crowd who could so little enter into or sympathize
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with his feelings—but the morning was so inviting—
the clear sky and cheerful sun so calmly united in
wooing him from his solitude, that he arranged his
dress with some little care, and sauntered forth without
precisely determining in what direction to shape
his course. Dreamy and abstracted, his footsteps
traversed a considerable distance from his lodgings
before he reflected on the subject of his peregrinations
abroad, and how much longer he might have continued
unconsciously to wander it is impossible to
say, if the inspiring notes of a full band of music
had not by their martial melody aroused his listless
thoughts from their reveries. As the regimental
band wheeled into a broad avenue which communicated
with a spacious square, the helmets and glittering
uniforms of platoon after platoon of British
infantry, cavalry, and artillery sparkled in the sunbeam,
while their waving plumes, and the prancing
steeds and showy equipments of their officers, formed
an imposing scene to one who, like Clifton, had never
before beheld the admirable discipline, and gallant
bearing of the brave soldiery of the fast-anchored
isle. On inquiry he learned that the troops were to
be reviewed by the king in person, and as several
brigades were to assemble on the occasion, he determined
to join the immense crowd of spectators whom
the presence of royalty and the splendid military
spectacle had attracted to the scene. A neighbouring
gallery, which had been erected to accommodate
those who chose to pay for the privilege of obtaining
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a full view of the array, was selected as a proper
station, and he accordingly obtained a seat on the
front bench, which was but little elevated above the
heads of the cavalry, and overlooked a broad avenue
along whose gravelled centre the private equipages
of the nobility and gentry were continually passing
and repassing. On either side of the avenue, pedestrians
were loitering—some peering most inquisitively
into the splendid coaches of the aristocracy—
others directing their attention to the evolutions of
the military; while the more eager and anxious
majority rapidly cast their eyes from side to side, as
if apprehensive that a portion of the brilliant display
might escape their notice. At length the cry of
“the king”—“his majesty,” came swelling on the
ear from voices in the distance, and soon the earth
shook with the welcoming shouts of the enthusiastic
populace on his near approach. Although Clifton's
republican sentiments prevented his viewing the
attributes of royalty with that profound respect which
actuated the subjects of the British king, he yet
could not avoid being favourably impressed with the
frank and manly countenance and venerable aspect
of the benevolent monarch. Happily the prejudices
of the people of America and Great Britain had become
dissipated by mutual intercourse and the interchange
of good offices, and Clifton looked therefore
on the institutions of England as subject to the
control of her own citizens, and as national peculiarities
with whose structure or defects he had no right
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to intermeddle. At length the royal review was
ended, and the numerous regiments moved again
into marching order, and with stately steps and erect
carriage retired from the scene whose chief attraction
was dispelled by their absence. As Clifton was preparing
to descend from the gallery, an open landau
attracted his attention, and as it came near and
made a partial halt, to his astonishment and joy, he
beheld Mr. and Mrs. Borrowdale on the back seat
directly facing him, while the slender form of a female
and the more robust figure of a gentleman
occupied the front seat, and of course their backs
were towards him. For a moment the pulsations
of his heart were suspended, his brain reeled, and he
almost fell from his seat, and before he entirely recovered
his self-possession, the carriage was in motion,
and as it passed directly beneath him, he perceived
that he was recognized by Mr. Borrowdale,
who however gave no token that he was noticed;
as he watched the receding vehicle, he perceived
that the lady in front was his adored Julia, and that
the gentleman at her side seemed to pay her the
most assiduous and respectful attention!
That she had not observed him was evident, but
the cause was found in her eager solicitude to catch
every word that fell from the lips of the gallant by
her side. Who could he be? Was he her admirer?
Was he not already her husband? The rapid motion
of the carriage had prevented him from closely
scanning the features of either Julia or the stranger,
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and therefore could but conjecture the probable
nature of their intercourse; but what lover ever yet
entered into the realms of conjecture, while under
the sway of jealousy, whose fancy did not run a tilt
with rivalry and despair?
While Julia was in another hemisphere, the impossibility
of any communication passing between
them trained his mind to a partial quiescence in the
decrees of an inevitable destiny; but the thought
that she was now in the same city with himself, perhaps
residing in an adjoining street, and almost
within the sound of his voice, without his being
enabled to communicate his unalterable love, his
deep devotion:—the idea was madness. His first
impulse was after descending from the gallery to call
a hackney coach, and endeavour to track the carriage
of Mr. Borrowdale to its destination; but independent
of the improbability of his tracing them
in the crowd of vehicles, his pride revolted at the
attempt to force himself on that gentleman's attention,
after he had refused to tender him any token
of recognition.
In this mood he retraced his steps to his lodgings,
occupying the hours that should have been sacred
to repose, in imagining every possible cause for Julia's
attention to the gentleman at her side, and at last
compelled by fatigue and anxiety to enter the land
of dreams, without arriving nearer a satisfactory
solution than when he first rested his head on his
pillow.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CHASE—A DISCOVERY.
“Oh name forever sad! forever dear!
Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear.
I tremble too, where'er my own I find
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.”
Pope.
The following morning found Clifton on his
way to the post-office, in the faint hope that if he
received no communications from his friends in
New-York, Julia might by a line inform him where
she resided in London. Although by no means
certain that she was aware of his being in that city,
yet the bare possibility that such might be the case,
determined him to apply at the post-office and inquire
for letters. As he was pushing forward, a
vehicle similar to that which Mr. Borrowdale occupied
on the previous day, suddenly turned a corner
of the street in front of him, and the only lady who
was seated in it, as nearly as he could judge at the
distance, resembled his charming fair one. As the
high-mettled steeds dashed onward with their lovely
burthen, he at once saw the impossibility of
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overtaking them on foot; and an empty hackney coach
passing, he hailed the jehu, and was soon in full
pursuit of the receding landau.
The jaded hacks were at Clifton's instance urged
to their utmost speed, and after submitting to numerous
detentions, caused by those obstacles which
momentarily interrupt the progress of vehicles
in the metropolis—during which the landau was at
times seen, and again suddenly turning a corner
disappeared—he at length to his great gratification
saw it drawn up at the door of a handsome mansion
in Portland Place. With all possible rapidity
the fatigued horses were driven to the spot, but before
their arrival the lady had entered the house,
although the carriage still remained at the door.
Presuming that she was paying a morning visit,
Clifton dismissed his hack and remained on the opposite
side of the street, determined to accost the
lady on her re-appearance, if, as he little doubted, she
was his beloved Julia. At least two hours elapsed
before the door opened, and to Clifton's infinite
chagrin and vexation, a superannuated specimen of
the feminine sex appeared, compared with whom
the beautiful Julia was “Hyperion to a satyr.”
As she entered the vehicle our hero moved away
with a heavy heart, in spirit and appearance resembling
the mortified fox hunter, who, after following
the hounds through a morning's eager chase,
finds the cunning Reynard too shrewd for his pursuers,
and the game run down in the shape of an
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attenuated rabbit. Again he directed his steps
towards the post-office—musing as he went on as
many of his late disappointments and distresses as
his memory could conveniently compass in so brief
a space of time. It at length occurred to his mind
that he had been particularly remiss in not pursuing
the landau to its ultimate destination, or inquiring
the name of its owner from the footman, as there
remained scarcely a doubt of its being the same
carriage in which Julia was seated the day before,
and by learning the residence of the owner, he
would at once have been enabled to procure an interview
with her he loved. But as it fared with all
his recent movements, the lucky moment was irretrievably
past. On arriving at the post-office, the
clerk on his inquiring for letters, presented him with
a large package which bore the city post-mark.
On opening it with eager haste, he found a brief
letter inclosed, from an ordinary of Newgate, stating
that it contained the last dying words of James
Maddox, the culprit, who attempted the robbery of
Lord Templeton; and who had revived after
Clifton's withdrawal from his cell, to the astonishment
of the physician and his attendants. The
letter closed with the information that the criminal
departed this life on the day following, praying with
his last breath that the substance of his disclosure
might be forwarded to Clifton at the first opportunity;
which was not performed in consequence of
the absence of the lad who had before called on
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him, and conducted him to the prison, and who
alone knew his place of residence.
As will be conceived, our hero lost no time in
gaining his lodgings, where he found on his table
the cards of Lord Templeton and the Hon. Mr.
Courtenay. This unexpected and grateful token of
continued regard from the only persons in England
whose good opinion he really courted, caused the
tears to flow over cheeks unused to the presence of
such womanly visitors.
As soon as his emotion had subsided, he addressed
himself to the packet, and to his astonishment
perused the following narrative, which, from
its importance to our hero, and its influence on his
destinies, deserves to be recorded in a new chapter
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CHAPTER XIX.
THE NARRATIVE.
“Let me speak to the yet unknowing world—
How these things come about.”
Hamlet.
As will readily be inferred, the feeble and exhausted
condition of the dying culprit prevented him
from entering into the minutiæ of his past life and
conduct.
The communication of the worthy chaplain renders
the disclosure somewhat connected and intelligible;
but the reader will be compelled to refer to the
earlier pages of this history for the re-production of
those facts which relate to the career of Maddox,
subsequent to the arrest and suicide of Glenthorne.
Some disconnected allusions to certain dark transactions
in his own after-history are, indeed, furnished,
but the strength of the criminal was unequal to
the task of completing the gloomy picture.
The communication of the chaplain embodies the
following recital:—
Confession of James Maddox, a prisoner under
sentence of death.
“My birth-place is the city of Boston, in the State
of Massachusetts.
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“When about the age of twenty-one, I became
introduced to Elbert Borrowdale, the son of wealthy
parents, recently deceased, in the State of New
Hampshire.
“This individual was conspicuous for his bold
defiance of those moral restraints which are justly
regarded with such reverence by all reputable
members of society. A few years my senior, and
vastly my superior in abilities and mental energy, he
soon acquired an ascendency over my feeble nature,
which was exercised with despotic sway.
“With his only brother, a gentleman possessed
of a highly cultivated mind and unspotted reputation,
he had entered into a violent personal controversy.
“This feud was increased to a deadly hatred by
the marriage of his brother with a beautiful and accomplished
young lady, of whom Elbert was enamoured.
“A fruitless attempt on the virtue of this lady,
subsequent to her marriage with his brother, rendering
him amenable to punishment, he hastily fled
to the Canadas, and the better to elude pursuit, assumed
the name of Rupert Glenthorne.
“I was the companion of his flight. On his return,
I became his accomplice in the abduction of
the only child of his brother, a beautiful boy of not
more than two years of age. This infamous crime
was perpetrated in mid-winter, the child being
snatched from the arms of its nurse, while she was
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amusing herself on a sheet of ice, near the residence
of the child's parents.
“The shrieks of the nurse alarmed Borrowdale,
who seized her by the throat and plunged her head-long
into a hole in the ice—while I was removing
the infant to our sleigh, which stood at a little distance,
shielded from observation by a thick wood.
“We fled, and succeeded in effecting our escape
with the innocent victim of my relentless associate's
vengeance.
“In the murder of the nurse I had no direct
agency, but conscience, alas! is my accuser—nor
will her voice be silent.
“But I feel that the lamp of life is fast waning,
and must hasten to a close.
“Borrowdale, who still retained the assumed name
of Glenthorne, and myself separated, nor did we
again meet until our last interview in the city of
New-York, when the miscreant, by committing a
violent assault on my person, provoked a disclosure
which caused his arrest, and subsequently induced
him to rush, uncalled for, into the presence of his
Creator.”
The prisoner here became exhausted, and lay for
some time in a stupor, from which he was at length
aroused by the application of restoratives.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “how fearfully do my
crimes rush on my terror-stricken soul! That I
have, in part, paid the penalty of my abduction of
an innocent child, you will learn when I inform
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you, that he is no other than Sydney Clifton!
through whose instrumentality I am now within
the walls of this gloomy prison! If he doubts, let
him examine the trinkets which were on his person
when stolen from his parents. They will serve to
identify him if his parents are still living. I have
much more to say—but this room is dark—and I
feel the chills of death freezing the blood in my
veins. Oh for a few hours to confess my own
black transgressions! Alas! alas! they rise up in
judgment against me—a dread and dismal array!
“But see! yonder stands Rupert Glenthorne beckoning
me to his side! and, horror! horror! there
approaches the traveller I murdered in cold blood that
I might possess his treasure! Away ye ghastly
messengers of vengeance! Away! away! take me,
oh! take me from this den of demons!”
Thus closed the life of this miserable criminal.
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CHAPTER XX.
THE INCOGNITO.
“Love me! why, it must be requited.”
Much Ado about Nothing.
As one partially wakened while under the influence
of some dismal and disturbing dream, our
hero, with reeling brain and bewildered consciousness,
could not for some time collect his scattered
thoughts sufficiently to determine whether he had
really perused the narrative of Maddox, or whether
it was the “baseless fabric” of distempered fancy.
When the truth at length burst on his mind in all
its strange and sad reality, his emotions were wound
to that fearful state of excitement which so nearly
approaches the confines of insanity.
Overpowered with his reflections he rushed wildly
from the house; and unconscious of every thing but
the dark impressions that were so deeply stamped
on his mind, he strode with rapid steps through
street after street, careless whither he strayed or
where his wanderings would end. The removal of
the stigma which rested on his name, in consequence
of his supposed parentage, was to him worse than
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valueless, coupled as it was with the dread tidings
that Julia Borrowdale was his sister!
“Why, oh why,” he murmured, “did I so eagerly
desire to unveil the secret of my birth? If this
horrible reality had been buried with Maddox, I
might have enjoyed the dream of love to the close
of my earthly career; while Julia would either have
been the bride of some more favoured mortal, or remained
unmarried for my sake.”
Longer reflection caused him to rejoice that he
had been unable to procure an interview, which he
now determined to avoid.
If, after Mr. Borrowdale had returned to America,
his mind could be brought to divulge the knowledge
of his birth, it could be done by letter, without the
necessity of reverting to painful reminiscences. On
one thing he was fully determined, and that was to
refuse any pecuniary aid from his parents.
“If they would not do me the justice,” he continued,
“to permit an opportunity for explanation of
my conduct, after the service I had rendered Julia,
it shall never be said that I received any favour at
their hands.”
As he passed along one of the streets at the court
end of the metropolis, a fashonably attired young
lady was seen emerging from a spacious mansion,
attended by a footman. Although deeply veiled, the
flashing brilliancy of her eyes pierced their gossamer
prison, while a well-turned neck, and ancle
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sufficiently indicated the exquisite symmetry of her
graceful form.
Notwithstanding the erect carriage and stately
movements of the veiled lady were well sustained,
yet a close observer might have detected a slight
hesitation in her manner, and a wandering of her
dark eye to the spot where Clifton was passing.
As they both arrived on opposite sides of the street
at the corner of another by which it was intersected,
Clifton turned to the right, when the lady quickly
spoke to her attendant:
“Now is the time. Make no mistake—the tall
young gentleman in black is the person.”
The footman hastily followed in the direction
which Clifton had taken, and respectfully touching
his hat, asked if he had the honour to address Mr.
Sydney Clifton. On his reply in the affirmative the
man gave him a sealed note and immediately rejoined
his mistress, who had slowly passed on.
Clifton lost no time in withdrawing from public
view, and entering a neighbouring hotel, called for
some slight refreshment, and eagerly opened the
letter, which we here transcribe.
“Portland Place,
April 18.
“The writer of this note has, in happier hours,
enjoyed brief opportunities of estimating the talents
and virtues of Mr. Sydney Clifton. That the impressions
left by the slight intercourse were highly
flattering to Mr. C. may be inferred from the
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reception of this unusual solicitation for its renewal.
When slander was busy with the name of Mr. Clifton,
the writer, whose station in society is inferior to
none, formed the bold plan of dragging forth his detractors
from their hiding-places, and exposing their
infamy to the eyes of an indignant world. Success
having attended her efforts, she has visited England
to lay her claims before him whose fair fame she
can re-establish. Flattering herself that the deep
interest thus manifested in Mr. Clifton's welfare will
constitute some claims to his regard, the writer is
now ready to communicate her knowledge if he
feels disposed to make a corresponding return, by
uniting his fate to hers for life. Lest the imagination
of Mr. Clifton should picture his correspondent
in the lineaments of age, it is proper to say that she
has numbered fewer years than himself; and if the
good-natured world has not descended to egregious
flattery, is not deficient in personal attractions.
“Knowing the high character of Mr. Clifton, the
writer feels confident that if previous engagements
preclude the alliance suggested, he will burn this
note, and bury its contents in his own bosom; nor
seek an interview that will neither retrieve his character
nor contribute to his happiness. If, on the
contrary, he is desirous of consummating a union
on which the happiness of the writer depends, and
which she firmly believes will cause no subsequent
regrets to either—an interview will be afforded him
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by calling at No. —, — street at 10 o'clock tomorrow
morning, and inquiring for Miss Williams.”
`H.”
“To Sydney Clifton, Esq.”
This extraordinary epistle excited anew those
turbulent emotions which were before gently subsiding
in his bosom. Again the charms of Julia occurred
to his fancy, arrayed in more attractive colours
than they had ever before assumed, causing him to
look on the possibility of an alliance with another
with sentiments of horror.
After he had regained his residence, and attempted
to compose his mind, his judgment resumed somewhat
of its original sway over his imagination, and
he was compelled to confess that if the sacrifice his
unknown correspondent demanded at his hands was
great, the service she proposed rendering was correspondingly
important. And, after all, why would
it not be better for all parties that he should at once
sever the tie that bound his affections to Julia? Was
not the very idea of retaining her love wicked and
preposterous?
That every principle of honour and rectitude forbade
his dwelling on emotions, which, however innocent
in their origin, were now without the pale of
virtue and principle, was certain; and, after long
hesitation, he determined to seek an interview with
this unknown correspondent; and after frankly informing
her of his love for another, whom
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circumstances would forever prevent his espousing, place
himself at her disposal, if she still considered an
alliance desirable with one the first fruits of whose
affections were withered at the core.
“At least,” he said to himself, “I will stand forth
before the world in the majesty of innocence, and if,
like Caius Marius amid the ruins of Carthage, I
brood over the wreck of all that is dear to memory,
the spectacle that I shall present will so thickly cluster
with the most elevated moral associations, that
he who pauses to sneer will unconsciously tender
the tribute of a sigh.”
With such consolatory feelings his eyelids at last
curtained the hitherto wakeful orbs which they
guarded, and the land of dreams was peopled with
the same visitants that had been present to his sense
during the eventful day, although the part assigned
them in the vale of shadows was frequently the opposite
of that which was performed by their representatives
on earth.
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CHAPTER XXI.
THE INTERVIEW.
“Good madam, let me see your face.”
Twelfth Night.
At the appointed hour Clifton, with a heavy
heart, proceeded to the place appointed for his interview
with the incognita. On knocking at the door
and inquiring for Miss Williams, the same footman
who had given him the letter on the preceding day,
directed his steps into a small room, the furniture of
which, to his surprise, bordered on the shabby-genteel,
being evidently a part of the ill-matched stock-in-trade
of a pawnbroker, or second-hand dealer.
In truth, the house and its appurtenances conveyed
the idea of poverty striving at display, and
Clifton could not but wonder at the circumstance, if,
as the writer of the note alleged, she moved in the first
circles of New-York society. He had not long pondered
on thesubject before the door opened, and a tall
and splendidly attired lady entered, her face completely
enveloped in the folds of a heavy dark veil.
The agitation of our hero's feelings prevented his
rising, until the lady had passed before him, when he
awkwardly essayed to offer her a chair, although she
was already seated on the sofa.
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“I trust, madam.” he said, as he remained still
standing, “that the exciting nature of this interview
will be my apology for my lack of courtesy. In
truth, lady, I am a most miserable and forlorn being,
the spring and elasticity of whose spirit are already
broken, and really incapable of making a due return
for the condescension and benevolence which have
dictated this unlooked for interview.
“You see before you, madam, one who has already
deeply, fondly, devotedly loved. The being on
whom my affections were lavished, although eminently
worthy of the admiration and regard of the
noblest in the land, is placed beyond the possibility
of ever being united to my destinies. Such being
the case, you can judge whether the wreck of what
was once a heart, susceptible of the warmest sympathies—
all of which are now frozen—is worth your
acceptance. If, notwithstanding this disclosure, you
should still desire to unite your fate with mine, my
best exertions will ever be placed in requisition to
ensure your happiness.”
“Might I inquire,” said the veiled lady, “whether
the person of whom you speak is an English,
or an American lady?”
“She is American,” was the reply.
“Her name is Julia Borrowdale!”
“Lady, in Heaven's name, speak! when and
where did you become acquainted with a secret that
I supposed locked in the recesses of my heart of
hearts?”
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“My dear sir, you must recollect, that the eyes of
a rival are too piercing to permit communications
between lovers to pass unnoticed, when her own
heart is deeply interested in the issue. Although
at Mrs. Rainsford's soirée you supposed your têtè-u-t
ête with Julia in the corner of the room unnoticed,
there was one pair of eyes that saw your every
movement.”
“Who and what are you,” said Clifton, “who have
thus laid bare my secret thoughts? Your voice has
in it something of a remembered tone, but I cannot
recall either your person or the time or place of a
former meeting. I beseech you, lady, unless you intend
to destroy my wits, at once to divulge your
name, or unveil your face.”
“Fair and softly, my good sir. You forget that I
summoned you hither for the purpose of divulging
other secrets than those appertaining to my poor
self. We will, with your permission, enter into the
detail of those matters which still so deeply affect
your character. As you have complied with my
conditions, I will keep my faith with you, although
your affections are more deeply engaged than I
imagined.
“You no doubt recollect Thomas Burchard, by
whose testimony your name became involved with
gamblers?”
“Too well, lady,” was the response to this question.
“From certain indications, unnecessary for me to
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explain, I became persuaded that Edward De Lyle
was the foundation of all your miseries.”
“De Lyle!” exclaimed our hero, “impossible!”
“Yet a moment, my dear sir, and you will learn
your error. Having received full confirmation of
my suspicions from the manner of De Lyle himself,
I endeavoured to frighten him into a confession;
but, although half inclined to make it, he at length
mustered courage to avoid the avowal.
“I then, by means of anonymous letters, induced
Burchard to betray his patron; by which his villany,
in reference to yourself, has been disclosed—
but to me only—as the immediate cause of his public
disgrace had no connection with his malicious attempt
to destroy your character.”
Here the speaker described minutely the facts
with which the reader has been heretofore made acquainted;
with the addition of the gratifying information
that Ellingbourne had so far recovered from
his wound as to visit England for his health, and
was then in London.
“Ellingbourne alive!” exclaimed Clifton, “this
is indeed balm to my wounded spirit. The appearance
of his supposed ghost is now explained. Oh
lady, you have removed a weight from my soul that
almost crushed it.”
“And now,” said the incognita, “we will part for
the present, as this house is not a fitting place for me
to disclose myself to my intended husband. To-morrow
evening, at seven o'clock, I shall expect you in
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Portland Place, and must insist on your not making
any attempt, in the mean time, to learn my name,
or recognize my person. At the appointed hour
you will know both. Till then, adieu!”
Here she held out her hand, and his devotion to
his former mistress did not prevent him from observing
that the hand was right beautiful and exquisite
in the symmetry of its minute proportions.
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CHAPTER XXII.
AN UNEXPECTED CHAPTER IN THE HISTORY
OF OUR HERO.
“Mal. Some are born great,
Some achieve greatness,
And some have greatness thrust upon them.”
What you will.
On returning to his residence, after the trial of
the robbers, Lord Templeton informed his daughter
of the disclosure of Clifton's supposed parentage.
His lordship frankly expressed his admiration of the
candour and integrity which evidently stimulated
the avowal, and did not fail to deplore the necessity
which it imposed on him of severing the intimate
relations that he had intended should exist between
his deliverer and his family. On retiring to rest,
Miss Jerningham pondered deeply on the subject of
Clifton's disgrace, but neither her judgment nor her
feelings coincided in the supposed necessity of avoiding
intercourse with one to whom they were so
deeply indebted. A few days subsequently Mr.
Courtenay visited the mansion of Lord Templeton,
when the generous girl introduced the subject of
Clifton's apparent disgrace, and espoused his cause
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with so much zeal, that both her father and his
guest became converts to her opinion, and avowed
the intention of renewing their former intercourse.
As Clifton sauntered slowly through the streets
on the morning following the interview with the
veiled lady, he was accosted by the Hon. Mr. Courtenay,
who drew up his stanhope to the side walk,
and informed our hero that he had a particular request
from Lord Templeton and his daughters that
he should convey him to their residence whenever
he could spare a few hours.
“Fortunately,” said Mr. C., “I am now on my
way thither, and if you are not particularly engaged,
I hope you will bear me company.”
Clifton, who had determined to take an early opportunity
of divulging the secret of his birth, and soliciting
the advice of the noble lord as to the proper
course for him to pursue in order to silence the malicious
reports that were in circulation in reference
to his character and parentage, embraced the offer
of his countryman, and they were soon on the road
to Lord Templeton's seat.
“I feel no little embarrassment,” said Clifton, as
they approached the mansion, “in introducing a
subject to the notice of Lord Templeton and yourself,
which, being solely connected with my own obscure
history, can hardly be attended with interest
to others whose rank in life is so far above my own.
Indeed, were it not necessary to the proper appreciation
of one whom you both have distinguished by
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your notice, I should not venture to bring the topic
before you. But here comes Lord Templeton and
his daughters down the avenue to meet us, and with
your permission we will wait another opportunity to
disclose my secret.”
As they alighted from the carriage the greeting of
Lord Templeton and his lovely daughters was most
cordial and ardent, and Clifton felt a certain pride in
the thought that he could so effectually remove the
stigma that alone cast a shade over the brightness
of his character and name.
As they all passed up the avenue the ladies made
affectionate inquiries into the state of his health, the
younger chiding him in her own arch way for his
lack of courtesy in not sooner paying them a visit.
After reaching the drawing-room, Clifton said:
“I must entreat the pardon of my kind friends
for relieving my breast of a burthen, with the history
of which nothing but your unlooked-for goodness
could induce me to trouble you. I need not
say that I left the court-room on the day of trial
with feelings nearly akin to despair. To be compelled
by my regard for truth to avow a connexion
which covered me with unmerited ignominy, was,
as you may imagine, gall and wormwood to my
soul. But as has been my practice, I at once preferred
the dictates of truth to motives of expediency,
and unhesitatingly stated my honest convictions of
my birth and parentage. But, my friends, I know
you will rejoice to hear that I laboured under an
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error. Fortunately I am not the child of Glenthorne,
the murderer and suicide.”
Here he related all the circumstances which had
so recently come to his knowledge, and which so
completely exonerated him from all the imputations
that had rested on his name. The recital drew tears
from the eyes of the gentle-hearted ladies, and the
gentlemen themselves did not listen unmoved.
“But,” said Lord Templeton, “there is one fact
connected with this narration which has not yet
fully been confirmed, but which will, I suspect, create
a still deeper interest in those whom you have
laid so deeply under obligation. The patronymic
of my maternal ancestors is Borrowdale, and my
mother's father was named Elbert Borrowdale, the
same as that of the unhappy man whose crimes
brought him to a premature end. My mother's
brother emigrated to America before the revolution,
and as he bore the name of James, which is the
same as Clifton's father's, I see little cause to doubt
the fact of our near relationship. From information
obtained years since, I was induced to believe all the
descendants of the family in America dead, but the
circumstances detailed by Maddox furnish a clew to
their disappearance.”
Clifton then produced from his pocket the bracelets
that were on his arms when stolen from his parents,
and they were decorated with the ancestral
insignia of the Borrowdale family. This settled the
question to the satisfaction of all.
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“Papa,” said the younger Miss Jerningham,
“what shall we call Mr. Clifton now? I mean to
call him Cousin Sydney, as that is a much prettier
name than either Clifton or Borrowdale.”
Lord Templeton and Mr. Courtenay were not a
little amused at the claims to Clifton's relationship
presented by Miss Euphemia, who, finding them all
smiling, blushed and said,
“Well, I don't care if you do laugh. He is my
cousin, and I don't see any reason why I should'nt
call him Cousin Sydney.”
“My sweet child,” said Lord Templeton, “you
certainly have the right to address our young relative
by the name you propose, if he has no objection
to the familiarity.”
“I am too much honoured already by the kindness
of your lordship's family,” answered Clifton:
“if our newly ascertained relationship is recognized,
it will add to the gratification on my part, to be addressed
by the title of cousin by my charming
young friend.”
“But, Mr. Clifton, as I still inadvertently call
him,” rejoined Lord Templeton, “is not aware of
the enviable rank that Euphemia assigns him in
the literary world. She declares her unalterable
conviction that he is none other than the unknown
author of `Fatality,' and the `Conscience Stricken;
' and so impressed is her imagination with the
truth of this conjecture, that she has laid violent
hands on the magazines containing the two popular
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tales, and I have been compelled to promise a splendid
binding for them. I learn that her views on this
delicate subject are formed from some peculiar expressions
in the tales which were used by our relative
while temporarily residing with us. That there
is something in the coincidence is, I think, certain,
for even our clear headed Adeline joins Euphemia in
this opinion.”
“While at the confessional,” replied our hero, “I
may as well make a clean breast of it, and admit
my literary offences, that my absolution may be complete.
My cousin Euphemia must be awarded the
medal for her discrimination, as she has undoubtedly
detected the visage of the man in the mask. Her
opinion is authority on this matter, and if she had
been a native of America, her guessing powers
could not have been improved.”
Lord Templeton urged Clifton to remain at least
for a time at his house, but he excused himself on
the plea that he had an engagement in town which
he must fulfil.
In communicating his history to Lord Templeton
and his daughters, he had entirely avoided any
reference to his engagement with the unknown lady,
or his affection for Julia Borrowdale. The circumstance
of his being a relative of Lord Templeton
will not surprise the reader, if he reverts to the sketch
of Mr. Borrowdale's history in the earlier pages of
this work. Their noble host, finding that Mr.
Courtenay and Sydney were soon to depart, proposed
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a stroll through the highly cultivated grounds, Miss
Jerningham accepting the proferred arm of Mr.
Courtenay, while Euphemia hung delighted on that
of her new found cousin.
As they strolled down the gravelled walks whose
sides were decorated with the most beautiful and
rare flowers and luxuriant foliage, our hero saw with
gratification that his eldest cousin and Mr. Courtenay
were inclined to wander from their companions;
and from certain indications which could scarcely
be mistaken, he rightly judged that all-powerful love
had entered into the bosoms of both. For Mr.
Courtenay he entertained the most exalted respect,
and rejoiced that he had found so congenial a spirit
to minister to his wishes, and cheer him with her
affection. As they passed onward, Lord Templeton,
who was by the side of Sydney, stopped to give the
gardener some necessary directions, when Euphemia
remarked in a low tone of voice:
“Cousin Sydney, I just now heard papa telling
Mr. Courtenay that you would become heir to his
title and estates if you proved your descent. I know
they mean to keep it a secret till you bring the proofs,
but I thought I must tell you in confidence. So,
my good cousin, keep the secret close, nor let me get
into disgrace by my wish to make you happy.”
“You are the sweetest, dearest cousin that ever
man possessed,” he replied, “and I would sooner
fight the robbers over again than divulge a word.
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Do you remember how you used to take my crutch,
and limp like me down the garden walks?”
“Yes, yes, I think I do, and what's more, I have
your crutch locked up in my closet safe and sound.
I told papa the other day that I prized it more than
the lady-love of Richard the lion-hearted did his
great sword.”
“I see,” said our hero, “that I shall have to write
you a new song commemorative of my crutch and
your constancy.”
After an hour spent in delightful converse, which
for the time went far to relieve the sorrowful feelings
of Sydney, Mr. Courtenay ordered his stanhope, and
they departed. To Lord Templeton's earnest request
for an early visit, his relative acceded, promising
in a very few days to make his re-appearance.
As the vehicle was about moving, Euphemia called
to the postilion to stop a moment, when she peeped
roguishly into the vehicle, and in an authoritative
tone bade her cousin Sydney not forget the promised
song. Away dashed the spirited steeds and in a
short space of time our newly-named hero was sitting
in his own apartments, awaiting with no little
anxiety the issue of the interview with his fair unknown.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MEETING—THE UNVEILING—THE DENOUEMENT.
“Alone with him! how many a month hath past,
Though we are still so young, since we have met,
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart.
He speaks not—scarce regards me—not a word—
Nor look—yet he was soft of voice and aspect.”
Sardanapalus.
The reader, whose patience has sustained him
thus far in our company, will have found little difficulty
in identifying the lady, whose envious veil
so sorely puzzled our bewildered hero. As Helen
Elwell is therefore unhooded to those of us who are
behind the curtain, it is proper to revert to the causes
which induced her visit to London, and instigated
the adoption of such bold and novel measures to
secure the affections and person of him whom she
only knew as Sydney Clifton.
After her last anonymous epistle to Thomas
Burchard had accomplished its purpose, she despatched
a messenger to that worthy, soliciting his presence
at a certain hour at her father's residence.
The summons was obeyed, and by dint of
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promises and threats she induced him to disclose the
subtle scheme which accomplished the destruction
of Clifton's character, and in which De Lyle had
played so conspicuous a part. In truth, Burchard
was totally unaware of Ellingbourne's privity to the
original plan, and therefore attributed its inception,
progress, and completion, solely to the teeming brain
of De Lyle.
As will be inferred, Helen's desire to be the sole
depository of Burchard's secret, until she could avail
herself of the information, and thus secure Clifton's
hand—was cheerfully seconded by her informant,
who was more deeply implicated in the matter than
he wished the public to understand. Shortly subsequent
to this development, and while she was yet
pondering on the most feasible method of rendering
it subservient to her purpose, a letter from Julia imparted
the intention of her parents to make a voyage
to Europe for the benefit of her health; and soliciting
Mr. Elwell to secure their passage in a packet
that would sail on the following month. To the
jealous mind of Helen this visit to England foreboded
the destruction of her cherished schemes, if she
could not anticipate her cousin, by herself embarking
in a vessel which sailed previous to that in which
the Borrowdale's intended to take passage. Fortunately
for her design, an intimate friend of her
father designed, with his lady, to sail for Liverpool
in the succeeding week, and her father's consent
was obtained and her passage engaged before she
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disclosed the receipt of her cousin's letter. Although
the vessel in which Helen embarked preceded that
in which her cousin sailed nearly two weeks, yet
they both arrived in London at about the same time;
and Helen's desire to anticipate Julia induced her to
seek an interview with Clifton in the manner before
related. The following morning she devoted to the
return of calls from the friends of the high-born
family at whose residence she remained while in
London.
While at the mansion of a lady of fashion at the
west and of the town, the name of Lord Templeton
was accidentally introduced, which led to some remarks
connected with the trial of the culprit who attempted
his robbery on the highway.
The introduction of this subject caused the gallantry
and prowess of Clifton to be justly lauded;
and all expressed their regret that the unfortunate
incident in the trial had compelled him to avow the
disgrace attached to his wretched parent.
Helen's recent arrival in London had prevented
her from before learning ought of the infamy belonging
to our hero's parentage; nor was she prepared
by any previous knowledge of the circumstances,
connected with Glenthorne's history, or his
relationship to Clifton, to anticipate the disgrace thus
reflected on the latter. To her chagrin and mortification
the fashionable society of the British metropolis
appeared unanimous in the decision, that our
luckless hero had forfeited all claims to consideration
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by this development. To one who, like Helen
Elwell, lived and moved and had her being in the
sunshine of fashionable life, no calamity could be
more dreaded than expulsion from its charmed
boundaries. While her passion for Clifton had led
her to adopt rash and somewhat dangerous measures
to secure his affections, she was buoyed by
anticipations of ultimate success, and stimulated by
the romantic nature of the schemes which her inventive
genius had moulded to her purpose. But
now the case was materially changed. The anxieties
and hopes which preceded the success of her
plans were merged in their fruition, and the excitement
of the chase was no longer sustained by the
ardour of pursuit. With such views and feelings it
is not surprising that the anticipated union with
Clifton assumed a far less attractive aspect to her
mind, than when, flushed with the triumph of her
schemes, she had in the morning left the residence
of her friend to make the round of fashionable visits.
To increase her repugnance to so ill-assorted an
union, the fashionable male triflers, whom she met
in the drawing rooms of her new friends did not
conceal their admiration of the tall and graceful
transatlantic beauty. Their compliments were not
thrown away upon her to whom they were addressed;
and long before the arrival of the hour
for her interview with Clifton, she had determined
to refuse the nuptials she had but now so sedulously
laboured to perfect. In accomplishing her
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newly formed purpose, the presence and co-operation
of Julia were requisite; as it occurred to
her mind that a most rare opportunity was presented
to affect great disinterestedness and magnanimity,
in resigning to her cousin the hand of one
whom she had rescued from infamy; and for whom
she entertained such exalted sentiments of respect.
With these views, she invited Julia to call on her for
a short period at six o'clock, as she desired to consult
her on the subject of some new dresses, and had
other arrangements to perfect which required the
presence of her cousin. Poor Clifton, as the hour
of appointment drew nigh, felt more and more the
sacrifice he was called on to make, in thus uniting
himself to a female with whose habits, dispositions
and temper he must from necessity be unacquainted.
In every view it seemed little better than moral
prostitution; nor could his judgment reconcile the
measures the incognita had adopted with the dictates
of female delicacy and decorum.
The beautiful lines of Byron, which we transcribe,
(slightly altered,) occurred to his mind; and
the aptness and force with which they illustrated
his unfortunate union with one whom he neither
loved nor esteemed, still further depressed his drooping
spirits:
“Oh, hard it is that fondness to sustain,
And struggle not to feel averse in vain:
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,
And hide from one, perhaps another there;—
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She takes the hand I give not, nor withhold,
Its pulse not checked—nor quickened—calmly cold;
And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight
From one I never loved enough to hate.
No warmth these lips return by her's imprest,
And chilled remembrance shudders o'er the rest.”
To his excited mind it appeared that the avoidance
of this unfortunate alliance would bring comparative
happiness, but he saw no prospect of such
a boon, consistent with his solemn obligation. In
this sombre mood he traversed the distance between
his lodgings and the splendid mansion which his
unknown fair one inhabited; and any one not initiated
in the secrets of his visit, would have deemed
his attendance rather demanded by the exigencies of
a funeral, than the expected solemnization of his
own nuptial rites. On entering the dwelling he
was ushered into a superb drawing room, whose
rich furniture was arranged with that nice discrimination
which exhibits the highest evidence of decorative
taste. In a few moments the door opened
and exhibited to his astonished view the person of
Helen Elwell! The appearance of a near relative
and avowed friend of his adored Julia again awoke
all his more painful emotions, and it was with much
hesitation that he was enabled to tender the greeting
which circumstances rendered necessary.
“Truly, Mr. Clifton, for a gallant and courteous
young gentleman, you are, methinks, somewhat ungraceful
in paying your devoirs to your lady-love.
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But never mind, you'll improve, I have no doubt, in
good time.” These remarks were uttered with what
was intended for a gracious smile; but to a scrutinizing
observer it ill-concealed the mortified vanity of
the belle, who resents a slight none the less that
the guilty party is soon to be numbered among her
rejected admirers.
“Fair and beautiful lady,” said Clifton, “forgive
me now, and consider me as I am, a sad and solitary
being, who, although grateful for your unlooked-for
kindness, am really unable at the moment
to render a suitable return. Believe me, my dear
Miss Elwell, that none can more fully appreciate
the sacrifice you have made to rescue my reputation
from undeserved reproach, nor am I either indifferent
to or ungrateful for the boon. That the lady
who thus interested herself in the fate of so obscure
an individual would be found in the person of the
high-born, accomplished and fascinating Miss Elwell,
was, I confess, totally unexpected; and my
embarrassment and hesitation are the natural
result of so great a surprise.”
“How beautiful and intellectual is his fine dark
eye, and his voice is music itself.” Thus thought
Helen Elwell; and she sighed as she reflected
on his loss of caste in the only world within whose
glittering circle she wished to move. The well-timed
compliments of our re-assured hero summoned
a more genuine smile than its ill-favoured predecessor,
and Helen replied:
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“Before we proceed to extremities, it will be necessary
to consult a friend in the next room; and I
must beg of you to pay the most respectful attention
to the advice thus given.”
With these words she moved toward a pair of
folding doors, beckoning Clifton at the same time to
join her; and as he came to her side she took his
arm, threw open the doors, and exhibited to his astonished
gaze the ever-remembered and beloved
form of Julia Borrowdale! To paint the varied
emotions that rushed through the breasts of both at
this unexpected meeting, is beyond our art; nor
could we more successfully attempt to depict its
effect on their agitated countenances. With Julia indeed
all within was joy—turbulent, uncontrollable,
unspeakable delight;—but Clifton's brain reeled, and
his mind was overwhelmed with the painful conviction
that he was in the presence of one, who,
though dearer to his heart than the purple current
which controlled its beatings, and was removed from
his alliance by insurmountable barriers. The impress
of those terrible regrets was so visible on his
features, that even Helen with all her stoicism
hastened to remove what she conceived was the
cause of his sorrows, by resigning him formally to
Julia.
The only word that yet passed, were “Mr.
Clifton here!” by Julia, and “Miss Borrowdale!”
by her stricken admirer, who recoiled as if stung by
an adder as he uttered her name.
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To Julia this hesitation and recoil were viewed
with dreadful forebodings, for the only circumstance
which could justify his backwardness to address her
was, she deemed, his betrothal to another!
“Come, come, my dear young couple,” were
Helen's words, “this shyness would be in the very
worst taste, if I had not by a little well-contrived
artifice been guilty of implanting it in the bosom of
Mr. Clifton. To be brief, for I really detest what
are called `scenes,' I have thrown a most beautifully
wrought net over this inconsolable lover of
yours, Julia, and he flutters dreadfully in its meshes.
Well, well, I'll be magnanimous, and release him.
There now the story is told, and if you two do not
hereafter be happy as the day is long, it will be no
fault of `mine.' ”
To the surprise of Helen, and the infinite horror
of her cousin, Clifton, instead of proceeding to clasp
Julia to his bosom, retreated into the recesses of a
heavily-cased window, threw himself on a seat, and
groaned in very bitterness of spirit.
How long he would have remained there it is impossible
to say, if Helen had not insisted on his
instantly explaining his extraordinary conduct.
“This,” said she, “is a most unaccountable and
unpardonable affront to my charming cousin, and
were I a man you should answer it with your life.
No one with a drop of my blood in their veins shall
be thus treated with impunity; and I tell you Mr.
Sydney Clifton, that you will forfeit all claims to the
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character of a gentleman, if you do not this moment
explain the cause of this coldness.”
This spirited remonstrance had the desired effect,
and rising, Clifton, with extreme pallor of countenance,
said:
“Miss Elwell you are right, and I submit to the
reproof, conscious that it is apparently deserved.
When my traitor tongue shall sufficiently return to
its allegiance to explain the barrowing nature of my
reflections, and their distressing cause, I trust that
my offence will be considered more venial. That I
love Miss Borrowdale madly, devotedly, you I presume
well know. That I can never wed her you
will learn when I divulge a secret that it was my
intention never to communicate while we were both
in one hemisphere. The present crisis however, demands
the disclosure at my hands, and I will essay
its revelation. It is probably known by this time
to you both, that I was compelled recently in open
court—in the presence of a large auditory—to avow
my belief that I was the offspring of Glenthorne
the murderer. This circumstance has attained
great notoriety; and if it had been confirmed by the
event, would have banished me from the society of
a large circle of the respectable portion of this community.
“Unhappily for my peace, this is not the case. I
am not the child of disgrace and infamy; but what
is to me infinitely more to be deplored, I am the son
of Mr. Borrowdale and the brother of Julia!
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“If fate has in store for me hereafter any exquisite
misery—such as mortal never yet endured without
flinching—believe me it will fail to extort one
token of regret. The present calamity is, in its
ocean-like boundary, destined to engulph all present
and future pangs.”
During this astounding recital, the countenance
of Helen unconsciously brightened, as she reflected
that now the barrier was removed—the goal in view—
the triumph achieved!
“He is mine—mine for life—mine for time—mine
for eternity,” were her thoughts. At the close of
Clifton's address Julia swooned, and it was some
time before she revived. As soon as her returning
animation permitted she feebly said,
“My dear cousin, and you, Mr. Clifton, excuse
my emotion. I have for months been ill—very ill—
and am now but partially recovered, and my
nerves are sadly shattered. The extraordinary disclosure
of Mr. Clifton, as I will yet call him, overcame
me; but happily he labours under an error of
which probably my good cousin has herself yet to
learn the correction; as her residence at a distance
from us, and the desire of both my respected more
than parents to conceal the fact, have caused all our
friends to consider me as their daughter, which I am
only by adoption. When Mr. Borrowdale lost his
only son and child, he was on the eve of removing
to his residence near Boston; and although his intimate
friends were aware of his loss, yet they all
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were ignorant of the fact that a couple in Boston
died leaving me in the care of my kind foster parents.
With all our friends, therefore, I pass as their
child, but I will say it—although it is almost unmaidenly
for me to utter it—I now rejoice that I am
capable of returning the love of my ever-loved and
fondly-cherished Sydney. That my dearly-loved foster
parents will hail this development with rapture,
is a better cause for my rejoicing, as it is less selfish.”
At this explanation being given, the enraptured
Clifton caught his intended bride to his arms, and we
much fear that their embrace was more ardent, and
continued a greater length of time, than would be
sanctioned by the arbiters of taste in fashionable society.
While this happy denouement was in progress,
the crest-fallen Helen could not conceal her mortification,
and made several ill-natured remarks, calculated
to injure the feelings of Julia. Clifton, she
insisted, was still bound by his promise to her, not
to wed another; and she thought the opinion of the
world ought to be respected, even if it were true,
that Julia was not the daughter of Mr. Borrowdale;
although she must say she looked with some little
suspicion on a disclosure which lacked proof, and
was uttered just at the critical moment.
To these evidences of chagrin, Clifton mildly replied,
that he partook of Julia's evident surprise and
regret that Miss Elwell should so far forget herself as
to venture the ill-natured remarks that had fallen
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from her lips. If Miss Elwell had, when he was
considered the child of disgrace, continued to claim
the fulfilment of his promise, he would certainly
have kept it to the letter. But she had released him
from it, and he regretted to find her apparent magnanimity
mere pretence.
The entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Borrowdale caused
a suspension of this by-play. Mr. Borrowdale, on
recognizing Clifton with great frankness and affability
offered him his hand.
“Mr. Clifton,” said he, “I trust you will pardon
me for not tendering you a friendly salutation at the
review a few days since.
“The honest truth is, that some circumstances connected
with your history required satisfactory elucidation,
before I felt warranted in resuming our former
intimacy; and I did not conceive either the
time or place of our casual meeting proper for that
purpose. To convince you, however, that I was not
disposed to condemn a friend unheard, I will state,
that I yesterday made inquiry at the office of the
American minister for your residence, and have this
moment returned from your lodgings. Whether
your version of the late difficulties which so deeply
involved your moral character is acceptable or otherwise
will, of course, influence my future conduct towards
you; although I will freely confess, that my
prejudices were somewhat enlisted in opposition to
the belief of your innocence.
“The facts connected with the late avowal of your
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unfortunate descent, have caused me to doubt the
truth of my former suspicions; as a frank disclosure
of circumstances, where concealment was attended
with no hazard, and their avowal cast unmerited
obloquy, could not be the emanation of a corrupt heart.
“From these remarks you will perceive, that you
can now venture your explanations, with the certainty
that they will meet an impartial judgment.”
“I will not,” replied our hero, “conceal my
gratification at this unlooked-for condescension and
friendship. That the slanders heaped on my reputation
in New-York were the foul emanations of a
guilty wretch, who hoped thereby to screen himself
from the consequences of his crimes, Miss Elwell
will inform you. To her, indeed, I owe more than
language can express—and I trust, notwithstanding
the unkind words which inadvertently dropped from
me in a moment of forgetfulness, that she will not
refuse me the privilege of hereafter addressing her
by the endearing title of friend.”
“All is forgotten that can in any way affect our
friendly intercourse,” replied Helen, with a ghastly
smile. The artful girl saw, on a moment's reflection,
that she occupied a false position, and hastened
with the best grace she could assume, to regain the
ground she had lost.
“Mr. Clifton,” she resumed, “is innocent of every
charge brought against his character, and at a more
fitting period, I will explain the manner in which
suspicion was made to fall upon him.”
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As she concluded, Mr. and Mrs. Borrowdale both
clasped Clifton's hand with great cordiality, and
expressed their joy at the result of this brief conference.
“But,” said Clifton, “I have still farther developments
to make, and as the evening is wearing
apace, must hasten to the denouement of my history.
Does Mr. Borrowdale recognize these childish
ornaments?”
Here he produced the bracelets which he had
kept about his person from the period of his learning
their importance in establishing his identity. As
Mrs. Borrowdale caught a sight of them, she rushed
forward with the most intense anxiety depicted in
her countenance, exclaiming,
“Oh, Mr. Clifton! say—where, oh where did you
procure these bracelets? For heaven's sake speak,
or I shall sink at your feet.”
“They are mine, dearest mother! they are my
own!” he replied, and rushed to her embrace. To
describe the rapture of all, if we except the mortified
Helen, requires a more graphic pen than ours. Suffice
it, that the overjoyed parents would not permit
their long-lost son to sleep, even for a night, beneath
any other roof than that which sheltered themselves
and Julia; and after Sydney had related the interview
with Lord Templeton, in which that nobleman
claimed relationship with his new found parent and
himself—and the detail of which still further vexed
and chagrined the crest-fallen Helen—his parents,
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Julia, and himself, ordered the carriage, and returned
to the hotel of the former.
Were it honourable to disclose the movements of
lovers in a star-light evening—when they both occupied
the same seat in a coach—we might relate
how Sydney, as soon as they were seated, threw his
arm around the slender waist of his mistress—how
she neither chided him for his boldness, nor endeavoured
to moderate the warmth of his embrace—
how, by some magnetic influence, their lips were
mutually attracted, until they united in a long, long
kiss!—how Julia's head, becoming weary, fell, unconsciously,
on her lover's shoulder—how he lost
what little senses were left him, and imagined it was
all a dream—and how his fond parents, finding they
could make nothing of his incoherent replies to their
questions, smiled and were silent.
All this and much more than this, passed on their
return to Mr. Borrowdale's hotel; but we will not
imitate those busy-bodies, who appear born to meddle
with matters in which they have no concern,
and are forever setting the world at odds by their
tattling propensity. All, therefore, that we shall
narrate is, that after they had arrived at their destination,
Julia and Clifton became mysteriously
enamoured of gazing at the stars; and, standing at
an open window, continued to watch those burning
orbs that hang like diamonds in the azure sky—until
their parents reminded them that it was past the hour
of midnight, and that if they expected to view the sun
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on the next day, it would be advisable to leave the
stars for a season to their accustomed solitude. This
reasonable advice was followed, and we leave them to
enjoy that repose which the eventful scenes through
which they had so rapidly passed rendered not unwelcome.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ILLUSTRATION OF THE FACILITY WITH
WHICH COMEDY CAN BE TRANSFORMED INTO
TRAGEDY.
“And every where huge covered tables stood,
With wines high-flavoured and rich viands crowned;
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food
On the green bosom of this earth is found.”
“While ravens sung
Their funeral dirge.”
Thomson.
In an elaborately furnished apartment of Fenton's
Hotel, in London, three gentlemen were seated over
their wines and walnuts after dinner. The individual
whose liberality had, like the lamp of Alladin,
brought this banquet into being, was seated at the
head of the table, sipping his Burgundy with that
exquisite sense of enjoyment which causes one to
linger fondly over the purple luxury, and sigh when
our lip and the chrystal rim are doomed to separation.
This bountiful provider was still young, and
the skill and taste of the most celebrated Schneider
of the metropolis were exhibited in his apparel.
“Come, come, mon beau garcon,” said he, to a
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gentleman at his right, whose pale features exhibited
the traces of recent illness; “you don't sustain
your well-earned reputation. If the Burgundy palls
try the champagne. I'll warrant it better than the
real article. To whet your appetite for the wine,
I'll give you a toast which will render even acid
Rhenish palatable. Here's to an old comrade,
Edward De Lyle.”
“Before I respond to your toast it may be well to
premise that De Lyle is no longer tolerated in
New-York circles.
“He's cut by universal consent, and has found it
convenient to become an emigré. His little peccadillos
have qualified him to enjoy the otium cum
dignitate in the white mansion at Sing Sing, if the
British government should repudiate his alliance.
I'm told London has now the honour of his company.
Your late sojourn in Paris has prevented your knowledge
of these facts.”
“Why this is news. Matthison, my boy, here's to
philosophy. If you visit Paris I'll give you an introduction
to the Chevalier De Roussilon, who reverses
your theory, and believes in the supremacy of the
feet. In short, he commenced as a dancing master
and retires as a philosopher; believing most devoutly
that no man of genius exists who is not qualified
to trip on the light fantastic toe.”
“The fellow is mad,” grumbled Matthison, who
did not precisely relish the association, and who was
moreover, rapidly approximating to that state of
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unconsciousness which is aptly described by the
words “gloriously fuddled.”
“Shafton, my boy, your stomach is disordered, or
you could not thus have forgotten yourself in wishing
me to become introduced to a fellow whose heels
take rank above his understanding. I desire to be
courteous, but must say that there is a certain meteoric
wildness in your eye, indicative of disease in
the epigastric region. Try abstinence as I do.
If you don't follow my sober example your wit will
flash in the pan—your puns be execrable—your
satire will fall still-born—your ideas become foggy
and your sentiments mawkish. So my boy attend
to the grand regulator. What say you Julius?
Won't my philosophy astonish the John Bulls?
Hah, Julius?”
“Matthison,” said Ellingbourne, “you have evidently
mixed your wines and become non compos.
For a quiet respectable citizen of the Empire State
you're rather out of character to-day.”
“No reflections,” said Shafton. “Our friend is
looking you in the face and imagines it a mirror,
and if its polish was transferred to your manners
the improvement would be apparent. But I beg
pardon. Did I perpetrate a good thing? If I did
I was oblivious—I was on my honour.”
With this the speaker again threw himself back
in his chair—elevated his goblet to a level with his
face—touched his lip to the rim—half closed his
dull grey eyes, and appeared like one whose thoughts
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having started on a voyage of discovery had not yet
returned to their listless owner. Slowly removing
the attractive liquid, he resumed,
“But let us into the secrets of Gotham, for it is
three months since my carrier pigeon has visited its
owner. By the way, as I passed through the strand
this morning I saw an old gentleman whose physiognomy
bore a strong resemblance to that of Isaac
Samuel, our Israelitish usurer. His beard was as
long as a goat's, which, with his dishevelled grey
locks, was calculated somewhat to disguise his
features; but had I met him in Wall-street, I'd have
sworn to him, beard and all.”
“What,” replied Ellingbourne, “the Jew here?
then De Lyle will never return to America in a
whole skin. You must know that he tickled the
fancy of Samuel's daughter under an assumed
name, and when all was discovered, the love sick
maiden took it into her head to die. The old dotard
is fool enough to think it was all for love; so he has
tracked De Lyle here, who, in addition to jilting the
girl, owes her father some twenty thousand dollars.”
“Oh, aye, I perceive,” said Shafton; “the Jew's
cunning has converted the debt into a debt of honour.
So pay up you rascal, or pistols for two. That his
regard for his daughter would make him push De
Lyle to extremities I don't believe a word of. But
if money is in the way, the game's up with our outlawed
chum.”
“Pooh, pooh, you thick-headed pair, leave
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talking about Jews and Gentiles, and listen to my philosophy.
You think I don't know what I am about,
but I'm trying the grand experiment, by getting a
little inebriated. The thing works to a charm.
Every time I get fuddled I regularly attempt to
achieve great things—and I always fail—and why?
Because the stomach is assaulted and undermined
and overthrown and upset. So the proof of the pudding
is in swallowing the wine. If I get under the
table report me truly. Here's your health—hiccup—
call the waiter. Waiter put these two intoxicated
yankee gentlemen to bed. They are pretty decent
when sober, but great blockheads when they're
drunk. Waiter bring me three looking glasses, so
that I may reflect on these drunken philosophers.
Why Elly, my boy, is that you? I took you for the
waiter. If you put on a clean apron you'll do. I'll
sing you a song—hiccup—a philosophical ditty.
When Bonaparte his race began,
His stomach was in trim, sir,
His cup of glory soon o'er-ran
Its sparkling chrystal brim, sir.
But now dyspepsia, night-mare like,
The seat of know ledge pressed, sir:—
His conquering arm forgets to strike—
You surely know the rest, sir.
Their health and cheer—to all that's here,
We trust their name is legion—
No tears they'll weep if sound they keep
The epigastric region.
Chorus.
No tears they'll weep if sound they keep
The epigastric region.
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“Why don't you sing the cho-cho-rus—the chorus-hiccup.”
Here the oblivious philosopher dropped his chin on
his breast, and was soon performing a solo on the
nasal organ. The apartment in which the dinner
was served communicated with a balcony which extended
along the front of the building directly in view
of the street, and Shafton and Ellingbourne passed
through the window to inhale the delicious evening
breeze, leaving Matthison to his repose. As they
reached that part of the balcony which overlooked the
side-walk in front of the hotel—the sudden report of
a pistol beneath them attracted their notice, and was
soon succeeded by a second; and on leaning over
the iron railing, they perceived two individuals prostrated
on the pavement and weltering in their
blood, As may be supposed, they both rushed to
the spot, and to their infinite amazement and horror,
beheld the mangled remains of De Lyle and the
Jew. From the statement of individuals who saw
the transaction, it appeared that Samuel had confronted
his victim—taken deliberate aim at his heart;
and when the fatal messenger had accomplished the
death of De Lyle—with a second weapon finished
his own earthly carees. While standing over the
bodies Mr. Borrowdale and his long lost son entered
the circle of lookers-on, who surrounded the inanimate
remains of the murderer and his victim. Ellingbourne
first recognized our hero, and immediately
tendered him a cordial salutation.
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“I trust,” he said, “that Mr. Clifton has ere this
learned the facts connected with the cause of our
unfortunate altercation. If so, it will be unnecessary
for me to allude to the hapless wretch who lies at
our feet.”
“All has been explained to my perfect satisfaction,”
replied Clifton, “and I most sincerely rejoice
that your recovery has placed it in my power to
apologize for my rashness and folly. If we are not
hereafter friends, it will not be through any fault of
mine.”
As Shafton perceived that Ellingbourne was satisfied
with the position Clifton now occupied, he
deemed it safe also to exhibit tokens of recognition;
and Mr. Borrowdale being introduced by our hero
as his new found father, the cordiality of Shafton's
manner was marvellously heightened, and he insisted
on enjoying the society of Mr. Borrowdale and
his son at his room.
This proposition being acceded to, they were all
soon seated at the table, and after a sufficient time
had elapsed to restore Matthison to consciousness, he
was aroused from his slumbers and formally introduced
to Sydney as Mr. Borrowdale. Rubbing his
eyes, and taking a second look, he said:
“I beg this young gentleman's pardon, but had
I met him in any other place I should have taken
him for an old acquaintance. Mr. Ellingbourne,
does not the younger Mr. Borrowdale strongly resemble
Mr. Clifton?”
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“Not in the least,” said Ellingbourne; “Mr.
Shafton, do you detect any resemblance between
Mr. Borrowdale and Mr. Clifton?”
“Why, it is possible that there may be a very
slight resemblance; and as our friend looks through
a pair of coloured glasses, it is not astonishing
that their hue should deceive him. Such things
have happened before.”
Throwing himself back in the chair, Matthison
gave a long look at our hero, saying,
“Well, this is strange. I must be out of tune, or
I couldn't make such a mistake. Mr. Clifton—I
beg pardon, Mr. Borrowdale—you don't drink—
that's positively unkind—Sydney my boy—I beg
pardon, Mr. Borrowdale—my respects to you.”
“Mr. Borrowdale must remember the fate of
Pentheus,” said Ellingbourne, with a smile. “The
devotees at the shrine of Bacchus are proverbially
bigots, and the fate of the Theban king is a warning
to all modern offenders.”
After the lapse of some hours the arrival of the
coroner was announced, and on the appearance of
the jury the party descended to the apartment in
which lay the mutilated remains of Samuel and De
Lyle. The first individual who attracted the attention
of Sydney was the identical little philanthropist
with the huge nose, whose interference at the trial
of Maddox caused the disclosure of his supposed
parentage.
This eccentric individual, who possessed a
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competent income, appeared but to live in the atmosphere
of criminal proceedings. When the judicial tribunals
were not in session, he was a frequent attendant on
the inquests of the coroner, who had initiated him in
propriety of demeanour by rewarding his loquacity
on a previous occasion, with a committal for
contempt.
From the testimony of an individual who had
detected, in the movements of the Jew, something
extraordinary, it appeared, that after following De
Lyle for some distance, he had accosted him just as
his person became clearly visible by the light of the
lamps before the hotel, and on the latter's turning,
he shouted with the fury of a demon,
“Fiend! I have you now, and the devil whom
you serve cannot save you from my vengeance.
Remember Rachel Samuel! Your last hour is come!
Down, down to that hell which yawns to receive
you!” With these words he fired the pistol, and in
another moment turned its fellow against his own
breast.
Matthison, whose artificial elevation caused him
to take a more prominent part in the proceedings
than he would otherwise have cared to assume,
voluntarily presented himself as a witness; and went
into a full detail of the causes which engendered the
fierce hostility of the Jew against De Lyle. After he
had quitted the stand, Mr. Marlow elbowed his way
towards him, and soliciting an interview for a
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moment in another apartment of the inn, which was
granted, said,
“My name, sir, is Marlow—Job Marlow, at your
service. As I have now in press a luminous history
of the most expert heroes of the road, and the most
skilful geniuses who have ever figured in any of
those walks in life which rendered them amenable
to the meshes in which society contrives to entangle
bold innovators—I take the liberty of soliciting your
address, that I may hereafter have the pleasure of
waiting on you and learning some further particulars
concerning the two unhappy gentlemen whose
career is just closed.”
“Mr. Marlow—Mr. Job Marlow, permit me to
return your salutation,” said Matthison, throwing
what was intended to be a knowing leer towards
Ellingbourne, but which to the uninitiated appeared
more like the inebriated distortion of the speaker's
countenance, “my desire to serve you, and at the
same time to sub-serve the cause of science impels
me to solicit a survey of the surface of your tongue;
and you will therefore particularly oblige me, and
render philosophy an eminent service by exhibiting
that appendage to your mouth for a moment. In
other words, as my friend Dr. Crabbe would say,
`stick out your tongue,' Mr. Marlow—Mr. Job
Marlow.”
Our nasal friend, not a little astounded, and somewhat
irritated at this novel request, drew back with
evident marks of dissatisfaction.
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Observing the rising ire of Mr. Marlow, the theorist
addressed him thus:
“Keep cool, my dear sir—keep cool. You have
no idea of the injury you will inflict on the grand
regulator by permitting yourself to fly into a rage.
Whatever you may suppose, I assure you that it is
of the utmost importance that you should grant my
request. Sir, I am a gentleman, and a philanthropist,
and at this moment an exile from my country,
solely through my desire to investigate a moral and
physical phenomenon, the enigma of whose wonderful
effects on the human character it is my purpose
to reveal. You, sir, are also a searcher into the mysterious
depths of the human mind; and the originality
of your views alone renders you a subject
worthy of my attention. If, therefore, you desire to
extend the researches of mental philosophy into regions
hitherto unexplored—if you wish your name
coupled with a work destined for immortality—if,
hereafter, you expect to rank among the magnates
of the literary world—show me your tongue.”
Warmed with the wine he had drunk, and heated
by his desire to impress on honest Job's mind the
importance of his request, he concluded his address
with a flourish of his hand, which, to his hearer's
mind, appeared the perfection of oratorical action.
The respectful searcher after criminal records bowed
most complacently, and immediately extended his
tongue.
“'Tis well,” said Matthison, with inimitable
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gravity, “my theory cannot lie. Sir, you are a great
genius in your way, and here is my address.”
The solemn interest created in the heart of Clifton
at the shocking spectacle before him, (which was
not unfelt by Ellingbourne and Shafton,) rendered
Matthison's absence, in company with Marlow, unperceived;
nor would the theorist have been guilty
of such unseemly indifference and levity, had not
his senses been bewildered by the depth of his potations.
At length our hero and his happy parent departed.
Matthison was conducted to his lodgings
by Ellingbourne. Shafton proceeded to the opera.
The crowd dispersed, and the bodies of the wretched
suicide and his victim were consigned to the undertaker.
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CHAPTER XXV.
THE FINALE.
“Come, Proteus, 'tis your penance, but to hear
The story of your loves discovered.”
Two Gentlemen of Verona.
The fortunes of our hero and his beloved Julia
having reached their zenith, and the destiny of those
whose fate was linked with theirs being fixed for
good or ill, it behoves us, with them, to retire from
the scene, nor linger before the audience after the
fitting time for the descending of our drama's curtain.
Impressed with this conviction; we bid adieu to all
our fellow-voyageurs, referring them to the following
editorial article from the Court Journal for the
particulars of a denouement, which it is presumed
they have generally anticipated.
From the Court Journal of—, 18—
“MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.
“On Monday last Jerningham House, the beautiful
and romantic seat of Lord Templeton, was
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honoured by the presence of a most brilliant assemblage
of rank, beauty and fashion, on the occasion of the
union of his lordship's eldest daughter, the Hon. Miss
Jerningham, with his Excellency Lucius Courtenay,
Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
from the United States of America, near the Court
of St. James', and also that of Sydney Clifton Borrowdale,
Esquire, of New-York, America, to Julia,
adopted daughter of James Borrowdale, Esquire, of
Boston, in the state of Massachusetts.
“The interest attached to the performance of this
important ceremony was greatly heightened on the
present occasion by the romantic nature of the
younger Mr. Borrowdale's history; who, stolen from
his parents in childhood, was placed in charge of a
wretched couple named Glenthorne, who both closed
a life of crime by suicide. The facts connected
with his supposed parentage have attained notoreity
by their partial disclosure at a recent trial for
highway robbery; but it is not generally known
that the young gentleman is a near relative of the
noble lord whom he gallantly rescued from the
clutches of the robbers, and will, at the demise of
his father, stand next in succession to the title and
estates.
“From his first advent in this world of trouble,
Mr. Borrowdale appears to have been the sport of
malign influences, which, until quite recently, have
reigned with despotic sway over his fortunes and reputation.
To the schemes of one De Lyle is
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attributed the greater portion of his late calamities, who,
our readers will recollect, was murdered a few days
since by one whom he had deeply injured. In addition
to all these circumstances, the authorship of
“Fatality” and “The Conscience Stricken,” is
avowed by this accomplished American, who will
rival the most celebrated authors of our time, if a
fortune and the possession of the young lady to
whom he is passionately attached, do not clip the
eagle wings of his ambition, and cause him to abandon
a career in which he is so well fitted to shine.
“Among the guests were several distinguished
Americans, of whom Baillie Shafton, Julius Ellingbourne
and Pierce Matthison, Esquires, were conspicuous.
The first named gentleman is a great
favourite in our fashionable circles, where on a previous
visit to the metropolis his sallies of wit, and
courteous manners rendered him a welcome guest
at every mansion.
“Mr. Ellingbourne was the antagonist of the
younger Mr. Borrowdale, in an affair of honour,
previous to his leaving New-York, the result of
which was nearly fatal to the former. Mutual
explanations have removed all cause of hostility,
and, like men of honour, they are again friends. Mr.
Matthison is somewhat celebrated, considering his recent
arrival among us, for the promulgation of a
novel theory relating to the mutual operation of mind
and matter, and although we do not profess to have
become converts to the gentleman's doctrines, we
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cheerfully admit the originality and plausibility
with which they are presented.
“It would perhaps be invidious to select any lady
from the brilliant throng as peculiarly entitled to admiration,
but we may well be pardoned for noticing
the majestic figure and graceful bearing of Miss
Helen Elwell, a young American lady—and the
cousin of Mr. Borrowdale's charming bride—who
was the cynosure of all eyes.
“A whisper circulated through the crowd, alledging
her early attachment to the young American who
has wedded her cousin, excited the curious attention
of many guests; but if “grief, like a worm in
the bud,” preyed on her heart, its effect on her person
was not discernible; unless a lofty appearance
of indifference to the ceremonies of the bridal, might
be deemed the result of studied effort, rather than the
natural effects of constitutional coldness.
“Since the celebration of these nuptials, we learn
that Julius Ellingbourne, Esq., has led this young
lady to the hymeneal altar, and we trust that no regrets
for unattainable enjoyments will poison the
happiness of either party.
“We are informed that it is the intention of Lord
Templeton and his beautiful unmarried daughter,
the Hon. Miss Euphenia Jerningham, to visit an
estate in the north of England, in company with
the new-married couples.
“As a sequel to the notice of Mr. Borrowdale, jun.'s
history, it may be well to state that to a worthy
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gentleman of New-York and his lady was he indebted
for the name of Clifton, who, although in moderate
circumstances, gave their adopted son an education
which his genius and application have nobly improved.
For this excellent couple their charge entertains
the most affectionate regard; and from respect
for those to whom his future heir is so deeply
indebted, Lord Templeton has transferred them the
title deeds of a valuable estate in the county of Northumberland,
and in the event of their declining its
occupancy the income will be remitted them annually.
“By late arrivals from New-York, it appears that
an individual named Thomas Burchard, who was
the instrument and pander of De Lyle, in his base
assaults upon the character of Mr. Borrowdale, has
at length atoned for his crimes, by being recently
sentenced to the State's prison for life. The immediate
cause of his arrest was the commission of a
daring burglary; and the developments on his
trial were so fatal to his cause, that the bench of
judges unanimously concurred in awarding the
severest punishment which the law would permit.
The eminent mercantile house of Howard, De Lyle
& Co., of New-York, have suspended payment.
This unlooked-for event created the most intense
excitement in commercial circles, when it was understood
that the large engagements which caused
their bankruptcy were entered into surreptitiously by
the younger De Lyle, without the knowledge of his
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partners; and that the endorsements were, in many
instances, forgeries. That the senior partner of the
firm, the father of the wretched individual whose
career was recently closed in this city, will, on learning
the fate of his only child, be prostrated, never to
rise, is but too probable; and we unite with his business
friends here, in deploring a calamity which
will embitter the remaining days of a high-minded
and virtuous gentleman.
“A recurrence by Messrs. Courtenay and Clifton to
early reminiscences disclosed an intimacy which existed
between them in boyhood of which both were
previously unaware.
“In consequence of Mr. Courtenay having inherited
a large fortune, on condition of assuming the name
of the legatee, the gentlemen met in London as
strangers.
“The name of the American minister was originally
Henry Melbourne, and it is stated that his
father was a distinguished American officer.”
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