[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

The letter from America, to which I have already alluded
was as follows:—

June, 1777.

“Joshua Morton is dead. You are his sole heir. Perhaps
miserable motives of interest will be sufficient where
holier and nobler influences have been found of no avail.

“`Brutus, thou sleepest.' There is a country where
two elements of the universal nature are at war. There
is a wide amphitheatre. Two mighty gladiators are
contending. One wields a sceptre, and one a scythe.—
The clashing blows resound through the primeval forest.
The savage shudders at a conflict more deadly than his
own, and the wild beasts cower to their thickets in dismay.

“After many years of contempt for my species, I now
recognize the majesty,—the sublimity of man,—the
man of civilization.

“The atmosphere of my country is gloomy, and the
heavy war-clouds obscure the horizon; but my heart
dances as I inhale the sulphurous air; my blood boils as I
listen to the clang of arms.

“My son—it is yet in your power to choose. You
have wealth. You have, perhaps, talent, this I know
not. You have now to choose whether you will write
your name on the bright scroll of your country's chronicles,
or whether you will continue abroad a nameless
and obscure adventurer? Whether you will stand erect

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

among your peers, acting a man's part in the struggle
upon which the world's eyes are fixed, or whether still
clinging to the lap of despotism you will remain abroad
the despised despiser of your young and glorious country.

“My son, the sands of time are running with fearful
rapidity. If you would be a man you must buckle on
your sword at once. If you would act, the hour has
already come.

I read this letter over unceasingly. It was true—
every word of it. The language may strike the reader
as bombastic and unnatural. Perhaps it was; but if
they saw the scene where it was written, and the man
who wrote, and knew (as they will know before the conclusion
of these memoirs) the extraordinary events which
had marked that man's career, they would, perhaps, feel
more sympathy with his language and his thoughts.

My determination was soon taken. There was now
nothing to detain me. My preparations were all made.
On the night of the 13th and 14th of June, I was up
very late. I had been completing my arrangements,
and burning various letters and papers.

When all was ready I read over the letter again. Yes
it was true. “I was a nameless and obscure adventurer.”
I had been, indeed, “the despised despiser of my country,”
and certainly whatever may have been the opinions
of others, by none was I despised so bitterly as by myself.

I threw myself upon my couch. The candles had
burned out; but the dim light of a waning moon accorded
with the melancholy train of my thoughts. I could
not sleep. I mused long and deeply. One by one the
events of my past life—of my most senseless and unprofitable
life—displayed themselves to my memory. The

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

ghosts of departed days rose up before me,—the shades
of vanished and of distant friends surrounded me, and
in the reproachful face of each, I read a lesson and a
moral.

I saw the young, gallant, martyred Deane; the benevolent
features of my venerable uncle; the pale face
of Mayflower; the bloody corpse of Wallenstein; the
distorted frame of Rabenmark; the scornful glance of
Lackland.

Was not the tragic fate of some of these, and the useless
career of others pregnant with meaning for myself?

Why was Lackland an obscure and melancholy loiterer
in the world? Why had the highborn Rabenmark
become a robber and a felon? Were they not both ambitious,
gifted, generous, brave? Why is it that they quarrelled
with their own age and country? Why was it
that they sunk in the struggle between their wishes and
their power?

At last I sunk into a sort of trance. I did not sleep. I
was conscious of every thing around me. I remained
upon the sofa in the same position in which I had thrown
myself, and I saw distinctly every object in the room.

Suddenly as my eyes were directed towards the centre
of the room, I perceived that I was not alone. A child
sat upon the floor playing by himself, and ever and anon
he uttered a shout of boyish and triumphant glee. Presently
the face was turned to me. I gazed eagerly upon
it. It was my own!

Before I had recovered from the horror caused by this
apparition, I became aware of the presence of another
phantom. A taller figure moved slowly towards my
bed. The face was averted from me, and looking back
at the child. There was something familiar to me in

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

the appearance of this figure, and an anxious and irrepressible
shuddering came over me, as I gazed upon it.
Can the dead, indeed, resume the features and the habiliments
which were theirs in life-time? I gazed, like one
fascinated, upon the phantom. Slowly the head turned
towards me. My heart stood stock still. It was my
uncle! But Heavens, what a change! The eye was
sunken,—the cheek livid and ghastly. The features
wore a forbidding frown. He opened his lips as if to reproach
me; when suddenly something seemed to be interposed
between us, and in an instant the appearance
had faded away.

I turned away. I felt terrified and sick. I tried to
persuade myself that all I had seen was but the creation
of a heated fancy.

A low voice whispered in my ear. I started at its familiar
sound.

“You shall see more,” it said.

I turned to the side whence the voice proceeded.

A female figure sat close to my bed-side. She was clad
in white, and seemed to be working upon a linen robe.

She looked up at me. It was Mayflower Vane!

“It is my winding-sheet,” she said. “It should have
been my wedding robe.”

I stretched my arms towards my early love, but the
illusive phantom had already vanished.

A mocking laugh rang in my ears. It seemed to
bring to my soul a host of harrowing recollections. I
seemed to start to my feet. I was suddenly clutched
with tremendous force. I turned round. I saw Minna's
beautiful but indignant face; and her threatening poniard
gleamed before my eyes. A moment, and then the
weapon seemed buried in my heart. I felt a sharp pang
and fainted.

Previous section

Next section