`That I have loved thee (was written in the former
character)—passionately, I do not pretend to deny.
That I no longer love thee, I will not attempt to say.
It would be false, if I did. No, Oscar, I do love thee,
I shall love thee to my dying day—But — —— —
I dread thee — More to be
feared than beloved. — — Who would
dare to couple her fate with thine? — —— — — — — —

Hast thou not — said that it was perilous ——
and when I told thee what she said, didst thou
not reply, and tell me, yes, yes! it is too true. She is
thy best friend — She does not wrong me.
Thy courage is terrible—to think of marrying one like
me — — Didst thou not? — ——
And when I have seen thy rivetted brows—
thine intensely bright eyes fixed, in deadly wrath,
upon some other eye—and heard thy suppressed, but
terrible voice, denouncing some one, upon whom it
seemed to fall, syllable by syllable, like a curse—did I
not tremble—joint and marrow—and can I love thee?

O, Oscar! — — — farewell! farewell
forever! — — — ——
Hast thou — forgotten that night? O never
shall I forget it?—thine unhallowed trespass—thy
strange levity—thy suffocation—agony—thy brief repentance—
O Oscar!—Thy convulsive sobs—I hear
them yet?—thy hot tears—I feel them yet—my heart
was blistered as they fell. — — ——
and yet, I forgave thee!—Is it forgotten?
Was not that a proof of my love, unbounded, and impassioned
as thine own? — — ——
No, no, it is all over now. — farewell forever! —
Repent, repent, I conjure thee. A murderer thou art
already—a madman perhaps—but O, Oscar, O my beloved,
thou, whom I must never see again. Oh, put
not the seal of blood and death, forever and ever, to
thy consummate guilt—O, be not, I conjure thee, thou
most wayward, and desperate man, be not a self

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

murderer' — — — — farewell. — — — — —

To this was a note also, in the following words—
`No, no. She did not, I should have worshipped thee—
did I ever aught—said I ever aught, unkindly to thee,
woman? No, never, never! I should have died over and
over again, without one look of reproach, or coldness—
nay—have I not been dying—and loved thee yet.
Was not my heart bursting more than once, and did I
ever wrong thee. — — — —
A murderer!—no—I am a martyr.' — —

The tears fell fast from the beautiful eyes of Elvira,
as she assisted, in assembling the fragments, and decyphering
them, which she did, with an avidity and readiness,
that Harold afterwards thought extraordinary.

`That was thy brother, Harold,' said she, as he deposited
them again in his pocket-book, `thine own
brother; and never walked there, upon this earth, a more
god-like spirit. May God forgive him! The fine gold
became dim, clouded; with a profane foot, and a desperate
hand, he plucked down the image of his Maker,
from the place of his sacrifice, and put up a man in
armour, reeking with blood—a creature whom he called
Ambition. But, he is gone, gone, with all his colossal
attributes and transgressions—O, may it be that
he went, as thou thinkest, in a delirium, insensible to
the awful weight of his obligation to the Eternal!'

`These papers,' she added, laying her hand, with a
convulsive shudder, upon a part of the bundle, which
was tied with a blue ribband, stiffened and discoloured,
`relate to his life. They were tied with his own hands.
They have never been untied since. That ribband is
wet with the heart's blood of an enemy—one whom he
slew, before his own family altar, in the very presence of
his household gods!—Read them. Beware. Thou art
fashioned like him, Harold, and the lesson should sink
deep, very deep, into thy soul.'

Harold was chilled to the heart. There was something
so awful and admonitory in her voice.

`But who art thou, lady?—who, and whence?—that

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

seemest to have been so familiar with my brother's
transgressions.'

`No matter,' she replied with dignity—`no matter.
Remember mine admonitions, as thou wouldst prosper.
Watch thy temper. Crucify thy pride. Trample to the
earth thine arrogant, overbearing spirit—O Harold, I
beseech thee, as I have besought him, with a sore heart,
aching and trembling with prayer for ye both—Be a
good man.'

She was upon her knees. All at once, a light broke
in upon him. He caught out his pocket-book again, and
examined the writing of the female.—It was not to be
mistaken!—he was breathless.

`Lady Elvira—have I not heard thee pronounce the
name of Oscar before—even in America!'

She covered her face with her hands.

`O, now I see it, all! noble, excellent creature! I see
it, all! I feel it, all!—my sister—beloved of my brother—
thou, who didst abandon—but dost lament my brother—
heaven bless thee!'—He embraced her, and mingled
his tears with hers.

Their silence was interrupted, by the entrance of a
servant, to announce that the carriage was drawn up,
and Mr. Hammond waiting: once more, then, they
joined hands, like a brother and sister, and soon came
in sight of several beautiful cottages, near a large mansion,
upon a hill.

It was visible, like a bright spot, in a wide amphitheatre
of glowing verdure, long before they were near
it. The hand of Elvira was upon Harold's arm; and
already had he learnt somewhat of the feelings that are
fraternal—his passionate, tumultuous, overwrought sensations
were chiefly allayed, or assuaged; and now, he
was doubly thankful that he had thus anticipated, as it
seemed, the resolution of Elvira,—and taught his heart
a new lesson of constancy, while it was yet apparently
in his power to be inconstant. Such is ever the reward
of virtuous resolution.

`That cottage,' said Elvira, as they turned the corner
of a narrow road, over which, two rows of aged
elms—interwove their dark and irregular branches,

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

forming a tangled and broken canopy, through which
bright glimpses of the sky were caught, looking as if
the whole heaven were one mirrour, with parts of the
quicksilver, here and there, rubbed off.—`That cottage'—
they caught another view of it—her lips moved—but
no sound followed. Harold understood the silent pressure
of her hand upon his arm—but he, too, could not
utter a word; his heart was too full. It seemed a profanation
to speak aloud, in such a scene, so still, so
beautiful, so serene!

`But,' said the stately old man that accompanied
them, `you ought to be more fully apprised, than I believe
you are, of whom you are to meet.'

Harold, who had begun to endure the scrutiny of
his eyes with tolerable composure, bowed in silence.
It was irksome to be interrupted at such a moment,
with the matters of the world—and insufferably so, if
not impious, he thought, to touch upon lighter affairs,
in a season of such religious beauty. The fine
countenance of the old man was illuminated with a
most benignant smile, as he observed the imploring of
Harold's eye, when he bowed his assent; and still more
was he pleased, when Harold, as he began, threw himself
back in his seat, pulled his hat over his eyes, as if
to hide his emotion, and sat, with his arms folded, listening
to what affected him so thrillingly.

`You are a Cumberland,' said Mr. Hammond. `Your
father was George Clarence of Salisbury, third son of
the last Cumberland. He held a seignory in his own
right: the family were wealthy—but your father was an
extraordinary man—he loved and was beloved—he had
rivals among the blood royal—princes—Enough for the
present. His ungovernable ambition led him to America.
You are henceforth to assume the name.—If you
choose to retain your commission, which seems to be a
somewhat questionable one, to say nothing of its danger—
you will be colonel Cumberland; or, if you will
indulge us so far, we will delight to recognize you as
Harold of Salisbury. Your sister is known as Caroline,
of Salisbury—Cumberland is the family name, to be
worn or not, at pleasure. We cannot invest you with

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

your rights immediately, but we can put you in the
way of living like a gentleman, and of occupying the
place, to which it is probable, that heaven has destined
you—if you deserve it—a place of authority and power.
I am not at liberty to speak more plainly now. In the
mean time, I do trust, young man (this was said in a
manner strikingly solemn and impressive) that you are
not forgetful of your acknowledgments—no, no—I do
not mean that. You do not understand me. I do not
mean gratitude of so earthly a character—nor does she,
I am sure. Your cheek burns—it is a good symptom,
at the slightest impeachment of your gratitude, for the
favours and indulgences of your earthly friend—but—
remember my words. I would have them engraven on
thy heart. They are the essence of all that I have
learnt, all that I can teach thee, and I am now three
score and ten.—Remember thy Creator.'

Harold felt the rebuke. His heart rose in his throat.
He could have thrown himself into the old man's arms—
as a son, into those of a father—but he dared not.
There was so much sublimity—something so serene
and benignant, so dignified and amiable, in the countenance
before him, that he felt, for the first time, the reverential
emotions of awe and love, at the same moment,
flooding his heart, and rising to his eyes:—that
tribute which they, who are not utterly forsaken and
reprobate, involuntarily pay to the aged and good—the
truly religious and venerable—for the old seem to stand
as especial monuments of divine pleasure—living beyond
their allotted term, almost by a continually repeated
miracle. It is, for we all feel it more or less,
the homage that vice itself cannot withhold from virtue.
In the presence of a religious man, one who has
been sorely tried and perplexed, during many generations
with the doings of Providence, and yet stands upright
and smiling under his gray, thin hair, we seem to
breathe the same air with him, who has long held a
communion, which we are too undeserving, or too
thoughtless to desire, with his Father in heaven—Jehovah—
the living God!—Is there not—I appeal to thee,
reader—is there not somewhat purifying and exalting

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

in the thought?—to meet a fellow creature, just rising
perhaps, from a conversation with the Deity—is it not
as if we were one of the men of Israel, that saw the
lawgiver descend from the mountain, where he had
been, while it smoked and thundered with the everlasting
presence.—There is—and Harold felt it.

Harold was constituted of such materials as martyrs
are compounded from. But, like others, his visitations
were forgotten. Whatever kindness came unexpectedly
to him, he was grateful for: but his gratitude diminished,
as the cause increased. He seemed thankful for
nothing that was habitual and familiar to him; to grow
insensible of aught but special favours, and to become
weary, even of acknowledgment. Nay worse—even
the cold, lifeless, habitual exercise of devotion, became
inexpressibly irksome, and dissatisfactory to him, (for
while he felt it so, his heart reproached him for it;) if
heaven were indulgent, for any continued time, to his
infirmities and wants.

From his very boyhood, any unexpected incident,
seeming like kindness, in Him who is habitually kind,
in things where we are most insensible—good fortune,
no matter of what nature—an escape from a precipice,
or a wild beast—the meeting of one that he loved, would
prostrate him upon his face, in the dim solitude, and
he would pray, as the children of nature always do
pray, in breathless and awful silence, pouring out his
very heart in thankfulness.

But, in adversity—in calamity, Harold was apt to
forget his God; to rely upon himself alone. To pray
then, seemed to him, in his strange language, like
coaxing his Maker. `He knows what is best for me—
is unchangeable, and why need I importune him?' Harold
was young yet—thoughtless, and obstinate. He
knew not then, for he had never asked himself the question,
that a father may appoint some mode of application,
for his child to pursue in his petitioning, even
when he knows every of its wants, and has already resolved
upon his course. Prayer is the appointed medium,
(this is no cant, reader—I am not, and never
was, what people call a religious man—still less am I a

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

sectarian—I belong to no sect, no creed—I am neither
Jew nor Turk, Christian nor Mahometan—all my religion
consists in the belief of one supreme Being, to
whom we are all accountable—and that, if we do as we
would be done by, it is all that He requires—for man
to show his dependence upon, submission to, and confidence
in, his heavenly Father. But, let us return.

Harold was none of those that suffer their conscience
to repeat their condemnation, over and over again. No!
And when that monitor once stood up, she was recognized
and acknowledged, if her countenance were solemn,
and her port princely. On this occasion he felt
that he had been forgetful of his kindest benefactor, his
truest friend, and he determined, on the spot, no longer
to stifle the natural gushings of an affectionate spirit,
toward that good and great Being. Here began the
reformation, the radical and thorough reformation of
Harold. His heart was sore with its own effort to purify
itself, and had been so, for a long while; but never
had he seriously and solemnly undertaken to cleanse it
of all impurity and wickedness till now. His first step
was his self-denial respecting Elvira; that accomplished,
all others were easy in comparison. It is with virtuous
as with vicious resolves, each hour's acquaintance with
one, makes us fitter to be acquainted with another.
Every act, of either character, is but the link of a long
chain, which by a propensity of our nature, easily perverted,
we seem determined to carry—and every link
that is lifted, renders the remainder easier and lighter
to be borne. A few bright thoughts, like angels busy
on messages of mercy, passed rapidly through his brain,
during this short ride, and purified and illuminated it,
with the speed and effect of lightning. He was a better
and wiser man, from that moment. The scales fell
from his eyes. Thus, a casual movement of the waters,
had tempted him to go down and wash, and be well,
when they might have been troubled forever, more violently,
without affecting him. A slight reproof, apparently
accidental, though not truly so, (for the old man
was a being of that provident benignity, which will not
obtrude its kindness or admonition unreasonably,) had

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

done more than much entreaty, great inquietude,
with severe disappointment, travail, weariness and affliction
had ever done for him.

He lifted his eyes to those of Mr. Hammond, to
thank him, but was startled at a new, yet strangely familiar
expression in his face. `Surely,' said he, almost
audibly, `I have seen that face before.'

Elvira heard his voice, and asked the reason of his
astonishment. He repeated his remark with an air of
singular perplexity. `Do you not remember the little
man of the woods—your familiar—you are amazed, I
perceive. He is a relation of your guardian here, I
find—and, accompanied your father to America. He
returned with us in the same vessel, without my knowledge,
until a few days before our arrival, when he
made himself known to me, and commanded me, in his
strangely imperious way, not to inform thee. He appears
to be strongly attached to you, Harold—but I
must apprise you that he has been delirious at times,
and that he prophecies much evil against you. You
smile—but he says that you shall die a violent and sudden
death; and bids you be prepared for it, declaring
that he is commissioned to tell you so. Nay, do not
look so very serious—some impression I should wish it
to make, but it would be weakness to let it disturb you.'

`He is commissioned,' said Harold, solemnly.

The mansion was again in sight; for they seemed to
have been travelling round and round it, without approaching,
for a whole hour. Harold had kept his eye
upon it for some time, watching it, as the carriage gradually
rose and sunk, in the undulating and circuitous
road, by which they wound up the beautiful hill upon
which it was built. The cottages about, were literally
embosomed in greenness, and encumbered, roof and
lattice, with a profusion of brilliant wild flowers, shrubs
and vines. Far to the left was a clump of disordered,
broken, and decayed trees, from whose remains the
mouldering bark was, here and there peeled off, leaving
the wood beneath of an intensely white appearance, in
patches and stripes—and these were all hung around
with the brightest verdure—newly sprouted, of a most

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

luxuriant growth; damp and glittering, in garlands, and
tresses, and bunches;—so exceedingly fantastick, and
vivid, and beautiful, as to seem the sport of the mischievous
creatures, that delight in mocking at decay
and ruin, and busy themselves in burying dirt and rubbish,
under a vegetation of tenfold brilliancy and richness.
From this spot, there commenced, and ran entirely
over the hill, in a waving line, a mass of shrubbery,
chiefly in flower, and changeable with all the varieties
of purple, yellow, white and green, here and
there intermixed with some delicate trees, that, shooting
up with a lone, bewildered aspect, from the flowers
below, and spouting, at the termination of the limbs, in
gushes of clustered foliage, vivid as emerald, and
changeable all over, as the wind blew upon them, like
bunches of coloured feathers—and looking, at a distance,
where the branches, which were often exceedingly
slender, could not be seen, like something afloat in
the air, motionless in general, but incessantly active at
times. A sheet of water lay below—far, far below,
shadowed, on one side, by an irregular entrenchment of
young willows, that gave the very depth a tinge of
green—till it looked, all about, like floating herbage:—
a dark cloud hung over another part, blackening it to
the far shore—while, over the other side, the waves
were rippling in the light of a setting sun, now brilliant
as a sheet of flame, and now, as the faint wind went
slowly over it, resembling an agitated mass of clouded
gold,—while the wavy outline of shadow was confined
by a broad halo of ruddy and sparkling light—and
sprinkled all over with white and blue pond lilies, drifting
in ambuscade under their green leaves.

A thunder shower had just passed off, and there was
a transparency in all the green things about, surpassing
all that Harold had ever seen. The foliage looked, or
at least so Harold loved to conceit, as if it were thankful
for having been newly washed from the dust, and
gave out its beauty and freshness, as an offering to Him,
who had just purified the air and earth. At the extreme
north of the sky, directly in the centre of a

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

perfectly black cloud, which overhung the water, shadowing
it to the very bottom, as could be seen from the
high hill that overlooked it, like a pile of huge and
broken rock, rampart and parapet—there was a part,
and only a part, of a broad and beautiful rainbow, of
the most brilliant tinting, to be seen. It appeared to
be a solid column of coloured spar—a pillar of fire and
crystalization. It shone, as if inlaid, in the very blackest
part of the cloud, and terminated abruptly; not as
rainbows generally do, in a fading and aerial tint, that
defies you to say where the splendid arching hath
ceased:—a little higher up, it could be traced again in
a brighter part of the sky, after the eye had been long
searching for it, by a faint, delicate gleaming of rose
colour and gold, much narrower than the base in the
shadow, and resembling, from the tendency of the
sweep, another rainbow. Add to all this picture, which
is no creature of the fancy, the variety of verdure and
hue—the nearer leaves, in the fore-ground, shining and
dancing in the wind, like coloured ising-glass—the farther
ones, of a bluer and graver aspect and movement,
and all finely dying away, on the one side, in a glowing
sunset, and on the other, under a preternatural darkness.
On the very verge of the horizon, the village steeple
shot up, like a white steady flame, into the blue air;
and just by the bend in the pond, a fort had been erected,
from which floated a broad banner of many colours,
upon the wind, with a singularly cheerful effect. The
smoke too, from the little hamlet of white, nestling
cottages, was beautiful, just emerging from the chimneys,
and running along, almost in a straight line upon
the damp atmosphere, with a density and whiteness,
made remarkable, at this time, from the deep green and
blue of the far landscape, and the black sky beyond.
Harold had the eye of a painter, although he could not
paint; the heart and soul of a poet, although he held,
to his dying day, that it was no proof of ardent, pure,
or natural feeling, nay, nor of religious feeling, to talk
over your raptures, at such a moment, either in verse
or prose. No!—the heart swells and swells—the wing

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

mounts, and there is a sanctity in your loneliness, which
language or sound, even of musick, breaks in upon, like
some unholy visitant—it is, like the feeling of first love,
when the loving and beloved wander together, for the
first time, in the starlight—too happy, far too happy—
to talk, with just enough of life to press each others'
hands with full eyes, and fuller hearts.

Harold was startled from his reverie, by the stopping
of the carriage. Reader, let us stop with him. The
old man's eyes were yet upon his countenance, with a
smile of complacency, as if he understood and approved
his meditations.

Harold offered to assist Elvira—she was deadly pale,
spoke not, but gave him her cold hand, and alighted.
A moment more, and a slight, beautiful form flashed
down the avenue, broke through the trees, and was instantly
pressed to Elvira's heart.

Elvira whispered something to her, and then gently
led her to Harold. `Are you prepared, my dear Caroline,
' said she, `to welcome your new brother?'

Caroline raised her sweet, clear, timid, innocent eyes;
and Harold dropped upon his knees before her.

`My brother!'—said she, in a voice hardly audible,
`my dear brother!'

`Thy brother! dearest! O, yes, I am thy brother! I
feel it here—and here—all over, in every artery and
pulse.'

He arose and embraced her, holding her to his desolate
heart, as if all that earth contained dear to him,
was then within the circumference of his arms.

Elvira stood near, contemplating the scene with a
mixture of delight and sorrow; her look was that of
one who rejoices in the happiness of others, even while
the sight of it brings back many melancholy, and some
deadly recollections.

Our party were soon in the house, and every servant,
old or young, soon discovered something to be done in
the very room where they were. Some, with sidelong
look and averted faces, were adjusting the vines, at the
long window shutters, directly fronting Harold,

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

although they were in the nicest order, because next the
road—while others, which were behind him, were utterly
neglected, although in need of all their attention.

Harold observed all this, and felt an innocent gratification
in detecting the artifice. Every face looked
kindly upon him; but he was more especially gratified,
when a decrepid old woman, of amazing vivacity and
almost blind, stood before him. She trembled all over
at the touch of his hand, and when he spoke, she uttered
a faint cry.

`A Cumberland! a Cumberland!—aye, go where ye
will, the world over, ye would know one of the blood,
by his voice. Were I blind and deaf, I could tell him—
yes, that I could, (running as she said this, her trembling,
withered, little hand, over his high forehead, and
peering closely in his face)—by the touch alone. Very
dark—very dark, but masculine'—She stopped abruptly.
`Young man,' said she, `my master—Salisbury—
Cumberland—Harold, or whatever may be thy name,
God is good. Remember him. Mayest thou have all
the virtues of thy blood—none of its follies!'

`Follies, dame,' said Mr. Hammond, `speak plainly
to the young man. This is no time for mincing matters.
'

`Well then, if it please your worship, vices. Remember
thy father—thy brother—do thou rightly, as
thou wouldst shun their sorrow. O, heaven have mercy
on them both! They were noble creatures!'

`Dame!' replied his worship with solemnity. `It is
false—false!—They were not noble. Great qualities
they had, but them they perverted, polluted, degraded,
trampled in the dust. No! they were ignoble, for they
were wicked.'

`Sir,' cried Harold, respectfully—`Spare me. I am,
as I now find, a son, a brother. Whatever may have
been their transgressions, now surely is not the time to
rake among their ashes.'

Caroline lifted her soft eyes to him, so meekly, that
he could hardly refrain from kissing them. They were
wet—and as she did so, she leaned somewhat more

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

confidingly upon his arm. Her terrour,—a feeling that
Harold was very apt to excite at first, by his stern expression,
and erect, imperious carriage, was fast melting
away, before the thought of the affectionate girl. He
put his lips to her white forehead; and it crimsoned all
over, like a flash of red fire—her very neck and bosom
grew ruddy too. Harold's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
So innocent too! said he, and so lovely. But loveliness,
and innocence, and purity, cannot be separated.

Mr. Hammond turned a look of approbation upon
him, and was silent; not, it was evident, that he was
intimidated by Harold's reply, or sorry, or exhausted,
but merely because he had said all that the occasion
seemed to require. He never lost an opportunity of
this sort. He always rose to reprove the unthinking,
when, dazzled and confounded by some magnificent
criminal, they lifted up their voices in his defence. He
had lived long, he used to say, and he had seen more
evil principle, more wretched paradox, gain a seat and
an abiding place in the hearts of society, by the unprincipled
or thoughtless approbation of high talent, or
enthusiastick tempers, than from any other cause. He
looked to the goodness of a man, as the only standard
of his greatness: and he stood, like a giant, in his denunciation
of them that dared to hold up greatness as
distinct from goodness. `No!' he cried, `the simplest,
humblest act, of the humblest human creature, is really
greater, if it make a fellow creature wiser or happier,
than any deed, though it convulse an empire to its
foundations, and shake the four corners of the earth
with the noise of its trumpeting.' Such was his doctrine.

The sadness of lady Elvira now became painful to
all. She observed it, and knowing her own power,
either to cloud or brighten whatever she approached,
she strove to recover her self-possession; but, the effort
was too distressing, and why should she make it? was
she not among them that loved her? them that were indulgent,
and kind-hearted? yet, she was repeating the
attempt, when a harp suddenly sounded in the

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

apartment above, like the snapping of a chord—she started
from her seat, and an involuntary exclamation of terrour
broke from her lips—and even Caroline, Harold
thought, looked paler than usual; but, unacquainted as he
was, with the delicate proprieties of life, he had an instinctive
and quick perception of what is proper on such
occasions, and therefore took no notice of the sound, nor
of the emotion and dismay that it seemed to have caused.

After a few moments' conversation, Mr. Hammond
took his arm, and led him out upon the lawn, in silence.
The clouds were passing away. Over one part of the
sky, however, there still hung a portentous and strange
darkness, while the other was of the deepest and most
luminous blue, apparently solid, like a vault of sapphire,
with the star light shooting out of it, into the dimness
of their uplifted eyes, like rays from a broken diamond.

`What a sky!' cried Mr. Hammond. `Almighty
Father! this is the work of thy hands.'

These were the thoughts of a man, in his simplicity
and strength. These were the aspirations of true religion.
In exclamations like these, so fervent, and unpremeditated,
Harold, who knew little and cared less,
for all the artificial distinctions of men, could mingle
all the immortality of his nature. His bible he had
read, but not as a critick—not as a theologian—not as
a votary of science—no, but, as one who was affected
by its simplicity, and uplifted by the sublime walking
of its spirit. No!—but he read his bible, when he read
it, which, it is true, was not often, and loved it, as a
book containing all that was needful for the government
and instruction of man, whether in sorrow or suffering,
or throned and sceptred. That he was perplexed with
parts—disturbed by parts—he did not deny; but he
found all that was necessary for his happiness, here
and hereafter, so plain, so beautifully plain, and simple,
that he could not misunderstand it. As for the
meaning of heresy and heterodoxy, and orthodoxy, he
cared nothing. They were but other names to express
what the bible did not—the infallibility of man. No!—
exactly in proportion to the immateriality of a doctrine,

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

he had always found, was its mysteriousness; and the
obstinacy and ingenuity of them that professed it.
Therefore did Harold, in the first yearning of his heart
for higher attainments, learn to abhor and reject whatever
was inscrutable and mysterious as either unnecessary
or pernicious, in morals and religion, just as in
the commonest affairs of life. The commandments
were plain—so were some other principles and laws.
Do as thou wouldst be done by!—that was his favourite.
It was his religion in so many words; a religion too,
from which, if he departed under some fierce and unexpected
excitement, his heart never let him rest, until he
had returned to it again.

`What a sky!' echoed Harold—long, and long after
his companion had forgotten his own voice. `A studded
canopy of blue crystal, dropt with fire.' Harold
was not trying how well he could express the thought
of his nature at such a moment, but rather he spoke as
if the thought would have way, as if it had fashioned
itself in the solitudes of his heart, associated itself with
a resemblance, like a chosen and natural companion,
and then burst, spontaneously, into being.

`I do not know,' said his companion, `that I ever
before saw such a sky in this country. I have, in Italy—
or perhaps, and I dare say there is much reason in
it; perhaps, I am at this moment, one of the happiest
that I ever spent, particularly disposed to turn mine
eyes and thoughts upward; to ramble about infinity, and
to doat and dwell on every green thing, and every living
thing, that is within the embrace of my thought,
or reach of my vision. Ah, we are happy, here, say what
we will, my dear child; and happiness so far over-balances
all our sorrows, that it is a sin to complain, under
any affliction.'

`I do believe it!' responded Harold, devoutly. There
was an energy in his manner, too convincing to be
doubted.

`Yes, my son, it is so; and the sooner you begin to
yield yourself entirely to that belief, the sooner you
will be what you desire, a good, and therefore a great
man; for you will be nearer the best and greatest of

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

beings; more in his presence, and in more intimate
communion with his angels. Beside all this, you will
have an unfailing support in all tribulation.'

`I have found it so. I can now look back upon all
my disappointments, and trace them step by step, to
their consequences and causes, said Harold, `until I
can see them end in something beneficial. Yes, I do
believe, that I am, at this moment, the better and happier,
for what I once thought would break my heart,
or had broken it—events, which I did not wish to survive,
' said Harold.

`Yours is an enviable disposition,' answered Mr.
Hammond; `encourage it. Whatever happen, look for
consolation. Do not, as many do, seek to aggravate it.
Think how it might have been worse—think of what
you have left. Remember those who suffer more, and
have less to comfort and uphold them, than yourself.
If you lose a friend, and he be wicked, comfort yourself,
that he has escaped an additional weight of guilt,
if good; that he has not lived to fall.'

`My own experience, sir, short as it is,' answered Harold,
`has taught me this; to look with distrust upon
all events. Hitherto, what I have deemed, at the moment
of enjoyment, or in the avidity of anticipation, as
the especial and long-sought happiness of my life, has
never ultimately proved so; and what I have too often
received as a calamity, has generally proved the reverse.
'

`Perhaps, my young friend, there is a reason for
this in our own constitution. If suffering come upon us,
we become wiser, more cautious, kinder, avoiding temptation
and offence. But if good fortune visit us, we are apt
to fall into forgetfulness, insensibility, negligence, excess,
and arrogance. Take a familiar example. A man is led
into some expense, that upon cool reflection, he finds
his circumstances would not justify. As an honest man,
he not only determines to avoid a repetition of it, but
fixes immediately upon some plan of retrenchment,
which probably leaves him a richer one at the end of
the year, than he would have been, had he not first
been extravagant, or unfortunate. On the contrary, it

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has become a proverb, that they who get money in lotteries,
lose it in lotteries—so too, by any other means,
without labour, as by inheritance or marriage. A sudden
accession of wealth, is, in nine cases out of ten,
the destruction of the soberest man. And I will venture
to declare, that within my experience, there is no
man who has not died poorer for all the prizes that he
has drawn in any of these lotteries. Who are the rich
men? They who were born poor—the aged?—they who
were once at the point of death, and learnt caution—
the good? they that have been wicked.'

`They, who have robust constitutions, are less likely
to live to a good old age, than others who are sickly.
The former are rash, and perpetually plunging into
danger; the latter are cautious, on all occasions. Take
another example. A boat upsets. Who are the drowned?
they that could swim—for they abandoned the boat,
while they that could not, clung to it, and were generally
saved; and usually, if you hear of one being drowned,
it is some one that could swim, and was headstrong,
and daring. So with morals—Reputation, and confidence
in ourselves, are often our destruction; while distrust
ever preserves us, from every trial and temptation.'

`A lottery, sir—I have heard you mention the word
before—pray, what is it?'

`Are you really so ignorant? I am glad of it. It is a
legislative gambling.'

`Gambling! I do not understand—is not gambling a
vice?'

`Yes, when perpetrated on a small scale. It is prohibited
in private, and among them who have few
amusements. Laws are made against it. It is reprobated.
The pulpit and the stage, and the forum ring with
denunciations against it. A professed gambler is little
better than an outcast, living by his plunder and
depredations. But, mark the difference. The very
government that prohibits small gambling, as ruinous
and improvident, in every shape, and leading to the
worst encouragement of man's worst vices—his avarice,
cunning, and laziness, will set on foot,

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

countenance, and uphold, on the most magnificent scale—
a gambling table for millions!'

`How!—for what purpose?'

`Why, to build a church! a bridge, or a monument.'

`A monument! what is that? I am exceedingly ignorant,
I confess.'

`Some useless edifice; a column for example, of
stone masonry, erected at an expense that would build
an hospital for the scarred, and wind-beaten veteran—
to perpetuate what?—the virtues of men that cannot be
forgotten.'

`A great man. Is it necessary? Are great men so
soon forgotten, here? Are monuments common?'

`I am amazed at thy simplicity, Harold. Thou art
indeed, a child of nature, a republican after God's own
heart. It is, to speak seriously, an idle and profligate
waste of money; a shameful and useless piece of ostentation;
as if the truly great, and their memories, would
not outlast all monuments. And yet, thousands of poor
creatures are made to contribute, by ministering to
their vices, to the erection of some Babel—and deluded
into the most destructive habits, under the fascination
of the game. No—if we must have monuments, let
them be useful asylums for the indigent. Was the great
man a hero, the deliverer of his country, there should
be a refuge for them that toiled with him in that delivery,
or for the afflicted of their posterity. Beside, it
is a wicked and foolish precedent. Every publick man
must have his monument, in time.'

Harold stood leaning over the gate, under a huge
oak, and listening, with all his soul, to the calm, honest
speculations of his companion, respecting lotteries,
and gambling, and monuments.

`Gracious heaven!' cried Harold, at length; `but
what respect can men have for such laws? The same
deed punished as a crime, denounced and scorned,
when done in one way; and yet encouraged, proclaimed,
and trumpeted forth, as pious, charitable, and patriotick,
if done in another!'

`Nay, this is not half,' quoth the other. `A debtor is
not deterred from adventuring desperately in a lottery;

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on the contrary, just in proportion to his emergencies
will be his spirit of adventure. He will invest his funds,
as a sure resource, in lottery tickets, reasoning thus:
`What I win is mine; what I lose is my creditors'.
And this is strictly true. In the former case, he goes
on, and flourishes away, till new distresses drive him to
a repetition of the same adventure; in the latter, he becomes
a bankrupt. It is no reproach to have grown rich
by a prize; hence, he is not to be deterred from the lottery
office, though he be from the gaming table. Of
whom, does the winner in a lottery, take his winnings?
generally, from the poor and needy; them that are not his
equals, and cannot afford to lose. Nay, from men who have
starved their families to raise the money, which he has
won. How many of the poor and miserable, infatuated
by the success of some unknown speculator, by worrying
penny from penny out of famine and nakedness;
have finally accumulated enough to buy a chance in
some lottery—bought it—and spent the period of expectation
in a fever of restlessness and idleness, expecting
`a prize!' for it is in vain to deny it—every man expects
a prize, or he is a fool for buying a share.'

`Is not all this worse than gambling? In gambling, you
win from your equals. In a lottery, from the very blind,
and maimed, and starving of society; at least, in part.
Gambling is, therefore, less base and sordid of the two.
And is it not, as if heaven so judged it, and dealt
out the maledictions of the poor and disappointed?
Look about, and see what has become of the fortunate.
The reason is plain. There is no miracle, no judgment,
no especial interposition of heaven. He who has drawn
a prize, becomes a gambler in every thing. Sober acquisition
is drudgery to him. No maxim is more universally
just than this; whatever is with difficulty acquired,
is with difficulty lost. Who are the rich and
great?—they that were poor and little. Let no man gamble,
if he would be permanently respectable, and least
of all, in lotteries. Another reason why they are worse
than faro tables, is, that there is no publick obloquy attached
to him who has enriched himself by the former,

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and consequently, nothing to counteract the temptations
that beset him, But—'

`But, what a sky!' he repeated again, laying his
hand affectionately upon Harold's uncovered head.
The moon was at the full. The abundant foliage, the
changeable willow braid, the distant elevations, were
all shifting from alternate shadow of the deepest hue,
to the lustre of a mild and beautiful light. Not a sound
fell upon the ear. The water below, lay like a sheet of
pearl, gently tremulous, and glimmering, as if to the
tread of something spiritual, or to some subterranean
agitation; while an occasional bubble, breaking in the
deeper part, or a sharp, quick ripple, as some insect was
suddenly snatched by a glittering creature, that just
twinkled along the surface, disturbing the shadow and
smoothness, like a flash of fire, under the willow trees,
now and then arrested the eye.

`Do you see that star?' said the venerable man?
`How very bright!'

`I have seen that very star in daylight,' said Harold—
it is an old acquaintance of mine; at least, so it appears,
even in this hemisphere.'

`In day light! where?'

`In my own country. At four o'clock in the afternoon,
I have seen the whole sky of this same deep
purple, nay, deeper, almost black, and with all the evenness
of a midnight sky—the sun burning with a golden
splendour, and a star or two, within its very halo,
distinctly visible.'

`Can it be!—how do you account for it?'

`We attribute it there, to the elevation of the land,
but I am inclined to ascribe it to the singular clearness
of the atmosphere. Some of its phenomena are very
striking. For leagues and leagues, nay, from horizon
to horizon, you can see the most delicate smoke. At
first sight, judging from the experience of a more northern
climate, I have been led to estimate distances as
at home: and have believed, that a few hours' travelling
would bring us to a smoke, toward which we have
actually travelled for whole days afterward, without
appearing to approach it. You would hardly credit it,

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

but such is the fact, that a wild buffaloe, or any other
animal, which we have butchered and left bleeding,
would dry up without any symptom of putrescency—
giving out no offensive odour, and literally exhaling
their juices, as by a chemical operation.'

`It is very warm then, I suppose.'

`No; not more so, than in more northern climates;
or at least, not so, as to be sensible to us.'

`What a beautiful firmament it must be.'

`Yes; but, like all others, it has its drawback. It is
blinding, in its effect upon the eyes. Many of the natives
are blind; and, of our party, when I visited it,
many became totally so.'

`Another instance of that equality of distribution
in the gifts, and blessings of heaven, which we have
been speaking of. But you mentioned other phenomena.
'

`Yes; and I will enumerate some. Our liquors would
dry so fast, that some of our party could scarcely be
persuaded, that others had not robbed them. I remember
once, when the colour of the sky was particularly
striking, for its exceeding clearness and depth of blue,
that three of us left our encampment, for the purpose of
visiting a huge mass of rocks, that appeared, at the furthest,
only a few hours travel from us, and actually
lowering above our heads. We could distinguish the festoons
of wild, creeping plants upon them: and the divisions,
strata, and coloured veins, were distinctly to be
traced; but we travelled a whole day and night, and then
gave up the attempt, unable even to conjecture the distance.
It happened, however, soon after, that we visited
part of this same mountain. It was one of a vast
chain. Our company were about eighty hunters, with
their horses, buffaloes, tents, and game. A part of
us ascended the mountain, when we found that the
trailing vines, as we had supposed them to be, were
trees of gigantick dimensions; and that what we mistook
for veins, were, in reality, immense cavities, fissures,
and chasms. That we might the more easily return
to the spot, whence we departed, we took for our
guide, a glittering white rock, resembling, in its

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

altitude and dimensions, a fortress, which stood just above
the heads of our party. We soon lost sight of it, however,
and on our return, were first struck, while looking
for it, with what appeared to be a bright star. We
approached; it grew larger, but not brighter, until we
found it to be the whole rock. In other climates, you
know, an object like this, waxes dimmer and dimmer
as we leave it. This did not—it only grew smaller and
smaller, and was as bright when we first saw it, as when
we were near—Ah!—do you hear nothing?—'

`Yes, something from the water, like mournful musick.
' Harold trembled—`It is very mournful,' said
he—`gracious heaven! I have heard that before—that,
in the very wilderness of America—O, I remember it
well—my father used to sing it to me, in my childhood.
I have never heard it since—my mother too!—perhaps
it is her voice—hush!—hush!—Dost thou believe, good
old man, that the disembodied are ever permitted to
revisit the earth for any purpose?'

`Art thou serious?' said his companion, in an agitated
voice.

`Yea, to the furthest and holiest solemnity of my
thought.'

`Well then, I will utter that to thee, which I never
uttered to any human being before—I do believe it!—I
have seen and heard the departed.'

Harold quaked as if he were communing with some
spiritual one, and saw all the mystery and terrour of
the charnel house, laid slowly open before his eyes.

The musick seemed to approach. A clear and tender
voice accompanied it. `It is of earth!' said Harold,
`but I could almost believe that my own dear mother,
to whom I am sure, my father, when he was happy,
taught that song, was visiting me. O, there are no associations
of memory so tender, so soothing, so beautifully
touching, as those of musick. You feel as if her
harp, hung up in the desolate apartments of your heart,
were taken tenderly down, by some loved and departed
spirit, and touched kindly again, with all the inimitable
delicacy of another world, and all the truth of life.'

It was a harp! and Harold heard it for the first time.
There was nothing artificial, nothing difficult, even to

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

his ear, in the serene and thrilling modulations. It died
away, and he stood like one entranced, waiting on tip
toe, to catch the first sound of something heavenly in
its approach. A momentary intermission, and then followed
a recitative so expressive, so sweet, and so passionate
withal, that he clasped his hands involuntarily,
and the tears stood in his eyes—the voice rang in his
very heart, like the note of a silver bugle, blown at
midnight, over the dim water.

`Let us go in, Harold—the night dews are heavy,'
said the old man, taking his arm. `Caroline's voice hath
more witchery, there.'

`Caroline! was it she, then, that passed by me in the
wind!—dear Caroline!'

They entered, and Caroline timidly gave her hand to
Harold, who, scarcely daring to believe that a form so
frail, a countenance so delicate and meek, could have
poured out such a profusion of sound, with such compass,
and power, and yet with such exquisite and feeling
modulation, threw his arm around her beautiful
waist, and said in a low, agitated voice, `was it thy
voice, Caroline?'

She smiled, and put back the dark hair that fell over
his forehead, as he leaned toward her, with his whole
soul breaking out of his eyes. `Yes, brother, it was.
Did it reach your ear?' `Yes, and my heart—it is there
yet. I hear it, feel it, in all those sweet, impassioned,
enthusiastick undulations, revelling in its caverns!—
Come, dear, let me hear it once more.'

She shook her head.

`Nay, Caroline, only once more.'

It was in vain to refuse—she was too gentle for that;
so, putting away his fond arm, and adjusting her beautiful
hair, which had fallen over her eyes, she began
another song. Her voice trembled at first, a very little,
but soon became steady; while her bosom heaved, and
her tremulous lip betrayed the deep emotion of her
heart. She felt every word, and every note. It was a
simple and melancholy song, and the expression of her
eyes was so mournful and touching, the smooth, flutelike
tune of her throat so tender and clear, that all
who heard her, held their breath without knowing it.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

Harold's `rapt soul was sitting in his eyes;' he dwelt
upon hers, and their intensely deep expression of tenderness:
their hue had changed, they were almost black,
and when her long sweet toning, which appeared so
natural, and so endless, as if her breath would never
fail her, growing louder and clearer, without effort or
suspension;—with her forehead elevated, her eyes uplifted,
and her lashes glistening—when all this awoke
before him, Harold could have thrown himself upon
her bosom, sobbing with delight, and called her his
own, his only sister.

She arose, and when she met her brother's eye, wet
and gleaming like a dark brilliant, she blushed. It was
now time to separate—Harold pressed her pure forehead,
and turned to depart.

`O, no, Harold—no!'—said Caroline. `That must
not be. We have arranged all this. Our guardian
here, says that this is your home.'

`Home!' cried Harold, inaudibly—the sound was so
delightful to him—to be at home, at last, when he had
looked for it only in the green earth. His heart breathed,
as it were, in tears that had flowed from the soft
eyes of beauty. Here was his sister—a creature sprung
up, all at once before him, as if by enchantment; a
flower found in a desolate place, by running water—
Their friends had gone, gone in silence, and Caroline
and Harold sat, holding each other's hands, and watching
their carriage, as it rolled away through the dim
avenue, the harness here and there glittering, for a brief
moment, in the moonlight, and the wheels alternately
rattling over the stone bridge, or cutting with a dull,
heavy sound, their path through the fine wet sand.
Caroline was leaning, with a mingled sensation of love
and shame, delight and modesty, upon his shoulder,—
her sweet face lifted to heaven, with the dewy traces
of recent weeping yet to be seen, about her smooth
eyes.

`Sleepy? my sister'—It was delightful to pronounce
the endearing name. `Caroline, love—art thou sleepy?'
said Harold, softly pressing her to his bosom.

`O, no! or if I were,' said she, meekly, `I could

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

sleep here forever!' turning her face downward, and
dropping her lids with the affectionate delicacy of a
young and innocent creature, who, unaccustomed to
the caresses of a man, is trembling even within the
arms of a brother.

Their cheeks touched; her hair blew over his face—
his fingers strayed a moment among the soft tresses,
and he drew her eye-lids again, and again to his lips,
with a feeling of the purest tenderness. Her colour
came, and the poor girl half broke from his arms, before
she recollected that he was her brother; but when
she did, she replaced herself in the same situation,
with a charming expression of confidence, consummate
confidence.

`How like you are to Oscar!' said Caroline, after
gazing at him, with uncommon steadiness, for a moment.
`You have all but his fierceness—his implacable dominion
of eye and forehead—and your mouth, it is a
kinder mouth; and then, you are so much younger—
how old are you, brother?'

`Twenty-two, dear.'

`And I only eighteen—why, really, I think that I
am about as old as you.'

Harold was thoughtful—`why, how is this?' said he,
`do you recollect our father?'

`No, I never saw him,' answered Caroline, trembling.
`The last time my mother met him, it was unexpectedly.
He had been in the east, as she then supposed—
and he departed immediately after I was born.
We have never heard of him, or from him, since.'

Harold knew not that his father had ever returned,
even for an hour, from America; but now he recollected
that there was a story among his enemies that he
had died, and was buried; and that two or three autumns
afterward he reappeared; and was found, sitting
upon his own grave, by some hunters, who had wandered
and tracked him in the frost and leaves.

`Did'st thou love Oscar? Caroline.'

`Love him! O, that I did. Harold, dear, dear Harold—
(she kissed him with a convulsive lip) beware of

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

his example. O, he was too like thee, I fear—and thou
art too like him, I am told.'

`But go—go, now, my beloved brother,' she added,
smiling. `You will want refreshment; and to tell you
the truth, I do think that a few hours repose will not
be amiss for me; and yet I cannot sleep—I am too
happy to sleep; and last night, I was too anxious. I
have'nt set down, since day light, expecting my brother,
and have not eaten a mouthful—I could not eat, could
you? my heart was too full. I was too happy to eat
too, I believe. So, good night, Harold!'

Saying this, she arose, and, Harold reluctantly prepared
to obey, as she touched the bell; but she arrested
him, adding with a serious countenance, `stay, dear
brother—there are some old habits, notions, repugnances
to be overcome in this family—and the sooner we
begin to overcome them, the better. Will you sleep in
Oscar's room?'

`In Oscar's! my brother's? Certainly, with all my
heart.'

`Thank you, thank you, Harold! That is another
trait of resemblance, so prompt and decisive!' A silence
of some minutes followed.

`It has never been opened since the evening—nay, I
cannot tell thee when'—(her face grew palid) `until
within a few days, except by the servants to dust and
air it. Every thing within it, every thing, I believe, is
exactly as he left it. You will sleep in the same bed—
read the same books—by the same lamp—and,' she
added, cheerfully patting his arm, `by and by, we will
sit and sing together, as he and I used to—poor Oscar!
do you sing, Harold?'

`No, dear!'

`No!—not sing! why, what do you do with that
voice of yours. It is one of the finest in the world; Elvira
says it is—nay, dont blush, I'm sure 'tis the truth.
So, I shall teach you to sing. Do you play?'

`Yes, the broadsword.'

`Ah, brother!' cried the poor girl, `every word that
you utter, reminds me so of Oscar, that I quake in
imagining some fearful resemblance. That was exactly

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

his manner once, when I heard him—it nearly cost him
his life. We were at a table, together. He was only a
boy. A gentleman present, who was certainly not very
scrupulous in his matters of fact, complained, when
pressed to eat of a certain dish, that he could not.'

`Why, said my aunt?'

`I have a blister on my tongue, madam.'

`Perhaps you have been telling a fib,' said a little
pert cousin of mine.'

`No,' said Oscar, rivetting his fierce eyes upon the
man's face, and speaking in a deliberate, low voice,
that made every heart thrill—no! I suspect that the
gentleman has been telling the truth. O, Harold! never
shall I forget the tone in which that was said, the burning
sarcasm of look—nor the scene that followed. The
man was carried home, as we thought, mortally wounded,
for he had the audacity to strike Oscar.'

`Strike him!' cried Harold, raising his arm, `and
what did Oscar then?'

`Smote him to the heart!' said Caroline, trembling
all over, `as I fear you would do!—O, Harold!—Harold—
I could not bear to lose thee!—I loved him with
all his faults, and he was very stern and awful to me at
times. But I loved him, when all else had ceased to
love him; and I will love thee, my brother, wert thou
more terrible than was ever Oscar—redder—aye, redder
with the blood of mine own heart—of him I so
loved!—Ah, mercy! mercy!'

Harold caught her in his arms—bore her to the window,
where she soon recovered. She then rang the bell,
and, with her own hand, lighted him to his apartment.
Her tread faltered as she entered—and she leant more
heavily upon his arm, and trembled, as he thought. A
superb harp, much larger and more costly than that below,
rested in a niche, with a coloured, arching window
near, reaching from the top to the bottom of the wall.
A table, with musick open, lay before it; a candle partly
burnt down; a flute; a dirk; from which Mary turned
her eyes with a quick shudder, as Harold laid his hands
upon it. A flood of moonlight, pouring through the
white curtains, fell upon the floor, and upon a picture

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

opposite. Harold paused. A single glance was sufficient.
It was Oscar himself; Oscar in his strength and
sublimity; his dark eye searching your heart; his lips,
partly unclosed, as about to speak what his proud nature
scorned to conceal; and his bold front; thick locks;
grandeur of forehead, together with the spirited, firm
and accurate cut of outline, formed altogether an assemblage
of character, never to be forgotten. The expression
was collected, thoughtful, wrought with fire,
just as he had seen it in life.

Harold could not forbear looking up to it, and dwelling
upon the deep composure of its countenance, the far
thought that seemed impatiently working itself upward
from the depth of a mighty heart, and the yearning
eagerness of look, as of one intent upon wonderful
things. `How like his attitude and bearing in life,' exclaimed
Harold, locking his hands, `so stern, so high,
so cold! rebuking all around him into silence and awe.'

`Once more Caroline, dear Caroline, good night.'

`Good night! good night! Harold.'

Harold threw himself upon a couch; but it was in
vain to think of sleeping. He arose, and set his lamp
in the niche, and his thoughts took a course, in which
they had long been familiar, over the wide Atlantic,
to his Indian girl. `O, Loena!' he said aloud, `would
that thou wast near me! that thou couldst write to me,
or I to thee!' He arose and walked the room, waxing
feverish, as he reflected on the time that must elapse,
in a season of war, before he could know aught of her
destiny. `I will write this moment to De Vaudreuil,'
said he, and seated himself at the table. He attempted
to open the drawer, and at length succeeded, but the
bolts of the lock were rusty from long disuse. He found
what he wanted, some paper, but it was spotted and
discoloured, and soaked, as if some glutinous liquid had
penetrated the wood and stained it, long, and long before.
He found some words, faintly traced, as by a female
hand upon the top of one of the pages. It was as
follows: `En esto quisiera ser instruida con toda exactitud. — —
Amais todavia a vuestra.—E.'
This was sufficient for Harold; he shrank from a

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

further examination of the words, satisfied that they were
the language of love.

He next observed the green cloth that covered the
desk; that too, was stiff and dark, as if saturated with—
he shuddered—his brain grew dark—perhaps this
was the very room where the murder was perpetrated—
it was—it must be so—and that was the very dagger!—
`yet why are they here?' said he.

`Blood! blood!' cried Harold, convulsively retreating
from it, fearing even to set his foot upon the floor, as
if it were yet slippery,—to lay his hand upon a chair,
lest he might find it adhesive, when he would pluck it
away.

He turned to the window, giddy and sick; the cool
air was delicious. It came, like a blessing, to his forehead
and lips; but, as he threw aside the heavy white
curtains, to obtain a freer view of the prospect, he observed
a deep shadow upon them, a shadow which remained
after he had separated the folds; he laid his
hand upon it, it was harsh and unpleasant to the touch;
he revolted, as his hand came in contact with it, and
then, like one maddening in delirium, impatient to know
the worst at once, he ran to the bed and threw down
the sheets, expecting to find a body bleeding and wounded
in his very bed—he was beside himself, indeed,
with fear; but he was disappointed. The bed was untenanted,
and the linen, white as the driven snow, unstained,
unpolluted. `But why are they left thus?' he
cried, `is it to appal me? What fearful crime is this,
whose vestiges beset me? And why am I made to sleep
in the very presence of the murderer, and the murdered?
Is it, that they whom I have slain, may start up in their
winding sheets? He leant his forehead upon his hands,
his temples throbbing with dreadful violence, and his
arteries aching with the heavy current of his blood.
He arose to take down a book, determined to read,
when he recollected the bundle of letters which Elvira
had given him. They were in his baggage, and he soon
tore them open, and began reading; he trembled; a
fierce and apalling intensity increasing, as he proceeded—
The manuscripts were numbered, and he was

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

proceeding to assort them, when the apparition of Oscar suddenly
stood before him!—the paper fell from his hands—
he gasped for breath—what had disturbed the dreadful
spirit? Was he tresspassing upon his exclusive dominion?
He had come too, unannounced, unheralded,
and there he was! Harold attempted to speak, but he
could utter no sound. A cloud passed over the shadow,
and it was gone. Could he have been deceived? Was
it not the very form and attitude of his dead brother?
The light again shone out, and the spectre reappeared
in the same place—he approached it with a leap, and
as he thought, passed through it! His blood curdled,
and his knees smote together at first; nor was it until
he had uncovered his eyes, and changed his position,
that he discovered the truth—it was his own shadow
upon the wall! The hot blood rushed over his cheeks,
as he made the discovery—`accursed effects of education,
' he cried, `how terribly have I been unmanned,
again and again, with some such delusion as this; and
yet I have no more command of myself now, than I had
in my childhood, when I used to hear of spectres, and
devils.'

He reseated himself, still trembling, and began to
read. Alas, Alas! it is no wonder that he shook. It was
his own destiny. The hand writing was new to him.
It was a bold, strong, uniform character; and Harold,
who had long observed that all our habits are but an
epitome of our character, felt instantly convinced that
the writer was alike, intellectually bold, and uniform.
He whose character is established, he had observed,
does every thing methodically, and alike—he walks,
and writes, and talks, neither faster nor slower; while he,
who is variable and capricious, writes a variety of
hands, never walks twice alike, and is eternally going
faster or slower in his speech. He opened number 1.
It was a letter of advice, and opinion, and related,
Harold soon found reason for believing, to Oscar. It
described some young man, as compounded of the most
contradictory and heroick qualities;—suspicious, yet
full of unexampled confidence at times; generous, and
magnanimous, yet revengeful to an excess; unsparing

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

and deadly in his hostilities, yet risking his life and
soul for the benefit of his mortal enemy; courting danger
and difficulty; delighting in contradiction and paradox
in all sciences, and on all subjects; eloquent, passionate,
persevering; superstitious to the last degree,
and subject to such tremendous transports of rage, that
they had finally destroyed him. Allusions were darkly
made to some mysterious crime—but as if it were perpetrated
in delirium.

He took up another. It was in a female hand, written
evidently with a perturbed spirit, and probably copied,
as it appeared to be a narrative, interrupted and
broken, though joined altogether by the last copier. It
was as follows:

`How still it is! The very winds are lifeless. A moment
since, and they came over my hot forehead, from
the north, like the breathing of a strong man. The
beating of my temples hath ceased. My arteries too,
are tranquil, now, but very cold and icy. Why is this?
O Nature! Is it sympathy between ye and me, ye
winds! clouds! and thou, sky of the Almighty! dwelling
of the unapproachable—thou! the self-upholden
vault!—

`O Nature! my passions awake and are rebellious with
thee; and thou, O moon! who holdest thy continuity of
march, forever and ever, whence is thy dominion over
me! With thee, I wax and wane! With thee I conjure
up the elements—holding communion with spiritualities,
broad and boundless. With thine, my light is diminished
and shut out, and I am doomed to accompany
thee, in thine eternal pilgrimage of shadow and
change. My passions slumber or storm with thee!
When thou art upon the great deep, lo! my spirit is
with thee!

`— O, why is this! But a little while, and I
was lifted above mortality; for thy winds went by me,
and over me, thou blue heaven! and encompassed me
round about. A cheerful tide, a very wonderful tide,
flowed over my poor withered, desolate heart. It was
refreshed, and filled up, and I was happy. It was upborne,
and whirling, and eddying therein.'

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

`How still it is! Behold yon beautiful assembly of
trees, the waving tresses of yon high battlements,
swinging, all flower and greenness, in the star-light.
The sky, the illimitable, the inaccessible sky! with all the
drifting clouds, hurrying away beneath it, like a routed
multitude, with banners and smoke; rallying anon,
and parting again, and disappearing—with here and
there, a luminous ridge, as of drifted pearl, washed up
on the sea shore—and there, a vast tent, shattered in
the wind, and covering the blue void with luminous
and flying fragments. And the blue, dim water yonder,
all now rolling, and heaving, and murmuring with
inward vitality—even that is hushed now, into an awful
repose. The moonlight too, but now trembling with
activity, like a vapour of quicksilver, hath grown brighter,
unspeakably brighther, but motionless. O, this is no
natural shining—it is the breath of a spirit! Can it be
her's?—no, no—it is the cold, still lustre of a northern
sky, in the depth of winter—not a tender, warm, autumnal
light, befitting the season—no!—

`My thoughts too—where are they? hitherto rioting
and soaring, full of wing and motion—aspiring, gallantly,
to an equality with the highest and brightest of
yonder high and bright divinities of fire. Stars!—I
kneel to you. Ye, that are established round about the
dwelling of my Father, ye cherubim—ye that tread, forever
and ever, the fathomless vacancy of heaven. Ye
seraphim!—O scorn me not—for lo, I am as one of you.
The divinity is stirring within me, and behold, I mount!
I mount! — — — — O,
my beloved! where art thou? The winds have died
away, and I hear not yet thy foot-step in the air. O
moon!—a death-like expression is sitting even in thy
countenance. Thou art unusually pale. And thou, dearest—
thou, whom I can see, with thy fair tresses, floating
like a halo, about thee, thou art dim, and distant to
my weary and disconsolate heart. O shine out! shine
out! — — — — where
am I?—what am I?—subdued—sickening—fainting—
clinging to the vile earth for support, and sustenance—
yea, to the very rocks, from whose crown I have just

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

leaped, in exulting derision—trampled on and spurned.
How still it is!—'

Such was the language of this paper. Another followed,
marked 3, appearing to have been written by another
person. It was almost illegible, and after this fashion.

`He stood, with his cheek resting upon his hand, and
leaning against a high rock, from which, I verily believe,
that he had just leaped. How he escaped, is unaccountable
to me; for I have known animals to be dashed
in pieces, by falling from it. His forehead was gathered
and wrought, and somewhat agitated at times; for,
now and then, there was a hasty quivering over its
mortal paleness, as if it was the surface of some liquid,
inwardly disturbed. Within his sunken, wild, and singularly
beautiful eyes, there was a sad and settled expression,
as of one, originally filled with high thought,
and clothed with prerogative—who had been stricken
from his sphere. As his forehead darkened, his black
eye would shine out, for a moment, and then wane
away, as if it were holding a brief communion, by
glimpses, with some spiritual thing, invisible to the
rest of the world, and passing very near to it. His
thick, shining hair, neglected, and black as jet, gathered,
with the effect of sculpture about his low, pale forehead,
and, as he stood before me, shadowing the upper part
of his remarkable face, gave such bold, and effectual
relief to his spirited features, and such additional
brightness to the thin emaciated hands, which, in the
abstraction of his spirit, as his eyes were devoutly raised,
were buried in the thick locks, as to give to his
whole person, so motionless and picturesque, all the effect
of beautiful sculpture by moonlight. Thus stood
he; and thus looked he, when I first encountered him,
on that memorable evening. Judge of my emotion, my
terrour. I knew his character, his mortal hatred for
me; and I had fallen upon him thus, unexpectedly, unarmed,
and upon the brow of a precipice. My knees
knocked together, and I lost my breath entirely. And
yet, there was such a fascination about him that I could
not leave him, nay, I did not even wish to leave him.

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

He was very beautiful, thrillingly so. In his immovable
attitude, in the unostentatious, careless grace, and
waving outline of his person—in the singular firmness
and precision of his features—the shadows so bold—
and the lights so lucid, and yet, of such death-like,
marble whiteness, there was a combination too unearthly
to be forgotten. And I—I would as soon have looked
from the lake of Geneva, up to some inaccessible
height, and expected the genius of statuary herself, to
burst, from the solid rock, upon my vision, as to have
seen him, in such a scene, at such a moment. Such
was my infatuation, too, that, I verily believe, that had
I seen the red clouds rolling under his feet, and the blue
lightnings discharged from his hands, it would not have
augmented my astonishment. He stood so like a being
of another world, half embodied in the moonlight.'

`All around were huge, mis-shapen rocks, bleak
mountains, and precipices; riven, and splintered peaks—
hung with funereal verdure, and garlanded with blasted
underwood—reflected in a deep, fathomless, cold
water. The sky was of a remarkable colour—very
clear, and glittering with a metallick splendour, and a
tinge of crimson, that kept shifting incessantly over it,
like the red light of battle on the steely armour of
charging cavalry:—a vault, built of blue satin spar, illuminated
by coloured vapours, and broken diamonds.

`His form, I had leisure now to study. He took no
notice of me. I wondered at it, for he evidently saw
me, but as if he saw me not. It was attenuated grievously,
by his wandering and confinement. He looked
like one who can see his own heart decaying, dropping
away, piecemeal, before his own eyes. His voice was
musick itself, but a musick so melancholy, of a sweetness
so broken-hearted, so like the voice of one that is
going alive, trembling, and reluctant to his own coffin—
going!—in the full possession of every sublime and
towering faculty—knowing his destiny—knowing that
he must die—that there is no health in him—no help
for him—going—into the chamber of death! Gracious
heaven! what a situation for one like him—lingering and
decaying; exhausting his spirit in prayer, knowing for

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

what he was created, and what he might have been,
with a few more years, a little patience, a little love,
a little charity and forbearance, a kind heart to beat
with his, to be his heaven and refuge; in the ranks and
on the roll of glory, mingling in the shock of armies,
thundering in the senate chamber, battling for liberty
and renown, side by side, with the youthful and the
great, the covetous of dominion; or standing in the commission
of the MOST HIGH, and stretching out his hands,
like the apostle, above the altars and the gods of idolatry,
which shook, and fell, and crumbled, and disappeared
before his denunciation; or tuning a loud and
lofty harp, under the visiting of inspiration, in wind
and fire. O think of him! weep for him! pray for him,
as I did, knowing that the hand of death was upon him,
and that he was waning away, like an ethereal presence
before some unholy rite. And such a voice! O I shall
never hear it again. Oscar, mine enemy! I could have
loved thee! I would, had not thy terrible hand cut
asunder the ties that were attaching my spirit to thine.
Methinks I can hear thy voice now, whenever the moon
is at the full, and I am wandering where I last saw
thee! so bewildering, melancholy, sweet, and uncertain,
like the lingering intonations of a broken heart.' —

The narrative was here taken up with allusions that
were utterly unintelligible, for a whole page; but these
were succeeded by another hand-writing—as follows:

`His sister was sitting by his side; her eyes were
meekly lifted, and rivetted upon his with the most affectionate
solicitude. A stranger might have suspected
an interest more tender, treacherous, thrilling, intertwining,
with a more delicate avidity, with the keenest
tendrils of sensibility—somewhat, more impassioned
than sisters ever feel for brothers, in the beautiful and
devout earnestness of her watching. It was a sister
studying the deep, deep spirit of her brother, in its
most awful and mysterious abstraction—contemplating
him as a creature of other elements, more sublimated,
more spiritualized, than herself; or, indeed, than any
other being on earth, compounded of dust and ashes.

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

She was right. He was, although chiefly of baser materials,
so mixed up with fire and gold, and glittering
and precious essences, as to be unlike aught of earthly
creation, except its idols. He was a genius; but O,
how unlike them that are so called. He did not affect
to be gloomy, wretched, or stern; no! but with all
things to make him so, he was forever the reverse.
He was a creature of the rarest intellectual combination—
made up of properties, active and illimitable; sensibilities,
of a touch and tenderness so exquisite, as to
madden in their excitement; an imagination without
limit or shape, beating with vast and articulate conceptions;
a heart swelling, when smitten or oppressed,
like a trampled empire, with august and terrible apparitions;
with thoughts rising from the dust, and standing
up, in the plenitude of authority, like monarchs
that have been buried together, with all the trappings
of royalty; and rising at the trumpet of the last day.
In one word, Oscar was a genius. The fountains of his
inspiration ran fire, and were to be approached, when
in blast, but at the peril of blindness and destruction.
The promptings of his god were for the hallowed and
secret recesses of his heart; a fearful solitude, full
of strange shapes, and echoing only to the thunder;
and illuminated only by the pale lightning. Yes! Oscar
was a genius; from head to foot, a creature of desperate
energies, irregular appetite, and sublime incoherency—
feeling his unquestioned, unquestionable prerogative,
and trampling, in the pride of his heart, in mockery,
upon the prejudices of men; filled with a devouring
intensity of thought that burned like a furnace, overflowing
with molten gold, running with lava—fervid and
blinding! stationed, in unapproachable supremacy, occupying,
as by the mere action of his own will, where
none might dare to gainsay it, the chiefest elevation
among the gifted and endowed, the sons of God! yet
torn, distracted, as by a beleaguering host without,
and a rebellious spirit within, forever battling there
with unappeasable ambition.

`He had already, young as he was, sallied out upon
the highway of nations; tendered his contribution to

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

the crowned and sceptred things of earth, toiled and
battled, and conquered. He had been shipwrecked,
shattered, and thrown, with all the accumulated riches
of his life, his honour, love, hope, ambition, upon an
iron shore. The temple, toward which he had trodden
in pilgrimage, with bleeding and naked feet, incessantly
receding as he approached, had, at last—when
he thought to set his foot, with the very next step, upon
its glittering, burnished threshold, and lay hold upon
the horns of the altar, smoking with incense, and resounding
with musick, and hung with garlands of fire
and beauty—vanished—vanished forever! What then?
He awoke from his long and burning trance. He lifted
his arms to heaven. He invoked the presence of his
beloved. He was in a desert—but she obeyed—for she
loved him. A fountain arose at their feet—he stooped
with his parched lips—and it disappeared forever, in the
dry sand! The waters of his heart turned to bitterness.
The fountain of tears and tenderness stagnated on the
spot, and a vapour of repulsion and death arose from
its effervescence—yea, death!

Those hands—those very hands—so innocent, pale,
and youthful, and emaciated, they have been reeking
in blood. Yea—and the blood would be upon them yet,
had they not been washed in the rain of heaven. Once
they were red, hot, and smoking; and he flourished
them, in the delirium of his soul, to the sky—in the
loud wind—and over the roaring flood, swearing that,
by no other than the rain drop, and the dew, the dampness
of twilight, and the mountain mist, and the spray
of the cataract, would he suffer the pollution to be
washed away! And they had done it!—heaven had
done it! The rain and the dew had fallen, and the red
stains were effaced, once more, from his transparent
fingers.'

Here was an interruption—some erasures—followed
with occasional remarks in a hand like Elvira's. They
were as follows: `The very character and turn of
thought so peculiarly distinguishing this isolated and
strange being, are expressed here, with astonishing
fidelity. It has all his brokenness, mystery, abruptness

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

and strength. Indeed, I should believe, were such a
thing possible, that Oscar himself had dictated the language,
in which he is described, so deeply imbued is it
with the fierce and preternatural ardour and spirit, that
prevailed in his conversation after he slew —.'
A word was here very carefully obliterated, but still
Harold was able to discover that it was a name, and if
he were not led wildly astray, it was the name of Elvira.
But that could not be. She was living.

His agitation prevented him, for some minutes, from
continuing the inquiry; and when he did, he fell upon
the following, in another hand: `A part is here omitted,
my dear, it remains in my possession, however, and,
when necessary, shall be put into your hands. For myself,
I am satisfied that he thinks her dead—and it
would be well to suffer the room to remain exactly as
it is—precisely—with all its terrible array of furniture
and blood—even to the spots and stains, where it spouted
upon the window curtains. I gave immediate orders
to that effect, under the advice of Doctors S.—
and R.— who agree that if we have any thing to
hope, it must be from the violent shock that he will
receive when, as we have concerted the plan, we shall
bring him, blindfolded, to the spot of the murder, and
there, at night, in the very room, at the very hour, with
all the furniture in the same situation, by the same
light, unbandage his eyes, and leave him there, alone! It
cannot make him worse, and it may have some good
effect. It is desperate, I—.' The rest was illegible;
but in rummaging over the papers, he found a remarkably
neat manuscript, which he felt, instantly in his
heart, was by Caroline herself. The hand-writing was
very peculiar, firm, upright, and singularly unaffected.

`I shall give it to you precisely as it was written,
long, long after the melancholy event took place. I had
leisure then to dwell upon it, and touch out the parts,
almost as I would an ideal history; for, would you believe
it? it appears to me now, more like a transaction
that has occurred to somebody else, than to myself;
more like something dreamt of, in some frightful malady,
than the experience of myself. Much of it is in his

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

very language. I shall never forget it—nay, have I not
good reason, dear?—never to forget it.'

`Here!—here we are at last, then! Are we not high
enough yet, love? We are above the world. Look yonder—
the dark spots upon that hill are moving—lo, they
are human creatures!—upon the moon too! Who knows
but we may appear to them, poor pilgrims! as they do
to us. There!—now we are upon the very pinnacle.
How strong the wind is! Mind thy foothold, Caroline—
and cling to me—if we fall—that we may fall together.
What an infinity is above us. And this rock—
yea, this is the very rock!—how like an altar it is.' His
eyes sparkled strangely, as he said this, and he knelt
down and kissed it. `Stay Caroline—there is another
altar—a higher—a holier one—built by God's angels,
with their own hands—a little higher up. Wilt thou
ascend with me? It is a place of sacrifice. If thy heart
fail thee, abide thou here!' I answered `Yes! I will go
up with thee, go were thou wilt.' `That is an altar,'
he said, pointing upward, to a jutting cliff, `I have
been there, at night—at midnight, holding counsel with
the red stars, clouds, winds! And who came to me, Caroline,
who, thinkest thou, came down to me, and scooped
her hand into the solid rock, and laved my temples
with a water so mortally cold, that—they have been
aching ever since!' We approached a broad white stone,
leaning like an inclined plane, upon a stratum of crumbling
slate or pumice; the moon shone upon it, and the
deep sculpture of many a wayward hand, the broken
and blunted letters—defaced by the elements—appeared
like a rude inscription upon some entrance to the
caverns of the earth—the Golgotha of the mountain. I
trembled with a superstitious and unknown terrour.
He sat down.'

`Let us be seated, Caroline. Let us pray. I would
pray—canst thou, dear?' A dead silence followed. I
was afraid to interrupt him. He lay with his whole
length upon the stone, leaning upon his elbow, his eyes
fixed upon the distant sky, as if expecting some portent.
It was all of a turbid blue; with dim, sunken gold, here
and there gleaming doubtfully through the clouds. I

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

moved—for it was damp and chilly, and I was anxious
to return. `Awake! awake!' he cried, springing upon
his feet, and shouting so, that the mountains around,
answered on all sides, `awake! there is a noise in heaven!
awake!'

`Awake! awake!' said the echo, so distinctly that I,
who had heard it often in day light, was startled.

`I hear you,' he answered. `Be ye also ready! rebellious
spirits. Ye are summoned.'

The mountain answered, syllable, by syllable, as with
the voice of a trumpet, in the caverns of the earth,
`Ye are summoned!' Why did I shudder. I knew it
was an echo, only an echo. I had heard it a thousand
times, in its most apalling distinctness, and yet I fell
upon my knees, involuntarily, now at the sound, and felt
as if a was summoned indeed.

`Caroline—see'st thou that star—away there?' said
he, `nay, not there—higher, higher!—all alone—so
beautifully tranquil. Well, (his voice grew deeper and
deeper. It was an articulate breathing, and very terrible
in its wild, musical solemnity,) well! when last I
saw that star, it was upon the wide ocean. It was very
cold, and I was alone. I saw it, felt it. Its light fell,
like cold rain upon a naked heart. That night I was
shipwrecked! It is the star of my nativity. It appears to
me again! It is the third time.' (When was the second,
brother, said I, in a terrified whisper.) `Girl!—the second
was on the 22nd of October.' (I uttered an involuntary
cry of horrour.) Thou knowest the reason.
That was the night of his guilt. And now I tremble—
now, in all my joints, at the thought of it; and still,
such was my infatuation, that I never thought of myself,
when he so darkly disclosed his purpose.'

`Caroline,' said he, resuming, `there are strange,
unnatural, incredible experiences in my life, interwoven
with the brief, hurried influences of that star. I came
here to-night, knowing that it would appear. I came
to night, to meet it once more. O, how many tender,
dear, weeping recollections come with it! God of benevolence!—
By the light of that star—ere it blazed
with pestilence and death—and denunciation—ere its

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

colour changed—for once, Caroline, it was the loveliest
star in heaven—the most delicate—there was once
none of that fiery red in it—By the light of that star,
I loved—by it, I was loved again. I wept under it, and
was blessed. I was the happiest of human creatures!
It turned red—and I was wrecked and bloody, ere the
revolution of another moon! O, our father! did I sin
in my idolatry? and was the idol to be sacrificed? O,
why was I not commanded to offer up the blind and
impious idolater? But no—it is impossible. I worshipped
her, it is true—but in her, I worshipped thee.
I saw only thy purity, in her innocent heart—thy benignity,
in her loving eye. By that star, Caroline, He
blessed me, and by that He—even He, commanded—
beheld, nay assisted in the sacrifice. He was the high
priest. The stars were his Urim and Thummim. By
that star, have I loved—battled—conquered—been
driven over the waters, in foam and blood—and drifted
under it—that pale, treacherous, wicked light, a naked
and insensible corse, upon the rocky, and desert islands
of the sea. I feel thy raying in my very hair—and
yet, even yet, my allegiance to thee is unshaken. Still
thou hast dominion over me. Thou art very beautiful,
star of my idolatry—and very fatal, yet I do not curse
thee. And why? Only because, with thy dim and quiet
light, thou didst once shine down upon the naked forehead
of Elvira, when her cheek rested upon mine.
But for that—that, thou accursed light, I would have
made war upon thee—war! perpetual war, till thou or
I were quenched. It was upon this very altar. There
she sat—there, she put down her sweet hand—poor Elvira.
Caroline, do not move, I charge thee, do not. A
strong hand is over thee. It were death to stir.'

`Nay, my brother,' said I, startled at his imperative
manner, and now beginning to fear for him, and lamenting
my own rashness in accompanying so far at
such an hour. `Nay, I cannot, do not mean unkindly.
I would not leave thee. I know the awful structure of
thy thought. Thou art strong—very strong, on all subjects
but one. On that, I dare not trust thee. Thou art
vitally wrong. Remember thy endowments; whose

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steward art thou? the suffering of thy boyhood, Oscar;
the peculiar and mysterious incidents, which to me,
with my susceptibility to thy influence, were only
strange and unaccountable, have been regarded by thee—
nay, deny it not, as of a nature not of this world.
This has made thee visionary. Bear with me, Oscar.
It is weakness—nay, it is worse, ten thousand times
worse. It is impiety to believe it. My brother, what
means this emotion? Is there something yet untold—
even yet? If there be, speak to me, in mercy. Tell me
the worst at once. Let not my imagination worry itself
again, in darkness, with the wrestling fiends that
invade her empire.'

Oscar made no reply, but throwing himself upon his
feet, and raising his locked hands to his forehead, he
cried, in a tone of sudden eagerness and solemnity, that
thrilled me to the heart—`Come, come, let us begone!
The night air blows too coldly upon thee, my love—
Come, come. Nay, Caroline, dear. Thy very hair is
wet, thy very garments drenched, in the dew of night.
Cold! cold! and art thou not afraid? How long have we
been here? Is it possible—three whole hours.'

`Even so,' said I, taking his arm; `but they are
three such hours, as I could not pass again.'

`What! not with me, in loneliness and silence. Girl!
they are hours of religious festival, worth a whole life
of less awful, less agitating devotion. I would not exchange
this temple, this altar—such scenery, and such
feelings, so melancholy and wrapt, for all that the world
could give!'

`My brother,' said I, `let us begone.'

`How hollow thy voice sounds, Caroline,' said he,
pressing close to me, and speaking in a deep whisper.

`Nay, nay—not now I beseech thee!' he cried, in a
tone of expostulation, so wild and unearthly that I shall
never, never forget it—`not now! not now! I cannot!'
This he said, as if to some invisible creature near him.
`Not to-night! Oh no! not to-night!' he repeated, in a
whisper, turning his face as he spoke, as if something
stood at his shoulder —`what! must it be? O, Caroline!'

He covered his face with his hands—fell upon his

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knees, caught mine to his lips, and wept upon them,
and sobbed out my name, in a paroxysm of tenderness.
I wondered at his emotion, and would have knelt by
him but he prevented me, and I fell upon his neck.—
`Heavenly Father,' said he, raising his dark eyes in
the starlight. `I obey! Caroline—look up! look up! thy
star is in its wane!'

`I see nothing unusual,' said I—`my star—where is
it?'

`What, nothing—nothing! look at its sulphurous
hue, its flashing—there! there! does it not sensibly diminish—
there! what sayest thou now, Caroline?'

`Some cloud hath passed it,' said I, with a faltering
voice, for I was intimidated by his manner, and affected
by his wildness.

`No, no,' said he, rising—`no cloud hath passed it.
It was ever thus with mine.'

`My brother! do not look so terribly upon me. I
cannot bear the awful brightness of thine eyes. They
frighten me,' said I, inconceivably terrified, and endeavouring
to soothe him.

`Caroline—Caroline!—Caroline!'—said he, in a loud
voice—`listen!'

`Caroline!' echoed back the mountain, in a sepulchral
tone—`listen!'

`I quaked in every limb—I could have covered my
eyes, and leaped down the precipice for relief; but, with
a strong hand Oscar held me, as he uttered, in a
low voice, `Caroline, there is something preternatural
in the darkening of thy star to-night. I feel a—nay,
why tremble?—the commission has gone forth. I am
summoned. Thou art summoned. I am commanded;
and I shall obey!'

`Obey!' answered the mountain.

`Ha! art thou so near!' cried Oscar—`Lo! I am ready.'

`Lo! I am ready!' answered the mountain, in a voice,
so fearfully near and distinct, that I shrieked aloud!—
innumerable shrieks followed! of such appalling and
continued shrillness, as if a congregation of unhappy
spirits had, all at once, uttered their voices in dismay
and horrour.

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Oscar relinquished my hand, and fled from me a
few paces. `What!' said he, `art thou too, sold to him!
O Caroline! Caroline!' but he instantly returned, and
of all that followed, I can only remember what I am
now going to describe. For some time he held a conversation,
in a loud and authoritative tone, as in remonstrance
with the air—stood, and interrogated the mountain,
and when the echo came back to him, he would
reply again and again to it, as to something visible.
All hope forsook me. I had never seen him so far gone.

`The extinction of that star,' said he, in a lower
voice, looking at the flat rock, and speaking as to some
person sitting upon it, `is ominous. Thou art a hard
master—yes! yes! thou canst not terrify me now—thou
art! thou art!'

`Look brother! look!' said I, willing, terrified as I
was, to divert the dreadful fixedness of his eye to heaven—
`Look! it is bright again!'

`True,' said he, without lifting his eyes, or turning
his head. `But I care not. It portends no re-illumination
here. It is always thus; it foretells some calamity—
some! do I not know what? Alas, too well—The
Almighty is upon me. I must do it. She shall be saved—
I care nothing for myself. Her hour has come!'

`Her hour has come!' answered the echo, and Oscar
stood upright before me, like a priest about to perform
the rite of sacrifice.

I shook from head to foot; my limbs tottered. A
cold mist arose from my heart, and choked and blinded
me The sweat dropped from my forehead upon my
hands. Even now I can hear his voice, and see him
standing before me, in my sleep; and I awake, night
after night, half dead with terrour. It sounds like the
breathed admonition of some dying man. He looks like
some young martyr, that hath burst his sepulcre, and
reappeared, for a more solemn repetition of his martyrdom.
He comes, and looks, as from the charnel
house—and my blood loiters now, even while thinking
of him, in broad day-light, as if he were near—the current
thickened and coagulated with his influence.

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