“How benignant! how beautifully tranquil!” said
Harold to Bolton, “every moment developing newer
and higher qualities—growing wiser and older with
the wise and the old; fighting every man with his
own weapons; and that, not for victory, but truth; look
at his countenance now! what sublime repose!”

Harold felt an irresistible desire to prolong these discussions.
This strife of words!—was it not a type of
his own warfare in the wilderness—such coolness, collectedness,
composure? The planted foot—planted
against the whole world, as in despite—and never advancing,
nor receding, but with a noble expression of
fearlessness, as if sure that the new ground was familiar
alike to him, and that every step, no matter which
way it was taken, was one step toward the consummation
of his purpose.

On another occasion, they had passed a slave ship. It
was in a hot latitude, and corpse after corpse was plunged
into the warm blue water, as they lay a whole night
within hail of her, utterly becalmed, in a moonlight, so
holy, and so beautiful, that all the voices on board,
even those of lamentation, sounded like prayer in the
wind.

There was one universal pause of horrour and affright,
on board the ship, as something that floated past, was
discovered to be the naked body of a black; it was bleeding
all over from the assaults of innumerable little fish—
the eyes were eaten out of their sockets. But while they
were looking at it, and shuddering—a sharp ripple was
seen approaching, and the next moment the body disappeared
entirely—the water grew of a darker tinge, and
the trunk soon after emerged, gushing with crimson!—
There was a general cry of horrour, as if they had seen
half of a living creature swallowed by a shark, and the
other half palpitating on the water, as their sick hearts
turned away in loathing.

“Ten thousand curses on that vessel and her crew!”
was the suppressed ejaculation of many; while others
groaned aloud, and Oscar stood, with the sweat starting
from his forehead, aud his hands clasped, and locked,
and raised.

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

He breathed aloud, as a sudden plunge announced the
interment of another from the slave ship.—“O God!
that I might open the batteries of this vessel upon her,
and send them all, at this moment, before thy seat, for
judgment!—the murdered and the murderers, face to
face! the accuser and the accused—the accurser and
the accursed! But—thy will be done!”

A deeply interesting conversation followed, in which
Oscar did not participate, except at intervals, until he
was compelled, in a measure to it, by Harold. And
when he did, it was in a manner, so profound and familiar,
at the same time evincing such research, and
boldness, that men, who would have trembled and shrunk
from any other man that uttered the same snetiments,
clung to him with unaffected sincerity and affection.

“With the soldier,” said one, in speaking of him afterwards,”
this extraordinary man has talked, till I
have heard him claimed as an accomplished captain;
with politicians, until I have seen them rise and embrace
him—lost in wonder at the clearness and grandeur
of his speculations, the unspeakable wisdom and
foresight of his predictions. Yes, I have seen him
claimed, at the same moment, on a bet, by four different
professional men, each of whom was distinguished in
his way. You may judge of his powers, and of their
variety from that.”

None liked him at first; none but him that could claim
kindred with him, could endure his lofty, stern aspect, at
times. In argument, he stood like some great captain
at bay, sure of the result, beleaguered in his retirement,
and permitting his enemies to exhaust themselves for
his amusement; making a sally, now and then, before
which, they were consumed and scattered, like dust in
a whirlwind of fire. Who could remember, young as
he was, when he had been conquered? where was the
man that could say to him, on any subject, thus far shalt
thou go, and no further! Often did he arise, like
some high priest, for the sacrifice, and his words then
were as the distinct, successive reverberations of thunder.
His look was inspiration, terrible, and overpowering,
not so much with the fire and splendour, as with weight

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

and solemnity. Often was his a passionate eloquence,
before which the wisdom of others became garrulity
and infatuation. Those who listened, listened in thraldom,
even when prepared for, and jealous of his power.
There was such an air of earnestness, assurance, self
conviction, such a total disregard of all trick and preparation—
he was so plain, direct, and intelligible, that
every heart heaved as he approached, and discharged
itself of all suspicion, and all panoply.

On another occasion, while the matter of the slave
ship was still the theme of general execration and horrour,
Oscar turned slowly to one who had been holding
forth, uninterrupted, for a long time, as if sure of sympathy
and accordance on such a theme. “I like your
warmth, my dear sir,” said he; “it argues an uncorrupted
heart, but permit me to tell you that it is a proof of
your inconsiderateness.”

“You are talking of the laws of England (his opponent
was a lawyer) I have listened to you with great
pleasure. But you are mistaken. The laws of England
do justify slavery. You are startled—you wonder
at my presumption. Hearken a moment, and I will convince
you that you have too hastily repeated the language,
and not the doctrine of Westminster Hall. Nay, more,
the Doctor there, has spoken a good deal, for which I
acknowledge myself deeply indebted to him, on the conformation
and colour of the blacks—and our good friend,
the clergyman has contended, erroneously I think, that
this accursed practice is interdicted by heaven. My
friends, I have but little to say. But I will undertake
to prove this proposition: namely, that slavery, as
it exists, in the British colonies, (for it is of them that
you are speaking) is justified, first, by scripture, next by
analogy through all the dependencies of nature; and
thirdly, by the history of all nations; and fourthly, Sir,
for your sake, by the laws of England—and by all laws
human and divine.”

“One word, however, on another subject, before I begin.
These opinions of mine have been formed under peculiar
and trying circumstances, and I forewarn you all,

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

that, notwithstanding your unwillingness to agree with
me, and all your prejudices against me, that I shall certainly
convince you of some things that you now deem
impossible.”

“You smile, gentlemen. I do not wonder at it; but
I have convinced myself, and I have always found that
more difficult than to convince another. I know myself.
You do not know me. You cannot. Yor underrated
me once, when we first encountered—I speak to you Mr.
Bolton; I crossed and thwarted you all, I fear, in wantonness.
I am sorry for it. Now you overrate me—
It is always so with the world; while one is poor, he is
rated lower than he deserves; when he becomes rich,
he is rated higher. So with talent; the unknown are underrated—
the known and eminent overrated. The
world love the marvellous, and the uncommon is their
aliment.”

“But sir,” (addressing an old man) “you are a statesman,
an Englishman, a friend of the black man. So am
I. It is our duty to follow truth, wherever it shall lead
us, to discharge our hearts of all prejudice: and if we
would do the African justice, to be wary and circumspect
against his enemies. Follow me—watch me—beware of
yourself and me.”

“What is slavery? Are we to depend upon the definition
of men that make books? That is one thing—but
the slavery that is, is a qualified servitude, not moral
nor intellectual, involving neither life nor limb.

“But, say the lawyers,—Aristotle (for he was a
lawyer then) Grotius, Puffendorf, et id genus omnes,
Slavery is absolute. That is, they give a definition of
it, and then prove that it cannot exist! Say they, no man
can give up his moral freedom. The laws of God are
paramount to all others. No man can give to another
the right to make him violate the laws of God. But this
is nonsense. It is reasoning in a circle. Man cannot be
a slave because he cannot give up his moral liberty: and
he cannot give up his moral liberty, because he cannot
be a slave.”

“All the arguments of these great men only go to prove
that no such thing as a slave can be, in any way, right or

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

wrong. But such a thing is, nevertheless. The fault
then, must be in their definition. Take my definition—
a slave is one held to perpetual servitude, having no
right of property—whose posterity are slaves. Now
this is the condition which I am to prove is justified by
all law, human and divine.”

“Slavery, say the lawyers too, can be in three ways
only: first, by war—secondly, by purchase—thirdly by
birth.

“But,” say they too, in neither of these ways can
one become a slave! Not by war; for the only right
you have over your enemy's life (as if the master must
necessarily hold the life of his slave at his mercy) is for
your own safety. The moment then, that you forbear
to kill him in battle, that minute you prove that his
death is not necessary to your life, and consequently
your right over him ceases!—Not by purchase,
say they—because the property of the slave is the property
of the master—and consequently, the moment that
the money is paid into the hands of the slave, the bargain
is complete, and slave and money are both belonging
to the master. This cannot be a fair purchase, and
therefore there can be no slavery by purchase:—None
by inheritance—because, there being no way to make
slaves of parents, there can be no such thing as slavery
by birth! Sir, I appeal to you. Is not that the argument,
ten thousand times repeated, of your greatest lawyers
and civilians?”

The lawyer bowed assent—and blushed.

“Now, let us examine this, step by step. They grant
me the right of killing my enemy in battle. Does not
the greater involve the less? And who shall judge of
this necessity? I, and I alone. If I may take his life,
surely I may take his limbs; and surely, if I am willing
to hazard the trial, I may venture to bind him, and bear
him off; and if my right to kill him, arise from his being
my enemy, I may slay him at home, and at leisure, on
the first symptom of disobedience.”

“No,” said the lawyer. “There is no compact.”

“None express. I admit. But is there not one implied?
Is it not for his benefit? And has not he, the power, if he

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

find servitude worse than death, of escaping from it, at any
time, by death. Besides, battle is a game. The parties
play for profit. The prisoner is the property of his
conqueror, all over the world; his slave emphatically.
This is so, not only in Barbary, but all over Europe.
Prisoners of war are made to work upon the fortifications;
and are exchanged or delivered up, without ransom,
only by especial treaties. Besides, they are chained and
murdered, whenever the conqueror pleases. Witness
Agincourt. Battle is a game; and its penalties must be
paid. Having a right over the life of mine enemy,
with nought but mine own discretion to regulate its exercise,
I have a right to forbear, at any peril, to take his
life; and a right to commute it, if I please, into perpetual
servitude, to which his assent must be implied, because
he has the power in his own hands of returning to the
original agreement, when he pleases, and exchanging
servitude for death.”

2d. “But he cannot be a slave by purchase! The
reason, you have seen. But what is to prevent him from
becoming a slave by purchase, if the money go to another,
as a parent? Cannot a son ransom a father? Cannot
a debtor sell himself for money, already received?

“By war and purchase then, slavery may arise, and
consequently it may, for ought that we see, by birth.”

“But is there not a fourth way! Cannot a man forfeit
his right to liberty by his crimes? surely he may.
What are the jails, galleys, prison-ships, and courts of
justice that we see, but proofs of this? Is not imprisonment
slavery? Is it not an atonement, in servitude, to the
offended law?”

“But I disdain all this. I scorn to rely upon it. I
have only argued thus, to show to what an enormous extent,
the admission of the wisest and best men, will go,
if vigorously pursued. Only grant to me the right of
taking my enemy's life; and a slavery follows, infinitely
more terrible than any we know, because a perpetual enmity
will be between the conqueror and captive, and,
of course, a perpetual power of life and death, in the
former, over the latter. Grant to me the right of going
to war, and letting myself, my limbs and life, out to hire,

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

and it follows, of necessity, that I may stipulate with my
master, by contract, that he may hew me to pieces when
it shall please him. Grant me the right of legislatures
to take away the life or limb of a subject, and I will
prove, therefore, that he may dispose of both, just as he
pleases”

“But I rely on the whole doctrines of analogy, and
law.” The company were here apparently confounded
by the rapidity and suddenness of his combinations. They
were endeavouring to follow him.

“Man!” said the clergyman, “would that I could
answer thee, but I cannot. There is an obliquity in
thy vision, and thou seest things, not as thou shouldst,
but as thou wouldst. All thy sublime faculties, for it
is in vain to deny thy power—it is enough for us to
resist it—are warped and perverted, by a diseased ambition.
But go on! go on, thou dangerous man!”

The stranger smiled, but resumed, in a melancholy
tone, like one assured of his own resources, and confident
of victory. “This is what I expected, my dear,
sir; but have patience.”

“Slaves are protected, in life and limb, in all countries;
call them what you please, villains, bondmen,
cerfs, helots, boors, peasants, or what not. If they are
slain by their masters, the latter only escape, by their
power; and that will protect any man, at any time, in
the commission of any crime.”

“But may a man bind himself to servitude for life?
Oh no, say you of the long robe, He cannot. But
you say falsely. Your equity courts will perhaps enjoin a
specifick performance of such contracts, where the servant
is an artizan, for instance; and your law courts do
it effectually, by making the servant pay for a breach of
contract, or, if he cannot, by sending him to prison, where
he completes his term of slavery, if his master be so disposed.”

“Are not all men slaves—servants—until they are
twenty-one, in England; and twenty-five in France? Is
there any reason why this minority should not be shortened
or lengthened? Does not the law enforce this?”

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

“Do not apprentices bind themselves for many years,
and does not the law enforce their contract? What is
a bankrupt but a slave to his creditor—does not the latter
swallow up all his earnings, often and often?”

“What is impressment? Our celebrated Habeas Corpus
is useless there. Do not soldiers, sailors, nay, every
officer of government and every individual, dispose of
their liberty, in a more or less unqualified manner, as in
marriage? and does not the law hold them to it? Is not
even a clergyman a servant, bound by law, to the performance
of his appointed servitude? So are your
judges and your government at the universities.”

“Thus we see that men may and do bind themselves,
for months, years, nay, for their lives, under the sanction
and authority of the law, and let the compensation go to
their families, or to any third person.”

“But can they divest themselves of the right to property?
That, we know, is a distinctive badge of slavery.”

“We say yes; why not? Does not the man, who involves
himself in debt, do this? Is it not, in effect, abandoning
the right to property, if, by no possible event, he
can ever possess any—if it must all belong to his creditors.
Do not men, daily, contract obligations, which leave
them, thus, without any right to property? Or suppose
that they have the right left. It is as useless, as it would
be to the slave, who should be bound to pay his master
100,000 pounds, when he should have a right to all that
he could afterwards get.”

“A man may then, by contract bind himself to servitude
for life; and divest himself, effectually, of all right
to property.”

“But may he bind his posterity? This seems a question
of great difficulty at first. But where is the hardship?
Is it not heaven's appointment? Are not the sins of the
father visited upon the children? Do not the vices and
disgraces of a father, as well as his virtues, descend
to his children? Are not diseases hereditary? Is
it not wise that they should be so? What can more
effectually teach circumspection, to the dissolute and
abandoned, than the knowledge that this is so? Does not
the property of a parent descend to his children? and in

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

a measure, do not his obligations? In justice they ought.
There would be no hardship in it.”

The lawyer smiled—“But sir—this is only declamation—
analogy—the law if you please.”

“The law! sir, I should scorn to introduce it, on such an
occasion, with all its absurdities, and nonsense, so technical
and unintelligible, did you not drive me to it. But
since you have, I will show you, sir, that the law supports
it in principle.”

“Have you studied the civil law? At first, you know,
the child was obliged to answer the obligations of his
father. This might be very wise, because it would
teach that father circumspection, as in our doctrines of
forfeiture, and attainder in high treason.—You are
startled sir,—But I have not half done. After this, the
heir was permitted to choose between taking the estate
and paying the debts, or refusing it, and escaping. And
finally, he was permitted, by indulgence, to wait until
the value of the estate was known, before he chose.”

“So much for the Roman law. Now for yours.
What is your whole doctrine of warranty—lineal and
collateral—but an entailed obligation upon a man's posterity?
Nay, even upon his kindred? What your doctrines
of inheritance? And what your doctrine of allegiance?
Here I am peremptory, sir, and emphatick, because this
contains the very principle, for which I contend. A man
binds his posterity, forever and ever, by merely begetting
them.”

“By the divine and human law; the laws of Rome
and England, a man may bind his posterity. Here are
the three constituents of slavery! Are not the elements,
I submit it to you, sir, are they not all found in the
British constitution, and in the doctrines of British law?”

The lawyer was astonished. But he had the manhood
to admit it. “And now, sir, for you (to the clergyman),
I have paid some attention to the bible, and I believe that
I can give you authority, chapter and verse, from that, to
justify slavery; and then, the practice of all nations.”

“O, sir, not so fast,” said the clergyman, “the practice
of all nations will prove nothing for you. There is
no crime but may be so justified.”

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

“I beg your pardon, sir. And I believe that you will find
that there is no crime whatever, which all nations have
united in being guilty of. Each nation has its own,
I admit. But slavery is justified and practised by all nations,
and unless war be another, there is no example of
such unanimity in any criminal action.”

“The bible—if you please, sir—the Hebrew,”—said
the divine, a little nettled.

“Well, the Jews made slaves, and they were God's
chosen people. I remember many express regulations
on the subject. A father might sell himself from poverty,
25 Lev. 39. He might sell his children, 21 Ex. 7.
A thief was sold, when he could not pay his fine, 22. Ex.
3, 4. Creditors could seize and sell their insolvent
debtors, or their children, 2 Kings, c. 4, v. 1. Prisoners
of war could be sold. A Hebrew slave, ransomed from
a gentile, might be sold. Hebrews were slaves to Hebrews
for six years.

“What more shall I say? The whole scriptures are
full of ordinances and canons on the subject of slavery.
Shall I look for analogy? Do we not find, through all
creation, a perpetually diminishing gradation, order and
dependence? through the animal, vegetable, and mineral
kingdom? Is not one man stronger and wiser than his
neighbour? Is not dependence and servitude natural to
the weak? Even in the cradle, you find distinctive attributes;
Hercules and his brother were not more unlike
than twins often are. Nature, God himself, through all
his illimitable universe, has established different degrees
of dependence. This qualified slavery is but one.”

“On the whole then, you justify slavery,” said Harold,
shuddering. “Yes—slavery, as I have defined it, and
as it is. Do not mistake me. I do not justify the stealing
slaves, or going to war, for the purpose of capturing
human creatures. But I say this, that a man, as free as
I am, at this hour, may bind himself and posterity to perpetual
servitude; and abandon the right of property for
himself and them, and thus make himself a slave, in the
truest sense of the word, under the English law, if principles
and analogy be followed.”

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

This long, long discussion ended—the company separated
for the night, but Harold heard some one, in passing
him say, audibly, in his ear, “Beware of that man!”
He turned—there was no one whom he could suspect,
except the clergyman, and the old man. He went forthwith
to Oscar, and told him what he had heard.

Oscar pressed his hand. “The warning was friendly;
regard it, Harold. Beware of me. I say the same. Indeed,
indeed, Harold,” he added. in a melancholy, wild
voice, while he laid Harold's hand to his heart,—“All
is not right there Harold—no, nor here, (putting it to his
forehead—Harold's teeth chattered—it was as cold as
death!) I am afraid that I am not in my right senses.”

Harold was so touched by the tone, in which this was
said, that he burst into tears!

“Oscar,” said he, tenderly—“would I could comfort
thee—thou most extraordinary man! what can I do for
thee?”

“I know not—leave me. It were best for thee and
me, Harold, that we never met again. Thy sympathy
will be fatal to thee else. Leave me!”

Harold gazed upon him in astonishment. A new expression
floated athwart his pale countenance, like the
shadow of spirits upon the water, at midnight,—when
the moon shines.

“Young man,” said Oscar, “beware! What the united
opposition and enmity of the whole world hath failed
to do, for whole years, thou hast done, by one simple
ejaculation. Thou hast touched my heart. Its panoply
is shivered. Its iron is dissolving. Its poison is diluted.
In one word—I love thee, Harold, and there was a time
when I never meant to say that to any human being.
Harold, look at me. Thou canst form some notion of
what I might have been, by what I am. But thou never
canst entirely know, how wickedly and wantonly I have
misapplied my power. At this moment, I feel the rebuke
of thy youthful nature so overpowering to me, that
mine grows unsteady, reels and repents before it.”

“Repent!” cried Harold, “repent of what! of having
silenced the old and the wise, taught wisdom to grey
hairs, and borne all before thee, in the irresistible strength
of thy coming and going!”

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

“Yea, even of that, do I repent me Harold—even of
that! I see in thee, the same unhallowed, regardless
spirit. I implore thee, Harold, I adjure thee, dear Harold,
as I would my brother, or my child, to strive with
it,—wrestle with it, night and day; else wilt thou be,
what I am, a dreaded and avoided man, repulsive and
unsocial. Like me, thou art striving for any dominion,
so it be absolute, for any: though compounded of hatred
and distrust. Beware of it; it is a lying spirit. It will
make thee (lowering his voice, and speaking in a tone
that thrilled through and through the marrow of his
proselyte) detested, shunned, abhorred!—none will love
thee—none endure thee—beware!”

Harold's arms, already reached to embrace the sublime
creature, in his desolation, dropped powerless at his
side, as if struck down by an invisible weapon, at the
sound of his voice.

He stood appalled, quaking. His spirit which, a
moment before, was all up in arms with that of Oscar,
as it stood and swayed the very senses of men, now tottered
in his rebuke, like a child before the stern countenance
of a giant.

All this was inexplicable. The more he thought of it,
the more mysterious and perplexing it became. Whence
this sympathy, this awe? was Oscar unhappy? No. It
could not be called unhappiness. It was something darker,
loftier. There were times, when his keen, searching
eye, appeared turning inward, and surveying some empire
in ruins;—when a cold, discontented, but majestick
shadowing of the brow would follow, and he would
smile—ignorantly it might be, but his smile was the sarcastic
levity of an enthroned spirit, looking down, with
patient forbearance, upon the petty, and annoying calamities
of life. It was the look of something wicked in its
nature, restrained from the commission of evil, only by
contempt for its littleness—withheld from revelling
in the excess of consummate guilt and devastation, only
because guilt was of such every-day occurrence. At
times too, Harold had seen his countenance, by lamp
light, instantaneously changed, as it were to a pale bronze;
and over his high white forehead, he had seen the faint

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

crimson rush so suddenly, as to startle him—like the reflection
of a red meteor, in passing, as if some unknown
element, etherial as the hue of sunset, had been suddenly
let loose in his bosom, and flashed, instantly, through
all his extremities. And he had seen him too, when he
turned deadly pale, while he was alone, and silent;—and
then the waking up, the shifting of his wild and beautiful
eye—the mournful and expressive tenderness, the
immaterial, spiritual solemnity of his manner, as he
strove to recover his collectedness, were wonderful
things to the observation of poor Harold; things of inconceivable
interest.

Their attachment increased—they had been blown out
of their course, and the passage had been, already, of an
unprecedented length, and they now occupied the same
state room; till, at last, Oscar appeared uneasy when
they were not together. This was what Harold coveted.
He wanted this study all to himself. So many noble, unearthly,
heroick qualities were only given for the contemplative.
The apparent sullenness and misanthropy of
Oscar soon took their real shape and dimensions. It
was wretchedness—wretchedness, so extreme, and hopeless,
that Harold, yea, even Harold himself, who never
wept at any corporeal agony of his own, absolutely sobbed
as though his heart were breaking, as he saw Oscar,
one night, when he awoke by chance, leaning backward
in his birth, the whole live-long night, with his eyes shut,
and the lamp shining in his face—his hands locked upon
his bosom—and large drops of sweat standing upon his
forehead and temples. His breathing was audible—like
the beating of a heart oppressed to suffocation. Harold
watched him, after this, night after night. He found
that he never appeared to sleep. He was wasting away,
in silence, as by some mortal poison, and Harold could
see him fade, while he was talking with him. What kept
him alive? he knew not. He ate not, drank not, and
the rigid determination of his countenance, waxed, every
hour, more steady, resolute, deadly and sublime.

Thus many nights had passed, and poor Harold, who
had but lately recovered from the agitated and passionate
remembrance of his parting with Loena—would shiver

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

now, as if an ague were upon him, from pure sympathy
with the solitary and afflicted stranger.

But this could not last forever. At midnight he was
suddenly aroused. A cold hand lay upon his bosom. He
awoke, and found little Leopold clinging to him, and
gasping for breath.

“Arise!” cried a voice, that he had never heard before.
Harold's hair bristled. “Arise,” repeated the
voice. He had heard it before! It was dark, awfully
dark. The voice appeared to come from a great
height above him. Where was he? It was the voice of
a high wind. He endeavoured to recollect himself; but
the horrours of superstition were upon him, and his
joints rattled, as he shrunk backward from the cold hand,
that still pressed upon him, with supernatural strength.
For his soul, he could not articulate a sound. An unaccountable
fear made his flesh creep. Was he awake?
He was—for he felt poor little Leopold quaking under
the clothes, as if he had been dislocated by some frightful
apparition.

A loud tread upon deck, and the changing of the tiller—
and then the huge flapping of the main sheet, as if it were
rent fore and aft, by the movement, followed the voice
and shook Harold almost from his birth. A strong gleam
of light shone down the steps, and through the sky lights,
and rested upon an opening door opposite, where the
lamps were expiring in blue smoke. “What—Ha!—
what art thou?” cried Harold, and fell back, with a
loud groan, into his birth. The cries of Leopold, half
frantick with terrour, soon brought assistance. And who
was that being—what was it—whence? It was Oscar,
but so worn and ghastly, so frightfully altered, since Harold
had seen him, in the morning, before he shut himself
up in his room, that Harold could hardly believe his
senses. He stood before him like a dead man—his hollow
eyes and sunken temples—O! if ever death were preternaturally
busy, it was then!—The dew of the sepulchre
was upon his limbs. The veins on his livid forehead
were full and swollen, and dark and agitated, like
live worms—and when the pressure of his fingers was felt
upon Harold's wrist, his pulse stopped!—the blood

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

retreated, shivering, to his heart—and even that organ seemed
to contract and hide itself with a mortal spasm at the
touch. Oscar put his hand upon Harold's forehead—his
very brain grew cold—and he shuddered, as he put it
aside, almost with rudeness—“whence art thou to night?
Art thou Oscar? Speak!” cried Harold, his teeth almost
chattering with affright.

“Arise!” cried the voice that he had heard twice before.
Was it his? O, it could not be—it came from
a far—far—place—the depth of the ocean, mayhap, or
the hollow caverns of heaven.—But Harold obeyed, mechanically.
They ascended to the deck. Lord! what
a night it was! The whole firmament was embossed, with
flowered silver—all over white and shining, with a profusion
of gems, glittering prodigally about it, like powdered
jewellery—seed pearls, thrown by handfuls over some
magnificent white velvet tenting cloth.

“Come hither,” said the same melancholy, distant
voice—Harold looked whence the sounds issued, but the
lips were motionless—“Come hither!” it repeated, drearily.
They approached the stern of the vessel.

“I have seen her!” said the voice.

“Seen whom!”

“Hush! hush!” it cried, “I have seen her. Lo!—
there she rises! Look there upon her. “Dearest! I am
coming.” O God what a voice! thought Harold, so
sweet, so tender, so plaintive,—O, I would follow it to
the depths of the ocean!—Harold looked where Oscar
pointed, and saw, or fancied that he saw, afar off, a dim
shadow, emerging, in the bright wake of the ship. Could
it be possible—“great heaven, it is approaching!” cried
Harold, gasping for breath.

“Hush, hush!” said Oscar with increased solemnity—
his eyes glistening dreadfully in the moonlight—“Hush,
She is coming. Speak not, breathe not—or the charm
is broken.” Harold shut his eyes.

Oscar waved his arm. “There is thy ring, love, take
it,” he said, in a low, disconsolate voice. “I will reclaim
it, in thy bridal chamber, ere the moon hath set,—”
plucking somewhat from his hand, and throwing into
the water.

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

“What, is it gone!” said Harold doubtfully, as he
ventured to open his eyes. “Hush! boy—hush! or I
will strangle thee on the spot,” whispered Oscar. But
Harold could see nothing now. “She has descended
for the ring!—There! there!—now look—she has it—
she has it! how it glitters upon her pale finger!—Harold,
give me thy hand—I cannot see thee—where art
thou—farewell—I would look upon thee, would kiss thee
once, ere we part forever, for I love thee—but—I cannot,
dare not take my eyes from her face again. Farewell!
I am going.—Twelve years ago, I lost her—by
merely turning away my eyes—for twelve years I have
hunted her—through earth—through air—through sky
and ocean.—Farewell—be quick—be quick—This is
the appointed hour—midnight—dearest! I cannot come
till midnight is accomplished—thou knowest that.—It
was here, Harold—one moment more—my heart beats
time—It was here that I—I—I—slew her—here! in
the middle of the ocean—and here we meet—dear creature!—
broken heart, with broken heart—the ocean our
sepulchre—our bridal chamber!—”

Before Harold could put out his hand—Oscar's night
dress brushed by him, and he saw him alight upon the
water, at an amazing distance, astern. His first impulse
was to follow him—but Leopold, with his head in his
bosom, still clung distractedly about his neck—His next
was—but it was too late, the vessel was sailing like a hawk
through the heavens,—to call for assistance. He shrieked—
but he could not make himself heard. His knees
knocked together. At this moment, the vessel shifted
her course, and in her glittering wake, just as the watch
at the top cried out “a man overboard,” and all hands
flew to put her about—he saw a something—could it be—
he felt that he was cruelly disturbed—but indeed it appeared
to him, as he rubbed his eyes, and gazed upon it,
that there were two figures in the water, toiling and toiling
together—nay, he was sure of it—for he distinctly
saw two black spots—and then they seemed to approach,
and stand up, upon the wave.

He was gone—gone forever. They put about, and
sent out their boats in all directions; and covered the sea

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

with plank and casks and spars lashed with ropes, but
the moon went down, darkly, and there was no hope
left.

Harold seemed rooted to the spot. He suffered the
child to be taken from him, without knowing how, or by
whom. He felt a fearful apprehension that he himself
should die in some such terrible manner—in delirium.
Was he not like Oscar? alike in every strong and terrible
attribute?—every evil passion?—melancholy—peculiar?—
loving and beloved?—to distraction—death!—with,
and by a broken heart?—an outcast too—an abandoned
one! “O God of my fathers!” he cried, in the agony of
his spirit—take me also. O take me now, even now, in
my unpreparedness—let me not live to be a madman!
She is gone—she!—the unspeakably dear one. I feel
her chamber in my heart, cold, cold, and desolate—untenanted—
it is a sepulchre! Yea—she is gone. And
O, I pray thee, let me be with her! The waters are rolling
between us.—She is tempted, perhaps—and where
am I?—She is weary and dying—and I am afar off!”

For the first time, now, poor Harold began to feel, in
its extremest latitude, the doubtfulness and apprehension
of love. Hitherto, he had been assured and confident;
and while he turned back, with a swelling heart, to the
western horizon, and thought, in the deepest devotion of
his spirit, with his hands trembling upon his bosom, of
his dear Indian girl, the gentlest and kindest of human
beings,—her, who would have laid down life for him, a
thousand times over—the creature of heroick, but untried
principle—and when he so turned, with these holy and
uplifting thoughts, he was happy, even under the apprehension
that she was—possibly, no more—or what was
yet worse, possibly alienated from him!—But now, he
was miserable—yea, the most miserable of God's creatures.—
Why did he ever leave her! he asked himself a
thousand and a thousand times.—Where was she? among
strangers—and he!—upon the pathless water—shutting
his eyes wilfully upon the only star that shone upon
him in his desolation!—leaving it to go out—unthought
of—like a neglected vestal fire, in the far heaven.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

How wild and visionary are our dreamings at such a
season! How Memory, the wizard, delights to dwell
upon, and aggravate all that we have lost; hallowing and
touching out with a melancholy tenderness, every bright
and beautiful spot, in our long journeying of the past, and
concealing, with a gentle waywardness, which we, ourselves,
while feeling the amiable deception practised upon
us, have not the heart to resist!—every infirmity, every
unlovely part, every unholy feature and expression; all
are shrouded in twilight—hidden, like the secret ravages
of death in the consumption, under colour and light, radiant
eyes, and yet more radiant lips—and all that was
endearing, affectionate, captivating, is recalled, with a
bewitching regard to allurement, and more exquisitely
tinted anew, with beauty and delicacy. The faded flowers
are newly perfumed—the grave yard sprinkled anew,
and frankincense burnt, amid musick, and prayer—and
the faces of the dead are hidden, benignantly, that we
may not be too much terrified with the awfulness of reality.—
Emotions, long since forgotten, are set thrilling
anew, like neglected harps—upon which, it is said, that the
spirits of the departed love to repose their fingers, and
breathe their melodious breath.—O what reveries come
to us in these hours of enchantment! The great solitude
of the heart is newly lighted up, and newly peopled—and
musick and dancing are there!—as in a great city after a
pestilence.—The spirits of them that died have their
revelry and feasting, under the necromancy of that enchanter,
Memory!

Poor Harold! a new and impatient sense of confinement
followed the deep revery of his heart. He panted
to tread back the waters; and clasp his dear girl once
more! only once more! to his heart; and then, if so it
should please God, to abandon forever, all his fiery and
fierce schemes of ambition, quench all his arrows that
were stacked for dominion—and enter, hand in hand, the
untrodden solitude of the grave—and there be with her—
and alone—forever and ever! O if that might be—
he had no other wish, nor prayer!

His temples grew animate with the thought. His veins
swelled, as if he were exciting all his mental energies to

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

upheave some weight that threatened to overwhelm him.
Nature could no longer endure it. He fainted—and
slept. A delicious and shifting dream came to him, in
his slumber, but all that he could remember, when he
awoke, the following day, was, that his lips had once
more thrilled to the touch of hers! his dear one's.
There came a beautiful tranquillity and assurance in the
thought. It seemed that he had revenged her, how,
he knew not; but when away from all that we love,
there will come such delicate insinuations of wrong, in
the one, or the other part, and we become so tenderly
solicitous to meet once more, and press the dear hand
of our beloved, and reassure our hearts that we are forgiven.
There was a melancholy oppression upon Harold,
when he awoke. He could have covered his face
and wept, in the mere lunacy of passionate tenderness;
and yet, he was less unhappy than usual, notwithstanding
the sudden and terrific death of Oscar. But he
soon awoke more fully to a sense of his situation. The
month, the season, nay the very day struck upon his
recollection, like the knell of death. It had been nearly
fatal to him once before; and this season had ever been
peculiarly inauspicious. He trembled as the thought
arose, with undefinable apprehension, like one approaching
the scene of some early and distracting bereavement,
some consecrated spot, where he wept and parted—perhaps
forever, with the dear creature of his affection—
the unspeakably beautiful and cherished one—some
place, where he first heard the sorrowful annunciation
of some calamity—no matter what. Who can approach
the insensible things that were about us at such a moment—
be it but a chair—a green turf seat—an old tree—
nay though it be the brightest and greenest spot on
earth, who can approach it, after years have passed
a ay, without growing weaker in every joint,—without
mournful, and sweet associations—attended, while his
eyes are filling and his lips tingling, with some melancholy
presentiment that all has not yet been done in the way
of desolation and bereavement!

Thus it is with time. We are naturally gifted with
superstition. Whatever is mysterious, is

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

preternatural, in the philosophy of simple hearts. They love to
imagine dependencies and associations where they are
touched. And thus, an event, mournful or festive, happening
to some gay reveller, under extraordinary circumstances,
makes a lasting impression on him. The season
comes round again, and he remembers it, with woe or
jubilee, according to its character. His heart quakes or
palpitates till the appointed day, week or month, or perhaps
season, hath wholly past. On that day, he weeps
and gives up his spirit to futurity: or falls to exploring,
with bright eyes, and a confident step, the shadowy
solitude of time and space. Perhaps, while he is thus
occupied, another event, which at every other season had
been disregarded, or forgotten, takes place, holding
affinity in mournfulness or pleasure, with the first.
If the former, his heart is wrung with ten-fold cruelty.
The season becomes accursed, to him. He dreads its return—
and feels that a portion of the blessed year, is
under a blight; a part of the sun's path through a perpetual
eclipse for him.

Let the wisest deny it if he can? All men have their
fortunate and unfortunate seasons of adventure; their
preferences, partialities and antipathies, even to inanimate
things. The wise are only so, in their choice
of objects. Yea, we may say what we will; the
sternest of us will truckle, and look about him, with a
troubled and disconsolate air, as that day approaches,
or that month, which has been successively calamitous to
him. Yea!—and the soberest, will enter rather more
confidently upon any undertaking, if it occur to him, at
the time, that, in similar undertakings he has hitherto
been successful, at similar seasons; for after all
what is the difference,—seasons and places, become
lucky or unlucky to him.

What are our anniversaries—jubilees—festivals, but
a tacit acknowledgment of this?

I speak from neartfelt experience. In my boyhood,
when I ran, barefooted over the wild mountain, heedless
of aught but the flowering precipice, and the blue water,
there was one month, one! in which I was first

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

distinguished; that month was ever after a festival to me: and
there was another, in which I have been forever disappointed,
broken down, and discomfited. And now, even
in my old age, I feel a tenfold assurance, that whatever
I can begin and conclude in that former month, will be
happily concluded. In that month I was never disappointed,
never visited by sorrow, or sickness, or mortification.
Nay more—I am weary of the world, and I feel
assured and certain that in that month, I shall die—and
be happy.

The wise will call this folly. It may be so—it may
be too, that the very belief of failure or success may
lead to it. It may be, that, in the season of flowers, if
aught of an unpleasant aspect obtrude itself upon us, we
persist in believing that there are goodness and beauty
under its disguise: it may be that we thus perfect the
delusion, by perpetual industry. And yet, all the reasoning
and authority of experience cannot dislodge the
tremendous belief that occupies my mind—that—if I
should die in that month of sorrow and disappointment,
I should die a death of horrour, unutterable horrour: but
I shall not—I shall be gathered to my fathers, I am sure,
in the blessed month.

Would heaven that I might believe in the consolation
of philosophy, at such a moment—but I cannot. To
religion only, can I look—with her have I abided and
found comfort. Thrice, in the listlessness of my heart,
have I been torn and lacerated by the wantonness, or
wickedness, or rashness of others—thrice—yea thrice,
mortally wounded, where I had put my whole of happiness,
here and hereafter, I fear, upon the casting of a die.
Thrice have I been shipwrecked, in foam and wind—
and lost my all. Thrice have I been brought down to
the very dust, and prayed that I might no longer live.
Cruelty and desolation beset me, like famished blood-hounds.
But, my nature arose above it all. The same
month, yea almost the same day, was the successive
witness of my annual tribulation, for many years. But,
it hath passed. I was made, by the great and good God,
to be happy, and I have always felt that he would not be
thwarted in his appointment.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

With thoughts like these crowding upon him, and his
poor brain fevered under their importunity, Harold consumed
hour after hour in panting, with a sort of sullen
impatience, for the arrival of the ship to some land, he
cared not where, so that he might tread firmly, once
more upon the earth, and feel no longer the everlasting
motion, heaving, and giddiness of the sea.

While lying in this way, one afternoon, with a disposition
guardedly contracting from all intercourse with
others, he was startled by a hurried movement on deck—
a prolonged cry—and a general rushing and trampling.
He listened, and a musquet was fired just over his head.
He raised himself up, and discovered, through the distant
window, a sail. No great matter, one would think—but
after an endless voyage, over the lonely and unfrequented
solitudes of the ocean, every animate and inanimate thing
is pleasant; every thing that reminds you of your relationship
to other human beings. You are, as the survivors
of the flood—not certain but that the dry land
may have passed away since you left it; not certain,
until you meet some other human being, like yourself,
adrift upon the water, but that you are the wreck of a
whole world. You may smile at this extravagance, but
is it not, may it not be, the thought of the weary mariner?
Yea, even of the philosopher?

O! it is pleasant to find another creature coming toward
you, with all her sails spread, as if she floated over
the horizon, or emerged from the blue vapour of the
firmament, if it be only to show you that you are not,
as you believe, in the very centre, fixed and motionless,
forever and ever, of the round ocean. For this is the
belief of the senses, go as you will, on the wings of the
wind—you have nought in heaven or earth to mark your
progress: a perfect circle, beyond which, as if it were
an enchanted one, it seems impossible to pass—you are
forever in the centre! and the boundary flies from you,
as you pursue it.

A single sail, thus breaking out of the sky, like a great
angel with his wings spread, comes to your weary and
sick heart, like a celestial visitant; and brings home to
it: with an emphasis, that few can withstand, and none

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

who have not been at sea, can comprehend, all the beautiful,
and tender, and comfortable recollections of home.

Harold arose and went on deck. It was a calm; and
the boats of the stranger were soon alongside, and the
usual inquiries and compliments were interchanged. His
return to the deck was hailed with triumphant acclamations.
He had become, in spite of his reserved and
haughty demeanor, which, in the world would have been
mistaken (if he became distinguished) for a princely
spirit of command, quite a favourite with every one
whom he had thought fit to approach, in his kinder moments.

Harold had a faculty, and one which never left him,
of making whom he would, his friend, and whom he
would, his mortal foe, almost without an effort. If he
chose, there was no resisting his frank, cordial, vehement
manner. Your blood would thrill as you listened. You
would not only feel, as he felt, but look, as he looked.
And, if he chose, there was in his deep toned melancholy,
his inexpressible abstraction, a somewhat of the sullen
and discontented, that, now and then, begat a correspondent
disquietude in all about him. It was not ill humour,
nor sulkiness. It was a sort of intellectual weighing;
but it often looked like the closeted and moody bearing
of a selfish and proud spirit, disdaining to be pleased.
Perhaps it was so, at times: for there were times, when
it seemed that he scorned to hold his happiness by any
tenure common to his brethren; as if he had sworn, and
concentrated all his energies to support the oath, to be
dependent only on himself for enjoyment—careless of all
other earthly things. And yet, how untrue were such
appearances! They who least knew him could remember
some proof of his disinterestedness—and that sacrifices,
of the most painful and trying nature, for the good of
others, were so familiar to him, as to appear a part of
his occupation. All that he said was remembered; all
that he did was forgotten. He said that he would not
yield to others—that he could not weep—that he never
forgot nor forgave an indignity—and that he would never
consent to hold his happiness, by a tie so frail as the
changeable opinion of the world. And yet, he did so

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

hold it, and voluntarily exposed his choicest blessings
to the seductiveness of fashion; and this, when it was
neither sought for nor expected.

And thus it was with Harold's temper. He, himself,
spoke so suddenly and passionately, and his dark eyes
flashed so portentously, and his nerves so vibrated, at
times, that they, who could not recall a single instance of
wickedness in action, still believed that he would act
wickedly, on any befitting occasion. They overlooked
the proof that he gave out incessantly, to the observing
mind, that he resisted where others yielded, and yielded
where others resisted, from a natural violence of temper.
No man had seen him violent, where it was magnanimous
not to be so; and many had seen him sorely beset. But
they forgot his doings. They remembered only his sayings.
They remembered that, where others were gracious
and conciliatory, benignant, smiling and complaisant; they
had seen his pale lip writhe in scorn—his brow contracted
in wrath and detestation—his cheek and eye flaming;
and hence, they very naturally concluded, that he who
was so terrible on light occasions, would be tenfold more
formidable on greater ones. But they wronged him,
Harold's self-denial and forbearance rose with the occasion,
and always overtopped it. It was his delight to do,
what other men could not. When his heart was sweltering
to suffocation, his forehead was unwrought—pale,
very pale, but immoveable. Where others would be
clamorous, he was always calm—so calm, that they who
saw and heard him, would think him sick—sick unto
death—they would never suspect that it was a mortal
passion. Could it be, that such self-command should find
no eye to discover it, no lip to bless it, no kind heart to
applaud and encourage it! Yea!—and Harold passed before
them that should have loved him for this very trait—
them that he loved, throughout his whole life—as one
not to be trusted with the happiness of others. Nay, such
was their merciless infatuation, that he, even he, who
had been the guardian of his own happiness through
every peril, temptation and vicissitude, and had risen
forever and ever, where other men had sunk, becoming
better and wiser every hour, with the bitter and humbling

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

mortifications that beset him, and were poured upon him,
with an unsparing hand, by those from whom he had a
right to expect better things—even he was classed with
the fluctuating and common.

Alas for Harold! his was no uncommon fate. Many
a heroic spirit is brought to judgment, and condemned,
in the same way, unheard—undefended—with no dear
one to plead to heaven, or to mourn for him, and no
blessed hand to treasure up the good deeds of his day,
and no proud heart to interpose, and array such deeds
against his arraignment.

“No, no, never!” cried Harold. “I never will stoop
to defend myself. I will not remind them that ought to
know me, of what I have done in their sight, and for
them, to prove my nature. No! qui s'excuse, s'accuse.
He who asks me to defend myself, has already found me
guilty in his own mind. He might as well ask a woman
if she be virtuous.”

These reflections broke from his lips, occasionally, in
rapid, but inarticulate exclamations. He was suddenly
but kindly arrested, as he sat looking down into the water,
by a hand put gently upon his shoulder. Harold started,
trembled, blushed, and endeavoured fully to recover
himself, before he looked up. What had he been saying?—
his heart rose in his throat with shame and vexation—
and he had half determined to rebuke the intruder, whoever
it might be, sternly, for having trespassed upon the
secret chamber of his soul; but he could not—for his
soul he could not. The hand was still there. It was so
warm, and indulgent—he felt it as if it were pressed
upon his naked heart. He tried again to look up, but
could not—it was impossible—he feared to disturb it—
and merely as an excuse for not looking up, he said,
carelessly, “what a delightful blue!” pointing to the
water. No answer was returned.

Who would have believed it! they, who affected to
know Harold, would have looked to see him throw off
the hand, in scorn and sarcasm, and smite the officious
intruder to the earth—a faint sound, as of sorrow, was
breathed over him—he placed his hand upon that which

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

rested on his shoulder—it was a woman's! “Harold!
wilt thou not look at me,” said the voice.

He turned—he attempted to rise—he staggered and
fell, his whole length upon the deck!

Many hands were instantly busy about him; some tore
open his waistcoat, and some chafed his temples. A tall
female in black, leaned over him; her countenance deadly
pale, wherever it appeared, in glimpses, through her torn
veil, which he had snatched at and torn, as he fell, with a
delirious laugh. She offered him no assistance—scarcely
seemed to bewail him; but tear after tear fell upon the
hand that she held locked in hers, under her veil, and her
bosom heaved with the strength of convulsion, under
her black velvet drapery.

Harold soon recovered, but his eyelids were humbled
to the earth—he stretched out his arms, and surrendered
up his spirit, and bowed himself down, until his forehead
touched the deck, before the severe and lofty presence
before him. It was the attitude of worship—that of the
most unequivocal, unqualified, and profound adoration.

They that were about, were struck with consternation.
They stood aloof in silence.

“Harold—” said the female, with a deliberate emphasis,
and without emotion—it was the voice of a judge
about to pronounce some irrevocable doom.

Harold locked his hands, and shook all over, with
insupportable anguish.

She trembled—tottered—a passenger ran to her assistance,
but she waved him off haughtily. She took his
hand. She said something in a low voice, at which he
attempted to rise, caught her hand, and pressed it again
and again, passionately to his lips. He arose. She put
both of her hands into his—

“Harold,” said she, in a tremulous tone, “my poor
boy!” she withdrew her hand, and put it upon his forehead;
“how wet and cold thy forehead is.”

As that hand touched him, his knees bent again, and he
would have fallen down again, had she not withheld him.

“Harold,” said she, “be composed—be wary. We
are among strangers. There is a long account between

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

us; it must be settled. God hath brought us together.
I will be with thee again.”

“Nay, nay, thou blessed one! thou wronged and terrible
woman! Do not leave me! Almighty God! O no!
we shall never meet again. I cannot, cannot bear to see
thee. But do not leave me! I will not survive it! Woman,
woman! do not leave me! Behold me—here am I!
do with me what thou wilt—here I am at thy feet. And
wilt thou go? O woman, woman! canst thou leave me
again!”

“Madman,” was the reply; “where is thy discretion.
I must silence thee.” She then bowed herself a little
toward him, and he caught her hands again to his lips
in transport, bowed in submission to her, and suffered
her to depart, like some majestic phantom, unquestioned,
unabused, in its royalty.

Harold rushed to the cabin, threw himself upon the
floor. “I thank thee, God of heaven! I thank thee,”
he cried, “O Father of mercies I bless thee—she—the
dearest—the best—my own, my own—horrour, mine!—
O Loena, Loena.” He shuddered, arose, and staggered
against the pannels of the birthing, as if he had been
upon his knees—blaspheming, deliberately, Jehovah and
his angles!

His heart waxed damp and desolate. He remained a
long time in a sort of stupor, and he recovered only at
the sound of a female voice, when he found himself
clinging to the dark dress of some one that stood before
him, as if he were a drowning man. He opened his eyes,
they were full. He tugged at the dress in silence, with
a look of desperate and impassioned supplication. It
was the beseeching of one who has only one hope—only
one, on this side of heaven.

“O do not, do not leave me, lady!” he cried, as the
terrified woman appeared well nigh fainting before him.
“Say, whither wouldst thou go? where, where?” His
voice was preternaturally loud and shrill—she plucked
her gown from his grasp, and escaped. His arms fell,
extended and lifeless upon the floor; and he remained
upon his knees, but gazing with a mournful, bewildered,
and reproachful air upon her receding form, motionless

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and breathless. His lip trembled a little, with a quick
and irregular feebleness, and a few tinges of crimson
shot hastily over his temples—all denoting the fierce and
ill subdued agitation of his spirit. He strove to rise—
staggered—and reeled to a seat. He became delirious
for a moment, and shouted for Elvira and Loena! He
recovered, and cursed himself; and a rooted melancholy
appeared to take possession of his whole countenance.
But why detail these cruel vicissitudes. A vision opened
so blissfully before him, inviting his heart to its expansion,
and then so cruelly it shut itself up, sullenly and treacherously,
just as he leaped toward it! He was in a wilderness.
A flowret blossomed at his feet. It was tempting
and beautiful. He stopped, and it vanished! It was
cruel. On the deep solitude of the ocean, holding no
fellowship with aught that was instinct with life, poor
Harold had started into a rapturous sense of vitality and
loveliness, with all his arteries tingling, as he awoke from
a feverish and protracted dream, and found her for whom
his heart panted, bowing her transcendant beauty over
him, and actually dropping her tears upon his eyelids.
He should have shut his eyes again, and slept forever, to
prolong the innocent and delicious thrilling of that moment.