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Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843 by Various

V >> Various >> Blackwood\'s Edinburgh Magazine Volume 54, No. 335, September 1843




"Madman!" I exclaimed involuntarily, interrupting Warton in his narrative.

"Madman do you say, sir?" he answered quickly. "Yes, I have often thought
so--and to an extent, I grant you--if it be madness to have the reason
prostrate before passion. But it is profitless to define the malady. I
would have you dwell, sir, on the _cause_--_her_ fatal apathy--her
indifference--_I know not what besides_--which made him what he was. You
may imagine, sir, that my blood has boiled beneath the punishment--that I
have burned with indignation beneath the weight of it, undeserved and
cruel as it was. Oh, sir! God has visited me these many years with sore
affliction. I am a forlorn, disabled, cast-off creature--nothing lives
viler than the thing I have become; and yet in this dark hour I thank my
Maker with an overflowing grateful heart that He tied down my hands when
they have tingled in my agony to return the father's blow. I never did--I
never did."

The speaker grew more and more excited, and his voice at last failed him.
I rose, and retired to the window, but he proceeded whilst my face was
turned away. I know not why--but my own eyes smarted.

"Yes, sir, time after time the horrible desire to be avenged, and to give
back blow for blow, has possessed me; and, as if eternal torture were to
be the immediate penalty of the unnatural act, I have thrown my arms
behind me, clasped hand in hand, and held them tiger-like together, until
the fit was passed away. And then who could be more penitent, more
sorrowful, than he! Within an hour of perpetrating this barbarity, he has
met me with a look pleading for forgiveness, which I would have given him
had he offended me, oh much--much more. What could he say to his child?
What could his child allow him to utter? Nothing. I have kissed him; he
has taken me by the hand, we have walked abroad together; and he has
loaded me with gifts for the joy of our reconciliation."

Curious as I was to hear more, I deemed it expedient, for the present, to
close the history. The man seemed carried away by the subject, and his
cheeks were scorched with this burning flush which the unusual exertion of
mind and body had summoned up. He spoke vehemently--hurriedly--at the top
of his voice, and I knew not how far his agitation might carry him. I
again proposed to him to abstain from fatigue, and to leave his history
unfinished for the present. He paused for a few minutes, wiped the heavy
perspiration from his brow, and answered me in a calm and steady voice--

"I will transgress no more, sir. I have never spoken of these things
yet--and they come before my mind too vividly--they inflame and mislead
me. I ask your pardon. But let me finish now--the tale is soon told--I
cannot for a second time revert to it."

"Go on," I answered, yielding once more to his wish, and in the same
composed and quiet voice he _began_ again.

"The first watch which I called my own, was given to me on one of these
occasions. My father had requested me to execute some small commission. I
forgot to do it. In his eyes the fault for a moment assumed the form of
wilful disobedience. That moment was enough--he was roused--the paroxysm
prevailed--and I was beaten like a dog. An hour afterwards he was
persuaded that his child was not undutiful. His reason had returned to
him, and, with it a load of miserable remorse. He offered me, with a
tremulous hand, the bauble, which I accepted; and, as I took it, I saw a
weight of sorrow tumble from his unhappy breast. This was my father, sir.
A man who would have been the best of fathers--had he been permitted, as
his heart directed him, to be the tenderest of husbands. I could see in my
boyhood that blame attached to my mother--to what extent I did not know. I
lived in the hope of hearing at some future time. That time never came. I
remained at home two months, and then went back to school. I received a
letter from one of my father's clerks, who was an especial favourite of
mine. It must have been about a week after my departure. It told me that
my father had drooped since I quitted him. On the morning that I came
away, he left his business and locked himself in my bedroom. He was shut
up at least two hours there. Fifty different matters required his presence
in the counting-house, and at length my friend, the clerk, disturbed him.
When the door was opened he found his master, his eyes streaming with
tears, intent upon a little book in which he had seen me reading many days
before. Oh, it was like him, sir! Within a few days I received another
letter from the same hand. My father was dangerously ill, and I was
summoned home. I flew, and arrived to find him delirious. He had been
seized with inflammation the day before. The fire blazed in a system that
was ripe for it. The doctors were baffled. Mortification had already
begun. He did not recognize me, but he spoke of me in his delirium in
terms of endearment, whilst curses against my mother rolled from his
unconscious lips. Three hours after my arrival he was a corpse. And such a
corpse! They told me it was my father, and I believed them.

"Are _you_, sir, fatherless?" asked Warton suddenly.

I told him, and he continued. "You have felt then the lightning shock
that has altered the very face of nature. Earth, before and after that
event, is not the same. It never was to human being yet. It cannot be.
What a secret is learnt upon that day! How tottering and insecure have
become the things of life that seemed so firm and fixed! The penalty is
heavy which we pay for the privilege to be our own master. Oh, the
desolation of a fatherless home! My father died, having made no will. So
it was said at first--but in a few days there was another version. My
mother's brother--the uncle that I spoke of--then appeared upon the
stage, and was most active for his sister's interests. He had never been
a friend of my father's. They had not spoken for years. I did not know
why. I had never enquired--for the man was a stranger to me, and since my
birth he had not crossed our threshold. My father believed that his
relative had wronged him--of this I was sure--and I hated him therefore
when he appeared. When my father was buried, this man produced a will. I
was present when it was read--bodily present; but my heart and soul were
away with him in the grave--and with him, sir, in heaven, beyond it. They
told me at the conclusion of the ceremony, that my father had died worth
fifty thousand pounds--that he had left my mother the bulk of his
property--to my sister a fortune of ten thousand pounds, and to me the
sum of a hundred and fifty pounds per annum. But they might have talked
to stone. What cared my young and inexperienced, and still bleeding
heart, for particulars and sums? A crust without him was more than
enough. It was more than I could swallow now--and what was _wealth_ to
me? My uncle, I heard afterwards, watched me as the different items were
read over, and seemed pleased to observe upon my face no sign of
disappointment. That he was pleased, I am certain, for he spoke kindly to
me when all was over, and said that I was a good boy, and should be taken
care of. "-Taken care of-!"--and so I was--and so I am--for look about
you, sir, and observe the evidences of my uncle's love. The clerk, to
whom I have alluded, took an early opportunity to remind me of the nature
of my father's will--and to hint to me suspicions of foul play. I readily
believed him. It was not that I cared for the money. At that age I was
ignorant of its value, and my little portion seemed a mine of wealth. But
I wished to dislike my uncle, because he had given pain to my dear
father. I avoided his presence as much as I could, and I made him feel
that my aversion was hearty. We never became _friends_. We seldom
spoke--and never but when obliged. He was a coarse man then--I have not
seen him for many years--ungentlemanly and unfeeling in his deportment.
It would have been as easy for him to alter the framework of his body as
to have shown regard for the sensibilities of other men. He lived to
amass. He counts his tens of thousands now--they may have been scraped
together amidst the groans and shrieks of the distressed, but there they
are--he has them, and he is happy. I asked, and obtained from my mother,
permission to return to school. I remained there without visiting my home
again for three years. My mother did not once write to me, or come to see
me. I did not write to her. My expenses were paid from my income. My
father's business was still conducted by my mother with her assistants,
and she resided in the old house. Did I tell you that my uncle was the
appointed executor of my father's will, and my guardian? He managed my
affairs, and for the present I suffered him to do as he thought proper.
In the meanwhile my happiness at school was unbounded. My existence there
was sweet and tranquil, like the flow of a small secluded stream. I loved
my master. Ill-taught and self-neglected nearly till the time that I came
under his instruction, I believed that I owed all my education to him;
and whilst I thirsted for knowledge as the means of raising myself and my
own mind, he supplied me with the healthful sustenance, and helped me
forward with his precepts. I had neither taste nor application for the
severer studies. Science was too hard and real for the warm imagination
with which Providence had liberally endowed me. It was a scarecrow in the
garden of knowledge, and I looked at it with fear from the sunny heights
of poesy on which I basked and dreamed. History--fiction--the strains of
Fletcher, Shakspeare--the lore of former worlds--these had unspeakable
charms for me; and such information as they yielded, I imbibed greedily.
Admiration of the beautiful creations of mind leads rapidly in ardent
spirits to an emulative longing; and the desire to achieve--to a firm
belief of capability. The grateful glow of love within is mistaken for
the gift divine. I burned to follow in the steps of the immortal, and
already believed myself inspired. Hours and days I passed in
compositions, which have since helped to warm our poverty-stricken room;
for they had all one destination--the fire. I shall, however, never
consider the days ill-spent which were engaged in such pursuits. The
pleasure was intense--the advantage, if unseen and indirect, was not
insignificant. Whatever _tends_ to elevate and purify, is in itself good
and noble. We cannot withdraw ourselves from the selfishness of life, and
incline our souls to the wisdom of the speaking dead, and not advance--be
it but one step--heavenward. And in my own case--the intellectual
character was associated with all that is lofty in principle, and exalted
in conduct. _Sans peur et sans reproche_ was its fit motto. Falsehood and
dishonesty must not attach to it. In my own mind I pictured a moral
excellence which it was necessary to attain; and in my strivings for
intellectual fame, _that_, as the essential accompaniment, was never once
lost sight of. Pride still clung to me--and was fed throughout. I was
eighteen years of age, and I desired to enter the university. I fixed
upon Oxford, as holding out a better prospect of success than the sister
seat of learning. I enquired what sum of money was necessary for my
education there; and received for answer, that two hundred pounds a-year
might carry me comfortably through, but that, with some economy and
self-denial, a hundred and fifty might be sufficient. It is a curious
circumstance that the very post which brought this information, brought
likewise a letter from my uncle, offering, as my guardian, and at his own
expense, to send me to the university. I was indignant at the
proposition, and vowed, before his letter was half read, that I would
rather live upon a meal a-day, than owe my bread to one whom I regarded
as my father's foe. Does it not strike you, sir, as somewhat singular,
that my father should make this man executor, trustee, and guardian? Men
do not generally appoint their enemies to such offices. I wrote to my
uncle in reply, declined coldly but respectfully his offer, and told him
my intention. Here our correspondence ended, and six months afterwards my
name was on the boards of my college. I went up knowing no one, but
carrying from my friend, the schoolmaster, a letter of introduction to a
clergyman who had been his college friend, and who (now married and the
father of one child) earned his subsistence by taking pupils. I was
received by this poor but worthy man with extreme kindness. He read the
character which I had brought with me, and bade me make his house my
home. His hospitality was at first a great advantage to me. My slender
income compelled me to exercise rigid economy--and to avoid all company.
Although very poor, I have told you that I was already very proud. I
would not receive a favour which I could not pay back--I would not permit
the breath of slander to whisper a syllable against my name. There were
hours in which no book could be read with pleasure, which no study could
make light. Such were passed in delightful converse with my friend, and
thus I was spared even the temptation to walk astray. I need not tell you
that I had no tutor. It was a luxury I could not afford. I worked the
harder, and was all the happier for the victory I had gained--such I
deemed it--over my uncle. At the end of a twelve-month, I found my
expenses were even within my income. It was a sweet discovery. I had paid
my way. I did not owe a penny. I was respected, and no one knew my mode
of life, or the amount of income that I possessed. My friend, I said, had
one child. She was a daughter. During my first year's residence I had
never seen her. She was away in Dorsetshire nursing a cousin, who died at
length in her arms. She returned home at the commencement of my second
year, and I was introduced to her. She fell upon my solitary life like
the primrose that comes alone to enliven the dull earth--a simple flower
of loveliness and promise, graceful in herself--but to the gazer's eye
more beautiful, no other flower being present to provoke comparison. We
met often. She was an artless creature sir, and gave her love to me long,
long before she knew the price of such a gift. She doated on her father,
and it was a virtue that I understood. She was very fair to look at;
timid as the fawn--as guileless; a creature of poetry, sent to be a
dream, and to shed about her a beguiling unsubstantial brightness. All
things looked practicable and easy in the light in which she moved. The
difficulties of life were softened--its rewards and joys coloured and
enhanced. I thought of her as a wife, and the tone of my existence was
from the moment changed. If you could have seen her, sir--the angel of
that quiet house--gliding about, ministering happiness--her innocent
expression--her lovely form--her golden hair falling to her swelling
bosom--her truthfulness and cultivated mind--you would, like me, have
blessed the fortune which had brought her to your side, and revealed the
treasure to your youthful heart. I told her that I loved, and her tears
and maiden blushes made her own affection manifest. Her father spoke to
me, bade me reflect, take counsel, and be cautious. He gave at last no
opposition to our wishes--but requested that time might be allowed for
trial, and my settlement in life. And so it was agreed. I prosecuted my
studies more diligently than ever, and looked with impatience for the
hour when my profession (for I had gone to the university with a view to
the church) and my little income would justify me in offering to my
darling one a home. Did I now mourn over the inequality of my fortune?
Did I upbraid the dead--accuse the living? I did not, sir. Too pleased to
labour for the girl whom I had chosen--I rejoiced to owe my bread to my
exertion. She then, as now--for it was her--my Anna, sir--the wreck whom
you have seen--cruelly misused by poverty and grief--robbed of her beauty
and her strength--the miserable outline of her former self--she then,
even as now, was in all things actuated by the highest motives--a serious
and religious maid. She cheered me with her smiles--her perfect patience
and tranquil hope. It was to her a privilege to be united to a clergyman,
and to find her earthly joy combined with usefulness and good. In our
walks, I have painted the future which was never to be--the bliss we were
never to experience. I have spoken of the parsonage, and its little lawn
and many flowers--pictured myself at work--visiting the poor--comforting
the sick--herself my dear attendant at the cottage doors, with hosts of
little ones about her, whom she might call her children, and for whom she
might exercise more than a mother's care. She could not listen to such
promises, and not grow happier in her inexperience than reality could
ever render her; and yet sighs, sighs, ominous sighs, would from the
first escape her. Still for a twelvemonth our nook of earth was Paradise,
and sorrow, the universal lot, was banished from our door. The tales
which I had been accustomed to hear of the world's deceit and falsehood
seemed groundless and cruel--the inventions of envious disappointed
minds--whose ambition had betrayed them into hopes, too preposterous for
fulfilment Happiness was on earth--did I not find her in my daily
walk?--for such as were not loth to greet her with a lowly and contented
spirit. I had no present care. The days were prosperous. I obtained a
scholarship in my college at the end of the first year, which was worth
to me at least fifty pounds per annum. This, not requiring, I saved up. I
worked hard during the day--withdrew myself from all intercourse with
men, and every evening was rewarded with the smiles of her for whose dear
sake all labour was so easy. Oh, the tranquillity and ineffable bliss of
those distant bygone days! _Bygone_, did I say? No--they exist still.
Poverty--misery--persecution--such things pass away, and are in truth a
dream. The troubles of yesterday vanish with the sun that set upon
them--but those hours, deeply impressed upon the soul, have left their
mark indelible; the intense, unspeakable joy that filled them, lingers
yet, and brightens up one spot that stands alone, distinct in life. Cast
when I will one single glance there, and I behold the stationary sun
shine. I do so now. None feel so vigorous and well as they who are on the
eve of some prostrating sickness. Dreaming of security, and as I looked
about, perceiving from no side the probability or show of evil, I was in
truth entangled in a maze of peril. My summer's day was at an end. The
cloud had gathered--was overhead, and ready to burst and overwhelm me.
For one twelvemonth, as I have said, I felt the perfect enjoyment of
life, and was blest. At the end of that period I received a letter from
my uncle. It was full of tenderness and affection. The first few lines
were taken up with enquiries--and immediately afterwards there came a
proposition. It was to this effect. "My mother wished to retire from
business; it was still a lucrative one, and she offered it to me. She
undertook to leave in the firm a capital sufficiently large to carry it
on, and receiving a moderate interest only for this sum, she would
relinquish all other profit in favour of her son." I read the letter, and
had faith in its sincerity. _As_ I read it, a devil whispered delusively
into my ear, and the sounds were music there, until my ruin was
completed. I knew the business to be affluent and thriving. The income
derived from it enabled my mother to live luxuriously. _Half the sum
would afford every wished-for comfort to my Anna, and much less would
enable us at once to marry_. Here was the rock on which I went to
pieces--here was the giddy light that blinded me to all
considerations--here was the sophistry that made all other reasoning dull
and valueless. I did not stop to enquire what movement of feeling could
operate so generously upon my uncle. If an unfavourable suggestion forced
itself upon me, it was expelled at once; and persuasion of the purity of
his motives was too easy, where my wish was father to the thought. If I
remained at college, years might elapse before our union. _Now,
immediately_, if I accepted this unlooked-for offer--she was mine, and a
home, such as in other circumstances I could never hope to give her, was
ready for her reception! I could think of nothing else, but I beheld in
the unexpected good--the outstretched hand of Providence. Full of my
delight, I communicated the intelligence to Anna; but very different was
its effect on her. She read the letter, and looked at me as if she wished
to read the most hidden of my secret wishes.

"'What have you thought of doing, then?' she asked.

"'Accepting the proposal, Anna,' I replied, 'with your consent.'

"'Never with that,' she answered almost solemnly. 'My lips shall never bid
you turn from the course which you have chosen, and to which you have been
called. You do not require wealth--you have said so many times--and I am
sure it is not necessary for your happiness.'

"'I think not of myself, dear Anna,' I replied. 'I have more than enough
for my own wants. It is for your sake that I would accept their offer, and
become richer than we can ever be if I refuse it. Our marriage now depends
upon a hundred things--is distant at the best, and may never be. The
moment that I consent to this arrangement, you are mine for ever.'

"'Warton,' she said, more seriously than ever, 'I am yours. You have my
heart, and I have engaged to give you, when you ask it, this poor hand. In
any condition of life--I am yours. But I tell you that I never can
deliberately ask you to resign the hopes which we have cherished--with, as
we have believed, the approbation and the blessing of our God. Your line
of duty is, as I conceive it--marked. Whilst you proceed, steadily and
with a simple mind--come what may, your pillow will never be moistened
with tears of remorse. If affliction and trial come--they will come as the
chastening of your Father, who will give you strength to bear the load you
have not cast upon yourself. But once diverge from the straight and narrow
path, and who can see the end of difficulty and danger? You are unused to
business, you know nothing of its forms, its ways--you are not fit for it.
Your habits--your temperament are opposed to it, and you cannot enter the
field as you should--to prosper. Think not of me. I wish--my happiness,
and joy, and pride will be to see you a respected minister of God. I am
not impatient. If we do right, our reward will come at last. Let years
intervene, and my love for you will burn as steadily as now. Do not be
tempted--and do not let us think that good can result--if, for my sake,
you are unfaithful--_there_!' She pointed upwards as she spoke, and for a
moment the sinfulness of my wishes blazed before me--startled, and
silenced me. I resolved to decline my uncle's offer; yet a week elapsed,
and the letter was not written. But another came from _him_. It was one of
tender reproach for my long silence, and it requested an immediate answer
to the munificent proposal of my mother. If I refused it, a stranger would
be called upon to enjoy my rights, and the opportunity for realizing a
handsome fortune would never occur again. Such were its exciting terms,
and once more, perplexed by desire and doubt, I appealed to the purer
judgment of my Anna.

"She wept when she came to the close of the epistle, and had not a word to
say.

"'I distress you, Anna,' said I, 'by my indecision. Dry your tears, my
beloved; I will hesitate no longer.'

"'I know not what to do,' she faltered; 'if you should act upon my advice,
and afterwards repent, you would never forgive me. Yet, I believe from my
very soul that you should flee from this temptation. But do as you
will--as seems wisest and best--and trust not to a weak woman. Do what
reason and principle direct, and happen what will--I will be satisfied.
One thing occurs to me. Can you trust your uncle?"

I hesitated.

"'I ask,' she continued, 'because you have often spoken of him as if you
could not confidently. May he not have--I judge of him only from your
report--some motive for his present conduct which we cannot penetrate? It
is an unkind world, and the innocent and guileless are not safe from the
schemes and contrivances of the wicked. I speak at random, but I am filled
with alarm for you. You are safe now--but one step may be your ruin.'

"'You are right, Anna,' I replied; 'it is too great a venture, I cannot
trust this man. I will not leave the path of duty. I will refuse his offer
this very night.'

"And I did so. In her presence I wrote an answer to his letter, and
declined respectfully the brilliant prospect which he had placed before
me. The letter was dispatched--Anna was at peace, and my own mind was
satisfied.

"It was, however, not my fate to pass safely through this fiery ordeal.
Nothing but my destruction, final and entire, would satisfy my greedy
persecutor--and artfully enough did he at length encompass it. In a few
days, there arrived a third communication on the same subject, but from
another hand. My mother became the correspondent, and she conjured me by
my filial love and duty, not to disobey her. She desired to retire into
privacy. She was growing old and it was time to make arrangements for
another world. Her son, if he would, might enable her to carry out her
pious wish--or, by his obstinate refusal, hurry her with sorrow to the
grave. There was much more to this effect. Appeal upon appeal was made
_there_, where she knew me to be most vulnerable, and the choice of
action was not left me. To deny her longer--would be to stand convicted
of disobedience, undutifulness, and all unfilial faults. From this
period, I was lost. One word before I hurry to the end. I absolve my
mother from all participation in the crimes of which boldly I accuse my
uncle. She, poor helpless woman, was but his instrument, and believed,
when she urged me, that it was with a view to my advancement and lasting
benefit. I conveyed my mother's communication immediately to Anna. She
made no observation on its contents--bade me seek counsel of her father;
and with her eyes streaming with agonizing tears, left me to pray upon my
knees for counsel and direction from on high. Her father--I could not
blame him--a man who had struggled hardly for his bread as a clergyman
and a scholar--and seen more of the dark shadows than the light of
life--received my intelligence with unmingled satisfaction. He charged
me, as I loved his child, and valued her future welfare, to accept the
princely kindness of my friends--to see them instantly, and secure my
fortune whilst time and circumstances served. And then, as if to appease
his own qualms of conscience, and to justify his counsel, he reasoned
about the usefulness which, even to a pious mind, was permitted in the
exercise of trade. Infinite was the good that I might do. Yea, more,
perhaps, than if I persisted in my first design, and remained for ever a
poor clergyman; I might relieve the poor even to my heart's content. What
privilege so great as this! What suffering so acute as the desire to help
the sick and needy with no ability to do it! 'Be sure, young man, the
hand of Providence is here; it would be sinful to deny it.' O
_interest--interest!--self--self_!--words of magic and of power; they
rendered my poor friend blind as they did me. I listened to his advice
with eagerness and delight; and though I knew that to obey it was to cast
myself from security into turmoil and danger, I laboured to persuade
myself that he was right, and that hesitation was now criminal. Again I
saw my betrothed, and I approached her--innocent and truthful as she
was--with shame and self-abasement. I repeated her father's words, and
she shook her head sadly, but made no reply. What need was there of
reply? Had she not already spoken?

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