Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

How, then, shall we characterize Lord Byron’s poetry, and make plain the mystery of its singularity? How shall we assert that its charm is simple, and prove its simplicity, evolving it from the intricacies of Romance? Be it remembered that I said Lord Byron was totally, utterly earthly: yet I say his poetry is Satanic. This is no paradox. There are minds which are utterly earthly and are not Satanic; but this is owing solely to their supineness and incapacity. A mind essentially active, grasping, comprehensive; its vast faculties born of Heaven, yet thwarted and diverted to passion and sensuality; succumbing, not only without resistance, but with infinite relish to the passing whim; courting voluptuousness, and reveling in it; conceiving stupendous and holy thoughts, yet wantonly blasting them, to joy in their sad and terrible destruction; understanding the most hidden depths of human weakness, and human tenderness, and human feeling, yet exploring but to profane; gifted with the finest appreciation of beauty and pleasure, yet gorging to satiety, intoxication, disgust—then turning in selfishness, hatred and malice from all that is good; such a mind, I say, is earthly, nay more, in its unbridled license it is devilish. Had Satan freed from fire, and sent on earth a fiend, a fiend damned for hatred, selfishness and wanton malice, to be the chief among English poets, this poet would have written in Byronic style, and with Byronic humor; with more ability, perhaps, but not with greater fidelity to his court; nor would the infernal glare of his fierce and voluptuous sentiment be more apparent. Byron touched no beauty that he did not wither; no virtue, no holy feeling that he did not mock. Why was it? It was by reason of the deep-seated malice of his thought. Womanly beauty in his hands was a plaything, womanly weakness a delight, woman’s fall a glory, and woman’s virtue a scorn. He could gaze on the stars, and the mountains, and the ocean, but he could not see and feel the poetry of their creation and government, as the stupendous works of God’s hand, and as types and illustrations of scientific, and universal, and eternal law. He drew down the very stars from Heaven to minister to mere sentiment of man’s or woman’s humor. He could draw the most pleasing picture for gratified sensibilities to pour upon, rejoicing; and with fell joy he would dash it o’er, gloating in the destruction of all moral beauty. Among the darker, deadlier passions of revenge and hatred he was perfectly at ease: any passion, whatsoever, was to his mind savory food; and there exists no passion of lightest or heaviest grade, that Byron has not felt. His mental existence was in a sphere of passion; in it did he live; by it was he ruled; and—by the odor of passion is his poetry characterized. Let me then term it a poetry of passion, wild sentiment, and moral riot; earthly, diabolical, as you will—it is all the same. Let me call it original, bold, audacious. Let me call it a mingling of northern superstitious etherealism, and southern brilliancy and materialism. Let me call it wandering, astray, without principle or guide; without aim, or any motive but the fitful blasts of his own caprice and passion. Let me call it self-esteem and praise, scorn of the moral judgment of the world, scorn of true humanity, and glory in one’s own contempt and wickedness; and I have characterised Lord Byron’s poetry, and unraveled the mystery of its charm.

Concerning Byron’s character as a man, little need be said to prove its double littleness. From every man, no matter how low his capacity, something good, something useful is expected; and he who meets not this natural, this rational expectation, merits the stigma of littleness of character. To some men are given high conceptions, deep penetration, exalted feelings and impulses, and energy of mind: yet, if they meet not the rational expectation of greater good, greater utility than is the average offspring of lowlier men, they merit the stigma of littleness of character; and if they produce no good at all, they are doubly little. If not only this, but they positively pervert those gifts to the detriment of others, they are trebly little. Nay, more—a man’s littleness, if he pervert his gifts, does not increase in direct ratio with his relative capacities; but I feel that I am justified in applying here the mathematical law of gravitation, and in saying that his littleness—measured on God’s measure of mankind—increases as the square of his distance above the average capacity of his race. How much, then, must the greatest admirers of Lord Byron; those who seem struck with awe before the mountain of his stupendous power, despise, in their inmost heart, his utter, utter littleness! Truly may we comprise him in the Latin poet’s pithy words—“_Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus._”

No man is great who has not the strength of mind to work utility from vast resources, and is able, besides, to appreciate the necessity of working that utility, in spite of whim, humor, flattery, success or misfortune: yet not one sentiment, of benefit to mankind or individual, amongst those now ministering upon this earth of trial, of suffering, and of temptation, can claim paternity in Lord Byron. As his poetry is a poetry of passion unregulated by principle, so was the life of his feelings and his intellect, a life of unbridled license. Let no one put forth, in extenuation, that he often meant well; and that his venom, when he spat it, was the secretion of unhappiness and misfortune; for we have no proof, no reason to believe that he ever meant well, but his own assertion—which is singular when contrasted with his life and his writings; and as to his sufferings, he courted, nursed suffering as the theme of all his writings. How strangely does the assertion of his moral intent, in his farewell to the “Childe,” contrast with the confession of the truth which a moment of intoxication beguiled from him in the II. Canto of Don Juan! In the one we read—

“Farewell! with him alone may rest the _pain_,
If such there were—with you, the moral of this strain.”

In the other, where his true character speaks—

“As for the ladies I have nought to say,
A wanderer from the British world of fashion,
Where I, like other dogs, have had my day,
Like other men, too, may have had my passion—
But that, like other things, has passed away,
And all her fools whom I _could_ lay the lash on,
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me
But dreams of what has been, no more to be.”

Shall we say that he lies, or that he only writes the first crazy thing that comes uppermost in his brain? I prefer the latter—or both; for they equally prove that he had no positive intent of good. His history, romance, character, all are truthfully told in that one stanza. ’Tis useless to dwell upon it.

That he had his inspirations of religious truth, which are common to all men, one may read abundantly in his works, especially in “Childe Harold.” Poor Byron seemed to grow sober and reflective, as the last Canto waned away. He could see the Almighty’s form glassed in the tempest, calm or convulsed; in its never-ending oscillation, the image of Eternity; in its incomprehensibility, “the throne of the Invisible.” The first time (how melancholy to him must have been the feeling!) that he ever longed to be associated with exalted womanly virtue, was, when in the CXVII. stanza—he breaks forth:

“Ye elements!—in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted—can ye not
Accord me such a being?”

And how unmistakably does he not confess himself a stranger to it, as he continues—

“Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.”

Frequently the circumstance of association seemed to be the channel through which the rejected grace of faith was poured upon his soul. As he enters the portals of the church of churches, the mausoleum of the prince of the apostles, his gifted light shines forth—

“But thou, of temples old or altars new,
Standest alone—with nothing like to thee—
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.”

This last line seems to belie the opinion that Byron never saw any thing in religion but the poetry of it: it sounds like an involuntary revelation of interior conviction. Again—

“———the mind
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality: and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.”

Yet, poor, weak, fickle, terrified man! How often does he turn from the afflatus of Revelation, to build again his temple of doubt and despair, upon the mere caprice of his humor! Fickle, most fickle ground. It well nigh makes one weep to hear his melancholy breathing:

“Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come, but molest not yon defenseless urn:
Look on this spot—a nation’s sepulchre!
Abode of gods whose shrines no longer burn.
Even gods must yield—religions take their turn:
’Twas Jove’s, ’tis Mahomet’s—and other creeds
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds:
Poor child of doubt and death, whose hope is built on reeds.”

“Poor child of doubt and death” we will then term thee, Byron; we will grieve over thy sorrows and thy wrongs, pitying thee: we will melt over thy gushing tenderness which, ever and anon, pleads with so soft a feeling, so sweet a melody, that every warm heart feels drawn toward thee in sympathy: we will mourn with thy desponding; and over thy wavering and despair we will drop a tear; and so pass thee on to the mysterious judgments of thy God, where thou art gone!

I cannot dismiss this subject without a word in regard to the influence of Lord Byron’s writings on the minds of readers. To the reader whose principles and faith are fixed, defined, there are few dangers; for there is scarcely any attempt in all Byron’s works, at either philosophy or sophistry: but to one whose tone of sentiment and feeling is to be moulded, or can, to any extent, be moulded, there is most pernicious danger, ruin. There is an irresistible charm and brilliancy that enchant; for, all veneration Byron cast aside, and he touches, handles the most sublime with an audacious boldness that dazzles him who does not tremble. This infatuating allurement seems to me to consist principally in the contrastive. The poetry of harmony and law had little affinity with Byron’s wayward fancy; and there is more of that _eclat_ in the contrasts of nature physical and metaphysical, which astonishes, which raises emotions in us with infinitely less labor to ourselves, than through the process of analysis or progressive contemplation. As a _jeu de mot_ sparkles and delights by the approximation, through mere fancy, of things essentially opposite—and the more diametrically opposite, the greater the pleasurable surprise—so is it in poetry: the poetry of harmony raises and refines by softening, expanding the mind, whilst the poetry of contrast but dazzles without leaving an impress; it runs together colors before unassociated, that play and flash, like fire-works, around each other with the centripetal force of fancied homogeneousness, and the centrifugal power of real dissimilitude, astonishing with novelty; or, through the same power of fancy, heap together heterogeneous ideas in fantastic association, that surprise us by their fictitious harmony. One poetry is that of truth, the other that of fancy. The poetry of truth and real affinity is God’s own beauty: through the poetic harmony and relationship that reigns throughout the universe, can we arrive at the knowledge of God; through that do we see him in his works, and through that do we gradually rise to the homage of veneration: whilst the poetry of only fancy prompts us to create our own beauty, despising the guidance of veneration; to overlook the divine intellect in its works, and to accustom ourselves to the neglect of religion and principle, in our contemplations. Whoever has read Byron cannot but remember how often he has been dazzled by the boldness of the poet’s flights of contrast; and upon reflection, will confess that he has seen in them, most apparently, the giddy raving of utter moral recklessness. He will confess that he perceives the intellectual epicure delivered, in self-abandonment, a prey to his fevered imagination; his accursed appetite ever on edge, at the scent of strife, and blood, and tumult, and black passion, and pride, and soft voluptuousness. He will confess that when the poor, sated mortal yearned for rest, it was not the rest of peace; but retirement in a far-off nook, apart from the society of men, wherein he could pass his hours in greater unreserve, to chew the cud of gorged passion, or hide his childish tears of self-earned melancholy. Let no one then pour his sentiment into the mould of Lord Byron’s recklessness; for that would be destruction; and in this, it seems to me, lies the only danger. Yet there is a pervading, seductive beauty that might thrill an angel’s bosom, in a moment of forgetfulness; and there are few conceptions, no matter from what inspired source they may spring, which, in their decided earthly limitation, the powers of darkness could not with malignant meaning consistently _encore_.

* * * * *

=ZULMA.=

=BY MRS. JULIA C. R. DORR.=

Sweet little baby mine,
Gift from a Hand Divine,
What shall I sing thee this bright summer morn?
Is it a fairy dream?
All things more lovely seem
To this fond, grateful heart since thou wert born!

Strange that we love thee so!
Let us the secret know,
Tell us the way that all hearts thou hast won;
Surely some magic lies
Deep in thine earnest eyes,
Or in that smile of thine, beautiful one!

Over thy baby brow
Brown locks are waving now,
When the sun toucheth them changing to gold,
Sweeter art thou by far
Than the pale lilies are,
Or the blue violets that thou dost hold.

Dear little household pet,
With thy bright eyes of jet,
Shining so softly the long lashes through,
Wert thou not born to be
Cherished as tenderly,
Treasured for aye by as fond hearts and true!

Oh! if a mother’s prayer
Reach Heaven’s purer air,
Not for the wealth of this world will I plead,
But that the boon of love,
Holy as that above,
May be thine own in thine hour of need!

And that the smile of Him,
Greater than seraphim,
Before whom angels and archangels bow,
Always may rest on thee,
So shall my darling be
Ever as pure and as happy as now!

* * * * *

=THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BOARDING-HOUSE.=

=BY CORNELIA CAROLLA.=

Like most old things, I have “seen better days;” but I am strong and firm as in my youth. The misfortune that reduced me to “taking boarders,” was a change in the fashion. When I was built, the part of the town which I inhabit, was the residence of the “ton”—emphatically the West End! But as the city enlarged its limits, they gradually deserted my neighborhood, and removed to more remote situations. Besides, the large, airy houses of the past generation do not suit the degenerate taste of the present day. The exquisitely carved wood-work, so much admired in my youth, is sneered at by those whose brains can neither design, nor fingers execute, such beautiful devices. Such things have grown old-fashioned! And the mantle-pieces, with their elaborate ships under sail, and figures of the ancient gods; their satyrs, dryads, fauns and nymphs; their wreaths, doves, Hymens and Cupids, are torn away, and replaced by plain, smooth, black, funereal-looking marble, brought over seas from Alexandria, in degraded Egypt.

I had once a beautiful garden; but it has been destroyed. The tall, straight poplar, the trembling aspen, the delicate, lace-like fringe-tree, the majestic oak and unchanging cedar, have all fallen under the merciless hand of modern improvement. The sweet flowers have ceased to shed their grateful perfume on the air. The evergreen box no longer relieves the cheerless expanse of winter’s snow. The moon looks not on the maiden’s blushing face as she listens, in the garden-walk, to the welcome words of love, and tears the unoffending rose, lest it should breathe the tale. The musical laugh of little children echoes no more through blooming alcoves. The black Hamburgh grape, with its purple clusters of pulpy fruit, has ceased to shade the thoughtful old man from the noonday sun, or shield him in the enjoyment of his after-dinner nap. The apricot, trained, _espalier_-fashion, along the walls, has vanished, with its crimson fruit. The burning-bush and holly no longer retain their glowing berries and green leaves, through December storms, or adorn the Christmas board. The crocus, violet and daffodil have failed to herald the approach of spring. All, all are gone; my garden has disappeared. A little square, paven yard is the only trace of it which remains. A small border, a few inches wide, containing a weak, sickly rose, a few hardy hollyhocks, and an attenuated dahlia, betrays the extent of my landlady’s meagre devotion at the shrine of Flora. A few unfortunate flowers have been brought occasionally within my walls, but some unlucky chambermaid invariably tilted them out of the window.

I said that my old inhabitants deserted me for more quiet parts of the city, and I remained vacant for some time; those who were wealthy enough to own me (for the ground where I stood had become very valuable) preferring a more fashionable neighborhood. At last, a speculator bought me, and built a long row of additional rooms on the large lot which had been my garden, and refitting the inside throughout, leased me for a boarding-house.

I was, of course, very indignant at being degraded in my old age, for I still retained my primitive love of quiet; but I was a powerless instrument in the hands of my tormentors, and was compelled to submit. I, however, became somewhat comforted, when I thought of the multiplicity of events that would occur within my walls, and that all would be known to me. I have a love of gossip and I promised myself much pleasure in studying the characters, and learning the histories, of the many inhabitants who would fill my rooms. Nor was I disappointed, for could I tell gracefully all that I have seen, I should relate, as good Sir Philip Sidney would say, “many tales that would hold children from their play, and old men from the chimney-corner.” But I am old and forgetful, and a novice in literary matters. Still, I cannot abandon my cherished idea of attempting the recital of some of the things that I have witnessed and heard. I give them without reference to date, for my mind is somewhat confused with the numerous events and characters that press forward like half-starved ghosts, each anxious to take the first place at my table. I am indulgent toward them, and hold them somewhat excusable for their rudeness, when I reflect that they passed their lives in boarding-houses, where each one must, perforce, take a selfish care of himself, with little heed of his neighbors.

But I must first recall my keepers.

There was Mrs. Albertson, a lady of good family in reduced circumstances. She had the misfortune to be poor and the folly to be proud, and was ashamed of honest labor. She tried every means to prevent the fact of her taking boarders from becoming known. The ladies were not allowed to sit near the windows unless the blinds were down, “because,” she said, “it made the establishment look like a boarding-house.” Her family lived at the front part of the adjoining dwelling, which she also occupied, and all their visitors were instructed to call at that door. She received the contempt she so richly merited; and her two daughters, who were really pretty, became old maids, simply because sensible men would not marry women who thought honest poverty a disgrace; and the young ladies were too intelligent to become the wives of the senseless puppies who sought them.

Mrs. Wentworth furnished her house in the most exquisite style, although she kept her boarders on remarkably low diet. A piece of beef was placed on the table as long as any fragments of meat clung to the bones, which were afterward served up in soup. The bread was generally so stale as to endanger the teeth, and it was difficult to distinguish coffee from tea, or tea from coffee. Mrs. Wentworth could not imagine why her boarders left her so soon; and no one had sufficient courage to brave her anger and tell her the truth. A year after her house was opened, her furniture was sold to pay the rent.

Mrs. Gleason fell into the opposite extreme: Her table was excellent; but her prices not sufficient to support the expenditure, and those who profited by her loss were too selfish to acquaint her with the cause.

Mrs. Holden had kept a quiet, comfortable house, where the boarders were like a private family. In an evil hour, however, she resolved to attempt “getting into society,” as the increase of great acquaintances is now called, and took me, and furnished me in fine style, in order to attract a “higher class” of persons than she had hitherto been accustomed to meet, hoping to live on the same terms with them that she had previously done with her more sensible and familiar boarders. But she soon found out her mistake. Most of the inmates of fashionable boarding-houses look on the mistress of the house as their natural enemy, and, although Mrs. Holden was really a good, clever woman in her way, she found herself treated by her new boarders rather as their servant than their companion. She often sighed for her happy little home; but it was too late for repentance, and she consoled herself with the thought, that she made more money in her new house.

Mrs. Hall kept a showy establishment, hoping to find a rich husband for her pretty daughter. The young lady was much admired, and attracted many gentlemen to the house, who, of course, paid pretty well for the pleasure of residing under the same roof with so beautiful a girl. Most of them, however, vacated the premises, unwilling to trust their hearts in the neighborhood of beauty, when they found the mind destitute of cultivation, and, indeed, wanting in natural strength. She was accomplished—that was all. She could talk nonsense; but whenever conversation took a more sensible turn she was silent. She found a rich husband, however, possessed of the same grade of intellect as herself, and they live contentedly in their little world of trivial events.

A school has been called a miniature world; a boarding-house is much more truly entitled so, since within its walls rage all the passions, the joys and sorrows, the hopes and fears, that rack humanity. Glance along the table when its inmates are assembled. How many virtues and vices are reflected in the different countenances that meet the eye! There is an old man, happy in the knowledge of a well-spent life; seated next him, may be seen one of half his years, already bowed by sorrow, which his own vices have occasioned. Near him an innocent girl, shrinking involuntarily from her neighbor, with the instinctive antipathy of virtue for vice. Next to her a widow, who, before her mourning weeds are thrown aside, forgets the departed one she had once professed to love so deeply. Here a wife, who heedless of matronly dignity, flirts with every brainless fop, with the careless gayety of a school-girl. There a blushing bride, dreaming only of a blissful future, while _vis a vis_ with a constituent, a politician discusses the probable results of the next election, and beholds the profitable office he toils for within his grasp. Near him sits a poet, with pale, intellectual brow, revolving in his mind the dazzling thoughts that shall live hereafter on the “deathless page,” while his nearest neighbor, an anxious merchant, hastily swallows his food, to return to his toil before the shrine of Mammon. There an uxorious old man watches, with jealous eyes, the words and smiles of his giddy young bride. Here an old woman disfigures the beauty of age, and turns the reverence it excites to ridicule, by aping in dress and manner the youth which she can never recall. Her shriveled neck covered with thin gauze, the glittering jewels on her bony hands, the rouge on her wrinkled and sunken cheeks, the gay silks that mock the silvery hairs that peep from beneath the ebon colored wig, betray the paltry vanity of a weak mind, and make me sigh to see age deform itself in such a masquerade. Even so might I proceed through the whole list on my landlady’s books; but I must cease mere speculation, for I promised to relate some of the incidents that have occurred within my walls—such histories as I have heard.

Often has the caution that “walls have ears” been uttered, timidly and shrinkingly, in my rooms; but the speakers little dreamed that those walls were then using their “ears,” and to good purpose. I seek not to betray confidences: I have none: I was never willingly trusted! No one but the actors in the scenes that I am about to relate (if they are still alive) will recognize the facts; and if they choose to publish their part in the transactions, they must take the responsibility. But this can never be; their mortal remains have reposed for many a year in the silent embrace of the grave, and “God have mercy on their souls!” Some of my characters may also be mistaken for portraits of those who frequent other walls than mine; but if any one recognises his own faults, let him remember, that life is the same in all situations, and that at my age I need scarcely descend to the Present when my sympathies dwell with the Past.

But where shall I commence my stories? As I said before, characters and incidents press so rudely forward that I am at a loss which to select; but there is one who stands aside from the crowd, whose deep, unearthly eyes haunt me; whose shadowy hand is upraised as though in solemn warning; around whose pale lips seems to hover a tale of sin and suffering. His story is a sad one, and I will take for

SKETCH—No. 1,

REMORSE.

In the quiet depth of night the desolate silence which reigned throughout the house was frequently broken by the hasty step of Paul Weldon, as he paced the long passages. At first it startled the inmates from repose, but they soon became accustomed to the sound and ceased to note it, or, if they heard it, merely muttering, “It is only poor Weldon,” settled themselves again to sleep. Night after night, like an unquiet spirit, he walked up and down the corridors, across the long dining-room, through the wide hall and parlor, until the approaching day brought with it signs of life. He then returned to his apartments. Some thought him mad, and whispered of a crazed mother and hereditary insanity, trembling, at times, at the wild lustre of his eyes; another suggested deep study of dark, forbidden things, and hinted that older and wiser men had bartered their souls before for such knowledge. A horror-loving youth insinuated that some dark crime had been committed, while all shrank, involuntarily, from contact with the unfortunate Weldon.

He was gentle, yet children clung to their mothers when he approached; there was something so fearful in the glance of his large, sunken eyes. Without seeming to shun companionship, he stood apart from all. Indeed, sometimes he forced himself to seek society, and, apparently, would fain have found friends had not every one avoided him. No matter how gay the conversation might be when he entered the public drawing-room, it immediately languished and ceased at his appearance: there was a strange charm about him which cast a gloom over all. The giddiest were subdued by it; the gravest felt its melancholy influence. All eyed him askance, and whenever his pale lips moved they unconsciously nerved themselves for some terrible tale.

Perhaps he felt his fearful power, since he soon ceased to seek companionship, and confined himself almost exclusively to his apartments. He seemed to have neither friends, occupation, nor home. The present looked cheerless to him; the future, hopeless: he dwelt only in the dreadful memories of the past.

His agonies in seclusion were terrible. Sometimes he threw himself on a chair and moved his body to and fro, moaning as if in suffering; now he started up and walked the floor; then seated himself and strove to read, evidently utterly incapable of confining his attention to any single subject. Book after book was opened and thrown aside. At last, seizing his hat, he rushed into the street, where his rapid walk and abstracted manner excited astonishment but too visible to his sensitive mind. At length he ceased to quit the home, and hiding himself in his apartments, ventured from them only in the darkness, silence, and solitude of night.

He apparently struggled against this strange restlessness, for he would lie down on his bed and strive to sleep; but when repose came it brought with it such fearful dreams that he soon awoke, and sprang from his, to him, accursed couch.

“O, no, I cannot—cannot sleep!” exclaimed he; “there is no rest for me, nor will there be until I find it in the grave. Ah, might I indeed, find repose in its embrace, how soon would I seek its icy portals; but no, I cannot, for even there crime finds its reward: must I not awake to judgment and to punishment? Remorse—remorse! how shall I destroy thy fangs? How shall I hide me from that fearful vision?”

From his wild self-accusations I learned his history. It was a sad one. The effects of his youthful vices had awakened in his heart that sleepless demon, remorse, which acting on his sensitive, imaginative mind, made life a curse where it might have been a blessing.

He was an only son—the idol of parents too indulgent for his good. When will parents learn to temper kindness with prudence? Daily is the lesson of their complicated duties taught them by the fate of those who fall victims to their careless teachings. Here, one is ruined by over indulgence; there, another is embittered and hardened by undue rigor; here, genius is crushed by ridicule; there, stupidity is rendered vain by undeserved praise. How rarely is the onerous office of a parent properly fulfilled!

Weldon’s early training left him quite unfitted to resist temptation in any form. Impulse, not principle, was the law of his actions. At college he formed an intimacy with some dissipated young men. As the wine circulated they boasted of their licentiousness, until Paul Weldon’s better feelings were crushed, and he thought with them, that the ruin of the peace of the innocent and happy was a feat to be proud of.

Under such guidance he followed them to their haunts of dissipation: he was initiated into their orgies, and soon became the boon companion of the vilest of the vile—of a set of villains who wore the semblance of gentlemen, and yet, at heart, were as deeply dyed with crime as the wretch who expiates his guilt on the gallows. Strange that society banishes from its temples those who break the laws of men, yet welcomes with open arms the offender against the laws of God and the dictates of natural justice.

We will not follow Weldon through his downward path. At first conscience restrained him, but the ridicule of his associates soon drowned her warning voice, and he hurried on in his reckless course until he became a leader among his former teachers in vice.

Thus passed his college life, and when he returned to his home it was with feelings dulled and seared by crime.

Paul Weldon’s father was a country gentleman of the old school. His mother, the proud daughter of a poor earl, had been a belle, and had married, partly for love, partly for money. Preferring to be “first in a province rather than second in a city,” when her charms waned she retired to her husband’s fine old country-house, where she assumed the airs of a queen regnant over the neighboring provincials. In the outskirts of the village, however, was one who neither courted nor fawned upon her. This was Mrs. White, the widow of a gallant officer who fell bravely fighting for his country, bequeathing to his young wife’s guardianship his only child—a daughter, then an infant. Mrs. White possessed a small annuity, and with this she purchased the cottage near Weldon Manor. Here she lived quietly and happily, devoting her whole time to the education of her daughter, who, like a rose in the desert, seemed “born to blush unseen.”

When the Weldons returned to the old house, which they had not visited for years, Lucy White was a lovely, innocent girl of sixteen. I have said that Mrs. White did not court the lady of the manor, wherefore she was hated by her; but living apart and alone, the humble inhabitants of the cottage were ignorant of the enmity of the haughty dame.

Shortly after the arrival of the Weldons at the manor-house, their son returned from college. He soon discovered the beautiful cottager, and found means to make her acquaintance. From that time the fair girl was seldom alone, and she soon discovered that the light of loving eyes was preferable even to the holy radiance of the stars, and that the low tones of love were sweeter than the songs of birds, or the music of murmuring streams. She was guileless, unsuspecting; he was artful and persuasive—one who could easily make “the worse seem the better cause,” and the result was that her unsuspecting love became her ruin. Her idol was her betrayer! She soon awoke to the consequences of her crime, and besought her destroyer to spare her from misery—to save her from disgrace. Paul’s heart was melted; he loved her truly and would have repaired the wrong he had done her; but his mother unfortunately discovered the state of things, and by prayers and entreaties, jeers and taunts, so wrought on his pride that he determined to forsake her.

Poor Lucy! how earnestly, how vainly she entreated him to save her.

“O, Paul—Paul,” she exclaimed, “if you love me—if you ever loved me—spare me! Save me, I entreat you, for the sake of my poor widowed mother! For the sake of my unborn babe, if not for mine; drive me not forth an outcast—homeless, friendless. Too guilty to dwell with the pure; too innocent to consort with the vicious, where shall I go? Men will behold me with sneering pity; women will turn aside from the fallen. I am a woman and have sinned, and may not hope for pardon. In happier days, Paul, you have often told me how dear I was to you, and have you so soon learned to despise me for my sin? You turn away! Ah, yes; it is so; you—even you whom I loved so truly, and trusted so deeply, turn from me in my sorrow—in my shame. But no—no; I cannot—I will not believe it. Speak to me—give me hope, or else confirm my despair.”

Paul averted his head, for love and pity struggled in his heart; but the demon pride, mastered the angels, and he determined to leave her to her wretchedness. Still his tongue refused to speak the heartless words.

“What, still silent?” she cried. “Will you not even speak to me, Paul? And a few short months ago you seemed to live only in my presence; now you are eager to shun me. Then you had no eyes for any one but me; now, you turn away; then you had no ears for sweeter music than my voice, now you shudder at its sound; then you vowed you would never know joy apart from me; now you would drive me from you forever. Then your low, loving, passionate tones entered my soul, lulling its guardian spirit with their sweet music until my senses swam in a sweet delirium of delight, from which I awoke—to find myself the wretched creature you have made me. And you, who wrought this change—you, who sought me but to betray—stand there before me, silent, trembling, when I ask you to repair your wrong—when for the sake of love and pity I ask for justice. You will not even answer me. Why do you hesitate, if you would give me hope? Why prolong my suffering? If you would plunge me into despair, why dally with me? Why not let me know the worst? Speak, answer me, I entreat—I command you!”

She retreated a few paces, and gazing steadily on his averted face, awaited his reply. He hesitated; at last he spoke:

“Dear Lucy,” said he, “you know I love you, but—but—”

“But what,” she exclaimed; “do not stammer—do not hesitate. Speak, and quickly!”

“Well, then,” he replied, “I love you and pity you; but I cannot make you my wife. Nay,” he continued, as the pale impress of hopeless agony stole over her features, “nay, do not look so terribly, Lucy; all will yet be well!”

As he spoke he advanced and took her hand within his own; but she withdrew it quickly, as though she had been touched by a scorpion.

“Yes, yes; all will be well for you, but not for me. Paul Weldon, how dearly, how deeply I have loved you I need not say, for I have proved it, and have been rewarded for it by treachery, disgrace, and despair. But enough of this; you have decided, so have I; and all that now remains is to say that I will pray to God, if He will listen to the prayer of the fallen, that you may never know such wo as you have caused me, and to entreat you, when you go forth into the world, that when you see the young and innocent, happy in their purity, you will spare them for my sake—that you will never whisper of love and joy when you meditate treachery and ruin! And now farewell. We shall never meet again on earth! Once more, farewell—forever!”

As she spoke she glided from the room. After standing, irresolute, a few moments, he seized his hat, and left the house.

That night sleep refused to visit his eyes. Hour by hour he paced his chamber, thinking of the ruin he had wrought, and upbraiding himself for his cruelty. The struggle between love and pride was again renewed, and this time the good angel was victorious, and he determined to atone for his previous injuries by such reparation as remained in his power. Resolving not to expose his new made resolution to his mother’s attacks, he intended to persuade Lucy to an immediate marriage. At daybreak he sought the rector of the parish, and having told his story, induced him to consent to perform the marriage service. From thence he hastened to the well-known cottage. Meeting Mrs. White at the door, he asked for Lucy, and was told that she had not risen; but as he seemed eager to speak to her, Mrs. White summoned the servant and bade her call her daughter. A moment later a shrill shriek was heard, and the girl rushed into the apartment, pale and breathless:

“O, madam, madam,” she exclaimed, “she is dead—she is dead!”

With a bound Paul sprang up the staircase, and then into Lucy’s chamber, followed close by her horror-stricken mother. There, on the bed, pale, cold and lifeless, lay fair Lucy White. A cup upon the table, and a bottle, labeled “laudanum,” betrayed the manner of her death. All these things Paul took in at a glance, and stood petrified with horror. The thought struck him that life might not yet be quite extinct, throwing aside the covering, he placed his hand above her heart; but it was cold and still; its pulses had ceased to beat. She was indeed—dead! He knelt beside the corpse, and, in his agony, called on Heaven to destroy him, accusing himself of having murdered the most fair and innocent of beings. The mother, roused from her anguish, learned, for the first time, that the dear child she mourned, had fallen from her purity and innocence. At first she would not believe the dreadful truth, and springing up, she caught the betrayer by the arm.

“Paul Weldon,” she exclaimed, “by all you hold sacred, I command you to tell me the truth: Was she innocent or guilty?”

“She was betrayed!” he replied, shuddering.

“Then the curse of the widow and the childless be upon you! Begone! Linger not a moment by the corpse of your victim, lest she rise from death to upbraid you! Away, and hope not for peace on earth. Go where you will, a mother’s curse shall follow the murderer of her child!”

Mechanically he left the room, and wandered away, he knew not whither. His brain whirled. He saw strange phantoms around him. He fancied the bright heavens strove to fall on him. Dark, angry clouds seemed to envelop him and prevent him from escaping. The birds accused him in their songs. The wind whispered his crime among the green leaves. They trembled as they heard the story, and even the grass and the sweet flowers bowed their heads as they learned his crime. All nature accused him, and he strove to hide himself from the light of day. On, on, he fled until he saw a simple dwelling.

“Ah,” he cried, “this at least is the work of human hands. Here at least dwells a human being. God’s works are pure and they accuse me; but sheltered by what the hand of man has made, I shall feel secure.”

The door stood open and he rushed in. The family were seated at their breakfast, and sprang up in amazement when he appeared. The children shrieked, and he felt that they, too, knew his crime; that they, too, upbraided him. He left the house and sought the woods, but their grand, solemn quiet oppressed him.

“I will go to my father’s house,” said he; “there, at least, no one can accuse me, for my parents share my crime.”

He strove to retrace his steps, but could not: his mind grew more confused, his head became giddy, and he sunk exhausted by the roadside.

The news of Lucy’s death sped like lightning through the village, and when Lady Laura Weldon summoned her dressing-maid, the girl’s pale face struck an unexpected terror to the heart of the mistress.

“What is the matter, Warren?” said she.

“O, madam, such dreadful news,” replied the frightened girl. “Lucy White has killed herself!”

“O, mercy,” shrieked her lady; “Warren, the salts: I shall faint. There, there, I am better now. How could you break such awful news so abruptly. But where is Paul? Go and tell him to come to me.”

The girl hesitated.

“Why do you hesitate? Go and tell my son to come here. Go—instantly.”

“Ah, madam,” said the girl, “I fear it would be useless to seek him. He was there when the death was discovered, and Mrs. White upbraided him so dreadfully, that he rushed from the house and has not been heard of since.”

“Good God! has no one seen him? Run quickly; tell all the servants to seek him and bring him back. By force, if it be required. Bid them search in every direction: whoever finds him shall be well rewarded.”

A few hours later Paul was brought home. On his arrival he was carried to bed, and a physician summoned. His mother knelt by his side, and strove to rouse him to consciousness. At length a few muttered words broke from his lips; then wild cries; then delirious ravings, in which he accused himself of murder, and called on earth and heaven to witness that his mother had instigated him to do the deed, begging the attendants to take her away lest she should also kill him. Thus he lay for weeks; sometimes in a deep stupor, sometimes in furious insanity, when his mad cries rang through the house, curdling the blood of his hearers. Gradually the fever left him, and hope was entertained that he would at length recover. He became convalescent; but still, apparently, not quite sane. He was moody and silent, and avoided companionship. The physicians bade them humor all his wishes, and he was permitted to wander about the mansion and the park, unattended. Care, however, was taken that he should not escape; but as he never attempted any thing of the kind, their vigilance gradually relaxed. One day he cunningly contrived to elude them, and hastened to the cottage of Mrs. White.

The widow sat before the fire with her head bowed down. A step upon the threshold aroused her attention. She turned and beheld Paul Weldon; but so pale, so thin was he, so wild were his looks, that she scarcely knew him. She sprang up with a shriek, remembering his madness, and would have left the apartment; but he placed himself before her.

“Nay, do not leave me,” said he; “I have come to converse with you. You are greatly changed since I saw you last. And Lucy—is she, too, altered? She was pale and cold when I left her, and I thought that she was dead. But they tell me I was mistaken. May I not see her? Where is she?”

Mrs. White saw that he was still insane and dreaded to tell him the truth, yet she feared to deceive him.

He arose and took her by the hand.

“Come, show me where she is,” said he. “You need not refuse, for I will know. Come!”

Finding it useless to resist, she led him toward the church-yard. When they approached the gate, he said:

“You go to the grave-yard. Is she, then, really dead?”

Mrs. White replied not, but entered, and seeking poor Lucy’s grave, pointed to it, saying:

“Lucy sleeps here!”

A simple stone with the single word “Lucy” marked her resting-place. It stood apart from those around it, as if the dead, like the living, shrunk from the unfortunate. It was late in the autumn, and the trees were stripped of their foliage. The wind swept mournfully through their bare branches, and eddied around the vaults and monuments, like a spirit moaning over the dead.

Paul gazed long and silently on the solitary mound of earth where his victim slept. At length he turned to Mrs. White, who was striving to subdue her sobs.

“They deceived me, then, and she _is_ dead; and they have buried her deep in the earth to hide her from my sight,” said he. “But there are no flowers on her grave—no birds to cheer her lonely resting-place. And see! even the very leaves have striven to hide her grave from me. But they shall not—they shall not. I will see her once more. Ha, ha, ha!”

With this he dashed the leaves away, and commenced tearing up the earth with his hands. Mrs. White strove vainly to restrain him; he threw her from him and pursued his fearful task with the strength and activity of insanity. He was suddenly arrested by the strong hands of his attendants, who had missed him, and in their search had been directed thither. He resisted stoutly, but at length was overpowered by their superior numbers.

Next day his fever returned, and for weeks his life was despaired of. His illness now took a favorable turn, and he slowly recovered. With renewed strength reason returned; and his physicians advised an immediate change of scene and air, lest the sight of familiar faces should cause a second relapse into insanity. Preparations were immediately made for a visit to the Continent; and when Paul was well enough to be removed, they departed, late at night, in order that the darkness might hide every thing from his eyes.

A week later they found themselves in Paris, and Paul was still improving in health. Here they rested a short time, and strove by every means to dispel the melancholy which still brooded over him. When summer arrived they repaired to one of the German watering-places. The two succeeding years were spent in Italy, and then, as Mr. Weldon’s health declined, and he pined for the air of his native land, they returned to London. Immediately after their arrival Lady Laura fell ill and died.

The corpse was removed for interment to Weldon. The anxious father would fain have left Paul in London; but the latter persisted in paying the last sad rites to his mother.

He was deeply affected when, after his long absence, he found himself gazing again on the scene of his sin and suffering. His thoughts, were, however, diverted from such reflections by his grief for his mother.

Next day she was buried. For a fortnight Paul never left his father’s side; the old man was sinking rapidly. At the expiration of that time Mr. Weldon was laid beside his wife, and Paul was alone in the world. On his death-bed Mr. Weldon entreated his son to leave England immediately after his funeral, and advised him not to return until time had entirely obliterated the past.

The funeral was over, and Paul sat alone in his chamber, looking silently and sadly toward the church, in whose dreary vaults his parents now slept their last sleep. That benumbing sensation of utter desolation which comes when we have seen the grave close over those nearest and dearest to us, stole over his heart. The past, with its shadowy memories, arose in his mind. He thought of the beloved but mistaken mother who had cherished him so fondly—of the noble father who regarded him with so much pride. He remembered the affectionate words and caresses that he had received from them, and sighed to think how frequently he had caused them unnecessary pain by his boyish willfulness. But those lamented ones were lost to him forever. They lay in the cold gloomy vault, in the lonely church. Then his thoughts wandered to an humble grave in the church-yard. He remembered the fair young girl that he had betrayed; he thought of _her_ wild love and _his_ crime, and felt that God’s just and unfailing retribution had already commenced. He was alone in the world; those whom he had most loved had been snatched away by death. There, in the bounds of that church, rested father, mother, and the one he had betrayed.