Chapter X: Part VIII (3)

“Oh, sir,” were her first words, “I have been _so_ frightened; I’ll never enter this room alone again.”

“Why, what’s the matter, Marianne?”

“The matter, sir! Why, as soon as you and Mr. Brooke went out, sir, I set about cleaning the room, and directly heard those dreadful mutterings all around me, with _such_ sighs, and _such_ groans, and weeping and distress, and as I was removing the ashes from under the grate, one of your books was thrown at me with _such_ force, I do believe if it had hit me, it would have been the death of me. The house is haunted by evil spirits; I am sure some horrid murder has been committed.”

“Do you hear any thing of this in any other of the rooms, Marianne?”

“No, sir, only in yours, sir; and I cannot think of staying longer in such a shocking place—_there_, sir,” said she, starting, “did you hear _that_?”

Now Mr. Crofton did hear _something_, at the very moment, but the noise was of a vague, confused nature, difficult to comprehend. It annoyed him exceedingly, however, as he found it impossible to account for or explain the cause of the disturbances, but he was possessed of an indomitable courage, and affected to treat it all lightly, so begging the girl to say nothing about the matter, nor by any means to think of leaving her place; he put a guinea into her hand, and told her to continue as good and virtuous a girl as she had ever been, and to fear nothing.

Always on his return home in the afternoon, the girl was in the habit of lighting the fire, and having done so, one evening, Mr. Crofton immediately afterward went out to call on his friend Mr. Priestly, the bookseller, with whom he staid and took tea. He came home about nine o’clock, and on unlocking his door, was horrified to behold a creature, which to all outward appearance was the devil, standing on his cloven hoofs at the farther side of the table, engaged in munching some pears which Mr. Crofton had left on a plate. The creature, or being, was large and black, it had horns, which were sharp and slightly crooked, and an enormous beard. This frightful apparition stared Mr. Crofton full in the face, with a pair of large, black, oblique, glittering eyes, the glance from which seemed to pierce his very soul! And still it kept its place at the table devouring the fruit. There was a peculiarly offensive effluvia in the room—it was not exactly brimstone, but equally nauseous and strong. From the extremely offensive odor which was emitted, however, it was soon apparent that the intruder was no other than an enormous he-goat! but how it had obtained access to the room was inexplicable. Mr. Crofton hesitated not a moment what was to be done; he instantly relocked the door, went down stairs and procured a musket, which having charged with buck-shot, he almost immediately, or in less than five minutes, as he told me, returned to his room, fully determined to shoot the hateful beast, but what was his astonishment on entering the door, to meet, instead of a goat, a very fine, large bashful Newfoundland dog, wagging his bushy tail in the most friendly manner. Mr. Crofton could scarcely credit his own eyes—the room still smelt of a goat, but there was no mistake about the noble, honest dog! Now it happened that Mr. C. was uncommonly fond of dogs—who that has a heart is not? So he laid aside the musket and all hostile intentions, but he made an immediate examination of his canine visiter’s paws, to verify whether there was not among them a cloven foot! The scrutiny was satisfactory, but whether it was dog or devil, he was allowed to escape, and happy he seemed thereat.

The mystery seemed to thicken, and Mr. Crofton now felt really uneasy. He spoke to his landlord on the subject, but it was quite clear from the old gentleman’s artless manner, and the real alarm he manifested, that he was entirely ignorant of the cause of the disturbances.

He sent for a police officer, and had every part of the room and the whole house carefully examined, but no clue to a discovery could be obtained.

To guard against future surprises, Mr. Crofton procured and kept a brace of pistols, constantly loaded, at the head of his bed, and directed Marianne, as she lighted the fire, to put the poker between the bars, in order that it might be always red hot.

Now let me assure you, Mr. Editor, that a red hot poker is a potent weapon in the hands of an angry man.

I can of my own personal knowledge vouch, that from some singular crotchet in his head, arising probably from apprehension of personal danger, the late eminent antiquary and author, Francis Douce, invariably, during the winter months, kept _his_ poker in the fire! I observed he always took it out and laid it aside to cool, whenever I entered his noble library to settle a Shakspearean difficulty, or resolve a disputed point of antiquity; and I noticed, that from long service in the fiery ordeal, his poker was half burnt away, and become very short, and as thin as a skewer toward the point; in fact it bore a striking resemblance to some men’s love—it was become—“too hot to hold!”

Neither dog nor devil ever again made their appearance in the room; but one afternoon, when Mr. Crofton had caught a cold, and was lying down on his bed, he was startled to notice the closet-door near the fire-place slowly and cautiously opening—and at last, the apparition of a human head, upon the upper shelf of the closet! Its large, round, black eyes were fixed on his, exactly like those of a rattlesnake intent on its prey. The head had a horrible indescribable grin, or ghastly smile. For a second, surprise at the apparition paralyzed him, but his natural intrepidity rallied the next, he seized a pistol, and pointing it at the head—which still grinned—he pulled the trigger, but the weapon flashed in the pan; he instantly seized the other, but before he could point it and draw the trigger, the door closed, and the pistol only flashed like the former. Mr. Crofton sprung from his bed, seized the red-hot poker, rushed to the closet and whipt open the door, but the head had vanished, whither did not appear; he thrust the poker against the back of the closet, between the shelves, where the head had appeared, but the brick wall was solid.

The clew was, however, at last found; it was plain and palpable all the annoyances had proceeded from that closet. Detection soon followed—ample and astounding—but as its details lead back to, and are connected with the fiercest and bloodiest period recorded in history, I shall for a short time defer the explanation, whilst I relate the circumstantial account of a spectral vision which appeared to two intelligent persons, at or near the same moment of time. I give it on the authority of a lady of the highest respectability, who is connected with some of the first families in the city of New York. She related it one evening, when ghost stories and second-sight—fruitful themes—were the subject of discussion; and I was not a little surprised to learn, at the same time, that there is a family in New York, consisting of two maiden sisters, of high respectability, natives of New Jersey, who are subject to those mysterious, melancholy and terrible visitations, identical in every respect with what is known in the Highlands of Scotland, as the “second-sight.” Equal ridicule has been attached to the second-sight as to Mesmerism and clairvoyance; the very name is almost enough to raise a smile, yet I am assured that the ladies in question, could, if they chose, relate circumstances of a character so dismal, that they would change smiles into tears, and ridicule into awe.

It ought to be remembered that the fearful visitation of the second-sight is involuntary to the party who is subject to it. It is sudden, unexpected, and unforeseen at the time of its occurrence, and renders its victim miserable and melancholy to the last degree.

Of this I can vouch, that my friend, the late James Miller, M.D., of Islington, near London, has often assured me he knew from boyhood a servant of Sir John Sinclair’s, who resided at his castle near Thurso, in Caithness, who was one of these pitiable beings, and the doctor related to me many of the man’s fearful and fatal predictions, which came to pass, literally, under his, the doctor’s, own personal knowledge, when he was resident in that part of Scotland. But I digress.

The vision related by the lady I allude to, I considered so singular, that I requested the favor of her to write it down for me. She kindly complied with my request, and the following is a verbatim copy of her letter. The names, of course, I suppress.

“Dear Sir,—The vision or dream which you wished me to relate, is, as nearly as I can recollect it, as follows: James, the second son of Mrs. G****, who lives in the south of England, was suddenly awakened one night, by the apparition of his elder brother Charles, who seemed visibly to approach his bed, dressed in his night-clothes, looking pale and death-like. Charles was at the time absent in the West Indies, and when the family last heard from him, was in perfect health, so that James had no anxious fears respecting him, and although the vision made a powerful and painful impression on his mind, as it was likely to do from its vividness, he determined to think no more of it, but compose himself again to sleep. He had, however, been so much startled by the unearthly look of his brother, that he found sleep impossible, and therefore rose to take a few turns about his room, in order to shake off the melancholy impression, and he remarked, on looking at his watch, that it was then just three in the morning!

“When the usual breakfast hour arrived, he went down to the parlor, where the family were assembled. His mother appeared exceedingly dejected, and complained of violent headache, which she accounted for by saying she had been much shocked during the night, at having been awakened by the appearance of her eldest son, who seemed as if alive in her room, and to approach her bedside in his night-clothes, looking at her with fixed eyes, and a countenance so pallid and corpse-like, that she could not get rid of the impression and belief that he was either dead or dying!

“James and her other children rallied her upon her superstitious fears and faith in dreams and visions, and endeavored to dissipate her fears. James appeared carelessly to inquire, whether she knew at what hour of the night the vision appeared, and was answered it must have been a few minutes before three in the morning, as she heard the hall clock strike three directly after the spectre vanished.

“Nothing further was said on the subject, but as soon as James left the parlor, he went to his own room, and wrote a minute account of his own and his mother’s dream or visitation, mentioning the precise hour and day of the month when it occurred.

“He sealed up the paper and asked his eldest sister to certify in writing, that he had delivered that sealed paper to her that day.

“Both of them had almost forgotten the circumstance, when, about two months afterward, a letter arrived from Jamaica, conveying the sad intelligence that their brother had died there, at the very moment—allowing for the difference of time—of his death-like appearance to his mother and brother!

“Mr. James G**** was a student of medicine at the University of Edinburgh, and resided in the same house in which I lived, at the time he related to us the circumstances. I regret that although only a few years have elapsed since I heard him relate it, the exact dates which he then communicated have escaped my memory, and I will not attempt to supply them. He was a young gentleman of undoubted veracity, and I believe the circumstances to be true as stated.

“_New York, 22d December, 1840._”

In remarking on this communication, I will not say it is impossible that the extraordinary circumstance of two persons having each the same _dream_—I will call it—at the same hour, and that both believed they were awakened by the phantom of a distant relative, may not be explained by natural causes, as some things of a similar character were attempted to be explained, under the word “spirit,” in an early edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica, but in the absence of _facts_, what do such attempts amount to? Probabilities and possibilities!

But in this instance, although the young man’s death may have been imprinted on his mother’s and brother’s imagination—from apprehension of his fate, we will say, by reading or hearing of the ravages of yellow fever—which, however, is not alluded to in the lady’s interesting letter, the singularity is, how the dream, or phantom, should come to visit _both_—at precisely the _same hour_—and dressed exactly _alike_, and that so vividly, as to awake them in fear and terror!

It would be folly to attempt a rational explanation—such things are beyond human comprehension. We may speculate, but we can never penetrate the veil under which the Divine Will has shrouded such mysteries; yet I have not the shadow of a doubt that in some future state of existence, they will, to those who walk aright in this, be made clear and manifest, and we will then, possibly, wonder how near, how very close we have been allowed to approach the threshold, without being able to cross it! “_Thus_ far shalt thou go, and _no_ farther!”

I well remember one lovely starlight night, walking on the terrace in front of Somerset House with Henry Fuseli, and whilst speculating on futurity, he told me that he and Lavater had made a solemn agreement, that whichever should die first, would, if permitted, make himself manifest to the other, in some way. Lavater died many years before his friend, but Mr. Fuseli informed me with a sigh, he had never, in any way, waking or dreaming, made himself manifest. It is, perhaps, useless to mention that Fuseli was a classical scholar of very high attainments, and I know that he was a firm, undoubting believer in the immortality of the soul. He died at the ripe age of 86, whilst on a visit to the Dowager Countess of Guilford, and whilst on his death-bed, within an hour of the time his immortal spirit took its flight for a better world, he had an impression that he heard soft sweet music in the room, and faintly inquired of the countess, why she had placed musical snuff-boxes on the bed. Yet the dying man never had an ear for music, and could not distinguish one air from another—music was all perfectly monotonous to him—but the music which he imagined he _then_ heard was to him heavenly. This impression on the _ear_ seems altogether different to that made on the visual organ of many persons on the approach of death. Fervently do we pray that such impressions as visited the dying hour of Henry Fuseli, may equally be the blissful harbinger to eternity of all such good men.

The above story related by a lady, coincides in some degree with a visitation which occurred to Sir Walter Scott and his lady, at Abbotsford, who were both awakened by some extraordinary noise on the premises. He says in a letter—“The night before last, we were awakened by a violent noise, like the drawing of heavy boards along the new part of the house. I fancied something had fallen, and thought no more about it. This was about two in the morning. Last night, at the same witching hour, the very same noises occurred. So I got up, with Beardies’ broad-sword under my arm, but nothing was out of order, neither could I discover what occasioned the disturbance.

“I protest to you, the noise resembled half a dozen men putting up boards and furniture, and nothing can be more certain than that there was nobody on the premises at the time.”

It subsequently appeared, that _at the exact hour mentioned_ by Scott, Mr. George Bullock died suddenly in London. He was a particular friend of Sir Walter’s, and had been very active in planning, and procuring articles of antiquity and old furniture for the embellishment of Abbotsford. The circumstance appeared to have made a strong impression on Sir Walter’s mind. But I think I could show—as I certainly believe—that the death of Mr. Bullock, at the time when Sir Walter _and_ Lady Scott _fancied_ they heard noises, was merely a coincidence.

A near and dear relative of my own, a manufacturer, whose dwelling-house adjoined the factory, was so successful in business, that his wife, according to the superstition of the period, thought he was assisted by fairies during the night! The excellent lady and her maid servants from hearing the sound of the machinery all day, thought they heard the “good people” making the same noise in the night; and, as I was told, they more than once went slyly and softly to the factory-door, which they opened with the greatest caution, in order to gratify that laudable curiosity, _falsely_ attributed to the fair sex!—they longed to _see_ the little folks whom they _heard_ so well, but the moment they peeped in, that instant _the fairies_ ceased! The accuracy of the _eye_, exactly as in the case of Scott, destroyed the deception of the _ear_!

But Sir Walter’s eye, in consequence probably of irregularity of the stomach, was sometimes more at fault than his ear. Once, while crossing the hall at Abbotsford, he believed he saw Lord Byron standing before him, but the imaginary form soon faded into a plaid cloak hanging on a screen. At another time, on his way to Abbotsford, he supposed he saw a shepherd in his plaid, standing on the moor a short distance from the road, but the man vanished as soon as Scott came opposite to him, but reappeared after he had passed a little way. Sir Walter turned his horse to ride up to the man, who again vanished, into a pit as he supposed, but on searching for it, he found it was merely an optical delusion, the ground was all smooth and firm.

It is now high time I should enter the Confessional, and render to the reader—if he or she have followed me so far—my account—detailing the mystery of the “dead candle,” and sundry other marvels contained in this article.

Imprimis, then. Of the annoyances to which the family of Mr. Wesley were subjected, I have little further to add. The story must stand or fall on the degree of credibility attached to the witnesses, but, as Doctor Southey says, it is better authenticated than any similar story on record.

In reading the letters written from Egypt, by the sister of Mr. Lane, author of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, she details a series of annoyances to which she and her brother’s family were subjected, in a house at Cairo, supposed to be haunted by an ’Efreet, or evil spirit, in consequence of a murder having been committed in it.

Some of the events closely resemble those which befel the family at Epsworth parsonage, consisting of knockings, and other annoyances, at all hours of the night, which eluded investigation; none of the native maid servants would remain in the house over a week, and although it was in every respect a delightful and most desirable residence, Mr. Lane and his sister were reluctantly compelled to abandon it.

My own detection of the “dead candle” arose in this way. On the third night of its appearance, the beam of light was as clearly defined to my sight as it had been on the two preceding nights, but it was now passing across the bed clothes more _quickly_, and was accompanied by a faint _rustle_, and that sound flashed the truth upon my mind in a moment. It was my own sister crossing the hall, and the ray of light from her _live_ candle shining through the key-hole of the door!

I had formed a boyish admiration for the young lady who was ill, and apprehension for her fate, and thoughts of her, kept me much longer awake than usual. On the two first nights my sister crossed the hall slowly and noiselessly, in order that she might not disturb the dying sufferer, but now that the sad catastrophe was over, she moved quicker, and I could _hear_ her!

* * * * *

The ANGEL—whose radiant effulgence had excited such fearful emotion in the mind of Henry Fuseli, was neither more nor less than the white dress of an Italian lady, which his hostess, not expecting his return from Frascati before the following day, had hung up on a cord stretched across the room, to dry, and its slow floating movements were occasioned by the air from the window, which was left open to facilitate the drying.

Fatigued by his long walk, he undressed the moment he gained his own apartment, and retired to rest without observing the signora’s robe, or that the window was open. The moon had risen whilst he was asleep, and was faintly shining on the white drapery when he awoke, and the effect, to an imaginative mind like his, gave it the appearance of animation.

The whole story, as related by him, was glorious—but who _could_ relate a ghost story, or _any_ story, like Fuseli? His choice and powerful language, and his _acting_ of the scene, were inimitable. He was equally successful in any comic story, although in a dryer way; even his description of the manner in which the present Lady Jersey catches a flea! was irresistible. What action, what emphasis, what a look. You could have almost sworn you saw the indignant flash of her ladyship’s bold, brazen eye, and her long nose, when she discovered the little blood-sucker upon her cream-colored skin. The recollection of it is so perfect at this moment that I cannot resist a laugh as I write; but the _manner_ of the thing I must defer until I give my Reminiscences of Harry Fuseli, in which I shall try to detail some of his literary combats at the table of Joseph Johnson, where he vanquished the great Porson, with his, Porson’s, own chosen weapon, Greek.

But his angelic ghost story was absolutely terrific; after having worked one up to the highest pitch of excitement, the denouement came so entirely unexpected. With a low, sepulchral tone, he would say, “I was mad with apprehension; and in an agony which I could not repress, I sprung up like a maniac, clutched the apparition in my arms, and came down _like a dog_, and broke both my shins on a d—d chair!—instead of an angel, I grasped a white gown, perhaps smock, of some Italian trollop.”

* * * * *

The invisible and mysterious personage who had, as I supposed, so pertinaciously haunted the door of my chambers, was a large, heavy man, employed as a porter in a shop near Temple Bar. His wife was a respectable laundress, who, unknown to me, occupied the basement of the house. The entrance hall was rather dark, and as I had just taken possession, I had not observed a narrow passage which, by proceeding a few steps beyond the foot of the stairs leading _up_, led to a staircase going _down_, having exactly the same number of steps, and, in consequence of the whole staircase from bottom to top being a species of conductor, the sound of footsteps going down was conveyed up so perfectly, that to any one sitting in my rooms it was impossible for the nicest ear to tell, whether the person was coming up or going down; and the floor of the basement being of brick, the sound was lost the moment it was trodden on.

I was perfectly dumb-foundered when I saw the big fellow pass quietly by me without taking the least notice; and I felt a mighty inclination for a fight, in consequence of his having so cruelly disappointed and mocked my determined belief in a ghost. But, like Mr. Van Buren, “sober second thought,” induced me to retrace my steps, and walk quietly up stairs, somewhat like a president walking down, when he is unexpectedly turned to the right-about. My Andrea Ferrara was hung upon its peg, from which it was never afterward removed, during all the unhappy years I afterwards passed as a Templar in those old-fashioned rooms. What reminiscences do they not now revive?

* * * * *

The vexatious annoyances to which my friend, Mr. Crofton, was so long subjected, arose from an admirably concocted scheme of female waggery, in which a youth bore a principal part; but to render its details intelligible, it is, as formerly hinted, necessary to digress a little into history.

In the year 1794, during the frenzy excited by the French Revolution, when every throne in Europe was shaken to its centre, a society was formed in London for the pretended _reform_, although it was in _fact_ for the overthrow of the English Government.

It was called the London Corresponding Society for Constitutional Reform, and it was in secret correspondence with Robespierre, and other monsters of that terrible tribunal which never spared, until it had deluged France with the blood of 1,022,351 of its best citizens. Start not, reader, in doubt, there is no mistake in the figures—ONE MILLION, TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE victims, male and _female_, adults and _children_, perished under the axe of the accursed guillotine, or other wholesale murders, perpetrated during the Reign of Terror.

May its bloody horrors be a lesson and A WARNING to nations, in all future time, to beware or the perils attending MOB LAW!

The London Corresponding Society was headed by Hardy, Horne Tooke, Thelwall, and other turbulent spirits of the time. But by the firmness of the Prime Minister, William Pitt, son of the Earl of Chatham, the leaders were apprehended in their own homes, during the night, and tried for high treason. But the society, although with greater privacy, still held its sittings, and in order to defeat the government police, one of its agents hired two houses adjoining each other, where, with extraordinary care and secrecy, a secret passage was constructed between the two, by means of closets, so artfully contrived, that at a moment’s warning the members could escape with their papers from one house to the other, and elude the chance of capture.

In the room where the traitors met, the back of the closet was built up of bricks, resting on strong shelves, which were fixed to a door of strong plank. This door, with its shelves and brick back, swung on well oiled pivots. The bricks were whitewashed, and were firmly attached to the shelves, which were furnished with China and crockery, coated with fine dust, to make it appear, on looking into the closet, as if it had not been opened for a long time.

The closet in the adjoining house, resembled it exactly, except in the arrangement of its contents. The back or swing door, on that side next to the committee-room, had strong secret bolts, which kept all firm in its place.

The two houses had passed into the occupation of different persons, years after the society ceased to exist, without the secret of the “corresponding” closets having been divulged; but at the time when Mr. Crofton occupied his apartment, the servants of the adjoining house had discovered the secret of the bolts and swing door, in consequence of a brick coming loose, in driving a nail, and with that amiable curiosity generally _attributed_ to the fair sex, and probably from envy of her beauty, and of hearing some compliments paid to Marianne’s graceful figure, they determined on the species of pantomime which they so successfully put in practice, being mainly aided in it by a youth of great inventive genius, and a very dare-devil at mischief.

The disarrangement of the books, papers, pens and ink, with suppressed mutterings, groans, weepings and wailings, can therefore be easily understood.

The movement of the table was effected by means of a long piece of string, of the color of the carpet, which the young genius first passed round one of the table-casters, then around the foot of the bed, and the two ends of the string brought through the closet under the door, by pulling either one end or the other, he could withdraw or advance the table at pleasure; when the manœuvre was complete, he let go one end, and, in nautical phrase, “hauled in the slack.” The withdrawing of the cord was what Mr. Crofton took for a mouse.

The goat was obtained from the stable-yard of the George and Blue Boar, a well-known Inn on the other side of Holborn, in the immediate neighborhood; and the dog was one which the lad had enticed from the street. Being perfectly cognizant of every thing said or done in Mr. Crofton’s apartment, they overheard the conversation about the pistols and poker, and found it necessary to be rather cautious. They were perfectly aware of Mr. Crofton’s out-goings and in-comings, and during his absence, the charges were withdrawn from his pistols, and plugs of lead, covered with cotton, introduced, and firmly rammed down. When the girl stealthily opened the closet door, she was not aware Mr. Crofton was at home, and the appearance of her head on the shelf, in the act of reconnoitering, led to the detection and exposure of the whole thing; for the landlord was so exasperated, he had them all up before the police. Ample apology, however, was made, and the joke, from its ingenuity, forgiven. But the party-walls of both houses were restored to their original condition, putting an effectual stop to all further _correspondence_, or tricks, upon Mr. Crofton; but I believe it may have been this very extraordinary affair, that induced him to write one of his most popular works; and I only wonder he was never induced to work up the details of the mystery (which I have so imperfectly attempted) into a tale, or drama, of exciting interest. With reference to my chambers in the Temple, when I spoke of the unhappy years I had passed in them, I alluded to the contrast which they presented to the felicity which a married life soon afterward conferred on—

An Unbeliever in Spectral or Supernatural Appearances.

* * * * *

PICTURE OF TASSO.

“Are there not deep, sad oracles to read
In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
Yes, ev’n like _thee_ must gifted spirits bleed,
Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!”

Those poet-eyes, with inspiration burning—
Half wild, half pensive, still they haunt my dream—
Eyes, in whose depths the soul of passionate yearning,
Intense unrest, and high devotion gleam.

The Spirit of the Ideal, throned in glory,
Shines with superior brightness on that brow:—
O, laurel-crowned! thou famed in song and story,
How sweetly float thy spell-strains o’er me now!

Doth this rapt, earnest, mournful face resemble
In all its shaded lineaments thine own?
Did the soft love-vow on that proud lip tremble—
Yet fear to deepen to a tenderer tone?

And the rare love that haunts thy magic numbers—
Didst thou not hope to make such worship thine?
The passionate paleness on thy cheek that slumbers,
Tells that thy heart was but Love’s lonely shrine!

The love of Genius!—with its dream and vision—
Its hopes and fears—vainest of earthly things.
Only in spiritual visitings Elysian
Are realized the bard’s imaginings.

Meanwhile thine image rises oft before me,
With memories that to mine own heart belong;
And as I muse on thy life’s hist’ry, o’er me
Comes the conviction, O, sad son of song!

That the celestial gift can never, _never_
For all the _unrest_ it hath cost atone;
The Unattained still haunts us _here_ forever—
_There_, in _thy_ world, vain yearnings are unknown!
ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

* * * * *

THE MUSICIAN.

A TALE FOUNDED UPON FACT.

BY HENRY COOD WATSON.

I was traveling outside the coach from B——, early in the year 18—, after a season of fashionable dissipation, tired with the important nothings which eke out the existence of the beau monde, and determined to seek relief in change of scene, from the daily increasing ennui that oppressed me. I am not one of those who travel from Dan to Beersheeba without seeing any thing worthy of attention. To me the face of every human being is a book, in which strange and eventful histories are written legibly by the hand of time and passion, and with the assistance of my somewhat active imagination, I often fancy that I can trace the actions and events, the hopes and fears, that have made up their sum of life. It is a pleasing and grateful task to watch the face of youth; to trace love, hope, and confidence, in every line of the countenance. There is not to be seen one doubt, one look of distrust in this the brightest page of life’s eventful history.

My companions were a young girl, a free and generous-hearted sailor, two ordinary, every-day travelers, and a pale, and to all appearances, an intellectual youth. I make it a rule, when thrown into the company of strangers, if but for an hour, to make that hour, by conversation, pass as pleasantly as possible; and as I was likely to remain with my present companions for some hours, I determined to draw them into a familiar discourse. Our sailor was a character such as Dibden loved to draw—light-hearted and careless to a fault. At each place, while the horses were being changed, he would dismount, and insist upon treating every one around, spending his hard-earned cash without a thought for to-morrow. He kept us in a roar of laughter for some hours, by the strange tales he told. One, I remember, but it was so interlarded with technical terms, which he explained at the time, that I fear it will lose half its gist by their omission, and the substitution of my shore-going phraseology.

“We were cruising off the Bermudas,” said he, “in the summer of 179-. And a blazing summer it was—so hot, that all the sugar on board was turned into hard bake, and the purser’s skin was so dried, that he kept his tally on his face for the rest of the voyage; to say nothing of the captain’s dog, Toby, who was sitting on deck one day, when the pitch in the seams melting, he was held so fast by the stern, that he was unable to cut and run, and was in consequence exposed to the heat of the varticle sun, whereby he caught what the parley-voos call a ‘coop do sol’s heel,’ which, I suppose, means a ‘kick from the sun’s heel.’ Howsomever, that’s as may be. Well, as I said before, we were sailing with a fine steady breeze, at the rate of eight knots an hour, when, all of a sudden, we felt ourselves brought up, as it were, with a round turn. All hands immediately jumped on deck; the skipper came up in a devil of a hurry, swearing that we had struck upon some hidden rock. We sounded but could not find the bottom. The wind was rising and filled the canvas almost to bursting, but not an inch did she move. The skipper was flabbergasted, and the master, an old Northman, said that he thought we were over some magnetical rocks, and, according to the doctrine of substraction, they would draw all the iron out of the bottom, and we should fall to pieces. When, all of a sudden, it strikes Harry Dare-em-all—ah, by the by, he was a fellow—bathing one day in those very seas, he saw a shark as big as a whale coming right upon him. Away swims Harry; down he dives, and up he comes again, but Mr. Sharkey, was close upon his heels, and at last had turned over, ready for a grip, when Harry darts under him, and gives him such a kick in the small of his back, just to help him on the faster, that he broke him in half. The gentleman was hauled on board, and to this day I uses one of his grinders for a baccy-stopper. Well, says Harry, I shouldn’t wonder if it’s one of them feline animals of the shark species—for you see Harry knew something of fishogomy—as has bolted the junk we threw astarn to catch them beggars with. Away we all flies to the starn, and sure enough, there was the rope as taut as nothing. We pulled and hauled, but it was no go; so at last we gave it a turn round the capstan, and all hands were ready to toe it merrily round; but devil a bit of a round could they go, for the more they pushed the more he pulled. He must have had pretty tough muscle to stand against a stiff breeze and the whole ship’s crew—but he did, and beat us too. So at last the skipper ordered the carpenter to cut the rope—and so he did. But, my eyes! no sooner was it cut than away goes the barkey at such a rate, for two hours, that we thought we should have lost every stick. Howsomever, the shark got nothing by his move, for I met one Bill Jones, some years after, which had been cruising in them seas, and he says that there is a atomy of a shark, as goes diving about like one demented, with an iron hook, and a hundred fathom of cable hanging to his jaws, so that he hasn’t disgested ’em yet.”

The young girl, when she started, was weeping most bitterly, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Being a stranger, I dared not intrude upon her sorrow, but I longed to speak comfort to the poor wanderer. To take one shade of grief from a sorrowing heart, affords me more sincere pleasure, than all the luxuries of a winter campaign, however brilliant it may be. The sight of her grief brought on a train of thought, and suggested the following lines to my mind:—

What makes thy bosom heave, thy tears o’erflow,
Say, hast thou ever felt the throb of wo?
Has sorrow ever come, fair girl, to thee,
To dash thy cup of joy with misery?
But such is life!—too sure the brightest sky
That ever beamed to bless a mortal eye,
Must pass away;
The sweetest flower that ever yet has bloomed,
By Nature’s law, is all too early doomed
To know decay.

Has she, the idol of thy friendship, proved
A traitress, where she fondly vowed she loved?
Or is it but affection’s tear,
That falls at leaving friends so dear?
Grievest thou to leave this lovely scene,
Where all thy early joys have been,
Thy youthful hours?
Where thou hast frolicked through the days,
With childhood’s many pleasant ways,
In summer bowers?

What, weeping still? believe ’tis folly
To give full way to melancholy.
Youth should be as an April day,
Then smiles should chase those tears away;
For if in youth deep sorrows come,
Oh, where shall mem’ry find a home,
In after years,
To linger on, and raise a smile,
Amidst the world’s deceit and guile,
And other cares?

Say, hast thou left thy parents dear,
And need their smiles thy heart to cheer?
For all these woes there is a cure—
They never can ’gainst Time endure.
If one of these is not thy grief,
Then cannot Time bring thee relief;
For should it prove,
What now I deem thy cause for cares,
There is no cure in after years
For hopeless love.

I accosted the youth, whose appearance so interested me, and found him intelligent, but of a wildly romantic turn of mind, on which fancy might work her wildest spells. He told me that he was a musician, and proceeding to the metropolis to get his works published. Without friends or connections, I greatly feared—for I know something of these publishers—that his speculations would prove but a source of annoyance to him, without yielding him any profitable return. I offered to give him letters of introduction to my friends, to introduce him to my circle of acquaintance, and it was extensive; in short to be a patron to him in his outset of life. But, with expressions of fervent gratitude, he modestly declined my assistance, saying, “that he had determined to rely solely on his own resources, to depend upon no one, but to let whatever talent he possessed make a road to fortune for itself.” How confident is youth! How trusting in its own powers. He fancied that he knew, and was prepared for all the delays and disappointments endured by those who have to dance attendance upon the all-powerful publishers. However, while we were taking refreshments, I wrote a note to one of my most powerful friends, an amateur devotedly attached to the study of music, and prevailed upon him to accept it, and made him promise to use it if he did not find fortune so smiling as he expected. I gave him my address when we parted, and begged him to remember me when he was in need of a sincere friend.

Shortly after this, business called me to the Continent, and, being there, I was induced to make a tour of Europe, which detained me abroad some years. On my return I made inquiries about him; but all I could learn was, that he had published many beautiful compositions, and was looked upon as one whose genius promised greatly for the future. At one time he seemed fortunate and prosperous, but for some months past he had disappeared; no tidings could be learned of him, and it was supposed that he had left London.

I had not been in town many weeks, when one evening a person brought me a note from Ernest Moreton, requesting me to visit him immediately. I followed the bearer of the message, through many low streets in the neighborhood of Fleet street, until we arrived at a narrow, wretched-looking court. In a small, dark room, without furniture, on a miserable couch, lay my poor friend. He pressed my hand, and a sad smile passed over his wan, emaciated features, as I seated myself upon the only chair in the room, by his side. Poor fellow! he was, indeed, sadly changed! From the confident and aspiring youth, eager in the pursuit of fame, and strong in hope, I beheld him shrunk to the miserable occupant of a sick, untended bed. Where now are all those bright delusive dreams which thy too warm fancy wove? Have they not all faded into nothingness? Alas! do they not always fade?

“My friend,” he said, “I see by your countenance that you think me much changed since our parting. I am also aware of it; but you do not think me so ill as I really am. Dear sir, I feel that I am dying, and rapidly will life’s flame be extinguished. But do not mourn for me, my friend; it does not grieve me now. There was a time, indeed, when youth’s delusions were strong within me; when ambition and love struggled for mastery, and quite bewildered my too excitable imagination with glorious dreams of the future; that thoughts of death seemed to fall upon my soul like a blight. But the hand of God has been upon me; sorrow has chastened the heart that transient prosperity had too much elated. In my home, and, as you see, not very happy home, without a friend, without money, food, fire, clothing, in sickness and desolation, the folly and vanity of my pursuits have come most forcibly upon me. I am much altered; though nothing can banish from my breast the old enthusiasm for my profession, yet ambition has now no place there. You see, even here I have written much; but of what avail, further than as a relief to my overburthened heart? Music holds still her spell upon me, but hope has quite departed. I am dying of no disease, save that of a broken heart. I have for months been wasting away; as hope upon hope has taken flight, deeper and deeper has sunk the barbed arrow of sorrow into my heart, and life has ebbed away, purely from the want of a wish to live. To you, my generous friend, in this last hour I call. With you by my side, I would breathe my last breath. I have not power to say much more. A short account of my life you will find amongst my papers; read it, and you will learn by what means I was brought to this despairing state. My music you will burn; and my last request is, that you will, if it be possible, have my body placed by _her_ side. Do not leave me, my friend, for the world is passing rapidly away.”

I took his thin, white hand in mine, and the slight pressure it returned showed how weak he was. He lay still as death; but ever and anon a smile would illumine his countenance, as if the memory of some happy hour shed its bright influence over his latest moments. And he would murmur the name of Adeline, in accents so tenderly bewailing, that it melted me to tears. “My poor girl,” he said, “thy broken heart is now at rest; and I am coming, freed from my many sorrows, to lie me down beside thee. I have never smiled since you left me—my smiles were all buried with thee, Ada, in the grave; but I am happy, now, for I come to join thee in heaven! The tomb separated us, but the barrier is passed, and hope is mine again.” As morning approached, his sentences grew fainter and less frequent. As the dawn appeared he sunk into a quiet slumber, which proved, as I feared, the sleep of death.

And thus died one, who, under happier circumstances, might have lived honored, prosperous, and happy. Who, for want of some true friend to regulate his wild enthusiasm—to save him from himself—perished like a beggar, in a hovel, when his talents ought to have secured him an independence. He belonged to a class of beings little understood or appreciated by the world. The bright imaginings of the poet’s mind can be understood by the million, for he writes in a language that is common to all. But the musician pours forth his thoughts through a medium so refined, so exquisitely delicate, that it requires a fancy as chastely imaginative, a mind as richly stored with bright thoughts, a soul as open to the liveliest and warmest emotions, and stored with feelings of depth and intensity, with emotions which have a mixed derivation—the effect of a devoted love and reverence of mistress, parents, sisters, friends, of nature, and of God—it requires all this to comprehend his dreamings, or to enter in any degree into the emotions of his soul. The poet has a thousand means by which he can place his works before the world. Publications are appearing daily wherein their works would be gladly received; the musician has but one—the music publisher. Those who have had any dealings with them, can bear witness how generously disinterested they are. No young composer can “get any thing out,” unless he pays for it, and then, as it is of little consequence to the publisher whether it sells or not, it is of course allotted the least prominent place in the shop; and, saving the immediate friends of the author, if he has any, none know that the work is in existence. Or, if too poor to indulge in the luxury of publishing on his own account, he offer to _give_ some works, for the sake of their publication, such a one is sure to be chosen as will offer the least evidences of his capability. So he has no resource but to watch and wait upon these mighty men, gathering a harvest of sorrow and bitterness of heart; living through disappointments and hopes deferred, and dying in poverty from neglect and a broken spirit.

I paid the last offices of friendship to my departed friend, and he rests quietly beside her he so dearly loved in life. There are persons who seem to be born for each other—whose souls own the same emotions, the same passions excite them, the same destiny impels them—their fates seem to be linked together by preordination. It is a strange fact, but of the many instances which have come under my personal observation, of hearts apparently fore-doomed for each other, in not one case has happiness resulted. It appeared as though they were only to love and to be wretched. So in this instance it proved; for they were to each other as a sorrow, even while most devoted. But they rest, now, where sorrow cannot reach them.

I shall give the short history nearly as I found it.

On entering London, my friend’s first care was to procure lodgings in one of the most humble streets of the metropolis—the best suited to his narrow means. When the excitement of the change of scene had subsided, he began to feel that he was alone. “I,” to use his own words, “wandered about the first few days, in an ecstasy of delight; but chilling sensation of loneliness crept on apace; I felt myself alone amidst the thousands; I looked around, and sought in vain for one familiar face to give a smile of recognition; not one among the million that surrounded me, would return a friendly pressure of my hand; there were none to smile at my prosperity, to weep at my misfortunes, or to tend me should I sink upon a bed of sickness. I have walked amidst the loneliest scenes of nature, where not one sign of mortality intruded; I have wandered alone upon the barren heath; have buried myself within the bosom of the deepest wood, have singly stood upon the lofty mountain’s brow, but never felt that I was truly, utterly alone till now.” After a few days he began to present himself to the notice of the publishers. He was received with the utmost politeness by many, and was requested to bring some of his works, that they might judge of their merits. He left them, flushed with hopes of success, and returned with some of his best compositions, but, unfortunately, the gentlemen were from home. Again and again, and yet again he called, until at last, when hope was departing, he was honored by a hearing. The songs were “beautiful, charming,” but they feared that they would not sell—this symphony was too long, that required altering; these harmonies were too full, that passage was too difficult; but if these, not perhaps faults, only publishing faults, were altered, they would get them out for him. He left them much depressed, and felt lowered in his own opinion—for a young and sensitive mind is depressed or elated by the good or bad opinion of the world. To cut and hack his songs to pieces went sorely against his feelings. The very symphonies which the buying public would not play, contain most frequently the most refined and choice thoughts, and to omit these were to give forth a false impression of his talents. But the mighty fiat had gone forth, and altered they must be. Accordingly, he in a measure re-wrote them; but it was then found, without a hearing, that their printers were employed for many months to come. Thus, after keeping him months in continued suspense, he was in every case put off with some palpable lie, or some frivolous excuse. These annoyances, nay, misfortunes, are told in few words, but the time of their duration was some eighteen months.