Chapter IV: Part 4

Mr. Shuffle gave me a full account of the affair. He said that Alice was with her sister in Albany; that she had been very sick, and not expected to live. After I had been out of town for a few months, she returned to her father's; used to go moping about, and people thought her mind was affected; he wondered that people could be so unreasonable, as to keep young folks that loved each other separate; if _he_ had been me, he would have run away with her.

I did not wait to hear farther, or even to inquire about Collins, but ordered a horse, left a note for Collins, in which I advised him to return, as important business required my presence at Albany for a few days; and that I could not undertake our contemplated journey, after what had happened.

That very night I started across the mountains for Albany, and did not sleep until I saw the house that contained all I thought I loved on earth. The visit to old scenes had renewed all the fervor of my affection. Not wishing to be recognised, I stopped at a dwelling in an obscure part of the town, and sent a little boy to the house with a note, directing him only to give it into Miss Clair's own hand. If her health permitted, I requested an interview; but certainly some token of recognition by the bearer. She was well enough to meet me, and we agreed to take a walk that afternoon.

I pass over the agonizing bliss of meeting. All was forgiven in an instant. She had been sick indeed--sick at heart. She had heard of my disgraceful course of life in the city, after parting from her, and then again of my relapse at L----. She had supposed that I had given up all thoughts of her, and she said that she had tried to banish me from her thoughts; but, smiling through her tears, her words were: 'You know, Conworth, you were my first and only love. I had determined to run the risk of what I feared would happen. I was willing to risk something for one who might be so much, if he did truly love me in return as I did him. I have been forsaken, and forgotten, and disregarded; but the fault was in me in the first instance in trusting to you. I could hardly expect you to change your character for one like me.'

I could not bear this; I implored her to accuse me, to upbraid me--any thing but such words; and then I endeavored to palliate my faults, and in doing so, I told the exact truth. I led her back to motives, and temptations, and despairing states of mind, through which I could distinctly trace my own lapses; convincing her that all resulted from my separation from her; that 'could I have her with me to guide, comfort, and encourage me, I should, I felt confident, do every thing to make her happy.'

The idea of marriage had not crossed my mind until this instant. In consoling her, and drawing the picture of our union, I was so charmed with the notion, that I began to speak in earnest, and did, upon the spot, adopt the resolution of making the attempt to persuade her to unite herself to me on the instant.

I succeeded. She consented. We were to be married on the next morning. By good luck, her brother-in-law was absent from home, and I knew her sister possessed rather a romantic turn of mind. The devil lent me cunning and eloquence, and I persuaded her it was the only way to save Alice's life and mine.

To bring this about, I had, without premeditation, to invent plans which should have the appearance of having been well-digested. I told her 'that I came authorized from my father to bring Alice to his house, if I could do so as my wife.' I then showed her the wealth that I possessed--for beside my own money, Collins, on starting, had constituted me his banker--and the whole story was so well got up, that she seemed delighted with the novelty of the scheme.

Behold me then on the eve of perpetrating marriage. Every thing was prepared. My carriage, (one I had hired, and called mine,) was at the door; the trunks were lashed on, and we were standing before the minister, in her sister's parlor; the justice's daughter, and a friend I had picked up, acting as witnesses. The ceremony began. Hardly had a word been spoken, when the door flew violently open, and Collins, wild and haggard, with his dress torn and soiled, and without a hat, rushed into the room. He looked about him for a few moments in triumph, and then said, slowly: 'I am come in time, false woman!' He stepped toward Alice, who, pale and trembling, was sinking to the floor. A dagger gleamed in the madman's hand. I rushed forward, and taking the blow aimed at her, I fell senseless to the earth.

WHEN I awoke from my delirious dream, which followed the wound I had received, I found myself in a small private house. My father was standing by my bedside, and my sister was wiping the cold sweat from my forehead. I had been thus for a fortnight. My father and sister had arrived upon the earliest intelligence after the accident. They imagined they were journeying to attend my funeral. Would it had been so!

My father took my hand, as my eyes closed, upon meeting his anxious gaze, and said: 'It is all well--all is forgiven. Be calm; you are better, God be praised! I ask no more.'

I could not speak. His kindness, his affection, wounded me worse than ten thousand daggers. I covered my eyes with my hand, and wept. When I was strong enough to bear it, my sister told me all that had happened. Alice had confessed to her every thing. The substance was this.

'Collins had some years before met Alice Clair at a boarding-school in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an exile from home for his vices, and was living in the city, without plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners, and received his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile when she met him; to be at home when he called to see her; as far as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is just no way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for his kindness and attentions in bringing her new books and music. But with the playful coquetry of a child, she had impressed the heart of Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved her. The principal of the school had always allowed his visits, until ascertaining the knowledge of his true character, and seeing some instances of his misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no more of him.

Soon after, she returned home, and was continually persecuted with letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to N----, and behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would have subjected him to arrest, had he not left town. All these facts were never hinted to me, during my stay at N----. Probably they were forgotten, except by the parties more immediately interested.

No wonder some surprise was manifested at seeing myself and Collins ride into town together. Well, after I had left Collins, and departed for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither, and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mind already shattered by excess, and stimulated to insanity, he imagined himself the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on both of us. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly proved fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral. Mr. Clair followed us, so soon as he got wind of our intended visit, to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of his child.

'When you are older and more settled,' it said, 'in your views, if you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I am willing to forget, for the sake of your happiness and that of my child. You have perhaps unwittingly destroyed the peace of my family. You do not know the pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Your case is not hopeless. All depends upon yourself.'

My sister in a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It needed not to tell me where it came from. I have worn it next to my heart ever since that fatal morning. It is now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record this passage in my history, and look upon all that is left in this world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man, but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of profiting by the gift, of her affections.

Collins was released, by my father's request, after the question of my danger was over, and went I know not whither. From that day to this, I have never heard of him. The money of his in my possession was placed in the hands of a lawyer, and no trace can be found of his connections or of himself, by the most careful search.

We returned to my father's house. Hardly had we arrived, when we heard of the sudden death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fatigue and disappointment, she was attacked by fever, which was followed by delirium; and she went out of a cruel world, unconscious of her misery. My cup of bitterness was full. I neither hoped, nor excited expectation. I was considered a broken, ruined man. I remained some time a burthen upon my father's hands, leading a harmless but restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of existence.

Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar from all who knew me. I made arrangements to receive annually a small sum, to enable me to carry my projects into execution, and bidding adieu to all those I truly loved, and who I knew still loved me, I embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans.

HOPE.

HOPE for Experience boldly steers,
And gains that chilling shore,
But only to be wrecked on ice,
And sink to rise no more.
This is that hope whose sordid views
To earth alone are given;
That hope which wreck nor ruin fears,
Her anchor casts in heaven.
For he that would outride the storm,
Though whirlwinds waked the blast,
Makes that his first and only hope,
That all must make their last.

A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.

PART TWO.

OH steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam!
Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream,
What _could_ make a doctor, with serious face,
Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case?
In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say,
That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?'

* * * * *

THE flush that attended his words was cold,
Like a thing that happen'd--a tale that is told;
And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find
Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind.
While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep,
The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep.

Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems
So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams;
When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er
The parts that their waking realities bore;
Like the ghosts of departed returning again
To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men.
Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found
Its way to his regular visiting-round;
Now counting how long such a patient could live,
Now giving a drastic purgative;
It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile,
The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]

His journey soon ended, his dreaming was done,
And quickly dismounted the wonderful one.
Save a handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
No baggage or bag was he cumber'd withal;
Right glad was his heart that he was not delay'd
With porters disputing, and people dismay'd.
At the first man he met, with a citizen's air,
He propounded a question--it made the man stare;
The answer was ready, the questioner bow'd,
And hastily elbow'd his way through the crowd.
'Oh ho!' said his neighbor, as off he went,
(The one that had wonder'd,) 'I know what he meant!'

* * * * *

AT a house, (but I cannot tell which it may be,
Though possess'd of an author's ubiquity,)
At a house in that city, inhabits a maid,
Who travels by spirit, and makes it a trade.
That maid and her sister were sitting alone,
Employ'd in some manner not certainly known;
They might have been working, or reading, I guess,
Or playing at cards, or back-gammon, or chess;
Whatever employ'd them, a very loud rap
Disorder'd their nerves like a thunder-clap.

The sleep-walker quickly adjusted her hair,
Assuming the look she intended to wear,
And toss'd on the table, as other maids do,
Some 'work,' with the needle appearing half through.

One glance to see ev'ry thing properly plac'd;
Or derang'd to exactly the limits of taste,
Then, putting her chair with the back tow'rd the light,
Prepar'd for the visitor, be who he might.
The other, who play'd a subordinate part,
Took the same little process, with little less art;
And then was directed to 'ascertain straight
What manner of person it was at the gate.'
Oh! sleep-walker! sleep-walker! did you but know,
Who the visitor is, that is waiting below.
A leech in good practice, and wanting a wife,
You'd think him a capital venture for life.

The sister arriv'd at the door in a trice,
And the man that was waiting she look'd at twice:
From the crown of his hat to the sole of his shoe,
She look'd at him twice, as she'd look him all through.
That hat was low and its brim was wide,
But the sleep-walker's sister was not inside:
And his coat was black and his breeches were gray,
And look'd as a thriving practitioner's may.
His bosom was clothed in a sombre vest,
That aptly comported with all the rest;
Each pocket contriv'd of an ample space
For holding a portable instrument-case:
But, far more than breeches, hat, waist-coat or coat,
His own proper features seem'd worthy of note.
His locks were grizzled, his beard it was spare,
As he dieted ev'ry particular hair;
From a long, long nose, one could fancy how well
Its owner could practise his organs of smell;
For it seem'd, as he breath'd atmospherical air,
He perceiv'd what its physical properties were.
His eye with occasional glances by stealth,
Was plainly surveying one's bodily health;
And in his thin fingers, there seem'd to exist
A perpetual impulse to feel of one's wrist.
Whatever he utter'd, his look was profound,
And an odor of sanity breath'd all around.
No difficult matter it was to see,
That a person of science and skill was he.

Giving time for those matters that pass between
A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen,
And a moment beside for her womanish airs,
We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs.
With gentlest tread, as if ever before
He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor,
His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small,
He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall.
The maiden insisting on taking his hat,
He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat:
A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold,
And (climax of qualities) not at all old.
Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet,
As she kindly invited his taking a seat,
And sweetly she said what she had to say
Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way.
And then he presented himself by his name,
And hinted the matter about which he came;
He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food,
Incidentally hoping he did not intrude,
And then, (what all orators well understand,)
Digress'd to the subject directly in hand.
What was it the sister spoke low in her ear,
It was plain she alone was intended to hear.
But little the medical gentleman cared,
Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.

'This _aura-magnetica_-making,' said he
Is a process as simple as A B C,
And very agreeable, certainly, where
The patient is female, and passably fair:
You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye,
Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5]
Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat,
Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6]
And now it is holiday-time with the mind,
It hastens to leave the poor body behind;
As mischievous urchins escape to the street,
The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat.
Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be
Invented to rival the _bonnet de nuit_.
But though I account myself fully _au fait_
At dismissing the soul in a technical way,
(Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine,
A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,)
I own that it never came into my head
To try to converse with it after it fled;
It might be unpleasant; particular folks
Object to all species of practical jokes;
And one might, with reason, resent being made,
From a person of substance, an unreal shade.
However, I think we had better prepare
For one live spirit-walking--another affair.
The patient appears well inclin'd to repose,
Or rather, already beginning to doze.'

He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye,
Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh.
A striking resemblance there was in the face,
To one that occasion'd his first-love case.
Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget,
With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet.
'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start,
The caution was private--address'd to my heart.'

He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd,
The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd;
He hinted that opium, one or two grains,
Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains.
The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise,
Look'd sweetly upon him, and--sleep seal'd her eyes.

'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease,
And then let us travel, as fast as you please;
Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?'
(He thought he should take her thus unawares;)
She said, without any demurrage at all,
'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall;
Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide,
And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.'
A very round oath the physician swore,
''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore:
No mortal could see through a six-inch wall--
An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.'
'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh,
'I never _did_ tell her, I'm sure--not I!'
'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt;
Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.'
The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind
That he _had_ such an one, but had left it behind:
He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair,
Not only what was, but what should have been there!
'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,)
'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see;
I hope you'll go too, Miss--it is not too far;
Beside, you have only to set where you are.
The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,)
Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!'
But the sister assured him that no one, except
Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7]
'She could not distinguish a word that I said,
Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.'
'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may,
I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8]
But I'm at your door, and have given a knock,
And some one is turning the key in the lock.'
'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect
When turning the key would have any effect;
The lock is a _patent_ one, made with such skill,
It never yet work'd, and I fear never will.
But why should we wait till they open the door?
Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!'
'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun,
With two pretty windows----' 'There is but one.'
'But one?' said the walker--'ah, that's very true;
A somnambulist sees _twice_ as plainly as you;
But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife
Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.'
'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she;
'I mean, if you _had_ one, how happy she'd be!'
So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long,
The likeness was striking--each moment more strong.
Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart;
A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!

END OF PART TWO.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] 'Half-drawing down.' From the control of the sleeper's mind over his muscles, this most expressive gesture of the Æsculapian fraternity was but an 'opus infectum.'

[5] The stronger the exercise of the will, the more perfect is the effect produced.

[6] This experiment every urchin has repeatedly made, to his own edification and the annoyance of his family.

[7] Those in a somnambulistic state communicate with, and can receive impressions from, the operator alone.

[8] No better confirmation could be had of the fact, than the patient's own asseveration.

OUR BIRTH-DAYS.

THE anniversary of our birth-days is always an interesting period, and should be noticed accordingly. Each of such days is a mile-stone on the road of life, reminding us of the rapid rate at which we have been advancing on its journey, and approaching its close. It is true that in life's _morning_, these mile-stones appear to be farther apart than they do in later years; still, they are days of hope and promise. Thousands are then rejoicing that they are one year nearer to the boasting age of twenty-one, when a young man feels himself lord of his own actions, and glories in his liberty. To thousands of the fairer part of creation, these annual monitors are welcome, as harbingers of the day when they shall shine in the ball-room or circles of fashion; attract all eyes, and command all attention; or perhaps fasten some silken chain around the heart of an individual admirer, and lead him in delightful captivity. To other thousands of the same sex, the anniversary will tell a tale of sadness; of departed hours and departed charms; of withered roses and withered hopes; when the looking-glass has lost its magic power, and speaks nothing save in the plain language of unwelcome truth and soberness. Thousands are reminded that many of the intervals, between one mile-stone and another were distinguished by lovely landscapes and countless beauties; by health and enjoyment--by joy and gladness of heart. To thousands of others, such intervals have been gloomy and cheerless; without the consolations of friendship, the comforts of society, or the flattering promises of hope. Surrounding prospects have only increased the gloom of the mind, and made the heart sick.

Yet in all these recollections, we may find instruction and nourishment for our better feelings. If our course has been checkered with good and evil, we may profit by tracing consequences to their proper causes; and thus learn how many miscalled misfortunes are the offspring of folly, or imprudence, or wrong; the natural results of our own wanderings from the path of innocence and duty; or else have been so fortunate as to have discovered by experience, that our happiness and duty are intimately connected, and that wisdom's ways are always ways of pleasantness and peace. In both cases, this annual review of the days and years that have taken their farewell of us, will be salutary in its effect, and teach us the value of virtuous resolutions of amendment, when we have gone astray, and the peaceful feelings and sweet anticipations of those whose desire it is to preserve their moral health in the bowers of innocence and purity, and amid the green pastures and still waters of life.

This very day, I have arrived at the _seventy-third_ mile-stone on the journey to another country, where we all hope to enjoy happiness unending. And here I must avail myself of the old man's privilege; that of speaking of himself, and the incidents of exciting or soothing interest which have marked his onward course. I have abundant occasion to indulge in the pleasing retrospect. Through the smiles of heaven, I may truly say, that in the long vista I can scarcely discover an unpleasant object, to mar the beauty of the scene. It still appears margined with foliage and flowers, almost as green and bright as ever. The surface of the way still seems smooth, and the sky is clear and summer-like, as in the days of my youth and early manhood. Surely, these are distinguished blessings to me, and as such I fondly cherish them. Heaven has given me a firm constitution, and long-continued health. These are precious foundations to build upon; and I have improved them for that purpose. But much has been effected by the formation of certain _habits_, and by an attention to certain _rules_; and I feel their tendency and effects as valuable medicines. It is not vanity in an old man to recommend them to others. I am influenced by better motives. In the first place, when a child,

----'I knew a mother's tender care,
And heard th' instructions of a father's tongue;'

and I hope I have never forgotten them, or in any situation disregarded their benign influence, but reverenced them as important safe-guards. The rules I have adopted have never, to any extent, deceived me.

1. I have always found, that if I had injured any one, especially if intentionally, I could enjoy no peace of mind, until I had _asked_ and _obtained_ his forgiveness. When forgiven, all was calm and sunshine in my bosom. I never solicited in vain.

2. Knowing by experience the value of this blessed sunshine, I have always endeavored so to be on my guard, as not to offend by indulged passion, suspicion, or want of respect and courtesy. This has always insured courtesy and kindness in return, from all others.

3. If on a sudden I have for a few moments been guilty of indulging in passion, the sun never went down on my wrath. I never _did_ and never _could_ retain resentment against any one, and cherish a desire of revenge; for such a desire would have been painful and distressing. A word from him who had excited my momentary anger, spoken to me in kindness, never failed to disarm every disturbed feeling. I have always found a peaceful disposition a source of comfort, and to produce the same calm within, as is caused by gentle breezes on a summer day, refreshing an invalid who is walking abroad to inhale them.

4. By the aid of the foregoing rules, I have thus far through life been habitually cheerful; and cheerfulness is easily diffused, and cheerful feelings multiplied. It is a sort of letter of introduction, and insures a welcome, when duly exhibited. It adds to the charms of society, while at the same time it gives a youthful movement to the pulsations of the heart.

5. In order to preserve this youthful feeling of our nature, while advancing in years, I have steadily maintained the custom of associating freely with the _young_ as well as the _old_; of joining in the social or fashionable circle, and breathing the atmosphere of the library or the drawing-room, with ladies and gentlemen, more especially with those whom I am in the habit of meeting, on other occasions, upon terms of easy intercourse. By this practice, my social feelings have remained almost unchanged. Though I am an old tree, my leaves remain nearly as green as ever. The scenes I have just described, I enjoy now as well and as pleasantly as I did forty or fifty years ago. Are not these blessings? Men and women may grow old, if they please, and lose all relish for social intercourse, even among those of their own age; and if they please, they may retain most of the better feelings of their early years, in the particulars before mentioned; and the honest, frank, and cheerful expression of them will generally be reciprocated, even in the circles of the young and gay. These interchanges of thoughts and feelings, in hours of easy and virtuous relaxation, are mutually beneficial, in producing kinder dispositions toward each, and bringing the distant periods of life nearer together, and forming a _temperate zone_, where the climate becomes more mild, uniform, serene, and salutary. Are not my rules and my practice, then, worthy of imitation, as having an evident tendency to preserve a green old age, and protract the 'Indian summer of the soul,' and keep the heart warm amid the gathering frosts of the December of life?

We cannot open a newspaper, without seeing advertisements of those who have compounded numberless medicines for curing almost all the pains and diseases 'which flesh is heir to;' and are desirous of diffusing them, for the relief of all classes of sufferers, for a moderate pecuniary compensation. And surely there can be no impropriety in my publishing this article for the benefit of all concerned, and giving them, _gratis_, my friendly advice, on so interesting a subject. My object is as commendable as theirs; and I presume my prescriptions, if duly observed, would promote the moral health of thousands, and save them from the penalty of 'low spirits;' quicken the healthful circulation of the 'social blood,' and add to the life of multitudes years of comfort, ending in a golden sunset.

_Portland, (Maine,) Nov., 1837._ SENEX.

LAY OF THE MADMAN.[9]

'THIS is the foul fiend! He begins at curfew, and walks till
the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye,
and makes the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
poor creature of earth. Beware of the foul fiend!'

SHAKSPEARE.

MANY a year hath passed away,
Many a dark and dismal year,
Since last I roam'd in the light of day,
Or mingled my own with another's tear;
Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
Wo to them all, when I roam again!

Here have I watch'd, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shriek'd, in my wild despair,
When the damnéd fiends from their prison came,
Sported and gambol'd, and mock'd me here,
With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame;
Shouting for ever and aye my name!
And I strove in vain
To burst my chain,
And longed to be free as the winds, again,
That I might spring
In the wizard ring,
And scatter them back to their hellish den!
Wo to the daughters and sons of men--
Wo to them all, when I roam again!

How long I have been in this dungeon here,
Little I know, and nothing I care;
What to me is the day or night,
Summer's heat or autumn sere,
Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight,
Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
Time! what care I for thy flight,
Joy! I spurn thee with disdain;
Nothing love I but this clanking chain;
Once I broke from its iron hold,
Nothing I said, but silent and bold,
Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold,
Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair,
Hours upon hours, so watch'd I here;
Till one of the fiends that had come to bring
Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring,
Stalk'd through my dungeon entrance in!
Ha! how he shriek'd to see me free--
Ho! how he trembled and knelt to me,
He who had mock'd me many a day,
And barred me out from its cheerful ray,
Gods! how I shouted to see him pray!
I wreath'd my hand in the demon's hair,
And chok'd his breath in its mutter'd prayer,
And danc'd I then, in wild delight,
To see the trembling wretch's fright.

Gods! how I crush'd his hated bones!
'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stones;
And plung'd my arm adown his throat,
And dragg'd to life his beating heart,
And held it up, that I might gloat,
To see its quivering fibres start!
Ho! how I drank of the purple flood,
Quaff'd and quaff'd again of blood,
Till my brain grew dark, and I knew no more,
Till I found myself on this dungeon floor,
Fetter'd and held by this iron chain;
Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again,
Wo to the daughters and sons of men!

My frame is shrunk, and my soul is sad,
And devils mock, and call me mad;
Many a dark and fearful sight
Haunts me here, in the gloom of night;
Mortal smile or human tear
Never cheers or soothes me here;
The spider shrinks from my grasp away,
Though he's known my form for many a day;
The slimy toad, with his diamond eye,
Watches afar, but comes not nigh;
The craven rat, with her filthy brood,
Pilfers and gnaws my scanty food:
But when I strive to make her play,
Snaps at my hands, and flees away;
Light of day or ray of sun,
Friend or hope, I've none--I've none!

Yet 'tis not always thus; sweet slumber steals
Across my haggard mind, my weary sight;
No more my brain the iron pressure feels,
Nor damnéd devils howl the live-long night;
Visions of hope and beauty seem
To mingle with my darker dream;
They bear me back to a long-lost day,
To the hours and joys of my boyhood's play,
To the merry green,
And the sportive scene,
And the valley the verdant hills between;
And a lovely form with a bright blue eye,
Flutters my dazzled vision by;
A tear starts up to my wither'd eye,
Gods! how I love to feel that tear
Trickle my haggard visage o'er!
The fountain of hope is not yet dry;
I feel as I felt in days of yore,
When I roam'd at large in my native glen,
Honor'd and lov'd by the sons of men,
Till, madden'd to find my home defil'd,
I grasp'd the knife, in my frenzy wild,
And plunged the blade in my sleeping child!

They called me mad--they left me here,
To my burning thoughts, and the fiend's despair,
Never, ah! never to see again
Earth or sky, or sea or plain;
Never to hear soft Pity's sigh--
Never to gaze on mortal eye;
Doom'd through life, if life it be,
To helpless, hopeless misery;
Oh, if a single ray of light
Had pierced the gloom of this endless night;
If the cheerful tones of a single voice
Had made the depths of my heart rejoice;
If a single thing had loved me here,
I ne'er had crouch'd to these fiends' despair!

They come again!
They tear my brain!
They tremble and dart through my every vein!
Ho! could I burst this clanking chain,
Then might I spring
In the hellish ring,
And scatter them back to their den again!

* * * * *

They seize my heart!--they choke my breath!
Death?--death! ah, welcome death!

_Savannah, (Geo.,) 1837._ R. M. C.

FOOTNOTE:

[9] ALL who have ever visited the 'ward of the incurables,' in any of the insane asylums of our Atlantic cities, will be forcibly struck with the graphic picture presented in this spirited sketch.

EDS. KNICKERBOCKER.

OLLAPODIANA.

NUMBER XXII.

----AS I was saying last month, beloved reader, that 'I am thine in promise,' or to that purport, I have anchored myself in my _fauteuil_, to the end that I may be thine in fulfilment. In our conversation about the Catskills, I omitted sundry pertinent matters, with the which, however, malgré the postponement, I shall not here afflict. Since that period, I have for the most part been pent i' the populous city, amid the wakeful noises by day thereof, and by night the calm security of the streets thereof. I affect the supernatural bawl of the watchman, as it rings up to my pillow; I love the serenade which the neighboring lover sings to his fair, and of which I get the good as well as herself; I like to see the straggling cloud go floating over the slumbering town at midnight, with the moon silvering its edge; or mayhap to note the sheen of a star greeting the vision over a chimney-pot. All these have charms for my eye and ear; I seem to see holy sights and shapes in the firmament; the winds come and go on their circuits, unknowing how many brows they fan; and at times they hush a whole metropolis to silence, insomuch that its wide boundary scarce produces so much noise 'as doth a chestnut in a farmer's fire.'

* * * * *

BY-THE-BY, when the sun begins to set at right descensions, and make his winter arches, I always think of the roaring fires in the domicil of the rural husbandman, with feelings akin to envy. Ye who toast your heels by anthracite; who survey the meagre 'blue blazes' of Liverpool coal, and whose nostrils take in the dry odor thereof, being reminded thereby of those ever-burning brimstone beds, where Apollyon keeps his court, and Judas has his residence; ye, I say, who have a life-long intimacy with these sorts of fuel, can have but small conception of a winter's fire in the country. Far round doth it illumine the apartment where it rages; intolerable is proximity thereunto; and its 'circle of admirers' is always large, because they cannot come a-nigh. A pleasant disdain is felt for the snow which whirls on whistling winds against the pane; the herds are huddled in their cotes secure; and the storm has permission to mumble its belly full, and spit snow at its pleasure. Hugeous reminiscences of delight come over my spirit, in this connexion; post-school hours; the steaming bowl of flip, or those orthographical convocations, where buxom maidens exulted in their secret heart, as tall words were vociferously mounted, in correct emission, by greenhorn swain. Sleigh-rides likewise; amatory pressures, under skin of buffalo or bison; long processions through wintry villages, whose tall smokes rose from every chimney; pillars of blue, standing upright in the air, like columns of sapphire. Cider, with its acidity of remembrance; apples, that melted on the tongue, as they descended toward the diaphragm; landscapes of snow; and slides down hill!--not forgetting those skating achievements, which for the time being fill the mind with such pride, that one scarcely wishes to reach heaven at last, if that amusement be interdicted among the just made perfect! All these circumstances and events, with curious confusion, hang in a nucleus about my memories of a rural hearth; 'but these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe.' Shakspeare had a good notion of the comforts to which I refer. He puts a lovely sentiment into the mouth of King Richard II., when he causes him to utter to the royal lady this tender language:

'Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France:
Think I am dead; and that from me thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire
With good old folks; and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid;
And ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,
Tell thou the lamentable fall of me!'

* * * * *

I HAVE not, howbeit, reader, as might be inferred from what has been herein before written, spent all the mean season spoken of, in the busy capital. I have made, with household appurtenances, and delights, and responsibilities, an autumnal tour or 'excrescence' into the country, round about the Empire Town. Quotidian columns have borne the register thereof; hence Benevolence prompt to crucify farther infliction. The landscapes surveyed were beautiful; though it may be said of the eminences, as Mr. William Lackaday observes in the play, of his boy-seen uplands: 'Them there hills wasn't clothed with much werder.'

* * * * *

HOW many steam-boat accidents are occurring constantly! One of late astonished the peaceful Delaware. But it did one good act. The explosion blew away a piece of very bad orthography in the cabin of one of those craft which ply between Philadelphia and Camden. Perilous voyages do they make, indeed! Nurses with their blooming charges, and who have never been to sea, embark in them to behold the wonders of the deep! The disaster I speak of arose from that which made the angels fall. 'Twas curst ambition. One boat was going several inches ahead of another, and urged its engine to the rate of at least fifty miles the hour. Rivalry was awakened; the captain of the hapless craft yelled to his assistant: 'Josey, we'll have a race with that t'other imperent boat! _Put that other stick of wood into the furnace!_ My pride is elewated. Never mind the expense _this_ time!'

The command was given; the boiler collapsed; and ambition was ended! The orthography blown from the steamer was this:

'No smoking _aloud_ in the cabing!'

This was an injunction obeyed per force, for it could not be broken.[10] It specified tacit fumigation:

----'Nothing could live
Twixt that and silence;'

and the unnecessary monition was no great loss, either to luxury or learning.

* * * * *

LET me here register a letter which I have received from the Jehu who voted for Smith, of Smithopolis. He conveys several curious sentiments; and among other matters, records the demise of the person to whom he was indebted for a lecture:

'_November the 5th, 1837._
'MY DEAR SIR:

'I have seen a piece which you made and put into a perryogue
published down into the city of New-York, to which I am a-going
to indict a reply. My indictment will be short, as some of
the parties is not present to which you have been allusive.
But with respect of that there diwine person you spoke of,
I am sorry to remark, that he is uncommonly dead, and wont
never give no more lectures. He was so onfortnight as to bu'st
a blood-vessel at a pertracted meeting; and I ha'n't hearn
nothing onto him sence. His motives was probable good; but in
delivering on 'em, it struck me forcibly that he proximated to
the _sassy_. However, I never reserves ill will, not ag'inst
nobody; and I authorize you to put this into printing, ef'so be
that you deem it useful. That's what Smith used to say, when he
published his self-nominations in the newspapers, that a man
with a horn (they tell me that he has a very large circle of
kindred) used to ride post about, and distribit.

'In the sincere congratulation that there has not nothing been
said in this communication unproper for the public ear, and for
giving you the descriptions of the rackets, and other messuages
respecting me, which you deeded to the public, I remain yours
until death do us part.

'POST TILLION.'
'Mr. OLLAPOD, M.D.'

Now there is no finding fault with a correspondent of this description. Plain, unadorned, he gives his thoughts the drapery of ink--dresses them in black--and there they stand, ('what is written remains,') evidences at once of his frankness and his erudition. To me, such documents, though light, and perhaps unpalatable to those who prefer the heavier condiments of literature, form the cream or the dessert of life's plenteous table.

* * * * *

TALKING of desserts--by which (whisper) I don't mean the boundless contiguity of western wildernesses, nor the sandy bounds of Zahara, but the after-glories of a dinner--I have of late arrived at some curious embellishments of delicacies, on the part of those who are bent upon improving the English language, at all hazards; upon extending it to the utmost latitude of dainty expression and culture. The Astor-House, I learn, at its Ladies' Ordinary, has furnished forth some glorious specimens of English improved. 'Sir!' said an exquisite, desirous of partaking a certain delicacy for himself and his fair:

'Have you at present any of the _chastised idiot-brother_?'

'Han't seen no relations of your'n here to-day,' murmured the waiter, 'with an imperturbable and 'furtive' smile.'

'Don't be impertinent, fellow!' was the reply; 'I mean something to eat!'

'If you want to eat any thing in the _idiot_ line,' replied the servant, aside, as his inquisitor fingered his moustache, 'I guess you'd better put some butter on your hair, and swaller _yourself_!' And here the sacrilegious usher of sauces and glasses indulged in a half-suppressed guffaw.

'Dar' say you consider that funny, my short _help_,' said the inquirer: 'but what I want is what _you_ call _whipped-syllabub_. Heaven help your ignorance!'

The requisite was handed--the exquisite appeased. But his quiet was brief. Calling to him the same locomotive assistance, he inquired:

'Now, individual, I want some _sacrificed-threshed-indigent-williams_. Have you got any?'

'Not one, upon my soul, your honor; that is, if you mean turnips.'

'Turnips!--curse turnips!--you double-distilled Vandal--you Goth--you Visigoth! I mean, have you any roasted whippoorwills?'

'Holy Paul!' said a Hibernian 'help,' who had drawn a-nigh, attracted by the discussion; 'in the name of the Vargin, what is _them_?'

Just at this juncture, the eaves-dropping by-stander who furnishes the _mem._ of this, came away, leaving the emerald son--more verdant to look at than his native isle--staring as if in a fit of astronomy, in eclipse-time.

* * * * *

ONE of my autumnal recreations, good my reader, is hunting. I pull a most fatal trigger. Venerie delighteth me, when the day is good and the game abundant. I love, (heaven forgive me!) to bring down the squirrel, with the half-munched chestnut in his teeth, what time his bushy tail, (no longer waving in triumph over his back, as he bounds from limb to limb,) quivers in _articulo mortis_. I confess me none of your cockney venators. Some of these I have seen place the deadly muzzle of a double-barrel rifle at the unsuspecting tail of a wren, while the proximity of metal and feathers was less than an inch; and when they fired, they plunged back some several yards, overcome with horror, though the bird had flown without injury, save indeed some blackened down, in extremis--a trifle, with life safe, and the world before her.

The poetry of gunpowder is in making it _tell_. To go out when the woods are so beautiful that you deem a score of dying dolphins hang on every tree,

'When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the leaves
are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill;'

to hear the delicate tread of the game on the leaves, rustling amid the murmur of solemn winds, as the westering sun scampers down the west, with a face as red as if he had disgraced the solar family by some misdemeanor; and then, in some thick recess of passing foliage, and innumerous boughs, then and there to bore wingéd fowl, and my gentleman quadrupeds of the sylvan fastness, with cold lead, is exhilarating. All kinds of volant things that wing the autumn air--all sorts of movers on four legs--to make these succumb to the behests of minerals, deadly salts, and a percussion cap to set them on, is a kind of great glory in a very small way. I miss in my excursions of this nature, the kind of sport which I fancy they who course the fields and glades of England must peculiarly enjoy; hare-hunting, namely. 'The ancients,' saith my choice 'Elia,' must have loved hares. Else why adopt the word _lepores_, (obviously from _lepus_,) but from some subtle analogy between the delicate flavor of the latter, and the finer relishes of wit in what we most poorly translate _pleasantries_. The fine madnesses of the poet are the very decoction of his diet. Thence is he hare-brained. Haram-scarum is a libellous, unfounded phrase, of modern usage. 'Tis true the hare is the most circumspect of animals, sleeping with her eyes open. Her ears, ever erect, keep them in that wholesome exercise, which conduces them to form the very tit-bit of the admirers of this noble animal. Noble will I call her, in spite of her detractors, who from occasional demonstrations of the principle of self-preservation (common to all animals,) infer in her a defect of heroism. Half a hundred horsemen, with thrice the number of dogs, scour the country in pursuit of puss, across three counties; and because the well-flavored beast, weighing the odds, is _willing_ to evade the hue and cry, _with her delicate ears shrinking perchance from discord_, comes the grave naturalist, Linnæus, perchance, or Buffon, and gravely sets down the hare as--a timid animal. Why, Achilles, or Bully Dawson, would have declined the preposterous combat!' This is speaking sooth, and vindicates the fame of that class of tremulous tenants of rural haunts, whose ears, most unhappily, are sometimes longer than their lives.

* * * * *

SOMETIMES I surmount my pony, and traverse for miles the banks of the Schuylkill; moving, now fast, now slow, as humor prompts, or clouds portend. The city fades behind me; the beautiful eminence of Fairmount, its spouting fountains, its statues in the many-colored shade; the sheen of the river; the trellised pavilions that hang on its side; the hum of waters, or the cheerings of some regatta, mingle with far obscurity and airy nothing; and then, as I ride, I sing the song of Anacreon Little, laying every tone to my heart, like a treasure and a spell:

'Along by the Schuylkill a wanderer was roving,
And dear were its flowery banks to his eye;'
(I am bounding along--at a good rate am moving--
I have lost the last lines--unregained, if I try.)

Thus I murder the post-meridian hours, when the weather-office is propitious, and its clerks attentive.

* * * * *

BY-THE-WAY, how often have I pondered on the extreme surprise experienced by Balaam, of Old-Testament memory, when he rode out one day on business. His meditations were most unexpectedly interrupted by the beast he rode; and he was immensely astounded, when he found out the garrulity of the animal. True to her sex, (for she was of the tender gender,) she commenced a few sentences of small-talk, greatly to his dismay. And who could marvel? What man but would listen, _auribus erectis_, when he ascertained that his own ass was opening a conversation with him? 'Twas thus with Balaam. He was well nigh demented. He pommelled his beast with great vehemence; but she turned her head to him, and said in the Hebrew dialect--'_No Go!_'

Is it not wonderful, that those who are skilled in biblical history, who weigh evidence by the ounce, and inference by the pound, is it not a marvel, that they have never traced the obstinacy of this four-footed individual to the right motive? She was, in sooth, the great progenitress of _Animal Magnetism_; and she presented, in her own person, the first instance of _clairvoyance_ on record, either in prose or rhyme. It was at her hinder feet that MESMER sat, in thought, and caught the inspiration of his science. Balaam sat on her patient back, burdened her hallowed vertebras, nor knew how much wisdom he bestrode. Blinded mortal! He looked ahead for the cause of his detention. He saw no reason why he should not push on; and in the Egyptian obliquity of his heart, he 'whaled' his ass to a degree. It did no good; on the contrary, 'twas quite the reverse. The ass and the angel were looking steadfastly at each other; but Balaam saw but one of the parties. He noted not the glittering and glorious obstacle that stopped the narrow way. The loose and expressionless lips of his ass spoke like a book; the _clairvoyance_ was established; but the effect was slow. Henceforth, when the magnetic science is discussed, honor its foundress. Render unto that ass the things which are asses.'

* * * * *