“You are fast growing wise,” said the sage, replying[347]

to my thoughts; “keep to that resolution, and the comfort you will experience from the consciousness that you have devoted your life to the welfare of your race will be the true alchemy, for it will be spiritual gold.”

My heart yearned towards the kind old man at these words, and in an ecstasy of affection and reverence as well as joy at having discovered the error of my life, I embraced him, begged him never to leave me, but be ever with me-to guide me in wisdom; to be, in fact, a father to me, and I would follow his counsel as a son. The kindly sage smiled benevolently on me, and replied: “My son, our lots are different; at least, for the present. Recollect that you are yet in the body, whilst I have for many ages back been all spirit. We must shortly part; you will return to the body until you are called from thence, whilst I must hasten to the society of spirits to which I belong. Till then, however, I will be your guide, and give you what instruction I may in spiritual things.”

I thanked him, and expressed my regret at having to part from him so soon, and hoped we should meet again when our conditions became the same. I then begged him as my time was short, to show me the lot of spirits of a higher order, saying: “You have shown me those who have sought gold from the love of science and those who have sought it from greed. Also those who, having gold, knew not[348]

how to use it. Now show me the lot of those who, born wealthy, have made the best use of their wealth.”

“My son,” said the sage, “those spirits are few in number and belong to a higher sphere. One direct from earth as yourself enters with difficulty within that holy region. However, follow me.”

Then there appeared to rise from the ground a sort of mist, which thickened until it became a small but dense cloud. Upon this my guide alighted, leading me after him. We both of us trod the cloud beneath our feet, upon which we made no more impression than if our bodies had been made of the same ephemeral substance as the vapour we trod. The cloud then commenced to rise, and slowly wafted us high in air, carrying us over trees and mountains as we discoursed together by the way. Moving upwards, yet not straight and suddenly, but describing wide circles in the air, as if we were ascending a winding staircase, we found ourselves, after a time, in the midst of a large dense cloud, and our motion ceased. By degrees the mist seemed to clear away, and I beheld a curious phenomenon. I stood firmly, as if upon the solid earth, yet when I looked above me the earth appeared over my head, whilst the sky seemed under my feet. “What is the reason,” I asked, “that in this planet or aerial dwelling of spirits, the laws of nature are reversed?”

“Your vision only is reversed,” replied my guide,[349]

“because not being as yet entirely freed from the body, your spirit savours too much of clay to be in harmony with the spirits of this sphere. Everything in the spiritual world is a type, and has a hidden meaning. As the sky is a type of heaven, so the earth we tread is a type of material things. The reason you see the earth above your head and the sky beneath your feet, is that you as yet place material things above spiritual things. It is difficult for you, as a mortal, to do otherwise, and therefore your vision is distorted. I can, however, while I am with you, communicate a portion of my being to you, sufficient for you to see objects as they really are.”

He then touched my forehead, grasping my temples between his finger and thumb, when a new sensation came over me. It seemed as if I had been suddenly lifted with the rapidity of lightning a mile or two higher in the air, although my guide assured me that I had never moved from the spot I was standing on. I appeared to breathe more freely, and experienced a most exhilarating feeling of buoyancy, with an intense and boundless expansion of mind. The sky was now above my head and the earth beneath my feet, as in our world. I found myself surrounded by a beautiful landscape that would baffle all my descriptive powers to give any adequate idea of. Trees, beautiful and curious, bearing fruit of gold, silver, or precious stones, and of ferns that I had never seen in the world. Hills and valleys of rich luxuriance,[350]

crags, waterfalls, lakes with islands, magnificent palaces of the purest white marble in a style of architecture truly sublime. Human forms, surpassingly beautiful, of both sexes and of all ages crossed me at intervals, from blooming and laughing infancy to hoary but hale old age, each stage of life bearing a marked beauty of its own. Everyone seemed happy, and no one idle, although the occupations of some were of a quiet, meditative sort. Philosophers discussed theories among themselves or taught wisdom to the young, who listened attentively. Children romped or indulged in amusements suitable to their age. Lovers passed and repassed, discussing together in earnest whisper. Here and there a solitary poet composed an ode or landscape painter plied his art. The more I gazed on the scene, the more I became enraptured, for all was sunshine and content. “How different,” thought I, “is this to those false delusive joys that I have just witnessed in the lower world of spirits, and which I, in my besotted ignorance, mistook for a paradise!” Then my guide turning towards me said: “I perceive that you are enchanted with this scene, that the beauty around you surpasses your wildest imagination, and that you could never desire a paradise more delightful. These are those who in the world were born rich, or, at least, if not rich, used the little they possessed to relieve or promote the happiness and welfare of their kind, denying themselves luxuries or[351]

even necessities in order to enlarge the field of their charity, counting the dead pleasures of wealth as nothing in comparison with the satisfaction they derived from rendering happy their poorer neighbours. These are the angels of the lowest heaven, but there are higher joys than these, which neither you nor I may ever be permitted to witness.”

So enraptured was I with all around me, that I hardly listened to the words of my guide. I yearned to converse with some of the inhabitants of this paradise, but a feeling of shyness, owing to a consciousness of inferiority, held me back. The inhabitants even invited me to discourse with them, for they looked on me kindly, as if waiting for me to address them. Maidens of most heavenly beauty gazed upon me with sweet looks of chaste innocence. Lovely children seemed about to seize me by the hand to lead me away to play, but on approaching nearer to me and perceiving that I was not of their heaven, scampered off half-terrified. One or two hospitable persons came forward and offered to take me into their houses, and to show me some of the public buildings, but my guide observing that a giddiness had seized me, owing to the excess of delight I experienced in things so new to me, explained to them that I was yet a mortal only temporarily withdrawn from the body, and that a longer stay in this region might prove dangerous to me, as he had been commissioned to let me return shortly. My conductor then waved his hand courteously to everyone[352]

by way of farewell, the good spirits also returning the salute while we descended more rapidly than we had ascended, and all around me became as before, a thick cloud. I felt nigh fainting with a singing in my ears, but this vanished by degrees the farther I left the paradise behind. At length my senses being sufficiently recovered, I gazed around me; all was mist still, but every now and then I observed certain curious phenomena, visions which appeared and disappeared. Sometimes it was a garden or a building, sometimes an animal, a solitary tree or flowers. I heard strains of music, voices, laughter. Sometimes a rose or other flower fell at my feet, and immediately vanished; sometimes a toad or other reptile fell near me, and likewise vanished. Sometimes birds of prey or fierce animals were seen striving with one another. Then again, fragments of distant landscape appeared and vanished. None of these apparitions lasted beyond a few seconds. Then turning to my guide, I said: “Tell me, O sage, what is the meaning of all these appearances?”

To which the old man replied: “These are all signs and symbols of things which in your world have no visible nor tangible existence, their essence being purely spiritual, yet which, nevertheless, in their own atmosphere-the spiritual world-have a visible existence of their own. These are the thoughts of mortals yet living in your world.[353]

“We are fast approaching your earth, and therefore these appearances become visible. The more beautiful of these visions, such as the flowers, landscape, and singing birds, are the representations of the pure thoughts and desires of the good; those of the less pleasing sort, such as the toads, adders, serpents, bats and owls, signify the evil thoughts of the wicked, and correspond to revenge, hatred, lust, murder, fraud, and the like. “Where these wild beasts and reptiles appear in great numbers in the spirit world, and are seen combatting one with the other, it is a sign of war on earth.”

“But tell me why,” I said, “I hear the sound of music yet see no musicians, and hear the sound of voices yet see no one?”

Then my companion answered me: “The murky atmosphere through which we are now passing is also an inhabited world. The spirits of this world are invisible to you because you are not altogether freed from the material veil which obscures your vision, and that veil thickens the nearer you approach earth. The thoughts of mortals become visible to you here because you yourself are a mortal, but the thoughts of the purest mortal on your earth cannot arrive at the same pitch of sublimity as the thoughts of the meanest of disembodied spirits of this world, and therefore the spirits themselves are invisible to you, although they are far inferior to those you have just visited.”

“Then why could I enter the angels’ lower paradise,[354]

and yet am not able to see these inferior spirits?”

I asked. “Because,” replied my instructor, “your spirit then received sufficient light from contact with mine to enable you to see them. I could also let you see these, but why desire to see the lot of ordinary spirits after having seen those of so far higher an order? It might remove the impression, which I presume you wish to retain. Besides our time is short, for we are near touching earth.”

“True, true,” I said hurriedly, for another vision suddenly arrested my attention. “Tell me, O my guide, what is the meaning of yon strange sight?”

And strange sight it was indeed! For it was the vision of a human leg clad in the knee-breeches of our time, and walking about by itself. “That,” replied my preceptor, “is a portion of the body of some spirit not as yet freed from clay, and for that reason it is made visible to you. Our spirits on first leaving the material world are an exact counterpart of our terrestrial bodies, being an essence filling every part and particle of our earthly frames, from which they receive their stamp. The body itself does not rise again as some of your world vulgarly believed, but the spiritual body its counterpart, while the earthly covering but contributes its dust to your globe’s surface.”

“Then the vision I see is a portion of a human soul about to leave its earthy tenement?”

asked I. “By no means,” replied the sage. “The owner of[355]

that limb has yet some years of material life before him, although, I observe, he is aged. The reason that you see but the leg and not the rest of the body, is that that portion of the physical body is wanting. You cannot perceive his corporeal body because you are now in the spirit, and the spirit can only see that which is spiritual, as likewise the material eye only that which is material. You are sufficiently spiritual to see spirits who are yet encumbered with clay, but not enough so to see spirits perfectly disembodied. On the other hand, being withdrawn from the body, you are not yet sufficiently material to descry material bodies.”

“Then in fact,” I observed, “the vision that I see before me is the spirit leg of someone who in my world has lost his material leg?”

“Precisely so,” the sage replied, “for mortals live in two worlds at the same time; in the material world as to their bodies, in the spiritual world as to their spirits. I should imagine,” added he, regarding the vision fixedly, “from the way in which it seems to approach you that it belonged to some friend or relation of yours. Have you no relation in the world who has lost a leg?”

he asked. “A relation who has lost a leg?”

I exclaimed, for instantly my uncle, the admiral, flashed across my mind. “Exactly so, your uncle, the admiral,” he replied, reading my thoughts. There was an individuality about the limb that from[356]

the beginning seemed familiar to me. It was a right leg, too, the very leg that my uncle had lost. There could be no mistake about it. Then said I to my guide, “I recognise the leg, sure enough, but is its appearance now a sign that he is near me in the body?”

“If not so, at least in thought,” responded the sage. By this time my companion told me that we had already arrived on earth, and said that he must now leave me, so we embraced, and he vanished from my sight. Then the mist around me suddenly cleared away, and I was surprised to find myself once again in my laboratory, seated in the same old carved arm-chair, and surrounded by several persons. Well, gentlemen, amongst those persons I instantly recognised a face long familiar to me. It was my uncle’s! Poor old man! He had dreadfully changed. His iron grey hair had become perfectly white, his black eyebrows “a sable silvered.”

He stooped very much, and the muscles of his face were drooping and flaccid, while his ruby nose had lost its fine rich colour and faded into a sickly ashen hue. The individual next to him I recognised at once as our common friend, Mr. Langton. Then I saw a strange face which I concluded must be the doctor. There was also my deaf and dumb boy, who had not long brought up my basin of broth, as it was still steaming, and he was awaiting my recovery.[357]

Little more remains to be told. My poor uncle, as our friend Langton had prophesied, had been obliged to sue for a divorce, shortly after which his worthless partner eloped with a paramour. The whole sad occurrence preyed upon the old man’s mind, and brought on a dangerous illness, from which, however, he recovered. During his illness he had spoken much of his nephew, and on his recovery the doctor had recommended him a change of scene to divert his mind. As he had expressed a wish to see his nephew once more before he died, his friend Langton had offered to accompany him. The doctor also formed one of the party, and they had travelled together to Jena as an agreeable surprise for me. It is needless to add that all former differences were forgotten, and that my old uncle resolved never to make a fool of himself again. He even encouraged his nephew’s studies, and gave his sanction at length that my friend the chemist’s son should join me in my studies. My health rapidly improved under careful treatment, and I never saw any more visions. I quite gave up alchemy, and applied myself to other branches of chemistry. Nevertheless, my studies had not been quite useless, as in my search after the philosopher’s stone, I had made several very curious discoveries in science, and my name soon became famous throughout the university. My uncle’s illness had wrought as great a change morally as it had done physically in him. His nature[358]

was completely changed. His treatment of me was now of the kindest. He seemed even to respect me for the perseverance I had shown in my studies and to be ashamed of his former narrow-minded notions. He remained with me at Jena until his health and my health had completely recovered, when I accompanied him to England, where I once more saw my friend, the chemist’s son, whom I subsequently took out with me to Jena, where we pursued our studies together for some three years, after which we both returned to England, where I took up my quarters at my uncle’s house. The admiral lived a good ten years after his illness, and died at the good old age of ninety, leaving to me his entire fortune. [359]

CHAPTER X. An Interlude. On the conclusion of Mr. Crucible’s narrative that gentleman was highly complimented on his tale by each member of the club in turn, especially by Mr. Oldstone. Our worthy host, owing to a strong potation he had imbibed before the commencement of the recital, more than once manifested symptoms of dropping into the arms of Morpheus, but was prevented from doing so each time by the opportune administration of sundry pinches of snuff from Mr. Oldstone’s snuff-box. If there was one thing this gentleman never forgave, it was a man going to sleep in the middle of a good story; he, therefore, as soon as the narrator had finished, felt it his solemn duty to remonstrate with our host severely upon his want of good breeding, to which the worthy man replied in a humble apology to all the company. As for his daughter Helen, she was attention itself throughout, and with the exception of Mr. Oldstone, was the loudest in praise of Mr. Crucible’s recital. “Well, Helen,” said one of the members, “what do you think of the last story?”

“Oh, I am delighted with it,” exclaimed the girl in[360]

ecstasy. “How I wish it had happened to me! I should so like to have a vision of that sort.”

“Would you my dear?”

said Mr. Crucible, “then I hope that if ever you see the Paradise I saw that you may remain there, for there you belong. You are too good for this earth.”

“Now then, Crucible, none of your nonsense,” said Mr. Oldstone. “Is that the way you talk to young ladies? I’m surprised at you. Look how you have made the poor girl blush.”

“Don’t be jealous, old boy,” retorted the last narrator, “but give us another story. This is your turn.”

“Yes, yes!” cried several voices at once. “Mr. Oldstone for a story! Hear, hear!” “Really, gentlemen,” said Mr. Oldstone, “it is so soon after the last, and as it is now getting somewhat late, I would fain put off my story for another time, and spend the evening between this and bedtime in some other way. Suppose we all fill our glasses. Perhaps someone may recollect a song.”

“Agreed!” cried all the guests at once, “but who’s to be the songster?”

“Can’t you favour us, Helen?”

asked Mr. Parnassus. Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs. “Come, come, Helen, that’s all nonsense,” said the doctor, “I’ve heard your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was listening to you.”

[361]

“Ay, ay,” said our host, “you are right, sir, she can sing when she likes as pretty a little song as ever you’d wish to hear, though I say it, that shouldn’t.”

“Come, Helen, don’t be shy, sing away my girl,” said Hardcase. “Let us make a bargain, Helen,” said McGuilp. “If you will sing a song, I will. There, you cannot refuse.”

The girl’s face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:- The Nightingale. The nightingale sang to her love the rose, One night when the moon was shining, The earth was hushed in still repose, But a heart with love was pining. Two lovers through the misty air, Beneath the trees were strolling, A gallant and a lady fair, A bell in the distance tolling. “Beloved, hear’st thou that distant wail, That sad and mournful knelling?”

“Sweetheart, ’tis but the nightingale, That her tale of love is telling.”

“No, no, ’tis not the nightingale, I feel a dire foreboding, The night spreads o’er her dusky veil, Our joys of love corroding.”

[362]

“Nay, loved one; banish idle fears, The moon is bright and beaming, Seek not to drown thy joy in tears, When thy star above is gleaming.”

“See here this flower,” (he plucked a rose), “How beautious is its blossom. Wear this for me, for it but grows, To deck thy snow white bosom.”

Then out and shrieked the nightingale, “Oh spare, oh spare, my lover. Too late!” she cries, with dismal wail, Beneath the greenwood cover. “Ah me!” outshrieked that bird of night, “My love is gone for ever, But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight; Thou from thy love shalt sever.”

Too true, alas! the night bird’s curse, For ‘neath the trees did hover, An envious wight with arquebus, T’await his rival lover. Scarce had the gloomy prophecy Died on his ears unheeding, When the foe a poisoned shaft let fly, And the knight fell pale and bleeding. A lady mourns her love deceased, Her eyes in death are rolling, The distant tolling knell had ceased, But again the knell is tolling. [363]

“Thank you, Helen, thank you; very well sung,” said several voices at once. “It is a fanciful and mournful ditty,” said Parnassus, “but the tune is good.”

“It is, indeed, somewhat melancholy,” said McGuilp. “Have you no other, Helen?”

“I did but bargain for one,” said the girl, smiling. “True,” said McGuilp, “and now you want to hear one from me, eh?”

“Precisely so,” said Mr. Oldstone. “Keep him to his word, Helen. Don’t let him shirk off.”

“Now, Mr. McGuilp,” said several voices at once, “we are all waiting.”

“Well, gentlemen,” began the painter, “if you will permit me to retire–” “Retire!-Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Oldstone, Crucible, and others simultaneously. “Why you never mean to back out after having–” “No, gentlemen, nothing of the sort, I assure you,” said our artist, “I was only going to ask leave of the company to retire a moment to my chamber to bring down an article indispensable to the song I am about to sing.”

“I believe he is going to sing in costume,” said Mr. Blackdeed, “and that he is going in search of some ‘property.’” “No, nor that either,” said the painter. “The song I shall sing to you this evening, gentlemen, is an ode that I composed myself to a skull which I found among[364]

some ancient ruins in Rome, and out of which I have made a drinking cup. As this is a drinking song, in which the cup is often alluded to, it will be necessary that the goblet itself be present.”

“By all means,” said several members. “Let us see the precious relic,” said the antiquary. “These things are quite in my line.”

“And mine too,” said the doctor. Our artist left the apartment and returned with the relic, which he placed in the centre of the table for all to admire. “There, Helen,” said he, “that cup was once a man’s head, who laughed, sang, and told stories, too, I’ve no doubt, like the best of us.”

“And you use it to drink out of!” exclaimed the girl, in extreme disgust. “What a horrible idea.”

Mr. Oldstone put on his spectacles and bent over the table attentively to examine it. Dr. Bleedem took it up, tapped it, looked at it all over, and declared that it was different in form to the skulls of the present day, observing that it was evidently of great antiquity, as the enamel had worn away. The bone, he said, was of great thickness. The object of general curiosity was handed round the table from one to the other. At length Mr. Blackdeed took it up, and striking into a Hamlet-like attitude, quoted at full length the well-known passage: “‘Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,’ etc., etc.”

[365]

Applause followed the quotation. “The song! the song!” cried others, impatiently. “Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen,” said Mr. Parnassus. “A brother poet! Hear, hear!” The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the following words:- Lines to a Skull. Stern relic of a bygone age, What changes hast thou seen ere now? Wert thou a warrior or a sage, And did the laurel deck thy brow? Wert of Imperial Cæsar’s line, Or poet inspired with art divine? Whate’er thou wert in days of old, Whate’er the deeds they sing of thee, Though ne’er so great and manifold, Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me. Here from they soul’s deep-vaulted shrine, Quaff I the blood of thy native vine. And while it braces every nerve, Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too, The gods that thou wert wont to serve, In days of yore, to me be true, As I lie ‘neath the shade of the clustering vine, Merrily quaffing the red, red wine. [366]

Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achæan, Whilst fighting for thy purple land, Wert thou patrician or plebeian, Or fell thou by th’ assassin’s hand, Did’st thou in arms thy foes outshine, Or did thy foe’s arm conquer thine? Or in the crowded Colosseum, Did’st fall to glut the beasts of prey? Wert thou reared in the athenæum, Or were thy haunts among the gay? Now from thy skull on the Palatine, I drink to thee and the muses nine. On the banks of the Tiber’s yellow tide, In the mighty days of ancient Rome, Perchance thou ruled’st in all thy pride, O’erlooking thy seven-hilled home. Thus I muse as at noonday I recline, Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine. Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell, This toast to the quiet of thy remains, I quaff from out thy hollow shell, That once was filled with Roman brains. In the land of the cypress and the pine, Some future bard may drink from mine. At the end of our artist’s song he was unanimously cheered by the members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill, especially by Mr.[367]

Parnassus, who voted that he should be crowned with laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet laureate, in spite of our artist’s modest protestations. He returned shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster’s head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his seat again at the table by the side of our host’s pretty daughter, then rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the following toast in these words:- “Gentlemen, I propose the health of the ‘Wonder Club,’ and that of our worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet.”

More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice, and then passed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest. When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then passed on to our host, who hoped[368]

that the company would excuse him, but that his lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men’s bones, and he hoped they never would be. Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the sacrilegious relic. In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his willingness to drink the toast out of a clean glass. This was at length agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked the company present for having drunk his health and that of his daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host’s speech, and then Mr. Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the club. At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist. “Why, Helen my girl!” cried the doctor, “how pale you are. What are you frightened at?”

“Do you not hear?”

said the girl. “It is the cry of the owl; they say it is a sign of death in the house.”

“Come, Helen,” said Hardcase, “you must not be superstitious; those things are all nonsense.”

“Oh, no, I can assure you–” began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke in. “I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your side. Cannot you think of[369]

some lay that might cheer her spirits and dispel her fears? Just try.”

“Well,” answered he of the laurel crown, “talking about owls, I once kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear it–” “Oh, by all means,” promptly answered Oldstone. “In that case, Jack,” said McGuilp, addressing our host, “you will oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of accompaniment.”

Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument. “Ah, now we shall hear some music,” said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes glistened in anticipation. Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of prelude and began the following ditty. Ode to an Owl. Grim bird of Pallas old, For what purpose yet untold Wert thou cast in such a mould? Speak, declare! [370]

Though thou utterest not a word As thou gazest on the herd, I scarce can deem thee bird, Such thy air. There thou stand’st, a ghastly sight, Sworn enemy of light, Thou ill-omened bird of night, ‘Neath the moon. The charnel’s dusky hue Is lovelier to thy view Than the clear cerulean blue Of the noon. As my task I daily ply, Every movement thou dost spy, From my easel perched on high Gazing down. Thou look’st so wondrous wise, With those round mysterious eyes. What unearthly glitter lies In thy frown. Once with thy friends so gay Thou did’st turn night into day, And while seeking for thy prey Round would’st prowl. Now from out thy ruined hall In the Colosseum’s wall They nightly miss thy call, Oh, my owl! [371]

A captive now, alas! Thou for aye art doomed to pass Thy life far from the mass Of thy race. Like Stoic thou dost stand, Exiled from his native land, With that look so sage and grand In thy face. Were Pythagorean lore, Current now as once before, In the classic days of yore, I could swear, That the spirit of some sage, From some dark and mythic age, In thy body found a cage Or a lair. And once more on Earth was sent, To retrieve a life misspent, Till his crimes he should repent. In that form. But hereafter might arise, After penance to the skies, Where bliss awaiting lies His reform. My lamp burns low. Farewell. Thus ends my verse’s spell. And now thy mournful yell- Fearful din- [372]

May commence, my eyeballs ache, For my couch I now must make, I to sleep and thou to wake, May’st begin. Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist’s, and the health of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber. [373]

CHAPTER XI. Lost in the Catacombs.-The Antiquary’s Story. The next morning broke dull and cheerless. It had been snowing hard all night, and was snowing still, and so murky was the atmosphere that the club was obliged to breakfast by candle-light, and indeed continued to burn candles till early noon. Our artist was in despair about the weather, for he reckoned upon a long sitting from his fair model, and, under the circumstances, painting was impossible, so he wandered gloomily about the inn like a wild animal in a cage. Breakfast over, a discussion arose as to what should be the order of the day. Some voted for cards, others felt inclined for chess, yet no one felt a very strong longing for any one thing in particular. It was one of those melancholy days when a man really does not know what to do with himself. Some yawned and stretched themselves, others gazed gloomily out into the darkness, until someone suddenly recollected that it was Mr. Oldstone’s turn to tell a story, so without more delay, chairs were drawn round the fire, Jack Hearty was called for to put on a fresh log, pipes were lit, and Mr. Oldstone forced into an arm-chair and pressed to begin his story without further preface.[374]

Our host was invited to remain, but he excused himself on the score of business. Helen was also called away to help her mother in household affairs; but this, of course, the club could not hear of, so after some little parley, she was reluctantly permitted to keep the club company, as one of the members observed it would be hard indeed to deprive the club of Helen in such weather, as her face was the only sunshine they were likely to get all day. Helen smiled somewhat confusedly at this broad compliment, and then accepted a seat placed for her between McGuilp and Parnassus. The company drew nearer to the fire, one of the members giving a preliminary poke at the log, while Oldstone, after tapping his snuff-box and taking from its inside a copious pinch of snuff to clear his memory, threw himself back in his easy-chair, and folding his hands, commenced his story thus:- When I was in Rome, many years ago, with my friend and brother antiquary, Rustcoin, well-known to most of you gentlemen, and especially to my friend Mr. Vandyke McGuilp. We had put up together during the early part of our stay in a large Hotel in a fashionable quarter of the city. We were both young then, and furnished with ample means for travelling. It had been the dream of my youth to visit the eternal city, and here I found myself, free for the first time in my life to wander about to my heart’s content among the venerable ruins of antiquity, the history of which had so interested me from my boyhood.[375]

Being neither pushed for time nor money, having a comfortable little income left me upon the death of my parents, I never could make up my mind to follow any profession in particular, and having from my youth upwards always had a passion for antiquarian lore, I resolved to make it the study of my life. Rustcoin was similarly situated to myself, and we have always pulled wonderfully together. Not a day passed but some interesting ruin, church, or picture gallery, was explored, a minute description of which was immediately entered into my diary with a view to a grand archæological work which I intended for the press, and which was afterwards published. We knew the Vatican by heart, St. Peters, and all the chief churches. Had visited the Capitol, the Forum, the Palace of the Cæsars, the Colosseum, the baths of Caracalla, of Titus, of Diocletian, the Pantheon and other antique temples. One sight, however, I had not yet been to see, and that was the catacombs. They had always had, from my boyhood, a great fascination for me, those dark, dank, mysterious subterranean labyrinths excavated by those pious enthusiasts, the early Christians, to shelter themselves from the persecutions of their pagan tyrants. Little did their oppressors imagine, I presume, when first a few straggling fanatics assembled clandestinely under the dark arches they had hewn for themselves out of the solid rock to carry on their devotions undisturbed by candle-light, that that little sect would one day fill the wide world with its[376]

followers to the utter extinction of the old pagan superstitions. How strange is destiny! Religious faith proved too strong for tyranny. Persecutions and martyrdoms were of no avail, for still the faith increased. The very victims of the faith, too, the holy martyrs magnified into heroes after death, as if in defiance of the old creed. Well, gentlemen, these facts are as well known to all of you as to myself, yet such were my reflections as I drove off one morning to visit the catacombs of Saint Sebastian. But I anticipate. Rising one morning filled with the idea of exploring these subterranean burial grounds as far as they extended, though for twelve miles those indefatigable early Christians have undermined the eternal city, I breakfasted hurriedly, calculating on my friend’s company, but Rustcoin happened to have business on hand that day, and could not be persuaded to go, so I determined to start off alone. A little before starting I accompanied Rustcoin down one of the by streets to make a call, and whilst, waiting for him to return, I amused myself by looking into an antiquary’s shop window. There were some ancient Roman coins, some rusty Roman armour, pieces of Etruscan pottery, antique lamps and fragments of statuary. As I stood gazing at these curiosities for some considerable time, the antiquary bowed me in, giving me to understand that I was at liberty to look over the contents of his shop without being obliged to buy. He saw that I was an Englishman, and evidently had an eye to business.[377]

He showed me some fragments of Roman tombs bearing a portion of an inscription, some bronze pans, and other instruments used for sacrifices, some spearheads, some ancient mosaic, etc., etc. I was soon attracted by a plate of antique seals, and was poring over them with a lens. “Ah, signor,” said the man, “I see you appreciate these gems of art. That ring that you are looking at now was found entire in a place underground, where the vestal virgins used to be buried alive when convicted of unchastity.”

“What will you take for it?”

I asked. “Well, considering that it is such a fine gem of art, sir, I could not ask less than four hundred scudi.”

“Four hundred scudi!” I exclaimed. “Why, that is four thousand pauls,” said I. “Precisely so, signor.”

“Come, come,” said I, pretending to be more knowing than I actually was. “I see you take me for an Englishman. Well, if I am an Englishman, I am one who understands the value of these things, for I have had dealings before in things of this sort.”

Now, I had not the slightest idea of the prices that these articles fetched, but knowing that it was perfectly necessary to beat down an Italian in a bargain, I took it for granted that he had asked just double, and said, “Come, now, without wasting time in further parley, I will give you the half of what you ask-two hundred scudi and not a jot more,” (being 40 pounds sterling.)[378]

“Impossible, signor,” said the man. “Oh, very well, then,” said I, “I wish you a good morning,” and I made towards the door. “Stay, signor,” said the shopman; “let us say three hundred and fifty scudi; it is dirt cheap, and if I were not in immediate want of money I would not let it go at such a price.”

“No,” said I, walking out of the shop; “you know my terms; if you agree to these, so much the better for you, if not, Addio,” and off I walked. I had got about half way down the street when the man ran out after me. “Signor, only three hundred scudi; this is for the last time, think of that! It is a sin to let such a bargain slip.”

“No, no,” said I, “not even for two hundred and ten. I have said two hundred scudi, and I even grudge that, yet if you will take it–” “Not even for two hundred and ten!” repeated the man. “O Gesu Maria!” added he, slapping his forehead. “You seem anxious to get rid of it, my friend,” said I, half-quizzingly. “No, signor,” replied he, “I can assure you it cuts me to the heart to part with such a gem, but I am a poor man with a large family, and I want money, otherwise I would not sell it for three times the amount.”

“Well, then, if you want money,” said I, dryly, “the best thing you can do is to assent to my terms, for I shall certainly give no more.”

[379]

He seemed to reflect a little, and then with a shrug said: “Ebbene, as the signor wishes; but it is a dead loss to me; you, signor, are the winner, not I.”

So I paid him the money, and walked off with the ring on my finger the same that I wear to this day, gentlemen. Here it is. There is no doubt that it is a very excellent specimen of Græco-Roman art, and is most elaborately cut. I have not the slightest doubt, however, that I paid enough and more than enough for it, for as I followed the man with my eyes, I noticed an avaricious chuckle on his face, as an Italian shopman may be supposed to wear at having bamboozled an Englishman. By this time my friend Rustcoin returned. I showed him my purchase, at which he went into raptures. I told him that I wished to visit the catacombs that morning, and therefore could not accompany him further. He advised me to wait till the morrow, and that we should go together, but I had inwardly vowed that morning that go I would, and nothing should prevent me; so telling Rustcoin that we should meet at dinner, I hailed a carriage and drove off to the church of St. Sebastian. It is a comparatively modern church, built upon the site of the ancient basilisk supposed to have been erected by Constantine, and consecrated by St. Silvester, was renewed by the Pope San Domaso, and since repeatedly restored, being at length rebuilt in the year 1611.[380]

On my arrival I found several carriages waiting outside. I entered the church, and there was a party of about a dozen English people, who had likewise come to visit the catacombs. I joined the party, and we descended a flight of steps, each of us bearing in our hands a taper, or rather tall, narrow candle. We were conducted by a lean, emaciated monk, who looked as if he had lived upon nothing but by inhaling the damp air of the catacombs. As we descended, the first object shown us was a bust of St. Sebastian by Bernini, over the tomb of the saint, and near was an altar under which was interred the body of St. Lucine. As we walked along single file through these long dark corridors, the roofs of which were every now and then so low that we were obliged to stoop, we were shown the graves of saints and martyrs who had been entombed within the walls, every now and then arriving at some little chapel, in the walls of which three or four popes had been buried. The place where the altar had stood was also carved in the rock. Here we came across a tomb with an inscription, there upon some rude drawings on the wall by the early Christians, representing various sacred subjects. Impatient at having to stand still and listen to the explanation of the monk who accompanied us and to hear the questions of this knot of English people, I felt an incontrollable impulse to strike out for myself into[381]

some new track, not meaning to content myself with the mere fashionable route shown to foreigners. I considered that I had not come there merely to have a peep at these subterranean vaults, for the sake of being able to say when I returned to England that I had seen the catacombs, but intended whilst I was about it to investigate these mysterious haunts thoroughly and conscientiously, for the sake of discovering, if possible, some inscriptions or other relics worthy of note that I might describe in my great archæological work, and thus hand my name down to posterity. The investigation of some unknown region, especially if accompanied by a spice of danger, has always been with me a passion. I longed to be able to do something that nobody yet had done. I could not but be aware of the danger of my resolution to explore these dusky labyrinths without a guide, yet I prepared myself in a measure against a contingency, carrying in my pocket an extra roll of paper, in case that which I bore in my hand should come to an end, and a tinder-box. Besides this, I had filled my pockets with bread, partly in case of extreme emergency, to sustain life, and partly to drop in crumbs behind me as I went to mark the way. I had commenced dropping my breadcrumbs from the very beginning and making slight excursions by myself, then turning back to join the party of English. Once or twice the monk called me back, and as I went and returned several times, I suppose no notice[382]

was taken when I really did strike out in an unbeaten track. I took an opportunity of starting when a stout English female was assailing our ascetic friend with trivial questions in wretched Italian. Whilst public attention seemed engrossed I started off with my taper through a long and apparently interminable passage, which I was told led to Ostia, the ancient sea-port. No one called after me, so I suppose I was not missed. On, and still further, on I went, groping my way until I could no longer hear the voices of the party, nor see the light of their tapers through the dim arches of the catacombs. “Would the monk miss me and go in search of me, thus breaking short all hopes of my exploring expedition?”

I asked myself. To avoid this, or at least to see as much as possible of the forbidden haunts before I was caught, I walked on fast, not forgetting, however, to drop my breadcrumbs all the time. There is a great sameness in all these catacombs, being long, straight, gloomy passages branching off in all directions, only varied at intervals with an occasional chapel, barely large enough to hold ten people crowded together, a simple, roughly-hewn cell in the rock, and destitute of anything that an antiquarian might be tempted to pocket; however, whenever I came across an inscription of any interest I immediately jotted it down in my note-book.[383]

Now, the thought of being lost in these terrible catacombs with the prospect before me of gradually dying of starvation without the slightest chance of succour had often occurred to my mind, and was of all thoughts the most dreadful. It was a daring thing I was attempting, and I own to experiencing a slight tremor, which increased the further I advanced. Yet, what had I to fear? Was I not well provided with tapers and tinder-box? Had I not marked the way with breadcrumbs besides carrying with me a good-sized roll to allay hunger in case of emergency? What danger did I incur? So I stifled my fears and boldly proceeded, passing innumerable tombs of saints and martyrs, chapels, inscriptions, rude drawings on the wall, Latin names, etc. If I still felt any lingering tremor, it was a pleasing fear that only spurred me on the more, and I had not the slightest inclination to turn back. The situation was a new one to me, and I experienced from it a new emotion. Here was I, a solitary individual in the bowels of the earth, with the gay world above me perfectly unconscious that one of their kind was burrowing, taper in hand, beneath their very feet, treading in the footsteps of those enthusiastic workmen who had excavated these vaults, and which had been untrodden since by foot of man! What will not an enthusiast go through in the noble pursuit of science? My stock of bread was now completely exhausted. I had not left a crumb to satisfy my[384]

hunger in case of need, such was my enthusiasm to penetrate deeply into these unknown regions. But what matter? When I felt hungry I could return at any time. Had I not the clue? Thus I said to myself as I sprinkled my last remaining crumbs behind me. I had now penetrated a very considerable distance into this abode of the pious dead, when here an unforeseen and terrible accident befell me. Walking onward and incautiously looking behind me as I proceeded, I did not observe a flight of steep steps, slippery from the damp slime that exudes below ground, and that led-where? I never knew, for suddenly losing my footing, I fell headlong down into a dark abyss, where I lay stunned and senseless. How long I remained thus it is impossible to tell, for when I recovered my senses sufficiently to grope around me, I could recollect nothing, but I found my head cut and bleeding profusely. I felt the warm blood trickling down my neck and matting my hair. I tried to stand upon my feet, but swooned again from loss of blood. I had just presence of mind when I awoke from my swoon to bind up my head with a handkerchief. I remained for long on the cold ground in a sitting posture and tried to collect my ideas. Gradually I became aware of the horror of my situation. Of course my taper was extinguished by my fall. I essayed to relight it, but the material was damp with the dews of the catacomb and with my blood, besides which my strength failed me. I began to feel hungry, too, for I[385]

had eaten but a light breakfast. Could anything have been more pitiable than my plight? Wounded in the head and weakened with loss of blood, lost in the very heart of the catacombs without a light, without the barest prospect of mortal coming to my rescue, hungry, the little bread that I had taken with me wasted to make a clue which I now found it impossible to trace in the dark, and with every prospect of a lingering death before me! With difficulty I clambered up the steps and searched in vain for the crumbs of bread on my hands and knees. I was nigh fainting again, but that strong love of life that is instinctive in us all made me screw up my nerves with a preternatural energy, and I essayed to shout for help. Although I must have been aware of the futility of my attempts, we all know that a drowning man will cling to a straw, so bracing my strength up to its utmost possible pitch, I gave vent to a superhuman shriek, which re-echoed through the gloomy arches like the mocking laugh of demons. The sound of my own voice in agony amidst the awful silence of this place of tombs sent a new thrill of horror through my frame, my nerves being rendered weak and sensitive by the loss of vital fluid I had sustained, and jarred upon the full consciousness of my terrible situation. I felt on the brink of madness. Every now and then I heard the rumbling of carriage wheels over my head, like distant thunder in the world[386]

above me, which enhanced still more the misery of my position, for I could not help contrasting my lot with that of the happy individual rolling over my head in his proud carriage, enjoying the bright sun and blue sky whilst I was doomed to be buried alive in those horrible catacombs, dying by inches in the greatest conceivable agony of body and mind, but few feet below that carriage road over which passed the gay and thoughtless in their fashionable equipages. I tried to call out again, but my voice failed me. “If I die,” I thought, “it must not be by inches, but at once, at a blow.”

I was preparing to dash my head desperately against the wall, and thus put an end to my misery, but lacking strength, I fell down once more exhausted. When I again awoke I felt both hungry and thirsty. The wound in my head had ceased to bleed, but the handkerchief was saturated. I now felt the calmness of despair. I knew nothing short of a miracle could save me, so I tried to reconcile myself to my condition. I could just walk, but slowly. I tried to retrace my steps, though at a snail’s pace and without a clue. The hopelessness of my condition now dawned upon me more clearly than ever. It was impossible even to retrace my steps alone and in the dark, especially in my weakened state. Why should I uselessly try a thing I knew to be impossible? Why not lie quietly down and die? I sank helplessly on the ground and gave up all hope. I felt that my end was not far off, and began to[387]

review my past life. The errors, the follies, the crimes during my brief existence chased each other with painful vividness and rapidity through my memory. Not even the most trifling incident of my childhood was forgotten, but every event and thought of my life vividly, exactly and distinctly, traced with indelible finger upon the tablets of my brain, passing before my mental vision like a vast panorama. It was then that I ventured to pray, and if I never prayed in my whole life before, I did then. Well can I remember the agony of remorse I felt for the precious time I had wasted. I was then five and twenty, a quarter of a century old, and what had I yet done to benefit my fellow creatures? and what had I not done that lay in my power to gratify my own selfish wants? Could I call to mind even one thoroughly good act? Were not even my best actions based upon a sort of selfishness? How I longed to live over again those five and twenty years! What resolutions did I not make to turn over a new leaf for the future if my Creator should be pleased to spare my young life! I prayed fervently and devoutly, such praying as only the most intense mental agony can prompt the soul to, until my nervous system, overcome with excessive tension, I sank into a sort of lethargy, something between life and death. Emerging at length somewhat from this state, I began to meditate thus:- Is it possible that my young life is to be cut short in this manner? Is this what I was born for-to perish[388]

miserably from the ill-consequences of a foolish though innocent freak-or will the Almighty really hear my prayer? Have I not prayed fervently with all my heart and soul, and has He not promised to help those who trust in Him? I will trust in Him. I will not believe that the age of miracles has gone by never to return. Miracles are wrought daily, though we do not acknowledge them as such. I felt a calmness and resignation at these thoughts, and almost indifferent if the Lord should be pleased to take my soul, or work some miracle to save me from a lingering death. Either way I would have been content, for I now felt prepared to die, and had no fear of death. I endeavoured to keep my faith in the mercy of my Creator firm and unwavering. If for a moment a slight doubt rose in my mind as to the likelihood of the Deity working a miracle for my special benefit, it was instantly dismissed, and I prayed more earnestly. I would believe, I would not be robbed of my faith by the jeering of that mocking fiend, Doubt. I persisted in believing, and Doubt fled from me. I felt I should be saved. I knew it. While thus meditating, methought that the extreme end of one of these long corridors had grown a trifle lighter than it was a minute ago. Was it a mistake, and merely the effect of my eyesight having grown accustomed to the darkness? No, for the light now grew rapidly brighter. Could it be that the monks were coming in search of me?[389]

Yes-no, for I now saw a solitary figure in the distance bearing a candle, but it was not the figure of a monk, for the garb was white, and apparently that of a female. I held my breath in wonder and expectation, whilst my heart thumped so loudly against my ribs that it might have caused an echo. My eyes were steadfastly fixed on the figure as it moved slowly towards me. It was undoubtedly the figure of a woman clad in a long white classic robe and a white head covering, such as worn by the priestesses of old. The shoulders and arms were bare, and on one arm she wore a golden armlet, on her feet sandals. She was now sufficiently near me for me to take a complete survey of her. Her face was pale and dreadfully emaciated, yet there were traces of great beauty left. She mumbled something to herself which at first I took for Italian, but on catching a word or two more, I had no difficulty in discovering it to be Latin, for she repeatedly muttered to herself the word “Peccavi,” beating her breast the while. I rose to my feet as she approached. At first she appeared not to notice me and would have passed me. At length I addressed her in Italian. “Signora,” I began, “I have lost my way in the dark and am suffering from an accident; perhaps you can show me the way out of these catacombs, for I am weak and dying of hunger.”

The figure gazed blankly at me in silence, which I attributed not so much to surprise as to her not understanding the language in which I addressed her. At length she spoke in a faint sepulchral voice.[390]

“Quis es tu qui in hoc loco versaris?”

To which I replied in the same classic tongue in which she addressed me. “Christianus sum, tu autem quis es?”

I am a Christian, but who art thou? To which she gave the following account of herself. “Virgo Vestalis sum, aut possius eram; nunc autem nec virgo nec vestalis.”

“Intelligo,” I answered-I understand-not willing to extort a confession that might be painful to her, but she seemed communicative and inclined to enlighten me further. “Audi!” she continued, “quandam eram in mundo virum amavi. Christianus erat, et propter meum crimen quod perpetravi cum viro hoc Christiano, ad mortem damnata viva sepulta fui. Attaman cum ante meam mortem fuerim ad Christifidem conversa, nunc meus spiritus hac illuc hoc in loco versatur.”

I expressed my deepest sympathy for her sufferings in the best Latin I could muster, and indeed I was well able to sympathise with her, for did not I feel what it was to be buried alive and to endure the gnawing pangs of hunger? “Alas, poor ghost!” I felt inclined to say, with Hamlet, and I could not help muttering to myself, “How hard, alas!-just for one fault, for one piece of human frailty, resulting from the over tenderness of a woman’s heart, to die such a horrible death.”

“An es estraneus in hoc loco?”

she asked me, having[391]

overheard my soliloquy and perceiving that it was in a foreign tongue. “Civis Brittanicus sum,” I replied, and then I began to relate my history, my misfortunes, and how I had prayed to be delivered from such a dreadful death, begging her to show me the way out of these horrid catacombs as soon as possible. “Hac conditione,”-On this condition-she said. “Quænam est?”

What is it? I asked. She replied thus: “Annulus quem in digito geris quem quidem circiter quinque Sestertia valet et meus erat nom habui a viro quem delexi vende ad levandum meum spiritum.”

Here was a surprise! The ring that I had purchased previously to starting off for the catacombs belonged and had been worn by the spirit before me when in the flesh! The man of whom I bought it spoke the truth then-when he said that it had been found where the vestal virgins used to be buried alive. What a curious coincidence! Now I was called upon to sell it again to pay for masses for the poor disembodied spirit, and as a condition of being set free myself from this dungeon. I was loth to part with the ring I had paid so highly for, especially now that such an interesting history was attached to it. Yet, what will not a man do to save his life? “Sic erit,” I replied. It shall be done. “Jamnunc sequere me,” said she, beckoning to me with her pale emaciated finger, which together with the[392]

hand and arm was so skinny that it might have belonged to a skeleton. I followed accordingly, and was led through many a long corridor, passing many a tomb of martyred saint, though by a different route to that which I had taken. My guide walked on before me in silence. That is to say, she did not converse with me more, but ever to herself I heard the muttered words “Peccavi! peccavi!” beating her breast as she went. As I followed my guide, my ears suddenly caught the tones of distant chanting. “Quid sibi volunt cantus isti?”

What is the meaning of that singing? She answered merely by beckoning me on and hastening her steps. The singing grew more and more distinct, and as we approached I noticed a dim gleam of light ahead. Then, shortly turning a corner, I found myself suddenly in a little chapel, like, in appearance, to the rest I had seen, but lighted up with many candles, and with an altar on which stood a rudely-carved crucifix, a chalice, etc. But how shall I describe my horror, consternation, and disgust on beholding the strange congregation there assembled? It was easy to see with half an eye that they were no beings of this world. They were seven, I think, in number; indeed, the chapel had hardly room for more, and to my dying day, never can I forget that horrible sight. One of them, who stood at the altar, and who seemed to be the priest, had evidently been decapitated. He stood upright, holding his head under his arm.[393]

Another, who was naked with the exception of a cloth round his loins, was bound to a stake and pierced full of arrows, a la St. Sebastian. Another, who had been sawn asunder lengthways, was held together by pieces of rope. One gentleman, who had been skinned alive for the holy faith, was a most unsightly object, and reminded me of those anatomical figures you see in doctors’ shops. Whenever he moved, the working of his anatomy was most painfully visible, and he wore his skin over his left arm like an overcoat. There was another, who had evidently been burnt, for he was as black as a cinder, and presented a most woe-begone aspect. A sixth had probably been torn to pieces by some wild beast, for his flesh bore the print of talons, and here and there hung in long strips, while a seventh had been broken on the wheel, and seemed capable of bending his body into the most impossible positions. My blood ran cold at such a spectacle, and turning to my guide, I asked the meaning of this strange sight. She informed me that they were all spirits of early Christians who had suffered martyrdom. “Then why,” I asked, “are they not in Paradise instead of celebrating mass here in these catacombs?”

The reason she gave me was that they had all been massacred in their sin, and their spirits not being yet pure enough to enter the realms of eternal bliss, they were, like herself, doomed to go through their religious duties as on earth, until masses should be said for[394]

their deliverance. This, she told me, was her object in leading me here-that I might see the misery of these wretched spirits, and pray for them. I promised I would do so, and mass being finished, she introduced me to the skinned gentleman, whom, she informed me, was her lover. He bowed, grinned horribly, and offered me his anatomical hand, after which I had a word with each of the spirits in turn, and then prepared to take my departure. “Ora pro nobis!” they all cried at once. “Sic erit,” I replied, and following my guide once more, she led me again through many long and dreary passages, which seemed to me interminable, she walking rapidly in front, whilst I dragged my jaded limbs considerably in the rear, led on by no other light than the luminous halo that enveloped her form, and which barely lit up the spot on which she stood, all else being in pitchy darkness. At length I thought I felt the ground ascending somewhat, and as I proceeded ever slowly upwards, I fancied that I saw a ray of sunlight struggling through a fissure in the rocky roof of the vault. I was not mistaken. The nearer I came, the larger grew the spot of light, and I now saw clearly that there was a very considerable opening, amply sufficient to admit of the body of a very large man passing through it, but quite overgrown by brambles and rank vegetation, so as effectively to veil the blue sky from my view. Even through this screen of rank herbage the light dazzled my eyes intensely, and it was some minutes[395]

before I got sufficiently accustomed to it. The ground now grew suddenly steeper, till I at length found myself within a few steps of the fissure. My guide now halted, and pointing to the opening with her hand, made way for me to pass on in front. It would seem that the bright sunbeam as it fell upon her affected her somewhat, for I noticed that her form grew less distinct, until the vaporous essence that assumed her shape disintegrated piecemeal, beginning at the head, gradually downwards, till she completely vanished from my presence. Not, however, before I had time to thank her in her own classical language. “Pro tuis beneficiis gratias ago.”

To which she barely had time to reply “Vale!” when she became extinct, and I was left once more alone. But now I had hope-I was free. Another step, and I should be launched into the outer world again. Hungry, thirsty, fatigued as I was, I should soon be able to satisfy my present wants and then-and then-with all my young life before me, what might I not achieve? My first feeling was one of intense gratitude towards my Creator, who had saved me from a terrible and lingering death. It was like being born again. I advanced towards the opening, and was just about to move aside the luxuriant growth that alone separated me from the world without, when methought I heard human voices outside proceeding from no very long distance from the aperture. Even a human shadow flitted for a[396]

moment across the opening, obscuring for a second some of the glowing sunlight. I was loth to emerge from my hiding place into the open air in sight of men, as, besides startling them, I should myself become an object of wonderment and create a scene I particularly wished to avoid. So I resolved to pause awhile until they should presently pass on, when I could emerge alone and unobserved. In this I was disappointed; they seemed to have no intention whatever of moving on. There they sat apparently over their meal, chatting at intervals. It was impossible but that I should thus overhear some fragments of their conversation, and what I did hear made my blood run cold. “Dost remember, Gaspero,” said one, “on our last sally, when we captured the fat landowner from Montefiascone, and sent him back to his friends with his nose and his ears slit because they wouldn’t send the ransom in time?”

“Corpo di Bacco! don’t I?”

answered another. “But I’ll tell you what, if the ‘Cavalli leggeri’ get wind of our whereabouts this time, it will be short shrift for all of us.”

“Bah!” said a third, “haven’t we good spies enough always on the alert to warn us of their approach?”

“True,” said the former, “but don’t let us talk, or we shall miss the signal.”

Then silence reigned for a brief space, broken now and again by some casual remark hardly audible.[397]

Here was a pretty to do! Had I been rescued from death by starvation only to stumble upon a nest of brigands? Oh, the irony of it! I trembled for the loss of the little gold I had upon me, but more still for the precious ring upon my finger. “I must risk nothing,” I said to myself, “and bide here in patience at any cost till they depart.”

I dreaded lest the beating of my own heart-so audible to myself-should betray me. Thus a full hour or more passed away, when on a sudden I heard a sound like the hooting of an owl in the distance. “The signal-the signal!” exclaimed several voices at once, and up they jumped like one man and took to their heels with the speed of lightning. I began to emerge from my cavern, and just managed to catch a glimpse of some peaked hats, carbines, and sandalled legs, which soon disappeared for ever from my view. I was now once more under the clear dome of Heaven. The sky was absolutely cloudless, the heat intense. I shaded my eyes with my hand to protect them from the glare of the hot sun which now shone mercilessly down upon my bare head, for my hat had been left far behind me in that subterranean burial place. I tried to realise my situation. Where was I? I was in the centre of a very arid plain with blue mountains on the horizon and lines of ruined aqueducts in the middle distance. Not a hut within sight. The sun was intolerable, and I felt ready to faint from hunger and exhaustion. I gathered some broad green leaves to protect my head,[398]

and then looked around me for something to assuage the pangs of hunger. I recollected that the brigands had been carousing close to the opening of my cave, so I returned thither to inspect the spot. To my intense joy I discovered some broken victuals. There were sundry crusts of bread, some cheese parings, a few slices of raw ham, a whole leg of a chicken, besides other bones not quite bare, which I devoured ravenously. Also a hard-boiled egg and half a flask of good wine. All this I put away in very short time, but I wanted more. It was barely enough to whet my appetite. However, I felt better, and could now contemplate my past adventures with great complacency. The next question was, in what part of the world was I? Which course should I steer? North, south, east, or west. I feared being benighted and losing my way altogether. I sat down on a clump of ancient ruin to collect my ideas. Presently I heard faintly in the distance the peculiar cry of a Roman bullock driver, as he goaded on his sluggish team. I raised my eyes, and saw about half-a-mile off one of those drays drawn by buffaloes and laden with large blocks of white marble from the mountains for the use of sculptors. I hastened my steps and hailed the driver. “Accidentaccio!” cried the man in amazement and horror at the sight of my bleeding head and general woe-begone appearance. “What a sight! Che diavolo!–”[399]

Here followed a string of questions which I felt in no humour to answer, so I cut him short by asking him to let me get upon his dray, as I wanted a little sleep, and that I would remember him as soon as we arrived at the gates of Rome. “Certainly, signore,” said the man, brightening up, “and if you would like a covering for your head from the sun–” Here he produced some sort of light drugget-there was no other covering, for the dray was only constructed to carry marble and not passengers. So I mounted, and flung myself full length on a large block of marble, covering my head well up and endeavouring to sleep. So complete was my state of utter exhaustion that even my uncomfortable position and the rough jolting of the cumbersome dray when its massive wheels encountered some big stone combined with the constant cry of the driver in my ears as he goaded on his sluggish brutes of burden, was all insufficient to prevent nature from taking her proper course, and I actually slept-ay, slept like a top, spite of heat, dust, flies, noise, etc., until towards nightfall I reached the gates of Rome. The stars shone out with unusual splendour. I felt considerably refreshed after my long slumber, so I descended, and remunerating the driver liberally, entered the eternal city. My first thought was to hasten off to a hatter’s, where I purchased a hat, and then called upon a doctor. He was out, so I left my address, leaving word[400]

for him to call at my hotel in the Piazza di Spagna on the morrow, at ten in the morning. I then repaired to my hotel and heard that my friend Rustcoin had been inquiring for me, and marvelled much at my absence. I then had a wash and a brush down, changed the bloodstained handkerchief for a clean one, and ordered supper in my room. On the morrow, punctually at ten, the doctor made his appearance. He examined my wound, prescribed me a lotion, and then asked how the accident had occurred. In my youthful simplicity I related my tale from beginning to end, omitting no detail. He looked at me suspiciously, shook his head, and said that the danger was even more than he thought. He had no doubt that besides the wound in my head, I was likewise suffering from sunstroke, which would account for these hallucinations. Could anything be more irritating? After all the trouble I had taken in relating my adventures, even to the merest details-to be looked upon either as a madman or impostor! He admitted that I might possibly have been to explore the catacombs, that I might have had a fall which caused the wound in my head, but as to the apparition of the vestal virgin and her unsightly friends, he would have none of it, admitting that he was deaf upon principle to all tales of the supernatural, because they were impossible. Adding that he was very much surprised to find a young man of education like myself-and moreover an Englishman-still[401]

believing in such antiquated superstitions. He took his leave and said he would call the next day. He came and found me quite convalescent, so soon took his departure with a shrug, finding that I still believed in the actuality of my vision. As I was leaving my hotel for a stroll I ran up against Rustcoin, who was about to call upon me. You can imagine, my friends, his wonder on hearing me recount my adventures. There is little more left to relate. I proceeded in company with my friend to several shops to endeavour to sell the ring, but at none of them would they give me back the sum I gave for it, or anything like it, so I resolved upon keeping the ring and paying the monks what I had paid for it, which amounted to the same thing. So if my spirit friends are not by this time in Paradise, it is no fault of mine. “Here is the ring, gentlemen,” said Mr. Oldstone at the conclusion of his narrative, taking the precious relic from his forefinger and passing it round for inspection. “You will observe it is a most exquisite specimen of Græco-Roman art of the very best period, and believe me, gentlemen, when I assure you that the wealth of the universe wouldn’t purchase it.”

Loud were the expressions of admiration that passed round the table at the beauty of this antique gem, as well as the delight and satisfaction of our antiquary’s story. Italiam petimus! We left our upland home before daybreak on a clear October morning. There had been a hard frost, spangling the meadows with rime-crystals, which twinkled where the sun’s rays touched them. Men and women were mowing the frozen grass with thin short Alpine scythes; and as the swathes fell, they gave a crisp, an almost tinkling sound. Down into the gorge, surnamed of Avalanche, our horses plunged; and there we lost the sunshine till we reached the Bear’s Walk, opening upon the vales of Albula, and Julier, and Schyn. But up above, shone morning light upon fresh snow, and steep torrent-cloven slopes reddening with a hundred fading plants; now and then it caught the grey-green icicles that hung from cliffs where summer streams had dripped. There is no colour lovelier than the blue of an autumn sky in the high Alps, defining ridges powdered with light snow, and melting imperceptibly downward into the [Pg 12]

warm yellow of the larches and the crimson of the bilberry. Wiesen was radiantly beautiful: those aërial ranges of the hills that separate Albula from Julier soared crystal-clear above their forests; and for a foreground, on the green fields starred with lilac crocuses, careered a group of children on their sledges. Then came the row of giant peaks-Pitz d’Aela, Tinzenhorn, and Michelhorn, above the deep ravine of Albula-all seen across wide undulating golden swards, close-shaven and awaiting winter. Carnations hung from cottage windows in full bloom, casting sharp angular black shadows on white walls. Italiam petimus! We have climbed the valley of the Julier, following its green, transparent torrent. A night has come and gone at Mühlen. The stream still leads us up, diminishing in volume as we rise, up through the fleecy mists that roll asunder for the sun, disclosing far-off snowy ridges and blocks of granite mountains. The lifeless, soundless waste of rock, where only thin winds whistle out of silence and fade suddenly into still air, is passed. Then comes the descent, with its forests of larch and cembra, golden and dark green upon a ground of grey, and in front the serried shafts of the Bernina, and here and there a glimpse of emerald lake at turnings of the road. Autumn is the season for this landscape. Through the fading of innumerable leaflets, the yellowing of larches, and something vaporous in the low sun, it gains a colour not unlike that of the lands we seek. By the side of the lake at Silvaplana the light was strong and warm, but mellow. Pearly clouds hung over the Maloja, and floating overhead cast shadows on the opaque water, which may literally be compared to chrysoprase. The [Pg 13]

breadth of golden, brown, and russet tints upon the valley at this moment adds softness to its lines of level strength. Devotees of the Engadine contend that it possesses an austere charm beyond the common beauty of Swiss landscape; but this charm is only perfected in autumn. The fresh snow on the heights that guard it helps. And then there are the forests of dark pines upon those many knolls and undulating mountain-flanks beside the lakes. Sitting and dreaming there in noonday sun, I kept repeating to myself Italiam petimus! A hurricane blew upward from the pass as we left Silvaplana, ruffling the lake with gusts of the Italian wind. By Silz Maria we came in sight of a dozen Italian workmen, arm linked in arm in two rows, tramping in rhythmic stride, and singing as they went. Two of them were such nobly-built young men, that for a moment the beauty of the landscape faded from my sight, and I was saddened. They moved to their singing, like some of Mason’s or Frederick Walker’s figures, with the free grace of living statues, and laughed as we drove by. And yet, with all their beauty, industry, sobriety, intelligence, these Italians of the northern valleys serve the sterner people of the Grisons like negroes, doing their roughest work at scanty wages. So we came to the vast Alpine wall, and stood on a bare granite slab, and looked over into Italy, as men might lean from the battlements of a fortress. Behind lies the Alpine valley, grim, declining slowly northward, with wind-lashed lakes and glaciers sprawling from storm-broken pyramids of gneiss. Below spread the unfathomable depths that lead to Lombardy, flooded with sunlight, filled with swirling vapour, but never wholly hidden from our sight. For the blast kept [Pg 14]

shifting the cloud-masses, and the sun streamed through in spears and bands of sheeny rays. Over the parapet our horses dropped, down through sable spruce and amber larch, down between tangles of rowan and autumnal underwood. Ever as we sank, the mountains rose-those sharp embattled precipices, toppling spires, impendent chasms blurred with mist, that make the entrance into Italy sublime. Nowhere do the Alps exhibit their full stature, their commanding puissance, with such majesty as in the gates of Italy; and of all those gates I think there is none to compare with Maloja, none certainly to rival it in abruptness of initiation into the Italian secret. Below Vico Soprano we pass already into the violets and blues of Titian’s landscape. Then come the purple boulders among chestnut trees; then the double dolomite-like peak of Pitz Badin and Promontogno. It is sad that words can do even less than painting could to bring this window-scene at Promontogno before another eye. The casement just frames it. In the foreground are meadow slopes, thinly, capriciously planted with chestnut trees and walnuts, each standing with its shadow cast upon the sward. A little farther falls the torrent, foaming down between black jaws of rain-stained granite, with the wooden buildings of a rustic mill set on a ledge of rock. Suddenly above this landscape soars the valley, clothing its steep sides on either hand with pines; and there are emerald isles of pasture on the wooded flanks; and then cliffs, where the red-stemmed larches glow; and at the summit, shooting into ether with a swathe of mist around their basement, soar the double peaks, the one a pyramid, the other a bold broken crystal not unlike the [Pg 15]

Finsteraarhorn seen from Furka. These are connected by a snowy saddle, and snow is lying on their inaccessible crags in powdery drifts. Sunlight pours between them into the ravine. The green and golden forests now join from either side, and now recede, according as the sinuous valley brings their lines together or disparts them. There is a sound of cow-bells on the meadows; and the roar of the stream is dulled or quickened as the gusts of this October wind sweep by or slacken. Italiam petimus! Tangimus Italiam! Chiavenna is a worthy key to this great gate Italian. We walked at night in the open galleries of the cathedral-cloister-white, smoothly curving, well-proportioned logge, enclosing a green space, whence soars the campanile to the stars. The moon had sunk, but her light still silvered the mountains that stand at watch round Chiavenna; and the castle rock was flat and black against that dreamy background. Jupiter, who walked so lately for us on the long ridge of the Jacobshorn above our pines, had now an ample space of sky over Lombardy to light his lamp in. Why is it, we asked each other, as we smoked our pipes and strolled, my friend and I;-why is it that Italian beauty does not leave the spirit so untroubled as an Alpine scene? Why do we here desire the flower of some emergent feeling to grow from the air, or from the soil, or from humanity to greet us? This sense of want evoked by Southern beauty is perhaps the antique mythopœic yearning. But in our perplexed life it takes another form, and seems the longing for emotion, ever fleeting, ever new, unrealised, unreal, insatiable. [Pg 16]

II.-Over the Apennines. At Parma we slept in the Albergo della Croce Bianca, which is more a bric-à-brac shop than an inn; and slept but badly, for the good folk of Parma twanged guitars and exercised their hoarse male voices all night in the street below. We were glad when Christian called us, at 5 A.M., for an early start across the Apennines. This was the day of a right Roman journey. In thirteen and a half hours, leaving Parma at 6, and arriving in Sarzana at 7.30, we flung ourselves across the spine of Italy, from the plains of Eridanus to the seashore of Etruscan Luna. I had secured a carriage and extra post-horses the night before; therefore we found no obstacles upon the road, but eager drivers, quick relays, obsequious postmasters, change, speed, perpetual movement. The road itself is a noble one, and nobly entertained in all things but accommodation for travellers. At Berceto, near the summit of the pass, we stopped just half an hour, to lunch off a mouldly hen and six eggs; but that was all the halt we made. As we drove out of Parma, striking across the plain to the ghiara of the Taro, the sun rose over the austere autumnal landscape, with its withered vines and crimson haws. Christian, the mountaineer, who at home had never seen the sun rise from a flat horizon, stooped from the box to call attention to this daily recurring miracle, which on the plain of Lombardy is no less wonderful than on a rolling sea. From the village of Fornovo, where the Italian League was camped awaiting Charles VIII. upon that memorable July morn in 1495, the road strikes suddenly aside, gains a spur [Pg 17]

of the descending Apennines, and keeps this vantage till the pass of La Cisa is reached. Many windings are occasioned by thus adhering to arêtes, but the total result is a gradual ascent with free prospect over plain and mountain. The Apennines, built up upon a smaller scale than the Alps, perplexed in detail and entangled with cross sections and convergent systems, lend themselves to this plan of carrying highroads along their ridges instead of following the valley. What is beautiful in the landscape of that northern water-shed is the subtlety, delicacy, variety, and intricacy of the mountain outlines. There is drawing wherever the eye falls. Each section of the vast expanse is a picture of tossed crests and complicated undulations. And over the whole sea of stationary billows, light is shed like an ethereal raiment, with spare colour-blue and grey, and parsimonious green-in the near foreground. The detail is somewhat dry and monotonous; for these so finely moulded hills are made up of washed earth, the immemorial wrecks of earlier mountain ranges. Brown villages, not unlike those of Midland England, low houses built of stone and tiled with stone, and square-towered churches, occur at rare intervals in cultivated hollows, where there are fields and fruit trees. Water is nowhere visible except in the wasteful river-beds. As we rise, we break into a wilder country, forested with oak, where oxen and goats are browsing. The turf is starred with lilac gentian and crocus bells, but sparely. Then comes the highest village, Berceto, with keen Alpine air. After that, broad rolling downs of yellowing grass and russet beech-scrub lead onward to the pass La Cisa. The sense of breadth in composition is continually satisfied through this ascent by [Pg 18]

the fine-drawn lines, faint tints, and immense air-spaces of Italian landscape. Each little piece reminds one of England; but the geographical scale is enormously more grandiose, and the effect of majesty proportionately greater. From La Cisa the road descends suddenly; for the southern escarpment of the Apennines, as of the Alpine, barrier is pitched at a far steeper angle than the northern. Yet there is no view of the sea. That is excluded by the lower hills which hem the Magra. The upper valley is beautiful, with verdant lawns and purple hill-sides breaking down into thick chestnut woods, through which we wound at a rapid pace for nearly an hour. The leaves were still green, mellowing to golden; but the fruit was ripe and heavy, ready at all points to fall. In the still October air the husks above our heads would loosen, and the brown nuts rustle through the foliage, and with a dull short thud, like drops of thunder-rain, break down upon the sod. At the foot of this rich forest, wedged in between huge buttresses, we found Pontremoli, and changed our horses here for the last time. It was Sunday, and the little town was alive with country-folk; tall stalwart fellows wearing peacock’s feathers in their black slouched hats, and nut-brown maids. From this point the valley of the Magra is exceeding rich with fruit trees, vines, and olives. The tendrils of the vine are yellow now, and in some places hued like generous wine; through their thick leaves the sun shot crimson. In one cool garden, as the day grew dusk, I noticed quince trees laden with pale fruit entangled with pomegranates-green spheres and ruddy amid burnished leaves. By the roadside too [Pg 19]

were many berries of bright hues; the glowing red of haws and hips, the amber of the pyracanthus, the rose tints of the spindle-wood. These make autumn even lovelier than spring. And then there was a wood of chestnuts carpeted with pale pink ling, a place to dream of in the twilight. But the main motive of this landscape was the indescribable Carrara range, an island of pure form and shooting peaks, solid marble, crystalline in shape and texture, faintly blue against the blue sky, from which they were but scarce divided. These mountains close the valley to south-east, and seem as though they belonged to another and more celestial region. Soon the sunlight was gone, and moonrise came to close the day, as we rolled onward to Sarzana, through arundo donax and vine-girdled olive trees and villages, where contadini lounged upon the bridges. There was a stream of sound in our ears, and in my brain a rhythmic dance of beauties caught through the long-drawn glorious golden autumn-day. III.-Fosdinovo. The hamlet and the castle of Fosdinovo stand upon a mountain-spur above Sarzana, commanding the valley of the Magra and the plains of Luni. This is an ancient fief of the Malaspina House, and still in the possession of the Marquis of that name. The road to Fosdinovo strikes across the level through an avenue of plane trees, shedding their discoloured leaves. It then takes to the open fields, bordered with tall reeds waving from the foss on either [Pg 20]

hand, where grapes are hanging to the vines. The country-folk allow their vines to climb into the olives, and these golden festoons are a great ornament to the grey branches. The berries on the trees are still quite green, and it is a good olive season. Leaving the main road, we pass a villa of the Malaspini, shrouded in immense thickets of sweet bay and ilex, forming a grove for the Nymphs or Pan. Here may you see just such clean stems and lucid foliage as Gian Bellini painted, inch by inch, in his Peter Martyr picture. The place is neglected now; the semicircular seats of white Carrara marble are stained with green mosses, the altars chipped, the fountains choked with bay leaves; and the rose trees, escaped from what were once trim garden alleys, have gone wandering a-riot into country hedges. There is no demarcation between the great man’s villa and the neighbouring farms. From this point the path rises, and the barren hill-side is a-bloom with late-flowering myrtles. Why did the Greeks consecrate these myrtle-rods to Death as well as Love? Electra complained that her father’s tomb had not received the honour of the myrtle branch; and the Athenians wreathed their swords with myrtle in memory of Harmodius. Thinking of these matters, I cannot but remember lines of Greek, which have themselves the rectitude and elasticity of myrtle wands: As we approach Fosdinovo, the hills above us gain sublimity; the prospect over plain and sea-the fields where Luna was, the widening bay of Spezzia-[Pg 21]

grows ever grander. The castle is a ruin, still capable of partial habitation, and now undergoing repair-the state in which a ruin looks most sordid and forlorn. How strange it is, too, that, to enforce this sense of desolation, sad dishevelled weeds cling ever to such antique masonry! Here are the henbane, the sow-thistle, the wild cucumber. At Avignon, at Orvieto, at Dolce Acqua, at Les Baux, we never missed them. And they have the dusty courtyards, the massive portals, where portcullises still threaten, of Fosdinovo to themselves. Over the gate, and here and there on corbels, are carved the arms of Malaspina-a barren thorn-tree, gnarled with the geometrical precision of heraldic irony.

young lady’s education. You must have observed that she reads very much. Indeed, I was perfectly astounded at her research, as well as the originality of her remarks.”

“Ah!” sighed the mother, “she is a very odd girl. It is true that she is always reading. I have seen some strange books, too, in her library, but to tell you the truth, Mr. Blackdeed, neither myself nor any of the family ever thought for a moment that she really had anything in her. Her sisters look upon her as a perfect ninny.”

“A great mistake,” I observed; “and if you will take my advice, you will try to understand her better. It may be difficult at first to get into her confidence. It is a nature that requires great sympathy and encouragement and if once ridiculed at any idea she expressed, which to you might appear strange or wild, you may be sure that she will close the doors of her confidence upon you once again and for ever.”

At this moment the master of the house came to meet us, and inform us that dinner was ready. At dinner time I was seated opposite Maud. She was thoughtful and dreamy as usual all the while, and when addressed by any of the family would start as if out of a dream. This peculiarity of hers was not taken notice of either by the family or the servants, who were accustomed to her eccentricity, and the dinner passed off without any conversation worth recording. In the evening[284]

we assembled again to take a dish of tea together. Maud was still silent and pensive, and while the others were conversing together, I could not help admiring the calm, intellectual serenity of her countenance. I fell into a reverie, my eye being fixed upon her with intense interest, when to my surprise and horror, she suddenly fell back in her chair and became as one lifeless. “Maud! my dear, my dear!” exclaimed her mother, “what can you be thinking of, to fall asleep like that in company,” while her two sisters, between whom she was sitting, began to shake her, but to their surprise she felt as rigid as a corpse in their hands, and appeared as insensible. “Mamma!” cried one of them, now really frightened. “Send for the doctor.”

Someone went to fetch a glass of cold water, but as I never assisted any lady before in such a predicament, and not knowing exactly what to do, I did not offer my services until I was asked to support Maud, who was falling off her chair, when I rushed suddenly to her aid, and seizing her by the shoulders, replaced her on the seat. My hands had no sooner touched her than she again awoke, and opening her eyes sleepily, gazed about her wonderingly. It would seem as if my will that she should recover were sufficient, for I touched her so gently that it was impossible the mere touch could have awakened her out of the deep magnetic trance I had unwittingly sent her into.[285]

“How do you feel now, dear?” said her mother. “What can be the meaning of this swoon? Has it ever happened to you before?” “No, never.”

“I must consult a doctor about it,” said her mother. “It may be the beginning of a series of fits, and must be looked into.”

Wonderments on all hands were expressed as to what could be the origin of this unexpected swoon, but I saw from a look Maud gave me that she was aware that it arose from my influence over her. Maud and myself alone were in the secret, but I was more cautious for the future, and dared not look too fixedly at her, for fear of bringing on another trance. We spent many happy days together while I was staying at this country seat, and I enjoyed much of Maud’s charming conversation. But soon I was recalled to London to continue my theatrical career, so I took leave of the family, and started with the stage for London. Hamlet was to be acted at our theatre, and it so happened that a famous actor of ours had died, and the part of Hamlet was allotted to me. In the middle of my part I could not help wishing to myself that Maud were present to see me act. The wish was intense; nor was it mere vanity that prompted it, but I really had a sincere respect for her opinion, and she was that sort of girl who would have told me to my face of any defect in my acting she noticed, for she was a merciless critic.[286]

I rather longed to hear my acting severely cut up by her than to receive unqualified praise, although I was sure that praise from her lips would be unfeigned. The memory of Maud’s face haunted me throughout my part, but so far from being an impediment to me, I fancied I acted better than usual, and I was anxious for Maud to be present that I might hear her candid opinion of my performance afterwards. I was in the middle of that scene where Hamlet strains his eyes into space after his father’s ghost when I noticed the figure of a lady seated in one of the boxes near the stage which up to that time had been empty. Surprise at seeing a lady alone whom I had not noticed before so near the close of the piece caused me to look again. Good Heavens! it was Maud herself. What could she be doing in that box alone? Not even dressed for the theatre, but wearing the identical dress I had seen her last in, as if she were at home. I started, in spite of myself. She seemed to heed no one, for her eyes were constantly fixed on me. Her appearance there I did not attempt to account for, but I felt a thrill of delight that my acting was being appreciated by one at least. I inwardly resolved at the close of the last scene to wrap my cloak hurriedly over my theatrical dress and rush out to meet her before she stepped into her carriage, but I was not in time, so I undressed and leisurely returned home. A few days afterwards I met the medical attendant[287]

of the — family in the street. I inquired after the young ladies and especially Maud. “It appears they are in London,” said I. “Indeed!” replied he. “Then it must be very lately, for it was only on the tenth, in the evening, that I was called for to attend upon Miss Maud, and they did not say anything about coming to town.”

“On the tenth!” exclaimed I, in amazement, “you say you saw Miss Maud?” This was the very evening I had seen her at the theatre. “Yes; on the tenth.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Perfectly,” he said. “In the evening, at about half-past nine.”

“At half-past nine, on the tenth!” I exclaimed. “Why, she was at the theatre at that hour. I saw her.”

“Impossible!” said the doctor. “You must have been mistaken; someone like her, perhaps.”

“No, no, doctor,” I firmly asserted; “I tell you she was in a box near the stage while I was acting Hamlet. I was as near to her as I am to you now; it is impossible that I could be mistaken.”

“But I tell you, you are mistaken, most grievously,” said the doctor, somewhat warmly. “I give you my word of honour as a medical man and a gentleman that I attended Miss Maud at her own country house on the tenth instant, at about half-past nine in the evening.”

“Then it must have been her ghost I saw, that’s[288]

all,” said I. “And do you know, doctor, that the most strange part of it all was, she was perfectly alone in the box, and not dressed for the theatre, but wore the very same dress I saw her last in? I marked her well, and wondering to myself what brought her there unaccompanied and in such plain attire. It is true, she is a little eccentric, but then her parents, I thought, would have looked after her sufficiently to prevent such a breach of etiquette. Really, doctor, I don’t know what to think of it.”

“Come,” said he, with a smile, “come, confess you are a little smitten with the young lady. You can’t quite get her out of your thoughts, even while you are acting. She has made a great impression on your over-sensitive brain, and at the time perhaps your nerves were a little unstrung from over study or over excitement about your part, or else”-here he relaxed into another smile-”are you quite, quite sure you did not take just a leetle drop of something upon an empty stomach, just to screw yourself up to the right pitch?” And here he laughed heartily. “Upon my honour, doctor,” said I, “I am not in the habit of having recourse to stimulants. I assure you–” He interrupted me with a hearty laugh, and said, “Ah! you actors are sad dogs.”

I smiled and then after a moment’s reflection said, “By the way, doctor, for what were you called to attend upon Miss Maud? I hope she is not dangerously ill. What is her complaint?”[289]

“Well,” said the physician, gravely, “I am afraid it is somewhat serious. She had a fit that appeared to me to be cataleptic. It is the second she has had it seems. It lasted for some considerable time, and when she awoke she complained of a weight over her eyeballs and an inclination to sleep, with a pain down the whole right side of the body. She felt extremely nervous, and asked for a fan, with which she begged me to fan her powerfully, and afterwards to change the movement, so as to cause the current of air to pass her face in a transverse direction. This I did, after which she declared that she had recovered.”

I was startled at the doctor’s relation, but said nothing, for I was now more convinced than ever that my intense desire for her to be present had influenced her magnetically, and had been the means, though unwittingly, of withdrawing her spirit temporarily from the body. But what would have been the use of my declaring my suspicions to such an old-fashioned fogey as this worthy doctor? I should only have been laughed at, so I held my peace. “Well, doctor,” said I, after we had walked on together for some time in silence, being occupied with my thoughts, “if you have nothing else to do in the evenings, now that you are in London, I should be glad if you would drop in at our theatre to see me act. This evening I am going to act Romeo again. If you have any spare time, I can give you a box-ticket.”

He thanked me, and said that as he was free that[290]

evening he would gladly accept my offer, so we parted. The evening arrived, and when I made my appearance on the boards I noticed my friend the doctor already in his box. His appearance put me in mind of the conversation we had had in the morning, and, do what I could, I was unable to get Maud out of my head all through the piece. I certainly did long for her to be present, though I tried not to wish too strongly, lest I should bring on another magnetic trance. I glanced towards the box where I had last seen Maud. It was occupied by two gentlemen, and Maud was not there. As the piece proceeded, however, I forgot my caution, and an intense desire to see her again, which I could not restrain, came over me. Shortly afterwards, glancing casually towards the same box, which was just opposite the doctor’s, I perceived Maud, dressed as on the evening before. I was horror-struck, for I knew now that I saw her spirit for certain, and that the body was nearly a hundred miles off. The two gentlemen in the box did not seem aware of her presence, while she looked neither to the right nor to the left, but seemed thoroughly absorbed in the piece. Her apparition there on that night was not of such long duration as on the evening of the tenth, probably because I was frightened at what I had done and wished her spirit back to its earthly tenement. When I looked again towards the box after a[291]

quarter-of-an-hour Maud was no longer there. At the conclusion of the play I undressed hurriedly, and sought my friend the doctor among the crowd, but I could not find him, so I strolled into a supper room hard by, just before returning home, and there at a table I saw my friend. “Hullo! doctor,” said I, “so you have come to refresh yourself after the fatigue of seeing me act, eh?” “Why, you see,” retorted he, merrily, “your capital acting has quite given me an appetite.”

After one or two complimentary speeches on his part, I took my seat by his side and gave my orders to a waiter. “Doctor,” I said, after a pause, “I saw her again to-night.”

“Who?” “Why, Maud, to be sure.”

“Bah! I’ll tell you what it is, young man, you want bleeding.”

Pulling out his lancet, he wanted to bleed me on the spot, but I refused to be bled. “Nonsense, doctor,” said I; “I haven’t any more blood than I know what to do with. I tell you I saw her as distinctly as I see you now. She was in the box opposite yours where those two gentlemen were, but she did not seem to belong to them.”

“Well,” said he, “I saw those two gentlemen in the box opposite mine, and I can take my oath there was no one else there.”

[292]

“Mark my word,” said I, “when you return to — and call on that family, you will be informed that Maud has had another fit. This is the 15th. Mark the day and the hour, and if she has not, I will lose my right hand, or I will give you permission to bleed me.”

“What connection is there between her having a fit and your imagining that you saw her at the theatre? If she was at the theatre, I must have seen her as well as you, and if she were in a fit this evening, how could she be at the theatre?” I pretended to be convinced by his arguments, but forbore to explain myself further, merely adding: “Well, we shall see-if you hear Maud has had a fit on the evening of the 15th, at about the same hour as the last one, you will let me know, will you not?” “Oh, certainly.”

At this moment the waiter returned with my supper, and the conversation took a different turn; but after we had finished and were returning home, he urged me again to be bled or to try a little change of air, as he observed that my nerves were evidently out of order. Having arrived at the corner of a street, I shook hands with my friend, and we parted. It was about a week after our parting, on returning from a walk I found a letter on my table. My servant told me that an elderly gentleman had called and enquired if I were at home, and receiving an answer in the negative, he had asked for pen, ink, and paper, and left me the following lines:[293]

– My Dear Sir-Since I saw you last I have received a letter from Mrs. — begging me to return as soon as I conveniently could, as Maud had had another fit on the evening of the 15th, between nine and half-past-the very day and hour, you will remember, you fancied you saw her in the box opposite mine. I am not a believer in spiritual apparitions, and therefore cannot set this down to anything more than a very strange coincidence. I called at the house of Mrs. — and saw the whole family. When the lady of the house had told me about Maud’s fit, I afterwards related to her, in the presence of the young lady herself, the curious circumstance of her fancied appearance to you in the stage box. Maud listened with great attention, and seemed to take more interest in my recital than the rest did, for afterwards, taking me apart, she asked me many questions about you; when I had seen you last, how you were, etc., etc. I returned to town yesterday, and as you asked me to let you know if your prophecy came true, I have left you this note. Till we meet again,-Yours very truly, John Merrivale. How I triumphed inwardly on the perusal of this letter! I placed it in my pocket, and taking my hat and cane, I left my lodgings and walked about the streets with a buoyant step, hoping to meet Merrivale, just to crow over him for disbelieving my vision. I would have called upon him, had I known his address, but I saw no more of my friend-at least, for some[294]

time afterwards. It happened that on that very evening a piece was being performed at our theatre in which I did not act, and I thought I would be a spectator for once in a way, so, from caprice, I took the very box in which I had seen Maud. On entering the box I experienced all the awe and veneration of a pious devotee when he kneels at some holy shrine. “This place has been visited by Maud’s spirit,” said I to myself, as I shut myself in. “This is the very chair she used.”

I seated myself, and the curtain drew up. It was a melodrama, if I remember rightly, which was acted that night, but I was so occupied with my thoughts about Maud, that I really cannot say with certainty what piece it was. The audience applauded every now and then, so I suppose it took well. As for myself, I had fallen into a reverie of which Maud was the subject. That stage box had for me a certain sanctity and purity since the first time I had seen her there. Whether it was that on this evening I had not my part to think of and so felt my mind open to other thoughts than those connected with my profession, or whether this hallowed spot awoke in my breast certain feelings, I know not, but certain it was that never had Maud so thoroughly taken possession of my thoughts as on that evening. I attempted to analyse my thoughts. What was it that I felt for Maud? What was it that made me think more of her than of other girls? And why did I think[295]

more and more about her every day? I hardly knew myself how to answer these questions. Was it-could it be-no-love, that I felt for her? No! it was not that; at least, if it was, it was not like other men’s love. It was a feeling far purer, far loftier than falls to the lot of ordinary men’s experience. I thought that the world did not-never did, nor ever could contain another Maud. She was different to the rest of her kind. Her beauty, her talents, her beautiful nature, could never excite in me such a vulgar passion as that which the world calls love. The thought never entered my head to make her my own, and I was content to worship her at a distance. I began to wonder to myself if Maud could be aware of the strong impression she had made upon me. I even dared to hope, though humbly, very humbly, she might not quite have forgotten me; that there was still a spare corner in her memory-I had nearly said heart-left vacant in which I might crave a home. Did she, perhaps-here an electric shock ran through me at the very thought-did she feel for me exactly in the same way as I felt for her? Oh, rapture! and I tried to persuade myself that she did, for the thought comforted me. “Ah, Maud, Maud,” I muttered to myself, in the midst of my reverie. At that moment I heard the door handle move. “Confound that box-keeper,” muttered I. “What can he want, coming to disturb my meditation?”[296]

The door opened, and I turned my head to see who it was. Gentlemen, will you believe it? It was Maud, again dressed exactly the same as before. I started, and my blood ran cold, my hair stood on end, my teeth chattered, and my knees knocked together. I essayed to speak, but my tongue refused to give utterance to what I wished to say. I was then in the presence, nay close to, a supernatural essence bearing the lineaments of Maud, whose body I knew for certain to be at her country seat, nearly a hundred miles away. The figure gave me a friendly look of recognition, and seated itself. I fancied it offered me its hand, but I was too dumbfounded to accept it, and remained stupefied. At length this excessive feeling of terror began to wear off, and I ventured to say, in a low tone, broken with emotion, “Maud, is it really you? Speak.”

“William,” said a voice proceeding from the lips of the figure, but which sounded as if it came from a long way off, “William!” And there was the deepest pathos in the tone. It was the first time I had been called thus by Maud. When she was in the body she always called me Mr. Blackdeed. I waited for some moments to hear if the voice would say more. After a long pause it spoke again, and said, “You called me. Wherefore?” “Called you, Maud!” said I. “I called you not.”

“The concentration of your thoughts has had the power to command my spirit from afar,” said the figure.[297]

“Is it so?” said I. “And can you not battle against such commands?” The figure replied not, save by a look, which seemed to say, “When you command, no.”

I understood the look, and felt flattered by its meaning, but knew not how to respond, so I was silent for some moments. At length I said, “Maud-if I may call you Maud-tell me, do you suffer much when withdrawn from the body?” “Less out of it than in it,” was the reply. “How so?” I asked. “You know how I stand with my family,” she said. “True, true,” I observed; “and this must cause you great pain. However, I hope in time–” “Never, never,” she replied with a sigh. “Oh, why not? Do you not wish to live happily with them?” “Oh, how willingly!” “Then let me see if I cannot make matters a little smooth for you. Perhaps–” She shook her head doubtfully, and said, “I feel as if I did not belong to them nor they to me; in fact, I feel as if I never belonged to anybody, nor ever should.”

“And never should!” exclaimed I. “Why, you do not mean to say that-that-you never intend to marry?” “I fear I should make but an indifferent wife.”

[298]

“Why so? I am sure you possess qualities that many married ladies might envy. Of course, you would require a husband who understood you and was able to appreciate your virtues.”

“You flatter me,” she said. “Nevertheless, you will see that I shall never marry. Mark my words. I was not born for it. Do you know,” she said, lowering her voice, and speaking in a solemn tone, “that of late I have had a strange presentiment that my end is not far off.”

“Now, really, Maud,” said I, “pray do not talk like that, for I sincerely hope that nothing more serious than a little temporary indisposition has given rise to such a presentiment.”

“My health of late has been, if anything, better than usual. I do not think this presentiment can be reasonably accounted for in that way. At other times when I have felt at all poorly such a thought has never occurred to me.”

I merely shook my head and said that I hoped she would not encourage these presentiments. “William,” she said, “remember my words; I shall not live till the year is out.”

I did not know what to answer, and gazed upon her in astonishment for some minutes, when suddenly her face grew agonised, and she manifested symptoms of impatience. “What is it, Maud?” I asked. “What ails you?” She seemed to have difficulty in answering, but I fancied[299]

that I understood the words, “I am drawn to the body; let me go.”

And rising suddenly from her chair and gasping, she made for the door, but disappeared from my sight before she had time to reach it. I remained stupefied at the figure’s sudden disappearance, as well as at the whole occurrence of the evening. I knew not what to think. Had I been dreaming? No. This was not the first time, either, that I had seen her. I had been holding converse with no less a being than Maud’s ghost; her own pure and beautiful spirit, drawn by my art from the body while yet breath remained. A horrid thought struck me. Perhaps I had detained the spirit too long away from the body. Perhaps there was no one in the house to wake her out of her trance. I reproached myself for not foreseeing the mischief that I might do, and returned home from the theatre that evening with Maud more than ever in my thoughts. Next morning when I awoke, whether from the excitement of the previous evening or from a cold caught by walking home in the rain, or both combined, perhaps, I found myself in a high fever. I was compelled to remain in bed, though I was averse to sending for the doctor until some days later, when I found the fever grew rapidly worse. A doctor was sent for-not my friend Merrivale, as I knew not where he lived-and he attributed my illness[300]

to over-study and want of proper exercise. I merely mention my illness to tell you a dream which occurred to me during a portion of it. I thought that I was transported to realms of enchantment, and that whilst the most beautiful scenery imaginable lay before me, I heard in the distance soft strains of music and singing, which gradually drew nearer and nearer to me. The atmosphere seemed to fill with a delicious perfume, and looking upwards, I descried a troop of angels, bearing one with them who seemed lately of this earth. The angels gradually descended, and left the figure they carried with them at my feet, whilst they flew upward. I instantly recognised in the figure before me the features of Maud. She was dressed in a long robe of white, and, with an expression in her countenance too beautiful and too unearthly to describe, she spoke these words: “Farewell, William; we meet again,” and vanished. I awoke, and the dream remained impressed upon my mind for a long time afterwards. Recovering at length from my illness, I resumed my duties at the theatre, where I was received with immense applause after my long absence, and continued my career with enthusiasm on my part and admiration on the part of my audience. Night after night I would go through my part, and week after week and month after month passed away, and I neither heard nor saw anything further of Maud since our strange meeting in the stage box-viz., on the 31st of December.[301]

Sometimes a violent desire to see her again would seize me in the midst of my part, and I would glance furtively towards the haunted spot, half expecting to see her, but I never saw her again from that day to this. The dream I had had concerning her during my illness often recurred to me, and I wondered whether it really was a revelation or only an ordinary dream to be accounted for by the state of my health at the time. I had seen no more of Maud’s family, neither had I again met our common friend the doctor or any other friend of the family from whom I might learn the state of Maud’s health, or whether she were dead or alive. A year or two passed away, when I was invited by some friends of mine to spend a week or so at their country seat, not very far from the seat of Maud’s family. I took the stage, and was put down at a country inn, from whence I had to walk about a mile-and-a-half to reach my friend’s house. It was early in the morning when I arrived at the inn, and not being in a particular hurry to reach the house, thinking that the family might not yet have risen, I sauntered leisurely along the carriage road, halting occasionally and looking around me. The whole scene-the air itself-seemed to call up memories of Maud. Absorbed in a reverie, I wandered on until I found myself at the gate of a cemetery, which I mechanically entered. I had passed the same cemetery often before in my walks with Maud. What a picturesque old place it was! Filled with old crumbling monuments with[302]

quaint epitaphs and overgrown with rank grass and weeds. It was one of Maud’s favourite spots for meditation, as she told me. It was so perfectly solitary-overlooked by no houses and shut out from the gaze of passers-by with thick yew trees and cypress. Then, when you entered at the gate, what a silence reigned within! I love those grand old melancholy retreats, and so did Maud. Here the rich and poor of the surrounding villages for miles around were buried. I passed by the elegant marble tombs of the wealthy and the humbler grassy mounds of the peasantry. My thoughts were filled with the shortness of human life, the vanity of its noblest pursuits, and the equalling, never-sparing hand of death. Even the bracing morning air and the merry sunshine were insufficient to dispel thoughts like these, for the spot had a solemnity of its own about it. The abode of the dead is at all times sacred to us, even when we find it in the heart of a populous city, amidst the bustle and stir of daily life; but how much more is it sanctified when we discover it in some rural and secluded spot ungrimed with the smoke of factories, unbroken in upon by rude voices from without, and the mossy stones and overgrown weeds and brambles of which even the hand of the trim gardener has not disturbed. I seated myself upon an ancient tomb, and gazed around me. Here lay a knight of old, there a lord of[303]

the manor; yonder some poor rustic whose humble grave of turf bore no record of the name, age, or sex of its occupant, what its owner’s deeds had been on earth, whether fruitful or unfruitful. Close beside it rose a stately tombstone of white marble with a long inscription. “Doubtless here lays some rich landowner,” I thought, “whose supposed virtues are here recorded in full.”

I was too far off to read what was inscribed, but the tomb was a new one. It was not there when Maud and I took our rambles together, and I recollected all the most important gravestones. I rose and advanced a few steps, when I suddenly halted a few paces from the tomb, and recoiled in horror. I was seized with trembling, my heart sank, and I felt my brow covered with a cold sweat. The letters on the monument swam before my eyes. I brushed away a tear as I read the following lines: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MAUD E–N, YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF GEORGE E–N, OF — WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 31ST OF DECEMBER, 1750. AGED 21 YEARS. Then followed one or two verses from the Bible.[304]

“Oh, Maud, Maud!” I cried, in an agony, and throwing myself on her grave, I wept bitterly. “What says the gravestone? ‘On the 31st of December,’” said I to myself. “Good heavens! That was the very evening on which I saw her spirit last in the stage box!” I had drawn her soul away from her body for too great a length of time. I then was the cause of her death. Poor Maud! She was right in saying she should not live the year out, but I little thought that when her spirit hurried from my presence on that fatal night that it was then about to leave the body for ever. I felt like a murderer. The thought that one so good, so innocent, and so talented should meet with her death through one so worthless as myself galled me. My agony was insufferable. “Oh, Maud! would that we had never met!” I cried aloud, for now, but, alas, too late, I began to feel the consuming fire of an intense love for her that in her lifetime was as yet undeveloped; added to which were the stings of remorse for my own careless, if not wicked, conduct. I felt now that she had loved me. Why had I not come forward before to crave her hand? Could I not see that she loved me, though she confessed it not? Fool that I was! Could I not have been happy with her and made her happy? What was it that made me draw back? I know not. There was something about her which awed me, and kept me aloof. Then, again, was I in a position at that time to[305]

support a wife? Had I the right to come forward? No, I answered myself, and this thought consoled me somewhat, but had I not already allowed myself to be carried away by a passion that had engulfed both her and myself? Love, grief, and remorse struggled in my breast for the mastery. I wept aloud, and kissed the cold gravestone fervently. I know not how long I might have been thus, for in my anguish I took no count of time, when I was suddenly aroused by a footstep behind and a voice. “Mercy on us, who is this?” said the stranger. I turned, and beheld my friend Merrivale. Whilst taking his morning’s walk as usual he had been attracted by my lamentations, and curiosity led him to enter the cemetery. “Why, what the-I say-what! Is that you?” he said, as I looked up abashed in the midst of my grief, and knew not what to reply. “Come, come,” said he. “I understand all, I saw all from the beginning. I am not surprised, you know, with one of your temperament, but do you know, young man, you might catch your death of cold, indulging your grief in the morning dew on a cold gravestone. You must be-really, my dear sir-you must be insane.”

“Doctor,” said I, “we may meet another time, when I may have more to say to you. For the present leave me. I arrived here early this morning, having been invited to a friend’s house. It is time for me to make[306]

my appearance. Till we meet again, farewell. And, doctor,” said I, “you will keep this matter secret, eh?” “Very well,” said he, with a smile which seemed to me forced in order to disguise his emotion, for I noticed that he turned away his head suddenly, shook my hand, and walked away hurriedly. We had both of us left the cemetery, and about half-a-mile further on led me to the door of my friend’s house. I tried to assume an air of indifference before my friend, and discoursed on various topics; nevertheless, he noticed that my hand trembled, and that I seemed distracted. I said I had been a little out of health lately, and was glad of a little change of air. “My doctor, Mr. Merrivale,” said he, “will be here to-day to look at the children. If you would like to see him–” “Thank you, thank you; but I hope it is nothing worth mentioning.”

In the afternoon Merrivale arrived, and I managed to find an opportunity of speaking with him alone. I inquired after the family E–n, and was informed that Maud had died suddenly in a trance, and he had been called too late. That her two sisters were engaged to be married. That Maud had spoken much of me before her last fit, and had given out some strange mysterious hints of a certain power I had over her, and nothing could induce her mother and sisters to believe otherwise than that I had cast an evil spell over her.[307]

He added that her father was more reasonable, and did not believe in those things. The family would be sure to hear of my arrival in the village, therefore I resolved to call on an early opportunity. I did so, and was well received by Maud’s father, he having been intimate with mine, but by the mother and sisters with rigid coldness. They did not even offer me their hand. I expected this, but nevertheless felt it my duty to call. I made some slight allusion to Maud’s death in as delicate a way as I could, but was checked in the midst of my remarks by scornful glances from the mother and sisters. I left the house, and I need hardly say that this was my last call on that family, although the master of the house wrung my hand cordially, and said he should be always glad to see me when chance led me to those parts. I returned to my friend’s house, where I tried to divert myself with a week’s shooting. I frequently met my friend Merrivale. We used to take walks together sometimes. In one of our rambles I recounted to him all the particulars of the evening of the 31st of December, when I had last seen and spoken to Maud in the spirit at the theatre. He marvelled, but was silent. By the time the tragedian had finished his recital, our friends had arrived at the door of the inn, where their host’s pretty daughter waited to receive them.[308]

“Well, Helen, my dear,” said Mr. Oldstone. “Is the breakfast ready? We have had a long story, and we are all very hungry.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the maiden; “everything is on the table. I’ll run and fetch the eggs. I put them in to boil when I saw you coming in the distance. The toast and rolls are hot, and all in order.”

“Bravo! Helen, bravo!” said Professor Cyanite, rubbing his hands. “By my troth, Helen,” said our artist, “if I wanted an appetite your bright eyes would be enough to give me one.”

Helen blushed and smiled, and skipped lightly away to see after the eggs. “Ah! here is a breakfast fit for a king,” said Mr. Crucible, as Helen re-entered with a tray. “And all made with her own fair hands, too, I’ll warrant,” said McGuilp. “What makes you blush so much of late, Helen?” asked Mr. Hardcase. “Oh, what a shame to tease the poor child,” said Mr. Parnassus, with tenderness. “Ah! Helen,” sighed Dr. Bleedem, “your health and rosy cheeks are worth all my drugs.”

“‘I would I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek,’” quoted the tragedian from his favourite “Romeo and Juliet.”

“Order, order!” cried various other members at once.[309]

At that moment our host entered to call away his daughter, so Helen was spared further banter. As the meal proceeded the company began to dispute who should tell the next story. Of those present who had not yet entertained the company with a tale were Mr. Crucible and Mr. Oldstone. One of the two must tell a story, as the club decreed, but as each of these gentlemen wished to lay the burden of the story upon the shoulders of the other, nothing seemed likely to be settled. Accordingly, after the breakfast things had been removed dice were called for, and it was agreed that whoever should throw the highest should tell the story. Our host soon returned with the dice-box, and remained to see which of the two gentlemen should throw the higher number. Mr. Oldstone seized the dice-box, and shaking it well, threw double five. It was now Mr. Crucible’s turn, so taking the dice-box from the hand of the first thrower, and rattling it twice or thrice, he threw the number twelve. “Now then, Crucible,” said Mr. Oldstone, laughing, “no shirking, but let us have the story at once.”

“What! so soon after breakfast!” exclaimed Mr. Crucible, “and before we have had time to digest the last properly.”

“I hope you will excuse my presence here gentlemen,” said Mr. Hardcase, “for I have a case to attend to.”

[310]

“Now really, Hardcase, that’s too bad,” ejaculated Mr. Oldstone. At this moment a servant arrived hurriedly at the “Headless Lady,” to call away Dr. Bleedem to see a patient. “Really, gentlemen,” said the doctor, “I am very sorry, but business is business.”

“Business! business!” exclaimed Mr. Oldstone, in horror at such a word being uttered within the sacred precincts of the club. “Business! Ugh!” Professor Cyanite, too, had a great scientific work which he was getting ready for the press, and begged also to be allowed to withdraw. “Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Oldstone, “this is really very provoking. I cannot think what ails you all this morning. Since our club is reft of three such staunch members, there seems nothing else to be done but to defer the story until the evening, when there will be no excuse for anyone to be absent.”

This was agreed to, and the remaining inmates of the “Headless Lady” began to while away the time each after his own manner. Our artist began a portrait of the landlord’s pretty daughter. Mr. Blackdeed, who was only here for the holidays, sat to work to finish a tragedy that he had begun. Mr. Parnassus composed an ode. Mr. Crucible retired to his chamber to try some chemical experiment, and Mr. Oldstone, finding himself deserted, had nothing left him to do but to look over his cabinet of curiosities.[311]

Let us return to our artist and his model. How happy they both are! Both of them young and good-looking, and left all to themselves. With what inspiration the hand of the painter glides over his canvas, and how the face of the pretty Helen brightens up every time the artist refreshes his memory by taking a peep at her from behind his easel. There is no affectation in the expression or the pose of the sitter, it is quite easy and natural, and beautifully simple. She does not seem conscious she is sitting for her portrait. Every now and then, after working in silence for some twenty minutes or so, McGuilp breaks the monotony by some pleasing remark or question, to which the maiden replies charmingly. Sometimes she in her turn will ask him questions about Italy, and whether the country and the people are the same as in England. “No, Helen,” McGuilp replies; “not the same. Italy is warmer, the sky bluer, and grapes grow in the open air along the road side. The people’s faces are darker and their language more musical than ours. They are all Roman Catholics; but, alas, the government is bad, and the country is infested with brigands, who attack travellers in the mountains and sometimes keep them as hostages till their friends can be sent for to pay any ransom they may choose to ask, in default of which their victims are tortured and maimed in the most inhuman manner.”

“Oh, what horrid wretches! I was just going to say,[312]

before you told me that, what a paradise Italy must be to live in! But I don’t think I should like to live there now.”

“Well, these are drawbacks, I admit,” said McGuilp, “but, nevertheless, Italy is a very charming country. Fancy a land where every peasant makes his own wine-good wine, and cheap, too. What merrymakings they have, too, on their feast days, and how picturesque their costume!” “Ah! do tell me how they are dressed. I should so like to know.”

“Would you, Helen?” said McGuilp. “Then, as the sitting is now at an end, being past twelve o’clock, I will let you look over my portfolio. You will find some studies that I have made both of men and women in the costumes of the Roman peasantry.”

“Oh, do show them to me,” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “I am so curious to see what they are like. Did you say it was past twelve o’clock? I began my sitting at nine, and it does not seem to me more than half-an-hour that I have been here.”

And I have no doubt she spoke the truth. Happy moments are short. Alas! how rapidly time glides away in youth, and how provokingly long it appears when we have most reason to wish it should pass quickly. As Helen was engaged in admiring the studies and sketches of McGuilp our host knocked at the door to ask if his daughter could be spared, as her mother wanted her aid in the affairs of the house.[313]

“Oh, certainly,” said McGuilp; “but I must have another good sitting to-morrow.”

“Very well, sir. May I be permitted to look at the portrait?” asked the landlord. “You may look,” replied our artist; “but I warn you the likeness is not striking at present.”

“Gramercy, sir!” exclaimed the landlord, in ecstasy; “if it is not my girl herself already!” “Ah! my good host, wait until I have had some half dozen sittings or so, and then look again,” said McGuilp. Our landlord then looked approvingly over our artist’s portfolio, and said, “Ah, sir, it is a noble art.”

Helen was delighted with her portrait, of course, and equally so with the contents of the portfolio. McGuilp complimented her upon her sitting, and Helen disappeared for the present. At one o’clock Helen reappeared with the lunch, and those members of the club who remained at home met again over their frugal meal. They whiled away the time until the evening with politics and a rubber at whist. At length the village clock struck the dinner hour, and all guests were present. The dinner passed off merrily, and all awaited the story anxiously. Our host and his daughter were invited to hear it, so having filled their pipes and stirred the fire, Mr. Crucible, finding himself loudly called upon, took a sip at his port and began his story. [314]

CHAPTER IX. The Spirit Leg.-The Analytical Chemist’s Story. Being left an orphan at an early age, I was consigned to the care of a bachelor uncle, one Admiral Broadside, who instructed me almost entirely himself until I reached the age of twelve. I was then sent to school, where I went through a routine of learning taught to boys at that time, and though I was backward in many things when I first entered the school, I was a persevering scholar, and soon left behind me many boys who had the start of me. I thus made enemies, and being of a retiring disposition, owing to my previous education, I made but few friends. But let me return to my uncle. I have the liveliest recollection of the old man with his weather-beaten face, his deep-set eyes, and over-hanging black eyebrows, resembling a moustache rather than the feature we usually see in their place. Well I remember the sheen and the lustre of that rubicund nose, sprouting with grog-blossoms, the iron-grey hair, and long pig-tail; his spectacles, with glasses as big as a crown piece, his cocked hat, his uniform adorned with medals, and his hobbling gait-for he had lost his right leg in an engagement,[315]

and used as a substitute a wooden one. How well I can call to mind his nautical language and his merry laugh; but, alas, I remember too well also his angry frown, and the sundry thwackings that I got with a “cat-o’-nine-tails,” when I had “offended against discipline.”

From an infant he tried to instil into my young mind the glories of a sea-faring life, and what a grand thing it was to fight for the honour and glory of one’s country. He told me that he had great interest in the navy, and if I turned out a worthy nephew of his, he would get me on in my career, and that he hoped I should never disgrace his name by showing the white feather and turning landlubber. He tried to influence my youthful imagination with stories of sea-fights, the capture of pirates, the manners and customs of foreign countries, the merry crew on board, etc. He would cut out boats for me from blocks of wood, and would rig out and launch them in a fish pond in a garden behind his house. Up to a certain period in my youth my uncle’s nautical stories and his promises of pushing me on in life, if I answered his expectations, fired my ambition, and I could talk of nothing else than of going to sea. My uncle having no children of his own, looked upon me as his son, and said that I was just the sort of boy for him. He would praise me to his friends and before my face, but his eulogium of myself lasted only during the time I lived with him-namely, before[316]

he sent me to school, for at school a great change came over me, and my uncle noticed with regret upon my return for the holidays the growing coolness in me towards a sea-faring life; in fact, that my tastes had begun to develop themselves in quite another direction. Away from the influence of my guardian, I had dared to breath in a new atmosphere, and to find out that there were other walks in life quite as noble, and to me much more fascinating than that of the sea. The term “landlubber” conveyed no disparagement to my ears now. I merely saw in it the venting of the spleen of an egotistical and narrow mind. How paltry that class of men must be which speaks with disparagement of all others who do not happen to be within its own narrow circle. I was ashamed of myself for ever having been led away by such false opinions, and had many a hot dispute with my guardian about his illiberal notions. Now, the admiral had a temper of his own; he was not a man accustomed to be thwarted. He had made up his mind that I was to go to sea, and to sea he was determined to send me, whether I willed it or no. I was now about fourteen, and since I had been away from home I had imbibed strong notions of independence. I did not see that any man had a right to dispose of me as he thought fit. I felt myself a free agent, and my youthful blood rose at the cool way in which my uncle thought to bend me to his will. Had I not the right to seek my own walk in life? Was I to be[317]

baulked of my true avocation because I was told that my interest lay elsewhere? Interest! Bah! I despised interest. My uncle promised me that if I went to sea he would leave all his fortune to me, as I was his heir, and if I refused, he would not leave me a groat. What then? I had a small income left me by my father when I should come of age, which was enough to keep me like a gentleman. What did I want with the old admiral’s money? I was not going to sell myself for filthy lucre. It was whispered that the old man had amassed a considerable fortune, and I should be called a fool by the world to quarrel with him. But was my will to be bought with gold? I was grateful to him for what he had already done for me, and I never wished to quarrel with him; but when I saw that he expected as a proof of my gratitude I should humour his whim by sacrificing my highest ambition in life to follow a profession I now really cared nothing about, I felt it my duty to rebel against my guardian and choose my own course. I felt myself born for something better than a sea-faring life. The sea might be very well for those who had a taste for it, or for those who were fit for nothing else. Besides, sailors are generally such ignorant people, and I flattered myself that I had a mind to cultivate and resolved to devote myself to study. My hobby was science, and the branch I was chiefly anxious to excel in, chemistry. I believe the first thing[318]

that fired my imagination to pursue this delightful science was the reading a book lent me by a friend, entitled, “Lives of the Alchemists.”

From this I learned how many clever men had devoted their lives and fortunes in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. I do not remember reading any of them actually did make gold; but the perseverance and energy of these men! There was something sublime in a man of means giving up the wealth and luxury of his position to follow science. How I loved to read of these persevering sages, of their trials and disappointments, and how, heedless of all vicissitudes, they still pursued to the last with unflagging energy that science that they alone lived for. I had no doubt that in early times there was an immensity of superstition mingled with their science. Nevertheless, thought I, is it possible that so many clever men should have wasted their whole lives in study and have been just upon the point of discovering the secret if there were really nothing in it at all? I inquired of a chemist in our town whether he believed in the possibility of making gold. He told me that he did not; but then a learned man with whom I once conversed said that he was of opinion that it was possible, but added that if the secret were discovered it would certainly be valueless. I preferred leaning towards the opinion of the learned man who believed in the possibility of making gold out of baser metals, and resolved to give the study of my[319]

life to the discovery of the secret without letting others know what I was striving after. It happened that the chemist of our town whose opinion I had consulted as to the probability of success in alchemy sent his son, with whom I was rather intimate, to the same school as my guardian had put me at. He was a lad of my own years, and shared my taste for study. Having much in common, we soon struck up a warm friendship, which lasted for many years; in fact, until his death, some fifteen years back. I may assert that he was the only friend I ever had in my youth, for I was a reserved lad, and did not court friendship. He, too, was reserved, and sought no other friend but myself. We were always in each other’s company, and used to be nicknamed Castor and Pollux by the other boys. They could none of them understand why we two withdrew ourselves from the rest and refused to join in their games, and they wondered much what we found to talk about one to the other. We were both looked upon as unsociable, and accordingly disliked. We both of us had high aspirations, and each of us felt the value of his existence, and that high honours awaited him in posterity, if not in this life, provided that he made the best use of his abilities. We might each of us have been about fifteen, when we swore an eternal friendship, and likewise to keep secret from others the nature of our studies. When I returned home from school for good-being then about seventeen-my[320]

uncle the admiral was in despair at finding me more than ever confirmed in my views of a studious life, and said I had disappointed his hopes, and that I need henceforth hope for no help from him. A gentleman who visited my uncle, and who seemed to take an interest in me, seeing that I was a young man of some promise, advised me to go to a German university, and recommended to me the university of Jena. He took upon himself to remonstrate with my guardian upon what he called his harsh treatment of myself, and told him that he had no right to force me against my true calling, but his words were as wind in the admiral’s ears, for he was as obstinate as a mule. “Do you mean to tell me, sir,” said the admiral, “that my boy can’t be made a sailor of, if he is only properly brought up?” “Yes,” said his friend; “it is precisely that point I wish to discuss. I deny that we are all born alike; and if you force this young man to go to sea you will make a bad sailor of him when he might have done honour to his country in another way.”

“Boys mustn’t be allowed to go just any way they like. They must learn discipline and obedience. I tell you that it is to his interest to go to sea. He is my heir, and if he conducts himself properly he may hope to be pushed on in life as long as I live, and inherit my fortune at my death. If he refuses, I shall cut him off, so he knows what to expect.”

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“I sincerely regret your harsh determination,” said the gentleman, “for I really consider your nephew a young man of great promise. He is studiously inclined, and in every way shows that the sea is about the very last calling for which he is destined. Why should you try to waste his young life in a profession which he is unfit for?” “Unfit for!” exclaimed the admiral. “Unfit for! In my time there was no talk of a lad’s being unfit to serve his country at the bidding of those in authority over him, unless he was a cripple. Is not my nephew strong and well built enough for the sea? Why should he be unfit?” “Not physically unfit,” said his friend. “I do not doubt for a moment his physical capabilities, but if he has formed other tastes, and feels himself called in another direction, why–” “Nonsense, sir, nonsense! about his feeling himself called in another direction. He ought to feel himself called where his interest lies, to say nothing of his duty towards those placed over him,” said my uncle. “But you wouldn’t make a slave of the boy?” said his friend. “I only wish to call him to his senses, to make him do that which is best for himself. Am I to yield to a mere boyish whim, for which he himself would be sorry later in life? And as to his having no taste for it; he was full of it whilst he lived under my roof, before he went to school. It is only since he left me that he has[322]

got these new-fangled notions and hoisted the white feather.”

“I do not see that it is any sign of cowardice to have changed his opinions since he was under your roof. Since then his mind has become more enlarged, and he is better able to see what he is fit for than when he had received no other instruction than your own. Since then he has made acquaintances–” “And pretty acquaintances he has made! About the only acquaintance that he has is the son of a d–d apothecary, who happens to be at the same school. Do you think I can’t see from whom he has picked up his sickly notions? Should I be doing my duty to my brother’s son were I to aid him in his insane hobby of turning apothecary? To allow one of my family, one of my own flesh and blood, to make pills and spread plaisters for a living, when he might be boarding the enemy’s fleet and shedding his blood for the honour and glory of his country? Why damme, sir, it’s not manly, I’ll be hanged if it is.”

“Because he may have formed some acquaintances with this apothecary, doesn’t necessarily show that he intends to turn apothecary himself. He says that he wishes to devote himself to the study of chemistry. Surely there is nothing disgraceful in that! Perhaps his determination may not be quite fixed as yet. He wishes to go to the university, where he will receive the education of a gentleman, and after a few years of study he will be enabled to settle down in that walk of life which suits him best.”

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“In the meantime he is wasting the flower of his youth in moping study, whilst he might be earning his laurels at sea.”

“Life, my dear admiral, is a playground on which numbers meet to play at a vast variety of games. You have won your laurels at sea; let the poor boy earn his in the game he most delights in. We are not all born alike.”

“Bah! Laurels gained at pills and poultices. Much good may his laurels do him. If he is wise, he will forget at once his low acquaintances, awaken to his real interest, and take a cruise with me. I have no doubt that after a time I shall set him to rights again.”

“And if he refuses to go?” “Oh!-then-then-why, he may as well begin to mix drugs at once, and the sooner the better.”

“You mean that you would cut him off.”

“Ay, that I most decidedly should.”

“Now, my dear admiral, don’t you think it would be kinder, as well as the best way to save the honour of your family, to try and prevent him from following the apothecary’s business by doing what you can to aid his studies, that he may choose some other gentlemanly profession besides the sea, since he seems to have taken such an aversion to it?” “No, no; my determination is fixed. If he does my will I will help him in what way I can. If he will not, neither will I help him in anything. He knows what he has to expect, either the sea and my portion when I die, or pills, poultices, and beggary.”

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“I much regret your stern decision, I must say,” said the gentleman, and here the conference ended. I was well aware of the admiral’s decision, and that nothing on earth could move him; and as I was equally determined not to go to sea, I informed him how I had decided. “Well, then,” he said, “from to-day you are no longer nephew of mine. Follow your own silly inclinations, but don’t hope for any help from me.”

I considered myself turned out of the house, so I quietly packed up my things, and without taking leave of my uncle, I called upon my uncle’s friend, the gentleman who had shown so much interest in my cause and explained how I was situated. I told him that I had money left me by my father, which I could not touch until I came of age. In the meantime I might die of want, as my uncle had refused positively to call me his nephew any longer. Therefore I begged him to be kind enough to lend me a sufficient sum to complete my studies at a foreign university, and I would repay him when it lay in my power. My uncle’s friend was a man of means and of a generous disposition, and not likely to see me go down thoroughly in the world, granted my request. I left my native town without letting my uncle know, and departed for Germany. I found my way to the university of Jena, where I entered and commenced my studies. My first step was to perfect myself in the German[325]

language, to accomplish which I took lessons, visited the theatre, and went into society. The romance that seemed to attach itself to the life of a German student had long inflamed my youthful fancy, and I entered a “chor,” or company of students, who distinguish themselves from others by their own especial “tricolor,” which they wear in a ribbon across their chests and round their caps, and from ordinary mortals by their otherwise fantastic way of dressing themselves. The novelty of this life, rather than the life itself, charmed me; for though I was delighted with the freedom and goodfellowship amongst these young men, I was not a youth naturally given to excess, and I soon found that a little of this sort of life went a long way. Nevertheless, at the beginning my fondness for the study of human nature in all its phases induced me to take part in all the manners and customs of my companions. I joined them at their “kneipe,” drank and sang with them, smoked with them, fought with them. I never refused a challenge, and sometimes even provoked a duel. I was never behind hand in any midnight brawl. I wore high boots and enormous spurs; gambled, betted, serenaded, played practical jokes, and soon got the reputation of a “flotter bursch” or rowdy fellow. As every German student has his “Liebchen,” I, too, had mine. A fair Teutonic damsel of good family deigned to smile on me, and there was much talk at one time in the little town of Jena about Fräulein von[326]

Hammelstengel and the handsome Englishman being “verlobt.”

People will talk at all times, and when news is wanting-what so easy as to invent? All the inhabitants of the town of Jena thought that they had a right to know and to talk of my private affairs, and seeing that I was of a reserved disposition and that they were not likely to extract much from me by pumping, it began to be rumoured abroad that I had certain grave reasons for maintaining secrecy, and in a very short time it was reported that I was a great “my lord,” travelling in disguise for political purposes, and that I possessed a fortune of countless millions of pounds sterling. This interesting discovery soon reached the ears of the parents of the already-mentioned young lady, who, by the way, had other admirers besides myself, and I could not without vanity at that time fairly consider myself the favoured one. Nevertheless, from the time the report of my fabulous riches spread throughout the whole university town I suddenly found Fräulein von Hammelstengel thrust in my way in the most obtrusive manner. If I went to the theatre she was sure to be blocking up the doorway as I entered. If I was invited to a party, she was sure to be there. If I went to a public beer garden, there she was again; in the streets, in church-everywhere. At the time I speak of I had but little experience of[327]

the world, but that little sufficed for me to see the trap that was laid for me. I was amused at the farce played before me, but disgusted with the actors, and resolved to withdraw myself. Now, Miss von H. was a very fair specimen of the German upper classes. Besides being pretty, she could cook, knit stockings, do every sort of household work, had a very nice voice, and was a very excellent performer on the pianoforte. She was amiable, and possessed all the qualities of a good housewife. I may even confess that she was not quite indifferent to me at this time, but when I saw that her parents were making a bait of her to catch me, I was awed at the hook, and meditated escape. I therefore prepared to undeceive the family as to the state of my finances, giving out that I was only a poor student who, unable to make both ends meet in my own country, had retired to the continent to live cheaper. This I confided to the young lady herself, and it was evidently soon after repeated to the parents, for a marked change in their behaviour soon manifested itself towards me, which was not only what I expected, but what I wished for. However, after a time it was reported in the town that I could not be as poor as I pretended to be, as it was remarked that I always paid my bills-a somewhat rare occurrence among German students-that I was always well dressed, lived well, had given wine parties, and had books expensively bound. Now, when the von Hammelstengels heard this last[328]

report, they began again to believe in all that they had been told of me at first, and rather than let their prey escape so easily, they resolved to make another effort, and commenced to weave their meshes around me again. In vain I repeated that I was only a poor student, and could not hope to marry. I saw that I was not believed, and was persecuted more than ever with attentions. Mrs. von Hammelstengel grew so amiable, that I was quite alarmed. Her husband so cordial and obsequious, that I grew disgusted. The “fräulein” herself so languishing and sentimental that I saw that there was nothing open for me but flight, so informing them all that important family affairs had called me suddenly back to England, I bade them a hasty farewell, and shut myself up in my own lodging for a time. Now, this stratagem was discovered by the brother of Miss von Hammelstengel, an officer in the army. He met me about two months after I had taken leave of the family, and having ascertained that I had been in Jena all the time, and had never mentioned to anyone else my intention of returning to my country, he came to the conclusion that my retirement was nothing but a “ruse” to free myself from the clutches of his family. He could not let me slip without playing his last card, which was to frighten me into marriage if possible. With this object he managed to pick a quarrel with me, asking me if I thought it was behaving like a gentleman to excite hopes in the breast of a young and innocent girl, and then absconding, saying that he could not see[329]

his sister pining away day by day without taking her cause in hand, etc. There was nothing left me, he said, but to marry his sister or to fight him. My decision was soon made. I told him that I would never be forced into marriage through fear of a wound, and I resolved to fight him. An officer in the army is the only grade of man that a German student deigns to fight with. All others are beneath his notice. Now, as my adversary was an officer, it was considered no degradation on my part to accept the challenge, so weapons were provided, compliments exchanged between seconds, and the adversaries met. The offence towards his family was seen in such a grave light by my foe, that instead of the ordinary method adopted by German students-the use of the customary leaden collar, and pads to protect the more vital parts-nothing would satisfy him but a duel with the sabre, without pads and bandages. This is the most terrible challenge, save that with the pistol, but I did not shrink from it. I left a letter directed to the gentleman in England who had lent me the money to pursue my studies at the university in the hands of my second, to be posted in case of my death, and hastened to meet my adversary. The fight was short, though desperate. My adversary fell severely wounded in the arm. Parties tried to hush up the matter, but of course the town was soon full of it. The[330]

story of the duel was variously told. Some said that I had vanquished the captain, and others that he had vanquished me; but the truth soon oozed out. Fräulein von Hammelstengel subsequently married an old count, who was supposed to be rich, but who proved afterwards not to possess a penny. But to return to myself. Disgusted with my experience of human nature, and of womankind in particular, I set to work now more diligently than ever. Bade farewell to my “chor,” and gave up rioting and revelling, and wrote to my school friend the chemist’s son to come and join me in my studies. I also wrote a letter to the gentleman who had kindly furnished me with funds to continue my studies abroad, and in due time I received the following letter:- “My Dear Charles.-I am delighted to hear that you have at length settled down again to earnest study. I hope you will not get into any more scrapes, or another time you may not get off scot-free. Duelling is a very wicked and a very silly practice, and does no credit to either party; therefore I hope you will never seek a quarrel, but do all you can to steer clear of pugnacious persons. You have now been more than a year at the university, and you write so seldom that you leave me in the dark as to what progress you have made during your stay. I wish you would write oftener, as I am very much interested to know how you are getting on. Now for a bit of home news. Your uncle the admiral, shortly after your departure, took to himself a young and pretty wife.[331]

I am afraid, however, instead of the happy home he contemplated, he sees too late that he has done a foolish thing. She is a desperate flirt, and rumours of such a nature are afloat in the town, that I should not be surprised if before long he sues for a divorce. He has never been the same man since you left, and looks considerably older. The disappointment that he felt at your determination to go your own way instead of his has been indeed a great blow to him. I constantly remonstrated with him on his views of your conduct towards him, but you know how obstinate he is. He grumbles that you left his house in a huff without even taking leave of him, but he has never had the curiosity to ask what has become of you, and hasn’t an idea that I know of your whereabouts. “I called at your friend’s the chemist’s yesterday. His son told me that you had written to him advising him to join you in Jena. He would be delighted to go, and I do not think his father is averse to sending him. He is a superior lad, and I am not prejudiced enough to advise you to cut his acquaintance on the mere ground of his having been born in a humbler sphere of life than yourself. The admiral may have his prejudices, and to a certain extent I agree with him; that is to say that one ought rather to seek acquaintances within his own class than out of it. Still, when we meet a man of superior mind in a class a little below our own, I see no reason why we should draw the line of society too tightly. I must now leave off, and hoping[332]

that you will take care of your health, as well as improve in your studies,-I remain, yours very truly, “Edward Langton.”

Here was news indeed! My old bachelor uncle-he who when he was merry used to laugh at the foibles of the fair sex and ridicule married men-had himself been betrayed into marrying one of those frail beings he professed to despise. All the experience of his long life had vanished like smoke before the sunshine of his charmer. He had been dazzled with her eyes, and had taken a step in the dark, and found himself, too late, in the quagmire of remorse. Poor old fool! I sincerely pitied him. “This comes,” said I to myself, “of turning nephews out of doors. Had you, instead of trying to bend the iron resolve of your nephew to your own poor old obstinate will, assisted him in his very laudable determination to follow science, you might yet have lived and died a bachelor to your heart’s content. But console yourself, my uncle, St. Anthony was tempted by a fair demon before you. Now you have learned a lesson, although it has come somewhat late in life.”

Although I deeply sympathised with my guardian’s mistake, I could not do otherwise than feel that he fully deserved this punishment for his treatment of myself. How absurd and arrogant of a man, to persist in bending another to his own selfish will! Are we free agents, or are we not? But enough of this. My uncle had sinned, and he[333]

was punished. He had imagined his charmer an angel, and found after all that she was but mortal like the rest of her sex, a poor, weak woman. He could hardly ever have been besotted enough to fancy that she had married him for anything else than his money, but what will not a man do to obtain the idol of his affections? Perhaps it was not mere blind passion that had induced him to thrust his neck under the yoke. It might only have been pique. He would show his nephew that he could live very happily without his companionship, and this was the way he showed it. I mentally drew a portrait of my aunt. A dashing, reckless girl, determined to have her own way in everything, running up dressmakers’ bills, driving about in her carriage to spend her days in visiting and frivolity. Ambitious of pleasing every man but her husband. Dragging her poor old wooden-legged spouse after her to balls, operas, and concerts, or else leaving him at home, perhaps poorly, whilst she was enjoying herself in some crowded assembly, surrounded by a troop of young gallants, encouraging their attentions and making game of the poor old fool she had cajoled into marrying her. I imagined her pretty, witty, vivacious and with a temper. A thorough incapacity for the management of a household, vain, extravagant, frivolous, heartless, calculating. Such was the mental picture I had drawn of my young aunt. How I could imagine her of an evening-if she ever stayed at home with her husband in the[334]

evening-yawning over the admiral’s long nautical stories, sighing and pouting when he asked her to bring him his slippers, or rather his slipper, for he had but one. Turning up her nose as she mixed his grog for him or lighted his pipe. Shuddering when the old man caressingly touched her dimpled chin, and pleading fatigue that she might go to bed early to be alone and dream of some handsome young lieutenant she had met at Mrs. So-and-So’s ball. “Well, well,” said I to myself, “I will not triumph too long over your fall, uncle, lest some day the like may happen to myself, which Heaven forfend.”

I tried to imagine myself with a wife like my aunt. I, a scholar, a searcher after the philosopher’s stone, with a gay young wife always out at parties, a family of neglected children at home, breaking in upon my studies and smashing my crucibles and retorts, tearing up my valuable MSS, turning my laboratory into a nursery, and profaning my hours of study with their crying and squabbling. “No,” said I, “it shall not be. I will live single. A scientific man is wedded to science.”

After the letter I had received from my friend Langton, the opinion I had formed of womankind was somewhat of the lowest. I imagined that all women were alike, and the dread I felt lest I should fall into a trap myself, induced me to shut myself up more than ever. I built a laboratory and fitted it up. I pored over my books, fasted, slept little, and sought as much[335]

as possible to reduce matter into mind. I resolved to give myself wholly up to the study of the transmutation of metals, nothing doubting that some day if I persisted in my labours I should be rewarded by the discovery of the philosopher’s stone. I paid no visits, neither received any. I had seen enough of dissipation, and was now resolved to make up for lost time. A sudden change had come over me. I was no longer the “flotter bursch” that the year before swaggered, booted and spurred through the streets of Jena, foremost in the midnight revel, dauntless at the duel, guilty of every species of extravagance and excess. I had become the haggard and emaciated student of the dark arts, nervous in the extreme, shunning company, and the nature of whose studies was a mystery to all. Slovenly and smoke begrimed, daily and nightly I poured over my crucibles, trying all sorts of experiments and suffering many disappointments, denying myself the common necessaries of life, that I might expend my small income in instruments and articles wherewith to pursue my science. Absorbed in that one pursuit, I quite forgot the world without, forgot that I was of the same clay as my fellow mortals, lost all sympathy for the rest of my kind, neither sought any from them. My whole mental energies were concentrated on that one topic-that of making gold. Nor was it avarice that induced me to make gold the object of my pursuit. Nothing, I assure you, but the pure love of science prompted me in my studies. I had already made several curious discoveries.[336]

I was on the eve, or thought I was, of discovering the great secret, when owing to excessive fasting and want of sleep, my health broke down. Being originally of an iron constitution, I deemed in the pride of my youth that I was proof against any fatigue of mind or body until actual experience taught me that there were bounds even to my powers of endurance. As I had not for a very considerable time to set foot beyond the narrow walls of my cell, and my mental faculties were thoroughly engrossed with study, my system required but slight stimulant. A cup of milk and a roll in the morning and a leek in the evening was all I required to keep soul and body together. Nay, latterly I confined myself to a slice of bread and a glass of water, and this lasted me all day for more than a fortnight. This scanty food was brought me by an orphan boy, who was deaf and dumb, whom I had engaged as my servant, as being better able to keep silence as to the nature of my studies. Each day I fancied brought me nearer and nearer towards the discovery of the grand secret, when Nature, long trampled upon, rebelled, and positively refused to hold out any longer. My form was reduced to that of a skeleton, objects swam before my eyes, my brain reeled, and I repeatedly fainted for want of nourishment. My hand trembled, my mind lost its energy, and I was no longer fit for study. I found that I had overtaxed my strength, and saw the necessity of taking more food. One morning when I felt so debilitated that I really[337]

thought my last hour was come, I ordered my servant to make me some broth. He had scarcely left my laboratory to obey my orders when a peculiar sensation came over me. I am as certain as I am of my own existence at the present moment that I was then in a waking state, though what I am about to relate to you now may appear to some like a dream. I felt-if I may so describe my feelings-that I did not belong to myself, or, as if my spirit were entirely free and independent of my body. It was a feeling as of a bounding elasticity, as if neither the walls of my cell nor any other material objects were impediments to me, and that I was capable at will of soaring into realms of space, and of conversing with intelligences of an immeasurably higher order than those of our mundane sphere, and of perfectly understanding discourses that in the body I was perfectly sure would be beyond my comprehension. I remember that on this very morning I was seated in a high-backed arm-chair of carved oak, in a reflective mood. My crucibles and retorts strewed the laboratory in the greatest disorder. I was too weak to study or even to rise from my chair, when suddenly upon raising my eyes towards the opposite wall of my laboratory, the scene seemed changed, and instead of the bare wall before me I saw the mouth of a large cave, through the innumerable arches of which I could see to a great distance, for the interior seemed lighted up as with fire. Now, I know that I was perfectly unable to rise from[338]

my chair, yet it appeared to me that I rose, and with firm step entered the cave. It was dark and very chilly. I gazed around me for a moment and shuddered when I discovered at my side, my eyes being now accustomed to the light, the form of an old man, bald-headed, and with snowy locks and beard. His brow was high and his eye clear and beaming with wisdom and benevolence. His form was upright and his step firm, and he wore a tunic with ample folds and of a sad colour. At first I started and looked at him wonderingly, as if to ask him who he was. He answered to my thoughts affably. “I am your guide. You have courted our intimacy, and sought to become our equal. Come with me, and I will initiate you into our mysteries and show you the lot for which you have so long been striving.”

There was something so inviting in the old man’s manner, something so charming in the calm and dignified look that superior intellect invariably gives, that I could not but comply, and following my guide, I was conducted through long labyrinths of arches in silence, until I reached the centre of the cavern, when I found myself in a vast hall formed by nature, or roughly hewn out of the natural rock, and illuminated by torches. Here I saw a number of tables, and at each table sat one man. They appeared to be all engaged in chemistry, for each man had before him his crucibles and other instruments. So absorbed did they all seem in their work that not one of them noticed our entrance,[339]

although we were talking loud enough for all to hear and our voices re-echoed through the cavern. I tried to catch the eye of some of them in order to salute them, and perhaps to enter into conversation with them, but no one looked up. I felt somewhat chilled at this reception, as it seemed to me that they must have heard us, and purposely avoided looking up. My guide, who could read all that was passing in my mind, responded to my thoughts. “Be not grieved at their apparent want of civility, for they do not even see you. These spirits see nothing and hear nothing but what is immediately before them and connected with their pursuits. All you see here are alchemists. In your terrestrial globe their sole delight was in the endeavour to make gold. To this end they voluntarily imprisoned their spirits in one channel in order to concentrate the force of their intellects towards the object of their pursuit. “The development of their intellects alone at the expense of everything else that is human, was their desire in the world; their intellects alone, therefore, after death remain engrossed in their one pursuit to all eternity, and they are both deaf and blind to all else.”

“And will this be my lot?” I asked of my guide. “That depends upon yourself,” was the reply. “Your spirit is not so entirely separated from your body as to make your doom irrevocable. In whatever state you quit the world of the body, in that state the spirit[340]

remains to eternity. If the state of these spirits pleases you not, there is time to set your affections on another. “Anon I will show you another class of alchemists. These that you have seen are spirits who strive to make gold from love of science. Those I will show you now are those who have the love of gold for their aim, to which they make science subservient.”

My guide then conducted me through a long dark corridor of arches until we reached another hall lighted up in a similar manner to the first. Here were a number of spirits, each likewise occupied with his own crucibles and apparatus, and paying no attention to those around him. The hall and the instruments used by the spirits of this second hall differed little from those of hall the first, but the faces of the men were different. In the second hall the faces were less dignified and the skulls were broader, each of them having a preternatural protuberance like an egg at the temples, whilst the crown of their heads was flat. The heads of those of the first hall were higher, and their bearing more philosophic. “I do not like the faces of those men,” said I to my guide. “I dislike the expression of greed depicted on their countenances. Remove me from hence.”

“I will now show you another order of spirits, also alchemists in their way, since gold is their pursuit,” and here he led me down a dark subterranean staircase, damp and cold, which I descended with difficulty on account of the slipperiness of the steps.[341]

“This is no place for you,” said my guide, “as I observe by your cautious footsteps, yet many are they whose haste to enter at yon door makes them rush down head foremost, regardless of the slime, and at the risk of breaking their necks.”

By this time the hand of my guide was on the door, which he entered, leading me after him. I immediately found myself within a large and elegant hall, lighted up with the light of day, with columns and pavement of marble. Here was a crowd of men divided into groups, and discussing business. Others hurrying and bustling, jostling each other in their haste, as they traversed the hall. The physiognomy of these men was decidedly material. Sharp and shrewd many of them, but for the most part of that cold, stolid, matter of fact sort that defies you to read beyond the surface. As business and business men had little charm for me, my scrutiny of the spirits in this hall was less minute than my observation of the spirits in the two previous halls, and my guide, observing an expression of weariness in my countenance, said: “I see these spirits interest you not. These are merchants, and men of business, who have made the acquisition of gold their chief delight in the world, without using it merely as a means to an end; but let us pass on.”

We then entered a hall adjoining. Here was to be seen a long table, at which numbers were gambling. The faces of some of these were truly hideous; others[342]

merely simple. It was easy with half an eye to discern the dupe and the sharper. Faces indicative of the most sordid avarice jostled others of trusting simplicity. I saw to what class these spirits belonged, and, sickened at the sight, my guide led me by the hand and withdrew me from the hall. On leaving the gamblers we next found ourselves in a beautiful garden with terraces, fountains, beds of the choicest flowers, with a sunny landscape beyond. In the centre of a velvet lawn was a motley group of dancers, singers, and players on musical instruments. The dancers were of both sexes, and many of them fair to view. They seemed to whirl round in the giddy dance with true delight. “These, at least,” I said, “are happy. How they seem to enjoy themselves! Who would not be happy in the midst of such a beautiful scene?” “These, my friend, are but deceptive joys,” replied the sage, with a sigh. “These, you see, are those who in the world have made pleasure the sole aim and object of their lives, and who, on entering the world of spirits, still retain their former tastes.”

I watched the group of dancers for a time; at first with pleasure, then with indifference, and lastly with a feeling akin to disgust mingled with pity. Dancing and merry-making is all very well as an interlude to hard work, and doubtless did good both to mind and body, but when I reflected that this trivial amusement had been the sole occupation of their lives in the world,[343]

and would continue to be so to all eternity, I turned away with a sigh. The whole scene seemed to me less beautiful than before, though I could not observe that any change had taken place in the landscape, and an intense feeling of weariness came over me, with an inclination to yawn, which my guide observing, said: “So you have soon become disenchanted with your realms of delight.”

“You are right,” said I; “lead me from the scene.”

Turning my back on the dancers, I followed the old man, who led me over hill, down dale, through thicket and bramble, discoursing all the while the states of various classes of spirits after death, till we reached a thick forest of old gnarled trees. Flanking the forest ran a river of molten gold. I stood upon the edge of a rock and looked down upon the river. Here I descried a number of naked forms of both sexes bathing in the stream and splashing each other with the liquid metal. “Who are these?” I asked. “These,” said my guide, “are those who in the world found gold without seeking it, and possessing it in abundance, knew not how to make use of it. Their sole delight was in wasting it. The same passion remains with them after death.”

I fell into a reverie. “Is it possible,” thought I, “that these people have nothing at all to do with their money? Could they be in ignorance of the poverty that surrounded them whilst in the world? Even if they were selfish and did no[344]

good to the rest of their kind, is it possible that they had no private way of enjoying their worldly goods?” “The spirits here in the world wasted their fortunes, but the ruin of one fortune is the foundation of others, as you will see anon,” said the sage. He then pointed out to me some men, miserable looking and wretchedly clad, who were crawling on their hands and knees in search of nuggets of gold that the wanton bathers had thrown in a liquid state on to the shore, where it had cooled. Each of these wretched men had a bag which he filled with lumps of the yellow metal, and when it was full, carried it on his shoulders, tottering under its weight, till he reached his home. “Neither do these men know the use of gold,” said my guide, “for they are misers, and their sole delight is to collect gold and to worship it, without doing good to themselves or others.”

My curiosity was roused at this strange sight, and I followed these men with my eyes, as a wide plain stretched itself out, and I being on elevated ground, could see to a great distance, for I wished to see how far they could stagger under their enormous weight. No dwellings appeared near at hand, and yet I was surprised to notice that one after the other these men suddenly disappeared. Many of them had started about the same time laden with their sacks of gold, and not one of the many was visible to me now on that broad open plain. Where could they have all gone? “I will tell you,” said my companion, answering as[345]

usual to my thoughts. “These spirits, fearing lest their houses should be broken into and pillaged, burrow under the ground, where they can keep their riches in security. They seldom show themselves in the daytime, but come out of their holes at night like the owl in search of plunder. In the world they lived by stealing, cheating, and getting money under false pretences, and this is their lot after death. Their subterranean dwellings are paved and lined with gold, yet they are always wretched, for they know no other delight than to amass gold for its own sake.”

I grew melancholy as I reflected on the lot of these men. “At least my lot will not be with them,” I said to myself. “I hope it cannot be said of me that I worship gold. If I have made the converting of other metals into gold the study of my life, it was not for the sake of the yellow metal, but from the pure love of science like those philosophers of the first halls.”

“True,” said my friend, in reply to my meditations, “and yet methinks their lot pleased you but little. The study of science for the sake of science and without other object, is little better than the grubbing of gold for the sake of gold. Think you not that a man’s life ought to have a little higher aim?” “Certainly,” said I, “that our studies may be useful to others, that our discoveries may benefit mankind to the end, that we may become more civilised, more intellectual, more virtuous, more moral.”

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“If then,” replied the sage, “you admit this to be the true end of the life of man, why do you persist in following the one study of converting baser metals into gold, which, if the secret is once made known, could not be of the slightest service to mankind at large, whilst you would only reap the selfish and vain satisfaction of having discovered the secret, whereas the precious time that has been wasted in this useless study would have been better employed in experiments that might tend to discoveries beneficial to the whole human race.”

The argument of my venerable guide made a deep impression on me, and I reflected a moment. “Is it possible,” thought I, “that all my life has been a mistake. Have I mistaken mere vain and selfish ambition for that pure love of science that dignifies and elevates the human mind? No,” I answered to myself, “not exactly; and yet I have been mistaken in studying alchemy; for surely we ought to consider the end of whatever study we pursue, which end ought to be in some way or other useful to mankind at large.