UC-NRLF 
 
 III 
 
 X 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett 
 Heard 
 

 * 
 
attrition 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS OF NATHANIEL 
 
 HAWTHORNE, WITH INTRODUCTORY 
 
 NOTES BY GEORGE PARSONS 
 
 LATHROP 
 
 AND ILLUSTRATED WITH 
 
 Etchings by Blum, Church, Dielman, Gifford> Shirlaw, 
 and Turner 
 
 IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES 
 VOLUME XL 
 
I he Drink of Immortality." Septimus Feltort 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE 
 FANSHAWE, AND SEPTIMIUS FELTON 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING 
 
 THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 I)e fctbnSt&e |3restf, Cambrttfge 
 1891 
 
Copyright, 1864, 
 BY TICKNOR & FIELDS. 
 
 Copyright, 1871 and 1876, 
 BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
 
 Copyright, 1882, 
 BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP. 
 
 Copyright, 1883, 
 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A, 
 Electrotyped aud Printed by II. O. Houghton & Company. 
 
ro /xvu 
 
 2>6 / 
 
 / ? ?3 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE . . 9 
 
 A SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE . . . . 15 
 
 ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE . . 34 
 
 ANOTHER FRAGMENT OF THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE . . 48 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO FANSHAWE . . . , .71 
 
 FANSHAWE 73 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO SEPTIMIUS FELTON . . .221 
 
 SEPTIMIUS FELTON 229 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP . . 433 
 
 THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP . . . 437 
 
THE DOLLITER ROMANCE. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 THE DOLLIYER ROMANCE. 
 
 IN " The Dolliver Romance," only three chapters of 
 which the author lived to complete, we get an intima 
 tion as to what would have been the ultimate form 
 given to that romance founded on the Elixir of Life, 
 for which " Septimius Felton " was the preliminary 
 study. Having abandoned this study, and apparently 
 forsaken the whole scheme in 1862, Hawthorne was 
 moved to renew his meditation upon it in the follow 
 ing year; and as the plan of the romance had now 
 seemingly developed to his satisfaction, he listened to 
 the publisher s proposal that it should begin its course 
 as a serial story in the "Atlantic Monthly" for Jan 
 uary, 1864 the first instance in which he had at 
 tempted such a mode of publication. 
 
 But the change from England to Massachusetts had 
 been marked by, and had perhaps in part caused, a 
 decline in his health. Illness in his family, the de 
 pressing and harrowing effect of the Civil War upon 
 his sensibilities, and anxiety with regard to pecuniary 
 affairs, all combined to make still further inroads upon 
 his vitality ; and so early as the autumn of 1862 Mrs. 
 Hawthorne noted in her private diary that her hus 
 band was looking " miserably ill." At no time since 
 boyhood had he suffered any serious sickness, and his 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. . 
 
 strong constitution enabled him to rally from this first 
 attack ; but the gradual decline continued. After 
 sending forth " Our Old Home," he had little strength 
 for any employment more arduous than reading, or 
 than walking his accustomed path among the pines 
 and sweetfern on the hill behind The Wayside, known 
 to his family as the Mount of Vision. The projected 
 work, therefore, advanced but slowly. He wrote to 
 Mr. Fields : 
 
 "I don t see much probability of my having the 
 first chapter of the Romance ready so soon as you 
 want it. There are two or three chapters ready to be 
 written, but I am not yet robust enough to begin, and 
 I feel as if I should never carry it through." 
 
 The presentiment proved to be only too well founded. 
 He had previously written : 
 
 " There is something preternatural in my reluctance 
 to begin. I linger at the threshold, and have a per 
 ception of very disagreeable phantasms to be encoun 
 tered if I enter. I wish God had given me the faculty 
 of writing a sunshiny book." 
 
 And again, in November, he says : " I foresee that 
 there is little probability of my getting the first chap 
 ter ready by the 15th, although I have a resolute pur 
 pose to write it by the end of the month." He did 
 indeed send it by that time, but it began to be appar 
 ent in January that he could not go on. 
 
 " Seriously," he says, in one letter, " my mind has, 
 for the present, lost its temper and its fine edge, and 
 I have an instinct that I had better keep quiet. Per 
 haps I shall have a new spirit of vigor if I wait qui 
 etly for it; perhaps not." In another: "I hardly 
 know what to say to the public about this abortive 
 Romance, though I know pretty well what the case 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 11 
 
 will be. I shall never finish it. ... I cannot finish 
 it unless a great change conies over me ; and if I make 
 too great an effort to do so, it will be my death." 
 
 Finally, work had to be given over indefinitely. In 
 April he went southward with Mr. Ticknor, the senior 
 partner of his publishing house ; but Mr. Ticknor died 
 suddenly in Philadelphia, and Hawthorne returned to 
 The Wayside more feeble than ever. He lingered 
 there a little while. Then, early in May, came the 
 last effort to recover tone, by means of a carriage-jour 
 ney, with his friend Ex-President Pierce, through the 
 southern part of Xew Hampshire. A week passed, and 
 all was ended : at the hotel in Plymouth, Xew Hamp 
 shire, wiiere he and his companion had stopped to rest, 
 he died in the night, between the 18th and the 19th 
 of May, 1864. Like Thackeray and Dickens, he was 
 touched by death s u petrific mace " before he had had 
 time to do more than lay the groundwork and begin 
 the main structure of the fiction he had in hand ; and, 
 as in the case of Thackeray, the suddenness of his de 
 cease has never been clearly accounted for. The pre 
 cise nature of his malady was not known, since with 
 quiet hopelessness he had refused to take medical ad 
 vice. His friend Dr. Oliver "Wendell Holmes was the 
 only physician who had an opportunity to take even 
 a cursory view of his case, which he did in the course 
 of a brief w r alk and conversation in Boston before 
 Hawthorne started with Mr. Pierce ; but he was un 
 able, with that slight opportunity, to reach any defi 
 nite conclusion. Dr. Holmes prescribed and had put 
 up for him a remedy to palliate some of the poignant 
 symptoms, and this Hawthorne carried with him ; but 
 " I feared," Dr. Holmes writes to the editor, " that 
 there was some internal organic perhaps malignant 
 
12 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 disease ; for he looked wasted and as if stricken 
 with a mortal illness." 
 
 The manuscript of the unfinished " Dolliver Ro 
 mance " lay upon his coffin during the funeral ser 
 vices at Concord, but, contrary to the impression some 
 times entertained on this point, was not buried with 
 him. It is preserved in the Concord Public Library 
 The first chapter was published in the " Atlantic " as 
 an isolated portion, soon after his death ; and subse 
 quently the second chapter, which he had been unable 
 to revise, appeared in the same periodical. Between 
 this and the third fragment there is a gap, for bridg 
 ing which no material was found among his papers ; 
 but, after hesitating for several years, Mrs. Hawthorne 
 copied and placed in the publishers hands that final 
 portion, which, with the two parts previously printed, 
 constitutes the whole of what Hawthorne had put into 
 tangible form. 
 
 Hawthorne had purposed prefixing a sketch of Tho- 
 reau, " because, from a tradition which he told me 
 about this house of mine, I got the idea of a deathless 
 man, which is now taking a shape very different from 
 the original one." This refers to the tradition men 
 tioned in the editor s note to " Septimius Felton," and 
 forms a link in the interesting chain of evidence con 
 necting that romance with the " Dolliver Romance." 
 With the plan respecting Thoreau he combined the 
 idea of writing an autobiographical preface, wherein 
 The Wayside was to be described, after the man 
 ner of his Introduction to the "Mosses from an Old 
 Manse " ; but, so far as is known, nothing of this was 
 ever actually committed to paper. 
 
 Beginning with the idea of producing an English 
 romance, fragments of which remain to us in " The 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 13 
 
 Ancestral Footstep," and the incomplete work known 
 as " Doctor Grimsbawe s Secret," he replaced these by 
 another design, of which " Septimius Felton " repre 
 sents the partial execution. But that elaborate study 
 yielded, in its turn, to "The Dolliver Kornance." 
 The last-named w r ork, had the author lived to carry 
 it out, would doubtless have become the vehicle of a 
 profound and pathetic drama, based on the instinctive 
 yearning of man for an immortal existence, the at 
 tempted gratification of which would have been set 
 forth in a variety of ways : First, through the selfish 
 old sensualist, Colonel Dabney, who greedily seized 
 the mysterious elixir and took such a draught of it 
 that he perished on the spot ; then, through the simple 
 old Grandsir, anxious to live for Pansie s sake ; and, 
 perhaps, through Pansie herself, who, coming into the 
 enjoyment of some ennobling love, would wish to de 
 feat death, so that she might always keep the perfec 
 tion of her mundane happiness, all these forms of 
 striving to be made the adumbration of a higher one, 
 the shadow-play that should direct our minds to the 
 true immortality beyond this world. 
 
 G. P. L. 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 A SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 DR. DOLLIVER, a worthy personage of extreme an 
 tiquity, was aroused rather prematurely, one summer 
 morning, by the shouts of the child Pansie, in an ad 
 joining chamber, summoning old Martha (who per 
 formed the duties of nurse, housekeeper, and kitchen- 
 maid, in the Doctor s establishment) to take up her 
 little ladyship and dress her. The old gentleman 
 woke with more than his customary alacrity, and, af 
 ter taking a moment to gather his wits about him, 
 pulled aside the faded moreen curtains of his ancient 
 bed, and thrust his head into a beam of sunshine that 
 caused him to wink and withdraw it again. This tran 
 sitory glimpse of good Dr. Dolliver showed a flannel 
 night -cap, fringed round with stray locks of silvery 
 white hair, and surmounting a meagre and duskily yel 
 low visage, which was crossed and criss-crossed with a 
 record of his long life in wrinkles, faithfully written, 
 no doubt, but with such cramped chirography of Father 
 Time that the purport was illegible. It seemed hardly 
 worth while for the patriarch to get out of bed any 
 more, and bring his forlorn shadow into the summer 
 day that was made for younger folks. The Doctor, 
 however, was by no means of that opinion, being con 
 siderably encouraged towards the toil of living twenty- 
 
16 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 four hours longer by the comparative ease with which 
 he found himself going through the usually painful 
 process of bestirring his rusty joints (stiffened by the 
 very rest and sleep that should have made them plia 
 ble) and putting them in a condition to bear his weight 
 upon the floor. Nor was he absolutely disheartened 
 by the idea of those tonsorial, ablutionary, and person 
 ally decorative labors which are apt to become so in 
 tolerably irksome to an old gentleman, after perform 
 ing them daily and daily for fifty, sixty, or seventy 
 years, and finding them still as immitigably recurrent 
 as at first. Dr. Dolliver could nowise account for this 
 happy condition of his spirits and physical energies, 
 until he remembered taking an experimental sip of a 
 certain cordial which was long ago prepared by his 
 grandson, and carefully sealed up in a bottle, and had 
 been reposited in a dark closet, among a parcel of 
 effete medicines, ever since that gifted young man s 
 death. 
 
 " It may have wrought effect upon me," thought 
 the doctor, shaking his head as he lifted it again from 
 the pillow. " It may be so ; for poor Edward often 
 times instilled a strange efficacy into his perilous drugs. 
 But I will rather believe it to be the operation of God s 
 mercy, which may have temporarily invigorated my 
 feeble age for little Pansie s sake." 
 
 A twinge of his familiar rheumatism, as he put his 
 foot out of bed, taught him that he must not reckon too 
 confidently upon even a day s respite from the intru 
 sive family of aches and infirmities, which, with their 
 proverbial fidelity to attachments once formed, had 
 long been the closest acquaintances that the poor old 
 gentleman had in the world. Nevertheless, he fancied 
 the twinge a little less poignant than those of yester 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 17 
 
 day ; and, moreover, after stinging him pretty smartly, 
 it passed gradually off with a thrill, which, in its lat 
 ter stages, grew to be almost agreeable. Pain is but 
 pleasure too strongly emphasized. With cautious move 
 ments, and only a groan or two, the good Doctor trans 
 ferred himself from the bed to the floor, where he stood 
 awhile, gazing from one piece of quaint furniture to 
 another (such as stiff -backed Mayflower chairs, an 
 oaken chest-of -drawers carved cunningly with shapes 
 of animals and wreaths of foliage, a table with multi 
 tudinous legs, a family record in faded embroidery, a 
 shelf of black-bound books, a dirty heap of gallipots 
 and phials in a dim corner), gazing at these things, 
 and steadying himself by the bedpost, while his inert 
 brain, still partially benumbed with sleep, came slowly 
 into accordance with the realities about him. The ob 
 ject which most helped to bring Dr. Dolliver com 
 pletely to his waking perceptions was one that com 
 mon observers might suppose to have been snatched 
 bodily out of his dreams. The same sunbeam that had 
 dazzled the doctor between the bed-curtains gleamed 
 on the weather-beaten gilding which had once adorned 
 this mysterious symbol, and showed it to be an enor 
 mous serpent, twining round a wooden post, and reach 
 ing quite from the floor of the chamber to its ceiling. 
 
 It was evidently a thing that could boast of consid 
 erable antiquity, the dry-rot having eaten out its eyes 
 and gnawed away the tip of its tail ; and it must have 
 stood long exposed to the atmosphere, for a kind of 
 gray moss had partially overspread its tarnished gilt 
 surface, and a swallow, or other familiar little bird in 
 some by-gone summer, seemed to have built its nest in 
 the yawning and exaggerated mouth. It looked like a 
 kind of Manichean idol, which might have been ele- 
 
18 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 vated on a pedestal for a century or so, enjoying the 
 worship of its votaries in the open air, until the impious 
 sect perished from among men, all save old Dr. 
 Dolliver, who had set up the monster in his bedcham 
 ber for the convenience of private devotion. But we 
 are unpardonable in suggesting such a fantasy to the 
 prejudice of our venerable friend, knowing him to have 
 been as pious and upright a Christian, and with as lit 
 tle of the serpent in his character, as ever came of Pu 
 ritan lineage. Not to make a further mystery about 
 a very simple matter, this bedimmed and rotten reptile 
 was once the medical emblem or apothecary s sign of 
 the famous Dr. Swinnerton, who practised physic in the 
 earlier days of New England, when a head of ^Escula- 
 pius or Hippocrates would have vexed the souls of the 
 righteous as savoring of heathendom. The ancient 
 dispenser of drugs had therefore set up an image of 
 the Brazen Serpent, and followed his business for many 
 years with great credit, under this Scriptural device ; 
 and Dr. Dolliver, being the apprentice, pupil, and 
 humble friend of the learned Swinnerton s old age, 
 had inherited the symbolic snake, and much other val 
 uable property by his bequest. 
 
 While the patriarch was putting on his small-clothes, 
 he took care to stand in the parallelogram of bright 
 sunshine that fell upon the uncarpeted floor. The 
 summer warmth was very genial to his system, and 
 yet made him shiver ; his wintry veins rejoiced at it, 
 though the reviving blood tingled through them with 
 a half -painful and only half - pleasurable titillation. 
 For the first few moments after creeping out of bed, 
 he kept his back to the sunny window, and seemed 
 mysteriously shy of glancing thitherward ; but, as the 
 June fervor pervaded him more and more thoroughly, 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 19 
 
 he turned bravely about, and looked forth at a burial- 
 ground on the corner of which he dwelt. There lay 
 many an old acquaintance, who had gone to sleep with 
 the flavor of Dr. Dolliver s tinctures and powders 
 upon his tongue ; it was the patient s final bitter 
 taste of this world, and perhaps doomed to be a recol 
 lected nauseousness in the next. Yesterday, in the 
 chill of his forlorn old age, the Doctor expected soon 
 to stretch out his weary bones among that quiet com 
 munity, and might scarcely have shrunk from the 
 prospect on his own account, except, indeed, that he 
 dreamily mixed up the infirmities of his present con 
 dition with the repose of the approaching one, being 
 haunted by a notion that the damp earth, under the 
 grass and dandelions, must needs be pernicious for his 
 cough and his rheumatism. But, this morning, the 
 cheerful sunbeams, or the mere taste of his grandson s 
 cordial that he had taken at bedtime, or the fitful 
 vigor that often spoils irreverently with aged people, 
 had caused an unfrozen drop of youthfulness, some 
 where within him, to expand. 
 
 " Hem ! ahem ! " quoth the Doctor, hoping with one 
 effort to clear his throat of the dregs of a ten^ears 
 cou<rh. " Matters are not so far gone w ith me as I 
 
 
 thought. I have known mighty sensible men, when 
 only a little age-stricken or otherwise out of sorts, to 
 die of mere faiut-heartedness, a great deal sooner than 
 they need." 
 
 He shook his silvery head at his own image in the 
 looking-glass, as if to impress the apothegm on that 
 shadowy representative of himself ; and, for his part, 
 he determined to pluck up a spirit and live as long as 
 he possibly could, if it were only for the sake of little 
 Pansie, who stood as close to one extremity of human 
 
20 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 life as her great-grandfather to the other! This child 
 of three years old occupied all the unfossilized portion 
 of Dr. Dolliver s heart. Every other interest that he 
 formerly had, and the entire confraternity of persons 
 whom he once loved, had long ago departed ; and the 
 poor Doctor could not follow them, because the grasp 
 of Pansie s baby-fingers held him back. 
 
 So he crammed a great silver watch into his fob, 
 and drew on a patchwork morning-gown of an ancient 
 fashion. Its original material was said to have been 
 the embroidered front of his own wedding-waistcoat 
 and the silken skirt of his wife s bridal attire, which 
 his eldest granddaughter had taken from the carved 
 chest-of-drawers, after poor Bessie, the beloved of his 
 youth, had been half a century in the grave. Through 
 out many of the intervening years, as the garment got 
 ragged, the spinsters of the old man s family had 
 quilted their duty and affection into it in the shape of 
 patches upon patches, rose-color, crimson, blue, violet, 
 and green, and then (as their hopes faded, and their 
 life kept growing shadier, and their attire took a som 
 bre hue) sober gray and great fragments of funereal 
 black, until the Doctor could revive the memory of 
 most things that had befallen him by looking at his 
 patchwork-gown, as it hung upon a chair. And now 
 it was ragged again, and all the fingers that should 
 have mended it were cold. It had an Eastern fra 
 grance, too, a smell of drugs, strong-scented herbs, and 
 spicy gums, gathered from the many potent infusions 
 that had from time to time been spilt over it ; so that, 
 snuffing him afar off, you might have taken Dr. Dolli- 
 ver for a mummy, and could hardly have been unde 
 ceived by his shrunken and torpid aspect, as he crept 
 nearer. 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 21 
 
 "Wrapt in his odorous and many -colored robe, he 
 took staff in hand, and moved pretty vigorously to the 
 head of the staircase. As it was somewhat steep, and 
 but dimly lighted, he began cautiously to descend, 
 putting his left hand on the banister, and poking 
 down his long stick to assist him in making sure of 
 the successive steps ; and thus he became a living il 
 lustration of the accuracy of Scripture, where it de 
 scribes the aged as being " afraid of that which is 
 high," a truth that is often found to have a sadder 
 purport than its external one. Half-way to the bot 
 tom, however, the Doctor heard the impatient and au 
 thoritative tones of little Pansie, Queen Pansie, as 
 she might fairly have been styled, in reference to her 
 position in the household, calling amain for grand 
 papa and breakfast. He was startled into such per 
 ilous activity by the summons, that his heels slid on 
 the stairs, the slippers were shuffled off his feet, and 
 he saved himself from a tumble only by quickening 
 his pace, and coming down at almost a run. 
 
 " Mercy on my poor old bones ! " mentally exclaimed 
 the Doctor, fancying himself fractured in fifty places. 
 " Some of them are broken, surely, and, methinks, my 
 heart has leaped out of my mouth ! What ! all right ? 
 Well, well ! but Providence is kinder to me than I de 
 serve, prancing down this steep staircase like a kid of 
 three months old ! " 
 
 He bent stiffly to gather up his slippers and fallen 
 staff ; and meanwhile Pansie had heard the tumult of 
 her great-grandfather s descent, and was pounding 
 against the door of the breakfast-room in her haste to 
 come at him. The Doctor opened it, and there she 
 stood, a rather pale and large-eyed little thing, quaint 
 in her aspect, as might well be th^ case with a mother* 
 
22 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 less child, dwelling in an uncheerful house, with no 
 other playmates than a decrepit old man and a kitten, 
 and no better atmosphere wi thin-doors than the odor 
 of decayed apothecary s stuff, nor gayer neighborhood 
 than that of the adjacent burial-ground, where all her 
 relatives, from her great-grandmother downward, lay 
 calling to her, " Pansie, Pansie, it is bedtime ! " even 
 in the prime of the summer morning. For those, dead 
 women-folk, especially her mother and the whole row 
 of maiden aunts and grand-aunts, could not but be 
 anxious about the child, knowing that little Pansie 
 would be far safer under a tuft of dandelions than 
 if left alone, as she soon must be, in this difficult and 
 deceitful world. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the lack of damask roses in her 
 cheeks, she seemed a healthy child, and certainly 
 showed great capacity of energetic movement in the 
 impulsive capers with which she welcon-ed her venera 
 ble progenitor. She shouted out her satisfaction, more 
 over (as her custom was, having never had any over 
 sensitive auditors about her to tame down her voice), 
 till even the Doctor s dull ears were full of the clamor. 
 
 " Pansie, darling," said Dr. Dolliver, cheerily, pat 
 ting her brown hair with his tremulous fingers, " thou 
 hast put some of thine own friskiness into poor old 
 grandfather, this fine morning ! Dost know, child, 
 that he came near breaking his neck down-stairs at 
 the sound of thy voice ? What wouldst thou have 
 done then, little Pansie ? " 
 
 " Kiss poor grandpapa and make him well ! " an 
 swered the child, remembering the Doctor s own mode 
 of cure in similar mishaps to herself. " It shall do 
 poor grandpapa good ! " she added, putting up her 
 mouth to apply the remedy. 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 2? 
 
 " Ah, little one, thou hast greater faith in thy medi 
 cines than ever I had in my drugs," replied the patri 
 arch, with a giggle, surprised and delighted at his own 
 readiness of response. " But the kiss is good for my 
 feeble old heart, Pansie, though it might do little to 
 mend a broken neck ; so give grandpapa another dose, 
 and let us to breakfast." 
 
 In this merry humor they sat down to the table, 
 great - grandpapa and Pansie side by side, and the 
 kitten, as soon appeared, making a third in the party. 
 First, she showed her mottled head out of Pansie s lap, 
 delicately sipping milk from the child s basin without 
 rebuke ; then she took post on the old gentleman s 
 shoulder, purring like a spinning-wheel, trying her 
 claws in the wadding of his dressing-gown, and still 
 more impressively reminding him of her presence by 
 putting out a paw to intercept a warmed-over morsel of 
 yesterday s chicken on its way to the Doctor s mouth. 
 After skilfully achieving this feat, she scrambled down 
 upon the breakfast-table and began to wash her face 
 and hands. Evidently, these companions were all three 
 on intimate terms, as was natural enough, since a great 
 many childish impulses were softly creeping back on 
 the simple - minded old man ; insomuch that, if no 
 worldly necessities nor painful infirmity had disturbed 
 him, his remnant of life might have been as cheaply 
 and cheerily enjoyed as the early playtime of the kitten 
 and the child. Old Dr. Dolliver and his great-grand 
 daughter (a ponderous title, which seemed quite to 
 overwhelm the tiny figure of Pansie) had met one an 
 other at the two extremities of the life-circle : her sun 
 rise served him for a sunset, illuminating his locks of 
 silver and hers of golden brown with a homogeneous 
 shimmer of twinkling light 
 
24 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 Little Pansie was the one earthly creature that in- 
 herited a drop of the Dolliver blood. The Doctor s 
 only child, poor Bessie s offspring, had died the better 
 part of a hundred years before, and his grandchildren, 
 a numerous and dimly remembered brood, had van 
 ished along his weary track in their youth, maturity, 
 or incipient age, till, hardly knowing how it had all 
 happened, he found himself tottering onward with an 
 infant s small fingers in his nerveless grasp. So mist 
 ily did his dead progeny come and go in the patri 
 arch s decayed recollection, that this solitary child 
 represented for him the successive babyhoods of the 
 many that had gone before. The emotions of his early 
 paternity came back to him. She seemed the baby of 
 a past age oftener than she seemed Pansie. A whole 
 family of grand-aunts (one of whom had perished in 
 her cradle, never so mature as Pansie now, another in 
 her virgin bloom, another in autumnal maidenhood, 
 yellow and shrivelled, with vinegar in her blood, and 
 still another, a forlorn widow, whose grief outlasted 
 even its vitality, and grew to be merely a torpid habit, 
 and was saddest then), all their hitherto forgotten 
 features peeped through the face of the great-grand 
 child, and their long-inaudible voices sobbed, shouted, 
 or laughed, in her familiar tones. But it often hap 
 pened to Dr. Dolliver, while frolicking amid this 
 throng of ghosts, where the one reality looked no more 
 vivid than its shadowy sisters, it often happened 
 that his eyes filled with tears at a sudden perception 
 of what a sad and poverty-stricken old man he was, 
 already remote from his own generation, and bound to 
 stray further onward as the sole playmate and protec 
 tor of a child ! 
 
 As Dr. Dolliver, in spite of his advanced epoch of 
 
THE DOLL1VER ROMANCE. 25 
 
 life, is likely to remain a considerable time longer 
 upon our hands, we deem it expedient to give a brief 
 sketch of his position, in order that the story may get 
 onward with the greater freedom when he rises from 
 the breakfast-table. Deeming it a matter of courtesy, 
 we have allowed him the honorary title of Doctor, as 
 did all his towns-people and contemporaries, except, 
 perhaps, one or two formal old physicians, stingy of 
 civil phrases and over-jealous of their own professional 
 dignity. Nevertheless, these crusty graduates were 
 technically right in excluding Dr. Dolliver from their 
 fraternity. He had neve - .^ceived the degree of any 
 medical school, nor (save it might be for the cure of 
 a toothache, or a child s rash, or a svhitlow on a seam 
 stress s finger, or some such trifling malady) had he 
 ever been even a practitioner of the awful science with 
 which his popular designation connected him. Our old 
 friend, in short, even at his highest social elevation, 
 claimed to be nothing more than an apothecary, and, 
 in these later and far less prosperous days, scarcely so 
 much. Since the death of his last surviving grandson 
 (Pansie s father, whom he had instructed in all the 
 mysteries of his science, and who, being distinguished 
 by an experimental and inventive tendency, was gen 
 erally believed to have poisoned himself with an in 
 fallible panacea of his own distillation), since that 
 final bereavement, Dr. Dolliver s once pretty flourish 
 ing business had lamentably declined. After a few 
 months of unavailing struggle, he found it expedient 
 to take down the Brazen Serpent from the position to 
 which Dr. S winnerton had originally elevated it, in 
 front of his shop in the main street, and to retire to 
 his private dwelling, situated in a by-lane and on the 
 edge of a burial-ground. 
 
26 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 This house, as well as the Brazen Serpent, some old 
 medical books, and a drawer full of manuscripts, had 
 come to him by the legacy of Dr. S winner ton. The 
 dreariness of the locality had been of small importance 
 to our friend in his young manhood, when he first 
 led his fair wife over the threshold, and so long as 
 neither of them had any kinship with the human dust 
 that rose into little hillocks, and still kept accumulat 
 ing beneath their window. But, too soon afterwards, 
 when poor Bessie herself had gone early to rest there, 
 it is probable that an influence from her grave may 
 have prematurely calmed and depressed her widowed 
 husband, taking away much of the energy from what 
 should have been the most active portion of his life. 
 Thus he never grew rich. His thrifty townsmen used 
 to tell him, that, in any other man s hands, Dr. Swin- 
 nerton s Brazen Serpent (meaning, I presume, the in 
 herited credit and good -will of that old worthy s 
 trade) would need but ten years time to transmute its 
 brass into gold. In Dr. Dolliver s keeping, as we have 
 seen, the inauspicious symbol lost the greater part 
 of what superficial gilding it originally had. Matters 
 had not mended with him in more advanced life, after 
 he had deposited a further and further portion of his 
 heart and its affections in each successive one of a 
 long row of kindred graves ; and as he stood over the 
 last of them, holding Pansie by the hand and looking 
 down upon the coffin of his grandson, it is no wonder 
 that the old man wept, partly for those gone before^ 
 but not so bitterly as for the little one that stayed be 
 hind. Why had not God taken her with the rest ? An$ 
 then, so hopeless as he was, so destitute of possibilities 
 of good, his weary frame, his decrepit bones, his dried, 
 up heart, might have crumbled into dust at once, an<7 
 
THE DO L LIVER ROMANCE. 27 
 
 have been scattered by the next wind over all the 
 heaps of earth that were akin to him. 
 
 This intensity of desolation, however, was of too 
 positive a character to be long sustained by a person 
 of Dr. Dolliver s original gentleness and simplicity, 
 and now so completely tamed by age and misfortune. 
 Even before he turned away from the grave, he grew 
 conscious of a slightly cheering and invigorating effect 
 from the tight grasp of the child s warm little hand, 
 Feeble as he was, she seemed to adopt him willingly 
 for her protector. And the Doctor never afterwards 
 shrank from his duty nor quailed beneath it, but bore 
 himself like a man, striving, amid the sloth of age and 
 the breaking-up of intellect, to earn the competency 
 which he had failed to accumulate even in his most 
 vigorous days. 
 
 To the extent of securing a present subsistence for 
 Pansie and himself, he was successful. After his son s 
 death, when the Brazen Serpent fell into popular dis 
 repute, a small share of tenacious patronage followed 
 the old man into his retirement. In his prime, he had 
 been allowed to possess more skill than usually fell to 
 the share of a Colonial apothecary, having been regu 
 larly apprenticed to Dr. Swinnerton, who, throughout 
 his long practice, was accustomed personally to concoct 
 the medicines which he prescribed and dispensed. It 
 was believed, indeed, that the ancient physician had 
 learned the art at the world-famous drug-manufactory 
 of Apothecary s Hall, in London, and, as some people 
 half-malignly whispered, had perfected himself under 
 masters more subtle than were to be found even there. 
 Unquestionably, in many critical cases he was known 
 to have employed remedies of mysterious composition 
 and dangerous potency, which, in less skilful hands, 
 
28 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 would have been more likely to kill than cure. He 
 would willingly, it is said, have taught his apprentice 
 the secrets of these prescriptions, but the latter, be 
 ing of a timid character and delicate conscience, had 
 shrunk from acquaintance with them. It was prob 
 ably as the result of the same scrupulosity that Dr. 
 Dolliver had always declined to enter the medical pro 
 fession, in which his old instructor had set him such 
 heroic examples of adventurous dealing with matters 
 of life and death. Nevertheless, the aromatic fra 
 grance, so to speak, of the learned Swinnerton s repu 
 tation, had clung to our friend through life ; and there 
 were elaborate preparations in the pharmacopoeia of 
 that day, requiring such minute skill and conscientious 
 fidelity in the concocter that the physicians were still 
 glad to confide them to one in whom these qualities 
 were so evident. 
 
 Moreover, the grandmothers of the community were 
 kind to him, and mindful of his perfumes, his rose- 
 water, his cosmetics, tooth-powders, pomanders, and 
 pomades, the scented memory of which lingered about 
 their toilet-tables, or came faintly back from the days 
 when they were beautiful. Among this class of cus 
 tomers there was still a demand for certain comfort 
 able little nostrums (delicately sweet and pungent to 
 the taste, cheering to the spirits, and fragrant in th/> 
 breath), the proper distillation of which was the airi 
 est secret that the mystic Swinnerton had left behind 
 him. And, besides, these old ladies had always liked 
 the manners of Dr. Dolliver, and used to speak of his 
 gentle courtesy behind the counter as having positively 
 been something to admire ; though of later years, an 
 unrefined, and almost rustic simplicity, such as be 
 longed to his humble ancestors, appeared to hava 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 29 
 
 taken possession of him, as it often does of prettily 
 mannered men in their late decay. 
 
 But it resulted from all these favorable circum 
 stances that the Doctor s marble mortar, though worn 
 with long service and considerably damaged by a 
 crack that pervaded it, continued to keep up an occa 
 sional intimacy with the pestle ; and he still weighed 
 drachms and scruples in his delicate scales, though it 
 seemed impossible, dealing with such minute quanti 
 ties, that his tremulous ringers should not put in too 
 little or too much, leaving out life with the deficiency, 
 or spilling in death with the surplus. To say the 
 truth, his stanchest friends were beginning to think 
 that Dr. Dolliver s fits of absence (when his mind ap 
 peared absolutely to depart from him, while his frail 
 old body worked on mechanically) rendered him not 
 quite trustworthy without a close supervision of his 
 proceedings. It was impossible, however, to con vince 
 the aged apothecary of the necessity for such vigil 
 ance ; and if anything could stir up his gentle temper 
 to wrath, or, as oftener happened, to tears, it was the 
 attempt (which he was marvellously quick to detect) 
 thus to interfere with his long-familiar business. 
 
 The public, meanwhile, ceasing to regard Dr. Dol- 
 liver in his professional aspect, had begun to take an 
 interest in him as perhaps their oldest fellow-citizen. 
 It was he that remembered the Great Fire and the 
 Great Snow 7 , and that had been a grown-up stripling 
 at the terrible epoch of Witch-Times, and a child just 
 breeched at the breaking out of King Philip s Indian 
 War. He, too, in his school-boy days, had received 
 a benediction from the patriarchal Governor Brad- 
 street, and thus could boast (somewhat as Bishops do 
 of their unbroken succession from the Apostles) of 
 
30 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 a transmitted blessing from the whole company of 
 sainted Pilgrims, among whom the venerable magis 
 trate had been an honored companion. Viewing their 
 townsman in this aspect, the people revoked the cour 
 teous Doctorate with which they had heretofore dec 
 orated him, and now knew him most familiarly as 
 Grandsir Dolliver. His white head, his Puritan band, 
 his threadbare garb (the fashion of which he had 
 ceased to change, half a century ago), his gold-headed 
 staff, that had been Dr. S winner ton s, his shrunken, 
 frosty figure, and its feeble movement, all these 
 characteristics had a wholeness and permanence in 
 the public recognition, like the meeting-house steeple 
 or the town-pump. All the younger portion of the 
 inhabitants unconsciously ascribed a sort of aged im 
 mortality to Grandsir Dolliver s infirm and reverend 
 presence. They fancied that he had been born old 
 .(at least, I remember entertaining some such notions 
 about age-stricken people, when I myself was young), 
 and that he could the better tolerate his aches and in- 
 commodities, his dull ears and dim eyes, his remote 
 ness from human intercourse within the crust of in 
 durated years, the cold temperature that kept him 
 always shivering and sad, the heavy burden that in 
 visibly bent down his shoulders, that all these in 
 tolerable things might bring a kind of enjoyment to 
 Grandsir Dolliver, as the lifelong conditions of his 
 peculiar existence. 
 
 But, alas ! it was a terrible mistake. This weight 
 of years had a perennial novelty for the poor sufferer. 
 He never grew accustomed to it, but, long as he had 
 now borne the fretful torpor of his waning life, and 
 patient as he seemed, he still retained an inward con 
 sciousness that these stiffened shoulders, these quailing 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 31 
 
 knees, this cloudiness of sight and brain, this confused 
 forgetf ulness of men and affairs, were troublesome ac 
 cidents that did not really belong to him. He possi 
 bly cherished a half-recognized idea that they might 
 pass away. Youth, however eclipsed for a season, is 
 undoubtedly the proper, permanent, and genuine con 
 dition of man ; and if we look closely into this dreary 
 delusion of growing old, we shall find that it never ab 
 solutely succeeds in laying hold of our innermost con 
 victions. A sombre garment, woven of life s unreali 
 ties, has muffled us from our true self, but within it 
 smiles the young man whom we knew ; the ashes of 
 many perishable things have fallen upon our youthful 
 fire, but beneath them lurk the seeds of inextinguish 
 able flame. So powerful is this instinctive faith, that 
 men of simple modes of character are prone to ante 
 date its consummation. And thus it happened with 
 poor Grandsir Dolliver, who often awoke from an old 
 man s fitful sleep with a sense that his senile predica 
 ment was but a dream of the past night ; and hol>- 
 bling hastily across the cold floor to the looking-glass, 
 he would be grievously disappointed at beholding the 
 white hair, the wrinkles and furrows, the ashen visage 
 and bent form, the melancholy mask of Age, in which, 
 as he now remembered, some strange and sad enchant 
 ment had involved him for years gone by ! 
 
 To other eyes than his own, however, the shrivelled 
 old gentleman looked as if there were little hope of 
 his throwing off this too artfully wrought disguise, 
 until, at no distant day, his stooping figure should be 
 straightened out, his hoary locks be smoothed over his 
 brows, and his much-enduring bones be laid safely 
 away, with a green coverlet spread over them, beside 
 his Bessie, who doubtless would recognize her youthful 
 
82 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 companion in spite of his ugly garniture of decay. 
 He longed to be gazed at by the loving eyes now 
 closed ; he shrank from the hard stare of them that 
 loved him not. Walking the streets seldom and re 
 luctantly, he felt a dreary impulse to elude the peo 
 ple s observation, as if with a sense that he had gone 
 irrevocably out of fashion, and broken his connecting 
 links with the net-work of human life ; or else it was 
 that nightmare-feeling which we sometimes have in 
 dreams, when we seem to find ourselves wandering 
 through a crowded avenue, with the noonday sun upon 
 us, in some wild extravagance of dress or nudity. He 
 was conscious of estrangement from his towns-people, 
 but did not always know how nor wherefore, nor why 
 he should be thus groping through the twilight mist 
 in solitude. If they spoke loudly to him, with cheery 
 voices, the greeting translated itself faintly and 
 mournfully to his ears ; if they shook him by the 
 hand, it was as if a thick, insensible glove absorbed 
 the kindly pressure and the warmth. When little 
 Pansie was the companion of his walk, her childish 
 gayety and freedom did not avail to bring him into 
 closer relationship with men, but seemed to follow him 
 into that region of indefinable remoteness, that dismal 
 Fairy-Land of aged fancy, into which old Grandsir 
 Dolliver had so strangely crept away. 
 
 Yet there were moments, as many persons had no 
 ticed, when the great-grandpapa would suddenly take 
 stronger hues of life. It was as if his faded figure 
 had been colored over anew, or at least, as he and 
 Pansie moved along the street, as if a sunbeam had 
 fallen across him, instead of the gray gloom of an in 
 stant before. His chilled sensibilities had probably 
 been touched and quickened by the warm contiguity 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 33 
 
 of his little companion through the medium of her 
 hand, as it stirred within his own, or some inflection 
 of her voice that set his memory ringing and chiming 
 with forgotten sounds. While that music lasted, the 
 old man was alive and happy. And there were sea 
 sons, it might be, happier than even these, when Pan- 
 sie had been kissed and put to bed, and Grandsir Dol- 
 liver sat by his fireside gazing in among the massive 
 coals, and absorbing their glow into those cavernous 
 abysses with which all men communicate. Hence 
 come angels or fiends into our twilight musings, ac 
 cording as we may have peopled them in by-gone years. 
 Over our friend s face, in the rosy flicker of the fire- 
 gleam, stole an expression of repose and perfect trust 
 that made him as beautiful to look at, in his high- 
 backed chair, as the child Pansie on her pillow ; and 
 sometimes the spirits that were watching him beheld 
 a calm surprise draw slowly over his features and 
 brighten into joy, yet not so vividly as to break his 
 evening quietude. The gate of heaven had been 
 kindly left ajar, that this forlorn old creature might 
 catch a glimpse within. All the night afterwards, he 
 woidd be semi-conscious of an intangible bliss diffused 
 through the fitful lapses of an old man s slumber, and 
 would awake, at early dawn, with a faint thrilling of 
 the heart-strings, as if there had been music just now 
 wandering over them. 
 
 VOL. XI. 3 
 
ANOTHER SCENE FROM THE DOLLIVER RO 
 MANCE. 1 
 
 WE may now suppose Grrandsir Dolliver to have fin 
 ished his breakfast, with a better appetite and sharper 
 perception of the qualities of his food than he has gen 
 erally felt of late years, whether it were due to old 
 Martha s cookery or to the cordial of the night before. 
 Little Pansie had also made an end of her bread and 
 milk with entire satisfaction, and afterwards nibbled 
 a crust, greatly enjoying its resistance to her little 
 white teeth. 
 
 How this child came by the odd name of Pansie, 
 and whether it was really her baptismal name, I have 
 not ascertained. More probably it was one of those 
 pet appellations that grow out of a child s character, 
 or out of some keen thrill of affection in the parents, 
 an unsought -for and unconscious felicity, a kind of 
 revelation, teaching them the true name by which the 
 child s guardian angel would know it, a name with 
 playfulness and love in it, that we often observe to 
 supersede, in the practice of those who love the child 
 best, the name that they carefully selected, and caused 
 the clergyman to plaster indelibly on the poor little 
 forehead at the font, the love-name, whereby, if the 
 child lives, the parents know it in their hearts, or by 
 which, if it dies, God seems to have called it away, 
 leaving the sound lingering faintly and sweetly through 
 
 1 This scene was not revised by the author, but is printed from his 
 first draught. 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 35 
 
 the house. In Pansie s case, it may have been a cer 
 tain pensiveness which was sometimes seen under her 
 childish frolic, and so translated itself into French 
 (pensee), her mother having been of Acadian kin ; 
 or, quite as probably, it alluded merely to the color of 
 her eyes, which, in some lights, were very like the 
 dark petals of a tuft of pansies in the Doctor s garden. 
 It might well be, indeed, on account of the suggested 
 pensiveness ; for the child s gayety had no example to 
 sustain it, no sympathy of other children or grown peo 
 ple, and her melancholy, had it been so dark a feel 
 ing, was but the shadow of the house, and of the old 
 man. If brighter sunshine came, she would brighten 
 with it. This morning, surely, as the three compan 
 ions, Pansie, puss, and Grandsir Dolliver, emerged 
 from the shadow of the house into the small adjoin 
 ing enclosure, they seemed all frolicsome alike. 
 
 The Doctor, however, was intent over something 
 that had reference to his lifelong business of drugs. 
 This little spot was the place where he was wont to 
 cultivate a variety of herbs supposed to be endowed 
 with medicinal virtue. Some of them had been long 
 known in the pharmacopoeia of the Old \Vorld : and 
 others, in the early days of the country, had been 
 adopted by the first settlers from the Indian medicine 
 men, though with fear and even contrition, because 
 these wild doctors were supposed to draw their phar- 
 maeeutic knowledge from no gracious source, the Black 
 Man himself being the principal professor in their 
 medical school. From his own experience, however, 
 Dr. Dolliver had long since doubted, though he was 
 not bold enough quite to come to the conclusion, that 
 Indian shrubs, and the remedies prepared from them, 
 tvere much less perilous than those so freely used ia 
 
36 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 European practice, and singularly apt to be followed 
 by results quite as propitious. Into such heterodoxy 
 our friend was the more liable to fall, because it had 
 been taught him early in life by his old master, Dr. 
 Swinnerton, who, at those not infrequent times when 
 he indulged a certain unhappy predilection for strong 
 waters, had been accustomed to inveigh in terms of 
 the most cynical contempt and coarsest ridicule against 
 the practice by which he lived, and, as he affirmed, 
 inflicted death on his fellow -men. Our old apothe 
 cary, though too loyal to the learned profession with 
 which he was connected fully to believe this bitter 
 judgment, even when pronounced by his revered mas 
 ter, was still so far influenced that his conscience was 
 possibly a little easier when making a preparation 
 from forest herbs and roots than in the concoction of 
 half a score of nauseous poisons into a single elaborate 
 drug, as the fashion of that clay was. 
 
 But there were shrubs in the garden of which he 
 had never ventured to make a medical use, nor, indeed, 
 did he know their virtue, although from year to year 
 he had tended and fertilized, weeded and pruned them, 
 with something like religious care. They were of the 
 rarest character, and had been planted by the learned 
 and famous Dr. Swinnerton, who, on his death-bed, 
 when he left his dwelling and all his abstruse manu 
 scripts to his favorite pupil, had particularly directed 
 his attention to this row of shrubs. They had been 
 collected by himself from remote countries, and had 
 the poignancy of torrid climes in them ; and he told 
 him, that, properly used, they would be worth all the 
 rest of the legacy a hundred-fold. As the apothecary, 
 however, found the manuscripts, in which he conjec 
 tured there was a treatise on the subject of these 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 37 
 
 shrubs, mostly illegible, and quite beyond his compre 
 hension in such passages as he succeeded in puzzling 
 out (partly, perhaps, owing to his very imperfect 
 knowledge of Latin, in which language they were writ 
 ten), he had never derived from them any of the prom 
 ised benefit. And, to say the truth, remembering that 
 Dr. Swinnerton himself never appeared to triturate cr 
 decoct or do anything else with the mysterious herbs, 
 our old friend was inclined to imagine the weighty 
 commendation of their virtues to have been the idly 
 solemn utterance of mental aberration at the hour of 
 death. So, with the integrity that belonged to his 
 character, he had nurtured them as tenderly as was 
 possible in the ungenial climate and soil of New Eng 
 land, putting some of them into pots for the winter ; 
 but they had rather dwindled than flourished, and he 
 had reaped no harvests from them, nor observed them 
 with any degree of scientific interest. 
 
 His grandson, however, while yet a school-boy, had 
 listened to the old man s legend of the miraculous vir 
 tues of these plants ; and it took so firm a hold of his 
 mind, that the row of outlandish vegetables seemed 
 rooted in it, and certainly flourished there with richer 
 luxuriance than in the soil where they actually grew. 
 The story, acting thus early upon his imagination, may 
 be said to have influenced his brief career in life, and, 
 perchance, brought about its early close. The young 
 man, in the opinion of competent judges, was endowed 
 with remarkable abilities, and according to the rumor 
 of the people had wonderful gifts, which were proved 
 by the cures he had wrought with remedies of his own 
 invention. His talents lay in the direction of scientific 
 analysis and inventive combination of chemical pow 
 ers. While under the pupilage of his grandfather, )u 
 
38 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 progress had rapidly gone quite beyond his instructor s 
 hope, leaving him even to tremble at the audacity 
 with which he overturned and invented theories, and to 
 wonder at the depth at which he wrought beneath the 
 superficialness and mock-mystery of the medical sci 
 ence of those days, like a miner sinking his shaft and 
 running a hideous peril of the earth caving in above 
 him. Especially did he devote himself to these plants ; 
 and under his care they had thriven beyond all former 
 precedent, bursting into luxuriance of bloom, and most 
 of them bearing beautiful flowers, which, however, in 
 two or three instances, had the sort of natural repul- 
 siveness that the serpent has in its beauty, compelled 
 against its will, as it were, to warn the beholder of an 
 unrevealed danger. The young man had long ago, it 
 must be added, demanded of his grandfather the doc 
 uments included in the legacy of Professor Swinner- 
 ton, and had spent days and nights upon them, grow 
 ing pale over their mystic lore, which seemed the fruit 
 not merely of the Professor s own labors, but of those 
 of more ancient sages than he ; and often a whole vol 
 ume seemed to be compressed within the limits of a 
 few lines of crabbed manuscript, judging from the 
 time which it cost even the quick-minded student to 
 decipher them. 
 
 Meantime these abstruse investigations had not 
 wrought such disastrous effects as might have been 
 feared, in causing Edward Dolliver to neglect the 
 humble trade, the conduct of which his grandfather 
 had now relinquished almost entirely into his hands. 
 On the contrary, with the mere side results of his 
 study, or what may be called the chips and shavings 
 of his real work, he created a prosperity quite beyond 
 anything that his simple-minded predecessor had ever 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 39 
 
 hoped for, even at the most sanguine epoch of his life. 
 The young man s adventurous endowments were mirac 
 ulously alive, and connecting themselves with his re 
 markable ability for solid research, and perhaps his 
 conscience being as yet imperfectly developed (as it 
 sometimes lies dormant in the young), he spared not 
 to produce compounds which, if the names were any* 
 wise to be trusted, would supersede all other remedies, 
 and speedily render any medicine a needless thing, 
 making the trade of apothecary an untenable one, and 
 the title of Doctor obsolete. Whether there was real 
 efficacy in these nostrums, and whether their author 
 himself had faith in them, is more than can safely be 
 said ; but, at all events, the public believed in them, 
 and thronged to the old and dim sign of the Brazen 
 Serpent, which, though hitherto familiar to them and 
 their forefathers, now seemed to shine with auspicious 
 lustre, as if its old Scriptural virtues were renewed. 
 If any faith was to be put in human testimony, many 
 marvellous cures were really performed, the fame of 
 which spread far and wide, and caused demands for 
 these medicines to come in from places far beyond the 
 precincts of the little town. Our old apothecary, now 
 degraded by the overshadowing influence of his grand 
 son s character to a position not much above that of a 
 shop-boy, stood behind the counter with a face sad and 
 distrustful, and yet with an odd kind of fitful excite 
 ment in it, as if he would have liked to enjoy this new 
 prosperity, had he dared. Then his venerable figure 
 was to be seen dispensing these questionable com 
 pounds by the single bottle and by the dozen, wrong 
 ing his simple conscience as he dealt out what he 
 feared was trash or worse, shrinking from the reproach 
 ful eyes of every ancient physician who might chance 
 
40 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 to be passing by, but withal examining closely the sil 
 ver, or the New England coarsely printed bills, which 
 he took in payment, as if apprehensive that the delu 
 sive character of the commodity which he sold might 
 be balanced by equal counterfeiting in the money re 
 ceived, or as if his faith in all things were shaken. 
 
 Is it not possible that this gifted young man had in- 
 deed found out those remedies which Nature has pro 
 vided and laid away for the cure of every ill ? 
 
 The disastrous termination of the most brilliant epoch 
 that ever came to the Brazen Serpent must be told in 
 a few words. One night, Edward Dolliver s young 
 wife awoke, and, seeing the gray dawn creeping into 
 the chamber, while her husband, it should seem, was 
 still engaged in his laboratory, arose in her night 
 dress, and went to the door of the room to put in her 
 gentle remonstrance against such labor. There she 
 found him dead, sunk down out of his chair upon 
 the hearth, where were some ashes, apparently of burnt 
 manuscripts, which appeared to comprise most of those 
 included in Dr. Swinnerton s legacy, though one or 
 two had fallen near the heap, and lay merely scorched 
 beside it. It seemed as if he had thrown them into 
 the fire, under a sudden impulse, in a great hurry and 
 passion. It may be that he had come to the percep 
 tion of something fatally false and deceptive in the 
 successes which he had appeared to win, and was too 
 proud and too conscientious to survive it. Doctors 
 were called in, but had no power to revive him. An 
 inquest was held, at which the jury, under the instruc 
 tion, perhaps, of those same revengeful doctors, ex 
 pressed the opinion that the poor young man, being 
 given to strange contrivances with poisonous drugs, 
 had died by incautiously tasting them himself. This 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 41 
 
 verdict, and the terrible event itself, at once deprived 
 the medicines of all their popularity ; and the poor old 
 apothecary was no longer under any necessity of dis 
 turbing his conscience by selling them. They at once 
 lost their repute, and ceased to be in any demand. In 
 the few instances in which they were tried the experi 
 ment was followed by no good results ; and even those 
 individuals who had fancied themselves cured, and had 
 been loudest in spreading the praises of these benefi 
 cent compounds, now, as if for the utter demolition 
 of the poor youth s credit, suffered under a recurrence 
 of the worst symptoms, and, in more than one case, 
 perished miserably : insomuch (for the days of witch 
 craft were still within the memory of living men and 
 women) it was the general opinion that Satan had 
 been personally concerned in this affliction, and that 
 the Brazen Serpent, so long honored among them, was 
 really the type of his subtle malevolence and perfect 
 iniquity. It was rumored even that all preparations 
 that came from the shop were harmful: that teeth 
 decayed that had been made pearly white by the use 
 of the young chemist s dentifrice ; that cheeks were 
 freckled that had been changed to damask roses by 
 his cosmetics ; that hair turned gray or fell off that 
 had become black, glossy, and luxuriant from the ap 
 plication of his mixtures ; that breath which his drugs 
 had sweetened had now a sulphurous smell. Moreover, 
 all the money heretofore amassed by the sale of them 
 had been exhausted by Edward Dolliver in his lavish 
 expenditure for the processes of his study ; and nothing 
 was left for Pansie, except a few valueless and unsal 
 able bottles of medicine, and one or two others, per 
 haps more recondite than their inventor had seen fit 
 to offer to the public. Little Pansie s mother lived 
 
42 THE DOLL I VE It ROMANCE. 
 
 but a short time after the shock of the terrible catas 
 trophe ; and, as we began our story with saying, she 
 was left with no better guardianship or support than 
 might be found in the efforts of a long superannuated 
 man. 
 
 Nothing short of the simplicity, integrity, and piety 
 of Grandsir Dolliver s character, known and acknowl 
 edged as far back as the oldest inhabitants remem 
 bered anything, and inevitably discoverable by the 
 dullest and most prejudiced observers, in all its nat 
 ural manifestations, could have protected him in still 
 creeping about the streets. So far as he was person 
 ally concerned, however, all bitterness and suspicion 
 had speedily passed away ; and there remained still 
 the careless and neglectful good-will, and the prescrip 
 tive reverence, not altogether reverential, which the 
 world heedlessly awards to the unfortunate individual 
 who outlives his generation. 
 
 And now that we have shown the reader sufficiently, 
 or at least to the best of our knowledge, and perhaps 
 at tedious length, what was the present position of 
 Grandsir Dolliver, we ma^ let our story pass onward, 
 though at such a pace as suits the feeble gait of an 
 old man. 
 
 The peculiarly brisk sensation of this morning, to 
 which we have more than once alluded, enabled the 
 Doctor to toil pretty vigorously at his medicinal herbs, 
 his catnip, his vervain, and the like ; but he did 
 not turn his attention to the row of mystic plants, 
 with which so much of trouble and sorrow either was, 
 or appeared to be, connected. In truth, his old soul 
 was sick of them, and their very fragrance, which the 
 warm sunshine made strongly perceptible, was odious 
 to his nostrils. But the spicy, homelike scent of hia 
 
THE DOL LIVER ROMANCE. 43 
 
 other herbs, the English simples, was grateful to him, 
 and so was the earth-smell, as he turned up the soil 
 about their roots, and eagerly snuffed it in. Little 
 Pansie, on the other hand, perhaps scandalized at 
 great-grandpapa s neglect of the prettiest plants in his 
 garden, resolved to do her small utmost towards bal 
 ancing his injustice ; so with an old shingle, fallen from 
 the roof, which she had appropriated as her agricul 
 tural tool, she began to dig about them, pulling up 
 the weeds, as she saw grandpapa doing. The kitten, 
 too, with a look of elfish sagacity, lent her assistance, 
 plying her paws with vast haste and efficiency at the 
 roots of one of the shrubs. This particular one was 
 much smaller than the rest, perhaps because it was a 
 native of the torrid zone, and required greater care 
 than the others to make it flourish ; so that, shrivelled, 
 cankered, and scarcely showing a green leaf, both 
 Pansie and the kitten probably mistook it for a weed. 
 After their joint efforts had made a pretty big trench 
 about it, the little girl seized the shrub with both 
 hands, bestriding it with her plump little legs, and 
 giving so vigorous a pull, that, long accustomed to be 
 transplanted annually, it came up by the roots, and 
 little Pansie came down in a sitting posture, making a 
 broad impress on the soft earth. tfc See, see, Doctor ! " 
 cries Pansie, comically enough giving him his title 
 of courtesy, " look, grandpapa, the big, naughty 
 weed!" 
 
 Now the Doctor had at once a peculiar dread and a 
 peculiar value for this identical shrub, both because 
 his grandson s investigations had been applied more 
 ardently to it than to all the rest, and because it was 
 associated in his mind with an ancient and sad recol- 
 lectiono For he had never forgotten that his wife, the 
 
44 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 early lost, had once taken a fancy to wear its flowers, 
 day after day, through the whole season of their bloom, 
 in her bosom, where they glowed like a gem, and 
 deepened her somewhat pallid beauty with a richness 
 never before seen in it. At least such was the effect 
 which this tropical flower imparted to the beloved 
 form in his memory, and thus it somehow both bright 
 ened and wronged her. This had happened not long 
 before her death ; and whenever, in the subsequent 
 years, this plant had brought its annual flower, it had 
 proved a kind of talisman to bring up the image of 
 Bessie, radiant with this glow that did not really be 
 long to her naturally passive beauty, quickly inter 
 changing with another image ^f her form, with the 
 snow of death on cheek and forehead. This reminis 
 cence had remained among the things of which the 
 Doctor was always conscious, but had never breathed 
 a word, through the whole of his long life, a sprig 
 of sensibility that perhaps helped to keep him tenderer 
 and purer than other men, who entertain no such 
 follies. And the sight of the shrub often brought 
 back the faint, golden gleam of her hair, as if her 
 spirit were in the sunlights of the garden, quivering 
 into view and out of it. And therefore, when he saw 
 what Pansie had done, he sent forth a strange, inarti 
 culate, hoarse, tremulous exclamation, a sort of aged 
 and decrepit cry of mingled emotion. " Naughty 
 Pansie, to pull up grandpapa s flower ! " said he, as 
 soon as he could speak. " Poison, Pansie, poison ! 
 Fling it away, child I " 
 
 And dropping his spade, the old gentleman scram 
 bled towards the little girl as quickly as his rusty 
 joints would let him, while Pansie, as apprehensive 
 and quick of motion as a fawn, started up with a 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 45 
 
 shriek of mirth and fear to escape him. It so hap 
 pened that the garden-gate was ajar ; and a puff of 
 wind blowing it wide open, she escaped through this 
 fortuitous avenue, followed by great - grandpapa and 
 the kitten. 
 
 " Stop, naughty Pansie, stop ! " shouted our old 
 friend. " You will tumble into the grave ! " The kit 
 ten, with the singular sensitiveness that seems to affect 
 it at every kind of excitement, was now on her back. 
 
 And, indeed, this portentous warning was better 
 grounded and had a more literal meaning than might 
 be supposed ; for the swinging gate communicated 
 with the burial-ground, and almost directly in little 
 Pansie s track there was a newly dug grave, ready to 
 receive its tenant that afternoon. Pansie, however, 
 fled onward with outstretched arms, half in fear, half 
 in fun, plying her round little legs with wonderful 
 promptitude, as if to escape Time or Death, in the 
 person of Grandsir Dolliver, and happily avoiding the 
 ominous pitfall that lies in every person s path, till, 
 hearing a groan from her pursuer, she looked over her 
 shoulder, and saw that poor grandpapa had stumbled 
 over one of the many hillocks. She then suddenly 
 wrinkled up her little visage, and sent forth a full- 
 breathed roar of sympathy and alarm. 
 
 " Grandpapa has broken his neck now! " cried little 
 Pansie, amid her sobs. 
 
 " Kiss grandpapa, and make it well, then," said 
 the old gentleman, recollecting her remedy, and 
 scrambling up more readily than could be expected. 
 u Well," he murmured to himself, " a hairs-breadth 
 more, and I should have been tumbled into yonder 
 grave. Poor little Pausie ! what wouldst thou have 
 done then ? " 
 
46 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 " Make the grass grow over grandpapa," answered 
 Pansie, laughing up in his face. 
 
 " Poh, poh, child, that is not a pretty thing to say," 
 said grandpapa, pettishly and disappointed, as people 
 are apt to be when they try to calculate on the fitful 
 sympathies of childhood. " Come, you must go in to 
 old Martha now." 
 
 The poor old gentleman was in the more haste to 
 leave the spot because he found himself standing right 
 in front of his own peculiar row of gravestones, con 
 sisting of eight or nine slabs of slate, adorned with 
 carved borders rather rudely cut, and the earliest one, 
 that of his Bessie, bending aslant, because the frost of 
 so many winters had slowly undermined it. Over one 
 grave of the row, that of his gifted grandson, there 
 was no memorial. He felt a strange repugnance, 
 stronger than he had ever felt before, to linger by 
 these graves, and had none of the tender sorrow, min 
 gled with high and tender hopes, that had sometimes 
 made it seem good to him to be there. Such moods, 
 perhaps, often come to the aged, when the hardened 
 earth-crust over their souls shuts them out from spir 
 itual influences. 
 
 Taking the child by the hand, her little efferves 
 cence of infantile fun having passed into a downcast 
 humor, though not well knowing as yet what a dusky 
 cloud of disheartening fancies arose from these green 
 hillocks, he went heavily toward the garden-gate. 
 Close to its threshold, so that one who was issuing 
 forth or entering must needs step upon it or over it, 
 lay a small flat stone, deeply imbedded in the ground, 
 and partly covered with grass, inscribed with the name 
 of " Dr. John Swinnerton, Physician." 
 
 "Ay," said the old man, as the well-remembered 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 47 
 
 figure of his ancient instructor seemed to rise before 
 him in his grave-apparel, with beard and gold-headed 
 cane, black velvet doublet and cloak, u here lies a man 
 who, as people have thought, had it in his power to 
 avoid the grave ! He had no little grandchild to tease 
 him. He had the choice to die, and chose it." 
 
 So the old gentleman led Pansie over the stone, and 
 carefully closed the gate ; and, as it happened, he for 
 got the uprooted shrub, which Pansie, as she ran, had 
 flung away, and which had fallen into the open grave ; 
 and when the funeral came that afternoon, the coffin 
 was let down upon it, so that its bright, inauspicious 
 flower never bloomed again. 
 
ANOTHER FRAGMENT OF THE DOLLIVER 
 ROMANCE. 
 
 " BE secret ! " and he kept his stern eye fixed upon 
 him, as the coach began to move. 
 
 " Be secret ! " repeated the apothecary. " I know 
 not any secret that he has confided to me thus far, and 
 as for his nonsense (as I will be bold to style it now 
 he is gone) about a medicine of long life, it is a thing 
 I forget in spite of myself, so very empty and trashy 
 it is. I wonder, by the by, that it never came into 
 my head to give the Colonel a dose of the cordial 
 whereof I partook last night. I have no faith that 
 it is a valuable medicine little or none and yet 
 there has been an unwonted briskness in me all the 
 morning." 
 
 Then a simple joy broke over his face a flicker 
 ing sunbeam among his wrinkles as he heard the 
 laughter of the little girl, who was running rampant 
 with a kitten in the kitchen. 
 
 " Pansie ! Pansie ! " cackled he, " grandpapa has 
 sent away the ugly man now. Come, let us have a 
 frolic in the garden." 
 
 And he whispered to himself again, " That is a cor 
 dial yonder, and I will take it according to the pre 
 scription, knowing all the ingredients." Then, after 
 a moment s thought, he added, " All, save one." 
 
 So, as he had declared to himself his intention, that 
 when little Pansie had long been asleep, and his 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 49 
 
 small household was in bed, and most of the quiet, old- 
 fashioned townsfolk likewise, this good apothecary 
 went into his laboratory, and took out of a cupboard 
 in the wall a certain ancient-looking bottle, which was 
 cased over with a net-work of what seemed to be woven 
 silver, like the wicker-woven bottles of our days. He 
 had previously provided a goblet of pure water. Be 
 fore opening the bottle, however, he seemed to hesi 
 tate, and pondered and babbled to himself ; having 
 long since come to that period of life when the bodily 
 frame, having lost much of its value, is more tenderly 
 cared for than when it was a perfect and inestimable 
 machine. 
 
 "I triturated, I infused, I distilled it myself in 
 these very rooms, and know it know it all all 
 the ingredients, save one. They are common things 
 enough comfortable things some of them a little 
 queer one or two that folks have a prejudice against 
 and then there is that one thing that I don t know. 
 It is foolish in me to be dallying with such a mess, 
 which I thought was a piece of quackery, while that 
 strange visitor bade me do it, and yet, what a 
 strength has come from it ! He said it was a rare 
 cordial, and, methinks, it has brightened up my weary 
 life all day, so that Pansie has found me the fitter 
 playmate. And then the dose it is so absurdly 
 small ! I will try it again." 
 
 He took the silver stopple from the bottle, and with 
 a practised hand, tremulous as it was with age, so 
 that one would have thought it must have shaken 
 the liquor into a perfect shower of misapplied drops, 
 he dropped I have heard it said only one single 
 drop into the goblet of water. It fell into it with a 
 dazzling brightness, like a spark of ruby flame, and 
 
50 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 subtly diffusing itself through the whole body of water, 
 turned it to a rosy hue of great brilliancy. He held it 
 up between his eyes and the light, and seemed to ad 
 mire and wonder at it. 
 
 " It is very odd," said he, " that such a pure, bright 
 liquor should have come out of a parcel of weeds that 
 mingled their juices here. The thing is a folly, it is 
 one of those compositions in which the chemists the 
 cabalists, perhaps used to combine what they thought 
 the virtues of many plants, thinking that something 
 would result in the whole, which was not in either of 
 them, and a new efficacy be created. Whereas, it has 
 been the teaching of my experience that one virtue 
 counteracts another, and is the enemy of it, I never 
 believed the former theory, even when that strange 
 madman bade me do it. And what a thick, turbid 
 matter it was, until that last ingredient, that powder 
 which he put in with his own hand ! Had he let me 
 see it, I would first have analyzed it, and discovered 
 its component parts. The man was mad, undoubtedly, 
 and this may have been poison. But its effect is good. 
 Poh ! I will taste again, because of this weak, agued, 
 miserable state of mine ; though it is a shame in me, a 
 man of decent skill in my way, to believe in a quack s 
 nostrum. But it is a comfortable kind of thing." 
 
 Meantime, that single drop (for good Dr. Dolliver 
 had immediately put a stopper into the bottle) diffused 
 a sweet odor through the chamber, so that the ordinary 
 fragrances and scents of apothecaries stuff seemed to 
 be controlled and influenced by it, and its bright po 
 tency also dispelled a certain dimness of the anti 
 quated room. 
 
 The Doctor, at the pressure of a great need, had 
 given incredible pains to the manufacture of this med- 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 51 
 
 icine ; so that, reckoning the pains rather than the in 
 gredients (all except one, of which he was not able to 
 estimate the cost nor value), it was really worth its 
 weight in gold. And, as it happened, he had bestowed 
 upon it the hard labor of his poor life, and the time 
 that was necessary for the support of his family, with 
 out return ; for the customers, after playing off this 
 cruel joke upon the old man, had never come back ; 
 and now, for seven years, the bottle had stood in a cor 
 ner of the cupboard. To be sure, the silver-cased bot 
 tle was worth a trifle for its silver, and still more, per 
 haps, as an antiquarian knick-knack. But, all things 
 considered, the honest and simple apothecary thought 
 that he might make free with the liquid to such small 
 extent as was necessary for himself. And there had 
 been something in the concoction that had struck him ; 
 and he had been fast breaking lately ; and so, in the 
 dreary fantasy and lonely recklessness of his old age, 
 he had suddenly bethought himself of this medicine 
 (cordial, as the strange man called it, which had 
 come to him by long inheritance in his family) and 
 he had determined to try it. And again, as the night 
 before, he took out the receipt a roll of antique 
 parchment, out of which, provokingly, one fold had 
 been lost and put on his spectacles to puzzle out the 
 passage. 
 
 Guttam unicam in aquam puram, two gills. " If 
 the Colonel should hear of this," said Dr. Dolliver, 
 " he might fancy it his nostrum of long life, and insist 
 on having the bottle for his own use. The foolish, 
 fierce old gentleman ! He has grown very earthly, of 
 late, else he would not desire such a thing. And a 
 strong desire it must be to make him feel it desirable. 
 For my part, I only wish for something that, for a 
 
52 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 short time, may clear my eyes, so that I may see lit 
 tie Pansie s beauty, and quicken my ears, that I may 
 hear her sweet voice, and give me nerve, while God 
 keeps me here, that I may live longer to earn bread 
 for dear Pansie. She provided for, I would gladly lie 
 down yonder with Bessie and our children. Ah ! the 
 vanity of desiring lengthened days ! There ! I 
 have drunk it, and methinks its final, subtle flavor 
 hath strange potency in it." 
 
 The old man shivered a little, as those shiver who 
 have just swallowed good liquor, while it is permeat 
 ing their vitals. Yet he seemed to be in a pleasant 
 state of feeling, and, as was frequently the case with 
 this simple soul, in a devout frame of mind. He read 
 a chapter in the Bible, and said his prayers for Pansie 
 and himself, before he went to bed, and had much bet 
 ter sleep than usually comes to people of his advanced 
 age ; for, at that period, sleep is diffused through their 
 wakefulness, and a dim and tiresome half-perception 
 through their sleep, so that the only result is weari 
 ness. 
 
 Nothing \ery extraordinary happened to Dr. Dolli- 
 ver or his small household for some time afterwards. 
 He was favored with a comfortable winter, and thanked 
 Heaven for it, and put it to a good use (at least he in 
 tended it so) by concocting drugs ; which perhaps did 
 a little towards peopling the graveyard, into which his 
 windows looked ; but that was neither his purpose nor 
 his fault. None of the sleepers, at all events, inter 
 rupted their slumbers to upbraid him. He had done 
 according to his own artless conscience and the recipes 
 of licensed physicians, and he looked no further, but 
 pounded, triturated, infused, made electuaries, boluses, 
 juleps, or whatever he termed his productions, with 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 53 
 
 skill and diligence, thanking Heaven that he was 
 spared to do so, when his contemporaries generally 
 were getting incapable of similar efforts. It struck 
 him with some surprise, but much gratitude to Provi 
 dence, that his sight seemed to be growing rather bet 
 ter than worse. He certainly could read the crabbed 
 handwriting and hieroglyphics of the physicians with 
 more readiness than he could a year earlier. But he 
 had been originally near-sighted, with large, projecting 
 eyes ; and near-sighted eyes always seem to get a new 
 lease of light as the years go on. One thing was per 
 ceptible about the Doctor s eyes, not only to himself in 
 the glass, but to everybody else ; namely, that they had 
 an unaccustomed gleaming brightness in them ; not 
 so very bright either, but yet so much so, that little 
 Pansie noticed it, and sometimes, in her playful, rogu 
 ish way, climbed up into his lap, and put both her 
 small palms over them; telling Grandpapa that he 
 had stolen somebody else s eyes, and given away his 
 own, and that she liked his old ones better. The poor 
 old Doctor did his best to smile through his eyes, and 
 so to reconcile Pansie to their brightness : but still she 
 continually made the same silly remonstrance, so that 
 he was fain to put on a pair of green spectacles when 
 he was going to play with Pansie, or took her on his 
 knee. Nay, if he looked at her, as had always been 
 his custom, after she was asleep, in order to see that 
 all was well with her, the little child woidd put up her 
 hands, as if he held a light that was flashing on her 
 eyeballs ; and unless he turned away his gaze quickly, 
 she would wake up in a fit of crying. 
 
 On the whole, the apothecary had as comfortable a 
 time as a man of his years could expect. The air of 
 the house and of the old graveyard seemed to suit 
 
54 THE DO L LIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 him. What so seldom happens in man r s advancing 
 age, his night s rest did him good, whereas, generally, 
 an old man wakes up ten times as nervous and dis 
 pirited as he went to bed, just as if, during his sleep 
 he had been working harder than ever he did in the 
 daytime. It had been so with the Doctor himself till 
 within a few months. To be sure, he had latterly be 
 gun to practise various rules of diet and exercise, 
 which commended themselves to his approbation. He 
 sawed some of his own fire-wood, and fancied that, as 
 was reasonable, it fatigued him less day by day. He 
 took walks with Pansie, and though, of course, her 
 little footsteps, treading on the elastic air of childhood, 
 far outstripped his own, still the old man knew that 
 he was not beyond the recuperative period of life, and 
 that exercise out of doors and proper food can do 
 somewhat towards retarding the approach of age. He 
 was inclined, also, to impute much good effect to a 
 daily dose of Santa Cruz rum (a liquor much in vogue 
 in that day), which he was now in the habit of quaff 
 ing at the meridian hour. All through the Doctor s 
 life he had eschewed strong spirits : " But after sev 
 enty," quoth old Dr. Dolliver, " a man is all the bet 
 ter in head and stomach for a little stimulus " ; and 
 it certainly seemed so in his case. Likewise, I know 
 not precisely how often, but complying punctiliously 
 with the recipe, as an apothecary naturally would, he 
 took his drop of the mysterious cordial. 
 
 He was inclined, however, to impute little or no effi> 
 cacy to this, and to laugh at himself for having ever 
 thought otherwise. The dose was so very minute ! 
 and he had never been sensible of any remarkable 
 effect on taking it, after all. A genial warmth, he 
 sometimes fancied, diffused itself throughout him, and 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 55 
 
 perhaps continued during the next day. A quiet and 
 refreshing night s rest followed, and alacritous waking 
 in the morning ; but all this was far more probably 
 owing, as has been already liinted, to excellent and 
 well-considered habits of diet and exercise. Never 
 theless he still continued the cordial with tolerable reg 
 ularity, the more, because on one or two occasions, 
 happening to omit it, it so chanced that he slept 
 wretchedly, and awoke in strange aches and pains, 
 torpors, nervousness, shaking of the hands, bleared- 
 ness of sight, lowness of spirits and other ills, as is the 
 misfortune of some old men, who are often threat 
 ened by a thousand evil symptoms that come to noth 
 ing, foreboding no particular disorder, and passing 
 aw r ay as unsatisfactorily as they come. At another 
 time, he took two or three drops at once, and was 
 alarmingly feverish in consequence. Yet it was very 
 true, that the feverish symptoms were pretty sure to 
 disappear on his renewal of the medicine. " Still it 
 could not be that, thought the old man, a hater of 
 empiricism (in which, however, is contained all hope 
 for man), and disinclined to believe in anything that 
 was not according to ride and art. And then, as 
 aforesaid, the dose was so ridiculously small ! 
 
 Sometimes, however, he took, half laughingly, an 
 other view of it, and felt disposed to think that chance 
 might really have thrown in his way a very remarka 
 ble mixture, by which, if it had happened to him ear 
 lier in life, he might have amassed a larger fortune, 
 and might even have raked together such a compe 
 tency as would have prevented his feeling much un 
 easiness about the future of little Pansie. Feeling as 
 strong as he did nowadays, he might reasonably count 
 upon ten years more of life, and in that time the 
 
56 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 precious liquor might be exchanged for much gold 
 " Let us see ! " quoth he, " by what attractive name 
 shall it be advertised ? 4 The old man s cordial ? 
 That promises too little. Poh, poh ! I would stain 
 my honesty, my fair reputation, the accumulation of a 
 lifetime, and befool my neighbor and the public, by 
 any name that would make them imagine I had 
 found that ridiculous talisman that the alchemists have 
 sought. The old man s cordial, that is best. And 
 five shillings sterling the bottle. That surely were 
 not too costly, and would give the medicine a better 
 reputation and higher vogue (so foolish is the world) 
 than if I were to put it lower. I will think further 
 of this. But pshaw, pshaw ! " 
 
 " What is the matter^ Grandpapa," said little Pan- 
 sie, who had stood by him, wishing to speak to him at 
 least a minute, but had been deterred by his absorp 
 tion ; " why do you say Pshaw ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! " repeated Grandpapa, " there is one in 
 gredient that I don t know." 
 
 So this very hopeful design was necessarily given 
 up, but that it had occurred to Dr. Dolliver was per 
 haps a token that his mind was in a very vigorous 
 state ; for it had been noted of him through life, that 
 he had little enterprise, little activity, and that, for 
 the want of these things, his very considerable skill in 
 his art had been almost thrown away, as regarded his 
 private affairs, when it might easily have led him to 
 fortune. Whereas, here in his extreme age, he had 
 first bethought himself of a way to grow rich. Some 
 times this latter spring causes as blossoms come on 
 the autumnal tree a spurt of vigor, or untimely 
 greenness, when Nature laughs at her old child, hall 
 in kindness and half in scorn. It is observable, how 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 57 
 
 ever, I fancy, that after such a spurt, age comes on 
 with redoubled speed, and that the old man has only 
 run forward with a show of force, in order to fall into 
 his grave the sooner. 
 
 Sometimes, as he was walking briskly along the 
 street, with little Pansie clasping his hand, and per 
 haps frisking rather more than became a person of his 
 venerable years, he had met the grini old wreck of 
 Colonel Dabney, moving goutily, and gathering wrath 
 anew with every touch of his painful foot to the 
 ground; or driving by in his carriage, showing an 
 ashen, angry, wrinkled face at the window, and frown 
 ing at him the apothecary thought with a pecul 
 iar fury, as* if he took umbrage at his audacity in 
 being less broken by age than a gentleman like him 
 self. The apothecary could not help feeling as if 
 there were some unsettled quarrel or dispute between 
 himself and the Colonel, he could not tell what or 
 why. The Colonel always gave him a haughty nod of 
 half-recognition ; and the people in the street, to whom 
 he was a familiar object, woidd say, " The worshipful 
 Colonel begins to find himself mortal like the rest of 
 us. He feels his years." " He *d be glad, I warrant," 
 said one, " to change with you, Doctor. It shows what 
 difference a good life makes in men, to look at him 
 and you. You are half a score of years his elder, me- 
 thinks, and yet look what temperance can do for a 
 man. By my credit, neighbor, seeing how brisk you 
 have been lately, I told my wife you seemed to be 
 growing younger. It does me good to see it. AVe are 
 about of an age, I think, and I like to notice how we 
 old men keep young and keep one another in heart. 
 I myself ahem ahem feel younger this season 
 than for these five years past." 
 
58 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 " It rejoices me that you feel so," quoth the apothe 
 cary, who had just been thinking that this neighbor 
 of his had lost a great deal, both in mind and body, 
 within a short period, and rather scorned him for it. 
 "Indeed, I find old age less uncomfortable than I 
 supposed. Little Pansie and I make excellent com 
 panions for one another." 
 
 And then, dragged along by Pansie s little hand, 
 and also impelled by a certain alacrity that rose with 
 him in the morning, and lasted till his healthy rest at 
 night, he bade farewell to his contemporary, and 
 hastened on ; while the latter, left behind, was some 
 what irritated as he looked at the vigorous movement 
 of the apothecary s legs. 
 
 " He need not make such a show of briskness 
 neither," muttered he to himself. "This touch of 
 rheumatism troubles me a bit just now, but try it on 
 a good day, and I d walk with him for a shilling. 
 Pshaw ! I 11 walk to his funeral yet." 
 
 One day, while the Doctor, with the activity that 
 bestirred itself in him nowadays, was mixing and man 
 ufacturing certain medicaments that came in frequent 
 demand, a carriage stopped at his door, and he recog 
 nized the voice of Colonel Dabney, talking in his cus 
 tomary stern tone to the woman who served him. 
 And, a moment afterwards, the coach drove away, 
 and he actually heard the old dignitary lumbering up 
 stairs, and bestowing a curse upon each particular 
 step, as if that were the method to make them soften 
 and become easier when he should come down again. 
 " Pray, your worship," said the Doctor from above, 
 * let me attend you below stairs." 
 
 " No," growled the Colonel, " I 11 meet you on your 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 59 
 
 own ground. I can climb a stair yet, and be hanged 
 to you." 
 
 So saying, he painfully finished the ascent, and 
 came into the laboratory, where he let himself fall into 
 the Doctor s easy-chair, with an anathema on the 
 chair, the Doctor, and himself ; and, staring round 
 through the dusk, he met the wide-open, startled eyes 
 of little Pansie, who had been reading a gilt picture- 
 book in the corner. 
 
 u Send away that child, Dolliver," cried the Colonel, 
 angrily. " Confound her, she makes my bones ache. 
 I hate everything young." 
 
 " Lord, Colonel," the poor apothecary ventured to 
 say, " there must be young people in the world as well 
 as old ones. T is my mind, a man s grandchildren 
 keep him warm round about him." 
 
 4 I have none, and want none," sharply responded 
 the Colonel ; " and as for young people, let me be one 
 of them, and they may exist, otherwise not. It is a 
 cursed bad arrangement of the world, that there are 
 young and old here together." 
 
 When Pansie had gone away, which she did with 
 anything but reluctance, having a natural antipathy 
 to this monster of a Colonel, the latter personage 
 tapped with his crutch-handled cane on a chair that 
 stood near, and nodded in an authoritative way to the 
 apothecary to sit down in it. Dr. Dolliver complied 
 submissively, and the Colonel, with dull, unkindly 
 eyes, looked at him sternly, and with a kind of intelli 
 gence amid the aged stolidity of his aspect, that some 
 what puzzled the Doctor. In this way he surveyed 
 him all over, like a judge, when he means to hang a 
 man, and for some reason or none, the apothecary felt 
 his nerves shake, beneath this steadfast look. 
 
60 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 " Aha ! Doctor ! " said the Colonel at last, with a 
 doltish sneer, " you bear your years well." 
 
 " Decently well, Colonel ; I thank Providence for 
 it," answered the meek apothecary. 
 
 " I should say," quoth the Colonel, " you are 
 younger at this moment than when we spoke together 
 two or three years ago. I noted then that your eye^ 
 brows were a handsome snow-white, such as befits a 
 man who has passed beyond his threescore years and 
 ten, and five years more. Why, they are getting dark 
 again, Mr. Apothecary." 
 
 " Nay, your worship must needs be mistaken there," 
 said the Doctor, with a timorous chuckle. " It is 
 many a year since I have taken a deliberate note of 
 my wretched old visage in a glass, but I remember 
 they were white when I looked last." 
 
 " Come, Doctor, I know a thing or two," said the 
 Colonel, with a bitter scoff ; " and what s this, you 
 old rogue ? Why, you ve rubbed away a wrinkle 
 since we met. Take off those infernal spectacles, and 
 look me in the face. Ha ! I see the devil in your eye. 
 How dare you let it shine upon me so ? " 
 
 " On my conscience, Colonel," said the apothecary, 
 strangely struck with the coincidence of this accusa 
 tion with little Pansie s complaint, " I know not what 
 you mean. My sight is pretty well for a man of my 
 age. We near-sighted people begin to know our best 
 eyesight, when other people have lost theirs." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! old rogue," repeated the insufferable 
 Colonel, gnashing his ruined teeth at him, as if, for 
 some incomprehensible reason, he wished to tear him 
 to pieces and devour him. " I know you. You are tak 
 ing the life away from me, villain ! and I told you it 
 was my inheritance. And I told you there was a 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 61 
 
 Bloody Footstep, bearing its track down through my 
 race/ 
 
 44 1 remember nothing of it," said the Doctor, in a 
 quake, sure that the Colonel was in one of his mad 
 fits. " And on the word of an honest man, I never 
 wronged you in my life, Colonel." 
 
 " We shall see," said the Colonel, whose wrinkled, 
 visage grew absolutely terrible with its hardness ; and 
 his dull eyes, without losing their dulness, seemed to 
 look through him. 
 
 " Listen to me, sir. Some ten years ago, there came 
 to you a man on a secret business. He had an old 
 musty bit of parchment, on which were written some 
 words, hardly legible, in an antique hand, an old 
 deed, it might have been, some family document, 
 and here and there the letters were faded away. But 
 this man had ment his life over it, and he had made 
 out the meaning, and he interpreted it to you, and left 
 it with you, only there was one gap, one torn or ob 
 literated place. "Well, sir, and he bade you, with 
 your poor little skill at the mortar, and for a certain 
 sum, ample repayment for such a service, to 
 manufacture this medicine, this cordial. It was an 
 affair of months. And just when you thought it fin 
 ished, the man came again, and stood over your cursed 
 beverage, and shook a powder, or dropped a lump into 
 it, or put in some ingredient, in which was all the hid 
 den virtue, or, at least, it drew out all the hidden 
 virtue of the mean and common herbs, and married 
 them into a wondrous efficacy. This done, the man 
 bade you do certain other things with the potation, 
 and went away " the Colonel hesitated a moment 
 u and never came back again." 
 
 " Surely, Colonel, you are correct," said the apothe- 
 
62 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 cary ; much startled, however, at the Colonel s show 
 ing himself so well acquainted with an incident which 
 he had supposed a secret with himself alone. Yet he 
 had a little reluctance in owning it, although he did 
 not exactly understand why, since the Colonel had, ap 
 parently, no rightful claim to it, at all events. 
 
 " That medicine, that receipt," continued his visitor^ 
 " is my hereditary property, and I challenge you, on 
 your peril, to give it up." 
 
 " But what if the original owner should call upon 
 me for it," objected Dr. Dolliver. 
 
 " I 11 warrant you against that," said the Colo 
 nel ; and the apothecary thought there was something 
 ghastly in his look and tone. " Why, t is ten year, 
 you old fool ; and do you think a man with a treas 
 ure like that in his possession would have waited so 
 long?" 
 
 " Seven years it was ago," said the apothecary. 
 " Septem annis passatis : so says the Latin." 
 
 " Curse your Latin," answers the Colonel. " Pro 
 duce the stuff. You have been violating the first rule 
 of your trade, taking your own drugs, your own, 
 in one sense ; mine by the right of three hundred 
 years. Bring it forth, I say ! " 
 
 " Pray excuse me, worthy Colonel," pleaded the 
 apothecary ; for though convinced that the old gentle 
 man was only in one of his insane fits, when he talked 
 of the value of this concoction, yet he really did not 
 like to give up the cordial, which perhaps had wrought 
 him some benefit. Besides, he had at least a claim 
 upon it for much trouble and skill expended in its 
 composition. This he suggested to the Colonel, who 
 scornfully took out of his pocket a net -work purse, 
 with more golden guineas in it than the apothecary 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 63 
 
 had seen in the whole seven years, and was rude 
 enough to fling it in his face. " Take that," thun 
 dered he, " and give up the thing, or I will have you 
 in prison before you are an hour older. Xay," he 
 continued, growing pale, which was his mode of show 
 ing terrible wrath ; since all through life, till extreme 
 age quenched it, his ordinary face had been a blazing 
 red, " I 11 put you to death, you villain, as I ve a 
 right ! " And thrusting his hand into his waistcoat- 
 pocket, lo ! the madman took a small pistol from it, 
 which he cocked, and presented at the poor apothe 
 cary. The old fellow quaked and cowered in his chair, 
 and woidd indeed have given his whole shopful of bet 
 ter concocted medicines than this, to be out of this 
 danger. Besides, there were the guineas ; the Colo 
 nel had paid him a princely sum for what was prob 
 ably worth nothing. 
 
 " Hold ! hold ! " cried he as the Colonel, with stern 
 eye pointed the pistol at his head. " You shall have 
 it." 
 
 So he rose all trembling, and crept to that secret 
 cupboard, where the precious bottle since precious 
 it seemed to be was reposited. In all his life, long 
 as it had been, the apothecary had never before been 
 threatened by a deadly weapon ; though many as 
 deadly a thing had he seen poured into a glass, with 
 out winking. And so it seemed to take his heart and 
 life away, and he brought the cordial forth feebly, and 
 stood tremulously before the Colonel, ashy pale, and 
 looking ten years older than his real age, instead of 
 five years younger, as he had seemed just before this 
 disastrous interview with the Colonel. 
 
 " You look as if you needed a drop of it yourself," 
 %aid Colonel Dabney, with great scorn. " But not a 
 
64 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 drop shall you have. Already have you stolen too 
 much," said he, lifting up the bottle, and marking the 
 space to which the liquor had subsided in it in conse 
 quence of the minute doses with which the apothecary 
 had made free. " Fool, had you taken your glass like 
 a man, you might have been young again. Now, creep 
 on, the few months you have left, poor, torpid knave 
 and die ! Come a goblet ! quick ! " 
 
 He clutched the bottle meanwhile voraciously, mi 
 serly, eagerly, furiously, as if it were his life that he 
 held in his grasp ; angry, impatient, as if something 
 long sought were within his reach, and not yet secure, 
 with longing thirst and desire ; suspicious of the 
 world and of fate ; feeling as if an iron hand were 
 over him, and a crowd of violent robbers round about 
 him, struggling for it. At last, unable to wait longer, 
 just as the apothecary was tottering away in quest of 
 a drinking-glass, the Colonel took out the stopple, and 
 lifted the flask itself to his lips. 
 
 " For Heaven s sake, no ! " cried the Doctor. " The 
 dose is one single drop ! one drop, Colonel, one 
 drop ! " 
 
 " Not a drop to save your wretched old soul," re 
 sponded the Colonel ; probably thinking that the apoth 
 ecary was pleading for a small share of the precious 
 liquor. He put it to his lips, and, as if quenching a 
 lifelong thirst, swallowed deep draughts, sucking it in 
 with desperation, till, void of breath, he set it down 
 upon the table. The rich, poignant perfume spread 
 itself through the air. 
 
 The apothecary, with an instinctive carefulness that 
 was rather ludicrous under the circumstances, caught 
 up the stopper, which the Colonel had let fall, and 
 forced it into the bottle to prevent any farther escape 
 
THE DOLL1VER ROMANCE. 65 
 
 of virtue. He then fearfully watched the result of 
 the madman s potation. 
 
 The Colonel sat a moment in his chair, panting for 
 breath ; then started to his feet with a prompt vigor 
 that contrasted widely with the infirm and rheumatic 
 movements that had heretofore characterized him. He 
 struck his forehead violently with one hand, and smote 
 his chest with the other : he stamped his foot thunder 
 ously on the ground ; then he leaped up to the ceil 
 ing, and came down with an elastic bound. Then 
 he laughed, a wild, exulting ha ! ha ! with a strange 
 triumphant roar that filled the house and reechoed 
 through it ; a sound full of fierce, animal rapture, 
 enjoyment of sensual life mixed up with a sort of hor 
 ror. After all, real as it was, it was like the sounds 
 a man makes in a dream. And this, while the potent 
 draught seemed still to be making its way through his 
 system ; and the frightened apothecary thought that 
 he intended a revengeful onslaught upon himself. Fi 
 nally, he uttered a loud unearthly screech, in the midst 
 of which his voice broke, as if some unseen hand 
 were throttling him, and, starting forward, he fought 
 frantically, as if he would clutch the life that was be 
 ing rent away, and fell forward with a dead thump 
 upon the floor. 
 
 " Colonel ! Colonel ! " cried the terrified Doctor. 
 
 The feeble old man, with difficulty, turned over the 
 heavy frame, and saw at once, with practised eye, that 
 he was dead. He set him up, and the corpse looked 
 at him with angry reproach. He was so startled, that 
 his subsequent recollections of the moment were nei 
 ther distinct nor steadfast ; but he fancied, though he 
 told the strange impression to 110 one, that on his first 
 glimpse of the face, with a dark flush of what looked 
 
66 THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 
 
 like rage still upon it, it was a young man s face that 
 he saw, a face with all the passionate energy of 
 early manhood, the capacity for furious anger which 
 the man had lost half a century ago, crammed to the 
 brim with vigor till it became agony. But the next 
 moment, if it were so (which it could not have been), 
 the face grew ashen, withered, shrunken, more aged 
 than in life, though still the murderous fierceness re 
 mained, and seemed to be petrified forever upon it. 
 
 After a moment s bewilderment, Dolliver ran to the 
 window looking to the street, threw it open, and called 
 loudly for assistance. He opened also another window, 
 for the air to blow through, for he was almost stifled 
 with the rich odor of the cordial which filled the room, 
 and was now exuded from the corpse. 
 
 He heard the voice of Pansie, crying at the door, 
 which was locked, and, turning the key, he caught her 
 in his arms, and hastened with her below stairs, to 
 give her into the charge of Martha, who seemed half 
 stupefied with a sense of something awful that had oc 
 curred. 
 
 Meanwhile there was a rattling and a banging at 
 the street portal, to which several people had been at 
 tracted both by the Doctor s outcry from the window, 
 and by the awful screech in which the Colonel s spirit 
 (if, indeed, he had that divine part) had just previ 
 ously taken its flight. 
 
 He let them in, and, pale and shivering, ushered 
 them up to the death-chamber, where one or two, with 
 a more delicate sense of smelling than the rest, snuffed 
 the atmosphere, as if sensible of an unknown fra 
 grance, yet appeared afraid to breathe, when they saw 
 the terrific countenance leaning back against the chair, 
 and eying them so truculently. . /4 .. 
 
THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE. 67 
 
 I would fain quit the scene and have done with the 
 Colonel, who, I am glad, has happened to die at so 
 early a period of the narrative. I therefore hasten 
 to say that a coroner s inquest was held on the spot, 
 though everybody felt that it was merely ceremonial, 
 and that the testimony of their good and ancient 
 townsman, Dr. Dolliver, was amply sufficient to settle 
 the matter. The verdict was, " Death by the visita 
 tion of God." 
 
 The apothecary gave evidence that the Colonel, 
 without asking leave, and positively against his advice, 
 had drunk a quantity of distilled spirits ; and one or 
 two servants, or members of the Colonel s family, tes 
 tified that he had been in a very uncomfortable state 
 of mind for some days past, so that they fancied he 
 was insane. Therefore nobody thought of blaming 
 Dr. Dolliver for what had happened ; and, if the plain 
 truth must be told, everybody who saw the wreteh was 
 too well content to be rid of him, to trouble themselves 
 more than was quite necessary about the way in which 
 the incunibrance had been removed. 
 
 The corpse was taken to the mansion in order to re 
 ceive a magnificent funeral ; and Dr. Dolliver was left 
 outwardly in quiet, but much disturbed, and indeed al 
 most overwhelmed inwardly, by what had happened. 
 Yet it is to be observed, that he had accounted for the 
 death with a singular dexterity of expression, when he 
 attributed it to a dose of distilled spirits. What kind 
 of distilled spirits were those, Doctor ? and will you 
 venture to take any more of them ? 
 
FANSHAWE. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 FANSHAWE. 
 
 IN 1828, three years after graduating from Bow 
 doin College, Hawthorne published his first romance, 
 " Fanshawe." It was issued at Boston by Marsh & 
 Capen, but made little or no impression on the public. 
 The motto on the title-page of the original was from 
 Southey : " Wilt thou go on with me ? " 
 
 Afterwards, when he had struck into the vein of fic 
 tion that came to be known as distinctively his own, 
 he attempted to suppress this youthful work, and was 
 so successful that he obtained and destroyed all but a 
 few of the copies then extant. 
 
 Some twelve years after his death it was resolved, 
 in view of the interest manifested in tracing the 
 growth of his genius from the beginning of his activ 
 ity as an author, to revive this youthful romance ; and 
 the reissue of " Fanshawe " was then made. 
 
 Little biographical interest attaches to it, beyond 
 the fact that Mr. Longfellow found in the descriptions 
 and general atmosphere of the book a decided sugges 
 tion of the situation of Bowdoin College, at Bruns 
 wick, Maine, and the life there at the time when he 
 and Hawthorne were both undergraduates of that in 
 stitution. 
 
 Professor Packard, of Bowdoin College, who was 
 
72 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 then in charge of the study of English literature, and 
 has survived both of his illustrious pupils, recalls 
 Hawthorne s exceptional excellence in the composition 
 of English, even at that date (1821-1825) ; and it is 
 not impossible that Hawthorne intended, through the 
 character of Fanshawe, to present some faint projec 
 tion of what he then thought might be his own ob 
 scure history. Even while he was in college, how 
 ever, and meditating perhaps the slender elements of 
 this first romance, his fellow-student Horatio Bridge, 
 whose " Journal of an African Cruiser " he afterwards 
 edited, recognized in him the possibilities of a writer 
 of fiction a fact to which Hawthorne alludes in tha 
 dedicatory Preface to " The Snow-Image." 
 
 G. P. L. 
 
FANSHAWE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Our court shall be a little Academe." SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 IN an ancient though not very populous settlement, 
 in a retired corner of one of the Xew England States, 
 arise the walls of a seminary of learning, which, for 
 the convenience of a name, shall be entitled u Harley 
 College." This institution, though the number of its 
 years is inconsiderable compared with the hoar an 
 tiquity of its European sisters, is not without some 
 claims to reverence on the score of age ; for an almost 
 countless multitude of rivals, by many of which its 
 reputation has been eclipsed, have sprung up since its 
 foundation. At no time, indeed, during an existence 
 of nearly a century, has it acquired a very extensive 
 fame ; and circumstances, which need not be particu 
 larized, have, of late years, involved it in a deeper ob 
 scurity. There are now few candidates for the degrees 
 that the college is authorized to bestow. On two of 
 its annual " Commencement Days," there has been a 
 total deficiency of baccalaureates ; and the lawyers 
 and divines, on whom doctorates in their respective 
 professions are gratuitously inflicted, are not accus 
 tomed to consider the distinction as an honor. Yet 
 the sons of this seminary have always maintained their 
 full share of reputation, in whatever paths of life they 
 
74 FANSHAWE. 
 
 trod. Few of them, perhaps, have been deep and 
 finished scholars ; but the college has supplied what 
 the emergencies of the country demanded a set of 
 men more useful in its present state, and whose de 
 ficiency in theoretical knowledge has not been found 
 to imply a want of practical ability. 
 
 The local situation of the college, so far secluded 
 from the sight and sound of the busy world, is pecul 
 iarly favorable to the moral, if not to the literary, 
 habits of its students ; and this advantage probably 
 caused the founders to overlook the inconveniences 
 that were inseparably connected with it. The hum 
 ble edifices rear themselves almost at the farthest ex 
 tremity of a narrow vale, which, winding through a 
 long extent of hill-country, is wellnigh as inaccessible, 
 except at one point, as the Happy Valley of Abyssinia. 
 A stream, that farther on becomes a considerable river, 
 takes its rise at a short distance above the college, and 
 affords, along its wood-fringed banks, many shady re 
 treats, where even study is pleasant, and idleness de 
 licious. The neighborhood of the institution is not 
 quite a solitude, though the few habitations scarcely 
 constitute a village. These consist principally of 
 farm-houses, of rather an ancient date (for the settle 
 ment is much older than the college), and of a little 
 inn, which even in that secluded spot does not fail of 
 a moderate support. Other dwellings are scattered 
 up and down the valley ; but the difficulties of the soil 
 will long avert the evils of a too dense population. 
 The character of the inhabitants does not seem as 
 there was, perhaps, room to anticipate to be in any 
 degree influenced by the atmosphere of Harley Col 
 lege. They are a set of rough and hardy yeomen, 
 much inferior, as respects refinement, to the corre< 
 
FANSHA WE. 75 
 
 sponcling classes in most other parts of our country. 
 This is the more remarkable, as there is scarcely a 
 family in the vicinity that has not provided, for at 
 least one of its sons, the advantages of a " liberal edu 
 cation." 
 
 Having thus described the present state of Harley 
 College, we must proceed to speak of it as it existed 
 about eighty years since, when its foundation was re 
 cent, and its prospects flattering. At the head of the 
 institution, at this period, was a learned and Ortho 
 dox divine, whose fame was in all the churches. He 
 was the author of several works which evinced much 
 erudition and depth of research ; and the public, per 
 haps, thought the more highly of his abilities from a 
 singularity in the purposes to which he applied them, 
 that added much to the curiosity of his labors, though 
 little to their usefulness. But, however fanciful might 
 be his private pursuits, Dr. Melmoth, it was univer 
 sally allowed, was diligent and successful in the arts 
 of instruction. The young men of his charge pros 
 pered beneath his eye, and regarded him with an af 
 fection that was strengthened by the little foibles which 
 occasionally excited their ridicule. The president was 
 assisted in the discharge of his duties by two inferior 
 officers, chosen from the alumni of the college, who, 
 while they imparted to others the knowledge they had 
 already imbibed, pursued the study of divinity under 
 the direction of their principal. Under such auspices 
 the institution grew and flourished. Having at that 
 time but two rivals in the country (neither of them 
 within a considerable distance), it became the general 
 resort of the youth of the Province in which it was sit 
 uated. For several years in succession, its students 
 amounted to nearly fifty, a number which, relatively 
 
76 FANSHAWE. 
 
 to the circumstances of the country, was very consid 
 erable. 
 
 From the exterior of the collegians, an accurate ob 
 server might pretty safely judge how long they had 
 been inmates of those classic walls. The brown cheeks 
 and the rustic dress of some would inform him that 
 they had but recently left the plough to labor in a not 
 less toilsome field ; the grave look, and the intermin 
 gling of garments of a more classic cut, would distin 
 guish those who had begun to acquire the polish of 
 their new residence; and the air of superiority, the 
 paler cheek, the less robust form, the spectacles of 
 green, and the dress, in general of threadbare black, 
 would designate the highest class, who were under 
 stood to have acquired nearly all the science their Alma 
 Mater could bestow, and to be on the point of assum 
 ing their stations in the world. There were, it is true, 
 exceptions to this general description. A few young 
 men had found their way hither from the distant sea 
 ports ; and these were the models of fashion to their 
 rustic companions, over whom they asserted a supe 
 riority in exterior accomplishments, which the fresh 
 though unpolished intellect of the sons of the forest 
 denied them in their literary competitions. A third 
 class, differing widely from both the former, consisted 
 of a few young descendants of the aborigines, to whom 
 an impracticable philanthropy was endeavoring to im 
 part the benefits of civilization. 
 
 If this institution did not offer all the advantages of 
 elder and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were com 
 pensated to its students by the inculcation of regular 
 habits, and of a deep and awful sense of religion, 
 which seldom deserted them in their course through 
 life. The mild and gentle rule of Dr. Melmoth, iiko 
 
FANSHAWE. 77 
 
 that of a father over his children, was more destruc 
 tive to vice than a sterner sway ; and though youth 
 is never without its follies, they have seldom been 
 more harmless than they were here. The students, 
 indeed, ignorant of their own bliss, sometimes wished 
 to hasten the time of their entrance on the business of 
 life ; but they found, in after-years, that many of their 
 happiest remembrances, many of the scenes which they 
 would with least reluctance live over again, referred 
 to the seat of their early studies. The exceptions to 
 this remark were chiefly those whose vices had drawn 
 down, even from that paternal government, a weighty 
 retribution. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth, at the time when he is to be intro 
 duced to the reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke 
 (and in his case it was no light burden) nearly twenty 
 years. The blessing of children, however, had been 
 denied him, a circumstance which he was accustomed 
 to consider as one of the sorest trials that checkered 
 his pathway ; for he was a man of a kind and affec 
 tionate heart, that was continually seeking objects to 
 rest itself upon. He was inclined to believe, also, that 
 a common offspring would have exerted a meliorating 
 influence on the temper of Mrs. Melmoth. the charac 
 ter of whose domestic government often compelled him 
 to call to mind such portions of the wisdom of an 
 tiquity as relate to the proper endurance of the shrew 
 ishness of woman. But domestic comforts, as well as 
 comforts of every other kind, have their drawbacks ; 
 and, so long as the balance is on the side of happiness, 
 a wise man will not murmur. Such was the opinion 
 of Dr. Melmoth ; and with a little aid from philoso 
 phy, and more from religion, he journeyed on content 
 edly through life. When the storm was loud by the 
 
78 FANSHAWE. 
 
 parlor hearth, he had always a sure and quiet retreat 
 in his study ; and there, in his deep though not al 
 ways useful labors, he soon forgot whatever of disa 
 greeable nature pertained to his situation. This small 
 and dark apartment was the only portion of the house 
 to which, since one firmly repelled invasion, Mrs. Mel- 
 moth s omnipotence did not extend. Here (to reverse 
 the words of Queen Elizabeth) there was u but one 
 master and no mistress " ; and that man has little 
 right to complain who possesses so much as one cor 
 ner in the world where he may be happy or miserable, 
 as best suits him. In his study, then, the doctor was 
 accustomed to spend most of the hours that were un 
 occupied by the duties of his station. The flight of 
 time was here as swift as the wind, and noiseless as 
 the snow-flake ; and it was a sure proof of real happi 
 ness that night often came upon the student before he 
 knew it was midday. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth was wearing towards age (having lived 
 nearly sixty years), when he was called upon to as 
 sume a character to which he had as yet been a stran 
 ger. He had possessed in his youth a very dear friend, 
 with whom his education had associated him, and who 
 in his early manhood had been his chief intimate. 
 Circumstances, however, had separated them for nearly 
 thirty years, half of which had been spent by his friend, 
 who was engaged in mercantile pursuits, in a foreign 
 country. The doctor had, nevertheless, retained a warm 
 interest in the welfare of his old associate, though the 
 different nature of their thoughts and occupations had 
 prevented them from corresponding. After a silence 
 of so long continuance, therefore, he was surprised by 
 the receipt of a letter from his friend, containing a 
 request of a most unexpected nature. 
 
FANSHAWE. 79 
 
 Mr. Langton had married rather late in life ; and 
 his wedded bliss had been but of short continuance. 
 Certain misfortunes in trade, when he was a Benedict 
 of three years standing, had deprived him of a large 
 portion of his property, and compelled him, in order 
 to save the remainder, to leave his own country for 
 what he hoped would be but a brief residence in an 
 other. But, though he was successful in the immedi 
 ate objects of his voyage, circumstances occurred to 
 lengthen his stay far beyond the period which he had 
 assigned to it. It was difficult so to arrange his ex 
 tensive concerns that they could be safely trusted to 
 the management of others; and, when this was ef 
 fected, there was another not less powerful obstacle to 
 his return. His affairs, under his own inspection, 
 were so prosperous, and his gains so considerable, 
 that, in the words of the old ballad, " He set his heart 
 to gather gold" ; and to this absorbing passion he sac 
 rificed his domestic happiness. The death of his wife, 
 about four years after his departure, undoubtedly con 
 tributed to give him a sort of dread of returning, 
 which it required a strong effort to overcome. The 
 welfare of his only child he knew would be little af 
 fected by this event ; for she was under the protection 
 of his sister, of whose tenderness he was well assured. 
 But, after a few more years, this sister, also, was 
 taken away by death ; and then the father felt that 
 duty imperatively called upon him to return. He re 
 alized, on a sudden, how much of life he had thrown 
 away in the acquisition of what is only valuable as it 
 contributes to the happiness of life, and how short a 
 time was left him for life s true enjoyments. Still, 
 however, his mercantile habits were too deeply seated 
 to allow him to hazard his present prosperity by any 
 
80 FANSHAWE. 
 
 hasty measures ; nor was Mr. Langton, though capa 
 ble of strong affections, naturally liable to manifest 
 them violently. It was probable, therefore, that many 
 months might yet elapse before he would again tread 
 the shores of his native country. 
 
 But the distant relative, in whose family, since the 
 death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had 
 been long at variance with her father, and had unwill 
 ingly assumed the office of her protector. Mr. Lang- 
 toii s request, therefore, to Dr. Melmoth, was, that his 
 ancient friend (one of the few friends that time had 
 left him) would be as a father to his daughter till he 
 could himself relieve him of the charge. 
 
 The doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend, 
 lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though 
 this was, in truth, one of the very few occasions on 
 which he had determined that his will should be abso 
 lute law. The lady was quick to perceive the firmness 
 of his purpose, and would not (even had she been par 
 ticularly averse to the proposed measure) hazard her 
 usual authority by a fruitless opposition. But, by 
 long disuse, she had lost the power of consenting gra 
 ciously to any wish of her husband s. 
 
 " I see your heart is set upon this matter," she ob 
 served ; " and, in truth, I fear we cannot decently re- 
 ,fuse Mr. Langton s request. I see little good of such 
 a friend, doctor, who never lets one know he is alive 
 till he has a favor to ask." 
 
 " Nay ; but I have received much good at his hand," 
 replied Dr. Melmoth ; " and, if he asked more of me, 
 it should be done with a willing heart. I remember 
 in my youth, when my worldly goods were few and ill 
 managed (I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with 
 none to look after my household), how many times I 
 
FANSHAWE. 81 
 
 have been beholden to him. And see in his letter 
 he speaks of presents, of the produce of the country, 
 which he has sent both to you and me." 
 
 " If the girl were country-bred," continued the lady, 
 " we might give her house-room, and no harm done. 
 Nay, she might even be a help to me ; for Esther, our 
 maid-servant, leaves us at the month s end. But I 
 warrant she knows as little of household matters as 
 you do yourself, doctor." 
 
 " My friend s sister was well grounded in the re 
 familiari" answered her husband ; " and doubtless 
 she hath imparted somewhat of her skill to this dam 
 sel. Besides, the child is of tender years, and will 
 profit much by your instruction and mine." 
 
 " The child is eighteen years of age, doctor," ob 
 served Mrs. Melmoth, " and she has cause to be thank 
 ful that she will have better instruction than yours." 
 
 This was a proposition that Dr. Melmoth did not 
 choose to dispute ; though he perhaps thought that his 
 long and successful experience in the education of the 
 other sex might make him an able coadjutor to his wife 
 in the care of Ellen Langton. He determined to jour 
 ney in person to the seaport where his young charge 
 resided, leaving the concerns of Harley College to the 
 direction of the two tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who, in 
 deed, anticipated with pleasure the arrival of a new 
 subject to her authority, threw no difficulties in the 
 way of his intention. To do her justice, her prepara 
 tions for his journey, and the minute instructions with 
 which she favored him, were such as only a woman s 
 true affection could have suggested. The traveller 
 met with no incidents important to this tale ; and, 
 after an absence of about a fortnight, he and Ellen 
 Langton alighted from their steeds (for on horseback 
 
82 FANS HA WE. 
 
 had the journey been performed) in safety at his own 
 door. 
 
 If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Lang- 
 ton s loveliness, it would achieve what pencil (the pen 
 cils, at least, of the colonial artists who attempted it) 
 never could ; for, though the dark eyes might be 
 painted, the pure and pleasant thoughts that peeped 
 through them could only be seen and felt. But de 
 scriptions of beauty are never satisfactory. It must, 
 therefore, be left to the imagination of the reader to 
 conceive of something not more than mortal, nor, in 
 deed, quite the perfection of mortality, but charming 
 men the more, because they felt, that, lovely as she 
 was, she was of like nature to themselves. 
 
 From the time that Ellen entered Dr. Melmoth s 
 habitation, the sunny days seemed brighter and the 
 cloudy ones less gloomy, than he had ever before 
 known them. He naturally delighted in children ; 
 and Ellen, though her years approached to woman 
 hood, had yet much of the gayety and simple happi 
 ness, because the innocence, of a child. She conse 
 quently became the very blessing of his life, the 
 rich recreation that he promised himself for hours of 
 literary toil. On one occasion, indeed, he even made 
 her his companion in the sacred retreat of his study, 
 with the purpose of entering upon a course of instruc 
 tion in the learned languages. This measure, how 
 ever, he found inexpedient to repeat ; for Ellen, hav 
 ing discovered an old romance among his heavy folios, 
 contrived, by the charm of her sweet voice, to engage 
 his attention therein till all more important concerns 
 were forgotten. 
 
 With Mrs. Melmoth, Ellen was not, of course, so 
 great a favorite as with her husband ; for women can- 
 
FANSHAWE. 83 
 
 not, so readily as men, bestow upon the offspring of 
 others those affections that nature intended for their 
 own ; and the doctor s extraordinary partiality was 
 anything rather than a pledge of his wife s. But El 
 len differed so far from the idea she had previously 
 formed of her, as a daughter of one of the principal 
 merchants, who were then, as now, like nobles in the 
 land, that the stock of dislike which Mrs. Melmoth 
 had provided was found to be totally inapplicable. 
 The young stranger strove so hard, too (and undoubt 
 edly it was a pleasant labor), to win her love, that she 
 was successful to a degree of which the lady herself 
 was not, perhaps, aware. It was soon seen that her 
 education had not been neglected in those points 
 which Mrs. Melmoth deemed most important. The 
 nicer departments of cookery, after sufficient proof of 
 her skill, were committed to her care ; and the doctor s 
 table was now covered with delicacies, simple indeed, 
 but as tempting on account of their intrinsic excel 
 lence as of the small white hands that made them. 
 By such arts as these, which in her were no arts, 
 but the dictates of an affectionate disposition, by 
 making herself useful where it was possible, and 
 agreeable on all occasions, Ellen gained the love of 
 everyone within the sphere of her influence. 
 
 But the maiden s conquests were not confined to the 
 members of Dr. Melmoth s family. She had numer 
 ous admirers among those whose situation compelled 
 them to stand afar off, and gaze upon her loveliness, 
 as if she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but 
 whose warmth they could not feel. These were the 
 young men of Harley College, whose chief opportuni 
 ties of beholding Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when 
 she worshipped with them in the little chapel, which 
 
84 FANS HA WE. 
 
 served the purposes of a church to all the families of 
 the vicinity. There was, about this period (and the 
 fact was undoubtedly attributable to Ellen s influ 
 ence,) a general and very evident decline in the schol 
 arship of the college, especially in regard to the se 
 verer studies. The intellectual powers of the young 
 men seemed to be directed chiefly to the construction 
 of Latin and Greek verse, many copies of which, with 
 a characteristic and classic gallantry, were strewn in 
 the path where Ellen Langton was accustomed to 
 walk. They, however, produced no perceptible effect ; 
 nor were the aspirations of another ambitious youth, 
 who celebrated her perfections in Hebrew, attended 
 with their merited success. 
 
 But there was one young man, to whom circum 
 stances, independent of his personal advantages, af 
 forded a superior opportunity of gaming Ellen s fa 
 vor. He was nearly related to Dr. Melmoth, on 
 which account he received his education at Harley 
 College, rather than at one of the English universities, 
 to the expenses of which his fortune would have been 
 adequate. This connection entitled him to a frequent 
 and familiar access to the domestic hearth of the dig 
 nitary, an advantage of which, since Ellen Langton 
 became a member of the family, he very constantly 
 availed himself. 
 
 Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in 
 most of the particulars of which a lady takes cogni 
 zance, to those of his fellow -students who had come 
 under Ellen s notice. He was tall ; and the natural 
 grace of his manners had been improved (an advan 
 tage which few of his associates could boast) by early 
 intercourse with polished society. His features, also, 
 were handsome, and promised to be manly and d^gni- 
 
FANSHAWE. 85 
 
 fiecl when they should cease to be youthful. His char 
 acter as a scholar was more than respectable, though 
 many youthful follies, sometimes, perhaps, approach 
 ing near to vices, were laid to his charge. But his oc 
 casional derelictions from discipline were not such as 
 to create any very serious apprehensions respecting his 
 future welfare ; nor were they greater than, perhaps, 
 might be expected from a young man who possessed a 
 considerable command of money, and who was, besides, 
 the fine gentleman of the little community of which he 
 was a member, - a character which generally leads its 
 possessor into follies that he would otherwise have 
 avoided. 
 
 With this youth Ellen Langton became familiar, 
 and even intimate ; for he was her only companion, of 
 an age suited to her own, and the difference of sex did 
 not occur to her as an objection. He was her constant 
 companion on all necessary and allowable occasions, 
 and drew upon himself, in consequence, the envy of 
 the college. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 * Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain, 
 Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: 
 As painfully to pore upon a book 
 
 To seek the light of truth, while truth, the while, 
 Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 ON one of the afternoons which afforded to the 
 students a relaxation from their usual labors, Ellen 
 was attended by her cavalier in a little excursion over 
 the rough bridle-roads that led from her new residence. 
 She was an experienced equestrian, a necessary ac 
 complishment at that period, when vehicles of every 
 kind were rare. It was now the latter end of spring ; 
 but the season had hitherto been backward, with only 
 a few warm and pleasant days. The present after 
 noon, however, was a delicious mingling of spring and 
 summer, forming in their union an atmosphere so 
 mild and pure, that to breathe was almost a positive 
 happiness. There was a little alternation of cloud 
 across the brow of heaven, but only so much as to 
 render the sunshine more delightful. 
 
 The path of the young travellers lay sometimes 
 among tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes 
 over naked and desolate hills, whence man had taken 
 the natural vegetation, and then left the soil to its 
 barrenness. Indeed, there is little inducement to a 
 cultivator to labor among the huge stones which there 
 peep forth from the earth, seeming to form a con 
 tinued ledge for several miles. A singular contrast 
 
FANSHAWE. 87 
 
 to this unfavored tract of country is seen in the nar 
 row but luxuriant, though sometimes swampy, strip of 
 interval, on both sides of the stream, that, as has been 
 noticed, flows down the valley. The light and buoy 
 ant spirits of Edward Walcott and Ellen rose higher 
 as they rode on ; and their way was enlivened, wher 
 ever its roughness did not forbid, by their conversa 
 tion and pleasant laughter. But at length Ellen drew 
 her bridle, as they emerged from a thick portion of 
 the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill. 
 
 u We must have ridden far," she observed, " far 
 ther than I thought. It will be near sunset before we 
 can reach home." 
 
 " There are still several hours of daylight," replied 
 Edward Walcott ; " and we will not turn back with 
 out ascending this hill. The prospect from the sum 
 mit is beautifid, and will be particularly so now, in 
 this rich sunlight. Come, Ellen, one light touch of 
 the whip, your pony is as fresh as when we started." 
 
 On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking 
 back in the direction in which they had come, they 
 could see the little stream, peeping forth many times 
 to the daylight, and then shrinking back into the 
 shade. Farther on, it became broad and deep, though 
 rendered incapable of navigation, in this part of its 
 course, by the occasional interruption of rapids. 
 
 " There are hidden wonders of rock and precipice 
 and cave, in that dark forest," said Edward, pointing 
 to the space between them and the river. " If it were 
 earlier in the day, I should love to lead you there. 
 Shall we try the adventure now, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Oh no ! " she replied. " Let us delay no longer. 
 I fear I must even now abide a rebuke from Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, which I have surely deserved. But who is this, 
 who rides on so slowly before us ? " 
 
88 FANS HA WE. 
 
 She pointed to a horseman, whom they had not be 
 fore observed. He was descending the hill; but, as 
 his steed seemed to have chosen his own pace, he made 
 a very inconsiderable progress. 
 
 " Oh, do you not know him ? But it is scarcely pos 
 sible you should," exclaimed her companion. " We 
 must do him the good office, Ellen, of stopping his 
 progress, or he will find himself at the village, a dozen 
 miles farther on, before he resumes his consciousness." 
 
 "Has he then lost his senses? " inquired Miss Lang- 
 ton. 
 
 " Not so, Ellen, if much learning has not made 
 him mad," replied Edward Walcott. " He is a deep 
 scholar and a noble fellow ; but I fear we shall follow 
 him to his grave erelong. Dr. Melmoth has sent him 
 to ride in pursuit of his health. He will never over 
 take it, however, at this pace." 
 
 As he spoke, they had approached close to the sub 
 ject of their conversation ; and Ellen had a moment s 
 space for observation before he started from the ab 
 straction in which he was plunged. The result of her 
 scrutiny was favorable, yet very painful. 
 
 The stranger could scarcely have attained his twen 
 tieth year, and was possessed of a face and form such 
 as Nature bestows on none but her favorites. There 
 was a nobleness on his high forehead, which time 
 would have deepened into majesty; and all his fea 
 tures were formed with a strength and boldness, of 
 which the paleness, produced by study and confine 
 ment, could not deprive them. The expression of his 
 countenance was not a melancholy one : on the con 
 trary, it was proud and high, perhaps triumphant, like 
 one who was a ruler in a world of his own, and inde 
 pendent of the beings that surrounded him. But 9 
 
FANSHAWE. 89 
 
 blight, of which his thin pale cheek, and the brightness 
 of his eye, were alike proofs, seemed to have come over 
 him ere his maturity. 
 
 The scholar s attention was now aroused by the hoof- 
 tramps at his side ; and, starting, he fixed his eves on 
 Ellen, whose young and lovely countenance was full 
 of the interest he had excited. A deep blush immedi 
 ately suffused his cheek, proving how well the glow 
 of health wotdd have become it. There was nothino- 
 
 O 
 
 awkward, however, in his manner ; and, soon recov 
 ering his self-possession, he bowed to her, and would 
 have rode on. 
 
 "Your ride is unusually long to-day, Fanshawe," 
 observed Edward Walcott. " When may we look for 
 your return ? " 
 
 The young man again blushed, but answered, with a 
 smile that had a beautiful effect upon his countenance, 
 " I was not, at the moment, aware in which direction 
 my horse s head was turned. I have to thank you for 
 arresting me in a journey which was likely to prove 
 much longer than I intended.* 
 
 The party had now turned their horses, and were 
 about to resume their ride in a homeward direction ; 
 but Edward perceived that Fanshawe, having lost the 
 excitement of intense thought, now looked weary and 
 dispirited. 
 
 " Here is a cottage close at hand," he observed. 
 " We have ridden far, and stand in need of refresh 
 ment. Ellen, shall we alight ? " 
 
 She saw the benevolent motive of his proposal, and 
 did not hesitate to comply with it. But, as they paused 
 at the cottage door, she could not but observe that its 
 exterior promised few of the comforts which they re 
 quired. Time and neglect seemed to have conspired 
 
90 FANSIIAWE. 
 
 for its ruin ; and, but for a thin curl of smoke from its 
 clay chimney, they could not have believed it to be in 
 habited. A considerable tract of land in the vicinity 
 of the cottage had evidently been, at some former pe 
 riod, under cultivation, but was now overrun by bushes 
 and dwarf pines, among which many huge gray rocks, 
 ineradicable by human art, endeavored to conceal 
 themselves. About half an acre of ground was occu 
 pied by the young blades of Indian-corn, at which a 
 half-starved cow gazed wistfully over the mouldering 
 log -fence. These were the only agricultural tokens. 
 Edward Walcott, nevertheless, drew the latch of the 
 cottage door, after knocking loudly but in vain. 
 
 The apartment which was thus opened to their view 
 was quite as wretched as its exterior had given them 
 reason to anticipate. Poverty was there, with all its 
 necessary and unnecessary concomitants. The intrud 
 ers would have retired had not the hope of affording 
 relief detained them. 
 
 The occupants of the small and squalid apartment 
 were two women, both of them elderly, and, from the 
 resemblance of their features, appearing to be sisters. 
 The expression of their countenances, however, was 
 very different. One, evidently the younger, was seated 
 on the farther side of the large hearth, opposite to the 
 door at which the party stood. She had the sallow 
 look of long and wasting illness; and there was an 
 unsteadiness of expression about her eyes, that imme 
 diately struck the observer. Yet her face was mild 
 and gentle, therein contrasting widely with that of her 
 companion. 
 
 The other woman was bending over a small fire of 
 decayed branches, the flame of which was very dispro 
 portionate to the smoke, scarcely producing heat uffi- 
 
FA XS HA WE. 91 
 
 cient for the preparation of a scanty portion of food. 
 Her profile only was visible to the strangers, though, 
 from a slight motion of her eye, they perceived that 
 she was aware of their presence. Her features were 
 pinched and spare, and wore a look of sullen discon 
 tent, for which the evident wretchedness of her situ 
 ation afforded a sufficient reason. Tins female, not 
 withstanding her years, and the habitual fretfulness 
 (that is more wearing than time), was apparently 
 healthy and robust, with a dry, leathery complexion. 
 A short space elapsed before she thought proper to 
 turn her face towards her visitors ; and she then re 
 garded them with a lowering eye, without speaking, or 
 rising from her chair. 
 
 " We entered," Edward Waleott began to say, u in 
 the hope " But he paused, on perceiving that the 
 sick woman had risen from her seat, and with slow 
 and tottering footsteps was drawing near to him. She 
 took his hand in both her own : and, though he shud 
 dered at the touch of age and disease, he did not at 
 tempt to withdraw it. She then perused all his fea 
 tures, with an expression, at first of eager and hopeful 
 anxiety, which faded by degrees into disappointment. 
 Then, turning from him, she gazed into Fanshawe s 
 countenance with the like eagerness, but with the 
 same result. Lastly, tottering back to her chair, she 
 hid her face and wept bitterly. The strangers, though 
 they knew not the cause of her grief, were deeply af 
 fected ; and Ellen approached the mourner with words 
 of comfort, which, more from their tone than their 
 meaning, produced a transient effect. 
 
 " Do you bring news of him ? " she inquired, raising 
 her head. " Will he return to me ? Shall I see him 
 before I die ? " Ellen knew not what to answer ; and, 
 
92 FANSHAWE. 
 
 ere she could attempt it, the other female prevented 
 her. 
 
 " Sister Butler is wandering in her mind," she said, 
 " and speaks of one she will never behold again. The 
 sight of strangers disturbs her, and you see we have 
 nothing here to offer you." 
 
 The manner of the woman was ungracious ; but her 
 words were true. They saw that their presence could 
 do nothing towards the alleviation of the misery they 
 witnessed ; and they felt that mere curiosity would not 
 authorize a longer intrusion. So soon, therefore, as 
 they had relieved, according to their power, the pov 
 erty that seemed to be the least evil of this cottage, 
 they emerged into the open air. 
 
 The breath of heaven felt sweet to them, and re 
 moved a part of the weight from their young hearts, 
 which were saddened by the sight of so much wretch 
 edness. Perceiving a pure and bright little fountain 
 at a short distance from the cottage, they approached 
 it, and, using the bark of a birch-tree as a cup, par 
 took of its cool waters. They then pursued their 
 homeward ride with such diligence, that, just as the 
 sun was setting, they came in sight of the humble 
 wooden edifice which was dignified with the name of 
 Harley College. A golden ray rested upon the spire 
 of the little chapel, the bell of which sent its tinkling 
 murmur down the valley to summon the wanderers to 
 evening prayers. 
 
 Fanshawe returned to his chamber that night, and 
 lighted his lamp as he had been wont to do. The 
 books were around him which had hitherto been to 
 him like those fabled volumes of Magic, from which 
 the reader could not turn away his eye till death were 
 the consequence of his studies. But there were miac- 
 
FANS HA WE. 93 
 
 customed thoughts in his bosom now ; and to these, 
 leaning his head on one of the unopened volumes, he 
 resigned himself. 
 
 He called up in review the years, that, even at his 
 early age, he had spent in solitary study, in conversa 
 tion with the dead, while he had scorned to mingle 
 with the living world, or to be actuated by any of its 
 motives. He asked himself to what purpose was all 
 this destructive labor, and where was the happiness of 
 superior knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps 
 of a ladder that reached to infinity: he had thrown 
 away his life in discovering, that, after a thousand 
 such lives, he should still know comparatively nothing. 
 He even looked forward with dread though once 
 the thought had been dear to him to the eternity of 
 improvement that lay before him. It seemed now a 
 weary way, without a resting-place and without a ter 
 mination ; and at that moment he would have pre 
 ferred the dreamless sleep of the brutes that perish to 
 man s proudest attribute, of immortality. 
 
 Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected 
 with the world, unconcerned in its feelings, and unin 
 fluenced by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect 
 he probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart 
 coidd have been laid open, there would have been dis 
 covered that dream of imdvinsr fame, which, dream 
 
 . O 
 
 as it is, is more powerful than a thousand realities. 
 But, at any rate, he had seemed, to others and to him 
 self, a solitary being, upon whom the hopes and fears 
 of ordinary men were ineffectual. 
 
 But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the 
 many ties, that, so long as we breathe the common air, 
 (and who shall say how much longer?) unite us to our 
 kind. The sound of a soft, sweet voice, the glance of 
 
94 FANS HA WE. 
 
 a gentle eye, had wrought a change upon him ; and in 
 his ardent mind a few hours had done the work of 
 many. Almost in spite of himself, the new sensation 
 was inexpressibly delightful. The recollection of his 
 ruined health, of his habits (so much at variance with 
 those of the world), all the difficulties that reason, 
 suggested, were inadequate to check the exulting tide 
 of hope and joy. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ** And let the aspiring youth beware of love, 
 Of the smooth glance beware ; for t is too late 
 When on his heart the torrent softness pours ; 
 Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame 
 Dissolves in air away." THOMSON. 
 
 A FEW months passed over the heads of Ellen 
 Langton and her admirers, unproductive of events, 
 that, separately, were of sufficient importance to be 
 related. The summer was now drawing to a close ; 
 and Dr. Melmoth had received information that his 
 friend s arrangements were nearly completed, and that 
 by the next home-bound ship he hoped to return to his 
 native country. The arrival of that ship was daily 
 expected. 
 
 During the time that had elapsed since his first 
 meeting with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not 
 a very remarkable one, in Fanshawe s habits. He 
 was still the same solitary being, so far as regarded 
 his own sex ; and he still confined himself as sedu 
 lously to his chamber, except for one hour the sun 
 set hour of every day. At that period, unless pre 
 vented by the inclemency of the weather, he was ac 
 customed to tread a path that wound along the banks 
 of the stream. He had discovered that this was the 
 most frequent scene of Ellen s walks ; and this it was 
 that drew him thither. 
 
 Their intercourse was at first extremely slight, a 
 bow on the one side, a smile on the other, and a pass 
 ing word from both; and then the student hurried 
 
96 FANS HA WE. 
 
 back to his solitude. But, in course of time, oppoiv 
 tunities occurred for more extended conversation ; so 
 that, at the period with which this chapter is con 
 cerned, Fanshawe was, almost as constantly as Edward 
 Walcott himself, the companion of Ellen s walks. 
 
 His passion had strengthened more than proportion 
 ably to the time that had elapsed since it was con 
 ceived ; but the first glow and excitement which at 
 tended it had now vanished. He had reasoned calmly 
 with himself, and rendered evident to his own mind 
 the almost utter hopelessness of success. He had also 
 made his resolution strong, that he would not even en 
 deavor to win Ellen s love, the result of which, for a 
 thousand reasons, could not be happiness. Firm in 
 this determination, and confident of his power to ad 
 here to it ; feeling, also, that time and absence could 
 not cure his own passion, and having no desire for 
 such a cure, he saw no reason for breaking off the 
 intercourse that was established between Ellen and 
 himself. It was remarkable, that, notwithstanding 
 the desperate nature of his love, that, or something 
 connected with it, seemed to have a beneficial effect 
 upon his health. There was now a slight tinge of 
 color in his cheek, and a less consuming brightness in 
 his eye. Could it be that hope, unknown to himself, 
 was yet alive in his breast ; that a sense of the possi 
 bility of earthly happiness was redeeming him from 
 the grave ? 
 
 Had the character of Ellen Langton s mind been 
 different, there might, perhaps, have been danger to 
 her from an intercourse of this nature with such a be- 
 ing as Fanshawe ; for he was distinguished by many 
 of those asperities around which a woman s affection 
 will often cling. But she was formed to walk in the 
 
FANS HA WE. 97 
 
 calm and quiet paths of life, and to pluck the flowers 
 of happiness from the wayside where they grow. Sin 
 gularity of character, therefore, was not calculated to 
 win her love. She undoubtedly felt an interest in the 
 solitary student, and perceiving, with no great exercise 
 of vanity, that her society drew him from the destruc 
 tive intensity of his studies, she perhaps felt it a duty 
 to exert her influence. But it did not occur to her 
 that her influence had been sufficiently strong to 
 change the whole current of his thoughts and feel 
 ings. 
 
 Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though perhaps 
 not equally, deserved that epithet) had met, as usual, 
 at the close of a sweet summer day, and were standing 
 by the side of the stream, just where it swept into a 
 deep pool. The current, undermining the bank, had 
 formed a recess, which, according to Edward AValcott, 
 afforded at that moment a hiding-place to a trout of 
 noble size. 
 
 " Now would I give the world," he exclaimed with 
 great interest, " for a hook and line, a fish-spear, or 
 any piscatorial instrument of death ! Look, Ellen, 
 you can see the waving of his tail from beneath the 
 bank!" 
 
 " If you had the means of taking him, I should save 
 him from your cruelty, thus," said Ellen, dropping a 
 pebble into the water, just over the fish. " There ! he 
 has darted down the stream. How many pleasant 
 caves and recesses there must be under these banks, 
 where he may be happy I May there not be happi 
 ness in the life of a fish ? " she added, turning with a 
 smile to Fanshawe. 
 
 " There may," he replied, " so long as he lives 
 quietly in the caves and recesses of which you speak, 
 
98 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Yes, there may be happiness, though such as few 
 would envy ; but, then, the hook and line " 
 
 " Which, there is reason to apprehend, will shortly 
 destroy the happiness of our friend the trout," inter 
 rupted Edward, pointing down the stream. " There 
 is an angler on his way tow r ard us, who will intercept 
 him." 
 
 " He seems to care little for the sport, to judge by 
 the pace at which he walks," said Ellen. 
 
 " But he sees, now, that we are observing him, and 
 is willing to prove that he knows something of the 
 art," replied Edward Walcott. " I should think him 
 well acquainted with the stream ; for, hastily as he 
 walks, he has tried every pool and ripple where a fish 
 usually hides. But that point will be decided when 
 he reaches yonder old bare oak-tree." 
 
 "And how is the old tree to decide the question?" 
 inquired Fanshawe. "It is a species of evidence of 
 which I have never before heard." 
 
 " The stream has worn a hollow under its roots," 
 answered Edward, "a most delicate retreat for a 
 trout. Now, a stranger would not discover the spot ; 
 or, if he did, the probable result of a cast would be 
 the loss of hook and line, an accident that has oc 
 curred to me more than once. If, therefore, this 
 angler takes a fish from thence, it follows that he 
 knows the stream." 
 
 They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he kept 
 his way up the bank. He did not pause when he 
 reached the old leafless oak, that formed with its roots 
 an obstruction very common in American streams ; 
 but, throwing his line with involuntary skill as he 
 passed, he not only escaped the various entanglements, 
 but drew forth a fine large fish. . , 4 
 
FANS HA WE. 99 
 
 44 There, Ellen, he has captivated your protecj, the 
 trout, or, at least, one very like him in size," observed 
 Edward. 4i It is singular,* he added, gazing earnestly 
 at the man. 
 
 " Why is it singular ? " inquired Ellen Langton. 
 "Tin s person, perhaps, resides in the neighborhood, 
 and may have fished often in the stream." 
 
 44 Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge whether his 
 life can have been spent in this lonely valley," he re 
 plied. k The glow of many a hotter sun than ours has 
 darkened his brow ; and his step and air have some 
 thing foreign in them, like what we see in sailors who 
 have lived more in other countries than in their own. 
 Is it not so, Ellen ? for your education in a seaport 
 must have given you skill in these matters. But come, 
 let us approach nearer." 
 
 They walked towards the angler, accordingly, who 
 still remained under the oak, apparently engaged in 
 arranging his fishing-tackle. As the party drew nigh, 
 he raised his head, and threw one quick, scrutinizing 
 glance towards them, disclosing, on his part, a set of 
 bold and rather coarse features, weather-beaten, but 
 indicating the age of the owner to be not above thirty. 
 In person he surpassed the middle size, was well set, 
 and evidently strong and active. 
 
 44 Do you meet with much success, sir?" inquired 
 Edward Walcott, when within a convenient distance 
 for conversation. 
 
 4i I have taken but one fish," replied the angler, in 
 an accent which his hearers could scarcely determine 
 to be foreign, or the contrary. 44 I am a stranger to 
 the stream, and have doubtless passed over many a 
 likely place for sport." 
 
 44 You have an angler s eye, sir," rejoined Edward. 
 
100 FANSHA WE. 
 
 " I observed that you made your casts as if you had 
 often trod these banks, and I could scarcely have 
 guided you better myself." 
 
 " Yes, I have learned the art, and I love to practise 
 it," replied the man. " But will not the young lady 
 try her skill ? " he continued, casting a bold eye on 
 Ellen. " The fish will love to be drawn out by such 
 white hands as those." 
 
 Ellen shrank back, though almost imperceptibly, 
 from the free bearing of the man. It seemed meant 
 for courtesy; but its effect was excessively disagree 
 able. Edward Walcott, who perceived and coincided 
 in Ellen s feelings, replied to the stranger s proposal. 
 
 " The young lady will not put the gallantry of the 
 fish to the proof, sir," he said, " and she will therefore 
 have no occasion for your own." 
 
 " I shall take leave to hear my answer from the 
 young lady s own mouth," answered the stranger, 
 haughtily. " If you will step this way, Miss Langton " 
 (here he interrupted himself), "if you will cast the 
 line by yonder sunken log, I think you will meet with 
 success." 
 
 Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and line to 
 Ellen. She at first drew back, then hesitated, but 
 finally held out her hand to receive them. In thus 
 complying with the stranger s request, she was ac* 
 tuated by a desire to keep the peace, which, as her 
 notice of Edward Walcott s crimsoned cheek and 
 flashing eye assured her, was considerably endangered. 
 The angler led the way to the spot which he had 
 pointed out, which, though not at such a distance from 
 Ellen s companions but that words in a common tone 
 could be distinguished, was out of the range of a 
 lowered voice. 
 
FANSHAWE. 101 
 
 Edward Walcott and the student remained by the 
 oak : the former biting his lip with vexation ; the lat 
 ter, whose abstraction always vanished where Ellen was 
 concerned, regarding her and the stranger with fixed 
 and silent attention. The young men could at first 
 hear the words that the angler addressed to Ellen. 
 They related to the mode of managing the rod ; and 
 she made one or two casts under his direction. At 
 length, however, as if to offer his assistance, the man 
 advanced close to her side, and seemed to speak, but 
 in so low a tone, that the sense of what he uttered 
 was lost before it reached the oak. But its effect upon 
 Ellen was immediate and very obvious. Her eyes 
 flashed ; and an indignant blush rose high on her 
 cheek, giving to her beauty a haughty brightness, of 
 which the gentleness of her disposition in general de 
 prived it. The next moment, however, she seemed to 
 recollect herself, and, restoring the angling-rod to its 
 owner, she turned away calmly, and approached her 
 companions. 
 
 44 The evening breeze grows chill ; and mine is a 
 dress for a summer day," she observed. " Let us walk 
 homeward." 
 
 " Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze alone that 
 sends you homeward ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 At this moment the angler, who had resumed, and 
 seemed to be intent upon his occupation, drew a fish 
 from the pool, which he had pointed out to Ellen. 
 
 " I told the young lady," he exclaimed, " that, if 
 she woidd listen to me a moment longer, she would be 
 repaid for her trouble ; and here is the proof of my 
 words." 
 
 " Come, let us hasten towards home," cried Ellen, 
 eagerly ; and she took Edward Walcott s arm, with a 
 
102 FANSHA WE. 
 
 freedom that, at another time, would have enchanted 
 him. He at first seemed inclined to resist her wishes, 
 but complied, after exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, 
 a glance with the stranger, the meaning of which the 
 latter appeared perfectly to understand. Fanshawe 
 also attended her. Their walk towards Dr. Melmoth s 
 dwelling was almost a silent one ; and the few words 
 that passed between them did not relate to the adven 
 ture which occupied the thoughts of each. On arriv 
 ing at the house, Ellen s attendants took leave of her, 
 and retired. 
 
 Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe s observation 
 with little difficulty, hastened back to the old oak-tree. 
 From the intelligence with which the stranger had re 
 ceived his meaning glance, the young man had sup 
 posed that he would here await his return. But the 
 banks of the stream, upward and downward, so far as 
 his eye could reach, were solitary. He could see only 
 his own image in the water, where it swept into a silent 
 depth; and could hear only its ripple, where stones 
 and sunken trees impeded its course. The object of 
 his search might, indeed, have found concealment 
 among the tufts of alders, or in the forest that was 
 near at hand ; but thither it was in vain to pursue 
 him. The angler had apparently set little store by 
 the fruits of his assumed occupation ; for the last fish 
 that he had taken lay, yet alive, on the bank, gasping 
 for the element to which Edward was sufficiently com 
 passionate to restore him. After watching him as he 
 glided down the stream, making feeble efforts to re 
 sist its current, the youth turned away, and sauntered 
 slowly towards the college. 
 
 Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, found 
 Dr. Melmoth s little parlor unoccupied ; that gentle- 
 
FANSHAWE. 103 
 
 man being deeply engaged in his study, and his lady 
 busied in her domestic affairs. The evening, notwith 
 standing Ellen s remark concerning the chillness of 
 the breeze, was almost sultry ; and the windows of the 
 apartment were thrown open. At one of these, which 
 looked into the garden, she seated herself, listening, 
 almost unconsciously, to the monotonous music of a 
 thousand insects, varied occasionally by the voice of a 
 whippoorwill, who, as the day departed, was just com 
 mencing his song. A dusky tint, as yet almost im 
 perceptible, was beginning to settle on the surround 
 ing objects, except where they were opposed to the 
 purple and golden clouds, which the vanished sun had 
 made the brief inheritors of a portion of his bright 
 ness. In these gorgeous vapors, Ellen s fancy, in the 
 interval of other thoughts, pictured a fairy-laud, and 
 longed for wings to visit it. 
 
 But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed 
 first a dull purple, and then a sullen gray tint, Ellen s 
 thoughts recurred to the adventure of the angler, 
 which her imagination was inclined to invest with an 
 undue singularity. It was, however, sufficiently un 
 accountable that an entire stranger should venture to 
 demand of her a private audience ; and she assigned, 
 in turn, a thousand motives for such a request, none 
 of which were in any degree satisfactory. Her most 
 prevailing thought, though she could not justify it to 
 her reason, inclined her to believe that the angler was 
 a messenger from her father. But wherefore he should 
 deem it necessary to communicate any intelligence 
 that he might possess only by means of a private in 
 terview, and without the knowledge of her friends, 
 was a mystery she could not solve. In this view of 
 the matter, however, she half regretted that her iu- 
 
104 FANSHAWE. 
 
 stinctive delicacy had impelled her so suddenly to 
 break oft their conference, admitting, in the secrecy 
 of her own mind, that, if an opportunity were again 
 to occur, it might not again be shunned. As if that 
 unuttered thought had power to conjure up its object, 
 she now became aware of a form standing in the gar 
 den, at a short distance from the window where she 
 sat. The dusk had deepened, during Ellen s abstrac 
 tion, to such a degree, that the man s features were 
 not perfectly distinguishable ; but the maiden was not 
 long in doubt of his identity, for he approached, and 
 spoke in the same low tone in which he had addressed 
 her when they stood by the stream. 
 
 " Do you still refuse my request, when its object is 
 but your own good, and that of one who should be 
 most dear to you ? " he asked. 
 
 Ellen s first impulse had been to cry out for assist 
 ance ; her second was to fly : but, rejecting both these 
 measures, she determined to remain, endeavoring to 
 persuade herself that she was safe. The quivering of 
 her voice, however, when she attempted to reply, be 
 trayed her apprehensions. 
 
 u I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger," 
 she said. " If you bring news from from my father, 
 why is it not told to Dr. Melmoth ? " 
 
 " Because what I have to say is for your ear alone," 
 was the reply ; " and if you would avoid misfortune 
 now, and sorrow hereafter, you will not refuse to hear 
 me." 
 
 "And does it concern my father?" asked Ellen, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " It does most deeply," answered the stranger. 
 
 She meditated a moment, and then replied, " I will 
 not refuse, I will hear but speak quickly." 
 
FAXSHAWE. 105 
 
 " "We are in danger of interruption in this plaoe > 
 and that would be fatal to my errand, 7 said the 
 stranger. " I will await you in the garden." 
 
 With these words, and giving her no opportunity 
 for reply, he drew back ; and his form faded from her 
 eyes. This precipitate retreat from argument was the 
 most probable method that he could have adopted of 
 gaining his end. He had awakened the strongest in 
 terest in Ellen s mind ; and he calculated justly in 
 supposing that she would consent to an interview upon 
 his own terms. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth had followed his own fancies in the 
 mode of laying out his garden : and, in consequence, 
 the plan that had undoubtedly existed in his mind was 
 utterly incomprehensible to every one but himself. It 
 was an intermixture of kitchen and flower garden, a 
 labyrinth of winding paths, bordered by hedges, and 
 impeded by shrubbery. Many of the original trees 
 of the forest were still flourishing among the exotics 
 which the doctor had transplanted thither. It was 
 not without a sensation of fear, stronger than she had 
 ever before experienced, that Ellen Langton found 
 herself in this artificial wilderness, and in the presence 
 of the mysterious stranger. The dusky light deepened 
 the lines of his dark, strong features ; and Ellen fan 
 cied that his countenance wore a wilder and a fiercer 
 look than when she had met him by the stream. He 
 perceived her agitation, and addressed her in the soft 
 est tones of which his voice was capable. 
 
 "Compose yourself," he said; "you have nothing 
 to fear from me. But we are in open view from the 
 house, where we now stand ; and discovery would not 
 be without danger to both of us." 
 
 " No eye can see u? here," said Ellen, trembling at 
 
106 FANSHAWE. 
 
 the truth of her own observation, when they stood 
 beneath a gnarled, low-branched pine, which Dr. Mel- 
 moth s ideas of beauty had caused him to retain in his 
 garden. " Speak quickly ; for I dare follow you no 
 farther." 
 
 The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary ; and the 
 stranger delayed no longer to explain his errand. 
 
 " Your father," he began, " do you not love him ? 
 Would you do aught for his welfare ? " 
 
 " Everything that a father could ask I would do, ? 
 exclaimed Ellen, eagerly. " Where is my father ? and 
 when shall I meet him ? " 
 
 " It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall 
 meet him in a few days or never." 
 
 "Never! " repeated Ellen. "Is he ill? Is he in 
 clanger? " 
 
 " He is in danger," replied the man, " but not from 
 illness. Your father is a ruined man. Of all his 
 friends, but one remains to him. That friend has 
 travelled far to prove if his daughter has a daughter s 
 affection." 
 
 " And what is to be the proof ? " asked Ellen, with 
 more calmness than the stranger had anticipated ; for 
 she possessed a large fund of plain sense, which re 
 volted against the mystery of these proceedings. Such 
 a course, too, seemed discordant with her father s char 
 acter, whose strong mind and almost cold heart were 
 little likely to demand, or even to pardon, the romance 
 of affection. 
 
 " This letter will explain," was the reply to Ellen s 
 question. " You will see that it is in your father s 
 hand ; and that may gain your confidence, though I 
 am doubted." 
 
 She received the letter ; and many of her suspicions 
 
F ANSI! A WE. 107 
 
 of the stranger s truth were vanquished by the ap 
 parent openness of his manner. He was preparing 
 to speak further, but paused, for a footstep was now 
 heard, approaching from the lower part of the garden. 
 From their situation, at some distance from the 
 path, and in the shade of the tree, they had a fair 
 chance of eluding discovery from any unsuspecting 
 passenger ; and, when Ellen saw that the intruder was 
 Fanshawe, she hoped that his usual abstraction would 
 assist their concealment. 
 
 But, as the student advanced along the path, his air 
 was not that of one whose deep inward thoughts with 
 drew his attention from all outward objects. He 
 rather resembled the hunter, on the watch for his 
 game ; and, while he was yet at a distance from Ellen, 
 a wandering gust of wind waved her white garment, 
 and betrayed her. 
 
 " It is as I feared," said Fanshawe to himself. He 
 then drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with a calm 
 authority that became him well, notwithstanding that 
 his years scarcely exceeded her own. " Miss Lang- 
 ton," he inquired, " what do you here at such an hour, 
 and with such a companion ? " 
 
 Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she deemed 
 the unauthorized intrusion of Fanshawe in her affairs ; 
 but his imposing manner and her own confusion pre 
 vented her from replying. 
 
 " Permit me to lead you to the house," he continued, 
 in the words of a request, but in the tone of a com 
 mand. " The dew hangs dank and heavy on these 
 branches ; and a longer stay would be more danger 
 ous than you are aware." 
 
 Ellen would fain have resisted ; but though the 
 tears hung as heavy on lier eyelashes, between shame 
 
108 FANSHA WE. 
 
 and anger, as the dew upon the leaves, she felt com 
 pelled to accept the arm that he offered her. But the 
 stranger, who, since Fanshawe s approach, had re 
 mained a little apart, now advanced. 
 
 " You speak as one in authority, young man," he 
 said. " Have you the means of compelling obedience ? 
 Does your power extend to men ? Or do you rule 
 only over simple girls ? Miss Langton is under my 
 protection, and, till you can bend me to your will, she 
 shall remain so." 
 
 Fanshawe turned calmly, and fixed his eyes on the 
 stranger. " Retire, sir," was all he said. 
 
 Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a. mysteri 
 ous and unearthly power in Fanshawe s voice ; for she 
 saw that the stranger endeavored in vain, borne down 
 by the influence of a superior mind, to maintain the 
 boldness of look and bearing that seemed natural to 
 him. He at first made a step forward, then muttered 
 a few half -audible words ; but, quailing at length be 
 neath the young man s bright and steady eye, he 
 turned and slowly withdrew. 
 
 Fanshawe remained silent a moment after his oppo 
 nent had departed-, and, when he next spoke, it was 
 in a tone of depression. Ellen observed, also, that his 
 countenance had lost its look of pride and authority ; 
 and he seemed faint and exhausted. The occasion 
 that called forth his energies had passed ; and they 
 had left him. 
 
 " Forgive me, Miss Langton," he said almost hum 
 bly, " if my eagerness to serve you has led me too far. 
 There is evil in this stranger, more than your pure 
 mind can conceive. I know not what has been his 
 errand ; but let me entreat you to put confidence in 
 those to whose care your father has intrusted, you, 
 
FANSHAWE. 109 
 
 Q r jf I or or Edward "NValcott But I have 
 no right to advise you ; and your own calm thoughts 
 will guide you best." 
 
 He said no more ; and, as Ellen did not reply, they 
 reached the house, and parted in silence. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " The seeds by nature planted 
 Take a deep root in the soil, and though for a time 
 The trenchant share and tearing harrow may 
 Sweep all appearance of them from the surface, 
 Yet with the first warm rains of spring they 11 shoot, 
 And with their rankness smother the good grain. 
 Heaven grant, it may n t be so with him." 
 
 RICHES. 
 
 THE scene of this tale must now be changed to the 
 little inn, which at that period, as at the present, was 
 situated in the vicinity of Haiiey College. The site 
 of the modern establishment is the same with that of 
 the ancient ; but everything of the latter that had 
 been built by hands has gone to decay and been re 
 moved, and only the earth beneath and around it re 
 mains the same. The modern building, a house of 
 two stories, after a lapse of twenty years, is yet unfin 
 ished. On this account, it has retained the appella 
 tion of the " New Inn," though, like many who have 
 frequented it, it has grown old ere its maturity. Its 
 dingy whiteness, and its apparent superfluity of win 
 dows (many of them being closed with rough boards), 
 give it somewhat of a dreary look, especially in a wet 
 day. 
 
 The ancient inn was a house, of which the eaves ap 
 proached within about seven feet of the ground ; while 
 the roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an angle 
 at several times that height. It was a comfortable 
 and pleasant abode to the weary traveller, both in 
 summer and winter ; for the frost never ventured 
 
FANSHAWE. Ill 
 
 within the sphere of its huge hearths ; and it was pro 
 tected from the heat of the sultry season by three large 
 elms that swept the roof with their long branches, and 
 seemed to create a breeze where there was not one. 
 The device upon the sign, suspended from one of these 
 trees, was a hand holding a long-necked bottle, and 
 was much more appropriate than the present unmean 
 ing representation of a black eagle. But it is neces 
 sary to speak rather more at length of the landlord 
 than of the house over which he presided. 
 
 Husfli Crombie was one for whom most of the wise 
 
 O 
 
 men, who considered the course of his early years, had 
 predicted the gallows as an end before he should arrive 
 at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been 
 deceived was evident from the fact that the doomed 
 man had now passed the fortieth year, and was in 
 more prosperous circumstances than most of those who 
 had wagged their tongues against him. Yet the fail 
 ure of their forebodings was more remarkable than 
 their fulfilment would have been. 
 
 He had been distinguished, almost from his earliest 
 infancy, by those precocious accomplishments, which, 
 because they consist in an imitation of the vices and 
 follies of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything 
 of men. He seemed to have received from nature the 
 convivial talents, which, whether natural or acquired, 
 are a most dangerous possession ; and, before his twelfth 
 year, he was the welcome associate of all the idle and 
 dissipated of his neighborhood, and especially of those 
 who haunted the tavern of which he had now become 
 the landlord. Under this course of education, Hugh 
 Crombie grew to youth and manhood ; and the lovers 
 of good words could only say in his favor, that he was 
 a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, and 
 
112 FA XS HA WE. 
 
 that, if he should reform, few would have a better 
 chance of prosperity than he. 
 
 The former clause of this modicum of praise (if 
 praise it may be termed) was indisputable ; but it may 
 be doubted, whether, under any circumstances where 
 his success depended on his own exertions, Hugh would 
 have made his way well through the world. He was 
 one of those unfortunate persons, who, instead of be 
 ing perfect in any single art or occupation, are super 
 ficial in many, and who are supposed to possess a 
 larger share of talent than other men, because it con 
 sists of numerous scraps, instead of a single mass. 
 He was partially acquainted with most of the manual 
 arts that gave bread to others ; but not one of them, 
 nor all of them, would give bread to him. By some 
 fatality, the only two of his multifarious accomplish 
 ments in which his excellence was generally conceded 
 were both calculated to keep him poor rather than to 
 make him rich. He was a musician and a poet. 
 
 There are yet remaining in that portion of the coun 
 try many ballads and songs, set to their own pe 
 culiar tunes, the authorship of which is attributed 
 to him. In general, his productions were upon sub 
 jects of local and temporary interest, and would con 
 sequently require a bulk of explanatory notes to ren 
 der them interesting or intelligible to the world at 
 large. A considerable proportion of the remainder are 
 Anacreontics ; though, in their construction, Hugh 
 Crombie imitated neither the Teian nor any other 
 bard. These latter have generally a coarseness and 
 sensuality intolerable to minds even of no very fastidi 
 ous delicacy. But there are two or three simple little 
 songs, into which a feeling and a natural pathos have 
 found their way, that still retain their influence -pver 
 
FANSHAWE. 113 
 
 the heart. These, after two or three centuries, may 
 perhaps be precious to the collectors of our early po 
 etry. At any rate, Hugh Crombie s effusions, tavern- 
 haunter and vagrant though he was, have gained a 
 continuance of fame (confined, indeed, to a narrow 
 section of the country), which many who called them 
 selves poets then, and would have scornecf such a 
 brother, have failed to equal. 
 
 During the long winter evenings, when the farmers 
 were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted 
 guest ; for none could while away the hours more skil 
 fully than he. The winter, therefore, was his season 
 of prosperity ; in which respect he differed from the 
 butterflies and useless insects, to which he otherwise 
 bore a resemblance. During the cold months, a very 
 desirable alteration for the better appeared in his out 
 ward man. His cheeks were plump and sanguine ; 
 his eyes bright and cheerful; and the tip of his nose 
 glowed with a Bardolphian fire, a flame, indeed, 
 which Hugh was so far a vestal as to supply with its 
 necessary fuel at all seasons of the year. But, as the 
 spring advanced, he assumed a lean and sallow look, 
 wilting and fading in the sunshine that brought life 
 and joy to every animal and vegetable except himself. 
 His winter patrons eyed him with an austere regard ,- 
 and some even practised upon him the modern and 
 fashionable courtesy of the " cut direct." 
 
 Yet, after all, there was good, or something that Na 
 ture intended to be so, in the poor outcast, some 
 lovely flowers, the sweeter even for the weeds that 
 choked them. An instance of this was his affection 
 for an aged father, whose whole support was the bro 
 ken reed, his son. Notwithstanding his own neces 
 sities, Hugh contrived to provide food and raiment for 
 
 VOL. XI. 8 
 
114 FANSHA WE. 
 
 the old man : how, it would be difficult to say, and 
 perhaps as well not to inquire. He also exhibited 
 traits of sensitiveness to neglect and insult, and of 
 gratitude for favors ; both of which feelings a course 
 of life like his is usually quick to eradicate. 
 
 At length the restraint for such his father had 
 ever been upon Hugh Crombie s conduct was re 
 moved by death ; and then the wise men and the old 
 began to shake their heads ; and they who took pleas 
 ure in the follies, vices, and misfortunes of their fel 
 low-creatures, looked for a speedy gratification. They 
 were disappointed, however ; for Hugh had apparently 
 determined, that, whatever might be his catastrophe, 
 he would meet it among strangers, rather than at 
 home. Shortly after his father s death, he disappeared 
 altogether from the vicinity ; and his name became, in 
 the course of years, an unusual sound, where once the 
 lack of other topics of interest had given it a consider 
 able degree of notoriety. Sometimes, however, when 
 the winter blast was loud round the lonely farm-house, 
 its inmates remembered him who had so often chased 
 away the gloom of such an hour, and, though with 
 little expectation of its fulfilment, expressed a wish to 
 behold him again. 
 
 Yet that wish, formed, perhaps, because it appeared 
 so desperate, was finally destined to be gratified. One 
 summer evening, about two years previous to the 
 period of this tale, a man of sober and staid deport 
 ment, mounted upon a white horse, arrived at the 
 Hand and Bottle, to which some civil or military meet 
 ing had chanced, that day, to draw most of the inhab 
 itants of the vicinity. The stranger was well though 
 plainly dressed, and anywhere but in a retired coun 
 try town would have attracted no particular attention ? 
 
FANSHA WE. 115 
 
 but here, where a traveller was not of every-day occur 
 rence, he was soon surrounded by a little crowd, who, 
 when his eye was averted, seized the opportunity dili 
 gently to peruse his person. He was rather a thick 
 set man, but with no superfluous flesh ; his hair was 
 of iron-gray ; he had a few wrinkles ; his face was so 
 deeply sunburnt, that, excepting a half -smothered glow 
 on the tip of his nose, a dusky yellow was the only 
 apparent hue. As the people gazed, it was observed 
 that the elderly men, and the men of substance, gat 
 themselves silently to their steeds, and hied homeward 
 with an unusual degree of haste ; till at length the inn 
 was deserted, except by a few wretched objects to 
 whom it was a constant resort. These, instead of re 
 treating, drew closer to the traveller, peeping anxiously 
 into his face, and asking, ever and anon, a question, in 
 order to discover the tone of his voice. At length, 
 with one consent, and as if the recognition had at 
 once burst upon them, they hailed their old boon-com 
 panion, Hugh Crombie, and, leading him into the inn, 
 did him the honor to partake of a cup of welcome at 
 his expense. 
 
 But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not 
 very reputable acquaintances who alone acknowledged 
 him, they speedily discovered that he was an altered 
 man. He partook with great moderation of the liquor 
 for which he was to pay ; he declined all their flatter 
 ing entreaties for one of his old songs ; and finally, 
 being urged to engage in a game at all-fours, he calmly 
 observed, almost in the words of an old clergyman on 
 a like occasion, that his principles forbade a profane 
 appeal to the decision by lot. 
 
 On the next Sabbath Hugh Crombie made his ap 
 pearance at public worship in the chapel of Haiiey 
 
116 FANSHAWE. 
 
 College ; and here his outward demeanor was unex- 
 ceptionably serious and devout, a praise which, on 
 that particular occasion, could be bestowed on few be 
 sides. From these favorable symptoms, the old estab 
 lished prejudices against him began to waver ; and as 
 he seemed not to need, and to have no intention to ask, 
 the assistance of any one, he was soon generally ac 
 knowledged by the rich as well as by the poor. His 
 account of his past life, and of his intentions for the 
 future, was brief, but not unsatisfactory. He said 
 that, since his departure, he had been a seafaring man, 
 and that, having acquired sufficient property to render 
 him easy in the decline of his days, he had returned 
 to live and die in the town of his nativity. 
 
 There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was 
 most interested to please, who seemed perfectly satis 
 fied of the verity of his reformation. This was the 
 landlady of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had 
 left a gay, and, even at thirty -five, a rather pretty 
 wife, and whom, on his return, he found a widow of 
 fifty, fat, yellow, wrinkled, and a zealous member of 
 the church. She, like others, had, at first, cast a cold 
 eye on the wanderer ; but it shortly became evident 
 to close observers, that a change was at work in the 
 pious matron s sentiments respecting her old acquain 
 tance. She was now careful to give him his morning 
 dram from her own peculiar bottle, to fill his pipe 
 from her private box of Virginia, and to mix for 
 him the sleeping-cup in which her late husband had 
 delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh Crombie did 
 partake with a wise and cautious moderation, that, 
 while it proved them to be welcome, expressed his 
 fear of trespassing on her kindness. For the sake of 
 brevity, it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks 
 
FANSHAWE. 117 
 
 after Hugh s return, a writing appeared on one of the 
 elm-trees in front of the tavern (where, as the place 
 of greatest resort, such notices were usually displayed) 
 setting forth that marriage was intended between Hugh 
 Cronibie and the Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the 
 ceremony, which made Hugh a landholder, a house 
 holder, and a substantial man, in due time took place. 
 
 As a landlord, his general conduct was very praise 
 worthy. He was moderate in his charges, and atten 
 tive to his guests ; he allowed no gross and evident 
 disorders in his house, and practised none himself ; he 
 was kind and charitable to such as needed food and 
 lodging, and had not wherewithal to pay, for with 
 these his experience had doubtless given him a fellow- 
 feeling. He was also sufficiently attentive to his wife ; 
 though it must be acknowledged that the religious zeal 
 which had had a considerable influence in gaining her 
 affections grew, by no moderate degrees, less fervent. 
 It was whispered, too, that the new landlord could, 
 when time, place, and company were to his mind, up 
 raise a song as merrily, and drink a glass as jollily, 
 as in the days of yore. These were the weightiest 
 charges that could now be brought against him ; and 
 wise men thought, that, whatever might have been the 
 evil of his past life, he had returned with a desire 
 (which years of vice, if they do not sometimes produce, 
 do not always destroy) of being honest, if opportunity 
 should offer ; and Hugh had certainly a fair one. 
 
 On the afternoon previous to the events related in 
 the last chapter, the personage whose introduction to 
 the reader has occupied so large a space was seated 
 under one of the elms in front of his dwelling. The 
 bench which now sustained him, and on which were 
 carved the names of many former occupants, waa 
 
118 FANSHA WE. 
 
 Hugh Crombie s favorite lounging-place, unless when 
 his attentions were required by his guests. No de 
 mand had that day been made upon the hospitality of 
 the Hand and Bottle ; and the landlord was just then 
 murmuring at the unfrequency of employment. The 
 slenderness of his profits, indeed, were no part of his 
 concern ; for the Widow Hutchins s chief income was 
 drawn from her farm, nor was Hugh ever miserly in 
 clined. But his education and habits had made him 
 delight in the atmosphere of the inn, and in the society 
 of those who frequented it ; and of this species of en 
 joyment his present situation certainly did not afford 
 an overplus. 
 
 Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of 
 indolence and ease, as he sat under the old tree, pollut 
 ing the sweet air wifh his pipe, and taking occasional 
 draughts from a brown jug that stood near at hand. 
 The basis of the Dotation contained in this vessel was 
 harsh old cider, Vrom the widow s own orchard; but 
 its coldness and icidity were rendered innocuous by 
 a due proportion of yet older brandy. The result of 
 this mixture was extremely felicitous, pleasant to the 
 taste, and producing a tingling sensation on the coats 
 of the stomach, uncommonly delectable to so old a 
 toper as Hugh. 
 
 The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the 
 road that led down the valley in the direction of the 
 village ; and at last, when the sun was wearing west 
 ward, he discovered the approach of a horseman. He 
 immediately replenished his pipe, took a long draught 
 from the brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who 
 officiated in most of the subordinate departments of 
 the inn, and who was now to act as hostler, and then 
 prv^ared himself for confabulation with his guest,-* 
 
FANSHAWE. 119 
 
 " He comes from the sea-coast," said Hugh to him 
 self, as the traveller emerged into open view on the 
 level road. "He is two days in advance of the post, 
 with its news of a fortnight old. Pray Heaven he 
 prove communicative ! " Then, as the stranger drew 
 nigher, " One would judge that his dark face had seen 
 as hot a sun as mine. He has felt the burning breeze 
 of the Indies, East and West, I warrant him. Ah, 
 I see we shall send away the evening merrily ! Not 
 a penny shall come out of his purse, that is, if 
 his, tongue runs glibly. Just the man I was praying 
 for Now may the Devil take me if he is ! " inter 
 rupted Hugh, in accents of alarm, and starting from 
 his seat. He composed his countenance, however, 
 with the power that long habit and necessity had 
 given him over his emotions, and again settled himself 
 quietly on the bench. 
 
 The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, 
 alighted, and gave his horse to the ragged hostler. 
 He then advanced towards the door near which Hugh 
 was seated, whose agitation was manifested by no per 
 ceptible sign, except by the shorter and more frequent 
 puffs with which he plied his pipe. Their eyes did 
 not meet till just as the stranger was about to enter, 
 when he started apparently with a surprise and alarm 
 similar to those of Hugh Cronibie. He recovered 
 himself, however, sufficiently to return the nod of rec 
 ognition with which he was favored, and immediately 
 entered the house, the landlord following. 
 
 " This way, if you please, sir," said Hugh. " You 
 will find this apartment cool and retired." 
 
 He ushered his guest into a small room the windows 
 of which were darkened by the creeping plants that 
 clustered round them. Entering, and closing the 
 
120 FANSHAWE. 
 
 door, the two gazed at each other a little space with 
 out speaking. The traveller first broke silence. 
 
 " Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie ? " he 
 said. The landlord extended his hand as a practical 
 reply to the question. The stranger took it, though 
 with no especial appearance of cordiality. 
 
 " Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood," he said, in 
 the tone of one who would willingly have found it 
 otherwise. " And how happens this, friend Hugh ? 
 I little thought to meet you again in this life. When 
 I last heard from you, your prayers were said, and 
 you were bound for a better world." 
 
 " There would have been small danger of your meet 
 ing me there," observed the landlord, dryly. 
 
 " It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh," replied the 
 traveller. " For which reason I regret that your voy 
 age was delayed." 
 
 " Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your old 
 comrade," said Hugh Crombie. " The world is wide 
 / enough for both of us ; and why should you wish me 
 out of it?" 
 
 " Wide as it is," rejoined the stranger, " we have 
 stumbled against each other, to the pleasure, of 
 neither of us, if I may judge from your countenance. 
 Methinks I am not a welcome guest at Hugh Crom- 
 bie s inn." 
 
 " Your welcome must depend on the cause of your 
 coming, and the length of your stay," replied the land 
 lord. 
 
 " And what if I come to settle down among these 
 quiet hills where I was born?" inquired the other. 
 " What if I, too, am weary of the life we have led, 
 or afraid, perhaps, that it will come to too speedy an 
 end ? Shall I have your good word, Hugh,, to set* me 
 
FANSHAWE. 121 
 
 up in an honest way of life ? Or will you make me a 
 partner in your trade, since you know my qualifica 
 tions ? A pretty pair of publicans should we be ; and 
 the quart pot would have little rest between us." 
 
 " It may be as well to replenish it now," observed 
 Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, and giving 
 orders accordingly. " A meeting between old friends 
 should never be dry. But for the partnership, it is a 
 matter in which you must excuse me. Heaven knows 
 I find it hard enough to be honest, with no tempter 
 but the Devil and my own thoughts ; and, if I have 
 you also to contend with, there is little hope of me." 
 
 "Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were 
 always like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five-inch 
 cables," replied the traveller. " I am to understand, 
 then, that you refuse my offer ? " 
 
 " Not only that ; but, if you have chosen this valley 
 as your place of rest, Dame Crombie and I must look 
 through the world for another. But hush ! here comes 
 the wine." 
 
 The hostler, in the performance of another part of 
 his duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the 
 liquor that Hugh had ordered. The wine of that pe 
 riod, owing to the comparative lowness of the duties, 
 was of more moderate price than in the mother-coun 
 try, and of purer and better quality than at the present 
 day. 
 
 "The stuff is well chosen, Hugh," observed the 
 guest, after a draught large enough to authorize an 
 opinion. " You have most of the requisites for your 
 present station ; and I should be sorry to draw you 
 from it. I trust there will be no need." 
 
 " Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither, 
 observed his comrade. 
 
122 FANSHAWE. 
 
 " Yes ; and you would fain be informed of it," re 
 plied the traveller. He arose, and walked once or 
 twice across the room; then, seeming to have taken 
 his resolution, he paused, and fixed his eye steadfastly 
 on Hugh Crombie. " I could wish, my old acquain 
 tance," he said, " that your lot had been cast any 
 where rather than here. Yet, if you choose it, you 
 may do me a good office, and one that shall meet with 
 a good reward. Can I trust you?" 
 
 "My secrecy, you can," answered the host, "but 
 nothing further. I know the nature of your plans, 
 and whither they would lead me, too well to engage in 
 them. To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I 
 have little desire to hear your secret." 
 
 " And I as little to tell it, I do assure you," rejoined 
 the guest. " I have always loved to manage my af 
 fairs myself, and to keep them to myself. It is a good 
 rule ; but it must sometimes be broken. And now, 
 Hugh, how is it that you have become possessed of 
 this comfortable dwelling and of these pleasant fields?" 
 
 " By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutch- 
 ins," replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question 
 which seemed to have little reference to the present 
 topic of conversation. 
 
 " It is a most excellent method of becoming a man 
 of substance," continued the traveller ; " attended with 
 little trouble, and honest withal." 
 
 " Why, as to the trouble," said the landlord, " it 
 follows such a bargain, instead of going before it. 
 And for honesty, I do not recollect that I have 
 gained a penny more honestly these twenty years." 
 
 " I can swear to that," observed his comrade. " Well, 
 mine host, I entirely approve of your doings, and, more 
 over, have resolved to prosper after the same fasljion 
 myself." 
 
FANSHAWE. 123 
 
 " If that be the commodity you seek," replied Hugh 
 Crombie, " you will find none here to your mind. We 
 have widows in plenty, it is true ; but most of them 
 have children, and few have houses and lands. But 
 now to be serious, and there has been something 
 serious in your eye all this while, what is your pur 
 pose in coming hither ? You are not safe here. Your 
 name has had a wider spread than mine, and, if dis 
 covered, it will go hard with you." 
 
 " But who would know me now ? " asked the <niest. 
 
 O 
 
 " Few, few indeed ! " replied the landlord, gazing at 
 the dark features of his companion, where hardship, 
 peril, and dissipation had each left their traces. " No, 
 you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood 
 on the hill by moonlight to take a last look at his 
 father s cottage. There were tears in your eyes then ; 
 and, as often as I remember them, I repent that I did 
 not turn you back, instead of leading you on." 
 
 " Tears, were there ? Well, there have been few 
 enough since," said his comrade, pressing his eyelids 
 firmly together, as if even then tempted to give way to 
 the weakness that he scorned. " And, for turning me 
 back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken 
 my resolution, and you did but show me the way to 
 execute it." 
 
 " You have not inquired after those you left behind," 
 observed Hugh Crombie. 
 
 "No no; nor will I have aught of them," ex 
 claimed the traveller, starting from his seat, and pac 
 ing rapidly across the room. u My father, I know, is 
 dead, and I have forgiven him. My mother what 
 could I hear of her but misery ? I will hear nothing." 
 
 "You must have passed the cottage as you rode 
 hitherward." said Hu^h. " How could vou forbear to 
 
 enter 9 " 
 
124 FANSHA WE. 
 
 " 1 did not see it," lie replied. " I closed my eyes, 
 and turned away my head." 
 
 " Oh, if I had had a mother, a loving mother ! if 
 there had been one being in the world that loved me, 
 or cared for me, I should not have become an utter 
 castaway," exclaimed Hugh Crombie. 
 
 The landlord s pathos, like all pathos that flows from 
 the winecup, was sufficiently ridiculous ; and his com 
 panion, who had already overcome his own brief feel 
 ings of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud. 
 
 " Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle, 
 he cried in his usual hard, sarcastic tone ; " be a man 
 as much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick 
 of repentance ; but, as I remember, it was commonly 
 of a morning, before you had swallowed your first 
 dram. And now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and 
 we will to business." 
 
 When the landlord had complied with the wishes of 
 his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that 
 of his ordinary conversation, 
 
 " There is a young lady lately become a resident 
 hereabouts. Perhaps you can guess her name ; for 
 you have a quick apprehension in these matters." 
 
 " A young lady ? " repeated Hugh Crombie. " And 
 what is your concern with her ? Do you mean Ellen 
 Langton, daughter of the old merchant Langton, whom 
 you have some cause to remember?" 
 
 " I do remember him ; but he is where he will speea- 
 ily be forgotten," answered the traveller. " And this 
 girl, I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh, 
 describe her to me." 
 
 " Describe her ! " exclaimed Hugh with much ani 
 mation. "It is impossible in prose ; but you shall 
 have her very picture in a verse of one of my own 
 songs." /* 
 
FANSHA WE. 125 
 
 " Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. This 
 is no time for quavering," said the guest. " However, 
 I am proud of your approbation, my old friend : for 
 this young lady do I intend to take to wife. "What 
 think you of the plan ? " 
 
 Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion s face for 
 the space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing 
 in its expression that looked like a jest. It still re 
 tained the same hard, cold look, that, except when 
 Hugh had alluded to his home and family, it had 
 worn through their whole conversation. 
 
 u On my word, comrade!" he at length replied, 
 " iny advice is, that you give over your application to 
 the quart pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. 
 And yet your eye is cool and steady. What is the 
 meaning of this ? " 
 
 " Listen, and you shall know," said the guest. " The 
 old man, her father, is in his grave." 
 
 " Not a bloody grave, I trust," interrupted the land 
 lord, starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade s 
 face. 
 
 " No, a watery one," he replied calmly. " You see, 
 Hugh, I am a better man than you took me for. The 
 old man s blood is not on my head, though my wrongs 
 are on his. Now listen : he had no heir but this only 
 daughter ; and to her, and to the man she marries, all 
 his wealth will belong. She shall marrv me. Think 
 
 O / 
 
 you her father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crom 
 bie, when I am his son-in-law? " 
 
 " No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be," an 
 swered the landlord. 4 * But the dead need not inter 
 pose to frustrate so wild a scheme." 
 
 <; I understand you," said his comrade. " You are 
 of opinion that the young lady s consent may not be 
 
126 FANSHA WE. 
 
 so soon won as asked. Fear not for that, mine host. 
 I have a winning way with me, when opportunity 
 serves ; and it shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will 
 have no rivals in my wooing." 
 
 44 Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this 
 poor girl into your power, and then to force her into a 
 marriage/ said Hugh Crombie. 
 
 44 It is ; and I think I possess the means of doing 
 it," replied his comrade. 44 But methinks, friend 
 Hugh, my enterprise has not your good wishes." 
 
 44 No ; and I pray you to give it over," said Hugh 
 Crombie, very earnestly. 44 The girl is young, lovely, 
 and as good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruin. 
 Nay, more : I must prevent it." 
 
 44 Prevent it ! " exclaimed the traveller, with a dark 
 ening countenance. 44 Think twice before you stir in 
 this matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say ? Does a 
 girl call it ruin to be made an honest wedded wife ? 
 No, no, mine host ! nor does a widow either, else have 
 you much to answer for." 
 
 44 1 gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least, 
 which is more than poor Ellen is like to get," observed 
 the landlord. 44 My old comrade, will you not give up 
 this scheme ? " 
 
 44 My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme," 
 returned the other, composedly. 44 Why, Hugh, what 
 has come over you since we last met ? Have we not 
 done twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed 
 over them at night ? " 
 
 44 He is right there," said Hugh Crombie, in a medi 
 tative tone. 44 Of a certainty, my conscience has grown 
 unreasoiiabty tender within the last two years. This 
 one small sin, if I were to aid in it, would add but a 
 trifle to the sum of mine. But then the poor girl ! " 
 
FANSHAWE. 127 
 
 His companion overheard him thus communing with 
 himself, and having had much former experience of his 
 infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should bend 
 him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so effec 
 tual, that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, promised 
 his cooperation. It was necessary that their motions 
 should be speedy ; for on the second day thereafter, 
 the arrival of the post would bring intelligence of the 
 shipwreck by which Mr. Langton had perished. 
 
 " And after the deed is done," said the landlord, u I 
 beseech you never to cross my path again. There 
 have been more wicked thoughts in my head within 
 the last hour than for the whole two years that I have 
 been an honest man." 
 
 " What a saint art thou become, Hugh ! " said his 
 comrade. "But fear not that we shall meet again. 
 When I leave this valley, it will be to enter it no 
 more." 
 
 " And there is little danger that any other who has 
 known me will chance upon me here," observed Hugh 
 Crombie. " Our trade was unfavorable to length of 
 
 O 
 
 days, and I suppose most of our old comrades have 
 arrived at the end of theirs." 
 
 " One whom you knew well is nearer to you than 
 you think," answered the traveller ; u for I did not 
 travel hitherward entirely alone." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A naughty night to swim in." SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 THE evening of the day succeeding the adventures 
 of the angler was dark and tempestuous. The rain 
 descended almost in a continuous sheet ; and occa 
 sional powerful gusts of wind drove it hard against 
 the northeastern windows of Hugh Crombie s inn. 
 But at least one apartment of the interior presented a 
 scene of comfort and of apparent enjoyment, the more 
 delightful from its contrast with the elemental .fury 
 that raged without. A fire, which the chillness of the 
 evening, though a summer one, made necessary, was 
 burning brightly on the hearth ; and in front was 
 placed a small round table, sustaining wine and 
 glasses. One of the guests for whom these prepara 
 tions had been made was Edward Walcott ; the other 
 was a shy, awkward young man, distinguished, by the 
 union of classic and rural dress, as having but lately 
 become a student of Harley College. He seemed little 
 at his ease, probably from a consciousness that he was 
 on forbidden ground, and that the wine, of which he 
 nevertheless swallowed a larger share than his com 
 panion, was an unlawful draught. 
 
 In the catalogue of crimes provided against by the 
 laws of Harley College, that of tavern-haunting was 
 one of the principal. The secluded situation of the 
 seminary, indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited 
 choice of vices ; and this was, therefore, the usual 
 
F ANSI! A WE. 129 
 
 channel by which the wiklness of youth discharged it 
 self. Edward Walcott, though naturally temperate, 
 had been not an (infrequent offender in this respect, 
 for which a superfluity both of time and money might 
 plead some excuse. But, since his acquaintance with 
 Ellen Langton, he had rarely entered Hugh Cronibie s 
 doors ; and an interruption in that acquaintance was 
 the cause of his present appearance there. 
 
 Edward s jealous pride had been considerably 
 touched on Ellen s compliance with the request of the 
 angler. He had, by degrees, imperceptible perhaps 
 to himself, assumed the right of feeling displeased 
 with her conduct ; and she had, as imperceptibly, ac 
 customed herself to consider what would be his wishes, 
 and to act accordingly. He would, indeed, in no con 
 tingency have ventured an open remonstrance : and 
 such a proceeding would have been attended by a re 
 sult the reverse of what he desired. But there existed 
 between them a silent compact (acknowledged perhaps 
 by neither, but felt by both), according to which they 
 had regulated the latter part of their intercourse. 
 Their lips had yet spoken no word of love ; but some 
 of love s rights and privileges had been assumed on 
 the one side, and at least not disallowed on the other. 
 
 Edward s penetration had been sufficiently quick to 
 discover that there was a mystery about the angler, 
 that there must have been a cause for the blush that 
 rose so proudly on Ellen s cheek ; and his Quixotism 
 had been not a little mortified, because she did not im 
 mediately appeal to his protection. He had, however, 
 paid his usual visit the next day at Dr. Melmoth s, ex 
 pecting that, by a smile of more than common bright 
 ness, she would make amends to his wounded feelings ; 
 such having been her usual mode of reparation in the 
 
 VOL. XI. 9 
 
130 FANSHAWE. 
 
 few instances of disagreement that had occurred be 
 tween them. But he was disappointed. He found her 
 cold, silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, 
 and indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was sedu 
 lously averted from his ; and the casual meeting of 
 their glances only proved that there were feelings in 
 her bosom which he did not share. He was unable to 
 account for this change in her deportment ; and, added 
 to his previous conceptions of his wrongs, it produced 
 an effect upon his rather hasty temper, that might 
 have manifested itself violently, but for the presence 
 of Mrs. Melmoth. He took his leave in very evident 
 displeasure ; but, just as he closed the door, he no 
 ticed an expression in Ellen s countenance, that, had 
 they been alone, and had not he been quite so proud, 
 would have drawn him down to her feet. Their eyes 
 met, when, suddenly, there was a gush of tears into 
 those of Ellen ; and a deep sadness, almost despair, 
 spread itself over her features. He paused a moment, 
 and then went his way, equally unable to account for 
 her coldness, or for her grief. He was well aware, 
 however, that his situation in respect to her was un 
 accountably changed, a conviction so disagreeable, 
 that, but for a hope that is latent even in the despair 
 of youthful hearts, he would have been sorely tempted 
 to shoot himself. 
 
 The gloom of his thoughts a mood of mind the 
 more intolerable to him, because so unusual had 
 driven him to Hugh Croinbie s inn in search of arti 
 ficial excitement. But even the wine had no attrac 
 tions ; and his first glass stood now almost untouched 
 before him, while he gazed in heavy thought into the 
 glowing embers of the fire. His companion perceived 
 his melancholy, and essayed to dispel it by a choice of 
 
FANSHAWE. 131 
 
 such topics of conversation as he conceived would be 
 most agreeable. 
 
 " There is a lady in the house," he observed. " I 
 caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we came in. 
 Did you see her, Edward ? " 
 
 " A lady ! " repeated Edward, carelessly. " What 
 know you of ladies ? No, I did not see her ; but I 
 will venture to say that it was Dame Crombie s self, 
 and no other." 
 
 "Well, perhaps it might," said the other, doubt- 
 ingly. " Her head was turned from me, and she was 
 gone like a shadow." 
 
 " Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes 
 like one," resumed Edward. "You have mistaken 
 the slipshod servant-girl for a lady." 
 
 " Ay ; but she had a white hand, a small white 
 hand," said the student, piqued at Edward s contempt 
 uous opinion of his powers of observation ; " as white 
 as Ellen Langton s." He paused ; for the lover was 
 offended by the profanity of the comparison, as was 
 made evident by the blood that rushed to his brow. 
 
 " We will appeal to the landlord," said Edward, re 
 covering his equanimity, and turning to Hugh, who 
 just then entered the room. " Who is this angel, mine 
 host, that has taken up her abode in the Hand and 
 Bottle ? " 
 
 Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another be 
 fore he answered, " I keep no angels here, gentlemen. 
 Dame Crombie would make the house anything but 
 heaven for them and me." 
 
 " And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passage 
 way, a lady with a small white hand." 
 
 " Ah, I understand ! A slight mistake of the young 
 gentleman s," said Hugh, with the air of one who 
 
132 FANS II A WE. 
 
 could perfectly account for the mystery. " Our pas 
 sageway is dark ; or perhaps the light had dazzled his 
 eyes. It was the Widow Fowler s daughter, that came 
 to borrow a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the 
 same token, she put it into her own sweet mouth, and 
 puffed as she went along." 
 
 " But the white hand," said Glover, only half con 
 vinced. 
 
 " Nay, I know not," answered Hugh. " But her 
 hand was at least as white as her face : that I can 
 swear. Well, gentlemen, I trust you find everything 
 in my house to your satisfaction. When the fire needs 
 renewing, or the wine runs low, be pleased to tap on 
 the table. I shall appear with the speed of a sunbeam." 
 
 After the departure of the landlord, the conversa 
 tion of the young men amounted to little more than 
 monosyllables. Edward Walcott was wrapped in his 
 own contemplations ; and his companion was in a half- 
 slumberous state, from which he started every quarter 
 of an hour, at the chiming of the clock that stood in a 
 corner. The fire died gradually away ; the lamps be 
 gan to burn dim ; and Glover, rousing himself from 
 one of his periodical slumbers, was about to propose 
 a return to their chambers. He was prevented, how 
 ever, by the approach of footsteps along the passage 
 way ; and Hugh Crombie, opening the door, ushered a 
 person into the room, and retired. 
 
 The new - comer was Fanshawe. The water that 
 poured plentifully from his cloak evinced that he had 
 but just arrived at the inn ; but, whatever was his 
 object, he seemed not to have attained it in meeting 
 with the young men. He paused near the door, as if 
 meditating whether to retire. 
 
 " My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, 
 
FANSHAWE. 133 
 
 either of the landlord s or mine," he said. " I caine 
 hither to seek another person ; but, as I could not 
 mention his name, my inquiries were rather vague. v 
 
 " I thank Heaven for the chance that sent you to 
 us," replied Edward, rousing himself. " Glover is 
 wretched company : and a duller evening have I never 
 spent. We will renew our fire and our wine, and you 
 must sit down with us. And for the man you seek," 
 he continued in a whisper, " he left the inn within a 
 half -hour after we encountered him. I inquired of 
 Hugh Crombie last night." 
 
 Fanshawe did not express his doubts of the correct 
 ness of the information on which Edward seemed to 
 rely. Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invita 
 tion to make one of the party, and sat down by the 
 fireside. 
 
 The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. 
 A strange wild glee spread from one to another of the 
 party, which, much to the surprise of his companions, 
 begun with and was communicated from, Fanshawe. 
 He seemed to overflow with conceptions inimitably lu 
 dicrous, but so singular, that, till his hearers had im 
 bibed a portion of his own spirit, they could only won 
 der at, instead of enjoying them. His applications to 
 the wine were very un frequent ; yet his conversation 
 was such as one might expect from a bottle of cham 
 pagne endowed by a fairy with the gift of speech. 
 The secret of this strange mirth lay in the troubled 
 state of his spirits, which, like the vexed ocean at mid 
 night (if the simile be not too magnificent), tossed 
 forth a mysterious brightness. The undefined appre 
 hensions that had drawn him to the inn still distracted 
 his mind ; but, mixed with them, there was a sort of 
 joy not easily to be described. By degrees, and by the 
 
134 FANSHA WE. 
 
 assistance of the wine, the inspiration spread, each one 
 contributing such a quantity, and such quality of wit 
 and whim, as was proportioned to his genius ; but each 
 one, and all, displaying a greater share of both than 
 they had ever been suspected of possessing. 
 
 At length, however, there was a pause, the deep 
 pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth 
 and wine. No one would have believed, on beholding 
 the pensive faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs of 
 the party, that from these, but a moment before, had 
 arisen so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval 
 Edward Walcott (who was the poet of his class) vol 
 unteered the following song, which, from its want of 
 polish, and from its application to his present feelings, 
 might charitably be taken for an extemporaneous pro 
 duction : 
 
 The wine is bright, the wine is bright ; 
 
 And gay the drinkers be : 
 Of all that drain the bowl to-night, 
 
 Most jollily drain we. 
 Oh, could one search the weary earth, 
 
 The earth from sea to sea, 
 He d turn and mingle in our mirth ; 
 
 For we re the merriest three. 
 
 Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares ! 
 
 We know that they are nigh : 
 When forth each lonely drinker fares, 
 
 Mark then his altered eye. 
 Care comes upon us when the jest 
 
 And frantic laughter die ; 
 And care Avill watch the parting guest 
 
 Oh late, then let us fly ! 
 
 Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and min 
 strelsy was still alive, had entered the room at the 
 sound of Edward s voice, in sufficient time to accom 
 pany the second stanza on the violin. He now, with 
 
FAXSIIAWE. 135 
 
 the air of one who was entitled to judge in these mat 
 ters, expressed his opinion of the performance. 
 
 " Really, Master Walcott, I was not prepared for 
 this," he said in the tone of condescending praise that 
 a great man uses to his inferior when he chooses to 
 overwhelm him with excess of joy. " Very well, in 
 deed, young gentleman ! Some of the lines, it is true, 
 seem to have been dragged in by the head and shoul 
 ders ; but I could scarcely have done much better my 
 self at your age. With practice, and with such in 
 struction as I might afford you, I should have little 
 doubt of your becoming a distinguished poet, A great 
 defect in your seminary, gentlemen, the want of due 
 cultivation in this heavenly art." 
 
 " Perhaps, sir," said Edward, with much gravity, 
 " you might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the 
 professorship of poetry? " 
 
 " Why, such an offer would require consideration," 
 replied the landlord. "Professor Hugh Crombie of 
 Harley College : it has a good sound, assuredly. But 
 I am a public man, Master Walcott ; and the public 
 would be loath to spare me from my present office." 
 
 " Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen 
 of his productions ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 " Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young 
 gentleman," answered Hugh. " It is seldom, in this 
 rude country, Master Walcott, that we meet with 
 kindred genius ; and the opportunity should never be 
 thrown away." 
 
 Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor 
 by which he was usually inspired, and the praises of 
 which were the prevailing subject of his song ; then, 
 after much hemming, thrumming, and prelusion, and 
 with many queer gestures and gesticulations, he began 
 to effuse a lyric in the following fashion : 
 
136 FANS HA WE. 
 
 I ve been a jolly drinker this five -ami-twenty year, 
 And still a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here : 
 I sing the joys of drinking; bear a chorus, every man, 
 With pint pot and quart pot and clattering of can. 
 
 The sense of the professor s first stanza was not in 
 exact proportion to the sound; but, being executed 
 with great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This 
 Hugh appropriated with a condescending bow and 
 smile; and, making a signal for silence, he went on, 
 
 King Solomon of old, boys (a jolly king was he), 
 
 But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, 
 that seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed 
 on his former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the 
 custom of many great performers, usually sang with 
 his eyes shut, now opened them, intending gently to 
 rebuke his auditors for their unseasonable expression 
 of delight. He immediately perceived, however, that 
 the fault was to be attributed to neither of the three 
 young men ; and, following the direction of their eyes, 
 he saw near the door, in the dim background of the 
 apartment, a figure in a cloak. The hat was flapped 
 forward, the cloak muffled round the lower part of the 
 face ; and only the eyes were visible. 
 
 The party gazed a moment in silence, and then 
 rushed en masse upon the intruder, the landlord 
 bringing up the rear, and sounding a charge upon his 
 fiddle. But, as they drew nigh, the black cloak began 
 to assume a familiar look ; the hat, also, was an old 
 acquaintance ; and, these being removed, from beneath 
 them shone forth the reverend face and form of Dr. 
 Melmoth. 
 
 The president, in his quality of clergyman, had, late 
 in the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an 
 aged female who was supposed to be at the j^oint of 
 
FAXSHAWE. 137 
 
 death. Her habitation was at the distance of several 
 miles from Harley College ; so that it was nightfall 
 before Dr. Melmoth stood at her bedside. His stay 
 had been lengthened beyond his anticipation, on ac 
 count of the frame of mind in which he found the dy 
 ing woman ; and, after essaying to impart the comforts 
 of religion to her disturbed intellect, he had waited 
 for the abatement of the storm that had arisen while 
 he was thus engaged. As the evening advanced, how 
 ever, the rain poured down in undiminished cataracts ; 
 and the doctor, trusting to the prudence and stire- 
 footedness of his steed, had at length set forth on his 
 
 O 
 
 return. The darkness of the night, and the roughness 
 of the road, might have appalled him, even had his 
 horsemanship and his courage been more considerable 
 than they were ; but by the special protection of Prov 
 idence, as he reasonably supposed (for he was a good 
 man, and on a good errand), he arrived safety as far 
 as Hugfh Crombie s inn. Dr. Melmoth had no inten- 
 
 O 
 
 tion of making a stay there ; but, as the road passed 
 within a very short distance, he saw lights in the win 
 dows, and heard the sound of song and revelry. It 
 immediately occurred to him, that these midnight 
 rioters were, probably, some of the young men of his 
 charge ; and he was impelled, by a sense of duty, to 
 enter and disperse them. Directed by the voices, he 
 found his way, with some difficulty, to the apartment, 
 just as Hugh concluded his first stanza ; and, amidst 
 the subsequent applause, his entrance had been im- 
 perceived. 
 
 There was a silence of a moment s continuance after 
 the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he at 
 tempted to clothe his round, good-natured face in a 
 look of awful dignity. But, in spite of himself, there 
 
138 FANSHA WE. 
 
 was a little twisting of the corners of his mouth, and 
 a smothered gleam in his eye. 
 
 " This has, apparently, been a very merry meeting, 
 young gentlemen," he at length said ; " but I fear my 
 presence has cast a damp upon it." 
 
 " Oh yes ! your reverence s cloak is wet enough to 
 cast a damp upon anything," exclaimed Hugh Crom- 
 bie, assuming a look of tender anxiety. " The young 
 gentlemen are affrighted for your valuable life. Fear 
 deprives them of utterance : permit me to relieve you 
 of these dangerous garments." 
 
 " Trouble not yourself, honest man," replied the 
 doctor, who was one of the most gullible of mortals. 
 " I trust I am in no danger ; my dwelling being near 
 at hand. But for these young men " 
 
 " Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit, 
 the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet 
 smallclothes, that have covered my unworthy legs but 
 once? Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a 
 moment," continued Hugh, beginning to divest the 
 doctor of his garments. 
 
 " I pray you to appease your anxiety," cried Dr. 
 Melmoth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his 
 dress as yet remained to him. " Fear not for my 
 health. I will but speak a word to those misguided 
 youth, and be gone." 
 
 "Misguided youth, did your reverence say? " echoed 
 Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. " Never were 
 they better guided than when they entered my poor 
 house. Oh, had your reverence but seen them, when I 
 heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance. 
 Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men 
 at the resurrec Ahem ! " interrupted Hugh, rec 
 ollecting that the comparison he meditated mignt not 
 suit the doctor s ideas of propriety. 
 
FANSHAWE. 139 
 
 " But why were they abroad on such a night ? " in 
 quired the president. 
 
 " Ali I doctor, you little know the love these good 
 young gentlemen bear for you," replied the landlord. 
 " Your absence, your long absence, had alarmed them ; 
 and they rushed forth through the rain and darkness 
 to seek you." 
 
 " And was this indeed so ? " asked the doctor, in a 
 softened tone, and casting a tender and grateful look 
 upon the three students. They, it is but justice to 
 mention, had simultaneously made a step forward in 
 order to contradict the egregious falsehoods of which 
 Hugh s fancy was so fertile ; but he assumed an ex 
 pression of such ludicrous entreaty, that it was irre 
 sistible. 
 
 ;t But methinks their anxiety was not of long con 
 tinuance," observed Dr. Melmoth, looking at the wine, 
 and remembering the song that his entrance had in 
 terrupted. 
 
 " Ah ! your reverence disapproves of the wine, I 
 see," answered Hugh Cronibie. " I did but offer them 
 a drop to keep the life in their poor young hearts. 
 My dame advised strong waters ; But, Dame Crorn- 
 bie, says I, would ye corrupt their youth ? And in 
 my zeal for their good, doctor, I was delighting them, 
 just at your entrance, with a pious little melody of my 
 own against the sin of drunkenness." 
 
 " Truly, I remember something of the kind," ob 
 served Dr. Melmoth. 4i And, as I think, it seemed to 
 meet with good acceptance." 
 
 " Ay, that it did ! " said the landlord. " Will it 
 please your reverence to hear it ? 
 
 King Solomon of old, boys (a wise man I m thinking), 
 Has warned vou to beware of the horrid vice of drinking 
 
140 FANSHAWE. 
 
 But why talk I of drinking, foolish man that I am 1 
 And all this time, doctor, you have not sipped a drop 
 of my wine. Now I entreat your reverence, as you 
 value your health and the peace and quiet of these 
 youth." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the be 
 nevolent intention of allaying the anxiety of Hugh 
 Crombie and the students. He then prepared to de 
 part ; for a strong wind had partially dispersed the 
 clouds, and occasioned an interval in the cataract of 
 rain. There was, perhaps, a little suspicion yet re 
 maining in the good man s mind respecting the truth 
 of the landlord s story : at least, it was his evident 
 intention to see the students fairly out of the inn be 
 fore he quitted it himself. They therefore proceeded 
 along the passageway in a body. The lamp that Hugh 
 Crombie held but dimly enlightened them ; and the 
 number and contiguity of the doors caused Dr. Mel- 
 moth to lay his hand upon the wrong one. 
 
 " Not there, not there, doctor ! It is Dame Cr om- 
 bie s bedchamber," shouted Hugh, most energetically. 
 " Now Beelzebub defend me ! " he muttered to him 
 self, perceiving that his exclamation had been a mo 
 ment too late. 
 
 " Heavens ! what do I see ? " ejaculated Dr. Mel- 
 moth, lifting his hands, and starting back from the 
 entrance of the room. The three students pressed for- 
 ward , Mrs. Crombie and the servant-girl had been 
 drawn to the spot by the sound of Hugh s voice ; and 
 all their wondering eyes were fixed on poor Ellen 
 Langton. 
 
 The apartment in the midst of which she stood was 
 dimly lighted by a solitary candle at the farther ex- 
 tremity; but Ellen was exposed to the glare of the 
 
FANS HA WE. 141 
 
 three lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, and the servant- 
 girl. Their combined rays seemed to form a focus 
 exactly at the point where they reached her ; and the 
 beholders, had any been sufficiently calm, might have 
 watched her features in their agitated workings and 
 frequent change of expression, as perfectly as by the 
 broad light of day. Terror had at first blanched her 
 as white as a lily, or as a marble statue, which for a 
 moment she resembled, as she stood motionless in the 
 centre of the room. Shame next bore sway ; and her 
 blushing countenance, covered by her slender white 
 fingers, might fantastically be compared to a variegated 
 rose with its alternate stripes of white and red. The 
 next instant, a sense of her pure and innocent inten 
 tions gave her strength and courage ; and her attitude 
 and look had now something of pride and dignity. 
 These, however, in their turn, gave way ; for Edward 
 Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to address 
 her. 
 
 " Ellen, Ellen ! " he said, in an agitated and quiv 
 ering whisper ; but what was to follow cannot be 
 known ; for his emotion checked his utterance. His 
 tone and look, however, again overcame Ellen Lang- 
 ton, and she burst into tears. Fanshawe advanced, 
 and took Edward s arm. " She has been deceived,* 
 he whispered. " She is innocent : you are unworthy 
 of her if you doubt it." 
 
 k Why do you interfere, sir ? " demanded Edward, 
 whose passions, thoroughly excited, would willingly 
 have wreaked themselves on any one. " What right 
 have you to speak of her innocence ? Perhaps," he 
 continued, an undefined and ridiculous suspicion aris 
 ing in his mind, u perhaps you are acquainted with 
 her intentions. Perhaps you are the deceiver." 
 
142 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Fanshawe s temper was not naturally of the meekest 
 character ; and having- had a thousand bitter feelings 
 of his own to overcome, before he could attempt to 
 console Edward, this rude repulse had almost aroused 
 him to fierceness. But his pride, of which a more 
 moderate degree would have had a less peaceable effect, 
 came to his assistance ; and he turned calmly and con 
 temptuously away. 
 
 Ellen, in the mean time, had been restored to some 
 degree of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique 
 against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had 
 distinguished his voice in the neighboring apartment, 
 had heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being 
 aware of the state of feeling that produced them. She 
 had supposed that the terms on which they parted in 
 the morning (which had been very grievous to her 
 self) would have produced a corresponding sadness in 
 him. But while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her 
 bosom distracted by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, 
 of many of which Edward was the object, his reckless 
 gayety had seemed to prove the slight regard in which 
 he held her. After the first outbreak of emotion, 
 therefore, she called up her pride (of which, on proper 
 occasions, she had a reasonable share), and sustained 
 his upbraiding glance with a passive composure, which 
 women have more readily at command than men. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth s surprise had during this time kept 
 him silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from 
 one to another of those who stood around him, as if 
 to seek some explanation of so strange an event. But 
 the faces of- all were as perplexed as his own ; even 
 Plugh Crombie had assumed a look of speechless won 
 der, speechless, because his imagination, prolific as 
 it was, could not supply a plausible falsehood. 
 
FANSHA WE. 143 
 
 ei Ellen, dearest child," at length said the doctor, 
 48 what is the meaning of this ? " 
 
 Ellen endeavored to reply ; but, as her composure 
 was merely external, she was unable to render her 
 words audible. Fanshawe spoke in a low voice to Dr. 
 Melmoth, who appeared grateful for his advice. 
 
 " True, it will be the better way," he replied. " Mv 
 wits are utterly confounded, or I should not have re 
 mained thus long. Come, my dear child," he contin 
 ued, advancing to Ellen, and taking her hand, " let us 
 return home, and defer the explanation till the mor 
 row. There, there : only dry your eyes, and we will 
 say no more about it." 
 
 " And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman," 
 muttered Hugh Crombie. 
 
 Ellen at first exhibited but little desire, or, rather, 
 an evident reluctance, to accompany her guardian. 
 She hung back, while her glance passed almost imper 
 ceptibly over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her ; 
 but the one she sought was not visible among them. 
 She had no alternative, and suffered herself to be led 
 from the inn. 
 
 Edward "Walcott alone remained behind, the most 
 wretched being (at least such was his own opinion) 
 that breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and 
 sickness of the heart, and alternately a feverish 
 frenzy, neither of which his short and cloudless exis 
 tence had heretofore occasioned him to experience. 
 He was jealous of, he knew not whom, and he knew 
 not what. He was ungenerous enough to believe that 
 
 O O 
 
 Ellen his pure and lovely Ellen had degraded 
 herself ; though from what motive, or by whose agency, 
 he could not conjecture. When Dr. Melmoth had 
 taken her in charge, Edwdr J returned to the apart- 
 
144 FANSIIAWE. 
 
 ment where he had spent the evening. The wine was 
 still upon the table ; and, in the desperate hope of stu* 
 pefying his faculties, he unwisely swallowed huge suc 
 cessive draughts. The effect of his imprudence was 
 not long in manifesting itself ; though insensibility, 
 which at another time would have been the result, did 
 not now follow. Acting upon his previous agitation., 
 the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame ; and, for 
 the time being, he was a perfect madman. 
 
 A phrenologist would probably have found the or 
 gan of destructive-ness in strong development, just 
 then, upon Edward s cranium ; for he certainly mani 
 fested an impulse to break and destroy whatever 
 chanced to be within his reach. He commenced his 
 operations by upsetting the table, and breaking the 
 bottles and glasses. Then, seizing a tall heavy chair 
 in each hand, he hurled them with prodigious force, 
 one through the window, and the other against a large 
 looking-glass, the most valuable article of furniture 
 in Hugh Crombie s inn. The crash and clatter of 
 these outrageous proceedings soon brought the master, 
 mistress, and maid-servant to the scene of action ; but 
 the two latter, at the first sight of Edward s wild de 
 meanor and gleaming eyes, retreated with all imag 
 inable expedition. Hugh chose a position behind the 
 door, from whence, protruding his head, he endeavored 
 to mollify his inebriated guest. His interference, how 
 ever, had nearly been productive of most unfortunate 
 consequences ; for a massive andiron, with round bra- 
 zeii head, whizzed past him, within a hair s - breadth 
 of his ear. 
 
 " I might as safely take my chance in a battle," ex 
 claimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to 
 a man who stood in the passageway. " A little twist 
 
FANSHA WE. 145 
 
 of his hand to the left would have served my turn as 
 well as if I stood in the path of a forty-two pound 
 ball. And here comes another broadside," he added, 
 as some other article of furniture rattled against the 
 door. 
 
 " Let us return his fire, Hugh," said the person 
 whom he addressed, composedly lifting the andiron. 
 " He is in want of ammunition : let us send him back 
 his own." 
 
 The sound of this man s voice produced a most sin 
 gular effect upon Edward. The moment before, his 
 actions had been those of a raving maniac ; but, when 
 the words struck his ear, he paused, put his hand to 
 his forehead, seemed to recollect himself, and finally 
 advanced with a firm and steady step. His counte 
 nance was dark and angry, but no longer wild. 
 
 " I have found you, villain ! " he said to the angler. 
 "It is you who have done this." 
 
 " And, having done it, the wrath of a boy his 
 drunken wrath will not induce me to deny it," re 
 plied the other, scornfully. 
 
 u The boy will require a man s satisfaction," re 
 turned Edward, " and that speedily." 
 
 " Will you take it now ? " inquired the angler, with 
 a cool, derisive smile, and almost in a whisper. At 
 the same time he produced a brace of pistols, and held 
 them towards the young man. 
 
 " Willingly," answered Edward, taking one of the 
 weapons. " Choose your distance." 
 
 The angler stepped back a pace ; but before their 
 deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be ex 
 ecuted, Hugh Crombie interposed himself between 
 them. 
 
 " Do you take my best parlor for the cabin of the 
 
 VOL. xi. 10 
 
146 FA NSHAWE. 
 
 Black Andrew, where a pistol-shot was a nightly pas 
 time ? " he inquired of his comrade. " And you, Mas 
 ter Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk 
 into the chapel to morning prayers, after putting a 
 ball through this man s head, or receiving one through 
 your own ? Though, in this last case, you will be 
 past praying for, or praying either." 
 
 " Stand aside : I will take the risk. Make way, or 
 I will put the ball through your own head," exclaimed 
 Edward, fiercely : for the interval of rationality that 
 circumstances had produced was again giving way to 
 intoxication. 
 
 " You see how it is," said Hugh to his companion, 
 unheard by Edward. " You shall take a shot at me, 
 sooner than at the poor lad in his present state. You 
 have done him harm enough already, and intend him 
 more. I propose," he continued aloud, and with a 
 peculiar glance towards the angler, " that this affair 
 be decided to-morrow, at nine o clock, under the old 
 oak, on the bank of the stream. In the mean time, I 
 will take charge of these popguns, for fear of acci 
 dents." 
 
 " Well, mine host, be it as you wish," said his com 
 rade. " A shot more or less is of little consequence to 
 me." He accordingly delivered his weapon to Hugh 
 Crombie and walked carelessly away. 
 
 " Come, Master Walcott, the enemy has retreated. 
 Victoria ! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to 
 your chamber, the better," added he aside; for the 
 wine was at last beginning to produce its legitimate 
 effect, in stupefying the young man s mental and bod 
 ily faculties. 
 
 Hugh Crombie s assistance, though not, perhaps, 
 quite indispensable, was certainly very convenient to 
 
FANSHAWE. 147 
 
 our unfortunate hero, in the course of the short walk 
 that brought him to his chamber. When arrived 
 there, and in bed, he was soon locked in a sleep 
 scarcely less deep than that of death. 
 
 The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to 
 be on the point of changing : indeed, there were, every 
 few minutes, most rapid changes. A strong breeze 
 sometimes drove the clouds from the brow of heaven, 
 so as to disclose a few of the stars ; but, immediately 
 after, the darkness would again become Egyptian, and 
 the rain rush like a torrent from the sky. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ** About her neck a packet-mail 
 Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale, 
 Of men that walked when they were dead." 
 
 HUDIBRAS. 
 
 SCAECELY a word had passed between Dr. Melmoth 
 and Ellen Langtoii, on their way home ; for, though 
 the former was aware that his duty towards his ward 
 would compel him to inquire into the motives of her 
 conduct, the tenderness of his heart prompted him to 
 defer the scrutiny to the latest moment. The same 
 tenderness induced him to connive at Ellen s stealing 
 secretly up to her chamber, unseen by Mrs. Melmoth; 
 to render which measure practicable, he opened the 
 house-door very softly, and stood before his half-sleep 
 ing spouse (who waited his arrival in the parlor) with 
 out any previous notice. This act of the doctor s be 
 nevolence was not destitute of heroism ; for he was 
 well assured that, should the affair come to the lady s 
 knowledge through any other channel, her vengeance 
 would descend not less heavily on him for concealing, 
 than on Ellen for perpetrating, the elopement. That 
 she had, thus far, no suspicion of the fact, was evident 
 from her composure, as well as from the reply to a 
 question, which, with more than his usual art, her hus 
 band put to her respecting the non-appearance of his 
 ward. Mrs. Melmoth answered, that Ellen had com 
 plained of indisposition, and after drinking, by her 
 prescription, a large cup of herb-tea, had retired to 
 
FANSHAWE. 149 
 
 her chamber early in the evening. Thankful that all 
 was yet safe, the doctor laid his head upon his pillow ; 
 but, late as was the hour, his many anxious thoughts 
 long drove sleep from his eyelids. 
 
 The diminution in the quantity of his natural rest 
 did not, however, prevent Dr. ^Jelmoth from rising at 
 his usual hour, which at all seasons of the year was an 
 early one. He found, on descending to the parlor, 
 that breakfast was nearly in readiness ; for the lady 
 of the house (and, as a corollary, her servant-girl) was 
 not accustomed to await the rising of the sun in order 
 to commence her domestic labors. Ellen Langton, 
 however, who had heretofore assimilated her habits to 
 those of the family, was this morning invisible, a 
 circumstance imputed by Mrs. Melinoth to her indis 
 position of the preceding evening, and by the doctor, 
 to mortification on account of her elopement and its 
 discovery. 
 
 k * I think I will step into Ellen s bedchamber," said 
 Mrs. Melnioth, "and inquire how she feels herself. 
 The morning is delightful after the storm, and the air 
 will do her good." 
 
 " Had we not better proceed with our breakfast ? 
 If the poor child is sleeping, it were a pity to disturb 
 her," observed the doctor ; for, besides his sympathy 
 with Ellen s feelings, he was reluctant, as if he were 
 the guilty one, to meet her face. 
 
 " Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor ; for 
 the hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose you will say 
 they are not so good as those Ellen made j-esterday 
 morning. I know not how you will bear to part with 
 her, though the thing must soon be." 
 
 44 It will be a sore trial, doubtless, replied Dr. Mel- 
 moth, " like tearing away a branch that is grafted 
 
150 FAN SH AWE. 
 
 011 an old tree. And yet there will be a satisfaction 
 in delivering her safe into her father s hands. 
 
 " A satisfaction for which you may thank me, doc 
 tor," observed the lady. " If there had been none but 
 you to look after the poor thing s doings, she would 
 have been enticed awfiy long ere this, for the sake of 
 her money." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth s prudence could scarcely restrain a 
 smile at the thought that an elopement, as he had 
 reason to believe, had been plotted, and partly carried 
 into execution, while Ellen was under the sole care of 
 his lady, and had been frustrated only by his own de 
 spised agency. He was not accustomed, however, 
 nor was this an eligible occasion, to dispute any of 
 Mrs. Melmoth s claims to superior wisdom. 
 
 The breakfast proceeded in silence, or, at least, with 
 out any conversation material to the tale. At its con 
 clusion, Mrs. Melmoth was again meditating on the 
 propriety of entering Ellen s chamber ; but she was 
 now prevented by an incident that always excited 
 much interest both in herself and her husband. 
 
 This was the entrance of the servant, bearing the 
 letters and newspaper, with which, once a fortnight, the 
 mail-carrier journeyed up the valley. Dr. Melmoth s 
 situation at the head of a respectable seminary, and 
 his character as a scholar, had procured him an exten 
 sive correspondence among the learned men of his own 
 country ; and he had even exchanged epistles with one 
 or two of the most distinguished dissenting clergymen 
 of Great Britain. But, unless when some fond mother 
 enclosed a one-pound note to defray the private ex 
 penses of her son at college, it was frequently the case 
 that the packets addressed to the doctor were the sole 
 contents of the mail-bag. In the present instance, his 
 
FANSHAWE. 151 
 
 letters were very numerous, and, to judge from the one 
 he chanced first to open, of an unconscionable length. 
 "While he was engaged in their perusal, Mrs. Melmoth 
 amused herself with the newspaper. a little sheet of 
 about twelve inches square, which had but one rival 
 in the country. Commencing with the title, she la 
 bored on through advertisements old and new, through 
 poetry lamentably deficient in rhythm and rhymes, 
 through essays, the ideas of which had been trite since 
 the first week of the creation, till she finally arrived 
 at the department that, a fortnight before, had con 
 tained the latest news from all quarters. Making such 
 remarks upon these items as to her seemed good, the 
 dame s notice was at length attracted by an article 
 which her sudden exclamation proved to possess un 
 common interest. Casting her eye hastily over it, she 
 immediately began to read aloud to her husband ; but 
 he, deeply engaged in a long and learned letter, in 
 stead of listening to what she wished to communicate, 
 exerted his own lungs in opposition to hers, as is the 
 custom of abstracted men when disturbed. The re 
 sult was as follows : 
 
 "A brig just arrived in the outer harbor/ began 
 Mrs. Melmoth, " reports, that on the morning of the 
 25th ult." Here the doctor broke in, " Wherefore 
 I am compelled to differ from your exposition of the 
 said passage, for those reasons, of the which I have 
 given you a taste ; provided The lady s voice 
 was now almost audible, " ship bottom upward, dis 
 covered by the name on her stern to be the Ellen 
 of " " and in the same opinion are Hooker, Cotton, 
 and divers learned divines of a later date." 
 
 The doctor s lungs were deep and strong, and vic 
 tory seemed to incline toward him ; but Mrs. Mel- 
 
152 FANSHAWE. 
 
 moth now made use of a tone whose peculiar shrill 
 ness, as long experience had taught her husband, au 
 gured a mood of mind not to be trifled with. 
 
 O 
 
 " On my word, doctor," she exclaimed, " this is most 
 unfeeling and unchristian conduct ! Here am I en 
 deavoring to inform you of the death of an old friend, 
 and you continue as deaf as a post." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth, who had heard the sound, without re 
 ceiving the sense, of these words, now laid aside the 
 letter in despair, and submissively requested to be in 
 formed of her pleasure. 
 
 " There, read for yourself," she replied, handing 
 him the paper, and pointing to the passage containing 
 the important intelligence, " read, and then finish 
 your letter, if you have a mind." 
 
 He took the paper, unable to conjecture how the 
 dame could be so much interested in any part of its 
 contents ; but, before he had read many words, he 
 grew pale as death. " Good Heavens ! what is this ? " 
 he exclaimed. He then read on, "being the vessel 
 wherein that eminent son of New England, John 
 Langton, Esq., had taken passage for his native coun 
 try, after an absence of many years." 
 
 " Our poor Ellen, his orphan child ! " said Dr. Mel- 
 moth, dropping the paper. " How shall we break the 
 intelligence to her ? Alas ! her share of the affliction 
 causes me to forget my own." 
 
 " It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless ; and Ellen 
 will grieve as a daughter should," replied Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, speaking with the good sense of which she had 
 a competent share. " But she has never known her 
 father ; and her sorrow must arise from a sense of 
 duty, more than from strong affection. I will go and 
 inform her of her loss. It is late, and I wonder if she 
 be still asleep." 
 
FA NSHA WE. 153 
 
 "Be cautious, dearest wife, said the doctor. "Ellen 
 has strong feelings, and a sudden shock might be dan 
 gerous." 
 
 4 - 1 think I may be trusted, Dr. Melmotlv replied 
 the lady, who had a high opinion of her own abilities 
 as a comforter, and was not averse to exercise them. 
 
 Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly turn 
 ing over the letters that yet remained unopened, feel 
 ing little curiosity, after such melancholy intelligence, 
 respecting their contents. But, by the handwriting of 
 the direction on one of them, his attention was grad 
 ually arrested, till he found himself gazing earnestly 
 on those strong, firm, regular characters. They were 
 perfectly familiar to his eye ; but from what hand they 
 came, he coidd not conjecture. Suddenly, however, 
 the truth burst upon him ; and after noticing the date, 
 and reading a few lines, he rushed hastily in pursuit 
 of his wife. 
 
 He had arrived at the top of his speed and at the 
 middle of the staircase, when his course was arrested 
 by the lady whom he sought, who came, with a veloc 
 ity equal to his own, in an opposite direction. The 
 consequence was a concussion between the two meet 
 ing masses, by which Mrs. Melmoth was seated se 
 curely on the stairs ; while the doctor was only pre 
 served from precipitation to the bottom by clinging 
 desperately to the balustrade. As soon as the pair 
 discovered that they had sustained no material injury 
 by their contact, they began eagerly to explain the 
 cause of their mutual haste, without those reproaches, 
 which, on the lady s part, would at another time have 
 followed such an accident. 
 
 "You have not told her the bad news, I trust?" 
 cried Dr. Melmoth, after each had communicated his 
 
154 FAN SH A WE. 
 
 and her intelligence, without obtaining audience of the 
 other. 
 
 " Would you have me tell it to the bare walls ? " in 
 quired the lady in her shrillest tone. "Have I not 
 just informed you that she has gone, fled, eloped? 
 Her chamber is empty ; and her bed has not been oc 
 cupied." 
 
 " Gone ! " repeated the doctor. " And, when her 
 father comes to demand his daughter of me, what an 
 swer shall 1 make ? " 
 
 " Now, Heaven defend us from the visits of the 
 dead and drowned ! " cried Mrs. Melmoth. " This is 
 a serious affair, doctor, but not, I trust, sufficient to 
 raise a ghost." 
 
 " Mr. Langton is yet no ghost," answered he ; 
 " though this event will go near to make him one. He 
 was fortunately prevented, after he had made every 
 preparation, from taking passage in the vessel that 
 was lost." 
 
 "And where is he now?" she inquired. 
 
 " He is in New England. Perhaps he is at this mo 
 ment on his way to us," replied her husband. " His 
 letter is dated nearly a fortnight back; and he ex 
 presses an intention of being with us in a few days." 
 
 " Well, I thank Heaven for his safety," said Mrs. 
 Melmoth. " But truly the poor gentleman could not 
 have chosen a better time to be drowned, nor a worse 
 one to come to life, than this. What we shall do, 
 doctor, I know not ; but had you locked the doors, and 
 fastened the windows, as I advised, the misfortune 
 could not have happened." 
 
 " Why, the whole country would have flouted us ! " 
 answered the doctor. " Is there a door in all the Prov 
 ince that is barred or bolted, night or day ? 
 
F ANSI! AWE. 155 
 
 theless, it might have been advisable last night, had it 
 occurred to me." 
 
 " And why at that time more than at all times ? " 
 she inquired. " We had surely no reason to fear this 
 event." 
 
 Dr. Melmoth was silent; for his worldly wisdom 
 was sufficient to deter him from giving his lady the 
 opportunity, which she would not fail to use to the 
 utmost, of laying the blame of the elopement at his 
 door. He now proceeded, with a heavy heart, to El 
 len s chamber, to satisfy himself with his own eyes of 
 the state of affairs. It was deserted too truly; and 
 the wild-flowers with which it was the maiden s custom 
 daily to decorate her premises were drooping, as if in 
 sorrow for her who had placed them there. Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, on this second visit, discovered on the table a 
 note addressed to her husband, and containing a few 
 words of gratitude from Ellen, but no explanation of 
 her mysterious flight. The doctor gazed long on the 
 tiny letters, which had evidently been traced with a 
 trembling hand, and blotted with many tears. 
 
 " There is a mystery in this, a mystery that I 
 cannot fathom," he said. " And now I would I knew 
 what measures it would be proper to take." 
 
 " Get you on horseback, Dr. Melmoth, and proceed 
 as speedily as may be down the valley to the town," 
 said the dame, the influence of whose firmer mind was 
 sometimes, as in the present case, most beneficially ex 
 erted over his own. " You must not spare for trouble, 
 no, nor for danger. Now Oh, if I were a man ! " 
 
 " Oh, that you were ! " murmured the doctor, in a 
 perfectly inaudible voice. " Well and when I reach 
 the town, what then ? " 
 
 " As I am a Christian woman, my patience cannot 
 
156 FANS II A WE. 
 
 endure you!" exclaimed Mrs. Melmoth. "Oh, I love 
 to see a man with the spirit of a man ! but you " 
 And she turned away in utter scorn. 
 
 " But, dearest wife," remonstrated the husband, who 
 was really at a loss how to proceed, and anxious for 
 her advice, " your worldly experience is greater than 
 mine, and I desire to profit by it. What should be 
 my next measure after arriving at the town ? " 
 
 Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submission with 
 which the doctor asked her counsel ; though, if the 
 truth must be told, she heartily despised him for need 
 ing it. She condescended, however, to instruct him in 
 the proper method of pursuing the runaway maiden, 
 and directed him, before his departure, to put strict 
 inquiries to Hugh Crombie respecting any stranger 
 who might lately have visited his inn. That there 
 would be wisdom in this, Dr. Melmoth had his own 
 reasons for believing ; and still, without imparting them 
 to his lady, he proceeded to do as he had been bid. 
 
 The veracious landlord acknowledged that a stran 
 ger had spent a night and day at his inn, and was 
 missing that morning; but he utterly denied all ac 
 quaintance with his character, or privity to his pur 
 poses. Had Mrs. Melmoth, instead of her husband, 
 conducted the examination, the result might have been 
 different. As the case was, the doctor returned to his 
 dwelling but little wiser than he went forth ; and, or 
 dering his steed to be saddled, he began a journey of 
 which he knew not what would be the end. 
 
 In the mean time, the intelligence of Ellen s disap 
 pearance circulated rapidly, and soon sent forth hunt 
 ers more fit to follow the chase than Dr. Melmoth, 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "There was racing and chasing o er Caunobie Lee." 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Edward AValcott awoke the next morning 
 from his deep slumber, his first consciousness was of 
 a heavy weight upon his mind, the cause of which he 
 was unable immediately to recollect. One by one, 
 however, by means of the association of ideas, the 
 events of the preceding night came back to his mem 
 ory; though those of latest occurrence were dim as 
 dreams. But one circumstance was only too well re 
 membered, the discovery of Ellen Langton. By a 
 strong effort he next attained to an uncertain recollec 
 tion of a scene of madness and violence, followed, as 
 he at first thought, by a duel. A little further reflec 
 tion, however, informed him that this event was yet 
 among the things of futurity; but he could by no 
 means recall the appointed time or place. As he had 
 not the slightest intention (praiseworthy and prudent 
 as it would unquestionably have been) to give up the 
 chance of avenging Ellen s wrongs and his own, he 
 immediately arose, and began to dress, meaning to 
 iearn from Hugh Crombie those particulars which his 
 own memory had not retained. His chief apprehen 
 sion was, that the appointed time had already elapsed ; 
 for the early sunbeams of a glorious morning were 
 now peeping into his chamber. 
 
 More than once, during the progress of dressing, he 
 was inclined to believe that the duel had actually 
 
158 FANSHAWE. 
 
 taken place, and been fatal to him, and that he was 
 now in those regions to which, his conscience told him, 
 such an event would be likely to send him. This idea 
 resulted from his bodily sensations, which were in the 
 highest degree uncomfortable. He was tormented by 
 a raging thirst, that seemed to have absorbed all the 
 moisture of his throat and stomach ; and, in his pres 
 ent agitation, a cup of icy water would have been his 
 first wish, had all the treasures of earth and sea been 
 at his command. His head, too, throbbed almost to 
 bursting ; and the whirl of his brain at every move 
 ment promised little accuracy in the aim of his pistol, 
 when he should meet the angler. These feelings, to 
 gether with the deep degradation of his mind, made 
 him resolve that 110 circumstances should again draw 
 him into an excess of wine. In the mean time, his 
 head was, perhaps, still too much confused to allow 
 him fully to realize his unpleasant situation. 
 
 Before Edward was prepared to leave his chamber, 
 the door was opened by one of the college bed-makers, 
 who, perceiving that he was nearly dressed, entered, 
 and began to set the apartment in order. There were 
 two of these officials pertaining to Harley College ; 
 each of them being (and, for obvious reasons, this was 
 an indispensable qualification) a model of perfect ugli 
 ness in her own way. One was a tall, raw-boned, huge- 
 jointed, double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sus 
 tain the part of Glumdalia, in the tragedy of " Tom 
 Thumb." Her features were as excellent as her form, 
 appearing to have been rough-hewn with a broadaxe, 
 and left unpolished. The other was a short, squat 
 figure, about two thirds the height, and three times 
 the circumference, of ordinary females. Her hair 
 was gray, her complexion of a deep yellow ; and hei 
 
FANSHAWE. 159 
 
 most remarkable feature was a short snub nose, just 
 discernible amid the broad immensity of her face. 
 This latter lady was she who now entered Edward s 
 chamber. Notwithstanding her deficiency in personal 
 attractions, she was rather a favorite of the students, 
 being good-natured, anxious for their comfort, and, 
 when duly encouraged, very communicative. Edward 
 perceived, as soon as she appeared, that she only 
 waited his assistance in order to disburden herself of 
 some extraordinary information ; and, more from com 
 passion than curiosity, he began to question her. 
 
 " "Well, Doll} , what news this morning ? " 
 
 " Why, let me see, oh, yes ! It had almost 
 slipped my memory," replied the bed-maker. " Poor 
 Widow Butler died last night, after her long sick 
 ness. Poor woman ! I remember her forty years ago, 
 or so, as rosy a lass as you could set eyes on." 
 
 " Ah ! has she gone ? " said Edward, recollecting 
 the sick woman of the cottage which he had entered 
 with Ellen and Fanshawe. u Was she not out of her 
 right mind, Dolly ? " 
 
 "Yes, this seven years," she answered. " They say 
 she came to her senses a bit, when Dr. Melmoth vis 
 ited her yesterday, but was raving mad when she died. 
 Ah, that son of hers I if he is yet alive. Well, 
 well!" 
 
 " She had a son, then ? " inquired Edward. 
 
 " Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from 
 such a one ! " said Dolly. " It was thought he went 
 off with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now. 
 That was fifteen years ago." 
 
 " And have they heard nothing of him since ? " 
 asked Edward. 
 
 " Nothing good, nothing good," said the bed- 
 
160 FANSHA WE. 
 
 maker. " Stories did travel up the valley now and 
 then ; but for five years there has been no word of 
 him. They say Merchant Langton, Ellen s father, 
 met him in foreign parts, and would have made a man 
 of him ; but there was too much of the wicked one in 
 him for that. Well, poor woman ! I wonder who 11 
 preach her funeral sermon." 
 
 " Dr. Melmoth, probably," observed the student, 
 
 " No, no ! The doctor will never finish his journey 
 in time. And who knows but his own funeral will be 
 the end of it," said Dolly, with a sagacious shake of 
 her head. 
 
 " Dr. Melmoth gone a journey ! " repeated Edward. 
 " What do you mean ? For what purpose ? " 
 
 " For a good purpose enough, I may say," replied 
 she. " To search out Miss Ellen, that was run away 
 with last night." 
 
 " In the Devil s name, woman, of what are you 
 speaking?" shouted Edward, seizing the affrighted 
 bed-maker forcibly by the arm. 
 
 Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous method of 
 communicating her intelligence, because she was well 
 aware that, if she first told of Ellen s flight, she should 
 find no ear for her account of the Widow Butler s 
 death. She had not calculated, however, that the 
 news would produce so violent an effect upon her au 
 ditor ; and her voice faltered as she recounted what 
 she knew of the affair. She had hardly concluded, 
 before Edward who, as she proceeded, had been 
 making hasty preparations rushed from his cham 
 ber, and took the way towards Hugh Crombie s inn. 
 He had no difficulty in finding the landlord, who had 
 already occupied his accustomed seat, and was smok 
 ing his accustomed pipe, under the elm -tree. 
 
FANSHAWE. 161 
 
 " Well, Master Walcott, you have come to take a 
 stomach-reliever this morning, I suppose," said Hugh, 
 taking the pipe from his mouth. " What shall it be ? 
 a bumper of wine with an egg ? or a glass of 
 smooth, old, oily brandy, such as Dame Crombie and 
 I keep for our own drinking ? Come, that will do it, 
 I know." 
 
 * 4 No, no ! neither," replied Edward, shuddering in 
 voluntarily at the bare mention of wine and strong 
 drink. " You know well, Hugh Crombie, the errand 
 on which I come." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I do," said the landlord. " You 
 come to order me to saddle my best horse. You are 
 for a ride, this fine morning." 
 
 " True ; and I must learn of you in what direction 
 to turn my horse s head," replied Edward Walcott. 
 
 " I understand you," said Hugh, nodding and smil 
 ing. " And now, Master Edward, I really have taken 
 a strong liking to you ; and, if you please to hearken 
 to it, you shall have some of niy best advice." 
 
 " Speak," said the young man, expecting to be told 
 in what direction to pursue the chase. 
 
 " I advise you, then," continued Hugh Crombie, in 
 a tone in which some real feeling mingled with as 
 sumed carelessness, " I advise you to forget that 
 you have ever known this girl, that she has ever ex 
 isted ; for she is as much lost to you as if she never 
 had been born, or as if the grave had covered her. 
 Come, come, man, toss off a quart of my old wine, 
 and kept up a merry heart. This has been my way 
 in many a heavier sorrow than ever you have felt ; 
 and you see I am alive and merry yet." But Hugh s 
 merriment had failed him just as he was making his 
 
 VOL. XI. 11 
 
162 FANSHAWE. 
 
 boast of it ; for Edward saw a tear in the corner of 
 his eye. 
 
 " Forget her ? Never, never ! " said the student, 
 while his heart sank within him at the hopelessness of 
 pursuit which Hugh s words implied. " I will follow 
 her to the ends of the earth." 
 
 " Then so much the worse for you and for my poor 
 nag, on whose back you shall be in three minutes," 
 rejoined the landlord. " I have spoken to you as I 
 would to my own son, if I had such an incumbrance. 
 Here, you ragamuffin ; saddle the gray, and lead 
 him round to the door." 
 
 " The gray ? I will ride the black," said Edward. 
 " I know your best horse as well as you do yourself, 
 Hugh." 
 
 "There is no black horse in my stable. I have 
 parted with him to an old comrade of mine," answered 
 the landlord, with a wink of acknowledgment to what 
 he saw were Edward s suspicions. " The gray is a 
 stout nag, and will carry you a round pace, though not 
 so fast as to bring you up with them you seek. I re 
 served him for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe off with 
 the old white, on which I travelled hitherward a year 
 or two since." 
 
 " Fanshawe ! Has he, then, the start of me ? " 
 asked Edward. 
 
 " He rode off about twenty minutes ago," replied 
 Hugh ; " but you will overtake him within ten miles, 
 at farthest. But, if mortal man could recover the 
 girl, that fellow would do it, even if he had no better 
 nag than a broomstick, like the witches of old times." 
 
 " Did he obtain any information from you as to the 
 course ? " inquired the student. 
 
 " I could give him only this much," said Hugh, 
 
FANSHAWE. 163 
 
 pointing down the road in the direction of the town. 
 " My old comrade trusts no man further than is need 
 ful, and I ask no unnecessary questions." 
 
 The hostler now led up to the door the horse which 
 Edward was to ride. The young man mounted with 
 all expedition ; but, as he was about to apply the 
 spurs, his thirst, which the bed -maker s intelligence 
 had caused him to forget, returned most powerfully 
 upon him. 
 
 " For Heaven s sake, Hugh, a mug of your sharp 
 est cider ; and let it be a large one ! " he exclaimed. 
 " My tongue rattles in my mouth like " 
 
 " Like the bones in a dice-box," said the landlord, 
 finishing the comparison, and hastening to obey Ed 
 ward s directions. Indeed, he rather exceeded them, 
 by mingling with the juice of the apple a gill of his 
 old brandy, which his own experience told him woidd 
 at that time have a most desirable effect upon the 
 young man s internal system. 
 
 " It is powerful stuff, mine host ; and I feel like a 
 new man already," observed Edward, after draining 
 the mug to the bottom. 
 
 " He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gal 
 lantly," said Hugh Cronibie to himself as the student 
 rode off. " I heartily wish him success. I wish to 
 Heaven my conscience had suffered me to betray the 
 plot before it was too late. "Well, well, a man must 
 keep his mite of honesty." 
 
 The morning was now one of the most bright and 
 glorious that ever shone for mortals ; and. under other 
 circumstances, Edward s bosom would have been as 
 light, and his spirit woidd have sung as cheerfully, as 
 one of the many birds that warbled around him. The 
 raindrops of the preceding night hung like glittering 
 
164 FANSHAWE. 
 
 diamonds on every leaf of every tree, shaken, and ren* 
 dered more brilliant, by occasional sighs of wind, that 
 removed from the traveller the superfluous heat of an 
 unclouded sun. In spite of the adventure, so mys 
 terious and vexatious, in which he was engaged, Ed 
 ward s elastic spirit (assisted, perhaps, by the brandy 
 he had unwittingly swallowed) rose higher as he rode 
 on ; and he soon found himself endeavoring to accom 
 modate the tune of one of Hugh Crombie s ballads to 
 the motion of the horse. Nor did this reviving cheer, 
 fulness argue anything against his unwavering faith, 
 and pure and fervent love for Ellen Langton. A sor 
 rowful and repining disposition is not the necessary 
 accompaniment of a " leal and loving heart " ; and 
 Edward s spirits were cheered, not by forgetfulness, 
 but by hope, which would not permit him to doubt of 
 the ultimate success of his pursuit. The uncertainty 
 itself, and the probable danger of the expedition, were 
 not without their charm to a youthful and adventurous 
 spirit. In fact, Edward would not have been alto 
 gether satisfied to recover the errant damsel, without 
 first doing battle in her behalf. 
 
 He had proceeded but a few miles before he came 
 in sight of Fanshawe, who had been accommodated by 
 the landlord with a horse much inferior to his own. 
 The speed to which he had been put had almost ex 
 hausted the poor animal, whose best pace was now but 
 little beyond a walk. Edward drew his bridle as he 
 came up with Fanshawe. 
 
 " I have been anxious to apologize," he said to him, 
 " for the hasty and unjust expressions of which I made 
 use last evening. May I hope that, in consideration 
 of my mental distraction and the causes of it, you wiU 
 forget what has passed ? " 
 
FANSHAWE. 165 
 
 "I had already forgotten it," replied Fanshawe, 
 freely offering his hand. 4 * I saw your disturbed state 
 of feeling, and it would have been unjust both to you 
 and to myself to remember the errors it occasioned. 
 
 " A wild expedition this," observed Edward, after 
 shaking warmly the offered hand. " Unless we obtain 
 some further information at the town, we shall hardly 
 know which way to continue the pursuit." 
 
 " We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting upon 
 some trace of them," said Fanshawe. Their flight 
 must have commenced after the storm subsided, which 
 would give them but a few hours the start of us. 
 May I beg," he continued, noticing the superior con 
 dition of his rival s horse, " that you will not attempt 
 to accommodate your pace to mine ? " 
 
 Edward bowed, and rode on, wondering at the 
 change which a few months had wrought in Faii- 
 shawe s character. On this occasion, especially, the 
 energy of his mind had communicated itself to his 
 frame. The color was strong and high in his cheek ; 
 and his whole appearance was that of a gallant and 
 manly youth, whom a lady might love, or a foe might 
 fear. Edward had not been so slow as his mistress in 
 discovering the student s affection ; and he could not 
 but acknowledge in his heart that he was a rival not 
 to be despised, and might yet be a successful one. if, 
 by his means, Ellen Langton were restored to her 
 friends. This consideration caused him to spur for 
 ward with increased ardor ; but all his speed could 
 not divest him of the idea that Fanshawe would finally 
 overtake him, and attain the object of their mutual 
 pursuit. There was certainly no apparent ground for 
 this imagination : for every step of his horse increased 
 the advantage which Edward had gained, and he soon 
 lost sight of his rival. 
 
166 FANSHAWE. 
 
 Shortly after overtaking Fanshawe, the young man 
 passed the lonely cottage formerly the residence of the 
 Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at 
 first inclined to alight, and make inquiries respecting 
 the fugitives; for he observed through the windows 
 the faces of several persons, whom curiosity, or some 
 better feeling, had led to the house of mourning. Rec 
 ollecting, however, that this portion of the road must 
 have been passed by the angler and Ellen at too early 
 an hour to attract notice, he forbore to waste time by 
 a fruitless delay. 
 
 Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting with no 
 other noticeable event, till, arriving at the summit of a 
 hill, he beheld, a few hundred yards before him, the 
 Rev. Dr. Melmoth. The worthy president was toiling 
 onward at a rate unexampled in the history either of 
 himself or his steed ; the excellence of the latter con 
 sisting in sure-footedness rather than rapidity. The 
 rider looked round, seemingly in some apprehension 
 at the sound of hoof -tramps behind him, but was un 
 able to conceal his satisfaction on recognizing Edward 
 Walcott. 
 
 In the whole course of his life, Dr. Melmoth had 
 never been placed in circumstances so embarrassing as 
 the present. He was altogether a child in the ways of 
 the world, having spent his youth and early manhood 
 in abstracted study, and his maturity in the solitude 
 of these hills. The expedition, therefore, on which 
 fate had now thrust him, was an entire deviation from 
 the quiet pathway of all his former years ; and he felt 
 like one who sets forth over the broad ocean without 
 chart or compass. The affair would undoubtedly have 
 been perplexing to a man of far more experience than 
 he ; but the doctor pictured to himself a thousan^ dif- 
 
FANSHAWE. 167 
 
 ficulties and dangers, which, except in his imagination, 
 had no existence. The perturbation of his spirit had 
 compelled him, more than once since his departure, to 
 regret that he had not invited Mrs. Melmoth to a 
 share in the adventure ; this being an occasion where 
 her firmness, decision, and confident sagacity which 
 made her a sort of domestic hedgehog would have 
 been peculiarly appropriate. In the absence of such 
 a counsellor, even Edward Walcott young as he 
 was, and indiscreet as the doctor thought him was 
 a substitute not to be despised ; and it was singular 
 and rather ludicrous to observe how the gray-haired 
 man unconsciously became as a child to the beardless 
 youth. He addressed Edward with an assumption of 
 dignity, through which his pleasure at the meeting 
 was very obvious. 
 
 " Young gentleman, this is not well, he said. "By 
 what authority have you absented yourself from the 
 walls of Alma Mater during term-time ? " 
 
 " I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave 
 at such a conjuncture, and when the head of the insti 
 tution was himself in the saddle," replied Edward. 
 
 " It was a fault, it was a fault," said Dr. Melmoth, 
 shaking his head ; " but, in consideration of the mo 
 tive, I may pass it over. And now, my dear Edward, 
 I advise that we continue our journey together, as 
 your youth and inexperience will stand in need of the 
 wisdom of niy gray head. Xay, I pray you lay not 
 the lash to your steed. You have ridden fast and far ; 
 and a slower pace is requisite for a season." 
 
 And, in order to keep up with his young compan 
 ion, the doctor smote his own gray nag : which un 
 happy beast, wondering what strange concatenation of 
 events had procured him such treatment, endeavored 
 
168 FANSHAWE. 
 
 to obey his master s wishes. Edward had sufficient 
 compassion for Dr. Melmoth (especially as his own 
 horse now exhibited signs of weariness) to moderate 
 his pace to one attainable by the former. 
 
 " Alas, youth ! these are strange times," observed 
 the president, " when a doctor of divinity and an un 
 der -graduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his 
 squire, in search of a stray damsel. Methinks I am 
 an epitome of the church militant, ov a new species of 
 polemical divinity. Pray Heaven, however, there be 
 no encounter in store for us ; for I utterly forgot to 
 provide myself with weapons." 
 
 " I took some thought for that matter, reverend 
 knight," replied Edward, whose imagination was 
 highly tickled by Dr. Melmoth s chivalrous compar 
 ison. 
 
 " Ay, I see that you have girded on a sword," said 
 the divine. " But wherewith shall I defend myself, 
 my hand being empty, except of this golden headed 
 staff, the gift of Mr. Langton ? " 
 
 " One of these, if you will accept it," answered Ed 
 ward, exhibiting a brace of pistols, " will serve to be 
 gin the conflict, before you join the battle hand to 
 hand." 
 
 " Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with 
 that deadly instrument, since I know not accurately 
 from which end proceeds the bullet," said Dr. Mel 
 moth. " But were it not better, seeing we are so well 
 provided with artillery, to betake ourselves, in the 
 event of an encounter, to some stone-wall or other 
 place of strength?" 
 
 " If I may presume to advise," said the squire, 
 "you, as being most valiant and experienced, should 
 ride forward, lance in hand (your long staff serving 
 for a lance), while T annoy the enemy from afar." 
 
FANS HA WE. 169 
 
 " Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax," inter- 
 rupted Dr. Melinoth, "or David with his stone and 
 sling. No, no, young man ! I have left unfinished in 
 my study a learned treatise, important not only to the 
 present age, but to posterity, for whose sakes I must 
 take heed to my safety. But, lo ! who ride yonder? " 
 he exclaimed, in manifest alarm, pointing to some 
 horsemen upon the brow of a hill at a short distance 
 before them. 
 
 " Fear not, gallant leader," said Edward AValcott, 
 who had already discovered the objects of the doctor s 
 terror. " They are men of peace, as we shall shortly 
 see. The foremost is somewhere near your own years, 
 and rides like a grave, substantial citizen, though 
 what he does here, I know not. Behind come two 
 servants, men likewise of sober age and pacific ap 
 pearance." 
 
 " Truly your eyes are better than mine own. Of a 
 verity, you are in the right," acquiesced Dr. Melmoth, 
 recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity. " We 
 will ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just 
 cause, fear neither death nor bonds." 
 
 The reverend knight-errant and his squire, at the 
 time of discovering the three horsemen, were within 
 a very short distance of the town, which was, however, 
 concealed from their view by the hill that the stran 
 gers were descending. The road from Harley Col 
 lege, through almost its whole extent, had been rough 
 and wild, and the country thin of population ; but 
 now, standing frequent, amid fertile fields on each 
 side of the way, were neat little cottages, from which 
 groups of white -headed children rushed forth to gaze 
 upon the travellers. The three strangers, as well as 
 the doctor and Edward, were surrounded, as they ap 
 
170 FANSHAWE. 
 
 preached each other, by a crowd of this kind, plying 
 their little bare legs most pertinaciously in order to 
 keep pace with the horses. 
 
 As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost 
 rider, his grave aspect and stately demeanor struck 
 him with involuntary respect. There were deep lines 
 of thought across his brow ; and his calm yet bright 
 gray eye betokened a steadfast soul. There was also 
 an air of conscious importance, even in the manner in 
 which the stranger sat his horse, which a man s good 
 opinion of himself, unassisted by the concurrence of 
 the world in general, seldom bestows. The two ser 
 vants rode at a respectable distance in the rear ; and 
 the heavy portmanteaus at their backs intimated that 
 the party had journeyed from afar. Dr. Melmoth en 
 deavored to assume the dignity that became him as 
 the head of Harley College ; and with a gentle stroke 
 of his staff upon his wearied steed and a grave nod 
 to the principal stranger, was about to commence the 
 ascent of the hill at the foot of which they were. The 
 gentleman, however, made a halt. 
 
 " Dr. Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you ? " 
 he exclaimed in accents expressive of as much surprise 
 and pleasure as were consistent with his staid de 
 meanor. " Have you, then, forgotten your old friend? " 
 
 " Mr. Langton ! Can it be ? " said the doctor, after 
 looking him in the face a moment. " Yes, it is my 
 old friend indeed : welcome, welcome ! though you 
 come at an unfortunate time." 
 
 " What say you? How is my child? Ellen, I trust, 
 is well ? " cried Mr. Langton, a father s anxiety over 
 coming the coldness and reserve that were natural to 
 him, or that long habit had made a second nature. 
 
 "She is well in health. She was so, at least, last 
 
FANSHAWE. 171 
 
 night," replied Dr. Melmoth unable to meet the eye 
 of his friend. u But but I have been a careless 
 shepherd ; and the lamb has strayed from the fold 
 while I slept." 
 
 Edward AValcott, who was a deeply interested ob 
 server of this scene, had anticipated that a burst of 
 passionate grief would follow the disclosure. He was, 
 however, altogether mistaken. There was a momen 
 tary convulsion of Mr. Lang-ton s strong features, as 
 quick to come and go as a flash of lightning; and 
 then his countenance w r as as composed though, per 
 haps, a little sterner as before. He seemed about 
 to inquire into the particulars of what so nearly con 
 cerned him, but changed his purpose on observing the 
 crowd of children, who, with one or two of their pa 
 rents, were endeavoring to catch the words that passed 
 between the doctor and himself. 
 
 " I will turn back with you to the village," he said 
 in a steady voice ; " and at your leisure I shall desire 
 to hear the particulars of this unfortunate affair." 
 
 He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side 
 with Dr. Melmoth, began to ascend the hill. On reach 
 ing the summit, the little country town lay before them, 
 presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It consisted 
 of one long, regidar street, extending parallel to, and 
 at a short distance from, the river ; which here, en 
 larged by a junction with another stream, became nav 
 igable, not indeed for vessels of burden, but for rafts 
 of lumber and boats of considerable size. The houses, 
 with peaked roofs and jutting stories, stood at wide 
 intervals along the street ; and the commercial char 
 acter of the place was manifested by the shop door and 
 windows that occupied the front of almost every dwell 
 ing. One or two mansions, however, surrounded by 
 
172 FANSHAWE. 
 
 trees, and standing back at a haughty distance from 
 the road, were evidently the abodes of the aristocracy 
 of the village. It was not difficult to distinguish the 
 owners of these self-important personages, with canes 
 and well - powdered periwigs among the crowd of 
 meaner men who bestowed their attention upon Dr. 
 Melmoth and his friend as they rode by. The town 
 being the nearest mart of a large extent of back coun 
 try, there are many rough farmers and woodsmen, to 
 whom the cavalcade was an object of curiosity and 
 admiration. The former feeling, indeed, was general 
 throughout the village. The shop-keepers left their 
 customers, and looked forth from the doors; the fe 
 male portion of the community thrust their heads from 
 the windows ; and the people in the street formed a 
 lane through which, with all eyes concentrated upon 
 them, the party rode onward to the tavern. The gen 
 eral aptitude that pervades the populace of a small 
 country town to meddle with affairs not legitimately 
 concerning them was increased, on this occasion, by the 
 sudden return of Mr. Langton after passing through 
 the village. Many conjectures were afloat respecting 
 the cause of this retrograde movement; and, by de 
 grees, something like the truth, though much distorted, 
 spread generally among the crowd, communicated, prob 
 ably, from Mr. Langton s servants. Edward Walcott, 
 incensed at the uncourteous curiosity of which he, as 
 well as his companions, was the object, felt a frequent 
 impulse (though, fortunately for himself, resisted) to 
 make use of his riding-switch in clearing a passage. 
 
 On arriving at the tavern, Dr. Melmoth recounted 
 to his friend the little he knew beyond the bare fact 
 of Ellen s disappearance. Had Edward Walcott been 
 called to their conference, he might, by disclosing , the 
 
FAJV&hA WE. 173 
 
 adventure of the angler, have thrown a portion of 
 light upon the affair ; but, since his first introduction, 
 the cold and stately merchant had honored him with 
 no sort of notice. 
 
 Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the 
 sudden appearance of Ellen s father, and was little 
 inclined to cooperate in any measures that he might 
 adopt for her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the 
 chase on his own responsibility, and as his own wis 
 dom dictated : he chose to be an independent ally, 
 rather than a subordinate assistant. But, as a step 
 preliminary to his proceedings of every other kind, he 
 found it absolutely necessary, having journeyed far, 
 and fasting, to call upon the landlord for a supply of 
 food. The viands that were set before him were 
 homely but abundant ; nor were Edward s griefs and 
 perplexities so absorbing as to overcome the appetite 
 of youth and health. 
 
 Dr. Melmoth and Mr. Langton, after a short private 
 conversation, had summoned the landlord, in the hope 
 of obtaining some clew to the development of the 
 mystery. But no young lady, nor any stranger an 
 swering to the description the doctor had received 
 from Hugh Cronibie (which was indeed a false one), 
 had been seen to pass through the village since day 
 break. Here, therefore, the friends were entirely at 
 a loss in what direction to continue the pursuit. The 
 village was the focus of several roads, diverging to 
 widely distant portions of the country ; and which of 
 these the fugitives had taken, it was impossible to de 
 termine. One point, however, might be considered 
 certain, that the village was the first stage of their 
 flight ; for it commanded the only outlet from the 
 valley, except a rugged path among the hills, utterly 
 
174 FANSHAWE. 
 
 impassable by horse. In this dilemma, expresses were 
 sent by each of the different roads ; and poor Ellen s 
 imprudence the tale nowise decreasing as it rolled 
 along became known to a wide extent of country. 
 Having thus done everything in his power to recover 
 his daughter, the merchant exhibited a, composure 
 which Dr. Melmoth admired, but could not equal. 
 His own mind, however, was in a far more comfort 
 able state than when the responsibility of the pursuit 
 had rested upon himself. 
 
 Edward Walcott, in the mean time, had employed 
 but a very few moments in satisfying his hunger ; 
 after which his active intellect alternately formed and 
 relinquished a thousand plans for the recovery of 
 Ellen. Fanshawe s observation, that her flight must 
 have commenced after the subsiding of the storm, re 
 curred to him. On inquiry, he was informed that the 
 violence of the rain had continued, with a few momen 
 tary intermissions, till near daylight. The fugitives 
 must, therefore, have passed through the village long 
 after its inhabitants were abroad ; and how, without 
 the gift of invisibility, they had contrived to elude 
 notice, Edward could not conceive. 
 
 " Fifty years ago," thought Edward, " my sweet 
 Ellen would have been deemed a witch for this track 
 less journey. Truly, I could wish I were a wizard, 
 that I might bestride a broomstick, and follow her." 
 
 While the young man, involved in these perplexing 
 thoughts, looked forth from the open window of the 
 apartment, his attention was drawn to an individual, 
 evidently of a different, though not of a higher, class 
 than the countrymen among whom he stood. Edward 
 now recollected that he had noticed his rough dark 
 face among the most earnest of those who had watched 
 
FANSHA WE. 175 
 
 the arrival of the party. He had then taken him for 
 one of the boatmen, of whom there were many in the 
 village, and who had much of a sailor-like dress and 
 appearance. A second and more attentive observa 
 tion, however, convinced Edward that this man s life 
 had not been spent upon fresh water ; and, had any 
 stronger evidence than the nameless marks which the 
 ocean impresses upon its sons been necessary, it would 
 have been found in his mode of locomotion. While 
 Edward was observing him, he beat slowly up to one 
 of Mr. Langton s servants who was standing near the 
 door of the inn. He seemed to question the man with 
 affected carelessness ; but his countenance was dark 
 and perplexed when he turned to mingle again with 
 the crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining froir, 
 the servant the nature of his inquiries. They had re 
 lated to the elopement of Mr. Langton s daughter 
 which was, indeed, the prevailing, if not the sole, sub 
 ject of conversation in the village. 
 
 The grounds for supposing that this man was in anj 
 way connected with the angler were, perhaps, very 
 slight ; yet, in the perplexity of the whole affair, they 
 induced Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his 
 mystery. To attain this end, he took the most direct 
 method, by applying to the man himself. 
 
 He had now retired apart from the throng and bus 
 tle of the village, and was seated upon a condemned 
 boat, that was drawn up to rot upon the banks of the 
 river. His arms were folded, and his hat drawn over 
 his brows. The lower part of his face, which alone 
 was visible, evinced gloom and depression, as did also 
 the deep sighs, which, because he thought no one was 
 near him, he did not attempt to restrain. 
 
 " Friend, I must speak with you," said Edward 
 
176 FAJVSUA WE. 
 
 Walcott, laying his hand upon his shoulder, after con 
 templating the man a moment, himself unseen. 
 
 He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, 
 apparently expecting violence, and prepared to resist 
 it ; but, perceiving the youthful and solitary intruder 
 upon his privacy, he composed his features with much 
 quickness. 
 
 " What would you with me ? " he asked. 
 
 " They tarry long, or you have kept a careless 
 watch," said Edward, speaking at a venture. 
 
 For a moment, there seemed a probability of obtain- 
 ing such a reply to this observation as the youth had 
 intended to elicit. If any trust could be put in the 
 language of the stranger s countenance, a set of words 
 different from those to which he subsequently gavo 
 utterance had risen to his lips. But he seemed natu 
 rally slow of speech ; and this defect was now, as is 
 frequently the case, advantageous in giving him space 
 for reflection. 
 
 " Look you, youngster : crack no jokes on me," ho 
 at length said, contemptuously. " Away ! back whence 
 you came, or "- And he slightly waved a small rat 
 tan that he held in his right hand. 
 
 Edward s eyes sparkled, and his color rose. " You 
 must change this tone, fellow, and that speedily," ho 
 observed. tip I order you to lower your hand, and an 
 swer the questions that I shall put to you." 
 
 The man gazed dubiously at him, but finally adopted 
 a more conciliatory mode of speech. 
 
 " Well, master ; and what is your business with 
 me ? " he inquired. " I am a boatman out of employ. 
 Any commands in my line ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! I know you, my good friend, and you 
 cannot deceive me," replied Edward Walcott. " W^ 
 
FANSHAWE. 177 
 
 are private here/ he continued, looking around. " I 
 have no desire or intention to do you harm ; and, if 
 you act according to my directions, you shall have no 
 cause to repent it." 
 
 " And what if I refuse to put myself under your or- 
 ders ? " inquired the man. " You are but a young 
 captain for such an old hulk as mine." 
 
 " The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on 
 your own side," replied Edward. "I shall, in that 
 case, deliver you up to justice: if I have not the 
 means of capturing \ou myself," he continued, observ- 
 ino- the seaman s eve to wander rather scornfully over 
 
 o ^ 
 
 his youthful and slender figure, " there are hundreds 
 within call whom it will be in vain to resist. Besides, 
 it requires little strength to use this," he added, laying 
 his hand on a pistol. 
 
 "If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad, 
 muttered the stranger. He continued aloud, " Well, 
 what is your will with me ? D d ungenteel treat 
 ment this ! But put your questions ; and, to oblige 
 you, I may answer them, if so be that I know any 
 thing of the matter." 
 
 "You will do wisely," observed the young man. 
 "And now to business. What reason have you to 
 suppose that the persons for whom you watch are not 
 already beyond the village ? " 
 
 The seaman paused long before he answered, and 
 gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring 
 to ascertain from his countenance the amount of his 
 knowledge. This he probably overrated, but, never 
 theless, hazarded a falsehood. 
 
 " I doubt not they passed before midnight," he said. 
 " I warrant you they are many a league towards the 
 sea-coast, ere this." 
 
 VOL. XI. 12 
 
178 FANSHA WE. 
 
 " You have kept watch, then, since midnight ? " 
 asked Edward. 
 
 " Ay, that have I ! And a dark and rough one it 
 was," answered the stranger. 
 
 " And you are certain that, if they passed at all, it 
 must have been before that hour ? " 
 
 " I kept my walk across the road till the village was 
 all astir," said the seaman. " They could not have 
 missed me. So, you see, your best way is to give 
 chase ; for they have a long start of you, and you 
 have no time to lose." 
 
 " Your information is sufficient, my good friend," 
 said Edward, with a smile. " I have reason to know 
 that they did not commence their flight before mid 
 night. You have made it evident that they have not 
 passed since : ergo, they have not passed at all, an 
 indisputable syllogism. And now will I retrace my 
 footsteps." 
 
 " Stay, young man," said the stranger, placing him* 
 self full in Edward s way as he was about to hasten to 
 the inn. " You have drawn me in to betray my com 
 rade ; but, before you leave this place, you must an 
 swer a question or two of mine. Do you mean to take 
 the law with you ? or will you right your wrongs, if 
 you have any, with your own right hand ? " 
 
 " It is my intention to take the latter method. But, 
 if I choose the former, what then ? " demanded Ed 
 ward. 
 
 " Nay, nothing : only you or I might not have gone 
 hence alive," replied the stranger. " But as you say 
 he shall have fair play " 
 
 " On my word, friend," interrupted the young man, 
 " I fear your intelligence has come too late to do either 
 good or harm. Look towards the inn : my compan- 
 
FANSHAWE. 179 
 
 ions are getting to horse, and, my life on it, they know 
 whither to ride." 
 
 So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stran 
 ger. It was indeed evident that news of some kind 
 or other had reached the village. The people were 
 gathered in groups, conversing eagerly ; and the pale 
 cheeks, uplifted eyebrows, and outspread hands of 
 some of the female sex filled Edward s mind with un 
 defined but intolerable apprehensions. He forced his 
 way to Dr. Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seiz 
 ing his bridle, peremptorily demanded if he knew 
 aught of Ellen Langton. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " Full many a miserable year hath passed : 
 She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead : 
 And many a change her varied life hath known ; 
 But her heart none." MATURIN. 
 
 SINCE her interview with the angler, which was 
 interrupted by the appearance of Fanshawe, Ellen 
 Langton s hitherto calm and peaceful mind had been 
 in a state of insufferable doubt and dismay. She 
 was imperatively called upon at least, she so con 
 ceived to break through the rules which nature and 
 education impose upon her sex, to quit the protec 
 tion of those whose desire for her welfare was true 
 and strong, and to trust herself, for what purpose 
 she scarcely knew, to a stranger, from whom the in 
 stinctive purity of her mind would involuntarily have 
 shrunk, under whatever circumstances she had met 
 him. The letter which she had received from the 
 hands of the angler had seemed to her inexperience to 
 prove beyond a doubt that the bearer was the friend 
 of her father, and authorized by him, if her duty and 
 affection were stronger than her fears, to guide her to 
 his retreat. The letter spoke vaguely of losses and 
 misfortunes, and of a necessity for concealment on her 
 father s part, and secrecy on hers ; and, to the credit 
 of Ellen s not very romantic understanding, it must be 
 acknowledged that the mystery of the plot had nearly 
 prevented its success. She did not, indeed, doubt 
 that the letter was from her father s hand ; for every 
 line and stroke, and even many of its phrases, were 
 
FANSHAWE. 181 
 
 familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his mis 
 fortunes, of what nature soever they were, had affected 
 his intellect, and that, under such an influence, he had 
 commanded her to take a step which nothing less than 
 such a command could justify. Ellen did not, how 
 ever, remain long in this opinion ; for when she repe- 
 rused the letter, and considered the firm, regular char 
 acters, and the style, calm and cold, even in request 
 ing such a sacrifice, she felt that there was nothing 
 like insanity here. In fine, she came gradually to the 
 belief that there were strong reasons, though incom 
 prehensible by her, for the secrecy that her father had 
 enjoined. 
 
 Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay 
 plain before her. Her affection for Mr. Langtou was 
 not, indeed, nor was it possible, so strong as that 
 she would have felt for a parent who had watched over 
 her from her infancy. Neither was the conception she 
 had unavoidably formed of his character such as to 
 promise that in him she would find an equivalent for 
 all she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle 
 nature and loving heart, which otherwise would have 
 rejoiced in a new object of affection, now shrank with 
 something like dread from the idea of meeting her 
 father, stately, cold, and stern as she could not but 
 imagine him. A sense of duty was therefore Ellen s 
 only support in resolving to tread the dark path that 
 lay before her. 
 
 Had there been any person of her own sex in whom 
 Ellen felt confidence, there is little doubt that she 
 would so far have disobeyed her father s letter as to 
 communicate its contents, and take counsel as to her 
 proceedings. But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female 
 excepting, indeed, the maid-servant to whom it 
 
182 FANSHAWE. 
 
 was possible to make the communication ; and, though 
 Ellen at first thought of such a step, her timidity, and 
 her knowledge of the lady s character, did not permit 
 her to venture upon it. She next reviewed her ac 
 quaintances of the other sex ; and Dr. Melmoth first 
 presented himself, as in every respect but one, an un 
 exceptionable confidant. But the single exception was 
 equivalent to many. The maiden, with the highest 
 opinion of the doctor s learning and talents, had suffi 
 cient penetration to know, that, in the ways of the 
 world, she was herself the better skilled of the two. 
 For a moment she thought of Edward Walcott ; but 
 he was light and wild, and, which her delicacy made 
 an insurmountable objection, there was an untold love 
 between them. Her thoughts finally centred on Fan- 
 shawe. In his judgment, young and inexperienced 
 though he was, she would have placed a firm trust ; 
 and his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, she could 
 not doubt. 
 
 If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an op 
 portunity had occurred for consulting him, she would, 
 in all probability, have taken advantage of it. But 
 the terms on which they had parted the preceding 
 evening had afforded him no reason to hope for her 
 confidence ; and he felt that there were others who 
 had a better right to it than himself. He did not, 
 therefore, throw himself in her way ; and poor Ellen 
 was consequently left without an adviser. 
 
 The determination that resulted from her own un 
 assisted wisdom has been seen. When discovered by 
 Dr. Melmoth at Hugh Crombie s inn, she was wholly 
 prepared for flight, and, but for the intervention of 
 the storm, would, ere then, have been far away. 
 
 The firmness of resolve that had impelled a timid 
 
FANSHAWE. 183 
 
 maiden upon such a step was not likely to be broken 
 by one defeat ; and Ellen, accordingly, confident that 
 the stranger would make a second attempt, determined 
 that no effort on her part should be wanting to its suc 
 cess. On reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of 
 retiring to rest (of which, from her sleepless thoughts 
 of the preceding night, she stood greatly in need), she 
 sat watching for the abatement of the storm. Her 
 meditations were now calmer than at any time since 
 her first meeting with the angler. She felt as if her 
 fate was decided. The stain had fallen upon her 
 reputation : she was no longer the same pure being 
 in the opinion of those whose approbation she most 
 valued. 
 
 One obstacle to her flight and, to a woman s 
 mind, a most powerful one had thus been removed. 
 Dark and intricate as was the way, it was easier now 
 to proceed than to pause ; and her desperate and for 
 lorn situation gave her a strength which hitherto she 
 had not felt. 
 
 At every cessation in the torrent of rain that beat 
 against the house, Ellen flew to the window, expecting 
 to see the stranger form beneath it. But the clouds 
 would again thicken, and the storm recommence with 
 its former violence ; and she began to fear that the 
 approach of morning would compel her to meet the 
 now dreaded face of Dr. Melmoth. At length, how 
 ever, a strong and steady wind, supplying the place 
 of the fitful gusts of the preceding part of the night, 
 broke and scattered the clouds from the broad ex 
 panse of the sky. The moon, commencing her late 
 voyage not long before the sun, was now visible, set 
 ting forth like a lonely ship from the dark line of the 
 horizon, and touching at many a little silver cloud the 
 
184 FANS II A WE. 
 
 islands of that aerial deep. Ellen felt that now the 
 time was come ; and, with a calmness wonderful to 
 herself, she prepared for her final departure. 
 
 She had not long to wait ere she saw, between the 
 vacancies of the trees, the angler advancing along the 
 shady avenue that led to the principal entrance of Dr. 
 Melmoth s dwelling. He had no need to summon her 
 either by word or signal; for she had descended, 
 emerged from the door, and stood before him, while 
 he was yet at some distance from the house. 
 
 " You have watched well," he observed in a low, 
 strange tone. " As saith the Scripture, Many daugh 
 ters have done virtuously ; but thou excellest them 
 all. " 
 
 He took her arm ; and they hastened down the ave 
 nue. Then, leaving Hugh Crombie s inn on their 
 right, they found its master in a spot so shaded that 
 the moonbeams could not enlighten it. He held by 
 the bridle two horses, one of which the angler assisted 
 Ellen to mount. Then, turning to the landlord he 
 pressed a purse into his hand ; but Hugh drew back, 
 and it fell to the ground. 
 
 " No ! this would not have tempted me ; nor will it 
 reward me," he said. " If you have gold to spare, 
 there are some that need it more than I." 
 
 " I understand you, mine host. I shall take thought 
 for them ; and enough will remain for you and me," 
 replied his comrade. " I have seen the day when such 
 a purse would not have slipped between your fingers. 
 Well, be it so. And now, Hugh, my old friend, a 
 shake of your hand ; for we are seeing our last of 
 each other." 
 
 " Pray Heaven it be so ! though I wish you no ill, 
 said the landlord, giving his hand. 
 
FANSHAWE. 185 
 
 He then seemed about to approach Ellen, who had 
 been unable to distinguish the words of this brief con 
 versation ; but his comrade prevented him. u There 
 is no time to lose," he observed. " The moon is grow 
 ing pale already, and we should have been many a 
 mile beyond the valley ere this." He mounted as he 
 spoke ; and, guiding Ellen s rein till they reached the 
 road, they dashed away. 
 
 It was now that she felt herself completely in his 
 power ; and with that consciousness there came a sud 
 den change of feeling, and an altered view of her con 
 duct. A thousand reasons forced themselves upon 
 her mind, seeming to prove that she had been de 
 ceived ; while the motives, so powerful with her but a 
 moment before, had either vanished from her memory 
 or lost all their efficacy. Her companion, who gazed 
 searchingly into her face, where the moonlight, com 
 ing down between the pines, allowed him to read its 
 expression, probably discerned somewhat of the state 
 of her thoughts. 
 
 " Do you repent so soon ? " he inquired. " "We have 
 a weary way before us. Faint not ere we have well 
 entered upon it." 
 
 I have left dear friends behind me, and am going 
 I know not whither," replied Ellen, tremblingly. 
 
 " You have a faithful guide," he observed, turning 
 away his head, and speaking in the tone of one who 
 endeavors to smother a laugh. 
 
 Ellen had no heart to continue the conversation ; 
 and they rode on in silence, and through a wild and 
 gloomy scene. The wind roared heavily through the 
 forest, and the trees shed their raindrops upon the 
 travellers. The road, at all times rough, was now 
 broken into deep gullies, through which streams went 
 
186 FA NSHAWE. 
 
 murmuring down to mingle with the river. The pale 
 moonlight combined with the gray of the morning to 
 give a ghastly and unsubstantial appearance to every 
 object. 
 
 The difficulties of the road had been so much in 
 creased by the storm, that the purple eastern clouds 
 gave notice of the near approach of the sun just as 
 the travellers reached the little lonesome cottage which 
 Ellen remembered to have visited several months 
 before. On arriving opposite to it, her companion 
 checked his horse, and gazed with a wild earnestness 
 at the wretched habitation. Then, stifling a groan" 
 that would not altogether be repressed, he was about to 
 pass on ; but at that moment the cottage-door opened, 
 and a woman, whose sour, unpleasant countenance 
 Ellen recognized, came hastily forth. She seemed not 
 to heed the travellers ; but the angler, his voice thrill 
 ing and quivering with indescribable emotion, ad 
 dressed her. 
 
 " Woman, whither do you go ? " he inquired. 
 
 She started, but, after a momentary pause, replied, 
 " There is one within at the point of death. She strug 
 gles fearfully; and I cannot endure to watch alone by 
 her bedside. If you are Christians, come in with 
 me." 
 
 Ellen s companion leaped hastily from his horse, as 
 sisted her also to dismount, and followed the woman 
 into the cottage, having first thrown the bridles of 
 the hcrses carelessly over the branch of a tree. Ellen 
 trembled at the awful scene she would be compelled 
 to witness ; but, when death was so near at hand, it 
 was more terrible to stand alone in the dim morning 
 light than even to watch the parting of soul and body. 
 She therefore entered the cottage. 
 
FANSHAWE. 187 
 
 Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had taken 
 his stand at a distance from the death-bed, in a part 
 of the room which neither the increasing daylight nor 
 the dim rays of a solitary lamp had yet enlightened. 
 At Ellen s entrance, the dying woman lay still, and 
 apparently calm, except that a plaintive, half -articu 
 late sound occasionally wandered through her lips. 
 
 " Hush ! For mercy s sake, silence ! " whispered 
 the other woman to the strangers. " There is good 
 hope now that she will die a peaceable death ; but, if 
 she is disturbed, the boldest of us will not dare to 
 stand by her bedside." 
 
 The whisper by which her sister endeavored to pre 
 serve quiet perhaps reached the ears of the dying fe 
 male ; for she now raised herself in bed, slowly, but 
 with a strength superior to what her situation prom 
 ised. Her face was ghastly and wild, from long ill 
 ness, approaching death, and disturbed intellect ; and 
 a disembodied spirit coidd scarcely be a more fearful 
 object than one whose soul was just struggling forth. 
 Her sister, approaching with the soft and stealing 
 step appropriate to the chamber of sickness and death, 
 attempted to replace the covering around her, and to 
 compose her again upon the pillow. u Lie down and 
 sleep, sister," she said ; " and, when the day breaks, 
 I will waken you. Methinks your breath conies freer 
 already. A little more slumber, and to-uiorrow you 
 will be well." 
 
 " My illness is gone : I am well," said the dying 
 woman, gasping for breath. "I wander where the 
 fresh breeze comes sweetly over my face ; but a close 
 and stifled air has choked my lungs." 
 
 "Yet a little while, and you will no longer draw 
 your breath in pain," observed her sister, again replac 
 ing the bedclothes, which she continued to throw off. 
 
188 FANS II A WE. 
 
 " My husband is with me," murmured the 
 " He walks by my side, and speaks to me as in old 
 times ; but his words come faintly on my ear. Cheer 
 me and comfort me, my husband ; for there is a ter 
 ror in those dim, motionless eyes, and in that shadowy 
 voice." 
 
 As she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon some 
 object that stood by her bedside; and the eyes of 
 those who witnessed this scene could not but follow 
 the direction of hers. They observed that the dying 
 woman s own shadow was marked upon the wall, re 
 ceiving a tremulous motion from the fitful rays of the 
 lamp, and from her own convulsive efforts. " Mv 
 husband stands gazing on me," she said again ; u but 
 rny son, where is he ? And, as I ask, the father 
 turns away his face. Where is our son? For his 
 sake, I have longed to come to this land of rest. For 
 him I have sorrowed many years. Will he not com 
 fort me now? " 
 
 At these words the stranger made a few hasty steps 
 towards the bed ; but, ere he reached it, he conquered 
 the impulse that drew him thither, and, shrouding his 
 face more deeply in his cloak, returned to his former 
 position. The dying woman, in the mean time, had 
 thrown herself back upon the bed ; and her sobbing 
 and wailing, imaginary as was their cause, were inex 
 pressibly affecting. 
 
 " Take me back to earth," she said ; " for its griefs 
 have followed me hither." 
 
 The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, knelt 
 down by the bedside, throwing the light full upon his 
 pale and convulsed features. 
 
 " Mother, here is your son ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst away 
 
FANSHAWE. 189 
 
 at once from her soul. She arose in bed, her eyes and 
 her whole countenance beaming with joy, and threw 
 her arms about his neck. A multitude of words 
 seemed struggling for utterance ; but they gave place 
 to a low moaning sound, and then to the silence of 
 death. The one moment of happiness, that recom 
 pensed years of sorrow, had been her last. Her son 
 laid the lifeless form upon the pillow, and gazed with 
 fixed eyes on his mother s face. 
 
 As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic joy that 
 parting life had left upon the features faded gradually 
 away ; and the countenance, though no longer wild, 
 assumed the sadness which it had worn through a long 
 course of grief and pain. On beholding this natural 
 consequence of death, the thought, perhaps, occurred 
 to him, that her soul, no longer dependent on the im 
 perfect means of intercourse possessed by mortals, had 
 communed with his own, and become acquainted with 
 all its guilt and misery. He started from the bedside, 
 and covered his face with his hands, as if to hide it 
 from those dead eyes. 
 
 Such a scene as has been described could not but 
 have a powerful effect upon any one who retained 
 aught of humanity ; and the grief of the son, whose 
 natural feelings had been blunted, but not destroyed, 
 by an evil life, was much more violent than his out 
 ward demeanor would have expressed. But his deep 
 repentance for the misery he had brought upon his 
 parent did not produce in him a resolution to do 
 wrong no more. The sudden consciousness of ac 
 cumulated guilt made him desperate. He felt as if 
 no one had thenceforth a claim to justice or compas 
 sion at his hands, when his neglect and cruelty had 
 poisoned his mother s life, and hastened her death. 
 
190 F ANSI! A WE. 
 
 Thus it was that the Devil wrought with him to his 
 own destruction, reversing the salutary effect which 
 his mother would have died exultingly to produce 
 upon his mind. He now turned to Ellen Langton with 
 a demeanor singularly calm and composed. 
 
 "We must resume our journey," he said, in his 
 usual tone of voice. " The sun is on the point of ris 
 ing, though but little light finds its way into this 
 hovel." 
 
 Ellen s previous suspicions as to the character of 
 her companion had now become certainty so far as to 
 convince her that she was in the power of a lawless 
 and guilty man ; though what fate he intended for 
 her she was unable to conjecture. An open opposi 
 tion to his will, however, could not be ventured upon ; 
 especially as she discovered, on looking round the 
 apartment, that, with the exception of the corpse, they 
 were alone. 
 
 " Will you not attend your mother s funeral ? " she 
 asked, trembling, and conscious that he would discover 
 her fears. 
 
 " The dead must bury their dead," he replied. " I 
 have brought my mother to her grave, and what 
 can a son do more ? This purse, however, will serve 
 to lay her in the earth, and leave something for the old 
 hag. Whither is she gone ? " interrupted he, casting 
 a glance round the room in search of the old woman. 
 " Nay, then, we must speedily to horse. I know her 
 of old." 
 
 Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the table, 
 and, without trusting himself to look again towards 
 the dead, conducted Ellen out of the cottage. The 
 first rays of the sun at that moment gilded the tallest 
 trees of the forest. 
 
 
 
FANS HA WE. 191 
 
 On looking towards the spot were the horses had 
 stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in answer to her 
 prayers, had taken care for her deliverance. They 
 were no longer there, a circumstance easily ac 
 counted for by the haste with which the bridles had 
 been thrown over the branch of the tree. Her com 
 panion, however, imputed it to another cause. 
 
 " The hag ! She would sell her own flesh and blood 
 by weight and measure," he muttered to himself. 
 " This is some plot of hers, I know well." 
 
 He put his hand to his forehead for a moment s 
 space, seeming to reflect on the course most advisable 
 to be pursued. Ellen, perhaps unwisely, interposed. 
 
 " Would it not be well to return ? " she asked, 
 timidly. " There is now no hope of escaping ; but I 
 might yet reach home undiscovered." 
 
 " Return ! " repeated her guide, with a look and 
 smile from which she turned away her face. " Have 
 you forgotten your father and his misfortunes ? Xo, 
 no, sweet Ellen : it is too late for such thoughts as 
 these." 
 
 He took her hand, and led her towards the forest, 
 in the rear of the cottage. She would fain have re 
 sisted ; but they were all alone, and the attempt must 
 have been both fruitless and dangerous. She there 
 fore trod with him a path so devious, so faintly traced, 
 and so overgrown with bushes and young trees, that 
 only a most accurate acquaintance in his early days 
 could have enabled her guide to retain it. To him, 
 however, it seemed so perfectly familiar, that he was 
 not once compelled to pause, though the numerous 
 windings soon deprived Ellen of all knowledge of the 
 situation of the cottage. They descended a steep hill, 
 and, proceeding parallel to the river, as Ellen 
 
192 FANSHAWE. 
 
 judged by its rushing sound, at length found them 
 selves at what proved to be the termination of their 
 walk. 
 
 Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward WaL 
 cott s respecting the wild and rude scenery through 
 which the river here kept its way ; and, in less agitat 
 ing circumstances, her pleasure and admiration would 
 have been great. They stood beneath a precipice, so 
 high that the loftiest pine-tops (and many of them 
 seemed to soar to heaven) scarcely surmounted it. 
 This line of rock has a considerable extent, at unequal 
 heights, and with many interruptions, along the course 
 of the river; and it seems probable that, at some 
 former period, it was the boundary of the waters, 
 though they are now confined within far less ambi 
 tious limits. The inferior portion of the crag, beneath 
 which Ellen and her guide were standing, varies so 
 far from the perpendicular as not to be inaccessible 
 by a careful footstep. But only one person has been 
 known to attempt the ascent of the superior half, and 
 only one the descent ; yet, steep as is the height, trees 
 and bushes of various kinds have clungf to the rock, 
 
 O 
 
 wherever their roots could gain the slightest hold; 
 thus seeming to prefer the scanty and difficult nourish 
 ment of the cliff to a more luxurious life in the rich 
 interval that extends from its base to the river. But, 
 whether or no these hardy vegetables have voluntarily 
 chosen their rude resting-place, the cliff is indebted to 
 them for much of the beauty that tempers its sublim 
 ity. When the eye is pained and wearied by the bold 
 nakedness of the rock, it rests with pleasure on the 
 cheerful foliage of the birch, or upon the darker green 
 of the funereal pine. Just at the termination of the ac 
 cessible portion of the crag, these trees are so n.umer- 
 
FANSHAWE. 193 
 
 ous, and their foliage so dense, that they completely 
 shroud from view a considerable excavation, formed, 
 probably, hundreds of years since, by the fall of a por 
 tion of the rock. The detached fragment still lies at 
 a little distance from the base, gray and moss-grown, 
 but corresponding, in its general outline, to the cavity 
 from which it was rent. 
 
 But the most singular and beautiful object in all 
 this scene is a tiny fount of crystal water, that gushes 
 forth from the -high, smooth forehead of the cliff. Its 
 perpendicular descent is of many feet ; after which it 
 finds its way, with a sweet diminutive murmur, to the 
 level ground. 
 
 It is not easy to conceive whence the barren rock 
 procures even the small supply of water that is neces- 
 sarv to the existence of this stream : it is as unac 
 countable as the gush of gentle feeling which some 
 times proceeds from the hardest heart : but there it 
 continues to flow and fall, undiminished and unin- 
 creased. The stream is so slender, that the gentlest 
 breeze suffices to disturb its descent, and to scatter its 
 pure sweet waters over the face of the cliff. But in 
 that deep forest there is seldom a breath of wind ; so 
 that, plashing continually upon one spot, the fount has 
 worn its own little channel of white sand, by which it 
 finds its way to the river. Alas that the Naiades 
 have lost their old authority ! for what a deity of tiny 
 loveliness must once have presided here ! 
 
 Ellen s companion paused not to gaze either upon 
 the loveliness or the sublimity of this scene, but, assist 
 ing her where it was requisite, began the steep and 
 difficult ascent of the lower part of the cliff. The 
 maiden s ingenuity in vain endeavored to assign rea 
 sons for this movement ; but when they reached the 
 
 VOL. XI. 13 
 
194 FANSHAWE. 
 
 tuft of trees, which, as has been noticed, grew at th 
 ultimate point where mortal footstep might safely 
 tread, she perceived through their thick branches the 
 recess in the rock. Here they entered ; and her guide 
 pointed to a mossy seat, in the formation of which, to 
 judge from its regularity, art had probably a share. 
 
 " Here you may remain in safety," he observed, 
 " till I obtain the means of proceeding. In this spot 
 you need fear no intruder ; but it will be dangerous to 
 venture beyond its bounds." 
 
 The meaning glance that accompanied these words 
 intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning her against 
 clanger, he alluded to the vengeance with which he 
 would visit any attempt to escape. To leave her thus 
 alone, trusting to the influence of such a threat, was a 
 bold, yet a necessary and by no means a hopeless meas 
 ure. On Ellen it produced the desired effect ; and she 
 sat in the cave as motionless, for a time, as if she had 
 herself been a part of the rock. In other circum 
 stances this shady recess would have been a delightful 
 retreat during the sultry warmth of a summer s day. 
 The dewy coolness of the rock kept the air always 
 fresh and the sunbeams never thrust themselves so as 
 to dissipate the mellow twilight through the green trees 
 with which the chamber was curtained. Ellen s sleep 
 lessness and agitation for many preceding hours had 
 perhaps deadened her feelings ; for she now felt a sort 
 of indifference creeping upon her, an inability to real 
 ize the evils of her situation, at the same time that she 
 was perfectly aware of them all. This torpor of mind 
 increased, till her eyelids began to grow heavy and the 
 cave and trees to swim before her sight. In a few mo 
 ments more she would probably have been in dream 
 less slumber ; but, rousing herself by a strong effort, 
 
FANSHAWE. 195 
 
 she looked round the narrow limits of the cave in 
 search of objects to excite her worn-out mind. 
 
 She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock af 
 forded place for them, the initials, or the full-length 
 names of former visitants of the cave. What wan 
 derer on mountain-tops or in deep solitudes has not 
 felt the influence of these records of humanity, telling 
 him, when such a conviction is soothing to his heart, 
 that he is not alone in the world ? It was singular, 
 that, when her own mysterious situation had almost 
 lost its power to engage her thoughts, Ellen perused 
 these barren memorials with a certain degree of inter 
 est. She went on repeating them aloud, and starting at 
 the sound of her own voice, till at length, as one name 
 passed through her lips, she paused, and then, lean- 
 ing her forehead against the letters, burst into tears. 
 It was the name of Edward Walcott ; and it struck 
 upon her heart, arousing her to a full sense of her pres 
 ent misfortunes and dangers, and, more painful still, 
 of her past happiness. Her tears had, however, a 
 soothing, and at the same time a strengthening effect 
 upon her mind ; for, when their gush was over, she 
 raised her head, and began to meditate on the means 
 of escape. She wondered at the species of fascination 
 that had kept her, as if chained to the rock, so long, 
 when there was, in reality, nothing to bar her pathway. 
 She determined, late as it was, to attempt her own 
 deliverance, and for that purpose began slowly and 
 cautiously to emerge from the cave. 
 
 Peeping out from among the trees, she looked and 
 listened with most painful anxiety to discover if any 
 living thing were in that seeming solitude, or if any 
 sound disturbed the heavy stillness. But she saw only 
 Nature in her wildest forms, and heard only the plash 
 
196 FAN SNA WE. 
 
 and murmur (almost inaudible, because continual) of 
 the little waterfall, and the quick, short throbbing of 
 her own heart, against which she pressed her hand 
 as if to hush it. Gathering courage, therefore, she 
 began to descend ; and, starting often at the loose 
 stones that even her light footstep displaced and sent 
 rattling down, she at length reached the base of the 
 crag in safety. She then made a few steps in the di 
 rection, as nearly as she could judge, by which she ar 
 rived at the spot, but paused, with a sudden revulsion 
 of the blood to her heart, as her guide emerged from 
 behind a projecting part of the rock. He approached 
 her deliberately, an ironical smile writhing his fea 
 tures into a most disagreeable expression ; while in his 
 eyes there was something that seemec] a wild, fierce joy. 
 By a species of sophistry, of which oppressors often 
 make use, he had brought himself to believe that he 
 was now the injured one, and that Ellen, by her dis 
 trust of him, had fairly subjected herself to whatever 
 evil it consisted with his will and power to inflict upon 
 her. Her only restraining influence over him, the 
 consciousness, in his own mind, that he possessed her 
 confidence, was now done away. Ellen, as well as her 
 enemy, felt that this was the case. She knew not 
 what to dread ; but she was well aware that danger 
 was at hand, and that, in the deep wilderness, there 
 was none to help her, except that Being with whose 
 inscrutable purposes it might consist to allow the 
 wicked to triumph for a season, and the innocent to 
 be brought low. 
 
 "Are you so soon weary of this quiet retreat?" de 
 manded her guide, continuing to wear the same sneer 
 ing smile. " Or has your anxiety for your father in 
 duced you to set forth alone in quest of the afflicted 
 old man? " 
 
FANSHAWE. 197 
 
 " Oh, if I were but with him ! " exclaimed Ellen. 
 " But this place is lonely and fearful ; and I cannot 
 endure to remain here." 
 
 "Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen?" he rejoined; "am I 
 not with you ? Yes, it is lonely, lonely as guilt could 
 wish. Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare not. Shriek, and 
 see if there be any among these rocks and woods to 
 hearken to you ! " 
 
 "There is, there is One," exclaimed Ellen, shud 
 dering, and affrighted at the fearful meaning of his 
 countenance. " He is here ! He is there ! " And she 
 pointed to heaven. 
 
 " It may be so, dearest," he replied. " But if there 
 be an Ear that hears, and an Eye that sees all the evil 
 of the earth, yet the Arm is slow to avenge. Else 
 why do I stand before you a living man ? " 
 
 " His vengeance may be delayed for a time, but not 
 forever," she answered, gathering a desperate courage 
 from the extremity of her fear. 
 
 "You say true, lovely Ellen; and I have done 
 enough, erenow, to insure its heaviest weight. There 
 is a pass, when evil deeds can add nothing to guilt, 
 nor good ones take anything from it." 
 
 " Think of your mother. of her sorrow through 
 life, and perhaps even after death," Ellen began to 
 say. But, as she spoke these words, the expression of 
 his face was changed, becoming suddenly so dark and 
 fiend-like, that she clasped her hands, and fell on her 
 knees before him. 
 
 " I have thought of my mother," he replied, speak 
 ing very low, and putting his face close to hers. 
 " I remember the neglect, the wrong, the lingering 
 and miserable death, that she received at my hands. 
 By what claim can either man or woman henceforth 
 
198 FANSHA WE. 
 
 expect mercy from me? If God will help you, be it 
 so ; but by those words you have turned my heart to 
 stone." 
 
 At this period of their conversation, when Ellen s 
 peril seemed most imminent, the attention of both was 
 attracted by a fragment of rock, which, falling from 
 the summit of the crag, struck very near them. Ellen 
 started from her knees, and, with her false guide, gazed 
 eagerly upward, he in the fear of interruption, she 
 in the hope of deliverance. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ** At length, he cries, behold the fated spring ! 
 Ton rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest, 
 Dark rocks its crystal source o ershadowing." 
 
 PSYCHB. 
 
 THE tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be 
 recollected, after being overtaken by Edward Walcott, 
 was left with little apparent prospect of aiding in the 
 deliverance of Ellen Langton. 
 
 It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with 
 which the student pursued the chase, or to decide 
 whether he was influenced and animated by the same 
 hopes of successful love that cheered his rival. That 
 he was conscious of such hopes, there is little reason to 
 suppose ; for the most powerful minds are not always 
 the best acquainted with their own feelings. Had 
 Fanshawe, moreover, acknowledged to himself the pos 
 sibility of gaming Ellen s affections, his generosity 
 would have induced fiiin to refrain from her society 
 before it was too late. He had read her character 
 with accuracy, and had seen how fit she was to love, 
 and to be loved, by a man who could find his happi 
 ness in the common occupations of the world ; and 
 Fanshawe never deceived himself so far as to suppose 
 that this would be the case with him. Indeed, he 
 often wondered at the passion with which Ellen s sim 
 ple loveliness of mind and person had inspired him, 
 and which seemed to be founded on the principle 
 of contrariety, rather than of sympathy. It was the 
 yearning of a soul, formed by Nature in a pecidiar 
 
200 FANS HA WE. 
 
 mould, for communion with those to whom it bore a 
 resemblance, yet of whom it was not. But there was 
 no reason to suppose that Ellen, who differed from 
 the multitude only as being purer and better, would 
 cast away her affections on the one, of all who sur 
 rounded her, least fitted to make her happy. Thus 
 Fanshawe reasoned with himself, and of this he be 
 lieved that he was convinced. Yet ever and anon he 
 found himself involved in a dream of bliss, of which 
 Ellen was to be the giver and the sharer. Then would 
 he rouse himself, and press upon his mind the chilling 
 consciousness that it was and could be but a dream. 
 There was also another feeling, apparently discordant 
 with those which have been enumerated. It was a 
 longing for rest, for his old retirement, that came at 
 intervals so powerfully upon him, as he rode on, that 
 his heart sickened of the active exertion on which fate 
 had thrust him. 
 
 After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Fan 
 shawe continued his journey with as much speed as 
 was attainable by his wearied horse, but at a pace in 
 finitely too slow for his earnest thoughts. These had 
 carried him far away, leaving ^iim only such a con 
 sciousness of his present situation as to make diligent 
 use of the spur, when a horse s tread at no great dis 
 tance struck upon his ear. He looked forward and 
 behind ; but, though a considerable extent of the nar 
 row, rocky, and grass-grown road was visible, he was 
 the only traveller there. Yet again he heard the 
 sound, which, he now discovered, proceeded from 
 among the trees that lined the roadside. Alighting, 
 he entered the forest, with the intention, if the steed 
 proved to be disengaged, and superior to his own, of 
 appropriating him to his own use. He soon gajned a 
 
FANSHAWE. 201 
 
 view of the object lie sought ; but the animal rendered 
 a closer acquaintance unattainable, by immediately 
 taking to his heels. Faiishawe had, however, made 
 a most interesting discovery ; for the horse was ac 
 coutred with a side-saddle ; and w T ho but Ellen Lang- 
 ton could have been his rider? At this conclusion, 
 though his perplexity was thereby in no degree dimin 
 ished, the student immediately arrived. Keturning to 
 the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a 
 cottage, which he recognized as the one he had entered 
 with Ellen and Edward Walcott, he determined there 
 to make inquiry respecting the objects of his pursuit. 
 
 On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwell 
 ing, he saw that it was not now so desolate pf inmates 
 as on his previous visit. In the single inhabitable 
 apartment were several elderly women, clad evidently 
 in their well-worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and 
 all wearing a deep grievous expression of countenance. 
 Fanshawe was not long in deciding that death was 
 within the cottage, and that these aged females were 
 of the class who love the house of mourning, because 
 to them it is a house of feasting. It is a fact, disgust 
 ing and lamentable, that the disposition which Heaven, 
 for the best of purposes, has implanted in the female 
 breast to watch by the sick and comfort the afflicted 
 frequently becomes depraved into an odious love of 
 scenes of pain and death and sorrow. Such women 
 are like the Ghouls of the Arabian Tales, whose feast 
 ing was among tombstones and upon dead carcasses. 
 
 (It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, 
 that this disposition to make a " joy of grief " extends 
 to individuals of the other sex. But in us it is even 
 less excusable and more disgusting, because it is our 
 nature to shun the sick and afflicted ; and, unless re- 
 
202 FANSHAWE. 
 
 strained by principles other than we bring into the 
 world with us, men might follow the example of many 
 animals in destroying the infirm of their own species. 
 Indeed, instances of this nature might be adduced 
 among savage nations.) Sometimes, however, from 
 an original lusus naturae, or from the influence of cir 
 cumstances, a man becomes a haunter of death-beds, 
 a tormentor of afflicted hearts, and a follower of funer 
 als. Such an abomination now appeared before Fan- 
 shawe, and beckoned him -into the cottage. He was 
 considerably beyond the middle age, rather corpulent, 
 with a broad, fat, tallow - complexioned countenance. 
 The student obeyed his silent call, and entered the 
 room, through the open door of which he had been 
 gazing. 
 
 He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed where 
 she had so lately lain in life, though dying, the yet un- 
 coffined corpse of the aged woman, whose death has 
 been described. How frightful it seemed ! that 
 fixed countenance of ashy paleness, amid its decora 
 tions of muslin and fine linen, as if a bride were decked 
 for the marriage - chamber, as if death were a bride 
 groom, and the coffin a bridal bed. Alas that the 
 vanity of dress should extend even to the grave ! 
 
 The female who, as being the near and only rela 
 tive of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need 
 of comfort, was surrounded by five or six of her own 
 sex. These continually poured into her ear the stale, 
 trite maxims which, where consolation is actually re 
 quired, add torture insupportable to the wounded heart. 
 Their present object, however, conducted herself with 
 all due decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tear 
 less eyes, and answering with very grievous groans to 
 the words of her comforters. Who could have Tmag- 
 
FANSHAWE. 203 
 
 ined that there was joy in her heart, because, since 
 her sister s death, there was but one remaining obsta 
 cle between herself and the sole property of that 
 wretched cottage ? 
 
 While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, 
 a low, monotonous voice was uttering some words in 
 his ear, of the meaning of whicli his mind did not im 
 mediately take note. He turned, and saw that the 
 speaker was the person who had invited him to enter. 
 
 " What is your pleasure with me, sir ? " demanded 
 the student. 
 
 " I make bold to ask," replied the man, " whether 
 you would choose to partake of some creature comfort f 
 before joining in prayer with the family and friends 
 of our deceased sister ? " As he spoke, he pointed to 
 a table, on which was a moderate-sized stone jug and 
 two or three broken glasses ; for then, as now, there 
 were few occasions of joy or grief on which ardent 
 spirits were not considered indispensable, to heighten 
 the one or to alleviate the other. 
 
 " I stand in no need of refreshment," answered 
 Fanshawe ; " and it is not my intention to pray at 
 present." 
 
 " I pray your pardon, reverend sir," rejoined the 
 other ; " but your face is pale, and you look wearied. 
 A drop from yonder vessel is needful to recruit the 
 outward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will 
 expect it ; and their souls are longing for the outpour 
 ing of the Spirit. I was intending to open my own 
 mouth with such words as are given to my poor igno 
 rance, but " 
 
 Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, 
 which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his 
 black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was a 
 
204 FANSHAWtf, 
 
 clergyman. But one of the females now approached 
 him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was 
 desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would 
 have returned a negative to this request, but, looking 
 towards the afflicted woman, he saw her withdraw her 
 handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief but pene 
 trating and most intelligent glance upon him. He im 
 mediately expressed his readiness to offer such consola 
 tion as might be in his power. 
 
 " And in the mean time," observed the lay-preacher, 
 " I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and 
 exhortation, either from you or from myself." 
 
 These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, 
 who was already at the side of the mourner. The fe 
 males withdrew out of ear-shot to give place to a more 
 legitimate comforter than themselves. 
 
 "* What know you respecting my purpose ? " inquired 
 Fanshawe, bending towards her. 
 
 The woman gave a groan the usual result of all 
 efforts at consolation for the edification of the com 
 pany, and then replied in a whisper, which reached 
 only the ear for which it was intended. " I know 
 whom you come to seek : I can direct you to them. 
 Speak low, for God s sake ! " she continued, observing 
 that Fanshawe was about to utter an exclamation. 
 She then resumed her groans with greater zeal than 
 before. 
 
 " Where where are they ? " asked the student, in 
 a whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep be^ 
 low his breath. " I adjure you to tell me." 
 
 " And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by 
 it? " inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded 
 and followed by a groan. 
 
 " O God ! The auri sacra fames ! " thought Fan- 
 
FANSHAWE. 205 
 
 shawe with a sickening heart, looking at the motion 
 less corpse upon the bed, and then at the wretched be 
 ing, whom the course of nature, in comparatively a 
 moment of time, would reduce to the same condition. 
 
 He whispered again, however, putting his purse 
 into the hag s hand. "Take this. Make your own 
 terms when they are discovered. Only tell me where 
 I must seek them and speedily, or it may be too 
 late." 
 
 44 1 am a poor woman, and am afflicted," said she, 
 taking the purse, unseen by any who were in the room. 
 " It is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not 
 long can I enjoy them." And here she was delivered 
 of a louder and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She 
 then continued : " Follow the path behind the cottage, 
 that leads to the river-side. Walk along the foot of 
 the rock, and search for them near the water-spout. 
 Keep a slow pace till you are out of sight," she added, 
 as the student started to his feet. 
 
 The guests of the cottage did not attempt to oppose 
 Fanshawe s progress, when they saw him take the path 
 towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was 
 retiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old 
 woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which 
 she veiled her face. 
 
 " Take heed to your steps, boy," she muttered *, " for 
 they are leading you whence you will not return. 
 Death, too, for the slayer. Be it so." 
 
 Fanshawe, in the mean while, contrived to discover, 
 and for a while to retain, the narrow and winding 
 path that led to the river-side. But it was originally 
 no more than a track, by which the cattle belonging 
 to the cottage went down to their watering-place, and 
 by these four-footed passengers it had long been de- 
 
206 FANS II A WE. 
 
 serted. The fern-bushes, therefore, had grown over 
 it ; and in several places trees of considerable size had 
 shot up in the midst. These difficulties could scarcely 
 have been surmounted by the utmost caution ; and as 
 Fanshawe s thoughts were too deeply fixed upon the 
 end to pay a due regard to the means, he soon became 
 desperately bewildered both as to the locality of the 
 river and of the cottage. Had he known, however, in 
 which direction to seek the latter, he would not, prob 
 ably, have turned back ; not that he was infected by 
 any chivalrous desire to finish the adventure alone, 
 but because he would expect little assistance from 
 those he had left there. Yet he could not but wonder 
 though he had not in his first eagerness taken no 
 tice of it at the anxiety of the old woman that he 
 should proceed singly, and without the knowledge of 
 her guests, on the search. He nevertheless continued 
 to wander on, pausing often to listen for the rush of 
 the river, and then starting forward with fresh rapid 
 ity, to rid himself of the sting of his own thoughts, 
 which became painfully intense when undisturbed by 
 bodily motion. His way was now frequently inter 
 rupted by rocks, that thrust their huge gray heads 
 from the ground, compelling him to turn aside, and 
 thus depriving him, fortunately, perhaps, of all re 
 maining idea of the direction he had intended to 
 pursue. 
 
 Thus he went on, his head turned back, and taking 
 little heed to his footsteps, when, perceiving that he 
 trod upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, 
 and found himself almost on the utmost verge of a 
 precipice. 
 
 After the throbbing of the heart that followed this 
 narrow escape had subsided, he stood gazing down 
 
FANSHAWE. 207 
 
 where the sunbeams slept so pleasantly at the roots of 
 the tall old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon 
 a level. Suddenly he seemed to hear voices one 
 well - remembered voice ascending from beneath ; 
 and, approaching to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its 
 base the two whom he sought. 
 
 He saw and interpreted Ellen s look and attitude of 
 entreaty, though the words with which she sought to 
 soften the ruthless heart of her guide became inaudi 
 ble ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. 
 He felt that Heaven had sent him thither, at the mo 
 ment of her utmost need, to be the preserver of all 
 that was dear to him ; and he paused only to consider 
 the mode in which her deliverance was to be effected. 
 Life he would have laid down willingly, exultingly : 
 his only care w r as, that the sacrifice should not be in 
 vain. 
 
 At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted 
 a small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliff. 
 It struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew r 
 the attention of both. 
 
 AVhen the betrayer, at the instant in which he had 
 almost defied the power of the Omnipotent to bring 
 help to Ellen, became aware of Fanshawe s presence, 
 his hardihood failed him for a time, and his knees ac 
 tually tottered beneath him. There was something 
 awful, to his apprehension, in the slight form that 
 stood so far above him, like a being from another 
 sphere, looking down upon his wickedness. But his 
 half - superstitious dread endured only a moment s 
 space ; and then, mustering the courage that in a thou 
 sand dangers had not deserted him, he prepared to re 
 venge the intrusion by which Fanshaw r e had a second 
 time interrupted his designs. 
 
208 FANSHA WE. 
 
 " By Heaven, I will cast him clown at her feet ! " he 
 muttered through his closed teeth. " There shall be 
 no form nor likeness of man left in him. Then let 
 him rise up, if he is able, and defend her." 
 
 Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard in his 
 eager hatred and desire for vengeance, he began a des 
 perate attempt to ascend the cliff. The space which 
 only had hitherto been deemed accessible was quickly 
 passed ; and in a moment more he was half-way up the 
 precipice, clinging to trees, shrubs, and projecting por 
 tions of the rock, and escaping through hazards which 
 seemed to menace inevitable destruction. 
 
 Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, 
 deemed that every step would be his last ; but when 
 he perceived that more than half, and apparently the 
 most difficult part, of the ascent was surmounted, his 
 opinion changed. His courage, however, did not fail 
 him as the moment of need drew nigh. His spirits 
 rose buoyantly ; his limbs seemed to grow firm and 
 strong ; and he stood on the edge of the precipice, pre 
 pared for the death-struggle which would follow the 
 success of his enemy s attempt. 
 
 But that attempt was not successful. When within 
 a few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a 
 twig too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It 
 gave way in his hand, and he fell backward down the 
 precipice. His head struck against the less perpendic 
 ular part of the rock, whence the body rolled heavily 
 down to the detached fragment, of which mention has 
 heretofore been made. There was no life left in nim. 
 With all the passions of hell alive in his heart, he had 
 met the fate that he intended for Fanshawe. 
 
 The student paused not then to shudder at the sud 
 den and awful overthrow of his enemy ; for he 
 
FANSHAWE. 209 
 
 that Ellen lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She 
 had indeed fainted at the moment she became aware 
 of her deliverer s presence ; and no stronger proof 
 could she have given of her firm reliance upon his pro 
 tection. 
 
 Fanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which 
 he had just received so fearful an evidence, from at 
 tempting to descend to her assistance ; and, whether 
 owing to his advantage in lightness of frame, or to su 
 perior caution, he arrived safely at the base of the prec 
 ipice. 
 
 He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, 
 and, resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on 
 her cheek of lily paleness with a joy, a triumph, that 
 rose almost to madness. It contained no mixture of 
 hope ; it had no reference to the future : it was the 
 perfect bliss of a moment, an insulated point of 
 happiness. He bent over her, and pressed a kiss 
 the first, and he knew it would be the last on her 
 pale lips ; then, bearing her to the fountain, he sprin 
 kled its w r aters profusely over her face, neck, and 
 bosom. She at length opened her eyes, slowly and 
 heavily ; but her mind was evidently wandering, till 
 Fanshawe spoke. 
 
 " Fear not, Ellen : you are safe," he said. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was 
 thrown over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened its 
 embrace, telling him, by that mute motion, with how 
 firm a trust she confided in him. But, as a fuller 
 sense of her situation returned, she raised herself to 
 her feet, though still retaining the support of his arm. 
 It was singular, that, although her insensibility had 
 commenced before the fall of her guide, she turned 
 away her eyes, as if instinctively, from the spot where 
 
 VOL. XL 14 
 
210 FANS HA WE. 
 
 the mangled body lay ; nor did she inquire of Fan- 
 shawe the manner of her deliverance. 
 
 " Let us begone from this place," she said in faint, 
 low accents, and with an inward shudder. 
 
 They walked along the precipice, seeking some pas 
 sage by which they might gain its summit, and at 
 length arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide 
 had descended. Chance for neither Ellen nor Fan- 
 shawe could have discovered the path led them, af 
 ter but little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger 
 was sent forward to the town to inform Dr. Melmoth 
 of the recovery of his ward ; and the intelligence thus 
 received had interrupted Edward Walcott s conversa 
 tion with the seaman. 
 
 It would have been impossible, in the mangled re 
 mains of Ellen s guide, to discover the son of the 
 Widow Butler, except from the evidence of her sister, 
 who became, by his death, the sole inheritrix of the 
 cottage. The history of this evil and unfortunate man 
 must be comprised within very narrow limits. A 
 harsh father, and his own untamable disposition, had 
 driven him from home in his boyhood ; and chance 
 had made him the temporary companion of Hugh 
 Crombie. After two years of wandering, when in a 
 foreign country and in circumstances of utmost need, 
 he attracted the notice of Mr. Langton. The mer 
 chant took his young countryman under his protec 
 tion, afforded him advantages of education, and, as his 
 capacity was above mediocrity, gradually trusted him 
 in many affairs of importance. During this period, 
 there was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On 
 the contrary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton s 
 interest, and a respect for his person, that proved his 
 strong sense of the benefits he had received. But he 
 
FANSHA WE. 211 
 
 unfortunately fell into certain youthful indiscretions, 
 which, if not entirely pardonable, might have been 
 palliated by many considerations that would have oc 
 curred to a merciful man. Mr. Langton s justice, 
 however, was seldom tempered by mercy ; and, on this 
 occasion, he shut the door of repentance against his 
 erring protege, and left him in a situation not less 
 desperate than that from which he had relieved him. 
 The goodness and the nobleness, of which his heart 
 was not destitute, turned, from that time, wholly to 
 evil ; and he became irrecoverably ruined and irre- 
 claimably depraved. His wandering life had led him, 
 shortly before the period of this tale, to his native 
 country. Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. 
 Langton s death had reached him, and suggested the 
 scheme, which circumstances seemed to render prac 
 ticable, but the fatal termination of which has been 
 related. 
 
 The body was buried where it had fallen, close by 
 the huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock, a 
 monument on which centuries can work little change. 
 The eighty years that have elapsed since the death of 
 the widow s son have, however, been sufficient to ob 
 literate an inscription, which some one was at the 
 pains to cut in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces 
 of letters are still discernible ; but the writer s many 
 efforts could never discover a connected meaning. 
 The grave, also, is overgrown with fern-bushes, and 
 sunk to a level with the surrounding soil. But the 
 legend, though my version of it may be forgotten, will 
 long be traditionary in that lonely spot, and give to 
 the rock and the precipice and the fountain an inter 
 est thrilling to the bosom of the romantic wanderer. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Sitting then in shelter shady, 
 To observe and mark his mone- 
 Suddenly I saw a lady 
 Hasting to him all alone, 
 Clad in maiden-white and green, 
 Whom I judged the Forest Queen." 
 
 THE WOODMAN S BEAK. 
 
 DURING several weeks succeeding her danger and 
 deliverance, Ellen Langton was confined to her cham 
 ber by illness, iesulting from the agitation she had en 
 dured. Her father embraced, the earliest opportunity 
 to express his deep gratitude to Fanshawe for the in 
 estimable service he had rendered, and to intimate a 
 desire to requite it to the utmost of his power. He 
 had understood that the student s circumstances were 
 not prosperous, and, with the feeling of one who was 
 habituated to give and receive a quid pro quo, he 
 would have rejoiced to share his abundance with the 
 deliverer of his daughter. But Fansh awe s flushed 
 brow and haughty eye, when he perceived the thought 
 that was stirring in Mr. Langton s mind, sufficiently 
 proved to the discerning merchant that money was 
 not, in the present instance, a circulating medium. 
 His penetration, in fact, very soon informed him of 
 the motives by which the young man had been actu 
 ated in risking his life for Ellen Langton ; but he 
 made no allusion to the subject, concealing his inten 
 tions, if any he had, in his own bosom. 
 
 During Ellen s illness, Edward Walcott had mani 
 fested the deepest anxiety respecting her: he had 
 
FANSHAWE. 213 
 
 wandered around and within the house, like a restless 
 ghost, informing himself of the slightest fluctuation 
 in her health, and thereby graduating his happiness 
 or misery. He was at length informed that her con 
 valescence had so far progressed, that, on the succeed 
 ing day, she would venture below. From that time 
 Edward s visits to Dr. Melmoth s mansion were relin 
 quished. His cheek grew pale and his eye lost its merry 
 light ; but he resolutely kept himself a banished man. 
 Multifarious were the conjectures to which this course 
 of conduct gave rise ; but Ellen understood and ap 
 proved his motives. The maiden must have been far 
 more blind than ever woman was in such a matter, if 
 the late events had not convinced her of Fanshawe s 
 devoted attachment ; and she saw that Edward AVal- 
 cott, feeling the superior, the irresistible strength of 
 his rival s claim, had retired from the field. Fan- 
 shawe, however, discovered no intention to pursue his 
 advantage. He paid her no voluntary visit, and even 
 declined an invitation to tea, with which Mrs. Mel- 
 moth, after extensive preparations, had favored him. 
 He seemed to have resumed all the habits of seclu 
 sion by which he was distinguished previous to his 
 acquaintance with Ellen, except that he still took his 
 sunset walk on the banks of the stream. 
 
 On one of these occasions, he stayed his footsteps 
 by the old leafless oak which had witnessed Ellen s 
 first meeting with the angler. Here he mused upon 
 the circumstances that had resulted from that event, 
 and upon the rights and privileges (for he was well 
 aware of them all) which those circumstances had 
 given him. Perhaps the loveliness of the scene and 
 the recollections connected with it, perhaps the warm 
 and mellow sunset, perhaps a temporary weakness in 
 
214 FANSHA WE. 
 
 himself, had softened his feelings, and shaken the 
 firmness of his resolution, to leave Ellen to be happy 
 with his rival. His strong affections rose up against 
 his reason, whispering that bliss on earth and in 
 heaven, through time and eternity might yet be 
 his lot with her. It is impossible to conceive of the 
 flood of momentary joy which the bare admission of 
 such a possibility sent through his frame ; and, just 
 when the tide was highest in his heart, a soft little 
 hand was laid upon his own, and, starting, he beheld 
 Ellen at his side. 
 
 Her illness, since the commencement of which Fan- 
 shawe had not seen her, had wrought a considerable, 
 but not a disadvantageous, change in her appearance. 
 She was paler and thinner ; her countenance was more 
 intellectual, more spiritual ; and a spirit did the stu 
 dent almost deem her, appearing so suddenly in that 
 solitude. There was a quick vibration of the delicate 
 blood in her cheek, yet never brightening to the glow 
 of perfect health ; a tear was glittering on each of 
 her long, dark eyelashes; and there was a gentle 
 tremor through all her frame, which compelled her, 
 for a little space, to support herself against the oak. 
 Fanshawe s first impulse was to address her in words 
 of rapturous delight ; but he checked himself, and at 
 tempted vainly indeed to clothe his voice in tones 
 of calm courtesy. His remark merely expressed pleas 
 ure at her restoration to health ; and Ellen s low and 
 indistinct reply had as little relation to the feelings 
 that agitated her. 
 
 " Yet I fear," continued Faiishawe, recovering a de 
 gree of composure, and desirous of assigning a motive 
 (which he felt was not the true one) for Ellen s agita 
 tion, "I fear that your walk has extended too f ai 
 for yotir strength." 
 
FANSHA WE. 215 
 
 " It would Lave borne me farther with such a mo 
 tive," she replied, still trembling, 4 to express my 
 gratitude to my preserver." 
 
 " It was needless, Ellen, it was needless ; for the 
 deed brought with it its own reward," exclaimed Fan- 
 shawe, with a vehemence that he could not repress. 
 " It was dangerous, for " 
 
 Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face 
 away. 
 
 " And wherefore was it dangerous? " inquired Ellen, 
 laying her hand gently on his arm ; for he seemed 
 about to leave her. 
 
 " Because you have a tender and generous heart, 
 and I a weak one," he replied. 
 
 " Not so," answered she, with animation. " Yours 
 is a heart full of strength and nobleness ; and if it 
 have a weakness " 
 
 " You know well that it has, Ellen, one that has 
 swallowed up all its strength," said Fanshawe. "Was 
 it wise, then, to tempt it thus, when, if it yield, the re 
 sult must be your own misery? " 
 
 Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his meaning. 
 On the contrary, with a noble frankness, she answered 
 to what was implied rather than expressed. 
 
 " Do me not this wrong," she said, blushing, yet 
 earnestly. " Can it be misery ? Will it not be hap 
 piness to form the tie that shall connect you to the 
 world ? to be your guide a humble one, it is true, 
 but the one of your choice to the quiet paths from 
 which your proud and lonely thoughts have estranged 
 you ? Oh, I know that there will be happiness in such 
 a lot, from these and a thousand other sources ! " 
 
 The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, at the 
 same time, a sense of the singular course to which her 
 
216 FANS ff AWE. 
 
 gratitude had impelled her, caused her beauty to grow 
 brighter and more enchanting with every word. And 
 when, as she concluded, she extended her hand to Fan- 
 shawe, to refuse it was like turning from an angel, who 
 would have guided him to heaven. But, had he been 
 capable of making the woman he loved a sacrifice to 
 her own generosity, that act would have rendered him 
 unworthy of her. Yet the struggle was a severe one 
 ere he could reply. 
 
 " You have spoken generously and nobly, Ellen, 
 he said. "I have no way to prove that I deserve 
 your generosity, but by refusing to take advantage of 
 it. Even if your heart were yet untouched, if no be 
 ing more happily constituted than myself had made 
 an impression there, even then, I trust, a selfish pas 
 sion would not be stronger than my integrity. But 
 now " He would have proceeded ; but the firmness 
 which had hitherto sustained him gave way. He 
 turned aside to hide the tears which all the pride of 
 his nature could not restrain, and which, instead of 
 relieving, added to his anguish. At length he re 
 sumed, "No, Ellen, we must part now and forever. 
 Your life will be long and happy. Mine will be short, 
 but not altogether wretched, nor shorter than if we 
 had never met. When you hear that I am in my 
 grave, do not imagine that you have hastened me 
 thither. Think that you scattered bright dreams 
 around my pathway, an ideal happiness, that you 
 would have sacrificed your own to realize." 
 
 He ceased ; and Ellen felt that his determination 
 was unalterable. She could not speak ; but, taking 
 his hand, she pressed it to her lips, and they saw each 
 other no more. Mr. Langton and his daughter shortly 
 after returned to the seaport, which, for several suc 
 ceeding years, was their residence. 
 
FANSHAWE. 217 
 
 After Ellen s departure, Fanshawe returned to his 
 studies with the same absorbing ardor that had for 
 merly characterized him. His face was as seldom 
 seen among the young and gay ; the pure breeze and 
 the blessed sunshine as seldom refreshed his pale and 
 weary brow ; and his lamp burned as constantly from 
 the first shade of evening till the gray morning light 
 began to dim its beams. Nor did he, as weak men 
 will, treasure up his love in a hidden chamber of his 
 breast. He was in reality the thoughtful and earnest 
 student that he seemed. He had exerted the whole 
 might of his spirit over itself, and he was a conqueror. 
 Perhaps, indeed, a summer breeze of sad and gentle 
 thoughts would sometimes visit him ; but, in these 
 brief memories of his love, he did not wish that it 
 should be revived, or mourn over its event. 
 
 There were many who felt an interest in Fanshawe ; 
 but the influence of none could prevail upon him to 
 lay aside the habits, mental and physical, by which 
 he was bringing himself to the grave. His passage 
 thither was consequently rapid, terminating just as 
 he reached his twentieth year. His fellow -students 
 erected to his memory a monument of rough-hewn 
 granite, with a white marble slab for the inscription. 
 This was borrowed from the grave of Xathanael 
 Mather, whom, in his almost insane eagerness for 
 knowledge, and in his early death, Fanshawe resem 
 bled. 
 
 THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT 
 AND A GOOD SCHOLAR. 
 
 Many tears were shed over his grave ; but the 
 thoughtful and the wise, though turf never covered a 
 nobler heart, could not lament that it was so soon at 
 rest He left a world for which he was unfit ; and we 
 
218 FANS HA WE. 
 
 trust, that, among the innumerable stars of heaven^ 
 there is one where he has found happiness. 
 
 Of the other personages of this tale, Hugh Crom- 
 bie, being exposed to no strong temptations, lived and 
 died an honest man. Concerning Dr. Melmoth, it is 
 unnecessary here to speak. The reader, if he have 
 any curiosity upon the subject, is referred to his Life ? 
 which, together with several sermons and other pro 
 ductions of the doctor, was published by his successor 
 in the presidency of Harley College, about the year 
 1768. 
 
 It was not till four years after Fanshawe s death, 
 that Edward Walcott was united to Ellen Langton. 
 Their future lives were uncommonly happy. Ellen s 
 gentle, almost imperceptible, but powerful influence 
 drew her husband away from the passions and pur 
 suits that would have interfered with domestic feli 
 city; and he never regretted the worldly distinction of 
 which she thus deprived him. Theirs was a long life 
 of calm and quiet bliss ; and what matters it, that, 
 except in these pages, they have left no name behind 
 them ? 
 
SEPTIMIUS 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 THE existence of this story, posthumously published, 
 was not known to any one but Hawthorne himself, 
 until some time after his death, when the manuscript 
 was found among his papers. The preparation and 
 copying of his Note-Books for the press occupied the 
 most of Mrs. Hawthorne s available time during the 
 interval from 1864 to 1870; but in the latter year, 
 having decided to publish the unfinished romance, she 
 began the task of putting together its loose sheets and 
 deciphering the handwriting, which, towards the close 
 of Hawthorne s life, had grown somewhat obscure and 
 uncertain. Her death occurred while she was thus en 
 gaged, and the transcription was completed by her 
 daughters. The book was then issued simultaneously 
 in America and England, in 1871. 
 
 Although " Septimius Felton " appeared so much 
 later than " The Marble Faun," it was conceived and, 
 in another form, begun before the Italian romance had 
 presented itself to the author s mind. The legend of a 
 bloody foot leaving its imprint where it passed, which 
 figures so prominently in the following fiction, was 
 brought to Hawthorne s notice on a visit to SrnithelTs 
 Hall, Lancashire, England. 1 Only five days after hear- 
 
 1 See English Note-Books, April 7, and August 25, 1855. 
 
222 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 ing of it, he made a note in his journal, referring to 
 " my Romance," which had to do with a plot involving 
 the affairs of a family established both in England 
 and New England; and it seems likely that he had 
 already begun to associate the bloody footstep with 
 this project. What is extraordinary, and must be re 
 garded as an unaccountable coincidence one of the 
 strange premonitions of genius is that in 1850, be 
 fore he had ever been to England and before he knew 
 of the existence of Smithell s Hall, he had jotted down 
 in his Note-Book, written in America, this suggestion : 
 "The print in blood of a naked foot to be traced 
 through the street of a town." The idea of treating 
 in fiction the attempt to renew youth or to attain an 
 earthly immortality had engaged his fancy quite early 
 in his career, as we discover from " Doctor Heideg 
 ger s Experiment," in the " Twice- Told Tales." In 
 1840, also, we find in the journal : " If a man were 
 sure of living forever, he would not care about his off 
 spring." The " Mosses from an Old Manse " supply 
 another link in this train of reflection ; for " The Vir 
 tuoso s Collection " includes some of the elixir vitaB 
 " in an antique sepulchral urn." The narrator there 
 represents himself as refusing to quaff it. " No ; I 
 desire not an earthly immortality, said I. Were 
 man to live longer on earth, the spiritual would die 
 out of him. . . . There is a celestial something within 
 us that requires, after a certain time, the atmosphere 
 of heaven to preserve it from ruin. " On the other 
 hand, just before hearing, for the first time, the legend 
 of Smithell s Hall, he wrote in his English journal : 
 " God himself cannot compensate us for being born 
 for any period short of eternity. All the misery en 
 dured here constitutes a claim for another life, and 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 223 
 
 still more all the happiness ; because all true happi 
 ness involves something more than the earth owns, 
 and needs something more than a mortal capacity for 
 the enjoyment of it." It is sufficiently clear that he 
 had meditated on the main theme of " Septiinius Fel- 
 ton," at intervals, for many years. 
 
 When, in August, 1855, Hawthorne went by invita 
 tion to SmithelFs Hall, the lady of the manor, on his 
 taking leave, asked him " to write a ghost-story for her 
 house ; " and he observes in his notes, u the legend is 
 a good one." Three years afterwards, in 1858, on the 
 eve of departure for France and Italy, he began to 
 sketch the outline of a romance laid in England, and 
 having for its hero an American who goes thither to 
 assert his inherited rights in an old manor-house pos 
 sessing the peculiarity of a supposed bloody foot-print 
 on the threshold-stone. This sketch, which appears in 
 the present edition as " The Ancestral Footstep," was 
 in journal form, the story continuing from day to 
 day, with the dates attached. There remains also the 
 manuscript without date, recently edited under the 
 title " Dr. Grimshawe s Secret," which bears a resem 
 blance to some particulars in " Septimius Felton." 
 Nothing further seems to have been done in this di 
 rection by the author until he had been to Italy, had 
 written " The Marble Faun," and again returned to 
 The Wayside, his home at Concord. It was then, in 
 1861, that he took up once more the "Romance of 
 Immortality," as the sub-title of the English edition 
 calls it. " I have not found it possible," he wrote to 
 Mr. Bridge, who remained his confidant, " to occupy 
 my mind with its usual trash and nonsense during 
 these anxious times; but as the autumn advances, I 
 find myself sitting down at my desk and blotting sue- 
 
224 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 cessive sheets of paper as of yore." Concerning this 
 place, The Wayside, he had said in a letter to George 
 William Curtis, in 1852 : " I know nothing of the his 
 tory of the house, except Thoreau s telling me that it 
 was inhabited a generation or two ago by a man who 
 believed he should never die." It was this legendary 
 personage whom he now proceeded to revive and em 
 body as Septimius ; and the scene of the story was 
 placed at The Wayside itself and the neighboring 
 house, belonging to Mr. Bronson Alcott, both of which 
 stand at the base of a low ridge running beside the 
 Lexington road, in the village of Concord. Rose Gar- 
 field is mentioned as living " in a small house, the site 
 of which is still indicated by the cavity of a cellar, in 
 which I this very summer planted some sunflowers." 
 The cellar-site remains at this day distinctly visible 
 near the boundary of the land formerly owned by 
 Hawthorne. 
 
 Attention may here perhaps appropriately be called 
 to the fact that some of the ancestors of President Gar- 
 field settled at Weston, not many miles from Concord, 
 and that the name is still borne by dwellers in the 
 vicinity. One of the last letters written by the Pres 
 ident was an acceptance of an invitation to visit Con 
 cord ; and it was his intention to journey thither by 
 carriage, incognito, from Boston, passing through the 
 scenes where those ancestors had lived, and entering 
 the village by the old Lexington road, on which The 
 Wayside faces. It is an interesting coincidence that 
 Hawthorne should have chosen for his first heroine s 
 name, either intentionally or through unconscious as 
 sociation, this one which belonged to the region. 
 
 The house upon which the story was thus centred, 
 and where it was written, had been a farm-house, 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 225 
 
 bought and for a time occupied by Hawthorne pre 
 vious to his departure for Europe. On coming back 
 to it, he made some additions to the old wooden struc 
 ture, and caused to be built a low tower, which rose 
 above the irregular roofs of the older and newer por 
 tions, thus supplying him with a study lifted out of 
 reach of noise or interruption, and in a slight degree 
 recalling the tower in which he had taken so much 
 pleasure at the Villa Montauto. The study was ex 
 tremely simple in its appointments, being finished 
 chiefly in stained wood, with a vaulted plaster ceiling, 
 and containing, besides a few pictures and some plain 
 furniture, a writing-table, and a shelf at which Haw 
 thorne sometimes wrote standing. A story has gone 
 abroad and is widely believed, that, on mounting the 
 steep stairs leading to this study, he passed through a 
 trap-door and afterwards placed upon it the chair in 
 which he sat, so that intrusion or interruption became 
 physically impossible. It is wholly unfounded. There 
 never was any trap-door, and no precaution of the 
 kind described was ever taken. Immediately behind 
 the house the hill rises in artificial terraces, which, dur 
 ing the romancer s residence, were grassy and planted 
 with fruit-trees. He afterwards had evergreens set 
 out there, and directed the planting of other trees, 
 which still attest his preference for thick verdure. 
 The twelve acres running back over the hill were 
 closely covered with light woods, and across the road 
 lay a level tract of eight acres more, which included 
 a garden and orchard. From his study Hawthorne 
 could overlook a good part of his modest domain ; the 
 view embraced a stretch of road lined with trees, wide 
 meadows, and the hills across the shallow valley. The 
 branches of trees rose on all sides as if to embower 
 
 VOL. XI. 15 
 
226 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 the house, and birds and bees flew about his casement, 
 through which came the fresh perfumes of the woods, 
 in summer. 
 
 In this spot " Septimius Felton" was written; but 
 the manuscript, thrown aside, was mentioned in the 
 Dedicatory Preface to "Our Old Home" as an "abor 
 tive project." As will be found explained in the In 
 troductory Notes to " The Dolliver Romance " and 
 " The Ancestral Footstep," that phase of the same 
 general design which was developed in the "Dolliver" 
 was intended to take the place of this unfinished 
 sketch, since resuscitated. 
 
 G. P. L, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE following story is the last written by my 
 father. It is printed as it was found among his man 
 uscripts. I believe it is a striking specimen of the 
 peculiarities and charm of his style, and that it will 
 have an added interest for brother artists, and for 
 those who care to study the method of his composi 
 tion, from the mere fact of its not having received his 
 final revision. In any case, I feel sure that the reten 
 tion of the passages within brackets (e. g. p. 253), 
 which show how my father intended to amplify some 
 of the descriptions and develop more fully one or two 
 of the character studies, will not be regretted by ap 
 preciative readers. My earnest thanks are due to Mr. 
 Robert Browning for his kind assistance and advice 
 in interpreting the manuscript, otherwise so difficult 
 to me. 
 
 UNA HAWTHORNE. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON; 
 
 OR, THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. 
 
 IT was a clay in early spring ; and as that sweet, 
 genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender 
 greenness from the ground, -- beautiful flowers, or 
 leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen un 
 der the snow and decay, so the pleasant air and 
 warmth had called out three young people, who sat on 
 a sunny hill-side enjoying the warm day and one an 
 other. For they were all friends : two of them young 
 men, and playmates from boyhood ; the third, a girl, 
 who, two or three years younger than themselves, had 
 been the object of their boy-love, their little rustic, 
 childish gallantries, their budding affections ; until, 
 growing all towards manhood and womanhood, they 
 had ceased to talk about such matters, perhaps think 
 ing about them the more. 
 
 These three young people were neighbors children, 
 dwelling in houses that stood by the side of the great 
 Lexington road, along a ridgy hill thnt rose abruptly 
 behind them, its brow covered with a wood, and which 
 stretched, with one or two breaks and interruptions, 
 into the heart of the village of Concord, the county 
 town. It was in the side of this hill that, according 
 to tradition, the first settlers of the village had bur 
 rowed in caverns which they had dug out for their 
 
230 SEP TI MI US FELTON. 
 
 shelter, like swallows and woodchucks. As its slope 
 was towards the south, and its ridge and crowning 
 woods defended them from the northern blasts and 
 snow-drifts, it was an admirable situation for the 
 fierce New England winter ; and the temperature was 
 milder, by several degrees, along this hill-side than ori 
 the unprotected plains, or by the river, or in any other 
 part of Concord. So that here, during the hundred 
 years that had elapsed since the first settlement of the 
 place, dwellings had successively risen close to the 
 hill s foot, and the meadow that lay on the other side 
 of the road a fertile tract had been cultivated ; 
 and these three young people were the children s chil 
 dren s children of persons of respectability who had 
 dwelt there, Rose Garfield, in a small house, the 
 site of which is still indicated by the cavity of a cel 
 lar, in which I this very past summer planted some 
 sunflowers to thrust their great disks out from the hol 
 low and allure the bee and the humming-bird ; Robert 
 Hagburn, in a house of somewhat more pretension, a 
 hundred yards or so nearer to the village, standing 
 back from the road in the broader space which the re 
 treating hill, cloven by a gap in that place, afforded ; 
 where some elms intervened between it and the road, 
 offering a site which some person of a natural taste for 
 the gently picturesque had seized upon. Those same 
 elms, or their successors, still flung a noble shade over 
 the same old house, which the magic hand of Alcott 
 has improved by the touch that throws grace, amiable- 
 ness, and natural beauty over scenes that have little 
 pretension in themselves. 
 
 Now, the other young man, Septimius Felton, dwelt 
 in a small wooden house, then, I suppose, of some 
 score of years standing, a two-story house, gabled 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 231 
 
 before, but with only two rooms on a floor, crowded 
 upon by the hill behind, a house of thick walls, as 
 if the projector had that sturdy feeling of permanence 
 in life which incites people to make strong their 
 earthly habitations, as if deluding themselves with the 
 idea that they could still inhabit them ; in short, an or 
 dinary dwelling of a well-to-do New England farmer, 
 such as his race had been for two or three generations 
 past, although there were traditions of ancestors who 
 had led lives of thought and study, and possessed all 
 the erudition that the universities of England could 
 bestow. Whether any natural turn for study had de 
 scended to Septimius from these worthies, or how his 
 tendencies came to be different from those of his fam 
 ily, who, within the memory of the neighborhood, 
 had been content to sow and reap the rich field in 
 front of their homestead, so i was, that Septimius 
 had early manifested a taste for study. By the kind 
 aid of the good minister of the town he had been fitted 
 for college ; had passed through Cambridge by means 
 of what little money his father had left him and by 
 his own exertions in school-keeping ; and was now a 
 recently decorated baccalaureate, with, as was under 
 stood, a purpose to devote himself to the ministry, un 
 der the auspices of that reverend and good friend 
 whose support and instruction had already stood him 
 in such stead. 
 
 Now here were these young people, on that beauti 
 ful spring morning, sitting on the hill -side, a pleas 
 ant spectacle of fresh life, pleasant, as if they had 
 sprouted like green things under the influence of the 
 warm sun. The girl was very pretty, a little freckled, 
 a little tanned, but with a face that glimmered and 
 gleamed with quick and cheerful expressions ; a slen- 
 
232 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 der form, not very large, with a quick grace in its 
 movements ; sunny hair that had a tendency to curl, 
 which she probably favored at such moments as her 
 household occupation left her ; a sociable and pleasant 
 child, as both of the young men evidently thought. 
 Robert Hagburn, one might suppose, would have been 
 the most to her taste ; a ruddy, burly young fellow, 
 handsome, and free of manner, six feet high, famous 
 through the neighborhood for strength and athletic 
 skill, the early promise of what was to be a man fit 
 for all offices of active rural life, and to be, in mature 
 age, the selectman, the deacon, the representative, the 
 colonel. As for Septimius, let him alone a moment 
 or two, and then they would see him, with his head 
 bent down, brooding, brooding, his eyes fixed on some 
 chip, some stone, some common plant, any commonest 
 thing, as if it were the clew and index to some mys 
 tery ; and when, by chance startled out of these medi 
 tations, he lifted his eyes, there would be a kind of 
 perplexity, a dissatisfied, foiled look in them, as if of 
 his speculations he found no end. Such was now the 
 case, while Robert and the girl were running on with 
 a gay talk about a serious subject, so that, gay as it 
 was, it was interspersed with little thrills of fear on 
 the girl s part, of excitement on Robert s. Their talk 
 was of public trouble. 
 
 " My grandfather says," said Rose Garfield, " that 
 we shall never be able to stand against old England, 
 because the men are a weaker race than he remembers 
 in his day, weaker than his father, who came from 
 England, and the women slighter still ; so that we 
 are dwindling away, grandfather thinks ; only a little 
 sprightlier, he says sometimes, looking at me." 
 
 "Lighter, to be sure," said Robert Hagburn; ^ there 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 233 
 
 is the lightness of the Englishwomen compressed into 
 little space. I have seen them and know. And as to 
 the men, Rose, if they have lost one spark of courage 
 and strength that their English forefathers brought 
 from the old land, lost any one good quality without 
 having made it up by as good or better, then, for 
 my part, I don t want the breed to exist any longer. 
 And this war, that they say is coming on, will be a 
 good opportunity to test the matter. Septimius ! don t 
 you think so ?" 
 
 " Think what? " asked Septimius, gravely, lifting up 
 his head. 
 
 " Think ! why, that your countrymen are worthy to 
 live/ said Robert Hagburn, impatiently. " For there 
 is a question on that point.* 
 
 " It is hardly worth answering or considering," said 
 Septimius, looking at him thoughtfully. " We live so 
 little while, that (always setting aside the effect on a 
 future existence) it is little matter whether we live or 
 no." 
 
 "Little matter ! " said Rose, at first bewildered, then 
 laughing, " little matter ! when it is such a comfort 
 to live, so pleasant, so sweet ! " 
 
 " Yes, and so many things to do," said Robert ; u to 
 make fields yield produce ; to be busy among men, and 
 happy among the women-folk; to play, work, fight, 
 and be active in many ways." 
 
 " Yes ; but so soon stilled, before your activity has 
 come to any definite end," responded Septimius, gloom 
 ily. " I doubt, if it had been left to my choice, whether 
 I should have taken existence on such terms ; so much 
 trouble of preparation to live, and then no life at all; 
 a ponderous beginning, and nothing more." 
 
 " Do you find faidt with Providence, Septimius ? " 
 
234 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 asked Rose, a feeling of solemnity coming over her 
 cheerful and buoyant nature. Then she burst out 
 a-laughing. " How grave he looks, Robert ; as if he 
 had lived two or three lives already, and knew all 
 about the value of it. But I think it was worth while 
 to be born, if only for the sake of one such pleasant 
 spring morning as this ; and God gives us many and 
 better things when these are past." 
 
 " We hope so," said Septimius, who was again look 
 ing on the ground. " But who knows? " 
 
 " I thought you knew," said Robert Hagburn, "You 
 have been to college, and have learned, no doubt, a 
 great many things. You are a student of theology, 
 too, and have looked into these matters. Who should 
 know, if not you ? " 
 
 " Rose and you have just as good means of ascer 
 taining these points as I," said Septimius ; " all the 
 certainty that can be had lies on the surface, as it 
 should, and equally accessible to every man or woman. 
 If we try to grope deeper, we labor for naught, and 
 get less wise while we try to be more so. If life were 
 long enough to enable us thoroughly to sift these mat 
 ters, then, indeed ! but it is so short ! " 
 
 "Always this same complaint," said Robert. "Sep 
 timius, how long do you wish to live ? " 
 
 " Forever ! " said Septimius. " It is none too long 
 for all I wish to know." 
 
 " Forever ? " exclaimed Rose, shivering doubtfully. 
 " Ah, there would come many, many thoughts, and 
 after a while we should want a little rest." 
 
 "Forever?" said Robert Hagburn. "And what 
 would the people do who wish to fill our places? You 
 are unfair, Septimius. Live and let live ! Turn 
 about 1 Give me my seventy years, and let me go, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 235 
 
 my seventy years of what this life has, toil, enjoy 
 ment, suffering, struggle, fight, rest, only let me 
 have my share of what s going, and I shall be con 
 tent." 
 
 " Content with leaving everything at odd ends ; con 
 tent with being nothing, as you were before ! " 
 
 " No, Septimius, content with heaven at last," said 
 Eose, who had come out of her laughing mood into a 
 sweet seriousness. " Oh dear ! think what a worn and 
 ugly thing one of these fresh little blades of grass 
 would seem if it were not to fade and wither in its 
 time, after being green in its tune." 
 
 " "Well, well, my pretty Rose," said Septimius apart, 
 " an immortal weed is not very lovely to think of, that 
 is true ; but I should be content with one thing, and 
 that is yourself, if you were immortal, just as you 
 are at seventeen, so fresh, so dewy, so red-lipped, so 
 golden-haired, so gay, so frolicsome, so gentle." 
 
 " But I am to grow old, and to be brown and wrin 
 kled, gray-haired and ugly," said Rose, rather sadly, 
 as she thus enumerated the items of her decay, " and 
 then you would think me all lost and gone. But still 
 there might be youth underneath, for one that really 
 loved me to see. Ah, Septimius Feltoii ! such love as 
 would see with ever-new eyes is the true love." And 
 she ran away and left him suddenly, and Robert Hag- 
 burn departing at the same time, this little knot of 
 three was dissolved, and Septimius went along the 
 wayside wall, thoughtfully, as was his wont, to his own 
 dwelling. He had stopped for some moments on the 
 threshold, vaguely enjoying, it is probable, the light 
 and warmth of the new spring day and the sweet air, 
 which was somewhat unwonted to the young man, be 
 cause he was accustomed to spend much of his day in 
 
236 SEP Tl Ml US FELT ON. 
 
 thought and study within doors, and, indeed, like most 
 studious young men, was overfond of the fireside, and 
 of making life as artificial as he could, by fireside heat 
 and lamplight, in order to suit it to the artificial, in 
 tellectual, and moral atmosphere which he derived 
 from books, instead of living healthfully in the open 
 air, and among his fellow - beings. Still he felt the 
 pleasure of being warmed through by this natural heat, 
 and, though blinking a little from its superfluity, could 
 not but confess an enjoyment and cheerfulness in this 
 flood of morning light that came aslant the hill-side. 
 While he thus stood, he felt a friendly hand laid upon 
 his shoulder, and, looking up, there was the minister of 
 the village, the old friend of Septimius, to whose ad 
 vice and aid it was owing that Septimius had followed 
 his instincts by going to college, instead of spending 
 a thwarted and dissatisfied life in the field that fronted 
 the house. He was a man of middle age, or little be 
 yond, of a sagacious, kindly aspect ; the experience, the 
 lifelong, intimate acquaintance with many concerns of 
 his people being more apparent in him than the schol 
 arship for which he had been early distinguished. A 
 tanned man, like one who labored in his own grounds 
 occasionally ; a man of homely, plain address, which, 
 when occasion called for it, he could readily exchange 
 for the polished manner of one who had seen a more 
 refined world than this about him. 
 
 " Well, Septimius," said the minister, kindly, " have 
 you yet come to any conclusion about the subject of 
 which we have been talking ? " 
 
 " Only so far, sir," replied Septimius, " that I find 
 myself every day less inclined to take up the profes 
 sion which I have had in view so many years. I do 
 not think myself fit for the sacred desk. * 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 237 
 
 " Surely not ; no one is," replied the clergyman ; 
 " but if 1 may trust my own judgment, you have at 
 least many of the intellectual qualifications that should 
 adapt you to it. There is something of the Puritan 
 character in you, Septimius, derived from hcly men 
 among your ancestors ; as, for instance, a deep, brood 
 ing turn, such as befits that heavy brow ; a disposition 
 to meditate on things hidden ; a turn for meditative 
 inquiry, all these things, with grace to boot, mark 
 you as the germ of a man who might do God service. 
 Your reputation as a scholar stands high at college. 
 You have not a turn for worldly business." 
 
 " All, but, sir," said Septimius, casting down his 
 heavy brows, " I lack something within." 
 
 " Faith, perhaps," replied the minister ; " at least, 
 you think so." 
 
 " Cannot I know it ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " Scarcely, just now," said his friend. " Study for 
 the ministry ; bind your thoughts to it ; pray ; ask a 
 belief, and you will soon find you have it. Doubts 
 may occasionally press in ; and it is so with every 
 clergyman. But your prevailing mood will be faith." 
 
 " It has seemed to me," observed Septimius, " that 
 it is not the prevailing mood, the most common one, 
 that is to be trusted. This is habit, formality, the 
 shallow covering which we close over what is real, and 
 seldom suffer to be blown aside. But it is the snake- 
 like doubt that thrusts out its head, which gives us 
 a glimpse of reality. Surely such moments are a hun 
 dred times as real as the dull, quiet moments of faith 
 or what you call such." 
 
 " I am sorry for you," said the minister ; " yet to 
 a youth of your frame of character, of your ability 1 
 will say, and your requisition for something profound 
 
238 SEP1MT1US FELT ON. 
 
 in the grounds of your belief, it is not unusual to meet 
 this trouble. Men like you have to fight for their 
 faith. They fight in the first place to win it, and ever 
 afterwards to hold it. The Devil tilts with them daily 
 and often seems to win." 
 
 " Yes ; but," replied Septimius, " he takes deadly 
 weapons now. If he meet me with the cold pure steel 
 of a spiritual argument, I might win or lose, and still 
 not feel that all was lost ; but he takes, as it were, a 
 great clod of earth, massive rocks and mud, soil and 
 dirt, and flings it at me overwhelmingly ; so that I am 
 buried under it." 
 
 " How is that ? " said the minister. " Tell me more 
 plainly." 
 
 " May it not be possible," asked Septimius, " to 
 have too profound a sense of the marvellous contriv 
 ance and adaptation of this material world to require 
 or believe in anything spiritual? How wonderful it 
 is to see it all alive on this spring day, all growing, 
 budding ! Do we exhaust it in our little life ? Not 
 so ; not in a hundred or a thousand lives. The whole 
 race of man, living from the beginning of time, have 
 not, in all their number and multiplicity and in all 
 their duration, come in the least to know the world 
 they live in ! And how is this rich world thrown 
 away upon us, because we live in it such a moment ! 
 What mortal work has ever been done since the 
 world began ! Because we have no time. No lesson 
 is taught. We are snatched away from our study 
 before we have learned the alphabet. As the world 
 now exists, I confess it to you frankly, my dear pas 
 tor and instructor, it seems to me all a failure, be 
 cause we do not live long enough." 
 
 " But the lesson is carried on in another state of 
 being!" 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 239 
 
 " Not the lesson that we begin here," said Septim- 
 ius. i; We might as well train a child in a primeval 
 forest, to teach him how to live in a European court. 
 No, the fall of man, which Scripture tells us of, seems 
 to me to have its operation in this grievous shorten 
 ing of earthly existence, so that our life here at all is 
 grown ridiculous." 
 
 " Well, Septimius," replied the minister, sadly, yet 
 not as one shocked by what he had never heard before, 
 " I must leave you to struggle through this form of 
 unbelief as best you may, knowing that it is by your 
 own efforts that you must come to the other side of 
 this slough. We will talk further another time. You 
 are getting worn out, my young friend, with much 
 study and anxiety. It were well for you to live more, 
 for the present, in this earthly life that you prize so 
 highly. Cannot you interest yourself in the state of 
 this country, in this coming strife, the voice of which 
 now sounds so hoarsely and so near us ? Come out of 
 your thoughts and breathe another air." 
 
 " I will try," said Septimius. 
 
 " Do," said the minister, extending his hand to him, 
 " and in a little time you will find the change." 
 
 He shook the young man s hand kindly, and took 
 his leave, while Septimius entered his house, and turn 
 ing to the right sat down in his study, where, before 
 the fireplace, stood the table with books and papers. 
 On the shelves around the low-studded walls were more 
 books, few in number but of an erudite appearance, 
 many of them having descended to him from learned 
 ancestors, and having been brought to light by himself 
 after long lying in dusty closets ; works of good and 
 learned divines, whose wisdom he had happened, by 
 help of the Devil, to turn to mischief, reading them by 
 
240 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 the light of hell-fire. For, indeed, Septimrus had but 
 given the clergyman the merest partial glimpse of his 
 state of mind. He was not a new beginner in doubt ; 
 but, on the contrary, it seemed to him as if he had 
 never been other than a doubter and questioner, even 
 in his boyhood ; believing nothing, although a thin 
 veil of reverence had kept him from questioning some 
 things. And now the new, strange thought of the suf 
 ficiency of the world for man, if man were only suffi 
 cient for that, kept recurring to him ; and with it came 
 a certain sense, which he had been conscious of before, 
 that he, at least, might never die. The feeling was 
 not peculiar to Septimius. It is an instinct, the mean 
 ing of which is mistaken. We have strongly within 
 us the sense of an undying principle, and we transfer 
 that true sense to this life and to the body, instead of 
 interpreting it justly as the promise of spiritual im 
 mortality. 
 
 So Septimius looked up out of his thoughts, and said 
 proudly : " Why should I die ? I cannot die, if wor 
 thy to live. What if I should say this moment that I 
 will not die, not till ages hence, not till the world is 
 exhausted ? Let other men die, if they choose, or yield ; 
 let him that is strong enough live ! " 
 
 After this flush of heroic mood, however, the glow 
 subsided, and poor Septimius spent the rest of the day, 
 as was his wont, poring over his books, in which all 
 the meanings seemed dead and mouldy, and like pressed 
 leaves (some of which dropped out of the books as he 
 opened them), brown, brittle, sapless; so even the 
 thoughts, which when the writers had gathered them 
 seemed to them so brightly colored and full of life. 
 Then he began to see that there must have been some 
 principle of life left out of the book, so that these gath- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 241 
 
 ered thoughts lacked something that had given them 
 their only value. Then he suspected that the way 
 truly to live and answer the purposes of life was not 
 to gather up thoughts into books, where they grew so 
 dry, but to live and still be going about, full of green 
 wisdom, ripening ever, not in maxims cut and dry, but 
 a wisdom ready for daily occasions, like a living foun 
 tain ; and that to be this, it was necessary to exist 
 long on earth, drink in all its lessons, and not to die 
 on the attainment of some smattering of truth ; but to 
 live all the more for that ; and apply it to mankind 
 and increase it thereby. 
 
 Everything drifted towards the strong, strange eddy 
 into which his mind had been drawn : all his thoughts 
 set hitherward. 
 
 So he sat brooding in his study until the shrill- 
 voiced old woman an aunt, who was his housekeeper 
 and domestic ruler called him to dinner, a frugal 
 dinner, and chided him for seeming inattentive to a 
 dish of early dandelions which she had gathered for 
 him ; but yet tempered her severity with respect for 
 the future* clerical rank of her nephew, and for his 
 already being a bachelor of arts. The old woman s 
 voice spoke outside of Septimius, rambling away, and 
 he paying little heed, till at last dinner was over, and 
 Septimius drew back his chair, about to leave the table. 
 
 " Nephew Septimius," said the old woman, " you be 
 gan this meal to-day without asking a blessing, you 
 get up from it without giving thanks, and you soon to 
 be a minister of the Word." 
 
 " God bless the meat," replied Septimius (by way 
 of blessing), " and make it strengthen us for the life 
 he means us to bear. Thank God for our food," he 
 
 VOL. XI. 16 
 
242 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 added (by way of grace), " and may it become a por 
 tion in us of an immortal body." 
 
 "That sounds good, Septimius," said the old lady, 
 " All ! you 11 be a mighty man in the pulpit, and wor 
 thy to keep up the name of your great-grandfather, 
 who, they say, made the leaves wither on a tree with 
 the fierceness of his blast against a sin. Some say, to 
 be sure, it was an early frost that helped him." 
 
 "I never heard that before, Aunt Keziah," said 
 Septimius. 
 
 "I warrant you no," replied his aunt. "A man 
 dies, and his greatness perishes as if it had never been, 
 and people remember nothing of him only when they 
 see his gravestone over his old dry bones, and say he 
 was a good man in his day." 
 
 " What truth there is in Aunt Keziah s words ! " 
 exclaimed Septimius. "And how I hate the thought 
 and anticipation of that contemptuous appreciation of 
 a man after his death ! Every living man triumphs 
 over every dead one, as he lies, poor and helpless, 
 under the mould, a pinch of dust, a heap of bones, an 
 evil odor ! I hate the thought ! It shall not be so ! " 
 
 It was strange how every little incident thus brought 
 him back to that one subject which was taking so 
 strong hold of his mind; every avenue led thither 
 ward ; and he took it for an indication that nature had 
 intended, by innumerable ways, to point out to us the 
 great truth that death was an alien misfortune, a prod 
 igy, a monstrosity, into which man had only fallen by 
 defect ; and that even now, if a man had a reasonable 
 portion of his original strength in him, he might ?ive 
 forever and spurn death. 
 
 Our story is an internal one, dealing as little as pos 
 sible with outward events, and taking hold of these 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOy. 248 
 
 only where it cannot be helped, in order by means of 
 them to delineate the history of a mind bewildered in 
 certain errors. "We would not willingly, if we could, 
 give a lively and picturesque surrounding to this de 
 lineation, but it is necessary that we should advert to 
 the circumstances of the time in which this inward 
 history was passing. We will say, therefore, that that 
 night there was a cry of alarm passing all through the 
 succession of country towns and rural communities 
 that lay around Boston, and dying away towards the 
 coast and the wilder forest borders. Horsemen gal 
 loped past the line of farm-houses shouting alarm ! 
 alarm ! There were stories of marching troops coining 
 like dreams through the midnight. Around the little 
 rude meeting-houses there was here and there the beat 
 of a drum, and the assemblage of farmers with their 
 weapons. So all that night there was marching, there 
 was mustering, there was trouble ; and, on the road 
 from Boston, a steady march of soldiers feet onward, 
 onward into the land whose last warlike disturbance 
 had been when the red Indians trod it. 
 
 Septimius heard it, and knew, like the rest, that it 
 was the sound of coming war. " Fools that men are ! " 
 said he, as he rose from bed and looked out at the 
 misty stars ; " they do not live long enough to know 
 the value and purport of life, else they would combine 
 together to live long, instead of throwing away the 
 lives of thousands as they do. And what matters a 
 little tyranny in so short a life? What matters a 
 form of government for such ephemeral creatures ? " 
 
 As morning brightened, these sounds, this clamor, 
 or something that was in the air and caused the 
 clamor, grew so loud that Septimius seemed to feel 
 it even in his solitude. It was in the atmosphere, 
 
244 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 storm, wild excitement, a coming deed. Men hurried 
 along the usually lonely road in groups, with weapons 
 in their hands, the old fowling-piece of seven-foot 
 barrel, with which the Puritans had shot ducks on the 
 river and Walden Pond ; the heavy harquebus, which 
 perhaps had levelled one of King Philip s Indians ; 
 the old King gun, that blazed away at the French of 
 Louisburg or Quebec, hunter, husbandman, all were 
 hurrying each other. It was a good time, everybody 
 felt, to be alive, a nearer kindred, a closer sympathy 
 between man and man ; a sense of the goodness of the 
 world, of the sacredness of country, of the excellence 
 of life ; and yet its slight account compared with any 
 truth, any principle ; the weighing of the material and 
 ethereal, and the finding the former not worth consid 
 ering, when, nevertheless, it had so much to do with 
 the settlement of the crisis. . The ennobling of brute 
 force ; the feeling that it had its godlike side ; the 
 drawing of heroic breath amid the scenes of ordinary 
 life, so that it seemed as if they had all been transfig 
 ured since yesterday. Oh, high, heroic, tremulous junc 
 ture, when man felt himself almost an angel ; on the 
 verge of doing deeds that outwardly look so fiendish ! 
 Oh, strange rapture of the coming battle ! We know 
 something of that time now; we that have seen the 
 muster of the village soldiery on the meeting-house 
 green, and at railway stations; and heard the drum 
 and fife, and seen the farewells ; seen the familiar 
 faces that we hardly knew, now that we felt them to 
 be heroes ; breathed higher breath for their sakes ; 
 felt our eyes moistened; thanked them in our souls 
 for teaching us that nature is yet capable of heroic 
 moments ; felt how a great impulse lifts up a people, 
 and every cold, passionless, indifferent spectator. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 245 
 
 lifts him up into religion, and makes him join in what 
 becomes an act of devotion, a prayer, when perhaps he 
 but half approves. 
 
 Septimius could not study on a morning like this. 
 He tried to say to himself that he had nothing to do 
 with this excitement ; that his studious life kept him 
 away from it ; that his intended profession was that of 
 peace ; but say what he might to himself, there was a 
 tremor, a bubbling impulse, a tingling in his ears, 
 the page that he opened glimmered and dazzled before 
 him. 
 
 " Septimius ! Septimius ! " cried Aunt Keziah, look 
 ing into the room, " in Heaven s name, are you going 
 to sit here to-day, and the redcoats coining to burn the 
 house over our heads ? Must I sweep you out with 
 the broomstick ? For shame, boy ! for shame ! " 
 
 " Are they coming, then, Aunt Keziah ? " asked 
 her nephew. u Well, I am not a fighting-man." 
 
 * Certain they are. They have sacked Lexington, 
 and slain the people, and burnt the meeting-house. 
 That concerns even the parsons ; and you reckon your 
 self among them. Go out, go out, I say, and learn 
 the news ! " 
 
 Whether moved by these exhortations, or by his 
 own stifled curiosity, Septimius did at length issue 
 from his door, though with that reluctance which ham 
 pers and impedes men whose current of thought and 
 interest runs apart from that of the world in general ; 
 but forth he came, feeling strangely, and yet with a 
 strong impulse to fling himself headlong into the 
 emotion of the moment. It was a beautiful morning, 
 spring-like and summer -like at once. If there had 
 been nothing else to do or think of, such a morning 
 was enough for life only to breathe its air and be con 
 scious of its inspiring influence. 
 
246 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 Septimius turned along the road towards the village, 
 meaning to mingle with the crowd on the green, and 
 there learn all he could of the rumors that vaguely 
 filled the air, and doubtless were shaping themselves 
 into various forms of fiction. 
 
 As he passed the small dwelling of Rose Garfield, 
 she stood on the doorstep, and bounded forth a little 
 Way to meet him, looking frightened, excited, and yet 
 half pleased, but strangely pretty ; prettier than ever 
 before, owing to some hasty adornment or other, that 
 she would never have succeeded so well in giving to 
 herself if she had had more time to do it in. 
 
 " Septimius Mr. Felton," cried she, asking infor 
 mation of him who, of all men in the neighborhood, 
 knew nothing of the intelligence afloat ; but it showed 
 a certain importance that Septimius had with her. 
 " Do you really think the redcoats are coming ? Ah, 
 what shall we do ? What shall we do ? But you are 
 not going to the village, too, and leave us all alone?" 
 
 " I know not whether they are coming or no, Hose," 
 said Septimius, stopping to admire the young girl s 
 fresh beauty, which made a double stroke upon him 
 by her excitement, and, moreover, made her twice as 
 free with him as ever she had been before ; for there 
 is nothing truer than that any breaking up of the or 
 dinary state of things is apt to shake women out of 
 their proprieties, break down barriers, and bring them 
 into perilous proximity with the world. "Are you 
 alone here ? Had you not better take shelter in the 
 village ? " 
 
 " And leave my poor, bedridden grandmother ! " 
 cried Rose, angrily. " You know I can t, Septimius. 
 But I suppose I am in no danger. Go to the village, 
 if you like. . , 4 .. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 247 
 
 "Where is Robert Hagburn?" asked Septimius. 
 
 w Gone to the village this hour past, with his grand 
 father s old firelock on his shoulder," said Rose ; " he 
 was running bullets before daylight." 
 
 " Rose, I will stay with you," said Septimius. 
 
 " Oh gracious, here they coine, I ni sure ! " cried 
 Rose. " Look yonder at the dust. Mercy ! a man at 
 a gallop ! " 
 
 In fact, along the road, a considerable stretch of 
 which was visible, they heard the clatter of hoofs and 
 saw a little cloud of dust approaching at the rate of a 
 gallop, and disclosing, as it drew near, a hatless coun 
 tryman in his shirt - sleeves, who, bending over his 
 horse s neck, applied a cart-whip lustily to the animal s 
 flanks, so as to incite him to most unwonted speed. 
 At the same time, glaring upon Rose and Septimius, 
 he lifted up his voice and shouted in a strange, high 
 tone, that communicated the tremor and excitement of 
 the shouter to each auditor : " Alarum ! alarum ! ala 
 rum ! The redcoats ! The redcoats ! To arms ! ala 
 rum ! " 
 
 And trailing this sound far wavering behind him 
 like a pennon, the eager horseman dashed onward to 
 the village. 
 
 " Oh dear, what shall we do ? " cried Rose, her eyes 
 full of tears, yet dancing with excitement. " They are 
 coming ! they are coming ! I hear the drum and fife." 
 
 "I really believe they are," said Septimius, his 
 cheek flushing and growing pale, not with fear, but 
 the inevitable tremor, half painful, half pleasurable, 
 of the moment. " Hark ! there was the shrill note of 
 a fife. Yes, they are coming ! " 
 
 He tried to persuade Rose to hide herself in the 
 house ; but that young person \ ould not be persuaded 
 
248 SEP TI MI US FELT ON. 
 
 to do so, clinging to Septimius in a way that flattered 
 while it perplexed him. Besides, with all the girl s 
 fright, she had still a good deal of courage, and much 
 curiosity too, to see what these redcoats were of whom 
 she heard such terrible stories. 
 
 " Well, well, Rose," said Septimius ; " I doubt not 
 we may stay here without danger, you, a woman, 
 and I, whose profession is to be that of peace and 
 good-will to all men. They cannot, whatever is said 
 of them, be on an errand of massacre. We will stand 
 here quietly ; and, seeing that we do not fear them, 
 they will understand that we mean them no harm." 
 
 They stood, accordingly, a little in front of the door 
 by the well-curb, and soon they saw a heavy cloud of 
 dust, from amidst which shone bayonets ; and anon, a 
 military band, which had hitherto been silent, struck 
 up, with drum and fife, to which the tramp of a thou 
 sand feet fell in regular order ; then came the column, 
 moving massively, and the redcoats who seemed some 
 what wearied by a long night-march, dusty, with be 
 draggled gaiters, covered with sweat which had run 
 down from their powdered locks. Nevertheless, these 
 ruddy, lusty Englishmen marched stoutly, as men that 
 needed only a half-hour s rest, a good breakfast, and a 
 pot of beer apiece, to make them ready to face the 
 world. Nor did their faces look anywise rancorous ; 
 but at most, only heavy, cloddish, good-natured, and 
 humane. 
 
 " O heavens, Mr. Felton ! " whispered Eose, " why 
 should we shoot these men, or they us? they look kind, 
 if homely. Each of them has a mother and sisters, I 
 suppose, just like our men." 
 
 " It is the strangest thing in the world that we can 
 think of killing them," said Septimius. " Human, life 
 is so precious." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 249 
 
 Just as they were passing the cottage, a halt was 
 called by the commanding officer, in order that some 
 little rest might get the troops into a better condition 
 and give them breath before entering the village, 
 where it was important to make as imposing a show as 
 possible. During this brief stop, some of the soldiers 
 approached the well-curb, near which Rose and Sep- 
 timius were standing, and let down the bucket to sat 
 isfy their thirst. A young officer, a petulant boy, ex 
 tremely handsome, and of gay and buoyant deport 
 ment, also came up. 
 
 " Get me a cup, pretty one," said he, patting Rose s 
 cheek with great freedom, though it was somewhat 
 and indefinitely short of rudeness ; " a mug, or some 
 thing to drink out of, and you shall have a kiss for 
 your pains." 
 
 " Stand off, sir ! " said Septimius, fiercely ; " it is a 
 coward s part to insult a woman." 
 
 . " I intend no insult in this," replied the handsome 
 young officer, suddenly snatching a kiss from Rose, 
 before she could draw back. " And if you think it so, 
 my good friend, you had better take your weapon and 
 get as much satisfaction as you can, shooting at me 
 from behind a hedge." 
 
 Before Septimius could reply or act, and, in truth, 
 the easy presumption of the young Englishman made 
 it difficult for him, an inexperienced recluse as he was, 
 to know what to do or say, the drum beat a little 
 tap, recalling the soldiers to their rank and to order. 
 The young officer hastened back, with a laughing 
 glance at Rose, and a light, contemptuous look of de 
 fiance at Septimius, the drums rattling out in full beat, 
 and the troops marched on. 
 
 " What impertinence ! " said Rose, whose indignant 
 
250 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 color made her look pretty enough almost to excuse 
 the offence. 
 
 It is not easy to see how Septimius could have 
 shielded her from the insult ; and yet he felt incon 
 ceivably outraged and humiliated at the thought that 
 this offence had occurred while Rose was under his 
 protection, and he responsible for her. Besides, some 
 how or other, he was angry with her for having under 
 gone the wrong, though certainly most unreasonably ; 
 for the whole thing was quicker done than said. 
 
 " You had better go into the house now, Rose," 
 said he, " and see to your bedridden grandmother." 
 
 " And what will you do, Septimius ? " asked she. 
 
 " Perhaps I will house myself, also," he replied. 
 " Perhaps take yonder proud redcoat s counsel, and 
 shoot him behind a hedge." 
 
 " But not kill him outright ; I suppose he has a 
 mother and a sweetheart, the handsome young offi 
 cer," murmured Rose pityingly to herself. 
 
 Septimius went into his house, and sat in his study 
 for some hours, in that unpleasant state of feeling 
 which a man of brooding thought is apt to experience 
 when the world around him is in a state of intense ac 
 tion, which he finds it impossible to sympathize with. 
 There seemed to be a stream rushing past him, by 
 which, even if he plunged into the midst of it, he could 
 not be wet. He felt himself strangely ajar with the 
 human race, and would have given much either to be 
 in full accord with it, or to be separated from it for 
 ever. 
 
 " I am dissevered from it. It is my doom to be 
 only a spectator of life ; to look on as one apart from 
 it. Is it not well, therefore, that, sharing none oj its 
 pleasures and happiness, I should be free of its fatali* 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOX. 251 
 
 ties, its brevity ? How cold I am now, while this 
 whirlpool of public feeling is eddying around me ! It 
 is as if I had not been born of woman ! " 
 
 Thus it was that, drawing wild inferences from phe 
 nomena of the mind and heart common to people who, 
 by some morbid action within themselves, are set ajar 
 with the world, Septimius continued still to come 
 round to that strange idea of undyingness which had 
 recently taken possession of him. And yet he was 
 wrong in thinking himself cold, and that he felt no 
 sympathy in the fever of patriotism that was throbbing 
 through his countrymen. He was restless as a flame ; 
 he could not fix his thoughts upon his book ; he could 
 not sit in his chair, but kept pacing to and fro, while 
 through the open window came noises to which his 
 imagination gave diverse interpretation. Now it was 
 a distant drum ; now shouts ; by and by there came 
 the rattle of musketry, that seemed to proceed from 
 some point more distant than the village ; a regular 
 roll, then a ragged volley, then scattering shots. Una 
 ble any longer to preserve this unnatural indifference, 
 Septimius snatched his gun, and, rushing out of the 
 house, climbed the abrupt hill-side behind, whence he 
 coidd see a long way towards the village, till a slight 
 bend hid the uneven road. It was quite vacant, not 
 a passenger upon it. But there seemed to be confu 
 sion in that direction ; an unseen and inscrutable trou 
 ble, blowing thence towards him, intimated by vague 
 sounds, by no sounds. Listening eagerly, however, 
 he at last fancied a mustering sound of the drum ; 
 then it seemed as if it were coming towards him ; 
 while in advance rode another horseman, the same 
 kind of headlong messenger, in appearance, who had 
 passed the house with his ghastly cry of alarum ; then 
 
252 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 appeared scattered countrymen, with guns in their 
 hands, straggling across fields. Then he caught sight 
 of the regular array of British soldiers, filling the 
 road with their front, and marching along as firmly 
 as ever, though at a quick pace, while he fancied that 
 the officers looked watchfully around. As he looked, 
 a shot rang sharp from the hill-side towards the vil 
 lage ; the smoke curled up, and Septimius saw a man 
 stagger and fall in the midst of the troops. Septim 
 ius shuddered ; it was so like murder that he really 
 could not tell the difference ; his knees trembled be 
 neath him ; his breath grew short, not with terror, but 
 with some new sensation of awe. 
 
 Another shot or two came almost simultaneously 
 from the wooded height, but without any effect that 
 Septimius could perceive. Almost at the same mo 
 ment a company of the British soldiers wheeled from 
 the main body, and, dashing out of the road, climbed 
 the hill, and disappeared into the wood and shrubbery 
 that veiled it. There were a few straggling shots, by 
 whom fired, or with what effect, was invisible, and 
 meanwhile the main body of the enemy proceeded 
 along the road. They had now advanced so nigh that 
 Septimius was strangely assailed by the idea that he 
 might, with the gun in his hand, fire right into the 
 midst of them, and select any man of that now hostile 
 band to be a victim. How strange, how strange it is, 
 this deep, wild passion that nature has implanted in us 
 to be the death of our fellow-creatures, and which co 
 exists at the same time with horror ! Septimius lev 
 elled his weapon, and drew it up again ; he marked a 
 mounted officer, who seemed to be in chief command, 
 whom he knew that he could kill. But no I he had 
 really no such purpose. Only it was such a tempta* 
 
SEPTIMUS F ELTON. 258 
 
 tion. And in a moment the horse would leap, the 
 officer would fall and lie there in the dust of the road, 
 bleeding, gasping, breathing in spasms, breathing no 
 more. 
 
 While the young man, in these unusual circum 
 stances, stood watching the marching of the troops, 
 he heard the noise of rustling boughs, and the voices 
 of men, and soon understood that the party, which he 
 had seen separate itself from the main body and as 
 cend the hill, was now marching along on the hill-top, 
 the long ridge which, with a gap or two, extended as 
 much as a mile from the tillage. One of these gaps 
 occurred a little way from where Septimius stood. 
 They were acting as flank guard, to prevent the up- 
 roused people from coming so close to the main body 
 as to fire upon it. He looked and saw that the de 
 tachment of British was plunging down one side of 
 this gap, with intent to ascend the other, so that they 
 would pass directly over the spot where he stood ; a 
 slight removal to one side, among the small bushes, 
 would conceal him. He stepped aside accordingly, and 
 from his concealment, not without drawing quicker 
 breaths, beheld the party draw near. They were more 
 intent upon the space between them and the main 
 body than upon the dense thicket of birch-trees, pitch- 
 pines, sumach, and dwarf oaks, which, scarcely vet be 
 ginning to bud into leaf, lay on the other side, and in 
 which Septimius lurked. 
 
 [Describe how their faces affected him, passing so 
 near ; how strange they seemed J\ 
 
 They had all passed, except an officer who brought 
 up the rear, and who had perhaps been attracted by 
 some slight motion that Septimius made, some rustle 
 m the thicket ; for he stopped, fixed his eyes piero- 
 
254 SEPTIMIVS FELTON. 
 
 ingly towards the spot where he stood, and levelled a 
 light fusil which he carried. " Stand out, or I shoot," 
 said he. 
 
 Not to avoid the shot, but because his manhood felt 
 a call upon it not to skulk in obscurity from an open 
 enemy, Septimius at once stood forth, and confronted 
 the same handsome young officer with whom those 
 fierce words had passed on account of his rudeness to 
 Rose Gar field. Septimius s fierce Indian blood stirred 
 in him, and gave a murderous excitement. 
 
 " Ah, it is you ! " said the young officer, with a 
 haughty smile. " You meant, then, to take up with 
 my hint of shooting at me from behind a hedge? 
 This is better. Come, we have in the first place the 
 great quarrel between me a king s soldier, and you a 
 rebel ; next our private affair, on account of yonder 
 pretty girl. Come, let us take a shot on either score ! " 
 
 The young officer was so handsome, so beautiful, in 
 budding youth ; there was such a free, gay petulance 
 in his manner ; there seemed so little of real evil in 
 him ; he put himself on equal ground with the rustic 
 Septimius so generously, that the latter, often so mor 
 bid and sullen, never felt a greater kindness for fellow- 
 man than at this moment for this youth. 
 
 " I have no enmity towards you," said he ; "go in 
 peace." 
 
 " No enmity ! " replied the officer. " Then why were 
 you here with your gun amongst the shrubbery ? But 
 I have a mind to do my first deed of arms on you ; so 
 give up your weapon, and come with me as prisoner." 
 
 " A prisoner ! " cried Septimius, that Indian fierce 
 ness that was in him arousing itself, and thrusting up 
 its malign head like a snake. " Never ! If you would 
 have me, you must take my dead body." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 255 
 
 "Ah well, you have pluck in you, I see, only it 
 needs a considerable stirring. Come, this is a good 
 quarrel of ours. Let us fight it out. Stand where 
 you are, and I will give the word of command, Now ; 
 ready, aim, fire ! " 
 
 As the young officer spoke the three last words, in 
 rapid succession, he and his antagonist brought theb 
 firelocks to the shoulder, aimed and fired. Septimius, 
 felt, as it were, the sting of a gadfly passing across his 
 temple, as the Englishman s bullet grazed it ; but, to 
 his surprise and horror (for the whole thing scarcely 
 seemed real to him), he saw the officer give a great 
 start, drop his fusil, and stagger against a tree, with 
 his hand to his breast. He endeavored to support 
 himself erect, but, failing in the effort, beckoned to 
 Septimius. 
 
 " Coine, my good friend," said he, with that play 
 ful, petulant smile flitting over his face again. " It is 
 my first and last fight. Let me down as softly as you 
 can on mother earth, the mother of both you and me ; 
 so we are brothers : and this may be a brotherly act, 
 though it does not look so, nor feel so. Ah ! that was 
 a twinge indeed ! " 
 
 " Good God ! " exclaimed Septimius. " I had no 
 thought of this, no malice towards you in the least ! 
 
 " Nor I towards you," said the young man. " It 
 was boy s play, and the end of it is that I die a 
 boy, instead of living forever, as perhaps I otherwise 
 might." 
 
 " Living forever ! " repeated Septimius, his atten 
 tion arrested, even at that breathless moment, by 
 words that rang so strangely on what had been his 
 brooding thought. 
 
 "Yes ; but I have lost my chance," said the young 
 
256 * SEPTIMIUS FELTON, 
 
 officer. Then, as Septimius helped him to lie against 
 the little hillock of a decayed and buried stump, 
 " Thank you ; thank you. If you could only call 
 back one of my comrades to hear my dying words. 
 But I forgot. You have killed me, and they would 
 take your life." 
 
 In truth, Septimius was so moved and so astonished, 
 that he probably would have called back the young 
 man s comrades, had it been possible ; but, marching 
 at the swift rate of men in peril, they had already 
 gone far onward, in their passage through the shrul> 
 bery that had ceased to rustle behind them. 
 
 " Yes ; I must die here ! " said the young man, with 
 a forlorn expression, as of a school-boy far away from 
 home, " and nobody to see me now but you, who have 
 killed me. Could you fetch me a drop of water ? I 
 have a great thirst." 
 
 Septimius, in a dream of horror and pity, rushed 
 down the hill-side ; the house was empty, for Aunt Ke- 
 ziah had gone for shelter and sympathy to some of 
 the neighbors. He filled a jug with cold water, and 
 hurried back to the hill-top, finding the young offi 
 cer looking paler and more deathlike within those few 
 moments. 
 
 " I thank you, my enemy that was, my friend that 
 is," murmured he, faintly smiling. " Methinks, next 
 to the father and mother that gave us birth, the next 
 most intimate relation must be with the man that 
 slays us, who introduces us to the mysterious world 
 to which this is but the portal. You and I are singu 
 larly connected, doubt it not, in the scenes of the un 
 known world." 
 
 " Oh, believe me," cried Septimius, " I grieve for 
 you like a brother ! " 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 257 
 
 " I see it, my clear friend," said the young officer ; 
 " and though my blood is on your hands. I forgive 
 you freely, if there is anything to forgive. But I am 
 dying, and have a few words to say, which you must 
 hear. You have slain me in fair fight, and my spoils, 
 according to the rules and customs of warfare, belong 
 to the victor. Hang up my sword and fusil over youi 
 chimney-place, and tell your children, twenty years 
 hence, how they were won. My purse, keep it or give 
 it to the poor. There is something, here next my 
 heart, which I would fain have sent to the address 
 which I will give you." 
 
 Septimius, obeying his directions, took from his 
 breast a miniature that hung round it ; but, on exam 
 ination, it proved that the bullet had passed directly 
 through it, shattering the ivory, so that the woman s 
 face it represented was quite destroyed. 
 
 " Ah ! that is a pity," said the young man ; and yet 
 Septimius thought that there was something light and 
 contemptuous mingled with the pathos in his tones. 
 "Well, but send it; cause it to be transmitted, ac 
 cording to the address." 
 
 He gave Septimius, and made him take down on a 
 tablet which he had about him, the name of a hall 
 in one of the midland counties of England. 
 
 " Ah, that old place," said he, " with its oaks, and 
 its lawn, and its park, and its Elizabethan gables ! 
 I little thought I should die here, so far away, in 
 this barren Yankee land. Where will you bury 
 me ? " 
 
 As Septimius hesitated to answer, the young man 
 continued : " I would like to have lain in the little old 
 church at "Whitnash, which conies up before me now, 
 with its low, gray tower, and the old yew-tree in front, 
 
258 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 hollow with age, and the village clustering about it, 
 with its thatched houses. I would be loath to lie in 
 one of your Yankee graveyards, for I have a distaste 
 for them, though I love you, my slayer. Bury me 
 here, on this very spot. A soldier lies best where he 
 falls." 
 
 " Here, in secret ? " exclaimed Septimius. 
 
 " Yes ; there is no consecration in your Puritan 
 burial-grounds," said the dying youth, some of that 
 queer narrowness of English Churchism coming into 
 his mind. " So bury me here, in my soldier s dress. 
 Ah ! and my watch ! I have done with time, and you, 
 perhaps, have a long lease of it ; so take it, not as^ 
 spoil, but as my parting gift. And that reminds me 
 of one other thing. Open that pocket-book which you 
 have in your hand." 
 
 Septimius did so, and by the officer s direction took 
 from one of its compartments a folded paper, closely 
 written in a crabbed hand ; it was considerably worn 
 in the outer folds, but not within. There was also a 
 small silver key in the pocket-book. 
 
 " I leave it with you," said the officer ; " it was 
 given me by an uncle, a learned man of science, who 
 intended me great good by what he there wrote. Reap 
 the profit, if you can. Sooth to say, I never read be 
 yond the first lines of the paper." 
 
 Septimius was surprised, or deeply impressed, to see 
 that through this paper, as well as through the min 
 iature, had gone his fatal bullet, straight through 
 the midst ; and some of the young man s blood, sat 
 urating his dress, had wet the paper all over. He 
 hardly thought himself likely to derive any good from 
 what it had cost a human life, taken (however un- 
 criminally) by his own hands, to obtain. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 259 
 
 " Is there anything more that I can do for you ? " 
 asked he, with genuine sympathy and sorrow, as he 
 knelt by his fallen foe s side. 
 
 "Nothing, nothing, I believe," said he. "There 
 was one thing I might have confessed ; if there were 
 a holy man here, I might have confessed, and asked 
 his prayers ; for though I have lived few years, it has 
 been long enough to do a great wrong. But I will 
 try to pray in my secret soul. Turn my face towards 
 the trunk of the tree, for I have taken my last look at 
 the world. There, let me be now." 
 
 Septimius did as the young man requested, and then 
 stood leaning against one of the neighboring pines, 
 watching his victim with a tender concern that made 
 him feel as if the convulsive throes that passed 
 through his frame were felt equally in his own. 
 There was a murmuring from the youth s lips which 
 seemed to Septimius swift, soft, and melancholy, like 
 the voice of a child when it has some naughtiness to 
 confess to its mother at bedtime ; contrite, pleading, 
 yet trusting. So it continued for a few minutes ; then 
 there was a sudden start and struggle, as if he were 
 striving to rise ; his eyes met those of Septimius with 
 a wild, troubled gaze, but as the latter caught him in 
 his arms, he was dead. Septimius laid the body softly 
 down on the leaf-strewn earth, and tried, as he had 
 heard was the custom with the dead, to compose the 
 features distorted by the dying agony. He then flung 
 himself on the ground at a little distance, and gave 
 himself up to the reflections suggested by the strange 
 occurrences of the last hour. 
 
 He had taken a human life ; and, however the cir 
 cumstances might excuse him, might make the thing 
 even something praiseworthy, and that would be called 
 
260 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 patriotic, still, it was not at once that a fresh conn 
 try youth could see anything but horror in the blood 
 with which his hand was stained. It seemed so dread 
 ful to have reduced this gay, animated, beautiful be 
 ing to a lump of dead flesh for the flies to settle upon, 
 and which in a few hours would begin to decay ; which 
 must be put forthwith into the earth, lest it should be 
 a horror to men s eyes ; that delicious beauty for wo 
 man to love ; that strength and courage to make him 
 famous among men, all come to nothing; all prob 
 abilities of life in one so gifted ; the renown, the 
 position, the pleasures, the profits, the keen ecstatic 
 joy, this never could be made up, all ended 
 quite ; for the dark doubt descended upon Septimius, 
 that, because of the very fitness that was in this youth 
 to enjoy this world, so much the less chance was there 
 of his being fit for any other world. What could it 
 do for him there, this beautiful grace and elegance 
 of feature, where there was no form, nothing tangi 
 ble nor visible ? what good that readiness and aptness 
 for associating with all created things, doing his part, 
 acting, enjoying, when, under the changed conditions 
 of another state of being, all this adaptedness would 
 fail ? Had he been gifted with permanence on earth, 
 there could not have been a more admirable creature 
 than this young man ; but as his fate had turned out, 
 he was a mere grub, an illusion, something that na 
 ture had held out in mockery, and then withdrawn. A 
 weed might grow from his dust now ; that little spot 
 on the barren hill -top, where he had desired to be 
 buried, would be greener for some years to come, and 
 that was all the difference. Septimius could not get 
 beyond the earthiness ; his feeling was as if, by an act 
 of violence, he had forever cv s off a happy human* ex 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 261 
 
 istence. And such was his own love of life and cling 
 ing to it, peculiar to dark, sombre natures, and which 
 lighter and gayer ones can never know, that he shud 
 dered at his deed, and at himself, and could with diffi 
 culty bear to be alone with the corpse of his victim, 
 trembled at the thought of turning his face towards 
 him. 
 
 Yet he did so, because he could not endure the im 
 agination that the dead youth was turning his eyes 
 towards him as he lay ; so he came and stood beside 
 him, looking down into his white, upturned face. But 
 it was wonderful ! What a change had come over it 
 since, only a few moments ago, he looked at that death- 
 contorted countenance ! Now there was a high and 
 sweet expression upon it, of great joy and surprise, 
 and yet a quietude diffused throughout, as if the peace 
 being so very great was what had surprised him. The 
 expression was like a light gleaming and glowing 
 within him. Septimius had often, at a certain space 
 of time after sunset, looking westward, seen a living 
 radiance in the sky, the last light of the dead day 
 that seemed just the counterpart of this death-light in 
 the young man s face. It was as if the youth were 
 just at the gate of heaven, which, swinging softly 
 open, let the inconceivable glory of the blessed city 
 shine upon his face, and kindle it up with gentle, un- 
 disturbing astonishment and purest joy. It was an 
 expression contrived by God s providence to comfort ; 
 to overcome all the dark auguries that the physical 
 ugliness of death inevitably creates, and to prove by 
 the divine glory on the face, that the ugliness is a de 
 lusion. It was as if the dead man himself showed his 
 face out of the sky, with heaven s blessing on it, and 
 bade the afflicted be of good cheer, and believe in im 
 mortality. 
 
262 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 Septimius remembered the young man s injunctions 
 to bury him there, on the hill, without uncovering the 
 body ; and though it seemed a sin and shame to cover 
 up that beautiful body with earth of the grave, and 
 give it to the worm, yet he resolved to obey. 
 
 Be it confessed that, beautiful as the dead form 
 looked, and guiltless as Septimius must be held in 
 causing his death, still he felt as if he should be eased 
 when it was under the ground. He hastened down 
 to the house, and brought up a shovel and a pickaxe, 
 and began his unwonted task of grave-digging, delv 
 ing earnestly a deep pit, sometimes pausing in his toil, 
 while the sweat-drops poured from him, to look at the 
 beautiful clay that was to occupy it. Sometimes he 
 paused, too, to listen to the shots that pealed in the 
 far distance, towards the east, whither the battle had 
 long since rolled out of reach and almost out of hear 
 ing. It seemed to have gathered about itself the 
 whole life of the land, attending it along its bloody 
 course in a struggling throng of shouting, shooting 
 men, so still and solitary was everything left behind 
 it. It seemed the very midland solitude of the world 
 where Septimius was delving at the grave. He and 
 his dead were alone together, and he was going to put 
 the body under the sod, and be quite alone. 
 
 The grave was now deep, and Septimius was stoop 
 ing down into its depths among dirt and pebbles, lev 
 elling off the bottom, which he considered to be pro 
 found enough to hide the young man s mystery for 
 ever, when a voice spoke above him ; a solemn, quiet 
 voice, which he knew well. 
 
 " Septimius ! what are you doing here ? " 
 
 He looked up and saw the minister. 
 
 " I have slain a man in fair fight," answered he, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 263 
 
 " and am about to bury him as lie requested. I am 
 glad you are come. You, reverend sir, can fitly say 
 a prayer at his obsequies. I am glad for my own 
 sake ; for it is very lonely and terrible to be here." 
 
 He climbed out of the grave, and, in reply to the 
 minister s inquiries, communicated to him the events 
 of the morning, and the youth s strange wish to be 
 buried here, without having his remains subjected to 
 the hands of those who would prepare it for the grave. 
 The minister hesitated. 
 
 " At an ordinary time," said he, " such a singular 
 request would of course have to be refused. Your own 
 safety, the good and wise rules that make it necessary 
 that all things relating to death and burial should be 
 done publicly and in order, would forbid it." 
 
 " Yes," replied Septiinius ; " but, it may be, scores 
 of men will fall to-day, and be flung into hasty graves 
 without funeral rites ; without its ever being known, 
 perhaps, what mother has lost her son. I cannot but 
 think that I ought to perform the dying request of the 
 youth whom I have slain. He trusted in me not to 
 uncover his body myself, nor to betray it to the hands 
 of others." 
 
 " A singular request," said the good minister, gaz 
 ing with deep interest at the beautiful dead face, and 
 graceful, slender, manly figure. " What could have 
 been its motive ? But no matter. I think, Septiniius, 
 that you are bound to obey his request; indeed, hav 
 ing promised him, nothing short of an impossibility 
 should prevent your keeping your faith. Let us lose 
 no time, then." 
 
 "With few but deeply solemn rites the young stran 
 ger was laid by the minister and the youth who slew 
 him in his grave. A prayer was made, and then Sep. 
 
264 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 timius, gathering some branches and twigs, spread them 
 over the face that was turned upward from the bottom 
 of the pit, into which the sun gleamed downward, throw 
 ing its rays so as almost to touch it. The twigs par 
 tially hid it, but still its white shone through. Then 
 the minister threw a handful of earth upon it, and, 
 accustomed as he was to burials, tears fell from his 
 eyes along with the mould. 
 
 " It is sad," said he, " this poor young man, coming 
 from opulence, 110 doubt, a dear English home, to die 
 here for no end, one of the first-fruits of a bloody war, 
 so much privately sacrificed. But let him rest, Sep- 
 timius. I am sorry that he fell by your hand, though 
 it involves no shadow of a crime. But death is a thing 
 too serious not to melt into the nature of a man like 
 you." 
 
 " It does not weigh upon my conscience, I think," 
 said Septimius; "though I cannot but feel sorrow, 
 and wish my hand were as clean as yesterday. It is, 
 indeed, a dreadful thing to take human life." 
 
 " It is a most serious thing," replied the minister ; 
 " but perhaps we are apt to over-estimate the impor 
 tance of death at any particular moment. If the ques 
 tion were whether to die or to live forever, then, in 
 deed, scarcely anything should justify the putting a 
 fellow-creature to death. But since it only shortens 
 his earthly life, and brings a little forward a change 
 which, since God permits it, is, we may conclude, as 
 fit to take place then as at any other time, it alters 
 the case. I often think that there are many things 
 that occur to us in our daily life, many unknown cri 
 ses, that are more important to us than this mysteri 
 ous circumstance of death, which we deem the most 
 important of all. All we understand of it is, that it 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 265 
 
 takes the dead person away from our knowledge of 
 him, which, while we live with him, is so very scanty." 
 
 u You estimate at nothing, it seems, his earthly life, 
 which might have been so happy." 
 
 " At next to nothing," said the minister ; " since, 
 as I have observed, it must, at any rate, have closed so 
 soon." 
 
 Septimius thought of what the young man, in his 
 last moments, had said of his prospect or opportunity 
 of living a life of interminable length, and which pros 
 pect he had bequeathed to himself. But of this he did 
 not speak to the minister, being, indeed, ashamed to 
 have it supposed that he would put any serious weight 
 on such a bequest, although it might be that the dark 
 enterprise of his nature had secretly seized upon this 
 idea, and, though yet sane enough to be influenced by 
 a fear of ridicule, was busy incorporating it with his 
 thoughts. 
 
 So Septimius smoothed down the young stranger s 
 earthy bed, and returned to his home, where he hung 
 up the sword over the mantel-piece in his study, and 
 hung the gold watch, too, on a nail, the first time he 
 had ever had possession of such a thing. Nor did he 
 now feel altogether at ease in his mind about keeping- 
 it, the time-measurer of one whose mortal life he had 
 cut off. A splendid watch it was, round as a turnip. 
 There seems to be a natural right in one who has slain 
 a man to step into his vacant place in all respects ; and 
 from the beginning of man s dealings with man this 
 right has been practically recognized, whether among 
 warriors or robbers, as paramount to every other. Yet 
 Septimius could not feel easy in availing himself of 
 this right. He therefore resolved to keep the watch, 
 and even the sword and fusil, which were less ques- 
 
266 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 tionable spoils of war, only till lie should be able to 
 restore them to some representative of the young offi 
 cer. The contents of the purse, in accordance with 
 the request of the dying. youth, he would expend in 
 relieving the necessities of those whom the war (now 
 broken out, and of which no one could see the limit) 
 might put in need of it. The miniature, with its 
 broken and shattered face, that had so vainly inter 
 posed itself between its wearer and death, had been 
 sent to its address. 
 
 But as to the mysterious document, the written pa 
 per, that he had laid aside without unfolding it, but 
 with a care that betokened more interest in it than in 
 either gold or weapon, or even in the golden represen 
 tative of that earthly time on which he set so high a 
 value. There was something tremulous in his touch 
 of it ; it seemed as if he were afraid of it by the mode 
 in which he hid it away, and secured himself from it, 
 as it were. 
 
 This done, the air of the room, the low-ceilinged 
 eastern room where he studied and thought, became 
 too close for him, and he hastened out ; for he was full 
 of the unshaped sense of all that had befallen, and the 
 perception of the great public event of a broken-out 
 war was intermixed with that of what he had done 
 personally in the great struggle that was beginning. 
 He longed, too, to know what was the news of the 
 battle that had gone rolling onward along the hitherto 
 peaceful country road, converting everywhere (this 
 demon of war, we mean), with one blast of its red 
 sulphurous breath, the peaceful husbandman to a sol 
 dier thirsting for blood. He turned his steps, there 
 fore, towards the village, thinking it probable that news 
 must have arrived either of defeat or victory, from 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 267 
 
 messengers or fliers, to cheer or sadden the old men, 
 the women, and the children, who alone perhaps re 
 mained there. 
 
 But Septimius did not get to the village. As he 
 passed along by the cottage that has been already de 
 scribed, Rose Garfield was standing at the door, peer 
 ing anxiously forth to know what was the issue of the 
 conflict, as it has been woman s fate to do from the 
 beginning of the world, and is so still. Seeing Sep 
 timius, she forgot the restraint that she had hitherto 
 kept herself under, and, flying at him like a bird, she 
 cried out, " Septimius, dear Septimius, where have 
 you been ? What news do you bring ? You look as 
 if you had seen some strange and dreadful thing." 
 
 "Ah, is it so? Does my face tell such stories?" 
 exclaimed the young man. " I did not mean it should. 
 Yes, Eose, I have seen and done such things as change 
 a man in a moment." 
 
 " Then you have been in this terrible fight," said 
 Rose. 
 
 " Yes, Rose, I have had my part in it," answered 
 Septimius. 
 
 He was on the point of relieving his overburdened 
 mind by telling her what had happened no farther off 
 than on the hill above them ; but, seeing her excite 
 ment, and recollecting her own momentary interview 
 with the young officer, and the forced intimacy and 
 link that had been established between them by the 
 kiss, he feared to agitate her further by telling her 
 that that gay and beautiful young man had since been 
 slain, and deposited in a bloody grave by his hands. 
 And yet the recollection of that kiss caused a thrill of 
 vengeful joy at the thought that the perpetrator had 
 since expiated his offence with his life, and that it was 
 
268 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 himself that did it, so deeply was Septimius s Indian 
 nature of revenge and blood incorporated with that 
 of more peaceful forefathers, although Septimius had 
 grace enough to chide down that bloody spirit, feeling 
 that it made him, not a patriot, but a murderer. 
 
 " Ah," said Rose, shuddering, " it is awful when we 
 must kill one another ! And who knows where it will 
 end?" 
 
 " With me it will end here, Rose," said Septimius. 
 " It may be lawful for any man, even if he have de 
 voted himself to God, or however peaceful his pursuits, 
 to fight to the death when the enemy s step is on the 
 soil of his home ; but only for that perilous juncture, 
 which passed, he should return to his own way of 
 peace. I have done a terrible thing for once, dear 
 Rose, one that might well trace a dark line through 
 all my future life ; but henceforth I cannot think it 
 my duty to pursue any further a work for which my 
 studies and my nature unfit me." 
 
 " Oh no ! Oh no ! " said Rose ; " never ! and you a 
 minister, or soon to be one. There must be some 
 peacemakers left in the world, or everything will turn 
 to blood and confusion ; for even women grow dread 
 fully fierce in these times. My old grandmother la 
 ments her bedriddenness, because, she says, she can 
 not go to cheer on the people against the enemy. But 
 she remembers the old times of the Indian wars, when 
 the women were as much in danger of death as the 
 men, and so were almost as fierce as they, and killed 
 men sometimes with their own hands. But women, 
 nowadays, ought to be gentler ; let the men be fierce, 
 if they must, except you, and such as you, Septimius." 
 
 " Ah, dear Rose," said Septimius, " I have not the 
 kind and sweet impulses that you speak of. I need 
 
SEPTI MIL S FELTON. 269 
 
 something to soften and warm my cold, hard life ,- 
 something to make me feel how dreadful this time of 
 warfare is. I need you, dear Rose, who are all kind 
 ness of heart and mercy." 
 
 And here Septimius, hurried away by I know not 
 what excitement of the time, the disturbed state of 
 the country, his own ebullition of passion, the deed he 
 had done, the desire to press one human being close 
 to his life, because he had shed the blood of another, 
 his half-formed purposes, his shapeless impulses ; in 
 short, being affected by the whole stir of his nature, 
 spoke to Rose of love, and with an energy that, 
 indeed, there was no resisting when once it broke 
 bounds. And Rose, whose maiden thoughts, to say 
 the truth, had long dwelt upon this young man, ad 
 miring him for a certain dark beauty, knowing him 
 familiarly from childhood, and yet having the sense, 
 that is so bewitching, of remoteness, intermixed with 
 intimacy, because he was so unlike herself ; having a 
 woman s respect for scholarship, her imagination the 
 more impressed by all in him that she could not com 
 prehend, Rose yielded to his impetuous suit, and 
 gave him the troth that he requested. And yet it was 
 with a sort of reluctance and drawing back ; her whole 
 nature, her secretest heart, her deepest womanhood, 
 perhaps, did not consent. There was something in 
 Septimius, in his wild, mixed nature, the monstrous- 
 ness that had grown out of his hybrid race, the black 
 infusions, too, which melancholic men had left there, 
 the devilishness that had been symbolized in the pop 
 ular regard about his family, that made her shiver, 
 even while she came the closer to him for that very 
 dread. And when he gave her the kiss of betroth- 
 ment her lips grew white. If it had not been in the 
 
270 SEPTIM1US FELTON. 
 
 day of turmoil, if he had asked her in any quiet time, 
 when Kose s heart was in its natural mood, it may well 
 be that, with tears and pity for him, and half -pity for 
 herself, Rose would have told Septimius that she did 
 not think she could love him well enough to be his 
 wife. 
 
 And how was it with Septimius ? Well ; there was 
 a singular correspondence in his feelings to those of 
 Rose Garfield. At first, carried away by a passion 
 that seized him all unawares, and seemed to develop 
 itself all in a moment, he felt, and so spoke to Rose, 
 so pleaded his suit, as if his whole earthly happiness 
 depended on her consent to be his bride. It seemed 
 to him that her love woidd be the sunshine in the 
 gloomy dungeon of his life. But when her bashful, 
 downcast, tremulous consent was given, then immedi 
 ately came a strange misgiving into his mind. He 
 felt as if he had taken to himself something good and 
 beautiful doubtless in itself, but which might be the 
 exchange for one more suited to him, that he must 
 now give up. The intellect, which was the prominent 
 point in Septimius, stirred and heaved, crying out 
 vaguely that its own claims, perhaps, were ignored in 
 this contract. Septimius had perhaps no right to love 
 at all ; if he did, it should have been a woman of an 
 other make, who could be his intellectual companion 
 and helper. And then, perchance, perchance, 
 there was destined for him some high, lonely path, in 
 which, to make any progress, to come to any end, 
 he must walk unburdened by the affections. Such 
 thoughts as these depressed and chilled (as many men 
 have found them, or similar ones, to do) the moment 
 of success that should have been the most exulting in 
 the world. And so, in the kiss which these two lov- 
 
SEPT1MIUS FELTON. 271 
 
 ers had exchanged there was, after all, something that 
 repelled ; and when they parted they wondered at their 
 strange states of mind, but would not acknowledge 
 that they had done a thing that ought not to have 
 been done. Nothing is surer, however, than that, if 
 we suffer ourselves to be drawn into too close proxim 
 ity with people, if we over-estimate the degree of our 
 proper tendency towards them, or theirs towards us, a 
 reaction is sure to follow. 
 
 Septimius quitted Rose, and resumed Ms walk to 
 wards the village. But now it was near sunset, and 
 there began to be straggling passengers along the 
 road, some of whom came slowly, as if they had re 
 ceived hurts ; all seemed wearied. Among them one 
 form appeared which Rose soon found that she recog 
 nized. It was Robert Hagburn, with a shattered fire 
 lock in his hand, broken at the butt, and his left arm 
 bound with a fragment of his shirt, and suspended in 
 a handkerchief ; and he walked weariedly, but bright 
 ened up at sight of Rose, as if ashamed to let her see 
 how exhausted and dispirited he was. Perhaps he ex 
 pected a smile, at least a more earnest reception than 
 he met ; for Rose, with the restraint of what had re 
 cently passed drawing her back, merely went gravely 
 a few steps to meet him, and said, " Robert, how tired 
 and pale you look ! Are you hurt ? 
 
 " It is of no consequence," replied Robert Hag- 
 burn ; " a scratch on niy left arm from an officer s 
 sword, with whose head my gunstock made instant ac 
 quaintance. It is no matter, Rose ; you do not care 
 for it, nor do I either." 
 
 " How can you say so, Robert ? " she replied. But 
 without more greeting he passed her, and went into 
 
272 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 his own house, where, flinging himself into a chair, he 
 remained in that despondency that men generally feel 
 after a fight, even if a successful one. 
 
 Septimius, the next day, lost no time in writing a 
 letter to the direction given him by the young officer, 
 conveying a brief account of the latter s death and 
 burial, and a signification that he held in readiness to 
 give up certain articles of property, at any future time, 
 to his representatives, mentioning also the amount of 
 money contained in the purse, and his intention, in 
 compliance with the verbal will of the deceased, to ex 
 pend it in alleviating the wants of prisoners. Having 
 so done, he went up on the hill to look at the grave, 
 and satisfy himself that the scene there had not been a 
 dream ; a point which he was inclined to question, in 
 spite of the tangible evidence of the sword and watch, 
 which still hung over the mantel - piece. There was 
 the little mound, however, looking so incontrovertibly 
 a grave, that it seemed to him as if all the world must 
 see it, and wonder at the fact of its being there, and 
 spend their wits in conjecturing who slept within ; 
 and, indeed, it seemed to give the affair a question 
 able character, this secret burial, and he wondered 
 and wondered why the young man had been so ear 
 nest about it. Well ; there was the grave ; and, more 
 over, on the leafy earth, where the dying youth had 
 lain, there were traces of blood, which no rain had yet 
 washed away. Septimius wondered at the easiness 
 with which he acquiesced in this deed ; in fact, he felt 
 in a slight degree the effects of that taste of blood, 
 which makes the slaying of men, like any other abuse, 
 sometimes become a passion. Perhaps it was his In 
 dian trait stirring in him again ; at any rate,, it is 
 not delightful to observe how readily man becomes a 
 blood-sheddinsr animal. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 273 
 
 Looking down from the hill-top, he saw the little 
 dwelling of Rose Garfield, and caught a glimpse of 
 the girl herself, passing the windows or the door, 
 about her household duties, and listened to hear the 
 singing which usually broke out of her. But Rose, 
 for some reason or other, did not warble as usual this 
 morning. She trod about silently, and somehow or 
 other she was translated out of the ideality in which 
 Septimius usually enveloped her, and looked little 
 more than a New England girl, very pretty indeed, 
 but not enough so perhaps to engross a man s life and 
 higher purposes into her own narrow circle ; so, at 
 least, Septimius thought. Looking a little farther, - 
 down into the green recess where stood Robert Hag- 
 burn s house, he saw that young man, looking very 
 pale, with his arm in a sling sitting listlessly on a 
 half-chopped log of wood which was not likely soon to 
 be severed by Robert s axe. Like other lovers, Sep 
 timius had not failed to be aware that Robert Hag- 
 burn was sensible to Rose Garfield s attractions ; and 
 now, as he looked down on them both from his ele 
 vated position, he wondered if it would not have been 
 better for Rose s happiness if her thoughts and virgin 
 fancies had settled on that frank, cheerful, able, whole 
 some young man, instead of on himself, who met her 
 on so few points ; and, in relation to whom, there was 
 perhaps a plant that had its root in the grave, that 
 would entwine itself around his whole life, overshad 
 owing it with dark, rich foliage and fruit that he alone 
 could feast upon. 
 
 For the sombre imagination of Septimius, though 
 he kept it as much as possible away from the subject, 
 still kept hinting and whispering, still coming back to 
 the point, still secretly suggesting that the event of 
 
 VOL- XI. 18 
 
274 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 yesterday was to have momentous consequences upon 
 his fate. 
 
 He had not yet looked at the paper which the 
 young man bequeathed to him ; he had laid it away 
 unopened ; not that he felt little interest in it, but, on 
 the contrary, because he looked for some blaze of light 
 which had been reserved for him alone. The young 
 officer had been only the bearer of it to him, and he 
 had come hither to die by his hand, because that was 
 the readiest way by which he could deliver his mes 
 sage. How else, in the infinite chances of human af 
 fairs, could the document have found its way to its 
 destined possessor? Thus mused Septimius, pacing 
 to and fro on the level edge of his hill-top, apart from 
 the world, looking down occasionally into it, and see 
 ing its love and interest away from him ; while Rose, 
 it might be looking upward, saw occasionally his pass 
 ing figure, and trembled at the nearness and remote 
 ness that existed between them ; and Robert Hagburn 
 looked too, and wondered what manner of man it was 
 who, having won Rose Garfield (for his instinct told 
 him this was so), could keep that distance between her 
 and him, thinking remote thoughts. 
 
 Yes; there was Septimius treading a path of his 
 own on the hill-top ; his feet began only that morning 
 to wear it in his walking to and fro, sheltered from 
 the lower world, except in occasional glimpses, by the 
 birches and locusts that threw up their foliage from 
 the hill-side. But many a year thereafter he continued 
 to tread that path, till it was worn deep with his foot 
 steps and trodden down hard ; and it was believed by 
 some of his superstitious neighbors that the grass and 
 little shrubs shrank away from his path, and made it 
 wider on that account ; because there was something 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 275 
 
 in the broodings that urged hiin to and fro along the 
 path alien to nature and its productions. There was 
 another opinion, too, that an invisible fiend, one of his 
 relatives by blood, walked side by side with him, and 
 so made the pathway wider than Jiis single footsteps 
 could have made it. But all this was idle, and was, 
 indeed, only the foolish babble that hovers like a mist 
 about men who withdraw themselves from the throng, 
 and involve themselves in unintelligible pursuits and 
 interests of their own. For the present, the small 
 world, which alone knew of him, considered Septimius 
 as a studious young man, who was fitting for the min 
 istry, and was likely enough to do credit to the minis 
 terial blood that he drew from his ancestors, in spite 
 of the wild stream that the Indian priest had contrib 
 uted ; and perhaps none the worse, as a clergyman, 
 for having an instinctive sense of the nature of the 
 Devil from his traditionary claims to partake of his 
 blood. But what strange interest there is in tracing 
 out the first steps by which we enter on a career that 
 influences our life ; and this deep-worn pathway on 
 the hill-top, passing and repassing by a grave, seemed 
 to symbolize it in Septimius s case. 
 
 I suppose the morbidness of Septimius s disposition 
 was excited by the circumstances which had put the 
 paper into his possession. Had he received it by post, 
 it might not have impressed him ; he might possibly 
 have looked over it with ridicule, and tossed it aside. 
 But he had taken it from a dying man, and he felt 
 that his fate was in it ; and truly it turned out to be 
 so. He waited for a fit opportunity to open it and 
 read it ; he put it off as if he cared nothing about it ; 
 perhaps it was because he cared so much. Whenever 
 he had a happy time with Rose (and, moody as Sep- 
 
276 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 tiniius was, such happy moments came), he felt that 
 then was not the time to look into the paper, it was 
 not to be read in a happy mood. 
 
 Once he asked Rose to walk with him on the hill 
 top. 
 
 " Why, what a path you have worn here, Septim- 
 ius ! " said the girl. " You walk miles and miles on 
 this one spot, and get no farther on than when you 
 started. That is strange walking ! " 
 
 " I don t know, Rose ; I sometimes think I get a 
 little onward. But it is sweeter yes, much sweeter, 
 I find to have you walking on this path here than 
 to be treading it alone." 
 
 " I am glad of that," said Rose ; " for sometimes, 
 when I look up here, and see you through the 
 branches, with your head bent down, and your hands 
 clasped behind you, treading, treading, treading, al 
 ways in one way, I wonder whether I am at all in your 
 mind. I don t think, Septimius," added she, looking 
 up in his face and smiling, " that ever a girl had just 
 such a young man for a lover." 
 
 " No young man ever had such a girl, I am sure, " 
 said Septimius ; " so sweet, so good for him, so prolific 
 of good influences ! " 
 
 " Ah, it makes me think well of myself to bring such 
 a smile into your face ! But, Septimius, what is this 
 little hillock here so close to our path ? Have you 
 heaped it up here for a seat ? Shall we sit down upon 
 it for an instant? for it makes me more tired to 
 walk backward and forward on one path than to go 
 straight forward a much longer distance." 
 
 " Well ; but we will not sit down on this hillock," 
 said Septimius, drawing her away from it. " Farther 
 out this way, if you please, Rose, where we shall have 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 277 
 
 a better view over the wide plain, the valley, and the 
 long, tame ridge of hills on the other side, shutting it 
 in like human life. It is a landscape that never tires, 
 though it has nothing striking about it; and I am 
 glad that there are no great hills to be thrusting them 
 selves into my thoughts, and crowding out better 
 things. It might be desirable, in some states of mind, 
 to have a glimpse of water, to have the lake that 
 once must have covered this green valley, because 
 water reflects the sky, and so is like religion in life, 
 the spiritual element." 
 
 " There is the brook running through it, though we 
 do not see it," replied Rose ; " a torpid little brook, to 
 be sure ; but, as you say, it has heaven in its bosom, 
 like Walden Pond, or any wider one." 
 
 As they sat together on the hill-top, they could look 
 down into Robert Hagburn s enclosure, and they saw 
 him, with his arm now relieved from the sling, walk 
 ing about, in a very erect manner, with a middle-aged 
 man by his side, to whom he seemed to be talking and 
 explaining some matter. Even at that distance Sep- 
 timius could see that the rustic stoop and uncouthness 
 had somehow fallen away from Robert, and that he 
 seemed developed. 
 
 " What has come to Robert Hagburn ? " said he. 
 " He looks like another man than the lout I knew a 
 few weeks ago." 
 
 " Nothing," said Rose Garfield, " except what comes 
 to a good many young men nowadays. He has en 
 listed, and is going to the war. It is a pity for his 
 mother." 
 
 " A great pity," said Septimius. " Mothers are 
 greatly to be pitied all over the country just now, and 
 there are some even more to be pitied than the moth- 
 
278 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 ers, though many of them do not know or suspect any. 
 thing about their cause of grief at present." 
 
 " Of whom do you speak ? " asked Rose. 
 
 " I mean those many good and sweet young girls," 
 said Septimius, "who would have been happy wives 
 to the thousands of young men who now, like Robert 
 Hagburn, are going to the war. Those young men 
 many of them at least will sicken and die in camp, 
 or be shot down, or struck through with bayonets on 
 battle-fields, and turn to dust and bones ; while the 
 girls that would have loved them, and made happy 
 firesides for them, will pine and wither, and tread 
 along many sour and discontented years, and at last 
 go out of life without knowing what life is. So you 
 see, Rose, every shot that takes effect kills two at 
 least, or kills one and worse than kills the other." 
 
 " No woman will live single on account of poor Rob 
 ert Hagburn being shot," said Rose, with a change of 
 tone ; " for he would never be married were he to stay 
 at home and plough the field." 
 
 " How can you tell that, Rose ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 Rose did not tell how she came to know so much 
 about Robert Hagburn s matrimonial purposes; but 
 after this little talk it appeared as if something had 
 risen up between them, a sort of mist, a medium, 
 in which their intimacy was not increased ; for the 
 flow and interchange of sentiment was balked, and 
 they took only one or two turns in silence along Sep- 
 timius s trodden path. I don t know exactly what it 
 was; but there are cases in which it is inscrutably 
 revealed to persons that they have made a mistake 
 in what is of the highest concern to them ; and this 
 truth often comes in the shape of a vague depression 
 of the spirit, like a vapor settling down on a land- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 279 
 
 scape ; a misgiving, coming and going perhaps, a lack 
 of perfect certainty. Whatever it was, Rose and Sep- 
 timius had no more tender and playful words that day ; 
 and Rose soon went to look after her grandmother, 
 and Septimius went and shut himself up in his study, 
 after making an arrangement to meet Rose the next 
 day. 
 
 Septimius shut himself up, and drew forth the docu 
 ment which the young officer, with that singular smile 
 on his dying face, had bequeathed to him as the re 
 ward of his death. It was in a covering; of folded 
 
 O 
 
 parchment, right through which, as aforesaid, was a 
 bullet-hole and some stains of blood. Septimius un 
 rolled the parchment cover, and found inside a manu 
 script, closely written in a crabbed hand ; so crabbed, 
 indeed, that Septimius could not at first read a word 
 of it, nor even satisfy himself in what language it was 
 written. There seemed to be Latin words, and some 
 interspersed ones in Greek characters, and here and 
 there he could doubtfully read an English sentence ; 
 but, on the whole, it was an unintelligible mass, con 
 veying somehow an idea that it was the fruit of vast 
 labor and erudition, emanating from a mind very full 
 of books, and grinding and pressing down the great 
 accumulation of grapes that it had gathered from so 
 many vineyards, and squeezing out rich viscid juices, 
 potent wine, with which the reader might get drunk. 
 Some of it, moreover, seemed, for the further mystifi 
 cation of the officer, to be written in cipher; a needless 
 precaution, it might seem, when the writer s natural 
 chirography was so full of puzzle and bewilderment. 
 
 Septimius looked at this strange manuscript, and it 
 shook in his hands as he held it before his eyes, so 
 
280 SEPTIM1US FELTON. 
 
 great was his excitement. Probably, doubtless, it was 
 in a great measure owing to the way in which it came 
 to him, with such circumstances of tragedy and mys 
 tery ; as if so secret and so important was it it 
 could not be within the knowledge of two persons at 
 once, and therefore it was necessary that one should 
 die in the act of transmitting it to the hand of another, 
 the destined possessor, inheritor, profiter by it. By 
 the bloody hand, as all the great possessions in this 
 world have been gained and inherited, he had suc 
 ceeded to the legacy, the richest that mortal man ever 
 could receive. He pored over the inscrutable sen 
 tences, and wondered, when he should succeed in read 
 ing one, if it might summon up a subject-fiend, appear 
 ing with thunder and devilish demonstrations. And 
 by what other strange chance had the document come 
 into the hand of him who alone was fit to receive it ? 
 It seemed to Septimius, in his enthusiastic egotism, as 
 if the whole chain of events had been arranged pur 
 posely for this end ; a difference had come between 
 two kindred peoples ; a war had broken out ; a young 
 officer, with the traditions of an old family represented 
 in his line, had marched, and had met with a peaceful 
 student, who had been incited from high and noble 
 motives to take his life ; then came a strange, brief 
 intimacy, in which his victim made the slayer his heir. 
 All these chances, as they seemed, all these interfer 
 ences of Providence, as they doubtless were, had been 
 necessary in order to put this manuscript into the 
 hands of Septimius, who now pored over it, and could 
 not with certainty read one word ! 
 
 But this did not trouble him, except for the momen 
 tary delay. Because he felt well assured that the 
 strong, concentrated study that he would bring to it 
 
SEPT1MIUS FELTOX. 281 
 
 would remove all difficulties, as the rays of a lens melt 
 stones ; as the telescope pierces through densest light 
 of stars, and resolves them into their individual brill 
 iancies. He could afford to spend years upon it if it 
 were necessary ; but earnestness and application should 
 do quickly the work of years. 
 
 Amid these musings he was interrupted by his Aunt 
 Keziah ; though generally observant enough of her 
 nephew s studies, and feeling a sanctity in them, both 
 because of his intending to be a minister and because 
 she had a great reverence for learning, even if hea 
 thenish, this good old lady summoned Septimius some 
 what peremptorily to chop wood for her domestic pur 
 poses. How strange it is, the way in which we 
 are summoned from all high purposes by these little 
 homely necessities ; all symbolizing the great fact that 
 the earthly part of us, with its demands, takes up the 
 greater portion of all our available force. So Septim 
 ius, grumbling and groaning, went to the woodshed 
 and exercised himself for an hour as the old lady re 
 quested ; and it was only by instinct that he worked, 
 hardly conscious what he was doing. The whole of 
 passing life seemed impertinent ; or if, for an instant, 
 it seemed otherwise, then his lonely speculations and 
 plans seemed to become impalpable, and to have only 
 the consistency of vapor, which his utmost concentra 
 tion succeeded no further than to make into the like 
 ness of absurd faces, mopping, mowing, and laughing 
 at him. 
 
 But that sentence of mystic meaning shone out be 
 fore him like a transparency, illuminated in the dark 
 ness of his mind ; he determined to take it for his 
 motto until he should be victorious in his quest. 
 When he took his candle, to retire apparently to bed, 
 
282 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 he again drew forth the manuscript, and, sitting down 
 by the dim light, tried vainly to read it ; but he could 
 not as yet settle himself to concentrated and regular 
 effort ; he kept turning the leaves of the manuscript, 
 in the hope that some other illuminated sentence might 
 gleam out upon him, as the first had done, and shed a 
 light on the context around it ; and that then another 
 would be discovered, with similar effect, until the 
 whole document would thus be illuminated with sep 
 arate stars of light, converging and concentrating in 
 one radiance that should make the whole visible. Bat 
 such was his bad fortune, not another word of the 
 manuscript was he able to read that whole evening ; 
 .and, moreover, while he had still an inch of candle 
 left, Aunt Keziah, in her nightcap, as witch-like a 
 figure as ever went to a wizard meeting in the forest 
 with Septimius s ancestor, -appeared at the door of 
 the room, aroused from her bed, and shaking her fin 
 ger at him. 
 
 " Septimius," said she, " you keep me awake, and 
 you will ruin your eyes, and turn your head, if you 
 study till midnight in this manner. You 11 never live 
 to be a minister, if this is the way you go on." 
 
 " Well, well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, cover 
 ing his manuscript with a book, " I am just going to 
 bed now." 
 
 " Good night, then," said the old woman ; " and God 
 bless your labors." 
 
 Strangely enough, a glance at the manuscript, as he 
 hid it from the old woman, had seemed to Septimius 
 to reveal another sentence, of which he had imper 
 fectly caught the purport ; and when she had gone, he 
 in vain sought the place, and vainly, too, endeavored 
 to recall the meaning of what he had read. Doubtless 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 283 
 
 his fancy exaggerated the importance of the sentence, 
 and he felt as if it might have vanished from the book 
 forever. In fact, the unfortunate young man. excited 
 and tossed to and fro by a variety of unusual impulses, 
 was got into a bad way, and was likely enough to go 
 mad, unless the balancing portion of his mind proved 
 to be of greater volume and effect than as yet appeared 
 to be the case. 
 
 The next morning he was up, bright and early, por 
 ing over the manuscript with the sharpened wits of the 
 new day, peering into its night, into its old, blurred, 
 forgotten dream ; and, indeed, he had been dreaming 
 about it, and was fully possessed with the idea that, in 
 his dream, he had taken up the inscrutable document, 
 and read it off as glibly as he would the page of a 
 modern drama, in a continual rapture with the deep 
 truth that it made clear to his comprehension, and 
 the lucid way in which it evolved the mode in which 
 man might be restored to his originally undying state. 
 So strong was the impression, that when he unfolded 
 the manuscript, it was with almost the belief that the 
 crabbed old handwriting woidd be plain to him. Such 
 did not prove to be the case, however ; so far from it, 
 that poor Septimius in vain turned over the yellow 
 pages in quest of the one sentence which he had been 
 able, or fancied he had been able, to read yesterday. 
 The illumination that had brought it out was now 
 faded, and all was a blur, an inscrutableness, a scrawl 
 of unintelligible characters alike. So much did this 
 affect him, that he had almost a mind to tear it into 
 a thousand fragments, and scatter it out of the window 
 to the west -wind, that was then blowing past the 
 house ; and if, in that summer season, there had been 
 
284 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 a fire on the hearth, it is possible that easy realization 
 of a destructive impulse might have incited him to 
 fling the accursed scrawl into the hottest of the flames, 
 and thus returned it to the Devil, who, he suspected, 
 was the original author of it. Had he done so, what 
 strange and gloomy passages would I have been spared 
 the pain of relating ! How different would have been 
 the life of Septimius, a thoughtful preacher of God s 
 word, taking severe but conscientious views of man s 
 state and relations, a heavy-browed walker and worker 
 on earth, and, finally, a slumberer in an honored grave, 
 with an epitaph bearing testimony to his great useful 
 ness in his generation. 
 
 But, in the mean time, here was the troublesome day 
 passing over him, and pestering, bewildering, and trip 
 ping him up with its mere sublunary troubles, as the 
 days will all of us the moment we try to do anything 
 that we flatter ourselves is of a little more importance 
 than others are doing. Aunt Keziah tormented him a 
 great while about the rich field, just across the road, in 
 front of the house, which Septimius had neglected the 
 cultivation of, unwilling to spare the time to plough, 
 to plant, to hoe it himself, but hired a lazy lout of the 
 village, when he might just as well have employed and 
 paid wages to the scarecrow which Aunt Keziah dressed 
 out in ancient habiliments, and set up in the midst of 
 the corn. Then came an old codger from the village, 
 talking to Septimius about the war, a theme of 
 which he was weary : telling the rumor of skirmishes 
 that the next day would prove to be false, of battles 
 that were immediately to take place, of encounters 
 with the enemy in which our side showed the valor of 
 twenty-fold heroes, but had to retreat ; babbling about 
 shells and mortars, battalions, manoeuvres, angles, fas* 
 
SEPT1MIUS FELTON. 285 
 
 eines, and other items of military art ; for war had 
 filled the whole brain of the people, and enveloped the 
 whole thought of man in a mist of gunpowder. 
 
 In this way, sitting on his doorstep, or in the very 
 study, haunted by such speculations, this wretched old 
 man would waste the better part of a summer after 
 noon, while Septimius listened, returning abstracted 
 monosyllables, answering amiss, and wishing his perse 
 cutor jammed into one of the cannons he talked about, 
 and fired off, to end his interminable babble in one 
 roar ; [talking] of great officers coming from France 
 and other countries ; of overwhelming forces from 
 England, to put an end to the war at once : of the un 
 likelihood that it ever should be ended ; of its hope 
 lessness ; of its certainty of a good and speedy end. 
 
 Then came limping along the lane a disabled soldier, 
 begging his way home from the field, which, a little 
 while ago, he had sought in the full vigor of rustic 
 health he was never to know again ; with whom Sep 
 timius had to talk, and relieve his wants as far as he 
 could (though not from the poor young officer s de 
 posit of English gold), and send him on his way. 
 
 Then came the minister to talk with his former pu 
 pil, about whom he had latterly had much meditation, 
 not understanding what mood had taken possession of 
 him ; for the minister was a man of insight, and from 
 conversations with Septimius, as searching as he knew 
 how to make them, he had begun to doubt whether he 
 were sufficiently sound in faith to adopt the clerical 
 persuasion. Not that he supposed him to be anything 
 like a confirmed unbeliever ; but he thought it proba 
 ble that these doubts, these strange, dark, dishearten 
 ing suggestions of the Devil, that so surely infect cer 
 tain temperaments and measures of intellect, were tor- 
 
286 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 menting poor Septimius, and pulling him back from 
 the path in which he was capable of doing so much 
 good. So he came this afternoon to talk seriously 
 with him, and to advise him, if the case were as he 
 supposed, to get for a time out of the track of the 
 thought in which he had so long been engaged ; to 
 enter into active life ; and by and by, when the mor 
 bid influences should have been overcome by a change 
 of mental and moral religion, he might return, fresh 
 and healthy, to his original design. 
 
 " What can I do," asked Septimius, gloomily, "what 
 business take up, when the whole land lies waste and 
 idle, except for this war ? " 
 
 " There is the very business, then," said the minis 
 ter. " Do you think God s work is not to be done in 
 the field as well as in the pulpit ? You are strong, 
 Septimius, of a bold character, and have a mien and 
 bearing that gives you a natural command among men. 
 Go to the wars, and do a valiant part for your country, 
 and come back to your peaceful mission when the 
 enemy has vanished. Or you might go as chaplain to 
 a regiment, and use either hand in battle, pray for 
 success before a battle, help win it with sword or gun, 
 and give thanks to God, kneeling on the bloody field, 
 at its close. You have already stretched one foe on 
 your native soil." 
 
 Septimius could not but smile within himself at this 
 warlike and bloody counsel ; and, joining it with some 
 similar exhortations from Aunt Keziah, he was in 
 clined to think that women and clergymen are, in mat 
 ters of war, the most uncompromising and bloodthirsty 
 of the community. However, he replied, coolly, that 
 his moral impulses and his feelings of duty did not ex 
 actly impel him in this direction, and that he was of 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOF. 287 
 
 opinion that war was a business in which a man could 
 not engage with safety to his conscience, unless his 
 conscience actually drove him into it ; and that this 
 made all the difference between heroic battle and 
 murderous strife. The good minister had nothing 
 very effectual to answer to this, and took his leave, 
 with a still stronger opinion than before that there 
 was something amiss in his pupil s mind. 
 
 By this time, this thwarting day had gone on 
 through its course of little and great impediments to 
 his pursuit, the discouragements of trifling and 
 earthly business, of purely impertinent interruption, 
 of severe and disheartening opposition from the pow 
 erful counteraction of different kinds of mind, until 
 the hour had come at which he had arranged to meet 
 Rose Garfield. I am afraid the poor thwarted youth 
 did not go to his love-tryst in any very amiable mood ; 
 but rather, perhaps, reflecting how all things earthly 
 and immortal, and love among the rest, whichever cat 
 egory, of earth or heaven, it may belong to, set them 
 selves against man s progress in any pursuit that he 
 seeks to devote himself to. It is one struggle, the 
 moment he undertakes such a thing, of everything else 
 in the world to impede him. 
 
 However, as it turned out, it was a pleasant and 
 happy interview that he had with Rose that afternoon. 
 The girl herself was in a happy, tuneful mood, and 
 met him with such simplicity, threw such a light of 
 sweetness over his soul, that Septimius almost forgot 
 all the wild cares of the day, and walked by her side 
 with a quiet fulness of pleasure that was new to him. 
 She reconciled him, in some secret way, to life as it 
 was, to imperfection, to decay ; without any help from 
 her intellect, but through the influence of her charac- 
 
288 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 ter, she seemed, not to solve, but to smooth away, 
 problems that troubled him ; merely by being, by wo 
 manhood, by simplicity, she interpreted God s ways 
 to him ; she softened the stoniness that was cfatherino 1 
 
 O & 
 
 about his heart. And so they had a delightful time 
 of talking, and laughing, and smelling to flowers ; and 
 when they were parting, Septimius said to her, 
 
 " Rose, you have convinced me that this is a most 
 happy world, and that Life has its two children, Birth 
 and Death, and is bound to prize them equally ; and 
 that God is very kind to his earthly children ; and 
 that all will go well." 
 
 " And have I convinced you of all this ? " replied 
 Rose, with a pretty laughter. " It is all true, no 
 doubt, but I should not have known how to argue for 
 it. But you are very sweet, and have not frightened 
 me to-day." 
 
 " Do I ever frighten you then, Rose ? " asked Sep 
 timius, bending his black brow upon her with a look 
 of surprise and displeasure. 
 
 " Yes, sometimes," said Rose, facing him with cour 
 age, and smiling upon the cloud so as to drive it away ; 
 " when you frown upon me like that, I am a little 
 afraid you will beat me, all in good time." 
 
 " Now," said Septimius, laughing again, " you shall 
 have your choice, to be beaten on the spot, or suffer 
 another kind of punishment, which ? " 
 
 So saying, he snatched her to him, and strove to 
 kiss her, while Rose, laughing and struggling, cried 
 out, " The beating ! the beating ! " But Septimius 
 relented not, though it was only Rose s cheek that he 
 succeeded in touching. In truth, except for that first 
 one, at the moment of their plighted troths, I doubt 
 whether Septimius ever touched those soft, sweet lips, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOX. 289 
 
 where the smiles dwelt and the little pouts. He now 
 returned to his study, and questioned with himself 
 whether he should touch that weary, ugly, yellow, 
 blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mysterious, bullet- 
 penetrated, blood-stained manuscript again. There 
 was an undefmable reluctance to do so, and at the 
 same time an enticement (irresistible, as it proved) 
 drawing him towards it. He yielded, and taking it 
 from his desk, in which the precious, fatal treasure 
 was locked up, he plunged into it again, and this time 
 svith a certain degree of success. He found the lino 
 svhich had before gleamed out, and vanished again, 
 and which now started out in strong relief ; even as 
 svhen sometimes we see a certain arrangement of stars 
 in the heavens, and again lose it, by not seeing its in 
 dividual stars in the same relation as before ; even so, 
 looking at the manuscript in a different way, Septim- 
 ius saw this fragment of a sentence, and saw, more 
 over, what was necessary to give it a certain meaning. 
 " Set the root in a grave, and wait for what shall blos 
 som. It will be very rich, and full of juice." This 
 was the purport, he now felt sure, of the sentence he 
 had lighted upon ; and he took it to refer to the mode 
 of producing something that was essential to the thing 
 to be concocted. It might have only a moral being ; 
 or, as is generally the case, the moral and physical 
 truth went hand in hand. 
 
 AVhile Septimius was busying himself in this way, 
 the summer advanced, and with it there appeared a 
 new character, making her way into our pages. This 
 was a slender and pale girl, whom Septimius was once 
 startled to find, when he ascended his hill-top, to take 
 his walk to and fro upon the accustomed path, which 
 he had now worn deep. 
 
 voi* xi. 19 
 
290 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 What was stranger, she sat down close beside the 
 grave, which none but he and the minister knew to be 
 a grave ; that little hillock, which he had levelled 
 a little, and had planted with various flowers and 
 shrubs ; which the summer had fostered into richness, 
 the poor young man below having contributed what 
 he could, and tried to render them as beautiful as he 
 might, in remembrance of his own beauty. Septimius 
 wished to conceal the fact of its being a grave : not 
 that he was tormented with any sense that he had 
 done wrong in shooting the young man, which had 
 been done in fair battle ; but still it was not the pleas- 
 antest of thoughts, that he had laid a beautiful human 
 creature, so fit for the enjoyment of life, there, when 
 his own dark brow, his own troubled breast, might 
 better, he could not but acknowledge, have been cov 
 ered up there. [Perhaps there might sometimes be 
 something fantastically gay in the language and .be 
 havior of the girl. } 
 
 Well ; but then, on this flower and shrub-disguised 
 grave, sat this unknown form of a girl, with a slender, 
 pallid, melancholy grace about her, simply dressed in 
 a dark attire, which she drew loosely about her. At 
 first glimpse, Septimius fancied that it might be Kose ; 
 but it needed only a glance to undeceive him ; her fig 
 ure was of another character from the vigorous, though 
 slight and elastic beauty of Rose ; this was a drooping 
 grace, and when he came near enough to see her face, 
 he saw that those large, dark, melancholy eyes, with 
 which she had looked at him, had never met his gaze 
 before. 
 
 " Good-morrow, fair maiden," said Septimius, with 
 such courtesy as he knew how to use (which, to say 
 truth, was of a rustic order, his way of life having 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 291 
 
 brought him little into female society). "There is a 
 nice air here on the hill-top, this sultry morning below 
 the hill ! " 
 
 As he spoke, he continued to look woncleringly at 
 the strange maiden, half fancying that she might be 
 something that had grown up out of the grave ; so un 
 expected she was, so simply unlike anything that had 
 before come there. 
 
 The girl did not speak to him, but as she sat by the 
 grave she kept weeding out the little white blades of 
 faded autumn grass and yellow pine-spikes, peering 
 into the soil as if to see what it was all made of, and 
 everything that was growing there ; and in truth, 
 whether by Septiinius s care or no, there seemed to be 
 several kinds of flowers, those little asters that 
 abound everywhere, and golden flowers, such as au 
 tumn supplies with abundance. She seemed to be in 
 quest of something, and several times plucked a leaf 
 and examined it carefully ; then threw it down again, 
 and shook her head. At last she lifted up her pale 
 face, and, fixing her eyes quietly on Septirnius, spoke : 
 " It is not here ! " 
 
 A very sweet voice it was, plaintive, low, and 
 she spoke to Septimius as if she were familiar with 
 him, and had something to do with him. He was 
 greatly interested, not being able to imagine who the 
 strange girl was, or whence she came, or what, of all 
 things, could be her reason for coming and sitting 
 down by this grave, and apparently botanizing upon 
 it, in quest of some particular plant. 
 
 " Are you in search of flowers ? " asked Septirnius. 
 " This is but a barren spot for them, and this is not a 
 good season. In the meadows, and along the margin 
 of the watercourses, you might find the fringed gen- 
 
292 SEPT I Ml US FELT ON. 
 
 tian at this time. In the woods there are several 
 pretty flowers, the side-saddle flower, the anemone ; 
 violets are plentiful in spring, and make the whole 
 hill-side blue. But this hill-top, with its soil strewn 
 over a heap of pebble-stones, is no place for flowers." 
 
 " The soil is fit," said the maiden, " but the flower 
 has not sprung up." 
 
 " What flower do you speak of ? " asked Septimius, 
 
 " One that is not here," said the pale girl. " No 
 matter. I will look for it again next spring." 
 
 "Do you, then, dwell hereabout?" inquired Sep 
 timius. 
 
 " Surely," said the maiden, with a look of surprise j 
 " where else should I dwell ? My home is on this hill 
 top." 
 
 It not a little startled Septimius, as may be sup. 
 posed, to find his paternal inheritance, of which he 
 and his forefathers had been the only owners since the 
 world began (for they held it by an Indian deed), 
 claimed as a home and abiding-place by this fair, pale, 
 strange-acting maiden, who spoke as if she had as 
 much right there as if she had grown up out of the 
 soil like one of the wild, indigenous flowers which she 
 had been gazing at and handling. However that 
 might be, the maiden seemed now about to depart, ris 
 ing, giving a farewell touch or two to the little ver- 
 clant hillock, which looked much the neater for her 
 ministrations. 
 
 " Are you going ? " said Septimius, looking at her 
 in wonder. 
 
 " For a time," said she. 
 
 " And shall I see you again? " asked he. 
 
 " Surely," said the maiden, " this is my walk, along 
 the brow of the hill." * 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 293 
 
 It again smote Septimius with a strange thrill of 
 surprise to find the walk which he himself had made, 
 treading it, and smoothing it, and beating it down 
 with the pressure of his continual feet, from the time 
 when the tufted grass made the sides all uneven, un 
 til now, when it was such a pathway as you may see 
 through a wood, or over a field, where many feet pass 
 every day, to find this track and exemplification of 
 his own secret thoughts and plans and emotions, this 
 writing of his body, impelled by the struggle and 
 movement of his soul, claimed as her own by a strange 
 girl with melancholy eyes and voice, who seemed to 
 have such a sad familiarity with him. 
 
 " You are welcome to come here," said he, endeav 
 oring at least to keep such hold on his own property 
 as was implied in making a hospitable surrender of 
 it to another. 
 
 "Yes," said the girl, "a person should always be 
 welcome to his own." 
 
 A faint smile seemed to pass over her face as she 
 said this, vanishing, however, immediately into the 
 melancholy of her usual expression. She went along 
 Septimius s path, while he stood gazing at her till she 
 reached the brow where it sloped towards Robert Hag- 
 burn s house ; then she turned, and seemed to wave a 
 slight farewell towards the } T oung man, and began to 
 descend. When her figure had entirely sunk behind 
 the brow of the hill, Septimius slowly followed along 
 the ridge, meaning to watch from that elevated station 
 the course she would take ; although, indeed, he would 
 not have been surprised if he had seen nothing, no 
 trace of her in the whole nearness or distance ; in 
 short, if she had been a freak, an illusion, of a hard 
 working mind that had put itself ajar by deeply brood- 
 
294 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 ing on abstruse matters, an illusion of eyes that he had 
 tried too much by poring over the inscrutable manu 
 script, and of intellect that was mystified and bewil 
 dered by trying to grasp things that could not be 
 grasped. A thing of witchcraft, a sort of fungus- 
 growth out of the grave, an un substantiality alto 
 gether ; although, certainly, she had weeded the grave 
 with bodily fingers, at all events. Still he had so 
 much of the hereditary mysticism of his race in him, 
 that he might have held her supernatural, only that 
 on reaching the brow of the hill he saw her feet ap 
 proach the dwelling of Robert Hagburn s mother, who, 
 moreover, appeared at the threshold beckoning her to 
 come, with a motherly, hospitable air, that denoted she 
 knew the strange girl, and recognized her as human. 
 
 It did not lessen Septimius s surprise, however, to 
 think that such a singular being was established in the 
 neighborhood without his knowledge ; considered as a 
 real occurrence of this world, it seemed even more un 
 accountable than if it had been a thing of ghostology 
 and witchcraft. Continually through the day the in 
 cident kept introducing its recollection among his 
 thoughts and studies ; continually, as he paced along 
 his path, this form seemed to hurry along by his sido 
 on the track that she had claimed for her own, and he 
 thought of her singular threat or promise, whichever 
 it were to be held, that he should have a companion 
 there in future. In the decline of the day, when he 
 met the schoolmistress coming home from her little 
 seminary, he snatched the first opportunity to mention 
 the apparition of the morning, and ask Rose if she 
 knew anything of her. 
 
 "Very little," said Rose, "but she is flesh and 
 blood, of that you may be quite sure. She is a gir} 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 295 
 
 who has been shut up in Boston by the siege ; perhaps 
 a daughter of one of the British officers, and her 
 health being frail, she requires better air than they 
 have there, and so permission was got for her, from 
 General Washington, to come and live in the country ; 
 as any one may see, our liberties have nothing to fear 
 from this poor brain-stricken girl. And Robert Hag- 
 burn, having to bring a message from camp to the se 
 lectmen here, had it in charge to bring the girl, whom 
 his mother has taken to board." 
 
 " Then the poor thing is crazy ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " A little brain-touched, that is all," replied Rose, 
 " owing to some grief that she has had ; but she is 
 quite harmless, Robert was told to sa}^, and needs lit 
 tle or no watching, and will get a kind of fantastic 
 happiness for herself, if only she is allowed to ramble 
 about at her pleasure. If thwarted, she might be very 
 wild and miserable." 
 
 " Have you spoken with her ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " A word or two this morning, as I was going to my 
 school," said Rose. "She took me by the hand, and 
 smiled, and said we would be friends, and that I 
 should show her where the flowers grew ; for that she 
 had a little spot of her own that she wanted to plant 
 with them. And she asked nie if the Sanguined san- 
 guinissima grew hereabout. I should not have taken 
 her to be ailing in her wits, only for a kind of free- 
 spokenness and familiarity, as if we had been ac 
 quainted a long while ; or as if she had lived in some 
 country where there are no forms and impediments in 
 people s getting acquainted." 
 
 " Did you like her ? inquired Septimius. 
 
 " Yes ; almost loved her at first sight," answered 
 Rose, " and I hope may do her some little good, poo* 
 
296 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 thing, being of her own age, and the only companion, 
 hereabouts, whom she is likely to find. But she has 
 been well educated, and is a lady, that is easy to see." 
 
 "It is very strange," said Septimius, "but I fear I 
 shall be a good deal interrupted in my thoughts and 
 studies, if she insists on haunting my hill-top as much 
 as she tells me. My meditations are perhaps of a lit 
 tle too much importance to be shoved aside for the 
 sake of gratifying a crazy girl s fantasies." 
 
 " Ah, that is a hard thing to say ! " exclaimed Rose, 
 shocked at her lover s cold egotism, though not giving 
 it that title. " Let the poor thing glide quietly along 
 in the path, though it be yours. Perhaps, after a 
 while, she will help your thoughts." 
 
 " My thoughts," said Septimius, " are of a kind that 
 can have no help from any one ; if from any, it would 
 only be from some wise, long-studied, and experienced 
 scientific man, who could enlighten me as to the bases 
 and foundation of things, as to mystic writings, as to 
 chemical elements, as to the mysteries of language, as 
 to the principles and system on which we were created. 
 Methinks these are not to be taught me by a girl 
 touched in the wits." 
 
 " I fear," replied Rose Garfield with gravity, and 
 drawing imperceptibly apart from him, " that 110 
 woman can help you much. You despise woman s 
 thought, and have no need of her affection." 
 
 Septimius said something soft and sweet, and in a 
 measure true, in regard to the necessity he felt for the 
 affection and sympathy of one woman at least the 
 one now by his side to keep his life warm and to 
 make the empty chambers of his heart comfortable. 
 But even while he spoke, there was something that 
 dragged upon his tongue ; for he felt that the solitary 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 297 
 
 pursuit in which he was engaged carried him apart 
 from the sympathy of which he spoke, and that he was 
 concentrating his efforts and interest entirely upon 
 himself, and that the more he succeeded the more re 
 motely he should be carried away, and that his final 
 triumph would be the complete seclusion of himself 
 from all that breathed, the converting him, from an 
 interested actor into a cold and disconnected spectator 
 of all mankind s warm and sympathetic life. So, as 
 it turned out, this interview with Rose was one of 
 those in which, coming no one knows from whence, a 
 nameless cloud springs up between two lovers, and 
 keeps them apart from one another by a cold, sullen 
 spell. Usually, however, it requires only one word, 
 spoken out of the heart, to break that spell, and com 
 pel the invisible, unsympathetic medium which the 
 enemy of love has stretched cunningly between them, 
 to vanish, and let them come closer together than ever ; 
 but, in this case, it might be that the love was the 
 illusive state, and the estrangement the real truth, the 
 disenchanted verity. At all events, when the feeling 
 passed away, in Rose s heart there was no reaction, no 
 warmer love, as is generally the case. As for Sep- 
 timius, he had other things to think about, and when 
 he next met Rose Garfield, had forgotten that he had 
 been sensible of a little wounded feeling, on her part, 
 at parting. 
 
 Bv dint of continued poring over the manuscript, 
 Septimius now began to comprehend that it was writ 
 ten in a singular mixture of Latin and ancient Eng 
 lish, with constantly recurring paragraphs of what he 
 was convinced was a mystic writing ; and these recur 
 ring passages of complete unintelligibility seemed to 
 be necessary to the proper understanding of any part 
 
298 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 of the document. What was discoverable was quaint, 
 curious, but thwarting and perplexing, because it 
 seemed to imply some very great purpose, only to be 
 brought out by what was hidden. 
 
 Septimius had read, in the old college library dur 
 ing his pupilage, a work on ciphers and cryptic writ 
 ing, but being drawn to it only by his curiosity respect 
 ing whatever was hidden, and not expecting ever to 
 use his knowledge, he had obtained only the barest 
 idea of what was necessary to the deciphering a secret 
 passage. Judging by what he could pick out, he would 
 have thought the whole essay was upon the moral con 
 duct ; all parts of that he could make out seeming to 
 refer to a certain ascetic rule of life ; to denial of 
 pleasures ; these topics being repeated and insisted on 
 everywhere, although without any discoverable refer 
 ence to religious or moral motives ; and always when 
 the author seemed verging towards a definite purpose, 
 he took refuge in his cipher. Yet withal, imperfectly 
 (or not at all, rather) as Septimius could comprehend 
 its purport, this strange writing had a mystic influ 
 ence, that wrought upon his imagination, and with the 
 late singular incidents of his life, his continual thought 
 on this one subject, his walk on the hill-top, lonely, 
 or only interrupted by the pale shadow of a girl, com 
 bined to set him outside of the living world. Rose 
 Garfield perceived it, knew and felt that he was glid 
 ing away from her, and met him with a reserve which 
 she could not overcome. 
 
 It was a pity that his early friend, Robert Hagburn, 
 could not at present have any influence over him, hav 
 ing now regularly joined the Continental Army, and 
 being engaged in the expedition of Arnold against 
 Quebec* Indeed, this war, in which the country was 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 299 
 
 so earnestly and enthusiastically engaged, had perhaps 
 an influence on Septimius s state of mind, for it put 
 everybody into an exaggerated and unnatural state, 
 united enthusiasms of all sorts, heightened "everybody 
 either into its own heroism or into the peculiar mad 
 ness to which each person was inclined ; and Septim- 
 ius walked so much the more wildly on his lonely 
 course, because the people were going enthusiastically 
 on another. In times of revolution and public disturb 
 ance all absurdities are more unrestrained; the meas 
 ure of calm sense, the habits, the orderly decency, are 
 partially lost. More people become insane, I should 
 suppose ; offences against public morality, female li 
 cense, are more numerous ; suicides, murders, all un 
 governable outbreaks of men s thoughts, embodying 
 themselves in wild acts, take place more frequently, 
 and with less horror to the lookers-on. So [with] Sep- 
 timius ; there was not, as there would have been at 
 an ordinary time, the same calmness and truth in the 
 public observation, scrutinizing everything with its 
 keen criticism, in that time of seething opinions and 
 overturned principles ; a new time was coming, and 
 Septimius s phase of novelty attracted less attention 
 so far as it was known. 
 
 So he continued to brood over the manuscript in 
 his study, and to hide it under lock and key in a re 
 cess of the wall, as if it were a secret of murder ; to 
 walk, too, on his hill-top, where at sunset always came 
 the pale, crazy maiden, who still seemed to w r atch the 
 little hillock with a pertinacious care that was strange 
 to Septimius. By and by came the winter and the 
 deep snows ; and even then, unwilling to give up his 
 habitual place of exercise, the inonotonousness of which 
 promoted his wish to keep before his mind one subject 
 
300 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 of tliought, Septimius wore a path through the snow, 
 and still walked there. Here, however, he lost for a 
 time the companionship of the girl ; for when the first 
 snow came, she shivered, and looked at its white heap 
 over the hillock, and said to Septimius, " I will look 
 for it again in spring." 
 
 [Septimlus is at the point of despair for want of a 
 guide in his studies.} 
 
 The winter swept over, and spring was just begin 
 ning to spread its green flush over the more favored 
 exposures of the landscape, although on the north side 
 of stone-walls, and the northern nooks of hills, there 
 were still the remnants of snow-drifts. Septimius s 
 hill-top, which was of a soil which quickly rid itself of 
 moisture, now began to be a genial place of resort to 
 him, and he was one morning taking his walk there, 
 meditating upon the still insurmountable difficulties 
 which interposed themselves against the interpretation 
 of the manuscript, yet feeling the new gush of spring 
 bring hope to him, and the energy and elasticity for 
 new effort. Thus pacing to and fro, he was surprised, 
 as he turned at the extremity of his walk, to see a 
 figure advancing towards him; not that of the pale 
 maiden whom he was accustomed to see there, but a 
 figure as widely different as possible. [He sees a 
 spider dangling from his toeb, and examijies him 
 minutely. } It was that of a short, broad, somewhat 
 elderly man, dressed in a surtout that had a half-mili 
 tary air ; the cocked hat of the period, well worn, and 
 having a fresher spot in it, whence, perhaps, a cockade 
 had been recently taken off ; and this personage car 
 ried a well blackened German pipe in his hand, which, 
 as he walked, he applied to his lips, and puffed out 
 volumes of smoke, filling the pleasant western breeze 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOX 301 
 
 with the fragrance of some excellent Virginia. He 
 came slowly along , and Septimius, slackening his pace 
 a little, came as slowly to meet him, feeling somewhat 
 indignant, to be sure, that anybody should intrude on 
 his sacred hill : until at last they met, as it happened, 
 close by the memorable little hillock, on which the 
 grass and flower-leaves also had begun to sprout. The 
 stranger looked keenly at Septimius, made a careless 
 salute by putting his hand up, and took the pipe from 
 his mouth. 
 
 " Mr. Septimius Felton, I suppose ? " said he. 
 
 "That is my name," replied Septimius. 
 
 "I am Doctor Jabez Portsoaken," said the stranger, 
 "late surgeon of his Majesty s sixteenth regiment, 
 which I quitted when his Majesty s army quitted Bos 
 ton, being desirous of trying my fortunes in your 
 country, and giving the people the benefit of my sci 
 entific knowledge ; also to practise some new modes 
 of medical science, which I could not so well do in 
 the army." 
 
 " I think you are quite right, Doctor Jabez Port 
 soaken," said Septimius, a little confused and bewil 
 dered, so unused had he become to the society of 
 
 strangers. 
 
 " And as to you, sir," said the doctor, who had a 
 very rough, abrupt way of speaking, " I have to thank 
 you for a favor done me." 
 
 44 Have you, sir? " said Septimius, who was quite 
 sure that he had never seen the doctor s uncouth fig 
 ure before. 
 
 44 Oh, ay, me," said the doctor, puffing coolly, 
 14 me, in the person of my niece, a sickly, poor, ner 
 vous little thing, who is very fond of walking on your 
 hill-top, and whom you do not send away," 
 
302 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 " You are the uncle of Sibyl Dacy ? " said Sep. 
 timius. 
 
 " Even so, her mother s brother," said the doctor, 
 with a grotesque bow. " So, being on a visit, the first 
 that the siege allowed me to pay, to see how the girl 
 was getting on, I take the opportunity to pay my 
 respects to you ; the more that I understand you to 
 be a young man of some learning, and it is not often 
 that one meets with such in this country." 
 
 " No," said Septimius, abruptly, for indeed he had 
 half a suspicion that this queer Doctor Portsoaken was 
 not altogether sincere, that, in short, he was mak 
 ing game of him. " You have been misinformed. I 
 know nothing whatever that is worth knowing." 
 
 " Oho ! " said the doctor, with a long puff of smoke 
 out of his pipe. " If you are convinced of that, you 
 are one of the wisest men I have met with, young as 
 you are. I must have been twice your age before I 
 got so far ; and even now, I am sometimes fool enough 
 to doubt the only thing I was ever sure of knowing. 
 But come, you make me only the more earnest to col 
 logue with you. If we put both our shortcomings to 
 gether, they may make up an item of positive knowl 
 edge." 
 
 " What use can one make of abortive thoughts ? " 
 said Septimius. 
 
 " Do your speculations take a scientific turn ? " said 
 Doctor Portsoaken. " There I can meet you with as 
 much false knowledge and empiricism as you can bring 
 for the life of you. Have you ever tried to study 
 spiders ? there is my strong point now ! I have 
 hung my whole interest in life on a spider s web." 
 
 " I know nothing of them, sir," said Septimius, 
 " except to crush them when I see them running 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 303 
 
 across the floor, or to brush away the festoons of their 
 webs when they have chanced to escape my Aunt 
 Keziah s broom." 
 
 " Crush them ! Brush away their webs ! " cried the 
 doctor, apparently in a rage, and shaking his pipe at 
 Septimius. " Sir, it is sacrilege ! Yes, it is worse 
 than murder. Every thread of a spider s web is worth 
 more than a thread of gold ; and before twenty years 
 are passed, a housemaid will be beaten to death with 
 her own broomstick if she disturbs one of these sacred 
 animals. But, come again. Shall we talk of botany, 
 the virtues of herbs ? " 
 
 " My Aunt Keziah should meet you there, doctor," 
 said Septimius. " She has a native and original ac 
 quaintance with their virtues, and can save and kill 
 with any of the faculty. As for myself, my studies 
 have not turned that way." 
 
 "They ought ! they ought ! " said the doctor, looking 
 meaningly at him. " The whole thing lies in the blos 
 som of an herb. Now, you ought to begin with what 
 lies about you ; on this little hillock, for instance ; " 
 and looking at the grave beside which they were stand 
 ing, he gave it a kick which went to Septimius s heart, 
 there seemed to be such a spite and scorn in it. ki On 
 this hillock I see some specimens of plants which 
 would be worth your looking at." 
 
 Bending down towards the grave as he spoke, he 
 seemed to give closer attention to what he saw there ; 
 keeping in his stooping position till his face began to 
 get a purple aspect, for the erudite doctor was of that 
 make of man who has to be kept right side uppermost 
 with care. At length he raised himself, muttering, 
 u Very curious ! very curious I " 
 
 " Do you see anything remarkable there ? " asked 
 Septimius, with some interest. 
 
304 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 " Yes," said the doctor, bluntly. " No matter what J 
 The time will come when you may like to know it." 
 
 " Will you come with me to my residence at the 
 foot of the hill, Doctor Portsoaken ? " asked Septirn- 
 ius. " I am not a learned man, and have little or no 
 title to converse with one, except a sincere desire to 
 be wiser than I am. If you can be moved on such 
 terms to give me your companionship, I shall be 
 thankful." 
 
 " Sir, I am with you," said Doctor Portsoaken. " I 
 will tell you what I know, in the sure belief (for I will 
 be frank with you) that it will add to the amount of 
 dangerous folly now in your mind, and help you on 
 the way to ruin. Take your choice, therefore, whether 
 to know me further or not." 
 
 " I neither shrink nor fear, neither hope much," 
 said Septimius, quietly. " Anything that you can com 
 municate if anything you can I shall fearlessly 
 receive, and return you such thanks as it may be 
 found to deserve." 
 
 So saying, he led the way down the hill, by the 
 steep path that descended abruptly upon the rear of 
 his bare and unadorned little dwelling ; the doctor fol 
 lowing with much foul language (for he had a terri 
 ble habit of swearing) at the difficulties of the way, 
 to which his short legs were ill adapted. Aunt Ke- 
 ziah met them at the door, and looked sharply at the 
 doctor, who returned the gaze with at least as much 
 keenness, muttering between his teeth, as he did so ; 
 and to say the truth, Aunt Keziah was as worthy of 
 being sworn at as any woman could well be, for what 
 ever she might have been in her younger days, she 
 was at this time as strange a mixture of an Indian 
 squaw and herb doctress, with the crabbed old maid, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 305 
 
 and a mingling of the witch-aspect running through 
 all, as could well be imagined ; and she had a hand 
 kerchief over her head, and she was of hue a dusky 
 yellow, and she looked very cross. As Septimius 
 ushered the doctor into his study, and was about to 
 follow him, Aunt Keziah drew him back. 
 
 44 Septimius, who is. this you have brought here ?" 
 asked she. 
 
 44 A man I have met on the hill," answered her 
 nephew ; 4k a Doctor Portsoaken he calls himself, from 
 the old country. He says he has knowledge of herbs 
 and other mysteries ; in your own line, it may be. If 
 you want to talk with him, give the man his dinner, 
 and find out what there is in him." 
 
 44 And what do you want of him yourself, Septim 
 ius?" asked she. 
 
 " I ? Nothing ! that is to say, I expect nothing," 
 said Septimius. 44 But I am astray, seeking every 
 where, and so I reject no hint, no promise, no faint 
 est possibility of aid that I may find anywhere. I 
 judge this man to be a quack, but I judge the same of 
 the most learned man of his profession, or any other ; 
 and there is a roughness about this man that may indi 
 cate a little more knowledge than if he were smoother. 
 
 O 
 
 So, as he threw himself in my way, I take him in." 
 
 44 A grim, ugly-looking old wretch as ever I saw," 
 muttered Aunt Keziah. 44 AVell, he shall have his din 
 ner ; and if he likes to talk about yarb-dishes, I m with 
 him." 
 
 So Septimius followed the doctor into his study, 
 where he found him with the sword in his hand, which 
 he had taken from over the mantel-piece, and was hold 
 ing it drawn, examining the hilt and blade with great 
 minuteness ; the hilt being wrought in openwork, with 
 
 VOL. XI. 20 
 
306 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 certain heraldic devices, doubtless belonging to the 
 family of its former wearer. 
 
 " I have seen this weapon before," said the doctor. 
 
 "It may well be," said Septimius. "It was once 
 worn by a person who served in the army of your king." 
 
 " And you took it from him ? " said the doctor. 
 
 " If I did, it was in no way that I need be ashamed 
 of, or afraid to tell, though I choose rather not to 
 speak of it," answered Septimius. 
 
 " Have you, then, no desire nor interest to know 
 the family, the personal history, the prospects, of him 
 who once wore this sword, and who will never draw 
 sword again ? " inquired Doctor Portsoaken. " Poor 
 Cyril Norton ! There was a singular story attached to 
 that young man, sir, and a singular mystery he carried 
 about with him, the end of which, perhaps, is not yet." 
 
 Septimius would have been, indeed, well enough 
 pleased to learn the mystery which he himself had seen 
 that there was about the man whom he slew ; but he 
 was afraid that some question might be thereby started 
 about the secret document that he had kept possession 
 of ; and he therefore would have wished to avoid the 
 whole subject. 
 
 "I cannot be supposed to take much interest in 
 English family history. It is a hundred and fifty 
 years, at least, since my own family ceased to be Eng 
 lish," he answered. " I care more for the present and 
 future than for the past." 
 
 " It is all one," said the doctor, sitting down, taking 
 out a pinch of tobacco and refilling his pipe. 
 
 It is unnecessary to follow up the description of the 
 visit of the eccentric doctor through the day. Suffice 
 it to say that there was a sort of charm, or rather fas 
 cination, about the uncouth old fellow, in spite of his 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 307 
 
 strange ways; in spite of his constant puffing of to 
 bacco; and in spite, too, of a constant imbibing of 
 strong liquor, which he made inquiries for, and of 
 which the best that could be produced was a certain 
 decoction, infusion, or distillation, pertaining to Aunt 
 Keziah, and of which the basis was rum, be it said, 
 done up with certain bitter herbs of the old lady s own 
 gathering, at proper times of the moon, and which 
 was a well-known drink to all who were favored with 
 Aunt Keziah s friendship; though there was a story 
 that it was the very drink which used to be passed 
 round at witch-meetings, being brewed from the Devil s 
 own recipe. And, in truth, judging from the taste 
 (for I once took a sip of a draught prepared from the 
 same ingredients, and in the same way), I should think 
 this hellish origin might be the veritable one. 
 
 ["/ thought," quoth the doctor, " I could drink 
 anything, but " ] 
 
 But the valiant doctor sipped, and sipped again, and 
 said with great blasphemy that it was the real stuff, 
 and only needed henbane to make it perfect. Then, 
 taking from his pocket a good-sized leathern-covered 
 flask, with a silver lip fastened on the muzzle, he offered 
 it to Septimius, who declined, and to Aunt Keziah, who 
 preferred her own decoction, and then drank it off 
 himself, with a loud smack of satisfaction, declaring 
 it to be infernally good brandy. 
 
 "Well, after this Septimius and he talked ; and I 
 know not how it was, but there was a great deal of im 
 agination in this queer man, whether a bodily or spir 
 itual influence it might be hard to say. On the other 
 hand Septimius had for a long while held little inter 
 course with men ; none whatever with men who could 
 comprehend him ; the doctor, too, seemed to bring the 
 
808 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 discourse singularly in apposition with what his host 
 was continually thinking about, for he conversed on 
 occult matters, on people who had had the art of liv 
 ing long, and had only died at last by accident, on the 
 powers and qualities of common herbs, which he be 
 lieved to be so great, that all around our feet grow 
 ing in the wild forest, afar from man, or following 
 the footsteps of man wherever he fixes his residence, 
 across seas, from the old homesteads whence he mi 
 grated, following him everywhere, and offering them 
 selves sedulously and continually to his notice, while 
 he only plucks them away from the comparatively 
 worthless things which he cultivates, and flings them 
 aside, blaspheming at them because Providence has 
 sown them so thickly grow what we call weeds, only 
 because all the generations, from the beginning of 
 time till now, have failed to discover their wondrous 
 virtues, potent for the curing of all diseases, potent 
 for procuring length of days. 
 
 " Everything good," said the doctor, drinking an 
 other dram of brandy, " lies right at our feet, and all 
 we need is to gather it up." 
 
 " That s true," quoth Keziah, taking just a little 
 sup of her hellish preparation ; " these herbs were all 
 gathered within a hundred yards of this very spot, 
 though it took a wise woman to find out their vir 
 tues." 
 
 The old woman went off about her household du 
 ties, and then it was that Septimius submitted to the 
 doctor the list of herbs which he had picked out of 
 the old document, asking him, as something apposite 
 to the subject of their discourse, whether he was ac 
 quainted with them, for most of them had very yieer 
 names, some in Latin, some in English. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOX. 309 
 
 The bliiff doctor put on his spectacles, and looked 
 over the slip of yellow and worn paper scriitinizingly, 
 puffing tobacco-smoke upon it in great volumes, as if 
 thereby to make its hidden purport come out ; he mum 
 bled to himself, he took another sip from his flask ; 
 and then, putting it down on the table, appeared to 
 meditate. 
 
 " This infernal old document," said he, at length, 
 u is one that I have never seen before, yet heard of, 
 nevertheless ; for it was my folly in youth (and 
 whether I am any wiser now is more than I take upon 
 me to say, but it was my folly then) to be in quest of 
 certain kinds of secret knowledge, which the fathers 
 of science thought attainable. Now, in several quar 
 ters, amongst people with whom my pursuits brought 
 me in contact, I heard of a certain recipe which had 
 been lost for a generation or two, but which, if it could 
 be recovered, would prove to have the true life-giving 
 potencv in it. It is said that the ancestor of a great 
 old family in England was in possession of this secret, 
 being a man of science, and the friend of Friar Bacon, 
 who was said to have concocted it himself, partly from 
 the precepts of his master, partly from his own experi 
 ments, and it is thought he might have been living to 
 this day, if he had not unluckily been killed in the 
 Wars of the Roses ; for you know no recipe for long 
 life would be proof against an old English arrow, or a 
 leaden bullet from one of our own firelocks." 
 
 " And what has been the history of the thing after 
 his death ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " It was supposed to be preserved in the family," 
 said the doctor, " and it has always been said, that the 
 head and eldest son of that family had it at his option 
 to live forever, if he could only make up his mind to 
 
310 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 it. But seemingly there were difficulties in the way. 
 There was probably a certain diet and regimen to be 
 observed, certain strict rules of life to be kept, a cer 
 tain asceticism to be imposed on the person, which was 
 not quite agreeable to young men ; and after the 
 period of youth was passed, the human frame became 
 incapable of being regenerated from the seeds of de 
 cay and death, which, by that time, had become 
 strongly developed in it. In short, while young, the 
 possessor of the secret found the terms of immortal 
 life too hard to be accepted, since it implied the giving 
 up of most of the things that made life desirable in 
 his view ; and when he came to a more reasonable 
 mind, it was too late. And so, in all the generations 
 since Friar Bacon s time, the Nortons have been born, 
 and enjoyed their young days, and worried through 
 their manhood, and tottered through their old age (un 
 less taken off sooner by sword, arrow, ball, fever, or 
 what not), and died in their beds, like men that had 
 no such option ; and so this old yellow paper has done 
 not the least good to any mortal. Neither do I see 
 how it can do any good to you, since you know not 
 the rules, moral or dietetic, that are essential to its ef 
 fect. But how did you come by it? " 
 
 "It matters not how," said Septimius, gloomily. 
 " Enough that I am its rightful possessor and inheri 
 tor. Can you read these old characters ? " 
 
 " Most of them," said the doctor ; " but let me tell 
 you, my young friend, I have no faith whatever in 
 this secret ; and, having meddled with such things my 
 self, I ought to know. The old physicians and chem 
 ists had strange ideas of the virtues of plants, drugs, 
 and minerals, and equally strange fancies as to the 
 way of getting those virtues into action. They 
 
SEPTTMIUS FELTON. 311 
 
 throw a hundred different potencies into a caldron to 
 gether, and put them on the fire, and expect to brew 
 a potency containing all their potencies, and having a 
 different virtue of its own. Whereas, the most likely 
 result would be that they would counteract one an 
 other, and the concoction be of no virtue at all; or 
 else some more powerful ingredient would tincture 
 the whole." 
 
 He read the paper again, and continued : 
 
 " I see nothing else so remarkable in this recipe, as 
 that it is chiefly made up of some of the commonest 
 things that grow ; plants that you set your foot upon 
 at your very threshold, in your garden, in your wood- 
 walks, wherever you go. I doubt not old Aunt Ke- 
 ziah knows them, and very likely she has brewed 
 them up in that hell-drink, the remembrance of which 
 is still rankling in my stomach. I thought I had swal 
 lowed the Devil himself, whom the old woman had 
 been boiling down. It would be curious enough if the 
 hideous decoction was the same as old Friar Bacon 
 and his acolyte discovered by their science ! One in 
 gredient, however, one of those plants, I scarcely think 
 the old lady can have put into her pot of Devil s 
 elixir ; for it is a rare plant, that does not grow in 
 these parts." 
 
 " And what is that ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " Sanyuinea sanguinissima" said the doctor ; " it 
 has no vulgar name ; but it produces a very beautiful 
 flower, which I have never seen, though some seeds of 
 it were sent me by a learned friend in Siberia. The 
 others, divested of their Latin names, are as common 
 as plantain, pig-weed, and burdock ; and it stands to 
 reason that, if vegetable Nature has any such wonder 
 fully efficacious medicine in store for men, and means 
 
312 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 them to use it, she would have strewn it everywhere 
 plentifully within their reach." 
 
 " But, after all, it would be a mockery on the old 
 dame s part," said the young man, somewhat bitterly, 
 " since she would thus hold the desired thing seem 
 ingly within our reach ; but because she never tells us 
 how to prepare and obtain its efficacy, we miss it just 
 as much as if all the ingredients were hidden from 
 sight and knowledge in the centre of the earth. We 
 are the playthings and fools of Nature, which she 
 amuses herself with during our little lifetime, and then 
 breaks for mere sport, and laughs in our faces as she 
 does so." 
 
 " Take care, my good fellow," said the doctor, with 
 his great coarse laugh. "I rather suspect that you 
 have already got beyond the age when the great medi 
 cine could do you good ; that speech indicates a great 
 toughness and hardness and bitterness about the heart 
 that does not accumulate in our tender years." 
 
 Septimius took little or no notice of the raillery of 
 the grim old doctor, but employed the rest of the time 
 in getting as much information as he could out of his 
 guest ; and though he could not bring himself to show 
 him the precious and sacred manuscript, yet he ques 
 tioned him as closely as possible without betraying his 
 secret, as to the modes of finding out cryptic writings. 
 The doctor was not without the perception that his 
 dark -browed, keen -eyed acquaintance had some pur 
 pose not openly avowed in all these pertinacious, dis 
 tinct questions ; he discovered a central reference in 
 them all, and perhaps knew that Septimius must have 
 in his possession some writing in hieroglyphics, cipher, 
 or other secret mode, that conveyed instructions how 
 to operate with the strange recipe that he had shown 
 him. 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 313 
 
 " You had better trust me fully, my good sir," said 
 he. " Not but what I will give you all the aid I can 
 without it; for you have done me a greater benefit 
 than you are aware of, beforehand. No you will 
 not? "Well, if you can change your mind, seek mo 
 out in Boston, where I have seen fit to settle in the 
 practice of my profession, and I will serve you accord 
 ing to your folly ; for folly it is, I warn you." 
 
 Nothing else worthy of record is known to have 
 passed during the doctor s visit ; and in due time he 
 disappeared, as it were, in a whiff of tobacco-smoke, 
 leaving an odor of brandy and tobacco behind him, 
 and a traditionary memory of a wizard that had been 
 there. Septimius went to work with what items of 
 knowledge he had gathered from him ; but the inter 
 view had at least made him aware of one thing, which 
 was, that he must provide himself with all possible 
 quantity of scientific knowledge of botany, and per- 
 haps more extensive knowledge, in order to be able to 
 concoct the recipe. It was the fruit of all the scien 
 tific attainment of the age that produced it (so said 
 the legend, which seemed reasonable enough), a great 
 philosopher had wrought his learning into it ; and this 
 had been attempered, regulated, improved, by the 
 quick, bright intellect of his scholar. Perhaps, thought 
 Septimius, another deep and earnest intelligence added 
 to these two may bring the precious recipe to still 
 greater perfection. At least it shall be tried. So 
 thinking, he gathered together all the books that he 
 could find relating to such studies ; he spent one day, 
 moreover, in a walk to Cambridge, where he searched 
 the alcoves of the college library for such works- as it 
 contained; and borrowing them from the war -dis 
 turbed institution of learning, he betook himself home- 
 
814 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 wards, and applied himself to the study with an ear 
 nestness of zealous application that perhaps has been 
 seldom equalled in a study of so quiet a character. A 
 month or two of study, with practice upon such plants 
 as he found upon his hill-top, and along the brook 
 and in other neighboring localities, sufficed to do a 
 great deal for him. In this pursuit he was assisted 
 by Sibyl, who proved to have great knowledge in some 
 botanical departments, especially among flowers ; and 
 in her cold and quiet way, she met him on this subject 
 and glided by his side, as she had done so long, a com 
 panion, a daily observer and observed of him, mixing 
 herself up with his pursuits, as if she were an attend 
 ant sprite upon him. 
 
 But this pale girl was not the only associate of his 
 studies, the only instructress, whom Septimius found. 
 The observation which Doctor Portsoaken made about 
 the fantastic possibility that Aunt Keziah might have 
 inherited the same recipe from her Indian ancestry 
 which had been struck out by the science of Friar Ba 
 con and his pupil had not failed to impress Septimius, 
 and to remain on his memory. So, not long after the 
 doctor s departure, the young man took occasion one 
 evening to say to his aunt that he thought his stomach 
 was a little out of order with too much application, and 
 that perhaps she could give him some herb-drink or 
 other that would be good for him. 
 
 " That I can, Seppy, my darling," said the old wo 
 man, " and I m glad you have the sense to ask for it 
 at last. Here it is in this bottle ; and though that 
 foolish, blaspheming doctor turned up his old brandy 
 nose at it, I 11 drink with him any day and come off 
 better than he." -./*. 
 
 So saying, she took out of the closet her brown jug, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 315 
 
 stopped with a cork that had a rag twisted round it to 
 make it tighter, filled a mug half fidl of the concoc 
 tion, and set it on the table before Septirnius. 
 
 " There, child, smell of that ; the smell merely will 
 do you good ; but drink it down, and you ? 11 live the 
 longer for it." 
 
 k Indeed, Aunt Keziah, is that so ? " asked Septim- 
 ius, a little startled by a recommendation which in 
 some measure tallied with what he wanted in a med 
 icine. " That s a good quality." 
 
 He looked into the mug, and saw a turbid, yellow 
 concoction, not at all attractive to the eye ; he smelt 
 of it, and was partly of opinion that Aunt Keziah had 
 mixed a certain unfragrant vegetable, called skunk- 
 cabbage, with the other ingredients of her witch-drink. 
 He tasted it ; not a mere sip, but a good, genuine gulp, 
 being determined to have real proof of what the stuff 
 was in all respects. The draught seemed at first to 
 burn in his mouth, unaccustomed to any drink but 
 water, and to go scorching all the way down into his 
 stomach, making him sensible of the depth of his in- 
 wards by a track of fire, far, far down ; and then, 
 worse than the fire, came a taste of hideous bitterness 
 and nauseousness, which he had not previously con 
 ceived to exist, and which threatened to stir up his 
 bowels into utter revolt ; but knowing Aunt Keziah s 
 touchiness with regard to this concoction, and how sa 
 cred she held it, he made an effort of real heroism, 
 squelched down his agony, and kept his face quiet, 
 with the exception of one strong convulsion, w r hich he 
 allowed to twist across it for the sake of saving his 
 life. 
 
 " It tastes as if it might have great potency in it, 
 Aunt Keziah," said this unf ortunate young man " I 
 
316 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 wish you would tell me what it is made of, and how 
 you brew it ; for I have observed you are very strict 
 and secret about it." 
 
 " Aha ! you have seen that, have you ? " said Aunt 
 Keziah, taking a sip of her beloved liquid, and grin 
 ning at him with a face and eyes as yellow as that she 
 was drinking. In fact the idea struck him, that in 
 temper, and all appreciable qualities, Aunt Keziah was 
 a good deal like this drink of hers, having probably 
 become saturated by them while she drank of it. And 
 then, having drunk, she gloated over it, and tasted, 
 and smelt of the cup of this hellish wine, as a wine- 
 bibber does of that which is most fragrant and deli 
 cate. " And you want to know how I make it ? Bu*- 
 first, child, tell me honestly, do you love this drink of 
 mine ? Otherwise, here, and at once, we stop talking 
 about it." 
 
 " I love it for its virtues," said Septimius, temporiz 
 ing with his conscience, " and would prefer it on that 
 account to the rarest wines." 
 
 " So far good," said Aunt Keziah, who could not 
 well conceive that her liquor should be otherwise than 
 delicious to the palate. "It is the most virtuous liq 
 uor that ever was ; and therefore one need not fear 
 drinking too much of it. And you want to know 
 what it is made of ? Well ; I have often thought of 
 telling you, Seppy, my boy, when you should come to 
 be old enough ; for I have no other inheritance to 
 leave you, and you are all of my blood, unless I should 
 happen to have some far-off uncle among the Cape 
 Indians. But first, you must know how this good 
 drink, and the faculty of making it, came down to me 
 from the chiefs, and sachems, and Peow-wows, that 
 were your anct stors and mine, Septimius, and from 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 317 
 
 the old wizard who was my great-grandfather and 
 yours, and who, they say, added the fire-water to the 
 other ingredients, and so gave it the only one thing 
 that it wanted to make it perfect." 
 
 And so Aunt Keziah, who had now put herself into 
 a most comfortable and jolly state by sipping again, 
 and after pressing Septimitis to mind his draught 
 (who declined, on the plea that one dram at a time 
 was enough for a new beginner, its virtues being so 
 strong, as well as admirable), the old woman told him 
 a legend strangely wild and uncouth, and mixed up 
 of savage and civilized life, and of the superstitions 
 of both, but which yet had a certain analogy, that im 
 pressed Septimius much, to the story that the doctor 
 had told him. 
 
 She said that, many ages ago, there had been a wild 
 sachem in the forest, a king among the Indians, and 
 from whom, the old lady said, with a look of pride, 
 she and Septimius were lineally descended, and were 
 probably the very last who inherited one drop of that 
 royal, wise, and warlike blood. The sachem had lived 
 very long, longer than anybody knew, for the Indians 
 kept no record, and could only talk of a great number 
 of moons ; and they said he was as old, or older, than 
 the oldest trees ; as old as the hills almost, and could 
 remember back to the days of godlike men, who had 
 arts then forgotten. He was a wise and good man, 
 and could foretell as far into the future as he could 
 remember into the past ; and he continued to live on, 
 till his people were afraid that he would live forever, 
 and so disturb the whole order of nature ; and they 
 thought it time that so good a man, and so great 
 a warrior and wizard, should be gone to the happy 
 hunting-grounds, and that so wise a counsellor should 
 
318 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 go and tell his experience of life to the Great Father, 
 and give him an account of matters here, and perhaps 
 lead him to make some changes in the conduct of the 
 lower world. And so, all these things duly considered, 
 they very reverently assassinated the great, never-dy 
 ing sachem ; for though safe against disease, and un- 
 decayable by age, he was capable of being killed by 
 violence, though the hardness of his skull broke to 
 fragments the stone tomahawk with which they at 
 first tried to kill him. 
 
 So a deputation of the best and bravest of the tribe 
 went to the great sachem, and told him their thought, 
 and reverently desired his consent to be put out of the 
 world ; and the undying one agreed with them that it 
 was better for his own comfort that he should die, and 
 that he had long been weary of the world, having 
 learned all that it could teach him, and having, chiefly, 
 learned to despair of ever making the red race much 
 better than they now were. So he cheerfully con 
 sented, and told them to kill him if they could ; and 
 first they tried the stone hatchet, which was broken 
 against his skull ; and then they shot arrows at him, 
 which could not pierce the toughness of his skin ; and 
 finally they plastered up his nose and mouth (which 
 kept uttering wisdom to the last) with clay, and set 
 him to bake in the sun ; so at last his life burnt out 
 of his breast, tearing his body to pieces, and he died. 
 
 \_Mdke this legend grotesque, and express the 
 weariness of the tribe at the intolerable control the 
 undying one had of them ; his always bringing up 
 precepts from his own experience, never consenting to 
 anything new, and so impeding progress ; his habits 
 hardening into him, his ascribing to himself all *wis 
 dom, and depriving everybody of his right to succes* 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 319 
 
 sive command ; his endless talk, and dwelling on the 
 past, so that the world could ?wt bear him. De 
 scribe his ascetic and severe habits, his rigid calm 
 ness, etc. ] 
 
 But before the great sagamore died he imparted to 
 a chosen one of his tribe, the next wisest to himself, 
 the secret of a potent and delicious drink, the constant 
 imbibing of which, together with his abstinence from 
 luxury and passion, had kept him alive so long, and 
 would doubtless have compelled him to live forever. 
 This drink was compounded of many ingredients, all 
 of which were remembered and handed down in tradi 
 tion, save one, which, either because it was nowhere to 
 be found, or for some other reason, was forgotten ; so 
 that the drink ceased to give immortal life as before. 
 They say it was a beautiful purple flower. [Perhaps 
 the Devil taught him the drink, or else the Great 
 Sjririt, doubtful which. ~\ But it still was a most 
 excellent drink, and conducive to health, and the cure 
 of all diseases ; and the Indians had it at the time of 
 the settlement by the English ; and at one of those 
 wizard meetings in the forest, where the Black Man 
 used to meet his red children and his white ones, and 
 be jolly with them, a great Indian wizard taught the 
 secret to Septimius s great-grandfather, who was a 
 wizard, and died for it ; and he, in return, taught the 
 Indians to mix it with rum, thinking that this might 
 be the very ingredient that was missing, and that by 
 adding it he might give endless life to himself and all 
 his Indian friends, among whom he had taken a wife. 
 
 " But your great-grandfather, you know, had not a 
 fair chance to test its virtues, having been hanged for 
 a wizard ; and as for the Indians, they probably mixed 
 too much fire-water with their liquid, so that it burnt 
 
320 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 them up, and they all died ; and my mother, and her 
 mother, who taught the drink to me, and her 
 mother afore her, thought it a sin to try to live longer 
 than the Lord pleased, so they let themselves die. 
 And though the drink is good, Septimius, and tooth 
 some, as you see, yet I sometimes feel as if I were get 
 ting old, like other people, and may die in the course 
 of the next half-century ; so perhaps the rum was not 
 just the thing that was wanting to make up the recipe. 
 But it is very good ! Take a drop more of it, dear." 
 
 " Not at present, I thank you, Aunt Keziah," said 
 Septimius, gravely ; " but will you tell me what the 
 ingredients are, and how you make it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will, my boy, and you shall write them 
 down," said the old woman ; " for it s a good drink, 
 and none the worse, it may be, for not making you live 
 forever. I sometimes think I had as lief go to heaven 
 as keep on living here." 
 
 Accordingly, making Septimius take pen and ink, 
 she proceeded to tell him a list of plants and herbs, 
 and forest productions, and he was surprised to find 
 that it agreed most wonderfully with the recipe con 
 tained in the old manuscript, as he had puzzled it out, 
 and as it had been explained by the doctor. There 
 were a few variations, it is true ; but even here there 
 was a close analogy, plants indigenous to America 
 being substituted for cognate productions, the growth 
 of Europe. Then there was another difference in the 
 mode of preparation, Aunt Keziah s nostrum being a 
 concoction, whereas the old manuscript gave a process 
 of distillation. This similarity had a strong effect on 
 Septimius s imagination. Here was, in one case, a 
 drink suggested, as might be supposed, to a primitive 
 people by something similar to that instinct by which 
 
SEP TIM I US FELT ON. 821 
 
 the brute creation recognizes the medicaments suited 
 to its needs, so that they mixed up fragrant herbs for 
 reasons wiser than they knew, and made them into a 
 salutary potion ; and h^re, again, was a drink con 
 trived by the utmost skill of a great civilized philoso 
 pher, searching the whole field of science for his pur 
 pose ; and these two drinks proved, in all essential 
 particulars, to be identically the same. 
 
 " O Aunt Keziah," said he, with a longing earnest 
 ness, " are you sure that you cannot remember that 
 one ingredient ? " 
 
 " No, Septimius, I cannot possibly do it," said she. 
 " I have tried many things, skunk-cabbage, wormwood, 
 and a thousand things ; for it is truly a pity that the 
 chief benefit of the thing should be lost for so little. 
 But the only effect was, to spoil the good taste of the 
 stuff, and, two or three times, to poison myself, so that 
 I broke out all over blotches, and once lost the use of 
 my left arm, and got a dizziness in the head, and a 
 rheumatic twist in my knee, a hardness of hearing, 
 and a dimness of sight, and the trembles ; all of which 
 I certainly believe to have been caused by my putting 
 something else into this blessed drink besides the good 
 New England rum. Stick to that, Seppy, my dear." 
 
 So saying, Aunt Keziah took yet another sip of the 
 beloved liquid, after vainly pressing Septimius to do 
 the like ; and then lighting her old clay pipe, she sat 
 down in the chimney-corner, meditating, dreaming, 
 muttering pious prayers and ejaculations, and some 
 times looking up the wide flue of the chimney, with 
 thoughts, perhaps, how delightful it must have been to 
 fly up there, in old times, on excursions by midnight 
 into the forest, where was the Black Man, and the 
 Puritan deacons and ladies, and those wild Indian an- 
 
 VOL. XI. 21 
 
322 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 cestors of hers ; and where the wildness of the forest 
 was so grim and delightful, and so unlike the common- 
 placeness in which she spent her life. For thus did 
 the savage strain of the woman, mixed up as it was 
 with the other weird and religious parts of her compo 
 sition, sometimes snatch her back into barbarian life 
 and its instincts ; and in Septimius, though further 
 diluted, and modified likewise by higher cultivation, 
 there was the same tendency. 
 
 Septimius escaped from the old woman, and was 
 glad to breathe the free air again ; so much had he 
 been wrought upon by her wild legends and wild char 
 acter, the more powerful by its analogy with his own ; 
 and perhaps, too, his brain had been a little bewil 
 dered by the draught of her diabolical concoction 
 which she had compelled him to take. At any rate, 
 he was glad to escape to his hill-top, the free air of 
 which had doubtless contributed to keep him in health 
 through so long a course of morbid thought and es 
 tranged study as he had addicted himself to. 
 
 Here, as it happened, he found both Rose Garfield 
 and Sibyl Dacy, whom the pleasant summer evening 
 had brought out. They had formed a friendship, or 
 at least society ; and there could not well be a pair 
 more unlike, the one so natural, so healthy, so fit to 
 live in the world ; the other such a morbid, pale thing. 
 So there they were, walking arm in arm, with one arm 
 round each other s waist, as girls love to do. They 
 greeted the young man in their several ways, and be 
 gan to walk to and fro together, looking at the sunset 
 as it came on, and talking of things on earth and in 
 the clouds. 
 
 " When has Robert Hagburn been heard from ? " 
 asked Septimius, who, involved in his own pursuits, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 323 
 
 was altogether behindhand in the matters of the war, 
 shame to him for it ! 
 
 44 There came news, two days past; said Rose^ 
 blushing. 4i He is on his way home with the remnant 
 of General Arnold s command, and will be here soon. 
 
 44 He is a brave fellow, Robert," said Septimius, 
 carelessly. 44 And I know not, since life is so short, 
 that anything better can be done with it than to risk 
 it as he does." 
 
 44 1 truly think not," said Rose Garfield, composedly. 
 
 44 What a blessing it is to mortals," said Sibyl 
 Dacy, 44 what a kindness of Providence, that life is 
 made so uncertain ; that death is thrown in among 
 the possibilities of our being ; that these awf ul myste 
 ries are thrown around us, into which we may vanish ! 
 For, without it, how would it be possible to be heroic, 
 how should we plod along in commonplaces forever, 
 never dreaming high things, never risking anything ? 
 For my part, I think man is more favored than the 
 angels, and made capable of higher heroism, greater 
 virtue, and of a more excellent spirit than they, be 
 cause we have such a mystery of grief and terror 
 around us ; whereas they, being in a certainty of God s 
 light, seeing his goodness and his purposes more per 
 fectly than we, cannot be so brave as often poor weak 
 man, and weaker woman, has the opportunity to be, 
 and sometimes makes use of it. God gave the whole 
 world to man, and if he is left alone with it, it will 
 make a clod of him at last ; but, to remedy that, God 
 gave man a grave, and it redeems all, while it seems 
 to destroy all, and makes an immortal spirit of him in 
 the end." 
 
 44 Dear Sibyl, you are inspired," said Rose, gazing 
 in her face. 
 
324 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 " I think you ascribe a great deal too much potency 
 to the grave," said Septimius, pausing in voluntarily 
 alone by the little hillock, whose contents he knew so 
 well. " The grave seems to me a vile pitfall, put right 
 in our pathway, and catching most of us, all of us, 
 -causing us to tumble in at the most inconvenient 
 opportunities, so that all human life is a jest and a 
 farce, just for the sake of this inopportune death ; for 
 I observe it never waits for us to accomplish anything : 
 we may have the salvation of a country in hand, but 
 we are none the less likely to die for that. So that, 
 being a believer, on the whole, in the wisdom and gra- 
 ciousness of Providence, I am convinced that dying is 
 a mistake, and that by and by we shall overcome it. 
 I say there is no use in the grave." 
 
 " I still adhere to what I said," answered Sibyl 
 Dacy ; " and besides, there is another use of a grave 
 which I have often observed in old English graveyards, 
 where the moss grows green, and embosses the letters 
 of the gravestones ; and also graves are very good for 
 flower-beds." 
 
 Nobody ever could tell when the strange girl was 
 going to say what was laughable, when what was 
 melancholy ; and neither of Sibyl s auditors knew quite 
 what to make of this speech. Neither could Septim 
 ius fail to be a little startled by seeing her, as she 
 spoke of the grave as a flower-bed, stoop down to the 
 little hillock to examine the flowers, which, indeed, 
 seemed to prove her words by growing there in strange 
 abundance, and of many sorts ; so that, if they could 
 all have bloomed at once, the spot would have looked 
 like a bouquet by itself, or as if the earth were richest 
 in beauty there, or as if seeds had been lavish^ by 
 some florist. Septimius could not account for it, foi 
 
SEPTIMUS PEL TON. 325 
 
 though the hill-side did produce certain flowers, the 
 aster, the golden-rod, the violet, and other such simple 
 and common things, yet this seemed as if a carpet 
 of bright colors had been thrown down there and cov 
 ered the spot. 
 
 " This is very strange," said he. 
 
 "Yes," said Sibyl Dacy, "there is some strange 
 richness in this little spot of soil." 
 
 " Where could the seeds have come from ? that is 
 the greatest wonder," said Rose. "You might almost 
 teach me botany, methinks, on this one spot." 
 
 " Do you know this plant ? " asked Sibyl of Septim- 
 ius, pointing to one not yet in flower, but of singu 
 lar leaf, that was thrusting itself up out of the ground, 
 on the very centre of the grave, over where the breast 
 of the sleeper below might seem to be. " I think there 
 is no other here like it." 
 
 Septimius stooped down to examine it, and was con 
 vinced that it was unlike anything he had seen of the 
 flower kind ; a leaf of a dark green, with purple veins 
 traversing it, it had a sort of questionable aspect, as 
 some plants have, so that you would think it very 
 likely to be poison, and would not like to touch or 
 smell very intimately, without first inquiring who would 
 be its guarantee that it should do no mischief. That 
 it had some richness or other, either baneful or bene 
 ficial, you could not doubt. 
 
 " I think it poisonous," said Rose Garfield, shudder 
 ing, for she was a person so natural she hated poison 
 ous things, or anything speckled especially, and did 
 not, indeed, love strangeness. " Yet I should not won 
 der if it bore a beautiful flower by and by. Never 
 theless, if I were to do just as I feel inclined, I should 
 root it up and fling it away." 
 
326 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 " Shall she do so ? " said Sibyl to Septimius. 
 
 " Not for the world," said he, hastily. " Above all 
 things, I desire to see what will come of this plant." 
 
 " Be it as you please," said Sibyl. " Meanwhile, if 
 you like to sit down here and listen to me, I will tell 
 you a story that happens to come into my mind just 
 now, I cannot tell why. It is a legend of an old hall 
 that I know well, and have known from my childhood, 
 in one of the northern counties of England, where I 
 was born. Would you like to hear it, Rose ? " 
 
 " Yes, of all things," said she. " I like all stories 
 of hall and cottage in the old country, though now we 
 must not call it our country any more." 
 
 Sibyl looked at Septimius, as if to inquire whether 
 he, too, chose to listen to her story, and he made 
 answer : 
 
 " Yes, I shall like to hear the legend, if it is a gen 
 uine one that has been adopted into the popular belief, 
 and came down in chimney-corners with the smoke 
 and soot that gathers there ; and incrusted over with 
 humanity, by passing from one homely mind to another. 
 Then, such stories get to be true, in a certain sense, 
 and indeed in that sense may be called true through 
 out, for the very nucleus, the fiction in them, seems to 
 have come out of the heart of man in a way that can 
 not be imitated of malice aforethought. Nobody can 
 make a tradition ; it takes a century to make it." 
 
 " I know not whether this legend has the character 
 you mean," said Sibyl, " but it has lived much more 
 than a century : and here it is. 
 
 " On the threshold of one of the doors of Hall 
 
 there is a bloody footstep impressed into the doorstep, 
 and ruddy as if the bloody foot had just trodden tlierej 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 327 
 
 and it is averred that, on a certain night of the year, 
 and at a certain hour of the night, if you a o and look 
 
 O / O 
 
 at that doorstep you will see the mark wet with fresh 
 blood. Some have pretended to say that this appear 
 ance of blood was but dew ; but can dew redden a 
 cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the finger 
 tips when you touch it ? And that is what the bloody 
 footstep will surely do when the appointed night and 
 hour come round, tin s very year, just as it would three 
 hundred years ago. 
 
 " Well ; but how did it come there ? I know not 
 precisely in what age it was, but long ago, when light 
 was beginning to shine into what were called the dark 
 ages, there was a lord of Hall who applied him 
 self deeply to knowledge and science, under the guid 
 ance of the wisest man of that age, a man so wise 
 that he was thought to be a wizard ; and, indeed, he 
 may have been one, if to be a wizard consists in hav 
 ing command over secret powers of nature, that other 
 men do not even suspect the existence of, and the con 
 trol of which enables one to do feats that seem as won 
 derful as raising the dead. It is needless to tell you 
 all the strange stories that have survived to this day 
 about the old Hall ; and how it is believed that the 
 master of it, owing to his ancient science, has still a 
 sort of residence there, and control of the place ; and 
 how, in one of the chambers, there is still his antique 
 table, and his chair, and some rude old instruments 
 and machinery, and a book, and everything in readi 
 ness, just as if lie might still come back to finish some 
 experiment. What it is important to say is, that one 
 of the chief things to which the old lord applied him 
 self was to discover the means of prolonging his own 
 life, so that its duration should be indefinite, if not 
 
328 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 infinite ; and such was his science, that he was believed 
 to have attained this magnificent and awful purpose. 
 
 " So, as you may suppose, the man of science had 
 great joy in having done this thing, both for the 
 pride of it, and because it was so delightful a thing to 
 have before him the prospect of endless time, which 
 he might spend in adding more and more to his sci 
 ence, and so doing good to the world ; for the chief 
 obstruction to the improvement of the world and the 
 growth of knowledge is, that mankind cannot go 
 straightforward in it, but continually there have to be 
 new beginnings, and it takes every new man half his 
 life, if not the whole of it, to come up to the point 
 where his predecessor left off. And so this noble man 
 this man of a noble purpose spent many years 
 in finding out this mighty secret ; and at last, it is 
 said, he succeeded. But on what terms ? 
 
 " Well, it is said that the terms were dreadful and 
 horrible ; insomuch that the wise man hesitated whether 
 it were lawful and desirable to take advantage of 
 them, great as was the object in view. 
 
 " You see, the object of the lord of Hall was 
 
 to take a life from the course of Nature, and Nature 
 did not choose to be defrauded ; so that, great as was 
 the power of this scientific man over her, she would 
 not consent that he should escape the necessity of dy 
 ing at his proper time, except upon condition of sac 
 rificing some other life for his ; and this was to be 
 done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, 
 thirty years being the account of a generation of man ; 
 and if in any way, in that time, this lord could be the 
 death of a human being, that satisfied the requisition, 
 and he might live on. There is a form of the legend 
 which says, that one of the ingredients of the drink 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 329 
 
 which the nobleman brewed by his science was the 
 heart s blood of a pure young boy or girl. But this 
 I reject, as too coarse an idea : and, indeed, 1 think it 
 may be taken to mean symbolically, that the person 
 who desires to engross to himself more than his share 
 of human life must do it by sacrificing to his selfish 
 ness some dearest interest of another person, who has 
 a good right to life, and may be as useful in it as he. 
 
 " Now, this lord was a just man by nature, and if 
 he had gone astray, it was greatly by reason of his 
 earnest wish to do something for the poor, wicked, 
 struggling, bloody, uncomfortable race of man, to 
 which he belonged. He bethought himself whether 
 he would have a right to take the life of one of those 
 creatures, without their own consent, in order to pro 
 long his own ; and after much arguing to and fro, he 
 came to the conclusion that he should not have the 
 right, unless it were a life over which he had control, 
 and which was the next to his own. He looked round 
 him; he was a lonely and abstracted man, secluded 
 by his studies from human affections, and there was 
 but one human being whom he cared for ; that was 
 a beautiful kinswoman, an orphan, whom his father 
 had brought up, and, dying, left her to his care. 
 There was great kindness and affection as great as 
 the abstracted nature of his pursuits would allow 
 on the part of this lord towards the beautiful young 
 girl ; but not what is called love, at least, he never 
 acknowledged it to himself. But, looking into his 
 heart, he saw that she, if any one, was to be the per 
 son whom, the sacrifice demanded, and that he might 
 kill twenty others without effect, but if he took the 
 life of this one, it would make the charm strong and 
 good. 
 
330 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 " My friends, I have meditated many a time on this 
 ugly feature of my legend, and am unwilling to take 
 it in the literal sense ; so I conceive its spiritual mean 
 ing (for everything, you know, has its spiritual mean 
 ing, which to the literal meaning is what the soul is 
 to the body), its spiritual meaning was, that to the 
 deep pursuit of science we must sacrifice great part 
 of the joy of life ; that nobody can be great, and do 
 great things, without giving up to death, so far as 
 he regards his enjoyment of it, much that he would 
 gladly enjoy ; and in that sense I choose to take it. 
 But the earthly old legend will have it that this mad, 
 high-minded, heroic, murderous lord did insist upon 
 it with himself that he must murder this poor, loving, 
 and beloved child. 
 
 " I do not wish to delay upon this horrible matter, 
 and to tell you how he argued it with himself ; and 
 how, the more and more he argued it, the more rea 
 sonable it seemed, the more absolutely necessary, tho 
 more a duty that the terrible sacrifice should be made. 
 Here was this great good to be done to mankind, and 
 all that stood in the way of it was one little delicate 
 life, so frail that it was likely enough to be blown out, 
 any day, by the mere rude blast that the rush of life 
 creates, as it streams along, or by any slightest ac 
 cident ; so good and pure, too, that she was quite 
 unfit for this world, and not capable of any happiness 
 in it ; and all that was asked of her was to allow her 
 self to be transported to a place where she would be 
 happy, and would find companions fit for her, which 
 he, her only present companion, certainly was not. In 
 fine, he resolved to shed the sweet, fragrant blood of 
 this little violet that loved him so. . , 4 
 
 " Well ; let us hurry over this part of the story aa 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 331 
 
 fast as we can. He did slay this pure young girl ; he 
 took her into the wood near the house, an old wood 
 that is standing yet, with some of its magnificent 
 oaks ; and then he plunged a dagger into her heart, 
 after they had had a very tender and loving talk to 
 gether, in which he had tried to open the matter ten 
 derly to her, and make her understand that, though 
 he was to slay her, it was really for the very reason 
 that he loved her better than anything else in the 
 world, and that he would far rather die himself, if 
 that would answer the purpose at all. Indeed, he is 
 said to have offered her the alternative of slaying him, 
 and taking upon herself the burden of indefinite life, 
 and the studies and pursuits by which he meant to 
 benefit mankind. But she, it is said, this noble, 
 pure, loving child, she looked up into his face and 
 smiled sadly, and then snatching the dagger from him, 
 she plunged it into her own heart. I cannot tell 
 whether this be true, or whether she waited to be 
 killed by him ; but this I know, that in the same cir 
 cumstances I think I should have saved my lover or 
 my friend the pain of killing me. There she lay dead, 
 at any rate, and he buried her in the wood, and re 
 turned to the house ; and, as it happened, he had set 
 his right foot in her blood, and his shoe was wet in it, 
 and by some miraculous fate it left a track all along 
 the wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone 
 steps of the threshold, and up into his chamber, all 
 along; and the servants saw it the next day, and 
 wondered, and whispered, and missed the fair young 
 girl, and looked askance at their lord s right foot, and 
 turned pale, all of them, as death. 
 
 " And next, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was 
 struck with horror at what he had done, and could not 
 
332 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 bear the laboratory where he had toiled so long, and 
 was sick to death of the object that he had pursued, 
 and was most miserable, and fled from his old Hall, 
 and was gone full many a day. But all the while he 
 was gone there was the mark of a bloody footstep im 
 pressed upon the stone doorstep of the Hall. The 
 track had lain all along through the wood-path, and 
 across the lawn, to the old Gothic door of the Hall ; 
 but the rain, the English rain, that is always falling, 
 had come the next day, and washed it all away. The 
 track had lain, too, across the broad hall, and up the 
 stairs, and into the lord s study ; but there it had lair 
 on the rushes that were strewn there, and these the 
 servants had gathered carefully up, and thrown them 
 away, and spread fresh ones. So that it was only on 
 the threshold that the mark remained. 
 
 " But the legend says, that wherever Sir Forrester 
 went, in his wanderings about the world, he left a 
 bloody track behind him. It was wonderful, and very 
 inconvenient, this phenomenon. When he went into 
 a church, you would see the track up the broad aisle, 
 and a little red puddle in the place where he sat or 
 knelt. Once he went to the king s court, and there 
 being a track up to the very throne, the king frowned 
 upon him, so that he never came there any more. 
 Nobody could tell how it happened ; his foot was not 
 seen to bleed, only there was the bloody track behind 
 him, wherever he went ; and he was a horror-stricken 
 man, always looking behind him to see the track, and 
 then hurrying onward, as if to escape his own tracks ; 
 but always they followed him as fast. 
 
 " In the hall of feasting, there was the bloody track 
 to his chair. The learned men whom he consulted 
 about this strange difficulty conferred with one an- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 333 
 
 other, and with him, who was equal to any of them, 
 and pished and pshawed, and said, Oh, there is noth 
 ing miraculous in this ; it is only a natural infirmity, 
 which can easily be put an end to, though, perhaps, 
 the stoppage of such an evacuation will cause damage 
 to other parts of the frame. Sir Forrester always said, 
 4 Stop it, my learned brethren, if you can ; no matter 
 what the consequences. And they did their best, but 
 without result ; so that he was still compelled to leave 
 his bloody track on their college-rooms and combina 
 tion-rooms, the same as elsewhere ; and in street and 
 in wilderness ; yes, and in the battle-field, they said, 
 his track looked freshest and reddest of all. So, at 
 last, finding the notice he attracted inconvenient, this 
 unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back to his own 
 Hall, where, living among faithful old servants born 
 in the family, he coidd hush the matter up better than 
 elsewhere, and not be stared at continually, or, glanc 
 ing round, see people holding up their hands in terror 
 at seeing a bloody track behind him. And so home he 
 came, and there he saw the bloody track on the door 
 step, and dolefully went into the hall, and up the 
 stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber, 
 and half a dozen others following behind, gazing, 
 shuddering, pointing with quivering fingers, looking 
 horror-stricken in one another s pale faces, and the 
 moment he had passed, running to get fresh rushes, 
 and to scour the stairs. The next day, Sir Forrester 
 went into the wood, and by the aged oak he found a 
 grave, and on the grave he beheld a beautiful crimson 
 flower ; the most gorgeous and beautiful, surely, that 
 ever grew ; so rich it looked, so full of potent juice. 
 That flower he gathered ; and the spirit of his scientific 
 pursuits coming upon him, he knew that this was the 
 
334 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 flower, produced out of a human life, that was essential 
 to the perfection of his recipe for immortality ; and 
 he made the drink, and drank it, and became im 
 mortal in woe and agony, still studying, still growing 
 wiser and more wretched in every age. By and by he 
 vanished from the old Hall, but not by death ; for, 
 from generation to generation, they say that a bloody 
 track is seen around that house, and sometimes it is 
 tracked up into the chambers, so freshly that you see 
 he must have passed a short time before ; and he 
 grows wiser and wiser, and lonelier and lonelier, from 
 age to age. And this is the legend of the bloody foot 
 step, which I myself have seen at the Hall door. As 
 to the flower, the plant of it continued for several 
 years to grow out of the grave; and after a while, 
 perhaps a century ago, it w r as transplanted into the 
 
 garden of Hall, and preserved with great care, 
 
 and is so still. And as the family attribute a kind 
 of sacredness, or cursedness, to the flower, they can 
 hardly be prevailed upon to give any of the seeds, or 
 allow it to be propagated elsewhere, though the king 
 should send to ask it. It is said, too, that there is 
 still in the family the old lord s recipe for immor 
 tality, and that several of his collateral descendants 
 have tried to concoct it, and instil the flower into it, 
 and so give indefinite life ; but unsuccessfully, because 
 the seeds of the flower must be planted in a fresh 
 grave of bloody death, in order to make it effectual." 
 
 So ended Sibyl s legend ; in which Septimius was 
 struck by a certain analogy to Aunt Keziah s Indian 
 legend, both referring to a flower growing out of a 
 grave ; and also he did not fail to be impressed with 
 the wild coincidence of this disappearance of an an- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON, 335 
 
 cestor of the family long ago, and the appearance, at 
 about the same epoch, of the first known ancestor of 
 his own family, the man with wizard s attributes, with 
 the bloody footstep, and whose sudden disappearance 
 became a myth, under the idea that the Devil carried 
 him away. Yet, on the whole, this wild tradition, 
 doubtless becoming wilder in Sibyl s wayward and mor 
 bid fancy, had the effect to give him a sense of the f an- 
 tasticalness of his present pursuit, and that in adopt 
 ing it, he had strayed into a region long abandoned 
 to superstition, and where the shadows of forgotten 
 dreams go when men are done with them ; where past 
 worships are ; where great Pan went w r heii he died to 
 the outer world ; a limbo into which living men some 
 times stray when they think themselves sensiblest and 
 wisest, and whence they do not often find their way 
 back into the real world. Visions of wealth, visions 
 of fame, visions of philanthropy, all visions find 
 room here, and glide about without jostling. When 
 Septimius came to look at the matter in his present 
 mood, the thought occurred to him that he had per 
 haps got into such a limbo, and that Sibyl s legend, 
 which looked so wild, might be all of a piece with his 
 own present life ; for Sibyl herself seemed an illusion, 
 and so, most strangely, did Aunt Keziah, whom he 
 had known all his life, with her homely and quaint 
 characteristics ; the grim doctor, with his brandy and 
 his German pipe, impressed him in the same way ; 
 and these, altogether, made his homely cottage by the 
 wayside seem an unsubstantial edifice, such as castles 
 in the air are built of, and the ground he trod on un 
 real ; and that grave, which he knew to contain the 
 decay of a beautiful young man, but a fictitious swell 
 formed by the fantasy of his eyes. All unreal ; all 
 
836 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 illusion ! Was Rose Garfield a deception too, with 
 her daily beauty, and daily cheerfulness, and daily 
 worth ? In short, it was such a moment as I suppose 
 all men feel (at least, I can answer for one), when 
 the real scene and picture of life swims, jars, shakes, 
 seems about to be broken up and dispersed, like the 
 picture in a smooth pond, when we disturb its tranquil 
 mirror by throwing in a stone ; and though the scene 
 soon settles itself, and looks as real as before, a haunt 
 ing doubt keeps close at hand, as long as we live, ask 
 ing, "Is it stable ? Am I sure of it ? Am I certainly 
 not dreaming ? See ; it trembles again, ready to dis 
 solve." 
 
 Applying himself with earnest diligence to his at 
 tempt to decipher and interpret the mysterious manu 
 script, working with his whole mind, and strength, 
 Septimius did not fail of some flattering degree of 
 success. 
 
 A good deal of the manuscript, as has been said, 
 was in an ancient English script, although so uncouth 
 and shapeless were the characters, that it was not easy 
 to resolve them into letters, or to believe that they 
 were anything but arbitrary and dismal blots and 
 scrawls upon the yellow paper ; without meaning, 
 vague, like the misty and undefined germs of thought 
 as they exist in our minds before clothing themselves 
 in words. These, however, as he concentrated his 
 mind upon them, took distincter shape, like cloudy 
 stars at the power of the telescope, and became some 
 times English, sometimes Latin, strangely patched to 
 gether, as if, so accustomed was the writer to use that 
 language in which all the science of that age was usu 
 ally embodied, that he really mixed it unconsciously 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 337 
 
 with the vernacular, or used both indiscriminately. 
 There was some Greek, too, but not much. Then fre 
 quently came in the cipher, to the study of which Sep- 
 tiniius had applied himself for some time back, with 
 the aid of the books borrowed from the college library, 
 and not without success. Indeed, it appeared to him, 
 on close observation, that it had not been the intention 
 of the writer really to conceal what he had written 
 from any earnest student, but rather to lock it up for 
 safety in a sort of coffer, of which diligence and in 
 sight should be the key, and the keen intelligence with 
 which the meaning was sought should be the test of 
 the seeker s being entitled to possess the secret treas 
 ure. 
 
 Amid a great deal of misty stuff, he found the docu 
 ment to consist chiefly, contrary to his supposition be 
 forehand, of certain rides of life ; he would have taken 
 it, on a casual inspection, for an essay of counsel, ad 
 dressed by some great and sagacious man to a youth 
 in whom he felt an interest, so secure and good a 
 doctrine of life was propounded, such excellent max 
 ims there were, such wisdom in all matters that came 
 within the writer s purview. It was as much like a 
 digested synopsis of some old philosopher s wise rides 
 of conduct, as anything else. But on closer inspection, 
 Septimius, in his unsophisticated consideration of this 
 matter, was not so well satisfied. True, everything 
 that was said seemed not discordant with the rules of 
 social morality ; not unwise : it was shrewd, sagacious ; 
 it did not appear to infringe upon the rights of man 
 kind ; but there was something left out, something un 
 satisfactory, what was it? There was certainly a 
 cold spell in the document ; a magic, not of fire, but of 
 ice ; and Septimius the more exemplified its power, in 
 
338 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 that he soon began to be insensible of it. It affected 
 him as if it had been written by some greatly wise and 
 worldly -experienced man, like the writer of Ecclesi- 
 astes ; for it was full of truth. It was a truth that 
 does not make men better, though perhaps calmer; 
 and beneath which the buds of happiness curl up like 
 tender leaves in a frost. What was the matter with 
 this document, that the young man s youth perished 
 out of him as he read ? What icy hand had written 
 it, so that the heart was chilled out of the reader? 
 Not that Septimius was sensible of this character ; at 
 least, not long, for as he read, there grew upon him 
 a mood of calm satisfaction, such as he had never felt 
 before. His mind seemed to grow clearer; his per 
 ceptions most acute ; his sense of the reality of things 
 grew to be such, that he felt as if he could touch and 
 handle all his thoughts, feel round about all their out 
 line and circumference, and know them with a cer 
 tainty, as if they were material things. Not that all 
 this was in the document itself ; but by studying it so 
 earnestly, and, as it were, creating its meaning anew 
 for himself, out of such illegible materials, he caught 
 the temper of the old writer s mind, after so many 
 ages as that tract had lain in the mouldy and musty 
 manuscript. He was magnetized with him ; a pow 
 erful intellect acted powerfully upon him ; perhaps, 
 even, there was a sort of spell and mystic influence 
 imbued into the paper, and mingled with the yellow 
 ink, that steamed forth by the effort of this young 
 man s earnest rubbing, as it were, and by the action 
 of his mind, applied to it as intently as he possibly 
 could ; and even his handling the paper, his bending 
 over it, and breathing upon it, had its effect. 
 
 It is not in our power, nor in our wish, to produce 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 339 
 
 the original form, nor yet the spirit, of a produc 
 tion which is better lost to the world : because it was 
 the expression of a human intellect originally greatly 
 gifted and capable of high things, but gone utterly 
 astray, partly by its own subtlety, partly by yielding 
 to the temptations of the lower part of its nature, by 
 yielding the spiritual to a keen sagacity of lower 
 things, until it was quite fallen ; and yet fallen in such 
 a way, that it seemed not only to itself, but to man 
 kind, not fallen at all, but wise and good, and fulfil 
 ling all the ends of intellect in such a life as ours, 
 and proving, moreover, that earthly life was good, and 
 all that the development of our nature demanded. All 
 this is better forgotten ; better burnt ; better never 
 thought over again : and all the more, because its as 
 pect was so wise, and even praiseworthy. But what 
 we must preserve of it were certain rules of life and 
 moral diet, not exactly expressed in the dociunent, but 
 which, as it were, on its being duly received into Sep- 
 timius s mind, were precipitated from the rich solution, 
 and crystallized into diamonds, and which he found to 
 be the moral dietetics, so to speak, by observing which 
 he was to achieve the end of earthly immortality, 
 whose physical nostrum was given in the recipe which, 
 with the help of Doctor Portsoaken and his Aunt Ke- 
 ziah, he had already pretty satisfactorily made out. 
 
 " Keep thy heart at seventy throbs in a minute ; all 
 more than that wears away life too quickly. If thy 
 respiration be too quick, think with thyself that thou 
 hast sinned against natural order and moderation. 
 
 " Drink not wine nor strong drink ; and observe 
 that this ride is worthiest in its sj nibolic meaning. 
 
 Bask daily in the sunshine and let it rest on thy 
 heart. 
 
340 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 "Run not; leap not; walk at a steady pace, and 
 count thy paces per day. 
 
 " If thou feelest, at any time, a throb of the heart, 
 pause on the instant, and analyze it ; fix thy mental 
 eye steadfastly upon it, and inquire why such commo 
 tion is. 
 
 " Hate not any man nor woman ; be not angry, un 
 less at any time thy blood seem a little cold and tor 
 pid ; cut out all rankling feelings, they are poisonous 
 to thee. If, in thy waking moments, or in thy dreams, 
 thou hast thoughts of strife or unpleasantness with any 
 man, strive quietly with thyself to forget him. 
 
 " Have no friendships with an imperfect man, with 
 a man in bad health, of violent passions, of any char 
 acteristic that evidently disturbs his own life, and so 
 may have disturbing influence on thine. Shake not 
 any man by the hand, because thereby, if there be any 
 evil in the man, it is likely to be communicated to 
 thee. 
 
 " Kiss no woman if her lips be red ; look not upon 
 her if she be very fair. Touch not her hand if thy 
 finger-tips be found to thrill with hers ever so little. 
 On the whole, shun woman, for she is apt to be a dis 
 turbing influence. If thou love her, all is over, and 
 thy whole past and remaining labor and pains will be 
 in vain. 
 
 " Do some decent degree of good and kindness in 
 thy daily life, for the result is a slight pleasurable 
 sense that will seem to warm and delectate thee with 
 felicitous self -landings ; and all that brings thy 
 thoughts to thyself tends to invigorate that central 
 principle by the growth of which thou art to give thy 
 self indefinite life. < 
 
 " Do not any act manifestly evil ; it may grow upon 
 
SEPTIMUS S F ELTON. 841 
 
 thee, and corrode thee in after-years. Do not any fool 
 ish good act ; it may change thy wise habits. 
 
 " Eat no spiced meats. Young chickens, new-fallen 
 lambs, fruits, bread four days old, milk, freshest but 
 ter, will make thy fleshy tabernacle youthful. 
 
 " From sick people, maimed wretches, afflicted peo 
 ple, all of whom show themselves at variance with 
 things as they should be, from people beyond their 
 wits, from people in a melancholic mood, from people 
 in extravagant joy, from teething children, from dead 
 corpses, turn away thine eyes and depart elsewhere. 
 
 " If beggars haunt thee, let thy servants drive them 
 away, thou withdrawing out of ear-shot. 
 
 " Crying and sickly children, and teething children, 
 as aforesaid, carefully avoid. Drink the breath of 
 wholesome infants as often as thou conveniently canst, 
 it is good for thy purpose ; also the breath of 
 buxom maids, if thou mayest without undue disturb 
 ance of the flesh, drink it as a morning-draught, as 
 medicine ; also the breath of cows as they return from 
 rich pasture at eventide. 
 
 " If thou seest human poverty, or suffering, and it 
 trouble thee, strive moderately to relieve it, seeing 
 that thus thy mood will be changed to a pleasant self- 
 laudation. 
 
 " Practise thyself in a certain continual smile, for 
 its tendency will be to compose thy frame of being, 
 and keep thee from too much wear. 
 
 " Search not to see if thou hast a gray hair ; scru 
 tinize not thy forehead to find a wrinkle ; nor the cor 
 ners of thy eyes to discover if they be corrugated. 
 Such things, being gazed at, daily take heart and 
 grow. 
 
 " Desire nothing too fervently, not even life : yet 
 
342 SEPTIMIUS FELTON, 
 
 keep thy hold upon it mightily, quietly, unshakably, 
 for as long as thou really art resolved to live, Death, 
 with all his force, shall have no power against thee. 
 
 " Walk not beneath tottering ruins, nor houses be 
 ing put up, nor climb to the top of a mast, nor ap 
 proach the edge of a precipice, nor stand in the way 
 of the lightning, nor cross a swollen river, nor voyage 
 at sea, nor ride a skittish horse, nor be shot at by an 
 arrow, nor confront a sword, nor put thyself in the 
 way of violent death ; for this is hateful, and breaketh 
 through all wise rules. 
 
 " Say thy prayers at bedtime, if thou deemest it will 
 give thee quieter sleep ; yet let it not trouble thee if 
 thou forgettest them. 
 
 " Change thy shirt daily ; thereby thou castest off 
 yesterday s decay, and imbibest the freshness of the 
 morning s life, which enjoy with smelling to roses, and 
 other healthy and fragrant flowers, and live the longer 
 for it. Roses are made to that end. 
 
 " Read not great poets ; they stir up thy heart ; and 
 the human heart is a soil which, if deeply stirred, is 
 apt to give out noxious vapors." 
 
 Such were some of the precepts which Septimius 
 gathered and reduced to definite form out of this won 
 derful document ; and he appreciated their wisdom, 
 and saw clearly that they must be absolutely essential 
 to the success of the medicine with which they were 
 connected. In themselves, almost, they seemed capa 
 ble of prolonging life to an indefinite period, so wisely 
 were they conceived, so well did they apply to the 
 causes which almost invariably wear away this poor 
 short life of men, years and years before even the 
 shattered constitutions that they received from their 
 forefathers need compel them to die. He deemed hiju- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON, 343 
 
 Belf well rewarded for all his labor and pains, should 
 nothing else follow but his reception and proper ap 
 preciation of these wise rules ; but continually, as he 
 read the manuscript, more truths, and, for aught I 
 know, profounder and more practical ones, developed 
 themselves ; and, indeed, small as the manuscript 
 looked, Septimius thought that he should find a vol 
 ume as big as the most ponderous folio in the college 
 library too small to contain its wisdom. It seemed to 
 drip and distil with precious fragrant drops, whenever 
 he took it out of his desk ; it diffused wisdom like 
 those vials of perfume which, small as they look, keep 
 diffusing an airy wealth of fragrance for years and 
 years together, scattering their virtue in incalculable 
 volumes of invisible vapor, and yet are none the less 
 in bulk for all they give ; whenever he turned over 
 the yellow leaves, bits of gold, diamonds of good size, 
 precious pearls, seemed to drop out from between 
 them. 
 
 And now ensued a surprise which, though of a 
 happy kind, was almost too much for him to bear ; for 
 it made his heart beat considerably faster than the 
 wise rules of his manuscript prescribed. Going up on 
 his hill-top, as summer wore away (he had not been 
 there for some time), and walking by the little flowery 
 hillock, as so many a hundred times before, what 
 should he see there but a new flower, that during the 
 time he had been poring over the manuscript so sedu 
 lously had developed itself, blossomed, put forth its 
 petals, bloomed iuto full perfection, and now, with the 
 dew of the morning upon it, was waiting to offer itself 
 to Septimius ? He trembled as he looked at it, it was 
 too much almost to bear, it was so very beautiful, 
 so very stately, so very rich, so very mysterious and 
 
344 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 wonderful. It was like a person, like a life ! Whence 
 did it come ? He stood apart from it, gazing in won 
 der ; tremulously taking in its aspect, and thinking of 
 the legends he had heard from Aunt Keziah and from 
 Sibyl Dacy ; and how that this flower, like the one 
 that their wild traditions told of, had grown out of a 
 grave, out of a grave in which he had laid one slain 
 by himself. 
 
 The flower was of the richest crimson, illuminated 
 with a golden centre of a perfect and stately beauty. 
 From the best descriptions that I have been able to 
 gain of it, it was more like a dahlia than any other 
 flower with which I have acquaintance ; yet it does 
 not satisfy me to believe it really of that species, for 
 the dahlia is not a flower of any deep characteristics, 
 either lively or malignant, and this flower, which Sep- 
 timius found so strangely, seems to have had one or 
 the other. If I have rightly understood, it had a fra 
 grance which the dahlia lacks ; and there was some 
 thing hidden in its centre, a mystery, even in its full 
 est bloom, not developing itself so openly as the heart 
 less, yet not dishonest, dahlia. I remember in Eng 
 land to* have seen a flower at Eaton Hall, in Cheshire, 
 in those magnificent gardens, which may have been 
 like this, but my remembrance of it is not sufficiently 
 distinct to enable me to describe it better than by say 
 ing that it was crimson, with a gleam of gold in its 
 centre, which yet was partly hidden. It had many 
 petals of great richness. 
 
 Septimius, bending eagerly over the plant, saw that 
 this was not to be the only flower that it would pro 
 duce that season ; on the contrary, there was to be a 
 great abundance of them, a luxuriant harvest ; <as if 
 the crimson offspring of this one plant would cover the 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 315 
 
 whole hillock, as if the dead youth beneath had 
 burst into a resurrection of many crimson flowers ! 
 And in its veiled heart, moreover, there was a mys 
 tery like death, although it seemed to cover something 
 bright and golden. 
 
 Day after day the strange crimson flower bloomed 
 more and more abundantly, until it seemed almost to 
 cover the little hillock, which became a mere bed of it, 
 apparently turning all its capacity of production to 
 this flower ; for the other plants, Septimius thought, 
 seemed to shrink away, and give place to it, as if they 
 were unworthy to compare with the richness, glory, 
 and worth of this their queen. The fervent summer 
 burned into it, the dew and the rain ministered to it ; 
 the soil was rich, for it was a human heart contribut 
 ing its juices, a heart in its fiery youth sodden in 
 its own blood, so that passion, unsatisfied loves and 
 longings, ambition that never won its object, tender 
 dreams and throbs, angers, lusts, hates, all concen 
 trated by life, came sprouting in it, and its mysteri 
 ous being, and streaks and shadows, had some mean 
 ing in each of them. 
 
 The two girls, when they next ascended the hill, 
 saw the strange flower, and Hose admired it, and won 
 dered at it, but stood at a distance, without showing 
 an attraction towards it, rather an undefined aversion, 
 as if she thought it might be a poison flower ; at any 
 rate she would not be inclined to wear it in her bosom. 
 Sibyl Dacy examined it closely, touched its leaves, 
 smelt it, looked at it with a botanist s eye, and at last 
 remarked to Rose, " Yes, it grows well in this new 
 soil ; methinks it looks like a new human life." 
 
 " What is the strange flower? " asked Rose. 
 
 "The Sanguined sanguinissima" said SibyL 
 
846 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 It so happened about this time that poor Aunt Ke- 
 ziah,in spite of her constant use of that bitter mixture 
 of hers, was in a very bad state of health. She looked 
 all of an unpleasant yellow, with bloodshot eyes ; she 
 complained terribly of her inwards. She had an ugly 
 rheumatic hitch in her motion from place to place, and 
 was heard to mutter many wishes that she had a 
 broomstick to fly about upon, and she used to bind up 
 her head with a dishclout, or what looked to be such, 
 and would sit by the kitchen fire even in the warm 
 days, bent over it, crouching as if she wanted to take 
 the whole fire into her poor cold heart or gizzard, 
 groaning regularly with each breath a spiteful and 
 resentful groan, as if she fought womanfully with 
 her infirmities ; and she continually smoked her pipe, 
 and sent out the breath of her complaint visibly in 
 that evil odor ; and sometimes she murmured a little 
 prayer, but somehow or other the evil and bitterness, 
 acridity, pepperiness, of her natural disposition over 
 came the acquired grace which compelled her to pray, 
 insomuch that, after all, you would have thought the 
 poor old woman was cursing with all her rheumatic 
 might. All the time an old, broken - nosed, brown 
 earthen jug, covered with the lid of a black teapot, 
 stood on the edge of the embers, steaming forever, 
 and sometimes bubbling a little, and giving a great 
 puff, as if it were sighing and groaning in sympathy 
 with poor Aunt Keziah, and when it sighed there 
 came a great steam of herby fragrance, not particu 
 larly pleasant, into the kitchen. And ever and anon, 
 half a dozen times it might be, of an afternoon, 
 Aunt Keziah took a certain bottle from a private re 
 ceptacle of hers, and also a teacup, and likewise a^ lit- 
 tle 3 old-fashioned silver teaspoon, with which she meas- 
 
SEPTIM1US FELTON. 347 
 
 ured three teaspoon! ills of some spirituous liquor into 
 the teacup, half filled the cup with the hot decoction, 
 drank it off, gave a grunt of content, and for the space 
 of half an hour appeared to find life tolerable. 
 
 But one day poor Aunt Keziah found herself una 
 ble, partly from rheumatism, partly from other sickness 
 or weakness, and partly from dolorous ill-spirits, to 
 keep about any longer, so she betook herself to her 
 bed ; and betimes in the forenoon Septimius heard a 
 tremendous knocking on the floor of her bedchamber, 
 which happened to be the room above his own. He 
 was the only person in or about the house ; so with 
 great reluctance, he left his studies, which were upon 
 the recipe, in respect to which he was trying to make 
 out the mode of concoction, which was told in such a 
 mysterious way that he could not well tell either the 
 quantity of the ingredients, the mode of trituration, 
 nor in what way their virtue was to be extracted and 
 combined. 
 
 Running hastily up stairs, he found Aunt Keziah 
 lying in bed, and groaning with great spite and bit 
 terness ; so that, indeed, it seemed not improvidential 
 that such an inimical state of mind towards the hu 
 man race was accompanied with an almost inability of 
 motion, else it would not be safe to be within a consid 
 erable distance of her. 
 
 " Seppy, you good-for-nothing, are you going to see 
 me lying here, dying, without trying to do anything 
 for me ? " 
 
 " Dying, Aunt Keziah ? " repeated the young man. 
 "I hope not! What can I do for you? Shall I go 
 for Rose ? or call a neighbor in ? or the doctor ? " 
 
 "No, no, you fool ! " said the afflicted person. "You 
 an do all that anybody can for me ; and that is to 
 
348 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 put my mixture on the kitchen fire till it steams, and 
 is just ready to bubble ; then measure three teaspoon- 
 f uls or it may be four, as I am very bad of spirit 
 into a teacup, fill it half full, or it may be quite full, 
 for I am very bad, as I said afore ; six teaspoonfuls of 
 spirit into a cup of mixture, and let me have it as 
 soon as may be ; and don t break the cup, nor spill the 
 precious mixture, for goodness knows when I can go 
 into the woods to gather any more. Ah me ! ah me ! 
 it s a wicked, miserable world, and I am the most mis 
 erable creature in it. Be quick, you good-for-nothing, 
 and do as I say ! " 
 
 Septimius hastened down ; but as he went a thought 
 came into his head, which it occurred to him might re 
 sult in great benefit to Aunt Keziah, as well as to the 
 great cause of science and human good, and to the 
 promotion of his own purpose, in the first place. A 
 day or two ago, he had gathered several of the beauti 
 ful flowers, and laid them in the fervid sun to dry ; and 
 they now seemed to be in about the state in which the 
 old woman was accustomed to use her herbs, so far as 
 Septimius had observed. Now if these flowers were 
 really, as there was so much reason for supposing, the 
 one ingredient that had for hundreds of years been 
 missing out of Aunt Keziah s nostrum, if it was 
 this which that strange Indian sagamore had mingled 
 with his drink with such beneficial effect, why 
 should not Septimius now restore it, and if it would 
 not make his beloved aunt young again, at least as 
 suage the violent symptoms, and perhaps prolong her 
 valuable life some years, for the solace and delight of 
 her numerous friends? Septimius, like other people 
 of investigating and active minds, had a greats ten 
 dency to experiment, and so good an opportunity as the 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 349 
 
 present, where (perhaps he thought) there was so little 
 to be risked at worst, and so much to be gained, was 
 not to be neglected ; so, without more ado, he stirred 
 three of the crimson flowers into the earthen jug, set 
 it on the edge of the fire, stirred it well, and when it 
 steamed, threw up little scarlet bubbles, and was about 
 to boil, he measured out the spirits, as Aunt Keziah 
 had bidden him and then filled the teacup. 
 
 " Ah, this will do her good ; little does she think, 
 poor old thing, what a rare and costly medicine is 
 about to be given her. This will set her on her feet 
 again." 
 
 The hue was somewhat changed, he thought, from 
 what he had observed of Aunt Keziah s customary de 
 coction ; instead of a turbid yellow, the crimson pet 
 als of the flower had tinged it, and made it almost red ; 
 not a brilliant red, however, nor the least inviting in 
 appearance. Septiinius smelt it, and thought he could 
 distinguish a little of the rich odor of the flower, but 
 was not sure. He considered whether to taste it ; but 
 the horrible flavor of Aunt Keziah s decoction re 
 curred strongly to his remembrance, and he concluded 
 that were he evidently at the point of death, he might 
 possibly be bold enough to taste it again ; but that 
 nothing short of the hope of a century s existence at 
 least would repay another taste of that fierce and 
 nauseous bitterness. Aunt Keziah loved it ; and as she 
 brewed, so let her drink. 
 
 He went up stairs, careful not to spill a drop of the 
 brimming cup, and approached the old woman s bed 
 side, where she lay, groaning as before, and breaking- 
 out into a spiteful croak the moment he was within 
 ear-shot. 
 
 " You don t care whether I live or die, 1 said she. 
 
350 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 "You Ve been waiting in hopes I shall die, and so save 
 yourself further trouble." 
 
 " By no means, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius. 
 " Here is the medicine, which I have warmed, and 
 measured out, and micgled, as well as I knew how ; 
 and I think it will do you a great deal of good." 
 
 " Won t you taste it, Seppy, my dear? " said Aunt 
 Keziah, mollified by the praise of her beloved mixture. 
 " Drink first, dear, so that my sick old lips need not 
 taint it. You look pale, Septimius ; it will do you 
 good." 
 
 " No, Aunt Keziah, I do not need it ; and it were a 
 pity to waste your precious drink," said he. 
 
 "It does not look quite the right color," said Aunt 
 Keziah, as she took the cup in her hand. " You must 
 have dropped some soot into it." Then, as she raised 
 it to her lips, "It does not smell quite right. But, 
 woe s me ! how can I expect anybody but myself to 
 make this precious drink as it should be ? " 
 
 She drank it off at two gulps ; for she appeared to 
 hurry it off faster than usual, as if not tempted by the 
 exquisiteness of its flavor to dwell upon it so long. 
 
 " You have not made it just right, Seppy," said she 
 in a milder tone than before, for she seemed to feel 
 the customary soothing influence of the draught, " but 
 you 11 do better the next time. It had a queer taste, 
 methought ; or is it that my mouth is getting out of 
 taste ? Hard times it will be for poor Aunt Kezzy, if 
 she s to lose her taste for the medicine that, under 
 Providence, has saved her life for so many years." 
 
 She gave back the cup to Septimius, after looking a 
 little curiously at the dregs. 
 
 " It looks like bloodroot, don t it ? " said she. " Per 
 haps it s my own fault after all. I gathered a fresh 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTOX. 351 
 
 bunch of the yarbs yesterday afternoon, and put them 
 to steep, and it may be I was a little blind, for it was 
 between daylight and dark, and the moon shone on 
 me before I had finished. I thought how the witches 
 used to gather their poisonous stuff at such times, and 
 what pleasant uses they made of it, but those are 
 sinful thoughts, Seppy, sinful thoughts ! so I 11 say a 
 prayer and try to go to sleep. I feel very noddy all 
 at once." 
 
 Septimius drew the bedclothes up about her shoul 
 ders, for she complained of being very chilly, and, 
 carefully putting her stick within reach, went down 
 to his own room, and resumed his studies, trying to 
 make out from those aged hieroglyphics, to which he 
 was now so well accustomed, what was the precise 
 method of making the elixir of immortality. Some 
 times, as men in deep thought do, he" rose from his 
 chair, and walked to and fro the four or five steps or 
 so that conveyed him from end to end of his little 
 room. At one of these times he chanced to look in the 
 little looking-glass that hung between the windows, 
 and was startled at the paleness of his face. It was 
 quite white, indeed. Septimius was not in the least a 
 foppish young man ; careless he was in dress, though 
 often his apparel took an unsought picturesqueness 
 that set off his slender, agile figure, perhaps from 
 some quality of spontaneous arrangement that he had 
 inherited from his Indian ancestry. Yet many wo 
 men might have found a charm in that dark, thought 
 ful face, with its hidden fire and energy, although 
 Septimius never thought of its being handsome, and 
 seldom looked at it. Yet now he was drawn to it by 
 seeing how strangely white it was, and, gazing at it, 
 he observed that since he considered it last, a very 
 
352 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 deep furrow, or corrugation, or fissure, it might al 
 most be called, had indented his brow, rising from the 
 commencement of his nose towards the centre of the 
 forehead. And he knew it was his brooding thought, 
 his fierce, hard determination, his intense concentra- 
 tiveness for so many months, that had been digging 
 that furrow ; and it must prove indeed a potent spe 
 cific of the life-water that would smooth that away, 
 and restore him all the youth and elasticity that he 
 had buried in that profound grave. 
 
 But why was he so pale ? He could have supposed 
 himself startled by some ghastly thing that he had just 
 seen ; by a corpse in the next room, for instance ; or 
 else by the foreboding that one would soon be there ; 
 but yet he was conscious of 110 tremor in his frame, no 
 terror in his heart ; as why should there be any ? 
 Feeling his ow"n pulse, he found the strong, regular 
 beat that should be there. He was not ill, nor af 
 frighted ; not expectant of any pain. Then why so 
 ghastly pale ? And why, moreover, Septimius, did 
 you listen so earnestly for any sound in Aunt Keziah s 
 chamber? Why did you creep on tiptoe, once, twice, 
 three times, up to the old woman s chamber, and put 
 your ear to the keyhole, and listen breathlessly ? 
 Well ; it must have been that he was subconscious 
 that he was trying a bold experiment, and that he 
 had taken this poor old woman to be the medium of 
 it, in the hope, of course, that it would turn out well : 
 yet with other views than her interest in the matter. 
 What was the harm of that ? Medical men, no doubt, 
 are always doing so, and he was a medical man for the 
 time. Then why was he so pale ? 
 
 He sat down and fell into a reverie, which perha*ps 
 was partly suggested by that chief furrow which he 
 
zEPTIMIUS FELTON. 353 
 
 had seen, and which we have spoken of, in his brow. 
 He considered whether there was anything in this 
 pursuit of his that used up life particularly fast ; so 
 that, perhaps, unless he were successful soon, he should 
 be incapable of renewal ; for, looking within himself, 
 and considering his mode of being, he had a singu 
 lar fancy that his heart was gradually drying up, and 
 that he must continue to get some moisture for it, or 
 else it would soon be like a withered leaf. Supposing 
 his pursuit were vain, what a waste he was making of 
 that little treasure of golden days, which was his all ! 
 Could this be called life, which he was leading now ? 
 How unlike that of other young men ! How unlike 
 that of Robert Hagburn, for example ! There had 
 come news yesterday of his having performed a gal 
 lant part in the battle of Monmouth, and being pro 
 moted to be a captain for his brave conduct. With 
 out thinking of long life, he really lived in heroic 
 actions and emotions ; he got much life in a little, and 
 did not fear to sacrifice a lifetime of torpid breaths, if 
 necessary, to the ecstasy of a glorious death ! 
 
 \_It appears from a written sketch by the author of 
 this story, that he changed his first plan of making 
 Septimius and Rose lovers, and she was to be repre 
 sented as his half-sister, and in the copy for publica 
 tion this alteration would have been made. ED.] 
 
 And then Robert loved, too, loved his sister Rose, 
 and felt, doubtless, an immortality in that passion. 
 Why could not Septimius love too ? It was forbidden ! 
 Well, no matter ; whom could he have loved ? Who, 
 in all this world would have been suited to his secret, 
 brooding heart, that he could have let her into its 
 mysterious chambers, and walked with her from one 
 cavernous gloom to another, am] said, u Here are nry 
 
 VOL. xi. 23 
 
354 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 treasures. I make thee mistress of all these ; with all 
 these goods I thee endow." And then, revealing to 
 her his great secret and purpose of gaining immortal 
 life, have said : " This shall be thine, too. Thou shalt 
 share with me. We will walk along the endless path 
 together, and keep one another s hearts warm, and so 
 be content to live." 
 
 Ah, Septimius ! but now you are getting beyond 
 those rules of yours, which, cold as they are, have been 
 drawn out of a subtle philosophy, and might, were it 
 possible to follow them out, suffice to do all that you 
 ask of them ; but if you break them, you do it at the 
 peril of your earthly immortality. Each warmer and 
 quicker throb of the heart wears away so much of life. 
 The passions, the affections, are a wine not to be in 
 dulged in. Love, above all, being in its essence an 
 immortal thing, cannot be long contained in an earthly 
 body, but would wear it out with its own secret power, 
 softly invigorating as it seems. You must be cold, 
 therefore, Septimius ; you must not even earnestly and 
 passionately desire this immortality that seems so nec 
 essary to you. Else the very wish will prevent the 
 possibility of its fulfilment. 
 
 By and by, to call him out of these rhapsodies, came 
 Rose home ; and finding the kitchen hearth cold, and 
 Aunt Keziah missing, and no dinner by the fire, which 
 was smouldering, nothing but the portentous earthen 
 jug, which fumed, and sent out long, ill-flavored sighs, 
 she tapped at Septimius s door, and asked him what 
 was the matter. 
 
 " Aunt Keziah has had an ill turn," said Septimius, 
 " and has gone to bed." 
 
 " Poor auntie ! " said Eose, with her quick sym 
 pathy. " I will this moment run up and see if she 
 needs anything." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 355 
 
 "No, Rose," said Septimius, "she has doubtless gone 
 to sleep, and will awake as well as usual. It would 
 displease her much were you to miss your afternoon 
 school ; so you had better set the table with whatever 
 there is left of yesterday s dinner, and leave me to 
 take care of auntie." 
 
 " "Well," said Rose, " she loves you best ; but if she 
 be really ill, I shall give up my school and nurse her." 
 
 " No doubt," said Septimius, " she will be about the 
 house again to-morrow." 
 
 So Rose ate her frugal dinner (consisting chiefly 
 of purslain, and some other garden herbs, which her 
 thrifty aunt had prepared for boiling), and went away 
 as usual to her school ; for Aunt Keziah, as afore 
 said, had never encouraged the tender ministrations of 
 Rose, whose orderly, womanly character, with its well- 
 defined orb of daily and civilized duties, had always 
 appeared to strike her as tame ; and she once said to 
 her, " You are no squaw, child, and you 11 never make 
 a witch." Nor would she even so much as let Rose 
 put her tea to steep, or do anything whatever for her 
 self personally ; though, certainly, she was not back 
 ward in requiring of her a due share of labor for the 
 general housekeeping. 
 
 Septimius was sitting in his room, as the afternoon 
 wore away ; because, for some reason or other, or, quite 
 as likely, for no reason at all, he did not air himself 
 and his thoughts, as usual, on the hill ; so he was 
 sitting musing, thinking, looking into his mysterious 
 manuscript, when he heard Aunt Keziah moving in 
 the chamber above. First she seemed to rattle a 
 chair ; then she began a slow, regular beat with the 
 stick which Septimius had left by her bedside, and 
 which startled him strangely, so that, indeed, his 
 
356 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 heart beat faster than the five-and-seventy throbs to 
 which he was restricted by the wise rules that he had 
 digested. So he ran hastily up stairs, and behold, 
 Aunt Keziah was sitting up in bed, looking very wild, 
 so wild that you would have thought she was going 
 to fly up chimney the next minute ; her gray hair all 
 dishevelled, her eyes staring, her hands clutching for 
 ward, while she gave a sort of howl, what with pain 
 and agitation. 
 
 " Seppy! Seppy! " said she, "Seppy, my darling! 
 are you quite sure you remember how to make that 
 precious drink ? " 
 
 " Quite well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, in 
 wardly much alarmed by her aspect, but preserving a 
 true Indian composure of outward mien. " I wrote it 
 down, and could say it by heart besides^ Shall I 
 make you a fresh pot of it ? for I have thrown away 
 the other." 
 
 " That was well, Seppy," said the poor old woman, 
 "for there is something wrong about it; but I want 
 no more, for, Seppy dear, I am going fast out of this 
 world, where you and that precious drink were my 
 only treasures and comforts. I wanted to know if you 
 remembered the recipe ; it is all I have to leave you, 
 and the more you drink of it, Seppy, the better. Only 
 see to make it right ! " 
 
 " Dear auntie, what can I do for you ? " said Sep 
 timius, in much consternation, but still calm. " Let me 
 run for the doctor, for the neighbors ? something 
 must be done ! " 
 
 The old woman contorted herself as if there were a 
 fearful time in her insides : and grinned, and twisted 
 the yellow ugliness of her face, and groaned, .and 
 howled ; and yet there was a tough and fierce kind of 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 357 
 
 endurance with which she fought with her anguish, 
 and would not yield to it a jot, though she allowed 
 herself the relief of shrieking savagely at it, much 
 more like a defiance than a cry for mercy. 
 
 " No doctor ! no woman ! " said she ; k " if my drink 
 could not save me, what would a doctor s foolish pills 
 and powders do ? And a woman ! If old Martha Den- 
 ton, the witch, were alive, I would be glad to see her. 
 But other women ! Pah ! Ah ! Ai ! Oh ! Phew ! 
 Ah, Seppy, what a mercy it would be now if I could 
 set to and blaspheme a bit, and shake my fist at the 
 sky ! But I m a Christian woman, Seppy, a Chris 
 tian woman." 
 
 " Shall I send for the minister, Aunt Keziah ? " 
 asked Septimius. " Pie is a good man, and a wise one." 
 
 "Xo minister for me, Seppy," said Aunt Keziah, 
 howling as if somebody were choking her. " He may 
 be a good man, and a wise one, but he s not wise 
 enough to know the way to my heart, and never a man 
 as was ! Eh, Seppy, I m a Christian woman, but I m 
 not like other Christian women ; and I m glad I m 
 going away from this stupid world. I ve not been a 
 bad woman, and I deserve credit for it, for it would 
 have suited me a great deal better to be bad. Oh, what 
 a delightful time a witch must have had, starting off 
 up chimney on her broomstick at midnight, and look 
 ing down from aloft in the sky on the sleeping village 
 far below, with its steeple pointing up at her, so that 
 she might touch the golden weathercock ! You, mean 
 while, in such an ecstasy, and all below you the dull, 
 innocent, sober humankind ; the wife sleeping by her 
 husband, or mother by her child, squalling with wind 
 in its stomach ; the goodman driving up his cattle and 
 his plough, all so innocent, all so stupid, with their 
 
358 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 dull days just alike, one after another. And you up 
 in the air, sweeping away to some nook in the forest ! 
 Ha ! What s that ? A wizard ! Ha ! ha ! Known 
 below as a deacon ! There is Goody Chickering ! 
 How quietly she sent the young people to bed after 
 prayers ! There is an Indian ; there a nigger ; they 
 all have equal rights and privileges at a witch-meeting. 
 Phew ! the wind blows cold up here ! Why does not 
 the Black Man have the meeting at his own kitchen 
 hearth ? Ho ! ho ! Oh dear me ! But I in a Chris 
 tian woman and no witch ; but those must have been 
 gallant times ! " 
 
 Doubtless it was a partial wandering of the mind 
 that took the poor old woman away on this old-witch 
 flight ; and it was very curious and pitiful to witness 
 the compunction with which she returned to herself 
 and took herself to task for the preference which, in 
 her wild nature, she could not help giving to harum- 
 scarum wickedness over tame goodness. Now she tried 
 to compose herself, and talk reasonably and godly. 
 
 " Ah, Septimius, my dear child, never give way to 
 temptation, nor consent to be a wizard, though the 
 Black Man persuade you ever so hard. I know he 
 will try. He has tempted me, but I never yielded, 
 never gave him his will; and never do you, my boy, 
 though you, with your dark complexion, and your 
 brooding brow, and your eye veiled, only when it sud 
 denly looks out with a flash of fire in it, are the sort 
 of man he seeks most, and that afterwards serves him. 
 But don t do it, Septimius. But if you could be an 
 Indian, me thinks it would be better than this tame 
 life we lead. T would have been better for me, at all 
 events. Oh, how pleasant t would have been to spend 
 my life wandering in the woods, smelling the pines and 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 359 
 
 the hemlock all day, and fresh things of all kinds, and 
 no kitchen work to do, not to rake up the fire, nor 
 sweep the room, nor make the beds, but to sleep on 
 fresh boughs in a wigwam, with the leaves still on the 
 branches that made the roof ! And then to see the 
 deer brought in by the red hunter, and the blood 
 streaming from the arrow-dart! Ah! and the fight 
 too ! and the scalping ! and, perhaps, a woman might 
 creep into the battle, and steal the wounded enemy 
 away of her tribe and scalp him, and be praised for 
 it ! O Seppy, how I hate the thought of the dull life 
 women lead ! A white woman s life is so dull ! Thank 
 Heaven, I m done with it ! If I m ever to live again, 
 may I be whole Indian, please my Maker ! " 
 
 After this goodly outburst, Aunt Keziah lay quietly 
 for a few moments, and her skinny claws being clasped 
 together, and her yellow visage grinning, as pious an 
 aspect as was attainable by her harsh and pain-dis 
 torted features, Septimius perceived that she was in 
 prayer. And so it proved by what followed, for the 
 old woman turned to him with a grim tenderness on 
 her face, and stretched out her hand to be taken in his 
 own. He clasped the bony talon in both his hands. 
 
 " Seppy, my dear, I feel a great peace, and I don t 
 think there is so very much to trouble me in the other 
 world. It won t be all house-work, and keeping de 
 cent, and doing like other people there. I suppose I 
 need n t expect to ride on a broomstick, that would 
 be wrong in any kind of a world, but there may be 
 woods to wander in, and a pipe to smoke in the air of 
 heaven ; trees to hear the wind in, and to smell of, 
 and all such natural, happy things ; and by and by I 
 shall hope to see you there, Seppy, my darling boy I 
 Come by and by ; t is n t worth your while to live for- 
 
860 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 ever, even if you should find out what s wanting in the 
 drink I ve taught you. I can see a little way into the 
 next world now, and I see it to be far better than this 
 heavy and wretched old place. You 11 die when your 
 time comes ; won t you, Seppy, my darling?" 
 
 " Yes, dear auntie, when my time comes," said Sep- 
 timius. " Very likely I shall want to live no longer 
 by that time." 
 
 " Likely not," said the old woman. " I m sure I 
 don t. It is like going to sleep on my mother s breast 
 to die. So good night, dear Seppy ! " 
 
 " Good night, and God bless you, auntie ! " said Sep- 
 timius, with a gush of tears blinding him, spite of his 
 Indian nature. 
 
 The old woman composed herself, and lay quite still 
 and decorous for a short time ; then, rousing herself a 
 little, " Septiinius," said she, " is there just a little 
 drop of my drink left ? Not that I want to live any 
 longer, but if I could sip ever so little, I feel as if I 
 should step into the other world quite cheery, with it 
 warm in my heart, and not feel shy and bashful at go 
 ing among strangers." 
 
 " Not one drop, auntie." 
 
 " Ah, well, no matter ! It was not quite right, that 
 last cup. It had a queer taste. What could you have 
 put into it, Seppy, darling ? But no matter, no mat 
 ter ! It s a precious stuff, if you make it right. Don t 
 forget the herbs, Septimius. Something wrong had 
 certainly got into it." 
 
 These, except for some murmurings, some groanings 
 and unintelligible whisperings, were the last utterances 
 of poor Aunt Keziah, who did not live a great while 
 longer, and at last passed away in a great sigh^like a 
 gust of wind among the trees, she having just before 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 861 
 
 stretched out her hand again and grasped that of Sep- 
 timius ; and he sat watching her and gazing at her, 
 wondering and horrified, touched, shocked by death, of 
 which he had so unusual a terror, and by the death 
 of this creature especially, with whom he felt a sym 
 pathy that did not exist with any other person now 
 living. So long did he sit, holding her hand, that at 
 last he was conscious that it was growing cold within 
 his own, and that the stiffening fingers clutched him, 
 as if they were disposed to keep their hold, and not 
 forego the tie that had been so peculiar. 
 
 Then rushing hastily forth, he told the nearest avail 
 able neighbor, who was Robert Hagburn s mother ; and 
 she summoned some of her gossips, and came to the 
 house, and took poor Aunt Keziah in charge. They 
 talked of her with no great respect, I fear, nor much 
 sorrow, nor sense that the community would suffer any 
 great deprivation in her loss ; for, in their view, she 
 was a dram-drinking, pipe-smoking, cross-grained old 
 maid, and, as some thought, a witch ; and, at any rate, 
 with too much of the Indian blood in her to be of much 
 use ; and they hoped that now Rose Gariield would 
 have a pleasanter life, and Septimius study to be a 
 minister, and all things go well, and the place be cheer- 
 fuller. They found Aunt Keziah s bottle in the cup 
 board, and tasted and smelt of it. 
 
 " Good West Indjy as ever I tasted," said Mrs. 
 Hagburn ; " and there stands her broken pitcher, on 
 the hearth. Ah, empty ! I never could bring my 
 mind to taste it ; but now I m sorry I never did, for 
 I suppose nobody in the world can make any more 
 of it." 
 
 Septimius, meanwhile, had betaken himself to the 
 hill-top, which was his place of refuge on all occasions 
 
862 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 when the house seemed too stifled to contain him ,* 
 and there he walked to and fro, with a certain kind 
 of calmness and indifference that he wondered at ; for 
 there is hardly anything in this world so strange as 
 the quiet surface that spreads over a man s mind in 
 his greatest emergencies : so that he deems himself 
 perfectly quiet, and upbraids himself with riot feeling 
 anything, when indeed he is passion-stirred. As Sep- 
 timius walked to and fro, he looked at the rich crim 
 son flowers, which seemed to be blooming in greater 
 profusion and luxuriance than ever before. He had 
 made an experiment with these flowers, and he was 
 curious to know whether that experiment had been the 
 cause of Aunt Keziah s death. Not that he felt any 
 remorse therefor, in any case, or believed himself to 
 have committed a crime, having really intended and 
 desired nothing but good. I suppose such things (and 
 he must be a lucky physician, methinks, who has no 
 such mischief within his own experience) never weigh 
 with deadly weight on any man s conscience. Some 
 thing must be risked in the cause of science, and in 
 desperate cases something must be risked for the pa 
 tient s self. Septimius, much as he loved life, would 
 not have hesitated to put his own life to the same risk 
 that he had imposed on Aunt Keziah ; or, if he did 
 hesitate, it would have been only because, if the exper 
 iment turned out disastrously in his own person, he 
 would not be in a position to make another and more 
 successful trial ; whereas, by trying it on others, the 
 man of science still reserves himself for new efforts, 
 and does not put all the hopes of the world, so far as 
 involved in his success, on one cast of the die. 
 
 By and by he met Sibyl Dacy, who had ascended 
 the hill, as was usual with her, at sunset, and came 
 towards him, gazing earnestly in his face. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 363 
 
 " They tell me poor Aunt Keziah is no more," said 
 she. 
 
 " She is dead," said Septimius. 
 
 " The flower is a very famous medicine," said the 
 girl, " but everything depends on its being applied in 
 the proper way." 
 
 " Do you know the way, then ? " asked Septimius. 
 
 " No ; you should ask Doctor Portsoaken about that," 
 said Sibyl. 
 
 Doctor Portsoaken ! And so he should consult him. 
 That eminent chemist and scientific man had evidently 
 heard of the recipe, and at all events would be ac 
 quainted with the best methods of getting the virtues 
 out of flowers and herbs, some of which, Septimius 
 had read enough to know, were poison in one phase 
 and shape of preparation, and possessed of richest vir 
 tues in others ; their poison, as one may say, serving 
 as a dark and terrible safeguard, which Providence 
 has set to watch over their preciousness ; even as a 
 dragon, or some wild and fiendish spectre, is set to 
 watch and keep hidden gold and heaped-up diamonds. 
 A dragon always waits on everything that is very good. 
 And what would deserve the watch and ward of dan 
 ger of a dragon, or something more fatal than a dragon, 
 if not this treasure of which Septimius was in quest, 
 and the discovery and possession of which would ena 
 ble him to break down one of the strongest barriers of 
 nature ? It ought to be death, he acknowledged it, to 
 attempt such a thing ; for how changed would be life 
 if he should succeed ; how necessary it was that man 
 kind should be defended from such attempts on the 
 general rule on the part of all but him. How could 
 Death be spared? then the sire would live forever, 
 and the heir never come to his inheritance, and so he 
 
364 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 would at once hate his own father, from the percep 
 tion that he would never be out of his way, Then the 
 same class of powerful minds would always rule the 
 state, and there would never be a change of policy, 
 \Here several pages are missing. ED.] 
 
 Through such scenes Septimius sought out the direc 
 tion that Doctor Portsoaken had given him, and came 
 to the door of a house in the olden part of the town, 
 The Boston of those days had very much the aspect of 
 provincial towns in England, such as may still be seen 
 there, while our own city has undergone such wonder 
 ful changes that little likeness to what our ancestors 
 made it can now be found. The streets, crooked and 
 narrow ; the houses, many gabled, projecting, with lat 
 ticed windows and diamond panes ; without sidewalks ; 
 with rough pavements. 
 
 Septimius knocked loudly at the door, nor had long 
 to wait before a serving-maid appeared, who seemed 
 to be of English nativity ; and in reply to his request 
 for Doctor Portsoaken bade him come in, and led him 
 up a staircase with broad landing-places ; then tapped 
 at the door of a room, and was responded to by a 
 gruff voice saying, " Come in ! " The woman held the 
 door open, and Septimius saw the veritable Doctor 
 Portsoaken in an old, faded morning-gown, and with a 
 nightcap on his head, his German pipe in his mouth, 
 and a brandy-bottle, to the best of our belief, on the 
 table by his side. 
 
 " Come in, come in," said the gruff doctor, nodding 
 to Septimius. " I remember you. Come in, man, and 
 tell me your business." 
 
 Septimius did come in, but was so struck by the 
 aspect of Dr Portsoaken s apartment, and his gown, 
 
SEP 773/7 (75 FELT ON. 365 
 
 that he did not immediately tell his business. In the 
 first place, everything looked very dusty and dirty, so 
 that evidently no woman had ever been admitted into 
 this sanctity of a place ; a fact made all the more evi 
 dent by the abundance of spiders, who had spun their 
 webs about the walls and ceiling in the wildest appar 
 ent confusion, though doubtless each individual spider 
 knew the cordage which he had lengthened out of his 
 own miraculous bowels. But it was really strange. 
 They had festooned their cordage on whatever was 
 stationary in the room, making a sort of gray, dusky 
 tapestry, that waved portentously in the breeze, and 
 flapped, heavy and dismal, each with its spider in the 
 centre of his own system. And what was most mar 
 vellous was a spider over the doctor s head ; a spider, 
 I think, of some South American breed, with a cir 
 cumference of its many legs as big, unless I am misin 
 formed, as a teacup, and with a body in the midst as 
 large as a dollar ; giving the spectator horrible qualms 
 as to what would be the consequence if this spider 
 should be crushed, and, at the same time, suggesting 
 the poisonous danger of suffering such a monster to 
 live. The monster, however, sat in the midst of the 
 stalwart cordage of his web, right over the doctor s 
 head ; and he looked, with all those complicated lines, 
 like the symbol of a conjurer or crafty politician in 
 the midst of the complexity of his scheme ; and Sep- 
 timius wondered if he were not the type of Dr. Port- 
 soaken himself, who, fat and bloated as the spider, 
 seemed to be the centre of some dark contrivance. 
 .And could it be that poor Septimins was typified by 
 the fascinated fly, doomed to be entangled by the web? 
 " Good day to you," said the gruff doctor, taking 
 his pipe from his mouth. " Here I am, with my 
 
366 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 brother spiders, in the midst of my web. I told you, 
 you remember, the wonderful efficacy which I had dis 
 covered in spiders webs ; and this is my laboratory, 
 where I have hundreds of workmen concocting my 
 panacea for me. Is it not a lovely sight ? " 
 
 "A wonderful one, at least," said Septimius. "That 
 one above your head, the monster, is calculated to give 
 a very favorable idea of your theory. What a quan 
 tity of poison there must be in him ! " 
 
 " Poison, do you call it ? " quoth the grim doctor. 
 " That s entirely as it may be used. Doubtless his 
 bite would send a man to kingdom come ; but, on the 
 other hand, no one need want a better life-line than 
 that fellow s web. He and I are firm friends, and I 
 believe he would know my enemies by instinct. But 
 come, sit clown, and take a glass of brandy. No? 
 Well, I 11 drink it for you. And how is the old aunt 
 yonder, with her infernal nostrum, the bitterness and 
 naiiseousness of which my poor stomach has not yet 
 forgotten ? " 
 
 " My Aunt Keziah is no more," said Septimius. 
 
 " No more ! Well, I trust in Heaven she has car 
 ried her secret with her," said the doctor. " If any 
 thing could comfort you for her loss, it would be that. 
 But what brings you to Boston ? " 
 
 " Only a dried flower or two," said Septimius, pro 
 ducing some specimens of the strange growth of the 
 grave. " I want you to tell me about them." 
 
 The naturalist took the flowers in his hand, one of 
 which had the root appended, and examined them with 
 great minuteness and some surprise ; two or thrse 
 times looking in Septimius s face with a puzzled and 
 inquiring air ; then examined them again. 
 
 " Do you tell me," said he, " that the plant has been 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 367 
 
 found indigenous in this country, and in your part of 
 it ? And in what locality ? 
 
 u Indigenous, so far as I know," answered Septim- 
 ius. " As to the locality," he hesitated a little, 
 " it is on a small hillock, scarcely bigger than a mole 
 hill, on the hill-top behind my house." 
 
 The naturalist looked steadfastly at him with red, 
 burning eyes, under his deep, impending, shaggy 
 brows ; then again at the flower. 
 
 " Flower, do you call it ? " said he, after a reexam- 
 ination. " This is no flower, though it so closely re 
 sembles one, and a beautiful one, yes, most beauti 
 ful. But it is no flower. It is a certain very rare 
 fungus, so rare as almost to be thought fabulous ; 
 and there are the strangest superstitions, coming down 
 from ancient times, as to the mode of production. 
 What sort of manure had been put into that hillock ? 
 AVas it merely dried leaves, the refuse of the forest, or 
 something else ? " 
 
 Septimius hesitated a little ; but there was no rea 
 son why he should not disclose the truth, as much 
 of it as Doctor Portsoaken cared to know. 
 
 " The hillock where it grew," answered he, " was a 
 grave." 
 
 " A grave ! Strange ! strange ! " quoth Doctor 
 Portsoaken. " Xow these old superstitions sometimes 
 prove to have a germ of truth in them, which some 
 philosopher has doubtless long ago, in forgotten ages, 
 discovered and made known ; but in process of time 
 his learned memory passes away, but the truth, undis 
 covered, survives him, and the people get hold of it, 
 and make it the nucleus of all sorts of folly. So it 
 grew out of a grave ! Yes, yes ; and probably it 
 would have grown out of any other dead flesh, as well 
 
368 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 as that of a human being ; a dog would have answered 
 the purpose as well as a man. You must know that 
 the seeds of fungi are scattered so universally over the 
 world that, only comply with the conditions, and you 
 will produce them everywhere. Prepare the bed it 
 loves, and a mushroom will spring up spontaneously, 
 an excellent food, like manna from heaven. So su 
 perstition says, kill your deadliest enemy, and plant 
 him, and he will come up in a delicious fungus, which 
 I presume to be this ; steep him, or distil him, and he 
 will make an elixir of life for you. I suppose there is 
 some foolish symbolism or other about the matter ; but 
 the fact I affirm to be nonsense. Dead flesh under 
 some certain conditions of rain and sunshine, not at 
 present ascertained by science, will produce the fun 
 gus, whether the manure be friend, or foe, or cattle." 
 
 "And as to its medical efficacy?" asked Septimius. 
 
 " That may be great for aught I know," said Port- 
 soaken ; " but I am content with my cobwebs. You 
 may seek it out for yourself. But if the poor fellow 
 lost his life in the supposition that he might be a use 
 ful ingredient in a recipe, you are rather an unscrupu 
 lous practitioner." 
 
 " The person whose mortal relics fill that grave," 
 said Septimius, " was no enemy of mine (no private 
 enemy, I mean, though he stood among the enemies of 
 my country), nor had I anything to gain by his death. 
 I strove to avoid aiming at his life, but he compelled 
 me." 
 
 " Many a chance shot brings down the bird," said 
 Doctor Portsoaken. " You say you had no interest in 
 his death. We shall see that in the end." 
 
 Septimius did not try to follow the conversation 
 among the mysterious hints with which the doctor 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 369 
 
 chose to involve it ; but he now sought to gain some 
 information from him as to the mode of preparing the 
 recipe, and whether he thought it would be most effica 
 cious as a decoction, or as a distillation. The learned 
 chemist supported most decidedly the latter opinion, 
 and showed Septiinius how he might make for himself 
 a simpler apparatus, with no better aids than Aunt 
 Keziah s teakettle, and one or two trifling things, 
 which the doctor himself supplied, by which all might 
 be done with every necessary scrupulousness. 
 
 Let me look again at the formula," said he. 
 " There are a good many minute directions that ap 
 pear trifling, but it is not safe to neglect any minutiaj 
 in the preparation of an affair like this ; because, as it 
 is all mysterious and unknown ground together, we 
 cannot tell which may be the important and efficacious 
 part. For instance, when all else is done, the recipe 
 is to be exposed seven days to the sun at noon. That 
 does not look very important, but it may be. Then 
 again, 4 Steep it in moonlight during the second quar 
 ter. That s all moonshine, one would think ; but 
 there s no saying. It is singular, with such precise- 
 ness, that no distinct directions are given whether to 
 infuse, decoct, distil, or what other way ; but my ad 
 vice is to distil." 
 
 I will do it," said Septiinius, " and not a direction 
 shall be neglected." 
 
 " I shall be curious to know the result," said Doctor 
 Portsoaken. " and am glad to see the zeal with which 
 you enter into the matter. A very valuable medicine 
 may be recovered to science through your agency, and 
 you may make your fortune by it ; though, for my 
 part, 1 prefer to trust to my cobwebs. This spider, 
 
 VOL* xi. 24 
 
870 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 now, Is not he a lovely object ? See, lie is quite capa 
 ble of knowledge and affection." 
 
 There seemed, in fact, to be some mode of communi 
 cation between the doctor and his spider, for on some 
 sign given by the former, imperceptible to Septimius, 
 the many-legged monster let himself down by a cord, 
 which he extemporized out of his own bowels, and 
 came dangling his huge bulk down before his master s 
 face, while the latter lavished many epithets of endear 
 ment upon him, ludicrous, and not without horror, as 
 applied to such a hideous production of nature. 
 
 " I assure you," said Dr. Portsoaken, " I run some 
 risk from my intimacy with this lovely jewel, and if I 
 behave not all the more prudently, your countrymen 
 will hang me for a wizard, and annihilate this precious 
 spider as my familiar. There would be a loss to the 
 world ; not small in my own case, but enormous in the 
 case of the spider. Look at him now, and see if the 
 mere un instructed observation does not discover a won 
 derful value in him." 
 
 In truth, when looked at closely, the spider really 
 showed that a care and art had been bestowed upon 
 his make, not merely as regards curiosity, but absolute 
 beauty, that seemed to indicate that he must be a 
 rather distinguished creature in the view of Provi 
 dence ; so variegated was he with a thousand minute 
 spots, spots of color, glorious radiance, and such a 
 brilliance was attained by many conglomerated brill 
 iancies ; and it was very strange that all this care was 
 bestowed on a creature that, probably, had never been 
 carefully considered except by the two pair of eyes 
 that were now upon it ; and that, in spite of its beauty 
 and magnificence, could only be looked at with an ef 
 fort to overcome the mysterious repulsiveness of , t its 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 371 
 
 presence ; for all the time that Septimius looked and 
 admired, he still hated the thing, and thought it 
 wrong that it was ever born, and wished that it could 
 be annihilated. Whether the spider was conscious of 
 the wish, we are unable to say ; but certainly Septim 
 ius felt as if he were hostile to him, and had a mind 
 to sting him ; and, in fact, Dr. Portsoaken seemed of 
 the same opinion. 
 
 " Aha, my friend," said he, " I would advise you 
 not to come too near Orontes ! He is a lovely beast, 
 it is true; but in a certain recess of this splendid 
 form of his he keeps a modest supply of a certain po 
 tent and piercing poison, which would produce a won 
 derful effect on any flesh to which he chose to apply 
 it. A powerful fellow is Orontes ; and he has a great 
 sense of his own dignity and importance, and will not 
 allow it to be imposed on." 
 
 Septimius moved from the vicinity of the spider, 
 who, in fact, retreated, by climbing up his cord, and 
 ensconced himself in the middle of his web, where he 
 remained waiting for his prey. Septimius wondered 
 whether the doctor were symbolized by the spider, and 
 was likewise waiting in the middle of his web for his 
 prey. As he saw no way, however, in which the doc 
 tor could make a profit out of himself, or how he could 
 be victimized, the thought did not much disturb his 
 equanimity. He was about to take his leave, but the 
 doctor, in a derisive kind of way, bade him sit still, 
 for he purposed keeping him as a guest, that night, at 
 least. 
 
 44 1 owe you a dinner," said he, " and will pay it 
 with a supper and knowledge ; and before we part I 
 have certain inquiries to make, of which you may not 
 at first see the object, but yet are not quite purpose* 
 
372 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 less. My familiar, up aloft there, has whispered me 
 something about you, and I rely greatly on his intima 
 tions." 
 
 Septimius, who was sufficiently common-sensible, 
 and invulnerable to superstitious influences on every 
 point except that to which he had surrendered himself, 
 was easily prevailed upon to stay ; for he found the 
 singular, charlatanic, mysterious lore of the man curi 
 ous, and he had enough of real science to at least 
 make him an object of interest to one who knew noth 
 ing of the matter; and Septimius s acuteness, too, was 
 piqued in trying to make out what manner of man he 
 really was, and how much in him was genuine science 
 and self -belief , and how much quackery and pretension 
 and conscious empiricism. So he stayed, and supped 
 with the doctor at a table heaped more bountifully, 
 and with rarer dainties, than Septimius had ever be 
 fore conceived of ; and in his simpler cognizance, here 
 tofore, of eating merely to live, he could not but won 
 der to see a man of thought caring to eat of more than 
 one dish, so that most of the meal, on his part, was 
 spent in seeing the doctor feed and hearing him dis 
 course upon his food. 
 
 " If man lived only to eat," quoth the doctor, "one 
 life would not suffice, not merely to exhaust the pleas 
 ure of it, but even to get the rudiments of it." 
 
 When this important business was over, the doctor 
 and his guest sat down again in his laboratory, where 
 the former took care to have his usual companion, the 
 black bottle, at his elbow, and filled his pipe, and 
 seemed to feel a certain sullen, genial, fierce, brutal, 
 kindly mood enough, and looked at Septimius with a 
 sort of friendship, as if he had as lief shake hands 
 with him as knock him down. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 373 
 
 " Now for a talk about business," said he. 
 
 Septimius thought, however, that the doctor s talk 
 began, at least, at a sufficient remoteness from any 
 practical business ; for he began to question about his 
 remote ancestry, what he knew, or what record had 
 been preserved, of the first emigrant from England ; 
 whence, from what shire or part of England, that an 
 cestor had come ; whether there were any memorial of 
 any kind remaining of him, any letters or written doc 
 uments, wills, deeds, or other legal paper ; in short, all 
 about him. 
 
 Septimius could not satisfactorily see whether these 
 inquiries were made with any definite purpose, or from 
 a mere general curiosity to discover how a family of 
 early settlement in America might still be linked with 
 the old country ; whether there were any tendrils 
 stretching across the gulf of a hundred and fifty 
 years by which the American branch of the family 
 was separated from the trunk of the family tree in 
 England. The doctor partly explained this. 
 
 " You must know," said he, " that the name you 
 bear, Felton, is one formerly of much eminence and 
 repute in my part of England, and, indeed, very re 
 cently possessed of wealth and station. I should like 
 to know if you are of that race.* 
 
 Septimius answered with such facts and traditions 
 as had come to his knowledge respecting his family 
 history ; a sort of history that is quite as liable to be 
 mythical, in its early and distant stages, as that of 
 Rome, and, indeed, seldom goes three or four genera 
 tions back without getting into a mist really impene 
 trable, though great, gloomy, and magnificent shapes 
 of men often seem to loom in it, who, if they could be 
 brought close to the naked eye, would turn out as com 
 
374 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 monplace as the descendants who wonder at and ad 
 mire them. He remembered Aunt Keziah s legend, 
 and said he had reason to believe that his first ances 
 tor came over at a somewhat earlier date than the 
 first Puritan settlers, and dwelt among the Indians, 
 where (and here the young man cast down his eyes, 
 having the customary American abhorrence for any 
 mixture of blood) he had intermarried with the daugh 
 ter of a sagamore, and succeeded to his rule. This 
 might have happened as early as the end of Elizabeth s 
 reign, perhaps later. It was impossible to decide dates 
 on such a matter. There had been a son of this con 
 nection, perhaps more than one, but certainly one son, 
 who, on the arrival of the Puritans, was a youth, his 
 father appearing to have been slain in some outbreak 
 of the tribe, perhaps owing to the jealousy of promi 
 nent chiefs at seeing their natural authority abrogated 
 or absorbed by a man of different race. He slightly 
 alluded to the supernatural attributes that gathered 
 round this predecessor, but in a way to imply that he 
 put no faith in them ; for Septimius s natural keen 
 sense and perception kept him from betraying his 
 weaknesses to the doctor, by the same instinctive and 
 subtle caution with which a madman can so well con 
 ceal his infirmity. 
 
 On the arrival of the Puritans, they had found 
 among the Indians a youth partly of their own blood, 
 able, though imperfectly, to speak their language, 
 having, at least, some early recollections of it, in 
 heriting, also, a share of influence over the tribe on 
 which his father had grafted him. It was natural that 
 they should pay especial attention to this youth, con 
 sider it their duty to give him religious instruction in 
 the faith of his fathers, and try to use him as a means 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 375 
 
 of influencing his tribe. They did so, but did not suc 
 ceed in swaying the tribe by his means, their success 
 having been limited to winning the half-Indian from 
 the wild ways of his mother s people, into a certain 
 partial, but decent accommodation to those of the Eng 
 lish. A tendency to civilization w r as brought out in 
 his character by their rigid training ; at least, his sav 
 age wildness was broken. He built a house among 
 them, with a good deal of the wigwam, no doubt, in its 
 style of architecture, but still a permanent house, near 
 which he established a corn - field, a pumpkin-garden, 
 a melon-patch, and became farmer enough to be en 
 titled to ask the hand of a Puritan maiden. There he 
 spent his life, with some few instances of temporary 
 relapse into savage wildness, when he fished in the 
 river Musquehannah, or in Walden, or strayed in the 
 woods, when he should have been planting or hoeing ; 
 but, on the whole, the race had been redeemed from 
 barbarism in his person, and in the succeeding gener 
 ations had been tamed more and more. The second 
 generation had been distinguished in the Indian wars 
 of the provinces, and then intermarried with the stock 
 of a distinguished Puritan divine, by which means 
 Septimius could reckon great and learned men, schol 
 ars of old Cambridge, among his ancestry on one side, 
 while on the other it ran up to the early emigrants, 
 who seemed to have been remarkable men, and to that 
 strange wild lineage of Indian chiefs, w r hose blood was 
 like that of persons not qmte human, intermixed with 
 civilized blood. 
 
 " I wonder," said the doctor, musingly, " whether 
 there are really no documents to ascertain the epoch 
 at which that old first emigrant came over, and whence 
 he came, and precisely from what English family. 
 
376 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 Often the last heir of some respectable name dies in 
 England, and we say that the family is extinct ; 
 whereas, very possibly, it may be abundantly flourish 
 ing in the New World, revived by the rich infusion of 
 new blood in a new soil, instead of growing feebler, 
 heavier, stupider, each year by sticking to an old soil, 
 intermarrying over and over again with the same re 
 spectable families, till it has made common stock of all 
 their vices, weaknesses, madnesses. Have you no doc 
 uments, I say, no muniment deed ? " 
 
 "None," said Septimius. 
 
 "No old furniture, desks, trunks, chests, cabinets?" 
 
 "You must remember," said Septimius, "that my 
 Indian ancestor was not very likely to have brought 
 such things out of the forest with him. A wandering 
 Indian does not carry a chest of papers with him. I 
 do remember, in my childhood, a little old iron-bound 
 chest, or coffer, of which the key was lost, and which 
 my Aunt Keziah used to say came down from her great- 
 great-grandfather. I don t know what has become of 
 it, and my poor old aunt kept it among her own treas 
 ures." 
 
 " Well, my friend, do you hunt up that old coffer, 
 and, just as a matter of curiosity, let me see the con 
 tents." 
 
 " I have other things to do," said Septimius. 
 
 " Perhaps so," quoth the doctor, " but no other, as 
 it may turn out, of quite so much importance as this. 
 I 11 tell you fairly : the heir of a great English house 
 is lately dead, and the estate lies open to any well- 
 sustained, perhaps to any plausible, claimant. If it 
 should appear from the records of that family, as I 
 have some reason to suppose, that a member of it, 
 who would now represent the older branch, disap 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 377 
 
 peared mysteriously and unaccountably, at a date cor 
 responding with what might be ascertained as that of 
 your ancestor s first appearance in this country ; if 
 any reasonable proof can be brought forward, on the 
 part of the representatives of that white sagamore, that 
 wizard pow-wow, or however you call him, that he was 
 the disappearing Englishman, why, a good case is made 
 out. Do you feel no interest in such a prospect ? " 
 
 " Very little, I confess," said Septiinius. 
 
 " Very little ! " said the grim doctor, impatiently. 
 " Do not you see that, if you make good your claim, 
 you establish for yourself a position among the Eng 
 lish aristocracy, and succeed to a noble English es 
 tate, an ancient hall, where your forefathers have 
 dwelt since the Conqueror ; splendid gardens, heredi 
 tary woods and parks, to which anything America can 
 show is despicable, all thoroughly cultivated and 
 adorned, with the care and ingenuity of centuries ; 
 and an income, a month of which would be greater 
 wealth than any of your American ancestors, raking 
 and scraping for his lifetime, has ever got together, 
 as the accumulated result of the toil and penury by 
 which he has sacrificed body and soul ? " 
 
 "That strain of Indian blood is in me yet," said 
 Septiinius, " and it makes me despise, no, not de 
 spise ; for I can see their desirableness for other peo 
 ple, but it makes me reject for myself what you think 
 so valuable. I do not care for these common aims. 
 I have ambition, but it is for prizes such as other men 
 cannot gain, and do not think of aspiring after. I 
 coidd not live in the habits of English life, as I con 
 ceive it to be, and would not, for my part, be burdened 
 with the great estate you speak of. It might answer 
 my purpose for a time. It would suit me well enough 
 
378 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 to try that mode of life, as well as a hundred others, 
 but only for a time. It is of no permanent impor 
 tance." 
 
 ."I 11 tell you what it is, young man," said the doc 
 tor, testily, "you have something in your brain that 
 makes you talk very foolishly ; and I have partly a 
 suspicion what it is, only I can t think that a fellow 
 who is really gifted with respectable sense, in other 
 directions, should be such a confounded idiot in this. 
 
 Septimius blushed, but held his peace, and the con 
 versation languished after this ; the doctor grimly 
 smoking his pipe, and by no means increasing the 
 milkiness of his mood by frequent applications to the 
 black bottle, until Septimius intimated that he would 
 like to go to bed. The old woman was summoned, 
 and ushered him to his chamber. 
 
 At breakfast, the doctor partially renewed the sub 
 ject which he seemed to consider most important in 
 yesterday s conversation. 
 
 " My young friend," said he, " I advise you to look 
 in cellar and garret, or wherever you consider the 
 most likely place, for that iron-bound coffer. There 
 may be nothing in it ; it may be full of musty love- 
 letters, or old sermons, or receipted bills of a hundred 
 years ago ; but it may contain what will be worth to 
 you an estate of five thousand pounds a year. It is a 
 pity the old woman with the damnable decoction is 
 gone off. Look it up, I say." 
 
 " Well, well," said Septimius, abstractedly, " when 
 I can find time." 
 
 So saying, he took his leave, and retraced his way 
 back to his home. He had not seemed like himself 
 during the time that elapsed since he left it, and it 
 appeared an infinite space that he had lived through 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 379 
 
 and travelled over, and he fancied it hardly possible 
 that he could ever get back again. But now, with 
 every step that he took, he found himself getting mis 
 erably back into the old enchanted land. The mist 
 rose up about him, the pale mist-bow of ghostly prom 
 ise curved before him ; and he trod back again, poor 
 boy, out of the clime of real effort, into the land of 
 his dreams and shadowy enterprise. 
 
 " How was it," said he, " that I can have been so 
 untrue to my convictions ? Whence came that dark 
 and dull despair that weighed upon me ? Why did I 
 let the mocking mood which I was conscious of in that 
 brutal, brandy-burnt sceptic have such an influence on 
 me ? Let him guzzle ! He shall not tempt me from 
 my pursuit, with his lure of an estate and name 
 among those heavy English beef-eaters of whom he is 
 a brother. My destiny is one which kings might 
 envy, and strive in vain to buy with principalities and 
 kingdoms." 
 
 So he trod on air almost, in the latter parts of his 
 journey, and instead of being wearied, grew more airy 
 with the latter miles that brought him to his wayside 
 home. 
 
 So now Septimius sat down and began in earnest 
 his endeavors and experiments to prepare the medi 
 cine, according to the mysterious terms of the recipe. 
 It seemed not possible to do it, so many rebuffs and 
 disappointments did he meet with. No effort would 
 produce a combination answering to the description of 
 the recipe, which propounded a brilliant, gold-colored 
 liquid, clear as the air itself, with a certain fragrance 
 which was peculiar to it, and also, what was the more 
 individual test of the correctness of the mixture, a 
 certain coldness of the feeling, a chillness which was 
 
380 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 described as peculiarly refreshing and invigorating. 
 With all his trials, he produced nothing but turbid 
 results, clouded generally, or lacking something in 
 color, and never that fragrance, and never that cold 
 ness which was to be the test of truth. He studied 
 all the books of chemistry which at that period were 
 attainable, a period when, in the world, it was a 
 science far unlike what it has since become ; and when 
 Septimius had no instruction in this country, nor could 
 obtain any beyond the dark, mysterious charlatanic 
 communications of Doctor Portsoaken. So that, in 
 fact, he seemed to be discovering for himself the sci 
 ence through which he was to work. He seemed to 
 do everything that was stated in the recipe, and yet 
 no results came from it ; the liquid that he produced 
 was nauseous to the smell, to taste it he had a horri 
 ble repugnance, turbid, nasty, reminding him in most 
 respects of poor Aunt Keziah s elixir ; and it was a 
 body without a soul, and that body dead. And so 
 it went on; and the poor, half -maddened Septimius 
 began to think that nis immortal life was preserved 
 by the mere effort of seeking for it, but was to be 
 spent in the quest, and was therefore to be made an 
 eternity of abortive misery. He pored over the doc 
 ument that had so possessed him, turning its crabbed 
 "meanings every way, trying to get out of it some new 
 light, often tempted to fling it into the fire which he 
 kept under his retort, and let the whole thing go ; but 
 then again, soon rising out of that black depth of de 
 spair, into a determination to do what he had so long 
 striven for. With such intense action of mind as he 
 brought to bear on this paper, it is wonderful that it 
 was not spiritually distilled ; that its essence did not 
 arise, purified from all alloy of falsehood, from all 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTGN. 381 
 
 turbidness of obscurity and ambiguity, and form a 
 pure essence of truth and invigorating motive, if of 
 any it were capable. In this interval, Septimius is 
 said by tradition to have found out many wonderful 
 secrets that were almost beyond the scope of science. 
 It was said that old Aunt Keziah used to come with 
 a coal of fire from unknown furnaces, to light his dis 
 tilling apparatus ; it was said, too, that the ghost of 
 the old lord, whose ingenuity had propounded this 
 puzzle for his descendants, used to come at midnight 
 and strive to explain to him this manuscript ; that the 
 Black Man, too, met him on the hill-top, and promised 
 him an immediate release from his difficulties, provided 
 he would kneel down and worship him, and sign his 
 name in his book, an old, iron - clasped, much -worn 
 volume, which he produced from his ample pockets, 
 and showed him in it the names of many a man whose 
 name has become historic, and above whose ashes kept 
 watch an inscription testifying to his virtues and de 
 votion, old autographs, for the Black Man was 
 the original autograph collector. 
 
 But these, no doubt, were foolish stories, conceived 
 and propagated in chimney-corners, while yet there 
 were chimney-corners and firesides, and smoky flues. 
 There was no truth in such things, I am sure; the 
 Black Man had changed his tactics, and knew better 
 than to lure the human soul thus to come to him with 
 his musty autograph-book. So Septimius fought with 
 his difficulty by himself, as many a beginner in science 
 has done before him ; and to his efforts in this way 
 are popularly attributed many herb-drinks, and some 
 kinds of spruce-beer, and nostrums used for rheuma 
 tism, sore throat, and typhus fever ; but I rather think 
 they all came from Aunt Keziah ; or perhaps, liko 
 
382 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 jokes to Joe Miller, all sorts of quack medicines, flock 
 ing at large through the community, are assigned to 
 him or her. The people have a little mistaken the 
 character and purpose of poor Septimius, and remem 
 ber him as a quack doctor, instead of a seeker for a 
 secret, not the less sublime and elevating because it 
 happened to be unattainable. 
 
 1 know not through what medium or by what 
 means, but it got noised abroad that Septimius was 
 engaged in some mysterious work ; and, indeed, his 
 seclusion, his absorption, his indifference to all that 
 was going on in that weary time of war, looked strange 
 enough to indicate that it must be some most impor 
 tant business that engrossed him. On the few occa 
 sions when he came out from his immediate haunts into 
 the village, he had a strange, owl-like appearance, un 
 combed, unbrushed, his hair long and tangled ; his 
 face, they said, darkened with smoke ; his cheeks pale ; 
 the indentation of his brow deeper than ever before ; 
 an earnest, haggard, sulking look ; and so he went 
 hastily along the village street, feeling as if all eyes 
 might find out.what he had in his mind from his ap 
 pearance ; taking by-ways where they were to be found, 
 going long distances through woods and fields, rather 
 than short ones where the way lay through the fre 
 quented haunts of men. For he shunned the glances 
 of his fellow-men, probably because he had learnt to 
 consider them not as fellows, because he was seeking 
 to withdraw himself from the common bond and des 
 tiny, because he felt, too, that on that account his 
 fellow-men would consider him as a traitor, an enemy, 
 one who had deserted their cause, and tried to with 
 draw his feeble shoulder from under that great bur 
 den of death which is imposed on all men to bear, 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 383 
 
 and which, if one could escape, each other would feel 
 his load proportionally heavier. With these beings 
 of a moment he had no longer any common cause ; 
 they must go their separate ways, yet apparently the 
 same, they on the broad, dusty, beaten path, that 
 seemed always full, but from which continually they 
 so strangely vanished into invisibility, no one know 
 ing, nor long inquiring, what had become of them ; he 
 on his lonely path, where he should tread secure, with 
 no trouble but the loneliness, which would be none to 
 him. For a little while he would seem to keep them 
 company, but soon they would all drop away, the min 
 ister, his accustomed towns - people, Robert Hagburn, 
 Rose, Sibyl Dacy, all leaving him in blessed un- 
 knownness to adopt new temporary relations, and take 
 a new course. 
 
 Sometimes, however, the prospect a little chilled 
 him. Could he give them all up, the sweet sister ; 
 the friend of his childhood ; the grave instructor of 
 his youth ; the homely, life-known faces ? Yes ; there 
 were such rich possibilities in the future : for he would 
 seek out the noblest minds, the deepest hearts in every 
 age, and be the friend of human time. Only it might 
 be sweet to have one unchangeable companion ; for, 
 unless he strung the pearls and diamonds of life upon 
 one unbroken affection, he sometimes thought that his 
 life would have nothing to give it unity and identity ; 
 and so the longest life would be but an aggregate of 
 insulated fragments, which would have no relation to 
 one another. And so it would not be one life, but 
 many unconnected ones. Unless he could look into 
 the same eyes, through the mornings of future time, 
 opening and blessing him with the fresh gleam of love 
 and joy ; unless the same sweet voice could melt his 
 
384 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 thoughts together ; unless some sympathy of a life 
 side by side with his could knit them into one ; look 
 ing back upon the same things, looking forward to 
 the same ; the long, thin thread of an individual life, 
 stretching onward and onward, would cease to be visi 
 ble, cease to be felt, cease, by and by, to have any real 
 bigness in proportion to its length, and so be virtually 
 non-existent, except in the mere inconsiderable Now. 
 If a group of chosen friends, chosen out of all the 
 world for their adaptedness, could go on in endless life 
 together, keeping themselves mutually warm on the 
 high, desolate way, then none of them need ever sigh 
 to be comforted in the pitiable snugness of the grave. 
 If one especial soul might be his companion, then how 
 complete the fence of mutual arms, the warmth of 
 close-pressing breast to breast ! Might there be one ! 
 O Sibyl Dacy ! 
 
 Perhaps it could not be. Who but himself could 
 undergo that great trial, and hardship, and self-denial, 
 and firm purpose, never wavering, never sinking for a 
 moment, keeping his grasp on life like one who holds 
 up by main force a sinking and drowning friend ? 
 how could a woman do it ! He must then give up the 
 thought. There was a choice, friendship, and the 
 love of woman, -the long life of immortality. There 
 was something heroic and ennobling in choosing the 
 latter. And so he walked with the mysterious girl on 
 the hill-top, and sat down beside her on the grave, 
 which still ceased not to redden, portentously beauti 
 ful, with that unnatural flower, and they talked to 
 gether ; and Septimius looked on her weird beauty, 
 and often said to himself, " This, too, will pass away ; 
 she is not capable of what I am ; she is a woman. It 
 must be a manly and courageous and forcible spirit, 
 
4 
 
 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 385 
 
 vastly rich in all three particulars, that has strength 
 enough to live ! Ah, is it surely so ? There is such 
 a dark sympathy between us, she knows me so well, 
 she touches my inmost so at unawares, that I could 
 almost think I had a companion here. Perhaps not 
 so soon. At the end of centuries I might wed one ; 
 not now." 
 
 But once he said to Sibyl Dacy, " Ah, how sweet it 
 would be sweet for me, at least if this inter 
 course might last forever ! " 
 
 " That is an awful idea that you present," said 
 Sibyl, with a hardly perceptible, involuntary shudder ; 
 " always on this hill-top, always passing and repassing 
 this little hillock ; always smelling these flowers ! I 
 always looking at this deep chasm in your brow ; you 
 always seeing my bloodless cheek ! doing this till 
 these trees crumble away, till perhaps a new forest 
 grew up wherever this white race had planted, and a 
 race of savages again possess the soil. I shoidd not 
 like it. My mission here is but for a short time, and 
 will soon be accomplished, and then I go." 
 
 " You do not rightly estimate the way in which the 
 long time might be spent," said Septimius. " We 
 would find out a thousand uses of this world, uses 
 and enjoyments which now men never dream of, be 
 cause the world is just held to their mouths, and then 
 snatched away again, before they have time hardly to 
 taste it, instead of becoming acquainted with the deli- 
 ciousness of this great world-fruit. But you speak of 
 a mission, and as if you were now in performance of 
 it. Will you not tell me what it is ? " 
 
 " No," said Sibyl Dacy, smiling on him. " But one 
 day you shall know what it is, none sooner nor bet 
 ter than you, so much I promise you." 
 
 VOL. xi. 25 
 
I 
 386 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 " Are we friends ? " asked Septimius, somewhat 
 puzzled by her look. 
 
 " We have an intimate relation to one another," re 
 plied Sibyl. 
 
 " And what is it ? " demanded Septimius. 
 
 " That will appear hereafter," answered Sibyl, again 
 smiling on him. 
 
 He knew not what to make of this, nor whether to 
 be exalted or depressed ; but, at all events, there 
 seemed to be an accordance, a striking together, a 
 mutual touch of their two natures, as if, somehow or 
 other, they were performing the same part of solemn 
 music ; so that he felt his soul thrill, and at the same 
 time shudder. Some sort of sympathy there surely 
 was, but of what nature he could not tell ; though 
 often he was impelled to ask himself the same ques 
 tion he asked Sibyl, " Are we friends ? " because of a 
 sudden shock and repulsion that came between them, 
 and passed away in a moment ; and there would be 
 Sibyl, smiling askance on him. 
 
 And then he toiled away again at his chemical pur 
 suits ; tried to mingle things harmoniously that ap 
 parently were not born to be mingled ; discovering a 
 science for himself, and mixing it up with absurdities 
 that other chemists had long ago flung aside ; but still 
 there would be that turbid aspect, still that lack of 
 fragrance, still that want of the peculiar temperature, 
 that was announced as the test of the matter. Over 
 and over again he set the crystal vase in the sun, and 
 let it stay there the appointed time, hoping that it 
 would digest in such a manner as to bring about the 
 desired result. 
 
 One day, as it happened, his eyes fell upon the 
 silver key which he had taken from the breast of t^he 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 387 
 
 dead young man, and he thought within himself that 
 this might have something to do with the seemingly 
 unattainable success of his pursuit. He remembered, 
 for the first time, the grim doctor s emphatic injunc 
 tion to search for the little iron-bound box of which 
 he had spoken, and which had come down with such 
 legends attached to it ; as, for instance, that it held 
 the Devil s bond with his great-great-grandfather, now 
 cancelled by the surrender of the latter s soul ; that 
 it held the golden key of Paradise ; that it was full of 
 old gold, or of the dry leaves of a hundred years ago ; 
 that it had a familiar fiend in it, who would be ex 
 orcised by the turning of the lock, but would other 
 wise remain a prisoner till the solid oak of the box 
 mouldered, or the iron rusted away ; so that between 
 fear and the loss of the key, this curious old box had 
 remained unopened, till itself was lost. 
 
 But now Septimius, putting together what Aunt Ive- 
 ziah had said in her dying moments, and what Doc 
 tor Portsoaken had insisted upon, suddenly came to 
 the conclusion that the possession of the old iron box 
 might be of the greatest importance to him. So he 
 set himself at once to think where he had last seen it. 
 Aunt Keziah, of course, had put it away in some safe 
 place or other, either in cellar or garret, no doubt; 
 so Septimius, in the intervals of his other occupa 
 tions, devoted several days to the search ; and not to 
 weaiy the reader with the particulars of the quest for 
 an old box, suffice it to say that he at last found it, 
 amongst various other antique rubbish, in a corner of 
 the garret. 
 
 It was a very rusty old thing, not more than a foot 
 in length, and half as much in height and breadth ; but 
 most ponderously iron-bound, with bars, and corners, 
 
888 SEPT I Ml US FELT ON. 
 
 and all sorts of fortification ; looking very much like 
 an ancient alms-box, such as are to be seen in the older 
 rural churches of England, and which seem to intimate 
 great distrust of those to whom the funds are com 
 mitted. Indeed, there might be a shrewd suspicion 
 that some ancient church beadle among Septimius s 
 forefathers, when emigrating from England, had taken 
 the opportunity of bringing the poor-box along with 
 him. On looking close, too, there were rude embellish 
 ments on the lid and sides of the box in long-rusted 
 steel, designs such as the Middle Ages were rich in ; 
 a representation of Adam and Eve, or of Satan and a 
 soul, nobody could tell which; but, at any rate, an 
 illustration of great value and interest. Septimius 
 looked at this ugly, rusty, ponderous old box, so worn 
 and battered with time, and recollected with a scorn 
 ful smile the legends of which it was the object ; all 
 of which he despised and discredited, just as much as 
 he did that story in the "Arabian Nights," where a 
 demon comes out of a copper vase, in a cloud of smoke 
 that covers the sea-shore ; for he was singularly in 
 vulnerable to all modes of superstition, all nonsense, 
 except his own. But that one mode was ever in full 
 force and operation with him. He felt strongly con 
 vinced that inside the old box was something that ap 
 pertained to his destiny ; the key that he had taken 
 from the dead man s breast, had that come down 
 through time, and across the sea, and had a man died 
 to bring and deliver it to him, merely for nothing ? 
 It could not be. 
 
 He looked at the old, rusty, elaborated lock of the 
 little receptacle. It was much flourished about with 
 what was once polished steel ; and certainly, when 
 thus polished, and the steel bright with which it was 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 389 
 
 hooped, defended, and inlaid, it must have been a 
 thing fit to appear in any cabinet ; though now the 
 oak was worm-eaten as an old coffin, and the rust of 
 the iron came off red on Septimius s fingers, after he 
 had been fumbling at it. He looked at the curious 
 old silver key, too, and fancied that he discovered in 
 its elaborate handle some likeness to the ornaments 
 about the box ; at any rate, this he determined was 
 the key of fate, and he was just applying it to the lock 
 when somebody tapped familiarly at the door, having 
 opened the outer one, and stepped in with a manly 
 stride. Septimius, inwardly blaspheming, as secluded 
 men are apt to do when any interruption comes, and 
 especially when it comes at some critical moment of 
 projection, left the box as yet imbroached, and said, 
 " Come in." 
 
 The door opened, and Robert Hagburn entered; 
 lacking so tall and stately, that Septimius hardly 
 knew him for the youth with whom he had grown up 
 familiarly. He had on the Revolutionary dress of 
 buff and blue, with decorations that to the initiated 
 eye denoted him an officer, and certainly there was a 
 kind of authority in his look and manner, indicating 
 that heavy responsibilities, critical moments, had edu 
 cated him, and turned the ploughboy into a man. 
 
 " Is it you ? " exclaimed Septimius. " I scarcely 
 knew you. How war has altered you ! " 
 
 " And I may say, Is it you ? for you are much al 
 tered likewise, my old friend. Study wears upon you 
 terribly. You will be an old man, at this rate, before 
 you know you are a young one. You will kill your 
 self, as sure as a gun ! " 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Septimius, rather startled, 
 for the queer absurdity of the position struck him, if 
 
390 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 he should so exhaust and wear himself as to die, just 
 at the moment when he should have found out the 
 secret of everlasting life. " But though I look pale, 1 
 am very vigorous. Judging from that scar, slanting 
 down from your temple, you have been nearer death 
 than you now think me, though in another way." 
 
 " Yes," said Robert Hagburn ; " but in hot blood, 
 and for a good cause, who cares for death ? And yet 
 I love life ; none better, while it lasts, and I love it 
 in all its looks and turns and surprises, there is so 
 much to be got out of it, in spite of all that people 
 say. Youth is sweet, with its fiery enterprise, and I 
 suppose mature manhood will be just as much so, 
 though in a calmer way, and age, quieter still, will 
 have its own merits, the thing is only to do with 
 life what we ought, and what is suited to each of its 
 stages ; do all, enjoy all, and I suppose these two 
 rules amount to the same thing. Only catch real ear 
 nest hold of life, not play with it, and not defer one 
 part of it for the sake of another, then each part of 
 life will do for us what was intended. People talk of 
 the hardships of military service, of the miseries that 
 we undergo fighting for our country. I have under 
 gone my share, I believe, hard toil in the wilder 
 ness, hunger, extreme weariness, pinching cold, the 
 torture of a wound, peril of death ; and really I have 
 been as happy through it as ever I was at my mother s 
 cosey fireside of a winter s evening. If I had died, I 
 doubt not my last moments would have been happy. 
 There is no use of life, but just to find out what is fit 
 for us to do ; and, doing it, it seems to be little mat 
 ter whether we live or die in it. God does not want 
 our work, but only our willingness to work ; at least, 
 the last seems to answer all his purposes." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 391 
 
 " This is a comfortable philosophy of yours," said 
 Septimius, rather contemptuously, aud yet enviously. 
 " Where did you get it, Robert ?" 
 
 " Where ? Nowhere ; it came to me on the march ; 
 and though I can t say that I thought it when the bul 
 lets pattered into the snow about me, in those narrow 
 streets of Quebec, yet, I suppose, it was in my mind 
 then ; for, as I tell you, I was very cheerful and con 
 tented, And you, Septimius ? I never saw such a 
 discontented, unhappy-looking fellow as you are. You 
 have had a harder time in peace than I in war. You 
 have not found what you seek, whatever that may be. 
 Take my advice. Give yourself to the next work that 
 comes to hand. The war offers place to all of us ; we 
 ought to be thankful, the most joyous of all the 
 generations before or after us, since Providence 
 gives us such good work to live for, or such a good 
 opportunity to die. It is worth living for, just to 
 have the chance to die so well as a man may in these 
 days. Come, be a soldier. Be a chaplain, since your 
 education lies that way; and you will find that nobody 
 in peace prays so well as we do, we soldiers ; and you 
 shall not be debarred from fighting, too; if war is 
 holy work, a priest may lawfully do it, as well as pray 
 for it. Come with us, my old friend Septimius, be 
 my comrade, and, whether you live or die, you will 
 thank me for getting you out of the yellow forlornness 
 in which you go on, neither living nor dying." 
 
 Septimius looked at Robert Hagburn in surprise ; 
 so much was he altered and improved by this brief 
 experience of war, adventure, responsibility, which he 
 had passed through. Not less than the effect pro 
 duced on his loutish, rustic air and deportment, de 
 veloping his figure, seeming to make him taller, set- 
 
892 SEPTIM1US FELTON. 
 
 ting free the manly graces that lurked within his 
 awkward frame, not less was the effect on his mind 
 and moral nature, giving freedom of ideas, simple per 
 ception of great thoughts, a free natural chivalry ; so 
 that the knight, the Homeric warrior, the hero, seemed 
 to be here, or possible to be here, in the young New 
 England rustic ; and all that history has given, and 
 hearts throbbed and sighed and gloried over, of patri 
 otism and heroic feeling and action, might be re 
 peated, perhaps, in the life and death of this familiar 
 friend and playmate of his, whom he had valued not 
 over highly, Robert Hagburn. He had merely fol 
 lowed out his natural heart, boldly and singly, do 
 ing the first good thing that came to hand, and here 
 was a hero. 
 
 " You almost make me envy you, Robert," said he, 
 sighing. 
 
 " Then why not -some with me ? " asked Robert. 
 
 " Because I have another destiny," said Septimius. 
 
 " Well, you are mistaken ; be sure of that," said 
 Robert. " This is not a generation for study, and the 
 making of books ; that may come by and by. This 
 great fight has need of all men to carry it on, in one 
 way or another ; and no man will do well, even for 
 himself, who tries to avoid his share in it. But I have 
 said my say. And now, Septimius, the war takes 
 much of a man, but it does not take him all, and what 
 it leaves is all the more full of life and health thereby. 
 I have something to say to you about this." 
 
 " Say it then, Robert," said Septimius, who, having 
 got over the first excitement of the interview, and the 
 sort of exhilaration produced by the healthful glow of 
 Robert s spirit, began sc k cretly to wish that it might 
 close, and to be permitted to return to his solitary 
 thoughts again. " What can I do for you? " 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 393 
 
 " Why, nothing," said Robert, looking rather con 
 fused, " since all is settled. The fact is, my old 
 friend, as perhaps you have seen, I have very long had 
 an eye upon your sister Rose ; yes, from the time we 
 went together to the old school-house, where she now 
 
 o 
 
 teaches children like what we were then. The war 
 took me away, and in good time, for I doubt if Rose 
 would ever have cared enough for me to be my wife, 
 if I had stayed at home, a country lout, as I was get 
 ting to be, in shirt-sleeves and bare feet. But now, 
 you see, I have come back, and this whole great war, 
 to her woman s heart, is represented in me, and makes 
 me heroic, so to speak, and strange, and yet her old 
 familiar lover. So I found her heart tenderer for me 
 than it was ; and, in short, Rose has consented to be 
 my wife, and we mean to be married in a week ; my 
 furlough permits little delay." 
 
 " You surprise me," said Septimius, who, immersed 
 in his own pursuits, had taken no notice of the grow 
 ing affection between Robert and his sister. " Do you 
 think it well to snatch this little lull that is allowed you 
 in the wild striving of war to try to make a peaceful 
 home ? Shall 3*011 like to be summoned from it soon ? 
 Shall you be as cheerful among dangers afterwards, 
 when one sword may cut down two happinesses ? " 
 
 " There is something in what you say, and I have 
 thought of it," said Robert, sighing. "But I can t 
 tell how it is ; but there is something in this uncer 
 tainty, this peril, this cloud before us, that makes it 
 sweeter to love and to be loved than amid all seeming 
 quiet and serenity. Really, I think, if there were to 
 be no death, the beauty of life would be all tame. So 
 we take our chance, or our dispensation of Providence, 
 and are going to love, and to be married, just as confi 
 dently as if we were sure of living forever." 
 
394 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 " Well, old fellow," said Septimius, with more cor 
 diality and outgush of heart than he had felt for a 
 long while, " there is no man whom I should be hap 
 pier to call brother. Take Rose, and all happiness 
 along with her. She is a good girl, and not in the 
 least like me. May you live out your threescore 
 years and ten, and every one of them be happy." 
 
 Little more passed, and Robert Hagburn took his 
 leave with a hearty shake of Septimius s hand, too 
 conscious of his own happiness to be quite sensible 
 how much the latter was self-involved, strange, anx 
 ious, separated from healthy life and interests ; and 
 Septimius, as soon as Robert had disappeared, locked 
 the door behind him, and proceeded at once to apply 
 the silver key to the lock of the old strong box. 
 
 The lock resisted somewhat, being rusty, as might 
 well be supposed after so many years since it was 
 opened ; but it finally allowed the key to turn, and 
 Septimius, with a good deal of flutter at his heart, 
 opened the lid. The interior had a very different as 
 pect from that of the exterior ; for, whereas the latter 
 looked so old, this, having been kept from the air, 
 looked about as new as when shut up from light and 
 air two centuries ago, less or more. It was lined with 
 ivory, beautifully carved in figures, according to the 
 art which the medieval people possessed in great per 
 fection ; and probably the box had been a lady s 
 jewel-casket formerly, and had glowed with rich lustre 
 and bright colors at former openings. But now there 
 was nothing in it of that kind, nothing in keeping 
 with those figures carved in the ivory representing 
 some mythical subjects, nothing but some papers in 
 the bottom of the box written over in an ancient hand, 
 which Septimius at once fancied that he recognized, ai 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 395 
 
 that of the manuscript and recipe which he had found 
 on the breast of the young soldier. He eagerly seized 
 them, but was infinitely disappointed to find that they 
 did not seem to refer at all to the subjects treated by 
 the former, but related to pedigrees and genealogies, 
 and were in reference to an English family and some 
 member of it who, two centuries before, had crossed 
 the sea to America, and who, in this way, had sought 
 to preserve his connection with his native stock, so as 
 to be able, perhaps, to prove it for himself or his de 
 scendants : and there was reference to documents and 
 records in England in confirmation of the genealogy. 
 Septimius saw that this paper had been drawn up by 
 an ancestor of his own, the unfortunate man who had 
 been hanged for witchcraft ; but so earnest had been 
 his expectation of something different, that he flung 
 the old papers down with bitter indifference. 
 
 Then again he snatched them up, and contemp 
 tuously read them, those proofs of descent through 
 generations of esquires and knights, who had been re 
 nowned in war ; and there seemed, too, to be running 
 through the family a certain tendency to letters, for 
 three were designated as of the colleges of Oxford or 
 Cambridge ; and against one there was the note, " he 
 that sold himself to Sathan ; " and another seemed to 
 have been a follower of Wickliffe ; and they had mur 
 dered kings, and been beheaded, and banished, and 
 what not ; so that the age-long life of this ancient fam 
 ily had not been after all a happy or very prosper 
 ous one, though they had kept their estate, in one or 
 another descendant, since the Conquest. It was not 
 wholly without interest that Septimius saw that this 
 ancient descent, this connection with noble families, 
 and intermarriages with names, some of which he reo 
 
896 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 ognized as known in English history, all referred to 
 his own family, and seemed to centre in himself, the 
 last of a poverty-stricken line, which had dwindled 
 down into obscurity, and into rustic labor and humble 
 toil, reviving in him a little ; yet how little, unless he 
 fulfilled his strange purpose. Was it not better worth 
 his while to take this English position here so strangely 
 offered him ? He had apparently slain unwittingly 
 the only person who could have contested his rights, 
 the young man who had so strangely brought him 
 the hope of unlimited life at the same time that he 
 was making room for him among his forefathers. 
 What a change in his lot would have been here, for 
 there seemed to be some pretensions to a title, too, 
 from a barony which was floating about and occasion 
 ally moving out of abeyancy ! 
 
 "Perhaps," said Septimius to himself, "I may here 
 after think it worth while to assert my claim to these 
 possessions, to this position amid an ancient aristoc 
 racy, and try that mode of life for one generation. 
 Yet there is something in my destiny incompatible, of 
 course, with the continued possession of an estate. I 
 must be, of necessity, a wanderer on the face of the 
 earth, changing place at short intervals, disappearing 
 suddenly and entirely ; else the foolish, short-lived mul 
 titude and mob of mortals will be enraged with one 
 who seems their brother, yet whose countenance will 
 never be furrowed with his age, nor his knees totter, 
 nor his force be abated; their little brevity will be 
 rebuked by his age-long endurance, above whom the 
 oaken roof-tree of a thousand years would crumble, 
 while still he would be hale and strong. So that this 
 house, or any other, would be but a resting-place of a 
 day, and then I must away into another obscurity." 
 
SEPTIM1US FELTOV. 397 
 
 "With almost a regret, he continued to look over the 
 documents until he reached one of the persons recorded 
 in the line of pedigree, a worthy, apparently, of the 
 reign of Elizabeth, to whom was attributed a title of 
 Doctor in Utriusque Juris ; and against his name was 
 a verse of Latin written, for what purpose Septimius 
 knew not, for, on reading it, it appeared to have no 
 discoverable appropriateness ; but suddenly he remem 
 bered the blotted and imperfect hieroglyphical pas 
 sage in the recipe. He thought an instant, and was 
 convinced this was the full expression and outwriting 
 of that crabbed little mystery ; and that here was part 
 of that secret writing for which the Age of Elizabeth 
 was so famous and so dexterous. His mind had a 
 flash of light upon it, and from that moment he was 
 enabled to read not only the recipe but the rules, and 
 all the rest of that mysterious document, in a way 
 which he had never thought of before ; to discern that 
 it was not to be taken literally and simply, but had a 
 hidden process involved in it that made the whole 
 thing infinitely deeper than he had hitherto deemed it 
 to be. His brain reeled, he seemed to have taken a 
 draught of some liquor that opened infinite depths 
 before him, he could scarcely refrain from giving a 
 shout of triumphant exultation, the house could not 
 contain him, he rushed up to his hill-top, and there, 
 after walking swiftly to and fro, at length flung him 
 self on the little hillock, and burst forth, as if address 
 ing him who slept beneath. 
 
 " O brother, O friend ! " said he, " I thank thee for 
 thy matchless beneficence to me ; for all which I re 
 warded thee with this little spot on my hill-top. Thou 
 wast very good, very kind. It would not have been 
 well for thee, a youth of fiery joys and passions, loving 
 
398 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 to laugh, loving the lightness and sparkling brilliancy 
 of life, to take this boon to thyself ; for, O brother ! 1 
 see, I see, it requires a strong spirit, capable of much 
 lonely endurance, able to be sufficient to itself, loving 
 not too much, dependent on no sweet ties of affection, 
 to be capable of the mighty trial which now devolves 
 on me. I thank thee, O kinsman ! Yet thou, I feel, 
 hast the better part, who didst so soon lie down to 
 rest, who hast done forever with this troublesome 
 world, which it is mine to contemplate from age to 
 age, and to sum up the meaning of it. Thou art dis 
 porting thyself in other spheres. I enjoy the high, 
 severe, fearful office of living here, and of being tho 
 minister of Providence from one age to many succes 
 sive ones." 
 
 In this manner he raved, as never before, in a strain 
 of exalted enthusiasm, securely treading on air, and 
 sometimes stopping to shout aloud, and feeling as if 
 he should burst if he did not do so ; and his voice 
 came back to him again from the low hills on the other 
 side of the broad, level valley, and out of the woods 
 afar, mocking him ; or as if it were airy spirits, that 
 knew how it was all to be, confirming his cry, saying 
 " It shall be so," " Thou hast found it at last," " Thou 
 art immortal." And it seemed as if Nature were in 
 clined to celebrate his triumph over herself ; for above 
 the woods that crowned the hill to the northward, 
 there were shoots and streams of radiance, a white, a 
 red, a many-colored lustre, blazing up high towards 
 the zenith, dancing up, flitting down, dancing up again ; 
 so that it seemed as if spirits were keeping a revel 
 there. The leaves of the trees on the hill-side, all ex 
 cept the evergreens, had now mostly fallen with tho 
 autumn ; so that Septimius was seen by the few pas* 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 399 
 
 ers-by, in the decline of the afternoon, passing to and 
 fro along his path, wildly gesticulating ; and heard to 
 shout so that the echoes came from all directions to 
 answer him. After nightfall, too, in the harvest moon 
 light, a shadow was still seen passing there, waving 
 its arms in shadowy triumph ; so, the next day, there 
 were various goodly stories afloat and astir, coming 
 out of successive mouths, more wondrous at each birth ; 
 the simplest form of the story being, that Septimius 
 Felton had at last gone raving mad on the hill-top 
 that he was so fond of haunting ; and those who lis 
 tened to his shrieks said that he was calling to the 
 Devil ; and some said that by certain exorcisms he 
 had caused the appearance of a battle in the air, charg 
 ing squadrons, cannon-flashes, champions encounter 
 ing ; all of which foreboded some real battle to be 
 fought with the enemies of the country ; and as the 
 battle of Monmouth chanced to occur, either the very 
 next day, or about that time, this was supposed to be 
 either caused or foretold by Septiinius s eccentricities ; 
 and as the battle was not very favorable to our arms, 
 the patriotism of Septimius suffered much in popular 
 estimation. 
 
 But he knew nothing, thought nothing, cared noth 
 ing about his country, or his country s battles ; he 
 was as sane as he had been for a year past, and was 
 wise enough, though merely by instinct, to throw off 
 some of his superfluous excitement by these wild ges 
 tures, with wild shouts, and restless activity ; and when 
 he had partly accomplished this he returned to the 
 house, and, late as it was, kindled his fire, and began 
 anew the processes of chemistry, now enlightened by 
 the late teachings. A new agent seemed to him to 
 mix itself up with his toil and to forward his pur- 
 
400 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 pose ; something helped him along ; everything became 
 facile to his manipulation, clear to his thought. In 
 this way he spent the night, and when at sunrise he 
 let in the eastern light upon his study, the thing was 
 done. 
 
 Septimius had achieved it. That is to say, he had 
 succeeded in amalgamating his materials so that they 
 acted upon one another, and in accordance ; and had 
 produced a result that had a subsistence in itself, and 
 a right to be ; a something potent and substantial ; 
 each ingredient contributing its part to form a new 
 essence, which was as real and individual as anything 
 it was formed from. But in order to perfect it, there 
 was necessity that the powers of nature should act 
 quietly upon it through a month of sunshine ; that the 
 moon, too, should have its part in the production ; and 
 so he must wait patiently for this. Wait ! surely he 
 would ! Had he not time for waiting ? Were he to 
 wait till old age, it would not be too much ; for all fu 
 ture time would have it in charge to repay him. 
 
 So he poured the inestimable liquor into a glass 
 vase, well secured from the air, and placed it in the 
 sunshine, shifting it from one sunny window to an 
 other, in order that it might ripen ; moving it gently 
 lest he should disturb the living spirit that he knew to 
 be in it. And he watched it from clay to day, watched 
 the reflections in it, watched its lustre, which seemed 
 to him to grow greater day by day, as if it imbibed 
 the sunlight into it. Never was there anything so 
 bright as this. It changed its hue, too, gradually, be 
 ing now a rich purple, now a crimson, now a violet, 
 now a blue ; going through all these prismatic colors 
 without losing any of its brilliance, and never was 
 there such a hue as the sunlight took in falling through 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 401 
 
 it and resting on his floor. And strange and beaiv 
 tiful it was, too, to look through this medium at the 
 outer world, and see how it was glorified and made 
 anew, and did not look like the same world, although 
 there were all its familiar marks. And then, past his 
 window, seen through this, went the farmer and his 
 wife, on saddle and pillion, jogging to meeting-house 
 or market; and the very dog, the cow coming home 
 from pasture, the old familiar faces of his childhood, 
 looked differently. And so at last, at the end of the 
 month, it settled into a most deep and brilliant crim 
 son, as if it were the essence of the blood of the young 
 man whom he had slain ; the flower being now trium 
 phant, it had given its own hue to the whole mass, and 
 had grown brighter every day ; so that it seemed to 
 have inherent light, as if it were a planet by itself, a 
 heart of crimson fire burning within it. 
 
 And when this had been done, and there was no 
 more change, showing that the digestion was perfect, 
 then he took it and placed it where the changing moon 
 would fall upon it ; and then again he watched it, 
 covering it in darkness by day, revealing it to the 
 moon by night; and watching it here, too, through 
 more changes. And by and by he perceived that the 
 deep crimson hue was departing, not fading ; we 
 cannot say that, because of the prodigious lustre which 
 still pervaded it, and was not less strong than ever ; 
 but certainly the hue became fainter, now a rose-color, 
 now fainter, fainter still, till there was only left the 
 purest whiteness of the moon itself ; a change that 
 somewhat disappointed and grieved Septimius, though 
 still it seemed fit that the water of life should be of no 
 one richness, because it must combine all. As the ab 
 sorbed young man gazed through the lonely nights at 
 
402 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 his beloved liquor, he fancied sometimes that he could 
 see wonderful things in the crystal sphere of the vase; 
 as in Doctor Dee s magic crystal used to be seen, which 
 now lies in the British Museum ; representations, it 
 might be, of things in the far past, or in the further 
 future, scenes in which he himself was to act, persons 
 yet unborn, the beautiful and the wise, with whom he 
 was to be associated, palaces and towers, modes of 
 hitherto unseen architecture, that old hall in England 
 to which he had a hereditary right, with its gables, 
 and its smooth lawn ; the witch - meetings in which 
 his ancestor used to take part ; Aunt Keziah on her 
 death-bed ; and, flitting through all, the shade of Sibyl 
 Dacy, eying him from secret nooks, or some remote 
 ness, with her peculiar mischievous smile, beckoning 
 him into the sphere. All such visions would he see, 
 and then become aware that he had been in a dream, 
 superinduced by too much watching, too intent thought ; 
 so that living among so many dreams, he was almost 
 afraid that he should find himself waking out of yet 
 another, and find that the vase itself and the liquid it 
 contained were also dream-stuff. But no ; these were 
 real. 
 
 There was one change that surprised him, although 
 he accepted it without doubt, and, indeed, it did imply 
 a wonderful efficacy, at least singularity, in the newly 
 converted liquid. It grew strangely cool in tempera 
 ture in the latter part of his watching it. It appeared 
 to imbibe its coldness from the cold, chaste moon, until 
 it seemed to Septimius that it was colder than ice it 
 self ; the mist gathered upon the crystal vase as upon 
 a tumbler of iced water in a warm room. Some say 
 it actually gathered thick with frost, crystallized into 
 a thousand fantastic and beautiful shapes, but this J 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 403 
 
 do not know so well. Only it was very cold. Septim- 
 ius pondered upon it, and thought he saw that life 
 itself was cold, individual in its being, a high, pure 
 essence, chastened from all heats ; cold, therefore, and 
 therefore invigorating. 
 
 Thus much, inquiring deeply, and with painful re 
 search into the liquid which Septimius concocted, have 
 I been able to learn about it, its aspect, its prop 
 erties ; and now I suppose it to be quite perfect, and 
 that nothing remains but to put it to such use as he 
 had so long been laboring for. But this, somehow or 
 other, he found in himself a strong reluctance to do ; 
 he paused, as it were, at the point where his pathway 
 separated itself from that of other men, and meditated 
 whether it were worth while to give up everything 
 that Providence had provided, and take instead only 
 this lonely gift of immortal life. Not that he ever 
 really had any doubt about it ; no, indeed ; but it was 
 his security, his consciousness that he held the bright 
 sphere of all futurity in his hand, that made him dally 
 a little, now that he could quaff immortality as soon 
 as he liked. 
 
 Besides, now that he looked forward from the verge 
 of mortal destiny, the path before him seemed so very 
 lonely. Might he not seek some one own friend 
 one single heart before he took the final step ? 
 There was Sibyl Dacy ! Oh, what bliss, if that pale 
 girl might set out with him on his journey ! how sweet, 
 how sweet, to wander with her through the places 
 else so desolate ! for he could but half see, half know 
 things, without her to help him. And perhaps it might 
 be so. She must already know, or strongly suspect, 
 that he was engaged in some deep, mysterious re 
 search ; it might be that, with her sources of myste- 
 
404 SEPTIMWS F ELTON. 
 
 rious knowledge among her legendary lore, she knew 
 of this. Then, oh, to think of those dreams which 
 lovers have always had, when their new love makes 
 the old earth seem so happj^ and glorious a place, that 
 not a thousand nor an endless succession of years can 
 exhaust it, all those realized for him and her ! If 
 this could not be, what should he do? Would he ven 
 ture onward into such a wintry futurity, symbolized, 
 perhaps, by the coldness of the crystal goblet? He 
 shivered at the thought. 
 
 Now, what had passed between Septimius and Sibyl 
 Dacy is not upon record, only that one day they were 
 walking together on the hill-top, or sitting by the little 
 hillock, and talking earnestly together. Sib}d s face 
 was a little flushed with some excitement, and really 
 she looked very beautiful ; and Septimius s dark face, 
 too, had a solemn triumph in it that made him also 
 beautiful ; so rapt he was after all those watchings, 
 and emaciations, and the pure, unworldly, self-denying 
 life that he had spent. They talked as if there were 
 some foregone conclusion on which they based what 
 they said. 
 
 " Will you not be weary in the time that we shall 
 spend together?" asked he. 
 
 "Oh no," said Sibyl, smiling, U I am sure that it will 
 be very full of enjoyment." 
 
 " Yes," said Septimius, " though now I must re 
 mould my anticipations ; for I have only dared, hith 
 erto, to map out a solitary existence." 
 
 " And how did you do that? " asked Sibyl. 
 
 " Oh, there is nothing that would come amiss," an 
 swered Septimius ; " for, truly, as I have lived apart 
 from men, yet it is really not because I have no taste 
 for whatever humanity includes : but I would fain, if 
 
SEP TI Ml US F ELTON. 405 
 
 I might, live everybody s life at once, or, since that 
 may not be, each in succession. I would try the life 
 of power, ruling men ; but that might come later, af 
 ter I had had long experience of men, and had lived 
 through much history, and had seen, as a disinterested 
 observer, how men might best be influenced for their 
 own good. I would be a great traveller at first ; and 
 as a man newly coming into possession of an estate 
 goes over it, and views each separate field and wood- 
 lot, and whatever features it contains, so will I, whose 
 the world is, because I possess it forever ; whereas all 
 others are but transitory guests. So will I wander 
 over this world of mine, and be acquainted with all its 
 shores, seas, rivers, mountains, fields, and the various 
 peoples who inhabit them, and to whom it is my pur 
 pose to be a benefactor ; for think not, dear Sibyl, 
 that I suppose this great lot of mine to have devolved 
 upon me without great duties, heavy and difficult 
 to fulfil, though glorious in their adequate fulfilment. 
 But for all this there will be time. In a century I 
 shall partially have seen this earth, and known at least 
 its boundaries, have gotten for myself the outline, 
 to be filled up hereafter." 
 
 " And I, too," said Sibyl, " will have my duties and 
 labors ; for while you are wandering about among 
 men, I will go among women, and observe and con 
 verse with them, from the princess to the peasant-girl ; 
 and will find out what is the matter, that woman gets 
 so large a share of human misery laid on her weak 
 shoulders. I will SQC why it is that, whether she be a 
 royal princess, she has to be sacrificed to matters of 
 state, or a cottage-girl, still somehow the thing not fit 
 for her is done ; and whether there is or no some 
 deadly curse on woman, so that she has nothing to do, 
 
406 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 and nothing to enjoy, but only to be wronged by man, 
 and still to love him, and despise herself for it, to 
 be shaky in her revenges. And then if, after all this 
 investigation, it turns out as I suspect that wo 
 man is not capable of being helped, that there is some 
 thing inherent in herself that makes it hopeless to 
 struggle for her redemption, then what shall I do ? 
 Nay, I know not, unless to preach to the sisterhood 
 that they all kill their female children as fast as they 
 are born, and then let the generations of men manage 
 as they can ! Woman, so feeble and crazy in body, 
 fair enough sometimes, but full of infirmities ; not 
 strong, with nerves prone to every pain ; ailing, full 
 of little weaknesses, more contemptible than great 
 ones!" 
 
 " That would be a dreary end, Sibyl," said Septim- 
 ius. " But I trust that we shall be able to hush up 
 this weary and perpetual wail of womankind on easier 
 terms than that. Well, dearest Sibyl, after we have 
 spent a hundred years in examining into the real state 
 of mankind, and another century in devising and put 
 ting in execution remedies for his ills, until our ma- 
 turer thought has time to perfect his cure, we shall 
 then have earned a little playtime, a century of pas 
 time, in which we will search out whatever joy can be 
 had by thoughtful people, and that childlike sportive- 
 ness which comes out of growing wisdom, and enjoy 
 ment of every kind. We will gather about us every 
 thing beautiful and stately, a great palace, for we shall 
 then be so experienced that all riches will be easy for 
 us to get ; with rich furniture, pictures, statues, and all 
 royal ornaments ; and side by side with this life we 
 will have a little cottage, and see which is the hap 
 piest, for this has always been a dispute. For this 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 407 
 
 century we will neither toil nor spin, nor think of any 
 thing beyond the day that is passing over us. There 
 is time enough to do all that we have to do." 
 
 " A hundred years of play ! Will not that be tire 
 some ? " said Sibyl. 
 
 " If it is," said Septimius, " the next century shall 
 make up for it ; for then we will contrive deep philoso 
 phies, take up one theory after another, and find out 
 its hollowness and inadequacy, and fling it aside, the 
 rotten rubbish that they all are, until we have strewn 
 the whole realm of human thought with the broken 
 fragments, all smashed up. And then, on this great 
 mound of broken potsherds (like that great Monte 
 Testaccio, which we will go to Rome to see), we will 
 build a system that shall stand, and by which man 
 kind shall look far into the ways of Providence, and 
 find practical uses of the deepest kind in what it has 
 thought merely speculation. And then, when the hun 
 dred years are over, and this great work done, we will 
 still be so free in mind, that we shall see the empti 
 ness of our own theory, though men see only its truth. 
 And so, if we like more of this pastime, then shall an 
 other and another century, and as many more as we 
 like, be spent in the same way." 
 
 " And after that another play - day ? " asked Sibyl 
 Dacy. 
 
 " Yes," said Septimius, " only it shall not be called 
 so ; for the next century we will get ourselves made 
 rulers of the earth ; and knowing men so well, and 
 having so wrought our theories of government and 
 what not, we will proceed to execute them, which 
 will be as easy to us as a child s arrangement of its 
 dolls. We will smile superior, to see what a facile 
 thing it is to make a people happy. In our reign of 
 
408 SEPTIMIUS FELT ON. 
 
 a hundred years, we shall have time to extinguish 
 errors, and make the world see the absurdity of them ; 
 to substitute other methods of government for the old, 
 bad ones ; to fit the people to govern itself, to do with 
 little government, to do with none ; and when this is 
 effected, we will vanish from our loving people, and 
 be seen no more, but be reverenced as gods, we, 
 meanwhile, being overlooked, and smiling to ourselves, 
 amid the very crowd that is looking for us." 
 
 " I intend," said Sibyl, making this wild talk wilder 
 by that petulance which she so often showed, " I 
 intend to introduce a new fashion of dress when I am 
 queen, and that shall be my part of the great reform 
 which you are going to make. And for my crown, I 
 intend to have it of flowers, in which that strange 
 crimson one shall be the chief ; and when I vanish, 
 this flower shall remain behind, and perhaps they shall 
 have a glimpse of me wearing it in the crowd. Well, 
 what next?" 
 
 " After this," said Septimius, " having seen so much 
 of affairs, and having lived so many hundred years, I 
 will sit down and write a history, such as histories 
 ought to be, and never have been. And it shall be 
 so wise, and so vivid, and so self -evidently true, that 
 people shall be convinced from it that there is some 
 undying one among them, because only an eye-witness 
 could have written it, or could have gained so much 
 wisdom as was needful for it." 
 
 " And for my part in the history," said Sibyl, " I 
 will record the various lengths of women s waists, and 
 the fashion of their sleeves. What next ? " 
 
 " By this time," said Septimius, " how many hun 
 dred years have we now lived ? by this time, I shall 
 have pretty well prepared myself for what I have been 
 
SEP TIMI US FELT ON. 409 
 
 contemplating from the first. I will become a relig 
 ious teacher, and promulgate a faith, and prove it by 
 prophecies and miracles ; for my long experience will 
 enable me to do the first, and the acquaintance which 
 I shall have formed with the mysteries of science will 
 put the latter at my fingers ends. So I will be a 
 prophet, a greater than Mahomet, and will put all 
 man s hopes into my doctrine, and make him good, 
 holy, happy ; and he shall put up his prayers to his 
 Creator, and find them answered, because they shall 
 be wise, and accompanied with effort. This will be a 
 great work, and may earn me another rest and pas 
 time." 
 
 \_ffe would see, in one age, the column raised in 
 memory of some great deed of Ms in a former one. ] 
 
 " And what shall that be ? " asked Sibyl Dacy. 
 
 " Why," said Septimius, looking askance at her, and 
 speaking with a certain hesitation, " I have learned, 
 Sibyl, that it is a weary toil for a man to be always 
 good, hoty, and upright. In my life as a sainted 
 prophet, I shall have somewhat too much of this ; it 
 will be enervating and sickening, and I shall need an 
 other kind of diet. So, in the next hundred years, 
 Sibyl, in that one little century, methinks I 
 w T ould fain be what men call wicked. How can I 
 know my brethren, unless I do that once ? I would 
 experience all. Imagination is only a dream. I can 
 imagine myself a murderer, and all other modes of 
 crime ; but it leaves no real impression on the heart. 
 I must live these things." 
 
 [Tlie rampant unrestraint, which is the charac 
 teristic of wickedness.] 
 
 " Good," said Sibyl, quietly; " and I too." 
 
 " And thou too .< " exclaimed Septimius. " Not so, 
 
410 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 Sibyl. I would reserve tliee, good and pure, so that 
 there may be to me the means of redemption, some 
 stable hold in the moral confusion that I will create 
 around myself, whereby I shall by and by get back 
 into order, virtue, and religion. Else all is lost, and 
 I may become a devil, and make my own hell around 
 me ; so, Sibyl, do thou be good forever, and not fall 
 nor slip a moment. Promise me ! " 
 
 " We will consider about that in some other cen 
 tury," replied Sibyl, composedly. " There is time 
 enough yet. What next ? " 
 
 " Nay, this is enough for the present," said Septiru- 
 ius. " New vistas will open themselves before us con 
 tinually, as we go onward. How idle to think that 
 one little lifetime would exhaust the world ! After 
 hundreds of centuries, I feel as if we might still be 
 on the threshold. There is the material world, for in 
 stance, to perfect ; to draw out the powers of nature, 
 so that man shall, as it were, give life to all modes 
 of matter, and make them his ministering servants. 
 Swift ways of travel, by earth, sea, and air ; machines 
 for doing whatever the hand of man now does, so that 
 we shall do all but put souls into our wheel-work and 
 watch-work ; the modes of making night into day ; of 
 getting control over the weather and the seasons ; the 
 virtues of plants, these are some of the easier things 
 thou shalt help me do." 
 
 " I have no taste for that," said Sibyl, " unless I 
 could make an embroidery worked of steel." 
 
 " And so, Sibyl," continued Septimius, pursuing 
 his strain of solemn enthusiasm, intermingled as it 
 was with wild, excursive vagaries, " we will go on as 
 many centuries as we choose. Perhaps, yet I think 
 not so, perhaps, however, in the course of length- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 411 
 
 ened time, we may find that the world is the same al 
 ways, and mankind the same, and all possibilities of 
 human fortune the same ; so that by and by we shall 
 discover that the same old scenery serves the world s 
 stage in all ages, and that the story is always the 
 same ; yes, and the actors always the same, though 
 none but we can be aware of it ; and that the actors 
 and spectators would grow weary of it, were they not 
 bathed in forgetful sleep, and so think themselves new 
 made in each successive lifetime. "We may find that 
 the stuff of the world s drama, and the passions which 
 seem to play in it, have a monotony, when once we 
 have tried them ; that in only once trying them, and 
 viewing them, we find out their secret, and that after 
 wards the show is too superficial to arrest our atten 
 tion. As dramatists and novelists repeat their plots, 
 so does man s life repeat itself, and at length grows 
 stale. This is what, in my desponding moments, I 
 have sometimes suspected. What to do, if this be 
 so?" 
 
 " Nay, that is a serious consideration," replied Sibyl, 
 assuming an air of mock alarm, "if you really think 
 we shall be tired of life, whether or no." 
 
 " I do not think it, Sibyl," replied Septimius. " By 
 much musing on this matter, I have convinced myself 
 that man is not capable of debarring himself utterly 
 from death, since it is evidently a remedy for many 
 evils that nothing else would cure. This means that 
 we have discovered of removing death to an indefinite 
 distance is not supernatural ; on the contrary, it is the 
 most natural tiling in the world, the very perfection 
 of the natural, s nce it consists in applying the powers 
 and processes of Nature to the prolongation of the ex 
 istence of man, her most perfect handiwork ; and this 
 
412 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 could only be done by entire accordance and co-effort 
 with Nature. Therefore Nature is not changed, an 1 
 death remains as one of her steps, just as heretofore. 
 Therefore, when we have exhausted the world, whether 
 by going through its apparently vast variety, or by 
 satisfying ourselves that it is all a repetition of ono 
 thing, we will call death as the friend to introduce us 
 to something new." 
 
 \JEle would write a poem, or other great work, in 
 appreciable at first, and live to see it famous, him 
 self among his own posterity.] 
 
 " Oh, insatiable love of life ! " exclaimed Sibyl> look 
 ing at him with strange pity. " Canst thou not con 
 ceive that mortal brain and heart might at length be 
 content to sleep ? " 
 
 " Never, Sibyl ! " replied Septimius, with horror. 
 " My spirit delights in the thought of an infinite eter 
 nity. Does not thine ? " 
 
 " One little interval a few centuries only of 
 dreamless sleep," said Sibyl, pleadingly. " Cannot 
 you allow me that ? " 
 
 "I fear," said Septimius, "our identity would change 
 in that repose ; it would be a Lethe between the two 
 parts of our being, and with such disconnection a con 
 tinued life would be equivalent to a new one, and 
 therefore valueless." 
 
 In such talk, snatching in the fog at the fragments 
 of philosophy, they continued fitfully ; Septimius calm 
 ing down his enthusiasm thus, which otherwise might 
 have burst forth in madness, affrighting the quiet little 
 village with the marvellous things about which they 
 mused. Septimius could not quite satisfy himself 
 whether Sibyl Dacy shared in his belief of the success 
 of his experiment, and was confident., as he was, that 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 413 
 
 he held in his control the means of unlimited life ; 
 neither was he sure that she loved him, loved him 
 well enough to undertake with him the long march 
 that he propounded to her, making a union an affair 
 of so vastly more importance than it is in the brief 
 lifetime of other mortals. But he determined to let 
 her drink the invaluable draught along with him, and 
 to trust to the long future, and the better opportunities 
 that time would give him, and his outliving all rivals, 
 and the loneliness which an undying life would throw 
 around her, without him, as the pledges of his suc 
 cess. 
 
 And now the happy day had come for the celebra 
 tion of Robert Hagburivs marriage with pretty Rose 
 Garfield, the brave with the fair ; and, as usual, the 
 ceremony was to take place in the evening, and at the 
 house of the bride ; and preparations were made ac 
 cordingly : the wedding-cake, which the bride s own 
 fair hands had mingled with her tender hopes, and sea 
 soned it with maiden fears, so that its composition was 
 as much ethereal as sensual ; and the neighbors and 
 friends were invited, and came with their best wishes 
 and good-will. For Rose shared not at all the distrust, 
 the suspicion, or whatever it was, that had waited on 
 the true branch of Septimius s family, in one shape or 
 another, ever since the memory of man ; and all ex 
 cept, it might be, some disappointed damsels who had 
 hoped to win Robert Hagburn for themselves re 
 joiced at the approaching union of this fit couple, and 
 wished them happiness. 
 
 Septimius, too, accorded his gracious consent to the 
 union, and while he thought within himself that such a 
 brief union was not worth the trouble and feeling which 
 
414 SEPT1MIUS FELTON. 
 
 his sister and her lover wasted on it, still he wished 
 them happinesSo As . he compared their brevity with 
 his long duration, he smiled at their little fancies of 
 loves, of which he seemed to see the end ; the flower 
 of a brief summer, blooming beautifully enough, and 
 shedding its leaves, the fragrance of which would lin 
 ger a little while in his memory, and then be gone. 
 He wondered how far in the coming centuries he 
 should remember this wedding of his sister Rose ; per 
 haps he would meet, five hundred years hence, some 
 descendant of the marriage, a fair girl, bearing the 
 traits of his sister s fresh beauty ; a young man, re 
 calling the strength and manly comeliness of Robert 
 Hagburn, and could claim acquaintance and kin 
 dred. He would be the guardian, from generation to 
 generation, of this race ; their ever-reappearing friend 
 at times of need ; and meeting them from age to age, 
 would find traditions of himself growing poetical in 
 the lapse of time ; so that he would smile at seeing his 
 features look so much more majestic in their fancies 
 than in reality. So all along their course, in the his 
 tory of the family, he would trace himself, and by his 
 traditions he would make them acquainted with all 
 their ancestors, and so still be warmed by kindred 
 blood. 
 
 And Robert Hagburn, full of the life of the mo 
 ment, warm with generous blood, came in a new uni 
 form, looking fit to be the founder of a race who 
 should look back to a hero sire. He greeted Septim- 
 ius as a brother. The minister, too, came, of course, 
 and mingled with the throng, with decorous aspect, 
 and greeted Septimius with more formality than he 
 had been wont ; for Septimius had insensibly with 
 drawn himself from the minister s intimacy, as he got 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 415 
 
 deeper and deeper into the enthusiasm of his own 
 cause. Besides, the minister did not fail to see that 
 his once devoted scholar had contracted habits of 
 study into the secrets of which he himself was not 
 admitted, and that he no longer alluded to studies for 
 the ministry ; and he was inclined to suspect that Sep- 
 timius had unfortunately allowed infidel ideas to as 
 sail, at least, if not to overcome, that fortress of firm 
 faith, which he had striven to found and strengthen 
 
 o 
 
 in his mind, a misfortune frequently befalling spec 
 ulative and imaginative and melancholic persons, like 
 Septimius, whom the Devil is all the time planning to 
 assault, because he feels confident of having a traitor 
 in the garrison. The minister had heard that this 
 was the fashion of Septimius s family, and that even 
 the famous divine, who, in his eyes, was the glory of 
 it, had had his season of wild infidelity in his youth, 
 before grace touched him ; and had always thereafter, 
 throughout his long and pious life, been subject to 
 seasons of black and sulphurous despondency, during 
 which he disbelieved the faith which, at other times, 
 he preached powerfully." 
 
 " Septimius, my young friend," said he, " are you 
 yet ready to be a preacher of the truth? " 
 
 " Not yet, reverend pastor," said Septimius, smiling 
 at the thought of the day before, that the career of a 
 prophet would be one that he should some time as 
 sume. " There will be time enough to preach the 
 truth when I better know it." 
 
 " You do not look as if you knew it so well as for 
 merly, instead of better," said his reverend friend, 
 looking into the deep furrows of his brow, and into his 
 wild and troubled eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps not," said Septimius. " There is time 
 yet." 
 
416 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 These few words passed amid the bustle and mur 
 mur of the evening, while the guests were assembling, 
 and all were awaiting the marriage with that interest 
 which the event continually brings with it, common as 
 it is, so that nothing but death is commoner. Every 
 body congratulated the modest Rose, who looked quiet 
 and happy ; and so she stood up at the proper time, 
 and the minister married them with a certain fervor 
 and individual application, that made them feel they 
 were married indeed. Then there ensued a salutation 
 of the bride, the first to kiss her being the minister, 
 and then some respectable old justices and farmers, 
 each with his friendly smile and joke. Then went 
 round the cake and wine, and other good cheer, and 
 the hereditary jokes with which brides used to be as 
 sailed in those days. I think, too, there was a dance, 
 though how the couples in the reel found space to foot 
 it in the little room, I cannot imagine ; at any rate, 
 there was a bright light out of the windows, gleaming 
 across the road, and such a sound of the babble of nu 
 merous voices and merriment, that travellers passing 
 by, on the lonely Lexington road, wished they were of 
 the party ; and one or two of them stopped and went 
 in, and saw the new-made bride, drank to her health, 
 and -took a piece of the wedding-cake home to dream 
 upon. 
 
 [It is to be observed that Rose had requested of her 
 friend, Sibyl Dacy, to act as one of her bridesmaids, 
 of whom she had only the modest mimber of two ; 
 and the strange girl declined, saying that her inter 
 meddling would bring ill-fortune to the marriage. ] 
 
 " Why do you talk such nonsense, Sibyl ? " asked 
 Rose. " You love me, I am sure, and wish me well ; 
 and your smile, such as it is, will be the promise of 
 prosperity, and I wish for it on my wedding-day." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 417 
 
 "I am an ill-fate, a sinister demon, Rose; a thing 
 that has sprung out of a grave ; and you had better 
 not entreat me to twine my poison tendrils round your 
 destinies. You would repent it." 
 
 " Oh, hush, hush ! " said Rose, putting her hand over 
 her friend s mouth. " Naughty one ! you can bless me, 
 if you will, only you are wayward." 
 
 " Bless you, then, dearest Rose, and all happiness 
 on your marriage ! " 
 
 Septimius had been duly present at the marriage, 
 and kissed his sister with moist eyes, it is said, and a 
 solemn smile, as he gave her into the keeping of Rob 
 ert Hagburn ; and there was something in the words 
 he then used that afterwards dwelt on her mind, as if 
 they had a meaning in them that asked to be sought 
 into, and needed reply. 
 
 " There, Rose," he had said, " I have made myself 
 ready for my destiny. I have no ties any more, and 
 may set forth on my path without scruple." 
 
 " Am I not your sister still, Septimius ? " said she, 
 shedding a tear or two. 
 
 " A married woman is no sister ; nothing but a mar 
 ried woman till she becomes a mother; and then what 
 shall I have to do with you ? " 
 
 He spoke with a certain eagerness to prove his case, 
 which Rose could not understand, but which was prob 
 ably to justify himself in severing, as he was about 
 to do, the link that connected him with his race, and 
 making for himself an exceptional destiny, which, if 
 it did not entirely insulate him, would at least create 
 new relations with all. There he stood, poor fellow, 
 looking on the mirthful throng, not in exultation, as 
 might have been supposed, but with a strange sadness 
 upon him. It seemed to him, at that final moment, 
 
 VOL. xi. 27 
 
418 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 as if it were Death that linked together all ; yes, and 
 so gave the warmth to all. Wedlock itself seemed a 
 brother of Death ; wedlock, and its sweetest hopes, its 
 holy companionship, its mysteries, and all that warm 
 mysterious brotherhood that is between men ; passing 
 as they do from mystery to mystery in a little gleam 
 of light; that wild, sweet charm of uncertainty and 
 temporariness, how lovely it made them all, how in 
 nocent, even the worst of them ; how hard and prosaic 
 was his own situation in comparison to theirs. He 
 felt a gushing tenderness for them, as if he would 
 have flung aside his endless life, and rushed among 
 them, saying, 
 
 " Embrace me ! I am still one of you, and will not 
 leave you ! Hold me fast ! " 
 
 After this it was not particularly observed that both 
 Septimius and Sibyl Dacy had disappeared from the 
 party, which, however, went on no less merrily with 
 out them. In truth, the habits of Sibyl Dacy were so 
 wayward, and little squared by general rules, that no 
 body wondered or tried to account for them ; and as 
 for Septimius, he was such a studious man, so little 
 accustomed to mingle with his fellow-citizens on any 
 occasion, that it was rather wondered at that he should 
 have spent so large a part of a sociable evening with 
 them, than that he should now retire. 
 
 After they were gone the party received an unex 
 pected addition, being no other than the excellent 
 Doctor Portsoaken, who came to the door, announcing 
 that he had just arrived on horseback from Boston, 
 and that, his object being to have an interview with 
 Sibyl Dacy, he had been to Robert Hagburn s house 
 in quest of her; but, learning from the old grand 
 mother that she was here, he had followed. 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 419 
 
 Not finding her, he evinced no alarm, but was eas 
 ily induced to sit down among the merry company, 
 and partake of some brandy, which, with other liquors. 
 Robert had provided in sufficient abundance ; and 
 that being* a day when man had not learned to fear 
 the glass, the doctor found them all in a state of hi 
 larious chat. Taking out his German pipe, he joined 
 the group of smokers in the great chimney-corner, and 
 entered into conversation with them, laughing and 
 joking, and mixing up his jests with that mysterious 
 suspicion which gave so strange a character to his in 
 tercourse. 
 
 " It is good fortune, Mr. Hagburn," quoth he, 
 " that brings me here on this auspicious day. And 
 how has been my learned young friend Dr. Septimius, 
 
 for so he should be called, and how have flour 
 ished his studies of late ? The scientific world may 
 look for great fruits from that decoction of his." 
 
 " He 11 never equal Aunt Keziah for herb-drinks," 
 said an old woman, smoking her pipe in the corner, 
 4k though I think likely he 11 make a good doctor 
 enough by and by. Poor Kezzy, she took a drop too 
 much of her mixture, after all. I used to tell her how 
 it would be ; for Kezzy and I were pretty good friends 
 once, before the Indian in her came out so strongly, 
 
 the squaw and the witch, for she had them both in 
 her blood, poor yellow Kezzy ! " 
 
 " Yes ! had she indeed ? " quoth the doctor ; - and 
 I have heard an odd story, that if the Feltons chose to 
 go back to the old country, they d find a home and an 
 estate there ready for them." 
 
 The old woman mused, and puffed at her pipe. 
 " Ah, yes," muttered she, at length, " I remember to 
 have heard something about that ; and how, if Felton 
 
420 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 chose to strike into the woods, he d find a tribe of wild 
 Indians there ready to take him for their sagamore, 
 and conquer the whites ; and how, if he chose to go to 
 England, there was a great old house all ready for 
 him, and a fire burning in the hall, and a dinner-table 
 spread, and the tall - posted bed ready, with clean 
 sheets, in the best chamber, and a man waiting at the 
 gate to show him in. Only there was a spell of a 
 bloody footstep left on the threshold by the last that 
 came out, so that none of his posterity could ever cross 
 it again. But that was all nonsense ! " 
 
 " Strange old things one dreams in a chimney-cor 
 ner," quoth the doctor. " Do you remember any more 
 of this ? " 
 
 " No, no ; I m so forgetful nowadays," said old Mrs. 
 Hagburn ; " only it seems as if I had my memories 
 in my pipe, and they curl up in smoke. I Ve known 
 these Feltons all along, or it seems as if I had ; for 
 I m nigh ninety years old now, and I was two year 
 old in the witch s time, and I have seen a piece of the 
 halter that old Felton was hung with." 
 
 Some of the company laughed. 
 
 " That must have been a curious sight," quoth the 
 doctor. 
 
 " It is not well," said the minister seriously to the 
 doctor, " to stir up these old remembrances, making 
 the poor old lady appear absurd. I know not that 
 she need to be ashamed of showing the weaknesses of 
 the generation to which she belonged ; but I do not 
 like to see old age put at this disadvantage among the 
 young." 
 
 " Nay, my good and reverend sir," returned the doc 
 tor, " I mean no such disrespect as you seem to think. 
 Forbid it, ye upper powers, that I should cast any rid- 
 
SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 421 
 
 icule on beliefs, superstitions, do you call them? 
 that are as worthy of faith, for aught I know, as any 
 that are preached in the pulpit. If the old lady would 
 tell me any secret of the old Felton s science, I shall 
 treasure it sacredly ; for I interpret these stories about 
 his miraculous gifts as meaning that he had a great 
 command over natural science, the virtues of plants, 
 the capacities of the human body." 
 
 While these things were passing, or before they 
 passed, or some time in that eventful night, Septimius 
 had withdrawn to his study, when there was a low tap 
 at the door, and, opening it, Sibyl Dacy stood before 
 him. It seemed as if there had been a previous ar 
 rangement between them ; for Septimius evinced no 
 surprise, only took her hand and drew her in. 
 
 " How cold your hand is ! " he exclaimed. " Noth 
 ing is so cold, except it be the potent medicine. It 
 makes me shiver." 
 
 " Never mind that," said Sibyl. " You look fright 
 ened at me." 
 
 "Do I?" said Septimius. "No, not that; but 
 this is such a crisis ; and methinks it is not yourself. 
 Your eyes glare on me strangely." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; and you are not frightened at me ? 
 Well, I will try not to be frightened at myself. Time 
 was, however, when I should have been." 
 
 She looked round at Septimius s study, with its few 
 old books, its implements of science, crucibles, retorts, 
 and electrical machines ; all these she noticed little ; 
 but on the table drawn before the fire, there was some 
 thing that attracted her attention ; it was a vase that 
 seemed of crystal, made in that old fashion in which 
 the Venetians made their glasses, a most pure kind 
 of glass, with a long stalk, within which was a curved 
 
422 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 elaboration of fancy - work, wreathed and twisted. 
 This old glass was an heirloom of the Feltons, a relic 
 that had come down with many traditions, bringing its 
 frail fabric safely through all the perils of time, that 
 had shattered empires ; and, if space sufficed, I could 
 tell many stories of this curious vase, which was said, 
 in its time, to have been the instrument both of the 
 Devil s sacrament in the forest, and of the Christian 
 in the village meeting-house. But, at any rate, it had 
 been a part of the choice household gear of one of Sep- 
 timius s ancestors, and was engraved with his arms, 
 artistically done. 
 
 " Is that the drink of immortality?" said Sibyl. 
 
 " Yes, Sibyl," said Septimius. " Do but touch the 
 goblet ; see how cold it is." 
 
 She put her slender, pallid fingers on the side of the 
 goblet, and shuddered, just as Septimius did when he 
 touched her hand. 
 
 " Why should it be so cold?" said she, looking at 
 Septimius. 
 
 "Nay, I know not, unless because endless life goes 
 round the circle and meets death, and is just the same 
 with it. O Sibyl, it is a fearful thing that I have ac 
 complished ! Do you not feel it so ? What if this 
 shiver should last us through eternity ? " 
 
 " Have you pursued this object so long," said Sibyl, 
 "to have these fears respecting it now? In that case, 
 methinks I could be bold enough to drink it alone, 
 and look down upon you, as I did so, smiling at your 
 fear to take the life offered you." 
 
 " I do not fear," said Septimius ; " but yet I ac 
 knowledge there is a strange, powerful abhorrence in 
 me towards this draught, which I know not how to ac 
 count for, except as the reaction, the revulsion of feel- 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 423 
 
 ing, consequent upon its being too long overstrained in 
 one direction. I cannot help it. The meannesses, the 
 littlenesses, the perplexities, the general irksomeness 
 of life, weigh upon me strangely. Thou didst refuse 
 to drink with me. That being the case, methinks I 
 could break the jewelled goblet now, untasted, and 
 choose the grave as the wiser part." 
 
 " The beautiful goblet ! What a pity to break it ! " 
 said Sibyl, with her characteristic malign and myste 
 rious smile. " You cannot find it in your heart to do 
 it." 
 
 " I could, I can. So thou wilt not drink with 
 me ? " 
 
 " Do you know what you ask ? " said Sibyl. " I am 
 a being that sprung up, like this flower, out of a 
 grave ; or, at least, I took root in a grave, and, grow 
 ing there, have twined about your life, until you can 
 not possibly escape from me. Ah, Septimius ! you 
 know me not. You know not what is in my heart to 
 wards you. Do you remember this broken miniature ? 
 would you wish to see the features that were destroyed 
 when that bullet passed ? Then look at mine I " 
 
 " Sibyl ! what do you tell me ? Was it you were 
 they your features which that young soldier kissed 
 as he lay dying? " 
 
 " They were," said Sibyl. " I loved him, and gave 
 him that miniature, and the face they represented. I 
 had given him all. and you slew him." 
 
 " Then you hate me," whispered Septimius. 
 
 4 Do you call it hatred?" asked Sibyl, smiling. 
 " Have I not aided you, thought with you, encouraged 
 you, heard all your wild ravings when you dared to 
 tell no one else ? kept up your hopes ; suggested ; 
 helped you with my leger dary lore to useful hints ; 
 
424 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 helped you, also, in other ways, which you do not sus 
 pect ? And now you ask me if I hate you. Does this 
 look like it?" 
 
 " No," said Septimius. "And yet, since first I knew 
 you, there has been something whispering me of harm, 
 as if I sat near some mischief. There is in me the 
 wild, natural blood of the Indian, the instinctive, the 
 animal nature, which has ways of warning that civil 
 ized life polishes away and cuts out; and so, Sibyl, 
 never did I approach you, but there were reluctances, 
 drawings back, and, at the same time, a strong im 
 pulse to come closest to you ; and to that I yielded. 
 But why, then, knowing that in this grave lay the man 
 you loved, laid there by my hand, why did you aid 
 rne in an object which you must have seen was the 
 breath of my life ? " 
 
 " Ah, my friend, my enemy, if you will have it 
 so, are you yet to learn that the wish of a man s in 
 most heart is oftenest that by which he is ruined and 
 made miserable ? But listen to me, Septimius. No 
 matter for my earlier life ; there is no reason why I 
 should tell you the story, and confess to you its weak 
 ness, its shame. It may be, I had more cause to hate 
 the tenant of that grave, than to hate you who uncon 
 sciously avenged my cause ; nevertheless, I came here 
 in hatred, and desire of revenge, meaning to lie in 
 wait, and turn your dearest desire against you, to eat 
 into your life, and distil poison into it, I sitting on 
 this grave, and drawing fresh hatred from it ; and at 
 last, in the hour of your triumph, I meant to make the 
 triumph mine." 
 
 " Is this still so?" asked Septimius, with pale lips; 
 ( or did your fell purpose change ? " 
 
 " Septimius, I am weak, a weak, weak girl", 
 
ZEPTIMIUS FELTON. 425 
 
 only a girl, Septimius ; only eighteen yet," exclaimed 
 Sibyl. " It is young, is it not ? I might be forgiven 
 much. You know not how bitter my purpose was to 
 you. But look, Septimius, could it be worse than 
 this ? Hush, be still ! Do not stir ! " 
 
 She lifted the beautiful goblet from the table, put it 
 to her lips, and drank a deep draught from it ; then^ 
 smiling mockingly, she held it towards him. 
 
 " See ; I have made myself immortal before you. 
 Will you drink? " 
 
 He eagerly held out his hand to receive the goblet, 
 but Sibyl, holding it beyond his reach a moment, de 
 liberately let it fall upon the hearth, where it shiv 
 ered into fragments, and the bright, cold water of im 
 mortality was all spilt, shedding its strange fragrance 
 around. 
 
 " Sibyl, what have you done ? " cried Septimius in 
 rage and horror. 
 
 " Be quiet ! See what sort of immortality I win by 
 it, - then, if you like, distil your drink of eternity 
 again, and quaff it." 
 
 " It is too late, Sibyl ; it was a happiness that may 
 never come again in a lifetime. I shall perish as a 
 dog does. It is too late ! " 
 
 " Septimius," said Sibyl, who looked strangely beau 
 tiful, as if the drink, giving her immortal life, had 
 likewise the potency to give immortal beauty answer 
 ing to it, " listen to me. You have not learned all 
 the secrets that lay in those old legends, about which 
 we have talked so much. There were two recipes, dis 
 covered or learned by the art of the studious old Gas- 
 par Felton. One was said to be that secret of immor 
 tal life which so many old sages sought for, and which 
 some were said to have found ; though, if that were the 
 
426 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 case, it is strange some of them have not lived till our 
 day. Its essence lay in a certain rare flower, which, 
 mingled properly with other ingredients of great po 
 tency in themselves, though still lacking the crowning 
 virtue till the flower was supplied, produced the drink 
 of immortality." 
 
 " Yes, and I had the flower, which I found in a 
 grave," said Septirnius, " and distilled the drink which 
 you have spilt." 
 
 "You had a flower, or what you called a flower," 
 said the girl. " But, Septimius, there was yet another 
 drink, in which the same potent ingredients were used ; 
 all but the last. In this, instead of the beautiful 
 flower, was mingled the semblance of a flower, but 
 really a baneful growth out of a grave. This I sowed 
 there, and it converted the drink into a poison, famous 
 in old science, a poison which the Borgias used, and 
 Mary de Medicis, and which has brought to death 
 many a famous person, when it was desirable to his 
 enemies. This is the drink I helped you to distil. It 
 brings on death with pleasant and delightful thrills of 
 the nerves. O Septimius, Septimius, it is worth while 
 to die, to be so blest, so exhilarated as I am now." 
 
 " Good God, Sibyl, is this possible ? " 
 
 "Even so, Septimius. I was helped by that old 
 physician, Doctor Portsoaken, who, with some private 
 purpose of his own, taught me what to do ; for he was 
 skilled in all the mysteries of those old physicians, 
 and knew that their poisons at least were efficacious, 
 whatever their drinks of immortality might be. But 
 the end has not turned out as I meant. A girl s fancy 
 is so shifting, Septimius. I thought I loved that youth 
 in the grave yonder ; but it was you I loved, and I 
 am dying. Forgive me for my evil purposes, for I am 
 dying." 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 427 
 
 " Why hast thou spilt the drink ? " said Septimius, 
 bending his dark brows upon her, and frowning over 
 her. " We might have died together." 
 
 " No, live, Septimius," said the girl, whose face ap 
 peared to grow bright and joyous, as if the drink of 
 death exhilarated her like an intoxicating fluid. " I 
 would not let you have it, not one drop. But to 
 think," and here she laughed, " what a penance, 
 what months of wearisome labor thou hast had, and 
 what thoughts, what dreams, and how I laughed in my 
 sleeve at them all the time ! Ha, ha, ha ! Then thou 
 didst plan out future ages, and talk poetry and prose 
 to me. Did I not take it very demurely, and answer 
 thee in the same style ? and so thou didst love me, and 
 kindly didst wish to take me with thee in thy immor 
 tality. O Septimius, I should have liked it well ! 
 Yes, latterly, only, I knew how the case stood. Oh, 
 how I surrounded thee with dreams, and instead of 
 giving thee immortal life, so kneaded up the little life 
 allotted thee with dreams and vaporing stuff, that thou 
 didst not really live even that. Ah, it was a pleasant 
 pastime, and pleasant is now the end of it. Kiss me, 
 thou poor Septimius, one kiss ! " 
 
 \_Shegivestheridiculous aspect to his scheme, in 
 an airy way.^\ 
 
 But as Septimius, who seemed stunned, instinctively 
 bent forward to obey her, she drew back. " No, there 
 shall be no kiss ! There may a little poison linger on 
 my lips. Farewell ! Dost thou mean still to seek for 
 thy liquor of immortality ? ah, ah ! It was a good 
 jest. We will laugh at it when we meet in the other 
 world." 
 
 And here poor Sibyl Daly s laugh grew fainter, and 
 dying away, she seemod to die with it ; for there she 
 
428 SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 
 
 was, with that mirthful, half -malign expression still on 
 her face, but motionless ; so that however long Sep* 
 timius s life was likely to be, whether a few years 
 or many centuries, he would still have her image in 
 his memory so. And here she lay among his broken 
 hopes, now shattered as completely as the goblet which 
 held his draught, and as incapable of being formed 
 again. 
 
 The next day, as Septimius did not appear, there 
 was research for him on the part of Doctor Portsoaken. 
 His room was found empty, the bed untouched. Then 
 they sought him on his favorite hill-top ; but neither 
 was he found there, although something was found 
 that added to the wonder and alarm of his disappear 
 ance. It was the cold form of Sibyl Dacy, which was 
 extended on the hillock so often mentioned, with her 
 arms thrown over it ; but, looking in the dead face, 
 the beholders were astonished to see a certain malign 
 
 o 
 
 and mirthful expression, as if some airy part had been 
 played out, some surprise, some practical joke of 
 a peculiarly airy kind had burst with fairy shoots of 
 fire among the company. 
 
 " Ah, she is dead ! Poor Sibyl Dacy ! " exclaimed 
 Doctor Portsoaken. " Her scheme, then, has turned 
 out amiss." 
 
 This exclamation seemed to imply some knowledge 
 of the mystery ; and it so impressed the auditors, 
 among whom was Robert Hagburn, that they thought 
 it not inexpedient to have an investigation ; so the 
 learned doctor was not uncivilly taken into custody and 
 examined. Several interesting particulars, some of 
 which throw a certain degree of light on our narrative, 
 were discovered. For instance, that Sibyl Dacy, who 
 
SEPTIMIUS FELTON. 429 
 
 was a niece of the doctor, had been beguiled from her 
 home and led over the sea by Cyril Norton, and that 
 the doctor, arriving in Boston with another regiment, 
 had found her there, after her lover s death. Here 
 there was some discrepancy or darkness in the doctor s 
 narrative. He appeared to have consented to, or in 
 stigated (for it was not quite evident how far his con 
 currence had gone) this poor girl s scheme of going 
 and brooding over her lover s grave, and living in 
 close contiguity with the man who had slain him. The 
 doctor had not much to say for himself on this point ; 
 but there was found reason to believe that he was act 
 ing in the interest of some English claimant of a great 
 estate that was left without an apparent heir by the 
 death of Cyril Norton, and there was even a suspicion 
 that he, with his fantastic science and antiquated em 
 piricism, had been at the bottom of the scheme of poi 
 soning, which was so strangely intertwined with Sep- 
 timius s notion, in which he went so nearly crazed, of 
 a drink of immortality. It was observable, however, 
 that the doctor such a humbug in scientific matters, 
 that he had perhaps bewildered himself seemed to 
 have a sort of faith in the efficacy of the recipe which 
 had so strangely come to light, provided the true 
 flower could be discovered ; but that flower, according 
 to Doctor Portsoaken, had not been seen on earth for 
 many centuries, and was banished probably forever. 
 The flower, or fungus, which Septimius had mistaken 
 for it, was a sort of earthly or devilish counterpart of 
 it, and was greatly in request among the old poisoners 
 for its admirable uses in their art. In fine, no tan 
 gible evidence being found against the worthy doc 
 tor, he was permitted to depart, and disappeared from 
 the neighborhood, to the scandal of many people, un- 
 
430 SEPTIMIUS F ELTON. 
 
 hanged ; leaving behind him few available effects be 
 yond the web and empty skin of an enormous spider. 
 
 As to Septimius, he returned no more to his cottage 
 by the wayside, and none undertook to tell what had 
 become of him ; crushed and annihilated, as it were, 
 by the failure of his magnificent and most absurd 
 dreams. Rumors there have been, however, at vari 
 ous times, that there had appeared an American claim 
 ant, who had made out his right to the great estate of 
 Smithell s Hall, and had dwelt there, and left poster 
 ity, and that in the subsequent generation an ancient 
 baronial title had been revived in favor of the son and 
 heir of the American. Whether this was our Septim 
 ius, I cannot tell ; but I should be rather sorry to be 
 lieve that after such splendid schemes as he had enter 
 tained, he should have been content to settle down into 
 the fat substance and reality of English life, and die 
 in his due time, and be buried like any other man. 
 
 A few years ago, while in England, I visited Smith- 
 ell s Hall, and was entertained there, not knowing at 
 the time%that I could claim its owner as my country 
 man by descent ; though, as I now remember, I was 
 struck by the thin, sallow, American cast of his face, 
 and the lithe slenderness of his figure, and seem now 
 (but this may be my fancy) to recollect a certain 
 Indian glitter of the eye and cast of feature. 
 
 As for the Bloody Footstep, I saw it with my own 
 eyes, and will venture to suggest that it was a mere 
 natural reddish stain in the stone, converted by super- 
 stition into a Bloody Footstep. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP- 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP: 
 
 OUTLINES OF AN ENGLISH ROMANCE. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY XOTE. 
 
 " SEPTTMIUS FELTOX " was the outgrowth of a project, 
 formed by Hawthorne during his residence in England, of 
 writing a romance, the scene of which shoidd be laid in that 
 country; but this project was afterwards abandoned, giv 
 ing place to a new conception in which the visionary search 
 for means to secure an earthly immortality was to form the 
 principal interest. The new conception took shape in the 
 uncompleted " Dolliver Romance." The two themes, of 
 course, were distinct, but, by a curious process of thought, 
 one grew directly out of the other : the whole history con 
 stitutes, in fact, a chapter in what may be called the gene 
 alogy of a romance. There remained, after " Septimius 
 Felton " had been published, certain manuscripts connected 
 with the scheme of an English story. One of these manu 
 scripts was written in the form of a journalized narrative ; 
 the author merely noting the date of what he wrote, as he 
 went along. The other was a more extended sketch, of 
 much greater bulk, and without date, but probably pro 
 duced several years later. It was not originally intended 
 by those who at the time had charge of Hawthorne s pa 
 pers that either of these incomplete writings should be laid 
 before the public ; because they manifestly had not been left 
 by him in a form which he would have considered as war 
 ranting such a course. But since the second and larger 
 manuscript has been published under the title of " Dr. 
 Grimshawe s Secret," it has been thought best to issue the 
 
 present sketch, so that the two documents may be examined 
 VOL. xi. 28 
 
434 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 together. Their appearance places in the hands of readers 
 the entire process of development leading to the " Septim- 
 ius " and " The Dolliver Romance." They speak for them 
 selves much more efficiently than any commentator can ex 
 pect to do ; and little, therefore, remains to be said beyond 
 a few words of explanation in regard to the following 
 pages. 
 
 The Note-Books show that the plan of an English ro 
 mance, turning upon the fact that an emigrant to America 
 had carried away a family secret which should give his de 
 scendant the power to ruin the family in the mother country, 
 had occurred to Hawthorne as early as April, 1855. In 
 August of the same year he visited Smithell s Hall, in Boltoii 
 le Moors, concerning which he had already heard its legend 
 of (k The Bloody Footstep," and from that time on, the idea 
 of this footprint on the threshold-stone of the ancestral 
 mansion seems to have associated itself inextricably with 
 the dreamy substance of his yet unshaped romance. Indeed, 
 it leaves its mark broadly upon Sibyl Dacy s wild legend in 
 " Septimius Felton," and reappears in the last paragraph 
 of that story. But, so far as we can know at this day, 
 nothing definite was done until after his departure for Italy. 
 It was then, while staying in Rome, that he began to put 
 upon paper that plot which had first occupied his thoughts 
 three years before, in the scant leisure allowed him by his 
 duties at the Liverpool consulate. Of leisure there was not 
 a great deal at Rome, either ; for, as the " French and Ital 
 ian Note-Books " show, sight-seeing and social intercourse 
 took up a good deal of his time, and the daily record in his 
 journal likewise had to be kept up. But he set to work 
 resolutely to embody, so far as he might, his stray imagin 
 ings upon the haunting English theme, and to give them 
 connected form. April 1, 1858, he began ; and then nearly 
 two weeks passed before he found an opportunity to resume ; 
 April 13th being the date of the next passage. By May he 
 gets fully into swing, so that day after day, with but slight 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 435 
 
 breaks, he carries on the story, always increasing in interest 
 for us who read as for him who improvised. Thus it con 
 tinues until May 19th, by which time he has made a toler 
 ably complete outline, filled in with a good deal of detail 
 here and there. Although the sketch is cast in the form 
 of a regular narrative, one or two gaps occur, indicating 
 that the author had thought out certain points which he 
 then took for granted without making note of them. Brief 
 scenes, passages of conversation and of narration, follow 
 one another after the manner of a finished story, alter 
 nating with synopses of the plot, and queries concerning 
 particulars that needed further study ; confidences of the 
 romancer to himself which form certainly a valuable contri 
 bution to literary history. The manuscript closes with a 
 rapid sketch of the conclusion, and the way in which it is to 
 be executed. Succinctly, what we have here is a romance 
 in embryo ; one, moreover, that never attained to a viable 
 stature and constitution. During his lifetime it naturally 
 would not have been put forward as demanding public at 
 tention ; and, in consideration of that fact, it has since been 
 withheld from the press by the decision of his daughter, 
 in whom the title to it vests. Students of literary art, 
 however, and many more general readers will, I think, be 
 likely to discover in it a charm all the greater for its being 
 in parts only indicated ; since, as it stands, it presents the 
 precise condition of a work of fiction in its first stage. 
 The unfinished " Grimshawe " was another development of 
 the same theme, and the " Septimius " a later sketch, with 
 a new element introduced. But the present experimental 
 fragment, to which it has been decided to give the title of 
 " The Ancestral Footstep," possesses a freshness and spon 
 taneity recalling the peculiar fascination of those chalk or 
 pencil outlines with which great masters in the graphic art 
 have been wont to arrest their fleeting glimpses of a com 
 position still unwrought. 
 
 It would not be safe to conclude, from the large amount 
 
436 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 of preliminary writing done with a view to that romance, 
 that Hawthorne always adopted this laborious mode of 
 making several drafts of a book. On the contrary, it is 
 understood that his habit was to mature a design so thor 
 oughly in his mind before attempting to give it actual ex 
 istence on paper that but little rewriting was needed. The 
 circumstance that he was obliged to write so much that 
 did not satisfy him in this case may account partly for his 
 relinquishing the theme, as one which for him had lost its 
 seductiveness through too much recasting. 
 
 It need be added only that the original manuscript, from 
 which the following pages are printed through the medium 
 of an exact copy, is singularly clear and fluent. Not a sin 
 gle correction occurs throughout ; but here and there a word 
 is omitted, obviously by mere accident, and these omissions 
 have been supplied. The correction in each case is marked 
 by brackets, in this printed reproduction. The sketch be 
 gins abruptly ; but there is no reason to suppose that any 
 thing preceded it except the unrecorded musings in the 
 author s mind, and one or two memoranda in the " English 
 Note-Books." We must therefore imagine the central fig 
 ure, Middleton, who is the American descendant of an old 
 English family, as having been properly introduced, and 
 then pass at once to the opening sentences. The rest will 
 explain itself. G. P. L. 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 
 
 OUTLINES OF AN ENGLISH ROMANCE. 
 
 APRIL 1, 1858. Thursday. He had now been travelling 
 long in those rich portions of England where he would most 
 have wished to find the object of his pursuit ; and many had 
 been the scenes which he would willingly have identified 
 with that mentioned in the ancient, time-yellowed record 
 which he bore about with him. It is to be observed that, 
 undertaken at first half as the amusement, the unreal ob 
 ject, of a grown man s play-day, it had become more and 
 more real to him with every step of the way that he fol 
 lowed it up ; along those green English lanes it seemed as 
 if everything would bring him close to the mansion that he 
 sought ; every morning he went on with renewed hopes, nor 
 did the evening, though it brought with it no success, bring 
 with it the gloom and heaviness of a real disappointment. 
 In all his life, including its earliest and happiest days, he 
 had never known such a spring and zest as now filled his 
 veins, and gave lightsomeness to his limbs ; this spirit gave 
 to the beautiful country which he trod a still richer beauty 
 than it had ever borne, and he sought his ancient home as if 
 he had found his way into Paradise and were there endeav 
 oring to trace out the sight [site] of Eve s bridal bower, the 
 birthplace of the human race and its glorious possibilities of 
 happiness and high performance. 
 
 In these sweet and delightful moods of mind, varying 
 from one dream to another, he loved indeed the solitude of 
 his way ; but likewise he loved the facility which his pursuit 
 afforded him, of coming in contact with many varieties of 
 
438 APPENDIX. 
 
 men, and he took advantage of this facility to an extent 
 which it was not usually his impulse to do. But now he 
 came forth from all reserves, and offered himself to whom 
 ever the chances of the way offered to him, with a ready 
 sensibility that made its way through every barrier that even 
 English exclusiveness, in whatever rank of life, could set 
 up. The plastic character of Middleton was perhaps a va 
 riety of American nature only presenting itself under an 
 individual form ; he could throw off the man of our day, 
 and put on a ruder nature, but then it was with a certain 
 fineness, that made this only [a] distinction between it and 
 the central truth. He found less variety of form in the Eng 
 lish character than he had been accustomed to see at home ; 
 but perhaps this was in consequence of the external nature 
 of his acquaintance with it ; for the view of one well accus 
 tomed to a people, and of a stranger to them, differs in this 
 that the latter sees the homogeneity, the one universal 
 character, the groundwork of the whole, while the former 
 sees a thousand little differences, which distinguish the indi 
 vidual men apart, to such a degree that they seem hardly to 
 have any resemblance among themselves. 
 
 But just at the period of his journey when we take him 
 up, Middleton had been for two or three days the compan 
 ion of an old man who interested him more than most of 
 his wayside companions ; the more especially as he seemed 
 to be wandering without an object, or with such a dreamy 
 object as that which led Middleton s own steps onward. He 
 was a plain old man enough, but with a pale, strong-featured 
 face and white hair, a certain picturesqueness and venerable- 
 ness, which Middleton fancied might have befitted a richer 
 garb than he now wore. In much of their conversation, 
 too, he was sensible that, though the stranger betrayed no 
 acquaintance with literature, nor seemed to have conversed 
 with, cultivated minds, yet the results of such acquaintance 
 and converse were here. Middleton was inclined to think 
 him, however, an old man, one of those itinerants, such as 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 439 
 
 Wordsworth represented in the " Excursion." who smooth 
 themselves by the attrition of the world and gain a knowl 
 edge equivalent to or better than that of books from the 
 actual intellect of man awake and active around them. 
 
 Often, during the short period since their companionship 
 originated. Middleton had felt impelled to disclose to the 
 old man the object of his journey, and the wild tale by 
 which, after two hundred years, he had been blown as it 
 were across the ocean, and drawn onward to commence this 
 search. The old man s ordinary conversation was of a na 
 ture to draw forth such a confidence as this ; frequently 
 turning on the traditions of the wayside ; the reminiscences 
 that lingered on the battle-fields of the Roses, or of the 
 Parliament, like flowers nurtured by the blood of the slain, 
 and prolonging their race through the centuries for the way 
 farer to pluck them ; or the family histories of the castles, 
 manor-houses, and seats which, of various epochs, had their 
 park-gates along the roadside and would be seen with dark 
 gray towers or ancient gables, or more modern forms of 
 architecture, rising up among clouds of ancient oaks. Mid 
 dleton watched earnestly to see if, in any of these tales, 
 there were circumstances resembling those striking and sin 
 gular ones which he had borne so long in his memory, and 
 on which he was now acting in so strange a manner ; but 
 [though] there was a good deal of variety of incident in 
 them, there never was any combination of incidents having 
 the peculiarity of this. 
 
 " I suppose," said he to the old man, " the settlers in my 
 country may have carried away with them traditions long 
 since forgotten in this country, but which might have an 
 interest and connection, and might even piece out the broken 
 relics of family history, which have remained perhaps a mys 
 tery for hundreds of years. I can conceive, even, that this 
 might be of importance in settling the heirships of estates ; 
 but which now, only the two insulated parts of the story be 
 ing known, remain a riddle, although the solution of it is 
 
440 APPENDIX. 
 
 actually in the world, if only these two parts could be united 
 across the sea, like the wires of an electric telegraph." 
 
 " It is an impressive idea," said the old man. " Do you 
 know any such tradition as you have hinted at ? " 
 
 April 13th. Middleton could not but wonder at the sin 
 gular chance that had established him in such a place, and 
 in such society, so strangely adapted to the purposes wit!/ 
 which he had been wandering through England. He had 
 come hither, hoping as it were to find the past still alive 
 and in action ; and here it was so in this one only spot, and 
 these few persons into the midst of whom he had suddenly 
 been cast. With these reflections he looked forth from his 
 window into the old-fashioned garden, and at the stone sun 
 dial, which had numbered all the hours all the daylight 
 and serene ones, at least since his mysterious ancestor left 
 the country. And [is] this, then, he thought to himself, 
 the establishment of which some rumor had been preserved ? 
 Was it here that the secret had its hiding-place in the old 
 coffer, in the cupboard, in the secret chamber, or whatever 
 was indicated by the apparently idle words of the document 
 which he had preserved ? He still smiled at the idea, but it 
 was with a pleasant, mysterious sense that his life had at 
 last got out of the dusty real, and that strangeness had 
 mixed itself up with his daily experience. 
 
 With such feelings he prepared himself to go down to 
 dinner with his host. He found him alone at table, which 
 was placed in a dark old room modernized with every Eng 
 lish comfort and the pleasant spectacle of a table set with 
 the whitest of napery and the brightest of glass and china. 
 The friendly old gentleman, as he had found him from the 
 first, became doubly and trebly so in that position which 
 brings out whatever warmth of heart an Englishman has, 
 and gives it to him if he has none. The impressionable and 
 sympathetic character of Middleton answered to the kind 
 ness of his host ; and by the time the meal was concluded, 
 the two were conversing with almost as much zest and 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 441 
 
 friendship as if they were similar in age, even fellow-coun 
 trymen, and had known one another all their life-time. 
 Middleton s secret, it may be supposed, came often to the 
 tip of his tongue ; but still he kept it within, from a nat 
 ural repugnance to bring out the one romance of his life. 
 The- talk, however, necessarily ran much upon topics among 
 which this one would have come in without any extra at 
 tempt to introduce it. 
 
 " This decay of old families," said the Master, " is much 
 greater than would appear on the surface of things. We 
 have such a reluctance to part with them, that we are con 
 tent to see them continued by any fiction, through any indi 
 rections, rather than to dispense with old names. In your 
 country, I suppose, there is no such reluctance; you are 
 willing that one generation should blot out all that preceded 
 it, and be itself the newest and only age of the world." 
 
 " Not quite so," answered Middleton ; " at any rate, if 
 there be such a feeling in the people at large, I doubt 
 whether, even in England, those who fancy themselves pos 
 sessed of claims to birth, cherish them more as a treasure 
 than we do. It is, of course, a thousand times more difficult 
 for us to keep alive a name amid a thousand difficulties sed 
 ulously thrown around it by our institutions, than for you to 
 do, where your institutions are anxiously calculated to pro 
 mote the contrary purpose. It has occasionally struck me, 
 however, that the ancient lineage might often be found in 
 America, for a family which has been compelled to prolong 
 itself here through the female line, and through alien stocks." 
 
 " Indeed, my young friend," said the Master, "if that be 
 the case, I should like to [speak ?] further with you upon it ; 
 for, I can assure you, there are sometimes vicissitudes in old 
 families that make me grieve to think that a man cannot be 
 made for the occasion." 
 
 All this while, the young lady at table had remained al 
 most silent ; and Middleton had only occasionally been re 
 minded of her by the necessity of performing some of those 
 
442 APPENDIX. 
 
 offices which put people at table under a Christian necessity 
 of recognizing one another. He was, to say the truth, some 
 what interested in her, yet not strongly attracted by the 
 neutral tint of her dress, and the neutral character of her 
 manners. She did not seem to be handsome, although, with 
 her face full before him, he had not quite made up his mind 
 on this point. 
 
 April 14A. So here was Middleton, now at length see 
 ing indistinctly a thread, to which the thread that he had so 
 long held in his hand the hereditary thread that ancestor 
 after ancestor had handed down might seem ready to join 
 on. He felt as if they were the two points of an electric 
 chain, which being joined, an instantaneous effect must fol 
 low. Earnestly, as he would have looked forward to this 
 moment (had he in sober reason ever put any real weight 
 on the fantasy in pursuit of which he had wandered so far) 
 he now, that it actually appeared to be realizing itself, 
 paused with a vague sensation of alarm. The mystery was 
 evidently one of sorrow, if not of crime, and he felt as if 
 that sorrow and crime might not have been annihilated even 
 by being buried out of human sight and remembrance so 
 long. He remembered to have heard or read, how that 
 once an old pit had been dug open, in which were found the 
 remains of persons that, as the shuddering by-standers tra 
 ditionally remembered, had died of an ancient pestilence ; 
 and out of that old grave had come a new plague, that slew 
 the far-off progeny of those who had first died by it. Might 
 not some fatal treasure like this, in a moral view, be brought 
 to light by the secret into which he had so strangely been 
 drawn ? Such were the fantasies with which he awaited the 
 return of Alice, whose light footsteps sounded afar along the 
 passages of the old mansion ; and then all was silent. 
 
 At length he heard the sound, a great way off, as he con 
 cluded, of her returning footstep, approaching from chamber 
 to chamber, and along the staircases, closing the doors be 
 hind her. At first, he paid no great attention to the char- 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 443 
 
 acter of these sounds, but as they drew nearer, he became 
 aware that the footstep was unlike those of Alice ; indeed, as 
 unlike as could be, very regular, slow, yet not firm, so that 
 it seemed to be that of an aged person, sauntering listlessly 
 through the rooms. We have often alluded to Middleton s 
 sensitiveness, and the quick vibrations of his sympathies ; 
 and there was something in this slow approach that produced 
 a strange feeling within him ; so that he stood breathlessly, 
 looking towards the door by which these slow footsteps were 
 to enter. At last, there appeared in the doorway a venera 
 ble figure, clad in a rich, faded dressing-gown, and stand 
 ing on the threshold looked fixedly at Middleton, at the 
 same time holding up a light in his left hand. In his right 
 was some object that Middleton did not distinctly see. But 
 he knew the figure, and recognized the face. It was the old 
 man, his long since companion on the journey hitherward. 
 
 " So," said the old man, smiling gravely, " you have 
 thought fit, at last, to accept the hospitality which I offered 
 you so long ago. It might have been better for both of us 
 for all parties if you had accepted it then ! " 
 
 k You here ! " exclaimed Middleton. " And what can 
 be your connection with all the error and trouble, and in 
 voluntary wrong, through which I have wandered since our 
 last meeting ? And is it possible that you even then held 
 the clue which I was seeking ? " 
 
 u No, no," replied Rothermel. ^was not conscious, 
 at least, of so doing. And yet had we two sat down there 
 by the wayside, or on that English stile, which attracted 
 your attention so much ; had we sat down there and thrown 
 forth each his own dream, each his own knowledge, it would 
 have saved much that we must now forever regret. Are 
 you even now ready to confide wholly in me ? " 
 
 " Alas," said Middleton, with a darkening brow, " there 
 are many reasons, at this moment, which did not exist then, 
 to incline me to hold my peace. And why has not Alice 
 returned ? and what is your connection with her ? " 
 
444 APPENDIX. 
 
 " Let her answer for herself," said Rothermel ; and he 
 called her, shouting through the silent house as if she were 
 at the furthest chamber, and he were in instant need : 
 " Alice ! Alice ! Alice ! here is one who would know 
 what is the link between a maiden and her father ! " 
 
 Amid the strange uproar which he made Alice came fly 
 ing back, not in alarm but only in haste, and put her hand 
 within his own. " Hush, father," said she. " It is not 
 time." 
 
 Here is an abstract of the plot of this story. The Middle- 
 ton who emigrated to America, more than two hundred years 
 ago, had been a dark and moody man; he came with a 
 beautiful though not young woman for his wife, and left a 
 family behind him. In this family a certain heirloom had 
 been preserved, and with it a tradition that grew wilder 
 and stranger with the passing generations. The tradition 
 had lost, if it ever had, some of its connecting links ; but it 
 referred to a murder, to the expulsion of a brother from the 
 hereditary house, in some strange way, and to a Bloody 
 Footstep which he had left impressed into the threshold, as 
 he turned about to make a last remonstrance. It was ru 
 mored, however, or vaguely understood, that the expelled 
 brother was not altogether an innocent man ; but that there 
 had been wrong done, as well as crime committed, insomuch 
 that his reasons were strong that led him, subsequently, to 
 imbibe the most gloomy religious views, and to bury him 
 self in the Western wilderness. These reasons he had never 
 fully imparted to his family ; but had necessarily made allu 
 sions to them, which had been treasured up and doubtless 
 enlarged upon. At last, one descendant of the family de 
 termines to go to England, with the purpose of searching 
 out whatever ground there may be for these traditions, 
 carrying with him certain ancient documents, and other 
 relics ; and goes about the country, half in earnest, and half 
 in sport of fancy, in quest of the old family mansion. He 
 makes singular discoveries, all of which bring the book to 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 445 
 
 an end unexpected by everybody, and not satisfactory to 
 the natural yearnings of novel readers. In the traditions 
 that he brought over, there was a key to some family 
 secrets that were still unsolved, and that controlled the de 
 scent of estates and titles. His influence upon these mat 
 ters involves [him] in divers strange and perilous adven 
 tures ; and at last it turns out that he himself is the rightful 
 heir to the titles and estate, that had passed into another 
 name within the last half-century. But he respects both, 
 feeling that it is better to make a virgin soil than to try to 
 make the old name grow in a soil that had been darkened 
 with so much blood and misfortune as this. 
 
 April 27th. Tuesday. It was with a delightful feeling 
 of release from ordinary rules, that Middleton found himself 
 brought into this connection with Alice ; and he only hoped 
 that this play-day of his life might last long enough to rest 
 him from all that he had suffered. In the enjoyment of his 
 position he almost forgot the pursuit that occupied him, nor 
 might he have remembered for a long space if, one evening, 
 Alice herself had not alluded to it " You are wasting 
 precious days," she suddenly said. " Why do not you re 
 new your quest ? " 
 
 " To what do you allude ? " said Middleton, in surprise. 
 " What object do you suppose me to have ? " 
 
 Alice smiled ; nay, laughed outright. " You suppose 
 yourself to be a perfect mystery, no doubt," she replied. 
 " But do not I know you have not I known you long 
 as the holder of the talisman, the owner of the mysterious 
 cabinet that contains the blood-stained secret ? " 
 
 "Nay, Alice, this is certainly a strange coincidence, that 
 you should know even thus much of a foolish secret that 
 makes me employ this little holiday time, which I have 
 stolen out of a weary life, in a wild-goose chase. But, be 
 lieve me, you allude to matters that are more a mystery to 
 me than my affairs appear to be to you. Will you explain 
 what you would suggest by this badinage ? " 
 
446 APPENDIX. 
 
 Alice shook her head. " You have no claim to know 
 what I know, even if it would be any addition to your own 
 knowledge. I shall not, and must not enlighten you. You 
 must burrow for the secret with your own tools, in your own 
 manner, and in a place of your own choosing. I am bound 
 not to assist you." 
 
 " Alice, this is wilful, wayward, unjust," cried Middle- 
 ton, with a flushed cheek. " I have not told you yet you 
 know well the deep and real importance which this sub 
 ject has for me. We have been together as friends, yet, 
 the instant when there comes up an occasion when the slight 
 est friendly feeling would induce you to do me a good office, 
 you assume this altered tone." 
 
 " My tone is not in the least altered in respect to you, * 
 said Alice. " All along, as you know, I have reserved my 
 self on this very point ; it being, I candidly tell you, im 
 possible for me to act in your interest in the matter alluded 
 to. If you choose to consider this unfriendly, as being less 
 than the terms on which you conceive us to have stood give 
 you a right to demand of me you must resent it as you 
 please. I shall not the less retain for you the regard due 
 to one who has certainly befriended me in very untoward 
 circumstances." 
 
 This conversation confirmed the previous idea of Middle- 
 ton, that some mystery of a peculiarly dark and evil charac 
 ter was connected with the family secret with which he was 
 himself entangled ; but it perplexed him to imagine in what 
 way this, after the lapse of so many years, should continue 
 to be a matter of real importance at the present day. All 
 the actors in the original guilt if guilt it were must 
 have been long ago in their graves ; some in the churchyard 
 of the village, with those moss-grown letters embossing their 
 names ; some in the church itself, with mural tablets re 
 cording their names over the family-pew, and one, it might 
 be, far over the sea, where his grave was first made under 
 the forest leaves, though now a city had grown up around 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 447 
 
 it. Yet here was he, the remote descendant of that family, 
 setting his foot at last in the country, and as secretly as 
 might be ; and all at once his mere presence seemed to re 
 vive the buried secret, almost to awake the dead who par 
 took of that secret and had acted it. There was a vibra 
 tion from the other world, continued and prolonged into 
 this, the instant that he stepped upon the mysterious and 
 haunted ground. 
 
 He knew not in what way to proceed. He could not but 
 feel that there was something not exactly within the limits 
 of propriety in being here, disguised at least, not known 
 in his true character prying into the secrets of a proud 
 and secluded Englishman. But then, as he said to himself 
 on his own side of the question, the secret belonged to him 
 self by exactly as ancient a tenure and by precisely as strong 
 a claim, as to the Englishman. His rights here were just 
 as powerful and well-founded as those of his ancestor had 
 been, nearly three centuries ago ; and here the same feel 
 ing came over him that he was that very personage, re 
 turned after all these ages, to see if his foot would fit this 
 bloody footstep left of old upon the threshold. The result 
 of all his cogitation was, as the reader will have foreseen, 
 that he decided to continue his researches, and, his proceed 
 ings being pretty defensible, let the result take care of it 
 self. 
 
 For this purpose he went next day to the hospital, and 
 ringing at the Master s door, was ushered into the old-fash 
 ioned, comfortable library, where he had spent that well-re 
 membered evening which threw the first ray of light on the 
 pursuit that now seemed developing into such strange and 
 unexpected consequences. Being admitted, he was desired 
 by the domestic to wait, as his Reverence was at that mo 
 ment engaged with a gentleman on business. Glancing 
 through the ivy that mantled over the window, Middleton 
 saw that this interview was taking place in the garden, 
 where the Master and his visitor were walking to and fro in 
 
448 APPENDIX. 
 
 the avenue of box, discussing some matter, as it seemed to 
 him, with considerable earnestness on both sides. He ob 
 served, too, that there was warmth, passion, a disturbed 
 feeling on the stranger s part ; while, on that of the Master, 
 it was a calm, serious, earnest representation of whatever 
 view he was endeavoring to impress on the other. At last, 
 the interview appeared to come toward a climax, the Mas 
 ter addressing some words to his guest, still with undis 
 turbed calmness, to which the latter replied by a violent and 
 even fierce gesture, as it should seem of menace, not towards 
 the Master, but some unknown party ; and then hastily 
 turning, he left the garden and was soon heard riding away. 
 The Master looked after him awhile, and then, shaking his 
 white head, returned into the house and soon entered the 
 parlor. 
 
 He looked somewhat surprised, and, as it struck Middle- 
 ton, a little startled, at finding him there ; yet he welcomed 
 him with all his former cordiality indeed, with a friend 
 ship that thoroughly warmed Middleton s heart even to its 
 coldest corner. 
 
 " This is strange ! " said the old gentleman. " Do you 
 remember our conversation on that evening when I first had 
 the unlooked-for pleasure of receiving you as a guest into 
 my house ? At that time I spoke to you of a strange family 
 story, of which there was no denouement, such as a novel- 
 writer would desire, and which had remained in that un 
 finished posture for more than two hundred years ! Well ; 
 perhaps it will gratify you to know that there seems a pros 
 pect of that wanting termination being supplied ! " 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Middleton. 
 
 "Yes," replied the Master. "A gentleman has just 
 parted with me who was indeed the representative of the 
 family concerned in the story. He is the descendant of a 
 younger son of that family, to whom the estate devolved 
 about a century ago, although at that time there was search 
 for the heirs of the elder son, who had disappeared after 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 449 
 
 the bloody incident which I related to you. Now, singular 
 as it may appear, at this late day, a person claiming to be 
 the descendant and heir of that eldest son has appeared, 
 and if I may credit my friend s account, is disposed not 
 only to claim the estate, but the dormant title which El- 
 dredge himself has been so long preparing to claim for him 
 self. Singularly enough, too, the heir is an American." 
 
 May 2d, Sunday. "I believe," said Middleton, " that 
 many English secrets might find their solution in America, 
 if the two threads of a story could be brought together, dis 
 joined as they have been by time and the ocean. But are 
 you at liberty to tell me the nature of the incidents to which 
 you allude ? " 
 
 " I do not see any reason to the contrary," answered the 
 Master ; " for the story has already come in an imperfect 
 way before the public, and the full and authentic particulars 
 are likely soon to follow. It seems that the younger brother 
 was ejected from the house on account of a love affair ; the 
 elder having married a young woman with whom the 
 younger was in love, and, it is said, the wife disappeared 
 on the bridal night, and was never heard of more. The 
 elder brother remained single during the rest of his life ; 
 and dying childless, and there being still no news of the 
 second brother, the inheritance and representation of the 
 family devolved upon the third brother and his posterity. 
 This branch of the family has ever since remained in pos 
 session ; and latterly the representation has become of more 
 importance, on account of a claim to an old title, which, by 
 the failure of another branch of this ancient family, has de 
 volved upon the branch here settled. Now, just at this 
 juncture, comes another heir from America, pretending that 
 he is the descendant of a marriage between the second son, 
 supposed to have been murdered on the threshold of the 
 manor-house, and the missing bride ! Is it not a singular 
 story ? " 
 
 " It would seem to require very strong evidence to prove 
 
 VOL. n. 29 
 
450 APPENDIX. 
 
 it," said Middleton. " And methinks a Republican should 
 care little for the title, however he might value the estate." 
 
 " Both both," said the Master, smiling, " would be 
 equally attractive to your countryman. But there are fur 
 ther curious particulars in connection with this claim. You 
 must know, they are a family of singular characteristics, 
 humorists, sometimes developing their queer traits into 
 something like insanity ; though oftener, I must say, spend 
 ing stupid hereditary lives here on their estates, rusting out 
 and dying without leaving any biography whatever about 
 them. And yet there has always been one very queer thing 
 about this generally very commonplace family. It is that 
 each father, on his death-bed, has had an interview with his 
 son, at which he has imparted some secret that has evi 
 dently had an influence on the character and after life of 
 the son, making him ever after a discontented man, aspir 
 ing for something he has never been able to find. Now the 
 American, I am told, pretends that he has the clue which 
 has always been needed to make the secret available ; the 
 key whereby the lock may be opened ; the something that 
 the lost son of the family carried away with him, and by 
 which through these centuries he has impeded the progress 
 of the race. And, wild as the story seems, he does cer 
 tainly seem to bring something that looks very like the proof 
 of what he says." 
 
 " And what are those proofs ? " inquired Middleton, won 
 der-stricken at the strange reduplication of his own position 
 and pursuits. 
 
 " In the first place," said the Master, " the English mar 
 riage-certificate by a clergyman of that day in London, after 
 publication of the banns, with a reference to the register of 
 the parish church where the marriage is recorded. Then, 
 a certified genealogy of the family in New England, where 
 such matters can be ascertained from town and church rec 
 ords, with at least as much certainty, it would appear, as in 
 this country. He has likewise a manuscript in his ancestor s 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 451 
 
 autograph, containing a brief account of the events which 
 banished him from his own country ; the circumstances 
 which favored the idea that he had been slain, and which 
 he himself was willing should be received as a belief ; the 
 fortune that led him to America, where he wished to found 
 a new race wholly disconnected with the past ; and this 
 manuscript he sealed up, with directions that it should *ot 
 be opened till two hundred years after his death, by which 
 time, as it was probable to conjecture, it would matter little 
 to any mortal whether the story was told or not. A whole 
 generation has passed since the time when the paper was at 
 last unsealed and read, so long it had no operation ; yet 
 now, at last, here comes the American, to disturb the suc 
 cession of an ancient family I " 
 
 " There is something very strange in all this," said Mid- 
 dleton. 
 
 And indeed there was something stranger in his view of 
 the matter than he had yet communicated to the Master. 
 For, taking into consideration the relation in which he found 
 himself with the present recognized representative of the 
 family, the thought struck him that his coming hither had 
 dug up, as it were, a buried secret that immediately assumed 
 life and activity the moment that it was above ground again. 
 For seven generations the family had vegetated in the qui 
 etude of English country gentility, doing nothing to make 
 itself known, passing from the cradle to the tomb amid the 
 same old woods that had waved over it before his ancestor 
 had impressed the bloody footstep ; and yet the instant that 
 he came back, an influence seemed to be at work that was 
 likely to renew the old history of the family. He ques 
 tioned with himself whether it were not better to leave all 
 as it was ; to withdraw himself into the secrecy from which 
 he had but half emerged, and leave the family to keep on, 
 to the end of time perhaps, in its rusty innocence, rather 
 than to interfere with his wild American character to dis 
 turb it. The smell of that dark crime that brotherly ha- 
 
452 APPENDIX. 
 
 tred and attempted murder seemed to breathe out of the 
 ground as he dug it up. Was it not better that it should re 
 main forever buried, for what to him was this old English 
 title what this estate, so far from his own native land, 
 located amidst feelings and manners which would never be 
 his own ? It was late, to be sure yet not too late for him 
 to turn back : the vibration, the fear, which his footsteps 
 had caused, would subside into peace ! Meditating in this 
 way, he took a hasty leave of the kind old Master, promis 
 ing to see him again at an early opportunity. By chance, 
 
 or however it was, his footsteps turned to the woods of 
 
 Chace, and there he wandered through its glades, deep in 
 thought, yet always with a strange sense that he was tread 
 ing on the soil where his ancestors had trodden, and where 
 he himself had best right of all men to be. It was just in 
 this state of feeling that he found his course arrested by a 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " What business have you here ? " was the question 
 sounded in his ear ; and,, starting, he found himself in the 
 grasp, as his blood tingled to know, of a gentleman in a 
 shooting-dress, who looked at him with a wrathful brow. 
 " Are you a poacher, or what ? " 
 
 Be the case what it might, Middleton s blood boiled at 
 the grasp of that hand, as it never before had done in the 
 course of his impulsive life. He shook himself free, and 
 stood fiercely before his antagonist, confronting him with 
 his uplifted stick, while the other, likewise, appeared to be 
 shaken by a strange wrath. 
 
 " Fellow," muttered he " Yankee blackguard ! im 
 postor take yourself off these grounds. Quick, or it will 
 be the worse for you ! " 
 
 Middleton restrained himself. " Mr. Eldredge," said he, 
 " for I believe I speak to the man who calls himself owner 
 of this land on which we stand, Mr. Eldredge, you are 
 acting under a strange misapprehension of my character. I 
 have come hither with no sinister purpose, and am entitled. 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 453 
 
 at the hands of a gentleman, to the consideration of an hon 
 orable antagonist, even if you deem me one at all. And 
 perhaps, if you think upon the blue chamber and the ebony 
 cabinet, and the secret connected with it," 
 
 " Villain, no more ! " said Eldredge ; and utterly mad 
 with rage, he presented his gun at Middleton ; but even at 
 the moment of doing so, he partly restrained himself, so far 
 as, instead of shooting him, to raise the butt of his gun, and 
 strike a blow at him. It came down heavily on Middleton s 
 shoulder, though aimed at his head ; and the blow was ter 
 ribly avenged, even by itself, for the jar caused the hammer 
 to come down ; the gun went off, sending the bullet down 
 wards through the heart of the unfortunate man, who fell 
 dead upon the ground. Eldredge l stood stupefied, looking 
 at the catastrophe which had so suddenly occurred. 
 
 May 3d, Monday. So here was the secret suddenly 
 made safe in this so terrible way ; its keepers reduced from 
 two parties to one interest ; the other who alone knew of 
 this age-long mystery and trouble now carrying it into eter 
 nity, where a long line of those who partook of the knowl 
 edge, in each successive generation, might now be waiting 
 to inquire of him how he had held his trust. He had kept 
 it well, there was no doubt of it ; for there he lay dead upon 
 the ground, having betrayed it to no one, though by a method 
 which none could have foreseen, the whole had come into 
 the possession of him who had brought hither but half of it. 
 Middleton looked down in horror upon the form that had 
 just been so full of life and wrathful vigor and now lay 
 so quietly. Being wholly unconscious of any purpose to 
 bring about the catastrophe, it had not at first struck him 
 that his own position was in any manner affected by the 
 violent death, under such circumstances, of the unfortunate 
 man. But now it suddenly occurred to him, that there had 
 been a train of incidents all calculated to make him the ob 
 ject of suspicion ; and he felt that he could not, under the 
 1 Evidently a slip of the pen ; Middleton being intended. 
 
454 APPENDIX. 
 
 English administration of law, be suffered to go at large 
 without rendering a strict account of himself and his rela 
 tions with the deceased. He might, indeed, fly ; he might 
 still remain in the vicinity, and possibly escape notice. But 
 was not the risk too great ? Was it just even to be aware 
 of this event, and not relate fully the manner of it, lest a 
 suspicion of blood-guiltiness should rest upon some innocent 
 head ? But while he was thus cogitating, he heard footsteps 
 approaching along the wood - path ; and half - impulsively, 
 half on purpose, he stept aside into the shrubbery, but still 
 where he could see the dead body, and what passed near it. 
 The footsteps came on, and at the turning of the path, 
 just where Middleton had met Eldredge, the new-comer ap 
 peared in sight. It was Hoper, in his usual dress of velve 
 teen, looking now seedy, poverty-stricken, and altogether in 
 ill-case, trudging moodily along, with his hat pulled over his 
 brows, so that he did not see the ghastly object before him 
 till his foot absolutely trod upon the dead man s hand. Be 
 ing thus made aware of the proximity of the corpse, he 
 started back a little, yet evincing such small emotion as did 
 credit to his English reserve ; then uttering a low exclama 
 tion, cautiously low, indeed, he stood looking at the 
 corpse a moment or two, apparently in deep meditation. He 
 then drew near, bent down, and without evincing any horror 
 at the touch of death in this horrid shape, he opened the 
 dead man s vest, inspected the wound, satisfied himself that 
 life was extinct, and then nodded his head and smiled 
 gravely. He next proceeded to examine seriatim the dead 
 man s pockets, turning each of them inside out and taking 
 the contents, where they appeared adapted to his needs : 
 for instance, a silken purse, through the interstices of which 
 some gold was visible ; a watch, which however had been 
 injured by the explosion, and had stopt just at the moment 
 twenty-one minutes past five when the catastrophe took 
 place. Hoper ascertained, by putting the watch to his ear, 
 that this was the case ; then pocketing it, he continued his 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 455 
 
 researches. He likewise secured a note-book, on examining 
 which he found several bank-notes, and some other papers. 
 And having done this, the thief stood considering what to 
 do next ; nothing better occurring to him, he thrust the 
 pockets back, gave the corpse as nearly as he could the 
 same appearance that it had worn before he found it, and 
 hastened away, leaving the horror there on the wood-path. 
 
 He had been gone only a few minutes when another step, 
 a light woman s step, [was heard] coming along the path 
 way, and Alice appeared, having on her usual white mantle, 
 straying along with that fearlessness which characterized 
 her so strangely, and made her seem like one of the deni 
 zens of nature. She was singing in a low tone some one of 
 those airs which have become so popular in England, as 
 negro melodies ; when suddenly, looking before her, she saw 
 the blood-stained body on the grass, the face looking ghastly 
 upward. Alice pressed her hand upon her heart ; it was 
 not her habit to scream, not the habit of that strong, wild, 
 self-dependent nature ; and the exclamation which broke 
 from her was not for help, but the voice of her heart crying 
 out to herself. For an instant she hesitated, as [if] not 
 knowing what to do ; then approached, and with her white, 
 maiden hand felt the brow of the dead man, tremblingly, 
 but yet firm, and satisfied herself that life had wholly de 
 parted. She pressed her hand, that had just touched the 
 dead man s, on her forehead, and gave a moment to thought. 
 
 What her decision might have been, we cannot say, for 
 while she stood in this attitude, Middleton stept from his 
 seclusion, and at the noise of his approach she turned sud 
 denly round, looking more frightened and agitated than at 
 the moment when she had first seen the dead body. She 
 faced Middleton, however, and looked him quietly in the 
 eye. " You see this ! " said she, gazing fixedly at him. " It 
 is not at this moment that you first discover it." 
 
 " No," said Middleton. frankly. " It is not. I was pres 
 ent at the catastrophe. In one sense, indeed, I was the 
 
456 APPENDIX. 
 
 cause of it; but, Alice, I need not tell you that I am no 
 murderer." 
 
 "A murderer? no," said Alice, still looking at him 
 with the same fixed gaze. " But you and this man were at 
 deadly variance. He would have rejoiced at any chance 
 that would have laid you cold and bloody on the earth, as 
 he is now ; nay, he would most eagerly have seized on any 
 fair-looking pretext that would have given him a chance to 
 stretch you there. The world will scarcely believe, when it 
 knows all about your relations with him, that his blood is 
 not on your hand. Indeed," said she, with a strange smile, 
 " I see some of it there now ! " 
 
 And, in very truth, so there was ; a broad blood - stain 
 that had dried on Middleton s hand. He shuddered at it, 
 but essayed vainly to rub it off. 
 
 "You see," said she. "It was foreordained that you 
 should shed this man s blood ; foreordained that, by digging 
 into that old pit of pestilence, you should set the contagion 
 loose again. You should have left it buried forever. But 
 now what do you mean to do ? " 
 
 " To proclaim this catastrophe," replied Middleton. " It 
 is the only honest and manly way. What else can I do ? " 
 
 " You can and ought to leave him on the wood - path, 
 where he has fallen," said Alice, " and go yourself to take 
 advantage of the state of things which Providence has 
 brought about. Enter the old house, the hereditary house, 
 where now, at least : you alone have a right to tread. 
 Now is the hour. All is within your grasp. Let the wrong 
 of three hundred years be righted, and come back thus to 
 your own, to these hereditary fields, this quiet, long-de 
 scended home ; to title, to honor." 
 
 Yet as the wild maiden spoke thus, there was a sort of 
 mockery in her eyes ; on her brow ; gleaming through all 
 her face, as if she scorned what she thus pressed upon him, 
 the spoils of the dead man who lay at their feet. Middle- 
 ton, with his susceptibility, could not [but] be sensible of 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 457 
 
 a wild and strange charm, as well as horror, in the situa- 
 tion ; it seemed such a wonder that here, in formal, orderly, 
 well-governed England, so wild a scene as this should have 
 occurred ; that they too [two ?] should stand here, deciding 
 on the descent of an estate, and the inheritance of a title, 
 holding a court of their own. 
 
 " Come, then, " said he, at length. " Let us leave this 
 poor fallen antagonist in his blood, and go whither you will 
 lead me. I will judge for myself. At all events, I will 
 not leave my hereditary home without knowing what my 
 power is." 
 
 " Come," responded Alice ; and she turned back ; but 
 then returned and threw a handkerchief over the dead 
 man s face, which while they spoke had assumed that quiet, 
 ecstatic expression of joy which often is observed to over 
 spread the faces of those who die of gunshot wounds, how 
 ever fierce the passion in which the spirits took their flight. 
 With this strange, grand, awful joy did the dead man gaze 
 upward into the very eyes and hearts, as it were, of the two 
 that now bent over him. They looked at one another. 
 
 " Whence comes this expression ? " said Middleton, 
 thoughtfully. " Alice, methinks he is reconciled to us now ; 
 and that we are members of one reconciled family, all of 
 whom are in heaven but me." 
 
 Tuesday , May &th. " How strange is this whole situa 
 tion between you and me," said Middleton, as they went up 
 the winding pathway that led towards the house. " Shall I 
 ever understand it ? Do you mean ever to explain it to me ? 
 That I should find you here with that old man, 1 so mysteri- 
 
 1 The allusion here is apparently to the old man who proclaims 
 himself Alice s father, in the portion dated April 14th. He figures 
 hereafter as the old Hospitaller, Hammond. The reader must not 
 take this present passage as referring to the death of Eldredge, which 
 has just taken place in the preceding section. The author is now be 
 ginning to elaborate the relation of Middleton and Alice. As will be 
 seen, farther on, the death of Eldredge is ignored and abandoned ; 
 Eldredge is revived, and the story proceeds in another way. G. P. L. 
 
458 APPENDIX. 
 
 ous, apparently so poor, yet so powerful ! What [is] his 
 relation to you ? " 
 
 " A close one," replied Alice sadly. " He was my father ! " 
 
 " Your father ! " repeated Middleton, starting back. " It 
 does but heighten the wonder ! Your father ! And yet, 
 by all the tokens that birth and breeding, and habits of 
 thought and native character can show, you are my country 
 woman. That wild, free spirit was never born in the breast 
 of an Englishwoman ; that slight frame, that slender beauty, 
 that frail envelopment of a quick, piercing, yet stubborn 
 and patient spirit, are those the properties of an English 
 maiden ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not," replied Alice quietly. " I am your coun 
 trywoman. My father was an American, and one of whom 
 you have heard and no good, alas ! for many a year." 
 
 " And who then was he ? " asked Middleton. 
 
 " I know not whether you will hate me for telling you," 
 replied Alice, looking him sadly though firmly in the face. 
 " There was a man long years since, in your childhood 
 whose plotting brain proved the ruin of himself and many 
 another; a man whose great designs made him a scrt of 
 potentate, whose schemes became of national importance, and 
 produced results even upon the history of the country in 
 which he acted. That man was my father ; a man who 
 sought to do great things, and, like many who have had sim 
 ilar aims, disregarded many small rights, strode over them, 
 on his way to effect a gigantic purpose. Among other men, 
 your father was trampled under foot, ruined, done to death, 
 even, by the effects of his ambition." 
 
 " How is it possible ! " exclaimed Middleton. " Was it 
 Wentworth ? " 
 
 " Even so," said Alice, still with the same sad calmness 
 and not withdrawing her steady eyes from his face. " After 
 his ruin ; after the catastrophe that overwhelmed him and 
 hundreds more, he took to flight ; guilty, perhaps, but guilty 
 as a fallen conqueror is ; guilty to such an extent that he 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 459 
 
 ceased to be a cheat, as a conqueror ceases to be a murderer. 
 He came to England. My father had an original nobility 
 of nature ; and his life had not been such as to debase it, 
 but rather such as to cherish and heighten that self-esteem 
 which at least keeps the possessor of it from many meaner 
 vices. He took nothing with him ; nothing beyond the bare 
 means of flight, with the world before him, although thou 
 sands of gold would not have been missed out of the scat 
 tered fragments of ruin that lay around him. He found his 
 way hither, led, as you were, by a desire ,to reconnect him 
 self with the place whence his family had originated : for 
 he, too, was of a race which had something to do with the 
 ancient story which has now been brought to a close. Ar 
 rived here, there were circumstances that chanced to make 
 his talents and habits of business available to this Mr. El- 
 dredge, a man ignorant and indolent, unknowing how to 
 make the best of the property that was in his hands. By 
 degrees, he took the estate into his management, acquiring 
 necessarily a preponderating influence over such a man." 
 
 " And you," said Middleton. " Have you been all along 
 in England ? For you must have been little more than an 
 infant at the time." 
 
 " A mere infant," said Alice, " and I remained in our 
 own country under the care of a relative who left me much 
 to my own keeping ; much to the influences of that wild 
 culture which the freedom of our country gives to its youth. 
 It is only two years that I have been in England." 
 
 " This, then," said Middleton thoughtfully, " accounts for 
 much that has seemed so strange in the events through 
 which we have passed ; for the knowledge of my identity 
 and my half-defined purpose which has always glided before 
 me, and thrown so many strange shapes of difficulty in my 
 path. But whence, whence came that malevolence which 
 your father s conduct has so unmistakably shown ? I had 
 done him no injury, though I had suffered much." 
 
 " I have often thought," replied Alice, " that my father, 
 
4GO APPENDIX. 
 
 though retaining a preternatural strength and acuteness ol 
 intellect, was really not altogether sane. And, besides, he 
 had made it his business to keep this estate, and all the 
 complicated advantages of the representation of this old 
 family, secure to the person who was deemed to have inher 
 ited them. A succession of ages and generations might be 
 supposed to have blotted out your claims from existence ; 
 for it is not just that there should be no term of time which 
 can make security for lack of fact and a few formalities. 
 At all events, he had satisfied himself that his duty was to 
 act as he has done." 
 
 " Be it so ! I do not seek to throw blame on him," said 
 Middleton. " Besides, Alice, he was your father ! " 
 
 "Yes," said she, sadly smiling; "let him [have] what 
 protection that thought may give him, even though I lose 
 what he may gain. And now here we are at the house. 
 At last, come in ! It is your own ; there is none that can 
 longer forbid you ! " 
 
 They entered the door of the old mansion, now a farm 
 house, and there were its old hall, its old chambers, all be 
 fore them. They ascended the staircase, and stood on the 
 landing-place above ; while Middleton had again that feel 
 ing that had so often made him dizzy, that sense of being 
 in one dream and recognizing the scenery and events of a 
 former dream. So overpowering was this feeling, that he 
 laid his hand on the slender arm of Alice, to steady him 
 self ; and she comprehended the emotion that agitated him, 
 and looked into his eyes with a tender sympathy, which she 
 had never before permitted to be visible, perhaps never 
 before felt. He steadied himself and followed her till they 
 had entered an ancient chamber, but one that was finished 
 with all the comfortable luxury customary to be seen in 
 English homes. 
 
 " Whither have you led me now ? " inquired Middleton. 
 
 " Look round," said Alice. " Is there nothing here that 
 you ought to recognize ? nothing that you kept the mem 
 ory of, long ago ? " 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 461 
 
 He looked round the room again and again, and at last, 
 in a somewhat shadowy corner, he espied an old cabinet 
 made of ebony and inlaid with pearl ; one of those tall, 
 stately, and elaborate pieces of furniture that are rather art 
 icles of architecture than upholstery ; and on which a higher 
 skill, feeling, and genius than now is ever employed on such 
 things, was expended. Alice drew near the stately cabinet 
 and threw wide the doors, which, like the portals of a pal 
 ace, stood between two pillars ; it all seemed to be unlocked, 
 showing within some beautiful old pictures in the panel of 
 the doors, and a mirror, that opened a long succession of 
 mimic halls, reflection upon reflection, extending to an in 
 terminable nowhere. 
 
 " And what is this ? " said Middleton, " a cabinet ? 
 Why do you draw my attention so strongly to it ? " 
 
 Look at it well," said she. " Do you recognize nothing 
 there ? Have you forgotten your description ? The stately 
 palace with its architecture, each pillar with its architecture, 
 those pilasters, that frieze ; you ought to know them all. 
 Somewhat less than you imagined in size, perhaps ; a fairy 
 reality, inches for yards ; that is the only difference. And 
 you have the key ? " 
 
 And there then was that palace, to which tradition, so 
 false at once and true, had given such magnitude and mag 
 nificence in the traditions of the Middleton family, around 
 their shifting fireside in America. Looming afar through 
 the mists of time, the little fact had become a gigantic vision. 
 Yes, here it was in miniature, all that he had dreamed of ; 
 a palace of four feet high ! 
 
 u You have the key of tin s palace," said Alice ; " it has 
 waited that is, its secret and precious chamber has, for 
 you to open it, these three hundred years. Do you know 
 how to find that secret chamber ? " 
 
 Middleton. still in that dreamy mood, threw open an in 
 ner door of the cabinet, and applying the old-fashioned key 
 at his watch-chain to a hole in the mimic pavement within, 
 
462 APPENDIX. 
 
 pressed one of the mosaics, and immediately the whole floor 
 of the apartment sank, and revealed a receptacle within. 
 Alice had come forward eagerly, and they both looked into 
 the hiding-place, expecting what should be there. It was 
 empty ! They looked into each other s faces with blank as 
 tonishment. Everything had been so strangely true, and so 
 strangely false, up to this moment, that they could not com 
 prehend this failure at the last moment. It was the strangest, 
 saddest jest ! It brought Middleton up with such a sudden 
 revulsion that he grew dizzy, and the room swam round him 
 and the cabinet dazzled before his eyes. It had been mag 
 nified to a palace ; it had dwindled down to Liliputian size ; 
 and yet, up till now, it had seemed to contain in its dimiim- 
 tiveness all the riches which he had attributed to its magni 
 tude. This last moment had utterly subverted it ; the whole 
 great structure seemed to vanish. 
 
 " See ; here are the dust and ashes of it," observed Alice, 
 taking something that was indeed only a pinch of dust out 
 of the secret compartment. " There is nothing else." 
 
 II. 
 
 May 5th, Wednesday. The father of these two sons, an 
 aged man at the time, took much to heart their enmity ; 
 and after the catastrophe, he never held up his head again. 
 He was not told that his son had perished, though such was 
 the belief of the family ; but imbibed the opinion that he 
 had left his home and native land to become a wanderer on 
 the face of the earth, and that some time or other he might 
 return. In this idea he spent the remainder of his days ; in 
 this idea he died. It may be that the influence of this idea 
 might be traced in the way in which he spent some of the 
 latter years of his life, and a portion of the wealth which 
 had become of little value in his eyes, since it had caused 
 dissension and bloodshed between the sons of one household. 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 4G3 
 
 It was a common mode of charity in those days a com 
 mon thing for rich men to do to found an almshouse or a 
 hospital, and endow it, for the support of a certain number 
 of old and destitute men or women, generally such as had 
 some claim of blood upon the founder, or at least were na 
 tives of the parish, the district, the county, where he dwelt. 
 The Eldredge Hospital was founded for the benefit of twelve 
 old men, who should have been wanderers upon the face of 
 the earth ; men, they should be, of some education, but de 
 feated and hopeless, cast off by the world for misfortune, 
 but not for crime. And this charity had subsisted, on terms 
 varying little or nothing from the original ones, from that 
 day to this ; and, at this very time, twelve old men were 
 not wanting, of various countries, of various fortunes, but all 
 ending finally in ruin, who had centred here, to live on the 
 poor pittance that had been assigned to them, three hundred 
 years ago. What a series of chronicles it would have been 
 if each of the beneficiaries of this charity, since its founda 
 tion, had left a record of the events which finally led him 
 hither. Middleton often, as he talked with these old men, 
 regretted that h? himself had no turn for authorship, so rich 
 a volume might he have compiled from the experience, 
 sometimes sunny and triumphant, though always ending in 
 shadow, which he gathered here. They were glad to talk 
 to him, and would have been glad and grateful for any au 
 ditor, as they sat on one or another of the stone benches, in 
 the sunshine of the garden ; or at evening, around the great 
 fireside, or within the chimney-corner, with their pipes and 
 ale. 
 
 There was one old man who attracted much of his atten 
 tion, by the venerableness of his aspect ; by something digni 
 fied, almost haughty and commanding, in his air. What 
 ever might have been the intentions and expectations of the 
 founder, it certainly had happened in these latter days that 
 there was a difficulty in finding persons of education, of 
 good manners, of evident respectability, to put into the 
 
464 APPENDIX. 
 
 places made vacant by deaths of members ; whether that 
 the paths of life are surer now than they used to be, and 
 that men so arrange their lives as not to be left, in any 
 event, quite without resources as they draw near its close ; 
 at any rate, there was a little tincture of the vagabond run 
 ning through these twelve quasi gentlemen, through sev 
 eral of them, at least. But this old man could not well be 
 mistaken ; in his manners, in his tones, in all his natural 
 language and deportment, there was evidence that he had 
 been more than respectable ; and, viewing him, Middleton 
 could not help wondering what statesman had suddenly 
 vanished out of public life and taken refuge here, for his 
 head was of the statesman-class, and his demeanor that of 
 one who had exercised influence over large numbers of men. 
 He sometimes endeavored to set on foot a familiar relation 
 with this old man, but there was even a sternness in the 
 manner in which he repelled these advances, that gave little 
 encouragement for their renewal. Nor did it seem that his 
 companions of the Hospital were more in his confidence than 
 Middleton himself. They regarded him with a kind of awe, 
 a shyness, and in most cases with a certain dislike, which 
 denoted an imperfect understanding of him. To say the 
 truth, there was not generally much love lost between any 
 of the members of this family ; they had met with too much 
 disappointment in the world to take kindly, now, to one an 
 other or to anything or anybody. I rather suspect that they 
 really had more pleasure in burying one another, when the 
 time came, than in any other office of mutual kindness and 
 brotherly love which it was their part to do ; not out of 
 hardness of heart, but merely from soured temper, and be 
 cause, when people have met disappointment and have set 
 tled down into final unhappiness, with no more gush and 
 spring of good spirits, there is nothing any more to create 
 amiability out of. 
 
 So the old people were unamiable and cross to one 
 another, and unamiable and cross to old Hammond, yet 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 465 
 
 always with a certain respect ; and the result seemed to be 
 such as treated the old man well enough. And thus he 
 moved about among them, a mystery ; the histories of the 
 others, in the general outline, were well enough known, and 
 perhaps not very uncommon ; this old man s history was 
 known to none, except, of course, to the trustees of the 
 charity, and to the Master of the Hospital, to whom it had 
 necessarily been revealed, before the beneficiary could be 
 admitted as an inmate. It was judged, by the deportment 
 of the Master, that the old man had once held some eminent 
 position in society ; for, though bound to treat them all as 
 gentlemen, he was thought to show an especial and solemn 
 courtesy to Hammond. 
 
 Yet by the attraction which two strong and cultivated 
 minds inevitably have for one another, there did spring up 
 an acquaintanceship, an intercourse, between Middleton and 
 this old man, which was followed up in many a conversation 
 which they held together on all subjects that were supplied 
 by the news of the day, or the history of the past. Middle- 
 ton used to make the newspaper the opening for much dis 
 cussion ; and it seemed to him that the talk of his compan 
 ion had much of the character of that of a retired statesman, 
 on matters which, perhaps, he would look at all the more 
 wisely, because it was impossible he could ever more have 
 a personal agency in them. Their discussions sometimes 
 turned upon the affairs of his own country, and its relations 
 with the rest of the world, especially with England ; and 
 Middleton could not help being struck with the accuracy of 
 the old man s knowledge respecting that country, which so 
 few Englishmen know anything about ; his shrewd appre 
 ciation of the American character, shrewd and caustic, 
 yet not without a good degree of justice ; the sagacity of 
 his remarks on the past, and prophecies of what was likely 
 to happen, prophecies which, in one instance, were singu 
 larly verified, in regard to a complexity which was then 
 arresting the attention of both countries. 
 
 VOL. xi. 30 
 
466 APPENDIX. 
 
 " You must have been in the United States," said he, one 
 day. 
 
 " Certainly ; my remarks imply personal knowledge," 
 was the reply. " But it was before the days of steam." 
 
 " And not, I should imagine, for a brief visit," said Mid- 
 dleton. " I only wish the administration of this government 
 had the benefit to-day of your knowledge of my country 
 men. It might be better for both of these kindred nations." 
 
 * Not a whit," said the old man. " England will never 
 understand America ; for England never does understand a 
 foreign country ; and whatever you may say about kindred, 
 America is as much a foreign country as France itself. 
 These two hundred years of a different climate and circum 
 stances of life on a broad continent instead of in an isl 
 and, to say nothing of the endless intermixture of nation 
 alities in every part of the United States, except New Eng 
 land have created a new and decidedly original type of 
 national character. It is as well for both parties that they 
 should not aim at any very intimate connection. It will 
 never do." 
 
 " I should be sorry to think so," said Middleton ; " they 
 are at all events two noble breeds of men, and ought to ap 
 preciate one another. And America has the breadth of 
 idea to do this for England, whether reciprocated or not." 
 
 Thursday, May 6th. Thus Middleton was established in 
 a singular way among these old men, in one of the surround 
 ings most unlike anything in his own country. So old it 
 was that it seemed to him the freshest and newest thing that 
 he had ever met with. The residence was made infinitely 
 the more interesting to him by the sense that he was near 
 the place as all the indications warned him which he 
 sought, whither his dreams had tended from his childhood ; 
 that he could wander each day round the park within which 
 were the old gables of what he believed was his hereditary 
 home. He had never known anything like the dreamy en 
 joyment of these days ; so quiet, such a contrast to the tur- 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 467 
 
 bolent life from which he had escaped across the sea. And 
 here he set himself, still with that sense of shadowiness in 
 what he saw and in what he did, in making all the re 
 searches possible to him, about the neighborhood ; visiting 
 every little church that raised its square battlementecl 2s or- 
 man tower of gray stone, for several miles round about ; 
 making himself acquainted with each little village and ham 
 let that surrounded these churches, clustering about the 
 graves of those who had dwelt in the same cottages afore 
 time. He visited all the towns within a dozen miles ; and 
 probably there were few of the inhabitants who had so good 
 an acquaintance with the neighborhood as this native Amer 
 ican attained within a few weeks after his coming thither. 
 
 In course of these excursions he had several times met 
 with a young woman, a young lady, one might term her, 
 but in fact he was in some doubt what rank she might hold, 
 in England, who happened to be wandering about the 
 country with a singular freedom. She was always alone, 
 always on foot; he would see her sketching some pictur 
 esque old church, some ivied ruin, some fine drooping elm. 
 She was a slight figure, much more so than English women 
 generally are ; and, though healthy of aspect, had not the 
 ruddy complexion, which he was irreverently inclined to 
 call the coarse tint, that is believed the great charm of Eng 
 lish beauty. There was a freedom in her step and whole 
 little womanhood, an elasticity, an irregularity, so to speak, 
 that made her memorable from first sight ; and when he 
 had encountered her three or four times, he felt in a certain 
 way acquainted with her. She was very simply dressed, 
 and quite as simple in her deportment ; there had been one 
 or two occasions, when they had both smiled at the same 
 thing ; soon afterwards a little conversation had taken place 
 between them ; and thus, without any introduction, and in a 
 way that somewhat puzzled Middleton himself, they had be 
 come acquainted. It was so unusual that a young English 
 girl should be wandering about the country entirely alone 
 
468 APPENDIX. 
 
 so much less usual that she should speak to a stranger 
 that Middleton scarcely knew how to account for it, but 
 meanwhile accepted the fact readily and willingly, for in 
 truth he found this mysterious personage a very likely and 
 entertaining companion. There was a strange quality of 
 boldness in her remarks, almost of brusqueness, that he 
 might have expected to find in a young countrywoman of 
 his own, if bred up among the strong-minded, but was as 
 tonished to find in a young Englishwoman. Somehow or 
 other she made him think more of home than any other per 
 son or thing he met with ; and he could not but feel that 
 she was in strange contrast with everything about her. She 
 was no beauty ; very piquant ; very pleasing ; in some points 
 of view and at some moments pretty ; always good-humored, 
 but somewhat too self-possessed for Middleton s taste. It 
 struck him that she had talked with him as if she had some 
 knowledge of him and of the purposes with which he was 
 there ; not that this was expressed, but only implied by the 
 fact that, on looking back to what had passed, he found many 
 strange coincidences in what she had said with what he was 
 thinking about. 
 
 He perplexed himself much with thinking whence this 
 young woman had come, where she belonged, and what 
 might be her history ; when, the next day, he again saw 
 her, not this time rambling on foot, but seated in an open 
 barouche with a young lady. Middleton lifted his hat to 
 her, and she nodded and smiled to him ; and it appeared to 
 Middleton that a conversation ensued about him with the 
 young lady, her companion. Now, what still more inter 
 ested him was the fact that, on the panel of the barouche 
 were the arms of the family now in possession of the estate 
 of Smithell s ; so that the young lady, his new acquaintance, 
 or the young lady, her seeming friend, one or the other, was 
 the sister of the present owner of that estate. He was in 
 clined to think that his acquaintance could not be the Miss 
 Eldredge, of whose beauty he had heard many tales among 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 469 
 
 the people of the neighborhood. The other young, lady, a 
 tall, reserved, fair-haired maiden, answered the description 
 considerably better. He concluded, therefore, that his ac 
 quaintance must be a visitor, perhaps a dependent and com 
 panion ; though the freedom of her thought, action, and way 
 of life seemed hardly consistent with this idea. However, 
 this slight incident served to give him a sort of connection 
 with the family, and he could but hope that some further 
 chance would introduce him within what he fondly called 
 his hereditary walls. He had come to think of this as a 
 dreamland ; and it seemed even more a dreamland now 
 than before it rendered itself into actual substance, an ol<7 
 house of stone and timber standing within its park, shaded 
 about with its ancestral trees. 
 
 But thus, at all events, he was getting himself a little 
 wrought into the net-work of human life around him, se- 
 
 ded as his position had at first seemed to be, in the farm 
 house where he had taken up his lodgings. For, there was 
 the Hospital and its old inhabitants, in whose monotonous 
 existence he soon came to pass for something, with his liveli 
 ness of mind, his experience, his good sense, his patience as 
 a listener, his comparative youth even his power of adapt 
 ing himself to these stiff and crusty characters, a power 
 learned among other things in his political life, where he 
 had acquired something of the faculty (good or bad as 
 might be) of making himself all things to all men. But 
 though he amused himself with them all, there was in truth 
 but one man among them in whom he really felt much in 
 terest ; and that one, we need hardly say, was Hammond. 
 It was not often that he found the old gentleman in a con- 
 versible mood ; always courteous, indeed, but generally cool 
 and reserved ; often engaged in his one room, to which 
 Middleton had never yet been admitted, though he had 
 more than once sent in his name, when Hammond was not 
 apparent upon the bench which, by common consent of the 
 Hospital, was appropriated to him. 
 
470 APPENDIX. 
 
 One day, however, notwithstanding that the old gentle 
 man was confined to his room by indisposition, he ventured 
 to inquire at the door, and, considerably to his surprise, was 
 admitted. He found Hammond in his easy-chair, at a table, 
 with writing-materials before him : and as Middleton en 
 tered, the old gentleman looked at him with a stern, fixed 
 regard, which, however, did not seem to imply any particu 
 lar displeasure towards this visitor, but rather a severe way 
 of regarding mankind in general. Middleton looked curi 
 ously around the small apartment, to see what modification 
 the character of the man had had upon the customary furni 
 ture of the Hospital, and how much of individuality he had 
 given to that general type. There was a shelf of books, 
 and a row of them on the mantel-piece ; works of political 
 economy, they appeared to be, statistics and things of that 
 sort ; very dry reading, with which, however, Middleton s 
 experience as a politician had made him acquainted. Be 
 sides these there were a few works on local antiquities, a 
 county-history borrowed from the Master s library, in which 
 Hammond appeared to have been lately reading. 
 
 " They are delightful reading," observed Middleton, 
 " these old county-histories, with their great folio volumes 
 and their minute account of the affairs of families and the 
 genealogies, and descents of estates, bestowing as much 
 blessed space on a few hundred acres as other historians 
 give to a principality. I fear that in my own country we 
 shall never have anything of this kind. Our space is so vast 
 that we shall never come to know and love it, inch by inch, 
 as the English antiquarians do the tracts of country with 
 which they deal ; and besides, our land is always likely to lack 
 the interest that belongs to English estates ; for where land 
 changes its ownership every few years, it does not become 
 imbued with the personalities of the people who live on it. 
 It is but so much grass ; so much dirt, where a succession 
 of people have dwelt too little to make it really their own. 
 But I have found a pleasure that I had no conception of be 
 fore, in reading some of the English local histories." 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 471 
 
 " It is not a usual course of reading for a transitory vis 
 itor," said Hammond. u What could induce you to under 
 take it ? " 
 
 ** Simply the wish, so common and natural with Ameri 
 cans," said Middleton k% the wish to find out something 
 about my kindred the local origin of my own family." 
 
 " You do not show your wisdom in this," said his visitor. 
 "America had better recognize the fact that it has nothing 
 to do with England, and look upon itself as other nations 
 and people do, as existing on its own hook. I never heard 
 of any people looking back to the country of their remote 
 origin in the way the Anglo-Americans do. For instance, 
 England is made up of many alien races, German, Danish. 
 Norman, and what not : it has received large accessions of 
 population at a later date than the settlement of the United 
 States. Yet these families melt into the great homogene 
 ous mass of Englishmen, and look back no more to any 
 other country. There are in this vicinity many descendants 
 of the French Huguenots ; but they care no more for 
 France than for Timbuctoo, reckoning themselves only 
 Englishmen, as if they were descendants of the aboriginal 
 Britons. Let it be so with you." 
 
 " So it might be," replied Middleton, " only that our re 
 lations with England remain far more numerous than our 
 disconnections, through the bonds of history, of literature, 
 of all that makes up the memories, and much that makes 
 up the present interests of a people. And therefore I must 
 still continue to pore over these old folios, and hunt around 
 these precincts, spending thus the little idle time I am likely 
 to have in a busy life. Possibly finding little to my pur 
 pose ; but that is quite a secondary consideration." 
 
 " If you choose to tell me precisely what your aims are," 
 said Hammond, " it is possible I might give you some little 
 assistance." 
 
 May 1th, Friday. Middleton was in fact more than 
 half ashamed of the dreams which he had cherished before 
 
472 APPENDIX. 
 
 coming to England, and which since, at times, had been 
 very potent with him, assuming as strong a tinge of reality 
 as those [scenes ?] into which he had strayed. He could not 
 prevail with himself to disclose fully to this severe, and, as 
 he thought, cynical old man how strong within him was the 
 sentiment that impelled him to connect himself with the old 
 life of England, to join on the broken thread of ancestry 
 and descent, and feel every link well established. But it 
 seemed to him that he ought not to lose this fair opportunity 
 of gaining some light on the abstruse field of his researches ; 
 and he therefore explained to Hammond that he had reason, 
 from old family traditions, to believe that he brought with 
 him a fragment of a history that, if followed out, might 
 lead to curious results. He told him, in a tone half serious, 
 what he had heard respecting the quarrel of the two broth 
 ers, and the Bloody Footstep, the impress of which was said 
 to remain, as a lasting memorial of the tragic termination 
 of that enmity. At this point, Hammond interrupted him. 
 He had indeed, at various points of the narrative, nodded 
 and smiled mysteriously, as if looking into his mind and 
 seeing something there analogous to what he was listening 
 to. He now spoke. 
 
 " This is curious," said he. " Did you know that there 
 is a manor-house in this neighborhood, the family of which 
 prides itself on having such a blood-stained threshold as you 
 have now described ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " exclaimed Middleton, greatly interested. 
 Where ? " 
 
 " It is the old manor-house of Smithell s," replied Ham 
 mond, " one of those old wood and timber [plaster ?] man 
 sions, which are among the most ancient specimens of do 
 mestic architecture in England. The house has now passed 
 into the female line, and by marriage has been for two or 
 three generations in possession of another family. But the 
 blood of the old inheritors is still in the family. The hoase 
 itself, or portions of it, are thought to date back quite as far 
 as the Conquest." 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 473 
 
 " SmithelTs ? " said Middleton. " Why, I have seen that 
 old house from a distance, and have felt no little interest in 
 its antique aspect. And it has a Bloody Footstep ! Would 
 it be possible for a stranger to get an opportunity to inspect 
 it?" 
 
 " Unquestionably," said Hammond ; " nothing easier. It 
 is but a moderate distance from here, and if you can mod 
 erate your young footsteps, and your American quick walk, 
 to an old man s pace, I would go there with you some day. 
 In this languor and ennui of my life, I spend some time in 
 local antiquarianism, and perhaps I might assist you in 
 tracing out how far these traditions of yours may have any 
 connection with reality. It would be curious, would it not, 
 if you had come, after two hundred years, to piece out a 
 story which may have been as much a mystery in England 
 as there in America ? " 
 
 An engagement was made for a walk to SmithelTs the 
 ensuing day ; and meanwhile Middleton entered more fully 
 into what he had received from family traditions and what 
 he had thought out for himself on the matter in question. 
 
 " Are you aware," asked Hammond, " that there was 
 formerly a title in this family, now in abeyance, and which 
 the heirs have at various times claimed, and are at this mo 
 ment claiming ? Do you know, too, but you can scarcely 
 know it, that it has been surmised by some that there is 
 an insecurity in the title to the estate, and has always been ; 
 so that the possessors have lived in some apprehension, from 
 time immemorial, that another heir would appear and take 
 from them the fair inheritance ? It is a singular coinci 
 dence." 
 
 " Very strange," exclaimed Middleton. " No ; I was 
 not aware of it ; and, to say the truth, I should not alto 
 gether like to come forward in the light of a claimant. But 
 this is a dream, surely ! " 
 
 " I assure you, sir," continued the old man, " that you 
 come here in a very critical moment ; and singularly enough 
 
474 APPENDIX. 
 
 there is a perplexity, a difficulty, that has endured for as 
 long a time as when your ancestors emigrated, that is still 
 rampant within the bowels, as I may say, of the family. 
 Of course, it is too like a romance that you should be able 
 to establish any such claim as would have a valid influence 
 on this matter ; but still, being here on the spot, it may be 
 worth while, if merely as a matter of amusement, to make/ 
 some researches into this matter." 
 
 " Surely I will," said Middleton, with a smile, which con 
 cealed more earnestness than he liked to show ; " as to the 
 title, a Republican cannot be supposed to think twice about 
 such a bagatelle. The estate ! that might be a more seri 
 ous consideration." 
 
 They continued to talk on the subject ; and Middleton 
 learned that the present possessor of the estates was a gen 
 tleman nowise distinguished from hundreds of other English 
 gentlemen ; a country squire modified in accordance with 
 the type of to-day, a frank, free, friendly sort of a person 
 enough, who had travelled on the Continent, who employed 
 himself much in field-sports, who was unmarried, and had a 
 sister who was reckoned among the beauties of the county. 
 
 While the conversation was thus going on, to Middleton s 
 astonishment there came a knock at the door of the room, 
 and, without waiting for a response, it was opened, and there 
 appeared at it the same young woman whom he had already 
 met. She came in with perfect freedom and familiarity, 
 and was received quietly by the old gentleman ; who, how 
 ever, by his manner towards Middleton, indicated that he 
 was now to take his leave. He did so, after settling the 
 hour at which the excursion of the next day was to take 
 place. This arranged, he departed, with much to think of, 
 and a light glimmering through the confused labyrinth of 
 thoughts which had been unilluminated hitherto. 
 
 To say the truth, he questioned within himself whether it 
 were not better to get as quickly as he could out of the 
 vicinity ; and, at any rate, not to put anything of earnest in 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 475 
 
 what had hitherto been nothing more than a romance to 
 him. There was something very dark and sinister in the 
 events of family history, which now assumed a reality that 
 they had never before worn ; so much tragedy, so much 
 hatred, had been thrown into that deep pit, and buried 
 under the accumulated debris, the fallen leaves, the rust 
 and dust of more than two centuries, that it seemed not 
 worth while to dig it up ; for perhaps the deadly influences, 
 which it had taken so much time to hide, might still be lurk 
 ing there, and become potent if he now uncovered thenio 
 There was something that startled him, in the strange, wild 
 light, which gleamed from the old man s eyes, as he threw 
 out the suggestions which had opened this prospect to him. 
 What right had he an American, Republican, discon 
 nected with this country so long, alien from its habits of 
 thought and life, reverencing none of the things which Eng 
 lishmen reverenced what right had he to come with these 
 musty claims from the dim past, to disturb them in the life 
 that belonged to them ? There was a higher and a deeper 
 law than any connected with ancestral claims which he 
 could assert ; and he had an idea that the law bade him 
 keep to the country which his ancestor had chosen and to 
 its institutions, and not meddle nor make with England. 
 The roots of his family tree could not reach under the 
 ocean ; he was at most but a seedling from the parent tree. 
 While thus meditating he found that his footsteps had 
 brought him unawares within sight of the old manor-house 
 of Smithell s ; and that he was wandering in a path which, 
 if he followed it further, would bring him to an entrance in 
 one of the wings of the mansion. With a sort of shame 
 upon him, he went forward, and, leaning against a tree, 
 looked at what he considered the home of his ancestors. 
 
 May 9th, Sunday. At the time appointed, the two com 
 panions set out on their little expedition, the old man in his 
 Hospital uniform, the long black mantle, with the bear and 
 ragged staff engraved in silver on the breast, and Middle- 
 
476 APPENDIX. 
 
 ton in the plain costume which he had adopted in these 
 wanderings about the country. On their way, Hammond 
 was not very communicative, occasionally dropping some 
 shrewd remark with a good deal of acidity in it ; now and 
 then, too, favoring his companion with some reminiscence of 
 local antiquity; but oftenest silent. Thus they went on, 
 and entered the park of Pemberton Manor by a by-path, 
 over a stile and one of those footways, which are always so 
 well worth threading out in England, leading the pedestrian 
 into picturesque and characteristic scenes, when the high 
 road would show him nothing except what was common 
 place and uninteresting. Now the gables of the old manor- 
 house appeared before them, rising amidst the hereditary 
 woods, which doubtless dated from a time beyond the days 
 which Middleton fondly recalled, when his ancestors had 
 walked beneath their shade. On each side of them were 
 thickets and copses of fern, amidst which they saw the hares 
 peeping out to gaze upon them, occasionally running across 
 the path, and comporting themselves like creatures tliat felt 
 themselves under some sort of protection from the outrages 
 of man, though they knew too much of his destructive char 
 acter to trust him too far. Pheasants, too, rose dose beside 
 them, and winged but a little way before they alighted ; 
 they likewise knew, or seemed to know, that their hour was 
 not yet come. On all sides in these woods, these wastes, 
 these beasts and birds, there was a character that was 
 neither wild nor tame. Man had laid his grasp on them 
 all, and done enough to redeem them from barbarism, but 
 had stopped short of domesticating them ; although Nature, 
 in the wildest thing there, acknowledged the powerful and 
 pervading influence of cultivation. 
 
 Arriving at a side door of the mansion, Hammond rang 
 the bell, and a servant soon appeared. He seemed to know 
 the old man, and immediately acceded to his request to be 
 permitted to show his companion the house ; although it 
 was not precisely a show-house, nor was this the hour when 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 477 
 
 strangers were usually admitted. They entered ; and the 
 servant did not give himself the trouble to act as a cicerone 
 to the two visitants, but carelessly said to the old gentle- 
 man that he knew the rooms, and that he would leave him 
 to discourse to his friend about them. Accordingly, they 
 went into the old hall, a dark oaken-panelled room, of no 
 great height, with many doors opening into it. There was 
 a fire burning on the hearth ; indeed, it was the custom of 
 the house to keep it up from morning^ to night ; and in the 
 damp, chill climate of England, there is seldom a day in 
 some part of which a fire is not pleasant to feel. Hammond 
 here pointed out a stuffed fox, to which some story of a 
 famous chase was attached ; a pair of antlers of enormous 
 size ; and some old family pictures, so blackened with time 
 and neglect that Middleton could not well distinguish their 
 features, though curious to do so, as hoping to see there the 
 lineaments of some with whom he might claim kindred. It 
 was a venerable apartment, and gave a good foretaste of 
 what they might hope to find in the rest of the mansion. 
 
 But when they had inspected it pretty thoroughly, and 
 were ready to proceed, an elderly gentleman entered the 
 hall, and, seeing Hammond, addressed him in a kindly, 
 familiar way; not indeed as an equal friend, but with a 
 pleasant and not irksome conversation. " I am glad to see 
 you here again," said he. u What ? I have an hour of 
 leisure ; for, to say the truth, the day hangs rather heavy 
 till the shooting season begins. Come ; as you have a friend 
 with you, I will be your cicerone myself about the house, 
 and show you whatever mouldy objects of interest it con 
 tains." 
 
 He then graciously noticed the old man s companion, but 
 without asking or seeming to expect an introduction ; for, 
 after a careless glance at him, he had evidently sec him 
 down as a person without social claims, a young man in the 
 rank of life fitted to associate with an inmate of Pember- 
 ton s Hospital. And it must be noticed that his treatment 
 
478 APPENDIX. 
 
 of Middleton was not on that account the less kind, though 
 far from being so elaborately courteous as if he had met 
 him as an equal. "You have had something of a walk," 
 said he, " and it is a rather hot day. The beer of Pember- 
 ton Manor has been reckoned good these hundred years ; 
 will you taste it ? " 
 
 Hammond accepted the offer, and the beer was brought 
 in a foaming tankard ; but Middleton declined it, for in 
 truth there was a singular emotion in his breast, as if the 
 old enmity, the ancient injuries, were not yet atoned for, 
 and as if he must not accept the hospitality of one who rep 
 resented his hereditary foe. He felt, too, as if there were 
 something unworthy, a certain want of fairness, in entering 
 clandestinely the house, and talking with its occupant under 
 a veil, as it were ; and had he seen clearly how to do it, he 
 would perhaps at that moment have fairly told Mr. Eldredge 
 that he brought with him the character of kinsman, and 
 must be received on that grade or none. But it was not 
 easy to do this ; and after all, there was no clear reason 
 why he should do it ; so he let the matter pass, merely de 
 clining to take the refreshment, and keeping himself quiet 
 and retired. 
 
 Squire Eldredge seemed to be a good, ordinary sort of 
 gentleman, reasonably well educated, and with few ideas 
 beyond his estate and neighborhood, though he had once 
 held a seat in Parliament for part of a term. Middleton 
 could not but contrast him, with an inward smile, with the 
 shrewd, alert politicians, their faculties all sharpened to the 
 utmost, whom he had known and consorted with in the 
 American Congress. Hammond had slightly informed him 
 that his companion was an American ; and Mr. Eldredge 
 immediately gave proof of the extent of his knowledge of 
 that country, by inquiring whether he came from the State 
 of New England, and whether Mr. Webster was still Presi 
 dent of the United States ; questions to which Middleton re 
 turned answers that led to no further conversation. These 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 479 
 
 little preliminaries over, they continued their ramble through 
 the house, going through tortuous passages, up and down 
 little flights of steps, and entering chambers that had all 
 the charm of discoveries of hidden regions ; loitering about, 
 in short, in a labyrinth calculated to put the head into a 
 delightful confusion. Some of these rooms contained their 
 time-honored furniture, all in the best possible repair, heavy, 
 dark, polished ; beds that had been marriage beds and dy 
 ing beds over and over again ; chairs with carved backs ; 
 and all manner of old world curiosities ; family pictures, 
 and samplers, and embroidery ; fragments of tapestry ; an 
 inlaid floor ; everything having a story to it, though, to say 
 the truth, the possessor of these curiosities made but a bun 
 gling piece of work in telling the legends connected with 
 them. In one or two instances Hammond corrected him. 
 
 By and by they came to what had once been the princi 
 pal bed-room of the house ; though its gloom, and some cir 
 cumstances of family misfortune that had happened long 
 ago, had caused it to fall into disrepute in latter times ; and 
 it was now called the Haunted Chamber, or the Ghost s 
 Chamber. The furniture of this room, however, was par 
 ticularly rich in its antique magnificence ; and one of the 
 principal objects was a great black cabinet of ebony and 
 ivory, such as may often be seen in old English houses, and 
 perhaps often in the palaces of Italy, in which country they 
 perhaps originated. This present cabinet was known to 
 have been in the house as long ago as the reign of Queen 
 Elizabeth, and how much longer neither tradition nor rec 
 ord told. Hammond particularly directed Middleton s at 
 tention to it. 
 
 " There is nothing in this house," said he, " better worth 
 your attention than that cabinet. Consider its plan ; it rep 
 resents a stately mansion, with pillars, an entrance, with a 
 lofty flight of steps, windows, and everything perfect. Ex 
 amine it well." 
 
 There was such an emphasis in the old man s way of 
 
480 APPENDIX. 
 
 speaking that Middleton turned suddenly round from all 
 that he had been looking at, and fixed his whole attention 
 on the cabinet ; and strangely enough, it seemed to be the 
 representative, in small, of something that he had seen in a 
 dream. To say the truth, if some cunning workman had 
 been employed to copy his idea of the old family mansion, 
 on a scale of half an inch to a yard, and in ebony and ivory 
 instead of stone, he could not have produced a closer imita 
 tion. Everything was there. 
 
 " This is miraculous ! " exclaimed he. " I do not under 
 stand it." 
 
 " Your friend seems to be curious in these matters," 
 said Mr. Eldredge graciously. " Perhaps he is of some 
 trade that makes this sort of manufacture particularly in 
 teresting to him. You are quite at liberty, my friend, to 
 open the cabinet and inspect it as minutely as you wish. 
 It is an article that has a good deal to do with an obscure 
 portion of our family history. Look, here is the key, and 
 the mode of opening the outer door of the palace, as we 
 may well call it." So saying, he threw open the outer 
 door, and disclosed within the mimic likeness of a stately 
 entrance hall, with a floor chequered of ebony and ivory. 
 There were other doors that seemed to open into apartments 
 in the interior of the palace ; but when Mr. Eldredge threw 
 them likewise wide, they proved to be drawers and secret 
 receptacles, where papers, jewels, money, anything that it 
 was desirable to store away secretly, might be kept. 
 
 u You said, sir," said Middleton, thoughtfully, " that your 
 family history contained matter of interest in reference to 
 this cabinet. Might I inquire what those legends are ? " 
 
 "Why, yes," said Mr. Eldredge, musing a little. "I 
 see no reason why I should have any idle concealment 
 about the matter, especially to a foreigner and a man whom 
 I am never likely to see again. You must know, then, my 
 friend, that there was once a time when this cabinet was 
 known to contain the fate of the estate and its possessors j 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 481 
 
 and if it had held all that it was supposed to hold, I should 
 not now be the lord of Pemberton Manor, nor the claimant 
 of an ancient title. But my father, and his father before 
 him, and his father besides, have held the estate and pros 
 pered on it ; and I think we may fairly conclude now that 
 the cabinet contains nothing except what we see." 
 
 And he rapidly again threw open one after another all 
 the numerous drawers and receptacles of the cabinet. 
 
 " It is an interesting object," said Middleton, after look 
 ing very closely and with great attention at it, being pressed 
 thereto, indeed, by the owner s good natured satisfaction in 
 possessing this rare article of vertu. " It is admirable work," 
 repeated he, drawing back. " That mosaic floor, especially, 
 is done with an art and skill that I never saw equalled." 
 
 There was something strange and altered in Middletoo s 
 tones, that attracted the notice of Mr. Eldredge. Looking 
 at him, he saw that he had grown pale, and had a rather 
 bewildered air. 
 
 "Is your friend ill ? " said he. " He has not our English 
 ruggedness of look. He would have done better to take a 
 sip of the cool tankard, and a slice of the cold beef. He 
 finds no such food and drink as that in his own country, I 
 warrant." 
 
 " His color has come back," responded Hammond, briefly. 
 "He does not need any refreshment, I think, except, per 
 haps, the open air." 
 
 In fact, Middleton, recovering himself, apologized to Mr. 
 Hammond [Eldredge ?] ; and as they had now seen nearly 
 the whole of the house, the two visitants took their leave, 
 with many kindly offers on Mr. Eldredge s part to permit 
 the young man to view the cabinet whenever he wished. As 
 they went out of the house (it was by another door than 
 that which gave them entrance). Hammond laid his hand on 
 Middleton s shoulder and pointed to a stone on the thresh 
 old, on which he was about to set his foot. " Take care ! n 
 said he. " It is the Bloody Footstep. 
 
 VOL. XI. 31 
 
482 APPENDIX. 
 
 Middleton looked down and saw something, indeed, very 
 like the shape of a footprint, with a hue very like that of 
 blood. It was a twilight sort of a place, beneath a porch, 
 which was much overshadowed by trees and shrubbery. It 
 might have been blood ; but he rather thought, in his wicked 
 skepticism, that it was a natural, reddish stain in the stone. 
 He measured his own foot, however, in the Bloody Foot 
 step, and went on. 
 
 May lO^A, Monday. This is the present aspect of the 
 story : Middleton is the descendant of a family long settled 
 in the United States ; his ancestor having emigrated to New 
 England with the Pilgrims ; or, perhaps, at a still earlier 
 date, to Virginia with Raleigh s colonists. There had been a 
 family dissension, a bitter hostility between two brothers 
 in England ; on account, probably, of a love affair, the two 
 both being attached to the same lady. By the influence of 
 the family on both sides, the young lady had formed an en 
 gagement with the elder brother, although her affections had 
 settled on the younger. The marriage was about to take 
 place when the younger brother and the bride both disap 
 peared, and were never heard of with any certainty after 
 wards ; but it was believed at the time that he had been 
 killed, and in proof of it a bloody footstep remained on the 
 threshold of the ancestral mansion. There were rumors, 
 afterwards, traditionally continued to the present day, that 
 the younger brother and the bride were seen, and together, 
 in England ; and that some voyager across the sea had 
 found them living together, husband and wife, on the other 
 side of the Atlantic. But the elder brother became a moody 
 and reserved man, never married, and left the inheritance 
 to the children of a third brother, who then became the rep 
 resentative of the family in England ; and the better au 
 thenticated story was that the second brother had really 
 been slain, and that the young lady (for all the parties may 
 have been Catholic) had gone to the Continent and taken 
 the veil there. Such was the family history as known or 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 483 
 
 surmised in England, and in the neighborhood of the 
 manor-house, where the Bloody Footstep still remained on 
 the threshold ; and the posterity of the third brother still 
 held the estate, and perhaps were claimants of an ancient 
 baronage, long in abeyance. 
 
 Now, on the other side of the Atlantic, the second brother 
 and the young lady had really been married, and became 
 the parents of a posterity, still extant, of which the Mid- 
 dleton of the romance is the surviving male. Perhaps he 
 had changed his name, being so much tortured with the evil 
 and wrong that had sprung up in his family, so remorseful, 
 so outraged, that he wished to disconnect himself with all 
 the past, and begin life quite anew in a new world. But 
 both he and his wife, though happy in one another, had 
 been remorsefully and sadly so ; and, with such feelings, 
 they had never again communicated with their respective 
 families, nor had given their children the means of doing 
 so. There must, I think, have been something nearly ap 
 proaching to guilt on the second brother s part, and the 
 bride should have broken a solemnly plighted troth to the 
 elder brother, breaking away from him when almost his 
 wife. The elder brother had been known to have been 
 wounded at the time of the second brother s disappearance ; 
 and it had been the surmise that he had received this hurt 
 in the personal conflict in which the latter was slain. But 
 in truth the second brother had stabbed him in the emer 
 gency of being discovered in the act of escaping with the 
 bride ; and this was what weighed upon his conscience 
 throughout life in America. The American family had pro 
 longed itself through various fortunes, and all the ups and 
 downs incident to our institutions, until the present day. 
 They had some old family documents, which had been rather 
 carelessly kept ; but the present representative, being an 
 educated man, had looked over them, and found one which 
 interested him strongly. It was what was it ? per 
 haps a copy of a letter written by his ancestor on his death- 
 
484 APPENDIX. 
 
 bed, telling his real name, and relating the above incidents. 
 These incidents had come down in a vague, wild way, tra 
 ditionally, in the American family, forming a wondrous and 
 incredible legend, which Middleton had often laughed at, 
 yet been greatly interested in ; and the discovery of this 
 document seemed to give a certain aspect of veracity and 
 reality to the tradition. Perhaps, however, the document 
 only related to the change of name, and made reference to 
 certain evidences by which, if any descendant of the family 
 should deem it expedient, he might prove his hereditary 
 identity. The legend must be accounted for by having been 
 gathered from the talk of the first ancestor and his wife. 
 There must be in existence, in the early records of the col 
 ony, an authenticated statement of this change of name, and 
 satisfactory proofs that the American family, long known as 
 Middleton, were really a branch of the English family of 
 Eldredge, or whatever. And in the legend, though not in 
 the written document, there must be an account of a cer 
 tain magnificent, almost palatial residence, which Middleton 
 shall presume to be the ancestral home ; and in this palace 
 there shall be said to be a certain secret chamber, or recep 
 tacle, where is reposited a document that shall complete the 
 evidence of the genealogical descent. 
 
 Middleton is still a young man, but already a distin 
 guished one in his own country ; he has entered early into 
 politics, been sent to Congress, but having met with some 
 disappointments in his ambitious hopes, and being disgusted 
 with the fierceness of political contests in our country, he 
 has come abroad for recreation and rest. His imagination 
 has dwelt much, in his boyhood, on the legendary story of 
 his family ; and the discovery of the document has revived 
 these dreams. He determines to search out the family 
 mansion ; and thus he arrives, bringing half of a story, 
 being the only part known in America, to join it on to the 
 other half, which is the only part known in England. In 
 an introduction I must do the best I can to state his side 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP, 485 
 
 of the matter to the reader, he having communicated it to 
 me in a friendly way, at the Consulate ; as many people 
 have communicated quite as wild pretensions to English 
 genealogies. 
 
 He comes to the midland counties of England, where he 
 conceives his claims to lie, and seeks for his ancestral home ; 
 but there are difficulties in the way of finding it, the estates 
 having passed into the female line, though still remaining 
 in the blood. By and by, however, he comes to an old 
 town where there is one of the charitable institutions bear 
 ing the name of his family, by \vhose beneficence it had 
 indeed been founded, in Queen Elizabeth s time. He of 
 course becomes interested in this Hospital ; he finds it still 
 going on, precisely as it did in the old days ; and all the 
 character and life of the establishment must be pictur 
 esquely described. Here he gets acquainted with an old 
 man, an inmate of the Hospital, who (if the uncontrolla 
 ble fatality of the story will permit) must have an active 
 influence on the ensuing events. I suppose him to have 
 been an American, but to have fled his country and taken 
 refuge in England ; he shall have been a man of the Nich 
 olas Biddle stamp, a mighty speculator, the ruin of whose 
 schemes had crushed hundreds of people, and Middleton s 
 father among the rest. Here he had quitted the activity of 
 his mind, as well as he could, becoming a local antiquary, 
 etc., and he has made himself acquainted with the family 
 history of the Eldredges, knowing more about it than the 
 members of the family themselves do. He had known in 
 America (from Middleton s father, who was his friend) the 
 legends preserved in this branch of the family, and perhaps 
 had been struck by the way in which they fit into the Eng 
 lish legends ; at any rate, this strikes him when Middleton 
 tells him his story and shows him the document respecting 
 the change of name. After various conversations together 
 (in which, however, the old man keeps the secret of his 
 own identity, and indeed acts as mysteriously as possible) , 
 
486 APPENDIX. 
 
 they go together to visit the ancestral mansion. Perhaps it 
 should not be in their first visit that the cabinet, represent 
 ing the stately mansion, shall be seen. But the Bloody 
 Footstep may ; which shall interest Middleton much, both 
 because Hammond has told him the English tradition re 
 specting it, and because too the legends of the American 
 family made some obscure allusions to his ancestor having 
 left blood a bloody footstep on the ancestral threshold. 
 This is the point to which the story has now been sketched 
 out. Middleton finds a commonplace old English country 
 gentleman in possession of the estate, where his forefathers 
 have lived in peace for many generations ; but there must 
 be circumstances contrived which shall cause Middleton s 
 conduct to be attended by no end of turmoil and trouble. 
 The old Hospitaller, I suppose, must be the malicious agent 
 in this ; and his malice must be motived in some satisfactory 
 way. The more serious question, what shall be the nature 
 of this tragic trouble, and how can it be brought about ? 
 
 May \\th, Tuesday. How much better would it have 
 been if this secret, which seemed so golden, had remained 
 in the obscurity in which two hundred years had buried it ! 
 That deep, old, grass-grown grave being opened, out from 
 it streamed into the sunshine the old fatalities, the old 
 crimes, the old misfortunes, the sorrows, that seemed to 
 have departed from the family forever. But it was too late 
 now to close it up ; he must follow out the thread that led 
 him on, the thread of fate, if you choose to call it so ; 
 but rather the impulse of an evil will, a stubborn self-inter- 
 est, a desire for certain objects of ambition which were pre~ 
 ferred to what yet were recognized as real goods. Thus 
 reasoned, thus raved, Eldredge, as he considered the things 
 that he had done, and still intended to do ; nor did these 
 perceptions make the slightest difference in his plans, nor 
 in the activity with which he set about their performance. 
 For this purpose he sent for his lawyer, and consulted hhn 
 on the feasibility of the design which he had already com 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 487 
 
 municdted to him respecting Middleton. But the man of 
 law shook his head, and, though deferentially, declined to 
 have any active concern with the matter that threatened to 
 lead him beyond the bounds which he allowed himself, into 
 a seductive but perilous region. 
 
 "My dear sir," said he, with some earnestness, " you had 
 much better content yourself with such assistance as I can 
 professionally and consistently give you. Believe [me], I 
 am willing to do a lawyer s utmost, and to do more would 
 be as unsafe for the client as for the legal adviser." 
 
 Thus left without an agent and an instrument, this un 
 fortunate man had to meditate on what means he would use 
 to gain his ends through his own unassisted efforts. In the 
 struggle with himself through which he had passed, he had 
 exhausted pretty much all the feelings that he had to be 
 stow on this matter ; and now he was ready to take hold of 
 almost any temptation that might present itself, so long as 
 it showed a good prospect of success and a plausible chance 
 of impunity. While he was thus musing, he heard a female 
 voice chanting some song, like a bird s among the pleasant 
 foliage of the trees, and soon he saw at the end of a wood- 
 walk Alice, with her basket on her arm, passing on toward 
 the village. She looked towards him as she passed, but 
 made no pause nor yet hastened her steps, not seeming to 
 think it worth her while to be influenced by him. He hur 
 ried forward and overtook her. 
 
 So there was this poor old gentleman, his comfort utterly 
 overthrown, decking his white hair and wrinkled brow with 
 the semblance of a coronet, and only hoping that the reality 
 might crown and bless him before he was laid in the an 
 cestral tomb. It was a real calamity ; though by no means 
 the greatest that had been fished up out of the pit of do 
 mestic discord that had been opened anew by the advent of 
 the American ; and by the use which had been ma(Je of it 
 by the cantankerous old man of the Hospital. Middleton, 
 as he looked at these evil consequences, sometimes regretted 
 
488 APPENDIX. 
 
 that he had not listened to those forebodings which had 
 warned him back on the eve of his enterprise ; yet such was 
 the strange entanglement and interest which had wound 
 about him, that often he rejoiced that for once he was en 
 gaged in something that absorbed him fully, and the zeal 
 for the development of which made him careless for the re 
 sult in respect to its good or evil, but only desirous that 
 it show itself. As for Alice, she seemed to skim lightly 
 through all these matters, whether as a spirit of good or ill 
 he could not satisfactorily judge. He could not think her 
 wicked ; yet her actions seemed unaccountable on the plea 
 that she was otherwise. It was another characteristic 
 thread in the wild web of madness that had spun itself 
 about all the prominent characters of our story. And when 
 Middleton thought of these things, he felt as if it might be 
 his duty (supposing he had the power) to shovel the earth 
 again into the pit that he had been the means of opening ; 
 but also felt that, whether duty or not, he would never per 
 form it. 
 
 For, you see, on the American s arrival he had found the 
 estate in the hands of one of the descendants ; but some 
 disclosures consequent on his arrival had thrown it into the 
 hands of another ; or, at all events, had seemed to make it 
 apparent that justice required that it should be so disposed 
 of. No sooner was the discovery made than the possessor 
 put on a coronet ; the new heir had commenced legal pro 
 ceedings ; the sons of the respective branches had come to 
 blows and blood ; and the devil knows what other devilish 
 consequences had ensued. Besides this, there was much 
 falling in love at cross-purposes, and a general animosity of 
 everybody against everybody else, in proportion to the close 
 ness of the natural ties and their obligation to love one an 
 other. 
 
 The moral, if any moral were to be gathered from these 
 petty and wretched circumstances, was, " Let the past alone : 
 do not seek to renew it ; press on to higher and better 
 
THE AXCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 489 
 
 things, at all events, to other things ; and be assured that 
 the right way can never be that which leads you back to 
 the identical shapes that you long ago left behind. On 
 ward, onward, onward ! " 
 
 " What have you to do here ? " said Alice. " Your lot is 
 in another land. You have seen the birthplace of your fore 
 fathers, and have gratified your natural yearning for it ; now 
 return, and cast in your lot with your own people, let it be 
 what it will. I fully believe that it is such a lot as the 
 world has never yet seen, and that the faults, the weak 
 nesses, the errors, of your countrymen will vanish away like 
 morning mists before the rising sun. You can do nothing 
 better than to go back." 
 
 " This is strange advice, Alice," said Mid die ton, gazing 
 at her and smiling. " Go back, with such a fair prospect 
 before me ; that were strange indeed ! It is enough to keep 
 me here, that here only I shall see you, enough to make 
 me rejoice to have come, that I have found you here." 
 
 " Do not speak in this foolish way," cried Alice, panting. 
 " I am giving you the best advice, and speaking in the 
 wisest way I am capable of, speaking on good grounds 
 too, and you turn me aside with a silly compliment. I 
 tell you that this is no comedy in which we are performers, 
 but a deep, sad tragedy ; and that it depends most upon 
 you whether or no it shall be pressed to a catastrophe. 
 Think well of it." 
 
 u I have thought, Alice," responded the young man, " and 
 I must let things take their course ; if, indeed, it depends 
 at all upon me, which I see no present reason to suppose. 
 Yet I wish you would explain to me what you mean." 
 
 To take up the story from the point where we left it : 
 by the aid of the American s revelations, some light is 
 thrown upon points of family history, which induce the 
 English possessor of the estate to suppose that the time has 
 come for asserting his claim to a title which has long been 
 in abeyance. He therefore sets about it, and engages in 
 
490 APPENDIX. 
 
 great expenses, besides contracting the enmity of many per 
 sons, with whose interests he interferes. A further compli 
 cation is brought about by the secret interference of the old 
 Hospitaller, and Alice goes singing and dancing through 
 the whole, in a way that makes her seem like a beautiful 
 devil, though finally it will be recognized that she is an 
 angel of light. Middleton, half bewildered, can scarcely 
 tell how much of this is due to his own agency ; how much 
 is independent of him arid would have happened had he 
 stayed on his own side of the water. By and by a further 
 and unexpected development presents the singular fact that 
 he himself is the heir to whatever claims there are, whether 
 of property or rank, all centring in him as the represen 
 tative of the eldest brother. On this discovery there ensues 
 a tragedy in the death of the present possessor of the estate, 
 who has staked everything upon the issue ; and Middleton, 
 standing amid the ruin and desolation of which he has been 
 the innocent cause, resigns all the claims which he might 
 now assert, and retires, arm in arm with Alice, who has en 
 couraged him to take this course, and to act up to his char 
 acter. The estate takes a passage into the female line, and 
 the old name becomes extinct, nor does Middleton seek to 
 continue it by resuming it in place of the one long ago as 
 sumed by his ancestor. Thus he and his wife become the 
 Adam and Eve of a new epoch, and the fitting missionaries 
 of a new social faith, of which there must be continual hints 
 through the book. 
 
 A knot of characters may be introduced as gathering 
 around Middleton, comprising expatriated Americans of all 
 sorts : the wandering printer who came to me so often at 
 the Consulate, who said he was a native of Philadelphia, 
 and could not go home in the thirty years that he had been 
 trying to do so, for lack of the money to pay his passage ; 
 the large banker ; the consul of Leeds ; the woman assert 
 ing her claims to half Liverpool ; the gifted literary lady, 
 maddened by Shakespeare, &c., &c. The Yankee who had 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 491 
 
 been driven insane by the Queen s notice, slight as it was, 
 of the photographs of his two children which he had sent 
 her. I have not yet struck the true key-note of this Ro 
 mance, and until I do, and unless I do, I shall write noth 
 ing but tediousness and nonsense. I do not wish it to be a 
 picture of life, but a Romance, grim, grotesque, quaint, of 
 which the Hospital might be the fitting scene. It might 
 have so much of the hues of life that the reader should 
 sometimes think it was intended for a picture, yet the at 
 mosphere should be such as to excuse all wildness. In the 
 Introduction, I might disclaim all intention to draw a real 
 picture, but say that the continual meetings 1 had with 
 Americans bent on such errands had suggested this wild 
 story. The descriptions of scenery, &c., and of the Hos 
 pital, might be correct, but there should be a tinge of the 
 grotesque given to all the characters and events. The tragic 
 and the gentler pathetic need not be excluded by the tone 
 and treatment. If I could but write one central scene in 
 this vein, all the rest of the Romance would readily arrange 
 itself around that nucleus. The begging-girl would be an 
 other American character ; the actress too ; the caravan 
 people. It must be humorous work, or nothing. 
 
 ra. 
 
 May Vlth, Wednesday. Middleton found his abode here 
 becoming daily more interesting ; and he sometimes thought 
 that it was the sympathies with the place and people, buried 
 under the supergrowth of so many ages, but now coming 
 forth with the life and vigor of a fountain, that, long hidden 
 beneath earth and ruins, gushes out singing into the sun 
 shine, as soon as these are removed. He wandered about 
 the neighborhood with insatiable interest ; sometimes, and 
 often, lying on a hill-side and gazing at the gray tower of 
 the church ; sometimes coming into the village clustered 
 
492 APPENDIX. 
 
 round that same church, and looking at the old timber and 
 plaster houses, the same, except that the thatch had prob 
 ably been often renewed, that they used to be in his ances 
 tor s days. In those old cottages still dwelt the families, 
 
 the s, the Prices, the Hopnorts, the Copleys, that had 
 
 dwelt there when America was a scattered progeny of in 
 fant colonies; and in the churchyard were the graves of 
 all the generations since including the dust of those who 
 had seen his ancestor s face before his departure. 
 
 The graves, outside the church walls indeed, bore no 
 marks of this antiquity ; for it seems not to have been an 
 early practice in England to put stones over such graves ; 
 and where it has been done, the climate causes the inscrip 
 tions soon to become obliterated and unintelligible. But, 
 within the church, there were rich words of the personages 
 and times with whom Middleton s musings held so much 
 converse. 
 
 But one of his greatest employments and pastimes was to 
 ramble through the grounds of SmithelPs, making himself as 
 well acquainted with its wood paths, its glens, its woods, its 
 venerable trees, as if he had been bred up there from in 
 fancy. Some of those old oaks his ancestor might have 
 been acquainted with, while they were already sturdy and 
 well-grown trees ; might have climbed them in boyhood ; 
 might have mused beneath them as a lover ; might have 
 flung himself at full length on the turf beneath them, in the 
 bitter anguish that must have preceded his departure for 
 ever from the home of his forefathers. In order to secure 
 an uninterrupted enjoyment of his rambles here, Middleton 
 had secured the good-will of the game-keepers and other 
 underlings whom he was likely to meet about the grounds, 
 by giving them a shilling or a half-crown ; and he was now 
 free to wander where he would, with only the advice rather 
 than the caution, to keep out of the way of their old master, 
 for there might be trouble, if he should meet a stranger 
 on the grounds, in any of his tantrums. But, in fact, Mr. 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 493 
 
 Eldredge was not much in the habit of walking about the 
 grounds ; and there were hours of every day, during which 
 it was altogether improbable that he would have emerged 
 from his own apartments in the manor-house. These were 
 the hours, therefore, when Middleton most frequented the 
 estate ; although, to say the truth, he would gladly have so 
 timed his visits as to meet and form an acquaintance with 
 the lonely lord of this beautiful property, his own kinsman, 
 though with so many ages of dark oblivion between. For 
 Middleton had not that feeling of infinite distance in the re 
 lationship, which he would have had if his branch of the 
 family had continued in England, and had not intermarried 
 with the other branch, through such a long waste of years ; 
 he rather felt as if he were the original emigrant who, long 
 resident on a foreign shore, had now returned, with a heart 
 brimful of tenderness, to revisit the scenes of his youth, and 
 renew his tender relations with those who shared his own 
 blood. 
 
 There was not, however, much in what he heard of the 
 character of the present possessor of the estate or indeed 
 in the strong family characteristic that had become hered 
 itary to encourage him to attempt any advances. It is 
 very probable that the religion of Mr. Eldredge, as a Cath 
 olic, may have excited a prejudice against him, as it cer 
 tainly had insulated the family, in a great degree, from the 
 sympathies of the neighborhood. Mr. Elifredge, moreover, 
 had resided long on the Continent ; long in Italy ; and had 
 come back with habits that little accorded with those of the 
 gentry of the neighborhood ; so that, in fact, he was almost 
 as much of a stranger, and perhaps quite as little of a real 
 Englishman, as Middleton himself. Be that as it might, 
 Middleton, when he sought to learn something about him, 
 heard the strangest stories of his habits of life, of his tem 
 per, and of his employments, from the people with whom 
 he conversed. The old legend, turning upon the monomania 
 of the family, was revived in full force in reference to this 
 
494 APPENDIX. 
 
 poor gentleman ; and many a time Middleton s interlocutors 
 shook their wise heads, saying with a knowing look and 
 under their breath that the old gentleman was looking for 
 the track of the Bloody Footstep. They fabled or said, 
 for it might not have been a false story that every de 
 scendant of this house had a certain portion of his life, dur 
 ing which he sought the track of that footstep which was left 
 on the threshold of the mansion ; that he sought it far and 
 wide, over every foot of the estate ; not only on the estate, 
 but throughout the neighborhood ; not only in the neighbor 
 hood but all over England ; not only throughout England 
 but all about the world. It was the belief of the neighbor 
 hood at least of some old men and women in it that the 
 long period of Mr. Eldredge s absence from England had 
 been spent in the search for some trace of those departing 
 footsteps that had never returned. It is very possible 
 probable, indeed that there may have been some ground 
 for this remarkable legend ; not that it is to be credited that 
 the family of Eldredge, being reckoned among sane men, 
 would seriously have sought, years and generations after the 
 fact, for the first track of those bloody footsteps which the 
 first rain of drippy England must have washed away ; to 
 say nothing of the leaves that had fallen and the growth 
 and decay of so many seasons, that covered all traces of 
 them since. But nothing is more probable than that the 
 continual recurrdfece to the family genealogy, which had 
 been necessitated by the matter of the dormant peerage, 
 had caused the Eldredges, from father to son, to keep alive 
 an interest in that ancestor who had disappeared, and who 
 had been supposed to carry some of the most important 
 family papers with him. But yet it gave Middleton a 
 strange thrill of pleasure, that had something fearful in it, 
 to think that all through these ages he had been waited for, 
 sought for, anxiously expected, as it were ; it seemed as if 
 the very ghosts of his kindred, a long shadowy line, held 
 forth their dim arms to welcome him ; a line stretching back 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 495 
 
 
 
 to the ghosts of those who -had flourished in the old, old 
 times ; the doubletted and beruffled knightly shades of 
 Queen Elizabeth s time; a long line, stretching from the 
 mediaeval ages, and their duskiness, downward, downward, 
 with only one vacant space, that of him who had left the 
 Bloody Footstep. There was an inexpressible pleasure 
 (airy and evanescent, gone in a moment if he dwelt upon it 
 too thoughtfully, but very sweet) to Middleton s imagina 
 tion, in this idea. When he reflected, however, that his rev 
 elations, if they had any effect at all, might serve only to 
 quench the hopes of these long expectants, it of course made 
 him hesitate to declare himself. 
 
 One afternoon, when he was in the midst of musings 
 such as this, he saw at a distance through the park, in 
 the direction of the manor-house, a person who seemed to 
 be walking slowly and seeking for something upon the 
 ground. He was a long way off when Middleton first per 
 ceived him ; and there were two clumps of trees and under 
 brush, with interspersed tracts of sunny lawn, between them. 
 The person, whoever he was, kept on, and plunged into the 
 first clump of shrubbery, still keeping his eyes on the ground, 
 as if intensely searching for something. When he emerged 
 from the concealment of the first clump of shrubbery, Mid 
 dleton saw that he was a tall, thin person, in a dark dress ; 
 and this was the chief observation that the distance enabled 
 him to make, as the figure kept slowly onward, in a some 
 what wavering line, and plunged into the second clump of 
 shrubbery. From that, too, he emerged ; and soon ap 
 peared to be a thin elderly figure, of a dark man with gray 
 hair, bent, as it seemed to Middleton, with infirmity, for his 
 figure still stooped even in the intervals when he did not ap 
 pear to be tracking the ground. But Middleton could not 
 but be surprised at the singular appearance the figure had 
 of setting its foot, at every step, just where a previous foot 
 step had been made, as if he wanted to measure his whole 
 pathway in the track of somebody who had recently gone 
 
496 APPENDIX. 
 
 
 
 over the ground in advance of him. Middleton was sitting 
 at the foot of an oak ; and he began to feel some awkward 
 ness in the consideration of what he would do if Mr. El- 
 dredge for he could not doubt that it was he were to 
 be led just to this spot, in pursuit of his singular occupa 
 tion. And even so it proved. 
 
 Middleton could not feel it manly to fly and hide himself? 
 like a guilty thing ; and indeed the hospitality of the Eng 
 lish country gentleman in many cases gives the neighbor 
 hood and the stranger a certain degree of freedom in the 
 use of the broad expanse of ground in which they and their 
 forefathers have loved to sequester their residences. The 
 figure kept on, showing more and more distinctly the tall, 
 meagre, not unvenerable features of a gentleman in the de 
 cline of life, apparently in ill-health ; with a dark face, that 
 might once have been full of energy, but now seemed enfee 
 bled by time, passion, and perhaps sorrow. But it was 
 strange to see the earnestness with which he looked on the 
 ground, and the accuracy with which he at last set his foot, 
 apparently adjusting it exactly to some footprint before 
 him ; and Middleton doubted not that, having studied and 
 re-studied the family records and the judicial examinations 
 which described exactly the track that was seen the day 
 after the memorable disappearance of his ancestor, Mr. 
 Eldredge was now, in some freak, or for some purpose "best 
 known to himself, practically following it out. And follow 
 it out he did, until at last he lifted up his eyes, muttering 
 to himself : "At this point the footsteps wholly disappear." 
 
 Lifting his eyes, as we have said, while thus regretfully 
 and despairingly muttering these words, he saw Middleton 
 against the oak, within three paces of him. 
 
 May 13th, Thursday. Mr. Eldredge (for it was he) first 
 kept his eyes fixed full on Middleton s face, with an expres 
 sion as if he saw him not ; but gradually slowly, at first 
 he seemed to become aware of his presence ; then, with 
 a sudden flush, he took in the idea that he was encountered 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 497 
 
 by a stranger in his secret mood. A flush of anger or 
 shame, perhaps both, reddened over his face ; his eyes 
 gleamed ; and he spoke hastily and roughly. 
 
 " Who are you ? " he said. " How come you here ? I 
 allow no intruders in my park. Begone, fellow ! " 
 
 " Really, sir, I did not mean to intrude upon you," said 
 Middle ton blandly. " I am aware that I owe you an apol 
 ogy ; but the beauties of your park must plead my excuse ; 
 and the constant kindness of [the] English gentleman, which 
 admits a stranger to the privilege of enjoying so much of 
 the beauty in which he himself dwells as the stranger s taste 
 permits him to enjoy." 
 
 " An artist, perhaps," said Mr. Eldredge, somewhat less 
 uncourteously. i; I am told that they love to come here and 
 sketch those old oaks and their vistas, and the old mansion 
 yonder. But you are an intrusive set, you artists, and think 
 that a pencil and a sheet of paper may be your passport 
 anywhere. You are mistaken, sir. My park is not open to 
 strangers." 
 
 * I am sorry, then, to have intruded upon you," said 
 Middleton, still in good humor ; for in truth he felt a sort 
 of kindness, a sentiment, ridiculous as it may appear, of 
 kindred towards the old gentleman, and besides was not 
 unwilling in any way to prolong a conversation in whicli 
 he found a singular interest. " I am sorry, especially as I 
 have not even the excuse you kindly suggest for me. I am 
 not an artist, only an American, who have strayed hither to 
 enjoy this gentle, cultivated, tamed nature which I find in 
 English parks, so contrasting with the wild, rugged nature 
 of my native land. I beg your pardon, and will retire." 
 
 " An American," repeated Mr. Eldredge, looking curi 
 ously at him. " Ah, you are wild men in that country, I 
 suppose, and cannot conceive that an English gentleman 
 encloses his grounds or that his ancestors have done so 
 before him for his own pleasure and convenience, and 
 does not calculate on having it infringed upon by everybody, 
 
 VOL. xi. 32 
 
498 APPENDIX. 
 
 like your own forests, as you say. It is a curious coun 
 try, that of yours ; and in Italy I have seen curious people 
 from it." 
 
 " True, sir," said Middleton, smiling. " We send queer 
 specimens abroad ; but Englishmen should consider that we 
 spring from them, and that we present after all only a pic 
 ture of their own characteristics, a little varied by climate 
 and in situation." 
 
 Mr. Eldredge looked at him with a certain kind of in 
 terest, and it seemed to Middleton that he was not unwilling 
 to continue the conversation, if a fair way to do so could 
 only be offered to him. A secluded man often grasps at 
 any opportunity of communicating with his kind, when it is 
 casually offered to him, and for the nonce is surprisingly 
 familiar, running out towards his chance-companion with the 
 gush of a dammed-up torrent, suddenly unlocked. As Mid 
 dleton made a motion to retire, he put out his hand with an 
 air of authority to restrain him. 
 
 " Stay," said he. " Now that you are here, the mischief 
 is done, and you cannot repair it by hastening away. You 
 have interrupted me in my mood of thought, and must pay 
 the penalty by suggesting other thoughts. I am a lonely 
 man here, having spent most of my life abroad, and am 
 separated from my neighbors by various circumstances. 
 You seem to be an intelligent man. I should like to ask 
 you a few questions about your country." 
 
 He looked at Middleton as he spoke, and seemed to be 
 considering in what rank of life he should place him ; his 
 dress being such as suited a humble rank. He seemed not 
 to have come to any very certain decision on this point. 
 
 " I remember," said he, " you have no distinctions of rank 
 in your country ; a convenient thing enough, in some re 
 spects. When there are no gentlemen, all are gentlemen. 
 So let it be. You speak of being Englishmen ; and it has 
 often occurred to me that Englishmen have left this country 
 and been much missed and sought after, who might perhaps 
 be sought there successfully." 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 499 
 
 " It is certainly so, Mr. Eldredge," said Middleton, lift 
 ing his eyes to his face as he spoke, and then turning them 
 aside. k Many footsteps, the track of which is lost in Eng 
 land, might be found reappearing on the other side of the 
 Atlantic ; ay, though it be hundreds of years since the track 
 was lost here." 
 
 Middleton, though he had refrained from looking full at 
 Mr. Eldredge as he spoke, was conscious that he gave a 
 great start ; and he remained silent for a moment or two, 
 and when he spoke there was the tremor in his voice of a 
 nerve that had been struck and still vibrated. 
 
 " That is a singular idea of yours," he at length said ; 
 " not singular in itself, but strangely coincident with some 
 thing that happened to be occupying my mind. Have you 
 ever heard any such instances as you speak of ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Middleton. " I have had pointed out to 
 me the rightful heir to a Scottish earldom, in the person of 
 an American farmer, in his shirt-sleeves. There are many 
 Americans who believe themselves to hold similar claims. 
 And I have known one family, at least, who had in their 
 possession, and had had for two centuries, a secret that 
 might have been worth wealth and honors if known in 
 England. Indeed, being kindred as we are, it cannot but 
 be the case." 
 
 Mr. Eldredge appeared to be much struck by these last 
 words, and gazed wistfully, almost wildly, at Middleton, as 
 if debating with himself whether to say more. He made a 
 step or two aside ; then returned abruptly, and spoke. 
 
 " Can you tell me the name of the family in which this 
 secret was kept ? " said he ; " and the nature of the se 
 cret ? " 
 
 "The nature of the secret," said Middleton, smiling, 
 " was not likely to be extended to any one out of the fam 
 ily. The name borne by the family was Middleton. There 
 is no member of it, so far as I am aware, at this moment 
 remaining in America," 
 
500 APPENDIX. 
 
 " And has the secret died with them ? " asked Mr. EL 
 dredge. 
 
 " They communicated it to none," said Middleton. 
 
 " It is a pity ! It was a villainous wrong," said Mr. El- 
 dredge. " And so, it may be, some ancient line, in the old 
 country, is defrauded of its rights for want of what might 
 have been obtained from this Yankee, whose democracy has 
 demoralized them to the perception of what is due to the 
 antiquity of descent, and of the bounden duty that there is, 
 in all ranks, to keep up the honor of a family that has had 
 potence enough to preserve itself in distinction for a thou 
 sand years." 
 
 " Yes," said Middleton, quietly, " we have sympathy 
 with what is strong and vivacious to-day ; none with what 
 was so yesterday." 
 
 The remark seemed not to please Mr. Eldredge ; he 
 frowned, and muttered something to himself ; but recover 
 ing himself, addressed Middleton with more courtesy than 
 at the commencement of their interview ; and, with this 
 graciousness, his face and manner grew very agreeable, 
 almost fascinating : he [was] still haughty, however. 
 
 " Well, sir," said he, " I am not sorry to have met you. 
 I am a solitary man, as I have said, and a little communica 
 tion with a stranger is a refreshment, which I enjoy seldom 
 enough to be sensible of it. Pray, are you staying here 
 abouts ? " 
 
 Middleton signified to him that he might probably spend 
 some little time in the village. 
 
 "Then, during your stay," said Mr. Eldredge, "make 
 free use of the walks in these grounds; and though it is 
 not probable that you will meet me in them again, you need 
 apprehend no second questioning of your right to be here. 
 My house has many points of curiosity that may be of in 
 terest to a stranger from a new country. Perhaps you have 
 heard of some of them." 
 
 " I have heard some wild legend about a Bloody Foot- 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 501 
 
 step," answered Middleton; " indeed, I think I remember 
 hearing something about it in my own country ; and having 
 a fanciful sort of interest in such things. I took advantage 
 of the hospitable custom which opens the doors of curious 
 old houses to strangers, to go to see it. It seemed to me, I 
 confess, only a natural stain in the old stone that forms the 
 doorstep." 
 
 " There, sir," said Mr. Eldredge, 4< let me say that you 
 came to a very foolish conclusion ; and so, good-by, sir." 
 
 And without further ceremony, he cast an angry glance 
 at Middleton, who perceived that the old gentleman reck 
 oned the Bloody Footstep among his ancestral honors, and 
 would probably have parted with his claim to the peerage 
 almost as soon as have given up the legend. 
 
 Present aspect of the story : Middleton on his arrival be 
 comes acquainted with the old Hospitaller, and is familiar 
 ized at the Hospital. He pays a visit in his company to the 
 manor-house, but merely glimpses at its remarkable things, 
 at this visit, among others at the old cabinet, which does 
 not, at first view, strike him very strongly. But, on musing 
 about his visit afterwards, he finds the recollection of the 
 cabinet strangely identifying itself with his previous im 
 aginary picture of the palatial mansion ; so that at last he 
 begins to conceive the mistake he has made. At tin s first 
 [visit], he does not have a personal interview with the pos 
 sessor of the estate ; but, as the Hospitaller and himself go 
 from room to room, he finds that the owner is preceding 
 them, shyly flitting like a ghost, so as to avoid them. Then 
 there is a chapter about the character of the Eldredge of the 
 day, a Catholic, a morbid, shy man, representing all the 
 peculiarities of an old family, and generally thought to be 
 insane. And then comes the interview between him and 
 Middleton, where the latter excites such an interest that he 
 dwells upon the old man s mind, and the latter probably 
 takes pains to obtain further intercourse with him, and per 
 haps invites him to dinner, and [to] spend a night in his 
 
502 APPENDIX. 
 
 house. If so, this second meeting must lead to the examina 
 tion of the cabinet, and the discovery of some family docu 
 ments in it. Perhaps the cabinet may be in Middleton s 
 sleeping-chamber, and he examines it by himself, before go 
 ing to bed ; and finds out a secret which will perplex him 
 how to deal with it. 
 
 May 14^/z-, Friday. We have spoken several times al 
 ready of a young girl, who was seen at this period about 
 the little antiquated village of Smithells ; a girl in manners 
 and in aspect unliko those of the cottages amid which she 
 dwelt. Middleton had now so often met her, and in solitary 
 places, that an acquaintance had inevitably established itself 
 between them. He had ascertained that she had lodgings 
 at a farm-house near by, and that she was connected in some 
 way with the old Hospitaller, whose acquaintance had 
 proved of such interest to him ; but more than this he could 
 not learn either from her or others. But he was greatly 
 attracted and interested by the free spirit and fearlessness 
 of this young woman ; nor could he conceive where, in staid 
 and formal England, she had grown up to be such as she 
 was, so without manner, so without art, yet so capable of 
 doing and thinking for herself. She had no reserve, ap 
 parently, yet never seemed to sin against decorum ; it never 
 appeared to restrain her that anything she might wish to do 
 was contrary to custom ; she had nothing of what could be 
 called shyness in her intercourse with him ; and yet he was 
 conscious of an unapproachableness in Alice. Often, in the 
 old man s presence, she mingled in the conversation that 
 went on between him and Middleton, and with an acuteness 
 that betokened a sphere of thought much beyond what could 
 be customary with young English maidens ; and Middleton 
 was often reminded of the theories of those in our own coun 
 try, who believe that the amelioration of society depends 
 greatly on the part that women shall hereafter take, accord 
 ing to their individual capacity, in all the various pursuits 
 of life. These deeper thoughts, these higher qualities, sur- 
 
 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 503 
 
 prised him as they showed themselves, whenever occasion 
 called them forth, under the light, gay, and frivolous ex 
 terior which she had at first seemed to present. Middleton 
 often amused himself with surmises in what rank of life 
 Alice could have been bred, being so free of all conventional 
 rule, yet so nice and delicate in her perception of the true 
 proprieties that she never shocked him. 
 
 One morning, when they had met in one of Middleton s 
 rambles about the neighborhood, they began to talk of 
 America; and Middleton described to Alice the stir that 
 was being made in behalf of women s rights ; and he said 
 that whatever cause was generous and disinterested always, 
 in that country, derived much of its power from the sym 
 pathy of women, and that the advocates of every such cause 
 were in favor of yielding the whole field of human effort to 
 be shared with women. 
 
 44 1 have been surprised," said he, " in the little I have 
 seen and heard of English women, to discover what a differ 
 ence there is between them and my own countrywomen." 
 
 u I have heard." said Alice, with a smile, " that your 
 countrywomen are a far more delicate and fragile race than 
 Englishwomen ; pale, feeble hot-house plants, unfit for the 
 wear and tear of life, without energy of character, or any 
 slightest degree of physical strength to base it upon. If, 
 now. you had these large-framed Englishwomen, you might, 
 I should imagine, with better hopes, set about changing the 
 system of society, so as to allow them to struggle in the 
 strife of politics, or any other strife, hand to hand, or side 
 by side with men." 
 
 " If any countryman of mine has said this of our women," 
 exclaimed Middleton, indignantly, " he is a slanderous vil 
 lain, unworthy to have been borne by an American mother ; 
 if an Englishman has said it as I know many of them 
 have and do let it pass as one of the many prejudices only 
 half believed, with which they strive to console themselves 
 for the inevitable sense that the American race is destined to 
 
504 APPENDIX. 
 
 higher purposes than their own. But pardon me ; I forgot 
 that I was speaking to an Englishwoman, for indeed you do 
 not remind me of them. But, I assure you, the world has 
 not seen such women as make up, I had almost said the 
 mass of womanhood in my own country ; slight in aspect, 
 slender in frame, as you suggest, but yet capable of bring 
 ing forth stalwart men ; they themselves being of inexhaus 
 tible courage, patience, energy ; soft and tender, deep of 
 heart, but high of purpose. Gentle, refined, but bold in 
 every good cause." 
 
 " Oh, you have said quite enough," replied Alice, who 
 had seemed ready to laugh outright, during this encomium. 
 " I think I see one of these paragons now, in a Bloomer, I 
 think you call it, swaggering along with a Bowie knife at 
 her girdle, smoking a cigar, no doubt, and tippling sherry- 
 cobblers and mint-juleps. It must be a pleasant life." 
 
 " I should think you, at least, might form a more just 
 idea of what women become," said Middleton, considerably 
 piqued, " in a country where the rules of conventionalism 
 are somewhat relaxed ; where woman, whatever you may 
 think, is far more profoundly educated than in England, 
 where a few ill-taught accomplishments, a little geography, 
 a catechism of science, make up the sum, under the super 
 intendence of a governess ; the mind being kept entirely 
 inert as to any capacity for thought. They are cowards, 
 except within certain rules and forms ; they spend a life of 
 old proprieties, and die, and if their souls do not die with 
 them, it is Heaven s mercy." 
 
 Alice did not appear in the least moved to anger, though 
 considerably to mirth, by this description of the character of 
 English females. She laughed as she replied, " I see there 
 is little danger of your leaving your heart in England." 
 She added more seriously, " And permit me to say, I trust, 
 Mr. Middleton, that you remain as much American in other 
 respects as in your preference of your own race of wom<m. 
 The American who comes hither and persuades himself that 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 505 
 
 he is one with Englishmen, it seems to me, makes a great 
 mistake ; at least, if he is correct in such an idea he is not 
 \vorthy of his own country, and the high development that 
 awaits it. There is much that is seductive in our life, but 
 I think it is not upon the higher impulses of our nature that 
 such seductions act I should think ill of the American 
 who, for any causes of ambition, any hope of wealth or 
 rank, or even for the sake of any of those old, delight 
 ful ideas of the past, the associations of ancestry, the loveli 
 ness of an age-long home, the old poetry and romance 
 that haunt these ancient villages and estates of England, 
 would give up the chance of acting upon the unmoulded 
 future of America." 
 
 " And you, an Englishwoman, speak thus ! " exclaimed 
 Middleton. " You perhaps speak truly ; and it may be that 
 your words go to a point where they are especially appli 
 cable at this moment. But where have you learned these 
 ideas ? And how is it that you know how to awake these 
 sympathies, that have slept perhaps too long ? " 
 
 " Think only if what I have said be truth," replied Alice. 
 " It is no matter who or what I am that speak it." 
 
 " Do you speak," asked Middleton, from a sudden im 
 pulse, " with any secret knowledge affecting a matter now 
 in my mind ? " 
 
 Alice shook her head, as she -turned away; but Middle- 
 ton could not determine whether the gesture was meant as 
 a negative to his question, or merely as declining to answer 
 it. She left him ; and he found himself strangely disturbed 
 with thoughts of his own country, of the life that he ought 
 to be leading there, the struggles in which he ought to be 
 taking part ; and, with these motives in his impressible 
 mind, the motives that had hitherto kept him in England 
 seemed unworthy to influence him. 
 
 May lo/i, Saturday. It was not long after Middleton s 
 meeting with Mr. Eldredge in the park of Smithells, that he 
 received what it is precisely the most common thing to 
 
506 APPENDIX. 
 
 receive an invitation to dine at the manor - house and 
 spend the night. The note was written with much appear 
 ance of cordiality, as well as in a respectful style ; and Mid- 
 dleton could not but perceive that Mr. Eldredge must have 
 been making some inquiries as to his social status, in order 
 to feel him justified in putting him on this footing of equal 
 ity. He had no hesitation in accepting the invitation, and 
 on the appointed day was received in the old house of his 
 forefathers as a guest. The owner met him, not quite on 
 the frank and friendly footing expressed in his note, but 
 still with a perfect and polished courtesy, which however 
 could not hide from the sensitive Middleton a certain cold 
 ness, a something that seemed to him Italian rather than 
 English ; a symbol of a condition of things between them, 
 undecided, suspicious, doubtful very likely. Middleton s 
 own manner corresponded to that of his host, and they 
 made few advances towards more intimate acquaintance. 
 Middleton was however recompensed for his host s unap- 
 proachableness by the society of his daughter, a young lady 
 born indeed in Italy, but who had been educated in a Cath 
 olic family in England ; so that here was another relation 
 the first female one to whom he had been introduced. 
 She was a quiet, shy, undemonstrative young woman, with 
 a fine bloom and other charms which she kept as much in 
 the background as possible, with maiden reserve. (There 
 is a Catholic priest at table.) 
 
 Mr. Eldredge talked chiefly, during dinner, of art, with 
 which his long residence in Italy had made him thoroughly 
 acquainted, and for which he seemed to have a genuine taste 
 and enjoyment. It was a subject on which Middleton knew 
 little ; but he felt the interest in it which appears to be not 
 uncharacteristic of Americans, among the earliest of their 
 developments of cultivation ; nor had he failed to use such 
 few opportunities as the English public or private galleries 
 offered him to acquire the rudiments of a taste. He was 
 surprised at the depth of some of Mr. Eldredge s remarks 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 507 
 
 on the topics thus brought up, and at the sensibility which 
 appeared to be disclosed by his delicate appreciation of 
 some of the excellences of those great masters who wrote 
 their epics, their tender sonnets, or their simple ballads, upon 
 canvas ; and Middleton conceived a respect for him which 
 he had not hitherto felt, and which possibly Mr. Eldredge 
 did not quite deserve. Taste seems to be a department of 
 moral sense ; and yet it is so little identical with it, and so 
 little implies conscience, that some of the worst men in the 
 world have been the most refined. 
 
 After Miss Eldredge had retired, the host appeared to 
 desire to make the dinner a little more social than it had 
 hitherto been ; he called for a peculiar species of wine from 
 Southern Italy, which he said was the most delicious pro 
 duction of the grape, and had very seldom, if ever before 
 been imported pure into England. A delicious perfume 
 came from the cradled bottle, and bore an ethereal, evanes 
 cent testimony to the truth of what he said : and the taste, 
 though too delicate for wine quaffed in England, was never 
 theless delicious, when minutely dwelt upon. 
 
 " It gives me pleasure to drink your health, Mr. Middle- 
 ton," said the host. * We might well meet as friends in 
 England, for I am hardly more an Englishman than your 
 self ; bred up, as I have been, in Italy, and coming back 
 hither at my age, unaccustomed to the manners of the coun 
 try, with few friends, and insulated from society by a faith 
 which makes most people regard me as an enemy. I sel 
 dom welcome people here, Mr. Middleton ; but you are wel 
 come." 
 
 " I thank you, Mr. Eldredge, and may fairly say that the 
 circumstances to which you allude make me accept your 
 hospitality with a warmer feeling than I otherwise might. 
 Strangers, meeting in a strange land, have a sort of tie in 
 their foreignness to those around them, though there be no 
 positive relation between themselves." 
 
 " We are friends, then ? " said Mr. Eldredge, looking 
 
508 APPENDIX. 
 
 keenly at Middleton, as if to discover exactly how much was 
 meant by the compact. He continued, u You know, I sup 
 pose, Mr. Middleton, the situation in which I find myself on 
 returning to my hereditary estate, which has devolved to 
 me somewhat unexpectedly by the death of a younger man 
 than myself. There is an old flaw here, as perhaps you 
 have been told, which keeps me out of a property long kept 
 in the guardianship of the crown, and of a barony, one of 
 the oldest in England. There is an idea a tradition a 
 legend, founded, however, on evidence of some weight, that 
 there is still in existence the possibility of finding the proof 
 which we need, to confirm our cause." 
 
 " 1 am most happy to hear it, Mr. Eldredge," said Mid 
 dleton. 
 
 "But," continued his host, "I am bound to remember 
 and to consider that for several generations there seems to 
 have been the same idea, and the same expectation ; whereas 
 nothing has ever come of it. Now, among other supposi 
 tions perhaps wild ones it has occurred to me that this 
 testimony, the desirable proof, may exist on your side of 
 the Atlantic ; for it has long enough been sought here in 
 vain." 
 
 " As I said in our meeting in your park, Mr. Eldredge," 
 replied Middleton, " such a suggestion may very possibly be 
 true ; yet let me point out that the long lapse of years, and 
 the continual melting and dissolving of family institutions 
 - the consequent scattering of family documents, and the 
 annihilation of traditions from memory, all conspire against 
 its probability." 
 
 " And yet, Mr. Middleton," said his host, " when we 
 talked together at our first singular interview, you made 
 use or an expression of one remarkable phrase which 
 dwelt upon my memory and now recurs to it." 
 
 " And what was that, Mr. Eldredge ? " asked Middleton. 
 
 " You spoke," replied his host, " of the Bloody Footstep 
 reappearing on the threshold of the old palace of S . 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 509 
 
 Now where, let me ask you, did you ever bear this strange 
 name, which you then spoke, and which I have since 
 spoken ? " 
 
 From my father s lips, when a child, in America," re 
 sponded Middleton. 
 
 u It is very strange," said Mr. Eldredge, in a hasty, dis 
 satisfied tone. " I do not see my way through this." 
 
 May 16A, Sunday. Middleton had been put into a 
 chamber in the oldest part of the house, the furniture of 
 which was of antique splendor, well befitting to have come 
 down for ages, well befitting the hospitality shown to noble 
 and even royal guests. It was the same room in which, at 
 his first visit to the house, Midclleton s attention had been 
 drawn to the cabinet, which he had subsequently remem 
 bered as the palatial residence in which he had harbored so 
 many dreams. It still stood in the chamber, making the 
 principal object in it, indeed ; and when Middleton was left 
 alone, he contemplated it not without a certain awe, which 
 at the same time he felt to be ridiculous. He advanced to 
 wards it, and stood contemplating the mimic facade, wonder 
 ing at the singular fact of this piece of furniture having been 
 preserved in traditionary history, when so much had been 
 forgotten, when even the features and architectural char 
 acteristics of the mansion in which it was merely a piece of 
 furniture had been forgotten. And, as he gazed at it, he 
 half thought himself an actor in a fairy portal [tale ?] ; and 
 would not have been surprised at least, he would have 
 taken it with the composure of a dream if the mimic por 
 tal had unclosed, and a form of pigmy majesty had appeared 
 within, beckoning him to enter and find the revelation of 
 what had so long perplexed him. The key of the cabinet 
 was in the lock, and knowing that it was not now the re 
 ceptacle of anything in the shape of family papers, he threw 
 it open ; and there appeared the mosaic floor, the represen 
 tation of a stately, pillared hall, with the doors on either side, 
 opening, as would seem, into various apartments. And here 
 
510 APPENDIX. 
 
 should have stood the visionary figures of his ancestry, 
 waiting to welcome the descendant of their race, who had 
 so long delayed his coming. After looking and musing a 
 considerable time, even till the old clock from the turret 
 of the house told twelve, he turned away with a sigh, and 
 went to bed. The wind moaned through the ancestral trees ; 
 the old house creaked as with ghostly footsteps ; the curtains 
 of his bed seemed to waver. He was now at home ; yes, he 
 had found his home, and was sheltered at last under the an 
 cestral roof after all those long, long wanderings, after the 
 little log-built hut of the early settlement, after the straight 
 roof of the American house, after all the many roofs of two 
 hundred years, here he was at last under the one which he 
 had left, on that fatal night, when the Bloody Footstep was 
 so mysteriously impressed on the threshold. As he drew 
 nearer and nearer towards sleep, it seemed more and more 
 to him as if he were the very individual the self -same one 
 throughout the whole who had done, seen, suffered, all 
 these long toils and vicissitudes, and were now come back 
 to rest, and found his weariness so great that there could be 
 no rest. 
 
 Nevertheless, he did sleep ; and it may be that his dreams 
 went on, and grew vivid, and perhaps became truer in pro 
 portion to their vividness. When he awoke he had a per 
 ception, an intuition, that he had been dreaming about the 
 cabinet, which, in his sleeping imagination, had again as 
 sumed the magnitude and proportions of a stately mansion, 
 even as he had seen it afar from the other side of the At 
 lantic. Some dim associations remained lingering behind, 
 the dying shadows of very vivid ones which had just filled 
 his mind ; but as he looked at the cabinet, there was some 
 idea that still seemed to come so near his consciousness that, 
 every moment, he felt on the point of grasping it. During 
 the process of dressing, he still kept his eyes turned invol 
 untarily towards the cabinet, and at last he approached it, 
 and looked within the mimic portal, still endeavoring to rec- 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 511 
 
 ollect what it was that he had heard or dreamed about it, 
 what half obliterated remembrance from childhood, what 
 fragmentary last night s dream it was, that thus haunted 
 him. It must have been some association of one or the 
 other nature that led him to press his linger on one partic 
 ular square of the mosaic pavement ; and as he did so, the 
 thin plate of polished marble slipt aside. It disclosed, in 
 deed, no hollow receptacle, but only another leaf of marble, 
 in the midst of which appeared to be a key-hole : to this 
 Middleton applied the little antique key to which we have 
 several times alluded, and found it fit precisely. The in 
 stant it was turned, the whole mimic floor of the hall rose, 
 by the action of a secret spring, and discovered a shallow 
 recess beneath. Middleton looked eagerly in, and saw that 
 it contained documents, with antique seals of wax appended ; 
 he took but one glance at them, and closed the receptacle as 
 it was before. 
 
 Why did he do so ? He felt that there would be a mean 
 ness and wrong in inspecting these family papers, coming 
 to the knowledge of them, as he had, through the opportu 
 nities offered by the hospitality of the owner of the estate ; 
 nor, on the other hand, did he feel such confidence in his 
 host, as to make him willing to trust these papers in his 
 hands, with any certainty that they would be put to an 
 honorable use. The case was one demanding consideration, 
 and he put a strong curb upon his impatient curiosity, con 
 scious that, at all events, his first impulsive feeling was that 
 he ought not to examine these papers without the presence 
 of his host or some other authorized witness. Had he ex 
 ercised any casuistry about the point, however, he might 
 have argued that these papers, according to all appearance, 
 dated from a period to which his own hereditary claims as 
 cended, and to circumstances in which his own rightful in 
 terest was as strong as that of Mr. Eldredge. But he had 
 acted on his first impulse, closed the secret receptacle, and 
 hastening his toilet descended from his room ; and, it being 
 
512 APPENDIX. 
 
 still too early for breakfast, resolved to ramble about the 
 immediate vicinity of the house. As he passed the little 
 chapel, he heard within the voice of the priest performing 
 mass, and felt how strange was this sign of mediaeval relig 
 ion and foreign manners in homely England. 
 
 As the story looks now : Eldredge, bred, and perhaps 
 born, in Italy, and a Catholic, with views to the church be 
 fore he inherited the estate, has not the English moral sense 
 and simple honor ; can scarcely be called an Englishman at 
 all. Dark suspicions of past crime, and of the possibility of 
 future crime, may be thrown around him ; an atmosphere 
 of doubt shall envelop him, though, as regards manners, he 
 may be highly refined. Middleton shall find in the house 
 a priest ; and at his first visit he shall have seen a small 
 chapel, adorned with the richness, as to marbles, pictures, 
 and frescoes, of those that we see in the churches at Rome ; 
 and here the Catholic forms of worship shall be kept up. 
 Eldredge shall have had an Italian mother, and shall have 
 the personal characteristics of an Italian. There shall be 
 something sinister about him, the more apparent when Mid- 
 dleton s visit draws to a conclusion ; and the latter shall feel 
 convinced that they part in enmity, so far as Eldredge is 
 concerned. He shall not speak of his discovery in the cab 
 inet. 
 
 May Vltli, Monday. Unquestionably, the appointment 
 of Middleton as minister to one of the minor Continental 
 courts must take place in the interval between Eldredge s 
 meeting him in the park, and his inviting him to his house. 
 After Middleton s appointment, the two encounter each 
 other at the Mayor s dinner in St. Mary s Hall, and El 
 dredge, startled at meeting the vagrant, as he deemed him, 
 under such a character, remembers the hints of some secret 
 knowledge of the family history, which Middleton had 
 thrown out. He endeavors, both in person and by the 
 priest, to make out what Middleton really is, and what he 
 knows, and what he intends ; but Middleton is on his guard, 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 513 
 
 yet cannot help arousing Eldredge s suspicions that he has 
 views upon the estate and title. It is possible, too. that 
 Middleton may have come to the knowledge may have 
 had some knowledge of some shameful or criminal fact 
 connected with Mr. Eldredge s life on the Continent; the 
 old Hospitaller, possibly, may have told him this, from some 
 secret malignity hereafter to be accounted for. Supposing 
 Eldredge to attempt his murder, by poison for instance^ 
 bringing back into modern life his old hereditary Italian 
 plots ; and into English life a sort of crime which does not 
 belong to it, which did not, at least, although at this very 
 period there have been fresh and numerous instances of it 
 There might be a scene in which Middleton and Eldredge 
 come to a fierce and bitter explanation ; for in Eldredge s 
 character there must be the English surly boldness as well 
 as the Italian subtlety ; and here, Middleton shall tell him 
 what he knows of his past character and life, and also what 
 he knows of his own hereditary claims. Eldredge might 
 have committed a murder in Italy ; might have been a 
 patriot, and betrayed his friends to death for a bribe, bear 
 ing another name than his own in Italy ; indeed, he might 
 have joined them only as an informer. All this he had tried 
 to sink, when he came to England in the character of a 
 gentleman of ancient name and large estate. But this in 
 famy of his previous character must be foreboded from the 
 first by the manner in which Eldredge is introduced ; and 
 it must make his evil designs on Middleton appear natural 
 and probable. It may be, that Middleton has learned El 
 dredge s previous character, through some Italian patriot 
 who had taken refuge in America, and there become inti 
 mate with him ; and it should be a piece of secret history, 
 not known to the world in general, so that Middleton might 
 seem to Eldredge the sole depositary of the secret then in 
 England. He feels a necessity of getting rid of him ; and 
 thenceforth Middleton s path lies always among pitfalls ; in 
 deed, the first attempt should follow promptly and imma 
 VOL. xi. 33 
 
614 APPENDIX. 
 
 diately on his rupture with Eldredge. The utmost pairia 
 must be taken with this incident to give it an air of reality ; 
 or else it must be quite removed out of the sphere of reality 
 by an intensified atmosphere of romance. I think the old 
 Hospitaller must interfere to prevent the success of this at 
 tempt, perhaps through the means of Alice. 
 
 The result of Eldredge s criminal and treacherous de 
 signs is, somehow or other, that he comes to his death ; and 
 Middleton and Alice are left to administer on the remains 
 of the story ; perhaps, the Mayor being his friend, he may 
 be brought into play here. The foreign ecclesiastic shall 
 likewise come forward, and he shall prove to be a man of 
 subtile policy perhaps, yet a man of religion and honor ; 
 with a Jesuit s principles, but a Jesuit s devotion and self- 
 sacrifice. The old Hospitaller must die in his bed, or some 
 other how ; or perhaps not we shall see. He may just 
 as well be left in the Hospital. Eldredge s attempt on Mid 
 dleton must be in some way peculiar to Italy, and which he 
 shall have learned there ; and, by the way, at his dinner- 
 table there shall be a Venice glass, one of the kind that were 
 supposed to be shattered when poison was put into them. 
 When Eldredge produces his rare wine, he shall pour it into 
 this, with a jesting allusion to the legend. Perhaps the 
 mode of Eldredge s attempt on Middleton s life shall be a 
 reproduction of the attempt made two hundred years be 
 fore ; and Middleton s knowledge of that incident shall be 
 the means of his salvation. That would be a good idea ; in 
 fact, I think it must be done so and no otherwise. It is 
 not to be forgotten that there is a taint of insanity in El 
 dredge s blood, accounting for much that is wild and absurd, 
 at the same time that it must be subtile, in his conduct ; one 
 of those perplexing mad people, whose lunacy you are con 
 tinually mistaking for wickedness or vice versa. This shall 
 be the priest s explanation and apology for him, after his 
 death. I wish I could get hold of the Newgate Calendar, 
 the older volumes, or any other book of murders the 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 515 
 
 Causes Celebres, for instance. The legendary murder, or 
 attempt at it, will bring its own imaginative probability with 
 it, when repeated by Eldredge ; and at the same time it will 
 have a dreamlike effect ; so that Middleton shall hardly 
 know whether he is awake or not. This incident is very 
 essential towards bringing together the past time and the 
 present, and the two ends of the story. 
 
 May 18th, Tuesday. Ah 1 down through the ages since 
 Edward had disappeared from home, leaving that bloody 
 footstep on the threshold, there had been legends and 
 strange stories of the murder and the manner of it. These 
 legends differed very much among themselves. According 
 to some, his brother had awaited him there, and stabbed 
 him on the threshold. According to others, he had been 
 murdered in his chamber, and dragged out. A third story 
 told, that he was escaping with his lady love, when they 
 were overtaken on the threshold, and the young man slain. 
 It was impossible at this distance of time to ascertain which 
 of these legends was the true one, or whether either of them 
 had any portion of truth, further than that the young man 
 had actually disappeared from that night, and that it never 
 was certainly known to the public that any intelligence had 
 ever afterwards been received from him. Now, Middieton 
 may have communicated to Eldredge the truth in regard to 
 the matter ; as, for instance, that he had stabbed him with 
 a certain dagger that was still kept among the curiosities of 
 the manor-house. Of course, that will not do. It must be 
 some very ingenious and artificially natural thing, an artistic 
 affair in its way, that should strike the fancy of such a man 
 as Eldredge, and appear to him altogether fit, mutatis mu 
 tandis, to be applied to his own requirements and purposes. 
 I do not at present see in the least how this is to be wrought 
 out. There shall be everything to make Eldredge look with 
 the utmost horror and alarm at any chance that he may be 
 superseded and ousted from his possession of the estate; 
 for he shall only recently have established his claim to it. 
 
516 APPENDIX. 
 
 tracing out his pedigree, when the family was supposed to 
 be extinct. And he is come to these comfortable quarters 
 after a life of poverty, uncertainty, difficulty, hanging loose 
 on society ; and therefore he shall be willing to risk soul 
 and body both, rather than return to his former state. Per 
 haps his daughter shall be introduced as a young Italian 
 girl, to whom Middleton shall decide to leave the estate. 
 
 On the failure of his design, Eldredge may commit sui 
 cide, and be found dead in the wood ; at any rate, some 
 suitable end shall be contrived, adapted to his wants. This 
 character must not be so represented as to shut him out 
 completely from the reader s sympathies ; he shall have 
 taste, sentiment, even a capacity for affection, nor, I think, 
 ought he to have any hatred or bitter feeling against the 
 man whom he resolves to murder. In the closing scenes, 
 when he thinks the fate of Middleton approaching, there 
 might even be a certain tenderness towards him, a desire to 
 make the last drops of life delightful ; if well done, this 
 would produce a certain sort of horror, that I do not remem 
 ber to have seen effected in literature. Possibly the ancient 
 emigrant might be supposed to have fallen into an ancient 
 mine, down a precipice, into some pitfall ; no, not so. Into 
 a river ; into a moat. As Middleton s pretensions to birth 
 are not publicly known, there will be no reason why, at his 
 sudden death, suspicion should fix on Eldredge as the 
 murderer ; and it shall be his object so to contrive his death 
 as that it shall appear the result of accident. Having failed 
 in effecting Middleton s death by this excellent way, he 
 shall perhaps think that he cannot do better than to make 
 his own exit in precisely the same manner. It might be 
 easy, and as delightful as any death could be ; no ugliness 
 in it, no blood ; for the Bloody Footstep of old times might 
 be the result of the failure of the old plot, not of its success. 
 Poison seems to be the only elegant method ; but poison is 
 vulgar, and in many respects unfit for my purpose. It 
 won t do. Whatever it may be, it must not come upon the 
 
TEE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 517 
 
 reader as a sudden and new tiling, but as one that might 
 have been foreseen from afar, though he shall not actually 
 have foreseen it until it is about to happen. It must be 
 prevented through the agency of Alice. Alice may have 
 been an artist in Rome, and there have known Eldredge 
 and his daughter, and thus she may have become their 
 guest in England ; or he may be patronizing her now at 
 all events she shall be the friend of the daughter, and shall 
 have a just appreciation of the father s character. It shall 
 be partly due to her high counsel that Middleton foregoes 
 his claim to the estate, and prefers the life of an American, 
 with its lofty possibilities for himself and his race, to the 
 position of an Englishman of property and title ; and she, 
 for her part, shall choose the condition and prospects of 
 woman in America, to the emptiness of the life of a woman 
 of rank in England. So they shall depart, lofty and poor, 
 out of the home which might be their own. if they would 
 stoop to make it so. Possibly the daughter of Eldredge 
 may be a girl not yet in her teens, for whom Alice has the 
 affection of an elder sister. 
 
 It should be a Terr carefully and highly wrought scene, 
 occurring just before Eldredge s actual attempt on Middle- 
 ton s life, in which aH the brilliancy of his character 
 which shall before have gleamed upon the reader shall 
 come out, with pathos, with wit, with insight, with knowl 
 edge of life. Middleton shall be inspired by this, and shall 
 vie with him in exhilaration of spirits ; but the ecclesiastic 
 sha.ll look on with singular attention, and some appearance 
 of alarm ; and the suspicion of Alice shall likewise be 
 aroused. The old Hospitaller may have gained his situa 
 tion partly by proving himself a man of the neighborhood, 
 by right of descent ; so that he, too, shall have a heredi 
 tary claim to be in the Romance. 
 
 Eldredge s own position as a foreigner in the midst of 
 English home life, insulated and dreary, shall represent to 
 Middleton. in some degree, what his own would be, were he 
 
518 APPENDIX. 
 
 to accept the estate. But Middleton shall not come to the 
 decision to resign it, without having to repress a deep yearn 
 ing for that sense of long, long rest in an age-consecrated 
 home, which he had felt so deeply to be the happy lot of 
 Englishmen. But this ought to be rejected, as not belong 
 ing to his country, nor to the age, nor any longer possible. 
 
 May 19^/t, Wednesday. The connection of the old Hos 
 pitaller with the story is not at all clear. He is an Ameri 
 can by birth, but deriving his English origin from the neigh 
 borhood of the Hospital, where he has finally established 
 himself. Some one of his ancestors may have been some 
 how connected with the ancient portion of the story. He 
 has been a friend of Middleton s father, who reposed entire 
 confidence in him, trusting him with all his fortune, which 
 the Hospitaller risked in his enormous" speculations, and 
 lost it all. His fame had been great in the financial world. 
 There were circumstances that made it dangerous for his 
 whereabouts to be known, and so he had come hither and 
 found refuge in this institution, where Middleton finds him, 
 but does not know who he is. In the vacancy of a mind 
 formerly so active, he has taken to the study of local an 
 tiquities ; and from his former intimacy with Middleton s 
 father, he has a knowledge of the American part of the 
 story, which he connects with the English portion, disclosed 
 by his researches here ; so that he is quite aware that Mid 
 dleton has claims to the estate, which might be urged suc 
 cessfully against the present possessor. He is kindly dis 
 posed towards the son of his friend, whom he had so greatly 
 
 injured ; but he is now very old, and . Middleton has 
 
 been directed to this old man by a friend in America, as 
 one likely to afford him all possible assistance in his re 
 searches ; and so he seeks him out and forms an acquain 
 tance with him, which the old man encourages to a cer 
 tain extent, taking an evident interest in him, but does not 
 disclose himself; nor does Middleton suspect him to be 
 an American. The characteristic life of the Hospital i 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 519 
 
 brought out, and the individual character of this old man, 
 vegetating here after an active career, melancholy and mis 
 erable ; sometimes torpid with the slow approach of utmost 
 age ; sometimes feeble, peevish, wavering ; sometimes shin 
 ing out with a wisdom resulting from originally bright fac 
 ulties, ripened by experience. The character must not be 
 allowed to get vague, but, with gleams of romance, must yet 
 be kept homely and natural by little touches of his daily life. 
 
 As for Alice, I see no necessity for her being anywise 
 related to or connected with the old Hospitaller. As orig 
 inally conceived, I think she may be an artist a sculptress 
 whom Eldredge had known in Rome. No ; she might 
 be a granddaughter of the old Hospitaller, born and bred 
 in America, but who had resided two or three years in 
 Rome in the study of her art, and have there acquired a 
 knowledge of the Eldredges and have become fond of the 
 little Italian girl his daughter. She has lodgings in the vil 
 lage, and of course is often at the Hospital, and often at the 
 Hall ; she makes busts and little statues, and is free, wild, 
 tender, proud, domestic, strange, natural, artistic ; and has 
 at bottom the characteristics of the American woman, with 
 the principles of the strong-minded sect ; and Middleton 
 shall be continually puzzled at meeting such a phenomenon 
 in England. By and by, the internal influence [evidence ?] 
 of her sentiments (though there shall be nothing to confirm 
 it in her manner) shall lead him to charge her with being 
 an American. 
 
 Now, as to the arrangement of the Romance ; it begins 
 as an integral and essential part, with my introduction, giv 
 ing a pleasant and familiar summary of my life in the Con 
 sulate at Liverpool ; the strange species of Americans, with 
 strange purposes, in England, whom I used to meet there ; 
 and, especially, how my countrymen used to be put out of 
 their senses by the idea of inheritances of English property. 
 Then I shall particularly instance one gentleman who called 
 on me on first coming over ; a description of him must be 
 
520 APPENDIX. 
 
 given, with touches that shall puzzle the reader to decide 
 whether it is not an actual portrait. And then this Ro 
 mance shall be offered, half seriously, as the account of the 
 fortunes that he met with in his search for his hereditary 
 home. Enough of his ancestral story may be given to ex 
 plain what is to follow in the Romance ; or perhaps this 
 may be left to the scenes of his intercourse with the old 
 Hospitaller. 
 
 The Romance proper opens with Middleton s arrival at 
 what he has reason to think is the neighborhood of his an 
 cestral home, and here he makes application to the old Hos 
 pitaller. Middleton shall be described as approaching the 
 Hospital, which shall be pretty literally copied after Leices 
 ter s, although the surrounding village must be on a much 
 smaller scale of course. Much elaborateness may be given 
 to this portion of the book. Middleton shall have assumed 
 a plain dress, and shall seek to make no acquaintances ex 
 cept that of the old Hospitaller ; the acquaintance of Alice 
 naturally following. The old Hospitaller and he go to 
 gether to the old Hall, where, as they pass through the 
 rooms, they find that the proprietor is flitting like a ghost 
 before them from chamber to chamber; they catch his re 
 flection in a glass, &c., &c. When these have been wrought 
 up sufficiently, shall come the scene in the wood, where El- 
 dredge is seen yielding to the superstition that he has in 
 herited, respecting the old secret of the family, on the dis 
 covery of which depends the enforcement of his claim to a 
 title. All this while, Middleton has appeared in the char 
 acter of a man of no note ; and now, through some political 
 change, not necessarily told, he receives a packet addressed 
 to him as an ambassador, and containing a notice of his ap 
 pointment to that dignity. A paragraph in the " Times " 
 confirms the fact, and makes it known in the neighbor 
 hood. Middleton immediately becomes an object of atten 
 tion ; the gentry call upon him ; the Mayor of the neigh 
 boring county-town invites him to dinner, which shall be 
 
THE ANCESTRAL FOOTSTEP. 521 
 
 described with all its antique formalities; Here he meets 
 Eldredge, who is surprised, remembering the encounter in 
 the wood ; but passes it all off, like a man of the world, 
 makes his acquaintance, and invites him to the Hall. Per 
 haps he may make a visit of some time here, and become 
 intimate, to a certain degree, with all parties; and here 
 things shall ripen themselves for Eldredge s attempt upon 
 his life. 
 
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