CHAPTER CVI.At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads, and autumn’s yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf. Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy of his friend.Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life, called at Allenwater.—“How is your master?” he said, in a hurried manner. “He is ill,” said James Collingwood. “He will rise from his bed no more.” Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly, entered Lord Avondale’s room.—“Who weeps so sadly by a dying father’s bed?” “It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha’s child, the little comforter of many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping boy.”James Collingwood stood by his master’s side, his sorrowful countenancecontrasting sadly with that military air which seemed to disdain all exhibition of weakness; and with him, the sole other attendant of his sufferings, Cairn of Coleraine, who once in this same spot had welcomed Calantha, then a fair and lovely bride, spotless in vestal purity, and dearer to his master’s heart than the very life-blood that gave it vigour. He now poured some opiate drops into a glass, and placed it in the feeble hand which was stretched forth to receive it. “Ah! father, do not leave me,” said his little son, pressing towards him. “My mother looked as you do before she left me: and will you go also? What then will become of me?” Tears gushed into Lord Avondale’s eyes, and trickled down his faded cheeks. “God will bless and protect my boy,” he said, endeavouring to raise himself sufficiently to press his little cherub lips. It was like a blushing rose, placed by the hand of affectionupon a lifeless corpse—so healthful bloomed the child, so pale the parent stem!“How feeble you are, dear father,” said Harry: “your arms tremble when you attempt to raise me. I will kneel by you all this night, and pray to God to give you strength. You say there is none loves you. I love you; and Collingwood loves you; and many, many more. So do not leave us.”—“And I love you too, dear, dear Harry,” cried Sir Richard, his voice nearly suffocated by his grief; “and all who knew you honoured and loved you; and curse be on those who utter one word against him. He is the noblest fellow that ever lived.” “Uncle Richard, don’t cry,” said the boy: “it grieves him so to see you. Don’t look so sad, dear father. Why is your hand so cold: can nothing warm it?” “Nothing, Harry.—Do not weep so bitterly, dear uncle.” “I have suffered agony. Now, all is peace.—God blessyou and my children.” “Open your dear eyes once again, father, to look on me. Oh! Collingwood, see they are closed:—Will he not look on me ever again? My sister Annabel shall speak to him.—My dear mamma is gone, or she would sooth him.—Oh, father, if you must leave me too, why should I linger here? How silent he is!”—“He sleeps, Sir,”—“I think he does not sleep, Collingwood. I think this dreadful stillness is what every one calls death. Oh! father, look at me once more. Speak one dear word only to say you love me still.” “I can’t bear this,” said Sir Richard, hurrying from the room. “I can’t bear it.”The hour was that in which the setting sun had veiled its last bright ray in the western wave:—it was the evening of the tenth of October!!!On the evening of the tenth of October, Glenarvon had reached the coast of Holland, and joined the British squadron under Admiral Duncan. The Dutchwere not yet in sight; but it was known that they were awaiting the attack at a few miles distance from shore, between Camperdown and Egmont. It was so still that evening that not a breath of air rippled upon the glassy waters. It was at that very instant of time, when Avondale, stretched upon his bed, far from those scenes of glory and renown in which his earlier years had been distinguished, had breathed his last; that Glenarvon, whilst walking the deck, even in the light of departing day, laughingly addressed his companions: “Fear you to die?” he cried, to one upon whose shoulder he was leaning. “I cannot fear. But as it may be the fate of all, Hardhead,” he said, still addressing his lieutenant, “if I die, do you present my last remembrance to my friends.—Ha! have I any?—Not I, i’faith.“Now fill up a bowl, that I may pledgeyou; and let him whose conscience trembles, shrink. I cannot fear;“For, come he slow, or come he fast,It is but Death that comes at last.”He said, and smiled——that smile so gentle and persuasive, that only to behold it was to love. Suddenly he beheld before him on the smooth wave a form so pale, so changed, that, but for the sternness of that brow, the fixed and hollow gaze of that dark eye, he had not recognized, in the fearful spectre, the form of Lord Avondale “Speak your reproaches as a man would utter them,” he said. “Ask of me the satisfaction due for injuries; but stand not thus before me, like a dream, in the glare of day—like a grim vision of the night, in the presence of thousands.”—The stern glazed eye moved not: the palpable form continued. Lord Glenarvon gazed till his eyes were strained with the effort, and every faculty was benumbed and overpowered.Then fell a drowsiness over his senses which he could not conquer; and he said to those who addressed him, “I am ill:—watch by me whilst I sleep.” He threw himself upon his cloak, listless and fatigued, and sunk into a heavy sleep. But his slumbers were broken and disturbed; and he could not recover from the unusual depression of his spirits. Every event of his short life crowded fast upon his memory:—scenes long forgotten recurred:—he thought of broken vows, of hearts betrayed, and of all the perjuries and treacheries of a life given up to love. But reproaches and bitterness saddened over every dear remembrance, and he participated, when too late, in the sufferings he had inflicted.All was now profoundly still: the third watch sounded. The lashing of the waves against the sides of the ship—the gentle undulating motion, again lulled a weary and perturbed spirit to repose. Suddenly upon the air he heard a fluttering, likethe noise of wings, which fanned him while he slept. Gazing intently, he fancied he beheld a fleeting shadow pass up and down before him, as if the air, thickening into substance, became visible to the eye, till it produced a form clothed in angelic beauty and unearthly brightness. It was some moments before he could bring to his remembrance whom it resembled,—till a smile, all cheering, and a look of one he had seen in happier days, told him it was Calantha. Her hair flowed loosely on her shoulders, while a cloud of resplendent white supported her in the air, and covered her partly from his view. Her eyes shone with serene lustre; and her cheeks glowed with the freshness of health:—not as when impaired by sickness and disease, he had seen her last—not as when disappointment and the sorrows of the world had worn her youthful form—but renovated, young, and bright, with superior glory she now met his ardentgaze; and, in a voice more sweet than music, thus addressed him:“Glenarvon,” she said, “I come not to reproach you. It is Calantha’s spirit hovers round you. Away with dread; for I come to warn and to save you. Awake—arise, before it be too late. Let the memory of the past fade from before you: live to be all you still may be—a country’s pride, a nation’s glory! Ah, sully not with ill deeds the bright promise of a life of fame.” As she spoke, a light as from heaven irradiated her countenance, and, pointing with her hand to the east, he saw the sun burst from the clouds which had gathered round it, and shine forth in all its lustre. “Are you happy?” cried Glenarvon, stretching out his arms to catch the vision, which hovered near.—“Calantha, speak to me: am I still loved? Is Glenarvon dear even thus in death?”The celestial ray which had lighted up the face of the angel, passed from beforeit at these words; and he beheld the form of Calantha, pale and ghastly, as when last they had parted. In seeming answer to his question, she pressed her hands to her bosom in silence, and casting upon him a look so mournful that it pierced his heart, she faded from before his sight, dissolving like the silvery cloud into thin air. At that moment, as he looked around, the bright sun which had risen with such glorious promise, was seen to sink in mists of darkness, and with its setting ray, seemed to tell him that his hour was come, that the light of his genius was darkened, that the splendour of his promise was set for ever: but he met the awful warning without fear.And now again he slept; and it seemed to him that he was wandering in a smooth vale, far from the haunts of men. The place was familiar to his memory:—it was such as he had often seen amidst the green plains of his native country, in the beautiful season of spring; and everand anon upon his ear he heard the church-bell sounding from afar off, while the breeze, lately risen, rustled among the new leaves and long grass. Fear even touched a heart that never yet had known its power. The shadows varied on the plain before him, and threw a melancholy gloom on the surrounding prospect. Again the church-bell tolled; but it was not the merry sound of some village festival, nor yet the more sober bell that calls the passenger to prayer. No, it was that long and pausing knell, which, as it strikes the saddened ear, tells of some fellow-creature’s eternal departure from this lower world: and ever while it tolled, the dreary cry of woe lengthened upon the breeze, mourning a spirit fled. Glenarvon thought he heard a step slowly stealing towards him; he even felt the breath of some one near; and raising his eye in haste, he perceived the thin form of a woman close beside him. In her arms she held a child, more wan thanherself. At her approach, a sudden chill seemed to freeze the life-blood in his heart.He gazed again. “Is it Calantha?” said he. “Ah, no! it was the form of Alice.” She appeared as one returned from the grave, to which long mourning and untimely woes had brought her.—“Clarence,” she said in a piercing voice, “since you have abandoned me I have known many sorrows. The God of Mercy deal not with you as you have dealt with me!” She spoke no more; but gazing in agony upon an infant which lay at her bosom, she looked up to Heaven, from whence her eyes slowly descended upon Glenarvon. She then approached, and taking the babe from her breast, laid it cold and lifeless on his heart. It was the chill of death which he felt—when, uttering a deep groan, he started up with affright.The drops stood upon his forehead—his hands shook—he looked round him,but no image like the one he had beheld was near. The whiteness of the eastern sky foretold the approach of day. The noise and bustle in the ship, the signal songs of the sailors, and the busy din around, told him that he had slept enough. The Dutch squadron now appeared at a distance upon the sea: every thing was ready for attack.That day Lord Glenarvon fought with more than his usual bravery. He was the soul and spirit which actuated and moved every other. At twelve the engagement became general, every ship coming into action with its opponent. It was about four in the afternoon, when the victory was clearly decided in favour of the British flag. The splendid success was obtained by unequalled courage, and heroic valour. The result it is not for me to tell. Many received the thanks of their brave commander on that day; many returned in triumph to the country,and friends who proudly awaited them. The Emerald frigate, and its gallant captain, prepared likewise to return; but Glenarvon, after the action, was taken ill. He desired to be carried upon deck; and, placing his hand upon his head, while his eyes were fixed, he enquired of those around if they did not hear a signal of distress, as if from the open sea. He then ordered the frigate to approach the spot whence the guns were fired. A fresh breeze had arisen: the Emerald sailed before the wind. To his disturbed imagination the same solemn sound was repeated in the same direction.—No sail appeared—still the light frigate pursued. “Visions of death and horror persecute me,” cried Glenarvon. “What now do I behold—a ship astern! It is singular. Do others see the same, or am I doomed to be the sport of these absurd fancies? Is it that famed Dutch merchantman, condemned through all eternity to sailbefore the wind, which seamen view with terror, whose existence until this hour I discredited?” He asked this of his companions; but the smile with which Glenarvon spoke these words, gave place to strong feelings of surprise and alarm.—Foreign was the make of that ship; sable were its sails; sable was the garb of its crew; but ghastly white and motionless were the countenances of all. Upon the deck there stood a man of great height and size, habited in the apparel of a friar. His cowl concealed his face; but his crossed hands and uplifted attitude announced his profession. He was in prayer:—he prayed much, and earnestly—it was for the souls of his crew. Minute guns were fired at every pause; after which a slow solemn chaunt began; and the smoke of incense ascended till it partially concealed the dark figures of the men.Glenarvon watched the motions of that vessel in speechless horror; and now beforehis wondering eyes new forms arose, as if created by delirium’s power to augment the strangeness of the scene. At the feet of the friar there knelt a form so beautiful—so young, that, but for the foreign garb and well remembered look, he had thought her like the vision of his sleep, a pitying angel sent to watch and save him.—“O fiora bella,” he cried; “first, dearest, and sole object of my devoted love, why now appear to wake the sleeping dæmons in my breast—to madden me with many a bitter recollection?” The friar at that moment, with relentless hand, dashed the fair fragile being, yet clinging round him for mercy, into the deep dark waters. “Monster,” exclaimed Glenarvon, “I will revenge that deed even in thy blood.” There was no need:—the monk drew slowly from his bosom the black covering that enshrouded his form. Horrible to behold!—that bosom was gored with deadly wounds, and the black spouting streamsof blood, fresh from the heart, uncoloured by the air, gushed into the wave. “Cursed be the murderer in his last hour!—Hell waits its victim.”—Such was the chaunt which the sable crew ever and anon sung in low solemn tones.Well was it understood by Glenarvon, though sung in a foreign dialect. “Comrades,” he exclaimed, “do you behold that vessel? Am I waking, or do my eyes, distempered by some strange malady, deceive me? Bear on. It is the last command of Glenarvon. Set full the sails. Bear on,—bear on: to death or to victory!—It is the enemy of our souls you see before you. Bear on—to death, to vengeance; for all the fiends of hell have conspired our ruin.” They sailed from coast to coast—They sailed from sea to sea, till lost in the immensity of ocean. Gazing fixedly upon one object, all maddening with superstitious terror, Lord Glenarvon tasted not of food or refreshment.His brain was burning. His eye, darting forward, lost not for one breathing moment sight of that terrific vision.Madness to phrenzy came upon him. In vain his friends, and many of the brave companions in his ship, held him struggling in their arms. He seized his opportunity. “Bear on,” he cried: “pursue, till death and vengeance—” and throwing himself from the helm, plunged headlong into the waters. They rescued him; but it was too late. In the struggles of ebbing life, even as the spirit of flame rushed from the bands of mortality, visions of punishment and hell pursued him. Down, down, he seemed to sink with horrid precipitance from gulf to gulf, till immured in darkness; and as he closed his eyes in death, a voice, loud and terrible, from beneath, thus seemed to address him:“Hardened and impenitent sinner! the measure of your iniquity is full: theprice of crime has been paid: here shall your spirit dwell for ever, and for ever. You have dreamed away life’s joyous hour, nor made atonement for error, nor denied yourself aught that the fair earth presented you. You did not controul the fiend in your bosom, or stifle him in his first growth: he now has mastered you, and brought you here: and you did not bow the knee for mercy whilst time was given you: now mercy shall not be shewn. O, cry upwards from these lower pits, to the friends and companions you have left, to the sinner who hardens himself against his Creator—who basks in the ray of prosperous guilt, nor dreams that his hour like yours is at hand. Tell him how terrible a thing is death; how fearful at such an hour is remembrance of the past. Bid him repent, but he shall not hear you. Bid him amend, but like you he shall delay till it is too late. Then, neither his arts, nor talents, norhis possessions, shall save him, nor friends, though leagued together more than ten thousand strong; for the axe of justice must fall. God is just; and the spirit of evil infatuates before he destroys.”
At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads, and autumn’s yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf. Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy of his friend.
Sir Richard, before the last engagement, in which he lost his life, called at Allenwater.—“How is your master?” he said, in a hurried manner. “He is ill,” said James Collingwood. “He will rise from his bed no more.” Sir Richard pressed forward; and trembling exceedingly, entered Lord Avondale’s room.—“Who weeps so sadly by a dying father’s bed?” “It is Harry Mowbrey, Calantha’s child, the little comforter of many a dreary hour. The apt remark of enquiring youth, the joyous laugh of childhood, have ceased. The lesson repeated daily to an anxious parent has been learned with more than accustomed assiduity: but in vain. Nature at last has given way:—the pale emaciated form—the hand which the damps of death have chilled, feebly caresses the weeping boy.”
James Collingwood stood by his master’s side, his sorrowful countenancecontrasting sadly with that military air which seemed to disdain all exhibition of weakness; and with him, the sole other attendant of his sufferings, Cairn of Coleraine, who once in this same spot had welcomed Calantha, then a fair and lovely bride, spotless in vestal purity, and dearer to his master’s heart than the very life-blood that gave it vigour. He now poured some opiate drops into a glass, and placed it in the feeble hand which was stretched forth to receive it. “Ah! father, do not leave me,” said his little son, pressing towards him. “My mother looked as you do before she left me: and will you go also? What then will become of me?” Tears gushed into Lord Avondale’s eyes, and trickled down his faded cheeks. “God will bless and protect my boy,” he said, endeavouring to raise himself sufficiently to press his little cherub lips. It was like a blushing rose, placed by the hand of affectionupon a lifeless corpse—so healthful bloomed the child, so pale the parent stem!
“How feeble you are, dear father,” said Harry: “your arms tremble when you attempt to raise me. I will kneel by you all this night, and pray to God to give you strength. You say there is none loves you. I love you; and Collingwood loves you; and many, many more. So do not leave us.”—“And I love you too, dear, dear Harry,” cried Sir Richard, his voice nearly suffocated by his grief; “and all who knew you honoured and loved you; and curse be on those who utter one word against him. He is the noblest fellow that ever lived.” “Uncle Richard, don’t cry,” said the boy: “it grieves him so to see you. Don’t look so sad, dear father. Why is your hand so cold: can nothing warm it?” “Nothing, Harry.—Do not weep so bitterly, dear uncle.” “I have suffered agony. Now, all is peace.—God blessyou and my children.” “Open your dear eyes once again, father, to look on me. Oh! Collingwood, see they are closed:—Will he not look on me ever again? My sister Annabel shall speak to him.—My dear mamma is gone, or she would sooth him.—Oh, father, if you must leave me too, why should I linger here? How silent he is!”—“He sleeps, Sir,”—“I think he does not sleep, Collingwood. I think this dreadful stillness is what every one calls death. Oh! father, look at me once more. Speak one dear word only to say you love me still.” “I can’t bear this,” said Sir Richard, hurrying from the room. “I can’t bear it.”
The hour was that in which the setting sun had veiled its last bright ray in the western wave:—it was the evening of the tenth of October!!!
On the evening of the tenth of October, Glenarvon had reached the coast of Holland, and joined the British squadron under Admiral Duncan. The Dutchwere not yet in sight; but it was known that they were awaiting the attack at a few miles distance from shore, between Camperdown and Egmont. It was so still that evening that not a breath of air rippled upon the glassy waters. It was at that very instant of time, when Avondale, stretched upon his bed, far from those scenes of glory and renown in which his earlier years had been distinguished, had breathed his last; that Glenarvon, whilst walking the deck, even in the light of departing day, laughingly addressed his companions: “Fear you to die?” he cried, to one upon whose shoulder he was leaning. “I cannot fear. But as it may be the fate of all, Hardhead,” he said, still addressing his lieutenant, “if I die, do you present my last remembrance to my friends.—Ha! have I any?—Not I, i’faith.
“Now fill up a bowl, that I may pledgeyou; and let him whose conscience trembles, shrink. I cannot fear;
“For, come he slow, or come he fast,It is but Death that comes at last.”
“For, come he slow, or come he fast,It is but Death that comes at last.”
“For, come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death that comes at last.”
He said, and smiled——that smile so gentle and persuasive, that only to behold it was to love. Suddenly he beheld before him on the smooth wave a form so pale, so changed, that, but for the sternness of that brow, the fixed and hollow gaze of that dark eye, he had not recognized, in the fearful spectre, the form of Lord Avondale “Speak your reproaches as a man would utter them,” he said. “Ask of me the satisfaction due for injuries; but stand not thus before me, like a dream, in the glare of day—like a grim vision of the night, in the presence of thousands.”—The stern glazed eye moved not: the palpable form continued. Lord Glenarvon gazed till his eyes were strained with the effort, and every faculty was benumbed and overpowered.
Then fell a drowsiness over his senses which he could not conquer; and he said to those who addressed him, “I am ill:—watch by me whilst I sleep.” He threw himself upon his cloak, listless and fatigued, and sunk into a heavy sleep. But his slumbers were broken and disturbed; and he could not recover from the unusual depression of his spirits. Every event of his short life crowded fast upon his memory:—scenes long forgotten recurred:—he thought of broken vows, of hearts betrayed, and of all the perjuries and treacheries of a life given up to love. But reproaches and bitterness saddened over every dear remembrance, and he participated, when too late, in the sufferings he had inflicted.
All was now profoundly still: the third watch sounded. The lashing of the waves against the sides of the ship—the gentle undulating motion, again lulled a weary and perturbed spirit to repose. Suddenly upon the air he heard a fluttering, likethe noise of wings, which fanned him while he slept. Gazing intently, he fancied he beheld a fleeting shadow pass up and down before him, as if the air, thickening into substance, became visible to the eye, till it produced a form clothed in angelic beauty and unearthly brightness. It was some moments before he could bring to his remembrance whom it resembled,—till a smile, all cheering, and a look of one he had seen in happier days, told him it was Calantha. Her hair flowed loosely on her shoulders, while a cloud of resplendent white supported her in the air, and covered her partly from his view. Her eyes shone with serene lustre; and her cheeks glowed with the freshness of health:—not as when impaired by sickness and disease, he had seen her last—not as when disappointment and the sorrows of the world had worn her youthful form—but renovated, young, and bright, with superior glory she now met his ardentgaze; and, in a voice more sweet than music, thus addressed him:
“Glenarvon,” she said, “I come not to reproach you. It is Calantha’s spirit hovers round you. Away with dread; for I come to warn and to save you. Awake—arise, before it be too late. Let the memory of the past fade from before you: live to be all you still may be—a country’s pride, a nation’s glory! Ah, sully not with ill deeds the bright promise of a life of fame.” As she spoke, a light as from heaven irradiated her countenance, and, pointing with her hand to the east, he saw the sun burst from the clouds which had gathered round it, and shine forth in all its lustre. “Are you happy?” cried Glenarvon, stretching out his arms to catch the vision, which hovered near.—“Calantha, speak to me: am I still loved? Is Glenarvon dear even thus in death?”
The celestial ray which had lighted up the face of the angel, passed from beforeit at these words; and he beheld the form of Calantha, pale and ghastly, as when last they had parted. In seeming answer to his question, she pressed her hands to her bosom in silence, and casting upon him a look so mournful that it pierced his heart, she faded from before his sight, dissolving like the silvery cloud into thin air. At that moment, as he looked around, the bright sun which had risen with such glorious promise, was seen to sink in mists of darkness, and with its setting ray, seemed to tell him that his hour was come, that the light of his genius was darkened, that the splendour of his promise was set for ever: but he met the awful warning without fear.
And now again he slept; and it seemed to him that he was wandering in a smooth vale, far from the haunts of men. The place was familiar to his memory:—it was such as he had often seen amidst the green plains of his native country, in the beautiful season of spring; and everand anon upon his ear he heard the church-bell sounding from afar off, while the breeze, lately risen, rustled among the new leaves and long grass. Fear even touched a heart that never yet had known its power. The shadows varied on the plain before him, and threw a melancholy gloom on the surrounding prospect. Again the church-bell tolled; but it was not the merry sound of some village festival, nor yet the more sober bell that calls the passenger to prayer. No, it was that long and pausing knell, which, as it strikes the saddened ear, tells of some fellow-creature’s eternal departure from this lower world: and ever while it tolled, the dreary cry of woe lengthened upon the breeze, mourning a spirit fled. Glenarvon thought he heard a step slowly stealing towards him; he even felt the breath of some one near; and raising his eye in haste, he perceived the thin form of a woman close beside him. In her arms she held a child, more wan thanherself. At her approach, a sudden chill seemed to freeze the life-blood in his heart.
He gazed again. “Is it Calantha?” said he. “Ah, no! it was the form of Alice.” She appeared as one returned from the grave, to which long mourning and untimely woes had brought her.—“Clarence,” she said in a piercing voice, “since you have abandoned me I have known many sorrows. The God of Mercy deal not with you as you have dealt with me!” She spoke no more; but gazing in agony upon an infant which lay at her bosom, she looked up to Heaven, from whence her eyes slowly descended upon Glenarvon. She then approached, and taking the babe from her breast, laid it cold and lifeless on his heart. It was the chill of death which he felt—when, uttering a deep groan, he started up with affright.
The drops stood upon his forehead—his hands shook—he looked round him,but no image like the one he had beheld was near. The whiteness of the eastern sky foretold the approach of day. The noise and bustle in the ship, the signal songs of the sailors, and the busy din around, told him that he had slept enough. The Dutch squadron now appeared at a distance upon the sea: every thing was ready for attack.
That day Lord Glenarvon fought with more than his usual bravery. He was the soul and spirit which actuated and moved every other. At twelve the engagement became general, every ship coming into action with its opponent. It was about four in the afternoon, when the victory was clearly decided in favour of the British flag. The splendid success was obtained by unequalled courage, and heroic valour. The result it is not for me to tell. Many received the thanks of their brave commander on that day; many returned in triumph to the country,and friends who proudly awaited them. The Emerald frigate, and its gallant captain, prepared likewise to return; but Glenarvon, after the action, was taken ill. He desired to be carried upon deck; and, placing his hand upon his head, while his eyes were fixed, he enquired of those around if they did not hear a signal of distress, as if from the open sea. He then ordered the frigate to approach the spot whence the guns were fired. A fresh breeze had arisen: the Emerald sailed before the wind. To his disturbed imagination the same solemn sound was repeated in the same direction.—No sail appeared—still the light frigate pursued. “Visions of death and horror persecute me,” cried Glenarvon. “What now do I behold—a ship astern! It is singular. Do others see the same, or am I doomed to be the sport of these absurd fancies? Is it that famed Dutch merchantman, condemned through all eternity to sailbefore the wind, which seamen view with terror, whose existence until this hour I discredited?” He asked this of his companions; but the smile with which Glenarvon spoke these words, gave place to strong feelings of surprise and alarm.—Foreign was the make of that ship; sable were its sails; sable was the garb of its crew; but ghastly white and motionless were the countenances of all. Upon the deck there stood a man of great height and size, habited in the apparel of a friar. His cowl concealed his face; but his crossed hands and uplifted attitude announced his profession. He was in prayer:—he prayed much, and earnestly—it was for the souls of his crew. Minute guns were fired at every pause; after which a slow solemn chaunt began; and the smoke of incense ascended till it partially concealed the dark figures of the men.
Glenarvon watched the motions of that vessel in speechless horror; and now beforehis wondering eyes new forms arose, as if created by delirium’s power to augment the strangeness of the scene. At the feet of the friar there knelt a form so beautiful—so young, that, but for the foreign garb and well remembered look, he had thought her like the vision of his sleep, a pitying angel sent to watch and save him.—“O fiora bella,” he cried; “first, dearest, and sole object of my devoted love, why now appear to wake the sleeping dæmons in my breast—to madden me with many a bitter recollection?” The friar at that moment, with relentless hand, dashed the fair fragile being, yet clinging round him for mercy, into the deep dark waters. “Monster,” exclaimed Glenarvon, “I will revenge that deed even in thy blood.” There was no need:—the monk drew slowly from his bosom the black covering that enshrouded his form. Horrible to behold!—that bosom was gored with deadly wounds, and the black spouting streamsof blood, fresh from the heart, uncoloured by the air, gushed into the wave. “Cursed be the murderer in his last hour!—Hell waits its victim.”—Such was the chaunt which the sable crew ever and anon sung in low solemn tones.
Well was it understood by Glenarvon, though sung in a foreign dialect. “Comrades,” he exclaimed, “do you behold that vessel? Am I waking, or do my eyes, distempered by some strange malady, deceive me? Bear on. It is the last command of Glenarvon. Set full the sails. Bear on,—bear on: to death or to victory!—It is the enemy of our souls you see before you. Bear on—to death, to vengeance; for all the fiends of hell have conspired our ruin.” They sailed from coast to coast—They sailed from sea to sea, till lost in the immensity of ocean. Gazing fixedly upon one object, all maddening with superstitious terror, Lord Glenarvon tasted not of food or refreshment.His brain was burning. His eye, darting forward, lost not for one breathing moment sight of that terrific vision.
Madness to phrenzy came upon him. In vain his friends, and many of the brave companions in his ship, held him struggling in their arms. He seized his opportunity. “Bear on,” he cried: “pursue, till death and vengeance—” and throwing himself from the helm, plunged headlong into the waters. They rescued him; but it was too late. In the struggles of ebbing life, even as the spirit of flame rushed from the bands of mortality, visions of punishment and hell pursued him. Down, down, he seemed to sink with horrid precipitance from gulf to gulf, till immured in darkness; and as he closed his eyes in death, a voice, loud and terrible, from beneath, thus seemed to address him:
“Hardened and impenitent sinner! the measure of your iniquity is full: theprice of crime has been paid: here shall your spirit dwell for ever, and for ever. You have dreamed away life’s joyous hour, nor made atonement for error, nor denied yourself aught that the fair earth presented you. You did not controul the fiend in your bosom, or stifle him in his first growth: he now has mastered you, and brought you here: and you did not bow the knee for mercy whilst time was given you: now mercy shall not be shewn. O, cry upwards from these lower pits, to the friends and companions you have left, to the sinner who hardens himself against his Creator—who basks in the ray of prosperous guilt, nor dreams that his hour like yours is at hand. Tell him how terrible a thing is death; how fearful at such an hour is remembrance of the past. Bid him repent, but he shall not hear you. Bid him amend, but like you he shall delay till it is too late. Then, neither his arts, nor talents, norhis possessions, shall save him, nor friends, though leagued together more than ten thousand strong; for the axe of justice must fall. God is just; and the spirit of evil infatuates before he destroys.”
THE END.
B. Clarke, Printer, Well Street, London.