BY FRANK I. WILSON.
Thewestern portion of the State of North Carolina is by no means densely populated even at this day, though much more so than it was half a century ago, the time at which the principal incidents I am about to relate occurred.
This part of the State is remarkable for the beauty and grandeur of its mountain scenery, its fertile soil, and the salubrity of its climate. The bracing mountain air has brought back the bloom of health to the wan cheek of many an invalid; and rock, and stream, and waterfall have filled many a heart with rapturous delight. The wild deer bounds through the forest, and the hoarse bay of hounds, the encouraging shout of the huntsman, and the shrill report of the deadly rifle are sounds that frequently meet the traveler's ear. As in all mountainous regions, the inhabitants are hospitable and generous almost to a fault. Their doors are ever open to the stranger, and, in many cases, they take the offer of payment for their accommodations as an insult. Most of the nobler virtues are shrined in their honest bosoms; but such is the fertility of their valleys, that very little labor is sufficient to procure them the necessaries of life, and, as the quantity of labor is everywhere proportioned to the necessity for it, we find them, in general, indolent and careless—rich in that best of Heaven's gifts, contentment. The facilities of this region for manufactories are, perhaps, unsurpassed by any portion of the globe, and, with an energetic and industrious population, it would soon become one of the most flourishing sections of our Union.
But enough of this. I did not intend to enter into a minute description of the country, and almost unconsciously penned the above. I proceed with my story.
Among the mountains, not far from the line which separates North from South Carolina, but on the side of the former State, stood, at the period of which I write, a house built after a fashion still prevalent in that region, and which is called a "double cabin." Two cabins, built of logs, are erected ten or twelve feet apart, and generally two stories high, and then connected under one roof, forming pleasant rooms, and also a cool passage between the cabins, where the members of the family usually spend their evenings during the summer months. In the house above mentioned lived Amos Kelford, a hardymountaineer, with a wife and several children, of which Daniel, the hero of my tale, was the eldest.
This Daniel was a strange youth, and, although now only twenty years old, possessed a maturity of mind and a ripeness of intellect rarely to be met with in one of his age. Having been reared among mountains, those master efforts of Nature's handiwork, his ideas, even from childhood, had ever blended with the beautiful and sublime. A glance at his countenance, his broad pale forehead, his large and full blue eyes, and light sandy hair, was sufficient to show to a physiognomist that his intellectual predominated over his physical powers. His form was slight, but perfectly symmetrical, and his features, but for a bold and full developed line here and there, would have been considered feminine.
He had ever been considered an anomaly. From his earliest years, he had loved to sit upon some gray old rock and gaze upon the towering peaks around him, and see their summits glittering in the sun or wrapped in mist that enfolded them like mountain robes. This latter he liked best; for even then, in the sunny days of childhood, at an age when most children care for nothing but romp and play, he leaned to the darker side of Nature, and the blue mist, curling in a thousand fantastic forms, or settling like a pall around the lofty summits of giant peaks, had a charm for him which the sunshine failed to impart. He gazed upon the falling leaves of autumn rather than the bursting buds of spring, upon the gathering shades of night rather than the blushing beams of the morning sun.
As he grew up and learned to read, nothing accorded so well with his disposition as to take a volume and wander off beside some waterfall, or ascend some peak, or, when the sun was hot, to retire into some cave or crouch beneath some overhanging rock, and there read and ponder whole days together. There was a mystery thrown around him, a kind of indifference and a lack of interest in almost everything in which those of his age usually feel interested. His own parents looked upon him and sighed and wondered, but could not fathom the depths of his mind, nor learn the bent of his eccentric genius. He was ever mild, ever ready to render any assistance in his power to those in need, and ever obedient to the commands of his parents and teachers; but he obeyed, as he always acted, with a calm indifference, and without any show of interest. Rarely was he seen to smile; but sometimes, when wrapped in his own reflections and heedless of everything around him, his eyes would kindle, and a placid, but peculiar smile would play about his thin lips, indicating that pleasant thoughts were in his mind; but whether of past scenes or only of future imaginary joys none could tell. And oftentimes this smile would suddenly vanish as you gazed upon him, and a dark cloud would settle over his countenance. His brow would become contracted, his lips compressed, and the expression of his eyes sad and gloomy. Then, as if to seek solace, or a diversion of his thoughts, he would take up a book and wander off into some secluded spot and read and meditate, occasionally noting down with his pencil certain sentences from what he read, or recording certain ideas suggested thereby.
But there was one being on whom Daniel Kelford looked without his usual indifference, and for whom he felt a pure and lasting affection. This was Elinor Manvers, the daughter of one of the wealthier class of farmers, who resided about four miles from Mr. Kelford's. Elinor was sixteen years old, and as beautiful as the hour is that visit the Mussulman's dreams. Her sylph-like form, the classic regularity of her well-defined features, her large and languishing dark eyes, all bespoke a mind deeply imbued with thespirituel;but still she was a true-hearted woman, a sprightly and merry mountain lass. She loved to pour forth her wild gay songs, and hear the echoes of her finely-modulated voice among the tall cliffs of the mountains. Her step was as free and agile as that of the untamed deer; and to all except Daniel Kelford she was a lively companion, and could ring forth her clear laugh with all the free exuberance of feeling to which her nature seemed inclined; but when with him she was conscious of a mysterious and undefined awe settling upon her mind, and depriving her of the power of appearing gay and frolicsome. Her true nature was as yet undeveloped and unknown even to herself, and the influence which Daniel exerted over her, and was destined to exert, was the mould by which her soul was to be formed. There was something repulsive and yet attractive about him, and though she shrank from him, she could not deny to herself that she loved him, and the consciousness of her love was mingled with both pain and pleasure. Her feelings towards him were of two kinds, directly opposite to each other, and yet so mingling together that she could not entertain the one without admitting the other. She shuddered when she reflected upon the depth of her love, and yet she would not have torn it from her heart for worlds; for there was a satisfaction and a sense of bliss always blending, confusedly and unintelligibly, it is true, with the horror that darkened through her soul. In his presence, she felt ill at ease, and yet there was a vacuum created by his absence which nothing but his presence could fill. He had spoken to her of love, of its beauty and holiness, of its depth and power, but no vows had yet been interchanged; and although she would have preferred death to the certainty that he never would declare his love to her, yet she dreaded the declaration, and could not think with calmness on the moment when it was to be made. There was something in the earnest flashing of his eyes when he gazed upon her that startled and almost terrified her; and yet there was a charm in those looks that thrilled her inmost soul with pleasure, and she could have wished he might gaze thus for ever. His words, too, fell with a strange emphasis and a peculiar force upon her ears; but there was a music in them that sank into her heartand awakened a sense of joy that nothing else could stir.
The hand of destiny seemed to be guiding her to some awful fate, of which presentiment made her fully conscious; but the path to which was strewn with so many charms she willingly, ay anxiously, trod it, and would not have turned back if she could.
Daniel Kelfordhad fitted him up a little study room, in which he spent most of his time. Books were his idols, and he worshiped them with more than a pagan zeal. His table was strewn with antique and curious volumes, many of them abounding in the wild and marvelous, and in these his whole soul seemed absorbed. The love-sick and sentimental had no charm for him; but he sought rather the abstruse and mysterious, bending all his energies to the comprehension of the one and the unraveling of the other. Vague dreams, as it were, flitted through his mind, highly colored by his diseased fancy, and all wearing a supernatural hue. Metaphysics was his darling study. He maintained that, as every particle of matter is dependent on those surrounding it, and as all are bound and held together by attraction, making one whole, and as it is impossible to conceive of one single particle existing independently and unconnected with any other, so every idea is linked with others forming one mind, and a single isolated idea is as impossible as a single and independent particle of matter; and that as various as are the shapes of objects constituted by the combination of particles, so various are the minds formed by the combination of ideas. And as idea linked with idea rose in his mind, he followed on, weaving a chain as incomprehensible to most minds as the inextricable windings of the Cretan labyrinth, until, at length lost in the mazy whirl of his own thoughts, the eye of fancy grew dim and reason tottered on her throne.
Reader, let me conduct you to that little study-room. We will look in at the window near which Daniel sits. It is night, a calm moonlit night of May, and the mingled notes of various night birds and innumerable insects, together with the chastened scenery of the surrounding mountains, as rock, and stream, and cliff, and waterfall appear in the softened beams, are enough to draw the most devoted of ordinary students from their books to contemplate the mighty book of nature, printed in the type of God, its sublime capitals rendering it legible to every observer. But for Daniel Kelford these things now possess no interest. They are unseen and unthought of; for every power of his soul is centered upon the contents of a small roll of manuscript which lies before him. He bends over it, takes up sheet after sheet, his interest increasing as he reads, until he has but one thought, one desire; and that is to understand and to reduce to practice the strange things there taught. Beside him dimly burns his untrimmed lamp, for he does not think to bestow any attention upon it. He has found embodied in words thoughts and ideas that have long floated like shapeless visions through his soul, but which he never could grasp, confine, and reduce to language.
The night wears on; it is late; he has read every page of that strange manuscript; but he reads it again and again, unmindful of the flight of time—a wild light sometimes flashing from his large eyes, and a mysterious expression gathering over his countenance. Were the aged man whose hand penned these words now alive, he could fall at his feet and worship him as a god.
But let us turn for a moment, and see from whence he obtained this wonderful manuscript.
Just on the line dividing the States of North and South Carolina, is an eminence called "Cæsar's Head." When, how, or why it obtained this name I have never been able to learn. Over its top now passes a turnpike road; but, at the period of which I write, all over and around it was almost an uninterrupted wilderness. The southern, or rather the southwestern side is nearly perpendicular, and fronts towards the celebrated Table Rock in Greenville District, S. C. From its summit, this rock, as well as many other curious and interesting objects, is in full view. The whole scenery in that direction is, perhaps, unsurpassed by any in the whole mountain range; and, consequently, "Cæsar's Head" was one of Daniel Kelford's favorite places of resort.
One day he went to visit this spot, and, as he approached it, he perceived an old man lying at the root of a tree, or rather leaning on his elbow with his back resting against the tree, and his eyes, over which the film of death was fast gathering, bent intently on the view before him. Daniel went up to him with his usual indifferent appearance, but ready to impart any assistance that might be in his power. As he drew near, the old man turned to him and said—
"You have come at last: I was expecting you."
"And why were you expecting me?" asked Daniel.
"Because I knew that you were coming here at this hour," was the reply.
"And how knew you that?" asked Daniel.
"The means by which I obtained my information," replied the old man, "may one day be familiar to you; but I have not time now to explain them to you. Be content for the present to know that I have, or rather have had, the power to gain information of future events. My time to leave this world is now come, and I cannot look beyond the grave except, as other mortals, by the eye of faith. I have inquired concerning you, and know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, though you never met my eyes until now. I knew that I was to die at this hour, and that you were to meet me here to see me draw my last breath, and to receive from me this manuscript, which I have prepared expressly for you; for I know your nature, your insatiatethirst for knowledge, your perseverance and enthusiasm, and that you would improve the information herein contained. I have written it in your own language. Take it, it is yours; but do not break the seal that binds it until I am buried."
Daniel took the roll which the old man extended to him, and begged that he might go for assistance.
"No," said the old man; "I want no company but yours. Death is not hard, and I have but a few moments more to live. You see that I am calm; I, who have experienced almost every vicissitude of life incident to both the palace and the mountain cave, can here lay me down and place my hand upon my heart and call my God to witness that I die in peace with all men, and without a single fear or dread. I only ask that you will see me decently interred."
The tears gushed into Daniel's eyes as he gave the promise. The old man perceived it and said—
"Do not weep for me, my young friend, but rather weep for yourself. My troubles are over, but yours have scarcely begun. Ignorance loves to persecute knowledge; but there is one blessing attendant on true wisdom; for it renders its possessor impervious to the darts that are hurled at him, and he rises above the petty animosities of earth and feels an inward satisfaction, a proud consciousness of superiority that the ignorant can never know."
The eyes of the old man, sunken and dim, were turned upon the young man as he spoke, and his wrinkled features assumed an expression of joy rarely seen upon the human countenance, even when in health and prosperity. He was above the ordinary size of men, and his large frame stretched along the earth looked like some mountain god taking his rest. His long white eyebrows arched boldly above his eyes, and his silvery hair was brushed back, leaving his massive brow bared to the gentle sunbeams as they streamed through the dense foliage of the overhanging trees. There was a serenity and an expression of benignity about his countenance that irresistibly attracted the heart of Daniel Kelford, and made him reverence him. He seated himself by the old man, and raising his head leaned it against his bosom.
"Thank you, my young friend," said the aged man; "I shall now die without a struggle. I am in no pain; and as I yet have a little time left me, I will talk with you about Elinor Manvers."
"Elinor Manvers!" exclaimed Daniel, with surprise. "Do you know her?"
"I have seen her once," said the old man; "and he who has done that can never forget the vision of beauty that has blest his eyes. But I know her well. I know her soul is as pure as her own mountain streams; but it is unformed, and to you is committed its nurture. You can assimilate it to your own, or absorb it within your own, and make it soul of your soul, one and inseparable, imbuing it with the same thirst for knowledge, the same exalted aspirations. She loves you with an intensity never excelled; and already the shadow, or rather the light, of your spirit is upon her; but she can shake off the influence when you are away from her. Marry her, and be with her all the time, infusing your soul into hers, making her a fit companion to share your joys on earth and your perfect bliss in Heaven. Open to her the treasures of knowledge, and she will twine her affections so firmly about you that even death cannot sever them."
The old man's voice grew weak and husky, and turning his eyes calmly upon the face of his young friend, he said—
"I can tell you no more. Read the manuscript, and you will know enough to enable you to learn all. My time has come, andall is peace."
As he spake, he folded his arms upon his breast, closed his eyes, and yielded his spirit, without a groan or murmur, to his God.
Daniel returned home and told his father of the old man's death, but said nothing about the manuscript he had received. It he carried to his own room and locked within his trunk. Mr. Kelford and Daniel, with two or three of the neighbors, went and brought the old man's body to Mr. Kelford's house, where it remained until the next day, when they buried it, wondering who the stranger was and whence he came.
It was night when Daniel returned home, and, after hastily eating a few mouthfuls, he hurried to his room, brought forth the manuscript, broke the seal, and read it.
Themanuscript was as follows:—
Don Ricardus Carlos to his young friend Daniel Kelford.
It may seem strange to you, my young friend, to be thus familiarly addressed by one who is a stranger to you, and one whom you have never even seen as yet; but, although I am unknown to you, you are not unknown to me, neither shall I die without your seeing me. You will see me but once, and that will be just as my soul flutters on the verge of eternity. Yes, you will see me in that blissful moment when I shall launch my bark from the strand of Time upon the ocean of Eternity, and be admitted into Heaven, the great temple of perfect knowledge, where I shall be able to ascend step by step, and endowed with capacity to understand those things which the mind, while confined within its corporeal prison house, can never comprehend. Peruse these pages, and you will know how I know you. Peruse, and be wise as I am, and as few before me have been, and perhaps fewer after me will be.
My name is Don Ricardus Carlos, and I am one of the once royal family of Spain. I say theonceroyal family, for, as you know, the reign of the Carloses has ceased; and I am glad of it. A new era is dawning upon the world, when knowledge shallbe diffused among the people, and they shall see and feel that their hereditary rulers are tyrants who oppress them; and they will rise and hurl them from their thrones. A century from this hour, and the names of king and emperor, of lord and sovereign, will only be remembered as titlesonceapplied to certain men whom the fortune of birth gave an imaginary superiority over their fellow men in general, and endowed with a privilege of ruling the temporal destinies of the toiling millions. That era has already dawned in splendor. This very nation is an example of it, and this nation is destined to revolutionize the world; not by the sword, though it be mighty in arms and rich in heroes, but by its example, its peaceful and prosperous course. Man never was made to be forced into measures. The Almighty placed in his heart an aversion to coercion as applied to himself. This is what we call pride; and the same pride which leads him to hate coercion as applied to himself, leads him to desire to coerce others. This is one of the curses of God upon mankind for their disobedience, intended to keep them at strife. Hence arise wars and bloodshed, and the direst scourges that visit the earth. Man must be led by persuasion, must be induced by example to embrace even that which is for his own good; and, as I said, this nation will by its example revolutionize the world. It has deluged France in blood, for its time has not yet come; but it will come, and the land of the vine will yet be free. The throne of England—proud mistress of the sea as she loves to be styled, but as she cannot much longer be styled—will fall. Ireland, long crushed beneath the iron tread of despotism, will arise and hurl her chains from her and take her stand among the republics of the earth. Even my own beloved, but degraded Spain, and sunny Italy, the land of the olive, ruled for a thousand years by the usurper of Heaven's prerogative, will yet be free. The crowns that now, heavy with jewels, adorn the heads of sovereigns, will yet be trampled into the dust by the rough feet of those whose necks their wearers now bow down and trample down.The Peopleis the only sovereign, and when knowledge shall have opened the eyes of the people to the excesses committed by their rulers, and to their own rights, they will turn and exercise their power—the power delegated to them, and to none other, by Heaven. But they must learn; and they will learn by example sooner than by any other means. This continent was reserved for such a glorious purpose—the renovation of society, the upbuilding of the temple of true liberty.
* * * * * *
I was instructed in all the lore of my country, both ancient and modern. My eagerness to obtain knowledge, and the facility with which I acquired it, were noted, and the most skillful teachers were procured for me. I was surrounded by all the pomp and pageantry of royalty; but these had no charms for me. Every luxury which wealth could procure was at my command, but I cared for nothing but knowledge. It was the one all-absorbing thought of my mind, and in it I lived, moved, and had my being. I outstripped all my teachers, and they declared themselves unable to teach me any more. I was pronounced by all the ripest scholar of my age; but still I was not satisfied. What I had learned only increased my desire for more, and in vain I sought a teacher more learned than myself. The extent of my knowledge amazed the wisest and most profound scholars among my countrymen; but still there was a vacuum in my soul, a yearning to know more, and I felt miserable because I had nothing more to learn.
But "fickle fortune," as it is generally, but erroneously termed, turned her scale. It was not mere fortune or chance, but destiny; and destiny is the will of God. My family was deposed and forced to flee. Of course, we fled to America—to these United States; for where else do the weary find repose and the oppressed an asylum and a home?
With no inconsiderable fortune, I made my way to the mountains, and in a pleasant valley in the western part of Virginia I built me a cottage, and there determined to reside, and prosecute my studies and researches. My desire for knowledge had not abated by my change of fortune, and I began to cast about me for some new study. Those who had known me in Spain thought I stood upon the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge; but I knew there must be something beyond the height to which I had yet risen, or else my mind would not be so disquiet and so anxious to learn more. I reasoned thus with myself: The temple of knowledge is founded on Earth and Time; but the structure reaches into Heaven and Eternity. I have ascended to the topmost step of the earthly part, and now I must pierce the dividing line and ascend yet higher. I reflected that Heaven was purity, and he that would enter into it must be pure, must lay aside all mere earthly and sensual affections, and become in all his thoughts and actions uninfluenced by selfish motives—in a word, that he must separate his soul from his body, and enter with the former, leaving the latter on earth. This I knew was generally effected by death, and then came the desire to die; but again I reflected that that was a sinful desire, and would retard my progress. If I should take my own life, the very act would debar me from the prize for which I did it.
I commenced schooling my mind and subduing my bodily propensities. I abstained from all food, except just enough to keep me alive and in health. I supplied the wants of nature, but nothing more. I practiced self-denial in almost everything, forcing myself to act directly opposite to the promptings of my carnal mind. I retired now to the wildest parts of the mountains, to fill my soul with awe at beholding the stupendous grandeur of nature; and now to the sunny valleys, the babbling rills, and murmuring waterfalls, to drink in gladness and joy. I visited the poor, bestowing gifts upon them, wandering far and near in search of objects of charity, until myfortune was exhausted, and I was left with but a scanty pittance for my support. But I gloried in my poverty, remembering that the Scriptures teach that money is a hindrance, the love of it an insuperable barrier, to the perfection of human virtue. Knowledge was all I cared for; wealth sank into less than nothingness when compared with it.
My great aim was to arrive to an exalted state of purity, in order to attain to higher knowledge. I would not suffer myself to think of anything unconnected with the Great Author of its existence. At length I found myself undergoing a gradual change. The thoughts of earth and earthly things became irksome to me, and I could banish them from my mind at pleasure. My thoughts were as much at my command as my actions. I could think upon a particular subject, or leave off thinking on it at will, just as I could put my limbs in motion, or leave them at rest, as I pleased.
One day I seated myself by the side of a little rill, the magnificent white blossoms of the laurel waving over me, and the wild vines creeping with serpentine folds around the boughs of the neighboring trees, forming an arbor above the quiet stream. It was a lovely spot, and might well have been fancied the favorite resort of the mountain genii, when they wished to retire to solitude and indulge in reverie.
Here I determined to try the experiment ofwillingmyself a spirit, separate from my body and independent of it. It required some effort for me to do this; but gradually I seemed to lose my bodily form, and to become independent of the laws of gravitation. In a few moments the change was complete; and no sooner was it so than I heard a voice, mild and sweet beyond anything which it is in the power of the imagination to conceive—
"Mortal," said the voice, "behold what the eyes of sinful mortal never saw!"
I turned, and beheld a form bright as the sun; but it did not dazzle my eyes. On the contrary, I loved to look upon it; and as I gazed I felt a joy diffusing itself through my soul never dreamed of before, and so perfect that I was wholly abandoned to it.
"I am thy good angel," again spake the voice; "and thy mind, subdued to thy own control, and exerted in a pure and holy direction, has so far removed the scales with which earthly passions blind the human eyes, that thou art permitted, though still mortal, to see me, an immortal, and hear my voice. Thy desire for knowledge shall be gratified, for thou seekest it not for any evil end. Listen, and I will give thee thy first lesson in a course of study new to and unheard of by thee."
I listened and heard strange yet sweet words, and drank in with eagerness the instruction imparted to me. But, as I only learned a portion at that time, and have continued at different periods since to learn more, I will not here attempt to set down the words then uttered to me, or to recount the particular points on which I was enlightened at the different times; but will throw together a portion of the information I have acquired during the whole time, selecting such as I shall think most likely to interest you, and to fire you with a desire to obtain more from the same source from which I have obtained mine; for man, even while living on this earth, and consequently mortal, may, through the attributes of immortality, learn much that is incomprehensible to the mere mortal mind.
Every human being on this wide world is attended, from his birth to his death, by two angels, the one good, the other evil. Neither has any power to prompt its charge to action either bodily or mentally, for the will is free to choose for itself; but when once a course of acts or thoughts is commenced, then both have power, and each acts in direct opposition to the other, causing the mind to waver and alternate between good and evil, embracing sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as the respective angels obtain the mastery. If a man's thoughts and actions be good, his good angel endeavors to encourage him to persevere in them, while his evil one wars against them; and if his thoughts and actions be evil, his evil spirit urges him on, while his good one tries to restrain him. Hence the life of man is one continued warfare, the two spirits for ever battling against each other, and each in its turn exulting in victory and mourning over defeat. But, let which may be vanquished, it does not easily abandon the contest. The human will can always decide the strife with regard to any particular thing, and cast the victory on either side it pleases, and, with traitorous fickleness, it fights sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the other.
Man, in general, is not sunk to that depth of depravity in which he is frequently represented—a depth so low, so dark, and so wretched as to be wholly incapable, with his own human nature, unaided and left to himself, to think a holy thought or perform a righteous act. If this were the case, the evil angel would ever prove victorious, and the good one would retire in despair, and leave the poor human being the prey of the powers of darkness. Men have much to say about the foreknowledge of God, the predestination and election of the human race, or of a portion of it, and such like. These are fruitful themes of controversy, as unavailing as they are absurd. God does not reckon time, for it is finite and he is infinite. He knows only eternity, in which there is neither past nor future, but an ever-abiding present, without beginning or end. Without freedom of will it would be impossible for man to be an accountable being. If the angels which attend him through life had the power to prompt him to action, then they would have the entire rule over him, and they alone would be held accountable for his course. True, it is possible that either spirit may be subdued, and the mind reduced entirely under the control of the other; this can only take place where the mind concurs with the victorious spirit, and continues to concurwith it, and willingly yields to its control, and therefore the mortal is still the accountable one, and the one with whom God will finally reckon.
When the good spirit, from a long series of defeats, yields all hope of ever again obtaining the ascendancy over its dark rival, and flees in despair from the soul over which it has watched, then the mind and body of the person become devoted with all their powers to the devil, the prince of the spirit that presides over him. He then receives a kind of supernatural power; but it is not of that kind by which good may be wrought, but seeks to set friends at variance and to array man against his fellow-man. It even endues him, who is subject to its undisputed sway, with the power of working a species of miracles; but the effects of these miracles are always noxious. This is what has usually been termed witchcraft. The spirit of evil becomes visible and audible to him who is invested with this fearful power, and he is no longer regarded by the eye of Heaven as one who may even possibly free himself from the master he serves, and repent and find forgiveness. His good angel is gone from him to return no more; for God hath said, "My spirit shall not always strive with man." Beyond this world his doom is irrevocably sealed, and his lot cast among the forever damned.
On the other hand, by deeds of charity and love, and by a life of extraordinary purity, the evil spirit may be expelled, and the soul left to the undisputed sway of the good one. He who is thus freed from the power of his evil angel has the power of seeing and hearing his good one, and of learning things incomprehensible to the generality of his race. To him the fountains of knowledge are unsealed, and he learns, while yet on earth, much that is reserved to be learned in Heaven after we have become a new order of beings, endowed with new intelligence. It is sin only that blinds our sight and darkens our minds, and, consequently, the more effectually we can free ourselves from sin the better are we prepared for the reception of knowledge. Perfect knowledge can only be attained by perfect purity, and hence perfect knowledge is perfect bliss; and the highest bliss of heaven is to perfectly understand all things. On earth, corrupted and polluted as it is by sin, there can be no perfect knowledge, and, consequently, no perfect bliss. And although there are different degrees of knowledge in Heaven, yet every degree is perfect, and affords perfect bliss so far; and, as we ascend step by step up the heavenly temple of knowledge, perfect bliss will be added to perfect bliss, and thus will we go on until we reach the summit and possess ourselves of all the blissful attributes of God himself. The more knowledge we attain on earth, provided it be applied to good, the higher will be the grade to which we will be admitted in Heaven, and consequently the more perfect our bliss there; but if it be directed towards the attainment of an end transgressing the laws of God and furthering evil, the more intense will be the sufferings in the world of punishment.
It is an incontrovertible law of natural philosophy, that not an atom of matter can be annihilated; and it is a law as applicable to the immaterial as to the material world. Every act we have ever committed, every word we have ever spoken, and every thought that has ever flitted through our minds, remains as indestructible as the throne of Omnipotence itself. Here on earth we act, speak, and think, and then forget the deeds we have done, the words we have spoken, and the thoughts we have harbored; but on the day of the final reckoning, when our spirits shall re-enter our arisen bodies, every thought, word, and deed shall recur to us as vividly as though they had taken place at that very instant. Thus every one has his whole life spread before him, takes in all at a glance, and becomes his own judge; and as his conscience approves or condemns him, so is he approved or condemned by God. And although men are accountable, yet this does not exempt their good angels from being judged also. Their course is judged, and if they have been remiss in performing the duties assigned them, and have not watched diligently over the souls committed to their charge, then they receive the reward due to their negligence; and as those souls over which they kept watch are the gainers or losers by their conduct, therefore it is permitted them to judge them, as St. Paul saith, "Know ye not that the angels are to be judged by us?"
By ourwill, as I said, we can always cast the victory on the side of either our good or evil angel, as we choose; and when, by a long series of victories achieved over our evil angel by the combined powers of our will and our good angel, we are entirely freed from our evil one, then the veil of sin and imperfection which obscures our spiritual sight is so far removed as to enable us to behold and converse with our good angel, and to learn much, not only of spiritual matters, but also of the future destinies of nations and individuals. It is thus that I have learned of thee, and of the influence which this nation is to exert over the world, dethroning tyrants, extirpating royalty, and making all men "free and equal." It is thus that I have learned the hour at which I am to undergo that change which men call death.
Remember that purity is what is required—purity, at no matter what sacrifice of inclination. As you read this, your good angel stands at your right side, and your evil one at your left,nearest your heart;but both are invisible to you because you are neither wholly pure nor wholly polluted. In the former case your good spirit would be visible, in the latter your evil one. They are striving for you, the one endeavoring to urge you to purity, the other to drag you down to degradation. I am convinced, though even my angel does not know, that you will cast yourWILLon theside of virtue, and go on in your high career of knowledge.
And here I will close. If you avail yourself of the information I have imparted, I have said enough; if not, all that I have said is in vain, and but labor lost. You are very dear to me, and, as I write, you grow still dearer. But I am yet to see you, and to hold converse with you for a little while: and the reason that I now write nothing concerning Elinor Manvers is that I shall speak face to face with you about her. Farewell.
Don Ricardus Carlos.Mountain Cave, Va., Nov. 20th, 1779.
(Conclusion next month.)
BY ALICE B. NEAL.PART I.
"Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the roomWhere love, domestic love, no longer nestles,But, smitten by the common stroke of doom,The corpse lies on the tressels!"—Hood.
Yes, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low. Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past, forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that house of mourning.
Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate.
The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath "the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness" with breaking hearts.
And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste, and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father, and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides, he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he was not to be outshone by any of them.
But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man," as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their relatives could take charge of the younger children—Grace, ten, Willie and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.
Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing her domestic concernsThe children would be distributed among Mr. Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service.
Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the thought.
But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with which she said—
"That never will do, sir!"
"Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr. Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'"
The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like her haughty relative than ever, as she answered—
"I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago, that—my father—that we were still secured a home at least." And her voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully.
"Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet been paid for."
Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and manner.
"I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent on any one."
"Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover. "Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child, and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's a great shock. I feel it so myself; but we must be brave and put up with trouble we can't help."
It was with a swelling heart, and oftentimes gushes of bitter tears, that Lucy trod the floor of her room all that long afternoon, while her mother received, in the parlor below, visits of condolence from friends and acquaintances, who came, some because custom required it, and others because they had suffered and sorrowed, and knew how welcome a kindly sympathy had been in their affliction. The children, Grace and Willie, sat reading together with their arms about each other until the twilight came, and they began to wonder what made sister stay away alone so long, and finally deputed George to go "very softly" and see if she would not come down to tea, "as Doctor Howard was still talking to mamma, and they were very lonely."
"Come in," said Lucy, as she recognized her brother's voice; and then she made him sit down beside her, and led him to talk of their future life and what he had intended to accomplish. It had been in the boy's mind all day, and he spoke very earnestly. He would be so industrious after this, and study so hard, and be a great lawyer like Uncle Thomas, and then mamma should come and live with him, when Lucy was married and the children grown up. Ah, how could she damp such fond anticipations and throw the shadow of care over that bright young face, from which she had parted back the clustering locks that she might look steadfastly into those clear, eloquent eyes! So she gave up her first resolve of telling himallthe truth, but said—
"Dear brother, what if it should be necessary for us to move into a smaller house, and for you to give up study and go into business for a few years until we get rich again, and Willie is large enough to help himself a little?"
The shadow came, after all, and the boy's face lost its eager, hopeful look.
"I knew it would be hard, and that you do not like business; but we all have to bear trials. Think of poor mamma; for her sake, George. And because it would be right," she added, after a moment. "But we will talk more about this some other day; only think of it, brother, and be brave. Ask strength from Heaven to do rightly," and she pointed to her dressing-table, where an open Bible lay, stained with tears.
Ah, how many schemes she revolved in her mind that night, when she could not sleep, and envied the calm repose of Grace, who shared her room, and was lying so quietly beside her. And then she rose and turned to her Bible again, as she had never sought it before, although it had always been dear to her; for she was of those who had "remembered their Creator in the days of their youth." One sentence caught her attention; no doubt she had read it a hundred times before, but she never had known its meaning until now.
"In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct thy paths."
How full of hope and assurance it was! and something like a smile quivered about her lips as sheknelt and laid her heart open to the Father of the Fatherless.
But several days passed before anything like a feasible plan suggested itself. Mrs. Burton was ready to do anything Lucy thought best; but her mind seemed to be paralyzed by the succession of misfortunes. Yet still another trial remained for the devoted girl, and harder to bear, that it came so unexpectedly.
"I cannot do as you wish," she said to her lover, when her resolution was finally taken. "God only knows how hard the struggle has been, and still is. But I should despise myself if I turned from one duty to take up another. How could I expect a blessing upon it? We are both young; I but nineteen, you twenty-three. Five years from now we shall still have a long life before us, and then we shall be all the happier for this self-denial. Is it asking too much of you?—too great a sacrifice, James?"
"I cannot understand you, Lucy. Don't speak enigmas."
"Well, then, have I not explained it clearly?—that my labor is necessary to my mother and all of them, until the younger children are old enough to act for themselves; and, even to be your wife, great happiness as it would be to me, I cannot desert them."
"You are a noble girl, Lucy," he said, as you would admire anything that was beautiful in a picture or a statue. And yet she seemed to know that he did not feel with her—"could not understand her," as he had said.
"And do you not think I am right?"
"I can't say that I do—that is, exactly. I can't see that you are bound to waste five years, the best years of life, when the family can be otherwise provided for. You say your uncles have offered to do all that is necessary; your mother would always be welcome in my house." And James Allan actually regarded himself, and had done so for some days, a perfect model of virtuous self-denial in making the proposal, and "going on" with a match that more worldly friends now advised him against. There was a difference between the daughter of the prosperous merchant and the ruined bankrupt.
"You never have had brothers and sisters, James."
"And so shall love you all the better, darling. You will have none to be jealous of."
"Ah, now listen to me. Do not place obstacles in the path of my duty. Tell me, am I selfish towards you?"
She did not think he could say "yes," or feel it. She knew that if the probation had been proposed to her for his sake, she would have consented joyfully, happy in the power to show how true her love was, and she would have strengthened and encouraged him in every way.
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, slowly—
"And what do you propose to do? Teach, I suppose." It grated upon his ear to think that any one who would be hereafter connected with him should use time or talent in her own support. He would much rather have given the necessary sum outright; but that Lucy would not listen to.
"No, I shall not teach."
"And what in creation will you do?" he ejaculated, surprised from his accustomed politeness into an abrupt betrayal of native rudeness.
"I am going to learn a trade and work at it, and have a shop, when I can manage one."
"Good heavens, Lucy, you are mad! What has put such an insane idea into your head?"
"Thought, thought—constant, harassing, anxious thought. As a teacher or governess I could do little more than support myself; and I know I have taste and enterprise, and George will assist me, and I feel I shall succeed."
"Never to be my wife afterwards!"
"James!" and she started to her feet, the hot blood mounting to her face. She could not believe she had heard aright, and came back to him, laying her hand upon his arm and looking beseechingly into his face. He was angry now. Pride, and more than pride, vanity, were aroused. What! his wife to have been behind a counter!—to hear it said, in after years, "O yes! Mrs. Allan was a shop girl!" It was not that his treasure would be exposed to rude and unfeeling association; it was not that he would shield her from toil! He shook her from him—
"As true as I am speaking, if you persist in this, I will never marry you!"
"You never shall!"
She turned quietly, but firmly, and went towards the door. There were no tears, no expostulations. It was not her nature. Neither was that deep emphatic tone the voice of passion. But a mask had dropped from the real character of one she had almost reverenced, who had been invested by the halo of her love with every high and noble quality.
"Lucy!"
No answer; and then the woman triumphed, and she turned her face so that he could see how deadly pale she was, as she said, not raising her eyes—
"God bless you, James, for the happiness of the past!"
He knew that he was forgiven; but he also felt that, outwardly, there could be no reconciliation. In an instant, all her goodness and purity came into his mind. He felt all that he had lost when too late to regain it. But he stifled remorse and regret by pride and fancied injury, as he left the house never to return again.
There followed a wretched, stormy interview with her uncle, whose anger knew no bounds when Lucy told him that her engagement with James Allan was broken, and for what reason. She was called "idiot" and "ungrateful," her scheme was ridiculed and discouraged, until Mrs. Burton even began to take her brother's view of the case, and think that her daughter had acted inexcusablywhen, with a little forbearance, she could have retained the care and love of one who had a father's sanction to call her wife. And finally threats were tried to induce her to use her influence to reconcile the family to the first plan proposed; for Mr. William Burton solemnly declared that, if the daughter of his brother disgraced the family by becoming "a milliner's girl," he would disown her, and his children should never recognize her again.
This was a great trial, but a harder one had been borne, and Lucy found a friend to uphold her in her course when she was sorely tempted to abandon it. Dr. Howard had been for many years their family physician, and had watched her from earliest childhood with no little interest. His daughter Mary was Lucy's most intimate friend, and through her he heard of all that was passing in the family of his deceased friend. His little carriage was standing at the door as Mr. Burton left the house, the morning of the last interview, and Lucy, still sitting in the parlor, her head upon her hands, lost in deep and painful thought, was roused by his kindly voice and fatherly manner, to be comforted by his sympathy and strengthened by his approval.
"I know all, my little daughter," said the warm-hearted old gentleman. "As for that James Allan, you've had a lucky escape, and I'd willingly see him"—
"Doctor!" interrupted Lucy, for she could not hear that once loved name spoken of so harshly.
"Well, well, I suppose you were fond of him, or you never could have promised what you did. But we won't think of that part of the subject. Now tell me exactly what you want to do, and then we will see if there's a possibility of accomplishing it."
So Lucy unfolded her plans more fully than she had yet done to any one. Their milliner was a widow lady who had under her direction one of those large work-rooms employing twenty or thirty girls. Her customers were among the wealthiest and most fashionable people in the city, and, as she was very intelligent and a person of excellent taste, they frequently consulted her about an entire wardrobe, and in this way Lucy had often listened to her conversation. Only one month ago, her mother and herself were taking Mrs. Hill's advice with regard to her owntrousseau, a part of which was already purchased; and while Lucy was waiting for her mother to call for her, she had been much interested in a history of Mrs. Hill's own business experience, resulting from a report that she was thinking of retiring before long. Lucy found, to her amazement, that, in twenty years, she had not only educated her family, but saved enough to make her entirely comfortable. This conversation might have been forgotten, had not a necessity for exertion been forced so suddenly upon her; and knowing, from the salaries of her own teachers, that she could not hope to do more than maintain herself in that way, Mrs. Hill's success flashed upon her mind as an encouraging precedent.
At first, she scarcely counted the cost, it is true. She forgot that it would make an entire change in her social position, strange as it may seem in a so-called republican country, and, above all, in a city where "all men" were first declared to be "equal." She could not judge, from her own true, affectionate nature, the result such a decision would have upon her future prospects in domestic life. That was the thought which cheered her at first, the beacon star that was to guide her through all toil and self-denial; but it had been quenched, with all else that had made life bright to her. And as yet she knew nothing of actual physical fatigue or deprivation; this was yet to break upon her.
Dr. Howard, like a true friend, pointed out all this, kindly, it is true, but in the strongest colors; and when he found that even then she did not give up her scheme, he patted her glossy curls as he would have done Mary's, and said she was "a little heroine," and he did not doubt that she could succeed.
"Whoever show themselves weak enough to desert you, my child," he said, "you have always a friend in me, remember that; and you must use me whenever you want advice or assistance. Don't hesitate to come to me in all your little trials and troubles, and my house shall be a second home to you."
Then, to have her mind relieved of all anxiety on this score at once, for he saw the sad changes the past few weeks had made in her worn face, he proposed to go at once and consult Mrs. Hill, and see how they could manage time and terms. It seemed a long hour to Lucy before the sound of his carriage-wheels was heard again; but he came at last, his face beaming with pleasure, and told her how heartily Mrs. Hill had entered into her plans, that she would herself direct the short apprenticeship, and engage her services when it was completed. There was a little note from the lady herself, so full of good will and kindliness, that the young girl's faith in human nature was revived, and her path seemed indeed "directed" by the God in whom she trusted.
How thankfully she reviewed the events of the day to her mother that night, with a look more like happiness than she had worn since her father's death. And Mrs. Burton seemed, for the first time, interested in it, and was thankful for everything that would keep them all together.
George was enthusiastic, as he always was in everything he entered into, and, throwing his arms about her neck, declared she was "the best sister in the world, and he had no doubt she would make a fortune." The younger children could not, of course, fully understand the case, but knew that something pleasant had happened and they were indebted to Lucy for it. It was the happiest night the Burtons had known since their father's death.