There was calm in the spirit's depths;In chains the demons slept;With purpose fell to work his illUprose the wicked will."Fling wide," he cried,"The prison-gate,Come forth, ye demons all!"With yell and shoutThat hideous routSprung out at the welcome call.Tralala! Tralala!Whoop, whoop, whoop, hurrah, hurrah!Trumpet crash and cymbal clash;Flute, and fife, and violin,Squeaking, shrieking, clattering;Clarions ring with deafening din;Now hell's chorus shall begin,Now the fiends of madness reign;Gentle child-like peace is slain.In and out, across, about,Whither pass this tumbling rout?Merry dance we, and the lights flash free,Jubilee, jubilee, jubilee!Kettle-drums bang and cymbals clang,And the devil drown care in the pool of despair.With smiling lip and flashing eyeYon fair one bids me to her side;Yet silent soon those lips shall lie,And wither'd be her beauty's pride.Death's clammy hand is on her brow—Ha! 'tis a skull that's beckoning now!She must die; yet what care I?Well to-day and well to-morrow,What have I to do with sorrow?Ay, grin as thou wilt, thou pale spectre, at me;I'll live and dance on, and I care not for thee.To-day that face is fresh and fair,To-morrow 'tis bleach'd, and white, and bare:Come then, dearest, while we may,Let us drain love's sweets to-day.Oh, seize the moment ere it flies!Anguish and tears,Sorrow and fears,Have mark'd thee for their prize.The angel of deathSwept by on the blast;On thee fell his breathOr ever he past.Gnawing worms and rottenness,Death, decay, and nothingness:These are thy doom—how soon, how soon!Thou must die, and so must I.One touch of thy robe, as the dance sweeps by,One squeeze of the hand, one glance of the eye,And the grim king has clutch'd thee—on! on! let us fly!Thou art lost, thou art gone; and away stagger I.So why should I care?There is joy in despair:More maids by dozens at my feet,With tempting bait of proffer'd sweet.Here's a fair dame would be my bride,And she is fair as are the maidsThat wander in Elysian glades:Shall it be she, or shall it be another?There's a bold beauty at her side,That looks as if she'd like a lover,Ready to take whate'er she can,Provided only 'tis a man.Oh, these mad pleasures and these sirens smiling,With cheating hopes and mocking shows beguiling—Hell's curse is on them! Is the blossom fair?Hate, envies, murders, are the fruit they bear.So fast we whirl along the stream,Life is death, and love a dream;Ebbing, flowing, wave on wave,Soulless, lifeless to the grave.Nature's beauty is a lie—She is all deformity;Flower and tree the mocking guiseWhich cheat our fond believing eyes.On then, ye cymbals, with your din;Scream clarionets, and bugles ring:Crash, crash, crash! 'tis the fiend-world's knell,Yoicks forward—forward—home to hell!He had finished, and was standing at the window. Then came she into the room beyond him, beautiful as he had never seen her: her dark hair was loose, and hung in long waving tresses on her ivory neck. She was lightly dressed, and it seemed she had some household matter to arrange before retiring to rest; for she placed two candles on stands in front of the window, spread a cloth on the table, and again disappeared.Emilius was sunk in his sweet dreamy visions, and the image of his beloved was still playing before his fancy, when, to his horror, he saw the fearful scarlet old woman stride across the room, her head and bosom gleaming hideously as the gold caught the light from the candles, and again vanished. Could he trust his eyes? The darkness had deceived him; it was but a spectre his fancy had conjured up. But no; she comes again, more hideous than before; her long grizzled hair in loose and tangled masses floating down upon her breast and shoulders. The beautiful maiden is behind her, with pale and rigid features,her fair bosom all unveiled, her form like a marble statue. Between them was the little lovely child, weeping and praying, and watching imploringly the maiden's eyes, who looked not down. In agony it raised its little hands and stroked the neck and cheeks of the marble beauty. She caught it fast by the hair, and in the other hand she held a silver basin. The old woman howled and drew a knife and cut across the little thing's white neck.Then came there something forward from behind, which they did not seem to see, or it must have filled them with the same horror as it did Emilius. A hideous serpent-head drew out coil after coil from the darkness, and inclining over the child, which now hung with relaxed limbs in the arms of the old woman, licked up with its black tongue the spouting blood. And a green sparkling eye shot across through the open shutter into the brain and eye and heart of Emilius, who fell fainting to the ground. Roderick found him senseless some hours after.On a beautiful summer morning a party of friends were sitting round a breakfast-table in a garden summer-house. They seemed very merry, laughing and chattering, and drinking the health of the young bride and bridegroom, and wishing them long life and happiness. The young couple themselves were not present; the beauty herself being still engaged at her toilet, while the bridegroom was wandering up and down the walks at the other end of the garden, to enjoy in solitude the sweetness of his own reflections."What a shame it is," said Anderson, "that we are not to have any music! All our young ladies are put out about it: they say they never longed so much for a dance, and it is not to be: it is said he cannot endure it.""We are to have a ball though, I can tell you, and a right mad and merry one too," said a young officer; "every thing is arranged; the musicians are come, and we have stowed them away where no one shall know anything about them. Roderick has taken the direction on himself; he says we ought not to give way to him too much; and that to-day, of all days in the world, his whims and fancies must not be indulged.""He is so much more sociable and like his fellow-creatures than he used to be," said another young man, "that I do not think he will be displeased at the alteration. The whole affair of this marriage has come on so suddenly, so little like what we expected of him, he must be changed.""His whole life," said Anderson, "has been as remarkable as his character is. You all know how he came last autumn to the city on a tour he was making, and lived all the winter through there by himself, shut up in his room as if he was melancholy mad. He never went near the theatre, or any other of our places of diversion; and had very nearly quarrelled with Roderick, who was his most intimate friend, for trying to dissipate him a little, and prevent him from for ever indulging his gloomy humours. All this excitableness and irritability of temper was at the bottom nothing but disease, as the event proved; for four months ago, I believe you know, he fell into a violent nervous fever, and was so ill that every one gave him up. He recovered at last, and got rid of some of his fancies; but the strange thing was, that when he came to his senses again, his memory was entirely gone: his memory, that is, of all that had happened immediately previous to his sickness. He could remember his childhood, and all his boyish adventures were fresh as ever; but the last year or two were blanks. All his friends, even Roderick, he had to become acquainted with over again; and it is only by slow degrees that here and there faint glimmerings of the past are beginning to come back upon his recollection. When he was taken ill, his uncle took him into his own house, where he could be better attended to: he was just like a child in their hands, and let them do any thing they pleased with him. The first time he went out to enjoy thefresh spring-air in the park, he saw by the road-side a young maiden sitting apparently in deep thought on a bank. She looked up as he passed; their eyes met, and, as if overcome by some indescribable feeling, he sprung out of the carriage, sat down at her side, caught her hands in his, and dissolved into a flood of tears. His friends were afraid that this outburst of feeling was a relapse into fever; he was quite quiet, however, and seemed happy and good-humoured. He paid a visit to the parents of the young lady, and the first time he saw her again he asked her to marry him. Her father and mother made no difficulty, and she consented. He was now happy; a new life seemed to have sprung up in him; every day he got better and stronger, and his mind easier: a fortnight ago he came here on a visit to me, and the place delighted him so much that nothing would satisfy him but what I must part with it to him. If I had pleased, I might have turned his inclination to my advantage: any thing I asked he was ready to give, so that the bargain be concluded immediately. He made his arrangements, sent furniture down, and his plan is to spend all the summer months here. And so it has come to pass that here we are all of us to-day gathered together at my old place for his wedding."The house was large, and most beautifully situated; on one side it looked upon a river, with a garden sloping down to the water's edge full of flowers, which filled the air with fragrance; and beyond, a long range of hills skirting the bank of the river, and magnificently wooded. Along the front was a broad open terrace, with rows of orange and citron trees, and little doors leading to the various offices underneath the house. The other side a lawn extended out to the park, from which it was only divided by a light fence. This front of the house had a very beautiful though very singular appearance. The two projecting wings enclosed a spacious area, which was partly roofed over, and divided into three stories, formingopen galleries running along the centre of the building, supported on tiers of pillars rising one above another. From these galleries were doors opening into all the different rooms in the house; and the various figures passing along these spacious corridors, behind the columns above or below, and disappearing into the different doors, in their various occupations, produced a very singular effect. In one or other of them the party used to collect itself at teatime, or for any games that might be going on; so that from below the whole had the air of a theatre, when it was the greatest pleasure to stand and watch the passing forms above, as in a beautiful tableau.The young party were just rising, when the bride crossed the garden to join them. She was richly dressed in violet velvet, with a necklace of brilliants on her ivory throat, and her white swelling bosom gleaming through the rich lace which covered it; a myrtle sprig and a wreath of roses formed her simple though most tasteful head-dress. She greeted them kindly, and the young men were overcome by her extraordinary beauty. She had gathered some flowers in the garden, and was returning to the house to see after the arrangements for the banquet. The tables were set out in the lowest of the open galleries. Their white damask coverings, and the glass and crystal vessels on them, were of the greatest beauty. Multitudes of flowers of every hue and colour stood in elegant vases; the pillars were wound with wreaths of green leaves and roses; and how enchanting it was to see the bride moving up and down among the flowers, so gracefully passing between the table and the column, looking that all was right in the arrangement. Presently she vanished, and then appeared again for a moment at the upper gallery as she passed to her chamber."She is the most charming, the most beautiful creature I ever saw," Anderson cried; "my friend is a lucky man.""And her very paleness," put in the young officer,"enhances her beauty; her dark eyes flash so above those marble cheeks; and those lips, so glowingly red, make her whole appearance truly enchanting.""The air of silent melancholy," said Anderson, "which surrounds her, adds to the majesty of her bearing."The bridegroom came up to them and asked for Roderick. The party had already missed him for some time, and no one could guess what had become of him; they now dispersed in search of him. At last a young man they asked told them he was down below in the hall, playing off tricks at cards, to the great amazement of a troop of grooms and servants. They went down and disturbed the circle of gapers. Roderick, however, did not let himself be put out, but went on for some time with his conjuring. As soon as he had done, he went with the rest of the party into the garden, saying, by way of accounting for his employment, "I merely do it to strengthen those fellows' faith for them. Their groomships are setting up to be free-thinkers, and it is as well to give them a staggerer now and then—it helps to their conversion.""I perceive," the bridegroom said, "that my friend, among his other accomplishments, does not think charlatanism beneath his notice.""We live in strange times," he answered; "one must not despise any thing now-a-days; nobody knows what he may not come to."When the two friends were alone, Emilius turned again into the retired walk, and said, "Can you tell me why it is that to-day, which is or ought to be the happiest of my life, I feel so deeply depressed? Whatever you may think of me, I assure you I am not fit for the duties that devolve on me; I have no skill to move up and down a crowd of people with a civil speech for every one; entertain all these hosts of her and my relations, with respects for fathers and mothers, and compliments for ladies; receive visitors, and see that horses and servants are taken care of—I cannot do it.""Oh, all that goes right of itself," said Roderick. "Your house is capitally arranged for that sort of thing. There is your steward, a famous fellow, with omnipotence and omnipresence in his hands and legs; he is made on purpose to arrange these matters, and see large parties taken care of, and put properly in their places: leave it all to him and your pretty bride.""This morning," said Emilius, "I was walking before sunrise in the plantation here: my thoughts had taken a very serious turn, for I felt, to the bottom of my soul, that my life was now become fixed and definite, and that this love had given me a home and a calling. As I approached the summer-house yonder, I heard voices. It was my beloved in earnest conversation. 'Has it not turned out as I predicted?' said a strange voice; 'exactly as I knew it must be? you have your wishes, so be content.' I could not prevail on myself to go in to them; and afterwards, when I came to the summer-house again, they were both gone. I can do nothing but think and think what these words could mean.""Very likely she has long loved you," said Roderick, "and you have not known any thing about it: all the better for you."At that moment a late nightingale began to sing, as if to wish all joy and good fortune to the lovers. Emilius became more and more gloomy."Come down with me into the village yonder," said Roderick; "I will shew you something to amuse you. You are not to suppose you are the only man that is to be made happy to-day. There is a second pretty couple. A young scamp, it seems, what with opportunity and having nothing else to do, got upon too intimate terms with a damsel that might be his mother, and the fool thinks he is in duty bound to make her an honest woman. They'll have dressed themselves out by this time. The scene will be rich; I would not miss it for the world."The sad and gloomy Emilius let himself be draggedaway by his talkative friend, and they reached the cottage just at the moment the cavalcade passed out on their road to the church. The young countryman had on his every-day linen smock, and his only piece of smartness consisted of a pair of leather gaiters, which he had polished up to make look as bright as possible. He was a simple-looking fellow, and seemed shy and awkward. The bride was tanned by the sun, and her face shewed very few remaining traces of youthfulness. She was coarsely and poorly dressed, but her clothes were clean, and a few red and blue silk ribbons, rather faded, were pinned up in bows on her stomacher. The worst part of her figure was her hair, which they had pasted up with a daub of fat and meal, and done into a great cone with hair-pins straight up from her head, on the top of which they had placed the marriage-garland. She tried to laugh and seem in good spirits, but she was ashamed and frightened. The old people followed. His father was in the employ of the house; and the cottage, as well as the furniture and clothes, all betrayed the extremest poverty. A dirty-looking squint-eyed fiddler followed the troop, grinning and smirking, and scraping away on a thing professing to be a violin, which was made up half of wood and half of pasteboard, having three pieces of packthread for strings.The cavalcade halted at the sight of the new landlord. Some saucy-looking servants of the house, young boys and women, began to laugh and cut jokes at the expense of the young couple, particularly the ladies'-maids, who thought themselves a great deal prettier, and saw that they had infinitely smarter clothes. A shudder passed over Emilius. He looked round for Roderick, but he had run away again. An impudent-looking boy, a servant of one of the visitors, who wanted to be thought witty, pressed up to Emilius, and said, "What does your worship say to this brilliant couple? neither of them know where they are to get a piece of bread for to-morrow, and thisafternoon they are going to give a ball, and have engaged the services of that good gentleman yonder.""Not know where they are to get bread?" cried Emilius; "can these things be?""Oh, yes," the other went on; "every one knows how miserably poor they are; but the fellow says he will do his duty to the creature, though she has not a farthing. Yes, indeed, love is all-powerful: the ragamuffins haven't got so much as a bed; they have begged enough small beer to get drunk upon, and they are to sleep to-night in the straw."There was a loud laugh at this, and the two unlucky objects of it did not dare to raise their eyes.Emilius pushed the chattering fool in bitter anger from him. "Here, take this," he cried, and flung a hundred ducats, which he had received that morning, into the hands of the astonished bridegroom: the parents and the bridal pair wept aloud, threw themselves on their knees, and kissed his hands and clothes. He struggled to free himself. "Keep want from your bodies with that so long as it will last," he said, half bewildered."Oh, you have made us happy for our lives, best, kindest sir!" they all cried.He scarcely knew how he broke from them. He found himself alone, and ran with tottering steps into the wood, where, in the most secluded spot that he could find, he flung himself down upon a bank and burst into a flood of tears."I am sick of life," he sobbed, in the deepest emotion. "I cannot enjoy it, I cannot, will not be happy in it. Oh, take me quickly to thyself, kind Earth, and hide me in thy cold arms from these wild beasts that call themselves men. O God in heaven, what have I done, that I sleep on down and wear silk apparel? that the grape spends her choicest blood for me, and men crowd round and cringe to me with love, and honour, and respect? This poor fellow is better, is nobler than I; yet misery is his nurse,and scorn and bitter mockery wish him joy upon his wedding-day. Every dainty morsel I enjoy, every draught from my cut glasses, my soft couches, and all this gold and ornament, oh, they are tainted with the poison of sin, so long as the world hunts to and fro these thousands upon thousands of poor wretches that hunger for the dry crumbs that fall from my table, and have never known what comfort means. Oh, now I understand you, ye holy saints; though the proud world turned from you with disdain and scorn when ye gave your all, even the cloak upon your back, to poverty, and chose rather as poor beggars to be trodden under foot, and bear the scoffs and sneers with which pride and selfish gluttony drive misery from their tables, rather to endure yourselves the last extreme of wretchedness, than bear upon your consciences this vile sin of wealth."The world, and all its forms and customs, swam as a mist before his eyes; he thought he would find now his only friends and companions among the abject and the vile, and renounce for ever the society of all the world's great ones.They had been waiting for him a long time in the saloon for the ceremony to be concluded; the bride became anxious, and her father and mother went out into the park to look for him. After some time, when he was partially recovered from his emotion, and his feelings were easier, he returned, and the solemn knot was tied.And now they all left the great saloon for the open gallery, where the tables were set out, bride and bridegroom first, and the rest following in order. Roderick offered his arm to a lively-looking, chattering young lady."Why do brides always cry and look so serious and solemn at a wedding?" said she, as they entered the room."Because they never felt before this moment the true mysteriousness of life," answered Roderick."But our bride here," said his companion, "exceedsevery thing I have ever seen; she looks perfectly miserable: I haven't seen her smile once.""It is all the more honour to her heart," replied Roderick, who, strange to say, seemed really affected. "You do not know, perhaps, that some years ago she adopted a lone little orphan girl, and took her to live with her and educate her. She devoted the whole of her time to the child, and the love of the dear little thing was her sweetest reward. She was just seven years old, when one day she had gone out for a walk in the city, and never came home again; and notwithstanding all the trouble that was taken to recover her, no one has ever been able to tell what has become of her. This misfortune the noble-minded woman took so much to heart, that a silent melancholy has settled upon her ever since; and nothing has been able to distract her from her regret for her little playfellow.""What an interesting story!" said the young lady. "Some time or other we may have a most romantic conclusion, and a pretty poem written about it."They seated themselves at the table, bride and bridegroom in the centre, looking out upon the beautiful landscape. There was a great deal of chattering and talking and drinking healths, and every one seemed to be in the best possible spirits. The bride's parents enjoyed themselves exceedingly; the bridegroom alone was gloomy and abstracted; he did not seem to enter into any thing that was going on, and took no part in the conversation. He started as he heard music ringing down from above through the air; but he soon recovered himself: it was but the soft note of a bugle which floated for a few moments over the garden, then swept across the park and died away among the distant hills. Roderick had placed the musicians in the gallery immediately over the banquet, and this arrangement seemed to satisfy Emilius. Towards the end of the feast he sent for his steward. "My dearest," he said, turning to his bride, "shall not povertyhave a share of our abundance?" He desired that a number of bottles of wine, some roast meat, and a large portion of various other dishes, might be sent to the poor couple in the village, that they also might have reason to remember the day as a day of joy and happiness."Only see, my dear friend," cried Roderick, "how every thing hangs together in this world. This chattering and running about after every body else's business but my own you so often complain of in me, has given you the opportunity of doing this piece of kindness."Many persons present began to say something complimentary about benevolence and compassionate hearts, and the young lady talked of generosity and nobleness of feeling."Oh, speak not so!" cried Emilius indignantly. "It is no kind action, no action at all; it is nothing. If the swallow and the linnet fill themselves with the refuse fragments of our abundance, shall not I think of a poor brother-mortal who has need of my assistance? If I followed the impulse of my heart, I should soon find little from you and the like of you but such scorn and laughter as ye gave the saints of old when they went out and made their homes in the wilderness, to hear no more of the world and its generosities."No one spoke; and Roderick saw by the flashing eyes of his friend that he was violently displeased: he was afraid his excitement might lead him still more to forget himself, and endeavoured as quick as possible to give the conversation another direction. Emilius, however, had become uneasy and restless. His eyes were continually turned towards the upper gallery, where the servants, who occupied the highest floor of the house, were busily engaged."Who is that ugly old woman in a grey cloak, going backwards and forwards, making herself so busy there?" he asked at last."She is one of my servants," answered the bride;"she is to have the overlooking of the ladies' maids and the younger girls.""How can you bear to have so hideous a creature about you?" said Emilius."Oh, let the poor thing be," replied the bride; "ugliness must live as well as beauty, you know; she is a good honest soul, and can be of the greatest use to us."They rose from table, and the party now pressed round the new bridegroom to wish him all joy, and to beg to be allowed to have their ball. The bride threw her arms round him affectionately as she said, "My first request, dearest, you cannot refuse; it will make us all so happy; it is so long since I have been at a ball, and you have never seen me dance—are you not anxious to know how I shall look?""I never saw you in such high spirits," said Emilius; "I will not spoil your pleasure, do just as you please; only don't expect me to jump and tumble about and make myself ridiculous.""If you are a bad dancer," said she, laughing, "you may be sure you will be left in peace." She ran away to make the requisite alterations in her dress for the ball."She does not know," Emilius said to Roderick as they walked away together, "that there is a secret door into her room from the one adjoining; I will surprise her while she is dressing."When Emilius was gone, and the ladies had also disappeared to put on their ball-dresses, Roderick took some of the young men aside and brought them to his own room. "It is getting late," he said,—"it will soon be dark; so now be quick all of you and get your masks on, and we will make this night a right mad and merry one. Any device you can think of, no matter what; the more hideous objects you can make yourselves, the better I shall be pleased—not a monster in creation but what I must have him—humpbacks, fat paunches, all of them. A wedding is such a strange piece of business, married peoplefind, all of a sudden, such a wholly new fairy-tale set of circumstances round their necks, that we cannot make it absurd and mad enough to start them properly in their altered condition, and set them rolling along their new road; so to-night shall be a right wild mad nightmare, and never listen to any one that tells you to be reasonable.""Don't alarm yourself," said Anderson; "we brought a box of masks and dresses from town with us that will astonish even you.""And only look here," said Roderick, "what a treasure I have got from my tailor! the tasteless wretch was going to clip it to pieces for lappets. He bought it, he said, from an old woman, who I fancy must have worn it at Lucifer's gala on the Block's berg. This scarlet bodice with its lace and fringe, and the cap here all over glittering with gold, will look infinitely becoming; and then with this green petticoat on, and saffron trimmings, and this hideous mask, I will go as an old woman at the head of the whole troop of travesters to their room, and we will lead off our young lady in triumph to the ball; come, be quick with you."The bugles were still playing, and the company were either dispersed in groups about the garden, or sitting in front of the house. The sun was going down behind a mass of heavy clouds, and a greyish mist was spreading over the landscape, when suddenly its last beams burst out under the dark curtain, and all the landscape round, and the house itself, with its galleries and columns, and wreaths of flowers, was bathed in a blood-red glow. At that moment the bride's parents and the rest of the spectators saw the wild troop of figures sweep along the upper gallery, Roderick going first as the scarlet old woman; and after him humpbacks, fat-paunched monsters with huge periwigs, harlequins, clowns, pantaloons, spectral dwarfs, women with broad hoop-petticoats and yard-high frisures, all like the phantoms of a hideous nightmare. On theywent, tumbling, twisting, staggering, tripping, and strutting along the gallery, and disappeared into one of the doors.Suddenly a wild shriek burst from the inner chambers, and out dashed the pale bride into the crimson light; a short white petticoat was her only dress; her fair bosom all open, and her hair floating in wild disorder down her back. With quivering features, and eyes starting from their sockets, she rushed madly along the corridors. Blinded with terror, she could find neither door nor stairs; and fast behind her flew Emilius, with the Turkish dagger gleaming in his uplifted hand: she had reached the end of the gallery and could go no further; he caught her. His masked friends, and the grey old woman, were close behind; but ere they reached him the dagger was in her breast, he had cut across her white neck; the red blood glittered in the evening glow. The old woman flung her arms round him to drag him off; but with one fierce effort, he hurled himself and her over the balcony, and fell, dashed in pieces, at the feet of his relations, who, in silent horror, had witnessed the bloody scene. Above and below, along the stairs and corridors, were seen the hideous masks rushing wildly up and down; like accursed demons come from hell.Roderick took the dying Emilius in his arms. He had found him in his wife's room playing with the dagger; she was nearly dressed as he entered. At the sight of the scarlet dress his memory had returned; the terrible scene of that night rushed before his senses; gnashing his teeth, he had sprung upon his trembling flying bride to avenge that murder and those devilish arts. The old woman confessed the crime that had been committed before she died; and the whole house was turned suddenly to sorrow, and mourning, and woe.THE BROTHERS.THERElived near Bagdad, Omar and Mahmoud, two sons of poor parents. On their father's death they inherited only a small property; and each resolved to try to raise his fortune with it. Omar set forth to seek a place where to settle. Mahmoud repaired to Bagdad, began business in a small way, and soon increased his property. He lived very thriftily and retired, carefully adding each sequin to his capital, as the ground-work for some new plan of making money. He thus got into credit with several rich merchants, who sometimesassigned to him part of a ship's freight, and entered into speculations in common with him. With repeated good fortune Mahmoud grew bolder, ventured larger sums, and every time they brought him in a high interest. By degrees he became better known, his business extended, he had granted many heavy loans, had the money of many others in his hands, and fortune seemed constantly smiling. Omar, on the contrary, had been unfortunate, not one of all his ventures had been successful; he came, quite poor, and almost without clothes, to Bagdad, heard of his brother, and went to him to seek his aid. Mahmoud was rejoiced to see his brother again, though he deplored his poverty. Being very good-natured and sensitive, he immediately gave him a large sum out of his business, and with this money he at the same time established him in a shop. Omar began by dealing in silk goods and women's apparel, and fortune seemed more favourable to him in Bagdad: his brother had made him a present of the money, and so he had no occasion to worry himself about repayment. In all his undertakings he was less prudent than Mahmoud, and, for this very reason, more fortunate. He soon gained the acquaintance of some merchants, who till then had done business with Mahmoud, and he succeeded in making them his friends. By this his brother lost many a means of profit, which now fell tohislot. And Mahmoud too had just chosen a wife, who forced him into numerous expenses, which before that he had not had to make: he had to borrow of his acquaintances to pay debts; money which he was expecting failed to come in; his credit sank; and he was on the verge of despair, when news arrived that one of his ships had foundered, and nothing, not the least morsel of any thing, had been saved; at this moment a creditor appeared, pressingly demanding the payment of a debt. Mahmoud saw very clearly that his last hope of fortune depended on this payment; and he therefore resolved, in the greatest distress, to have recourse to his brother. He hastened to him, andfound him very much out of sorts on account of a trifling loss which he had just undergone."Brother," began Mahmoud, "I come, in the utmost perplexity, to ask a favour of you."Omar.Of what nature?Mahmoud.My ship has gone to pieces; all my creditors are urgent, and will not hear of delay; my whole happiness depends on this one day; do just lend me ten thousand sequins for a time.Omar.Ten thousand sequins?—You're not talking nonsense, brother?Mah.No, Omar, I know what that sum is very well; and just so much, and not one sequin less, can save me from the most disgraceful poverty.Omar.Ten thousand sequins?Mah.Give them to me, brother; I will do my utmost to return them to you in a short time.Omar.Where are they to come from? I have much due to me that is still unpaid; I don't myself know what I am to do,—this very day I have been cheated of a hundred sequins.Mah.Your credit will easily procure me this amount.Omar.But not a soul will lend money now. There's mistrust on all sides; not that I am mistrustful, heaven knows, but every one would guess that I want the money for you; and you know best on what frail threads one's confidence in a merchant often hangs.Mah.Dear Omar, I must confess I didn't expect these demurs from you. If we were to change sides, you would not find me so suspicious and dilatory.Omar.So you say. I am not suspicious either; I wish I could help you. I call God to witness, how glad I should be.Mah.You can, if you like.Omar.All I have would not make the sum you require.Mah.O heavens! I had reproached myself for notmaking my brother the first of whom I asked assistance; and I am truly sorry that I have burdened him with a single word.Omar.You are angry; you are wrong in being so.Mah.Wrong? which of us neglects his duty? Ah, brother, I don't know you!Omar.I have just lost a hundred sequins to-day; another three hundred are not at all safe, and I must make up my mind to the loss of them. If you had but come to me last week,—oh, yes, then most heartily.Mah.Must I then remind you of our former friendship? Ah! how low can misfortune degrade us!Omar.You talk, brother, almost as if you wished to insult me.Mah.Insult you?Omar.When one does all one can,—when one is in distress oneself, and in hourly fear of losing more,—can a man in such a case help being vexed when he receives nothing but bitter mockery and abject contempt for all his good-will?Mah.Shew me your good-will, and you shall receive my warmest thanks.Omar.Doubt of it no longer, or you will enrage me; I can keep cool a long time, and bear a good deal, but when I am irritated in such a deliberate way——Mah.I see how it is, Omar; you play the insulted man, only to have a better excuse for breaking friends with me entirely.Omar.You would never have thought of such a thing, if you were not caught in such paltry tricks yourself. We are most prone to suspect others of those vices with which we are most familiar ourselves.Mah.No, Omar;—but since such language as yours encourages me to boast,—I must say, I didn't act so towards you, when you came, a poor stranger, to Bagdad.Omar.And so for the five hundred sequins which you then gave me, you want ten thousand from me now.Mah.Had I been able, I would gladly have given you more.Omar.To be sure, if you wish it, I must return you the five hundred sequins, though you can shew no claim to them by law.Mah.Ah, brother!Omar.I will send them to you:—are you expecting no letters from Persia?Mah.I have nothing more to expect.Omar.To be frank with you, brother; you should have lived a little more closely, and not have married either, just as I have kept from it to this very hour; but from your childhood you were always somewhat indiscreet, so let this serve as a warning to you.Mah.You had a right to refuse me the favour I requested of you, but not to make me such bitter reproaches into the bargain.Mahmoud's heart was deeply touched, and he left his ungrateful brother. "And is it then true," cried he, "that covetousness only is the soul of men? Their own selves are their first and last thought! For money they barter truth and love; do violence to the most beautiful feelings, to gain possession of the sordid metal that fetters us to the grovelling earth in its disgraceful chains! Self-interest is the rock on which all friendship is shivered. Men are an abandoned race. I have never known a friend nor a brother; and my only intercourse has been with men of trade. Fool that I was to speak to them of love and friendship! Money only it is that one must change and exchange for them."Returning home, he took a circuitous path, in order to let his painful emotions subside. He wept at the sight of the noisy market-throng; every one was as busy as an ant in carrying stores into his dingy dwelling; no one cared for the other, unless induced by a sense of profit; all were hurrying this way and that, as insensible as ciphers. He went home disconsolate.There his grief was heightened; he found the five hundred sequins, which he had once given with the greatest good-will to his brother; they were soon the prey of his creditors. All he possessed was publicly sold; one of his ships came into port, but the cargo only served to pay the remainder of his debts. Poor as a beggar, he left the town without even passing by his hard-hearted brother's house.His wife accompanied him in his misery, comforting him, and seeking to dissipate his grief, but she succeeded very poorly. The remembrance of his misfortune was still too fresh in Mahmoud's mind; still he saw before him the towers of the town where the brother dwelt who had remained so cold and unmoved by his distress.Omar made no inquiries after his brother, that he might have no occasion to compassionate him; he fancied, too, all might after all have passed off well. In the mean time his credit had suffered in some measure on his brother's account; people began to be mistrustful towards him, and several merchants were less ready than formerly in entrusting him with their money. In addition to this, Omar grew very miserly, and proud of the fortune he had amassed; so that he made many enemies, who took pleasure in any loss that he might suffer.It seemed as if destiny were determined to punish his ingratitude towards his brother; for loss after loss followed in quick succession. Omar, who was all anxiety to recover these losses, hazarded larger sums, and these too were swallowed up. He ceased to pay the money which he owed; mistrust of him became general; all his creditors pressed him at the same time; Omar knew no one who could assist him in this crisis of perplexity. He saw no other resource left him, than clandestinely to quit the town by night, and to try if fortune would be more favourable to him in another quarter.The small property which he had been enabled to take with him was soon exhausted. His disquietude increasedexactly as his money waned; he saw before him the most abject poverty, and yet no means of escaping it.Full of pensive thoughts and lamentations, he in this state reached the Persian frontier. He had now spent all his money, except three small coins, which just sufficed to pay for a supper in a caravanserai; he felt hungry, and as the sun was already declining, he hastened his steps, in order to reach some place of shelter, where for that night, and perhaps for the last one, he might lodge once more."How wretched I am!" said he to himself. "How does fate pursue me, and claim me in my misery! What a frightful prospect lies open before me! I shall be obliged to live on the alms of compassionate souls, to bear contemptuous repulse, not dare to murmur when the profligate stalks unabashed by, without deigning to give me a glance, and then squanders a hundred gold pieces on some miserable toy. O poverty, how thou canst debase mankind! How partially and unfairly does fortune dispense her treasures! She pours the whole tide of her wealth on the vicious, and lets the virtuous perish of hunger."The rocks that Omar surmounted made him tired; he sat down to rest upon a bank of turf by the road-side. There a beggar on crutches came hobbling past him, murmuring an unintelligible prayer. He was tattered and famished, his burning eyes lay deep in his head, and his pale form was enough to cut one to the heart, and compel one to pity. Omar's attention was drawn, against his will, to this object of abhorrence, that murmured still, and stretched forth his arid hand. He asked the beggar's name, and then, for the first time, remarked that the unhappy creature was both deaf and dumb."Oh! how indescribably happy I am!" cried he; "and do I still lament? Why can I not labour? why not satisfy my wants by the work of my hands? How glad, how happy would this miserable object be to exchange with me! I am ungrateful towards Heaven."Seized with a sudden impulse of compassion, he took his last pieces of silver out of his pocket, and gave them to the beggar, who, after a mute expression of thanks, pursued his way.Omar now felt extraordinarily light-hearted and cheerful; the Deity had, for his instruction, held a picture as it were before him of the misery to which man may sink. He now felt power enough within him to bear with poverty, or by activity to cast it off. He made plans for his sustenance, and only wished he could at once have an opportunity of shewing how industrious he could be. Since his noble-minded compassion for the beggar, and the generosity with which he had sacrificed to him his whole remaining stock of money, he had had sensations such as he had never known before.A steep rock abutted on the road, and Omar ascended it with a light heart, to take a view of the country, made still more lovely by the setting sun. Here he saw, lying at his feet, the beautiful world, with its green plains and majestic hills, its dark forests, and brightly-blushing rivers, and over all this the golden web-work of the crimson evening; and he felt like a prince who ruled over the whole, and put forth his power over hill, and wood, and stream.He continued sitting on the peak of the rock, absorbed in the contemplation of the landscape. He resolved to await there the rising of the moon, and then to continue his journey.The crimson of evening vanished, and twilight dropped from the clouds: the dark night followed. The stars twinkled in the dark blue vault, and earth silently reposed in solemn quiet. Omar gazed fixedly on the night, till his eye wandered dizzily among the countless stars; he supplicated the majesty of God, and felt a holy awe thrill through his soul.Then it seemed that a beam of light arose in the distant horizon; it ascended in blue coruscation, and passedas a shining flame to the zenith of heaven. The stars retreated palely, and, like the light of new-born morning, it flickered over the firmament, and rained down in softly tinted beams of crimson. Omar was astonished by the wondrous phenomenon, and feasted his eye on the beauteous and unusual gleam; the forests and hills around him sparkled, the distant clouds floated in pale purple, and the radiance of the whole converged into a vault of gold over Omar."Hail, noble, compassionate, virtuous one!" cried a sweet voice from above; "thou takest pity on misery, and the Lord looks down on thee with well-pleased approval."Like dying flute-tones, the night-winds whispered round Omar; his bosom heaved happily and pantingly, his eye was drunk with splendour, his ear with heavenly harmony; and from amid the effulgence stepped forth a form of light, and stood before the enraptured one; it was Asrael, the radiant angel of God."Mount with me in these beams to the abodes of the blessed," cried the same sweet voice, "for thou hast deserved by thy nobleness of soul to view the blessedness of Paradise.""My Lord," said the trembling Omar, "how can I, a mortal, follow thee? My earthly body is not taken from me yet.""Give me thy hand," said the form of light. Omar tendered him it with trembling rapture, and they soared through the clouds on the crimson beams. They traversed the stars, and sweet sounds waited on their steps, and the blush of morning lay in ambush in their path, and the fragrance of flowers filled the air with aroma.Of a sudden it was night. Omar shrieked aloud, and found himself lying at the foot of the crag, with shattered arms. The dark red moon just rose from behind a hill, casting its first doubtful gleams on the rocky valley."Oh, thrice-wretched me!" cried Omar lamentingly,on recovering his senses. "Was Heaven so little satisfied with my misery that it must dash me in a false dream from the peak of the rock, and shatter my limbs, that I might become the prey of hunger? Is it thus that it compensates my pity for the unfortunate? Oh, who was ever unhappier than I?"A figure shuffled past him with pain, and Omar recognised him to be the beggar to whom he that very day had given the remainder of his money. Omar called out to him, and besought him in a pitiful strain to share with him the benefaction which he himself had bestowed, but the cripple went heedlessly gasping on his way; so that Omar did not know whether he had heard him, or was only dissembling, that he might seem to have a right to disregard him."Am I not more wretched than this outcast?" said Omar, lamenting amid the stillness of night. "Who will take pity on me, now that all is taken from me that could comfort me?"He fetched a deep sigh, his arms pained him, a burning fire raged in his bones, and every breath was drawn in torture. Now he took a review of his fortune, and, for the first time, thought once more on his brother."Oh, where art thou, noble-minded one?" cried he; "perhaps the sword of the angel of death has already smitten thee; misery perhaps has consumed thee in the most wearing poverty, and thou hast cursed thy poor brother in the last hour of anguish. Ah! I have deserved this at thy hands; now do I suffer the penalty of my ingratitude, my hard-heartedness! Heaven is just!—And I too could stalk along so proudly, and call on God to witness my virtue! O Heaven, forgive the sinner who, without a murmur, bows to thy chastisement."Omar buried himself in pensive thoughts; he remembered with what brotherly love Mahmoud had received him when, for the first time, he was destitute; he reproached himself for having neglected to save him, andfor not having repaid by that means his debt of gratitude: he longed for death, as the term of his penalty and his sufferings.The moon shone brightly over the landscape, and a small caravan, consisting of a few camels, wound slowly through the vale. The lust of life again awoke in Omar; he cried out for aid to the passers-by, in a voice of wailing. They laid him carefully on a camel, that they might have his wounds bound up in the next town, which they reached by break of day. The merchant attended the unfortunate man himself, and Omar recognised in him—his brother. His sense of shame knew no bounds, as neither did the compassion of Mahmoud. The one brother begged for pardon, and the other had already forgiven; tears flowed down the cheeks of each, and the most touching reconciliation was solemnised between them.Mahmoud had repaired to Ispahan after his impoverishment, and had there made the acquaintance of a rich old merchant, who soon grew fond of him, and assisted him with money. Fortune was favourable to the exile, and in a short period he recovered his lost wealth. At this moment his old benefactor died, making him his heir.On his recovery, Omar travelled with his brother to Ispahan, where the latter set him up anew in business. Omar married, and never forgot how much he owed to his brother; and from that time forward both lived in the strictest concord, and afforded the whole town a pattern of brotherly love.
There was calm in the spirit's depths;In chains the demons slept;With purpose fell to work his illUprose the wicked will."Fling wide," he cried,"The prison-gate,Come forth, ye demons all!"With yell and shoutThat hideous routSprung out at the welcome call.Tralala! Tralala!Whoop, whoop, whoop, hurrah, hurrah!Trumpet crash and cymbal clash;Flute, and fife, and violin,Squeaking, shrieking, clattering;Clarions ring with deafening din;Now hell's chorus shall begin,Now the fiends of madness reign;Gentle child-like peace is slain.In and out, across, about,Whither pass this tumbling rout?Merry dance we, and the lights flash free,Jubilee, jubilee, jubilee!Kettle-drums bang and cymbals clang,And the devil drown care in the pool of despair.With smiling lip and flashing eyeYon fair one bids me to her side;Yet silent soon those lips shall lie,And wither'd be her beauty's pride.Death's clammy hand is on her brow—Ha! 'tis a skull that's beckoning now!She must die; yet what care I?Well to-day and well to-morrow,What have I to do with sorrow?Ay, grin as thou wilt, thou pale spectre, at me;I'll live and dance on, and I care not for thee.To-day that face is fresh and fair,To-morrow 'tis bleach'd, and white, and bare:Come then, dearest, while we may,Let us drain love's sweets to-day.Oh, seize the moment ere it flies!Anguish and tears,Sorrow and fears,Have mark'd thee for their prize.The angel of deathSwept by on the blast;On thee fell his breathOr ever he past.Gnawing worms and rottenness,Death, decay, and nothingness:These are thy doom—how soon, how soon!Thou must die, and so must I.One touch of thy robe, as the dance sweeps by,One squeeze of the hand, one glance of the eye,And the grim king has clutch'd thee—on! on! let us fly!Thou art lost, thou art gone; and away stagger I.So why should I care?There is joy in despair:More maids by dozens at my feet,With tempting bait of proffer'd sweet.Here's a fair dame would be my bride,And she is fair as are the maidsThat wander in Elysian glades:Shall it be she, or shall it be another?There's a bold beauty at her side,That looks as if she'd like a lover,Ready to take whate'er she can,Provided only 'tis a man.Oh, these mad pleasures and these sirens smiling,With cheating hopes and mocking shows beguiling—Hell's curse is on them! Is the blossom fair?Hate, envies, murders, are the fruit they bear.So fast we whirl along the stream,Life is death, and love a dream;Ebbing, flowing, wave on wave,Soulless, lifeless to the grave.Nature's beauty is a lie—She is all deformity;Flower and tree the mocking guiseWhich cheat our fond believing eyes.On then, ye cymbals, with your din;Scream clarionets, and bugles ring:Crash, crash, crash! 'tis the fiend-world's knell,Yoicks forward—forward—home to hell!
There was calm in the spirit's depths;In chains the demons slept;With purpose fell to work his illUprose the wicked will."Fling wide," he cried,"The prison-gate,Come forth, ye demons all!"With yell and shoutThat hideous routSprung out at the welcome call.
Tralala! Tralala!Whoop, whoop, whoop, hurrah, hurrah!Trumpet crash and cymbal clash;Flute, and fife, and violin,Squeaking, shrieking, clattering;Clarions ring with deafening din;Now hell's chorus shall begin,Now the fiends of madness reign;Gentle child-like peace is slain.
In and out, across, about,Whither pass this tumbling rout?Merry dance we, and the lights flash free,Jubilee, jubilee, jubilee!Kettle-drums bang and cymbals clang,And the devil drown care in the pool of despair.
With smiling lip and flashing eyeYon fair one bids me to her side;Yet silent soon those lips shall lie,And wither'd be her beauty's pride.Death's clammy hand is on her brow—Ha! 'tis a skull that's beckoning now!She must die; yet what care I?Well to-day and well to-morrow,What have I to do with sorrow?Ay, grin as thou wilt, thou pale spectre, at me;I'll live and dance on, and I care not for thee.
To-day that face is fresh and fair,To-morrow 'tis bleach'd, and white, and bare:Come then, dearest, while we may,Let us drain love's sweets to-day.Oh, seize the moment ere it flies!Anguish and tears,Sorrow and fears,Have mark'd thee for their prize.The angel of deathSwept by on the blast;On thee fell his breathOr ever he past.Gnawing worms and rottenness,Death, decay, and nothingness:These are thy doom—how soon, how soon!Thou must die, and so must I.
One touch of thy robe, as the dance sweeps by,One squeeze of the hand, one glance of the eye,And the grim king has clutch'd thee—on! on! let us fly!Thou art lost, thou art gone; and away stagger I.So why should I care?There is joy in despair:More maids by dozens at my feet,With tempting bait of proffer'd sweet.Here's a fair dame would be my bride,And she is fair as are the maidsThat wander in Elysian glades:Shall it be she, or shall it be another?There's a bold beauty at her side,That looks as if she'd like a lover,Ready to take whate'er she can,Provided only 'tis a man.
Oh, these mad pleasures and these sirens smiling,With cheating hopes and mocking shows beguiling—Hell's curse is on them! Is the blossom fair?Hate, envies, murders, are the fruit they bear.So fast we whirl along the stream,Life is death, and love a dream;Ebbing, flowing, wave on wave,Soulless, lifeless to the grave.Nature's beauty is a lie—She is all deformity;Flower and tree the mocking guiseWhich cheat our fond believing eyes.On then, ye cymbals, with your din;Scream clarionets, and bugles ring:Crash, crash, crash! 'tis the fiend-world's knell,Yoicks forward—forward—home to hell!
He had finished, and was standing at the window. Then came she into the room beyond him, beautiful as he had never seen her: her dark hair was loose, and hung in long waving tresses on her ivory neck. She was lightly dressed, and it seemed she had some household matter to arrange before retiring to rest; for she placed two candles on stands in front of the window, spread a cloth on the table, and again disappeared.
Emilius was sunk in his sweet dreamy visions, and the image of his beloved was still playing before his fancy, when, to his horror, he saw the fearful scarlet old woman stride across the room, her head and bosom gleaming hideously as the gold caught the light from the candles, and again vanished. Could he trust his eyes? The darkness had deceived him; it was but a spectre his fancy had conjured up. But no; she comes again, more hideous than before; her long grizzled hair in loose and tangled masses floating down upon her breast and shoulders. The beautiful maiden is behind her, with pale and rigid features,her fair bosom all unveiled, her form like a marble statue. Between them was the little lovely child, weeping and praying, and watching imploringly the maiden's eyes, who looked not down. In agony it raised its little hands and stroked the neck and cheeks of the marble beauty. She caught it fast by the hair, and in the other hand she held a silver basin. The old woman howled and drew a knife and cut across the little thing's white neck.
Then came there something forward from behind, which they did not seem to see, or it must have filled them with the same horror as it did Emilius. A hideous serpent-head drew out coil after coil from the darkness, and inclining over the child, which now hung with relaxed limbs in the arms of the old woman, licked up with its black tongue the spouting blood. And a green sparkling eye shot across through the open shutter into the brain and eye and heart of Emilius, who fell fainting to the ground. Roderick found him senseless some hours after.
On a beautiful summer morning a party of friends were sitting round a breakfast-table in a garden summer-house. They seemed very merry, laughing and chattering, and drinking the health of the young bride and bridegroom, and wishing them long life and happiness. The young couple themselves were not present; the beauty herself being still engaged at her toilet, while the bridegroom was wandering up and down the walks at the other end of the garden, to enjoy in solitude the sweetness of his own reflections.
"What a shame it is," said Anderson, "that we are not to have any music! All our young ladies are put out about it: they say they never longed so much for a dance, and it is not to be: it is said he cannot endure it."
"We are to have a ball though, I can tell you, and a right mad and merry one too," said a young officer; "every thing is arranged; the musicians are come, and we have stowed them away where no one shall know anything about them. Roderick has taken the direction on himself; he says we ought not to give way to him too much; and that to-day, of all days in the world, his whims and fancies must not be indulged."
"He is so much more sociable and like his fellow-creatures than he used to be," said another young man, "that I do not think he will be displeased at the alteration. The whole affair of this marriage has come on so suddenly, so little like what we expected of him, he must be changed."
"His whole life," said Anderson, "has been as remarkable as his character is. You all know how he came last autumn to the city on a tour he was making, and lived all the winter through there by himself, shut up in his room as if he was melancholy mad. He never went near the theatre, or any other of our places of diversion; and had very nearly quarrelled with Roderick, who was his most intimate friend, for trying to dissipate him a little, and prevent him from for ever indulging his gloomy humours. All this excitableness and irritability of temper was at the bottom nothing but disease, as the event proved; for four months ago, I believe you know, he fell into a violent nervous fever, and was so ill that every one gave him up. He recovered at last, and got rid of some of his fancies; but the strange thing was, that when he came to his senses again, his memory was entirely gone: his memory, that is, of all that had happened immediately previous to his sickness. He could remember his childhood, and all his boyish adventures were fresh as ever; but the last year or two were blanks. All his friends, even Roderick, he had to become acquainted with over again; and it is only by slow degrees that here and there faint glimmerings of the past are beginning to come back upon his recollection. When he was taken ill, his uncle took him into his own house, where he could be better attended to: he was just like a child in their hands, and let them do any thing they pleased with him. The first time he went out to enjoy thefresh spring-air in the park, he saw by the road-side a young maiden sitting apparently in deep thought on a bank. She looked up as he passed; their eyes met, and, as if overcome by some indescribable feeling, he sprung out of the carriage, sat down at her side, caught her hands in his, and dissolved into a flood of tears. His friends were afraid that this outburst of feeling was a relapse into fever; he was quite quiet, however, and seemed happy and good-humoured. He paid a visit to the parents of the young lady, and the first time he saw her again he asked her to marry him. Her father and mother made no difficulty, and she consented. He was now happy; a new life seemed to have sprung up in him; every day he got better and stronger, and his mind easier: a fortnight ago he came here on a visit to me, and the place delighted him so much that nothing would satisfy him but what I must part with it to him. If I had pleased, I might have turned his inclination to my advantage: any thing I asked he was ready to give, so that the bargain be concluded immediately. He made his arrangements, sent furniture down, and his plan is to spend all the summer months here. And so it has come to pass that here we are all of us to-day gathered together at my old place for his wedding."
The house was large, and most beautifully situated; on one side it looked upon a river, with a garden sloping down to the water's edge full of flowers, which filled the air with fragrance; and beyond, a long range of hills skirting the bank of the river, and magnificently wooded. Along the front was a broad open terrace, with rows of orange and citron trees, and little doors leading to the various offices underneath the house. The other side a lawn extended out to the park, from which it was only divided by a light fence. This front of the house had a very beautiful though very singular appearance. The two projecting wings enclosed a spacious area, which was partly roofed over, and divided into three stories, formingopen galleries running along the centre of the building, supported on tiers of pillars rising one above another. From these galleries were doors opening into all the different rooms in the house; and the various figures passing along these spacious corridors, behind the columns above or below, and disappearing into the different doors, in their various occupations, produced a very singular effect. In one or other of them the party used to collect itself at teatime, or for any games that might be going on; so that from below the whole had the air of a theatre, when it was the greatest pleasure to stand and watch the passing forms above, as in a beautiful tableau.
The young party were just rising, when the bride crossed the garden to join them. She was richly dressed in violet velvet, with a necklace of brilliants on her ivory throat, and her white swelling bosom gleaming through the rich lace which covered it; a myrtle sprig and a wreath of roses formed her simple though most tasteful head-dress. She greeted them kindly, and the young men were overcome by her extraordinary beauty. She had gathered some flowers in the garden, and was returning to the house to see after the arrangements for the banquet. The tables were set out in the lowest of the open galleries. Their white damask coverings, and the glass and crystal vessels on them, were of the greatest beauty. Multitudes of flowers of every hue and colour stood in elegant vases; the pillars were wound with wreaths of green leaves and roses; and how enchanting it was to see the bride moving up and down among the flowers, so gracefully passing between the table and the column, looking that all was right in the arrangement. Presently she vanished, and then appeared again for a moment at the upper gallery as she passed to her chamber.
"She is the most charming, the most beautiful creature I ever saw," Anderson cried; "my friend is a lucky man."
"And her very paleness," put in the young officer,"enhances her beauty; her dark eyes flash so above those marble cheeks; and those lips, so glowingly red, make her whole appearance truly enchanting."
"The air of silent melancholy," said Anderson, "which surrounds her, adds to the majesty of her bearing."
The bridegroom came up to them and asked for Roderick. The party had already missed him for some time, and no one could guess what had become of him; they now dispersed in search of him. At last a young man they asked told them he was down below in the hall, playing off tricks at cards, to the great amazement of a troop of grooms and servants. They went down and disturbed the circle of gapers. Roderick, however, did not let himself be put out, but went on for some time with his conjuring. As soon as he had done, he went with the rest of the party into the garden, saying, by way of accounting for his employment, "I merely do it to strengthen those fellows' faith for them. Their groomships are setting up to be free-thinkers, and it is as well to give them a staggerer now and then—it helps to their conversion."
"I perceive," the bridegroom said, "that my friend, among his other accomplishments, does not think charlatanism beneath his notice."
"We live in strange times," he answered; "one must not despise any thing now-a-days; nobody knows what he may not come to."
When the two friends were alone, Emilius turned again into the retired walk, and said, "Can you tell me why it is that to-day, which is or ought to be the happiest of my life, I feel so deeply depressed? Whatever you may think of me, I assure you I am not fit for the duties that devolve on me; I have no skill to move up and down a crowd of people with a civil speech for every one; entertain all these hosts of her and my relations, with respects for fathers and mothers, and compliments for ladies; receive visitors, and see that horses and servants are taken care of—I cannot do it."
"Oh, all that goes right of itself," said Roderick. "Your house is capitally arranged for that sort of thing. There is your steward, a famous fellow, with omnipotence and omnipresence in his hands and legs; he is made on purpose to arrange these matters, and see large parties taken care of, and put properly in their places: leave it all to him and your pretty bride."
"This morning," said Emilius, "I was walking before sunrise in the plantation here: my thoughts had taken a very serious turn, for I felt, to the bottom of my soul, that my life was now become fixed and definite, and that this love had given me a home and a calling. As I approached the summer-house yonder, I heard voices. It was my beloved in earnest conversation. 'Has it not turned out as I predicted?' said a strange voice; 'exactly as I knew it must be? you have your wishes, so be content.' I could not prevail on myself to go in to them; and afterwards, when I came to the summer-house again, they were both gone. I can do nothing but think and think what these words could mean."
"Very likely she has long loved you," said Roderick, "and you have not known any thing about it: all the better for you."
At that moment a late nightingale began to sing, as if to wish all joy and good fortune to the lovers. Emilius became more and more gloomy.
"Come down with me into the village yonder," said Roderick; "I will shew you something to amuse you. You are not to suppose you are the only man that is to be made happy to-day. There is a second pretty couple. A young scamp, it seems, what with opportunity and having nothing else to do, got upon too intimate terms with a damsel that might be his mother, and the fool thinks he is in duty bound to make her an honest woman. They'll have dressed themselves out by this time. The scene will be rich; I would not miss it for the world."
The sad and gloomy Emilius let himself be draggedaway by his talkative friend, and they reached the cottage just at the moment the cavalcade passed out on their road to the church. The young countryman had on his every-day linen smock, and his only piece of smartness consisted of a pair of leather gaiters, which he had polished up to make look as bright as possible. He was a simple-looking fellow, and seemed shy and awkward. The bride was tanned by the sun, and her face shewed very few remaining traces of youthfulness. She was coarsely and poorly dressed, but her clothes were clean, and a few red and blue silk ribbons, rather faded, were pinned up in bows on her stomacher. The worst part of her figure was her hair, which they had pasted up with a daub of fat and meal, and done into a great cone with hair-pins straight up from her head, on the top of which they had placed the marriage-garland. She tried to laugh and seem in good spirits, but she was ashamed and frightened. The old people followed. His father was in the employ of the house; and the cottage, as well as the furniture and clothes, all betrayed the extremest poverty. A dirty-looking squint-eyed fiddler followed the troop, grinning and smirking, and scraping away on a thing professing to be a violin, which was made up half of wood and half of pasteboard, having three pieces of packthread for strings.
The cavalcade halted at the sight of the new landlord. Some saucy-looking servants of the house, young boys and women, began to laugh and cut jokes at the expense of the young couple, particularly the ladies'-maids, who thought themselves a great deal prettier, and saw that they had infinitely smarter clothes. A shudder passed over Emilius. He looked round for Roderick, but he had run away again. An impudent-looking boy, a servant of one of the visitors, who wanted to be thought witty, pressed up to Emilius, and said, "What does your worship say to this brilliant couple? neither of them know where they are to get a piece of bread for to-morrow, and thisafternoon they are going to give a ball, and have engaged the services of that good gentleman yonder."
"Not know where they are to get bread?" cried Emilius; "can these things be?"
"Oh, yes," the other went on; "every one knows how miserably poor they are; but the fellow says he will do his duty to the creature, though she has not a farthing. Yes, indeed, love is all-powerful: the ragamuffins haven't got so much as a bed; they have begged enough small beer to get drunk upon, and they are to sleep to-night in the straw."
There was a loud laugh at this, and the two unlucky objects of it did not dare to raise their eyes.
Emilius pushed the chattering fool in bitter anger from him. "Here, take this," he cried, and flung a hundred ducats, which he had received that morning, into the hands of the astonished bridegroom: the parents and the bridal pair wept aloud, threw themselves on their knees, and kissed his hands and clothes. He struggled to free himself. "Keep want from your bodies with that so long as it will last," he said, half bewildered.
"Oh, you have made us happy for our lives, best, kindest sir!" they all cried.
He scarcely knew how he broke from them. He found himself alone, and ran with tottering steps into the wood, where, in the most secluded spot that he could find, he flung himself down upon a bank and burst into a flood of tears.
"I am sick of life," he sobbed, in the deepest emotion. "I cannot enjoy it, I cannot, will not be happy in it. Oh, take me quickly to thyself, kind Earth, and hide me in thy cold arms from these wild beasts that call themselves men. O God in heaven, what have I done, that I sleep on down and wear silk apparel? that the grape spends her choicest blood for me, and men crowd round and cringe to me with love, and honour, and respect? This poor fellow is better, is nobler than I; yet misery is his nurse,and scorn and bitter mockery wish him joy upon his wedding-day. Every dainty morsel I enjoy, every draught from my cut glasses, my soft couches, and all this gold and ornament, oh, they are tainted with the poison of sin, so long as the world hunts to and fro these thousands upon thousands of poor wretches that hunger for the dry crumbs that fall from my table, and have never known what comfort means. Oh, now I understand you, ye holy saints; though the proud world turned from you with disdain and scorn when ye gave your all, even the cloak upon your back, to poverty, and chose rather as poor beggars to be trodden under foot, and bear the scoffs and sneers with which pride and selfish gluttony drive misery from their tables, rather to endure yourselves the last extreme of wretchedness, than bear upon your consciences this vile sin of wealth."
The world, and all its forms and customs, swam as a mist before his eyes; he thought he would find now his only friends and companions among the abject and the vile, and renounce for ever the society of all the world's great ones.
They had been waiting for him a long time in the saloon for the ceremony to be concluded; the bride became anxious, and her father and mother went out into the park to look for him. After some time, when he was partially recovered from his emotion, and his feelings were easier, he returned, and the solemn knot was tied.
And now they all left the great saloon for the open gallery, where the tables were set out, bride and bridegroom first, and the rest following in order. Roderick offered his arm to a lively-looking, chattering young lady.
"Why do brides always cry and look so serious and solemn at a wedding?" said she, as they entered the room.
"Because they never felt before this moment the true mysteriousness of life," answered Roderick.
"But our bride here," said his companion, "exceedsevery thing I have ever seen; she looks perfectly miserable: I haven't seen her smile once."
"It is all the more honour to her heart," replied Roderick, who, strange to say, seemed really affected. "You do not know, perhaps, that some years ago she adopted a lone little orphan girl, and took her to live with her and educate her. She devoted the whole of her time to the child, and the love of the dear little thing was her sweetest reward. She was just seven years old, when one day she had gone out for a walk in the city, and never came home again; and notwithstanding all the trouble that was taken to recover her, no one has ever been able to tell what has become of her. This misfortune the noble-minded woman took so much to heart, that a silent melancholy has settled upon her ever since; and nothing has been able to distract her from her regret for her little playfellow."
"What an interesting story!" said the young lady. "Some time or other we may have a most romantic conclusion, and a pretty poem written about it."
They seated themselves at the table, bride and bridegroom in the centre, looking out upon the beautiful landscape. There was a great deal of chattering and talking and drinking healths, and every one seemed to be in the best possible spirits. The bride's parents enjoyed themselves exceedingly; the bridegroom alone was gloomy and abstracted; he did not seem to enter into any thing that was going on, and took no part in the conversation. He started as he heard music ringing down from above through the air; but he soon recovered himself: it was but the soft note of a bugle which floated for a few moments over the garden, then swept across the park and died away among the distant hills. Roderick had placed the musicians in the gallery immediately over the banquet, and this arrangement seemed to satisfy Emilius. Towards the end of the feast he sent for his steward. "My dearest," he said, turning to his bride, "shall not povertyhave a share of our abundance?" He desired that a number of bottles of wine, some roast meat, and a large portion of various other dishes, might be sent to the poor couple in the village, that they also might have reason to remember the day as a day of joy and happiness.
"Only see, my dear friend," cried Roderick, "how every thing hangs together in this world. This chattering and running about after every body else's business but my own you so often complain of in me, has given you the opportunity of doing this piece of kindness."
Many persons present began to say something complimentary about benevolence and compassionate hearts, and the young lady talked of generosity and nobleness of feeling.
"Oh, speak not so!" cried Emilius indignantly. "It is no kind action, no action at all; it is nothing. If the swallow and the linnet fill themselves with the refuse fragments of our abundance, shall not I think of a poor brother-mortal who has need of my assistance? If I followed the impulse of my heart, I should soon find little from you and the like of you but such scorn and laughter as ye gave the saints of old when they went out and made their homes in the wilderness, to hear no more of the world and its generosities."
No one spoke; and Roderick saw by the flashing eyes of his friend that he was violently displeased: he was afraid his excitement might lead him still more to forget himself, and endeavoured as quick as possible to give the conversation another direction. Emilius, however, had become uneasy and restless. His eyes were continually turned towards the upper gallery, where the servants, who occupied the highest floor of the house, were busily engaged.
"Who is that ugly old woman in a grey cloak, going backwards and forwards, making herself so busy there?" he asked at last.
"She is one of my servants," answered the bride;"she is to have the overlooking of the ladies' maids and the younger girls."
"How can you bear to have so hideous a creature about you?" said Emilius.
"Oh, let the poor thing be," replied the bride; "ugliness must live as well as beauty, you know; she is a good honest soul, and can be of the greatest use to us."
They rose from table, and the party now pressed round the new bridegroom to wish him all joy, and to beg to be allowed to have their ball. The bride threw her arms round him affectionately as she said, "My first request, dearest, you cannot refuse; it will make us all so happy; it is so long since I have been at a ball, and you have never seen me dance—are you not anxious to know how I shall look?"
"I never saw you in such high spirits," said Emilius; "I will not spoil your pleasure, do just as you please; only don't expect me to jump and tumble about and make myself ridiculous."
"If you are a bad dancer," said she, laughing, "you may be sure you will be left in peace." She ran away to make the requisite alterations in her dress for the ball.
"She does not know," Emilius said to Roderick as they walked away together, "that there is a secret door into her room from the one adjoining; I will surprise her while she is dressing."
When Emilius was gone, and the ladies had also disappeared to put on their ball-dresses, Roderick took some of the young men aside and brought them to his own room. "It is getting late," he said,—"it will soon be dark; so now be quick all of you and get your masks on, and we will make this night a right mad and merry one. Any device you can think of, no matter what; the more hideous objects you can make yourselves, the better I shall be pleased—not a monster in creation but what I must have him—humpbacks, fat paunches, all of them. A wedding is such a strange piece of business, married peoplefind, all of a sudden, such a wholly new fairy-tale set of circumstances round their necks, that we cannot make it absurd and mad enough to start them properly in their altered condition, and set them rolling along their new road; so to-night shall be a right wild mad nightmare, and never listen to any one that tells you to be reasonable."
"Don't alarm yourself," said Anderson; "we brought a box of masks and dresses from town with us that will astonish even you."
"And only look here," said Roderick, "what a treasure I have got from my tailor! the tasteless wretch was going to clip it to pieces for lappets. He bought it, he said, from an old woman, who I fancy must have worn it at Lucifer's gala on the Block's berg. This scarlet bodice with its lace and fringe, and the cap here all over glittering with gold, will look infinitely becoming; and then with this green petticoat on, and saffron trimmings, and this hideous mask, I will go as an old woman at the head of the whole troop of travesters to their room, and we will lead off our young lady in triumph to the ball; come, be quick with you."
The bugles were still playing, and the company were either dispersed in groups about the garden, or sitting in front of the house. The sun was going down behind a mass of heavy clouds, and a greyish mist was spreading over the landscape, when suddenly its last beams burst out under the dark curtain, and all the landscape round, and the house itself, with its galleries and columns, and wreaths of flowers, was bathed in a blood-red glow. At that moment the bride's parents and the rest of the spectators saw the wild troop of figures sweep along the upper gallery, Roderick going first as the scarlet old woman; and after him humpbacks, fat-paunched monsters with huge periwigs, harlequins, clowns, pantaloons, spectral dwarfs, women with broad hoop-petticoats and yard-high frisures, all like the phantoms of a hideous nightmare. On theywent, tumbling, twisting, staggering, tripping, and strutting along the gallery, and disappeared into one of the doors.
Suddenly a wild shriek burst from the inner chambers, and out dashed the pale bride into the crimson light; a short white petticoat was her only dress; her fair bosom all open, and her hair floating in wild disorder down her back. With quivering features, and eyes starting from their sockets, she rushed madly along the corridors. Blinded with terror, she could find neither door nor stairs; and fast behind her flew Emilius, with the Turkish dagger gleaming in his uplifted hand: she had reached the end of the gallery and could go no further; he caught her. His masked friends, and the grey old woman, were close behind; but ere they reached him the dagger was in her breast, he had cut across her white neck; the red blood glittered in the evening glow. The old woman flung her arms round him to drag him off; but with one fierce effort, he hurled himself and her over the balcony, and fell, dashed in pieces, at the feet of his relations, who, in silent horror, had witnessed the bloody scene. Above and below, along the stairs and corridors, were seen the hideous masks rushing wildly up and down; like accursed demons come from hell.
Roderick took the dying Emilius in his arms. He had found him in his wife's room playing with the dagger; she was nearly dressed as he entered. At the sight of the scarlet dress his memory had returned; the terrible scene of that night rushed before his senses; gnashing his teeth, he had sprung upon his trembling flying bride to avenge that murder and those devilish arts. The old woman confessed the crime that had been committed before she died; and the whole house was turned suddenly to sorrow, and mourning, and woe.
THERElived near Bagdad, Omar and Mahmoud, two sons of poor parents. On their father's death they inherited only a small property; and each resolved to try to raise his fortune with it. Omar set forth to seek a place where to settle. Mahmoud repaired to Bagdad, began business in a small way, and soon increased his property. He lived very thriftily and retired, carefully adding each sequin to his capital, as the ground-work for some new plan of making money. He thus got into credit with several rich merchants, who sometimesassigned to him part of a ship's freight, and entered into speculations in common with him. With repeated good fortune Mahmoud grew bolder, ventured larger sums, and every time they brought him in a high interest. By degrees he became better known, his business extended, he had granted many heavy loans, had the money of many others in his hands, and fortune seemed constantly smiling. Omar, on the contrary, had been unfortunate, not one of all his ventures had been successful; he came, quite poor, and almost without clothes, to Bagdad, heard of his brother, and went to him to seek his aid. Mahmoud was rejoiced to see his brother again, though he deplored his poverty. Being very good-natured and sensitive, he immediately gave him a large sum out of his business, and with this money he at the same time established him in a shop. Omar began by dealing in silk goods and women's apparel, and fortune seemed more favourable to him in Bagdad: his brother had made him a present of the money, and so he had no occasion to worry himself about repayment. In all his undertakings he was less prudent than Mahmoud, and, for this very reason, more fortunate. He soon gained the acquaintance of some merchants, who till then had done business with Mahmoud, and he succeeded in making them his friends. By this his brother lost many a means of profit, which now fell tohislot. And Mahmoud too had just chosen a wife, who forced him into numerous expenses, which before that he had not had to make: he had to borrow of his acquaintances to pay debts; money which he was expecting failed to come in; his credit sank; and he was on the verge of despair, when news arrived that one of his ships had foundered, and nothing, not the least morsel of any thing, had been saved; at this moment a creditor appeared, pressingly demanding the payment of a debt. Mahmoud saw very clearly that his last hope of fortune depended on this payment; and he therefore resolved, in the greatest distress, to have recourse to his brother. He hastened to him, andfound him very much out of sorts on account of a trifling loss which he had just undergone.
"Brother," began Mahmoud, "I come, in the utmost perplexity, to ask a favour of you."
Omar.Of what nature?
Mahmoud.My ship has gone to pieces; all my creditors are urgent, and will not hear of delay; my whole happiness depends on this one day; do just lend me ten thousand sequins for a time.
Omar.Ten thousand sequins?—You're not talking nonsense, brother?
Mah.No, Omar, I know what that sum is very well; and just so much, and not one sequin less, can save me from the most disgraceful poverty.
Omar.Ten thousand sequins?
Mah.Give them to me, brother; I will do my utmost to return them to you in a short time.
Omar.Where are they to come from? I have much due to me that is still unpaid; I don't myself know what I am to do,—this very day I have been cheated of a hundred sequins.
Mah.Your credit will easily procure me this amount.
Omar.But not a soul will lend money now. There's mistrust on all sides; not that I am mistrustful, heaven knows, but every one would guess that I want the money for you; and you know best on what frail threads one's confidence in a merchant often hangs.
Mah.Dear Omar, I must confess I didn't expect these demurs from you. If we were to change sides, you would not find me so suspicious and dilatory.
Omar.So you say. I am not suspicious either; I wish I could help you. I call God to witness, how glad I should be.
Mah.You can, if you like.
Omar.All I have would not make the sum you require.
Mah.O heavens! I had reproached myself for notmaking my brother the first of whom I asked assistance; and I am truly sorry that I have burdened him with a single word.
Omar.You are angry; you are wrong in being so.
Mah.Wrong? which of us neglects his duty? Ah, brother, I don't know you!
Omar.I have just lost a hundred sequins to-day; another three hundred are not at all safe, and I must make up my mind to the loss of them. If you had but come to me last week,—oh, yes, then most heartily.
Mah.Must I then remind you of our former friendship? Ah! how low can misfortune degrade us!
Omar.You talk, brother, almost as if you wished to insult me.
Mah.Insult you?
Omar.When one does all one can,—when one is in distress oneself, and in hourly fear of losing more,—can a man in such a case help being vexed when he receives nothing but bitter mockery and abject contempt for all his good-will?
Mah.Shew me your good-will, and you shall receive my warmest thanks.
Omar.Doubt of it no longer, or you will enrage me; I can keep cool a long time, and bear a good deal, but when I am irritated in such a deliberate way——
Mah.I see how it is, Omar; you play the insulted man, only to have a better excuse for breaking friends with me entirely.
Omar.You would never have thought of such a thing, if you were not caught in such paltry tricks yourself. We are most prone to suspect others of those vices with which we are most familiar ourselves.
Mah.No, Omar;—but since such language as yours encourages me to boast,—I must say, I didn't act so towards you, when you came, a poor stranger, to Bagdad.
Omar.And so for the five hundred sequins which you then gave me, you want ten thousand from me now.
Mah.Had I been able, I would gladly have given you more.
Omar.To be sure, if you wish it, I must return you the five hundred sequins, though you can shew no claim to them by law.
Mah.Ah, brother!
Omar.I will send them to you:—are you expecting no letters from Persia?
Mah.I have nothing more to expect.
Omar.To be frank with you, brother; you should have lived a little more closely, and not have married either, just as I have kept from it to this very hour; but from your childhood you were always somewhat indiscreet, so let this serve as a warning to you.
Mah.You had a right to refuse me the favour I requested of you, but not to make me such bitter reproaches into the bargain.
Mahmoud's heart was deeply touched, and he left his ungrateful brother. "And is it then true," cried he, "that covetousness only is the soul of men? Their own selves are their first and last thought! For money they barter truth and love; do violence to the most beautiful feelings, to gain possession of the sordid metal that fetters us to the grovelling earth in its disgraceful chains! Self-interest is the rock on which all friendship is shivered. Men are an abandoned race. I have never known a friend nor a brother; and my only intercourse has been with men of trade. Fool that I was to speak to them of love and friendship! Money only it is that one must change and exchange for them."
Returning home, he took a circuitous path, in order to let his painful emotions subside. He wept at the sight of the noisy market-throng; every one was as busy as an ant in carrying stores into his dingy dwelling; no one cared for the other, unless induced by a sense of profit; all were hurrying this way and that, as insensible as ciphers. He went home disconsolate.
There his grief was heightened; he found the five hundred sequins, which he had once given with the greatest good-will to his brother; they were soon the prey of his creditors. All he possessed was publicly sold; one of his ships came into port, but the cargo only served to pay the remainder of his debts. Poor as a beggar, he left the town without even passing by his hard-hearted brother's house.
His wife accompanied him in his misery, comforting him, and seeking to dissipate his grief, but she succeeded very poorly. The remembrance of his misfortune was still too fresh in Mahmoud's mind; still he saw before him the towers of the town where the brother dwelt who had remained so cold and unmoved by his distress.
Omar made no inquiries after his brother, that he might have no occasion to compassionate him; he fancied, too, all might after all have passed off well. In the mean time his credit had suffered in some measure on his brother's account; people began to be mistrustful towards him, and several merchants were less ready than formerly in entrusting him with their money. In addition to this, Omar grew very miserly, and proud of the fortune he had amassed; so that he made many enemies, who took pleasure in any loss that he might suffer.
It seemed as if destiny were determined to punish his ingratitude towards his brother; for loss after loss followed in quick succession. Omar, who was all anxiety to recover these losses, hazarded larger sums, and these too were swallowed up. He ceased to pay the money which he owed; mistrust of him became general; all his creditors pressed him at the same time; Omar knew no one who could assist him in this crisis of perplexity. He saw no other resource left him, than clandestinely to quit the town by night, and to try if fortune would be more favourable to him in another quarter.
The small property which he had been enabled to take with him was soon exhausted. His disquietude increasedexactly as his money waned; he saw before him the most abject poverty, and yet no means of escaping it.
Full of pensive thoughts and lamentations, he in this state reached the Persian frontier. He had now spent all his money, except three small coins, which just sufficed to pay for a supper in a caravanserai; he felt hungry, and as the sun was already declining, he hastened his steps, in order to reach some place of shelter, where for that night, and perhaps for the last one, he might lodge once more.
"How wretched I am!" said he to himself. "How does fate pursue me, and claim me in my misery! What a frightful prospect lies open before me! I shall be obliged to live on the alms of compassionate souls, to bear contemptuous repulse, not dare to murmur when the profligate stalks unabashed by, without deigning to give me a glance, and then squanders a hundred gold pieces on some miserable toy. O poverty, how thou canst debase mankind! How partially and unfairly does fortune dispense her treasures! She pours the whole tide of her wealth on the vicious, and lets the virtuous perish of hunger."
The rocks that Omar surmounted made him tired; he sat down to rest upon a bank of turf by the road-side. There a beggar on crutches came hobbling past him, murmuring an unintelligible prayer. He was tattered and famished, his burning eyes lay deep in his head, and his pale form was enough to cut one to the heart, and compel one to pity. Omar's attention was drawn, against his will, to this object of abhorrence, that murmured still, and stretched forth his arid hand. He asked the beggar's name, and then, for the first time, remarked that the unhappy creature was both deaf and dumb.
"Oh! how indescribably happy I am!" cried he; "and do I still lament? Why can I not labour? why not satisfy my wants by the work of my hands? How glad, how happy would this miserable object be to exchange with me! I am ungrateful towards Heaven."
Seized with a sudden impulse of compassion, he took his last pieces of silver out of his pocket, and gave them to the beggar, who, after a mute expression of thanks, pursued his way.
Omar now felt extraordinarily light-hearted and cheerful; the Deity had, for his instruction, held a picture as it were before him of the misery to which man may sink. He now felt power enough within him to bear with poverty, or by activity to cast it off. He made plans for his sustenance, and only wished he could at once have an opportunity of shewing how industrious he could be. Since his noble-minded compassion for the beggar, and the generosity with which he had sacrificed to him his whole remaining stock of money, he had had sensations such as he had never known before.
A steep rock abutted on the road, and Omar ascended it with a light heart, to take a view of the country, made still more lovely by the setting sun. Here he saw, lying at his feet, the beautiful world, with its green plains and majestic hills, its dark forests, and brightly-blushing rivers, and over all this the golden web-work of the crimson evening; and he felt like a prince who ruled over the whole, and put forth his power over hill, and wood, and stream.
He continued sitting on the peak of the rock, absorbed in the contemplation of the landscape. He resolved to await there the rising of the moon, and then to continue his journey.
The crimson of evening vanished, and twilight dropped from the clouds: the dark night followed. The stars twinkled in the dark blue vault, and earth silently reposed in solemn quiet. Omar gazed fixedly on the night, till his eye wandered dizzily among the countless stars; he supplicated the majesty of God, and felt a holy awe thrill through his soul.
Then it seemed that a beam of light arose in the distant horizon; it ascended in blue coruscation, and passedas a shining flame to the zenith of heaven. The stars retreated palely, and, like the light of new-born morning, it flickered over the firmament, and rained down in softly tinted beams of crimson. Omar was astonished by the wondrous phenomenon, and feasted his eye on the beauteous and unusual gleam; the forests and hills around him sparkled, the distant clouds floated in pale purple, and the radiance of the whole converged into a vault of gold over Omar.
"Hail, noble, compassionate, virtuous one!" cried a sweet voice from above; "thou takest pity on misery, and the Lord looks down on thee with well-pleased approval."
Like dying flute-tones, the night-winds whispered round Omar; his bosom heaved happily and pantingly, his eye was drunk with splendour, his ear with heavenly harmony; and from amid the effulgence stepped forth a form of light, and stood before the enraptured one; it was Asrael, the radiant angel of God.
"Mount with me in these beams to the abodes of the blessed," cried the same sweet voice, "for thou hast deserved by thy nobleness of soul to view the blessedness of Paradise."
"My Lord," said the trembling Omar, "how can I, a mortal, follow thee? My earthly body is not taken from me yet."
"Give me thy hand," said the form of light. Omar tendered him it with trembling rapture, and they soared through the clouds on the crimson beams. They traversed the stars, and sweet sounds waited on their steps, and the blush of morning lay in ambush in their path, and the fragrance of flowers filled the air with aroma.
Of a sudden it was night. Omar shrieked aloud, and found himself lying at the foot of the crag, with shattered arms. The dark red moon just rose from behind a hill, casting its first doubtful gleams on the rocky valley.
"Oh, thrice-wretched me!" cried Omar lamentingly,on recovering his senses. "Was Heaven so little satisfied with my misery that it must dash me in a false dream from the peak of the rock, and shatter my limbs, that I might become the prey of hunger? Is it thus that it compensates my pity for the unfortunate? Oh, who was ever unhappier than I?"
A figure shuffled past him with pain, and Omar recognised him to be the beggar to whom he that very day had given the remainder of his money. Omar called out to him, and besought him in a pitiful strain to share with him the benefaction which he himself had bestowed, but the cripple went heedlessly gasping on his way; so that Omar did not know whether he had heard him, or was only dissembling, that he might seem to have a right to disregard him.
"Am I not more wretched than this outcast?" said Omar, lamenting amid the stillness of night. "Who will take pity on me, now that all is taken from me that could comfort me?"
He fetched a deep sigh, his arms pained him, a burning fire raged in his bones, and every breath was drawn in torture. Now he took a review of his fortune, and, for the first time, thought once more on his brother.
"Oh, where art thou, noble-minded one?" cried he; "perhaps the sword of the angel of death has already smitten thee; misery perhaps has consumed thee in the most wearing poverty, and thou hast cursed thy poor brother in the last hour of anguish. Ah! I have deserved this at thy hands; now do I suffer the penalty of my ingratitude, my hard-heartedness! Heaven is just!—And I too could stalk along so proudly, and call on God to witness my virtue! O Heaven, forgive the sinner who, without a murmur, bows to thy chastisement."
Omar buried himself in pensive thoughts; he remembered with what brotherly love Mahmoud had received him when, for the first time, he was destitute; he reproached himself for having neglected to save him, andfor not having repaid by that means his debt of gratitude: he longed for death, as the term of his penalty and his sufferings.
The moon shone brightly over the landscape, and a small caravan, consisting of a few camels, wound slowly through the vale. The lust of life again awoke in Omar; he cried out for aid to the passers-by, in a voice of wailing. They laid him carefully on a camel, that they might have his wounds bound up in the next town, which they reached by break of day. The merchant attended the unfortunate man himself, and Omar recognised in him—his brother. His sense of shame knew no bounds, as neither did the compassion of Mahmoud. The one brother begged for pardon, and the other had already forgiven; tears flowed down the cheeks of each, and the most touching reconciliation was solemnised between them.
Mahmoud had repaired to Ispahan after his impoverishment, and had there made the acquaintance of a rich old merchant, who soon grew fond of him, and assisted him with money. Fortune was favourable to the exile, and in a short period he recovered his lost wealth. At this moment his old benefactor died, making him his heir.
On his recovery, Omar travelled with his brother to Ispahan, where the latter set him up anew in business. Omar married, and never forgot how much he owed to his brother; and from that time forward both lived in the strictest concord, and afforded the whole town a pattern of brotherly love.