"Stay, young man, one moment," I said, "and calm yourself. Is this your gratitude for the relic I brought you yesterday? If I, as you say, have robbed you of one of your lives, don't I offer you another which to a young man of your age and position is a state of existence that I can't say how many wouldenvy, and which, after all, is doing nothing more thanmy duty as a medical man. Then, as to robbing you of the lady you love, haven't I the power of making you acquainted with her some day in the flesh, if all goes well, and I succeeded in curing you both?"
"If such a meeting should take place, do you think," he said, "that we should experience in the same intense degree those chaste joys of love, as if we were in the spirit, when our souls, unfettered from any particle of clay, are raised to that sublime pitch that we are enabled to understand the profound and lofty discourse of angels and become ourselves for the time a part of the heavenly bodies?"
"My dear young man," I observed, "life is short. If the paradise you are in the habit of entering in your dreams be indeed that place where all good souls hope to go after death, you have but to wait for a few years——"
"Wait a few years!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "when every minute spent away fromherappears a century! It's very plainyouare not in love."
"In the meantime," I said, "content yourself with a life of flesh like any other rational mortal."
He began to reflect upon my words, so I thought I would improve the opportunity, and, if possible, try and make him turn human, so I observed,
"I shall not be here to-morrow; I am going to visit Miss Edith. Shall I take her any message?"
"Oh, yes, doctor, certainly, by all means; that is, I'll write. Give me some paper, pen and ink."
Having handed him these materials, he sat up in bed and penned an epistle to his lady-love in the flesh, which he sealed and handed to me.
I assured him of its safety in my hands, and took my leave of him for some days, hoping to find him more reconciled to humanity on my return.
Having given the parents of Charles further instructions with regard to their son, I took my departure, and shortly afterwards taking the stage, wasen routefor my friend's country seat, where I arrived early the next morning.
"And how is our patient?" I asked, as I shook hands with my friend at the threshold.
"I fancy she sleeps sounder, doctor," he replied. "We are not so often disturbed by her talking in her sleep."
"Good," said I; "her nerves will be getting a little stronger. Can I see her?"
"Oh, yes; walk straight to her room."
As I entered, my patient was sitting up in bed, reading.
"Ah!" said I, after the customary salutations, "we are better this morning, eh?"
"Oh, doctor, is that you? I am glad you have come."
"What book is that?" I asked, at the same time looking at the title. "Ah! Shakespeare. That is Charles' favourite author."
"I know it, doctor. Oh, how often have we read it together; but now, alas!"
"Why alas?" asked I.
"Ah, doctor," she replied, shaking her head slowly, "I never see him now. You are curing him, and me, too. Of what value to me is a body in perfect health, when it imprisons within it a wounded soul?"
"Come, let me see if I can't bring some balm to the wounded soul," I said, producing from my pocket Charles' letter.
"From him?" she exclaimed. "Oh, doctor, I shall be for ever grateful to you. I dreamt I received a letter from him last night. How is he—better? Stay, let me read."
She tore open the letter and read in an undertone, just loud enough for me to hear:
"Angel of my dreams—Charles in the flesh pens thee these poor lines, greeting. How art thou, now shut from me! The doors of the body have closed upon my spirit, and I feel that I no more belong to the same order of beings as a few nights ago. For me now thou may'st wait in vain in the garden, by the trysting tree, in the wild forest, by the sea shore, in the desert, by the foaming cataract, on the bleak mountain top, or by moonlight on the crags of the wild glacier, wherever the wings of thy spirit may carry thee. I cannot follow thee. I linger in chains of clay, and languish from day to day in my prison-house of flesh, whilst thou—— But, stay, perhaps the lot I bear may be thy own; perhaps the doors of the flesh may have closed uponthyspirit also. Oh, if it be that our souls are forever banished from that Paradise which they have so often revelled in together! What have we further to look forward to but those earthly joys known to the most grovelling mortal? This is a melancholy prospect, my Edith, for us who remember (however, indistinctly—from the growth of that clay—overthyspirit perchance, as well as my own) those divine joys we experienced together when our spirits walked untrammelled from our bonds of clay and our souls melted into the harmony of those spheres which are their proper element. How the weight of this mortal coil oppresses me as I write! I can think of nothing that is untainted with the gross material nature that surrounds me. My dreams of late confirm my horrible suspicions. When, the other night, I sought thee at the garden gate, where enter only spirits untrammelled by the flesh, didst thou hear that voice that turned me away, and bid me return to earth? Oh! Edith, let us both make another effort before it is too late. Perhaps even now——"
Here the patient dropped her voice, and her eye scanned the paper in silence, from which I inferred that there was something about myself in it that she did not wish me to know; but I had heard enough. Charles wanted to persuade his lady-love to battle against all my efforts to bring her round to a proper state of health, and intended doing the same himself. Here was a regular conspiracy—two patients already all but on the point of death, had leagued together to starve themselves outright, and so baffle all the doctor's efforts tosave them. Oh, it was downright suicide. I did not know exactly what to do.
"This is the last time I'll act as Mercury between two lovers," thought I.
I had a momentary thought of watching for an opportunity to get the letter into my hands, unobserved by my patient after she had finished reading it, and then of crumpling it up abstractedly, and throwing it into the fire, as it was winter and a large fire was made up in the patient's room, thinking that the impression might wear off her mind after having read the letter only once; but how might not her lover's words influence her if she were allowed to read and re-read his letter when left alone? No opportunity, however, presented itself, for after she had finished reading it she kissed it fervently and placed it in her bosom and held it there, glancing at me rather suspiciously, as I thought, as if she read my intentions in my face; but this might have been fancy.
However, I tried what I could do in the way of argument, to show the advantage of keeping a sound mind in a sound body, besides pointing out the probability of her some day—perhaps before long—meeting her lover in the flesh, and that there was no reason why they need not eventually be happy. I talked to her much of Charles, and hoped to see her again soon, though I should not call so very often now, as my visits would not be necessary. I left her, giving instructions to her parents to administer to her all sorts of nutritiousfood, as I had done to the parents of Charles concerning their son.
I let some little time pass over before I called upon either of my lover-patients again. I at length called upon Charles, and found him all but recovered. Though still weak, his face had filled out considerably, and his nerves were no longer so morbidly acute, and his countenance had lost to a great extent that supernatural look that characterised it on my first visit; still, it was far from being the face of a man in robust health. I thought him silent and reserved towards me, but when I told him I had delivered his letter, and talked to him of his lady-love, he brightened up a little. I told him I should take the stage on the morrow to visit Edith.
He wanted me to take another letter, but I pleaded great hurry and escaped from the house. When I saw Edith again, she also had improved in health immensely, thanks to the careful watching of my friend's wife, who was like a real mother to her, and wouldnotallow her to starve herself. Seeing her so nearly recovered, I recommended a little change of air as soon as convenient.
Upon my departure Edith managed to slip abillet-douxinto my hand, directed to Charles; that is to say, without address, for I had not told her where he lived. We were not left alone on this interview, the wife of my friend being present all the while, so the note had to be passed into my hand clandestinely. There was no getting out of it, and I had to deliver it toCharles as soon as I arrived in town. His eyes sparkled when he saw her writing.
"Look here, what Edith says about you!" said he, somewhat bitterly. He read as follows:
"Dearest Charles,—Your own true Edith writes to you in the flesh by our common but well-meaning enemy, Dr. Bleedem."
"There!" he said, "that's what she thinks of you."
"Enemy!" I cried, in astonishment.
"Yes, enemy; but well-meaning, you see, she says," he continued, in a softened tone.
He then continued to read:
"The poor man thinks, no doubt, that he has achieved a great thing in bringing us privileged seers into the world of spirits back into this mundane sphere, fit only for beings of his order. Of course, what else could be expected of him? The nature of his profession, the grossness of his being, compel him to think and act in the way of grovelling mortals; but let us not be too hard upon him; he is a good man, and means well."
"There!" he observed, "you see, she is charitably disposed towards you. I don't know that I feel disposed to be so lenient."
At this odd beginning of a love-letter, and still odder allusion to myself, I fairly burst out laughing.
"Oh! laugh away," he said; "it is a fine triumph to rob two beings of the very essence of their happiness."
I had not done laughing, and he was nearly catchingthe infection. He observed in the words of his favourite poet, that, my lungs did crow like chanticleer, and I did laughsansintermission.
He took up the letter again, and read a great portion to himself, or half aloud. I caught the following passage:
"Do you remember, Charles, when, in the early days of our courtship, you used nightly to serenade me under my window in the enchanted castle, and how long it was before you knew that I, like yourself, had an earthly body that had an existence of its own? And when I told you that my parents—or rather, my adopted parents—were not in the land of spirits, but that they inhabited the same world in which, in the daytime, we ourselves were forced to vegetate; and when you thereupon asked me with whom I shared the castle, do you remember the horror, the rage, and indignation you felt when you heard that I was held captive within that enchanted castle by a horrible wizard, who tortured me and tried all his base arts to make me yield to his love? Oh! Charles, I often look back to that time. I can see the bold outline of that rude, massive building on a rock frowning on the lake below. I feel myself yet at my casement, gazing out in search of your bark, which passed nightly close to my window, and I fancy I hear your touch upon the lute reverberating through the night air.
"With what horror I remember being torn from my window on that night by my captor, as I was waving myhandkerchief to you on the lake. Oh! the torture I underwent within those unhallowed walls after you left me; the scenes I was compelled to witness, the oaths I was forced to hear; and then the infernal hideousness of the countenance of my demon captor!
"Oh! Charles, shall I ever forget the night on which you rode up to the wizard's castle on a spirit charger, habited as a cavalier, and bearing a ladder of ropes under your mantle which you reached up to me on the point of your lance; how I descended, and you placed me behind you on your steed and galloped away; how, ere we were far from the castle, my flight was discovered, and the wizard and all his demon host mounted their demon chargers and started in pursuit of us; how they gained on us; how we avoided them for miles by hardly half-a-horse's length, until we arrived at a bridge across a river of fire, over which none but the pure in love can pass? Dost remember, Charles, how bravely thy spirit charger bore us over in safety, and how, when the fell magician endeavoured to follow us with his evil crew, how the bridge tumbled to atoms, and the demon host was swallowed up in the fiery waves? Then how, when our charger was spent, we turned him out to graze, the sun having risen; and how, having arrived at the sea shore, we found a boat, which we entered, and steered onward in search of further adventure. How swiftly, how gallantly we sailed, as if borne on by the good spirits, until we reached an island, where the inhabitants welcomed us and claimed us astheir king and queen. Charles! do you remember all this? But why call up all these reminiscences? They are over now, and passed as a dream, and this hence-forward must be our life. I know nothing of your life in the flesh, my spirit lover, or what may be your social position in this world. No matter, whatever it be, and in spite of whatever obstacles may raise themselves to our happiness in this vale of tears, remember that I am ever thine in the spirit,
"Edith L——."
Having concluded, he folded up the letter, kissed it, and pressed it to his heart.
"And do you remember all the details of that strange adventure alluded to by Miss Edith, as having happened to you both? Do you remember really having taken part in this strange romance in another phase of existence?" I asked.
"Certainly I do," he replied; "every particular of it."
"Strange!" I muttered, to myself. "Then thesedreams, as we ordinary mortals would say, are really to such beings as yourselffacts—phases of another existence," I remarked.
"Precisely so," said he.
"Then your being king of an island was no mere phantasy," said I; "but as much a fact——"
"As much a fact as that while in the flesh I am a poor devil," he replied.
"Well, I never thought I should have a royal patient," I observed, smiling.
"Ah!" he said, "now do you see the extent of the wrong that you have done me? You have robbed me of a kingdom in bringing me back to health."
"Many a sick monarch would be glad to exchange his kingdom for good health," I retorted.
This was almost my last visit to Charles. Ididcall again, but it was long after he had completely recovered.
Months passed away, when one day I casually met Charles in the streets. He had quite recovered, and was looking very well. He had much to tell me, so, as I had a little spare time on hand, we strolled into the park, and being a hot day, we sat down together beneath the shade of a tree in a solitary spot. He seemed to have grown more reconciled to humanity, having now only a dim recollection of the intensity of the joys he used to experience in his dreams. I touched upon the subject nearest his heart, and he commenced a recital of all that had happened to him since we last met. I shall endeavour to give his own words as nearly as possible.
"You will remember, doctor," he began, "that you left me without giving me the address of Miss L——" (Edith took the surname of my friend the squire, as if she were his own daughter, her real name being unknown). "I called upon you afterwards on purpose to inquire, and was informed that you were out of town. I had no one now to apply to for information, and was in despair. I did not know what to do with myself in town during the summer, so I thought I would trya little country air. I loitered about first in one country place, then in another, without any fixed purpose. I had been reading Shakespeare one day, and upon closing the book, I resolved I would take a pilgrimage to the birth place of the great Swan of Avon.
"I had never yet visited this retreat, so I started at once, and determined to put up in the village for some time. With what a thrill of delight, awe, and enthusiasm I crossed the threshold of that humble domicile!Hisfoot had once crossed that same spot! Here was the window thatheused to look out of. The identical glass, too, all carefully preserved by a network of wire.Histable andhischair! There was something magical to me in that low-roofed chamber, with its old-fashioned beams.
"This, then, was the birthplace of that giant brain destined to illumine the world with the rays of his genius! Who knows how many plays had been conceived and worked out within those four walls? To me, the spot was hallowed ground.Icould not inscribe my name on those sacred panels. It seemed almost sacrilege for me to sit down in his chair, but I did so; and begged to be left alone for a time, that I might meditate on the life and genius of the greatest of poets.
"It was not without a feeling of regret that I tore myself away from this hallowed shrine. I wandered through the almost deserted streets, and read the names over the village shops. 'William Shakespeare'here caught my eye; 'John Shakespeare' there; descendants, no doubt, of the great poet. Shakespeare seemed a common name here. I wondered whether any of them inherited his genius. No matter, it would be something to say that one was descended from so great a man, without possessing any further recommendation. I called upon a certain William Shakespeare, and inquired into his pedigree. He seemed a very ordinary sort of personage. He did not appear to know, nor yet to care much, if he were really descended from the bard or no. There was no genius abouthim. I called upon another, and then another, bearing the name of the poet, but could not discover the slightest spark of the fire that kindled the soul of the great dramatist in any one of them. I strolled on to the church, and visited the tomb. A sensation of awe crept over me as I read the simple couplet engraved over the vault containing the ashes of the bard:
Blessed be he who spares these stones,And cursed be he who moves my bones.
Blessed be he who spares these stones,And cursed be he who moves my bones.
"I shuddered to think of the awful consequences that might ensue to the sacrilegious hand that should dare move his honoured dust. There was his effigy placed within a niche in the wall of the church, high up above the heads of the congregation, and gave the idea of being placed in a sort of pulpit. The bust was but a rude work of art, but it had the reputation of being the only authentic likeness of the poet; and, therefore,it was with intense interest that I scanned the features. I fancied that I could descry, in spite of the rude workmanship of the stonemason, certain lines about the mouth and eyes that indicated that droll humour displayed in his comedies. I stood rooted to the spot.
"Around me were the tombs of the Lucy family; close to the poet's own dust the graves of his wife and daughter. But let me hasten to the more important point in my narrative.
"After I left the church I was shown the dead of the Lucy family, and obtained permission to wander over the grounds. 'In that house,' I said to myself, 'lives the lineal descendant of that squire before whom the bard was brought for poaching, and whom afterwards he is supposed to have caricatured under the title of "Justice Shallow."'
"I wandered alone through the forest of Arden, and seemed to imbibe inspiration from the surrounding scenery. I called up scenes from 'As you like it,' and other plays. I sat down on the grass in a wooded spot, and watched the deer.
"'Here,' I thought, to myself, 'must be the spot where the melancholy Jacques moralised on the wounded deer. Yonder, perhaps, where he met the fool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare at the scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and became deeply engrossed.
"I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted my eyes from my book and beheldcoming towards me in the distance the slim and graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the same fashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concluded must be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on the book. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes met mine.
"'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in the flesh?'
"She was no less surprised than myself.
"'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you know of——'
"'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts. This is the hand of Fate.'
"'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should live to meet in the flesh.'
"We embraced, and strolled under the trees together.
"'Shall I awake from this,' I kept saying to myself, 'and find it also a dream?'
"We both of us began to doubt whether we were sleeping or waking. She informed me that her adopted parents, for she was a foundling, as I learnt, had taken her with them, away from home for the summer for change of air; and, as she had often expressed a wish to visit the spot where she had been first picked up by her present parents when a baby of a week old, she begged Squire and Mrs. L—— to take her to Stratford-on-Avon, a place of double interest to her.
"She invited me to her house, and introduced me to the squire and his lady, who both remarked how much we resembled each other in feature. I frequented the house much, and Edith and I were in the habit of taking long walks together. It is hardly necessary to say that I was not introduced as the young man Edith used to meet in her dreams. The tale would have been too startling, and would not have been credited; and yet Edith had been so entirely under the surveillance of her parents, that it was impossible for her to have formed an acquaintance with anyone without their knowledge, so I had to trump up some story—indeed, I scarce know what—about rescuing her from a bull, just to account for our acquaintance.
"We were left much alone. Little did the parents think what an old attachment ours was; and for a long time I thought the squire looked favourably on my suit, but when matters were advanced so far that I demanded her in marriage, he drew up stiffly, and inquired into the state of my finances. I boasted of my family, but was obliged to own that as far as money-matters went, I was afraid that by my own fortune I could hardly hope to keep his adopted daughter in that style to which she had been accustomed.
"He hummed and hawed; but Edith broke in, begged and wept, saying she had never loved before, and vowed that she never would love another. At length the squire, with some reluctance, gave his consent, but said that I must find something to get myown living, and I am consequently looking out for some mercantile employment.
"'To such base uses must we come at last,'" he quoted, with a sigh.
"Yes," said I, "rather a come-down from a king; but, never mind what it is, as long as it pays well."
I saw him wince at this speech of mine; his romantic nature revolted against all thoughts of making money, however pressing his needs might be.
We parted, and I called upon him about a week after, when I found he was making grand preparations for his marriage. He informed me that he had got his eye upon some appointment, but that he should have to wait. There was a certain air of sadness about his face still. He did not look like a man about to be married.
"Doctor," said he, "do you know what I have been thinking of late?"
"No," I replied.
"I have been thinking that this marriage of mine will never come off," he said.
"Why?" I asked. "Have you had some lovers' quarrel?"
"No," he replied.
"Why, then? Has the squire changed his mind, after having given his consent?" I demanded.
"No; nor that either," he replied. "I cannot myself give you my reason for the fancy—it is a presentiment. You know, 'the course of true love neverdidrun smooth.'"
"Oh!" said I, soothingly, "that is your fancy; you are nervous and impatient—it is natural."
"No, no!" he said; "I am sure of it—I feel it."
"What! Have you been dreaming that it would not?"
"No; I never dream now," he replied.
"I am glad to hear it," I observed; "it is a good sign. When does the wedding take place?"
"To-morrow was the day appointed, but it won't take place, I say. Mark my word."
"So soon! But what can have put it into your head that it will not take place to-morrow? Do you know of any impediment likely to occur between this and then?"
"No," he replied; "none for certain, but I tell you, once for all, it will not take place."
I did not know exactly what to make of this strange monomania. My suspicions were again aroused as to the brain being affected. I did not see what could happen to hinder the marriage, so I left him, after cheering him as much as I possibly could, determining within myself to call upon him as soon after his marriage as was convenient, to triumph over him and laugh at his presentiments; but this was the last time I ever saw Charles.
Shortly after this, my last, visit I was glancing rapidly over the paper at breakfast when I was shocked to see among the list of deaths the name of Charles ——, aged twenty-four. Strange enough; I had been dreamingof him much the night previous. What was my surprise and dismay when, looking lower down the column, I saw also the death of Edith L——. I looked at the date of both deaths. To my still further surprise, both lovers had departed this life at exactly the same hour—at midnight, October 12th, 17—.
"What a strange coincidence," I thought. "What strange beings both of them were! They did not appear either to belong to or to be fitted for this world. They were evidently never destined for an earthly lot together."
"The hand of providence is in this," I muttered.
I grieved much for the loss of my two patients, for I had conceived quite a fatherly affection for them both. As soon as decency would permit, I called upon the parents of Charles. The account they gave of the reason of his death caused me no little surprise. It appeared that on the eve of his marriage his mother received a badly-written and ill-spelt letter from a person who professed to have known the family a long time, begging her to call upon the writer, who was then in a dying state, and had an important communication to make.
Mrs. ——, curious to know who the writer could be, called at the address given in the letter, which proved to be a miserable hovel in one of the back slums of London. There, stretched upon a wretched pallet, lay the squalid and emaciated form of an old woman, whom, after some difficulty, Mrs. —— recognised as themonthly nurse who attended her four and twenty years ago, during her confinement.
"Who are you?" asked Mrs. ——.
"Look at me. Do you recollect me now?" inquired the hag.
"How should I? I never saw you before. Stay, your features seem to grow more familiar to me, now my eyes get accustomed to the light. Is it possible you can be Sarah Maclean, the midwife who——"
"The same," responded the hag.
"What would you of me?" inquired Mrs. ——.
"I have a communication to make before I die," said the old woman. "Listen."
And she began her confession in feeble tones, thus:
"You were not aware, ma'am, that the day before your son was born, I myself was confined with twins—a boy and a girl. Being called upon the next day to attend upon you, I waited to see if your child were a male child or a female. Finding that it was a man-child, I took advantage of the agony I saw you were in, deeming that my act would never be discovered. I managed to conceal my own child under my shawl, and so contrived to substitute my child for your own."
"Wretch!" cried Mrs. ——, gasping.
"Stay; hear me out. I've got more to tell," continued the hag. "Your own son died shortly after you had given him birth, through my neglect—I admit it."
"Murderess!" screamed Mrs. ——.
"Bear with me yet awhile," said the midwife, "while I have still breath left to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well in the world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you.
"As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off my hands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree near Stratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born."
"What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimed Mrs. ——. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me further confession."
"Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "My second crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first. My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain Squire L——, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make her his heiress."
"What!" cried Mrs. ——; "then Miss L——, who is engaged to my son—at least to—to is, in fact, your—your daughter? Then they are twin brother and sister!" and Mrs. —— fell back in hysterics.
"Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ——, scarcely recovered from her fit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, behold the evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more.
When Mrs. —— returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings to Charles and Edith, who weretogether at the time—tidings which, of course, put a stop to their union.
They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept. Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. They could not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look upon each other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union was impossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and for ever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. That night both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night of October 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers were released from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now at rest!
Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in the neighbourhood of my old friend Squire L——, I called at the house. He was glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged. The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been a great blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject so painful, had he not broached the matter first himself, and asked me if I had heard of the circumstances that led to the death of Edith and her lover. I replied that I had heard all from Charles' mother.
"And who do you think that Edith and Charles turned out to be?" he asked. "Why, lineal descendants of the great bard of Avon," he said.
"Is it indeed so?" said I.
"Yes," he replied; "after the death of my poor Edith I was curious to know something about her real mother. I made inquiries into her pedigree, and the report I heard from more than one quarter was—well, it is a long story; and, at some future time, when we are not likely to be interrupted, I may relate it to you. Suffice it to say, that the descent of Charles and Edith may be distinctly traced from our great Bard, William Shakespeare."
"Strange," I observed. "It is not impossible that some of the great poet's genius might have run in the veins of Charles. He always impressed me as a young man of great intellect. He might have been something had he lived."
"Oh, yes," replied my friend; "I am certain of it. He was a very promising young man; and there was Edith, as full of genius as she could be, poor child. I tell you, doctor, it was marvellous what that girl had in her."
"Oh, I believe it," I said. "There was something extremely intelligent in her expression, if I may use the word; perhaps I ought to say, intellectual and poetical. Well, genius, though seldom inherited from father to son, rarely dies out of the family altogether, but often, after lying dormant for generations, breaks out again in some form or another, like certain diseases."
"Yes, doctor," said my friend; "I have observed the fact myself, and how seldom do we find genius unaccompanied with disease. Do you know, doctor, I often thank Heaven that I am no genius?"
At the conclusion of Dr. Bleedem's narrative he was highly complimented by his audience, and various were the comments upon his recital. The chairman declared himself unable to decide as to which of the two stories related that evening was the more marvellous.
The host of the "Headless Lady" vowed he had never heard such a tale in all his life before, though he knew a good story or two himself. Mr. Oldstone proposed the health of the doctor, which was drunk accordingly, amid cheers. He responded to it in a short speech, when the old Dutch clock in the corner struck one. The president rose and addressed the club thus:
"Gentlemen, we have listened to two most interesting stories; but time flies—the clock has announced the commencement of another day. I regret that, on account of the length of the first two narratives, we shall be prevented from hearing a story from everyone; yet I should be loth to break up this very pleasant meeting without hearingonemore recital. I propose, however, that, in consideration for some of our worthyguests—the gallant captain, to wit, and our comic friend here, who, as you see, gentlemen, appear somewhat overwhelmed under the all-inspiring influence of the punch—(laughter)—that the next narrative be of shorter duration than the two preceding.
"According to order, the next tale ought to proceed from Professor Cyanite."
Then, turning towards the professor, he inquired if he had a story ready that would not take too long in the recital.
"Well, chairman," said the professor, "the fact is that I had prepared somewhat a lengthy one for our meeting. At present I can't think of one sufficiently short to wind up the evening."
"In that case," said the chairman, "perhaps Mr. Blackdeed will be able to favour now."
Mr. Blackdeed begged to be excused. He said he could not think of one at all. He hoped, however, to have one ready for the next evening.
"Dear, dear!" said the chairman; "this is really a very bad state of affairs. Has no one some short story ready? Mr. Parnassus, cannot you favour the company?"
The young poet, blushing slightly, replied, "I thought of bringing before the company this evening—or, rather, last evening, I ought to say—a curious little incident out of my own experience, which occurred to me when travelling in Switzerland a few years ago. I have put it into verse in the form of a ballad. It is notlong, and if it will not weary the company, I shall be most happy to sing it."
"A song, a song!" cried many voices at once. "Bravo, Parnassus! Hear, hear!"
"The title of the ballad I am about to sing to you, gentlemen, I propose calling 'The Glacier King.'"
"Good," said the chairman. "Silence, gentlemen, if you please. A song from Mr. Parnassus."
A dead silence ensued, and the poet, after clearing his throat once or twice, began in a clear, rich voice the following ballad:—
In youth, when I mid mountains roamed, full well I can recallThat fearful night. The pale moonlight shone on the glaciers tall.I wandered from my châlet's hearth (the world was locked in sleep),But something on my bosom made my soul a vigil keep.I wandered on, I recked not where, for I was sad of mood,Until upon the basement of a glacier grim I stood.The moon peeped out behind the clouds, the scene was strange and weird—Like sheeted ghosts those icy rocks above me now appeared.I cared not if I lived or died; my soul was sunk in gloom.I'd little left to live for then; I almost sought my doom."We die but once," I inly said. "Death's certain, soon or late,And I would just as lief it came, as still protract my fate."I crunched the snow beneath my feet, and little recked of fear;I trod the giant pinnacles (the night grew dark and drear),Yet onward recklessly I strode, nor cared which way I went,Until across this sea of ice appeared a mighty rent.A horrid chasm, with below the torrent's deafening sound,But with the madness of despair I cleared it with a bound.A little onward still I stood (the scene was weird and grand),A wondrous cavern wrought in ice by Nature's playful hand.Its dripping arches overhung the cataract beneath,Its pendant massive icicles appeared like dragon's teeth;And lost in contemplation of this fearful yawning cave,I deemed its chilly arches the recesses of the grave.Anon the cave appeared when moonbeams would its depths illume,A fairy hall of diamond, anon, a ghastly tomb.And as I mused in phantasy, forgetting half my woe,I wondered whether elves or ghouls their revels held below.My blood ran chilled within my veins, a tremor shook my frame,As, mingled with the torrent's roar, unearthly voices came.Awhile I listened breathlessly, as louder still they grew;The icy cave's inhabitants for ever nearer drew.But one deep voice above the rest, in stern commanding tone,That echoed through the cavern's walls, cried, "Silence, and begone."Then, terrified, I scarce had time upon my feet to spring,When, robed in icy majesty, there stood the Glacier King.A mantle of the drifted snow bedecked his regal frame;Upon his head a crown of ice, his sceptre of the same,His hair and beard were icicles, his visage stern and pale,His eyes like glacier caverns sunk, with look that made one quail.With terror rooted to the spot, with fright uprose my hair,While on me, as in wonderment, he fixed an icy stare.At length he ope'd his lips and spake, in deep sepulchral tone,"What seekest thou, stranger, in our realm, a night like this alone?"I know not what I answer made, with voice below my breath,When nearer, with majestic stride, he came, and thus he saith—"Thou 'rt welcome to our palace cold; it is full many a daySince one of thy mortal race hath wandered past this way."He led me kindly by the hand. But, oh! that hand of ice.I felt benumbed all over, but he held me like a vice.Then with his sceptre tapped a door, which opened with a bang.While through the cavern's icy halls infernal laughter rang.He led me down by steps of ice, hewn in the solid rock,And halting at a portal, with his sceptre gave a knock.The door of ice was opened by a figure grim and grey,That bowed in deepest reverence, then onward led the way.We entered then the hall of state, where stood the icy throne;The courtiers on our entrance bowed as if to gods of stone.Their hair hung dank about their forms, the wildest ever seen;Their raiment dripping icicles, their bodies of sea green.Then out and spake the Glacier King, "Make haste and bring a light;A mortal from the outer world will sup with us to-night.Let supper be in readiness at once without delay."The menials made obeisance, and hastened to obey.Then soon the hall of banqueting we entered, when, lo! thereA lofty cavern lighted up with phosphorescent glare;A ghastly light from out a lamp suspended from a height,That shed upon the icicles its dim funereal light.The table was a slab of ice, the dishes they were cold,And when they were uncovered I shuddered to behold,For some were human corpses that had perished in the snow,Or in the glacier's crevices had met their fate below.My heart then sank within me, and I from the table turned.The guests all looked in wonderment, that I their dishes spurned.The King then turned upon me. "Though our dishes you decline,You must not leave this hall to-night before you taste our wine."He bid a menial near to fill a goblet to the brim,And as he filled a ghastly smile played o'er his features grim.The King then raised it to his lips, and first a draught drank he;The giant goblet carved in ice he handed then to me.I seized the beaker in my hand, and raised it to my lip;And cautiously I tasted it, although 'twas but a sip.I laid the crystal down in haste, as horrified I stood.The liquor that the goblet held I found washuman blood!The King of Ice he marvelled, and his brow grew grave and stern,His eye would seem to ask me, "Dost thou thus my favour spurn?"I trembled, for I noticed when the icy monarch frownedThe reflection of his countenance upon the court around.Each drew a pointed icicle from out an icy sheath,They wore as daggers at their sides—for fear I scarce could breathe—And brandishing them high aloft, while as their hands they clenched,They vowed that such gross insult should not pass unavenged."Ho! sheath your daggers," quoth the king. "Once more our guest we'll try.Base mortal! if thou still refuse to drain yon goblet dry,Then dread our fell displeasure, for by our crown we vow,The King of Glaciers ne'er is mocked by mortals such as thou."I seized the goblet once again, and in despair did quaff.Now through the banquet hall resounds a wild unearthly laugh.The nauseous fluid seemed to burn like fire through my veinsI felt intoxication stealing o'er me for my pains.I fell down in a stupor, know not how long I lay,But when my eyes were opened 'twas past the break of day.The King and court had vanished, but around me I descriedA troop of tourists, who that morn the glaciers would bestride.They asked me how I came there, how I could be so mad,Alone to scale the glaciers, upon a night so bad.I told them shortly all my tale—all I had got to tell—About the awful Glacier King, down in his icy cell.They smiled, and said it truly was a very fearfuldream;But I vowed all that had happened like truth to me did seem.They asked me to point out to them the grotto that I saw.I gazed around me, and behold the grotto was no more.Whether it was dream or not, I know not to this day;'Tis strange the grotto in a night should all have thawed away.And when I spoke about the cup I quaffed the cave beneath,"That was my brandy-flask," quoth one, "I forced between your teeth.""Else you had perished in the snow, in truth, you looked far gone.'Twas by the greatest chance on earth we found you here at dawn.I thought you dead, but still I plied my flask, and, as you see,It has proved worthy of its name, immortal 'Eau-de-Vie.'"I thanked them for their courtesy, but when I strove to rise,No muscle of my rigid frame could I, to my surprise,As much as put in motion. My bones seemed on the rack,And to my châlet's fire-side had to be carried back.'Twas long ere I recovered my wonted life and strength;The tourists oft would visit me, and we grew friends at length.And the day of my recovery, to mark the grand event,I started in their company to make a great ascent.My mountain days are over now, my friends in other climes;But when we meet together we talk of bygone times.But still the name ofGlacierfor ever doth recallThe horrors of that fearful night, within that icy hall.And at their friendly tables I'm often asked to dine.They order "Vin du Glacier," as well as other wine,And ask me if it tastes as well, as o'er their wine they sing,As that from out the cellars of H.M. the Glacier King.
In youth, when I mid mountains roamed, full well I can recallThat fearful night. The pale moonlight shone on the glaciers tall.I wandered from my châlet's hearth (the world was locked in sleep),But something on my bosom made my soul a vigil keep.
I wandered on, I recked not where, for I was sad of mood,Until upon the basement of a glacier grim I stood.The moon peeped out behind the clouds, the scene was strange and weird—Like sheeted ghosts those icy rocks above me now appeared.
I cared not if I lived or died; my soul was sunk in gloom.I'd little left to live for then; I almost sought my doom."We die but once," I inly said. "Death's certain, soon or late,And I would just as lief it came, as still protract my fate."
I crunched the snow beneath my feet, and little recked of fear;I trod the giant pinnacles (the night grew dark and drear),Yet onward recklessly I strode, nor cared which way I went,Until across this sea of ice appeared a mighty rent.
A horrid chasm, with below the torrent's deafening sound,But with the madness of despair I cleared it with a bound.A little onward still I stood (the scene was weird and grand),A wondrous cavern wrought in ice by Nature's playful hand.
Its dripping arches overhung the cataract beneath,Its pendant massive icicles appeared like dragon's teeth;And lost in contemplation of this fearful yawning cave,I deemed its chilly arches the recesses of the grave.
Anon the cave appeared when moonbeams would its depths illume,A fairy hall of diamond, anon, a ghastly tomb.And as I mused in phantasy, forgetting half my woe,I wondered whether elves or ghouls their revels held below.
My blood ran chilled within my veins, a tremor shook my frame,As, mingled with the torrent's roar, unearthly voices came.Awhile I listened breathlessly, as louder still they grew;The icy cave's inhabitants for ever nearer drew.
But one deep voice above the rest, in stern commanding tone,That echoed through the cavern's walls, cried, "Silence, and begone."Then, terrified, I scarce had time upon my feet to spring,When, robed in icy majesty, there stood the Glacier King.
A mantle of the drifted snow bedecked his regal frame;Upon his head a crown of ice, his sceptre of the same,His hair and beard were icicles, his visage stern and pale,His eyes like glacier caverns sunk, with look that made one quail.
With terror rooted to the spot, with fright uprose my hair,While on me, as in wonderment, he fixed an icy stare.At length he ope'd his lips and spake, in deep sepulchral tone,"What seekest thou, stranger, in our realm, a night like this alone?"
I know not what I answer made, with voice below my breath,When nearer, with majestic stride, he came, and thus he saith—"Thou 'rt welcome to our palace cold; it is full many a daySince one of thy mortal race hath wandered past this way."
He led me kindly by the hand. But, oh! that hand of ice.I felt benumbed all over, but he held me like a vice.Then with his sceptre tapped a door, which opened with a bang.While through the cavern's icy halls infernal laughter rang.
He led me down by steps of ice, hewn in the solid rock,And halting at a portal, with his sceptre gave a knock.The door of ice was opened by a figure grim and grey,That bowed in deepest reverence, then onward led the way.
We entered then the hall of state, where stood the icy throne;The courtiers on our entrance bowed as if to gods of stone.Their hair hung dank about their forms, the wildest ever seen;Their raiment dripping icicles, their bodies of sea green.
Then out and spake the Glacier King, "Make haste and bring a light;A mortal from the outer world will sup with us to-night.Let supper be in readiness at once without delay."The menials made obeisance, and hastened to obey.
Then soon the hall of banqueting we entered, when, lo! thereA lofty cavern lighted up with phosphorescent glare;A ghastly light from out a lamp suspended from a height,That shed upon the icicles its dim funereal light.
The table was a slab of ice, the dishes they were cold,And when they were uncovered I shuddered to behold,For some were human corpses that had perished in the snow,Or in the glacier's crevices had met their fate below.
My heart then sank within me, and I from the table turned.The guests all looked in wonderment, that I their dishes spurned.The King then turned upon me. "Though our dishes you decline,You must not leave this hall to-night before you taste our wine."
He bid a menial near to fill a goblet to the brim,And as he filled a ghastly smile played o'er his features grim.The King then raised it to his lips, and first a draught drank he;The giant goblet carved in ice he handed then to me.
I seized the beaker in my hand, and raised it to my lip;And cautiously I tasted it, although 'twas but a sip.I laid the crystal down in haste, as horrified I stood.The liquor that the goblet held I found washuman blood!
The King of Ice he marvelled, and his brow grew grave and stern,His eye would seem to ask me, "Dost thou thus my favour spurn?"I trembled, for I noticed when the icy monarch frownedThe reflection of his countenance upon the court around.
Each drew a pointed icicle from out an icy sheath,They wore as daggers at their sides—for fear I scarce could breathe—And brandishing them high aloft, while as their hands they clenched,They vowed that such gross insult should not pass unavenged.
"Ho! sheath your daggers," quoth the king. "Once more our guest we'll try.Base mortal! if thou still refuse to drain yon goblet dry,Then dread our fell displeasure, for by our crown we vow,The King of Glaciers ne'er is mocked by mortals such as thou."
I seized the goblet once again, and in despair did quaff.Now through the banquet hall resounds a wild unearthly laugh.The nauseous fluid seemed to burn like fire through my veinsI felt intoxication stealing o'er me for my pains.
I fell down in a stupor, know not how long I lay,But when my eyes were opened 'twas past the break of day.The King and court had vanished, but around me I descriedA troop of tourists, who that morn the glaciers would bestride.
They asked me how I came there, how I could be so mad,Alone to scale the glaciers, upon a night so bad.I told them shortly all my tale—all I had got to tell—About the awful Glacier King, down in his icy cell.
They smiled, and said it truly was a very fearfuldream;But I vowed all that had happened like truth to me did seem.They asked me to point out to them the grotto that I saw.I gazed around me, and behold the grotto was no more.
Whether it was dream or not, I know not to this day;'Tis strange the grotto in a night should all have thawed away.And when I spoke about the cup I quaffed the cave beneath,"That was my brandy-flask," quoth one, "I forced between your teeth."
"Else you had perished in the snow, in truth, you looked far gone.'Twas by the greatest chance on earth we found you here at dawn.I thought you dead, but still I plied my flask, and, as you see,It has proved worthy of its name, immortal 'Eau-de-Vie.'"
I thanked them for their courtesy, but when I strove to rise,No muscle of my rigid frame could I, to my surprise,As much as put in motion. My bones seemed on the rack,And to my châlet's fire-side had to be carried back.
'Twas long ere I recovered my wonted life and strength;The tourists oft would visit me, and we grew friends at length.And the day of my recovery, to mark the grand event,I started in their company to make a great ascent.
My mountain days are over now, my friends in other climes;But when we meet together we talk of bygone times.But still the name ofGlacierfor ever doth recallThe horrors of that fearful night, within that icy hall.
And at their friendly tables I'm often asked to dine.They order "Vin du Glacier," as well as other wine,And ask me if it tastes as well, as o'er their wine they sing,As that from out the cellars of H.M. the Glacier King.
Hardly had the poet concluded his lay, when the cheering and clapping of hands that ensued half-deafened all present; that is to say, with the exception of two individuals—viz., the worthy captain and our friend the comedian, who had been deaf for some time past, under the kindly influences of the punch.
To say that the health of the poet was drunk with three times three would be unnecessary. We leave that to the imagination of the reader. Not only was that conventional ceremony gone through, but the chairman, after a short complimentary speech, proposed that a crown of laurels should be made and the young poet crowned therewith there and then.
The poet modestly interposed, but the command of the president, especially on such an occasion as the present, was not to be recalled. John Hearty, of the "Headless Lady," was sent outside, snowing hard as it was, to gather some laurel from a bush which grew close to the inn, and the poet was crowned with all due honours. There were two, however, who did not witness the imposing ceremony. Who these two were we will leave our readers to guess.
The fumes of the punch had thrown the ideas of these two worthies into another channel, and the reverie into which they had fallen was so deep as to render them perfectly unconscious of all that was going on around them.
The captain was the first to recover from his meditations.
"Ease her! Stop her!" he cried, awaking with a yawn.
Then, glancing round at the company, his eye first caught sight of the poet's brow crowned with laurels.
"Odds bobs, messmate!" he cried, "what the deuce have they been doing to your figurehead?"
"Ah! captain," said one of the members, "you do not know what you have lost. You've missed a song."
"Missed a song, have I? Well, I thought someone must have been singing; it came in my dream. But what, in the name of Davy Jones, has Mr. Parnassus been taking. Why, one would think he had been taking a glass of prussic acid, to break out all over laurel leaves like that."
"That," said the chairman, "is the crown awarded to genius. Mr. Parnassus has this evening—or, I should say, this morning—favoured us with a poem."
"Humph!" said the captain, who was not of a poetical nature himself.
"Yes," continued the chairman, "a poem; the work of his own pure brain, for which he has been rewarded with the crown that now adorns his temples, a crown ofno intrinsic value, as you perceive, like the bejewelled diadem of royalty, but which, nevertheless, has been sought after by minds no less ambitious in the early days of ancient history, when the love of honour alone was a deeper incitement to the soul than the mere love of worldly pelf, and when once obtained, was guarded as zealously——"
Here our comic friend showed some signs of returning animation. He stretched, yawned, and, rubbing his eyes, gazed round upon the company in bewilderment. He also fixed his eyes on the laurel crown, and so ludicrous was the expression of wonder on his countenance, although he did not utter a word, that the whole company was thrown into an immoderate fit of laughter, which completely drowned the end of the chairman's sententious speech. The poor little comedian got most unmercifully chaffed by each of the company in turn, being asked gravely by one what his opinion was of the last story; by another, whether he liked the punch—whether it was strong enough for him. By another wag he was offered a penny for his thoughts; while another insisted upon hearing the story he had been thinking of all that time, etc., etc. The little man answered good-humouredly to all their bantering, when the president once more thumped the table.
"Captain Toughyarn," he began, "you have been guilty at our meeting of falling asleep in the middle of a story, and of being so engrossed in your stateof—of—What shall I say, gentlemen?—of lethargy, as to be totally unconscious of a most spirited song that ensued. You have raised our curiosity, however, by telling us that the song entered into and formed part of your dream. We would fain hear your dream, as some slight expiation of such gross violation of etiquette."
"What will he say to me," thought our comic friend, "if he doesn't let the captain escape?"
"Hear, hear!" cried several voices at once. "By Jove, you're in for it too, Jollytoast."
"Well, chairman," said the captain, "I'm sorry I've broken through discipline; but when a man has got grog stowed away in his hull——"
"Exactly so," said the chairman; "but for all that the company must hear your dream."
"Yes, yes!" shouted the company.