ALBION AND MARINAThisis Charlotte Brontë’s first love story. It was printed by permission of Mr. Clement Shorter, the owner of the copyright of all the unpublished Brontë manuscripts, in the Brontë Society Publications, Part xxx., 1920, and is now reprinted for the first time.C. W. H.ALBION ANDMARINAATALE BYLORDWELLESLEYPRINCIPAL PARTPOSSESSING FACTFOR ITS FOUNDATION.PUBLISHEDAND SOLD BY SERGEANTTREEAND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS IN THE CHIEF GLASS TOWN,PARIS, &C.PREFACEI havewritten this tale out of malignity for the injuries that have lately been offered to me. Many parts, especially the former, were composed under a mysterious influence that I cannot account for.My reader will easily recognise the characters through the thin veil which I have thrown over them. I have considerably flattered Lady Zelvia Ellrington. She is not nearly so handsome as I have represented her, and she strove far more vigorously to oust some one from another person’s good graces than I say. But her endeavours failed. Albion has hitherto stood firm. What he will do I cannot even pretend to guess; but I think that Marina’s incomparable superiority will prevail over her Frenchified rival, who, as all the world knows, is a miller, jockey, talker, blue-stocking, charioteer, and beldam united in one…The conclusion is wholly destitute of any foundation in truth, and I did it out of revenge. Albion and Marina are both alive and well for aught I know.One thing, however, will certainly break my heart, and that is the admission of any scandal against Tree (the publisher); but I hope my readers will pardon me for it, as I promise to make amends with usury the next time I write a book.C. Wellesley,October 12th, 1880.I wrote this in four hours.—C. B.CHAPTER IALBIONThereis a certain sweet little pastoral village in the south of England with which I am better acquainted than most men. The scenery around it possesses no distinguishing characteristic of romantic grandeur or wildness that might figure to advantage in a novel, to which high title this brief narrative sets up no pretensions.Neither rugged lofty rocks, nor mountains dimly huge, mark with frowns the undisturbed face of nature; but little peaceful valleys, low hills crowned with wood, murmuring cascades and streamlets, richly cultivated fields, farmhouses, cottages, and a wide river, form all the scenic features. And every hamlet has one or more great men.This had one and he was ‘na sheep-shanks.’Every ear in the world had heard of his fame, and every tongue could bear testimony to it. I shall name him the Duke of Strathelleraye, and by that name the village was likewise denominated.For more than thirty miles around every inch of ground belonged to him and every man was his retainer.The magnificent villa, or rather palace, of this noble, stood on an eminence, surrounded by a vast park and the embowering shade of an ancient wood, proudly seeming to claim the allegiance of all the countryside.The mind, achievements, and character of its great possessor, must not,cannot, be depicted by a pen so feeble as mine; for though I could call filial love and devoted admiration to my aid, yet both would be utterly ineffective.Though the duke seldom himself came among his attached vassals, being detained elsewhere by important avocations, yet his lady the duchess resided in the castle constantly. Of her I can only say that she was like an earthly angel. Her mind was composed of charity, beneficence, gentleness, and sweetness. All, both old and young, loved her; and the blessings of those that were ready to perish came upon her evermore.His Grace had also two sons, who often visited Strathelleraye.Of the youngest, Lord Cornelius, everything is said when I inform the reader that he was seventeen years of age, grave, sententious, stoical, rather haughty and sarcastic, of a fine countenance though somewhat swarthy; that he had long thick hair black as the hoody’s wing; and liked nothing so well as to sit in moody silence musing over the vanity of human affairs, or improving and expanding his mind by the abstruse study of the higher branches of mathematics, and that sublime science astronomy.The eldest son, Albion, Marquis of Tagus, is the hero of my present tale. He had entered his nineteenth year; his stature was lofty; his form equal in the magnificence of its proportions to that of Apollo Belvedere. The bright wealth and curls of his rich brown hair waved over a forehead of the purest marble in the placidity of its unveined whiteness. His nose and mouth were cast in the most perfect mould. But saw I never anything to equal his eye! Oh! I could have stood riveted with the chains of admiration gazing for hours upon it! What clearness, depth, and lucid transparency in those large orbs of radiant brown! And the fascination of his smile was irresistible, though seldom did that sunshine of the mind break through the thoughtful and almost melancholy expression of his noble features. He was a soldier, captain in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, and all his attitudes and actions were full of martial grace. His mental faculties were in exact keeping with such an exterior, being of the highest order; and though not like his younger brother, wholly given up to study, yet he was well versed in the ancient languages, and deeply read in the Greek and Roman classics, in addition to the best works in the British, German, and Italian tongues.Such was my hero. The only blot I was ever able to discover in his character was that of a slight fierceness or impetuosity of temper which sometimes carried him beyond bounds, though at the slightest look or word of command from his father he instantly bridled his passion and became perfectly calm.No wonder the duke should be, as he was, proud of such a son.CHAPTER IIMARINAAbout two miles from the castle there stood a pretty house, entirely hid from view by a thick forest, in a glade of which it was situated.Behind it was a smooth lawn fringed with odoriferous shrubs, and before it a tasteful flower garden.This was the abode of Sir Alured Angus, a Scotchman, who was physician to His Grace, and though of gentlemanly manners and demeanour, yet harsh, stern, and somewhat querulous in countenance and disposition.He was a widower, and had but one child, a daughter, whom I shall call Marina, which nearly resembles her true name.No wild rose blooming in solitude, or bluebell peering from an old wall, ever equalled in loveliness this flower of the forest. The hue of her cheek would excel the most delicate tint of the former, even when its bud is just opening to the breath of summer, and the clear azure of her eyes would cause the latter to appear dull as a dusky hyacinth. Also, the silken tresses of her hazel hair straying in light ringlets down a neck and forehead of snow seemed more elegant than the young tendrils of a vine. Her dress was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity. Pure white or vernal green were the colours she constantly wore, without any jewels save one row of pearls round her neck. She never stirred beyond the precincts of the wooded and pleasant green lane which skirted a long cornfield near the house. There on warm summer evenings she would ramble and linger listening to the woodlark’s song, and occasionally join her own more harmonious voice to its delightful warblings.When the gloomy days and nights of autumn and winter did not permit these walks she amused herself with drawing (for which she had an exact taste), playing on the harp, reading the best English, French, and Italian works (all which languages she understood) in her father’s extensive library, and sometimes a little light needlework.Thus in a state of almost perfect seclusion (for seldom had she even Sir Alured’s company, as he generally resided in London) she was quite happy, and reflected with innocent wonder on those who could find pleasure in the noisy delights of what is called ‘fashionable society.’One day, as Lady Strathelleraye was walking in the wood she met Marina, and on learning who she was, being charmed with her beauty and sweet manners, invited her to go on the morrow to the castle. She did so, and there met the Marquis of Tagus.Hewas even more surprised and pleased with her than the duchess, and when she was gone he asked his mother many questions about her, all of which she answered to his satisfaction.For some time afterwards he appeared listless and abstracted. The reader will readily perceive that he had, to use a cant phrase, ‘fallen in love.’Lord Cornelius, his brother, warned him of the folly of doing so; but instead of listening to his sage admonitions he first strove to laugh, and then frowning at him commanded silence.In a few days he paid a visit to Oakwood House (Sir Alured’s mansion), and after that became more gloomy than before.His father observed this, and one day as they were sitting alone remarked it to Albion, adding that he was fully acquainted with the reason.Albion reddened but made no answer.‘I am not, my son,’ continued the duke, ‘opposed to your wishes, though certainly there is a considerable difference of rank between yourself and Marina Angus, but that difference is compensated by the many admirable qualities she possesses.’On hearing these words, Arthur,—Albion, I mean, —started up, and throwing himself at his father’s feet, poured forth his thanks in terms of glowing gratitude, while his fine features, flushed with excitation, spoke even more eloquently than his eloquent words.‘Rise, Albion!’ said the duke; ‘you are worthy of her and she of you; but both are yet too young. Some years must elapse before your union takes place; therefore exert your patience, my son.’Albion’s joy was slightly damped by this news, but his thankfulness and filial obedience as well as love forced him to acquiesce, and immediately after he quitted the room and took his way to Oakwood House.There he related the circumstance to Marina, who, though she blushed incredulously, yet in truth felt as much gladness and as great a relief from doubt almost amounting to despair as himself.CHAPTER IIIGLASS TOWNA few months afterwards the Duke of Strathelleraye determined to visit that wonder of the world, the great city of Africa: the Glass Town, of whose splendour, magnificence, and extent, strength and riches, occasional tidings came from afar, wafted by breezes of the ocean to Merry England.But to most of the inhabitants of that little isle it bore the character of a dream or gorgeous fiction. They were unable to comprehend how mere human beings could construct fabrics of such a marvellous size and grandeur as many of the public buildings were represented to be; and as to the ‘Tower of all the Nations,’ few believed in its existence. It seemed as the cities of old: Nineveh or Babylon with the temples of their gods, Ninus or Jupiter Belus, and their halls of Astarté and Semalt. These most people believe to be magnified by the dim haze of intervening ages, and the exaggerating page of history through which medium we behold them.The duke, as he had received many invitations from the Glass Townians, who were impatient to behold one whose renown had spread so far, and who likewise possessed vast dominions near the African coast, informed his lady, the Marquis of Tagus, and Lord Cornelius, that in a month’s time he should take his departure with them, and that he should expect them all to be prepared at that period, adding that when they returned Marina Angus should be created Marchioness of Tagus.Though it was a bitter trial to Albion to part with one to whom he was now so entirely devoted, yet, comforted by the last part of his father’s speech, he obeyed without murmuring.On the last evening of his stay in Strathelleraye he took a sad farewell of Marina, who wept as if hopeless; but suddenly restraining her griefs she looked up, with her beautiful eyes irradiated by a smile that like a ray of light illumined the crystal tears, and whispered:‘I shall be happy when you return.’Then they parted; and Albion during his voyage over the wide ocean often thought for comfort on her last words.It is a common superstition that the words uttered by a friend on separating are prophetic, and these certainly portended nothing but peace.CHAPTER IVLITERARY AMBITIONSIn due course of time they arrived at the Glass Town, and were welcomed with enthusiastic cordiality.After the duke had visited his kingdom he returned to the chief metropolis and established his residence there at Salamanca Palace.The Marquis of Tagus from the noble beauty of his person attracted considerable attention wherever he went, and in a short period he had won and attached many faithful friends of the highest rank and abilities.From his love of elegant literature and the fine arts in general, painters and poets were soon among his warmest admirers. He himself possessed a most sublime genius, but as yet its full extent was unknown to him.One day as he was meditating alone on the world of waters that rolled between him and the fair Marina, he determined to put his feelings on paper in a tangible shape that he might hereafter show them to her when anticipation had given place to fruition. He took his pen, and in about a quarter of an hour had completed a brief poem of exquisite beauty. The attempt pleased him and soothed the anguish that lingered in his heart. It likewise gave him an insight into the astonishing faculties of his own mind; and a longing for immortality, an ambition of glory, seized him.He was a devoted worshipper of the divine works that the Grecian tragedians have left for all succeeding ages to marvel at, particularly those of Sophocles the Majestic; and his mind was deeply embued with the spirit of their eagle-like flights into higher regions than that of earth or even Parnassus.Being now sensible in a degree of his lofty powers, he determined, like Milton, to write somewhat that the traditionary muses would not willingly let die, and accordingly commenced a tragedy entitled: ‘Necropolis, or the City of the Dead.’ Here was set forth in a strain of the grandest mind the mysteries of ancient Egyptian worship; and he has acknowledged to me that he felt his being absorbed while he wrote it, even by the words himself had made.Sublime is this surprising production! It is indeed, in the words of an eminent writer (Captain Tree), ‘a noble instance of the almost perfectibility of human intellect’; but there hovers over it a feeling of tender melancholy, for the image of Marina haunted his thoughts, and Amalthea, his heroine, is but an impersonation of her.This tragedy wreathed the laurels of fame round his brow, and his after-productions, each of which seemed to excel the other, added new wreaths to those which already beautified his temples.I cannot follow him in the splendour of his literary career, nor even mention so much as the titles of his various works. Suffice it to say he became one of the greatest poets of the age; and one of the chief motives that influenced him in his exertions for renown was to render himself worthy to possess such a treasure as Marina. She in whatever he was employed was never out of his thoughts, and none had he as yet beheld among all the ladies of the Glass Town,—though rich, titled, and handsome strove by innumerable arts to gain his favour, —whom he could even compare with her.CHAPTER VLADY ZELVIA ELLRINGTONOne evening Albion was invited to the house of Earl Cruachan, where was a large party assembled. Among the guests was one lady apparently about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. In figure she was very tall, and both it and her face were of a perfectly Roman cast. Her features were regularly and finely formed, her full and brilliant eyes jetty black, as were the luxuriant tresses of her richly-curled hair. Her dark glowing complexion was set off by a robe of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, and a nodding plume of black ostrich feathers added to the imposing dignity of her appearance.Albion, notwithstanding her unusual comeliness, hardly noticed her till Earl Cruachan rose and introduced her to him as the Lady Zelvia Ellrington.She was the most learned and noted woman in Glass Town, and he was pleased with this opportunity of seeing her.For some time she entertained him with a discourse of the most lively eloquence, and indeed Madame de Staël herself could not have gone beyond Lady Zelvia in the conversational talent; and on this occasion she exerted herself to the utmost, as she was in the presence of so distinguished a man, and one whom she seemed ambitious to please.At length one of the guests asked her to favour the company with a song and tune on the grand piano. At first she refused, but on Albion seconding the request rose, and taking from the drawing-room table a small volume of poems opened it at one by the Marquis of Tagus. She then set it to a fine air and sang as follows, while she skilfully accompanied her voice upon the instrument:—I think of thee when the moonbeams playOn the placid water’s face;For thus thy blue eyes’ lustrous rayShone with resembling grace.I think of thee when the snowy swanGlides calmly down the stream;Its plumes the breezes scarcely fan,Awed by their radiant gleam.For thus I’ve seen the loud winds hushTo pass thy beauty by,With soft caress and playful rush’Mid thy bright tresses fly.And I have seen the wild birds sailIn rings thy head above,While thou hast stood like lily paleUnknowing of their love.Oh! for the day when once againMine eyes shall gaze on thee;But an ocean vast, a sounding main,An ever howling sea,Roll on betweenWith their billows green,High tost tempestuously.This song had been composed by Albion soon after his arrival at the Glass Town. The person addressed was Marina. The full rich tones of Lady Zelvia’s voice did ample justice to the subject, and he expressed his sense of the honour she had done him in appropriate terms.When she had finished the company departed, for it was then rather late.CHAPTER VITHE SPIRIT OF MARINAAs Albion pursued his way homewards alone he began insensibly to meditate on the majestic charms of Lady Zelvia Ellrington, and to compare them with the gentler ones of Marina Angus. At first he could hardly tell which to give the preference to, for though he still almost idolised Marina, yet an absence of four years had considerably deadened his remembrance of her person.While he was thus employed he heard a soft but mournful voice whisper ‘Albion!’He turned hastily round, and saw the form of the identical Marina at a little distance distinctly visible by the moonlight.‘Marina! My dearest Marina!’ he exclaimed, springing towards her, while joy unutterable filled his heart; ‘how did you come here? Have the angels in Heaven brought you?’So saying he stretched out his hand, but she eluded his grasp, and slowly gliding away, said: ‘Do not forget me; I shall be happy when you return.’Then the apparition vanished. It seemed to have appeared merely to assert her superiority over her rival, and indeed the moment Albion beheld her beauty he felt that it was peerless.But now wonder and perplexity took possession of his mind. He could not account for this vision except by the common solution of supernatural agency, and that ancient creed’ his enlightened understanding had hitherto rejected until it was forced upon him by this extraordinary incident.One thing there was, however, the interpretation of which he thought he could not mistake, and that was the repetition of her last words: ‘I shall be happy when you return.’ It showed that she was still alive, and that which he had seen could not be her wraith. However, he made a memorandum of the day and hour, namely, the 18th of June 1815, twelve o’clock at night.From this time the natural melancholy turn of his disposition increased, for the dread of her death before he should return was constantly before him, and the ardency of his adoration and desire to see her again redoubled.At length, not being able any longer to bear his misery he revealed it to his father; and the duke, touched with his grief and the fidelity of his attachment, gave him full permission to visit England and bring back Marina with him to Africa.CHAPTER VIIALBION’S RETURNI need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived in England.It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye.Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room.As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear. His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender fingers the quivering chords.Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him, he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the following words:—Long my anxious ear hath listenedFor the step that ne’er returned;And my tearful eye hath glistened,And my heart hath daily burned,But now I rest.Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning;Even the star-like woodland flower,With its leaflets fair, adorningThe pathway to the forest-bower,Drooped its head.From the cavern of the mountain,From the groves that crown the hill,From the stream, and from the fountain,Sounds prophetic murmured still,Betokening grief.Boding winds came fitful, sighing,Through the tall and leafy trees;Birds of omen, wildly crying,Sent their calls upon the breezeWailing round me.At each sound I paled and trembled,At each step I raised my head,Hearkening if it his resembled,Or if news that he was deadWere come from far.All my days were days of weeping;Thoughts of grim despair were stirred;Time on leaden feet seemed creeping;Long heart-sickness, hope deferredCankered my heart.Here the music and singing suddenly ceased.Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.No trace of Marina was visible, no harp or other instrument of harmony, and the cold lunar light streamed through a void space instead of the glass door. He sprang up and called aloud: ‘Marina! Marina!’ But only an echo as of empty rooms answered. Almost distracted he rushed into the open air. A child was standing alone at the garden gate, who advanced towards him and said: ‘I will lead you to Marina Angus; she has removed from that house to another.’Albion followed the child till they came to a long row of tall dark trees leading to a churchyard, which they entered, and the child vanished, leaving Albion beside a white marble tombstone on which was chiselled:—MARINA ANGUSShe died18th of June 1815at12 o’clockmidnight.When Albion had read this he felt a pang of horrible anguish wring his heart and convulse his whole frame. With a loud groan he fell across the tomb and lay there senseless a long time, till at length he was waked from the death-like trance to behold the spirit of Marina, which stood beside him for a moment, and then murmuring, ‘Albion, I am happy, for I am at peace,’ disappeared!For a few days he lingered round her tomb, and then quitted Strathelleraye, where he was never again heard of.The reason of Marina’s death I shall briefly relate. Four years after Albion’s departure tidings came to the village that he was dead. The news broke Marina’s faithful heart. The day after, she was no more.C. B.,October 12th, 1830.
Thisis Charlotte Brontë’s first love story. It was printed by permission of Mr. Clement Shorter, the owner of the copyright of all the unpublished Brontë manuscripts, in the Brontë Society Publications, Part xxx., 1920, and is now reprinted for the first time.C. W. H.
Thisis Charlotte Brontë’s first love story. It was printed by permission of Mr. Clement Shorter, the owner of the copyright of all the unpublished Brontë manuscripts, in the Brontë Society Publications, Part xxx., 1920, and is now reprinted for the first time.
C. W. H.
ALBION ANDMARINAATALE BYLORDWELLESLEYPRINCIPAL PARTPOSSESSING FACTFOR ITS FOUNDATION.PUBLISHEDAND SOLD BY SERGEANTTREEAND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS IN THE CHIEF GLASS TOWN,PARIS, &C.
ALBION ANDMARINA
ATALE BYLORDWELLESLEY
PRINCIPAL PARTPOSSESSING FACTFOR ITS FOUNDATION.
PUBLISHEDAND SOLD BY SERGEANTTREEAND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS IN THE CHIEF GLASS TOWN,PARIS, &C.
I havewritten this tale out of malignity for the injuries that have lately been offered to me. Many parts, especially the former, were composed under a mysterious influence that I cannot account for.
My reader will easily recognise the characters through the thin veil which I have thrown over them. I have considerably flattered Lady Zelvia Ellrington. She is not nearly so handsome as I have represented her, and she strove far more vigorously to oust some one from another person’s good graces than I say. But her endeavours failed. Albion has hitherto stood firm. What he will do I cannot even pretend to guess; but I think that Marina’s incomparable superiority will prevail over her Frenchified rival, who, as all the world knows, is a miller, jockey, talker, blue-stocking, charioteer, and beldam united in one…
The conclusion is wholly destitute of any foundation in truth, and I did it out of revenge. Albion and Marina are both alive and well for aught I know.
One thing, however, will certainly break my heart, and that is the admission of any scandal against Tree (the publisher); but I hope my readers will pardon me for it, as I promise to make amends with usury the next time I write a book.
C. Wellesley,
October 12th, 1880.
I wrote this in four hours.—C. B.
Thereis a certain sweet little pastoral village in the south of England with which I am better acquainted than most men. The scenery around it possesses no distinguishing characteristic of romantic grandeur or wildness that might figure to advantage in a novel, to which high title this brief narrative sets up no pretensions.
Neither rugged lofty rocks, nor mountains dimly huge, mark with frowns the undisturbed face of nature; but little peaceful valleys, low hills crowned with wood, murmuring cascades and streamlets, richly cultivated fields, farmhouses, cottages, and a wide river, form all the scenic features. And every hamlet has one or more great men.
This had one and he was ‘na sheep-shanks.’
Every ear in the world had heard of his fame, and every tongue could bear testimony to it. I shall name him the Duke of Strathelleraye, and by that name the village was likewise denominated.
For more than thirty miles around every inch of ground belonged to him and every man was his retainer.
The magnificent villa, or rather palace, of this noble, stood on an eminence, surrounded by a vast park and the embowering shade of an ancient wood, proudly seeming to claim the allegiance of all the countryside.
The mind, achievements, and character of its great possessor, must not,cannot, be depicted by a pen so feeble as mine; for though I could call filial love and devoted admiration to my aid, yet both would be utterly ineffective.
Though the duke seldom himself came among his attached vassals, being detained elsewhere by important avocations, yet his lady the duchess resided in the castle constantly. Of her I can only say that she was like an earthly angel. Her mind was composed of charity, beneficence, gentleness, and sweetness. All, both old and young, loved her; and the blessings of those that were ready to perish came upon her evermore.
His Grace had also two sons, who often visited Strathelleraye.
Of the youngest, Lord Cornelius, everything is said when I inform the reader that he was seventeen years of age, grave, sententious, stoical, rather haughty and sarcastic, of a fine countenance though somewhat swarthy; that he had long thick hair black as the hoody’s wing; and liked nothing so well as to sit in moody silence musing over the vanity of human affairs, or improving and expanding his mind by the abstruse study of the higher branches of mathematics, and that sublime science astronomy.
The eldest son, Albion, Marquis of Tagus, is the hero of my present tale. He had entered his nineteenth year; his stature was lofty; his form equal in the magnificence of its proportions to that of Apollo Belvedere. The bright wealth and curls of his rich brown hair waved over a forehead of the purest marble in the placidity of its unveined whiteness. His nose and mouth were cast in the most perfect mould. But saw I never anything to equal his eye! Oh! I could have stood riveted with the chains of admiration gazing for hours upon it! What clearness, depth, and lucid transparency in those large orbs of radiant brown! And the fascination of his smile was irresistible, though seldom did that sunshine of the mind break through the thoughtful and almost melancholy expression of his noble features. He was a soldier, captain in the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards, and all his attitudes and actions were full of martial grace. His mental faculties were in exact keeping with such an exterior, being of the highest order; and though not like his younger brother, wholly given up to study, yet he was well versed in the ancient languages, and deeply read in the Greek and Roman classics, in addition to the best works in the British, German, and Italian tongues.
Such was my hero. The only blot I was ever able to discover in his character was that of a slight fierceness or impetuosity of temper which sometimes carried him beyond bounds, though at the slightest look or word of command from his father he instantly bridled his passion and became perfectly calm.
No wonder the duke should be, as he was, proud of such a son.
About two miles from the castle there stood a pretty house, entirely hid from view by a thick forest, in a glade of which it was situated.
Behind it was a smooth lawn fringed with odoriferous shrubs, and before it a tasteful flower garden.
This was the abode of Sir Alured Angus, a Scotchman, who was physician to His Grace, and though of gentlemanly manners and demeanour, yet harsh, stern, and somewhat querulous in countenance and disposition.
He was a widower, and had but one child, a daughter, whom I shall call Marina, which nearly resembles her true name.
No wild rose blooming in solitude, or bluebell peering from an old wall, ever equalled in loveliness this flower of the forest. The hue of her cheek would excel the most delicate tint of the former, even when its bud is just opening to the breath of summer, and the clear azure of her eyes would cause the latter to appear dull as a dusky hyacinth. Also, the silken tresses of her hazel hair straying in light ringlets down a neck and forehead of snow seemed more elegant than the young tendrils of a vine. Her dress was almost Quaker-like in its simplicity. Pure white or vernal green were the colours she constantly wore, without any jewels save one row of pearls round her neck. She never stirred beyond the precincts of the wooded and pleasant green lane which skirted a long cornfield near the house. There on warm summer evenings she would ramble and linger listening to the woodlark’s song, and occasionally join her own more harmonious voice to its delightful warblings.
When the gloomy days and nights of autumn and winter did not permit these walks she amused herself with drawing (for which she had an exact taste), playing on the harp, reading the best English, French, and Italian works (all which languages she understood) in her father’s extensive library, and sometimes a little light needlework.
Thus in a state of almost perfect seclusion (for seldom had she even Sir Alured’s company, as he generally resided in London) she was quite happy, and reflected with innocent wonder on those who could find pleasure in the noisy delights of what is called ‘fashionable society.’
One day, as Lady Strathelleraye was walking in the wood she met Marina, and on learning who she was, being charmed with her beauty and sweet manners, invited her to go on the morrow to the castle. She did so, and there met the Marquis of Tagus.Hewas even more surprised and pleased with her than the duchess, and when she was gone he asked his mother many questions about her, all of which she answered to his satisfaction.
For some time afterwards he appeared listless and abstracted. The reader will readily perceive that he had, to use a cant phrase, ‘fallen in love.’
Lord Cornelius, his brother, warned him of the folly of doing so; but instead of listening to his sage admonitions he first strove to laugh, and then frowning at him commanded silence.
In a few days he paid a visit to Oakwood House (Sir Alured’s mansion), and after that became more gloomy than before.
His father observed this, and one day as they were sitting alone remarked it to Albion, adding that he was fully acquainted with the reason.
Albion reddened but made no answer.
‘I am not, my son,’ continued the duke, ‘opposed to your wishes, though certainly there is a considerable difference of rank between yourself and Marina Angus, but that difference is compensated by the many admirable qualities she possesses.’
On hearing these words, Arthur,—Albion, I mean, —started up, and throwing himself at his father’s feet, poured forth his thanks in terms of glowing gratitude, while his fine features, flushed with excitation, spoke even more eloquently than his eloquent words.
‘Rise, Albion!’ said the duke; ‘you are worthy of her and she of you; but both are yet too young. Some years must elapse before your union takes place; therefore exert your patience, my son.’
Albion’s joy was slightly damped by this news, but his thankfulness and filial obedience as well as love forced him to acquiesce, and immediately after he quitted the room and took his way to Oakwood House.
There he related the circumstance to Marina, who, though she blushed incredulously, yet in truth felt as much gladness and as great a relief from doubt almost amounting to despair as himself.
A few months afterwards the Duke of Strathelleraye determined to visit that wonder of the world, the great city of Africa: the Glass Town, of whose splendour, magnificence, and extent, strength and riches, occasional tidings came from afar, wafted by breezes of the ocean to Merry England.
But to most of the inhabitants of that little isle it bore the character of a dream or gorgeous fiction. They were unable to comprehend how mere human beings could construct fabrics of such a marvellous size and grandeur as many of the public buildings were represented to be; and as to the ‘Tower of all the Nations,’ few believed in its existence. It seemed as the cities of old: Nineveh or Babylon with the temples of their gods, Ninus or Jupiter Belus, and their halls of Astarté and Semalt. These most people believe to be magnified by the dim haze of intervening ages, and the exaggerating page of history through which medium we behold them.
The duke, as he had received many invitations from the Glass Townians, who were impatient to behold one whose renown had spread so far, and who likewise possessed vast dominions near the African coast, informed his lady, the Marquis of Tagus, and Lord Cornelius, that in a month’s time he should take his departure with them, and that he should expect them all to be prepared at that period, adding that when they returned Marina Angus should be created Marchioness of Tagus.
Though it was a bitter trial to Albion to part with one to whom he was now so entirely devoted, yet, comforted by the last part of his father’s speech, he obeyed without murmuring.
On the last evening of his stay in Strathelleraye he took a sad farewell of Marina, who wept as if hopeless; but suddenly restraining her griefs she looked up, with her beautiful eyes irradiated by a smile that like a ray of light illumined the crystal tears, and whispered:
‘I shall be happy when you return.’
Then they parted; and Albion during his voyage over the wide ocean often thought for comfort on her last words.
It is a common superstition that the words uttered by a friend on separating are prophetic, and these certainly portended nothing but peace.
In due course of time they arrived at the Glass Town, and were welcomed with enthusiastic cordiality.
After the duke had visited his kingdom he returned to the chief metropolis and established his residence there at Salamanca Palace.
The Marquis of Tagus from the noble beauty of his person attracted considerable attention wherever he went, and in a short period he had won and attached many faithful friends of the highest rank and abilities.
From his love of elegant literature and the fine arts in general, painters and poets were soon among his warmest admirers. He himself possessed a most sublime genius, but as yet its full extent was unknown to him.
One day as he was meditating alone on the world of waters that rolled between him and the fair Marina, he determined to put his feelings on paper in a tangible shape that he might hereafter show them to her when anticipation had given place to fruition. He took his pen, and in about a quarter of an hour had completed a brief poem of exquisite beauty. The attempt pleased him and soothed the anguish that lingered in his heart. It likewise gave him an insight into the astonishing faculties of his own mind; and a longing for immortality, an ambition of glory, seized him.
He was a devoted worshipper of the divine works that the Grecian tragedians have left for all succeeding ages to marvel at, particularly those of Sophocles the Majestic; and his mind was deeply embued with the spirit of their eagle-like flights into higher regions than that of earth or even Parnassus.
Being now sensible in a degree of his lofty powers, he determined, like Milton, to write somewhat that the traditionary muses would not willingly let die, and accordingly commenced a tragedy entitled: ‘Necropolis, or the City of the Dead.’ Here was set forth in a strain of the grandest mind the mysteries of ancient Egyptian worship; and he has acknowledged to me that he felt his being absorbed while he wrote it, even by the words himself had made.
Sublime is this surprising production! It is indeed, in the words of an eminent writer (Captain Tree), ‘a noble instance of the almost perfectibility of human intellect’; but there hovers over it a feeling of tender melancholy, for the image of Marina haunted his thoughts, and Amalthea, his heroine, is but an impersonation of her.
This tragedy wreathed the laurels of fame round his brow, and his after-productions, each of which seemed to excel the other, added new wreaths to those which already beautified his temples.
I cannot follow him in the splendour of his literary career, nor even mention so much as the titles of his various works. Suffice it to say he became one of the greatest poets of the age; and one of the chief motives that influenced him in his exertions for renown was to render himself worthy to possess such a treasure as Marina. She in whatever he was employed was never out of his thoughts, and none had he as yet beheld among all the ladies of the Glass Town,—though rich, titled, and handsome strove by innumerable arts to gain his favour, —whom he could even compare with her.
One evening Albion was invited to the house of Earl Cruachan, where was a large party assembled. Among the guests was one lady apparently about twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. In figure she was very tall, and both it and her face were of a perfectly Roman cast. Her features were regularly and finely formed, her full and brilliant eyes jetty black, as were the luxuriant tresses of her richly-curled hair. Her dark glowing complexion was set off by a robe of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, and a nodding plume of black ostrich feathers added to the imposing dignity of her appearance.
Albion, notwithstanding her unusual comeliness, hardly noticed her till Earl Cruachan rose and introduced her to him as the Lady Zelvia Ellrington.
She was the most learned and noted woman in Glass Town, and he was pleased with this opportunity of seeing her.
For some time she entertained him with a discourse of the most lively eloquence, and indeed Madame de Staël herself could not have gone beyond Lady Zelvia in the conversational talent; and on this occasion she exerted herself to the utmost, as she was in the presence of so distinguished a man, and one whom she seemed ambitious to please.
At length one of the guests asked her to favour the company with a song and tune on the grand piano. At first she refused, but on Albion seconding the request rose, and taking from the drawing-room table a small volume of poems opened it at one by the Marquis of Tagus. She then set it to a fine air and sang as follows, while she skilfully accompanied her voice upon the instrument:—
I think of thee when the moonbeams playOn the placid water’s face;For thus thy blue eyes’ lustrous rayShone with resembling grace.I think of thee when the snowy swanGlides calmly down the stream;Its plumes the breezes scarcely fan,Awed by their radiant gleam.For thus I’ve seen the loud winds hushTo pass thy beauty by,With soft caress and playful rush’Mid thy bright tresses fly.And I have seen the wild birds sailIn rings thy head above,While thou hast stood like lily paleUnknowing of their love.Oh! for the day when once againMine eyes shall gaze on thee;But an ocean vast, a sounding main,An ever howling sea,Roll on betweenWith their billows green,High tost tempestuously.
This song had been composed by Albion soon after his arrival at the Glass Town. The person addressed was Marina. The full rich tones of Lady Zelvia’s voice did ample justice to the subject, and he expressed his sense of the honour she had done him in appropriate terms.
When she had finished the company departed, for it was then rather late.
As Albion pursued his way homewards alone he began insensibly to meditate on the majestic charms of Lady Zelvia Ellrington, and to compare them with the gentler ones of Marina Angus. At first he could hardly tell which to give the preference to, for though he still almost idolised Marina, yet an absence of four years had considerably deadened his remembrance of her person.
While he was thus employed he heard a soft but mournful voice whisper ‘Albion!’
He turned hastily round, and saw the form of the identical Marina at a little distance distinctly visible by the moonlight.
‘Marina! My dearest Marina!’ he exclaimed, springing towards her, while joy unutterable filled his heart; ‘how did you come here? Have the angels in Heaven brought you?’
So saying he stretched out his hand, but she eluded his grasp, and slowly gliding away, said: ‘Do not forget me; I shall be happy when you return.’
Then the apparition vanished. It seemed to have appeared merely to assert her superiority over her rival, and indeed the moment Albion beheld her beauty he felt that it was peerless.
But now wonder and perplexity took possession of his mind. He could not account for this vision except by the common solution of supernatural agency, and that ancient creed’ his enlightened understanding had hitherto rejected until it was forced upon him by this extraordinary incident.
One thing there was, however, the interpretation of which he thought he could not mistake, and that was the repetition of her last words: ‘I shall be happy when you return.’ It showed that she was still alive, and that which he had seen could not be her wraith. However, he made a memorandum of the day and hour, namely, the 18th of June 1815, twelve o’clock at night.
From this time the natural melancholy turn of his disposition increased, for the dread of her death before he should return was constantly before him, and the ardency of his adoration and desire to see her again redoubled.
At length, not being able any longer to bear his misery he revealed it to his father; and the duke, touched with his grief and the fidelity of his attachment, gave him full permission to visit England and bring back Marina with him to Africa.
I need not trouble the reader with a minute detail of the circumstances of Albion’s voyage, but shall pass on to what happened after he arrived in England.
It was a fair evening in September 1815 when he reached Strathelleraye.
Without waiting to enter the halls of his fathers he proceeded immediately to Oakwood House. As he approached it he almost sickened when for an instant the thought that she might be no more passed across his mind, but summoning hope to his aid and resting on her golden anchor he passed up the lawn and gained the glass doors of the drawing-room.
As he drew near a sweet symphony of harp music swelled on his ear. His heart bounded within him at the sound. He knew that no fingers but hers could create those melodious tones with which now blended the harmony of a sweet and sad but well-known voice. He lifted the vine branch that shaded the door and beheld Marina, more beautiful he thought than ever, seated at her harp sweeping with her slender fingers the quivering chords.
Without being observed by her, as she had her face turned from him, he entered, and sitting down leaned his head on his hand and, closing his eyes, listened with feelings of overwhelming transport to the following words:—
Long my anxious ear hath listenedFor the step that ne’er returned;And my tearful eye hath glistened,And my heart hath daily burned,But now I rest.Nature’s self seemed clothed in mourning;Even the star-like woodland flower,With its leaflets fair, adorningThe pathway to the forest-bower,Drooped its head.From the cavern of the mountain,From the groves that crown the hill,From the stream, and from the fountain,Sounds prophetic murmured still,Betokening grief.Boding winds came fitful, sighing,Through the tall and leafy trees;Birds of omen, wildly crying,Sent their calls upon the breezeWailing round me.At each sound I paled and trembled,At each step I raised my head,Hearkening if it his resembled,Or if news that he was deadWere come from far.All my days were days of weeping;Thoughts of grim despair were stirred;Time on leaden feet seemed creeping;Long heart-sickness, hope deferredCankered my heart.
Here the music and singing suddenly ceased.
Albion raised his head. All was darkness except where the silver moonbeams showed a desolate and ruined apartment instead of the elegant parlour that a few minutes before had gladdened his sight.
No trace of Marina was visible, no harp or other instrument of harmony, and the cold lunar light streamed through a void space instead of the glass door. He sprang up and called aloud: ‘Marina! Marina!’ But only an echo as of empty rooms answered. Almost distracted he rushed into the open air. A child was standing alone at the garden gate, who advanced towards him and said: ‘I will lead you to Marina Angus; she has removed from that house to another.’
Albion followed the child till they came to a long row of tall dark trees leading to a churchyard, which they entered, and the child vanished, leaving Albion beside a white marble tombstone on which was chiselled:—
MARINA ANGUSShe died18th of June 1815at12 o’clockmidnight.
When Albion had read this he felt a pang of horrible anguish wring his heart and convulse his whole frame. With a loud groan he fell across the tomb and lay there senseless a long time, till at length he was waked from the death-like trance to behold the spirit of Marina, which stood beside him for a moment, and then murmuring, ‘Albion, I am happy, for I am at peace,’ disappeared!
For a few days he lingered round her tomb, and then quitted Strathelleraye, where he was never again heard of.
The reason of Marina’s death I shall briefly relate. Four years after Albion’s departure tidings came to the village that he was dead. The news broke Marina’s faithful heart. The day after, she was no more.
C. B.,
October 12th, 1830.