Though past, thou art a joy to come— Sorrow is sweet; to thee once wed, And tears without regret are shed." The audience, at first more observant and critical, were becoming abstracted, and, in a remarkable degree, under the influence of the actor. He had now wound them up to a certain pitch; he felt his power to do more, but reserved its full effect for the concluding scene. Meantime the Chorus reappears with the joyful news from earth that men have begun to think, and to rely upon knowledge, but Durante only the more forcibly regrets the losses already sustained by the world. "Mankind could ill afford to lose the great-who perished in obscurity. Though want-may sharpen some to action, more it warnsagainst the fatal rock in every age-where lovely, generous, ill-requited mind-hath suffered wreck. For this I here will stay-and wander midst immortal ruins; here pour out my just complaint, until the ear -of justice, tired to hear so many woes-traced to a cause so little cared-for, turns,—and takes up my report." The Chorus demands in what manner they can aid the hero's purpose he desires them to make their own works universally known. They accept the task, and he rejoices in henceforth consigning his destiny to the mind which governs him, and which he thus addresses : "Thou beautiful, mysterious power of mind!-Though finite, served by thought thy messenger,-thou dost pervade all time, and hast the means to be an omnipresence. Beauteous gift!-To thee I now consign my destiny.-I feel thy strength again how great it is.-Now do I plant my standard on thy rock,-and fear not mortal or immortal foes." Then an angel alights on the island, and would dissuade Durante from his purpose, entreating him to leave all things to Providence: Durante declares himself the servant of that power. But the angel announces that he comes not to contend, but to bear grace. Durante briefly replies: "Sweet messenger of love, remember me ;-thy mercy only for a time postpone, and mark the good I set on foot for man. "Earth was my birthplace, there my spirit cleaves-until the universe sums up her debt,-and is dismissed. All have I sacrificed-to prosper man, and, while my oath has force,-him must I succour. "Thou, eternal Truth!-wilt reign above, and be in vigorous youth, -when all that now prevails is passed away. "What do I see? A host of angels comes-to drive me, wretched, from this classic isle,-to wander ever through the worlds alone,—unloved, unknown, unhonoured by my kind. "Yet, while I speak, do sounds divine salute-my ear, as if by final harmony-called to the councils of the wise and good-whose reign is not begun. "Yes, still I feel the spell of right to charm my soul along-a future placed beyond this future's dawn. "Then, hail! ye intervening hours of gloom;-ye places of false hope, and false despair,-where storms the more they rise the more they nerve-this arm to buffet them. "The flaming swords-approach me yet more near, to drive me hence. -They threat me with their fiery lash, which hurls-a glare before them. But I still remain-buoyed up with an enduring force which turns-my anguish to defence. "O God! Thou knowest-the virtue which thus strives, and in Thy schemes-wilt finally include my noblest aim.-My star, as it revolves around Thy throne,―Thou wilt hereafter draw into Thy sphere." As he finished, the procession of souls moved; the island vanished, and the curtains closed. CHAPTER IV. I WAITED Some moments, riveted to the spot by the acting of Angus, whose fine enthusiasm had almost raised him to the level of a superhuman being. The audience sat mute-wonder filled their minds, but they spoke not; only a few sobs were audible. I arose, and quitted the place whence I had witnessed the piece, and sought the open air. The night was pitchy dark, not a luminary to be seen in space. The wind blew about in piercing gusts, but it did not touch the lofty emotions which had accompanied me from the theatre of my success. I walked up and down the terrace until the cold blast searched my bones; but still my spirit glowed. I shivered like the wind itself; but I was barely conscious of corporeal sensations, so intensely conspicuous in the deeper recesses of life was the mind's individuality. Fire is clearer and more bright in the midst of cold; so on this occasion burned the spirit. I continued to walk to and fro on the terrace: a cloak, darker even than the night, flapped by me. I walked on, not free from uneasiness; on returning, I perceived a glare of eyes. My blood turned cold; it crept in chilly streamlets through every vein; horror then bristled my hair, and a tiger-like ferocity sprang up into my breast. I was convinced that it must be a foe, but I felt not unprotected, though without a weapon; the terror which had shot up within supplied me with an arm of self-defence. I darted at the apparition, and exclaimed, "Who art thou?" A voice, not near the eyes which I still saw in fascination, but behind, answered in a scornful whisper, "The fiend!" Meantime, I had grasped a living thing, from whose mouth proceeded hisses, with which was mingled the clinking of chains. That which I had seized upon, whether human or superhuman, was light as air; and while an impulse of cowardice carried me swiftly into the castle, subdued shouts of laughter followed. I approached the hall, when the light enabled me to examine my burden, which I had retained with a firm grasp I saw merely a tame owl. I relaxed my hold; it escaped, leaving the chain which was attached to it dangling across my hand, and flapping its wings aslant the dark passage that I had re-entered by. Dashing itself on one side and on the other, it dragged me back to the door, so feeble was I; and wrested the chain from me as it took its flight through the open doorway. But the hateful words were whispered again, and the laugh was now repeated in my face. I closed the door upon night and its horrors, but VOL. XX. 2 R the fiend and his laughter had sunk within me more deep than the labyrinths of the ear: they had got into my soul. Had the fiend, I asked, made that bird of ill-omen its abode? The reception-rooms of the castle were filled with the company, and the clangor of voices was loud and strong. At my entrance deep silence was observed, and then a renewal of voices, while all pressed forward with unmeasured congratulations on my success. But my heart and soul were like those regions of torment in which cold and heat have their extremes ; for my heart was as the ice, and my soul as the flame, while I was the tormented. The fiend revelled within me, unchilled, unscathed; every word that was addressed to me by the guests was his laughter. I implored all to bestow their praises on the actors alone. What signified to me this mighty triumph, the unhesitating applause of learned men? the hisses of the bird of prey, and the presence of the fiend, had been the first to greet me. Those hisses, as of the damned, had penetrated the wicked man-had laughed his fame to scorn -had scoffed at the varnish of penitence which he had laid smoothly over the surface of a soul becalmed. That soul was turbulent again, and at its brink stood the fiend, like a wrecker, to pick up the fragments of crime which the waves tossed up, to fit them into each other, and show, with a leer, that to have been is still to be. There is no oblivion; the world of spirit, as of matter, has its remains-monumental things inscribed with historical tokens. In the material world rest buried, as in perpetuity, but sure to be turned out again, the mammoth of old-in the spiritual lies hidden, though likewise only for a time, the successful murder. There is no oblivion! The waters of Lethe may flow smoothly through these valleys of earth, but are dried up as they drop in foaming cataracts into the crater of hell fire. Think not that in this life you can forget; think not that penitence can erase a single deed. Hope itself is but a delusion; it flatters remorse only when the spirit has become too weak to suffer: too weak to enjoy. In this mood I received my triumph, and retired to my chamber and Adora's arms, deserving neither shelter nor love. And what a night was mine! I slept; and the fiend, and the laughter with me. No sooner did I drop off, weary and heavy-laden, into sweet slumber, than the "Ha! ha! ha!" unclosed my eyes, a wretched, humbled being; and no sooner did I thus awake than I dropped off again into this gulf of laughter! At length the mockery was less loud; I slept through it and settled into a dream. I stood in a magnificent region, as I thought, full of calm though sombrous reminiscence, interrupted ever and anon by the voice of laughter, but else monotonously persistent. It seemed as if my worst destiny were about to be realised, as if the evil course which I had at first marked out had irresistibly drawn me back from the better line which I had since striven earnestly to pursue. The intensity of my late remorse appeared despicable; an attempt at self-aggrandisement which had utterly failed, the hopelessness of which was so conspicuous as now to cause me shame and sorrow at having ever contemplated salvation; but I felt no regret at my mere defeat. I was calmly sad as the well-defended state criminal, who had cherished hope to the very last, but as the trial closed, saw with a momentary dismay that all was going wrong, and that justice, by a secret agency, had reserved for the comedy a serious conclusion. The dismay was transient; the soul shortly afterwards grew strong in resolution to face the worst. In this mood I stood alone amidst the beauties of the earth, but with hope their enjoyment had fled; the charms of nature were like woman's form when animated no longer, but dead and cold. I went on, and at times was surprised at the apathy of my state; but the death of hope is indifference: the nearer we are to perdition the less we feel the worst. The valley became filled with shade as I advanced, shade such as carpets the earth, cone-paved, where densest cypress, tamarisk, and yew abound. The sky was cut off, and nature around excluded by the arborescent walls, whose shadow filled this valley of death. My condition, however, soon changed from apathy: as the hound is startled at the whip, so did sensation return to my conscience. At first, far distant sounds of grief, dying as they reached the ear, warned me that new feeling may be supplied to the indifferent to enable them to suffer, and new voice to enable them to utter woe. The wailings ceased, like the dropping of the wind, again arose and were hushed once more. I was aroused by these dreary messages, and vexed at heart, when a fresh incident occasioned me a last hope. I had reached a place where light came, though the ground was dingy black, like that of a forsaken encampment, or of the Phlegræan Fieldsburned over by travelling fire, whose flame moves on and leaves behind, like the vestige of a dream, a bare site-the hearth of a hill deserted. The boughs stuck out, in their nakedness resembling the charred locks of petrified despair. Silence, the silence of the past, was all about; suspense spoke to the heart; enforcing a sympathy with something hidden which was to be found. And at the border of this remarkable expanse there lay a human shape; as I approached it the features proved to be not unfamiliar. All that is beautiful in the Eastern face was there depicted, though in death. I looked closer; the side was pierced, and the hands and feet also had the adorable wounds. It was the Saviour! We had met again; met when despair had entered on its last trial, and was numb and cold. I looked, I tried to pray, when the fiend's laughter smote me, followed by a gust of lamentations and wailings so singularly sad as to confirm my first belief that new faculties to suffer were sometimes added to those which were merely human. When I heard all, I prayed not; my eyes were opened; I saw that the Saviour was no more: his spirit was with the blest, his corpse only with the abandoned. A LEGEND OF WHITBY. CHAPTER I. In a cynosure of a sequestered dale in the north of Yorkshire, surrounded by an amphitheatre of purple-heathery hills, whose rugged sides were covered with an undulating mass of forest trees, with the German Ocean in the far horizon, stood the strong and embattled castle of William de Bruce, Lord of Uglebarnby. It was a favoured spot. For although all the land from Durham even to the south of Yorkshire was laid waste by famine and the sword of the Usurper, William I., where once stood large flourishing towns, besides a great number of villages and fine country seats, nought but a hamlet or hut now marked their sites, and the Norman historians* speak of, with horror, that "100,000 people perished by famine alone;" nevertheless, this still happy district of our realms did not share to so great a degree the common devastation. Whitby, even at the day of which we write, was a town of some importance, and carried on a lucrative trade of building large boats, or ships, still known as "tinker-built cobbles," as well as its large fisheries, and its salting and curing of herrings and cod; while the inhabitants of this riding, imbued with a love of sporting, which is apparent in their childrens' children even to this generation of the year of grace 1851, preserved the hunting grounds and covers, not in the least in terror of the tyrannical laws, as other districts were compelled to, but purely from the very spirit of sporting itself, until the chase of the wild boar, the stag, the badger, the fox, and pine-martin afforded the best sport and most exciting pastime to the barons and the owners of the lands in these parts that was to be found throughout the whole length and breadth of Great Britain. The kitchen, or servants' hall, of this castle of Uglebarnby, which lay immediately under the grand banqueting-hall, was a long, lofty room, with arched ceiling, black oaken-paneled walls, and mullion windows. The walls were covered with innumerable stags' heads, from whose antlers hung some magnificently embroidered banners— the spoils which the hardy buccaneers of that coast had wrested from the pirate Danes-while over the fireplace, where a roaring pile of turf and rosiny wood was burning, was arranged, in quaint devices, the weapons of the chase and war. A long oaken-table filled the centre of the room, covered with trenchers of beef and venison, salmon and tench, flanked by flagons and drinking-cups, and at its head stood the stout, portly "hugh hill of flesh," Roger Bolton, inclining to some three-score years in age, brandishing a large knife in his hand, and doing the duty of carver in general to the whole company of servants, tenants, and retainers, who were ranged on either side of the table. Almost at the bottom, on the right-hand side, too, was seated his pretty daughter Githa, a fair and lovely girl, with dark blue eyes, shaded by long lashes, brown and glossy tresses, and a complexion soft and clear, and tinted with the most delicate hue of the carnation; while at her side sat the stalwart, tall, well-built figure of young Harry de Quinton, who had followed and fought side by side with his lord and master in many a bloody conflict in the wars, as well as the milder ones of the chase. A long grace having been said, * Ord. Vit., lib. iv., pp. 514, 515. |