Once.
Written for the Evening Gazette.
By Ivar.
Once a sweet vision of a stranger maid
Came to me in a throng—her face most fair,
Glowed with transparent smiles, for still a shade
Of mournful tenderness showed deepest there,
E’en as a lake, in the still summer air,
Gleams with the sunshine, yet reveals how deep
The gentle waters lie, so her heart’s care
Lay neath her smile in a half conscious sleep—
Such care as dreams of love, but often wakes to weep.
I gazed on her as one who reads new truth,
With pain and pleasure blent in his surprise,
From the mind’s hunger that is felt in youth,
Less pleased to learn than vexed at that which lies
Beyond the reach—so when my eager eyes
Drank in her beauty, less was my delight
Than the strange sadness that did then arise
That the world’s custom gave to me no right
To break the spell that made her history my night.
I read the modest welcome in her eye;
The spirit glance of recognition knew.
Ah, fatal code! I did not dare defy,
But held my speech the while my step she drew—
Your prohibition kept asunder two
With souls accordant. Passed she out, and then,
I knew that I had looked my last adieu,
For never more in all the haunts of men
Would she and I, foiled friends, cross mutual paths again.
I keep her looks—her name I never learned,
And yet she smiled on me, and came so near
That once her garments touched me as she turned;
I could have breathed a whisper in her ear,
I could have touched her hand but for my fear!
How oft that night in memory I repeat,
And wonder whether she’s in Heaven or here;
Muse as I may the thought of her is sweet—
I do not mourn, yet hope we may hereafter meet.
The Evil Hand.
Translated from the French for the Evening Gazette.
By Anne T. Wilbur.
In fact, neighbor, it is true: things frequently happen which surpass human intelligence, events which give the lie to all the principles of science, and make us, in spite of ourselves, dream of invisible spirits and a mysterious and unknown power. On this subject, I will relate to you a fact of which I was an eye-witness, and which made an ineffaceable impression upon my imagination.
In the year 1834, there lived at Borgerhont, a commune adjoining Anvers, an orphan aged about eighteen, by the name of Theresa. She was of a mild and peaceable disposition, earning her daily bread by her labors as a seamstress and living alone in a hired room. Her delicate features bore all the marks of health and happiness; her irreproachable conduct and her natural gayety caused her to be beloved by all; and as she was very industrious and gained by her labors a pretty little income, she esteemed herself with reason, to be one of the happiest creatures in the world. An almost incredible adventure suddenly happened to transform this young and joyous girl into a sad and miserable being. This is as nearly as possible her account of it.
One day she had been to Berchem to do a day’s work at her usual employment. Towards evening at twilight, she had taken a cross road to regain her dwelling. She was hastening on, for the sky was covered with black clouds, and darkness threatened to surprise her. Besides, the heat which had on this day been stifling everything seemed to indicate that a terrible storm was at hand, and already lightnings flashed in the distant horizon. Theresa was not very bold; that silence of death which reigned around, that gloomy moment which precedes the storm when terrified nature seems to be plunged the storm when terrified nature seems to be plunged in stupor, all these fearful signs made her heart beat and caused her to accelerate her pace.
Suddenly a vivid flash illuminated the clouds; a loud peal of thunder shook the earth. Theresa stopped, seized with lively anxiety, and put her hands over her eyes; but her fright increased still more as she heard beside her a strange voice inquiring the hour. The terrified young girl dropped her hands, and her glance rested with horror on an ugly old woman who, with a hideous laugh, reiterated her question:
“Well, my daughter, what time is it?”
Without reflection, and with her head completely confused, Theresa replied:
“Eight o’clock.”
An expression of anger was painted on the wrinkled visage of the old woman, and she exclaimed in a tone of irony:
“O! you also are one of those who mock old people with grey hair! It is not well, my daughter, to be travelling this solitary road after nine o’clock. You do not know what may happen!”
As she said these words, she struck the shoulder of Theresa three times, and went on her way. At the contact of the old woman, the unfortunate young girl became cold as ice; she felt an indefinable shudder run through her body and it seemed as if a heavy hand was laid on her heart.
Trembling and motionless, she remained several minutes as if stupified, before the idea occurred to her to strike the old woman on the head in order to break the charm of the evil hand with which she feared she had been touched; but she was already so far away in the obscure path, that Theresa dared not follow her, especially as a new clap of thunder rent the clouds and the rain had begun to fall in torrents.
Half-dead, and with her clothing completely drenched, Theresa at last reached her dwelling, undressed and went to bed.
The next day about noon, a woman entered her room to summon her to dinner; but she had no sooner set foot in the chamber, than she started back with a cry of terror, ran down stairs, and exclaimed:
“Oh! Theresa is dead!”
At these words, two men and three or four women rose from the table and hastily ascended to the chamber. At first, they thought they saw a corpse; but, having approached the bed, they began to doubt it. Theresa was, it is true, lying motionless; one arm hung helpless beside the bed; her countenance was transparent as glass and wore a yellowish hue; but her eyes were open, and although they shone with a fixed and fearful brilliancy, they were not glazed in death. One of the men present attempted to replace the arm on the bed; he was not a little frightened to find this arm as stiff and inflexible as iron. Although Theresa’s body bore all the signs of death, yet an inexplicable sentiment filled the hearts of the spectators. Not a single one of them felt certain that the young girl had quitted this world; on the contrary all felt the conviction that she still lived, though she was deaf to all appeals and insensible to all attempts to arouse her.
In spite of all the efforts of the physicians, Theresa remained in this state during two days and two nights. At the forty-eighth hour, she awoke of herself, rubbed her eyes for a moment like some one emerging from a deep sleep, cast a surprised glance around the room and upon the persons who surrounded her, and suddenly began to shed tears so freely that all present, moved with compassion, wept with her.
Each asked her how this inexplicable malady had happened; but she only wept the more bitterly and answered nothing. After long questioning by the physician, she at last exclaimed with a heart-rending sob: “Oh! pray for me; I am bewitched.”
Few persons at first believed this assertion. I, who heard it, considered it the effect of a wandering mind. But the recital of her encounter with the old woman gave to most persons present, with the exception of the doctor and myself, the conviction that she was really bewitched.
However that might be, the sequel appeared to confirm her horrible supposition. During five years, her eyes retained their brilliancy and her skin remained yellow and transparent as glass. No other change was remarked in her except an increasing meagreness, and every one believed that death had already marked the young girl and would soon bear away his victim. Every year, at the day and hour of her encounter with the old woman, she was suddenly seized with a lethargic sleep, which, like the first, lasted each time forty-eight hours. During these crises, she must have heard and seen horrible things, as well as endured atrocious sufferings; so at least it was to be presumed from the complaints and broken words which escaped her; but neither promises nor threats could induce her to tell what she felt or saw. A mysterious and fearful power compelled her to be silent on this point. She nevertheless related to whoever wished to hear it, that every night at midnight, she saw the door of her chamber open, and the old sorceress appear; that this wicked woman approached the bed and knelt on her breast for an hour, so that pain made her lose sensation and life, without her being able to scream or move.
Two women, who did not believe in ghosts, once formed the bold resolution of watching beside her bed while she slept. They did not see the sorceress; but at midnight, the sleeping young girl opened her eyes and with frightful screams began to struggle against an invisible being which seemed to be pressing on her breast, and her countenance assumed such an expression of anguish that the two frightened women fled from the chamber.
These constant and inexplicable sufferings did not prevent Theresa from occupying herself with her accustomed labors. She considered her condition as an inevitable fate, and although she allowed her neighbors to consult physicians and to seek remedies for her malady, she herself seemed to be indifferent to their efforts. It will be comprehended that all the quacks, all the possessors of secrets against sorcery, had been put under contribution on this subject. All sorts of words had been pronounced, in languages known and unknown, over the young invalid; she had fallen asleep with a live toad in her hand; she had placed two bones of a dead person in the form of a cross at the foot of her bed; she had kept under her pillow, for six months, a child’s caul, and now she wore on her bosom a piece of the cord which had been used to hang an assassin. And all these had been of no avail; the witch continued every night to torment the unfortunate young girl.
Towards the end of 1839, Theresa was so thin and exhausted that she could hardly stand, and it seemed as if every day must be her last. She looked like a skeleton; her cheeks were hollow, her eyes sunken in their sockets, and her thin fingers rattled like bones despoiled of their flesh.
About this time, the neighbors learned from a peasant woman, that between Doersel and Schilde, in the midst of a heath, lived a little old man who had power against all sorcery and knew how to deliver from the evil hand and from all bad spells. Many marvellous facts were related which decided the neighbors to try this man and see whether he could help Theresa.
Some one was sent to Schilde in search of the old man, and the latter, after urgent requests and entreaties, returned to Borgerhont with the messenger. Like most aged men, his back was bent, his locks white, his cheeks hollow and withered and his eyes deeply sunken. Nevertheless his countenance had something noble about it, and expressed skill and cunning. His walk was slow, his steps measured and his look constantly fixed on the ground.
When he entered Theresa’s chamber, he found there some old women and myself. The young girl was unmoved at sight of this modern worker of miracles, and looked at him with indifference and incredulity. Without taking any notice of her, he went to each corner of the room in succession, murmuring some incomprehensible words, took from the fireplace two burning brands, placed them before the door in the form of a cross, and then stationed himself before the young girl. After having looked at her for a moment, he addressed to her the following questions:
“My daughter, an evil hand is placed on you.”
“I know it.”
“Have you nothing on your conscience?”
“No! I have confessed every month.”
“Have you ever caressed a black cat?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever stopped at midnight in a thoroughfare?”
“Never.”
“Then have you reason to think the old woman has bewitched you?”
“Oh! as for that, I am sure of it.”
“Would you be delivered from her?”
“Can you ask me?”
“Reply.”
“Yes, I wish to be delivered from her.”
The old man went silently and crouched before the fire, looking fixedly at the flames and seeming to converse with an invisible spirit.
It is useless to paint the anxiety and fright of the women present; all were pale, trembling and they looked at each other with an interrogative and stupified air. The most timid would willingly have left the room; but no one dared step over the flaming brands, knowing that the sorceress would infallibly break their necks there. Meanwhile, the room was filled with smoke; the poor women were stifling, and were obliged to make great efforts to prevent coughing.
At last, at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, the old man rose, and returning to the young girl, resumed the conversation in these terms:
“My daughter, now I know your malady and who has placed the evil hand upon you.”
“Is it the old sorceress?”
“It is the old sorceress.”
“Oh! I knew it.”
“I can deliver you, but only by a struggle of life and death. Tell me, if you should die while I am attempting to deliver you from the evil hand, would you reproach me with it at the last judgment. Would you charge it upon my soul?”
“Oh! no; am I not condemned to die if you do not deliver me?”
“Is that your final decision?”
“Yes.”
The old man turned towards the terrified women, and said:
“Do you all desire that this maiden should be delivered? Well, I can accomplish this work; but for that end I must seek something which is to be found only in the cemetery of a village in the country of Wales, on the other side of Escaut. I can indeed make the journey at my own expense; but it must be with money expressly given for that purpose.”
“But,” asked an old woman, who, perhaps, had a desire to practise also the black art, “may we not know of what you have need? We can, perhaps, procure it for you.”
“Impossible!” replied the old man. “I must have moss grown from the skull of one who has been dead a hundred years. Where would you go to seek it? I know in the country of Wales, a village where there is a very old charnel-house, and where the bones of those who have been dead a hundred years are placed in the walls of the church. I must go there at midnight, remove the moss with a new knife, pronouncing certain words. So, if you would do a good work, give me two or three florins to defray, the expenses of my journey.”
The money required was collected by the women and given to the old man. The latter resumed:
“My friends, I cannot set out without the certainty that this night, three resolute young men will watch in this room; for if not prevented, the sorceress will so torment and torture the poor girl, that our efforts to save her would, perhaps, be unavailing. Promise me then, on your word, to seek these men. This is what they must do: one of them must have a handful of peas; when at midnight the door opens, he must throw these peas at random around. If one of them touches the sorceress, she will become visible, and flee, howling through the window. It must therefore be left open. Besides, there is nothing to fear, for she has no power over watchers.”
They promised to gratify the desire of the old man. The latter took his cane, and said to the sick maiden:
“Be comforted and tranquil, my daughter, the day after to-morrow, the evil hand will be removed, you will be cured, and recover better health than ever.”
At these words he picked up the burning brands at the door, threw them into the fire-place, and left the room.
During the day the commissioner of police came two or three time to inquire for the old man; but it was told him that he had departed, and that it was not known whether he had gone to Schilde or elsewhere.
It was not without much difficulty that three men were found bold enough to watch in the chamber of Theresa. After much going and coming two had undertaken this dangerous vigil, but on condition that I should be the third.
I had in the neighborhood a certain reputation for courage, although I was not at heart a great lover of sorcery or of spirits. But I found myself compelled to sustain my reputation.
At evening we ascended the stairs with quickened pulse, a prey to emotion which proceeded from a profound anxiety, and introduced ourselves into the chamber, silently, cautiously, like three spectres. We seated ourselves, without saying a word, beside a table. By degrees our courage returned; we began to converse in a low tone. A bottle of brandy was opened; each of us lighted his pipe and smoked. Theresa was extended on the bed; she was sleeping with her eyes closed, and but for her skeleton thinness, we observed nothing remarkable about her. The progress of time had a singular influence upon the disposition of our minds; from eleven to half past eleven, we felt more and more at our ease, and our voices became louder and more joyous; but from half past eleven to midnight, we lost, by degrees, courage and speech, so that at the approach of the fatal hour we were overcome with anxiety. Not a pipe was smoking; not a word fell from our lips; our eyes alone were in motion, and darting swift and stealthy glances from the door to Theresa. The single lamp which lighted us, seemed also to feel the approaching arrival of the sorceress, for it began to burn in a singular and fitful way; now it flashed vivid gleams, and at intervals sparks escaped from it with a crackling like that of fireworks.
While, pale and trembling we were looking at each other, the sound of a clock struck our ears: we started with fear; the peas dropped from the hand of him who was commissioned to throw them, and increased our anxiety by the noise they made in rolling about the floor. Fortunately we had secured a whole package of them. We fixed our eyes on the door, not doubting but the sorceress was about to open it. But at this moment our attention was suddenly called to Theresa. Her eyes were open and she seemed to be awake; a frightful expression contracted her features; she made horrible contortions as if seeking to free herself from a weight which crushed her, and hoarse screams escaped her throat. The moment seemed to have come to throw the peas, for we were certain that the sorceress was torturing Theresa. We were still more convinced of it when, in a feeble but heart-rending voice, the unfortunate girl addressed these words to her invisible enemy:
“Oh! let me take breath. Do not rend my heart with your nails. Kill me, kill me at once!”
She was silent for an instant and then resumed:
“You are mistaken: it was not I who summoned the man. Leave me! take that burning poignard from my heart. I will tell them that I will not—I will send the old man away!”
You will easily comprehend the terror with which these words inspired us; we were almost beside ourselves. Nevertheless, one of us had sufficient presence of mind to remember what he had to do: he took a handful of peas, and threw them with all his might towards the bed. It seemed as if a gust of wind passed before our faces. Theresa closed her eyes; her countenance suddenly resumed an expression of composure; she slept as before. This victory restored to us courage and strength; we believed our task terminated, and were overjoyed to be able to qut the room without disgrace. But a new opposition chilled the blood in our veins. As we turned, we saw on the window-sill a black cat which fixed on us flaming eyes, and seemed to threaten to make us atone for what we had done. We looked at the animal, or rather the spirit, with increasing terror; it sprang from the window into the room, and slowly advanced towards us.
One of us opened the door and we all took flight. On reaching the street, we perceived that none of us had courage to go to bed; we awoke a neighboring inn-keeper and finished our vigil in his inn.
We then learned at the house of Theresa that she was in a sad state, and retained hardly strength enough to move her head and hands.
Towards noon, the old man returned from his journey, and announced to us that the same evening at midnight, he would subdue the sorceress and deliver Theresa. But it was necessary to procure for him some articles, particularly the bleeding heart of a lamb, a live dog, a large knitting-needle, and a copper cauldron in which no fish had ever been cooked.
The lamb’s heart was soon found, the knitting-needle bought; an obliging soul lent the cauldron; but as for the dog it was more difficult: no one was willing to give his, because it was known that the evil hand which rested on Theresa must fall on the animal. There was no neighbor who desired to have a bewitched dog. At last, we heard that a peasant of Deume was about to drown his dog. A man went to him and returned in the afternoon with a black spaniel so old that it could hardly walk.
At eleven o’clock a number of men and old women were assembled at the house of a shoemaker not far from the dwelling of Theresa. The solemn deliverance could not be wrought under the roof of the person bewitched, so the shoemaker had lent one of his large rooms for the process. You will understand that I did not fail to be present.
The aspect of this room was singular: a new iron lamp burnt on a table near the fire; beside the lamp were a bloody heart and a large knitting needle. In the fireplace, over a great fire, was suspended a copper cauldron, full of boiling water; in a corner of the fire-place the old man was crouching and talking to the flames. Not far from him the black spaniel, attached to a cord, was asleep on a little straw.
The neighbors and the curious, with beating hearts and trembling in every limb, had crowded together at the extremity of the room.
As soon as the clock suspended in the chamber announced by a single stroke half past eleven the old man rose from among the ashes, and approached the lamp. He drew from his pocket a small leather purse, opened it and poured a kind of green powder on a bit of paper. This was doubtful the moss which he had gathered from the skull a hundred years old. He threw a handfull of it, pronouncing certain words, on the flame of the lamp, which began to illuminate the chamber with a pale and fantastic light; he threw the rest of the powder into the boiling cauldron.
Then turning towards the neighbors, he said:
“Whatever you may hear and see, do not be alarmed. The heart you see there has become the heart of the sorceress; at midnight I shall pierce it with the needle. Then you will see appear a woman howling and groaning; she will entreat me to take the needle from her heart, but I shall not do it till she has removed to this dog the evil hand which rests on Theresa. I repeat to you, fear nothing, whatever you may hear or see!”
The solemn warning of the old man produced an effect entirely different from that which he expected; it was then alone that people began to tremble indeed and to grow closely together amid the silence of death. One old woman swooned, and gave to five or six of the most fearful an opportunity, under pretence of carrying her out, to quit honorably the chamber of sorcery. Meanwhile, every eye was fixed on the hand of the clock.
Five minutes more!
A closed tomb is not more silent or more gloomy. Suddenly the poor dog began to tremble; with his nose in the air, he uttered a plaintive howl as if some one was dying in the neighborhood. These sinister presentiments threw the women into confusion; some slipped from their chairs to the floor, then all became silent as before; the dog alone filled the apartment with howls of grief.
Two minutes more!
The old man rose, took the bloody heart in one hand, the knitting needle in the other. With his eye fixed on the face of the clock he prepared to inflict the wound.
Suddenly there was heard at the street door a sound of heavy footsteps like those of a person walking with the aid of a staff.
“There she is! there she is!” exclaimed the affrighted females, clinging to each other and pressing pell-mell into a corner.
The door opened. To the great astonishment of the women and of the old man himself they saw appear something quite different from the sorceress—two gendarmes and the commissioner of the police!
With wonderful promptitude the gendarmes seized the old man by the collar, dragged him violently from the table, and wrested the needle from his hand.
One minute more!
“You must accompany us!” said the commissioner.
“What crime have I committed?” asked the old man, trembling.
“No matter!” was the reply; “you are practising illegally the art of healing. That is prohibited.”
The old man cast a glance upon the clock and saw that it was about to strike twelve.
“Oh!” exclaimed he, in a fit of despair, “one minute more, only one little minute more! I entreat it, half a minute! Grant me this, or you will kill some one!”
“No, no,” said one of the gendarmes, “you must accompany me immediately, if you would not have us put you in irons! You are old, that would make you suffer much. Come, let us go!”
An indescribable rage seized the old man; he struggled violently against the gendarmes and attempted to rush towards the table; but at this moment the clock struck twelve.
As if struck by lightning the old man fell into the arms of the gendarmes, and exclaimed in a voice which seemed to rend his breast:
“No! no! she is dead!”
Hardly had this exclamation escaped him when some one crossed the threshold of the door, exclaiming:
“Give yourself no more trouble! Theresa has just surrendered up her soul, and this time she is really dead: she is cold as ice!”
The gendarmes did not suffer themselves to be intimidated, and led the old man to the police office to be judged for the illegal exercise of the healing art. He was condemned to an imprisonment of several months.
“Well, neighbor, what say you of this history? That it was pure imagination with Theresa, and that she had the malady which people call the hypo. I should like to believe it, also; but how, then, shall we exclaim the exact fulfilment of her presentiments? How solve the enigma of the prediction of the old man instantly confirmed by the death of Theresa? As for me, I do not clearly understand it, and do not like to think of it, for it gives me bad dreams, and I am afraid in the dark. At all events, if it is true that imagination and reality produce the same effects, in what do they differ, and what shall we call reality and what imagination? And what is the difference between an imaginary and real bewitching?”
In the Next Box.
Written for the Evening Gazette.
By John Inly.
Mr. Tweedles ought to have been ashamed of himself: that is, I mean he ought to have done differently. And he knew it as well as anybody. For there is no sort of reason why a man should think himself privileged to treat his wife with indifference, just because he has been married long enough to grow a little familiar. He has no right to presume on her good nature, or anything else, merely on account of his acquaintance.
But it looked as if Mr. Tweedles did. Just exactly as if, having once got married and got his wife well provided for in comfortable quarters, he was bent on turning round again and enjoying himself without her assistance. As if a man might not find happiness enough at home, with all his family arrangements around him! As if there was any sense in his deserting his domestic post for filagree follies that never satisfy the fancy, and never fail, either, to bring an untold amount of trouble with them!
Mrs. Tweedles—poor woman!—pretty soon began to see how things were going. She took the subject seriously home to her heart, and tried to assure herself what her duty was under such unhappy circumstances. Other wives—some of them, at least, would have made a fuss at once, and only made the matter worse, of course. But she happened to be considerate. And it is to be supposed that she possessed those more delicate sensibilities, that forbade the thought of dragging her domestic troubles out into the arena of public discussion. If there was a cure to be wrought, she preferred that it be done as privately as possible. Or if she could hope to work no change for the better, then she could hug her grief, like a devoted martyr, to her heart, and die of her troubles before she would publish a syllable of them to the world. This was the spirit of heroism itself.
Seeing that her husband grew gayer and gayer every day, and unwilling to let him suppose that he was committing any sin for which she was not ready at any moment to forgive him, she set about concerting several plans of her own, by whose help she might awaken him to a proper sense of his strange conduct.
Among others, she learned by an accident that Mrs. Golding was one of his most intimate friends; a lady of “respectability,” as a matter of course, but who ought to have known better than to lead away Mr. Tweedles as she did. It was nothing more than flirtation, the whole of it; but even flirtation gives rise, in its way, to a thousand wretched consequences.
One evening it was go to the opera, and another evening to a lecture. Not it was whist party, and now it was a moonlight ride. This time he sat and made love in their own parlors, and the next he met them in a pleasant way at the saloons and places of refreshment. Till Mrs. Tweedles finally formed her resolution, and proceeded without any words to carry it into effect.
Mr. Tweedles went out one evening after tea, very much according to his usual custom of late.
“Where are you going, husband?” asked his wife. “Can’t you stay with me just one evening? I’m sure, I think you are beginning to forget me! I am not jealous, for I don’t know how to be that; but I feel so lonely here every evening without you!”
He hurried on his overcoat, and came over in front of her and took both of her hands.
“Mary, my dear,” he said, “I am only going out on business; I have engaged to meet a couple of gentlemen from the interior, at the Hotel. They will make me two good customers, too, if I can but secure them. Certainly you have no objection to that?”
“No, indeed,” she replied, rather cast down by his answer. “But do you have to go out on business every evening?”
“Why, no,” said Mr. Tweedles; and his his embarrassment as well as he could behind his coat collar.—“I sha’ n’t be gone very long,” he added, as he opened the door.
“Well,” thought his wife, “it’s very likely that you wont! It’s not for you to say, however!”
There was a slight expression of roguery crossing that of grief just then upon her speaking countenance, which one who knew her well would be likely to interpret accurately; to all others it would be but a provoking puzzle and mystery.
So Mr. Tweedles went out, as he said he should do. But not to the Hotel. He had no thoughts of going there from the beginning. He was going in to see Mrs. Golding, of course. And he did go there; and found her at home, just as she had arranged, and as he had expected.
She received him with a remarkably warm pressure of his hand, and, but for it’s being so very dark in the hall, might have been detected in permitting his gallant salute on her cheek. Her husband was gone. That was understood. And so they had the cosy parlor for a while all to themselves, fearless of visits from intruders.
The time was consumed in conversation, and went off delightfully. Mr. Tweedles forgot about the young wife he had left at home alone, and all about her feelings, or even if she had any. He was having a right good time himself, and that seemed as much as he cared for. With Mrs. Golding he was happy enough, in all conscience.
Presently he proposed walking out for refreshments. She acceded to this proposal without delay. It was so common a thing with them, that it would have been rather odd if he had not suggested it.
It took a little time for her to throw on her bonnet and shawl, when she tripped back into the room, and, with the smile of a syren, announced herself ready. He started up, and they passed out of doors together.
The saloon which they were in the habit of frequenting, was a blaze of light. Chandeliers depended from the high ceiling with hundreds of glittering crystals, all blazing and twinkling in the brilliancy of the burning jets of gas. Large marble tables were placed the length of the apartment, around which persons gathered in smiling groups, discussing in turn the viands and the topics of their little domestic day. On the sides of the room were constructed stalls, or boxes, curtained deeply before with crimson stuff, in which a party might be as retired as they chose. A file of waiting-men in white linen jackets were continually passing and repassing, with cups, and dishes, and glasses in their hands, and, at the extremity of the apartment, returning their orders to the persons stationed behind the high counter, or bar.
It was an inspiriting scene. To one just come in from the darkened street, where, for all the gas lights, people and things were seen but dimly, it presented a gay picture enough. How soon those who straggled in, caught the spirit of the place, and at once became new beings, charmed with the various illusions that met their eyes! They seemed in a single moment to walk with more elasticity and grace, as if they had become imbued with a new atmosphere. They stepped across the bright carpet, with its dazzling figures, with the confidence and with the port of kings and queens. The gas and all seemed somehow to make new creatures of them.
So it did with Mr. Tweedle and Mrs. Golding.
Even they were not free from these fascinating influences. The moment they entered, he conducted her to a box not far from the middle of the row, and forthwith dropped the thick curtain to shut out the eyes of those who might feel disposed to be curious.
He proceeded, as soon as they were comfortably seated in their seats, to ring up the waiter, to whom he gave directions as to what they would prefer. And in less than ten minutes it was placed on the little marble table before them. They immediately fell to like persons with freshly whetted appetites, and began to make havoc around them very speedily.
Presently Mr. Tweedles thought his attention was drawn rather more closely than it ordinarily should have been, to bits of conversation in the next box to him. It was a man’s voice, in the main; but a female could be heard quite frequently breaking in and taking a part of her own.
“Hark!” said he, finally, lifting his finger to Mrs. Golding.
So she paused to listen, too.
He thought that that male voice was a rather familiar one to him; and he began to grow still more excited, as he listened to what it had to express for itself.
Said the owner of it, talking up in a highly unsafe tone for such a public place as that was,—“Well I know one thing about it: if Tweedles don’t stop waiting on other ladies as much as he does, he’ll certainly get into trouble!”
Tweedles looked up towards the edge of the partition. His companion simply turned pale; but it was very pale she turned.
“He don’t seem to remember he has got a wife at home,” the voice went on, “and a lovely woman she is too.”
“No,” acquiesced the female, “I believe he has forgotten her altogether. What a pity, though! He is capable of making one of the best of husbands, if he will but give his good feelings and affections the right direction.”
“Heavens!” said Tweedles, getting, up suddenly to his feet.
“Where are you going?” asked the terrified Mrs. Golding. “What are you going to do?” She shook like an aspen leaf, and reached across the table and seized him by the arm.
But he was heedless of any such restraint then, and bounded out of his own box straight through into the adjoining one.
“Mary!” he exclaimed, in a voice by no means too low for such a place as that, “is that you? How came you here?”
“Why, Mr. Tweedles! why, husband!” she exclaimed in her turn.
“Ah,” answered the enraged husband, finding out by a quick glance who her companion was, “now, sir, I’ve caught you in the very act! What are you doing here, sir, in company with my wife? What do you mean? You scoundrel! you villain! you—you—you!” and he finished by stepping forward and shaking his fist in his opponent’s face, and in trying to collar him on the spot.
It happened, too, to be his old friend Mr. Notting!
Mrs. Tweedles sprang to her feet and thrust out her hands between them. “I’ll have no quarreling here in my presence,” said she, “especially with one of your best friends, Mr. Tweedles.”
“He—he’s a villain!” cried out Tweedle.
By this time the attention of these in the room began to be directed towards the scene of the controversy. Here and there, all over the hall, people drew aside their crimson curtains, and took a peep out to see what was the matter. But a man as mad as Tweedles was, did not care a fig about that.
“Why so?” calmly asked his wife.
“Because he’s running about in this way with you! Another man’s wife!”
“But haven’t you got Mrs. Golding in the next box with yourself? And isn’t she another man’s wife? Come, husband, no more of this passion, now. You are out enjoying yourself this evening, and almost every evening; and do you find fault because I wish to do the same? Ah, Mr. Tweedles? don’t be too selfish, now!”
Mrs. Golding at this juncture came out of her box, and was making the best of her way across the room.
“There,” said Mrs. Tweedles to her husband, “I beg you wont be so rude as to suffer Mrs. Golding to go home alone now. You brought her here and I hope you are gallant enough to wait on her home again! Mr. Notting here will be sure to take good care of me!”
The guilty man could have sunk through the floor. Mechanically he hurried away after Mrs. Golding, leaving his wife to follow after when she saw fit.
But from that day forward, Mr. Tweedles has not been known to bestow his own supernumerary affections anywhere outside of his own family. That clever trick of his wife did him an immense deal of good, and not him only but Mrs. Golding likewise; and more than both of them, her own once unhappy and discontented self.
Emanuel Swedenborg.
Emanuel Swedenborg was no vulgar fanatic. He was distinguished by his social position, his eminence in science and literature, his active pursuits as a man of the world, and his high personal character during his whole life. He was the son of a Lutheran bishop, and was born at Stockholm in sixteen hundred and eighty-eight. He distinguished himself in the physical sciences and the practical arts connected with them; and his various works in mathematics, chemistry, and physiology, hold a high place in the literature of the day. He received honors from the principal scientific bodies of Europe, and was appointed by Charles III. Inspector-General of the Mines, as a reward for important services rendered by him to the king. The royol favor was continued to him by Charles’s successor, Queen Ulrica, by whom he was ennobled, with the title of baron. Such was his life till three-score and ten, when he suddenly renounced the world, resigned his public offices, and began to proclaim his celestial mission, which, according to his own account, he had received some years before. In the preface to one of his mystical treatises (De Cœlo et Inferno) he says: I was dining late at my lodgings in London—(this was in seventeen hundred and forty-three)—and was eating heartily. When I was finishing my meal I saw a sort of mist around me, and the floor covered with hideous reptiles. They disappeared; the mist cleared up; and I saw plainly, in the midst of a vivid light, a man sitting in the corner of the room, who said with a terrible voice, Don’t eat so much. Darkness again gathered around me—it was dissipated by degrees, and I found myself alone. The following night the same man, radiant with light, appeared to me and said: I, the Lord, the Creator and the Redeemer, have chosen thee to explain to mankind the inward and spiritual sense of the Holy Scriptures, and I shall dictate what thou art to write. That night the eyes of my inner man were opened, and enabled to look into heaven, the world of spirits, and hell; and there I saw many persons of my acquaintance, some dead long before, and others recently. He spent the latter years of his life in publishing, in quick succession, a multitude of works, reporting his conversations with God, angels, and spirits of the dead, and describing visits, not only to the planets of our solar system, but to the fixed stars in the remotest regions of the universe. He always speaks as an eye or an ear witness: Such is what the Lord hath revealed to me, Such is what the angels have told me. He relates with minuteness his dialogues and disputations with the beings of other worlds; describes their personal appearance, habits, and manners, in a familiar and matter-of-fact way, which reminds us of the writings of Defoe; and uses the same style in describing the things he saw and heard among angels and spirits, and even in the presence of God himself. All these revelations are given as the proofs and illustrations of the mystical doctrines which he is commissioned to teach, and he claims for them all the authority due to communications from heaven. His visions, and the mystical system founded upon them, excited curiosity, heightened by the eminence of his name. They began to act upon the imagination and command the belief of many educated people—for his books were written in Latin; till the Swedish clergy took the alarm, and obtained from the government a commission to inquire into his heresies. Nothing, however, came of the inquiry, and Swedenborg was allowed to go on in his own way without molestation. He lived very quietly in a small house in Stockholm, where he had many visitors drawn by his writing from other countries as well as his own. In his reception of them he exhibited a good deal of the charlatan. His chamber was hung with mystical pictures; and, when a stranger, after waiting a due time, was admitted, the sage was discovered in profound meditation, the sage was discovered in profound meditation, or, unconscious of mortal presence, engaged in colloquy sublime with some invisible visitant from the world of spirits. His life, however, is admitted on all hands to have been irreproachable; his habits were simple; and, being in easy circumstances, he does not seem ever to have turned his divine mission to any worldly account. He died in England of apoplexy in seventeen hundred and seventy-two, at the age of eighty-five, and his remains rest in the Swedish church in Ratcliffe Highway.
