Part 8

'Collins had some years before met Alice Clair at a boarding-school in the city, and he fell violently in love with her. He was then an exile from home for his vices, and was living in the city, without plan or object. His assumed name was Cowles, to prevent his friends from hearing of his pranks. Alice had been pleased with his manners, and received his attentions, in walking in the street, to hold an umbrella over her when caught in a shower, and to bow with a smile when she met him; to be at home when he called to see her; as far as a school miss can go, in a love matter, she had been; which is just no way at all. The word love never had entered her head; she was gratified in being noticed and admired, and felt grateful for his kindness and attentions in bringing her new books and music. But with the playful coquetry of a child, she had impressed the heart of Collins with a lasting devotion. She did not know how much he loved her. The principal of the school had always allowed his visits, until ascertaining the knowledge of his true character, and seeing some instances of his misdemeanor one night at the theatre, he was dismissed from the acquaintance of the ladies, and Alice thought no more of him.

Soon after, she returned home, and was continually persecuted with letters, which were returned unread. At last, he went to N----, and behaved like a madman; threatened to kill himself in the presence of her father and mother, and committed other extravagances, which would have subjected him to arrest, had he not left town. All these facts were never hinted to me, during my stay at N----. Probably they were forgotten, except by the parties more immediately interested.

No wonder some surprise was manifested at seeing myself and Collins ride into town together. Well, after I had left Collins, and departed for Albany, he by a bribe found out my object in going thither, and immediately followed me on the next day. With a mind already shattered by excess, and stimulated to insanity, he imagined himself the victim of treachery, and determined on consummate vengeance on both of us. The reader knows the rest. The wound I received nearly proved fatal. My father was summoned, perhaps to attend my funeral. Mr. Clair followed us, so soon as he got wind of our intended visit, to protect his daughter from two madmen, and arrived the day after the result. Alice was taken home with difficulty. Mr. Clair was inexorable. Some gratitude was expressed in a letter written to me by him after he heard of my recovery, for saving the life of his child.

'When you are older and more settled,' it said, 'in your views, if you ever are, I shall be glad to show you how much I am willing to forget, for the sake of your happiness and that of my child. You have perhaps unwittingly destroyed the peace of my family. You do not know the pain you have inflicted. Time must elapse. Your case is not hopeless. All depends upon yourself.'

My sister in a few days gave me a lock of black glossy hair, tied with a blue ribbon. It needed not to tell me where it came from. I have worn it next to my heart ever since that fatal morning. It is now placed before me, and tears course down my cheeks as I record this passage in my history, and look upon all that is left in this world of one who might have made this earth a heaven to any man, but one incapable of estimating the value, or rather incapable of profiting by the gift, of her affections.

Collins was released, by my father's request, after the question of my danger was over, and went I know not whither. From that day to this, I have never heard of him. The money of his in my possession was placed in the hands of a lawyer, and no trace can be found of his connections or of himself, by the most careful search.

We returned to my father's house. Hardly had we arrived, when we heard of the sudden death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fatigue and disappointment, she was attacked by fever, which was followed by delirium; and she went out of a cruel world, unconscious of her misery. My cup of bitterness was full. I neither hoped, nor excited expectation. I was considered a broken, ruined man. I remained some time a burthen upon my father's hands, leading a harmless but restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of existence.

Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar from all who knew me. I made arrangements to receive annually a small sum, to enable me to carry my projects into execution, and bidding adieu to all those I truly loved, and who I knew still loved me, I embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans.

HOPE.

HOPE for Experience boldly steers, And gains that chilling shore, But only to be wrecked on ice, And sink to rise no more. This is that hope whose sordid views To earth alone are given; That hope which wreck nor ruin fears, Her anchor casts in heaven. For he that would outride the storm, Though whirlwinds waked the blast, Makes that his first and only hope, That all must make their last.

A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE.

PART TWO.

OH steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam! Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream, What _could_ make a doctor, with serious face, Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case? In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say, That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?'

* * * * *

THE flush that attended his words was cold, Like a thing that happen'd--a tale that is told; And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind. While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep, The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep.

Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams; When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er The parts that their waking realities bore; Like the ghosts of departed returning again To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men. Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found Its way to his regular visiting-round; Now counting how long such a patient could live, Now giving a drastic purgative; It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile, The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]

His journey soon ended, his dreaming was done, And quickly dismounted the wonderful one. Save a handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small, No baggage or bag was he cumber'd withal; Right glad was his heart that he was not delay'd With porters disputing, and people dismay'd. At the first man he met, with a citizen's air, He propounded a question--it made the man stare; The answer was ready, the questioner bow'd, And hastily elbow'd his way through the crowd. 'Oh ho!' said his neighbor, as off he went, (The one that had wonder'd,) 'I know what he meant!'

* * * * *

AT a house, (but I cannot tell which it may be, Though possess'd of an author's ubiquity,) At a house in that city, inhabits a maid, Who travels by spirit, and makes it a trade. That maid and her sister were sitting alone, Employ'd in some manner not certainly known; They might have been working, or reading, I guess, Or playing at cards, or back-gammon, or chess; Whatever employ'd them, a very loud rap Disorder'd their nerves like a thunder-clap.

The sleep-walker quickly adjusted her hair, Assuming the look she intended to wear, And toss'd on the table, as other maids do, Some 'work,' with the needle appearing half through.

One glance to see ev'ry thing properly plac'd; Or derang'd to exactly the limits of taste, Then, putting her chair with the back tow'rd the light, Prepar'd for the visitor, be who he might. The other, who play'd a subordinate part, Took the same little process, with little less art; And then was directed to 'ascertain straight What manner of person it was at the gate.' Oh! sleep-walker! sleep-walker! did you but know, Who the visitor is, that is waiting below. A leech in good practice, and wanting a wife, You'd think him a capital venture for life.

The sister arriv'd at the door in a trice, And the man that was waiting she look'd at twice: From the crown of his hat to the sole of his shoe, She look'd at him twice, as she'd look him all through. That hat was low and its brim was wide, But the sleep-walker's sister was not inside: And his coat was black and his breeches were gray, And look'd as a thriving practitioner's may. His bosom was clothed in a sombre vest, That aptly comported with all the rest; Each pocket contriv'd of an ample space For holding a portable instrument-case: But, far more than breeches, hat, waist-coat or coat, His own proper features seem'd worthy of note. His locks were grizzled, his beard it was spare, As he dieted ev'ry particular hair; From a long, long nose, one could fancy how well Its owner could practise his organs of smell; For it seem'd, as he breath'd atmospherical air, He perceiv'd what its physical properties were. His eye with occasional glances by stealth, Was plainly surveying one's bodily health; And in his thin fingers, there seem'd to exist A perpetual impulse to feel of one's wrist. Whatever he utter'd, his look was profound, And an odor of sanity breath'd all around. No difficult matter it was to see, That a person of science and skill was he.

Giving time for those matters that pass between A bachelor-man and a girl of eighteen, And a moment beside for her womanish airs, We find him ascending the sleep-walker's stairs. With gentlest tread, as if ever before He had practised his steps on a sick-chamber floor, His handkerchief-parcel, conveniently small, He laid on a chair, with the knots tow'rd the wall. The maiden insisting on taking his hat, He enter'd the room where the sleep-walker sat: A neat-looking woman, and fair to behold, And (climax of qualities) not at all old. Her accents and manner were wondrously sweet, As she kindly invited his taking a seat, And sweetly she said what she had to say Of the weather and wind, in a diffident way. And then he presented himself by his name, And hinted the matter about which he came; He harp'd upon science, and physic, and food, Incidentally hoping he did not intrude, And then, (what all orators well understand,) Digress'd to the subject directly in hand. What was it the sister spoke low in her ear, It was plain she alone was intended to hear. But little the medical gentleman cared, Commencing a speech he had ready prepar'd.

'This _aura-magnetica_-making,' said he Is a process as simple as A B C, And very agreeable, certainly, where The patient is female, and passably fair: You hold her hand gently, and look in her eye, Succeeding the better, the harder you try;[5] Then paw her all over, it comes to you pat, Precisely like stroking the back of a cat.[6] And now it is holiday-time with the mind, It hastens to leave the poor body behind; As mischievous urchins escape to the street, The pedagogue slumb'ring unmov'd in his seat. Hereafter, no 'wishing-cap' ever can be Invented to rival the _bonnet de nuit_. But though I account myself fully _au fait_ At dismissing the soul in a technical way, (Being funnily call'd by a patient of mine, A forwarding agent for Charon's old line,) I own that it never came into my head To try to converse with it after it fled; It might be unpleasant; particular folks Object to all species of practical jokes; And one might, with reason, resent being made, From a person of substance, an unreal shade. However, I think we had better prepare For one live spirit-walking--another affair. The patient appears well inclin'd to repose, Or rather, already beginning to doze.'

He sat himself opposite, look'd in her eye, Put his hand in his pocket, and stifled a sigh. A striking resemblance there was in the face, To one that occasion'd his first-love case. Ah, doctor! that love thou wert better forget, With symptoms recurring, comes over thee yet. 'Be still!' said he, boldly! 'nay madam, don't start, The caution was private--address'd to my heart.'

He went through the process; ten minutes expir'd, The process was tedious, the doctor was tir'd; He hinted that opium, one or two grains, Had been quite as speedy, and saved him his pains. The patient, at this, to the doctor's surprise, Look'd sweetly upon him, and--sleep seal'd her eyes.

'I'll take the arm-chair, to be more at my ease, And then let us travel, as fast as you please; Can you tell me what lies at the head of your stairs?' (He thought he should take her thus unawares;) She said, without any demurrage at all, 'A handkerchief-parcel, the knots tow'rd the wall; Beside it, a beaver; it's brim is wide, And an old piece of paper is stuck inside.' A very round oath the physician swore, ''Twas the self-same hat that he always wore: No mortal could see through a six-inch wall-- An angel undoubtedly whisper'd it all.' 'You flatter,' the sister said, with a sigh, 'I never _did_ tell her, I'm sure--not I!' 'The bundle contains,' said the spirit, 'a shirt; Your name and a number are mark'd on the skirt.' The doctor said nothing; it came to his mind That he _had_ such an one, but had left it behind: He marvel'd a woman could tell to a hair, Not only what was, but what should have been there! 'If you've no objections,' ('I have not,' said she,) 'We'll go to my house, and see, what we can see; I hope you'll go too, Miss--it is not too far; Beside, you have only to set where you are. The spirit, (how pleasant soever the road,) Will find 'the more music, the lighter the load!' But the sister assured him that no one, except Himself, could affect her, so long as she slept;[7] 'She could not distinguish a word that I said, Though loud as the trumpet that summons the dead.' 'That's true,' said the spirit, 'for talk as she may, I'm not a whit wiser for all she can say;[8] But I'm at your door, and have given a knock, And some one is turning the key in the lock.' 'That's odd:' said the doctor; 'I can't recollect When turning the key would have any effect; The lock is a _patent_ one, made with such skill, It never yet work'd, and I fear never will. But why should we wait till they open the door? Let's fly to my study, it's on the first floor!' 'How nice!' said the spirit; 'you get all the sun, With two pretty windows----' 'There is but one.' 'But one?' said the walker--'ah, that's very true; A somnambulist sees _twice_ as plainly as you; But truly I'm certain, your fortunate wife Must lead a most exquisite sort of a life.' 'But then I am single;' 'I know it,' said she; 'I mean, if you _had_ one, how happy she'd be!' So sweetly she said it, he look'd at her long, The likeness was striking--each moment more strong. Alas! poor practitioner, look to thy heart; A treacherous weapon is Love's little dart!

END OF PART TWO.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] 'Half-drawing down.' From the control of the sleeper's mind over his muscles, this most expressive gesture of the Æsculapian fraternity was but an 'opus infectum.'

[5] The stronger the exercise of the will, the more perfect is the effect produced.

[6] This experiment every urchin has repeatedly made, to his own edification and the annoyance of his family.

[7] Those in a somnambulistic state communicate with, and can receive impressions from, the operator alone.

[8] No better confirmation could be had of the fact, than the patient's own asseveration.

OUR BIRTH-DAYS.

THE anniversary of our birth-days is always an interesting period, and should be noticed accordingly. Each of such days is a mile-stone on the road of life, reminding us of the rapid rate at which we have been advancing on its journey, and approaching its close. It is true that in life's _morning_, these mile-stones appear to be farther apart than they do in later years; still, they are days of hope and promise. Thousands are then rejoicing that they are one year nearer to the boasting age of twenty-one, when a young man feels himself lord of his own actions, and glories in his liberty. To thousands of the fairer part of creation, these annual monitors are welcome, as harbingers of the day when they shall shine in the ball-room or circles of fashion; attract all eyes, and command all attention; or perhaps fasten some silken chain around the heart of an individual admirer, and lead him in delightful captivity. To other thousands of the same sex, the anniversary will tell a tale of sadness; of departed hours and departed charms; of withered roses and withered hopes; when the looking-glass has lost its magic power, and speaks nothing save in the plain language of unwelcome truth and soberness. Thousands are reminded that many of the intervals, between one mile-stone and another were distinguished by lovely landscapes and countless beauties; by health and enjoyment--by joy and gladness of heart. To thousands of others, such intervals have been gloomy and cheerless; without the consolations of friendship, the comforts of society, or the flattering promises of hope. Surrounding prospects have only increased the gloom of the mind, and made the heart sick.

Yet in all these recollections, we may find instruction and nourishment for our better feelings. If our course has been checkered with good and evil, we may profit by tracing consequences to their proper causes; and thus learn how many miscalled misfortunes are the offspring of folly, or imprudence, or wrong; the natural results of our own wanderings from the path of innocence and duty; or else have been so fortunate as to have discovered by experience, that our happiness and duty are intimately connected, and that wisdom's ways are always ways of pleasantness and peace. In both cases, this annual review of the days and years that have taken their farewell of us, will be salutary in its effect, and teach us the value of virtuous resolutions of amendment, when we have gone astray, and the peaceful feelings and sweet anticipations of those whose desire it is to preserve their moral health in the bowers of innocence and purity, and amid the green pastures and still waters of life.

This very day, I have arrived at the _seventy-third_ mile-stone on the journey to another country, where we all hope to enjoy happiness unending. And here I must avail myself of the old man's privilege; that of speaking of himself, and the incidents of exciting or soothing interest which have marked his onward course. I have abundant occasion to indulge in the pleasing retrospect. Through the smiles of heaven, I may truly say, that in the long vista I can scarcely discover an unpleasant object, to mar the beauty of the scene. It still appears margined with foliage and flowers, almost as green and bright as ever. The surface of the way still seems smooth, and the sky is clear and summer-like, as in the days of my youth and early manhood. Surely, these are distinguished blessings to me, and as such I fondly cherish them. Heaven has given me a firm constitution, and long-continued health. These are precious foundations to build upon; and I have improved them for that purpose. But much has been effected by the formation of certain _habits_, and by an attention to certain _rules_; and I feel their tendency and effects as valuable medicines. It is not vanity in an old man to recommend them to others. I am influenced by better motives. In the first place, when a child,

----'I knew a mother's tender care, And heard th' instructions of a father's tongue;'

and I hope I have never forgotten them, or in any situation disregarded their benign influence, but reverenced them as important safe-guards. The rules I have adopted have never, to any extent, deceived me.

1. I have always found, that if I had injured any one, especially if intentionally, I could enjoy no peace of mind, until I had _asked_ and _obtained_ his forgiveness. When forgiven, all was calm and sunshine in my bosom. I never solicited in vain.

2. Knowing by experience the value of this blessed sunshine, I have always endeavored so to be on my guard, as not to offend by indulged passion, suspicion, or want of respect and courtesy. This has always insured courtesy and kindness in return, from all others.

3. If on a sudden I have for a few moments been guilty of indulging in passion, the sun never went down on my wrath. I never _did_ and never _could_ retain resentment against any one, and cherish a desire of revenge; for such a desire would have been painful and distressing. A word from him who had excited my momentary anger, spoken to me in kindness, never failed to disarm every disturbed feeling. I have always found a peaceful disposition a source of comfort, and to produce the same calm within, as is caused by gentle breezes on a summer day, refreshing an invalid who is walking abroad to inhale them.

4. By the aid of the foregoing rules, I have thus far through life been habitually cheerful; and cheerfulness is easily diffused, and cheerful feelings multiplied. It is a sort of letter of introduction, and insures a welcome, when duly exhibited. It adds to the charms of society, while at the same time it gives a youthful movement to the pulsations of the heart.

5. In order to preserve this youthful feeling of our nature, while advancing in years, I have steadily maintained the custom of associating freely with the _young_ as well as the _old_; of joining in the social or fashionable circle, and breathing the atmosphere of the library or the drawing-room, with ladies and gentlemen, more especially with those whom I am in the habit of meeting, on other occasions, upon terms of easy intercourse. By this practice, my social feelings have remained almost unchanged. Though I am an old tree, my leaves remain nearly as green as ever. The scenes I have just described, I enjoy now as well and as pleasantly as I did forty or fifty years ago. Are not these blessings? Men and women may grow old, if they please, and lose all relish for social intercourse, even among those of their own age; and if they please, they may retain most of the better feelings of their early years, in the particulars before mentioned; and the honest, frank, and cheerful expression of them will generally be reciprocated, even in the circles of the young and gay. These interchanges of thoughts and feelings, in hours of easy and virtuous relaxation, are mutually beneficial, in producing kinder dispositions toward each, and bringing the distant periods of life nearer together, and forming a _temperate zone_, where the climate becomes more mild, uniform, serene, and salutary. Are not my rules and my practice, then, worthy of imitation, as having an evident tendency to preserve a green old age, and protract the 'Indian summer of the soul,' and keep the heart warm amid the gathering frosts of the December of life?