Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Read online

  CHAPTER VIII.

  NEW AND STRANGE ADVENTURES.

  Whatever the mass of mankind, who have had no experience, may think to the contrary, the life of him who gains his bread by the labor of his brain, is by no means an easy one. To many who know not its trials, struggles and vexations, it may seem very romantic, pleasant and delightful: but it is like a mountain seen from afar, which appears smooth and beautiful in the distance, but which a near inspection proves to be craggy, rough, and both laborious and dangerous of ascent. It is one thing to read and another to write. In the former instance all is plain and smooth before you, word follows word, sentence follows sentence, idea succeeds idea, and without any effort on your part, your eye skims the page and your mind grasps the sense, and you say to yourself, "Where is the ef fort of the author in what is so simple and easy?" Ah, you little dream what that same sentence may have cost him, simple as it seems! Perhaps hours of severe application and brainracking thought. It is not always the smoothest and simplest passages that have been easiest penned. On the contrary, it is these which may have cost the severest toil—for as an instrument only becomes resplendent through intense attrition, so the ideas of an author can only come forth refulgent and polished by the same skill, care and attention. You that think the life of an author to be envied, sit down, when you have leisure and feel in fine humor, and attempt to compose. And then, when depressed in spirits, oppressed with grief, care and anxiety, ailing in body, and your brain seems clogged and heavy, or, on the contrary, parched with a burning fever, sit down and try it then. Remember your task is before you, that you must go on, for on this hangs the power to provide for yourself, and, peradventure, those as near and dear to you as your own heart's blood. And remember, too, you must not slight your task, or that great tribunal, the public, before which you must be judged, will not fail to censure and thus destroy your occupation. Remember, furthermore, you are continually called upon for new scenes, new ideas and new events, which your already aching and overtaxed brain must supply. And lastly, remember this is not for a day, nor a week, nor a month, but for years, perhaps a lifetime. Make this trial we say, take into consideration all these facts, together with the pittance you will receive, even if fortunate enough to dispose of your labor, and then, if you envy an author's fate, go follow his profession, and make an early grave for yourself, and a name that will live perchance till your body has turned to corruption and dust. Similar to these were the reflections of Edgar Courtly, as, pen in hand, and weary with thought, he paused over the task he had undertaken. We have said elsewhere, that in his leisure hours he had written poetry—but that had been done simply through inclination and for his own amusement, and was very different from his present attempt, where, with nothing to inspire him save the hope of reward, on which his very life as it seemed to him depended, and the shuddering fear of failure, he toiled on, straining each mental faculty to its utmost tension. "And even when completed," he sighed, "I may fail, and all my anxiety and brain-torture go for naught." But he determined to fail not through indolence or carlessness; and hence he wrote and read, revised and re-wrote, until there seemed no possibility of his improving what he had done; and gladly then, yet not without misgivings, he pronounced the poem complete. This occurred at a rather late hour on the third night from his meeting with Elmer; and having read it aloud to Virginia, and received her joyful approval, he retired for the night—but not to sleep soundly—for hope and fear were too busy in his breast to allow him more than a feverish, fitful slumber. At dawn he was up and dressed, and without partaking breakfast, so anxious was he to have the article put in hand as early as possible, he set out for the lodgings of Elmer. Elmer slept late, and so of course an interview at that hour was out of the question; but he left the parcel, properly superscribed, in the hands of a servant, with imperative instructions, that so soon as Elmer should rise, it must be given to him as a matter of great importance. Pondering upon what would be his success against so much competition, he turned away, and, in a musing mood, strolled down the street in the direction of the Battery. It was a clear, cold, but beautiful and invigorating morning; and the sun, as he rose, wore a cheerful aspect, and brightly gleamed down upon tall spires, making their bright balls seem fire; and upon the houses and trees, turning their net work of frost into diamond dew drops; and upon the harbor and rivers, forming their waters into polished mirrors; and upon the rushing steamers, arching rainbows in the spray of their wheels; and upon the oars of the boatmen, making every stroke dip silver; and upon the sails of the stately ships, giving them a light and swan-like appearance; and, in a word, upon every thing abroad, animate and inanimate, brightening, enriching and beautifying all. As Edgar arrived at the Battery, and took in all this at a glance, he felt his spirits revive with a feeling akin to the scene; and for an hour he forgot his sorrows in a happy reverie. Then, remembering he had not yet broken his fast, and that his sister, having prepared the frugal meal, would be patiently awaiting him, he set out upon his return; but instead of retracing his steps, shaped his course along the shipping of the East river. Pushing forward, little heeding any thing around him, his mind occupied with grave reflections, he had passed some half a dozen squares, when his progress was arrested by a groan from a man lying on the pavement just to his right. His first impression on coming to a halt, was that the man was drunk, and he was about to pass on, when something in the appearance of the stranger led him to think otherwise, and he approached and accosted him in a kindly tone. "What is the matter, my friend?" he asked. "God bless you," returned the other, in a feeble voice, "for those kind words—the first I have had addressed to me for many a day! I am sick, kind sir, and, I fear, nigh unto death. I lately arrived in port from a long voyage, and was immediately taken ill with a fever. I sought lodgings in yonder house, (pointing to a villainouslooking groggery) for I had not much money, and did not know where to go. While my money lasted, I received some attention; but it gave out last night, and ere daylight this morning, I was rudely thrust into the street, with the cold hearted remark, that, being now a beggar, I must seek other quarters. I tried to get elsewhere, kind sir, but my strength failed me, and here I am., O God!" he added, in a sort of prayer, "if my time has come to die, take me to thyself!—but I would, merciful God, that thou sparest me longer, that, if possible, I may bring the guilty to account, and right the wronged!—but do, O God, as to thee seemest best!" "Poor fellow!" sighed Edgar, struck with the stranger's manner and the mysteriousness of his last words; "here is another example of the world's humanity. Who are you, friend?" he asked; "for though dressed in the garb of a common sailor, your language bespeaks one bred in a different school." "I am not what I seem," rejoined the other, in a still more feeble voice, and evidently in much pain; "but I can explain nothing now. If you can assist me, kind sir, do so—if not, leave me alone to die. Ah, me! God's mercy on me!" "Alas! stranger," rejoined Edgar, "it is little assistance I can render to any one; but what I can do I will; you must not be left alone to die. Have patience a moment; I will see what can be done;" and seeing a well-dressed gentleman at a short distance, he hurried to him, explained the case and asked his advice. "He had better be sent to the hospital," was the reply. "But will they receive him?" queried Edgar. "If a sailor, they are bound to do so;" and he gave Edgar instructions how to proceed to gain him admittance. Acting upon the other's advice, Edgar procured an elliptic spring dray, a vehicle much in use in the great metropolis, and placing the stranger upon it, accompanied and saw him safely deposited in the hospital, where he would receive the best of care and medical attendance. "And now," he said, as he was about to take his leave, "I shall make it my business to call upon you daily. For whom shall I inquire?" "Alanson Davis," answered the invalid, feebly pressing the hand of Edgar. "And now yours, my kind benefactor, whom may God reward for your humanity!" "Edgar Courtly," replied our hero. The invalid started, clasped his forehead with one hand, and, weak though he was, partly raised himself with the other, while his eyes fastened up
on Edgar with a wild, eager expression. "Perhaps I was mistaken," he said, in a hoarse whisper. "Repeat your name once more!" Edgar did so. "And your native place!" "Is Baltimore," said Edgar. "You—you have—an uncle?" almost gasped the other. Edgar set his teeth hard, and frowned darkly, as he replied: "My mother, God rest her soul! had an unnatural brother." "Whose name is—" "Oliver Goldfinch." The sick man nodded his head and sank back, too much exhausted to make an immediate reply. At length he feebly muttered: "Go! go!—but be sure you return to me! God grant I live, for your sake!— Heaven be praised that we have me! I have much to tell you—but not now. Go! go!" and so exhausted was the invalid with excitement and the effort to speak, that his last trial died away in a whisper. Edgar, surprised and bewildered at these mysterious words, would fain have lingered, in the hope of hearing something farther; but the physician touched him on the shoulder, and warned him that his presence was endangering the life of the patient. He therefore took his departure, and bent his steps homeward, musing upon the strangeness of his adventure, and wondering what secret the stranger had to reveal. That there had been crime committed somewhere, he believed; and might not this man have been a tool of his uncle, and have aided in wresting from him his rightful possessions? He had spoken of wrong that had been done ere he knew whom he addressed; and when the name was made known to him, his agitation was such as could spring from no ordinary cause. And the dark hints he had himself thrown out to his uncle on the night his mother died, and the si ngular effect they produced, all recurred to the mind of Edgar, with the convincing force, that where was so much uneasiness, there must be some secret but potent cause; and now that he was once upon the trail, he resolved to ferret this out, let the consequences be what they might. The hospital, of which mention hasjust been made, stands on Broadway, but retired from the constant jar of busy life by a large enclosure or park, which slopes away in front, forming a beautiful lawn and sylvan grove, from among the shrubbery of which the picturesque structure peeps forth with a rather delightful and inviting appearance, more especially in the summer season, when the green fluttering leaves seem to speak of pure air and gentle, refreshing quietude. His homeward course from this park, led Edgar directly past the Tombs of Centre street, upon which he now gazed with a strange, unacountable feeling of awe, that he had occasion soon after to remember as an evil presentiment. The Tombs—so called from its resemblance to the Mausoleums of Egypt's mighty kings, and, also, as some say, from the number of suicides committed by prisoners within its damp and filthy cells, thus making it a sort of charnel-house— is a building well calculated to arrest the attention of a stranger viewing the curiosities of the great metropolis. It is a massive structure of stone, built in the Egyptian style of architecture, and serves the several purposes of a city prison, police court, the court of sessions, law and other offices. It is a grand but gloomy pile, lifting its huge turrets high in the air, surmounted by a cupola, whose summit overlooks a great portion of the city. A high wall encloses three sides of it, forming an area, the fourth side of which is guarded by the main building, into which from this opening, entrance can only be had through heavy iron doors, kept doublelocked and bolted to prevent the escape of prisoners. This area answers many prison purposes, and among the rest that of admitting light and air to the cells looking out upon it, and as a place of private execution to those convicted of capital offences, whose death in such cases is only witnessed by a few prisoners and officials. The building is so constructed that a criminal may be led from his cell to the court room, have his trial and be remanded, without once beholding the world without, until he is taken hence to serve out his term of sentence, either at Blackwell's Island or Sing-Sing. In front you enter by a long flight of stone steps, and pass directly under a fine colonnade, which, together with the quaint appearance of the whole building, as seen at a short distance, and the remembrance of the purpose for which it is used, gives it an imposing and solemn aspect, that makes a deep and lasting impression upon the mind of him, who, in a reflective mood, views it for the first time. While occupied in gazing upon this gloomy structure, and thinking of the poor wretches therein confined, Edgar was suddenly startled by the piercing shrieks of a female; and looking round, he beheld a horse tearing down the street at the very top of his speed, with a light vehicle attached, in which sat a lady, nearly frightened out of her senses, from whom issued these frightful sounds of agonized despair. That she must soon be thrown out and dashed to pieces, or terribly mangled, seemed inevitable—for the carriage rocked from side to side, occasionally balancing on two wheels for a moment, so evenly that a pound seemed sufficient to upset it, and then, just as all hope was over, settling back to its original position, or swaying as far the other way, while on dashed the frightened animal more fiercely than ever. Hundreds had tried to check him or change his course; but on, on he still furiously sped, heeding no obstacle, and turning neither to the right nor left. Thousands had collected behind the lady, and were gazing after in breathless awe, expecting every moment to witness a sight that would make their blood run cold with horror. In front, men, women and children were rushing to the sidewalks, to place their own persons in safety; while others, from every direction, were hurrying to the scene to gratify a morbid curiosity. From the moment Edgar put eyes upon the lady, he determined to save her, even at the risk of his life—and a fearful risk it was, in the manner he attempted it. The horse was descending Centre street from the direction of the Park, and unless his course were changed, must pass within a few feet of where he stood. There was but little time for reflection—but Edgar thought rapidly, and his plan was soon laid, though it must be confessed one of peculiar danger to himself. Perceiving a club upon the pavement, he seized it, and steping forward a few paces, awaited the approach of the furious beast, well knowing that should he fail in his design, his own life in all probability would be the penalty. On came the maddened beast, rolling fire from the flinty pavement beneath his hoofs, and making each one he passed shudder with an undefined terror. Edgar had taken his position directly in front of the animal, so that, unless one or the other turned aside, the latter must pass directly over his body. To turn aside neither seemed inclined; and when the beast, still tearing ahead with unabated velocity, had reached within a few feet of our intrepid hero, there was a general cry of alarm for his safety. The next moment the cry was changed into a universal shout of applause, and men marvelled at what their own eyes revealed to them. The horse lay sprawling, panting and kicking upon the pavement—the vehicle, upset and broken, was partly piled upon him—while the lady, safe and unharmed, was resting, all unconscious, in the arms of her deliverer. The manner this had been effected was simple, though seemingly a miracle to those who beheld it. As the foaming horse came bounding up. Edgar struck him a violent blow upon the head, which felled him to the earth; then springing quickly back, he caught the lady in his arms, as she was thrown forward by the sudden stopping of the vehicle. It was a most dangerous feat, but one he had correctly counted on performing, and he now stood the proud hero of a thousand admiring eyes. His first movement was to bear the lady up the steps of the Tombs, where water being procured and dashed in her face, she presently revived, only to stare in wonder and maidenly timidity upon the dense crowd that had gathered around. A single glance at her person and dress, showed her to be young, beautiful and wealthy— or at least a lady of some distinction, and Edgar was perplexing himself how to proceed next, when a middle-aged gentleman came pushing through the crowd, which gave panting and way with deference, and catching her in his arms, wildly called her his own dear child, and seemed fairly beside himself with joy at her providential escape. Seeing she was now in proper hands, and that there was no longer need for his services, Edgar took advantage of the confusion, and quietly and modestly withdrew. When the father, having learned the details of how his daughter had been saved by a heroic daring on the part of another which astonished him, and full of profound gratitude, inquired for her noble deliverer, he was gone, much to h
is regret and disappointment, and none could say where he might be found. In a word, while men were eagerly seeking him, that he might receive a due reward for his noble daring, Edgar was quietly wending his way homeward, satisfied In his own conscience that he had performed his duty, and disposed to seek no other recompense. The sun was several hours advanced towards meridian when he reached his humble lodgings, and Virginia, having prepared the morning meal, was awaiting him with an anxiety full of a thousand fears for his safety. To her he explained at once all that had happened to detain him; and throwing her arms around his neck, she pressed upon his lips the sisterly kiss of approval, and both partook of their frugal repast with increased appetites and lightened hearts.