Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 339, January, 1844

That day passed like a dream. The meeting was quickly arranged. Six o'clock on the following morning was the hour fixed. The place was a field, the first beyond the turnpike gate, and within a mile of the city. As soon as Michael made sure of the duel, he saw his confidential clerk. His name was Burrage. He had been a servant in the banking-house for forty years, and had known Michael since his birth. It was he who gave the newspaper into Allcraft's hands, on the first arrival of the latter at the bank that morning. He was a quiet old man of sixty, an affectionate creature, and as much a part of the banking-house as the iron chest, the desk, the counter, or any other solid fixture. He stepped softly into his master's room after he had been summoned there, and he gazed at his unhappy principal as a father might at his own child in misfortune—a beloved and favourite child.

"You are not well this morning, sir," said Burrage most respectfully. "You look very pale and anxious."

"My looks belie me, Burrage. I am very well. I have not been so well for years. I am composed and happy. I have been ill, but the time is past. How old are you, Burrage?"

"Turned threescore, sir; old enough to die."

"Die—die! death is a sweet thing, old man, when it comes to the care-worn. I have had my share of trouble."

"Too much, sir—too much!" said Burrage, his eyes filling with water. "You have half killed yourself here. I am sure your poor father never expected this. Nobody could have expected it in his time, when you were a little, fat, rosy-cheeked boy, running about without a thought, except a thought of kindness for other people."

Michael Allcraft burst into a flood of tears—they gushed faster and faster into his eyes, and he sobbed as only men sob who have reached the climax of earthly suffering and trial.

"Do not take on so, my dear sir," said Burrage, running to him. "Pray, be calm. I am sure you are unwell. You have been ill for some time. You should see a doctor—although I am very much afraid that your disease is beyond their cure—in truth I am."

"Burrage," said Michael in a whisper, and still sighing convulsively—"It is all over. It is finished. Prepare for the crash—look to your own safety. Hide yourself from the gaze of men. It will strike us all dead."

"You frighten me, Mr Allcraft.—You are really very ill. Your brain is overworked—you want a little repose and recreation."

"Yes, you are right Burrage—the recreation of a jail—the repose of a tomb. We will have one, at least—yes, one—and I have made the selection."

"Have you heard any bad news to-day, sir?"

"None—excellent news to-day. No more hopes and fears—no alarms—no lying and knavery—eternal peace now, and not eternal wretchedness."

"Had you not better leave the bank, Mr Allcraft, and go home? Your hands are burning hot. You are in a high fever."

"Put up the shutters—put up the shutters," muttered Michael, more to himself than to his clerk. "Write bankrupt on the door—write it in large letters—in staring capitals—that the children may read the word, and know why they are taught to curse me. You hear me, Burrage?"

"I hear what you say, sir, but I do not understand you. You want rest—you are excited."

"I tell you, Burrage, I am quiet—I never was so quiet—never sounder in body and mind. Will you refuse to listen to the truth? Man," he continued, raising his voice and looking the clerk steadily in the face. "I am ruined—a beggar. The bank is at its last gasp. The doors are closed to-night—never to be re-opened."

"God forbid, sir!"

"Why so?—Would you drive me mad? Am I to have no peace—no rest? Am I to be devoured, eaten away by anxiety and trouble? Have you no human blood—no pity for me? Are you as selfish as the rest?"

"Is it possible, sir?"

"It is the truth. But speak not of it. I will have your life if you betray me until the event tells its own tale. We close the door to-night, to open it no more. You hear the words. They are very simple words. Why do you stare so, as if you couldn't guess their meaning?"

"Oh—I have dreaded this—I have suspected it!" said Burrage, wringing his hands; "but it has always seemed impossible. Poor Mr Allcraft!"

"Poor!" exclaimed Michael. "Do you begin already? Do you throw it in my teeth so soon? You are in the right, man—go with the stream—taunt me—spit in my face—trample me in the dust!"

"Do not speak unkindly to me, master," said the old clerk. "You will break my heart at once if you do. What you have told me is hard enough to bear in one day."

Michael took the good fellow's hand, and answered, whilst his lips quivered with grief, "It is—it is enough, old friend. Go your ways. Leave me to myself. I have told you a secret—keep it whilst it remains one. Oh, what a havoc! What devastation! Go, Burrage—go—seal your lips—do not breathe a syllable—go to your work."

The clerk went as he was bid, but stupified and stunned by the information he had received. He took his accustomed seat at the desk, and placed a large ledger before him. He was occupied with one trifling account for half the day, and did not finish it at last. A simple sum of compound addition puzzled the man who, an hour before, could have gone through the whole of the arithmetic in his sleep. Oh, boasted intellect of man! How little is it thou canst do when the delicate and feeling heart is out of tune! How impotent thou art! How like a rudderless ship upon a stormy sea! Poor Burrage was helpless and adrift! And Michael sat for hours together alone, in his little room. He was literally afraid to creep out of it. He struggled to keep his mind steadily and composedly fixed upon the fate that awaited him—a fate which he had marked out for himself, and resolved not to escape. He forced himself to regard the great Enemy of Man as his best friend—his only comforter and refuge. But just when he deemed himself well armed, least vulnerable, and most secure, the awful reality of death—its horrible accompaniments—dissolution, corruption, rottenness, decay, and its still more awful and obscure uncertainties, started suddenly before him, and sent a sickening chill through every pore of his unnerved flesh. Then he retreated from his position—fled, as it were, for life, and dared not look behind, so terrible was the sight of his grim adversary. He leaped from his chair, as if unable to sit there; and, whilst he paced the room, he drew his breath, as though he needed air for respiration—his heart throbbed, and his brain grew tight and hot within his skull. The fit passing away, Michael hastened to review the last few years of his existence, and to bribe himself to quietness and resignation, by contrasting the hateful life which he had spent with the desirable repose offered to him in the grave; and by degrees the agitation ceased—the alarm subsided, and the deluded man was once more cozened into hardened and unnatural tranquillity. In this way flew the hours—one train of feeling succeeding to another, until the worn-out spirit of the man gave in, and would be moved no longer. At last, the unhappy banker grew sullen and silent. He ceased to sigh, and groan, and weep. His brain refused to think. He drew his seat to the window of the room, which permitted him, unperceived, to observe the movements in the bank—and, folding his arms, he looked doggedly on, and clenched his teeth, and frowned. He saw the fortunate few who came for money and received it—and the unfortunate many, who brought their money—left, and lost it. He was indifferent to all. He beheld—as the spirits fair may be supposed to look upon the earth a moment before the sweeping pestilence that comes to thin it—life, vigorous and active, in that house of business, whose latest hour had come—whose knell was already sounding; but it moved him not. He heard men speak his name in tones of kindness, whose lips on the morrow would deal out curses. He saw others, hat in hand, begging for an audience, who would avoid him with a sneer and a scorning when he passed them in the street. He looked upon his own servants, who could not flatter their master too highly to-day, and would be the first to-morrow to cry him down, and rail against his unpardonable extravagance and recklessness; but he heeded nothing. His mind had suspended its operations, whilst his physical eye stared upon vacancy.

It was very strange. He continued in this fashion for a long time, and suddenly sensibility seemed restored to him; for an ashy paleness came over him—his eyelid trembled, and his lips were drawn down convulsively, as if through strong and heavy grief. He rose instantly, rushed to the bell, and rang it violently.

Burrage came to answer it.

"Monster!" exclaimed his master, gazing at him spitefully, "have you no heart—no feeling left within you? How could you do it?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Rob that poor old man. Plunder and kill that hoary unoffending creature. Why did you take his miserable earnings? Why did you rob his little ones? Why clutch the bread from his starving grandchildren? He will die of a broken heart, and will plead against me at the judgment-seat. Why was that old man's money taken?"

"We must take all, or nothing, sir. You forbade me to speak a syllable."

"Speak—speak! Yes, but could you not have given him a look, one merciful look, to save his life, and my soul from everlasting ruin? You might, you could have done it, but you conspire to overthrow me. Go—but mark me—breathe not a word, if you hope to live."

The poor clerk held up his hands, shook them piteously, sighed, and went his way again.

It was six o'clock in the evening, and every soul connected with the bank, except Michael and Burrage, had left it. They were both in the private room, which the former had not quitted during the day. Michael was writing a letter; the clerk was standing mournfully at his side. When the note was finished, directed, and sealed, Allcraft turned to his old friend and spoke—

"I shall not sleep at home to-night, Burrage. I have business which must be seen to."

"Indeed, sir, you had better go home. You are very unwell."

"Silence, once more. I tell you, Burrage, it cannot be. This business must not be neglected. I have written to Mrs Allcraft, explaining the reason of my absence. You will yourself deliver the letter to her, with your own hands, Burrage. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir," faltered Burrage, wishing himself deaf.

"Very well. I have no more to say. Good-by—good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said the man, walking slowly off.

"Stay, Burrage. You are a true old friend—my oldest. Give me your hand. I have spoken unkindly—very harshly and cruelly to-day. Do not think ill of me. My temper has been soured by the troubles of life. You forgive me for my anger—do you not?"

The old man did not answer. He could not. He held the hand of his master tightly in his own. He drew it to his lips and kissed it; and then, ashamed not of the act, but of his unmanly tears, he walked slowly to the door, and quitted the room—his head bending to the earth, whence it never again was raised.

Two hours later Michael was many miles away. He had followed to his humble home the aged man who had that morning paid his substance into the bank. Much as he had to answer for, Michael could not bear to carry about with him the knowledge that he had ruined and destroyed the grey-haired labourer. Why and how it was that he felt so acutely for the stranger, and selected him from the hundreds who were beggared by his failure, it is impossible to guess. It is certain that he restored every sixpence that had been deposited in the morning, and could not die until he had done so. Where Allcraft passed the night was never known. He was punctual to his appointment on the following morning; and so was Mr Bellamy. It is due to the latter to state, that, at the latest moment, he was willing, as far as in him lay, to settle the difference without proceeding to extreme measures. All that a man could offer, who did not wish to be suspected of rank cowardice, he offered without reservation. But Allcraft was inexorable. He repeated his insult on the field; and there was nothing to be done but to make him accountable for his words at the point of the pistol—to receive and give THE SATISFACTION OF A GENTLEMAN. Whatever satisfaction the mangled corpse of a man whom he had deeply injured, could afford the high-born Mr Bellamy, that gentleman enjoyed in a very few minutes after his arrival; for he shot his antagonist in the mouth, saw him spinning in the air, and afterwards lying at his feet—an object that he could not recognize—a spectacle for devils to rejoice in. Happy the low-born man who may not have or feel such exquisite and noble SATISFACTION!

Allcraft was not cold before Mr Bellamy was at sea, sailing for France. The latter had not put his feet upon foreign soil, before his property was seized by hungry creditors. The bank was closed. Burrage himself pasted on the shutters the paper that notified its failure. Augustus Theodore Brammel heard of the stoppage whilst he was at breakfast, sipping chocolate; and greatly he rejoiced thereat. His delight was sensibly diminished in the course of the morning, when he received a letter informing him of his father's death, and an intimation from a lawyer, that every farthing which he inherited would be taken from him, as goods and chattels, for the discharge of claims which the creditors of the bank might have against him. Later in the day, he heard of Allcraft's death and Bellamy's escape, and then he rushed into a chemist's shop and bought an ounce of arsenic; but after he had purchased it, he had not heart enough to swallow it. Enraged beyond expression—knowing not what to do, nor upon whom to vent his rage—it suddenly occurred to him to visit Mrs Allcraft, and to worry her with his complaints. He hurried to her house, and forced himself into her presence. We will not follow him, for grief is sacred; and who that had the heart of man, would desecrate the hearth hallowed by affliction, deep and terrible as that of our poor Margaret?

CHAPTER VII.

THE VICARAGE

Our history began at the Vicarage; there let it end. It is a cheerful summer's morning, and Margaret sits in the study of her friend Mr. Middleton, who has learned to look upon his charge as upon a daughter. She is still attired in widow's weeds, but looks more composed and happy than when we saw her many months ago there.

"You will not leave us, then," said the good vicar; "we have not tired you yet?"

"No," answered Margaret, with a sweet contented smile, "here must I live and die. My duties will not suffer me to depart, even were I so inclined. What would my children do?"

"Ah, what indeed? The school would certainly go to rack and ruin."

"And my old friends, the Harpers and the Wakefields?"

"Why, the old ladies would very soon die of a broken heart, no doubt of it; and then, there's our dispensary and little hospital. Why, where should we look for a new apothecary?"

"These are but the worst days of my life, Mr. Middleton, which I dedicate to usefulness. How am I to make good the deficiency of earlier years?"

"By relying, my dear madam, upon the grace and love of Heaven, who in mercy regards not what we have been, but what we are."

"And is there pardon for so great a sinner?"

"Doubt it not, dear lady. Had you not been loved, you never would have been chastised—you would never have become an obedient and willing child. Be sure, dear Mrs Allcraft, that having repented, you are pardoned and reconciled to your Father. Pray, hold fast to this conviction. You have reason to believe it; for truly you have not despised the chastening of the Lord, nor fainted when you were rebuked of him."

KÍEFF

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN OF IVÁN KOZLÓFF BY T.B. SHAW O Kiéff! where religion ever seemeth To light existence in our native land; Where o'er Petchérskoi's dome the bright cross gleameth, Like some fair star, that still in heaven doth stand; Where, like a golden sheet, around thee streameth Thy plain, and meads that far away expand; And by thy hoary wall, with ceaseless motion, Old Dniéper's foaming swell sweeps on to ocean. How oft to thee in spirit have I panted, O holy city, country of my heart! How oft, in vision, have I gazed enchanted On thy fair towers—a sainted thing thou art!— By Lávra's walls or Dniéper's wave, nor wanted A spell to draw me from this life apart; In thee my country I behold, victorious, Holy and beautiful, and great and glorious. The moon her soft ray on Petchérskoi poureth, Its domes are shining in the river's wave; The soul the spirit of the past adoreth, Where sleeps beneath thee many a holy grave: Vladímir's shade above thee calmly soareth, Thy towers speak of the sainted and the brave; Afar I gaze, and all in dreamy splendour Breathes of the past—a spell sublime and tender. There fought the warriors in the field of glory, Strong in the faith, against their country's foe; And many a royal flower yon palace hoary, In virgin loveliness, hath seen to blow. And Báyan sang to them the noble story, And secret rapture in their breast did glow; Hark! midnight sounds—that brazen voice is dying— A day to meet the vanish'd days is flying. Where are the valiant?—the resistless lances— The brands that were as lightning when they waved? Where are the beautiful—whose sunny glances Our fathers, with such potency, enslaved? Where is the bard, whose song no more entrances? Ah! that deep bell hath answer'd what I craved: And thou alone, by these grey walls, O river! Murmurest, Dniéper, still, and flow'st for ever.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN

PART VII

Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in the pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?" SHAKSPEARE.

At daybreak, the bustle of the camp awoke me. I rose hastily, mounted my horse, and spurred to the rendezvous of the general staff. Nothing could be more animated than the scene before me, and which spread to the utmost reach of view. The advance of the combined forces had moved at early dawn, and the columns were seen far away, ascending the sides of a hilly range by different routes, sometimes penetrating through the forest, and catching the lights of a brilliant rising sun on their plumes and arms. The sound of their trumpets and bands was heard from time to time, enriched by the distance, and coming on the fresh morning breeze, with something of its freshness, to the ear and the mind. The troops now passing under the knoll on which the commander-in-chief and his staff had taken their stand, were the main body, and were Austrian, fine-looking battalions, superbly uniformed, and covered with military decorations, the fruits of the late Turkish campaigns, and the picked troops of an empire of thirty millions of men. Nothing could be more brilliant, novel, or picturesque, than the display of this admirable force, as it moved in front of the rising ground on which our cortège stood.

"You will now see," said Varnhorst, who sat curbing, with no slight difficulty, his fiery Ukraine charger at my side, "the troops of countries of which Europe, in general, knows no more than of the tribes of the new world. The Austrian sceptre brings into the field all the barbaric arms and costumes of the border land of Christendom and the Turk."

Varnhorst, familiar with every service of the continent, was a capital cicerone, and I listened with strong interest as he pronounced the names, and gave little characteristic anecdotes, of the gallant regiments that successively wheeled at the foot of the slope—the Archducal grenadiers—the Eugene battalion, which had won their horse-tails at the passage of the Danube—the Lichtensteins, who had stormed Belgrade—the Imperial Guard, a magnificent corps, who had led the last assault on the Grand Vizier's lines, and finished the war. The light infantry of Maria Theresa, and the Hungarian grenadiers and cuirassiers, a mass of steel and gold, closed the march of the main body. Nothing could be more splendid. And all this was done under the perpetual peal of trumpets, and the thunder of drums and gongs, that seemed absolutely to shake the air. It was completely the Miltonic march and harmony—

"Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds."

But I was now to witness a still more spirit-stirring scene.

The trampling of a multitude of horse, and the tossing of lances and banners in the distance, suddenly turned all eyes in their direction.

"Now, prepare," said the Count, "for a sight, perhaps not altogether so soldierlike, but fully as much to my taste, as the buff-belt and grenadiers'-cap formality of the line. You shall see the Austrian flankers—every corps equipped after its native fashion. And whatever our martinets may say, there is nothing that gives such spirits to the soldier, as dressing according to the style of his own country. My early service was in Transylvania; and if I were to choose troops for a desperate service, I say—give me either the man of the hill, or the man of the forest, exactly in the coat of the chamois-shooter, or the wolf-hunter."

He had scarcely pointed my attention to the movement, when the whole body of the rearguard was in full and rapid advance. The plain was literally covered with those irregulars, who swept on like a surge, or rather, from the diversity of their colours, and the vast half-circle which they formed on the ground, a living rainbow. Part were infantry and part cavalry, but they were so intermingled, and the motion of all was so rapid, that it was difficult to mark the distinction. From my recollection of the history of the Seven Years' War, I felt a double interest in the sight of the different castes and classes of the service, which I had hitherto known only by name. Thus passed before me the famous Croatian companies—the Pandours, together forming the finest outpost troops of the army—the free companies of the Tyrol, the first marksmen of the empire, a fine athletic race, with the eagle's feather in their broad hats, and the sinewy step of the mountaineer—the lancers of the Bannat, first-rate videttes, an Albanian division, which had taken service with Austria on the close of the war; and, independently of all name and order, a cloud of wild cavalry, Turk, Christian, and barbarian, who followed the campaign for its chances, and galloped, sported, and charged each other like the Arabs of the desert.

The late triumphs of the Imperial arms in Turkey had even enhanced the customary display, and the standards of the cavalry and colours of the battalions, were stiff with the embroidered titles of captured fortresses and conquered fields. Turkish instruments of music figured among the troops, and the captive horse-tails were conspicuous in more than one corps, which had plucked down the pride of the Moslem. The richness and variety of this extraordinary spectacle struck me as so perfectly Oriental, that I might have imagined myself suddenly transferred to Asia, and looked for the pasha and his spahis; or even for the rajah, his elephants, and his turbaned spearmen. But all this gay splendour has long since been changed. The Croats are now regulars, and all the rest have followed their example.