Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 32, June, 1860

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 32, June, 1860

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Soon they reached the opposite boundary of the Common, and continued
through Hancock Street, ascending and descending the hill. While passing
the reservoir in that dull gray darkness, Lorrimer felt as if under the
shadow of some giant tomb. Hastening forward, for it was growing late, they
threaded a number of the short avenues of Ward Three, and at length, when
young New York's endurance was nearly exhausted, reached their destination
in Chambers Street. It must have been the fatigue which, as they crossed
the threshold, propelled Mr. Lorrimer against the door, causing him to
stain himself unbecomingly with new paint.

They mounted the stairs, and entered a comfortable apartment, in which a
fresh fire was diffusing a most welcome glow, and a spacious bed
luxuriously invited occupancy. Lorrimer had but one grief, which he freely
communicated to his host,--his fingers were liberally decorated with dark
daubs, to which he pointed with unsteady anguish.

"It's a filthy shame!" said he, with more energy of manner than certainty
of utterance.

A section of the chamber was separated from the rest by a screen. Into this
retreat Glover disappeared, and immediately returned with a bottle, from
which he poured an acid that effaced the spots. "It will wash away
anything," said he, laughing.

Lorrimer was superabundantly profuse in thanks, and announced that his mind
was now at ease. By some mysterious process, not clearly explicable to
himself, he contrived to lay aside a portion of his dress, and to dispose
himself within the folds of balmy bedclothes that awaited him. In forty
seconds he was dreaming.

Nearly an hour had elapsed when he half woke from an uneasy slumber, and
strove to collect his drowsy faculties. His sleep had been disturbed by
frightful visions. He had passed through a scene of violence on the Common;
he had been engaged in a life-and-death struggle with his new acquaintance;
he had been seized by unseen hands, and thrown into a vast vault. His brain
throbbed and his heart ached, as he endeavored to disentangle the
bewildering fancies of his sleep from wakeful reality.

He lay with his face to the wall, and the grotesque decorations of the
paper assumed ghostly forms, and moved menacingly before his eyes,
thrilling him through and through.

In a few moments the murmur of voices close at hand aroused him more
effectually. He then recollected the incidents of the night, and reproached
himself for his wild excesses, and his reckless and imprudent confidence in
a stranger. He dreaded to think what the consequences might be, and again
became confused with the memories of his distressing dreams.

Three facts, however, were fastened upon his mind. He could not forget
Glover's singular glance at his roll of bank-notes,--the hesitation to
converse about the garrote,--nor the bottle of acid which would "wash away
anything." Would it wash away stains of blood?

The sounds of subdued conversation again arrested his attention. He
listened earnestly, but without changing his position.

"Speak softly," said a voice which he recognized as Glover's,--"speak
softly; you will wake my guest."

Then the words failed to reach him for a few moments. He strained his ears,
and hardly breathed, for fear of interrupting a syllable. Presently he was
able to distinguish a few sentences.

"Do you call this a profitable job?" said a strange voice.

"Oh, very fair,--worth about fifty dollars, I should guess. I wouldn't
undertake such a piece of work at a smaller chance," said Glover.

"Shall you cut the face?" said the other, after a minute's pause.

"Of course," was the answer; "it's the only way to do it handsomely."

"Hum!--what do you use? steel?"

"Steel, by all means."

"I shouldn't."

"I like it better; and I have a nice bit that has done service in this way
before."

From Lorrimer's brow exuded a deadly sudor. His heart ceased to palpitate.
His muscles became rigid; his eyes fixed. His terror was almost too great
for him to bear. With difficulty he controlled himself, and listened again.

"Can it be done here?" asked the strange voice;--"will not the features be
recognized?"

"There is nothing deeply marked, except the eyes," said Glover, "and I can
easily remove them, you know."

"You can try the acid."

"The other way is best."

"I suppose it must be done quickly."

"So quickly that there will be no chance for any proof."

Lorrimer gasped feebly, and clutched the bedclothes with a nervous,
convulsive movement. He had no power to reflect upon his situation; but he
felt that he was lost. Alone and unaided, he could not hope to combat the
evil designs of two men, a single one of whom he knew was vastly his
superior in strength. His blood seemed to cease flowing in his veins. He
thought for an instant of springing from the bed, and imploring mercy; but
the nature of their conversation, with its minutiae of cruelty, forbade all
hope in that direction. His brain whirled, and he thought that reason was
about to forsake him. But a movement in the room restored him to a sense of
his peril.

He saw the shadows changing their places, and knew that the light was
moving. He heard faint footsteps. Hope deserted him, and be closed his
eyes, quite despairing. When be opened them a minute later, he was in
darkness.

Then hope returned. There might yet be a means of escape. They had left
him,--for how long he could not conjecture; but now, at least, he was
alone. What a flood of joy came over him then!

Swiftly and softly he threw off the bedclothes, and by the uncertain light
of the fire, which was still glimmering, found his way noiselessly to the
floor.

His trembling limbs at first refused to sustain him, but the thought of his
impending fate, should he remain, invested him with an unexpected
courage. Passing around the foot of the bed, he approached the door of the
chamber.

As he moved, his shadow, dimly cast by the flickering embers, fell across
the mouth of the inclosure whence Glover had brought the acid. He shuddered
to think what might be hidden by that screen. He burned with curiosity,
even in that moment of danger. For a moment he even rashly thought of
seeking to penetrate the mystery.

Treading lightly, and partially supporting himself by the wall, lest his
feet should press too heavily upon some loose board and cause it to rattle
beneath him, he reached the door. It was not wholly closed, and with utmost
gentleness he essayed to pull it open. With all his care he could not
prevent it from creaking sharply. His nerves were again shaken, and a new
tremor assailed him. Tears filled his eyes. His heart was like ice, only
heavier, within him.

He stood for a minute motionless and half-unconscious. Then recovering
himself by a powerful effort, he advanced once more. Without venturing to
open the door wider, he worked through the narrow aperture, inch by inch,
stopping every few seconds for fear that the rustle of his shirt against
the jamb might be overheard. At length, by almost imperceptible movements,
he succeeded in gaining the head of the staircase.

Then he believed that his deliverance was near at hand. He had thus far
eluded detection, and it only remained for him to descend, and depart by
the outer door.

Bending forward at every step to catch the slightest echo of alarm, he felt
his way down through the darkness. The difficulty at this point was
great. As one recovered from a long illness finds his knees yield under him
at the first attempt to descend a staircase, just so it was with
Lorrimer. At one time a faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit
down and rest. A movement above aroused him, and, starting up, he hurriedly
groped his way to the street-door.

The darkness was absolute. He could discern nothing, but, after a short
search, he caught hold of the handle and turned it slowly. The door
remained immovable. By another exploration he discovered a large key
suspended from a nail near the centre of the door. This he inserted in the
lock, and turned--with all the caution he could command. It was not enough,
for it snapped loudly.

A voice from the head of the stairs cried out, "Who is there?"

Lorrimer was appalled. He shook the door, but it remained fast. Like
lightning he passed his hand up and down the crevice in search of a hidden
bolt. He found nothing, and felt that he was in the hands of the
murderers;--for he could entertain no doubt of their design. In the agony
of desperation he flung out his arms, and a door beside him flew open. He
entered, and rushed to a window, which was easily lifted, and out of which
he threw himself at the moment that a light streamed into the apartment
behind him.

When Mr. Lorrimer had finished relating to Captain Morrill, with all the
energy of truth, the more important of the above circumstances, that
officer arose, and, calling to his assistance a couple of his force,
started out in great haste in the direction of Chambers Street. Lorrimer,
who had been provided with shoes, hat, and coat, went with them. After a
little search, a row of houses with windows close upon the street was
found. More diligent examination showed that the door of one of these was
freshly painted. A vigorous assault upon the panels brought down the
household. Mr. Glover, and another person whose voice was identified by
Lorrimer, were marched off with few words to the station. Mr. Lorrimer's
clothes were rescued, and an officer was left to look after the premises.

Mr. Glover, on arriving at the station, expressed great indignation, and
employed uncivil terms in speaking of his late guest. Under the subduing
influences of Captain Merrill's treatment, he soon became tranquil, and
subsequently manifested an excess of hilarity, which the guardians of the
night strove in vain to check. But he answered unreservedly all the
questions which Captain Morrill put to him. His statement ran somewhat
thus:--

"I met this young man, for the first time, a few hours ago, at an
oyster-saloon on Washington Street. We drank a good deal of ale, and he
lost his balance. I kept mine. I saw he had a pretty large amount of money,
and doubted his ability to keep as good a watch over it as he ought to. So
I took him home with me. On the way he would talk uneasily about garrote
robberies, but I refused to encourage him.

"You want to know about that alarming conversation? Well,"--(here Mr.
Glover was so overcome with merriment, that, after a proper time, the
interposition of official authority became necessary,)--"well, I am an
engraver. My business is mainly to cut heads. Sometimes I use steel,
sometimes copper. My brother, who is also an engraver, and I were
discussing a new commission. I told him I should make use of a good bit of
steel, which had already been engraved upon, but not so deeply but that the
lines could be easily removed, excepting the eyes, which would have to be
scraped away. My allusion to proof is easily explained: it is common for
engravers to have a proof-impression taken of their work after it is
finished, by which they are enabled to detect any imperfections, and remedy
them.

"I am very sorry that my young friend should have considered me so much of
a blood-thirsty ruffian. But the ale of Boston is no doubt strange to him,
and his confusion at finding himself in a large city quite
natural. Besides, his suspicions were in some degree reciprocated. When I
saw him flying out of the window, I was convinced that he must be an
ingenious burglar, and instantly ran back to examine my tools. I am glad to
find that I was wrong. If he will return now with me, he shall be welcome
to his share of the bed."

Mr. Lorrimer politely, but positively, declined.

Captain Morrill urbanely apologized to Mr. Glover, and engaged himself to
make it right in the morning; whereupon Mr. Glover withdrew in cachinnatory
convulsions. Mr. Lorrimer was instructed to resume his proper garments, and
was then conveyed safely to his hotel, where he remained in deep
abstraction until Monday, when, after transacting his business, he took the
afternoon return-train for New York.

The case was not entered upon the records of the Third District Police.

* * * * *

THE GRANADAN GIRL'S SONG.

All day the lime blows in the sun,
All day the silver aspens quiver,
All day along the far blue plain
Winds serpent-like the golden river.
From clustering flower and myrtle bower
Sweet sounds arise forever,
From gleaming tower with crescent dower
Our banner floats forever.

Its purple bloom the grape puts on,
Pulping to this Granadan summer,
And heavy dews shake through the globes
Scarce stirred by some bright-winged new-comer,
On gyon brown hill, where all is still,
Where lightly rides the muleteer,
With jangling bells, whose burden swells
Till shaft and arch rise fine and clear.

As one by one the shadows creep
Back to their lairs in hilly hollows,
A broader splendor issues forth
And on their track in silence follows;
A fuller air swims everywhere,
A freer murmur shakes the bough,
A thousand fires surprise the spires,
And all the city wakes below.

What morn shall rise, what cursed morn,
To find this bright pomp all surrendered,
These palaces an empty shell,
This vigor listless ruin rendered,--
While every sprite of its delight
Mocks fickle echoes through the court,
And in our place a sculptured trace
Saddens some stranger's careless sport?

Oh, gay with all the stately stir,
And bending to your silken flowing,
One day, my banner-poles, ye creak
Naked beneath the high winds blowing!
One day ye fall across the wall
And moulder in the moat's green bosom,
While in the cleft the wild tree left
Bursts into spikes of cruel blossom!

Ah, never dawn that day for me!
O Fate, its fierce foreboding banish!
When all our hosts, like pallid ghosts
Blown on by morning, melt and vanish!
Oh, in the fires of their desires
Consume the toil of those invaders!
And let the brand divide the hand
That grasps the hilt of the Crusaders!

Yet idle words in such a scene!
Yon rosy mists on high careering,--
The Moorish cavaliers who fleet
With hawk and hound and distant cheering,--
The dipping sail puffed to the gale,
The prow that spurns the billow's fawning,--
How can they fade to dimmer shade,
And how this day desert its dawning?

Forget to soar, thou rosy rack!
Ye riders, bronze your airy motion!
Still skim the seas, so snowy craft,--
Forever sail to meet the ocean!
There bid the tide refuse to slide,
Glassing, below, thy drooping pinion,--
Forever cease its wild caprice,
Fallen at the feet of our dominion!

* * * * *

THE HUMMING-BIRD.

_May 9th._

To-day, Estelle, your special messenger, the Humming-Bird, comes darting to
our oriel, my Orient. As I sat sewing, his sudden, unexpected whirr made me
look up. How did he know that the very first Japan-pear-bud opened this
morning? Flower and bird came together by some wise prescience.

He has been sipping honey from your passion-flowers, and now has come to
taste my blossoms. What bright-winged thought of yours sent him so straight
to me, across that wide space of sea and land? Did he dart like a sunbeam
all the way? There were many of them voyaged together; a little line of
wavering light pierced the dark that night.

A large, brave heart has our bold sailor of the upper deep. Old Pindar
never saw our little pet, this darling of the New World; yet he says,--

"Were it the will of Heaven, an osier-bough Were vessel safe enough the
seas to plough."

Here he is, safe enough, not one tiny feather ruffled,--all the intense
life of the tropics condensed into this one live jewel,--the glance of the
sun on emeralds and rubies. Is it soft downy feathers that take this rich
metallic glow, changing their hue with every rapid turn?

Other birds fly: he darts quick as the glance of the eye,--sudden as
thought, he is here, he is there. No floating, balancing motion, like the
lazy butterfly, who fans the air with her broad sails. To the point, always
to the point, he turns in straight lines. How stumbling and heavy is the
flight of the "burly, dozing bumblebee," beside this quick intelligence!
Our knight of the ruby throat, with lance in rest, makes wild and rapid
sallies on this "little mundane bird,"--this bumblebee,--this rolling
sailor, never off his sea-legs, always spinning his long homespun
yarns. This rich bed of golden and crimson flowers is a handsome field of
tournament. What invisible circle sits round to adjudge the prize?

What secret does he bring me under those misty wings,--that busy birring
sound, like Neighbor Clark's spinning-wheel? Is he busy as well, this bit
of pure light and heat? Yes! he, too, has got a little home down in the
swamp over there,--that bit of a knot on the young oak-sapling. Last year
we found a nest (and brought it home) lined with the floss of
willow-catkin, stuck all over with lichens, deep enough to secure the two
pure round pearls from being thrown out, strongly fastened to the forked
branch,--a home so snug, so warm, so soft!--a home "contrived for fairy
needs."

Who but the fairies, or Mr. Fine-Ear himself, ever heard the tiny tap of
the young bird, when he breaks the imprisoning shell?

The mother-bird knows well the fine sound. Hours? days? no, weeks, she has
sat to hear at last that least wave of sound.

What! this tiny bit of restless motion sit there still? Minutes must be
long hours to her quick panting heart.

I will just whisper it in your ear, that the meek-looking mother-bird only
comes out between daylight and dark,--just like other busy mothers I have
known, who take a little run out after tea.

Can it be, that Mr. Ruby-Throat, my _preux chevalier_, keeps all the
sunshiny hours for himself, that he may enjoy to the full his own gay
flight?

Ah! you know nothing, hear nothing of woman's rights up there, in that
well-ordered household. Were it not well, if we, too, could give up our
royal right of choice,--if we could fall back on our strong earth-born
instincts, to be, to know, to do, one thing?

See how closely our darling curls up his slender black feet and legs, that
we may not see this one bit of mortality about him! No, my little immortal
does not touch the earth; he hangs suspended by that long bill, which just
tethers him to its flowers. Now and then he will let down the little black
tendrils of legs and feet on some bare twig, and there be rests and preens
those already smooth plumules with the long slender bodkin you lent
him. Now, just now, he darts into my room, coquets with my basket of
flowers, "a kiss, a touch, and then away." I heard the whirr of those gauzy
wings; it was not to the flowers alone he told his story. You did well to
trust this most passionate pilgrim with your secret; the room is radiant
with it. Slow-flying doves may well draw the car of Venus; but this arrow
tipped with flame darts before, to tell of its coming. What need of word,
of song, with that iridescent glow? Some day I will hear the whole story;
just now let the Humming-Bird keep it under his misty wings.

I have heard of a lady who reared these little birds from the nest; they
would suck honey from her lips, and fly in and out of her chamber. Only
think of seeing these callow fledglings! It is as if the winged thought
could be domesticated, could learn to make its nest with us and rear its
young.

Bountiful Nature has spared to our cold North this one compact bit from the
Tropics.

* * * * *

I believe we allow that birds are very highly organized creatures,--next to
man, they say. We, with our weary feet plodding always on the earth, our
heavy arms pinioned close to our sides!--look at this live creature, with
thinnest wing cutting the fine air! We, slow in word, slow in
thought!--look at this quivering flame, kindled by some more passionate
glance of Nature! Next to man? Yes, we might say next above. Had it not
been for that fire we stole one day, that Promethean spark, hidden in the
ashes, kept a-light ever since, it had gone hard with us; Nature might have
kept her pet, her darling, high, high above us,--almost out of roach of our
dull senses.

What is our boasted speech, with its harsh, rude sounds, to their gushing
melody? We learn music, certainly, with much pains and care. The bird
cannot tell if it be A sharp or B flat, but he sings.

Our old friend, the friend of our childhood, Mr. White of Selborne, (who
had attended much to the life and conversation of birds,) says, "Their
language is very elliptical; little is said, and much is meant and
understood." Something like a lady's letter, is it not?

How wise we might grow, if we could only "the bird-language rightly spell"!
In the olden times, we are told, the Caliphs and Viziers always listened to
what the birds said about it, before they undertook any new enterprise. I
have often thought I heard wise old folk discoursing, when a company of
hens were busy on the side-hill, scratching and clucking
together. Perchance some day we shall pick up a leaf of that herb which
shall open our ears to these now inarticulate sounds.

Why may we not (just for this summer) believe in Transmigrations, and find
some elder civilization embodied in this community of birds,--all those
lost arts taken wings, not to fly away, but to come flitting and building
in our trees, picking crumbs from our door-steps?

Do they say birds are limited? Who are we that set bounds to this direct
knowledge, this instinct? Mathematical, constructive, they certainly
are. What bold architect has builded so snug, so airy a house,--well
concealed, and yet with a good outlook? We make our dwellings conspicuous;
they hide their pretty art.

We wiseacres, who stay at home, instead of following the seasons round the
globe, should learn the art of making happy homes; yet what housekeeper
will not hang her head in shame and despair, to see this nice adaptation of
use to wants, shown each year in multitudes of nests? Now, only look at
it! always just room enough,--none to spare. First, the four or five eggs
lie comfortably in the small round at the bottom of the nest, with room
enough for the mother robin to give them the whole warmth of her broad red
breast,--her sloping back and wings making a rain-proof roof over her
jewels. Then the callow younglings rise a little higher into the wider
circle. Next the fledglings brim the cup; at last it runs over; four large
clumsy robins flutter to the ground, with much noise, much anxious calling
from papa and mamma,--much good advice, no doubt. They are fairly turned
out to shift for themselves; with the same wise, unfathomable eyes which
have mirrored the round world for so many years, which know all things, say
nothing, older than time, lively and quick as to-day; with the same
touching melody in their long monotonous call; soon with the same power of
wing; next year to build a nest with the same wise economy, each young
robin carrying in his own swelling, bulging breast the model of the hollow
circle, the cradle of other young robins. So you see it is a nest within a
nest,--a whole nest of nests; like Vishnu Sarma's fables, or Scheherazade's
stories, you can never find where one leaves off and another begins, they
shut so one into the other. No wonder the children and philosophers are
they who ask, whether the egg comes from the bird, or the bird from the
egg. Yes, it is a _Heimskringla_, a world-circle, a home-circle, this nest.

You remember that little, old, withered man who used to bring us eggs; the
boys, you know, called him Egg Pop. When the thrifty housewife complained
of the small size of his ware, he always said,--

"Yes, Marm, they be small; but they be monstrous full."

Yes, the packing of the nest is close; but closer is the packing of the
egg. "As full as an egg of meat" is a wise proverb.

Let us look at these first-fruits which the bountiful Spring hangs on our
trees.

"To break the eggshell after the meat is out we are taught in our
childhood, and practise it all our lives; which, nevertheless, is but a
superstitious relict, according to the judgment of Pliny, and the intent
hereof was to prevent witch-craft [to keep the fairies out]; for lest
witches should draw or prick their names therein, and veneficiously
mischief their persons, they broke the shell, as Dalecampius hath
observed." This is what Sir Thomas Browne tells us about eggshells. And
Dr. Wren adds, "Least they [the witches] perchance might use them for
boates to sayle in by night." But I, who have no fear of witches, would not
break them,--rather use them, try what an untold variety of forms we may
make out of this delicate oval.

By a little skilful turning and reversing, putting on a handle, a lip here,
a foot there, always following the sacred oval, we shall get a countless
array of pitchers and vases, of perfect finished form, handsome enough to
be the oval for a king's name. Should they attempt to copy our rare vases
in finest Parian, alabaster, or jasper, their art would fail to hit the
delicate tints and smoothness of this fine shell; and then those dots and
dashes, careless as put on by a master's hand!

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