Complete Prose Works

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Glad enough of the ungracious permission, and answering not a sound,
the child crept tremblingly to his bench. He felt very strangely,
dizzily--more as if he was in a dream than in real life; and laying
his arms on his desk, bow'd down his face between them. The pupils
turn'd to their accustom'd studies, for during the reign of Lugare in
the village-school, they had been so used to scenes of violence and
severe chastisement, that such things made but little interruption in
the tenor of their way.

Now, while the intervening hour is passing, we will clear up the
mystery of the bag, and of young Barker being under the garden fence
on the preceding night. The boy's mother was a widow, and they both
had to live in the very narrowest limits. His father had died when he
was six years old, and little Tim was left a sickly emaciated infant
whom no one expected to live many months. To the surprise of all,
however, the poor child kept alive, and seem'd to recover his health,
as he certainly did his size and good looks. This was owing to the
kind offices of an eminent physician who had a country-seat in the
neighborhood, and who had been interested in the widow's little
family. Tim, the physician said, might possibly outgrow his disease;
but everything was uncertain. It was a mysterious and baffling malady;
and it would not be wonderful if he should in some moment of apparent
health be suddenly taken away. The poor widow was at first in a
continual state of uneasiness; but several years had now pass'd, and
none of the impending evils had fallen upon the boy's head. His mother
seem'd to feel confident that he would live, and be a help and an
honor to her old age; and the two struggled on together, mutually
happy in each other, and enduring much of poverty and discomfort
without repining, each for the other's sake.

Tim's pleasant disposition had made him many friends in the village,
and among the rest a young fanner named Jones, who, with his elder
brother, work'd a large farm in the neighborhood on shares. Jones very
frequently made Tim a present of a bag of potatoes or corn, or some
garden vegetables, which he took from his own stock; but as his
partner was a parsimonious, high-tempered man, and had often said that
Tim was an idle fellow, and ought not to be help'd because he did not
work, Jones generally made his gifts in such a manner that no one knew
anything about them, except himself and the grateful objects of
his kindness. It might be, too, that the widow was both to have it
understood by the neighbors that she received food from anyone; for
there is often an excusable pride in people of her condition which
makes them shrink from being consider'd as objects of "charity" as
they would from the severest pains. On the night in question, Tim had
been told that Jones would send them a bag of potatoes, and the place
at which they were to be waiting for him was fixed at Mr. Nichols's
garden-fence. It was this bag that Tim had been seen staggering under,
and which caused the unlucky boy to be accused and convicted by
his teacher as a thief. That teacher was one little fitted for his
important and responsible office. Hasty to decide, and inflexibly
severe, he was the terror of the little world he ruled so
despotically. Punishment he seemed to delight in. Knowing little of
those sweet fountains which in children's breasts ever open quickly at
the call of gentleness and kind words, he was fear'd by all for
his sternness, and loved by none. I would that he were an isolated
instance in his profession.

The hour of grace had drawn to its close, and the time approach'd at
which it was usual for Lugare to give his school a joyfully-receiv'd
dismission. Now and then one of the scholars would direct a furtive
glance at Tim, sometimes in pity, sometimes in indifference or
inquiry. They knew that he would have no mercy shown him, and though
most of them loved him, whipping was too common there to exact much
sympathy. Every inquiring glance, however, remain'd unsatisfied, for
at the end of the hour, Tim remain'd with his face completely hidden,
and his head bow'd in his arms, precisely as he had lean'd himself
when he first went to his seat. Lugare look'd at the boy occasionally
with a scowl which seem'd to bode vengeance for his sullenness. At
length the last class had been heard, and the last lesson recited,
and Lugare seated himself behind his desk on the platform, with his
longest and stoutest ratan before him.

"Now, Barker," he said, "we'll settle that little business of yours.
Just step up here."

Tim did not move. The school-room was as still as the grave. Not a
sound was to be heard, except occasionally a long-drawn breath.

"Mind me, sir, or it will be the worse for you. Step up here, and take
off your jacket!"

The boy did not stir any more than if he had been of wood. Lugare
shook with passion. He sat still a minute, as if considering the best
way to wreak his vengeance. That minute, passed in death-like silence,
was a fearful one to some of the children, for their faces whiten'd
with fright. It seem'd, as it slowly dropp'd away, like the minute
which precedes the climax of an exquisitely-performed tragedy, when
some mighty master of the histrionic art is treading the stage, and
you and the multitude around you are waiting, with stretch'd nerves
and suspended breath, in expectation of the terrible catastrophe.

"Tim is asleep, sir," at length said one of the boys who sat near him.
Lugare, at this intelligence, allow'd his features to relax from their
expression of savage anger into a smile, but that smile look'd more
malignant if possible, than his former scowls. It might be that he
felt amused at the horror depicted on the faces of those about him; or
it might be that he was gloating in pleasure on the way in which he
intended to wake the slumberer.

"Asleep! are you, my young gentleman!" said he; "let us see if we
can't find something to tickle your eyes open. There's nothing like
making the best of a bad case, boys. Tim, here, is determin'd not to
be worried in his mind about a little flogging, for the thought of it
can't even keep the little scoundrel awake."

Lugare smiled again as he made the last observation. He grasp'd his
ratan firmly, and descended from his seat. With light and stealthy
steps he cross'd the room and stood by the unlucky sleeper. The boy
was still as unconscious of his impending punishment as ever. He might
be dreaming some golden dream of youth and pleasure; perhaps he was
far away in the world of fancy, seeing scenes, and feeling delights,
which cold reality never can bestow. Lugare lifted his ratan high over
his head, and with the true and expert aim which he had acquired by
long practice, brought it down on Tim's back with a force and whacking
sound which seem'd sufficient to wake a freezing man in his last
lethargy. Quick and fast, blow foliow'd blow. Without waiting to see
the effect of the first cut, the brutal wretch plied his instrument of
torture first on one side of the boy's back, and then on the other,
and only stopped at the end of two or three minutes from very
weariness. But still Tim show'd no signs of motion; and as Lugare,
provoked at his torpidity, jerk'd away one of the child's arms, on
which he had been leaning over the desk, his head dropp'd down on the
board with a dull sound, and his face lay turn'd up and exposed to
view. When Lugare saw it, he stood like one transfix'd by a basilisk.
His countenance turn'd to a leaden whiteness; the ratan dropp'd from
his grasp; and his eyes, stretch'd wide open, glared as at some
monstrous spectacle of horror and death. The sweat started in great
globules seemingly from every pore in his face; his skinny lips
contracted, and show'd his teeth; and when he at length stretch'd
forth his arm, and with the end of one of his fingers touch'd the
child's cheek, each limb quiver'd like the tongue of a snake; and his
strength seemed as though it would momentarily fail him. The boy was
dead. He had probably been so for some time, for his eyes were turn'd
up, and his body was quite cold. Death was in the school-room, and
Lugare had been flogging A CORPSE.

-_Democratic Review, August, 1841._

ONE WICKED IMPULSE

That section of Nassau street which runs into the great mart of New
York brokers and stock-jobbers, has for a long time been much occupied
by practitioners of the law. Tolerably well-known amid this class some
years since, was Adam Covert, a middle-aged man of rather limited
means, who, to tell the truth, gained more by trickery than he did
in the legitimate and honorable exercise of his profession. He was
a tall, bilious-faced widower; the father of two children; and had
lately been seeking to better his fortunes by a rich marriage. But
somehow or other his wooing did not seem to thrive well, and, with
perhaps one exception, the lawyer's prospects in the matrimonial way
were hopelessly gloomy.

Among the early clients of Mr. Covert had been a distant relative
named Marsh, who, dying somewhat suddenly, left his son and daughter,
and some little property, to the care of Covert, under a will drawn
out by that gentleman himself. At no time caught without his eyes
open, the cunning lawyer, aided by much sad confusion in the emergency
which had caused his services to be called for, and disguising his
object under a cloud of technicalities, inserted provisions in the
will, giving himself an almost arbitrary control over the property and
over those for whom it was designed. This control was even made to
extend beyond the time when the children would arrive at mature age.
The son, Philip, a spirited and high-temper'd fellow, had some time
since pass'd that age. Esther, the girl, a plain, and somewhat
devotional young woman, was in her nineteenth year.

Having such power over his wards, Covert did not scruple openly to use
his advantage, in pressing his claims as a suitor for Esther's hand.
Since the death of Marsh, the property he left, which had been in real
estate, and was to be divided equally between the brother and sister,
had risen to very considerable value; and Esther's share was to a man
in Covert's situation a prize very well worth seeking. All this time,
while really owning a respectable income, the young orphans often
felt the want of the smallest sum of money--and Esther, on Philip's
account, was more than once driven to various contrivances--the
pawn-shop, sales of her own little luxuries, and the like, to furnish
him with means.

Though she had frequently shown her guardian unequivocal evidence of
her aversion, Esther continued to suffer from his persecutions, until
one day he proceeded farther and was more pressing than usual. She
possess'd some of her brother's mettlesome temper, and gave him
an abrupt and most decided refusal. With dignity, she exposed the
baseness of his conduct, and forbade him ever again mentioning
marriage to her. He retorted bitterly, vaunted his hold on her and
Philip, and swore an oath that unless she became his wife, they should
both thenceforward become penniless. Losing his habitual self-control
in his exasperation, he even added insults such as woman never
receives from any one deserving the name of man, and at his own
convenience left the house. That day, Philip return'd to New York,
after an absence of several weeks on the business of a mercantile
house in whose employment he had lately engaged.

Toward the latter part of the same afternoon, Mr. Covert was sitting
in his office, in Nassau street, busily at work, when a knock at the
door announc'd a visitor, and directly afterward young Marsh enter'd
the room. His face exhibited a peculiar pallid appearance that did
not strike Covert at all agreeably, and he call'd his clerk from an
adjoining room, and gave him something to do at a desk near by.

"I wish to see you alone, Mr. Covert, if convenient," said the
newcomer.

"We can talk quite well enough where we are," answer'd the lawyer;
"indeed, I don't know that I have any leisure to talk at all, for just
now I am very much press'd with business."

"But I _must_ speak to you," rejoined Philip sternly, "at least I must
say one thing, and that is, Mr. Covert, that you are a villain!"

"Insolent!" exclaimed the lawyer, rising behind the table, and
pointing to the door. "Do you see that, sir? Let one minute longer
find you the other side, or your feet may reach the landing by quicker
method. Begone, sir!"

Such a threat was the more harsh to Philip, for he had rather
high-strung feelings of honor. He grew almost livid with suppress'd
agitation.

"I will see you again very soon," said he, in a low but distinct
manner, his lips trembling as he spoke; and left the office.

The incidents of the rest of that pleasant summer day left little
impression on the young man's mind. He roam'd to and fro without any
object or destination. Along South street and by Whitehall, he watch'd
with curious eyes the movements of the shipping, and the loading
and unloading of cargoes; and listen'd to the merry heave-yo of
the sailors and stevedores. There are some minds upon which great
excitement produces the singular effect of uniting two utterly
inconsistent faculties--a sort of cold apathy, and a sharp
sensitiveness to all that is going on at the same time. Philip's was
one of this sort; he noticed the various differences in the apparel
of a gang of wharf-laborers--turn'd over in his brain whether they
receiv'd wages enough to keep them comfortable, and their families
also--and if they had families or not, which he tried to tell by their
looks. In such petty reflections the daylight passed away. And all the
while the master wish of Philip's thoughts was a desire to see the
lawyer Covert. For what purpose he himself was by no means clear.

Nightfall came at last. Still, however, the young man did not direct
his steps homeward. He felt more calm, however, and entering an eating
house, order'd something for his supper, which, when it was brought to
him, he merely tasted, and stroll'd forth again. There was a kind of
gnawing sensation of thirst within him yet, and as he pass'd a hotel,
he bethought him that one little glass of spirits would perhaps be
just the thing. He drank, and hour after hour wore away unconsciously;
he drank not one glass, but three or four, and strong glasses they
were to him, for he was habitually abstemious.

It had been a hot day and evening, and when Philip, at an advanced
period of the night, emerged from the bar-room into the street, he
found that a thunderstorm had just commenced. He resolutely walk'd on,
however, although at every step it grew more and more blustering.

The rain now pour'd down a cataract; the shops were all shut; few
of the street lamps were lighted; and there was little except the
frequent flashes of lightning to show him his way. When about half the
length of Chatham street, which lay in the direction he had to take,
the momentary fury of the tempest forced him to turn aside into a
sort of shelter form'd by the corners of the deep entrance to a Jew
pawnbroker's shop there. He had hardly drawn himself in as closely as
possible, when the lightning revealed to him that the opposite corner
of the nook was tenanted also.

"A sharp rain, this," said the other occupant, who simultaneously
beheld Philip.

The voice sounded to the young man's ears a note which almost made him
sober again. It was certainly the voice of Adam Covert. He made some
commonplace reply, and waited for another flash of lightning to show
him the stranger's face. It came, and he saw that his companion was
indeed his guardian.

Philip Marsh had drank deeply--(let us plead all that may be possible
to you, stern moralist.) Upon his mind came swarming, and he could not
drive them away, thoughts of all those insults his sister had told him
of, and the bitter words Covert had spoken to her; he reflected, too,
on the injuries Esther as well as himself had receiv'd, and were still
likely to receive, at the hands of that bold, bad man; how mean,
selfish, and unprincipled was his character--what base and cruel
advantages he had taken of many poor people, entangled in his power,
and of how much wrong and suffering he had been the author, and might
be again through future years. The very turmoil of the elements, the
harsh roll of the thunder, the vindictive beating of the rain, and the
fierce glare of the wild fluid that seem'd to riot in the ferocity of
the storm around him, kindled a strange sympathetic fury in the young
man's mind. Heaven itself (so deranged were his imaginations) appear'd
to have provided a fitting scene and time for a deed of retribution,
which to his disorder'd passion half wore the semblance of a divine
justice. He remember'd not the ready solution to be found in Covert's
pressure of business, which had no doubt kept him later than usual;
but fancied some mysterious intent in the ordaining that he should be
there, and that they two should meet at that untimely hour. All this
whirl of influence came over Philip with startling quickness at that
horrid moment. He stepp'd to the side of his guardian.

"Ho!" said he, "have we met so soon, Mr. Covert? You traitor to my
dead father--robber of his children! I fear to think on what I think
now!"

The lawyer's natural effrontery did not desert him.

"Unless you'd like to spend a night in the watch-house, young
gentleman," said he, after a short pause, "move on. Your father was
a weak man, I remember; as for his son, his own wicked heart is his
worst foe. I have never done wrong to either--that I can say, and
swear it!"

"Insolent liar!" exclaimed Philip, his eye flashing out sparks of fire
in the darkness.

Covert made no reply except a cool, contemptuous laugh, which stung
the excited young man to double fury. He sprang upon the lawyer, and
clutch'd him by the neckcloth.

"Take it, then!" he cried hoarsely, for his throat was impeded by the
fiendish rage which in that black hour possess'd him. "You are not fit
to live!"

He dragg'd his guardian to the earth and fell crushingly upon him,
choking the shriek the poor victim but just began to utter. Then, with
monstrous imprecations, he twisted a tight knot around the gasping
creature's neck, drew a clasp knife from his pocket, and touching the
spring, the long sharp blade, too eager for its bloody work, flew
open.

During the lull of the storm, the last strength of the prostrate man
burst forth into one short loud cry of agony. At the same instant, the
arm of the murderer thrust the blade, once, twice, thrice, deep in his
enemy's bosom! Not a minute had passed since that fatal exasperating
laugh--but the deed was done, and the instinctive thought which came
at once to the guilty one, was a thought of fear and escape.

In the unearthly pause which follow'd, Philip's eyes gave one long
searching sweep in every direction, above and around him. _Above_! God
of the all-seeing eye! What, and who was that figure there?

"Forbear! In Jehovah's name forbear;" cried a shrill, but clear and
melodious voice.

It was as if some accusing spirit had come down to bear witness
against the deed of blood. Leaning far out of an open window, appear'
d a white draperied shape, its face possess'd of a wonderful youthful
beauty. Long vivid glows of lightning gave Philip a full opportunity
to see as clearly as though the sun had been shining at noonday. One
hand of the figure was raised upward in a deprecating attitude, and
his large bright black eyes bent down upon the scene below with an
expression of horror and shrinking pain. Such heavenly looks, and the
peculiar circumstance of the time, fill'd Philip's heart with awe.

"Oh, if it is not yet too late," spoke the youth again, "spare him. In
God's voice, I command, 'Thou shalt do no murder!'"

The words rang like a knell in the ear of the terror-stricken and
already remorseful Philip. Springing from the body, he gave a second
glance up and down the walk, which was totally lonesome and deserted;
then crossing into Reade street, he made his fearful way in a half
state of stupor, half-bewilderment, by the nearest avenues to his
home.

When the corpse of the murder'd lawyer was found in the morning, and
the officers of justice commenced their inquiry, suspicion immediately
fell upon Philip, and he was arrested. The most rigorous search,
however, brought to light nothing at all implicating the young man,
except his visit to Covert's office the evening before, and his angry
language there. That was by no means enough to fix so heavy a charge
upon him.

The second day afterward, the whole business came before the ordinary
judicial tribunal, in order that Philip might be either committed for
the crime, or discharged. The testimony of Mr. Covert's clerk stood
alone. One of his employers, who, believing in his innocence, had
deserted him not in this crisis, had provided him with the ablest
criminal counsel in New York. The proof was declared entirely
insufficient, and Philip was discharged.

The crowded court-room made way for him as he came out; hundreds of
curious looks fixed upon his features, and many a jibe pass'd upon
him. But of all that arena of human faces, he saw only _one_--a sad,
pale, black-eyed one, cowering in the centre of the rest. He had seen
that face twice before--the first time as a warning spectre--the
second time in prison, immediately after his arrest--now for the
_last_ time. This young stranger--the son of a scorn'd race--coming
to the court-room to perform an unhappy duty, with the intention
of testifying to what he had seen, melted at the sight of Philip's
bloodless cheek, and of his sister's convulsive sobs, and forbore
witnessing against the murderer. Shall we applaud or condemn him? Let
every reader answer the question for himself.

That afternoon Philip left New York. His friendly employer own'd a
small farm some miles up the Hudson, and until the excitement of
the affair was over, he advised the young man to go thither. Philip
thankfully accepted the proposal, made a few preparations, took a
hurried leave of Esther, and by nightfall was settled in his new
abode.

And how, think you, rested Philip Marsh that night? _Rested_ indeed!
O, if those who clamor so much for the halter and the scaffold to
punish crime, could have seen that sight, they might have learn'd a
lesson then! Four days had elapsed since he that lay tossing upon the
bed there had slumber'd. Not the slightest intermission had come to
his awaken'd and tensely strung sense, during those frightful days.
Disturb'd waking dreams came to him, as he thought what he might do to
gain his lost peace. Far, far away would he go! The cold roll of the
murder'd man's eye, as it turn'd up its last glance into his face--the
shrill exclamation of pain--all the unearthly vividness of the
posture, motions, and looks of the dead--the warning voice from
above--pursued him like tormenting furies, and were never absent from
his mind, asleep or awake, that long weary night. Anything, any place,
to escape such horrid companionship! He would travel inland--hire
himself to do hard drudgery upon some farm--work incessantly through
the wide summer days, and thus force nature to bestow oblivion upon
his senses, at least a little while now and then. He would fly on, on,
on, until amid different scenes and a new life, the old memories were
rubb'd entirely out. He would fight bravely in himself for peace of
mind. For peace he would labor and struggle--for peace he would pray!

At length after a feverish slumber of some thirty or forty minutes,
the unhappy youth, waking with a nervous start, rais'd himself in bed,
and saw the blessed daylight beginning to dawn. He felt the sweat
trickling down his naked breast; the sheet where he had lain was quite
wet with it. Dragging himself wearily, he open'd the window. Ah! that
good morning air--how it refresh'd him--how he lean'd out, and drank
in the fragrance of the blossoms below, and almost for the first time
in his life felt how beautifully indeed God had made the earth, and
that there was wonderful sweetness in mere existence. And amidst the
thousand mute mouths and eloquent eyes, which appear'd as it were to
look up and speak in every direction, he fancied so many invitations
to come among them.

Not without effort, for he was very weak, he dress'd himself, and
issued forth into the open air.

Clouds of pale gold and transparent crimson draperied the eastern sky,
but the sun, whose face gladden'd them into all that glory, was not
yet above the horizon. It was a time and place of such rare, such
Eden-like beauty! Philip paused at the summit of an upward slope,
and gazed around him. Some few miles off he could see a gleam of the
Hudson river, and above it a spur of those rugged cliffs scatter'd
along its western shores. Nearer by were cultivated fields. The clover
grew richly there, the young grain bent to the early breeze, and the
air was filled with an intoxicating perfume. At his side was the large
well-kept garden of his host, in which were many pretty flowers, grass
plots, and a wide avenue of noble trees. As Philip gazed, the holy
calming power of Nature--the invisible spirit of so much beauty and so
much innocence, melted into his soul. The disturb'd passions and the
feverish conflict subsided. He even felt something like envied peace
of mind--a sort of joy even in the presence of all the unmarr'd
goodness. It was as fair to him, guilty though he had been, as to
the purest of the pure. No accusing frowns show'd in the face of the
flowers, or in the green shrubs, or the branches of the trees. They,
more forgiving than mankind, and distinguishing not between the
children of darkness and the children of light--they at least treated
him with gentleness. Was he, then, a being so accurs'd? Involuntarily,
he bent over a branch of red roses, and took them softly between
his hands--those murderous, bloody hands! But the red roses neither
wither'd nor smell'd less fragiant. And as the young man kiss'd them,
and dropp'd a tear upon them, it seem'd to him that he had found pity
and sympathy from Heaven itself.