Complete Prose Works
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.
Though against all the rules of story-writing, we continue our narrative
of these mainly true incidents (for such they are,) no further. Only to
say that _the murderer_ soon departed for a new field of action--that
he is still living--and that this is but one of thousands of cases of
unravel'd, unpunish'd crime--left, not to the tribunals of man, but to a
wider power and judgment.
THE LAST LOYALIST
["_She came to me last night, The floor gave back no tread_."] The story
I am going to tell is a traditional reminiscence of a country place, in
my rambles about which I have often passed the house, now unoccupied,
and mostly in ruins, that was the scene of the transaction. I cannot,
of course, convey to others that particular kind of influence which is
derived from my being so familiar with the locality, and with the very
people whose grandfathers or fathers were contemporaries of the actors
in the drama I shall transcribe. I must hardly expect, therefore, that
to those who hear it thro' the medium of my pen, the narration will
possess as life-like and interesting a character as it does to myself.
On a large and fertile neck of land that juts out in the Sound,
stretching to the east of New York city, there stood, in the latter part
of the last century, an old-fashion'd country-residence. It had been
built by one of the first settlers of this section of the New World; and
its occupant was originally owner of the extensive tract lying adjacent
to his house, and pushing into the bosom of the salt waters. It was
during the troubled times which mark'd our American Revolution that
the incidents occurr'd which are the foundation of my story. Some
time before the commencement of the war, the owner, whom I shall call
Vanhome, was taken sick and died. For some time before his death he had
lived a widower; and his only child, a lad of ten years old, was thus
left an orphan. By his father's will this child was placed implicitly
under the guardianship of an uncle, a middle-aged man, who had been
of late a resident in the family. His care and interest, however, were
needed but a little while--not two years claps'd after the parents were
laid away to their last repose before another grave had to be prepared
for the son--the child who had been so haplessly deprived of their
fostering care.
The period now arrived when the great national convulsion burst
forth. Sounds of strife and the clash of arms, and the angry voices of
disputants, were borne along by the air, and week after week grew to
still louder clamor. Families were divided; adherents to the crown, and
ardent upholders of the rebellion, were often found in the bosom of the
same domestic circle. Vanhome, the uncle spoken of as guardian to the
young heir, was a man who lean'd to the stern, the high-handed and the
severe. He soon became known among the most energetic of the loyalists.
So decided were his sentiments that, leaving the estate which he had
inherited from his brother and nephew, he join'd the forces of the
British king. Thenceforward, whenever his old neighbors heard of him, it
was as being engaged in the cruelest outrages, the boldest inroads, or
the most determin'd attacks upon the army of his countrymen or their
peaceful settlements. Eight years brought the rebel States and their
leaders to that glorious epoch when the last remnant of a monarch's rule
was to leave their shores--when the last waving of the royal standard
was to flutter as it should be haul'd down from the staff, and its place
fill'd by the proud testimonial of our warriors' success.
Pleasantly over the autumn fields shone the November sun, when a
horseman, of somewhat military look, plodded slowly along the road that
led to the old Vanhome farmhouse. There was nothing peculiar in his
attire, unless it might be a red scarf which he wore tied round his
waist. He was a dark-featured, sullen-eyed man; and as his glance was
thrown restlessly to the right and left, his whole manner appear'd to
be that of a person moving amid familiar and accustom'd scenes.
Occasionally he stopp'd, and looking long and steadily at some object
that attracted his attention, mutter'd to himself, like one in whose
breast busy thoughts were moving. His course was evidently to the
homestead itself, at which in due time he arrived. He dismounted, led
his horse to the stables, and then, without knocking, though there were
evident signs of occupancy around the building, the traveler made his
entrance as composedly and boldly as though he were master of the whole
establishment.
Now the house being in a measure deserted for many years, and the
successful termination of the strife rendering it probable that the
Vanhome estate would be confiscated to the new government, an aged,