by John Galt
The day darkened into night; and here, according to all regular precedents in romance, hero and heroine ought to be left to themselves; but there never yet was a rule without an exception. However, to infringe upon established custom as little as possible, we will enter into no details of how pretty the bride looked in her nightcap, but proceed forthwith to the baron’s first sleep. He dreamed that the sun suddenly shone into his chamber. Dazzled by the glare he awoke, and found the bright eyes of his bride gazing tenderly on his face. Weary as he was, still he remembered how uncourteous it would be to lie sleeping while she was so wide awake, and he forthwith roused himself as well as he could. Many persons say they can’t sleep in an unfamiliar bed; perhaps this might be the case with his bride; and in new situations people should have all possible allowance made for them.
They rose early the following morning, the baroness bright-eyed and blooming as usual, the baron pale and abattu. They wandered through the castle; de Launaye told of his uncle’s prediction.
“How careful I must be of you,” said the bride, smiling; “I shall be quite jealous.”
Night came, and again Adolphe was wakened from his first sleep by Clotilde’s bright eyes. The third night arrived, and human nature could bear no more.
“Good God, my dearest!” exclaimed the husband, “do you never sleep?”
“Sleep!” replied Clotilde, opening her large bright eyes, till they were even twice their usual size and brightness. “Sleep! One of my noble race sleep! I never slept in my life.”
“She never sleeps!” ejaculated the baron, sinking back on his pillow in horror and exhaustion.
It had been settled that the young couple should forthwith visit Paris—thither they at once proceeded. The beauty of the baroness produced a most marvelous sensation even in that city of sensations. Nothing was heard of for a week but the enchanting eyes of the baroness de Launaye. A diamond necklace of a new pattern was invented in her honor, and called aux beaux yeux de Clotilde.
“Those eyes,” said a prince of the blood, whose taste in such matters had been cultivated by some years of continual practice, “those eyes of Mde. De Launaye will rob many of our gallants of their rest.”
“Very true,” briefly replied her husband.
Well, the baroness shone like a meteor in every scene, while the baron accompanied her, the spectre of his former self. Sallow, emaciated, everybody said he was going into a consumption. Still it was quite delightful to witness the devotedness of his wife—she could scarcely bear him a moment out of her sight.
At length they left Paris, accompanied by a gay party, for their chateau. But brilliant as were these quests, nothing distracted the baroness’s attention from her husband, whose declining health became every hour more alarming. One day, however, the young Chevalier de Ronsarde—he, the conqueror of a thousand hearts—the besieger of a thousand more—whose conversation was that happy mixture of flattery and scandal which is the beau ideal of dialogue—engrossed Mde. De Launaye’s attention; and her husband took the opportunity of slipping away unobserved. He hastened into a gloomy avenue—the cedars, black with time and age, met like night overhead, and far and dark did their shadows fall on the still and deep lake beside. Worn, haggard, with a timorous and hurried, yet light step, the young baron might have been taken for one of his own ancestors, permitted for a brief period to revisit his home on earth, but invested with the ghastliness and the gloom of the grave.
“She never sleeps!” exclaimed the miserable Adolphe—“she never sleeps! Day and night her large bright eyes eat like fire into my heart.” He paused, and rested for support against the trunk of one of the old cedars. “Oh, my uncle, why did not your prophecy, when it warned me against danger, tell me distinctly in what the danger consisted? To have a wife who never sleeps! Dark and quiet lake, how I envy the stillness of your depths—the shadows which rest upon your waves!”
At this moment a breath of wind blew a branch aside—a sunbeam fell upon the baron’s face; he took it for the eyes of his wife. Alas! his remedy lay temptingly before him—the still, the profound, the shadowy lake. De Launaye took one plunge—it was into eternity. Two days he was missing—the third his lifeless body floated on the heavy waters. The Baron de Launaye had committed suicide, and the bright-eyed baroness was left a disconsolate widow.
Such is the tale recorded in the annals of the house of de Launaye. Some believe it entirely, justly observing there is nothing too extraordinary to happen. Others (for there always will be people who affect to be wiser than their neighbors) say that the story is an ingenious allegory—and that the real secret of the Sleepless Lady was jealousy. Now, if a jealous wife can’t drive a man out of his mind and into a lake, we do not know what can!
A PEEP AT DEATH, by Peter von Geist
(1843)
I was standing one bright day on the banks of a small stream which ran near the village where I was staying, gazing alternately at the clear blue sky and at the quiet green valley that stretched away before me. Suddenly I heard the sharp crack of a rifle, and before I had time to think again, I felt the bullet like a ball of fire tearing its way to, and into, my heart. All control over my muscles was instantly lost, and I fell to the ground; perfectly conscious, but unable to prevent all sorts of motions in my limbs: caused, I supposed, by the blood rushing back to the seat of life. The tumult soon ceased, and I knew that I was dead. I found myself pent up, if I may so speak, confined within the narrowest limits. What particular part of the body I was imprisoned in, I was unable to determine; but to one part, and that apparently a very small one, almost a point, I was confined. I tried to project myself, as of wont, along my limbs; but the power was gone. The ground on which I lay felt like air; indeed I don’t believe that I felt it at all. The connection between me and the body was in a measure dissevered, and I shuddered as the thought came upon me that this was death. My eyelids closed, but I was able to see and hear as distinctly as ever; nay, more distinctly; for I could see not only the faces and forms of others, but their hearts; and could read their thoughts, even though they were but half formed.
The fellow who shot me came running up, wild terror almost overpowering his senses. The shot was purely accidental. This gave me some comfort; it was so much sweeter to go out of the world thus, than to die by the hand of an enemy. Soon other came up, crying out with fright. It was natural that I should look at their hearts, since it was just as easy as to look at their faces, and moreover, was somewhat new to me: but I soon grew sick of it. It was an ungracious task, and I don’t wonder now, though I did formerly, that the Rosicruscians were all misanthropes.
The men took me up softly, as though they feared to hurt me by any roughness, and conveyed me into the house. They laid me on a bed, covered me with a white cloth, and pronounced me a corpse; put on long faces, spoke in whispers, and sent for the coroner. How I longed to throw off the sheet, jump up, and kick them all out of the room! I felt able to do it: but when I tried, my arms and feet were mere bars of lead, and refused to obey the commands of the will. So I lay still, and tried to groan, but I couldn’t. What next? thought I; ay, what next! A cold shiver crept through me as I thought of the future; so I looked back on the past, and then tried to groan again; but with no better success. Soon the coroner came in, took a pinch of snuff, and felt of my wrist. ‘Quite dead!’ said he, cooly. ‘Death caused by a rifle-ball through the heart.’ He was thinking about the price of stocks all the while, for I could see into his soul. ‘Ah!’ he continued, ‘sad event; very sad; better notify his friends; it’s unpleasant; the sooner, the better. I’ll make out my report today.’ And with this, the little coroner waddled out of the house.
Nearly three days I had lain thus, and now I was to be buried. I was arrayed throughout in very white linen. Decidedly unbecoming, thought I. Oh! I wish somebody would bore a hole in me, and let me out! I was getting tired: for the last thirty-six hours had been thirty-six years. Nobody did bore a hole in me, however, and I remained in.
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p; They took me up gently and laid me in the coffin. I struggled, and fought, and remonstrated; but they didn’t seem aware of any motion that I made, but went gravely on with what they were about; and into the coffin I went. The lid was nailed down, all but the head-piece: so I knew that my countenance was to be exposed once more to the gaze of admiring friends. ‘Snug quarters these!’ thought I; ‘rather close but soft. I wish it hadn’t this confounding smell of the grave!’
I went to church in state; listened to a very affecting sermon on the uncertainty of life; heard a dirge performed by the choir; and very well it was performed too. But the young lady that sang the solo! How I longed to bite her! I knew her voice. She sung altogether too well—too artist-like. I hated her for it; and thought how I should like to sing a solo over her coffin.
The exercises being over, all gathered round to look again on the face of the dead. The lid was thrown back, and the light of day streamed in upon me. It was the last time it would ever visit me. My bed grew cold as I thought of it! Many familiar, many strange faces peered down into mine: some curious, some sad, but the most merely grave.
‘I say,’ cried I to them, though they didn’t seem to hear me; ‘I say, fine sport this; very fine; quite an amusing spectacle, no doubt! But see here, my good friends,’ said I, raising my voice, ‘I protest against this whole proceeding. If I was dead, or anything of the kind, I shouldn’t object in the least; but I am no more dead than you are! My position here is really uncomfortable. Just consider how you would like to be thrust into a box, and dropped down into a hole in the ground, out of sight; and all done so cooly and deliberately, for the sake of aggravation! I don’t see what right you have to treat a fellow in this way! I wish somebody would let me out! Holla! you wretch!’ said I to the man who came with his instruments to fasten me in; ‘do you suppose I am a dog, to be buried alive? Give me a little fresh air; do for mercy’s sake!’
But the carpenter didn’t hear me. He took hold of the cloth and spread it over my face, preparatory to nailing down the lid. ‘Old fellow!’ I cried energetically, for the blackness of despair and horror was coming over my soul; ‘none of that! I tell you now, I won’t be buried!’ But he seemed to think that I would be buried, and very composedly proceeded to shut me in. One little gleam of sunshine, and that vanishing like early mist, was all that remained to me forever. I made a terrible struggle; something gave way with a cracking noise, resembling the snapping of a lute-string; and I was free! I dashed head-foremost through the crevice between the side of the coffin and the descending lid, and jumped nimbly on the top of my late habitation.
‘Ah, ha!’ said I to the undertaker, as I shook my fist in his face; ‘ah, ha! you thought to catch me napping, did you? I was a little too quick for you!’ But he went on with solemn countenance to screw down the cover, and smooth the pall over the whole: totally unconscious that anything unusual had taken place. I looked up to the gallery, and there stood the identical young lady who had just performed the solo, in the dirge. I had kissed her that day week! ‘Oh, ho!’ my dear,’ I exclaimed, ‘hadn’t you better have reserved your lugubrious croak for a more fitting occasion? I shall dance at your funeral yet!’ The young lady, without heeding me, looked down at the coffin mournfully; that is, as mournfully as she could look, and at the same time adjust her curls, and cast stolen glances at a young physician in one of the boy-pews, whom I had supplanted in her affections. I was about making some violent remarks on her want of attention to me, and the extreme disrespect of the assembly generally, in not listening to my voice, when it occurred to me that after all I might be only a spirit, and then of course my voice could not be heard by mortal ears.
This train of reflection led me to consider my corporeal frame. But here was a puzzle; for although everything looked as it used to do, so much so that I would have sworn that I stood on the top of the coffin wholly alive and material, yet it was equally undeniable that I was at that very instant reposing under my feet. With regard to my dress, there was a still greater puzzle. What its material was I could not determine. It felt very light and loose, and almost intangible. I found too that the power of gravitation had but little effect upon me, so that I could rise or sink like a cloud in mid-ether. All these discoveries filled me with wonder; but in the midst of my philosophical meditations I was disturbed by the pall-bearers, who were preparing to remove their load from the church. The day was a fine one; a large procession was formed; the bell sent forth its single heavy notes, and we were on our way to the church-yard.
‘I may as well see the show out,’ thought I; so I sat down astride the coffin, folded my arms, and apostrophized my former self beneath: ‘Pleasant companion! Has it at length come to this? a sudden, violent and everlasting parting! Excuse me for not shedding tears, for I can’t, or I would in a moment. A delightful, profitable, though somewhat uncouth servant and associate hast thou been to me, in times past. Kind-hearted wast thou; a little given to pains and grievings of thine own, yet always ready to share mine, and obedient to my slightest wish. I will not cast in thy teeth thy slips and errors of foot, which have been many, and of tongue, which have been more. Forgive any unkind feelings or thoughts which I have entertained toward thee on that account. Forget me, old friend! for I shall soon do the same by thee. I will see thee buried, and then be off. You needn’t feel pained at going away from the world: all things earthly must sooner or later have an end, and hence you are not alone in your misery.’
Hallo, you, Sir pall-bearer! don’t stumble over every third stone you come to, for you break in upon a very delightful philosophical homily of mine. Your twitchings and jouncings disturb me excessively. ‘If I might suggest, Sir,’ said I to the minister, who was walking very slowly before me, ‘I would beg you to consider that I am bare-headed; the season of the year is mid-summer, and the sun is near his meridian. However, proceed no faster than you deem advisable. Great dunce!’ continued I, aside; ‘I might as well talk to a post! My good friends!’ added I, turning round so as to face the procession behind, ‘my good friends, it would give me great pleasure on this melancholy and distressing occasion to make some remarks on the brevity of human enjoyment, interspersing a few thoughts on the Graham system of diet, and concluding with a beautiful and affecting acknowledgement of the honor you are doing me in escorting my coffin through the streets of your miserable little town. I see, however, that we are now entering the graveyard, and will forbear.’
Softly, gentleman bearers! set me down softly. So! my course is run, and my ride finished, is it? The grave opens its great mouth, and I must vacate my agreeable seat. ‘By the mysteries of the grave! what’s this, though?’ said I to a companion, who by some magic stood at that instant beside me. ‘Isn’t this Hans Von Spiegel?’ ‘Indeed it is,’ quoth he. ‘But who is Hans Von Spiegel?’ asks the reader. He was a fellow who died five years ago, from a fall which he got from horseback. He was an intimate friend of mine; a little wild, perhaps, but a very good fellow at heart, notwithstanding. Hans sidled up to me and regarded me with a friendly stare. ‘Oh, ho!’ says I. ‘Ah, ha!’ says he. ‘How are you?’ says I. ‘Tolerable,’ says he. ‘You must think us,’ he added, ‘an ill-mannered sort of people, not to have come out and meet you; but the fact is, you died suddenly. If we had known that you had been coming, we should have contrived to receive you with becoming honor. However, I take upon myself the responsibility of welcome.’
‘You congratulate me on my escape from the ‘vale of tears,’ I suppose,’ said I. ‘And sighs,’ he added. ‘And sighs!’ thought I; ‘what an expressive ejaculation!’ Hans, be it known, asserted with his last breath that it was love and not the fall which killed him, although everybody knew to the contrary. He lived just long enough after the accident to exclaim at least a hundred and fifty times: ‘Oh! Blumine! cruel Blumine! you have seen the death of me!’
‘How do you employ yourselves in this land of spirits?’ I asked, after a pause.
‘I’m out of breath, just now,’ he answered,
‘having come pretty fast to see you: but I’ll tell you more about our way of life directly.’
‘Where shall we go first?’ I asked.
‘Nowhere till your body is buried!’ answered he, rather indignantly.
‘Just as you please,’ said I, while the ghost of a blush struggled upward into my forehead.
The coffin was now lowered into the grave, and the sexton stood with his shovel in hand, while the minister blessed my remains. ‘Old friend!’ said I, looking into the grave, ‘farewell! A pleasant sleep to you! But mind and be ready should I want you again. Farewell!’
At this Hans and I departed.
KILLCROP THE CHANGELING, by Richard Thompson
(1828)
Before the city walls of London were generally removed, and when several portions of the embattled bulwark with its high towers were yet remaining, that part of the plain, old-fashioned road leading from barbican to the Bars by Faun’s Alley was denominated Pickaxe Street; in which ominously sounding part of London there was an old house, long since destroyed, which had at a former period been inhabited by one Jonah Gumphion, an eminent undertaker, who displayed what he called the sign of “Both Ends,” in two large wooden models of a cradle and a coffin, which swung above his door.