The Macabre Megapack

by Various Writers

  It may be, more than either;”

  and had I been called to designate one who looked neither into the vague past nor the dim future, but found enjoyment in the tranquil present, I should have pointed to my pretty and agreeable friend.

  An incident, trifling in itself, but leading to a singular development of character, showed me the folly of thus judging of another’s nature, especially when we have never been admitted to the intimacy of friendship until after the door of the inner sanctuary of the soul was closed against earthly sympathies.

  It happened one morning that I accompanied Mrs. L— to the rooms of a celebrated picture-dealer whom she wished to consult respecting the framing of a valuable painting she had recently received from Italy. The virtuoso was absent, but learning that he was expected to be at home in a short time, we determined to wait and in the meantime to amuse ourselves with the various articles of taste and fancy with which his apartments were filled. I had been for some time leaning over a scagliola table, absorbed in the study of some exquisite cameos, when an exclamation from my companion, who had been occupied with the pictures, aroused me from my abstraction. As I looked up I beheld her standing opposite a painting, but her close bonnet entirely concealed her face from me, and conjecturing that she had discovered something of superior merit I stepped up behind her to observe it also.

  It was only a portrait of a man in the prime of life; an old portrait, for the surface was in some places cracked and broken, while the unframed canvas showed on its edges the discoloration as well as the rents of time. But never did I see a face to which the doubly significant word “fascinating,” could be so exactly applied. The broad, high forehead was bare, while the long chestnut curls which fell back from its expanse were so mellowed into the background of the picture that the outline of the head was undefined and the charm of vagueness was thus given; as if the face was looking out from behind a curtain, or rather from the indistinct gloom of a chamber. The eyes were large, dark and dreamy, with that sad but not sorrowful drooping of the delicately cut lids, that downward bend of the outer corner, which ever denotes the world-sated rather than the wounded spirit. But the mouth was the most peculiar feature, for the upper lip was curled like a bow at its utmost tension, and rested with so slight a pressure upon the full softness of its fellow that one almost expected to see it expand with smiles at the beholder’s gaze. The rounded and beardless cheek was almost too massive in its downward sweep, and the chin, though Napoleonesque in its outline, had that heaviness of finish which marks the influence of its animal nature; but the coloring of the face—its pale, clear, yet not effeminate hue—the dark, well defined brows arching over those superb eyes—the shadow flung upon the cheek by those fringed eyelids—the deep, rich color of the womanish mouth—the softness of the flesh-tints—and, above all, the almost serpent-like fascination of expression which pervaded the whole countenance, all combined to form a most remarkable and beautiful physiognomy. The costume was that of the time of George II, and a diamond star on the breast of the gold-embroidered coat bore witness to the rank of him whose pictured semblance was without a name to designate its claims to our respect. Beautiful was that face in its calm immobility—how gloriously beautiful must have been the flashings of the soul through such exquisite features, when that eye was lighted up with life and that lip was eloquent with passionate emotion! Yet even while my fancy conjured up the image of such a being, those instincts which in woman’s heart are ever true, if the world have not checked their honest teachings, made me recoil from the creature of my imagination. Something in those delicate features, something in that sweet sadness of the eye and lip, something in the almost girlish hand which lay half hidden in its point-lace ruffle, seemed to speak of the voluptuary—of one who with the holy fires of intellect had kindled a flame on the altar of sensual and selfish indulgence.

  But all these things were observed in much less time than is required for the description of them, and I was turning away with an expression of the mingled feeling that had been excited by the picture, when my attention was excited by the fixedness of Mrs. L—’s attitude. Changing my position so as to obtain a view of her face, I was startled by the extraordinary change which had taken place in her appearance. With her tall figure drawn up to its full height, yet shrinking back as if alarmed; her arms folded tightly upon her bosom and her hands grasping the drapery of her shawl, as if to veil herself from the eyes bent down upon her from the canvas, she stood entranced before the picture. Her face was ashy pale, her eyes dilated and vacant, her lips parted and almost livid in their hue, and her whole countenance bore the impress of intense horror. Alarmed at her appearance I addressed her, but without attracting her notice; I attempted to draw her away, but to my surprise I felt her arm as rigid as stone beneath my touch, while her whole attitude was that of one who is subjected to cataleptic influence.

  Gradually the spell which bound her faculties seemed to disperse, and as she slowly and shudderingly turned from the picture she fell almost fainting into my arms.

  “Let us go—quick—let us go;” she gasped, and terrified by her unusual agitation I hurried her into the carriage. During our ride she did not utter a word, but when we reached her door she exclaimed, “Do not leave me; I would not be alone just now;” and drawing her veil over her face she hurried up to her apartment. As soon as we were alone and safe from intruders, she flung herself upon a couch and a violent flood of tears seemed somewhat to relieve the dreadful tension of her nerves. It was long before she recovered from her excessive agitation, and all my attempts to soothe her were utterly useless until she had exhausted her excitement by indulgence; then, when her emotion had subsided into the deep calm which comes from utter feebleness of body, she unfolded to me one of the strangest moods of mind that it has ever been my fortune to discover.

  “How long were we at Mr.—’s room this morning?” she asked.

  “Perhaps a quarter of an hour,” was my reply.

  “And how long did I stand before that dreadful picture?”

  “Not more than five minutes.”

  “And yet in that brief space the events of a whole life passed before me.”

  “Your thoughts must have traveled with a speed like that which transported Mahomet to the seventh heaven, and restored him to his couch, before the vessel of water which had been overturned in his ascent had lost one drop of its contents.”

  “Nay, this is no jest; it is to me sad and sober earnest. Let me tell you, E—, my ideas on the subject of pre-existence.”

  “My dear friend, you are nervous and excited; we had better not discuss such matters.”

  “You think me a little egarte—you mistake; my nerves have shaken, but my mind is perfectly unclouded. Ever since I have been able to look into my own nature I have been convinced that my present life is only the completion of an earthly probation which was begun long, long since.”

  “What do you mean? You are surely not in earnest.”

  “I never was more so in my life, and yet I scarcely know how to explain myself to you. There are persons who live and die with natures but half developed; circumstances call forth one set of feelings and faculties, while others are left dormant. Such I believe to be the case with the great proportion of men and especially of women in this world, and therefore it is that I have much charity for those who fall short of my standard of goodness, since there may be an infinite deal of latent virtue hidden in their hearts. But there are others among mankind who seem to have the use of only half their souls; not from want of development, but rather from exhaustion of the faculties. Among the latter class I rank myself. I am calm, cold, and passionless; never violently excited, never deeply depressed; kindly in my feelings and warm but not ardent in my affections. Yet do I often feel within me the faint stirrings of a wild and passionate nature; a throe of the spirit which tells, not of repressed emotion, but rather of half extinct capacity for suffering. In a word, I believe that in a former state of existence I have outlived
my passions.

  “You are surprised. I tell you my life is full of vague memories of a dark and troubled past. I am as one in a dream; the things which surround me in actual life are entirely distinct from the objects that are daily presented to my mental view as forming part of my existence. Often that strange, painful consciousness of some past scene precisely resembling the present comes over me. My very affections seem to me rather like old habitudes of feeling, and when I look upon my children or listen to their merry voices, a dreamy consciousness of having, years since, heard the same ‘sweet discord’ and gazed with a mother’s pride upon creatures as fair and dear, makes me doubt my own identity.

  “That which is vague is always terrible, and my thoughts have gone out fearfully into that dark, cloudy past, seeking vainly to comprehend the wild memories that so disturb my present tranquillity. But today—today—I have seen a vision which has satisfied my quest. I had wandered listlessly about Mr.—’s rooms this morning, thinking only of beguiling the time until his return, when my eye fell upon the old portrait. You saw the effect it produced, (and she shuddered at the recollection,) but you could not know why it thus overpowered me. Now listen and remember that I know well what I am saying; that I am perfectly calm and collected, and as sane in mind as yourself.

  “As my look became fastened on that superb face a strain of low, unearthly music floated on the air, and suddenly I found myself in a gorgeous apartment, blazing with lights and filled with a gay company attired in the rich fashion of the olden time. A large mirror hung opposite me, and as I raised my eyes I saw reflected on its silvery surface the image of a young girl moving in the stately mazes of the minuet with a handsome and graceful partner. I saw the blush which mantled the maiden’s cheek as her companion’s deep, dark eyes rested upon her; I beheld the quivering of her lip as she timidly replied to the courtly flatteries which were rather breathed than uttered from that exquisite mouth; I marked the trembling of her hand as it touched his in the evolutions of the formal dance; the very beatings of her heart as it bounded against her jeweled bodice were visible to me. That maiden was myself; not a lineament was changed; it was myself, wearing the same freshness of tint and frankness of expression as in the youthful portrait which hangs in yonder recess, differing only in the costume, which was that in fashion a century ago; while he who was thus awakening me to a consciousness of passionate existence was the living semblance of that nameless picture.

  “Again that strain of music sounded; a mist came before my eyes, and as it cleared away I saw a wide and beautiful landscape. There were gently swelling hills in the distance, enfolding as it were in their embrace one of those rich parks which are said to form so lovely a feature in English scenery. Broad oaks stretched their gnarled branches over the soft, green turf, and here and there an antlered deer was seen bounding across the lawn-like verdure. But in the foreground of the picture was a closely shaded walk where the boughs of the overarching trees had been carefully interlaced, so as to exclude every straggling ray of sunshine. A sweet and tender light, as soft as moonlight but far warmer in its glow, filled the place, and there in that secluded spot sat a maiden on a mossy bank. The graceful form of her partner in the dance was bending over her in the attitude of protecting tenderness, and as she lifted her face confidingly toward the eyes which seemed radiant with affection, as she met their glance, I again recognized my own features.

  “Once more that faint melody swept by, again my eyes were darkened, and the next scene showed me the arrangements of a joyous bridal. A gay company were assembled in a small but beautiful chapel, and, as if power had been given to my mental vision to embrace all objects whether great or small, I could distinctly trace the rich carvings of the clustered pillars and the grotesque corbels of the groined roof, while the flickering tints which fell upon the snowy vestments of the bridal party, from the stained glass window behind the altar, added gorgeousness to the scene. As the newly wedded pair turned from the shrine, while merry friends pressed round them with looks of pride and joy, I beheld again the familiar face which twice before had met my view.

  “But the vision faded, the figures vanished, and a cloud seemed to arise, in which only the noble face of the portrait was visible. Presently the cloud shifted, as if moved by a passing breeze, and my own face, pale, tearful and sad, looked out from its dim shadow. Again the cloud closed over the apparition, and thus, folding and unfolding, as we often see the edges of a thundercloud in the sky, it gave out alternate glimpses of the two faces as it altered its position and its form. But a change gradually came over the countenances of both; my own became faded and sorrowful, while the cold sneer upon those bright lips, the keen glitter of those soft eyes and an expression of bitter contempt in the scowl of that placid brow, converted its glorious beauty into the beauty of ‘archangel ruined.’

  “Again came that tone of music, but it was now dirge-like and mournful as it trembled upon my ear. The shadow passed away and I beheld a funeral bier. A rigid form lay extended upon it, and a child of some ten summers knelt beside the body, while her sunny curls mingled with the dark locks which lay so lifelessly on the brow of the dead. As the child raised her head to wipe away the gushing tears I beheld the face of the departed, and again did I recognize my own features. A feeling of irrepressible horror crept over me, but I was compelled to gaze, while slowly, and as if emerging from the darkness of the distant apartment, came out the shadowy face of that old portrait, as if bending over the cold lineaments of death.

  “At this moment you spoke to me, but I could not answer; you touched me, but I was fixed and almost turned to stone; nor could I move until the fearful vision had entirely vanished, and then, exhausted and almost lifeless, I found myself resting in your arms, with that cold calm picture looking quietly down upon me from the wall.”

  Such was my friend’s account of this most extraordinary fantasy, and without pretending to trace its source, or to explain the probable cause of such a mood of mind, I would only add that it was followed by a severe attack of brain fever. She recovered, however, and lived several years, but never again gave the slightest evidence of any tendency to the vague speculations of which she had spoken to me; though, as I afterward learned, she had vainly endeavored to purchase the old portrait, which had been sold, during her illness, to some unknown picture fancier. I pretend not to elucidate the mystery of her changeful vision, or to define my own belief in her fanciful creed of pre-existence. It is enough for me to know that our dreams, whether they be waking visions or nightly slumbering fantasies, often

  “Pass like spirits of the past, and speak

  Like sybils of the future.”

  A NIGHT ON THE ENCHANTED MOUNTAIN, by Charles Fenno Hoffman

  (1839)

  There are few parts of our broad country, which, for beauty of scenery, amenity of climate, and, I might add, for the primitive and interesting character of the inhabitants, can compare with the mountainous region of eastern Tennessee.

  It is a wild and romantic district, composed of rocks and broken hills, where the primeval forests overhang valleys watered by limpid streams whose meadowy banks are grazed by innumerable herds of cattle. The various mountain ridges, which at one point traverse the country almost in parallel lines, while at another they swoop off in vast curves, and describe a majestic amphitheatre, are all, more or less, connected with the Appalachian characterize the Alleganies. In some places, the transition from valley to highland is so gradual, that you are hardly aware of the undulations of the surface when passing over it. In others, the frowning heights rise in precipitous walls from the plains; while again their wooded and dome-like summits will heave upward from the broad meadows like enormous tumuli heaped upon their bosom.

  The hills, also, are frequently seamed with deep and dark ravines, whose sheer sides, and dimly descried bottom, will make the eye swim as it tries to fathom them, while often they are pierced with cavernous galleries which lead miles under ground, and branch off into grottoes so spacio
us that an army might be marshalled within their yawning chambers.

  Here, too, those remarkable conical cavities which are generally known by the name of “sink holes” in the western country, are thickly scattered over the surface, and so perfect in shape are many of them, that it is difficult to persuade the ruder residents that they are not the work of art, nor fashioned out as drinking bowls for the extinct monsters whose fossil remains are so abundant in this region. Indeed, the singular formation of the earth’s surface, with the entire seclusion in which they live amid their pastoral valleys, must account for, and excuse many a less reasonable belief and superstition prevailing among those hospitable mountaineers. “The Enchanted Mountains,” as one of the ranges we have been attempting to describe is called, are especially distinguished by the number of incredible traditions and wild superstitions connected with them. Those uncouth paintings along their cliffs, and the footprints of men and horses stamped in the solid rock upon the highest summits, as mentioned by Mr. Flint in his Geography of the Western Country, constitute but a small part of the material which they offer to an uneducated and imaginative people for the creation of strange fantasies. The singular echoes that tremble at times through these lonely glens, and the shifting forms, which, as the morning mist rises from the upland, may be seen stealing over the tops of the crags, and hiding themselves within their crevices, are alike accounted for by supernatural causes.

  Having always been imbued with a certain love of the marvelous, and being one of the pious few, who, in this enlightened age of reality, nurse up a lingering superstition or two, I found myself, while loitering through this romantic district, and associating upon the most easy terms with its rural population, irresistibly imbibing a portion of the feeling and spirit which prevailed around me. The cavernous ravines and sounding aisles of the tall forest, had “airy tongues” for me, as well as for those who were more familiar with their whisperings. But as for the freakish beings, who were supposed to give them utterance as they pranked it away in the dim retreats around, I somehow or other could never obtain a fair sight of one of them. The forms that sometimes rose between my eyes and the mist-breathing cascade, or flitted across the shadowy glade at some sudden turn of my forest path, always managed to disappear behind some jutting rock, or make good their escape into some convenient thicket, before I could make out their lineaments, or even swear to their existence at all. My repeated disappointment in this way had begun to put me quite out of conceit of my quickness and accuracy of vision, when a new opportunity was given of testing them in the manner I am about to relate.