(Ground covered with ice—Furious storm of snow and sleet. Two gentlemen becloaked and bemuffled, hurrying in different directions, come in full contact, and mutually recoiling hasten to make apology.)
“My dear Sir—a thousand pardons.”—“No, indeed Sir, ’twas I—I was the offending party.”—“No, I assure you—I”—eh!—is it?—it is!—my old friend the reader.—Why, my dear friend—you came upon me as if you had been discharged from a Catapult—a Paixhan shot was nothing to you? But where so fast in the fury of the storm—Not to Union Square! Heavens! Man, you will never reach there living—Why in this horrid cold the spirits of Nova-Zembla and Mont-Blanc are dancing in ecstacy about the fountains in the Park, and the very cabs are frozen on their axles! Never think of it. Come—come with me to my rooms hard by in State-street, and on the word of a bachelor and a gentleman, I’ll promise to make you comfortable. Come, take my arm—Whew! how this North-Wester sweeps around the Battery. Here we are—This is the house—A real aristocratic old mansion; is it not?—Enter, my dear friend—Run up the stairs—Holloa! ho! Scip!—Scipio—Africanus—Angel of Darkness—come forth—come forth—Ay! here you are. And you, too, shaggy old Neptune, your eyes sparkling with delight, and your long tongue hanging out over your white teeth—down—you old rascal—down sir—down. Now, is not this snug and comfortable—a good roaring fire of hickory—none of your sullen red-hot anthracite for me. How the cold wind howls through the leafless trees upon the Battery,—Draw the curtains—Scip!—Come, bear a hand, take the reader’s hat and coat. Invest him with the wadded damask dressing gown that Tom sent home from Cairo—and the Turkish slippers—So—so—Now bring me mine; place the well-stuffed easy chairs; roll the round table up between us—bring in the lights. Now, reader, at your elbow, lo! provision for your wants, material and mental—genuine old Farquhar and amber Golden Sherry—the Chateaux I got years since from Lynch; and just opened is that box of genuine Regalias, only smell! “Fabrica de Tabacos—Calle-a-Leon—En la Habana, No. 14.” Is it not Arabia’s perfume! Ha! give me your smoking Spaniard in his sombrero—e’er any a half-naked Bedouin of them all;—or if indeed you do prefer it, there stands the Chiboque coiled up in the corner, and the metaphysical German’s meer-schaum on the shelf. There are biscuit and anchovies, and olives, “old Cheshire,” and other inviting things for your wants physical, and for your mental, lo! uncut and damp from the publishers with the regular new book smell—the North American—Old Blackwood—the Quarterly—the Edinburgh Review—Diedrich in his high back chair, the Sporting and other Maga’s, and by a slight curve of thy vertebræ cervical, behold shining through yon glazed doors—glowing in gold, dross to the gold within; the great master Bard of England—Cervantes—the chosen spirits of Italia and Gaul—Irving—worthy to be called Washington—Bryant—sweet poet—and Halleck, genuine son of the voyagers in the Mayflower—and of literature much other goodly store.
Now, Scip! Lord of the Gold Coast—throw more wood upon the fire—Ay! that will do—my good old faithful servant—that will do—now take that pepper and salt head of thine down to the kitchen hearth, there to retail thy legend and goblin story, or ensconce thee in the corner at thy will—Ah! hah, old Neptune—snug in thy place upon the hearth rug—thy nose lying between thy outstretched paws as thou lookest intently in the fire—Bless thine honest heart!—thinking, I warrant me, of the beautiful child whom thou didst leap the Battery bridge to save. How bravely thou didst bear the little sufferer up on the fast rushing tide. The grateful father would have bought thee for thy weight in gold, as thou didst lie panting and half exhausted—but look not so wistfully my dog—a sack of diamonds could not purchase thee—no—never do we part till death steps in between us—and, by my faith, an’ thou goest first, thou shalt have Christian burial.
Now, dear reader, as thou reclinest comfortably in that big arm chair, thy feet in Ottoman slippers resting on the fender, the blue smoke of thy cigar wreathing and curling around thy nose, as it ascends in placid clouds, and floats in misty wreaths above thy forehead—the glass of Chateaux, like a ruby resting upon its slender stem, light, quivering at thy elbow, and that open Blackwood upon thy knee—dost not—confess it—dost not feel more kind and charitable, than if, with benumbed fingers, thou wert following a frozen visage to thy distant mansion, in the great city’s far purlieus—
But, heaven guard us! how savagely the tempest roars and howls around the chimney tops—Good angels preserve the poor mariner as he ascends the ice-clad rigging—lays out upon the slippery yard—and handles with frost-benumbed fingers the rigid canvass folds. Ah! I recollect it was in just such a night as this, a few years since—years that have rolled past into retrograde eternity, that I was seated in that same arm chair, in the same bachelor independence, the fire burning just as brightly—the curtains as snugly drawn—my beautiful Flora looking down with the same sweetness from her frame above the mantel—my snow white Venus between the piers—the Gladiator stretching forth his arm in just such proud defiance from his pedestal—my Rembrandt—Claude—and Rubens flickering in softness in the firelight—the Fornarina and St. Cecilia with vase of incense clasped, and upturned eyes of deep devotion, hanging in the same placid stillness between their silken tassels, and that Æolian harp chiming just such wild and fitful strains—’twas in just such a cold and inhospitable night, that, sitting with my legs extended upon the fender, I fell into a train of rather melancholy musings.
The clock of St. Paul’s slowly doled out the hour of midnight, and it seemed as if in the responsive, al-l’-s-w-e-l-l of the watchman, rendered indistinct by the distance, the spirit of the hour was bewailing in plaintive tones the annihilation of its being. Time’s brazen voice announced to unheeding thousands—“Ye are rushing on eternity.” I thought of my friends who had dropped off one by one, from around me,—youth and old age had alike sunk into the abyss of death—consumption—fever—palsy—had done their work; the slight ripple of their exit had subsided, and all was still—as quiet and as beautiful as if they had never been. Among others, was poor Louisa S——, in the prime of her youth, and the bloom of her beauty. But one short week—she was the pride of her friends, the idol of her husband;—in another, the slow toll of the village bell announced her funeral. I shall never forget the scene. The soft yellow light of the declining sun was streaming through the lofty elms which bordered the rustic grave-yard, painting their broad shadows on the velvet turf, as the procession of mourners slowly wended their way among the mounds which covered the decaying remnants of mortality. Leaning upon a tomb-stone near the fresh dug grave, I had awaited its arrival. The bier was placed upon the ground—the coffin-lid was thrown open, and friends looked for the last time upon the beautiful face, pallid and sharp in death. Her dark hair was parted upon her forehead,—but the dampness of death had deprived it of its lustre, and her soft eyes were closed in the slumber from whence they were never again to wake. I gazed long and painfully upon that face which appeared to repose only in serene and tranquil sleep, while the sobbing group reached forward to catch a last and parting glimpse of it in its loveliness. Oh! I could not realize that the lovely form was still forever—that those lips were to remain closed, till the day, when amid whirlwinds and fire, they were to plead her cause before the Almighty. The coffin-lid was replaced in silence—a suppressed whisper from the sexton—a harsh grating of the cords, and the gaping pit received its prey. While the clergyman in his deep and gloomy voice, was pronouncing the burial service of the dead, I looked around upon the uncovered group,—the mother and sister in unrestrained sobs, gave vent to their anguish, but the husband stood, his eyes fixed upon the grave in deep and silent agony. He moved not, but when the dead heavy clamp of earth and stones fell upon the coffin, which contained the remains of all that was dear to him, he gave a gasp, as if he had received a death wound—but that was all;—the thick, convulsive breathing, and the swollen arteries upon his temples, showed that his was the bitterness of despair. Ere long, his wasted form beneath its own green hillock, rested at her side.
I had sat some time, thinking “of all the miseries that this world is heir to,” when gradually, my room became mazy, the tongs and fender were blended into one—the fire slowly disappeared, and, to my utter horror and astonishment, I found myself swinging upon the weather-cock of Trinity Church steeple.—How I came there, I could not tell, but there I was. Far, far below me, I saw the long rows of lamps in Broadway and the adjoining streets, shining in lines of fire; while here and there the glimmer of those upon the carriages, as they rolled along, resembled the ignis fatui in their ghostly revels upon the morass. The bay lay in the distance, glittering in the moonlight, a sea of silver, the islands and fortresses like huge monsters resting upon its bosom. All nature appeared at rest. An instant, and but an instant, I gazed in wild delight upon the scene; but as the novelty vanished, the dreadful reality of my situation became apparent. I looked above me—the stars were trembling in the realms of space. I looked below, and shuddered at the distance—I tried to believe that I was in a dream—but that relief was denied me. I grew wild with fear—I madly called for help—I screamed—I yelled in desperation. Alas! my voice could not be heard one half the distance to earth. I called on angels—Heaven, to assist me,—but the cold wind alone answered, as it rushed around the steeple in its whistle of contempt. As my animal spirits were exhausted, I became more calm. I perceived that the slender iron upon which the weather-cock was fixed was slowly bending with the weight of my body, already benumbed with cold. Although it was madness, I ventured a descent. Moving with extreme caution, I clasped the spire in my arms—I slid down inch by inch. The cold sweat poured off my brow, and the blood curdling in my veins, rushed back in thick and suffocating throbs upon my heart. I grasped the steeple tighter in my agony—my nails were clenched in the wood—but in vain; slip—slip—the steeple enlarged as I descended—my hold relaxed—the flat palms of my hands pressed the sides, as I slid down with frightful rapidity. Could I but catch the ledge below! I succeeded—I clutched it in my bleeding fingers—for a moment I thought that I was safe, but I swung over the immense height in an instant; the wind dashed me from side to side like a feather. I strove to touch the sides of the steeple with my knees—I could not reach it—my strength began to fail—I felt the muscles of my fingers growing weaker. The blackness of despair came over me. My fingers slid from the ledge—down—down I plunged—one dash upon the roof, and I was stretched motionless upon the pavement.
A crowd collected around me. I heard them commiserating my fate. They looked at me, and then at the steeple, as if measuring the distance from whence I had fallen; but they offered me no assistance. They dispersed—I slowly raised myself on my feet—all was cold and still as the grave. Regions of ice—an immense transparent mirror, extended on every side around me. The cold, smooth plain, was only measured by the horizon. I found myself on skates;—I rushed along, outstripping the winds,—I ascended mountains of ice,—I descended like a meteor—Russia, with her frozen torrents,—Siberia with its eternal snows, were behind me,—miles and degrees were nothing—on I rushed,—Iceland vanished,—with the speed of a thunderbolt I passed Spitzbergen,—days, weeks expired, but still I sped forward, without fatigue, without exhaustion. How delightfully I glided along—no effort—no exertion—all was still, cold, and brilliant. I neared the pole,—the explorers were slowly wending their tedious way,—they hailed me, but I could not stop,—I was out of sight in an instant. I saw an immense object swinging to and fro in the distance—it was the great and mighty pendulum. As I neared it, a confused noise of voices broke upon my ear,—mathematical terms echoed and re-echoed each other, like the hum of a bee-hive. I was surrounded with winged chronometers, barometers and magnets—plus, (+) minus (-) and the roots (√ √) were flying around me in every direction, jostling each other without mercy. Great long-legged compasses with knowing look were gravely listening to the measured tick of prim chronometers, and groups of angles and parallelograms watched the variations of the needle. Every instrument of science appeared collected in solemn conclave, for great and mighty purpose,—but soon all was hubbub and confusion. The compasses and Gunther’s scale had come to blows. Angles and triangles, oblongs and cones, formed a ring around them. Little cylinders and circles came rolling in from every quarter to see the fun, and bottle-holding squares and cubes stood stoutly at their champions’ sides, while electric jars mounted on a neighbouring dial, in highest glee, spirited forth whole streams of snapping sparks to incite them in the contest. The scale was down, and the compass bestrode him in proud defiance; but the bottle-holders interfering, all was instant uproar and confusion, and the fight soon became one common melée. Pins flew about, and springs and wheels went whizzing through the throng, but amid the tumult, suddenly appeared a huge electrical machine, grinding wrathfully along, and soon the field was cleared, and nought was seen save here and there some limping figure hobbling off in desperate precipitation. But amid the uproar, the giant pendulum still swung forward and backward with the noiseless motion of the incubus;—I neared it and saw that the top of the huge rod was riveted by the pole star, which shone with the intensity of the diamond. But—but—
I saw the ship approaching among the distant icebergs—the great lordly icebergs,—how they rolled and roared and ground against each other in the heavy surge!—their huge sides now shining great sheets of silver—now glancing with the deep blue of the precious sapphire, now quivering in the sun’s rays, with all the hues of the grass-green emerald and blazing ruby,—ha! I saw her—I saw the gallant ship threading her way among them, as their castellated sides towered mountain-like above her. I made one spring—one gallant spring—and catching by her top-mast, slid down in safety to her decks. Her sails were spread widely to the winds and recklessly we ploughed our course onward through the icy flood;—but now her speed diminished—now we scarcely moved. The rudder creaked lazily from side to side, and the long pennant supinely resting on the shrouds, languidly lifted itself as if to peer into the dark flood, and then serpent-like, settled itself again to its repose. A sullen distant roar began to break upon my ear,—it increased,—our before quiet bark, hastening, rushed onwards as if ashamed of her dull reverie; but still there was no wind—the sea was smooth and placid, but the swelling surge was thrown forward from her bows, by the increasing velocity with which we dashed along. The rushing noise of waters increased, and sounded like distant thunder; the white surges showed themselves in the distance, leaping and jumping with frightful violence. I approached the captain;—his gloomy brow—the ghastly paleness of the crew, as with folded arms they stood looking in the distance, alarmed me. I eagerly asked the cause of the appearances before me,—he answered not,—he stood immoveable as a statue:—but, in a cold unearthly voice, a scar-marked sailor groaned, “We are food for the Maelstroom!”—Can we not, I franticly exclaimed—oh! can we not escape? Bend every sail—ply every oar,—“Too late—too late,” echoed again the gloomy voice—“our doom is sealed;”—and the finger of the speaker pointed to a dark fiendish figure at the helm, who, with a low hellish laugh, was steering for the midst. The raging waves boiled and roared around us,—our fated ship plunged forward—a steady resistless power sucked us in,—on we were hurried to our frightful goal. The whale—the leviathan, swept by us—their immense bodies were thrown almost entirely in the air,—their blood stained the foaming brine—they roared like mad bulls. The zigzag lightning in the black canopy above us, was reflected in fiery showers from the spray—the crashing thunder mingled with the yells of the struggling monsters—their efforts were vain—more power had infants in giants’ hands,—the devouring whirlpool claimed us for its own. On we were borne in unresisting weakness—faster and faster,—circle after circle disappeared,—we were on the edge of the furious watery tunnel,—we were buried in its depths,—the long arms of the loathsome polypi stretched forward to seize us in their foul embrace—but an unseen hand raised me.
Green woods—gardens, fountains, and grottoes were around me. Beautiful flowers—roses—hyacinths, and lilies clustering in immense beds, covered the ground with one great gem’d and emerald carpet. The gorgeous tulip, the amaranthus and moss rose vied with each other in fragrant rivalry, and the modest little violet, claimed protection in the embraces of the myrtle. Fountains poured mimic cataracts into their marble basins, or, spouting from the mouths of sphinxes and lions, ascended in crystal streams, irrigating with copious showers the party-coloured beds beneath. The long vistas were shaded with the magnolia and flowering almond, while snow-white statues watched the beautiful picture of happiness around. Birds of variegated colour and splendid plumage were flying from tree to tree, and it appeared as if in their sweet notes, and the fragrance of the flowers, nature was offering up her incense to the Creator.