Miscellaneous Essays - Thomas de Quincey
Meantime, what are we stopping for? Surely, we've been waiting long enough.
Oh, this procrastinating mail, and oh this procrastinating post-office!
Can't they take a lesson upon that subject from _me_? Some people have
called _me_ procrastinating. Now you are witness, reader, that I was in
time for _them_. But can _they_ lay their hands on their hearts, and say
that they were in time for me? I, during my life, have often had to wait
for the post-office; the post-office never waited a minute for me. What are
they about? The guard tells me that there is a large extra accumulation of
foreign mails this night, owing to irregularities caused by war and by the
packet service, when as yet nothing is done by steam. For an _extra_ hour,
it seems, the post-office has been engaged in threshing out the pure
wheaten correspondence of Glasgow, and winnowing it from the chaff of all
baser intermediate towns. We can hear the flails going at this moment. But
at last all is finished. Sound your horn, guard. Manchester, good bye;
we've lost an hour by your criminal conduct at the post-office; which,
however, though I do not mean to part with a serviceable ground of
complaint, and one which really is such for the horses, to me secretly is
an advantage, since it compels us to recover this last hour amongst the
next eight or nine. Off we are at last, and at eleven miles an hour; and at
first I detect no changes in the energy or in the skill of Cyclops.
From Manchester to Kendal, which virtually (though not in law) is the
capital of Westmoreland, were at this time seven stages of eleven miles
each. The first five of these, dated from Manchester, terminated in
Lancaster, which was therefore fifty-five miles north of Manchester, and
the same distance exactly from Liverpool. The first three terminated in
Preston, (called, by way of distinction from other towns of that name,
_proud_ Preston,) at which place it was that the separate roads from
Liverpool and from Manchester to the north became confluent. Within these
first three stages lay the foundation, the progress, and termination of our
night's adventure. During the first stage, I found out that Cyclops was
mortal: he was liable to the shocking affection of sleep--a thing which I
had never previously suspected. If a man is addicted to the vicious habit
of sleeping, all the skill in aurigation of Apollo himself, with the horses
of Aurora to execute the motions of his will, avail him nothing. "Oh,
Cyclops!" I exclaimed more than once, "Cyclops, my friend; thou art mortal.
Thou snorest." Through this first eleven miles, however, he betrayed
his infirmity--which I grieve to say he shared with the whole Pagan
Pantheon--only by short stretches. On waking up, he made an apology for
himself, which, instead of mending the matter, laid an ominous foundation
for coming disasters. The summer assizes were now proceeding at Lancaster:
in consequence of which, for three nights and three days, he had not lain
down in a bed. During the day, he was waiting for his uncertain summons as
a witness on the trial in which he was interested; or he was drinking with
the other witnesses, under the vigilant surveillance of the attorneys.
During the night, or that part of it when the least temptations existed to
conviviality, he was driving. Throughout the second stage he grew more and
more drowsy. In the second mile of the third stage, he surrendered himself
finally and without a struggle to his perilous temptation. All his past
resistance had but deepened the weight of this final oppression. Seven
atmospheres of sleep seemed resting upon him; and, to consummate the case,
our worthy guard, after singing "Love amongst the Roses," for the fiftieth
or sixtieth time, without any invitation from Cyclops or myself, and
without applause for his poor labors, had moodily resigned himself to
slumber--not so deep doubtless as the coachman's, but deep enough for
mischief; and having, probably, no similar excuse. And thus at last, about
ten miles from Preston, I found myself left in charge of his Majesty's
London and Glasgow mail, then running about eleven miles an hour.
What made this negligence less criminal than else it must have been
thought, was the condition of the roads at night during the assizes. At
that time all the law business of populous Liverpool, and of populous
Manchester, with its vast cincture of populous rural districts, was called
up by ancient usage to the tribunal of Lilliputian Lancaster. To break up
this old traditional usage required a conflict with powerful established
interests, a large system of new arrangements, and a new parliamentary
statute. As things were at present, twice in the year so vast a body of
business rolled northwards, from the southern quarter of the county, that
a fortnight at least occupied the severe exertions of two judges for its
dispatch. The consequence of this was--that every horse available for such
a service, along the whole line of road, was exhausted in carrying down the
multitudes of people who were parties to the different suits. By sunset,
therefore, it usually happened that, through utter exhaustion amongst
men and horses, the roads were all silent. Except exhaustion in the vast
adjacent county of York from a contested election, nothing like it was
ordinarily witnessed in England.
On this occasion, the usual silence and solitude prevailed along the road.
Not a hoof nor a wheel was to be heard. And to strengthen this false
luxurious confidence in the noiseless roads, it happened also that the
night was one of peculiar solemnity and peace. I myself, though slightly
alive to the possibilities of peril, had so far yielded to the influence of
the mighty calm as to sink into a profound reverie. The month was August,
in which lay my own birth-day; a festival to every thoughtful man
suggesting solemn and often sigh-born thoughts.[1] The county was my own
native county--upon which, in its southern section, more than upon any
equal area known to man past or present, had descended the original curse
of labour in its heaviest form, not mastering the bodies of men only as of
slaves, or criminals in mines, but working through the fiery will. Upon no
equal space of earth, was, or ever had been, the same energy of human
power put forth daily. At this particular season also of the assizes, that
dreadful hurricane of flight and pursuit, as it might have seemed to a
stranger, that swept to and from Lancaster all day long, hunting the
county up and down, and regularly subsiding about sunset, united with the
permanent distinction of Lancashire as the very metropolis and citadel of
labour, to point the thoughts pathetically upon that counter vision of
rest, of saintly repose from strife and sorrow, towards which, as to their
secret haven, the profounder aspirations of man's heart are continually
travelling. Obliquely we were nearing the sea upon our left, which also
must, under the present circumstances, be repeating the general state of
halcyon repose. The sea, the atmosphere, the light, bore an orchestral part
in this universal lull. Moonlight, in the first timid tremblings of the
dawn, were now blending: and the blendings were brought into a still more
exquisite state of unity, by a slight silvery mist, motionless and dreamy,
that covered the woods and fields, but with a veil of equable transparency.
Except the feet of our own horses, which, running on a sandy margin of the
road, made little disturbance, there was no sound abroad. In the clouds,
and on the earth, prevailed the same majestic peace; and in spite of all
that the villain of a schoolmaster has done for the ruin of our sublimer
thoughts, which are the thoughts of our infancy, we still believe in no
such nonsense as a limited atmosphere. Whatever we may swear with our false
feigning lips, in our faithful hearts we still believe, and must for ever
believe, in fields of air traversing the total gulf between earth and the
central heavens. Still, in the confidence of children that tread without
fear _every_ chamber in their father's house, and to whom no door is
closed, we, in that Sabbatic vision which sometimes is revealed for an hour
upon nights like this, ascend with easy steps from the sorrow-stricken
fields of earth, upwards to the sandals of God.
[Footnote 1: "Sigh-born:" I owe the suggestion of this word to an obscure
remembrance of a beautiful phrase in Giraldus Gambrensis, viz., _suspiriosae
cogilationes_.]
Suddenly from thoughts like these, I was awakened to a sullen sound, as
of some motion on the distant road. It stole upon the air for a moment; I
listened in awe; but then it died away. Once roused, however, I could not
but observe with alarm the quickened motion of our horses. Ten years'
experience had made my eye learned in the valuing of motion; and I saw that
we were now running thirteen miles an hour. I pretend to no presence of
mind. On the contrary, my fear is, that I am miserably and shamefully
deficient in that quality as regards action. The palsy of doubt and
distraction hangs like some guilty weight of dark unfathomed remembrances
upon my energies, when the signal is flying for _action_. But, on the other
hand, this accursed gift I have, as regards _thought_, that in the first
step towards the possibility of a misfortune, I see its total evolution: in
the radix I see too certainly and too instantly its entire expansion; in
the first syllable of the dreadful sentence, I read already the last. It
was not that I feared for ourselves. What could injure _us_? Our bulk and
impetus charmed us against peril in any collision. And I had rode through
too many hundreds of perils that were frightful to approach, that were
matter of laughter as we looked back upon them, for any anxiety to rest
upon _our_ interests. The mail was not built, I felt assured, nor bespoke,
that could betray _me_ who trusted to its protection. But any carriage that
we could meet would be frail and light in comparison of ourselves. And I
remarked this ominous accident of our situation. We were on the wrong side
of the road. But then the other party, if other there was, might also be on
the wrong side; and two wrongs might make a right. _That_ was not likely.
The same motive which had drawn _us_ to the right-hand side of the road,
viz., the soft beaten sand, as contrasted with the paved centre, would
prove attractive to others. Our lamps, still lighted, would give the
impression of vigilance on our part. And every creature that met us, would
rely upon _us_ for quartering.[1] All this, and if the separate links of
the anticipation had been a thousand times more, I saw--not discursively or
by effort--but as by one flash of horrid intuition.
[Footnote 1: "_Quartering_"--this is the technical word; and, I presume
derived from the French _carlayer_, to evade a rut or any obstacle.]
Under this steady though rapid anticipation of the evil which _might_ be
gathering ahead, ah, reader! what a sullen mystery of fear, what a sigh of
woe, seemed to steal upon the air, as again the far-off sound of a
wheel was heard! A whisper it was--a whisper from, perhaps, four miles
off--secretly announcing a ruin that, being foreseen, was not the less
inevitable. What could be done--who was it that could do it--to check the
storm-flight of these maniacal horses? What! could I not seize the reins
from the grasp of the slumbering coachman? You, reader, think that it would
have been in _your_ power to do so. And I quarrel not with your estimate of
yourself. But, from the way in which the coachman's hand was viced between
his upper and lower thigh, this was impossible. The guard subsequently
found it impossible, after this danger had passed. Not the grasp only, but
also the position of this Polyphemus, made the attempt impossible. You
still think otherwise. See, then, that bronze equestrian statue. The cruel
rider has kept the bit in his horse's mouth for two centuries. Unbridle
him, for a minute, if you please, and wash his mouth with water. Or stay,
reader, unhorse me that marble emperor; knock me those marble feet from
those marble stirrups of Charlemagne.
The sounds ahead strengthened, and were now too clearly the sounds of
wheels. Who and what could it be? Was it industry in a taxed cart? Was it
youthful gaiety in a gig? Whoever it was, something must be attempted to
warn them. Upon the other party rests the active responsibility, but upon
_us_--and, woe is me! that _us_ was my single self--rest the responsibility
of warning. Yet, how should this be accomplished? Might I not seize the
guard's horn? Already, on the first thought, I was making my way over the
roof to the guard's seat. But this, from the foreign mails being piled upon
the roof, was a difficult, and even dangerous attempt, to one cramped by
nearly three hundred miles of outside travelling. And, fortunately, before
I had lost much time in the attempt, our frantic horses swept round an
angle of the road, which opened upon us the stage where the collision must
be accomplished, the parties that seemed summoned to the trial, and the
impossibility of saving them by any communication with the guard.
Before us lay an avenue, straight as an arrow, six hundred yards, perhaps,
in length; and the umbrageous trees, which rose in a regular line from
either side, meeting high overhead, gave to it the character of a cathedral
aisle. These trees lent a deeper solemnity to the early light; but there
was still light enough to perceive, at the further end of this gothic
aisle, a light, reedy gig, in which were seated a young man, and, by his
side, a young lady. Ah, young sir! what are you about? If it is necessary
that you should whisper your communications to this young lady--though
really I see nobody at this hour, and on this solitary road, likely to
overhear your conversation--is it, therefore, necessary that you should
carry your lips forward to hers? The little carriage is creeping on at one
mile an hour; and the parties within it, being thus tenderly engaged, are
naturally bending down their heads. Between them and eternity, to all human
calculation, there is but a minute and a half. What is it that I shall do?
Strange it is, and to a mere auditor of the tale, might seem laughable,
that I should need a suggestion from the _Iliad_ to prompt the sole
recourse that remained. But so it was. Suddenly I remembered the shout of
Achilles, and its effect. But could I pretend to shout like the son of
Peleus, aided by Pallas? No, certainly: but then I needed not the shout
that should alarm all Asia militant; a shout would suffice, such as should
carry terror into the hearts of two thoughtless young people, and one
gig horse. I shouted--and the young man heard me not. A second time I
shouted--and now he heard me, for now he raised his head.
Here, then, all had been done that, by me, _could_ be done: more on _my_
part was not possible. Mine had been the first step: the second was for the
young man: the third was for God. If, said I, the stranger is a brave man,
and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side--or, loving her not, if
he feels the obligation pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man,
of doing his utmost for a woman confided to his protection--he will at
least make some effort to save her. If _that_ fails, he will not perish the
more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a
brave man should, with his face to the danger, and with his arm about the
woman that he sought in vain to save. But if he makes no effort, shrinking,
without a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly
perish for this baseness of poltroonery. He will die no less: and why not?
Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world? No;
_let_ him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and,
in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless
girl, who now, upon the least shadow of failure in _him_, must, by the
fiercest of translations--must, without time for a prayer--must, within
seventy seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God.
But craven he was not: sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was
his answer to the call. He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that
was coming down: already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and already
he was measuring his strength to deal with it. Ah! what a vulgar thing does
courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a
day: ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when some fearful crisis
on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane,
up to the giddy crest of some mountainous wave, from which accordingly as
he chooses his course, he describes two courses, and a voice says to him
audibly, "This way lies hope; take the other way and mourn for ever!" Yet,
even then, amidst the raving of the seas and the frenzy of the danger, the
man is able to confront his situation--is able to retire for a moment
into solitude with God, and to seek all his counsel from _him_! For seven
seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance
steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in the
conflict before him. For five seconds more he sate immovably, like one that
mused on some great purpose. For five he sate with eyes upraised, like one
that prayed in sorrow, under some extremity of doubt, for wisdom to guide
him towards the better choice. Then suddenly he rose; stood upright; and,
by a sudden strain upon the reins, raising his horse's forefeet from the
ground, he slewed him round on the pivot of his hind legs, so as to plant
the little equipage in a position nearly at right angles to ours. Thus
far his condition was not improved; except as a first step had been taken
towards the possibility of a second. If no more were done, nothing was
done; for the little carriage still occupied the very centre of our path,
though in an altered direction. Yet even now it may not be too late:
fifteen of the twenty seconds may still be unexhausted; and one almighty
bound forward may avail to clear the ground. Hurry then; hurry! for the
flying moments--_they_ hurry! Oh hurry, hurry, my brave young man! for the
cruel hoofs of our horses--_they_ also hurry! Fast are the flying moments,
faster are the hoofs of our horses. Fear not for _him_, if human energy can
suffice: faithful was he that drove, to his terrific duty; faithful was the
horse to _his_ command. One blow, one impulse given with voice and hand by
the stranger, one rush from the horse, one bound as if in the act of rising
to a fence, landed the docile creature's forefeet upon the crown or arching
centre of the road. The larger half of the little equipage had then cleared
our over-towering shadow: _that_ was evident even to my own agitated sight.
But it mattered little that one wreck should float off in safety, if upon
the wreck that perished were embarked the human freightage. The rear part
of the carriage--was _that_ certainly beyond the line of absolute ruin?
What power could answer the question? Glance of eye, thought of man, wing
of angel, which of these had speed enough to sweep between the question and
the answer, and divide the one from the other? Light does not tread upon
the steps of light more indivisibly, than did our all-conquering arrival
upon the escaping efforts of the gig. _That_ must the young man have felt
too plainly. His back was now turned to us; not by sight could he any
longer communicate with the peril; but by the dreadful rattle of our
harness, too truly had his ear been instructed--that all was finished as
regarded any further effort of _his_. Already in resignation he had rested
from his struggle; and perhaps, in his heart he was whispering--"Father,
which art above, do thou finish in heaven what I on earth have attempted."
We ran past them faster than ever mill-race in our inexorable flight. Oh,
raving of hurricanes that must have sounded in their young ears at the
moment of our transit! Either with the swingle-bar, or with the haunch of
our near leader, we had struck the off-wheel of the little gig, which stood
rather obliquely and not quite so far advanced as to be accurately parallel
with the near wheel. The blow, from the fury of our passage, resounded
terrifically. I rose in horror, to look upon the ruins we might have
caused. From my elevated station I looked down., and looked back upon the
scene, which in a moment told its tale, and wrote all its records on my
heart for ever.
The horse was planted immovably, with his fore-feet upon the paved crest of
the central road. He of the whole party was alone untouched by the passion
of death. The little cany carriage--partly perhaps from the dreadful
torsion of the wheels in its recent movement, partly from the thundering
blow we had given to it--as if it sympathized with human horror, was all
alive with tremblings and shiverings. The young man sat like a rock. He
stirred not at all. But _his_ was the steadiness of agitation frozen into
rest by horror. As yet he dared not to look round; for he knew that, if
anything remained to do, by him it could no longer be done. And as yet he
knew not for certain if their safety were accomplished. But the lady--
But the lady--! Oh heavens! will that spectacle ever depart from my dreams,
as she rose and sank upon her seat, sank and rose, threw up her arms wildly
to heaven, clutched at some visionary object in the air, fainting, praying,
raving, despairing! Figure to yourself, reader, the elements of the case;
suffer me to recall before your mind the circumstances of the unparalleled
situation. From the silence and deep peace of this saintly summer
night--from the pathetic blending of this sweet moonlight, dawnlight,
dreamlight--from the manly tenderness of this flattering, whispering,
murmuring love--suddenly as from the woods and fields--suddenly as from
the chambers of the air opening in revelation--suddenly as from the ground
yawning at her feet, leaped upon her, with the flashing of cataracts, Death
the crowned phantom, with all the equipage of his terrors, and the tiger
roar of his voice.
The moments were numbered. In the twinkling of an eye our flying horses had
carried us to the termination of the umbrageous aisle; at right angles we
wheeled into our former direction; the turn of the road carried the scene
out of my eyes in an instant, and swept it into my dreams for ever.
DREAM-FUGUE.
ON THE ABOVE THEME OF SUDDEN DEATH.
"Whence the sound
Of instruments, that made melodious chime,
Was heard, of harp and organ; and who mov'd
Their stops and chords, was seen; his volant touch
Instinct through all proportions, low and high,
Fled and pursued transverse the resonant fugue."
_Par. Lost, B. XL_
_Tumultuosissimamente_.
Passion of Sudden Death! that once in youth I read and interpreted by the
shadows of thy averted[1] signs;--Rapture of panic taking the shape which
amongst tombs in churches I have seen, of woman bursting her sepulchral
bonds--of woman's Ionic form bending forward from the ruins of her grave
with arching foot, with eyes upraised, with clasped adoring hands--waiting,
watching, trembling, praying, for the trumpet's call to rise from dust
for ever!--Ah, vision too fearful of shuddering humanity on the brink
of abysses! vision that didst start back--that didst reel away--like a
shrivelling scroll from before the wrath of fire racing on the wings of the
wind! Epilepsy so brief of horror--wherefore is it that thou canst not die?
Passing so suddenly into darkness, wherefore is it that still thou sheddest
thy sad funeral blights upon the gorgeous mosaics of dreams? Fragment of
music too stern, heard once and heard no more, what aileth thee that thy
deep rolling chords come up at intervals through all the worlds of sleep,
and after thirty years have lost no element of horror?
[Footnote 1: "_Averted signs_."--I read the course and changes of the
lady's agony in the succession of her involuntary gestures; but let it be
remembered that I read all this from the rear, never once catching the
lady's full face, and even her profile imperfectly.]
1.
Lo, it is summer, almighty summer! The everlasting gates of life and summer
are thrown open wide; and on the ocean, tranquil and verdant as a savanna,
the unknown lady from the dreadful vision and I myself are floating: she
upon a fairy pinnace, and I upon an English three-decker. But both of
us are wooing gales of festal happiness within the domain of our common
country--within that ancient watery park--within that pathless chase where
England takes her pleasure as a huntress through winter and summer, and
which stretches from the rising to the setting sun. Ah! what a wilderness
of floral beauty was hidden, or was suddenly revealed, upon the tropic
islands, through which the pinnace moved. And upon her deck what a bevy
of human flowers--young women how lovely, young men how noble, that were
dancing together, and slowly drifting towards _us_ amidst music and
incense, amidst blossoms from forests and gorgeous corymbi from vintages,
amidst natural caroling and the echoes of sweet girlish laughter. Slowly
the pinnace nears us, gaily she hails us, and slowly she disappears beneath
the shadow of our mighty bows. But then, as at some signal from heaven, the
music and the carols, and the sweet echoing of girlish laughter--all are
hushed. What evil has smitten the pinnace, meeting or overtaken her? Did
ruin to our friends couch within our own dreadful shadow? Was our shadow
the shadow of death? I looked over the bow for an answer; and, behold! the
pinnace was dismantled; the revel and the revellers were found no more; the
glory of the vintage was dust; and the forest was left without a witness to
its beauty upon the seas. "But where," and I turned to our own crew--"Where
are the lovely women that danced beneath the awning of flowers and
clustering corymbi? Whither have fled the noble young men that danced with
_them_?" Answer there was none. But suddenly the man at the mast-head,
whose countenance darkened with alarm, cried out--"Sail on the weather
beam! Down she comes upon us: in seventy seconds she will founder!"