"This is very strange," said he.
"Yes," said Sibyl Dacy, "there is some strange richness in this little spot
of soil."
"Where could the seeds have come from?--that is the greatest wonder," said
Rose. "You might almost teach me botany, methinks, on this one spot."
"Do you know this plant?" asked Sibyl of Septimius, pointing to one not yet
in flower, but of singular leaf, that was thrusting itself up out of the
ground, on the very centre of the grave, over where the breast of the
sleeper below might seem to be. "I think there is no other here like it."
Septimius stooped down to examine it, and was convinced that it was unlike
anything he had seen of the flower kind; a leaf of a dark green, with
purple veins traversing it, it had a sort of questionable aspect, as some
plants have, so that you would think it very likely to be poison, and
would not like to touch or smell very intimately, without first inquiring
who would be its guarantee that it should do no mischief. That it had some
richness or other, either baneful or beneficial, you could not doubt.
"I think it poisonous," said Rose Garfield, shuddering, for she was a
person so natural she hated poisonous things, or anything speckled
especially, and did not, indeed, love strangeness. "Yet I should not
wonder if it bore a beautiful flower by and by. Nevertheless, if I were to
do just as I feel inclined, I should root it up and fling it away."
"Shall she do so?" said Sibyl to Septimius.
"Not for the world," said he, hastily. "Above all things, I desire to see
what will come of this plant."
"Be it as you please," said Sibyl. "Meanwhile, if you like to sit down here
and listen to me, I will tell you a story that happens to come into my
mind just now,--I cannot tell why. It is a legend of an old hall that I
know well, and have known from my childhood, in one of the northern
counties of England, where I was born. Would you like to hear it, Rose?"
"Yes, of all things," said she. "I like all stories of hall and cottage in
the old country, though now we must not call it our country any more."
Sibyl looked at Septimius, as if to inquire whether he, too, chose to
listen to her story, and he made answer:--
"Yes, I shall like to hear the legend, if it is a genuine one that has been
adopted into the popular belief, and came down in chimney-corners with the
smoke and soot that gathers there; and incrusted over with humanity, by
passing from one homely mind to another. Then, such stories get to be
true, in a certain sense, and indeed in that sense may be called true
throughout, for the very nucleus, the fiction in them, seems to have come
out of the heart of man in a way that cannot be imitated of malice
aforethought. Nobody can make a tradition; it takes a century to make
it."
"I know not whether this legend has the character you mean," said Sibyl,
"but it has lived much more than a century; and here it is.
* * * * *
"On the threshold of one of the doors of ---- Hall there is a bloody
footstep impressed into the doorstep, and ruddy as if the bloody foot had
just trodden there; and it is averred that, on a certain night of the
year, and at a certain hour of the night, if you go and look at that
doorstep you will see the mark wet with fresh blood. Some have pretended
to say that this appearance of blood was but dew; but can dew redden a
cambric handkerchief? Will it crimson the fingertips when you touch it?
And that is what the bloody footstep will surely do when the appointed
night and hour come round, this very year, just as it would three hundred
years ago.
"Well; but how did it come there? I know not precisely in what age it was,
but long ago, when light was beginning to shine into what were called the
dark ages, there was a lord of ---- Hall who applied himself deeply to
knowledge and science, under the guidance of the wisest man of that
age,--a man so wise that he was thought to be a wizard; and, indeed, he
may have been one, if to be a wizard consists in having command over
secret powers of nature, that other men do not even suspect the existence
of, and the control of which enables one to do feats that seem as
wonderful as raising the dead. It is needless to tell you all the strange
stories that have survived to this day about the old Hall; and how it is
believed that the master of it, owing to his ancient science, has still a
sort of residence there, and control of the place; and how, in one of the
chambers, there is still his antique table, and his chair, and some rude
old instruments and machinery, and a book, and everything in readiness,
just as if he might still come back to finish some experiment. What it is
important to say is, that one of the chief things to which the old lord
applied himself was to discover the means of prolonging his own life, so
that its duration should be indefinite, if not infinite; and such was his
science, that he was believed to have attained this magnificent and awful
purpose.
"So, as you may suppose, the man of science had great joy in having done
this thing, both for the pride of it, and because it was so delightful a
thing to have before him the prospect of endless time, which he might
spend in adding more and more to his science, and so doing good to the
world; for the chief obstruction to the improvement of the world and the
growth of knowledge is, that mankind cannot go straightforward in it, but
continually there have to be new beginnings, and it takes every new man
half his life, if not the whole of it, to come up to the point where his
predecessor left off. And so this noble man--this man of a noble
purpose--spent many years in finding out this mighty secret; and at last,
it is said, he succeeded. But on what terms?
"Well, it is said that the terms were dreadful and horrible; insomuch that
the wise man hesitated whether it were lawful and desirable to take
advantage of them, great as was the object in view.
"You see, the object of the lord of ---- Hall was to take a life from the
course of Nature, and Nature did not choose to be defrauded; so that,
great as was the power of this scientific man over her, she would not
consent that he should escape the necessity of dying at his proper time,
except upon condition of sacrificing some other life for his; and this was
to be done once for every thirty years that he chose to live, thirty years
being the account of a generation of man; and if in any way, in that time,
this lord could be the death of a human being, that satisfied the
requisition, and he might live on. There is a form of the legend which
says, that one of the ingredients of the drink which the nobleman brewed
by his science was the heart's blood of a pure young boy or girl. But this
I reject, as too coarse an idea; and, indeed, I think it may be taken to
mean symbolically, that the person who desires to engross to himself more
than his share of human life must do it by sacrificing to his selfishness
some dearest interest of another person, who has a good right to life, and
may be as useful in it as he.
"Now, this lord was a just man by nature, and if he had gone astray, it was
greatly by reason of his earnest wish to do something for the poor,
wicked, struggling, bloody, uncomfortable race of man, to which he
belonged. He bethought himself whether he would have a right to take the
life of one of those creatures, without their own consent, in order to
prolong his own; and after much arguing to and fro, he came to the
conclusion that he should not have the right, unless it were a life over
which he had control, and which was the next to his own. He looked round
him; he was a lonely and abstracted man, secluded by his studies from
human affections, and there was but one human being whom he cared
for;--that was a beautiful kinswoman, an orphan, whom his father had
brought up, and, dying, left her to his care. There was great kindness and
affection--as great as the abstracted nature of his pursuits would
allow--on the part of this lord towards the beautiful young girl; but not
what is called love,--at least, he never acknowledged it to himself. But,
looking into his heart, he saw that she, if any one, was to be the person
whom the sacrifice demanded, and that he might kill twenty others without
effect, but if he took the life of this one, it would make the charm
strong and good.
"My friends, I have meditated many a time on this ugly feature of my
legend, and am unwilling to take it in the literal sense; so I conceive
its spiritual meaning (for everything, you know, has its spiritual
meaning, which to the literal meaning is what the soul is to the
body),--its spiritual meaning was, that to the deep pursuit of science we
must sacrifice great part of the joy of life; that nobody can be great,
and do great things, without giving up to death, so far as he regards his
enjoyment of it, much that he would gladly enjoy; and in that sense I
choose to take it. But the earthly old legend will have it that this mad,
high-minded, heroic, murderous lord did insist upon it with himself that
he must murder this poor, loving, and beloved child.
"I do not wish to delay upon this horrible matter, and to tell you how he
argued it with himself; and how, the more and more he argued it, the more
reasonable it seemed, the more absolutely necessary, the more a duty that
the terrible sacrifice should be made. Here was this great good to be done
to mankind, and all that stood in the way of it was one little delicate
life, so frail that it was likely enough to be blown out, any day, by the
mere rude blast that the rush of life creates, as it streams along, or by
any slightest accident; so good and pure, too, that she was quite unfit
for this world, and not capable of any happiness in it; and all that was
asked of her was to allow herself to be transported to a place where she
would be happy, and would find companions fit for her,--which he, her only
present companion, certainly was not. In fine, he resolved to shed the
sweet, fragrant blood of this little violet that loved him so.
"Well; let us hurry over this part of the story as fast as we can. He did
slay this pure young girl; he took her into the wood near the house, an
old wood that is standing yet, with some of its magnificent oaks; and then
he plunged a dagger into her heart, after they had had a very tender and
loving talk together, in which he had tried to open the matter tenderly to
her, and make her understand that, though he was to slay her, it was
really for the very reason that he loved her better than anything else in
the world, and that he would far rather die himself, if that would answer
the purpose at all. Indeed, he is said to have offered her the alternative
of slaying him, and taking upon herself the burden of indefinite life, and
the studies and pursuits by which he meant to benefit mankind. But she, it
is said,--this noble, pure, loving child,--she looked up into his face and
smiled sadly, and then snatching the dagger from him, she plunged it into
her own heart. I cannot tell whether this be true, or whether she waited
to be killed by him; but this I know, that in the same circumstances I
think I should have saved my lover or my friend the pain of killing me.
There she lay dead, at any rate, and he buried her in the wood, and
returned to the house; and, as it happened, he had set his right foot in
her blood, and his shoe was wet in it, and by some miraculous fate it left
a track all along the wood-path, and into the house, and on the stone
steps of the threshold, and up into his chamber, all along; and the
servants saw it the next day, and wondered, and whispered, and missed the
fair young girl, and looked askance at their lord's right foot, and turned
pale, all of them, as death.
"And next, the legend says, that Sir Forrester was struck with horror at
what he had done, and could not bear the laboratory where he had toiled so
long, and was sick to death of the object that he had pursued, and was
most miserable, and fled from his old Hall, and was gone full many a day.
But all the while he was gone there was the mark of a bloody footstep
impressed upon the stone doorstep of the Hall. The track had lain all
along through the wood-path, and across the lawn, to the old Gothic door
of the Hall; but the rain, the English rain, that is always falling, had
come the next day, and washed it all away. The track had lain, too, across
the broad hall, and up the stairs, and into the lord's study; but there it
had lain on the rushes that were strewn there, and these the servants had
gathered carefully up, and thrown them away, and spread fresh ones. So
that it was only on the threshold that the mark remained.
"But the legend says, that wherever Sir Forrester went, in his wanderings
about the world, he left a bloody track behind him. It was wonderful, and
very inconvenient, this phenomenon. When he went into a church, you would
see the track up the broad aisle, and a little red puddle in the place
where he sat or knelt. Once he went to the king's court, and there being a
track up to the very throne, the king frowned upon him, so that he never
came there any more. Nobody could tell how it happened; his foot was not
seen to bleed, only there was the bloody track behind him, wherever he
went; and he was a horror-stricken man, always looking behind him to see
the track, and then hurrying onward, as if to escape his own tracks; but
always they followed him as fast.
"In the hall of feasting, there was the bloody track to his chair. The
learned men whom he consulted about this strange difficulty conferred with
one another, and with him, who was equal to any of them, and pished and
pshawed, and said, 'Oh, there is nothing miraculous in this; it is only a
natural infirmity, which can easily be put an end to, though, perhaps, the
stoppage of such an evacuation will cause damage to other parts of the
frame.' Sir Forrester always said, 'Stop it, my learned brethren, if you
can; no matter what the consequences.' And they did their best, but
without result; so that he was still compelled to leave his bloody track
on their college-rooms and combination-rooms, the same as elsewhere; and
in street and in wilderness; yes, and in the battle-field, they said, his
track looked freshest and reddest of all. So, at last, finding the notice
he attracted inconvenient, this unfortunate lord deemed it best to go back
to his own Hall, where, living among faithful old servants born in the
family, he could hush the matter up better than elsewhere, and not be
stared at continually, or, glancing round, see people holding up their
hands in terror at seeing a bloody track behind him. And so home he came,
and there he saw the bloody track on the doorstep, and dolefully went into
the hall, and up the stairs, an old servant ushering him into his chamber,
and half a dozen others following behind, gazing, shuddering, pointing
with quivering fingers, looking horror-stricken in one another's pale
faces, and the moment he had passed, running to get fresh rushes, and to
scour the stairs. The next day, Sir Forrester went into the wood, and by
the aged oak he found a grave, and on the grave he beheld a beautiful
crimson flower; the most gorgeous and beautiful, surely, that ever grew;
so rich it looked, so full of potent juice. That flower he gathered; and
the spirit of his scientific pursuits coming upon him, he knew that this
was the flower, produced out of a human life, that was essential to the
perfection of his recipe for immortality; and he made the drink, and drank
it, and became immortal in woe and agony, still studying, still growing
wiser and more wretched in every age. By and by he vanished from the old
Hall, but not by death; for, from generation to generation, they say that
a bloody track is seen around that house, and sometimes it is tracked up
into the chambers, so freshly that you see he must have passed a short
time before; and he grows wiser and wiser, and lonelier and lonelier, from
age to age. And this is the legend of the bloody footstep, which I myself
have seen at the Hall door. As to the flower, the plant of it continued
for several years to grow out of the grave; and after a while, perhaps a
century ago, it was transplanted into the garden of ---- Hall, and
preserved with great care, and is so still. And as the family attribute a
kind of sacredness, or cursedness, to the flower, they can hardly be
prevailed upon to give any of the seeds, or allow it to be propagated
elsewhere, though the king should send to ask it. It is said, too, that
there is still in the family the old lord's recipe for immortality, and
that several of his collateral descendants have tried to concoct it, and
instil the flower into it, and so give indefinite life; but
unsuccessfully, because the seeds of the flower must be planted in a fresh
grave of bloody death, in order to make it effectual."
* * * * *
So ended Sibyl's legend; in which Septimius was struck by a certain analogy
to Aunt Keziah's Indian legend,--both referring to a flower growing out of
a grave; and also he did not fail to be impressed with the wild
coincidence of this disappearance of an ancestor of the family long ago,
and the appearance, at about the same epoch, of the first known ancestor
of his own family, the man with wizard's attributes, with the bloody
footstep, and whose sudden disappearance became a myth, under the idea
that the Devil carried him away. Yet, on the whole, this wild tradition,
doubtless becoming wilder in Sibyl's wayward and morbid fancy, had the
effect to give him a sense of the fantasticalness of his present pursuit,
and that in adopting it, he had strayed into a region long abandoned to
superstition, and where the shadows of forgotten dreams go when men are
done with them; where past worships are; where great Pan went when he died
to the outer world; a limbo into which living men sometimes stray when
they think themselves sensiblest and wisest, and whence they do not often
find their way back into the real world. Visions of wealth, visions of
fame, visions of philanthropy,--all visions find room here, and glide
about without jostling. When Septimius came to look at the matter in his
present mood, the thought occurred to him that he had perhaps got into
such a limbo, and that Sibyl's legend, which looked so wild, might be all
of a piece with his own present life; for Sibyl herself seemed an
illusion, and so, most strangely, did Aunt Keziah, whom he had known all
his life, with her homely and quaint characteristics; the grim doctor,
with his brandy and his German pipe, impressed him in the same way; and
these, altogether, made his homely cottage by the wayside seem an
unsubstantial edifice, such as castles in the air are built of, and the
ground he trod on unreal; and that grave, which he knew to contain the
decay of a beautiful young man, but a fictitious swell, formed by the
fantasy of his eyes. All unreal; all illusion! Was Rose Garfield a
deception too, with her daily beauty, and daily cheerfulness, and daily
worth? In short, it was such a moment as I suppose all men feel (at least,
I can answer for one), when the real scene and picture of life swims,
jars, shakes, seems about to be broken up and dispersed, like the picture
in a smooth pond, when we disturb its tranquil mirror by throwing in a
stone; and though the scene soon settles itself, and looks as real as
before, a haunting doubt keeps close at hand, as long as we live, asking,
"Is it stable? Am I sure of it? Am I certainly not dreaming? See; it
trembles again, ready to dissolve."
* * * * *
Applying himself with earnest diligence to his attempt to decipher and
interpret the mysterious manuscript, working with his whole mind and
strength, Septimius did not fail of some flattering degree of success.
A good deal of the manuscript, as has been said, was in an ancient English
script, although so uncouth and shapeless were the characters, that it was
not easy to resolve them into letters, or to believe that they were
anything but arbitrary and dismal blots and scrawls upon the yellow paper;
without meaning, vague, like the misty and undefined germs of thought as
they exist in our minds before clothing themselves in words. These,
however, as he concentrated his mind upon them, took distincter shape,
like cloudy stars at the power of the telescope, and became sometimes
English, sometimes Latin, strangely patched together, as if, so accustomed
was the writer to use that language in which all the science of that age
was usually embodied, that he really mixed it unconsciously with the
vernacular, or used both indiscriminately. There was some Greek, too, but
not much. Then frequently came in the cipher, to the study of which
Septimius had applied himself for some time back, with the aid of the
books borrowed from the college library, and not without success. Indeed,
it appeared to him, on close observation, that it had not been the
intention of the writer really to conceal what he had written from any
earnest student, but rather to lock it up for safety in a sort of coffer,
of which diligence and insight should be the key, and the keen
intelligence with which the meaning was sought should be the test of the
seeker's being entitled to possess the secret treasure.
Amid a great deal of misty stuff, he found the document to consist chiefly,
contrary to his supposition beforehand, of certain rules of life; he would
have taken it, on a casual inspection, for an essay of counsel, addressed
by some great and sagacious man to a youth in whom he felt an
interest,--so secure and good a doctrine of life was propounded, such
excellent maxims there were, such wisdom in all matters that came within
the writer's purview. It was as much like a digested synopsis of some old
philosopher's wise rules of conduct, as anything else. But on closer
inspection, Septimius, in his unsophisticated consideration of this
matter, was not so well satisfied. True, everything that was said seemed
not discordant with the rules of social morality; not unwise: it was
shrewd, sagacious; it did not appear to infringe upon the rights of
mankind; but there was something left out, something unsatisfactory,--what
was it? There was certainly a cold spell in the document; a magic, not of
fire, but of ice; and Septimius the more exemplified its power, in that he
soon began to be insensible of it. It affected him as if it had been
written by some greatly wise and worldly-experienced man, like the writer
of Ecclesiastes; for it was full of truth. It was a truth that does not
make men better, though perhaps calmer; and beneath which the buds of
happiness curl up like tender leaves in a frost. What was the matter with
this document, that the young man's youth perished out of him as he read?
What icy hand had written, it, so that the heart was chilled out of the
reader? Not that Septimius was sensible of this character; at least, not
long,--for as he read, there grew upon him a mood of calm satisfaction,
such as he had never felt before. His mind seemed to grow clearer; his
perceptions most acute; his sense of the reality of things grew to be
such, that he felt as if he could touch and handle all his thoughts, feel
round about all their outline and circumference, and know them with a
certainty, as if they were material things. Not that all this was in the
document itself; but by studying it so earnestly, and, as it were,
creating its meaning anew for himself, out of such illegible materials, he
caught the temper of the old writer's mind, after so many ages as that
tract had lain in the mouldy and musty manuscript. He was magnetized with
him; a powerful intellect acted powerfully upon him; perhaps, even, there
was a sort of spell and mystic influence imbued into the paper, and
mingled with the yellow ink, that steamed forth by the effort of this
young man's earnest rubbing, as it were, and by the action of his mind,
applied to it as intently as he possibly could; and even his handling the
paper, his bending over it, and breathing upon it, had its effect.
It is not in our power, nor in our wish, to produce the original form, nor
yet the spirit, of a production which is better lost to the world: because
it was the expression of a human intellect originally greatly gifted and
capable of high things, but gone utterly astray, partly by its own
subtlety, partly by yielding to the temptations of the lower part of its
nature, by yielding the spiritual to a keen sagacity of lower things,
until it was quite fallen; and yet fallen in such a way, that it seemed
not only to itself, but to mankind, not fallen at all, but wise and good,
and fulfilling all the ends of intellect in such a life as ours, and
proving, moreover, that earthly life was good, and all that the
development of our nature demanded. All this is better forgotten; better
burnt; better never thought over again; and all the more, because its
aspect was so wise, and even praiseworthy. But what we must preserve of it
were certain rules of life and moral diet, not exactly expressed in the
document, but which, as it were, on its being duly received into
Septimius's mind, were precipitated from the rich solution, and
crystallized into diamonds, and which he found to be the moral dietetics,
so to speak, by observing which he was to achieve the end of earthly
immortality, whose physical nostrum was given in the recipe which, with
the help of Doctor Portsoaken and his Aunt Keziah, he had already pretty
satisfactorily made out.
"Keep thy heart at seventy throbs in a minute; all more than that wears
away life too quickly. If thy respiration be too quick, think with thyself
that thou hast sinned against natural order and moderation.
"Drink not wine nor strong drink; and observe that this rule is worthiest
in its symbolic meaning.
"Bask daily in the sunshine and let it rest on thy heart.
"Run not; leap not; walk at a steady pace, and count thy paces per day.
"If thou feelest, at any time, a throb of the heart, pause on the instant,
and analyze it; fix thy mental eye steadfastly upon it, and inquire why
such commotion is.
"Hate not any man nor woman; be not angry, unless at any time thy blood
seem a little cold and torpid; cut out all rankling feelings, they are
poisonous to thee. If, in thy waking moments, or in thy dreams, thou hast
thoughts of strife or unpleasantness with any man, strive quietly with
thyself to forget him.
"Have no friendships with an imperfect man, with a man in bad health, of
violent passions, of any characteristic that evidently disturbs his own
life, and so may have disturbing influence on thine. Shake not any man by
the hand, because thereby, if there be any evil in the man, it is likely
to be communicated to thee.
"Kiss no woman if her lips be red; look not upon her if she be very fair.
Touch not her hand if thy finger-tips be found to thrill with hers ever so
little. On the whole, shun woman, for she is apt to be a disturbing
influence. If thou love her, all is over, and thy whole past and remaining
labor and pains will be in vain.
"Do some decent degree of good and kindness in thy daily life, for the
result is a slight pleasurable sense that will seem to warm and delectate
thee with felicitous self-laudings; and all that brings thy thoughts to
thyself tends to invigorate that central principle by the growth of which
thou art to give thyself indefinite life.
"Do not any act manifestly evil; it may grow upon thee, and corrode thee in
after-years. Do not any foolish good act; it may change thy wise habits.
"Eat no spiced meats. Young chickens, new-fallen lambs, fruits, bread four
days old, milk, freshest butter will make thy fleshy tabernacle youthful.
"From sick people, maimed wretches, afflicted people--all of whom show
themselves at variance with things as they should be,--from people beyond
their wits, from people in a melancholic mood, from people in extravagant
joy, from teething children, from dead corpses, turn away thine eyes and
depart elsewhere.
"If beggars haunt thee, let thy servants drive them away, thou withdrawing
out of ear-shot.
"Crying and sickly children, and teething children, as aforesaid, carefully
avoid. Drink the breath of wholesome infants as often as thou conveniently
canst,--it is good for thy purpose; also the breath of buxom maids, if
thou mayest without undue disturbance of the flesh, drink it as a
morning-draught, as medicine; also the breath of cows as they return from
rich pasture at eventide.
"If thou seest human poverty, or suffering, and it trouble thee, strive
moderately to relieve it, seeing that thus thy mood will be changed to a
pleasant self-laudation.
"Practise thyself in a certain continual smile, for its tendency will be to
compose thy frame of being, and keep thee from too much wear.
"Search not to see if thou hast a gray hair; scrutinize not thy forehead to
find a wrinkle; nor the corners of thy eyes to discover if they be
corrugated. Such things, being gazed at, daily take heart and grow.
"Desire nothing too fervently, not even life; yet keep thy hold upon it
mightily, quietly, unshakably, for as long as thou really art resolved to
live, Death with all his force, shall have no power against thee.
"Walk not beneath tottering ruins, nor houses being put up, nor climb to
the top of a mast, nor approach the edge of a precipice, nor stand in the
way of the lightning, nor cross a swollen river, nor voyage at sea, nor
ride a skittish horse, nor be shot at by an arrow, nor confront a sword,
nor put thyself in the way of violent death; for this is hateful, and
breaketh through all wise rules.
"Say thy prayers at bedtime, if thou deemest it will give thee quieter
sleep; yet let it not trouble thee if thou forgettest them.
"Change thy shirt daily; thereby thou castest off yesterday's decay, and
imbibest the freshness of the morning's life, which enjoy with smelling to
roses, and other healthy and fragrant flowers, and live the longer for it.
Roses are made to that end.
"Read not great poets; they stir up thy heart; and the human heart is a
soil which, if deeply stirred, is apt to give out noxious vapors."
Such were some of the precepts which Septimius gathered and reduced to
definite form out of this wonderful document; and he appreciated their
wisdom, and saw clearly that they must be absolutely essential to the
success of the medicine with which they were connected. In themselves,
almost, they seemed capable of prolonging life to an indefinite period, so
wisely were they conceived, so well did they apply to the causes which
almost invariably wear away this poor short life of men, years and years
before even the shattered constitutions that they received from their
forefathers need compel them to die. He deemed himself well rewarded for
all his labor and pains, should nothing else follow but his reception and
proper appreciation of these wise rules; but continually, as he read the
manuscript, more truths, and, for aught I know, profounder and more
practical ones, developed themselves; and, indeed, small as the manuscript
looked, Septimius thought that he should find a volume as big as the most
ponderous folio in the college library too small to contain its wisdom. It
seemed to drip and distil with precious fragrant drops, whenever he took
it out of his desk; it diffused wisdom like those vials of perfume which,
small as they look, keep diffusing an airy wealth of fragrance for years
and years together, scattering their virtue in incalculable volumes of
invisible vapor, and yet are none the less in bulk for all they give;
whenever he turned over the yellow leaves, bits of gold, diamonds of good
size, precious pearls, seemed to drop out from between them.
And now ensued a surprise which, though of a happy kind, was almost too
much for him to bear; for it made his heart beat considerably faster than
the wise rules of his manuscript prescribed. Going up on his hill-top, as
summer wore away (he had not been there for some time), and walking by the
little flowery hillock, as so many a hundred times before, what should he
see there but a new flower, that during the time he had been poring over
the manuscript so sedulously had developed itself, blossomed, put forth
its petals, bloomed into full perfection, and now, with the dew of the
morning upon it, was waiting to offer itself to Septimius? He trembled as
he looked at it, it was too much almost to bear,--it was so very
beautiful, so very stately, so very rich, so very mysterious and
wonderful. It was like a person, like a life! Whence did it come? He stood
apart from it, gazing in wonder; tremulously taking in its aspect, and
thinking of the legends he had heard from Aunt Keziah and from Sibyl Dacy;
and how that this flower, like the one that their wild traditions told of,
had grown out of a grave,--out of a grave in which he had laid one slain
by himself.
