Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 7, May, 1858 by Various
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Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 7, May, 1858
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[Footnote C: This is the expression of the legend, and certainly points
to the ideas of the Eastern hemisphere. The coincidence with the legends
of Hiawatha and the Finnish Wainamoinen will be remarked.--EDD.]
We will not follow the interesting narrative of the destruction of
the ancient empire of the Votanides by the Nahoas or Toltecs; nor the
account of the dispersion of these latter over Guatemala, Yucatan, and
even among the mountains of California. This last revolution presents
the first precise date which scholars have yet been able to assign to
early American history; it probably occurred A.D. 174.
With the account of the invasion of the Aztec plateau by the Chichemees,
a barbarian tribe of the Toltec family, in the middle of the seventh
century, or of the establishment of the Toltec monarchy in Anahuac, we
will not delay our readers, as these events bring us down to the period
of authentic history, on which we have information from other sources.
"From the moment," says M. de Bourbourg, "in which we see the supremacy
of the cities of Culhuacan and Tollan rise over the cities of the Aztec
plateau dates the true history of this country; but this history is, to
speak the truth, only a grand episode in the annals of this powerful
race [the Toltec]. In the course of a wandering of seven or eight
centuries, it overturns and destroys everything in order to build on the
ruins of ancient kingdoms its own civilization, science, and arts; it
traverses all the provinces of Mexico and Central America, leaving
everywhere traces of its superstitions, its culture, and its laws,
sowing on its passage kingdoms and cities, whose names are forgotten
to-day, but whose mysterious memorials are found again in the monuments
scattered under the forest vegetation of ages and in the different
languages of all the peoples of these countries."--Vol. I. p. 209.
M. de Bourbourg fitly closes his interesting volumes--from which we have
here given a resume of only the opening chapters--with a remarkable
prophecy, made in the court of Yucatan by the high-priest of Mani.
According to the tradition, this pontiff, inspired by a supernatural
vision, betook himself to Mayapan and thus addressed the king:--"At the
end of the Third Period, [A.D. 1518-1542,] a nation, white and bearded,
shall come from the side where the sun rises, bearing with it a sign,
[the cross,] which shall make all the Gods to flee and fall. This nation
shall rule all the earth, giving peace to those who shall receive it in
peace and who will abandon vain images to adore an only God, whom these
bearded men adore." (Vol. II. p. 594.) M. de Bourbourg does not vouch
for the pure origin of the tradition, but suggests that the wise men of
the Quiche empire already saw that it contained in itself the elements
of destruction, and had already heard rumors of the wonderful white race
which was soon to sweep away the last vestiges of the Central American
governments.
[NOTE.--We cannot but think that our correspondent receives the
traditions reported by M. de Bourbourg with too undoubting faith. Some
of them seem to us to bear plain marks of an origin subsequent to the
Spanish Conquest, and we suspect that others have been considerably
modified in passing through the lively fancy of the Abbe. Even
Ixtlilxochitl, who, as a native and of royal race, must have had access
to all sources of information, and who had the advantage of writing more
than three centuries ago, seems to have looked on the native traditions
as extremely untrustworthy. See Prescott's _History of the Conquest of
Mexico_, Vol. I. p. 12, note.--EDD.]
* * * * *
ROGER PIERCE
The Man With Two Shadows.
"There is ever a black spot in our sunshine." Carlyle.
The sky is gray with unfallen sleet; the wind howls bitterly about the
house; relentless in its desperate speed, it whirls by green crosses
from the fir-boughs in the wood,--dry russet oak-leaves,--tiny cones
from the larch, that were once rose-red with the blood of Spring, but
now rattle on the leafless branches, black and bare as they. No leaf
remains on any bough of the forest, no scarlet streamer of brier flaunts
from the steadfast rocks that underlie all verdure, and now stand out,
bleak and barren, the truths and foundations of life, when its ornate
glories are fled away. The river flows past, a languid stream of lead;
a single crow, screaming for its mate, flaps heavily against the
north-east gale, that enters here also and lifts the carpet in
long waves across the floor, whiffles light eddies of ashes in the
chimney-corner, and vainly presses on door and window, like a houseless
spirit shrieking and pining for a shelter from its bodiless and helpless
unrest in the elements.
The whole air,--although, within, my fire crackles and leaps with
steady cheer, and the red rose on my window is warm and sanguine with
bloom,--yet this whole air is full of tiny sparks of chill to my
sensitive and morbid nature; it is at once electric and cold, the very
atmosphere of spirits.--What a shadow passed that pane! Roger, was it
you?--The storm bursts, in one fierce rush of sleet and roaring wind;
the little spaniel crouched at my feet whimpers and nestles closer; the
house is silent,--silent as my thoughts,--silent as he is who walked
these rooms once, with a face likest to the sky that darkens them
now, and lonelier, lonelier than I, though at his side forever trod a
companion.
This valley of the Moosic is narrow and thinly settled. Here and
there the mad river, leaping from some wooded gorge to rest among the
hemlock-covered islands that break its smoother path between the soft
meadows, is crossed by a strong dam; and a white village, with its
church and graveyard, clusters against the hill-side, sweeping upward
from the huge mills that stand along the shore just below the bridge.
Here and there, too, out of sight of mill or village, a quiet farmer's
house, trimly painted, with barns and hay-stacks and wood-piles drawn up
in goodly array, stands in its old orchard, and offers the front of a
fortress against want and misery. Idle aspect! fortress of vain front!
there are intangible foes that no man may conquer! In such a stronghold
was born Roger Pierce, the Man with two Shadows.
He was the son of good and upright parents. Before he came into their
arms, three tiny shapes had lain there, one after another, for a few
brief weeks, smiled, moaned, and fallen asleep,--to sleep, forever
children, under the daisies and golden-rods. For this reason they cling
to little Roger with passionate apprehension; they fought with the Angel
of Death, and overcame; and, as it ever is to the blind nature of man,
the conquest was greater to them than any gift.
The boy grew up into childhood as other children grow, a daily miracle
to see. Only for him incessant care watched and waited; unwearied as the
angel that looked from him to the face of God, so to gather ever fresh
strength and guidance for the wayward child, his mother's tender eyes
overlooked him all day, followed his tottering steps from room to room,
kept far away from him all fear and pain, shone upon him in the depths
of night, woke and wept for him always. Never could he know the hardy
self-reliance of those whom life casts upon their own strength and care;
the wisdom and the love that lived for him lived in him, and he grew to
be a boy as the tropic blossom of a hot-house grows, without thought or
toil.
It was not until his age brought him in contact with others, that there
seemed to be any difference between his nature and the common race
of children. Always, however, some touch of sullenness lurked in his
temperament; and whatever thwarted his will or fancy darkened the light
of his clear eyes, and drew a dull pallor over his blooming cheek, till
his mother used to tell him at such times that he stood between her and
the sunshine.
But as he grew older, and shared in the sports of his companions, a
strange thing came to pass. Beside the shadow that follows us all in the
light, another, like that, but something deeper, began to go with Roger
Pierce,--not falling with the other, a dial-mark to show the light that
cast it, but capriciously to right or left; on whomever or whatever was
nearest him at the moment, there that Shadow lay; and as time crept on,
the Shadow pertinaciously crept with it, till it was forever hanging
about him, ready to chill with vague terror, or harden as with a frost,
either his fellows or himself.
One peculiar trait this Shadow had: the more the restless child thought
of his visitant, the deeper it grew,--shrinking in size, but becoming
more intensely dark, till it seemed like part of a heavy thunder-cloud,
only that no lightning ever played across its blank gloom.
The first time that the Shadow ever stood before him as an actual
presence was when, a mere child, he was busied one day in the warm May
sunshine making a garden by the school-house, in a line with other
little squares, tracked and moulded by childish fingers, and set with
branches of sallow silvered with downy catkins, half-opened dandelions,
twigs of red-flowered maple, mighty reservoirs of water in sunken
clam-shells, and paths adorned with borders of broken china and
glittering bits of glass. Next to Roger's garden-bed was one that
belonged to two little boys who were sworn friends, and one of these was
busy weaving a fence for his garden, of yellow willow-twigs, which the
other cut and sharpened.
Roger looked on with longing eyes.
"Will you help me, Jimmy?" said he.
"I can't," answered the quiet, timid child.
"No!" shouted Jacob,--the frank, fearless voice bringing a tint of color
into his comrade's cheek. "Jim shan't help you, Roger Pierce! Do you
ever help anybody?"
Then the Shadow fell beside Roger, as he stood with anger and shame
swelling in his throat; it fell across the blue violets he had taken
from Jacob to dress his own garden, and they drooped and withered; it
crossed the path of shining pebbles that he had forced the younger
children to gather for him, and they grew dull as common stones; it
reached over into Jacob's positive, honest face, and darkened it, and
Jimmy, looking up, with fear in his mild eyes, whispered, softly,--"Come
away! it's going to rain;--don't you see that dark cloud?"
Roger started, for the Shadow was darkening about himself; and as he
moodily returned home, it seemed to grow deeper and deeper, till his
mother drew his head upon her knee, and by the singing fire told him
tales of her own childhood, and from the loving brightness of her tender
eyes the Shadow slunk away and left the boy to sleep, unhaunted.
As day by day went by, in patient monotony, Roger became daily more
aware of this ghostly attendant. He was not always alone, for he had
friends who loved him in spite of the Shadow, and grew used to its
appearing;--but he liked to be by himself; for, out of constant
companionship and daily use, this Shadow made for itself a strange
affinity with him, and following his daily rambles over the sharp hills,
tracing to their source the noisy brooks, or setting snares for the
wild creatures whose innocent timid eyes peered at their little enemy
curiously from nook and crevice, he grew to have a moody pleasure in the
knowledge that nothing else disturbed his path or shared his amusements.
But a time came when he must mix more with the outer world; for he was
sent away from home to school, and there, amid a host of strange faces,
he singled out the only one that had a thought of his past life and
home in it, as his special companion,--the same quiet boy who had
unconsciously feared the Shadow in their earlier school-days.
So good and gentle was he, that he did not feel the cloud of Roger's
hateful Double as every one else did; and he even won the boy himself to
except him only from a certain suspicion that had lately sprung from,
his own consciousness of his burden,--a suspicion gradually growing into
a belief that all the world had such a Shadow as his own.
Now this was not a strange result of so painful a reality. Seeing, as
Roger Pierce did, in every action of others toward himself the dark
atmosphere of the Shadow that was peculiarly his own, he watched also
their mutual actions, and, throwing from his own obscurity a shade over
all human deeds, he became possessed of the monomania, a practical
belief that every mortal man, except it might be Jimmy Doane, was
followed and overlooked by this terrible Second Shadow.
In proportion as the gloom of this black Presence seemed to be lightened
over any one was his esteem for him; but by daily looking so steadily
and with such a will to see only darkness in the hearts of men, he
discovered traces of the Shadow even in Jimmy Doane,--and the darkness
shut down, like night at sea, over all the world then.
Now Roger was miserable enough, knowing well that he could escape, if
he would; for there had come with his increasing sense of his tyrant,
a knowledge that every time he thought of the Shadow it darkened more
deeply than ever, and that in forgetting it lay his only hope of escape
from its power. But withal there was a morbid pleasure, the reflex
influence of habit and indolence, that mingled curiously with his
longing desire to forget his Double, but rendered it impossible to do
so without a greater effort than he cared to make, or some help from
another hand; and soon that help seemed to come.
When Roger left his home for school, he left in the quaint oak cradle
a little baby-sister, too young to have a place in his thought as a
definite existence; but after an absence of two years he came back to
find in her a new phase of life, into which the Shadow could not yet
enter.
The child's name her own childish tongue had softened into "Sunny," a
name that was the natural expression of her sunshiny traits, the clear
gay voice, the tranquil azure eyes, the golden curls, the loving looks,
that made Sunny the darling of the house,--the stray sunbeam that
glanced through the doors, flitted by the heavy wainscots, and danced up
the dusky stairways of that old and solitary dwelling.
When Roger returned, fresh from the rough companionship of school, Sunny
seemed to him a creature of some better race than his own. The Shadow
vanished, for he forgot it in his new devotion to Sunny. Nothing did he
leave undone to please her wayward fancies. In those hot summer-days,
he carried her to a little brook that rippled across the meadow, and,
sitting with her in his arms on the large smooth stones that divided
those shallow waters, held her carefully while she splashed her tiny
dimpled feet in the cool ripples, or grasped vainly at the blue-winged
dragon-flies sailing past, on languid, airy pinions, just beyond her
reach. Or he gathered heaps of daisies for the child to toss into the
shining stream, and see the pale star-like blossoms float smoothly down
till some eddy caught them in its sparkling whirl, and, drenching the
frail, helpless leaves, cast them on the farther shore and went its
careless way. Or he told her, in the afternoons, under some wide
apple-tree, wonderful stories of giants and naughty boys, till she fell
asleep on the sweet hay, where the curious grasshoppers peered at her
with round horny eyes, and velvet-bodied spiders scurried across her
fair curls with six-legged speed, and the robin eyed her from a bough
above with wistful glances, till Roger must needs carry her tenderly out
of their neighborhood to his mother's gentle care.
All this guard and guidance Sunny repaid with her only treasure, love.
She left her pet kitten in its gayest antics to sit on Roger's knee; she
went to sleep at night nestled against his arm; every little dainty that
she gathered from garden or field was shared with him; and no pleasure
that did not include Roger could tempt Sunny to be pleased.
For a while the unconscious charm endured; absorbed in his darling,
Roger forgot the Shadow, or remembered it only at rare intervals; and in
that brief time every one seemed to grow better and lovelier. He did not
see in this the coloring of his own more kindly thoughts.
But when, at length, the novelty of Sunny's presence wore off, her
claims grew tiresome. In the faith of her child's heart, she came as
frankly to Roger for help or comfort as she had ever done; and he found
his own plans for study or pleasure constantly interrupted by her
requests or caresses, till the Shadow darkened again beside him, and,
looking over his shoulder, fell so close to Sunny, that his old belief
drew its veil across his eyes for a moment, and he started at the sight
of what he dreaded,--a Shadow haunting Sunny.
Then,--though this first dread passed away,--slowly, but creeping on
with unfailing certainty, the Shadow returned. It fell like a brooding
storm over the fireside of home; he fancied a like shadow following his
mother's steps, darkening his baby-sister's smile; and as if in
revenge for so long an absence, the Shadow forced itself upon him more
strenuously than ever, till poor Roger Pierce was like a bruised and
beaten child,--too sore to have peace or rest, too sensitive to bear any
remedy for his ailment, and too petulant to receive or expect sympathy
from any other and more gentle nature than his own.
It was long before the Shadow made itself felt by Sunny. She never saw
it as others did. If its chill passed over her warm rosy face, she stole
up softly to her brother, and, with a look of pure childish love, put
her hand in his, and said softly, "Poor Roger!" or, with a keener sense
of the Presence, forbore to touch him, but played off her kitten's
merriest tricks before him, or rolled her tiny hoop with shouts of
laughter across the old house-dog as he slept on the grass, looking
vainly for the smile Roger had always given to her baby plays before.
So by degrees she went back to her own pleasures, full of tender thought
for every living thing, and a loving consciousness of their wants and
ways. Her lisping voice chattered brook-like to birds and bees; her
lip curled grievously over the broken wing of a painted moth, or the
struggles of a drowning fly; in Nature's company she played as with an
infant ever divine; and no darkness assailed the never-weary child.
But Roger grew daily closer to his Shadow, and gave himself up to its
dominion, till his mother saw the bondage, and tried, mourning, every
art and device to win him away from the evil spirit, but tried in vain.
So they lived till Sunny was four years old, when suddenly, one bright
day in June, she left the roses in her garden with broken stems, but
ungathered, and, tottering into the house, fell across the threshold,
flushed and sleepy,--as they who lifted her saw at once, in the first
stage of a fever.
This unexpected blow once more severed Roger from his Shadow. He watched
his little sister with a heart full of anxious regret, yet so fully
wrapt in her wants and danger, that the gloomy Shadow, which looked afar
off at his self-accusations, dared not once intrude.
At length that day of crisis came, the pause of fever and delirium,
desired, yet dreaded, by every trembling, fearful heart that hung over
the child's pillow. If she slept, the physician said, her fate hung on
the waking; life or death would seal her when sleep resigned its claim.
It was early morning when this sentence was given; in an hour's time the
fever had subsided, the flush passed from Sunny's cheek, and she slept,
watched breathlessly by Roger and his mother. The curtains of the room
were half drawn to give the little creature air, and there rustled
lightly through them a low south wind, bearing the delicate perfume of
blossoms, and the lulling murmur of bees singing at their sweet toil.
Roger was weary with watching; the chiming sounds of Summer, the low
ticking of the old clock on the stairs, and the utter quiet within,
soothed him to slumber; his head bent forward and rested on the bedside;
he fell asleep, and in his sleep he dreamed.
Over Sunny's pillow (for in this dream he seemed to himself waking and
watching) he saw a hovering spirit, the incarnate shape of Light, gazing
at the sleeping child with ineffable tenderness; but its keen eyes
caught the aspect of Roger's Shadow; the pure lineaments glowed with
something more divinely awful than anger, and with levelled lance it
assailed that evil Presence and bore it to the ground; but the Shadow
slipped aside from the spear, and cowered into distance; the angelic
face saddened, and, stooping downward, folded Sunny in its arms as if to
bear her away.
Roger woke with his own vain attempt to grasp and detain the child. The
setting sun streamed in at the window, and his mother stood at his side,
brought by some inarticulate sound from Sunny's lips.
She sent the boy to call his father, and when they came in together, the
child's wide blue eyes were open, full of supernatural calm; her parched
lips parted with a faint smile; and the loose golden curls pushed off
her forehead, where the blue veins crept, like vivid stains of violet,
under the clear skin.
"Dear mother!" she said, raising her arms slowly, to be lifted on the
pillow; but the low, hoarse voice had lost its music.
Then she turned to her father with that strange bright smile, and again
to Roger, uttering faintly,--
"Stand away, Roger; Sunny wants the light."
They drew all the curtain opposite her bed away, and, as she stretched
her hands eagerly toward the window, the last rays of sunshine glowed
on her pale illuminated face, till it was even as an angel's, and Roger
caught a sudden gleam of wings across the air; but a cold pain struck
him as he gazed, for Sunny fell backward on her pillow. She had gone
with the sunshine.
It seemed now for a time as if the phantasm that haunted Roger Pierce
were banished at last. His moody reserve disappeared; he addressed
himself with quiet, constant effort to console his mother,--to aid his
father,--to fill, so far as he could, the vacant place; and his heart
longed with an incessant thirst for the bright Spirit that hovered in
his dream over Sunny;--he seemed almost to have begun a natural and
healthy life.
But year after year passed away, and the light of Sunny's influence
faded with her fading memory. Green turf grew over her short grave, and
the long slant shadow of its headstone no longer lay on a foot-worn
track. Roger's pilgrimages to that spot were over; his heart had ceased
to remember. The Shadow had reassumed its power, and reigned.
Still through its obscurity he kept one gleam of light,--an admiration
undiminished for those who seemed to have no such attendance; but daily
the number of these grew less.
At length, after the studies of his youth were over, and he had returned
to his old home for life, there came over the settled and brooding
darkness of his soul a warm ray of dawn. In some way, as naturally as
one meets a fresh wind full of vernal odor and life, yet never marks the
moment of its first caress, so naturally, so unmarkedly, he renewed a
childish acquaintance with Violet Channing, a dweller in the same
quiet valley with himself, though for long years the fine threads of
circumstance had parted them.
Not a stone, and the frail green moss that clings to it, are more
essentially different than were Roger Pierce and Violet Channing.
Without a trace of the Shadow in herself, Violet disbelieved its
existence in others. She had heard a rumor of Roger's phantom, but
thought it some strange delusion, or want of perception, in those who
told her,--being rather softened toward him with pity that he should be
so little understood.
In the first days of their acquaintance, it seemed as if the light
of the girl's face would have dispelled forever the darkness of her
companion's Shadow, it was so mild and quiet a shining,--not the mere
outer lustre of beauty, but the deep informing expression of that Spirit
which had companioned Sunny heavenward.
With Violet, soothed by the timid sweetness of her manner, aroused by
her sudden flashes of mirth and vivid enthusiasm, Roger seemed to forget
his hateful companion, or remembered it only to be consoled by her
tender eyes that beamed with pity and affection.
Month after month this intimacy went on, brightening daily in Roger's
mind the ideal picture of his new friend, but creating in her only
a deeper sympathy and a more devout compassion for his wretched and
oppressed life. But as years instead of months went by, the sole
influence no longer rested with the girl, drawing Roger Pierce upward,
as she longed and strove to do, into her own sunshine. Their mutual
relation had only lightened his darkness in part, while it had drawn
over her the faint twilight of a Shadow like his own. But as the chief
characteristic of this unearthly Thing was that it grew by notice, as
some strange Eastern plants live on air, it throve but slowly near to
Violet Channing, whose thoughts were bent on curing the heart-evil of
Roger Pierce, and were so absorbed in that patient care that they had
little chance to turn upon herself; though, when patience almost failed,
and, weary with fruitless labor and unanswered yearning, her heart sunk,
she was conscious of a vague influence that made the sunbeams fall
coldly, and the songs of Summer mournful.
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