THE

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE MURDERER'S CONFESSION.

BY HORACE SMITH.

I PAUSED not to question the Devil's suggestion,
But o'er the cliff, headlong, the living was thrown,
A scream and a plashing, a foam and a flashing,
And the smothering water accomplished his slaughter,
All was silent, and I was alone.

With heart-thrilling spasm, I glanced down the chasm;

There was blood on the wave that closed over his head,
And in bubbles his breath, as he struggled with death,
Rose up
to the surface. I shudder'd and fled.
With footsteps that stagger'd and countenance haggard,
I stole to my dwelling, bewilder'd, dismay'd,
Till whisperings stealthy said-" Psha! he was wealthy-

Thou'rt his heir-no one saw thee-then be not afraid."

I summon'd the neighbours, I joined in their labours,

We sought for the missing by day and by night;
We ransack'd each single height, hollow, and dingle,
Till shoreward we wended, when starkly extended,

His corpse lay before us-O God, what a sight!
And yet there was nothing for terror or loathing;
The blood had been wash'd from his face and his clothing,
But by no language, no pen, his life-like, wide open

Eyes can be painted :—

They stared at me, flared at me, angrily glared at me,
I felt murder-attainted;

Yet my guilty commotion seem'd ruth and devotion,
When I shudder'd and fainted.

No hint finds emission that breathes of suspicion,
None dare utter a sound when an inquest has found
His death accidental;

Whence then and wherefore, having nothing to care for,

These agonies mental?

Why grieve and why sicken, frame-wither'd, soul-stricken? Jan.-VOL. LXXVI. NO. CCCI.

B

Age-paralysed, sickly, he must have died quickly,
Each day brought some new ill;

Why leave him to languish and struggle with anguish?
The deed that relieved him from all that aggrieved him
Was kindly not cruel.

In procession extended a funeral splendid,

With banner'd displays and escutcheons emblazon'd
To church slowly pass'd,

When a dread apparition astounded my vision;

Like an aspen leaf shaking, dumb founded and quaking,
I stood all aghast!

From its nail'd coffin prison, the corpse had arisen,
And in all its shroud vesture, with menacing gesture,
And eye-balls that stared at me, flared at me, glared at me,
It pointed-it flouted its slayer, and shouted

In accents that thrilled me,

"That ruthless dissembler, that guilt-stricken trembler Is the villain who kill'd me! !"

'Twas fancy's creation-mere hallucination—
A lucky delusion, for again my confusion,

Guilt's evidence sinister, seem'd to people and minister
The painful achievement of grief and bereavement.
Then why these probations, these self-condemnations,
Incessant and fearful?

Some with impunity snatch opportunity,
Slay-and exult in concealment's immunity,
Free from forebodings and heartfelt corrodings,
They fear no disclosure, no public exposure,
And sleeping unhaunted and waking undaunted,
Live happy and cheerful.

In abundance possessing life's every blessing,
Fine steeds in my stable, rare wines on my table,
Servants dress'd gaily, choice banquets daily,
A wife fond and beautiful, children most dutiful,
I, a pauper so lately, live richly and greatly,
In a mansion house stately.

Life's blessings?-Oh, liar! all are curses most dire-
In the midst of my revels,

His eyes ever stare at me, flare at me, glare at me.
Before me, when treading my manors outspreading,
There yawns an abysmal cliff precipice dismal;
Isolation has vanish'd, all silence is banish'd,
Where'er I immew me his death-shrieks pursue me,
I am haunted by devils.

My wine, clear and ruddy, seems turbid and bloody;
I cannot quaff water-recalling his slaughter,
My terror it doubles-'tis beaded with bubbles,
Each fill'd with his breath,

And every glass in each hisses-" Assassin !

My curse shall affright thee, haunt, harrow, and blight thee,
In life and in death!"

My daughters, their mother, contend with each other
Who shall show most affection, best soothe my dejection.
Revolting endearments! their garments seem cerements,
And I shudder with loathing at their grave-tainted clothing.
Home, and the mercies,

That to others are dearest, to me are the drearest
And deadliest curses.

When free from this error, I thrill with the terror
(Thought horrid to dwell on!)

That the wretch whom they cherish may shamefully perish;
Be publicly gibbeted, branded, exhibited,
As a murderous felon !

O punishment hellish!--the house I embellish,
From centre to corner upbraids its adorner.—
A door's lowest creaking swells into a shrieking;
Against me each column bears evidence solemn,
Each statue's a Nemesis ;

They follow, infest me, they strive to arrest me,
Till, in terrified sadness that verges on madness,
I rush from the premises.

The country's amenity brings no serenity,

Each rural sound seeming a menace or screaming;
There is not a bird or beast but cries-" Murder!
There goes the offender!

Dog him, waylay him, encompass him, stay him,
And make him surrender!"

My flower-beds splendid seem eyes blood-distended-
His eyes, ever staring, and flaring, and glaring!
I turn from them quickly, but phantoms more sickly
Drive me hither and thither:

I would forfeit most gladly wealth stolen so madly,
Quitting grandeur and revelry to fly from this devilry,
But whither-oh! whither?

1

Hence, idle, delusions! hence, fears and confusions!
Not a single friend's severance lessens men's reverence,
No neighbour of rank quits my sumptuous banquets

Without lauding their donor';

Throughout the wide county I'm famed for my bounty,
All hold me in honour.

Let the dotard and craven by fear be enslaven.

They have vanish'd! How fast fly these images ghastly,
When, in firm self-reliance,

You determine on treating the brain's sickly cheating
With scorn and defiance!

Ha ha! I am fearless henceforward, and tearless,
No coinage of fancy, no dream's necromancy,

TO DE

Shall sadden and darken-God help me!-hist!-hearken! 'Tis the shriek, soul-appalling, he uttered when falling!

By day thus affrighted, 'tis worse when benighted ;

With the clock's midnight boom from the church o'er his tomb
There comes a sharp screaming, too fearful for dreaming;
Bone fingers, unholy, draw the foot-curtains slowly-

O God! how they stare at me, flare at me, glare at me,

Those eyes of a Gorgon!

Beneath the clothes sinking, with shuddering shrinking,
A mental orgasm and bodily spasm

1 › Convulse every organ.

Nerves a thousand times stronger could bear it no longer.

,,『,!་

Grief, sickness, compunction, dismay in conjunction,

Nights and days ghost-prolific, more grim and terrific
Than judges and juries,

Make the heart writhe and falter more than gibbet and halter.
Arrest me, secure me, seize, handcuff, immure me!-

I own my transgression-will make full confession-
Quick-quick! let me plunge in some dark-vaulted dungeon,
Where, though tried and death-fated, I may not be baited
By devils and furies!

5

THE VISION OF CARL VAN QUIET;

OR,

"

THE INDIAN OF SAN SABA.

BY CHARLES HOOTON.

WHETHER Carl Van Quiet became so thoroughly disgusted with the world after a forty years' residence therein; or, as some of his ill-natured neighbours would have it, the world became so thoroughly disgusted with him, that they could not work together in any comfort longer, is more than we can undertake to decide. But true enough it is, that between them a lasting disagreement took place, and Van Quiet resolved to revenge himself in the best manner he was able, by withdrawing at once and for ever from the odious society amidst which he was born, and retiring to some silent sequestered corner of the earth, where either to plague others or to be himself plagued any longer, should no more be possible. He had heard of the "far West," but that promised not solitude enough for him. He would go further still. There were places happily yet left, thought he, where a man might as it were have a world to himself; where neither man's deceit nor woman's tongue could disturb the serenity of the soul; and where Nature, bountiful and free, should commune with him night and day in peace, unbroken by a single thought of quarrel.

Accordingly, he set about, for the first time in his life, to transplant himself from the soil upon which he was born. He had outlived the valuable opinions of many of the inhabitants of his native village of Sludgedam, upon the Katskill side of the Hudson, just because he refused to give way to every newly-conceived notion which they, as a common fraternity, thought proper to entertain for the general good of the population at large. As for instance, they established an anti-tobaccosmoking society, and inveigled all the girls of the place into the taking of a rash and desperate pledge never to marry a man who kept a pipe in his house, or ever blew smoke out of that facial orifice which, they philosophically contended, Providence never intended to be used as a funnel for such a purpose. Van Quiet treated all their theories with utter contempt, and only vouchsafed a reply by keeping his meershaum going at a more furious rate than ever before. But though he replied not in audible speech, he lacked not that inward reflection which is the best balm and satisfaction of the inward man. He knew, as well as did his father before him, the full value of a pipe. And from his sense of its power in putting aside anger, oiling the surface of the troubled sea of life, and calming the perturbation of the spirit, he mentally prophecied the future irritability of the husbands of Sludgedam-the unhappiness of its wives, and the nasty snarling cur-like dispositions of its forthcoming generations of children.

"Women are poor blind creatures," thought he to himself, " or they would perceive that when a man smokes he neither talks nor meddles, and yet the talking and meddling of husbands it is that makes every household hearth a little domestic amphitheatre of gladiatorial exercises.