Anti-slavery bugle. [volume] (New-Lisbon, Ohio) 1845-1861, 1849-03-02
MISCELLANEOUS.
A Life Episode.
BY DINAH MARIA UNLOCK.

Or which the reader may believe just as
much as he chooses-though for my part ]
believe it all. Not its mere outside garb-
the drapery in which we pen.artistS enfold
our model-truths, which we may arrange ex-
actly as we please-but the deep worldwide
verify Of human feeling thatlies beneath, and
is eternally the same.
The man whose life-episode | purpose here
to enfold, was one whom you might have
met any day in a London street, park, or
omnibus, and not have known that he was
different from other men. Perhaps, reader,
when you peruse this episode you will be
astonished that | thus take from its hero every
romantic accessory that could throw a halo
around him, and reconcile in a degree the
strange mingllng Of real and ideal which
overshadows him. Knight have clothed him
in a Roman toga, instead of plain broadcloth.
[ might have placed his existence in the dark
ages where mysteries abounded. But, no
life is as true, as earnest; as full of wild
romance and deep spirituality in these So
called matter f-fact days as in those upon
which we look back through the all-hallow-
ing shadows of the past. Is not the inward
life of every one a mystery ?-The poet whom
you meet looking just like any other man
ready TO dine, to talk about the weather or
the state Of Europe; yet the next day, when
in your solitude you glance over his silent
page-the inner depths of whose heart, min
| Cling with yours, lift your soul into COM
munion with the Infinite. The artist with
whom you may shake hands and interchange
ordinary chat; and anon, looking at whose
work, you become transported into the glo-
| rious ideal world which his genius has crea-
ted, in which " the shadowy people of the
roa1n, of draoro', nrou, yiaihlo Ara not tbaae
things mysterious AYE, as deep and strange
as were ever dealt in by Of
olda
Therefore, let the reader not start at the
contrast which may jar against his sense OF
the supernatural when | take for my hero a
man of this age in every respect. His name
is-no, he shall have a feigned name; the
same as the mournful mother-queen Mar
guerite gave 10 her newborn babe at Dam
ietta-Tristan. 1t suits well-for this man
was one most sorrowful. Let him, then be
Tristan.
lie was a man weighed down by cares /;
what these were il is needless here to relate.
You may meet as ] have said, his likeness
many a time in London streets and in the
faded dress, the heavy ~listless gait-the eye
which never seeks the sky but always the
ground-as if there alone were rest-yo,
NAV recognize a brother to whom life hal
been full of thorns. Oh, be thankful and re
ioice if your hand has planted none for hin
or for his fellows?
Tristan walked along in the soft sum,
light of a June evening ga time most joyou
in country lanes and fields, but in Londo
bringing only sadness. He passed througI
the dull close West-End streets-where tn
heated air was never stirred by one fres
evening breeze, and not a shade of the gle
rious sunset was visible save one faint gold
en- sparkle on a church tower near. Trista
saw neither gloom nor light. His eyes wei
, blinded-his heart was pressed down-wit
misery.
He found himself crossing the green swal
towards the Serpentine River. 1t glittere
in the sunlight, like a beacon ;-and h
ewes were opened now. He saw it; |
would have rushed towards it with the spec
of a hunted deer flying to a distant shelter
j but he dared not. 1t seemed as if evel
passer by cried out to him" Man, width
e goest thou !"
The answer to that question belonged n
C 10 time, but to eternity.
Tristan felt as if each eye were directed
him in this mute ~inquiry-which, look whe
d he would, he could not escape. There W
not a lady who went rustling past, not
milliner girl tripping lightly with her br
den, that did not seem in this mans disc
d deTed fancy to be an accusing spirit, kno'
ing his purpose and haunting him with it.
To elude this, he went a long way round
and reached the bridge just when the S
had set. He tried to lounge upon it as
saw other people do, watching the cockne
d Waltonians who pursued their harmless
musement in the twilight. His eyes rest
ii on each tiny float; and his wandering though
followed the line down, down, to the de
is bed Of the river. What was there?
He could not answer that:-He hare
h. tried. All that he felt was, that it must
a place of stiffness, and GOODNESS, and
at lence he sought nothing more. Even
b~lueness which the still bright sky cast wi
in it was painful; he wanted it dark-all da
ng He could not enter the portals of that no
while a ray Of light rested on them-wh
id one worldly sound broke above them. TIL
was yet near him a murmur of boyish 4
and laughter, and robin sang in one Of
m, distant trees. He would wait-wait uI
nd night and its stars should be the only v
nesses of the great change.
ed Tristan sat down under the parapet of
bridge. A man passed by, and looked at h
or! seeming to wonder what he was doing the
he So he took out of his pocket a biscuit a
pretended TO eat. Then a woman cross,
OF leading a sickly child-who gazed wistfu
at the food. Tristan gave his morsel to
famished boy.
ed Now the world owes me more than
would fain bestow--a crust of brea