Memoirs of Carwin the Biloquist | Page 7

a thousand cadences. On this night the
elemental music was remarkably sonorous, and was mingled not
unfrequently with ~~thunder heard remote~~.
I could not divest myself of secret dread. My heart faultered with a
consciousness of wrong. Heaven seemed to be present and to
disapprove my work; I listened to the thunder and the wind, as to the
stern voice of this disapprobation. Big drops stood on my forehead, and
my tremors almost incapacitated me from proceeding.
These impediments however I surmounted; I crept up stairs at midnight,
and entered my father's chamber. The darkness was intense and I
sought with outstretched hands for his bed. The darkness, added to the
trepidation of my thoughts, disabled me from making a right estimate
of distances: I was conscious of this, and when I advanced within the

room, paused.
I endeavoured to compare the progress I had made with my knowledge
of the room, and governed by the result of this comparison, proceeded
cautiously and with hands still outstretched in search of the foot of the
bed. At this moment lightning flashed into the room: the brightness of
the gleam was dazzling, yet it afforded me an exact knowledge of my
situation. I had mistaken my way, and discovered that my knees nearly
touched the bedstead, and that my hands at the next step, would have
touched my father's cheek. His closed eyes and every line in his
countenance, were painted, as it were, for an instant on my sight.
The flash was accompanied with a burst of thunder, whose vehemence
was stunning. I always entertained a dread of thunder, and now recoiled,
overborne with terror. Never had I witnessed so luminous a gleam and
so tremendous a shock, yet my father's slumber appeared not to be
disturbed by it.
I stood irresolute and trembling; to prosecute my purpose in this state
of mind was impossible. I resolved for the present to relinquish it, and
turned with a view of exploring my way out of the chamber. Just then a
light seen through the window, caught my eye. It was at first weak but
speedily increased; no second thought was necessary to inform me that
the barn, situated at a small distance from the house, and newly stored
with hay, was in flames, in consequence of being struck by the
lightning.
My terror at this spectacle made me careless of all consequences
relative to myself. I rushed to the bed and throwing myself on my
father, awakened him by loud cries. The family were speedily roused,
and were compelled to remain impotent spectators of the devastation.
Fortunately the wind blew in a contrary direction, so that our habitation
was not injured.
The impression that was made upon me by the incidents of that night is
indelible. The wind gradually rose into an hurricane; the largest
branches were torn from the trees, and whirled aloft into the air; others
were uprooted and laid prostrate on the ground. The barn was a

spacious edifice, consisting wholly of wood, and filled with a plenteous
harvest. Thus supplied with fuel, and fanned by the wind, the fire raged
with incredible fury; meanwhile clouds rolled above, whose blackness
was rendered more conspicuous by reflection from the flames; the vast
volumes of smoke were dissipated in a moment by the storm, while
glowing fragments and cinders were borne to an immense hight, and
tossed everywhere in wild confusion. Ever and anon the sable canopy
that hung around us was streaked with lightning, and the peals, by
which it was accompanied, were deafning, and with scarcely any
intermission.
It was, doubtless, absurd to imagine any connexion between this
portentous scene and the purpose that I had meditated, yet a belief of
this connexion, though wavering and obscure, lurked in my mind;
something more than a coincidence merely casual, appeared to have
subsisted between my situation, at my father's bed side, and the flash
that darted through the window, and diverted me from my design. It
palsied my courage, and strengthened my conviction, that my scheme
was criminal.
After some time had elapsed, and tranquility was, in some degree,
restored in the family, my father reverted to the circumstances in which
I had been discovered on the first alarm of this event. The truth was
impossible to be told. I felt the utmost reluctance to be guilty of a
falsehood, but by falsehood only could I elude detection. That my guilt
was the offspring of a fatal necessity, that the injustice of others gave it
birth and made it unavoidable, afforded me slight consolation. Nothing
can be more injurious than a lie, but its evil tendency chiefly respects
our future conduct. Its direct consequences may be transient and few,
but it facilitates a repetition, strengthens temptation, and grows into
habit. I pretended