DEAR

Jaques, the Outcast.

Hotel de l'Orient, Marseilles, July 6, 183

I TAKE the opportunity of the packet's return, to send you the papers of my uncle, of which I spoke. You no doubt thought I was off with them for good, to the disappointment of your curiosity; but the fact of their being among my baggage is altogether owing to my hurried departure on the morning after our last meeting. As I have slender recollection of much that passed that evening, and am not aware whether or not I explained to you their origin, I may as well do it now. The narrative is the production of my uncle, the late Dr. E— of and refers to a period of about thirty years back, when he was endeavoring to conjure up a practice in England. Why he should ever have written it I cannot imagine, except it were from the difficulty of altogether keeping a secret. He died very suddenly, and these papers, tied up with others of a similar description, old love-letters, &c., came into my possession. You will observe that the names are in cipher, but this is not of much importance, and you can understand the narrative quite as well by supposing names for the personages, such as Jenkins or Snooks, if your taste lie one way, or Howard or Cavendish, if the other. I may mention to you, that, though a member of the doctor's family, and brought up for the most part in his house, I never heard of the circumstances till the papers came into my possession.

It would be tedious to detail the various steps through which my acquaintance with Mr. Emmanuel Jaques, a gentleman of Jewish lineage and persuasion, advanced to intimate friendship. I was endeavoring to establish a practice in a small town a few miles from London, and he inhabited a retired cottage in its vicinity. When I first knew him, an elderly man, by name Conrad Hermann, and a girl about fourteen, called Rachel, resided with him: an aged Hebrew female domestic, and a kitchen girl formed the other occupants of the house. They lived an ex ceedingly retired life, and drew their support from some sources with which it was long before I became rightly acquainted.

At the time I thus introduce them to you, Mr. Jaques was about twentyfour years of age, and was, upon the whole, a young man of the strangest and most striking appearance, in person, manner, and habits, that I have ever observed. No man could appear more calculated for a complete enjoyment of the pleasures of society, and yet he seemed debarred from them by some strange, invisible chain-some mental barrier, that kept him back from any advances toward his fellow-beings. He was possessed of remarkable beauty of features, with the peculiarities that

are generally held to indicate a Jewish origin discernible upon them. He had, moreover, in all things, very much the aspect of a gentleman; was always remarkably clean and neat in his apparel, but used perfumes to excess. The skin of his hands and the upper part of his face were extremely fair, though on close inspection, you would find it seemed not the common white of the skin, but a sort of dry white, like that of a waxen bust in a perruquier's window. The color on his cheek was delicate and rosy, like the complexion of a female child, yet had also a dry, sapless appearance. A pair of very expressive dark eyes, and hair of a jetty curl, lent their aid to make him what he really was, the finest-faced man I have

ever seen.

But Mark! Upon this beautiful face sat an expression the most unique and constant-that of painful depression, varying in its range of poignancy, from melancholy, or even a kind of resigned pensiveness, to the writhing features and upward-strained eyes which seemed to indicate mental anguish unbearable yet hopeless-complete despair, unspoken, because altogether beyond human appreciation or sympathy; and this latter was as the rule-the former was the exception. A person on first observing this would have concluded it to be the despair of religious fanaticism with regard to futurity, for nothing save the idea of a perpetuity of torture-the most extreme which omniscience could invent or omnipotence effect and that, too, unavoidable, indeed, foreknown and fated from everlasting--could be conceived capable of producing a look so preterhuman in its misery and hopelessness-so sublime in its bleak elevation above the common smiles and tears of mankind. But it was not so.

He seemed a being devoid of all regards or sympathies for his kind or their concerns-who walked the world alone, unmoved by its proceedings, uncaring for its opinions, his whole mind being required for one purpose to concentrate itself under some vast and mysterious affliction -some affliction unmerited, or, if merited, not by the being who thus endured it, but by his erring fathers. His gait was slow and rambling, his aspect abstracted, his whole appearance unlike that of an ordinary man. His singular beauty, his rapt and, at the same time, agonized demeanor, his continual silence and solitude, gave him the appearance of some superior being condemned to fulfil on this earth a dreadful weird, with unseen furies lashing his spirit. Day after day might he be seen with the same costly and careful dress, giving forth the same overpowering odor of distilled essences, idling thoughtfully along a sequestered path, picking his steps with the utmost caution, avoiding with extreme care quarrelsome or suspicious-looking people, cattle, dogs, and places where the slightest danger might, by possibility, he imagined; yet seeming as if his dress, as well as the direction or manner of his walk, were a matter of no import to him, his whole interest being engrossed by the mighty hidden woe that was preying upon his spirit. Sometimes the expression of mental torture in his countenance was so fearful, that the neighboring folks, contact with whom he seemed so much to dread, were frightened on their own side, and, shunning his haunts as much as lay in their power, when they could not help meeting him, passed hurriedly by him with a shudder, and a muttered prayer for blessing to themselves. Those who were in

the habit of meeting him much thought him a maniac; and the fact that Mr. Hermann was nearly always seen attending at a distance and watching all his motions, justified this belief. I entertained it at first myself, but afterwards found I was wrong.

Hope was a passion that he had long banished from him as a heartless deceiver; but anger and jealousy would, in certain circumstances, overrun his mind like barbaric hordes, converting everything beautiful or noble into a confused mass of discolored ruin.

His sensibility was excessive: the least kindness he felt and was eminently grateful for; while unkindness, though haply not intentional, wounded him to the soul. Though offered in the way of sympathy, the slightest allusion to the cause of his strange and continual despondency vexed him exceedingly. One could not help immediately seeing the extreme pain and shame he suffered from-it was so plainly evident in his exquisitely expressive face, which seemed as it were a transparency, where every bright or shadowy line of emotion showed itself. He was most gentle in all his words and deeds, and, when he spoke, his voice had a sweet low thrill, as of habitual sorrow.

A favorite pursuit of his, it could not be called amusement, was walking alone, or in company with Mr. Hermann, or afterwards, of myself. His residence afforded great facilities for this, being exceedingly retired, and having a number of sequestered walks hard by.

About a quarter of a mile from our little town, a quiet, lonely-looking lane, half a mile in length, branched off from the London road, leading to an ancient gateway of the manor-house. The house was in three divisions, completely separate; one, and the largest, was inhabited by Mr. Jaques, and in it were a couple of rooms into which no foot save his own ever entered-from these last, strange odors often issued, as of burning. The second division was inhabited by Mr. Hermann and the girl Rachel, who passed as his daughter; and here were accumulated all luxuries of oriental or western production. The third was allotted to the servants, containing the kitchen, &c.

Mr. Hermann was a foreigner, spoke broken English, and was evidently upwards of seventy years of age. It was through him all business was transacted-all purchases made; and he appeared also to act as a sort of teacher or mentor both to Mr. Jaques and Rachel, having a sort of habitual authority which both tacitly obeyed. He had very much the aspect of a foreign Jew, and spoke German well-still, however, with the appearance of its not being his mother tongue. He had evidently travelled a great deal, though he was taciturn, and indisposed to talk of his past life.

The girl who called herself Rachel also appeared not to be a native of this country, and spoke the language with a sweetly slight foreign accent, though she knew no other save by book acquirement, with the exception of a few words, hard in their sound and full of consonants, which she had for day, night, father, mother, ground, water, and the like objects, and which she said hovered about her mind as if she had heard them in a dream. She was a beautiful creature, such as you would likely seo once or twice in a stirring lifetime. She was faultless in beauty of form

and face, as if Heaven had intended her for a model, to be set up against men's ideals, to prove that nature was still the proper standard of the beautiful. She seemed the child of a race whose natural perfection has never been deteriorated by any of the many causes that tend to misshape the frame-of a race whose limbs have been deformed by no slavish labor-whose skin has never been discolored by unwholesome food, cosmetics, or day slumber and nocturnal activity-whose blood is uncontaminated with the virus of royal and aristocratic diseases-who for ages, free, healthy, unrefined, have preserved the pristine and natural beauty and symmetry of animal man.

She had no trace of Hebrew origin in her countenance, nor did it, indeed, seem to bespeak her of any race or kindred; she appeared to be of the perfect race from which all others have branched, taking from circumstances their distinguishing peculiarities. Yet she was not a mere beauty-she was a warm-hearted, gentle-tempered thing, of a disposition to cling for protection, and repay it with endearment. She had talents, too, and taste, natural and therefore true-was apt at imitation, and could speedily manufacture for herself any thing light or graceful. Modest she was-humble, innocent, and unsuspecting; anxious to please, and prone to fall in love, unguardedly and wholly.

A strange family did they seem, those three, so incongruous in their characters and habits, yet all so sequestered from society!

I had become a frequent inmate of the cottage, and my company was eagerly welcomed by all within it. I had completely acquired the confidence of Mr. Jaques, affording him what he had long pined for a friend. I had much conversation with him, for he often sought information as to what was passing and had passed in the world, from which he was otherwise completely shut out. By and by I began to walk with him, though, from his excessive avoidance of danger, I was often put to annoyance→ an annoyance, however, which I was careful to conceal. Thus, once at a sharp turn we met a gang of gipsies advancing toward us: immediately he stopped, staggered toward the hedge, and stood still, pale and trembling, for they were too close upon him to allow of his retreat. One of the men, as they passed, seeing his trepidation, and desiring to make a bit of fun out of it for his comrades, rushed up near him, leaped into the air, flourished his stick, and brought it down with a loud blow on a box of tinkering tools, at the same time shouting a great oath. Poor Jaques fell against the hedge with his eyes closed and the muscles of his face twitching as if he were in a fit, while the color left not only his cheeks but his lips, which quivered now and again. The gipsey, laughing loudly, went on his way, talking with contempt of the scented lady-face. I flew to the side of Jaques and took his arm-he started up, looking wildly around, as if he would have taken to his heels.

"Nonsense!" said I, "what alarms you ?"

"What!" replied he; "a fate worse to me than death could be to you-worse to me and the people from whom I spring, and therefore more dreaded. I am a horrible stigma on my race-I fear not so much for myself."

"I thought you had fainted away."

"No," said he, "I dare not faint. I am cursed; and, vast as my curse is, as long as it is known but to myself, it is shorn of half its terrors. If I faint I am lost for ever. Death itself offers no refuge for me. I must still live on, and suffer still-a shame, an outcast, a blot on human kind." 66 But my dear Jaques, this absurd fear, which makes us both so ridiculous-"

"Fear-fear! God of my kindred, how gladly would I submit to torture, to death in its most dreadful form, were I to be freed by it from this dread burden! How readily would I this moment shatter this poor body like a vessel of clay, were it not for what would come after!"

"Compose yourself, my dear sir. You shall have my arm down to the cottage. I never saw a man in such excitement--how you shake!"

"Is it not a woful fate, my good E- .? Not only does this misery grind me down both spirit and body, but entails upon me every evil imputation-cowardice, horrible sins, remorse for great crimes, madness, and from the lower orders unhallowed practices with devils. Bear with me, dear E―; if you know me innocent of the others, do not consider me a slave to fear. I have but two fears-one, of the great curse under which I suffer; the other, of the Being that saw fit to lay it upon me. "But what has that to do with such nonsense as the gipsy's antics ?" "He might be tempted to strike, or he might do it accidentally; and the blow that might be a trifle to another man might be my utter ruin. Alas! you cannot understand it. I hold what is dearer than life but by the strength of a single hair-I cannot even die without the exposure of the everlasting shame of myself and my people: and yet death is ever drawing nearer and nearer, and, however guarded, it must ultimately be revealed; but then I shall not be alive to know the horror, the shame, the astonishment."

Another time, in conversation, he asked me if I knew of any death which withdrew the body utterly from the earth, so that no atom of it might ever meet the sight of any intelligent creature.

I told him that to have the body sunk in the ocean, with weights attached, was the only way I could think of at the time.

"Yes," said he: "but, in the progress of decay, the weights might get separated, and the dead body would rise, a blasting testimony to the eyes of frightened mariners."

I directed my mind to the thought for a little, and then related to him the following circumstance :

"I was once visiting an extensive iron-smelting work, which had been more than a century in active operation. I may mention to you that all the materials used are poured into the furnaces-which are high circular towers of large dimensions-from the top; there being no other apertures into them, save the two holes where the air is blown in, one to draw off the liquid iron, and one, at a higher level, to draw off the slag or refuse, which floats above it, being lighter. The materials then, coal, iron-ore, and limestone, are hoisted to the top of these furnace-towers, and, by men stationed there, precipitated from the trucks into their blazing interiora. Now one of these towers was shown me, into which a man fell, along with truck, materials, and all. It was nonsense to think of doing any