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' 1

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EDWARD BULVVER LVTTON
{Lord Lytfon).

The Caxtons, Frontispiece.

THE CAXTONS.

a if amfl^ l^fcture*

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

(LORD LITTON.)

Every fMmlljr It ft history In ftnelf, and even a poem to those who
know how to search its pages. — L.\iiastink.

Di, prpbos mores docili juYentse,
Di, !*encM;tuti placidse quictem,
Kooiulse gvnti date remqup, proli-mque,
Et decas omno.

HoRAT. Carmen Saculare.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol. I.

'- •

» s

• • ^

• u

• a

■* -^ _j _.

BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

1899.

v.^

:••

• • •

> •

••

• • •

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.

PREFACE.

If it be the good fortune of this Work to possess
any interest for the Novel reader, that interest, per-
haps, will be but little derived from the customary
elements of fiction. The plot is extremely slight,
the incidents are few, and with the exception of
those which involve the fate of Vivian, such as
may be found in the records of ordinary life.

Regarded as a Novel, this attempt is an experi-
ment somewhat apart from the previous works of
the Author. It is the first of his writings in which
humor has been employed, less for the purpose of
satire than in illustration of amiable characters ; it
is the first, too, in which man has been viewed, less
in his active relations with the world, than in his
repose at his own hearth, — in a word, the greater
part of the canvas has been devoted to the comple-
tion of a simple Family Picture. And thus, in
any appeal to the sympathies of the human heart,
the common household affections occupy the place
of those livelier or larger passions which usually

Vi PREFACE.

(and not unjustly) arrogate the foreground in
romantic composition.

In the hero whose autobiography connects the
difTerent characters and events of the work, it has
been the Author's intention to imply the influences
of home upon the conduct and career of youth ; and
in the ambition which estranges Pisistratus for a
time from the sedentary occupations in which the
man of civilized life must usually serve his appren-
ticeship to Fortune or to Fame, it is not designed to
describe the fever of Genius conscious of superior
powers and aspiring to high destinies, but the natu-
ral tendencies of a fresh and buoyant mind, rather
vigorous than contemplative, and in which the de-
sire of action is but the symptom of health.

Pisistratus in this respect (as he himself feels
and implies) becomes the specimen or type of a
class the numbers of which are daily increasing in
the inevitable progress of modem civilization. He
is one too many in the midst of the crowd ; he is
the representative of the exuberant energies of
youth, turning, as with the instinct of nature for
space and development, from the Old World to
the New. That which may be called the interior
meaning of the whole is sought to be completed by
the inference that, whatever our wanderings, our
happiness will always be found within a narrow
compass, and amidst the objects more immediately
within our reach, but that we are seldom sensible
of this truth (hackneyed though it be in the Schools

PREFACE.

Vll

of all Philosophies) till our researches have spread
over a wider area. To insure the blessing of repose,
we require a brisker excitement than a few turns
up and down our room. Content is like that
humor in the crystal, on which Claudian has lav-
ished the wonder of a child and the fancies of
a Poet, —

" Vivis gemma turaescit aquis."

E. B. K

' •. •

e - *

' v.-

THE CAXTONS.

■» «

PART FIRST.

CHAPTER L

" Sir — sir, it is a boy ! "

"A boy," said my father, looking up from his book,
and evidently much puzzled : " what is a boy % "

Now, my father did not mean by that interrogatory
to challenge philosophical inquiry, nor to demand of the
honest but unenlightened woman who had just rushed
into his study a solution of that mystery, physiological
and psychological, which has puzzled so many curious
sages, and lies still involved in the question, "What is
man?" For as we need not look further than Dr. John-
son's Dictionary to know that a boy is " a male child," —
that is, the male young of man, — so he who would go to
the depth of things, and know scientifically what is a l)oy,
must be able first to ascertain ** what is a man." But for
aught I know, my father may have been satisfied with
Buflbn on that score, or ho may have sided with Mon-
boddo He may have agreed with Bishop Berkeley ; he
may have contented himself with Profesj^or Combe ; he
may have regarded the genius spiritually, like Zeno, or

VOL. 1 — 1

• *

• •

2 THF* c:\X'K)n1s:'''

materially, lik^*,^}j)iciirifs.* Grant that boy is the male
youpg Ijf mgin; kihd he would have had plenty of defini-
^.*.t£&i ttj'. choose fiom He might have said, "Man is a
'• Vbnbach, — ergOy boy, .a male young stomach ; man is a
brain, — boy, a male young brain ; man is a bundle of
habits, — boy, a male young bundle of habits ; man is a
machine, — boy, a male young machine ; man is a tail-
less monkey, — boy, a male young tail-less monkey ; man
is a combination of gases, — boy, a male young combina-
tion of gases ; man is an appearance, — boy, a male young
appearance," etc. and etceteiti, ad infinitum I And if none
of these definitions had entirely satisfied my father, I am
perfectly persuaded that he would never have come to
Mrs. Primmins for a new one.

But it so happened that my father was at that moment
engaged in the important consideration whether the Iliad
was written by one Homer, or was rather a collection of
sundiy ballads, done into Greek by divers hands, and finally
selected, compiled, and reduced into a whole by a Com-
mittee of Taste, under that elegant old tyrant Pisistratus ;
and the sudden affirmation, " It is a boy,'' did not seem
to him pertinent to the thread of the discussion. There
fore he asked, ** What is a boy ? " vaguely, and, as it were,
taken by surprise.

"Lord, sir!" said Mrs. Primmins, "what is a boyi
Why, the baby 1 "

" The baby ! " repeated my father, rising. " What, you
don't mean to say that Mrs. Caxton is — eh 1 "

" Yes, I do," said Mrs. Primmins, dropping a courtesy ;
" and as fine a little rogue as ever I set eyes upon."

"Poor dear woman," said my father, with great com*
passion. " So soon, too — so rapidly," he resumed, in a
tone of musing surprise. " Why, it is but the other day
we were married 1 "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 3

"Bless my heart, sir," said Mrs Primmins, much scan-
dalized, " it is ten months and more "

" Ten months ! " said my father with a sigh. ** Ten
months ! and I have not finished fifty pages of my refu-
tation of Wolfe's monstrous theory ! In ten months a
child ! and I '11 be bound complete, — hands, feet, eyes,
ears, and nose ! — and not like this poor infant of mind,"
and my father pathetically placed his hand on the treatise,
" of which nothing is formed and shaped, not even the
first joint of the little finger ! Why, my wife is a pre-
cious woman ! Well, keep her quiet Heaven preserve
her, and send me strength — to support this blessing ! "

" But your honor will look at the baby ? Come, sir ! *'
and Mrs. Primmins laid hold of my father's sleeve coax-
ingly.

" Look at it, — to be sure," said my father, kindly ;
"look at it, certainly : it is but fair to poor Mrs. Caxton,
after taking so much trouble, dear soul ! "

Therewith my father, drawing his dressing-robe round
him in more stately folds, followed Mra Primmins up-
stairs into a room very carefully darkened.

" How are you my dear 1 " said my father, with com-
passionate tenderness, as he groped his way to the bed.

A faint voice muttered : " Better now, and so happy ! "
and at the same moment Mrs. Primmins pulled my father
away, lifted a coverlid from a small cradle, and holding
a candle within an inch of an undeveloped nose, cried
emphatically, " There — bless it ! "

" Of course, ma'am, I bless it," said my father, rather
peevishly. " It is my duty to bless it — Bless it ! And
this, then, is the way we come into the world ! — red,
very red, — blushing for all the follies we are destined
to commit."

My father sat down on the nurse's chair, the women

4 THE CAXTONS:

grouped round him. He continued to gaze on the con-
tents of the cradle, and at length said, musingly, " And
Homer was once like this ! "

At this moment — and no wonder, considering the pro-
pinquity of the candle to his visual organs — Homer's
infant likeness commenced the first untutored melodies
of natiuB.

« Homer improved greatly in singing as he grew older,"
observed Mr. Squills, the accoucheur, who was engaged
in some mysteries in a corner of the room.

My father stopped his ears. " Little things can make
a great noise," said he, philosophically ; " and the smaller
the thing, the greater noise it can make."

So saying, he crept on tiptoe to the bed, and clasping
the pale hand held out to him, whispered some words
that no doubt charmed and soothed the ear that heard
them, for that pale hand was suddenly drawn from his
own and thrown tenderly round his neck. The sound
of a gentle kiss was heard through the stillness.

"Mr. Caxton, sir," cried Mr. Squills, in rebuke, "you
agitate my patient ; you must retire."

My father raised his mild face, looked round apologeti-
cally, brushed his eyes with the back of his hand, stole
to the door, and vanished.

" I think," said a kind gossip seated at the other side
of my mother's bed, " I think, my dear, that Mr. Caxton
might have shown more joy, — more natural feeling, I
may say, — at the sight of the baby : and such a baby !
But all men are just the same, my dear, — brutes, — all
brutes, depend upon it 1 "

" Poor Austin ! " sighed my mother, feebly ; " how little
you understand him ! "

" And now I shall clear the room," said Mr. Squills.
"Go to sleep, Mrs. Caxton"

.^^..

A FAMILY PICTURE.

" Mr. Squills,'* exclaimed my mother, and the bed-cur-
tains trembled, " pray see that Mr. Caxton does not set
himself on fire. And, Mr. Squills, tell him not to be
vexed and miss me, — I shall be down very soon, —
shaVt I?"

" If you keep yourself easy, you will, ma'am."

" Pray, say so. And, Primmins — "

" Yes, ma'am."

"Every one, I fear, is neglecting your master. Be
sure," and my mother's lips approached close to Mrs.
Primmins's ear, "be sure that you — air his nightcap
yourself."

"Tender creatures those women," soliloquized Mr.
Squills as, after clearing the room of all present save Mrs.
Primmins and the nurse, he took his way towards my
father's study. Encountering the footman in the passage,
" John," said he, " take supper into your master's room,
and make us some punch, will you, — stiffishl"

6 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER n.

"Mr. Caxton, how on earth did you ever come to
marry?" asked Mr. Squills, abruptly, with his feet on
the hob, while stirring up his punch.

That was a home question, which many men might
reasonably resent; but my father scarcely knew what
resentment was.

" Squills," said he, turning round from his books, and
laying one finger on the surgeon's arm confidentially, —
"Squills," said he, "I myself should be glad to know
how I came to be married."

Mr. Squills was a jovial, good-hearted man, — stout,
fat, and with fine teeth, that made his laugh pleasant to
look at as well as to hear. Mr. Squills, moreover, was a
bit of a philosopher in his way, — studied human nature
in curing its diseases, and was accustomed to say that
Mr. Caxton was a better book in himself than all he had
in his library. Mr. Squills laughed and rubbed his
hands.

My father resumed thoughtfully, and in a tone of one
who moralizes : —

"There are tliree great events in life, sir, — birth, mar-
riage, and death. None know how they are born, few
know how they die ; but 1 suspect that many can account
for the intermediate phenomenon — I cannot."

" It was not for money, it must have been for love,"
observed Mr. Squills ; " and your young wife is as pretty
as she is good."

" Ha ! " said my father, " I remember."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 7

"Do you, sir?" exclaimed Squills, highly amused.
" How was it ? "

My father, as was often the case with him, protracted
his reply, and then seemed rather to commune with him-
self than to answer Mr. Squills.

"The kindest, the hest of men," he murmured, —
Ahyssui EimditioHis. And to think that he hestowed on
me the only fortune he had to leave, instead of to his own
flesh and blood, Jack and Kitty, — all, at least, that I
could grasp, dejiciente manu^ of his Latin, his Greek, his
Orientals. What do I not owe to him ? "

"To whom?" asked Squills. "Good Lord! what's
the man talking about ? "

" Yes, sir," said my father, rousing himself, " such
was Giled Tibbets, M. A., *S^o/ Scientiarum, tutor to the
humble scholar you address, and father to poor Kitty.
He left me his Elzevirs; he left me also his orphan
daughter."

"Oh! as a wife — "

" No, as a ward. So she came to live in my house. I
am sure there was no harm in it. But my neighbors
said there was, and the widow Weltraum told me the
girPs character would suffer. What could I do ? — Oh,
yes, I recollect all now ! 1 married her, that my old
friend's child might have a roof to her head, and come
to no harm. You see I was forced to do her that injury ;
for, after all, poor young creature, it was a sad lot for her.
A dull bookworm like me, — cochlece vitam agens^ Mr.
Sijuills, — leading the life of a snail ! But my shell was
all I could offer to my poor friend's orphan."

" Mr. Caxton, 1 honor you," said Squills, emphatically,
jumping up, and spilling half a tumblerful of scalding
punch over my father's legs. " You have a heart, sir ;
and I understand why your wife loves you. You seem

THE CAXTONS:

a cold man, hut you have tears in your eyes- at thia
moment,"

" I daro say I have," said my father, ruhhing his sliins ;
" it waa hoiling ! "

" And your son will be a comfort to you hoth," said
Mr. Squills, reseating himself, and, in lug friendly emo-
tion, wholly abstracted from nil conseiousness of the Buf-
fering he had inflicted ; " he will be a dove of peace to
your ark."

"I don't doubt it," said my father, ruefully; "only
those doves, wheu they are small, are u very noisy sort
of birds — -now talium avium canfua tomnum reduetut.
However, it might have been worse. Leda had twins."

"So had Mrs. Barnabas last week," rejoined the ac-
coucheur. " Who knows what may be in store for you
yet? Here's a health to Master Gaxton, and lots of
brothers and sisters to him ! "

" Brothers and sisters ! I am sure Mrs. Caxton will
never think of such a thing, sir," said my father, almost
indignantly ; " she 's much too good a wife to behave so.
Once in a way it is all very well ; but twice — and as it
is, not a paper in its place, nor a pen mended the last
three days : I, too, who can only write ciupide dariui-
eula, — and the baker coming twice to me for his bill,
too 1 The IhthyisB are troublesome deities, Mr. Squills."

" Who are the Ilithyiie 1 " asked the accoucheur.

" You ought to know," answered my father, smiling, —
" the female dromons who presided over the Neogilos, or
New-bom. They take the name from Juno. See Homer,
Book XI. By the by, will my Neogilos be brought up
like Hector, or Astyanax — videlicet, nourished by its
mother, or by a nurse 1 "

" Which do you prefer, Mr. Caxton f " asked Mr.
Squills, breaking the sugar in his tumbler. "In thia

A FAMILY PICTURE. 9

I always deem it my duty to consult tlie wishes of the
gentleman."

" A nurse by all means, then," said my father. " And
let her carry him upo kolpOf next to her bosom. I know
all that has been said about mothers nursing their own
infants, Mr. Squills ; but poor Kitty is so sensitive that
I think a stout, healthy peasant woman will be the best
for the boy's future nerves, and his mother's nerves,
present and future too. Heigh-ho ! I shall miss the
dear woman very much. When will she be up, Mr.
Squills ? "

" Oh, in less than a fortnight ! "

" And then the Neogilos shall go to school, — upo
kolpo — the nurse with him, and all will be right again,"
said my father, with a look of sly, mysterious humor
which was peculiar to him.

" School ! when he *8 just bom 1 "

"Can't begin too soon," said my father, positively;
"that's Helvetius's opinion, and it is mine tool"

10 THE CAXTONS :

CHAPTER III.

That I was a very wonderful child, I take for granted j
but nevertheless it was not of my own knowledge that I
came into possession of the circumstances set down in my
former chapters. But my father's conduct on the occa-
sion of my birth made a notable impression upon all who
witnessed it ; and Mr. Squills and Mrs. Primmins have
related the facts to me sufficiently often to make me as
well acquainted with them as those worthy witnesses
themselves. I fancy I see my father before me, in his
dark-gray dressing-gown, and with his odd, half-sly, half-
innocent twitch of the mouth, and peculiar puzzling look,
from two quiet, abstracted, indolently handsome eyes, at
the moment he agreed with Helvetius on the propriety of
sending me to school as soon as I was born. Nobody
knew exactly what to make of my father, — his wife ex-
cepted. The people of Abdera sent for Hippocrates to
cure the supposed insanity of Democritus, " who at that
time," saith Hippocrates, dryly, "was seriously engaged
in philosophy." That same people of Abdera would cer-
tainly have found very alarming symptoms of madness in
my poor father ; for, like Democritus, " he esteemed as
nothing the things, great or small, in which the rest of
the world were employed." Accordingly, some set him
down as a sage, some as a fool. The neighboring clergy
respected him as a scholar, "breathing libraries;" the
ladies despised him as an absent pedant who had no
more gallantry than a stock or a stone. The poor loved
him for his charities, but laughed at him as a weak sort

A FAMILY PICTURE. 11

of man, easily taken in. Yet the squires and farmers
foimd that in their own matters of rural business he had
always a fund of curious information to impart ; and who-
ever, young or old, gentle or simple, learned or ignorant,
asked his advice, it was given with not more humility
than wisdom. In the common affairs of life he seemed
incapable of acting for himself ; he left all to my mother ;
or, if taken unawares, was pretty sure to be the dupe.
But in those very affairs, if another consulted him, his
eye brightened, his brow cleared, the desire of serving
made him a new being, — cautious, profound, practical.
Too lazy or too languid where only his own interests
were at stake, — touch his benevolence, and all the
wheels of the clock-work felt the impetus of the
master-spring. No wonder that to others the nut of
such a character was hard to crack ! But in the eyes
of my poor mother, Augustine (familiarly Austin) Cax-
ton was the best and the greatest of human beings ; and
she ought to have known him well, for she studied him
with her whole heart, knew every trick of his face, and
nine times out of ten divined what he was going to say
before he opened his lips. Yet certainly there were deeps
in his nature which the plummet of her tender woman's
wit had never sounded ; and certainly it sometimes hap-
pened that even in his most domestic colloquialisms my
mother was in doubt whether he was the simple, straight-
forward person he was mostly taken for. There was in-
deed a kind of suppressed, subtle irony about him, too
unsubstantial to be popularly called humor, but dimly
implying some sort of jest, which he kept all to himself ;
and this was only noticeable when he said something that
sounded very grave, or appeared to the grave very silly
and irrational.

That I did not go to school — at least to what Mr.

12 THE OAXTONS:

Squills understood by the word " school " — quite so
soon as intended, I need scarcely observe. In fact, my
mother managed so well — my nursery, by means of
double doors, was so placed out of hearing — that my
father, for the most part, was privileged, if he pleased,
to forget my existence. He was once vaguely recalled
to it on the occasion of my christening. Now, my father
was a shy man, and he particularly hated all ceremonies
and public spectacles. He became uneasily aware that a
great ceremony in which he might be called upon to play
a prominent part was at hand. Abstracted as he was,
and conveniently deaf at times, he had heard such signifi-
cant whispers about " taking advantage of the bishop's
being in the neighborhood," and " twelve new jelly-
glasses being absolutely wanted," as to assure him that
some deadly festivity was in the wind. And when the
question of godmother and godfather was fairly put to
him, coupled with the remark that this was a line oppor-
tunity to return the civilities of the neighborhood, he felt
that a strong effort at escape was the only thing left.
Accordingly, having, seemingly without listening, heard
the day fixed, and seen, as they thought, without observ-
ing, the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room uncovered
(my dear mother was the tidiest woman in the world), my
father suddenly discovered that there was to be a great
book-sale, twenty miles off, which would last four days,
and attend it he must. My mother sighed ; but she
never contradicted my father, even when he was wrong,
as he certainly was in this case. She only dropped a
timid intimation that she feared " it would look odd, and
the world might misconstrue my father's absence, — had
not she better put off the christening ? "

" My dear," answered my father, " it will be my duty,
by and by, to christen the boy, — a duty not done in o

A FAMILY PICTURE. 13

day. At present, I have no doubt that the bishop will
do very well without me. Let the day stand ; or if you
put it off, upon my word and honor I believe that the
wicked auctioneer will put off the book-sale also. Of one
thing I am quite sure, that the sale and the christening
will take place at the same time."

There was no getting over this ; but I am certain my
dear mother had much less heart than before in uncover-
ing the chintz chairs in the best drawing-room. Five
years later this would not have happened. My mother
would have kissed my father and said, " Stay," and he
would have stayed. But she was then very young and
timid ; and he, wild man, not of the woods but the clois-
ters, not yet civilized into the tractabilities of home. In
short, the post-chaise was ordered and the carpet-bag
packed.

"My love," said my mother, the night before this
hegira, looking up from her work, " my love, there is
one thing you have quite forgot to settle, — I beg par-
don for disturbing you, but it is important ! — baby's
name : sha'n't we call him Augustine ? "

" Augustine," said my father, dreamily, — " why, that
name's mine."

" And you would like your boy*s to be the same ? "

"No," said my father, rousing himself. "Nobody
would know which was which. I should catch myself
learning the Latin accidence, or playing at marbles. I
should never know my own identity, and Mrs. Primmins
would be giving me pap."

My mother smiled ; and putting her hand, which was
a very pretty one, on my father's shoulder, and looking
at him tenderly, she said : " There 's no fear of mistaking
you for any other, even your son, dearest Still, if you
prefer another name, what shall it be?"

14 THE CAXTONS:

"Samuel," said my father. "Dr. Parr's name is
Samuel."

" La, my love ! Samuel is the ugliest name — "

My father did not hear the exclamation ; he was again
deep in his books. Presently he started up: "Bames
says Homer is Solomon. Read Omeros backward, in the
Hebrew manner — "

" Yes, my love," interrupted my mother ; " but baby's
Christian name?"

" Omeros — Sore mo — Solemo — Solomo ! "

" Solomo, — shocking ! " said my mother.

" Shocking indeed," echoed my father ; "an outrage to
common-sense." Then, after glancing again over his
books, he broke out musingly : " But, after all, it is non-
sense to suppose that Homer was not settled till his time."

" Whose ? " asked my mother, mechanically.

My father lifted up his finger.

My mother continued, after a short pause, "Arthur
is a pretty name. Then there 's William — Henry —
Charles — Kobert. WTiat shall it be, love 1 "

" Pisistratus ! " said my father (who had hung fire till
then), in a tone of contempt, — " Pisistratus, indeed ! "

"Pisistratus! a very fine name," said my mother, joy-
fully, — " Pisistratus Caxton. Thank you, my love ; Pisis-
tratus it shall be."

" Do you contradict me ? Do you side with Wolfe and
Heyne and that pragmatical fellow Yico ? Do you mean
to say that the Rhapsodists — "

" No, indeed," interrupted my mother. " My dear, you
frighten me."

My father sighed, and threw himself back in his chair.
My mother took courage and resumed.

" Pisistratus is a long name too I Still, one could call
him Sisty.'

»>

A FAMILY PICTURE.

Siste, Viator," mutterecj my father ; " that 's trite ! '
" No, Sisty by itself — short Thank you my dear."
Four days afterwards, on his return from the book-sale,
to my father's inexpressible bewilderment, he was in-
fonned that " Pisistratus was growing the very image of
him.**

When at length the good man was made thoroughly
aware of the fact that his son and heir boasted a name
so memorable in history as that borne by the enslaver of
Athens and the disputed arranger of Homer, — and it
was asserted to be a name that he himself had suggested,
— he was as angry as so mild a man could be. " But it
is infamous ! " he exclaimed. " Pisistratus christened !
Pisistratus, who lived six hundred years before Christ
was bom ! Good heavens, madam ! you have made me
the father of an Anachronism."

My mother burst into tears. But the evil was irreme-
diable. An anachronism I was, and an anachronism [
must continue to the end of the chapter.

16 THE CAXTONS;

CHAPTER IV.

"Op course, sir, you will begin soon to educate your
son yourself?" said Mr. Squills.

" Of course, sir," said my father, " you have read Maiv
tinus Scriblerus?"

" I don't understand you, Mr. Caxton."

"Then you have riot read Martinus Scriblerus, Mr.
Squnis ! "

" Consider that I have read it ; and what then ? "

" Why, then. Squills," said my father, familiarly, " you
would know that though a scholar is often a fool, he is
never a fool so supreme, so superlative, as when he is
defacing the first unsullied page of the human history
by entering into it the commonplaces of his own ped-
antry. A scholar, sir, — at least one like me, — is of all
persons the most unfit to teach young children. A
mother, sir, — a simple, natural, loving mother, — is the
infant's true guide to knowledge."

" Egad ! Mr. Caxton, — in spite of Helvetius, whom
you quoted the night the boy was bom, — egad ! I believe
you are right."

" I am sure of it," said my father, — " at least as sure
as a poor mortal can be of anything. I agree with Hel-
vetius, the child should be educated from its birth ; but
how ? There is the rub : send him to school forthwith !
Certainly, he is at school already with the two great
teachers, — Nature and Love. Observe, that childhood
and genius have the same master-organ in common, —
inquisitiveness. Let childhood have its way, and as it

A FAMILY PICTURE. 17

began where genius begins it may find what genius finds
A certain Greek writer tells us of some man who in ordei
to save his bees a troublesome flight to Hymettus cut theii
wings, and placed before them the finest flowers he could
select. The poor bees made no honey. Now, sir, if I
were to teach my boy, I should be cutting his wings and
giving him the flowers he should find himself. Let us
leave Nature alone for the present^ and Nature*s loving
proxy, the watchful mother."

Therewith my father pointed to his heir sprawling on
the grass and plucking daisies on the lawn, while the
young mother's voice rose merrily, laughing at the child's
glee.

" I shall make but a poor bill out of your nursery, I
see," said Mr. Squills.

Agreeably to these doctrines, strange in so learned a
father, I thrived and flourished, and learned to spell and
make pot-hooks, under the joint care of my mother and
Dame Primmins. This last was one of an old race fast
dying away, — the race of old, faithful servants ; the race
of old, tale-telling nurses. She had reared my mother
before me ; but her affection put out new flowers for the
new generation. She was a Devonshire woman; and
Devonshire women, especially those who have passed
their youth near the sea-coast, are generally superstitious.
She had a wonderful budget of fables. Before I was six
years old, I was erudite in that primitive literature in
which the legends of all nations are traced to a common
fountain, — Puss in Boots, Tom Thumb, Fortunio, Fortu-
natus, Jack the Giant-Killer ; tales, like proverbs, equally
familiar, under different versions, to the infant worship-
pers of Budh and the hardier children of Tlior. I may
say, without vanity, that in an examination in those
venerable classics I could have taken honors.

VOL. 1. — 2

18 THE CAXTONS:

My dear mother had some little misgivings as to the
solid benefit to be derived from such fantastic erudition,
and timidly consulted my father thereon.

" My love," answered my father, in that tone of voice
which always puzzled even my mother to be sure whether
he was in jest or earnest, "in all these fables certain
philosophers could easily discover symbolical significa*
tions of the highest morality. I have myself written a
treatise to prove that Puss in Boots is an allegory upon
the progress of the human understanding, having its
origin in the mystical schools of the Egyptian priests, and
evidently an illustration of the worship rendered at
Thebes and Memphis to those feline quadrupeds of
which they make both religious symbols and elaborate

mummies."

" My dear Austin," said my mother, opening her blue
eyes, " you don't think that Sisty will discover all those
fine things in Puss in Boots ! "

"My dear Kitty," answered my father, "you don^t
think, when you were good enough to take up with me,
that you found in me all the fine things I have learned
from books. You knew me only as a harmless creature
who was happy enough to please your fancy. By and by
you discovered that I was no worse for all the quartos
that have transmigrated into ideas within me, — ideas that
are mysteries even to myself. If Sisty, as you call the
child (plague on that unlucky anachronism ! which you
do well to abbreviate into a dissyllable), — if Sisty can't
discover all the wisdom of Egypt in Puss in Boots, what
then? Puss in Boots is harmless, and it pleases his
fancy. All that wakes curiosity is wisdom, if innocent ;
all that pleases the fancy now, turns hereafter to love
or to knowledge. And so, my dear, go back to the
nursery."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 19

But I should wiong ihee, 0 best of fathers ! if I suffered
the reader to suppose that becaiise thou didst seem so
indifferent to my birth, and so careless as to my early
teaching, therefore thou wert, at heart, indifferent to
thy troublesome Neogilos. As I grew older, I became
more sensibly aware that a father's eye was upon me. I
distinctly remember one incident^ that seems to me, in
looking back, a crisis in my infant life, — as the first
tangible link between my own heart and that calm great
souL

My father was seated on the lawn l)efore the house,
his straw hat over his eyes (it was summer), and his lX)ok
on his lap. Suddenly a beautiful delf blue-and-wliite
flower-pot^ which had been set on the window-sill of an
upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the frag-
ments spluttered up round my father's legs. Sublime in
his studies as Archimedes in the siege, he continued to
read, — Impavidum ferient ruince I

" Dear, dear ! " cried my mother, who was at work in
the porch, " my poor flower-pot that I prized so much !
Who could have done this ? Primmins, Primmins ! "

Mrs. Primmins popped her head out of the fatal win-
dow, nodded to the summons, and came down in a trice,
pale and breathless.

" Oh ! " said my mother, mournfully, " I would rather
have lost all the plants in the greenhouse in the great
blight last May, — I would rather the best tea-set were
broken ! The poor geranium I reared myself, and the
dear, dear flower-pot which Mr. Caxton bought for me
my last birthday ! That naughty child must have done
this!"

Mrs. Primmins was dreadfidly afraid of my father, —
why, I know not, except that very talkative social per-
sons are usually afraid of very silent shy ones. She cast

20 THE CAXTONS:

a hasty glance at her master, who was beginning to evince
signs of attention, and cried promptly, "No, ma am, it
was not the dear boy, bless his flesh, it was 1 1 "

" You ! How could you be so careless ? and you knew
how I prized them both. Oh, Primmins ! "

Primmins began to sob.

" Don't tell fibs, nursey," said a small, shrill voice ; and
Master Sisty, coming out of the house as bold as brass,
continued rapidly — ** don't scold Primmins, mamma ; it
was I who pushed out the flower-pot."

" Hush ! " said nurse, more frightened than ever, and
looking aghast towards my father, who had very deliber-
ately taken off" his hat, and was regarding the scene with
serious eyes wide awake. " Hush ! And if he did break
it, ma'am, it was quite an accident ; he was standing so,
and he never meant it. Did you. Master Sisty 1 Speak ! "
this in a whisper, "or Pa will be so angry."

"Well," said my mother, "I suppose it was an acci-
dent; take care in future, my child. You are sorry, I
see, to have grieved me. There 's a kiss ; don't fret."

" No, mamma, you must not kiss me ; I don't deserve
it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose."

" Ha ! and why ? " said my father, walking up.

Mrs, Primmins trembled like a leaf.

"For fun!" said I, hanging my head, — "just to see
how you 'd look, papa ; and that 's the truth of it Now,
beat me, do beat me ! "

My father threw his book fifty yards off", stooped down,
and caught me to his breast. "Boy," he said, "you have
done wrong : you shall repair it by remembering all your
life that your father blessed God for giving him a son
who spoke truth in spite of fear ! Oh, Mrs. Primmins !
the next fable of this kind you try to teach him, and we
part forever ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 21

From that time I first date the hour when I felt that
I loved my father, and knew that he loved me ; from
that time, too, he began to converse with me. He would
no longer, if he met me in the garden, pass by with a
smile and nod ; he would stop, put his book in his pockety
and though his talk was often above my comprehension,
still somehow I felt happier and better, and less of an
infant, when I thought over it, and tried to puzzle out the
meaning ; for he had a way of suggesting, not teaching,
— putting things into my head, and then leaving them to
work out their own problems. I remember a special in-
stance with respect to that same flower-pot and geranium.
Mr. Squills, who was a bachelor, and well-to-do in the
world, often made me little presents. Not long after the
event I have narrated, he gave me one far exceeding in
value those usually bestowed on children, — it was a
beautiful large domino-box in cut ivory, painted and gilt
This domino-box was my delight. I was never weary
of playing at dominos with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept
with the box under my pillow.

" Ah ! *' said my father one day, when he found me
ranging the ivory parallelograms in the parlor, " ah ! you
like that better than all your playthings, eh t "

" Oh, yes, papa ! "

"You would be very sorry if your mamma were to
throw that box out of the window and break it for
fun?" I looked beseechingly at my father, and made
no answer.

" But perhaps you would be very glad," he resimied,
" if suddenly one of those good fairies you read of could
change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a
beautiful blue-and-white flower-pot, and you could have
the pleasure of putting it on your mamma's window-sill ? "

" Indeed I would I " said I, half-crying.

22 THE CA.XTONS :

" My dear boy, I believe you ; but good wishes don't
mend bad actions : good actions mend bad actions."

So saying, he shut the door and went out I cannot
tell you how puzzled I was to make out what my father
meant by hia aphorism. But I know that I played at
dominoa no more that day. The next morning my
father found me seated by myself under a tree in the
garden ; he paused, and looked at me with his grave
bright eyes yerj- steadily.

" My boy," said he, " I am going to walk to " &

town about two miles off : " will you come I And, by
the by, fetch your domino-box ; I should like to show it
to a person there." I ran in for the box, and, not a little
proud of walking with my father upon the high-road, we
set out

"Papa," said I by the way, "there are no fairies now."

" What then, my child 1 "

" Wliy, how then can my domino-box be changed into
a geranium and a blue-and- white flower-pot 1 "

"My dear," said my father, leaning hia hand on my
shoulder, " everybody who is in earnest to be good carries
two fairies about with him, — one here," and he touched
my heart, " and one here," and he touched my forehead.

" I don't understand, papa,"

" I can wait till you do, Pisistratus. What a name ! "

My father stopped at a nursery gardener's, and after
looking over the flowers, paused before a large double
geranium. " Ah ! this is finer than that which your
mamma was so fond of. What is the coat, aiiV

" Only 7s. flrf.," said the gardener.

My father buttoned up his pocket " I can't afford it
to4ay," said he, gently, and we walked out.

On entering the town, we stopped again at a china
Tanhoiue, " Have you a flower-pot like that I bought

A FAMILY PICTURE. 23

flome months ago ? Ah ! here is one, marked 3«. 6d.
Yes, that is the price. Well, when your mamma's birth-
day comes again, we must buy her another. That is some
months to wait. And we can wait, Master Sisty ; for
truth, that blooms all the year round, is better than a
poor geranium, and a word that is never broken is better
thaja a piece of delf."

My head, which had drooped before, rose again ; but
the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me.

" I have called to pay your little bill," said my father,
entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers com-
mon in coimtry towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty
toys and knick-knacks. " And by the way," he added,
as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the
entry, " I think my little boy here can show you a much
handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that
work-box which you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling for,
last winter. Show your domiuo-box, my dear."

I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal
in his commendations.

" It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is
worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young
gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give
him for it ? "

" Why, sir," said the shopman, " I fear we could not
afford to give more than eighteen sliillii;g8 for it, unless
the young gentleman took some of these i)retty things in
exchange."

" Eighteen sliillings ! " said my father ; " you would
give i/iat sum ! Well, my boy, whenever you do grow
tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it."

My father paid his bill and went out. I lingered be-
hind a few moments, and joined him at the end of the
street.

24 THE CAXTONS:

" Papa, papa," I cried, clapping my hands, " we can
buy the geranium ; we can buy the flower-pot ! " And I
pulled a handful of silver from my pockets.

" Did I not say right 7 " said my father, passing his
handkerchief over his eyes. " You have found the two
fairies 1 "

Oh how proud, how overjoyed I was when, after plac-
ing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my
mother by the gown and made her follow me to the spot !

" It is his doing and his money ! " said my father ;
"good actions have mended the bad."

" What ? " cried my mother, when she had learned all,
— " and your poor domino-box that you were so fond of !
We will go back to-morrow £ind buy it back, if it costs us
double."

" Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus ? " asked my father.

" Oh, no — no — no ! It would spoil all ! " I cried,
burying my face on my father's breast.

" My wife," said my father, solemnly, " this is my first
lesson to our child, — the sanctity and the happiness
of self-sacrifice ; undo not what it should teach to his
dying day."

A FAMILT PICTUBE. 25

CHAPTER V.

"When I was between my seventh and my eighth year a
change came over me, which may perhaps be familiar to
the notice of those parents who boast the anxious bless-
ing of an only child. The ordinary vivacity of childhood
forsook me ; I became quiet, sedate, and thoughtful. The
absence of pla3rfelIows of my ovm age, the coinj)aiiionship
of mature minds, alternated only by complete solitude,
gave something precocious, whether to my imagination or
my reason. The wild fables muttered to me by the old
nurse in the summer twilight or over the winter's hearth,
the eflfort made by my struggling intellect to comprehend
the grave sweet wisdom of my father's suggested lessons,
tended to feed a passion for revery, in which all my facul-
ties strained and struggled, as in the dreams that come
when sleep is nearest waking ! I had learned to read
with ease and to write with some fluency, and I already
began to imitate, to reproduce. Strange tales akin to
those I had gleaned from fairy-land, rude songs modelled
from such verse-books as fell into my hands, began to
mar the contents of marble-covered pages designed for
the less ambitious purposes of round text and multiplica-
tion. My mind was yet more disturbed by the intensity
of my home affections. My love for both my parents
had in it something morbid and painful. I often wept
to think how little I could do for those I loved so well ;
my fondest fancies built up imaginary difficulties for
them, which my arm was to smooth. These feelings, thus
cherished, made my nerves over-susceptible and acute.

26 THE CAXTONS:

Nature began to affect me powerfully ; and from that
affection rose a restless curiosity to analyze the charms
that so mysteriously moved me to joy or awe, to smiles
or tears. I got my father to explain to me the elements
of astronomy ; I extracted from Squills, who was an ar-
dent botanist, some of the mysteries in the life of flowers.
But music became my darling passion. My mother
(though the daughter of a great scholar, — a scholar at
whose name my father raised his hat if it happened to be
on his head) p)ossessed, I must own it fairly, less book-
learning than many a humble tradesman's daughter can
boast in this more enliglitened generation ; but she had
some natural gifts which had ripened — Heaven knows
h/^>w ! — into womanly accomplishments. She drew with
ttfrniH elegance, and painted flowers to exquisite perfection.
8hft played on more than one instrument with more than
lxjarrling-?*chool skill ; and though she sang in no language
btjt hf-T own, few could hoar her sweet voice without be-
ing dr^'-ply touched. Her music, her songs, had a won-
drous effe^-t on nie. Thus, altogether, a kind of dreamy
V'rt delightful melancholy seized upon my whole being ;
anrl thiH was the more remarkable because contrary to my
early Urmperament, which was bold, active, and hilarious.
Tlie change in my character l;egan to act upon my form.
From a robust and vigorous infant, I grew into a pale and
slender lx)y ; 1 l>egan to ail and mope. Mr. Squills was
called in.

" Tonics ! " said Mr. Squills, " and don't let him sit
over his }x)ok. Send him out in the air ; make him
play. Come here, my boy : these organs are growing
too large ; " and ^Ir. Squills, who was a phrenologist,
placed his hand on my forehead. " Gad, sir, here 's
an ideality for you ! and, bless my soul, what a con-
strue tiveness ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 27

My father pushed aside his papers, and walked to and
fro the room with his hands behind him ; but he did not
say a word till Mr. Squills was gone.

"My dear," then said he to my mother, on whose
breast I was leaning my aching ideality, — ** my dear,
Pisistratus must go to school in good earnest"

" Bless me, Austin ! — at his age ? "

" He is nearly eight years old."

" But he is so forward."

" It is for that reason he mast go to school."

" I don't quite understand you, my love. I know he
is getting past me ; but you who are so clever — "

My father took my mother's hand : " We can teach
him nothing now, Kitty. We send him to school to be
taught — "

"By some schoolmaster who knows much less than
you do — "

" By Uttle schoolboys, who will make him a boy again,"
said my father, almost sadly. " My dear, you remember
that when our Kentish gardener i>lanted those fill^ert-
trees, and when they were in their third year, and you
began to calculate on what they would bring in, you went
out one morning, and found he had cut them down to
the ground. You were vexed, and asked why. What
did the gardener say? *To prevent their bearing too
soon.' There is no want of f ruitfulness liere : put back
the hour of produce, that the plant may last."

" Let me go to school," said I, lifting my languid head
and smiling on my father. I understood him at once, and
it was as if the voice of my life itself answered him.

28 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER VL

A TEAR after the resolution thus come to, I was at
home for the holidays.

" I hope/' said my mother, " that they are doing Sisty
justice. I do think he is not nearly so quick a child as
he was before he went to schooL I wish you would
examine him, Austin."

" I have examined him, my dear. It is just as I ex-
pected ; and I am quite satisfied."

" What ! you really think he has come on ? " said my
mother, joyfully.

" He does not care a button for botany now," said Mr.
Squills.

" And he used to be so fond of music, dear boy ! "
ol)vServed my mother, ^vith a sigh. " Good gracious, what
noise is that ? "

" Your son's pop-gun against the window," said my
father. " It is lucky it is only the window ; it would
have made a less deafening noise, though, if it had been
Mr. Squills's head, as it was yesterday morning."

" The left ear," observed Squills, — " and a very sharp
blow it was too. Yet you are satisfied, Mr. Caxton ? "

" Yes ; I think tlie l)oy is now as great a blockhead as
most boys of his age are," observed my father, with great
complacency.

" Dear me, Austin, — a great blockhead ? "

" What else did he go to school for 1 " asked my father.
And observing a certain dismay in tlie face of his female
audience, and a certain surprise in that of his male, he

A FAMILY PICTURE. 29

rose and stood on the hearth, with one hand in his waist-
coatj as was his wont when about to philosophize in more
detail than was usual to him.

"Mr. Squills," said he, "you have had great expe-
rience in families."

" As good a practice as any in the county," said Mr.
Squills, proudly, — " more than I can manage. I shall
advertise for a partner.**

" And," resumed my father, " you must have observed
almost invariably that in every family there is what father,
mother, uncle, and aunt pronoimce to be one wonderful
child."

" One at least," said Mr. Squills, smiling.

" It is easy," continued my father, " to say this is
parental partiality ; but it is not so. Examine that child
as a stranger, and it will startle yourself. You stand
amazed at its eager curiosity, its quick comprehension,
its ready wit, its delicate perception. Often, too, you
will find some faculty strikingly developed. The chQd
will have a turn for mechanics, perhaps, and make you
a model of a steamboat ; or it will have an ear tuned to
verse, and will write you a poem like that it has got by
heart from * The Speaker ; ' or it will take to botany (like
Pisistratus), with the old maid its aunt ; or it ^vill play
a march on its sister's pianoforte. In short, even you,
Squills, will declare that it is really a wonderful child."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Squills, thoughtfully,
" there *8 a great deal of tnith in what you say. Little
Tom Dobbs is a wonderful chQd ; so is Frank Steping-
ton ; and as for Johnny Styles, I must bring him here for
you to hear him prattle on Natural History, and see how
well he handles his pretty little microscope."

" Heaven forbid ! " said my father. " And now let me
proceed. These thaumataf or wonders, last till when, Mr.

30 THE CAXTONS:

Squills ? — last till the boy goes to school ; and then,
somehow or other, the tJiaumata vanish into thin air, like
ghosts at the cockcrow. A year after the prodigy has
been at the academy, father and mother, uncle and aunt>
plague you no more with his doings and sayings : the ex-
traordinary infant has become a very ordinary little boy.
Is it not so, Mr. Squills ? "

" Indeed you are right, sir. How did you come to be
so observant ? You never seem to — "

" Hush ! " interrupted my father ; and then, looking
fondly at my mother's anxious face, he said soothingly ;
** Be comforted ; this is wisely ordained, and it is for the
best."

" It must be the fault of the school," said my mother,
shaking her head.

" It is tlie necessity of the school, and its virtue, my
Kate. Let any one of these wonderful children — won-
derful as you thought Sisty himself — stay at home, and
you will see its head grow bigger and bigger, and its
body thiimer and thinner — eh, Mr. Squills ? — till the
mind takes all nourishment from the frame, and the
frame, in turn, stints or makes sickly the mind. You
see that noble oak from the window. If the Chinese
had brought it up it would have been a tree in minia-
ture at five years old, and at a hundred you would have
set it in a flower-pot on your table, no bigger tlian it was
at five, — a curiosity for its maturity at one age ; a show
for its diminutiveness at the other. No ! the ordeal for
talent is school ; restore the stunted mannikin to the
growing child, and then let tlie child, if it can, healthily,
hardily, naturally, work its slow way up into greatness.
If greatness be denied it, it will at least be a man ; and
that is better than to be a little Johnny Styles all its life,
— an oak in a pill -box."

A FAMILY PICTURE.

At that moment I rushed into the room, glowing and
panting, health on my cheek, vigor in my liml>s, all child-
hood at my heart. " Oh, mamma, I have got up the kite

— 80 high ! Come and see ! Do come, papa ! "

" Certainly," said my father ; " only don't cry so loud,

— kites make no noise in rising, yet you see how they
soar above the world. Come, Kate. Where is my hat ?
Ah ! — thank you, my boy."

" Kitty," said my father, looking at the kite, which,
attached by its string to the peg I had stuck into the
ground, rested calm in the sky, " never fear hut what
our kite shall fly as high ; only, the human soul has
stronger instincts to mount upwanl than a few sheets
of paper on a framework of lath. But observe, that, to
prevent its being lost in the freedom of space, we must
attach it lightly to earth ; and observe again, my dciir,
that the higher it soars the more string we must give it."

PART SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

When I had reached the age of twelve, I had got to
the head of the preparatory school to which I had been
sent ; and having thus exhausted all the oxygen of learn-
ing in that little receiver, my parents looked out for a
wider range for my inspirations. During the last two
years in which I had been at school my love for study
had returned ; but it was a vigorous, wakeful, undreamy
love, stimulated by competition, and animated by the
practical desire to excel.

^ly father no longer sought to curb my intellectual as-
pirings. He had too great a reverence for scholarship not
to wish me to become a scholar if possible ; though he
more tlian once siiid to me somewhat sadly, "Master
books, but do not let them master you. Read to live,
not live to read. One slave of the lamp is enough for a
household; my servitude must not be an hereditary
bondage."

My father looked round for a suitable academy; and
the fame of Dr. Herman's " Philhellenic Institute " came
to his eara

Now, tliis Dr. Herman was the son of a German music-
master who had settled in England. He had completed
his own education at the University of Bonn ; but finding
learning too common a drug in that market to bring the
high price at which he valued his own, and having some

A FAMILY PICTURE. 33

theories as to political freedom which attached him to
£ngland, he resolved upon setting up a scliool which he
designed as an " Era in the History of tlie Human Mind."
Dr. Herman was one of the earliest of tliose new-fashioned
authorities in education wlio have more lately spread
pretty niunerously among us, and would have given, per-
haps, a dangerous shake to tlie foundations of our great
classical seminaries, if those last had not very wisely,
though very cautiously, borrowed some of the more sensi-
ble principles which lay mixed and adulterated among the
crotchets and chimeras of their innovating rivals and
assailants.

Dr. Herman had written a great many learned works
against every pre-existing method of instruction; that
which had made the greatest noise was upon the infa-
mous fiction of Spelling-books: "A more lying, round-
about, puzzle-headed delusion than that by which we
confuse the clear instincts of truth in our accursed sys-
tem of spelling was never concocted by the father of
falsehood." Such was the exordium of this famous trea-
tise. "For instance, take the monosyllable Cat. What
a brazen forehead you must have when you say to an
infant, * c, a, t, spell cat ; * that is, three sounds, forming
a totally opposite compound — opposite in every detail,
opposite in the whole — compose a poor little monosylla-
ble which, if you would but say tlie simple truth, the
child will learn to spell merely by looking at it ! How
can three sounds, which run thus to the ear — see^ eh, tee,
— compose the sound cat ? Don't they rather compose
the sound see-ek-te, or ceati/ ? How can a system of edu-
cation flourish that begins ^vith so monstrous a falsehood,
which the sense of hearing suffices to contradict? No
wonder that the hornbook is the despair of mothers ! "

From tliis instance the reader will perceive that Dr.

VOL. I. — 8

34 THE CAXTONS:

Herman, in his theory of education, began at the begin-
ning, — he took the bull fairly by the horns. As for the
rest, upon a broad principle of eclecticism, he had com-
bined together every new patent invention for youthful
idea-shooting. He had taken his trigger from Hof wyl ;
he had bought liis wadding from Hamilton ; he had got
his copper-caps from Bell and Lancaster. The youthful
idea, — he had rammed it tight, he had rammed it loose,
he had rammed it with pictorial illustrations, he had
rammed it with the monitorial system, he had rammed it
in every conceivable way and with every imaginable ram-
rod ; but I have mournfid doubts whether he shot the
youthfid idea an inch farther than it was shot under the
old mechanism of flint and steel ! Nevertheless, as Dr.
Herman really did teach a great many things too much
neglected at schools; as, besides Latin and Greek, he
taught a vast variety in that vague infinite nowadays
called " useful knowledge ; " as he engaged lecturers on
chemistry, engineering, and natural liistory ; as arithme-
tic, and the elements of pliysical science were enforced
with zeal and care; as all sorts of gymnastics were in-
termingled with the sports of the playground, — so the
youthful idea, if it did not go farther, spread its shots in
a wider direction, and a boy could not stay there ^ve
years without learning something : wliich is more than can
be said of all schools ! He learned at leiust to use his
eyes and his ears and his limbs ; order, cleanliness, exer-
cise, grew into habits ; and the school i)leased the ladies
and satisfied the gentlemen, — in a word, it thrived ; and
Dr. Herman, at the time I speak of, numbered more than
one hundred pupils.

Now, when the worthy man first commenced the task
of tuition, he had proclaimed the humanest abhorrence to
the barbarous system of corporal punishment. But^ alas !

A FAMILY PICTURE. 35

as his school increased in numbers, he had proportionately
recanted these honorable and anti-birchen idetis. He had
— reluctantly perhaps, honestly no doubt, but witli full
determination — come to the conclusion that there are
secret springs which can be detected only by the twigs of
the divining-rod ; and having discovered with wliat com-
parative ease the whole mechanism of his little gov-
ernment could be carried on by the admission of the
birch-regulator, so, as he grew richer and lazier and fatter,
the Philhellenic Institute spun along as glibly as a top
kept in vivacious movement by the perpetual apjilication
of the lash.

I beheve that the school did not suffer in reputation
from this sad apostasy on the part of the head-master ; on
the contrary, it seemed more natural and English, — less
outlandish and heretical. And it was at the zenith of its
renown when one bright morning, witli all my clothes
nicely mended and a large plum-cake in my box, I wiis
deposited at its hospitable gates.

Among Dr. Herman's various whimsicalities there was
one to which he had adhered with more fidelity than to
the anti-corporal punishment articles of his creed ; and, in
fact, it was upon tins that he had caused tliose imi)osing
words, " Plulhellenic Institute," to blaze in gilt capitals
in front of his academy. He belonged to that illustrious
class of scholars who are now waging war on our popidar
mythologies, and upsetting all the associations which the
Etonians and Harrovians connect with the household
names of ancient history. In a wortl, he sought to re-
store to scholastic purity the mutilated orthogmphy of
Greek appellatives. He was extremely indignant that
little boys shoidd be brought up to confound Zeus with
Jupiter, Ares with Mars, Artemis with Diana, — the
Greek deities with the Roman; and so rigidly did ho

36 THE CAXTONS:

inculcate the doctrine that these two sets of personages
were to be kept constantly contra-distinguished from each
other, that his cross-examinations kept us in eternal
confusion.

" Vat," he would exclaim to some new boy fresh from
some grammar-school on the Etonian system — " Vat do
you mean by dranslating Zeus Jupiter ? Is dat amatory,
irascible, cloud-compelling god of Olympus, vid his eagle
and his aegis, in the smallest degree resembling de grave,
formal, moral Jupiter Optimus Maximus of the Eoman
Capitol 1 — a god, Master Simpkins, who would have been
perfectly shocked at the idea of running after innocent
Fraulein dressed up as a swan or a bull ! I put dat ques-
tion to you vonce for all. Master Simpkins." Master
Simpkins took care to agree with the Doctor. "And
how could you," resumed Dr. Herman majestically, turning
to some other criminal alumnus, — " how could you pre-
sume to dranslate de Ares of Homer, sir, by the audacious
vulgarism Mars ; — Ares, Master Jones, who roared as loud
as ten thousand men when he was hurt, or as you vill roar
if I catch you calling him Mars again; — Ares, who cov-
ered seven plectra of ground? Confound Ares, the man-
slayer, with the Mars or Mavors whom de Romans stole
from de Sabines, — Mars, de solemn and calm protector
of Rome ! Master Jones, Master Jones, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself ! " And then waxing enthusiastic,
and wanning more and more into German gutturals
and pronunciation, the good doctor would lift up his
hands, with two great rings on his thumbs, and exclaim :
" Und Du ! and dou. Aphrodite, — dou, whose bert de
seasons velcomed ! dou, who didst put Atonis into a coffer,
and den tid dum him into an anemone ! dou to be called
Venus by dat snivel-nosed little Master Budderfield ! —
Venus, who presided over Baumgartens and fimerals and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 37

nasty tinking sewers! — Venus Cloacina, O mein Gott !
Ck>me here, Master Budderfield : I must flog you for dat ;
I must indeed, liddle boy ! ''

As our Philhellenic preceptor earned his archaeological
purism into all Greek proper names, it was not likely tliat
my unhappy baptismal would escape. The first time I
signed my exercise I wrote " Pisistratus Caxton " in my
best round-hand. " And dey call your baba a scholar ! "
said the doctor, contemptuously. "Your name, sir, is
Greek ; and as Greek you vill be dood enough to write
it vith vat you call an e and ano, — p,e,i,8,i,8,t,r,a,t,o,8.
Vat can you expect for to come to, Master Caxton, if
you don't pay de care dat is proper to yOur own dood
name, — de «, and de o / Ach ! let me see no more of
your vile corruptions ! Mein Gott ! Pi ! ven de name
is Pei ! "

The next time I wrote home to my father, modestly im-
plying that I was short of cash, that a trap-bat would be
acceptable, and that the favorite gcxidess among the boys
(whether Greek or Roman was very immaterial) was Diva
Moneta, I felt a glow of classical pride in signing myself
"your affectionate Peisistratos." The next post brought
a sad damper to my scholastic exultation. The letter nui
thus: —

My dear Son, — I prefer my old acquaintances Thucydi-
des and Pisistratus to Thoukudidea and Peisistratos. Horace
is familiar to me, but Horatius is only known to me as Codes.
Pisistratus can play at trap-ball ; but I find no authority in
pure Greek to allow me to suppose that that game was known
to Peisistratos. I should be too happy to send you a drachma
or so, but I have no coins in my possession current at Athens
at the time when Pisistratus was spelt Peisistratos.

Your aflfectionate father,

A. Caxton.

38 THE CAXT0N8 :

Verily, here indeed was the first practical embarrasa-
ment produced by that melancholy anachronism which my
father hod so prophetically deplored. However, nothing
like experience to prove the value of compromise in this
world. Peisiatratos continued to write exercises, and a
second letter from Pisistratua was followed by the trap-
bat

A FAMILY PICTURE. 39

CHAl^TER 11.

I WAB somewhere about sixteen when, on going home f(ir
the holidays, I found my motlier's brother settled among
the household Lares, Uncle Jack, as he was familiarly
called, was a light-hearted, plausible, enthusijistic, tidka-
tive fellow, who liad spent three small fortunes in trying
to make a large one.

Uncle Jack was a great speculator ; but in all his spec-
ulations he never affected to think of himself, — it was
always the good of his fellow-creatures that he had at
heart, and in this ungrateful world follow-creaturos are
not to be relied upon ! On coming of ag(», he inherited
jB6,000 from his maternal grandfather. It seemed to him
then that his fellow-cretitures were sadly inij)osed ujx)n
by their tailors. Those ninth parts of humanity noto-
riously eked out their fractional existence by asking nine
times too much for the clothing which civilization, and
|Hjrhaps a c];Otnge of climate, njnder more necessary to us
than to our predecessors the Picts. Out of pure i)hilan-
thropy, Uncle Jack started a "(jrand National Benev-
olent Clothing Company," which undertook to supply
the public with inexpressibles of the best Saxon cloth
at 7«. 6</. a pair; coats, superfine, XI 18«.; and waist-'
coats at 80 much per dozen, — they were all to be
worked off by steam. Thus the rascally tailors were to
be put down, humanity clad, and the philanthropists re-
warded (but that was a secondary consideration) with a
dear return of thirty i)er cent. In spite of the evident
charitableness of this Christian design, and the irrefrag-

40 • THE CAXTONS:

able calculations upon which it was based, this company
iHod a victim to the ignorance and un thank fulness of our
fcUow-croatures ; and all that remained of Jack's £6,000
was a fifty-fourth share in a small steam-engine, a large
assortment of ready-made pantaloons, and the liabilities
of the directors.

Uncle Jack disappeared, and went on his travels. The
same spirit of philanthropy which characterized the spec-
ulations of his purse attended the risks of his person. Un-
cle Jack had a natural leaning towartls all distressed com-
munitii^ : if any tribe, race, or nation was down in the
world, Uncle tJack throAV himself plump into the scale to
nnlnvsa the l)alance. Poles, Greeks (the last were then
fighting the Txirks), Mexicans, Si>aniards, — Uncle Jack
Uirust his noso into all their aipiabbles ! Heaven forbid I
alundd mwk thoo, ytoov Uncle Jack, for those generous pre-
dilootions towanls the luifortunate ; only, whenever a na-
tion is in a misfortiuus thon> is always a job going on ! The
Tolish oauso, thoUrtn^k causo, tho ^^cxican cause, and the
S)vunj*h oauso ait^ nwossju'ily mixiHl up with loans and
HuK^oriptions, Tho8oi\>ntinontal ]>atriotvS when they take
up tho sworvl with ono hand giM\orally contrive to thrust
iho othor hand doop into thoir noi^ijliUors breeches' jxjck-
oli*, rncK* Jack wont to itivece, thonoe he went to
S|min» thonoo to Moxiinx No doubt he wjis of great sor-
vioo to thi^^ at^liol^nl populations, for he came back with
\n»an«»wiMiUJo prin^f of tlioir gnUitudo in the shape of
.^H,lHH\ Shi^rtly aftor this apiHwroil a prospectus of tlie
" Now, l<mnd. National, Uonevolont Insurance Company,
for tho Industrial (""lassiv^'* This invaluable document,
aftov !<otlii\g forth tho iunnonso InMiofit^^ to s«.x»iety arising
ft\nu t\al^ili» of p^^vi\hMUH> and the intnxluction of insur-
anoo \Hxm|vu\i«\s p^>vi^lg tho infanunis rate of premiums
ovaol^nt t\Y tho oxistout otfiiHvs and thoir inapplicability

A FAMILY PICTURE. 41

to the wants of the honest artisan, and declaring that
nothing hut the purest intentions of ]>enefiting their
fellow-creatures and raising the moral tone of society had
led the directors to institute a new society, founded on
the nohlest principles and the most moderate ciilculations,
— proceeded to demonstrate that twenty- four and a half
per cent was the smallest i)os8ible return the shareholders
could anticipate. Tlie company began under the fairest
auspices ; an archbishop was caught as j)residcnt, on the
condition always that he shouhl give nothing but his
name to the Society. Uncle Jack — more euj)honiously
designated as ** the celebrated philanthroi)ist, John Jones
Tibbets, Esquire" — was honorary secretary, and the capi-
tal stated at two millions. But such was the obtuseness
of the industrial classes, so little did they perceive the
benefits of subscribing one-and-ninepence a-week from the
age of twenty-one to fifty, in order to secure at the latter
age the annuity of £18, that the company dissolved into
thin air, and with it dissolved Uncle Jack's £3,000.

Nothing more was then seen or heard of him for three
years. So obscure was his existence that on the death of
an aunt, who left him a small farm in Cornwall, it was
necessary to advertise that " If John Jones Tibbets, Esq.,
would apply to Messrs. Blunt & Tin, Lothlmry, between
the hours of ten and four, he would hear of something to
his advantage." But even as a conjurer declares that he
will call the ace of spades, and the ace of spades that you
thought you had safely under your foot turns up on the
table, — so with this advertisement suddenly turned up
Uncle Jack. With inconceivable satisfaction did the
new landowner settle himself in his comfortable home-
stead. The farm, which was about two hundred acres,
was in the best possible condition, and saving one or two
chemical preparations, which cost Uncle Jack upon the

THE CAXTONS :

most Bcientitiu princiiiles thirty ftcres of buckwheat, the
ears of which came up, poor things, all epotteii and
Bpeukled as if they hnd lie«u inoculated with the amiLll-
pox, Uncle Jack for tlie hrat two yeara waa a thriving
man. Unluckily, however, one day Uncle Jack discov-
ered a coal-mine in a beautiful lietd of Swedish turnips ;
in aiiotlier week the house was full of engineere and na-
tuiuliate, and in another month apjioared, in my uncle's
best style, much improved by practice, a prospectus of
the " Grand National Anti-Monopoly Coal Comimny, in-
stituted on Irehalf of the poor householders of London,
and against the Monster Monopoly of the London Coal
Wharves. A vein of the Hnest conl had been discovered
on the estates of the celebrated philanthropist, John
Jones Tibbets, Esq. This new mine, the Molly Wheal,
having been satisfactorily tested by that eminent engi-
neer, (jiles Com])ns3, Esq., promises an inexhaustible tield
to the energies of the l)enevolcnt and the wealth of the
capitalist It is calculated that the best coals may bo de-
livered, screened, at the mouth of the Thames for 18a.
per load, yielding a profit of not less than forty-eight per
cent to the shareholder. Shares £50, to bo paid in live
instalmeuta. Capital to be subscribed, one million. For
shares, early application must lie made to Messrs. Blunt ii
Tin, solicitors, Lothbury."

Here, then, was something tangible for fellow-creatures
to go on : there was land, tJiore was a mine, there was
coal, and there actually came shareholders and capital.
Uncle Jack was so persuaded that liis fortune was now
to be made, and ha<l moi'oover so groat a desire to share
the glory of ruining the monster nionopoly of the London
wharves, that he refused a very large oHer to di.'^poae of
the property altogether, remained chief shareholder, and
removed to London, where he set up his carriage and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 43

gave dinners to his fellow-directors. For no less than
three years did this company flourish, having submitted
the entire direction and working of the mines to that
eminent engineer, Giles Compass. Twenty per cent was
paid regidarly by that gentleman to the shareholders, and
the shares were at more than cent per cent, when one
bright morning Giles Compass, Esq., unexpectedly re-
moved himself to that wider field for genius like his, the
United States ; and it was discovered that the mine had
for more than a year run itself into a great pit of water,
and that Mr. Compass had been paying the shareholders
out of their own capital. My uncle had the satisfaction
this time of being ruined in very good company ; three
doctors of divinity, two county members, a Scotch lord,
and an East India director were all in tlie same Ixjat, —
that boat which went down with the coal-mine into the
great water-pit !

It was just after this event that Uncle Jack, sanguine
and light-hearted as ever, suddenly recollected his sister,
Mrs. Caxton, and not knowing where else to dine,
thought he would repose his limbs under my father's
trabes citrea, which the ingenious W. S. Landor opines
should be translated " mahogany." You never saw a
more charming man than Uncle Jack. All plump people
are more popular than thin people. Tliere is something
jovial and pleasant in the sight of a round face ! What
conspiracy could succeed when its head was a lean and
hungry-looking fellow, like Cassius ? If the Roman pa-
triots had had Uncle Jack amongst them, perhaps they
would never have furnished a tragedy to Shakspeare.
Uncle Jack was as plump as a partridge, — not unwieldy,
not corpulent, not oljese, not vastus, which Cicero objects
to in an orator, but every crevice comfortably filled up.
Lake the ocean, " time wrote no wrinkles on his glassy

44 THE CAXTONS:

[or brassy] brow," His natural lines were all upward
curves, his smile most ingratiating, his eye so frank;
even his trick of rubbing his clean, well-fed, English-
looking hands, had something about it coaxing and d^-
bonnaire, something that actually decoyed you into
trusting your money into hands so prepossessing. In-
deed, to him might be fully applied the expression,
Sedem animce in extremis digitis habet, — " He had his
soul's seat in his finger-ends."

The critics observe that few men have ever united in
equal perfection the imaginative with the scientific facul-
ties. " Happy he," exclaims Schiller, " who combines
the enthusiast's warmth with the worldly man's light."
Light and warmth. Uncle Jack had them both. He was
a perfect symphony of l>ewitching enthusiasm and con-
vincing calculation. Dicaeopolis in the " Acharnenses,"
in presenting a gentleman called Nicharchus to the au-
dience, observes : " He is small, I confess, but there is
nothing lost in him : all is knave that is not fool." Paro-
dying the equivocal compliment, I may say that though
Uncle Jack wiis no giant, there was nothing lost in him.
Whatever was not philanthropy was arithmetic, and what-
ever was not arithmetic was philanthropy. He would have
been equally dear to Howard and to Cocker.

Uncle Jack was comely too, — clear-skinned and florid,
had a little mouth, with good teeth, wore no whiskers,
shaved his beard as close as if it were one of his grand
national companies ; his hair, once somewhat sandy, Wiis
now rather grayish, which increased the respectability of
his appearance ; antl he woi'e it flat at the sides and raised
in a peak at the top ; his organs of constructiveness and
ideality were pronounced by Mr. Squills to be prodigious,
and those freely tleveloped bumps gave great breadtli to
his forehead. Well-shaped, too, was Uncle Jack, about

A FAMILY PICTURE. 45

five feet eight, — the proper height for an active man of
business, lie wore a black coat ; but to make the nap
look the fresher, lie had given it the relief of gilt but-
tons, on which were wrought a small crown and anchor ;
at a distance this button looked like the king's button,
and gave him the air of one who has a place alwut Court.
He always wore a white neckcloth without starch, a frill,
and a diamond pin, which last furnished him with obser-
vations upon certain mines of ^lexico, which he had a
great but hitherto imsatisfied desire of seeing worked
by a grand National United Britons Company. His
waistcoat of a morning was pale buff; of an evening
embroidered velvet, wherewith were connected sundry
schemes of an " association for the improvement of na-
tive manufactures." His trousers, matutinally, were of
the color vulgarly called " blotting-paper ; " and he never
wore boots, — which, he said, unfitted a man for exer-
cise, — but short drab gaiters and square-toed shoes. His
watch-chain was garnished with a vast number of seals ;
each seal, indeed, represented the device of some defunct
Company, and they might be said to resemble the scalps
of the slain worn by the aboriginal Iroquois, — concerning
whom, indeed, he had once entertained philanthropic
designs, compounded of conversion to Christianity on
the principles of the English Episcopal Church, and of
an advantageous exchange of beaver-skins for Bibles,
brandy, and gunpowder.

That Uncle Jack should win my heart was no wonder ;
my mother's he had always won, from her earliest recol-
lection of his having persuaded her to let her great doll
(a present from her godmother) be put up to a raffle for
the benefit of the cliimney-sweepers. " So like him, —
so good ! " she would often say pensively. " Tliey paid
sixpence a-piece for the raffle, — twenty tickets, — and

46 THE CAXTONS:

the doll cost £2, Nobody was taken in ; and the doll,
poor thing (it had such blue eyes !) went for a quarter of
its value. But Jack said nobody could guess what good
the ten shillings did to the chimney-sweepers." Na-
turally enough, I say, my mother liked Uncle Jack ; but
my father liked him quite as well, — and that was a
strong proof of my uncle's powers of captivation. How-
ever, it is noticeable that when some retired scholar is
once interested in an active man of the world, he is more
inclined to admire him than others are. Sympathy with
such a companion gratifies at once his curiosity and his
indolence; he can travel with him, scheme with him,
fight with him, go with him through all the adventures
of which his own books speak so eloquently, and all the
time never stir from his easy-chair. My father said that
it was " like listening to Ulysses to hear Uncle Jack ! "
Uncle Jack, too, had been in Greece and Asia Minor,
gone over the site of the siege of Troy, eaten figs at
Marathon, shot hares in the Peloponnesus, and drunk
three pints of brown stout at the top of the Great
Pyramid.

Therefore, Uncle Jack was like a book of reference to
my father. Verily at times he looked on him a^ a book,
and took him down after dinner as he would a volume
of Dodwell or Pausanias. In fact, I believe that scholars
who never move from their cells are not the less an emi-
nently curious, bustling, active race rightly understood.
Even as old Burton saith of himself: "Though I live a
collegiate student, and lead a monastic life, sequestered
from those tumults and troubles of the world, I hear and
see what is done abroad, how others run, ride, turmoil,
and macerate themselves in town and country," — which
citation sufficetli to show that scholars are naturally the
most active men of the world; only that while their

A FAMILY PICTURE. 47

heads plot witli Augustus, light with Julius, sail with
Columbus, and change the face of the globe with Alex-
ander, Attila, or Mahomet, there is a certain mysterious
attraction (which our improved knowleilge of mesmerism
will doubtless soon explain to the satisfaction of science)
between that extremer and antipodal part of the human
frame called in the vulgate " the seat of honor," and the
stuffed leather of an arm-chair. Learning somehow or
other sinks down to that part into which it was first
driven, and produces therein a leaden heaviness and
weighty which counteract those lively emotions of the
brain that might otherwise render students too mercurial
and agile for the safety of established order. I leave
this conjecture to the consideration of experimentalists in
the physics.

I was still more delighted than my father with Uncle
Jack. He was full of amusing tricks, could conjure won-
derfully, make a bunch of keys dance a hornpipe ; and if
ever you gave him half-a-crown, he was sure to turn it
into a halfpenny. He was only unsuccessful in turning
my halfpennies into halfcrowns.

We took long walks together, and in the midst of his
most diverting conversation my uncle was always an ob-
server. He would stop to examine the nature of the soil,
fill my pockets (not his own) with great lumps of clay,
stones, and rubbish, to analyze when he got home, by the
help of some chemical apparatus he had borrowed from
Mr. SquiUs. He would stand an hour at a cottage door,
admiring the little girls who were straw-platting, and then
walk into the nearest farmhouses to suggest the feasibility
of "a national straw-plat association." All this fertility
of intellect was, alas ! wasted in that ingrata terra into
which Uncle Jack had fallen. No squire could be per-
suaded into the belief that his mother-stone was pregnant

THB CAXTONSt

with minerals, no farmer talked into weaving straw-plat
into a proprietary association. So, even as an ogre hav-
ing devastated the surrounding country begins to cast a
hungry eye on his own little ones, Uncle Jack's mouth,
long defrauded of juicier and more legitimate morsels,
began to water for a bite of my innocent father.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 49

CHAPTER III.

At this time we were living in what may be called a
very respectable style for people who made no pretence
to ostentation. On the skirts of a large village stood a
square red-brick house, about the date of Queen Aime.
Upon the top of the house* was a balustrade, — why,
Heaven knows, for nobody, except our great tom-cat Ralph,
ever walked upon the leads; but so it was, and so it
often is in houses from the time of Elizabeth, yea, even
to that of Victoria. This balustrade was divided by low
piers, on each of which was placed a round ball. The
centre of the house was distinguishable by an archi-
trave in the shape of a triangle, under which was a niche,
— probably meant for a figure ; but the figure was not
forthcoming. Below this was the window (encased with
carved pilasters) of my dear mother's little sitting-room ;
and lower stiU, raised on a flight of six steps, was a very
handsome-looking door, with a projecting porch. All the
windows, with smallish panes and largish frames, were
relieved with stone copings ; so that the house had an air
of solidity and well-to-do-ness about it, — nothing tricky
on the one hand, nothing decayed on the other. The
house stood a little back from the garden gates, which
were large, and set between two piers surmounted with
vases. Many might object that in wet weather you had
to walk some way to your carriage ; but we obviated that
objection by not keeping a carriage. To the right of the
house the enclosure contained a little lawTi, a laurel her-
mitage, a square pond, a modest greenhouse, and half-a-

VOL. 1. — 4

THE CAXTONS :

dozen plots of mignonette, heliotrope, roses, pinks, eweet-
wiUiam, utc. To the left spread the kitdn:ii'g;ii'deii, lying
Bcreeneil by espaliers yielding the finest apples in the
neighborhoofl, and divided by three winding gravel-walka,
of which the extremest was backed by a wall, wher
as it lay full south, jjcaches, pears, and nectarines sunned
themaelvea early into well-remeiubered flavor

This walk was appropriated to my fatlier. Book in
hand, he would on fine days pace to and fro, often stop-
ping, dear man, to jot down a pencil-note, gesticulate, or
soliloquize. And there, when not in his study, my mother
would be sure to find him. In these " deambulatioos," as
he called them, he had generally a companion so extra-
ordinary that I expect to lie met with ^ hiltalu of incred-
ulous contempt when I specify it Nevertheless I vow
and protest that it is strictly true, and no invention of an
exaggerating romancer.

It happened one day that tny mother had coaxed Mr.
Caxton to walk with her to market. By the way they
passed a sward of green, on which sundry little boys were
engaged upon the lapidation of a lame duck. It seemed
that the duck was to have been taken to market, when
it was discovered not only to be lame, but dyspeptic, —
perhaps some weed had disagreed with its ganglionic ap-
paratus, poor thing! However that lie, the good-wife
had declared that the duck was good for nothing ; and
upon the petition of her children it had been consigned
to them for a little innocent amusement, and to keep them
out of harm's way. My mother declared that she never
before saw her lord and master roused to such animation.
He dispersed the urchins, released the duck, carried it
home, kept it in a basket by the lire, fed it and physicked
it till it recovered ; and then it was consigned to the square
pond. But lo ! the duck knew its Ijenefactor ; and when-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 51

ever my father appealed outride biii door, it would catch
sight of him, flap from the pond, gain the lawn, and hoY>-
ble after him (for it never quite recovered the uae of itn
left leg) till it reached the walk by the peaches; and
there sometimes it would sit^ gravely watching its masters
" deambulations," sometimes stroll by his side, and, at all
events, never leave him till, at his return home, he ff'<l
it with his own hands; and, quacking her {jeacc^fiil
adieus, the nymph then retired to her natural element.

With the exception of my mother's favorite morning-
room, the principal sitting-rooms — that is, the study, the
dining-room, and what was emphatically called " the Y>est
drawing-room," which was only occupied on great occa^
sions — looked south. Tall beeches, firs, pr>plar8, and a
few oaks backed the house, and indeed surrounded it on
all sides but the south ; so that it was well sheltereil from
the winter cold and the summer heat. Our princijjal
domestic, in dignity and station, was Mrs Primmins, who
was waiting gentlewoman, housekeeper, and tyrannical
dictatrix of the whole estabUshment. Two other maids,
a gardener, and a footman composed the rest of the serv-
ing household.

Save a few pasture-fields, which he let, my father was
not troubled with land. His income was derive<l from
the interest of about £15,000, partly in the Tlin;e jx»r
Cents, partly on mortgage ; and what with my iiioth(?r
and Mrs. Primmins, this income always yielded enough
to satisfy my father's single hobby for books, pay for my
education, and entertain our neighbors, rarely indeed at
dinner, but very often at tea. My dear mother boasted
that our society was very select. It consisted chiefly of
the clergyman and his family ; two old maids who gave
themselves great airs ; a gentleman who had been in the
East India service, and who lived in a large w^hite house

52 THE CAXTONS:

at the top of the hill ; some half-a-dozen squires and their
wives and children ; Mr. Squills, still a bachelor ; and
once a year cards were exchanged — and dinners too —
with certain aristocrats who inspired my mother with a
great deal of imnecessary awe, since she declared they
were the most good-natured, easy people in the world,
and always stuck their cards in the most conspicuous part
of the looking-glass frame over the chimney-piece of the
best drawing-room. Thus you 'perceive that our natural
position was one highly creditable to us, proving the
soundness of our finances and the gentility of our pedi-
gree, — of which last more hereafter. At present I con-
tent myself with saying on that head that even the proud-
est of the neighboring squirearchs always spoke of us as
a very ancient family. But all my father ever said to
evince pride of ancestry was in honor of William Caxton,
citizen and printer in the reign of Edward IV., — Clarum
et venerahile nomen / an ancestor a man of letters might
be justly vain of.

" Heus," said my father, stopping short, and lifting his
eyes from the Colloquies of Erasmus, " salve multum, ju-
cundissime."

Uncle Jack was not much of a scholar, but he knew
enough Latin to answer, " Salve tantundem, mi f rater."

My father smiled approvingly. "I see you compre-
hend true urbanity, or politeness, as we phrcise it. There
is an elegance in addressing the husband of your sister as
brother. Erasmus commends it in his opening chapter,
under the head of Salutandi formulw. And, indeed,"
added my father, thoughtfully, " there is no great dif-
ference between politeness and afTection. My author
here observes that it is polite to express salutation in
certain minor distresses of nature. One should salute a
gentleman in yawning, salute him in hiccuping, sahite

A FAJOLT FICTTRE. 53

him in SDeeziiig, salute him in ooaghing, — and that eri-
dently because of vour interest in his health ; for he may
dislocate his jaw in vawnin;;:, and the hiccup is often a
symptom of grave disorder, and sneezing is perilous to
the small blood-vessels of the head, and cr»ughing is
either a techeal, bronchial, pulmonarr, or ganglionic
affection "

" Very true. The Turks always f>alute in sneezing, and
they are a remarkabl}' polite pe<'f»le,'' said Uncle Jack.
" But, my dear brother, I was just looking with arbnira-
tion at these apple-trees of yours I never saw finer. I am
a great judge of apples. I find, in talking with my sister,
that you make very little profit by them. That 's a pity.
One might establish a cider onrhanl in this county. You
can take your own fields in hand ; you can hire more, so
as to make the whole, say a hundred acres. You can
plant a very extensive apple-orchard on a grand scale.
I have just run through the calculations ; they are quite
startling Take 40 trees per acre — that's the proper
average — at Is. W. per tree; 4,000 trees for 100 acres,
X300; labor of digging, trenching, say £10 an acre, —
total for 100 acres, £1,000. Pave the bottoms of the
holes to prevent the tap-root striking down into tlie bad
soil, — oh, I am very close and careful you see, in all
minutisB ; always was, — pave 'em with nil)bi.sh and
stones, 6rf. a hole; that for 4,000 trees the 100 acres
is £100. Add the rent of the land, at 30«. an acre, —
£150. And how stands the total?" Here Uncle Jack
proceeded rapidly ticking off the items with his fingers ;

" Trees £ 300

Labor 1 ,000

Paving holes 100

Rent 150

Total £1,550

54 THE CAXTONS:

That 's your expense. Mark ! Now to the profit Or-
chards in Kent realize i&lOO an acre, some even £150 ;
but let 's be moderate, — say only £50 an acre, and your
gross profit per year, from a capital of £1,550, will be
£5,000. Five thousand a-year, — think of that, brother
Caxton! Deduct 10 per cent, or £500 a-year, for gar-
deners' wages, manure, etc., and the net product is
£4,500. Your fortune 's made, man, — it is made ; I
wish you joy ! " And Uncle Jack rubbed his hands.

" Bless me, father," said eagerly the young Pisistratus,
who had swallowed with ravished ears every syllable and
figure of this inviting calculation, " why, we should be as
rich as Squire Rollick ; and then, you know, sir you could
keep a pack of fox-hounds."

"And buy a large library," added Uncle Jack, with
more subtle knowledge of human nature as to its appro-
priate temptations, " There 's my friend the archbishop's
collection to be sold."

Slowly recovering his breath, my father gently turned
his eyes from one to the other ; and then, laying his left
hand on my head, while with the right he held up Eras-
mus rebukingly to Uncle Jack, said, —

" See how easily you can sow covetousness and avidity
in the youthful mind. Ah, brother ! "

" You are too severe, sir. See how the dear boy hangs
his head ! Fie ! natural enthusiasm of his years, — * gay
hope by fancy fed,' as the poet says. Why, for that fine
boy's Siike you ought not to lose so certain an occasion of
wealth, I may say, untold. For observe, you will form
a nursery of crabs ; eiich yciir you go on grafting and
enlarging your plantation, renting, — nay, why not
buying, more land ? Gad, sir ! in twenty years you
might cover half the country ; but say you stop short
at 2,000 acres, why the net profit is £90,000 a-year.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 55

A duke's income, — a duke's ; and gc»in^ a-Wjj^anp, a^^ I
may say."

" But, stop," said I, modestly ; " the trees d« -n't grow
in a year. I know when our last apple-tree was planted
— it is five years ago — it was then three years M, and
it only hore one half -bushel last autumn."

" What an intelligent lad it is I Go«>l head there.
Oh, he '11 do credit to his great fortune, bn^ther," siiid
Uncle Jack, approvingly. "True, my Imiv. But in tlie
mean while we could fill tlie ground, as they do in Kent,
with gooseberries and currants, or onions an<l cablmges.
Nevertheless, considering we are not great capitalist*,
I am afraid we must give up a share of our pn)fits to di-
minish our outlay. So, harkye, l*isistratus — hx)k at him,
brother, simple as he stands then.*, I think he is born
with a silver spoon in his mouth — harkye, now to the
mysteries of speculation ! Your father shall quietly buy
the land, and then, presto ! we w^ll issue a prospectus
and start a Company. -^Vssociations can wait live years
for a return. Every year, meanwhile, increases the value
of the sliares. Your father tiikes, w(^ say, fifty shares at
JB50 each, paying only an instalment of £2 a share. lie
sells 35 shares at cent per cent. lie keeps the remaining
15, and his fortune's made all the siimc ; only it is not
quite so large as if he had kept the whole concern in his
own hands. What say you now, brother Caxton ? Visne
edere pomum / as we used to say at school."

" I don't want a sliilling more than I have got," said
my father, resolutely. " My wife would not love me
better ; my food would not nourish me more ; my boy
would not, in all proba])ility, be half so hardy, or a tenth
})art so industrious ; and — "

" But," interrupted Uncle Jack, pertinaciously, and re-
serving his grand argument for the last, " the good you

56 THE CAXTONS:

would confer on the community ; the progress given to
the natural productions of your country ; the wholesome
beverage of cider brought within cheap reach of the
laboring classes ! If it was only for your sake, should I
have urged this question ? Should I now ? Is it in my
character ? But for the sake of the public — mankind —
of our fellow-creatures ! Why, sir, England could not-
get on if gentlemen like you had not a little philanthropy
and speculation."

" Papce 1 " exclaimed my father ; " to think that Eng-
land can*t get on without turning Austin Caxton into an
apple-merchant ! ^ly dear Jack, listen. You remind
me of a colloquy in this book, — wait a bit, here it is, —
*Pamphagus and Codes.' Codes recognizes his friend,
who had been absent for many years, by his eminent and
remarkable nose. Pamphagus says, rather irritably, that
he is not ashamed of his nose. * Ashamed of it ! no, in-
deed,' says Codes ; * I never saw a nose that could be put
to so many uses ! ' * Ha ! ' says Pamphagus (whose curios-
ity is aroused), * uses ! what uses ? * Whereon {lepidusime
f rater / ) Codes, with eloquence as rapid as yours, runs on
with a countless list of the uses to which so vast a devel-
opment of the organ can be applied. * If the cellar was
deep, it could snilf up the wine like an elephant's trunk ;
if the bellows were missing, it could blow the fire ; if the
lamj) was too glaring, it could suffice for a shade ; it
would serve as a speaking-trumpet to a herald ; it could
sound a signal of Imttle in the field ; it would do for a
wedge in wood-cutting, a sjmde for digging, a scythe for
mowing, an anchor in sailing,' — till Pamj)hagus cries
out, * Lucky dog that I am ! and I never knew before
what a useful piece of furniture I carried about with
me.'*' My father paused and strove to whistle ; but that
effort of harmony failed him, and he added, smiling, " So

A FAMILY PICTURE. 57

xnucb. for my apple-trees, brother John. Leave them to
their natural destination of filling tarts and dumplings."

Uncle Jack looked a little discomposed for a moment ;
but he then laughed with his usual heartiness, and m\v
that he had not yet got to my father's blind side. I con-
fess that my revered parent rose in my estimation aftor
that conference ; and I began to sec that a man may not
he quite without common-sense, though he is a scholar.
Indeed, whether it was that Uncle Jack's visit acted as
a gentle stimulant to his relaxed faculties, or tliat I, now
grown older and wiser, began to see his character moro
clearly, I date from those summer holidays the com-
mencement of that familiar and endearing intimacy
which ever after existed between my fatlicr and myself.
Often I deserted the more extensive rambles of Uncle
Jack, or the greater allurements of a crickot-match in the
village, or a day's fishing in Squire Rollick's preserves,
for a quiet stroll with my father by the old peach wall,
sometimes silent, indeed, and already musing over the
future, while he was busy with the past, but amply re-
warded when, suspending his lecture, he would pour
forth hoards of varied learning, rendered amusing by his
quaint comments and that Socratic satire which only fell
short of wit because it never passed into malice. At some
moments, indeed, the vein ran into eloquence ; and with
some fine heroic sentiment in his old books, his stooping
form rose erect, his eye flashed, and you saw that he had
not been originally formed and wholly meant for the
obscure seclusion in which his harmless days now wore
contentedly away.

58 THE CAXTOKS:

CHAPTER IV.

"Egad, sir, the country is going to the dogs! Out
sentiments are not represented in parliament or out of it.
The * County Mercury ' has ratted, and be lianged to it !
and now we have not one newspaper in the whole shire
to express the sentiments of the respectable part of the
community."

This speech was made on the occasion of one of the
rare dinners given by Mr. and Mrs. Caxton to the gran-
dees of the neighborhood, and uttered by no less a person
than Squire Rollick, of Rollick Hall, chairman of the
quarter-sessions.

I confess that I (for I was permitted on that first occa-
sion not only to dine with the guests, but to outstay tlie
ladies, in virtue of my growing years and my promise to
abstain from the decanters), — I confess, I say, that I,
poor innocent, was puzzled to conjecture what sudden
interest in tlie county newspaper could cause Uncle Jack
to prick up liis ears like a war-horse at the sound of the
drum, and rush so incontinently across the interval be-
tween Squire Rollick and himself. But the mind of that
deep and truly knowing man was not to be plumbed by a
chit of my ago. You could not fish for the shy salmon
in that pool with a crooked pin and a bobbin, as you
would for minnows ; or, to indulge in a more worthy
illustration, you could not say of him, as Saint Gregory
saith of the streams of Jordan, " A lamb could wade easily
through that ford,"

A FAMILY PICTURE. 59

" Not a county newspaper to advocate the rights of — "
here my uncle stopped, as if at a loss, and whispered in
my ear, " What are his politics ? "

" Don't know," answered I.

Uncle Jack intuitively took down from liis memory
the phrase most readily at hand, and added, witli a
nasal intonation, "the riglits of our distressed fel-
low-creatures ! "

My father scratched his eyehrow with his forci-finger,
as he was apt to do when doubtful ; the rest of the com-
pany — a silent set — looked up.

" Fellow-creatures ! " said Mr. Kollick, — " fellow-
fiddle-sticks ! "

Uncle Jack was clearly in the wrong box. IIo drew
out of it cautiously, — "I mean," said he, " our respect-
able fellow-creatures ; " and then suddenly it occurred to
him that a "County Mercury" would naturally repre-
sent the agricultural interest, and that if Mr. Kollick
said that the "* County Mercury ' ought to be hanged,"
he was one of those politicians who had already begun to
call the agricultural interest " a Vamiiire." Flushed with
that fancied discovery. Uncle Jack rushed on, intending
to bear along with the stream, thus fortunately directed,
all the " rubbish " ^ subsequently shot into Covent (lar-
den and Hall of Commerce. " Yes, rcsj>ectable fellow-
creatures, men of capital and enterprise ! For what are
these country squires compared to our wealthy merchants ?
What is this agricultural interest that professes to be the
prop of the land ? "

" Professes ! " cried Squire Kollick, — " it is the i)i'0]>
of the land; and as for those manufacturing fellnws who
have bought up the * Mercury ' - "

1 " We talked sad rubbish when we firwt bepui/' says Mr. Cob-
den, in one of his speeches.

60 THE CAXTONS:

" Bought up the * Mercury/ have they, the villains ? "
cried Uncle Jack, interrupting the Squire, and now burst-
ing into full scent. " Depend upon it, sir, it is a part of
a diabolical system of buying up, which must be exposed
manfully. Yes, as I was saying, what is tliat agricultural
interest which they desire to ruin ; which they declare to
be so bloated ; which they call * a vampire ! ' — they the
true blood-suckers, the venomous millocrats? Fellow-
creatures, sir ! I may well call distressed fellow-crea-
tures the members of that much-suffering class of which
you yourself are an ornament. What can be more de-
serving of our best efforts for relief than a country gen-
tleman like yourself, we '11 say, — of a nominal £5,000
a-year, — compelled to keep up an establishment, pay
for his fox-hounds, support the whole poj)ulation by con-
tributions to the poor-rates, support the whole church by
tithes ; all justice, jails, and prosecutions of the county-
rates, all thoroughfares by the highway-rates ; ground
down by mortgages, Jews, or jointures ; having to pro-
vide for younger children ; enormous expenses for cut-
ting his woods, manuring his model farm, and fattening
huge oxen till every pound of flesh costs him five j)ounds
sterling in oil-cake ; and then the lawsuits neeessiiry to
protect his rights, — plundered on all hands by poachers,
sheep-stealers, dog-stealers, churchward(;ns, overseers, gar-
deners, gamekeepers, and that necessary rascal, his
steward. If ever there was a distressed fellow-creature
in the world, it is a country gentleman with a great
estate."

My fatlier evidently thought this an exquisite i)iece of
banter, for b}^ the corner of his mouth I saw that he
chuckled inly.

Squire Rollick, who had interrupted the si)eecli by
sundry approving exclamations, particularly at the men-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 61

tion of poor-rates, tithes, county-rates, mortgages, and
poachers, here pushed the bottle to Uncle Jack, and
said, civilly : " There 's a great deal of truth in what
you say, ^fr. Tibbets. The agricultural interest is go-
ing to ruin ; and when it does, I would not give that
for Old England ! " and Mr. Rollick snapped his finger
and thumb. ** But what is to be done, — done for the
county ? There 's the rub."

" I was just coming to that," quoth Uncle Jack. " You
say that you have not a county paper that upholds your
cause and denounces your enemies ? "

" Not since the AMiigs bought the * shire

Mercury.' "

" Why, good heavens ! Mr. Rollick, how can you sup-
pose that you will have justice done you if at this time
of day you neglect the Press? The Press, sir — there
it is — air we breathe ! What you want is a great na-
tional — no, not a national — a provincial proprietary
weekly journal, supported liberally and steadily by that
mighty party whose very existence is at stake. Without
such a paper you are gone, you are dead, — extinct, de-
funct, buried alive ; idth such a pajxjr, — well conducted,
well edited by a man of the world, of education, of practi-
cal experience in agriculture and human nature, mines,
com, manure, insurances. Acts of Parliament, cattle-
shows, the state of parties, and the best interests of so-
ciety, — with such a man and such a paper, you will
carry all before you. But it must be done by subscrip-
tion, by association, by co-operation, — by a Grand Pro-
vincial Benevolent Agricultural Anti-innovating Society."

" Egad, sir, you are right ! " said Mr. Rollick, slapping
his thigh ; " and I '11 ride over to our Lord-Lieutenant to-
morrow. His eldest son ought to carry the county."

" And he will, if you encourage the Press and set up a

62 THE CAXTONS:

journal," said Uncle Jack, nibbing his hands, and then
gently stretching them out and drawing them gradually
together, as if he were alreaily enclosing in that airy cir-
cle the unsuspecting guineas of the unborn association.

All happiness dwells more in the hope than the posses-
sion ; and at that moment I dare be sworn that Uncle
Jack felt a livelier rapture circum prcecordia^ warming
his entrails, and diffusing throughout his whole frame
of five feet eight the proplietic glow of the Magna Diva
Moneta, than if he had enjoyed for ten years the actual
possession of King Croesus's privy purse.

" I thought Uncle Jack wjvs not a Tory," J«nd I to my
father the next day.

My father, who cared nothing for politics, opened his
eyes.

" Are you a Tory or a Whig, papa ? "

" Um ! " said my fatlier, " there *s a great do^l to be
said on both sides of tlie qucNstion. You see, my boy, that
Mrs. Primmins has a great many moulds for our butter-
pats : sometimes they come up with a crown on them,
sometimes witli the more popular iuipress of a cow. It
is all very well for those who dish up the butter to print
it according to their taste or in i>roof of their abilities ;
it is enough for us to butter our bread, say gnice, and pay
for the dairy. Do you understand ? "

" Xot a bit, sir."

" Your namesake Pisistratus was wiser than you, then,"
said my father. " ^ind now let us feed the duck. Where 's
your uncle ? "

" He has borrowed !Mr. Squills*s mare, sir, and gone
with Squire Rollick to the great lord they were talk-
ing of."

" Oho ! " said my father ; " brother Jack is going to
print his butter ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE.

And indeed Uncle Jack played liis cards so well on
this occasion, and set before the Lord-LieiiU^nant, with
whom he had a personal interview, so fine a prospectus
and 80 nice a calculation, that before my holidays were
over he was installed in a very handsome oflUe in the
county town, with private, apartments over it, and a
salary of £500 a-year, for advocating the cause of his
distressed fellow-creatures, including noblemen, squires,
yeomanry, farmers, and all yearly subscribers in the New

Proprietary Agricultural Axti-innovatino shirk

Wbbkly Gazbttb. At the head of his newspaper Uncle
Jack caused to be engraved a crown, supi^rted by a flail
and a crook, with the motto, " Pro rege et grege." And
that was the way in which Uncle Jack printed liis pats
of butter.

64 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER V.

I SEEMED to myself to have made a leap in life when I
returned to school. I no longer felt as a boy. Uncle
Jack, out of his own purse, had presented me with my
first pair of Wellington boots; my mother had been
coaxed into allowing me a small tail to jackets hitherto
tail-less ; my collars, which had been wont, spaniel-like,
to flap and fall about my neck, now, terrier-wise, stood
erect and rampant, encompassed with a circumvallation
of whalebone, buckram, and black silk. I was, in truth,
nearly seventeen, and I gave myself the airs of a man.
Now, be it observed that that crisis in adolescent exist-
ence wherein we first pass from Mast<ir Sisty into Mr.
Pisistratus, or Pisistratus Caxton, Esq. ; wherein we arro-
gate, and with Uiclt concession from our elders, the long-
envied title of " young man," — always seems a sudden
and imprompt upshooting and elevation. AVe do not
mark the gradual preparations thereto ; we remember only
one distinct period, in which all the signs and symptoms
burst and effloresced together, — Wellington boots, coat-
oail, cravat, down on the upper lip, thoughts on razors,
reveries on young ladies, and a ncAv kind of sense of
poetry.

I began now to read steadily, to understand what I did
read, and to cast some anxious looks towards the future,
with vague notions that I had a place to win in the world,
and that nothing is to be won without perseverance and
labor ; and so I went on till I was seventeen and at the
head of the school, when I received the two letters I
subjoin.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 65

From Augustine Caxton, Esq.

My dear Son, — I have informed Dr. Herraan that you
will not return to him after the approaching holidays. You
are old enough now to look forward to the einhraces of our
beloved Alma Mater, and I think studious enou^li to hope for
the honors ehe bestows on her worthier sons. You are al-
ready entered at Trinity, — and in fancy I see my youth re-
turn to me in your image. I see you wandering where the
Cam steals its way through those noble gardens ; and, confus-
ing you with myself, I recall the old dreams that haunted me
when the chiming l)ells swung over the placid waters. Verum
secretumque Mouseion, quam multa didatis quam multa inven-
itis! There at that illustrious college, imless the race has in-
dee<l degenerated, you will measure yourself with young giants.
You will see those who in the Law, the Church, the State, or
the still cloisters of Learning, are destined to l)ec()me the emi-
nent leaders of your age. To rank amongst them you are not
forbidden to aspire; he who in youth " can scorn delights, and
love laborious days," should pitch high his ambition.

Your Uncle Jack says he has done wonders with his news-
paper ; though Mr. Rollick grumbles, and declares that it is
full of theories, and that it puzzles the farmei's. Uncle Jack,
in reply, contends that he creates an audience, not addresses
one, and sighs that his genius is thrown away in a provincial
town. In fact, he really is a very clever man, and might do
much in London, I dare say. He often comes over to dine
and sleep, returning the next morning. His energy is won-
derful— and contagious. Can you imagine that he has actu-
ally stirred up the flame of my vanity, by constantly poking
at the bars ? Metaphor apart, I find myself collecting all my
notes and commonplaces, and wondering to see how easily
they fall into method, and take .«ihape in chai)terfl and
books. I cannot help smiling when I add, that I fancy I am
going to become an author ; and smiling more when I think
that your Uncle Jack should have provoked me into so egre-
gious an ambition. However, I have read some passages of
my book to your mother, and she says ** it is vastly £ne,"

VOL. I. — 6

66 THE CAXTONS:

which is encouraging. Your mother has great good sense,
though I don't mean to say that she has much learning, —
which is a wonder, considering that Pic de la Mirandola was
nothing to her father. Yet he died, dear great man, and
never printed a line; while I — positively I blush to think
of my temerity 1

Adieu, my son ; make the he.st of the time that remains with
you at the Philliellenic. A full mind is the true Pantheism,
pleiia Jovis. It is only in some corner of the brain which we
leave empty that Vice can obtain a lodging. When she
knocks at your door, my son, be able to say, " No room for
your ladyship ; pass on ! "

Your affectionate father,

A. Caxton.

From Mrs. Caxton.

My dearest Sisty, — You are coming home I My heart
is 80 full of that thought that it seems to me as if I could not
write anything else. Dear child, you are coming home — you
have done with school, you have done with strangers, — you
are our own, all our own son again 1 You are mine again, as
you were in the cradle, the nui*sery, and the garden, Sisty,
when we used to throw daisies at each other ! You will laugh
at me so when 1 tell you that as soon as I heard you were
coming home for good, I crept away from the room, and
went to my drawer where 1 keep, you know, all my treasures.
There was your little cap that 1 worked myself, and your poor
little nankeen jacket that you were so proud to throw off —
oh 1 and many other relics of you when you were little Sisty,
and I was not the cold, formal "Mother" you call me now,
but " dear Mamma." I kis-^ed them, Sisty, and said, " My lit-
tle child is coming back to me again ! " So foolish was I, I
forgot all the long years that have passed, and fancied I could
carry you again in my anus, and that I should again coax you
to say **God bless papa." Well, well! 1 write now between
laughing and crying. You cannot be what you were, but you
are still my own dear son, — your father's son; dearer to me
than all the world, except that father.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 67

I am 80 glad, too, that you will come ao soon, — come while
your father is really warm with his hook, and while you can
encourage and keep him to it. For why should he not be
great and famous ? Why should not all admire him as we
do ? You know how proud of him I always was; but I do so
long to let the world know why I was so proud. And yet,
after all, it is not only because he is so wise and learned, but
because he is so good, and has such a large, noble heart. But
the heart must appear in the book too, as well as the learning.
For though it is full of things I don't uiidirstand, every now
and then there is something T do undei-stand, — that seems
as if that heart spoke out to all the world. Your uncle has
undertaken to get it published, and your father is going up to
town with him about it, as soon as the first volume is finished.

All are quite well except poor Mrs. Jones, who has the ague
very bad indeed; Primmins has made her wear a charm for it,
and Mrs. Jones actually declares she is already much better.
One can't deny that there may be a great deal in such things,
though it seems quite against the r(»a«*on. Indeed, your father
says,." Why not t A charm must be accompanied by a strong
wish on the part of the charmer that it may succeed, — and
what is magnetism but a wish ? " I dou*t quite comprehend
this ; but, like all your father says, it has more than meets the
eye, I am quite sure.

Only three weeks to the holidays, and then no more school,
Sisty, — no more school ! I shall have your room all done
freshly, and made so pretty ; they are coming about it
to-morrow.

The duck is quite well, and I really don't think it is quite
as lame as it was.

God bless you, dear, dear child.

Your affectionate happy mother.

K. C.

The interval between these letters and the morning on
which I was to return home seemed to me like one of
those long, restless, yet half-dreamy days which in some
infant malady I had passed in a sick-bed. I went

68 • THE CAXTONS:

through my task-work mechanically, composed a Greek
ode in farewell to the Philhellenic, which Dr. Herman
pronounced a chef d^ceuvre; but my father, to whom I
sent it in triumph, returned a letter of false English with
it^ that parodied all my Hellenic barbarisms by imitating
them in my mother-tongue. However, I swallowed the
leek, and consoled myself with the pleasing recollection
that after spending six years in learning to write bad
Greek I should never have any further occasion to avail
myself of so precious an accomplishment.

And so came the last day. Then alone, and in a kind
of delighted melancholy, 1 revisited each of the old
haunts, — the robbers* cave we had dug one winter, and
maintained, six of us, against all the police of the little
kingdom ; the place near the pales where I had fought
my first battle ; the old beech-stump on which I sat to
read letters from home ! With my knife, rich in six
blades (besides a cork-screw, a pen-picker, and a button-
hook), I carved my name in large capitals over my desk.
Then night came, and the bell rang, and we went to our
rooms ; and I opened the window and looked out. I saw
all the stars, and wondered which was mine, — which
should light to fame and fortune the manhood about to
commence. Hope and Ambition were high within me ;
and yet behind them stood Melancholy. Ah ! who
amongst you, readers, can now summon back all those
thoughts, sweet and sad, — all that untold, half-conscious
regret for the past, — all those vague longings for the
future, which made a poet of tbe dullest on the last night
before leaving boyhood and school forever 1

PART THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

It was a beautiful suiumer afternc»on wlien the coach set

me down at my father's gate. Mrs. Priminins herself

ran out to welcome me ; and I had scarcely escaiKnl from

the warm clasp of her friendly hand hefore I was in the

arms of my mother.

As soon as that tenderest of parents was convinced that
I was not famished, seeing that 1 had dined two hours
ago at Dr. Herman's, she led me gently across the garden
towards the arbor. " You will find vour father so cheer-
ful," said she, wiping away a tear. ** Ilis brother is with
him."

I stopped. His brother! Will the reader believe it?
— I had never heard that he had a brother, so little were
family affairs ever discussed in my hearing.

" His brother ! " said I. " Have I then an Uncle Cax-
ton as well as an Uncle Jack ? "

" Yes, my love," said my mother ; and then she added,
"Your father and he were not such good friends tis
they ought to have been, and the Captiiin has been
abroad. However, thank Heaven ! they are now quite
reconciled."

We had time for no more, — we wc^n* in the arbor.
There a table was spread with wine and fruit, — • the gen-
tlemen were at their dessert ; and those gentlemen were

70 THE CAXTONS :

my father, Uncle Jack, Mr. Squills, and — tall, lean, but-
toned-to-the-chin — an erect, martial, majestic, and im-
posing personage, who seemed worthy of a place in my
great ancestor's "Boke of Chivalrie."

All rose as I entered ; but my poor father, who was
always slow in his movements, had the last of me. Uncle
Jack had left the very powerful impression of his great
seal-ring on my fingers; Mr. Squills had patted me on
the shoulder and pronounced me " wonderfully grown ; "
my new-found relative had with great dignity said,
" Nephew, your hand, sir, — I am Captain de Caxton ; "
and even the tame duck had taken her beak from her
wing and rubbed it gently between my legs, which was
her usual mode of salutation, before my father placed his
pale hand on my forehead, and looking at me for a mo-
ment with unutterable sweetness, said, " More and more
like your mother, — God bless you ! "

A chair had been kept vacant for me between my father
and his brother. I sat down in haste, and with a tingling
color on my cheeks and a rising at my throat, so much
had the unusual kindness of my father's greeting affected
me ; and then there came over me a sense of my new
position. I was no longer a schoolboy at home for his
brief holiday : I had returned to the shelter of the roof-
tree to become myself one of its supports. I was at last
a man, privileged to aid or solace those dear ones who
had ministered, as yet without return, to me. That is
a very strange crisis in our life when we come home /or
good. Home seems a dilforcnt thing ; before, one has
been but a sort of guest after all, only welcomed and in-
dulged, and little festivities held in honor of the released
and happy child. But to come home /or good^ — to have
done with school and boyhood, — is to be a guest, a chiM
no more. It is to share the everyday life of cares and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 71

duties ; it is to enter into the confidences of home. Is it
not sol I could liave buried my face in my hands and
wept!

My father, with all his abstraction and all his simpli-
city, had a knack now and then of penetrating at once to
the heart. I verily beheve he read all that was passing
in mine as easily as if it had been Greek. He stole his
arm gently round my waist and whispered, " Hush ! "
Then, lifting his voice, he cried aloud, " Brother Roland,
you must not let Jack have the Iwst of the argument."

"Brother Austin," replied the Captiiin, very formally,
** Mr. Jack, if I may take the liberty so to call him — "

" You may indeed," cried Uncle Jack.

"Sir," said the Captain, bowing, " it is a familiarity that
does me honor. I was about to say that Mr. Jack has
retired from the field."

"Far from it," said Squills, droj)j)ing an eilervescing
powder into a chemical mixture which he had been pre-
paring with great attention, (!om posed of sherry and lemon-
juice — "far from it. Mr. Ti bluets — whose organ of
combativcness is finely develoi^ed, by the by — Wiis say-
ing—"

"That it is a rank sin and shame in the nineteenth
century," quoth Uncle Jack, " that a man like my friend
Captain Caxton — "

"Z>e Caxton, sir — Mr. Jack."

" De Caxton, — of the highest miliUiry ttdents, of the
most illustrious descent, — a hero sprung from heroes, —
should have served so many years, and with such distinc-
tion, in his ^Nfajesty's s<«rvice, and sin mid now be only a
captain^ on half -pay. This, I say, comes of the infamous
system of purchase, which sets up the highest honors for
sale, as they did in tlu; Koman empire — "

My father pricked up his ears ; but Uncle Jack pushed

72 THE CAXTONS:

on befoitj my father could get ready the forces of his
meditated interruption.

" A system which a little effort, a little union, can so
easily terminate. Yes, sir," and Uncle Jack thumped the
table, and two cherries bobbed up and smote Captain de
Caxton on the nose, "yes, sir, I will undertake to say
that I could put the army upon a very ditferent footing.
If the poorer and more meritorious gentlemen, like Cap-
tain de Caxton, would, as I was just observing, but
unite in a grand anti-aristocratic association, each pay-
ing a small sum quarterly, we could realize a capital suffi-
cient to out-purchase all these undeserving individuals,
and every man of merit should have his fair chance of
promotion."

" Egad ! sir," said Stpiills, " there is something grand
in that, eh, Captiiin ? "

"No, sir," repHed the Captain, quite seriously; "there
is in monarchies but one fountiiin of honor. It would be
an interference with a soldier's first duty, — his respect
for his sovereign."

" On the contrary," said Mr. Squills, " it would still be
to the sovereigns tliat one would owe the promotion."

"Honor," pursued the Captain, coloring up, and un-
heeding this witty interruption. " is the reward of a sol-
dier. What do I care that a /oung jackanapes buys his
colonelcy over my head ? Sir, he does not buy from me
my wounds and my services Sir, he does not buy from
me the medal I won at Waterloo. He is a rich man, and
I am a poor man ; he is called " colonel " because he paid
money for the name. That pleases him, — well and good ;
it would not please me. I had rather remain a captain,
and feel my dignity, not in my title, but in the services
by which it has been won. A beggarly, rascally associa-
tion of stock-brokers, for aught I know, buy me a com-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 73

pany ! I don't want to ])e uncivil, or I would say damn
*em — Mr. — sir — Jack ! "

A sort of thrill ran tlirough the Captain^s audience ;
even Uncle Jack seemed touched, for lie stiired very hard
at the grim veteran, and said nothing. The pause was
awkward ; Mr. Squills broke it.

" I should like," quoth he, " to see your Waterioo
medal, — you have it not about you ? "

"Mr. Squills," answered the Captain, "it lies next to
my heart while I live. It shall be buried in my coffin,
and I shall rise with it, at tlie word of command, on the
day of the Grand Review ! " 80 saying, tlie Captain
leisurely unbuttoned his coat, and detiiching from a
piece of striped ribl)on as ugly a specimen of the art of
the silversmith (begging its pardon) as ever rewarded
merit at the exi>ense of taste, placed the modal on the
table.

The medal passed round, without a word, from hand to
hand.

" It is strange," at last said my father, " how such trifles
can be made of such value, — how in one age a man sells
his life for what in the next age he would not give a
button ! A Greek esteemed beyond price a few leaves of
olive twisted into a circular shape and set uj)on his head,
— a very ridiculous head-gear we shoidd now call it. An
American Indian prefers a decoration of human scalps,
which, I apprehend, we should all agree (save and except
Mr. Squills, who is accustomed to such things) to be a
very disgusting addition to one's personal attractions ; and
my brother values this piece of silver, which may bo
worth about five shillings, more than Jack doc^s a gold
mine, or I do the library of the London ^luseum. A time
will come when people will tliink that as idle a decora-
tion as leaves and scalps."

THE CAXTONS:

" Brother," said the Captain, " there is nothing strange
in the matter. It is as plain as a pikestaff to a man who
understands the principles of honor."

" Possibly," said my father, mildly. " I should like to
hear what you have to say upon honor. I am sure it
would very much edify us all."

A FAMILY PICTUBfi. 75

CHAPTER IL

mr UNCLB Roland's discourse upon honor

" Gbntlbmbn," began the Captiiiu, at the distinct appeal
thus made to him, — *' Gentlemen, God made the earth,
but man made the garden* God made man, but man re-
creates himself."

" True, by knowledge," said my fatlier.

" By industry," said Uncle Jack.

"By the physical conditions of his body," said ^Ir.
Squills. "He could not have made himself other than
he was at first in the woods and wilds if he had fins like
a fish, or could only chatter gibberish like a monkey.
Hands and a tongue, sir, — these are the instniments of
progress."

" Mr. Squills," said my father, nodding, " Anaxagoras
said very much the same thing before you, touching the
hands."

" I cannot help that," answered Mr. Squills ; " one coidd
not open one's lips, if one were boimd to say what nobody
else had said. But after all, our superiority is less in our
hands than in the greatness of our thujnbs."

"Albinus, *De Sceleto,' and our own learned William
Lawrence, have made a similar remark," again put in my
father.

" Hang it, sir ! " exclaimed S([uills, " wliat business
have you to know everything' ? "

" Everything ! Xo ; but thumbs f urnisli subjects of
investigation to the simplest understiinding," siiid m}
father, modestly.

76 THE CAXTONS:

** Gentlemen," re-commenced my Uncle Roland," thumbs
and hands are given to an Esquimaux, as well as to schol-
ars and surgeons, — and what the deuce are they the wiser
for them ? Sirs, you cannot reduce us tlius into mechan-
isuL Look within. Man, I say, re-creates himself.
How ? By the principle of Jionor, His first desire is to
excel some one else ; his first impulse is distinction above
his fellows. Heaven places in his soul, as if it were a
compass, a needle that always points to one end ; namely,
to honor in that wliich those around him consider honor-
able. Therefore, as man at first is exjx)sed to all dangers
from wild beasts, and from men as savage as himself,
Courage becomes the first quality mankind must honor :
therefore the savage is courageous ; therefore he covets tlie
praise for courage ; therefore he decorates himself with
the skins of the beasts he has subdued, or the scalps of
the foes he has slain. Sirs, don't tell me that the skins
and tlie scalps are only hide and leather : they are tro-
phies of honor. Don't tell me that they are ridiculous
and disgusting : they become glorious as proofs that the
savage has emerged out of the first brute-like egotism,
and attached price to the praise which men never give
except for works that secure or advance their welfare.
By and by, sii-s, our savages discover tliat they cannot
live in safety amongst themselves unless they agree to
speak the truth to each other : therefore Truth becomes
valued, and grows into a principle of honor ; so brother
Austin will tell us that in the i)riniitive times truth was
ilways the attribute of a liero."

" Right," said my father ; " Homer emphatically assigns
it in AchiUes."

" Out of truth comes the necessity for some kind of
rude justice and law. Therefore men, after courage in
the warrior, and truth in all, begin to attacli honor to the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 77

elder, whom they intrust with preserving justice amongst
them. So, sire, Law is ]x)rn — "

"But the first law-givers were priests," quoth my
father.

" Sire, I am coming to that. AMience arises the desire
of honor hut from man's necessity of excelling, — in other
words, of improving his faculties for the benefit of others ;
though, unconscious of that consequence, man only strives
for their praise ? But that desire for honor is unextin-
guishahle, and man is naturally anxious to carry its rewards
beyond tlie grave. Therefore he who has slain most lions
or enemies is naturally j)rone to believe that he shall have
the best hunting-fields in the country Ix^yond, and take
the best place at the banquet. Nature, in all its opera-
tions, impresses man with the idea of an invisible Power ;
and the principle of honor — that is, the desire of praise
and reward — makes him anxious for the approval which
that Power can bestow Thence comes the first rude idea
of Religion ; and in the death-hymn at the stake the sav-
age chants songs prophetic of the distinctions he is about
to receive. Society goes on ; hamlets are built ; property
is established. He who has more than another has more
power than another. Power is honored. Man covets the
honor attached to the power which is attached to posses-
sion. Thus the soil is cultivated ; thus the rafts are con-
structed ; thus tribe trades with tribe ; thus Commerce
is founded, and Civilization commenced. Sire, all that
seems least connected with honor, as we approach the
vulgar days of the present, has its origin in honor, and
is but an abuse of its principles. If men nowadays are
huckstera and tradere, if even military honore are pur-
chased and a rogue buys his way to a peerage, still all
arises from the desire for honor, which society, as it
grows old, gives to the outward signs of titles and gold,

78 THE CAXTONS:

instead of, as once, to its inward essentials, — courage,
truth, justice, enterprise. Therefore I say, sirs, tliat honor
is the foundation of all improvement in mankind."

" You have argued like a Schoolman, l)rother," said Mr.
Caxton, admiringly ; " but still, as to this round piece of
silver, don't we go back to the most l)arbarous ages in
estimating so highly such things as have no real value in
themselves, — as could not give us one opportunity for
instructing our minds?"

" Could not pay for a pair of boots," added Uncle Jack.

** Or," said Mr. Squills, " save you one twinge of the
cursed rheumatism you have got for life from that night's
bivouac in the Portuguese marshes, — to say nothing of
the bullet in your cranium, and that cork-leg, which must
much diminish the salutary effects of your constitutional
walk."

"Gentlemen," resinned the Captain, nothing abashed,
"in going back to those barbarous ages I go back to the
true principles of honor. It is precisely l^ecause this
round piece of silver has no value in the market that it
is priceless, for thus it is only a proof of desert. AVhere
would be the sense of service in this medal if it could
l)uy back my leg, or if I could bargain it away for forty
thousand a-year ? No, sirs ; its value is this, — that when
I wear it on mv breast, men shall sav, * That formal old
fellow is not so useless as he seems. He was one of those
who saved England and freed Europe.' And even when
I conceal it here,"— and devoutly kissing the medal, Un-
cle Roland restonid it to its ribbon and its resting-place,
— " and no eye sees it, its value is yet greater in the
thought that my country has not degraded the old and
true principles of honor, by paying the soldier who fought
for her in the same coin as that in which you, Mr. Jack,
sir, pay your bootmaker's bill. No, no, gentlemen. As

A FAMILY PICTURE.

courage was the first vii-tuc that honor calletl forth, tho
first virtue from which all safety and civilization proceed,
so we do right to keep that one virtue at least clear and
unsullied from all the money -making, mercenary, pay-me-
in-cash abominations which are the vices, not the virtues,
of the civilization it has produced."

My Uncle Roland here came to a full stop ; and filling
his glass, rose and said solemnly : " A last bumper, gen-
tlemen,— * To the dead who died for England ! ' "

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER ITI.

" Indeed, my dfiar, you must take it. You certainly luttv
caught cold ; yon Bueezed three times together."

" YsB, ma'am, because I wowld take a pinch of Undo
Roland's snuff, just to say that I hiid taken a pinch out of
his box, - — the honor of tlie thing you know."

" Ah, my dear ! what waa that very clever remark you
made at the same time, which ao pieaseil your father, —
something about Jews and the college 1 "

"Jews and- — ^oh ! pulverem Oliimpicum colUgitte jiivai,
my dear mother, — which means that it is a pleasure to
take a pinch out of a hrave man's anuff-box. I say,
mother, put down the posset. Yes, I '11 take it ; I will,
indeed. Now, then, sit here, — that's riBht,^and tell
me all you know about tliis famous old Captain. Im-
primis, he is older than my father?"

"To be sure I" exclaimed my mother, indignantly.
" He looks twenty years older ; hut there is only five
years' real difference. Your father must always look
young."

" And why does Uncle Roland put that absurd French
de before his name; and why were my father and he
not good friends ; and is he married, and has he any
children t "

Scene of this conference : my own little room, new
papered on purpose for my return for gooil, — trellis-
work paper, flowers and birds, all so fresh and ao new
and so clean and so gay, with my twoks ranged in neat
shelves, and a writing-table by the window ; and, with-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 81

out the window, shines the still summer moon. Th^
window is a little open : you scent the flowers and tho
new-mown hay. Past eleven ; and the boy and his dear
mother are all alone.

"My dear, my dear, you ask so many questions at
once ! "

"Don't answer them, then. Begin at the beginning,
as Nurse Primmina does with her fairy tales, * Once on a
time.'"

" Once on a time, then," said my mother, kissing me
between the eyes, — " once on a time, my love, there
was a certain clergyman in Cumberland who had two
sons ; he had but a small living, and the boys were to
make their own way in the world. But close to the
parsonage, on the brow of a hill, rose an old ruin with
one tower left, and this, with half the country round it,
had once belonged to the clergyman's family ; but all had
been sold, — all gone piece by piece, you see, my dear,
except the presentation to the living (what they call the
advowson was sold too), which had been secured to the
last of the family. The elder of these sons was your Uncle
Roland; the younger was your father. Xow, I believe
the first quarrel arose from the absurdest thing possible,
as your father says ; but Roland was exceedingly touchy
on all things connected with his ancestors. He was al-
ways poring over the old pedigree, or wandering amongst
the ruins, or reading books of knight-errantry. Well,
where this pedigree began I know not; but it seems
that King Henry II. gave some lands in Cumberland
to one Sir Adam de Caxton ; and from that time, you
see, the pedigree went regularly from father to son till
Henry Y. Then, apparently from the disorders produced,
as your father says, by the Wars of the Roses, there
was a sad blank left, — only one or two names, without

VOL. I. — 6

82 THE CAXTONS :

dates or marriages, till the time of Henry VII., except
that in the reign of Edward IV. there was one insertion
of a William Caxton (named in a deed). Now, in the
village church there was a beautiful hniss monument to
one Sir William de Caxton, who had been killed at the
battle of Bosworth, fighting for that wicked king Richard
III. ; and about the same time there lived, as you know,
the great printer, William Caxton. Well, your father,
happening to be in town on a visit to his aunt, took great
trouble in hunting up all the old papers he couhl find at
the Heralds' College ; and, sure enougli, he was over-
joyed to satisfy himself that he was descended, not from
that poor Sir William who had been killed in so bad a
cause, but from the great printer, who w^as from a younger
branch of the same family, and to whose descendants the
estate came in the reign of Henry VIII. It was upon
this that your Uncle Roland quarrelled with him, — and,
indeed, I tremble to think that they may touch on that
matter again."

"Then, my dear mother, I must say my uncle was
wrong there, so far as common-sense is concernetl ; but
still, somehow or other, I can understand it. Surely,
this was not the only cause of estrangement?"

My mother looked down, and moved one hand gently
over the other, which wjus her way when embarrassed.

" A\Tiat was it, my own mother ? " said I, coaxingly.

" I believe — that is, I — I think that they were both
attached to the same young lady."

" How I you don't mean to say that mv father was ever
in love with anv one but you ? "

*' Yes, Sisty, — yes, and deeply ! And," added my
mother, after a slight pause, and with a very low f'igh,
" he never was in love with me ; and what is more, he
had the frankness to tell me so ? "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 83

" And yet you — "

" Married him — yes ! " said my mother, raising the
softest and purest eyes that ever lover ct)uld have wished
10 read his fate in, — " yes, for the old love was hopeless.
I knew that I could make him happy. I knew that he
would love me at last, and he does so ! My son, your
father loves me ! "

As she spoke, there came a blush, as innocent as virgin
ever knew, to my mother's smooth cheek ; and she looked
so fair, so good, and still so young all the while that you
would have said that either Dusius the Teuton fiend, or
Xock the Scandinavian sea-imp (from whom the learned
assure us we derive our modern Daimones, " the Deuce,*'
and old Nick), had indeed possessed my father if he had
not learned to love such a creature. I pressed her hand to
my lips ; but my heart was too full to speak for a mo-
ment or so, and then I partially changed the subject :

" Well, and this rivalry estranged them more ? And
who was the lady ? "

" Your father never told me, and I never asked," said
my mother, simply. " But she was very different from
me, I know, — very accomplished, very beautiful, very
high-born."

" For all that, my father was a lucky man to escape
her. Pass on. What did the Captain do ? "

" Why, about that time your grandfather died ; and
shortly after an aunt on the mother's side, who was rich
and saving, died, and unexpectedly left them each sixteen
thousand pounds. Your uncle with his share bought
back, at an enormous price, the old castle and some land
round it, which they say does not bring him in three
hundred a-year. With the little that remained he pur-
chased a commission in the army ; and the brothers met
no more till last week, when Roland suddenly arrived."

84 THE CAXTONS:

" He did not marry this accomplished young lady ? "

" No ; but he married another, and is a widower."

" Why, he was as inconstant as my father, and I am
sure without so good an excuse. How was that ? "

" I don't know. He says nothing about it."

" Has he any children ? "

" Two, a son — By the by, you must never speak
about him. Your uncle briefly said, when I asked him
what was his family, * A girl, ma'am. I had a son,
but — '

" * He is dead,' cried your father, in his kind, pitying
voice.

" * Dead to me, brother ; and you will never mention
his name ! ' You shoidd have seen how stern your uncle
looked. I was terrified."

" But the girl, — why did not he bring her here ? "

" She is still in France, but he talks of going over for
her ; and we have half promised to visit them both in
Cumberland. But, bless me ! is that twelve ? and the
posset quite cold ! "

"One word more, dearest mother, — one word. My
father's book, — is he still going on with it ? "

" Oh yes, indeed ! " cried my mother, clasping her
hands ; " and he must read it to you, as he does to
me, — 1/ou will imderstand it so well. I have always
been so anxious that the world should know him, and
be proud of him, as we are, — so, so anxious ! For per-
haps, Sisty, if he had married that great lady he would
have roused himself, been more ambitious ; but I could
only make him happy, I could not make him great ! "

" So he has listened to you at last ? "

" To me ? " said my mother, shaking her head and smil-
ing gently. " No, rather to your Uncle Jack, who, I am
happy to say, has at length got a proper hold over him."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 85

** A proper hold, my dear mother ! Pniy ])cware of
Uncle Jack, or we shall all be swept into a cojil-mine, or
explode with a graml national conijiany for making gun-
powder out of te^-leaves ! "

" Wicked child ! " said my mother, laughing ; and then,
as she took up her candle and lingered a moment wliile 1
wound my watch, she said, musingly : "Yet Jack is very,
very clever ; and if for your sake we could make a ft)r-
tune, Sisty ! "

" You frighten me out of my wits, mutlier ! Y"ou are
not in earnest?"

"And if viy brother could be the means of raising him
in the world — "

" Your brother would l)e enough to sink all tlie ships
in the Chaimel, ma^am," saitl I, (^uite irreverently. I
was shocked before the words weni well out of niv mouth ;
and throwing my arms round my mother's neck, 1 kissed
away the pain I had inflicted.

When I was left alone and in my own little crib, in
which my slumber had ever been so soft and easy, I might
as well have been lying upon cut straw. I tossed to and
fro ; I could not sleep. I rose, threw on my ilressing-
gown, lighted my candle, and sat down by the table near
the window. First I thought of the unfinished outline
of my father's youth, so suddenly skeU^hed before me.
I filled up the missing colors, and fancied the i>icture ex-
plained all that had often perplexed my conjectures. I
comprehended, I suppose by some secret sympathy in my
own nature (for experience in mankind could have tiiuglit
me little enough), how an ardent, serious, inquiring mind,
struggUng into passion under the load of knowledge, had,
with that stimulus sadly and abruptly withdrawn, sunk
into the quiet of passive, aimless study. I comjHehended
how in the indolence of a happy l)ut unimpassioned mar-

86 THE CAXTONS:

riage, with a companion so gentle, so provident and watch-
fid, yet so little formed to rouse and task and fire an
intellect naturally calm and meditative, years upon years
had crept away in the learned idleness of a solitary
scholar. I comprehended, too, how gradually and slowly,
as my father entered that stage of middle life when all
men are most prone to ambition, the long-silenced whispers
were heard again, and the mind, at last escaping from the
listless weight which a baffled and disappointed heart had
laid upon it, saw once more, fair as in youtli, the only
true mistress of Genius, — Fame.

Oh how I sympathized, too, in my mother's gentle tri-
umph ! Looking over the past, I could see, year after
year, how she had stolen more and more into my father's
heart of hearts ; how what had been kindness had grown
into love ; how custom and habit, and the countless links
in the sweet charities of home, liad supplied that sym-
patliy with the genial man wliich had been missed at
first by the lonely scholar.

Next I thouglit of the gray, eagle-eyed old soldier, with
his ruined tower and barren acres, and saw before me his
proud, prejudiced, chivalrous boyhood gliding through tlie
ruins or poring over the mouldy pcnligree. And his son,
so disowned, — for what dark offence 1 An awe crept over
me. And his girl, — his ewe-lanib, his all, — • was she fair ?
Had she blue eyes like my mother, or a high Roman nose
and beetle brows like Captain Roland ? I mused and
mused and mused ; and the candle went out, and the
moonlight grew broader and stiller; till at last I was Siiil-
ing in a ballonn with Uncle Jack, and had just tumbled
into tlie Red Scji, when the well-known voice of Xurse
Primmius restored me to life with a "God ])less my
heart ! the boy has nut been in bed all this 'varsal
night 1 "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 87

CHAPTER IV.

As soon as I was dressed I hastened downstairs, for I
longed to revisit my old haunts, — the little plot of garden
I had sown with anemones and cresses ; the walk hy the
peach wall ; the pond wherein I had angled for roach and
perch.

Entering the hall, I discovered my Uncle Roland in a
great state of embarrassment. The maid-servant was
scrubbing the stones at the hall -door ; she was naturally
plump, — and it is astonisliing how much more plum}) a
female becomes when she is on all-fours ! The nuiid-ser-
vant, then, was scrubbing the stones, her face tunKnl from
the Captain ; and the Captain, evidently meditating a
sortie, stood ruefully gazing at the obstacle before liim
and hemming aloud. Alas, the maid-servant was deaf !
I stopped, curious to see how Uncle Roland would extri-
cate himself from the dilemma.

Finding that his hems were in vain, my uncle made
himself as small as he could, and glided close to the left
of the wall; at that instant the maid turned abruptly
round towards tlte right, and completely o])structed, by
this manoeuvre, the slight crevice through which hope
had dawned on her captive. My uncle stood stock-still,
— and, to say the truth, he could not have stirred an
inch without coming into personal contact with the
rounded charms which blocikaded his movements. My
xmcle took oif his hat and si^rati'hed his forehead in great
perplexity. Presently, by a slight turn of the flanks, the
opposing party, while leaving him an opportunity of re-

88 THE CAXTONS:

turn, entirely precluded all chance of egress in that quar-
ter. My uncle retreated in haste, and now presented
himself to the right wing of the enemy. He had scarcely
done so, when, without looking behind her, the blockad-
ing party shoved aside the pail that crippled the range
of her operations, and so placed it that it made a formid-
able barricade, wiiich mv uncle's cork lej? had no chance
of surmounting. Therewith Captain Roland lifted his
eyes appealingly to Heaven, and I heard him distinctly
ejaculate, —

" Would to Heaven she were a creature in breeches ! "

But happily at this moment the maid-servant turned
her head sharply round, and seeing the Captain, rose in
an instant, moved away the pail, and dropped a frightened
courtesy.

My Uncle Roland touched his hat. "I beg you a
thousand pardons, my good girl," said he; and, with a
half bow, he slid into the open air.

" You have a soldier's politeness, uncle," said T, tuck-
ing my arm into Captain Roland's.

" Tush, my boy," said he, smiling seriously, and color-
ing up to the temples, — " tush, say a gentleman's ! To
us, sir, every woman is a lady, in right of her sex."

Now, I had often occasion later to recall that aphorism
of my uncle's ; and it served to explain to me how a man
so prejudiced on the score of family pride never seemed
to consider it an offence in mv father to have mirrried a
woman whose pedigree wiis as brief as my dear mother's.
Had she been a Montniorenci, my uncle could not have
been more respectful and gallant than he was to that
meek descendant of the Tibbetses. He held indeed —
which I never knew any other man, vain of family, ai>
])rove or sup])ort — a doctrine deduced from the follow-
ing syllogisms : First, that birth was not valuable in itself

A FAMILY PICTURE. 89

but as a transmission of certain qualities which descent
from a race of warriors should perpetuate, — namely,
truth, courage, honor; secondly, that whereas from the
woman's side we derive our more intellectual faculties,
from the man's we derive our moral : a clever and witty
man generally has a clever and witty mother; a brave
and honorable man, a brave and honorable father, — there-
fore all the qualities which attention to race should per-
petuate are the manly qualities, traceable only from the
father's side. Again, he held that while the aristocracy
have higher and more chivalrous notions, the people gen-
erally have shrewder and livelier ideas ; therefore, to pre-
vent gentlemen from degenerating into complete dunder-
heads, an admixture with the people, provided always it
was on the female side, was not only excusable, but ex-
pedient And, finally, my uncle held that whereas a man
is a rude, coarse, sensual animal, and requires all manner
of associations to dignify and refine him, women are so
naturally susceptible of everything beautiful in sentiment
and generous in purpose, that she who is a true woman is
a fit peer for a king. Odd and preposterous notions, no
doubt, and capable of much controversy, so far as the doc-
trine of race (if that be any way tenable) is concerned ; but
then the plain fact is that my Uncle Roland was as eccentric
and contradictory a gentlemara as — as — why, as you and
I are, if we once venture to think for ourselves.

" Well, sir, and what profession are you meant for 1 "
asked my uncle. " Not the array, I fear ? "

" I have never thought of the subject, uncle."

" Thank Heaven," said Captain Roland, " we- have
never yet had a lawyer in the family, nor a stockbroker,
nor a tradesman — ahem ! "

I saw that my great ancestor the printer suddenly rose
up in that hem.

90 THE CAXTONS:

" ^liy, uncle, there are honorable men in all callings. "

** Certainly, sir. But in all callings honor is not the
first principle of action."

"But it may be, sir, if a man of honor pursue it!
There are some soldiers who have been great rascals ! "

My \u\cle looked posed, and his black brows met
thoughtfully,

**You are right, boy, I dare say," he answered,
somewhat mildly. " But do you think that it would
give me as much pleiisure to look on my old ruined tower
if I knew it had bt*eu bought by some herring-dealer, like
the first muH^t<^r of the Poles, as it does now, when I
know it wiwj given to a knight and gentleman (who traced
his descent fn»m an Anglo-Dane in the time of King
Alfreil) for services done in Aquitaine and Gascony, by
Henry the Phuitagenet ? And do you mean to tell me
tlmt 1 should have been the same man if I had not from
a boy associated that old tower with all ideas of what its
owners were and should be as knights and gentlemen?
Sir, you woidd have made a different being of me if at
the head of my pedigree you had clapped a herring-dealer,
— though, I dare say, the herring-dealer might have
been as good a man as ever the Anglo-Dane was, God
rest him ! "

" And for the same reason I suppose, sir, that you
think my father never would have been quite the same
being he is if he had not made that notable discovery
touching our descent from the great William Caxton,
the printer?"

My uncle boimded as if he had been shot, — boujided
so incautiously, considering the materials of which one
leg was composed, that he would have fallen into a straw-
berry-bed if I had not caught him by the arm.

" Why, you — you — you young jackanapes ! " cried

A FAMILY PICTURE. 91

the Captain, shaking me olf as soon as he had regained
his equilibrium. " You do not mean to inherit that in-
famous crochet my brother has got into his head 1 You
do not mean to exchange Sir WiUiam de Caxton, who
fought and fell at Bosworth, for the mechanic who sold
black-letter pamphlets in the Sanctuary at Westminster 1 "

" That depends on the evidence, uncle ! "

" No, sir ! like all noble truths, it depends upon faiik.
Men, nowadays," continued my imcle, with a look of in-
effable disgust, "actually require that truths should be
proved."

"It is a sad conceit on their part, no doubt, my dear
uncle ; but till a truth is proved, how can we know that
it is a truth?"

I thought that in that very sagacious question I had
effectually caught my uncle. Not I. He slipped through
it like an eel.

"Sir," said he, "whatever in truth makes a man's
heart warmer and his soid purer is a belief, not a knowl-
edge. Proof, sir, is a handcuff ; belief is a wing I Want
proof as to an ancestor in the reign of King Richard %
Sir, you cannot even prove to the satisfaction of a logi-
cian that you are the son of your own father. Sir, a re-
ligious man does not want to reason about his religion ;
religion is not mathematics. Religion is to be felt, not
proved. There are a great many things in the religion of
a good man which are not in the catechism. Proof ! "
continued my uncle, growing violent, — " Proof, sir, is a
low, vulgar, levelling, rascally Jacobin ; Belief is a loyal,
generous, chivalrous gentleman ! No, no ; prove what
you please, you shall never rob me of one belief that
has made me — "

" The finest-hearted creature that ever talked nonsense,"
said my father, who came up, like Horace's deity, at the

92 THE CAXTONS:

right moment. " What is it you must believe in, brother,
no matter what the proof against you."

My uncle was silent, and with great energy dug the
point of his cane into the gravel.

" He will not believe in our great ancestor the printer,"
said I, maliciously.

My father's calm brow was overcast in a moment.

" Brother," said the Captain loftily, " you have a right
to your own ideas ; but you should take care how they
contaminate your child."

" Contaminate ! " said my father, and for the first time
I saw an angry sparkle flash from his eyes ; but he
checked himself on the instant. "Change the word,
my dear brother."

" No, sir, I will not change it ! To belie the records
of the family — "

" Records ! A brass plate in a village church against
all the books of the College of Arms ! "

" To renounce your ancestor, a knight who died in the
field ! "

" For the worst cause that man ever fought for ! "

" On behalf of his king ! "

" AVho had murdered his nephews ! "

"A knight ! with our crest on his helmet."

" And no brains underneath it, or he would never have
had them knocked out for so bloody a villaiji ! "

" A rascally, drudging, money-making printer ! "

" The wise and glorious introducer of the art that has
enlightened a world ! Prefer for an ancestor, to one whom
scholar and sage never name but in homage, a worth lesvS,
obsciu'e, jolter-headed booby in mail, whose only record
to men is a brass plate in a church in a village ! "

My uncle turned round perfectly livid. " Enough,
sir ! enough ! I am insulted sufficiently. I ought to

A FAMILY PICTURE. 93

have expected it. I wish you and your son a very good
day."

My father stood aghast. The Captain was hohbling
off to the iron gate ; in another moment he would have
been out of our precincts. I ran up and hung upon him.

"Uncle, it is all my fault. Between you and me, I
am quite of your side; pray forgive us both. What
could I have been thinking of, to vex you so ? And my
father, whom your visit has made so happy ! "

My uncle paused, feeling for the latch of the gate. My
father had now come up, and ciiught his hand.

" What are all the printers that ever lived, and all the
books they ever printed, to one wrong to thine fine heart,
brother Roland ? Shame on me ! A bookman's weak
point, you know ! It is very true, I shoidd never have
taught the boy one thing to give you pain, brother Ro-
land, — though I don't remember," continued my father,
with a perplexed look, "that I ever did teach it him,
either ! Pisistratus, as you value my blessing, respect as
your ancestor Sir William de Caxton, the hero of Bos-
worth. Come, come, brother ! "

" I am an old fool," said Uncle Roland, " whichever
way we look at it. All, you young dog, you are laugh-
ing at us both ! "

"I have ordered breakfast on the lawn," said my
mother, coming out from the porch, with her cheerfid
smile on her lips ; " and I think the devil will be done
to your liking to-day, brother Roland."

" We have had enough of the devil already, my love,"
said my father, wiping his forehead.

So, while the birds sang overhead or hopped familiarly
across the sward for the crumbs thrown forth to them ;
while the sun was still cool in the east, and the leaves
yet rustled with the sweet air of morning, — we all sat

THE GAXTONS:

down to our table, with hearts as reconciled to each other,
and as peaceably disposed to thank God for the fair world
around us, as if the river had never run red through the
field of Bosworth, and the excellent Mr. Caxton had
never set all mankind by the ears with an irritating in-
vention a thousand times more provocative of our com-
bative tendencies than the blast of the trumpet and the
gleam of the banner.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 95

CHAPTER V.

"Brother," said Mr. Caxton, "I will walk with you to
the Roman encampment."

The Captain felt that this proposal was meant as the
greatest peace-ofifering my father could think of; for,
lirst, it was a very long walk, and my father detested
long walks; secondly, it was the sacrifice of a whole
day's labor at the Great Work. And yet, with that
quick sensibility which oidy the generous possess, Uncle
Roland accepted at once the proposal. If he had not
done so, my father would have had a heavier heart for
a month to come; and how could the Great Work have
got on while the author was every now and then dis-
turbed by a twinge of remorse?

Half an hour after breakfast, the brothers set off arm-
in-arm; and I followed, a little apart, admiring how
sturdily the old soldier got over the ground, in spite of
the cork leg. It was pleasant enough to listen to their
conversation, and notice the contrasts between these
two eccentric stamps from Dame Nature's ever-variable
mould, — Nature, who casts nothing in stereotype ; for
I do believe that not even two fleas can be found iden-
tically the same.

My father was not a quick or minute observer of rural
beauties. He had so little of the organ of locality that I
suspect he could have lost his way in his own garden.
But the Captain was exquisitely alive to external im-
pressions; not a feature in the landscape escaped him.
At every fantastic gnarled pollard he halted to gaze;

96 THE CAXTONS:

his eye followed the lark soaring up from his feet ; when
a fresher air came from the liill-top his nostrils dilated,
as if voluptuously to inhale its delight. My father, with
all his learning, and though his study had heen in the
stores of all language, was very rarely eloquent. The
Captain had a glow and a passion in his words which,
what with his deep, tremulous voice and animated ges-
tures, gave something poetic to half of what he uttered.
In every sentence of Roland's in every tone of his voice
and every play of his face, there was some outbreak of
pride ; but unless you set him on his hobby of that great
ancestor the printer, my father had not as much pride as
a homoeopathist could have put into a globule. He was
not proud even of not being proud ; chafe all his feathers,
and still you could rouse but the dove. My father was
slow and mild, my uncle quick and fiery ; my father rea-
soned, my uncle imagined ; my father was very seldom
wrong, my uncle never quite in the right. But, as my
father once said of him, "Roland beats about the bush
till he sends out the very bird that we went to search
for; he is never in the ^^Tong without suggesting to us
what is the right." All in my uncle was stem, rough,
and angular; all in my father was sweet, polished, and
rounded into a natural gi-ace. My uncle's cliaracter cast
out a multiplicity of shadows, like a Gothic pile in a
northern sky ; my father stood serene in the light, like
a Greek temple at mid-day in a southern clime. Their
persons corresponded with their natures. My uncle's
high aquiline features, l^ronzed hue, rapid fire of eye,
and upper lip that always quivered were a notable con-
trast to my father's delicate profile, quiet abstracted gaze,
and the steady sweetness that rested on his musing smile.
Roland's forehead was singularly high, and rose to a peak
in the summit where phrenologists place the organ of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 97

▼eneration, but it was narrow and deeply furrowed;
Augustine's might be as high, but then soft silky hair
waved carelessly over it, concealing its height but not its
vast breadth, on which not a wrinkle was visible. And
yet, withal, there was a great family likeness between the
two brothers. When some softer sentiment subdued him,
Roland caught the very look of Augustine ; when some
high emotion animated my father, you might have taken
him for Roland. I have often thought since, in the
greater experience of mankind which life has afforded
me, that if in early years their destinies had been ex-
changed, — if Roland had taken to literature, and my
father had been forced into action, — each would have
had greater worldly success. For Roland's passion and
energy would have given immediate and forcible effect to
study, — he might have been a historian or a poet ; for it
is not study alone that produces a writer, it is inUnsity :
in the mind, as in yonder chimney, to make the fire bum
hot and quick you must narrow the draught. Whereas,
had my father been forced into the practical world, his
calm depth of comprehension, his clearness of reason, his
general accuracy in such notions as he once entertained
and pondered over, joined to a temper that crosses and
losses could never ruffle, and utter freedom from vanity
and self-love, from prejudice and passion, might have
made him a very wise and enlightened counsellor in the
great affairs of life, — a lawyer, a diplomatist, a states-
man, for what I know even a great general, if his tender
humanity had not stood in the way of his military mathe-
matics. But as it was, — with his slow pulse never stimu-
lated by action, and too little stirred by even scholarly
ambition, — my father's mind went on widening and
widening, till the circle was lost in the great ocean of
contemplation; and Roland's passionate energy, fretted

VOL I. — 7

98 THE CAXTONS:

into fever by every let and hindrance in the struggle with
his kind, and narrowed more and more as it was curbed
within the channels of active discipline and duty, missed
its due career altogether, and what might have been the
poet contracted into the humorist.

Yet who that had ever known ye, coidd have wished
you other than ye were, ye guileless, affectionate, honest,
simple creatures 1 — simple both, in spite of all the learn-
ing of the one, all the prejudices, whims, irritabilities,
and crochets of the other. There you are, seated on the
height of the old Roman camp, with a volume of the
Stratagems of Polyoenus (or is it Frontinus ? ) open on my
father's lap ; the sheep grazing in the furrows of the cir-
cumvallations ; the curious steer gazing at you where it
halts in the space whence the Roman cohorts glittered
forth ; and your boy-biographer standing behind you with
folded arms, and — as the scholar read, or the soldier
pointed his cane to each fancied post in the war — filling
up the pastoral landscape with the eagles of Agricola and
the scythed cars of Boadicea !

A FAMILY PIGTURS. 99

CHAPTER VL

" It is never the same two hours together in this country,**
said my Uncle Roland, as, after dinner, or rather after
dessert) we joined my mother in the drawing-room.

Indeed, a cold, drizzling rain had come on within the
last two hours ; and though it was July, it was as chilly
as if it had been October. My mother whispered to me,
and I went out ; in ten minutes more, the logs (for we
live in a wooded country) blazed merrily in the grate.
Why could not my mother have rung the bell and or-
dered the servant to light a fire ? My dear reader, Cap-
tain Roland was poor, and he made a capital virtue of
economy !

The two brothers drew their chairs near to the hearth,
my father at the left, my uncle at the right ; and I and
my mother sat down to " Fox and Geese." Coffee came
in, — one cup for the Captain, for the rest of the party
avoided that exciting beverage ; and on that cup was a
picture of — his Grace the Duke of Wellington ! Dur-
ing our visit to the Roman camp my mother had bor-
rowed Mr. Squills's chaise and driven over to our
market-town, for the express purpose of greeting the
Captain's eyes with the face of his old chief. My uncle
changed color, rose, lifted my mother's hand to his lips,
and sat himself down again in silence.

" I have heard," said the Captain after a pause, " that
the Marquis of Hastings, who is every inch a soldier and
a gentleman, — and that is saying not a little, for he
measures seventy-five inches from the crown to the sole.

100 THE CAXTONS:

— when he received Louis XVIII. (then an exile) at
Donnington, fitted up his apartments exactly like those
his Majesty had occupied at the Tuileries. It was a
kingly attention (my Lord Hastings, you know, is sprung
from the Plantagenets), — a kingly attention to a king.
It cost some money and made some noise. A woman can
show the same royal delicacy of heart in this bit of porce-
lain, and so quietly that we men all think it a matter of
course, brother Austin."

" You are such a worshipper of women, Roland, that it is
melancholy to see you single. You must marry again ! "

My uncle first smiled, then frowned, and lastly sighed
somewhat heavily.

" Your time will pass slowly in your old tower, poor
brother," continued my father, " with only your little girl
for a companion."

" And the past ! " said my uncle ; " the past, that
mighty world — "

" Do you still read your old books of chivalry, — Frois-
sart and the Chronicles, Palmerin of England, and Amadis
of Gaul ? "

" Why," said my uncle, reddening, " I have tried to
improve myself with studies a little more substantial.
And," he added with a sly smile, " there will be your
great book for many a long winter to come."

" Um ! " said my father, bashfully.

" Do you know," quoth my uncle, " that Dame Prim-
mins is a very intelligent woman, — full of fancy, and a
capital story-teller 1 "

" Is not she, uncle ? " cried I, leaving my fox in the
corner. " Oh, if you could hear her tell the tale of King
Arthur and the Enchanted Lake, or the Grim White
Woman ! "

" I have already heard her tell both," said my uncle.

A FAMILY PICt^JKE. 101

•* The deuce you have, brother I My clear, we raust
look to this. These captains are dangerous gentlemen
in an orderly household. Pray, where could you have
had the opportunity of such private communications with
Mrs. Primmins ? "

" Once," said my uncle, readily, " when I went into
her room, while she mended my stock ; and once — " Ho
stopped short, and looked do^vn.

" Once when ? Out with it ! "

" When she was warming my bed," said my uncle, in a
half-whisper.

" Dear ! ** said my mother, innocently, " that 's how the
sheets came by that bad hole in the middle ! I thouglit
it was the warming-pan."

" I am quite shocked ! " faltered my uncle.

"You well may be," said my father. "A woman who
has been heretofore above all suspicion ! But come,"
he said, seeing that my imcle looked sad, and was no
doubt casting up the probable price of twice six yards of
hoUand, — " but come, you were always a famous rhapso-
dist or tale-teller yourself. Come, Koland, let us have
some story of your own, — something which your experi-
ence has left strong in your impressions."

" Let us first have the candles," said my mother.

The candles were brought, the curtains let down ; we
all drew our chairs to the hearth. But in the interval
my uncle had sunk into a gloomy revery ; and when we
called upon him to begin, he seemed to shake off with
effort some recollections of pain.

" You ask me," he said, " to tell you some tale which
my own experience has left deeply marked in my im-
pressions, — I will tell you one, apart from my own life,
but which has often haunted me. It is sad and strange,
ma'am."

102

»•• •• ••

• • •

iUZ . -•• • . .THE CAXTONS;

^. .•• •, **.Ma*aln, brother?*' said my mother, reproachfully, let-
'•;*, ••*.*• fedg her small hand drop upon that which, large and sun-
burnt) the Captain waved towards her as he spoke.

" Austin, you have married an angel ! " said my uncle,
and he was, I believe, the only brother-in-law who ever
made so hazardous an assertion.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 103

CHAPTER VIL

MT UNCLB Roland's talk.

** It was in Spain — no matter where or how — that it

was my fortune to take prisoner a French officer of tlie

same rank that I then held, — a lieutenant ; and tliere

-was so much similarity in our sentiments tliat we Ix^came

intimate friends, — the most intimate friend I ever had,

sister, out of this dear circle. He was a rougli soldier,

whom the world had not well treated ; but he never

railed at the world, and maintained tliat he had had his

deserts. Honor was his idol, and the sense of honor ]mi(l

him for the loss of all else.

" We were both at that time volunteers in a foreign
service, — in that worst of service, civil war ; he on one
side, I on the other, both perliai)s disiipi)ointed in tlie
cause we had severally espoused. There was something
similar, too, in our domestic relationships. He had a son
— a boy — who was all in life to him, next to liis coun-
try and his duty. I too had then such a son, thougli of
fewer years.'*

The Captain paused an instant; we exchanged glances,
and a stifling sensation of jmin and suspense was felt by
all his listeners.

"We were accustomed, brother, to talk of tliese chil-
dren, to picture their future, to compare our hopes and
dreams. We hoped and dreamed alike. A short time
sufficed to establish this confidence. My j)risoner was
sent to headquarters, and soon afterwards exchangcid.

104 THE CAXTONS:

** We met no more till last year. Being then at Paris,
I inquired for my old friend, and learned that he was liv-
ing at R y a few miles from the capital I went to

visit him. I found his house empty and deserted. That
very day he had been led to prison, charged with a ter-
rible crime. I saw him in that prison, and from his own
lips learned his story. His son had been brought up, as
he fondly believed, in the habits and principles of honor-
able men, and having finished his education, came to re-
side with him at R . The young man was accustomed

to go frequently to Paris. A young Frenchman loves
pleasure, sister; and pleasure is found at Paris. Tlie
father thought it natural, and stripped his age of some
comforts to supply luxuries to the son's youth.

" Shortly after the young man's arrival, my friend per-
ceived that he was robbed. Moneys kept in his bureau
were abstracted, he knew not how, nor could guess by
whom. It must be done in the night. He concealed
himself and watched. He saw a stealtliy figure glide in ;
he saw a false key applied to tlie lock. He stiirted for-
ward, seized tlie felon, and recognized his son. What
should the father have done ? I do not ask i/ou, sister !
I ask these men : son and fatlier, I ask you."

" Expelled him the house," cried I.

" Done his duty, and reformed the unliappy wretch,"
said my father. " jVemo repente turpissimus semper fait,
— No man is wholly bad all at once."

" The father did as you would have advised, brother.
He kept the youth ; he remonstrated with him : he did
more, — he gave him the key of the bureau. * Take what
I have to give,' said he ; * I would rather be a beggar than
know my son a thief.' "

" Right ! And the youth repented, and became a good
man ? " exclaimed my father.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 105

Captain Roland shook his head. "The youth pro-
mised amendment, and seemed penitent. Ho si>oke of
the temptations of Paris, the gammg-table, and what not.
He gave up his daily visits to the capital. He seemed to
apply to study. Shortly after this, the neighlHtrhoodwas
alarmed by reports of night rol)beries on the road. Men,
masked and armed, plundered travellers, and even broke
into houses.

"The police were on the alert. One night an old
brother officer knocked at my friend's door. It was
late ; the veteran (he was a cripple, by the way, like my-
self, — strange coincidence ! ) was in bed. He came down
in haste when his servant woke and told liim that his old
friend, woimded and bleeding, sought an a<<ylum imder
his roof. The wound, however, was slight. The guest
had been attacked and robbed on the road. The next
morning the proper authority of the town was sent for.
The plundered man described his loss, — some billets of
five hundred francs in a pocketbook, on which was em-
broidered his name and coronet (he was a vicomt(i). Tlie
guest stayed to dinner. Late in the forenoon the son
looked in. The guest started to see him ; my friend no-
ticed his paleness. Shortly after, on pretence of faint-
ness, the guest retired to his room, and sent for his host.
* My friend,' said he, * can you do me a favor ? Go to the
magistrate and recall the evidence I have given.'

" * Impossible ! ' said the host. * What crotchet is
this?'

** The guest shuddered. * Pesie ! ' said he, * I do not
wish in my old age to be hard on others. IMio knows
how the robber may have been tempted, and who knows
what relations he may have, — honest men, whom his
crime woidd degrade forever ! Good heavens ! if de-
tected, it is the galleys, the galleys ! '

106 THE CAXTONS:

" * And what then ? The robber knew what he braved.'

" * But did his father know it ? ' cried the guest.

" A light broke upon my unhappy comrade in arms ;
he caught his friend by the hand : * You turned pale at
my son's sight, — where did you ever see him before?
Speak ! '

" * Last night on tlie road to Paris. The mask slipped
aside. Call back my evidence ! '

" * You are mistaken,' said my friend, calmly. * I saw
my son in his bed, and blessed him before I went to my
own.'

" * I will believe you,' said the guest ; * and never sliall my
hasty suspicion pass my lips, — but call back the evidence.'

" The guest returned to Paris before dusk. The father
conversed with his son on the subject of his studies ; he
followed him to his room, waited till he was in bed, and
was then about to retire, when the youth said, * Father,
you have forgotten your blessing/

" The fatlier went back, laid his hand on tlie boy's
head and prayed. He was credulous — fathers are so !
He was persuaded that his friend liad Ixnm deceived.
He retired to rest, and fell asleep. He woke suddenly
in the middle of the night, and felt, — I here quote his
words : * I felt,' said he, * as if a voice had awakened me,
— a voice that said, " Rise and search ! " I rose at once,
struck a light, and went to my son's room. The door was
locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice : no answer. I
dared not call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I
went down the stairs, I opened the back-door, I ])asscd to
the stiibles. My own horse Wiis there, not my son's. My
horse neiglied ; it was old, like myself, — my old charger
at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow
of the wall by my son's door, and extinguislied my liglit
I felt as if 1 were a tliief myself.' "

A FAMILY PICTUKE. 107

" Brother," interrupted my mother, under her breath,
" speak in your own words, not in this wretched father's.
I know not why, but it would shock me less."

The Captain nodded.

" Before daybreak, my friend heard the back-door open
gently ; a foot ascended the stair, a key grated in the door
of the room close at hand : the father glided through the
dark into that chamber beliind his unseen son. He heard
the clink of the tinder-box ; a light was struck ; it spread
over the room, but he had time to j)lace himself behind
the window-curtain which was close at hand.

The figure before him stood a moment or so motion-
less, and seemed to listen, for it turned to the right, to the
left, its visage covered with the black hideous mask which
is worn in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed.
Could that be his son's face, — the son of a brave man ?
It was pale and ghastly with scoundrel fears ; the base
drops stood on the brow ; the eye was haggard and blood-
shot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands
before him.

" The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the sea'etaire,
unlocked it, opened a secret drawer, placed within it the
contents of his pockets and his frightful mask. Tlie
father approached softly, looked over his shoulder, and
saw in the drawer the pocketbook embroidered with his
friend's name. Meanwhile the son took out his pistols,
uncocked them cautiously, and was about also to secrete
them, when his father arrested his arm : * Robber, the
use of these is yet to come ! '

" The son's knees knocked together ; an exclamation
for mercy burst from his lips. But when, recovering the
mere shock of his dastard nerves, he perceived it was not
the gripe of some hireling of the law, but a father's hand
that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knows

108 THE CAXTONS :

fear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame,
returned to him.

" * Tush, sir ! * he said, * waste not time in reproaches,
for, I fear, the gendarmes are on my track. It is well
that you are here ; you can swear that I have spent the
night at home. Unhand me, old man ! I have these wit-
nesses still to secrete,' and he pointed to the garments
wet and bedabbled with the mud of the roads. He had
scarcely spoken when the walls shook ; there was the
heavy clatter of hoofs on the ringing pavement without.

" * They come ! ' cried the son. * Off, dotard ! save
your son from the galleys ! '

" * The galleys, the galleys ! * said the father, stagger-
ing back ; * it is true ; he said — " the galleys ! " '

" There was a loud knocking at the gate. The gen-
darmes surrounded the house. *Open, in the name of
the law ! ' No answer came, no door was opened. Some
of the geudavfties roi^le to the rear of the house, in which
was j)laced the stiible-yard. From the window of the
son's room the fatlier saw the sudden blaze of torches,
the shadowy forms of the men-hunters. He heard the
clatter of arms as they swung themselves from their
horses ; he heard a voice cry, * Yes, this is the robber's
gray horse, — see, it still reeks with sweat ! ' And be-
hind and in front, at either door, again came the knock-
ing, and again the shout, * Open, in the name of the law ! '
Tlien lights began to gleam from the c^isements of the
neighboring houses ; then tlie s[)ace filled rapidly with
curious wonderers stiu'tled fr«Mn their sleep : the world
was astir, and the crowd came roimd to know what crime
or what shame had entered the old soldier's home.

" Suddenly, within, there was heard the report of a
firearm ; and a minute or so afterwards tlie front door
was opened, and the soldier appeared.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 109

" * Enter/ he said to the gendarmes : * what would

your

" * We seek a robber who is within your walls.'

" * I know it ; mount and find him : I will lead the
way.'

"He ascended the stairs; he threw open his son's
room : the officers of justice poured in, and on tlie floor
lay the robber's corpse. They looked at each other in
amazement.

" * Take what is left you,' said the father. * Take the
dead man rescued from the galleys ; take the living man
on whose hands rests tlie dead man 's blood ! '

" I was present at my friend's trial. The facts had be-
come known beforehand. He stood there with his gray
hair and his mutilated limbs and the deep scar on his
visage and the Cross of the Legion of Honor on his breast ;
and when he had told his tale he ended with these words :
* I have saved the son whom I reared for France from a
doom that would have spared the life to brand it with
disgrace. Is this a crime ? I give you my life in ex-
change for my son's disgrace. Does my country need a
victim? I have lived for my country's glory, and I can
die contented to satisfy its laws, sure that if you blame
me you will not despise, sure that the hands that give
me to the headsman will scatter flowers over my grave.
Thus I confess all. I, a soldier, look round amongst a
nation of soldiers; and in the name of the star which
glitters on my breast I dare the fathers of France to
condemn me ! '

"They acquitted the soldier, — at least they gave a
verdict answering to what in our courts is called * justifi-
able homicide.' A shout rose in the court which no cere-
monial voice could still ; the crowd would have borne liim
in triumph to his house, but his look repelled such vani-

THE CAXTONS:

ties. To his house he returned indeed; and the day
afterwards they found him dead beside the cradle in
which his first prayer had been breathed over his sinless
child.

" Now, father and son, I ask you, do you condemn that
man?"

A FAMILY PICTURE. Ill

CHAPTER Vm.

My father took three strides up and down the room, and
then, halting on his hearth, and facing his brother, he
thus spoke : —

" I condemn his deed, Roland ! At best he was but a
haughty egotist. I understand why Brutus should slay
his sons, — by that sacrifice he saved his country ! What
did this poor dupe of an exaggeration save ! Nothing but
his own name. He could not lift the crime from his son's
soul, nor the dishonor from his son's memory, — he could
but gratify his own vain pride; and insensibly to him-
self his act was whispered to him by the fiend that ever
whispers to the heart of man, * Dread men's opinions more
than God's law ! ' Oh, my dear brother I what minds
like yours should guard against the most is not the mean-
ness of evil, — it is the evil that takes false nobility, by
garbing itself in tlie royal magnificence of good."

My imcle walked to the window, opened it, looked out
a moment, as if to draw in fresh air, closed it gently, and
came back again to his seat ; but during the short time
the window had been left open, a moth flew in.

"Tales like these," renewed my father, pityingly,
"whether told by some great tragedian, or in thy sim-
ple style, my brother, — tales like these have their uses :
they penetrate the heart to make it wiser ; but all wisdom
is meek, my Roland. They invite us to put the question
to ourselves that thou hast asked, * Can we condemn this
man ? ' and reason answers as I have answered, * We pity
the man, we condemn the deed.' We — take care, my

112 THE CAXTONS:

love 1 that moth will be in the candle. We — whish I
whish! " and my father stopped to drive away the moth.

My uncle turned, and taking his handkerchief from
the lower part of his face, of which he had wished to
conceal the workings, he flapped away the moth from
the flame. My mother moved the candles from the
moth. I tried to catch the moth in my father^s straw-
hat The deuce was in the moth ! it baffled us all, now
circling against the ceiling, now sweeping down at the
fatal lights. As if by a simultaneous impulse, my father
approached one candle, my uncle approached the other ;
and just as the moth was wheeling round and round,
irresolute which to choose for its funeral pyre, both can-
dles were put out. The fire had burned down low in the
grate, and in the sudden dimness my father's soft, sweet
voice came forth, as if from an invisible beuig : —

" We leave ourselves in the dark to save a moth from
the flame, brother ! Shall we do less for our fellow-men ?
Extinguish, oh humanely extinguish, the light of our rea-
son when the darkness more favors our mercy."

Before the lights were relit, my uncle had left the
room ; his brother followed him. My mother and I
drew near to each other and talked in whispers.

PART FOURTH.

CHA1>TER I.

I WAS always an early riser. Happy the man who is!
Every morning, day comes to him with a virgin's love,
full of bloom and purity and freshness. The youth of
Nature is contagious, like the gladness of a happy child.
I doubt if any man can be called " old " so long as he is
an eariy riser and an early loalker. And oh, youth ! —
take my word of it — youth in dressing-gown and slip-
pers, dawdling over breakfast at noon, is a very decrepit,
ghastly image of that youth which sees the sun blush
over the mountains, and the dews sparkle upon blossom-
ing hedgerows.

Passing by my father's study, I was surprised to see
the windows unclosed; surprised more, on looking in,
to see him bending over his books, — for I had never
before known him study till after the morning meal.
Students are not usually eariy risers ; for students, alas !
whatever their age, are rarely young. Yes, the Great
Book must be getting on in serious earnest. It was no
longer dalliance with learning ; this was work.

I passed through the gates into the road. A few of
the cottages were giving signs of returning life, but it
was not yet the hour for labor, and no " Good morning,
sir," greeted me on the road. Suddenly at a turn, which
an over-hanging beech-tree had before concealed, I came
full upon my Uncle Roland.

VOL. I. — 8

114 THE GAXTOKS:

"What! you, sirt So early? Hark, the dock is
strikiiig five 1"

*^ Not later 1 I have walked well for a lame man. It
must be more than four miles to and back."

** You have been to ? Not on business ? No soul

would be up."

" Yes, at inns there is always some one up. Hostlers
never sleep I I have been to order my humble chaise
and pair. I leave you to-day, nephew."

** Ah, uncle, we have offended you ! It was my folly,
that cursed print — "

** Pooh 1 " said my uncle, quickly. " Offended me, boy f
I defy you 1 " and he pressed my hand roughly.

'' Yet this sudden determination ! It was but yester-
day, at the Roman Gamp, that you planned an excursion
with my father, to C Castle."

" Never depend upon a whimsical man. I must be in
London to-night."

" And return to-morrow 1 "

" I know not when," said my uncle, gloomily ; and he
was silent for some moments. At length, leaning less
lightly on my arm, he continued: "Young man, you
have pleased me. I love that open, saucy brow of yours,
on which Nature has written ' Trust me.' I love those
clear eyes that look one manfully in the face. I must
know more of you — much of you. You must come and
see me some day or other in joxa ancestors' ruined keep."

" Come ! that I will. And you shall show me the old
tower — "

" And the traces of the outworks 1 " cried my uncle,
flourishing his stick.

" And the pedigree — "

" Ay, and joxa great-great-grandfather's armor, which
he wore at Marston Moor — "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 115

" Yes, and the brass plate in the church, uncle."

" The deuce is in the boy ! Come here, come here :
I 've three minds to break your head, sir 1 "

"It is a pity somebody had not broken the rascally
printer's, before he had the impudence to disgrace us by
having a family, uncle."

Captain Roland tried hard to frown, but he could not.
" Pshaw ! " said he, stopping, and taking snuff. " The
world of the dead is wide ; why should the ghosts jos-
tle us?"

" We can never escape the ghosts, uncle. They haunt
us always. We cannot think or act, but the soul of some
man who has lived before points the way. The dead
never die, especially since — "

" Since what, boy ? You speak welL"

" Since our great ancestor introduced printing," said I,
majestically.

My uncle whistled " Malbrouk s'en va-t-en guerre."

I had not the heart to plague him further.

" Peace I " said I, creeping cautiously within the circle
of the stick.

" No I I forewarn you — "

" Peace ! and describe to me my little cousin, your
pretty daughter, — for pretty I am sure she is."

"Peace," said my uncle, smiling. "But you must
come and judge for yourself."

116 THE CAXTONS.

CHAPTER 11.

Uncle Roland was gone. Before he went he was
closeted for an hour with my father, who then accom-
panied him to the gate ; and we all crowded round him
as he stepped into his chaise. When the Captain was
gone, I tried to sound my father as to the cause of so
sudden a departure ; but my father was impenetrable in
all that related to his brother's secrets. Whether or not
the Captain had ever confided to him the cause of his dis-
pleasure with his son, — a mystery which much haunted
me, — my father was mute on that score both to my
mother and myself. For two or three days, however,
Mr. Caxton was evidently unsettled. He did not even
take to his Great Work, but walked much alone, or ac-
companied only by the duck, and without even a book in
his hand. But by degrees the scholarly habits returned
to him ; my mother mended his pens, and the work
went on.

For my part, left much to myself, especially in the
morning, I began to muse restlessly over the future.
Ungrateful that I was, the happiness of home ceased
to content me. I heard afar the roar of the great world,
and roved impatient by the shore.

At lengtli one evening my father, with some modest
hums and ha's, and an una flee ted blush on liis fair fore-
head, gratified a prayer frequently urged on him, and read
me some portions of the Great Work.

I cannot express the feelings this lecture created, —
they were something akin to awe ; for the design of this

A FAMILY PICTURE. 117

book was so immense, and towards its execution a learn-
ing so vast and various had administered, that it seemed
to me as if a spirit had opened to me a new world, which
had always been before my feet, but which my own hu-
man blindness had hitherto concealed from me. The un-
speakable patience with which all these materials had
been collected, year after year ; the ease with which now,
by the calm power of genius, they seemed of themselves
to fall into harmony and system ; tlie unconscious humil-
ity with which the scholar exposed the stores of a labor-
ous life, — all combined to rebuke my own restlessness
and ambition, while they filled me with a pride in my
father which saved my wounded egotism from a pang.
Here, indeed, was one of tliose books which embrace an
existence; like the Dictionary of Bayle, or the History
of Gibbon, or the •' Fasti Hcllenici " of Clinton, it was
a book to which thousands of books had contributed,
only to make the originality of the single mind more
bold and clear. Into the furnace all vessels of gold of
all ages had been cast ; but from the mould came the
new coin, with its single stamp. And, happily, the sub-
ject of the work did not forbid to the writer the indul-
gence of his na'ivef peculiar irony of humor, so quiet, yet
so profound. My father's book was the " History of
Human Error." It was, therefore, the moral history of
mankind, told with truth and earnestness, yet with an
arch, unmalignant smile. Sometimes, indeed, the smile
drew tears. But in all true humor lies its germ, pathos.

Oh, by the goddess Moria, or Folly, but he was at
home in his theme ! He viewed man first in the savage
state, preferring in tliis the positive accounts of voyagers
and travellers to the vague myths of antiquity and the
dreams of speculators on our pristine state. From Aus-
tralia and Abyssinia he drew pictures of mortality un-

118 THE CAXTONS:

adorned, as lively as if he had lived amongst Bushmen
and savages all his life. Then he crossed over the At-
lantic, and brought before you the American Indian,
with his noble nature, struggling into the dawn of civil-
ization, when Friend Penn cheated him out of his birth-
right, and the Anglo-Saxon drove him back into darkness.
He showed both analogy and contrast between this speci-
men of our kind and others equally apart from the ex-
tremes of the savage state and the cultured, — the Arab
in his tent, the Teuton in his forests, the Greenlander in
his boat, the Finn in his reindeer car. Up sprang the
rude gods of the North and the resuscitated Druidism,
passing from its earliest templeless belief into the later cor-
ruptions of crommell and idoL Up sprang, by tjieir side,
the Saturn of the Phoenicians, the mystic Budh of India,
the elementary deities of the Pelasgian, the Naith and
Serapis of Egypt, the Orrauzd of Persia, the Bel of Baby-
lon, the winged genii of the graceful Etruria. How na-
ture and life shaped the religion ; how the religion shaped
the manners; how, and by what influences, some tribes
were formed for progress ; how others were destined to
remain stationary, or be swallowed up in war and slavery
by their brethren, — was told with a precision clear and
strong as the voice of Fate.

Not only an antiquarian and philologist, but an anato-
mist and philosopher, my father brought to bear on all
these grave points the various speculations involved in
the distinction of races. He showed how race in per-
fection is produced, up to a certain point, by admixture ;
how all mixed races have been the most intelligent ; how
in proportion as local circumstance and religious faith per-
mitted the early fusion of different tribes, races improved
and quickened into the refinements of civilization. He
tracked the progress and dispersion of the Hellenes from

A FAMILY PICTURE. 119

their mythical cradle in Thessaly, and showed how those
who settled near the sea-shores, and were compelled into
commerce and intercourse with strangers, gave to Greece
her marvellous accomplishments in arts and letters, — the
flowers of the ancient world ; how others, like the Spar-
tans, dwelling evermore in a camp, on guard against their
neighbors, and rigidly preserving their Dorian purity of
extraction, contributed neither artists, nor poets, nor phi-
losophers to the golden treasure-house of mind. He took
the old race of the Celts, Cimry, or Cimmerians. He
compared the Celt who as in Wales, the Scotch High-
lands, in Bretagne, and in uncomprehended Ireland re-
tains his old characteristics and purity of breed, with the
Celt whose blood, mixed by a thousand channels, dictates
from Paris the manners and revolutions of the world.
He compared the Norman, in his ancient Scandinavian
home, with that wonder of intelligence and chivalry into
which he grew, fused imperceptibly with the Frank, the
Goth, and the Anglo-Saxon. He compared the Saxon,
stationary in the land of Horsa, with the colonist and
civilizer of the globe as he becomes when he knows not
through what channels — French, Flemish, Danish, Welsh,
Scotch, and Irish — he draws his sanguine blood. And
out from all these speculations, to which I do such hur-
ried and scanty justice, he drew the blessed truth that
carries hope to the land of the Caffre, the hut of the
Bushman, that there is nothing in the flattened skull and
the ebon aspect that rejects God's law, — improvement ;
that by the same principle which raises the dog, the low-
est of the animals in its savage state, to the highest after
man, — namely, admixture of race, — you can elevate
into nations of majesty arid power the outcasts of hu-
manity, now your compassion or your scorn.

But when my father got into the marrow of his theme ;

120 THE CAXTONS:

when, quitting these preliminary discussions, he fell pounce
amongst the would-be wisdom of the wise ; when he dealt
with civilization itself, its schools and porticos and acade-
mies ; when he bared the absurdities couched beneath the
colleges of the Egyptians and the Symposia of the Greeks ;
when he showed that even in their own favorite pursuit
of metaphysics the Greeks were children, and in their
own more practical region of politics the Romans were
visionaries and bunglers ; when, following the stream of
error through the Middle Ages, he quoted the puerilities
of Agrippa, the crudities of Cardan, and piissed, with
his calm smile, into the salons of the chattering wits
of Paris in the eighteenth century, — oh ! then his irony
was that of Lucian, sweetened by the gentle spirit of
Erasmus. For not even here was my father's satire of
the cheerless and Mephistophelian school. From this
record of error he drew forth the grand eras of truth.
He showed how earnest men never think in vain, though
their thoughts may l)e errors. He proved how in vast
cycles, age after age, the human mind marches on like
the ocean, receding here, but there advancing ; how from
the speculations of the Greek sprang all true philosopliy ;
how from the institutions of the Roman rose all durable
systems of government ; how from the robust follies of
the North came the glory of chivalry and the modern
delicacies of honor and the sweet, harmonizing influences
of woman. He tracked the ancestry of our Sidneys and
Bayanls from the Hengist^ Genserics, and Attilas. Full
of all curious and cpiaint anecdote, of original illustration,
of those niceties of learning which spring from a taste
cultivated to the last exquisite polish, the book amused
and allured and charmed ; and erudition lost its pedan-
try, now in the simplicity of Montaigne, now in the i)ene-
tration of La Bruy6re. He lived in each time of which

A FAMILY PICTURE.

121

he wrote, and the time lived again in him. Ah ! what
a writer of romances he would have been if — if what ?
If he had had as sad an experience of men's passions as
he had the happy intuition into their humors. But he
who would see the mirror of the shore must look where
it is cast on the river, not the ocean. The narrow stream
reflects the gnaried tree and the pausing herd and the
village spire and the romance of the landscape. But the
sea reflects only the vast outline of the headland and
the lights of the eternal heaven.

122 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER III.

"It is Lombard Street. to a China orange," quoth Uncle
Jack.

"Are the odds in favor of fame against failure so
great? You do not speak, I fear, from experience,
brother Jack," answered my father, as he stooped down
to tickle the duck under the left ear.

"But Jack Tibbets is not Augustine Caxton. Jack
Tibbets is not a scholar, a genius, a wond — "

" Stop ! " cried my father.

"After all," said Mr. Squills, "though I am no flatterer,
Mr. Tibbets is not so far out. That part of your liook
which compares the crania or skulls of the different races
is superb. Lawrence or Dr. Prichard coidd not have
done the thing more neatly. Such a book must not be
lost to the world ; and I agree with Mr. Tibbets that you
should publish as soon as possible."

" It is one thing to write, and another to publish," said
my father, irresolutely. " When one considers all the
great men who have published ; when one thinks one is
going to intrude one's self audaciously into the company
of Aristotle and Bacon, of Locke, of Herder, of all the
grave philosophers who bend over Nature with brows
weighty with thought, — one may well pause and — "

" Pooh ! " interrupted Uncle Jack, " science is not a
club, it is an ocean ; it is open to the cock-boat as the
frigate. One man carries across it a freightage of ingots,
another may fish there for herrings. Who can exhaust

A FAMILY PICTURE. 123

the sea, who say to Intellect, * The deeps ol philosophy
are preoccupied ' 1 "

" Admirable ! " cried Squills.

"So it is really your advice, my friends," said my
father, who seemed struck by Uncle Jack's eloquent
illustrations, "that I should desert my household gods,
remove to London, since my own library ceases to supply
my wants, take lodgings near the British Museum, and
finish oflf one volume, at least, incontinently?"

"It is a duty you owe to your country," said Uncle
Jack, solemnly.

" And to yourself," urged Squills. " One must attend
to the natural evacuations of the brain. Ah ! you may
smile, sir, but I have observed that if a man has much
in his head he must give it vent, or it oppresses him ; the
whole system goes wrong. From being abstracted, he
grows stupefied. The weight of the pressure afiects the
nerves. I would not even guarantee you from a stroke
of paralysis."

" Oh, Austin ! " cried my mother, tenderly, throwing
her arms round my father's neck."

" Come, sir, you are conquered," said I.

"And what is to become of you, Sisty?" asked my
father. "Do you go with us, and unsettle your mind
for the university?"

" My imcle has invited me to his castle ; and in the
mean while I will stay here, fag hard, and take care oi
the duck."

" All alone ? " said my mother.

" No. All alone ! Why, Uncle Jack will come here
as often as ever, I hope."

Uncle Jack shook his head.

"No, my boy, I must go to town with your father.
You don't understand these things. I shall see the

124 THE CAXTONS:

booksellers for him. I know how these gentlemen are
to be dealt with. I shall prepare the literary circles for
the appearance of the book. In short, it is a sacrifice of
interest, I know; my Journal will suffer. But friend-
ship and my country's good before all things."

" Dear Jack ! " said my mother, affectionately.

" I cannot suffer it," cried my father. " You are mak-
ing a good income. You are doing well where you are ;
and as to seeing the booksellers, — why, when the work
is ready, you can come to town for a week, and settle
that affair."

" Poor, dear Austin ! " said Uncle Jack, with an air of
superiority and compassion. " A week ! Sir, the advent
of a book that is to succeed requires the preparation of
months. Pshaw ! I am no genius, but I am a practical
man. I know what 's what. Leave me alone."

But my father continued obstinate, and Uncle Jack at
last ceased to urge the matter. The journey to fame and
London was now settled, but my father would not hear
of my staying behind. No, Pisistratus must needs go
also to town and see the world; the duck could take
care of itself.

A FAMILY PICTUBE. 125

CHAPTER TV.

Wk had taken the precaution to send, the day before, to
secure our due complement of places — four in all, in-
cluding one for Mrs. Primmins — in, or upon, the fast
family coach called the " Sun," which had lately been set
up for the special convenience of the neighborhood.

This luminary, rising in a town about seven miles dis-
tant from us, described at first a very erratic orbit amidst
the contiguous villages before it finally struck into the
high-road of enlightenment, and thence performed its
journey, in the full eyes of man, at the majestic pace of
six miles and a half an hour. My father with his pockets
full of books, and a quarto of " Gebelin on the Primitive
World," for light reading, under his arm; my motiier
with a little basket containing sandwiches, and biscuits
of her own baking ; Mrs. Primmins, with a new umbrella
purchased for the occasion, and a bird-cage containing a
canary endeared to her not more by song than age, and
a severe pip through which she had successfully nursed
it ; and I myself, — waited at the gates to welcome the
celestial visitor. The gardener, with a wheel-barrow full
of boxes and portmanteaus, stood a little in the van ; and
the footman, who was to follow when lodgings had been
found, had gone to a rising eminence to watch the dawn-
ing of the expected Sun, and apprise us of its approach
by the concerted signal of a handkerchief fixed to a
stick.

The quaint old house looked at us mournfully from all
its deserted windows. The litter before its threshold

126 THE CAXT0N8:

and in its open hall; wisps of straw or hay that had
been used for packing ; baskets and boxes that had been
examined and rejected ; others, corded and piled, reserved
to foUow with the footman ; and the two heated and hur-
ried serving-women left behind, standing halfway between
house and garden-gate, whispering to each other, and look-
ing as if they had not slept for weeks, — gave to a scene,
usually so trim and orderly, an aspect of pathetic abandon-
ment and desolation. The Genius of the place seemed to
reproach us. I felt the omens were against us, and turned
my earnest gaze from the haunts behind with a sigh, as
the coach now drew up with all its grandeur. An im-
portant personage, who despite the heat of the day was
enveloped in a vast superfluity of belcher, in the midst
of which galloped a gilt fox, and who rejoiced in the
name of ** guard,'' descended to inform iis politely that
only three places, two inside and one out, were at our
disposal, the rest having been pre-engaged a fortnight
before our orders wore received.

Now, as I knew that ]Mrs. Primmins was indispensable
to the comforts of my honored parents (the more so as
she had once lived in London, and knew all its ways), I
suggested that she should take the outside seat, and that
I should perform the journey on foot, — a primitive
mode of transport which has its charms to a young man
with stout limbs and gay spirits. The guard's out-
stretched arm left my mother little time to oj)pose this
proposition, to which my father assented with a silent
squeeze of the hand ; and having promised to join them
at a family hotel near the Strand, to which Mr. Squills
had recommended them as peculiarly genteel and quiet,
and waved my last farewell to my poor mother, who con-
tinued to stretch her meek face out of the window till
the coach was whirled oif in a cloud like one of the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 127

Homeric heroes, I turned within, to put up a few neces-
sary articles in a small knapsack which I remembered to
have seen in the lumber-room, and which had appertained
to my maternal grandfather ; and with that on my shoul-
der, and a strong staff in my hand, I set off towards the
great city at as brisk a pace as if I were only bound to
the next village. Accordingly, about noon I was both
tired and hungry ; and seeing by the wayside one of
those pretty inns yet peculiar to England, but which,
thanks to the railways, will soon be amongst the things
before the Flood, I sat down at a table under some
clipped limes, unbuckled my knapsack, and ordered my
simple fare with the dignity of one who for the first
time in his life l^espeaks his own dinner and pays for it
out of his own pocket.

While engaged on a rasher of bacon and a tankard of
what the landlord called " No mistake," two pedestrians,
passing the same road which I had traversed, paused,
cast a simultaneous look at my occupation, and, induced
no doubt by its allurements, seated themselves under the
same lime-trees, though at the farther end of the table.
I surveyed the new-comers with the curiosity natural to
my years.

The elder of the two might have attained the age of
thirty, though sundry deep lines and hues formerly florid
and now faded, speaking of fatigue, care, or dissipation,
might have made him look somewhat older than he was.
There was nothing very prepossessing in his appearance.
He was dressed with a pretension ill suited to the cos-
tume appropriate to a foot-traveller. His coat was
pinched and padded ; two enormous pins, connected by
a chain, decorated a very stiff stock of blue satin dotted
with yellow stars ; his hands were cased in very dingy
gloves which had once been straw-colored, and the said

128 THE GAXTOKS:

hands played with a whalebone cane surmoonted by a
formidable knob, which gave it the appearance of a ^ life-
preaerver.'' As he took off a white napless hat^ which he
wiped with great care and affection with the sleeve of his
right arm, a profusion of stiff curls instantly betrayed the
art of man. like my landlord's ale, in that wig there
was " no mistake ; " it was brought (after the fashion of
the wigs we see in the popular effigies of Qeorge IV. in
his youth) low over his forehead, and was raised at the
top. The wig had been oiled, and the oil had imbibed
no small quantity of dust; oil and dust had alike left
their impression on the forehead and cheeks of the wig's
proprietor. For the rest, the expression of his face was
somewhat impudent and reckless, but not without a cer-
tain drollery in the corners of his eyes.

The younger man was apparently about my own age,
— a year or two older, perhaps, judging rather from his
set and sinewy frame than his boyish countenance. And
this last, boyish as it was, could not fail to command the
attention even of the most careless observer. It had not
only the darkness but the character of the gypsy face,
with large, brilliant eyes, raven hair, long and wavy, but
not curling ; the features were aquiline but delicate, and
when he spoke he showed teeth dazzling as pearls. It
was impossible not to admire the singular beauty of the
countenance; and yet it had that expression, at once
stealthy and fierce, which war with society has stamped
upon the lineaments of the race of which it reminded mc.
But, withal, there was somewhat of the air of a gentle-
man in this young wayfarer. His dress consisted of a
black velveteen shooting-jacket, or rather short frock,
with a broad leathern strap at the waist, loose white
trousers, and a foraging cap, which he tlirew carelessly
on the table as he wiped his brow. Turning roiuid im-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 129

patiently and with some haughtiness from his companion,
he surveyed me with a quick, ohservant flash of his pierc-
ing eyes, and then stretched himself at length on the
bench, and appeared either to dose or muse, till, in obe-
dience to his companion's orders, the board was spread
with all the cold meats the larder could supply.

" Beef ! " said his companion, screwing a pinchbeck
glass into his right eye. "Beef, — mottled, cowey;
humph ! Lamb, — oldish, rawish, muttony ; humph !
Pie, — stalish. Veal? — no, pork. Ah! what will you
have ? "

" Help yourself," replied the young man, peevishly, as
he sat up, looked disdainfully at the viands, and after
a long pause tasted first one, then the other, with many
shrugs of the shoulders and muttered exclamations of dis-
content. Suddenly he looked up, and called for brandy ;
and to my surprise, and I fear admiration, he drank nearly
half a tumblerful of that poison undiluted, with a com-
posure that spoke of habitual use.

" Wrong ! " said his companion, drawing the bottle to
himself, and mixing the alcohol in careful proportions
with water. " Wrong ! coats of stomach soon wear out
with that kind of clothes-brush. Better stick to the
'yeasty foam,' as sweet Will says. That young gentle-
man sets you a good example," and therewith the speaker
nodded at me, familiarly. Inexperienced as I was, I sur-
mised at once that it was his intention to make acquaint-
ance with the neighbor thus saluted. I was not deceived.
" Anything to tempt yew, sir ? " asked this social person-
age after a short pause, and describing a semicircle with
the point of his knife.

" I thank you, sir, but I have dined."

" What then ? ' Break out into a second course of
mischief,' as the Swan recommends, — Swan of Avon,

VOL I. — 9

130 THE CAXTONS:

sir! Not 'Well, then, I charge you with this cup of
sacL' Are you going far, if I may take the liberty to
askf

"To London."

" Oh ! " said the traveller, while his young companion
lifted his eyes ; and I was again struck with tiieir remark-
able penetration and brilliancy.

" London is the best place in the world for a lad of
spirit. See life there, — ' glass of fashion and mould of
form.' Fond of the play, sirt"

" I never saw one."

" Possible ! " cried the gentleman, dropping the handle
of his knife, and bringing up the point horizontally;
" then, young man," he added solemnly, " you have, —
but I won't say what you have to see. I won't say, —
no, not if you could cover this table with golden guineas,
and exclaim, with the generous ardor so engaging in
youth, *Mr. Peacock, these are yours if you will only
say what I have to see ! ' "

I laughed outright. May I be forgiven for the boast,
but I had the reputation at school of a pleasant laugli.
The young man's face grew dark at the sound; he pushed
back his plate and sighed.

"Why," continued his friend, "my companion here,
who I suppose is about your own age, he could tell you
what a play is, — he could tell you what life is. He has
viewed the manners of the town ; * perused the traders,'
as the Swan poetically remarks. Have you not, my lad,
eh?"

Thus directly appealed to, the boy looked up with a
smile of scorn on his lips : " Yes, I know what life is ;
and I say that life, like poverty, has strange bed-fellows.
Ask me what life is now, and I say a melodrama ; ask me
what it is twenty years hence, and I shall say — '

A FAMILY PICTURE. 131

** A farce ? " put in his comrade.

" No, a tragedy, — or comedy as Moliere wrote it"

" And how is that ? " I asked, interested and somewhat
surprised at the tone of my contemporary.

" Where the play ends in the triumph of the wittiest
rogue. My friend here has no chance ! "

" ' Praise from Sir Hubert Stanley,' hem — yes, Hal
Peacock may be witty, but he is no rogue."

"This was not exactly my meaning," said the boy,
dryly.

" * A fico for your meaning,' as the Swan says. — Hallo,
you sir ! Bully Host, clear the table ! Fresh tumblers —
hot water — sugar — lemon — and — The bottle 's out !
Smoke, sir?" and Mr. Peacock ofiered me a cigar.

Upon my refusal, he carefully twirled round a very
uninviting specimen of some fabulous havanna, moist-
ened it all over, as a boa-constrictor may do the ox he
prepares for deglutition, bit off one end, and lighting the
other from a little machine for that purpose which he
drew from his pocket, he was soon absorbed in a vigorous
effort (which the damp inherent in the weed long resisted)
to poison the surrounding atmosphere. Therewith the
young gentleman, either from emulation or in self-defence,
extracted from his own pouch a cigar-case of notable ele-
gance, — being of velvet, embroidered apparently by
some fair hand, for "From Juliet" was very legibly
worked thereon, — selected a cigar of better appearance
than that in favor with his comrade, and seemed quite
as familiar with the tobacco as he had been with the
brandy.

"Fast, sir, fast lad that," quoth Mr. Peacock, in the
short gasps which his resolute struggle with liis unin-
viting victim alone permitted ; " nothing but [puff, puff]
your true [suck, suck] syl-syl-sylva — does for him.

132 THE GAXT0N8:

Out| by the Lord ! ' the jaws of darkness have devoured
it up;'" and again Mr. Peacock applied to his phos-
phoric machine. This time patience and perseverance
succeeded, and the heart of the cigar responded by a
dull red spark (leaving the sides wholly untouched) to
the indefatigable ardor of its wooer.

This feat accomplished, Mr. Peacock exclaimed tri-
umphantly: "And now, what say you, my lads, to a
game at cards? Three of us, — whist and a dummy;
nothing better, eh?" As he spoke, he produced from
his coat-pocket a red silk handkerchief, a bunch of keys,
a nightcap, a tooth-brush, a piece of shaving-soap, four
lumps of sugar, the remains of a bun, a razor, and a pack
of cards. Selecting the last^ and returning its motley
accompaniments to the abyss whence they had emerged,
he turned up, with a jerk of his thumb and finger, the
knave of clubs, and placing it on the top of the rest,
slapped the cards emphatically on the table.

" You are very good, but I don't know whist," said I.

" Not know whist — not been to a play — not smoke !
Then pray tell me, yoimg man," said he, majestically, and
with a frown, " what on earth you do know."

Much consternated by this direct appeal, and greatly
ashamed of my ignorance of the cardinal points of erudi-
tion in Mr. Peacock's estimation, I hung my head and
looked down.

" That is right," renewed Mr. Peacock, more benignly ;
"you have the ingenuous shame of youth. It is promis-
ing, sir; 'lowliness is young ambition's ladder,* as the
Swan says. Moimt the first step, and learn whist, —
sixpenny points to begin with."

Notwithstanding any ne^vness in actual life, I had had
the good fortune to learn a little of the way before me
by those much-slandered guides called "novels," — works

A FAMILY PICTURE. 133

which are often to the inner world what maps are to the
outer; and sundry recollections of "Gil Bias" and the
" Vicar of Wakefield " came athwart me. I had no wish
to emulate the worthy Moses, and felt that I might not
have even the shagreen spectacles to boast of in my ne-
gotiations with this new Mr. Jenkinson. Accordingly,
shaking my head, I called for my bill. As I took out
my purse, — knit by my mother, — with one gold piece
in one comer, and sundry silver ones in the other, I saw
that the eyes of Mr. Peacock twinkled.

"Poor spirit, sir! poor spirit, young man! *This
avarice sticks deep,' as the Swan beautifully observes.
'Nothing venture, nothing have.'"

" Nothing have, nothing venture," I returned, plucking
up spirit.

" Nothing have ! Young sir, do you doubt my solidity
— my capital — my * golden joys * ? "

"Sir, I spoke of myself. I am not rich enough to
gamble."

" Gamble ! " exclaimed Mr. Peacock, in virtuous indig-
nation ; " gamble ! what do you mean, sir ? You insult
me ! " and he rose threateningly, and clapped his white
hat on his wig.

" Pshaw ! let him alone, Hal ! " said the boy, con-
temptuously. "Sir, if he is impertinent, thrash him."
(This was to me.)

" * Impertinent ! ' * thrash ! * " exclaimed Mr. Peacock,
waxing very red; but catching the sneer on his com-
panion's lip, he sat down, and subsided into sullen
silence.

Meanwhile I paid my bill. This duty — rarely a
cheerful one — performed, I looked round for my knap-
sack, and perceived that it was in the boy's hands. He
was very coolly reading the address which, in case of

134

TBR CAXTONR:

accidents, I prudently placed on it : " Pisislratus Caxton,
Esq., Hotal, Street, Strand."

I took my knapsack from bim, more surprised at such
a breach of good manners in a young gentleman who
knew life so well than 1 should have been at a, similar
error on the [lart of Mt. Peacoi'k. He made do apology,
but nodded farewell, and stretched himself at full length
on the bench. Mt, Peacock, now absorbed in a game of
patience, vouchsafed no retiiru to my parting ealutation,
and in another moment I was alone on the high-road,
My thoughts turned long upon the yoimg man I had left ;
mixed with a sort of instinctive compassionate foreboding
of an ill future for one with such habits and in such com-
panionship, I felt an involuntary admimtioTi, less even
for his good looks than his ease, audacity, and the care-
less superiority he assumed over a comrade aa much older
than himself.

The day was far gone when I saw the spires of a town
at which I intended to rest for the night The horn of
a coach behind me made me turn my head ; and as the
vehicle passed me, I saw on the outside Mr. Peacock,
still struggling with a cigar, — it could scarcely be the
same, — and his young friend stretched on the roof
amongst the luggage, leaning his handsome head on his
hand, and apparently unobservant both of me and every
one else.

A FAMILY PICTUBE. 135

CHAPTER V.

I AM apt — judging egotistically, perhaps, from my own
experience — to measure a young man's chance of what
is termed practical success in life by what may seem at
first two very vulgar qualities; namely, his inquisitive-
ness and his animal vivacity. A curiosity which springs
forward to examine everything new to his information ;
a nervous activity, approaching to restlessness, which
rarely allows bodily fatigue to interfere with some object
in view, — constitute, in my mind, very profitable stock-
in-hand to begin the world with.

Tired as I was, after I had performed my ablutions
and refreshed myself in the little coffee-room of the inn
at which I put up with the pedestrian's best beverage,
familiar and oft-calumniated tea, I could not resist the
temptation of the broad, bustling street, which lighted
with gas shone on me through the dim windows of the
coffee-room. I had never before seen a large town, and
the contrast of lamp-lit, busy night in the streets, with
sober, deserted night in the lanes and fields, struck me
forcibly.

I sauntered out, therefore, jostling and jostled, now
gazing at the windows, now hurried along the tide of
life, till I found myself before a cookshop, round which
clustered a small knot of housewives, citizens, and hun-
gry-looking children. While contemplating this group,
and marvelling how it comes to pass that the staple busi-
ness of earth's majority is how, when, and where to eat.

136 THE CAXT0N8:

my ear was struck with f ' In Troy there lies the scene,'
as illustrious Will remarks."

Looking round, I perceived Mr. Peacock pointing his
stick towards an open doorway next to the cookshop, the
hall beyond which was lighted with gas, while painted in
black letters on a pane of glass over the door was the
word "Billiards." Suiting the action to the word, the
speaker plunged at once into the aperture, and vanished.

The boy-companion was following more slowly, when
his eye caught mine. A slight blush came over his dark
cheek; he stopped, and leaning against the door-jambs,
gazed on me hard and long before he said : " Well met
again, sir ! You find it hard to amuse yourself in this
dull place ; the nights are long out of London."

"Oh!" said I, ingenuously, "everything here amuses
me, — the lights, the shops, Uie crowd ; but, then, to me
everything is new."

The youth came from his lounging-place and moved
on, as if inviting me to walk ; while ho answered, rather
with bitter sullenness than the melancholy his words ex-
pressed : " One thing, at least, cannot be new to you, —
it is an old truth with us before we leave the nursery :
'Whatever is worth having must be bought;* ergo, he
who cannot buy, has nothing worth having."

" I don't think," said I, wisely, " that the things best
worth having can be bought at all. You see that poor
dropsical jeweller standing before his shop-door : his shop
is the finest in the street, and I dare say he would be
very glad to give it to you or me in return for our good
health and strong legs. Oh, no ! I think with my father,
* All that are worth having are given to all,* — that is,
Nature and labor."

"Your father says that, and you go by what your
father sayst Of course, all fathers have preached that^

A FAMILY PICTURE. 137

and many other good doctrines, since Adam preached to
Cain ; but I don't see that the fathers have found their
sons very credulous listeners."

" So much the worse for the sons," said I, bluntly.

"Nature," continued my new acquaintance, without
attending to my ejaculation, — " Nature indeed does
give us much, and Nature also orders each of us how
to use her gifts. If Nature give you the propensity to
drudge, you will drudge ; if she give me the ambition to
rise, and the contempt for work, I may rise, — but I cer-
tainly shall not work."

" Oh," said I, " you agree with Squills, I suppose, and
fancy we are all guided by the bumps on our foreheads 1 **

" And the blood in oiur veins, and our mother's milk.
We inherit other things besides gout and consumption.
So you always do as your father tells youl Good
boy!"

I was piqued. Why we should be ashamed of being
taunted for goodness, I never could understand ; but cer-
tainly I felt humbled. However, I answered sturdily:
" If you had as good a father as I have, you would not
think it so very extraordinary to do as he tells you."

" Ah ! so he is a very good father, is he ? He must
have a great trust in your sobriety and steadiness to let
you wander about the world as he does."

"I am going to join him in London."

" In London ! Oh, does he live there ? "

" He is going to live there for some time."

"Then perhaps we may meet. I too am going to
town."

" Oh, we shall be sure to meet there ! " said I, with
frank gladness ; for my interest in the young man was
not diminished by his conversation, however much I dis-
liked the sentiments it expressed.

188 THS CAXTONS:

The lad laughed, and Us laugh was peculiar, — it was
low, musical, but hollow and artificial.

"'Sure to meet!' London is a laige place: wheie
shall you be found t"

I gave him, without scruple, the address of the hotel
at which I expected to find my father, although his de-
liberate inspection of my kn£^)8ack must already have
apprised him of that address. He listened attentively,
and repeated it twice over, as if to impress it on Ms
memory; and we both walked on in silence, till, turning
up a small passage, we suddenly found ourselves in a
large churchyard; a flagged path stretched diagonally
across it towards the market-place, on which it bordered.
In this churchyard, upon a gravestone, sat a young Savo-
yard; his hurdy-gurdy, or whatever else his instrument
might be called, was on his lap; and he was gnawing his
crust and feeding some poor little white mice (standing
on their hind legs on the hurdy-gurdy) as merrily as if he
had chosen the gayest resting-place in the world.

We both stopped. The Savoyard, seeing us, put his
arch head on one side, showed all his white teeth in that
happy smile so peculiar to his race, and in which poverty
seems to beg so blithely, and gave the handle of his in-
strument a turn.

" Poor child ! " said I.

" Aha, you pity him ! But why ! According to your
rule, Mr. Caxton, he is not so much to be pitied ; the
dropsical jeweller would give him as much for his limbs
and health as for ours ! How is it — answer nie, son of
so wise a father — that no one pities the dropsical jew-
eller, and all pity the healthy Savoyard ? It is, sir, be-
cause there is a stern truth which is stronger than all
Spartan lessons, — Poverty is the niastor-ill of the world.
Look round. Does poverty leave its signs over the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 139

graves? Look at that large tomb fenced round; read
that long mscription : * Virtue ' — * best of husbands ' —
* affectionate father' — 'inconsolable grief — 'sleeps in
the joyful hope,' etc. Do you suppose these stoneless
mounds hide no dusl of what were men just as good ?
But no epitaph tells their virtues, bespeaks their wives*
grief, or promises joyful hope to them ! "

** Does it matter ? Does God care for the epitaph and
tombstone 1 "

'*Date mi qualche cosa!" said the Savoyard, in his
touching patois, still smiling, and holding out his little
hand ; therein I dropped a small coin. The boy evinced
his gratitude by a new turn of the hurdy-gurdy.

" That is not labor," said my companion ; " and had
you found him at work, you had given him nothing. I,
too» have my instrument to play upon, and my mice to
see after. Adieu!"

He waved his hand, and strode irreverently over the
graves back in the direction we had come.

I stood before the fine tomb with its fine epitaph : the
Savoyard looked at me wistfully.

140 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER VL

Thb Savoyard looked at me wistfully. I wished to enter
into conversation with him. That was not easy. How-
ever, I began.

PisiSTRATUS. — " You must be often hungry enough,
my poor boy. Do the mice feed you ? "

Savoyard puts his head on one side, shakes it, and
strokes his mice.

PisiSTRATUS. — " You are very fond of the mice ; they
are your only friends, I fear ? "

Savoyard, evidently understanding Pisistratus, rubs
his face gently against the mice, then puts them softly
down on a gi'ave, and gives a turn to the hurdy-gurdy.
The mice play unconcerneilly over the grave.

PisiSTRATUS, pointing first to the beasts, tlien to the
instrument. — " Which do you like best, the mice or the
hurdy-gurdy ? "

Savoyard shows his teeth — considers — stretches
himself on the grass — plays with the mice — and an-
swers vohibly.

PisiSTRATUS, by the help of Latin comprehending that
the Savoyard says that the mice are alive, and the hurdy-
gurdy is not. — " Yes, a live friend is better than a dead
one. ^lortua est hurda-gurda ! "

Savoyard shakes his head vehemently. — " No, n6,
Eccellenza ! non e morta ! " and strikes up a lively air
on the slandered instrument. The Savoyard's face
brightens; he looks happy. The mice run from the
grave into his bosom.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 141

PisiSTRATUS) affected, and putting the question in Latin.
" Have you a father 1 "

Savoyard, with his face overcast. — " N6, Eccellenza ! "
then pausing a little, he says hriskly, " Si, si ! '* and plays
a solemn air on the hurdy-gurdy ; stops, rests one hand on
the instrument, and raises the other to heaven.

PisiSTRATUS understands : the fatlier is like the hurdy-
gurdy, at once dead and living. The mere form is a dead
thing, but the music lives. Pisistratus drops another
small piece of silver on the ground and turns away.

God help and God bless thee, Savoyard ! Thou hast
done Pisistratus all the good in the world. Thou hast
corrected the hard wisdom of the young gentleman in the
velveteen jacket. Pisistratus is a better lad for having
stopped to listen to thee.

I regained the entrance to the churchyard. I looked
back ; there sat the Savoyard, still amidst men's graves,
but under God^ sky. He was still looking at me wist-
fully ; and when he caught my eye, he pressed his hand
to his heart and smiled. God help and Grod bless thee,
young Savoyard I

PART FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

In Betting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I
had won by an extra sixpence for calling me betimes,
good-naturedly informed me that I might save a mile of
the journey, and have a very pleasant walk into the bar-
gain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman's park,
the lodge of wliich I should see about seven miles from
the town.

" And the grounds are showed too," said the Boots, " if
so be you has a mind to stay and see 'em. But don't you
go to the gardener, — he '11 want lialf a crown ; there 's
an old 'oman at the lodge who will show you all that 's
worth seeing — the walks and the big cascade — for a
tizzy. You may make use of my name," he addcjd
proudly, — " Bob, boots at the Lion. She be a Aaunt
o' mine, and she minds them that come from me
pertiklerly."

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated
these counsels, I thanked my shock-headed friend, and
asked carelessly to whom the park belonged.

"To Muster Trevanion, the greiit parliament man,"
answered the Boots. " You has heard o' him, I guess,
sir?"

I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more
to find how very little there was in it.

A FAMILY PICTUHE.

"Tlii!y talcM in the ' MiKlerat« Muii'd Juiirniil ' at the
Lamb ; and they Bay in llie tap tliere that he 'e one of
the cleverest chnpa in the House o' CoiunioiiB," continned
the Boots, ill a conliileutial whisper. " But wo takes iu
the 'Piyople's Thmiderholt ' at the Lion, and we knows
better tliis Muster Trevunion. He is but a trimmer, —
milk aud wnter ; no Aoralor, — not the right sort ; you
undrrstaiid ! "

Perfectly gatiefied that I underetooil nothing about i^
I smiled, and said, " Oh, yes ! " aud slipping on my knap-
sack, commenced my adventures, the Boots bawling after
me, " Uiud, eir, you tells Aatmt 1 sent you."

The town waa only languiilly putting forth svmptoms
of returning life as I strode through tho streets. A pale,
sickly, unwholesome look on the face of the slothful
Phcebu* haii snccoeded the feverish hectic of the past
night; the artisans whom I met glided by me haggard
and dejected ; a few early shops were alone open ; one
or two drunken men, emerging from the lanes, sallied
bomewanl with broken pipes in tlieir mouths ; hills, with
large capitals, calling attention to " Best family leas at 4».
a pound," "The arrival of Mr. Sloman's cnnivan of wild
tnjuats," and Dr. Do'em's "PuraceUinn PiUs "f Immortal-
ity." etJirwi out dull and nnchcering from the walls of
t«nantIesB, ddnpiduted housi* in that chill simrise which
favors no illusiou. I waa glad when I had left the town
btdiind mo, and saw the reapere in tho cornfields, and
heard the chirp of the birds. 1 arrived at the lodge of
which tho Boots had spoken, — a pretty rustic building
hnlf-conceale.! by a belt of planUlions, with two large
iron gntes for the owner's friends, and a small turnstile
for the public, who by some strange nc^lpct on liis part,
or 8ftd want of int*rert with tlie neighlwring mngietratM,
biul still preserved a right to cross tlie rich man's domwM

144 THE CAXT0N8:

and look on his grandeur, limited to compliance with a
reasonable request, mildly stated on the notice-board, " to
keep to the paths." As it was not yet eight o'clock, I
had plenty of time before me to see the grounds ; and
profiting by the economical hint of the Boots, I entered
the lodge and inquired for the old lady who was " Aaunt "
to Mr. Bob. A young woman, who was busied in pre-
paring breakfast, nodded with great civility to this re-
quest ; and hastening to a bundle of clothes which I then
perceived in the comer, she cried, " Grandmother, here *&
a gentleman to see the cascade."

The bundle of clothes then turned round and exhibited
a human countenance, which lighted up with great intelli-
gence as the granddaughter, turning to me, said with
simplicity : '' She 's old, honest cretur, but she still likes
to earn a sixpence, sir ; " and taking a crutch-staff in her
hand, while her granddaughter put a neat bonnet on her
head, this industrious gentlewoman sallied out at a pace
which surprised me.

I attempted to enter into conversation with my guide ;
but she did not seem much inclined to bo sociable, and
the beauty of the glades and groves which now spread
before my eyes reconciled me to silence.

I have seen many Rne places since then, but I do not
remember to have seen a landscape more beautiful in its
peculiar English character than that which I now gazed
on. It had none of the feudal characteristics of ancient
parks, with giant oaks,- fantastic i)ollards, glens covered
with fern, and deer gron])ed upon the slopes ; on the con-
trary, in spite of some tine trees, chiefly beech, the im-
pression conveyed was that it was a new place, — a made
place. You might see ridges on the lawns which showed
where hedges had been removed ; the pastures were par-
celled out in divisions by new wire fences ; yomig plan-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 145

tations, planned 'with exquisite taste, but without the
venerable formality of avenues and quincunxes by which
you know the parks that date from Elizabeth and James,
diversified the rich extent of verdure; instead of deer,
were short-horned cattle of the finest breed, sheep that
would have won the prize at an agricultural show.
Everywhere there was the evidence of improvement,
energy, capital, but capital clearly not employed for the
mere purpose of return : the ornamental was too con-
spicuously predominant amidst the lucrative not to say
eloquently : " The owner is willing to make the most of
his land, but not the most of his money."

But the old woman's eagerness to earn sixpence had
impressed me unfavorably as to the character of the
master. " Here," thought I, " are all the signs of riches ;
and yet this poor old woman, living on the very threshold
of opulence, is in want of a sixpence."

These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued
myself on my penetration, were strengthened into con-
victions by the few sentences which I succeeded at last
in eliciting from the old woman.

" Mr. Trevanion must be a rich man ? " said T.

'* Oh, ay, rich eno* ! " grumbled my guide.

" And," said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or
dressed groimd through which our way wound, now
emerging into lawns and glades, now belted by rare
garden-trees, now (as every inequality of the groimd was
turned to advantage in the landscape) sinking into the
dell, now climbing up the slopes, and now confining the
view to some object of graceful art or enchanting Nature,
— " and," said I, " he must employ many hands here :
plenty of work, eh?"

" Ay, ay ! I don't say that he don't find work for those who
want it. But it ain't the same place it wor in my day."

VOL. I. — 10

146 THE GAXTONS:

''You remember it in other hands, thent"

" Ay, ay ! When the Hogtons had it^ honest folk !
My good man was the gardener, — none of those set-up
fine gentlemen who can't put hand to a spade."

Poor, faithful old woman! I began to hate the un-
known proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroom
usurper who had bought out the old, simple, hospitable
family, neglected its ancient servants, left them to earn
tizzies by showing waterfalls, and insulted their eyes by
his selfish wealth.

" There *s the water all spil't, — it wam't so in my
day," said the guide.

A rivulet, whoso murmur I had long heard, now stole
suddenly into view, and gave to the scene the crowning
charm. As, relapsing into silence, we tracked its sylvan
course under dipping chestnuts and shady limes, the
house itself emerged on the opposite side, — a modem
building of white stone, with the noblest Corinthian
portico I ever saw in this country.

" A line house indeed ! " said I. " Is Mr. Trevanion
here much?"

" Ay, ay ! I don't mean to say that lie goes away alto-
gether; but it ain't as it wor in my day, when the
Hogtons lived here all the year round in their warm
house, — not that one."

Grood old woman, and these poor banislied Hogtons,
thought I, — hateful parvenu I I was pleased when a
curve in the shrubl>orics shut out the house from view,
though in reality bringing us nearer to it ; and the
boasted cascade, whose roar I had heanl for some mo-
ments, came in sight. Amidst the Alps, such a water-
fall would have been insignificant, but contrasting ground
highly dressed, with no other boM features, its effect was
striking, and even grand. The banks were here nar-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 147

rowed and compressed ; rocks, partly natural, partly no
doubt artificial, gave a rough aspect to the margin ; and
the cascade fell from a considerable height into rapid
waters, which my guide mumbled out were "mortal
deep."

" There wor a madman leapt over where you bo stand-
ing," said the old woman, " two years ago last June."

" A madman ! why," said I observing with an eye
practised in the gymnasium of the Hellenic Institute
the narrow space of the banks over the gulf, — " why,
my good lady, it need not be a madman to perform that
leap."

And so saying, with one of those sudden impulses
which it would be wrong to ascribe to the noble quality
of courage, I drew back a few steps, and cleared the
abyss. But when from the other side I looked back
at what I had done, and saw that failure had been death,
a sickness came over me, and I felt as if I would not
have releapt the gulf to become lord of the domain.

"And how am I to get back?" said I, in a forlorn
voice to the old woman, who stood staring at me on the
other side. " Ah, I see there is a bridge below."

" But you can't go over the bridge, there 's a gate
on it; master keeps the key himself. You are in the
private grounds now. Dear, dear ! the squire would be
so angry if he knew. You must go back ; and they '11
see you from the house ! Dear me ! dear, dear ! What
shall I do ? Can't you leap back again ? "

Moved by these piteous exclamations, and not wishing
to subject the poor old lady to the wrath of a master
evidently an unfeeling tyrant, I resolved to pluck up
courage and releap the dangerous abyss.

"Oh, yes, never fear," said I, therefore. "What's
been done once ought to be done twice, if needful. Just

148 THE CAXTONS :

get out of iny way, will you I" And I receded several
pacea over a ground much too rough to favor my run for
a epring. But my heart kuocked agaiuet my ribs. I felt
tlmt imjiulse can do wonders where preparation fails.

" You had best be quick, then," said the old woman.

Horrid old woman I I began to esteem her leas. I set
my teeth, and was aliout to rush on, when a voice close
beside mo said, —

" Stay, young man ; I will let you through the gate."

I turned round sharply, and saw close by my aide, in
great wonder that I had not seen him before, a man,
whose homely (hut not working) dress seemed to inti-
mate his station as that of the head-gnrdener, of whom
my guide had spoken. He was seated on a stone under
a chestnut-tree, with an ugly cur at his feet, who snarled
at me as I turned.

" Thank you, my man," said I, joyfully. " I confess
frankly that I was very much afraid of that leap."

"Ho! Yet you said, what can be done once can be
dona twice."

"I did not say it coald be done, but ought t« be done."

" Humph ! Tliat 'a better put."

Here the man rose ; the dog came and smelt my legs,
and then, aa if satisfied with my respectability, wagged
the stump of his tail.

I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and
to my surprise saw her hobbling hack as fast as she
could.

" Ah," said I, laughing, " the poor old thing is afraid
you 'U leil her master, — for you 're the head-gardener, I
suppose? But I am the only jjcrson to blame. Pray say
that, if you mention the circumstance at all ! " and I
drew out half a crown, whieh I proffered to my new
conductor.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 149

He put back the money with a low "Humph! not
amiss." Then, in a louder voice " No occasion to bribe
me, young man ; I saw it all."

"I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hog-
tons* old servants."

" Is he 1 Oh, humph ! my master. Mr. Trevanion,
you mean?"

« Yes."

" Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way."
And he led me down a little glen away from the fall.

Everybody must have observed that after he has in-
curred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise wonder-
fully ; he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was
with me. I talked to the gardener ct coeur onvert, as the
French say ; and I did not observe that his short mono-
syllables in rejoinder all served to draw out my little his-
tory, — my journey, its destination, my schooling under
Dr. Herman, and my father's Great Book. I was only
made somewhat suddenly aware of the familiarity that
had sprung up between us when, just as having per-
formed a circuitous meander we regained the stream and
stood before an iron gate set in an arch of rockwork, my
companion said simply, —

" And your name, young gentleman ? What 's your
name 1 "

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such
communications were usually made by the visitors of
show places, I answered : " Oh, a very venerable one, if
your master is what they call a bibliomaniac, — Caxton."

" Caxton ! " cried the gardener, with some vivacity ;
" there is a Cumberland family of that name — "

" That 's mine ; and my Uncle Roland is the head of
that family."

** And you are the son of Augustine Caxton ? "

150 THE GAXTONS:

** I am. You have heard of my dear f ather, then t "

" We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me, —
this way ; ** and my guide, turning abruptly round, strode
up a narrow path, and the house stood a hundred yards
before me ere I recovered my surprise.

** Pardon me," said I, " but where are we going, my
good friend f "

** Good friend, good friend ! Well said, sir. You are
goii^ amongst good friends. I was at college with your
bther ; I loved him well I knew a little of your uncle
too. My name is Trevanion."

Blind young fool that I was I The moment my guide
told his name, I was struck with amazement at my un-
accountable mistake. The small, insignificant figure took
instant dignity ; the homely dress, of rough dark broad-
cloth, was the natural and becoming diskdbilU of a coun-
try gentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur
became a Scotch terrier of the rarest breed.

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and
patting me on the shoulder, said, —

" It is the gardener you must apologize to, not me.
He \a B, very handsome fellow, six feet high."

I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a
broad flight of stairs under the portico, passed a spacious
hall adorned with statues and fragrant with large orange-
trees, and entering a small room hung with pictures, in
which were arranged all the appliances for breakfast,
my companion said to a lady who rose from behind the
tea-urn, —

" My dear Ellinor, I introduce to you the son of our
old friend Augustine Caxton. Make him stay with us as
long as he can. Young gentleman, in La<ly Ellinor Tre-
vanion think that you see one whom you ought to know
well ; family friendships shoidd descend."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 151

My host said these last words in an imposing tone,
and then pounced on a letter-bag on the table, drew forth
an immense heap of letters and newspapers, threw him-
self into an armchair, and seemed perfectly forgetful of
my existence.

The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw
that she changed color from pale to red, and red to pale,
before she came forward with the enchanting grace of un-
affected kindness, took me by the hand, drew me to a
seat next to her own, and asked so cordially after my
father, my imcle, my whole family, that in five minutes
I felt myself at home. Lady Ellinor listened with a
smile (though with moistened eyes, which she wiped
every now and then) to my artless details. At length
she said, —

" Have you never heard your father speak of me, — I
mean of us; of the Trevanions?"

" Never," said I, bluntly ; " and that would puzzle me,
only my dear father, you know, is not a great talker."

" Indeed ! he was very animated when I knew him,"
said Lady Ellinor ; and she turned her head and sighed.

At this moment there entered a young lady so fresh,
80 blooming, so lovely that every other thought vanished
out of my head at once. She came in singing as gay as
a bird, and seeming to my adoring sight quite as native
to the skies.

"Fanny," said Lady Ellinor, "shake hands with Mr.
Caxton, the son of one whom I have not seen since I was
little older than you, but whom I remember as if it were
but yesterday."

Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand
with an ea.sy frankness which I in vain endeavored to imi-
tate. During breakfast, ^Ir. Trevanion continued to read
his letters and glance over the papers, with an occasional

152 THE CAXTONS:

csjaculatioii of "Pish!" "Stuff!" between the intervals
in which he mechanically swallowed his tea, or some
small morsels of diy toast Then rising with a sodden-
neas which characterized his movements, he stood on his
hearth for a few moments buried in thought ; and now
that a large-brimmed hat was removed from his brow,
and the abruptness of his first movement^ with the se-
dateness of his after pause, arrested my curious attention,
I was more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was
a careworn, eager, and yet musing countenance, hollow-
eyed and with deep lines ; but it a^'os one of those feu^es
which take dignity and refinement from that mental
cultivation which distinguishes the true aristocrat, —
namely, the highly educated, acutely intelligent man.
Very handsome might that face have been in youth, for
the features, though small, were exquisitely defined ; the
brow, partially bakl, was noble and massive, and there
was almost feminine delicaov in the curve of the lip. Tlie
whole expres&i«.»n of the face was eoininaniling, but sad.
Often, a.-? my experience of life incn»ased, have I thought
to trace upon that expressive vis;ii,'e the history of ener-
getic ambition curl»eJ by a fastiilious philosophy and a
scrupulous conscience ; but then all tliat I could see \>-as
a vaguC; dissatisfietl melancholy, which dejectoil me I
knew not whv.

Presently Trovanion returned to the table, collecteil
his letters, moved slowly towarvls the dtvr, and vanished.

His M'ifes eyes foil .^ wed him tenderly. Tluv«o eyes
reminded me of mv mothers, as I verilv l>elieve did all
eyes that expresseii atiectivm. I cn*pt nearer to her, and
longed to press the white hand that lay so listless be-
fore me.

"Will vou walk out with usT* said Miss Trevanion,
turning to me.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 153

I bowed, and in a few minutes I found myself alone.
While the ladies left me, for their shawls and bonnets,
I took up the newspapers which Mr. Trevanion had
thrown on the table, by way of something to do. My
eye was caught by his own name ; it occured often, and
in all the papers. There was contemptuous abuse in one,
high eulogy in another ; but one passage in a journal that
seemed to aim at impartiality, struck me so much as to
remain in my memory ; and I am sure that I can still
quote the sense, though not the exact words. The parar
graph ran somewhat thus : —

" In tbe present state of parties, our contemporaries have
not unnaturally devoted much space to the claims or demerits
of Mr. Trevanion. It is a name that stands unquestionably
high in the House of Commons ; but, as unquestionably, it
commands little sympath}' in the country. Mr. Trevanion is
essentially and emphatically a member of 'parliament. He is
a close and ready debater ; he is an admirable chairman in
committees. Though never in office, his long experience of
public life, his gratuitous attention to public business, have
ranked him high among those practical politicians from whom
ministers are selected. A raau of spotless character and ex-
cellent intentions, no doubt, he must be considered ; and in
him any cabinet would gain an honest and a useful member.
There ends all we can say in his praise. As a speaker, he
wants the fire and enthusiasm which engage the popular sym-
pathies ; he has the ear of the House, not the heart of the
country. An oracle on subjects of mere business, in the great
questions of policy he is comparatively a failure. He never
embraces any party heartily ; he never espouses any question
as if wholly in earnest. The moderation on which he is said
to pique himself often exhibits itself in fastidious crotcliets
and an attempt at philosophical orifjinality of candor which
has long obtained him, with his enemies, the reputation of a
trimmer. Such a man circumstances may throw into tem-
porary power ; but can he command lasting influence ? No.

154 THE CAXTONS:

Let Mr. Trevanion remain in what Nature and positiob aadgn
as his proper post, — that of an upright, independent, able
member of parliament ; conciliating sensible men on both
sides, when party runs into extremes. He is undone as a
cabinet minister. His scruples would break up any goyem*
ment ; and his want of decision — when, as in all human
affairs, some errors must be conceded to obtain a great good
— would shipwreck his own fame.''

I had just got to the end of this paragraph when the
ladies returned.

My hostess observed the newspaper in my hand, and
said, with a constrained smile, " Some attack on Mr. Tre-
vanion, I suppose ? "

" Xo," said I, awkwardly ; for perhaps the paragraph
that appeared to me so impartial, was the most galling at-
tack of all, — no, not exactly."

"I never read the papers now, — at least what are
called the leading articles ; it is too painful. And once
they gave me so much pleasure, — that was when the
career began, and before the fame was made."

Here Lady EUinor opened the window which admitted
on the lawn, and iu a few moments we were in that part
of the pleasure-grounds which the family reserved from
the public curiosity. We passed by rare shrubs and
strange flowers, long ranges of conservatories, in which
bloomed and lived all the marvellous vegetation of Africa
and the Indies.

" Mr. Trevanion is fond of flowers ? " said I.

The fair Fanny laughed. "I don't think he knows
one from another."

" Xor I either," said I, — " that is, when I fairly lose
sight of a rose or a hollyhock."

"The farm will interest you men*," said Lady Ellinor.

We came to fanu buildings recently erected, and no

A FAMILY PICTURE. 155

doubt on the most improved principle. Lady Ellinor
pointed out to me machines and contrivances of the
newest fashion for abridging labor and perfecting the
mechanical operations of agriculture.

" Ah, then Mr. Trevanion is fond of farming ? "

The pretty Fanny laughed again. " My father is one
of the great oracles in agriculture, one of the great patrons
of all its improvements ; but as for being fond of farming,
I doubt if he knows his own fields when he rides through
them."

We returned to the house ; and Miss Trevanion, whose
frank kindness had already made too deep an impression
upon the youthful heart of Pisistratus the Second, offered
to show me the picture-gallery. The collection was con-
fined to the works of English artists; and Miss Tre-
vanion pointed out to me the main attractions of the
gallery.

" Well, at least Mr. Trevanion is fond of pictures ? "

"Wrong again," said Fanny, shaking her arch head.
" My father is said to be an admirable judge ; but he only
buys pictures from a sense of duty, — to encourage our
own paintei*s. A picture once bought, I am not sure that
he ever looks at it again."

" What does he then — "I stopped short, for I felt my
meditated question was ill-bred.

"What does he like then? you were about to say.
Why, I have known him, of course, since I could know
anything; but I have never yet discovered what my
father does like. No, not even politics ; though he lives
for politics alone. You look puzzled ; you will know him
better some day, I hope ; but you will never solve the
mystery, — what Mr. Trevanion likes."

" You are wrong," said Lady Ellinor, who had followed
us into the room, unheard by us. " I can tell you what

156 THE CAXTONS:

yoor father does more than like, — what he loves and
serves every hour of his noble life, — justice, benefi*
cence, honor, and his country. A man who loves
these may be excused for indifference to the last geranium
or the newest plough, or even (though that offends you
more, Fanny)the freshest masterpiece by Landseerorthe
latest fashion honored by Miss Trcvanion."

" Mamma ! '' said Fanny, and the tears sprang to her
eyes.

But Lady EUinor looked to me sublime as she spoke ;
her eyes kindled, her breast heaved. The wife taking
the husband's part against the child, and comprehending
so well what the child felt not despite its experience of
every day, and what the world would never know de-
spite all the vigilance of its praise and its blame, was a
picture, to my taste, finer than any in the collection.

Her face softened as she saw the tears in Fanny's
bright hazel eyes; she held out her hand, which her
child kissed tenderly ; and wliispering, " T is not the
giddy word you must go by, niiunma, or there will be
something to forgive every minute," Miss Trevanion
glided from the room.

"Have you a sister?" asked Luly Ellinor.

" Xo."

" And Trevanion has no son," she said, mournfully.

The blood rushed to my cheeks. Oh, young fool
again !

We were both silent, when the door oj^ened, and Mr.
Trevanion entered. " Humph ! " said he, smiling as he
saw me, — and his smile was charming, though rare, —
" humph, young sir, I came to seek for you, — I have
been rude, 1 fear; panlon it. That thought has only
just occurr'Ml to me, st) I left luy IjIuu Books, and my
amanuensis hard at work on them, to ask you to come

A FAMILY PICTU&E. 157

out for half an hour, — just half an hour, it is all I can
give you : a deputation at one. You dine and sleep here>
of course ? "

"Ah, sir, my mother will be so uneasy if I am not in
town to-night ! "

" Pooh ! '' said the member ; " I '11 send an express."

" Oh, no indeed ; thank you."

" Why not ? "

I hesitated. " You see, sir, that my father and mother
are both new to London ; and though I am new too, yet
they may want me, — I may be of use." Lady Ellinor
put her hand on my head and sleeked down my hair as I
spoke.

" Right, young man, right ; you will do in the world,
wrong as that is. I don't mean to say that you '11 suc-
ceed, as the rogues say, — that 's another question ; but if
you don't rise, you '11 not fall. Now put on your hat and
come with me ; we 11 walk to the lodge, — you will be
in time for a coach."

I took my leave of Lady Ellinor, and longed to say
something about "compliments to Miss Fanny;" but
the words stuck in my throat, and my host seemed
impatient.

"We must see you soon again," said Lady Ellinor,
kindly, as she followed us to the door.

Mr. Trevanion walked on briskly and in silence, one
hand in his bosom, the other swinging carelessly a thick
walking-stick.

" But I must go round by the bridge," said I, " for I
forgot my knapsack. I threw it off when I made my
leap, and the old lady certainly never took charge
of it."

" Come, then, this way. How old are you ? "
" Seventeen and a half."

158 THE CAXT0N8:

" You know Latin and Greek as they know them ail
schools, I suppose r*

" I think I know them pretty well, sir."

" Does your father say so 1 "

" Why, my father is fastidious ; however, he owns that
he is satisfied on the whole."

'^ So am I, then. Mathematics 9 "

"AlitUe."

"Good."

Here the conversation dropped for some time. I had
found and restrapped the knapsack, and we were near the
lodge, when Mr. Trevanion said abruptly, —

'' Talk, my young friend, talk ; I like to hear you talk,
— it refreshes me. Nobody has talked naturally to me
these last ten years.'*

The request was a complete dam^x^r to my ingenuous
eloquence ; I could not have talked naturally now for the
life of me.

** I made a mistake, I see," said my companion, good-
humoredly, noticing my embarrassment. " Here we are
at the lodge. The coach will be by in five minutes : you
can spend that time in hearing the old w^onian praise the
lIogt<.>ns and abuse me. And hark you, sir, never care
three straws for praise or blame, — leather and j)runella !
Praise and blame are here / * and he struck his hand upon
his breast with almost passionate emphasis. "Take a
specimen. These Hogtons were the bane of the place, —
uneducatetl and miserly ; their land a wihlerness, their
village a ]>ig-sty. I come, with capital and intelligence ;
1 redeem the soil, I banish pauperism, I civilize all around
me : no merit in me ; I am but a type of capital guided
by education, — a machine. And yet the old woman is
not the r>nly one who will hint to you that the Hogtons
were angels, and myself the usual antithesis to angels.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 159

And what is more, sir, because that old woman, who has
ten shillings a week from me, sets her heart upon earn-
ing her sixpences, — and I give her that privileged luxury,
— every visitor she talks to goes away with the idea that
I, the rich Mr. Trevauion, let her starve on what she can
pick up from the sight-seers. Now, does that signify a
jot ? Good-by ! Tell your father his old friend must see
him, — profit by his calm wisdom ; his old friend is a fool
sometimes, and sad at heart. When you are settled, send
me a line to St. James's Square, to say where you are
Humph ! that 's enough."

Mr. Trevanion wrung my hand, and strode off.

I did not wait for the coach, but proceeded towards
the turn-stile, where the old woman (who had either seen
or scented from a distance that tizzy of which I was the
impersonation, —

" Hushed in grim repose, did wait her morning prey."

My opinions as to her sufferings and the virtues of the
departed Hogtons somewhat modified, I contented my-
self with dropping into her open palm the exact sum
virtually agreed on. But that palm still remained open,
and the fingers of the other clawed hold of me as I stood,
impounded in the curve of the turn-stile, like a cork in a
patent corkscrew.

" And threepence for nephy Bob," said the old lady.

" Threepence for nephew Bob, and why."

"Tis his parquisites when he recommends a gentle-
man. You would not have me pay out of my own earn-
ings ; for he vnll have it, or he '11 ruin my bizziness. Poor
folk must be paid for their trouble."

Obdurate to this appeal, and mentally consigning Bob
to a master whose feet would be all the handsomer for
boots, I threaded the stile and escaped.

160 THE CAXT0N8:

Towards evening I reached London. Who ever saw
London for the first time and was not disappointed!
Those long suburbs melting indefinably away into the
capital forbid all surprise. The gradual is a great disen-
chanter. I thought it prudent to take a hackney-coach,

and so jolted my way to the Hotel, the door of

which was in a small street out of the Strand, though
the greater part of the building faced that noisy thorough-
fare. I found my father in a state of great discomfort in
a little room, which he paced up and down like a lion
new caught in his cage. My poor mother was full of
complaints : for the first time in her life, I found her in-
disputably crossish. It was an ill time to relate my ad-
ventures. I had enough to do to listen. They had all
day been hunting for lodgings in vain. My father's
pocket had been picked of a new India handkerchief.
Primmins, who ought to know London so well, knew
nothing about it, and declared it was turned topsy-turvy,
and all the streets had changed names. The new silk
umbrella, left for five minutes unguarded in the hall,
had been exchanged for an old gingham with three holes
in it.

It was not till my mother remembered that if she did
not see herself that my bed was well aired I should cer-
tainly lose the use of my limbs, and therefore disappeared
with Primmins and a pert chambermaid, who seemed to
think we gave more trouble than we were worth, that I
told my father of my new acquaintance with Mr. Trevan-
ion. He did not .seem to listen to me till I got to the
name "Trevanion." He then became very pale, and sat
down quietly. " Go on," said he, observing I stopped to
look at him.

When I had told all, and given him the kind messages
with which I had been charged by husband and wife, he

A FAMILY PICTURE. 161

smiled faintly ; and then, shading his face with his hand,
he seemed to muse, not cheerfully, perhaps, for I heard
him sigh once or twice.

** And Ellinor," said h^ at last, without looking up, —
" Lady Ellinor, I mean ; she is very — very — "

" Very what, sir ? "

" Very handsome still ? "

" Handsome ! Yes, handsome, certainly ; but I thought
more of her manner than her face. And then Fanny, Miss
Fanny, is so young ! "

" Ah ! " said my father, murmuring in Greek the cele-
brated lines of which Pope's translation is familiar to
all,—

" * Like leaves on trees, the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground,'

"Well, so they wish to see me. Did Ellinor — Lady
Ellinor — say that, or her — her husband ? **

" Her husband, certainly ; Lady Ellinor rather implied
than said it"

" We shall see," said my father. " Open the window ;
this room is stifling."

I opened the window, which looked on the Strand.
The noise, the voices, the trampling feet, the rolling
wheels, became loudly audible. My father leaned out
for some moments, and I stood by his side. He turned
to me with a serene face. " Every ant on the hill," said
he, carries its load, and its home is but made by the
burden that it bears. How happy am I ! how I should
bless God ! How light my burden ! how secure my
home ! "

My mother came in as he ceat^ed. He went up to
her, put his arm round her waist and kissed her. Such

VOL I — 11

162 THE CAXTOHR:

caresses with him had not Inst tlieir tender chaim hj
custom : my mother's brow, before somewhat ruffled,
grew smooth on the iiisLaiiU Yet she lift«d lier eyes
to his in soft surprise.

" I was but thinking," said my father, aixilogctically,
"how much I owed yuu, miil how much I love you ! ''

A FAMILY PICTURE. 163

CHAPTER n.

And now behold us, three days after my arrival, settled
in all the state and grandeur of our own house in Russell
Street, Bloomsbury, the library of the Museum close at
hand. My father spends his mornings in those lata si-
lentia^ as Virgil calls the world beyond the grave ; and a
world beyond the grave we may well call that laud of the
ghosts, — a book collection.

" Pisistratus," said my father one evening, as he ar-
ranged his notes before him and rubbed his spectacles, —
" Pisistratus, a great library is an awful place ! There are
interred all the remains of men since the Flood."

" It is a burial-place ! " quoth my Uncle Roland, who
had that day found us out.

" It is an Heraclea ! " said my father.

" Please, not such hard words," said the Captain, shak-
ing his head.

" Heraclea was the city of necromancers, in which they
raised the dead. Do I want to speak to Cicero ? — I in-
voke him. Do I want to chat in the Athenian market-
place, and hear news two thousand years old ? — I write
down my charm on a slip of paper, and a grave magician
calls me up Aristophanes. And we owe all this to our
ancest — "

" Brother ! "

" Ancestors who wrote books ; thank you."

Here Roland offered his snuff-box to my father, who,
abhoring snuff, benignly imbibed a pinch, and sneezed
five times in consequence, — an excuse for Uncle Roland

164 THE CAXTONS:

to say, which he did five times, with great unction, '*God
bless you, brother Austin ! "

As soon as my father had recovered himself, he pro-
ceeded, with tears in his eyes, but calm as before the
interruption, for he was of the philosophy of the
Stoics, —

"But it is not that which is awfuL It is the pre-
suming to vie with these ' spirits elect ; ' to say to them,
* Make way, — I too claim place with the chosen. I too
would confer with the living, centuries after the death
that consumes my dust 1 too — ' Ah, Pisistratus ! I
wish Uncle Jack had been at Jericho before he had
brought me up to London and placed me in the midst
of those rulers of the world ! "

I was busy, while my father spoke, in making some
pendent shelves for these " spirits elect ; " for my mother,
always provident where my father's comforts were con-
cerned, had foreseen the necessitv of some such accom-
modatiou in a liired lodging-house, and had not only
carefully broiiglit up to town my little box of tools, but
gone out herself that morning to buy the raw materials.
Checking the plane in its progress over the smooth deal,
"My dear father," said 1, "if at the Philhellenic Insti-
tute I had looked with as much awe as you do on the big
fellows that had gone before me, I should have stayed, to
all eternity, the lag of the Infant Division."

" Pisistratus, you are as great an agitator as your name-
sake," cried my father, smiling. "And so, a tig for the
big fellows ! "

And now my mother entered in her pretty evening cap,
all smiles and good humor, having just arranged a room
for Uncle Roland, concluded advantageous negotiations
with the laundress, held high council with Mrs. Prim-
mins on the best mode of defeating the extortions of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 165

London tradesmen, and, pleased with herself and all the
world, she kissed my father's forehead as it bent over his
notes, and came to the tea-table, which only waited its
presiding deity. My Uncle Roland, with his usual gal-
lantry, started up, kettle in hand (our own urn — for we
had one — not being yet unpacked), and having per-
formed with soldier-like method the chivalrous office
thus volunteered, he joined me at my employment, and
said, —

" There is a better steel for the hands of a well-born
lad than a carpenter's plane."

** Aha, Uncle ! that depends — "

" Depends ! What on ? "

" On the use one makes of it. Peter the Great was
better employed in making ships than Charles XII. in
cutting throats."

" Poor Charles XII. ! " said my uncle, sighing patheti-
cally ; " a very brave fellow ! "

" Pity he did not like the ladies a little better ! "

" No man is perfect ! " said my uncle, sententiously.
" But, seriously, you are now tlie male hope of the fam-
ily ; you are now — " My uncle stopped, and his face
darkened. I saw that he thought of his son, — that
mysterious son I And looking at him tenderly, I ob-
served that his deep lines had grown deeper, his iron-
gray hair more gray. There was the trace of recent
suffering on his face ; and though he had not spoken to
us a word of the business on wliich he had left us, it
required no penetration to perceive that it had come to
no successful issue.

My uncle resumed : " Time out of mind, every genera-
tion of our house has given one soldier to his country. I
look round now ; only one branch is budding yet on the
old tree ; and — "

166 THE CAXTONS:

** Ah, Uncle ! But what would they say f Do you think
I should not like to be a soldier? Don't tempt me ! "

My uncle had recourse to his snuff-box; and at that
moment — unfortunately, perhaps, for the laurels that
might otherwise have wreathed the brows of Pisistratus
of England — private conversation was stopped by the
sudden and noisy entrance of Uncle Jack. No appari-
tion could have been more unexpected.

"Here I am, my dear friends. How d'ye do; how
are you all ? Captain de Caxton, yours heartily. Yes, I
am released, thank Heaven ! I have given up the drudg-
ery of that pitiful provincial paper. I was not made for
it. An ocean in a tea-cup ! — I was indeed ! Little, sor-
did, narrow interests ; and I, whose heart embraces all
humanity, — you might as well turn a circle into an
isolated triangle."

" Isosceles ! " said my father, sighing as he pushed
aside his notes, and very slowly becoming aware of the
eloquence that destroyed all chance of further progress
that night in the Great Book, — "* Isosceles' triangle.
Jack Tibbcts, not * isolated.' "

" * Isosceles ' or * isolated,' it is all one," said Uncle
Jack, as he rapidly performed three evolutions, by no
means consistent with his favorite theory of " the great-
est happiness of the greatest number." First, he emptied
into the cup which he took from my mother's hands half
the thrifty contents of a London cream-jug ; secon<lly, he
reduced the circle of a muffin, by the abstraction of three
triangles, to as nearly an isosceles as possil)le ; and thirdly,
striding, towards the fire, lighted in consideration of Cap-
tain de Caxton, and hooking his coat-tjiils under his arms
while he sipped his tea, he permitted another circle
jieculiar to humanity wholly to eclipse the luminary ii
approached.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 167

"'Isolated' or * isosceles,' it is all the same thing.
Man is made for his fellow-creatures. I had long been
disgusted with the interference of those selfish Squire-
archs. Your departure decided me. I have concluded
negotiations with a London firm of spirit and capital and
extended views of philanthropy. On Saturday last I
retired from the service of the oligarchy. I am now in
my true capacity of protector of the million. My pros-
pectus is printed, — here it is in my pocket. Another
cup of tea, sister ; a little more cream, and another muf-
fin. ShaUIring?''

Having disembarrassed himself of his cup and saucer.
Uncle Jack then drew forth from his pocket a damp
sheet of printed paper. In large capitals stood out
"The Anti-^Ionopoly Gazette; or Popular Cham-
pion." He waved it triumphantly before my father's
eyes.

" Pisistratus," said my father, " look here. This is the
way your Uncle Jack now prints his pats of butter, — a
cap of liberty growing out of an open book ! Good, Jack !
good ! good ! "

" It is Jacobinical ! " exclaimed the Captain.

"Very likely," said my father; "but knowledge and
freedom are the best devices in the world to print upon
pats of butter intended for the market."

"Pats of butter! I don't understand," said Uncle
Jack.

"The less you imderstand, the better will the butter
sell, Jack," said my father, settling back to his notes.

168 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER in.

Unolb Jack had made up his mind to lodge with us, and
my mother found some difficulty in inducing him to com-
prehend that there was no bed to spare.

" That *s unlucky," said he. " I had no sooner arrived
in town than I was pestered with invitations; but I
refused them all, and kept myself for you."

" So kind in you, so like you ! " said my mother ; " but
you see — "

"Well, then, I must be off and find a room. Don't
fret ; you know I can breakfast and dine with you all the
same, — that is, when my other friends will let me.- I
shall be dreadfully persecuted." So saying, Uncle Jack
repocketed his prospcjctus and wished us good-night.

The clock had struck eleven, my mother had retired,
when my father looked up from his books and returned
his spectacles to their case. I had finished my work, and
was seated over the fire, thinking, now of Fanny Trevan-
ion's hazel eyes; now, with a heart tliat beat as high
at the thought, of cami)aigns, battle-fields, laurels, and
glory ; while, with his arms folded on his breast and his
head drooj)ing. Uncle Roland gazed into the low clear
embers. My father cast his eyes round the room, and
after surveying his brother for some moments he said,
almost in a whisper, —

"My son has seen the Trevanions. They remember
us, Roland."

The Captain sprang to his feet and begim whistling, —
a habit with him when he was much disturbed.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 169

" And Trevanion wishes to see us. Pisistratus prom-
ised to give him our address ; shall he do so, Roland ? "

" If you like it," answered the Captain, in a military atti-
tude, and drawing himself up till he looked seven feet high.

" I should like it," said my father, mildly. " Twenty
years since we met."

"More than twenty," said my uncle, with a stem
smile ; " and the season was — the fall of the leaf 1 "

" Man renews the fibre and material of his body every
seven years," said my father ; " in three times seven years
he has time to renew the inner man. Can two passen-
gers in yonder street be more unlike each other than the
soul is to the soul after an interval of twenty years 1
Brother, the plough does not pass over the soil in vain,
nor care over the human heart. New crops change the
character of the land ; and the plough must go deep
indeed before it stirs up the mother stone."

** Let us see Trevanion," cried my uncle ; then, turning
to me, he said abruptly, " What family has he ? "

" One daughter."

" No son ? "

« No."

"That must vex the poor, foolish, ambitious man.
Oho ! you admire this Mr. Trevanion much, eh ? Yes,
that fire of manner, his fine words and bold thoughts,
were made to dazzle youth."

" Fine words, my dear uncle, — fire ! I should have
said, in hearing Mr. Trevanion, that his style of conversa-
tion was so homely you would wonder how he could have
won such fame as a public speaker."

" Indeed ! "

" The plough has passed there," said my father.

" But not the plough of care : rich, famous, Ellinor his
Svife, and no son ! "

170

THE CAXTONS:

'* It is because his heart is sometimes sad that he would
see us."

Roland stared first at my father, next al me. " Then,"
quoth my uncle, heartily, " in God's name, let him come !
I can shake him by the hand as I would a brother soldier.
Poor Trevanion ! Write to him at once, Sisty."

I sat down and obeyed. When I had sealed my letter,
I looked up, and saw that Roland was lighting his bed-
candle at my father's table; and my father, taking his
hand, said something to him in a low voice. I guessed it
related to his son, for he shook his head, and answered in
a stem, hollow \oice, ** Renew grief if you please ; not
shame. On that subject — silence ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 171

CHAPTER IV.

Left to myself in the earlier part of the day, I wandered,
wistful and lonely, through the vast wilderness of London.
By degrees I familiarized myself with that populous soli-
tude ; 1 ceased to pine for the green fields. That active
energy all around, at first saddening, became soon exhila-
rating, and at last contagious. To an industrious mind,
nothing is so catching as industry. I began to grow
weary of my golden holiday of unlaborious childhood, to
sigh for toil, to look around me for a career. The Uni-
versity, whicli I had l)efore anticipated with pleasure,
seemed now to fade into a dull monastic prospect ; after
having trod the streets of London, to wander through
cloisters was to go back in life. Day by day, my mind
grew sensibly witliin me ; it came out from the rosy twi-
light of boyhood, — it felt the doom of Cain imder the
broad sun of man.

Uncle Jack soon became absorbed in his new specula-
tion for the good of the human race, and, except at meals
(whereat, to do him justice, he waB punctual enough,
though he did not keep us in ignorance of the sacrifices
he made, and the invitations he refused, for our sake), we
seldom saw him. The Captain, too, generally vanished
after breakfast, seldom dined with us, and it was often
late before he returned. He had the latch-key of the
house, and let himself in when he pleased. Sometimes
(for his chamber was next to mine) his step on the stairs
awoke me ; and sometimes I heard him pace his room
with perturbed strides, or fancied that 1 caught a low

172 THE GAXT0K8:

groan. He became every day more care-worn in appear*
ance, and every day his hair seemed more gray. Yet he
talked to ns all, easily and cheerfully ; and I thought that
I was the only one in the house who perceived the gnaw-
ing pangs over which the stout old Spartan drew the
decorous cloak.

Pity, blended with admiration, made me curious to
learn how these absent days, that brought nights so dis-
turbed, wero consumed. I felt that if I could master the
Captain's secret I might win the right both to comfort
and to aid. I resolved at length, after many conscien-
tious scruples, to endeavor to satisfy a curiosity excused
by its motives. Accordingly, one morning, after watch-
ing him from the house, I stole in his track, and followed
him at a distance.

And this was the outline of his day : he set off at first
with a firm stride, despite his lameness ; his gaimt figuro
erect, the soldierly chest well thrown out from the thread-
bare but speckless coat. First he took his way towards
the purlieus of Leicester Square ; several times, to and
fro, did he pace the isthmus that loads fi'om Piccadilly
into that reservoir of foreigners, and the lanes and courts
that start thence towards St. Martin's. After an hour or
two so passed, the step becani(! more slow ; and often the
sleek, napless hat was lifted up, and the brow wiped. At
length he bent his way towards the two great theatres,
paused before the play-bills, as if deliberating seriously
on the chances of enttirtainment they severally proffered,
wandered slowly through the small streets that surround
those temples of the Muse, and finally emerged into the
Strand. There he rested himself for an hour at a small
cook-slioj) ; and as J passed the window and glanced
within, 1 couM s(ie him seated before the yim|)h' dinner,
which he scarcely touched, and jK)ring over the advertise-

. FAMILY I'R^TI-^IIE.

173

ment columns of the "Tiiiifs," The "Tiraos" finislieil,
anJ a fow iiiofsels dislasleluUy swalJowi'd, the Captain
put down his ehitliiig iu sileacc, receiving Me peiice in
exchange, and I hud just time to slip aside as he reap-
peared at the thresliold. He looked round a^ be lin-
gerwl, — but I took piire lie shotUd not detect me, — and
tlien struck off towsTds the more fashionable quarters of
the town. It was now the afternoon, and, though not
yet the season, the etreeta awartned with life. As he
ciama into "Waterloo Place, a slight but musculiir figure
buttoned up acroas tlie breast like his own cantered by
on a handsome bay horee ; every eye was on that figure.
Uncle Koltin<l etopiied short, and lifted his hand to his
liat ; the rider touched his own with his forefinger, and
cantered on ; Uncle Koland turned round and gazed.

" Who,'" I asked of a sho]vhoy just before me, also
staring with all his eyes, "who is tliat gentleman on
horsebaek t "

"Wiy, iJie Duke to be sure," said the boy, con-
temptuously.

"The Duke r

" Wellington, stu-pid ! "

"Thank yon," said I, meekly.

Uncle Holand had moved on into Regent Street, but
with a brisker step ; tlie sight of the old chief had done
the old soldier good, Here again he paced to and fro ;
till I, watching him from the other side of the way, was
ready to drop witli fatigue, stout walker though 1 was.
But the Captain's day was not half done. He took out
hia watch, put it to hia eur, and then, replacing it, passed
into B<)nii Street, and thence into Hyde Park. There,
evidently wearied out, ho leaned against the rails, near
the bronze statue, in an attitude that spoke despondency.
1 seated mygeU on the grass near the statue, and gazed

174 THE CAXTONS:

at him. The park was empty compared with the streetB^
but still there were some equestrian idlers, and many foot-
loimgers ; my uncle's eye turned wistfully on each. Once
or twice, some gentleman of a military aspect (which I had
already learned to detect) stopped, looked at him, ap-
proached, and spoke; but the Captain seemed as if
ashamed of such greetings. He answered shortly, and
turned again.

The day waned ; eveiting came on. The Captain again
looked at his watcli, shook his head, and made his way
to a bench, where he sat perfectly motionless, his hat
over his brows, his arms folded, till up rose the moon.
I had tasted nothing since breakfast ; I was famished, —
but I still kept my post like an old Roman sentinel

At length the Captain rose, and re-entered Piccadilly ;
but how different his mien and bearing ! — languid, stoop-
ing j his chest sunk, his head inclined ; his limbs dragging
one after the other; liis lameness painfully perceptible.
What a contrast in the broken invalid at night from the
stalwart veteran of the morning ! llow I longed to spring
forward to ofter my arm ! but I did not dare.

The Captain stopped near a cab-stand. He put his
hand in his pocket, he drew out liis purse, he passed his
tinge i-s over the net- work ; tlie purse slipped again into
the pocket, and as if with a heroic effort, my uncle drew
up his head and walked on sturdily.

" Where next ? *' thought I. " Surely home ! No, he
is pitiless ! ''

TJie Captiiiii stopped not till he arrived at one of the
small theatres in the Strand ; then he read the bill, and
asked if half price was begun. "Just begun," was the
answer, ami the Captain entered. I also took a ticket
and followed. Passing by the open doors of a refresh-
ment-room, I fortified myself with some biscuits and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 175

soda-water ; and in another minute, for the first time in
my life, I beheld a play. But the play did not fascinate
me. It was the middle of some jocular afterpiece ; roars
of laughter resounded round me. I could detect nothing
to laugh at ; and sending my keen eyes into every comer,
I perceived at last, in the uppermost tier, one face as sa-
turnine as my own. Eureka 1 It was the Captain's!
" Why should he go to a play if he enjoys it so little ? "
thought I ; " better have spent a shilling on a cab, poor
old feUow ! "

But soon came smart-looking men, and still smarter-
looking ladies, around the solitary corner of the poor
Captain. He grew fidgety ; he rose — he vanished. I
left my place, and stood without the box to watch for
him. Downstairs he stumped, — I recoiled into the
shade; and after standing a moment or two, as in
doubt, he entered boldly the refreshment-room or
saloon.

Now, since I had left that saloon it had become
crowded, and I slipped in unobserved. Strange was it,
grotesque yet pathetic, to mark the old soldier in the
midst of that gay swarm. He towered above all like
a Homeric hero, a head taller than the tallest; and his
appearance was so remarkable that it invited the instant
attention of the fair. I, in my simplicity, thought it was
the natural tenderness of that amiable and penetrating
sex, ever quick to detect trouble and anxious to relieve
it, which induced three ladies in silk attire — one having
a hat and plume, the other two with a profusion of ring-
lets— to leave a little knot of gentlemen with whom
they were conversing, and to plant themselves before
my uncle, I advanced through the press to hear what
passed.

" You are looking for some one, I 'm sure," quoth one
familiarly, tapping his arm with her faa

176

THE CAXTONS:

The Captain started. " Ma'am, you are not wrong,"
said he.

" Can I do as well ? " said one of those compassionate
angels, with heavenly sweetness.

" You are very kind, I thank you ; no, no ma'am," said
the Captain with his l)est bow.

" Do tiike a gla^s of negus," said another, as her friend
gave way t<^ her. " You seem tired, and so am I. Here,
this way j " and she t<x)k hold of his arm to lead him to
the table. The Capti\in shook his head mournfully ; and
then, as if suddenly aware of the nature of the attentions
so lavished on him, he looked doAvn upon these fair
Armidas with a kx)k of such mild reproach, such sweet
compassion, — not shaking otT the hand, in his chivalrous
devotion to the sex, wliich extended even to all its out-
casts, — that each bold eve felt abashed. The hand was
timidly and involuntarily withdrawn from the arm, and
my uiii'lo passovl his way. Hi' tliri'adod the crowd, passed
out at the farther iloor, an«I I, ^lU'ssiug liis intention, was
in waitinj^ for his stops in the stn^'t.

"Now home at last, thank Heaven !" thought I.

Mistaken still ! Mv uncle went tii*st ttuvanis that
popular liaunt which I have sinee iH>eovered is called
** the Shailes;'' but he soon n^-euierged, and finally he
knocked at the door of a private house in one of the
streets out of St. .lanies's. It was opencvl jealously, and
chased as he cnt*'re«b leavim; uie without. What could
this house be ? As I stvHvl anvl watchcil, sonic otlicr
men appnvichetl : ai^ain the Knv sini;le knoek, attain the
jeaUnis opening: and the steal: !iy cut ranee.

A poliv-enian pa^>^e»l and i>' passed nii\ '*l\»n't be
tcnipteil, youn^^ man," ^aid he, Ivv^kiui: haixl at me: ** take
n\y advice, and i^> hon\e."

"What is that hvuise then?" s,ud I, with a sort of
sliudder at this ominou-^ warniuv:.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 177

" Oh, you know."

" Not I. I am new to London."

" It is a hell," said the policeman, satisfied by my frank
manner that I spoke the truth.

" Gk)d bless me ! — a what ? I could not have heard
you rightly ! "

" A hell, — a gambling house I "

" Oh ! " and I moved on. Could Captain Roland, the
rigid, the thrifty, the penurious, be a gambler? The
light broke on me at once : the unhappy father sought
his son ! I leaned against the post, and tried hard not
to sob.

By and by I heard the door open ; the Captain came
out and took the way homeward. I ran on before, and
got in first, to the inexpressible relief both of father and
mother, who had not seen me since breakfast, and who
were in equal consternation at my absence. I submitted
to be scolded with a good grace. " I had been sight-see-
ing, and lost my way;" begged for some supper, and
slunk to bed ; and five minutes afterwards the Captain's
jaded step came wearily up the stairs.

VOL. I. — 12

PART SIXTH.

CHAPTER I.

** I don't know that," siiid my father.

What is it my father does not know ? My father does
not know that " happiness is our being's end and aim."

And pertinent to what does my father reply, by words
80 sceptical, to an assertion so seldom disputed ?

Reader, Mr. Trevanion has been half an hour seated in
our little drawing-room. He has received two cups of
tea from my inuther's fair hand ; he has made himself at
home. Willi Mr. Trevanion has coni(» another friend of
my father's, wlunn he has not seen since he left college,
— Sir Sedley Beaudesert.

Now, you must understand that it is a warm night, a
little after nine o'clock, — a niglit between departing sum-
mer and aj)proacliing autumn. The windows are open ;
we have a balcony, which my mother has taken care to
fill with flowers ; the air, though we are in London, is
sweet and fresh ; tlie street quiet, except that an occa-
sional carriage or hackney cabriolet rolls rapidly by ; a
few stealthy j)assengers pass to and fro noiselessly on
their way homeward. We are on classic ground, — near
that old and venerable Musemn, tlie dark monastic pile
which tlie taste of the age had spared then, — and the
quiet of the temple seems to hallow the pnutincts. Cajy-
tain Roland is seated by the lircplace, and though there

A FAMILY PICTURE. 179

is no fire, he is shading his face with a hand-screen ; my
father and Mr. Trevanion have drawn their chairs close
to each other in the middle of the room ; Sir Sedley
Beaudesert leans against the wall near the window, and
behind my mother, who looks prettier and more pleased
than usual since her Austin has his old friends about
him ; and I, leaning my elbow on the table and my chin
upon my hand, am gazing with great admiration on Sir
Sedley Beaudesert.

Oh, rare specimen of a race fast decaying, — specimen of
the true fine gentleman, ere the word " dandy " was known,
and before "exquisite" became a noun substantive, —
let me here pause to describe thee ! Sir Sedley Beaude-
sert was the contemporary of Trevanion and my father ;
but without affecting to be young, he still seemed so.
Dress, tone, look, manner, — all were young ; yet all had
a certain dignity which does not belong to youth. At
the age of five and twenty he had won what would have
been fame to a French marquis of the old rkgime ; namely,
the reputation of being " the most charming man of his
day," — the most popular of our sex, the most favored,
my dear lady-reader, by yours. It is a mistake, I believe,
to suppose that it does not require talent to become the
fashion, — at all events. Sir Sedley was the fashion, and
he had talent. He had travelled much, he had read
much, especially in memoirs, history, and belles-lettres ;
he made verses with grace and a certain originality of
easy wit and courtly sentiment; he conversed delight-
fully; he was polished and urbane in manner, he was
brave and honorable in conduct ; in words he could flat-
ter, in deeds he was sincere.

Sir Sedley Beaudesert had never married. Whatever
his years, he was still young enough in looks to be mar-
ried for love. He was high-born, he was rich, he was, as

180 THE CAXTONS :

I have said, popular ; yet on his fair features there was
an expression of melancholy, and on that f oreliead — pure
from the lines of ambition, and free from the weight of
study — there was the shadow of unmistakable regret.

" I don't know tliat," said my father ; " I have never
yet found in life one man who made happiness his end
and aim. One wants to gain a fortune, another to spend
it ; one to get a place, another to build a name : but they
all know very well tliat it is not happiness they search
for. No utilitarian was ever actuated by self-interest,
poor man, when he sat down to scribble his unpopular
crotchets to prove self-interest universal. And as to that
notable distinction between self-interest vidgar and self-
interest enlightened, the more the self-interest is enlight-
ened, the less we are influenced by it. If you tell the
young man who has just written a fine book or made a
line speech that he will not be any happier if he attain
to the fame of Milton or the power of Pitt, and that for
the sake of his own happiness he liad iniicli better culti-
vate a farm, live in the country, and postpone to the last
the days of dyspepsia and gout, he will answer you fairly,
* I am quite as sensible of that as you are. But I am not
thinking whether or not I shall be hapj)y. I have made
up my mind to ])e, if I can, a groat author or a prime
minister.' So it is with all the active sons of the world.
To push on is the law of Nature. And you can no more
say to men and to nations than to children, ' Sit still, and
don't wear out your shoes ! ' "

"Then," said Trevanion, "if I tell you I am not happy,
your only answer is that I obey an inevita))le law T'

" Xo, I don't say that it is an inevitable law that man
should not be hapj)y ; but it is an inevital)le law that a
man, in spite of himself, should live for something higher
than his own haj)j)ines3. He cannot live in himself or

A FAMILY PICTURE. 181

for himself, however egotistical he may try to be. Every
desire he has links him with others. Man is not a ma^
chine, — he is a part of one."

"True, brother; he is a soldier, not an army," said
Captain Eoland.

" Life is a drama, not a monologue," pursued my father.
"* Drama' is derived from a Greek verb signifying *to
do.' Every actor in the drama has something to do,
which helps on the progress of the whole : that is the
object for which the author created him. Do your part,
and let the Great Play get on."

" Ah ! " said Trevanion, briskly, " but to do the part is
the difficidty. Every actor helps to the catastrophe, and
yet must do his part without knowing how all is to end.
Shall he help the curtain to fall on a tragedy or a com-
edy ? Come, I will tell you the one secret of my public
life, that which explains all its failure (for, in spite of
my position, I have failed) and its regrets, — / unint
conviction ! "

" Exactly," said my father ; " because to every question
there are two sides, and you look at them both."

" You have said it," answered Trevanion, smiling also.
"For public life a man should be one-sided. He must
act with a party ; and a party insists that the shield is
silver, when if it will take the trouble to tiu'n the comer
it will see that the reverse of the shield is gold. Woe to
the man who makes that discovery alone, while his party
are still swearing the shield is silver, — and that not once
in his life, but every night ! "

" You have said quite enough to convince me that you
ought not to belong to a party, but not enough to con-
vince me why you should not be happy," said my father.

" Do you remember," said Sir Sedley Beaudesert, " an
anecdote of the first Duke of Portland ! He had a gal

182 THE CAXT0N8:

leiy in the great stable of his villa in Holland, where a
concert was given once a week, to cAeer cmd amu$e kU
horses/ I have no doubt the horses thrived all the bet-
ter for it. What Trevanion wants is a concert once a
week. With him it is always saddle and spur. Yet^
after all, who would not envy him ? If life be a drama,
his name stands high in the play-bill, and is printed in
capitals on the walls."

" Envy me ! " said Trevanion, — " mb ! No, you are
the enviable man, — you, who have only one grief in the
world, and that so absurd a one that I will make you
blush by disclosing it. Hear, 0 sage Austin ! O sturdy
Roland ! Olivares was haunted by a spectre, and Sedley
Beaudesert by the dread of old age ! "

"Well," said my mother, seriously, "I do think it
requires a great sense of religion, or at all events chil-
dren of one's own, in whom one is yoimg again, to recon-
cile one's self to becoming old."

"My dear ma'am," said Sir Sedley, who had slightly
colored at Trevanion's charge, but had now recovered liis
easy scdf-possession, " you have spoken so admirably that
you give me courjige to confess my weakness. I do dread
to be old. All the joys of my life have l)een the joys of
youth. I have had so exquisite a pleasure in the mere
sense of living, tliat old age as it comes near terrifies me
by its dull eyes and gray hairs. I have lived the life of
a butterfly. Summer is over, antl I see my flowers with-
ering ; and my wings are cliilled by the first airs of win-
ter. Yes, I envy Trevanion ; for in public life no man is
ever young, and wliile he can W(^rk lie is never old."

"My dear Beaudesert," said my father, "when Saint
Amable, patron saint of Kiom in Auvergne, went to
Rome, the sun waited u}K>n him as a servant, carried
his cloak and gloves for him in the heat, and kei)t of!

A FAMILY PICTURE. 183

the rain, if the weather changed, like an umbrella. You
want to put the sun to the same use. You are quite
right ; but then, you see, you must* first be a saint before
you can be sure of the sun as a servant."

Sir Sedley smiled charmingly ; but the smile changed
to a sigh as he added, " I don't think I should much mind
being a saint, if the sun would be ray sentinel instead of
my courier. I want nothing of him but to stand still.
You see he moved even for Saint Amable. My dear
madam, you and I understand each other; and it is a
very hard thing to grow old, do what one will to keep
young."

"What say you, Roland, of these two malcontents T "
asked my father. The Captain turned uneasily in his
chair, for the rheumatism was gnawing his shoulder, and
sharp pains were shooting through his mutilated limb.

" I say," answered Roland, " that these men are wearied
with marching from Brentford to Windsor, — that they
have never known the bivouac and the battle."

Both the grumblers turned their eyes to the veteran.
The eyes rested first on the furrowed, care-worn lines in
his eagle face; then they fell on the stiff, outstretched
cork limb ; and then they turned away. Meanwhile my
mother had softly risen, and under pretence of looking
for her work on the table near him, bent over the old sol-
dier and pressed hi« hand.

" Gentlemen," said my father, " I don't think my
brother ever heard of Nichocorun, the Greek comic
writer ; yet he has illustrated him very ably. Saith
NichocoruB, 'The Ijesi: cure for drnjik^^nnew* in a sud-
den calamity.* For chronic dnjrjk«'ijnebK, a conliuued
course of real uiifdoriuuH ijju«t )fh y*^ry haluUr>'!"

No answer came fnym lb*- two '"Wijil^iuanU ; aitd iny
father took up a great W>k.

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTFR n

"Mr friends," said mj father, looking up from liia book,
and aildressing himself to hi-, two Msitors, "I know of
one thing, milder than ciilamit>, that woiild do you hoth
a gre.nt deal of good.'

" Wiat is that 1 " asked Sir Sedley.

" A wiffron liHg, worn at Hip pit of the stometch ! "

" Austin, my dear," said luy mother, reprovingly.

My father did not heed tlie intemi|ition, but continued
gravply : " Nothing is better for the spirits. Roland is
in no want of saffron, because hi; i« a warrior ; and the
desire of fighting and the hope of victory infuse such a
hnat into the spirits as is profitable for long life, and
knops up the system."

" Tut ! " said Trevanion,

" But gentlemen in your predicament must have
recourse to artificial means. Nitre in broth, for instance,
— about three grains to ten (cattle fed upon nitre grow
fat) ; or earthy odor.i, such as exist in cucumbers and
cabbage. A certain great lord had a clod of fresh earth,
laid in a napkin, put under his nose every morning after
sleep. Light anointing of the head with oil, mi.ved with
roses and salt, is not bad ; but, upon the whole, I
prescrilw the saffron Iwig at the — "

" Histy, my dear, will you look for my scissors 1 " said
my mother.

"What nonsense are you talking) Question! ques-
tiiiii I " oriod Mr. Trevanion.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 185

" Nonsense ! " exclaimed my father, opening his eyes :
" I am giving you the advice of Lord Bacon. You want
conviction : conviction comes from passion ; passion from
the spirits ; spirits from a saffron hag. You Beaudesert,
on the other hand, want to keep youth. He keeps youth
longest who lives longest. Nothing more conduces to
longevity than a saffron bag, provided always it is worn
at the — "

" Sisty, my thimble ! " said my mother.

" You laugh at us justly," said Beaudesert, smiling ;
" and the same remedy, I dare say, would cure us both."

" Yes," said my father, " there is no doubt of that.
In the pit of the stomach is that great central web of
nerves called the ganglions ; thence they affect the head,
and the heart. Mr. Squills proved that to us, Sisty."

" Yes," said I ; " but I never heard Mr. Squills talk of
a saffron bag."

" Oh, foolish boy ! it is not the saffron bag, it is the
belief in the saffron bag. Apply beuep to the centre of
the nerves, and all will go well," said my father.

THE CA.XT0N8:

CHAPTER in,

'TIT it in a devil of a tiling to have too nic
science 1 " quotli t!ie mi^mber of parliament.

" And it i3 not an angel of a thing to lose one's front
teu'th ! " sighed the line geiitloman.

Therewith my father roae, and jiutting his hand into
his (raistcoat, more siiu, delivered hii< famous Serhok
UPON THE Cos.VEoTios BBTWBSN Faith AND PuwoaB.
Famous it was jji our domestie circle, but aa yet it has
not gone beyond ; and einee the reader, I am sure, does
not turn to the Caxton Stemoira with the expectation of
finding BemioTis, so to tliat eircle let its faiiio be circum-
scribed. All I shall say about it is that it was a very fine
sermon, and that it proved indisputably ^ to me at least
— the salubrious eh'ccts of a safiroa bag applied to the
great centre of tjie nervous system.

But the wise Ah saith that " a fool doth not know
what maketh him look little, neither will he hearken to
hiuL that adviseth him." I caimot assert that my father's
friends were fools, but they certainly came under this
definition of Folly.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 187

CHAPTER IV.

For therewith arose, not conviction, hut discussion ;
Trevanion was logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My
father held firm to the saffron hag. When James the
First dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham his med-
itation on the Lord's Prayer, he gave a very sensible
reason for selecting his Gi*ace for that honor ; " for," saith
the king, " it is made upon a very short and plain prayer,
and therefore the fitter for a courtier, for courtiers are
for the most part thought neither to have lust nor leisure
to say long prayers, liking best courte messe et long
disner.** I suppose it was for a similar reason that my
father persisted in dedicating to the member of parliament
and the fine gentleman " this short and plaine " morality
of his, — to wit, the saffron bag. He was evidently per-
suaded, if he could once get them to apply that, it was all
that was needful ; that they had neither lust nor leisure for
longer instructions. And this saffron bag, — it came down
with such a whack, at every round in the argument ! You
would have thought my father one of the old plebeian
combatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to use
sword and lance, fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail ; a
very stunning weapon it was when filled only with sand ;
but a bag filled with saffron, — it was irresistible !
Though my father had two to one against him, they
could not stand such a deuce of a weapon ; and after tuts
and pishes innumerable from Mr. Trevanion, and sundry
bland grimaces from Sir Sedley Beaudesert, they fairly
gave in, though they would not own they were beaten.

THE CAXrONS :

" Enough," Bok\ the member, " I see that y
comprehend me ; I muat continue to move hj mj own

pulse."

My father's pet hook waa the Colloquies of Erasmus ;
vm TCont to say that those Colloi^uies furnished life
1 i!lu8tration« in every page. Out of the Colloquiea
01 Erosiniis he now answered the member.

"Rabiriua, wanting his servant Syrua to get up," quoth
my father, " cried out to him to move. ' I do tuova,'
said 8yru9. ■ I see you move,' replied Rahirius, 'but you
move nothing.' To return to the saffron bag — "

" Confound the saffron hag I " cried Trevanion, in a
rage ; and then softening his look as he drev on his
gloves, ho turned to my mother and said with more
politeness than was natural k>, or at least cuatomarj- with
him ; "By the way, my dear Mrs. Caxton, I should tell
you that Lady Ellinor comes U> town to-morrow on pur-
pose to call on you. We shall be here some little time,
Austin ; and though London is so empty, there are still
some persons of note to whom I should like to introduce
you and yours — "

" Nay," said my father ; " your world and my world
are not the same. Books for nic, and men for you.
Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits, even for
friendship : she has a great piece of work to finish, and
so have I. Mountains cannot stir, especially when in
labor ; hut Mahomet can come to the mountain as often
as he likes."

Mr. Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert
mildly put in his own claims ; both boasted acquaintance
with literary men whom my father would, at all events,
be pleased to meet. My father doubted whether he
could meet any literary men more eloquent than Cicero,
or more amusing than Aristophanes ; and observed that

) (

A FAMILY PICTURE. 189

if such did exist, he would rather meet them in theii
books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he was immov-
able; and so also, with less argument, was Captain
Roland.

Then Mr. Trevanion turned to me. " Your son, at all
events, should see something of the world."

My mother's soft eye sparkled.

" My dear friend, I thank you," said my father, touched ;
" and Pisistratus and I will talk it over."

Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to
the open window, and enjoyed in silence the cool air and
the moonlight.

" Austin," said my mother at last, " I fear it is for my
sake that you refuse going amongst your old friends :
you knew I should be frightened by such fine people,
and — "

"And we have been haj)py for more than eighteen
years without them, Kitty ! My poor friends are not
happy, and we are. To leave well alone is a golden rule
worth all in Pythagoras. The ladies of Bubastis, my
dear — a place in Egypt where the cat was worshipped,

— always kept rigidly aloof from the gentlemen in Ath-
ribis, who adored the shrew-mice. Cats are domestic
animals; your shrew-mice are sad gadabouts. You
can't find a better model, my Kitty, than the ladies
of Bubastis ! "

" How Trevanion is altered ! " said Roland, musingly,

— " he who was so lively and ardent ! "

** He ran too fast up-hill at first, and has been out of
breath ever since," said my father.

" And Lady Ellinor," said Roland, hesitatingly, " shall
you see her to-morrow ? "

" Yes ! " said my father, calmly.

As Captain Roland spoke, something in the tone of his

ISO

THE CAXTOKS:

(liiestion seemed to flash ft conviction on my mother's
heart, — the woman there was quick ; she drew back,
turning pale even in the moonlight, and fixeii her eyes on
my father, while 1 felt her hand, which faitd clusped mine,
tremble convulaively. I understood her. Yes, this Lady
Eilinor was the early rival whose name till then she had
not known. She fixed her eyes on my father ; and at
bis tranquil tone and quiet look she breathed more freely,
and sliding her hand from mine rested it fondly on his
shoulder. A few moments afterwards, I and Captain
Roland foimd ourselves BtanUing alone by the window.

"You are young, nephew," said the Captain, "and you
have the name of a fallen family to raise. Your (ftther
does well not to reject for you that opening iuto the gnsiit
world wliicb Trovanion offers. As for me, my business
in London seems over : I cannot find what I came to
seek. I have sent for my daughter ; when she arrives
I shall return to my old tower, and the man and the ruin
will crumble away together."

" Tush, uncle ! I must work hard and get money ; and
then we will repair tlie old tower and buy back the old
estate. My father shall sell the red brick house ; we
will fit him up a library in the keep; and we will all
live united, in pence and in state, as grand as our ances-
tors before us."

While I thus spoke, my uncle's eyes were fixed upon
a comer of the street where a figure, half in shade, half
in moonlight, stood motionless. "Ah," said I, following
his eye, " I have observed that man two or tJiree times
pass up and down the street on the other side of the way
and turn hia head towards our window. Our guests were
with us then, and my father in full discourse, or 1 should

Before I could finish the sentence my uncle, stifling an

A FAMILY PICTURE.

191

exclamation, broke away, hurried out of the room, stumped
down the stairs, and was in the street, while I was yet
rooted to the spot with surprise. I remained at the win-
dow, and my eye rested on the figure. I saw the Cap-
tain, with his bare head and his gray hair, cross the
street; the figure started, turned the corner and fled.

Then I followed my uncle, and arrived in time to save
him from falling; he leant his head on my breast, and
I heard him murmur : "It is he — it is he ! He has
watched us ! — he repents ! "

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER V.

Tub next day Lady EJIiuor CBlled, but, to my great dis-
iippointment, witliout rfttuiy.

Whether or not some joy at the incident of the pre-
vious night had served to rejuvenate my imule, I know
not^ but he looked to me ten years younger when Lady
Eiliuor entered. How carefully the buttoned-up coat was
bnished ; how new and glossy waa the black atoi'k ! The
poor Captain was restored to his pride, and mighty proud
he looked I with a glow on his cheek and a fire in his eye,
hia head thrown back, and his whole air comjwsed, severe,
Miivortiaii, and majestic, as if awaiting tbe charge of the
French cuirassiers at the head of his detachment.

Ify father, on the contrary, was aa usual (till dinner,
when he always dressed punctiliously, out of respect to
his Kitty) in his easy morning-gown and slippers; and
nothing but a certain compression in his li{>s, which had
lasted all the morning, evinced his anticipation of the
visit, or the emotion it caused him.

Lady Ellinor behaved beautifully. She could not con-
ceal a certain nervous trepidation when she first took the
hand my father extended ; and in touching rebuke of the
Captain's stately bow, she held out to him the hand left
disengaged, with a look which brought Eoland at once to
her side. It was a desertion of his colors to which noth-
ing short of Ney's shameful conduct at Napoleon's return
from Elba, affords a parallel in history. Then, with-
out waiting for introduction, and before a word indeed
was said, Lady Ellinor came to my mother so cordially,

A FAMILY PICTURE.

193

Ki careaamgly ; she threw iato her smile, voice, manner,
sucfa Triiuiing sweetDcss, — that I, intimately learned iu
my poor mother's simple loving heart, wondered how ahe
refrained from throwing lier arms round Lady Eilinor's
neck and kissing herouLright, It niuat have been a great
conquest over herself not to do it ! My turn came next ;
and tttlkiDg to me and alwut me soon set all parties at
their eitae, — at least apparently.

What was said, I cannot remember, — 1 do not think
one of us could. But an hour slipped away, and there
was no gap iu the conversation.

With curious interest, and a survey I strove to make
impartial, I compared Lady Elliiior with my mother ; and
I comprehended the fascinalion which the high-born lady
must, in their earlier yuutli, have exercised over both
brothers, so dissimilar to each other. For cfiorm was the
characteristic of Lady Ellinor, — a charm indefinable. It
was not the mere grace of refined breeding, tliougli that
went a great way ; it was a charm that seemed to spring
from natural sympathy. \\'homaoever she addressed,
that person appeared for the moment to engage all her
attention, to interest her whole mind. She had a gift of
conversation very iiecnliar, She made what she said like
a continuation of what was said to her. She seemed as
if she hail entered into your thoughts, and talked tliem
aloud. Her mind was evidently cultivated with great
care, but she vraa perfectly void of pedantry. A hint,
on allusion, sufficed to show how much she knew, to one
well instructed, without mortifying or perplexing the
ignorant. Yea, there probably was the oidy woman my
father had ever met who could be the companion to his
mtud, walk through the garden of knowledge by his aide,
and trim the flowers while he cleared the vistas. On the
other baud, there was an inborn nobility in Lady Eilinor's

19'

THE CAXTONS:

aentimeuts that muEt have struck the most susceptiHe
chord iu Kolaiid's nature ; and the eentimcnts took elo-
quence from the look, the mien, the sweet dignity of the
very turn of the bead, Yes, ahe must have been a fitting
Oriana to a youn){ Ainadis. It wits not hard to see that
Lady Ellinor was ambitioua; that ehe hud a love of fume
(or fame itself ; that she was proud ; that she set value
{aiid that morbidly) on the world's opinion. This was
perceptible wheu alie spoke of her husband, even of her
daughter. It Bei>med to me aa if she valued tlie iutelleut
of the one, the beauty of the other, by the gauge of the
social diftiuctiou it conferred. She took measriro of tlie
gift as I was tuught at Dr. Herman's to take measure of
the height of a tower, — by the length of the shadow it
cost upon the ground.

My dear father, with such a wife you would never
have lived eighteen years shivering on the edge of a
Great Book ! My dear uncle, with such a wife you
would never have been contented with a cork leg and a
Waterloo medal ! And I understand why Mr. Trevan-
ion, " eager and ardent," as ye say he was in youth, with
a heart bent on the practical success of life, won the haud
of the heiress. Well, you see Mr, Trevanion has con-
trived not to he ha])py ! By the side of my listening,
admiring mother, with her blue eyes moist and her coral
lips apart, Lady Ellinor looks faded. Was she ever as
pretty as my mother is nowT Never; hut she was much
handsomer. What delicacy in the outline, and yet how
decided, iu spite of the delicacy ! The eyebrow so de-
fined ; the profile slightly aquiline, so clearly cut, with the
curved nostril, which, if physiognomists are right, shows
sensibihty so keen ; and the classic lip that, but for the
neighboring dimple, would be so haughty. But wear
and tear are in that face. The nervous, excitable temper

A FAMILY PICTURE. 195

has helped the fret and cark of ambitious life. My dear
uncle, I know not yet your private life ; but as for my
father, I am sure that though he might have done more
on earth, he would have been less fit for heaven, if he
had married Lady Ellinor.

At last this visit — dreaded, I am sure, by three of the
party — was over, but not before I had promised to dine
at the Trevanions' that day.

When we were again alone, my father threw off a long
breath, and looking round him cheerfully, said, "Since
Pisistratus deserts us, let us console ourselves for his
absence ; send for brother Jack, and all four go down^to
Richmond to drink tea."

" Thank you, Austin," said Roland ; " but I don't want
it, I assure you."

" Upon your honor ? " said my father, in a half whisper.

" Upon my honor."

" Nor I either. So, my dear Kitty, Roland and I will
take a walk, and be back in time to see if that young
Anachronism looks as handsome as his new London-made
clothes will allow him. Properly speaking, he ought to
go with an apple in his hand, and a dove in his bosom.
But now I think of it, that was luckily not the fashion
with the Athenians till the time of Alcibiades ! "

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER YI.

Yon may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr.
Trevanioa's, wiUi a long conversation after it with Lady
Ellin or, made upon my mind, when, on my return
homo, after having satisfied all qiieations of parental
curiosity, I said nervously, and looking down ; " My
dear father, I should like very much, if you have no
objection — to — to — "

'MVhat, my dear?" aske<l my father, kindly.

"Accept an offer Lady Ellinor has made me on the
part of Mr. Trevanion, He wants a secretary. He ia
kind enough to excuse my inexperience, and declares I
shall do very well, and can soon get into his ways. Lady
Ellinor says," I continued with dignity, " that it will be a
great opening in public life for me ; and at all events, my
dear father, I shall see much of tlie world, and learn what
I really think iviU be more useful to me than anything
they will teach me at college."

My mother looked anxbualy at my father. " It will
indeed he a great thing for Sicty," said she, timidly ; and
then, taking courage, slie added, — " and that is just the
sort of life he is formed for."

" Hem ! " said my uncle.

My father nibbed his spectacles thoughtfully, and
replied, after a long pause ■ " You may be right, Kitty.
I don't think Pisiatratus is meant for study ; action will
suit him better. But what does this office lead tot"

" Public employment, sir," said I, boldly ; " the service
of my country."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 197

" If that be the case," quoth Roland, " I have not a
word to say. But I should have thought that for a lad
of spirit, a descendant of the old De Caxtons, the army
would have — "

" The army 1 '* exclaimed my mother, clasping her
hands, and looking involuntarily at my uncle's cork
leg.

" The anny ! " repeated my father, peevishly. " Bless
my soul, Roland ! you seem to think man is made for
nothing else but to be shot at ! You would not like the
anny, Pisistratus ? "

" Why, sir, not if it pained you and my dear mother ;
otherwise, indeed — "

" Papce ! " said my father, interrupting me. " This all
comes of your giving the boy that ambitious, uncomforta-
ble name, Mrs. Caxton ! What could a Pisistratus be
but the plague of one's life ? That idea of serving his
country is PiaistraitLS ipsissimus all over. If ever I have
another son {Bit meliora/\ he has only got to be called
Eratostratus, and then he will be burning down St.
Paul's, — which I believe was, by the way, first made
out of the stones of a temple to Diana. Of the two,
certainly, you had better serve your country with a goose-
quill than by poking a bayonet into the ribs of some
unfortunate Indian : I don't think there are any other
people whom the service of one's country makes it neces-
sary to kill just at present, eh, Roland ? "

" It is a very fine field, India," said my uncle, senten-
tiously ; " it is the nursery of captains."

" Is it ? Those plants take up a great deal of ground,
then, that might be more profitably cultivated; and,
indeed, considering that the tallest captains in the world
will be ultimately set into a box not above seven feet at
the longest, it is astonishing what a quantity of room

198 THE CAXTONS:

that species of arbor morfU takes in the growing ! How-
evpr, Piaistratua, to return to your request, I will think it
over, and tftli to Trevuiiion."

"Or rather Ui Lady Elliuor," said I, imprudently : my
mother slightly shivered, and took her hand from miae.
I felt cut to the heart by the slip of my own tongue.

" Tliat, I think, your mother could do host," said my
father, dryly, "if she wants to he quite convinced that
somehody will see that your sliirta are aired ; for I sup-
I)oae they meau you to lodge at Trcvunion's."

" Oh, no 1 " cried my mother ; " he might as well go to
college then. I thought he was to stay with us, — only
go in the morning, hut, of course, sleep here."

"If 1 know anything of Trevanion," said my fother,
" his secretary will he expected ta do without sleep,
Poor hoy ! you don't know what it is you desire ; and
yet, at your aye, I — " my father stopped short. "No!"
he renewed abruptly, after a long silence, and as if solilo-
quizing, — ■ no ; man is never wrong while he lives for
others. The philosopher who contemplates from the
sa'lor who struggles
1 11 H he two of us I

n if I ivished it7
n his chair, and lay-
gl t kn d smilingly, as he

11 tl f ' But, Pisistratu%

y to th saffron bag ! "

■v^'hy

rock i'! a
with tl to m
And /I h h
Impos hi My f th

ing tl 1 ft 1 g
bent d w to 1
willy p m

A FAMILY PICTURE. 199

CHAPTEK VII.

I NOW make a long stride in my narrative. I am domes-
ticated with the Trevanions. A very short conversation
with the statesman sufficed to decide my father ; and the
pith of it lay in this single sentence uttered by Trevanion :
" I promise you one thing, — he shall never be idle ! "

Looking back, I am convinced that my father was
right, and that he understood my character and the
temptations to which I was most prone, when he con-
sented to let me resign college and enter thus prema-
turely on the world of men. I was naturally so joyous
that I should have made college life a holiday, and then,
in repentance, worked myself into a phthisis. And my
father, too, was right that though I could study, I was
not meant for a student After all, the thing was an
experiment. I had time to spare; if the experiment
failed, a year's delay would not necessarily be a year's
loss.

I am ensconced, then, at Mr. Trevanion's ; I have been
there some months. It is late in the winter ; parliament
and the season have commenced. I work hard, —
Heaven knows, harder than I should have worked at
college. Take a day for sample.

Trevanion gets up at eight o'clock, and in all wcatliers
rides an hour before breakfast ; at nine he takes that
meal in his wife's dressing-room ; at half-past nine he
comes into his study. By that time he expects to find
done by his secretary the work I am about to describe

200

Ten CAXTONa :

On commg home, — or rather before going to \»i\, which
is usuftUy after three o'clock, — it is Mr, Trevanion's
hahit to leave on the table of the said ahidy a list of
directions for the secretary. The following, which I take
at random from many I have preserved, may show their
multifarious nature ; —

1. Look out iu the Reports (Committee, House of Lords)
for the last seven jears all tbat 19 Kiiid about the growth of
flnx ; mark the paeda^s for me,

2. Do., do,, Irish Emigmtion.

3. Hunt out second voJiiinR of Kamea's " History of Man,"
passage containing Reid's Logic, — don't know where the
hook m 1

I beginning Lamina conjurtnt, inter
n Gray 1 See.

Quuntam hoc infecit mtxum, guol

lugbt it not, ill strict grammar, lo he

If you don't know, write tit

4. How does the Unc
loniething, end ) la it i

5. FracBStorius writes:
•idiiitTit iirhfa. Query, 1
infecerit, inetead of i-nffi

6. Write the four letters in full from the notes I leave ;
i. «., about the Ei.cleeiastical Courts.

7. Look out Population Returns ; strike average of last five
yenrs (between mortality and births) in Devonshire and
Lancashire.

8. Answer these 811 begging letters "No," — civilly.

9. The other nt., to constituents, " that I have no interest
with Govern men t."

10. See, if you have time, whether any of the new boolu
on the round table aie not trash.

11. 1 want to know all about Indian com.

IS. Longinue nays something, somewhere, in regret for
uncongenial pursuita (public life, I suppose) : what is it ?
N, B. Longinus is not in my London catalogue, but is here,
I know, — I think in a box in the lumber-room.

13. Set right the calculation I leave on the poor-iatea. I
have maile a blunder somewhere, etc.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 201

Certainly my father knew Mr. Trevanion : he never
expected a secretary to sleep ! To get through the work
required of rae by half-past nine, I get up by candle-light.
At half-past nine I am still hunting for Longinus, when
Mr. Trevanion comes in with a bundle of letters.

Answers to half the said letters fall to my share.
Directions verbal, — in a species of short-hand talk.
While I write, Mr. Trevanion reads the newspapers,
examines what I have done, makes notes therefrom, —
some for parliament, some for conversation, some for
correspondence, — skims over the parliamentary papers
of the morning, and jots do^vn directions for extracting,
abridging, and comparing them with others, perhaps
twenty years old. At eleven he walks down to a Com-
mittee of the House of Commons, — leaving me plenty to
do, — till half-past three, when he returns. At four,
Fanny puts her head into the room — and I lose mine.
Four days in the week Mr. Trevanion then disappears for
the rest of the day ; dines at Bellamy's or a club ; ex-
pects me at the House at eight o'clock, in case he thinks of
something, wants a fact or a quotation. He then releases
me, — generally with a fresh list of instructions. But I
have my holidays, nevertheless. On Wednesdays and
Saturdays Mr. Trevanion gives dinners, and I meet the
most eminent men of the day, on both sides; for
Trevanion is on both sides himself, — or no side at all,
which comes to the same thing. On Tuesdays I^y
EUinor gives me a ticket for the Opera, and I get there at
least in time for the ballet. I have already invitations
enough to balls and soirees, for I am regarded as an only
son of great expectations. I am treated as becomes a
Caxton who has the right, if he pleases, to put a De
before his name. I have grown ' very smart. I have
taken a passion for dress, — natural to eighteen. I like

THE OiLXTONS:

ftvorything I do, and every one almnt me. I am over

and ears in love with Fanny Trcvanion, who breaks

' heart, uevcrtheletss ; for she flirts with two pecre, a

^ardsmaii, three old members of parliament, Sir
Moley Beaudcsert, odd ambassador and all his atlacAei,
and positively (the audacious minx !) with a bishop,
in ftill wig and apron, who, people say, meaiia to marry
again.

Pisistratus has lost color and flesh. His mother saja
he is very much improved, — tUat he takes to be the
natural effect proiluced by Stultt and Hoby. Uncle Jack
says he is "fined down." Ilia father looks at Idju and
writes to Tre\-auiou, —■

Dear T. — I refused a salary for my s
hone, and two hours a day to ride it.

Givu Uiiu a

Tlie next day I am master of a pretty bay mare, and
riding by the side of Fanny Trevanion. Alas J alas .'

A FAMILY PICTUBK 203

CHAPTER Vin.

I HAVB not mentioned my Uncle Roland. He is gone
— abroad — to fetch his daughter. He has stayed longer
than was expected. Does he seek his son still, — there
as here ? My father has finished the first portion of his
work, in two great volumes. Uncle Jack, who for some
time has been looking melancholy, and who now seldom
stirs out except on Sundays (on which days we all meet
at my father's and dine together), — Uncle Jack, I say,
has undertaken to sell it

"Don't be over-sanguine," says Uncle Jack, as he
locks up the MS. in two red boxes with a slit in the lids,
which belonged to one of the defunct companies ; " don't
be over-sanguine as to the price. These publishers never
venture much on a first experiment ; they must be talked
even into looking at the book."

" Oh," said my father, " if they will publish it at all,
and at their own risk, I should not stand out for any
other terms. * Nothing great,' said Dryden, * ever came
from a venal pen ! ' "

" An uncommonly foolish observation of Dry den's," re-
turned Uncle Jack ; " he ought to have known better."

"So he did," said I, "for he used his pen to fill his
pockets, poor man ! "

"But the pen was not venal, Master Anachronism,"
said my father. " A baker is not to be called vi^ial if he
sells his loaves ; he is venal if he sells himself. Drydi'U
only sold his loaves."

204

THE CAXT0N3 :

" Ajid we lUTiat sell yours," said Undo Jack, emphatically,
■* A thousand pounds a volame will be about the mark,

" A thousand pounds a volume I " cried my fathi
"Gibbon, I fancy, did not receive moro."

" Very likely ; Gililjon had not an Uncle Jack to look
after his interests," said Mr. Tihbets, laugliing, and
rubbing those smooth hands of his. " No I two thousand
pounds the two volumes, — a sacrifice, but still I recom-
mend moderation."

" I shoiUd be happy indeed if the book brought in any-
thing,'' said my father, evidently fascinated ; " for that
yonng gentleman is rather expensive. And you, my dear
Jack, — perhaps half the aum may be of use to you I "

" To me ! my dear brother," cried Uncle Jack, ^ " to
me I Why, when my new speculation has succeeded I
shall be a millionnaire ! "

" Have you anew apeculation, uncle 1 " said I, anxiously,
"What is it?"

" Mum ! " said my uncle, putting his finger to his lip,
and looking all round the room, — " Mum ! Mum ! "

PiBisTRATua. ^ — "A Grand National Company for
blowing up both Houses of Parliament ! "

Mr. Caxton. — " Upon my life, I hope something newer
than that; for they, to judge by the newspapers, don't
want brother Jack's assistance to blow up each other I "

UscLB Jack (mysteriously). — " Newspapers ! you
don't often read a newspaper, Austin Caxton ! "

" Mb. Caxton. — " Grantfld, John Tihbets ! "

UsoLE Jack. — " But if my speculation make you read
a newspaper every day 1 "

Mb. Caxton (astounded). — " Make me read a news-
paper every day ! "

Unclb Jack (warming, aud expanding his hands to
the fire). — " As big as the ' Times ' ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 205

Mr. Caxton (uneasily). — " Jack, you alann me ! "

Uncle Jack. — " And make you write in it too, — a
leader ! "

Mr. Caxton (pushing back his chair, seizes the only
weapon at his command, and hurls at Uncle Jack a great
sentence of Greek). — " Tovs fi€v yap ctvat ;(aAc7rov9, ocra
Kcu dv^poTTo^yciv.." *

Uncle Jack (nothing daunted). — " Ay, and put as
much Greek as you like into it!"

Mr. Caxton (relieved and softening). — " My dear
Jack, you are a great man ; let us hear you ! "

Then Uncle Jack began. Now, perhaps my readers
may have remarked that this illustrious speculator was
really fortunate in his ideas. His speculations in them-
selves always had something sound in the kernel, consid-
ering how barren they were in the fruit ; and this it was
that made him so dangerous. The idea Uncle Jack had
now got hold of will, I am convinced, make a man's for-
tune one of these days ; and I relate it with a sigh, in
thinking how much has gone out of the family. Know,
then, it was nothing less than setting up a daily paper,
on the plan of the " Times," but devoted entirely to Art>
Literature, and Science, — Mental Progress, in short; I
say on the plan of the " Times," for it was to imitate the
mighty machinery of that diurnal illuminator. It was to
be the Literary Salmoneua of the Political Jupiter, and
rattle its thunder over the bridge of knowledge. It was
to 'have correspondents in all parts of the globe ; every-
thing that related to the chronicle of the mind, from the

^ " Some were so barbarons as to eat their own species." The
seut^nce refers to tlie Scythians, and is in Strabo. I mention the
authority, for Strabo is not an aathor that any man engaged on a
less work than the " History of Haman Error " is expected to have
by heart.

306

THK CAXTONS:

labdr of tiw laisaamrj in the Soulli S«a lakntli, or Uio
reaearcb of a tnveller in puisuil of that mirage coUod
Tirabuctoo, to the last new novel nt Pnii^ or thn loot
grettt emeudation of a Greek particle at a Gernuui ani-
versitf, WM to find a pbce in this fui-us of light. It wms
to irninae, to instruct, to interest, — there was Dotlting it
WM not to do. Not n man in the whule reading [luUic,
not uidj of the three kingdoms, not only of the British
cmpiTP, but under the coj* ol heaven, that it was not to
touch scmiewhere, in h^»A, in heart, or in pocket. The
most crotchety member nf the iulellectual conummitjr
might find hU own hobby in those stables.

"Think," cried L'ncle Jack, — " think of the march of
tniud ; think ot the paaaion for cheap knowledge ; thiidc
how little qunrti^rly, monthly, weekly journals can kcnp
puce with the mnin wants of the age ! As well bavv a
weekly journal ou politics na a weekly journal ou all the
matters atill more interesting thun iwlitics to the muss of
the public. My ' Literary Times ' once started, people will
wonder how they had ever lived without it ! Sir, they
have not lived without it, — they have vegetated ; they
have lived in holes and caves, like the Troggledikes."

" Troglodytes)," s;)id my father, mildly, — " from trogle,
'a cave,' and diimi, 'to go under.' They lived in Ethio-
pia, and had their wives in common."

" As to the last point, I don't say that the public, poor
creatures, are as bad ns that," said I.'iicle Jack, candidly ;
"but no simile holds good in all its points. And the
public are no less Troggledummiea, or whatever you c&ll
them, compared with what they will be when living un-
der the full light of my ' Literary Times.' Sir, it will be
a revolution in the world. It will bring literature out of
tlie cloiida into the parlor, the cottage, the kitchen. The
idlcnt dandy, the finest fine lady, will find something to her

A FAMILY PICTURE. 207

taste ; the busiest man of the mart and counter will find
some acquisition to his practical knowledge. The practi-
cal man will see the progress of divinity, medicine, nay,
even law. Sir, the Indian will read me under the ban-
yan; I shall be in the seraglios of the East; and over
my sheets the American Indian will smoke the calumet
of peace. We shall reduce politics to its proper level in
the affairs of life ; raise literature to its due place in the
thoughts and business of men. It is a grand thought,
and my heart swells with pride while I contemplate it ! "

" My dear Jack," said my father, seriously, and rising
with emotion, "it is a grand thought, and I honor you
for it You are quite right, — it would be a revolution !
It would educate mankind insensibly. Upon my life, I
shall be proud to write a leader, or a paragraph. Jack,
you will immortalize yourself ! "

" I believe I shall," said Uncle Jack, modestly ; " but
I have not said a word yet on the greatest attraction
of all."

" Ah ! and that ? "

" The Advertisements ! " cried my uncle, spreading his
hands, with all the fingers at angles, like the threads of a
spider's wed, " The advertisements — oh, think of them !
— a perfect £1 Dorculo, The advertisements, sir, on the
most moderate calculation, will bring us in £50,000 a-
year. My dear Pisistratus, I shall never marry ; you are
my heir. Embrace me ! "

So saying, my Uncle Jack threw himself upon me, and
squeezed out of breath the prudential demur that was ris-
ing to my lips.

My poor mother, between laughing and sobbing, fal-
tered out : " And it is my brother who will pay back to
his son all — all he gave up for me ! " While my father
walked to and fro the room, more excited than ever I

208 THE CAXTONS;

eav hiin before, muttering, *' A sod, useless d^^ I have
beau hitherto I I should like to serve the world ! I
should indeed I "

Uncle Jack had fairly done it this time. He had found
out the only Imit in the world to catch so shy a carp as
my father, — h<tret UtbalU arunda. I saw that the deadly
hook Wtts within an inch of my father's nose, and that he
was gaziug at it with a fixed determination to EWallow.
But if it amuaed my fatherl Boy that 1 was, I saw no
further. I must own I myself was dazzled, and, perhaps
with cliildlike malice, delighted at the perturbation of
my betters. The young carp was plea-sed to see the
waters so playfully in movement when the old carp
^ved his tail and sprayed himself on liis tuis,

" Mum ! " said Uncle Jock, releasing ine ; " not a word
to Jtr. Trevanion, to any one."

"But why!"

"Wliyl God bless my aoul ! IVI13'! If mv scheme
gets wind, do you suppose some one will not clap on sail
to be before mel You frighten me out of my senses!
Promise me faithfully to be silent as the grave."

" I should like to hear Trevanion's opinion too."

" As well hear the town-crier ! Sir, I have trusted
to your honor ! Sir, at the domestic hearth all secrets
are sacred! Sir, I — "

" My dear I'ncle Jack, you have said quite enough.
Kot a word will I breathe ! "

" I am sure you may trust him, Jack," said my mother.

"And I do trust him, — with wealth untold," replied
my uncle. " May I i\sk you for a little water — with a
trifle of brandy in it — -and a bisoiit, or indeed a sand-
wich. This talking makes me quite hungry."

My eye fell upon Uncle Jack as he spoke. I'oor Uncle
Jacli, he had gron'n thin !

PART SEVENTH.

CHAPTER I.

Saith Dr. Luther, " When I saw Dr. Gode begin to tell
his puddings hanging in the chimney, I told him he would
not live long ! "

I wish I had copied that passage from "The Table
Talk " in large round hand, and set it before my father
at breakfast, the morn preceding that fatal eve in which
Uncle Jack persuaded him to tell his puddings. Yet,
now I think of it, Uncle Jack hung the puddings in
the chimney, but he did not j^ersuade my father to tell
them.

Beyond a vague surmise that half the suspended '* to-
macula" would furnish a breakfast to Uncle Jack, and
that the youthful appetite of Pisistratus would despatch
the rest, my father did not give a thought to the nutri-
tious properties of the puddings, — in other words, to the
two thousand pounds which, thanks to Mr. Tibbets, dan-
gled down the chimney. 80 far as the Great W(^rk was
concerned, my father only cared for its publication, not
its profits. I will not say that he might not hunger for
praise, but I am quite s\ire that he did not care a buttfni
for pudding. Nevertheles.s, it was an infaiist and siiiist^jr
augury for Austin Caxton, the very appeaniiice, the v<»ry
suspension and diinglement of any puddiiigH whatwxjver,
right over his ingle-nook, when those puddings wore

VOL.L — U

810 THS CAXT0K8:

mad* hy tli« aWk Innils of Uncle Jack. X
(Midilin^ wlikh !)<% poor mail, had oil his life be«ti etring-
ing, whether from bis own chimnpys or the cliimueys of
other people, had tumcil out to be nal puddings, ^ they
had nlwiiyii been the ridola the rnchtmimgen, the phau-
toma and tiemlilan«s of puddings. 1 question if Uncle
Jack kneir much nbout Democritus of AMera; but he
wns certainly Uiinted with the philosophy of thiit fanciful
Mi^tt. He peopled the air with images of culu^sal stature
which imprest all hia dreams and diviuationa, and from
whose inflaencea came hiu very sensations and thoughts.
His whole being, asleep or waking, was thus but the re-
flection of great pliantom puddJnfp !

As soon OR Mr. Tibbets had possesawl himself of the
two volumes of the " History of Human Error," he hod
necessarily establiaJied that hold upon my father which
hitherto those Iubricat« honils of his had failed to efl'ect.
He had found what he had so long siglied for in vain, —
his p'liut d'appui, wherein to fix the Archimedean screw.
He fixeil it tight in the "History of Humnn Error," and
moved the Caxtonian world.

A day or two after the eoni'crsntion recorded in my
last cliapter, I saw Uncle Jnek coming out of the mahog-
any doors of my father's banker ; and from that time
there seemed no rea.son why Jlr. Tibbets should not visit
his relationa on weekdays as well ns Sundays. Not a
day, indeed, passed but what he held long conversations
with my father. He hail miich ti) report of his inter-
views with the publishers. In these conversations he
natnmlly recurred to that grand idea of tlie "Literary
Times," which liad so dazzled my )MJor father's imagina-
tion ; and, having heated the iron. Uncle Jack was too
knowing a man not to strike while it was hot.

When I think of the simplicity my wise father ex-

of tlut ^H

. FAMILT PICTDRE.

211

hibit^ in this eriais of his lif«, 1 must own tliat I am
less moved by pity than admiration for that poor greot-
liearted student. We have seen that out of the learned
indolence of twenty years the umbition which is the in~
stinct of a man of genius hod emerged ; the serious pre-
paration of the Great Book for the jienieal of the world
had infiensibly restored the rlaiuu of that iiolsy world uu
the gUent iiidividiia! ; and therewith came a noble re-
morse that he had hitherto done so little for bia species.
Wtie it eaoiigb t/* write quartos upon the piist history of
human error I Waa it not his duty, when the occasion
was fairly presented, to enter upon that present, daily,
hourly war with Error, wliiiih ia the awora chivalry of
Knowledge t Saint George did not dissect dead dragons,
he fonght the hve one. London, with that magnetic
atmosphere which in great cApitala fills the breath of life
with stimulating particles, had its share in quickening
the slow pulse of the student In tlie country he read
but his old authors, and lived with them through the
gone ages. In the city, my father, during the inteniils
of repose from the Great Book, and still more now that
the Great Book hwl come to a pause, inspected the htein-
tnre of his own time. It had a prodigious effect upon
htm. He was unlike the ordinary run of scholars, and,
indeed, of renders, for that matter, who, in theJt supersti-
tious homage to the dead, are always wiUing enough to
sacrifice the living, He did justice to the marvellous
fertility of intellect which characterizes the authorship of
the present age. By tha present age, I do not only mean
the present day ; I commence with the century, " What,"
said my father one day in dispute with Trevanion, " what
characterizes the literature of our time is its human irUer-
ett. It is true that we do not see scholars addressing
scholar;, but men addressing men, — not that scholars

212 THE CAXT0N8:

are ft-wer, Imt that the reading public is more large-
Authors in all ages address themselves to what interests
their readers; the same tilings do not interest a vast
eomniunity which interested half a score of monlia or
hook-worms. The literary j>olis waa onee an oligarchy ;
it is now a repuWie. It is the general brilliancy of the
atmosphere which prevents your noticing the size of any
particular star. Do you not see that with the cultiva-
tion of the masses has awakened the literature of the
affections) Every eentiment finds an expositor, every
feeling an oracle. Like Epime]]idcs, I have been sleep-
ing in a cave ; and, waking, I see thase whom I left chil-
dren are bearded men, and towns have sprung up in the
landflcnpea which I left as solitary wastes-"

Thence the reader may perceive the causes of the
change which had come over my father. As Robert
Hall says, I think of Dr. Eippis, " He had laid so many
books at the top of his head that the hniitiK ciiulii not
move." But the electricity had now penetrated the heart,
and the quickened vigor of that noble oi^on enabled the
brain to stir. Meanwhile, I leave my father to these in-
fluences, and to the continuoiis conversiitions of Uncle
Jack, and proceed with the thread of my own egotism.

Thanks to Mr. Trevanion, my habits were not those
which favor friendships with the idle ; but I formed
some acquaintances amongst young men a few years
older than myself, who held subordinate situations in
the public offices, or were keeping their terms for the
bar, Tliere was no want of ability amongst these gen-
tlemen, but they had not yet settled into the stern prose
of life. Their busy hours only made thera more disposed
to enjoy the hours of relaxation ; and when we got to-
gether, a very gay, light-hearted set we were ! We had
neither money enough to be very extravagant, nor leisure

A FAMILY PICTURE. 213

enough to be very dissipated ; but wc amused oursolves
notwithstanding. My new friends were wcMiderfully eru-
dite in all matters connected with tlie theatres. From an
o])era to a ballet, from *' Hamlet " to the last farce from
the French, they had the literature of the stage at the
finger-ends of their straw-colored gloves. Th(*y had a
pretty large acquaintance with actors and nctronsos, and
were perfect Walpoluli in the minor scandals of thi* day.
To do them justice, however, they were not indiirercnt to
the more masculine knowledge necessary in ** this wrong
world." They talked as familiarly of the real actors of
life as of the sham ones. They could adjust to a hair
the rival pretensions of contending statesnH*n. They did
not profess to be deep in the myst<?ries of foreign cabinets
(with the exception of one young gentleman conn<M!t<Ml
with the Foreign Office, who prided himw'lf on knowing
exactly what the Russians meant to do with India —
when they got it) ; but, to make amends, the miijority of
them had penetrated the closest secrets of our own. It
is true that, according to a proj)er sulxlivision of lalK^r,
each took some particular member of the govcniment f'T
his special observation ; just as the most skilful surg(M*iis,
however profoundly verse<l in the general structure of our
frame, rest their anatomical fame on the li^rht they throw
on particular parts of it, — one man taking the brain, an-
other the duodenum, a thinl the -pinal conl, while a
fourth, perhaps, L* a master of all th^ .synjj/U^ims indi^at'd
by a penJiih finger. A'*roplin;rly, one of my fri'-r.d- ;ip-
propriate'l to hims^-lf the Horn'- I department ; anotl.<:r il.':
Colonies ; and a thinl, whom we all t'-u-wM a.=; a fuf ;.»•'■ T'll-
levrand (or a De K»':z ;it W-l-i.. Lad -ievot^-d Lir^-'lf ro ri.e
special study of .Sir H*/>:rt IV*:1. ::.! kr.ev.-, Vv ti.-
in which that ;/:ofo;:.d ^:A ii.-^ir.u'/.^- -Vi>- ;:.*:. '.':.:•'
c^n hi* fjjAt, •rverj- th--;^*i.t ::..'. •*:- :••---::: 2 i:* hi*

THE CAXTOira:

1 Whether Iftwyere or officials, they all had a

idea of themselves, — high notioiiB of what they

■« be, rather th&n what they were to do, some day.

: kiug of modeni fine gentlemen said of himeelf, in

'apluase of Voltaire, " They liad letters in their pockets

leased to Posterity, — which the chances were, how-

r>irr, that they might forget to deliver." Somewhat

"prig^h" most of Iheui might be; but, on the whole,

they were far more interesting than mere idfe men

of pleasure. There was about them, as featuies of a

general family likeness, a redundant actirity of life, a

gay exuberance of ambition, a lighl-hetirted earnestness

when at work, a schoolboy's enjoyment of the hours of

play.

A great contrast to these young men was Sir Sedley
Beaiidesert, who was pointedly kind to me, and wLoee
bairhelor's house was alwaj-s open to me after noon : Sir
Sedley was vif^iblc to no oiip but his v.'dft before that
hour. A i>etfect bachelor's house it was too, with ita
windows oixiiiing on the Park, and sofas niched into the
windows, on which you miglit loll at your ease, like the
philosopher in Lucretius, —

"Despicere unde queas alioa, posaimque videre
Enare," —

and see the gay crowds ride to and fro Rotten Row, with-
out the fatigue of joining them, esjjecially if the wind was
in the east.

There was no affectation of costliness about the rooms,
but a wonderful accumulation of comfort. Every patent
chair that proffered a variety in the art of lounging found
its place there, — ^and near every chair a little table, on
which you might deposit your book or your coffee-ciip,
without tlic trouble of moving more than your liand. In

A FAMILY PICTURE. 215

winter, nothing warmer than the quilted curtains and Ax-
minster carpets can be conceived ; in summer, nothing
airier and cooler than the muslin draperies and the Indian
mattings. And I defy a man to know to what perfection
dinner may be brought, unless he had dined with Sir
Sedley Beaudesert. Certainly, if that distinguished |)er-
sonage had but been an egotist, he had been the happiest
of men; but, unfortunately for him, he was singularly
amiable and kind-hearted. He had the bonne digestion,
but not the other requisite for worldly felicity, — the
mauvais cceur. He felt a sincere pity for every one else
who lived in rooms without patent cliairs and little coffee-
tables, whose windows did not look on the Park, with
sofas niched into their recesses. As Henry IV. wished
every man to have his pot aufeu, so Sir Sedley Beaude-
sert, if he could have had his way, would have every man
served with an early cucumber for his fish, and a caraffe
of iced water by the side of his bread and cheese. He
thus evinced on politics a naive simplicity which delight-
fully contrasted his acuteness on matters of taste. I re-
member his saying, in a discussion on the Beer Bill, " The
poor ought not to be allowed to drink beer, it is so par-
ticularly rheumatic ! The best drink in hard work is dry
champagne, — not mousseux ; I found that out when I
used to shoot on the moors."

Indolent as Sir Sedley Wiis, he had contrived to open
an extraordinary number of drains on his wealth. First,
as a landed proprietor there was no end to apj)lications
from distressed farmers, aged poor, benefit societies, and
poachers he had thrown out of employment by giving up
his preserves to please his tenant«». Next, as a man of
pleasure the whole race of womankind had legitimate de-
mands on him. From a distressed duchess whose picture
lay perdu under a secret spring of his snuff-box, to a dc-

THE CA.XTONS I

A laundrfiss to whom ho Hiight liavn paid a wimpli-
t on the perfect iiiToUitiuiis of a frill, it was q^uita
ient to be B daughter of Eve to establiah a just clAim

1 oil Bedley's inheritance from Adniu. Agaiii, as an
*jiiateur of art and a respectful servant of every muse, all
whom the public had failed to patronize, —painter, actnr,
poet, musician, — turned, like dyinj^ eunflowera to the
sun, towards the pitying smile of Sir Sedley Beandosert,
Add to these the general miscellaneous multitude who
"had heard of Sir Sedley 'a high ehatacter for l>enovo-
lence," und one may well suppose what a very costly
reputation he had set up.

In fact, though Sir Sedley oould not spend on what might
fairly be called " himself " a fifth part of hffi very hand-
some income, I have no doubt that lie found it difficult
to make both ends meet at the close of the year. That
he did so, he owwl perliapa to two rules which his phi-
losophy had peremptorily adopted : he never made debte,
and lie never gambled. For both these admirable aberra-
tions from the ordinary routine of fine gentlemen I be-
lieve he was indebted to the softness of his disposition.
He had a great compassion for a wretch who was dunned.
" Poor fellow ! " he would say, " it must bo so painful to
him to pass his life in saying 'No.'" So little did he
know alwut that class of promisers, — -as if a man dunned
ever said " No ! " As Beau Brumniell, when asked if he
was fond of vegetables, owned that he had once eat a
pea, so Sir Sedley Beaudosert owned that ho liad once
played high at piqiieL "I was so unlucky as to win,"
said lie, referring to that indiscretion, "and I shall never
forget the anguish on the face of the man wiio paid me.
Unless I could always lose, it would be a perfect purga-
tory to play."

Now, nothing could be more different in their kinds of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 217

benevolence than Sir Sedley and Mr. Trevanion. ^Ir.
Trevanion had a great contempt for individual charity.
He rarely put his hand into his purse, — lio ilrew a great
check on his bankers. Was a congregation without a
churchy or a village without a school, or a river without a
bridge, Mr. Trevanion set to work on calc.uLitions, found
out the exact sum requirexl by an alge]>raic x — y, and paid
it as he would have paid his butcher. It must be owned
that the distress of a man whom ho allowed to be deserv-
ing did not appeal to him in vain ; but it is astonish-
ing how little he spent in that way, for it was hard in-
deed to convince Mr. Trevanion that a deserving man
ever was in such distress as to want charity.

That Trevanion, nevertheless, did infinitely more real
good than Sir Sedley, I Injlieve ; but he did it as a men-
tal operation, — by no means as an impulse from the heart.
I am sorry to say that the main difference was this, —
distress always seemed to accumulate round Sir Sedley,
and vanish from the presence of Trevanion. Where the
last came, with his busy, active, searching mind, energy
woke, improvement sprang up. AMiero the first came,
with his warm, kind heart, a kind of torpor sj>read luider
its rays ; people lay down and basked in tlie liberal sun-
shine. Nature in one broke forth like a brisk, sturdy
winter ; in the other like a lazy Italian summer. Winter
is an excellent invigorator, no doubt, but we all love
summer better.

Now, it is a proof how lovable Sir Sedley was, that I
loved him, and yet was jealous of him. Of all the satel-
lites round my fair Cynthia, Fanny Trevanion, I dreaded
most this amiable luminary. It was in vain for me to
say, with the insolence of youth, that Sir So^lley Beaude-
sert was of the same ago as Fanny's father ; to see them
together, he might have ptissed for Tre van ion's son. No

su>d }atk» V. Imtc hhn. »rirt^ii tri-iwiilT s(i »«!1 diiyowd 3

■nm ii\--;n- fair n-ni i -.j r-nHr- tj.J.:,*, v.>i]ld hiv* t*|«
Tcn whij .pT>7 liif strt-fi;^ niii ■iraggmp it* flv fri>m iDcwn-
ing !.-■ dfWT eve, C-*-ruaTrili 1 di-n'i wiii m-orsp to my
billeresi fi* c-f five an-l rwi^cnr than Bach a rival as Sedlev
Be«udes*n ai seven an'! f'-ny.

Fanny, inilf*>l jfq'lt-ie-l me hombly. Sometimes I
fancied shp likpd me : l>ut llie fancy scanre ihriUed tae
with liflighi Vfore it vanished in the frost of a careless
look or the cold beam of a sarcastic laugh. Spoiled
ilarlij^of the world as she was, she seemed so innocent
in her exiiherant hapi'iuess that one forgot all her faults
in that atmosphere of joy which she diffused around her.
And despite her pretty insolence, she liad so kind a
woman's heart lielow tlie surface ! ^Hien she ouce saw
that she had ]>ained you, she was so soft, so winning

A FAMILY PICTURE. 219

80 humble, till she had healed the wound ; but then^ if
she saw she had pleased you too much, the little witch
was never easy till she had plagued you again ! As
heiress to so rich a father, or rather perhaps mother (for
the fortime came from Lady EUinor), she was naturally
surrounded with admirers not wholly disinterested. She
did right to plague t/iem ; but me ! Poor boy that I was,
why shoidd I seem more disinterested than others ; how
should she perceive all that lay hid in my young deep
heart? Was I not in all worldly pretensions the least
worthy of her admirers ; and might I not seem, therefore,
the most mercenary ? — I, who never thought of her
fortune ; or if that thought did come across me, it was to
make me start and turn pale. And then it vanished at
her first glance, as a ghost from the dawn. H(^v hard it
is to convince youth — that sees all the world of the
future before it, and covers that future with golden
palaces — of the inequalities of life ! In my fantastic and
sublime romance I looked out into that Great Beyond,
saw myself orator, statesman, minister, ambassador, —
Heaven knows what, — laying laurels, which I mistook
for rent-rolls, at Fanny's feet.

Whatever Fanny might have discovered as to the state
of my heart, it seemed an abyss not worth prying into by
either Trevanion or Lady Ellinor. The first, indeed, as may
be supposed, was too busy to think of sucli trifles ; and
Lady Ellinor treated me as a mere boy, — almost like a
boy of her own, she was so kind to me. But she did not
notice much the things that lay immediately around her.
In brilliant con versation with poets, wits, and statesmen, in
sympathy with the toils of her husband or proud schemes
for his aggrandizement, Lady Ellinor lived a life of ex-
citement. Those large, eager, shining eyes of hers,
bright with some feverish discontent, looked far abroad,

220

TBK CAxnns:

wm ii tor new imxUs to nnqtieT : Uw miU >t hn fiert
esea|)ed from l»r naoo. Stw lored ber danj^itei^ dw
«w ptnod of her, trastol in bft with a •ofwA npiMB; ,
th^ 4id Dot nteh orrr her. Lddj ^T'"™' itood alonp on
ft ncnuitain and uuidst a clood.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 221

CHAPTER IT.

ONBday the Trevanions had all gone into the country on
a visit to a retired minister distantly related to Lady
Ellinor, and who was one of the few persons Trevanion
himself condescended to considt. I had almost a holiday.
I went to call on Sir Sedley Beaudesert. I had always
longed to sound him on one subject, and had never dared.
This time I resolved to pluck up courage.

" Ah, my young friend ! " said he, rising from the con-
templation of a villanous picture by a young artist,
which he had just benevolently purchased, " I was think-
ing of you this morning. — Wait a moment, Summers
[this to the valet]. Be so good as to take this picture ;
let it be packed up and go down into the country. It is
a sort of picture," he added, turning to me, " that
requires a large house. I have an old gallery with little
casements that let in no light. It is astonishing how
convenient I have found it ! "

As soon as the picture was gone, Sir Sedley drew a
long breath, as if relieved, and resumed more gayly :
** Yes, I was thinking of you ; and if you will forgive any
interference in your affairs, — from your father's old
friend, — I should be greatly honored by your permission
to ask Trevanion what he supposes is to be the ultimate
benefit of the horrible labors he inflicts upon you."

" But, my dear Sir Sedley, I like the labors ; I am
perfectly contented."

" Not to remain always secretary to one who, if there
were no business to be done among men, would set about

222 TSE CAXT0K8:

teiichii^ tbe mto to baild Iiilb upon be<

Iftindpltt ' Mt d^tar ur, TieTonion is u swM man, ■

itnpendooa man ; one ealeAet/atteme if one is in tlie ssne

KKMB wiUi turn tbm minatf^ : At j-Mir i^ — an age

that Migbl to V M happj," — cuatinued -Sir S«dler, with

a oompaBUOO ^H-^lXj Angelic, " it ia eaJ to aw a> litUe

eBJojrinent."

" But, Sir Sedkj-, I osore you that yoti tn mistakMk
I thocMighij eaaJDj myseU; and have I not hMn) aroa
Ton oonfeat that one majr be idle ami not hapfiff"

" I dkl not confeM that till I was on lb« Wrong tido of
forty ! * wd Sir Sedle;, with a slight shade on his brow.

" Nobody would erep thioh ywi trvm on the wrong
side of foitv ! " said I, with artful datteiT, winding into
my Bulyect "Mias Treramon, for instaaeef

I fouled. Sir S«dley lookeil luud at me, from bia
bright darlc-bhie eyee. "Well, Hts T^mnioD for

"Miss Trevanion, who has all the best-looking fellows
in London rouinl her, eviJenily prefers you to any of

them."

I said this with a great gulp. I wa£ obstinately bent
on [ilumbing tlie deptli of my own f«ars.

Sir Sedley rose ; he laid his hand kindly on mine, and
said, "Do not let Fanny Trevonioii tornu-nt you even
more than her father does ! "

" I don't understand you, Sir Sedley."

" But if I understand you, tlmt is more to the purpose.
A girl like Mis.*! Trevajiiim la cruel till she discoTere alie
has a heart. It is not safe to risk one's own with any
woman till she has ceased to lie a coquette, ily dear
young friend, if you took life less in earnest, I should
spare you tlie pain of these hints. Some men sow
flowers, some plant trees : you are planting a tn'e under

A FAMILY PICTURE. 223

which you will soon find that no flower will grow. Well
and good, if the tree could last to bear fruit and give
shade ; but beware lest you have to tear it up one day or
other ; for then — What then ? Why, you will find
your whole life plucked away with its roots ! "

Sir Sedley said these last words with so seric^us an
emphasis that I was startled from the confusion I had felt
at the former part of his address. He i)aused long, tapped
his snuli-ljox, inhaled a pinch slowly, and continued,
with liis more accustomed sprightliness : " Go as much as
you can into the world. Again I say, * Enjoy yourself.'
And again I ask, what is all this labor to do for you ?
On some men, far less eminent than Trevanion, it would
impose a duty to aid you in a practical ciireer, to secure
you a public employment ; not so on hiin. He would
not mortgage an inch of his independence ])y asking a
favor from a minister. He so thinks occupation the
delight of life that he occupies you out of i)ure aliection.
He does not trouble his head about your future. He
supposes your father will provide for ihaty and does not
consider that meanwhile your work leads to nothing !
Think over all this. I have now bored you enough."

I was bewildered ; I was dumb. These i)ractical men
of the world, how they take us by surprise ! Here had I
come to sound Sir Sedley, and here was I plunil)0(l,
gauged, measured, turned inside out, without having got
an inch beyond the surface of that smiling, debonnaire,
miruffled ease. Yet, with his invaria])le delicacy, in
spite of all this horrible frankness Sir Sedley had not
said a wonl to wound what he might think the more
sensitive part of my amour jjropre, — not a word as to
the inadequacy of my pretensions to think seriously of
Fannv Trevanion. Ha<l we been tlie Celadon and Chloe
of a country village, he could not have regarded us as

THE CAXTOXS:

more aim), so fu as tbe wiirid weni ; ud for Uie rest,
be atbvr itHanOAtM) that poor ¥aimy, the grent heiresa,
mu BtA, wortbj of me, tliati that I vaa not worthy of

I felt tktt tb«« WK no w»Ioid in stammering and
bhcdiing oat ilrniak umI MjuiTocatkios j so I slrelched my
bukl In Kir Rntlev, took up my hat, and went. In^ttijiD-
tlTnly 1 liMit my way to my father's house. I hari nut
Immi tfanv for many lUy^ Not only had I had a gnaX
JmI to do in tJw wky ul huainos^ hut I am ashamed to
My that |i)tNMire itadf had ao entAuglcd my leisura hoiin,
u»i Mi« TivTutton t^pe^idly »«> absorbed them, tlia^
withocit ov»n «m«s.-!r fonhoiling. I hsd left my fother
flotl^ritig his win^ mora ftvMy nnd feeUy in the ytrh
of Uuele Jack. ^Mieu I aniveil in Rut«eU Strt^ttt I
fond Um fly ud th^ e^iider cheek-by-jonl together.

Undo Jaii sprung up at my rntnmc* and cried, " Con-
j^Iulntp ytmr filhiT. CoiiftnimlaU' him /—no ; rnngralii-
late tlie world ! "

" \Vhat, uncle 1 " said I, with a dismal effort at Bym-
pathizing liveliness, "is the 'literary Times' launched
at lastl"

" Oh, that ia all settled, — settled long since. Here 'e
n xjiocimen of the tyjie we have chosen for the leaders."
And Uncle .luck, whose pocket was never without a wet
Hlii-et of some kind or other, drew forth a steaming papy-
rul iiionnt^r, which in point of size was to the political
"Timlin " UH a iiiunimoth may be to an elephant "That
in iiH w'Ltlcil. Wii are only preparing our contributors,
and hIiuII piiL out (nii']irogrntnin<^ next week or week after.
N.i, ri-lstriitii», I rn.iiiii th« Crcjit Work."

" My diiiir llithor, I uiii ao gliid. What ! it is really
«.ld, tUit"

" Hum I" aaid my father.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 225

« Sold ! " burst forth Uncle Jack. " Sold, — no, sir,
we would not sell it ! No ; if all the booksellers fell
down on their knees to us, as they will some day, that
book should not be sold ! Sir, that book is a revolution ;
it is an era ; it is the emancipator of genius from mercen-
ary thraldom, — that book ! "

I looked inquiringly from uncle to fatlier, and men-
tally retracted my congratulations. Then Mr. Caxton,
slightly blushing, and shyly rubbing his spectacles, said,
" You see, Pisistratus, that though j)oor Jack has devoted
uncommon pains to induce the publishers to recognize the
merit he has discovered in the * History of Human Error,*
he has failed to do so."

" Not a bit of it ; they all acknowledge its miraculous
learning, its — "

"Very true; but they don't think it will sell, and
therefore most selfishly refuse to buy it. One book-
seller, indeed, offered to treat for it if I would leave out
all about the Hottentots and Caffres, the Greek philoso-
phers and Egyptian priests, and confining myself solely to
polite society, entitle the work * Anecdotes of the Courts
of Europe, ancient and modem.' "

" The wretch ! " groaned Uncle Jack.

" Another thought it might be cut up into little essays,
leaving out the quotations, entitled * Men and Manners.'
A third was kind enough to observe that though this
particular work was quite unsalable, yet, as I appeared to
have some historical information, lie should be happy to
undertake an historical romance from * my graphic pen,'
— that was the phrase, was it not Jack ? "

Jack was too full to speak.

"Provided I would introduce a proper love-plot, and
make it into three volumes post octavo, twenty-three lines
in a page, neither more nor less. One honest fellow at

VOL. I. — 15

TBB cjLXnilib:

-Ml mtafpnang petsOB. Awl sAergotngtlirDQ^a list
.t-w.— wliidi ifaovod that no puasiUe profit oMili]
be getwrouilj oBunl la pn me half (^ thaeo ao-
, provided I voold gmmmto* half the reir nsitJe

(wnMs. I «K jnst medilstii^ ibe ivoduvre of acMpt-

tnfr this propnil, when jtm vatda «u aeizcd with a sub-
lime idea, which baa whined op inf booi; in a whidwind
of expectation. "

"And that ideal" sud I, despoodenlly.

" Tbat tiUa," quoth UDcle Jai^, nooming hinad^ "ia
amply and diortly this. From tim« imtaemnrial, aothon
have been the ptvr of the publishers. Sir, aathots hare
lived in gaireU, — nar, have been dtoked in the Btivet
by an Qnexpert«d crumb of bcead, like the man who
wrote the play, poor fellow ! "

"Otwar," said my father. "The story is not true, —
no matter."

" Milton, sir, as everyboly knows, sold ' Paradise Lost '
for £10, —£10, sir! In sliort, instances of a like nature
are too numerous to quote. But the booksellers, sir, they
are leviathans ; they roll iii seas of gold ; they subsist
upon authors as vani]iire3 in>i>n liltte eliildren. But at
last endurauce has re.iolieil ils limit; the liat has gone
fortli ; the tocsin of liberty has resounded, — authors
have burst their fetter* ; ami we have just inaugurated
the institution of 'Tub Grand axti-Pubusher Confed-
BRATE Althors' SociBTY,' by wliicli, Pisistratufi, by which,
mark you, every author is to Ije his own publisher, ^ that
is, every author who joins the society. So more submis-
sion of immortal works lo mercenary calculators, to sordid
laaU's; no more liard bargaius and broken hearts; no
more crumbs nf bread cliokin(( gi-eat tragic poets in the
streota; no more PurudiHca Lost sold at £10 a-piece !

A FAMILY PICTURE. 227

The author brings his book to a select committee ap-
pointed for the purpose, — men of delicacy, education,
and refinement, authors themselves ; they read it, the
society publish; and after a modest deduction, which
goes towards the funds of the society, the treasurer hands
over the profits to the author."

" So that, in fact, uncle, every author wlio can't find a
publisher anywhere else will of course come to the society.
The fraternity will be numerous."

" It will indeed."

" And the speculation — ruinous."

" Ruinous, why ? "

" Because in all mercantile negotiations it is ruinous to
invest capital in supplies which fail of demand. You
undertake to publish books that booksellers will not pub-
lish,— why? Because booksellers can't sell tlieni. It's
just probable that you '11 not sell them any better tlian
the booksellers. Ergo, the more your business, the larger
your deficit; and the more numerous your society, the
more disastrous your condition, q. e. d."

" Pooh ! The select committee will decide what books
are to be published."

"Then where the deuce is the advantage to the au-
thors? I would as lief submit my work to a publisher
as I would to a select committee of authors. At all
events, the publisher is not my rival ; and I suspect he
is the best judge after all, of a book, — as an accoucheur
ought to be of a baby."

"Upon my word, nephew, you pay a bad conij>linient
to your father's Great Work, which the booksellers will
have nothing to do with ! "

That was artfull}- said, and I was posed ; when Mt,
Caxton observed, with an apologetic smile, —

" The fact is, my dear Pisistratus, that I want my book

t I keep

-. rwli FmI ^■Tii ■ iiTj n 1 |i i1

Mi l^fife to Cwfa JM^a acdetj!
I gift haw » &r BHtL-
■c ^liHB^ »? fn^ a ikfi|iin^ expedi-
t tiiat

I mtU ^MftmT ,^^mwm IiibiiIIi fi^awon
dii; «lKh I «l Brt wt^i±, U^r JKk nDhr wm en-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 229

CHAPTER III.

Here we three are seated round the open window, after
dinner, familiar as in the old happy time, and my mother
is talking low, that she may not disturb my father, who
seems in thought —

Cr-cr-crrr-cr-cr ! I feel it — I have it ! Where ? What ?
Where 1 Knock it down ; brush it off ! For Heaven's
sake, see to it ! Grrrr-crrrrr — there — here — in my
hair — in my sleeve — in my ear — cr-cr.

I say solemnly, and on the word of a Christian, that
as I sat down to begin this chapter, being somewhat in
a brown study, the pen insensibly slipped from my liand,
and leaning back in my chair, I fell to gazing into the fire.
It is the end of June, and a remarkably cold evening, even
for that time of year. And while I was so gazing I felt
something crawling just by the nape of the neck, ma'am.
Instinctively and mechanically, and still musing, I put my
hand there, and drew forth — what ? That what it is
which perplexes me. It was a thing — a dark thing —
a much bigger thing than I had expected ; and the sight
took me so by surprise that I gave my hand a violent
shake, and the thing went — where I know not. The
what and the where are the knotty points in the whole
question ! No sooner had it gone than I was seized with
repentance not to have examined it more closely, not to
have ascertained what the creature was. It might have
been an ear\vig, — a large, motherly earwig; an earwig
far gone in that way in which earwigs wish to l>e who
love their lords. I have a profound horror of earwigs

THH OAXTONS :

[y helieve tliat tlioy do get into the ear. That is a

t on which it if useless tjs argue with me upcio

ophical grounds. I have a vivid recollection of a

j told me by Mrs. Primmina, — how a lady for many

ifs suffered under the most excrudatmg hendaches;
now, as the toujltstones say, " physicianB were in Fain ; "
how she diod ; and how her head was opened, and how
such a nest of e-arwigs, ma'am, such a nest ! Earwigs are
the proliflckest things, and so fond uf their offspring !
They sit on their eggs like hens, nnd the young, as eocin
as they are bom, creep under them for protection, — quita
touchingly ! Imagine suuh on enbibliahment domeaticAted
at one's tymrianiim !

But the creature was certainly larger than an earwig.
It might have been one of that genua in the family of
Forjienlidm called Labidotira, — monsters whose antennffl
have thirty joints I There is u species of this creature in
England (but to the great grief of naturalista, and to the
great honor of Providence, very rarely found) infinitely
larger than the common earwig, or Forficulida auriculana.
Could it have l>een an early hornet 1 It had certainly a
blaek head and great feelers. I have a greater horror of
hornet,*, it possible, than I have of earsvigs. Two hornets
will kill a man, and three a carriage -horse sixteen hands
high.

However, the creature was gone. Yes, but whei*)
Where had I so rashly thrown iti It might have got
into a fold of my dressing-gown or into my slippers, or,
in short, anywhere, in the various recesses for earwigs
and hornets which a gentleman's habiliments afford, I
satisfy myself at last as far as I can, seeing tliat I am not
alone in the room, tliat it is not upon mc. I look upon
the carpet, the rug, the chair, under the fender. It is
noa inveiilui. I barbarously hope it is frizzing behind

A FAMILY PICTURE. 231

that great black coal in the grate. I pluck up courage ;
I prudently remove to the other end of the room. I take
up my pen, I begin my chapter, — ver}' nicely, too, I
think upon the whole. I am just getting into my sub-
ject^ when — cr-cr-cr-cr-cr — crawl — crawl — crawl —
creep — creep — creep ! Exactly, my dear ma'am, in the
same place it was before ! Oh, by the Powers ! I forgot
all my scientific regrets at not having sciiitinized its genus
before, whether Forficuluia or Labidoura, I made a des-
perate lunge with both hands, — something between
thrust and cut, ma'am. Tlie beast is gone. Yes, but,
again, where? I say that that ivhei-e is a v(;ry horrible
question. Having come twice, in spite of all my precau-
tions — and exactly on the same spot, too — it shows ii
confirmed di8])Osition to habituate itseK t^) its quarters, to
effect a parochial settlement upon me ; there is something
awful and preternatural in it. I assure you that there is
not a part of me that has not gone cr-cr-cr I — that has
not crept, crawled, and forfieulated ever since ; and I
put it to you what sort of a chapter I can make aft^r
such a —

My good little girl, will you just take the candle and
look carefully under the table ? That *s a dear ! Yes,
my love, very black indeed, with two horns, and inclined
to be corpulent. Gentlemen and ladies who have culti-
vated an acquaintance with the Phoenician language are
aware that Beelzebub, examined etymologiciUly and ento-
mologically, is nothing more or less than Baalzebub, —
"the Jupiter-fly," an emblem of tlie Destroying Attri-
bute, which attribute, indeed, is found in all the insect
tribes more or less. AVlierefore, as Mr. Payne Knight, in
his " Incjuiry into Symbolical Languages," hath observed,
the Eg}'ptian priests shaved their whole bodies, even to
their eyebrows, lest unaware tliey should harbor any of

232

THE CAXTONS:

the minor Zebubs of the great BaaL If I were the least
bit more persuaded that that black cr-cr were about me
still, and that the sacrifice of my eyebrows would deprive
him of shelter, by the souls of the Ptolemies I would, —
and I will too ! Ring the bell, my little dear ! John,
my — my cigar-box ! There is not a cr in the world that
can abide the fumes of a havana ! Pshaw ! sir, I am not
the only man who lets his first thoughts upon cold steel,
end, like this chapter, in — PflF — pff — pflFl

A FAMILY PICTUBE. 233

CHAPTER IV.

EvBRTTHiNO in this world is of use, even a black thing
crawling over the nape of one's neck ! Grim unknown, I
shall make of thee — a simile 1

I think, ma*am, you will allow that if an incident such
as I have described had befallen yourself, and you had a
proper and lady-like horror of earwigs (however motlierly
and fond of their oflFspring), and also of early hornets,
and indeed of all unknown things of the insect tribe
with black heads and two great horns, or feelers, or
forceps, just by your ear, — I think, ma'am, you "will
allow that you would find it difficult to settle back to
your former placidity of mood and innocent stitch-work.
You would feel a something that grated on your nerves
and cr'd-cr'd "all over you like," as the children say.
And the worst is, that you would be ashamed to say it ;
you would feel obliged to looked pleased, and join in the
conversation, and not fidget too much, nor always be
shaking your flounces and looking into a dark corner of
your apron. Thus it is with many other tilings in life
beside > black insects. One luis a secret c^ire, an abstrac-
tion, a something l>etween the memory and the feeling of
a dark crawhng cr which one has never dared to
analyze.

So I sat by my mother, trying to smile and talk as
in the old time, but longing to move about, ami look
around, and escape to my own solitude, and t^ke the
clothes off my mind, and see what it was that had so
troubled and terrified me; for trouble and terror were

THE CUTOBS:

I »& And m; niitbvr, wbo was always (Hmtoii
B Iier!) inqoisitiTe enou^ in «U tbat ooooeriMd her
ig Anachroaiain, wu Mpecutlf inqniattre liut
eveum^ She niad« tne a^j wbent 1 hail lieen, uid vbat
I bad done, and how I had rftai mj tune ; and Fannj
l^smuoa (whom fdw had aeeo, by the way, tbree or foar
bnes, and whom abe thonght the prettMst person in tine
woiM), — oh, she miKt know exactly wiiat I thought oj
Fanny Treranion ! And all thia while my father aeeowd
in thon^t; and so^ iritb mj ann orer my mother^
chair, and my hand in hen, I answered my mother'a
questions, sometimes by a stammer, aomettmes by a
yitdent effort at Tolability ; when at some interrojtatoiy
Ui&t went tingling ri^'ht to my heart I turned uneasily, nnd
ther? Wire Tt:v firVr-r'^ '■:-'•' f-T'-'\ ••^n mine, — fixed as
lliey haii U-i-u -• '■ , ;. I ■. ■ .iliy, I pined and

languished, and my father said, " He mnst go to school ; "
fixed with qoiet, watchful teDdemes."^. Ah, no! his
thoughts had not been on the Creal Work ; he had
been devp in the pages of that less worthy one for
which he had yet more an autlior's jiatenial caie. I
met those eyes, and yearnetl to throw myself on his
heart and tell him all. Tell him what I Sfa'am, I no
more knew what to tell him than I know what that
black tiling was which has so worried me all this
blessed evening '.

" PisistratKs," said my father, softly, " I fear you have
forgotten the saffron bag,"

" Xo, indeed, sir," said I, smiling.

"He,"reBumed my father, "he who wears the saffron
bag has more cheerful, settled spirits than you seem to
have, my iioor boy."

" Jfy dear Austin, his spirits are very good, I think,"
said my mother, anxiously.

A FAMILY PICTURE.

235

My father shook his head ; then he took two or three
turns about the room.

''Shall I ring for candles, sir? It is getting dark ; you
wiU wish to read."

" Noy Pisistratus, it is you who shall read ; and tliis
hour of twilight best suits the book I am about to o[)on
to you."

So saying, he drew a chair between me and my mother
and seated himself gravely, looking down a long time
in silence, then turning his eyes to each of us
alternately.

"My dear wife," said he, at length, almost solemnly,
" I am going to speak of myself as I wtis before I knew
you." Even in the twilight I saw that my mother's
countenance changed. " You have respectt^d my secrets,
Katherine, tenderly, honestly. Xow the time is come
when I can tell them to you and to our son."

ounlrca taaeh accetiiiiig U> em ovn bsteoL Rohn^
dMtuid lumtod ud fiib«d,i>ad tli tli* p«xti7nMl bwlca
(rf dinlry to be fntod ia nj bllKC's ciJbctian, wbidi
« lidk io fndi mUen, ud made ■ giemt muij cOfieB
of the (4(1 pedipvtt, — tbs only tUng in wfakh nj {iUmk
«nr erfoced mtt'cli viUl intensL EmAj in life I coo-
ceived a passion for graTer studies, and by good lock
I foond a tutor in Mr, Tibbets. irho but for his modesty,
Kitty, would have rivalled Poisoo. He was a second
BudKus for induslrr, — - and, by the war, he said exactly
the same thing that Budxus did ; namely, ' That the oidy
lost day in his life was thai in whirh he was married,
for on that day he had only had six houre for reading ' '
Under such a master I could not f^ to be a scholar. I
came from the University with such distinction as led mc
to look sanguinely on my career in the world.

" I returned to my father's quiet rectory to pause and
consider what path I .should take to fame. The rectory
was just at the foot of the hill, on the brow of which
were the ruins of the castle Roland has since purchased ;
and though I did not feel for the ruins the same romantic
veneration as my dear brother (for my day^ireams were
more colored by classic than feudal recollections), 1 yet

A FAMILY PICTURE. 237

loved to dimb the hill, book in hand, and built my
castles in the air midst the wrecks ofthat which time
had shattered on the earth.

" One day, entering the old weed-grown court, I saw a
lady seated on my favorite spot, sketching the ruins.
The lady was young, more beautiful than any woman I
had yet seen, — at least to my eyes. In a word, I was
fascinated, and as the trite phrase goes, ' spell-bound.' I
seated myself at a little distance, and contemplated her
without desiring to speak. By and by, from another
part of the ruins, which were then uninhabited, came a
tall, imposing elderly gentleman with a benignant aspect,
and a little dog. The dog ran up to me barking. This
drew the attention of both lady and gentleman to me.
The gentleman approached, called off the dog, and
apologized vnth much politeness. Surveying me some-
what curiously, he then began to a.sk questions about the
old place and the family it had belonged to, with the
name and antecedents of which he was well acquainted-
By degree it came out that I was the descendant of that
family, and the younger son of the humble rector who
was now its representative. Tlie gentleman then in-
troduced himself to me as the Earl of Kainsforth, the
principal proprietor in the neighborhood, but who had so
rarely visited the coimty during my childhoo^l and earlier
youth that I had never before seen him. His only son,
however, a yoimg man of great promise, had been at the
same college with me in my first year at the University.
The young lord was a reading man and a scholar, and we
had become slightly acquainted when he left for his
travels.

" Now, on hearing my name Lord Rainsforth took my
hand cordially, and leading me to his daughter, said,
* Think, Ellinor, how fortunate ! — this is the Mi.

THE CAXTONS:

whom your brother so often apoke of.' In

my dear I'isii^tratits, Ihe ice was broken, the aer
tance miule ; and Lord Rainsforth, Hij-ing he waa

jie to atoue for liis loiig absence from the county, and
^ reside at Complon the greater part of the year, pressed
me to visit hini. I did bo. LonI Kainsforth's liking to
me increased; I went there often."

My father paused, aud setting my mother hod fixed her
eyea upon him with a sort of mournful eamestnivss, and
bad pressed her hands very tightly together, he bent down
and kissed her forehead.

" There is no cauee, my child '. " said he. Il was the
only time 1 ever heard hiiu address my mother so pa-
rentally. But then 1 never heard him before so grave
and solemn ; not a quotation, too, — it was incredible I it
was not my father speaking, it was another man. " Yee,
I went there ofti'u. Lord Rainsforth was a remarkable
person. Hhynesa that was wholly without pride (which
is rare), and a love for quiet litemry pursuits, had pre-
vented his taking that personal part in public life for
which he was richly qualified ; but his reputation for
sense and honor, and his ^lersonal popularity had given
him no inconsiderable iiiflueiiie, — even, I believe, in the
formation of cabinets ; and he had once been prevailed
upon to (ill a high diplomatic situation abroad, in which
1 have no doubt that he was as miserable as a good man
can be under any infliction. He was now pleased to re-
tire from the world, and look at it through the loopholes
of retreat. Lord Rainsforth had a great respect for talent,
and a warm interest in such of tlie young as seemed to him
to possess it. By talent, indeed, his family had risen, and
were strikingly characterized. His ancestor, the first peer,
had been a distinguishetl lawyer; his father had been
celebrated for scientific attainments ; his children, Ellinor

A FAMILY PICTURE. 239

and Lord Peudarvis, were highly uccomph'shed. Thus
the fauiily identified theiiiAclvcs with the aristocracy of
intellect, and seemed unconscious of their claims to the
lower aristocracy of rank. You must l>car this in mind
throughout my story.

" Lady Ellinor shared her father's ta.stes and habits of
thought (she was not then an heiress). Lonl liiiinsforth
talked to me of my career. It was a time when the
French Revolution had made statesmen look round with
some anxiety to strengthen the existing order of things,
by alliance vdth all in the rising generation who evinced
such ability as might influence their contemporaries.
University distinction is, or was formerly, among the
popular passports to public life. By de^iees, Lonl Rains-
forth liked me so well as to suggt^st to me a seat in the
House of Commons. A meml)cr of parliament might rise
to anything, and Lord Rainsforth had sufficient influence
to effect my return. Dazzling jirospect this to a young
scholar fresh from Thucydides, and with Demostlienes
fresh at his tongue's end ! My ilear lx)y, I was not then,
you see, quite what I am now : in a word, I loved Ellinor
CcMnpton, and therefore I wtis ambitious. You know
how ambitious she is still. But I could not mould mv
ambition to hers. I coidd not contemplate entering the
senate of my country as a dependent on a [wirty or a
patron, — as a man who must make his fortune there ;
as a man who in every vote must consider how much
nearer he advanced himself to emolument. I was not
even certain that Lord Rainsforth's views on politics
were the same tis mine would be. How could the poli-
tics of an experienced man of the world be those of an
anient young student? But had they Ix^en identical, I
felt that I could not so creej) into equality with a patron's
daughter. No ! I was rea<ly to aUmdon my own more

™« CiXTons:

'^i' v™. »ol ,r " """■■'■ ^' "" '^'" ■«

'«»i -,u 4« t;i7'«'™/Z3° "p»''«.»-
''^■"'OS-I „, , """">• And r_ , '». "he „„ .

*" '«" '. C ;■''"•■",,'" '"■ dvr'""* '»' ■

"' '»"», and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 241

yet had never had its vent And EUinor, — Heaven for-
bid I should say she loved me, hut something made me
think she could do so. Under these notions, suppressing
aU my hopes, I made a hold effort to master the influences
round me, and to adopt that career I thought worthiest of
us alL I went to London to read for the har.^'

** The bar ! is it possible ? " cried I. My father smiled
sadly.

" Everything seemed possible to me then. I read some
months. I began to see my way even in that short time,
— began to comprehend wluit would be the difficulties
before me, and to feel there was that within me which
could master them. I took a holiday and returned to
Cumberland. I found Rolantl there on my return. Al-
ways of a roving, adventurous temper, though he had not
then entered the army, he had, for more than two years,
been wandering over Great Britiiin and Ireland on foot.
It was a young knight-<»rrant whom I embraced, and who
overwhelmed me with reproaches that I should be read-
ing for the law. There had never been a la^vyer in the
family ! It was about that time, I think, that I petrified
him with the discovery of the printer.

" I knew not exactly wherefore, whether from jealousy,
fear, forebotling, but it certainly was a pain that seized
me when I learned from Roland that he had become inti-
mate at Compton Hall. Roland and Lord liainsforth
had met at the house of a neighlx)ring gentleman, and
Lord Rainsforth had welcomed his acquaintance, — at
first, jwrhaps, for my sake, afterwards for his own. I
could not for the life of me," continued my father, " ask
Roland if he admired EUinor ; but when I found that he
did not [)ut that question to nie, I trembled ! We went
to Compton together, speaking little by the way. We
stayed there some days."

VOL. I. — 16

itt ran cAXTCHps:

3|rbtlittkRtl>n»tl>islua.)mtoluswueUKnt All

an Wve Aeit buk way^ wfajeli denote mndi ; wd wheji

■gr irtktr Ihiut hk buid into lus wuEtorat, it was b1-

■i|« ■ api «( nne menul eAxt, — h« vaa going to

lame or to Miga^ to monlise w lo {veacli. Therefore,

llwi«h 1 wwIiatesiDg bftfcte «iUi «U n j eare, I LeUeve

pnT id ws, a nrw stnse supplied to me, when mj father

pot his bMoA inttf fab musUN^L

A FAMILY PICTURE. 243

CHAPTER VI.

WHKRXIK XT FATHKR CONTINUES HIS STORT.

"Therb 18 not a mystical creation, typo, symbol, or poet-
ical invention for meanings abstruse, recondite, and in-
comprehensible which is not represented by tlie female
gender," said my father, having his hand quite buried in
his waistcoat " For instance, the Sphinx and Isia, whose
veil no man had ever lifted, were botli ladies, Kitty ; and
so was Persephone, who must be always either in heaven
or hell ; and Hecate, who was one thing ])y night and
another by day. The Sibyls were females ; and so were
the Gorgons, the Harpies, the Furies, tlie Fates, and the
Teutonic Valkyrs, Xornies, and Ilela herself ; in short,
all representations of ideas obscure, ijiscrutable, and por-
tentous are nouns feminine.''

Heaven bless my father ! Augustine Caxton was him-
self again ! I began to fear that the story had slij)ped
away from him, lost in that labyrinth of learning. But
luckily, as he paused for breath, his look fell on those
limpid blue eyes of my mother, luid that honest open
brow of hers, which had certiiinly nothing in common
with Sphinxes, Fates, Furies, (;r Valkyrs ; and whether
his heart smote him, or liis reason made him own that he
had fallen into a very disingenuous an<l unsound train of
assertion, I know not, but his front relaxed, and Avith a
smile he resumed.

" Ellinor was the last person in the world to deceive
any one willingly. Did she deceive me and Roland, that

2U THE iuxra.vs:

va halh, thaa^ act emceiUid mea, tauaed tliat if ve
had iland to i^eak Ofwulv of love vo bad not 00 dared in
rain ; or do ytn ihiak, KJUj, that a woman really can
love (not mncK, perhajie, bnt sotne-w-bat) two or Uiree, or
boU a <iutceii, at a liine t "

" Lnponibk ! '' ciioil tnjr mother; "and as for this
l^dj EUinor, 1 au shocked at ber — I don't know what
locaBitl'

" Nor I either, 017 doar," aaid mv fatber, dowing tak-
ing his hand b<mt his waistcoat, as if the effcoi were too
much for him, and the problem were insulnble. " But
thb, bf^tig Ttwr paidoB, 1 do think, — that before a
young wMunn do«s really, truly, and cotdJAlly centre her
alTeclioiis ou one object, she suffers fancy, imagiiuktion,
Uw desire of }Kiwer, miiosity, or Heaven knowa what, to
simiilat^i, e\-en to her own niiiiil, pale reflections of the
luniiuury not yet li^en, parhelia that precede the Bun.
Ifen*! judge of Kobnil as you see him now, Pisistratus,
— gnm and gray and fi>nual ; iuiii^ne a nature Ttoaring
high amotigst ildring thought^ or exuberant witli the
iiaiueless poetry of youlhfid life, with a frame matchless
for bounding elasticity, an eye bright with haughty fire,
a heart from which noble sentimenla spraug like spnrks
from iin anvil. Laiiy Ellinor hnd an anient, inquisitive
imagination. This bold, fiery nature must have moved
her interest. On the other hand, she had an instructed,
full, and eager mind. Am I vain if 1 say, now after the
la]tse of so many years, that in my mind her intellect felt
coiu[ianionship 1 When a woman loves and marries and
settles, why then she becomes u one whole, a completed
being; hut a girl like Kllinor has in her many women.
Various herself, all varieties please her. I ilo believe
that if either of us had spoken tlie word boldly. Lady
Kllinor would have Rlinink baek to her own heart, ex-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 245

amined it^ tasked it^ and given a frank and goneroiis an-
swer; and he who had spoken first might liuvc had the
better chance not to receive a ' ^To.' But neitlier of us
spoke; and perhaps she was rather curious to know if
she had made an impression than anxious to create it.
It was not that she n^'illingly deceived lis, hut her whole
atmosphere was delusion ; mists come before the simrise.
However this he, Koland and I were not long in detecting
each other ; and hence arose^ first coldness, then jealousy,
then quarreL''

"Oh, my father, your love must have been indeed
powerful to have made a breach between the hearts of
two such brothers ! "

"Yes,*' said my father, "it was amidst the old ruins of
the castle, there where I had first seen Kllinor, that,
winding my arm round Koland's neck as I found him
seated amongst the weeds and stones, his face buried in
his hands, — it was there that I said, * Brother, we Iwth
love this woman ! My nature is the calmer of tht' two ;
I shall feel the loss less. Brother, shake hands ; and Goil
speed you, for I go ! * "

" Austin ! " murmured my mother, sinking her head on
my father's breast

"And therewith we quarrelled. For it was Roland
who insisted, while the tears rolled down his eves and he
stamped his foot on the ground, that he was the intruder,
the interloper ; that he had no hope ; that he had been a
fool and a madman ; and that it was for him to go !

" Now, while we were dis]>uting, and words began to
run high, my father's old servant entered the desolate
place with a note from I^idy Ell i nor to me, asking for
the loan of some book I had praised, lloland saw the
handwriting, and while I turned the note over and over
irresolutely before I broke the seal, he vanished. He

THE CAXTONS:

ut rpluru lo nijf fntlirr's lionse. 'We did not kDOw
lud l>ecoiue uf him. But I, thinking over that im-
i.ri, volcanic nature, took quick alarm ; and I went in
Bcarchof bim, — came on his track at last; and afternmuy
dnys fownd him in a mist^rahlo cottage amonyst the most
dn-uiy of Uie dreary wastes which form so lai^e a. part of
Cumberland. He was m altoiinl I aiarcL>ly knew him- To
be brief, we came at last to a comjiromise. Wo would go
bock to Conipton. This suspense was ijitolerable, — one
of us at least should take courage and leam his fate.
But who should speak first J We drew lots, and the lot
fell on me.

"And now that I was rea.lJy to pass the Rubicon, now
that I was to impart that secret hope which had animated
mo so long, been to me a new life, what were my sen-
sations T Jly dear boy, depend on it tliat that age is the
Imppiest when such feelings as I felt then can agitate as
no more ; they are mistake,i in the serene order of that
majestic life which Heaven meant for thoughtful man.
Our souls should l>e as stars on earth, not aa meteors and
tortiireil comets. What could I oit'er to KlHnor, to lier
father, — what but a future of [wtient lalmrT And in
either answer whiit alternative of misery, — my own
existence shattered, or Roland's noble heart !

" Well, we went to Conipton In our former \isits we
had been almost tlie onh gucsta Lord Rainsforth did
not much affect the intercourse of country squires, less
educated tin n than now , and in excuie for Elhnor and
for us, wo «erc almost the only men of our own age she
hid seen in that large dull hou-e But now the London
se ison had broken up, the house was filled , there was
no longer that fimiliar and eonstint ippioa<h to the
mistress of the H ill which hail imde u« like one family
Ciieat ladiis, hnc ptopli «irt louiid hir , a look, a smile,

A FAMILY PICTURE.

247

a passing word were as much as I had a right to expect
And the talk, too, how different ! Before I could speak
on books, — I was at home there ! Roland could ix)ur
forth his dreams, his chivalrous love for the past, his bold
defiance of the unknown future. And Ellinor, cidtivated
and fanciful, could sympathize with l)oth; and her
father, scholar and gentleman, could synipatliize too.
But now — "

THE GAXrOXS:

CHAPTER Vn.

VBKKKIX XT FATHKR BRINGS OUT HIS D^OUEKIIKT.

" It is do use in the world," said my father, •' to know all
the Un^nuft^ expounded in (n^unniais and splintered up
into lexit-ims, if we don't leam the language of the world.
It 18 a talk apart, Kitty," cried my fatlier, warming up.
" It is an uuiglTph, — a spoken anaglyph, my dear ! If
■II the hieroglyphs of the I^'pttiuis had be«u A B C to
you, Btill, if you did not know the anaglyph, you
would know nothing of the true mysteries of the
priesLs.'

" Neitlier Roland nor I know one symbol letter of the
anaglyph. Talk, t^Uk, talk ou persons we never heard
of, things we never cared for. All t(v thought of im-
portance, puerile or peilautic trifles ; all we thought so
trite and childish, tlie grand momentous hiisiiiess of life I
If you found a little schoolboy on his half-holiday fishing
for minnows with a crooked pin, and you Ijpgaii to tell
him of all the wonders of the deep, the laws of the tides,
and the antediluvian relics of igiianodon and ichthyo-
naurus ; nay, if you spoke but of pearl-fisheries and coral-
tianka, or water-kelpies and naiails, — would not the little
boy cry out peevishly, ' Don't tease me with all that
nonsenao ! let mo fiwh in pe.ice for my minnows I ' I

■ The anaglyph wait |)G('iiIlar Co the Egyptian priests i the
hiemglyph geaerally known to the well edacated.

▲ rA3CILY PICTURE. 249

think the little boy 13 right after his own way : it wiim t(»
Ml for minnows that he came <tiit, {HX)r vh'My nnt U\
hear about iguan«>Ion.s and wati'r-kelpies.

"So the company tisheil for minnows, nnd not n Wfiitl
could we ^y ab^ut our pearl-fisheries and mml ImnkN !
And as for fi.shing for minnows oursolvt's, my d«'nr Uty,
we should have been less bewildered if you had nHki'tl im
to fish for a mermaid! Do you see, now, nm^ i-imimmh
why I have let you go thus early into tlu^ world "/ Will,
but amongst the^e minnow-fishers tli(>r(' was nm* wlm
fished with an air tliat made the minnows Innk Uuyrr
than salmons.

''Trevanion had been at Cambridgo with uv* ; we. wn*
even intimate. He was a yoinig man like myHcIf, willi
his way to make in the world, -- j)Oor as I, nf a fmnily
upon a par with mine, old enough, hiil diMMyi'd. TIhti^
was, however, this diflerencc between us : he Imd nm
nections in the great world ; I had non(^ Like; nn*. Ihm
chief pecuniary resource was a c.olli'gc^ f«^lloWrtlii|i. Nnw,
Trevanion had established a high n'])i]UUnn at. Mm
University, — but less as a scholar, Ihou'^li a pn-lty fair
one, than as a man to rise in lif(;. ICvcry far.iilty hn had
was an energy. He aimed at everything: hirl. Mnrim
things, gained others. He was a great H)MMik<'r in a
debating society, a member of some iKilitimccoiKMiiiral
club. He was an eternal talker, - hriliiant, varimiH,
paradoxical, florid; different from what lir; is now, for,
dreading fancy, his career since has heen one ellort to
curb it. But all his mind attached itself to Koniething
that we Englishmen call solid; it wiis a large mind,
not, my dear Kitty, like a fine whajrt sailing through
knowledge from the pleasure of sailing, Imt like a
polypus, that puts forth all its feelers for the purpose of
catching hold of something. Trevanion had gone at once

THE CASTONS:

v) London from the University ; liis roptitiition and his
talk daizled liis connections, not uiijuatly. They made
an effort, they got him into parUamcut ; he had spoken,
he had suci'oeded. Ho came bo Compton in the flush of
hia virgin f;une. I omnot convey to you who know him
now — ^with his careworn face and abrupt, dry uuinner,
reduced by peri>etual gladiatorship lo the skin and bone
of hia former self— what that man was when he firet
stopped into the arena of hfe.

" You aee, ray liatenera, that you have to recollect that
we middle-aged folks were young then ; that is to say, we
wore as different from what we are now as tho green
bougli of summer is from the dry wood out of which we
make a ship or » gat^-post. Neither man nor wood cornea
to the uses of life till tiie green leaves are stripped and
the sap gone ; and then the uses of life transform us into
Btronge things with other names : the tree is a tree no
more, it is a gate or a ship ; the youth is a youth no
more, but a onedegged soldier, a hollow-eyed statesman, a
scholar spectacled and slippered ! When Micyllua " —
here the hand slides into the waistcoat again 1 — " when
Micyllus," said my father, "asked the cock that had once
been Pythagoras' if the affair of Troy wan really as
Homer told it, the cock replied scornfully, ' How could
Homer know anything about it ? At that time he was a
camel in Bactria.' Pisistratus, according to the doctrine
of metempsychosis you might have been a Bactrian camel
when that which to my life was the siege of Troy saw
Roland and TrevaJiion Ijefore the walls.

"Handsome you can see that TrevanioTi has been ; but

the beauty of his countenance then was in its perpetual

play, its intellectual eagerness ; and his conversation was

80 discursive, so various, so animated, and above all so

' LnciaD : The Dream of MirrUns.

A FAMILY PICTl'KK.

251

/I*!

I ,

full of the things of the day I If h^ lunl 1k'«-h a pri«'-l of
Serapis for fifty years he roiiM iit>t liav*- known tlii*
anaglypli l>etter. Tlierefore h«* hll«Ml up i-v»rv '-nvi'i-
and \MiTe of that hollow s«^M:iety with hi- hp'k'ii, in-
quisitive, petulant li*:ht : th"rofi>r<- Ik- ua-^ ailmir'-'l,
talked of, li8tene<l in, and evt-ryUNly -Mil, *Ti'V.iniori i-
a rising man.'

" Yet I did not do him th«*n th^r ju-ti^*- I i.i-." 'i'-n*-
since; for we students au'l aii-tr-j't tliink* t- ::
much, in our first youth, to l'«»k t-i tli^r /A/-//# '.i .-. rr: :;.
mind or knowle<lge, and not (•u*}'ij]i I" tli ■ ^"rnt'* .* . . •
cover. There mav lie moir- war,.r iii a ^\■^ ' .:.,: ■':■■.
only four feet dfep, and cfrr?;iinlv rn'r*- f : •• :. ; :..
health, than in a sullen P'XjI tiiir^v :■.:'.-'.• ' **'.'.

I did not do Tr**vanion j; -*:';*• : I '•■ ' '. * • ■ ;. .
natural! V he realiz»:d Luiv HI!::, .r - i
that she was like inanv •*■■.: :.*-:i iri ^:.- T.

a thousand me n i n one. H - : . -. ■ i ! • ; : j * -

mind, elofpien'.e to dazzh: h'-r ft:. . . '■*■■■. .* **
eye, reputati-.-n pre«:L-*:ly of '.■.'- k. . : . . :.. ;
honor and con.^ieri*iM';.-. r.;::* -- *•. -*.-:.
and, above all, he w^.- ;*::/• :*:'. .-, -
not as R* ?U n- 1 w i-. ^ • : *. i .v. '.:'...- " r.
ambit io^L*. not to r^r^tUr -«.;..^ ;vi . .
heart, b';: to -^w^' :?.- r-r^ ti vii, -• ■:

lav wit ho -t. H*.::. ,r x--.- ^ ; :' '. . / ;

W) was he.

• ■ •

talking in hi* ffi: ■•" '.- -■
for I need not ftar. ?'..-«.«•' -i* . •

S53

■t ■» luamtlj, "ttat bef jc «ay imb of bcpof, if a( iB*J
Anor wwUly fn^Mmmm, will i^en Ut bmt a
to tk dn^tev^ it IB hb da^ to ^Mk fint to the p
ufaoto cnafclw* kw iapcMi that traA." I I

"l koow Dot twv ttwM." cobU— J wtjbHtKt, "bat
Lord BafattliMth toianl the rmrafntioa m HSnoc
After •peaku^ of hi* »zpectatioiM m hk son, «^ «»s
ntofuag bflBw, be «ud, 'Bat he win nf cmirae enter
{KiUk lifts — will, I tfintt *°<» >nniT, {tans a spfaralfl
esUhtiahntmit, and I AM im ttot Utile of him. Mf
Klliiuir. — I caanot bear the Ukni^I »F parting wholly
wilh b«t ; and that, to esy the selfi»h tzntb. b one !«»■
HO why 1 hare aever wialted her to marry a rirh man,
am] ao InavB me forever. I couU hope that she will giT*
batacU to we who luay be coDteoleii to raeiaie at least a
great [<art of thu yrur wiUi me, who may Uno me with
another son, not steal bom me a tbughter. I do not
mciin thiit lie should vmte his life iii the counln- ; hU
oc':iii>iitioii» would pnibahly lead liim to L^'udiin. I care
not whi-rc Ml)' i-iuft L*, — all I want is to ki'ep my hjjme.
You Idi'iw,' he added with a smile that I thoiij^ht mean-
ing, 'liow often I have implied to you that I have no
vnli,':ir iimliitiiiii fur I-Ulinor. 1I<T portion must be very
wnall, for my e.-t:ile is strictly entailed, and I have hved
tot) mnch up to my income all my life to hope to save

,nrh now.

But her tastes do not n.'.mire expense, and

hilH I liv.

., at li-nst, there n.-.-d In- no change. She can

ily ],trM

a man whose tal-'iit-s eonj.'enial to hers, will

in their .1

■wn .iir-'.-r, and ere I die that career may Iw

ail''.' I.M

,r.I liainsforlh paused ; an.l then — liow. iii

liat ^^^>M•

1 I know lint, l.nt ont all burst ! — my long-

1i„ii,|, „,i\i<.M.s ,i.Mil.(fiil. fearful love. The

I'llllLIII ■■III'

I'uv il liiiij L{ivi'ii to 11 tiiitnro till Ihen so re-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 253

tiring and calm ! My recent devotion to thn law ; my
confidence that with Biich a prizt; I could succeed, — it
was but a transfer of labor from one study to another ;
labor could conquer all things, and custom sweeten them
in the conquest. The bar Wiis a less brilliant career than
the senate; but the first aim of tlie poor man should be
independence. In short, Pisistratus, wretched egotist
that I was, 1 forgot Roland in that moment ; and I spoke
as one who felt his life was in his words.

"Lonl Rainsforth looked at me, when I had (lone,
with a countenance full of afiection, but it was not
cheerful.

" * My dear Caxton,' said he, tremulously, * I own that
I once wished this, — wished it from the lumr I knew
you; but why did you so long — I never susj»ected that
— nor, I am sure, did EUinor.' Ho stoi»peil short, and
added quickly : * However, go and sjx'ak, as you have
spoken to me, to EUinor. Go; it niay not yet be too
Lite. And yeX — but go.'

" * Too late ! ' — what meant th<jso words ? Lord
Riiinsforth had turned hastilv down another walk, and
left me alone, to ponder over an answer which concealed
a riddle. Slowly I took my way tc»wanls the house and
sought lj\dy Ellinor, half hojiiii^', half dreading to find
her alone. Tliere was a little room conimunic4iting with
a conservatory, where she usually s<»t in the morning.
Tliither I took my course.

"Tliat room, — I see it still ! — the walls covered with
pictures from her own liand, many were sketches of the
haunts wo had visit4Hl together ; the simple ornaments,
womanly but not eflfeminate ; th(5 very books on the
table, that had been made familiar by dear associations.
Yes, there the Taaso, in whjch wc had read together the
episode of Clorinda; there the ^Eschylus in which I

uj im |iiiiili ulihM iitiiiiililj wioeb bad knit
> an ol btxifci to Uw dm^blvof A« wodd. Hot
mm, — it «M &e hone <d my beart.

"Sadi, in mj vaaify of i|Kritt fHhowj^t «oald be
tha air nMmd « hoaiB ta mae. I looked thoat ne^
famMtid Mid umtmeA, apd haltiiig tiaidl;, I aw Qlinor
before me, Inning ber face m b« band, bn died mon
flmdted Ibm omal, aad lean in bsr ej«8. I approached
in aUBORi, and aa I dnw mj dtair to Uw tabic, mj «j«
fen on a gtore on the Acmh. It waa a naa'a ^on. tto
ytm know," nid my Utber, " that once, wbnn I was mj
joang, I eaw a Dutch picUm calkd ' The GloTe,' and
th« aulject was of mnrdert Tb«i« was » w««l-gTown,
tatahj pool, a dc«o!ate, dii^mal landfcajie, tbat of itself
iuspiml tli'tiglite of ill deeds and tenot. AiA lm> men,
as if walking by chaoce, came to Qiis pool ; the Gnger of
one ivjinU'd lo a blood -stainwl (jlove, and the eves of both
were fixed on each otlur, as if there were no need of
wonis, Tliat glove told its tale. The picHire had long
haunted me in my IxiyhofKl, but it never gave me so un-
euHy and fearful a feeling as did that real glove upon the
flofir. \\Tiy T My dear Pisistmtus, the theory of fore-
bodings involved one of those questions on which we may
auk ' why ' forever. Jlore chilled than I had been in
Bj>caking to her father, I took heart at last, and spoke to
E Hi nor."

My father stopped short ; tlie moon had risen, and was
whining full into the room and on his face ; and by that
liglit tlie face was changed. Young emotions had brought
back youth, — my father looked a young man. But what
pain was there ! If the memory alone could raise what,
after all, was but the ghost of suffering, what had beeo

A FAMILY PICTUBE.

255

its living reality I Involmitarily I seized his hand ; my
father pressed it convulsively, and said witli a deep
heath : '' It was too late ; Trevanion was Lady £lliiior*s
accepted^ plighted, happy lover. My dear Katherine, I
do not envy him now ; look up, sweet wife, look up ! "

IHE OAXTOKS:

CHAPTER Vin.

OB (let BM do her jnstke) yne shocked al my silent
«_.». So human lip coold utter more lender sympa-
I man noble setf-ieproach ; but that waa do balm to
mj iround. So I left the bouse ; ao I never returned to
tlw law ; ao all impetus, all motive for exertion, seemed
taken from my being ; so I went back into books.
And ao a mt:-pin^ despondi^t, worthies mourner might
I have been to the irnd of my dnvs, but that Heaven, in
its merey, seat ihy mother, Piaislratus, across my path ;
■nd day and night I bless God and her, for I have been,
UdA aiu — oh, indeed, I am a happy man ! "

My mother thnMv herself on luy falhtr's breast, sobbing
violently, and then tumeil from the room without a word ;
my father's eye, swimming in tear«, followed her; and
then, after pacing the room for some moments in silence,
he came up to me, and lejinitig his arm on my shoulder,
whispered, " Can you guess why I have now told you all
this, my son ) "

Yes, (Kirtly : thank you, father," I faltered, and aat
down ; for I felt faint.

"Some sons," said my father, seating himself beside
me, " would find in their fathers' follies and errors an
axcuse for their own ; not bo will you, Pisistratus,"
" I see no lolly, no error, sir ; only nature and sorrow."
" Pause ere you thus think," said my father. " Great
was the folly and great the error of indulging imagination
that had no basis, of linking the whole usefulness of my
life to the will of a human creature like myself. Heaven

A FAMILY PICTURE. 257

did not design the passion of love to be this tyrant ; nor
is it so with the mass and multitude of human lives.
We dreamers, solitary students like mo, or half-poets like
poor Roland, make our own disease. How many years,
even after I had regained serenity, as your mother gave
me a home long not appreciated, have I wasted ! The
mainspring of my existence was snapped ; I took no note
of time ; and therefore now, you see, late in life, Nemesis
wakes. I look back with regret at powers neglected,
opportunities gone. Galvanically I brace up energies
half-palsied by disuse ; and you see me, rather than rest
quiet and good for nothing, talked into what, I dare say,
are sad follies, by an Uncle Jack ! And now I behold
Ellinor again ; and I say in wonder, * All this — all this
— all this agony, all this torpor, for that haggard face,
that worldly spirit ! ' So is it ev(»r in life : mortal things
fade ; immortal things spring more freshly with every
step to the tomb. Ah ! " continued my father, with a
sigh, " it would not have been so if at your age I had
found out the secret of the saffron bag ! "

VOL. I. — 17

THE C&XTOXS:

CHAPTER DC

(D BoUnd, sir," nk! [, " huw ilid he lake it ; "
-\Vith all the indigmtion of n {fToud, lumaunalile
aan ; man indigoant, poor feUow, fw nw than bimseU.
And so did he woand and ^dl lue hy what he aud of
EUinor, and eo did be ra^ against me liecaioa I voold
not ehan bis n^, that again we iiuam-JlnL We jmied,
and did not meet for quid; j-eMs. W« come into ^oddec
possessioa of our little fortunes. His he tlev(rf«d (na jrou
may know) to the purchase of the old ruins and the commis-
Mon in the anny, which had alwaj-s be«n liis dream ; and
so went Im war, wrathful. My share gave iu« an excuM
for iudoleiiee, — it satisfiml al! my wants ; and wlicn my
old tutor died, and his young child Wcjime my ward, and,
somehow or other, from my ward my wife, it allowed me
to resign my fi'llowship and live amongst my books, still
as a book myself. One comfort, somewhat before my
marriage, I had conceii'ed ; aud that, too, Roland has
since said was comfort to him, — ElHuor liecaue an
heiress. Her poor brother diet!, and all of the estate
that did not pass in the male line devolved on lier.
That fortune made a giilf l>etween us almost as wide as
her marria^je. For EUiiior poor iuid portionless, iu spit«
of her riink, I could have worked, striven, slave^l; hut
Ellinor rii-h, — it would have crushed me. Tliis was a
comfort. But still, still the jiast, — that perpetual ach-
ing sense of sometliiug that had seemed the essenlial of
life withdrawn from life evermore, evermore ! What
was left was not sorrow, — it was a void. Had I lived

A FAMILY PICTURE. 250

more with men, and leas with dreaiiis and )HH)ks, I slionld
have made my nature large enough to Ihmf tli<* loss of a
single passion. But in solitude we shrink up. No plant
so much as man needs the sun and the air. I comjmfhcnd
now wh'- most of our best und wisc*Kt men liave lived in
capitals ; and therefore again I say, that one scholar in
a family i.; enough. Confiding in your sound heart and
strong honor, I turn you thus hetiiues on the world.
Have I done wrong? Prove that I have not, my cliild.
Do yon know what a very good man has tm'u] ? Listen
and follow my precept, not example : ' The state of the
world is such, and so much depends on action, tliat every-
thing seems to say aloud to every man, Do something —
doit — doit!'"*

I was profoundly touched, and I rose* re fn -shed and
hopeful ; when suddenly the door oj)ened, and who or
what in the world should come in — lUit certiinly lie,
she, it, or they shall not come into this eliapter, — on
that point I am resolved. Nn, my dear young lady, I
am extremely flattered, I feel for your curiosity ; Tmt
really not a peep, — not one ! And yet — Well, then,
if you will have it, and look so coaxingly — "Who or
what, I say, should come in abrupt, unexjiected — taking
away one's breath, not giving one time to say, " By your
leave, or with your leave," but making one's mouth st,and
open vrith surprise, and one's eyes fix in a big round
stupid stare — but

THB END OP THE CHAPTER.
' Remains of the Kev. Kicliard ^ccil, p. 349.

CHAPTER I.

There entered, in the front lUawing room of my fat)ier'e
house in Russell Steet, nn Elf, c-M in white, — small,
delicate, with curls of jet over her shoulders ; with eyea so
large and ho lustrous that they shone through the i
as no eyes merely human could posBJljly shine. The Elf
approached, and xtood facing us. The sight was so wa-
espected and the apparition so strange that we renuuned
for some momeuts in Bt.irtl«d Hilence. At length my
father, as the bolder and wiser man of the two, and the
more fitted to deal with the eerie things of another
world, had the audacity to step close np to the little
creature, and, bending down to examine its face, said,
" What do you want, my i)retty child ? "

Pretty child ! Was it only a pretty child after all ?
Alaft ! it would be well if all we mistake for fairies at
the first glance could resolve themselves only into pretty
childreii.

" Come," answered the child, with a foreign accent,
and taking my father by the lappet of his coat, "come;
poor papa is so ill I I am frightened J come, and aave
him."

" Certainly." exclaimed my father, quickly. " Where 'a
my hat, Sistyt Certainly, my child; we will go and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 261

" But who is papa ? " asked Pisistratus, — a question
that would never have occurred to my father. He never
asked who or what the sick papas of poor children were
when the children pulled him by the Jappet of his coat.
"Who is papa?"

The child looked hard at me, and the big tears rolled
from those large, luminous eyes, but quite silently. At
this moment a full-grown figure filled up the threshold,
and emerging from the shadow presented to us the aspect
of a stout, well-favored young woman. She dropped a
courtesy, and then said, mincingly, —

" Oh, miss, you ought to have waited for me, and not
alarmed the gentlefolks by running upstairs in that way !
If you please, sir, I was settling with the cabman, and
he was so imperent, — them low fellows always are,
when they have only us poor women to deal with, sir,
and — "

" But what is the matter?" cried I, for my father had
taken the child in his arms sootliingly, and she was now
weeping on his breast.

" Why, you see, sir [another courtesy], the gent only
arrived last night at our hotel, sir, — the Lamb, close by
Lunnun Bridge, — and he was taken ill, and he 's not
quite in his right mind like ; so we sent for the doctor,
and the doctor looked at the brass plate on the gent's
carpet-bag, sir, and then he looked into the * Court
Guide,' and he said, * There is a Mr. Caxton in Great
Russell Street, — is he any relation ? " and this yoimg
lady said, * That 's my papa's brother, and we were going
there.' And so, sir, as the Boots was out, I got into a
cab, and miss would come with me, and — "

" Roland — Roland ill ! Quick, quick, quick ! " cried
my father, and with the child still in his arms he ran
down the stairs. I followed with his hat, which of

THE CAXTOSS:

course be ha<I forgotten. A cab, by good luck, was jms^
ing our very door ; but the chainbernuiid would not let
us enter it till ebe had satisfied herself that it was iiot
the same she had dismksed. This prclimitiAry investi-
gation complett'd, we entered and drove to the Lamb,

The chtLmbermaiJ, who sat opposite, pasted Uie time
in ineffectual overtures to relieve my fatlier of the litUe
girl, — who still cIuiir nestling to his breast, — in a long
epic, much broken into episodes, of the caiiees whiclk had
led to her dismissal of the late cabman, who to swell his
fare had thought proper to take a " circumbendibus ! " —
and with occasional tugs at her cap, and smoothings down
of hor gown, and apologies for being such a figure,
especially when her eyes rested on my satin cravat, or
dropped on my shining Iwots.

Arrived at the LAmb, the chambermaid with conscious
dignity led us up a large staircase, which seemed inter-
minable. As she mounted the region above the third
story she paused to take breath and inform us apolo-
getically, that the house was full, but that if the " gent "
stayed over Friday, ho would be move<l into So. 54,
" with a look-out and a chimbly." My little cousin now
slipped from my fatlier's arms, and running up the stairs
beckoned to us to follow. We did so, and were led to a
door, at which the child stopped and listened ; tJien,
taking off lier shoi'.f, she stole in on tiptoe. "We entered
after her.

By the light of a siiiyle candle we saw my [>oor uncle's
face; it was flushed with fever, and the eyes had that
bright, vacant stare which it is so terrihle to meet. Less
terrible is it to lind tJie lioily wasted, the features sharp
with the great life-striiggle, than to look on the face from
which the mind is gone, — the eyes in which there is no
recognition. Such a sight is a startling shock to that

A FAMILY PICTURE. 263

imconscious habitual materialism with which wo are apt
familiarly to regard those we love ; for in thus missing
the mind, the heart, the aflfection that spning to ours, we
are suddenly made aware that it was the something
mthin the form, and not the form itself, that was so dear
to us. The form itself is still, j)erhap8, little altered ;
but that lip which smiles no welcome, that eye which
wanders over us as strangers, that ear which distinguishes
no more our voices, — the friend wo 8<night is not there !
Even our own love is chilled back ; grows a kind of
vague, superstitious terror. Yes, it was not the matter,
still present to us, which had conciliated all those subtle,
nameless sentiments which are classed and fus(>d in the
word "affection;" it was the airy, int4ingil)le, electric
sotnethingy the absence of which now appals us.

I stood speechless ; my father crept on, and took the
hand that returned no pressure. The child only did not
seem to share our emotions, but clamlM'ring on the bed
laid her cheek on the breast, and was still.

" Pisistratus," whispered my father at last, and I stole
near, hushing my breath, — " Pisistratus, if your mother
were here ! "

I nodded ; the same thought had struck us lx)th. His
deep wisdom, ray active youth, both felt their nothing-
ness then and there. In the si(;k chamber lx)th turned
helplessly to miss the woman.

So I stole out, descended the stairs, and stood in the
open air in a sort of stunned amaze. Then the tramp of
feet and the roll of wheels and tlie great London roar re-
vived me. That contagion of practical life which lulls the
heart and stimulates the brain, — what an intellectual
mystery there is in its common atmosphere ! In another
moment I had singled out, like an inspiration, from a
long file of those ministrants of our Trivia, the cab of the

THE caxtonb;

itmeiit, couli! wnar away (eingular in a periol when
o and twenty young men declare themselves Uaih .' ),
;d to leave him all the charm of boyhood,
■jndon Imd mode me more a man of the world, older
jeart than he was. Then, the sorrow that gnawed
•n with such silent sternness! No, Captain Roland
6 one of those men who seize hold of your thoughts,
who mix themaelvea up with your lives. The idea that
Roland should die — die with the load at his heart un-
lighteneil — v;>\a one that seemed to take a spring out of
the wheels of Nature, an object out of the aims of life, —
of my life at least ; for I had made it one of the ends of
my existence to bring hack the sou to the father, and
restore the smile, that must have been gay once, to the
downward curve of that iron lip. But Roland waa now
out of danger ; and yet, like one who has escaped ship-
wreck, I trembled to look hack on the danger past : the
voice of the devouring deep still boomed in my ears.

While rapt in my reveries, I stopped mechanically to
hear a clock strike — four; ami, looking round, I per-
ceived that I had wandered from the heart of the City,
and was in one of the streets that lead out of the Strand.
I ni mediately before me, on the doorsteps of a large shop
whose closed shutters wore as obstinate a stillness as if
they had guarded the secrets of seventeen centuries in a
street in I'ompeii, reclincil a form fast asleep, the arm
propiH.ll on the hard stone su;)porting the bead, and the
limbs uneasily strewn over the stairs. The dress of the
slumberer was travel-stained, tattered, yet with the re-
mains of a certain pretence ; an air of faded, shabby,
]jenniles3 gentility made poverty mure painful, because
it seemed to indicate tnifitness to grapple with it. The
face of this person was hollow and pale, but its expres-
sion, even in sleep, was liurce and hani I drew near and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 267

nearer ; I recognised the countenance, the regular features,
the raven hair, even a peculiar gracefuhiess of posture : the
young man whom I had met at the inn by the way-side,
and who had left me alone with the Savoyard and his
mice in the churchyard, wiis before me. I remained be-
hind the shadow of one of the columns of the porch, lean-
ing against the area rails, and irresolute whether or not
so slight an acquaintance justified me in waking the
sleeper, when a policeman, suddenly emerging from an
angle in the street, terminated my deliberations with the
decision of his practical profession ; for he laid hold of
the young man's arm and shook it roughly : " You must
not lie here ; get up and go home ! " The sleeper woke
with a quick start, rubbed his eyes, looked round, and
fixed them upon the policeman so haughtily that that
discriminating functionary probably thought that it was
not from sheer necessity that so improper a couch had been
selected, and with an air of greater respect he said, " You
have been drinking, young man, — can you find your vmy
home 1 "

"Yes," said the youth, resettling himself, "you see I
have found it!"

" By the Lord Harry ! " muttered the policeman, " if
he ben't going to sleep again ! Come, come, walk on ; or
I must walk you oflf."

My old acquaintance turned round. " Policeman," said
he, with a strange sort of smile, " what do you think this
lodging is worth, — I don't say for the night, for you see
that is over, but for the next two hours ? The lodging is
primitive, but it suits me ; I should think a shilling would
be a fair price for it, eh ? "

" You love your joke, sir," said the policeman, with a
brow much relaxed, and opening his hand mechanically

" Say a shilling, then ; it is a bargain ! I hire it

268 THE CAXTOSS:

of you upon credit. Good night, and coll me at six
o'clock."

With that the young man settled himself so re«olut«ly,
and tlie poHi'oman's fnra exhibited such bewilderment,
that I burst out laughing, and canm from my hiding-

The policeman looked at me. " Do you know thta —
thh — "

"This gentleman?" saiJ I, gravely, "Yea, you may
leave him to me ;" :ind I slipped the price of the lodging
into the policeman's haud. He looked at tlie shilling, he
looked at me, he lonked up the street and down the
street, shook his hejid, and walked otf. 1 then ap-
proached the youth, touched liim, and said : " Con you
remember me, sir; and what have you dona with Mt.
Peacock 1 "

Stuanokr (after a pause). — "I remember you ; your
name is Caxton."

■PisisTRATUS. — " And yours 1 "

Stranger. — " Poor devil, if you aak my pockets, —
pockets, which are the symbols of man ; Dare-devil, if
you aak my heart. [Surveying me from bend to foot]
The world seems to have smiled on you, Mr. Caxton !
Are you not ashamed to speak to a wretch lying on the
stones! But, to be sure, no one sees you."

PisisTBATUS (sententiously). — " Had I lived in the last ■
century, I might have found Samuel Johnson lying on the
atones."

Stranger (rising). — " You have .spoilt my sleep : you
had a right, since you paid for the lodging. I^et me walk
with you ii few paces : you need not fear, I do not pick
pockets — yet! "

PisisTR.\Tijs. — " You say the world has smileil .)n me ;
I fear it has frowned on you. I don't say ' Courage,' for

A FAMILY PICTURE. 269

you seem to have enough of that ; but I say * Patience,'
which is the rarer quality of the two.*'

Stranger. — " Hem ! [Again looking at me keenly.]
Why is it that you stop to speak to me, — one of whom
you know nothing, or worse than nothing 1 "

PisiSTRATUS. — " Because I have often thought of you ;
because you interest me ; because — pardon me — I would
help you if I can, — that is, if you want help."

Stranger. — " Want ? I am one want ! I want sleep,
I want food; I want the patience you recommend, — pa-
tience to starve and rot. I have travelled from Paris to
Boulogne on foot, with twelve sous in my pocket. Out
of those twelve sous in my pocket I saved four ; with the
four I went to a billiard-room at Boulogne : I won just
enough to pay my passage and buy three rolls. You see
I only require capital in onler to make a fortune. If
with four sous I can win ten francs in a night, what could
I win with a capital of four sovereigns, and in the course
of a year ? That is an application of the Rule of Three
which my head aches too much to calculate just at pres-
ent. Well, those three rolls have lasted me three days ;
the last crumb went for supper last night. Therefore,
take care how you offer me money (for that is what men
mean by help). You see I have no option but to take it.
But I warn you, don't expect gratitude ; I have none
in me I

P18I8TRATU8. — " You are not so bad as you paint your-
self. I would do something more for you, if I can, than
lend you the little I have to offer. Will you be frank
with meV*

Stranger. — " That depends ; I have been frank enough
hitherto, I think."

PisiSTRATUS. — " True ; so I proceed without scruple.
Don't tell me your name or your condition, if you object

THX CAXTONS:

confidein'L' ; Ttut tell ini' if joii liaro n'l.itioua lo

■tm am apply 1 You sliakc your heaii. \\>11,

you willing to work for yourself, or is it oiily

Hard-table — pardou me — that you caii try to

lour sous produce ten fraufsl"

AXOER (musing), — " I iiuderetainl j'ou. I hace

workt'd yet, — I ablior work. But I have no

oojection to try if "t is iii lue."

PisiSTitixt's. — "It it in jou. A iiiiin who can wulk
'mm Paris t\i Boulogne with twplve sous in his ]K>cket
and save four for a purpose ; who can stake tliose four on
the cool confidcnte ia big oi™ skill, even at billiards;
who can suhKist for three days on three rolls ; and who,
oil the fourth day, can wake from the stojies of a capital
with an eye and a spirit as proud as yours, — has in him
alt the requisites to subdue fortune."
Stuangbr. — " Dj you work — you ) "
PisiSTRATua. — " Yes — and hard."
Strangbk. — "I am ready to work, then."
PisiSTRATUS. — "Good. Now, wliat can you do 1"
Stran'oer (witli hw odd smile). — "JLmy things use-
ful. I can s]dit a bullet on a penknife ; I know the
secret tierce of Coulon the fencing-master ; I can speak
two languages (besides English) hke a native, even to
their slang ; I know every game in the cards; I can act
comedy, tragedy, farce ; I can drink down Bacchus him-
self ; I can make any woman I please in love with me,
— that is, any woman good for nothing. Can I eani a
handsome livehhootl out of all this, — -wear kid gloves
and set up a cabriolet? You see my wishes are
modest ! "

PisiSTRATUS. — " You speak two languages, you say,
like a native, — French, I suppose, is one of them 1 "
Stranqbr. — " Yea."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 271

PisiSTRATUs. — " Will you teach it 1 "

Stranoek (liaughtily). — " No. Je suts geniilhomme^
which means more or less tliaii a gentleman. Gattil-
homme means well bom, because free born ; teacliers are
slaves ! "

PisisTRATua (unconsciously imitatijig Mr. Trcvanion).
" Stuff ! "

Stranger (looks angry, and then laughs). — " Very
true ; stilts don't suit shoes like these ! But I can-
not teach. Heaven help those / should teach ! Any-
thmg else?"

PisiSTRATUS. — " Anything else ! — you leave me a
wide margin. You know French thoroughly, — to write
as well as speak ? That is much. Give me some address
where I can find you, — or will you call on me ? "

Stranger. — " No ! Any evening at dusk I will meet
you. I have no address to give, and 1 cannot show these
rags at another man's door."

PisiSTRATUS. — " At nine in the evening, then, and
here in the Strand, on Thursday next. I may tlien have
found something that will suit you. Meanwhile — "
slides his purse into the Stranger's hand. N. B. — Purse
not very full.

Stranger, with the air of one conferring a favor, pockets
the purse ; and there is something so striking in the very
absence of all emotion at so accidental a rescue from star-
vation that Pisistratus exclaims, —

" I don't know why I should have taken this fancy to
you, Mr. Dare-devil, if that be the name that pleases you
best. The wood you are made of seems cross-grained, and
full of knots ; and yet, in the hands of a skilful carver, I
think it would be worth much."

Stranger (startled). — " Do you ? Do you ? None, I
believe, ever thought that before. But the same wood, I

272 THE CA.XT0N8:

EUppose, lliut makes the gibbet could make the most of a
man-of-war. I tell you, however, why you have taken
this fancy to me, — the strong sympathize with the
strong. You, too, could sutxlue fortune ! "

PiaiHTRATDS. — " Stop ! If so, if there is congeniality
between us, then liking ahnuli! be reciprocal Come, say
that ; for half my cluiuce of helping you is in my power
to touch your heart."

Stuasoer (evidently softened). — "If I were as great
u rogue as I ought to be, my answer would be eaay enough.
Aa it is, I delay it. Adieu. On Thursday."

Stranger vanishes in the labyrinth of alleys round

A FAMILY PICTURE. 273

CHAPTER III.

On my return to the Lamb, I found that my uncle was
in a soft sleep ; and after a morning visit from the sur-
geon, and his assurance that the fever was fast subsiding,
and all cause for alarm was gone, I thought it necessary
to go back to Trevanion's house and explain the reason
for my night's absence. But the family had not returned
from the country. Trevanion himself came up for a few
hours in the afternoon, and seemed to feel much for my
poor uncle's illness. Though as usual very busy, he ac-
companied me to the Lamb to see my father and cheer
him up. Roland still continued to mend, as the surgeon
phrased it ; and as we went back to St. James's Square,
Trevanion hatl the consideration to release me from my
oar in his galley for the next few days.

My mind, relieved from my anxiety for Roland now
turned to my new friend. It had not been without an
object that I had questioned the young man as to his
knowledge of French. Trevanion had a large corres-
pondence in foreign countries which was carried on in
that language ; and here I could be but of little help to
him. He liimself, though he spoke and wrote French
with fluency and grammatical correctness, wanted that
intimate knowledge of the most delicate and diplomatic
of all languages to satisfy his classical purism. For Tre-
vanion was a terrible toord-weigher ] his taste was the
plague of my life and his own. His prepared speeches
(or rather perorations) were the most finished pieces of
cold diction that could be conceived imder the marble

VOL. I. — 18

THE CAXTOSS :

jiortico of the Stoics, — so filed ami tunieil, tiiuuueil and
Uuiied, that the; nevor admitted n §eat<^ncc Lhst uoiitd
wami the henrt, or one that could offend the ear. He
lind so frreat a horror of a vulgarism that, like Canning, he
woidd have made a periphrasis ot a couple of lines to
avoid using the wvvi " cat," It was only in extempore
speaking that a ray of his real genius could indiscreetly
>»etmy itself. One may judge what labor such a super-
refinement of taste wDulil inflict upon a man writing in
a language not his own to some distinguished statesman
or some literary inatitiition, — knowing that language just
welt enough to recognize all tlie native elegances he failed
U\ attain, Trevanion at that very moment waa employed
Upon a statistical document intended as a communicatiou
to a Society at Copenhagen of which he waa an honorary
mpmber. It had been for three weeks the torment of
the whole house, especially of poor Fanny (whoso French
was the best at onr joint disposal). But Tmvanion had
found her phraseology too niincinjj, too effeminate, too
much that of the boudoir. Here, tln.'u, wna an opiwrtu-
nity to introthicc my new friend and test the cajtacities
that I fancied he ijowyjssed. 1 therefore, though with some
hesitation, led the subject to "Remarks on the Mineral
Treasures of Great Britikin and Ireland " (such was the
title of the work Intended to enlighten the savaiitt of
Deniaark) ; and hy certain ingenious eircundocutiona,
known to all ahle applicants, I introduced my acquaint-
ance with a yuimg gentleman who possessed the most
familiar and intimate knowledge of French, and who
might be of use in revising the manuscript. I knew
enough of Trevanion to feel that 1 could not reveal the
circumstances under which I had formed that acquaint-
ance, for he was much too practical a man not to have
been frightened out of his wits at the idea of subnutting

A FAMILY PICTURE. 275

SO classical a performance to so disreputable a scapegrace.
As it was, however, Trevaiiion, whose mind at that mo-
ment was full of a thousand other things, caught at my
suggestion, with very little cross-questioning on the sub-
ject, and before he left London consigned the manuscript
to my charge.

" My friend is poor," said I, timidly.

" Oh, as to that," cried Trevanion, hastily, " if it be a
matter of charity, I put my purse in your hands ; but
don't put my manuscript in his ! If it l)e a matter of
business, it is another affair; and I must judge of his
work before I can say how much it is worth, — perhaps
nothing ! "

So ungracious was this excellent man in his very
virtues !

"Nay," said I, "it is a matter of business, and so we
will consider it."

" In that case," said Trevanion, concluding the matter,
and buttoning his pockets, " if I dislike his work, — noth-
ing : if I like it, — twenty guineas. Where are the eve-
ning papers?" and in another moment the member of
parliament had forgotten the statist, and was pishing and
tutting over the "Globe " or the "Sun."

On Thursday my uncle was well enough to be moved
into our house ; and on the same evening I went forth to
keep my appointment with the stranger The clock
struck nine as we met. The palm of punctuality might
be divided between us. He had profited by the interval,
since our last meeting, to repair the more obvious deficien-
cies of his wardrobe ; and though there was something
still wild, dissolute, outlandish, about his whole appear-
ance, yet in the elastic energy of his step and the resolute
assurance of his bearing there was that which Nature
gives to her own aristocracy : for, as far as my observa-

THE CAXTONS :

tion goes, what has been ealk-d fliP " jjranii air" (mid
wliioh is wholly distinct from the polish of maimer or tlio
urbsue gracp of high breeding) is always accompanied,
and perhaps produced, by two qualities, — courage, mid
tlie desire of command It is more eommou to a half-
savage nature than lo one wholly uivihzed. Tlie Arab
has it, BO has the American Indian ; unil I suspect that
it was more frequent among the knights and barons of
the Middle Ages than it is among the polished gentlemen
of the modem drawing-room.

We shook hands, and walked on a few momenta in
silence ; at length thus commenced the Stranger, —

"You have foimd it more difficult, I fear, than you
imagined, to make the empty sack stand upright. Con-
sidering tiiat at least one third of those born to work can-
not find it, why should H "

PisiSTRATUH. — "I am hard-hearted enough to believe
that work never fails to those who seek it in good earn-
est. It ivas siiid of some man famojis for keeping his
word, that ' if In had promised yaw an acorn, and all the
oaks in England fnjed ti produce one, he would have
sent to Norwaj for an aiora If I wanted work, and
there was none to be had in tht Old \\'orld, I would find
my way to the New But to the point: I liave found
something for )ou, nhich I do not think your taste will
oppose, and whu h inaj open to vou the means of an hon-
orable inde|jenilence. But I cannot welt explain it in the
streets: where shall we go?"

Steiaxgeb (after some hesitation). — "I have a lodging
near here which I need not blush to tiike you to, — I
mean, that it is not among rogues and cistiiways."

PiaiSTBATirs (much pleased, and taking the stranger's
arm). — " Come, then."

Piaistratus and the stranger pass over "Waterloo Bridge

A FAMILY PICTURE. 277

and pause before a small house of respectable appearance.
Stranger admits them both with a latch-key, leads the
way to the third storj', strikes a light, and does the hon-
ors to a small chamber, clean and orderly. Pisistratus ex-
plains the task to be done, and opens the manuscript.
The stranger draws his chair deliberately towards the
light and runs his eye rapidly over the pages. Pisis-
tratus trembles to see him pause iK'fore a long array of
figures and calculations. Certainly it does not look in-
viting ; but, pshaw ! it is scarcely a part of the task,
which limits itself to the mere correction of words.

Stranger (briefly). — '* There must be a mistake here
— stay! — I see — " (He turns back a few pages and
corrects with raj)id precision an error in a somewhat com-
plicated and abstruse calculation.)

Pisistratus (surprised). — " You seem a notable arith-
metician."

Stranger. — " Did I not tell you that I was skilful in
all games of mingled skill and chance ? It requires an
arithmetical head for that : a first-rate card-player is a
financier spoilt. I am certain that you never could find
a man fortunate on the turf or at the gaming-table who
had not an excellent head for figures. Well, this French
is good enough, apparently ; there are but a few idioms,
here and there, that, strictly speaking, are more English
than French. But the whole is a work scarce worth pay-
ing for ! "

Pisistratus. — " The work of the head fetches a price
not projwrtioned to the quantity, but the quality. When
shaU I caU for this ? "

Stranger. — " To-morrow." (And he puts the manu-
script away in a drawer.)

We then conversed on various matters for nearly an
hour; and my impression of this young man's natural

THE CAXTONS :

was confinneJ and heighteiietL Biit it. waa an
9 wrong and porveree in its directions or instincts
inch novelist's. He seemed to liave, to a. high
the harder portion of the reasoning faculty, but to
t wholly without tluit arch beautifier of character,
.,*t purifier of mere inl«llecl, — the imaginatioH. ;
....ugli we are too much tangfat to be on otir guard
nst injBgintition, I hold it, uith Cnptain Kolond, to be
divincst kind of reason we possess, and tlie one that
is us the least astray. In youth, indeed, it occasions
ci'roTs, but they ore not of a soidid or debasing nature.
Xewton siiys that one final effect of the cometa is to
tvcniit the eens and the planets by a condensation of the
va|X)i« and exhiilations therein ; and so even the erratic
Hushes of an imnginatioii really healthful and vigorous
deepen our knowledge and brighten oiir lights, — they
recruit our seas and our sUrs. Of such flaslies my new
friend was as innocent as the sternest matter-of-fact
person could desire. Fancies he had in profusion, and
very bad ones ; but of imagination not a scintilla ! His
mind was one of those which U('e in a prison of logic,
and cannot, or will not, see beyond tlie bars. Such a
nature is at once positive and sceptical. This boy had
thought propel' to decide at once on the nimiberless com-
plexities of the social world from his own harsh ex-
perience ; with him the whole system was a war and a
cheat. If the muverse were entirely composed of knaves,
he would lie sure to have made his way.

\ow, this bias of mind, alike shrewd and utiainiable,
might be safe enough if accomiKinied hy a lethargic
temper j but it threatened to beconie terrihle and danger-
ous in one who, in default of imagimition, i>ossesse<l
abundance of passion ; and this was the uise with tjie
young outcast. Passion in him comprehended many of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 279

the worst emotions which militate against human happi-
ness. You could not contradict him but you raised quick
choler ; you could not speak of wealth, but the cheek
paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural
advantages of this poor boy — his beauty, his readiness,
the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery
atmosphere — had raised his constitutional self-confidence
into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admir-
ation into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious,
arrogant, — bad enough, but not tlie worst, for these
salient angles were all varnished over with a cold, re-
pellent cynicism, — his passions vented themselves in
sneers. There seemed in him no moral susceptibility,
and, what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little
or nothing of the true point of honor. He had, to a
morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly
called " ambition," but no apparent wish for fame or
esteem or the love of his species ; only the hard wish to
succeed, not shine, not serve, — succeed, that he might
have the right to despise a world which galled his self-
conceit, and enjoy the pleasures which the redundant
nervous life in him seemed to crave. Such were the
more patent attributes of a character that, ominous as it
was, yet interested me, and yet appeared to me to be re-
deemable, — nay, to have in it the rude elements of a
certain greatness. Ought we not to make something great
out of a youth, imder twenty, who lias, in the highest
degree, quickness to conceive and courage to execute?
On the other hand, all faculties that <'f\n make greatness
contain those that can attain goodness. In the savage
Scandinavian or the ruthl<,*.ss Frank lay the germs of a
Sydney or a BayanL Wliat would the l»e.«t of us be if he
were suddenly placed at war with the whole world ?
And this fierce spirit ukis at war with the whole world.

THE CAJtTONS:

,r self-sought, perhaps, but it was war not tlie less.
■1st surround the savBge with peace, if you want
uea of peace,

not Bay that it waa in a single interview and eon-

that I came to these convictions ; but I am rather

up tlie impressions whicii I received as I saw

this person, whose destiny I presumed to take

r my charge.

going away, I said, " But at al! eventa you have a

le in your lodgings : wlioin am I to ask for when I call

norrow ! "

*' Oh, you may know my name now," said he, smiling :
" it is Vivian, — Francis Vivian."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 281

CHAPTER IV.

I REHSMBER One moming, when a boy, loitering by an
old wall to watch the operations of a garden spider whose
web seemed to be in great request. A\Tien I first stopped,
she was engaged very quietly with a fly of the domestic
species, whom she managed with ease and dignity. But
just when she was most interested in that absorbing em-
ployment came a couple of May-flies, and then a gnat^
and then a blue-bottle, — all at different angles of the
web. Never was a poor spider so distracted by her good
fortune ! She evidently did not know which godsend to
take flrst. The aboriginal victim being released, she slid
half-way towards the May-flies; then one of her eight
eyes caught sight of the blue-bottle, and she shot off in
that direction, — when the hum of the gnat again
diverted her ; and in the middle of this perplexity,
pounce came a young wasp in a violent passion ! Then
the spider evidently lost her presence of mind ; she be-
came clean demented; and after standing, stupid and
stock-still, in the middle of her meshes for a minute or
two, she ran off to her hole as fast as she could run, and
left her guests to shift for themselves. I confess that I
am somewhat in the dilemma of the attractive and
amiable insect I have just described. I got on well
enough while I had only my domestic fly to see after.
But now that there is something fluttering at every end
of my net (and especially since the advent of that
passionate young wasp, who is fuming and buzzing in the
nearest comer), I am fairly at a loss which I should first

282 THE CAXTONS:

grapple with ; and slaa ! iinlitce the spider, I have no
hole where I can hide myself, and lot the web do the
weaver's work. But I will imitate the spider as far as I
con; and while Ihe reat hum and struggle away their
impatient, unnoticed hour, I will retreat into the inner
labyrinth of my own life,

The illness of my uncle and my renewed acquaintance
with Vivian ha^i nalvirally sufficed to draw my thonghta
from the rash and uupropitione love I had conceived for
Fanny Trovanion, During the Hbseuto of the family
from London (and they stayed some time longer than
hail hcen expected), I had leisure, however, to recall my
father's touching history, and the moral it had so obviously
prwiched to me ; and I formed so many good resolutions
that it was with an untrembling band that I welcotnttd
Mias Tre\-anion at last to London, and with a firm heart
thnt I a\-oided, as much as possible, the fatnl charm of
her society. The slow convalescence of my uncle gave
mo a just excuse to discontinue our rides. MTiat time
Trovanion spared me, it was natural that I should spend
with my family. I went to no balls or iwirties ; I even
alisented myself from Tre van ion's periodical dinners.
Miss Trevanion at first rallied me on my seclusion, with
her usual lively malice. But I contirnied worthily to
uomplete my martyrdom. I took care that no re]>roach-
i»l look at the gayety tliat MTung my soid should betray
my st'cret. Then Fanny seemed either hurt or disdain-
ful, imd avoided altogether entering her father's study.
All at once she changed her tactics, and was seized with
a .itrtui^^ desire for knowledge, which brought her into
(Iw t\H>m to lotik for a book, or itsk a question, ten times
M \lt,v. I WHS jiroof to all. But to s]>enk truth, I was
p^\^(^>^^ndly wretched. Looking back now, I am dismayed
*( \\w rt'mombmnco of my own sufferings. My health

A FAMILY PICTURE. 283

became seriously affected ; I dreaded alike the trial of
the day and the anguish of the night. My only dis-
tractions were in my visits to Vivian and my escape to
the dear circle of home. And that home was my safe-
guard and preservative in that crisis of my life ; its
atmosphere of unpretending honor and serene virtue
strengthened all my resolutions ; it braced me for my
struggles against the strongest passion which youth
admits, and counteracted the evil vapors of that air in
which Vivian's envenomed spirit breathed and moved.
Without the influence of such a home, if I had succeeded
in the conduct that probity enjoined towards those in
whose house I was a trusted guest, I do not think
I could have resisted the contagion of that malign and
morbid bitterness against fate and the worid which love,
thwarted by fortune, is too inclined of itself to conceive,
and in the expression of which Vivian was not without
the eloquence which belongs to earnestness, whether in
truth or falsehood. But, somehow or other, I never left
the little room that contained the grand suffering in the
face of the Veteran soldier, whose lip, often quivering
with anguish, was never heard to murmur, and the
tranquil wisdom which had succeeded my father's early
trials (trials like my own), and the loving smile on my
mother's tender face, and the innocent childhood of
Blanche (by which name the Elf had familiarized herself
to us), whom I already loved as a sister, — without feel-
ing that those four walls contained enough to sweeten the
world, had it been filled to its capacious brim with gall
and hyssop.

Trevanion had been more than satisfied with Vivian's
performance, — he had been struck with it ; for though
the corrections in the mere phraseology had been very
limited, they went beyond verbal amendments, — they

THE CXXTONS:

neh words as improved the thoiighta; aud
. notable correction of an arithmetical error
anion's mind was formed to over-npiireciute,
irief annotations on the margin were boldly
rompting some stronger link in a chain of
., iudiciiting the necessity for some further
:he assertiori of a statement. Anil all this
^c.e natural and naked logic of an acute mind,
II by the amallost knowledge of the subject treated
vanion threw quite enough work into Vivian'a
ds, and at a remuneration aufficiently liberal to realize
jT promise of an independence. And more than once he
Jccd me to introduce to hiia my friend ; but this I con-
fjiued to elude, — Heaven knows, not from jealousy, but
simply because I feared that Vivian's manner and way of
talk wotdd singularly displease one who detested presump-
tion, and understood no eccentricities but his own.

Still, Vivian, whose industry was of a strong wing, but
only for short flights, had not enougli to employ more
than a few hours of his day, and I dreaded lest he should,
from very idleness, fall back into old habits and re-seek
old friendships. His cynical candor allowed that both
were aiifficiently disreputable to justify grave apprehen-
sions of such a result ; accontingly, I contrived to find
leisure in my eveniiifp to lessen his emtiii, by accompany-
ing him in rambles through the gas-lit streets, or occasion-
ally, for an hour or so, to one of tJie theatres.

Vivian's first care, on finding iiimself rich enough, had
been beatoweil on his person ; and those two faculties of
observation and imitation which minds so ready always
eminently [wascss, had enabled him to achieve that grace-
ful neatness of costume peculiar to the English gentle-
man. For the first few days of his metamorphosis traces
indeed of a constitutional love of show or vulgar compan-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 285

ionship were noticeable ; but one by one they disappeared.
First went a gaudy neckcloth, with collars turned down ;
then a pair of spurs vanished ; and lastly a diabolical in-
strument that he called a cane — but which, by means of
a running bullet, could serve as a bludgeon at one end,
and concealed a dagger in the other — subsided into the
ordinary walking-stick adapted to our peaceable metro-
polis. A similar change, though in a less degree, gradu-
ally took place in his manner and his conversation. He
grew less abrupt in the one, and more calm, perhaps more
cheerful, in the other. It was evident that he was not
insensible to the elevated pleasure of providing for him-
self by praiseworthy exertion, of feeling for the first time
that his intellect was of use to him creditably. A new
world, though still dim — seen through mist and fog —
began to dawn upon him.

Such is the vanity of us poor mortals that my interest
in Vivian was probably increased, and my aversion to
much in him materially softened, by observing that I
had gained a sort of ascendency over his savage nature.
TMien we had first met by the roadside, and afterwards
conversed in the churchyard, the ascendency was cer-
tainly not on my side. But I now came from a larger
sphere of society than that in which he had yet moved.
I had seen and listened to the first men in England.
What had then dazzled me only, now moved my
pity. On the other hand, his active mind could not but
observe the change in me ; and whether from envy or a
better feeling, he was willing to learn from me how to
eclipse me and resume his earlier superiority, — not to be
superior chafed him. Thus he listened to me with docil-
ity when I pointed out the books which connected
themselves with the various subjects incidental to
the miscellaneous matters on which he was employed.

286 THB CAXTOHB:

Though he hod less of the literary turn of miiiil than
any one equally clever I had ever met, anii had read
little, considering the i^uantity cif thought he had ac-
quired and the show he made of the few works with
which he hail voluntarily made liimself familiar, he yet
resolutely set himself down to study ; and though it was
dearly against the grain, I augured the more favorably
from tokens of a. determination to do what was at the
present irksome for a purpose in the future.

Yet whether I should have approved tlie purpose had
I thoroughly understood it, is another question. There
were abysses, both in his past life and in his character,
which I could not ]ienetrate. There was in him both a
reckless frankness and a vigilant reBcr^'e : hia frankness
was apparent in his talk on all matters immediately be-
fore us, in the utter absence of oil cfTort to make himself
seem better than he was. His reserve was equally shown
in the ingenious evasion of every species of confidence that
could admit me into such secrets of his life as he chose
to conceal. Where he liad been born, reared, and edu-
cated ; how he came to be tliroivn on hia own resources;
how he had contrived, Iiow he had subsisted, — were all
matters on which he had seemed U> take an oath to Har-
pocrat^s, the god of silence. And yet he was full of anec-
dotes of what he had seen, of strange companions, whom
he never nameii, but with whom he had been tlirowii ;
and, to do him justice, I remarked that though his prfr
cocious experience seemed to have been gathered from
the holes and comers, the sewere and drains of life, and
though he seemed wholly without dislike to dishonesty,
and to regard virtue or vice with as serene an indiflerenca
tu some grand poet who vians them both merely as minis-
tnmts to his art, yet he never betrayed any positive breach
of honesty in himself. He could laugh over the stury of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 287

some ingenious fraud that he had witnessed, and seem in-
sensible to its turpitude ; but he spoke of it in the tone
of an approving witness, not of an actual accomplice. As
we grew more intimate, ho felt gradually, however, that
pudor, or instinctive shame, which the contact with
minds habituated to the distinctions between wrong and
right unconsciously produces, and such stories ceased.
He never but once mentioned his family, and that was in
the following odd and abrupt manner.

"Ah," cried he one day, stopping suddenly before a
print-shop, "how that reminds mo of my dear, dear
mother ! "

" Which ? " said I, eagerly, puzzled between an en-
graving of Raffaelle's Madonna and another of The
Brigand's "Wife.

Vivian did not satisfy my curiosity, but drew me on in
spite of my reluctance.

" You loved your mother, then ? " said I, after a pause.

" Yes, as a whelp may a tigress."

"Tliat's a strange comparison."

" Or a bull-dog may the prize-fighter, his master ! Do
you like tliat better ? "

"Not much; is it a comparison your mother would
like ? "

" Like ? She is dead ! " said he, rather falteringly.

I pressed his arm closer to mine.

"I understand you," said he, with his cynic, repellent
smile. " But you do wrong to feel for my loss. I feel
for it ; but no one who cares for me should sympathize
with my grief."

" Why ? "

"Because my mother was not what the world would
call a good woman. I did not love her the less for that
And now let us change the subject."

THE CAXTONS:

; silica you have said ao mucli, Vh-inn, let me
I to say on. Is not your fatiier livingt"
t the Mouunient sUiudiiig)"
"""030 sn ; wlwt of that ) "

it miittfM very little to titlier of us; aad my
X auHvvera youre,"

Id not g'.'t ou after this, and I never did get on a

ther. I must o^vu that if Viviaii did not imparl

confidence libeially, nettlie-r diii he seek tonfideuce

lUiaitively from me. He Usleaed with interest if I

ke of Trevnnion {for I told hini frankly of my oon-

jiBution with that personage, though you may he sure

that I said notliiny of Fanny), and of tho hrilliant world

that my residence with one so distinguished opened to

me; but if ever, in the fulnejis of my heart, I began to

speak of my parents, of my home, he evineed either bo

impertinent on fnn«> or aasunipd bo r.hiJIuig a aneer that

I usually hurried away from him, as well as the subject,

in indignant disgust. Onro especially, when I a-sked him

to let nie introduce him to my fatlier, —a point on which

I was really an.vious, for I tlionght it impos^ihle but that

the devil within him would he softened by that contact,

— he said, with his low, scornful laugh, —

" ily dear Caxton, when I was a cliild I was so bored
with ' Telenmcluis ' tli.it, in order to endure it, I turned it
into travesty."
"IVelH"

"Arc you not afraid that the same wicked disposition
miyht make a caricature of your Ulysses I "

I did not see ilr, Vivian for three day.s after that
speed anl I should not have seen him llien, only we
met 1 y ace dent, under the Colonnade of tho Opera-
Ho se ^ an was leaning against one of the columns,
a d atcl mj, the long procession which swept to the only

1
I

A FAMILY PICTURE. 289

temple in vogue that Art has retained in the English
BabeL Coaches and chariots blazoned with arms and
coronets, cabriolets (the brougham had not then replaced
them) of sober hue but exquisite appointment, with gi-
gantic horses and pygmy " tigers," dashed on, and rolled
off before him. Fair women and gay dresses, stars and
ribbons, — the rank and the beauty of the patrician world,
— passed him by ; and I could not resist the compassion
with which this lonely, friendless, eager, discontented
spirit inspired me, gazing on that gorgeous existence in
which it fancied itself formed to shine, with the ardor of
desii'e and the despair of exclusion. By one glimpse of
that dark countenance, I read what was passing within
the yet darker heart. The emotion might not be amia-
ble, nor the thoughts wise ; yet were thoy unnatural ? I
had experienced something of them, — not at the sight
of gay-dressed people, of wealth and idleness, pleasure
and fashion ; but when at the doors of parliament men
who have won noble names, and whose word had weight
on the destinies of glorious England, brushed heedlessly
by to their grand arena; or when, amidst the holiday
crowd of ignoble pomp, I had heard the murmur of fame
buzz and gather round some lordly laborer in art or let-
ters, — that contrast between glory so near and yet so
far, and one's own obscurity, — of course I had felt it ;
who has not ? Alas ! many a youth not fated to 1)6 a
Themistocles will yet feel that the tropliics of a Miltiades
will not suffer him to sleop. So I went up to Vivian and
laid my hand on his slioulder.

" Ah," said he, more gently than usual, " I am glad to
see you, and to apologize, — I offended you the other
day. But you would not get very gracious answers from
souls in purgatory if you talked to them of the happiness
of heaven. Never speak to me about homes and fathers !
VOL. I. — 19

THE CAXTONS:

! I seo you forgive me. Why are you aot go-
opera f You can."

ou too, if you so please. A ticket is sliamefully
^ sure ; still, U you itre faod of music, it is b
iTou can afford."

you flatter me if you fancy the prudence of sav-
uiholds me. I did go the otlier night, but I shall
,u ngain. Music ! — when you go to the opera, is it

Only lartially, I own ; the lights, the scene, the
lageant, attract me quite as much. But I do not
-hink the opera a very profitahle pleasure for either
jf us. For rich idle people, I dare say, it may be as
innocent an amusement as any other ; but I find it a
sad euervator."

"And I just the reverse, — a horrible stimulant ! Gal-
lon, do you know that, ungracious as it will sound to
you, I am ftrowing impatient of this 'honorable inde-
pendence'! What does it lead tol Board, clothes, and
lodging, — can it ever bring me anything more J "

"At first, Vivian, you limited your aspirations to kid
gloves and a cabriolet. It has brought the kid gloves
already ; by and by it will bring the cabriolet ! "

" Our wishes grow by what they feed on. You live in
the great world ; you can have excitement if you please,
I want excitement, I want the world, I want room for
my mind, man ! Do you understand me 1 "

" Perfectly, and sympathize ivith you, my poor Vivian ;
but it will all come. Patience ! as I preached to you while
dawn rose so comfortless over the streets of London.
You are not losing time. Fill your mind ; read, study,
fit yourself for ambition. Why wish to fly till you have
got your wings 7 Live in books now; after all, they are
splendid palaces, and open to us all, rich and poor."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 291

" Books, books ! Ah, you are the son of a bookman !
It is not by books that men get on in the world, and en-
joy life in the meein while."

"I don't know that; but, my good fellow, you want
to do both, — get on in the world as fast as labor can,
and enjoy life as pleasantly as indolence may. You want
to live like the butterfly, and yet have all the honey of
the bee ; and, what is the very deuce of the whole, even
as the butterfly, you ask every flower to grow up in a
moment ; and, as a bee, the whole hive must be stored in
a quarter of an hour ! Patience, patience, patience ! "

Vivian sighed a fierce sigh. " I suppose," said he,
after an unquiet pause, "that the vagrant and the out-
law are strong in me, for I long to run back to my old
existence, which was all action, and therefore allowed no
thought."

While he thus said, we had wandered round the Colon-
nade, and were in that narrow passage in which is situ-
ated the more private entrance to the opera. Close by
the doors of that entrance, two or three young men were
lounging. As Vivian ceased, the voice of one of these
loungers came laughingly to our ears.

" Oh," it said, apparently in answer to some question,
" I have a much quicker way to fortune than that : I
mean to marry an heiress ! "

Vivian started, and looked at the speaker. He was a
very good-looking fellow. Vivian continued to look at
him, and deliberately, from head to foot ; he then turned
away with a satisfied and thoughtful smile.

" Certainly," said I, gravely (construing the smile),
" you are right there : you are even better-looking than
that heiress-hunter ! "

Vivian colored; but before he could answer, one of
the loungers, as the group recovered from the gay laugh

292

THE CAXTONS:

which their companion's easy coxcombry bad excited.
Bail), —

"Then, by the way, if you want an heiress, here
comes one of the greatest ia Etigland ) but iiiBtAad of
being a younger son, with three good lives between you
and an Irish peerage, one ought to be an earl at least to
aspire to Fsmiy Trevanion ! "

Tlie name thrilled through me, — I felt myself trem-
ble ; and looking up, I saw Lady Ellinor and Miss Tre-
vanion, as they hurried from their carriage towards the
entrance of the opera. They both recognized me, and
Fanny cried,—

" You here I How fortunate ! You must see us into
the box, even if you run away the moment after."

" But I am not dressed for the opera," said I,
embarrassed.

" And why, not 1 " a8l£e<l Miss Trevanion ; then, drop-
ping her voice she added, " why do you desert us so
wilfully)" and lemmg her hand on my arm, I was
drawn irresistibly into the lobby. The young loungers
at the door mado nay for us, and eyed me, no doubt,
with envy.

"Nay," said I, afiectmg to laugh, as I saw Miss Tre-
vanion waited for my reply, " you foi^et how little time
I have for sui h amusements now ; and my uncle — "

"Oh, but mamma and I have been to see your imcle
to-day, and he is nearly well, — is lie not, mamma I I
caimot tell you how I hke and admire him. He is just
what I fancy a Douglas of the old day. But mamma is
impatient. Well, \ ou must dine with us to-morrow,
promise ! Not adifn but au revoir," and Fanny glided
to her mothers arm Lady Ellinor, always kind and
courteous to me, had good naturedly lingered till this
dialogue, or rather monologue, was over.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 293

On returning to the passage, I found Vivian walking to
and fro; he had lighted his cigar, and was smoking
energetically.

" So this great heiress," said he, smiling, " who, as far
as I could see, — under her hood, — seems no less fair
than rich, is the daughter, I presume, of the Mr.
Trevanion, whose effusions you so kindly submit to me.
He is very rich, then ! You never said so, yet I ought to
have known it ; but you see I know nothing of your beau
monde, — not even that Miss Trevanion is one of the
greatest heiresses in England."

" Yes, Mr. Trevanion is rich," said I, repressing a
sigh, — " very rich."

" And you are his secretary ! My dear friend, you
may well offer me patience, for a large stock of yours will,
I hope, be superfluous to you."

" I don't understand you."

" Yet you heard that young gentleman, as well as
myself : and you are in the same house as the heiress."

" Vivian ! "

" Well, what have I said so monstrous ? "

" Pooh ! since you refer to that young gentleman, you
heard, too, what his companion told him, — * one ought
to be an earl at least to aspire to Fanny Trevanion ! ' "

" Tut ! as well say that one ought to be a millionnaire
to aspire to a million ! Yet I believe those who make
millions • generally begin with pence."

" That belief should be a comfort and encouragement
to you, Vivian. And now, good-night ; I have much to
do."

" Good-night, then," said Vivian, and we parted.

I made my way to Mr. Trevanion's house and to the
study. There was a formidable arrear of business waiting
for me, and I sat down to it at first resolutely ; but by

THE CAXTOtJS:

'. found my thoughts wandering from the eternal

iks, and the pea slipped from my hand iu the

J un extract from a Rejiort on Sierra Leone. My

beat loud and quick ; I was iu that state of

fever which only emotion tnu occasion. The

lice of Fanny rang in roy ears ; her eyea, as I had

them, unusuaUy j^ntle, almost beseeching, gazed

9 wherever I turned ; and theu, as in mockery, I

lu again those words, — " Uue ought to be an earl at

it U) aspire to — " Oh, did I aspire I Was I vain

looi. so frantic, household traitor so conaiimmate) No,

no i Then wtiat did I under the same roof ? Why

stay to imbibe this sweet poison that was corroding the

very springs of my life t

At Uiat self-question, which, had I been but a year or
two older, I should have asked long before, a mortal
terror seized me ; the blood rushed from itiy heart and
left me cold, icy cold. To leave the house, leave Fanny !
Never again to see those eyes, never to hoar that voice !
Better die of the sweet poison than of the desolate
exile ! I rose, I opened the windows ; I walked to and
fro the room ; I could <lecide nothing, think of nothing ;
all my mind was in an uproar. With a violent effort at
•^If m t J I 11 1 1 tl tabl again. I resolved to
f 3 If to tkft only to re-collect my

fac It d 1 1 tl t I my own torture. I

t d th book ] t tl ', when, lo ! buried

gthm, htmt j c? Archlj', yet re-
pro 1 f 11\ — tl f f 1 J 1 r.self ! Her miniature
th It h d hi Ik , taken a f v days

hef Ij g t t 1 T -anion pat z \ I

upp h 1 1 i t t 1 study to e an ne t,

I 1 ft t tl 11 11 e painter had seized

h pe 1 I 1 tf 1 !c smile, — so cl irm

A FAMILY PICTURE. 295

ing, 80 malicious ; even her favorite posture, — the small
head turned over the rounded Hebe-like shoulder ; the
eye glancing up from under the hair. I know not what
change in my madness came over me ; but I sank on my
knees, and, kissing the miniature again and again, burst
into tears. Such tears ! I did not hear the door open, I
did not see the shadow steal over the floor ; a light hand
rested on my shoulder, trembling as it rested. I started.
Fanny herself was bending over me !

" What is the matter ? " she asked tenderly. " What
has happened 1 Your uncle — your family — all well ?
Why are you weeping?"

I could not answer ; but I kept my hands clasped over
the miniature, that she might not see what they contained.

" Will you not answer ? Am I not your friend, —
almost your sister? Come, shall I call mamma?"

" Yes — yes ; go — go ! "

" No, I will not go yet. What have you there ? What
are you hiding ? "

And innocently, and sister-like, those hands took mine ;
and so — and so — the picture became visible ! There
was a dead silence. I looked up through my tears.
Fanny had recoiled some steps, and her cheek was very
flushed, her eyes downcast. I felt as if I had committed
a crime, as if dishonor clung to me ; and yet I repressed

— yes, thank Heaven ! I repressed the cry that swelled
from my heart and rushed to my lips : " Pity me, for I
love you ! " I repressed it, and only a groan escaped me,

— the wail of my lost happiness ! Then, rising, I laid
the miniature on the table, and said, in a voice that
I believe was firm, —

" Miss Trevanion, you have been as kind as a sister to
me, and therefore I was bidding a brother's farewell to
your likeness ; it m so like you — this ! "

THE CAXTONS;

well ! " echoed Fanny, still not looking up.

tjwell — titter ! There, I have boldly said the

/or — for — " I hurried to the dour, and, there

;, added, with what I meant to ba a Bniile, — " for

at home that I — I am not well \ too much for

You know, mothers will be foolish; and —

_ am to Bpeak to your father to-morrow ; and —

-night I God hless you, Mias Trevanionl"

PART NINTH.

CHAPTER I.

And my father pushed aside his books.

0 young reader, whoever thou art, — or reader at least
who hast been young, — canst thou not remember some
time when, with thy wild troubles and sorrows as yet
borne in secret, thou hast come back from that hard,
stern world, which opens on thee when thou puttest thy
foot out of the threshold of home, — come back to the
four quiet walls wherein thine elders sit in peace, and
seen, with a sort of sad amaze, how calm and imdisturbed
all is there ? That generation which has gone before thee
in the path of the passions, — the generation of thy
parents (not so many years, perchance, remote from
thine OAvn), — how immovably far oflf, in its still repose,
it seems from thy turbulent youth ! It has in it a still-
ness as of a classic age, antique as the statues of the
Greeks. That tranquil monotony of routine into which
those lives that preceded thee have merged ; the oc^
cupations that they have found suflficing for their happi-
ness, by the fireside, in the armchair and corner appro-
priated to each, — how strangely they contrast thine own
feverish excitement ! And they make room for thee, and
bid thee welcome, and then resettle to their hushed
pursuits as if nothing had happened ! Nothing had hap-
pened ! while in thy heart, perhaps, the whole world

THE CAXTONS:

have shot from its axis, all the elements to be at
id jou sit down, crushed bj that quiet happi-
li you can share no more, and smile mechani-
1 look inU} the hre ; and, t«u to one, you
ng till the lime comes for bed, and you take up
lojle and creep miserably to your lonely room.
, if in a stage-coach in the depth of ivinter, when
.u nassengcrs are warm and anug, a fourth, all be-
red and frozen, descends from the outside and takes
■£ amongst them, etraightway nil the three passengers
t their places, uneasily pull up their cloak collars, re-
lugo their "comforters," feel indignantly a sensible loss
: caloric : the iutruder has at least made a sensation.
lit if you liad all the snows of the Grampians in your
art, you might enter unnoticed ; take care not to tread
the toes of your opposite neighboT, and not a soul isdis-
rbed, not a " comforter " stirs an inch. I had not slept a
Tiuk, I had not even lain down ail that night, — the night
in which I had said farewell to Fanny Trevanion ; and
the next morning, when the sun rose, I wandered out, —
where I know not. I have a dim recollection of long,
gray, solitary streets ; of the river, that seemed flowing
ill tliill, sullen silence, away, far away, into some invisi-
ble eternity ; trees and tiirf, and the gay voices of cliil-
dren, 1 unist have gone fi-oin one end of the great Babel
ti> llie I'ther ; but my niemm'y only hceame clear and dis-
tiiii't wlien I knocked, somewhere before noon, at the
door I'f my father's house, and jjassing heavily up the
sliiir*, I'ame inU» the drawing-room, whicli was the ren-
d<')\>>n'< of tlie httle family; for since we had been in
l,.'ii.loii, my fatbiT had ceased to have his study ajart,
tiiul .-oiileiit.-d bini.s.Of with what he called "a corner," —
a I'oi'iior \vidi> oiii'U^'h to contain two tables and a dumb-
waiter, with I'luiirs <i JUcrelion all littered with books.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 299

On the opposite side of this capacious comer sat my
uncle, now nearly convalescent, and he was jotting down,
in his stiff, military hand, certain figures in a little red
account-book ; for you know already that my Uncle Ro-
land was, in his expenses, the most methodical of men.

My father's face was more benign than usual, for Ije-
fore him lay a proof, — the first proof of his first work ;
his one work, — the Great Book ! Yes ! it had positively
found a press. And the first proof of your first work, —
ask any author what that is ! My mother was out, with
the faithful Mrs. Primmins, shopping or marketing, no
doubt ; so, while the brothers were thus engaged, it was
natural that my entrance should not make as much noise
as if it had been a bomb or a singer or a clap of thunder
or the last ** great novel of the season," or anything else
that made a noise in those days. For what makes a noise
now ? — now, when the most astonishing thing of all is
our easy familiarity with things astounding; when we
say, listlessly, " Another revolution at Paris ! " or, " By
the by, there is the deuce to do at Vienna ! " when De
Joinville is catching fish in the ponds at Claremont, and
you hardly turn back to look at Metternich on the pier
at Brighton !

My uncle nodded and growled indistinctly ; my father —
" * Put aside his books ; ' you have told us that already."

Sir, you are very much mistaken ; it was not then that
he put aside his books, for he was not then engaged in
them, — he was reading his proof. And he smiled, and
pointed to it (the proof I mean) pathetically, and with a
kind of humor, as much as to say : " What can you ex-
pect, Pisistratus ? My new baby in short clothes — or
long primer, which is all the same thing ! "

I took a chair between the two, and looked first at one,
then at the other. Heaven forgive me ! — I felt a rebel-

300 TBS GAXTOXS:

aaam, imiialefBl ipite ^uust bolh. Tlie bitterness ol
mj aaal atost fasTc been d«ep indeed to have overOowiy]
IB that diRclidn, but it did. The grief of j'outli i^ an
it, and that i$ the truth. I got uji from
d walked toranls the window ; it was opuii, atid
oalaide the vindov was Kn. Primniins's aaaiy, in ita cage.
London air had agi««d with it, and it was singing liwlily
How, when the caaaiy saw me standing oppoeite to i!^ cage,
and Tegarding it seriously, and, I have no doabt, with a
veiy sombre aspect, the creature stopped short, anil hung
its head on one aide, looking at me obliquely and suspi-
ciouBly. Finding that I did il no hdrm, it began to liazard
a few broken note«, timiJly and interrogatively, as it
weie, pausing between each ; and at length, as I made
no reply, it evidently thought it had solved the iloubt,
and ascertained that I was more to be pitied thnn feared,
— for it stole gradually into so soft and silvery a stmin tltat,
I verily believe, it did it on pitr];>ose to eomfnrt me ! —
mo, its old friend, whom it had unjustly suspected.
Neviir (lid any music touch me so home as did that
long, plaintive cadence ; and when the bi^^ ceased, it
jK-rclii^l itMPit clone to the bars of tlio cage, and looked
lit mo Hteiulily with its bright, intelligent eyes. I felt
min'^ water, niid I turned back and stoo<l in the centre
of I ho niDiii, irresolute what to do, where to go. My
ffithr^r had diuic with the proof, and was deep m his
fi.lioH. Hiilimd lm.l cla-sped his red nccount^book, re-
Htnri'il it Ic) his pni'kct, wiped liis pen carefully, and now
WiiU'liitl nil- frritii under Jii.i ^re.it Iwetlc-browa Suddenly
liK rr>M>% iihil Hljiuijiiug 0(1 the hearth with his cork leg,
..x.'litini.'d,

" bMik up from tluisi' ciirsod hooks, brother Austin !
What in thcni in your hou'm fiice t Construe that, if you

A FAMILY PICTURE. 301

CHAPTER 11.

And my father pushed aside his books and rose hastily.
He took off his spectacles and rubbed them mechanically ;
but he said nothing, and my uncle, staring at him for a
moment, in surprise at his silence, burst out, —

" Oh, I see ! He has been getting into some scrape,
and you are angry. Fie ! yoimg blood will have its way,
Austin, it will. I don't blame that ; it is only when —
Come here, Sisty. Zounds ! man, come here ! "

My father gently pushed off the Captain's hand, and
advancing towards me, opened his arms. The next mo-
ment I was sobbing on his breast.

"But what is the matter?" cried Captain Roland.
"Will nobody say what is the matter? Money, I sup-
pose, money, you confounded extravagant yoimg dog.
Luckily you have got an uncle who has more than he
knows what to do with. How much ? Fifty ? — a hun-
dred?— two hundred? How can I write the check if
you '11 not speak ? "

" Hush, brother ! it is no money you can give that will
set this right. My poor boy ! Have I guessed truly t
Did I guess truly the other evening when — "

" Yes, sir, yes ! I have been so wretched. But I am
better now, — I can tell you all."

My uncle moved slowly towards the door ; his fine sense
of delicacy made him think that even he was out of place
in the confidence between son and father.

" No, uncle," I said, holding out my hand to him, " stay.
You too can advise me, — strengthen me. I have kept
my honor yet ; help me to keep it still."

302

THE CAXTONB :

At the sciiuid of the word "honor," Cftpt&iu Roland
8ton<l mute, and raised his head quickly.

So I told all, — incoherently enough at first, but clearly
aiid manfully as I went on. Now, I know that it ia not
the custom of lovers to confide in fathers and uncles.
Judging by those mirrors of life, plays and novels, they
choose better, — valets and chain hermaids, and friends
whom they have picked up in the stre-it, as I had picked
up poor Francis Vivian : to these they make clean breaats
of their troubles. But fathers and uncles, — to them they
are close, impregnable, "buttoned to the chin." The Cax-
tons were an eccentric family, find never did anythiug like
other people. When I had ended, I lifted up my eyes
and said pleadingly, —

"Now, tell me, is there no hope — none?"

"Why should there be none 1" cried Captain Roland,
hastily. " The De Caxtons are as good a family aa tiie
Trevanions ■ and as for yourself all I will say is that the
JO g lady i,l t cl oosp rsc for h r o 1 pp n ss

Irgnynle] Innltnlto yf ther n
a X us fear for I k c v tl t, i t f 1 ecluded

hal ts, fe nen e e f r e 1 a ou le ) 1 e t on
worl ilj n atte 3 1 e 1 c t. f Ij In to 1 k at
tl em A tl g 1 f 1 3 tl at I la 1 u 1 cl

schoh 3 a 1 potts ft 1 f r tl ers tl o 1 tl v

rarely 1 gn t sc t fo tl e ns 1 c Vnd h v o eartl
lo tl y get t t T I look It J f tl er a 1 tl e agi e
1 ope K 1 d h d ex teil f 11 as I lo ked

Brotl r sa 1 he slo 1> a 1 si ak gh lead the
oH whd g es cole and Ij s lotto e lol t,

does not care much for a pctligroe, unless it goes with a
title-tleed to estates."

" Trevanion was not richer than Pisistratus when he
married Lady Ellinor," said my uncle.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 303

" True, but Lady Ellinor was not then an heiress ; and
her father viewed these matters as no other peer in
England perhaps would. As for Trevanion himself, I
dare say he has no prejudices about station, but he
is strong in common-sense. He values himself on being
a practical man. It would be folly to talk to him of
love, and the affections of youth. He would see in the
son of Austin Caxton, living on the interest of some
fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds, such a match for his
daughter as no prudent man in his position could approve.
And as for Lady Ellinor — "

" She owes us much, Austin ! " exclaimed Roland,
his face darkening.

" Lady Ellinor is now what, if we had known her
better, she promised always to be, — the ambitious,
brilliant, scheming woman of the world. Is it not so,
Pisistratus ? "

I said nothing, — I felt too much.

*' And does the girl like you ? But I think it is clear
she does ! " exclaimed Roland. " Fate, fate, it has been
a fatal family to us ! Zounds ! Austin, it was your fault.
Why did you let him go there ? "

" My son is now a man, — at least in heart, if not in
years : can man be shut from danger and trial ? They
found me in the old parsonage, brother ! " said my father,
mildly.

My uncle walked, or rather stumped, three times up
and down the room ; and he then stopped short, folded
his arms, and came to a decision, —

" If the girl likes you, your duty is doubly clear : you
can't take advantage of it. You have done right to leave
the house, for the temptation might be too strong."

"But what excuse shall I make to Mr. Trevanion?"
said I, feebly ; " what story can I invent ? So careless

304 THE CAXTONS:

as hi.' is while he trusts, so penetrating if he once suepects,
he will Bee through all niy auhterfuges ; and — aiid — "

" It in as plain as a pilcestnff," said my uncle, abruptly,
" and there need be no subterfuge in the matter. ' I
must leave you, Mr. Trevaniou.' 'Why?' aaya he.
'Don't ask me.' He inaista. 'Well then, sir, if you
must know, I love your daughter. 1 have nothing ; she
is a great heiress. Tou will not approve of that love,
and therefore I leave you ! ' That is the course that
becomes an English gentleman. £h, Austin t"

" You are never wrong when your instincts speak,
Eoland," said my father. " Can you say thie, Piaiatratus,
or shall I say it for you 1 "

" Let him say it himself," said Koland, " and let him
judge bimaelf of the answer. He is young, he is clever,
he may make a figure in the world. Trevauion viaif
answer, ' Win the lady after you have won the laurel,
like the knights of old ! ' At all events you will hear the

" I will go," said I, firmly ; and I took my hat and left
the room. As I was ]>assing the landing-place, a light
step stole dowii tho Tipper flight of stairs, and a little
hand seized my own. I turned quickly, and met the
full, dark, seriously sweet eyes of my cousin Blanche.

"Don't go away yet, Sisty," said she, coaxingly. "I
have been waitin-; for you, for I heard your voice, and
did not like to come in and disturb you."

"And why did you wait for me, my little Blanche) "

"Why) Only to see you. But your eyes are red.
Oh, cousin 1 " and before I was aware of lier childish
iuipuisc, she had spnuig to my neck and ki.ssed me.

JS'ow, Blanche was not like mont children, and wag
very sparing of- her caresses ; so it was out of the deeps
of a kind heart that that kiss came. I returned it with-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 305

out a word ; and putting her down gently, descended the
stairs, and was in the streets. But I had not got far
before I heard my father's voice ; and he came up, and
hooking his arm into mine, said, —

**Are there not two of us that suffer? Let us be
together \ "

I pressed his arm, and we walked on in silence. But
when we were near Trevanion's house, I said hesitatingly,
" Would it not be better, sir, that I went in alone 1 If
there is to be an explanation between Mr. Trevanion and
myself, would it not seem as if your presence implied
either a request to him that would lower us both, or a
doubt of me that — "

"You will go in alone, of course; I will wait for
you — '*

" Not in the streets — oh, no, father ! " cried I,
touched inexpressibly. For all this was so unlike my
father's habits that I felt remorse to have so commun-
icated my young griefs to the calm dignity of his serene
life.

" My son, you do not know how I love you ; I have
only known it myself lately. Look you, I am living in
you now, my first-born ; not in my other son, — the
Great Book. I must have my way. Go in ; that is the
door, is it not?"

I pressed my father's hand, and 1 felt then that while
that hand could reply to mine, even the loss of Fanny
Trevanion could not leave the world a blank. How
much we have before us in life, while we retain our
parents ! How much to strive and to hope for ! What
a motive in the conquest of our sorrow, that they may
not sorrow with us !
VOL. I. — 20

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER III,

I ENTERED Trevaiuon's study. It was an hour in which
he was rarely at home, but I liad not thought of that ;
and 1 Baw without surprise that contrary to his custom,
he was in his armchair, rending one of hia favorite cla^^sio
authors, instead of being in some committee -room of the
House of Commons.

" A pretty fellow you are," said he, looking np, " to
leiivo nie all the morning «-ithout rhyme or reason I
And my committee is postponed, — chairman ill. People
who get iU should not go into the House of Commons.
So here I am, looking into Propertiua. Parr ia right ;
not so elegant a writer as TibuUus But what the deuce
ate you about t ^\Tiy don't you sit down J Humph !
you look grave ; you have something to say, — say it ! "

And putting down Properttus, the acute, sharp face of
Trevanion instantly became earnest and attentive,

"My dear Mr. Trevanion," said I, with as much steadi-
ness as I could assume, " you have been most kind to me ;
and out of my own family there is no man I love and
respect more."

Trevaxios. — "Humph! What's all this) [In an
undertone.] Am I going to be taken in?"

PisisTRATua. — " Uo not think me ungrateful, then,
when I say I come to resign my office, ^ to leave the
house where I have been so happy."

Trevakion. — ■ " Leave the house ! Pooh ! I liave over-
tasked you. I will be more merciful in future. You
must forgive a ]X>liticaI economist ; it is the fault of my
sect to look upon men as machines,"

A FAMILY PICTUBE. 307

P18I8TRATU8 (smiling faintly). — ** No, indeed ; that is
not it. I have nothing to complain of, — nothing I could
wish altered, could I stay."

Trevanion (examining me thoughtfully). — "And does
your father approve of your leaving me thus 1 "

P18I8TRATU8. — " Yes, fully,"

Trevanion (musing a moment). — "I see, he would
send you to the University, make you a book-worm like
himself. Pooh ! that will not do ; you will never be-
come wholly a man of books, — it is not in you. Young
man, though I may seem careless, I read characters, when
I please it, pretty quickly. You do wrong to leave me ;
you are made for the great world. I can open to you a
high career. I wish to do so ! Lady Ellinor wishes it, —
nay, insists on it, — for your father's sake as well as
yours. I never ask a favor from ministers, and I never
will. But " (here Trevanion rose suddenly, and with an
erect mien and a quick gesture of his arm he added) —
" but a minister can dispose as he pleases of his patronage.
Look you, it is a secret yet, and I trust to your honor.
But before the year is out, I must be in the Cabinet.
Stay with me ; I guarantee your fortune, — three months
ago I would not have said that. By and by I will open
parliament for you, — you are not of age yet ; work till
then. And now sit down and write my letters, — a sad
arrear ! "

" My dear, dear Mr. Trevanion ! " said I, so affected
that I could scarcely speak, and seizing his hand, which I
pressed between both mine, " I dare not thank you, — I
cannot ! But you don't know my heart : it is not ambi-
tion No ! if I could but stay here on the same terms for-
ever— here*' looking ruefully on that spot where Fanny
had stood the night before. " But it is impossible I If
you knew all, you would be the first to bid me go ! "

308 THE CAXT0S8 :

' u are in debt," said the man of the world, coldly,
a, very bad ; still — "
No, sir ; no ! worse."
ardly posalble to be worse, young man — hardly !
just as you will ; you leave me, aud will not say
Good-by. WTiy do you linger 1 Shake lianda,
h ^o ! "

cannot leave you time •, I — I — air, the truth shall
. I Bin rash and laad enough not to see Miss Trevan-
without forgetting that I am poor, and — "
'Ha!" interrupted Trevanion, softly, end growing
pftle, " thie is a misfortime, indeed ! Aud I, who talked
of reading characters I Truly, truly, we would-bo practi-
cal men ate fools — fools I And you have made love to
my daughter ! "

" Sir 1 Mr. Trovanion ! no ! never, never so base ! In
your house, trusted by you, — Iiow could you think iti
I dared, it may be, to love, — at all events, to feel that I
could not Ije insensible to a temptntion too strong for mc.
But to say it to your heiress, — to ask love in return, —
I would as soon have broken open your desk ! Frankly
I tell you my folly ■- it is a folly, not a disgrace."

Trevanion came up to me nbniptly as I leaned against
the bookcase, aud, grasping my hand with a cordial kind-
ness, said, " Pardon mo ! You have behaved as your
father's son should : I envy him such a son ! Now, listen
to me : I cannot give you my daughter — "
" Believe me, sir, I never — "

" Tut, listen ! I cannot give you my H ghter I saj
nothing of inequality, — all gentlen en ro cq 1 and f
not, any impertinent affectation f s j er or tj uch a

case, would come ill from one \ ho o ei 1 s o n fortune
to his wife ! But, as it is, I have a ^take u tl e vorl 1 von
not by fortune only, hut the labor of a 1 fe the j pros-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 309

sion of half my nature, — the drudging, squaring, taming
down all that made the glory and joy of my youth, —
to be that hard, matter-of-fact thing which the English
world expect in a statesman ! This station has gradually
opened into its natural result, power ! I tell you I shall
soon have high office in the administration ; I hope to render
great services to England, — for we English politicians,
whatever the mob and the Press say of us, are not selfish
place-hunters. I refused office, as high as I look for now,
ten years ago. We believe in our opinions, and we hail
the power that may carry them into efiect. In this cabi-
net I shall have enemies. Oh, don't think we leave jeal-
ousy behind us, at the doors of Downing Street ! I shall
be one of a minority ; I know well what must happen :
like all men in power, I must strengthen myself by other
heads and hands than my own. My daughter shall bring
to me the alliance of that house in England which is most
necessary to me. My life falls to the ground, like a
child's pyramid of cards, if I waste — I do not say on
you, but on men of ten times your fortune (whatever that
be) — the means of strength which are at my disposal in
the hand of Fanny Trevanion. To this end I have looked,
but to this end her mother has schemed ; for these house-
hold matters are within a man's hopes, but belong to a
woman's policy. So much for us But to you, my dear
and frank and high-souled young friend, — to you, if I
were not Fanny's father, if I were your nearest relation,
and Fanny could be had for the asking, with all her
princely dower (for it is princely), — to you I should say,
fly from a load upon the heart, on the genius, the energy,
the pride, and the spirit, which not one man in ten thou-
sand can bear ; fly from the curse of owing everything to
a wife ! It is a reversal of all natural position, it is a
blow to all the manhood within us. You know not what it

310 THE CAXTONS:

is ; I do ! My wife's fortune came not till after nmrriage,
— 80 far, 80 well ; it savevl my repiitation from the charge
of fortune-hunting. But, I tell you fairly, tliat if it had
never come at all, I should be a prouder and a greater
and a happier man than I have ever been, or ever can be,
with all il9 advantages : it has been a millstone round my
iiPck. And yet Elluior has never breathed a word that
euiild wound my pride. Would her darighter be as for-
bearing? Much as I love Fanny, I doubt if she lias the
great heart of her mother. Yoa look incredulous, — na-
turally. Oh, you think I shall sacrifice my child's happi-
ness to a politician's ambition. Folly of youth ! Fauuy
would he wretched with you. She might not think so
now J she would five yejirs henee ! Fanny will make an
admitable duchess, countess, great lady ; but wife to a
mu.li who owes all to her, — no, no ! don't dream it 1 I
sliall not sacrifice her happiness, dejiend on it. I speak
plainly, as man to man, — man of the world to a man
just entering it, — but still man to man! What say
;oul"

" I will think over all you tell me. 1 know that you
are speaking to me most generously, — as a father would.
Now let me go, and may God keep you and yours ! "

" Go, — I return your blessing ; go ! I don't insult
you now with offers of service ; bvit remember, you have
a right to command them, — in ail ways, in all times.
Stop ! tike this comfort away with you, — a sorry comfort
now, a great ono hereafter. In a position that might
have moved anyer, scorn, pity, you have made a barren-
hearted man honor and admire you. Yovi, a boy, have
made me, with my gray hairs think better of the whole
world ; tell your father that ! "

I closed the door aud st.i!e out softly, softly. But
when I got into the hall, Fanny suddenly opened the

A FAMILY PICTUKE.

311

door of the breakfast parlor, and seemed, by her look,
her gesture, to invite me in. Her face was very pale,
and there were traces of tears on the heavy lids. I stood
still a moment, and my heart beat violently. I then
muttered something inarticulately, and, bowing low,
hastened to the door. I thought, but my ears might
deceive me, that I heard my name pronounced; but
fortunately the tall porter started from his newspaper
and his leathern chair, and the entrance stood open. I
joined my father.

" It 's all over," said I, with a resolute smile. " And
now, my dear father, I feel how grateful I should be for
all that your lessons — your life — have taught me ; for,
believe me, I am not unhappy."

THE CAXTOHS:

CHAPTER IV.

Ws come back to my father's bouse, Bad on tbe stairs we
met my mother, whom Roland's grave looks and her
Austin's strange absence had alarmed. My father quietly
led the way to a little room which my mother had appro-
jiriated to Blanche and herself, and then, placing my
hand in that wluch bad heli>ed bin own ateps from the
stony path down the quiet vales of life, he said to me ;
"Nature gives you here the soother;" and so saying, he
left the room.

And it was true, 0 my mother I that in thy simple,
loving breast, Nature did place the deep weHa of comfort i
we come to men for philosophy, — to women for consola-
tion ; an<l the thousand weaknesses and regn^ts the sharp
sands of the minntiie tliat make up aiirrow, — all these,
which I cojild have betrayed to no man (not even to bim,
the dearest and tcndcrest of all uilu) I showed without
shame to tlicc ! And thj tears that fell on my cheek,
had the balm of Arabj ind mj heart at length lay lulled
and soothed under thy mci t gentle ejes.

I made an effort, and jonied the little circle at dinner ;
and I felt grateful that no ^ lolent attempt was made to
raise my sjiirita, — nothing but affection, more sidxlueil and
soft and tranqiiil. Even little Blanche, as if by the intui-
tion of symjiathj', reased her babble, and seemed to hush
her footstep at she crept to my side. But after dinner,
when we had reassenibled in tlio drawing-room, and the
lights shone bright, and the curtains were let down, and
only the quick roll of some passing wheels reminded us

A FAMILY PICTURE. 313

that there was a world without, my father began to talk.
He had laid aside all his work, the younger but less per-
ishable child was forgotten, and my father began to talk.

"It is," said he, musingly, "a well-known thing that
particular drugs or herbs suit the body according to its
particular diseases. When we are ill, we don't open our
medicine-chest at random, and take out any powder or
phial that comes to hand. The skilful doctor is he who
adjusts the dose to the malady."

" Of that there can be no doubt," quoth Captain Ro-
land. " I remember a notable instance of the justice of
what you say. When I was in Spain, both my horse
and I fell ill at the same time : a dose was sent for each ;
and by some infernal mistake, I swallowed the horse's
physic, and the horse, poor thing, swallowed mine ! "

" And what was the result ? " asked my father.

" The horse died ! " answered Roland, mournfully, — "a
valuable beast, bright bay, with a star ! "

" And you ? "

" Why, the doctor said it ought to have killed me ; but
it took a great deal more than a paltry bottle of physic to
kill a man in my regiment."

" Nevertheless, we arrive at the same conclusion," pur-
sued my father, — "I with ray theory, you with your ex-
perience, — that the physic we take must not be chosen
haphazard, and that a mistake in the bottle may kill a
horse. But when we come to the medicine for the mind,
how little do we think of the golden rule which common-
sense applies to the bmly ! "

" Anan," said the Captain, " what medicine is there for
the mind ? Shakspeare has said something on that sub-
ject, which, if I recollect right, implies that there is no
ministering to a mind diseased."

" I think not, brother : he only said physic (meaning

314 THE CAXTONS:

liohiBcs anil black draughts) would not do it. Aiid Sliok-
speare was the lust man to finii finJt with hia own art ;
for, verily, he has been a great ^ihysician to the niind,"

" Ah, I take you now, brother, — books again ! So
you tliink that when n man breaks liis heart, or loseii bia
fortune or hut liaughtor (Blanche, child, come here), that
you hnvo only to clap a plaster of priut on tbe sore place,
atid all is well. I wish you woidd find me auuh a cure."

"Will you try it)"

"If it is not Greek," said my uncla

A FAMILY PICTURE. 316

CHAPTER V.

MT father's crotchet ON THE HYGIENIC CHEMISTRY

OF BOOKS.

" If," said my father, — and here his hand was deep in
his waistcoat, — * if we accept the authority of Diodorus
as to the inscription on the great Egyptian library — and
I don't see why Diodorus should not be as near the mark
as any one else ? " added my father interrogatively, turn-
ing round. My mother thought herself the person ad-
dressed, and nodded her gracious assent to* the authority
of Diodorus. His opinion thus fortified, my father con-
tinued, — " If, I say, we accept the authority of Dio-
dorus, the inscription on the Egyptian library was : * The
Medicine of the Mind.' Now, that phrase has become no-
toriously trite and hackneyed, and people repeat vaguely
that books are the medicine of the mind. Yes ; but to
apply the medicine is the tiling ! "

" So you have told us at least twice before, brother,"
quoth the Captain, bluffly. "And what Diodorus has
to do with it, I know no more than the man of the
moon."

" I shall never get on at this rate," said my father, in a
tone between reproach and entreaty.

"Be good children, Roland and Blanche both," said
my mother, stopping from her work and holding up her
needle threateningly, — and indeed inflicting a slight
puncture upon the Captain's shoulder.

316 THE caxtonb:

" ' R*'m act* tetigisti,' my dear," said my father, horniw-
iiig Cicero's puii on tlie oeut'iiuii.^ "And now wo ehall
go upon velvet I say, then, that books, taken iQ<Us-
crimiiiately, are no euro to the liiBtuiBcs and afflictions of
the mind. Tliere ia a world of science necessary in the
taking them. I have known some people in groat sorrow
dy to a novel, or the last light book in fiuthion. One
might as welt take a roB8^l^allght for the plague ! Light
reading does not do when the heart ia really heavy, I
am told that Goethe, when he lost his son, took to study
a science that was new to him. Ah, Goethe was a physi-
cian who knew what he was about. In a groat grist like
that you cannot tickle and divert the mind ; you must
wrench it away, abstract, absorb, Imry it in an abyss,
hurry it into a labyrinth, Therefore, for the irremedi-
able sorrows of middle life and old age I recommend a
strict chronic course of science and hard teaeoning, ——
counter-irritation. Bring the brain to act upon the
heart ! If science is too much against the grain (for
we have not all got mathematical heads), something in
the reach of the humblest undei-standing, but sulficiently
searching to the highest, — a new lingtiage, Greek, Arabic,
Scandinavian, Chinese, or Welsh ! For the loss of for-
tune, the dose should he applied less directly to the un-
derstanding, — I would administer something elegant and
cordial ; for an the heart is cniahed and lacerated by a loss
in the affections, so it is rather the head that aches and
suffers by the loss of money. Here we find the higher
class of poets a very valuable remedy. For oljserve that
poeta of the grander and more comprehensive kind of
genius have in them two separate men, quite distinct
from each other, — the imaginative man, and the practi-

> Cicero's joke »[i a senatnr irhci wna the sua of a Uilor: " Thou
hast iciaclied the tiling aharply," — or with a newlls : aca.

A FAMILY PICrURE.

cal cireumslantial luaii ; and it is the happy mixture of
the^ that suits diseased of tlie mind, half iiuagiuative and
lialf practicaL There is Homer, now lost with the gods,
now at home with the Iiomeliest, the very ' poet of cir-
cumstance,' OS Gray has finely ealle<t him ; and yet with
imuginution eniiugli to seduce and coax the dullest into
forgetting, for a while, that little ajxit on his desk which
his haulier's book can cover. There ia Virgil, far below
him, indeed, —

■ Vii^l the wi
e walks highest, but n

as Cowley expresses it. But Virgil ntill haa genius enough
to be two men, — to lead you into the fields, not only to lislcii
to the pafitonil reed und to hear the bees hum, but to note
how you cKn nnike the most of the glebo aud the vineyard.
Tliere is Hoi-ace, charming man of the world, who wiE
condole with you feelingly on the loss of your fortune,
and by no means undervalue the good things of tliis life,
but who will yet show you that a man may be happy with
a pile mrulicHvi or pama rura. There ia Shakspeare, who
above all poet'< is the mysterious dual of hard sense and
empyreal fancy, — and a greiit many more, whom I need
not name, but who if you take to tiiem gently and quietly
will not^ like your mere philosopher, your unreasonable
Stoic, tell you th.it you hnve lost nothing, but who will
insensibly steal you out of this world, with its losses and
crosses, and slip you inUi another world before you know
where you are, ^n world where you are just as welcome,
though you carry no more earth of your lost acres with
you than covers the sole of your shoe.

" Then fur hypochondria and satiety, what is better than
a briak alterative course of travels, — especially early, out-
of-the-way, mar veil- 'lis, Ifgeudary travels I How they

318 THE CAXTONS:

freshen up the epirita ! how they take you out of the
bumdniin yawning state you are in ! See, with Henxi-
otua, young Greec'e spring up into life, or uol« with him
how already the wondrous old Orient world is ermnbling
into gitint decay \ or go with Carpini and Kubruquis to
Tttrtury, meet ' the earts of Zagathai laden with houses,
and think that a great city is travelling towaids you.' *
Gaze oa that vast wild empire of the Tartar, where the
descendants of Jenghis 'multiply and disperse over th«
immense waste desert, whiuh is as boiLndless as the ocean.'
Sail with the early Nortliem discoverere, aud penetrate to
the heart of wiut«r, among aea-sorpents and bears and
tusked moi'ses with the faces of men. Then, what think
you of Columbus, and the stern soul of Cortes, and the
kingdom of Mexico, and the atrange gold city of the
Peruviana, with that audacioua brute Pizarro; and the
Polynesians, Juat for all the world like the Ancient
Britons; and the American Indians, and the South-sea
lalandei-a 1 How petulant aud young aud ailveuturous
and frisky jour hypo chondriac must get uiKin a regimen
like that j

" Then, for that vice of the mind which I call sectarian-
ism, — not in the religious sense of the word, hut little,
narrow prejudices, that make you hate your next-door
neighbor l>eciiuso he has his eggs roasted when you have
yours l)oiled; and gossiping and prying into people's
aH'airs, aud backbitiii;^', and thinking heaven atui earth
are coming together if some broom touch a cobweb that
you have let grow over the window-sill of your brains, —
what like a krge aud generous, mildly aperient (I beg
your pardon, my dear) course of history ! How it doara
away all the fumes of the heatl, — better than the lieile-
Iwro with which the old leecjies of the Middle Ages

A FAMILY I'lCTURE.

purged the ceruTjeUum ! There, amidst all tlwL givut
whirl aud *turmbad (storm-bath), aa the Gcrmiins say,
ot kingtioma und empires, and races and ages, how your
mind eoLirge^ beyond that little feverish animosity to
John Styles, or that unfortunate pre^maseEsion of yours
that all the world ia interested in your grievances against
Tom Stokes and bis wife !

" I can only touch, you see, on a few iiigredienta in
this moguifinent gibarmaey ; ita resources are boundless,
hut require the nicest diniTetion. I remember to liave
cured a disconsolate widower, who obstinately refused
every other medicament, by a strict course of geology. I
dipped him deep into gneiss and mica Bcbt»t. Amidst
the first strata I suffered the watery action to expend
itself upon cooling, crystalhzed masses ; and by the time
I had got him into the tertiary iwriod, amongst the
tnuisition chalks of Maestricht and the concbiferous
marls of Goaau, he was ready for a new wife. (Kitty,
my dear, it is no laughing matter I ) I mode no less
notable a curt) of a young scholar nt Cambridge who was
meant for the church, wlien im suddenly caught a cold
fit of froethinking, with great shiverings, from wading out
of his depth in Spinoza. None of the divines, whom I
Krst tried, did him the li'itit good in that state ; so I
turned over a new leaf, and doctored him gently upon 'the
chapters of faith in Abraham Tucker's book (you should
read it, Sisty) ; theu I threw in strong doses of Fichtc ;
after that I put him on the Scotch metapliysicians, with
plunge-baths into certain (ierman tmnscendentolists ; and
having convinced bini thnt fiiitb is not an unphilo-
Bophical sLite of mind, and that he might believe without
compromising bis undenttanUing, — for he waa mightily
conceited on that score, — I threw in my divines, which
be was now fit tii digest ; aud his theological constitution,

^K rcspecuuii

320 THE CAXTONS;

fiince then, liEis become so roliuat that he hiis eat«n up
two liviDgB and a deanery ! In fact^ I have ri plan for a
library, that, instead of heading its compartments,
' Philology, Natural Science, Poetry,' etc., one shall head
them according to the diseasca fpr wliich they ore
severally good, bodily and mental, — up from a dire
calamity or the pangs of the gout, down to a fit of the
spleen or a alight uilarrli ; for which lust your light read-
ing comes in with a whey-posset and Iwrleywater.

" But," continued my father, more gravely, " when
some one sorrow, that is yet reparable, geta hold of your
mind like a monomania ; when you think because Heaveu
has denied you this or tliat on which yoit had set your
heart that all your life must be a blank, — oh, then diet
yourself well on biography, the biography of good and great
men. See how little a B])uce one sorrow really makes in life.
See scarce a page, perhaps, given to some grief similar to
your own ; and how triurajvhantly the life sails on beyond
it I You thought the ^ving was broken I Tut, tut, it was
but a bruised feather ! See what life leaves behind it
when all is done ! ^ a summary of jweitive facta far out
of the region of sorrow and suUering, linking themselves
with the being of the world. Yes, biography is the
medicine here ! Roland, you said you would try my
prescription, — here it ia;" and my father took up a
liook and reached it to the Captain.

My uncle looked over it, — " Life of the Reverend
Robert Hull." " Brother, he was a Dissenter ; and, thank
Heaven ! I am a Clmrch-and-State man to the backbone 1 "

"Robert Hall waa a brave man and a tnie soldier
under the Great Commander," said my father, artfully.

The Captain mechatucally carried his foreliuger to his i
forehead in military fashion, and saluted Die book .1
respectfully.

A FAMILY PICTURE.

321

'* I have another copy for you, Pisistratus, — that is
mine which I have lent Roland. This, which I bought
for you to-day, you will keep."

"Thank you, sir," said I, listlessly, not seeing what
great good the " Life of Robert Hall " could do me, or why
the same medicine should suit the old weather-beaten
uncle and the nephew yet in his teens.

"I have said nothing," resumed my father, slightly
bowing his broad temples, "of the Book of books, for
that is the lignum vitce, the cardinal medicine for all.
These are but the subsidiaries; for as you may re-
member, my dear Kitty, that I have said before, we can
never keep the system quite right unless we place just in
the centre of the great ganglionic system, whence the
nerves carry its influence gently and smootlily through
the whole frame, the Saffron Bag!"

VOL. I. — 21

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER VI.

OdoBt the next moraing I took in;^ hat to go
„^BiL my father, looking at me, and seeing by my
ance tliat I had not slept, stud gently, —
dear Piaistratus, you have not tried my medicino

'tf hut niedieiue, sir?"

- Robert HalL"

"No, indeed, not yet," sitid I, smiling.

" Do 8o, my son, before you go out ; di'pend on it you
ill enjoy your walk more."

I confess that it was with sonie reluctance I obeyed. I
went batik to my ovm room and sal resolutely down bo my
task. Are there any of you, my readers, who have not
read the " Life of Robert Hall " 1 If so, in the words of
the great Captain Cuttle, " When found, make a note of
it" Never mind what yimr theological opinion is,- —
Episcopalian, Presbyterian, liaptist, P^doliaptist, Indepen-
dent, Quaker, Unitiirian, Philosopher, FreetJiinker, — send
for Rol>ei-t Hall ! Vea, if there exist-s yet on earth df-
Bcendaiits of the arch- hcri! ties whicli made such a. noise in
their day, — men who Iwlicvo, with Saturninus, that the
ncrld was made b} siicn angels, or with fiasilidcs, that
there are as maiij lit i\ ens as tliLrt art, days in the year ; or
with the Nictlait.ine-' that men ought to have their wives
in u>mmoii (pltnt\ of thit sect still especially in the
Red Republii) or witn their successors, the Gnostics,
^^lIobelle^(.d in Jaldaboith or nith the Carpiemtians,
that the world was made by the devil; or with the

I FAMILY PJCTUBE.

323

Ccriiithmns and Ebioiiitea wid Kuzuritw {whifli last (lis-
covfatl thai the name of Noah's wife was Uiiria, and that
she set Uiu urk on liru} ; or with the ValenLiniims, who
taught that there were thirty vEonos, ages or worlds,
born out of Profundity — Bathos — (miiie), and Silence
(female) ; or with the Marcites, Colarbosii, and Hcra-
cleonitee (who still kept up that bother about /Kones, Mr.
Profundity and Jlrs. Silence) ; or with the Ophites, who
are said to have worship]ied the serpent ; or tlie Cniiiitcs,
who ingeniously found out a, ruiisun for honoring Judas,
because he foresaw what goi>d would come to men by be-
traying our Saviour ; or with the Sethites, who made Seth
a part of the divine substance ; or with the Archonticks,
AscothyptBS, Cerdouians, Mnrcionites, the disciples of
Apelles, and Sovenis (the lost woa a teetotaller, and sidd
wine was begot by Hutaii) ; oi of Tutian, who thought all the
desccudoiilA of Adam were irrotrieyahly damned exeept
themselves (some of those Tatiaiii are certainly extant I ) ;
or the Cat[iphr}-ginns, who were a\m called Tascodmgitaa,
because they thrust their forefingers up their nostrils to
show their devotion ; or the Pcpuzians, Quintilians, and
Artotjrites; or — But no matter; if I go through all
the follies of men in search of the truth, I shall never get
to the end of my chapter or back to Robert Hall. AVhat-
over, then, thou art, orthodox or hetetodos, send for the
"Life of Rolwrt Hall." It is the life of a man that it
does good to manhood itself to contemplate.

I had finished the hiograjihy, which is not long, and
was musing over it, when I heanl the Oaptain'fl cork-teg
upon the stairs. I opened the door for him, and he en-
tered, Iniok in hand, na I also, book in hand, stood ready
to receive him.

" Well, sir," said Roland, seating himself, " bos the pre-
flcription done you any good ) "

324

THE CAXT0S8:

" Yes, uncle, — |^^t."

" Aud me too. By Jupiter, Sisty, that same Hall was
a fine felJow ! I wonder if the mc'dicine lias gone through
the same chnnnels iu botli ! Tell me, first, how it haa
al^l.'(^tod you."

"Imprimis, then, my dear uncle, I fancy that a book
like this must do good to all who live iu the world iu the
onliiiaiy manner, by admitting ua into a circle of life ol
which I Buepeet we think but little. Here is a man con-
necting himself directly with a heavenly purpose, and
cultivating (vnaiderable faculties to that one end ; seek-
ing to acfomphsh his soul as far as be can, that he may
do most good on earth and take a higher existence up to
hwkveu i a niuu intent upon a sublime aud spiritual duty,
— in short, living as it were in it, and so filled ivith the
twnsciousness of immortality, and bo strong in tlie link
between God and man, that, without any affected stoic-
ism, without being insensible to pain (rather, perhaps,
from a nervous tein|>erament, acutely feeling it), he yet
has a happiness wholly independent of it. It ts impos-
sible not to be thrilled with au adminition tlial elevates
whde it anea jou, m reading that solemn ' Dedication of
himwlf to God ' This offering of 'soul and body, time,
health, repuUitton, talents,' to the divine and invisible
I'rmeiple of Good, culls us suddenly to co ti ] 1 te the
selfishness of our own views and hopes, and i vakens us
from the egoti-.m that exacts all and re gns othii g
But this liiiok has mostly struck ujion tl e cl ord i m>
own heart in tint chariicteristic whidi my f tl er i 1
cated as belonging to all biography. Hero s a 1 fe of
remarkable Jii/iies% -~ great study, groat tl gl t, ai 1
great aition, and yet," said I, eolorhij, !ov small a
pliHO tliiise feelings which have tyrannizil n er i an!
mado all oNe m , m b! ink and void, bold in that life ! It

A FAMILY PICTURE. 325

is not as if the man were a cold and hard ascetic ; it
is easy to see in him, not only remarkable tenderness
and warm affections, but strong self-will and the passion
of all vigorous natures. Yes ; I understand better now
what existence in a true man shoidd be."

"AD that is very well said," quoth the Captain, "but
it did not strike me. What I have seen in this book is
courage. Here is a poor creature rolling on the carpet
with agony ; from childhood to death tortured by a mys-
terious incurable malady, — a malady that is described as
*an internal apparatus of torture;' and who does, by his
heroism, more than bear it, — he puts it out of power to
affect him ; and though (here is the passage) * his appoint-
ment by day and by night was incessant pain, yet high
enjoyment was, notwithstanding, the law of his exist-
ence.* Robert Hall reads me a lesson, — me, an old
soldier, who thought myself above taking lessons, — in
courage, at least; and as I Ciime to that passage when,
in the sharp paroxysms before death, he says, *I have
not complained, have I, sir ? And I won't complain ! ' —
when I came to that passage I started up and cried,
* Roland de Caxton, thou hast been a coward ! and an
thou hadst had thy deserts, thou hadst been cashiered,
broken, and drummed out of the regiment long ago ! ' "

" After all, then, my father was not so wrong, — he
placed his guns right, and fired a good shot."

" He must have been from six to nine degrees above
the crest of the parapet," said my uncle, thoughtfully, —
" which, I take it, is the best elevation, both for shot and
shells, in enfilading a work."

" What say you then. Captain — up with our knapsacks,
and on with the march ? "

" Right about — face ! " cried my uncle, as erect as a
column.

THE 0AXT0N8

ting back, if wo can heljj it"

the front of the enemy. ' Up, Guards, and at

id expects every man to do his duty ! ' "

I or laurel ! " tried luy uncle, waving the book

A FAMILY PICTURE. 327

CHAPTER Vn.

I WENT out, and to see Francis Vivian ; for on leaving
Mr. Trevanion I was not without anxiety for my new
friend's future provision. But Vivian was from home,
and I strolled from his lodgings into the suburbs on the
other side of the river, and began to meditate seriously
on the best course now to pursue. In quitting my pres-
ent occupations I resigned prospects far more brilliant and
fortunes far more rapid than I could ever hope to realize
in any other entrance into life. But I felt the necessity,
if I desired to keep steadfast to that more healthful frame
of mind I had obtained, of some manly and continuous
labor, some earnest employment. My thoughts flew back
to the University ; and the quiet of its cloisters — which,
until I had been blinded by the glare of the London
world, and grief had somewhat dulled the edge of my
quick desires and hopes, had seemed to mo cheerless and
unaltering — took an inviting aspect. It presented what
I needed most, — a new scene, a new arena, a partial re-
turn into boyhood ; repose for passions prematurely raised ;
activity for the reasoning powers in fresh directions. I
had not lost my time in London : I had kept up, if not
studies purely classical, at least the habits of application ;
I had sharpened my general comprehension and augmented
my resources.

Accordingly, when I returned home, I resolved to speak
to my father. But I found he had forestalled me ; and on
entering, my mother drew me upstairs into her room, with
a smile kindled by my smile, and told me that she and

328 THR CAXTONS :

lier Aiiftiu had been tlimkiiig that it was bi'sit that I
should leave Loudon as soon as poseiililc ; that mj father
found lie could now dispense with the library of the
Miiseuni for some months ; that tho time for which tliey
had taken their lodgings would he up in a few days ; that
the summer was far advanced, town odious, the country
beautiful, — in a word, we wore to go home. There I
could prepare myself for Camhtidge till the long vaca-
tion was over ; and my mother added hesitatingly, and
with a prefatory caution to spare my health, tliat my
ffttlier, whoso income could ill afford the requisite allow-
ance to TOB, counted on my soon lightening hia burden by
getting a scholarship. I felt how much provident kiud-
neae there was in aU this, — even in that hint of a scholar-
ship, which was meant to roiise my facultiea and spur niB,
by affectionate incentives, to a new ambition. I was not
less delighted than grateftd.

"But poor Roland," said I, "and little Blanche, — will
they come with usl"

" I fear not," said ray mother ; " for Roland is anxious
to get back to his tower, and in a day or two ho will l>e
well enough to move."

" Do you not tliink, my dear mother, that, somehow or
other, this lost son of his had something to do with Ro-
land's illness, — that the illness was as much mentfil as
physical 1 "

"I have no doubt of it, Sisty. What a sa<l, Kid heart
that young man must have ! "

" My uncle seems to have abniidoned all hope of find-
ing him in I,ondon ; otherwise, ill as he has lieen, I am
sure we could not have kept him at honio. So he goes
back to the old tower. l'i>or man, he must be dull
enough there ! We imist contrive to pay him a visit.
Does Blanche ever speak of her brother)''

A FAMILY PICTURE. 329

" No ; for it seems they were not brought up much to
gether ; at all events, she does not remember him. How
lovely she is ! Her mother must surely have been very
handsome."

" She is a pretty child, certainly, though in a strange
style of beauty, — such immense eyes ! — and afifectionate,
and loves Roland as she ought."

And here the conversation dropped.

Our plans being thus decided, it was necessary that I
should lose no time in seeing Vivian and making some
arrangement for the future. His manner had lost so
much of its abruptness that I thought I could venture
to recommend him personally to Trevanion ; and I knew,
after what had passed, that Trevanion would make a point
to oblige me. I resolved to consult my father about it.
As yet I had either never found or never made the
opportunity to talk to my father on the subject^ he had
been so occupied ; and if he had proposed to see my new
friend, what answer could I have made, in the teeth of
Vivian's cynic objections ? However, as we were now go-
ing away, that last consideration ceased to be of impor-
tance ; and, for the first, the student had not yet entirely
settled back to his books. I therefore watched the time
when my father walked down to the Museum, and slip-
ping my arm in his I told him, briefly and rapidly as we
went along, how I had formed this strange acquaintance,
and how I was now situated. The story did not interest
my father quite so much as I expected, and he did not
understand all the complexities of Vivian's character, —
how could he ] — for lie answered briefly, —

** I should think that for a young man apparently with-
out a sixpence, and whose education seems so imperfect,
any resource in Trevanion must be most temporary and
uncertain. Speak to your Uncle Jack : he can find him

330 THE C-OtTOKS

aome place, I have no doubl, — pierbaps a readership U
printer's office, or a reporter's place on some journal, if be
is fit for it. But if yoii want to steady him, let it f
Bomettiiiig regular."

Therewith my fathi^r dismissed the matter and van^n
ished through the gat«s of the Museum. Readership to
a printer, reportership on a journal, for a young gentle-
man with the high notions and arrogant vanity of Francis
Vivian, — his ambition already soaring far beyond kid
gloves and ,-i cabriolet ! The idea was hopeless ; and,
perplexed aoA doubtful, I took my way to A'i%'ian'a lodg-
ings. I fomid him at home and uuemploycd, dlAading
hy his window with folded arms, and in a state of such
tevery that he was not aware of my entrance till I had
touched him on the shoulder.

" Ha ! " said he then, with one of his short, quick, im-
patient sighs^ " I thought you had given me up and for-
gotten me ; but you look psle and harassed. I could
almost think you had grown thiiuicr within the last few

" Oh, ueviT niiiid me, Vivian ; I Iiave come to speak
of yourself. I have left Trevauiou ; it is settled that I
should go to the University, mid we all quit town in a
few days."

"lunfew days! All! 'Who are "all'l"

" -Mv fill.

Lily, — fiither, motlie)

r, unole, cousin, and my-

self, iiut,

my dear tt'Iluw, im\

V let us tJiiiik seriously

whiiL is l>es

t to be done fur ym

1. 1 can present you to

Trevanion."

" But Treviiiiion is a haitl thou<;h an excellent man;
and, morcovLT, as he is always changing ilie subjects that
engross liim, in a month or so he may hai-e nothing to
give you. Vou sjiid you would work, — will you consent

. FAMILY PICTURE.

not tu compliiiu if the work cannot be done in kid gloves ?
Young men who have risen high in the world have begun,
it is well known, as reporters to tJie press. It is a situa-
tion of respectabilit}', and in request, and not easy to obtain,
I fancy ; but still — "

Vivian interrupted me hastily. "Thank you a thou-
sand times 1 But what you say confirms a resolution I
had taken before you came. I shall make it up with my
family and return home."

" Oh, I am 80 really glad. How wise in you ! "

Viviau turned away liia head abruptly. "Your pic-
tures of family life and domestic peace, you ace," he said,
"seduced me more than you thought. When do you
leave town?"

" Why, I believe, early next week,"

" So soon," said Vivian, tlioughtfitlly. " WeU, per-
haps I may ask you yet to introduce nio to Mr. Trevaii-
iou ; for — who knows t — my family and I may fall out
again. But 1 will consider. I tliink I have bean) you
say that this Trevauioa is a very old friend of your
father's or uncle's I"

" He. or rather Lsdy EUinor, is an old friend of both."

" And therefore would listen to your recommendations
of me. But perhaps I may not need them. So you have
left — left of your own accord ^ — a situation that seemed
more enjoyable, I should think, than rooms in a college.
Left — why did you leave 1 " And Vivian fixed his bright
eyes full and piercingly on mine.

" It was only for a time, for a trial, that I was there,"
said I, evasively ; " out at nurse, as it were, till the Alma
Mater opened her arms, — alma indeed she ought to be to
my father's eon."

Vivian looked unsatisfied with my explanation, but did
Dot question me further. He himself was tlie first to

332

THE CAXT0N8 :

turn the conversation, and he diii this with more affee-
tionate cordiality than was common to him. He in-
quired into our general plana, into the prohabilitiea of
our return to town, and drew from me a description of
our rural Tusculum. He was quiet and subdued ; and
once or tw-ii^e I thouglit there waa a moisture in those
Inminous eyes. We parted with more of tlic unreserve
and fondness of youthful friendship — at least on my
part, and seemingly on his — than hail yet endeared our
singular intimacy ; for the cement of cordial attacliment
had been wanting to an intercourse in which one party
refused all confidence, anil the other mingled distrust and
fear with keen interest and compassionate admiration.

That evening, before lights were brought in, my father,
turning to me, abruptly asked if I had seen my friend, and
what he was about to do.

"He thinks of returning to his family," said I.

Eoland, who had seemed doring, winced nneasily.

" Who returns to his family J " asked the Captain,

" Why, you must know," said my father, '' that Sisty
has fished up a frienil of whom he can give no account;
that would satisfy a policeman, and whose fortunes he
thinks himself under the necessity of protecting. You
are very lucky that he has not picked your pockets, Sisty ;
but I dare say he has. Wbat 'a his name 1 "

" Vivian," said I, — " Francis Vivian."

" A good name and a Cornish," said my father. " Some
derive it from the Romans — Vivianiis; others from a
Celtic word which means — "

" Vivian ! " intemipted Solond. " Vivian ! I wonder
if it be the son of Colonel Vivian."

" He is certainly a gentleman's Bon," said I ; " but he
never told me what his family and connections were."

" Vivian," repeated my iniule, — " [Toor Colonel Vi\-ian I

A FAMILY PICTURE. 333

So the young man is going to his father. I have no doubt
it is the same. Ah — "

" What do you know of Colonel Vivian or his son ? "
said I. " Pray, tell me ; I am so interested in this young
man."

" I know nothing of either, except by gossip," said my
uncle, moodily. " I did hear that Colonel Vivian, an ex-
cellent officer and honorable man, had been in — in — "
Roland's voice faltered — "in great grief about his son,
whom, a mere boy, he had prevented from some improper
marriage, and who had run away and left him, — it was
supposed for America. The story affected me at the
time," added my uncle, trying to speak calmly.

We were all silent, for we felt why Koland was so
disturbed, and why Colonel Vivian's grief should have
touched him home. Similarity in affliction makes us
brothers even to the unknown.

"You say he is going home to his family, — I am
heartily glad of it ! " said the envying old soldier,
gallantly.

The lights came in then, and two minutes after, Uncle
Roland and I were nestled close to each other, side by
side ; and I was reading over his shoulder, and his finger
was silently resting on that passage that had so struck
him : —

"I have not complained, have I, sir? And I won't
complain I "

END OF VOL. I.

THE CAXTONS.

a fatailv l^fcture*

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON

(LORD LYTTON.)

Erery f imily is a history In Itself, and eren a poem to those who
Icnow how to search its pages. — Lamartinb.

D7, probos mores docili jurentse,
Di, senectuti placidsD quietem,
Romuls genti date remque, prolemque,
Bt de«us omne.

HoRAT. Carmen Saeulare.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
Vol. II.

BOSTON:
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

1899.

Br LlTTLB, BlUIWM, ABD CoMPAHr.

THE CAXTONS.

PART TENTH.

CHAPTER I.

My uncle's conjecture as to the parentage of Francis
Vivian seemed to me a positive discovery. Nothing
more likely than that this wilfid boy had formed some
headstrong attachment which no father would sanction,
and so, thwarted and irritated, thrown himself on the
world. Such an explanation was the more agreeable to
me, as it cleared up much that had appeared discredit-
able in the mystery that surrounded Vivian. I could
never bear to think that he had done anything mean and
criminal, however I might believe he had been rash and
faulty. It was natural that the unfriended wanderer
should have been thrown into a society the equivocal
character of which had failed to revolt the audacity of an
inquisitive mind and adventurous temper ; but it was
natural also that the habits of gentle birth, and that
silent education which English gentlemen commonly
receive from their very cradle, should have preserved his
honor, at least, intact through all. Certainly the pride,
the notions, the very faults of the well-born had remained

VOL. 11. — 1

2 THE CAXTONS:

in full force, — why net the Ii'Uct qualities, hawovi't
smothered for the time 1 I felt thankful for the thought
that Vivian was returning to an plcnienl iu wliicli hn
might repurify his mind, rcKt himself f<jr thnt siiIip-th t<)
which he belonged ; thaukftd that we might yet meet,
and OUT presunt half-intimacy mature, perhaps, into
heathful friendship.

It was with such tlioughte thnt I took up my hat tlie
next uiorning to seek Vivian, and judge if we had gained
the right clew, when we were startled by what was a
rare sound at our door, — the postman's knock. My
father was at the Museum ; my mother iu high con-
ft'n^nee, or dose preparation for our approaching de-
parture, with Mrs. Primiuins ; Roland, I, and Blanche
had the room to ourselves.

" The letter 11 not for me," aaid Pisistratua.

" Nor fc r me, I am sure," said the Captain, when the
servant entered and confuted him, — for the letter vas
for tiini He took it up woudcnngly and suspiciously, as
Glumdalcliteh took up Gullncr, or as (if naturalists) we
take up an unknonn crciture that we are not quit* sure
will not bile and sting us Ah ' it has stung or hit you,
Cajitain Kolind, for ^ou <!tart and change color; you
suppress a erj as y ou break the seal ; you breathe hard as
j-ou read, and the letter scLitis '.jiort — but it takes time
in the reiding, for jou go o^ir it igiui and again Then
you fold it up, cruui] It it, tliiust it into ^our brtast-
])o<:kot, and look round Iikt a mm wiKing from a dream
Ib it a (Imm of pun, 01 > f pUasun 1 ^ liiIj, I Ciiunot
guess, for nolhing is on tint (igle fieo nthir of pain
or pleasure, but r-illn r of feir, ngitilioii, kuildtiuuiit
Yet the tjts are bright, too, ami tlitro is a snnle on that
i«>n I,p

My uncle lookid round I saj, uid c ilkd baatdj for

A FAMILY PICTUBB. 3

his cane and his hat, and then began l^uttoning his coat
across his broad breast, though the day was hot enough to
have unbuttoned every breast in the metropolis.

" You are not going out, uncle ? "

" Yes, yes ! "

"But are you strong enough yet? Let me go with

you."

" No, sir ; no ! Blanche, come here." He took the
child in his arms, surveyed her wistfully, and kissed her.
"You have never given me pain, Blanche; say, *God
bless and prosper you, father ! ' "

" God bless and prosper my dear, dear papa ! " said
Blanche, putting her little hands together, as if in
prayer.

"There — that should bring me luck, Blanche," said
the Captain, gayly, and setting her down. Then seizing
his cane from the servant, and putting on his hat with a
determined air, he walked stoutly forth ; and I saw him,
from the window, march along the streets as cheerfully as
if he had been besieging Badajoz.

" God prosper thee too ! " said I, involuntarily.

And Blanche took hold of my hand, and said in her
prettiest way (and her pretty ways were many), " I wish
you would come with us, cousin Sisty, and help me to
love papa. Poor papa ! he wants us both, — he wants all
the love we can give him."

" That he does, my dear Blanche ; and I think it a
great mistake that we don*t all live together. Your papa
ought not to go to that tower of his at the world's end,
but come to our snug, pretty house, with a garden full of
flowers, for you to be Queen of the May, — from May to
November; to say nothing of a duck that is more
sagacious than any creature in the Fables I gave you the
other day."

THE GAXTDNS:

che laughed nnd clapped her hoinlB. " OL, tliat

be so aire ! But " — and she stopped gravely, Mid

■. " but then, you Boe, there would not he the tower

papa ; and I am sure that the tower must love

ery much, for he loves it doarly."

as my turn to laugli aow. " I see how it ie, ynw

witeh," said I ; " you would coax us lo come and

ivi! with you and the owIb! "With all my lieatt, so far

aa I am eoncenied."

"Bisty,"said Blanche, with an appalling eolemuity on
her face, "do you know what I've been thinking?"
" Not I, miss — what 1 Something very deep, I can see,

— very horrible, indeed, 1 fear ; you look ao serioua."

" 'Why, I 've been Ihiidting," continued Blanche, not
relaxing a muscle, and without the least bit of a blusli,

— "I've been thinking that I '11 be your Uttla wife;
and then, of course, we shall all live together."

Blanche did not blush, but 1 did. " Aak me that ten
years hente, if yoii dare, you impudent little thing ; and
now, run away to Mrs. I'rimniins and tell her to keep
you out of mischief, for I nuist say ' Good-moniing.' "

But Blanche did not run away, aiid her dignity seemed
exceedingly hurt at my mode of Uiking her alarming pro-
position, for she retired into a corner jwuting, and sat
ilown with great majesty. So thei* I left her, and went
my way to Vivian. He was out ; but seeing iKwks on
his Uihle, nnd having nothing to do, I resolved to wait
for his return. I had cuough of my father in me to turn
nt once to the Iwwks for com]>any ; and by the side of
some graver worka which I had recommeniied, I found
certiiin novels in Freiich that Vivian had got from a cir-
culating library. I had a curiosity to read these ; for
excejit the old cliLssic novels of France, this mighty branch
of its popular literature was new to me.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 5

I soon got interested ! — but what an interest — the
interest that a nightmare might excite if one caught it
out of one's sleep and set to work to examine it. By the
side of what dazzling shrewdness, what deep knowledge
of those holes and comers in the human system of which
Goethe must have spoken when he said somewhere (if
I recollect right, and don't misquote him, which I '11 not
answer for), " There is something in every man's heart
which, if we coidd know, would make us hate him," —
by the side of all this, and of much more that showed
prodigious boldness and energy of intellect, what strange
exaggeration; what mock nobility of sentiment; what
inconceivable perversion of reasoning; what damnable
demoralization I The true artist, whether in romance or
the drama, will often necessarily interest us in a vicious
or criminal character ; but he does not the less leave
clear to our reprobation the vice or the crime. But here
I found myself called upon, not only to feel interest in
the villain (which woidd be perfectly allowable, — I am
very much interested in Macbeth and Lovelace), but to
admire and sympathize with the villany itself. Nor was
it the confusion of all wrong and right in individual
character that shocked me the most, but rather the view
of society altogether, painted in colors so hideous that if
true, instead of a revolution it would draw down a deluge.
It was the hatred, carefully instilled, of the poor against
the rich ; it was the war breathed between class and
class ; it was that envy of all superiorities which loves to
show itself by allowing virtue only to a blouse, and
asserting that a man must be a rogue if he belong to that
rank of society in which, from the very gifts of education,
from the necessary associations of circumstance, roguery is
the last thing probable or natural.

It was all this, and things a thousand times worse, that

TITE CAXTONS:

Bet my ln^nii in a whirl, as hour after hour ehp|)cil en,
and I still gaz(!<l, E|iGll-bo<md, on these Chimeras and
Typhons, — theao symbols of the Dcstroyinjf Priuciplo.
"Poor Vivian!" siiii I, ^13 I rose ut W : "if thou
readedt these books with pleasure or from habit, no
wonder that thou seemest to me so ohtuse about right
and wrong, aud to have a great cavity where thy brain
should Imve the bump of ' conacientiouaness ' in full
eulience ! "

Nevertheless, to do those demoniacs justice, I had got
through time imperceptibly by their pestilent help ; and
I was startled U> see, by my wati^h, how Ute it was. I
had just resolved to leave a line fixing an appointment
for the morrow, and so de|)ftrt, when I heard Vivian's
knock, — ■ a knock that had great character in it,
haughty, impatient, irregular ; not a neat, symmetriciil
liamionious, unpretending knoi.k, but a knock that
seemed to set the whole house and street at defiance :
it was a knock bullying, a knock ostentatious, a knock
irritiitiiig and olfcnsiie, — impi<fer aud inicu/tdui. But
the step that eatue up the stairs did not suit the knock ;
it was a step lijiiit, yet firm ; slow, yet elastic.

The inaid-ser\':int who had opened the door had, no
doubt, informed Vivian of my lisit, for he did not
seem surprised to see me ; but lie cast that hurried, sus-
picious look round the room which a man is apt to cast
when he has left his jnipers about and finds some idler,
on whose trustworthiness be by no means depends, seated
in the midst of the tuiguartled secrets. The look was not
llattering ; but my conscience was so unreproachful that
1 laid all the blame upon the general suspiciousness of
Vivian's character.

" Three hours, at least, liave I been here ! " said I,
maliciously.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 7

•* Three hours ! " — again the look.

" And this is the worst secret I have discovered," —
and I pointed to those literary Manicheans.

" Oh," said he, carelessly, " French novels ! I don't won-
der you stayed so long. I can't read your English novels,
— flat and insipid ; there are truth and life here."

" Truth and life ! " cried I, every hair on my head
erect with astonishment. " Then hurrah for falsehood
and death!"

" They don't please you, — no accounting for tastes."

" I beg your pardon, — I account for yours, if you
really take for truth and life monsters so nefast and
flagitious. For Heaven's sake, my dear fellow, don't sup-
pose that any man could get on in England, — get any-
where but to the Old Bailey or Norfolk Island, — if he
squared his conduct to such topsy-turvy notions of the
world as I find here."

" How many years are you my senior," asked Vivian,
sneeringly, " that you should play the mentor and cor-
rect my ignorance of the world ] "

" Vivian, it is not age and experience that speak here,
it is something far wiser than they, — the instinct of a
man's heart and a gentleman's honor."

" Well, well," said Vivian, rather discomposed, " let
the poor books alone ; you know my creed, — that books
influence us little one way or the other."

" By the great Egyptian library and the soul of Dio-
dorus ! I wish you could hear my father upon that point
Come," added I, with sublime compassion, " come, it is
not too late, — do let me introduce you to my father. I
will consent to read French novels all my life if a single
chat with Austin Caxton does not send you home with a
happier face and a lighter heart. Come, let me take you
back to dine with us to-day."

THE CAXT0N8:

lul TivUn, with fioiiic cimfiision, — "I
, >r this day I leave Lnndon, Some other timo
— for," he added, hut not hoortity , " we may

e 80," said I, wringing liia hand; "aiul that ia
~~), in spite of yourself, I have guessed your
— your birth and parentHge."
iwl" cried Vivian, turning pale and gnawinj; his
'* What do you mean 1 Speak ! "
Well, then, nre you not the lost, runaway Bon of
Colonel Vi\-ian) Come, say tha truth; let us he
confidants."

Vivian threw off a succession of his abrupt eighs ; and
fJien seating himself, leaned his faee on the table, rou-
fused, no doubt, to find himself discovered.

" You are nejir the mark," said ho, at last, " but do not
ask me further yet. Some day," ho cried impetuoudy,
and springing suddenly to his feet, " some day you shall
know all, — yes, some daj', if I live, wJien that name
shall be high in tlin world ; ye!^, ivhini the world is at
my feet ! " He strett'lied his right hand as if to grasp
the apace, and his whole face was lighted with a fierce
enthusiasm. The gloiv diuil away, and with a slight re-
turn of his scornfid siuile he said ; " Dreams yet ; dreams .'
And now, look at tjiis paper." And ho drew out a memo-
randuiK, scrawled over with figures. "TJiis, I think, is
my pecuniary debt to you ; in a few days I shall dis-
charge it. Give me your address."

"Oh," said I, pained, "can you speak to me of money,
Vivian?"

" It is one of those instincts of honor you cite so often,"
answered he, coloring. " Pardon nie."

" Tliat is my address," said I, stooping to write, in
order to conceal my wounded feelings. " You will avail

A FAMILY PICTUBB. 9

yourself of it, I hope, often, and tell me that you are well
and happy."

" When I am happy you shall know."

" You do not require any introduction to Trevanion ? "

Vivian hesitated. " No, I think not. If ever I do, I
wiU write for it."

I took up my hat, and was ahout to go, — for I was
still chilled and mortified, — when, as if hy an irre-
sistible impulse, Vivian came to me hastily, flung his
arms round my neck, and kissed me as a boy kisses his
brother.

" Bear with me ! " he cried in a faltering voice ; " I did
not think to love any one as you have made me love you,
though sadly against the grain. If you are not my good
angel, it is that nature and habit are too strong for you.
Certainly, some day wo shall meet again. I shall have
time, in the mean while, to see if the world can be indeed
* mine oyster, which I with sword can open.' I would
be aut Cfpsar aut nullus ! Very little other Latin know
I to quote from ! If CflBsar, men will forgive me all the
means to the end ; if nulluSy London has a river, and in
every street one may buy a cord ! "

" Vivian ! Vivian ! "

" Now go, my dear friend, while my heart is softened,
— go before I shock you with some return of the native
Adam. Go, go ! " And taking me gently by the arm,
Francis Vivian drew me from the room, and re-entering,
locked his door.

Ah, if I could have left him Robert Hall, instead of
those execrable Typhous ! But wouM that medicine have
suited his case, or must grim Experience write sterner
prescriptions with iron hand ?

THE CAXTOSS :

CHAPTER n.

nt I got back, just in time for dinner, Roland had
not returned, not did he return till l(it« in tlio evening.
All our eycB were directed towards liim, as we riise with
ODe accord to give him welcome ; but liia fnce was like a
mask, — it was lucked anil rigid and unreadable.

Shutting thci door carefully after him, he came to the
hearth, stood on it, upriglit and oilin, for a few momenta,
and then asked, —

" Has Blanche gone to bed 1 "

" Yes," said my mother, " but not to sleep, I am sure ;
ahe made me promise to tell her when you camo back."

Roland's brow relaxpd. "To-morrow, sister," said he,
slowly, " will you see lliat she has the proper mourning
made for her! My son is dead."

" Dead ! " we cried wilh one voice, and siirrounded him
with one impulse. " Dead ! impossible, — you could not
say it so calmly. Dead! how do y.iu know? Yoii may
he deceived. Who told youl "Why do you tliink so?"

" I have seen his remains," .«aid my uncle, with the
same gloomy calm. " Wo will all mourn for him. Pisis-
tratus, you are heir to my natue now, as to yoiir father's.
Good-night; excuse me, all^ — all you dear and kind ones;
I am worn oiit^"

Roland lighted Ills cantUe and went away, leaving
us thunderstruck ; but he cflmo back again, looked
round, took up his book, open in the favorite passage,
nodded again, and again vanished. We looked at each
other as if ive had seen a ghost. Then my father rose

A FAMILY PICTURE. 11

and went out of the room, and remained in Roland's till
the night was wellnigh gone ! We sat up, my mother and
I, till he returned. His henign face looked profoundly
sad.

" How is it, sir ? Can you tell us more ? "

My father shook his head. " Roland prays that you
may preserve the same forbearance you have shown
hitherto, and never mention his son's name to him.
Peace be to the living, as to the dead ! Kitty, this
changes our plans ; we must all go to Cumberland, — we
cannot leave Roland thus."

" Poor, poor Roland ! " said my mother, through her
tears. " And to think that father and son were not
reconciled ! But Roland forgives him now, — oh, yes,
now / "

" It is not Roland we can censure," said my father,
almost fiercely ; "it is — But enough ; we must hurry
out of town as soon as we can : Roland will recover in
the native air of his old ruins."

We went up to bed, mournfully. " And so," thought I,
" ends one grand object of my life ! I had hoped to
have brought those two together. But, alas, what peace-
maker like the grave ! "

THE CAXTOSS

CIIAITER in

ir tliree days ; bat ho
Jid my father dropped
that the deceased had
Captnin was mating
As Roland hod said
aon, I took it at first
funeral ; but no woid
day Roland, in deep

jnde did not leavi
■wi nuch closeted witii
some words which seemea u> __
incurred debts, and that the
»om(^ charge on his email propi
that he had seen the renmins (>i
for gnuit^d that we should atten.
of this wna said. On the fotirn

mourning, entered a hackney-coach with the lawyer, and
was absent about two hours. I did not doubt that he
had thus fjiiietly fulfilled the losit mouriiful offices. On
hifi return, he shut himself up again for the rest of the
day, and would not see ei'on my father. Rut the next
inorniuc he made his appearance as usual, and I even
thoujiht that he seemed more cheerful than I had yet
known liini. — whctluT he played a part, or whether the
worst w:is now over, ami the grave was leas cruel than
luieertjiinty. On the following day we all set out for
CunilHThmd,

Tn llu' interi'al, Uncle .Tuck had been almost constantly
at the house, and, Ui <Io him justice, he had seemed nn-
alt'ecti'iUy shocked at the calamity tliat liml iMifallen Ro-
land. Tlicr* was, itidewl, no want of Jieart in Uncle
Jack, whenever you went straight at it ; hut it was hard
to find if you took a circuitous nmte towards it through
the pockets. Tlie worthy spi'eulntor had indeed much
business to transact with my father Iwforo he left town.
The Anti-Publisher Society had been set up, and it was

A FAMILY PICTURE. 13

through the obstetric aid of that fraternity that the Great
Book was to be ushered into the world. The new journal,
the " Literary Times," was also far advanced, — not yet
out, but my father was fairly in for it. There were pre-
parations for its debut on a vast scale, and two or three
gentlemen in black — one of whom looked like a lawyer,
and another like a printer, and a tliird uncommonly like
a jew — called twice, with papers of a very formidable
aspect. All these preliminaries settled, the last thing I
heard Uncle Jack say, with a slap on my father's back,
was, —

" Fame and fortime both made now ! You may go to
sleep in safety, for you leave me wide awake. Jack
Tibbets never sleeps ! "

I had thought it strange that since my abrupt exodus
from Trevanion's house no notice had been taken of any
of us by himself or Lady Ellinor. But on the very eve
of our departure came a kind note from Trevanion to me,
dated from his favorite country seat (accompanied by a
present of some rare books to my father), in which he
said, briefly, that there had been illness in his family
which had obliged him to leave town for a change of
air, but that Lady Ellinor expected to call on my mother
the next week. He had found amongst his books some
curious works of the Middle Ages, amongst others a com-
plete set of Cardan, which he knew my father would like
to have, and so sent them. There was no allusion to what
had passed between us.

In reply to this note, after due thanks on my father's
part, who seized upon the Cardan (Lyons editions, 1663,
ten V43lumes folio) as a silk-worm does upon a mulberry-
leaf, I expressed our joint regrets that there was no hope
of our seeing Lady Ellinor, as we were just leaving town.
I should have added something on the loss my uncle hjui

iKit, ("f tlf^T *'■''■ '''"^ '''■''''■■, '■■
tormer, I mj, «*lnv«l i>. '*>'

A FAMILY PICTURE. 15

disjecta membra^ and griping a window-sill with the right
hand and a window-sill with the left, kept her seat ram-
pant, like the split eagle of the Austrian Empire : in fact,
it would be well nowadays if the split eagle were as firm
as Mrs. Primmins ! As for the canary, it never failed
to respond, by an astonished chirp, to every " Gracious
me ! " and " Lord save us ! " which the delve into a rut
or the bump out of it sent forth from Mrs. Primmins's
lips, with all the emphatic dolor of the " At, a? " in a
Greek chorus.

But my father, with his broad hat over his brows, was
in deep thought. The scenes of his youth were rising
before him, and his memory went, smooth as a spirit's
wing, over delve and bump. And my mother, who sat
next him, had her arm on his shoulder, and was watching
his face jealously. Did she think that in that thoughtful
face there was regret for the old love ? Blanche, who had
been very sad, and had wept much and quietly since they
put on her the mourning and told her that she had no
brother (though she had no remembrance of the lost),
began now to evince infantine curiosity and eagerness
to catch the first peep of her father's beloved tower ; and
Blanche sat on my knee, and I shared her impatience.

At last there came in view a church-spire, a church, a
plain square building near it, the parsonage (my father's
old home), a long, straggling street of cottages and rude
shops, with a better kind of house here and there, and in
the hinder ground a gray, deformed mass of wall and ruin,
placed on one of those eminences on which the Danes
loved to pitch camp or build fort, with one high, rude,
Anglo-Norman tower rising from the midst. Few trees
were round it, and those either poplars or firs, save, as
we approached, one mighty oak, — integral and un-
scathed. The road now wound behind the parsonage

16 THE CAXTONS:

wd np a ateep aac«ot Siicli a road, — the whale pimiili
iiught to hnvi! beeu fledged for it ! If I had sent Up i
toad like that, even on a map, to Dr. Henoan, I ehould
not have sat down in comfort for a week to come I

Tlie fly-eOHch camu to a full stop.

" Let us get out," fried I, opening the door, and
springing to the ground to set the example.

Blnncho followed, and my respected parents ctune
next. But wheu Mis. Primmins was about to heave
heredf into movement, —

" /Vi/xf .' '' said my father, " I think, Mrs. Primmins,
ymi must remain in to keep the books steady."

" Lord love you ! " cried Mrs. Primmins, aghast.

" The subtraction of such a mass, or molt«, — supple
und eluatic as all flesh is, and fitting' into the hnid
comers of the inert matter, — such u Bublniction, Mrs.
Primmins, would leave a vacuum which no natural
system, certainly no artificial organization, could sustain.
There would lie ;i regul.ir dance of atoms, Mrs. Primmins ;
my Imoks would Hy, here, there, on the floor, out of the
window !

' Corporis oflicium eat quoninm omnia deorsum.'

The business of a body like yours, Mrs. Primmins, is to
jiress all things doivn, to keep thciu tifjbt, as you will
know one of these days, — that is, if you will do me
the favor to read L\icretius, and master that material
pbilosopiiy of which T may say, witliout fiattery, my dear
Mrs. Primniins, that you arc a livinf^ illustration."

Tliesc, the first wonis niy father had spoken since wo
set out fron) the inn, seemed to assure niy mother that
she need have no aiipreheiiston as to the character of
his thoughts, for her brow cleared, and she said,
laughing, —

A FAMILY PICTURE. 17

"Only look at poor Primmins, and then at that
hill ! "

" You may subtract Prinunins, if you will be answer-
able for the remnant, Kitty. Only I warn you that it is
against all the laws of physics."

So saying, he sprang lightly forward, and, taking hold
of my arm, paused and looked round, and drew the loud
free breath with which we draw native air.

"And yet," said my father, after that grateful and
aflfectionate inspiration, — " and yet it must be owned
that a more ugly country one cannot see out of
Cambridgeshire." *

" Nay," said I, " it is bold and large ; it has a beauty
of its own. Those immense, undulating uncultivated,
treeless tracts have surely their charm of wildness and
solitude. And how they suit the character of the ruin I
All is feudal there ! I imderstand Roland better now."

" I hope to Heaven Cardan will come to no harm ! "
cried my father ; "he is very handsomely boimd, and he
fitted beautifully just into the fleshiest part of that fidgety
Primmins."

Blanche, meanwhile, had run far before us, and I
followed fast. There were still the remains of that deep
trench (surrounding the ruins on three sides, leaving a
ragged hill-top at the fourth) which made the favorite
fortification of all the Teutonic tribes. A causeway,
raised on brick arches, now, however, supplied the place
of the drawbridge, and the outer gate was but a mass of
picturesque ruin. Entering into the courtyard or bailey,
the old castle mound, from which justice had been dis-

* This certainly cannot he said of Camherland generally, one of
the most heautifol counties in Great Britain. But the immediate
district to which Mr. Caxton's exclamation refers, if not ugly, is at
least savage, bare, and rude.

VOL. II. — 2

18 THE CAXTOSS:

penscd, was in full view, rising biglier than the broken
walls arouud it, and partially overgrown with bran]I>les.
And there stood, comparatively whole, the Tower or
Keep, and from its portals emerged the veteran owner.

His ancestors might have received us in more state,
but certaiuly they could not have given us a warmer
greeting. In faet, in his own domain Roknd appeared
onotlier uiiin. Uis stiffness, which was a little repulsive
to those who did not understand it, was all gon& He
seemed less protid, precisely because he and his pride on
that ground were on good terms with each other. How
gallikntly he extended, not his nrm, in our modem Jack-
and-Jilt sort of fashion, but his right hand to my
mother; how carefully he led her over " brake, bush, and
scaur," through the low-vaulted door, where a tall seTvnnt,
who, it was easy to see, had been a soldier, — in the
pncise livery, no doubt, vrarnuited by the heraldic colors
(his stockings were red !), — stooil ujiright as a sentry.
And coming into the hall, it looked al)solutely cheerful,
— it took us by surprise. There was a great fireplace,
and, though it wa.s still summer, a great fire. It did not
seem a bit l<ii> miii'h, fur the walls were stone, the lofty
roof open to Ihe nifti'rs, while tlie windows were small
and narrow, and so high ami so deep sunk that
one seenuil in n vnidt. Xevertheless, I say the room
looki'il siH'iable nnd cheerful, — thanks principally to the
fire, and p:irtly to a very ingenious medley of old tapestry
at one enil, nnd m^itting at the other, fastened to the
lower iwrt of the walls, seconded by an arrangement of
furniture which did credit to my uncle's taste for the
pictHresipie.

After we had looked about and admired to our hearts'
content, Roland took us, not up one of those noble staircases
you see in the later manorial residences, but a little wind-

A FAMILY PICTURE.

ing atouo stair, into the rnoms he had uppnipriated to his
guesta. There was first a small chamber, which he called
my father's study. la truth, it would have done for any
philosopher or aaiat who wished to shut out the world,
and might have passed for the interior of aueh a column
as the Stylites inhabited ; for you must liave climbed a
ladder to have looked out of the window, and thea the
vision of no short-sighted man could have got over the
interval in the wall made by the narrow casement, which,
after all, gave no other prospect than a Cumberland sky,
with an occasional rook in it. But my father, I think I
have said before, did not much care for scenery, and he
looked round with great satisfaction upon the retreat
assigned him.

" We can knock up shelves for your books in no time,"
said my uncl^ rubbing his hands.

"It would be a charity," quoth my father, " for they
have been very long in a recumbent position, and would
like to stretch themselves, poor things. My dear Roland,
this room is made for books, — so round and so deep I I
ehaU sit here, like Truth in a well,"

" And there is a room for you, sister, just out of it,"
said my tniele, opening a little, low, prison-like door into
a charming room, for its window was low and it hod an
iron balcony ; " and out of that is the tedroom. For you,
Pisistralus, my boy, Iain afraid that it is soldier's quartew,
indeed, with which you will have to put np. But never
mind ; in a day or two we shall make all worthy a general
of your illustrious name, — for he was a ^"^1 general,
Pisistratus the First, was he not, brothert"

"All tyrants are," eaid my father; "the knack of
soldiering is indispensable to them,"

" Oh, you may say wh.it yon please hem," said
Rolanil, in high good-humor, as he drew me downstairs.

.rk««fp

imimtta amml»m n«tr*ii< ta 911 to O* wt «f te

-BuikBiiapaSBetteME,«7 4ev«Bek! Depnd
«■ it, it «w tk liiiMii i^mIhi ot lh» IXmms 4t Ckxinn,
— HcsiTvB ivt tbem ! *

"N-j," «:i my t:ao!e, privtlv, "I?o*pwt it mnst have
Wn [[!■; liiijiliLri"; p»2i. f -r ih« cha^kel »as to the right
'.f y-r'i. An earlier ciu[*l, indeed, foncerly esist<?d in
th'- ke^p tower: tit, in.i-»^l, it is scarcely a true keep
vrjtli'iul chajjel, w^U, ami lialL I can show jroa part of
tlr'^ fnA of the first, and ibe two last are entire; the
wi;ll i^ verj- curi'jiLs, formed in the stibet^nce of the wall
at one an^^Ie of the baU. In Charles the First'$ time
our animator lowered his only sun down in a bucket,
and knpt him there eix hours, while a mali'.'naut mob was
Kt'>nriing the tower. I nee-l not say thai our ancestor
liiniw.-lf w:oniei| to hide from such a rabble, for he was
a Kniwn man. The Imy lived to be a sad spendthrift, and
uw'd the well for oioling his wine. Uc drank up a
Kr':;it many good acres."

" i ithould Hcrattli him out of the pedigree, if I were

A FAMILY PICTURE. 21

you. But, pray, have you not discovered the proper
chamber of that great Sir William about whom my
father is so shamefully sceptical ? "

" To tell you a secret," answered the Captain, giving
me a sly poke in the ribs, " I have put your father into
it ! There are the initial letters W. C. let into the cusp
of the York rose, and the date, three years before the
battle of Bosworth, over the chimney-piece."

I could not help joining my uncle's grim, low laugh at
this characteristic pleasantry ; and after I had compli-
mented him on so judicious a mode of proving his point,
I asked him how he could possibly have contrived to fit
up the ruin so well, especially as he had scarcely visited
it since his purchase.

" Why," said he, " some years ago that poor fellow you
now see as my servant, and who is gardener, bailiff, senes-
chal, butler, and anything else you can put him to, was
sent out of the army on the invalid list. So I placed him
here ; and as he is a capital carpenter, and has had a very fair
education, I told him what I wanted, and put by a small
sum every year for repairs and furnisliing. It is astonish-
ing how little it cost me ; for Bolt, poor fellow (that is
his name), caught the right spirit of the thing, and most
of the furniture (which you see is ancient and suitable)
he picked up at different cottages and farm-houses in the
neighborhood. As it is, however, we have plenty more
rooms here and there, — only, of late," continued my
uncle, slightly changing color, " I had no money to spare.
But come," he resumed with an evident effort, "come
and see my barrack ; it is on the other side of the hall,
and made out of what no doubt were the butteries."

We reached the yard, and found the fly-coach had just
crawled to the door. My father's head was buried deep
in the vehicle; he was gathering up his packages and

THE CAXTONS :

sending out, oracle-like, various muttered objurgationB
and anathemas upon Mrs. Prinimins and her vacuum,
which Mra. Primmiiis, standing by and making a lap
with her apron to receive the packages and anathemas
simultaneously, bore with the mildness of an angel, lift-
ing up her eyes to heaven and murmuring something
aljout " poor old bones," — though as for Mrs. Primrains's
bones, they had been myths these twenty years ; and yoii
might as soon have found a Plesiosaurus in the fat lands
of Komney Iklarsh as a bone amidst those layers of flesh
in which my poor father thought he hud so carefully
cottoned up his Cardan.

Leaving these parties to adjust matters between them, i
we stepped under tlie low doorway and entered Roland'o
room. Oh, certainly Bolt had taught the spirit of the
thing I certainly he had penetrated down to the pathos
that lay within the deeps of Roland's character I Biiffon
says, " The style is the man ; " there, the room was th«
man. That nameless, inexpressible, soldier-like, methodi-
cal neatness which belonged to Roland, — that was the
first thing that struck one ; that was the general char-
acter of the whole. Then, in details, there, on stout oak
shelves, were the books on which my father loved to jest
his more imaginative brother; there they were, — Frois-
sart, Barante, Joinvilte, the Mort d'Arthur, Amadis o£
Gaid, Spenser's Faerie Qiieene, a noble copy of Strutt's
Horda, Mallet's Northern Antiquities, Percy's Reliques,
Pope's Homer; books oa gunnery, archery, hawkinft
fortification, — old chivalry and modern war together,
cheek -by -jowl.

Old chivalry and modem war! Look to that tiltli^
helmet with the tall Caxton crest ; and look to that
trophy neur it (a French cuiraaa), and that old banner
(a knight's pennon) surmounting those crossed Imyoneta.

A FAMILY PICTURE.

And over the chimney-piece there — bright, clean, and,
I warrant you, dusted daily — are Roland's own sword,
his holsters and pistols, yea, the saddle, pierced and lac-
erated, from which he had reeled when that leg — I
gasped, I felt it all at a glance, and I stole softly to the
spot, and, had Roland not been there, I could have kissed
that sword as reverently as if it had been a Bayard's or a
Sidney's.

My uncle was too modest to guess my emotion; he
rather thought I had turned my face to conceal a smile
at his vanity, and said, in a deprecating tone of apology ;
" It was all Bolt's doing, foolish fellow 1 "

ikdlk

> ».' nil I ki« ai «d<, Kfa tliM s.

Bf vinda WM

nvA-

tf ■''■«> '

Omt^mmgim

le Im cdMom. ww talk>r-t&«kteL It ««« el?m vVlurk
>(pfor'r Ft It a;:r-.ir-^! "-:;h 3 Uaiem to fv^oft rae thimigfa
111'- 'y•IlrtJ^i^i :■'. r:7 ■i-rrsii-r-rf j:l ^ :h^ ruins^ — a crre-
Ki'-iiv wlii'li. '-v-n- ni^'iii, ihinr -.r liiik, he inrirted upon
I>iiiii:tili',iinly iit-rformicf;.

h van Umu !»:/-rfe I eoiiJd sleep : before I eouiJ believe
Mi^it l.tit m, few ilay-- had elapsoj since RoLunl heani of
liiH Hori'H ilr-alh, — tliat s^.n wht-ie fai* had *.• loDg tor-
tiiri'l liiiii ; atid yi^t, never had H'jland appeared SO free
fr..iii w.rrow ! Was it natural, was it effort {

Hi'Vi'tiil iIiijM jiaweil before I could ao^irer that que»
li'iii. mill t.lii-ii not viioUy to my satisfaction. Effort
IIh'M' wiih, or nithf^r rejjolule, srstenialic det^rmina-
linn. At prmnn'iitM Koltind's head drooped, his bro""s
liU'l. mill lln' wliol'i man seemed to sink. Yet these
iincii iiiilv uiiiiNcnt* ; he would rouse himself up, like
II ilorliiK I'liitrK'T [tt the Mouiid of the trumpet, and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 25

shake off the creeping weight. But whether from the
vigor of his determination, or from some aid in other
trains of reflection, I could not but perceive that Roland's
sadness really was less grave and bitter than it had been, or
than it was natural to sujppose. He seemed to transfer,
daily, more and more, his aff*ections from the dead to
those around him, especially to Blanche and myself. He
let it be seen that he looked on me now as his lawful
successor, — as the future supporter of his name ; he was
fond of confiding to me all his little plajis, and consulting
me on them. He would walk with me around his do-
mains (of which I shall say more hereafter) ; point out,
from every eminence we climbed, where the broad lands
which his forefathers had o^vned stretched away to the
horizon ; unfold with tender hand the mouldering pedi-
gree, and rest lingeringly on those of his ancestors who
had held martial post or had died on the field. There was
a crusader who had followed Richard to Ascalon ; there
was a knight wlio had fought at Agincourt; there was
a cavalier (whose picture was still extant), with fair love-
locks, who had fallen at Worcester, — no doubt the same
who had cooled his son in that well which the son de-
voted to more agreeable associations. But of all these
worthies there was none whom my uncle, perhaps from
the spirit of contradiction, valued like that apocryphal
Sir William. And why? Because when the apostate
Stanley turned the fortunes of the field at Bosworth,
and when that cry of despair, " Treason ! treason ! " burst
from the lips of the last Plantagenet, " amongst the faith-
less," tliis true soldier, "faithful found," had fallen in
tliat lion rush which Richard made at his foe.

"Your father tells me that Richard was a murderer
and usurper," quoth my uncle. " Sir, that might be true
or not j but it was not on the field of battle that his fol

faa dM toKOM SteWr »» W had «C dith* lank d»

^ £ft factt gtoad fKuqiB md a lo^ fbmmb; nd
ikM hnn Sof WaSn> «■• pijtig k«dt lo the hst Plttr
U^Mt th* boaite fa« had tMamd ban tb> fisk!"

-Ami TtC it n^ k dnatrt^* ml I, wtbdagrijr,
*«lMlk«r mffiiB Culoa Ik* pcmter did noc— *

"n^B^ puitikM^ aid fin seise miBuB OuUn dw
friMti; aad kn ianutku tool 'cried Bf oatit, bntaifr
oaiirL * Wlmi then voe onl^ • b« baoka, bI IbmI
lb(7 «« BDid oaa; and omr tk^ >n w plmtifnl, tS
tkMf do B ta oaifdisid the jalgmn^ nurtUatlM iMwn,
drive the good Imki ant at ndttnlMn, sad dmra ptoa^-
than of innovvtwQ orer erei; aacient kndiBaik ; aednm
tbv wmm, womatdxe the dkb : opspt eutaa. thron«& and
chimlies; twir a ri. <- of chuttering, conceited coscombs
who run .ilw.iy^ ti[[.l !> '..•[;> in I'L'niy to excu^ tlieui from
lioing thrir Juty ; make the poor dLswnteuteJ, the rich
cpitohi'ty aiul whimjiiil ; retine anay the stout old vir-
tii>.-s into quibbl« aiid st'iitimeuls ! All imagiiiatioa
formerly was csjietiiled Li iiobit' at-tion, adventure, enter-
prise, liif,'li deeils and aspirations ; now a man can but be
imagiiDtive byfeedijijj on the false excitement of passions
he never full, dan^'ers he never shared ; and he fritters
away all there is of life to e|>are in him upon the ficti-
tious love-sorrows of Eund Street and St, James's, Sir,
chivalry ceawd when the Pres,s rase! And to f.'ist«n
n|«in me, aw a f'Jri'fiilliiT, out of all men who ever lived
mid HJnniMl, flie very mini wli[> has most destroyed what
I iinwt vdliird, - ■ who, hy tin; I^ml I with his cursed iu-
ventii)ii liiiH wi'lliii^h ({lit I'id of respect for forefathers

A FAMILY PICTURE. 27

altogether, — is a cruelty of which my brother had
never been capable if that printer's devil had not got
hold of him ! "

That a man in this blessed nineteenth century should
be such a Vandal, and that my Uncle Roland should talk
in a strain that Totila would have been ashamed of,
within so short a time after my father's scientific and
erudite oration on the Hygeiana of Books, was enough
to make one despair of the progress of intellect and the
perfectibility of our species; and I have no manner of
doubt that all the while my uncle had a brace of books
in his pockets, — Robert Hall one of them ! In truth,
he had talked himself into a passion, and did not know
what nonsense he was saying. But this explosion of Cap-
tain Roland's has shattered the thread of my matter,
Pouif ! I must take breath and begin again.

Yes, in spite of my sauciness, the old soldier evidently
took to me more and more ; and besides our critical ex-
amination of the property and the pedigree, he carried
me with him on long excursions to distant villages, whei*e
some memorial of a defunct Caxton — a coatof-arms, or
an epitaph on a tombstone — might be still seen. And
he made me pore over topographical works and county
histories (forgetful, Goth that he was, that for those very
authorities he was indebted to the repudiated printer ! )
to find some anecdote of his beloved dead I In truth, the
county for miles roimd lx)re the vestigia of those old
Caxtons ; their handwriting was on many a broken wall.
And obscure as they all were, compai*ed to that great
operative of the Sanctuary at Westminster whom my
father cliuig to, still that the yesterdays that had lightotl
them the way to dusty death had cast no glafo on dis-
honored scutcheons seemed clear, from the popular re-
spect aiid traditional afiection in which I found that the

28 THE CAXT0N8:

iiame was still held in liaiulet and homestead. It was
pleasant to sec- the veneration with whicJi thia smitU
hidalgo of some three hundred a-year was held, and the
latriflrehal alfealicm ivith wliich he retimH'd it Kolnud
was a lUBu who would walk into a cottage, rc^t his cork
Ifg on the heartli, and talk for the hour together upon all
tliat lay nearest to the liearts of the owners. There is a.
peculiar spirit of atistocriicv amongst agricultural peas-
ants; they like old names and families; they identify
themselves witli the honors of a hoi[se, as if of its clan.
They do not care so much for wealtli as townsfolk B)id
the middle clnsg do ; they have a pity, but a respectful
one, for well-bom imvei-ty. And then this Roland, too,
— wlio ii-ould go and dine in a cooksliop, and i-ec«\-«
change for a sliilluig, and shun the ruinous luxury oF a
hack cnhriolet, — could be jiositively oxtmvagant in liia
liberalities to those around him. He was aibigetlier an-
other being in liis pnternal acres. The sliahby-genteel,
hiilf-pay captain, hn-l in tlie wliirl of London, licre. liLiu-
riaU;<l into a di<,'iiifiid ease of nwnner tliat Clicfif«rfield
nii<,'ht hai-o ndmii'i'd ; and if to i)lease is the true sign of
iwlitcness, I wish you could have seen the faces that
smiled upon Cnplain Koland as he walked down the
villnge, nnddintt from side to side.

One day a frajik, hearty old woman, wlio had knoivn
Roland as a boy, seeing bim lean on my arm, slojiped us,
as she said blufflj-, to take a "geud luik"at mo. For-
tunately 1 was stalw.ii-L cnougli lo [kiss muster, even in
the eyes of a Cumbi-rland matron ; and after a compli-
ment, at which Koland seemed much pleased, she said
to me, but pointing to tlic Captain, —

" Hegb, sir, now yo\i Jia' tjie bra' time befoiv. yon, you
maun eVn try and be as gond as /'>■ ; and if life last, ye
wuU too, for there never waur a bad ane of that stock.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 29

Wi' heads kindly stup'd to the least, and lifted manfu'
oop to the heighestj — that ye all war' sin ye came from
the Ark. Blessin's on the ould name! Though little
l^elf goes with it^ it sounds on the peur man's ear like a
bit of gould I "

"Do you not see now," said Roland, as we turned
away, "what we owe to a naiue, and what to our fore-
fathers ? Do you not see why the remotest ancestor has
a right to our respect and consideration, — for he was
a parent ? ' Honor your parents ! ' the law does not say,
'Honor your children.* If a child disgrace us and the
dead, and the sanctity of this great heritage of their vir-
tues, iJie name; if he does — " Roland stopped short,
and added fervently, " But you are my heir now, — I
have no fear ! What matter one foolish old man's sor-
rows ? The name, that property of generations, is saved,
thank Heaven, — the name ! "

Now the riddle was solved ; and I understood why,
amidst all his natural grief for a son's loss, that proud
father was consoled. For he was less himself a father
than a son, — son to the long dead. From every grave
where a progenitor slept) he had heard a parent's voice.
He could bear to be bereaved, if the forefathers were not
dishonored. Roland was more than half a Roman ; the
son might still cling to his household affections, but the
Lares were a part of his religion.

THE CAXTOMS

CHAPTKR V.

But T ought to be hard at '' — '* preparing myself for
Cambridge. Tbe deuce ! Hoiv win I ) The ]wiiit in
academical education on which i require most prejiara-
tion is Greek eompositiou, I coma tu my father, who^
one might think, wiis at home enough in this ; but
inro indeed it is to find a greot scholar who is a good
teacher.

My dear father, if one is content to take you in your
own wuy, there never was a more admirable instructor
for the heart, the hcnd, tlte principles, or the taste,
when you have discovered that there is soma one son
to lie heated, one defect to be i'ej«ured, and you hnve
rubbed your sjiectacles, and got your hand fairly iuto
that recess Ixitweeii your trill and your waistcoat. But
to go to you cut and dry, inonoti.iiiously, rcgiilarly, book
and exei'ci.se in hand; to see the numrnful jtutionce with
which yon tear yourself from that great volume of Cardan
ill the very hoiu'yraoon of iKissessioii ; and then to note
those mild i'yi'bro\va gradually distend themselves into
perplexed diagonals over some false quantity or some
barbai'oiis cdllouation, till there steal fovtli that horrible
Papa! which means nmre on your lips than I am sure
lb ever did when Latin was a live language, and Papte a
natural ami uiipedantic ejaculation ! — nOj I wotdd sooner
blunder through the dark by luysf-lf a tlumsnnd times
than light my rushlight at the lam[i of that I'lilegetho-
nian Papa! And then my father wmdd wisely and kindly,
biit wondrous slowly, erase three toiirths of one's pet
ver.sc.-i, and intercalate others that one saw were exquis-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 31

ite, but could not exactly see why. And then one asked
why ; and my father shook his head in despair, and said,
" But you ought io fed why ! " In short, scholarship to
him was like poetry ; he could no more teach it you than
Pindar could have taught you how to make an ode. You
breathed the aroma, but you could no more seize and
analyze it than, with the opening of your naked hand,
you could carry oflF the scent of a rose.

I soon left my father in i>eace to Cardan and to the
Great Book, — which last, by the way, advanced but
slowly ; for Uncle Jack had now insisted on its being
published in quarto, with illustrative plates, and those
plates took an immense time, and were to cost an im-
mense sum, — but that cost was the affair of the Anti-
Publisher Society.

But how can I settle to work by myself ? No sooner
have I got into my room — poiitus ab orbe divisits, as I
rashly think — than there is a tap at the door. Now it
is my mother, who is benevolently engaged upon making
curtains to all the Avindows (a trifling superfluity that
Bolt had forgotten or disdained), and who wants to know
how the draperies are fashioned at Mr. Trevanion's, — a
pretence to have me near her, and see with her oavii eyes
that I am not fretting : the moment she hears I have
shut myself up in my room, she is sure that it is for sor-
row. Now it is Bolt, who is making bookshelves for my
father, and desires to consult me at every turn, especially
as I have given him a Gothic design, which pleases him
hugely. Now it is Blanche, whom in an evil hour I im-
dertook to teach to draw, :ind wlio comes in on tiptoe,
vowing she '11 not distiub me, and sits so quiet that she
fidgets me out of all patience. Now, and much more
often, it is the Captain, wlio wants me to walk, to ride,
to fish. And, by Saint Hubert ! (saint of the chase)
bright August comes, and there is raoor-game on those

32 THE CAXTONB:

barren wolds ; niiii luy untie hus yiveii me tlie giin he
shot with at my age, — sinfjle-birrelli'd, flint lock; but
you MOulJ not Inve liuglied at it if )ou had seen the
strange flit's it did in Rolind'a himd«, — while in mine,
I could il«nya lay the Llame on the flint 1 'lIc ! Time,
III Ehoit, pas.«d rapidly, ami if Kolmd ind I had our
dirk hoiirsj we chistd tliom away hofore tlieycoidd settle,
-—shot them on tlip nmg as thty gut up

Then, too, though the immediate SLeiiery aroimd my
uncle's was so lileak and desolate, the country within a
few miles was so fidl of olijects of interest, — of land-
acipes so jincticallj giand or lo-xely , and ocfasioitally wo
coaxed my f ither from the Cardan, and eyieai whole days
by the margui of lome ^kriona lake

Amongst (heae excursions I made one by myself to
that house in whith mj father had known the Wise and
the jnngs of that stern first ln^e which stdl left its sca»
fresh on my own memoi\ Tlie house, hi^e and impos-
ing ■« 1'! shut np (the Ti i \ inions hid not l>ecn there for
J ears) the pli isuu ^i iiin Is hid been c mtncteit into the
smilhst po-ssilile spue Theie wit no positi\c decay or
nun, — tint Tumiuhi «oiH nev.r h-i^e allowed; but
tliLfe 'VMi the dreir> loik of ilisenteeship everywhere. I
penetrnlt 1 into tjie house with the help of nn canl and
half 1 trOMii I siw lint niemiiabk I) udoir, — I could
fmcj the-ver\ p 1 m which my fathoi hid he.ird the
sentence th it hid lhaimd tliL cuiient of liis life ; and
when I returned 1 uil, I 1 lokid with ntw temhiness on
my f ither s ]>]ri 1 1 low and Messed anew lb it tender
helpniite wlin iii h i jutient love had cha'se I from it
LVfiy ilndow

I h id rec"i\e 1 one letVr from Vnin ■» few diys after
OUT arrnal it hil 1 een rednected from m\ father's
\,m e, it wbidi 1 h 1 _i\"ii him mj iddre« It was
-Jioit, but sctn d chcLrful He said that he believed he

A FAMILY PICTURE. 33

had at last hit on the right way, and should keep to it ;
that he and the world were better friends than they had
been ; that the only way to keep friends with the world
was to treat it as a tamed tiger, and have one hand on a
crowbar while one fondled the beast with the other. He
enclosed me a bank-note, which somewhat more than
covered his debt to me, and bade me pay him the surplus
when he should claim it as a millionnaire. He gave me
no address in his letter, but it bore the postmark of
Godalming. I had the impertinent curiosity to look into
an old topographical work upon Surrey, and in a supple-
mental itinerary I found this passage : " To the left of the
beech-wood, three miles from Godalming, you catch a
glimpse of the elegant seat of Francis Vivian, Esq." To
judge by the date of the work, the said Francis Vivian
might be the grandfather of my friend, his namesake.
There cotild no longer be any doubt as to the parentage
of this prodigal son.

The long vacation was now nearly over, and all his
guests were to leave the poor Captain. In fact, we had
made a considerable trespass on his hospitality. It was
settled that I was to accompany my father and mother
to their long-neglected Penates, and start thence for
Cambridge.

Our parting was sorrowful, — even Mrs. Primmins
wept as she shook hands with Bolt; but Bolt, an old
soldier, was of course a lady's man. The brothers did not
shake hands only, — they fondly embraced, as brothers of
that time of life rarely do nowadays, except on the stage ;
and Blanche with one arm round my mother's neck and
one round mine, sobbed in my ear : " But I will be your
little wife, 1 will." Finally, the fly-coach once more
received us all, — all but poor Blanche, and we looked
round and missed her.

VOL. II. — 3

THE CAXTOHS :

CHAPTKR VI.

Alma Mateh ! Alma Mater ! Kew-fashioned folks,
with their large theories of education, may find fault with
thee 1 but a true Spartan mother thou art ; hard and
stem as the old matron who hrickcd up her son Paiisonias,
bringing the first etone to immure liim, — hard and stem,
I Bay, to the worthless, but full of m^estic tenderness to
the worthy.

For n young man to go up to Cambridge {I say nothing
of Oxford, knowing notJiing thereof) merely as routine
work, to lounge tlirough three years to a degree among
the DC TToXXoi, — for sutli an one Oxford Street liersijf,
whom the immortal Opium-Eiilcr hath so dirfly ayiostro-
phizeil, is not a more careless mid st^uiy -hearted mother.
But for him who will n'ad, wlio will work, who will seize
the rare ndviinlages prolfereii, wlio will sckit his friends
judiciously (yi-a, out of that vast ffiniont of young idea
in iy Jtisly vigor choose the gixxl and reject tjje had)
tliore is jdenty lo uiake lhos<! llin^e rears rich with fruit
imperishable, — three years nobly spi-ul, even though on-j
must pass over the Ass's Bridge to get into the Temple of
Honor. ImjKirtant changes in the iicademical system
have Ijcen recently aunouuceil, and honors are henceforth
to )}e accorded to the successful clisciples in moral and
natural sciences. By the slile of the ol<l throne of
Mathesis they have ]>]aced two very useful fauletiih <i la
Voltaire. I have no objection ; but in those three years
of life it is not so much the tiling Irarned as the, steady
jierseverance in learning something that is excellent.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 35

It was fortunate, in one respect, for me that I had
seen a little of the real world, the metropolitan, before I
came to that mimic one, the cloistral ; for what were
called pleasures in the last, and which might have allured
me, had I come fresh from school, had no charm for me
now. Hard drinking and high play, a certain mixture of
coarseness and extravagance, made the fashion among the
idle when I was at the University, consule PlancOy —
when Wordsworth was master of Trinity ; it may be
altered now. But I had already outlived such tempta-
tions, and so, naturally, I was thrown out of the society of
the idle, and somewhat into that of the laborious

Still, to speak frankly, I had no longer the old pleasure
in books. If my acquaintance with the great world had
destroyed the temptation to puerile excesses, it had also
increased my constitutional tendency to practical action.
And, alas ! in spite of all the benefit I had derived from
Robert Hall, there were times when memory was so
poignant that I had no choice but to rush from the lonely
room haunted by tempting phantoms too dangerously
fair, and sober down the fever of the heart by some
violent bodily fatigue. The anlor which belongs to early
youth, and which it best dedicates to knowledge, had been
charmed prematurely to shrines less severely sacred ;
therefore, though I labored, it was with that full sense of
labor which (as I found at a much later period of life)
the truly triumphant student never knows. Learning —
that marble image — warms into life, not at the toil
of the chisel, but the worship of the sculptor The
mechanical workman finds but the voiceless stone.

At my uncle's such a thing as a newspaper rarely
made its appearance. At Cambridge, even among read-
ing men, the newspapers had their due imix>rtancc.
Politics ran high, and I had not been three days at

So THE CAXTMIS;

Cauibridgo before I heani TTevanuni's name. Xrws-
jMpCTs, therefore, had their channs for me. TrevauioD'a
]in>]>hecy about himself reined about la be fnfilU«d.
There wfre ruiuois of changes in the Cnbinek Tre-
vanion'a name was bandied to and fro, struck from pmiw
to tilonie, high and ]ow, ss a shuttlecock. Still thu
rliaiigea were Dot made, and the Ci ioet held firni. Not
a word in the " Morning Post, ■ under Ibe heatl of
Fashionable Intelligence, as to rumors that would
have agitated me more than the rise and fall of govern-
ments ; DO hint of " the s]>eedy nuptials of the daughter
and sole heiress of a distinguished and wealthy com-
moner;" only now and then, in enumerating the circle
of brilliant guests at the house of some jtarty chief, I
gulped back tlje heart that rushed to my lips, when 1 saw
the names of Lady Ellinor and Miss Xrevanion.

But amongst all that protilic pn^eny of the periodical
press (remote offspring of my great namesake and ancestor,
forlhojil the faitii nf my fiithcr) where was the " Literary
Time.s " I Wliat had so !i>iig rctariled its promised
blossoms ? Xot 11 Iraf in tlie sjiapc of ailviTtisements had
yft emerged fiwni its mother earth, I hoped from my
heart that the whole thing wtis abandoned, and would not
mention it in my Ipllera home lest I mIiouU revive the
mere idea of it But, in default of the " Literary Times,"
there did ajiiwar a new journal, — a daily journal, too ; a
tJill, slender, and meagre stripling, with a vast head, by
way of pmspeetus, which protiuflcd itself for three weeks
successively at the top of the loading article ; with a Rue
and subtle body of paragrajilis, anil the sniallest legs, in
the way of advertisements, that any poor newspaper ever
stood up;)u • Ami yet tins attenuated journal had a |)liimp
and plethoric title, — a title that smacked of turtle and
venison ; an aldurmauic, jwrtly, grandiose, Falslaffian

A FAMILY PICTURK. 37

title : it was called The Capitaust. And all those fine
subtle paragraphs were larded out with recipes how to
make money. There was an El Dorado in every
sentence. To believe that paper, you would think no
man had ever yet found a proper return for his pounds,
shillings, and pence; you would turn up your nose at
twenty per cent. There was a great deal about Ireland,
— not her wrongs, thank Heaven ! but her fisheries ; a
long inquiry what had become of the pearls for which
Britain was once so famous ; a learned disquisition
upon certain lost gold-mines, now happily re-discovered ;
a very ingenious proposition to turn London smoke
into manure by a new chemical process; recommen-
dations to the poor to hatch chickens in ovens like the
ancient Egyptians ; agricultural schemes for sowing the
waste lands in England with onions, upon the system
adopted near Bedford, — net produce one hundred
pounds an acre. In short, according to that paper,
every rood of ground might well maintain its man, and
every shilling be, like Hobson's money-bag, "the fruit-
ful parent of a hundred more." For three days, at the
newspaper room of the Union Club, men talked of this
journal. Some pished, some sneered, some wondered ;
till an ill-natured mathematician, who had just taken
his degree, and had spare time on his hands, sent a
long letter to the " Morning Chronicle " showing up more
blunder in some article to which the editor of "The
Capitalist" had specially invited attention, than would
have paved the whole island of Laputa. After that
time not a soul read "The Capitalist." How long it
dragged on its existence I know not^ but it certainly did
not die of a maladie de langtietir.

Little thought I, when I joined in the laugh against
" The Capitalist^" that I ought raiher to have followed it

«il7 MB lint 80^ gnat ttattattMBae bwl b
I itoppeA akfift aod dinp|«J on nj knca to ftmy ftv die
&fe and hwJlh of tfaow arlMXB tfast mtafivtaiiw bok
•pocnllj Maned (o meoaee; ukl U»en, — and Qkiv
iBVuds the end at At iast bhined eentciice^ lead lirio^
flniee over — K tntdid aj, "Thank HeaTcn, tfauifc
Heaven! it is mlj, thrti, nuxwr after aDt"

PART ELEVENTH.

CHAPTER I.

The next day, on the outside of the Cambridge Tele-
graph, there was one passenger who ought to have im-
pressed his fellow-travellers with a very respectful idea
of his lore in the dead languages; for not a single
syllable, in a live one, did he vouchsafe to utter from
the moment he ascended that " bad eminence," to the
moment in which he regained his mother earth.
"Sleep," says honest Sancho, "covers a man better
than a cloak." I am ashamed of thee, honest Sancho 1
Thou art a sad plagiarist^ for Tibullus said pretty nearly
the same thing before thee, —

** Te somnua fusco velavit amictu." *

But is not silence as good a cloak as sleep 1 Does it
not wrap a man round with as offusc and impervious a
fold 1 Silence, — what a world it covers ; what busy
schemes ; what bright hopes and dark fears ; what am-
bition, or what despair ! Do you ever see a man in any
society sitting mute for hours, and not feel an uneasy
curiosity to penetrate the wall he thus builds up be-
tween others and himself? Does he not interest you
far more than the brilliant talker at your left, — the airy

1 TibuUus, iil 4, 55.

wit at jroor nicUt, «

huner of the ailait i

Nox atM) Eirtitu, Iwrv, kjer upon l^jn, dndow npoa

•faaduw, UKknNs upon hbffknw^ Uwe ittetclufll thj-

wtit from hell to beaTcn, orer di^ two efaoeen hajnU. —

iMiiVbevtand tbegnn

So, then, wnpped in tn cut aui my silence, I

pofonued my jnoraejr, and uu •• sreuiiig nf the seconi]
lU; I reacli«d the oId<teliioae'' cik hiMae. How shrill
on HIT ears soutnled the bell ! ir »tnuige ami omiuoua

to my iajntienfe seemed the ujjut g!eaiiuiig acrosE the
windows of the hall ! How my heart boat as 1 watched
the tacc of the semat who opened the gate to mj^
anmmons !

"All well t" cried L

" All well, sir," answered the eerrant, chcxrifnlly. '* Sir.
Btgnills, indeed, is with master, but I don't think there is
tiiiything tlic matter."

I'lit now my nrnllinr nppeared at the threshoKl, and I

" Sint>', fii.'-ty, my ■lear, dear son ! Beggared, i)erhaps,
nml my fault, — mine ■"

" Viiiirs ! Come into this room, out of hearing. Your
ffiulll"

" S'nn, — ypR ! For if I liiid had no brotlier, or if I had
iii>l. Iii'i'ii l>'d away, — if I had, as I ought, entreated [Mxir
Austin u'lt lo — '■

" My di'iir, drjiri-st mother, you acciise yourself foi'
whul, it wcmt", w.iH my tniclo's misfortune, — I am sure
U'lt I'v.'U bin fault ! (I maile a ffulp there.) Ko, lay the
r.iMlt i>M l-li.« riKht sli.>ul.lprs, — the defunct phoulders of
Ihiit li'uriM'i i>mgciiit<ir, William Caxton Uio ])riiiter; for
IIi'mikIi I (i-n'l yi'l ku^w tho i artir.ulai-^ -if what lias hap-
jii'iHii, I will lay n witgor it in tonnoctod with tliat fatal

(

A FAMILY PICTURE. 41

invention of printing. Come, come, — my father is well,
is he not ? "

" Yes, thank Heaven ! "

" And I too, and Roland, and little Blanche ! Why,
then, you are right to thank Heaven, for your true treas-
ures are untouched. But sit down and explain, pray."

" I cannot explain. I do not understand anything
more than that he, my brother, — mine ! — has involved
Austin in — in — " (a fresh burst of tears).

I comforted, scolded, laughed, preached, and adjured
in a breath ; and then, drawing my mother gently on,
entered my father's study.

At the table was seated Mr. Squills, pen in hand, and
a glass of his favorite punch by his side. My father was
standing on the hearth, a shade more pale, but with a
resolute expression on his countenance, which was new
to its indolent thoughtful mildness. He lifted his eyes
as the door opened, and then, putting his finger to his
lips, as he glanced towards my mother, he said gayly, —

" No great harm done. Don't believe her ! Women
always exaggerate, and make realities of their own bug-
bears : it is the vice of their lively imaginations, as
Wierus has clearly shown in accounting for the marks,
moles, and hare-lips which they inflict upon their inno-
cent infants before they are even bom. My dear boy,"
added my father, as I here kissed him and smiled in his
face, " I thank you for that smile ! God bless you ! "
He wrung my hand, and turned a little aside. " It is
a great comfort," renewed my father, after a short pause,
" to know, when a misfortune happens, that it could not
be helped. Squills has just discovered that I have no
bump of cautiousness ; so that, craniologically speaking
if I had escaped one imprudence I should certainly have
run my head against another."

4t THK CAXT0X5:

" A nm with jvat deT«kfnea.t b BBade to be taken
bi," mmI Mr. Sqailb, eonaoli^^.

" Do JOB htax ihMt, mj own Kitty t And harv jm
tb* heait lo Unaa Jtek any kwgu; — a poor cratnn
caned vitb a bnnp tliat woald take in the Stock
EnJaugBf And can an;- aov resist his b(m|i^
Sqnilbf

" ImpoaaUa ! " nid the Hugeon, autboiritatiTelv.

** Souner or later it mirA JaTuIre him in ita uty
BMsbes — eh, S^cilk, eutnp hint into tto fatal c«rrbral
eelL liken hia. fate waiu him, like lh« ant-liim in
its iiiL"

"Toa trae," qaoth Sqinlls. "What n i>hrpDologii:al
ieeUatx jaa wi.>qU hare made I "

"Go ibeo, mj Iotb," said my blher, "and laj no
Uome bat on Ihi^ ndaDchoIj' caTity of mine, where
auttousnees — is not! Go^ and let Sistjr have somo
supper ; for Squills snys that he has a fine derelopment
of tin; uiiitlit-iiLiiliiiJ oi^iiis, and we want his help. We
are huni at iv.irk im ti^.Tiresi, Pisistratus."

ily motlur li-oked limken-hearttil, and, obeying sub-
missively, >x-t]v to the door without a noni. But as she
reached ihi- threshold she turned rouiul, and beckoned to
me to fellow her.

I whis[>erf.I my father and went out >Iy mother was
Etanding in the Imll, nnd I saw by the lamp that she had
dried her tears, and tliat her fate, though very sad, was

" Sisty," she siud, in a low voice which struggled to
be finn, " promise mc that you will tell me all — the
worst, Sisty. They keep it from me, and that is my
hardest piiuishmeut ; for wlifu I don't know all that
he — that Austin siifters, it seems lo me as if I had lost
his heart. Oh, Sisty ! my child, my child, don't fear me !

A FAMILY PICTURE. 43

I shall be happy whatever befalls us, if I once get back
my privilege — my privilege, Sisty, to comfort^ to share !
— do you understand me ? "

" Yes, indeed, my mother I And with your good sense
and clear woman's wit, if you will but feel how much we
want them, you will be the best counsellor we could have.
So, never fear ; you and I will have no secrets."

My mother kissed me, and went away with a less heavy
step. As I re-entered, my father came across the room
and embraced me.

" My son," he said, in a faltering voice, " if your modest
prospects in life are ruined — "

" Father, father ! can you think of me at such a mo-
ment? Me ! Is it possible to ruin the young and strong
and healthy ? Ruin me, with these thews and sinews I
ruin me, with the education you have given me — thews
and sinews of the mind? Oh, no! there, Fortune is
harmless ! And you forget, sir, — the saffron bag ! "

Squills leaped up, and wiping his eyes with one hand,
gave me a sounding slap on the shoulder with the other.

" I am proud of the care I took of your infancy, Master
Caxton ! That comes of strengthening the digestive or-
gans in early childhood ! Such sentiments are a proof
of magnificent ganglions in a perfect state of order.
When a man's tongue is as smooth as I am sure yours
is, he slips through misfortune like an eel."

I laughed outright, my father smiled faintly ; and,
seating myself, L drew towards me a paper filled with
Squills's memoranda, and said, " Now to find tlie un-
known quantity. What on earth is this ? * Supposed
value of books, £750.* Oh, father ! this is impossible.
I was prepared for anything but that. Your books —
they are your life ! "

" Nay," said my father ; " after all, they are the of*

THE CAXTOKS:

fending party in Uiie case, and ao ought to \m the princi-
pal victims. Beside^ I believe I know most of them by
lieart. But, in truth, we are only entering all our eiToctS)
to be Bure," ad'led my father proudly, " timt, cume what
may, we are not dishonored."

"Hniiior him," whjspei^ " "''Is; "we will save the
IhwIes." Tlien lie adiled aioi 3 he laid finger and
Uiuutb on my pulse, " One, twu, > ree, about seventy ; - —
capital pidae ; soft aiid full ; he c m bear the whole ; lei
Its udininist«r it."

My father nodded ; " Ceriaiuly. But, Pisietratus, we
must manage your dear mother. Why she shoidd think
of blaming herself, because jKior Jack took wrong ways
to eDnk,h us, I eannot understand But as I ha\& had
occasion before to remark, Sphuix is a noun feminine."

My poor father' that was a ^ain Btrufigle for thy
wonted innocent hmnt>r The lijw qunereti

Then the storv came out. It seems that when it was
re>'oUid to umifrtike the publii ition of the "Literary
Timie,' a iirtuiii number of i^butholdiis had been got
togttlicr 1j> tlic uidtfitigablf, entities of Uncle Jack, and
in the died of awointion and pirtnership mj fither's
ninie ligured ctntpiuiou--!; as the huh)er of a fouith of
tUf* joint propiil^ If in Ihis my fither had com-
niilttd snnit iiiprudeiiu, he hid it h i-t done nothing
that, according to Ihc ordinary cilcnl itioiii of a sccludi d
Btuiteiit, could liecome luiiious But just at the tunc
when we were in the burn of Umngtomn, Jack had
leprevented to iiij fither th it it might be netcssary to
alter a little tlie ]i)an of the paper, and in oriler to allure
I lirg>i t-inU (freidfi-:, to\ii b bomenhit on the more
\ ulgar ni n s ind int* re^t.s of the diy A chiinge of plan
might iiiiohe d climge of title , mid he suggfited to my
father the evjwdiencj of leaiing the smooth hinds of Mr

A FAMILY PICTURE. 45

Tibbets altogether unfettered as t(3 the technical name
and precise form of the publication. To this my father
had unwittingly assented, on hearing that the other
shareholders would do the same. Mr. Peck, a printer of
considerable opulence and highly respectable hame, had
been found to advance the sum necessary for the publi-
cation of the earlier numbers, upon the guarantee of the
said act of partnership and the additional security of my
father's signature to a document authorizing Mr. Tibbets
to make any change in tlie form or title of the periodical
that might be judged advisable, concurrent with the
consent of the other shareholders.

Now, it seems that Mr. Peck had, in his previous
conferences with Mr. Tibbets, thrown much cold water
on tlie idea of the " Literary Times,'* and had suggested
something that should ** catch tlie monied public," —
the fact being, as was afterwards discovered, that the
printer, whose spirit of enterprise was congenial to
Uncle Jack's, had shares in three or four speculations,
to which he was naturally glad of an opportunity to
invite the attention of the public. In a word, no
sooner was my poor father's back turned, than the
" Literary Times " was dropped incontinently, and Mr.
Peck and Mr. Tibbets began to concentrate their lumi-
nous notions into that brilliant and comet-like appari-
tion which ultimately blazed forth under the title of
" The Capitalist."

From this change of enterprise the more prudent
and responsible of the original shareholders had alto-
gether withdrawn. A majority, indeed, were left; but
the greater part of those were shareholders of that
kind most amenable to the influences of Uncle Jack,
and willing to be shareholdei's in anything, since as yet
they were possessors of nothing.

46 THE CAXTONS:

ABBiired of my father's reaponsibility, the odveti-
turous Peuk put jilenty of spirit into the first launch of
" The Capitalist." All the walla were i>lacBr(led with its
announcementa ; circular advertisements ran from one
end of the kingdom to the other. Agents were en-
g-jged, correspondents levietl tn. nioMe. The invasion
of Xerses on the Greeks was not more munificently
provided for than that of "The Capitalist " upon the
credulity and avarice of mankind.

But as Providence bestows upou fi:ihes the instrument
of fins, whereby they balance and direct their move-
ments, however rapid and erratic, through the puthlesa
deeps ; so to the cold-bloo'led creatures of our own species
— that may be classed under the genus money-makers —
the same protective power accords the fio-like properties
of pmdeucu and caution wherewith your true money-
getter buoys and guides himself majestically through the
great seas of speculation. In short, the fishes the net
was cast for were all scared from the surface at the first
splash. They came round and smelt at the mesh with
their sharp bottle-noses, and then, plying those inval-
uable fins, made otf as fast as they ooutd, plunging into
the mud, hiding themselves under rocks and coral banks.
Metaphor apart, the capitalists buttoned up their jiockets,
and would have nothing to say to their iiameaake.

Xot a word of this change, so abhorrent to all the
notions of poor Augustine Caxtoii, had been breathed to
him by Peck or Tibbels. He ate and slept and worked
at the Great Book, occasionally wondering why he liad
not heard of the advent of the "Literary Times," nn-
conscious of all the awful responsibilities which " The
Capitalist " was entailing on him, — knowing no more of
The Capitalist" than be did of the last loan of the
Rothschilds,

A FAMILY PICTURE. 47

Difficult was it for all other human nature, save my
father's, not to breathe an indignant anathema on the
scheming head of the brother-in-law who had thus vio-
lated the most sacred obligations of trust and kindred,
and so entangled an unsuspecting recluse. But to give
even Jack Tibbets his due, he had firmly convinced him-
self that "The Capitalist" would make my father's
fortune ; and if he did not announce to him the strange
and anomalous development into which the original
sleeping chrysalis of the "Literary Times," had taken
portentous wing, it was purely and wholly in the knowl-
edge that my father's " prejudices," as he termed them,
would stand in the way of his becoming a Croesus. And,
in fact. Uncle Jack had believed so heartily in his own
project, that he had put himself thoroughly into Mr.
Peck's power, signed bills in his own name to some
fabulous amount, and was actually now in the Fleet,
whence his penitential and despairing confession was
dated, arriving simultaneously with a short letter from
Mr. Peck, wherein that respectable printer apprised my
father that he had continued, at his own risk, the
publication of " The Capitalist," as far as a prudent care
for his family would permit ; that he need not say that a
new daily journal was a very vast experiment ; that the
expense of such a paper as "The Capitalist" was im-
measurably greater than that of a mere literary periodical,
as originally suggested ; and that now, being constrained
to come upon the shareholders for the sums he had ad-
vanced, amounting to several thousands, he requested my
father to settle with him immediately, — delicately implying
that Mr. Caxton himself might settle as he could with the
other shareholders, most of whom, he grieved to add, he
had been misled by Mr. Tibbets into believing to be men
of substance, when in reality they were men of straw !

48 THE CAXTONB :

Nor was this nil the evil. The Great An ti- Bookseller
Publishing Society, which had maintained n stru^ling
existence, evinced by advertisements of sundry forthcom-
ing worlu of aoUd iDt«rest and enduring nature, wherein
out of a long list, amidst a pompous array of " Poema,"
" Dramas not intended for the Stage," " Essays by
Phileutheroa, Philanthropos, Philopolis, Philodemus, and
PhiJalethes," stood prominently forth "The History of
Human Error, Vols. I and II. quarto, with iilustrationa,"
— tile An ti- Bookseller Society, I say, that had hitherto
evinced nascent and budding life by these exfoliations
from its slender stem, died of a sudden blight the
moment its suu, in the shape of Uncle Jack, set in
the Cimmerian regions of the Fleet; and a polite
letter from another printer (0 William Caxton, William
Caxton ! — fatal progenitor ! ), informing my father of
this event, stated complimentarily that it was to him,
" as the moat respectable member of the Association,"
that the said printer would be compelled to look for
expenses incurred, not only in the very costly edition of
the " History of Human Error," but for those incurred in
the print and paper devoted to " Poems," "Dramas not
intended for the Stage," " Essays hy Phileutheros, Phil-
anthropos, Philopolis, Plulodemus, and Philalethes," with
sundry other works, no doubt of a very valuable nature,
but in which a considerable loss, in a pecuniary point of
view, must be necessarily ex|)ected.

I own that as soon as I had mastered the above
agreeable facts, and ascertaineii from Mr. Squills that
my father te^Uy did seem to have rendered himself
legally liable to these demand.'^, I leaned back in my chair,
stunned and bewildered.

" So you see," said my father, " that as yet we are
contending with monsters in the dark, — in the dark all

A FAMILY PICTURE. 49

monsters look larger and uglier. Even Augustus Caesar,
though certiiinly he had never scrupled to make as many
ghosts as suited his convenience, did not like the chance
of a visit from them, and never sat alone ia tenebris.
What the amount of the sums claimed from me may be
we know not ; what may be gained by the utlier share-
holders is equally obscure and undefined. But the first
thing to do is to get poor Jack out of prison."

" Uncle Jack out of prison ! " exclaimed I ; " surely, sir,
that is carrying forgiveness too far."

" Why, he would not have been in prison if I had not
been so blindly forgetful of his weakness, poor man ! I
ought to have known better. But my vanity misled mo ;
I must needs publish a great book, as if," said Mr. Cax-
ton, looking round the shelves, " there were not groat
books enougli in the world ! I must needs, too, tliink
of advancing and circulating knowledge in the form of
a journal, — I, wlio had not knowledge enough of the
character of my own brother-in-law to keep myself from
ruin ! Come what will, I should think myself the mean-
est of men to let that i)()or creature, whom I ought to
have considered as a monomaniac, rot in prison, because
I, Austin Caxton, wanted common-sense. And," con-
cluded my father, resolutely, " he is your mother^s
brother, Pisistratus. I should have gone to town at
once ; Imt hearing that my wife had written to you, I
waited till I could leave her to the companionship of
hope and comfort, — two blesisings that smile upon
every mother in the face of a son like you. To-morrow
I go."

" Not a bit of it," said Mr. Squills, firmly ; " as your
medical adviser, I forbid you to leave the house for the
next six days."

VOL. II. — 4

THE UAXTONS:

CHAPTER II.

"Sir," cnntiniied Mr. Squill^ biting oET the end of &
cigar which he pulled from his pocket, " jou concede to
me that it ia a very ini^iortant business ou which ;oD
l>roiiose to go to Loudon."

"Of thiit thi'tt! ia uo doulit," replied my fiither.

" And the duiug of business well or ill entirety de-
pends ujion the habit of body ! " cried Mr. SijuilLB,
triumphantly. " Do yon' know, Mr. Caxtou, that while
you ore looking m calm and tnlklng so quietly, just on
purpose to suabiin your eon and delude your wife, —
do you know that your pulfc, which is nattindly little
more than sixty, is nearly a hundred I Do you know,
sir, lluit your mucous nu'tuliranes arc in a state of high
iiritatiwi, apjKiri'Ut by the pnpillte nt tlio tip of your
Lou;jU(.' t And if witli a pube like this nud a tongue like
liial, you think of in'ttling money malt^irs with a set of
sharp- wiltol tradcsnicu, all I can say is that you are

" Hut," Iiegan my fathor.

"Did not S(]uire KuUick," pursued Mr. Squills,
"Squire Rollick, the har.lwt head at a liai'gain I know
i)f. — did not Squire Rollick sell that pretty little farm
of his, SiT:inny Holt, for thirty per cent below its value!
And what was the caiiso, sir 1 — the whole country was
in amaze ! — wliat was the cause, hut an incipient simmer-
ing attack of the yellow jaundice, whieh made bim fake
a ttlocmiy view of hnmaii life and the agricultural mter-
est ) On the other hand, did not Ijiwyer Cool, the most

A FAMILY PICTURE. 51

prudent man in the three kingdoms, — Lawyer Cool,
who was so methodical that all the clocks in the county
were set by his watch, — plunge one morning head over
heels into a frantic speculation for cultivating the bogs in
Ireland (his watch did not go right for the next three
months, which made our whole sliire an hour in advance
of the rest of England) ? And what was the cause of
that nobody knew till I was called in, and found the
cerebral membrane in a state of acute irritation, probably
just in the region of his acquisitiveness and ideality.
No, Mr. Caxton, you will stay at home, and take a
soothing preparation I shall send you, of lettuce-leaves
and marsh-mallows. But I," continued Squills, lighting
his cigar, and taking two determined whiffs, — " but /
will go up to town and settle the business for you, and
take with me this young gentleman, whose digestive
functions are just in a state to deal safely with those
horrible elements of dyspepsia, the L. S. D."

As he spoke, Mr. Squills set his foot significantly
upon mine.

"But,'' resumed my father mildly, "though I thank
you very much. Squills, for your kind offer, I do not
recognize the necessity of accepting it. I am not so
bad a philosopher as you seem to imagine ; and the
blow I have received has not so deranged my physical
organization as to render me unfit to transact my
affairs."

" Hum ! " grunted Squills, starting up and seizing my
father's pidse ; " ninety -six, — ninety-six if a beat ! And
the tongue, sir ! "

" Pshaw ! " quoth my father, " you have not even seen
my tongue ! "

" No need of that, I know what it is by the state of the
eyelids, — tip scarlet, sides rough as a nutmeg-grater ! "

S2 THE CAXTONS:

" Pahnw ! " iipnin said Tuy father, this Ume impatieully.

"WeU," saiil Squills, eolemiily, "it is my duly Ui

%" — here my mother entered to tell me that supper

_8 ready, — " and I say it to you, Srre. Caxton, mkI to

^11, Mr. Pisistratus Csxton, as the parties most nearly

interested, that if you, sir, go to London upon this

matter, I'll not nnswer for the couseijuences."

" Oh, Austin, Austin I " cried my mother, running up
and throwing lier arms round my Eiitlier's neck ; while I,
little loss aliirm^d by Squills's ecrions tone and aspect,
represented strongly the inutility of Mr. Castoa's
personal interference at the present moment. All he
i;ould do on arriviuK in town would be to put the matter
into the hands of a good lawyer, and that we could do
for him ; it would be time enough to Bend for him when
tho extent of the niischief done was more clearly ascer-
tained. Meanwhile Squills gi'ijied my father's pulac,
and my mother hnng on his neck,

■■ Niurlv-six — niiictv-seven !" fironiii-d Squills in a
li,.|I..w voiiv.

"I d-ii't believe it!" crli'd my father, almost in a
l«s-i.>u; "neViT heller nor ccK.ler in my life"

■■And llie tongue! Inok at bis UniiiW, Mrs. Caxton,

.1 ti'Ufjui', ma'am, so bright that you could see to read
l.> II ! ■■

••t»l.. Anslin. Austin I"

■' Mv d.Mf, it is m-l my lon;:iio that is in fnult, I assure
V..,,,- s,iid my Tilli.T, s|„.akiut; tliiv.nnh his te.'lh ; "and
I '.,-1,111, kini«s IK. uiiir.' iif my loii^'uc than ho dcs of the

■\\\[ K .nit tlieii," i-xclaiined Squills, "and if it be
[■-I .. I ~.i\, M'U biive my leave to pi to Loudon, and
lIil,.« v>'in wliolo fortune into the two great pita you
l.n,' Uiw Ivv It. I'ul it out! "

A FAMILY PICTURE.

" Mr. Squills ! " said my father, coloring, — " Mr,
Squills, for shame ! "

" Dear, dear Austin ! your hand is so hot ! you are
feverish, I am sure."

" Not a bit of it."

"But, sir, only just gratify Mr. Squills," said I,
coaxingly.

" There, there ! " said my father, fairly baited into
submission, and shyly exhibiting for a moment the
extremest end of the vanquished organ of eloquence.

Squills darted forward his lynx-like eyes. " Red as a
lobster, and rough as a gooseberry-bush I " cried Squills,
in a tone of savage joy.

TUG CAXTOHS:

CHAPTER in.

How ma it possible for one ji^ ■ tongue so reviled and
penecuteil, sn immlilixl, iusulk ind triumphwl over, to
reaisl thii.' Ixn-'ui's iii lea)^G aiitst iti Finallj my
M}i«r yi<'|.|i'.l, mill Squills, in I. \i Hpirite, declared tliat
he would i;ii l<) siipjier with me, to see that I ate nothing
that could t^-iiil tu discredit his njliance on my system.
Ixuving my mother atill with hor Austin, the |{ood
suTgeuD tlirci took mj- arm, and as soou as we were in thp
next rooiii, shut the door cnrcfuUy, wiped his forehead,
and said, "I think wo have snveil Ijim ! "

"WouUl it roftll^, then, have injured my father so
much t "

"S.iiiiiu'h! AVhy, you hu'lish ymmg man, don't you
s,-,i tlial with his ijiiMiiuico ..f Inisiiifss wliL-re he liimself
is .■mui'i nod — Iliiiiigh for :my olhi^r oxm's business,
nriiliiT Itolliik uiT L'liol Ims a lii'tttT judgmoit — and
wilh Ills d — 1\ t,>uixi'lic ,-jiiiit of lioiior worked up into
(I sl:.to of i-wiL-inciit, he would li^ivc rusliyd to Mr.
Tihl-'ls, ,u.i! ox.hiiiiu^d, ' How uuu-li do you owe t There
it is : ' sftth'd in Ihi' s^iuie Wiiy with tliese printers, and
.■oil,,. h;u-k witliout ii siximiei- ; when-as you ;md I can
hxik roolly iilHiut US, iiud rfduee llio iiitlammation to tlie

"I sei>. .iiul thank you h.-artily, W.iuills."

" IV'sid.-s," said tlie MiVK^^on, wilh more f.-elinj;, "your

falh.-r lias mdly l«.-eii mi.ki.i- a u..hli- Hlort over Iniuself.

lie suir.'ra tuoiv tlmn yoi. woul.l lljiuk, — not for himself

(for I do licliovc thiit if he were alone in the world, he

A FAMILY PICTURE.

woiild be quite contented if he could save fifty pounds a-
year and his books), but for your mother and yourself ;
and a fresh access of emotional excitement, all the nerv-
ous anxiety of a journey to London on such a business,
might have ended in a paralytic or epileptic affection.
Now we have him here snug ; and the worst news we
can give him will be better than what he will make up
his mind for. But you don't eat."

" Eat I How can I ! My poor father ! "

"The effect of grief upon the gastric juices through
the nervous system is very remarkable," said Mr. Squills,
philosophically, and helping himself to a broiled bone;
" it increases the thirst, while it takes away hunger. No,
don't touch port 1 — heating ! Sherry and water."

THE CAXTOHS:

CHAPTER IF,

Ttal hDowxhior had closed upcoi Ur. SquilU, — that
gCotteiMit ttfriiig i>«Mnbed to breakhsl with me llin
n^ aHminp, so Ibat w« might take (he coach from
our gBte, — iukI I r«maiii«J nlone, seated by the sappct-
table, ii.il h'volviug «11 I ha»t beiud, when my faUier
walked i„.

" K8istniHis,''s»i(l hp, giarely, ami luoking round him,
"your motltrr ! ~ 8uiif>u6« Ibe wopst ; jour first carr,
then, must bvi to try and secnrv eomething for faer. You
and I are men, — we can never want while we have
hiMlth ■•( nii:i:l ;Hid IhhIv ; luit a woman — and if

My l\itli,TV li]. wriiiuHl as it Hlteml these brief

■■ Mv .l.vir. li.Mr failuT I " s;ii.l I. siippr^ssin}; niv tears
Willi a'illi.-uhv. '■ ;ill .■vii.. ;,.< you your^Ai -..id, look worse
liv ;uiti.'i|uii.'ii It is imi-'s-iMi- tlmt vmir whule fortune
nn W involv,-,!. Tlu- ii.-«->[Mi.er d'i.i not run many
week?, and onlv the lirsl volume of your work is printed
l!e-ides, Iher,- must l>e oilier shan^ii-'ldei-s who will ()ay
tlii'ir quola. llelieve nie, I feel Mngnino a* to llie residt
of niv eniUissv, As fnr niv i">or niother, it is not the
l.v-^s i.f fortune lliai will womul !„-r. — .!ei>,-nd on il,
she tljinks very jiltle of tlmt; il is the loss of your
contidetioe."

" Jly confidence ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 57

" Ah, yes ! Tell her all your fears, as your hopes. Do
not let your affectionate pity exclude her from one corner
of your heart."

" It is that — it is that, Austin, — my hushand — my
joy — my pride — my soul — my all ! " cried a soft, broken
voice.

My mother had crept in, unobserved by us.

My father looked at us both, and the tears which had
before stood in his eyes forced their way. Then opening
his arms, into which his Kitty threw herself joyfully, he
lifted those moist eyes upward, and by the movement of
his lips 1 saw that he thanked God.

I stole out of the room. I felt that those two hearts
should be left to beat and to blend alone. And from that
hour I am convinced that Augustine Caxton acquired a
stouter philosophy than that of the stoics. The fortitude
that concealed pain was no longer needed, for the pain
WW no longer felt.

TBE CAXTosa:

CHATTER V.

Mr. Squtus and I pcrfonued our journey without bA-
VMtture, and aa we were nut atone on the coach, wilh lit-
tle converiaUon. W« pnt up &t a small inn in the City,
and the nt-xt morning I sallied forth to see Trevamon, —
for we agre^ that ht^ would be the best person to ailviae
ua. But ou arriviug at St. James's Square I liad the die-
appointmeut of hearing that the whole family had guna
to Pam three days before, and vere not .expected to
retam till the meeting of purliameut.

This was a sad discouragement for I had coimted much
ou Tlwvaiiion's dear hcsd, and tlmt extraordinary range
of accon]]i]ishiui'iit in ;ill matters of business^ail that
rfliiti'd t.. iii-,LOti>Ml lifr — wliioh myoia pitron pre-i-nii-
iifiitly i">ss(-ssc,l. Tlir' next ihinj; womM Iw to find Tn-
viii.i.-ii-s hnvv.T; for Tiw.uiiou was one of tliose men
\v!in>i- M>li..-iti'ir.s -.m' sinv to I,,' :,},h- iiud mtive. But tlie
fiut wi,^, tluit hv l.'ft so litil,. to lawyei-s lluit lie had
ti>-vvy h:,.\ oi:-.i.\„u lo co,iLimiin>-;iti' wilh one since I liad
known lii.ii, and 1 was tlKTcfo.v in ignomnce of the very
namr <.f liis si>liuiti>r; m>r loiil.i the porUT, who was K-ft
ill -■l.arg.- of thi- honsf, enli-liten iw. Liickily, I l)e-
thoiitihl niy.-,t>lf of 8ir H<:My Boaiidesurt, who could
KiiUT.cIy fail to givo me the- iuforniation iviiiiiivd, and
will., at all evi'iits, miglit rcimrimeiid lo me some other
lawyrr. «o to him 1 w,.nt.

1 f..nrid Sir Srdlry at l.n-akfasl willi a yoimg g.-ntleiiian
wli.i si'i-lii.-.! aliout twi'LLly. Tlii' -oo.l l.aioiiet was de
lighl.'d to see me; hut I tliouglit it was with a little

A FAMILY PICTURE. 59

confusion, rare to his cordial ease, that he presented me
to his cousin, Lord Castleton. It was a name familiar
to me, though I had never before met its patrician
owner.

The Marquess of Castleton was indeed a subject of
envy to young idlers, and afforded a theme of interest
to gray-beard politicians. Often had I heard of " that
lucky fellow, Castleton," who, when of age, would step
into one of those colossal fortunes which would realize
the dreams of Aladdin, — a fortune that had been out to
nurse since his minority. Often had I heard graver
gossips wonder whether Castleton would take any ac-
tive part in public life, — whether he would keep up the
family influence. His mother (still alive) was a superior
woman, and had devoted herself, from his cliildhood, to
supply a father's loss, and fit him for his great i)osition.
It was said that he was clever — had been educated by
a tutor of great academic distinction, and was reading for
a double first class at Oxford. This young marquess was
indeed the head of one of those few houses still left in
England that retain feudal importance. He was impor-
tant, not only from his rank and his vast fortune, but
from an immense circle of powerful connections ; from
the ability of his two predecessors, who had been keen
politicians and cabinet-ministers ; from the prestige they
had bequeathed to his name ; from the peculiar nature of
his property, which gave him the returning interest in no
less than six parliamentary seats in Great Britain and
Ireland, — besides the indirect ascendency which the
head of the Castletons had always exercised over many
powerful and noble allies of tliat i)rincely house. I was
not aware that he was related to Sir Sedley, whose world
of action was so remote from politics ; and it was with
some surprise that I now heard that announcement, and

THE CAXTONS:

with Fiomc interest that I, pei'lia|)3 from the
ot poverty, gazL-d on this young heir of fabuJi

was easy to see that Lord Ciistleton had been
;ht up with a careful knowletlge of his future
iieias, atiil its serious re bilities. Ho stood

'■leasumbly aloof from all tjio '-etations common to
youth of minor patricians. lie liail nut been taught
V> value himself on the cut of a cout, or the shape of
a hat. Hia world wna far above St Jamea'e Stieet and
the clubs. He was dressed plainly, though in a style
peculiar to himself, — a whit« neckcloth (which was not
at that day quite so uncommon for morning use as it is
now), trousers without straps, tliin shoes and gaiters.
In his manner there was nolliing of the supercilious
apathy which chnractcriiea the dandy introdueed to some
one whom he doubts it lie con iiod to from the bow-win-
dow at A\Tiite's, — none of such vidgar coxcombries had
Lonl Castleton ; and yet a yoinig gentleman more em-
phatically coxcomb it was imiKissible to see. He had
Ifpii t()ld, no doubt, that, as the head of a house which
was almost in itself a paity in the state, he should lie
bland ami civil to all nu4i ; ami this duty being grafted
Mpoii a nature ainRUIavly coM and misocial, gave to his
imliteness something so .stilt", yet so condescending, that
it brought the blooil to one's cheek, ^ though the mo-
mentary anger was coiinterhalanced by a sense of the
almost hidicious contrast between thi^< gracious majesty
of deportment ami the insignificant figure, with tlie
boyish, beanllcRs face, by whii'h it was assumed. L"nl
Ca^tlelon did not cnnti-iit liim.^oOf with a mere bow at
our introduc'tii.u. .Mm'h r.. my wonder hnw he came
by the infoniiiition he di.ph.yi^d, In- made me a little
speech after the munuer of Louis XIV. to a provincial

A FAMILY PICTURE. 61

noble, studiously moilelled upon that royal maxim of
urbane policy which instructs a king that he should
know something of the birth, parentage, and family
of his meanest gentleman. It was a little speech in
which my father's learning and my uncle's services and
the amiable qualities of your humble servant were neatly
interwoven, delivered in a falsetto tone, as if learned by
heart, though it must have been necessarily impromptu ;
and then, reseating himself, he made a gracious motion
of the head and hand, as if to authorize me to do the
same.

Conversation succeeded by galvanic jerks and spas-
modic starts, — a conversation that Lord Castleton con-
trived to tug so completely out of poor Sir Sedley's
ordinary course of small and polished small-talk, that
that charming personage, accustomed, as he well de-
served, to be Coryphaeus at his own table, was com-
pletely silenced. With his light reading, his rich stores
of anecdote, his good-humored knowledge of the drawing-
room world, he had scarce a word that would fit into the
great, rough, serious matters which Lord Castleton threw
upon the tiible, as he nibbled his toast. Nothing but
the most grave and practical subjects of human interest
seemed to attract this future leader of mankind. The
fact is, that Lord Castleton had been taught everything
that relates to property , — a knowledge which embraces
a very wide circumference. It had been said to him,
** You will be an immense i)roprietor ; knowledge is es-
sential to your self-preservation. You will be puzzled,
bubbled, ridiculed, duped every day of your life, if you
do not make yourself acquainted with all by which prop-
erty is assailed or defended, impoverished or increased.
You have a vast stake in the country ; you must learn
all the interests of Europe, — nay, of the civilized world,

TUE CjUETOSS:

i react on the c«utitrj, and litt iaiei-
t9rr of tlw eaoUttj uv nf Uw^ ^n^bwl [xnsible ratiM'-
n.»ncv to tlic iiil«reatM of the )l«rque3s of CastletoQ."
u, Utc sUtte of tiic ConlJnenl ; the polio; of Mette^
nich ; th« candition at Hk Papncy ; Hk growth of Vis-
aenl ; the (irojwr mode of dealiog wiih the geueral spirit
of Detiiocacy, whu'h was idcniic of European moa-

archiei; ; tlic relative propori ^^ of the agricultunil fliid
nuinufucturLng piipulotioii ; cor 4awE, currency, and lli«
laws ttiat regukle wages ; a <;riticisn on the Ivading
ajM-akers nf the House of Commons, with some distur-
Hive observations on the importAiicc of fattening cattle ;
thu introd lie lion of flax into Ireland ; emigration ; the
condition of the poor ; the doctrines of Mr. Oweu ; the
IMithology of potatoes; the connection between potatoes,
IHtupcrisnt, and patriotism, — these, and such like stu]wii'
dous flubjects for reflection {all branching more or U'sa in-
tricately from the single idea of the Castleton property),
the young lonl dii<cu5»ed and <lisjK)sed of in bnlf-a-dozen
[iriiii, jKiisi'd St 'nl Clicks, evincing, I must siiy injustice, no
iiicntisidt'ridili' jnf'iriiiiition, and w mighty solemn turn of
mind. TIu' odilily wis th;it the subject so selected and
lii'iili'd >lni\ild not ciimc nithur from some young barris-
li'i-, nv m:Uiui' i«ilitii'iil .■n>n(iraisl, timn fn>m so goi^eoua
II hlv I'l' iIk' lii'ld, V( :i mm K's^ elevntal in rank one
\v..ul.l ,vit;iit,ly liiivi- wild, "Clovwish, hut a prig;" but
ih.'ir' t;".i]\y Hji« siiuii'lliiuj; so ivspect;ilile in :i personage
lioiti lo Hiii'li foriuui's iLiiii liaving nofbing to do but to
U-.1 III 111.- suiisliiuc, voliiiitiirily taking such puius with
l.mi^"-lf. iMi.l n.u.lisc>..ii,|ii,g to iiiiiutify his own interesU
111- iul.>iv:-1s <.f the Ciistleton property — with the con-
e.-Mi^ .'f liir< less.T fellow inort;! Is, tliat one felt the young
iiiiii'tliiKns luid ill hiui the stufi" to beeomo a very eousider-
itl.le uuui.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 63

Poor Sir Scdley, to whom all these matters were as
unfamiliar as the theology of the Talmud, after some
vain efforts to slide the conversation into easier grooves,
fairly gave in, and, with a compassionate smile on his
handsome countenance, took refuge in his easy-chair and
the contemplation of his snuff-box.

At last, to our great relief, the servant announced Lord
Castleton's carriage ; and with another speech of overpow-
ering affability to me, and a cold shake of the hand to Sir
Sedley, Lord Castleton went his way.

The breakfast parlor looked on the street, and I turned
mechanically to the window as Sir Sedley followed his
guest out of the room. A travelling carriage with four
post-horses was at the door ; and a servant, who looked
like a foreigner, was in waiting with his master's cloak.
As I saw Lord Castleton step into the street, and wrap
himself in his costly mantle lined with sables, I ob-
served, more than I had while he was in the room, the
enervate slightness of his frail form, and the more than
paleness of his thin joyless face ; and then, instead of
envy, I felt compassion for the owner of all this pomp
and grandeur, — felt that I would not have exchanged
my hanly health and easy humor and vivid capacities
of enjoyment in things the slightest and most witliin
the reach of all men, for the wealth and greatness which
that poor youth perhaps deserved the more for putting
them so little to the service of pleasure.

" Well," said Sir Sedley, " and what do you think of
him?"

"He is just the sort of man Trevanion would like," said
I, evasively.

" That is true," answered Sir Sedley, in a serious tone
of voice, and looking at me somewhat earnestly. " Have
you heard? — but no, you cannot have heard yet."

TH8 CA3T0NS:

tlenni whiit J "
- My dear young friend," sniil the kindest nnd moA
'elicate of all fine gentlemen, xauntering nway tliat lie
ight uot observe the emotion he caused, " LorJ
uastlotoD ia going to Paris to join the Trevanious. The
object lady Ellinor has '■■"' it heart for muiy a long
year is won, and our prel my will be Marchioness of

Castleton when her betr i is of age, — that is, in six
months. The two mothera ive settled it all betireen

I made no ansver, but continued to look out of the
window.

" This alliance," resumed Sir Sedley, " was all that
was wanting to assure Trevauion'a position. When
parliament meets, he will have some great office. Poor
man, how 1 shall pity him I It ia extRtordinary to
me," continued Sir Sedley, benevolently going on, that
I niiyht Iiiive fiill time to recover myself, "how cnnta-
giinis tliiit diwa.-ii' Ciilled 'luisini'ss' is in our foggy Enj;-
land ! Not only TreviUiioii, you see, has the complaint
in if.-! very ivorst and most eonqdicatod form, but that
pour dear rutisiu of mine, who is so young [here Sir
Ht-dley sighed], and might enjoy himself so much, is
worse than you were wln'ii Trevanion was fagging you
to death. Itiit, to Ih< sure, a great name and |K>sition
like Castleton's must he n very heavy afflittiou to a
ciiiiseienti.nis mind. You si'o how the sense of its re-
s]ifnisiliilitii'n liiis affeil him already, — positively, two
great wrizikles under his eves! "Well, after all, I a<lmire
him, and resjieet his tutor. A si.i: naturally very thin
I .su.-i-iTt. lias lieeii most ear.-fully cultivated; and Castle-
ton, with TiM^vauions help, will 1« the first man in the
peerage, - prime minister some day, I dare say. And
when 1 lliink of it, how grateful 1 ought to feel to his

A FAMILY PICTURE. 65

father and mother, who produced him quite in their old
age; for if he had not been born, I should have been
the most miserable of men, — yes, positively, that horrible
marquisate would have come to me ! I never think over
Horace Walpole's regrets, when he got the earldom of
Orford, without the deepest synipatiiy, and without a
shudder at the thouj^ht of what my dear Lady Castle ton
was kind enough to save me from — all owing to the
Ems waters, after twenty years' marriage ! Well, my
young friend, and how are all at home ? "

As when, — some notable performer not having yet
arrived behind the scenes, or having to change his dress, or
not having yet quite recovered an unlucky extra tumbler
of exciting fluids, and the green curtain has therefore
unduly delayed its ascent, — you perceive that the
thorough-bass in the orchestra charitably dcivotos himself
to a prelude of astonishing prolixity, calling in " Lodoiska "
or " Der Freischutz " to beguile the time, and allow the
procrastinating histrio leisure sufficient to draw on his
flesh-colored pantaloons, and give himself the proper com-
plexion for a Coriolanus or Macbeth, even so had Sir
Sedley made that long speech, requiring no rejoinder,
till he saw the time had arrived when he could artfully
close with the flourish of a final interrogative, in order to
give poor Pisistratus Caxton all preparation to compose
himself and step forward. There is certainly something
of exquisite kindness and thoughtfid benevolence in that
rarest of gifts, — fine breeding; and when now, re-
manned and resolute, I turned round and saw Sir Sedley's
soft blue eye shyly but benignantly turned to me, while,
with a grace no other snuff*-taker ever had since the days
of Pope, he gently proceeded to refresh himself by a pinch
of the celebrated Beaudesert mixture, I felt my heart as
gratefully moved towards him as if he had conferred on me

VOL. II. — 5

THE CAXT0N3 :

acimo colossal oljligation. Aud tlii« crowning question:
" And how nre all at home 1 " rL-sUtretl me entirely to my
self'poBscssioii, aii<[ for tlis ntutneiit distracted the bitter
currant of my thoughts.

I replied by a brief statement of my father's involve-
ment, disguising our apprehensions as to ita extent, sfwak-
ing of it rather as un annoyance than a possible cause of
ruin, and ended by asking Sir Sedley to give me the
address of Trevanion'a lawyer.

The good baronet listened with great attention ; and
that quick ponetr.ition which belongs to a man of the
world enabled him to detect that I bad smoothed over
matters more than became a faithful narrator.

He shook his head, and seating himself on the sofa,
motioned me to como to his side ; then, leaning his
arm over my shoulder, he said in his seductive, winning

"We two young fellows should understand each other
when we talk of money matters. I can say to you what
I could not say to my respectable senior (by three years),
— your excellent father. Frankly, then, I suspect tliis
is a had business. I know little altout newspapers, ex-
cept that I have to subscribe to one in my county, which
costs me a small income ; but I know that a London
daily paper might ruin a man in a few weeka. And as
for shareholders, my dear Caxton, I was once teii.'<ed into
being a shareholder in a canal that ran through my
projjerty, and ultimately ran off with £30,000 of it!
The other shareholders were all droivned in the cnnid,
like Pharaoh and his host in the Ked Sea. But your
father is a great scholar, and must not be plagued
with such matters. I owe him a great deaL He was
very kind to me at Cambridge, ami gave me the taste for
reading, to wbieh I owe the plcasantest hours of my life.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 67

So, when you and the lawyers have found out what the
extent of the mischief is, you and I must see how we can
best settle it What the deuce ! my young friend, — I
have no * encumbrances,' as the servants, with great want
of politeness, call wives and children ; and I am not a
miserable great landed millionnaire, like that poor dear
Castleton, who owes so many duties to 8<iciety that he
can't spend a shilling except in a grand way, and purc'ly
to benefit the public. So go, my boy, to Trevanion's
lawyer ; he is mine too (clever fellow, sharp as a needle
— Mr. Pike, in Great Ormond Street — name on a brass
plate) ; and when he has settled the amount, we young
scapegraces will help each other, without a word to the
old folks."

What good it does to a man, througliout life, to meet
kindness and generosity like this in his youth !

I need not say that I was too faitliful a representative of
my father's scholarly pride and su8ee])tihle independence
of spirit to accept this proposal ; and probal)ly Sir Sedloy,
rich and liberal as he was, did not dream of the extent to
which his proposal might involve him. IJut I expressed
my gratitude, so as to please and move this last relic of
the De Coverleys, and went from his house straight to
Mr. Pike's office, with a little note of intro<luction from
Sir Sedley.

I found Mr. Pike exactly the man I had anticipated
from Trevanion's character, — short, quick, intelligent, in
question and answer; imposing, and somewhat domi-
neering, in manner ; not overcrowded with business, but
with enough for exj)erience and resj>e(;tidjility ; neither
young nor old ; neither a peilantic machine of parchment
nor a jaunty off-hand coxcomb of West End manners.

" It is an ugly affair," said he, " but one that requires
management Leave it all in my hands for three days.

TOl oaxtonh:

DiMit gp D«r Ur. Tiltbrto DOT Mr. Pedi, ami iHi Saturdi*

[ twv a'duck, if t

will call here, ynu al

Imcnr nr ofiiakai of the wIkJo laatt^r." WiUi tliat, Ur,
Ftke ^ttod wX Hit rlofli, mid I took up my hat nnd

Time h no fiaw mom ilclightfu) than n gnat «i]»itttl
if JIM) on aomfcatabl; srttJnl in it, — liare airaiigi^ thf
DwllradiiMJ dispnewl uf juur lime, ami koow liow to teke
biuincw uul iJlensuR in duo proixirtions. But a fljing
visit to a grciat ca]<itA], in an UDwUled, unsntiKfaetoir
ny, at an inn (an inn i» tbe City, too), uitli a ^reat
worrying load of business on your mind, i>f which yon
are to hear no more for three days, and au aching
jofdous, mieenible sorrow at the heart, siwh as I had,
leading you no labor to pursue, and no ple^^urc that you
iiai'e the heart tc share in, — oh, a great eapitdl tlien is
indeed forlorn, weorisome, and oppressive! It is tlie
Castle of Indolence, ucit as Tliomwn built it, but w
Hcckfor.1 drew in ]m Hall of EMis, — a wandering up
iiiirl iluwii, to and tro, — n great awful sjiiicc, with your
li^ttid j.riwso.] to your heart ; and — oh for n rush on some
h^lr lam,' Imi-sp, tlirouyh Ihe me;isureless green wastes of
Ausinitiii: Thnt is llie place for a man who has no hume
in thi> li:ih(>l, and whose band is ever jircssing to his
liiTirl, Willi ilM ilull, burning pnin.

Ml'. Sijnills r], ■roved me the second evening into one
of 111.' -in:.II ili..aii,.s; and very heartily did Mr. Squills
■ •i\\'<\ nil 111' siiiv, and nil li(i heard. And while, with a
' "iinil:Uii I'lliirt of the jnws, I was trying to laugh too,
■"'I'l-'iili ill OIK' iif llio actors, who was [>erforming the
""I I'lpiiil [i.iil of a purish beadle, I recognized n face
111 111,! ..,.i:|, l„.f,,|,, l"iv(> minutes afterwards I had
' ' 'I'l- ii.'il iiiuii tbi' ni,i,. „f Squills, and was amidst that
' i-'Uj;,, ,i,,i M, iiKiiiNi) run bcekks.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 69

My beadle was much too busy and important to allow
me a good opportunity to accost him till the piece was over ;
I then seized hold of him as he was amicably sharing a
pot of porter with a gentleman in black shorts and a
laced waistcoat, who was to play the part of a broken-
hearted father in the Domestic Drama in Three Acts,
that would conclude the amusements of the evening.

" £xcuse me," said I, apologetically ; " but as tlie
Swan pertinently observes, 'Should auld acquaintance
be forgot?"

"The Swan, sir!" cried the beadle, aghast; "the
Swan never demeaned himself by such d — d broad
Scotch as that ! "

" The Tweed has its swans as well as the Avon, Mr.
Peacock."

" St — st — hush — hush — h — u — sh ! " whispered the
beadle in great alarm, and eying me, with savage ol)-
servation, under his corked eyebrows. Then, taking
me by the arm, ho jerked me away When he had
got as far as the narrow limits of that little stage would
allow, Mr. Peacock said, —

" Sir, you have the advantage of me ; I don't remem-
ber you. Ah ! you need not look — By gad, sir, I am
not to be bullied ! It was all fair play. If you will play
with gentlemen, sir, you must run the consequences."

I hastened to appease the worthy man.

" Indeed Mr. Peacock, if you remember, I refused to
play with you ; and, so far from wishing to offend you,
I now come on purpose to compliment you on your ex-
cellent acting, and to inquire if you have heard anything
lately of your young friend Mr. Vivian."

" Vivian ? — never heard the name, sir. Vivian 1
Pooh, you are trying to hoax me ; very good ! "

" I assure you, Mr. Peac — "

70 THE CAXT0B8:

" St — st — How the deuce did you ktiow lliat I was
once called Ptjiic — that is, people called me Peac — A
friendly nicliiiainc, no more. Drop it, eir, or you ' touch
me with noble anger ! ' "

" Well, well ; ' the rose by any iinnte will smeJl as
sweet,' as the Swan, this time at least judiciously, ob-
siTvea, But Mr. Vivian, too, sfenis to have other uitinus
at his disposal I mean a young, dark, handsome m&n —
or rather boy — with whom I met you in company by the
roadside, oni< morning."

" O — h ! " said Mr. Peacock, looking much r«lieTed,
" I know whom you mean, though I don't t«mf>mber
to have had tlip pleasure of seeing you before. No ; I
have not heard anything of the young man lately. I
wish I did know aoiuething of him. lie was & 'gen-
tleinHn in my own way.' Sweet Will has hit him. off
to ft hair, —

'Tim i:i)iii-tii.T's, sulilii^r's, suhokr's eye, (ongue, sword,'

Sucli :i hiind with a cue! You should have seeu him
seek the 'huhble reputiitioii at the cannou's mouth.' I
may say," L'untiiiued Mr, IVacoek, emphatically, "that
he was a regular trump. Tninip ! " he reiterated with a
start, r\s if the word had stung him — "tninip! he wa.s

Then fixiiif! his eyes on me, dropping his arms, inter-
lacing his fiuH-'r-; m the man?ipr rei^orded .if Talma in
the (■(■lchrat''d "(.hi'eii dis-tu!" he resumed in a hollow
\o\<-<; slow and distinct,—

— nnnV

l-'inditig th.- lahl-^s tliiis Inm.:] on myself, and not will-
ing Uj give :*rr, I'riie - any clew to [.our Vivian (wlio

A FAMILY PICTURE.

thus appeared, to my great satisfaction, to have finally
dropped an acquaintance more versatile than reputable),
I contrived, by a few evasive sentences, to keep Mr.
Peac — 's curiosity at a distance till he was summoned
in haste to change his attire for the domestic drama.
And so we parted.

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER Vr.

I HATB law details as cordially as my readers can, and
therefore I shall coiiU-iit myself with stating thai Mr.
r*ike'8 majiageiiient, at the end, not of tlireo days, but
of two Wi'cks, was so admirable that Uncle Jack was
drawn out of prison, and my fatlier extracted from all
his liabiiitios by a sum two-thiids lesa than was Sret
startlingly submitted to our indignant liorror, — and that,
too, in a niiiniier thai would have salislied the conscience
of the moi^t punctilious formalist, whose conttibution to
the national fund, for an omitted payment to the Income
Tax, tlie Chancellor of the Exchequer ever had the
honor U> ■icknowlcdt.'c Still the eiini was very large
1 pr I rt t f or f tl er come ; and what

tj J k 111 tl cl « of tl e Anti-Publisher
S t\ 1 1 — cl I „ t! er cx|iensive plates
tl t I 1 1 1 111 ]>rke and in great part

ll t 1 f r tl H tor f H n Error," — and
1 e II tl 1 1 1 1 The Capitalist;"

vhit r th the i / i i Mr P k t I nitally phrased a
gre t uji. f tree of t tot 1 I rinrl g o I into types, cases,
I t g pre « c e t II no to Ije resold at a
tl 1 f tl r I e It tl 1 It scmcnts and bills,
tl t 1 1 ercl II tl ! 1 II Iv which rubbish
1 1 1 1 ot tl r 1 t tl e tl ree kingdoms ■ what

tl tl e 1 les of r jiorl rt •\ 1 -ial r es of writers, who
hi! Ijcc engignl f r a ) ir ot I t to 'TIip Capitalist,"

I \l oae cU ms s r ed tl r 1 1 they had killed

A FAMILY PICTURE. 73

and buried; what, in short, with all that the combmed
ingenuity of Uncle Jack and Printer Peck could sui)j)ly
for the utter ruin of the Caxton family (even after all
deductions, curtailments, and after all that one could
extract in the way of just contribution from the least
unsubstantial of those shadows called the shareholders),
— my father's fortune was reduced to a sum of between
seven and eight thousiind pounds, which being placed
at mortgage at four per cent, yielded just X372, lOif.
a-year; enough for my father to live upon, but not
enough to afford also his son Pisistratus the advantages
of education at Trinity College, Cambridge. The blow
fell rather upon me than my father, and my young
shoulders bore it without much wincing.

This settled to our universal satisfaction, I went to
pay my farewell visit to Sir Sedley Beaudesert. He
had made much of me during my stay in London. I
had breakfasted and dined with him pretty often ; I had
presented Squills to him, who no sooner set eyes upon
that splendid conformation than he described his char-
acter with the nicest accuracy, as the necessary conse-
quence of such a development for the rosy pleasures of
life. We had never once retouclied on the subject of
Fanny's marriage, and both of us tacitly avoided even
mentioning the Trevanions. But in this last visit, though
he maintained the same reserve as to Fanny, he referred
without scruple to her father.

" Well, my young Athenian," said he, after congratu-
lating me on the result of the negotiations, and endeavor-
ing again in vain to bear at least some share in my father's
losses — " well, I see I caimot press tliis farther ; but at
least I cari press on you any little interest I may have, in
obtaining some appointment for yourself in one of the
public offices. Trevanion could of course be more useful,

74 TIIE CAXTOSS:

but I can unileretaiKl tbat he is not Xhc kind of aum you
would like to apjilj' to."

" Sltall I own ti) you, mj dear Sir Sedley, that I hare
no lA^te for official employmimil I &m too fond nf my
libeity. Since I have b«en ul my uncle's tild tower, I
account for half my chanLctei by the Bonlurei's bluod
that is ia me. I doubt if 1 am meiuit for the life of
cities ; and 1 have old floating notions in my head, that
will bwvc to amuse me when 1 get borne, and may lioltle
into schemes. And now to change llie subject, iiiny I
ask what kind of person has succeeded me as Mr. Tre-
vanion's secretary ! "

" Vkhy, he has got a liroad-ahouldered, stooi'ing fellow,
in spectacles and cotton stockings, wlio has written upon
' Rent,' I believe, — an iraaginutivc treatise in his case,
1 fear j for rent is b Ibii^ he could never liave received,
ainl not otli'n been truslt-d to pay. However, he L* one
of your iK)Iilieal cfcom niiisLi, mul wjinta Trevauion to sell
lii> piilurcs, as ' uniiimluctivf cajiital.' Less mild than
I'ojw's Xah.'i>.-^i, 'til luiilio a w;i,-li,' lie would cortJiinly
View a cliild.' livsi-k^s this otticial secrctarj-, Tre-
vaiiii'ii tnif-ts, liinveviT, ii fi'iil deal to a clever, giwd-
Imikiiif; Viiuii^' yentk-man, who is a great favorite with
him,'

" Wlial isliisnai.icl"

"His name? — oh, (louer; a iiatuml ^on, I believe, of
one of the GomT family."

Here two nf Sir Mi.ilrvs fi'lbnv line gi'utk-meu lounged
ill, and my visit ended.

A FAAIILY PICTURE. 75

CHAPTER VIL

" I 8WKAR," cried my uncle, " that it shall be so." And
with a big frown, and a truculent air, he seized the fatal
instrument.

" Indeed, brother, it must not," said my father, laying
one pale, scholarlike hand mildly on Cai)tain Roland's
brown, bellicose, and bony fist ; and with the other, out-
stretched, protecting the menaced, palpitating victim.

Not a word had my uncle heard of our losses, until
they had been adjusted, and the sum paid; for we all
knew that the old tower would have been gone — sold
to some neighboring squire or jobbing attorney — at
the first impetuous impulse of Uncle Roland's affection-
ate generosity. Austin endangered ! Austin mined ! —
he would never have rested till he came, cash in hand,
to his deliverance. Therefore, I say, not till all was
settled did I write to the Captain, and tell him gayly
what had chanced. And, however light I made of our
misfortunes, the letter brought the Captain to the red
brick house the same evening on which I myself reached
it, and about an hour later. My uncle had not sold the
tower, but he came prepared to carry us off to it vi e^
armis. We must live with him, and on him ; let or sell
the brick house, and put out the remnant of my father's
income to nurse and accumulate. And it was on finding
my father's resistance stubborn, and that hitherto he had
made no way, that my uncle, stepping back into the hall,
in which he had left his carpet bag, etc., returned with

it^wkr

*Ahm»A,lmjt^k 11 k J— d if «cd<>!-cxHd
^ ^JL. nMaMC. "Aad I knc Wen itiinfcjiig ■
Jjftat deal ^MO t&F Txttter, md 1 fcnv no Jijaht vim

^ 1 live «ith me,

lur.l for pen aii<I

<-:-J.. -Jt .iiffictdty.
- . -. ortlv«- of ih,-

^ :.-.r versy, with
n :}w S,inctii:iry/'

ih^y .hini.-ovl >:■■,? ::;..:■. :h.' .i-j~^:i.>n. — niv fatlitr now
■aA i-r Sir AV:i:;.im v!- TiNt-'n. i;.- ■(.■:.■ ,.f r>^>w..rth;
my ui^L'if all lor the im:;K>ri,il prinur. ^ind in iliis ilis-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 77

cussion they grew animated : tlieir eyes sparkled, their
voices rose, — Roland's voice deep and thunderous,
Austin's sharp and piercing. Mr. Squills stopped his
ears. Thus it arrived at that point, when my uncle
doggedly came to the end of all argumentation : " I
swear that it shall be so;" and my father, trying tlie
last resource of pathos, looked pleadingly into Roland's
eyes, and said, with a tone soft as mercy, "Indeed,
brother, it must not." Meanwhile the dry parchment
crisped, creaked, and trembled in every pore of its yellow
skin.

" But," said I, coming in, opportunely, like the Hora-
tian deity, " I don't see that either of you gentlemen
has a right so to dispose of my ancestry. It is quite cle^ir
that a man has no possession in posterity. Posterity may
possess him ; but deuce a bit will he ever be the better
for his great-great-grandchildren ! "

Squills. — " Hear, hear ! "

PisiSTRATUS (wanning). — " But a man's ancestry is a
positive property to him. How much, not only of acres,
but of his constitution, his temper, his conduct, character,
and nature he may inherit from some progenitor ten times
removed I Nay, without that progenitor, would he ever
have been born, — would a Squills ever have introduced
him into the world, or a nurse ever have carried him
npo kolpof^*

Squills. — " Hear, hear ! "

PisiSTRATUS (with dignified emotion). — " Xo man,
therefore has a right to rob anotlier of a forefather
with a stroke of his pen, from any motives, liowsoever
amiable. In the present instance, you will say, per-
haps, that the ancestor in question is apocryphal, — it
may be the printer, it may be the knight. Granto<l ;
but here, where history is in fault, shall a mere senti-

THK CAXTONS:

ment decide ? T^Tiile botli are doulitful, my imugmation
[ippropriates both. At one time I can reverence induB-
try and learning in the printer ; at another, valor and
devotion in the knight. This kindly douht gives me
two great forefathers, and through them, t«'o trains of
idea that infliieni^e tiiy conduct under difl'ereiit circum-
stancea. I will not [lenoit you. Captain B<iland, to rob
me of either forefather, either train of idea. Leave,
then, this sacred void, nnfilled, nnprotaned ; and accept
this compromise of chivalrous courtesy : while my father
hves with the Captain, we will believe in the [irinter j
when away from the Captain, we will stand firm to the
knight."

" Good I " cried Uncle Roland, as I paused, a little out
of breath.

" And," aftid ray mother, softly, " I do think, Austin,
there is a way of settling the matter which will please
all parties. It is quite sad to think that poor Eidanil
and dear little Blanche should be all alone in the
tower ; and I am sure that we should be much happier
all togetlier."

" There," crietl Roland, triumphantly. " If you are
not the most obstinate, hard-hearted, unfeeling brute
in the world, — which I don't take you to lie, — brother
Austin, after that really beautiful speech of your wife's,
there is not a word to be said further."

" But we have not yet heard Kitty to the end, Roland."

" I bog your panlon a thousand times, ma'am — sister,"
said the Captain, bowing.

" Well, I was going to add," said my mother, " that
we wiU go and live with you, Roland, and club our
little fortunes together. Blanche and I will take cara
of tlie house, and we shall he just twice as rich together

separately."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 79

" Pretty sort of hospitality that ! " grunted the Cap-
tain. " I did not expect you to throw me over in that
way. No, no; you must lay by for the boy there.
What's to become of him?"

" But we shall all lay by for hhn," said my mother,
simply ; " you as well as Austin. We shall have more
to save if we have more to spend."

" Ah, save ! — that is easily said ; there would be a
pleasure in saving, then," said the Captain, mournfully.

" And what 's to become of me ? " cried Squills, very
petulantly. " Am I to be left here in my old age, — not
a rational soul to speak to, and no other place in the vil-
lage where there 's a drop of decent punch to be had 1
' A plague on both your houses ! ' as the cliap said at the
theatre the other night."

" There 's room for a doctor in our neighborhood, Mr,
Squills," said tlie Captain. "The gentleman in your
profession who does for m*, wants, I know, to sell the
business."

" Humph ! " said Squills ; " a horribly healthy neigh-
borhood, I suspect ! "

" Why, it has that misfortune, Mr. Squills ; but with
your help," said my uncle, slyly, " a great alteration for
the better may be eflfected in that respect"

Mr. Squills was about to reply, when — ring — a-ting
— ring — ting ! there came such a brisk, impatient,
make-one's-self-at-homo kind of tintinabular alarum at
the great gate that we all started up and looked at each
other in surprise. Who could it possibly be ? We were
not kept long in suspense ; for in another moment Uncle
Jack's voice, which was always very clear and distinct,
pealed through the hall ; and we were still staring at
each other when Mr. Tibbets, with a bran-new muffler
round his neck and a peculiarly comfortable greatcoat, —

enU an; wfcirii be kaMcaad to ihaw, &Bt in m; fkUw'*
ttam, tmsl m my boUms^ He An Bade « nvh Kt tke
Ctftaia, who fpff^ liieiilf btJund tbe danb-vnuUc
wUh«*'H«B! Mt — " ' ik — or — beB.bnail''
Foilt^ thm^ ICtL TflnMiH bed off Ifas nmammg
froat upon lii* donUtf Saxa uiHt jt>iir hmxiUe sar-
nnt, pstted Sqnilk aSeetioa i on the Inck, and Uien
pntteAeA to oecupj his &v<»nl« [Msilioa Itefaiv the
An.

"Tiwk y<Ki bjr saqme, «b(' aaiil Uode Jack, on-
|N%ling hinuelf Lj tlie heaith-nig. "But no, not b;
aUT[iruie ; you roust bare known Jack's heart : you at loaa^
Auntin Caxton, who know eveiytbiiig — you must have
men that it m-eiflowed with the tcmlerest ami most
bmihcHy emotions ; that once delivemi fnnu that cursed
Fl'-ft (you (line no i.Iea what a place it is, sirX I could
ii-l if^t, iii-}]t r.r (lay, till I h:i.l floivu here, — here, to
tli<: .!(Mr f.niiily iie.-t — ["-r woumlcd dove tliat I am!"
i.ildrd V\,-l- .Tuik, [latlictiiiilly, and tiiking out his
[KKki't IritiilkiTrlii.-f from the doulile Saxony, which he
liiLd li'iiv Hunt; "viT my fiithcr's arm-rhair.

Not ii iviiiii Ti']ilir>d to tliis tlfMjueiit address, witli its
1'Mii'liinv i"r^.h[tiri]i. My motlier hmig lioHn her pretty
lii'iLiI, mid luiiki'.l asliameii. My uiiele retreated quite
iiiLii tljM iiiitiiT, aiir] drew the dumlj-ivaiter after hiui,
■"■ us t.. c^ii.hli-li a ,,,i]i|.irte fi.rtilicdtion. Mr. Squills
•»■■„..:[ 111,. ,„.|i tlial li.,hind had thrown down, imd begim
iiic'iidiiiH it fiiri..ii>!y, --tli;il is, c;iitttnR it into slivera y
tiii'ivliy d.Mi..i:iiH, syii,linli,.;dly, h.m he would like to do
will. Ifii.l,. .F,i,1(, ,..,uld lie oiioe yet him 8af« and snug
uiidi.c hiH riijiiii|iiikii' i>|„T:ili,.ijs. I U.„t over the
|"'di,,.iv,.. mid my fatliiT nililied hi.s s[,ti.tacles.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 81

The silence would have been appalling to another man :
nothing appalled Uncle Jack.

Uncle Jack turned to the fire, and warmed first one foot,
then the other. This comfortable ceremony performed,
he again faced the company, and resumed, musingly, and
as if answering some imaginary observations, —

" Yes, yes, you are right there ; and a deuced unlucky
speculation it proved too. But I was overruled by that
fellow Peck. Says I to him, says I, * " Capitalist " ?
Pshaw ! No popular interest there ; it don't address the
great public ! Very confined class the capitalists j better
throw ourselves boldly on the people ! Yes,' said I,
'call it the "Anti-Capitalist."' By Jove, sir, we should
have carried all before us ! but I was overruled. The

* Anti-Capitalist ' ! — what an idea ! Address the whole
reading world, there, sir. Everybody hates the capitalist ;
everybody would have his neighbor's money. The

* Anti-Capitalist ' ! — sir, we should have gone off, in tlie
manufacturing towns, like wildfire. But what could
I do — "

"John Tibbets," said my father, solemnly, " ' Capi-
talist ' or * Anti-Capitalist^' thou hadst a right to follow
thine own bent in either, — but always provided it had
been with thine own money. Thou seest not the thing,
John Tibbets, in the right point of view; and a little
repentance in the face of those thou hast wronged would
not have misbecome thy father's son and thy sister's
brother ! "

Never had so severe a rebuke issued from the mild
lips of Austin Caxton ; and I raised my eyes with a com-
passionate thrill, expecting to see John Tibbets gradually
sink and disappear through the carpet.

" Repentimce ! " cried Uncle Jack, bounding up as if
he had been shot. " And do you think I have a heart

VOL. II. — 6

Tm GAXTCniS:

cSaUme, — iirimiiiiinhliinl Do jou tMnk I don't repent 1
I ban <1mk DOthing bat lepoit; 1 shall repent to m;
djing dsr."

" The& then » vo more to be ani. Jack," cnod mj
ikllier, dofteDiD^ and holding out his hk&iL

"Ym!" cried Ur. l^bbeU, seiziDg the hand, and
pnauDg it to the hewt he HmI thus defpnded from tlie
suspjoMi of bring pumioe — "yw, that I shoold liare
tiaat«d that d[iiul«t4ie*ded, naeally, curmudgeon Peck ;
that 1 thotild Iwve let him csU it 'The Capitalist,' de-
tfite all nij eoDvietions, vhen the 'Anti' — "

" PfltiAir : " int«rrapl«d mv hther, drawing away Ms

hUMl

"John," said my mother, grarely, and with tears ia
her Tuice, "yuu forget who delivered you from priEon ;
yon fotget whom you hare nearly couaigQed to prison
yottraelf ; yon forg — - "

" Hn^h, hash I " said my father, " this will never do ;
and it i* viiu wh-.' fi>rj.ft, my dear, tlii' oMig-.ilioHs I owe
to Jack. ' He h;is re>hic.-d i!iy fortune one-half, it is true ;
but 1 vcrilv think he has niaile the three hearts, in
which lie iiiy real trcasiin.'*, twice as large as they were
l>efore. I'l si stratus, my hoy, riny the bell."

"My ilear Kitly," cried Jack, whimperingly, and steal-
ing u]> to nty uiotlier, " don't Iw so hani on me ; I thought
to make all your fortunes, — I did indeed."

Hf re the servant entered.

"See that Mr. Tibl^ts's things are taken up to his
pioin, and that there is a good fire," said my father.

"And," continued Jack, loftily, "I wil/ make all
your fortunes yet. I have it here/" and he struck his

he.id.

"Stay a moment '." s;ud i
who liad got Kiek to the do.

father to the servant,
" Stay a moment," said

A FAMILY PICTURE. 83

my father, looking extremely frightened ; " perhaps Mr.
Tibbets may prefer the inn ! "

" Austin," said Uncle Jack, with emotion, " if I were
a dog, with no home but a dog-kennel, and you came to
me for shelter, I would turn out — to give you the best
of the straw."

My father was thoroughly melted this time.

"Primmins will be sure to see everything is made
comfortable for Mr. Tibbets," said he, waving his hand to
the servant. " Something nice^ for supper, Kitty, my
dear — and the largest punch-bowl. You like punch.
Jack ? "

" Punch, Austin ! " said Uncle Jack, putting his
handkerchief to his eyes.

The Captain pushed aside the dumb-waiter, strode
across the room, and shook hands with Uncle Jack ; my
mother buried her face in her apron, and fairly ran off ;
and Squills said in my ear, " It all comes of the biliary
secretions. Nobody could account for this who did not
know the peculiarly fine organization of your father's —
liver ! "

PART TWELFTH.

CHAKfKR I.

Thb Hegira is completeil, — we have all taken roost in
the old tower. Mj father's books have arrived by the
wngon, and have eettleil themselves quietly in their new
abode, — filling up the apartment dedicated to their
owner, including the bed-chamber and two lobbies. The
duck also has arrived, under wing of Mrs. Primmina, and
has reconciled herself to the old etewjKiiid, by the side of
which my father has found a walk that compensates for
the peach-wall, especiaUy as he has made acquaintance
with sundry respectable carp*, who permit him to feed
them after he has fed the duck, — a priviteye of which
(since, if any one else approaches, the carps are off in an
instant) my father is naturally vain. All privileges are
vtiluahle in proportion to the exclusiveness of their
enjoyment.

Now, from the moment the first carp had eaten the
bread my father threw to it, ilr. Caxton had menttdly
resolved that a race so confiding should never be sacri-
ficed to Ceres and Primmina. But all the fishes on my
un le prop rty were under the special care of that Pro-
te B It and Bolt was not a man likely to suffer the

ps t n their bread without contributing their full

h t the wauts of the commmiity. But, like mastei

A FAMILY PICTURE. 85

like man ! Bolt was an aristocrat fit to be hung d la Ian-
teme. He out-Rolanded Roland in the respect he enter-
tained for sounding names and old families ; and by that
bait my father caught him with such skill that you might
see that if Austin Caxton had been an angler of fishes,
he could have filled his basket full any day, shine or
rain.

"You observe, Bolt," said my father, beginning art-
fully, "that those fishes, dull as you may think them,
are creatures capable of a syllogism; and if they saw
that in proportion to their civility to me they were de-
populated by you, they would put two and two together,
and renounce my acquaintance."

"Is that what you call being silly Jems, sir?" said
Bolt. " Faith ! there is many a good Christian not half
so wise."

"Man," answered my father, thoughtfully, "is an
animal less syllogistical, or more silly Jemical, than
many creatures popularly esteemed his inferiors. Yes,
let but one of those Cyprinidae, with his fine sense of
logic, see that if his fellow-fishes eat bread they are
suddenly jerked out of their element, and vanish for-
ever ; and though you broke a quartern loaf into crumbs,
he would snap his tail at you with enlightened contempt.
If," said my father, soliloquizing, " I had been as syllo-
gistic as those scaly logicians, I should never have swal-
lowed that hook, which — Hum! there — least said
soonest mended. But, Mr. Bolt, to return to the
Cyprinid»."

" "What 's the hard name you call them 'ere carp, your
honor ? " asked Bolt.

" Cyprinidae, — a family of the section Malacoptergii
Abdominales," replied Mr. Caxton ; " their teeth are
generally confined to the Pharyngeans, and their bran-

THE CAXTOHS:

chiostegoua rajs are but few, — marks of diKlinction from
fishes vulgar and voracious."

" Sir," eaiil Bolt, glaucing to the stewpond, " if I had
known they had been a family of such importance, I am
sure I should have treated them with more respect."

"They are a very old family. Bolt, and have been
settled in England since the fourteenth century. A
younger branch of the family has eetahliahed itself in a
pond in the gardens of Peterhoff (the celebrated palace
of Peter the Great, Bolt, — an emperor highly respected
by my brother, for he killed a great many people very
gloriously in battle, besides those whom he sabred for
his own [irivate amuaeinent) ; and there is an officer or
servant of the Imperial household whose t&sk it is to
summon those Russian CyprJnidte to dinner by ringing
a bell, shortly after wliich you may see the emperor and
empress, with all their waiting ladies and gentlemen, com-
ing down iji their carriages to see the Cyprinidee eat in
state. So you perceive. Bolt, that it would be a republi-
can, Jacobinical proceeiling to stew members of a family
BO intimately associated with royalty."

" Dear me, sir," said Bolt, " I am very glad you told
me. I ought to have known they were genteel fish, they
are so mighty shy, — as all your real quality are,"

My father smiled, and rubbed his hands gently ;
had carried his point, and henceforth the Cyprinidffi o£
the section Malacoptergii Abdominales were as sacred in |
Bolt's eyes as cats and ichneumons were in those of a
priest in Thebes.

My poor father 1 with what true and unoatentatioiu
philosophy thou didst accommodate thyself to the great-
est change thy quiet, harmless lite had known since it
bad passed out of the brief burning cycle of the passions.
Lost was the home endeared to tliee by so many noiseless

A FAMILY PICTURE. 87

victories of the mind, so many mute histories of the heart ;
for only the scholar knoweth how deep a charm lies in
monotony, in the old associations, the old ways, and
habitual clockwork of peaceful time. Yet the home
may be replaced, — thy heart built its home round itself
everywhere, — and the old tower might supply the loss of
the brick house, and the walk by the stewpond become
as dear as the haunts by the sunny peach- wall ; but what
shall replace to thee the bright dream of thine innocent
ambition, — that angel-wing which had glittered across
thy manhood, in the hour between its noon and its set-
ting ? Wliat replace to thee the Magnum Opus — the
Great Book ! — fair and broad-spreading tree, lone
amidst the sameness of the landscape, now plucked up
by the roots. The oxygen was subtracted from the air
of thy life. For be it known to you, 0 my compassion-
ate readers, that with the death of the Anti-Publisher
Society the blood-streams of the Great Book stood still ;
its pulse was arrested, its full heart beat no more. Three
thousand copies of the first seven sheets in quarto,
with sundry unfinished plates, anatomical, architectural,
and graphic, depicting various developments of the hu-
man skull (that temple of Human Error), from the
Hottentot to the Greek ; sketches of ancient buildings,
Cyclopean and Pelasgic; Pyramids and Pur-tors, all
signs of races whose handwriting was on their walls;
landscapes to display the influence of Nature upon the
customs, creeds, and philosophy of men, — here showing
how the broad Chaldean wastes led to the contemplation
of the stars ; and illustrations of the Zodiac, in elucida-
tion of the mysteries of symbol-worship ; fantastic vaga-
ries of earth fresh from the Deluge, tending to impress
on early superstition the awful sense of the rude powers
of Xature ; views of the rocky defiles of Laconia ; Sparta,

88 THE CAXTONS;

neighbored by the " silent AmycliB," explain iiig, as it were
gpogmphically, the iron customa of the warrior colony
{arch-Tori as, amitbt thp shift and roar of Hellenic democ-
rttcies), contrasteil by the seas ami coasts and cmeks at
Athena and Ionia, tempting to adventure, conimerct!, aiiil
change. Yea, my fatlier, in his suggestions to tho artist
of those (ew imperfect plates, hnd thrown as much light
on the infancy of earth and its trilies as by tho "shining
words " that flowed from his calm, starry knowledge !
Plates and copies, all rested now in peace and dust,
" housed with darkness and with death," on tho sepul-
chral shelves of the lobby to which they were consigned,
— rays intercepted, worlds incompleted. The Prome-
theus was bound, and the fire he had stolen from heaven
lay imbedded in the flints i>f his rock ; for eo costly was
the mould in which Uncle Jack and the Anti-Publiabei
Society had contrived to cast this Exposition of Human
Error, that every bookseller shyed at its very sight, as
an o\kl blinks at da^li^ht, or human error at truth. In
vain Sqinll' and I, btfore we left London, had carried
a gijjiiitic s|>eiinicn of the Magnum Opus into the back-
]Kirl irs of hrm"! the most opulent and adventurous.
Piiblislur iftet pnbh--liir started, as if we had heUl a
bliinib rliii'^ to hi-, eii Ml Paterno.stcr Row uttered a
"Lord dehver us!" Human Error found no man so
egrogioiisly its victim aa to complete those two quartos,
with tho ]>rospe('t of two others, at Iiis own expense.
Now, I had earnestly hoped that my fatlier, for the
sake (if mankind, would he persuadeii to risk some por-
tion — and that, I own, not a small one — of his rc-
mnhiiiig capital on the conclusion of an undertaking so
chibiirately begun. Hut there my father was oMurate.
No hi;; wonl.s alamt mankind, and the advantage to un-
born gi'iiiTiition.i, could stir hiin an inch. "Stuff!" said

A FAMILY PICTURE. 89

Mr. Caxton, peevishly. "A man's duties to maukind
and posterity begin with his own son ; and having wasted
half your patrimony, I will not take another huge slice
out of the poor remainder to gratify my vanity, for that
is the plain truth of it. Man must atone for sin by ex-
piation. By the book I have sinned, and the book must
expiate it. Pile the sheets up in the lobby, so that at
least one man may be wiser and humbler by the sight of
Human Error, every time he walks by so stupendous a
monument of it.**

Verily, I know not how my father could bear to look
at those dumb fragments of himself, — strata of the Cax-
tonian conformation lying layer upon layer, as if packed
up and disposed for the inquisitive genius of some moial
Murchison or Mantell. But for my part, I never glanced
at their repose in the dark lobby, without thinking, " Cour-
age, Pisistratus ! courage ! there 's something worth living
for ; work hard, grow rich, and the Great Book shall come
out at last."

Meanwhile, I wandered over the country, and made
acquaintance with the farmers, and with Trevanion's
steward, — an able man, and a great agriculturist, — and
I learned from them a better notion of the nature of my
uncle's domains. Those domains covered an immense
acreage, which, save a small farm, was of no value at
present. But land of the same sort had been lately re-
deemed by a simple kind of draining, now well known
in Cumberland ; and with capital, Roland's barren moors
might become a noble property. But capital, where was
that to come from ? Nature gives us all except the means
to turn her into marketable account. As old Plautus saith
so wittily, " Day, night, water, sun, and moon are to be
had gratis ; for everything else — down with your dust ! "

TUE UAJCIONS:

CHAPTER n.

a has been heard of Uncle Jack. Before we left
onck house the CapUiD gave him an invitation to
uie lower, — more. I suspect, out of cwmpliment to my
motheT, tliuu from the unbiildea impulse of his own in-
tliiiationa. But Mr. Tihbets politely declined it. Dur-
iug his stay at the brick house he had received and
written a vast uumber of letters, — some of those he re-
ceived, indeed, were left at the village poaUofficc, under
the alphabetical addressee of A B or X Y ; for no mis-
fortune ever paralyzed the energies of Uncle Jack. In
the winter of adversity he vanished, it is true ; but even
in vanishing, he vegetated still. He resembled those
iilffff, tcrmi'd (lie I'rulococcus nivales, wliich give a rose-
color to the Polar snows that conceal them, and flourish
unsuspected amidst the general dissolution of Mature.
Uncle Jack, llieii, was as lively and sanguine as ever, —
though lie begiui to Jet fall vngue hints of intentions to
aliaiidon the generd cause of his fellow-creatures, and to
set up business lieuceforth purely on Ids own account ;
whercivith my fatlier — to the great shock of my belief
in his phi]anthnii>y — expre.'^sed himself much pleased.
.\nd I strongly su^ijiect that, when Uncle Jack wrapped
jiimself \ip in his new doulile Saxony, and went off at
last, he carried with liini something more tJian my
father's gooil wislies in aid of his conversion to egotistical
jihilosophy.

■' That niiui will do yet," said my father, as the last
glimpse Wiis caught of Uncle Jack standing up on the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 91

stage-coach box, beside the driver, partly to wave his
hand to us as we stood at the gate, and partly to array
himself more commodiously in a box-coat with six capes,
which the coachman had lent him.

** Do you think so, sir ? " said I, doubtfully. " May
I ask why?"

Mr. Caxton. — " On the cat principle, — that he
tumbles so lightly. You may throw him down from
St. Paul's and the next time you see him he will be
scrambling a-top of the Monument"

PisiSTRATUS. — " But a cat the most viparious is
limited to nine lives ; and Uncle Jack must be now far
gone in his eighth."

Mr. Caxton (not heeding that answer, for he has got
his hand in his waistcoat). — " The earth, according to
Apuleius, in his * Treatise on the Philosophy of Plato,'
was produced from right-angled triangles ; but fire and
air from the scalene triangle, — the angles of which, I
need not say, are very different from those of a right-
angled triangle. Now, I think there are people in the
world of whom one can only judge rightly according to
those mathematical principles applied to their original
construction : for if air or fire predominates in our
natures, we are scalene triangles ; if earth, right-angled.
Now, as air is so notably manifested in Jack's conform-
ation, he is, nolens volens, produced in conformity with
his preponderating element. He is a scalene triangle,
and must be judged, accordingly, upon irregular, lop-
sided principles ; whereas you and I, commonplace mortals,
are produced, like the earth, which is our preponderating
element, with our triangles all right-angled, comfortable,
and complete, — for which blessing let us thank Provi-
dence, and be charitable to those who are necessarily
windy and gaseous, from that unlucky scalene triangle

92 THE CAXTONS;

npoD whicli tliey Imvo had the miafortiine lo be con-
structeil, and which, you perceive, is quite at
with the miithemiilical constitution of tlte earth

PisiaTBATira. — " Sir, I am very happy to hear bo
simple, easy, and iutelUgible an explanation of tJnelfl
Jack's peculiarities ; and I only hope thiit for the future
the sides of his scalene triangle may never be produced
to our rectiKigular conformations."

Mr. Caxton (descending from his stilts with an air
as mildly roproachfvil as if I had been eaviUing at tlie
virtues of Socrates) — " You don't do your uncle justice,
Fisistratus ; he ts a very dever man ; and I am sure
that, in spite of his scalene misfortune, he would he an
honest one — that is (added Mr. Caxton, correcting him-
self), not romanticjiUy or heroicully honest, but honest
as men go — if ho could but keep his head loug enough
above ivnter; but, you see, when the best man in tha
world is en';ii'!fil in the process of sinking, he catches
hold of wluitrvir ciMne.'i in his way, and drowns the v<

friend >

; to sa'

rery

PisidTnATUH. — "IVrfeclly true, sir ; but L'liclc Jack
makes it liis business to be always sinking!"

Mr. Caxto.n (with },aivet/). — " AiA bow could it be
otJierwisc, when be has been carrying all his feliow-
creatures in his breeches pockets! Now he has got rid
of that dead weight, I should not Iw surprised if he
swam like a cork."

PisisTRATUs (who, since the " Capitiilist," has becnrao a
Etrong Anti-lark ia] I ). — " But if, sir, you really think
Uncle Jack's love for bis fellow-creatures is genuine, that
is suri'ly not the worst part of biin "

ifu. Ca.xto.n. — " O littua! rat iw inn tor, and dull to the
true logic of Attic irony ! can't you cimiiireheml that an
ad'ectioa may be getuiiiie as felt by IIju man, yet its

A FAMILY PICTURE. 93

nature be spurious in relation to others 1 A man may
genuinely believe he loves his fellow-creatures, when he
roasts them like Torquemada, or guillotines them like
Saint Just ! Happily Jack's scalene triangle, being more
produced from air than from fire, does not give to his
philanthropy the inflammatory character which distin-
guishes the benevolence of inquisitors and revolutionists.
The philanthropy, therefore, takes a more flatulent and
innocent form, and expends its strength in mounting
paper balloons, out of which Jack pitches himself, with
all the fellow-creatures he can coax into sailing with him.
No doubt Uncle Jack's philanthropy is sincere, when he
cuts the string and soars up out of sight; but the
sincerity will not much mend their bruises when himself
and fellow-creatures come tumbling down neck and heels.
It must be a very wide heart that can take in all mankind,
and of a very strong fibre to bear so much stretching.
Such hearts there are. Heaven be thanked ! and all
praise to them ! Jack's is not of that quality. He is a
scalene triangle. He is not a circle ! And yet, if he
would but let it rest, it is a good heart, — a very good
heart (continued my father, warming into a tenderness
quite infantine, all things considered). Poor Jack ! that
was prettily said of him, — * That if he were a dog, and
he had no home but a dog-kennel, he would turn out to
give me the best of the straw ! ' Poor brother Jack ! "

So the discussion was dropped ; and, in the mean
while. Uncle Jack, like the short-faced gentleman in
the " Spectator," " distinguished himself by a profound
silence."

THE CASTONS :

CHAPTER III.

Blanphb has contrived to aBsociate herself, if not with my
more uttive diversionB, — in running over the eounlry,
and making friends with llie farmers, — still in all my
nioro leiaurely and domestic pursuits. There is about
her a silent charm that it is very hard to define, but it
seems to arise from a kind of innate sympathy with the
moods and humors of those she loves. If one is gay,
tliere is a cheerful ring in her silver laugh that seeniB
gladness itself ; if one is sad, and creeps away into a
corner to bury one's head in one's hand, and muse, by-
and-by, and just at the right momeut, when one has
mused one's fill, and the heart wants something to refresh
and restore it, one feels two innocent arras round one's
neck, looks up, and lo ! Blanche's soft eyes, full of
wistful compas«ioiiate liiniiiies?, though she has the tact
not to question. It is enough for her to sorrow with
your sorrow ; she cares not to know more A strange
child ! — fearles,?, and yet sei^mingly fond of things that
inspire children with fear; fond of tales of fay, spriU-,
and ghost, which Mrs. Primmins draws fresh and new
from hor memory, as a conjurer draws pancakes hot and
hot from a hat. And yet so sure is Bhinehe of licr own
innocence, that they never trouble her dreams in her lone
little room, full of caligiuous corners anil nooks, with the
winds moaning round the desolate ruins, and the case-
ments rattling honr.se in the dungeon-like wall. She
woidd have no dread to walk through the ghostly keep
in the dark, or cross the churchyard, what time, —
" By the niuou's doubtful aud malignant liyhl,"

A FAMILY PICTURE. 95

the grave-stones look so spectral, and the shade from the
yew-trees lies so still on the sward. When the brows of
Roland are gloomiest, and the compression of his lips
makes sorrow look sternest, be sure that Blanche is
couched at his feet, waiting the moment when, with some
heavy sigh, the muscles relax, and she is sure of the
smile if she climbs to his knee. It is pretty to chance on
her gliding up broken turret-stairs, or standing hushed in
the recess of shattered casements, and you wonder what
thoughts of vague awe and solemn pleasure can be at
work under that still little brow.

She has a quick comprehension of all that is taught to
her ; she already tasks to the full my mother's educational
arts. My father has had to rummage his library for
books, to feed (or extinguish) her desire for "farther
information ; " and has promised lessons in French and
Italian, — at some golden time in the shadowy " By-and-
by/' — which are received so gratefully that one might think
Blanche mistook " T^lemaque " and " Novelle Morali **
for baby-houses and dolls. Heaven send her through
French and Italian with better success than attended Mr.
Caxton's lessons in Greek to Pisistratus ! She has an ear
for music, which my mother, who is no bad judge, declares
to be exquisite. Luckily, there is an old Italian settled
in a town ten miles off, who is said to be an excellent
music-master, and who comes the round of the neighbor-
ing squirearchy twice a-week. I have taught her to
draw, — an accomplishment in which I am not without
skill, — and she has already taken a sketch from nature,
which, barring the perspectives, is not so amiss ; indeed,
she has caught the notion of "idealizing" (which
promises future originality) from her own natural
instincts, and given to the old witchelm that hangs
over the stream, just the bow that it wanted to dip into

THE CAXTOXS:

*' water, and Mften off tlie hard lines. Mj ouljr few is,

fflaaebe eluniM become too dreamj and tliauglitfuL

[ diild, ahe has DO one to play iritb t So I liv^ oat,

t her H dog — frisky ntd voun^ who ibhon

eniBiy occnpatiaBs, — a ejmuel, small and cml-Uack,
eanawer^jing th* ground. I baptize him"Juba,"
moi of Adiliaon'a Cnto, and in ron^denitioii of bid
e (Turla and MauntsnUt) complexiim. Blandie docs

. seem eo e«rie and elMike while gliding through the
luuu^ when Juln haika bj her side, and scaies the birds
bwm the i^y.

One daj I bad been paring to and fro the liall, irhich
waa desert«d ; and the eight of the armor aiid portraits
— dumb evidences of the active and oilventurous livee
of the old inhabitants, which seemed to rpprove my own
inactive oWuritj — had set me off on one of those
P«gas^an hobbies on 'whieb j'outh mounts to the skies
(delivering maidens on rocks, and killing Gorgons and
monsters) when Jul>a huuinled in, anil Miinclie came
aftiT liini, h'T straw-liat in her hand.

EuNcuE — " I thoiiglil vou were here, Sisty ; may I
sliiy ?"

I'l:'] STRATI'S. — " \\njy, my dear child, the day is so
fine lli^it, iii^U'jii of Iii>in^4 il in-ihmrs, you ou^ht to be
running in the fi.'Ms with Jula."

.TUDA. — " r...«-.wow."

Bl-^schk. — " Will you cometo<.t If Sisty sUys in,
Blanche docs not rare for tlie huUerflies ! "

1'isistraUi.s, seeing that llie thread of his daj-tlreanis
is liroken, consents with an ;iir of resignation. Just as
they gain the diwr, llKiriclni pauses, and looks as if there
were something on her mind.

PiaisTfiATua. — \^■h.a now, IJlaiiehel Why are yon
milking knots in th^il riUn>n, and writing invisible

A FAMILY PICTURE. 97

Characters on the floor with the point of that busy little
foot 1 "

Blanche (mysteriously). — "I have found a new room,
Sisty Do you think we may look mto it 1 "

PisiSTRATUS. — " Certainly ; unless any Bluebeard of
your acquaintance told you not. Where is it 1 "

Blanche. — " Up-stairs — to the left."

PisiSTRATUS. — " That little old door, going down two
stone steps, which is always kept locked ? "

Blanche. — " Yes ; it is not locked to-day. The door
was ajar, and I peeped in ; but I would not do more
till I came and asked you if you thought it would not
be wrong."

PisiSTRATUS. — " Very good in you, my discreet little
cousin. I have no doubt it is a ghost-trap; however,
with Juba's protection, I think we might venture
together."

Pisistratus, Blanche, and Juba, ascend the stairs, and
turn ofF down a dark passage to the left, away from the
rooms in use. We reached the arch-pointed door of oak
planks nailed roughly together; we push it open, and
perceive that a small stair winds down from the room :
it is just over Roland's chamber.

The room has a damp smell, and has probably been
left open to be aired, for the wind comes through the
unbarred casement, and a billet burns on the hearth.
The place has that attractive, fascinating air which
belongs to a lumber-room, than which I know nothing
that so captivates the interest and fancy of young peo-
ple. What treasures, to them, often lie hid in those
quaint odds and ends which the elder generations have
discarded as rubbish ! All children are by nature anti-
quarians and relic-hunters. Still there is an order and
precision with which the articles in that room are stowed

VOL. II. — 7

98 THK CAXroKs:

ai«s7 that helies the true Qotion of tumlxr, — nnne vl the
mildew and dust which give such mournful iiitereet to
things alnadoned to decay.

Id one comer are piled up casest and militaiy-Itx^iDg
tninks of ouUaiidi.<h aspect, with B. I). C. in brasa noils
on their sides. From these wi' Luru with involuntary te-
apot, and call off Juba, who lias wedged himself behind
in pnrsuit of some imagtaar? lumi^e But in the other
comer is what seems to me a child's cradle, — not an
English one evidently : it is of wood, seeroinglj Spanish
loaewood, wiUi a railwork at the back of twisted col-
umna ; and I should scarcely have known it to be a
cradle but for the fairy-like quilt and the tiaj pillows
which proclaimed its uses.

On the wall above the cwdle were nrranged sundry
little articles;, that had, perlia|Ki, ouce mado the joj of
a child's heart, — broken toys \nth the paint rubbed off,
a tin sword and trumpet and a few tattered books, mostly

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A FAMILY PICTURE. 99

than he now wrote. The words were these : " The best
and bravest of our line. He charged by Sidney's side on
the field of Zutphen ; he fought in Drake's ship against
the armament of Spain. If ever I have a — " The rest
of the label seemed to have been torn ofF.

I turned away, and felt a remorseful shame that I had
so far gratified my curiosity, — if by so harsh a name the
powerful interest that had absorbed me must be called.
I looked round for Blanche ; she had retreated from my
side to the door, and, with her hands before her eyes,
was weeping. As I stole towards her, my glance fell
on a book that lay on a chair near the casement, and
beside those relics of an infancy once pure and serene.
By the old-fashioned silver clasps I recognized Roland's
Bible. I felt as if I had been almost guilty of profana-
tion in my thoughtless intrusiont I drew away Blanche,
and we descended the stairs noiselessly ; and not till we
were on our favorite spot, amidst a heap of ruins on the
feudal justice-hill, did I seek to kiss away her tears and
ask the cause.

"My poor brother ! " sobbed Blanche, " they must have
been his — and we shall never, never see him again ! —
and poor papa's Bible, which he reads when he is very,
very sa<l ! I did not weep enough when my brother
died. I know better what death is now ! Poor papa !
poor papa ! Don't die, too, Sisty ! "

There was no running after butterflies that morning ;
and it was long before I could soothe Blanche Indeed
she bore the traces of dejection in her soft looks for
many, many days; and she often asked me, sighingly,
" Don't you think it was very wrong in me to take you
there ? " Poor little Blanche, true daughter of Eve, she
would not let me bear my due share of the blame ; she
would have it all in Adam's primitive way of justice, —

TUB OAXT0N8:

"Tlie woman teiniitetl me, and I did eat." And eiML-e
th<->n Blanche has seemed mure fond than ever of Ro-
Innd, and comparatively deserts me to nestle close to
him, and closer, till ha ionics up and says, "My ohilJ,
you are pale: ){o and run after the butterflies ;" and
shp aays now to him, not to me, "Come tool" drawing
liim out into the sunshine with a hand that will not
loose its hold.

Of all Roland's line, this Herbert de Caxton was "tlie
best and bravest 1 " 3'et he had never named that ances-
tor to me, — never put any forefather in comparison with
the dubious ami mythical Sir William. I now remem-
bered once that, in going over the pedigree, I fand been
struck by tiie name of Herlwrt, — the only Herbert in
the scroll, —and had asked, "What of him, undet"
and Roland had muttered aomething inaudible, and
turned away And I remembered, also, that in Ro-
land's room there was the mark in the wall where a
picture of that size had once huiifj The picture had
been removed thence befni'e ive first came, but must have
hnng there for years to have left that mark on the wall,
— perhaps susjiemlod by Bolt, during Roland's long Con
linental alisenco. " If eicr I have a — " What were the
missing wordsl Alas! did they not relate to the son —
missed forever, evidently not forgotten still 1

A FAMILY PICTUBE. 101

CHAPTER IV.

Mt uncle sat on one side the fireplace, my mother on the
other, and I at a small table between them, prepared to
note down the results of their conference ; for they had
met in high council, to assess their joint fortunes, — de-
tennine what should be brought into the common stock,
and set apart for the Civil List, and what should be laid
aside as a Sinking Fund. Now, my mother, true woman
as she was, had a womanly love of show in her own quiet
way; of making "a genteel figure" in the eyes of the
neighborhood ; of seeing that sixpence not only went as
far as sixpence ought to go, but that, in the going, it
should emit a mild but imposing splendor, — not, indeed,
a gaudy flash, a startling Borealian coruscation, which is
scarcely within the modest and placid idiosyncrasies of
sixpence, — but a gleam of gentle and benign light, just
to show where a sixpence had been, and allow you time
to say " Behold ! " before, —

" The jaws of darkness did devour it up.''

Thus, as I once before took occasion to apprise the
reader, we had always held a very respectable position
in the neighborhood round our square brick house ; been
as sociable as my father's habits would permit ; given our
little tea-parties, and our occasional dinners, and, without
attempting to vie with our richer associates, there had al-
ways been so exquisite a neatness, so notable a liouse-
keeping, so thoughtful a disposition, in short, of all the
properties indigenous to a well-spent sixpence, in my
mother's management, that there was not an old maid

THB CAXTONS;

williiu seven miles of us who did not pronounce our t«a-
parliea to be perfect; and the great Mrs. Rollick, who
gave forty guineas a-year to a professed cook and honse-
ktejier, used regularly, whenever we dined at Rollick
Hall, to call across the table to my mother (who there-
with blushed up to her ears), to apologize for the etraw-
berry jelly. It is true, that wlien, on returning home,
my mother adve-rt«d to that flattering and dehcate com-
pliment, in a tone that revealed the self-conceit of the
human heart, my father — whether to sober his Kitty's
vanity into a proper and Christian mortification of spirit,
or from that atra g 1 re d <^ whi h belonged to him
— would remark th t Mrs K U k w of a queruloua
nature ; that the m[l m as m t not to please my

mother, but^to up te th professed ook and housekeeper.

to whom the butl td b

apology.

In settling at th to d

establishment, i j tl
poor buttered in 1 1 tl gl tl
still put its best 1 g f t

the thinness of tl ^.1 ^^ l"™'

door; various li t t 11

1 t

to peat the invidious

g the head of its

liv anxious that,

was, it should

d y cards, despite

1 been left at tlie

le hnd hitjierto

f the ancestral ruin.

dediiicd, had gr t 1 I

and ha<l become m the news of our

arrival had gon b 1 tl t j other saw before

her a very suit 11 fi H f h 1 p table accomplish-
mL'hts,~a reas 1 1 t. If) ibition that tiie

towur should hnl I j t 1 d 1 le a tower that
held tlie head of tin. familj.

But not to wrong thee, 0 dear mother ! as thou sittest
thert', opposite the j;riiii Ca|itaiTi, so fair and so neat, with
tbiiie api-on as white, and thy hair as liiiii and as sheen,
ami tliv morning cap, with its ribbons of blue, as coquet-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 103

tishly arranged as if thou hadst a fear that the least negli-
gence on thy part might lose thee the heart of thine
Austin, — not to wrong thee by setting down to frivo-
lous motives alone thy feminine visions of the social
amenities of life, I know that thine heart, in its provi-
dent tenderness, was quite as much interested as ever
thy vanities could be, in the hospitable thoughts on
which thou wert intent. For, first and foremost, it was
the wish of thy soul that thine Austin might, as little
as possible, be reminded of the change in his fortunes, —
might miss as little as possible those interruptions to his
abstracted scholarly moods, at which, it is true, he used
to fret and to pshaw and to cry Papce ! but which never-
theless always did him good, and freshened up the stream
of his thoughts. And, next, it was the conviction of
thine understanding that a little society, and boon com-
panionship, and the proud pleasure of showing his ruins,
and presiding at the hall of his forefathers, would take
Roland out of those gloomy reveries into which he still
fell at times. And, thirdly, for us young people, ought
not Blanche to find companions in children of her own
sex and age? Already in those large black eyes there
was something melancholy and brooding, as there is in
the eyes of all children who live only with their elders ;
and for Pisistratus, with his altered prospects, and the
one great gnawing memory at his heart, — which he tried
to conceal from himself, but which a mother (and a mother
who had loved) saw at a glance, — what could be better
than such union and interchange with the world around
us, small though that world might be, as woman, sweet
binder and blender of all social links, might artfully
effect? So that thou didst not go, like the awful
Florentine, —

** Sopra lor vaniti che par persona.,"

104

THE CAXT0N8

"over thin shadows that mocked the suhstnr

forma," but rather it was the real forms tliat appeared

as shadows or vmilA,

What a digression ! Cati I never toll my story in a
plain etraightforwaril way 1 Certainly I was horn under
Cancer, and all my movements are circumlocutory. Bide-
ways, and crab-like.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 105

CHAPTER V.

" I THINK, Roland," said my mother, " that the estab-
lishment is settled. Bolt, who is equal to three men
at least; Primmins, cook and housekeeper; Molly, a
good stirring girl, and willing, — though 1 've had some
difficulty in persuading her to submit not to be called
Anna ^laria. Their wages are but a small item, my
dear Roland."

" Hem ! " said Roland, " since we can't do with fewer
servants at less wages, I suppose we must call it small."

"It is so," said my mother, with mild positiveness.
"And, indeed, what with the game and fish, and the
garden and poultry-yard, and your own mutton, our
housekeeping will be next to nothing."

" Hem ! " again said the thrifty Roland, with a slight
inflection of the beetle brows. "It may be next to
nothing, ma'am — sister — just as a butcher's shop may
be next to Northumberland House ; but there is a vast
deal between nothing and that next neighbor you have
given it."

This speech was so like one of my father's, so naive
an imitation of that subtle reasoner's use of the rhetor-
ical figure called antanaclasis (or repetition of the
same words in a different sense), that I laughed and my
mother smiled. But she smiled reverently, not thinking
of the ANTANACLASIS, as, laying her hand on Roland's arm,
she replied in the yet more formidable figure of speech
called EPiPHONEMA (or exclamation), " Yet, with all your
economy, you would have hud us — "

106

THE CAXTONS:

"Tut I '' cried my uncle, paiiyiiig the EnPHONEm
with a masterly APoaioi'Esi 3 (or breaking off ) ; " tiit ! if
you liail done what I w-isheii, I should have had more
pleasure for my m.ouey ! "

My poor mother's rhetoriial ariuorj Bui)plic'] no weapon
to meet tlmt artful aposiopescs ; so she dropped the rhet-
oric altogether, and weut on with that " unadorned elo-
ijiience " natural to her, aa to other great financial
reformers ; " Well, Roland, but 1 am a good housewife,
1 assure you, and — (don't scold, — but that you never
Ao ; I mean, don't look as if you would like to scold ) ;
t)io fact is, that, even attyr setting aside £100 ft-year for
our little parties — "

" Little parties ! — a hundred a-year ! " cried the Captain,
^hast.

My mother pursued her way remorsekssly : " — which
we can well afford ; and without countiiig your half-pay,
whii:h you must keep for pocket-mmn'V ami your ward-
rol)e and Blanche's, I cakubite that we can allow Pisis-
tratus £150 a-ycar, which, willi th(! scliolaiship he is to
get, will keep him at Cambridge" (iit that, seeing the
scholarship was as yet amidst tin- Pleasures of Hojie, I
ahook my head doubtfully), "and," continued my mother,
not heeding that sign of dissent, " we shall still have
something to lay by."

Tlie Captain's face assuineil a htdicrous expression of
compassion and liorror ; he evidently thought my mother's
misfortunes had turned her head.
His tormentor continued.

, "Yor," said my mother, witli a pretty calculating shrike

ot her head, ai\d a movement of the rij^bt forefinger to-

,tttds the five fingers of the left hand "£370-the iu-
temioiA«.tiaMortuue-undX&Otatwen., reckon
iotOiettutoi out house, make £4J0 a-y.n

i your

.r^w

A FAMILY PICTURE. 107

£330 a-year from the fann, sheep-walk, and cottages that
you let, and the total is £750. Now, with all we get for
nothing for our housekeeping, as I said before, we
can do very well with £500 a-year, and indeed make a
handsome figure. So, after allowing Sisty £150, we still
have £100 to lay by for Blanche."

" Stop, stop, stop ! " cried the Captain, in great agita-
tion ; " who told you that I had £330 a-year?"

" Why, Bolt, — don't be angry with him."

" Bolt is a blockhead. From £330 a-year take £200,.
and the remainder is all my income, besides my half-pay."

My mother opened her eyes, and so did I

" To that £130 add, if you please, £130 of your own.
All that you have over, my dear sister, is yours or
Austin's or your boy's; but not a shilling can go to
give luxuries to a miserly, battered old soldier. Do
you understand me?"

" No, Roland," said my mother, " I don't understand
you at all. Does not your property bring in £330
a-year ? "

" Yes, but it has a debt of £200 a-year on it," said the
Captain, gloomily and reluctantly.

" Oh, Roland ! " cried my mother, tenderly, and ap-
proaching so near that, had my father been in the room,
I am sure she would have been bold enough to kiss the
stern Captain, though I never saw him look sterner and
less kissable — " Oh, Roland ! " cried my mother, con-
cluding that famous epiphonema which my uncle's apo-
sioPESis had before nipped in the bud, "and yet you
would have made us, who are twice as rich, rob you of
this little all ! "

" Ah ! " said Roland, trying to smile, " but I should
have had my own way then, and starved you shockingly.
No talk then of * little parties,' and suchlike. But you

THE CAXTONS:

t now turn the tables against me, nor bring j-i

'ear ag a sct^lT to my £130.'

'," said iny motlier, generouely, "you forget tlie

worth that you conlribule, — all that your grouuds
jad all that vie save by it. I am sure that that'
yearly £300 iit the least-"

lam — sister," said the Captain, "I'm sure you

tnt to hurt my feelings All I linve to say is,

L., you add to what I bring an equal sum — to keep

Ue jioor old ruin ^— it is the utmost that I can allow,

the rest is not more thnii Pisislratus can spend. "

So siiying, the Captain rose, bowed, and before either

of us could stop him, hobbled out of tlie room.

" Dear me, Sisty I " said my mother, wringing her hands,
" I have certninly displeased him How could I guess he
had so large a debt on the property 1"

"Did not he pny his son's debts! Is not tliat the
reason that — "

"Ah!" inUTniptnl my mo
it was th^it wliii'h rufflwl hiji
"Wlmt shall I do)"

" Set to work at a new caleulalion,
let him have his own way."

"But then," said niv mother, "vour uncle will mope
himself to death, and 'your falher 'wdl hi'vc no relaxa-
tion, while yoii see that he has lost his former object in
his books And Blanche — and you too. If we were

" I

the I

[ids I

it'a ■

lOst crying, " and
niit tf gue.^s it !

r mother, and

oidy to eonlrilnile what dear K.ilaiid do,.s, I i
how, with £260 a-ycar, we could ever bring (
bors round ns ! I wonder what Austin womV
have half aniind — Xo, I 'll j;.. and look over
hooks with I'rimmin^."

My mother w,Mit lier way soiiowfully, and
alone.

' not s

eigh-

A Family picture.

109

Then I looked on the stately old hall, grand in its
forlorn decay. And the dreams I had begun to cherish
at my heart swept over me, and hurried me along, far,
far away into the golden land, whither Hope beckons
youth. To restore my father's fortunes, re- weave the
links of that broken ambition which had knit his genius
with the world, rebuild those fallen -walls, cultivate those
barren moors, revive the ancient name, glad the old sol-
dier's age, and be to both the brothers what Roland had
lost, — a son : these were my dreams ; and when I woke
from them, lo ! they had left behind an intense purpose,
a resolute object. Dream, 0 youth ! dream manfully and
nobly, and thy dreams shall be prophets !

THE CAXT0N3:

CHAPTER VL

LETTER FROM PISISTfiATDS CAXTON TO ALBERT
TREVA-NION, ESQ^ M. P.

{7Tu oi,i/rMoH uf a youth who in the Old H'trldfiadt
himtelf mc too many. )

My dear Mr. Trkvasiok, — I thank you cordially, and
Gi l(j -ill for your rpply to j letter forming you

f tl Ua 3 tnps thr) gl v.] \ ne liave ]tai<se)l
(uotulel Ttl vbole kn 1 I! I ! 1 fe and

luub) t I IS kr g 1 t I an t

the teetli sharp, was more than wc could reasonably ez
pect Ti\ e hn e takea to the ivaitei 1 ke w se foxes as
at} 111 t tl k 1 If 1 11 It II

r tl f it 1 \. f r tl f fil 1 t
Mr II t t ] t tl t 1 (■ ■*

1 t r ! tl f b I „r ee

\I i "M r o f ire bu-sj th

II k 1 t I tt r r ehes j u st p I ere

n I 1 t 1 I f r r o ue t f le re I

T I t t I u I rt t 0 1 1 sk ^o lo

k tl 0 II It 1 e 1 e aiw fr 1

tl rf I r tl I fi I tl t rl I be

t, I I Jorl k r a I fati pr

! 1 tl Ki^eltl ttic ere bock life

t f \ 1 t t ot 1 ook I fc to

a J, 1 1 1 n k I r V tl fel tl e ordi

1 ir T 1 1 1 1 to f rt e ? \,ll tl pro-

fei s nr ^ bo k 1 1 c I Im ok I e mc I book-ol oked

A FAMILY PICTURE. Ill

that wherever these strong hands of mine stretch to-
wards action, they find themselves met by octavo ram-
parts, flanked with (jiiarto crenellations. For, first, this
college life, opening to scholarships, and ending, per-
chance, as you political economists would desire, in
Malthusian fellowships (premiums for celibacy), con-
sider what manner of thing it is ! Three years, book
upon book, — a great Dead Sea before one three years
long, and all the apples that grow on the shore full of the
ashes of pica and primer ! Those three years ended,
the fellowship, it may be, won, — still books, books, if
the whole world does not close at the college gates. Do
I from scholar effloresce into literary man, author by pro-
fession ? — books, books ! Do I go into the law ? —
books, books ! Ars ionga, vita hrevU, which, para-
phrased, means that it is slow work before one fags
one's way to a brief! Do I turn doctor? Why, what
but books can kill time, until, at -the age of forty, a
lucky chance may permit me to kill something else?
The Church (for which, indeed, I don't profess to be
good enough), — that is book-life par excellence, whether,
inglorious and poor, I wander through long lines of di-
vines and fathers ; or, ambitious of bishoprics, I amend
the corruptions, not of the human heart but of a Greek
text, and through defiles of scholiasts and commentiitors
win my way to the see. In short, barring the noble pro-
fession of arms (which you know, after all, is not precisely
the road to fortune), can you tell me any means by which
one may escape these eternal books, this mental clock-
work and corporeal lethargy? Where can this passion
for life that runs riot through my veins find its vent?
Where can these stalwart limbs and this broad chest
grow of value and wortli, in this hot-bed of cerebral
inflammation and dyspeptic intellect? I know what is

THE ClxnUU:

I kwTW I twfv tbr qtulitiea that shooU

—laait ItBihs umI (itaad chest. I have

fsmmaaMBK, mae imaqidtiiiie and kfeaoot^

m in hudr imaga, same fnrtituie in htmi-

— qmlttin fnr whirh I hl««« Bnvvn, fiir Ute^

' pxil and naefiit in pnT«t« life. But in th«

en. in tht nwrfcet of fortune, axe Ihej nut

X*, _.A. miii/i t

la « wnnl, dmr car and &i«n>I, in Uus cTDW^lcd Uld
'oaU thriK is not the ante room that our bold fore-
■then fotuid lor men to iralk nbofit aiul j(»lle their
nv^bot^ No ; thi!7 most sit down like bors at their
fora, and woafc mt their taaks^ with lounileJ skauldefs
and aching fingetK. Thwe h»3 Wpji a paslORtl afie ami
ft bontiag i^ and « fitting ifp ; now w« have anirod
at the a^ ndentarf. Sfen who sit longest cnny oil
befbve then, — pony delicate f«lloiTs, with hands just
strong enough to wieM a pen. eyes so l.leared br the raid-
iiighi l,im|' tint iln>y fa.-.- H-- j-y in that liusom sun
(wliich .ir.iws mo f.Tih inio iliv fu'ld-s as life dr.uvs tlie
livini;\ and di-t.tiv--- organs «i..m :in,l ina.crated t.y tlie
relentKx.-; Hi— ,'llatiun of tlie brain. Ci-rtuiidy, if litis
is f> W the Roiim of Mind, it is idle to repine and kick
a^in?t tlie pri.k> : but is it tnie that all these ijnalilics
o£.iai..n that .iiv «-ithin me are to fro f.T nolhin-f If I
were ri,-ii and I.ai.j.y in mind ajid i -in- urn stances, well
and p^-i ; I should >iioot. hunt, farm, travel, enjoy life,
and <n,i;> my fingers at .amhitiou. If I were so [loor and
so In.n.lily Im'd that I could turn gamekeeper orwliipi^r-
in. a-s pciupiT gi'iitlemeu virtually did of oli!, well ami
g.*,>-l l,>i; I should exhaust this tr»uMe.=ome vitality of
mine l>y ni^hiiy Kittles ivitli [Miaehers, and leaps over
double dykes and stone walls. If I were so depressed of
spirit that I could live without remorse on my father's

M go f

A FAMILY PICTURE. 113

small means, and exclaim with Claudian, " The earth
gives me feiists that cost nothing," well and good too ; it
were a life to suit a vegetable, or a very minor poet. But
as it is ! — here I open another leaf of my heart to you !
To say that being poor I want to make a fortune, is to
say that I am an Englishman. To attach ourselves to a
thing positive, belongs to our practical race. Even in
our dreams, if we build castles in the air, they are not
Castles of Indolence, — indeed they have very little of
the c^istle about them, and look much more like Hoare's
Bank on the east side of Temple Bar ! I desire, then,
to make a fortune. But I differ from my countrymen,
first, by desiring only what you rich men would call
but a small fortune ; secondly, in wishing tliat I may not
spend my whole life in that fortune-making. Just see,
now, how I am placed.

Under ordinary circumstances, I must begin by taking
from my father a large slice of an income that will ill
spare paring. According to my calculation, my parents
and my uncle want all they have got ; and the subtraction
of the yearly sum on which Pisistratus is to live till he
can live by his own labors would be so much taken from
the decent comforts of his kindred. If I return to
Cambridge, with all economy I must thus narrow still
more the res angusta domi ; and when Cambridge is over,
and I am turned loose upon the world (failing, as is likely
enough, of the support of a fellowship), how many
years must I work, or rather, alas ! not work, at the bar
(which, after all, seems my best calling), before I can in
my turn provide for those who till then rob themselves
for me ? Till I have arrived at middle life, and they are
old and worn out ; till the chink of the golden bowl
sounds but hollow at the ebbing well ! I would wish
that if I can make money, those I love best may enjoy it

VOL. II. — 8

114 THE CAITONS:

wltile enjoyment is yet left to theiu ; that my father shall
wi) " The History of Humau Error " complet*, Ixiund iii
ruHsiik on his ehelves; tlmt my mother shall hnve the
jniiocmit pleasures that cootent her, before age steals the
light from her happy amili; ; that liefore Kulund'e Lair is
enciw-wliit« (nloa I the suonti there tiiicken fast), he aliall
\et\n oil my arm while we settle to^jether where tlic niin
shall lie reimired or where left to the owl«, and where
the drt'ary bleak waste arouud bIiiiU taugh with the
Rleam of torn. For you kflow the iwUire of this Cuin-
hirlaud soil, — you who possehs much of it, and have
won so many fair acres from the wild; you know that
nty liiiele'a land, now (save b single farm) scarce worth
a shilling an acre, needs but euinbil to become an estate
more lucrative than ever his ancestors owned. You
know thut, for you have applied your capital to tlio
same kind of land; and in doing so what blessings
(which you scarrcly think of in your London libraiy) you
have oll'fftiMi, M-h;it mouth-; yun !<x<l, what hands you
employ ! I h;tvi> cid:;ul[Ltfd that luy uncle's moors, which
now sciivi'. nuiint.:iin two or three sliL-iibenls, could,
manured 1)y money, nwintaiii two humlred fiunilies by
their lalM>r. All this is wortji Iryiuy for; therefore
I'isi^ftralus wants to ni.ike money. Not so nnieh, — he
do.'s nut ii^iiiire millions ; a few Ppare tlnm.-^iuii pounds
would -» a Ion;; Wiiy ; and with a nio.lei*t capit^d to
b.'^in wiili, KoLiLid should lit'CDme a true squire, a real
landowner, not the mere loni of a desert.

Naw then, dear sir, advise me how I mny, with such
ipulilies as I |iossess, arrive at tlmt eapital, ^ — ay, and
befow it. is t.iO tale, — so tluit ni'm.'V -making may not
last till my ^Tavr. Turning in desp^iir from this civilized
world of ours, 1 Imve e;ist my eyes lo o world far older, —
and yet more to a world in its yi;iiil ihildhood. India

A FAMILY PICTURE. 115

here, Australia there. What say you, sir, — you who
will see dispassionately those things that float before my
eyes through a golden haze, looming large in tlio
distance ? Such is my confidence in your judgment^ that
you have but to say, "Fool, give up thine El Dorados
and stay at home ; stick to the books and the desk ;
annihilate that redundance of animal life that is in thee ;
grow a mental machine, thy physical gifts are of no avail
to thee ; take thy place among the slaves of the Lamp,"
— and I will obey without a murmur. But if I am
right ; if I have in me attributes that here find no
market ; if my repinings are but the instincts of nature,
that out of this decrepit civilization desire vent for
growth in tlie young stir of some more rude and vigor-
ous social system, — then give me, I pray, that advice
which may clothe my idea in some practical and tangible
embodiments. Have I made myself understood ?

We take no newspaper here, but occasionally one finds
its way from the parsonage ; ami I have lately rejoiced at
a paragraph that spoke of your speedy entrance into the
Administration as a thing certain. I write to you before
you are a minister ; and you see what I seek is not in
the way of official patronage. A niche in an office, — •
oh, to me that were worse than all ! Yet I did labor
hard with you, but — that w^as dififerent. I write to you
thus frankly, knowing your warm noble heart, and as if
you were my father. Allow me to add my humble but
earnest congratulations on Miss Trevanion's approaching
marriage with one worthy, if not of her, at least of her
station. I do so as becomes one whom you have allowed
to retain the right to pray for the happiness of you and
yours.

My dear Mr. Trevanion, this is a long letter, and I
dare not even read it over, lest, if I do, I should not send

THE C.VXTOJfS:

iU Tnko it witli nil its fimlta, and judge of it witb that
kiti(ln(.'«s witli whioli you have judged ever

Your grateful and devot*-!! eerrant,

I'lSIOTRATUB CaXTON.

LtBBABT Dl' THE IlurBR OF OOMMO^iB,

Tuiwiay DigLt.

My deak Pisistratus, is up ; vk are in for

t f tw m tttl h rs I I tak fiight to th lil ra j and
te thoa 1 tt y u
D t b c* ted, b t tliat p ture f j reelf wlu h

you t I U 1 bef re h tru k m with all the

force f gaLTh tit fmdwhch yon

d w 1ie 11 t be \ mm u n m our

f It til n bf Be tmdso

t 1 I f 1 k \ ] 1m tj It

11 1 \ } {, t tl 1 1 k

tl 11 W 11 U t llg t t 1

I t t I I U i f o
f t 1 ] f — m te gl

! 1

■\ 1 It t t 11 trat f tl 1,1

jl f 1 I 1 I 11 tt ft \ ^

t! IK k 1 t — tl d g t t I
1 ! 1 t! f f p ( 1 t d tit 1 t

I 1 t f 1 tt I tU f 11 f 1 tl a d

1 1 1 t t, 1 1 1 k ]f 11 n ] ng n

1 ! h/r I I ( f tl tocrat

tl II I ncmt 1 t t t rabbi

1 t jl t t. tl f regn

11 t

t t

A FAMILY PICTURE. 117

•

analogous to that in the mother country ; not only getting
rid of hungry craving mouths, but furnishing vent for a
waste surplus of intelligence and courage, which at home
is really not needed, and more often comes to ill than to
good, — here only menaces our artificial embankments,
but there, carried oflF in an aqueduct, might give life to
a desert. For my part, in my ideal of colonization, I
should like that each exportation of human beings had,
as of old, its leaders tmd chiefs, — not so appointed from
the mere quality of rank, often indeed taken from the
humbler classes, but still men to whom a certain degree
of education should give promptitude, quickness, adap-
tability, men in whom their followers can confide. The
Greeks understood that. Nay, as the colony nudces pro-
gress, as its principal town rises into the dignity of
a capital (a polls that needs a polity), I sometimes think
it might be wise to go still further, and not only trans-
plant to it a high standard of civilization, but draw it
more closely into connection with the parent state, and
render the passage of spare intellect, education, and
civility to and fro more facile, by drafting off" thither the
spare scions of royalty itself. I know that many of my
more " liberal " friends would jjoohpooh this notion ; but
I am sure that the colony altogether, when arrived to a
state that would bear the importation, would thrive all
the better for it. And when the day shall come (as to all
healthful colonies it must come sooner or later) in which
the settlement has grown an independent state, we may
thereby have laid the seeds of a constitution and a civili-
zation similar to our own, with self-developed forms of
monarchy and aristocracy, though of a simpler growth
than old societies accept, and not left a strange motley
chaos of struggling democracy, an uncouth livid giant, at
which the Frankenstein may well tremble, — not because

■nil CAXTOK6 :

it ia a ^aut, but becdits? it U a 0»xA half compl«tnLt
Bepeod od it, the Xew WurJd will l»e hiendly or hostile
to the Old, rurf I'n jproptirtioh to tht tinthip of raet, bit ia
pn^tortian to the nmilantii o/nauHrr* and imtifMtiout, —
a mighty truth, lo wliicU we cul'miicrs have hwn bliniL

Passing from these mi-re diatoiit apecalatioiis to this
positive jircMDt before us, yoti see already, from what I
have said, that I eympnthize with your sspiratious, that
I construe them as you would have me. Lookiug to
yimr nuture and to joui ohjtcta, I give you my advice in
a word, — Emighate !

My advice is, however, founded on one hypotheaia ;
namely, that you are perfectly eiocere, — you will be con-
tented with a rough life, and with a moderate fortone
at the end of your probatiou. Don't dream of emigrating
if you want to make a million, or the t«nth part of a
miUion. Ilun't dream of eml^'rntiug unless you cao
enjoi/ its hnnlsliijis, — to hear them is not enough !

Aii>lrjilia is till' Liutl fiTVuu, us \-\\ seem to surmise.
Auslialiii is the hiiid f,.rUvu tla.>.s.-s ,>f c-migraiits ; (1) The
iiiiiii will, liiis nothing hut liis wits, ;iik1 plenty of them ;
{■1) 'Vhv iiiiLU wlm hiis ii siiu.Il e;i|iit:Ll, aiul who is eon-
ti-iili-(l liisiiiTiil trii yeais ill tR'liiiiij,' it. I assume that
you helout; t., the latiT class. Tuke otit £3,000, mid
hrf..re jciu an: thirty years old you miiy ri'turn with
£10,000 or ,i:l-J,O00. If that sulislies you, think seri-
uusly of Auslialiii. ISy couch to-morrow, 1 will send you
il.nvu all iIm' hv>i l,n„k"s au<l reimils on thu suhject ; and

' 'MirHc ])iit;i's uiTc aoNt to |ircss l.p£ure tlie author had seeu Mr.
Wiiki'lHils ivccril wurk mi <^4iiui/atiiju, wliprt'iii tlie views liero
I'viiri'Miil iiri' c'lirtiri'i'il uiili y^nat e.iriipsliii'ss uiiil cuusptciums
H;ii;ai'llv. 'I'lii' iinllinr i> mil tin' li'SS jiWsi-il at tlii^ coincidcticc ■>(
iiiiiiiiiHi, lu'raiiio' 111' li:ui [)ii> iiil^fortiiiii-tM ilissoiil frutii ceitaiu utiiei

A FAMILY PICTURE. 119

I will get you what detailed infonnation I can from the
Colonial Office. Having read these, and thought over
tliera dispassionately, spend some months yet among the
sheep-walks of Cumberland ; learn all you can from all
the she})herds you can find, — from Thyrsis to Menalcas.
Do more ; fit yourself in every way for a life in the Bush,
where the philosophy of the division of labor is not yet
arrived at. Learn to turn your hand to everything. Be
something of a smith, something of a carpenter ; do the
best you can with the fewest tools. Make yourself an
excellent shot; break in all the wild horses and ponies
you can borrow and beg. Even if you want to do none
of these things when in your settlement, the having
learned to do them will fit you for many other things
not now foreseen. De-fine-gentlemanize yourself from the
crown of your head to the sole of your foot, and become
the greater aristocrat for so doing ; for he is more than
an aristocrat, he is a king, who suffices in all things for
himself, who is his own master because he wants no
valetaille. I think Seneca has expressed that thought
before me ; and I would quote the passage, but the
book, I fear, is not in the library of the House of
Commons.

But now (cheers, by Jove ! I suppose is down.

Ah, it is so ; and C is up, and that cheer followed a

sharp hit at me. How I wish I were your age, and going
to Australia with you ! ), — but now (to resume my sus-
pended period), but now to the important point, capital.
You must take that, unless you go as a shepherd, and
then good-by to the idea of £10,000 in ten years. So,
you see, it appears at the first blush that you must still
come to your father ; but you will say with this difTer-
ence, that you borrow the capital with every chance of
repaying it, instead of frittering away the income year

THE CAXTOSB:

ir till yuii are eightrsndthirty or forty nt

jisLiitCus, }'oii don't ia this gaiu your ul^ect at

aiid my dear old friend ought nut to lose his son

.^ mouey too. You Bay yuti write to me as to your

*ather. You know I hale professions ; and if you

tmpanwhatjou Rnj.you ha\e offended me nior

As u f'itlier, then, I take a father o riyiits, and

■.,™:UK plsinly

A frieuTI of ininc, ^fr Bolding, a (.lergj muii, Las a son,
— a wdd fellow, flho m hkelj to ff-l into all sorts of
Bcrnpes in Knglaiid, but with plenty of good in him,
DOtwitliBtauding , fnink, bold, nut wanting in talent,
but rather m jinidenee, easdj tunipto! and led avraj
tntn extra; agnnce He uoulil make a capital colooisb
(no such tPinptatiouB m the Bush ' ) if tied to a yuuth
like yon Now I projose, with your leave, tlial his
father ehnll adiance him £1,500, which shall not bow-
ever be placpd in hii hand«, hut in joun, as head ]iirt-
mr m Uk hrm ^ <m .m ^..ur -id. --Iidt id\ lu. l the
R.inip Miui <.f £I,'.00, (ijii.l. \i.n '.hdl b..noH fioi.i im.
for Ihni \i-ir-. wilhimt mt. ust Al tin iiid of thit
tiiu< iut< re4 >bdl iimiitieme, ind tlit 1 1| it d, with the
intiL.~t m th< -lid lir-l thru. >nrs -lull be npaid to
nil, or iin ixuiilor-, nii \iim return After jou hi\e
bi'cn a\ciroi 1« I m till I.u-.b md fdt \our w.i\, md
h irned \i.urbuMiii" iim iii u tliui Mf. h U-now £1,jO(J

least. ^^H

■ piitn.i

r f .1

and iti till II
■ Ind toSLthi

«lidi vou and

full suui if

Ihl-, pin[,o-d I

h) jonrdcith

L h ft of his f.ntiLii. riier.,
ntM.rfor^i\< \.ni if joii re

A FAMILY PICTURE. 121

ject an aid that will serve you so much and cost me
so little.

I accept your congratulations on Fanny's engagement
with Lord Castleton. When you return from Australia
you will still be a young man, she (though about your
own years) almost a middle-aged woman, with her head
full of pomps and vanities. All girls have a short period
of girlhood in common; but when they enter woman-
hood, the woman becomes the woman of her dlass. As
for me, and the office assigned to me by report, you know

what I said when we parted, and — But here J

comes, and tells me that " I am expected to speak, and

answer N , who is just up, brimful of malice," the

House crowded, and hungering for personalities. So I,
the man of the Old World, gird up my loins, and leave
you with a sigh to the fresh youth of the new, —

" Ne tibi sit duros acuisse in proelia dentes."
Yours affectionately,

Albert Trbvanion,

TUB CAXTOKS:

CHAPTER VII.

dcr, thou urt now at the secret of my keiut.
tv Dtidc-r not that I, a boukniau's bod, and at certain
'iods of luy life a bookiiiau mysvlf, thougU of lowly
«lo in that veueralJe class, — wondor not that I should
uiiuK, in tluit traiii^itioa stage betw<-eii youth and man-
hood, have turned imimtiently from books. Most stu-
donts, at ono tiiuo or other in their existence, have felt
thi! imi>erioii.i demuud of that restlete principle in man's
nature which calls ujion each son of Ailam to contribute
h h. ro t tl ast tira. ry f h m n le^ d th gh
great Bch 1 rs t sso dy us tdly lu f c-

tnyttl ft 1 Itoy prese ts to

y I 11 tl t t 1 gr-e f

1 I h t i tl 1 1 I 1 k I k

Ik t I J t fi 1 1 ^1 1 > I I 1 I

f \ I 1 1 [t tl H I I I 11 t t

tl t i t,l t 1 f IH. t 1 t f q

II tl 1 t M 1 Itl

11 \] 1 111 tl I

I I t tl t 1 1 1 tl

11 11 1 11 ) 1 tl t ), t lilt

1 ] VII tl t D I tl t 1 II }

ll 11 h t 1 1 te t 1 t tl

It 1 f tl 1 1 1 Tl sc II t) 1 tl

1 1 tl II M 11) M f

t I f i 1 It i i t —

1 11 ff I 1 I 11 1 1 ^ 1 t t I tl t It

1 I 2 I ll I I t tl t > b J

A FAMILY PICTURE. 123

hood was so early put under the burning-glass, and in
the quick forcing-house, of the London world. There,
even amidst books and study, lively observation and
petulant ambition broke forth from the lush foliage of
romance, that fruitless leafiness of poetic youth ! And
there passion, which is a revolution in all the elements
of individual man, had called a new state of being, turbu-
lent and eager, out of the old habits and conventional
forms it had buried, — ashes that speak where the fire
has been. Far from me, as from any mind of some man-
liness, be the attempt to create interest by dwelling at
length on the struggles against a rash and misplaced attach-
ment, which it was my duty to overcome ; but all such
love, as I have before implied, is a terrible unsettler, —

** Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever grow."

To re-enter boyhood, go with meek docility through its
disciplined routine, — how hard had I found that return,
amidst the cloistered monotony of college I My love for
my father and my submission to his wish had indeed
given some animation ix> objects otherwise distasteful ;
but now that my return to the University must be at-
tended with positive privation to those at home, the idea
became utterly hateful and repugnant. Under pretence
that I found myself, on trial, not yet sufficiently prepared
to do credit to my fathcr^s name, I had easily ol)tained
leave to lose the ensuing college term, and pursue my
studies at home. This gave me time to prepare my
plans, and bring round — how shall I ever bring round
to my adventurous views those whom I propose to de-
sert? Hard it is to get on in tlie world, very hard!
But the most painful step in the way is that which starts
from the threshold of a beloved home.

124

THE CAX'l'OKB:

How — ah, how, mdeetl! "No, Elauche, you cannot
join tuo to-day ; I am going out for many houra. So it
will bo lat* before I can ho home."

Home ! ^ the wijril ehokee me. Juba slinks back to
his j'ouitg mistress, disconsolate ; liknche gaze.9 at me
ruefully from our fnvorite hill-top, and tlie flowpra she
haa Iwen gathering fidl unheeded from her basket. I
hear my mother's voice Biaging low, as ahe sita at work
by her open casement. Ifow ^ ah, bow, indeed !

PART THIRTEENTH.

CHAPTER L

St. Chrysostom, in his work on " The Priesthood," de-
fends deceit, if for a good purpose, by many Scriptural
examples; ends his first book by asserting that it is
often necessary, and that much benefit may arise from
it ; and begins his second book by saying that it ought
not to be called deceit^ but good management}

Good management^ then, let me call the innocent
arts by which I now sought to insinuate my project into
favor and assent with my unsuspecting family. At first
I began with Eoland. I easily induced him to read
some of the books, full of the charm of Australian life,
which Trevanion had sent me ; and so happily did those
descriptions suit his own erratic tastes, and the free half-
savage man that lay rough and large within that soldierly
nature, that he himself, as it were, seemed to suggest
my own ardent desire, — sighed, as the care-worn Tre-
vanion had done, that " he was not my age," and blew
the flame that consumed me with his own willing breath.
So that when at last^ wandering one day over the wild
moors, I said, knowing his hatred of law and lawyers, —

"Alas, uncle, that nothing should be left for me but
the bar ! "

^ Hohler's Translation.

126 THE CAXTONS

Cti])tain Roliinil struck his cane into the peat, and
exclaimed, "Zouuila, sir ! the bar and lying, with truth
nnci n world freah from God before you ! "

" Your band, uncle ! We understand each oth«T.
Now help Die with thoec two quiet beatts at home ! "

" PlnguG on my tongue 1 ^\'hat have I done 1 " said
the Captnin, looking aghast. Tlien, after miiaing a littie
time, he turned his dark eye on me, and growled out,
" I suspect, young air, you have been laying n trap for
me ; and I have fallen into it, like an old fool as I am."

" Oh, air, if you prefer tlie bar — "

" Rogue 1 "

" Or, indeed, I miglit perhaps get a tlerkship in a
merchant's office 1 "

" If you do, I will semtch you out of the pedigree ! *

" Huzza, then, for AuRtralasia ! "

" Well, well, well," said iny unele, —

" With a Binile on his lip, and a tear in his eye," —

" the I'ld .■^eii -king's bliKxl will f^rt'c ils way ; a soldier or
a roviT, there is no other clu-ice for you. We shall
mourn :iiid miss you ; but who can chain the young
eagles lo Ibe eyri.> ?"

I bad a bariler task wilb my father, who at first
seemed to listen to me n^ if I had 1)een t.dking of an
eseiirsiou to the m<HiM. Uut I threw iu a dexterous
dose of the old Gtrck " Clemchiie," cited by Trevanion,
which set hiiu ott" full trot on bis hobby, till after a
short excursion lo EuWa ami the Chersonese, he was
fairly lost amidst the loniaii cohmies of .Asia Jlinor. I
then gradually and artfnlly decoyed liiiii into his favorite
acience of ethiiologj- ; and while he was speeulating on
the origin of the American savages, and considering the
rival claims of Cimmerians, Israelites, and Scandinavians,

A FAMILY PICTURE. 127

I said quietly, " And you sir, who think that all human
improvement depends on the mixture of races, — you,
whoso whole theory is an absolute sermon upon emi-
gration, and the transplanting and interpolity of our
species, — you, sir, should be the last man to chain your
son, your elder son, to the soil, while your younger is the
very missionary of rovers."

" Pisistratus," said my father, " you reason by synecdoche^
— ornamental but illogical ; " and therewith, resolved to
hear no more, my father rose and retreated into his study.

But his observation, now quickened, began from that
day to follow my moods and humors ; then lie himself grew
silent and thoughtful, and finally he took to long con-
ferences with Roland. The result was that one evening
in spring, as I lay listless amidst the weeds and fern that
sprang up through the melancholy ruins, I felt a hand on
my shoulder ; and my father, seating himself beside me
on a fragment of stone, said earnestly, " Pisistratus,. let
us talk. I had hoped better things from your study of
Robert Hall."

" Nay, dear father, the medicine did me great good.
I have not repined since, and I look steadfastly and
cheerfully on life. But Robert Hall fulfilled his mission,
and I would fulfil mine."

" Is there no mission in thy native land, 0 planeti-
cose and exallotriote spirit ? " ^ asked my father, with
compassionate rebuke.

" Alas, yes ! But what the impulse of genius is to
the great, the instinct of vocation is to the mediocre. In
every man there is a magnet ; in that thing which the
man can do best there is a loadstone."

" Pap<e ! " said my father, opening his eyes ; " and are

1 Words coined by Mr. Caxton from irAavt7Tiir({f, disposed to
roaming, and i^aXKo'rpi6<»f to export, to alienate.

128 THE CAXTONS :

no ioadBtnnea to be found tor ymi nearer tliaii the Great
Aiistmltiaiitii Ciglit ! "

" Ah, air, if you resort to ircmy I can say no more !"
My father lonkeii down on me tenderly, as I hung my
head, niooily and ahuslied.

"■Son," said he, "do you tliiiik that tliero is any real
jest at \ay heiirt, when the matter discussed is whether
you are to put wide Beaa and long years between lis I "
I pressed nearer to his side, and make no imswer.

"Rut I have noted you of late," continued my father,
" und I have observed thnt your old studies are grown
distasteful to you ; and I have talked with Roland, and 1
we that your desire is deej^r than a boy's mere whim.
And then I have asked myself what proapr>ct I can hold
out at home to induce you to be contented here, and I see
none ; and therefore I should say to you. Go thy ways,
and God shield the* ! But, Pisistratus, your mother ! "

J' Ah. sir, that ia indeed the question; aud there
indei'd I shrink ! But, after all, whntevi>r I were —
whi-tliLT toiling' iit tljc Ixir, or in si.uie puhlic oHice — I
flhovihl he still so much froiu luimo nuJ her. Aud then
yon, sir, she loves t/oti so entirely, thEit — "

"No," interniptod my father; "ynu can advance no
argmnents like tlu'si- to tinich a inolhi'i"s heart. There is
hut one ar^junicnt that comes liome tliere : is it for your
goixl to leave her? If ri, there will k^ no need of
fiirtlier words. But let us nut decide that qui'stion
hastily; let you and I lie t^'etho
Bring your hooks and sit witli me
out, tap me <in the shoulder, an
cud of those two mouths I «
'Stay,' And you will trust me:
you will submit 1 "

" Oh, yea, air — yes ! "

the next t

wo jm.uths.

; when you

want to go

1 say ' Cui

le.' At the

11 sav l;i V

ou 'Go,' or

and' if I *

ay the last,

A FAMILY PICTURE. 129

CHAPTER II.

This compact made, my father roused himself from all
his studies, devoted his whole thoughts to me, sought with
all his gentle wisdom to wean me imperceptibly from my
one fixed tyrannical idea, ranged through his wide
pharmacy of books for such medicaments as might alter
the system of my thoughts. And little thought he that
his very tenderness and wisdom worked against him, for
at each new instance of either my heart called aloud, " Is
it not that thy tenderness may be repaid, and thy wisdom
be known abroad, that I go from thee into the strange
land, O my father ! "

And the two months expired, and my father saw that
the magnet had turned unalterably to the loadstone in
the great Australasian Bight ; and he said to me, " Go,
and comfort your mother. I have told her your wish,
and authorized it by my consent, for I believe now that
it is for your good."

I found my mother in the little room she had appro-
priated to herself next my father's study. And in that
room there was a pathos which I have no words to ex-
press ; for my mother's meek, gentle, womanly soul spoke
there, so that it was the home of home. The care with
which she had transplanted from the brick house, and
lovingly arranged, all the humble memorials of old times,
dear to her affections, — the black silhouette of my father's
profile cut in paper, in the full pomp of academics, cap
and gown (how had he ever consented to sit for it ! )
framed and glazed in the place of honor over the little
hearth ; and boyish sketches of mine at the Hellenic

VOL. II. — 9

130

THE CAXTONS:

Inst t te, first p ! 1 d mk — to

anim te tfa wolK 11 yi ba k 1 I <ut ll re
mthtvilgltmiagal touii}! rs h St\
and th J t! tl d la t h tl 1

coredw-l t! 1! !ll! 11

with h wuh dth flw potStyhdbo ght
-with th proceed fthdiu b thtmm rahl

occas wh h h had i 1 h bad d ed re

repaid with good. Th in tood th I tti

cottage p an wh h I mbe d all my If — Id

fash ed, and w th th j gl g ^ PP oaching

dec ptd bttlle«s tedwt) hmlodesas,
ft« h li!h nd w h rare And m th

modest hangi g h 1 s, hi look d gay th

nl bo d tassel d Ik d my m th wn

1 brary aaj t, to tl h t th 11 tl Id wise

poets haesolnjftl kd h grand

HI Tl Bll lit! I t (,lt

to 1 1 1 11 11 1 1

I t I) 1 tl

II I k I 1

A FAMILY riCTURE. 131

CHAPTER III.

" NOy no ! it is for your good, — Austin says so. Go ! it
is but the first shock."

Then to my mother I opened the sluices of that deep
I had concealed from scholar and soldier. To her I
poured all the wild, restless thoughts which wandered
through the ruins of love destroyed ; to her I confessed
what to myself I had sciircely before avowed. And
when the picture of that, the darker, side of my mind
was shown, it was with a prouder face and less broken
voice that I spoke of the manlier hopes and nobler aims
that gleamed across the wrecks and the desert, and showed
me my escape.

"Did you not once say, mother, that you had felt it
like a remorse that my father's genius passed so noise-
lessly away, — half accusing the happiness you gave him
for the death of his ambition in the content of his mind ?
Did you not feel a new object in life when the ambition
revived at List, and you thought you heard the applause
of the world murmuring round your scholar's cell ? Did
you not sliare in the day-dreams your brother conjured
up, and exclaim, * If my brother could be the means of
raising him in the world ! ' and when you thought we
had found the way to fame and fortune, did you not sob
out from your full heart, * And it is my brother who will
pay back to his son all, all he gave up for me ? ' "

" I cannot bear this, Sisty ! Cease, cease ! "

"No; for do you not yet understand me? Will it
not be better still, if ifoiir son — yours — restore to your

132

THE CAXT0N3 :

Austin all tliiit lie lost, no nintter Iiow^ If through
your Bon, umtlier, you do indeed make tlie world hear
of your hu.ilmnd's genius, reatoro the spring to his
mind, the j;lory to his" pursuits; if you rebuild oven
that Vftunt\l HiK-i'sfMl luiirip, which is glory tji our pnor
sonless Rol^md ; if y^r s,.n .m.i iv-t..iv \]w ,],-i-:ty of
genentions, and lecoostruct from the dust the whole
hoUK into which you have entered, its meek presiding
«ngel! Ah, mother, if thin can he done, it will be
your work; for unless you can share my ambition,
unleea you can diy those eyesj and smile in my face,
and bid me go, with a cheerful voice, all my courage
melts from my heart, and again I say, I cannot leave
joul"

Then my mother folded her arms round me, and we
both wept, and could not speak ; but we were both
happy.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 133

CHAPTER IV.

Now the worst was over, and my mother was the most
heroic of us all. So I began to prepare myself in good
earnest ; and I followed Trevanion's instructions with a
perseverance which I could never, at that young day,
have thrown into the dead life of books. I was in a
good school, amongst our Cumberland sheep-walks, to
learn those simple elements of rural art which belong
to the pastoral state. Mr. Sidney, in his admirable
"Australian Handbook," recommends young gentlemen
who think of becoming settlers in the Bush to bivouac
for three months on Salisbury Plain. That book was
not then written, or I might have taken the advice ;
meanwhile I think, with due respect to such authority,
that I went through a preparatory training quite as
useful in seasoning the future emigrant. I associated
readily with the kindly peasants and craftsmen, who
became my teachers. With what pride I presented my
father with a desk, and my mother with a workbox,
fashioned by my own hands ! I made Bolt a lock for
his plate-chest, and (that last was my magnum opus,
my great masterpiece) I repaired and absolutely set
going an old turret-clock in the tower, that had stood
at 2 p. M. since the memory of man. I loved to think,
each time the hour sounded, that those who heard its
deep chime would remember me. But the flocks were
my main care ; the sheep that I tended and helped to
shear, and the lamb that I hooked out of the great
marsh, and the three venerable ewes that I nursed

134 THE CAXTONS :

througli h mysterious sort ai murriiin, wliich piuoleij
all the DeighiKjrhoo'l, — are tbey not written in thy
loving chiuiiiclea, 0 House of Caxtonl

And now, since much of the success of my experiment
must depend on the frit'inily t'.Tui'i I couM rslalilish with
my intended partner, I wrote to Trevanion, beting him
to get the young gentleman who was to join me, and
whose capital I was to administer, to coiue and Tieit ns.
Trevanion complied, and there arrived a tall fellow, some-
what more than six feet high, answering to the name of
Ouy Bolding, in a cut-away sporting-coat, with a dog-
whiatle tied to the buttonhole ; drab shorts and gaileni,
and a waistcoat with all manner of stranRe furtive
pockets. Guy Bolding had lived a year and a half at
Oxford as a " fast man ; " so " fast " had he lived, that
there was scarcely a tradesman at Oxford into whose
books he had not contrived to run.

His fiither was conipellc.l lo witbdmw liiui from the
Ur.iv.-rsit.v, at ivhicli 1|.' lia.l .ihx-.idy h;ul tl.o honor of
iH'ins; jJuL-ki'd fi.r "llii' littl.' •;ii;";uLil thi> young gen-
tleman, mi iH'iuf; asked fni- wluit iiii.fcKsi,iii lie was (it,
had re].lied witli eons.i.-us ].ii,Ic, "lliat he could tool
a cwh!" In lU-^iMir, lln- Mn; ivl.,> owi-d his living
to TrevnnL..ii, bii.l iisked tlic i^liili-suiau's iidvire, and tlie
iidvi.f l];id (Ix'mI lui- wilh a i.:irliii>r in (■xii.ilri:iti.in.

.My first fi-.'linn in fjrirliri^ Uu: "fust" man Wiis ct-
tiiiiily tliiit of d...-|. disiippniiitrnpnt mid sl.v.n^; iqui--
ii^UKc. liut 1 Wiis detmiiiticd not to be U»> fasli.iious;
iiiid li^iviu- a lucky knack of suitint; liivs.af [.r.-tty wcU
to :il] hampers (without which a man Iiiid b.'llcr not
tliitik .>f lo„<lst.oiLi.s in the great Au.-lralasiau llifjUl). I
.■oiilriv^'d lufixv liir lirst ivrck was out to .^t.iblisli so
luauy |.oi]]ts of loiiiiectiori iK'twirn us that wr became
till- 'best friends in the wovM. h^^W.i, it w.iuM have

A FAMILY PICTURE. 135

been my fault if we had not, for Guy Bokling, with all
his faults, was one of those excellent creatures who are
nobody's enemies but their own. His good-humor was
inexhaustible. Not a hardship or privation came amiss
to him. He had a phrase " Such fun ! " that always
rushed laughingly to his lips when another man would
have cursed and groaned. If we lost our way in the
great trackless moors, missed our dinner, and were half-
famished, Guy rubbed hands that would have felled an
ox, and chuckled out, " Such fun ! " If we stuck in a
bog, if we were caught in a thunderstorm, if we were
pitched head-over-heels by the wild colts we undertook
to break in, Guy Bolding's sole elegy was, " Such fun ! "
That grand shibboleth of philosophy only forsook him at
the sight of an open book. I don't think that, at that
time, he could have found ** fun '* even in Don Quixote.
This hilarious temperament had no insensibility ; a kinder
heart never beat; but, to be sure, it beat to a strange,
restless, tarantula sort of measure, which kept it in a
perpetual dance. It made him one of those officiously
good fellows who are never quiet themselves, and never
let any one else be (piiet if they can help it.

But Guy's great fault in this prudent world was his
absolute incontinence of money. If you had turned a
Euphrates of gold into his pockets at morning, it would
have been as dry as the great Sahara by twelve at noon.
What he did with the money was a mystery as much to
himself as to every one else. His father said in a letter
to me, that " he had seen him shying at sparrows with
half-crowns!" That such a young man could come to
no good in England seemed perfectly clear. Still, it is
recorded of many great men, who did not end their
days in a workhouse, that they were equally non-reten-
tive of money. Schiller, when he had nothing else to

136 THE CAXT0K8:

give away, gave the clothes from his back, and Gold-
smith the blaukets from hia bed. Tejider hands found
it necessary to pick Beetlioven's pockets at home before
he walked out. Great heroes, who have made no scruple
of robbing the whole world, have been just as liivish as
poor poets and musicians. Alexander, in parcelling out
his spoils, left himaelf "hope I" And as for JuHiis
Cssar, he was two millions in debt when he slued his
last half-crown at the sparrows in Gaul. Encouraged
by these illustrious examples, I had hopes of Guy Bold-
ing ; and the more as he was so aware of his own infirm-
ity that he was perfectly contented with the arrangement
which made me treasurer of his capital, and even be-
sought me, on no nccoimt, let him beg ever so hard, to per-
mit bis own money to come in his own way. In tact, I
contrived to gain a great ascendency over his simple, gen-
erous, thoughtless nature ; and by artful appeals to his
affections — to all he owed to liis father for many bootless
sacrifices, and to the duty of providing a little dower for
his infant sister, whose meditated portion had half gone
to pay his college debts ^ I at last succeeded in fixing
into his mind an object to save for-

Three other companions did I select for our Cleruchia.
Tlie first was the son of our old shepherd, who had lately
marrieil, but was not yet encumbered with children, — a
good shepherd, and an intelligent, steady fellow. The
second was a very different character ; he had been the
dread of the whole squirearchy. A more bold and dex-
terous poacher did not exist. Kow, my acquaintance
with this latter person, named Will Peterson, and mora
popularly " Will o' the Wisp," had commenced thus :
Bolt bad managed to rear in u small copsG about a mile
from the house — and which was the only hit of ground
in my unde's domaina that miybt by courtc.iy bo called

A FAMILY PICTURE. 137

" a wood " — a young colony of pheasants, that he digni-
fied by the title of a " preserve." This colony was auda-
ciously despoiled and grievously depopulated, in spite of
two watchers, who with Bolt guarded for seven nights
successively the slumbers of the infant settlement. So
insolent was the assault, that bang, bang, went the felo-
nious gun — behind, before — within but a few yards of
the sentinels; and the gunner was off, and the prey
seized, before they could rush to the spot. The boldness
and skill of the enemy soon proclaimed him, to the ex-
perienced watchers, to be Will o' the Wisp ; and so great
was their dread of this fellow's strength and courage,
and so complete their despair of being a match for his
swiftness and cunning, that after the seventh night
the watchers refused to go out any longer; and poor
Bolt himself was confined to his bed by an attack of
what a doctor would have called rheumatism, and a
moralist rage.

My indignation and sympathy were greatly excited
by this mortifying failure, and my interest romantically
aroused by the anecdotes I had heard of Will o* the
Wisp ; accordingly, armed with a thick bludgeon, I stole
out at night, and took my way to the copse. The leaves
were not off the trees, and how the poacher contrived to
see his victims I know not ; but five shots did he fire,
and not in vain, without allowing me to catch a glimpse
of him. I then retreated to the outskirt of the copse,
and waited patiently by an angle, which commanded two
sides of the wood. Just as the dawn began to peep, I
saw my man emerge within twenty yards of me. I held
my breath, suffered him to get a few steps from the wood,
crept on so as to intercept his retreat, and then pounce —
such a bound ! My hand was on his shoulder ; prr, prr,
— no eel was ever more lubricate. He slid from me like

138 THE CAXTONS;

a thing iininsteriiil, and wub nff t'verthe iiioora with a swift-
oeas whi-^h might well have baffled any clodhopper, — a
race whose calvea are geuerally absorbed iii the soles of
their hobnail shoea. But the Hellenic Institute, with
it« claBsical gymnasia, had trained ii^ pupils in all bodily
exeiciseB ; and though the Will o' the Wiap was swift
for a clodhopper, he was no match at running for any
youth wlio has sjient his hnyh'int! in Ihf disripjiiic (if
cricket, prisoner's bar, and hunt^the-hare. I reached him
at length, and brought him to bay.

" Stand back I " said he, panting, and taking aim with
hia gun : "it is loaded."

"Yes," said I; "but though you 're a brave poacher,
you dare not fire at your fellow-man. Give up the giin
this instant ! "

My address took him by surprise ; he did not fire. I

struck up the barrel, and

closed 01

1 him.

We 8

:rapplcd

prcttv tifjlitlv, and in thi-

WV>-<11.' tl

1.' flMn

went oir. The

man loosened his hold. '

'Lord l„i

i' mi'ivi

,■ ! 1 h,

ivt not

hurtyouT"heBaid, iM^-r

ingly.

"My g<«Kl fellow, .„>;'

.Slid I ; '■

an.l ]a

>^^■ let u;

i throw

asid."gini.ir.ahlii,lpr-m,a:

n.] li^ht i'

I nul like Kllgl'

i<hmen,

or else l.>t us sit d-.wn niu'

1 talk nv.

r it lik.

.■ friend.

;."

The Will o- the \Vi^. s

I'nilL'Jii'd iU hi-ai

1 and Li

:iit;hod.

" Well, you 'ii' ii c|uc(

■v one : "

.,u„th

it. A

nd the

jwai'her dro]ipiiI the guti

and sat

down.

We did talli il ow, an.

,1 I obtaii

Lud I'.'l

(.■rsi Ill's

pri'niise

to rewpert tlie pn^siTvu lici

iirefortli ;

au<l M

e theret

"> f*"'

so conlial llmt \w walke.I

bnme wi

illi ni.\

, and ev

en pre-

scnt*d me, shyly nii.I ajK.)

(V-elically

, Willi

the fivr

jiheas.

anta he had shot. Vnm

1 that till

lU- 1 s.

..f;ht h

iia out.

He was a young f<>lIow

lift four-

and-tw

eiitv, -w

ho had

tiikeii to poailiiiig froiu tl

II' wild s]

HU-t of

the thi

iiy, ai.I

from soiiii' confused notions that 1

le had

a lieen.

sc from

A FAMILY PICTURE. 139

Xature to poach. I soon found out that he was meant
for better things than to spend six months of the twelve
in prison, and finish his life on the gallows after killing
a gamekeeper. That seemed to me his most probable
destiny in the Old World, so I talked him into a burn-
ing desire for the New one ; and a most valuable aid in
the Bush he proved too.

My third selection was in a personage who could bring
little physical strength to help us, but who had more
mind (though with a wrong twist in it) than both the
others put together.

A worthy couple in the village had a son, who being
slight and puny, compared to the Cumberland breed,
was shouldered out of the market of agricultural labor,
and went off, yet a boy, to a manufacturing town. Now,
about the age of thirty, this mechanic, disabled for his
work by a long illness, came home to recover; and in
a short time we heard of nothing but the pestilential doc-
trines with which he was either shocking or infecting our
primitive villagers. According to report, Corcyra itself
never engendered a democrat more awful. The poor
man was really very ill, and his parents very poor ; but
his unfortunate doctrines dried up all the streams of
charity that usually flowed through our kindly hamlet.
The clergyman (an excellent man, but of the old school)
walked by the house as if it were tabooed. The apothe-
cary said, " Miles Square ought to have wine ; " but he
did not send him any. The farmers held his name in
execration, for he had incited all their laborers to strike
for another shilling a-week ; and but for the old tower,
Miles Square would soon have found his way to the only
republic in which he could obtain that democratic fra-
ternization for which he sighed, — the grave being, I sus-
pect, the sole commonwealth which attains that dead flat

140 THE CAXTOSS :

of social equality that life iu its every principle so heartily
abhors.

My unde uent to see Miles Squnre, and came back
the color of purple. Miles Square hail preached hjin
a long eennon on the uiiholiness of ivar. " Even ia
defence of ynur king and coimtrj I " had meied the
Captain ; an-1 Miles Square had replied with a remark
upon kiuga in general, that the Captain could not have
repeated without expecting to see the old tower fall
about his ears; and with an observation about the
country in particular, to the effect that "the country
would be much better off if it were conquered ! " On
hearing the report of these loyal and patriotic replies,
my father said " Papa I " and, roused out of hia usual
philosophical indifference, went himself to vidt Miles
Square. My father returned as pale as my uncle had
been purple. "Ami to think," said he mournfully,

\\c U-\U iiic, ti.iL tlj..u.-.iiii.l oil»-i' .^f V.M's tTwitun-s who
n\»v\\ till- wink iif civilLiiitiiiii while execialiii^; its
laws ! "

I!m(. ii^'illi.T fntlifr lu-r nuA.- mmlo aiiv o].[.oMtion

«I Willi ii h-Miri l,„l,.,L will, wi.i,. aii.t :,m.w.iL>„t,

aiiil a w.\i little lllliir l.oicul in l.nnvn. luv ii,..tlior
I.Hik h.'i- Wiiv to the eseoiiHiiuiiieiile,! ei>lt^if;e. Her visit
w,i. as sifjim'l a faihire as i]i,.s,. tlii.l pirenl,.! it. Mijes
SniiiiLv r,-fiisc.,l tlie Iia-kef ; "lii' Wiis not ff^m^ tn aeeej.t
<il,iis. iinil eat l!ie Im.al <.f eJijiL-itv ;" aii<l ou iiiy lunther
meekly siiKHe.-tiii;; that "if Mr. >iile.'i Square vouUl eon-
,l,weii,l t,. Ini.k int.. tin; Hilile. he would see that even
eharity wa.'j no sin in giver or recipient," Mr. Miles
Sqnari' had underlaken to prove "tliat according to
the Itihle lie Imii a.-* iiiu<;li a ri>.'ht tn my mothnr's pnip-
crty n» shi< had; that all things sknnlil be in roniuion;

A FAMILY PICTURE. 141

and when all things were in common, what became of
charity? No; he could not eat my uncle's arrow-root
and drink his wine while my uncle was improperly with-
holding from him and his fellow-creatures so many un-
profitable acres : the land belonged to the people."

It was now the turn ot Pisistratus to go. He went
once, and he went often. Miles Square and Pisistratus
wrangled and argued, argued and wrangled, and ended
by taking a fancy to each other; for this poor Miles
Square was not half so bad as his doctrines. His errors
arose from intense sympathy with the sufferings he had
witnessed amidst the misery which accompanies the
reign of miUocratismy and from the vague aspirations
of a half-taught, impassioned, earnest nature. By de-
grees, I persuaded him to drink the wine and eat the
arrow-root, en attendant that millennium which was to
restore the land to the people; and then my mother
came again and softened his heart, and for the first time
in his life let into its cold crotchets the warm light of
human gratitude. I lent him some books, amongst
others a few volumes on Australia. A passage in one
of the latter, in which it was said " that an intelligent
mechanic usually made his way in the colony, even as
a shepherd, better than a dull agricultural laborer,"
cauglit hold of his fancy, and seduced his aspirations
into a healthful direction. Finally, as he recovered, he
entreated me to let him accompany me ; and as I may
not have to return to Miles Square, I think it right
here to state that he did go with me to Australia, and
did succeed, first as a shepherd, next as a superintendent,
and finally, on saving money, as a landowner ; and that
in spite of his opinions of tlie unholiness of war, he was
no sooner in possession of a comfortable log homestead
than he defended it with uncommon gallantry against an

142 THE CAXT0N3:

attack of Ibe aborigiucs, whose riglit to the eoil was, to
■ay the lenst uf it, as good aa his elaini to my Ducle's
acres ; that, he commemorated hia siibsequeat acquieitiou
of a fresh allotment, with the stoek on it, by a little
pamphlet, i,ii),Hs1,l-i1 at Sv.in.'V, "H t'"- "S^imtity of the
Rights of Property ; " and that when I left the colony,
having been much pestered by two refractory " helps"
that he had added to his establishment, ho had just
distinguished himself by a very anti-levelling lecture
upon the duties of servants to their employera. What
would the Old World have done for this man!

A FAMILY PICTURE. 143

CHAPTER V.

I HAD not been in haste to conclude my arrangements,
for independently of my wish to render myself ac-
quainted with the small usefid crafts that might be
necessary to me in a life that makes the individual man
a state in himself, I naturally desired to habituate my
kindred to the idea of our separation, and to plan and
provide for them all such substitutes or distractions in
compensation for my loss as my fertile imagination could
suggest.

At first, for the sake of Blanche, Roland, and my
mother, I talked the Captain into reluctant sanction
of his sister-in-law's proposal to unite their incomes and
share alike, without considering which party brought the
larger proportion into the firm. I represented to him
that unless he made that sacrifice of his pride, my mother
would be wholly without those little notable uses and ob-
jects, those small household pleasures, so dear to woman ;
that all society in the neighborhood would be impossible,
and that my mother's time would hang so heavily on her
hands that her only resource would be to muse on the
absent one, and fret. Nay, if he persisted in so false a
pride, I told him, fairly, that I should urge my father to
leave the tower. These representations succeeded, and
hospitality had commenced in the old hall, and a knot
of gossips had centred round my mother, groups of
laughing children ha<l relaxed the still brow of Blanche,
and the Captain himself was a more cheerful and social
man.

141

THE CAXTdsS;

H7 next point was to engage my father in the romple-
tion of the Gr^at Bocik. " Ah, sir," said I, " give me an
indacement to toil, a reward for my industry. Let tne
think, in each tempting pieaaitre, eath costly vice, ' Xo,
no ; I will save f.}r the Great Boot ] ' ami the meaiorj' of
the fother ahall still keep the son from error. Ah, look
you, air! Mr. Trovanion offered me the loon of the
£1,500 necessary to commence with ; but you generously
and at once said, ' No ; you must not begin life under
the load of debt.' And I knew you were right, and
yielded, — yielded tJte more gratefully that I could not
but forfeit something of the just pride of manhood in
incurring such an obligation to the father of Miss Tre-
vaniOD. Therefore I have taken that sum from you,
— a sum that would almost have sufficed to eatehlish
your younger and worthier child in the world forever.
To that child let me repay it ; otherwise I will not take
it. Let me hold it as a trust for the Grent Book ; and
promi;'!' me tluit the Clreat Bn.ik sliall be readj' when

your wanderiT returns.

and ai'count'i for the mi.ssing

til''iit."

And my fnlln^r pished :

1 little, and niblw,! off the dew

that hiid ^atlieml on lii;

; sjwftifles. llui 1 would not

le.ive hiu) in piiice lill li-

Imd -iv,.um."his wor,Uhatthc

Gmit ISook shMild K" "

11 ,> /,.,.* ,/„ ;;,.'„„/. _,iay, till I

had seen liiiu sit dmvn

t.. il. Willi ^,>od hrarl, iUid thr

wheel went round a;,'ain i

n 111.- c|ui-l ii,.'.-liAuisiiL of that

williuKly su'
the loss of h

I favi.rilr Jiali.'uU, thoi

A FAMILY PICTURE. 145

father, there was no man who diverted him more than
Squills, though he accused him of being a materialist, and
set his whole spiritual pack of sages to worry and bark
at him, from Plato and Zeno to Reid and Abraham
Tucker.

Thus, although I have very loosely intimated the
flight of time, more than a whole year elapsed from the
date of our settlement at the tower and that fixed for
my departure.

In the mean while, despite the rarity amongst us of
that phenomenon, a newspaper, we were not so utterly
cut ofif from the sounds of the far-booming world be-
yond but what the intelligence of a change in the ad-
ministration and the appointment of Mr. Trevanion to
one of the great offices of state reached our ears. I had
kept up no correspondence with Trevanion subsequent
to the letter that occasioned Guy Bolding's visit ; I wrote
now to congratulate him ; his reply was short and
hurried.

An intelligence that startled me more, and more deeply
moved my heart, was conveyed to me, some three months
or so before my departure, by Trevanion's steward. The
ill-health of Lord Castle ton had deferred his marriage,
intended originally to be celebrated as soon as he arriveti
of age. He left the University with the honors of " a
double first class ; " and his constitution appeared to rally
from the effects of studies more severe to him than they
might have been to a man of quicker and more brilliant
capacities, when a feverish cold, caught at a county meet-
ing, in which his first public appearance was so creditable
as fully to justify the warmest hopes of his party, pro-
duced inflammation of the lungs, and ended fatally. The
startling contrast forced on my mind, — here, sudden
death and cold clay ; there, youth in its first flower,

VOL. II. — 10

Iw THB CAXKHB:

o<aaillntnoaf anM, lad tbe pntpMt of tbatb
vUdi miled ban tht eyes »< FatiiiT', — that iiwiiirt

tniM irimt >. -■■:7i--' ■\-~^ ^^ ^-'- :- -" f.ii'.-r^ ioj
earaMCB. Whence is that curiaos sjmfiaikj that we all
bare with the poneeaon of woridlr greatness w1>m tho
boor-^SH ia ahaken and tbe acrthe deecmdsl If tha
faiDOiia meeting between rHageties and AI>T«iwi«- had
taken place not before, bat after tbe acbieTemenls wbidi
fftje to Alexander tbe name <rf Great, tbe cjnie woold
not perhaps have envied tbe hero his pleasmrM nor hia
qtiendora, — neither the charms of Statira nor the tiara ttf
tbe Mede ) bat if tbe day after a cr; bad g(MW forth,
"Alexander tbe Great is dead!" rerilj I faelieTe that
Diogenes woold bave coiled himself ap in hia tab^ aod
felt that with the shadow of tbe stately hero someUiing
of ftl'irv anil of iramitli ha^l pr.iit- fr.-'in that sun wlii<.-h it
nh','M >l,rk.Ti ii.:v*:r niote. In liie niiurc- r.f m;in. liie
liuml.l'-Tt or til.; ii,ink^t, th-n.' i- u .-^oraetliing that lives
in all of llie Ite^.iiif.il ,.r i!,- F..ifii,;i;... y.-\il I, tio,^ ^nJ
dt^ir; Ijavi :ii,proi,[i.,t..4 -r^-n ii. tl.^ v^niu.-> ..I .. el.iMish

A FAMILY PICTURE. 147

CHAPTER VI.

** Why are you here all alone, cousin ? How cold and
still it is amongst the graves ! "

" Sit down beside me, Blanche ; it is not colder in the
churchyard than on the village green."

And Blanche sat down beside me, nestled close to me,
and leaned her head upon my shoulder. We were both
long silent. It was an evening in the early spring, clear
and serene ; the roseate streaks were fading gradually
from the dark gray of long, narrow, fantastic clouds.
Tall, leafless poplars, that stood in orderly level line on
the lowland between the churchyard and the hill, with
its crown of ruins, left their sharp summits distinct against
the sky. But the shadows coiled dull and heavy round
the evergreens that skirted the churchyard, so that their
outline was vague and confused ; and there was a depth
in that lonely stillness, broken only when the thrush flew
out from the lower bushes, and the thick laurel-leaves
stirred reluctantly, and again were rigid in repose. There
is a certain melancholy in the evenings of early spring,
which is among those influences of Nature the most
universally recognized, the most difficult to explain.
The silent stir of reviving life, which does not yet betray
signs in the bud and blossom, only in a softer clearness in
the air, a more lingering pause in the slowly lengthening
day, a more delicate freshness and balm in the twilight
atmosphere, a more lively yet still unquiet note from
the birds settling down into their coverts ; the vague
sense under all that hush, which still outwardly wears

148 THE CAXTONS:

the bleak sterilty of winter, of the busy change bourly,
momently, at work renewing the youth of the world,
reclotbing with vigoraus bloom the ekektons of tbiuga;
all these messages from the heart of Nature to the heart
of Man may well affect and move us. But why with
melancholy J No thought on our j»rt connecte and con-
strues the low, gentle voices. It iii not t/iougfit that
replies and reasons ; it is ffehng that hears and dreajna.
Examine nrit, 0 child of man I examine not that mysterious
melancholy with the hard eyes of thy reason ; thou canst
not impale it on the spikes of thy thorny logic, nor describe
its enchanted circle by problems conned from thy schools.
Borderer thyself of two worlds, — the Dead and the
Living, — ;^'ive thine ear to the tones, bow tliy soul to
the shadov-.s, thitl steal in the season of cliange from the
dim bonier land.

Blanchk (in a whisper). " What are you thinking
of? Speak, pmy ! "

PisisTitATL's. " I WiLs not thiiikins, Blanche ; or, if
1 were, tin- tlioiij^hL is -i>nc at the mere effort to seize
nr d.^tiiii it."

Hl.ASTUE (iiftiT ,1 jiiiiise). " I know what j-nn mean.
It is the wmie with me urien, — so often, when I am
sitting l),v niysi'lf, ^piite still. It is just like the story
I'riiiunins was tcllin;; iis the other evening, how there
Wiis a woman in her viila^^e who saw things and i»eei|>ie
ill a piece of crystal iii>t bigger tli.in my band ;' they

liiMatirullv liew^rilicJ.

«-cst i>£ KiiRlan.!,

the b<4icf that

i>.c .if .Tyslftl m. o

rwa*i.«t luany

\tv,.T*. wliict. Spoils

*r, by the way,

.• :ire a1>i<nt tlic ^\a

1 and b1iii["0 of a

e, himcvcr, wliu c

ail lie a I'lyslal-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 149

passed along as large as life, but they were only pic-
tures in the crystal. Since I heard the story, when
aunt asks me what I am thinking of, I long to say,
* I 'm not thinking ! I am seeing pictures in the
crystal ! ' "

PisiSTRATUS. "Tell my father that; it will please
him. There is more philosophy in it than you are
aware of, Blanche. There are wise men who have
thought the whole world, its * pride, pomp, and cir-
cumstance,' only a phantom image, — a picture in the
crystal."

Blanche. " And I shall see you, — see us both, as we
are sitting here, and that star which has just risen yonder,
— see it all in my crystal, when you are gone ! Gone,
cousin ! " And Blanche's head drooped.

There was something so quiet and deep in the tender-
ness of this poor motherless child that it did not affect
one superficially, like a child's loud momentary affection,
in which we know that the first toy will replace us. I
kissed my little cousin's pale face, and said, —

" And I too, Blanche, have my crystal ; and when I
consult it I shall be very angry if I see you sad and
fretting, or seated alone. For you must know, Blanche,
that that is all selfishness. God made us, not to indulge
only in crystal pictures, weave idle fancies, pine alone,
and mourn over what we cannot help, but to be alert
and active, givers of happiness. Now, Blanche, see what
a trust I am going to bequeath you. You are to supply
my place to all whom I leave. You are to bring sun-
shine wherever you glide with that shy, soft step, —
whether to your father, when you see his brows knit

work) was written, crystals and crystal-seers have become very
familiar to those who interest themselves in speculations upon the
disputed phenomena ascribed to mesmerical clairvoyance.

150 THE CAXTOKS;

and bis amis i^msaml (that, indeeil, you always do), or
to mine ; when the volume drops from his hand, when
he walks to iim] fro ihc room, restless, and oiummriag
to himself, then you ate to steal up to him, put your
hand in his, le.ul hija kick to hU U^iks, und whiajier,
'What will .Slaty «iy if liis yuu^.i- l,^,t!R-r. the Great
Book, Ib not grown up when he comes backt' And
my poor mother, Blanche ! — ah, how can I counsel you
there, how tell you where to find comfort for her! Only,
Blanche, steal into her heart and be her dai^bter. And,
to fulfil this threefold trusty you must not content your-
eelf with seeing pictures in the crystaL Do you under-
stand mel"

" Oh, yes," said Blanche, raising her eyes, while tbe
tears rolled from them, and folding her arms resolutely
on her breast.

"And so," said I, "as we two, sitting in this quiet
burial-ground, t-ake now hi>art for the duties and cares
of life, so Kee, nhnirlic, \ww i\f shirs come oul, one by
one, to smili- u]Kin u-; fur they Vh}, glorious oi1« na
thpy niv, (lorform tlu-ir apiKiinted tasks. Things seem
to approximate to God in [importion to llicir vitality
and movement. Of all things, least inert and sullen
should be the soul of man. H<nv the gi'nss grows up
over the very graves ! Qiiickly it grows iiuil greenly ;
biit (iL'itlier HO i|uick nor so green, my Bliini:lie, as lioite
and comfort from human sorrows."

PART FOURTEENTH.

CHAPTER I.

There is a beautiful and singular passage in Dante
(which has not perhaps attracted the attention it de-
serves), wherein the stern Florentine defends fortune
from the popular accusations against her. According
to him, she is an angelic power appointed by the Su-
preme Being to direct and order the course of human
splendors ; she obeys the will of God ; she is blessed,
and hearing not those who blaspheme her, calm and
aloft amongst the other angelic powers, revolves her
spheral course, and rejoices in her beatitude.^

This is a conception very different from the popular
notion which Aristophanes, in his true instinct of things
popular, expresses by the sullen lips of his Plutus. That
deity accounts for his blindness by saying that " when a
boy he had indiscreetly promised to visit only the good,"
and Jupiter was so envious of the good that he blinded
the poor money-god. Whereon Chremylus asks him
whether, "if he recovered his sight, he would frequent

1 Dante here evidently associates Fortune with the planetary
iaflaences of judicial astrology. It is donbtfnl whether Schiller
ever read Dante ; bat in one of his most thonghtf nl poems he un-
dertakes the same defence of Fortune, making the fortunate a part
of the beautiful.

152 THE CAXTOSS:

the company of Uie good 1 " " Certainly," quoth Plutus,
"forlhave not seen tliem everso long." "Nor I either,"
rejoins CliremyUis pitliily, "for all 1 can see out of both
ejeo."

Bat that niLsanthropical answetof Chremylus is neither
hero nor there, and only diverts us from the real question,
and that is, Whether Fortune 1« a heavenly, Christian
angel, or a blind, blundering old heathen deity) For
my part, I hold with Dante, — for which if I wtrc so
pleased, or if at this period of my memoirs I bad haW-
a-dozea p^ea tc spare, I could give many good reascHU.
One thing, however, is quite clear, — that whether For-
tune be more like Flutus or an angel, it is no use abasing
her: one may as well throw stones at a star. And I
think if one looked narrowly at her operationa, one might
perceive that she gives every man a chance, at least once
in his hfe. If he take and make the beat of it, she will
renew her visits, if not, jtiir art asira ! And therewith
I am n-min.K'<! of iin irnidcnt i|n:iiiitly niiinit.-d bv
Maruma in hi- "lliM.^ry of S|.,iii," how tli.- iirm.v of
the Spaiiisih kin;,'.- Rot onl of a s.id liobhlc among' tLo
mountains at Ihc J'ass of T.osi liy the hcl]i of a slu-p-
hcnl, who showoil tlu'iu tho «ay. "But," s;iitli Mariana,
parent lietically, " some do say i\u- slu^jilierd was an angel ;
for after he had -^hown the wi,v he was iicver seen more."

Tliat i^ the angelic nnturi' of (lie guide "

,-as proved l)y

being only once .feen, and after having got

the army out

of the hobble, lining it to fight or run av

i-av, as it had

most mind t^i. Xow, I look ui«>n that .sliej.

l>e.,l, or angel.

as a very gooil type of my fortune at leii'it.

The appari-

tioji showi'd me my way in the r..eks to thi

? great Dattk

of Life ; after that, — Imld fast and strike 1

lard !

Brhold me in London «ith Unele Hola

nd. My poor

parent* naturally wi.-liei! lo aeeompany me.

and take the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 153

last glimpse of the adventurer on board ship ; but I, know-
ing that the parting would seem less dreadful to them by
the hearthstone, and while they could say, " He is with
Roland ; he is not yet gone from the land," insisted on
their staying behind ; and thus the farewell was spoken.
But Roland, the old soldier, had so many practical in-
structions to give, could so help me in the choice of the
outfit and the preparations for the voyage, that I could
not refuse his companionship to the last. Guy Bolding,
who had gone to take leave of his father, was to join
me in town, as well as my humbler Cumberland
colleagues.

As my uncle and I were both of one mind upon the
question of economy, we took up our quarters at a lodg-
ing-house in the City ; and there it was that I first made
acquaintance with a part of London of which few of my
politer readers even pretend to be cogniziint. I do not
mean any sneer at the City itself, my dear alderman;
that jest is worn out. I am not alluding to streets,
courts, and lanes; what I mean may be seen at the
West-end, — not so well as at the East, but still seen
very fairly. I mean the housetops.

TUE CAXT0N8 :

CHAPTER IT.

BBWa A CHAFTER ON HOUBVTOPS.

Thb housbtoph, — what a BoberiziDg effect that prospect
produces on the miud 1 But a great maay ret^uisites go
towaids the selection of the right point of aurrej. It
ia not enough to secure a lodging in the attic ; 70a
must not be fobbed off with a front attic that faces the
atreet. First, your attic must be unequivocally a back
attic; secondly, the house in which it is located moat
be slightly elevated above ita neighboia; thirdly, the
window must not lie slant on the roof, as is common
with attics, — in ivliich ca.'ie you only catch a peep of
that h'ailcn caiiupy whicli infatuated Londoners call
the !iky, — but must !« a wimlow perpendicular, and
not h.ilf ljlotki^<l tip by the it(ira]H'ts of tliat fiisse called
the j;uttcr; mid, la.stly, tlic siglit must be so humored
that you (.■.■iuiii.it catcli a jjlimpsn of the paveniouts: if
you OIK* see the world Iwni'atli, tbe whole charm of
that world alwve is di'stmycd. Tnkiui,' it for granted
that you have wcured tlu'so roiptisitcs, open your win-
dow, li'an your cliiu on both bauds, tbu elbow* pri>p]n;il
comniixliously on the sill, and contemplate the extra-
ordinary scene wliich spreads iK'fure you, Yiui find it
difficult t.) bcliovc life can be so tnmquil on high, while
it is so iioi--iy and turbulent below. What astonishing
Btillness! liliot Warl.urtou {si'du.'tive ciicliiiutfr ! ) re-
coiunietiiU you to sail down tlit- Nil.^ if you want to lull
Ihi; vexed spirit. It is e^iuicr and clivapor to liire an attic

A. FAMILY nCTURE. 155

in Ilolborn. Vcm don't Iiave tlie crocoUikis, but you have
animals no le^ hallowed in Egj-pt, — the cats ' And how
hnrmouiously the tranquil cr«aturi;3 blend with the pros-
pect; how Eoistjcsaly they glide along at the distance,
pause, peer about, and disappear ! It is only from the
attic that you can appreciate the picturesque which be-
long to out domesticated tigetktn. The goat should ba
seen on the Al\ie, and the cat on the housetop.

By degrees the curious eye takes the scenery in detail ;
and first, what fantastic variety in the heights and Bha{)es
of the chimney-pots ! Some all level in a row, unifoini and
respectable, hut quite uninteresting ; others, again, rising
out of alJ proportion, and imiieratively tasking the reason
to conjecture why they are so aspiring. Reason answers
tliat it is hut a homely expedient to give freer vent tn the
smoke ; wherewith Imagination steps in, and represents
to you all the fretting and funiiug and worry ami care
which the owners of that chimney, now the tallest of all,
endured before, by budding it higher, they got rid of the
vapors. You see the distress of the cook, when the sooty
invader rushed down, " like a wolf on the fold," full
apring on the Sunday joint. You hear the exdamationa
of the mistress (perhaps a bride ; house newly furnished)
when, with white apron and cap, she ventured into the
drawing-room, and whb straightway saluted by a joyous
dance of those monads called vidgarly tmate. You feel
manly indignation at the brute of a bridegroom, who
rushes out from the door, with the smuts dancing after
him, and swears, " Smoked out again ! By the Arch-
smoker himself, I 'II go and dine at the club ! " All this
might well have been, till the chimuey-pot was raised a
few feet nearer heaven ; and now perhnpa that long-suffer-
ing family owns the ha]ipiest home in the Row. Such
contrivances to gpl rid of the smoke I It is not every

156 THE caxtokb:

one wlio merely heightens liis chimney; others clap on
the hollow tonuentor all sorU of odd headgear and cowls.
Here, patent contrivauees act the purpose of weather-
cocks, swaying to and fn> with tho wind ; there, others
stand as fixed, ae if, by a tie jubto, they had setUed the
business. But of all those houses that in the street one
passes by, unsuspicious of what's the matter witlitD,
thete ia not one io a hiiiutreil but what there lins been
the ilcvil to do to cure the chimneys of smoking. At
thai reflection Philosophy diamisse-s the subject, and
decides tltat whether one Urea iu a hut or a palace, the
first thing to do is to look to the hearth, and get rid of
the vapors.

New beauties demand ua, "What endless undulations
in the various declivities and Asceuta ; here a slant, there
a zigiag I With wliat majestic di^ulniu yon roof rises
\ip to Ihe left ! Doubtless a ]iiil.iee of Genii or Gin
(whirb hi."! i,* Ihe proper Ar.iliic word for those builders
of hnlls out of noiliin- ..mploved by Aladdin). Seeing
only tbo niif of that pahu-f boldly l.rfakiiig the sky-line,
how sort'iic your coiilt'iiijila lions ! IVrliaits n star twinkles
over it, aTid you iiiiist' on soft eyes far away ; while below
at the tlire.-^hold — no, pbantoin.s! we see you not from
our attii'. Xote, yonder, that precipitous fall, — how
rag-^ed ami .iai;;,vd the roof-seene descends in a gorge !
He w!io would travel on fi>.'t through the pass of that
deliK' "f whieb we ^ee but t!ie picturesque summits, st0{)s
his uii-ii', averts his eyes, gunnls liis pockel,>), and hurries
along tliiough the sipialor of the grim Umdou lazzaroai.
But.' seen <,'boi;'. what a noble break iu the sky-line ! It
would 1h' sacrilege to excliaiigi' tliiit fine gorge for the
dead flat of dull roof-t..|,s. Look here ! liow delipbtful
that desolate house with no roof at all, gutted and skinned
by the la.-t Ijondon tire! Vou v.m see tlie poor green-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 157

and-white paper still clinging to tlie walls, and the chasm
that once was a cupboard, and the shadows gathering black
on the aperture that once was a hearth. Seen below,
how quickly you would cross over the way ! That great
crack forebodes an avalanche ; you hold your breath, not
to bring it down on your head. But, seen above, what a
compassionate, inquisitive charm in the skeleton ruin !
How your fancy runs riot, — repeopling the chambers,
hearing the last clieerful good-night of that destined
Pompeii, creeping on tiptoe with the mother when she
gives her farewell look to the baby. Now all is mid-
night and silence ; then the red, crawling serpent comes
out. Lo ! his breath ; hark ! his hiss. Now spire after
spire he 'vvinds and he coils ; now he soars up erect, crest
sujierb and forked tongue, — the beautiful horror I Then
the start from the sleep, and the doubtful awaking, and the
run here and there, and the mother's rush to the cradle ;
the cry from the window, and the knock at the door,
and the spring of those on high towards the stair that
leads to safety below, and the smoke rushing up like the
surge of a hell ! And they run back stifled and blinded,
and the floor heaves beneath them like a bark on the sea.
Hark ! the grating wheels tliundering low ; near and
nearer comes the engine. Fix the ladders ! — there !
there ! at the window, where the mother stands with the
babe ! Splash and hiss comes the water ; pales, then
flares out, the fire : foe defies foe ; element^ element.
How sublime is the war ! But the ladder, the ladder ! —
there, at the window ! All else are saved : the clerk and
his books ; the lawyer with that tin box of title-deeds ;
the landlord with his policy of insurance ; the miser with
his bank-notes and gold, — all are saved; all, but the
babe and the mother ! What a crowd in the streets !
how the light crimsons over the gazers, hundreds on

,.-■

158 THE CAITOHS:

himdnds t All those taixA s«etn aa one bee, with feu.
Kot a mat] mouDte th« ladd«t. V«^ tbere! — gallaitt
fdloir! God inspires, God sfaaD speed thee! How
plainly I see him '. his eves are doeed, his teeth set.
The wrpeat l«ai» xip, the fofk«il toogae darts upoD Lim,
and the rar-k of the breath wragie him round. The crowd
haa ehhed baofc like a *ea, and the smoke rushes over
them alL lia ! what dim forms are those on the ladder T
Nearaod ii^arer — crash come the rgof-Liles ! Alas, aad
alas ! No ! a cry of joy, a " Thank Heaveo '. " and the
women foi-te iht'ir way ibrough the men tc come round
the child ami tin; mothtT. All is gone save tliat skeleton
min. But the rtiin is seen from abate. O Art 1 studjr
life from the roof-tope!

A FAMILY PICTURE. 159

CHAPTER in.

I WAS again foiled in seeing Trevanion. It was the
Easter recess, and he was at the house of one of his
brother ministers, somewhere in the north of England.
But Lady Ellinor was in London, and I was ushered into
her presence. Nothing could be more cordial than her
manner, though she was evidently much depressed in
spirits, and looked wan and careworn.

After the kindest inquiries relative to my parents and
the Captain, she entered with much sympathy into my
schemes and plans, which she said Trevanion had con-
fided to her. The sterling kindness that belonged to my
old patron (despite his affected anger at my not accepting
his proffered loan), had not only saved me and my fellow-
adventurer all trouble as to allotment orders, but pro-
cured advice as to choice of site and soil from the best
practical experience, which we found afterwards exceed-
ingly useful; and as Lady Ellinor gave me the little
packet of papers, with Trevanion's shrewd notes on the
margin, she said with a half sigh, " Albert bids me say
that he wishes he were as sanguine of his success in the
cabinet as of yours in the Bush." She then turned to
her husband's rise and prospects, and her face began to
change. Her eyes sparkled, the color came to her
cheeks.

"But you fire one of the few who know him," she
said, interrupting herself suddenly ; " you know how he
sacrifices all things — joy, leisure, health — to his country.
There is not one selfish thought in his nature. And yet

160 THE CAXT0K8 :

Buoh envy, such obstacles still ! and," — her eyes drc^pped
on her drefis, iiud I perceived that she was in mourniiiji
though the mouniiiig was not deep, — " and," she added,
" it has pleased Heaven to withdraw from his side one
who would have been worthy his alliance."

I felt for the proud woinun, tliough her emotion seemed
mora that of pride than sorrow ; and perhaps LonI
Castleton'a highest merit in her eyes had been that of
ministering to her husband's power and her own ambition.
I bowed my head in silence, and thought of Fanny. Did
she, Uki, pine for the Icist rank, or rather mourn the ]oet
lover 1 After a time, I said hesitatingly, —

" I scarcely presume to condole with you, Ijidy Ellinor ;
yet believe me, few things ever Bhocked me like the death
you allude to. I triist Miss Trevanion's health has not
much suffered. Shall I not see her before I leave

Lady Ellinor fixed lior keen bright eyes aearchingly on

my cfiimtpnance ; ami perhaps the gaze satisliwl her, for
Khc held out her hand to mc with a frankness almost
tcudi-r, and .'laid, —

" Hill! I had a son, the dearest wish of my heart had
been to sc>e you wedded to my daughter."

I starlc'd up ; the blood rushed to my cheeks, and
thi'ii Mt mi! pale as df^ath. I Imjked voproiichfully at
l-adv F.llim>r, and the w<jr.l ■'cruel!" faltered on my
lips.

" Yes," vontiinicd Lady Ellinor, mournfully, " that was
my real tlim;f;ht, my imjiulsn nf regret, when I first saw
ynu. I'ul, a.s it is, .In not think mc t'ni hard and worldly if
i cpiote the lofty old Frea.:h jiroviTb, NMf^e ulli;/e. Listen
to me, my young friend ; we may never meet nRain, and
T would not have your father's son think unkindly of me,
witU all my faults. Fwia my first childhood I was am-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 161

bitious, — not as women usually are, of mere wealth and
rank, but ambitious as noble men are, of power and fame.
A woman can oidy indulge such ambition by investing it
in another. It was not wealth, it was not rank, that
attracted me to Albert Trevanion ; it was the nature that
dispenses with the wealtli, and commands the rank. Nay,"
continued Lady EUinor, in a voice that slightly trem-
bled, "I may have seen in my youth, before I knew
Trevanion, one," — she paused a moment, and went on
hurriedly, — " one who wanted but ambition to have
realized my ideal Perhaps even when I married, — and
it was said for love, — I loved less with my whole heart
than with my whole mind. I may say this now ; for now
every beat of this pulse is wholly and only true to him
with whom I have schemed and toiled and aspired, with
whom I have grown as one, with whom I have shared the
struggle and now partake the triumph, realizing the
visions of my youth."

Again the light broke from the dark eyes of this
grand daughter of the world, who was so superb a type
of that moral contradiction, — an ambitious twrnan.

" I cannot tell you," resumed Lady Ellinor, softening,
"how pleased I was when you came to live with us.
Your father has perhaps spoken to you of me, and of oui
first acquaintance ? "

Lady Ellinor paused abruptly, and surveyed me as she
paased. I was silent.

" Perhaps, too, he has blamed me ? " she resumed, with
a heightened color.

" He never blamed you, Lady Ellinor."

" He had a right to do so, though I doubt if he would
have blamed me on the true ground. Yet, no ; he never
could have done me the 'wrong that yciur uncle did, when
long years ago Mr. De Caxton in a letter, the very bitter-

VOL. II. — 11

162 THE CAXT0N8:

nees of wliicli diBavnitMi all auger, tux:ueeO nu- ul luiviiig
trifled with Austin, — a&y, with himself '. Aud he at
least had no right to reproach me," continued Lady
EUiaor warmly, and with a curve of her haughty lip;
" for if I felt interest in his wUd thirst for some romaiitiu
glory, it was but in the hope that what mnde tlie one
brother ao reatlpss might at leiist wake the other to the
ambition that wouhl have hecome his iiitJ>Uect and aroused
his energies. But these are old tales of follies and de-
lusions DOW CO more ; only this will I Bay, that I have
ever felt in thinking of jour father, and even of your
sterner uncle, as if my conacieQce reminded me of a debt
which 1 longed to dischai^, if not to them, to their
children. So, when we knew you, believe me that your
interests, your career, instantly became to me an object.
But mistaking you, when I saw your ardent industry
bent on serious objects, and accompanied by a mind bo
fresh ntiii hiiojaiil, and alisorlu'd as I was in schemes or

pruJL-.-U fiir hrynd nwumiu

.'s urdiiiLiiv inoviiice of liearth

and li,»,i>., 1 n,-vcr <liv.„„.,l

1, wl.il. ynu wcv our gue.^t.

iieviT dreamed <.•! diiugn- to

you or l-\u,ny. I wound you

^pardon nu- ; 1>ut 1 must

vindicate myself. I rejteat

that if we luid a son to ii

iih>Tit our name, W boar the

huvdi'u wlii<'h tUi- world lav.

s ujiou those who are Inirn to

iidlu.ni'e Ihc world's dc.nini

(■-, there is no one to whom

Tn-va„i<m ami niy^i'lf w..u

Id siioui^r JLiive intruKted the

happiiie.-s „f a d.ui-ihU-v. '.

l!ut liiv daughter is the sole

ifpn-sentalive of llii' iiiodic'i

■■slin.vd the father's name;

it is not her linii]iiTii'ss nlon

e tluit I have to consult, it U

hi'r ilnty, —duty to her I.i;

i-lbrij;lit. to llie career of the

noblest of Eujjlaud's palii.

its; Llutv, i uiiiv wiv without

exagjp'ratirm, lo the couiilr

y for ti.e snke of which tlmt

career in run '. "

"Say no inni,., Lady Elli

inor; .say no wore. I under-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 163

stand you. I have no hope — I never had hope ! it was
a madness — it is over. It is but as a friend that I ask
again if I may see Miss Trevanion in your presence,
before — before I go alone into this long exile, to leave,
perhaps, my dust in a stranger's soil. Ay, look in my
face, — you cannot fear my resolution, my honor, my
truth. But once. Lady Ellinor, but once more, — do
I ask in vain?"

Lady Ellinor was evidently much moved. I bent down
almost in the attitude of kneeling, and brushing away
her tears with one hand, she laid the other on my head
tenderly, and said in a very low voice, —

" I entreat you n9t to ask me ; I entreat you not to
see my daughter. You have shown that you are not
selfish, — conquer yourself still. What if such an in-
terview, however guarded you might be, were but to
agitate, unnerve my child, unsettle her peace, prey
upon — "

"Oh, do not speak thus! She did not share my
feelings ! "

" Could her mother own it if she did ? Come, come,
remember how young you both are. When you return,
all these dreams will be forgotten ; then we can meet
as before ; then I will be your second mother, and again
your career shall be my care, for do not think that we
shall leave you so long in this exile as you seem to fore-
bode. No, no ; it is but an absence, an excursion, not a
search after fortune. Your fortune, — leave that to us
when you return."

" And I am to see her no more ! " I murmured, as I
rose and went silently towards the window to conceal
my face. The great stniggles in life are limited mo-
ments. In the drooping of the head upon the 1m mom,
in the pressure of the hand ui>on the brow, wo njay

164 THE CAXTOfe

scarcely consume a bpcoiiiI in our threescore years and
ten ; but wh»t revolulions «f our wliole being may paea
within us while that single sand drojis noiseless down
to the bottom uf tlio liour-glass. I piinie back wiUi firm
step to Ijidj EUinor, and eaid calmly, " ily teaeoa ttUa
mc that you are right, and I submit FotgiTe me, and
do not thijik me ungrateful and over-proud if I a-IJ that
you muet leave nie still tlie object iu life that coosolea
and encourages me through aU."

" What object is that I " asked Lady Ellinor, hesitatingly.

" Independence for myself, and ease to those for whom
life is still sweet This is my twofold object ; and the
means to effect it must be my own heart and my own
hands. And now, convey all my thanks to your noble
husband, nnd accept my warm prayers for yourself and
her, whom I will not name. Farewi-ll, Lady Elhnor."

" No, do not leave me so liaatily ; I have many things
to discuss with yon, at least to ask of yon. Tell me how
your fallii-r Ih^^iiv his ivviTr^.>, — tell uio, iit liMst, if there
he nuj;lit 1m' will snflVr us to do fur liim? There are
m.iiiy .i]i[iciiuliin'tils in TreViUiixn's range of influence
lh!it\v..iil,l suit even th.' wilful iuih.lence of a man of
l.'tlm. Come, Ijo fi!ijik with m<-:"

1 .■uuM n..t ri-sisl s,> rnu.'li kindnes,s; so I sat down,
i,nd as cullrd.-dly ii« I c,aM r.-pli-d t.> I.;uiy Kllim.r's
■ luesli.ms, and smight In i-onviiii,' h.-r that my father
nnly f.Ot his los^Ps so far as th.-y alFwl^'d mc, aii.l that
ii..thiTiK iu Tr.-v:iiii.'ii's |H>wer w.is lik.'ly to tempt him
from his rcln-at, or cah'iilaicd to eompi'nsato for a cliange
iu lii>; hahits. Turiiinj.' at last fnilu my jKin'Tits, Lidy
Kllinor itiiininvi for Tinl-.iid. and on l.ani'iuf; that he was
Willi Mv iu town i-xpr>"^s,-,l a stmuf; tU-sin- to s,.,- him. I
UM ],n- I w.iuM eoiiLumiii.'atc her wish, ami she then
said llioughtfuliy, —

A FAMILY PICTURE. 165

*' He has a son, I think, and I have heard that there is
some unhappy dissension between them."

" Who could have told you that ? " I asked in surprise,
knowing how closely Boland had kept the secret of his
family afflictions.

"Oh, I heard so from some one who knew Captain
Roland. I forgot when and where I heard it; but is
it not the fact?"

" My Uncle Roland has no son."

" How ! "

" His son is dead."

" How such a loss must grieve him ! "

I did not speak.

" But is he sure that his son is dead ? What joy if he
were mistaken, — if the son yet lived ! "

"Nay, my uncle has a bravo heart, and he is re-
signed ; but, pardon me, have you heard anything of
that son?"

"I! what should I hear? I would fain learn, how-
ever, from your uncle himself what he might like to tell
me of his sorrows, or if indeed there be any chance
that — "

"That what?"

"That — that his son still survives."

" I think not," said I ; " and I doubt whether you
will learn much from my uncle. Still, there is some-
thing in your words that belies their apparent meaning,
and makes me suspect that you know more than you
will say."

" Diplomatist ! " said Lady Ellinor, half smiling ; but
then, her face settling into a seriousness almost severe,
she added, " It is terrible to think that a father should
hate his son ! '

" Hate 1 Roland hate his son ! What calumny is this ? *

166 THE CAXTONB:

"He does not do so, theiiT Aseuie mn of that; I ghall
be 80 glud to know that I have been misinfonned."

"I can t«ll you tliia, and no more, for no more do I
know, that if ever the soul of a father were wrupped up in
a Bon, — fear, hope, gladness, sorrow, all reflerled h&ek
on a father's heart from the ehadowa on a son's life, —
Roland w-.m that father whilo the son still lived."

" I cannot disljelieve you ! " exclaimed Lady Ellinor,
thoi^h in a tone of aurpme. " Well, do let me aee
your un<ile."

" I will do my best to induce him to visit you, and
learn all Ihat yuu eviduutly ixiiii»)d /ruiu uit).''

Lady Ellinor evasively replied to this insinuatioD, and
shortly afterwards I left that house in which I had known
the happiness that brings the folly, and the grief that
bequeaths the wisdom.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 167

CHAPTER IV.

I HAD always felt a warm and almost filial affection for
Lady Ellinor, independently of her relationship to Fanny,
and of the gratitude with which her kindness inspired
me ; for there is an affection very jxiculiar in its nature,
and very high in its degree, which results from the blend-
ing of two sentiments not often allied, — namely, pity
and admiration. It was impossible not to admire the
rare gifts and great qualities of Lady Ellinor, and not to
feel pity for the cares, anxieties, and sorrows which tor-
mented one who with all the sensitiveness of woman went
forth into the rough world of man.

My father's confession had somewliat impaired my
esteem for Lady Ellinor, and had left on my mind the
uneasy impression that she had trifled with his deep and
Roland's impetuous heart. The conversation that had
just passed allowed me to judge her with more justice,
allowed me to see that she had really shared the affec-
tion she had inspired in the student ; but that ambition
had been stronger than love, — an ambition, it might be,
irregular and not strictly feminine, but still of no vulgar
nor sordid kind. I gathered, too, from her hints and
allusions her true excuse for Roland's misconception of
her apparent interest in himself. She had but seen in
the wild energies of the elder brother some agrency by
which to arouse the serener faculties of the younger ;
she had but sought, in the strange comet that flashed
before her, to fix a lever that might move the star. Nor
could I withhold my reverence from the woman who.

TRB CAXTOXS:

1 pwrbely for love, had no sixiner
me worthy of it, than her whole
I as IbttJlf devoted to her hushsad's oa if he
had hmm the ol9««t of hiex gtst romctnce and her earliest
It vniB bet child was ao secondary to her
; if tbs hU of that child wna but regarded by
kr H mm to be Rodeted subservient to the grand des-
tiMwn of TWraiioD, — still it was imjioesiblF to reeogniEe
tlM •cror of Uttt ooi^ugal devotion without admiring Llie
vSh, Ifaonsb one tnight condemn the mottior. Turning
fton tlwee nwdiUtitnu, I felt a lover's thrill of fiellish
joy amiibt alt the moamful sorrow compriBed in the
thought tlutt 1 efaould see Ftuiny no more. Was it true,
w Lady >niinor impHnl, though dehcately, that Fauny
vltll dkorished a iviut'mbrance of me, wliieh a brief inter-
vww, K Wl farewell, might rea« iiken too diiny.-rnusily for
her p««ce T Welt, that was a thought that it became me
not to indulge.

Wh.it wuld I-uly KHiii..r hiive lu-anl of Rolnnd and
his sv.n; W.i.-' it i>o,^-^iliIe tli;it thi- lost lived still J
Askiiij: my-i.'lf thi'.<e (jufstioiH, I nrrived at mir lodg-
ing!, !nid's;i«- tin' CEiptuin hinisplf ^'fort- me, busied
ivith thy iiisjKvtion of sundry si^ciiiinis of the nuU'
necewiiries an Au^ii-.dian ndvcntiircr requires. There
stood the old siildiiT I'y the wiiidow, exiiniining nar-
rowly into the tj.'uii"'r of hiind-saw iind lenoii-saw,
bn-ttd-iixo and driiwing-kiiife ; nnd as I came up to
hiin. I»n \"o^<^ at mc frmii uud.T his black bmw.s willi
CTiilf comimasion, and said ju'cvishly, ~

"Fine wcai>ons thnse for the son of a (.'cnlleman !
,Vf hit of st«el ill the shajw of a swoni were ivorth

■ \ ■» weapon that conquers fate is uolili' in the hands
^ , vs*e moll, uiiolc.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 169

"The boy has an answer for everything," quoth the
Captain, smiling, as he took out his purse and paid the
shopman.

When we were alone, I said to him, " Uncle, you
must go and see Lady Ellinor; she desires me to tell
you so."

" Pshaw ! "

"You will not?"

" No ! "

" Uncle, I think that she has something to say to you
with regard to — to — pardon me ! — to my cousin."

" To Blanche ? "

" No, no, — the cousin I never saw."

Roland turned pale, and sinking down on a chair,
faltered out, "To him — to my son?"

" Yes ; but I do not think it is news that will afflict
you. Uncle, are you sure that my cousin is dead?"

" What ! — how dare you ! — who doubts it ? Dead,
dead to me forever ! Boy, would you have him live to
dishonor these gray hairs?"

" Sir, sir, forgive me — uncle, forgive me ! but, pray,
go to see Lady Ellinor; for whatever she has to say,
I repeat that I am sure it will be nothing to wound
you."

"Nothing to wound me, yet relate to him/"

It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair
that was in those words.

"Perhaps," said I, after a long pause, and in a low
voice, for I was awe-stricken, — "perhaps, if he bo
dead, he may have repented of all offence to you before
he died."

" Repented ! ha, ha ! "

" Or, if he be not dead — "

" Hush, boy ! hush ! "

Af k* dend tfaaw w«adi) to whklt I Ygplurwl no
nf^. the Captaim took ka)^ tUnvdena Oridu Mrcn
Qm Kami *B^ iwMf^ly, as if tbe tf«cc iB]«aoDed
or tiw lir sliflHi lam, he aebed kk hat aad hAdennd
inb> the cti«ete. BnsnYiinf; nj smpnse umI dismay,
t ran aftT hin ; Wi fee cnmnun'I'^] mo to leave
liiiii u. r.i- ■w^. :". ■.;".:., :r. 3 v ■:.•!■ ?■> ,^t*m vet so
M'l thrt! I i.v; :, .;...- r:; ;^ ,.l,y. I fcnJw. l>y
.v.7y i^ s.'liiua.- in ihe

;.f

i.'U-lit most

A FAMILY PICTURE. 171

CHAPTER V.

Hours elapsed, and the Captain had not returned home.
I began to feel uneasy, and went forth in search of him,
though I knew not whither to direct my steps. I thought
it, however, at least probable that he had not been able
to resist visiting Lady Ellinor, so I went first to St.
James's Square. My suspicions were correct, — the Cap-
tain had been there two hours before. Lady Ellinor
herself had gone out shortly after the Captain left.

While the porter was giving me this information, a
carriage stopped at the door, and a footman, stepping
up, gave the porter a note and a small parcel, seemingly
of books, saying simply, " From the Marquess of Castle-
ton." At the sound of that name I turned hastily, and
recognized Sir Sedley Beaudesert seated in the carriage,
and looking out of the window with a dejected, moody
expression of countenance very diJQTerent from his ordi-
nary aspect, except when the rare sight of a gray hair
or a twinge of the toothache reminded him that he was
no longer twenty-five. Indeed, the change was so great
that I exclaimed, dubiously, —

" Is that Sir Sedley Beaudesert 1 "

The footman looked at . me, and, touching his hat,
said, with a condescending smile, " Yes, sir, — now the
Marquess of Castleton."

Then, for the first time since the young lord's death,
I remembered Sir Sedley's expressions of gratitude to
Lady Castleton and the waters of Ems for having saved
him from "that horrible marquisate." Meanwhile, my
old friend having perceived me, exclaimed, —

172 THE CAXTONS:

"What! Mr. Caxton! I am delightj-il to seu you.
Open Qie dcwr, Thomas. Pray come in, como in."

I obeyed ; and the new Lord Caatleton matlo room
me by his side.

" Are you in a hurry 1 " said be ; " if so, sbal! I take
you anywhen;1 If not, give me half an hour of your
time, while I drive lo the City."

Aa I khow not now in what direction, more than an-
other, to prosecute my search for the Captaiii, and as I
thought I might as well c^U at our lodgings to iiiquire
if he had not retuniod, I answered that I should be
very happy to accomimny his lonisliip ; " Though the
City," said I, smiling, " Rounds to mc strauge upon tlie
lips of Sir Sedley — I beg pardon, I should say of
Lord — "

" Don't say any such thing ! let me once more hear
the grateful sound of Sedley Beau desert. Shut the

door, Thnmn.^ ; to Gracechtiivh Street, -
ml Yulff^t."

-Messrs. Fudge

1 tilt; Marquess,

"Yrt^dl, evni luiiieiiuaiiitrd with tin
have fi'lt shofkcd at llie death of one
full of pro

'" y^'

;, and i

"So litle.1 in
grcnt Cii>^tleton i

- to W-AT the h.mlen of tlu!
pri'|ierty, — and yet you see
id been but a simple geiitle-
eonsi'ientious desire In do bis
to n good old aj,'e. 1 know
you .'^aw the piles <if lett.TS
(iriyii the iH«l. Siirli nilos.

on the prf>])crty \v,

<i to finish : whid ,

L l!u>

Ilk liikes

A FAMILY PICTURE. 173

me to Fudge and Fidget's ? Sir, they are the agents for
an infernal coal-mine which my cousin had reopened in
Durham, to plague my life out with another thirty thou-
sand pounds a-year ! How am I to spend the money, —
how am I to spend it? There's a cold-blooded head-
steward, who says that charity is the greatest crime a
man in high station can commit ; it demoralizes the poor.
Then, because some half-a-dozen farmers sent me a round-
robin, to the effect that their rents were too high, and I
wrote them word that the rents should be lowered, there
was such a hullabaloo you would have thought heaven
and earth were coming together. * If a man in the posi-
tion of the Marquess of Castleton set the example of let-
ting land below its value, how could the poorer squires in
the country exist? Or if they did exist, what injustice
to expose them to the charge that they were grasping
landlords, vampires, and bloodsuckers ! Clearly, if Lord
Castleton lowered his rents (they were too low already),
he struck a mortal blow at the property of his neighbors
if they followed his example, — or at their characters if
they did not.' No man can tell how hard it is to do
good, unless fortune gives him a hundred thousand a-
year, and says, * Now, do good with it 1 ' Sedley Beaude-
sert might follow his whims, and all that would be said
against him was, * Good-natured, simple fellow ! ' But if
Lord Castleton follow his whims, you would think he
was a second Catiline, unsettling the peace and under-
mining the prosperity of the entire nation I " Here the
wretched man paused, and sighed heavily ; then, as his
thoughts wandered into a new channel of woe, he re-
sumed, " Ah, if you could but see the forlorn great house
I am expected to inhabit, cooped up between dead walls,
instead of my pretty rooms, with the windows full on
the park ; and the balls I am expected to give, and the

174 THE CAXTOXS:

parliamentary interest I ttni to keep up ; and the rillan-
oua propOBui made to me to become a lord-atcwaid or
lotd-chamberlaiii, because it suits my rank to be a sort
of B §ervant. Uli, Pisistiutus I you lucky dog ! not
twfluty-one, and with, I daresay, ncit two hundred
pounds a-year in tbe world I "

Thus bemoaning and bewailing his sad fortunes, ihe
poor MikrqueiM ran on, tlU at last he exclaimed, iu a tone
of yet deeper desjmir, -~

■" And everyboiiy says I must marry, too ; that the
Caatleton line must not be extinct I The Beaudeserta
are a good old family eno', — as old, for what I know,
oa the Castletona ; but the British empire would suffer
no loss if they sank into the tomb of the Cupulets ;
but that the Costteton peerage sliould expire is a thought
of crime and woe at whicli ali the mothers of England
rise ui a phalanx ! And so, instead of visiting the sins of the
fathers im the sons, it is tlic father tliut is to be sacrificed
for the licnofit of the thini and fourth generation ! "

Despite my causes for seriousness, I could not help
laughing; my companion turned on nie a look of
tcproaeli.

" At least," said I, composing niy countenance, " Lord
Castli-ton has one comfort in his alllictions, — if he must
marry, he may choose as lie pleases."

" Tliat is precisely wliat Sedley Iteaudesert could, and
Ix>rd Caatleton cjninot do," aaid the Marquess, gravely.
"Till" r.ink of Sir Sedley Beaudesert was a quiet and
comf[jrtiJ)Iu rank ; he might marry a curate's daughter,
or a duke's and please his ejo or grieve his heart as the
caprice took him. But I.on.1 Castletun must marry, not
for a mfc, but for a nmrchioness, — marrj' some one who
will ifear /lis rank for him, taki! the tioublc of splendor
off his hamU, and allow Jjiui to retire into a comer and

vilkn- ^

A FAMILY PICTURE. 175

dream that he is Sedley Beaudesert once more ! Yes, it
must be so, — the crowning sacrifice must be completed
at the altar. But a truce to my complaints. Trevanion in-
forms me you are going to Australia, — can that be true ? "

" Perfectly true."

" They say there is a sad want of ladies there."

" So much the better, — I shall be all the more steady."

"Well, there's something in that. Have you seen
Lady Ellinor?"

" Yes, this morning."

" Poor woman ! a great blow to her. We have tried
to console each other. Fanny, you know, is staying at
Oxton, in Surrey, with Lady Castleton ; the poor lady is
so fond of her, and no one has comforted her like Fanny."

" I was not aware that Miss Trevanion was out of town."

" Only for a few days, and then she and I^idy Ellinor
join Trevanion in the north. You know he is with Lord

N , settling me,asures on which — but alas ! they

consult me now on those matters, force their secrets on me.
I have. Heaven knows how many votes ! Poor me 1
upon my word, if Lady Ellinor was a widow I should
certainly make up to her ; very clever woman, nothing
bores her." (The Marquess yawned : Sir Sedley Beau-
desert never yawned.) "Trevanion has provided for his
Scotch secretary, and is about to get a place in the
Foreign Office for that young fellow Gower, whom,
between you and me, I don't like. But he has bewitched
Trevanion ! "

" What sort of a person is this Mr. Gower 1 I re-
member you said that he was clever and good-looking."

" He is both ; but it is not the cleverness of youth.
He is as hard and sarcastic as if he had l^een cheated
fifty times, and jilted a hundred ! Neither are his good
looks that letter of recommendation which a handsome

] THE CAXTOITS!

face 19 said to be. He has a» exprBssion of contite-
iianiw very m\ich like that of Ixird Hertford's pet blood*
hound when a straDger comes iuto the room. Very sleek,

handsome dog, the bloodhound iBccrt.iiiily, ^ well insn-
iieTuit, Biid, I daresay, exceedingly tuuie ; but etill you
have but to look at the corner of the eje to know that it
U cmly the habit of the drawing-room that Buj>pt«ssee the
creature's const itutioual tendeucy to seize you by the
throitt instead of giving you a i>aw. Still, this Mp.
flower has a very striking he^, — something about it
Moorish or Si«mL-(h, like a picture by Murillo. I half
guapBct that lie is less a Gower than a gypsy."

" What ! " I crioi), as I listened with rapt and breath-
less iitteution to this description. " He is then very dark,
with high narrow forehead, featiirea ulitthtly aquiline but
very delicate, and teeth so dazzling that the whole fnco
seems to sparkle when he smiles, — though it is only the
lip that smiles, not the eye."

" Exactly as yoii say ; you liavo seen him, then t "

"\\niy, I am not sure, since you say liis name is
Oower."

"//e says his name is 0 owe r," returned Lord Castleton
drj-ly, a.s lie iiihalod the Beaudesert inistiirc.

" And wliere is he noiv, — with Mr. Trevanion!"

"Yes, I believe so. Ah, here we are, — Fudge and
Fidfiet! ]>ut, perhaps," added hon\ Castleton, with a
gleain of hojic in his blue eye, — "iH?r!ia]>a they are nut
at home ! "

Aliis! that was an illusive " ima{;iuiiig." as the poeta
of the niu<^^ee]^t]l century uuairecteilly express them-
selves. Messrs. Fudge and Fidget were never out to
such clients as the Marquess of Castleton. ^Vith a deep
sigh, and an altered expression of face, the Virtini o)
Fortune slowly descended the step of the carriage.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 177

" I can't ask you to wait for me," said he ; " Heaven
only knows how long I shall be kept ! Take the carriage
where you will, and send it back to me."

" A thousand thanks, my dear lord ; I would rather
walk. But you will let me call on you before I leave
town ? "

" Let you ! I insist on it. I am still at the old
quarters, — under pretence," said the Marquess, with a
sly twinkle of the eyelid, " that Castloton House wants
painting ! "

" At twelve to-morrow, then ? "

" Twelve to-morrow. Alas ! that 's just the hour at
which Mr. Screw, the agent for the London property
(two squares, seven streets, and a lane !) is to call."

" Perhaps two oV.lock will suit you better ? "

" Two ! just the hour at which Mr. Plausible, one of
the Castleton members, insists upon telling me why his
conscience will not let him vote with Trevanion ! "

" Three o'clock ? "

" Three I just the hour at which I am to see the
secretary of the Treasury, who has promised to relieve
Mr. Plausible's conscience ! But come and dine with
me ; you will meet the executors to the will ! "

" Nay, Sir Sedley — that is, my dear lord — I will
take my chance, and look in after dinner."

" Do so ; my guests are not lively ! What a firm step
the rogue has I Only twenty, I think, — twenty 1 and
not an acre of property to plague him ! "

So saying, the Marcjuess dolorously shook his head,
and vanished through the noiseless mahogany doors, be-
hind which Messrs. Fudge and Fidget awaited the
unhappy man, with the accounts of the great Castleton
coal-mine.

VOL. II. — 12

tHR CAXTOOT:

CHAFTEB TL

■af lowmrds oar lodgings I rosdvMJ to bob m at
UTvm, is tbe «)ff««-nx>iii of which tlie Captain
u uijtrU httbitnallj dined. It wns non about the usual
uaar in vtliicli we touk that meal, an<l he might b« there
waiting fur me. I faftd jiHt gained the steps of tliia
lavem, when a stag&«aacb came rattling along llie pave-
ment snil drew up at an inn of mote pretfiisioiis than
tliat which we brored, eituatcd within a few doots of
the laUer. As the c«acb Etop|i<^ my eje waa caught
by the Trcranion livery, which was very peculiar.
Tliiuking I must be deceived, I drew nenr to tJie
wciirer of the livery, who ]i;iil just descended from the
roof, aii.l wliile hi' piiid tlic coiLL-hiurtii, pive liis orders
to a w;iitcr M-lio eiuiTgcil from the iuu, — "Half-aiid-
h.iU, •■■■l\ witliout:" Tlie toue of the voice struck nie
as finiiliar. ami tlie man now lnoking up, I beheld the
f .ittir-'s of Mr, I'caciK'k. Yes, uuquestiotiably it waa he.
Tliu «lii,.k.Ts H-cre sliaved; tliero were traces of (KUvder
in the hair of llic ivi^-, — tlie livery of the Trevanions
(jiy, the viry liviTV, cri^t-lnitton and all) upon lliiit
IH>rllj ti^'urc, ivliitli I iia.l last seen in the more august
robes '.f a bea'Ue. IJut Mr. Peacock it was, ^ Peacock
tr-ivc-ti^il, but Peacock still. H.-forc I ha.l ri^covered my
iiniazc, a woman got out of a ealiriolet, that seemed to
have lj(-cn in waiting for the arrival of the coach, and
hurrying up to Mr. Peacock, Kiiid in the loud impatient
tone common to the fairest of the fair sex, when in

A FAMILY PICTURE. 179

"How late you are! I was just going. I must get
back to Oxton to-night."

Oxton, — Miss Trevanion was staying at Oxton ! I
was now close behind the pair; I listened with my
heart in my ear.

" So you shall, my dear, so you shall ; just come in,
will you?"

"No, no; I have only ten minutes to catch the
coach. Have you any letter for me from Mr. Gower?
How can I be sure, if I don't see it imder his own
hand, that — "

" Husli ! " said Peacock, sinking his voice so low that
I could only catch the words, " no names ! Letter, pooh,
I '11 tell you."

He then drew her apart, and whispered to her for some
moments. I watched the woman's face, which was bent
towards her companion's, and it seemed to show quick in-
telligence. She nodded her head more than once, as if
in impatient assent to what was said, and after a shaking
of hands hurried off to the cab ; then, as if a thought
struck her, she ran back, and said, —

" But in case my lady should not go, — if there 's any
change of plan 1 "

" There '11 he no change, you may be sure ; positively
to-morrow, — not too early : you understand 1 "

" Yes, yes ; good-by," —
And the woman, who was dressed with a quiet neatness
that seemed to stamp her profession as that of an abigail
(black cloak with long cape, of that peculiar silk which
seems spun on purpose for ladies'-maids, bonnet to match,
with red and black ribbons), hastened once more away,
and in another moment the cab drove oiOT furiously.

What could all this mean 1 By this time the waiter
brought Mr. Peacock the half-and-half. He despatched

180

tIE CAXTONS:

it iiiistily, anil then strixie ou tciwnrds a neigliboiing
staiiii of cabriolete. I followed him ; hiwI just as, after
bocki^niii); one of the vehicles from, the stand, he bad
ensconeed himself therein, I sjjrang iip the etepa and
placed myself by his side. " Now, Mr. Peacdck," said
I, " you wiU tell me at once how you come to wear
thnt livery, or I shall order the cabman to drive to
Lady Ellinoi TrevouioD'a and ask her that question
myself."

" And who the devil — all, you 're the young gen-
tleman that came to ma behind the scenes. I
member."

" Where to, sir I " asked the cabman.

"To — to London Bridge," said Mr. Peacock.

Tho man mounted the box, and drove on,

"Well, Mr. Peacock, I wait your answer. I guess by
your face that you are about to tell me a lie ; I advise
you to speak the truth."

" I don't know what business yon have to question
me," said Mr, Peiicock, sullenly ; and raising bis glance
from his own clenched fist* he suffered it to wander over
my form with so vindictive a sigtiifiwmce that I interrupted
the survey by saying, —

" 'Will you encounter the house 1' as the Swan inter-
rogatively puts it : shall I order the cabman to drive to
St. James's Square 1 "

" Oh, yon know my weak point, sir I Any man who
can quote Will, sweet Will, has me on the hip," rejoined
Mr, Peflnock, smoothing his countenance, and spreading
his palms on bis knees. " But if a man does fall in the
world, and after keeping servants of his own is ohligeil to
be himself a servant, —

To tell y

A F.VMILY PICTURE. 181

" The Swan says, * To tell you what I waSy Mr. Pea-
cock. But enough of this trifling ; who placed you with
Mr. Trevanion?"

Mr. IVacock looked down for a moment, and then, fix-
ing his eyes on me, siiid — " Well, I '11 tell you. You
asked me, when we met lastj about a youug gentleman

— Mr. — Mr. Vivian."
PisiSTRATUS. — " Proceed."

Peacock. — "I know you don't want to harm him.
Besides, * He hath a prosperous art,' and one day or other^

— mark my words, or rather my friend Will's, —

* He will bestride this narrow world
Like a Colossus.'

Upon my life he will, like a Colossus, —

* And we petty men.' "

PisiSTRATUS (savagely). — " Go on with your story."
Peacock (snappishly). — "I am going on with it !
You put me out ; where was I — oh — ah — yes. I had
just been sold up, not a penny in my pocket ; and if you
could have seen my coat, — yet that was better than the
small-clothes ! Well, it was in Oxford Street — no, it
was in the Strand near the Lowther, —

' The sun was in the heavens, and the proud day
Attended with the pleasures of the world.' "

PisiSTRATUS (lowering the glass). — "To St James's
Square ! "

Peacock. — " No, no ! to London Bridge.

' How use doth breed a habit in a man I'

I will go on — honor bright. So I met Mr. Vivian, and
as he had known me in better days, and has a good heart
of his own, he says, —

* Horatio — or I do forget myself.' "

THE CAXT0S5:

.ratua put« hb hstiJ on tbe check-string.
WK (correcting himaelf). — *'
my good fellow,'"

U.TC8. — "Johnson I oh, that's yoiir name, —
^ckt"

cK (iritb dignity). — "-T'>bnsoo and Peacock

VTien you know the w( as I do, sir, you will

,uat it is ill tnveUing this * uaiighly world ' with-

I change of wunes in your portmanteau. 'Johnson,'

ho, ' my giKjd fellow,' and he pulled oat' his pune.

Kjir,' auid I, 'if, "tjxempt from public haunt," I could

get something to do when this dross is gone.' In Ixin-

don there are sermons in atones, c«iiainly, but not ' good

in evety thing' — an observation I should lake tlie hlierty

of mnking to the Rwnn if he were not now, aksl 'the

baseless fabric of n

PlHIOTRATUB. — Tak carf

Peacock (hum 11 ) — Th n sa M T nan, 'if
you don't niiiiil i I II I j idi- for

ymi more sn\Ux\] 11 f I tl re ancy in

the cstal>lis]im,.i t f M T "^ I i.te<l tlie

pn.poMi, and lli t II tl 1

I'laisTnATV.i. — V ' I 1 t I ■!> 1 ad you

with llmtyoinij, 1 I t k t 1 M ss Tre-

vaiiion's maidt A,n I 1 \ 1 1 1 1 f Oxton

I had cxpcttd tl I ll | t 11 tifoniid

Jlr. IVacotk ; 1. t f 1 llj tl g n them

to fiuise ,.inliar t tl / ( t as too

pvai:lisri! in hi.s j f n t. 1 I t 1 H merely

sniilml, and, sii I t, j t h \ t 11 1 shirt-

' Of tliis matte
Is httlo Cupid's cniftj- II

A FAMILY PICTURE. 183

If you must know my love affairs, that young woman is,
as the vulgar say, my sweetheart."

" Your sweetheart ! " I exclaimed, greatly relieved, and
acknowledging at once the probahility of the statement.
" Yet," I added, suspiciously, — " yet, if so, why should
she expect Mr. Gower to write to her ? "

" You 're quick of hearing, sir ; but though —

* All adoration, duty, and observance :
All humbleness, and patience, and impatience,' —

the young woman won't marry a livery servant (proud
creature ! — very proud ! ) and Mr. Gower, you see, know-
ing how it was, felt for me, and told her, if I may take
such liberty with the Swan, that she should —

* Never lie by Johnson's side
With an unquiet soul ; '

for that he would get me a place in the Stamps ! The
silly girl said she would have it in black and white, — as
if Mr. Gower would write to her ! "And now, sir," con-
tinued Mr. Peacock, with a simpler gravity, "you are at
liberty, of course, to say what you please to my lady ;
but I hope you '11 not try to take the bre^id out of my
mouth because I wear a livery, and am fool enough to
be in love with a waiting-woman, — I, sir, who could
have married ladies who have played the first parts in
life on the metropolitan stage."

I had nothing to say to these representations, — they
seemed plausible ; and though at first I had suspected
that the man had only resorted to the buffoonery of his
quotations in order to gain time for invention, or to divert
my notice from any flaw in his narrative, yet at the close,
as the narrative seemed probable, so I was willing to be-
lieve the buffoonery was merely characteristic. I con-
tented myself, therefore, with asking, —

184

THE CAXTOKS:

" Wliere do you come from nowl"

" From Mr. Treviiiiion, in the country, with letters to
Laily Ellinor."

" Oh, and ao the young woman knew you were coming
to town I "

"Yes, sir; Mr. Trevaiiion told me, some dnys ago, the
day I should have to start."

" And what do you and the young woman propose doing
to-morrow, if there is no change of plan 1 "

Here I certainly thouglit there was a slight, scarce per-
ceptible, alteration in Mr. Peacock's countenance ; but he
answered readily, —

" To-morrow, a little assignation, if we can both get

out-

' Woo me, now 1 am in a holiday humor.
And tike enough to consent.'

Swan again, sir."

" Humph ! HO then Mr. Gower and Mr. Vivian are the
same person ! "

Peacock heaitated, "That's not my secret, sir; 'I
am combined by a sacred vow.' Yon are too much the
gentleman to peep through the blanket of the dark, and
to ask me, who wear the wliips and strijies — I meJiii the
pluah small'ClothBs and Bhonlder-knots — the secrets of
another gent, to ' whom my services are bound.' "

How a man past thirty foOs a man scarcely twenty !
what superiority the mere fact of Uvingon gives to the
dullest dog I I bit my lip and was silent

"And," pursued Mr, Pencock, "if you knew how the
Mr. Vivian you imiuired after loves you I When I toUi'j
him incidentally how a young gentleman had co
hind the scenea to inquire after hiin, he made me c

ribc you, and then said, quite mournfully, 'if ever ]

A FAMILY PICTURE. 185

am what I hope to become, how happy I shall be to
shake that kind hand once more ! * Very words, sir !
honor bright!

* I think there *s ne*er a man in Christendom
I Can lesser bide his hate or love than he.'

And if Mr. Vivian has some reason to keep liimsolf con-
realed still; if his fortune or ruin dei)end on your not
divulging his secret for a while, — I can*t think you are
the man he need fear. Ton my life,

* I wish I was as sure of a good dinner.'

as the Swan touchingly exclaims. I dare swear that was
a wish often on the Swan's lips in the privacy of his
domestic life ! "

My heart was softened, not by the pathos of the much
profaned and desecrated Swan, but by Mr. Peacock's un-
adorned repetition of Vivian's words. I turned my face
from the sharp eyes of my comijanion. The cab now
stopped at the foot of Lonilon Bridge. I had no more
to ask, yet still there was some uneasy curiosity in my
mind, which I could hardly define to myself. Was it
not jealousy ? Vivian so handsome and so daring, — he
,at least might see tlie great heiress; Lady Ellinor per-
haps thought of no danger there. But I — I was a
lover still, and — nay, such thoughts were folly indeed !

" My man," said I to the ex-comedian, " I neither wish
to harm Mr. Vivian (if I am so to call him), nor you wlio
imitate him in the variety of your names. But I tell you
fairly that I do not like your being in Mr. Trevanion's
employment, and I advise you to get out of it as soon as
possible. I say nothing more as yet, for I shall take time
to consider well what you have told me."

With that I hastened away, and Mr. Peacock continued
his solitary journey over London Bridge.

THE CAXTONS :

CHAPTER "^TL

Am D T al! tl t 1 ted 11 h a t totm uted my

til j,ht that iitful d y I f It at I aat i- joyous
m t oa h D G t« ng our little draw ug-room, I

f ud mj un lo -ated tb e

Tie Capta hal ^la ed befo e h m a tlie table a
lurgo B He bo ow d fro u the landlitdj He nevec

a 11 d to be su e w th ut hi wn B ble but the
p ut of tl t 0. eiiiiill a d th(i Cajti n ejes began
to fa 1 b n at u ght So tb s as a B 1 1 w th large
typ aula andl i. [la fid on th do of it; and
the CapU n I ed b elbows on the table and both
111 t(,l i I I I ] b f hrad, —

tfclU f t 1 t t tl k |t 1 forc-c his

11 I 10 tl 1 H t tl t, of iron

t, J 1 f tl t f, t f 11 -as roso-

I t I U f I t t uj 1 t I // read the .

1 k, t 1 to 3 a 13 I ft CI t 1 man."

ThiTO was such a palhos in the stfni sufferer's atlitiiile
that it Kjmke those words as plainly us if his lips had

S^li.l th.'l.l.

Old soldier! thou hast done a soldier's part in many
a l.loi"ly i\M ; but if I coidd make visible to the world
tliy lii-.ni! .soldier's soul, I would paint thee as I saw thee
tlii-ii ! Out on this tyro's band !

At the luovouieiit I made, tbc Captain looked np,
ami the strife he had gone through was wiitlen uj.on

A FAMILY PICTURE.

187

" It has done me good," said he, simply, and he closed
the book.

I drew my chair near to him, and hung my arm over
his shoulder.

" No cheering news, then ? " asked I, in a whisper.

Roland shook his head, and gently laid his finger on
his lips.

THE CAXTOSB:

CHAPTER Vin.

It was impoBsible for me to intrude upon Roland's
thoughts, whatever their nature, with a detail of those
circuni stances which Lad roused in me a keen and
anxious interest in things apart from his sorrow. Yet as
"restless I rollH around my weary bed," and revolved
the renewal of Vivian's connection with a man of
character so equivocal aa Peacock ; the establishment of
an able and unscrupulous tool of his own in the service
of Trevanion ; the care with which he had concealed from
me his change of namoj and his intimacy at the very
house to which I had frankly iiffered to present him; the
familiarity which his creature had contrived to effect
with Miss Trevanion's maiil, and the words that had
passed between tbem (plausibly accounted for, it is true,
yet ctiU suspicious) ; above all, my painful recoliectioiMj
of Vivian's reckless ambition and impriiicipledBentimentad^
nay, tbe effect that a few random words upon Fanny^
fortune, and tbe luck of winning an heiress, hod suffice
to produce upon his boated fancy and audacious temper, -
— when all these thoughts came upon me, strong and]
vivid, in the darkne.w of night, T longed f(ir
£dant, more experienced in tbe world than myself, to
advise me as to the course I ouftht to pursue,

Should I warn Lady Ellinor? But of what, — tlw
character of a servant, or the designs of the fictitioiu !
Gower 1 Against tbe first I could say, if nothing very .1
positive, still enough to make it prudent Ui dis
But of Gower or Vivian, what could I say without, — I

A FAMILY PICTtJBE. 189

not inJeod beti'ayiug his coafiduniie, for that he had
never giveu iiiu, — but without belying the ijrufessiona of
friendship that I myself bad hivishly mude to himl
Perhaps, after all, he might have disclosed whatever were
his real secrete to Trevaaiou ; and, if not, I might indeed
ruin his prospecte by reveuling the aliiiaos he assumed.
But wherefore reveal, and wherefore warn I Because of
SHspiciona that I could not myself analyze, — suapiciona
founded on circumstances most of which had already
bepn scuTidngly explained anay.

Still, when morning came I was irresolute what to do ;
and after watching Roland'a countenance, and seeing on
his brow so great a weight of care that I had no option
but to post])one the confidence I pined to place in bis
strong understanding and unerring sense of honor, I
wandered out, hoping that in the fresli air I might re-
collect my thoughts, and solve the problem that [lerplexed
me. I had enough to do in sunilry small orders for my
voyage, and commissions for Holding, to occupy me some
hours. And this business done, I found myself moving
westwanl, Mechanically, as if it were, I hod come to a
kind of hidf-and-half resolution to call upon Lady Kllinor,
and question her, carelessly and incidentally, both about
Gower and the new servant admitted to the household.

Thus I found niyjclf in Regent Street, when a carriage,
borne by post-horaes, whirled rapidly over the pavement,
scattering to the right and left all humbler equipages, and
hurried, as if on an errand of life and death, up the broad
thoroughfare leading into Portland Place. But rapidly
as the wheels dashed by, I had seen dii^tinctly the face of
Fanny Trevanion in the carriage ; ami that face wore a
strange expression, which seemed to me to speak of
anxiety and grief; and by her aide — was not that the
woman I had seen with Peacock I I did not see the face

190 THE CAXT0N8 :

of tte woman, but I thought I recognized the cloak, the
bonnet, and the petuliar turn of the head. If I could bo
mistaken there, I wns not mistaken at k.Ast. as to tlie setv-
anton the seat behind. Looking bauk at a botcher's boy
who had juat escaped being run over, and was revenging
himaelf by all the imprecations the Pine of London slang
could auggest, the face of Mr. Peiieock ivas exposed in
full to my gaze.

My first impulBe on recovering my surpriae waa to
spring after the carriage ; in the haste of that impnlae,
I cried " Stop I " But the carriage was out of sight in a
moment, and my vord was lost in air. Full of ptft-
sentiments of some evil, I knew not what, I then altered
my course, and stopped not till I found myself, panting
and out of breath, in St James's Square, at the door of
Trevaniou's house — in the hall. The porter had a newa-
poi>er in his hand as lie admitted me.

" WliiTr is Uuly KUiiinr? I must see her instantly."

" X(i wurw iif«-.s of iiLiistcr, I lioiw, sir?"

"W.irso iic«s of what — of whi.ju — of Jtr. Treva-
nioii 1 "

"Did you not kumv ho iV!i« suddenly tnken ill, sir;
tlmt a si'vvanl caiiu' expre^-s lo s,iy so last niyht? Lady
Ellinor weiil oir at ten o'.loik to ]<nit him."

"At ten ,.V|.>i.k last iiiglit ! ■'

"Vus, sir; th.. .,

;rvant's account alarniod her ladyship

"The now serv;

Mr. Ciower ? "

"Yes, sir, — Ilei

iiry," answered the porter, stariiij; at

mo •■I'lea=p, sir,

liere is au aeeuuut of master's attack.

in the paper. 1 .

-niiiio.-e Henry took it lo llie office

lH-fo.t- he came lien

■, whieh Wiis virv wn.ng in him ; but

1 am afraid h<^ 's u ■

,ery foolisli fehow."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 191

" Never mind that Miss Trevanion — I saw her just
now y she did not go with her mother : where was she
going, then ? "

"Why, sir — but pray step into the parlor."

" No, no ! speak ! "

" Why, sir, before Lady Ellinor set out, she was afraid
that there might be something in the papers to alarm Miss
Fanny ; and so she sent Henry down to Lady Castleton's,
to beg her ladyship to make as light of it as she could.
But it seems that Henry blabbed the worst to Mrs.
Mole.'*

" Who is Mrs. Mole ? "

" Miss Trevanion's maid, sir, — a new maid ; and Mrs.
Mole blabbed to my young lady, and so she took fright,
and insisted on coming to town. And Lady Castleton,
who is ill herself in bed, could not keep her, I suppose,
— especially as Henry said, though he ought to have
known better, * that she would be in time to arrive be-
fore my lady set off.' Poor Miss Trevanion was so dis-
appointed when she found her mamma gone ; and then
she would order fresh horses, and would go on, though
Mrs. Bates (the housekeeper, you know, sir) was very
angry with Mrs. Mole, who encouraged Miss ; and — "

" Good heavens ! Why did not Mrs. Bates go with
her ? ''

" Why, sir, you know hov/ old Mrs. Bates is, and my
young lady is always so kind that she would not hear of
it, as she is going to travel night and day ; and Mrs.
Mole said she had gone all over the world with her last
lady, and that — "

"I see it all. Where is Mr. Gower ? "

" Mr. Gower, sir ! "

" Yes ! Can't you answer 1 "

" Why, with Mr. Trevanion, I believe, sir.**

t9S

THE CAXT0N8-

"In the norlli — what is tlie adilitsst"

•• Lord N , C Kali, near W ."

I liparJ HO more. The conviction of some viUuions
siiarti struck >uc- m with the swiftness and foh;e of h'ghl-
ning. Why it Trevaiiion were really ill, had Uie false
Sbrraiit coneMled it fiwiu me? Wlij suiTered me to wnst«
hiK timo. iiist(-ad of liasbioing to Ljidy Eltiiior 1 How, if
Mr. Trr van ion's Hidden illuess had lirought the man to
Iiondoii, — how liad he known so long beforehand (as he
himself told me, and his appointment with the waituig-
WoniJin |>roved) the day he should arrive) WTiy now,
if llioni were no design of which Miss Trevanioii waa the
object, — why eo frurttato the provident foresight of her
nicilhor, and take kdvantngo of the natuml yearning of
affoctioH, the quick inipulsr of youth, to hurry off a girl
whose viiry station fnrhaile her to take such n jonniey
without Niiitahlo jin^tection, against wlint muat he the
M'i.ih, :iiid «li;i( cli'iiilv were the instniclionfi, of Lady
Klli]„>i ; .\l„ii,.. «,,iM- llirtu alone! Faiiiiv TreViinioIi

; tUr

:in.! c

U i.f l«-,. wr

\imls, who were the

iiiil-^ of n\, adi

L-fiilnviT like Vivian;

■hV|.Ctl lllO^C F

.Tvniita, those hroken

„w. ,„„,.1,.,1 ^.

.ilji tlie name Vivian

llh.'ll.irmnK

iiisliiicUof love morn

T.>r 111.- dark.'

T, hecaiisr tlip exact

,■ w^.s oliM'iin

' mid iudisliiicl.

■loii^... I lia-

t.'ned into the Hav-

.Ml.ii..l.'t. dro

ve homo as fast a,« I

-M.ni'y .ihout

me for tin' jounicy

<.-TV:,n\. of 111,.

]odf;iiig to engage a

illla thi' r,

lotu whore Roland

"\uT: 't'IV

iiioiior, plenty of

. 1 kiioiv, tl,o

i:t;li r cazi't explain

A FAMILY PICTURE. 193

it, has been practised on the Trevanions. We may
defeat it yet. I will tell you all by the way ; come,
come ! "

"Certainly. But villany, and to people of such
a station, — pooh ! Collect yourself. Who is the
villain ? "

" Oh, the man I had loved as a friend ; the man whom
I myself helped to make known to Trevanion, — Vivian !
Vivian ! "

" Vivian ! ah, the youth I have heard you speak of.
But how ? Villany to whom, — to Trevanion 1 "

" You torture me with your questions. Listen I This
Vivian (I know him), — he has introduced into the house,
as a servant, an agent capable of any trick and fraud ; that
servant has aided him to win over her maid, — Fanny's,
Miss Trevanion's. Miss Trevanion is an heiress, Vivian
an adventurer. My head swims round, I cannot explain
now. Ha ! I will write a line to Lord Castleton, — tell
him my fears and suspicions. He will follow us, I know,
or do what is best."

I drew ink and paper towards me, and wrote hastily.
My uncle came round and looked over my shoulder.

Suddenly he exclaimed, seizing my arm, " Gower,
Gower ! What name is this ? You said * Vivian.* "

" Vivian or Gower, — the same person."

My uncle hurried out of the room. It was natural
that he should leave me to make our joint and brieP
preparations for departure. I finished my letter, sealed^
it, and when, five minutes afterwards, the chaise oame^
to the door, I gave it to the ostler who accompanied th^
horses, with injunctions to deliver it forthwith to Lorc^
Castleton himself.

My uncle now descended, and stepped from the thresl^^
old with a firm stride. " Comfort yourself," he said,

VOL. II. — 13

194 THE CAXT0N8:

he entered the chaise, into which 1 had already thrown
myself, " we may be mistaken yet."

" Mistaken 1 You do not know this young man. He
has every quality that could untangle a girl like Fanny,
and not, I fear, one sentiment of honor that would stAiid
in the way of hia ambition. I judge him now as by
a revelation — too hte — oh, Heavens! if it be too
lAle!"

A groan broke from Boland's lips. I heard in it a
proof of sympathy with my emotion, and grasped his
hand: it was aa cold as the hand of the dead.

PART FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER I.

There would have been nothing in what had chanced to
justify the suspicions that tortured me, but for my impres-
sions as to the character of Vivian.

Header, hast thou not in the easy, careless sociability
of youth formed acquaintance with some one in whose
more engaging or brilliant qualities thou hast, not lost
that dislike to defects or vices which is natural to an
age when, even while we err, we adore what is good,
and glow with enthusiasm for the ennobling sentiment
and the virtuous deed, — no, happily, not lost dislike to
what is bad, nor thy quick sense of it, but conceived
a keen interest in the struggle between the bad that
revolted and the good that attracted thee in thy com-
panion? Then, perhaps, thou hast lost sight of him
for a time; suddenly thou hearest that he has done
something out of the way of ordinary good or common-
place evil; and in either, the good or the evil, thy
mind runs rapidly back over its old reminiscences, and
of either thou sayest, "How natural? only So-and-so
could have done this thing ! "

Thus I felt respecting Vivian. The most remarkable
qualities in his character were his keen power of calcu-
lation, and his unhesitating audacity, — qualities that

196 THE CAXTONS:

ultivation ^^H

lead to fame or to infamy, according to the cultiv
of the moral eenso imd the direction of the ]>a£eioii&
Hntl I reco^izcd thone qualities in some agency appa-
rently of good (and it seemfJ yet doubtful if Vivian
Were tho ngimt) I sliould have cried, " It is he I and
tho better iirige! has triumphed I " "With the same
(aJns! with a yet more impulsive) qiiitkness, when the
a((ency was of evil and tlie agent equally dubious, I
fftlt tliat the qualities revealed the man, and that the
demon had i)revailed.

Mile after mile, dtnge after stage, were passed on the
dreary, iuterminublo high north rond, I narrated to my
conifiouion, more intelligibly than I liad yet done, my
causes for apprehension. The Captain at first listened
eo({erly, then checked me on the sudden.

" There may be nothing in all this I " he cried. " Sir,
WB must be men here, — have our beads cool, our reason
clear. SIlji ! " And Icnniiig Kick in the chaise, Roland
r.'fus.-d fuilluT.Miivi'rsili.m, and as IIli' ni^clit iidvanced,
s.vnii-d til >bvi.. I look [lity on liia f;iligue, and devoured
my JiiMrl in Ah-u<->\

.^Vt I'lLr-lL st^i^'e we heard of the [larty of which we were
in pnrsnil. At the first slnyi' or two wc were less than
an l.i.nr iK^l.in.I ; jiradu^illy, as we advanee.i, «e lost
Kii.nml, despite the most liivish liberality to the jwst-
luiys. I snpposeil, at lfn;_'lli, that the mere cirrumstance
of VlutuHiiiS, ;it ea.'h relay, lli,- rlLnis,- as well as the horses,
was the i-anse of our coni|viratLve sluwiiess ; and on saying

about midiiigbl, he at once calle.! up the master of the
inti, :itid ff^\f liim his own ))rti-e fur permission to re-
tain tt liaise till the .j.aLrney's end. This was so im-

like Roland's ordinary tjirifl, whether dealing with my
money or his own, — su unjuslitiid by the fortune of

A FAMILY PICTURE. 197

either, — that I could not help muttering something in
apology.

"Can you guess why I was a miser?" said Roland,
calmly.

" A miser ! anything but that ! Only prudent ; military
men often are so."

"I was a miser," repeated the Captain, with emphasis.
" I began the habit first when my son was but a child.
I thought him high-spirited, and with a taste for extrav-
agance. * Well,* said I to myself, * I will save for him ;
boys will be boys.' Then, afterwards, when he was no
more a child (at least he began to have the ^^ces of a
man), I said to myself, * Patience ! he may reform still ;
if not> I will save money that I may have power over
his self-interestj since I have none over his heart. I will
bribe him into honor ! ' And then — and then — God
saw that I was very proud, and I was punished. Tell
them to drive faster — faster ! Why, this is a snail's
pace ! "

All that night, all the next day, till towards the even-
ing, we pursued our journey, without pause, or other food
than a crust of bread and a glass of wine. But we now
picked up the ground we ha<i lost, and gained upon the
carriage. The night had closed in when we arrived at

the stage at which the route to Lord N 's branched

from the direct north road. And here, making our usual
inquiry, my worst suspicions were confirmed. The car-
riage we pursued had changed horses an hour before, but

had not taken the way to Lord N 's, continuing the

direct road into Scotland. The people of the inn had not
seen the laily in the carriage, for it was already dark ; but
the man-servant (whose livery they described) had ordered
the horses.

The last hope that in spite of api>earances no treachery

198 THE CAXT0N8:

had lipeii ilMigneil, here vanislieil. The Captain at first
seemed more dismayed thuu xuyaelf, Imt lie recovered.
more quickly. " We will continue the journey
back," Ue said; and hurried to the stables. All objec-
tions vanished at the sight of his gold. In five minutea
we were in tlie saddle, with a postilion, also mounted, to
accompany us. We did tlie next stage in little more
than two-thirds of the time wliieh we should have oc<;U'
jiied in our former mode of travel; indeed, I found it
liard to keep pace with Roland. Wo remounted; we
wore only twenty-five minutes hcliind the carriage. We
felt confident that we ahould overtake it before it could
reach the next town. The moon was up, we could see
far Iwfore «a ; we rode at ftill speed. Milestone after
milestone glided by ; the carriage was not visible. Wo
arrived at the post-town, or rather village ; it contained
but one posting-house. We were long in knocking up
the ostler.*: no carrijif;e had arriv<'d just before us; no
Ciiniiig.' hiid passfil lln' |>l;iic ^iu<ir noon. What mystery
wasihi.-l

" Hark, bark ]^y ! " said Ri-lami, with a soldier's quick
wit, ami spurring his jaded horse fruni the yard. " They
will !m\e taken a iTOss-ri'ud or by-lane. We shall track
theni \<y tin- hoofs of (be horses or the print of tlie

Uur iwistiliiin grninbli'd, and ])oiiilod to the punting
si.l.s of our hi.r-.'.<. V.n- iLiisw.T, Uolmid opened his
band full of p-ld. Awiiy we wont back through ihc
dull sl.rping viila-e, back irilo Ibe bn>ad nu»mlit tbor-
uugbfare. We cnme U< a cr..ss-iMad to llu- right, but
Ibe track we pursurd stUi led us slrnigbl on. We had
ln.■a^■ur.■d back nrariv h;iU the way t.i the i«isUown at
whivb wo bad liist 'changed, when lo ! (here emoit,i-d
from a bv lane two postibmis and their hor«;s I

A FAMILY PICTURE. 199

At that sight our companion, shouting loud, pushed
on before us and hailed his fellows. A few words gave
us the information we sought. A wheel had come off
the carriage just by the turn of the road, and the young
lady and her servants had taken refuge in a small inn not
many yards down the lane. The man-servant had dis-
missed the post-boys after they had baited their horses,
saying they were to come again in thp morning, and bring
a blacksmith to repair the wheel.

" How came the wheel off ? " asked Roland, sternly.

" Why, sir, the linch-pin was all rotted away, I suppose,
and came out."

"Did the servant get off the dickey after you set out,
and before the accident happened ? "

" Why, yes. He said the wheels were catching fire ;
that they had not the patent axles, and he had forgot to
have them oiled."

" And he looked at the wlieels, and shortly afterwards
the linch-pin came out ? Eh ? "

"Anan, sir!" said the post-boy, staring; "why, and
indeed so it was ! "

" Come on, Pisistratus, we are in time ; but pray God
— pray God — that — " The Captain dashed his spur
into the horse's sides, and the rest of his words were lost
to me.

A few yards back from the causeway, a broad patch of
green before it, stood the inn, — a sullen, old-fashioned
building of cold gray stone, looking livid in the moon-
light, with black firs at one side, throwing over half of
it a dismal shadow. So solitary ! not a house, not a hut
near it. If they who kept the inn were such that villany
might reckon on their connivance, and innocence despair
of their aid, there was no neighborhood to alarm, no refuge
at hand. The spot was well chosen.

200

THE CAXTONS:

TV doore of the inn wen- closed ; llicro was a \\p}\
Iho nxm bdow ; but the oiitetde shutters wre di
onr Um wiltdows on the first floor. My uncle paused
■ noBM^ unl said to tUo poetUiim, —

"Do you kiH>w the back way to the prcu

" Xo, air ; I docs n't often come bj- this way, and ih.v
\m new folks thia bave taken the bouae, and I heat it
doot iNo^r over much."

'Kbo^ It the door ; we will stand a little aaide while
yon do aoL If naj one asks wlint you want, merely say
;«a WDOld tftik to the servant, that you have found a
pvn^ — hen, bobl np mine."

Robitd and I had dismounted, and my uncle drew
nr ckwe to tbe wall by the door. Observing that my
iKpKtwntv ill 8ubmitt«d to what s«emed to me idli:
pwltmiiMTMS, —

*• Hist 1 " wbi(|<efed he ; " if there be anything to ron-

;bt in ■
imwn H

ttuaed I

.>N*l wiihin. tlio

will

l-..^

■•:r,.l :

the door till .=

llu'V 10 SiCL' us, Ih.-y would refuse
nly l!ie jHist-Tioy, wlioni lliey will
u' of thoiif wlio brought the car-

,*Tis|iieioti. IV n-ady to rush in
iinlvini'd.''

I'Sjx'ripuiT did not deceive him.
■■I' K'fon' imy rrpiy was made l«
? : ihi- liglit passed to and fro
i!o(v. ;is if [MTsons were moviiif;

sii;ri to th.' jwl-lioy to knock
'. thrill' — and at laf^t, from an
of. a bi-ad obtnidcd, and a voioc

What do you waiitT"
1 ihi- IJi-d i,ioii ; I want to see
iwu iMvriajjo. I bave found this

A FAMILY PICTUKE. 201

" Oh, that '8 all ! wait a bit."

The head disappeared. We crept along under the
projecting eaves of the house; we heard the bar lifted
from tiie door ; the door itself cautiously opened : one
61)ring and I stood within, and set my back to the door
to admit Roland.

" Ho, help ! thieves ! help ! " cried a loud voice, and I
felt a hand gripe at my throat. I struck at random in
the dark, and with effect, for my blow was followed by
a groan and a curse.

Roland, meanwhile, had detected a ray through the
^Jiinks of a door in the hall, and, guided by it, found his
way into the room at the window of which we had seen
the light pass and go while without. As he threw the door
open I bounded after him, and saw in a kind of parlor, two
females, — the one a stranger, no doubt the hostess ; the
other the treacherous abigail. Their faces evinced their
terror.

" Woman," I .«aid, seizing the last, " where is Miss
Trevanion l "

Instead of replying, the woman set up a loud shriek.
Another light now gleamed from the staircase which
immetliately faced tlie door ; and I heard a voice, that
I recognized as Peacock's cry out, "Who's there?
What's the matter?"

I made a rush at the stairs. A burly form (that of
the landlord, who had recovered from my blow) ob-
structed my way for a moment, to •measure its length
on the floor at the next. It was at the top of the
stairs ; Peacock recognized me, recoiled, and extin-
guished the light. Oaths, cries, and shrieks now re-
sounded through the dark. Amidst them all, I suddenly
heard a voice exclaim, —

" Here, here ! — help ! "

202

THE CAXTOSS:

It was the voice of Funny. I made my way to the
riglit, whence the voice came, and received a violent
blow. FortHnately, it fell on the nnn w!iii:h I ex-
tended, aa men do who feel thoir way throujjh the
dark. It was not the right urm, and I Hcizcil and
closed on my nssailiint. Goland now caute up, a candle
in hiH hand, and at that sight my antagonist, who was no
othEir than Peacock, slipped from me, and made a rush at
the stairs. But the Captain caught him with his grasp
of ii'on. Fearing nothing for Roland in a contest with
any single foe, and alt my thoughts bent on the rescue
of her whose voice again broke on my ear, I had already
{before the light of the candle which Kolnnd held went
out in the struggle between liimself and Peacock} caught
siglit of a door at the end of the paw^e, and thrown my-
Bolf against it. It was locked, but it shook and groaned
to my pressure.

" Hold back, whoever you are I " cried a voice from the
room within, far diftereiit from that wail of distress
which ha<I guided my steps. " Hold hack, at the peril of
your life ! "

The voice, the tlireat, redoubled my strength, — the door
flew from its fastenings. I stood in the room. I saw
Fanny at my feet, clasping my hands ; then, raising her-
self, she hung on my shoulder and murmured, " Saved I "
Opposite to me, his face deformed by passion, his eyes
htendly bhizing with savage fire, his nostrils distended, his
lips ajiort, stcwd the man I have called Francis Vivian.

" Fanny — Miss Trevaniou ! what outrage, what vil-
lany is tliisi You have not met this man at your free
choice 1 Oh, speak I "

Vivian sprang forward. "Question no one hut me.
Unhand that lady, She is my betivlliud — sliali be my
wife,"

A FAMILY PICTURE. 203

" No, no, no ! don't believe him ! " cried Fanny. " I
have been betrayed by my own servants — brought here,
I know not how ! I heard my father was ill ; 1 was on
my way to him ; that man met me here, and dared
to — "

" Miss Trevanion ! yes, I dared to say I loved yoii."

" Protect me from him ! You will protect mo from
him ? "

" No, madam ! " said a voice behind me, in a deep
tone, " it is I who claim the right to j)rotect you from
that man ; it is I who now draw around you the arm of
one sacred even to him ; it is I who, from this spot,
launch upon his head a father's curse. Violator of the
hearth ! baffled ravisher ! go thy way to the doom which
thou hast chosen for thyself. God will be merciful to me
yet, and give me a grave before thy course find its close
in the hulks, or at the gallows ! "

A sickness came over me, a terror froze my veins.
I reeled back, and leaned for support against the wall.
Roland had passed his arm round Fanny, and she, frail
and trembling, clung to his broad breast, looking fearfully
up to his face. And never in that face, ploughed by
deep emotions and dark Avith unutterable sorrows, had I
seen an expression so grand in its wrath, so sublime in its
despair. Following the direction of his eyes, stem and
fixed as the look of one who prophesies a destiny and
denounces a doom, I shivered as I gazed upon the son.
His whole frame seemed collapsed and shrinking, as if
already withered by the curse ; a ghastly whiteness over-
spread the cheek, usually glo\ving with the dark bloom
of oriental youth ; the knees knocked together ; and, at
last, with a faint exclamation of pain, like the cry of one
who receives a death-blow, he bowed bis face over his
clasped hands, and so remained, — still, but cowering.

204 THR CAXTOKS:

I iislinr lively I advanced, mmI jilnced myself betwecu
tho father auil llic mm, munuurin}^ " Sjiam liiia 1 t«e, lu's
own heart erusliM him down." ITiea stc^aling tovntids
thv son, I whiB{>ered, " Go, ga 1 Uie criiuo was not com-
n.itt«M), till! curse can be recuUnl."

But my words touched a wrong t:honl in that dark mid
nbellious miture. Tlio young man withdrew his liarnls
ImsUly from his fnce and rpon'd hie fnmt in jiaasionale
(lefiiutco. Waving me aside, he cried, —

" Away ! I acknowledge no authority over my aclionsi
and my fate ; I allow no mediator between this Isdy and
myself, Sir," he continued, gazing gloomily on his
father. — "sir, you forget our compiict. Our liPs were
sovercd, your jiower over me annulled. I resigned Iho
name you Ixwr ; to you I woe, and am etiU, as the de^.
I deny your right to step bi-twuMi me Rud the object
denr^^r to me than life. Oh," — and here he atret^^bed
forth his hands towards Fanny, — "Oh, Miss Tr.'vanio.i,

I.el nu' si'c vnu alone but fi'f "W nionient ; let nic but

from the Iwm' motives you will bcMr iuijuilcd U> lue. - -
that il wa.* not the heiress I ^ouyhl t.i decoy, it was iIk-
wom:.n I s,.u«ht t.. win; oh. be„r me-"

■■ No. MO." murmured ■Faimy, .■liuyin^- elnser to Rolnii.I,
"do not leave me. If, as it seems, he is your wui.
I foriiivehim; but let him go, — 1 shudder at his very

•• Would V011 hiive me, Indeed, annihilate the meniorv
,.fll,e lv,nLl between us f »ud li-land, in a h.-llnw vuiee';
■■ wouM y.-u have me see in y..n only Ih.- vile Ihi.-f,
the la-vlrss f,a.>n,— deliver you up to Jusliee. nr strike

\,n\ 1,1 my (eetT I^t the memory still save you, and

A FAMILY PICTURE. 205

Again I caught hold of the guilty son, and again he
broke from my grasp.

" It is," he said, folding his arms deliberately on his
breast, — "it is for me to command in this house ; all
who are within it must submit to my orders. You sir,
who hold reputation, name, and honor at so high a price,
how can you fail to see that you would rob them from
the lady whom you would protect from the insult of my
affection ? How would the world receive the tale of your
rescue of Miss Trevanion ; how believe that — oh, pardon
me, madam — Miss Trevanion — Fanny — pardon mo —
I am mad ; only hear me — alone, alone — and then if
you too say * Begone,' I submit without a murmur. I
allow no arbiter but you."

But Fanny still clung closer and closer still to Roland.
At that moment I heard voices and the trampling of feet
below, and supposing that the accomplices in this villany
were mustering courage perhaps to mount to the assistance
of their employer, I lost all the compassion that had
hitherto softened my horror of the young man's crime,
and all the awe with which that confession had been
attended. I therefore this time seized the false Vivian
with a gripe that he could no longer shake oflf, and said
sternly, —

" Beware how you aggravate your offence ! If strife en-
sues, it will not be between father and son, and — "

Fanny sprang forward. "Do not provoke this bad,
dangerous man. I fear him not. Sir, I loill hear you,
and alone."

" Xever ! " cried I and Roland, simidtaneously.

Vivian turned his look fiercely to me, and with a sullen
bitterness to his father, and then, as if resigning his
fornu^r j)ruyer, he said, —

" Well, then, be it so ; even in the presence of those

206

THE CAXTONS:

whiijuJgo me so severely, I will qieak, at least." He
paused, aatl tlirowing into bis voice a [tassiuii tlint had
the repugnance at his guilt boen less would nut have
been without pathos, he continued to address Fanny ; " I
own that when I first saw you I might have thought of
love, as the poor and amlittiuiis think of the way to wealth
and [jower. Those thoughts vanished, aud nothing re-
maiued in my heart but love and maduess. I was ns a
man iu ii delirium when I planned this snare. I knew
but one object, saw but one heavenly vision. Oh, mine,
^mino at least in that vision, — are you indeed lost to
me forever?"

Thera was that iu this nuui's lone and manner which,
whether arising from accomplished byjioerisy, or actual
if perverted feeling, would, J thought, find its way at
once to the heart of a woman wlio, however wronged,
liad ODiie loved him ; aud, with a coM misgiving, I fixed
my eyes on Miss Trevaiiion. Her look, as she turned
with a yisible tremor, suddenly met mine ; and I believe
that she discerned my doubt, for after eutierin^i her eyes
to rest on my own witji something of mournful reproach,
her lips curved as with the pride of her mother, aud for
the (irst time in my life I saw auger on her brow : —

" It is well, sir, that you have thus spoken to me in
the presence of others, for in their presence I eall upon
you to say, by tliat honor which the son of this gentleman
may for a while forget but cannot wholly forfeit — I call
upon you to say, whether by deed, word, or sign, I, Francea
Trevaiiion, ever gave you cause to believe that I returned
the feeling you say you entertained for me, or encoumged
you to dare this attempt to place me in your power."

"No !" cried Vivian, reailily, but with a writliing lip,
" no ! but where I loved so deeply, perilled all my fortuna
for one fair and free occayiun tu tell you so uloue, I would

A FAMILY PICTURE. 207

not think that such love could meet only loathing and
disdain. Wliat ! has Nature shaped me so unkindly, that
where I love no love can reply 1 What ! has the
accident of birth shut me out from the right to woo and
mate with the highborn? For the last, at least that
gentleman in justice should tell you, since it has been his
care to instil the haughty lesson into me, that my
lineage is one that befits lofty hopes and warrants fear-
less ambition. My hopes, my ambition, — they were
you ! Oh, Miss Trevanion, it is true that to win you I
would have braved the world's laws, defied every foe save
him who now rises before me. Yet believe me, believe
me, had I won what I dared to aspire to, you would not
have been disgraced by your choice ; and the name, for
which I thank not my father, should not have been
despised by the woman who pardoned my presumption,
nor by the man who now tramples on my anguish and
curses me in my desolation."

Not by a word had Roland sought to interrupt his
son ; nay, by a feverish excitement, which my heart
understood in its secret sympathy, he had seemed
eagerly to court every syllable that could extenuate the
darkness of the offence, or even imply some less sordid
motive for the baseness of the means. But as the son
now closed with the words of unjust reproach and the
accents of fierce despair, — closed a defence that showed,
in its false pride and its perverted eloquence, so utter a
blindness to every principle of that honor which had
been the father's idol, Roland placed his hand before
the eyes that he had previously, as if spellbound, fixed
on the hardened offender, and once more drawing Fanny
towards him, said, —

"His breath pollutes the air that innocence and
honesty should breathe. He says *all in this house are

208

THE CAXTOSS:

at his communO ;' why do we Btayl Lt-l us go." lie
turnuil loWHnis iIil ilfKir, mid Fanny with liim,

Mi-anwhile Iho loii.liT aounda lielow had been silenced
fur Miiiin Dinmunts, hut I heard n Rtep iu the hall. Viviaa
sturtwl, find jilutpd liimsclf hefore iia.

" No, no. you caniiot leave me thus, Miss Trevanion.
I resign you — be it so ; I do nnt even ask for panlun.
But to leave this house thuB, without cnrriage, M-ithout
att«ndants, without oxplaiintion, — the blaiae falla on
me ; it shnll do ho. But at least vouchsafe me the
right to repair what I jet con repair of the wrong ; to
protect all Uiat is left to me — your iianiB."

As ho spoke, he did not perceive (for he was facing
\\i aii'I with hia back to the door) that a new actor
had noiselessly entered ou the scene, .and pausing by tlie
Uireshold, heard his last words.

" The name of Miss Trevanion, sir, — mid from what t "
nskeil the newcomer, as he advanced and surveyed Vivian
lilt I'lit f^ir its ijuii-t wotiM have seeiui'd

di».l.ii

'•T.oi-,1 Owlh

Fan

■ail y

, litling u|. the

shed his teeth.

rei'ly ; for not

b--"

Ixird Ciistleton ! "

It \

onimittecl,

A FAMILY PICTURE. 209

youth at Iciist could plead its cause to youth. And this
gives me now the power to say tliat it does rest with nie to
protect the name of the lady, whom your very servility
to that world which you have made your idol forbids you
to claim from the heartless ambition that would sacrifice
tlie daughUT to the vanity of the parents. Ha ! the
future Marcliioness of Castle ton on her way to Scotland
with a penniless adventurer ! Ha ! if my lips are sealed,
who but I can seal the lips of those below in my secret ]
The secret shall be kept, but on this cx)ndition, — you
sh.ill not triumph where I have failed. I may lose what
I adored, but 1 do not resign it to another. Ha ! have I
foiled you, my Lord Castleton ? Ha, ha ! "

" No, sir ; and I almost forgive you the villany you
have not eflfected, for informing me, for the first time,
that had I presumed to address Miss Trevanion her
parents at least would liave pardoned the presumption.
Trouble not yourself as to what your accomplices may
say. They have already confessed their infamy and
your own. Out of my path, sir ! "

Then, with the benign look of a father and the lofty
grace of a prince. Lord Castleton advanced to Fanny.
Looking round with a shudder, she hastily placed her
hand in his, and by so doing perhaps prevented some
violence on the part of Vivian, whose heaving breast
and eye bloodshot and still unquailing showed how
little even shame had subdued his fiercer passions. But
he made no offer to detain them, and his tongue seemed
to cleave to his lips. Now, as Fanny moved to the door
she passed Roland, who stood motionless and with vacant
looks, like an image of stone ; and with a beautiful ten-
derness, for which (even at this distant date, recalling it)
I say, " God requite thee, Fanny ! " she laid her other
hand on Roland's arm, and said, —

VOL. II. — 14

210

THE CAJtTOXS:

" CnmH too : your arm still I "

Bol KoUud's limljs trcmbliKl and refused to stir ; bis
boad, relaxing, drouped ou liis brpost, hia eyes cloeed.
Even Lurd Castletun wu^ di> stmck (though unuble to
giww the true aiid terrihlQ cuuse of Ids dejectfou) thjit
be tnr^al his dc«ire to ha^teu from the egiot, attd cried
with lii hia kindhuess of heart, " You sre ill ! you taiat !
Giv« him jour arm, Pisistratus."

" It is Duthing," said Kolruid, feehly, as he leaned
IwAvtljr UD 017 uTin, while I turned bnck my head n-itb
aU the hitt«nKEid uf that reproach which filled my heart,
»|i»iiking iu the eyea that sought Aim whose I'laee siiould
haw hwti whrre niiue now was. And, oh — thank
Umvimi, ihank Ilcuveu ! — the look was not iu vain. Iu
lim um« iuoui(«ut the son was at tlio father's knees.

"<.1)>, |Hni«n I |»ardon I Wretch, l(»t wrcU:h though I
b^ I how my Iiond to the curse. Let it fall, but on me,
aai on me, only, — not on your own heart too."

F;iiinv burst into U-.irf, sohbitig out, "Forgive bini,

.ts I d,'."

ltol.m.i did not hi'ed her. "lie thinks that the heart
WIS uot sh:itl<>n><! hefiiie tlie eurse toviKl come," he said,
in :i voiiv ^o «rak as lo he scarcely audible. Then, rais-
iui: his eves to hcavcii, his lips moved as if ho jirayed
u.iy. r'aiisiuf;. he str^'Ulied his haiuls over his son's
head, and, iiverlinj; liis f;KV, said, " I revoke the curse.
lYiy lo tliy Go-t for pardon."

IVrhiips not daring to trui^t himself further, he then
made a vioU-nt effort, and liuvrie.l
\Vb followed silently, ^^■hen '
the iMissage, the door of the rooi
with a sullen jar. As the soimd smoU' on my ear, with
it came so terrible a sense uf the solitude upon which
that door bad closed, so keen and quick an apprehension

■ gaineii tlie e
we Jiad left .

A FAMILY HCTURK. 211

of some fearful impulse suggested by passions so fierce to
a condition so forlorn, that instinctively I stopped, and
then hurried back to the chamber.

The lock of the door having been previously forced,
there was no barrier to oppose my entrance. I advanced,
and beheld a spectacle of such agony as can only be con-
ceived by those who have looked on the grief which
takes no fortitude from reason, no consolation from
conscience, — the grief which tells us what would be
the earth were man abandoned to his passions, and the
CHANCE of the atheist reigned alone in the merciless
heavens. Pride humbled to the dust; ambition shiv-
ered into fragments ; love (or the passion mistaken for
it) blasted into ashes ; life at the first onset bereaved of
its holiest ties, forsaken by its truest guide ; shame that
writhed for revenge, and remorse that knew not prayer,
— all, all blended, yet distinct, were in that awful spec-
tacle of the guilty son. And I had told but twenty years,
and my heart had been mellowed in the tender sunshine
of a happy home ; and I had loved this boy as a stranger,
and, lo ! he was Roland's son ! I forgot all else, looking
upon that anguish ; and I threw myself on the ground
by the form that writhed there, and, folding my
arms round the breast which in vain repelled me, I
whispered, —

** Comfort ; comfort ! Life is long. You shall redeem
the past, you shall efface the stain, and your father shall
bless you yet I "

I *

THB CAXT0K3:

CH^VPTER II.

not stay long with my Tiiilmiijiy couain, l>ut etjll
xytid ton^j enuugti to make me tliiuk it proLalile tliat
jnl Custletiin's cnrrii^o would have left the inn ; and
hen, as 1 [lassed the hall, I saw it Btanding t>r>fore the
open door, I was seized with fear for Rulnud : his cmo-
lions might have ended in some physical atlnclc. Nor
were those fears without fouudation. I found Fanny
kneeling lieaidc the old soldier in the parlor where W6
hail seen the two women, and bathing his temples, while
Lord Caslleton was binding his arm ; and the ^tarquess'a
favorite valet, who, amongst his other gifts, was some-
thing of fl stirgpoii, wiis willing tlie blade of the pen-knife
thai ban s,.rvr,l iiistoml of ii liineet.

I.i.ni (^isll-.loii iio.l.l,-d tu me; "Don't he iiiioaay ; a
litlli'faiiitiiiKlit; w,- liave bled liim. He is safe I'low ;

lliiiaiul'^

oyes, a-

■■ they npeni'd, turned to me witli an

Liixii.us iiii|

luiriiig h

>ok. ' I smiled upon liini as I kissed

lis f,nvli,.ii

d, and ,■

■ mid, with n snfe conseienre, wlusj^r

,voi.ls wliic

h neilhe
onifort.

r fatluT niT Ohrislian coidd refuse ti>_

In a few minutes more we had left the house. As
I.nnl Castleton's earringe imly lieM tivo, the >ritniuess,
having nmsted .Miss Trevanii.n and Roland to enter,
<|uietly mounted tlie wat behind, and nLado o sign to
me to come by his .side, fur there was room for both.
(His sor\-rtnt li.id taken one of the horses that had
brought thitlier Roland and myself, and already gone

A FAMILY PICTURE. 213

on before.) No conversation took place between us
then. Lord Castleton seemed profoundly affectetl, and
I had no words at my command.

When we reached the inn at which Lord Castleton had
changed horses, about six miles distant, the Marquess in-
sisteti on Fanny's taking some rest for a few hours, for
indeed she was thoroughly worn out.

I attendeil my uncle to his room, but he only answered
my assurances of his son's repentance with a pressure
of the hand, and then, gliding from me, went into the
fartliest recess of the room, and there knelt down.
When he rose, he was passive and tractable as a child.
Ho suffered mo to assist him to undress ; and when he
had lain down on the bed, he turned his face quietly
from the light, and, after a few heavy sighs, sleep
seemed mercifully to steal upon him I listened to
his heavy breathing till it grew low and regular, and
then descended to tlio sitting-room in which I had left
Lord Castleton, for he had asked me in a whisper to
seek him there.

I found the Marquess seated by the fire, in a thoughtful
and dejected attitude.

" I am glad you are come," said he, making room for
me on the hearth, **for I assure you I have not felt so
mournful for many years ; we have much to explain to
each other. Will you begin? They say the sound of
the bell dissipates the thunder-cloud, and there is nothing
like the voice of a frank honest nature to dispel all the
clouds that come upon us when we think of our own
faults and the villany of others. But I beg you a thou-
sand pardons ! That young man your relation, — your
brave uncle's son ! Is it possible ? "

My explanations to Lord Castleton were necessarily
brief and imperfect. The separation between Koland

THE CAXT0N8:

M>n, my ignorance of iU cnuse, my Ijelief
of the latter, my chance acquaiutaiice with iho
■seii Vivian, the interest I took in liim, the relief
i^ to the feara for hja fate with which he iD8])ired mo
ik he bad returned to the home I ascribed to him,
.lie circumsUmces w)iiiOi had induced my suspicions
■'iiid by the result, — ail this was soon htirried over.
;«t, I beg j'our pardon," said the Warqueas, inter-
niptjng me, "did you in your friendship for one so un-
like you, even by your own partial nceouut, never aaspecl
tlint you had stumbled u|xiii your lost cousinT"
" Suuh an idea never could have crossed me."
And here I must ol>si>rvc, that though the reader at
tlie first introduL-tiou of Vivian wniild divine tlie secret,
tlie penetration of a reader is wliolly different from that
of the actor in events. That I had chanced on one of
those curious coincidences in the romance of real life,
which n reailiT looks out for and expects in following
the co'.irse of naiiative, wn;* n sui'iiosition forbidden to
nil' by a varii-ty of eau.ses. Tlu've was not the least
family rcscmlilaiice between Vidian and any of bis rela-
tiMiis; and, soiurlii.w or other, in Eoland'a son I had
pirluifi! to nu?elf rt form niid fi character wholly dif-
fiTi'iit ffom ViviiLu'K. To HI.' it would have seemed
iiniios-ilili- tliat my cousin cmld have been so little
iiii'iiiii-i fo heiir any of our joint family allaii-s ; bpen
so milirivifid, or even wcarv.'if I ."P'^l^e of Roland,—
nev.T, by a wiml or tow, have betniyed a synipatliy
with hi.-i kindred. And my "Iber conjecture was so
])roliablc, — son of the Cohmel Vivian who,se name he
hnv; ami that letter, with tlic piwt-iiiark uf Oodalin-
iu- ; and my iielicf, to.i, in my .'ousin's d.>[ilb, — .■veil now
1 am not s\irprised tliat thi^ idea never oi'curr.Ml to me
I paused from eiinmeratiiig these excnses for my dul-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 215

ness, angry with myself, for I noticed that Lonl Castle-
ton's fair brow darkoned ; antl he exclaimed, —

" What deceit he must have gone through before ho
could become such a master in tlie art ! "

*' That is true, and I cannot deny it,*' said I. " But
liis punishment now is awful : let us hope that repent-
ance may follow the chastisement. And thougli cer-
tiinlv it must have been his own fault that drove him

ft.

from his fatlier's home and guidance, yet, so driven, let
us make some allowance for the influence of evil com-
panionship on one so young, for the suspicions that the
knowledge of evil produces, and turns into a kind of false
knowledge of the world. And in this last and worst of
all his actions — "

"Ah, how justify that?"

" Justify it ! good heavens ! justify it ! No ! I only
say this, strange as it may seem, that I believe his afl'ec-
tion for Miss Trevanion was for herself : so he says, from
the depth of an anguish in which the most insincere of
men would cease to feign. But no more of this, she is
saved, thank Heaven ! "

"And you believe," said Lord Castleton, musingly,
" that he spoke the truth when he thought that I — "
the Marquess stopped, colored slightly, and then went
on : " But no ; Lady Ellinor and Trevanion, whatever
might have been in their thoughts, woidd never have
so forgot their dignity as to take him, a youth, almost
a stranger — nay, take any one into their confidence on
such a subject.*'

"It was but by broken gasps, incoherent, disconnected
words, that Vivian — I mean my cousin — gave me any

explanation of this. But Lady N , at whose house

he was staying, appears to have entertained such a no-
tion, or at least led my cousin to think so."

216

THE CAXT0N8:

I, vfith « ^^H

" Ah, tlint i« possible," saiii Lord Ctstlptou,

li")k c.( ri'lu-f "Liirly N and I were boy and girt

t'lgi'llior ; wo eorrt'a|ion(l Slia has written U> me gng-
t;i'sting that — All, I we, — sn indisrrt^^ut woidbu.
Hiiiu ! this ivjincs nf laily correspondeuts 1 "'

Lonl CiiBtldtuti hful recourse to the Beaiidosert mix-
tan ; aiid then, aa if pnger U\ change the Biibjept, be^tan
his Dvfn explanation. On receiving my letUr, be sow
oven mora cnu^n to BiisiK-it a snare than I had done ; Ini
htt lind thrtt iii<)rniiig received a -letter from Trcvmiifm
not muittoning a wonl alxiut his illness, and on liim-
ing to Iho nnwspnjHT and eeeiiiR a paragrnph headed
"Siiddon nwl idanniug illness of Mr. Trevanioii," the
Marq'ieiis had anajiected some piily ninnixuvre or iin-
fpvhiig hnnx, sines tlin mail that Imd brought the letter
niliat hnvn tiiividlAd aa quickly as any meHsenger who Lad
giv«n the information to the newa|)aper. Ho had, litiw-
evi>r, ininu'ili.iti'ly sent ilowii to tlip office of the journal
I- iii.|uiiv .<n hIi:iI ;iiilli,.iily tlie ]iitM);r;i]ili had I>Pfn in-
s,Tl.'>i. «I,JU- !if .l.-|Mirl...i :ui..i\wT mfsr=,Mif;er to Pt.
.I;iMi,-^ S,ir.nv, Th.' iv|.lv (urn llie ollice was that
Ih,. m,—:.- !,...! 1 n l.r,'ii-lit by a m-vant in Mr. Tro-

\,..r.,.u. l«,;v, IM w.l- lint ililll.ill.-l as ncws Ullfll it
h..,l '■,■,', T..,,-.H',;„..| U iii.iiii|-i..s at llio iiiinist.-r's 1i..iisp

ilv,L 1 uh r;: ^un- h,..l l■,^■.■i^v,l th^^ .'i^imo irilclligcnee, aii.l

• T.^

1. st.it!"

Illy Kllinor's «n-
liiMiicly jiuzzlud ;
real (^ronnd for
And when von
lowiT was tnix.-a
''•'"<' ■"I""''' 'II'""
he r.iad t- I»r.l
,-o, wotiUl be thll

A FAMILY PICTURE. 217

road to Scotland ; and a hardy and unscrupulous adven-
turer, with the assistance of Miss Trevanion's servants,
might thus entrap her to Scotland itself, and there work
on her fears, — or, if he had hope in her affections, en-
trap her into consent to a Scotch marriage. You may be
sure, therefore, that I was on the road as soon as possible.
But as your messenger came all the way from the City,
and not so quickly perhaps as he might have come ; and
then, as there was the carriage to see to, and the horses
to send for, — I found myself more than an hour and a
half behind you. Fortunately, however, I' made good
ground, and should probably have overtaken you half-
way, but that on passing between a ditch and a wagon
the carriage was upset, and that somewhat delayed me.
On arriving at the town where the road branched off to

Lord N % I was rejoiced to learn you had taken

what I was sure would prove the right direction; and
finally I gained the clew to that villanous inn, by the
report of the post-boys who had taken Miss Trevanion's
carriage there and met you on the road. On reaching
the inn, I found two fellows conferring outside the door.
They sprang in as we drove up, but not before my ser-
vant Summers — a quick fellow, you know, who has
travelled with me from Norway to Nubia — had quitted
his seat and got into the house, into which I followed
him with a step, you dog, as active as your own. Egad ! I
was twenty-one then ! Two fellows had already knocked
down poor Summers and showed plenty of fight. Do
you know," said the Marquess, interrupting himself
with an air of serio-comic humiliation, "do you know
that I actually — no, you never will believe it ! mind,
*t is a secret — actually broke my cane over one fellow's
shoulders ? Look ! " and the Marquess held up the frag-
ment of the lamented weapon. "And I half suspect^

218

THE CAXTOXS :

but I can't say positively, tliat I had even the necessity
to demean myself by a Idow with the naked hand, —
clenched too! Quite Eton again, — upon my honor it
was. Ha, ha I "

And the Marquesa — whose magnificent proportions,
in the full vigor of man's strongest if not his most
combative age, would hove made him a formidable
antagonist even to a couple of priie-fighlera, supposing
ho bad reUined a little of Kton skill in sueh encounters

— laughed with the glee of a schoolboy, whether at the
thought of his prowess, or his sense of the contrast
between so rude a recouree to primitive warfare and his
own indolent habits and almost feminine good temper.
Compiwing himself, howei'er, with the quiek recollec-
tion how little I coiUd share hia liilarity, he resumed
gravely.

" It took us some time, I don't say to defeat our foes,
hut to bind them, which I thought a necessary precaution,

— one fellow, Trevanion's servant, all the while stun-
ning me with quotations from Shakespeare. I then
gently laid hold of a gown, the Iwarer of which had
been long trying to scratch me, but being luckily a
small woman had not succeeded in reaching to my
eyes. But the gown escaped, and fluttered off to the
kitchen. I followed, and there I found Miss Treva-
nion's Jezebel of a maid. She was terribly frightened,
and affected trt be extremely ]>enitent. I own to you
that I don't care what a man says in the way of slander,
but a woman's tongue against another woman — especially
if that tongue be in the mouth of a lady's lady — I think
it always worth silencing; I therefore consented to par-
don this woman on condition she would find her way
here before morning. No scandal shall come from her.
Thus you see some minutes elapsed before I joined you;

A FAMILY PICTURE. 219

but I minded that the less, as I heard you and the Cap-
tain were already in the room with Miss Trevanion ; and
not, alas ! dreaming of your connection with the culprit,
I was wondering what could have delayed you so long,
— afraid, I own it, to find that Miss Trevanion's heart
might have been seduced by that — hem — hem — hand-
some young — hem — hem — There 's no fear of that ? "
added Lord Castleton, anxiously, as he bent his bright
eyes upon mine.

I felt myself color as I answered firmly, " It is just to
Miss Trevanion to add, that the unhappy man owned, in
her presence and in mine, that he had never had the
slightest encouragement for his attempt, never one cause
to believe that she approved the affection which, I try to
think, blinded and maddened himself."

"I believe you; for I think — " Lord Castleton
paused uneasily, again looked at me, rose, and walked
about the room with evident agitation ; then, as if he had
ct»me to some resolution, he returned to the hearth and
stood facing me.

" My dear young friend," said he, with his irresistible
kindly frankness, "this is an occasion that excuses all
things between us, even my impertinence. Your conduct
from first to last has been such that I wish from the
bottom of my heart that I had a daughter to offer you,
and that you felt for her as I believe you feel for
Miss Trevanion. These are not mere words ; do not
look down as if ashamed. All the marquisates in the
world would never give me the pride I should feel if
I could see in my life one steatly self-sacrifice to duty and
honor equal to that which I have witnessed in you."

" Oh, my lord ! my lord ! "

"Hear me out. That you love Fanny Trevanion I
know; that she may have innocently, timidly, half-

220 THE CAXTONS ;

Tincoiiai'ioiisly retunied tliat atTectioii, I think prohalfe
But — "

"I know what ynu would say; spare me! I know
itaU."

" No ! it is ft thing imjicispible ; and if La^ly Elinor
could consent, there wniild be euoh a iife-Iong wgrrf oo
lier iJart, buiIi a weight of oliljgation on .rours. that —
no, I repeat, it is impossible ! But let us both think
of tbia }>oor girl. I know her better than yoii can ; hare

known her from a chilil ; know all Ijcr virtues, thej

are charniiug ; all her faults, — tliey expose her to danger.
Those parents of hers, with their genius and ambt^on,
may do very well to rule England and influence the
world ; but to guide tlie fate of that child — no J " Ixmi
Castleton stopped, for he was affected. I felt ray old
jcalo\isy return, but it was no longer bitter.

" I say nothing," continued the Marquess, " of this
position in which, without fault of hers, Hiss Trevnninii
is j.laced. Lady Klliu.T's knowledge of the w<.r!da.Tl
wonwii'a wit will Roe how oil lliat can lie best put right
Still it is, -irekwapljiuid demands much coiisideration. But
putting this aside altogether, if yuu do firmly ln'Iieve that
MiN^TrevanionisIo-iltoyou, c.iu you bear to think that she
is to be fluii^'asamere cipher into the accoinitofllie wnrldly
Uri'atiioss of an aspiring politician; married lo some minister
toil busy to wiitch over her, or some duke who looks to pay
oil' his mortgages with her fortune, — minister or duke
only regarded as a prop (o Trevanioii's power against a
counter cabal, or as giving his section a preiHimlemnce in
the cabinet? Bo assured such is Iier most likeij' destiny,
or rather the begiimiiis of a d-'stiny yet more mournful.
Now, I tell you this, that im who marries. Fai.ny Treva.
nion should have little otlier object for the first few years
of marriage than to correct her failings and develop her

A FAMILY PICTURE. 221

virtues. Believe one who, alas ! has too dearly bouglit
his knowledge of woman, hers is a character to be
formed. Well, then, if this prize be lost to you, woidd it
be an irreparable grief to your generous affection to think
that it has fallen to the lot of one who at least knows his
responsibilities, and who will redeem his own life, hitherto
wasted, by the steadfast endeavor to fulfil them ? Can
you take this hand still, and press it, even though it be
a rival's?"

" My lord, tliis from you to me is an honor that — "
" You will not take my hand ? Then, believe me, it is
not I that will give that grief to your heart."

Touched, penetrated, melted, by tliis generosity in a
man of such lofty claims to one of my age and fortunes, I
pressed that noble hand, half raising it to my lips, — an
action of respect that would have misbecome neither ; but
he gently withdrew the hand, in the instinct of his natural
modesty. I had then no heart to speak further on such
a subject, but faltering out that I would go and see my
uncle, I took up the light and ascended the stairs. I
crept noiselessly into Roland's room, and shading the
light, saw that, though he slept, his face was very
troubled. And then I thought^ " What are my young
griefs to his ? " and sitting beside the bed, communed
with my own heart and was stilL

TUK CAXTOS8 :

CHAITER in.

At sunrise I went down into the sitting-room, hftriog
a-solveii to write to my father U> join U8 ; for I felt liow
much Rolnnil needed his (.'omfort and liis counsel, and it
was no great distoiit-e from the old tower. I wna sur-
[iriaed to find L(>td Castleton still seated by the fire ; lie
had evidently not gone to hed.

"That's right," said ho; "wp must encourage each
otlier to recruit nature," and he i)oint«d to the broakfaBt
tilings on the table.

I had scarcely tasted food for many hoiirs, but I \ras
only aware of my own hunger by a sensation of faintness.
i ate uneonscioiisly, and was almost ashamed to feel how
niuch the food rcsturoil me.

"1 suipjiosL'," KJiii! 1, "that you will soon set off to
Lord N— 's?"

" Nay, did I not tell you that I have sent Summers
exi'riiss witli a note to Lady Ellinor, begging her to come
here 1 I did not see, im rofloctioii, how 1 could decorously
aL-eomi>aiiy Miss Truvaiiion alone, witliout even a female
servant, to a house full of gossijHng guests. And even
had your uncle lieeii well enough to go with us, his
presence woidd but Iiave created an additioiml cause for
wonder ; so, as soon as we arrived, and while you went
up with the Captain, I wrote my letter and despatched
my man. I expect Lady Ellinor will be here before nine
oVlofk. Meaiiwiiile, I have already seen that infamous
waiting- wuuuin, and talicn cajv to prevent any danger
from her garrulity. And you will be pleased to hear that

A FAMILY PICTURE. 223

I have hit upon a mode of satisfying the curiosity of our
friend Mrs. Grundy — that is, * the World ' — without
injury to any one. We must suppose that that footman
of Trevanion's was out of his mind, — it is but a charitable,
and your good father would say a philosophical, supposi
tion. All great knavery is madness ! The worid could
not get on if truth and goodness were not the natural
tendencies of sane minds. Do you understand 1 *'

" Not quite."

" Why, the footman, being out of his mind, invented
this mad story of Trevanion's illness, frightened Lady
Ellinor and Miss Trevanion out of their wits with his
own chimera, and hurried them both off, one after the
other. I having heard from Trevanion, and knowing he
could not have been ill when the servant left him, set
oflf, as was natural in so old a friend of the family ; saved
her from the freaks of a maniac, who, getting more and
more flighty, was beginning to play the Jack o* Lantern,
and leading her. Heaven knows where, over the country,
and then wrote to Lady Ellinor to come to her It is but
a hearty laugh at our expense, and Mrs. Grundy is con-
tent. If you don't want her to pity or backbite, let her
laugh. She is a she Cerberus, — she wants to eat you ;
well, stop her mouth with a cake. " Yes," continued this
better sort of Aristippus, so wise under all his seeming
levities, "the cue thus given, everything favors it If
that rogue of a lackey quoted Shakespeare as much in the
servants' hall as he did while I was binding him neck and
heels in the kitchen, that 's enough for all the household
to declare he was moon-stricken ; and if we find it
necessary to do anything more, why, we must induce him
to go into Bedlam for a month or two. The disappearance
of the waiting- woman is natural : either I or Lady Ellinor
send her about her business for her folly in being so

224

TUX CAZTONS:

gulled \iy the Imiatic. If thnt's unjust, wliy injustice to
servants is.coramon pnoiigh, piililic and I'rivate. Neither
minister nor lackey can be forgiven if be he]]i iib into a
scrape. One must vent one's imsaioii ou something;
witness ray ])oor cane, — though, indeed, a better illus-
tration would be the cane that Ivjiiis XIV, broke on a
footman because Ills Majesty was out of humor with tlie
prince, whose shoulders were too soeret! for royal indig-
nation. "So you see," concluded Lord Ciistleton, lower-
ing his voice, " that your uncle, amongst all his other
causes of sorrow, may think at least that his name is
spared in hia son's. And the young man himself may
find reform easier when freed from that des]Kiir of the
poHsibitity of redemption wliieh Mrs. Grundy inflicts
upon those who — Courage, then; life is long!"

" My very words ! " I crieil ; "and so repeated by yon.
Lord Castleton, they seem itrophetic."

" Take my advice, and don't lose sight of your cousin
while his pride is yet humbled and his licart perhaps
softened, I don't say this only for his sake. No, it is
your poor uncle I think of, — nohle old fellow! And
now, I think it right to pay Lady Ellinor the resjiect of
repairing, as well aS I can, the havoc three sleeptesa nights
have made on the exterior of a gentleman who is on tJie
shady side of remorseless forty."

Lord Castleton here left me, and I wrote to my father,
begging him to meet na at the next stage (which was the
nearest point fripn the high road to the tower), and
1 sent off the lett^sr by a messenger on horseback. That
task done, I leaneil my hpad upon my hand, and a pro-
found sadness settle*! upon me, despite all my efforts to
face the future and think only of the duties of life, uot ita
sorrows.

A FAMILV riCTUHE.

CHAPTER IV.

B&PORB nine o'doi:k Ltw.ly EUinor arrived, and went
straight into Miss Trevaiiiou's room. I took refuge iu
lay uncle's. Roland was aiviiko mid calm, but so feeble
that hi) nmde nu effort to rise ; and it was his calm, iu
deed, that alarmed me the most, — it was like tJio calm
of nature thoroughly exhausted. He obeyed me mechun-
ically, as a patient takea from your hand the draught of
which he is almost unconscious, when I pressed him to
take fooi], He smiled OH me fitintly when I spoke to
Uiiu, liut mode me a sign that seeiued to implore silence.
Tlien he turned hia face from mo and buried it in the
pillow ; and I thought that hs slept ngain, when, rais-
ing himself a little, and feeling for my hand, he said in
a scarcely audible voice, —

■' Whure is he I ■'

"Would you see him, sirt"

" No, no ! that would kill me ; and then — what would
become of him I"

" He has promised me an interview, and in that inter-
view I feel assured he will obey your wishes, whatever
they are."

Roland made no answer.

" Lord Castleton has arranged all, so that hia name and
maihieaa (thus let ua call it) will never be known."

" Pride, pride ! pride still ! " murmured the old soldier.
"The name, the name — well, that ia much; but tha liv-
ijig soul ! I wish Austin were here."

" I have sent for liim, sir."

226 THE CAXTONS:

Koland pressed niy hand, and was again silent. Then
ho began to mutUT, ua 1 tliought, iucuhvri^ntly, about
tlie Peninsula and obeying orders ; and how some ofli>
cer woke Lord Wellington at nijjlit, and said that
something or other {I could not catch what, the
phrase was technical and military) was iiu[>iissihle ;
and how Lord Wellington asked, " where 's the order-
iMKikl" and looking into the order-book, said, "Not at
all imposeitilo, for it is in the order-book ; " and bo
Lord Wellington turned round and went to sleep
again. Then suddenly Roland hidf rose, and said in
a voice clear and firm, " But LoM Wellington, though a.
great captain, was a fallible man, sir, and the order-book
was his own mortal handiwork. Get me the Bible!"

Oh, Roland, Roland ! and I bad feared that thy mind
was wandering ! So I went down and borrowed a Bible,
in large characters, and pWed it on the bed before him,
opening the shutters, and letting in God's day upon God's
word.

I had just done this, when there was a slight knock
at the door. I opened it, and Loi'd Castletou stocnl
without He asked me in a whisper if he might see
my uncle. I drew him in gently, and pointed to the
soldier of life learning what " was not impossible,"
from the unerring Gnler-Eook.

Lord CiiBtleton gazed with a changing countenance, anil,
without disturbing my uucJe, stole back. I followed him,
and gently closed the door.

" You must save his son," he said, in a faltering voice,
— "you must; and tell me how to help you. Th&t
sight, — no sermon ever touched me more ! Now come
down, and receive Lady Ellinor's thanks. We are going.
She wants me to tell my own tale to my old friend Mrs.
Grundy ; so I go with tbom. Come 1 "

A FAMILY PICTUUE. 227

On entering the sitting-mtiiTi, Ludy Ellinor came up
and fairly embraced nie. I m-i'il uot rupeat her thanks,
still less the [intisoa, which fell cohl nnd hollow on my
ear. My guze rested on Ftuiny, where she stood apart,
her eyes, heavy with freah U?ars, bent on the ground.
And the sense of all her charms ; the memory of the
tender, exquisite kindness she liad shown to the stricken
father; the generous [mnlou she had extended to the
criminal son ; the looka she had bent upon me on that
memorable night, — looks that had spoken such tnist in
niy presence ; the moment in which she had clung to
me for protection, and her breath been warm upon my
cheek, — all those rushed over me ; and 1 felt that the
struggle of months was undone, — tliat I had never
lovctl her aa I loved her then, when I saw her but to
lose her evermore ! And then there came for the first,
and I now rejoice to think for the only, time a bitter,
ungratefid accusation against the cruelty of fortune and
the disparities of life. What was it that set our two
hearts eternally apart, and rooile hope impossible T Not
nature, but the fortune that gives a second nature to
the world. Ah, could I then think that it is in tliat
second nature tiiat the soul is ordained to seek its trials,
and that the elenients of human virtue find their har-
monious place I What I anawereii I know not. Nei-
ther know I how long I stooil there listening to sounds
which seemed to have iio meaning, till there came other
sounds which indeed woke my sense and made my blooil
run cold to hear, — the tramp of the horses, the grating
of the wheels, the voice at the door that said, " All is

Then Fanny lifted her eyes, and they met mine; and
then involuntarily and hastily she moved a few steps
towards me, and I clasped my right hand to my heart

I flCO. Lvd C»

lB«n hwt W hB te pnfer Irom
. IH feaal feai aMV onfa ; 4Bd juu trio

h— »teiw>»flii bMdIxKDanin.

h— BMi^I^EIlinoc!]n>a win

■TTT -c Ti? 5'-i=» fc>F bad rntet^d. and

- Mv (r;,

■0.1

:-^ ■^-:. \-ei

,:;;; li..,»J o,ie
:;vil >ri,bed to
: : -.hi! farewtU
■-M mffor him
ill: the iwttiral

:-n ^.rr^.-, i-i :h,- ii.i;;;nil i.iiy for a
:.-:--.-i;e if^v::.--:: ic-t s,>, U.iy Elliiwr,
.\; ::i ■ A V -.hi: r^j.h^J lii.< em ! Wliat
.^r.,; .■.;;! W.;r hij;h mind at oner con-
i to imuse-U : ' If I 4m ever to be blessed

A FAMILY PICTURE. 229

with the heart which in spite of disparity of years I yet
hope to win, let me show how entire is the tnist that I
place in its integrity and innocence ; let the romance of
first youth be closed, the farewell of pure hearts be spoken
unimbittered by the idle jealousies of one mean suspicion.'
With that thought, — which yow, Lady Ellinor, will never
stoop to blame, — he placed his hand on that of the noble
mother, drew her gently towards the door, and, calmly
confident of the result, left these two young natures to
the unwitnessed impulse of maiden honor and manly
duty."

All this was said and done with a grace and earnestness
that thrilled the listeners, — woi-d and action suited to
each with so inimitable a harmony that the spell was not
•broken till the voice ceased and the door closed.

That mournful bliss for which I had so pined was
vouchsiifed : I was alone with her to whom, indeed,
honor and reason forbade me to say more than the
last farewell.

It was some time before we recovered, — before we
felt we were alone. O ye moments, that I can now re-
call with so little sadness in the mellow and sweet re-
membrance, rest ever holy and undisclosed in the solemn
recesses of the heart !

Yes, whatever confession of weakness was inter-
changed, we were not unworthy of the trust that per-
mitte<i the mournful consolation of the parting. No
trite love- tale — with vows not to be fulfilled, and hopes
that the future must belie — mocked the realities of the
life that lay before us. Yet on the confines of the dream
we saw the day rising cold upon the world ; and if —
children as we well-nigh were — we shrank somewhat
from the light, we did not blaspheme the sun, and cry,
"There is darkness in the dawn!" All that we at-

ISO TOe CAXTONd :

1 to comfort and eUvu}|rthf?n with other for
thM which miisl be, — not Becking to conceal the griel
«B Mt, Iwi promising, with simple faith, to strtiggl*
agunrt th« griot If v»w wpre plejged botweeu us,
eiar WM this vow: each fur the other's eake would
rtrive t*» Myoy the bl*«siugs Henveii left us still. Well
Diny I m; that we wpn> chUdreu ! I know not, in the
Inukm m)ciU that pos^il liclween us, in tlic sorraw-
(ul hvuta which those wonls rvvraled, — I know not
if tboTO w«w that which they who on-ti in htiiuan naa-
0)00 but the storm ami the whirlwind would call the
love of imtuiVT ynftr*, thi? love that gives fire to the
aaufi and tMgwly to tlu- stag*; but I know that there
WW ututhor A worj nor a thought which made the sorrow
of lire childivii » n-brlhon to the heavenly Father.

And again tho door unclHScd, and Fanny walked with
« firm sl«'[i to her mother's side, and, pausing there, ex-
tendiil her hniul to nip, and said, as I bont over it,

•■ll.MV.-U Will, U- with vou!"

A wo

! from buiy F.lliiior ; a fv:uik sinile from him

. Ill,, t

val ; ono hi.*t, Lisl glimr fr.nii llie soft eyes of

Ywm . .

lid ili.Mi solitu.ie riishnl u|Hm nic, — ntshi'd, as

s...m-tlui

i; viMl>U'. i<;d|nitiK>, oviT|).iworing. I felt it in

Ih,- j;l,.l.

oi lii,' siiiiU'aiu. 1 luMTil it in the breath of the

i.ir; hk-

ii -lio^l ii nv^,. tli.'iv - H lien> s/,e hiul tilled the

i-l-c..-,. «1

h luT i.t>«:,j.,v bul i» iiiomoiit iH.fore ! A soiue-

thiiii; »■

m.'d 1,-0110 fft'in the luiiverse forever; n diiuige

hk,.'th,.t

I'f di-iilli I'iissi'.l ilinuicU my lieiiij; ; iiiid when I

Wok-' to

ferl tlut my l«'iii- lived iignin, I knew that it

w;i- my

ouili and its |«>et laii.t that were no more, and

lli-ii 1 h

d [Kis-^e.1. Willi -.M iiiiiMtiM'ioii;' slej) whieh never

■uv iis ivay, int.. the liav.1 umld of laborious

PART SIXTEENTH.

CHAPTER 1.

" Plkasb, sir, be this note for youl" asked the waiter.

" For me — yes ; it is my name."

I did not recognize the handwriting, and yet the note
was from one whose writing I had often seen. But
formerly the writing was cramped, stiff, perpendicular, —
a feigned hand, though I guessed not it was feigned ; now
it was hasty, irregular, impatient, scarce a letter formed,
scarce a word that seemed finished, and yet strangely
legible withal, as the handwriting of a bold maa almost
always is. I opened the note listlessly, and read, —

** I have watched for you all the morning. ^I saw her go.
Well I I did not throw myself under the hooft of the horses.
I write this in a public-house, not far. Will you follow the
bearer, and see once again the outcast whom all the rest of the
world will shun ? "

Though I did not recognize the hand, there could be no
doubt who was the writer.

" The boy wants to know if there *s an answer," said
the waiter.

I nodded, took up my hat, and left the room. A
ragged boy was standing in the yard, and scarcely six
words passed between us before I was following him

V-

232 THE OAXTO^rs:

tlirougli a narrow lane thnt facpil the inn nnrl tt^nuiuated
in n turnstile. Here tlie boy pause^l, aiiJ making me a
sign to go on, went back his way wliietling. 1 passed the
turnstile, iind found myself in ft green field, with a row of
stunted willows hanging ovlt i narrow rill. I looked
round aud saw Viviitn (as I intended still to call him)
halt kneeling, and seemingly intent upon Home object in
the grass.

My eye followed his mechanieally. A young un-
fleilgod bird, that had left the nest too soon, stood all
still and nlooe on the bare abort sward, its beak open as
for food, its giue fixed on us with a wistful slare. Me-
thought there was something in the forlorn bird that
softened me more to the forluruer youth of whom it
seemed a type

" Kow," said Vivian, speaking half to himself, half to
me, "did the bird fall from the nest, or leave tJie nest at
its own wild whim 1 The parent does not protect it.
Mind, I say not it is the parent's fault, — perhaps the
fault is all with the wanderer. But, look you, though
the parent is not here, the foe is I — yonder, see ! "

And the young man pointed to a large hrmdled cat,
that, kept hack from its prey by our unwelcome neigh-
borhood, still remaine<l watchful a few paces off, stirring
its tail gently backwards and forwards, and with that
stealthy look in its round eyes — dulled by the sun, half
fierce, half frightened^ which belongs to its trlhe when
man cornea between the devourer and the victim.

" I do see," said I ; " but a passing footstep has saved
the bird ! ''

" .Stop ! " said Vivian, laying his hand on my own, and
with his old hitter smile on Ins lip. — " stop ! I)o yon
think it mercy to save the bird! What from and what
fori From a natural enemy, from a short pang and a

A FAMILY PICTUKE. 233

quick death ? Fie ! is not that better than slow star-
vation ; or, if you take more heed of it, than the prison-
bars of a cage ? You cannot restore the nest, you cannot
recall the parent ! Be wiser in your mercy : leave the
bird to its gentlest fate ! "

I looked hard on Vivian ; the lip had lost the bitter
smile. He rose and turned away. I sought to take up
the poor bird ; but it did not know its friends, and ran
from me, chirping piteously, — ran towards the very jaws
of the grim enemy. I was only just in time to scare
away the beast, which sprang up a tree, and glared down
through the hanging boughs. Then I followed the bird ;
and as I followed I heard, not knowing at first whence
the sound came, a short, quick, tremulous note. Was it
near, was it far, — from the earth, in the sky ? Poor
parent-bird ! like parent-love, it seemed now far and now
near ; now on earth, now in sky ! And at last, quick
and sudden, as if born of the space, lo ! the little wings
hovered over me ! The young bird halted, and I also.

" Come," said I, "ye have foimd each other at last ;
settle it between you ! "

I went back to the outcast.

THK CAXTONS:

CHAPTER n.

PmiSTRATua. ■— " How came you to know we had stayed
in the t<iwii1"

Vivian. — " Do you think I could remain where you
left me) I wandered nut, wandore<l hither. Paaeiug
at dawn through yon streets, I saw the oetlcrs loiter-
ing ahout the gutes of the yaid, overheard tliem talk,
and BO knew you were all at the inn — all! " He sighed
heavily.

PisiBTKATUS. — " Your iKJor father is very ill. Oh,
cousin 1 how yould you fling from you bo mucli lovet"

Vivian. — " Love — his — my fatlier's t "

FiBiaTRATUS. — ■' Do you really not Iielieve, then, that
your father loved youT"

Vivian. — " If 1 had believed it, I had never left him.
All tlie gold of the Indies had never lirilied me U> leave
my mother 1 "

P18IBTKATU8. ^ " This is indeed a strange misconception
of yottrs. If we can remove it, all maybe well yet. Need
there now bo any secrets between ua?" {Persuasively.)
"Sit down, and tell me all, cousin."

After some hesitation, Vivian complied; and by the
clearing of his brow, and the very tone of his voice, 1
felt sure that he was no longer seeking to disguise the
truth. But as I afterwards learned the father's tale as
well as now the son's, so, instead of repeating Vivian's
words, which — not by design, but by tlie twist of a
mind habitually wrong — distorted the facts, I will state
what appeai'8 to me the real case as between t!ie parties

A FAMILY PICTURE.

235

80 unhappily opposed. Reader, pardon me if the recital
be tedious; and if thou thinkest that I boar not hard
enough on the erring hero of the story, remember that
he who recites judges as Austin's son must judge of
Roland*s.

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTKR III.
VIVIAN.

AT THB ENTBANCB OF L1?B SITS THK HOTBKB,

It vaa during the war in Spain that a severe wound,
and tlie feier which ensued, detained Roland at the
house of a Spanish viduw His hostess had once been
nch , but her fortune had been ruined in the general

calamities of the country She had an only daughter,
who assisted to nurse and tend the wounded English-
man , and when the time approached for Roland's dc-

pirtiiip, the fr-iuk t;ruf (if th« \<niiig It mionni Vtnjtd
Ihe imprfsMou (hit tin ^w-t lii.l tn nU ui"i(i liei iltec-
tioiis Mucli cif gntilii.U, mil -.111)1 tlniis If iiiii;ht he of
■iii.viuMtt =^.11-, .f hoi»..i, iiil.il 111 KolimK l>ict--t the
cinrm nilurill\ imilmcil li\ tin In nil\ ..f hn \omig
nurs, 1,1,1 till kiii^)ill\ c..m|m"ii>n ht fdt k-i hor ruined
fortunes iihI ill -1 1 iff .in.l]tii>ii

III one (if 111 i-p ln=l^ inipulM"! (nmiin>n to a generous
mlurr — nmi nhidi ti" ott. n fitnll\ \ituhi ite the niik
of iiniilrnio aiiiiil-t thi" tuteliiv povin of hfo — Ro
land commiltMl tin- irri'T of nnrnigc uilh a gul of
whose coiinett] in- he kruw iKilhiiiR ind of who-e
nature little num thni it- «irm spoil t-mecni- sui
ri|itiliil]t\ In 1 fi « ihi'. '.tili-oi[Uent to llieie rash
iiupliiK, Rolmd r( )i 11111(1 tJ» nni.h of (he nrnij , nor
ivi- Ilc olih to iftmii to Sjiam till ifter the crowning

\iLtori of \\ itLfklO

A FAMILY PICTURE. 237

Maimed by the loss of a limb, and with the scars of
many a noble wound still fresh, Roland then hastened
to a home the dreams of which had soothed the bed
of pain, and now replaced the earlier visions of renown.
During his absence a son had been born to him, — a son
whom he might rear to take the place he had left in
his country's service ; to renew, in some future fields,
a career that had failed the romance of his own antique
and chivalrous ambition. As soon as that news had
reached him, his care had been to provide an English
nurse for the infant, so that \vith the first sounds of
the mother's endearments the child might yet hear a
voice from the father's land. A female relation of
Bolt's had settled in Spain, and was induced to under-
take this duty. Natural as this appointment was to a
man so devotedly English, it displeased his wild and
passionate Ramouna. She had that mother's jealousy,
strongest in minds uneducated ; she had also that pe-
culiar pride which belongs to her country-people of
every rank and condition. The jealousy and the pride
were both wounded by the sight of the English nurse
at the child's cradle.

That Roland, on regaining his Spanish hearth, should
be disappointed in his expectations of the happiness
awaiting him there was the inevitable condition of
such a marriage, since not the less for his military'
bluntness Roland had that refinement of feeling, per-
haps over-fastidious, which belongs to all natures essen-
tially poetic ; and as the first illusions of love died away,
there could have been little indeed congenial to his
stately temper in one divided from him by an utter
absence of education, and by the strong but nameless
distinctions of national views and manners. The dis-
appointment probably, however, went deeper than that

238 THE CAXTONS :

irhich usually ntl«ndH an ill-assorted uniou ; for instead
of briDgii^ his ivifa to his old tower {an expatriation
which she would doubtless have resisted to the utmost),
he accepted, niiiimnd as he was, not very long after his
return to Spain, the offer of a military post under Fer-
dinand. The Cuvslier doctrines and intense loyalty of
Roland attached him, without reflection, to the aervic«
of a throne whi.di the Knglish arms had contrihuted to
eatablish ; wliil^ the extreme unpopularity of the Constitu-
tional Party in S|.(iiu, and the stigma of irreligion fixed
to it by the pri,-.its, aided to foster Roland's belief that
he was supportiut; a beloved king against the professors
of those rtivoluli unary and Jat-obinical doctrines which to
him were the very atheism of politics. The experieuca
of a few years in the service of a bigot so contemptible
as Ferdinand, whose highest object of patriotism was the
restoration of the Itu[iiiflition, added another di.iappoint-
meiit to tliLKc wJiiL-h h.itl iilivaily iiiibitt.-ri-d llie life of
a mnii wlm bml wirii in llir jirami hero of C.TVantes no
f.>llii-s tu siliiizi-, Imt lij-li virtues to iinitalc. Pour
i,>u\s..U' liiiiiM.lf, !„■ ,:,iiir mouriifnll.y Iw.-k t.i his I^
yi.n.U-.,, uiil, iKi ,.t]iiT rfMMvl f..r bi.s liiiiKlit-i^vnLi.try

ll.,,n ;, d^ToMti..(i "lii.h lir disd^iiurd 1<. pli.c' limdo his
«iiiil.I.> Wiiliiluo m>:\n], and u -Mdr f..r wlii.-h In- vvould
havv liliisbnl 1.. yv^l-n liis niur. h-.i l.ut iin.rL- !i,mor-

lOW groivn from infancy
jti-s naturally into liis
At (!je thouglit lioinc

nis; rireumst.mce in tjiis
!■[■ of IJiiniouna had been

A FAMILY PICTURE. 239

in Spain so many features distinct from the characteris-
tics of its kindred tribes in more civilized lands. The
Gitano, or gypsy, of Spain is not the mere vagrant we
see on our commons and road-sides. Retaining, indeed,
much of his lawless principles and predatory inclinations,
he lives often in towns, exercises various callings, an<l not
unfrequently becomes rich. A wealthy Gitano had mar-
ried a Spanish woman ; ^ Roland's wife had been the off-
spring of this marriage. The Gitano had died while Ro-
mouna was yet extremely young, and her childhood had
been free from the influences of her paternal kindred.
But though her mother, retaining her own religion, had
brought up Ramouna in the same faith, pure from the
godless creed of the Gitano, and at her husband's death
had separated herself wholly from his tribe, — still, she
had lost caste with her own kin and people ; and while
struggling to regain it, the fortune which made her sole
chance of success in that attempt was swept away, so that
she had remained apart and solitary, and could bring no
friends to cheer the solitude of Ramouna during Ro-
land's absence. But while my uncle was still in the ser-
vice of Ferdinand, the widow died ; and then the only
relatives who came round Ramouna were her father's
kindred. They had not ventureil to claim affinity while
her mother lived ; and they did so now by attentions and
caresses to her son. This opened to them at once Ra-
mouna's heart and doors. Meanwhile the English nurse
— who in spite of all that could render her alwde odious
to her had, from strong love to her charge, stoutly main-
tained her post — died a few weeks after Ramouna's
mother, and no healthful influence remained to counter-

* A Spaniard very rarely indeed marries a Gitano. or female
gypsy. But occasionally (observes Mr. Borrow) a wealthy Gitano
marries a Spanish female.

240 THE CAXT0N8 :

act those 1>aneful ones to wLicli tha heir of the honest
old Caxtcuis wits sulyect. But Roland returned home iii
a humor to be jileosed with all things. Joyously he
clasped hiw wife to his breast, and thought, with self-
reproach, tliiit he hail forborne too little and exacted
too mutli - lie would lie wiser now. Delightedly he
acknowledged the beauty, the intelligence, and manly
bearing of the boy, who played with his sword-knot and
ran off with hia pistols as a prize.

The npws of the Englishman's arrival at first kept
the lawless kinsfolk from tlie house ; hut they were fond
of the boy, and the boy of them, and interviews between
him and these wild comrades, if fitolen, were not leBS
frequent. Grndually Eolaml's eyes became opened. As
in habitual intercourse the Ijoy abancloned the reserve
which awe and cuiming at first imposed, Koland was in-
expressibly shocked at the hold principles his son affected,
andathisL.lt
h.m.^stv [iiid tliMt fra

ni-ilv fv

en tr) comprehend that plain

aiik 1m

-nor wl,i<li to the English

iniiatv

ni,d hravc.,-plant,.d. S,jo»

iind tli^

it a systi-m nf )>lunder was

,s..li,.M,

and Irai'k.'.l it t.. the con-

^>[ia th.

1- a-A>-ncy id his son for the

and di

i,ss„h,te vagrants. A more

ntid ijiiv

;ht will have Wen exasper-

i:iri r<m

foinided, hy tins discovery.

^{r]\ —

jierhap^ iiisi.-itiiig on it too

ni.l llllr

.wing ci.ongli fnr tlic .».-

■ly l,:i-=.-i

™sofhi.wife,-h,MTder,.d

a,v,>,„,..iny him from the

loti all

(■i.mmiiiiication with her

1 ,.ns,;r

d ; l>nt Roland wiis not a

■' 1'"'"'

, mA at h.i.gLh a false sul>

A FAMILY PICTURE. 241

mission and a feigned repentance soothed his resentment
and obtained his partlon. They moved several miles
from the place ; but where they moved, there some at
least, arid those the worst, of the baleful brood stealthily
followed. Whatever Ramouna's earlier love for Roland
had ])een, it had evidently long ceased in the thorough
want of sympathy between them, and in that absence
which if it renews a strong ati'ection destroys an affection
already weakened. But the motlier and son adored each
other with all the strength of their strong, wild natures.
Even under ordinary circumstances, the father's influence
over a boy yet in childhood is exerted in vain if the
mother lend herself to baffle it ; and in this miserable
position, what chance had the blunt, stern, honest Roland
(separated from his son during the most ductile years
of infancy) against the ascendancy of a mother who
humored all the faults and gratified all the wishes of her
darling ?

In his despair, Roland let fall the threat that if thus
thwarted it would become his duty to withdraw his son
from the mother. This threat instantly hardened both
hearts against him. The wife represented Roland to the
boy as a tyrant, as an enemy ; as one who had <lestroyed
all the hapi)iness they had before enjoyed in each other ;
as one whose severity showed that he hated his own
child, — and the boy Ix^lieved her. In his own house a
firm union was formed against Roland, and protected by
the cunning which is the force of the weak against the
strong.

In spite of all, Roland could never forget the ten-
derness with which the young nurse had watched over
the wounded man, nor the love — genuine for the hour,
though not dra^vn from the feelings which withstand
the wear and tear of life — that lii>s so beautiful had

VOL. II. — 16

242 THE CAXTONS :

jiledgL'd him in the by-gone days. These thoughte n
have coino porpetuaUy between his feelings and bh
judgment to iinbitt«r still more his position, tu liaraas
still luoro his heurt ; and if by the streagth of that sense
of duty wliich made the force of his character he could
have etruiig himscilf to the fultiLmeut of the threAt,
humatiity at all events compelled him to delay it; his
wife promised to be again a mother. Blanche was Lorn.
How could he take the infant from the mother's breast,
or abandon the dnughter to the fatal influences from
which only by so violent an eli'ort he could free the boo 1

No wonder, jxwr Rolimd ! that those deep furroira
contracted thy bold front, and thy hair grew gray before
its tiiuf 1

FoMunately perhaps for all parties, Kotand's wife died
while Blanche was etiil an infont. She was taken ill of
a fever ; she dieil dclirioua, clasping her hoy to her

h^ei.^<t, and

l>riiyiiit; the saints t" protect Iiim from his

.TILll fillll.'f

\l:'~v ufu-H iU:d <\r-.i\hhM li^tiiiited the son,

iLll.l.ju^li1il^

liis b,'li..f llial lli^'iv Wiis nil iMVenfs love in

111,. il.Mll M

irii A\us iiinv lii.< s..]r ~h.-lli-r fmm Die world

aii'i llii' "1"

liiii>; .if Us |.iiil..ss rain !'■ Again I s:\y, piior

K.iiiiJ; to

1 ku-\\- lliat ill tli:it hiirsh, unloving dis-

nilitmv iif s

rli sni.-iiiii tle-s tliv hnr^- ^^■nen>iis li,.art for-

goi il. «■.-,.„

j- : a-aii. ,ii.i>l tl sir lender .■jcs bending

bivullir (hi

IVMIll U■r.lklle^s wllirll lll.^ K.nn.'U of the

SOIllll d.-1l>

1 II. < -liuiiir Miiwii. Aiui li.iw dii! il :ll[ end

A FAMILY PICTURE. 243

CHAPTER IV.

THE PRECEPTOR.

Roland removed to France, and fixed his abode in the
environs of Paris. He placed Blanche at a convent in
the immediate neighborhood, going to see her daily, and
gave himself up to the education of his son. The boy
was apt to learn ; but to unlearn was here the arduous
task, — and for that task it would have needed either the
passionless experience, the exquisite forbearance of a
practised teacher, or the love and confidence and yielding
heart of a believing pupil. Roland felt that he was not
the man to be the teacher, and that his son's heart re-
mained obstinately closed to him. He looked round, ami
found at the other side of Paris what seemed a suitable
preceptor, — a young Frenchman of some di.'^itinction in
letters, more especially in science, with all a Frenchman's
eloquence of talk, full of high-sounding sentiments that
pleased the romantic enthusiasm of the Captain. So
Roland with sanguine hopes, confided his son to this

man's care.

The boy's natural quickness mastered readily all that
pleased his taste. He learned to speak and write French
with rare felicity and precision. His tenacious memory,
and those flexile organs in which the talent for languages
is placed, served, with the help of an English master, to
revive his earlier knowledge of his father's tongue, and
to enable him to sjieak it with fluent correctness, —
though there was always in his accent something which

244 THE CAXTONB:

had Btru<;)( ran as utranga ; hut uot pugpecting it to be
foreigD, ] hail tlioii^lit it n theatrical affectation. He diJ
not go far into science, little further perhaps than a
smattering' of French mfttherantics ; but he acquirMl a re-
markable facility ami promplitiido in calculation. He
ilevoured cngerly the light reading thrown in his way, and
picked ii|i thence that kind of knowledge which novels
and play(< afford for good or evil, occonling as the novel
or the pt ly i>Ievat«s the understanding and ennoble* the
paasiona, or merely corrupts the fancj- and lowers the
standard ot liumnii nature. But of all that Rolaud
desireil hi in tii be taught, the son remained as ignontnt
as before.

Amonp tlic other misfortunes of this ominous morriage^
Roland's wife had possessed all the suiierstitions of a
Roman Cntholic Spanianl ; and with these the boy had
unconseidnslv intermingled dottrines far more dreary,
imhihod fri>n"i the dark i - . ~. _ . _

d.-fen.l.'V nf V„|ta

la'.'anism <

>fth

eGitanos. Roland

t f.rlii-

soil'

s tutor.

The pre-

I'rnlrstaiil

.—

a hitiiif

: derider of

l[.' VEI

< SU

ill a I'

rolestant as

i-.-% iv|i-i.

<1) S

ays the

■ Great Wit

,.- liwd' il

11 a

I'mtestiUit i;iiinitrv.

the Ik.v <

lUt CI

i his ..

iipeistitions,

llie sn.TI

em'ii

seeptic
1- ..thi,

isiiis of the
-s on ivhidi

re iijireed,

hilt

whi.li.

, unhappily,

to .■oinpi

,d. Tl

lis iirecoptiir

■e f.f the

llli'^r

liii^f he

ivas doin^. ;

llhi. pup

il:if

t.'V llis .

iwii systj^m.

Mlii'. velT

UlIK

I'll like

the system

ii.l.'dloa.

lloM- ;'■ "

lopl

■."T.-:>'-

litheimder-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 245

pupil's mind; thus you develop genius, not thwart it"
Mind, understanding, genius, — fine things ! But to
educate the whole man, you must educate something
more than these. Not for want of mind, understanding,
genius, have Borgias and Neros left their names as monu-
ments of horror to mankind. Where in all this teach-
ing was one lesson to warm the heart and guide the soul ?

Oh, mother mine ! that the boy had stood by thy knee,
and lieard from thy lips why life was given us, in what
life shall end, and how heaven stands open to us night
and day ! Oh, father mine ! that thou hadst been his
preceptor, not in book-learning, but the heart's simple
wisdom ! Oh that he had learned from thee, in parables
closed with practice, the happiness of self-sacrifice, and
how " good deeds should repair the bad ! "

It was the misfortune of this boy, with his daring and
his beauty, that there was in his exterior and his manner
that which attracted indulgent interest and a sort of
compassionate admiration. The Frenchman liked him,
believed his story, thought him ill-treated by that hard-
visaged English soldier. All English people were so
disagreeable, particularly English soldiers ; and the Cap-
tain once mortally offended the Frenchman by calling
Vilainton un grand komme, and denying, with brutal
indignation, that the English had poisoned Xapoleon.
So, instead of teaching the son to love and revere his
father, the Frenchman shrugged his shoulders when the
boy broke into some unfilial complaint, and at most said,
" Mais, cher enfant, ton p6re est Anglais, — c' est tout
dire:'

Meanwhile, as the child sprang rapidly into precocious
youth, he was permitted a liberty in his hours of leisure
of which he availed himself with all the zest of his earlier
habits and adventurous temper. He formed acquaintances

246 THE CAXTOHS;

UDOog the lootm yoiui); bauotera of aifet and spciiillbrift>
of that capital, — ttie vfite ! He became an dxccllent
BWonjsuiHii iind pistol-shot, adroit in all games in vrhidt
bIuU helps fortune. He learned Iwtiines to fixmlsh him-
self with mouey liy the cards and the billiard-bulls. 'But,
delighted with the easy home he hod obUiined, he took
caie to scho>^l his features and smooth hie maiiDer in his
fatiier'9 visits ; to taako the moat of what he had leomeil
of l&M ignoble kuDwledge, and, with his characteristic
imitativeneaa, to eito the linest eentinients he bad found
in his plays and novels. Wliat father ia not credulous}
Roland believed, and wept t^ara of joy.

And now he thought the time was come to take back
the lx)y, — to return with a worthy heir to the old
Tower. He thankwl and biasKed the tutor ; he took the
son. But under pretence that he had yet suiue things lo
master, whether in book-knowledge or manly accomplish-
monts, the youth begf;*''' '''-^ father at all events not yet
t(. Vfluni U, V.\>\ihuu\ ; to 1,'t liiiu iiftenil his tutor daily
f..r soiiK- mi.utiis. KoJiHid coiis,>utod, niL-ved from his old
.|UiiLt,>is. iiiid li'nk a Iwlniiip I'lr Imtli ill the same subiirb
ns thill Ju u-hi.-h the tt^arher iv.^ded. liut soon, wlti-ii
Uiry w.-ii' uudi'V one r<">f, the buy's biibitual taslos jind
his re|nit;n:iii::c t^> idl piileriiid authority were betrayed.
To do my uiih!i]>i>y eousiu justice (such as that justice
is), IJLough he hiid the cunuiiiR for a short disguise, he
hiid not (lie hypocrisy lo nuiiutiun systematic deceit. He
could play a part for ii while, from nn exulting joy in bis
own iiddri'ss.: hut he cotdd not wear a mask with the
IKitieui'e of cold-blomied dissimulatimi.

Wliy eiitfr into painful di-lails, so easily divined hy
Ihe iuhOli-cut reaiii^r) Tlie faults of the sou were pre-
cisely those to whi^li lEolaiid would l,e lenst indulgent.
To tJie <.udiiiary scrapes i>f ]iigli-s|>irifed boyhood no

A FAMILY PICTURE.

247

father, I am sure, would have been more lenient ; but to
anything that seemed low, petty ; that grated on him as
a gentleman and soldier, — there, not for worlds would I
have braved the darkness of his frown and the woe that
spoke like scorn in his voice. And when, after all warn-
ing and prohibition were in vain, Roland found his son,
in the middle of the night, in a resort of gamblers and
sharpers, carrying all before him with his cue, in the full
llusli of triumph, and a great heap of five-franc pieces
before him, — you may conceive with what wrath the
proud, hasty, passionate man drove out, cane in hand,
the obscene associates, flinging after them the son's ill-
gotten gains ; and with what resentful humiliation the
son was compelled to follow the father home. Then
Roland took the boy to England, but not to the old
Tower ; that hearth of his ancestors was still too sacred
for the footsteps of the vagrant heir !

THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER V.

And then, vainlj- grasping at every argument liis bluol
sense coul.l siiggpst, — then talked HoIanJ niticli and
grandly of the duties men owed, even if they threw
off all lovp to their father, still to their father's name ;
and then his pridu, always so lively, grew irritnhlB and
harsh, and seeraed no doubt to the perverted ears of tho
son unlovely and unloving. And that pride, without

serving

one purpose of go

od, did yet mo

re miscluef; fof

the vol

th cniiKht the dise

se, but'in a XV

rong way. And

hcs.^i.ltnl,i,„s..|f,-

•'H>

then, n,v f.illi<.i-

s a great ni^ii

wilh all these

aiin-sl.

■s .I,,,! l.i^ ,v,.n1s ;

ud he lias lai

Is and a eastle.

— iiiiil

yt ]i..«- nii^^eiahly

«v live, and h

w he.stintM me!

r.Ml if

le h^is rau'.e for pi

le in idl thr^'C

dead men, why

^rt hav

■ I ; a.id are these

Iiiilgings, IIlo-

appurtenanees.

lit for

the 'fienllemari' t

e says I an, !

ill Kui^laud Die gi

[.syh!on,| \,r:V

: lait a.s l)efore.

ami 11

■ youlh f.uni.l vn'.

■ahl ;i.ssocijiti-s

lleavn kt„.w.-i

how Ol

where ; and tilraiij.

-lo,.kingf,.rni.

Randily shahhy

and di

lei'ulably sninrt, v

ere se^^n luik

1^' in the comer

of the

street or peering

n at llir will.

iiw, slinking off

if thl'V

saw Ifnland.-,

id lloland en

111 ncit st«op to

he a .,

V. And the .,.,!'.

lie.iit ;;iTw lianler niid harder

nfjain^it

his fatlier, and Jii.s

fath.r's faeo i

.w never smiled

on hin

TJien hills cam

in, and duns

knocked at the

A FAMILY PICTURE. 249

door; bills and duns to a man who shrank from the
thought of a debt as an ermine from a spot on its fur !
And the son's short answer to remonstrance was, "Am
I not a gentleman ? These are the things gentlemen re-
quire." Then perhaps Roland remembered the experi-
ment of his French friend, and left his bureau unlocked,
and said, " Ruin me if you will, but no debts. There is
money in those drawers, — they are unlocked." That
trust would forever have cured of extravagance a youth
with a high and delicate sense of honor. The pupil of
the Gitanos did not understand the trust ; he thought it
conveyed a natural though ungracious permission to take
out what he wanted, — and he took ! To Roland this
seemed a theft, and a theft of the coarsest kind; but
when he so said, the son started indignant, and saw in
that which had been so touching an appeal to his honor
but a trap to decoy him into disgrace. In short, neither
could understand the other. Roland forbade his son to
stir from the house ; and the young man the same night
let himself out, and stole forth into the wide world, to
enjoy or defy it in his own wild way.

It would be tedious to follow him through his various
adventures and experiments on fortune, — even if I knew
them all, which I do not. And now putting altogether
aside his right name, which he had voluntarily aban-
doned, and not embarrassing the reader with the earlier
aliases assumed, I shall give to my unfortunate kinsman
the name by which I first knew him, and continue to
do so until (Heaven grant the time may come ! ) hav-
ing first redeemed, he may reclaim, his own. It was in
joining a set of strolling players that Vivian became ac-
quainted with Peacock ; and that worthy, who had many
strings to his bow, soon grew aware of Vivian's extraor-
dinary skill with the cue, and saw therein a better mode

.■\

250

THE CAXTOSS:

ol an itiH- 1 I

of makii^ their joint fortunes tlinn ihe buanls
erout Thes|.is furnisbod to either. Vivian listeueJ to
him, and it was while their iiitimEicy was most fresh
that I met them on the liigh-rotul. That chaacc me*-!-
ing produeeil (if I may be allowei] to believe his assur-
ance) A eiroug, and for the moment a salutary, eflect
upon Viviiiii. Thi^ comparative innocence and freshnetn
of a boy's tniiiil were new to him ; the elastic healthful
8])irits with which those gifts were accompanied startled
him by the contrast to his own forted gayety and secret
gloom. And this boy was his own cousin ! Coming
afterwards to Ixindon, he arlventured inquiry nt the
hotel in tlie Strand at which I had given my addreife ;
learned wlicre we were; and passing one night into the
street, saw my uncle at the window, — to recognize and
to fly from him.

Having then some money at his disposal, Vivian broke
ofralini]illy fr..m l!i.> M in which he had been thrown.
He li.'i.i Lvsnivnl tn rrliirn t^, Frani-e, — he would try f..r
a nion^ ri>s|-,-rtiibl.. nMc of oxistviice. He had not found
hapi.in.-.-s in thnl lih.-rty he had "on, nnr room for the
aiiiliitii'ii lli[il ln'^'iiu to Kii'iw him in llin-e pursiiils from
whirli liis father liad vainlv wnnied liim. His most re-
pulaliln frit^iid was liis ,.ld tutor, — he would go to him.
Me weul : l.ul the tul.ir was n-iw ujarriod, and was him-
.=i-!f a nitliir, and tljal iiuido a wonderful alteration in his
jinnliejil I'lliii's : it was iLii lonj^er moral to nid the son in
[■.■l.elli,,„ 1„ his father. Vivian evinced his usual sarcits-
lie hauglitincss at tlio rciT[itieii lie met, and was re-
iiue«I,..l eivilly U> leave the honw. Then again he flung
himself on his wiL- in I'iiris. l!ut there were j.lenty of
wits then' sharjHT than iiis own. lie got into some
Muan-e! with the jH^lire, — not, iiidee.i, f.ir any dishonest

A FAMILY PICTURE. 251

with others less scrupulous, — and deemed it prudent to
quit France. Thus had I met him again, forlorn and
ragged, in the streets of London.

Meanwhile Roland, after the first vain search, had
yielded to the indignation and disgust that had long
rankled within him. His son had thrown off his au-
thority, because it preserved him from dishonor. His
ideas of discipline were stern, and patience had been
well-nigh crushed out of his heart. He thought he
could bear to resign his son to his fate, — to disown
him, and to say, "I have no more a son." It was in
this mood that he had first visited our house. But
when on that memorable night in which he had nar-
rated to his thrilling listeners the dark tale of a fellow-
sufferer's woe and crime, — betraying in the tale, to my
father's quick sympathy, his own sorrow and passion, —
it did not need much of his gentler brother's subtle art
to learn or guess the whole, nor much of Austin's mild
persuasion to convince Eoland that he had not yet ex-
hausted all efforts to track the wanderer and reclaim the
erring child. Then he had gone to London, then he
had sought every spot which the outcast would prob-
ably haunt; then had he saved and pinched from his
own necessities to have wherewithal to enter theatres
and gaming-houses, and fee the agencies of police ; then
had he seen the form for which he had watched and
pined in the street below his window, and cried, in a
joyous delusion, " He repents ! "

One day a letter reached my uncle, through his bank-
ers, from the French tutor (who knew of no other means
of tracing Roland but through the house by which his
salary had been paid), informing him of his son's visit.
Roland started instantly for Paris. Arriving there, he
could only learn of his son through the police, — and

THE CAXTOSS:

from them only learn that ho had been c

1 the

f nccomplisheJ swindlers, who were already ii
hands of justice ; but that the youth himself, wliom there
was nothing to criminate, had beeu suffered ta quit Paris,
and had taken, it was supposed, the road to Engliind.
Then, at last, the poor Captain's stout heart gitve way.
His son the companion of swindlers 1 — could he be aura
that he was not their accomplice) If not yet, how small
the step between companionship and participation ! He
took tlie child left him still from the convent, returned
to England, and arrivi^d there to he seized with fever and
delirium, — apparently on the same day, or a day before
that, on which the son had dropped, shalterlesa and
penniless, on the stones of London.

▲ FAMILY PICTUBE. 253

CHAPTER VI.

THE ATTEMPT TO BUILD A TEMPLE TO ^RTUNE OUT

OF THE RUINS OF HOME.

"But," said Vivian, pursuing his tale, "but when you
came to my aid, not knowing me ; when you relieved
me ; when from your own lips, for the first time, I heard
words that praised me, and for qualities that implied I
might yet be * worth much,' — ah," he added mournfully,
"I remember the very words, — a new light broke upon
me, struggling and dim, but light still. The ambition
with which I had sought the truckling Frenchman re-
vived, and took worthier and more definite form. I
would lift myself above the mire, make a name, rise in
life ! " Vivian's head drooped ; but he raised it quickly,
and laughed, — his low, mocking laugh.

What follows of this tale may be told succinctly. Re-
taining his bitter feelings towards his father, he resolved
to continue his incognito ; he gave himself a name likely
to mislead conjecture if I conversed of him to my family,
since he knew that Roland was aware that a Colonel
Vivian had been afflicted by a runaway son, — and,
indeed, the talk upon that subject had first put the
notion of flight into his own head. He caught at the
idea of becoming known to Trevanion ; but he saw
reasons to forbid his being indebted to me for the intro-
duction, to forbid my knowing where he was : sooner or
later that knowledge could scarcely fail to end in the
discovery of his real name. Fortunately, as he deemed,

254 THE CAXTONS:

for the pluus he begun to meditate, we were all leaving
London, ^ he slioiiW have thu stage to himself; and
then boUily he resolved upon what he regarded as the
master-sclierae of life, — numely, to obtain a xniall pecu-
niary inile[jendence, and to emancipate himself formally
and entirely from his father's control. Aware of poor
Roland's cliivalroua revereucc for his name, firmly |)er-
Buaded that Roland had no love for the son, but only the
dread that the eon might diBgrace him, he determine*! ta
avail hiTiiaelf of Ids father'^ jirejudicea in order to effect
his purpose. He wrote a short letter to Roland, — tliat
letter wliifh had given tlio poi)r man so Banguine a joy;
that lett,.T after reading wliiuh he had said to Blondie,
"Pray fur me," — stating simply that he wished to see
hia father, and naming a tavern in the City for the
meeting.

The interview took place ; and when Roland, love and
foryiveiuwfi in liis heart, but — who sliall blame himT —
dignity ui[ liis brnw inid rcluik:- in his eye, ai.proiifhed,
rfadv iit a ivmd I.. Iling
A'iv

it a wnrd t„ lliiig 1,

illLSflf OTl

the b

i>y's briMst,

.•^I'l'biK i^Lily (111' oydi-t

Pi|;iis iiLii

1 inltT]!

rL-ling them

ciiviL sfiitiiiU'iils, rcci'i

bd, SM,

.1 bis E

iniis on his

object, the I

ih:i(ever that

career

rirnmistauci

■s tbi.t

inT, JiiThiips,

llliTlk-

,1 uf liim til.

e more

-r. "All I

ask .,f

A FAMILY PICTURE. 255

you," he said, "is this : Give me the least you can aflford,
to preserve me from the temptation to rob or the necessity
to starve ; and I, in my turn, promise never to molest you
in life, never to degrade you in my death ; whatever my
misdeeds, they will never reflect on yourself, for you
shall never recognize the misdoer ! The name you prize
so highly shall be spared."

Sickened and revolted, Roland attempted no argument ;
there was that in the son's cold manner whi(*h shut out
hope, and against which his pride rose indignant. A
meeker man might have remonstrated, implored, and
wept ; that was not in Roland's nature He had but the
choice of three evils, to say to his son, " Fool, I command
thee to follow me ! " or say, " Wretch, since thou wouldst
cast me off as a stranger, as a stranger I say to thee, " Go,
starve or rob as thou wilt ! " or lastly, to bow his proud
head, stunned by the blow, and say, " Thou ref usest me
the obedience of the son, thou demandest to be as the
dead to me. I can control thee not from vice, I can
guide thee not to virtue. Thou wouldst sell me the
name I have inherited stainless, and have as stainless
borne. Be it so ; name thy price ! "

And something like this last was the father's choice
He listened, and was long silent ; and then he said slowly,
"Pause before you decide."

" I have paused long ; my deci^^ion is made ! This is
the last time we meet. I see before me now the way to
fortune, fairly, honorably ; you can aid me in it only in
the way I have said. Reject me now, and the option
may never come again to either ! "

And then Roland said to himself, " I have spared and
saved for this son ; what care I for aught else than
enough to live without debt, creep into a corner, and
await the grave? And the more I can give, why, the

256 THE CAXTOXS-.

better chauce tliat he will abjure the vile aasociiit^ and
the deaperaUi courau," And so, out of his amall income,
Roland Burrendcrcd U> the rebel child more than tlie hnlf.

Vivian was not aware of faifi futher'a fortune ; he did
not supposo the sum of two hundred pounds a-year wna
an allowance so disproportion ed to Roland's means. Yet
wheu it was named, evea he wua struck by the geoerosily
of one to whom he liimeelf had given the right to say, "I
take thee at thy word, — "just enough not to starve.' "

But then that hateful cynicism which (caught from bad
men and evil books) lie called "knowledge of the world"
made hira think, " It is not for me, it is only for his
name ; " and he said aloud, " L accept these tenns, eir ;
here is the address of a solicitor with whom yours can
settle them Farewell forever."

At those lost words Roland started, and stretched out
his arms vagtiely hke n blind man. But Vivian had
alreaiiy thrown o|>en tJie window (the room was on the
ground-floor) and sprang upon tlie sill.

" Farewell," he repeated : " tell the world I am dend."
He leaped into the street, and the father drew in the out-
stretched arms, smote his heart, and said, —

" Well, then, my task in the world of man is over ! I
will back to the old ruin, — the wreck to the wrecks ;
and the sight of tomlw I have at least rescued from dis-
honor shall comfort me for all ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 257

CHAPTER VIL

THE RESULTS : PERVERTED AMBITION ; SELFISH PASSION ;
THE INTELLECT DISTORTED BY THE CROOKEDNESS OF
THE HEART.

Vivian's schemes thus prospered. He had an income
that permitted him the outward appearances of a gen-
tleman, — an indei)endence, modest indeed, but inde-
pendence still. We were all gone from London. One
letter to me, with the postmark of the town near which
Colonel Vivian lived, sufficed to confirm my belief in
his parentage, and in his return to his friends. He then
presented himself to Trevanion as the young man whoso
pen I had employed in the member's service ; and know-
ing that I had never mentioned his name to Trevanion
(for, without Vivian's permission, I should not, considering
his apparent trust in me, have deemed myself authorized
to do so), he took that of Gower, which he selected hap-
hazard from an old Court Guide, as having the advan-
tage in common with most names borne by the higher
nobility of England, of not being confined, as the ancient
names of untitled gentlemen usually are, to the members
of a single family. And when, with his wonted adapta-
bility and suppleness, he had contrived to lay aside or
smooth over whatever in his manners would be calcu-
lated to displease Trevanion, and had succeeded in excit-
ing the interest which that generous statesman always
conceived for ability, he owned candidly one day, in the
presence of Lady Ellinor, — for his experience had taught

VOL. II. — 17

268 THK CAXTONS:

him the compuxative case with which the sympiitLv of
woman is eiiliatod in anything that appeals to the liungi-
nation, or seems out of the ordinary beat of life, — that
he ha-i reaaons for uoniieding his connections for the
present; that he had cause to belisTe I susjiiM-teJ what
they ^-ere, and from mistnkon regard for his welfare
might acquaint his relations with his wher^tihout. He
therefore begged Trevanion, if the latter had occasion to
write lo me, not to mention him. This promise Trt'Ta-
nion gave, thougli reluctantly ; for the confidence Tohin-
teered to him seemed U) exact the promise. But as he
detested mystery of all kinds, the avowal might have been
fatal to any further acqiiaintnnce ; and under auspices so
doulitful there would have been no chance of hie obtain-
ing that intimacy in Trevaniou's house which he desired
to eatablish, hut for an accident which at once 0|>ened
that house b) him almost as a homo.

Vivian had alwnys treasured a loek of his mother's hair,
cut iili' nil licr tbMihbM ; an.) wh^n he was at liis French
tutor's, his lir-l |mtk.>I-iin>iiey had beoii devoted to the
purchase of a Inrk.'t, on wliicJi he Iiad caused to be
instrilH-d 1
his K-.md-i
jianjp of

whcii tl

,ni un.iie and his molhor's.

Through all

\,r had worn this relic ; and

ill the direst

, no liuLii;(T liad been ke

en enough lo

part Willi it. Now, one

morning tlie

[.ended the Wkct gave way,

, an<l his ev,.

aauns iiiscriWd on Hie gol.t

, he thought.

II. ,s<.ns(. of riithl, imperfect a>

5 it wa.s. that

.lb liis father ..blitzed him

to have the

\U- (onk il to a j.'wlli.r in

Pi.vadilly for

nd gave Ihc rrip.i.-'il.' ordc

r, not taking

■ ill the fiirili.'r |.art of tin

> sbo).. The

A FAMILY PICTURE. 259

names on the surface. She had been struck by tlie
peculiar tone of the voice, which she had heard before ;
and that very day Mr. Gower received a note from Lady
EUinor Trevanion, requesting to see him. Much won-
dering, he went. Presenting him with the locket, she
said smiling, "There is only one gentleman in the world
who calls himself De Caxton, unless it be his son. Ah,
I see now why you wished to conceal yourself from my
friend Pisistratus. But how is this ? Can you have any
difference with your father ? Confide in me, or it is my
duty to write to him."

Even Vivian's powers of dissimulation abandoned him,
thus taken by surprise. He saw no alternative but to
trust Lady Ellinor with his secret, and implore her to
respect it. And then he spoke bitterly of his father's
dislike to him, and his own resolution to prove the in-
justice of that dislike by the position he would himself
establish in the world. At present, his father believed
him dead, and perhaps was not ill-pleased to think so.
He would not dispel that belief till he could redeem
any boyish errors, and force his family to be proud to
acknowledge him.

Though Lady Ellinor was slow to believe that Roland
could dislike his son, she could yet readily believe that
he was harsh and choleric, with a soldier's high notions
of discipline. The young man's story moved her ; his
determination pleased her own high spirit. Always with
a touch of romance in her, and always sympathizing with
each desire of ambition, she entered into Vivian's aspira-
tions with an alacrity that surprised himself. She was
charmed with the idea of ministering to the son's for-
tunes, and ultimately reconciling him to the father,
through her own agency : it would atone for any fault
of which Roland could accuse herself in the old time.

THE CAXT0H8:

tranion, ttK^^M
) secure Ilil^^^H

inform the ^^

She undert.ii'lc tn impnrt the secret to Trevanion, 1
she would linvo no secrets from him, aiid to i
acquie8C«iiee in its concealment from all othora.

And hero I must n little digi'css fmm tlie
gical course of my esplnnatorj- uarratiTe, to inform the
reader thst when LiUy EUinor bad her interview with
Roland slio had been repelled by the eU^ma^Bs of liia
manner from divulging Vivian'H secret ; hut on her firet
attempt to sound or conciliate him, she had begun with
Bome eulogies on Trevanion's new friend and assistant,
Mr. Gowor, and liad awakened Roland's suspicions of
that person's identity with his sou, — suspicions which
had given him a terrible interest in our joint deliverance
of Miss Trevanion. But bo heroically had the poor
soldier sought tn resist his oivn feara, that on tlte waj-
he shrank ti> put lo me the questions that might paralyse
the energies which, whatever the answer, were then aa

■1-df.l.

'F..r,'

biond s

V l,.in!,

:iLi,l ho to my fntbcT

■, "I felt the

jili^s; and if 1 Imd

said to Pisis-

in,' Olid by liis d.-s.:

iil.li.1.1 I had

hviided l.'st 1 luigb

t be too late

,i.-lii'r..iis^i rrii.i.', m

y brain would

ml though liii

b->mi.s ,.f -.uW-.uK-^,

iicnt, tbiit of

■iirl of |l,ot;r.':ll h..

ir,.^'. bnd T,ot

dn.-. Ti>is ho,,, w

^l:^ :uniu]i.'d w

A FAMILY PICTURE. 261

came engaged to youug Lord Castle ton. But he could
not see Miss Trevanion with impunity (alas ! who with a
heart yet free could be insensible to attractions so win-
ning ? ). He permitted the love — such love as his wild,
half-educated, half-savage nature acknowledged — to creep
into his soul, to master it ; but he felt no hope, cherished
no scheme while the young lord lived. With the deatli
of her betrothed, Fanny was free; then he began to
hope ; not yet to scheme. Accidenttdly he encountered
Peacock. Partly from the levity that accompanied a
false good-nature that was constitutional with him, partly
from a vague idea that the man might be useful, Vivian
established his quondam associate in the service of Tre-
vanion. Peacock soon gained the secret of Vivian's love
for Fanny, and dazzled by the advantages that a mar-
riage with Miss Trevanion would confer on his patron
and might reflect on himself, and delighted at an occa-
sion to exercise his dramatic accomplishments on the
stage of real life, he soon practised the lesson that the
theatres had taught him ; namely, to make a sub-intrigue
between maid and valet serve the schemes and insure the
success of the lover.

If Vivian had some opportunities to imply his admira-
tion. Miss Trevanion gave him none to plead his cause.
But the softness of her nature, and that graceful kind-
ness which surrounded her like an atmosphere, ema-
nating luiconsciously from a girl's harmless desire to
please, tended to deceive him. His own personal gifts
were so rare, and in his wandering life the effect they
had produced had so increased his reliance on them, that
he thought he wanted but the fair opportunity to woo in
order to win.

In this state of mental intoxication, Trevanion having
provided for his Scotch secretary, took him to Lord

262 THE CAXTONS :

N 'a His hostess wbb one of tlioso middle^ged

ladies of fashitiii who like to pntronize and bring for-
ward youiij; men, acceptiug gratitude for condescenaioD,
as a homnt'e to lieauty. She was struck by Vii ian's ex-
terior, ami that " picturesque " in look and in manner witich
belonged to him. Nnturally garrulous and indiEt-reet, aho
was unreserved to a [i.npil whom she tonceivcd the whim
to make "au/ail to society." Thus ahe talk^ to him,
among otlier tt'pius in fashion, of Miss Trevanion, and
expressed Iut helief that the present Lord Castleton had
tdways aliiiired her; but it was oidy on his acressiun to
the marqiiisftte that he had maile up lijs mind to marry,
or, from his knowlt^dgo of Lady Ellinor's ambition, thought
that the Marquess of Csstleton might achieve the prise
whicli would have been refused to Sir Sedley Beaude-
sert. Then, to corro1»rate the predictions ahe hazarded,
she repealed, perhaps with exflggemtion, some passage*
from I^iitl Ciii^tletoti'a replic
tlie Mi\,\,H-{.

L;ll.ill1ullv dullr.!.

PS to

Jior own suggestions ou

tnlly .

'XL'ilid ; unregulated pas-

.11 M> 1

luij; perverted and a con-

!. Til

en' is iui instinct in nil

1 }„. ,■.

irnipl I'r pure) (hat ush-

,,>l„.ti.

■. Thus from the first.

id RHiny Trevanion my

f:i<{.-},.

■d..ii SirSeilleyBeniide.

i will,

..ut a cause. JFrom the.

?oii<-vi'

, ed the same vapie jeal-

iiist.'iii

ee cniph'il with a deep

d, «-l.

-. had wouiule<! his self-

IIkiii-

;li to be hau^hty or ill-

1.1:„„

lii.v^s of his natur.', had

^■■■ni:i

il e.iurtrsies lio hiid Inv-

ali.idfrimi hi- n.^iuairit-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 263

ance ; while Vivian's personal vanity had been wounded
by that drawing-room effect which the proverbial winner
of all hearts produced without an effort, — an effect that
threw into the shade the youth and the beauty (more
striking, but infinitely less prepossessing) of the adven-
turous rival. Thus animosity to Lord Castleton con-
spired with Vivian's passion for Fanny to rouse all that
was worst by nature and by rearing in this audacious and
turbulent spirit.

His confidant Peacock suggested, from his stage ex-
perience, the outlines of a plot to which Vivian's as-
tuter intellect instantly gave tangibility and coloring.
Peacock had already found Miss Trevanion's waiting-
woman ripe for any measure that might secure himself
as her husband and a provision for life as a reward.
Two or three letters between them settled the prelimi-
nary engagements. A friend of the ex-comedian's had
lately taken an inn on the north road, and might be re-
lied upon. At that inn it was settled that Vivian should
meet Miss Trevanion, whom Peacock, by the aid of the
abigail, engaged to lure there. The sole difficulty that
then remained woiUd to most men have seemed the great-
est ; namely, the consent of Miss Trevanion to a Scotch
marriage. But Vivian hoped all things from his own
eloquence, art, and passion; and by an inconsistency
however strange, still not unnatural. in the twists of so
crooked an intellect, he thought that by insisting on the
intention of her parents to sacrifice her youth to the very
man of whose attractions he was most jealous, by the
picture of disparity of years, by the caricature of his
rival's foibles and frivolities, by the common-places of
"beauty bartered for ambition," etc., he might enlist her
fears of the alternative on the side of the choice urged
upon her.

264 THE CAXTOHS:

The plan proceetleil, the time came. Paonock jiroteitded
the excuse of s sick relation to leave Trevanion ; mid Vivian
a day before, oti prttence of visiting the picturesque
in the neigh lioiOiood, ohtaJneil leave of absence. Thus the
plot went oil to ita catastro|ihe.

" And I heed not asli," said I, trying in vain to conceal
my indignation, " how Miss Trevanion received your mon-
strous proposition ! "

Vivian's pide cheek grew paler, hut lie made no reply.

"And if we bail not arrivesl, what would you have
done 1 Oh, dare you look into the gulf of infamy you
have escaped!"

" I cannot and I will not bear this 1 " exclaimed Vivian,
starting up. " I have laid ray heart bare before you, and
it is ungent-rous au<l unmanly thus to prcaa upon its
wounds. You can moralize, you can sjieak coldly ; but
— I — I loved ! "

" And do yoii think," I bur.^t forth, " tlo you think tbat
I did ]vt hv t."., In.r l,..m,i- Ihmi v,m liav,- do,,,.;

Vivi:ui .■^lu-lit ii-.lil ..f nw. "Tfii.-li:" lie cried; "is
tlii- iihliH..! tnir? I llinuj^lil yuM nii-lit have li.iii some
fni.il ^ui.l tlr,.|i,,- f,,n,y f-r .Mi>- TriMMiiion, but thai y(ui

ci;i-l.r.l mid • n.Ti.I il ^it .mr... Oh, no! it w.is im]">;.s-

«!!.!.■ I.. Ii;iv \.<y.;{ u-a\ly. aiul t.-, h:iv,' surreiiiicrcd all
.■iiri.i.T :,.- y.unii.i, — liiivl.fl i1m. Il.m^i^ liav H,-.[ from
Ui-r ]in's^iiiv ■ X,,, n., : llijit «jis not love ! "

"It iw ]-<w'. :n,.\ I iniiy lb'Mvi->ii ti> >;raiit tl.dl one
liay you m,iy k[i<nv linw liltli^ your niri'rlioi: spraiif,' from

11.1 (iKTk as is r,

nil.

Il tlin

' been ! wh^l, if \

A FAMILY PICTURE. 285

pass through repentance and cling to atonement, what I
dare hope you may yet he ! Talk not now of your love :
I talk not of mine ! Love is a thing gone from the lives
of hoth. Go Lack to earlier thoughts, to lieavier wrongs,
— your father ! that noble heart which you have so wan-
tonly lacerated, which you have so little comprehended ! "
Then with all the warmth of emotion I hurried on;
showed him the true nature of honor and of Roland (for
the names were one) ; showed him the watch, the hope,
the manly anguish I had witnessed, and wept — I, not
his son — to see ; showed him the poverty and privation
to which the father, even at the last, had condemned
himself, so that the son might have no excuse for the
sins that Want whispers to the weak. This and much
more, and I suppose with the pathos that belongs to all
earnestness, I enforced, sentence after sentence, — yield-
ing to no interruption, over-mastering all dissent ; driving
in the truth, nail after nail as it were, into the obdurate
heart that I constrained and grappled to ; and at last the
dark, bitter, cynical nature gave way, and the young man
fell sobbing at my feet, and cried aloud, " Spare me, spare
me ! I see it all now ! Wretch that I have been ! "

TBS CXXT(»S:

CHAPTER TTIL

OV iMTing VtvuB 1 iliil wtt |«r«iiiBe to prooiMe
Rolud'a taaKduto |<anl.m i I iIbI nut arg^ bim I
iMBpt Iff mm liu (^R!!^ I felt tlte tntw wm mt .
tui dlher |HiOun or iuterview. I eoolentnl mjvolf
the Tict«7 1 lad oIkmIt punnL I jndeod it rigiit
tiioaght, ■oliUxls ui'l ■uSeriug shoqU imitrint i
iMy\j tbe Inwon, naJ pKpan the war V- the steai
naolnliciD of t«funn. I Iftt bim aeitol Iiy th« stn
uid vith tbe prtiuiUe to iufonu him nt (h'^sitiaU host
whora lie took up hi« lolging^', faow KoUnd etrug
throiifth hi>i illness.

. I V

■ [ :

1.1 I'-ft 1

i.if,- Imd

, its til,. iR-art-

ll,^^itIl" nay. 1 :

A FAMILY PICTURE.

267

I left the room accordingly ; and while they were
getting ready the horses, I ran to the place where I had
left Vivian. He was still there, in the same attitude,
covering his face with his hands as if to shut out the sun.
I told him hastily of Roland^s improvement, of our
approaching departure, and asked him an address in
London at which I could find him. He gave me as his
direction the same lodging at which I had so often
visited him.

" If there be no vacancy there for me," said he, " I
shall leave word where I am to be found. But I would
gladly be where I was before — "

He did not finish the sentence. I pressed his hand,
and left him.

THE CAXTOSS;

CHAPTER IX.

SoHB days have elajKed ; wc are in London, my falser
with U3 ; and Roland lias permitted Austin to tell me his
tale, and receive tlirini|,'h Austin all that Viviaii'a nons-
tive to me Hiigyfsli'rl, whether in esteniiation of the past
or in hope of tcdeiiijition in the future. And Austin bos
inexpressibly soothed his hrollier ; and Roland's ordinaij
roughness has gone, and his looks are meek and his voice
low. But he tiilks little, and smiles never. He asks ma
no questions ; does not to me name his son, nor recur to
the voyage to Australia, nor ask why it is put off, nor
interest himsetf as Vforo iu preparatiuna for it. He has
no lienrt for nnythinK-

The voyn-;.- <> imt off till the next vessel skills, an.! I
hnve s-Tii' Vivinn t"ii'e or thrice, and the result of tho

iiitervii'Ws liii^ dLsi])|"nnIed and il<'|in>s

-ed me. It seems

U^ me (l,i>t murl, of ih- luvvions ,-\\\-rt

I ha.l iiroduced i-^s

idrr.'idvoKljfiT.ited. At tli.' v.tv si^ht

of the yrvat HidH

— thi^ evi.l-lin. of (!„. o;ise, llir luxui

ry, the wealth, the

jiotii)!, the Btrifi'. tU- iMiuiry, thi> fiiti

liu.'. and the rags

whi.Oi llie {.n-m ,<( .■ivili/.di.m, iu tli.

■ di.-i>arilies of old

soii.'lii.-^, iiifvit;d>ly ^'^ttlier;' to^-ther,

— the (ieree com-

haliv .lisposition ('.■ei 1 to ;,w:Lkeu a:

,-aiu, the i.erverted

amhiliou. the ln^stililv to the world, lli

,. wratli, the srorn.

the ivar with m:ni, and the r,..I.,.lHo,i

IS muniiur against

H.^avHi. Tl.-r.- uv,< still ll,. -u- r.

■deeiniiig |ioint of

r.-;..-ulau<-e f.,,- his wr..ri-s 1,. Iiis i:,[h-i

r, — lii^ lieart was

Mill .'.ofienM 11, .r.-; w] MI.'ii^LinL ,

.11 tliiit soflm-ss 1

hailei! a iiriucijile more like that of lioi

nor than I had yet

A FAMILY PICTURE. 269

recognized in Vivian. He cancelled the agreement which
had aijsured him of a provision at the cost of his father's
comforts. ** At least, there," he said, " I will injure him
no more ! "

But while on this point repentance seemed genuine, it
was not so with regard to his conduct towards Miss Tre-
vanion. His gypsy nurture, his loose associates, his
extravagant French romances, his theatrical mode of
looking upon love intrigues and stage plots, seemed all
to rise between his intelligence and the due sense of the
fraud and treachery he had practised. He seemed to
feel more shame at the exposure than at the guilt ; more
despair at the failure of success than gratitude at escape
from crime. In a word, the nature of a whole life was
not to be remodelled at once, — at least by an artificer so
unskilled as I.

After one of these interviews I stole into the room where
Austin sat with Roland, and watching a seasonable moment
when Roland, shaking off a reverie, opened his Bible and
sat down to it, with each muscle in his face set as I had
seen it before into iron resolution, I beckoned my father
from the room.

PisiSTRATUS. — "I have again seen my cousin. I can-
not make the way I wished. My dear father, you must
see him."

Mr. Caxton. — " I ? Yes, assuredly, if I can be of
any service. But will he listen to me?"

PisiSTRATUS. — "I think so. A young man will often
respect in his elder what he will resent as a presumption
in his contemporary."

Mr. Caxton. — "It may be so. [Then more thought-
fully] But you describe this strange boy's mind as a
wreck : in what part of the mouldering timbers can I fix
the grappling-hook ? Here it seems that most of the

270

THE CAXTONS:

fiupports on which we can beat rely when we woulj save
another fail us, — religion, honor, the associations of
childhood, the bonJs of home, filial obedience, even the
intelligence of 8elf-iiit*rc!!t in the philosoplucal sense of
the word. And I, loo, — a mere booknuui J My dear
son, I despair ! "

PisiBTBAiTJa. --"No, you do not despair, — no, yoa
must eucceed ; i,n- if you do not, what is to become
of Uncle Eolitmli Do you not see his heart is faat
breaking I "

Mr. CiXTON. — " Get me my hat ; I will go. I will
save this lahmael ; I will not leave him till he is saved J "

PiaiaTRATUB (some minutos after, as tliey are walking
towanla Vivian's lodgiiifi). — "You ask mo what sup-
port you are t? cliiiy to. A strong and a good one, sir."

Mr. Caxtos. — " Ah, what is that 1 "

PiaiSTRATurs. — "Atiection! there is a nature capable

of strong
could lovt

iliV'Ctio

r.t til,

core of this ■

wild lioart

! He

.■urs mish to

his eyes a

t her

l.irv.d rather

Ihau ]iart

with

,: It was 1,

is iH^lief i

n his

dislikes (hat

hiinleued

and

y wh.ii he

hears how

that

now m.'lt his

pride and

curb

all'iLtiui) to

deal with.

--do

If those eyps

lir,l softlvl "

BO itiexprc
No!"

ssibly

; :.n,l u.y father said, i

IS we

le i-^ 111 lioiiie,

leave me.

This

■u Ikivi. ^et a

le ; I uiu.st

work

ll!]^ lloov.-Iu-'

ed on his V

isitor.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 271

On returning home, to my great surprise I found Tre-
vanion with my uncle. He had found us out, — no easy
matter, I should think. But a good impulse in Treva-
nion was not of that feeble kind which turns home at
the sight of a difficulty ; he had come to London on pur-
pose to see and to thank us.

I did not think there had been so much of delicacy, of
what I may call the "beauty of kindness," in a man
whom incessant business had rendered ordinarily blunt
and abrupt. I hardly recognized the impatient Treva-
nion in the soothing, tender, subtle respect that rather
implied than spoke gratitude, and sought to insinuate
what he owed to the unhappy father without touching,
on his wrongs from the son. But of this kindness,
which showed how Trevanion's high nature of gentle-
man raised him aloof from that coarseness of thought
which those absorbed wholly in practical affairs often
contract, — of this kindness, so noble and so touching
Roland seemed scarcely aware. He sat by the embers
of the neglected fire, his hands grasping the arms of his
elbow-chair, his head drooping on his bosom ; and only
by a deep hectic flush on his dark cheek could you have
seen that he distinguished between an ordinary visitor
and the man whose child he had helped to save. This
minister of state, — this high member of the elect, at
whose gift are places, peerages, gold sticks, and ribbons,
— has nothing at his command for the bruised spirit of
the half-pay soldier ; before that poverty, that grief, and
that pride the king's counsellor was powerless. Only
when Trevanion rose to depart, something like a sense
of the soothing intention which the visit implied seemed
to rouse the repose of the old man, and to break the ice
at its surface ; for he followed Trevanion to the door,
took both his hands, pressed them, then turned away.

272 THE CAXTOKS:

and resumed liis seat. Ti'uvauion beckoned Ui me, and
I followed biiu downstiiii-s and tnfo a little [wirlor which
was unoccupied.

After Bijnie remarks upon Eoland, full nf deep and
considerate feeling, and one quiek, hurried ri-ference to
the son, — to tlie effett that bis guilty attempt would
never be known by the world, — Trevanion then ad-
dressed hini-wlf to me with a warmth and urgency that
took me by tturprise.

"After what has passed," he exclaimed, "I cannot
suffer you to leave England thus. Let me not feel vjth
you, as with your uncle, that there is nothiug by irhich
I call -repay — no, I will not so put it ; stay and serve
your country at home ; it is my prayer, it ia Ellinor's.
Out of all at my disposal it will go hard but what I shall
find something to suit you."

And then hurrying on, Trevanion Bpoke flatteringly
of my prefeiisioiis, in riylit of birth and eapiibiiitie?.

to lionoriiblv omplovmi'iil, n

,Tid i.licfd }.<.■{.>}■>■ me a

pirtiirc of public; lib', il'^ piiz'

L's ami dislindioiis, whicli

for 111.; moiji.TLt !it IcMsl niiid.

.■ mv boLLit boat loud and

my biiMlli coTiic qiii.-l;. lliil. s

till, .-vc-n tlu-u, I f.-it (was

it an Mim-a™n.b].;|"-i''''n(li^'

1 thvro \v,is soniolhi.ig that

jarrod. soiiii'ljiiii;; lli;it luimbb-

■t, in Ihr llioi.f,'bt of l.old-

iliR nil my furlnin'S as a di'|">iii

loncy oil lljo fatliiT of tbc

womnu I li.vod b\il luiirbl lu.l ;

i-piiv lo, — somftbiny oven

of pnrsc.nnl di--radiitl<ai in llii

.' more foidini,' tba! 1 wiia

thus to bo re|iiiid f<ir;i j'fivii i- :

But these wrro ui>t n-.,^uw 1 <■.

juld jidvnncr ; .-inii, indeed,

so for the tim- did TrL-v^ini^nV

; ;;i-iii'rosity and floquoiice

ovcrpou-er niu that I f'\\l\ .>

iily SAu-v .lut my thanks,

and mv I'looii-u thiit I -nuv,
know. "

Willi th;.t jnoniise ]«.■ mms I

lid o.usidor and let him

oVLod fo content himself;

A FAMILY PICTURE.

273

he told me to direct to him at his favorite country seat,
whither lie was going that day, and so left me. I looked
round the humble parlor of the mean lodging-house, and
Trevanion's words came again before me like a flash of
golden light. I stole into the open air, and wandered
through the crowded streets, agitated and disturbed.

VOL. II. — 18

THE CAXTOSa:

CHAPTER X.

Sbvub&L Hays elapeed, [inil of each day nxj father Bpent
a conaidetable part at Virian'a lodgings. But he main-
tamed a ii.'serve as to liis HUci:eEs, heggcd m<! not to ques-
tion him, and to refrain al^^ for tbe preBeut from viaiting
my eoitsin. My uncle gueaaed or knew his brother's mis-
sion ; for I observed that whenever Austin went noise-
lessly away, Lis eye briyiiteiied, and tlie color rose in a
hectic flush to his cheek. At Inst my father came to me
one morning, his carpet-bag in his hand, and said, —

"I am '.'"ill- away fur ii iveek or two. Keep Roland
romiKiiiy lill 1 iiliiin."

!.i-^.!LZ

I'lVL- how little,
■■ of tho subtle-

onli.i.iiily
I1L.S .iLioiio'i:
..>.k^ U- lj;
Lisimpil,;,

'■ j'^ii'loL.i'd, for
Irft my father
IS. Uc-'swmed
llvl' |nit the hu.
lid =!aid, " Read

A FAMILY PICTURE. 275

To PiSTSTRATUs Caxton :

My dear Son, — It were needless to tell you all the earlier
difficulties I have had to encounter with my charge, nor to re-
peat all the means which, acting on your suggestion (a correct
one), I have employed to arouse feelings long dormant and con-
fused, and allay others long prematurely active and terribly
distinct. The evil was simply this : here was the intelligence
of a man in all that is evil, and the ignorance of an infant in
all that is good. In matters merely worldly, what wonderful
acumen! In the plain principles of right and wrong, what
gross and stolid obtuseness I At one time, I am straining all
my poor wit to grapple in an encounter on the knottiest mys-
teries of social life ; at another, I am gui<ling reluctant fingers
over the hom-book of the most obvious morals: here hiero-
glyphics, and there pothooks. But as long as there is affection
in a man, why, there is Nature to begin with I To get rid of
all the rubbish laid upon her, clear back the way to that Na-
ture, and start afresh, — that is one's only chance.

Well, by degrees I won my way, waiting patiently till the
bosom, pleased with the relief, disgorged itself of all its " peri-
lous stuff," — not chiding, not even remonstrating; seeming
almost to sympathize, till I got him, Socratically, to disprove
himself. When I saw that he no longer feared me, that my
company had become a relief to him, I proposed an excursion
and did not tell him whither.

Avoiding as much as possible the main north road (for I did
not wish, as you may suppose, to set fire to a train of associa-
tions that might blow us up to the dog-star), and where that
avoidance was not possible travelling by night, I got him into
the neighborhood of the old Tower, I would not admit him
under its roof; but you know the little inn, three miles off,
near the trout stream, — we made our abode there.

Well, I have taken him into the village, preserving his in-
cognito. I have entered with him into cottages, and turned
the talk upon Boland. You know how your uncle is adored ;
you know what anecdotes of his bold warm-hearted youth
once, and now of his kind and charitable age, would spring
up from the gamilous lips of gratitude! I made him see with

276

THE CAXTOHS :

bis own eyes, hear with his own eare, how all who knew Bo-
land loved and honbred him— except his bub. Then I took
him round the niiiiB (Htill not enffering him to enter the
house), for thoie rui hh iire the key to Hnlnnd'a character ; see-
ing them, oiw Bees tli« piitlia' in liia poor foihle of fainilj pride.
There yon diBtinguit,li it fnini tlie iiiB^ilent hoasla of the pwia-
peroDs, nnil feel that it is little more than the pioii« reverence
to the dead, — " the tender culture of ibe tomb." We sat down
on heaps of im ml tiering atone, and it win there that I explaineil
to him what Roland was in youth, and what Le had dreamed
that a son would be to him. I showed him the graves of his
ancestora, and explained to him why they were siicred in Ro-
land's eyes. I hnd gained a great way, when be longed to
enter the home that phnuld have been his ; and I could make
him pause of his own accord, and say, " No, I mnst first be
worthy of it I " Then you would have smiled (sly satirist that
you are) to have heard me iuiprexsiiig upon this acute, sharp-
witted youth all that we plain folk understand by the name
of HOME, — its perfect trust and truth, its simple holiness, ita
exquisite hapi>iiies», — bciii^ to the world ivha
(iMlit limn:.ii mind. And iifUrtlnl I bvii-li
"■li„iii lill Ilii'ii ]n- liH.1 waiwlv n^ini,.d, {,.,■ ivln

■iiii'd U
I- linint

■Atiil V

Kiid I,

>i'ri>nd t
i lf.d;in.l

If) i.iy itrins.

. SI,,-

]M„krd

.>„ !,im af .

;i Hr:iiiper,

iokn... iivni

I Id.^. Imii r

lliLl »h>.n

l>k' ; ^n
div«- 1
1 di^in
a ].:nt

"■1- l.,U''

i-.d li

nf Il„n

. r!u. wiw .■ill.
k, Wi.^ I .■
.r 1 r..,di.d

1.-. Ilvn,, I

mil lo put
ymM He

liiiikyour-

■,r ,-iiU.T.^...

and A:

lim l>nl

Ih ; I «ill n

i>t ol.jcct."

nv niolhoiV

v\V," ^

aid h.-.

.■l],d IV^diici

awny. I

inu^e amid::

t' tllL' 1

nins V

. liile I went

ill lo see

A FAMILY PICTURE. 277

your poor mother, and relieve her fears about Roland, and
make her understand why I could not yet return home.

This brief sight of his sister has sunk deep into hira. But
I now approach what seems to me the great difficulty of the
whole. He is fully anxious to redeem his name, to regain his
home. So far so well. But he cannot yet see ambition ex-
cept with hard worldly eyes ; he still fancies that all he has to
do is to get money and power, and some of those empty prizes
in the Great Lottery which we often win more easily by our
sins than our virtues. [Here follows a long passage from
Seneca, omitted as superfluous ] He does not yet even un-
derstand me, or if he does he fancies me a mere book-worm
indeed, when I imply that he might be poor and obscure, at
the bottom of Fortune's wheel, and yet be one we should
be proud of! He supposes that to redeem his name he has
only got to lacker it. Don't think me merely the fond father
when I add my hope that I shall use you to advantage here.
I mean to talk to him to-morrow, as we return to London, of
you and of your ambition : you shall hear the result.

At this moment (it is past midnight) I hear his step in the
room above me. The window-sash aloft opens — for the third
time ; would to heaven he could read the true astrology of
the stars I There they are, bright, lununous, l>enignant, —
and I seeking to chain this wandering comet into the harmo-
nies of heaven ! Better task than that of astrologers, and as-
tronomers to boot I Who among them can "loosen the band
of Orion 1 " But who amongst us may not be permitted by
God to have sway over the action and orbit of the human
soul ?

Your ever affectionate father,

A. C.

Two days after the receipt of this letter came the
following; and though I would fain suppress those
references to myself which must be ascribed to a
father's partiality, yet it is so needful to retain them
ia connection with Vivian, that I have no choice but

278 THE CAXTOXS :

to leave tlic tciider flatteries to ibe indulgence of tlia 1
kind rcflder : —

Mt de&b Son, — I wu not too Mn^uine as to the elRxIt 1
that jooi Giiiiple story would produiK nj^on your cousin.
Wilhgut iiuplyiiig any contraat to his own conduct, I de-
•cribwl that scene in which you threw yuurself upon our
aynipathy, io the struggie hKtweeii love and duty, and a«k«d
for oia coun«vI nnd HUp[>oi't ; \rhea Roktid gave you hi» blunt
adviue to tell iJt to Trevaiiiou ; and when, amidst sucli sorm»-
aa the hvaiX iu youth etenjs scarcely krge enough to hold, you
cani^ht ut truth impnlaively, and the truth bore you safe froiu
the shipwrBck. 1 recounted your silent and manly stru-^jjles;
your resolution not to suffer the egotism of ]iiusion to nslit
you for the aims nnd ends of thnl spiritunl prohation which
we call life. 1 ehotved you ns you were, still thoughtful for
IU, inttireHteil iu our interei>(s ; soiiling on us, that we mij^t
not guepa that you wept in secretl Oh, my son, loy eou f do
■a I did not feci and pmy for you I
lion, I turned fruui

not think that in those ti

1 II

kliov

III.'

' tiial
; iinh-ii

■ I had

A FAMILY PICTURE. 279

money, and driving a coach-and-fonr through this villanous
world."

Your cousin sank into a profound reverie ; and when he
woke from it, it was like the waking of the earth after a night
in spring, — the bare trees had put forth buds ! And some
time after, he startled me by a prayer that I would permit
liim, with his father's consent, to accompany you to Australia.
The only answer I have given him as yet has been in the form
of a question : " Ask yourself if I ought. I cannot wish Pisis-
tratus to be other than he is ; and unless you agree with him
in all his principles and objects, ought I to incur the risk that
you should give him your knowledge of the world and inocu-
late him with your ambition ? " He was struck, and had the
candor to attempt no reply.

Now, Pisistratus, the doubt I expressed to him is the doubt
I feel. For, indeed, it is only by home-truths, not refining
arguments, that I can deal with this unscholastic Scythian,
who fresh from the Steppes comes to puzzle me in the portico.

On the one hand, what is to become of him in the Old
World? At his age and with his energies, it would be im-
possible to cage him with us in the Cumberland ruins; weari-
ness and discontent would undo all we could do. He has no
resource in books, and I fear never will have. But to send
him forth into one of the overcrowded professions; to place
him amidst all those " disparities of social life " on the rough
stones of which he is perpetually grinding his heart ; turn him
adrift amongst all the temptations to which he is most prone,
— this is a trial which, I fear, will be too sharp for a conver-
sion so incomplete. In the New World, no doubt, his energies
would find a safer field ; and oven the adventurous and desul-
tory habits of his childhood might there be put to healthful
account. Those complaints of the disparities of the civilized
world find, I suspect, an easier if a bluffer reply from the po-
litical economist than the Stoic philosopher. " You don't
like them, you find it haixl to submit to them," says the polit-
ical economist ; " but they are the laws of a civilized state,
and you can't alter them. Wiser men than you have tried
to alter them, and never succeeded, though they turned the

n yoiir case, m j sod, I

280 THE CAirmra :

«Mth tapcj'-lonrT I Very well; bnt the world is wide, — p>
into m stale that it not to dTilind. Tbe diEparities ot tfae
Old World Tftiiigli anuilKt tbe New ! Emif;ratioii is the ivplf
of Natnre to tbe nbellious ciy bk*"'^ Art" Tbun n-otild mj
tbe political econuniist; and, nlaa 1
i6al>d nil repl; to the KOMiiiiogs.

I acUuowlelge, then, that AuMmlia might open the bcvt
Mfety-vulve to your ciiu»iii'« ili^contcnt and desiivE; but I
BcknowlHtljje alui a couiitertrath, which ia thia : "It is not
permitted to an hoiievt man to corropt himself fnr the suke
ofothein" That is ulmutt tbe oiily niHxim of Jeaa Jocqnea
to whivh I can cheerfully subscribu t Do yoa feel quite
Strong enough to resiet tdl tbe iiiflnenc-es which a compatiion-
ahip of this kind inny subject you to ; etnmg enough to beat
bin hunleu as well aa your own; Btrong euouyh, also — jiy,
and nlert and vigilaut enouRh — to prevent those influences
harming the uthets whom you have undertaken to fndde, and
wboBe lots are confideil to you ? PaUKe well, and cuneider inft-
tarely, for lbi« must not depend npou a geuerouR impulae,
think Ibnt vol " ' " " " ■

'lliei

ltd lire

W-n- il mil r.irli..l;i.ia, atiil \,:<.\ 1 one jrraiii less
v..n. 1 r.mld lint .■nl^Maiii x\,<- ll.ought of Invin;;
^ ^l„.LlMi■.^- so Kr^i.l il r.'-i.utisil.ilily. But every
llily l<i iiti iMriii-st Oiituii' is ;i new ]ii-o|> to virtue;

iisk of you is lo n'mcinlicr tbiit it is a solemn
iLir^i', not Id be urnU-rlakeii without the most
^1- and rncwm- i.f llie MrcnRlb with which it is

III two days wfi sbiill be in Loiiilon.

iiiv Ann^'liriiiiiajii, .inxiouslv arid fondly.

^o|,]„.sit-t.i

i4 fl-oll, All-4

hilR T rend lliis letter, and
= I I'inked up, I saw Roland

; thi-n he piiiised a mo-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 281

ment, and added, in a tone that seemed quite humble,
" May 1 see it, — and dare IT'

I placed tlie letter in his hands, and retired a few paces
that he might not think I watched his countenance while
he read it. And I was only aware that he had come to
the end by a heavy, anxious, but not disappointed sigh.
Then I turned, and our eyes met ; and there was some-
thing in Roland's look inquiring, and as it were implor-
ing. I interpreted it at once.

"Oh, yes. Uncle,'* I said, smiling; " I have reflected,
and I have no fear of the result. Before my father wrote,
what he now suggests had become my secret wish. As
for oiu: other companions, their simple natures would
defy all such sophistries as — but he is already half-cured
of those. Let him come with me, and when he returns
he shall be worthy of a place in your heart beside his
sister Blanclie. I feel, I promise it ; do not fear for me !
Such a charge will be a talisman to myself. I will shun
every error that I might otherwise commit, so that he
may have no example to entice him to err.**

I know that in youth and the superstition of first love
we are credulously inclined to believe that love and the
possession of the beloved are the only happiness. But
when my uncle folded me in his arms, and called me
the hope of his age and stay of his house (the music of my
father's praise still ringing on my heart), I do affirm that
I knew a prouder bliss than if Trevanion had placed
Fanny's hand in mine, and said, " She is yours."

And now the die was cast, the decision made. It was
with no regret that I wrote to Trevanion to decline his
offers. Nor was the sacrifice so great — even putting aside
the natural pride which had before inclined to it — as it
may seem to some; for, restless though I was, I had
labored to constrain myself to other views of life than

282 THK CAXTOSS:

those which close the vistas of ambiUon nrith. images <rf
the t«iTes!triai deities, — Power and Kank. Had I not
been behind the &c«nes, noted all of joy and of ]>eace that
the pmsuit of power had cost Trepaiiion, and eeen haw
littie of liapiiiuesa rank yavc even to one of the polished
habits Utd graceful attributes of Lord Castleton ! Yet
each nature Bcemed fitted so well, the first for powor, the
last for rank 1 It is marvellous vitb what liberality
Providence atones for the partial ilispcnsations of Fortune,
Independence, or the rigorous pursuit of it ; afTectton,
witfi ita hopes and its ren-arlB ; a life only render«tl by
Art more susceptible to Kature, in which the physical
enjoymeuU are pure and healthful, in which the moral
facultieii expand harmoniously with the intellectual and
the heart is at peaee with tlie mind, — is this a mean lot
for ambition to desire, and is it so far out of human
teach I " Know thyself," said the old philosophy. " Im-
prove tliy^i'lf," i'liHii the new. The great object of the
soJiiiinicT ill liiui^ is iint tn ivaslc all liis passions and
gifHoii tlif tiling-: .-xlenuil thai In- luu.^^t leiive behind;
thai Hliii'li h.. cultivalcs M-ii!iiii is all that he can caiTy
into t!i.' '■IcTii^il |>r.>i.'r>'s^, "\Vr ^tiv liiri'but as schoolboys,
wlins,; ijf,. l,i.;,'j,i-^ «Ili'H> pHionI eiiils ; and Iho battles 'we
f.iu-lit witli uiir liv.ils, and tli.' toys tli^it we shared with
our playniat4.'K, and ibe names tliat we carved, high or low,
on tlic wall al'uve our desks, —will lliey so much be-
stead tH luTfafliT J As new fates crowd upon us, can
tliiy iii..n. tli:iii pass through the memory with a smile or
a b^igli 1 l,L.Lik back In thy school-days, and answer.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 283

CHAPTER XL

Two weeks since the date of the preceding chapter have
passed ; we have slept our last, for long years to come, on
the English soil. It is night, and Vivian has been ad-
mitted to an interview with his father. They have been
together alone an hour and more, and I and my father
will not disturb them. But the clock strikes, — the
hour is late ; the ship sails to-night, — we should be on
board. And as we two stand below, the door opens in
the room above, and a heavy step descends the stairs ;
the father is leaning on the son's arm. You should see
how timidly the son guides the halting step. And now
as the light gleams on their faces, there are tears on
Vivian's cheek ; but the face of Roland seems calm and
happy. Happy ! when about to be separated, perhaps
forever, from his son] Yes, happy, because he has
found a son for the first time, and is not thinking of
years and absence and the chance of death, but thankful
for the divine mercy and cherishing celestial hope. If
ye wonder why Roland is happy in such an hour, how
vainly have I sought to make him breathe and live and
move before you !

We are on board ; our luggage all went first. I had
had time, with the help of a carpenter, to knock up
cabins for Vivian, Guy Bolding, and myself in the hold ;
for thinking we could not too soon lay aside the pre-
tensions of Europe, " rfe-fine-gentlemanise " ourselves,
as Trevanion recommended, — we had engaged steerage

284

THi: CAXTUHS:

passage, to ttie great humoring of our finances. "We had
too the luxury to ho by oureelveB, and our own Cunibet-
land folks were round ua as our friends and serraats
both.

We are on board, and have looked our last on those
we are to leave, and we stand on deck leaning on each
other. We are on boani, and the lights near antl far
shine from the vast City ; and the stars are on high,
bright and clear, us for the lirst mariners of old. Strange
noises, rough voices, and crackling cords, and here and
there the sobs of woiueu, mingle iritti tlic oaths of men ;
now the swing and heave of the vessel, the dreary sense
of exile that I'omes when the Hhi]» fiiirly moves over the
waters. And still wo stood, and looked and Lst^ned, —
silent, and loaning on each other.

Night deepened, the City vanished, *- not a gleam
from its myriad lights ! The river widened and widejied.
How cold comes the wind ! — ia that a gale from the
aeaJ The stars grow faint, the moon has sunk. And
now how desolate seem the waters in the comfortless gray
of dawn ! Then we shivered and looked at each other,
and muttered something that was not tiie thought deep-
est at our hearto, and crept into our berths, feeling sure it
was not for sleep. And sleep came on us, soft and kind ;
the ocean lulled the exiles as on a mother's breast.

PART SEVENTEENTH.

CHAPTER I.

The stage-scene has dropped. Settle yourselves, my
good audience ; chat each with his neighbor. Dear
madam, in the boxes, take up your opera-glass and look
about you. Treat Tom and pretty Sal to some of those
fine oranges, 0 thou happy-looking mother in the two-
shilling gallery ! Yes, brave 'prentice boys, in the tier
above, the cat-call by all means ! And you, " most
potent, grave, and reverend seigneurs," in the front row
of the pit, practised critics and steady old play-goers, who
sliake your heads at new actors and playwrights, and,
true to the creed of your youth (for the which all honor
to you !), firmly believe that we are shorter by the head
than those giants our grandfathers, — laugh or scold as
you will, while the drop-scene still shuts out the stage.
It is just that you should all amuse yourselves in your
own way, 0 spectators ! for the interval is long. All the
actors have to change their dresses ; all the scene-shifters
are at work, sliding the " sides " of a new world into, their
grooves ; and in high disdain of all unity of time as of
place, you will see in the playbills that there is a great
demand on your belief. You are called upon to suppose
that we are older by five years than when you last saw us
" fret our hour upon the stage." Five years ! the author

286 THE CAXTONS ;

tells «a especially to humor the helief hy letting th« diop-
s;M!ue linger longer than usual between the lamps and the
stage.

Play up, 0 ye fiddles and kettle-drums ! the time is
elapsed. Stop that cat-call, young gentleman ! Heads
down in the pit there ! Now the flourish is over ; the
scene dniws up ; look before !

A bright, clear, trnnsparent atmosphere, bright aa that
of the East, but vi^MrouB and bracing aa the air of the
North; a broad and fair river, rolling through wide
grassy plains ; yonder, far in the distance, stretch aw uy
vast foresta of evergreen, and gentle slopes break the line
of the cloudless liorizon ; see the pastures. Arcadian with
sheep in hundreds and thousands ! Thyrsis and Menalcns
would have had hard labor to count them, and small time,
1 tuav, for singiug songs about Daphne. But, alas I
Dai)hnes are rare ; no nymphs with garlands and crooks
trip over those pastures.

Turn your eyea to the right, nearer the river; just
parted by a low fence from the thirty acres or so that are
farmed for amusement or convenience, not for profit (that
cornea from the sheep), you catch a glimpse of a garden.
Look not so scornfully at the ]irimitive Jiorti culture, —
such gardens are rare in the Bush. I doubt if the stately
King of the Peak ever more rejoiced in the famous con-
servatory through which you may drive in your carriage,
than do the sous of Llie Bush in the herbs and blossoms
which taste and breathe o£ the old fatherland. Go on,
and behold the jwilace of tlie patriarchs ; it is of wood, I
grant you, but tlic house we build with our own hands is
always a palace. Did yoii ever buUd one when yoii were
a hoy I And the lords of that palace are lords of the
land, almost as far as you can see, and of those number-
less flocks ; and better still, of a health which an ante-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 287

diluvian might have envied, and of nerves so seasoned
with horse-breaking, cattle-driving, fighting with wild
blacks (chases from them and after them, for life and for
death), that if any passion vex the breast of those kings
of the Bushland, fear at least is erased from the list.

See here and there through the landscape rude huts
like the masters'. Wild spirits and fierce dwell within ;
but they are tamed into order by plenty and hope, by the
hand open but firm, by the eye keen but just.

Now, out from those woods, over those green rolling
plains, harum-scarum, helter-skelter, long hair flying wild,
and all bearded as a Turk or a pard, comes a rider you
recognize. The rider dismounts, and another old ac-
quaintance turns from a shepherd, with whom he has
been conversing on matters that never plagued Thyrsis
and Menalcas, whose sheep seem to have been innocent
of foot-rot and scab, and accosts the horseman.

PisisTRATUS. — "My dear Guy, where on earth have
you beeni"

Gut (producing a book from his pocket, with great
triumph). — " There ! Dr. Johnson's * Lives of the Poets.'
I could not get the squatter to let me have * Kenilworth,'
though I offered him three sheep for it. Dull old fellow,
that Dr. Johnson, I suspect; so much the better, the
book will last all the longer. And here's a Sydney
paper, too, only two month's old ! "

Guy takes a short pipe, or dodeen, from his hat, in the
band of which it had been stuck, fills and lights it.

PisTSTRATua — "You must have ridden thirty miles
at the least To think of your turning book-hunter,
Guy ! "

Guy Boldino (philosophically). — "Ay, one don't
know the worth of a thing till one has lost it. No
sneers at me, old fellow ; you too declared that you were

288 THK CAXTONS:

bothered out of your life 'by those hooks, till you fonnd
how long the evenings were without them. Tlien, tlie
first new hook we got, an olJ voliime of the ' Spec-
tator,' — such fun ! "

PraiBTRATUB. — "Very true. The brown cow bae
calved in your absence. Do you know, Guy, I think
we shall have no scab in the fold this year. If so, there
wi]l be a rare Bum to lay by I Things louk up with us
now, Guy."

Guy Bolding. — " Ye.s ! Very different from the first
two yeais, You drew a long face then. How wise you
were, to insist on our learning experience nt another
man's station before we haMided our own capital ! But,
by Jove 1 those slieep at iirst were enough to plague a
man out of his wits, — what witli the wild dogs, just as
the sheep had been washed and ready to shear ; then
that cursed scabby sheep of Joe Tiinmes'g, that we
caught nibbing his sides so complaci-ntly against our
unauspecting poor ewea. I wonder we did not run
away. But 'Patientia fit,' — what ia that Hue in Hor-
ace 1 Never mind now. 'It is a long lane that has no
turning ' does just as well as anything in Horace, and
Virgil to boot 1 say, has not Vivian been here ?"

PiHiBTRATns. — " No ; but he will be sure to conie
to-day."

Gut BoiJJtNO. — " He has much the best berth of it
Horse-brePding and cattle-feeding; galloping after those
wild devils j lost in a forest of horns ; beasts lowing,
scampering, goring, tearing off like mad buffaloes ; horses
galloping up hill, down hill, over rocks, stones, and tim-
ber; whips cracking, men shouting, your neck ail but
broken ; a great bull making at you full rush, — such fun I
Sheep are dull things to look at after a bull-imtit and a
cattle-feast."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 289

PisiSTRATUS. — " Every man to his taste in the Bush.
One may make one's money more easily and safely, with
more adventure and sport, in the bucolic department.
But one makes larger profit and quicker fortune, with
good luck and good care, in the pastoral; and our ob-
ject, I take it, is to get back to England as soon as we
can."

Guy Bolding. — " Humph ! I should be content to
live and die in the Bush ; nothing like it, if women were
not so scarce. To think of the redundant spinster popu-
lation at home, and not a spinster here to be seen within
thirty miles, save Bet Goggins, indeed, — and she has
only one eye ! But to return to Vivian : why should it
be our object, more than his, to get back to England as
soon as we can ? "

PisiSTRATUS. — " Not more, certainly. But you saw
that an excitement more stirring than that we find in the
sheep had become necessary to him. You know he was
growing dull and dejected ; the cattle station Wiis to be
sold at a bargain. And then the Durham bulls and the
Yorkshire horses which Mr. Trevanion sent you and me
out as presents were so tempting, I thought we might
fairly add one speculation to another ; and since one of
us must superintenil the bucolics, and two of us were re-
quired for the pastorals, I think Vivian was the best of
us three to intrust with the first ; and certainly it has
succeeded as yet."

Guy. — ** Why, yes, Vivian is quite in his element, —
always in action, and always in command. Let him be
first in everything, and there is not a finer fellow nor a
better tempered, — present company excepted. Hark !
the dogs, the crack of the whip, — there he is. And
now, I suppose, we may go to diimer."

VOL. II. — 19

THE CAXTOMS:

£nler Vivias.

Hia fnme liaa grown more alhletic ; his eye,
Btead&st and less realiesa, looks you full in the
Hia emile is mon? opca ; but there is a nieliincholf
exprenioii almost approocliing tu glooiiL His divra h
the same ls thai of Piaistratus and Gtty, — white rest
and trouaera ; looue npckcioth, rather gay in color ^ broad
cabbage-leaf Imt ; hU mustache and beanl are trimmed
with more o;ire tliau ours. He has a large whip in hia
hand, and a gun slung ncroea his shoulders. Greetings
are exchanged ; mutual inquiries as to cattle and slieep,
and the last horsi^ desjiatched to the Indian market.
Guy shows the " Lives of the Poets ; " Vivian aska if it
b possible to get the " Life of Clive." or Napoleon, or a
copy of Pliii.ir<:h. Guy shakes his head ; saya if a Kob-
inson Cnisi .e will do as well, he has seen one in a very
tatterod stjile, hut in tim gi'eat request to lie had a

e, more ^H
IB faee. ^|

iii(.> till'

all <

hut

MiserahU' animals are
lost iiiiM.n.l.l.' in Bnsh-
.hiit a li,l|.ni^a.' of ihe

Iu.rL a niau d."-^ not kuo«-

s<,ft s,.:i is ill lU- i>\d Wnrl,l, wImiv u fu s^.vni a

n,iitu-r nf .v-r; l.ul in tlu' lln-li a vvilV is liit-rallv

bone of vuui- bn.ir. llrsl, of vnur th^sh, your b.-tti-r hiOf,
your tnii.isln-in^' w-Ay >■""!■ Hv.^ ..f ll.o E>l,-n, — in short,
idl tliat l"H-ls \a\.- sun-, or yomij; oK.t.u-s sny at public
.\mwr^ ivhru .all.'.! ui^.ti t- j;ivL- the toast of "The
I/i.|ii's." Alas! «■(■ an' tliiv.^ Iwi.hi'li.is, bnl ivl- are heU
l^r oli' Lhaii ba.JL.'lors ..fr.n aiT in the IJnsI, ; for the wife
of the «]ii'!.li''iil 1 I'-k flow Ciuul"'ila)i.l do,--: ,ne aud
ISoldin- th,' lionarto livi.' in our imt, and luiike things
tidy and I'onifoH.d'li-. Sl„- has liad a <-ou|,K' of ihihlren
sinco w.' liavL' l>i'i.-ii in thi- Diisl. ; a wing hiis beeu added

A FAMILY PICTURE. 291

to the hut for that increase of family. The children, I
dare say, one might have thought a sad nuisance in Eng-
land ; but I declare that, surrounded as one is by great
])earded men from sunrise to sunset, there is something
humanizing, musical, and Christian-like in the very squall
of the baby. There it goes — bless it !

As for my other companions from Cumberland, Miles
Square, the most aspiring of all, has long left me, and
is superintendent to a great sheep-owner some two hun-
dred miles off. The Will-o* -the- Wisp is consigned to the
cattle station, where he is Vivian's head man, finding
time now and then to indulge his old poaching propensi-
ties at the expense of parrots, black cockatoos, pigeons,
and kangaroos. The shepherd remains with us, and does
not seem, honest fellow, to care to better himself ; he has
a feeling of clanship, which keeps down the ambition
common in Australia. And his wife, — such a treasure !
I assure you the sight of her smooth, smiling woman's
face when we return home at nightfall, and the very flow
of her gown as she turns the " dampers " * in the ashes
and fills the teapot^ have in them something holy and
angelical. How lucky our Cumberland swain is not
jealous ! Xot that there is any cause, enviable dog
though he be ; but where Desdemonas are so scarce, if
you could but guess how green-eyed their Othellos gen-
erally are ! Excellent husbands, it is true, — none bet-
ter ; but you had better think twice before you attempt
to play the Cassio in Bushland ! There, however, she
is — dear creature ! — rattling among knives and forks,
smoothing the tablecloth, setting on the salt-beef, and
that rare luxury of pickles (the last pot in our store), and
the produce of our garden and poultry -yard, which few
Bushmen can boast of, and the dampers, and a pot of
1 A damper is a cake of flour baked without yeast, in the ashes.

292

■rilE CAXTONS :

, beer, nor spirits, — those

tea to each liaiiquet^r ; no w
are only fur shearing time.

We have just said gtane (a fashion retained from the
holy motlier-country) when, bless my soul ! wliat a clat-
ter without, what a tramping of feet, what a barking of
dogs ! Some guests have arrived, ^they are always
welcome in Bushlaiid ! Perhaps a cattle-buyer in search
of Vivian ; perhaps that cursed squatter, whose sheep
are always migrating to ours. Never mind, a. hearty
welcome to ail, — friend or foe. The door opens, — one,
two, three strangers. More plates and knives ; draw
your Bloola; just in time First eat, then — what
news?

Jiist as tlio strangers sit down, a voice is heard at the
door, —

"You will take particular care of this liorse, young
man ; walk him about a little ; wash his back with salt
and water. Just unbuckle the saddle-bags ; give them
to me. Oh, safe eiioiigh I daresay, but pajiers of conse-
qnence. The prosperity of the colony depends on these
papers. What would become of you all if any accident
happened to them, I shudder to think."

And here, attired in a twill shooting -jacket budding
with gilt buttons, impressed with a well-reraenibered
device ; a cabbage-leaf hat shading a face rarely seen in
the Bush, — a face smooth as razor could make it ; neat,
trim, respectable -looking as. ever, his arm full of saddle-
bags, and his nostrils gently distended, inhaling the
steam of the banquet, walks in — Uncle Jack.

PisiBTRATOa (leaping up). — " Is it possible t You in
Australia ! you in the Bush ! "

Uncle Jack, not recognizing Fisistratus in the tal^.
bearded man who is making a plunge at him, recedes
alarm, exclaiming, "Who are you? X

A FAMILY riCTURE. 293

before, sir ! I Buppoae you '11 say next that / ome you
lomethiitg / "

PisiaTRATua. — " Uncle Jack ! "

Unci.b Jack (ilropping hia eadille-linys). — " Nephew !
Heaven be [iraiaeil ! Come to \ ai ' "

They embrace ; mutual intro It U tL company,

— Mr. Vivian, Mr. BolUiug, tl o le ; Mftjor
MacBlami-y, Mr. Eulliim, Mr F n 1 Sf k, on the
other. Major MaeBlarney is h portly ui n, with el
slight Dublin brogue, who s<| y h nil as he
would a sponge. Mr. Bullion, reserved and liaugbty,
weora green apectaelfs, nnd gives you a fore-tinger. Mr.
Emanuel Specie — unusually smart for the Bush, with a
blue satin stock, and one of those blousea common in
Germany, with elaborate hemfl, and pockets enough for
Briareiis \ty Lave put all hia hands into at once — ia thin,
civil, aiiJ stoops; bows, smiles, and sits down to dinner
again, with the air of a man accustomed to attend to the
main chance.

Unclb Jack (his mouth full of beef). — " Famous beef !
breed it yourself, eh J Slow work that cattle-feeding !
[Empties the rest of the pick!e-jar into hia plat*.] Muat
leara to go ahead in the New World, — milwny times
these! We can put him up to a thing or two, — eh.
Bullion 1 [Wliispering me.] Great capitalist that Bul-
lion! Look at hiuI"

Mb. Bullion (gravely). — " A thing or two ! If he
has capital — you have said it, ^fr. Tibbeta." ( Looks
round for the pickles ; the green spectacles remain fixed
upon Uncle Jack's plate.)

Uncle Jack. — " All that this colony wants is a few
men like us, with capital and spirit. Insteail of paying
paupers to emigrate, they should pay rich men to come,

— eh, Speck ) "

HrMiii, ].. -._. ...:-..„_• qItId ksepluBeyesoa Uw
knk-ovt uyi oeiac cm t^ fictf ■IiimIuji ' "ffiwiiiini
nc raoi: -.UUe ! '

Uncle t^k. ntaniag to tfce pkte sad i
onion, tt-mtaiU Mr Speck in a
dMrrrioj aiis aod tn tfae

raltziDg ^ -iiitM Mr ftollHB : ** TW gmst thuK i
coontrj Li to k slwaj* befuv^and ; dncsnty and im-
renticn, pjianfititnA? and drcnaoo, — tint '• jonr gtt f
Ton mj USe, ao« pieka up aad Tidpr eiTii^ mammg
hen. — 'TlMt's yoar pif'sbod^ig! Wbal
I-r-.r fatbPT njt How u be — |;nad Amtmt
: '< liaht: uyi m?' dnr abmr Ah, Q^
•'■■ k : - ~t:\l hirf.in'_' "n iTie ' Anti -Capitalist,'

the nati<

•- ar. ...,

I f.Tth-

^ :!:■■ l.v.lhll

L "f the

K-,, Y..S

«.-..Iti,. — fi

gl-lltlc-

fjt-utlt'-

l,i,f].

A FAMILY PICTURE. 295

Guy Bolding. — " Hip, hip, hurrah ! — three times
three ! What fun ! "

Order is restored ; dinner-things are cleared ; each
gentleman lights his pipe.

Vivian. — " What news from England ? "

Mr. Bullion. — "As to the funds, air ? "

Mr. Speck. — "I suppose you mean, rather, as to the
railways. Great fortunes will be made there, sir ; but
still I think that our speculations here will — "

Vivian. — "I beg pardon for interrupting you, sir ;
but I thought, in the last papers, that there seemed
something hostile in the temper of the French. No
chance of a war?"

Major MacBlarnby. — " Is it the war you 'd be after,
young gintleman ? If me interest at the Horse Guards
can avail you, bedad ! you 'd make a proud man of
Major MacBlarney."

Mr. Bullion (authoritatively). — " No, sir, we won't
have a war ; the capitalists of Europe and Australia
won't have it. The Rothschilds, and a few others that
shall be nameless, have only got to do thuy sir [Mr.
Bullion buttons up his pockets] ; and we '11 do it too,
and then what becomes of your war, sir ? " (Mr. Bullion
snaps his pipe in the vehemence with which he brings
his hand on the table, turns round the green spectacles,
and takes up Mr. Speck's pipe, which that gentleman
had laid aside in an unguarded moment.)

Vivian. — " But the campaign in India 1 "

Major MacBlarney. — " Oh, and if it 's the Ingees
you'd — "

Bullion (refilling Speck's pipe from Guy Bolding's exclu-
sive tobacco-pouch, and interrupting the Major). — " India !
that 's another matter ; I don't object to that. War there
— rather good for the money-market than otherwise."

ont Tnili* ^^^*

296 THE CJUET0N8 :

ViviAH. — " 'Wliat new* there, then 1 "

Mr. Bullion. — "Don't know; haven't got India'

Mr. Rfkck. — " Nor I eitlier. The day for India is
over ; ihia is our India now," (Misses his tobacco-jiipe ;

B06S it in Bidliou's mouth, — '' stares a^hnst ! N. B.

The pijw ie not a clay dodemt, it a amall meerschaum,
irrepliiL'eiibte in Busldand.)

I'lsisTRATirs. — " Wfill, uncle, Dut I am at a loss to
understand whnt uew scheme you have in hand. Some-
thing benevolent, I am sure ; somethiug for jour fellow-
creatures, — for philanthropy and mankind?"

Mr. Blllio!.' (starting). — " Why, yoiuig man, are you
as green as all that!"

PcBi STRATUS. — " I, sir 1 No, Heaven forbid \ But
my — " (Uncle Jack holds up his forefinger implor-
ingly, and spills his tea over the pantaloons of his
nephew !)

Pisistratus \vr..ih iit iho efTHct of the tea, ;uid therefore
oluluiMl.' to tlir sii;u .if tho forctiuijor, coiitiiuies r;i]iid!y,
'■Hut niv uiK'tf ,.■ / - soiiL.; Or;iiid ^alionaI-in]|.,,rid-
Co|..nid-Aiiti-i[.m,.]."l.v - "

I'.vrc.E Jai-k. -"PooIl: pof.li 1 Wliiit a droll l>,.v

Mr. Bri

•■Witlithe

on.s which

nr.t nvcii iTi j,.-l .'^Imul.i ho falhrrcd .m my rospechiLh- .ml
iiil.'lliKcnl fiirnd h.TO [Uncle -liick Knvs], 1 .nui afiaid you
will n.Mov j;et on in llio world, Mr. Caxtoo. I don't
lliink I'lir .■^("■cidalions will ,<uit i/m f ft is growing late,

Usfi.E .Tack (,iiKn|.ing up) --'■.\iid I have so much
to «.iy lo ihr cli-ar h.iv ' K^ni-c us : _v.>u know the feel-
ings of ail uncle ! " (Takes my -Mtw. and leads nie out of
the hut.)

A Family fictuhe.

Uncle Jack (as soon aa we are in the air). — " You '11
ruin us, — you, me, and your fiitlier and mother. Yes,
what do you tliink I ivork and slave luyaclf for hut for
you and yours 1 Ruin us all, I siLy, if you talk iu that
way before Bullion ! His heurt is aa hard aa the Bank of
England's, — and quite riyht he is, too. Fellow-creatures!
— stuff ! I have reDOUUced tliut delusion, — the generous
follies of tny youth ! I begin at last to hre for myself,
' — ^that is, for self and relatives! 1 shall succeed this
time, you 'U see ! "

PisiSTRATua. — " ludeed, uncle, I hope so sincerely ;
and, to do you justice, there is always something vi>ry
clever in your ideas; only they don't — "

I'ncle Jack {interrupting me with a groan). — ■ " The
fortunes that other mi-u have gained by my ideas, ^
shocking to think of ! What 1 and shall I be reproached
if I lire no longer for such a set of thieving, greedy, un-
grateful knaves I No, no 1 Number One shall be my
maxim j and I '11 make you a Crcesus, my boy — I will."

Pisistratus, aft«r grateful ackuowiedgments tor all pro-
spective benefits, inqtiires how long Jack has been iu
Australia, what brought him into the colony, and what
are his present viotrs: learns, to his astonishment, that
Uncle Jack has been four years in the colony ; that he
sailed the year after Pisistratus, — imiticod, he says,
by that illustrious exatuple, and by some mysterious
agency or commission, which he will not explain, ema-
nating either from the Colonial Office or an Emigration
Company.

Uncle Jack has been thriving wonderfully since he
abandoned Ilia fellow-creatures. His first siieculation, on
arriving at the colony, was in baying some houses iu
Sydney, which {by those fluctuations iu prices common
to the extremes of the colonial mind, which is one while

I )

THE CAXTONS :

I up tlie rainbow u'ith Ho|N), and al another
i into Aclierunlian abysses with Despair) Im
... BxcMsively ehe«]i, anil hold oxceasively dear. Bill
id experiment has been in ooiiaection with tb*
uttlement of Ailtjlaiile, of which he coneidcrs hJin-
! of the first foumlera : ajo<l as, in the nwh of

ui Ignition vt

viiB eiirlier yeara "
manner of crod
vast 8(mis were lost,
and pickings were easii
of Uncle Juck's readinei-.
contrived to procure e*
the colonial gnmdees ; he
some of the principal pn

fovored estahlisliment in
— roiling on it« tide ftii
»erifnce<l adventurers, —
> sums certain fragoieiila
Jid gathered up I.y s msn
(terity. Uncle Jack had
etters of introduction le
to close counectifH with
seeking to establish a

monopoly of lond (which has smce been in great nieasitif
ell'ectod, by raising the price, and excluding the sniHll fry

of petty Ciipitjilist**), iiad elTectunlly imposed on them as
11 luiin with ii vast kn<.wir.lf.c of |.iiUic bns^ine.ss, in ihe
coiifidi-ticc ..f Hivat mm ill honiu. considerable iiilhicnce
with the Iji.i^lish i>n'ss, ,-k>., _ and no Jisd'cdit to tlicir

; for Jnck, V

■apil

L-nscd, 1
k "lulhisin^
ml hi,^ carjiiii;

vith

L.'a[iilal laijiht bi- employed,
iiiltnl into n parliifrslii|> (so far as his
h Ml-. ]{uili..n, who was one of the
iicrs ami laiuibi'lder!- in the colony ;
lany "ll»-r nests to feather, that gentlc-
-tale at .Sy.ln.y, and left his runs am]
■are of overseers and .superintendents.
wa.i -Tacks sjicrial dcliyht ; and an in-
lavin.; lately .leelare.l that the iLciyhbor-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 299

hood of Adelaide betrayed the existence of those mineral
treasures which have since been brought to day, Mr.
Tibbetts had persuaded Bullion and the other gentleman
now accompanying him, to imdertake the land journey
from Sydney to Adelaide, privily and quietly, to ascertain
the truth of the German's report, which was at present
very little believed. If the ground failed of mines,
Uncle Jack's account convinced his associates that mines
quite as profitable might be found in the pockets of the
raw adventurers, who were ready to buy one year at
the dearest market and driven to sell the next at the
cheapest.

**But," concluded Uncle Jack, with a sly look, and
giving me a poke in the ribs, "I've had to do with
mines before now, and know what they are. I'll let
nobody but you into my pet scheme ; you shall go shares
if you like. The scheme is as plain as a problem in
Euclid ; if the German is right, and there are mines,
why, the mines will be worked. Then miners must be
employed; but miners must eat, drink, and spend their
money. The thing is to get that money. Do you
take ? "

PisiSTRATUS. — " Not at all."

Uncle Jack (majestically). — "A great grog and store
depot ! The miners want grog and stores, — come to
your depot ; you take their money, — Q.E.D. ! Shares,
— eh, you dog ? Cribs, as we said at school. Put in a
paltry thousand or two, and you shall go halves."

PisiSTRATUS (vehemently). — " Not for all the mines
of Potosi."

Uncle Jack (good-humoredly). — " Well, it sha n't be
the worse for you. I sha n't alter my will, in spite of
your want of confidence. Your young friend, — that Mr.
Vivian, I think you call him ; intelligent-looking fellow,

THE CASTONS :

sharper tlinii tlie otlicr, I gui-ss, — vroidd he like a
sliare I "

PisisTBiTUB. — " In the grog d^pfit t Yon had bettot
nek him ! "

ITnclb Jack, — " Wliat ! you pretend to be amtocratic
in the Eiisli T T.o gcKid ! h- hn ! They're caiUiig to
me ; we miiBt lit' off."

PiaisTEATus. — "I will ride with you a f*w miles,
"What aay you, Vivian, — nud yoii, Guy T " jVs tbu
whole party now joined iis.

Guy profeni bnakiiig in the sun, and reading the " Ovt-s
of the Poeta." Viviftn ae-cnto; we aeeomjiany the purty
till sunset, Miijor ItlAcBlarney prodigalizes liis aflvre of
service in every coueei\'ahle department of life, and winds
up with an assurance that if we want anything in those
departments connected witli engineering, — such &8 luiii-
ing, mapping, surveying, etc., — he will serve ua, bedail,
for nothing, or next to it ! We suspect Major MacBIar-
n.'y to !.,■ ii civil t-nj^iuc^er, .suffering under the innoeeut
liMlIiieionli.ni th,it li.- lias l,oeu i[i llie iiriuy.

Mr. S|,...k li'ls ,ml lo me in ;i i-imfideiLti;d wJii.-jH'r
that Mr. ISulIinii is m.uistrous riili, ati.l !ki,s made Ids

thillK »'■ 1 tllillk oi Uliele J^iek's l.i.'klo.! oni.in ,„i,l
Mr. Sprvks m.-eisehnuui, and iH-rceive vitli resp,.,.if,i|
aaniir^Uio.i that Mr. ISullini, ,„.ls uiiif^ruily un one
fjraii.l svsteni. Ten niiiiute.s nfterwaiils, Mr. EuMiMi

oU-erves iu a t-me eipmliy • lideiitial that Mr, Sp.'ek,

tlioufili so sn.iliii;,' and eivil. is as sharp as a needle ;
auil thai if I want any sliare^i in the new spt'culatioii,
or iiid.^ed iu any otlier, I had liett^-r eouie at onee lo
l'.ullii>u, who would not deceive me for my weiylit in
p.ld. ■' Not," added bullion, "that I liaVe anytlnng
to say ajjainst Siiei^k. He is well cuou^di to do in the

A FAMILY PICTURE.

301

world, — a warm man, sir ; and when a man is really
warm, I am the last person to think of his little faults,
and turn on him the cold shoulder."

" Adieu ! " said Uncle Jack, pulling out once more his
pocket-handkerchief ; " my love to all at home." And
sinking his voice into a whisper, "If ever you think
better of the grog and store depot, nephew, you'll find an
uncle's heart in this bosom ! "

THE CAXTONS;

CHAPTER 11.

It was night as Vivian and myself rt>d(
Night in Aiiatrolia, — how impossible to describe its
beauty ! Heaven seems, in that new world, so mucli
nearer to earth ! Kvery star stands out so bright and
particular, as if fresh from the time when the Maker
willed it ; and the moon like a large silvery sun, —
the Ico-it objeet on whiuh it shineu ni) distinct and so
atill,' Now and then a sound breaks the silence, but
a eoimd so niuclk in harmony with the solitude that it
only dee]>ens its charms. Hark I the low cry of &
night-bird, from yonder glen amidst the small gray
gleaming rocks. Hark ! as night deepens, the bark of
the distant watch-dog, or the low strange howl of his
more savngo species, from which he defends the fold.
Hark ! the echo catches the sound, and flings it spor-
tively from hill to hill, — farther and farther and far-
ther down, till all again is hushed, and the flowers hang
noiseless over your head, as yon ride through a gn>\'c
of the giant gum-trees. Now the air is literally charged
with the odors, anil the sense of fragrance grows almost
painful in its pleasure. You quicken your pace, and
escape again into the open plains and the fidl moon-
light, and through the slender tea-trees catch the gleam

I "I hmTB freqaeutlv." wiva Mr. Wilkiiuion, in his iavaloable
work apoti SiiutJi Australia, at once so f^npiiic nnd to practical,
"been out nii a jiiamejin such a uight. and whilst allowing tlie
horsahisowu time to walk aluti;; t lie rood, Lave sot.iced mvseU
hy readiug In the still moouligbt."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 303

of the river, and in the exquisite fineness of the atmo-
sphere hear the soothing sound of its murniur.

PisisTRATUS. — " And this land has become the heritage
of our people ! Me thinks I see, as I gaze around, the
scheme of the All-beneficent Father disentangling itself
clear through the troubled history of mankind. How
mysteriously, while Europe rears its populations and
fulfils its civilizing mission, these realms have been
concealed from its eyes, — divulged to us just as civili-
zation needs the solution to its problems ; a vent for
feverish energies, baffled in the crowd; offering bread
to the faiuished, hope to the des{)erate ; in very truth
enabling the *Xew World to redress the balance of
the Old.' Hero, what a Latium for the wandering
spirits, —

* On various seas by various tempests tosa'd.

Here the actual -cEneid passes before our eyes. From
the huts of the exiles scattered over this hardier Italy,
who cannot see in the future —

* A race from whence new Alban sires shall come,
And the long glories of a future Rome.' "

Vivian (mournfidly). — " Is it from the outcasts of
the workhouse, the prison, and the transport-ship that
a second Rome is to arise ? "

PisisTRATUS. — " There is something in this new soil
— in the labor it calls forth, in the hope it inspires, in
the sense of property, which I take to be the core of
social morals — that expedites tlie work of redemption
with marvellous rapidity. Take them altogetlier, what-
ever their origin or whatever brought them hither, they
are a fine, manly, frank-heartod race, these colonists
now, — rude, not mean, especially in the Bush, — and I
suspect will ultimately become as gallant and honest a

304

THE CAXTONS:

population as that now springing up in Strntli Australia,
from which convicts are excluiled ( and happily excluded),
for the distinction will shari>en emulation. As to the
T6at, and in direct answer to your question, I fancy even
the emancipist part of our jMipulation every whit oa
respectable as the mongi'el roblwrs tinder Romulus."

Vivian. — " B\tt were t&ey not st.ldierB, — I mean the
first Romans T"

P18ISTRATD8. — " My dear cousin, we are in advance of
those grim outcasta if we can get lands, housBS and
wives (though the last is difficult, and it is well that
wo have no white Rabinea in the neighborhood), with-
out that same soldiering which was the necessity of their

Vivian ( after a jiause ). — " I have written to my
father, and to youra mote fully, — stating in the one
letter my wisli, in Die other trying to explain the feeling
from which it springs."

PiaiaTRATDB. — " Are the letters gone 1 "

Vivian. — " Yes."

PISIBTBATU8. — " And you would not show them to
mol"

Vivian. — " Do not speak so reproachfully. I promised
your father to pour out my whole heart to Lira when-
ever it was troubled anrl at strife. I promise you now
that I will go by his ailviee."

PisiSTRATUS ( disconsolately ). — " What is there in this
military life for whiiih you yearn that can yield you
more food for healthful excitement and stirring adven-
ture th.in your present pursuits afford)"

ViviAS. — " Distinction ! You do not see the differ-
ence between us. You have but a fortune to make ; I
have a name to redeem. Yoii look cnimly on to the
future ; I have a ilavk blot to erase from tlie past.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 305

P1SI8TRATU8 ( soothingly). — " It is erased. Five years
of no weak bewailings, but of manly reform, steadfast
industry ; conduct so blameless that even Guy (whom I
look upon as the incarnation of blunt English honesty)
half doubts whether you are 'cute enough for * a sta-
tion ; ' a character already so high that I long for the
hour when you will again take your father's spotless
name, and give me the pride to own our kinship to the
world, — all this surely redeems the errors arising from
an uneducated childhood and a wandering youth."

Vivian ( leaning over his horse, and putting his hand
on my shoulder ). — " My dear friend, what do I owe
you ! " ( Then recovering his emotion, and pushing on
at a quicker pace, while "he continues to speak : ) " But
can you not see that just in proportion as my compre-
hension of right would become clear and strong, so my
conscience would become also more sensitive and re-
proachful; and the better I understand my gallant
father, the more I must desire to be as he would have
had his son 1 Do you think it would content him, could
he see me branding cattle, and bargaining with bullock-
drivers] Was it not the strongest wish of his heart
that I should adopt his own career 1 Have I not heard
you say that he would have had you too a soldier, but
for your mother ? I have no mother ! If I made thou-
sands and tens of thousands by this ignoble calling,
would they give my father half the pleasure that he
would feel at seeing my name honorably mentioned
in a despatch ? No, no ! You have banished the gypsy
blood, and now the soldier's breaks out ! Oh for one
glorious day in which I may clear my way into fair
repute, as our fathers before us ! when tears of proud
joy may flow from those eyes that have wept such hot
drops at my shame ! when she too, in her high station
VOL. II. — 20

THE CAXTONS:

Bt flWk lord, may eay, ' Hia heart waa not ki

jr all ! ' Don't argue witli me, it ls in vaiii !

Hcber, that I may have leave to work out my

^■ ; for I tall you that if coudemncd to stny

uuy not murmiir aloud; I oiay go tliroitgli

id )w di f" brute turns tbe wlie.*]

Ill, — but my I rcy on itflelf, and s-oa

li soon write ou my grs ne the epitaph of the

r poet you told ua of, v i true disease was the

«t of glory : ' Here lies one wuoso name was written in

wat«r."'

I had no answer ; that contagioua amhitioa made my
own veins ruu more wwEnly, and my own heart beat
with A louder tumult. Aiuiilst the [utstorol .icenes and
under Ibe trunquil moonlight of the New, the Old
World, evea in me, rude Bushman, claimed for a while
t rode on, the air, so inespressilily

buoy

ant.

yet sootbiuf; as j

111 anodvr

le, restored me to

]it':icefill

Xiiture. Now the

■ Hn,-ks, "il

I their snowy clus-

bTS,

re seen .b.q>i„« .,

ii.di.r the

stitrs; hark ! the

\\A<:

>U1C

l.f UlU WiLtfll-dlljJS.

S^,' the

light gleaming far

fi-i.m

th.

i cljiuk of Iho dl

,i,v\ Aii.i

., jKiusiiig, I said

abnii'

1. -

N'o,

th<-nMsmnr*'.L;|..ry

in laying

thvse rough fmin-

dntio

lis

of :i mv^\xU- stalf,

lhouj;h m

) trum|M!t^ resound

witli

vou

r viiti>rv, lliuugh

nil laun-ls

shidl fihadow your

lomli

', III

.u. in fnrriii^ the <

(uward iirogn-.-iS of your race

OViT

bur

iiliigi'ilii'-i and hoc^i

ilonibs of 1

men ! "

1.x. If

;od round for Vivian's ai...w..i

r : but, ere I sjioke,

he h:

ids

|)unvd from my si<l

ic : and 1

s;iw the wild doga

slinl;

iii«

bai'k fr.>m tli.' Ii.ud

s of his I

mrsp as !i« rode at

SP"'-'

1,0-

I lllO BWaivl, lllIMUgl

1 the muo)

.light.

A FAMILY PICTUKE. 307

CHAPTER III.

The weeks and the months rolled on, and the replies
to Vivian's letters came at last. I foreboded too well
their purport. I knew that my father could not set
himself in opposition to the deliberate and cherished
desire of a man who had now arrived at the full strength
of his understanding, and must be left at liberty to make
his own election of the paths of life.

Long after that date, I saw Vivian's letter to my
father; and even his conversation had scarcely pre-
pared me for the pathos of that confession of a mind
remarkable alike for its strength and its weakness. If
borne in the age, or submitted to the influences, of reli-
gious enthusiasm, here was a mature that, awaking from
sin, could not have been contented with the sober duties
of mediocre goodness; that would have plunged into
the fiery depths of monkish fanaticism, wrestled with
the fiend in the hermitage, or marched barefoot on the
infidel with a sackcloth for armor, the cross for a sword.
Now, the impatient desire for redemption took a more
mundane direction, but with something that seemed
almost spiritual in its fervor. And this enthusiasm
flowed through strata of such profound melancholy !
Deny it a vent, and it might sicken into lethargy, or fret
itself into madness ; give it the vent, and it might vivify
and fertilize as it swept along.

My father's reply to this letter was what might be
expected. It gently reinforced the old lessons in the
distinctions between aspirations towards the perfecting

308 THE OAXTOSS:

ourspivc!!, — fispimtions tbntatG never in vain, — anii ths
morbiit j.mssion. for ajipliiuse from others, which ehifta
oonacicncB from our owii iHKwms to the confuseil Bnbe]
of tho ctowii, and calls it "fame." But my father in
his cmmsela did not Bi'ck to ojipoae a mind so oheti-
uat*ly hent upon a eingle coursp ; he sought rather t«
guide and strcnjj'thcn it in tho way it should gn. The
Beas of human life are wide. Wistloui may suggest
tlia voyagu, hut it must first look to tho condition of
the ship, and the nature of tlie merchandise to ex-
change. Not every vessel that sails fri)ni Tarshish can
bring hack the gold of Ophir ; hut shall it therefore
rot in the harhor 1 No ; give its suils to the wind !

But I had expee-t«tl that Rolund'a letter to his 'son
would have been full of joy and exultation. Joy there
was none in it; yet exultation there might be, though
serious, grave, and subdueil. In the jiroud assent that
tlie (lid soldier cave to his son's wish, in his entire
couiprchi'iisiiiji of
tliriv was V.-I a visil.l,. s.

so akin

t>l his OHl!

I nature,

SI.1TOW ; it

seemed ev

eu as if

■ 11r- assout he gave.

Not till

agniu poul

a I divine

K..land's

At this

dislariw o(

■ time, I

Had Ju- .

srut from

liis side.

I.OV frnsli

In life, mv

rt* to sin.

and sii.nlf
:)i.'n wilh

■-hearU'd ns
all a sold

Ids own
ier's jny

1 tril.ul. t

o tlic hosts

of Eng-

tm..:l, tllo

-ij-h perhap

s dimly.

rvor, but

the stern i

k'sire i.f

lou-ht he i

idiLiitted forelimtings

llCLHise r,

■jerte.! ; so

that, at

it si.emed

not llie fi.

ery war-

rot.', I.ut

ratlier SiHii

e tiiuid.

A FAMILY PICTUKE. 309

anxious mother. Warnings and entreaties and cau-
tions not to be rash, and assurances that the best sol-
diers were ever the most prudent, — were these the
counsels of the fierce veteran who at the head of the

forlorn hope had mounted the wall at , his sword

between his teeth ?

But whatever his presentiments, Roland had yielded
at once to his son's prayer ; hastened to London at
the receipt of his letter; obtained a commission in a
regiment now in active service in India, and that
commission was made out in his son's name. The
commission, with an order to join the regiment as soon as
possible, accompanied the letter. And Vivian, pointing
to the name addressed to him, said, —

"Now, indeed, I may resume this name, and, next
to Heaven, will I hold it sacred ! It shall guide me to
glory in life, or my father shall read it, without shame,
on my tomb ! "

I see him before me, as he stood then, — his form
erect, his dark eyes solemn in their light ; a serenity in
his smile, a grandeur on his brow, that I had never
marked till then ! Was that the same man I had
recoiled from as the sneering cynic, shuddered at as the
audacious traitor, or wept over as the cowering outcast 1
How little the nobleness of aspect depends on symmetry
of feature, or the mere proportions of form. What
dignity robes the man who is filled with » lofty
thought !

THE CkXTOSS:

CHAPTF-R TV.

Hb ia gone I Ho has left a Toid in iiiy existence. 1

had grown to love him so well ; I hail Leen bo proud
when men [iraised him I My love vraa a sort of self-
love ; I had looked upou him ia part as the work of
my own hands. I nm a long time ere I can settle back
witli good heart to my jwiatorftl life.

Before my cousin went, we cast up our gains and
settled our shares. Wheu be resigned the allowtince
which Roland had made hira, liis father secretly gave to
me, for his use, a sum ei|ual to tliat which I and Guy
Bolding brought into the common stock. Roland had
raised the sum u|Kin im irti^-^igi' ; and wliile the int«est was
a trivial deduelimi fmm his imome compared to the
foniiiT alJ'UvnnLf, the i-!i]>it;d was mtii-h more useful to
liis «>u tliiiu a mure jrjirly p:iynient could have been.
Tluis, between us, we had a cwisidi'rablo sum for Aus-
liali;.ii scltb-rs, — £4500. F..r the first two years we
luaiie unlliiug: iiiJecd, ),'i>'iit part of tlie first year was
siicnt iu leiiriiing our art at tlii' sl.ilion of nu old selller.

lint at the end of tlie thii.l y.'i

ir, our (loeks having then

become very consiileivilili^, we el

eared n return beyond my

most s:uiguino cxpretatioiL.i ; a

nd when my couMii hft,

just in the sixth yi-iir of exili

■, oiii' share,-^ amounted to

JIOOO ench, exehisive of the v;

due of llie two stations.

My I'oiLsin Jiad at lir-t wisli

,e,i that I should fonvani

his sl,;ire (0 his fallier. but I

,e soon saw thnt Roland

would never take it; and it

was thially agreed that it

A FAMILY PICTURE. 311

should rest in my hands, for me to manage for him, send
him out an interest at five per cent, and devote the sur-
plus profits to the increase of his capital. I had now,
therefore, the control of ,£12,000, and we might consider
ourselves very respectable capitalists. I kept on the
cattle station, by the aid of the Will-o*-the-Wisp, for
about two years after Vivian's departure (we had then
liad it altogether for five). At the end of that time, I
sold it and the stock to great advantage. And the sheep

— for the "brand" of which I had a high reputation

— having wonderfully prospered in the mean while, I
thought we might safely extend our speculations into
new ventures.

Glad too of a change of scene, I left Bolding in
charge of the flocks, and bent my course to Adelaide;
for the fame of that new settlement had already dis-
turbed the peace of the Bush. I found Uncle Jack
residing near Adelaide, in a very handsome villa, with
all the signs and appurtenances of colonial opidence;
and report, perhaps, did not exaggerate the gains he had
made, — so many strings to his bow, and each arrow this
time seemed to have gone straight to the white of the
butts. I now thought I had acquired knowledge and
caution sufficient to avail myself of Uncle Jack's ideas,
without ruining myself by following them out in his
company; and I saw a kind of retributive justice in
making his ^)rain minister to the fortunes which his
ideality and constructiveness, according to Squills, had
served so notably to impoverish.

I must here gratefully acknowledge that I owed much
to this irregular genius. The investigation of the sup-
posed mines had proved unsatisfactory to Mr. Bullion,
and they were not fairly discovered till a few years after.
But Jack had convinced himself of their existence, and

THE CAXTONS:

1 on his owu account, " for au old aong," some
n uail, whiclt be wmh jMrrsuaded woulil prove to him
ia one day or other, under the eu]ihoniouB title
udeed, it ultimately established) of the " Tibhets*
The auspeusiuu of the minee, however, for-
BUBp>;niIed the existence of the grog aud store
uud Uncle Jack wa^ now assisting in Uie fotmda-
[ Port Philip. I'rufiting bv liia advice, I adven-
: in that new settlement some timid and wary
laso^ which I resold to eonsidcratle advantage.
iUeanwhile, I must not omit to 3tat« briefly what, since
my departure from England, had Iwen the ministerial
career of Trevanion. That refiuing fastidiDUsnees, that
acnipulostty of political conscience, which had charac-
terized him BB nil imlependent member, and often served,
in the opinion both of friend and of fne, to give the at-
tribute of general impmi'ticability to a mind that in all

detaUt ivas i

30 essen

tiidiv and

blwriously pracl

ical, might

Iierh;i[is \\[i\

-e fo,in,

h.i Tn.va

tiioii'^ reputation

as a min-

i^li'v if ho n
if, stai„lir,c

.Ul.l ha-
: iilon.-.

,r iKTIia 1
;liul floll

niiii^ter Hithont
, tl„. n..,v=.^.vy

ei>llcagiies ;
height, he

couM Imvc

l.jiicol.

rlvar ;uhl

siuLjIe, L.^forc the world his

cMiiiisitc h.
ISut Trcv:,,!

irv.'ll..ii.

.f puipos..
11 ii-t -.m

, iina the wi.ltli
pli.hr,] and con.
i:ilg;iiii;ito with 1

of a states-
i-rehendve.
others, nor

Mll-s,Tib0 to

the .li.

-,i|.lin,. of

a cabinet in wh

icli lie was

not tlic iliii'

f. ,..,...

i.,Ilv in ;, ,

loliiv H-liicli must hiivc Ijecn

thorouyhlv

ahliorrc.

lit to Slh'l

1 a nature, — a

policy that

of late vwiri

i hilS ,li:

^lillllUishlH

1 not one faction alone, but

has socmed

so for.

:cd upon

the more eminent jxilitical

le:i,lc« on

either

siile, that

lliey who take

the more

eh^ritalile i

,-iew of

things III

.tv perJi-ips hold

it to arise

from tln> lie

cessity •

3f the .^e,

, fofltm-.l by the

tcnijier of

the i)ublic.

I mcui

1 llie polie

y of Kxpedkiicy.

Certainly

A FAMILY PICTURE. 313

not in this book will I introduce the angry elements of
party politics; and how should I know much about
them ? All that I have to say is, that, right or wrong,
such a policy must have been at war every moment with
each principle of Trevanion's statesmanship, and fretted
each fibre of his moral constitution. The aristocratic
combinations which his alliance with the Castleton inter-
est had brought to his aid served perhaps to fortify his
position in the cabinet; yet aristocratic combinations
were of small avail against what seemed the atmospher-
ical epidemic of the age. I could see how his situation
had preyed on his mind when I read a paragraph in the
newspapers, " that it was reported, on good authority,
that Mr. Trevanion had tendered his resignation, but had
been prevailed upon to withdraw it, as his retirement at
that moment would break up the government." Some
months afterwards came another paragraph, to the effect
" that Mr. Treyanion was taken suddenly ill, and that it
was feared his illness was of a nature to preclude his
resuming his official labors." Then parliament broke up.
Before it met again, Mr. Trevanion was gazetted as Earl
of Ulverstone (a title that had been once in his family),
and had left the administration, unable to encounter the
fatigues of office. To an ordinary man, the elevation to
an earldom, passing over the lesser honors in the peerage,
would have seemed no mean close to a political career ;
but I felt what profound despair of striving against cir-
cumstances for utility, what entanglements with his
colleagues, whom he could neither conscientiously sup-
port, nor according to his high old-fashioned notions of
party honor and etiquette energetically oppose, had
driven him to abandon that stormy scene in which his
existence had been passed. The House of Lords to that
active intellect was as the retirement of some warrior of

314

THE CAJCTONS:

ol<l into the aloistets of « couveut. The giuett« that
chronieleil tlie earltlom of Ulverstone was th« proclama-
tion that Albert Trevunion lived no more for the world
of public men. And, iadeGd, from that date Uk careec
vaiiiahed out of sight. Trvvauion dieil ; tho Earl of
Ulverstone niiiile do sign.

I bail liilherto written but twice to Lndy Ellinor duriiig
my esile, — once upon the iiinrriiigB of Fanny with Ixtrd
Cafltletou, which took jilaL-e about six mcmths alter I
sailed from Kngland ; aiid again, when thanking bar
husbiUiil for eome rare animals, equine, pastoral, and
bovine, which he had rent as presents to fiolding and
myself. I wrote a}pin after Tievanion's elevation to the
peerage, and received in due time a reply, confininng all
my impreasiona ; for it was full of bitt«rnesa and gall,
accusations of the world, fears for the country. Riche-
lieu himsolf could not have taken ii gloomier view of
things when bis levees were ile,=er(eil, and his power
seemml nnnihil:ited ln'forr the " lJ;iy of Dupes." Only
one gle;iiii of comfort iippeared to \W\t Lidy Ulversloiie's
breast, iind llience I.) settle jirospeclively ovi-r the future
iif 111.; Hv.rlii, — a second «>n had been born to Lord
Oisi.leton ; to tli:it son would descend tlie estates of VI-
V''i>ito;ii>, and llie re|ireseiitation of that line distiuguislioil
by TrevaiiioL, and euriebed by T re van ion's wife, \ever
Uiis Ib.Te aebild of su.li ].ronii,<e! Not Virgil himself,
when he called on tlie Sicilian Muses to celebrate the
adveut of a son to Tollio, cvir sounded a loflier .'-train
Here was one now ijcrcliaiicu engaged on words of tiio
syllables, called —

'' IJv laboring ii.itnri'
The uiKl.lidij'rraiiie ol lieavei, :
&-.■ lo their bw.irM..r.-.i,earlI
-An.lj^.vfiilu-csl-i-oiii b.]ii(i.l ii

niliii;.; fiiiiks -ipppar 1 "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 315

Happy dream which Heaven sends to grandparents !
re-baptism of Hope in the font whose drops sprinkle the
grandchild !

Time flies on ; affairs continue to prosper. I am just
leaving the bank at Adelaide with a satisfied air, when I
am stopped in the street by bowing acquaintances, who
never shook me by the hand before. They shake me by
the hand now, and cry, —

** I wisli you joy, sir. That brave fellow, your name-
sake, is of course your near relation.'*

** What do you mean 1 "

" Have not you seen the papers ? Here they are."

"Gallant conduct of Ensign de Caxton — promoted to a
lieutenancy on the field "

I wipe my eyes, and cry, ** Thank Heaven ! it is my
cousin ! " Then new hand-shakings, new groups gather
round. I feel taller by the head than I was before !
We, grumbling English, always quarrelling with each
other, the world not wide enough to hold us ; and yet,
when in the far land some bold deed is done by a coun-
tryman, how we feel that we are brothers ! how our hearts
warm to each other ! What a letter I wrote home ! and
how joyously I went back to the Bush ! The Will-o*-the-
Wisp has attained to a cattle-station of his own. I go
fifty miles out of my way to tell him the news and give
him the newspaper ; for he knows now that his old mas-
ter, Vivian, is a Cumberland man, — a Caxton. Poor
Will-o'-the-Wisp ! The tea that night tasted uncom-
monly like whiskey-punch ! Father Mathew forgive us !
but if you had been a Cumberland man, and heard the
Will-o*-the-Wisp roaring out, " Bhie Bonnets over the
Borders," I think your tea, too, would not have come out
of the caddy !

318 tHE CAXTOSS:

CHAPTER T.

A OBZAT change has occonoi in our luH»«hold. Gnj's
father is dead, — hb Utter years cheered hy the accoiuits
of his soo's eteadioNs and jiKiieperitT, and bj- the touch-
ing piviofs thereof irhich Guy has exhibited. For he in-
aisteit on repaying to liis father the old college debts and
the advance of the £1500, be^ng that the monej might
go towards his siater's portioa Now, after the old gentle-
man's death, the sinter res(4Ted to come out and live with
her dear brother Guy. Another wing is built to the hut.
Ambitiooa plans for a new stone house, to be commenced
the following year, are entertained ; and Guy has brought
back from v\de!flide not only n sister, but, to my utter Ba-
ton i si imeiit, a wife, it) the shape of a fair friend by whnm
thn Kister is nccomp;itii(Hl.

Tlie yount; lady did quite ri^ht to conie to Australia
if shu wanteil to be mnrried. She was very pretty, anti
all the beaux in Adelaide u-pre round her in a moment.
(liiy was in love th<- fir.-t iliy, in a rap- willi thirty rivals
till' ufxt, iii ili'sjiairtlic third, ]iiit tlio (|iieslion tlie foiirtli,
anil l"'f..iv llii' Hftienth wa.i a marrie.! man, ha.iteiiirif;
bark wilh a Iri^asnrP <..f wliirh he faUL-ied all the worH
ivas c'nii-i[iiriii^' I" r'lli iiim His siAcr ivas ijuite as ]>rettv
iH li.T fii.'n.I, and .siip ton li^id .iffiT< et.oitj;li tlie moment
!.lir landvd ; only f^lie wa-; romantic and fa.'^lidiotis, and I
fanry C.iiy t-.l.l licr that '■ I wa.'^just maile for her."

ll'.iHrv'.T, .■liariiiing thoii-h slie !.e, with pretty
Mill' lyi'H and ber brothers frank .-.niilo, I am not eu-
rlianti'il 1 fancy slic lost nil clian«; <.f my heart bv

A FAMILY PICTURE. 317

stepping across the yard in a pair of silk shoes. If I
were to live in the Bush, give me a wife as a companion
who can ride well, leap over a ditch, walk beside me
when I go forth gun in hand for a shot at the kanga-
roos. But I dare not go on with the list of a Bush hus-
band's requisites.

This change, however, serves for various reasons to
quicken my desire of return. Ten years have now
elapsed, and I have already obtained a much larger
fortune than I had calculated to make. Sorely to Guy's
honest grief, I therefore wound up our affairs, and dis-
solved partnership ; for he had decided to pass his life in
the colony, — and with his pretty wife, who has grown
very fond of him, I don't wonder at it. Guy takes my
share of the station and stock off my hands ; and all ac-
coimts square between us, I bid farewell to the Bush.

Despite all the motives that drew my heart homeward,
it was not without participation in the sorrow of my old
companions that I took leave of those I might never see
again on this side the grave. The meanest man in my
employ had grown a friend ; and when those hard hands
grasped mine, and from many a breast that once had
waged fierce war with the world came the soft blessing
to the Homeward-bound, with a tender thought for the
Old England that had been but a harsh stepmother to
them, I felt a choking sensation, which I suspect is lit-
tle known to the friendships of May-fair and St. James's.
I was forced to get off with a few broken words when I
had meant to part with a long speech : perhaps the broken
words pleased the audience better. Spurring away, I
gained a little eminence and looked back. There were
the poor faithful fellows gathered in a ring watching me,
their hats off, their hands shading their eyes from the
sun. And Guy had thrown himself on the ground, and

318

THE CAXTONS:

I heard his loud sobs distinctly. His wife was leaning
over his shoulder, trying to soothe. Forgive him, fair
helpmate, you will be all in the world to him to-morrow !
And the blue-eyed sister, where was shel Had she no
tears for the rough friend who laughed at the silk shoes,
and taught her how to hold the reins, and never fear that
the old pony would run away with her 1 Wliat matter 1
If the tears were shed, they were hidden tears. No
shame in them, fair Ellen; since then thou hast wept
happy tears over thy first-bom. Those tears have long
ago washed away all bitterness in the innocent memories
of a girl's first fancy.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 319

CHAPTER VI.

DATBD FROH ADELAIDB.

Ihaoinb my wonder ! Uncle Jack has just been with me,
and — but hear the dialogue : —

Uncle Jack. — "So you are positively going back to
that smoky, fusty Old England, just when you are on
your high-road to a plum ! A plum, sir, at least I They
all say there is not a more rising young man in the colony.
I think Bullion would take you into partnership. What
are you in such a hurry for 1 "

PisiSTRATUS. — "To see my father and mother, and
Uncle Roland, and — " (was about to name some one
else, but stops). " You see, my dear uncle, I came out
solely with the idea of repairing my father's losses in that
unfortunate 8j>eculation of * The Capitalist.' "

Uncle Jack (coughs and ejaculates). — " That villain
Peck ! "

PisiSTRATUS. — "And to have a few thousands to in-
vest in poor Roland's acres. The object is achieved : why
should I stay 1 "

Unci^ Jack. — "A few paltry thousands, when in
twenty years more, at the farthest, you would wallow
in gold ! "

PisiSTRATUS. — "A man learns in the Bush how happy
life can be with plenty of employment and very little
money. I shall practise that lesson in England."

Uncle Jack. — " Your mind 's made up ? "

PisiSTRATUS. — " And my place in the ship taken."

320 THE CAXTOKS :

Unci.k Jack. — "Then there's no mow to Ijt said"
(Hums, howa, and examines Lis naUe, — tiUtert nails, not
a speck on them. Then suddenly, and jerking u]> his
head) — " That ' Capitalist ! ' it has been on my con
science, nephew, ever since ; and Bomeliow or otlier,
Hince I have abandoned f-5:" "-'ac of my felluw-creatures^
I think I have cared mc ly relations."

PisiSTRATua (smiling, ub ] remem'jcrs his father's
shrewd predictions thereon). — "Natumlly, my dear
uncle; any child who has thrown a stone into & pond
knows that a circle dinappedrs as it widens."

Uncle Jack. — "Very true; I shall make a note of
that, applicable to my next speech in defence of what
they call the ' land monopoly.' Thank you ; stone,
circle!" (Jots down notes in hia pocketlxiok.) "But
to return to the point r I am well off now ; J have neither
wife nor child ; and I feet tliat I ought to liear mj' share
in your father's loss, it was our joint speculation. And
jour f;tther- — good, deiit Austin! — paid my debts into
the bari,'aiii. And how cheering the punch was that
iiiRht, whfn your mother wanteil to scold poor .Tack !
And tlie £300 Austin h-nt me wlien I left !iini, ~
ni'plii'w, that was the ro-mnking of mc ; tlie acora of
thf oak 1 have planted! Mo here they an-, " — addM
I'nrl.: .fn'-k, witli a hen.ifal etfort ; and lie extracted
from tlie pi.Hiet-lK..ik bills for a sum between three and
four thousand pounds. "There, it is done ; and I shall
slfoj. better fnr it ! " (IVith that Uncle Jack got up, and
bolted out of the room.)

Ouglit I to t,ike lh(? money? 'Why, I think yes ; it is
hut fair. Jaek must be really rich, and can well s]Mire
the iiLOUi'v ; besides, if he wants it aRain, T know my
f.lher will |.-t him have if. .\,u[. indeed, Ja.-k cau.ied
the !o^s of the whoh; sum ]u^t on -Tlie Capitalist," etc. ;

A FAMILY PICTURE. 321

aud this is not quite the half of what my fatlior paid
away. But is it not fine in Uncle Jack ! Wrll, my
father was quite right in his milder CHtiiiiute of Jack'N
scalene conformation, and it is liard to judge of a man
when he is needy and down in the world. When ono
grafts one's ideas on one's neighlior's money, they aro
certainly not so grand as when they spring from one'M
own.

UxcLB Jack (popping his head int^) the room). —
"And, you see, you can double tliat money if you will
just leave it in my hands for a r'ouple of yttarn ; you liiive
no notion what I shall make of the TibU^to' Wheal I IM
I tell you I — the German was quite right ; I liave Uum
offered already seven times the sum which 1 gave fm the
land. But I am now looking out for a c/fmimny ; Jet ma
put you down for shares to tlie am^/unt at I«ia»t '/f iltffm
trumpery bills. Cent per c^nt; I jgii2LTSinU*jt 'MUi \mf
cent!" (And Uncle Jaiik ndtHU^ittn out HifMti iamtMH
sm^xith hands of his, with a tremul/ius m/Aifm '4 i\m
ten eloquent fingers.)

PisuinuTus. — " All, my d«ur an/4e, if y/u r^it^mi — "

Ujsclm Jack. — " Bepent ! wh«i I <^fef y^^x '>«it pw
cent, on my perK^nal guamit/9«r I "

PwwTKATCs (carefully poUing Xh^ bjJls int/> bb }>r«M4
i'jKii jXiC'k'rti. — " Tbeo if jcm *h/sii thi^A, my 'l^^v nw^,^
Mjw mn Uj skaJbe T</a }/r thf: huA, ^lA my Ux;*t I will
tioi *'jAiX0fDX io ksKrii i&T *isgi^^fm usA ^Ismn^ni i*iT t|j^
big^i priiidjle whidbi pr/xspU tlii* r*5^U^^^ ^>7 *^^^

ziA cfjpy^-iLhj^ ; szkd, jgv m^ «u«^ tiik itjjk tt yn^l
Vj my inXij^ I Lrr« 2«r> n^n to iirr^itft it wiu^rjl lik

r*j±. 11. — H

322

THE CAXTONS:

nephew!" (Then, shaking his head, and smiling.) —
"You sly dog! you are qmte right: get the bills
cashed at once. And hark ye, sir, just keep out of
my way, will you; and don't let me coax from you a
farthing 1 "

(Uncle Jack slams the door and rushes out. Fisistra-
tus draws the bills warily from his pocket, half-sus-
pecting they must already have turned into withered
leaves, like fairy money ; slowly convinces himself that
the bills are good bills, and, by lively gestures, testifies
his delight and astonishment.)

Scene changes.

PART EIGHTEENTH.

CHAPTER I.

Adieu, thou beautiful land ! Canaan of the exiles,
and Ararat to many a shattered Ark ! Fair cradle of
a race for whom the unbounded heritage of a future
that no sage can conjecture, no prophet divine, lies
afar in the golden promise-light of Time, — destined,
perchance, from the sins and sorrows of a civilization
struggling with its own elements of decay, to renew
the youth of the world, and transmit the great soul of
England through the cycles of Infinite Change ! All
climates that can best ripen the proilucts of earth, or
form into various character and temper the different
families of man, "rain influences" from the heaven
that smiles so benignly on those who had once shrunk,
ragged, from the wind, or scowled on the thankless
sun. Here the hardy air of the chill Mother Isle,
there the mild warmth of Italian autumns or the
breathless glow of the tropics. And with the beams
of every climate, glides subtle Hope. Of her there, it
may be said, as of Light itself, in those exquisite lines of
a neglected poet, —

" Through the soft ways of heaven and air and sea,
Which open all their pores to thee,
Like a clear river thou dost glide.

824 THE CAXTONS:

All tbe worW'a bravery that delights our eye^

la but thy several lircriea ;

Thou the rich dj-e on tliem bestowest ;

Tbe nimble pencil paiitts the lau'tscApc as thou goest." *

Adieu, my kiiid nurse and sweet foster-mother, a
long anil a last adipu ! Never had I left thee but fur
that louder voice of Nature which calla the child U>
the parent, and woos ua from the labors we love the beat
by the chime in tbe Sahlmtli^bellB of Home.

No one can tell how dear the memory of that wild
Biish-life becomes to him who has tried it with a
fitting spirit. Hon' often it haimta him iu tlie com-
monplace of more civilized scenes, — its daugere, its
risks, its sense of animal health, its bursts of adven-
ture, il« intervals of careless repose, the fierce gallop
through a Tery sea of wide rolling plains, the still
eauuter at night through woods never changing tJieir
leaves, with the ninon, clear as sunshine, stealing slant
through their chistei-s of flmvcrs ! IVitli wlii>t an elibrt we
reconcile ouvsi'lves to the trite cares and vexed plea.^iires,
"tJie 4Uotidirtii ague of frigid impi-rtinenccs," to which
we redivn ! How strong and hjiick st^inds my pencil-
mark in this passage of the poet from whom I have just
(|iii>t('d iK'fore, —

" \v.

^ are here amoi _

1" tbe vr,

ust and noble see

ne^

of Nature;

we ai'e

there amf)ng tbe pitiful

shifts of nob, y.

vr>

; ^^■aIk here

>T, tbe

li^'Iit atitl open

ways of tbe Divine B.>u

nty;

; we grope

tbore ii

n the (lark and

confiiseil labyiiiith of Lui

nan

njalice." '

But T weary yoii,

reader.

Tlic \ew ^V.

I vanishes.

— nov

1- a line, now

a speck ;

; let us turn ai

ray

, with the

face U

. the Old.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 325

Amongst my fellow-passengers how many there are
returning home disgusted, disappointed, impoverished,
ruined, throwing themselves again on those unsuspect-
ing poor friends who thought they had done with the
luckless good-for-naughts forever ! For don't let me
deceive thee, reader, into supposing that every adven-
turer to Australia has the luck of Pisistratus. Indeed,
though the poor laborer, and especially the poor
operative from London and the great trading-towns
(who has generally more of the quick knack of learn-
ing, the adaptable faculty, required in a new colony than
the simple agricultural laborer), are pretty sure to
succeed, the class to which I belong is one in which
failures are numerous, and success the exception, — I
mean young men with scholastic education and the
habits of gentlemen, with small capital and sanguine
hopes. But this, in ninety-nine times out of a hun-
dred, is not the fault of the colony, but of the emi-
grants. It requires not so much intellect as a peculiar
turn of intellect, and a fortunate combination of physi-
cal qualities, easy temper, and quick mother-wit, to
make a small capitalist a prosperous Bushman.^ And

1 How true are the foUowinjf remarks : —

Action is the first great requisite of a colonist (that is, a pas-
toral or agricultural settler). With a young man, the tone of his
mind is more important than his previous pursuits. I have known
men of an active, energetic, contented disposition, with a good
flow of animal spirits, who had heen bred in luxury and refine-
ment, succeed better than men bred as farmers, who were always
hankering after bread and beer, and market ordinaries of Old Eng-
land. . . To be dreaming when you should be looking after
your cattle is a terrible drawback. . . . There are certain per-
sons who, too lazy and too extravagant to succeed in Europe, sail
for Australia under the idea that fortunes are to be made there by
a sort of legerdemain, spend or lose their capital in a very short
space of time, and return to England to abuse the place, the

326

THE CAXTONS:

if you roiild sec thp sharks that swim roiinil a man
juat dropped at Adalaiiie or Sydney, with ony or two
thousand pounda in hia {mcket. Hurry mit of the
towns as fast as yuu cnn, my young ciuigrnnl ; turn a
(luaf ear, for the present at least, Ui itll jobbers and
Hpeculatora; make friends with some practised old
Burihnian ; spend several months at his station before
ynu ha»krd your capital ; take with you a temper to
bejir everytliing and sigh for nothing ; put your whole
heart in what you are about ; never call upon Hercules
when your cart sticks in the rut, — and whether you
feed sheep or breed cattle, your success is but a ques-
tion of time.

But whatever I owed to nature, I owed also some-
tliing to fortune. I Iwught niy sheep at litUe more than
seven shillings each. Wlien I left, none were worth less
than fifteen shillings and the tat sliei-]> were worth £1.^

people, and everything comiected with eulunization — Sidneg't
Australian Baadbnok (admirable {or its wiadum anil compaetaeB*).

' Lest this seem an exaggeratinu, I venture to auuex an extract
from a manawript letter to the authuc from Mr. Ueorge Blnkestoa
Wilkinwn, author of " South AoBtralia " —

■■ I will instaiife tha rano ot one penion, who had hpen a farmer
io England, and emigrated with aliout £2000 abuut acicn years
lincB. Ua hia arrival, lie found that the price of sheep had fallen
from alaint thirty aliillingH to five ehilllnga or six shiliiogs per head.
aeil he bought soma well-bred flocks at these prices. He was
f'irtnnate in ohtaininga good and extensive run, and he devoted the
whole oE his time to improving his flocks, and encoaraged bia
shepherds by rewanlsjsu that, in aliont fonr years, hisorigiual
iiDmber of sheep had increased from tweuty-flve hundred (whieh
coat him £700) to seven thousand ; and the breed and wool were
also BO mneh improved, that he could obtain £% per head fur two
thousand fat sheep, and fiEteen shillings per head for the other
five thousand, and this at a ttnie when the general jirice of iilieep
was from ten shillings tosixteeu shillings Tliiaoloue iiiL-reaseit liia
original capital, invested in sheep. fn<m £1W to £5700. The

A FAMILY PICTURE. 327

I had an excellent shepherd, and my wliolo care, night
and day, was the improvement of tlie flock. I was for-
tunate, too, in entering Australia, before the system mis-
called " The Wakefield " * had diminislied the supply of
labor and raised the price of land. When the change
came (like most of those with large allotments and
surplus capital), it greatly increased the value of my
own property, though at the cost of a terrible blow on the
general interests of the colony. I was lucky, too, in the
additional venture of a cattle-station, and in the breed of
horses and herds, which in the five years devoted to that
branch establishment trebled the sum invested therein,
exclusive of the advantageous sale of the station.* I was
lucky, also, as I have stated, in the purchase and resale
of lands, at Uncle Jack's recommendation. And, lastly,
I left in time, and escaped a very disastrous crisis in

profits from the wool paid the whole of his expenses and wages
for his men."

1 I felt sure from the first that the system called " The Wake-
field " could never fairly represent the ideas of Mr. Wakefield him-
self, whose singular breadth of understanding and various knowledge
of mankind belied the notion that fathered on him the clumsy
execution of a theory wholly inapplicable to a social state like
Australia. I am glad to see that he has vindicated himself from
the discreditable paternity. But I grieve to find that he still clings
to one cardinal error of the system, in the discouragement of
small holdings; and that he evades, more ingonionsly than in-
genuously, the important question, " What should l)e the mini-
mum price of land? "

3 The profits of cattle-farming are smaller than those of the
sheep-owner (if the latter hare good luck, for much depends upon
th.it) ; but cattle-farming is much more safe as a speculation, and
less care, knowledge, and management are required. X2000, laid
oat on seven hundred head of cattle, if good runs he procured,
might increase the capitil in five years from £2000 to £6000,
besides enabling the owner to maintain himself, pay wages, etc. —
Maniucripl letter from G. B. WiUcinton.

328

THE CAXTONS:

colonifid affairs, wliich I take the li1>erty of attributing
entirely to the mischievous crotchets of theorists at
home, who want to set all clocks by Greenwich time,
forgetting that it is morning in one part of the
world at the time they are tolling the curfew iu the
other.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 329

CHAPTER 11.

London once more ! How strange, lone, and savage I
feel in the streets ! I am ashamed to have so much
health and strength when I look at those slim forms,
stooping backs, and pale faces. I pick my way through
the crowd with the merciful timidity of a good-natured
giant. I am afraid of jostling against a man, for fear
the collision should kill him. I get out of the way of
a thread-paper clerk, and 'tis a wonder I am not run
over by the omnibuses. I feel as if I could run over
them ! I perceive, too, that there is something outland-
ish, peregrinate, and lawless about me. Beau Brummell
would certainly have denied me all pretensions to the
simple air of a gentleman, for every third passenger turns
back to look at me. I retreat to my hotel, send for boot-
maker, hatter, tailor, and hair-cutter. I humanize my-
self from head to foot. Even Ulysses is obliged to have
recourse to the arts of Minerva, and, to speak unmeta-
phorically, "smarten himself up," before the faithful
Penelope condescends to acknowledge him.

The artificers promise all despatch. Meanwhile, I
hasten to remake acquaintance with my mother coun-
try over files of the " Times," " Post," " Chronicle," and
" Herald." Nothing comes amiss to me, but articles on
Australia ; from those I turn aside with the true pshaw-
supercilious of your practical man.

No more are leaders filled with praise and blame of
Trevanion. "Percy's spur is cold." Lord Ulverstone
figures only in the Court Circular, or "Fashionable

THE CAXTONS :

snents." Lord Ulverstone entertains a royal duke

Buer or dines in turn with a royal duke, or

to town or gone out of it. At most (faint PI*-

leminiscencv of the former life), T^ord Ulverslone i

is the House of Lords a few words on eome a

not a party one; ami on which (though aSectiof;

1- I the iiileresis of some few thousands or minions,

u tHe case may he) men speak without "bears." and

«e inaudible in the gallery ; or Lord Ulveratone takes

the chair at an agrieulluml meeting, or returns tbiutks

when his health is drunk at n dinner al Giiililhall. But

the daughter rises as the father sets, though over a verr

different kind of worid.

" First ball of the season at Castleton House ! " Long
description of the rooms and tlia company ; above all,
the hostess. Lines on the Jrarcluoness of Castleton's
picture in the "Book of Beauty," by the Hon. Fitzroy
Fiddlcdum, 1ieginiiiiif{ with "Art Ibcn an aiigcl from,"
etc.-.n iwiji>:r;L|ili tliiit i-l.-ased me more, on "1.^1,11-
Castk'tou's liif.uit 8(1l<....1 at E.il.y Tark ; " then again
"Lilly Castli't>.ii, the n.Mv jKitmiiess at Almack's ; " a
critirisiii tmuv i-.iptiin.ius than ever gladdened living
poet, on I,;i.ly < 'a^lli'lou's supi'ib diamond stomacher,
just ro.-'.'l In- .Siiirr n}v\ Mfiliiiier; Westmacott's bu.=t
..f Lilly Castl.'lon : Lamlsrcr's pitUire of Lady Castle-
ton and her cliiMrcu, iti the (■■•sLume of Uin oMen time.
Not 11 mniiLh in timl long fde of tin' "Morning Post"
Imt wli.ii Lady Ctstlolon >hc\w fi.rlli from tho rest of
woniankin.l— ■

■•IVhlt ilLlL-rigTl^*

The l.Io,.,! mnnnled to my ,-Ii.ol;, \Vik it to this
splrnilid ronstdliilion in th'' patHi.ian ln-avcn that m\

A FAMILY PICTURE.

331

obscure, portionless youth had dared to lift its presump-
tuous eyes? But what is this? "Indian Intelligence.
Skilful retreat of the Sepoys under Captain de Caxton I "
A captain already ! What is the date of the newspaper ?
— three months ago. The leading article quotes the
name with high praise. Is there no leaven of envy
amidst the joy at my heart? How obscure has been
my career ! how laurelless my poor battle with adverse
fortune ! Fie, Pisistratus ! I am ashamed of thee.
Has this accursed Old World, with its feverish rival-
ries, diseased thee already? Get thee home, quick, to
the arms of thy mother, the embrace of thy father ; hear
Roland's low blessing, that thou hast helped to min-
ister to the very fame of that son. If thou wilt have
ambition, take it, not soiled and foul with the mire of
London. Let it spring fresh and hardy in the calm air
of wisdom, and fed as with dews by the loving charities
of Home.

332 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER III.

It was at sunset that I stole tlirough the ruined court-
yard, having left my chaise at the foot of the hill below.
Though they whom I came to seek knew that I had
arrived in England, they did not, from my letter, expect
me till the next day. I had stolen a march upon them ;
and now, in spite of all the impatience which had urged
me thither, I was afraid to enter, — afraid to see the
change more than ten years had made in those forms
for which in my memory Time had stood ^till. And
Rolaml had o.xon when we parted grown old before his
time ; then my father was in the meridian of life, now he
had approacliod to the decline. And my mother, whom
I remembered so fair, as if the fresliness of her own heart
had preserved tlie soft bloom to tlie cheek, — I could not
bear to think tliat vshe was no longer young.

Blanche, too, wliom I had left a child, — Blanche, my
constant correspondent during those long years of exile,
in letters crossed and recrossed, with all the small de-
tails that make the eloquence of letter-writing; so that
in those epistles I had seen Ikt mind gi*adually grow up
in harmony with the very characters, — at first vague
and infantine, then somewhat stifT with the first graces
of running hand, then dashing olf free and facile, and
for the last year before I left so formed yet so airy, so
regidar yet so unconscious of effort ; though, in truth, as
the calligraphy had become thus matured, I had been
half vexed and half pleased to perceive a certain reserve
creeping over the style, — wishes for my return less ex-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 333

pressed from herself than as messages from others ; words
of the old child-like familiarity repressed, and " Dearest
Sisty " abandoned for the cold form of " Dear Cousin."
Those letters, coming to me in a spot where maiden and
love had been as mytlis of the bygone, phantasms and
eidola only vouchsafed to the visions of fancy, had by
little and little crept into secret corners of my heart;
and out of the wrecks of a former romance, solitude and
reverie had gone far to build up the fairy domes of a
romance yet to come. My mother's letters had never
omitted to make mention of Blanche, of her forethought
and tender activity, of her warm heart and sw^et temper,
and in many a little home picture presented her image
where I ^YnuId fain have ])laced it, — not " crystal see-
ing," but joining my motlier in charitable visits to the
village, instructing the young and tending on the old,
or teacliing herself to illuminate from an old missal in
my father's collection that she might surprise my uncle
with a new genealogical table, with all shields and quar-
terings, blazoned o?* sable and argent ; or flitting round my
father where he sat, and watching when he looked round
for some book he was too lazy to rise for. Blanche had
made a new catalogue, and got it by heart, and knew at
once from what corner of tho Heraclea to summon the
ghost.

On all these little traits had my mother been eulogisti-
cally minute ; but somehow or other she had never said,
at least for the last two years, whether Blanche was
pretty or plain. That was a sad omission. I had longed
just to ask that simple question, or to imply it delicately
and diplomatically ; but I know not why, I never dared,
for Blanche would have been sure to have read the letter,
and what business was it of mine ? And if she vhis ugly,
what question more awkward both to put and to answer ?

334

TBE CAXT0N3 :

Now, in childhood Blanche had just one of tbo^ faces thit
might heeome very lovely in youth, and would yet <jmU
justify the suspicion that it might hocome gryphon««que,
witcb-like, and grim. Yes, Blauclie, it is perfeclly true !
If those large, Btrious bkck eyes took a (teire ligLl in-
stead of a tender ; if that nose, which seemed then un-
decided whether to be strjight or to Ije nquiline, arehed
off ill the liitlor direction, and assumed the martial Re-
man, aiid imiwrativc character of Hokud's mnnlv probos-
cis ; if thai face, ill childhood too thin, left the blushes
of ymith to lake refuge on two salient peaks by the tem-
ples (Cuiiilierland air, too, is famous for the growth of
the cheek-bone !), — if all that should liajipen, and it
very well inipht, then, 0 Blanche, I Mish thou hadst
never written ine those letters ; and I might have done
wiaer things than steel my heart so obdurately to pretty
Ellen Bolding's blue eyes and silk shoes.

Now, combiuiii;; tjiRetliet all these doubts and ppjtre-
hMiMOns, wonder nut, O rcinlcr, why I stole so uteallliilv
thiuugh tli.> ruined cnrtynrd. -Tei.t roim.l to the other
sill,' of till- t^wer. giizcd wistfully en the sun-setting slant,
on 111,' hiyli t^Lsemfiits of lliv lial! (loo higli, alas .' to look
yet to enter, — doing battle, as it

witliin) mul
were, with

Steis-.
ISiisblnn.l, -

iise of lii-iiring grows so quii-k in the
tli.inyh us liglit as ever bnished the
dew from the liiirebell ! I I'rept under the shadow of
tlie huge buttress mantled with ivy. A form comes from
the little door at iui angle in llie niins, — a woman's form.
Is it my m.ifberT It is too tall, and Ibe ste]) is more
bounding. It winds round the building, it turns to look
liai:k, and a sweet voice, — a voice stranf-e, yet familiar.
calls, — tender but chiding, to a truant that lags behind.
Poor Jubii ! hi' is trailing his long ears on the ground;

A FAMILY PICTURE. 335

he is evidently much disturbed in his mind ; now he
stands still, his nose in the air. Poor Juba ! I left thee
80 slim and so nimble, —

** Thy form that was fashioned as light as a fay's
Has assumed a proportion more round ; "

years have sobered thee strangely, and made thee obese
and Primmins-like. They have taken too good care of
thy creatuer comforts, 0 sensual Mauritanian ! still, in
that mystic intelligence we call instinct, thou art chasing
something that years have not swept from thy memory ;
thou art deaf to thy lady's voice, however tender and
chiding.

That *8 right, come near, nearer, my cousin Blanche ;
let me have a fair look at thee. Plague take the dog !
he flies off from her ; he has found the scent ; he is mak-
ing up to the buttress ! Now — pounce ! he is caught,
whining ungallant discontent. Shall I not yet see the
face 1 It is buried in Juba's black curls. Kisses too !
Wicked Blanche ! to waste on a dumb animal what I
heartily hope many a good Christian would be exceed-
ingly glad of ! Juba struggles in vain, and is borne off !
I don't think that those eyes can have taken the fierce
turn, auil Roland's eagle nose can never go with that
voice, which has the coo of the dove.

I leave my hiding-place, and steal after the voice and
its owner. Where can she be going? Not far. She
springs up the hill whereon the lords of the castle once
administered justice, — that hill which commands the
land far and wide, and from which can be last caught the
glimpse of the westering sun. How gracefully still is
that attitude of wistful repose ! Into what delicate curves
do form and drapery harmoniously flow I How softly dis-
tinct stands the lithe image against the purple hues of the

336 THE CAXTONS:

sky ! Then again comes the sweet voice, gay and carol-
ling as a bird's, — now in snatches of song, now in play-
ful appeals to that dull, four-footed friend. She is telling
him something that must make the black ears stand on
end, for I just catch the words, "He is coming," and
" home."

I cannot see the sun set where I lurk in my ambush,
amidst the brake and the ruins ; but I fed that the orb
has passed from the landscape, in the fresher air of the
twilight, in the deeper silence of eve. Lo ! Hesper comes
forth ; at his signal, star after star, come the hosts, — -

"Ch'eran con hii, quando Tamer divine,
Mosse da prim^ quelle cose belle I "

And the sweet voice is hushed.

Then slowly the watcher descends the hill on the
opposite side, — the form escapes from my view. What
charm has gone from the twilight ? See, again, where
the step steals through the ruins and along the desolate
court. Ah, deep and true heart ! do I divine the remem-
brance that leads thee ? I pass through the wicket, down
the dell, skirt the laurels, and behold the face looking up
to the stars, — the face which had nestled to my breast
in the sorrow of parting, years, long years ago. On the
grave where we had sat, — I the boy, thou the infant, —
there, 0 Blanche ! is thy fair face (fairer than the fondest
dream that had gladdened my exile) vouchsafed to my
gaze !

" Blanche, my cousin ! Again, again ! soul with soul,
amidst the dead ! Look up, Blanche ; it is I."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 837

CHAPTER IV.

" Go in first and prepare them, dear Blanche ; I will wait
by the door. Leave it ajar, that I may see them."

Roland is leaning against the wall, (»ld annor suspended
over the gray head of the soldier. It is but a glance that
I give to the dark cheek and high brow : no change there
for the wor^e, no new sign of decay. Rfither, if anything,
Roland seems younger than when I left. Caha is the
brow, — no shame on it now, Roland ; and the lips, once
so compressed, smile with ease, — no struggle now, Ro-
land, "not to complain." A glance shows mo all this.

** Papae ! " says my father, and I hear the fall of a
book, " I can*t read a line. He is coming to-morrow !
to-morrow ! If we lived to the age of Methuselah, Kitty,
we could never reconcile philosophy and man ; that is, if
the poor man's to be plagued with a goo<l, affectionate
son!"

And my father gets up and walks to and fro. One
minute more, father, one minute more, and I am on thy
breast! Time, ton, has dealt gently with thee, as he
doth with those for whom the wild passions and keen
cares of the world never sharj>en his scythe. The broad
front looks more br<.^d, for the lo^.-ks are more ijcanty and
thin ; but still not a furrow. Whence comes tliat short
sigh ?

" What is really the time, Blanche I Did you hxjk at
the turret clock t Well, jost go zwi look again."

" Kitty," quoth my father, " you have not only aske^l
what time it is thrice within the last tea minatesy but

TOt- u. — 22

338

THE CAXTONS:

you have got my watch and Roland's great chronometer
and the Dutch clock out of the kitchen, all before you,
and they all concur in the same tale, — to-day is not
to-morrow."

" They are all wrong, I know," said my mother, with
mild firmness; "and they've never gone right since he
left."

Now comes out a letter (for I hear the rustle), and
then a step glides towards the lamp ; and the dear,
gentle, womanly face, — fair still, fair ever for me, fair
as when it bent over my pillow in childhood's first sick-
ness, or when we threw flowers at each other on the
lawn at sunny noon ! And now Blanche is whispering ;
and now the flutter, the start, the cry !

" It is true ! it is true ! Your arms, mother ! Close,
close round my neck, as in the old time ! Father !
Roland, too ! Oh, joy ! joy ! joy ! home again, — home
till death ! "

A FAMILY PICTURE. 339

CHAPTER V.

From a dream of the Bushland, howling dingoes,* and
the war-hoop of the wild men I wake, and see the sun
shining in through the jasmine that Blanche herself has
had trained round tlie window ; old school-books, neatly
ranged round the wall ; fishing-rods, cricket-bats, foils,
and the old-fashioned gun ; and my mother seated by the
bed-side, and Juba whining and scratching to get up.
Had I taken thy murmured blessing, my mother, for the
whoop of the blacks, and Juba's low whine for the howl
of the dingoes?

Then what days of calm exquisite delight, the inter-
change of heart with heart! what walks with Roland,
and tales of him once our shame, now our pride ! and the
art with which the old man would lead those walks
round by the village, that some favorite gossips might
stop and ask, " What news of his brave young honor ? "

I strive to engage my uncle in my projects for the re-
pair of the ruins, for the culture of those wide bogs and
moorlands. Why is it that he turns away and looks
down embarrassed ? Ah, I guess ! his true heir now is
restored to him. He cannot consent that I should invest
this dross, for which (the Great Book once published) I
have no other use, in the house and the lands that will
pass to his son. Neither would he suffer me so to invest
even his son's fortune, the bulk of which I still hold in
tnist for that son. True, in his career my cousin may

^ Dingoes, — the oame given by Aastralian natives to the wild
dogB.

340 THE CAXTONS :

require to have his money always forth coniing. But /,
who have no career, — pooh ! these scruples will rob me
of half the pleaaiire my years of toil were to purchase. I
must contrive it somehow or other. Wliat if he would
let me house and moorland on a long improving lease 1
Then, for the rest, there is a pretty little property to be
sold close by, on which I can retire when ray cousin, as
heir of the family, comes perhaps ivilh a wife to reside at
the Tower. I must consider of all this, imd talk it over
with Bolt, when njy niind is at leisure from happiness to
turn to such matters ; meanwhile I fall twck on my favor-
ite proverh, — " Where there 's a will there 'b a way."

What smiles and tears, and laughter and careless prat-
tle with my mother, and roundabout questions from her
to know if I had never lost my heart in the Bush, and
evasive answers from me to punish her for not letting
out that Blanche was so uharming. " I fancied Blanche
had grown the image of her father, who has a fine mar-
tial head certainly, but nut seen to advantage in petti-
coat-s ! How could you be so silent with a theme so
attractive 1 "

" Blanche made me promise."

Why, I wonder ? Tiierewitli I fell mueing.

What quiet delicious hours are spent with my father
in his study, or by the pond where he still feeds the
carps that have grown into Cjprinidian leviathans.
The duck, alas! 1ms departed this life, the only victim
that the Grim King has carried off; so I mourn, but
am resigned to that lenient composition of the great
tribute to Nature. I am sorry to say the Great Book
has advanced hut slowly, — by no means yet fit for pub-
lication, for it is resolved that it shall not come out as
first proposed, a part at a time, biit totvs, teres, atque
rotuiidus. The matter has spread beyond its original

A FAMILY PICTURE. 341

compass; no less than five volumes, and those of the
amplest, will contain the History of Human Error.
However, we are far in the fourth, and one must not
hurry Minerva.

My father is enchanted with Uncle Jack's "nohle
conduct," as he culls it; but he scolds me for taking
the money, and doubts as to the propriety of returning
it. In these mattora my father is quite as Quixotical
as Roland. I am forced to call in my mother as um-
pire between us, and she settles the matter at once by
an appeal to feeling. " Ah, Austin ! do you not humble
me, if you are too proud to accept what is due to you
from my brother ! "

" VelUy rvoUt, quod arnica,^* answered my father, taking
off and rubbing his spectacles ; " which means, Kitty,
that when a man 's married he has no will of his own.
To think," added Mr. Caxton, musingly, " that in this
world one cannot be sure of the simplest mathematical
definition ! You see, Pisistratus, that the angles of a
triangle so decidedly scalene as your Uncle Jack's may
be equal to the angles of a right-angled triangle, after
all ! " 1

The long privation of books has quite restored all my
appetite for them. How much I have to pick up ! what
a compendious scheme of reading I and my father chalk
out ! I see enough to fill up all the leisure of life. But,
somehow or other, Greek and Latin stand still ; nothing

1 Not having again to advert to Uncle Jack, I may be pardoned
for informing the reader, by way of annotation, that he continues
to prosper surprisingly in Australia, though the Tibbets' Wheal
stands still for want of workmen. Despite of a few ups and downs,
I have had no fear of his success until this year (1849), when I trem-
ble to think what effect the discovery of the gold mines in Cali-
fornia may have on his lively imagination. If thou escape^t that
snare, Uncle Jack, res age, tutus eris, — thou art safe for life !

342 THE CAXTONS:

charms me like Italian. Blanche and I are reading Me-
tastasio, to the great indignation of my father, who calls
it " rubbish," and wants to substitute Dante. I have no
associations at present with the souls

*' Che son contenti
Nel fuoco ; *'

I am already one of the " beate gente." Yet, in spite of
Metastasio, Blanche and I are not so intimate as cousins
ought to be. If we are by accident alone, I become as
silent as a Turk, as formal as Sir Charles Grandison.
I caught myself calling her Miss Blanche the other
day.

I must not forget thee, honest Squills ! nor thy delight
at my health and success ; nor thy exclamation of pride
(one hand on my pulse and the other griping hard the.
" ball " of my arm) : " It all comes of my citrate of iron ;
nothing like it for children ; it has an effect on the cere-
bral developments of hope and combativeness." Nor can
I wholly omit mention of poor Mrs. Primmins, who still
calls me Master Sisty, and is breaking her heart that I
will not wear the new flannel waistcoats she had such
pleasure in making : " Young gentlemen just growing up
are so apt to go off in a galloping 'sumption ! She knew
just another as Master Sisty, when she lived at Torquay,
who wasted away, and went out like a ««?{/f, all because
he would not wear flannel waistcoats." Therewith my
mother looks grave, and says, " One can't take too much
precautiun."

Suddenly the whole neighborhood is thrown into com-
motion. Trevanion — 1 beg his pardon. Lord Ulver-
stone — is coming to settle for good at Compton. Fifty
hands are employed daily in putting the grounds into
hasty order. Fourgons and wagons and vans have dis-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 343

gorged all the necessaries a great man requires where
he means to eat, drink, and sleep, — books, wines, pic-
tures, furniture. I recognize my old patron still. He
is in earnest, whatever he does. I meet my friend, his
steward, who tells me that Lord Ulverstone finds his
favorite seat, near London, too exposed to interrup-
tion ; and moreover, that, as he has there completed all
improvements that wealth and energy can effect, he has
less occupation for agricultural pursuits, to which he has
grown more and more partial, than on the wide and
princely domain which has hitherto wanted the master's
eye. " He is a bra' farmer, I know," quoth the steward,
" so far as the theory goes ; but I don't think we in the
north want great lords to teach us how to follow the
pleugh." The steward's sense of dignity is hurt ; but
he is an honest fellow, and really glad to see the family
come to settle in the old place.

They have arrived, and with them the Castletons, and
a whole posse comiiatuB of guests. The county paper is
full of fine names

" What on earth did Lord Ulverstone mean by pretend-
ing to get out of the way of troublesome visitors ? "

"My dear Pisistratus," answered my father to that
exclamation, "it is not the visitors who come, but the
visitors who stay away, that most trouble the repose of
a retired minister. In all the procession, he sees but
the images of Brutus and Cassius — that are not there !
And depend on it, also, a retirement so near London
did not make noise enough. You see, a retiring states
man is like that fine carp, — the farther he leaps from
the water, the greater splash he makes in falling into
the weeds ! But," added Mr. Caxton, in a repentant
tone, "this jesting does not become us; and if I in
dulged it, it is only because I am heartily glad that

344 THE CAXTONS:

Trevanion is likely now to find out his true vocation.
And as soon as the fine people he brings with him have
left him alone in his library, I trust he will settle to that
vocation, and be happier than he has been yet"

" And that vocation, sir, is — "

" Metaphysics ! " said my fathen " He will be quite
at home in puzzling over Berkeley, and considering
whether the Speaker's chair and the official red boxes
were really things whose ideas of figure, extension, and
hardness were all in the mind. It will be a great conso-
lation to him to agree with Berkeley, and to find that he
has only been baffled by immaterial phantasma ! "

My father was quite right. The repining, subtle, truth-
weighing Trevanion, plagued by his conscience into see-
ing all sides of a question (for the least question has more
than two sides, and is hexagonal at least), was much more
fitted to discover the origin of ideas than to convince
cabinets and nations that two and two make four, — a
proposition on which he himself would have agi-eed with
Abraham Tucker, whore that most ingenious and sugges-
tive of all English metaphysicians observes: "Well per-
suaded as I am that two and two make four, if I were to
meet with a person of credit, candor, and understanding
who should sincerely call it in question, I would give
him a hearing ; for I am not more certain of that than
of the whole being greater than a part. And yet I could
myself suggest some considerations that might seem to con-
trovert this point.'' ^ I can so well imagine Trevanion
listening to "some person of credit, candor, and under-
standing " in disproof of that vulgar proposition that
twice two make four !

^ " Light of Nature ; " chapter on Judgment. See the very in.
penious illustration of doubt *' whetlier the part is always greater
than the whole," taken from time, or rather eternity.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 345

But the news of this arrival, including that of Lady
Castleton, disturbed me greatly, and I took to long wan-
derings alone. In one of these rambles they all called
at the Tower, — Lord and Lady Ulverstone, the Castle-
tons and their children. I escaped the visit ; and on my
return home there was a certain delicacy respecting old
associations that restrained much talk before me on so
momentous an event. Koland, like me, had kept out of
the way. Blanche, poor child, ignorant of the antece-
dents, was the most communicative; and tlie especial
theme she selected was the grace and beauty of Lady
Castleton !

A pressing invitation to spend some days at the castle
had been cordially given to all. It was accepted only by
myself. I wrote word that I would come.

Yes ; I longed to prove the strength of my own self-
conquest, and accurately test the nature of the feelings
that bud disturbed me. That any sentiment which could
be called love remained for Lady Castleton, the wife of
another, and that other a man with so many claims on
my affection as her lord, I held as a moral impossibility.
But with all those lively impressions of early youth still
engraved on my heart, — impressions of the image of
Fanny Trevanion as the fairest and brightest of human
beings, — could I feel free to love again ? Could I seek
to woo, and rivet to myself forever, the entire and
virgin affections of another while there was a possibility
that I might compare and regret? No! either I must
feel tliat if Fanny were again single, could be mine with-
out obstacle human or divine, she had ceased to be the
one I would single out of the world ; or, though regard-
ing love as the dead, I would be faithful to its memory
and its ashes. My mother sighed and looked fluttered
and uneasy all the morning of the day on which I was

346 THE CAXTONS:

to repair to Compton. She even seemed cross, for about
the third time in her life, and paid no compliment to Mr.
Stultz When my shooting-jacket was exchanged for a black
frock, which that artist had pronounced to be '^ splendid ; "
neither did she honor me with any of those little atten-
tions to the contents of my portmanteau, and the perfect
" getting up '* of piy white waistcoats and cravats, which
made her natural instincts on such memorable occnsiona
There was also a sort of querulous, pitying tenderness in
her tone when she spoke to Blanche, which was quite
pathetic ; though, fortunately, its cause remained dark
and impenetrable to the innocent comprehension of one
who could not see where the past filled the urns of the
future at the fountain of life. ^ly father understood me
better, shook me by the hand as I got into the chaise,
and muttertM], out of Seneca, —

** Non tanquaiu traiisfuga, sed tanquaiu explorator.** *

Quite right.

* " Not to desert, bat examlDe."

A FAMILY PICTURE. 347

CHAPTER VI.

Agreeably to the usual custom in great houses, as soon
as I arrived at Compton I was conducted to my room, to
adjust my toilet or compose my spirits by solitude, — it
wanted an hour to dinner. I l]ad not, however, been
thus left ten minutes, before the door opened, and Tre-
vanion himself (as I would fain still call him) stood be-
fore me. Most cordial were his greeting and welcome ;
and seating himself by my side he continued to converse,
in his peculiar way, — bluntly elofiuent and carelessly
learned, — till the half-hour bell rang. He talked on
Australia, the Wakefield system, cattle, books, his
trouble in arranging his library, his schemes for im-
proving his property and embellishing his grounds, his
delight to find my father look so well, his determination
to see a great deal of him, Whether his old college friend
would or not. He talked, in short, of everything except
politics and his own past career, showing only his sore-
ness in that silence. But (independently of the mere
work of time) he looked yet more worn and jaded in
his leisure than he had done in the full tide of business ;
and his former abrupt quickness of manner now seemed
to partake of feverish excitement. I hoped that my
father would see much of him, for I felt that the weary
mind wanted soothing.

Just as the second bell rang, I entered the drawing-
room. There were at least twenty guests present, —
each guest, no doubt, some planet of fashion or fame,
with satellites of its own. But I saw only two forms

348 THE CAXTONS:

distiiictly, — first, Ix>rd Castleton, conspituouB with star
and garter ; somewhat ampler and portlier in proportions,
and with a fraiik dash of gray in the fiilky waves of his
hair, but still as pre-eminent as ever for that heauty, the
charm of which depends less than any other upon youth,
arising as it does from a feliritona conibinatioii of hear-
ing and manner, and that exquisite suavity of exprc.>«:ioii
which steals into the heart, and pleases so mtieh that it
becomes a satisfaction to admire. Of Lord Castleton, in-
deed, it might Ije Biiid as of Alcibiades, "that lie was
beautiful at every age."

I felt my breath come thick, and a wist passed before
my eyes, as Lord Castleton led me through the crowd,
and the radiant vision of Fanny Trevanion — how altered
and how ilawling ! — burst upon me. I felt the liglit
touch uf that hand of snow ; but no guilty thrill shot
through my veins. I heard the voice, musical us ever,
— lower than it was once, and more subdued in its key,
but steadfast and untremulons ; it was no longer the voice
that made " my soul plant itself in the ears." ' TJio event
was over, and I kupw that the dream had fled from tlie
waking world forever.

" .-Vnotber old friend ! " as Lady TJlverstQiie came forth
from a HtLle group of children, leadhig one fine boy of
nine years old, while one, two or three years younger
clung to her gown, — "another old friend ; and," added
Lady Ulverstone, after the first kind greetings, " two
new ones when the ohl are gone."

The alight melancholy left the voice, as aff^r present-
ing to me the little Viscount she drew forw;iril the more
bashful Lord Albert, who, indeed, hail something of liia
grandsire's and namesake's look of refined intel]ij;ence in
boa brow and eyes. The watchful tact of Lord Castleton
1 Sir Pliilip Sidney.

A KAMILV MCTUhE. 349

was quick iu terminating wliatevrr embarrBasmeDt might
belong to these introductions, as, leaning lightly on luy
arm, he ilrew nta forward and [ireseuted mf- to tlie guests
more ini mediately in our neiglihorhood, who seemed by
their eameat wrdialtty to have Iweii already prepared for
the inti'oduction.

Dinner was now BDUounced, and I welcomed thiit sense
of relief and sej;regntifiii with which one settles into
one's own "pai'ticular" chair at your hirge misci-ilaiieoua
entertainment.

I stayed three days at tliat house. Uow trnly had
Trevanion said that Fanny would make " an excellent
great lady ! " AVhnt perfect harmony Ijetween her man-
ners and her position! just retaining enough of the girl's
seductive gayety and hewitehing dcnire to pleaae, to
soften the new dignity of bearing she had unconsciously
assumed, — less, after all, aa a great lady than as wife
and mother; with a fine hreeiling, perhaja a Ultle lan-
guid and artificial as compared with her lord's, which
sprang fresh and healtiiful wholly from nature, but still
so void of all the chill of condescension or the snlille im-
pertinence that belongs to that order of the inferior
Hobltut which boasts the name of " excluaivea ; " with
what grace, void of jirudcry, she took the adulation of
the flatterers, turning from tliem to her children, or
escaping lightly to Lord Castlcton, with an ease tliat
drew round her at onco the protection of hearth and
home I And certainly Lady Caslletoii was more incon-
testably beautiful than Fanny Trevanion had been.

AU this I acknowl«rIged, not with a sigh and a pang,
but with a pure feeling of pride and delights I might
liave loved madly and presumptoouBly, as boys will do ;
but I had loved worthily, — the love left no blush on my
manhood, — and Fanny's very happiness was my perfect

350

niE CAXTOXB :

and. total cure of every wound in my lieurt uot quite
BCarrial over before. Hod &lie been discontented, forrow-
ful, without joy in the ties she liad furmed, there might
have been more duuger that I should brood over the past,
and regret the loss of il« idol. Hen- tliere vas none.
And the very improvement in Ler beuiity had so altered
its character — so altered — that Fanny Trevaninu and
Ludy Ciistleton seemed two iieraons. And, thus oljserv-
ing and listening to her, I could now dispasaionately
perceive such ditfercnces in our nature aa seemed to
justify Trevaiiion's assertion, which once struck me aa so
monstrous, "tliat we should not have been happy had
fate permitted our union." Pure-hearted aud simple
though she remained in the artificial world, stiil that
world was her element ; its interests occupied her ; its
talk, tliuugh just chastened from scandal, floivod from
her lips. To borrow the words of a man who was him-
self a courtier, and one so distinguished that he could
afford to sneer at Chesterfield,' " S/ie hud the routine of
that style of conversation which is a sort of gold leaf,
that is a great emhcllishment where it is joined to a
thing else." I will not add, "but makes a very j
figure by itself," for that Lady Casdeton'a conversatiiii
cerlfliuly did not do, — perhaps, indeed, because it t
not " by ilself ; " anil the gold leaf was all the better i
being thin, since it could not cover even the aurfoce ti
the sweet and amiable nature o\'cr which it was spread:"

Still, this was not the mind in which now, in maturer
experience, I would seek to find sympathy with nuutly
action or companionship in the charms of intellectual
le inure.

There was about this same beautiful favorite of nature

and fortune a certain helplessness, which had even ila

' LoKD UtBVBi : Memairs of George II.

A FAMILY PICTURE. 35 1

grace in that high station, and which perhaps tended to
insure her domestic peace ; for it served to attach her to
those who had won influence over her, and was happily
accompanied by a most aifectionate disposition. But
still, if less favored by circumstances, less sheltered frcm
every wind that could visit her too roughly ; if, as the
wife of a man of inferior rank, she had failed of that
high seat and silken canopy reserved for the spoiled
darlings of fortune, — that helplessness might have be-
come querulous. I thought of poor Ellen Bolding and
her silken shoes. Fanny Trevanion seemed to have come
into the world with silk shoes, — not to walk where
there was a stone or a brier ! I heard something, in the
gossip of those around, that confirmed this view of Lady
Castleton's character, while it deepened my admiration of
her lord, and showed me how wise had been her choice,
and how resolutely he had prepared himself to vindicate
his own.

One evening as I was sitting, a little apart from the
rest, with two men of the London world, to whose talk
— for it ran upon the on-dita and anecdotes of a region
long strange to me — I was a silent but amused listener ;
one of the two said, —

" Well, I don't know anywhere a more excellent crea-
ture than Lady Castleton ; so fond of her children ; and
her tone to Castleton so exactly what it ought to be, — so
afiectionate, and yet as it were respectful. And the more
credit to her, if, as they say, she was not in love with
him when she married (to be sure, handsome as he is, he
is twice her age) ; and no woman could have been more
flattered and courted by Lotharios and lady-killers than
Lady Castleton had been. I confess, to my shame, that
Castleton's luck puzzles me, for it is rather an exception
to my geneitil experience."

352 THE CA.XTOSS :

"My dear — ^," said the otlitr, who vas one of
those wise men of pleasure who occasionally startle ub
into wondering how they come to he bo clever, and yet
rest contented with mere drawing-room celebrity, — men
who seem always idle, yet appear to have rend every-
thing; always indifferent to whut passes before them,
yet who know the character and divine the secrets uf

everybody, — " my dear ," said the gentleman, " yoa

would not be puwled if you had studied Lortl Castleton
instead of her ladyship. Of idl the conquests ever made
by Sedley Beaudesert, when the two fairest dames of the
Faubourg are said to have fought for his smiles in the
Bois de Boidogne, no coiitjuest ever cost him audi pains
or so taxed bis knowledge of women as that of hia wife
after marriage ! He was not satisfied with her hand, he waa
resolved to have her whole heart, ' one entire and perfect
chrysolite ; ' and he lias aucceeded. Never was husband
80 watchful and so little jealous ; never one who confided
so generously in all that was best in his wife, yet was so
alert in protecting and guardinjf her wherever she was
weakest. When, in the second year of marriage, that
dangerona German Prince Von Leibenfela attached hitii-
aelf so perseveringly to Lady Cnetleton, an<l the scandal-
mongers pricked up their ears in hopes of a victim, I
watched Castleton with as much interest as if I )iad been
looking over Deschappelles playing at chess. You never
saw anything so masterly ; he pitted himself against his
highness with the cool confidence, not of a blind spouse,
but a fortunate rival. He surpassed him iu the delicacy
of hia attentions ; he outshone him by hie careless mag-
nifieenc*. Leibenfels had the impertinence to send Lady
Castleton a bouquet of some rare flowers just in fashion.
Castleton, au hour before, had filled her whole balcony
with the same costly exotics, as if they were too conuaoa

A FAMILY PICTURE. 353

for nosegays and only just worthy to bloom for her a day.
Young and really accomplished as Liebenfels is, Castle-
ton eclipsed him by his grace and fooled him with his wit ;
he laid little plots to turn his mustache and guitar into
ridicule ; he seduced him into a hunt with the buck-hounds
(though Castleton himself had not hunted l>efore since he
was thirty), and drew him, splutterin;^ German oaths, out
of the slough of a ditch ; he made him the laughter of
the clubs ; he put him fairly out of fashion, — and all
with such suavity and politeness, and bland sense of
superiority, that it was the finest piece of high comedy
you ever beheld. The poor prince, who had been cox-
comb enough to lay a bet with a Frenchman as to his
success with tlie English in general and Lady Castleton
in particular, went away with a face as long as Don Quix-
ote's. If you had but seen him at S House, the

night before he took leave of the island, and his comical
grimace when Castleton offered him a pinch of the Beau-
desert mixture ! No ; the fact is that Castleton made it
the object of his existence, the masterpiece of his art, to
secure to himself a happy home, and the entire possession
of his wife's heart. The first two or three years, I fear,
cost him more trouble than any other man ever took,
with his own wife at least ; but he may now rest in
peace, — Lady Castleton is won, and forever."

As my gentleman ceased. Lord Castlcton's noble head
rose above the group standing round him ; and I saw
Lady Castleton turn with a look of well-bred fatigue
from a handsome young fop, who had affected to lower
his voice while he spoke to her, and, encountering the
eyes of her husband, the look changed at once into one of
such sweet smiling affection, such frank, immistakable
wife-like pride, that it seemed a response to the assertion,
** Lady Castleton is won, and forever."

VOL. 11. — 23

354 THE CAXTONS:

Yes, that story increased my admiration for Lord
Castleton; it showed me with what forethought and
earnest sense of re3i>on8ibility he had undertaken the
charge of a life, the guidance of a character yet unde-
veloped ; it lastingly acquitted him of the levity that
had been attributed to Sedley Beaudesert. But I felt
more than ever contented that the task had devolved on
one whose temper and experience had so fitted him to
discharge it. That German prince made me tremble
from sympathy with the husband, and in a sort of rela-
tive shudder for myself ! Had that episode hai)pened to
me, I could never have drawTi " high comedy " from it ; I
could never have so happily closed the fifth act with a
pinch of the Beaudesert mixture ! No ! no ! to my
homely sense of man's life and employment there was
nothing alhiring in the prospect of watching over the
golden tree in the garden, with a " woe to the Argus if
Mercury once lull him to sleep ! " Wife of mine shall
need no watching, save in sickness and sorrow ! Thank
Heaven that my way of life does not lead through the
roseate thoroughfares, beset with German princes laying
bets for my perdition, and fine gentlemen admiring the
skill with which I play at chess for so terrible a stake !
To each rank and each temper its own laws. I acknowl-
edge that Fanny is an excellent marchioness, and Lord
Castleton an incomparable marquess. But, Blanche ! if I
can win thy true, simple heart, I trust I shall begin at the
fifth act of high comedy, and say at the altar, —

" Once won, won forever.'*

A FAMILY PICTURE. 355

CHAPTER VII.

I RODE home on a horse my host lent me ; and Lord
Castleton rode j>art of the way witli me, accompanied
by his two boys, who bestrode manfully their Shetland
ponies, and cantered on before iis. I paid some compli-
ment to the spirit and intelligence of these children, — a
compliment they well deserved.

"Why, yes," said the Marquess, with a father's be-
coming pride, " I hope neither of them will shame his
grandsire Trevanion. Albert, though not quite tlie won-
der poor Lady Ulverstone declares him to be, is rather
too precocious ; and it is all I can do to prevent his being
spoiled by flattery to his cleverness, which, I think, is
much worse than even flattery to rank, — a danger to
which, despite Albert's destined inheritance, the elder
brother is more exposed. Eton soon takes out the con-
ceit of the latter and more vulgar kind. I remember
Lord (you know what an unpretendinj?, good-na-
tured fellow he is now) strutting into the play-ground, a
raw boy, with his chin up in the air, and burly Dick
Johnson (rather a tuft-hunter now, I 'm afraid) coming up
and saying, * Well, sir, anrl who the deuce are you ? *

* Lord ,' says the poor devil, unconsciously, * eldest

son of the Marquess of .' * Oh, indeed ! ' cries John-
son ; * then, there 's one kick for my lord, and two for the
marquess ! ' I am not fond of kicking, but I doubt if

anything ever did more good than those three

kicks ! But," continued Lord Castleton, " when one
flatters a boy for his cleverness, even Eton itself cannot
kick the conceit out of him. Let him be last in the

THK CAXTONs:

kmt toA Ui* gtmlMt «]tuice ever flogignl, there are *3»jy-
ptflfik U> my that your public acliools don't do for W
gmtgeuittM; atui it U ten to one bnt what t]>efsUi«»
plagDed into Uktng tbp boy bora«, and girbig him « pfr
T»le tator, wlio fisra hJiu into a prig forever. A ««a»li
in divas," Mid tJiP Marquees^ sitltliDK " is a trifla It
wonJd iU be-.-omc me to cuaclemn, aud I own lliai I wwii
rtlberecfl a youth n fop than a sloven ; bat » co\e<imba ^
iilew, — why. the yoimger he is, the more naiMtoi»l n£k
illMgR<caUl<>. Xow, Albert, over that hedge. .«ir.- 1

"That h&lne. papa t The pony will never do it,"
"Then," said I ,ord Castle ton, taking off his hat with
politcniss, " I fear you will deprive us of the pleasure cd
your rompany."

The boy laughed, and made gallanUv for the hedpe,
though I «sw hy hischnnge of color that it a lilUe nlaratd
him. Tlie pony coiild not clear the he^Ig^ ; but it wa'
a pu.ii- of t,ut .in.I re«>urc<-(=, nn.l it Scmmbled tllwilgU
like a fat, iullii-tiiiL; sundry tvwU and tears t.ji n jiieket oi
Rai.hwl Mac

L..r.lOi-^il.-t.>ii ^.id, smiling. "You poo, I tfuch thm
t.i p-t tlir.>ugli ii dillK'iilly one iv,iy or t],o otlier i:,-
nvc'ii ymiim.l mo." I,.- added werioHsly, "I peiveive a verv
-litr.iviii iv..rldiUiiigr<.tindtliene\tgeiier:L(i,„if|-,„„,||.,,;^
"jiiiii I liisf went firlli :ind loi>k my iileaaun-. J .-.luill rear
my Kns amniliii-jy. Ki.-h noblemen mu.-t noM-:„Livs V
-iM-fuI men : and if they ran't leap over brier... they nuist
seraiuKle ll]r.ni;;ii llieiii. Don't von agree with «ie 1"

" Mariiaye makes a. man much wiser,'" said tlie Jfar-
quess. after ii ]>au3e. "I Kniile now to think liow often I
sighed at the thought of growing old. Xow I r,ToneiIe
myaelf to the gray hairs without di-eams of a ,rig, n,„l g,,.
joy youth still, — for,' i>r>jji(iiig to Itia soiisi, "it is tliere /"

A FAMILY PICTURE. 357

" He has very nearly found out the secret of the saf-
fron bag now," said my father, pleased and rubbing his
hands when I repeated this talk with Lord Castleton.
" But I fear poor Trevanion," he added, with a comjms-
sionate change of countenance, " is still far away from
the sense of Lord Bacon's receipt ; and his wife, you say,
out of very love for liim, keoi>s always drawing discord
from the one jarring wire."

" You must talk to her, sir."

" I will," said my father, angrily, " and scold her, too,
foolish woman ! I shall tell her Luther's advice to the
Prince of An halt."

" What was that, sir ? "

" Only to throw a baby into the river Maldon because
it had sucked dry five wet-nurses besides the mother, and
must therefore be a changeling. Why, that ambition of
hers would suck dry all the mother's milk in the genus
mammalian ! And sucli a withered, rickety, malign little
changeling too ! She sliall fling it into the river by all
that is holy ! " cried my father ; and, suiting the action
to the word, away into the pond went the spectacles he
had l>een rubbing indignantly for the last three minutes.
" Papne ! " faltered my fatlier, aghast, while the Ceprinidae,
mistakiug the dip of the spectacles for an invitation to
dinner, came scudding up to the bank. " It is all your
fault," said Mr. Caxton, recovering himself. " Get me
the new tortoise-shell spectacles and a large slice of bread.
You see that when fish are reduced to a pond they recog-
nize a benefactor, which they never do when rising at
flies or groping for worms in the waste world of a river.
Hem ! a hint for the Ulverstones. Besides the bread and
the spectacles, just look out and bring me the old black-
letter copy of Saint Anthony's * Sermon to Fishes.' "

358 THE CAXTONS:

CHAPTER Vm.

SoMB weeks now have passed since my return to the
Tower ; the Castleton's are gone, and all Trevaniun's gay
guests. And since these departures, visits between the
two houses have been interchanged often, and the bonds
of intimacy are growing close. Twice has my father
held long conversations apart with Lady Ulverstone
(my mother is not foolish enough to feel a pang now
at such confidences), and the rfesult has become apparent.
Lady Ulverstone lias ceased all talk against the world
and the public, — ceased to fret the galled pride of her
husband with irritating sympathy. She has made her-
self the true partner of his present occupations, as she
was of those in the past ; she takes interest in farming
and gardens and flowers, and those philosophical peaches
which come from trees academical that Sir William Tem-
ple reared in his graceful retirement. She does more, —
she sits by her husband's side in the library, reads the
books he reads, or if in Latin coaxes him into construing
them. Insensi))ly she loads him into studies farther and
farther remoto from Blue Books and Hansard ; and, tak-
ing my father's hint, —

" Allui*es to brighter worlds, and leads the way."

They are inseparable. I)arby-and-Joan-like, you see them
together in the library, the garden, or the homely little
pony-phaeton, for which Lord Ulverstone has resigned
the fast-trotting cob once identified with the eager looks
of the busy Trcvanion. It is most touching, most beau-

A FAMILY PICTURE. 359

tiful ! And to think what a victory over lierself the
proud woman must have obtained, — never a thought
that seems to murmur, never a word to recall the ambi-
tious man back from the philosopliy into which his ac-
tive mind flies for refuge ! And with the effort, her
brow has become so serene ! That careworn expression,
which her fine features once wore, is fast vanishing ; and
what affects me most, is to think that this change (which
is already settling into happiness) has been wrought by
Austin's counsels and appeals to her sense and affection.

" It is to you," he said, " that Trevanion must look for
more than comfort, — for cheerfulness and satisfaction.
Your child is gone from you; the world ebbs away, —
you two should be all in all to each other. Be so."

Thus, after paths so devious, meet those who had
parted in youth, now on the verge of age. There, in
the same scenes where Austin and Ellinor had first
formed acquaintance, he, aiding her to soothe the
wounds inflicted by the ambition that had separated
their lots, and both taking counsel to insure the happi-
ness of the rival she had preferred.

After all this vexed public life of toil and care and
ambition, to see Trevanion and Ellinor drawing closer
and closer to each other, knowing private life and its
charms for the first time, — verily, it would have been a
theme for an elegiast like Tibullus.

But all this while a younger love, with no blurred
leaves to erase from the chronicle, has been keeping
sweet account of the summer time. "Very near are
two hearts that have no guile between them," saith a
proverb, traced back to Confucius. O ye days of still
sunshine, reflected back from ourselves ! O ye haunts,
endeared evermore by a look, tone, or smile, or rapt
silence, when more and more with each hour unfolded

360 THE CAXTONS:

before me that nature so tenderly coy, so cheerful though
serious, so attuned by simple cares to affection, yet so
filled from soft musings and solitude with a poetry that
gave grace to duties the homeliest, setting life's trite
things to music ! Here nature and fortune concurred
alike ; equal in birth and pretensions, similar in tastes
and in objects ; loving the healthful activity of purpose,
but content to find it around us; neither envying the
wealthy nor vying with the great ; each framed by tem-
per to look on the bright side of life, and find founts of
delight and green spots fresh with verdure where eyes
but accustomed to cities could see but the sands and the
mirage. While afar (as man's duty) I had gone through
the travail that in wrestling with fortune gives pause to
the heart to recover its losses, and know tlie value of
love in its graver sense of life's earnest realities, Heaven
had reared at the thresholds of home the young tree that
should cover the roof with its blossoms, and embalm with
its fragrance the daily air of my being.

It had been the joint prayer of those kind ones I left
that sucli niiglit be my reward ; and each had contributed,
in his or her several way, to fit that fair life for the orna-
ment and joy of the one that now asked to guard and to
cherish it. From Roland came that deep, earnest honor,
— a man's in its sticnglli, and a woman's in its delicate
sense of refinement ; from Roland, that quick tiiste for
all things noble in poetry and lovely in ^^ature, — the
eye that sparkled to read how Bayard stood alone at the
bridge and saved an army, or wept over tlie page that
told how the dying Sidney put the bowl from his burn-
ing lips. Is that too masculine a spirit for some ? Let
each please himself. Give me the woman who can echo
all thoughts that are noblest in men ! And that eye, too
(like Roland's), could pause to note each finer mesh in

A FAMILY PICTURE. 361

the wonderful webwork of beauty ; no landscape to her
was the same yesterday and to-day ; a deeper shade from
the skies could change the face of the moors ; the spring-
ing up of fresh wild-flowers, the very song of some binl
unheard before, lent variety to the broad rugged heath.
Is that too simple a source of pleasure for some to prize ?
Be it so to those who need the keen stimulants that cities
aflbrd; but if we were to pass all our hours in those
scenes, it was something to have the tastes which own no
monotony in Nature.

All this came from Roland ; and to this, with thought-
ful wisdom, my father had added enough knowledge from
books to make those tastes more attractive, and to lend to
impulsive perception of beauty and goodness the culture
that draws finer essence from beauty, and expands the
good into the better by heightening the sight of the sur-
vey. Hers, knowledge enough to sympathize with in-
tellectual pursuits, not enough to dispute on man's
province, — opinion. Still, whether in Nature or in
lore, still —

" The fairest garden in her looks,
And in her mind the choicest books ! "

And yet, thou wise Austin; and thou, Roland, poet
that never wrote a verse, — yet your work had been
incomplete, but then woman stepped in, and the
mother gave to her she designed for a daughter the
last finish of meek every-day charities, the mild house-
hold virtue.^?, ** the soft word that turneth away wrath,"
the angelic pity for man's rougher faults, the patience
that bideth its time, and, exacting no " rights of woman,"
subjugates us, delighted, to the invisible thrall !

Dost thou remember, my Blanche, that soft summer
evening when the vows our eyes had long interchanged

362 THE CAXTONfl :

stole at last from the lip ? Wife mine ! come to my side 1°"
look over me while I write ! There, thy tears (happy
l«ars are they uot, Blaaehel) have hlottcd the page.'
Shall WB tell the world more I Right, my Blanche ; no
words should profane the place where those tears have
faUenl

And here I would fain conclude ; but. alas and alas !
that I cannot associate with our hopes, on this side the
grave, him who we fondly hoped (even on the bridal-
day that gave liis sister to my arms) woidd come to
the heiirtli where his place now stood vacant, contented
with glory, and fitted at last for the tranquil happiness
which long years of repentance and trial had deserved.
Within the first year of my marriage, and shortly after
a gallant share in a desperate action which had covered
his name with new honors, just when we were most
elated in the blinded vanity of liuman pride, came the
fatal news ! The brief career was run. He died, as I
knew he would have prayed to die, at the dose of a day
ever memorable in tiio annals of that marvelloTis empire
which valor without parallel has annexed to the Throne
of the Isles. He died in the arms of victory, and his
last smile met the eyes ol the noble chief who even in
tliat hour could jmuse from the tide of triumph by the
victim it had cast on its bloody shore.

" One favor," faltered the dying roan. " I have a
father at home, — he, too, is a soldier. In my tent is
my will ; it gives all I have to him ; he can take it
without sbaiiie. That is not enougli ! Wril« to liim
— you — with your own haml, and tell him how his
son fell ! "

And the hero fulfilled the prayer ; and that letter is
dearer to Roland than all the long roll of the ancestral

A FAMILY PICTURE. 363

dead ! Nature has reclaimed her rights, and the fore-
fathers recede before the son.

In a side chapel of the old Gothic church, amidst the
mouldering tombs of those who fought at Acre and Agin-
court, a fresh tablet records the death of Herbert de
Caxton, with the simple inscription, —

HE FELL ON THE FIELD:

HIS COUNTRY MOURNED HIM,

AND HIS FATHER IS RESIGNED.

Years have rolled away since that tablet was placed
there, and changes have passed on that nook of earth
which bounds our little world ; fair chambers have sprung
up midst the desolate ruins ; far and near, smiling corn-
fields replace the bleak dreary moors ; the land supports
more retainers than ever thronged to the pennon of its
barons of old, and Roland can look from his Tower over
domains that are reclaimed year by year from the waste,
till the ploughshare shall win a lordship more opulent
than those feudal chiefs ever held by the tenure of the
sword. And the hospitable mirth that had fled from the
ruin has been renewed in the hall ; and rich and poor, great
and lowly, have welcomed the rise of an ancient house
from the dust of decay. All those dreams of Roland's
youth are fulfilled ; but they do not gladden his heart like
the thought that his son at the last was worthy of his line,
and the hope that no gulf shall yawn between the two
when the Grand Circle is rounded, and man's past and
man's future meet where Time disappears. Never was
that lost one forgotten ; never was his name breathed but
tears rushed to the eyes ; and each morning the peasant
going to his labor might see Roland steal down the dell to
the deep-set door of the chapeL None presume there to

364 THE CAXTONS :

follow hU etepa or intrude on liia Bolemn tliougUts ; for
them in sight of that tablet are his oriwtns made, ami the
reinembmnce of the dcjid forms a part of the commune
with heaven. But the old man's step is still firm and his
brow still erect, and you may see in his face that it was
no hollow bijiist which proclaimed that the " father was
resigned ; " and ye who doubt if too Roman a hardness
might not be found in that Christian resignation, think
what it is to have feared for a son the life of shame, nnd
ask then if the sharpest grief lo a father is in a sou's
death of honor \

Years have passed, anil two fair daughters play at
the knees of Blanche, or creep round the footstool of
Austin, waiting patiently for the ex]iet'ted kiss when he
looks up from the Great Book, sow drawiiig fast to its
close, — or, if Roland enter the room, foi^t all theip
sober demureneiss, aod, unawed by the terrible " Papw ! "
run clamorous for the promised awing in the orchard or
the fiftieth recital of "Chevy Chase."

For my part, 1 take the giwds tlic gods provide me, and
am contented with girla that have the eyes of their
mother ; but Roland, ungrateful man, begins lo grumble
that we are so negleetfnl of the rights of heirs-male.
He is in ilonbt whether to lay the faidt r>n Mr. Squills or
on US : I am not sure that he does not tliiuk it a couspir-
acy of all three to settle the representation of the martial
De Castons on the " spindle aide," Whosoever be the
light person to blame, an omission so fatal to the straight
line in the pedigree is rectified at last, and Mrs. Primmins,
again rushes, or rather rolls, in the movement natural to
forms globular and spheral, into my father's room, with —

" Sir, sir ! it is a boy ! "

Whether my father asked also this time that question
BO puzzlhig to metaphysical inquirers, " What is a hoyi"

A FAMILY PICTURE. 365

I know not I rather suspect he had not leisure for so
abstract a question, for the whole household burst on him ;
and my mother, in that storm peculiar to the elements of
tha mind feminine, — a sort of sunshiny storm between
laughter and crying, — whirled him off to behold the
!Neogilos.

Now, some months after that date, on a winter's even-
ing, we were all assembled in the hall, — which was still
our usual apartment, since its size permitted to each his
own segregated and peculiar employment. A large screen
fenced off from interruption my father^s erudite settle-
ment ; and c^uite out of sight behind that impermeable
barrier, he was now calmly winding up that eloquent
peroration which will astonish the world, whenever, by
Heaven^s special mercy, the printer^s devils have done
with " The History of Human Error." In another nook
my uncle had ensconced himself, stirring his coffee (in
the cup my mother had presented to him so many years
ago, and which had miraculously escaped all the ills the
race of crockery is heir to), a volume of ** Ivanhoe " in
the other hand, and despite the charm of the Northern
Wizard his eye not on the page ; on the wall behind him
hangs the picture of Sir Herbert de Caxton, the soldier-
comrade of Sydney and Drake, and at the foot of the
picture Roland has slung his son's sword beside the letter
that spoke of his death, which is framed and glazed.
Sword and letter had become as the last nor least honored
Penates of the hall : the son was grown an ancestor.

Not far from my uncle sat Mr. Squills, employed in
mapping out phrenological divisions on a cast he had
made from the skull of one of the Australian aborigines,
— a ghastly present which (in compliance with a yearly
letter to that effect) I had brought him over, together
with a stuffed *' wombat '' and a large bundle of sarsa*

366 THE CAXT0N8:

pariUa. (For the satisfaction of his patients, I may ob-
serve parenthetically that the skull and the " wombat"
— that last is a. creature between a miniature pig and u
very small hadyer — were not precisely [Mcked up with
the sarsa)Hiri[la '.) Farther on stood open, but idle, the
new pianoforte, at which, before my fathi^r had ^ven his
preparatory hem and sat down to the tireut Book, Blanche
and my mother bad been trying hard to teach me to bear
the third iu the glee of " Tlie Chough and Crow to roost
have gone," — vain task, in spite of all flattering assui^
ances that I have a very fine "bass," if I coidd but
mutia^re to humor it ! FoTtunatety for the ears of the
audience, lliat attempt is now abandoned. My tuotUer
is hard at work on her tapestry, the last pattern in
fashion, — to wit, a roay-cheeked young troubadour play-
ing the lute under a salmou-colored balcony ; Uie two
little girls look bravely oii, prematurely in love, I sus-
pect, with the troubaiJour ; and Blanche and I havs, J
stolen away into a corner, which by some stiange delusionj
we constiler out of sight, and in that corner is the
of the Neogilos. Indeed, it is not our fault that it is
there, — Roland would have it so j and the baby is so
gooil, too, he never cries, — at least so say Blanche and
my mother ; at all events, he does not cry to-night.

And, indeed, that child is a wonder 1 He seems to
know and resjwnd to what was u]iperraost at our hearta
when ho was bom ; and yet more, when Roland (con-
trary, I dare say, to all custom) permitted neither mother
nor nurse nor creature of womankind to hold him at the i
baptismal font, hut bent ovf r the new Christian his own '
dark, high-featured face, reminding one of the eagle thnt
hid the infant iu its nest, and watched over it with wings
that had battled with the st^irm ; and from that moment J
the child, who took the name of Herbert, seemed to rec-l

A FAMILY PICTURE. 367

ognize Boland better than his nurse or even mother, —
seemed to know that in giving him that name we sought
to give Roland his son once more ! Xever did the old
man come near the infant but it smiled and crowed, and
stretched out its little arms ; and then the mother and I
would press each other's hands secretly, and were not
jealous.

Well, then, Blanche and Pisistratus were seated near
the cradle, and talking in low whispers, when my father
pushed aside the screen and said, —

" There, the work is done ! And now it may go to
press as soon as you will."

Congratulations poured in. My father bore them with
his usual equanimity ; and standing on the hearth, his
hand in his waistcoat, he said, musingly, —

" Among the last delusions of Human Error, I have
had to notice Rousseau's phantasy of Perpetual Peace, and
all the like pastoral dreams, which preceded the blood-
iest wars that have convulsed the earth for more than a
thousand years ! "

" And to judge by the newspapers," said I, " the same
delusions are renewed again. Benevolent theorists go
about prophesying peace as a positive certainty, deduced
from that sibyl-book the ledger ; and we are never again
to buy cannon, provided only we can exchange cotton
for com."

Mr. Squills (who, having almost wholly retired from
general business, has, from want of something better
to do, attended sundry " Demonstrations in the North,"
since which he has talked much about the march of im-
provement, the spirit of the age, and " us of the nine-
teenth century "). — I heartily hope that those benevolent
theorists are true prophets. I have found, in the course
ot my professional practice, that men go out of the world

368

TllE CAXTONS :

quite fast enough, witlidiit hacking tliem into ]iiecea or
lilowing tliem up into the dr. War is a great evii."

Blanche (pnAsing by Sq^uills, snd glancing towards Ko-
land). — "Hualil"

KoUnd remniuB silent

JIr. Caxton. — " War is a great evil ; but evil is ad-
mitted by Providence into tlie ageney ol creation, pliys-
ical and moral. The existence of evil has pualed wiser
bends than ours, Squills ; but no doubt there ia One
above who has His reasons for it. The combative bump
Bcems as common to the human skull as the philoprogen-
itive ; if it is in our organizatiou, be sure it is iiot tbere
without cause. Neither ia it just to man, nor wisely
submissive to the Disposer of all event-t, to suppose that
war is wholly and wantonly produced by human crimes
and follies ; that it condueea only to ill, and does not
as often arise from the necessities interwoven in the
framework of society, and speed the great ends of the
human race conformably with the designs of the Omni-
scient. Not one great war has ever desolated the earth
but haa left behind it seeds tliat have ripened into
blessings incalculable ! "

Mr. SquiLiA (with the groan of a dissentient at a
" demonstration "). — " Oh / oh/ on'."

Luckless Squills ! Little could he have foreseen the
shower- liath, or rather douche, of erudition that fell
splash on his head as ho pulled the string with that im-
pertinent " Oh ! oh ! " Down first came the PersiHu
War, with Median myriads disgorging all the rii'ers they
had drunk up in their mnrch through the East ; all the
arts, all the letters, all the acieooes, all the notions of
Uberty that we inherit from Greece, ■ — my father rushed
on with them all, sousing Squills with his proofa that
without the Persian War Greece would never have risen

A FAMILY PICTURE. 369

to be the teacher of the world. Before the gasping
victim could take breath, down came Hun, Goth, and
Vandal on Italy and Squills.

"What, sir!" cried my father, "don't you see that
from those eruptions on demoralized Home came the re-
generation of manhood, the re-baptism of earth from the
last soils of paganism, and the remote origin of whatever
of Christianity yet exists free from the idolatries with
which Rome contaminated the faith ? '

Squills held up his hands, and made a splutter. Down
came Charlemagne, paladins and all ! There my father
was grand. What a picture he made of the broken, jar-
ring, savage elements of barbaric society, and the iron
hand of the great Frank settling the nations and found-
ing existent Europe ! Squills was now fast sinking into
coma or stupefaction ; but, catching at a straw, as he
heard the word " Crusades," he stuttered forth, —

" Ah, there I defy you ! "

" Defy me there ! " cries my father ; and one would
think the ocean was in the shower-bath, it came down
with such a rattle. My father scarcely touched on the
smaller points in excuse for the Crusades, though he
recited very volubly all the humaner arts introduced into
Europe by that invasion of the East, and showed how it
had served civilization by the vent it afforded for the
rude energies of chivalry, by the element of destruction
to feudal tyranny that it introduced, by its use in the
emancipation of burghs and the disrupture of serfdom.
But he painted in colors vivid, as if caught from the
skies of the East, the great spread of Mahometanism and
the danger it menaced to Christian Europe, and drew up
the Godfreys and Tancreds and Richards, as a league of
the age and necessity against the terrible progress of the
sword and the Koran.

VOL. II. — 24

370 THE CAXTOKS:

" You call them madmen," cried my father, " but the
fremy of uatioua is the stateBmaasbip of fute 1 How
kuow you that but for the terror inspired by the liosts
who marched to Jerusalem, how know you that the Cres-
cent had not waved over other realms than those which
Koderic lost to the Moor ? If Christianity had been less
a passion, and the pasaiou, had less stirred up oli Europe,
how know you that the creed of the Arab (which waa
then, too, a [lussion) might not have planted its mosques
in the forum of Rome and on the site of K'otre DameT
For in the war between creeds, when the creeds are em-
braced by vast races, think you that the reason of sages
can cope with the passion of millions) Eiitbuaiasm must
oppose enthusiasm. The cruiiader fought for the lonib of
Christ, but he saved the life of Christendom."

My father paused. Squills was quite passive ; he
struggled no more, — he was drowned.

" So," resumed Mr. Caxton, more quietly, . — "so, if
latei' wars yet perplex us as to the good that the All-wise
One draws from their evils, our posterity may read their
uses as clearly as we now read the finger of Providence
resting on the barrows of Marathon, or guiding Peter tlie
Hermit to the battle-Kelds of Palestine. Xnr, while we
admit the evil to the passing generation, can we deny
that many of the virtues that make the ornameiit and
vitality of peace sjirang up first in the convulsion of
war 1 " Here Squills began to evince faint signs of resua-
citation, when my father let fly at him one of those num-
berless waterworks which his prodigious memory kept in
constant supply. " Hence," said be, " hence not unjustly
has it been remarked by a philosopher, shrewd at least in
worldly experience [Squills again closed his eyes, and be-
came exanimate], ' It is strange to imagine that war,
which of oli things appears llie most sai'age, should be

A FAMILY PICTUEB. 371

the passion of the most heroic spirits. But 't is in war
that the knot of fellowship is closest drawn ; 't is in war
that mutual succor is most given, mutual danger nm, and
common affection most exerted and employed ; for hero-
ism and philanthropy are almost one and the same ! ' " ^

My father ceased, and mused a little. Squills, if still
living, thought it prudent to feign continued extinction.

" Not," said Mr. Caxton, resuming, " not but what I
hold it our duty never to foster into a passion what we
must rather submit to as an awful necessity. You say
truly, Mr. Squills, war is an evil ; and woe to those who
on slight pretences open the gates of Janus, —

* The dire abode.
And the fierce issues of the furious god.' "

Mr. Squills, after a long pause (employed in some of
the more handy means for the reanimation of submerged
bodies, — supporting himself close to the fire in a semi-
erect posture, with gentle friction, self-applied, to each
several limb, and copious recourse to certain steaming
stimulants which my compassionate hands prepared for
him), stretches himself, and says feebly : " In short,
then, not to provoke further discussion, you would go to
war in defence of your country. Stop, sir, — stop, for
Heaven's sake ! I agree with you, — I agree with you !
But, fortunately, there is little chance now that any new
Boney will build boats at Boulogne to invade us."

Mr. Caxton. — " I am not so sure of that, Mr. Squills."
(Squills falls back with a glassy stare of deprecating
horror.) "I don't read the newspapers very often, but
the past helps me to judge of the present."

Therewith my father earnestly recommended to Mr.
Squills the careful perusal of certain passages in Thucyd-

1 Shaftesbury.

372

THE CAXTONS:

ides just previous to the outbreak of the Pclopoiuiesian
wttr (Squills hastily nodded the moat servile acquies-
cence), and drew an ingenious parallel between the
signs and symptoms foreboding that outbreak and the
very apprehension of coming war which wna evinced by
the recent Jo p/wam to peace.' And after sundry notable
and shrewd remarks, tending to show where elementa for
war were already ripening amidat clashing opinions and
disorganized States, he wound up with saying, —

" So that, all things considered, I think we had better
just keep up enough of the bellicose spirit not to think
it a sin if we are called upon to fight for our pestles and
mortars, our three-per-cents, gooda^ chattels, and liberties.
Such a time must come, sooner or later, even though the
whole world were spinning cotton and printing sprigged
calicoes. Wt may not see it, Squills, but that young gen-
tleman in the cradle whom you have lately brought into
light may."

"And if 60," said my uncle, abruptly, speaking for the
first time, — "if, indeed, it be for altar and hearth ! "

My father suddenly drew in and pished a little, for ha
saw that ho was caught in the web of his own eloquence.

Then Roland took down from the wall his son's sword.
Stealing to the cradle, he laid it in ita sheath hy the in-
fant's aide, and glanced from my father to us with a be-
seeching eye. Instinctively Blanche bent over the cradle,
as if to protect the Neogilos ; but the child waking turned
from her, and attracted by the glitter of the hilt laid one

' Wlipn this work »a« first published, Mr Caxton was geDerallj
deemed a very false prophet in these anticipation*, and aundcj critics
were pleased to consider hin apolonj for war neither seimonable nor
philosophical. Tbat Mr Cnxton has right and the politicians op-
pofeil t" him have been somewhat lodicroutilv wrong maybe briefly
ai'couiited for Mr. CoNton had read bistorj.

A FAMILY PICTURE.

373

hand lustily thereon, and pointed with the other laugh-
ingly to Roland.

" Only on my father's proviso," said I, hesitatingly.
" For hearth and altar, — nothing less ! "

" And even in that case," said my father, " add the
shield to the sword ! " and on the other side of the
infant he placed Roland's well-worn Bible, blistered in
many a page with secret tears.

There we all stood, grouping round the young centre
of so many hopes and fears, — in peace or in war, born
alike for the Battle of Life ; and he, unconscious of all
that made our lips silent and our eyes dim, had already
left that bright bauble of the sword, and thrown both
arms round Roland's bended neck.

" Herbert 1 " murmured Roland ; and Blanche gently
drew away the sword, and left the Bible.

THE END.

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