Friendship's offering: a Christmas and New Year's present

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A CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR'S PRESENT,

MDCCCXXXV.

This is Aflection's Tribute, Frieudship's OlfertnK,
Whose silent eloquence, more rich than words,
Telli of the Giver's faith and truth in absence.
And says — Forget me not 1"

LONDON :
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL;

AND

WILLIAM JACKSON, 71, MAIDEN-LANE, NEW YORK.

1835.

644136

ZZ.IO.56

LONDON :
/»rfiife.I by Stewart and 6V,, Old Bailey,

THE QUEEN'S MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTY

€W Wiov^

IS, BY PERMISSION,

MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED.

PREFATORY SONNET.

Once more, my youthful friends, as wont, we meet

Around the Christmas hearth. The nut-brown ale

Flows gratefully, I wot, with song and tale,
Alternate blithe and sad, in mixture sweet.
Once more I leave my silent calm retreat

Your social circles courteously to hail ;

Bringing some gifted friends, who seldom fail
To grace our party : Pray, give each a seat.
We come, each in his turn, to say our say

In verse or prose, intent all hearts to gain ;
Blending the arch and simple, grave and gay.

But leaning aye unto the moral strain ;
Hopeful, when idle hours have passed away,

That fruit to feed reflection may remain.

The Editor.

CONTENTS.

Page

The Intercepted Letter. A Tale. By the Author of

" Trials and Triumphs." I

'Thirteen Years Ago. By Barry Cornwall 31

The Fate of the Oak. By Barry Cornwall 34

The History of a Life. By Barry Cornwall 35

On the Tomb of Abelard and Eloisa 36

Saltzburg. By J. R 37

The Client's Story. By H. D. Inglis 39

Night. From the German of Branner 57

Beatrice. A Lover's Lay. By Mary Homtt 58

ITie First Sleep. By the Author of "The Puritan's

Grave" 62

Childhood. By Mary Howitt 73

Hours at Coombe. By C. H 75

My Hermitage 77

Fanny's Birth-day. A Stoi^r for Children, and a Hint to
Parents. By the Author of " The Child of the Chvirch

of England." 78

ylil CONTENTS.

Pane
The Euthanasia 84

The Lonely Heart. By Miss Stickney 85

The Farewell of Colonna 87

Mustapha the Philanthropist. A Tale of Asia Minor 91

On the Tomb of Petrarch 135

The Wanderer 136

To the Ostrich. By Thomas Pringle 138

Six Sonnets. By Charles Whitehead 140

The Old Bachelor and his Sister. By the Author of

" Truckleborough Hall." 144

Thorny-Bank Farm. By Delta 156

Sonnet to a Rivulet. By R. F. Housman 159

The Beauty of the Village. A Country Story. By Miss

Mitford 160

Our Own Fireside. By John Clare 176

A Phantasm 178

Theory and Experiment 179

A Dirge. For Music 180

The Unwilling Deceiver. A Tale of the Walpole Admi-
nistration. By the Author of " London in the Olden

Time" 181

Stanzas to . By Mrs. Walker 216

The Romance of Love. A Tale. By J. A. St. John 217

Midnight in Philae. By J. A. St. John 248

Song. " Up, Mary, love !" By J. F. W. H 251

Sonnet. Columbines. By H. F. Chorley 252

The Brazilian Bride. A Tale. By the Hon. Mrs. Erskine

Norton 253

Melrose Abbey. By John Fairbairn 288

CONTENTS. IX

Page

The Riddle of Life. By Charles Whitehead 289

Stars of Song 294

The Two Kates. A Tale. By the Author of " The Bucca-
neer," &c 295

Fragments from a Metrical Journal. By J. R 317

My Ain Bonnie Lassie. A Scotch Song. By Delta .... 319
Hell's Hollow. A Tale of Mount Jura. By J. A. St.

John , 321

Song. " She recks not of Fortune." ByJ. F 345

Be Heaven my Stay. By John Ramsay 347

The Devoted. A Tale of Poland By a Polish Refugee. 349
Three Sonnets. By R. F. Housman 383

LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.

I.— My Ain Bonny Lassie. Engraved by H. T. Ryall ;
from a Drawing by E.T. Paris, Historical Painter
to Her Majesty Frontispiece

II The Presentation Plate. Engraved by J. W. Cook;

from a Painting by H. Corbould Title

III.— The Intercepted Letter. Engraved by F. Bacon ;

from a Drawing by E. C. Wood Page 25

IV.— Saltzburg. Engraved by E. Goodall; from a

Drawing by W. Purser 37

v.— Childhood. Engraved by H. T. Ryall; from a

Drawing by A. E. Chalon, R. A 73

VI.— The Sultan's Daughter. Engraved by H. Cook ;

from a Painting by E. T. Parris 133

VII.— The Farmer's Family. Engraved by W. Finden ;

from a Drawing by Wright 157

VIII. — Lucy. Engraved by Charles Rolls; from a

Drawing by F. Stone 181

Xll LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.

Page
IX. — A Scene in the Apennines. Engraved by G.

Richardson ; from a Landscape by Barrett .... 229

X. — The Brazilian Bride. Engraved by H. Cook ;

from a celebrated Painting by J. Boadeu 287

XI The Two Kates. Engraved by H. T. Ryall ; from

a Drawing by F. Corbeaux 3C8

XII. — The Devoted. Engraved by F, Bacon ; from a

Drawing by T. Heaphy 349

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS."

What an idol is an only child ! With what an inde-
scribable intensity of feeling does a father who has
buried his first love, gaze upon his motherless daugh-
ter, — beautiful in her grief for the dead, — beautiful
in her affection for her living parent ! All his thoughts,
feelings, anticipations and reflections, all his earthly
interests, and heavenly hopes, are blended with the
image of his child. Through her beauty and sweet-
ness he mourns the departed, through her gentleness,
and goodness he worhips his Maker ; for her he is ambi-
tious, diligent, or anxious, according as his situation in
life exposes him to the temptations of ambition, requires
of him the toils of diligence, or harasses him with
the trembling feelings of anxiety. In his eye she is
perfection, and his affectionate pride in her leads him to
attempt to make her more than perfection. He has
just been taught, by an awful visitation of Providence,
how perishable and transient are life's blessings and
our mortal companions ; yet with the bitterness of this

'Z THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

discipline ou his heart, he builds again the palace of
hope on foundations quite as frail, and his spirit re-
poses with a confidence that eternity alone can warrant
on a creature fleeting as time, and as uncertain of con-
tinuance as the repose of a spring-born butterfly.

Such were the feelings with which the father of Lucy
Rushton wept over his child, when he returned from
the funeral of his wife. Mr. Rushton was a clergy-
man of good family, but not of great fortune ; his
sole dependence w^as a small living, and he had mar-
ried a lady of higher family than his own, — not al-
together and very decidedly in opposition to the will
of her friends, but with their very cold consent, and
but ill concealed reluctance. He lived happily with
his wife, but not long : — her frame was feeble, her
health was delicate, her spirits tremblingly but quietly
cheerful ; her affection for her husband and her only
child, and her delight in their society, formed for her
so great a fulness of delight in being, that she thought
of no higher bliss in mortal life. Surely it is a pleasant
thing to have our world at home, to find the most
cheerful warmth at our own fire-sides, the pleasantest
seat in our own chairs, the balmiest sleep on our own
beds, and the most interesting conversation with the
inmates of our own home and the members of our
own family ! — When one of this happy three had
gone down to the grave, the remaining two became to
each other so much the more intensely interesting and
important. To a thoughtful and considerate parent,
the education of an only child is an object sufficiently

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 3

absorbing to engross the whole attention, and to fill the
whole soul ; and where beyond the circle of home can
an affectionate child look for wisdom to direct, and for
affection to bless? Thus these two felt mutually de-
pendent on each other. They were sincere in their
mutual thought, and happy in the sincerity of it; the
father that no daughter was like unto his, and the
daughter that no father was like unto hers. Lucy
was but fourteen years old when she lost her mother,
but even at that early age she had reached her full
stature, and was distinguished by a look of thoughtful-
ness and reflection beyond her years. But there was
no pedantry in her thoughtfulness, there was no affecta-
tion in her gravity. Long indeed before she could
know the meaning of sorrow, and when as yet she had
shed only the tears of childhood, her look was staid
and placid, and that with such a marked expression of
sobriety, that a stranger by a passing glance could not
but be struck with the interesting aspect of the child.
She was thoughtful, not by affectation, not by means of
sorrow, but by mere instinct. She used to look grave
among her playthings, but not to sigh, for there was a
pleasant calmness in the depths of her spirit, and her
look of sedateness was but the manifestation of her
deep joy, — her unruffled gladness in being. That,
however, which most of all excited her father's pride,
and drew his heart towards her with an almost re-
verence of love and affection, was the clear honesty
of her countenance, exhibiting the profound simplicity
of her heart. Nothing could exceed her utter ingenu-

4 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER,

ousness, — you could not look upon her speaking eyes
without seeing that they told the truth ; hers was a
countenance that could not, that would not deceive ;
her eyes were windows through which you might read
her heart. The tone of her voice was also very beau-
tiful ; so clear, and so unhesitating, and so confiding.
Conscious of nothing but truth within, she suspected
nothing but truth in all with whom she conversed.
Her understanding also was good , and accompanied by
a sufficient aptitude to learn ; and thus to the eye of
her father she presented a moral and intellectual image
perfectly satisfactory and delightful. With such a
pleasant companion as this, it is not to be wondered
at that the father's time passed smoothly away ; and
yet, though he loved his home, he neglected not his
duty to his parish, but he visited the abodes of sick-
ness, he carried consolation to the bed-side of the
dying, and he witheld not his feet from the tliresh-
old of poverty, or his hand from contributing to the
alleviation of distress. His affectionate daughter also
became proficient in the work of charity, and few things
are more conducive to true cheerfulness of mind than
doing good in a good spirit. The sentimental distributors
of annual blankets, and the advertized donors of coals
by the bushel, no more understand what true charity is
than do the cockney catchers of hedge-sparrows under-
stand the science of ornithology. A blanket, a bushel
of coals, will not cure all the ills of mortality. There
are sorrows of heart, there are pains of a broken spirit,
for which there is more balm in the voice of kindness

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. .-J

than in the purse of the wealthy, even in the hands of
liberality. Lucy Rushton's bright eyes, soberly
cheerful looks, and musical voice, were such treasures
to the poor people of the village that they would not
have sold them, if they could, for gold. She was
happy in contributing, as far as in her lay, to the allevi-
ation of the sorrows of the poor, and she could listen
with such an exemplary patience to the long stories of
the aged, that they thought her the wisest, and the
nicest young lady that ever lived. All who saw the
affectionate father and his gentle daughter could not but
see how happy they were with each other, and could
not but think that their life was all placidness, calm-
ness, and unmingled bliss. But " the heart knoweth
its own bitterness," and there was indeed a bitter
sediment at the bottom of that sweet cup of life, which
Mr. Rushton had to drink ; for while he looked with
pride upon his guileless child, and saw day after day
the development of those graces and virtues, of which
from the very first dawn of reason she had given
such good promise, he could not help thinking, also,
that a time must come when she must be left to other
guardianship, and when other eyes less partial than
those of a father must watch over her. Yet, in the
moments of sadness which this thought occasioned him,
he comforted himself by thinking that the best and
most effectual provision which a parent could make
for a child against the trials of life, was the inculca-
tion of sound moral and religious principles. " Who
is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that
b3

i

6 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

which is good?" — The wicked cannot, and the good
will not.

Five years passed after the death of her mother, and
then Lucy Rushton was entirely an orphan — fatherless
and motherless. A new home was now prepared for
her reception, and an almost new mode of life was
set out for her. She went from the narrow and humble
dwelling of a country clergyman to a large and stately
family mansion, the residence of her mother's family,
whom, indeed, she had occasionally visited, and whom
she knew about as well as the eye of the unskilful
knows a statue. The family consisted of Sir William
Kennett, her mother's brother, and his lady — a cold,
quiet, and formal couple, who seemed to have been
stupified by the study of propriety, and who had
scarcely any will of their own, or indeed any wish to
have a will. The ruling spirit of the mansion was
Lucy's maternal grandmother, the Lady Sarah Kennett,
who from a noble family had condescended to ally her-
self to the semi-nobility of a baronet, and who, think-
ing that condescension had gone far enough, did never
cordially forgive her daughter for having married an
undistinguished clergyman. Lady Sarah was a most
extraordinary woman, proud in spirit, but with no
bustling haughtiness ; commanding, but with no impe-
riousness of manner ; exquisitely accurate and precise
as to all the superficial formalities of life, her god was
the world's eye, and her religion was conformity to the
dictates of society. She had, indeed, none of the activity
of unkindness, nor any of the spirit of kindness. She

THE INTERCEPTED LEFfER. 7

could not speak to the heart, for she was scarcely sensi-
ble of the existence of a heart, save as a physical
apparatus by which the blood is propelled through the
veins ; the style of her intellect was cleverness, that
external kind of wisdom which the lightly thinking
world can easily see and can glibly praise, — a manifest
exhibition, though not a fidgetty ostentation of ability.
There are some persons who carry their hearts in their
eyes ; so there are others whose wisdom rises to the
surface, glances in the eye, dances on the tongue,
and modulates every movement of the frame ; and there
is nothing which so much and so completely drives
wisdom to the surface as an ambition to rule, govern
and manage others ; for on what principle can we
presume to direct the movements of others, but by the
possession of superior wisdom 1 — and how can we
convince others of our wisdom unless we take especial
care to let them see it 1 I^ady Sarah Kennett had ruled
from infancy. She had by a no very diificult dexterity
contrived to have her own way even in childhood ; and
in youth she had governed her parents, she had go-
A'erned her husband, she had governed her children,
arid now she was prepared to govern her grandchild,
and perhaps to exercise over her a stricter discipline
of subjection, in consideration and in memory of her
mother's partial disobedience.

When I<ucy entered Kennett Hall as her future home,
her first thought was of the pleasure with which she
had been accustomed to quit that region of frigidity,
after the short and formal visits which she had made

8 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

there with lier father, and at this painful reminiscence
the tears fell from her eyes as freely as the drops of
rain from a summer cloud. A certain quantity of sor-
row even the accurate and sensible Lady Sarah Ken-
nett would allow to the mourner who bewailed the
death of her parent ; but there was a point beyond
which weeping seemed to her ladyship to be excessive,
and therefore improper. Alas, alas ! how strangely
domineering are mankind over each other's hearts ;
presuming to regulate and measure out the various ex-
pressions of joy and sorrow ; sometimes blaming excess
and sometimes reproving defect, as though it were in
the power of the mind and will to feel or not to feel.
Nothing could be more true than the remarks which
Lady Sarah made, or rather repeated on the subject of
human sorrow ; so true were they that they have stood
the test of ages, and have been repeated till all the
world knows them by heart ; but with all their truth
they are totally ineffective in suppressing those tears
which flow from a wounded spirit. Poor Lucy, in hav-
ing lost her father, had lost all that she had loved
in the world, and all that loved her. True indeed it is,
that her father's parishioners, from the highest to tfie
lowest had esteemed, liked, respected, yes, and had
even loved her according to their fashion, and she also
had with a human and christian sympathy loved them ;
but when her father was gonp she had lost her home-
love ; her heart was as a city broken down, and with-
out walls ; it dwelt in a fenceless solitude, and shivered
in the wilderness of society. Kind words indeed were

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. i*

spoken to her, but there was nothing kind but the
words ; they were modulated by formality, not melo-
dized by affection ; they were spoken rather by heart
than from the heart. But the truly good are never
entirely unhappy ; for it is one essential of goodness
that it thinks humbly of itself, and as it does not
highly rate its deserts, it does not highly raise its ex-
pectations. Gratefully, therefore, did Lucy receive
all that even looked like kindness or assumed the as-
pect of affection, and she sought with much diligence
for something amiable and loveable in her grandmo-
ther, her uncle and her aunt ; and she dwelt with delight
on the few bright spots that she could find, however
small they might be. So they who love gold dig
deeply for it into the earth, and for the sake of a few
grains of that which is so precious, they will sift and
search over mountains of saud. But Lucy was not
happy ; her father's place was not supplied, the memory
of him cleaved strongly to her heart, and the image
of him who was not, became dearer to her than the
presence and the sight of those who were. Though she
was not happy, so far as buoyant cheerfulness is the
manifestation of happiness, yet she gradually grew so
accustomed to her sorrowful recollections that she took
a mournful pleasure in them. Some persons enjoy
laughter, some enjoy tears — some take pleasure in the
society of the living, and some in the memory of the

Now the time came that Lucy should lay aside her
mourning garments, and this she did with much re-

lU THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

luctance, for it was like parting with a memorial of
her beloved father. Her form was graceful and her
figure good, so that she well became whatever dress
she wore, and, as her education had been rather mental
than bodily, she was by no means studious of orna-
ment ; yet a well tempered mind superinduced a kind
of instinctive propriety in dress, which converted neat-
ness itself into the highest degree of ornament. A
change of habit naturally draws and fixes observation,
and Lucy's fine person irresistibly attracted the atten-
tion, and commanded the admiration of her frigid rela-
tives. As Sir William Kennett was childless, Lucy was
presumptive heiress to the estate ; therefore she was
regarded by her kindred with some degree of pride as
being nearer to them than she would have been had
there been any other probable inheritors of the pro-
perty. The pride which Lady Sarah Kennett felt in
her grand- daughter differed from the feeling with which
the young lady had been regarded by her father : his
was the pride of his own approbation ; hers was the
pride in the admiration of others. Every where was
Lucy exhibited by her grandmother with all a grand-
mother's pride, and many were the gratifying compli-
ments paid to the clergyman's orphan child. Since
the decease of Mr. llushton, indeed. Lady Sarah
Kennett regarded her grand-daughter with an increased
feeling of approbation, — affection it must not be call-
ed, for her ladyship was totally incapable of any such
feeling ; but she viewed her now as more immediately
connected with her own family. There was, however.

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 11

to Lucy a great bitterness in the thought of her grand-
mother's increased kindness ; for the young lady could
plainly enough discern that she had formerly been
treated with distant coldness on her father's account; and
that now she was beloved only because her father was re-
moved : she could not sympathize with, and return that
love, for much of her heart was in her father's grave.

Kennett Hall was not a place of great festivity. It
pleased Lady Sarah that her son Sir William should
not open his house miscellaneously to a multitude of
visitors, but that with due decorum and well managed
condescension, the select few should be admitted to
visit at the Hall. This select few was a numerous
company compared to the society to which Lucy had
been accustomed in her father's time ; but scarcely any
of the visitors had paid much attention to her, for such
was the governing power of Lady Sarah, that she not
only ruled over all the inmates of her house, but her
despotism extended even to her visitors, who, by the
way, were rather her son's visitors than hers ; but her
son was a mere shadow — the actual master of the house
was virtually a cypher. Lady Sarah seemed to think
that so long as Lucy wore her mourning there was so
far some connexion kept up with the memory of her
father ; but when the garments of sorrow were laid
aside, then it seemed as though the memory of the
dead was buried in the grave that held his mortal
body. Then Lady Sarah began to patronize her grand-
daughter, and she gave her visitors leave also to notice
the young lady.

12 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

Amongst the visitors admitted to Kennett Hall was
Mr. Rushton's successor, the Rev. Henry Calvert,
whose first visit was paid about two months after the
decease of Mr. Rushton, and whose second visit, for
he was invited annually, was about two months after
Lucy had laid aside her mourning. At his first visit,
like a modest young scholar, he scarcely spoke but
when he was spoken to, and seldom was a word at
table uttered save by Lady Sarah herself, or by her
ladyship's express ■ — and almost expressed — permis-
sion; the talk had been languid common-place, a thing
which Mr. Calvert had not studied, and in which
therefore he was not very able to shine. At his second
visit, however, the ice of the Hall was broken, and
Lucy was regarded as one of the party, and permission
was given to any guest to address her as such, and her
grandmother no longer awed her into silence by a
transient frown, or crushed her into insignificance by
drawing away the attention of the person with whom
she might have ventured to enter into conversation.
Lady Sarah, we have said, was a clever woman, very,
very, very clever — but notwithstanding her extreme
cleverness she was not altogether without understand-
ing ; there are some persons, as the reader must know,
whose whole substance of intellect is altogether
whipped up into the froth of cleverness, and who have
no substratum of understanding at all ; but this was
not absolutely the case with Lady Sarah, for though
her cleverness was by far the preponderating quality
of her mind, yet she had understanding enough to dis-

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER, 13

tinguish between a man of sense and a simjjleton ;
and an immense deal of cleverness with a little under-
standing goes much farther in this world of ours, than
a great profundity of understanding garnished with
only a slight degree of cleverness. Her ladyship, there-
fore, discerned at Mr. Calvert's second visit, that he
was really a man of good understanding ; and for the
sake of displaying her grand-daughter's erudition and
intellect, she permitted Lucy to make a third in the
party of conversation, leaving Sir William and his
lady to talk common-place talk with the more common-
place part of the party. Lady Sarah Kennett, alas !
forgot, if she had ever known, that men's hearts are
lost through the eye, and women's through the ear.
She thought that love was to be made only in a dual
solitude, — in shady groves, in moonlight walks, in
sighing tete-a-tetes, by pressing hands and palpitating
hearts. Even metaphysics, the driest and most un-
profitable of all topics of speculation and talk, may be
made the means of making love, and that without any
degree whatever of art or artifice. The young clergy-
man had not the slighest intention in the world of
winning the heart of Lucy Rushton, nor had he any
thought that he should lose his own ; but he was de-
lighted for the first time in his life to bring into a
pleasant and polite publicity the result of his many
meditations and his much learning. He now for the
first time felt that he had not studied in vain, that his
mind was really enlarged, that he had thought justly
as well as diligently, amiably as well as profoundly.

14 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

The listening ear, and the approving voice of one tliat
understands, that appreciates, that is manifestly de-
lighted with the thoughts that are uttered, and the
graceful language with which they are clothed, give
an impulse to the expression of intellect, and bring
into sight treasures of knowledge and mental science,
of the extent of which the professor himself was
scarcely aware. Never is a young and ambitious
student more delighted than when he is astonished at
himself, and seems almost to look up to his own wisdom
with respect; and, pleased as he is with himself, he is
even better pleased with those who make him so.
Then, of course, all tbat is amiable in his disposition
and feelings begins to display itself, not with any con-
scious ostentation, but with a pleasant simplicity of
unguarded impulse ; his goodness of heart is not
studiously protruded to catch applause, but seems
rather betrayed than exhibited ; the lead that is cast
into the depths of his mind to bring up the soundings
of wisdom, has also cleaving to it the pearls of moral
beauty. And the pleased listener, especially if a gentle
young female, mentally exclaims, *' What treasures
of wisdom and goodness that heart possesses !" — For,
if by the rudeness of contradiction and the obstinacy
of opposition, the mind of the wise man is provoked
into the folly of anger, heat, and a loud intemperance
of speech, — by a parity of principle, when its apho-
risms are received with respectful attention, and when
its oracles are listened to as the voice of truth modu-
lated by the music of beauty, then all that is amiable

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 15

in the heart must involuntarily shew itself. So, step
by step, when there is no suspicion, and no intention
on either side, an exchange of hearts is made. While
Henry Calvert was discoursing with a deep and earn-
est eloquence, blending in his conversation philosophi-
cal analysis with christian faith and human kindness,
though he addressed himself more to the elder than to
the younger lady, and though Lucy said but little, yet
her pretty eyes were bright with a liquid splendour,
which any slight touch of pathos might have condensed
into an actual tear ; her pleased lips stood tremblingly
apart, telling of a rapturous approbation which was too
deep for words. At the living light of that counte-
nance, at the applause which gleamed in its every
movement, tlie young speaker grew more eloquent and
more impressive.

Lady Sarah Kennett, while listening with delight to
the animated and intelligent talk of the young divine, had
not the remotest idea that her grand-daughter had any
other interest in the conversation than in its truth and
wisdom. The careful grandmother would not, on any
account, have suffered these two young ])ersons to pass
an hour together, with no other company than their
own; but she very readily and unsuspectingly gave
opportunity to the parties to recommend themselves
to each other, far more effectually than they could or
would have done by any rambling and strolling to-
gether in groves and lawns. Lovers do not become such
by having no other society than their own ; but when
they have selected each other from the herd, it is then

16 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

that they love to be by themselves: more hearts are lost
and won in society than in retirement. In the hours
of solitude there is a recollection of what has passed
in society ; for while society obliterates the thoughts of
solitude, solitude corroborates the impressions of
society. Young ladies do not go to balls to realize
their dreams ; but they often go home and dream of
what they have seen at a ball. And so far as the
fascinations of a cultivated mind and an amiable dis-
position are of force to gain a female heart, these
are never so effectually displayed as in conversation
where the listeners are many, and where looks of ap-
probation are abounding. The mind as well as the
body is dressed for company ; it chooses its best
thoughts, it exhibits them to the best advantage, it
conceals all that might tell against it, and it sets forth
all that there is recommendatory about it. Generally
speaking, also, there is seldom much love where there
is no pride in the object loved ; and when a young and
susceptible mind sees others admire what it admires,
then is its admiration increased, and in a female heart
admiration is often the bud to love's blossom.

An impression had now been made on the heart of
Lucy Rushton, of the nature of which she was her-
self quite unconscious and unsuspicious. Ten thou-
sand pretty and pleasant thoughts were starting up,
and dancing on the surface of her soul, like the bub-
bles which a sunlit summer shower makes on the
bosom of a gentle stream. When she retired to rest
that night, she had no weariness on her eyelids, and no

i

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 17

inclination for sleep ; but what it was that kept her
awake she knew not, nor did she care to enquire, for
she was very happy, and had no wish to destroy her
happiness by any attempt to analyse it. She was
pleased with the world, and with all that it contained ;
she felt that all things were governed and guided
by an unerring wisdom. Through the casement
of her apartment, she looked out upon a scene as
beautiful as moon, and stars, light clouds, and graceful
vegetation could make. She thought it a pity to close
the eye in sleep, when there was so much loveliness
of heaven and earth to gaze upon. The night-wind
sighed among the old trees in the park, and as they
bent their broad branches to the passing breeze, they
seemed instinct with consciousness and life. There
shone in the light of the moon tlie spire of the village
church, and it called to her memory the not far distant
church in which her father had laboured with a pious
and successful zeal. Tears sprang up as she thought
of her departed parents, but those tears were so de-
lightful that she felt as if religion sanctified and
Heaven approved of them. She thought of those cot-
tages in which she had once been a welcome visitor,
where her lips had spoken consolation, and her hands
liad brought relief. She thought of the aged whom
she had left upon the brink of the grave, and to whom
her dear father had administered those words of ever-
lasting truth which should be their guide through the
dark valley of the shadow of death. Thus, much of
the time usually devoted to rest passed away in a
c3

18 THE INTEIICEPTED EETTEIl.

delirium of tearful joy and pleasant meditation, in
which the mind roved bee-like from thought to thought,
and found something sweet in each. Henry Calvert,
in the philosophic and eloquent talk of the preceding
day, had spoken much and powerfully in illustration
of the gojodriess of the Deity, bringing new illustrations
with a truth as striking as their novelty ; and in the
recollection of these illustrations, Lucy felt a delight
so pure, and so pious, that she thought that never be-
fore had the true principle of religion taken so firm a
hold on her mind.

Lady Sarah Kennett was subject in no small degree
to that infirmity which so frequently attacks clever
people ; she was highly susceptible of flattery, espe-
cially from persons whom she considered to possess
understanding. Common praise from common-place
people she affected altogether to despise, desiring only
the intellectual homage of the intellectually powerful
and distinguished ; not perhaps considering that praise
is most readily and most liberally bestowed by the best
and most accomplished minds ; for it requires a very
inferior degree of mental capacity to find faults, but
it is the privilege of the highest to discover beauties.
Mr. Calvert had pleased Lady Sarah's vanity ; he had,
without saying a word of personal or direct compli-
ment, addressed conversation to her of such a nature
and in such a style as evidently gave her credit for
possessing a mind of superior order. She was highly
grateful for the compliment ; and in order to show her
gratitude she resolved to do Mr. Calvert the honour of

I HE IMERCEPTED LETTER. 19

going to his church to Lear Jiim preach. The distance
was three miles, the day was splendidly fine : Lucy
and her grandmother went in an open carriage. Mr.
Calvert preached as he had talked : his discourse was
the result of deep thought and of right feeling ; he did
not drag his hearers down to the bewildering depths
of an unprofitable profundity, but he brought up for
them and made manifest to them those truths which
they could reach and appreciate when brought to the
surface, but which they might not have discovered for
themselves.

Before the service was over the beauty of the day
had departed ; ' a little cloud like a man's hand' had
raised up its rapidly growing strength from the western
horizon, and had spread its dewy curtain over the face
of the sky, and was now pouring its liquid treasures in
rich profusion on the well pleased earth. When Lucy
arrived at the church porch, holding her grandmother's
arm, and saw the door of the parsonage-house not many
paces from where she stood, and perceived that the
rain was not likely soon to abate, her heart bounced
and throbbed like a pet lamb bounding to free itself
from the silken thread in which its tender mistress
holds it. Her lovely countenance displayed a pretty
confusion as she looked at Lady Sarah Kennett as much
as to say, "What a pleasant pity it is that we must
take shelter at the parsonage." With such a heavv
shower of rain as this there certainly ought by rights
to have been some forked lightning and pealing thun-
der, in order that Lucy might have iainted away, —

20 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

in order that Mr. Calvert might have carried her into
the house in his arms, — in order that in the confusion
their lips or cheeks might have met, — in order that
Lucy might have blushed when she recovered from her
swoon, — in order that they might have vowed eternal
fidelity, and all that sort of thing. But there was nei-
ther lightning nor thunder, nor anything more terrible
than a Iieavy rain, which was as welcome to Lucy's
heart as it was to the parched ground and the thirsty
trees.

Mr. Calvert made himself quite as agreeable in his
own house as he had been at Kennett Hall ; he was
eloquent with the same eloquence, not indeed with the
repetition of the same thoughts, but with the same
kind of sincere, deep-searching, and truly religious
philosophy that finds good and the truth in all things.
So pleased was Lady Sarah with the young divine,
that she forgot the proud disdain with which she had
been formerly accustomed to look down upon his pre-
decessor, her son-in-law, and she now indulged and
gratified Lucy by speaking of her father ; and then
the young lady made anxious enquiries concerning the
poor people of the village, and she was pleased when
she found that though they had lost one friend and
benefactor, yet God in his good providence had raised
them up another equally kind to relieve, and equally
faithful to instruct them. It is a truly astonishing
thing, and altogether unaccountable, yet so it is, that
notwithstanding Lady Sarah Kennett was herself
almost in love with Mr. Calvert, vet she never had

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 21

the slightest suspicion that her grand-daughter might
also be captivated with the charms of his conversation
and the amiable qualities of his mind. And though
she was pleased to think that the new vicar was pleased
with herself, yet it never entered her mind that he
mightbe quite as much pleased with her grand -daughter,
and perhaps rather more ; for, in the eyes of a young
man, youth and beauty are a very pleasant addition
and a very strong recommendation to female intellect.
Much there is that passes before our eyes that we
never see, because we never suspect it. Eyes are very
useful things withal, but they do not amount to much
unless there be a proper head to use them. Lady
Sarah Kennett had not the remotest idea that all the
eloquent truths that were spoken to her, were spoken
for her grand-daughter ; her ladyship was not aware
how much she was indebted for Mr. Calvert's amiable
sagacity to Lucy's lovely looks and sweetly approving
eyes.

The rain abated and the evening was fine ; Lucy and
her grandmother returned to the hall, admiring the im-
proved appearance of the earth after the shower ; and
Lucy felt that the visit which she had paid to the home
of her early youth, had been as refreshing as the rain
to the dry ground. After this, Mr. Calvert called at
the hall to enquire how the ladies got home. The pro-
bability was that they got home safely enough, and
pleasantly too, for they had a very good carriage,
steady horses, a sober coachman, admirable roads, a fine
evening, plenty of time, and only three miles to travel.

22 THE INTEIICEPTED LETTER.

But Lady Sarali Kennett received the vicar so cour-
teously that he could not but soon call again ; and, upon
every repetition of his visit, his company seemed more
and more agreeable.

Mr. Calvert was delighted to find himself on such
good terms at the hall, and he never paid a visit there
without discerning new beauties in the mind of Lucy
Rushton. Long, very long after her heart was wholly
his, he was taking great pains to win it, doing, saying
and looking every thing that was amiable. But the
worst of the matter was, that he could never find an
opportunity of being alone with her. He was sure
that his visits to the hall were acceptable to Lady Sarah
Kennett, who was both master and mistress, without
any right to be either the one or the other ; and he
began also to think that he was not altogether unwel-
come in the sight of Lucy. More than once he medi-
tated to speak on the topic which most deeply inter-
ested him to Lady Sarah herself, but there was an
equal difficulty in finding an opportunity to speak to her
alone ; for the grand-mother and the grand -daughter
seemed insepararable when he was at the hall. The two
ladies so liked his company that they were resolved to
have as much of it as they possibly could : this was
highly flattering, but it was also deeply perplexing. To
speak to Sir William Kennett would have amounted to
as much as speaking to the butler ; for the worthv
baronet was as nobody in his own house, and was
well content to leave the administration of affuirs in
the hands which so long had held the reins. There

THE INTEUCEPTED LETTER. 23

was therefore no other alternative than writing. Writ-
ing is not the hest mode of making love, hut when no
other mode can be found there is no help for it.

When the present Sir William Kennet was a child,
it was thought advisible by his most vigilant and
clever mother, that he should read nothing either
printed or written, but that which had previously
received her special licence and approbation ; hence it
came to pass, that all letters addressed to the young
gentleman, were perused by the mother, before they
were entrusted to the hands of her son. Through the
indolence of the baronet, and the adhesiveness with
which the dowager clung to every manifestation of
power ; this practice still continued ; and the servants
in the establishment were always in the habit of carry-
ing all letters first to Lady Sarah, through whose hands
they reached their ultimate destination, opened, or un-
opened, as her curiosity prompted, or indifference with-
held her. A letter being delivered into the hands of her
ladyship, for Miss Lucy Rushton, was an excitement
of curiosity too strong to be resisted. The letter was
opened ; it was perused with avidity, and astonishment,
— with anger, and almost with a deeper feeling still ; —
the dowager trembled exceedingly when she felt, as
she certainly did, though she affected to deny it to her-
self, that she was actually jealous of her grand-daughter.
On what ground, and with what justice Lady Sarah
Kennett could be angry with her grand-daughter, be-
cause a young gentleman of good understanding and
amiable disposition had thought proper to make

24 THE IKTERCEPTED LETTER.

her an offer of his hand, it is impossible for us to say.
There was nothing in the letter which at all implicated
the young lady, as having given any encouragement
to the suitor ; but all was modest, diffident, humble,
and tremulously respectful. He laid his heart and
fortune at her feet, though that did not amount to
much — for his fortune was small, and his heart was not
his own. But it was a love-letter, — and in the eyes
of the aged it is always an unpardonable sin for young
persons to write or to receive love-letters.

Now, it seemed necessary that Lady Sarah should
proceeed, in most grand -motherly magnificence and
judicial pomp of manner, to summon before her the
wicked culprit, and pass sentence of condemnation
on the criminal, who had been guilty of the high of-
fence of having a letter written to her by a gentleman.
Passing therefore into her own dressing-room, with as
much stateliness and loftiness of bearing as if the
mace-bearer and the sword-bearer preceded her, and
the train-bearer followed her, Lady Sarah Kennett
rang her bell twice for her own maid, to whom, with
due solemnity, she gave it in charge to tell Miss
Rushton's maid to infonn Miss Rushton that her
presence was immediately required in her ladyship's
dressing room. All this was done ; and Lucy, light
of heart, calm as purity, and cheerful as innocence,
presented herself to her grandmother, wondering what
could be the mighty matter. The cheerfulness of her
spirit, however, suddenly abated, and the lightness of
her innocent looks was exchanged for a blank astonish-

I

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 25

ment, when she saw upon her grandmother's brow a
gathering cloud of thunder, — her lips compressed, the
comers of her mouth drawn down, as she sat in awful
state, waiting the approach of the young transgressor.
Lucy paused for a moment, as she entered the room,
as if afraid of the wrath which was but too manifest
in the expression of her ladyship's countenance.

" Come hither, child !" said Lady Sarah, in a most
terrible tone of voice.

Lucy was then as much afraid to remain at a dis-
tance, as she had before been to approach her venerable
grandmother. With prompt obedience to the call, the
young lady having closed the door of the apartment,
drew near with a trembling and uncertain apprehen-
sion ; and holding down her head, as if afraid to meet
the angry gaze of her stern and haughty kinswoman, she
saw in her ladyship's hand a letter, the superscription
of which bore the name of Miss Rushton, The letter
was open . — Now, there are some young ladies of
twenty years of age, or thereabouts, who would not
patiently endure to have letters which had been ad-
dressed to themselves opened by their grandmothers ;
but Lucy Rushton was not one of these ; she had known
but two positions, in neither of which she had been led,
or tempted to the sin of resistance : — under her father's
roof, and under his dominion, there was no command
that she wished to disobey ; love held her in obedience ;
— under her grandmother's roof, there was no com-
mand that she dared to disobey ; fear held her in obe-
dience : — so, under the opposite influences of love and

26 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

fear, she had been altogether withheld from the strug-
gles of resistance. We cannot account for the fact, but
we know that it is so, — that certain very clever and
managing persons, who have the care of young persons
committed to their charge, are in the habit of behaving
towards them much after the manner in which a cat
behaves to a mouse. For, when a cat catches a
mouse with an intention of killing and eating it, she
does not immediately and directly proceed to the work
of murder and mastication, but she keeps the poor
creature for a while in miserable suspense, tossing,
and tumbling, and mumbling it about ; so these clever
folks, when they are fortunate enough to catch a young
person in any fault or transgression, do not in a straight-
forward way proceed to reprove the offender, and to
remedy the offence, but they bother, and bepreachify,
lecture, prose, prate, talk, and mystify, till the poor
victim writhes with impatience, and almost faints
with mere vexation. After this manner did Lady
Sarah lecture her granddaughter. Lucy saw a letter
addressed to herself ; but who had written it, what it
contained, or why it made her grandmother look so
awful, she could not possibly divine ; — but because
her ladyship looked very angry, therefore the grand-
daughter looked humble. Lady Sarah began her
lecture, by speaking of the duty which children owed
to their parents and guardians ; she then proceeded to
speak of the great decorum of all the Kennett family ;
how, when young, they had submitted themselves to
be guided by their parents and their elders ; how that

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 27

the present Sir William Kennett never thought of
having a will of his own, in opposition to the will of
his mother; how that every successive generation grew
worse and worse ; how that the young people of the
present day seemed disposed to turn the world upside
down ; how that young ladies, especially, forgetful of
the modesty and retiring diffidence which had graced
the spinsterhood of their grandmothers, instead of
repelling the addresses of the other sex, rather en-
couraged and invited them. Then followed a great
deal of talk about the gravity that became the daughter
of a clergyman, interspersed with conjectures as to
what might have been the system of moral discipline
pursued by Lucy's father. At the mention of her
father's name, her heart swelled as if it would burst,
and she wept copiously ; — at sight of these tears,
the old lady became more eloquent, and more didactic ;
and Lucy continued sobbing, and was unable to speak ;
though she very much wished to know what was the
meaning of all this, for at present all was wrapped in
profound mystery.

In the art of ingeniously tormenting, care must be
always taken that, when the patient has been softened
into tears, the irritation be not carried on so long that
the tears become dried up, and hardened into cold in-
difference, or warmed into an angry resistance. Lady
Sarah Kennett had one to deal with, who could cer-
tainly bear a great deal, but there is a limit beyond
which patience itself cannot go. Aware of this, her
ladyship thought it now advisable to come more di-

28 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

rectly to the heavy charge which she had to bring
against her grand-daughter. Presenting therefore to
her the superscription of the letter, she said, " Do you
know whose hand-writing is this?"

"No, madam," was the sobbing reply.

"And I suppose," rejoined the grandmother, " that
you cannot conjecture whose it is V

" Indeed I cannot ;" said Lucy.

One of the most frequently inculcated maxims,
which Lucy had heard from the lips of her beloved
father, was the value and importance of a strict and
hearty adherence to truth. Now, just at this moment
it occurred to her, though she could scarcely tell why,
but it certainly did come into her mind, that it was
possible that the letter might have been written by
Mr. Calvert ; and the moment that she had this suspi-
cion, she felt that it was a duty which she owed to the
majesty of truth to confess even her suspicions ; there-
fore she said with a little hesitation, — with that slow-
ness of utterance which seems to indicate an almost
improbable theory, — " unless it be from Mr. Calvert."

At hearing this, the countenance of Lady Sarah Ken-
nett exhibited a change by no means for the better ; the
redness of indignation was added to the ruggedness of
anger, and suddenly she exclaimed, " From Mr. Cal-
vert ! From Mr. Calvert ! What right had you to
expect a letter from Mr. Calvert V

'• I have no right to expect any letter from Mr. Cal-
vert," replied Lucy ; " but you asked me if I could
conjecture from whom it came, and I know of no one

THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. 29

else at all likely to write to me, and I am sure I can-
not imagine what Mr. Calvert should have to write to
me about."

"Pray Miss Rushton," said Lady Sarah, almost
angry with herself for the indignation which she had
betrayed, " may I make bold to ask what encourage-
ment you have given Mr. Calvert to address to you
a letter of this kind? I am sure that he never would
have written such a letter, had he not known that it
would meet with a welcome reception."

Now, Lucy understood the subject of the letter
perfectly well, and she was covered with blushes, and
was tremulous with a mighty confusion, so that for a
a while she could not speak ; but when she had re-
covered her self-possession, she replied, — "I am not
conscious of having given Mr. Calvert any encourage-
ment whatever. Indeed, I never saw or spoke to him
but in your ladyship's presence."

Her ladyship was then somewhat angry again, and
rather tartly replied, "Yes, yes, — I believe I was
rather in the way ; this letter seems to intimate as
much. I spoiled your pleasant meetings by my un-
welcome company."

" Nay, madam," answered Lucy, " I considered Mr.
Calvert's visits paid to you, and not to me."

• "So did I," said Lady Sarah, somewhat sharply.

• "I thought that it was for the pleasure of your
ladyship's conversation," continued Lucy, " that Mr.
Calvert made his calls so frequent."

" So did I," again her ladyship replied ; "and you

30 THE INTERCEPTED LETTER.

also seemed to enjoy the pleasure of his conversation ;
for you were never absent when he was here."

With much simplicity of heart and purity of
thought, Lucy replied, " I am sure that I would have
withdrawn had I thought my presence an intrusion."

Her ladyship started, and said, "What?" — There
was no disguising the matter from herself ; it was as
clear as light that Lady Sarah Kennett was jealous of
her grand-daughter j but fortunately for her ladyship's
peace of mind, she found that her secret was her own,
and she discovered it just in time to keep it so. She
struggled with herself for a few minutes ; then rising
from her seat, she put the letter into her grand-daugh-
ter's hands, saying in a very altered tone, — *' Take the
letter, my dear, and answer it."

" How shall I answer it?" said Lucy in a sweet
confusion.

*' Answer it as you think it ought to be answered,"
said her grandmother . " Mr, Calvert is an amiable and
a worthy man."

Lucy took the letter and answered it ; but neither
letter nor answer shall be given here, lest they should
find their way into the polite letter-writer ; for they
were both much superior in style to those which
appear in that work on the same topic. Suffice it to
say, that the letter was so answered, that, after the
lapse of a few months, it was absolutely impossible for
Mr. Calvert to marry Lady Sarah Kennett, seeing that,
by Scripture and our law, a man may not marry his
wife's grandmother.

31

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO.

(Beggar-girl.)
Thirteen years ago, mother,

A little child had you ;
Its limbs were light, its voice was soft,

Its eyes were — oh, so blue !
It was your last, your dearest.

And you said, when it was born.
It cheered away your widowhood.

And made you unforlorn.

Thirteen years ago, mother.

You loved that little child,
Although its temper wayward was.

And its will so strong and wild ;
You likened it to the free bird.

That flies to the woods to sing.
To the river fair, the unfettered air.

And many a pretty thing.

Thirteen years ago, mother,
The world was in its youth :

There was no past ; and the all to come
Was Hope, and Love, and Truth.-

32 THIRTEEN YEARS AGO.

The dawn came dancing onwards,

The day was ne'er too long,
And every night had a faery sight.

And every voice a song.

Thirteen years ago, mother.

Your child was an infant small,
But she grew, and budded, and bloomed, at last,

Like the rose on your garden wall.
Ah, the rose that you loved was trod on, —

Your child was lost in shame,
And never since hath she met your smile,

And never heard your name !

( Widow. y
Be dumb, thou gipsey slanderer,

What is my child to thee ?
What are my troubles — what myjoj'S ?

Here, take these pence, and flee !
If thou witt frame a story

Which speaks of me or mine.
Go say you found me singing, girl.

In the merry sun- shine.

(Beggar-girl.)
Thirteen years ago, mother.

The sun shone on your wall :
He shineth now through the winter's mist,

Or he shineth not at all.

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO. 33

You laughed then, and your little one

Ran round with merry feet :
To day, you hide your eyes in tears,

And I — am in the street !

(^Widow.)
Ah, God ! — what frightful spasm

Runs piercing through my heart !
It cannot be my bright one,

So pale — so worn ; — Depart !
Depart — yet no, come hither!

Here ! hide thee in my breast I
I see thee again, — again / — and I

Am once more with the bless'd !

(Beggar-girL)
Ay, — gaze ! — 'Tis I, indeed , mother,

Your loved, — your lost, — your child !
The rest o' the bad world scorn me.

As a creature all defiled :
But you — you'll take me home, mother ? .

And I — (tho' the grave seems nigh,)
I'll bear up still ; and for your sake,

I'll struggle — not to die !

B. C.

34

THE FATE OF THE OAK.

The Owl to her mate is calling ;

The River his hoarse song sings ;
But the Oak is marked for falling.

That has stood for a hundred springs.
Hark ! a blow, — and a dull sound follows ;

A second, — he bows his head ;
A third, — and the wood's dark hollows

Now know that their king is dead.

His arms from their trunk are riven, —

His body all barked and squared, —
And he's now, like a felon, driven.

In chains to the strong dock-yard.
He's sawn through the middle, and turned,

For the ribs of a frigate free.
And he's caulked, and pitched, and burned ;

And now — he is fit for sea !

Oh ! now, — with his wings outspread.
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be,)

He will triumph again, though dead.
And be dreaded in every sea.

THE FATE OF THE OAK. 35

The lightning will blaze about.

And wrap him in flaming pride.
And the thunder-loud cannon will shout.

In the fight, from his bold broad-side.

And when he has fought, — and won,

And been honoured from shore to shore.
And his journey on earth is done, —

Why, what can he ask for more 1
There is nought that a king can claim.

Or a poet, or warrior bold.
Save a rhyme, and a short-lived name,

And to mix with the common mould !

B.C.

THE HISTORY OF A LIFE.

Day dawned. Within a curtained room,
Filled, to faintness, with perfume,
A lady lay, at point of doom.

Day closed, A child had seen the light :
But for the lady, fair and bright,
-STje rested in undreamins: nisrht!

36 IHE HISTORY OF A LIFE.

Springs came. The lady's grave was green ;
And, near it, often-times was seen
A gentle boy, with thoughtful mien.

Years fled. He wore a manly face,
And struggled in the world's rough race.
And won, at last, a lofty place.

And then — he died ! . . . Behold, before ye.
Humanity's poor sum and story ; —
Life,— Death, — ■ and (all that is of) Glory.

B.C.

ON THE TOMB OF ABELARD AND ELOISA

O'er this pale stone let Love and Beauty weep.
For here the wrecks of mighty passion sleep.
Here, where no jealous pang, no tyrant hand.
Can break, O Love, thy sweet, and bitter band j
Lies Abelard's by Eloisa's heart ;
One to the last, not even in death to part !
Here, where the wounded spirit bleeds no more.
Their pilgrimage of life and love is o'er.

37

SALTZBURG.

On Salza's quiet tide the westering sun

Gleams mildly ; and the lengthening shadows dun.

Chequered with ruddy streaks from spire and roof,

Begin to weave fair twilight's mystic woof.

Till the dim tissue, like a gorgeous veil,

Wraps the proud city, in her beauty pale.

A minute since, and in the rosy light

Dome, casement, spire, were glowing warm and bright ;

A minute since, St. Rupert's stately shrine.

Rich with the spoils of many a Hartzwald mine,*

Flung back the golden glow : now, broad and vast.

The shadows from yon ancient fortress cast.

Like the dark grasp of some barbaric power.

Their leaden empire stretch o'er roof and tower.

Sweet is the twilight hour by Salza's strand,
Though no Arcadian visions grace tiie land :
Wakes not a sound that floats not sweetly by,
While day's last beams upon the landscape die ;

* The dome of the Cathedral of St. Hubert is covered with copper ; and
there arc many altars and shrines in the interior constructed of diiferent
sorts of marble, brought from quarries in the vicinity. St. Hubert, to
whom the Cathedral is dedicated, was by birth a Scotchman.

38 SALTZBURG.

Low cLants the fisher where the waters pour,
And murmuring voices melt along the shore ;
The plash of waves comes softly from the side
Of passing barge slow gliding o'er the tide ;
And there are sounds from city, field, and hill,
Shore, forest, flood j yet mellow all and still.

But change we now the scene, ere night descend.
And through St. Rupert's massive portal wend.
Full many a shrine, bedeckt with sculpture quaint
Of steel-clad knight and legendary saint ;
Full many an altar, where the incense-cloud
Kose with the pealing anthem, deep and loud ;
And pavements worn before each marble fane
By knees devout — (ah ! bent not all in vain ! )
There greet the gaze ; with statues, richly wrought,
And noble paintings, from Ausonia brought, —
Planned by those master minds whose memory stands
The grace, the glory, of their native lands.
As the hard granite, 'midst some softer stone,
Starts from the mass, unbuttressed and alone.
And proudly rears its iron strength for aye,
While crumbling crags around it melt away ;
So, midst the ruins of long eras gone.
Creative Genius holds his silent throne, —
While lesser lights grow dim, — august, sublime.
Gigantic looming o'er the gulfs of Time !

J.R.

39

THE CLIENT'S STORY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SPAIN IN 1830," &C.

It was late one Saturday evening in December, when
I received a letter, which, on opening, I found to be
from Walter Moreton : and the purport of the letter
was, to request my immediate presence at Cambridge,
in the capacity both of a friend and of a lawyer. The
letter concluded thus: ** Do not delay your journey
many hours after receiving this. My urgency will be
explained by the change you will perceive in yours,
Walter Moreton."

I had known Walter Moreton in youth, and in man-
hood : we had been intimate, without having been al-
together friends ; and the attraction which his company
possessed for me, arose rather from the shrewdness of
his remarks than from any sympathy of feeling betwixt
us. Of late years, I had seen comparatively little of
Moreton : I knew that he had married ; that he had
been in straightened circumstances ; that his father-in-
law had died, and had left a large fortune to his wife ;
that she had died, and left him a rich widower ; that
he had married a second time, and that he was now

40 THE client's story.

tlie father of three children. From the tenor of the
letter I had received, I could scarcely doubt that Wal-
ter Moreton had been seized with some dangerous
illness, and was desirous of settling his worldly affairs.
My old intimacy with Moreton would of itself have
prompted me to obey his summons ; but the require-
ment of my professional aid of course increased the
celerity of my obedience. Early next morning, there-
fore, I put myself into the Cambridge coach ; and after
dispatching a hasty dinner at the Hoop, I walked to
Walter Moreton's house in Trumpington street.

I was prepared for a change, but not certainly such
a change as that which presented itself. Walter
Moreton could not have been forty, but he seemed a
broken-down man ; grey haired, — thin visaged, — and
cadaverous. His expression, too, was changed ; there
was an uneasy restlessness in his eye; his lips had
grown thin ; and he appeared, moreover, to be under the
influence of extreme nervousness.

He received me with apparent kindness ; thanked
me for my ready compliance with his wish ; and in-
formed me at once that he had need of my profes-
sional services in the disposal of his property ; but I
had no diflGiculty in perceiving, from a certain reserve
and distractedness of manner, that something beyond
the mere making of a will had brought me to Cam-
bridge. I did not of course make any observation
upon tlie change which I observed in his appeai-ance ;
but expressed a hope that his desire for my profes-
sional assistance had not arisen from any apprehen-

THE CLIENT S STORY. 41

sions as to the state of his health ; to which he only-
replied, that his health was not worse thaa usual, but
that it was always well to be prepared ; and he added,
" Come, Thornton, let us to business j" and to business
we went.

I need scarcely say, that T was prepared for instruc-
tions to divide the father's fortune according to some
rule of division, — or, perhaps, of some capricious
preference, among his children — two sons and one
daughter, children yet of a tender age, — and to se-
cure a life-rent interest to his wife. Great, therefore,
was my surprise when Mr. Moreton, after mentioning
a few trifling legacies, named, as the sole successors of
his immense fortune, two individuals unknown to me,
and of whose connexion with the testator I was en-
tirely ignorant.

I laid down my pen, and looked up : — " Mr. More-
ton," said I, hesitatingly, " you have a wife and chil-
dren !"

•' I have children," said he ; " but God preserve them
from the curse of wealth that does not belong to them."
" Moreton, — Walter Moreton," said I, " you are
over-scrupulous. I know indeed, that this large for-
tune has come to you through your first wife j but it
was her's to give ; she became the sole heiress of her
father, when his three sons of a former marriage were

unfortunately drowned in the "

" Hush, Thornton !" interrupted he, hastily ; and in
a tone so altered and so singular that it would have
startled me, had I not at the moment been looking in
e3

42 THE CLIENTS STORY

his face, and seen the expression that passed over it,
and the convulsive shudder that shook his whole frame.
I perceived there was a mystery, and I resolved to he
at the hottom of it.

" Moreton," said I, rising and approaching him, and
laying my hand gently on his shoulder, which slightly
shrunk from my touch. " We were once companions,
— almost friends ; as a friend, as well as a lawyer, you
have sent for me. There is some mystery here, of which
I am sure it was your intention to disburden yourself.
Whatever the secret be, it is safe with me. But I tell
you plainly, that if you are resolved to make beggars
of your innocent children without giving a sufficient
reason for it, some other than Charles Thornton must
be the instrument of doing it.

" Thornton," said he, in a grave tone, and without
raising his eyes, — there is a mystery, — a fearful mys-
tery ; and it shall be told this night. That done,
neither you nor any man can be the friend of Walter
Moreton ; but he will have no occasion for friendship.
Reach me some wine, Thornton, and pour it out for me ;
my nerves are shattered: — another glass, — now, sit
down, — no, not there, — ay, ay, — one other glass,
Thornton."

" I took my place in a large high-backed chair, as
Walter Moreton directed me ; and he, placing himself
a little out of my view, spoke as follows : —

"It is now upwards of ten years, as you know,
Thornton, since I married my first wife, the daughter
of Mr. Bellenden, — old Bellenden the lawyer. She,

I

THE client's story. 43

you also know, was the child of a former marriage, —
and that the large fortune of my father-in-law which in
the end came — no matter how — to me, belonged to
him, or rather to his three sons, in right of his second
wife, who was also dead at the time of my marriage. I
could not have indulged any expectation that this for-
tune would ever reach me ; for although I knew very
well that, failing my wife's three half-brothers, it came
entirely into her father's power, yet there could be no
ground for any reasonable expectation that three
healthy boys would die off, and make way for Agnes.
Mark me, Thornton, I did not marry for money ; and the
thought of the succession which afterwards opened,
never entered into my mind. I will tell you, Thornton,
the first occasion on which the hope dawned upon me.
There was an epidemic in this part of the country ; and
my father-in-law's three sons were seized with it at
one time. All the three were in the most imminent
danger ; and one evening when the disease was at its
height, and when my wife seemed greatly distressed at
receiving a message that it was doubtful if any of the
three would survive till morning. — 'And if they
should die ;' said I, within myself ! — This supposition
constantly recurred, — and was so willingly entertain-
ed that I lay awake the whole of that night, planning
within myself the disposal of this large inheritance ;
forgetting, at the time, that another life, that of my
father-in-law, stood betwixt us and the succession.
Next morning, however, a favourable change took place,
and eventually the three youtlis recovered : but so

44 THE client's story.

strong ahold had the hopes, which had been thus sud-
denly created, taken of my mind, that in place of their
being dissipated bj the event, which naturally de-
prived them of any foundation they ever had, I was
not only conscious of the keenest disappointment, but
felt as if an untoward accident had defrauded me of
something that was all but within my reach. *How
near I have been to affluence,' was a constantly recur-
ring thought J and when I heard every morning, that
this person was dead, and that person was dead, a
feeling of chagrin was invariably felt. You are per-
haps incapable of understanding these feelings, Thorn-
ton; and so was I, until the events took place which
gave birth to them."

Moreton paused a moment ; but I did not interrupt
him ; and, after passing his. hand over his forehead,
and filling out with an unsteady hand another glass
of wine, he proceeded : —

" You must understand, Thornton, that these were
mere thoughts, feelings, fancies : if I had stood beside
the sick beds of these boys, when the flame of life
was flickering, I would not have blown it out ; if two
pliials had stood by, one containing health and the
other death, do not suppose I would have administered
the latter: — no j I was no murderer, Thornton — no
murderer — then !

*• You know something of the river here ; and of the
passion for boating. The three boys often indulged in
this exercise ; and it sometimes happened that I ac-
companied them. One day about the end of August,

THE CLIENTS STORY. 45

we had spent the day at Eel-pits, and it was not far
from sunset when we set out to row back to Cambridge .
It was a fine calm evening when we left that place,
but it soon began to rain heavily ; and in the scramble
for cloaks and umbrellas, which the suddenness and
heaviness of the shower occasioned, the boat was all
but upset; but it righted again, and served only as
matter of mirth to the boys ; though in me a very
different effect was produced. More than a year had
elapsed since the presence of the epidemic had given
rise to the feelings I have already confessed to, and
the circumstance had been nearly — but not altogether
forgotten. At that moment, however, the thoughts that
at that time had continually haunted me recurred with
tenfold force. * If it had upset !' I said within myself,
while sitting silent in the stern, — ' If it had upset ! '
and the prospect of wealth again opened before me.
The three boys, Thornton, were sitting shouting, and
laughing, and jesting, and I sat silently in the stern,
putting that question to myself. But it was only a
thought, a fancy, Thornton ; I knew that no one but
myself could swim ; but any thing premeditated was
as far from my thoughts as yours. I only contemplated
the probable results of an event which was nearly
taking place.

" Well, — we continued to row ; and it soon fell dusk,
— and then the moon rose ; and we continued to ascend
the river, — ours the only boat upon it, — till we were
within less than two miles of Cambridge, I had oc-
casionally taken a turn at the oar ; but at that time I

46 THE client's story.

sat in the stern ; and still something continually whis-
pered to me, * if the boat had upset !' I need not tell
you, Thornton, that little things influence the greatest
events ; one of those little things occurred at this mo-
ment. I had a dog in the boat, and one of the boys
said something to it in Latin. * Don't speak Latin to
the dog,' said another, * for its master does not un-
derstand Latin.' * Yes he does,' said the eldest, * Mr.
Moreton understands dog Latin.' This was a little
matter, Thornton, — but it displeased me. There was
always a good deal of assumption of superiority, espe-
cially on the part of the eldest, on account of his
university education ; and little annoyances of this
kind were frequent. It was precisely at tliis moment
that something dark was seen floating towards us : it
chanced to come just in the glimpse of the moon on the
water, and was seen at once by us all ; and as it ap-
proached nearer, till it was about to pass within oar's
length of the boat You have heard the story, Thorn-
ton, — you said, if I recollect, that you knew the three

boys were " Here Moreton suddenly stopped, and

hastily drained the wine he had filled out.

*' Drowned in the Cam," said I : — " yes, I knew of
this misfortune ; but I did not know that you were pre-
sent."

" I was — I was — present !" said Moreton, laying a
peculiar emphasis on the word. " Ay, Thornton, —
you've hit the word, — I was present, — but listen : I told
you the dark object floated within an oar's length of
the boat ; at once the three boys made a spring to the

THE client's story. 47

side of the boat, extending arms and oars to intercept
it ; and — in an instant the boat was keel uppermost !"

Moreton pronounced the last words rapidly, and in
an under tone, — and stopped : he raised the wine de-
canter from the table, but let it drop again. Moreton
had yet said nothing to criminate himself : the incident
appeared, from his narrative, purely accidental ; and I
therefore said, "Well, Moreton — the boys were un-
happily drowned ; but it was the consequence of their
own imprudence."

•* Thornton," said he, " you are there to hear a con-
fession ; I am here to make it ; — 'tis of no use shrinking
from it : fill me a glass of wine, for my hand trembles.
— Now, — two of the boys, the two youngest, I never
saw ; as God is my judge, I believe if I had seen
the youngest, I would have done my uttermost to save
him. I suppose they sank beneath the boat, and
floated down below the surface. The eldest, he rose
close to me ; we were not twenty yards from the bank ;
I could have saved him, I believe I would have saved
him, if he had cried for help. I saw him but for a
moment. I think, when I struck out to swim, I kicked
him beneath the water — undesignedly, Thornton,
— undesignedly : but I did not turn round to help him j
I made for the bank, and reached it — and it was then
too late. I saw the ripple on the water, and the boat
floating away j but nothing else. — Thornton — I am his
murderer !"

When Moreton had pronounced this word, he seem-
ed to be somewhat relieved, and paused. I imagined

48 THE client's story.

his communication had ended ; and 1 ventured to say
that although it was only justice that the inheritance
which had become his should revert to the heirs of
those who had been deprived of it, — supposing them
to have been deprived of it by his act, — it was pro-
per to consider the matter coolly ; for there was such
a thing as an over-sensitive conscience j and it was
perhaps possible that, in the peculiar circumstances
attending the awful event, his mind had been incapa-
ble of judging correctly ; that he might have too much
coupled the fancies which had preceded the event,
with the event itself J and that want of presence of
mind might have been mistaken for something more
criminal. I confess that, in speaking thus, although I
believed that such reasoning might in some cases be cor-
rectly applied, I had little hope that it was so in the
present case. There was a deliberateness in the mode
of Moreton's confession that almost commanded belief;
and besides, Moreton was no creature of imagination.
He had always been a shrewd and strong-minded
man; and was in fact, all his life, a man of realities.
"No, no, Thornton," said he, " I am no fancier:
believe it to be as I have told you. But if you ever
could have doubted, — as I do not believe you do, —
your doubts would have been dispelled by what you
have yet to hear. I am not going to give you a nar-
rative of my life ; and shall say nothing of the time
that immediately followed the event I have related.
The fortune became my father-in-law's ; and my wife
became an heiress. But my present circumstances

THE CLIENTS STORY. 49

were no wise changed. Brighter prospects led to
increased expences ; and embarrassments thickened
around me. You know something of these, Thornton j
and tried, as you recollect, ineffectually, to extricate
me from them. Meanwhile, my father-in-law, who
speedily got over the loss he had sustained, spoke of
his daughter, — of Agnes, my wife, — as a great heiress,
and boasted and talked much of his wealth, though it
made no difference in his mode of living. * Not one
shilling, Walter, till I die,' — was constantly in his
mouth : and not a shilling indeed did he ever offer,
although he well knew the pressing difficulties in which
we were placed. I once, and only once ventured to
ask him for some advance ; but the answer was the
same. * Not a shilling, Walter, till I die : patience,
patience, — it must all go to Agnes.'

"Must I confess it, Thornton 1 yes — I may confess
any thing after what I have already confessed. The
words * not a shilling till I die,' were continually in
my ears. The event that had placed fortune within
my power frequently recurred to my memory ; and
with it, the conviction that I was no way benefited
by it : the nearer vicinity of wealth only made the
want of it more tantalizing. The 'ifs,' and fancies,
that had formerly so frequently arisen in my mind, had
all been realized. The crime, — ay, Thornton, the
crime — that had placed an inheritance within my view,
seemed the blacker since no advantage had attended
it ; and the oft-repeated 'not a shilling till I die,'
repeated, and re-repeated witli a complacent chuckle.

50 THE client's) story.

and on occasions the most inopportune, begot within me
an insatiable longing for — ay, why mince the matter ?
— for the moment when tlie saying should be fulfilled.

'• You recollect very well, Thornton, my application
to you in December, 182 — , six years ago. You recol-
lect its extreme urgency, and the partial success
which attended it, sufficient however to keep me from
a jail. You might well, as you did, express your sur-
prise that my wife's father should suffer such a state
of things to be ; but he could suffer any thing, save
parting with his money ; he was a miser ; the love of
riches had grown with their possession : and I believe
he would have suffered me to rot in jail rather than
draw upon his coffers.

" It was just at this time, or at most a week or two
subsequent to it, that Mr. Bellenden was attacked by
a complaint to which he had been long subject, — one,
requiring the most prompt medical aid ; but from which,
on several former occasions, he had perfectly recovered.
Agnes was extremely attentive to her father ; and on
Christmas evening, as we were both on the way to the
sick-chamber, we met the family surgeon leaving the
house.

" * You are perhaps going to spend some time with
my patient?' said Mr. Amwell.

" ' My husband,' said Agnes, ' means to spend an
hour or two with my father : I have a particular en-
gagement at present, — and am only going to ask how
he does.'

'• ' I have some little fears of auother attack,' said

THE CLIEKT S STORY. 51

Mr. Amwell ; ' do not be alarmed, my dear madam, —
we know how to treat these things ; promptness is all
that is required. It will be necessary, my dear sir,'
said Mr. Amwell, addressing me, ' to lose no time in
sending for me, should Mr. Bellenden experience ano-
ther attack ; all depends upon the prompt and free use
of the lancet. There is no occasion for any alarm,
madam. The good old gentleman may live to eat
twenty Christmas dinners yet.'

" Mr. Amwell passed on, and we entered the house,
and ascended to the sick-chamber. My wife remained
but a few minutes, — she had some particular engage-
ments at home ; and as she left the room, she charged
me to lose not a moment in calling Mr. Amwell, should
there appear to be any occasion for his aid. She shut
the door, and I seated myself in a large chair near to
the bed.

"Mine was a singular situation. I, who for many
years had had my hopes directed towards a great in-
heritance— I, who had seen, and rejoiced to see, the
most formidable obstacles removed, and who had my-
self been instrumental in removing them, was now
watching the sick-bed of the only individual who stood
between me and the succession, — an individual, too,
whose death 1 had looked forward to and had allowed
myself to hope for. I could not help smiling at the
singular situation in which I was placed ; and as 1
looked towards the sick-bed, and heard only the uneasy
breathing of the old man in the silence of the room,
1 felt — very like a criminal.

52 THE client's story.

" There was a table near to me with several phials
upon it. I took them up one by one, and examined
them. One was labelled, ' laudanum.' While I held
it in my hand, all the demon was within. My pe-
cuniary difficulties seemed to augment ; the excellence
of wealth to increase ; the love of enjoyment grew
stronger ; and my estimate of the value of an old man's
life weaker. At this moment, the sick man asked for
drink. Thornton ! — need I hesitate to confess that I
was strongly tempted — but I resisted the temptation ; I
held the fatal phial for a few moments in my hand ; laid
it down, pushed it from me, and assisted the old man to
his needs. But no sooner had I done this, and re-
seated myself, than I began to accuse myself of incon-
sistency. These, thought I, are distinctions without
any real difference. A youth, who stood betwixt me
and fortune, was drowning ; and I did not stretch out
my hand to save him : there are many kinds of mur-
der, but in all the crime is the same.

" I had nearly proved to my own satisfaction that I
was a fool, when certain indications that could not be
mistaken assured me that Mr. Amwell's fears were
about to be realized, and they instantly were, to the
fullest extent. Mr. Amwell's parting words recurred
to me : * all depends upon the prompt use of the
lancet.' My heart beat quick ; I rose, — hesitated, —
re-seated myself, — rose again, — listened, — again sat
down, — pressed my fingers on my ears, that I might
hear nothing, — and leaned my head forward on the
table. I continued in this posture for some time, and

THE CLIENTS STORY. 53

then started up — and listened. All was silent; I
rang the bell violently ; opened the door, and cried
out to call Mr. Amwell instantly, — and returned to
the chamber — which I believed to be no longer a
chamber of sickness, but of deatli ; and re-seated my-
self in the chair, with a strong persuasion that the
last obstacle to fortune had been removed. But, —
Thornton, — again I knew that I was, a second time,
a murderer ! "

Here, Mr. Moreton paused, and leaned back in his
chair, apparently exhausted. I again thought his com-
munication had ended ; and although I could not now
address him as I had addressed him before, I was
beginning to say that to make absolute beggars of his
children could not be an acceptable atonement for
crime, — when he interrupted me, heedless, apparently,
of my having addressed him.

" In a few minutes, Mr. Amwell entered the room.
He approached the bed, bent over it, turned to me, and
said, ' I fear it is too late, Mr. Moreton.'

•"Perhaps not,' said I j ' at all events make the
attempt.'

" Mr. Amwell of course did make the attempt j and
in a few moments desisted ; shook his head, and said,
• A little, and I have reason to .believe only a very
little too late,' and in a few minutes I was again left
alone.

" Thornton, since that hour, I have been a miserable
man." — Another long pause ensued, which I did not
attempt to break ; and Moreton at length resumed.
f3

54 THE client's story.

" Since that hour, I say, Charles Thornton, I have
never known a moment's peace. My wife's tears for
her father fell upon my heart like drops of fire ; every
look she gave me seemed to read my innermost
thoughts ; she never spoke that I did not imagine she
was about to call me murderer. Her presence he-
came agony to me. I withdrew from her, and from all
society — for I thought every man looked suspiciously
upon me ; and I had no companion but conscience, —
ay, conscience, Thornton, — conscience that I thought
I had overcome ; as well I might, for had I not seen
the young and healthy sink, when I might have saved ?

and how could I have believed that"? but so it was,

and is : look at me, and you will see what conscience
has made of me. Agnes sickened, and as you know,
died. This I felt as a relief; and for a time I breathed
more freely ; and I married again. But my old feelings
returned, and life every day becomes more burden-
some to me. Strange, that events long passed become
more and more vivid, — but so it is. The evening on
the Cam, and the death-chamber of old Bellenden, are
alternately before me.

** Now, Thornton, you have heard all. Are you now
ready to frame the will as I directed ? I am possessed of
a quarter of a million, and it belongs to the heirs of
those for whom it was originally destined."

Some conversation here ensued, in which my object
was to show that, although the large property at More-
ton's disposal ought never to have been his, yet, if the
events which he had related had not taken place, it

THE client's story. 55

never could have come into the possession of those for
whom he now destined it. I admitted, however, the
propriety of the principle of restitution to the branches
of the family in which it had originally been vested,
but prevailed with Mr. Moreton, in having a compe-
tency reserved for his own children and for his wife,
who married in the belief that he was able to provide
for her. And upon these principles, accordingly,
the testament was framed and completed the same
evening.

It grew late. " Walter Moreton," said I, rising to
take leave, " let this subject drop for ever. When
we meet again, let there be no allusion to the transac-
tions of this evening.' '

" Thornton," said he, "we shall never meet again."

" There are remedies, my friend," said I, — for could
I refuse to call the wretched man before me friend 1 —
" there are remedies for the accusations of conscience :
apply yourself to them ; if the mind were relieved
by religious consolations, bodily health would return.
You are yet little past the prime of life ; I trust we
may meet again in happier circumstances. Conscience,
Moreton, is not given to us to kill, but to cure."

Moreton faintly smiled. " Yes, Thornton," said he,
" There are remedies ; I know them, and will not fail to
seek their aid. Good night !"

I returned to the inn, and soon after retired to bed ;
as may easily be believed, to think of the singular re-
velations of the evening. For some time these thoughts
kept me awake ; but at length I fell asleep. My

56 THE client's story.

dreams were disturbed, and all about Walter Moreton.
Sometimes he was swimming in the river, or standing
on the bank, pointing with his finger to a human head
that was just sinking ; sometimes he was sitting by the
bed-side of old Bellenden, examining the phials, and
walking on tiptoe to the door, and listening ; and
sometimes the scene of the past evening was renewed,
when I sat and listened to his narrative. Then again,
he had a phial in his hand, and uncorked it ; and in
raising it to his mouth, it seemed to be a small pistol ;
and just at this moment I awoke.

The last scene remained forcibly and vividly on my
mind. It instantly occurred to me that he might have
meditated suicide, and that that was the remedy of
which he spoke. I looked at my watch ; it was an hour
past midnight. I hastily dressed, and hurried to Trump-
ington Street. There was a light in one of the windows.
1 knocked gently at the door ; and at the same time
applied my hand to the knob, which yielded. 1 hurried
upstairs, directed by the situation of the light 1 had
seen, and entered the room. Moreton stood near to
the bed, beside a small table j a phial was in his hand,
which, at the moment I entered, he laid down. I
sprang forward and seized it. It was already empty.
*' Ah, my friend!" said I — but farther speech was
useless. Moreton was already in the grasp of death.

57

NIGHT.

rROM THE GERMAN OF UllANNEU.

Gather, ye sullen thunder clouds ;
Your wings, ye lightnings, wave.

Like Spirits bursting from their shrouds

And howl, thou wild and dreary storm,
Like echoes of the grave.

Sounds of the brothers of the worm.

Ay, wilder still, ye thunders, roll.
Ye lightnings, cleave the ground :
Ye cannot shake the Christian soul :

In God's high strength she sits sublime,
Though worlds were dust around ;
Defying Chance, outliving Time.

Auov,

58

BEATRICE.

^ ILobec's Has*

BY MARY HOWITT.

Gkntle, happy Beatrice,

Visioned fair before me.
How can it a wonder be

That many so adore thee 1

Old, and young, and great, and wise,

Set their love upon thee ;
And if gold could purchase hearts.

Riches would have won thee.

Social, cheerful Beatrice,

Like a plenteous river,
Is the current of thy joy.

Flowing on for ever !

Many call themselves thy friends ;

Thou art loved of many ;
And where'er the fair are met,

Thou 'rt fairer far tlian any.

BEATRICE. 59

Pious, duteous Beatrice,
All good angels move thee ;

Meek and gentle as a saint —
Most for this we love thee !

I can see thee going forth ,

Innocent and lowly,
Knowing not how good thou art.

Like an angel holy :

See thee at thy father's side,
Most touching is thy beauty,

Gladdening that benign old man,
With cheerful love and duty.

I can see his happy smile.

As he gazes on thee ;
I can feel the boundless lovo

That he showers upon thee !

What a happy house thou mak'st,
Singing, in thy gladness.

Snatches of delicious song.
Full of old love-sadness !

How I've sate and held my breath,
When the air was winging.

From some far-off chamber lone.
Breathings of thy singing.

GO BEATRICE.

How I've listened for thy foot.
Sylph-like stepping, airy.

On the stair, or overhead,
Like a lightsome fairy.

What a happy house it is

Where thou hast thy dwelling !

Love, and joy, and kindliness,
There evermore are welling.

Every one within the house
Loves to talk about thee : —

What an altered place it were.
Sweet Beatrice, without thee !

I can see thee, when I list.

In thy beauty shining,
Leaning from the casement ledge.

Round which the rose is twining.

I can see thee looking down.
The little linnet feeding ;

Or sitting quietly apart,

Some pleasant volume reading.

Would I were beside thee then.
The pages turning over,

I'd find some cunning word or two
That should my heart discover !

KEATRICE. 61

I would not heed thy laughter wild —
Laugh on, I could withstand thee, —

The printed hook should tell my tale.
And thou shouldst understand me !

I know thy arts, my Beatrice,

So lovely, so beguiling, —
The mockery of thy merry wit,

The witchery of thy smiling !

I know thee for a syren strong.

That smites all hearts with blindness ;

And I might tremble for myself.
But for thy loving-kindness ;

But for the days of bygone years.

When I was as thy brother :
Ah happy, faithful Beatrice,

We were meant for one another !

I'll straightway up this very day.

And ask thee of thy father :
And all the blessings life can give,

In wedded life we'll gather.

I

62

THE FIRST SLEEP.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE "PURITANS GRAVE.

It is easy to imagine that the first man would not be
soon tired of using his eyes and ears, and of exercising
his new made senses. Every sight was new, and
seeing itself was new;— and, as Solomon has said,
speaking of the human race at large, the eye is never
satisfied with seeing, — it is natural to suppose that the
first man's first day of being must have been one of
intense and absorbing interest. Adam had not upon his
shoulders the cares of the world ; he was placed in a
scene of surpassing beauty, with senses to perceive,
with faculties to apprehend, with leisure to contem-
plate, with taste to admire, — and his whole being
was absorbed with the external world, and he felt it to
be, as God had pronounced it to be, very good. The
first man looked out upon the world with the eye and
feeling of a philosophical childhood ; wonder came not
upon him gradually, by the slowly uplifting of the
curtain of ignorance ; but the whole scene of the good

THE FJllST SLEEP. 63

and beautiful was made manifest at once ; there was
no sensation of contrast, yet there was a strong- sen-
sation of beauty and delightfulness ; he had come out
of an unfelt darkness into a glorious light, — from an
unperceived chaos into an exquisite order ; his first
sensations were blended into one, not as yet ana-
lysed ; for man begins not to analyse till he has ceased
to enjoy, even as a child when he is tired of his play-
things begins to destroy them. The music of the
birds, and the fragrance of Eden's earliest flowers, the
freshness of the unpolluted air, which had not as yet
been breathed in sighs, or made vocal by execrations, —
the pretty plumage of the birds, the stately march of
the mightier animals, the meandering movement of
the wily serpent, — the dazzling light which shone
from heaven, and the sweet reflection of the sky's
bright blue, from the living stillness of the unruffled
water, — the rich fruits hanging in harmonious clusters
from vines and trees, and the leaves glimmering with
an emerald brightness in the light" of the sun, — all
formed together a mass of mingled beauty which made
life glorious.

Did the first man, on the first day of his being, soli-
loquize ? Did he feel glad, and did he shout forth his
gladness ? In what language did he speak, or with
what cadence did he utter the joy which his heart did
feel 1 He could not be silent ; light-hearted gladness,
which has never known care, must burst forth in voice.
The birds were all singing around him. He had organs
of utterance, and a power of modulation ; and if he

64 THE FIRST SLEEP.

were moved to utterance by the influence of sympathy
with the sweet voices about him, his first vocal ex-
pression must have been singing. Man's first devotion
must have been therefore a hymn of praise. The
morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God
shouted with joy at the creation of this lower world ;
and doubtless he, the first parent of all those for whom
this world was formed, set forth his gladness at his
birth melodiously. And did he grow weary of the
beauty with which he was surrounded 1 Was his
curiosity soon gratified 1 Did his rapture presently
subside into calm satisfaction and philosophical appro-
bation 1 — . No ; there was growing novelty in every
scene, there was an increasing interest in every living
creature, in every opening flower, in every green herb ;
when the lark sprang upwards, cleaving the air with its
dancing pinions, and shouting its lively gratitude, then
did man by the power of sympathy with which his
Maker had endowed him, feel his soul awaken by a
kindred emotion of gladness. He was not soon tired
of admiring the beautiful plumage of the birds, and
the pretty gambols of the newly created animals re-
joicing in their being. Nor was he wearied with the
bright monotony of his first day's cloudless sunshine ;
but as the day advanced he marvelled at the move-
ment of the sun in its path through heaven ; he almost
wondered why it was that a light so glorious should
abate of its strength ; he marvelled at the lengthening
shadows of the lofty trees, and he fixed his eyes with
a dreamy admiration on the glowing orb as it slowly

THE FIRST SLEEP. 65

descended to its evening bed, not curtained as yet
with gorgeous clouds, and he fain would have run to-
wards the apparently near horizon to catch the setting
splendour, — but his own spirit sympathised with the
coming sleep of all things round him. He saw the
gentle blossoms of the flowers, which had expanded
their beauties to the sun, now folding themselves up
with a curious carefulness, and his own eyes felt a
sympathy with the upfolding of the flowers. He was
struck with the abatement of the day's music in the
sky, and amidst the trees of the grove ; for the lark
had sunk down to her rest, and the many-coloured
tenants of the trees were fixed in a beautiful stillness ;
there was an awfulness in their sleep which forbade
him to disturb them. The bright eyes of the statelier
animals, which had gazed upon him with a look of
intellect and admiration, were now closed, and the lion
had stretched its lordly length upon the ground.

And now, when with a pleasant sadness Adam had
turned away from the western sky, having watched the
last light of the sun, as of a glory never to return, he
turned his eyes to the east, and there he beheld a
milder light, a kind of sleeping sun, pale, placid, and
benignant, climbing up the heavens and looking down
upon the earth like a discreet comforter, who brings
the silent look of compassion to those who have lost
the delight of their eyes. Then came out the sharp
and glancing light of the stars, twinkling here and
there, with a dazzling uncertainty j and all this was
exceedingly beautiful, so that he knew not which to

66 THE FIRST SLEEP.

admire the most, whether the briglit and glorious day,
or the milder and more subdued beauties of the night ;
and as by day his sympathy with surrounding music
made his breath vocal with the hymn of praise, so now,
by a similar sympathy with universal silence, his hymn
of praise had subsided into the gentle stillness of me-
ditation, which enriches and fertilizes the soul more
effectually than the loudest gladness of passionate
praise, even as the steady flowing of the equable
stream is more nourishing to the land through which it
flows than is the sublimer dashing of a furious torrent.
All around him man saw the living creatures in the
attitude of rest, having their eyes closed and their
limbs motionless, and their tongues sealed up in silence ;
— and yet they were not quite so motionless as the
earth on which they lay, for there might be perceived
the gentle heaving of the frame in the involuntary
movement of the inward life, and there might be heard
their faint breathing like the sighing of the distant
breeze. Then, prompted by what he saw around him,
and by that inherent courtesy of conformity which so
naturally belongs to an unpolluted mind, not touched as
yet by the conceits of vanity, or disturbed by the con-
scious degradation of sin, man also assumed the attitude
of rest. As yet he had scarcely felt the sensation of
fatigue, but a sufficient languor had crept upon his frame
to render him conscious of the pleasures of repose ; and
as during the day, and amidst the living and the dancing
gaiety of nature, he had felt how good a thing is light,
and how pleasing the sound of the cheerful voice, and

THE FIRST SLEEP. 67

the movement of the vigorous limbs, so now, having
been saturated with day's delight, he felt how beautiful
was night, how sweet its stillness, and how welcome
its repose ; and he admired the wisdom which had
formed the day, and the kindness which had ordained
night, and he felt that the day and the night were both
good. He felt it good to be awake, and he felt it good
to be falling asleep ; but as yet he knew not what sleep
was ; and his sleep came slowly upon him, for it was
protracted by a bland astonishment ; he marvelled about
what new and pleasant variety of being was provided
for him — of not being he had no conception, nor did
he think that the gradual sealing up of the outward
senses was a prelude to the cessation of his existence ; he
felt it rather as some new modification of it, delightful,
because wonderful ; for though the outward senses were
shutting themselves up like the folding leaves of the
sun-loving flowers, yet there were shut up within them
a murmuring memory of the past day's music, a soft-
ened and confused picture of its sights dimly painted,
but beautiful as the hills and valleys in a morning mist .
His delight was gratitude, and his admiration praise.
This was the moonlight of his being, — a mild reflection
of the day ; there was a consciousness, yet so faint,
that it was as nothing compared with the vividness of
waking thought and full sensation.

And what were the dreams of man's first sleep 1
Who shall awaken the memory of that most placid
hour in the whole experience of humanity 1 Who
shall tell how one by one the senses fell asleep, — how

68 THE FIRST SLEEP.

sight, by a voluntary weariness, drew the curtains over
its windows, — how the fragrance of the flowers gradu-
ally ceased to be distinguished, and how the night
breeze died away on the no longer attentive and listen-
ing ear 1 Care and sickness, sin and sorrow^ hope and
fear, form the sad elements of our dreams in our ex-
Eden world ; but in the first sleep man ever slept, there
were no such thorns as these in the pillow of his rest.
He was at peace with all the world, and all the world
was at peace with him. He had no remorse for sins of
a past day, and no looking forward to pains, toils, and
sorrows for a coming day 3 whether any other day was
coming he knew not, thought not, inquired not, cared
not. Waking or sleeping, he felt himself to be in the
safe keeping of the Almighty, and every moment of
time was complete in itself, independent of the past
and of the future.

Night is the time for thought. The images and
feelings of the day are then collected together, and
they settle down into one condensed mass ; so night
brings to man his first lesson of wisdom ; for true wis-
dom comes not by a laborious and pains-taking applica-
tion of the soul curiously searching out the causes of
things, but by the attentive and silent meditation
which without passion or agitation reflects upon being
and events. Wisdom comes not so much from man's
seeking as from God's guidance. Even in dreams
there is instruction, and from man's first night began
man's first thought. So the ancient heathens said,
*' Dreams come from Jove." Man has no wisdom

i

THE FIRST SLEEP. 69

till he reflects, and dreams are for the most part a re-
flection of the past. The dream of the first sleep was
compacted purely of the elements of the sensations of
the first day ; thus, by a wonderful arrangement, the
past became present again, and the mind had sensa-
tions without the help of the senses. Thus was man
led to thought and meditation, and by the apparent
infirmity of sleep, which for a while seemed to place
him on a level with the fowls of the air and the beasts
of the field, he was elevated to the rank of intellectual,
and advanced to a communion with the spiritual and
invisible. When his body first slept, his mind first
woke, and an impulse was given to the internal spirit.
While, during the hours of his first day, his senses were
pleasingly occupied and agreeably filled with sur-
rounding external objects, with shapes, sounds, and
colours, there was nothing but the animal consciousness
awake, — a pleasing wonder absorbed every feeling —
a wonder too pleasant to require or invite analysis.
It was the quiet change from day to night, and the
shadowy state of things placing them, as it were, in a
double point of view, that gave man an introduction
into the mysteries of thought, and taught him reflec-
tion. That which is seen once by the eye is seen
merely by the animal part of our nature, — that which
is seen by the mind's eye is seen intellectually. So
man's first sleep awakened the powers of his mind ; a
pause was given to his senses, but none to his mental
consciousness ; even in sleep he felt himself to be liv-
ing, and there was a seeing of sights not present to the

70 THE FIRST SLEEP.

eye, a hearing of sounds not physically audible to the
ear. Hence, then, sprang up at first the hardly recog-
nised inquiry, — what sees if the eye sees not, or what
hears if the ear hears not 1 So by a beautiful and
striking arrangement the night was caused to cast light
upon the day. " Day unto day uttereth speech, and
night unto night showeth forth knowledge." Surely,
by this expression the Psalmist intended to set before us
the great and beautiful truth, that the alternation of day
and night is one of the prime sources of knowledge
and the earliest nutriment of the intellect. But the
birth of knowledge and the springing up of thought in
the mind were as yet imperceptible, nor was it till the
first sleep began to depart that its mysteries began
to be developed, and its principles of instruction to be
made known to the mind. The first night revealed
the mysteries of the first day, and the second day made
known the instructions of the first night.

If there was a curious and interesting awakening of
the mind by the first falling asleep of the bodily frame,
there was a still more interesting excitement of the
thinking powers by the waking again from sleep.
When man first woke to his new-made being, it was of
course without reflection, for he was unconscious of the
state from which he rose ; but when he woke from
sleep, it was from a weaker to a stronger sense of being,
and his waking was as gradually developed as his
sleeping had been. The mystery of sleep was not
revealed till the sleep was over, nor its beauty appre-
hended till the frame was awake again, even as the

THE FIRST SLEEP. 71

riddle of life itself is not solved till life be ended.
Waking from sleep was beautiful, both for its novelty
and for the sweet refreshment which it brought. It
seemed to make the world anew, for with Adam's first
waking the world itself was waking again ; the morn-
ing songs of the birds sounded more gay j there was a
livelier look of the trees as their leaves trembled in
the morning breeze, and gleamed to the glancing of the
sun's earliest rays ; the little flowers, which had folded
their blossoms up for the repose of the night at the
departure of yesterday's sun, now opened their beauties
to the light, and by the gladness of their graceful
forms looked to the day a welcome which they could
not speak ; the very air felt new and fragrant, and there
was an especial source of wonder in the newly risen
sun. Thus, a fresh and pleasant impulse was given to
thought, and a new topic of adoration to the invisible
Creator. Gladness is gratitude, and pure joy is praise
to the Maker of all things. With renewed wonder
and increased delight man looked upon the awakened
animals moving gracefully around him, and there was
a greater interest in the being of the second day than
there had been in that of the first. At first he had
looked upon the world with pleased admiration ; but
after his first sleep he regarded it with curiosity, and
a spirit of philosophical investigation ; and as his mind
was not darkened by sin nor clouded by passion, as
nothing of the evil principle had yet been introduced
or developed, knowledge and inquiry were purely sa-
tisfactory and unimpeded : he sought not with a mad

72 THE FIRST SLEEP.

ambition for knowledge that was too high for him ; he
was not wearied in his inquiries nor baffled in his
pursuit ; but, on the contrary, all that he sought was
accessible and all that he acquired was delightful.

There is something truly divine in the pure de-
velopment of thought, in the consciousness of a reflecting
power ; and the world looks more beautiful in propor-
tion as it is regarded with an intellectual attention.
As man's being is not complete without his intellectual
powers, so his pleasure in being is not complete with-
out the exercise of those powers, and these powers
were developed and awakened by man's first sleep.
He was taught by the closing of the bodily eye to
open the eye of his mind. How different man's first
sleep, from the nights of pain, of anxiety and even of
horror, that have since been passed on earth ! But,
even yet, " day unto day uttereth speech, night unto
night showeth knowledge," if man were wise enough
to learn.

>

I !- Irf T>y *_ r. Chalon. K.A.

f w< '..'ii l;'. ■|.-rrr,.(ri)1i

f

k

73
CHILDHOOD ;

OR,

BY MARY riOWITT.

You have four, and I have three,
Jane, and Rose, and Emily.
Jane, my eldest, is sedate.
Fit to he a Crusoe's mate ;
Quite a housewife in her way.
Busily employed all day.
When I'm sleeping in my bed
Jane is working overhead ;
So correct, so kind, so sage.
She's a wonder for her age.
And if I had half a score
Of the cleverest daughters more,
I should ne'er expect to gain
One as useful as my Jane !

Rose is quite a different child,
Tractable enough, and mild ;
But the genius of the three.
The lady of the family ;

74 CHILDHOOD.

With a voice so wondrous clear !
And for music such an ear !
All our friends are in amaze
At the skill with which she plays ;
You may name whate'er you will,
Rose for any piece has skill !
Then she writes, and can succeed
In poems beautiful indeed.
She can design too, and I never
For a child saw aught so clever !
Heads she draws, and landscapes too,
Better far than I can do,
Though no little sum was spent
To give me that accomplishment.
She is quite an artist now, —
Has it stamped upon her brow.
And I'm sure will earn her bread
With that intellectual head !

Emily, my youngest elf.

Is the picture of myself ;

For her age extremely tall,

And the idol of us all.

Oh, the little roguish thing !

Now she'll dance, and now she'll sing.

Now she'll put on modish airs

Such as Mrs. Johnson wears ;

Shaking her rich curling tresses

For the plumes with which she dresses.

CHILDHOOD. 75

On my life, I sometimes fear
She will mimic her when here !

Emily is bold and wild,
Quite a beau-ideal child.
Spoiled enough to have her will, —
Loving yet and gentle still ;
Just as poets say should be
The youngest of the family ;
A little happy, rosy pet j
One all pretty names to get.
Puck, and Mab, and Mignone'tte !

HOURS AT COOMBE.

Light as in the summer hour.

Dancing in the sun-bright sky.
Flits around from flower to flower

The golden- winged butterfly, —
Such thy merry course has been,

Mary ! in thy childhood's dawn,
So thy footsteps have I seen

Twinkling o'er the velvet lawn.
With thee, love, and thy sisters twain
Would those days might come again !

When at noon-tide idly laid
Beneath the cedar's fragrant shade.

76 HOURS AT COOMBE.

Pleased with thy gambols, I forsook
The pen, the pencil, or the book.
And, listening to thy thoughtless mirth,
I passed my happiest hours on earth ;
And when upon the purple hill

The cooler breeze began to play j
When all around was hushed and still.
Save where the night-jar far away
Resumed her melancholy lay j
Then we freely strolled together
O'er the furze, the brake, the heather.
Chasing one while o'er the green
The dusky moth, but dimly seen ;
Or, perched upon the hillock's brow.
Rolling pebbles down below.
We watched the last bright tint on high
That streamed across the western sky.

Happy children ! while you may.
Sport the sunny hours away.
Ere ten summers shall have cast
Their twilights to the shadowy past.
Shall Mary, the demure and mute.
Pass muster, as a young recruit
Under Fashion's flag unfurled,
The gay ordeal of the world.
The dimpled cheek and laughing eye
Shall make a belle of Emily.

HOURS AT COOMBE. 77

And thou too, little fairy thing,
Shalt enter in the world's gay ring,
Dream of the sonnets that you pen,
And flutter at the praise of men !

Then, when amid the festive throng
Your feverish thoughts are whirled along,
Then don not, girls, the peevish frown.
Nor cast the glance disdainful down.
If I should chance recall the time
I penned this desultory rhyme.
And from the memory's store resume
Your childhood's happy hours at Coombe.

C. H.

MY HERMITAGE.

Where two wizard streamlets meet,
I have fixed my sylvan seat ;
A rustic cabin, thatched with heath.
With verdant meadows spread beneath,
And the wild wood sweeping round
A fertile nook of garden ground.
There, among my books and bees,
I plant my flowers, and prune my trees ;
Study Nature j and, at times.
For Friendship's Offering scribble rhymes.
H 3 Ed.

78

FANNY'S BIRTHDAY.

^ S>tor» for ei&iltri'en, antr a ?^int to parents.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE CHILD OF THE CHURCH
OF ENGLAND."

" Who knows but the salvation of ten thousand souls may depend
npon the education of one single child."— Bishop Beveridge.

" Well, mamma, if you say that I must not carry my
little sister, I will promise you never to do so ; but she
is so very light a little creature, that we thought we
might carry her : — Willy said he was sure we might.
— Willy is coming across the lawn now, mamma,"
continued Rosamond j "and he is bringing such a
beautiful nosegay ! "

" We gave Willy leave," said Katherine ; " to
gather all the best flowers in our gardens ; but I am
sure the gardener must know that it is Fanny's birth-
day, and he has given him those fine geraniums, and
that large branch of orange-flowers. I think a birth-
day is the happiest day in the whole year ; don't you
think so, Fanny V — Fanny did not answer, but her
smiling looks told as plainly as words, that she also
thought a birthday a very happy day ; she did not an-
swer, for her merry eyes were fixed upon Willy, and
his nosegay.

" And now, my little Fanny," said her mother ;
" thougli it is your birthday, perhaps you will allow

fanny's birthday. 79

me to have my chair, of which you and your sisters
have taken such entire possession. I suppose you will
allow me to sit down, Katherine ; T am going to be
very busy with my work on this birthday ; and though
you are all to have a holiday, I wish first of all to ask
you a few questions, and to say something to you about
birthdays. — Well, well, little Fanny, you have nestled
yourself into your usual corner behind me, in this great
chair, and Willy has seated himself on the stool at my
feet."

" And we like to stand, mamma," said Katherine ;
'* my sister Rosamond and I will stand beside you, if
you please."

" What do you think of birthdays, Katherine V
" They are the happiest days in the year, mamma."
" And tell me what you mean to do all to-day, my
children V

The children looked up with astonishment.
" Yes, what do you mean to do with yourselves 1"
" Oh, mamma ! to play, to amuse ourselves," said
Katherine ; — and Rosamond added, " you always
give us leave to play, mamma, on our birthdays : — and
Willy looked up, and cried out, clapping his hands,
"To play from morning till night!" — and Fanny
peeped over her mother's shoulder, and looked at
Willy, and laughed ; and whispered in her mother's
ear, *' To play, nothing but play !"

" Nothing but play !" said their mother ; " is that
quite the right way of spending a birthday V

" Why, mamma," said Willy, in an expostulatory

80

FANNY S BIRTHDAY.

tone ; " every body plays on birthdays, and I am sure
you wish us to be happy on Fanny's birthday."

" First of all," said his mother ; " tell me the mean-
ing of the word birthday V

" The day on which any one is born, mamma," said
Willy.

"And what was your birthday, Willy'?"

" The day on which I was born, mamma."

" My dear Rosamond," said her mother, turning
away from Willy ; " you seem to be the most thought-
ful of the party, therefore I will speak to you. I see
that Willy is more inclined to play with his sister
Fanny than listen to me. — On the day that you were
born, Rosamond, was a child of grace born into the
world, or a child of wrath ?" Rosamond still looked
thoughtful, but she hesitated. " You remember the
catechism, Rosamond?"

" I was born in sin, and the child of wrath," replied
Rosamond.

" That is," continued her mother, " a child of
wrath born under the curse of sin, and not a child of
God's favour and grace : and is the birthday of such a
being a day of rejoicing, Rosamond? Might we not
say of such a birthday in the words of the wise man,
* the day of death is better than the day of one's birth?'
— Shall, therefore, a child of sin rejoice because it is
born into this wicked world ?"

Rosamond looked very grave ; and her mother, who
had spoken with a very gentle voice, left her for a
little while to her own thoughts."

I

FANNYS BIRTHDAY. 81

" Well, Rosamond," she said at length, looking up
from her work ; " is a birthday a day of rejoicing V

" No, mamma, from what you have said, I think it
is not," said Rosamond ; " and you would not have
us make this day a happy day 1"

" Indeed I would," replied her mother ; ** for though
a child is born in sin, she need not continue to live in
sin, she need not die in sin. This world, lost and
fallen as it would be, were it left to itself, has witnessed
the most wonderful sacrifice for sin, in the death of
God's own Son : — and for the child's own heart, cor-
rupt and fallen as it is, the Holy Spirit has been sent
down from heaven, to give unto the child of wrath the
nature of a child of God. Your birthday, my child,
and the birthday of our dear Fanny, are the birthdays
of Christian children. Your very name, my Rosa-
mond, has been given you as a sign that you were no
longer your own, but by profession at least, one of the
children of the Church of Christ, bought with his blood,
solemnly offered up to him with prayer, that your
Heavenly Father would for his sake adopt you into
his family ; and in making you by his Spirit a lamb of
Christ's flock, would make you also by adoption and
grace a child of his love. If it were not for the day
of a new birth into the kingdom of God, the day of
the old birtli would be indeed a birthday of misery.
Be as merry, therefore, my dear children, as you
please ; but let your merriment be that of God's
children."

" Oh, mamma ! mamma !" cried Fanny, peeping

82 fanky's birthday.

again over her mother's shoulder, " there is such a
beautiful butterfly among Willy's flowers ; it has been
either asleep or feeding, and I am sure it is very bold,
for it has never stirred from this — this — I don't
know the name of the flower, mamma. I thought at
first the butterfly was a flower, or the leaves of one
flower which had fallen upon another ; but all at once
it opened its wings, and I saw that on the inside they
were all dropped over with bright colours. Wait a
moment, mamma, and it will open its beautiful wings
again !"

*♦ It is very happy, Fanny. That butterfly is, per-
haps, as happy as any insect can be : — can you tell
me the life of a butterfly, Fanny ?"

•* Oh! no, mamma ; but perhaps my sister Rosamond
can."

*' Can you, Rosamond 1" said her mother.

" Mamma," said Rosamond, •* how can you ask me
such questions 1"

" Well," replied her mother ; " I think I can give
you some account of a butterfly's life. It first opens
its wings when there is the summer's light in the sky,
and the summer warmth in the air, and when the
flowers on which it feeds have burst into bloom, and
all the tiny cups within them are filled with sweet
juices. Day after day it ranges through gardens and
fields, and sleeps at night safe under the shelter of some
dewy blossom j but its life is a life of a few sunny days, —
it knows nothing of the past, nothing of the future, — and
when it dies it never lives again. We cannot, there-

fanny's birthday. 83

fore, blame a butterfly for keeping every day like a
birthday , but perhaps we ought to blame a being that
can never die for spending even a birthday like a but-
terfly's day. Do you understand me, Rosamond 1 do
you, my little Fanny? — I was going to speak to you
about those playful lambs that we can see as we sit
here, on the green hill side ; for their thoughtless
mirth is also innocent: but your butterfly appeared
among the flowers, and I could speak to you about it,
as well as about a lamb."

" Then I suppose, mamma," said Katherine, (who
had hitherto been silent,) with a very piteous expres-
sion, and in a very melancholy voice, — " I suppose we
must not play, and it must be wrong to be merry."

" Oh no, Katherine, you have forgotten that I said,
be as merry as you please ; and as 1 told you yesterday,
let all your lessons lie unopened, but do not forget that
unmeaning mirth never becomes a child of God, and
that she who is the first of God's creation, is not happy
because she is thoughtless, but because her heart is full
of thought, deep, quiet, but grateful thought. We do
not understand the nature of our Heavenly Father's
love, if we do not rejoice ; we do not know what real
happiness is, if we do not rejoice in the Lord. You
love the sunshine, my children ; you do not call it
gloomy. Jesus Christ is himself, in a very high and
glorious sense, the Sun of Righteousness ; His presence.
His favour, is the true sunshine, for in ' His presence
is fulness of joy, at his right-hand there are pleasures
for evermore.' "

84
THE EUTHANASIA.

SlBritteii in a ^iW.

" Vanity of Vanities." — Prov.

What art thou, Life 1 The saint and sage

Hath left it written on this page.
That thou art nothing, dust, a breath,

A bubble broke by chance or death ;
A sun-ray on a rushing stream ;

A thought, a vanity, a dream.

And truly hath he told the tale ;

Bear witness cell, and cloister pale,
Where loveliness, and wealth, and birth.

Have shrunk from sights and sounds of earth,
And chilled the heart, and veiled the eye.

And, daily dying, learned to die.

Yet, Life, thou'rt given for mighty things ;

To plume the infant angel's wings j
To bid our waywardness of heart.

Like Martha, choose the better part ;
To watch, and weep our guilt away,

" To-day, while yet 'tis called to-day."

THE EUTHANASIA. 85

If trials come, Eternal God !

By thee the vale of thorns was trod.
If death be nigh, shall man repine

To bear the pangs that once were thine ?
To bleed where once thy heart was riven,

And follow from the Cross to Heaven !

Aiojv.

THE LONELY HEART.

They tell me I am happy — and

I try to think it true ;
They say I have no cause to weep.

My sorrows are so few ;
That in the wilderness we tread,

Mine is a favour'd lot ;
My petty griefs all fantasies,

Would I but heed them not.

It may be so ; the cup of life

Has many a bitter draught.
Which those who drink with silent lips
- Have smiled on while they quafifed.
It may be so ; I cannot tell

What others have to bear.
But sorry should I be to give

Another h^art my share.

THE LONELY HEART.

They bid me to the festive board,

I go a smiling guest.
Their laughter and their revelry

Are torture to my breast ;
They call for music, and there comes

Some old familiar strain ;
I dash avray the starting tear,

Then turn — and smile again.

But oh ! my heart is wandering

Back to my father's home,
Back to my sisters at their play,

The meadows in their bloom,
The blackbird on the scented thorn,

The murmuring of the stream,
The sounds upon the evening breeze,

Like voices in a dream ;

The watchful eyes that never more

Shall gaze upon my brow.
The smiles — Oh ! cease that melody,

I cannot bear it now !
And heed not when the stranger sighs.

Nor mark the tears that start.
There can be no companionship

For loneliness of heart !

Sarah Stickney,

87

THE FAREWELL OF COLONNA.

Towards the close of the 15th century the Italian wars had exiled
a considerable number of distinguished men from their respective
homes. Among the rest was Stepbano Colonua, of the illustrious
Roman family of the name. He was charged with the singular offence
of laying a spell on Leonore, a daughter of one of the princes of the
house of D'Este, which deprived her of the power of sleep. The prin-
cess had for some time " outwatched the stars," and written various
MSS. which she scattered and tore, and had completed the evidence of
her being in the hands of witchcraft, by refusing to share the throne of
Naples. The spell might have been more easily accounted for by the
grace, wit and passion, of Stephano Colonua, one of the handsomest
cavaliers of the land of romance. It is not improbable, too, that he
had, according to the habit of his age, actually made some use of the
supposed powers of the magician, or seer, Fabricio, who committed
such havoc in cabinets and alcoves with the heads of statesmen and
hearts of ladies, towards the close of the fifteenth and the beginning of
the sixteenth centuries. On Colonua, when he was arrested, was cer-
tainly found an amulet of the Bezoar, which he confessed to be a
talisman, purchased at a high price from a Moor; with a paper of mys-
tic characters, for which he acknowledged that he was waiting the in-
terpretation by a spirit who obeyeil the enchanter. However, he de-
clared himself perfectly innocent of any attempt to exert those sin-
gular powers on the princess. The influence of his family saved him
from the fate of a dealer with the evil one. But he was compelled to
quit Italy for ever. This to him was worse than death. But the law
was not merciful enough to grant his wish ; and in despair he took ser-
vice in the first expedition under Columbus. It should be stated for the
gratification of those who think that faithful love ought always to be
fortunate love, that Stephano returned to Europe with all his misfor-
tunes turned into fame, by the discovery of the new world ; that he
found his priucess faithful, and that Colonna and his fair bride became
the theme of Italy, for love, prosperity, and an illustrious offspring.

The sea, the bright and breezy sea !

The ships are bounding on its wave :
Yet what are all its pomps to me 1

The exile sees it but his grave.

88 THE FAREWELL OF COLONNA.

The shore, the green and lovely shore !

I see the crowding lance and plume ;
To me the trumpet thrills no more,

The banner droops, the world is gloom.

A shadow sits upon my youth,

A fever feeds upon my frame ;
Life, what art thou ? — one great untruth ;

Love, what art thou 1 — one bitter name.

The sun is sinking in the sky,

The dew is glittering on the flower ;

So sank he, when one form was nigh
That made the world an angel bower.

Dreams of the spirit ! where, oh where.
Ye thoughts of beauty are ye now 1

What hand has planted dark despair
In this proud heart, and lofty brow 1

It is the hour. I hear the tone
That from those lips of roses stole.

I see the diamond eyes that shone
With kindred music to the soul.

Come forth, thou wondrous talisman.

Wrought when the stars were veiled in gloom.

When stooped to earth the Crescent wan,
Wlien earth was but a wider tomb :

t

THE FAREWELL OF COLONNA. 89

When, through the vapours thick and damp,

That filled the old enchanter's cell.
Flashed on thy form the mystic lamp :

Come forth, thou angel of tlie spell !

If throned upon yon golden cloud,

Or floating on yon glassy wave.
Or rushing on the mountain flood.

Or sporting in the forest cave ;

Bright spirit of the talisman —

Come ! by thy master's mighty name !

I hear thy wing the breezes fan,
I see thy glance of starry flame.

We fly ; the world is left behind ;

Bright spirit, still I speed with thee.
What new-bom fragrance loads the wind,

What new-born splendour gilds the sea !

Now, on me burst new earth, new skies ;

From sunny hill to sylvan shore
Is all one sheet of glorious dyes.

Of purple bloom, of sparkling ore.

Far as the dazzled eye can glance,

Spreads the broad land one glorious bower,

Where never shook the gory lance.

Where never frowned the dungeon-tower.

90 THE FAUKWELL OF COLON NA.

There in the myrtle -shaded grot,

Might life be silent as the stream
That slumbers through its crystal vault,

A dream, and love be all the dream.

Beneath the forest's dew-dropt spray,
A king, the grassy turf my throne,

Might fond existence melt away.

Till the long, lonely dream were done.

Again the talisman is dark,

Night and the world are come again ;

I hear the trump, I see the bark,
Around lie agony and Spain.

No, the high prize shall yet be won !

Then what to me is sea or shore, —
The eastern or the western sun 1

Thou shalt be mine, sweet Leonore !

Memou.

9X

MUSTAPHA THE PIITLANTHROPIST.

n Cale of ^sia ittinor.

MusTAPHA Ben Mustapha, Ben Ali, Ben Kaled, thou
wast well-known, long-loved, and deeply-lamented.
Tears are still shed upon the turban stone that marks
the spot where thy remains sleep the sleep of the
holy J the young women spread their veils upon thy
grave, the young men pray to be like thee, brave,
beautiful, and beloved ; the old men thank Allah, that
thou wast the light of their infancy, and the glory of
their land. Yet thy sun was long clouded by sorrow,
thy name was long stained by calumny, and anguish
long bowed to the earth the brow that was yet to wear
the heron plume of power, and the diamond chelenck
of the favour of the Sultan, king of kings.

The father of Mustapha was one of the beys of Kara-
mania, the chief of a tribe, the lord of a hundred
villages, and crowning all his honours with the glory of
having made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Thus rich, pow-
erful, and a Hadgi.he had obtained the highest rank of
felicity allotted to mortal rnhn ; his name became a pro-

92 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

verb througliout Anatolia for prosperity ; and when the
MoUah blessed the marriages of the Moslem, he always
added, " May thy good fortune be as the good fortune
of the Bey Mustapha, and may thy head be as firmly
fixed on thy shoulders ; may thy purse as long escape
public robbery, and mayst thou, like him, sleep on the
pillow of security, till thou goest to the world where
men are neither plundered, beheaded, nor bowstringed,
because they are richer, better, or longer-lived, than
their neighbours."

But all have their troubles. There never was a sky
which will not show a cloud now and then. There
never was a lake without a ripple. Even the Bey
Mustapha had his troubles. They came in the shape
of a son ; that son was the finest youth in all
Karamania, handsome, generous, brave, and beloved.
The old Bey gazed on him with pride, the tribe
with veneration ; he was the theme of the poet's
song, of the story-teller's tale, and of the warriors'
carousaji. But in the midst of those bright prospects,
there was a spot which looked full of storm, to the eye
of the sagacious father. His son was a genius ; the
Bey was a man of sense, his son was a speculator ; the
Bey was content with the world as he found it, his
son was a philosopher ; but the Bey pointed towards the
distant towers of Constantinople, and asked whethei'
philosophy could keep him out of their dungeons ?
At length his time was come, as it comes to all. From
his pillow, which overlooked one of the most smiling
prospects of Asia Minor, he gave his gallant and sorrow-

I

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 93

ing son charge over his inheritance ; finally he put into
his hands an emerald signet, wrought with a mysterious
inscription. " This," said the old man ; " is the
talisman of our house ; it has kept us safe even under
the scymetar. of the sultan, for a hundred and fifty
years. Keep it, until you must give it up, like me,
with all things human." His son took the talisman
with tears and awe, pressed it to his lips, and then
attempted to decypher the inscription. It was totally
unintelligihle to him. " The language," said the Bey ;
" in which those words are written, is not capable of
being read by one in a thousand, of any time of life ;
nor by one in a million of yours. Tf you shall die
without learning it, you shall die in a dungeon : there-
fore learn it, son of my heart, as soon as you can."
The Bey's voice had already sunk to a whisper. His
son clasped his hand in filial anguish, and knelt beside
the couch of the dying chief. " Where," asked he, " is
this sacred language to be learned, 0 my father!" The
Bey was silent ; speech had perished on his lips ; but
he pointed to heaven, and then, with his hand on the
head of his son, gave his spirit to the angels.

Mustapha was proclaimed Bey by the acclamations
of a thousand of the finest horsemen in Anatolia. The
world spread around him a prospect of beauty. Gold
and jewels were like sand before him. The morning
rose on the prayers of his people for his prosperity, and
the evening heard the cry of the Muezzins returned by
the songs of the Karamanian shepherds from the hills,
in praise of Mustapha the flower of the land j but the

94 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIbT.

acclamations of the thousand horsemen were more
grateful to the ear of the young warrior. Their squad-
rons galloping on the plain before the palace, the flash-
ing of their scymetars, their adroitness with the pistol
and the spear, kindled the passion which finds a place
in the bosom of every Anatolian youth. In his glow-
ing temperament it blazed into a devouring flame. But
the flame must wait for a vent. In the meantime, he
set his vivid invention to work : his quick eye saw a
hundred defects in the equipment, management, and
manoeuvres, of his troops. He introduced remedies for
them all. But the troops saw no necessity for their
being wiser than their fathers. Like them, they could
shoot an eagle on the wing, and cut through a turban at
a stroke, — rein up a charger in full gallop, and slice a
Persian or Curdistan skirmisher from the crown of the
head to the chin. But their chieftain must be obeyed.
He was obeyed, and his popularity instantly fell fifty
degrees.

Mustapha keenly felt the difference between the
faint cry with which he was welcomed in his next
exercise of the squadrons, and the ardent acclamation
that hailed his former presence. But his conviction of
the true importance of the improvements was too strong
to suffer him to go back. " They are my children,"
said he, as he returned dejectedly from one of those
days in which his horsemen had manoeuvred incom-
parably on the new plan, yet had suff'ered him to
depart from the field without the waving of a sword.
" I must treat them as such, bear with their follies, and

MLSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 95

leave them to have more sense as they get more know-
ledge. But it is unfortunate that we have no war.
A week's real work would, teach them the use of those
changes, and they would then know how to value
them as they deserve."

As he was reaching his palace, in a gloomier mood
than he had ever felt before, he saw a horseman riding
down the neighbouring hill at full speed. As he ap-
proached, the yellow cap, and the imperial dragon on
his breast showed that he was one of the Tartars of
the Porte. He brought dispatches. They announced
that the Muscovite dogs had dared to bark at the sub-
lime Father of the faithful, and, what was more, to bite ;
that the Sultan had already condescended to retreat
before the Infidel, for the mere purpose of destroying
them within his own territory, and thus fertilizing his
fields with their bones; that the Muscovite dogs being
inspired by Satan, and not seeing the purpose of this
discreet movement, had followed his Mightiness the
Vizier, had dared to attack him two several times, — for
which might their souls be speedily given to the black
angel Monkiar, and their bodies to the ditches of Bul-
garia, — even had the additional insolence to seize his
cannon and baggage, and actually pushed their madness
to the extent of threatening to march on Constanti-
nople. The dispatch concluded with a command tliat
the thousand cavalry under the orders of the Bey
Mustapha, should instantly march to join the faithful
army of the Padishah, in driving the Infidels into the
Danube. The dark eyes of Mustapha flashed fire as

I

96 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

he read the words. He was now in the path to honours
unhounded ; his quick imagination saw before him fame,
commands, national homage. He ordered the trumpets
instantly to sound, recalled his horsemen eagerly, and
told them the tidings. The Karamanian is brave by
nature. He loves plunder, victory, gold-hilted scyme-
tars, and fine horses ; and he expected to find them all
on the west of the Propontis. The squadrons were
weary of their days of discipline. They flourished their
pikes and swords rejoicingly, and gave the young Bey
the first shout that he had heard from them for a month.
In four-and- twenty hours he was in march, and the
march never halted until he was in view of the bright
waters of the Bosphorus.

All hitherto was exultation. The showy Bey and
his Arab charger shared the praises of the whole
Moslem populace, who thought it worth their while to
leave their coffee cups, to see the handsomest soldier
mounted on the handsomest horse in the Ottoman do-
minions. His cavalry won the next praise. Never had
the idlers of Constantinople seen such dashing riders,
so capitally equipped, with turbans so rich, caftans so
embroidered, and boots so worthy of the Sultan's body
guard. 'J'he European Spahis looked on with envy ;
but the Delhis, who always come from Anatolia, and
go, fate only knows where, triumphed in so brilliant a
body of comrades, and swore that they were worthy to
fall into their rear. Nothing could be a higher com-
pliment.

Their trial soon came. From the summit of a low

I

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 97

range of barren hills in Bulgaria, Mustapha one day
saw a mob of foot and horse rambling about the coun-
try, some quarrelling, some robbing, some cooking, and
some with their dogs loose, looking for game. He in-
quired of a peasant what this strange medley meant.
To his utter astonishment he was told, that this was the
Turkish army. This was enough ; the cause of their
defeats was evident. What could be done against the
Muscovite bayonets and guns, with an army one half of
whom were forced to rob for food, and the other to rob
the robbers ? His genius was instantly on the alert.
He conceived a plan for at once restoring their discip-
line, and supplying their food ; and determined to take
the first opportunity of earning immortal fame by en-
lightening the brains of the blundering Vizier. But
what was to be done with a commander-in-chief who
had been a slipper-maker, and had never known the use
of steel but in his own awl 1 His highness listened
to the plan of the young Bey with a smile ; said that
it was excellent, but impracticable ; that the Ottomans
had been in the habit of conquering their enemies
without these new inventions, and by the blessing of
Mahomet, they would conquer them still. The Vizier
having said thus much, made a sign to one of his atten-
dants, and dropping his head on the sofa, fell asleep.

Mustapha indignantly returned to his tent. Some
of his officers came round him on his entrance. " Com-
rades," said he, " I have failed. My infallible plan has
been thrown away on the ears of that hog of a slipper-
maker. He was drunk when I went, he was asleep

98 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

when I came away. So, fight or fight not, we must be
starved." He rushed into the tent, and unbuckling
his scymetar, began to meditate on the first fruits of his
glorj. A slight noise roused him ; and he saw one
of the Capidgis, with the Vizier's order for his head in
one hand, and the bowstring in the other. It was clear
that he had not yet learned to read the language of the
talisman. The Capidgi came forward, to teach him a
lesson on the liberty of speech. A true Turk would
have given his neck in return. But Mustapha was too
new to life to have acquired its perfect courtesies. He
was a mountaineer, and rude in proportion. His only
answer to the respectful salutation of the Capidgi, was
a blow with the hilt of his loosened scymetar which
brought the Sultan's oflicer to the ground. He then
tore the order, and kicked the unfortunate instrument of
justice out of the tent. He was on the point of mounting
his charger, to lay the whole affair before the Divan ;
when a most flattering message arrived from the Vizier,
apologizing for " the misconduct of the officer, who was
on the point of being bastinadoed for his error," and
requesting the company of the Bey to take coffee, and
receive the command of a brigade of cavalry. Musta-
pha was instantly appeased. He flew to the Vizier's
tent, was welcomed with remarkable graciousness, and
was in the act of smoking the pipe of honour, when
he felt his hands bound, and was marched, without
another word, to the rear of the tent, where, on looking
for his accusers, he could see nothing but the same
Capidgi, bowing with habitual gracR, and half a dozen

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 99

mutes, ready to perform that ceremony upon him which
supersedes all others. "This comes," he murmured
bitterly, " of attempting to put knowledge into the heads
of asses. Let me escape but this once, and the world
may fool itself after its own way, for the rest of my
existence." The reflection was tardy, for the mutes
were in the act of fastening the string round his neck.
Another moment would have extinguished the man of
genius. But at that moment a shell whizzing through
the air, dropped into the centre of the group. The
applicant of the string was crushed into mummy. Three
others were shattered into fragments by the explosion.
Mustapha stood a free man again. The Vizier's tent
was set in a blaze, and he rushed through it in the con-
fusion, and regained his own; in- infinite wrath with
blunderers of all kinds ; but not yet including the
teacher of tactics to slipper-makers.

He found the camp in a state of horrible clamour.
The Infidels had made good a part of their promise,
and were advancing to Constantinople, by marching
over the bodies of the left wing of his Mightiness's
army. The other wing was spreading out its plumage
for such flight as it could manage ; in other words, one
half of the Ottoman host had been soundly beaten, and
the other half were running away. He also found his
gallant squadron taking it for granted that he had
gone the path of all beys who are too wise for their
generation, and who take cofi"ee with grand viziers.
But his presence restored their discipline at once.
The Muscovites were covering the field with squad-

100 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

rons of horse, and mowing down every thing with
their artillery. Mustapha moved his cavalry to the
cover of a wood, formed them with admirable skill,
and then advancing on a division of the Muscovites
who were pursuing in the heat of victory, charged
through and through them, and cut them to pieces.
Nothing could be more lucky for the Vizier ; for in
two minutes more he must have been a prisoner, or
trampled under the feet of the Muscovite lancers.
The enemy, at this unexpected check, drew back, and
the night falling, the Ottomans made their escape, glad
to leave their tents behind them. This affair raised
Mustapha's name prodigiously, and visions of glory
began to kindle him again. The first dispatches from
Constantinople displaced the slipper-maker, and fixed
the Bey at the head of the forces, with orders to beat
the enemy, and follow them to St. Petersburgh. But
what was to be done, with an army of banditti ? He
instantly drew out a code of regulations* It was in-
comparable, and its announcement was hailed with
universal joy. But its first attempt at practice raised
a mutiny in every corps of the army. In this emer-
gency, the new Vizier knew that his head was on his
shoulders only till the messenger of the mutineers
could return from the capital. He resolved to turn the
tables by a victory ; marched that night to find the ene-
my ; found them ; cut up their foraging parties ; drove
in their outposts, and fell like a thunderbolt upon their
main body. The Infidels were slaughtered in front of
their lines, through their lines, and out of their lines.

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 101

But day-break came; and they rallied. The Turkish
cavalry had by this time jumped off their horses, and
were packing up the plunder of the camp. Mustapha's
quick eye saw the danger. But all the kettle drums,
and trumpets of the earth could never draw a Turk from
his plunder. The battle turned. The new Vizier fought
with desperation : he gathered some bodies of horse
from the skirts of the field, and bringing up his thou-
sand Anatolians, formed the whole as a rear guard. But
this was worse and worse. Their discipline was new
to their countrymen, and at the first movement all was
confusion. With agony of soul Mustapha saw his last
columm of horse fighting like a rabble, every man in his
own style. The enemy's artillery were now playing
on every battalion of his infantry : and his final look at
the field showed them melting away like masses of snow
on Mount Hsemus. His next glance was at the canvas
roof of a Russian tent. His horse had been knocked
down by a six-pound shot, and he had been stunned by
the fall, and found among the wrecks of the field. So
much for the new tactics. Was he now to give his
next glance at the roof of a Russian dungeon 1

But this was a night of carousal in the Infidel camp.
The general sent off a dozen couriers to St. Petersburgh
with dispatches, describing the battle as a series of the
most exquisite mancEuvres, by which he had drawn
the enemy into a night attack, and routed them at his
leisure. He demanded crosses and ribbands for him-
self, and inquired her imperial majesty's pleasure
as to what chamber of the seraglio she would prefer
K 3

102 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

for her present abode. But it is as impossible to keep
the yellow-bearded Russ from brandy, as the black-
bearded Turk from plunder. The captive Vizier was
brought to the general's board ; where he sat, until he
saw him and his staff fall under it. He then threw the
general's cloak over his shoulders, walked quietly to
the spot where his horses were picketed, found the
sentinels asleep, each man with a bottle beside him ; led
his horse through ten drunken regiments, and flinging
the cloak over the eyes of the only man whom he found
awake among fifty thousand, galloped off on the route
to the capital. Indignant at his defeat, and more indig-
nant at the stupidity which had sent the army into the
field in a state which rendered victory all but impossi-
ble, he paused only to draw up a statement of the whole
transaction, present it to the Sultan, and thus at once
vindicate his own fame, and lay the foundation of con-
quests innumerable.

The paper was eloquent, admirably argued, and the
most imprudent thing in the world. The Sultan re-
ceived it from his anxious Vizier, with a look of the
highest favour ; even read it before he left the chamber,
and at every sentence exclaimed, that he was a Solo-
mon. Throwing over his neck a chain of diamonds of
inestimable value, he departed, leaving the Vizier in
exultation. But, as the door closed behind the retiring
padishab, another opened. The Sultan's barber en-
tered, glancing his eyes on the spot where the aston-
ished Mustapha stood ; he commanded his Janizaries
to take away " the Anatolian Giaour, who yesterdny

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHIIOPIST. 103

had the insolence to call himself Vizier j" with further
orders, " to lose no time in fixing the head of the
traitor on the seraglio goal, and the quarters of the
poltroon on the public scaffold."

" Long live his Highness Achmet the Vizier," was
the answering cry of the Janizaries, who instantly flung
themselves upon him, and dragged him away, protesting
against this violation of all justice.

But this day was the anniversary of the famous
Santon Abubeker, and on this, no criminal could be
executed before sunset. Thrown into a gloomy cell of
the palace, Mustapha called for one of the cadis of the
seraglio, to receive his dying declarations of innocence ;
the question of his property, he took it for granted,
was already settled by his executioners. He had now
time to ponder on his own proceedings, "What an
infinite blockhead I must have been," was his first
congratulatory ejaculation ; "to trouble myself about
patching up the brains of other blockheads. If men
are accustomed to be beaten, woe to the meddler who
attempts to teach them to beat. If I had left the Os-
manli to run away according to their national tastes,
I should now have been dining with the Sultan,
instead of preparing to drink sherbet so terribly
against the grain, with the Houris." His soliloquy
was interrupted by the arrival of the jailor, who
ushered in a basket of dates, brought by a messenger
from the cadi, to tell the dying man that, being invited
to a ball at the Austrian embassy, he had sent one of
his scribes, to hear what he had to say. The detail

104 MUSTAPHA THE PHI LANTHR6'PIST.

was brief J for as it began, the sun was setting, and the
last dip of his rim in the Propontis was to be the
signal of his parting with that head, which had been of
so little use to him. " Prince," whispered the Scribe,
as he pointed to the sinking orb ; " there is but a
moment between thee and death ; what would'st thou
give, to leave the dungeon behind thee 1"

" Lands, treasures, all that avarice could solicit,"
exclaimed the prisoner, his ardent nature starting into
sudden energy and hope — " What am I to do for life V

" The task is the simplest, yet the most difficult in
the world," was the reply ; " It is, to keep thy thoughts
to thyself."

Mustapha struck his forehead remorsefully. " If
from this hour I ever try to make the world wiser than
it chooses to be, may I be impaled in the Atmeidan!"
was the quick exclamation. The cadi's deputy stamped
upon the floor, and a low rumbling noise was heard ; a
stone gradually slipped on one side, and disclosed a
dark, winding stair.

•' In this cavern is safety," saidtheyoung Scribe, and
plunged in ; the prisoner followed. The stair led deep
into the foundation of the palace ; at length a glimpse
of light was visible ; he opened a grate, and the sea
lay before them, broad, calm, and returning the silver
beauty of ten thousand stars. At a signal, a boat ap-
peared, starting from under the cypresses which line
the seraglio wall. The Bey sprang into it, the mes-
senger followed, and the steersman turned his helm
away from the fatal shore, and hoisting his little sail,

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 105

soon left mosque and tower far in the horizon. Mufi-
tapha felt all the sudden elation of liberty. He
lavished promises of opulence upon his deliverer.

" You must, at least, promise me one thing," said
the Scribe. " It is, not to send me back to Constanti-
nople. Having obeyed my master's orders, I must
think of myself; and a return to the shadow of the
Sublime Porte would only substitute my head for
yours." The pledge was given. The little vessel shot
along, and by day-break it had reached the long and
narrow line of rocks which embattle the shore of what
once was Ilium.

The journey to the Karamanian hills was rapidly
made ; the Bey being informed by the young Scribe
that orders had been already sent oflF for the confisca-
tion of his lands ; and his own energy being deter-
mined to counteract the blow if possible. They arrived^
just the evening before the Pasha of Karamania, who
was ordered to execute the sentence. He was a daring,
greedy, and licentious ruffian ; and the sound of con-
fiscation would raise a Turk of any degree from the
bed of death. At day -break the trumpets of the Pasha
were heard in front of the palace gate. Mustapha
would have fought for his inheritance, had there been
time to summon his people ; but the Pasha was irre-
sistible. His troop of five hundred Spahis instantly
filled the courts, and a glorious day of plunder was
expected ; but the Pasha had no desire to indulge them
with the treasures said to be stowed up in the jewel-
chamber of the palace. There he proceeded alone.

106 MUSTAPHA THE PHILAKTHROPIST.

His surprise was excessive, at finding the chamber
already occupied by a stranger, and that stranger Mus-
tapha, who was supposed to have left his bones for the
vultures. But the Pasha's insolence had not left him.
He declared himself come to take possession of the
lands of "a traitor, in the Sultan's name," and followed
the words by a sweep of his scymetar. He had provoked
a dangerous antagonist. Mustapha sprang aside, re-
turned the blow, and rushed upon him like a roused
tiger ; he followed it by a second, and it was sufficient.
The Pasha's head rolled at his feet.

His plan was instantly adopted. Knowing that suc-
cessful rebellion always confers a title with the Porte,
he took the Pasha's signet from his finger, wrote an
order in his name commanding the Bey Mustapha to
be reinstated in all his hereditary dignities, and having
sealed it, locked the body in the room, and went forth
to the people. The Janizaries murmured, but the
popular voice was against them. They drew their
swords, Mustapha lifted his finger, and instantly a
volley was sent from every window, which laid one
half of their number on the ground. The lesson was
expressive ; tlie rest laid down their arms, called their
Pasha a traitor who had led the sons of the faithful to be
butchered ; and desired leave to enter into the service
of the most magnanimous of Beys. Mustapha's saga-
city told him that the Porte never quarrels with the
bringer of presents. He sent the Pasha's diamond-
hilted poniard and scymetar to the Sultan, his purse to
the Vizier, and distributed his horees among the divan.

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 107

He received by the return of his Tartar, a firmaun
from Constantinople, appointing him to succeed the
deceased Pasha, as a " reward for his extinction of a
rebel," and a promise of the first standard of three tails
that fell to the imperial disposal. Ambition was now
dawning on him again, and he longed to charge among
the Muscovites, and bring off the heads of generals
swinging at his saddle bow. But the cadi's messenger
calmlj pointed to the landscape round him ; the moun-
tains waving with forests of the most varied and vivid
beauty, the plains covered with grain, the mosques,
and minarets, the cottages, and pastures, — and asked,
whether this was not better than being rescued from
the bowstring by the explosion of a shell, or being
within five minutes of the sharpest axe of the seraglio 1
As the youth spoke the words, and made his obeisance
for having taken so great a liberty, Mustapha's eye
glanced on his emerald j the letters were still unintel-
ligible, but they seemed to assume a less cloudy shape.
He now gave up the happiness of saving viziers, and
being strangled for his pains ; and resolved to be as
happy as quiet and wealth could make him. But he
was a genius, and when was a genius content with
being as happy as quiet and wealth could make him ?
He went among his people, found every thing old,
useless, and absurd ; made changes in all instances,
and succeeded in nothing. The arts of husbandry had
been the occupation of the peasant from the infancy of
time. The arts themselves had never gone beyond
their infancy. The Bey discovered a hundred im-

108

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

provements ; the people were hard to be taught : in
some instances, however, he prevailed on them in mere
obedience to adopt his new ploughs, his new system
of watering their ground in the fierce heats of an ori-
ental summer, and his new contrivances for sheltering
their cattle. But, for one example of obedience, there
were ten of the contrary. " Intolerable fools!" ex-
claimed he, when, after a day of argument with a
group of clowns, he succeeded only in making them
puzzled and himself angry : " What is the use of
throwing away one's ideas on slaves as dull as the earth
they tread V

" None !" said the sententious young Scribe. Mus-
tapha raised his aching head from the sofa, where he
had flung himself in keen vexation ; and darting his
eagle eyes into the countenance of his young reprover,
expected to have frowned him into the depths of hu-
miliation. But, to his surprise, he was met by a glance
as lofty as his own. It was the first time that he had
distinctly seen that countenance ; for the young Scribe
tiabitually wore the deep turban of his profession, and
his eye was constantly cast upon the ground. Now,
however, it was shown fully, and struck him as sin-
gularly expressive. It had the classic form, and some-
what of the melancholy impress of the Greek statue,
but it was enlightened by the full splendour of the
Asiatic eye. The Bey grew silent ; a feeling of awe,
respect, and submission, altogether new to his impe-
rious spirit, influenced him, and from this moment he
was conscious that he had a master.

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 109

The summer was beautiful, and the Bey exulted in the
success of his experiments. Wherever he had directed
the husbandry, all seemed to be more luxuriant than in
the whole range of the land beside. But, one evening,
the sun plunged into a belt of clouds which mounted
rapidly from the Mediterranean. The wind rose in
wild gusts — night, sudden, chill and starless, covered
the mountain forests as with a pall, under which the
work of death was to go on undisturbed. The pea-
santry were roused from their sleep by the roar of
sudden torrents, the thunderstorms set their mosques
in a blaze, the lightning rifled and scattered the
ancient trees which for centuries had been the shelter
of their cottages ; all was ruin. When day rose,
slow, sad, and imperfect, the landscape far and wide
was one scene of desolation. But, if all were sufferers,
the chief havoc fell upon the unlucky experimentalists
of the Bey. A new process by which the land was to
be prepared for a tenfold harvest in the ensuing year,
had stripped the soil of its usual autumnal covering of
shrubs, weeds, and copse. The wind and rain had
taken full vengeance on the attempt to disturb the old
plan. The soil was torn up to the very bowels, and
the reward of the Bey was, to find his palace sur-
rounded by the multitude in a state of insurrection, —
charging him with their calamities, denouncing his
rashness as the cause of the sufferings which had fallen
on the soil from angry heaven ; and demanding bread.
The Bey was overwhelmed. The cry of a multitude

L

110 MUSTAPIIA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

was not to be resisted. Yet how was he to remedy the
sufferings of thousands? He gave them all that his
palace contained. It fed a few for a day! he sold his
jewels ! all was but a drop in the sand. The popular
cry was raised louder still, when it was discovered that
the Bey's liberality was increased, in proportion to the
clamour. He was embarrassed, and turned to the
young Scribe in his anxiety. " Stop !" was the brief
answer ; but the spirit of Mustapha was not made to
stop in anything. Liberal, eager, and lofty, he deter-
mined to show himself superior to this emergency.
He now proceeded to strip himself of all that could be
turned into value. The populace lived a week in lazy
luxury, and liked this style of life so well, that they
determined to continue it as long as they were able.
They at length used threats : those revolted the high
mind of the Bey; he drove them from the palace gates.
That night, he was roused by a knocking at his cham-
ber door. As he opened his eyes, a broad glare of light
burst across them. He looked out from the casement j
a wing of his palace was in flames, and some thousands
of the peasantry were flinging torches and combus-
tibles on the remaining wing ; while a host of women
with children in their arms, were exclaiming against
" the tyrant who had starved them." Mustapha grasped
his scymetar, and would have rushed out among the
ingrates. He was checked by a gentle but firm hand.
It was the young Scribe's.

*' Your time is not yet come to be torn to pieces by
a rabble," said he ; " follow me."

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. Ill

" And leave those heartless wretches unpunished V
was the quick exclamation of the Bey.

" Better leave any thing, than leave your own head
on their pikes," was the calm answer, as the Scribe led
him, almost unconsciously, down a dark corridor which
opened on the palace gardens. The shouts rose again,
and the flames burst triumphantly over the gilt cupola.
The Bey turned ; but the eye of his young guide was on
him ; and he felt its power. Two of his Arab chargers
were standing saddled before him. The roar and the
flame rose wilder together. *' Time is precious," said
the Scribe, mounting one of the horses. The Bey re-
luctantly mounted the other. The Scribe gave his
charger the rein. Both were instantly at full speed,
and rushing like the wind towards the long and sandy
shore of the Mediterranean, where it curves like a ring
of gold, with Samos, blue and beautiful, a huge sap-
phire, in the rim.

For two days they wandered along the coast, until
they reached the town of Scala Nova. The prospect
had the usual loveliness of the west of Asia. The
bright stream, the noble hills, the brilliant sea, the
magnificent forests of Ionia, were before his eyes ; but
he could see nothing but the flames rising over his
palace, and hear nothing but the roar of the ungrateful
multitude.

•♦ Fool that I was!" he exclaimed, as he dashed his
hand against his ample forehead j "doubly fool, to
expect that a generation of those souls of clay could
understand my intentions."

112

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

"Time is the teacher," said the young Scribe;
" the man who does in one year what he ought to do
in ten, must have a master of his own, who will make
him pay dear for his lessons. Try the world again."
But the Bey scorned the world ; and resolved on turn-
ing dervise, or fakeer, or hermit.

"Let me go," said the impatient exile, " where never
sight or sound of man will rench me. Or let me wan-
der where the earth will be all alike to me, where in
the length and breadth of universal brotherhood all
individuality is forgotten : or let me be the bandit of
Roumelia, the Arab of the Zaara, or the Tartar of the
northern wilderness. Never will I be the friend, the
protector, or the prince, again,"

In two days more, a Venetian ship was to sail for
Egypt, with pilgrims for the Holy House. " Before
you make your trial of solitude," said the young scribe,
" try how you like the march to Mecca." Mustapha
was indifferent to every thing ; he would have marched
to China, or the moon alike, if he could. " To Mecca
then," was the answer. And they both went on
board.

The passengers were, like all the living cargoes,
which are yearly thrown on Arabia, composed of the
produce of every nation, of the Moslem, Turks, Tar-
tars, Persians, Indians, believers in all the shades of
creeds which make the map of Mahometanism as
motley as the patches of a Jewish gaberdine. The
season was lovely, the sea was smooth, the wind was
fair, and with a flowing sheet the vessel glided from

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 113

the bay, and floated along the shores of that richest
landscape of the world. Mustapha was delighted with
the scene. All to him was new, and novelty was the
food of his eager spirit ; hut the sense of beauty, of
grandeur, and of the overwhelming power of nature,
luxuriated in the perpetual magnificence of the sky,
the mountains, and the Ocean, that now expanded on
him for the first time. He had never before seen the
sea; the Propontis was but a lake, and the Bosphorus
but a river ; he now saw the majesty of the waters,
spreading without a limit, sending forth the sun at
dawn, as from some pearly palace in the depths of
ocean, and at eve, opening their bosom for his descent
among pavilions of purple and rose, and closing over
him with billows of molten gold. As the vessel swept
eastward from the Gulf of Macri, the mountain ranges,
that make the rampart of the land from the violence
of the winter storms, seemed to fly away behind him,
light and rich coloured as the clouds, and swift as the
clouds themselves. All was wild, fantastic, and vivid.
The marble range of the Gulf of Macri was followed by
the promontories that girdle the great Gulf of Satalia.
Mustapha, without the consciousness of a poet, felt the
creative thoughts of poetry ; and compared the summits
of the mountains, as they sparkled with incessant ra-
diance, to crowns of living jewels dropped on them
from the skies ; or to the thrones of spirits that stoop
from the stars to keep watch over the world. The
glorious scene vanished, — only to be followed by anew
multitude of all the shapes of beauty, rising from the
l3

114 MtJSTAPHA THE PHILANTHEOPIST.

distant waters like floating pearls, and constantly-
spreading and ascending, until they stood above him
in gigantic heights and forms, some frowning in sa-
vage grandeur, some clothed with sunshine like sheets
of gold, some winding away bathed in twilight, like
the figures of a long procession veiled in vestures of
eternal purple. During the whole voyage down the
coast between Rhodes and Scanderoon, Mustapha and
the scribe were constantly on deck together, enjoying
the luxuries of this great banquet of nature, but each
according to his own feelings. Mustapha, with loud
and eloquent delight ; the Scribe, with deep and
silent rapture. When the tongue of the noble Bey
loftily poured out his wonder, the eyes of his young
companion spoke it in the quiet tears of the soul.
Yet this difference of their faculties was no hindrance
to their friendship. It but gave a fine variety to their
thoughts ; and Mustapha, new to the world, and newer
still to himself, often turned away from all the splen-
dours of earth and heaven, to fix his eyes on the
countenance beside him, as its expression was touched
by the moment, glowing with solemn enthusiasm, and
alternately pale and crimson with the high devotion of
a worshipper of nature.

But they were now to lose the enchanted shore ; and
the vessel, leaving Scanderoon, ran down the coast of
Syria. No change could be more complete ; all was
the barren wilderness : even the sea seemed to share
the melancholy monotony of the land. All around was
intolerable glare : the horizon of the waters had the look

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 115

of a vast buckler of brass. The air was stagnant : hu-
man life soured in the universal scorching ; and as
pilgrimage vras the freight, bigotrj broke out like a
pestilence on board. Mustapha listened, first with
astonishment to the bitterness of men for opinions, and
then with laughter at the absurdity of the opinions.
He saw the Persian ready to take the Turk by the
beard, and the Turk ready to return the insult by the
poniard, for the question, which of two men who had
died a thousand years ago was the true descendant of
the prophet. " May the prophet spurn them both out
of paradise," was his laughing exclamation ; "for the
Shiite and the Sonnite would quarrel about the num-
ber of pearls in its pavement." Even while he was
speaking, a furious battle arose in the fore-part of the
ship. He was rushing towards it ; but the scribe
pulled his robe, and he turned. " They," said the
youth, " are two doctors of the mosque fighting :"
Mustapha stopped at once. He had no possible desire
to interfere between such slippery personages as
doctors of the mosque, and he returned his half-drawn
scymetar into its sheath. But he had not far to follow
the combatants, for one of them, a huge Arab of
Medina, came running to the stern, dragging the other
along by the neck, to throw him overboard. Musta-
pha's humanity instinctively made him grasp the
defeated party, as he was on the point of being flung
to the fishes. While with one hand he held up the
unlucky combatant, and with the other kept his van-
quisher at bay, he asked, what could have been

116 MUSTAPUA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

the cause of this mortal hatred? — " Ask the vil-
lain whom you have barely kept from my murder,"
exclaimed the defeated MoUah. — " Does the miscre-
ant dare to repeat his impious words," roared the man
of Medina ; " I call every true Moslem to witness, as
I call heaven and earth to avenge the crime, that he
dared to doubt that the sacred camel which carried
the prophet in the Hegira, was white !" — He could utter
no more ; he stood choking with fury. — "Dared to
doubt it V exclaimed his rescued antagonist ; " I never
doubted, for an instant, on the subject. I said, and
say, that the sacred camel was ??/ac/c. And, if that mis-
believing slave's dagger were at my throat, I should
say it still :" the saying was unlucky, for in the eiFort
to second his demonstration by a blow of a knife, hid
in his sleeve, his foot slipped, and he fell under the
very heels of his enemy. The Arab instantly rushed
upon him, and before an arm could be raised for his pro-
tection, had hung him over the ship's side. Even Mus-
tapha now shrank from advancing, for the Arab swore
by the holy stone of Mecca, that, at his first step, he
should see the heretic tossed into the sea. " But, to
show that I understand justice," he exclaimed j " I
shall give the wretch one chance more : — Achmet Ben
Saddai, son of an evil mother, do you acknowledge
that the camel was white!" — " Black," was the outcry
in answer ; " ay, black as midnight !" — Then, down
to Satanai!" shouted the Arab, attempting to fling
him into the waves : but the MoUah would not be
shaken off; he clung to him with the nerve of death ;

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 117

and the struggle was fierce, until the Arab uttered a
scream of agony, and both plunged out of sight to-
gether. On their rising to the surface, the Mollah
was seen dead, strangled by the grasp of his powerful
fellow disputant. The Arab was dying; his broad
chest displayed a mortal wound, which the Mollah had
contrived to give him, at the close of the struggle, as a
final specimen of his slill in the art of controversy.
A boat was ordered to be let down to recover their re-
mains ; but the sailorship of the Mediterranean is
tardy, and in the mean time the disputants were taken
possession of by more interested activity. A couple
of sharks had continued eyeing the struggle at the
ship's side, in fair expectation of the consequences.
They now pounced on both the doctors, swept them
through surges, whose foam they soon turned red, and
left the merits of the black and white camels to be
settled by posterity.

" Well," said Mustapha, gravely, as the wrecks of
those unfortunates disappeared ; " I hope the rest of our
disputants will be taught by their example 1" —

" When," said the Scribe ; " were fools ever taught
by example ?"

He was in the right. The controversy spread
through the ship, until the pilgrims would neither eat
nor drink with each other. Fortunate for them if they
had been deaf; still more fortunate for them if they had
been dumb. Every man had a different opinion, and
every man disputed in its honour as if it were necessary
to his existence. The colour of the camel branched into

1 18 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTIIIIOPIST.

a hundred controversies, and each made at least a pair
of orators ready to strangle each other.

Mustapha, irritated and impatient, at last proposed
to the Scribe that they both should go among them ;
and, explaining the absurdity of their quarrelling on
points for which no human being could be the better
or the worse, recommend them to pass, at least, the
remainder of the voyage in peace. " Are we strong
enough," said the Scribe, simply, " to throw one
half of them overboard every day, vmtil but you and I
are left ?" — " No," replied the Bey : '• but they must
be tired of fighting, by this time." — " Nonsense is in-
defatigable," observed his companion. " But," said
the Bey, " I shall rebut their nonsense, satisfy their
reason, and compel the fools to see that nothing but mu-
tual concession can ever produce either general comfort,
or general safety." — "Try," briefly said the Scribe.

Next morning, when the war of words was at its height,
and the deck was covered with knots of enthusiasts, all
descanting on their own wisdom, and the folly of the
whole human race besides, — Mustapha came forward
with his proposition for laying aside all quarrels on
creeds during the voyage. His figure, lofty and com-
manding, his fine countenance, and even his embroi-
dered robes, and jewelled weapons, had a powerful
effect on the bystanders ; the pilgrims paused in their
disputes, and all, forming a circle round the glittering
j>reacher of peace, declared their readiness to adopt
any plan which he thought fit to ofter. Mustapha,
elated at the prospect of success, spoke long and elo-

^

MUSTAPIIA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 119

queutly ; the man of genius broke out through the
habits of the Osmanli, and all his audience were enrap-
tured. Shouts of approval soon began to follow every
sentence : he spoke of the original fraternity of mankind,
and was applauded ; of the dignity of truth, the supre-
macy of conscience, and the purity of reason, — and was
applauded still more: he then powerfully described
them as combined in the act of exhibiting to others
the same freedom which we claim for ourselves ; and
in remembering, among all the differences of opinion,
that the man who possesses a spirit of good will for
his fellow men, holds the master key of all the virtues.
An uproar of admiration followed the speech ; and the
whole circle cried out that neither Stamboul nor Smyr-
na could produce his equal. He next proposed that
every man should come forward, and pledge himself to
general harmony. A tall Turk instantly advanced : —
" Illustrious Sonnite," he began his declaration —
" Illustrious Sonnite !" exclaimed a dwarfish, but
richly clothed Persian ; " why, son of a blind father
and a deaf mother, who told you that he was a Son-
nite 1 All the genius and virtue of mankind are with
the children of Ali." A blow with the slipper of a dis-
ciple of Omar told the Persian that his opinion might
not be universal. Mustapha saw his project broken up
at once, and came forward to restore peace. But the
tide had turned ; and he himself was assailed by en-
quiries into his faith. " Do you believe in the holy
waters of the Zemzeml" cried one. — " If you do not
worship the foot of Fo,"' cried another, " we only insult

120 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

our ears in listening to you !" — "Do you twist three
hairs of the holy cow's tail of the Hedjaz, round your tur-
ban?" screamed another. — "Do you believe inBoodh 1"
was the outcry of a fourth. The clamour grew horri-
ble.— " By the print of Adam's slipper!" yelled a
gigantic Ceylonese, " the fellow is nothing better than
a spy ; and he deserves to be impaled on the spot."
" By the krees of my fathers, he is a heretic," howled
a ferocious Malay ; " I would rather drink his blood
than a bowl of arrack!" All now became clamour
and confusion ; daggers, knives, scymetars, and ata-
ghans, flashed round the throat of the unlucky Mustapha.
But he was bold, was master of his weapon, and the
sight of the naked poniard in one hand, and his
scymetar wheeling round his head in the other, par-
tially repelled the furious crowd. " Hear me, mad-
men!" he exclaimed. " Can I believe all your creeds
together V — " You believe none !" was the roar : and
they pressed closer on him. — " I believe all that reason
tells me to believe," was his daring reply ; " but this
too I believe, that all opinions have something in them
right." The sentiment was partially applauded. " And
also," added he, " something in them «;ro«^." This was
oil on flame ; the whole crowd burst into rage ; they
rushed upon him in a body : he struggled desperately,
but a blow from behind struck the scymetar from his
hand. He glanced round, and saw ihe Malay at his
back, with his krees uplifted to strike a mortal blow.
In the next instant he saw the countenance of the savage
convulsed, heard him shriek, and felt him falling at his

MUSTAPIIA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 121

feet. In the place of the Malay stood the young Scribe,
with the dagger in his hand, which he had snatched
from the ruffian in the moment of fate ; and had dyed
in his heart's blood. Mustapha cast a look of thanks
at his preserver ; and side by side they retreated to
the poop, where the pilgrims dared not approach them.
But the fire-arms in the cabin were soon in the hands
of his assailants, and certain death seemed to await him
and his young companion. In this emergency, Mus-
tapha prepared to die : but the Scribe, repeating the
famous lines of Amrou, at the battle of Ternara —

** The eagle takes an eagle's flight,
llie hero must not die in night :"

sprang on the deck before him; and making a sign
of parley, proposed at once that they should leave the
ship to the pilgrims, and be set on the first shore they
saw. Mustapha's blood boiled at the idea of compro-
mise. But his preserver was already in the midst of
the infuriated crowd, and he felt that hesitation might
cost that preserver his life. He complied, with bitter-
ness of soul. The boat was hoisted out, and the two
exiles were rowed in the direction of the coast. They
soon saw the hills above Beyrout ; and trod the famous
soil of Palestine. "And this comes of preaching
peace to pilgrims," said Mustapha, indignantly, as he
looked on the parched and ruined face of the country
round him. " This is my last experiment : may the
Arabs pluck out their beards ! But we run the great-
est possible chance of being starved."

" My lord, may you be happy," said the Scribe .

122 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

" but if we had remained on board, we should only
have added to the possibllitjof being starved the pro-
bability of being drowned, or something not very far
from the certainty of being shot.

" But to be thrown into this place of desolation for
the mere attempt to prevent a parcel of hotheaded
bigots from cutting each others heads off!" angrily
murmured the Bey.

" The man who attempts to drive back the ocean
when it rises before the gale, will find that his labour
is wasted, even if he escape being sent to the bottom.
He should take it in the calm."

" But, that such follies and furies should have their
origin in religion !" retorted the Bey.

" Look on that Heaven,'' said the young Scribe.
And well might they look on that Heaven with de-
light and wonder. Ten thousand stars blazed above
their heads, with a pure intensity of light, an essential
glory, to which Mustapha had never seen the equal
even in the serene skies of Asia Minor. The sky was
showered with stars, a shower of diamond. A few faint
clouds, slightly tinged with the last hues of evening,
lingered on the western horizon, like the last incense
from some mighty altar. The air was still, and breath-
ing the odour of the sheets of wild jessamines and
myrtle which clothed the sides of the mountains ; all
was richness, solemn splendour, and sacred repose. The
vivid eye of the Bey, made to rejoice in all that filled
the imagination, roved over the boundless field of the
stars of Heaven with a delight which kept him silent.

^

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 123

" From that sky," said the youth, " which looks one
vast palace of holy tranquillity, from this fragrant air,
which breaths like an offering of all the treasures of
nature to the Sovereign of Nature, descend the
thunder and the tempest, the bolt that strikes the
mountain pinnacles into dust, and the hurricane that
swells the sea into destruction. And shall we wonder
that religion, bright, holy, and boundless as those skies,
should have power, from time to time, to fill the earth
with terror, to dazzle the weak, to overwhelm the be-
wildered, to give an irresistible impulse to all that is
bold, imaginative, untameable, and soaring, in the heart
of man."

" But what has the dagger, or the pistol, to do with
this impulse "? yet those sticklers for their contradictory
follies would have flung me to the sharks which carried
off the doctors of the black and white camels."

The young Scribe smiled, and simply said, " My
lord, while nine-tenths of mankind are fools, why
were we to expect that our pilgrim ship contained none
but sages. While all mankind are creatures of the
passions, why were we to suppose that a crew of en-
thusiasts alone were incapable of being frenzied by
scorn. But let us not lay the blame on religion. To
produce great effects, we must find great powers.
Where universal man is to be stirred, the evil will be
stirred with the good. But if the Nile, when it pours
down its flood of fertility on the burning soil of the
Delta, brings weeds into life with the harvest, is the
fault in the Nilel Or when the mighty orb that has

124 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

but just finished his course of glory in yonder waves,
rises to circle the world with light and life, are we to
exting-uish his beams, through fear of the insects which
he quickens in the marsh and the wilderness V The
young speaker of these words had been roused by the
subject into unusual fervour. His pale countenance
had suddenly lighted up, and as he gazed on the firma-
ment, unconscious of all things but the glory which
had awoke his feelings, the Bey found it impossible to
withdraw his eyes from its animated beauty. The ex-
pressive features flushed with new intelligence. The
glance, always powerful, seemed to catch new brilliancy
from the splendours above. Even the voice seemed to
be changed. Always sweet, it was now lofty and
solemn, yet it touched the spirit of the hearer
more than in its softest moments. It was once music
to his ear ; it was now conviction to his soul. The
haughty warrior, the proud philosopher, the conscious
superior of every mind that he had till now en-
countered, all gave way ; and, flinging himself on the
neck of his friend, Mustapha pledged himself by every
light blazing in that sky of serenity never to part from
his young sage, his counsellor, the tamer of his follies,
and the guide of his existence.

The Scribe suddenly disengaged himself from this
impetuous instance of friendship, and with one strug-
gling hand still held in the grasp of Mustapha, and the
other pressed closely to his forehead, turned away in
silence. "Hear me now," said the impatient bey,
" once for all; I abandon all eagerness to interfere in

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 125

Other mens' concerns. This voyage, this hour, have
given me wisdom worth a life. And if ever Mustapha
Ben Mustapha troubles his brain about making fools
wiser than nature intended them to be ; about giving
experience to slaves incapable of thought ; or teaching
toleration to traders in bigotry ; may he go the way of
the doctors ; or worse, may he be parted from his first
and last of friends, even from his young philosopher."
The young philosopher answered this burst of senti-
ment only with one of his quiet smiles, and drawing
his turban still deeper on his brows, and wrapping his
mantle closer round him, remarked, that the night was
at hand, and that some village should be sought for,
where they might find shelter and entertainment.
Mustapha, in the ardour of the moment, would have
despised the aid of man, and remained gazing on the
stars, and listening to the wisdom of his companion.
But a gust from the sea, followed by the rising roar of
thunder among the hills, awoke him to the realities of
the wilderness ; and, anxious for the safety of so fragile
a frame as that of his fellow traveller, he followed the
sounds of the baying of dogs, and an occasional blast
of a horn which sounded on the night air, until he
found himself suddenly called on to stop. He was
in the front of a troop of Arab horsemen. " Fly, or
surrender at once," whispered the Scribe. " The
panther is lord in the desert."

" The lion never flies," was the bold exclamation
of the Bey, as he drew his scymetar. The Arabs
seeing the flash, returned it by a general fire of their
M 3

126 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

muskets, and rushing on in the smoke, to their
astonishment, they found that instead of a troop of some
hostile tribe, they had but a single enemy, the hand-
somest of Moslem, who still defied them. They burst
out into laughter at his presumption, and at the same
moment a dozen fellows leaped from their horses, and
threw themselves upon him. He struggled despe-
rately, but a feeble voice reached his ear, which totally
unmanned him. By the gleam of a torch he saw his
friend in the hands of a crowd of the Arabs, who were
carrying him away ; and to his still deeper terror, he
saw a long line of blood trickling from beneath his
turban. He felt himself instantly powerless, and fling-
ing away his weapon, yielded at once. The captives
were carried in triumph to the camp ; where Mus-
tapha's jewels were infinitely admired, and plundered
to the last stone. But his true sorrow was for the
sufferings of his wounded friend ; the Bey was in-
consolable for the misfortune, which he attributed
entirely to his own rashness. ** Well was it said by
Hafiz," he exclaimed in bitterness, "that he who
takes the wolf by the throat, should first see that his
tusks are plucked out." The young Scribe pointed
with his slight finger upward, and said with a faint
smile. " The skies are as bright above this tent, as
they were on the sea-shore. The sun will rise to-
morrow, as he rose yesterday. We are in hands
stronger than the bands of the Arab. The first refuge
of the fearful, but the last refuge of the brave, is
despair."

r

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 127

I'he tribe moved to another pasturage, and they car-
ried their prisoners along with them. To Mustapha,
the Karamanian lord, this life of hardship would once
have been intolerable. Where were his slaves, his ban-
quets, his minstrels, his baths, his perfumes ? He saw
round him nothing but the horsehair curtains of his
tent, and beyond them the sands of the wilderness.
His food was herbs, his perfumes were the wild
breath of the desert shrubs, his companions were the
Bedoween. Yet, what is man but the child of cir-
cumstance ! He had abjured all his luxuries, for he
had found them insufficient to fill up the aching void
of his mind. He now had health, exercise, and an
object. The bravery of his defence had extorted the
applause of the Arabs ; his noble figure, commanding
countenance, and matchless dexterity in arms, had soon
equally forced their admiration. They gave him a
new name in their expeditions ; he was the * Leopard,'
and their sheik finally crowned the homage of the
tribe, by the offer of his only child, the gazelle-eyed
Ayesha ; with a thousand sheep and a hundred camels
as a dowry. The prospect was enough to turn the
brain of any young hero of the desert. The husband
of the fair Ayesha must succeed to the headship of
the tribe, — two thousand horsemen of the Beni Kohlani,
masters of the finest pastures, renowned for the fleetest
horses, and still more renowned for having baffled the
pashas of Syria, in every encounter, for the last hun-
dred years. The Bey went to the tent of his young
counsellor, who was now rapidly recovering from the

128 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

effects of the Arab musquet. He communicated the
generous proposal.

" It offers all that a warrior can desire," was the
reply.

" But I have forsworn the warrior," was the answer.

" It offers much that the man of ambition might
covet," said the Scribe.

" But I have abandoned all that bears the name of
ambition," said the Bey.

" But it offers something to the eye," said the
Scribe j "for the daughter of the sheik is among the
handsomest of the Bedoween. But the true question
is, what it offers to the heart ?"

The speaker pronounced the words in a low tone,
and remained evidently waiting an answer.

" I have tenfold forsworn that folly," said Mustapha,
impatiently ; " the heart is not concerned in the mar-
riages of the Moslem." There was silence for a time.
At length the Bey added, " but, my friend, the judge
who is to decide on my case, should know all. I never
saw the face of woman, that I thought of a second
moment, — but one."

" The name of that one V asked the Scribe, with a
tone which seemed to borrow some of its impatience
from the Bey.

" I know not," was the answer.

The listener had taken a cup of sherbet from the
attendant, and was tasting it with his parched lips,
when the enquiries of Mustapha arrested his hand.

" Is she yet among the living?" asked he.

I

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 129

Still, " I know not," was the answer. " She was
seen but for a moment. Yet, her beauty has haunted
me to this hour. Many a long day it made me restless
and wretched. I sought her, but in vain. It may have
been among the causes which made me the being I
am, the slave of impulses, full of the fever of the mind,
always rash, always repentant ; a wanderer, a visionary,
a madman." He covered his forehead with his hands,
and struggled evidently with strong emotion. *' But,"
added he, " I now speak of those things for the last
time. On my march to Constantinople at the head
of my cavalry, as we encamped on the plain bordering
the Bosphorus, our position was accidentally crossed
by a train from the seraglio. My troopers were wild
fellows, and, unacquainted with the forms of state, they
broke loose and galloped up to the procession. This
produced a cry of horror from the attendants, and the
startled camels ran away with their burdens. One of
their little tents was overthrown at my feet, and from
it I raised the loveliest being that the eye of man ever
gazed on. She was fainting, and for the moment I
looked unrestrained on beauty worthy of Paradise.
But the attendants soon came up ; nothing but the
threats of my horsemen prevented my instantly falling
by the hands of the janizaries ; the tent was replaced
upon the camel, and a vision departed from my eyes
that to this hour has shut out every other from my
heart."

Mustapha, as he uttered the words, rushed from the
tent ; sprang upon his steed, and galloped for leagues

130 MUSTAPIIA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

into the depths of the desert, to recover his tranquil-
lity. On his return, he found the tribe preparing to
march to the attack of the great caravan from Tripoli,
He marched with it, distinguished himself at the head
of a chosen troop in a night assault, in which he took
the Pasha of Sidon prisoner, and returned with the
greatest prize of Syrian corn that had ever graced the
annals of plunder.

All the tribe lauded him to the skies ; the warriors
were in raptures ; and every woman was instantly busied
at the corn mill. Mustapha went out to view them in
their occupation ; but his eye was instantly struck by
the coarseness of the national contrivance. He found
five hundred women doing with the old hand-mill less
work than with a little ingenuity might be done with
a hundredth part of the labour and the time. " With
wind, canvas, and wood, any thing," said he, " may
be done." His invention was instantly active, and in
a few days he gave a model for the construction of a
mill, which worked wonders. The women were de-
lighted to get rid of the trouble ; the Sheik was de-
lighted to eat bread which was not half stone ; and all
were delighted at the genius which had raised in the
midst of their tribe, a machine requiring nothing but a
blast of wind, to make it go on grinding till doomsday.
The women, determined to escape the drudgery for the
future, instantly broke every hand-mill that they could
find J and Mustapha was at the height of jDopularity.

The new machine became famous, before the week
was at an end. But fame excites envy, and envy is

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 131

the worst of peace-makers. The Beni Abubecker, one
of the most powerful tribes of the Hauran, had heard
of this extraordinary invention, and resolved either to
seize it, or destroy a work which promised to turn the
mill-wheel into the philosopher's stone. They moved in
great force against the Beni Kohlani. A battle followed,
desperately contested, in which Mustapha again dis-
tinguished himself. But the rumour had now reached
as far as the coasts of the Red Sea ; tribe on tribe
were mustering to seize this mighty structure, which
was said to be the work of magic, — a secret wrung
directly from the lips of the golden image of Solomon.
A council of war was held, iu which it was resolved
to fly that night from this overwhelming superiority.
But, what was to be done with the great structure
that towered above all their tents. To carry it away
was impossible in the rapid march of the tribe ; to leave
it was disgrace. It was therefore to be burned. The
tribe marched at twilight, and its flame lighted them
many a league over the plain. They at length halted,
and the provisions were to be prepared. But the confu-
sion was now universal . Even the old hand-mills would
have been better than none. The tribe rushed round
the tent of Mustapha, assailing him by every name af
guilt, for having bewitched them, first into war with all
their neighbours, and next, into eating corn unground ;
an insult worthy of the magician's blood. The Bey
was thunderstruck. He almost tore his beard in vexa-
tion. " Yet," he exclaimed, "it is not these savages
that 1 blame, so mueh as the fool who could not leave

132 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

them to their own wits. By Allah, I deserve to die
bj the needles of the women, for the absurdity of
thinking that the present generation could not manage
to live, eating grit in their meal, as well as their fore-
fathers did." But his wisdom was now too late. A
guard who had supped on unground corn were placed
upon the tent, and he was ordered for public execution
at day-break.

An hour after midnight, he was awakened by the
sound of a knife cutting through the back of the tent.
The young Scribe had thus made his way to him.

"Have you," said he, " at last resolved to leave the
world to be wise in its own good timeV Mustapha
lifted his eyes and hands to heaven. " Have you," con-
tinued the interrogator, " resolved never to think of
teaching the knowledge of men to children ? Have
you resolved to try what is good in the old, before you
hurry on to the new? One question more, — have
you resolved to give up the honours of a sheik's son-
in-law, and never to wed till you see once again the
vision of the Bosphorus?"

Mustapha sprang from his seat at the words. Three
horses were piquetted in rear of the tent. On one of
them was already mounted the captive pasha of Sidon,
who acted as their g^ide ; and the fugitives were soon
far from the camp of the Beni Kohlani. At the dawn
they were galloping along the shore ; a ship was off the
coast } they hailed it, and found themselves in the
Venetian vessel which had brought the pilgrims. To
Mustapha's enquiry as to his converts, the answer was.

•Km:& SttXlCTAH^ DATITCIITIEJBI .

PiiWished }>Y Smith. Eldsr *C? SACot'i

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 133

" that they had never quarrelled, from the day he had
ceased the attempt to reconcile them."

The vessel dropped anchor in the gulph of Macri,
and Mustapha viewed the shore of Asia with immeasur-
able longing. The young Scribe divined his emotions,
and said, " My lord, you must return to your country,
and take the station your birth, feelings, and talents,
mark for your own."

" No ! my inheritance is now in the hand of
another," said Mustapha bitterly ; " the sword of my
fathers is rusted in the sheath of their son. We must
find some lonely hill, or unknown hermitage, and die
together."

" Never !" exclaimed the Scribe. '* The daughter of
the Sultan was not made to be his follower whom she
could not honour as her husband."

As the words were uttered, the slight hand was
raised to the forehead, and the deep turban which had
so long shaded the countenance was thrown back.
Mustapha started with a cry of astonishment. The
vision of the Bosphorus stood before him — Sherene,
the daughter of the king of kings of the east. With
many a blush and many a sigh the lovely being told
the tale of her overcharged heart. She had never for-
gotten the noble aspect of the chieftain whom she had
seen on the plains of Scutari. The agony of knowing
that his generous spirit was exposed to the jealousies
of a Turkish cabinet, still more than to the hazards of
war, drove her to the wild expedient of following
him to his dungeon. She had, from that hour, been his

134 MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST.

guardian angel. His lesson of life was now fully given ;
his impetuosity was transmuted into forethought, and
his precipitate zeal to change all the world for the
better, into the enquiry how to make the best of it
as it is.

On this evening his eye fell accidentally on the
emerald signet, which, in memory of his father, he had
retained in all his vicissitudes. To his utter astonish-
ment, the cloudy surface was brilliantly clear, and the
characters shone like flashes of lightning. He read on
the signet the words,

" For all things there is, a time.
Indolence is behind the time.
Rashness is before the time.
Wisdom waits the time."

Sherene was at his side while he read the mystery.
As he looked up in her fine countenance illumined by
the sudden splendour of the talisman, he thought that
he had never seen loveliness before. The cheek suf-
fused with rose, and the magnificent eye, looked to
him like the evening star shining in the sunset. " The
vision of the Bosphorus is forgotten," he exclaimed,
gazing on her with the rapt glance of a worshipper.
The princess gave an involuntary start, and her lip grew
pale. " Forgotten," exclaimed the lover, — " but it is,
in the presence of an houri I" A tear of delight glit-
tered in her eye, the cheek was burning crimson again,
she fell on his neck, and in that sacred embrace they
])Iedged those vows which are not to be dissolved by
the power of man.

MUSTAPHA THE PHILANTHROPIST. 135

The Bey had found the true motive for action. He flew
to his province : his vassals received him with universal
acclamation. All opposition perished before their
triumph at seeing the heroic son of their old prince
among them again. But their wonder was his bride,
the princess Sherene Halibi. They honoured her un-
equalled loveliness ; but they worshipped her benevo-
lence, the loftiness of her genius, and the purity of her
virtue. In the midst of the bridal, the Tartar of the
court galloped up to the palace. He bore on his
head the firmaun of the Sublime Porte, giving the
paternal benediction, and appointing the Bey to the
Pachalic of the great province of Karamania.

R. S. E.

ON THE TOMB OF PETRARCH.

Here let the poet fix his burning eyes,
Here, all that death can claim of Petrarch lies !
On this proud shrine hangs no sepulchral gloom.
He sleeps within the trophy, not the tomb !
He loved, was loved ; and passion's vestal fire
Shot loftier splendours round his golden lyre ;
And still the strings the thrilling tones prolong.
And the witched world still lingers o'er the song.

THE WANDERER.

Farewell ! farewell, my native shore !

Fair blows the favouring wind :
I wish not to behold thee more —

Nor leave one sigh behind.

And welcome were the rudest gale
That chafed the wildest «ea,

To drift at will my reckless sail,
So not again to thee !

Far, far from vile mankind I seek
What nature holds most rude —

The steep volcano's scorched peak,
The glacier's solitude.

The fires that glow unquenched by seas.
By whelming mountains pressed,

Bum not more fierce than injuries
Pent in this struggling breast.

THE WANDERER.

137

Oh ! give me from their hated haunts

To hide where none may find —
Where the rank rock-weed idly flaunts,

And mocks the desert wind :

Where torrents roar, and caves reply,

In concert hoarse and rude ;
And wild wolves join the savage cry

That stills their famished brood.

But if, perchance, in weaker hour.

Some tear should steal its way.
When false, false dreams resume their power,

And half again betray ;

Then let me seek some milder scene

That an^ish to beguile.
And drown those thoughts so sad and keen

In gentlest nature's smile ;

Where greenest vales stretch far away,
• And setting suns are fair.
And still, with soft and silent ray,
The throbbing pulse of care :

There, on some sweet sequestered shore.

Unnoticed let me lie —
To sleep — to dream — and wake no more

To hard reality '

138

TO THE OSTRICH.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

{Written in South Africa.)

Lone dweller of the wild Karroo,

Sad is thy desolate domain,
Where grateful fruitage never grew,

Nor waved the golden grain :
What seek'st thou midst these dreary haunts.
Where mourning Nature droops and pants

Beneatli the burning skies 1
" Freedom I seek — mankind I shun.
Tyrants of all beneath the sun !"

Methinks the bird replies.

Yes — this forsaken, silent waste.
Where only bitter herbs abound.

Is fitly furnished to thy taste,
And blooms thy garden ground.

A fountain, too, to thee is given,

Fed by the thunder-cloud from heaven.
And treasured in the clifts ;

TO THE OSTRICH. 139

For thee boon Nature plants and sows —
Thou reap'st the harvest as it grows,
Rejoicing in her gifts.

For ruthless foes thou reck'st not here —

In vain the slot-hound tracks thy foot ;
The huntsman, should he wander near.

Soon flags from the pursuit :
Like winged galley o'er the main,
Thou speed'st across the boundless plain

To some deep solitude.
By human footstep never pressed.
Where faithful mates have scooped the nest

That screens your callow brood.

Thus thou art blest, shy, wandering bird :

And I could love to linger, too.
Where voice of man hath ne'er been heard

Amidst the lone Karroo —
Free o'er the wilderness to roam.
And frame, like thee, my hermit home

In some untrod recess ;
Afar from turmoil, strife, and folly.
And misery, and melancholy,

And human selfishness !

SIX SONNETS.

BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

SONNET I.

A TYPK of human life this forest old ;

All leafy, withered, blooming, teeming, blasted ;

Bloom that the reign of summer hath outlasted.

And early sere, and blight that flaunts in gold ;

And grass, like sorrow, springing from the mould,

Choking the wholesome tree ; and verdure wasted.

Like peace ; and berries, like our bliss, untasted ;

And thorns, like adverse chances, uncontrolled.

These flowers are joy that ne'er shall form a wreath,—

These lilies are unsure aff'ection crowned

Above neglect, the water ; underneath.

Reeds, which are hope, still sadly standing, drowned.

This hoary sedge is age of noteless years,

This pool, epitome of human tears !

SONNET II.

As yonder lamp within my vacant room,

With arduous flame disputes the darksome night.

And can, with its involuntary light,

But lifeless things that near it stand, illume ;

141

Yet all the while it doth itself consume ;

And, ere the sun commence his heavenly height

With courier heams that meet the shepherd's sight,

There, whence its life arose, shall be its tomb.

So wastes my light away. Perforce confined

To common things, a limit to its sphere.

It shines on worthless trifles undesigned.

With fainter ray each hour imprisoned here.

Alas ! to know that the consuming mind.

Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear !

SONNET III.

Oft when I lie me down to rest at night.

My wakeful heart by sorrow is betrayed.

To thoughts of friendship, broken, or decayed, -

Of pain to others caused, to me of slight, —

Of dreams of hate interpreted aright, —

Of bootless vows, of vows that should be made,

Of fear too prompt, of hope too long delayed.

Of present woe, of ever-gone delight.

O God ! what am I then ? If weak for good,

Teach me at least to bear with others' ill ;

If hitherto thy law not understood.

Still let me bear thy cross, to learn thy will j

But, if my soul have thy paternal care.

Oh ! teach me what to be, and how to bear !

142

SONNET IV.

My gentle friend, last refuge of a soul

From which the world too soon hath turned away,

Take thy long silent lute, and softly play

Some air which childhood from oblivion stole ;

That heavenly dew shall melt without controul,

My sullen griefs, that rule with stubborn sway ;

That strain all harsher feelings shall allay,

And fuse my heart into one tender whole.

Then pause upon the strings, and with thy voice.

Lure from the silent deep a radiant form,

Of earlier days and happier hours the choice.

Ere yet my troubled spirit felt the storm ;

And having called it into being, cease ;

And crown it with a smile, and name it Peace,

SONNET V.

When first my heart by sorrow was o'ertaken,

And every blossom of my youth destroyed,

Whereforfe, thought I, should hope my breast avoid.

And why my heart of the fresh spring forsaken 1

Then old philosophy did 1 awaken.

And moral truths by error unalloyed.

And ancient maxims, evergreens, employed,

To guard my heart , that should no more be shaken.

143

0 vanity ! the worst that e'er befel !
"What use, with ceaseless labour, to commit
A golden bucket to an empty well.

Or for heaven's wisdom seek in human wit ?

1 planted strength that flourished not, and why ?
The fount that should have watered it was dry.

SONNET VI.

Yes, to be strong and hold, thyself to know, —

Daunted by nought the hostile world may urge, —

Contesting every inch unto the verge, —

And greatly resolute when dashed below ; —

'Tis well : — but man unto himself doth owe

A better wisdom ere he can emerge

From the wide water, and the boiling surge.

Which his strong arms in vain behind him throw.

— That inward strength which Heaven so freely grants.

'Tis not to bear, but, — be not made to bear ; —

Refer to heaven our more immortal wants.

All else the world witholds ourselves can spare.

Thus, Earth hath not an ill to be withstood, —

Nor need we the slave's virtue. Fortitude.

144

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " TRUCKLEBOROUGH HALL.

There were no old bachelors or old maids in Noah's
ark. Whether any existed before the flood is doubtful.
I incline to think that there were none ; for if there had
been, thej would have been preserved as a curiosity,
to say nothing of their innocence. They are peculiarly
interesting creatures, considered in themselves, — the
old maid by herself, and the old bachelor by himself.
But they are seldom seen to perfection, because they
are so mixed up with the rest of the world. The old
bachelor is in lodgings, and he goes to his club, and
hardly looks like an old bachelor. The old maid, too,
very often boards with a family, and so catches the
airs and manners of the establishment as almost to lose
her individuality J her mouth gets out of shape by
laughing and talking like the rest of the world ; and
her taste in dress becomes vitiated from her habit of
going a-shopping with married women and young
girls. The perfection of celibacy is, when an old
bachelor and an old maid, brother and sister, live to-
gether.

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER. 145

There is a pair in the precincts of Pimlico, — the
most pure and primitive patterns of preciseness,
that mortal ever set eyes upon. They have lived to-
gether upwards of thirty years, and really if you were
to see them, and to observe how orderly and placidly
every thing proceeds with them, you could almost
persuade yourself to believe that they might live thus
for three hundred years. The brother is in one of the
government offices, where he attends with such an ex-
quisite regularity as to put chronometers and time-
pieces to the blush. He has never been absent on any
pretence whatever ; and his punctuality is so remark-
able, that the people about the office say that his
coming to the door is a signal for the clocks to strike.
The clocks might, if they chose to take it into their
heads, strike before he came, but it would be in vain,
for nobody would believe them. He wears a blue
coat with yellow buttons, a striped waistcoat, drab
kerseymere unmentionables with paste buckles at the
knees, speckled silk stockings, and very broad silver
shoe-buckles. All the change that has ever taken
place in his appearance within the memory of man, is
that once he wore a pigtail, and now he wears none.
The disappearance of this appendage to his head is
truly characteristic of his quiet placidity of manners ;
for it went, — nobody knows when, where, why, or
how : and of course nobody likes to ask him. The
general opinion is, that it vanished by degrees, a
hair at a time ; and very likely, after it was all gone,
people fancied that they still saw it; for they had

146 THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER.

been bo long accustomed to it. — The dress of Miss
Milligan differs from that of her brother, — not that its
style is more modern, or more ancient, but that it is
infinitely more various, seeing that she inherits three
voluminous wardrobes, once the property of so many
maiden aunts.

The house in which our old bachelor and his sister
live is altogether of a piece with themselves. Gen-
tle reader, suppose you and I go to dine with the old
bachelor and his sister, by special invitation : you
may go farther and fare worse ; only I must tell
you beforehand, that if you expect a three-course
dinner, and silver forks, and all that sort of thing,
you will be disappointed. Here — this is the house
with a little garden in front. You would think that
the little brass knocker had been polished with kid
gloves ; I have known it more than twenty years, and
I am sure that it is not half the size that it was when I
was first acquainted with it — it has been almost cleaned
to death : I think that some of these days it will vanish
as Mr. Milligan's pigtail has. There's a livery servant
such as you don't see every day — what a marvellously
humble bow ! — he is out of the country, and has been
for the last thirty years, during which time he has not
been out of the house for more than half an hour at any
one time, except when at church. His master and mis-
tress have such a regard for his morals, that they have
taken pains to prevent his forming any acquaintance
with the servants in the neighbourhood. And in order
to bribe him into good morals, — for bribery is not always

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER. 147

corruption, — his master and mistress promised him,
when he first came to his place, that if he would con-
duct himself steadily and not get into bad company,
they would make him a handsome present towards
housekeeping when he should marry ; the same promise
also they made to their two female servants, who came
into the establishment at the same time. All three of
the domestics live in hopes of the premium for good be-
haviour, for they all avoid bad company even according
to the rigid interpretation of Miss Milligan, who thinks
men very bad company for women, and women very
bad company for men. 1 very much admire simplicity
of manners, especially in livery servants, and in this
respect Peter is without his parallel in London, in-
deed I may say, or the country either. — Now we are in
the drawing-room, and as soon as we have paid our re-
spects to our host and hostess, we will take a mental
inventory of the furniture. Such a curtsey as that de-
serves a very low bow. Does not the whole aspect of
the apartment, and the look and tone of our friends,
make you almost imagine that they did come out of
Noah's Ark, or rather that they did not come out of it,
but are in it still 1 — Over the fire-place you see a map
of England, worked with red worsted upon yellow silk,
— it was originally white silk, and I remember it a
great deal whiter than it is now. I hope you do not
omit to notice the chimney-piece, and its ornaments,
by means of which you may learn to what perfection
the fine arts had reached in England thirty years ago.
There's a fine crockery gentleman in pea-green breeches

148 THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER.

blowing the flute, and there's a pretty shepherdess in
agold-edged bluejacket, and high-heeled shoes, looking
as sentimentally at a couple of French lap-dogs, as if
they were veritable lambs. You think the carpet has
shrunk, and contracted from age ; no such thing: when
Mr. Milligan first furnished his house, it was, or ratlier
had been a fashion to have only the middle of the room
covered with carpet ; and he can tell you that when
Queen Charlotte lived at Buckingham-house, there
was not one room entirely covered with carpet. Those
six prints of Italian scenery in narrow black frames
have had their day, but are in as high repute as ever
in Mr. Milligan's drawing-room. In the whole course
of your life, did you ever see such a spindle-shanked
tea-table as that in the corner 1 It looks like a great
large ebony spider : black, however, as it looks, it is
only mahogany. Miss Milligan recollects, as well as
if it were but yesterday, that one of the last lamenta-
tions which her dear mother made concerning the
alteration of the times, and the abominable innovations
marking the degeneracy of the age, had reference to
the wicked practice of suffering mahogany furniture
to retain its natural colour. And surely you must ad-
mire the elaborate carving on the backs of these chairs
— the ears of wheat, the heads of cherubs — or of frogs,
— I . could never exactly guess which of the two they
were intended to represent. — Look at the legs, or
rather feet — they are something like feet, — what
fine muscular claws grasping a globe of wood ! The
chair-covers and the window-curtains were the work

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER. 149

of Mr. Milligan's three maiden aunts. This was the
only thing that they ever did ; and I rather think that
they rather thought that their only business in this
world was to work curtains and chair-covers.

But dinner is announced. Now, don't imagine that I
am going to dance a minuet with Miss Milligan. I only
offer her the tip of my finger to hand her into the
dining-room ; for if I were to offer to tuck her under
my arm as the fashion is now o'days, I should frighten
the worthy spinster out of her wits, and perhaps run
a risk of being sent away without my dinner. First
course, a dish of mackerel and gooseberry sauce, and
marvellously good eating too, for those who are neither
hungry nor dainty. Besides, you know we don't go to
see our friends for the sake of eating and drinking.
There is an old-maidishness in the look of mackerel, —
not that they are a very demure looking fish, but they
are neat, and prim, and very insipid withal. Yet con-
sidering how rapidly they increase and multiply, one
should infer that celibacy is not much in vogue among
them. I very much admire the contrivance of the
dumb waiter, — which prevents the parlour conversa-
tion from being repeated in the kitchen, and I would
not on any account that Peter should be witness of our
dinner talk, for he is a shrewd looking man, and I
guess he takes me for a conjuror, — and so let him —
I will not talk in his hearing and undeceive him.
Bless me ! here comes the second course, I declare !
Nobody rang the bell ; I wonder how they should know
that we are ready for it. Everytbing in the house

150 THE OLD BACHELOR AND HJS SISTER.

seems to move with the regularity of clock work, —
indeed the whole house looks like one great clock;^
Second course, — a roasted leg of lamb at the bottom, —
and what at the top 1 Brocoli. And what in the mid-
dle? Potatoes. And what at the side 1 Mint-sauce.
And what on the other side 1 Melted butter. Now we
are told that we see our dinner. I saw it in my mind's
eye long ago. I knew it by the almanack, and could
foretell it as easily as an astronomer can foretell an
eclipse. Well, if a leg of lamb be not enough to feed
four persons who have previously been eating mackerel
and gooseberry sauce, all that I can say is, that they are
gluttons, and ought to be ashamed of themselves.
Here comes a third course ! — if course it may be
called — a bread-and-butter pudding, and a rhubarb tart.
The cloth being removed, we shall have a glass of
wine ; for Mr. and Miss Milligan never drink wine at
dinner. Capital mountain, as old as the hills. Did
you ever see wine poured from a decanter into a wine-
glass with such an exquisite solemnity ? Miss IVlilli-
gan never drinks port, but Mr. Milligan has some very
fine old port in pint bottles, which is introduced on
grand occasions, and this, of course, is one, for they
never entertain a larger party than the present. A
pint of port is not much to divide amongst three
persons ; but when wine is poured with an exquisite
carefulness out of a small bottle into a small glass, it
has a mighty knowing look, and goes as far again as
when it is irreverently bobbed out of a broad-mouthed
decanter flop into^ great big wine glass, large enough

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER. 151

for a punch bowl or a horse trough. Neither Mr. nor
Miss Milligan ever open their mouths wide. As for
Miss Milligan, she looks as if she were fed through
a quill ; and when she opens her mouth to yawn, you
would fancy that she was going to whistle. When
Mr. Milligan had poured out the first glass, and when
his guests, following his example and complying with
his pressing invitation, have done the same, he care-
fully wipes the rim of the little black bottle with a
D'Oyley, and setting it before him he corks it up again
with as much care as if it were not to be opened again
till this time twelvemonth. All this performance hav-
ing been carefully gone through with as much gravity
and preciseness as if it were some magic ceremony,
and Miss Milligan having now left the dining for the
drawing-room, Mr. Milligan smilingly and courteously
drinks to the good-health of his guests, and sips the
first spoonful of his wine, smacking his lips and look-
ing as knowing as the north star. The first glass gene-
rally lasts him about half an hour, and of course it lasts
his guests as long. This is the proper mode of drinking
winej — it makes one feel its value, and it unites duty
and pleasure — to wit, the duty of sobriety, and the
pleasure of drinking. I don't like to see people drink
wine as if it cost nothing ; it shocks my sense of pro-
priety to see port or claret chucked down the throat
with as much flippant irreverence as if it were nothing
but small beer. Half of the pleasure of drinking wine
is in the gravity and ceremony with which it is done,
and the pondering ruminativeness wi^h which the palate

152 THE OLD BACHELOR AND HTS SISTER.

dwells upon, and analyzes every drop. Wine comes
from a great distance, is brought over in great shipsfj
costs a great deal of money, pays a heavy duty, is
moved from place to place with the ceremony and
solemnity of a permit ; it requires a long time to come
to perfection ; — it ought not therefore to be drunk ir-
reverently and carelessly. Mr. Milligan takes his wine
as if he knew its value ; and so he does, — for he is a
capital arithmetician, and can calculate compound in-
terest to its minutest fraction. Six sips to one glass,
with an interval of five minutes between each sip, are
quite enough to assure one that the wine is properly
enjoyed, and duly reverenced. I can't think how it is
that my friend manages to make nine glasses out of a
pint of wine, — yet so he does ; and as certainly as the
little bottle has trotted its third round, so certainly
comes Peter to aimounce that tea is ready, and so cer-
tainly also does our worthy host kindly offer to in-
dulge us with the luxury of another bottle. Whether
any of his guests have accepted this offer I cannot
presume to say, but most likely they never have ; for
such a violation of regularity and sobriety must have
been the death of him.

What a disgusting sight it is to see men staggering
into the drawing-room, with great stupid stark-staring
goggle-eyed looks, as if they had been frightened out
of their first sleep. Ah me ! how I tremble in such
cases for the carpet and the coffee-cups. Such sights,
and such fears, have no existence in the drawing-room
of Miss Milligan. We are all as sober as judges, and

THE OLD BACHELOR AKD HIS SISTER. 153

as much in possession of ourselves, as if we were in
possession of nothing else. Never does an old maid
appear to such advantage, as at a tea-table, — tea was
certainly created for the special use of old maids. The
fine delicate something-nothing flavour and substance
of tea, marks it as the spinsters' beverage ; its warmth
cherishes and keeps them alive, without which they
would petrify. Whether the single glass of mountain
which Miss Milligan drank after dinner, has begun to
mount into her head, or whether a satisfactory sense of
appropriateness at finding herself presiding at the tea-
table has taken possession of her, I cannot tell ; but
she seems to be as gay as a lark, as brisk as a bee ; she
pronounces the word " brother," which occurs in
almost every sentence she speaks, with a light and
buoyant trippancy of tongue : — this is a great feature
in the old maid's character ; she scarcely ever speaks,
except of or to her brother. He goes every day from
Pimlico to Westminster; therefore he sees the world,
and knows every thing that is passing in it. He is
her authority and oracle, the telescope through which
she sees the distant world. Mr. Milligan also himself
feels an extraordinary exhilaration from having taken
a tliird part of a pint of port, and he descants on tilings
in general with an unusual volubility, though without
any abatement of his exquisite accuracy and neat pre-
ciseness. Surely there is not on the face of the earth,
and amidst all the interesting and curious varieties of
the human species, any one display of humanity more
interesting and more curious, than that of a neat, prim,

154 THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER.

quiet, precise, formal, mouse-like old bachelor, having
the cockles of his heart gladdened by the third part of
a pint of port, and relaxing into the glibness of com-
parative eloquence. Our host sips his tea in gladness
of heart, and balances his spoon on his fore-finger with
a smart jemmj-jessamy air, while he talks with a pretty
formality of the state of Europe, and the facade of
Buckingham-House ; and Miss Milligan herself looks
as if she could muster up courage enough to say " Prip,
prip," to her canary bird.

Now let us see if we are a match for the old bachelor
and his sister at a game of whist. Miss Milligan knows
nothing about shorts.

" Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise."

Since the invention of steam -boats and steam carriages,
every thing seems to be done in a hurry. Push on !
keep moving ! is the order of the day. I don't like it.
I like to see things done' with a little form and precise-
ness. I like to see Miss Milligan shuffle the cards ; —
she does it so calmly, so conscientiously, so determin-
ately ; and she deals them so impartially. There now,
let us take our time ; nothing can be done well that is
done in a hurry. With a little management, and a
little formality, a rubber of whist may be made to last
as long and to go as far as a pint of port. Then by play-
ing slow we don't lose so much money, and we thereby
part better friends. And it is so pleasant and instruc-
tive at the close of every deal, to hear a full and com-
plete analysis of the manner in which each hand has

THE OLD BACHELOR AND HIS SISTER. 155

been played, — to have it all summed up as formally and
accurately as the judge sums up the evidence at the
close of the trial. One learns something by these
elaborate discussions. Moreover, it is very agreeable
to have a little talk over our game, and to fill up the
interstices of the time with miscellaneous and digres-
sive comments on things in general. Playing a good,
quiet, steady rubber at long whist, and chatting all the
time about miscellaneous matters, is not making a toil
of a pleasure. But your players at short whist seem
intent on nothing else than winning each other's money.
— So we have spent a very sober evening with the old
bachelor and his sister, and have only lost sixpence. —
Thus quietly live the old bachelor and his sister from
year to year. Nothing disturbs their peace of mind,
or ruffles the regular composedness of their spirits.
They and their house are always in apple-pie order.
They are in the world, it is true, but they are hardly
of the world. They seem to have nothing to do but to
look at it placidly, and to talk about it wonderingly ;
and to wish, but wish in vain, that every house was as
orderly as their own.

THORNY-BANK FARM.

How turus, when early hopes are overcast,
Fond recollection to the pictured past ;
Feels in the winter's cold, the summer's ray.
From Nature's face some magic torn away ;
Views in the opening leaves and budding trees
The spring of life, and, in the evening breeze,
Recals the sound which told of storms upon the seas.

About a mile from the king's highway, stood
A pretty farm-house, half embowered in wood.
In front were corn-fields, and behind a grove
Of beech, whose murmurs told the cushat's love ;
On this side was the farm-yard, and on that, —
Some fifty yards beyond a verdant plat, —
A pond for goose and duckling ; there they swam
Down to the sluice which filled the miller's dam —
The snowy gander with a swan-like pride.
And mother goose, with goslings by her side.
The roof was thatch, by osiers interlaced ;
With climbing shrubs the lattices were graced ;
And whoso looked and saw the smoke ascend.
Thought almost how this earth with heaven might
blend ;

r.)uw, wAMmi«,y^B famiuly.

I

THORNY-BANK FARM. 157

For industry was blessed with sweet increase.
And Love made there abode with Plenty and with
Peace.

James Fleming had two daughters, Jess and Jane ;
And, with such treasure, how could he complain,
Although no stalwart son was his, to heir
Paternal fields and in his labours share.
Small had his outset been, when he, on life
Just entered, took Maud Turnbull for his wife ;
And now some thirty years had passed away, —
On either head the tresses waxing grey, —
While sprang beneath their eyes these daughters fair,.
In age unequal, but a handsome pair.
Loved with o'erflowiuglove, andnursed with tendercare.

When life was young with me, a school-boy gay,
There spent I many an autumn holiday ;
And roaming idly, mind and body free.
Figured what Paradise of old might be —
As to the evening woodland came along
The reaper's carol, and the milkmaid's song ;
While, over head, the green ancestral trees
Shook their broad branches to the cooling breeze.
Then, home returning, round the cheerful hearth
We gathered, old and young, in smiling mirth.
To listen to the tale, or legend old.
Of love-lorn dams6l, or of outlaw bold, —
Of burial aisle, and phantom with its shroud.
Which all believing, Jane would read aloud, —

THORNY-BANK FARM.

For she was younger, — and we closer drew,
As through the pane the night-breeze drearier blew ;
Then to our sleep went panting ; every sound
Seeming to say that spectres flitted round !

Last autumn — now my hairs are sprent with grey-
To Thorny- Bank alone I bent my way,
And gazed around. No Thorny-Bank was there —
But a trim mansion with its gay parterre
And painted rails ; — the pond was now a lake ;
And classic swan succeeded homely drake ;
Improvement stood on tiptoe stiff and starch.
And here indeed her walk had been a march. —
— And ask ye for the Flemings — where were they,
My kind protectors in life's early day ?
All gone ! — A tombstone in the field of graves.
By whose neglected side the nettle waves,
Tells where and when the honest Flemings bade
Adieu to life, and here their dwelling made. —
Jess also sleeps beside them ; soon or late
Death comes, and hers was an untimely fate :
She never had been strong — and oft the bloom
On woman's cheek speaks louder of the tomb
Than rosy health ; — 'twas so with her ; decay
Marked her an early, and an easy prey ;
For slighted love lent, too, a poisoned dart.
And a frail frame contained a broken heart.

Jane — once the household pet — had linked her lot
With one whom worldly fortune favoured not j

THORNY-BANK FARM. 159

So, after years of struggle, toil, and care.
With children five, the love-united pair.
With wreck of substance forced afar to roam.
In wild Canadian forests sought a home.

Thus Thorny-Bank is Thorny -Bank no more : —
Yet vagrant fancy sees it as of yore.
With its old inmates. — Times have changed, and I,
Like my old friends, must shortly look to die }
Nor leave, like them, more during trace behind
Than dew on herb or music on the wind !

A.

TO A RIVULET.

Ten years, with all their changes, have passed by.
Since last, clear-gliding Rivulet, I stood
Beneath the shadow of this pleasant wood,
And gazed upon thy waters. Lullingly,
As then, they slip along ; as calm a sky
Purples their devious course ; and flowers as bright
As those that laughed in youth's delicious light
Hang their fresh blossoms o'er thy current shy.
But they — the friends who made thy banks so fair.
Thy flowers so beautiful, thy song so sweet —
Ah, where are they ? Some, by the hand of care
Untimely bowed, have met where all must meet ;
And some, lone-hearted, gladly would repair
To the mute shelter of that last retreat.

R. F. H.

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

BY MISS MITFORD.

Three years ago, Hannah Cordery was, beyond all
manner of dispute, the prettiest girl in Aberleigh. It
was a rare union of face, form, complexion and ex-
pression. Of that just height, which, although cer-
tainly tall, would yet hardly be called so, her figure
united to its youthful roundness, and still more youthful
lightness, an airy flexibility, a bounding grace, and
when in repose, a gentle dignity, which alternately
reminded one of a fawn bounding through the forest,
or a swan at rest upon the lake. A sculptor would have
modelled her for the youngest of the Graces ; whilst
a painter, caught by the bright colouring of that fair
blooming face, the white forehead so vividly contrasted
by the masses of dark curls, the jet-black eyebrows,
and long rich eyelashes, which shaded her finely-cut
grey eye, and the pearly teeth disclosed by the scarlet
lips, whose every movement was an unconscious smile,
would doubtless have selected her for the very goddess
of youth. Beyond all question, Hannah Cordery, at eigh-
teen, was the beauty of Aberleigh, and unfortunately no
inhabitant of that populous village was more thoroughly
aware that she was so than the fair damsel herself.

I

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE 161

Her late father, good Master Cordery, had been all
his life a respectable and flourishing master bricklayer
in the place. Many a man with less pretensions to the
title would call himself a Builder now a days, or "by'r
lady," an Architect, and put forth a flaming card, vaunt-
ing his accomplishments in the mason's craft, his skill in
plans and elevations, and his unparalleled dispatch and
cheapness in carrying his designs into execution. But
John Cordery was no new-fangled personage. A plain
honest tradesman was our bricklayer, and thoroughly
of the old school ; one who did his duty to his employ-
ers with punctual industry ; who was never above his
calling ; a good son, a good brother, a good husband,
and an excellent father, who trained up a large family
in the way they should go, and never entered a public
house in his life.

The loss of this invaluable parent about three years
before had been the only grief that Hannah Cordery had
known. But as her father, although loving her with the
mixture of pride and fondness, which her remarkable
beauty, her delightful gaiety, and the accident of her
being by many years the youngest of his children,
rendered natural, if not excusable, had yet been the
only one about her, who had discernment to perceive,
and authority to check her little ebullitions of vanity and
self-will ; she felt, as soon as the first natural tears were
wiped away, that a restraint had been removed, and,
scarcely knowing why, was too soon consoled for the
greatest misfortune that could possibly have befallen
one so dangerously gifted. Her mother was a kind,
p .3

162

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

good, gentle woman, who having by necessity worked
hard in the early part of her life, still continued the
practice, partly from inclination, partly from a sense
cff duty, and partly from mere habit, and amongst her
many excellent qualities had the Alie Dinmont pro-
pensity of giving all her children their own way,*
especially this the blooming cadette of the family ; and
her eldest brother, a bachelor, who, succeeding to his
father's business, took his place as master of the house,
retaining his surviving parent as its mistress, and his
pretty sister as something between a plaything and a
pet, both in their several ways seemed vying with each
other as to which should most thoroughly humour and
indulge the lovely creature whom nature had already
done her best or her worst to spoil to their hands.

Her other brothers and sisters, married and dispersed
over the country, had of course no authority, even if
they had wished to assume any thing like power over
the graceful and charming young woman whom every
one belonging to her felt to be an object of pride and
delight ; so that their presents and caresses and smiling
invitations aided in strengthening Hannah's impres-
sion, poor girl though she were, that her little world,
the small horizon of her own secluded hamlet, was made
for her, and for her only ; and if this persuasion had
needed any additional confirmation, such confirmation
would have been found in the universal admiration of

* "Eh poor things, what else have I to give them ?" This reply of Alie
thiiuiont, and indeed her whole sweet character, short though it be, has
-.ilways seemed to nie the finest female sketch iu the Waverley Novels — -
liner even, because so much tenderer, than the bold and honest Jennie Deans,

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 163

the village beaux, and the envy, almost as general, of
the village belles, particularly in the latter ; the envy of
rival beauties being, as every body knows, of all flat-
teries the most piquant and seducing — in a word the
most genuine and real.

The only person from whom Hannah Cordery ever
heard that rare thing called truth, was her friend and
school-fellow, Lucy Meadows, a young woman two or
three years older than herself in actual age, and half a
life-time more advanced in the best fruits of mature age,
in clearness of judgment and steadiness of conduct.

A greater contrast of manner and character than
that exhibited between the light-headed and light-
hearted beauty and her mild and quiet companion
could hardly be imagined. Lucy was pretty too, very
pretty ; but it was the calm, sedate, composed ex-
pression, the pure alabaster complexion, the soft dove-
like eye, the general harmony and delicacy of feature
and of form that we so often observe in a female Friend ;
and her low gentle voice, her retiring deportment,
and quaker-like simplicity of dress were in perfect ac-
cordance with that impression. Her clearness of in-
tellect, too, and rectitude of understanding, were such as
are often found amongst that intelligent race of people ;
although there was an intuitive perception of character
and motive, a fineness of observation under that demure
and modest exterior, that, if Lucy had ever in her life
been ten miles from her native village, might have been
called knowledge of the world.

How she came by this quality, which some women

164

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

ath^
had

seem to possess by instinct, Heaven only knows ! Her
early gravity of manner, and sedateness of mind might
be more easily accounted for. Poor Lucy was an or-
phan, and had from the age of fourteen been called
upon to keep house for her only brother, a young man
of seven or eight and twenty, well to do in the world,
who, as the principal carpenter of Aberleigh, had had
much intercourse with the Corderys in the way of bu-
siness, and was on the most friendly terms with the
whole family.

With one branch of that family James Meadows
would fain have been upon terms nearer atid dearer than
those of friendship. Even before John Cordery's death
his love for Hannah, although not openly avowed
been the object of remark to the whole village ; and it
is certain that the fond and anxious father found his
last moments soothed by the hope that the happiness
and prosperity of his favourite child were secured by
the attachment of one so excellent in character and re-
spectable in situation.

James Meadows was indeed a man to whom any fa-
ther would have confided his dearest and loveliest
daughter with untroubled confidence. He joined to
the calm good sense and quiet observation that distin-
guished his sister, an inventive and constructive power,
which, turned as it was to the purposes of his own trade,
rendered him a most ingenious and dexterous mechanic j
and which only needed the spur of emulation, or the
still more active stimulus of personal ambition, to pro-
cure for him high distinction in any line to which hte

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 165

extraordinary faculty of invention and combination
might be applied.

Ambition, however, he had none. He was happily
quite free from that tormenting task -master, who, next
perhaps to praise, makes the severest demand on hu-
man faculty, and human labour. To maintain in the
spot where he was born the character for honesty, inde-
pendence and industry that his father had borne before
him, to support in credit and comfort the sister whom
he loved so well, and one whom he loved still better,
formed the safe and humble boundary of his wishes.
But with th^feoutrariety with which fortune so often
^eems to piursue those who do not follow her, his suc-
cess far outstripped his moderate desires. The neigh-
bouring gentlemen soon discovered his talent. Employ-
ment poured in upon him. His taste proved to be equal
to his skill ; and from the ornamental out-door work — the
Swiss cottages, and fancy dairies, the treillage and the
rustic se'^s belonging to a great country place, — to the
most delicate mouldings of the boudoir and the saloon,
nothing went well that wanted the guiding eye and
finishing hand of James Meadows. The best work-
men were proud to be employed by him ; the most
respectable yeomen offered their sons as his appren-
tices ; and without any such design on his part, our
village carpenter was in a fair way to become one of
the wealthiest tradesmen in the county.

His personal character and peculiarly modest and
respectful manners contributed not a little to his
^JUpuljirity with his superiors. He was a fair slender

166

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

young man, with a pale complexion, a composed but
expressive countenance, a thoughtful, deep-set, grev
eye, and a remarkably fine head, with a profusion of
curling brown hair, which gave a distinguished air to his
whole appearance ; so that he was constantly taken by
strangers for a gentleman ; and the gentle propriety
with which he was accustomed to correct the mistake
was such as seldom failed to heighten the estimation of
the individual, whilst it set them right as to his station.
Hannah Cordery, with all her youthful charms, might
think herself a lucky damsel in securing the affections
of such a lover as this ; and that she did actually think
so was the persuasion of those that knew her best — of
her mother, her brother William, and Lucy Meadows ;
although the coy, fantastic beauty, shy as a ring-dove,
wild as a fawn of the forest, was so far from confessing
any return of affection, that whilst suffering his atten-
tions, and accepting his escort to the rural gaieties
which beseemed her age, she would now profess, even
while hanging on his arm, her intention of never mar-
rying, and now coquet before his eyes with some pass-
ing admirer whom she had never seen before. She
took good care, however, not to go too far in her coquetry,
or to flirt twice with the same person ; and so contrived
to temper her resolutions against matrimony with " nods
and becks and wreathed smiles," that, modest as he
was by nature, and that natural modesty enhanced
by the diffidence which belongs to a deep and ardent
passion, James Meadows himself saw no real cause for
fear in the pretty petulance of his fair mistress, in*a

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 167

love of power so full of playful grace that it seemed
rather a charm than a fault, and in a blushing reluctance
to change her maiden state, and lose her maiden free-
dom, which had in his eyes all the attractions of youth-
ful shamefacedness. That she would eventually be his
own dear wife, James entertained no manner of doubt ;
and, pleased with all that pleased her, was not unwill-
ing to prolong the happy days of courtship.

In this humour Lucy had left him, when, in the end
of May she had gone for the first time to pass a few
weeks with a relation in London. Her cousins were
kind and wealthy ; and, much pleased with the modest
intelligence of their young kinswoman, they exerted
themselves to render their house agreeable to her, and
to show her the innumerable sights of the Queen of
Cities. So that her stay being urged by James, who,
thoroughly unselfish, rejoiced to find his sister so well
amused, was prolonged to the end of July, when,
alarmed at the total cessation of letters from Hannah,
and at the constrained and dispirited tone which she
discovered, or fancied that she discovered in her bro-
ther's, Lucy resolved to hasten home.

He received her with his usual gentle kindness and
his sweet and thoughtful smile ; assured her that he
was well; exerted himself more than usual to talk, and
waved away her anxious questions by extorting from
her an account of her journey and her residence, of all
that she had seen, and of her own feelings on return-
ing to her country home after so long a sojourn in the
splendid and beautiful metropolis. He talked more

168 THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

than was usual with him, and more gaily •, but still
Lucy was dissatisfied. The hand that had pressed
hers on alighting was cold as death ; the lip that had
kissed her fair brow was pale and trembling; his ap-
petite was gone, and his frequent and apparently un-
conscious habit of pushing away the clustering curls
from his forehead proved, as plainly as words could
have done, that there was pain in the throbbing temples.
The pulsation was even visible ; but still he denied
that he was ill, and declared that her notion of his hav-
ing grown thin and pale was nothing but a \^-oman's
fancy, — the fond whim of a fond sister.

To escape from the subject he took her into the gar-
den,— her own pretty flower garden, divided by a wall
covered with creepers from the larger plot of ground de-
voted to vegetables, and bounded on one side by build-
ings connected with his trade, and parted on the other
from a well-stored timber-yard, by a beautiful rustic
skreen of fir and oak and birch with the bark on, which
terminating in a graceful curve at the end next the house,
and at that leading to the garden with a projecting go-
thic porch, partly covered by climbing plants, partly
broken by tall pyramidal hollyhocks, and magnificent
dahlias, and backed by a clump of tall elms, formed a
most graceful veil to an unsightly object. This skreen
had been erected during Lucy's absence, and without
her knowledge ; and her brother smiling at the delight
which she expressed, pointed out to her the splendid
beauty of her flowers and the luxuriant profusion of
their growth.

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 169

The old buildings matted with roses, honeysuckles,
and jessamines, broken only by the pretty out-door
room which Lucy called her green-house ; the pile of va-
riously tinted geraniums in front of that prettiest room ;
the wall garlanded, covered, hidden with interwoven
myrtles, fuschias, passion-flowers, and clematis, the pur-
ple wreaths of the mauradia, the orange tubes of the
acrima carpia, and the bright pink blossoms of the lotus
spermum ; the beds filled with dahlias, salvias, cal-
ceolarias, and carnations of every hue, with the rich
purple and the pure white petunia, with the many-
coloured marvel of Peru, with the enamelled blue of the
Siberian larkspur, with the richly scented changeable
lupine, with the glowing lavatera, the splendid hybiscus,
the pure and alabaster cup of the white Oenothera, the
lilac clusters of the phlox, and the delicate blossom of
the yellow sultan, most elegant amongst flowers ; — all
these, with a hundred other plants too long to name, and
all their various greens, and the pet weed migno-
nette growing like grass in a meadow, and mingling its
aromatic odour amongst the general fragrance — all this
sweetness and beauty glowing in the evening sun, and
breathing of freshness and of cool air, came with such
a thrill of delight upon the poor village maiden, who, in
spite of her admiration of London, had languished in
its heat and noise and dirt, for the calm and quiet, the
green leaves and the bright flowers of her country home,
that, from the very fulness of her heart, from joy and
gratitude and tenderness and anxiety, she flung her
arms round her brother's neck and burst into tears.

Q

170 THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

Lucy was usually so calm and self-commanded, that
such an ebullition of feeling from her astonished and
affected James Meadows more than any words, however
tender. He pressed her to his heart, and when following
up the train of her own thoughts, — sure that this kind
brother, who had done so much to please her was him-
self unhappy, guessing, and longing, and yet fearing to
know the cause, — when Lucy, agitated by such feelings
ventured to whisper '• Hannah 1" her brother placing her
gently on the steps leading to the green-house, and
leaning himself against the open door, began in a low
and subdued tone to pour out his whole heart to his
sympathising auditress. The story was nearly such as
she had been led to expect from the silence of one
party, and the distress of the other. A rival, — a most
unworthy rival had appeared upon the scene, — and
James Meadows, besides the fear of losing the lovely
creature whom he had loved so fondly, had the addi-
tional grief of believing that the man whose flatteries
had at least gained from her a flattering hearing,
was of all others the least likely to make her respect-
able and happy. — Much misery may be comprised in
few words. Poor James's story was soon told.

A young and gay Baronet had, as Lucy knew,
taken the manor-house and manor of Aberleigh ; and
during her absence, a part of his retinue with a train
of dogs and horses had established themselves in the
mansion, in preparation^ for their master's arrival.
Amongst these new comers, by far the most showy and
important was the head keeper, Edward Forester, a

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 171

fine looking young man, with a tall, firm, upright figure,
a clear dark complexion, bright black eyes, a smile al-
ternately winning and scornful, and a prodigious flu-
ency of speech, and readiness of compliment. He fell
in love with Hannah at first sight, and declared his
passion the same afternoon ; and, although discouraged
by every one about her, never failed to parade before
her mother's house two or three times a-day, mounted
on his master's superb blood-horse, to waylay her in
her walks, and to come across her in her visits. Go
where she might, Hannah was sure to encounter Ed-
ward Forester ; and this devotion from one whose per-
sonal attractions extorted as much admiration from the
lasses, her companions, as she herself had been used
to excite amongst the country lads, had in it, in spite
of its ostentatious openness, a flattery that seemed
irresistible.

" I do not think she loves him, Lucy," said James
Meadows, sighingly ; " indeed I am sure that she does
not. She is dazzled by his showiness and his fluency,
his horsemanship and his dancing ; but love him she
does not. It is fascination, such a fascination as leads
a [moth to flutter round a candle, or a bird to drop
into the rattlesnake's mouth, — and never was flame
more dangerous, or serpent more deadly. He is un-
worthy of her, Lucy, — thoroughly unworthy. This
man, who calls himself devoted to a creature as inno-
cent as she is lovely, — who pretends to feel a pure and
genuine passion for this pure and too-believing girl,
passes his evenings, his nights, in drinking, in gam-

172 THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

ing, in debauchery of the lowest and most degrading
nature. He is doubtless at this very instant at the
wretched beer-shop at the corner of the common —
the haunt of all that is wicked, and corrupter of all
thatis frail, " The Foaming Tankard." It is there, in the
noble game of Four Corners, that the man who aspires
to the love of Hannah Cordery passes his hours. — Lucy,
do you remember the exquisite story of Phoebe Daw-
son, in Crabbe's Parish Register! — such as she was,
will Hannah be. I could resign her. Heaven knows,
grievous as the loss would be, to one whom she loved,
and who would ensure her happiness. But to give her
up to Edward Forester — the very thought is madness !"

" Surely, brother, she cannot know that he is so
unworthy ! surely, surely, when she is convinced that
lie is, she will throw him off like an infected garment !
I know Hannah well. She would be protected from
such an one as you describe, as well by pride as by
purity. She cannot be aware of these propensities."

"She has been told of them repeatedly; but he
denies the accusation, and she rather believes his
denial than the assertions of her best friends. Know-
ing Hannah as you do, Lucy, you cannot but remember
the petulant self-will, the scorn of contradiction and
opposition, which used half to vex and half to amuse
us in the charming spoilt child. We little dreamt
how dangerous that fault, almost diverting in trifles,
might become in the serious business of life. Her
mother and brother are my warm advocates, and the
determined opponents of my rival 5 and therefore, to as-

I

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE. 173

sert what she calls her independence and her disin-
terestedness, (for with this sweet perverse creature the
worldly prosperity which I valued chiefly for her sake
makes against me,) she will fling herself away on one
wholly unworthy of her, one whom she does not even
love, and with whom her whole life will be a scene of
degradation and misery."

" He will be to-night at the Foaming Tankard?"

"He is there every night."

At this point of their conversation the brother was
called away ; and Lucy, after a little consideration,
tied on her bonnet, and walked to Mrs. Cordery's.

Her welcome from William Cordery and his mo-
ther was as cordial and hearty as ever, perhaps more
so ; Hannah's greetings were affectionate, but con-
strained. Not to receive Lucy kindly, was impossible ;
and yet her own internal consciousness rendered poor
Lucy, next perhaps to her brother, the very last person
whom she would have desired to see ; and this uncom-
fortable feeling increased to a painful degree, when the
fond sister, with some diminution of her customary
gentleness, spoke to her openly of her conduct to
James, and repeated in terms of strong and earnest
reprehension, all that she had heard of the conduct and
pursuits of her new admirer.

" He frequent the Foaming Tankard ! He drink to
intoxication ! He play for days and nights at Four Cor-
ners ! It is false ! It is a vile slander ! I would an-
swer for it with my life ! He told me this very day
that he has never even entered that den of infamy."
q3

174

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

•' I believe him to be there at this very hour," re-
]»lied Lucy calmly. And Hannah, excited to the
highest point of anger and agitation, dared Lucy to
the instant proof, invited her to go with her at once to
the beer-house, and offered to abandon all thoughts of
Edward Forester if he proved to be there. Lucy,
willing enough to place the fate of the cause on that
issue, prepared to accompany her ; and the two girls
set forth, wholly regardless of Mrs. Cordery's terrified
remonstrance, who assured them that small-pox of the
confluent sort was in the house ; and that she had heard
only that very afternoon, that a young woman, vacci-
nated at the same time, and by the same person with
lier Hannah, lay dead in one of the rooms of the
Foaming Tankard.

Not listening to, not even hearing her mother,
Hannah walked with the desperate speed of passion
through the village street, up the winding hill, across
the common, along the avenue ; and reached in less
time than seemed possible the open grove of oaks, in
one corner of which this obnoxious beer-house, the
torment and puzzle of the magistrates, and the pest
of the parish, was situated. There was no sign of
death or sickness about the place. The lights from the
tap-room and the garden, along one side of which the
alley for four-corners was erected, gleamed in the dark-
ness of a moonless summer night between the trees ;
and even farther than the streaming light, pierced the
loud oaths and louder laughter, the shouts of triumph,
and the yells of defeat, mixed with the dull heavy

THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

175

blows of the large wooden bowl, from the drunken
gamesters in the alley.

Hannah started as she heard one voice ; but, deter-
mined to proceed, she passed straight through the
garden gate, and rushed hastily on to the open shed
where the players were assembled. There, stripped of
his coat and waistcoat, in all the agony of an intoxicated
and losing gambler, stood Edward Forester, in the act
of staking his gold-laced hat upon the next cast. He
threw and lost : and casting from him with a furious
oath the massive wooden ball, struck in his blind
frenzy, the lovely creature who stood in silent horror
at the side of the alley, who fell with the blow, and
was carried for dead into the Foaming Tankard.

Hannah did not, however, die ; although her left arm
was broken, her shoulder dislocated, and much injury
inflicted by the fall. She lived, and she still lives,
but no longer as the Beauty of the Village. Her fine
shape injured by the blow, and her fair face disfigured
by the small-pox, she can no longer boast the surpass*
ing loveliness which obtained for her the title of the
Rose of Aberleigh. And yet she has gained more
than she has lost, even in mere attraction ; the vain
coquettish girl is become a sweet and gentle woman ;
gaiety has been replaced by sensibility, and the sauci-
ness of conscious power, by the modest wish to please.
In her long and dangerous illness, her slow and doubtful
convalescence, Hannah learnt the difficult lesson, to ac~

176 THE BEAUTY OF THE VILLAGE.

knowledge, and to amend her own faults ; and when,after
many scruples on the score of her changed person and
impaired health, she became the happy wife of James
Meadows, she brought to him, in a corrected temper
and a purified heart, a dowry far more precious in his
mind than the transient beauty which had been her
only charm in the eyes of Edward Forester.

OUR OWN FIRE-SIDE.

Our fire-side's easy-chair —

Is there any place beside
Where such pleasant cheer we share ?

Where the hours so gently glide 1
Though but humble be the fare

That Want's daily toils provide,
Dainty's cup can ne'er compare
With the joy that sparkles there.

By our own fire-side.

Would you meet with genuine Mirth

Where she comes a willing guest 1
'Tis the quiet social hearth.

Well I wot, she loveth best ;
Where the little ones at play

Prattle by their mother's side,
And the elder, mildly gay,
Laugh and sing the hours away.

By their own fire-side.

OUR OWN FIRE-SIDE. 177

An honest man, though poor.

Yet may feel an honest pride.
While he tells his troubles o'er

Where his heart hath nought to hide.
He who falls from high estate

No great grievance hath to bide.
If he calmly meets his fate,
Where Content and Quiet wait

By the rustic fire-side.

They who love us till we die, -

Who through troubles have been tried,
Who will watch the closing eye

When all grows cold beside —
Where shall friends like these be found,

Search we earth and ocean wide 1
Where, on all this weary round.
Save that hallowed spot of ground

Called our own fire-side 1

In my chimney's cozy nook

Thus I chant my rustic lay,
'Neath the rafters, brown with smoke

Curling up for many a day.
Wealth may boast his splendid hall.

Pomp and luxury and pride.
Sculptured roof and pictured wall —
There's no comfort in them all

Like my own fire-side.

John Clare.

178

A PHANTASM.

Where is the Lady lingering ?

I cannot hear her song, —
But, I see her — ha! her dark, dark eyes.

And hair, so black and long !

Adown her cheek, around her neck.
Hangs a cloud of that night-black hair ;

And her eyes are like those of the diamond snake.
When it looks from its deep dark lair.

She sitteth in an ancient tower.

Amongst the pictures old ;
Before her lieth a charmed book.

And unlocked is its clasp of gold.

Upon the palm of her small white hand.

She leaneth her temple pale.
And I know that her dreaming soul to-night

Is drowned in a wizard tale.

Dream on, sweet Lady Armandine !

Let thy thoughts run wild and free ;
May'st thou ever delight in a story wild.

And 1 in beholding thee !

A PHANTASM. 179

Thou readest of things which never were,

And I see what ne'er may be ;
But, if what we see delight us both.

What matter — to thee, or me ?

'Tis a little and poor philosophy

Which chains us to things that be :
For if Fancy can fashion its own bright Heaven,

Why — 'tis good as reality !

i

THEORY AND EXPERIMENT.

Dost thou read books 1 Why so do I. I gaze

Upon eternal Nature's changing books,

The earth, the air, the sea, and the vast sky.

From morn 'till day grows dim. There's not a leaf

Thou turnest in thy chamber, but I match 't

(Ay, leaf for leaf,) upon the mountain tops.

Or in the pastures, or the solemn woods, —

Tracing, as thou dost, a great author's hand.

And loving not less than thou. You build up. here,

In your grave room, one thought upon another,

Guess after guess, till Speculation stops.

Lost in the clouds she soars to. I, meanwhile,

Glean tale by tale from nature's history,

And so build up my knowledge,— -not so quick,

And yet, methinks, as surely.

180

A DIRGE.

(fok music.)

I.

Strew boughs, — strew flowers.

Through all the hours.

On yon young tomb, —

Unblown, unfaded,

Unloved, unknown :

Here Beauty sleepeth, beneath a stone j

Once how fair, — but now degraded !

Hither she came — alone — alone.

From the South Sea bowers.

Where Summer dowers

The world with bloom.

Mingle with music the strange perfume !

II.

Let the tears of the Hours

Now fall like rain.

And freshen the flowers

Again, again !

The sweetness they borrow

Shall ne'er be vain.

While human sorrow

Is falling in showers,

That yield no comfort to human pain !

181

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.
^ €aU of ifit SlBaI))oIe ^Dmmtstration.

'• Go, my son, and learn how little wistlom is required to
govern the world." — Chancellor Oxenstiern.

Few things are more interesting to me, than old por-
traits — not those of the great and far-famed alone, but
those dingj, mildewed, nameless ones, which we so
often meet with in ancient halls and old manor houses,
and which suit so well in their curiously carved frames,
with the formal tall chairs, and heavy black mahogany
tables of the wainscotted parlour, where a hundred
years since the squire duly read the Flying Post, and
Daily Courant, and toasted " confusion to the Pope,
Devil, and Pretender ;" while his lady sipped her tea
from minnikin cups, and discoursed of French blond,
and old china ; or listened to some awful tale of the
Jacobites, and wild Highlanders. In truth, I know not
whether the portrait of some unknown, if she be fair
and young, has not charms even surpassing those that
invest the portrait of the celebrated beaufy ; for then

182 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

what exercise of the imagination ! Who was this fair-
one'? and what was her destiny? — did sorrow dim
that clear eye 1 — did age plough wrinkles on that
velvet cheek ? or did that delicate form go down to an
early grave, cradled in all its loveliness ? How many
thoughts are awakened at the sight of an old portrait !

" And what was her destiny ?" said I, pointing to
the picture of a lovely young woman standing hefore a
looking-glass.

" What should you imagine ?" was the answer.

" I can scarcely say — that soft brow, and those
gentle lips, tell of one all unfitted for the weightier
cares, the sterner anxieties of life."

" Nay ! look again ! — there is firmness as well as
gentleness in that mouth, — there is intellect throned on
that brow ; — were that portrait endowed with speech,
it would tell no every-day history."

" No every-day history ! — a lady in brocade and
point-lace, fan in hand, adjusting her tucker? She
is a lovely creature, I grant ; and I should like well
to know her story. One of deep domestic interest,
probably ;

* Some natural tale of joy or pain
That hath been, and will be again'—

for the reign of the second George, to which her
dress assigns her, was the era of the dullest common-
place."

'* It was so ; but, as even in the flattest countries,
the monotony is here and there broken in upon by some
scene of wild beiuty, so even the dullest portions of

THE UNWILLIKG DECEIVER.

183

our history are sometimes relieved by details of stir-
ring and arousing interest, or by incidents of such
startling singularity, that ere we yield our belief, we
are forced to call to mind that * truth is sometimes
more strange than fiction.' "

" That is true : but the everlasting looking-glass,
and the hand for ever raised to the tucker ?"

" It is not to adjust the tucker that the hand is thus
raised. Listen, and I will tell you her story."

I listened, and what I heard, you shall now hear,
kind reader.

It was not without great difficulty, that a well drest
young lady, whose face and figure were half concealed
by a large black silk cloak and hood, followed by her
maid, endeavoured to thread her way, one fine after-
noon towards the close of October, 1741, through the
crowds that lined Parliament-street, and who were
engaged in the peculiarly English occupation of abus-
ing public men and public measures, each supporting
his own view of the subject, by the irresistible argu-
ments of mud, stones, and stout cudgels. The period
was indeed one of great excitement : the general
election had just terminated, and terminated unfavour-
ably, it was believed, to that powerful minister, who
for twenty years had swayed the councils of Great
Britain, and through them, the destinies of Europe ;
and the public mind with feverish anxiety looked

184 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

forward to the meeting of the new parliament, whose
majorities would soon determine, whether the Walpole
influence was still to be the lord of the ascendant,
whether Pulteney with his large promises would pre-
vail, or whether, — and few were they in England, at
least, but deprecated the alternative — Jacobite arts
should gain the day, and the representative of tlie
Stuart dynasty be placed upon that throne from
whence his progenitors had twice been driven. But
the more immediate cause of this crowd, was the ex-
pected return of Walpole from Houghton that very after-
noon, and in readiness to receive him with the honours
which each party thought most justly his due, did the
various groups stand, menacing their opponents, and
not a little increasing the danger of those who sought
but quietly to pass along. Here the peaceable passen-
ger was peremptorily ordered to take off his hat in
honour of the " lively effigies" of the minister, that in
all the glory of a cauliflower wig and vermilion cheeks,
swung, blue-ribanded, from one of the treasury ale-
houses ; while a few steps farther, he ran the risk of
being rolled in the kennel for his compliance, and was
happy to escape by shouting " Pulteney and inde-
pendence !" Nor even now were his difi&culties over ;
a third group, presuming on his involuntary good
nature, and yet more, on certain indications in their
favour, would insist on his joining them in the cry of
" Down with the Hanover rats!" one more bold than
the rest, whistling all the while, " The King shall en-
joy his own again," with a significant nod toward St.

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 185

James's. Through this tumultuous assemblage the
young lady sought to pass, followed closely by her
maid, a plain country girl in a camlet cloak, who, all
unused to London mobs, glanced from time to time a
sorely affrighted look around.

"Heaven bless your pretty face !" cried a stout man
in a carman's frock, staggering up to the young lady
porter-pot in hand, " you are true English all over, —
so take a sup to Pulteney and brave Admiral Vernon,
and a halter for Bob and the excise." In great alarm
the young lady declined the proffered draught. " Let
her go for a vile French baggage," growled the man :
" ay, she's nothing but a papist and Jacobite, or
mayhap a treasury spy; and that silk gown I'll war-
rant me, has come out of our pockets."

The remark about Jacobites and papists, passed un-
heeded; but the term " treasury spy," was more than
the leader of the treasury mob could stand.

" Treasury spy ! you ragamuflftn," cried he, forgetful
that his own coat was out at the elbows, " who are for
upsetting everything into the hands of the Pretender,
but Pulteney and his crew? Come, my brave boys,
who love King George and roast beef, huzza for liberty,
property, and the Protestant Succession !"

" The patriots and old England ! — down with cor-
ruption !" shouted the Pulteney mob ; but so liberally
had secret-service money been distributed, in the hum-
bler forms of ale and porter, that the treasury cry
prevailed : — a hundred ragged vagabonds, to whom
liberty and the protestant succession were as alge-
u 3

186

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

bra, and whose united " property" did not amount to
a groat, shouted the magic tirade in full chorus ; and
the welcome sound floated to the very walls of the
treasury, bringing joy to the heart of many a pen-
sioner, who hailed the glad sound as an omen of his
continued maintenance at the public expense.

But if the obnoxious terms papist and Jacobite
passed unregarded by the leaders of the treasury mob,
they aroused the attention of a group at a little dis-
tance, who seemed to stand but as spectators of the
scene ; and one of them, a middle-aged man, in a plain
black suit, hastily made his way through the crowd,
and proflfered very respectfully his aid to the affrighted
lady.

" Pray, mistress Lucy, let the gentleman make way
for us," cried the terrified maid. " I am sure this is
no place for honest folk !"

Now the phrase " honest folk," it had pleased the Ja-
cobites very modestly to appropriate to themselves ; the
gentleman in black therefore smiled significantly. " It
is not indeed, my good girl," said he, " but in London
we must not say all we think. You do well, madam,"
continued he, addressing the lady who was pulling the
hood closely over her face, " for prying eyes are about
— but fair weather brings summer." No answer was
returned, and after a pause he resumed, " I commend
your caution, madam, for your errand is important."

The lady turned with a look of extreme astonish-
ment. " Truly, sir, it would be strange if you knew
aught of me> or my errand !"

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 187

" I would not offend, madam," said the stranger,
submissively, "but much rather serve you. You have
but just come to town, — you are a stranger in London,
— your errand is of great importance."

The lady looked wonderingly in the speaker's face,
but it was a look of terrified wonder, and the colour
faded on her cheek. '• Be not alarmed, madam," said
he, "fair weather brings summer, and" — lowering
his voice almost to a whisper, " with summer the
cuckoo comes." Just at the moment, and ere the lady
could reply, somewhat appeared to catch his eye, and
he hastily turned back.

" Is it our fair messenger V whispered a young man
in a plain light suit.

"I can scarcely tell," said the gentleman in black,
" she's confoundedly cautious, — I tried her with the
pass-word, but she would not answer, — her maid,
though, spoke boldly about ' honest folks.' "

The young man exchanged a significant glance with
another who stood near him. " That looks right," said
he.

'* You will find yourselves all mistaken," replied his
companion. " Number six would never entrust an
errand of so much importance to a young lady and her
maid."

"Always croaking," cried the young man. '* Is not a
young lady a less suspicious messenger than a young
gentleman "? Besides, who would presume to suspect a
young lady's waiting-maid? Why, she might carry
arquebusade and point-lace to the Duchess of Nor-

188

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

folk, and my Lady Blount, and not even Sir Robert
thinks of searching the pockets for secret dispatches."

" I think there can be no mistake," said the gentle-
man in black, " for she seemed startled when I told her
her errand was important, and yet she would not speak."

" No, no, I'll warrant me," cried the young man
laughing; "she doubted your honesty, my good sir ; for
you breathe so much of the air of Carlton House, that
ere long, for St. Germains, you will say St. James's."

" Well, they are not much farther distant than Carl-
ton house is from St. James's," replied the gentleman
in black, alluding to the long-continued quarrel be-
tween the King and the Prince of Wales." "Ay,
Freddy was well nigh seeing me gallanting the fair
lady through the mob, which would have been an
awkward case, — in this disguise too : there was he close
to me ere I was aware, in a chocolate suit, and his
hair in a club, walking with Chesterfield, taking a
lesson of the graces, 1 suppose."

The trio laughed heartily. " Well, but this fair
messenger, we must see after her," resumed the
youngest.

" She will be seen after, I doubt not, by others,
without our adventuring too far," said the gentleman
in black.

" Why, thou most unconscionable turncoat — just
now, who so ready as you, to proffer your services ?
and here, the next minute, looking as solemn about it,
as Sir Robert himself, when he is aboiit to cheat the
Elector of Hanover with a sham invasion of our right-

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 189

ful sovereign, whom God long preserve," and the young
man respectfully touched his hat.

" Nay, my lord, all in good time — let us wait and
see if this be really our messenger, — -then let us hear
what proposals she brings, — and then let us clearly as-
certain what our numbers may be."

" And then, if every thing goes on well. Sir John
Hinde Cotton will condescend to stand forward among
honest men ; and if not, he will then toss off his glass
to the Protestant Succession, and discover that Freddy
is the sweetest of princes, and actually knows the
difference between a puppet show and the opera."

" You are too warm, my lord," replied he, smiling,
•' woe to our cause if all were eager as yourself. No,
no, we must be wary, and above all learn whether the
minister knows aught of it. So for the present I shall
duly attend at Carlton House ; and if I fill my glass to
the health of the Prince of Wales, it must be some one
rather wiser than Freddy to discover, whether it is
him over the water, or the dolt at home that I mean."

"Over the water V cried the young man significantly.

" Not a word of this," interposed the third, eagerly
looking round. " Come home, come home, I pray you,
such things are scarcely to be whispered within stone
walls" — and away they went.

Meanwhile, little thinking that she had been made
the subject of conversation, and still less of such a con-
versation, the young lady proceeded to her place of
destination, — the last that ever she would have chosen,
had she been the messenger for whom she was mis-

190 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

taken ; for it was to the Treasury. Old master John
Scrope,the secretary, was then sitting at his desk, well
nigh up to his ears in sealing-wax, red tape, and most
voluminous bundles of papers, when the door of his
apartment opened, and instead of messenger, or porter,
or literary hack (for the Treasury alone patronized lite-
rature in these golden days), the young lady appeared.
Astonished, as though a Jacobite, or a Jesuit, almost
as though the Pretender himself had met his eyes,
though he certainly would have bestowed on them
fiercer looks, — Master Scrope lifted up his spectacles,
then lowered them, and then stared most determinedly
at the fair apparition. " Why, how now, Lucy, why,
how now 1 who should have thought of seeing you ?"

" You may well say so, good Master Scrope : little
did I think of coming here three days since."

" Well, and your grandmother — and your brother —
both well I hope 1 sit down, my dear, for ten minutes,
while I look over this pacquet. Ah ! what times !
these cursed Jacobites will never rest quiet until two
or three score are hanged. You've not heard of the
wicked, and traitorous, and most unnatural plot, that
was providentially discovered 1 — how some young
wretches tried to stick up the Pretender's letter to the
French King on the cross at Carlisle. The accounts
have just come to us, and there's young Fazakerley's
name among them; your brother will be sorry for that,
for they were play-fellows together."

"The accounts come here! and the names!" cried
the young lady, clasping her hands.

I

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 191

" Ay certainly, my dear, — 'twould be strange if
aught were done from one end of the kingdom to the
other, and Sir Robert not have the first intelligence, —
but how now V

•• O Mr. Scrope, — would that my poor brother had
never seen young Fazakerley !"

" Why how now? — has he sent to ask him to be-
come bail 1 I can promise him, though, that no bail
will be taken, — 'tis a hanging matter, T can tell him."

"O ! heaven forbid ! what! the son of Colonel May-
narde, — the heir of the oldest Whig family in War-
wickshire, — my dear Egerton stand in danger of — of
— oh good Mr. Scrope, do tell me that the risk is not so
great as that."

" Why, Lucy, what are you talking of? what is the
matter?"

" O ! if young Fazakerley's life is in danger, my
poor brother's is in equal danger, — he was at the
dinner at which the Jacobite toasts were drank, and
doubtless many foolish things said, — but he did not
go to Carlisle cross, as Fazakerley himself can bear
witness, but was returning to the house at which he
was staying."

" Good heavens, good heavens 1 what a world we
live in ! Egerton Maynarde joining the rascally Jaco-
bites, and drinking the Pretender's health, — a young
viper!" cried the ' testy little old gentleman,' as
Horace Walpole calls him ; " and yet I cannot believe
it, — we have all their names here, and Maynarde I
am sure is not among them,"

192 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

" Ah, Master Scrope, but 'Egerton' is — and it is
under that name, he was committed to Carlisle Castle.
Alas ! as soon as I heard this sad news, I set off for
London, without mentioning it to my grandmother —
for so great an affliction as this is more than fourscore
years could bear ; and when I thought of the aid my
late dear father rendered to the present family, both at
the death of Queen Anne, and in the fifteen, I thought
if we could but lay the case before Sir Robert, he
would doubtless assist us."

" Why, truly, he is the man to go to, and in good
time have you come, for this very afternoon he is ex-
pected," said old Master Scrope ; " but, good heavens,
Lucy, that your brother should have joined the ras-
cally Jacobites '. Ay, 'tis well my Lady Tyrel knows
nought about it ; 'twould be her death. Well, Lucy,
you will go home with me, and all I can, I will do for
you — but, gracious heavens ! if old John Scrope ever
thought to hear such news. The boy hath been be-
witched, ay clean bewitched by the devilish arts of
these cursed Jacobites !"

" And what now, my old Whig of eighty-eight ! —
Well, you see the Jacobites are at their old works
again," said a loud but pleasant voice, as the door
opened and admitted a corpulent elderly man, with
nothing to distinguish him in dress from a country
gentleman, except the broad blue ribbon.

"Good-morrow, Sir Robert," cried the little man,
starting up with one of his profouudest bows : " Lucy,
here's Sir Robert himself, the bulwark of the protestant

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 193

interest, the champion of liberty all over the world,"
continued the enthusiastic Secretary ; whose eulogies,
truth obliges us to state, were dictated by no selfish
motives, since, after the minister's, fall he expressed
before the House of Commons liis willingness to ac-
company him to the Tower.

Lucy Maynarde looked earnestly at the statesman,
whose very name had been to her from infancy a
"naine of power;" — but could this portly, red-faced
man, upon whose originally handsome features gross
animal indulgence seemed to have set its debasing seal,
and whose loud voice and boisterous laugh seemed to
mark him fit companion for a crew of hard-drinking,
fox-hunting country justices, — could this be he upon
whom the mantle of the great men of the common-
wealth had descended 1 could this be the champion
of liberty, pledged at her high altar, to fight the battle
of freemen? — tliis the patriot leader of that great cause
which the noblest blood in England had been shed to
maintain 1

But John Scrope marked not her disappointed won-
der ; but delighted at the admiring look which the mi-
nister fixed on his fair protege, he led her forward,
" Ay, Sir Robert, the grand-daughter of one of my
oldest friends. Lady Tyrel of Everleigh ; she who had
well nigh been brought to trial the year before the
glorious revolution, for secreting dispatches from Hol-
land. The daughter too of the worthy Colonel May-
narde — who raised a troop of horse at his own ex-
pense in the year fifteen. Poor girl ! poor girl ! her

194 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

only brother, a mere youth, hath been trepanned by tliese
cursed Jacobites, and she hath come up to ask your
aid."

"He is very young, sir," cried Lucy earnestly, "nor
would he have thus been seduced from his duty, had
his father been living, or the Fazakerleys not so near."

"What! he is connected with this Carlisle plot?"
said the minister smiling, still keeping his eyes in-
tently fixed on her face : " but you are no fail* Jaco-
bite."

" Heaven forbid !" cried the astonished girl, who
had yet to learn that all which she had been taught to
hold dear, were considered but mere ' names to con-
jure with,' at the corrupt court of George the Second ;
" O heaven forbid !"

" You charm me by that declaration, madam," said
the minister with a courtly bow, " for those eyes
would do more to injure our cause, than all the mani-
festoes our cousin James can put forth. Truly, with
you in our pay, Jacobitism would be at a discount."

Lucy looked up wholly bewildered. " O, sir, my
poor brother, my only brother is in prison — I will
not excuse him ; but O remember what our family have
done and suffered for the cause, in times past. I know
justice should have its course ; but I think I can prove
my brother to be one of the least guilty, and surely
Sir Robert Walpole will exercise mercy, if he can do
so without compromising higher principles."

" O certainly," said the minister, with eflFort sup-
pressing a smile ; " mercy has ever been ihe favourite

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 195

characteristic of the House of Hanover, and has always
been exercised, except, as you justly say, madam,
higher principles interfere."

" But higher principles will not interfere in this
case. Sir Robert," cried Master Scrope, — "but your
time is precious now, so we will pray you to bear this
case in mind, and she shall call on you to-morrow,
should you think fit."

" Ay, ay, the business of a statesman would be
pleasant work, if it were to consist in holding inter-
views with such fair petitioners as this. — Well, my
dear, come to-morrow ; Scrope will show you the way,
and whatever 1 can do for you depend upon it shall be
done," — and with a bow and an air of coarse gallantry
which was fashionable in the court of George the
Second, the minister, who, even when turned of sixty,
deemed himself as irresistible among the ladies as he
was among the members of a corrupt House of Com-
mons, again bowed, and returned toward the desk.
" A fine girl, Scrope, and it appears of good family,"
said he.

" Truly is she. Sir Robert; ay, the Majmardes have
had a good report ever since 1642."

'* Well, we must do what we can for her: — they
send two members, I think ?"

" No, Sir Robert; that is the other branch."

** But what did you say about Tyrel ? those in Buck-
inghamshire are worth keeping in good humour, however ;
there are two or three in the house, and we must make
sure of every vote we can, against next month. W-ell,

196 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

this Carlisle plot will help us. Where are the last
dispatches 1" A large parcel of papers was selected
from among piles of others. " Here is hanging matter
for a few, at least," said the minister, laughing ; and,
hastily throwing the bundle to a messenger that ap-
peared at his summons, he departed.

That evening there was a grand supper at Carlton
House ; and, little suspecting the duplicity of those that
sat at his table and so willingly drank his choice
wines, poor Frederic laughed, and talked, and tried
to look wise, and even indignant, as he listened to the
abuse lavished on the minister, whom he both feared
and hated, and to the remarks which, with little deli-
cacy, were made on the conduct of his father towards
him.

'* Well, let us drink to better men, and better mea-
sures," cried Lord Cobham.

•' A toast to be pledged both with heart and soul,"
cried Sir John Hinde Cotton.

" But which will not admit of too rigorous an ex-
amination," whispered that ' wit among lords, but lord
among wits,' Chesterfield ; "oh fie, John, — any more
than the arquebusade sent to Her Grace of Norfolk."

The Jacobite Knight turned angrily round, when he
felt some one pull his coat-sleeve. " Here is one
come to tell you about it ; but," continued Chesterfield,
smiling blandly, " be not angry. Sir John ; although
it does not suit me to meddle in these things, I can
allow for those that do." Again the pull was repeated,
and Sir John hastily rose, and retired.

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 197

" Stop him, there," cried Frederick ; " he refuses the
toast ; — call him back, for truly I shall think him half
a Jacobite, else, — which, by the way, some declare he
is ;" and all unconscious how near he was to the truth,
the weak and wayward prince laughed gaily.

It was not long ere Sir John Hinde Cotton returned,
but it was with dismay stampt on his countenance, and
he beckoned to a young man that sat at the lower end
of the table. " Well, was that our messenger V said
he, hastily rising.

" They cannot yet ascertain," answered Sir John ;
•♦ and if it be, they fear she has been tampered with,
by Walpole, for the dispatches are not yet come to
hand : — but look at this!" he held a small slip of
paper up, over which the other's eye hastily glanced.

" Good heavens, good heavens !" cried the young
man; "it is October now, and in summer the cuckoo
comes ; O, what madness !"

" Madness indeed," muttered the Jacobite Knight ;
" well, we are in for it now."

*• So much the better, if it must be," returned the
young man ; " vogue la galere."

" Sir John, the prince says you have not drank the
toast," cried Lord Cobham; " come here, and prove
to his highness your known loyalty."

" Ay, Sir John," laughed the prince ; " you know
what is said of you."

The Jacobite advanced toward the head of the table,
and filled a long glass brimfull of Burgundy.

" They belie me, your highness," said he, eagerly ;

198 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

" for there are few toasts I would drink with greater
good-will, — ' Better men, and better measures ;' ay, a
total change of measures !" — He drained the glass, ba-
lanced it on his finger, and flung it over his shoulder.

" Bravo, Sir John," cried the unconscious prince ;
** you have hit it now — a total change; well, I'll
pledge you to that, most willingly."

With an anxious heart on the following morning,
did Lucy Maynarde prepare for her interview with that
powerful minister, upon whose mere will the life or
death of that cherished companion of her childhood,
her only brother, depended. But the hours passed
away, and it was not until late in the afternoon, that
Mr. Scrope appeared. From him she learnt that the
minister, in consequence of some secret intelligence,
had been closely engaged all the day ; but that he had
just before sent a short note, directing Mr. Scrope in-
stantly to send " the young lady from the country," to
him. " So Lucy, my dear," continued the old man;
♦' I trust all will be well."

So thought poor Lucy ; and with joyful step she
descended from the carriage, and entered the splendid
mansion in Arlington-street. " Good success to you,
Lucy," said her kind protector, pressing her hand ;
" be sure and remind Sir Robert of your late good
father's services. — I will soon be with you again."

" The carriage drove oflf, and Lucy followed the
servant, who seemed indeed one of the higher class
of domestics, through suites of splendid rooms, until
she came to what seemed a mere anti-room, the one

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 199

side covered with rich Flemish hangings, but which
had little more furniture than two or three chairs,
and a marble table, upon which rested a rich mirror.
The servant apologised for leaving her there, but he
said Sir Robert would soon be disengaged, and then
he would conduct her to the library.

Lucy sat down, awaiting with intense eagerness that
interview, which she trusted would restore her deluded
brother to liberty, when voices of persons engaged in
earnest conversation met her ear.

" And therefore it must be severely visited," ^fd a
voice, that seemed to come from the adjoining room ;
" for he is bent upon it."

"Ay, if Freddy wished any to be saved, that would
be sufficient reason for his ordering them to be hanged,"
said another.

" Well," resumed the first voice ; " the prince but
this morning has laid a wager with Sir John Hinde
Cotton, that not one of these Carlisle traitors will
suffer ; so he went into a towering passion about * de
Pretender, and de Jacobites,' and said he was sure Sir
Robert would see justice done."

" That is awkward, though," said a third voice,
which Lucy thought she recognised as the minister's ;
" for some must be saved."

" Well, I have only told you his opinion," said the
first voice ; " and truly, with the accounts now come to
hand, strong measures will be best : — there's a lady
come over with dispatches and offers of assistance, and
I know not what."

200 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

" I had intelligence of that, and of what is more
important still. — Well, give my best service to his
Majesty, and tell him justice shall he done." The
door seemed to close, — there was silence for a short
interval, — and then again Walpole's voice was heard.
" Well, let us look over the list, and see whom we can
make scape- goats of, and who shall go free; — read
them over."

" Well, — Blehkinsop."

" He's of the Cumberland family, that send one
member and a half ; and parliamentary influence must
be secured, at all hazards.''

" Fazakerley."

" We must not touch him. — Why, with proper
management, the whole family may be brought over. —
Had not Hardwicke taken the seals, at two o'clock that
very day I should have oflfered them to Nicholas
Fazakerley, and turned him into a staunch whig." *

" Truly, Sir Robert, the history of your metamor-
phoses would surpass those of Ovid."

The minister laughed heartily. " Ay, I have
worked sundry miracles with my never-failing charm ;
— but who's next V

'* O, one that must be set down ; ' James Stewart,'
a name sufficient to hang any man."

" Under a whig administration," cried Walpole,
chuckling ; *' well, I know nothing of him, so put him
down."

" Lionel Wynne."

This is related by Horace Walpule ns a

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 201

" That's some twentieth cousin of the Jacobite Welsh
Knight: — touch him, and you raise a nest of hornets
from one end of Wales to the other ; and we shall have
work enough nearer home."

*' But we shall scarcely get any ; and you know then
what will be said, — you know what has already been
said."

" Why truly, did I mind what was said, I had never
been minister for twenty years, — what is done is most
important to me. But go on with your list, — if we can
get but two or three, we must make the best of it, with
a special commission, a strong charge to the jury, —
and we will print some confessions. Paxtonhas lately
engaged a clever writer, who can turn his hand to any
thing, — he wrote the account of the plot at Truro."
" I never heard of it."

" Very likely, but it did good service at the elec-
tions. Three hundred were sold in London alone.
Well, who's next?"
" Egerton."

"His right name is Maynarde, they say, — Scrope
wants me to save him."

"We cannot; for the next you must save — 'tis

Lady s protege, Henry Vincent — that is the name

here, — then ' William Semple,' the old decoy, must go
free, for he has been well worth his two hundred a
year to you ; and then there is but one name more,
Edward Huddlestone : he shall be put down, 'tis a
thorough papist name, and the very thing to figure in
' a most horrid bloody popish plot.' "

202 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

The minister laughed loudly. " Well, my lord, you
show excellent management. Ay, two or three scape-
goats will suffice."

" O heavens," cried the agonised girl ; " are lives to
be thus laughed away at the will of a time- serving
courtier, and a minister only anxious to secure his
power ! "

" Well, the next thing is to send off a dispatch, or
Newcastle will be meddling — it had better. Sir Ro-
bert, be done at once."

" O never fear Newcastle, heis never in time ; — he
loses, as Lord Wilmington says, half an hour in the morn-
ing, and spends the rest of the day in looking after it."

" He will not lose half an hour here. — If he thinks
you wish to hang them, he will try hard to save."

** That is true ; so we will be beforehand. — Well, the
Blenkinsops and Fazakerleys will thank me."

" They will give you a quid pro quo, Sir Robert, and
that is the Walpole policy."

" Ay, and it has answered well. Every man has
his price : — gold, or red and blue ribbons would buy
all mankind. And if the man be worth his price, I
give it ; if not, I am not burthened with a useless ad-
herent, for then he either goes over to the Jacobites,
or joins the patriots, and writes tirades against me, in
my friend Caleb's Craftsman."

The two statesmen laughed long and loudly. — There
was a pause, and then Sir Robert's voice was again
heard : " Well, here's the dispatch, and in less than a
month, there will be three heads grinning above Car-

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 203

lisle gate. 'Tis a pity all could not be got off," con-
tinued he ; for Walpole was by no means cruel in
disposition ; " but he is bent upon some examples being
made, and indeed from intelligence I received this
morning, sound policy requires it. Ay, friend Caleb
looks big, and boasts much of the meeting of Parlia-
ment."

"And so does Freddy, and the crew of patriots and
Jacobites, that he has got round him, — but ' nous ver-
rons,' " returned the other.

" That we shall, and that they will," replied Wal-
pole, gaily : " few things could have happened better ;
for now we will cram the King's speech full of ' our
glorious constitution,' and ' the great cause of liberty
and the Protestant Succession,' and * zeal for true re-
ligion,' and have the good luck, for once at least, to be
believed. — Well, the messenger will not be here for
half an hour, so I'll just throw these letters on the
escrutoire, and then, my lord, I'm at your service."

"And thus his death-warrant is signed, and thus is
it that nations are governed!" cried Lucy, despair-
ingly clasping her hands, as she leant her throbbing
head against the hangings. The place against which
she leaned gave way, and it was only by hastily catch-
ing at the hanging, that she saved herself from falling.
In thus doing, she found that she had leant against
a door which the hangings covered, that had pro-
bably been accidentally left ajar, and which led to a
closet, through which there seemed a communication to
other rooms. But how shall we describe her feelings,

204 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

when hastily looking around, she perceived papers
carelessly thrown on the open escrutoire, and among
them doubtless the letter that contained her brother's
death-warrant! Reckless of consequences, scarcely
stopping to inquire how she should subsequently pro-
ceed, she rushed to the desk, and hastily caught up a
pacquet which seemed to have been but just thrown
there, and on which, appeared the words, "witli
speed," and beneath carefully under-scored, " secret."
" Dear Egerton, you shall be saved !" cried she,
*' twenty-four hours must elapse ere another messenger
can be sent; and O, who can tell what twenty-four
hours may bring to pass I" All this was the work of a
moment, — it was well it was so, for the servant entered
to acquaint her that Mr. Scrope had returned. The
precious pacquet was yet in her hand, when she heard
the old man's short quick step : — how should she con-
ceal it 1 She ran to the glass that rested on the marble
table, and as though engaged in adjusting her dress, en-
deavoured to thrust it into her bosom.

" Come along, Lucy," cried the old man, " and so
Sir Robert could not see you 1 Well, be not downcast,
for he will to-morrow, — come along."

•' One moment, good Mr. Scrope, only one moment,"
cried Lucy.

" Plague on your fooleries," growled the old man ;
" is Sir Robert's anti-room to be made a dressing
closet r*

" Instantly, sir."

"What, another pin"? — and another pull to your

\

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 205

tucker! was there ever anything like these women!
they would not have a pin awry, even if they were
going to see their best friend hanged. For shame,
Lucy! I thought you had somewhat else to occupy
your thoughts."

'♦ O, Mr. Scrope," cried the anxious girl, eagerly
endeavouring to conceal the paper from his prying
eyes, and assuming an air of graceful coquetry, as she
half opened her fan, — " how can I go on, and you looking
atme ! I will be with you, ere you call the carriage."

" Well, come quickly then," said Mr. Scrope, as he
turned to go. That one moment was sufficient, — the
precious pacquet was safely deposited in her bosom,
and her light footstep echoed along the stair, ere the
old man had descended. " I trust we shall speed well
yet," said Master Scrope.

" We shall," replied Lucy, but little did he suspect
by what means.

Lucy precipitately retired to her chamber, and lock-
ing the door, she took from her bosom the letter, and
hastily tearing off the envelope, was about to commit
it to the flames. But how was this 1 no letter met
her eye, — there were only three or four slips of paper
covered with unintelligible cipher! The fatal truth
now flashed on the unhappy girl's mind, — in her hurry
and agitation, she had snatched up the wrong pacquet,
and thus the dangerous risk had been incurred in vain.
Despairingly she dashed the papers on the ground,
and threw herself into the chair in an agony of mind,
little short of madness.

206

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

How long she sat, she knew not ; but she was at
length aroused by a loud knocking at the door ; it was
her maid sent to summon her to the drawing-room.
She sprung up, and although scarcely conscious of what
she did, her first impulse was to gather up the papers
that lay scattered at her feet ; when her eye glancing
along the inside of the envelope, rested on the follow-
ing words written in pencil, "to be kept secret from
all, most especially from Newcastle." " My way is
clear," said she, almost overcome with sudden joy,
" and to him I will go."

To dismiss the servant with an apology of indisposi-
tion,— to wrap herself closely in her cloak and hood, and
to steal unperceived down the back staircase, was
scarcely the work of a moment ; and ere long she found
herself before the door of Walpole's hated co-adjutor.
But here a strange mystery seemed to reign — the
porter gave her unquestioned admission, and beck-
oned to a footman, who with great respect led her into
a parlour, where a gentleman was sitting, who arose
at her entrance, and conducted her to a chair. " We are
flattered, highly flattered by this visit, madam," said
he, with a respectful bow : " Mr. Hungate told me we
might expect it, and rest assured, that you need have
no cause to complain that you did not go to Arlington-
street."

'• What mean you, sir," said Lucy

" There is no necessity for caution, madam, ' with
summer the cuckoo comes,' " replied the gentleman,
smiling. " You are the lady from Scotland with dis-

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 207

patches from * number six,' and I am his Grace's private
secretary. We heard of your coming, madam, though
we feared that your superior judgment might be be-
guiled by the boasts of the London Jacobites — but
you have acted most wisely, madam, and, as things
stand, may almost make your own terms ; shall I enter
into arrangements with you ? or would you prefer to
see the Duke 1"

•* I would rather see the Duke, sir," replied Lucy,
who now found herself obliged not to disclaim the
character thus forced upon her.

" By all means, madam, I will instantly conduct you :
— truly it is wonderful to see how sanguine the Jacobites
still are. I must own I am surprised they should have
slighted you ; but I suppose they were so overjoyed at
the three who last week joined them, that they care
little for what 'number six' can do."

" They have not slighted me," sighed Lucy, almost
unconscious of what she said.

The Secretary looked earnestly at her, glanced to-
ward the door, and then advanced close beside her
chair. " They had no intention to slight you, be
assured, madam," said he, almost in a whisper; "and
surely you will not break off altogether from the white
rose now. Sir John Hinde Cotton begged me to
speak to you, ere you saw the Duke, and to say that
even in a pecuniary point of view, St. Germains would
outbid the Treasury."

Lucy looked up in uncontrollable surprise. " What !
is the Duke of Newcastle's own Secretary a Jacobite V

208

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

The worthy adherent of the Stuarts smiled gaily.
" I see I have surprised you, madam ;" said he, "but
there are a few more * honest men' about St. James's
than the 'wee German lairdie' knows of. So be per-
suaded, madam, to remain with us ; the very despatches
you have brought with you, it is not unlikely, are every
word knowTi to Walpole, and therefore you would for-
feit your allegiance to our rightful King for a mere
nothing."

" But you say the Duke expects me," said Lucy.

" O, but that can be admirably managed; I have
some other dispatches, written in case I might prevail
upon you, madam, — and which we can easily substitute.
Now, let us have the honour of your aid ; I am commis-
sioned by six noblemen to oiFer you a carte blanche, and
with the prospect now open before us, I think you will
not refuse." A bell now rang — " The Duke expects us,
madam," continued the secretary ; "now let us have
your assistance. It is too late for his Grace to look at
papers to-night ; so just mention your terms to him if
you please, and appoint to-morrow morning. I will
send the pacquet meanwhile to you ; for such an oppor-
tunity of restoring ' somebody' to his own again has
never before occurred." — Again the bell rang, " Your
silence, madam, implies your consent," said he, " I
pray you walk forward."

Silently they ascended the staircase, and entered
the library where, sitting at a table, a middle-aged
heavy-looking man, whose countenance bore he im-
press of habitual dissatisfaction, appeared . He started

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 209

when he saw the ladj, and angrily addressed himself
to the Secretary. " And piay who is she 1 and why did
you bring her here 1"

" Your Grace, it is Mistress Jean Cameron, with
dispatches from the north, respecting the expected
landing of the Pretender. 1 told your Grace that it
was said she was offended with the London Jacobites,
and that with proper encouragement, I thought might
be persuaded to come over to our side, which I am
happy to say she is willing to do."

The Duke looked at the lady, then at the Secretary,
with an anxious yet embarrassed air. " I know not
what to say to it," said he. " I like all things open
and straight forward, — but is she really mistress Jean
Cameron ?"

" O, your Grace — her dispatches will show."
" Leave it to me, sir," whispered poor Lucy, who
now began to fear that after all her efforts her errand
might be in vain. " I have a paper here which I trust
will convince the Duke," and she carefully drew out
the envelope.

" Give it to my Secretary," said Newcastle, with a
look of almost as great alarm as if a highwayman had
presented a pistol.

" It is foryour Grace alone," said Lucy firmly.
The Duke again glancing a suspicious look at her,
and then a re-assured one at his Secretary, cautiously,
almost tremblingly, took the paper. " I wish my bro-
ther were here," said he : " these negociations vvith
spies and Jacobites may suit Sir Robert, but they do
T 3

210 THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

not me ] But, — but — how's this 1 What is the mean-
ing of a blank paper?"

" If your Grace will but look at the words in pencil,"
said Lucy, earnestly bending over the table.

" Well, but what now 1 — there's something more
in this than should be," stammered the Duke, " where's
ray brother, — here's some plot, — some trick of — of —
'tis best not to say whom."

" Be not alarmed, your Grace," interposed the Secretary .
" I am not alarmed, sir, not alarmed in the least," —
angrily retorted Newcastle ; " but, but, — with covers of
letters sent to nobody knows who, and brought to me
by nobody knows who, and stories of plots raised by
nobody knows who — any one who has the honour of
his King, and the welfare of his country at heart, may
well be cautious, sir."

*' Ah ! your Grace, a good thing for the country, if,
instead of Sir Robert, your Grace were at the head of
affairs," humbly remarked the Secretary.

" Things would certainly go on much better," re-
plied the Duke, who imagined himself a very Solon.

" Well, your Grace, suppose mistress Cameron
come to-morrow ttiorning," whispered the Secretary,
advancing close to the Duke's arm chair.

" I'll have nothing to do vdth it — 'tis a trick of
his,'' said the Duke; "why the words are in his own
brother's hand-writing."

The Secretary took up the envelope. " I can ex-
plain it all," said Lucy, " if the duke will allow me
but five minutes conversation."

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 211

" No, no, mistress, — I want no talk with Jacobites
— you may go to Arlington-street."

Poor Lucy stood like one altogether bewildered.
" The first minister, — the second minister alike refuse
lo aid me," said she to herself, " 0 Heaven, where shall
I turn but to thee ! "

She descended the stairs, and followed the Secretary,
who instead of conducting her to the room she had
first entered, led her along a gallery into a garden,
which opened on St. James's Park. " We shall manage
well, after all, madam," said he. "1 will persuade the
Duke to admit you to-morrow morning : meanwhile, we
will talk over our affairs with a friend or two, for time
is pressing." He unlocked the gate, and looking out
into the park, coughed twice, when immediately two
gentlemen came up. " Here is our fair messenger,"
said he, " and true and firm to our cause."

The elder of the two looked earnestly at Lucy, who
however, had taken the precaution of drawing her hood
nearly over her face, — it was a look of suspicion, and
although he said nothing, she felt that she stood in a
most perilous situation.

" Do not close the gate," cried the other to the
Secretary, " two more are coming." The Secretary
looked out, and in the darkening twilight perceived
some one approaching. " There is but one," said he,
" but he would never come alone."

" Not a word," cried the elder, eagerly catching
the Secretary's arm, " are you sure here is no decep-
tion!"

212

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

I would Stake

" Most certain," cried the Secretary
my existence."

The third person now approached hastily : he pushed
open the gate, entered, and glanced a stern look at the
Secretary. " Well, sir ! and who are these V

" O heavens ! Mr. Pelham !"

" Well, sir."

" O Mr. Pelham ! it is Mistress Jean Cameron,
come with oflfers of service to his Grace — he has hid
her come to-morrow morning, and I was just letting
her out."

"And letting these others in, I presume — well,
madam, if you have any offers to make, you may now
make them to me."

" Take heed, for Our Lady's sake," hurriedly whis-
pered the Secretary; " he has had some intelligence I
fear." But Lucy, overjoyed at recognising in the
Duke's brother a gentleman whom she had before seen
at her grandmother's house, eagerly sprang forward.

" She is a spy," cried the elder of the two stran-
gers, " and that wretch Hungate has deluded you for
the sake of service money. — O ! if she should know
where he is ! — Go," continued he, addressing his
younger companion, " tell them not to approach here.
I will wait meanwhile, and if I am taken, I shall do
hut for the son, what my father did for his father —
lay down my life for the white rose."

In her hurry and agitation, Lucy Maynarde's hood
had fallen back, and Mr. Pelham gazed with extreme
astonishment at the supposed fair Jacobite.

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 213

" Is it possible ! Lady Tyrel's grand -daughter in such
company," said he.

" Alas ! Mr. Pelham, ever since my arrival in Lon-
don, 1 have been fated to have been mistaken for
another — I am a most unwilling deceiver."

A few moments sufficed to explain the circumstances
that brought her to London, and to put into Mr. Pel-
ham's hands the papers.

" No time shall be lost," said he ; for the younger
Pelham possessed all the influence which the weak and
jealous elder brother fancied belonged to himself alone.
" I will go instantly to the King, plead your late fa-
ther's services, and I doubt not, within half an hour,
shall obtain the order for your brother's liberation.
Truly, mistress Lucy," continued he, still looking
eagerly over the papers, " for such as these, you might
ask almost any thing that the court could give."

" O nothing but the liberation of my brother," cried
Lucy: " I wish for nought from courts or statesmen."

Mr. Pelham smiled. " Well, you shall find onestates-
man at least who will keep his word. — Farewell: in
less than an hour you shall have the order."

" All is over !" cried the younger stranger, hurrying
back to the Secretary and his companion, who stood
anxiously awaiting his return, concealed from view
beneath the thick trees just withoutside the gate.
" See what has just been put into my hand. * You
are all deceived — Mistress J. C. has never left Scot-
land, and * number six' says 'not yet' — Walpole knows
all, except that one most important point. You must

214

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER.

therefore every one leave London immediately, or it
will be a neck-and-neck race to Tyburn."

" The white rose is blighted now," cried the elder
stranger. " O what an admirable plan is overthrown by
precipitation and treachery ! "

" Well ! onward," said the Secretary : " farewell to
St. James's."

The order for her brother's liberation duly arrived ;
and amid the marvellings of old Mr. Scrope, who was
not a little mystified as to how the order had been ob-
tained, and who was not a little vexed that his fair
protege should have gained from Mr. Pelham what he
had rather she should have received from Walpole, —
Lucy Maynarde, early the next morning, set off on
her journey homeward. But full cause had Walpole
to lament that eventful journey to London. That pa-
pers of the utmost importance were missing, he soon
discovered — but by whom they had been taken, or by
whom received, was more than all his acuteness could
ever unravel. What followed has filled a page of
history. The Parliament met — all the powers of the
twenty years* minister were taxed to the utmost to
secure his accustomed majorities ; but an overwhelm-
ing, though inexplicable influence, seemed arrayed
against him. His plans were anticipated, his schemes
baffled, bis arragements overthrown. Still, boldly and
manfully did Walpole struggle on, until, unable to con-

THE UNWILLING DECEIVER. 215

tend against a fast increasing opposition, he tendered
his resignation. And then the feelings of nature hurst
through the trammels of court etiquette. Walpole, as
he knelt, bathed the hand of his sovereign with grate-
ful tears ; and George, reserved and distant George,
sobbed aloud on the shoulder of his twenty years'

Several years passed ere Lucy again visited London ;
and then it was as Lady Belgrave, previously to "her
setting out with her husband, who had been appointed
by Mr. Pelham, now prime minister, to the governor-
ship of the Carolinas. And ere she went, the brother
for whom she had done so much, was anxious to have
her portrait. It was debated in full conclave of ladies
and gentlemen therefore, in what manner she should
be painted. " I will tell you," said Mr. Pelham, with
a significant smile, which none but Lucy understood :
" she shall be painted standing before a looking-glass,
fan in hand, adjusting her dress." The recommenda-
tion of a prime minister, — when was it otherwise '! —
was received with delighted approbation ; and Lucy,
with an equally significant smile, acquiesced. ** And
thus," concluded the narrator, "Lucy Maynarde ap-
pears to the passing eye, but as a fine lady intent on
her dress ; and thus, in her portrait, as in her history,
she is ' The Unwilling Deceiver.'" H. L.

216

STANZAS TO

I am not gay when thou art here ;
My trembling heart hath joy too deep ;
A feeling strange, — half bliss, half fear, —
So moves my soul, I fain would weep !

With earnest gaze I read thy face —
As Eastern Magi searched the sky,
And sought its starry depths to trace
For promise of their destiny.

I ask thine eyes, thy lip, thy brow,
If type of change is written there ;
If what looks pure and noble now
Shall bring my trusting heart despair.

Vain fears, away ! — still, still I'll cling
With strong undoubting faith to thee, —
My hopes, my joys, my sorrows bring.
To thy fond bosom's sanctuary !

EmZA Wj4LKEK.

217

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

BY JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN.

^Vho ever loved, that loved not at first sight ?"

As You Like It.

In the autumn of the year 1792, a respectable looking
woman, about twenty-two years of age, dressed in wi-
dow's weeds, and having an infant on her lap, arrived in
a return chaise at the little town of Llandilovawr, in
South Wales. In the course of a fortnight, she had
succeeded in taking and furnishing, to the best of her
power, a small cottage in the outskirts of the town,
where, as she confessed to her inquisitive neighbours,
she intended to remain for life. Though her manners,
and even her dress, denoted her to belong to the re-
spectable classes of society, her means of subsistence
were evidently scanty; for, very soon after her arrival,
she caused it to be understood that she intended to
take in plain needle-work, in order to eke out her small
independence.

Her name, she said, was Waters ; that of her in-
fant boy, Arundel ; but in fondling with her child some

218 THE ROMANCE OF lOVE.

of the curious gossips, who would occasionally visit
her, imagined they heard her mutter some other name,
which, however, they could never catch distinctly.
Be this as it may, she doted on the boy, and often, as
she pressed him to her bosom, tears of mingled bitter-
ness, and delight would fill her large dark eyes, and
trickle down over her pale cheeks.

Years passed on, and Arundel successively passed
through the stages of childhood and boyhood, and was
now entering upon that of youth. From the cradle he
had been remarkable for the beauty of his countenance,
but still more, perhaps, for a certain wayward, daunt-
less manner, which at first offended, but generally
-ended in conciliating and delighting his companions.
He never kept aloof, as some clever boys do, from the
other urchins of the place, but threw himself heart
and soul, into all their amusements, in which, by the
earnestness and force of his character, he was mostly
the chosen leader. He swam in the Towy, climbed,
wrestled, fought, with the best of them. In fact, as
his strength and his years increased, his animal spirits
appeared to boil over too fiercely, and his manners
acquired a haughty domineering tone, corresponding
but ill with the humbleness of his condition.

When, however, he had escaped from boyhood, and
was entering, as I have said, upon the threshold of
youth, his manners changed suddenly ; he became
meditative, lonely, studious, and the youths of the
village were no longer his companions. In fact, he
began, he knew not wherefore, to hunger and thirst

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 219

after renown, and to nourish in the depths of his soul
the belief that there was yet a vacant niche iu the
temple of glory, which fate had reserved for him.
He soon perceived by that happy intuition which be-
longs to genius, that labour and patience are the only
weapons which render man invincible in the warfare of
reputation ; and endeavoured by a thousand trials to
inure himself to those habits which by degrees trans-
form us into what we would become. His only coun-
sellor now was his mother ; and, instead of repressing
his ardour, she is thought to have fostered and in-
flamed it, by telling him that to be ignorant is to be
a slave, that knowledge is power, and that genius
eventually subdues every thing to itself. Frequently
the mother and her son would sit up through half the
night, conferring on the means by which fame and for-
tune might be achieved ; and it was at length deter-
mined that Arundel should be a painter.

The hands by whose labour his life had hitherto
been sustained now taught Arundel the first rudiments
of drawing ; for Mrs. Waters possessed many of the
accomplishments of a lady ; and the boy's first achieve-
ment ot any promise was his mother's portrait. There
is something inexpressibly tender and holy in the af-
fection of a son for his mother ; and Amndel, in whose
soul every high and noble sentiment had been implant-
ed by nature, appeared to enjoy a religious pleasure
in reproducing the maternal features upon canvass ; a
pleasure which might, perhaps, be somewhat height-
ened by the circumstance tliat those features still ex-

220

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

hibited something more than the remains of beauty,
together with a degree of matronly dignity, which, in
any but a mother's face, would have seemed rather to
deserve the name of severity.

However, by constantly studying his mother's coun-
tenance, and painting it over and over a thousand
times, Arundel acquired some little skill in portrait
painting ; and it began at length to be whispered about
that the boy's pencil did not flatter amiss. The young
ladies of the neighbourhood now took additional notice
of the widow and her son ; though, to do them justice,
they had never treated them contumeliously ; and first
one and then another had her likeness taken, for which
the young artist received some little money, and a
great deal of praise.

The house, dress, and appearance of Mrs. Waters
now began to assume a superior air ; and Arundel him-
self, though still poor enough, dressed and conducted
himself like a gentleman. He proceeded thus study-
ing and improving until he had entered his nineteenth
year, when an event happened which disturbed the
smooth current of his life, and seemed likely to cloud
for ever the atmosphere of his glory. Like all persons
of ardent poetical temperament, our portrait-painter
was deeply "imbued with religious feelings ; and al-
though seldom or never accompanied by his mother,
was regular in his attendance at church, and in his
visits to the Vicar, who, childless himself, began to re-
gard him as his son, and would always speak of him
among his parishioners as his " dear boy."

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 221

One Sunday, in the midst of summer, a strange
carriage drove up to the church-door, a few minutes
before the service had commenced ; and presently after
a gentleman with two ladies, apparently his wife and
daughter, entered the sacred building, and were shown
into the seat directly under the pulpit. Those who
occupied this seat sat with their backs to the preacher
and their faces turned towards the congregation ; and
when the strangers were seated, Arundel, who hap-
pened to be in the next seat, lifted up his head and
stole a glance at them. The young lady might be about
sixteen, but was womanly beyond her age, and of sin-
gular beauty. Her eyes were brilliantly blue, her
complexion the fairest of the fair, her hair dark auburn,
which the rays of the sun, as they fell upon it, seemed
to kindle into living gold. For the first time in his
life Arundel was inattentive to the word of God. Bapt
in a kind of trance, he fixed his eyes on the face of the
young lady with a degree of earnestness which at first
made her turn way, then blush, then feel angry. He
was, however, for some time unconscious of what he
was doing ; but at length perceiving her reddening
cheeks and forehead, he blushed heartily in his turn, and
leaned his head upon his hands to conceal his emotion.
He now seemed as if he had tasted of some mysterious
potion, capable of steeping the soul in the most bril-
liant and delicious dreams, or rather, perhaps, of
awakening it from a state of lethargy to a conscious-
ness of real existence «

A considerable time before the service was concluiled
V 3

222

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

the old gentleman, unmindful of decorum, or pressed
by some urgent engagement, pulled out his watch, and
appearing as if he had stayed beyond his time, hurried
his family out of the church ; and in another minute
Arundel, who was debating with himself whether he
should follow them or not, heard the cracking of the
coachman's whip, and the rattling of the carriage-wheels
upon the pebbled road. He made no doubt, however,
that they would stop at least some hours in the town ;
and the instant the sermon was over, ran oiF to the inn,
there being but one in the place, to inquire about them.
To his infinite sorrow he learned from the ostler, a
sort of animal which never goes to church, or imagines
it has a soul, that the " gem'man" had not even stayed
to drink one glass of ale, but hastened on towards the
next town. To this place, which was only nine miles
distant, Arundel at once proceeded, not so much in the
hope of seeing liis beloved unknown, as of learning
the name of the family ; but when he arrived, he was
informed that a strange carriage had indeed passed
through some hours before, but without stopping ; and
of the numerous roads which thence branched oflF in
different directions, no body could tell which it had
taken.

Nothing was now left but to retrace his footsteps.
He arrived early in the evening, and to the almost re-
proachful inquiries of his mother, who had been
alarmed at his not returning at the usual hour from
church, he replied by giving the true history of his
little expedition. She appeared to be rather surprised

f

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 223

than angry at his conduct ; and her only remark was
that he had now an additional motive for exertion, for
that assuredly if he should ever again meet the lady,
it would be to no purpose, unless he possessed either
riches, or a name to put in the balance against her for-
tune, it being scarcely to be doubted that she was
wealthy.

Arundel had already acquired what might in the coun-
try be termed a reputation, and had begun, even before
the above adventure, to turn his thoughts towards
London, the magnet which attracts all high and daring
spirits in the empire ; and now his desire to mingle
among the crowds of that glorious city amounted to a
passion. At length he ventured to disclose his ambi-
tious project to his mother, who, bursting into a flood of
tears at the bitter thought of separation, after weeping
in silence for some time, consented. " Go, my boy,"
said she : " I have nursed thee, and watched over
thee for this. I shall sit here contented in this cot,
listening to the echoes of thy fame, which will reach
me like sweet music, and console me in poverty, in
sickness, in old age, ay, even in death, my son ! for I
know that, whatever may be thy fate, thou wilt crave
and deserve thy motlier's blessing !" The young man's
heart was too full for words ; but after a moment's
pause he sobbed out some expressions of gratitude and
affection ; and in a few days was on his way towards
the capital, witli his little fortune in a knapsack on his
back.

On his arrival in London, Arundel, who in his heart

224 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

had the ambition to distinguish himself in the higher
walks of art, applied with unabating assiduity to his
portrait painting, and soon began to be celebrated for
his power, delicacy, and skill in delineating female
loveliness ; but in reality he greatly flattered all those
he painted, for the image of his beautiful unknown,
which had taken total possession of his heart, over-
flowed upon the canvass, and mingled itself with the
graces of inferior countenances. Meanwhile, the
young artist, who never ceased to hope that some happy
walls within the circumference of this huge capital,
contained the person of his beloved, frequented every
public place where it was likely she might be seen j
and one night, from the pit of Covent Garden theatre,
he thought he caught a glimpse of her in the dress-
boxes a moment or two before the play was over ; but
though he immediately hurried to the box entrance,
and watched until long after every soul had quitted
the theatre, he never saw her again. His gains were
now considerable, and a very liberal proportion of them
continually found their way to Llandilo ; but the mo-
ther at length checked this mode of expressing his
gratitude, and reminded him that he was to aim at
something beyond mere wealth. This memento came
just in time to second the project he had conceived of
making ajoumey into Italy, there to study at his leisure
the remains of ancient art : a plan almost universally
pursued by artists, though it can be of use only to
those fortunate few upon whom nature has bestowed
the glorious power of creating without models; and

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 225

who go, not to imitate, but to enjoy ; though their very-
enjoyment is productive.

Arundel took up his residence at Rome among the
wrecks of antiquity ; and his abstemious habits, making
but small inroads upon his purse, promised to enable
him to prolong his stay as long as might be judged
necessary. He never relinquished, however, his pro-
fession of portrait-painter, though he exercised it
less frequently ; and it was chiefly, if not entirely, for
his own countrywomen, or their lovers, that his pencil
was employed in this way. It should have been before
remarked that immediately after seeing the beautiful
unknown, in the little church of Llandilo, Arundel had
painted her portrait from memory. This production
he continually bore about with him, and retouched as
his skill increased ; so that at last, whatever likeness
it might bear to the original, it represented his beau
ideal of female beauty, and was certainly an exquisite
picture.

Among the English who put Arundel's talents in
requisition, there was one young gentleman, about
seventeen, who, having seen two or three specimens
of his skill, came to have his own portrait taken. He
was travelling with his tutor, and meant to make a long
stay at Rome. From their first meeting, a species of
instinctive attachment took place between the painter
and this youth, which increased with their acquaint-
ance, and promised to ripen into a lasting friend-
ship. However, as often as Arundel took up his
pencil to proceed with his young friend's portrait, a

226 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

sensation of mingled pleasure and pain shot through
his frame, and caused his heart to leap, and his brain to
become dizzy for a moment ; but delight quickly pre-
vailed ; and upon the whole, he never was so happy
as when employed upon the portrait of Arthur Peven-
sey, which was the name of the youth.

Pevensey's tutor, who had never before been at
Home, and was not very cautious, or conversant with
the locale of the place, had unluckily taken lodgings in
a quarter of the city which had recently been reached
by the maVaria ; that growing plague which must in the
end depopulate the eternal city. It could not be ex-
pected that the boy should be much wiser than his
tutor; and to complete the effect of the latter's impru-
dence, one night, to temper the intolerable heat of the
weather, he threw open his bed-room windows, and went
to sleep. In the morning he awoke in a raging fever,
and the physicians, both Italian and English, declared
to the unha})py guardian of the youth, that his life
was in the most imminent danger. The news was im-
mediately conveyed to the painter, who hastened to
the spot, and found his young friend delirious. Ob-
serving the awkwardness, not to say stupidity, of the
tutor, and distrusting the care of hired attendants,
Arundel resolved to remain until all should be over,
whether for good or bad ; and having more than once
watched beside his mother's couch during illness, he was
not inexpert in a sick chamber. For many an hour he
hung with more than a brother's affection over the un-
conscious boy ; and when reason at length returned,

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 227

and Pevensey could express his gratitude, he vowed
that whatever might betide him, his friendship for
Arundel Waters should be as lasting as his existence.
It was while sitting by the sick-bed of the youth,
watching his countenance during slumber, or in those
moments of lassitude which succeed severe pain, when
something inexpressibly lovely and feminine seemed to
be diflfused over his features, that the painter detected
the cause of the sudden aifection he had conceived for
him ; he strongly resembled the girl whom Arundel
had seen in the church, or at least that image of her
which remained, if I may so speak, upon the retiiia of
his fancy.

As Pevensey recovered, his friendship for Arundel
every day grew stronger and stronger ; and the latter,
when he led him out during his convalescence to take
the morning air, and viewed the faint blush of health
flowing back into the cheeks it had so lately deserted,
often thought he saw before his eyes the little seat
beneath the pulpit, with that beautiful apparition in it,
which formed the delight and the torture of his life.
At these moments his eyes would fill with tears, and
his whole frame would tremble and grow weaker than
that of the invalid he attempted to support ; but he took
care never to explain the cause of his emotion. When
Pevensey was sufficiently strong to renew the sittings,
his portrait was resumed, and in process of time,
finished.

By this time the friends were become inseparable ; and
being desirous of seeing the Virgin city, Parthenope,

228

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

and its beautiful bay, tliey departed from Rome, and
arrived, without a single adventure, at Naples. Here
they obtained the tutor's permission to visit together
the ruins of Paestum, and leaving the worthy clergy-
man in the capital, proceeded towards the Etrus-
can city. Extending their ramble into the interior,
farther than they originally intended, they explored
the recesses of the Apennines ; and at length arrived
at the romantic little town, or rather village of Muro,
in the vicinity of which there is a landscape unrivalled
in all Italy for beauty, but seldom visited on account
of the banditti who infest the roots of the mountains,
and sometimes murder or carry into captivity the
hardy travellers that set them at defiance.

For a painter, however, enamoured of the pictu-
resque, the scene possesses charms sufficient to throw
all slight apprehensions of danger into the back ground.
It is a mute pastoral, sunny and tranquil as the poe-
tical vales traversed by the Ladon or the Alpheus.
Standing in the mouth of an elevated vale, bordered on
either side with woods, beautified by classical ruins,
and enlivened by groups of shepherdesses and wild
goats, — you look down in rapture upon a lovely stream,
here expanding into diminutive lakes, surrounded by
umbrageous shores ; anon contracting its width, and,
spanned by bridges, rolling its shining waters between
sylvan banks, dotted witli towers, churches, and villas ;
and reflecting from its glassy surface, the varied forms
of the surrounding mountains. Strips of forest, or
straggling lines of detached trees, in some places run

f

i

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 229

along the edge of the cliffs, or, springing forth boldly
from small fissures in their precipitous sides, hang
waving over the waters below. Elsewhere, the upland
slopes feathered with tall graceful shrubs, which at
the proper season of the year are clothed with odori-
ferous blossoms, lead to a succession of naked crags,
or hungry table-land, the abode of the wild-goat and
the eagle. But what words can paint the blue trans-
parent brightness of the sky that stretches over the
landscape at noon ; or the world of gold and crimson
clouds which dawn or sunset piles upon those serene
interminable fields of azure ! Arundel and Pevensey,
who sat down among the shepherdesses to contem-
plate at leisure its incomparable beauties, appeared, as
they regarded it, to be transported back to those patri-
archal ages and eastern climes, where the imagination
delights to establish its most brilliant creations.

Returning in the evening towards Muro, after a long
day's ramble in the mountains, our adventurers were sur-
rounded by a troop of robbers, who knocked them from
their mules, upon which all their baggage was stowed,
and binding their hands behind their back, proceeded
to examine their booty. Among Arundel's eflfects there
was one small roll of canvass, which he appeared to
value above all the rest ; this he pointed at with his
foot, his hands being confined, and earnestly entreated
the gang to restore to him. For some moments they
took no heed of what he said, but one of them being
about to throw it with the other baggage into a sack,
his whole frame became convulsed by agony, and with

X

230 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

vehement prayers and tears he conjured them to
restore it to him. " Let us see," said one of the ruf-
fians, " what the madman makes all this clamour about ;"
and forthwith untied and unrolled the canvass upon the
grass. It was a lady's portrait, the lady's portrait, —
and Arundel's soul sickened as he beheld the profane
looks which they cast upon it. The moment Pevensey
could catch a glimpse of the countenance between the
bodies of the banditti, who appeared to crowd round
it with extraordinary pleasure, he turned inquiringly
towards his friend, and exclaimed — " My sister,
Arundell" At the same moment, the person who
seemed to possess most authority among the gang,
rolled up the canvass, and putting it under his arm,
said ; " I promise to return this to you, when you
leave us, which, however, will not be immediately :
or, stay, you may have it this moment. There is no
fear of your escaping." And at the word he cut with
his sword the cord by which Arundel's hands were
bound together, and, giving him the picture, com-
manded him and his companion to move on in the
midst of the troop. Pevensey's arms being now also
unbound, they walked along side by side.

The mystery of Arundel's life was at length about
to be unfolded. Pevensey assured him, that the
portrait was that of his only sister, now in her
twentieth year, and, when he left England, unmarried j
though his father, Sir William Pevensey, encouraged
the addresses of a neighbouring baronet, of whose
success, however, there was not much danger. To his

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 231

question respecting the mode by which our hero be-
came possessed of the picture, the reply was an inge-
nuous history of the whole affair ; and this only tended
to strengthen the affection, and enhance the respect
which Pevensey already entertained for the young
artist. The more they conversed upon the subject, the
more Arundel was struck by the mysterious chain
which seemed to bind together the events of his life,
now, as it would appear, approaching the denouement ;
but whether the untying of the plot was to be unfortu-
nate or happy, it was beyond his skill to foresee. He
inclined, however, for many reasons towards the me-
lancholy view of the question, far more so than when
his love was totally unknown, when his imagination,
though yearning to paint her as a queen, accommodated
itself to his wishes, and represented her as the daugh-
ter of some honest country gentleman, who might not,
perhaps, consider an artist of reputation, such as he ex-
pected to become, a bad match. He concealed his mis-
givings from Pevensey, because he knew that the enthu-
siastic and affectionate boy, hitherto untainted by the
doctrines of the world, — which teach that the dignity of
man consists in things external to the soul, — would
scarcely be able to perceive the disparity between his
friend and his sister, and might regard as unjust and
injurious any suspicions which should be thrown out,
respecting the father's consent.

The friends were permitted by the banditti to en-
tertain themselves on the way with whatever conver-
sation they pleased ; nor were they at all hurried in

232 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

their movements, or otherwise roughly treated. It was
considerably after sunset, however, when they arrived
at their first halting-place, which was upon the margin
of a lake, apparently surrounded by lofty mountains,
and the extent of which the darkness of the night con-
cealed from them. To the shrill whistle of one of the
thieves, an answer like a faint echo of the sound was re-
turned ; and shortly afterwards a boat with many rowers
was seen approaching the shore. Into this the pri-
soners were ordered to step, and the robbers following
in silence, the boat pushed off, and in less than a
quarter of an hour glided smoothly in, between two
jutting points of rock, to the foot of what appeared
to be a fortress, built upon an insulated cluster of lofty
crags, springing up perpendicularly from the lake. A
steep flight of steps led from the water's edge to the
tower above, and by this the whole party ascended,
leaving the boat moored below.

Immediately on their entering the castle, they were
introduced to a man who denominated himself the
Governor, and whom Pevensey recognised to be a
certain Count di Spinosa, in whose company he had
more than once had the honour of dining at Rome.
He took care, however, not to appear acquainted with
the person of this illustrious robber; but during
supper, which was particularly excellent, and served
up in great style, — the wife of the chief presiding, —
Spiuosa suddenly recollected his guest, and without the
least reluctance or embarrassment, exclaimed — " Ah !
milord Pivensi, you are come to pay me a visit at my

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

233

castle. You know it is the custom on the other side
of the Mediterranean, never to approach a great man,
a man in power, like myself, without a very handsome
present, and I mean to introduce the practice on this
side of the water. You understand me. I hope you
are come well provided. Who is this milord, your
companion V In spite of circumstances, both Pe-
vensey and Arundel laughed heartily at the consum-
mate effrontery of their host, and Arundel replied —
«• You mistake the matter. Count. Every Englishman
who travels is not a lord. Neither my companion, nor
myself have that honour. He is, however, an inde-
pendent gentlemen, and I am a painter," " A painter !
ah, I understand you. All Englishmen are painters,
or poets, or something of that sort, when ihey happen
to visit me. But that, milord, will make no diflference
here. The amount of the present is fixed. If you
have not the sum about you, as perhaps you may not,
there will be no difficulty in forwarding a letter to
Naples, to your banker. Meanwhile, you will be hand-
somely entertained here in my castle, which you may
regard as entirely at your disposal."

Arundel persisted most pertinaciously in denying
his title to nobility, but in vain. The Count at first
only laughed, but at length grew angry, and exclaimed
with vehemence, — " By — ! you are a lord. I am a
lord myself, and ought to know a nobleman from one
of the herd. You look like a lord, you speak like a
lord, and, since you force me to be plain with you, you
are as impudent as a lord ! Ah ! ah ! It would,'i'n-
X 3

234 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

deed, be a fine joke that I, who have been accustomed
to receive presents from Englishmen for the last fifteen
years, at least, should not know a lord from a painter !"
Seeing himself thus ennobled past all doubt, Arundel
smiled, and telling the Count that they could discuss
these matters hereafter, turned the conversation into
another channel.

The window of the chamber, where they were per-
mitted to repose together, overlooked the broad ex-
panse of the lake, upon which the rays of the moon,
which had now risen, threw their silvery light, that
danced and trembled, as it were, upon the restless
waters. The mountains beyond rose in dark fantastic
masses, the pinnacles of which only were irradiated by
the moon-beams. Here the friends sat conversing upon
the singularity of their position, and the curious cha-
racter of their noble host and his associates, until the
light of the morning swallowed up that of the moon,
and shed a brightness, a warmth, and, if I may so speak,
a vivacity over the landscape, which invincibly cheered
their fancy, and rekindled and invigorated their hopes.
Arundel, from whon^ a large sum of money, distinctly
specified by the Count, was as peremptorily demanded
as from Pevensey, now possessed not one farthing in
the world, the governor's myrmidons having rifled him
of all his property ; but his friend next morning dis-
patched, by one of the thieves, a letter to his tutor, at
Naples, requesting him to forward to him at once an
orderfor the sum demanded for both, payable upon their
being delivered over, safe and sound, to their friends,

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 235

on a certain spot named by the Count. I'lie tutor,
however, was a prudent man, and could by no means
resolve to advance five hundred pounds, (so much being
required for each,) for a mere stranger, as he now de-
scribed Arundel Waters; though, of course, he could not
hesitate for a moment to pay his pupil's ransom. The
pupil, angry, and indignant at his refusal, dispatched
another letter, insisting upon his request being instantly
complied with ; but the tutor, upon whom the care
of the cash had been conferred, became nettled in his
turn, and stood upon his first ground. With the second
reply, however, he forwarded to Pevensey a letter from
his father, which, when opened, threw the friends into
utter despair. It informed them that the baronet
above commemorated, having at length succeeded in
subduing the reluctance or obstinacy of Helen, was to
kad her to the altar on a certain day, by which time,
Sir William trusted that Arthur and his tutor would be
able to reach London, in order to be present at the
ceremony. This intelligence operated differently upon
the two friends. Pevensey stamped, paced up and
down the apartment, and swore with rage. Arundel
leaned upon the lofty window seat, and a cold, bitter,
blighting feeling crept over his heart, which seemed to
wither, as it were, within him, as the early blossoms of
spring are sometimes known to wither beneath the
touch of the east wind. Now he began to believe that
his spirit had hitherto been feeding upon dreams ; that
to see a woman, to love her, to worship her, to seek
her up and down the world, to live for her alone, was

236 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

not to possess a title to her heart. This title, oppor-
tunity, and the possession of money could alone be-
stow ; and in the anguish of the moment, he cursed
the day on which he was born, and the high, but fan-
tastic hopes by which he had been all his life deluded.
He counselled Pevensey to listen at once to his tutor's
adWce, to obey his father's orders, and leave him to
his fate. His friend was grieved : " Arundel," said
he, " all this is mere sullenness and absurdity. If I
were to act as you advise, you would justly abhor and
loathe me as a reptile. Did you run away from
me at Rome, when this same tutor lodged me in the
midst of pestilence, and I believe, before Heaven!
would have left me to die in it. My friend, we leave
this castle together, or we will perish together in
its dungeons ! With respect to my sister, all I
can say is, that, if she marry the idiot whom she has
so often scorned and ridiculed in my presence, you
will be a fortunate man to miss her ; and for myself,
she shall be unto me as an outcast and a stranger, by all
the hopes of my soul ! " All this was uttered too rapidly
and veliemently, to allow Arundel time to prevent the
solemn imprecation with which it concluded ; but he
put violence upon his feelings, and endeavoured calmly
to convince his friend that it was best, under all cir-
cumstances, that he should be liberated as soon as pos-
sible ; as, when time had convinced the Count that no
money was to be expected, he would let him go ; or,
at all events, lower his demands ; when Pevensey, at
liberty among his friends, could easily furnish the

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE 237

sum. " Perhaps I might," replied the youth ; '• but
I will not make the trial. I will this moment dispatch
my determination to my tutor, and let him refuse my
demand, at his peril '"

The letter was accordingly written and sent, but the
courier returned without an answer, the tutor not being
to be found. The anguish of mind which Arundel
now endured was indescribable. Shut up in this
distant prison, while another man, altogether unworthy,
was about to possess himself of the object of his sud-
den, but intense and unabating love, without even the
satisfaction of presenting himself before her, of plead-
ing bis own cause, and discovering whether or not
she really owned the perfections bestowed by his pas-
sion upon the image of her which inhabited his mind,
he seemed to be condemned to a doom worse than that
of Tantalus. In the midst of his grief, the idea of
effecting his escape occurred ; and the plan, which at
once suggested itself to his mind, appeared altogether
so feasible, that he almost regarded as miraculous the
stupidity which had prevented his thinking of it before.
This was, to cut their bed-clothes into strips, to form
a ladder of them, to wrench, by their united strength,
one of the bars out of the window, to drop into the
lake, and swim across to the mainland. Pevensey
considered the scheme admirable ; and it was agreed
that it should be attempted that very night.

As soon as it was dark, the sheets, counterpanes, &c.,
were converted into a ladder ; but the inmates of the
castle appeared to be peculiarly active that evening, and

238 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

Arundel heard one of the bandits observe, in passing
their door, that it was expected the boat would quickly
return with fresh captives and booty, for that the
usual signal of success had been made upon the shore.
Now, then, was the moment, when the boat was ab-
sent, and pursuit, as they judged, impossible. They
found no great difficulty in wrenching out the bar; and
having fastened their ladder, and let it out through the
window, Arundel insisted that Pevensey should de-
scend first, so that if any alarm were given, he, at all
events, might escape. It was a star-light night, and
Arundel, leaning his body half out over the sill, saw
the youth descend the ladder, until within aboxit ten
or twelve feet of the dark water, where he paused for a
moment. " Why do you pause, Pevensey V said he,
speaking as low as possible.

" I am come to the end of the ladder," he replied,
" and am still a great way from the water."

" Drop down at once," said Arundel ; " the lake is
deep :" and with the word, he heard the boy plunge
into the water, and lost sight of him for a moment.
The few garments which they considered necessary,
had been tied up in a small bundle, and fastened on
Arundel's shoulders, so that Pevensey might be totally
unencumbered ; and now the artist, with the wardrobe
on his back, descended the ladder, and as he reached the
bottom, saw his friend waiting for him, a few yards from
the rock. " Away, instantly," said Arundel ; " I per-
ceive something like the glimmering of a taper, falling
on the waves vonder, from one of the castle windows.

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 239

and we may be discovered." He now dropped down,
in his turn, and rising quickly, swam witli great ve-
locity towards the shore. There was a sharp, cold
wind stirring, and blowing across their course from
right to left, raised considerable waves, which dashed
over them continually, and at times concealed them
from each other. At length Arundel altogether lost
sight of his friend, and, fearing lest he might be over-
come by fatigue and have lagged behind, turned
about, and looked towards the island. To his great
astonishment, he saw lights in their apartment, where
two or three figures successively appeared at the win-
dow, and vanished rapidly. His fears for Pevensey
now almost choked him, and having swam about for some
time in various directions, to no purpose, he ventured
at last, in a suppressed voice, to call out his name.
The sound seemed lost in the murmur of the waves,
and, after listening for some time, he called again,
much louder than before. In an instant, the report
of several pistols struck upon his ear, and a slight, but
sharp pain, suddenly seized upon his left arm, a httle
below the shoulder. It was clear that one of the bul-
lets had reached him ; and, after anxiously looking
about on all sides for his friend, he was about to turn
away, and make towards the shore, when he saw a
head moving in the water, which he did not doubt, was
that of Pevensey. Delight now rendered him im-
prudent once more, and he called to his friend to make
haste, for God's sake. The head answered " Hist !"
and rapidly drew nearer and nearer. In another mo-

240 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

raent, it became evident it was not that of Peven-
sey ; and Arundel shuddered, as he recognised the
voice of the Count, in the words, — " Milord, you are
once more my prisoner!" and saw the ruffian spring
towards him, like a tiger. The Count had swum out
with a little dagger between his teeth, which he took
in his right hand, as he approached Arundel, and
aimed at his wounded arm, while pronouncing the above
words. The painter, who, though by no means a large,
or powerful man, was active, muscular, and an in-
comparable swimmer, immediately closed with his
antagonist, and after a long and desperate struggle,
succeeded in wrenching the dagger from him. " Let
me escape," said he ; " and I will do you no injury."
The Count, whose passions were now inflamed beyond
control, made no reply, but again endeavoured to close
with him, and grappled at his throat. " Keep off,"
said Arundel ; " I have no wish to have your blood
upon my head !" But the otlier merely muttered a few
incoherent oaths, and making a sudden plunge forward,
caught him by the right arm, and endeavoured to re-
gain the dagger. The strength of both was now nearly
exhausted ; and the water got into their mouths as they
struggled and struck at each other. At length Arun-
del, seizing the weapon in his left hand, plunged it
into the breast of his enemy ; and tearing his arm from
his grasp, sprang off by a desperate effort, to escape
from his dying energies. In another moment he heard
the water bubble and gurgle in his mouth, — and his
head disappeared beneath the waves.

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

241

This horrible struggle being over, tlie painter, lan-
guid, and nearly worn out, thought he heard at a dis-
tance the sound of voices and the dashing of oars upon
the water, and conjectured that the boat was drawing
near. Whatever might be the consequences, however,
he felt that he could only hope to gain the land by
managing adroitly the little strength he had left, and
therefore proceeded slowly, resting ever and anon upon
his oars, as it were, and at last drew near the shore,
where he discovered the white figure of Pevensey
moving to and fro ; and in two or three minutes more,
the friends were congratulating each other upon their
escape, and preparing to strike off into the wood.

In three days they arrived, barefoot, nearly naked,
and half starved at Naples, when the insolence and
carelessness of the tutor were explained. He had con-
sented, in consideration of becoming master of a very
handsome estate in England, to, become at the same
time liege lord of one of those forlorn damsels,
called old maids, who scatter themselves over all
Europe, in search of husbands, and was now a rich man.
By the advice of several friends, he agreed, after two
days' deliberation, to deliver over Pevensey to the
care of his friend Arundel ; and the moment this affair
was settled, and the necessary sum of money drawn
from the Neapolitan banker, our modern Pylades and
Orestes hurried off for England. I cannot pause to
describe their journey ; but it is not difficult to con-
ceive the stale of mind in which the artist moved on-
wards, towards his home, fearing that every stop, let,
y

242 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

or hindrance which fate threw in their way, was the
very circumstance that cut him off from hope, and
was to render him wretched for the remainder of his
days. There was also a feeling of horror, which could
not exactly be called remorse, accompanying the vivid,
recollection of the deadly struggle in the lake ; and,
though it had been life for life, he bitterly regretted,
that his freedom had been purchased with blood. It
was now long, moreover, since he had received tidings
of his mother ; and he feared that, like the disobedient
children of Jacob, he might involuntarily bring the
gray hairs of his parent with sorrow to the grave. All
these causes of dejection, weighing upon his mind at
once, and by their union adding poignancy and efficacy
to each other, succeeded in plunging his spirit into the
deepest gloom. He thought the horses slept as they
moved along the road, and in his breathless impatience
to be at his journey's end, appeared for the moment
to lose all feelings of humanity, hurrying and urging
forward the jaded animals which dashed on at full speed
before the carriage. The moment they had gained one
eminence his eye rested upon the next, and his wishes
would have annihilated the intervening space.

The day, in fact, now drew very near, in which Helen
Pevensey was to pass from the regions of maidenhood
into a state, in which even the imagination of Arundel
could not follow her ; and he might possibly arrive just
one moment too late. Yet, allowing that he reached
London before or on the wedding day, what could he
do to retard even for an instant the celebration of that

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

243

ceremony which was to be the sealing of his fate 1
AVhat would this proud and wealthy beauty say to the
strange passion of a nameless, and houseless, and
pennyless wretch like himself, coming to claim her
hand at the very moment in which it was to be placed,
with the consent or by the command of her parents,
in that of another, in token of eternal union 1 Would
not the mere mention of his love, conceived in a mo-
ment, nourished in secrecy and obscurity, and never
made known to its object, be regarded as too absurd
even for laughter 1 He could not answer all these
questions which that ancient substitute for the gods,
called Prudence, whispered to his mind ; but he un-
rolled his little ragged portrait, which he had carried
off with his clothes from the castle, and spread it upon
his knees j and the sweet smile ^it seemed to cast
upon him re-assured his soul. Pevensey, likewise,
said all he could to keep alive his hopes ; and in this
way he hurried on, alternately buoyed up and dejected,
until he found himself in London, driving with all
possible speed up Portland Place, where the town
house of the Pevensey family was situated.

The first thing that caught Pevensey's eye was a
couple of mutes, standing with the emblems of death
in their hands at the door of his father's house ; and
his heart smote him as the thought darted into his
mind that his mother or his sister was gone beyond all
reach of the reproaches he had prepared for them both :
The idea that it might be any other member of his
family never once occurred to him. Springing from

244 THE ROMANCE OE LOVE.

the carriage, he rushed into the house, followed by
Arundel, and in another moment found himself in the
apartment of death, beside his father's coffin. His mo-
ther and Helen, in their coal-black robes, had been
sitting by the corpse, their eyes red with weeping, and
their hearts sick with anguish ; but the instant he en-
tered, their arms were about his neck, and their tears
flowing more copiously than ever. Arundel, stricken
with astonishment, pierced with grief, and altogether
uncertain whether to remain or retire, stood motionless
at alitle distance from the family group, his heart beat-
ing, his head dizzy, and his frame trembling with emo-
tion. At length, after the first burst of sorrow was over,
Pevensey recollected his friend, and in an instant made
him one, as it were, of the family, by exclaiming with
earnestness, as he grasped Arundel's hand, and drew
him towards the coffin : — " Mother, the friend who has
saved my life ! " Lady Pevensey and Helen, who now
for the first time observed Arundel's presence, gave him
such welcome as circumstances would permit ; while
Pevensey himself with trembling hand lifted up the
covering from the face of his father's corpse, and fell
upon it, and kissed it, with a bitterness and an agony
which never can be conceived but by those who have
pressed their lips against the marble lips of the dead ;
and yearned while doing so to become cold also, and
be laid with the beloved object in the grave.

Such was the sight that greeted our friends on
their arrival, instead of the festivities of a mari-iage.
As his self-possession, and ordinary habit of mind re-

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE. 245

turned, Arundel began unconsciously to compare the
mourning beauty before him with the ideal beauty of
his imagination, and his memory ; and he found that
they were different, and yet the same. The creature
of the mind had more airiness, simplicity, girlhood,
and tenderness; the real woman had more majesty,
beauty, and intellectuality ; for Helen's mind had grown
still more than her body, and lent the latter a glory
which no perfection of form can bestow. The fairness
of her complexion appeared by contrast with her dark
garments almost supernatural ; while the beauty and
symmetry of her features banished that air of insipidity
which extraordinary fairness sometimes induces. She
seemed considerably taller than when he first saw her,
but the expression of the whole figure, as well as of
the countenance remained the same ; and the longer
he looked upon her, the less she appeared to be
changed.

The lover her father had provided for her, and
would, had he lived, have compelled her to accept,
was now in the house, having arrived in town on the
very day before the melancholy event ; but Arundel,
when he saw him, experienced no access of jealousy.
He was a young, and rather handsome gentleman, and
as accomplished as the cares of others could render
him ; but he had no character of his own, — nothing
of that high, imaginative, poetical temper of mind,
which acts upon the female heart like a spell, and
when seconded by a bold determination is irresisti-
ble. Having hitherto relied at least as much upon

246 IIIE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

the number of his acres as upon his personal attrac-
tions, he now felt his real insignificance, and began
in his heart to believe that Helen was not fated to be
his. There was no speaking* of such matters, however,
iu a house of mourning ; and, the man, moreover,
though fantastic and silly enough, was not destitute
of feeling, and could not but be affected at the grief
of Helen and her family. Reading his fate in the air
and manner of the girl, no less than in the studied and
almost savage coldness of Pevensey, he therefore dis-
appeared at the conclusion of the funeral ceremonies ;
and thus the field was left open to Arundel.

On the very day of his arrival in London, Arundel
had written to his mother, detailing the particulars of
his residence in Italy, which accounted for the long
silence he had maintained, and promising to be witlj
her the moment the mortal remains of his friend's father
should be committed to the dust. The Pevenseys had
at that period a villa in South Wales, not many miles
from Llandilo, whither the whole family now deter-
mined to remove for a while, as much to escape from
the visits of ceremonious friends, as to hush their sor-
rows in solitude. They therefore proceeded with
Arundel towards his home, where the unfortunate
young man found his mother, not dead, indeed, but on
the threshold of death, her spirit fluttering, as it were,
upon her lips, and waiting but for one fond embrace of
her beloved and only child, to depart in peace. When
the widow had pressed her son for one fond moment
to her breast, her looks wandered to the strangers who

THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

247

had entered with him; and as her eye, and that of
Lady Pevensey met, both shrieked suddenly ; the
words, — "My sister!" — simultaneously escaped from
their lips, and the latter, rushing to the bed, had just
time to receive her sister's last breath, and the dying
pressure of her hand. Arundel now learned, in the
midst of grief and tears, the secret of his mother's
history. She had married for love, been cast off by her
parents, and losing, shortly after, her fond and beloved
husband, had hidden herself in her pride from such
of her relations as might have pitied and aided her.
This narrative, related in a letter which his mother,
seeing her end approach, had written, and directed to
her son, was confirmed by the testimony of Lady Pe-
vensey. His friends would now have bestowed a
pompous funeral upon the remains of his mother ; but
Arundel insisted that her death, like her life, should
be obscure, and that the tears of affection only should
hallow the spot where she reposed, without epitaph or
monumental stone.

The real name of Arundel I must conceal, as he is
still living, and has acquired that fame, as an artist,
which his genius deserves. His grief yielded, as all
grief does, to the force of time : and love came at
length to light up his soul. Notwithstanding the many
glorious pictures which his pencil has created, he still
regards the portrait of Helen, painted from memory,
as the master-piece of his art ; and often, while he
himself, or his beautiful wife relates to me, and other
friends, some snatches of the above history, the ragged

248 THE ROMANCE OF LOVE.

little portrait is taken down from the wall, where, ex-
cept that it is framed, it still hangs in precisely the
same condition in which it was, when brought from the
robber's castle in the Apennines.

MIDNIGHT IN PHIL^.

Alone in the light of the midnight hour

I sit on this temple grey.
Where the fleecy snow and the cool-winged shower

Never wander by night or day j
Where the dust of a thousand years, unlaid

By the sprinklings of the sky,
Are piled in its courts ; where Osiris' shade

Glides softly with Isis by.
And the Gods of Central Afric stand

All crowned and mitred near,
With sceptres and scrolls from the mystic land,

The dwelling of Hope and Fear.
Disturbed by my footsteps rude from sleep,

A frown sits on their brow j
And their whispers along the dim walls creep —

I hear them, and tremble now !

I

MIDNIGHT IN. PHIL^. 249

They scowl on the stranger from northern clime ;

But no armed priest appears.
As in those far days of the olden time

When they fed upon blood and tears.
And I lay my hand on the beards of Gods

In their ancient dwelling-place,
I'ransformed by Time into dark abodes

For the owl and the serpent race.
Behold, over Athor's queenly brow

The dull snail travels slow ;
And the Nymph of the Hills and the Virgin Vow

Feels the bat on her bended bow.
Here Typhon, the fratricide, is meek.

His plots and battles o'er ;
And the peasant breathes upon Ammon's cheek,

For his thunders scare no more.
But the rushing Nile, in untiring might.

Still rolls his blue waves by ;
And the cold stars, robed in trembling light.

Yet love on his breast to lie.
And, hark ! as of old o'er Syene's rocks

He pours his thundering tide.
While the Arab, amid his desert flocks ,

Sleeps sound on his flowery side.
And lo, where below his fierce wave dashes

In foam o'er the granite isles.
The tropic moonbeam brightly flashes.

Wreathing each crag with smiles.
On the distant waste the antelope bounds,

Companion of Thirst and Fear,

2')0 MIDNIGHT IN PHIL^.

While the yelping of Fancy's swiftest hounds

Comes booming upon her ear.
The river's voice invites in vain.

And the young corn sprouting fair ;
She speeds to her desert home again,

Like a meteor through the air.
Home : ah ! — that word, like magician's spell.

Creative of woe or bliss,
Bears my soul to its hearth in the Alpine dell,

And my clustering children's kiss !
They are sleeping now, and their sunny dreams

Their father perchance recal,
Wandering beside far tropic streams.

Or through Isis' pictured hall ;
And they start with extended arms to press

His much-loved form in vain j
But, hushed by a mother's tenderness.

Relapse into dreams again.
Sleep on, sleep on, my children ! soon,

If Love have a prophet's power,
We shall, hand in hand, gaze on yon moon

From the depth of your summer bower.

J. A. St. John.

251

SONG.

UP, MARY, love!

Up, Mary, love, up ! — for the breeze is awake.
And the mists are retiring in wreaths from the lake :
At the lark's early melody, joyous and shrill.
Leaps the stag from his lair, and the goat on the hill.

Our boats are all ready — their streamers displayed.
And the boatmen's blithe carol is heard in the glade ;
Our friends are assembled — the gallant, the kind :
But the fairest and dearest still lingers behind.

In yon copse-waving isle, ere the closing of eve.
Fair cheeks will be glowing, young hearts will believe
For a spirit of love and delight is abroad.
And sheds its sweet magic o'er mountain and flood.

'Tis sweet o'er the waters the bugle to hear,

With the oar's mingled dash falling faint on the ear ;

To view, far beneath us, the glittering throng.

And catch the wild sounds of the dance and the song.

252 UP, MARY, LOVE !

But sweeter by far from the revel to stray,
To cheat the mad whirl of the thoughtless and gay ;
By the lake's lonely margin our vows to repeat,
And forget all beside in our blissful retreat.

And sweeter than all, in the slumbers of night
To recal in soft visions those hours of delight. —
Such joys, and ten thousand beside, wouldst thou prove.
Rise — join us — and bless us, oh Mary, my love !

J.F.W. H.

COLUMBINES.

Homely old English flowers ! — without pretence
Of gaudy hue or enervating scent, —
Formal perchance, but gravely innocent, —

Dear English flowers ! ye waft my spirit hence

To many an ancient garden, set in fence

Of prudish box, — where doth the royal Rose
Her reddest splendours to the noon disclose ;

And poppies, gorgeous in their indolence.

Nod on their stems ; with larkspurs of deep dyes,
Such as are melted in the evening skies j

And sweet-peas clinging round a dial grey,

A haunt beloved by careful bees and brown :

How sweet it were to spend a summer-day

Among its scents and blooms, forgetful of the town.
H. F. Chorley.

253

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

BY THE HON. MRS. ERSKINE NORTON.

Among the nobles who suffered most from the invasion
of Portugal, and who followed John VI. across the
Atlantic, in search of a safer home in another hemi-
sphere, was the Marquess de Gonsalva, He had mar-
ried a young and lovely woman to whom he was
tenderly attached. She suffered much at the separation
from her home and family, and her health failed under
the fatigue and privation of the voyage : she had
scarcely reached Brazil, ere she died in giving birth
to a son.

The Marquess remained a widower, devoting him-
self to the care of his child, and the reparation of his
ruined fortune.

Alonzo was a fine generous-spirited boy ; grateful and
affectionate in his disposition, and very handsome in
his person ; his clear dark complexion, laughing eyes,
and white teeth, were united to a form remarkable for
its just proportions and natural grace. It was on the
z

254 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

subject of his education that his father felt most
severely the change of his circumstances ; he could
not afford to send him to Europe, but all the scanty
means that Rio de Janeiro supplied, were put in requi-
sition, and in every respect made the most of.

" What a pity it is," thought the good Marquess,
" that my boy, vv^ho is beyond all doubt the finest and
most talented boy in the country, should lose any ad-
vantage that mo7iey could procure. Money, money,
where are you to be had !" cried the father, impatiently
pacing the room : he suddenly stopped, and appeared
for a full half hour wrapped in thought ; then, start-
ing from his reverie, ordered his horse, rode in great

haste to the convent of , had a long conference

with his sister the Abbess, returned home, declined
an invitation to a ball, and wrote letters the remainder
of the evening.

A large and important looking packet was addressed
to a Portuguese merchant, well known as a man of
great wealth, at St. Paul's. About the time an an-
swer might be expected, the Marquess became anxious
and impatient : it arrived at length ; Alonzo took it to
his father, who shut himself up in his room to read it.

Presently, Alonzo was called : " My boy," said the
Marquess, rubbing his hands in great glee ; " how
would you like to be married ?" Alonzo was just turned
seventeen, and therefore answered without a moment's
hesitation, " Very much indeed, sir!" — and as he
spoke, the bright eyes of Donna Clara, the little
peeping foot of Donna Julia, and the separate perfec-

I

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 255

tions of half a dozen other Donnas, glanced in delight-
ful confusion across his mind. " Then married you
shall be," replied his father ; " sit down, my son, I
have an important communication to make. I need
not inform you that we have lost almost the whole of
our property, with but very little hope of regaining it ;
— in fact we are very poor. 1 wish you to go to
Europe, and for the next few years to have every
advantage that travel, study, and an introduction to
the first society can give : I wish you, in short, to take
your station in the world, — that station for which your
oirth and talents so eminently fit you ; but this wish
cannot be accomplished without money ; and money,
as we are situated, cannot be procured, except by —
marriage." — A pause : — the blood receded from the
cheek of Alonzo, but bowing his head, he replied, " I
understand you, sir." The Marquess proceeded :
" Senhor Josef Mendez owes his rise of life to my
father, and much also to me ; he is, as you well know,
considered the richest individual in Brazil : he has
only one child, a daughter, the sole inheritor of his
wealth. I have proposed a marriage between you and
her, frankly oflfering the fair barter of rank on one side
for wealth on the other. I believed it to be the secret
wish of his heart that his daughter should be en-
nobled by marriage ; gratitude unites with pride,
and he has accepted my offer with the utmost eager-
ness. It is arranged that we instantly proceed to
St. Paul's, where the ceremony will take place : from
thence you start for England. My worthy friend, Mr.

256 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

Mordaunt, will meet you at Falmouth. I write to him
by this next packet, offering him so handsome an
income, that I have no doubt whatever he will become
your tutor, guide, and companion, during your five
years of travel and study. At the expiration of that
time, you will return to your home and friends, — your
bride, and father. I pray only that I may not be snatched
away before that happy moment arrives ; — I shall
then die in peace !" The father and son embraced
with emotion. "But, — '"said Alonzo, hesitatingly ;
"but, —the lady, sirl" — " True,— the lady," re-
plied the Marquess ; " why, — your lady is but a
child at present, — she has not yet completed her
thirteenth year, and I regret to say (the INIarquess
tried to look grave,) her health is considered delicate :
however, in all that personally regards her, I confess I
am rather deficient in information."

Preparations were speedily made for their departure.
Alonzo, who was an universal favourite, took leave of
all his young friends with a heavy heart j they merely
knew he was going to St. Paul's, and from thence to
Europe ; his intended marriage was a secret.

His last visit was to his aunt, the Abbess. " May
the saints protect you, son of my brother I" cried the
good lady : " Alonzo, thou art the last support and
representative of our ancient and noble house ; —
blessed be the chance that brings it back to wealth and
independence ! But remember, Alonzo, thou takest
upon thee a duty most delicate and most difficult
towards the hand that bestows these blessings. There

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 257

is no good in this world without its attendant evil : —
may thy golden chains lie lightly on thee !"

They emharked, and in a few days reached St. Paul's.
They were met onboard by Senhor J osef, a little elderly
man, shrewd and active, — with a long queue, cocked-
hat, brown dress-coat, and flowered waistcoat. His
joy and pride were almost too great for words, and for
once in his life natural feeling swept away his whole
routine of compliment ; which is saying a great deal
for an old Portuguese,

The house of Senhor Josef was situated in the
centre of the town, and was not at all distinguished from
its neighbours, either in its outside or inside appear-
ance ; comfort had made less progress here than even
at Rio. A heavy, dull looking building, with large
white-washed rooms, a few of them only matted j rows
of old-fashioned chairs ranged round the wall, or
projecting in two stiff rows from the ends of a venerable
looking sofa ; a couple of small tables, to match, looked
at each other from exactly opposite sides, and were
ornamented with artificial flowers somewhat faded, in
vases ; a French clock in a glass case, old massive
silver candlesticks, with candles ready to light, decor-
ated with wreaths of white cut paper ; — such was the
appearance of the grand sala of the wealthiest man in
Brazil.

They were met at the entrance by a little, dark, fat,
good-humoured Senhora, arrayed in stiff flowered satin,
whom Senhor Josef introduced as his sister Theresa.
She gave Alonzo a hearty smack on each cheek, and

258 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

led him into the sala, where presently a small table
was brought in by two neatly dressed black damsels,
covered with cakes and very fine fruit. While Alonzo
was paying his compliments to these delicacies, the
two fathers were talking apart : " The ship sails to-
morrow," said the Marquess : " it is very soon," and
he sighed ; " but, as you observe, we had better not
lose the opportunity."

" Much better not," replied Senhor Josef ; " every
thing is arranged ; licence from the bishop, the priest,
and the witnesses ; all can be completed in an hour
from this time."

" And your daughter?"

" Why, my lord, you know Isabella is but a child, and
a sickly child ; she has been sadly spoiled and petted,
and, in consequence of her ill health and my numerous
avocations, her education has been somewhat neglected :
however, we must begin to make up for lost time."

♦' Well, Senlior," said the Marquess, with a sort of
eflFort, " the sooner the business is finished the better."
Senhor Josef whispered to his sister, and they both
left the room. The Marquess then informed Alonzo
that the ceremony would take place instantly, and that
to-morrow he would leave for Europe. The Marquess
also thought it prudent to prepare his son for the ap-
pearance of his bride, and after having repeated what
her father had stated, he continued : " Promise me
Alonzo, to conceal as much as possible any unfavour-
able emotion she may excite : remember we have set
our fate upon this cast !"

THE BRAZILIAN BIUDE. 259

"We have indeed, sir!" said Alonzo, gravely;
" but the sacrifice is great." By this expression,
Alonzo did not mean that he or his rank vi^as sacri-
ficed, although his more w^orldly father put this inter-
pretation on his words ; no, — the natural integrity, and
yet unsullied freshness of his youthful feelings, told
him that he was selling his honour and independence,
and what youth prizes so much in perspective, free
choice in his wedded love.

They retired to their separate half-furnished bed-
rooms to make some alteration in their dress ; which
was scarcely completed when a request arrived that
they would meet Senhor Josef in his private room.
Thither they went, and found him with a notary, a
priest, and two witnesses. A deed was handed over
to the Marquess to read, by which a very handsome
settlement was made on his son ; the Marquess ex-
pressed his gratitude, and Alonzo kissed the hand of
his new father • the deed was signed and sealed, and
copies put in their possession. Senhor Josefs will
was next read, in which, after providing for his sister,
and bequeathing to her the only house he had, (their
present residence,) the rest of his immense fortune he
settled exclusively on his daughter. He also expressed
his intention to make all fixed and sure by winding
up his mercantile concerns before the return of Alonzo :
but no land would he purchase ; he was aware that a
large hereditary estate in Portugal belonged by right
to the Marquess, which in all probability he would
possess in peace before he died.

260 THE BRAZILIAN BlUDE.

These interesting arrangements being completed, the
party were requested to proceed to the oratory, where
the marriage ceremony was to take place.

Both the father and son felt sad misgivings on the
subject of the bride herself, and it was with a throb-
bing heart that Alonzo, especially, approached the ora-
tory : his father, yet apprehensive of the final events,
whispered emphatically, " Senhor Josef has performed
his part nobly : — oh, my son ! for my sake struggle to
support yours." Alonzo pressed his father's hand, but
his heart was too full to answer.

Although the day shone brightly through the arched
and small-paned windows of the oratory, it was, as
usual in catholic chapels on occasions of ceremony,
lighted with a great number of huge wax candles,
which produced a most disagreeable effect. Two rows
of slaves, male and female, were drawn up on each
side ; the priest and witnesses took their stations, as
did Alonzo and the Marquess. Senhor Josef bad gone
for his sister and daughter.

A few painful minutes elapsed. At length a scuffle
was heard in the passage, and " Non quero! non queroV
was shrieked out by a weak but shrill female voice.
A moment afterwards Senhor Josef appeared with his
sister, actually dragging in a thin, dark, lanky form,
that was making all the opposition it was capable of,
by biting, scratching , and screaming. The father and
aunt were assisted by four young mulatto females,
whose disordered white dresses, and flowers falling
from their heads, showed but too clearly in what des-

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 261

perate service they had been engaged. The girl her-
self was dressed in thickly-worked Indian muslin,
trimmed with rich lace, but which, according to the
Portuguese taste, was nearly as yellow as her own
complexion ; in her ears and round her neck were
clumsily set diamonds of great value ; her hair they
had attempted to dress in vain, and it fell over her
shoulders, long, strait, and black. Anger and mor-
tification were deeply impressed on the countenances
of her father and aunt; and all present looked dismayed.
— But poor Alonzo ! his blood ran cold : he actually
sickened — and nothing but the imploring look of his
father prevented him rushing from the oratory. When
fairly placed in the centre of the circle, the girl shook
herself free, and threw back her disordered hair : she
was panting with rage and exertion evidently beyond
her strength ; she glanced first on the Marquess, and
then turned her eyes steadily on Alonzo. Every one
was wondering what would happen next ; when to their
surprise and relief, after a long and childish stare, she
stepped up quietly and placed herself beside him. The
priest, who knew her well, lost not the favourable mo-
ment, and instantly commenced the service. She went
through it with perfect composure, every now and
then turning round to look at her companion. Once
did Alonzo raise his eyes to meet hers, — but his fell, as
if avoiding the gaze of a basilisk : he visibly shrunk
as he touched her cold and skinny hand — in short,
he could not conceal the agony he suffered. Neverthe-
less, the ceremony came to its conclusion, and with a

262 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

sort of convulsive effort he turned to salute his bride.
But she had already reached the door, (no one thought
proper to prevent her ; ) — there she stopped, and once
again fixed her very large, black, and fearfully bril-
liant eyes upon Alonzo : their expression was changed,
it was no longer the same as at the altar ; but what
that expression was, Alonzo, though haunted by it for
years after, could never make out.

The party left the oratory. The Marquess was the
first to recover his composure, and conversed freely on
indifferent topics until dinner was announced. Sen-
hora Theresa made an apology for her neice, who, she
said, was too unwell to join them. They sat down to a
repast more abundant than elegant ; and the gloom
quickly disappeared from every countenance but one.

In the evening, the fathers had a long conference
over their coffee ; and Alonzo, availing himself of the
excuse his intended early embarkation provided, retired
for the night to his chamber.

After a light and hurried breakfast on the following
morning, he prepared to depart. The Senhora ex-
pressed her deep regret that Isabella was not suffici-
ently recovered, after the agitating scene of the pre-
ceding day, to take leave of him personally ; but — and
the good Senhora was proceeding with a string of
apologies, when Alonzo impatiently interrupted her by
placing in her hand a morocco case containing a set
of pink topaz of the latest London fashion, which he
had brought from Rio as a present for his bride. He
mumbled something about the Senhora presenting it

THE BRAZILFAN BRIDE. 263

in his name, as it appeared he could not have the
honour of offering it himself. Away went the aunt
with her prize, and returned in a few minutes with a
ring containing one deep-yellow diamond of value
enough to purchase a dozen of his pink topaz sets, and
this was given with many fine speeches from his bride,
made up by the Senhora with the felicity of her sex
on such occasions.

After receiving the blessing of his new relatives, he
went on board, accompanied by the Marquess, who
took leave of him with the greatest affection ; giving
him of course much wise counsel, mixed with the
heartiest congratulations on his good fortune : but not
one word was breathed by either concerning her who
was at once the maker and marrer of all, — the rivet
to those golden links, without which, indeed, they
would have lain lightly enough. The Marquess was a
man of much tact ; he felt that any thing he could say
on this delicate subject must be wrong.

A few weeks brought Alonzo to Falmouth, where he
was met by Mr. Mordaunt, his tutor. They proceeded
together to the Continent, where it was arranged they
should spend three years in travel and study ; the
two remaining years were to be devoted entirely to
England.

Mr. Mordaunt was admirably calculated for the oflfice
assigned to him, and soon became affectionately at-
tached to his pupil.

Three delightful years flew rapidly by. The most
interesting spots in France, Germany, and Sacred Italy

264 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

were visited. The study of the best authors in each
language ; that of the history, government, manufac-
tures, and works of art, of each country ; together
with the acquaintance of the most eminent men — all
contributed to exalt and enrich the highly gifted mind
of Alonzo, and to fill his heart with the noblest sen-
timents of benevolence and patriotism. During this
time he might have been pronounced among the hap-
piest of mortals, — but in his overflowing cup one
black and bitter drop was mingled.

Mr. Mordaunt had been made aware of Alonzo's
marriage, and of all the circumstances attending it, by
the Marquess. In the first letter Alonzo received from
his aunt the Abbess, were these words : " The only
chance you have of domestic peace, (happiness is per-
haps out of the question,) in your peculiar circum-
stances, is to guard your heart with the most vigilant
care : if once that treasure pass into the possession of
another, guilt and misery will attend you through life.
I repeat to you again and again, guard your heart !"
This letter was handed to his tutor, who, pointing to
the last sentence, said emphatically, "let that be your
watchword."

During his residence on the Continent, his time and
attention were too much occupied, his change of resi-
dence too frequent, to allow of his affections being at any
time in danger. And, beside the observing eye of Mr.
Mordaunt, and the watchword of the reverend Abbess,
it must be noticed that the young Don was not of
that lightly inflammable nature, which the sparkle of

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 265

an eye, the smile of a rosy lip, or the touch of a
delicate hand, could ignite in an instant. But Mr.
Mordaunt perfectly agreed with the Abbess in opi-
nion that if ever he Loved, it would be deeply, pas-
sionately, and therefore to him — fatally.

At the appointed time they arrived in England : and
a year and a half had been passed, with the highest ad-
vantage and improvement, in travelling through that
extraordinary country, and in visiting Scotland. The
last six months they were to spend in London : and,
alas ! the dreadful evil, from a quarter so little suspect-
ed that even Mr. Mordaunt appeared to be thrown off
his guard, approached ; and the god of love was, as a
poet would say, amply avenged for the sacrilege that
had been perpetrated in profaning the sacred band of
Hymen.

Alonzo was at the opera with his friend the Bra-
zilian Chargi d' Affaires. He thought, as he looked
round, that he had never been in any public place of
amusement where the sex showed to so much advantage
as at the English Opera ; the absence of crowd, the
light not too glaring, the superb dresses, contributed,
he supposed, to produce this effect. He observed the
Charg6 attentively viewing through his glass some
person in an opposite box, and he fancied many other
glasses were pointed in the same direction : he looked
also, and his eye immediately rested on one of the
most beautiful young women he thought he had ever
seen : there was that peculiar soviething, however, in her
complexion, style, and dress, which marked her as a

266 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE,

foreigner. " Who is that?" said he to the Charge ;
" she looks French or Spanish."

" Neither," said the Charg6, exultingly ; " she is one
of us — Brazilian ! "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Alonzo, in an accent of sur-
prise and pleasure.

"Have you not heard of her?" asked his friend :
** she is called the beautiful Brazilian, and is the novelty
of the season, making sad havoc in the hearts of her
English admirers. She has come out under the
auspices of the Countess of Godolphin, the lady next
her.

" What is her name ?"

*' Donna Viola de Montezuma."

"The name is noble," observed Alonzo, "but I do
not recollect it at Rio."

" Her family is settled in the north of Brazil : she
herself, however, has just come from Rio, with her
duenna and suite, to finish her education. She is an
heiress, and is reported to be engaged in Portugal.
Would you like to go round 1 I will introduce you."

"If you please :" — and away they went.

The Charge first introduced Alonzo to the Countess,
and then presented him as a fellow-countryman to the
beautiful Brazilian. She received him with the most
marked pleasure, and made a seat for him beside her.

" I am indeed most happy to become acquainted
with you, Don Alonzo," said she, " if it were only to
express to you the affection I feel for your dear aunt
the Abbess, in whose convent I have been some time a

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 267

resident, and from whom I have received all the care
and love of a mother — indeed, I owe hex very much."

" Her love and care at least seem to have been well
bestowed," replied Alonzo : "did you also know my
father?"

"Intimately ; — and I may also venture to say that I
know you, so much have I heard of you from the
Marquess and your aunt : I am sure no son or nephew
was ever more beloved."

Alonzo sighed as he recollected that neither of them
had mentioned this lady in their letters : the reason
was obvious, — and he felt a pang more acute than
usual when he looked on her lovely and intelligent
countenance, — glanced over a figure that appeared to
him perfection, and listened to her lively and natural
remarks — then compared her with that one of whom
he could scarcely endure in any way to think.

The next morning, he mentioned to Mr. Mordaunt, as
carelessly as he could, his introduction of the preced-
ing evening.

"I have heard of that lady," observed Mr. Mor-
daunt. " She is a good specimen of your country-
women,— does great credit to Brazil, and would make,
I dare say, an excellent English marriage, if she were
not already engaged."

*' She is really then engaged ?" inquired Alonzo.

"Decidedly— to a Portuguese nobleman : this has
been published as much as possible to keep lovers at a
distance."

" Well," thought Alonzo, " as5/ieis engaged, and /

268 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

married, there can be no danger:" and that very even-
ing (for the lady, he understood, was not permitted to
receive morning visitors,) beheld him at the Countess's.

An intimacy soon sprung up between them, as was
natural between persons of the same age and station in
a foreign country. There was no one that Viola was, or
appeared, half so pleased to see as Don Alonzo. She had
always a new song to sing to him, a new drawing to
show to him, or a new book to recommend. She was
fond of chess, and many a happy moment did he spend
while the Countess was engaged at her whist. But
never in his eyes was she so fascinating as when, pass-
ing the black ribbon of her guitar over her shoulder,
she accompanied herself in their own beautiful national
melodies; her voice was exquisitely sweet and clear;
the execution finished and graceful. At those moments
an exclusive affinity appeared to exist between them j
although there might be, and often were, numerous
other listeners and admirers, it was his eye only that she
sought for approval.

They met frequently at public places, and also at
other houses. Viola was a beautiful dancer, and he
felt proud (he knew not why, for it was nothing to
him,) of the admiration she excited. Sometimes he
waltzed with her, and with a beating heart caught
here and there a half whisper from the spectators —
" The two Brazilians — an interesting couple, are they
not V

It was thought better that Viola, on account of her
peculiar situation, should continue to observe, although

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 269

in England, the strict form of her own national man-
ners. Immediately after dancing she returned to the
side of the Countess or her chaperone ; she never
went out for exercise except when so accompanied,
and she never received any visitor except in such pre-*
sence. These arrangements gave great satisfaction to
Alonzo, (he did not know why, for it was nothing to
him,) although he frequently suffered hy them.

"Guard your heart!" conscience whispered to
Alonzo. Alas ! his heart had escaped — hut he guarded
his manners, and they were the next hest security : he
tried to watch even his very eyes ; he never flirted, he
never complimented ; in fact, he succeeded so well,
that the Countess and Mr. Mordauut appeared to have
no suspicion ; hut he could not deceive himself, and he
was not quite so sure that he deceived Viola.

Time glided by unheeded : the London season was
near its close, when, one morning at breakfast, Mr.
Mordaunt observed, " Well, Alonzo, time gets on, we
are now in July, and before the end of October you
must be safely landed at Rio. We must secure your
passage in the next month's packet."

All this was well known and fully expected, yet did
the intimation astound Alonzo. " So soon ! can it be
possible!"

The same evening they were en famille at the
Countess's : the whist and chess tables were arranged
as usual. " What are -you thinking of, Don Alonzo, to
make such a move as that?" inquired Viola: " you
are a little absent — out of spirits this evening. " .

270 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

" I ought not to be so," said Alonzo, trying to rallj,
" for we have been busy all day planning and arranging
about our voyage home."

" Indeed !" said Viola. Alonzo thought she sighed :
certainly she in her turn made a false move. Soon
after, a servant entered with a case of jewels belonging
to Viola, which had returned from being repaired :
while looking at them Alonzo observed, that she was
not a little envied by the London belles for the splen-
dour of her jewels.

"How comes it," said she, "that I never see you
wear any ornaments, not even a ring 1 Our young Bra-
zilian beaux are naturally so fond of these decorations."

" I assure you," said Mr. Mordaunt, looking off his
cards, " Don Alonzo has one of the most superb rings
I ever saw — a single yellow diamond of great value."

Alonzo felt irritated, he scarcely knew why, and
replied in a bitter sarcastic tone, quite unusual with
him — "Yes, I have a yellow diamond, indeed, that I
never wish to see, or to show to any one else."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he
felt their impropriety. " Draw your card, my lady, if
you please," said Mr. Mordaunt.

*' Check," cried Alonzo, and with an effort looked at
Viola. She was leaning on her hand ; and her large,
black, and brilliant eyes, with their long up-turned
lashes were fixed on his. He started at the look — why
or wherefore he could not imagine. — The eyes were
withdrawn, and the game continued.

A few evenings after, he was leading her from a

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 271

dance to place her as usual bj the side of the Countess ;
they had to traverse three or four crowded rooms before
thej could reach the one where her ladyship was
seated at whist ; they moved very slowly and loiter-
iiigly along, seemingly in no great hurry to arrive at
their destination.

"Are you really going to leave us next month, Don
Alonzo?"

** Really : — and you, Donna Viola, what becomes of
you 1"

"I go to Portugal."

" And thereV said Alonzo in an inquiring tone.

" O there we shall not remain long ; our Brazilian
property will require our presence."

" Then we shall meet again," said Alonzo eagerly.

" I hope so — I dare say, in a few months."

*' Well, that is some comfort !" — and he seemed to re-
spire more freely; then after a pause — "but I shall
never again meet Viola /"

"But Viola, Don Alonzo/' she replied firmly, "will
meet you as she has always met you ; what she has
been, she will continue to be — your sincere and affec-
tionate friend."

" Thank you, Viola, thank you ! — but pray do not
speak another word to me just now." He placed
her in her seat, and without looking at her, turned
away and left the house.

Mr. Mordaunt had accepted the pressing invitation
of Alonzo to accompany him to Brazil : their passage
was taken and their preparations well forward. Alonzo

272 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

paid his farewell visits, and did all that was necessary
on the occasion, with the most perfect composure.

A passage was also taken for Viola and her suite in
the Lisbon Packet, and the day was fixed for her
leaving town for Falmouth. The day following was
decided on by Alonzo for the same purpose, but this he
managed to conceal from her.

The morning before her departure, he called on the
Countess. " You are come to take leave of Donna
Viola," said her ladyship.

" No, I am not, T am come to take leave of you, (for
I also am on the eve of quitting London,) and to
thank you for all your kind attention."

" But why not of Viola V said the Countess ; " she
will be so disappointed."

" It is better I should not."

" But what am I to say to her V inquired she.

" Precisely what I have just said, — that it is better
I should not."

The Countess returned no reply ; and with all good
wishes on each side, they parted.

The weather was beautiful, and Mr. Mordaunt ap-
peared to enjoy his journey exceedingly; but Alonzo
was absorbed in thought, and it was only now and
then, when Mr. Mordaunt touched upon his approach-
ing meeting with his father and his old Rio friends,
that Alonzo could be roused for a moment. At the
inns too he occasionally heard something that attracted
his silent attention, of the beautiful young foreigner
who had passed the diiy before.

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 273

They arrived at Falmouth in the morning to break-
fast. With a beating heart, Alonzo inquired con-
cerning the foreign lady and the Lisbon packet : the
lady had gone on board the evening before, and the
Lisbon and Rio packets were to sail early on the fol-
lowing morning.

After breakfast, the two gentlemen were engaged
superintending the embarkation of their servants and
baggage, and having taken an early dinner, went on
board.

It was a lovely evening. Alonzo glanced at the merry
and busy town of Falmouth, the numerous vessels, and
the broad Atlantic, which lay stretched out before
him : then his eye fixed, as though there were nothing
else worth looking at, on the small vessel that lay
nearest to him. He suddenly left his station, descended
into a boat, and was in a few minutes on board.

In the outer cabin he met the duenna, who looked
very much surprised at seeing him ; but without
speaking, threw open the door of the after cabin : — he
entered, and the door closed behind him,

Viola lay on a couch, apparently absorbed in read-
ing : the noise startled her, and she looked up ; but
nothing can express the astonishment painted on her
countenance at the sight of Alonzo, who stood fixed as
a statue before her. She sprang from the couch, and
evidently her first feeling was to run towards him, but
probably the strangeness of his look and demeanour
arrested her ; for she checked herself, and exclaimed,
" Don Alonzo !"

274 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

" Viola !" said he, seizing both her hands, and
gently forcing her to return to the seat she had left :
"Viola!" (the word seemed to choke him,) "lean-
not live without you — you are yet free, have pity on
me !"

" Alonzo," she asked, in a tremulous voice, " are
you free ?"

"I am not irrevocably bound."

In a moment she seemed to recover her self-posses-
sion, and replied, "Then I must tell you, that I am.
You are labouring under a fatal error; you think I am
but engaged — I am married. — But stay!" she ex-
claimed, alarmed at the effect of her communication, —
" stay ! — one moment ! — Alonzo ! — I beseech you !"

It was in vain ; he almost shook her off, rushed to his
boat, and in a few minutes was on board of his own
vessel : he pushed by Mr. Mordaunt, and every body
and every thing that impeded his way to his cabin,
where locking the door, he threw himself on his bed,
in a state of mind not to be described.

Mr. Mordaunt took possession of the boat Alonzo
had quitted, went on board the Lisbon packet, and
had an interview with Donna Viola.

At day-break the following morning, Alonzo, wrap-
ped in a cloak, and his hat slouched over his brow,
stood on the deck, watching with gloomy composure
the Lisbon packet getting under weigh : she soon
began to move, — a few minutes more, and she was
dashing through the water close beside him. Des-
perate thoughts for an instant darkened his mind ; a

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 275

feeling of revenge and despair, beset him, and he
felt a strong temptation to plunge into the wake of
the flying vessel, — when one of the latticed win-
dows of the after-cabin was suddenly thrown open ;
he saw a waving handkerchief, and then the form of
Viola herself, her eyes streaming with tears, kissing
both her hands, and waving them to him. He had just
time to return the salutation: his dark purpose va-
nished, the weakness of his mother came over him,
and he wept : " She loves me !" — that thought alone,
single and abstracted, brought back the blood in a
rush of transport to his heart : " She loves me ! • — and
nobly sets me the example of a virtuous submission to
our fate !"

A friendly hand at that moment was laid on his ;
Mr. Mordaunt drew him to his cabin. " Alonzo," he
said, "I have been sadly to blame, — I ought to have
foreseen and guarded against all this. Donna Viola,
whom I saw last evening, bade me give you this note/'
putting one into his hand.

Alonzo tore it open. "Alonzo, I conjure you, for
the sake of your father — for my sake — struggle against
your fatal and hopeless passion ! We shall very soon
meet again, — let us meet in peace, in innocence, and
friendship ! Heaven bless you, and heaven forgive us
both, for we have been much to blame ! — Viola."

Viola was very inexperienced, and Mr. Mordaunt
knew very little about love, otherwise Alonzo had
never received this note, which only added fuel to the
flame : he kept it next his heart, and read it every

276 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

day during the passage. He questioned Mr. Mor-
daunt closely concerning his interview with Viola the
preceding evening, and especially inquired whether
he could give him any information concerning her hus-
band. "I am told," he said, " that he is a man of high
rank, very rich, old, and infirm. He has married the
orphan daughter of his friend, merely as a safeguard
to her and her property in these dangerous times."
At this intelligence, Alonzo's heart bounded with
secret joy : he became comparatively tranquil, but
he would not analyse his feelings — he dared not.

A few weeks brought them to Rio. On entering
its superb harbour Mr. Mordaunt was struck with ad-
miration at the magnificent and beautiful scenery
that surrounded him* but to the heart of Alonzo it
spoke yet more feelingly, entwined as it was with all
his dear and early associations. He could have kissed
the black and barren rock of the Sugar-Loaf : it was
passed, and threw open the graceful sweep of the Bay of
Botafogo, surrounded with its wooded and lofty moun-
tains : this too was passed, and the harbour of Rio ap-
peared. Great political changes had taken place, and
the imperial flag waved upon every fort and hill. The
visiting boat approached, and by the side of the ofl&cer
sat Alonzo's watchful and expecting father, who in a
few minutes more was locked in the arms of his son.
On their landing, friends crowded round them : in the
afternoon they visited the good kind Abbess ; and the
evening was employed in renewing Alonzo's recollec-
tions of his young female friends, most of whom had

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 277

notv become wives and mothers ; and those whom he
had known as children had started up into young
women, a process remarkably rapid in that country.
He was pleased to observe the vast improvement that,
even during the short period of his absence, had taken
place at Rio, as far as concerned the comforts and re-
finements of domestic life. On the following morning
he was presented at court : — in short, for two or three
days he had not leisure even to look melancholy.

But one morning after breakfast, (a time universally
agreed upon for making disagreeable communications,)
his father informed him that in about a month, Donna
Isabella might be expected with her father and aunt.
" I have taken a temporary residence for you, which
I think you will like, at Botafogo — (I say temporary,
for you will soon be offered, what you most desire, a
diplomatic mission to Europe ; ) and the furnishing
and arranging this resid*ence has been my hobby for
the last six months. If you and Mr. Mordaunt have
no objection, we will ride to see it this afternoon."
" If you please, sir," was the only reply ; and, accord-
ingly, at the appointed time they set out. The house
and situation were both delightful j the furniture
tasteful and costly. The apartment peculiarly appro-
priated to Donna Isabella, and called her garden-room,
opened into a delicious parterre ; it contained tables
for needle-work and drawing, book-cases filled with a
choice collection in English, French, and Italian : there
were also a piano, harp, and guitar.

" Is Donna Isabella such a proficient in music]"

278 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

asked Alonzo with a sarcastic smile . " She is, I be-
lieve, very fond of it," quietly replied the Marquess.
Alonzo, vrith much warmth and sincerity, thanked his
father for the kind pains he had taken ; then sighed,
and thought how happy he could be here with — cer-
tainly not with Donna Isabella.

After the first novelty of his arrival had worn off,
Alonzo relapsed into sadness ; a settled gloom was
gathering on his youthful brow, a sickening indiffer-
ence to all around was gradually stealing over him.
His father and Mr. Mordaunt did all they could to
arouse and distract his attention. Excursions into
the country were frequently made, especially to the
botanical garden about six miles from the city. It is
arranged with exquisite order and good taste, encircled
by bold and rugged mountain-scenery, opening to-
wards the ocean, — reposing in all its richness of floral
beauty, with its shady and stately trees, its leafy
bowers and gushing streams, like a gem in the wilder-
ness,— like the deckt and lovely bride of a dark-brow-
ed warrior in those stern days of " auld lang syne,"
of which one loves to dream in spots like these.
Water-parties to the many beautiful islands, — society
and study, — were all tried, and in vain : every day,
every hour, seemed to increase the despondency of
Alonzo ; but he never complained, never even touched
in anyway upon the subject that caused it. Upwards of
three weeks passed in this manner.

Alonzo was fond of the society of the Abbess :
with the unerring tact of her sex, she managed his

I

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 279

present mood : she would sit opposite to him, em-
ployed at her old-fashioned embroidery frame, for an
hour without speaking : this was just what he liked.
One afternoon he had ensconced himself in his accus-
tomed seat in her little grated parlour : he scarcely
observed her entrance, but instead of seating herself
at her frame, she stepped towards him.

" Alonzo, I am glad you have come, for I was just
going to send for you."

" To send for me 1" repeated he listlessly.

" Yes, a friend of yours has arrived at the convent,
and wishes to see you."

"A friend of mine !"

" You recollect, I suppose. Donna Viola de Monte-
zuma 1"

He started from his seat — the shock was electric.

"Viola, did you say ! — Donna Viola ! — recollect
her ! — what of her 1 — what of her V

"She has become a widow."

"Goon!"

" She arrived at Lisbon just in time to receive the
last breath of her expiring husband. After the funeral,
she consigned her affairs there into proper hands, and
delayed not a moment in returning to this country,
where they demand her instant attention. She ar-
rived yesterday, and remains here for a short time. —
She wishes to see you."

" I am ready," said Alonzo.

The Abbess left the room. " This is too — too much ! "
he exclaimed aloud, as he paced the little parlour with

280 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

hurried steps. A slight rustling near the grate arrested
him : it was Viola in deep mourning, looking more
lovely and interesting than ever. She presented him
her hand through the grate — he knelt, and prest it to
his lips, to his heart, to his burning forehead.
" Alonzo," she said in the kindest and most soothing
tone, " I have heard from the Abbess of your mar-
riage, and I fear that I have innocently contributed
to render that, which might have proved the highest
blessing, a source of bitter misery. What can I do
but to entreat you to arm yourself with the resolution
of acting right 1 I confess that your forcing me to lose
my esteem for you, would be the greatest pain you
could inflict, even although your affection /or me were
the cause. Promise me, Alonzo — "

He hastily interrupted her : "I will promise nothing
— nothing ! — Heaven grant that I may do what is
right, but, in the present state of my mind, I will pass
my word for nothing."

Viola sighed. *' Well," she resumed, " I shall see
whether Alonzo be really what I believed him, or not :
I shall see whether he be capable of sacrificing the
happiness of his young and innocent wife, and of his
doating father — his own honour and principles, to the
shadow of a shade ; for such is all hope of me. Hea-
ven bless you, Alonzo ! and support you through this
trial! You have my prayers, my best, my warmest
wishes : deserve to be happy, and leave the rest to Pro-
vidence."

She disappeared: — he still remained kneeling at

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 281

the grate, apparently wrapt in thought : at length a
ray of light seemed to break through the darkness
that surrounded him ; a single spark of hope saved him
from utter despair. He decided that in his first in-
terview with Donna Isabella, he would reveal every
secret of his heart ; he would conjure her, as she valued
their mutual happiness, to assist him in breaking the
tie that had been made between them : he would recall to
her recollection the fatal hour of their union, when re-
luctance on his side, and the necessity of absolute force
on hers, formed but an evil omen of future concord.
Since that moment they had never met, had never
even corresponded ; he had formed elsewhere a deep
and serious attachment, and so perhaps had she. As
to the debt he had incurred towards her and her
family, with a little time and indulgence it would be
cleared, as the property in Portugal was on the eve of
being restored to his father. Thus, if they acted with
determination, and in unison, there could be no doubt
of their succeeding in breaking the galling fetters in
which the mistaken zeal of their relatives had bound
them. " If," he exclaimed, "she be not utterly de-
void of the common pride and delicacy of her sex,
there is but one step to take : — she will — she must
take it — and I shall become free and happy !"

Full of this thought, he left the convent ; and, on his
return home, sought Mr. Mordaunt, and laid his pro-
ject before him. Mr. Mordaunt listened with the
utmost kindness and sympathy : he saw but one ob-
jection to the attempt: if Donna Isabella, in spite of
B B 3

282 THi; BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

all he could urge, should refuse to enter into his
views, how much wider would it make the breach
between them ! how much would it diminish their
chance of happiness ! But to this side of the picture,
Alonzo absolutely refused to turn ; and Mr. Mordaunt,
seeing him perfectly resolved, gave up the point, glad,
at all events, that Alonzo had even this slight support
to lean upon until the crisis arrived.

At the top of the Marquess's small and rather in-
convenient abode, was a room which, on account of
its height and airiness, and the view of the harbour
it commanded, the gentlemen preferred to breakfast,
and to spend the morning in : a spy-glass was fixed
here, to which of late the eye of the Marquess had
been often and anxiously applied. One morning, about
a week after the scenes just described, the Marquess
seemed more than usually on the alert, watching the
approach of a fine Brazilian merchant-ship. " Is she
near the fort V — " here she comes," — " she is abreast
of it," — "now for it!" and as he spoke, up flew a pri-
vate signal. The Marquess clasped his hands, and ex-
claimed in a half-whisper, to Mr. Mordaunt, " Thank
Heaven, there they are at last !" and the two gentle-
men instantly left the room.

"Well," thought Alonzo, "1 am not bound to
know that there they are at last, until I am informed of
it j" and he tried again to rivet his attention to his
study. Three intolerably long hours passed away : a
note was then brought to him from the Marquess :
'• Donna Isabella, her aunt, and father, have arrived,

I

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 283

and are now at Botafogo. The two ladies are some-
what fatigued, and prefer not receiving you until the
evening ; therefore between seven and eight, Mr. Mor-
daunt and the carriage will be at your door."

Alonzo sent away his untouched dinner ; he dressed
en grande toilette ; and, taking down Walter Scott's last
new novel, strove to fix his attention on its delightful
pages. Alonzo had generally the power of exercising
great mastery over his mind ; to an indifferent ob-
server he would appear rather cold, reserved, and not
easily acted upon in any way ; but, when his feelings
once burst their barrier, it was with a violence propor-
tioned to the restraint he had thrown over them.

At half-past seven, the carriage drew- up to the
door, and Alonzo immediately descended to it. " I am
glad to see you are quite ready," said Mr. Mordaunt,
as he entered : the door closed ; and they drove off-

" You have seen Donna Isabella!" inquired Alonzo.

" Yes, I have," was the laconic reply, with evi-
dently a wish of saying no more. After a considera-
ble pause, Mr. Mordaunt asked whether he still kept
to his purpose.

" Certainly," said Alonzo firmly — and no further
conversation passed.

Half an hour brought them to their destination :
with a throbbing heart, Alonzo descended from the
carriage. They were shown into the grand sala, bril-
liantly lighted. Here were assembled Senhor Josef
and Senhora Theresa, the Marquess, and tlie Abbess
with an attendant nun ; the old lady liad not left her

284 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

convent for many years, but on this occasion she was
determined to be present.

Alonzo saluted Seuhor Josef and his sister, with
gravity, but perfect and sincere kindness ; he kissed
the hand of his aunt ; then, turning to his father,
begged to know where he might find Donna Isabella.

** She waits for you in her garden-room," replied the
Marquess. Alonzo bowed, and left the sala.

He struggled successfully to continue the same ap-
pearance of composure, as he passed along the corridor
which led to the garden-room: the door was ajar ; he
entered and closed it.

The room was only lighted by a single Grecian
lamp, suspended from the centre ; the latticed doors
leading to the garden were thrown open, and the moon-
beams quivered brightly on the rich festoons of flowers
and foliage that twined around them. Leaning on the
harp near the furthest door, stood a lady magnificently
dressed as a bride ; one hand hung listlessly at her
side, in the other were gathered the folds of her veil,
in which her face was buried. Alonzo advanced, and
although somewhat prepared for a favourable alteration,
he was struck with astonishment at the exquisitely
fine and graceful form that stood before him. ** Donna
Isabella, I believe:" — no reply, and no change of
position. He approached a little nearer, and ventured
to take the unoccupied hand, whose slight and delicate
fingers were covered with gems, but on the arm was only
a single bracelet, and that was of pink topaz. " Donna
Isabella, I venture to claim a few minutes' private con-

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 285

versation with you, on a subject that deeply concerns
the happiness of us both : permit me to lead you to a
seat." He paused — the emotion that visibly pervaded
her whole frame convinced him that at least he was
not addressing a statue. Suddenly she raised her
head, clasped her hands, and sunk on her knees at his
feet. Alonzo recoiled, as though a supernatural appear-
ance had presented itself, while with a tone that
thrilled through heart and brain, she exclaimed —
"Alonzo, can you forgive me"?'^ — It was Viola !
"Can you forgive me for all the deception I have
practised, and caused others to practise 1 May the
prize I strove for — my husband's heart — plead my
excuse ! — I know it will !"

While she spoke, Alonzo in some degree recovered
himself. He raised up the beautiful suppliant, and
folding her in silence to his breast, kissed her with
pure, intense, and devoted affection. He could not
speak ; he thought not and cared not how it had all been
brought about ; he only knew and felt that his wife
was in his arms, and that that wife was Viola.

The partj^ in the drawing-room, to whom the duenna
was now added, were in an agony of impatient expec-
tation. The Marquess at length led the way, and they
all crept softly along the passage : " May we come in V*
" Come in," said Alonzo — the first words he had
spoken since the denouement.

Their entrance dispersed, in a great measure, the
concentrated feelings of Alonzo, and he became atten-
tive to learn the mechanism by which his present

I

286 THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE.

happiness had been effected. It appeared that the
prepossession Isabella had conceived for her husband
at the altar had produced a striking change on her, as
love did on Cymon. Ill health, the absence of the
usual means of education at St. Paul's, the ignorance
and weak indulgence of those with whom she resided,
had allowed weeds to spring up and choke the rich
treasures of her mind. However, she accompanied
the Marquess from St. Paul's, and was placed by him
under the charge of the Abbess, where, in three years,
her improvement in health, beauty, and mental attain-
ments astonished all those who observed it. The two
years she passed in England, under the most judicious
care, had brought her to that point of perfection to
which she had now arrived.

Alouzo had not the slightest recollection of any of
her features except her eyes, which on the day of their
union had that large size and troubled expression which
usually attends ill-health. He could now account for
the startling recollection that had passed over him one
evening at the chess-board • the look she then gave
and that with which she had impressed him on her
leaving the oratory, were the same.

♦'And you, my grave and worthy tutor," said Alonzo,
addressing Mr. Mordaunt, '♦ did you join in this power-
ful league against me ?"

" I confess," replied Mr. Mordaunt, " that I was in
the service of the enemy ; so much so, that on the
evening you first met Donna Viola, and were intro-
duced to her at the opera, I knew beforehand that such

ITMIE IffiBAZIILaA.K BIRHaSIE .

1

THE BRAZILIAN BRIDE. 287

a meeting and such an introduction would take place.
I take this opportunity, however, of hinting, that you
may thank your own impetuosity that the discovery
was not prematurely advanced on board of the Lisbon
Packet ; for Donna Viola, terrified at your vehemence,
would have revealed the whole truth, could she but
have prevailed upon you to stay and hear it."

** Alas ! for my vehemence," exclaimed Alonzo ; and
trying to collect his puzzled thoughts, he turned to the
Abbess : " And you too, my dear aunt, — you too, my
Lady Abbess ! it is well you have the power of ab-
solving yourself for all those little fibs you told me the
other day."

"May Our Lady grant me absolution," replied
the good Abbess devoutly, " for whatever stain of
sin I may have contracted by plajdng a part in this
masque !"

" Supper ! supper !" cried out the Marquess, as he
marshalled them the way. Alonzo seized his Viola
(for thus he ever after named her, as if he dreaded
that some magical delusion would again snatch her
from his sight) — and never did a set of happier crea-
tures meet than those which now encircled the sump-
tuous banquet, prepared in honour of this Brazilian
Wedding.

288

MELROSE ABBEY.

BY JOHN FAIRBAIRN.

What spirit fills this holy place ?
Is it Religion's mystic torch
That sheds a more than mortal grace
On fractured arch and ruined porch ?

Beneath this sky-like dome have prayed
The heroes of the stormy ages ;
And here their nohle dust is laid,
Commingled with the saint's and sage's.

Untold thy strongest charm remains :
A Poet found thy secret powers,
Rebuilt thee by his heavenly strains,
And wrapt in glory all thy towers.

Now see we but what he hath told :
His spirit fills this mighty shrine —
Restores the lost, renews the old —
His immortality is thine.

289
THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

BY CHARLES WHITEHEAD.

Come, thou sage philosopher,
Thou who never yet did'st err.
Who with power almost divine,
Bid'st reluctant truth be thine,
And, unaided, canst unfold
All this cunning earth doth hold ;
If any praise to thee be due.
If thou and thy report be true.
Incline thine ear, contract thy brow.
And summon all thy wisdom now ;
And henceforth be thy fame enhanced,
Solve me this riddle, — if thou canst.

First, let thy mental vision see
An infant on his mother's knee ;
Nestled in softness, watched with care.
And hushed by love's unconscious prayer ;
Not yet responsive to the smile.
The fingers ' play, or tender wile ;
Not yet acquainted with the skies.
Or light even of its mother's eyes ;
Thoughtless of heaven, though newly thence
Ungifted by each finer sense,
Imperfect, perfect Innocence.

290 THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

The bud into a blossom blown,
Next view him into boyhood grown ;
Bright golden locks his brows adorn,
His brave brows that outshine the morn.
Clear honour glows upon his face.
And strength about him strives with grace
Virtue is portion of his blood,
'And health instructs him to be good ;
All nature to his heart appeals,
And every thing he sees, he feels ;
Her scenes committed to his mind,
A smooth transparent surface find.
Nor from the brittle mirror pass ;
So, pictures painted upon glass.
All things to him are as they seem ;
We doubt, nor wonder in a dream.
This weakness, honoured sage, forgive.
It dies more quickly than we live.

Behold this rich and festive hall,

Where daylight struggles to the wall,

Through gorgeous hangings closely drawn.

That would, but cannot, hide the dawn.

He sits alone, — by pleasure stung.

The empty goblet from him flung ;

A busy fever in the vein,

A silent throbbing in the brain,

Madness at work and" reason slain.

A portrait hangs above his head.

It lives in art, but she is dead.

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE. 291

Say, shall I o'er that moral dwelU
No, 'twere too long a tale to tell.
Poor pleasure's child is passion's slave,
Bound in the rosy chains she gave ;
He too enjoys his hour ; — too late
Comes wisdom, when it comes with fate.

Now mark the man of middle age,

Virtue his foe, and scorn his gage ;

And well doth he the conflict wage.

See him, in conscious power secure,

Dispense injustice to the poor ;

Hear how he doeth ill by stealth.

And from the needy draws his wealth,

With hand of grasping avarice.

That gives not once, and taketh twice ;

Moved by a tiger soul within.

Spotted like the tiger's skin.

Hear from his lips the damning lie.

And see the villain in his eye.

Long has his heart been hard, and long.

Though base, ere 'twas impelled to wrong ;

But now, a new refinement found.

Ground into keeimess, it can wound ;

It feels not, but makes others feel ;

The iron is refined to steel.

One scene, the last, is yet untold —
This infant, boy, and man, grown old ;
Decrepitude his sole defence,
Cirey hairs that claim no reverence ;

292 THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

All vice remembered, good forgot,
A fear to live, a dread to rot,
A horror of he knows not what.
So long was virtue out of call.
Vice is become habitual :
Custom so strong of doing ill.
It never asks the leave of will.
But acts, — still shifting the until.
And now Time bids him to begone,
And not that hoary power alone ;
The dust begins her prey to crave,
The worm cries to him from the grave ;
The dead accuse him from the tomb, —
The child rebukes him from the womb ;
The past, the present, the to-come,
Point to his dark and silent home.
What refuge now '^ what compromise
Will now avail 1 what truth, — what lies ?
What huddled penitence! — He dies !

Honour to him who largely lends, —

His good name is the loan of friends ;

Praise be to all where'er 'tis due.

The quarry lends its marble too ;

And praise to earth, whose mother's care

Has called him hence, and keeps him there.

Now then, thou sage philosopher.

If to the infant we recur,

And trace him through each onward stage.

To the long journey's end of age ;

THE RIDDLE OF LIFE. 293

What by philosophy is found,
That reason may admit 1 expound. —
Tell me, was this unsullied child
From infancy to age beguiled ?
Cozened by counters falsely played.
And to his dying hour betrayed ;
The book of virtue interleaved,
And by the gloss of vice deceived 1
Was this, or that, or what you will.
The active cause, the impulse still 1
Say, is there some external sin.
That works into the heart within j
Did outward influence control,
Or was the bias in the bowl 1

Why ponder 1 thou perhaps canst show,
More than to me was given to know ;
Thou mayst unwind the stubborn mesh
That holds alike the soul and flesh ;
Thou mayst with nioest skill define.
What error is, and what design ;
And how, when virtues stagnant brood,
Evil is formed from weaker good,
As petrified by water, wood.

O fool ! thy vain philosophy.
For heaven too low, for earth too high.
Like some dense fog that hangs between
This orb and the eternal sheen,
c c 2

294 THE RIDDLE OF LIFE.

Darkens the earth whereon we dwell.

Till Heaven the cloudy mist dispel .

What wisdom, such as thine, can teach

Of each, or what is due to each 1

One earnest prayer — one ray of faith.

One mind to all Religion saith, —

One heart, one hope, one conscious stay.

Thy subtle folly melts away.

For earthly things is science given.

But Heaven is still the gift of Heaven.

STARS OF SONG.

Byron and Shelley comets of our sphere.

Have swept their course erratic through the sky ;

Now to the Empyrean soaring high.

Now down through darkest Chaos plunging sheer.

Two other Lights of Song, whose lustre clear

Was calm, — though quaint, and coloured diversely, —

Stern Crabbe and stately Scott, (names ne'er to die!)

Have closed on our sad eyes their bright career.

Now sets a fifth — in whom the flame divine
Burnt with a pure and high, though fitful beam :
Enthusiast Coleridge! favourite of the Nine !
Hast thou too left us, like a twilight dream 1
— Yes, gone — but in a higher sphere to shine
Where Heavenly Love shall be the endless theme !

295

THE TWO KATES.
^ Cale.

BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE BUCCANEER," ETC.

" I cannot help observing, Mr. Seymour, that I think
it exceedingly strange in you to interfere with the
marriage of my daughter: — marry your sons, sir, as
you please, — but my daughter! — that is quite another
matter."

And Mrs. Seymour, a stately sedate matron, of the
high-heeled and hoop school, drew herself up to her
full height, which (without the heels) was five foot
seven, — and fanning herself with a huge green fan,
more rapidly than she had done for many months,
looked askance upon her husband, a pale delicate man,
who seemed in the last stage of a consumption.

"A little time, Mary!" (good lack! could such a
person as Mrs. Seymour bear so sweet a name?) "a
little time, Mary, and our sons may marry as they list
for me, — but I have yet to learn, why you should
have more controul over our Kate than I. Before I
quit this painful world, I should like the sweet child
to be placed under a suitable protector."

" You may well call her child, indeed; — little more

296 THE TWO KATES.

than sixteen. Forcing the troubles of the world upon
her, so young. I have had my share of them. Hea-
ven knows, although, I had nearly arrived at an age
of discretion before I united my destiny to yours."

" So you had, my dear, — you were, I think, close
upon forty !"

It is pretty certain that a woman who numbers thirty
without entering " the blessed state," had better
deliberate whether she is able to take up new ideas,
forego "her own sweet will," and sink from an inde-
pendent to a dependent being • but a woman of forty
who is guilty of such an absurdity merits the
punishment she is sure to receive. And though Mr.
Se3rmour was a kind, amiable, and affectionate man,
his lady was far from a happy woman : she had en-
joyed more of her own way than generally falls to the
lot of her sex, and yet not near so much aa she de-
sired or .fancied she deserved. If Mr. Seymour
would have held his tongue, and done exactly as she
wished, it would have been all well ; but this course
he was not exactly prone to, — he having been, at least
ten years before his marriage, what is generally term-
ed an old bachelor. Let it not be imagined that Mrs.
Seymour was one of your "shall and will" ladies,
— no such thing ; she was always talking of " female
duties," of "gentle obedience," of "amiable docility ;"
and with her eyes fastened upon a piece of tent-stitch
which she had worked in her juvenile days, represent-
ing Jacob drinking from Rebecca's pitcher, she would
lecture her husband by the long winter hours, and the

THE TWO KATES. 297

midsummer sunshine, as to the inestimable treasure
he possessed in her blessed self.

"Think, Mr. Seymour, if you had married a gad-
about ; who would have watched over my children V
(she never by any chance said o«?' children.) — "I
have never been outside the doors (except to church)
these four years ! — If you had married a terma-
gant, how she would have flown at, and abused all
your little — did I say little ? I might with truth
say, your great peculiarities. I never interfere, never ;
I only notice — for your own good — that habit for in-
stance, of always giving Kate sugar with her straw-
berries, and placing the tongs to the left instead of the
right of the poker — it is very sad !"

"My dear," Mr. Seymour would interrupt, "what
does it signify whether the tongs be to the right or left ?"

" Bless me, dear sir, you need not fly out so ; I was
only saying that there are some women in the world who
would make that a bone of contention — I never do,
much as it annoys me, — much as it leads the servants
into careless habits, — much as it and other things grieve
and worry my health and spirits, — I never complain !
never. Some men are strangely insensible to their
domestic blessings, and do not know how to value
earth's greatest treasure, — a good wife ! but I am
dumb ; I am content to suffer, to melt away in tears —
it is no matter." Then, after a pause to recruit her
breath and complainings, she would rush upon another
grievance with the abominable whine of an aggrieved
and much injured person, — a sort of mental and mono-

298 THE TWO KATES.

tonous wailing, which though nobody minded, annoyed
every body within her sphere. Her husband was fast
sinking into his grave ; her sons had gone from Eton
to Cambridge ; and , when they were at liome, took good
care to be continually out of earshot of their mother's
lamentations ; — the servants changed places so con-
tinually, that the door was never twice opened by the
same footman ; — and the only fixture at Seymour Hall,
where servants and centuries, at one time, might be
almost termed synonymous, was the old deaf house-
keeper, who, luckily for herself, could not hear her
mistress's voice. To whom then had Mrs. Seymour
to look forward, as the future source of her comforts, —
(i. e.) of her tormenting? — even her daughter Kate, —
the bonny Kate, — the merry Kate, the thing of smiles
and tears, who danced under the shadow of the old
trees, — who sang with the birds, — who learned in-
dustry from the bees, and cheerfulness from the grass-
hopper, — whose voice told in its rich full melody of
young Joy and his laughing train, — whose step was
as light on the turf as the dew or the sunbeam, — whose
shadow was blessed as it passed the window of the
poor and lowly cottager, heralding the coming of her,
who comforted her own soul by comforting her fellow-
creatures. — " How can it be possible," said every body,
" that such a lovely, cheerful, cheering creature can
be the child of Mr. and Mrs. Seymour ? — the father,
dear man, kind and gentle, but so odd ; — the mother!"
— and then followed a look and a shrug, that told of
much disapprobation, and yet not lialf as much as was

I»

THE TWO KATES. 299

most generously bestowed on the melancholy-dealing-
Mrs. Seymour.

Kate's father well knew that his days were numbered ;
and he looked forward with no very pleasurable feeling
to his daughter's health and happiness being sacrificed
at the shrine whereon he had offered up his own.
Kate, it is true, as yet had nothing suffered : she ma-
naged to hear and laugh at her mother's repinings,
without being rendered gloomy thereby, or giving
offence to her mournful and discontented parent. She
would, in her own natural and unsophisticated manner,
lead her forth into the sunshine, sing her the gayest
songs, read to her the most cheerful books, and gather
for her the freshest flowers; — and sometimes, even
Mrs. Seymour would smile, and be amused, though
her heart quickly returned to its bitterness, and her
soul to its discontent ; but Mr. Seymour knew that this
buoyant spirit could not endure for ever, and he sought
to save the rose of his existence from the canker that
had destroyed him. — She was earnestly beloved
by a brave and intelligent officer, who had already
distinguished himself, and who hoped to win fresh
laurels whenever his country needed his exertions.
It would be difficult to define the sort of feeling with
which Kate received his attentions: like all young,
very young girls, she thought that affection ought to be
kept secret from the world, and that it was a very
shocking thing to fall in love j — she consequently
vowed and declared to every body, that "she had no
idea of thinking of Major Cavendish ; — that she was

300 THE TWO KATES.

too young, much too young to marry; — that her
mamma said so." She even steeped her little tongue
so deeply in love's natural hypocrisy, as to declare,
btit only once, " that she hated Major Cavendish." If
he addressed her in company, she was sure to turn
away, blush, and chatter most inveterately to her
cousin, long Jack Seymour ; if he asked her to sing,
she had invariably a sore throat ; and if he asked her
to dance, she had sprained her ancle : — it was quite
marvellous the quantity of little fibs she invented,
whenever Major Cavendish was in the way; and it is
probable that the calm, dignified, and gentlemanly
soldier would never have declared his preference for the
laughter-loving and provoking Kate, but for one of
those little episodes which either make or mar the hap-
piness of life.

I must observe that Kate's extreme want of resem-
blance to either her mournful mother or her pale and
gentle father, was not more extraordinary than that
Major Cavendish, as we have said, — the calm, and dig-
nified Major Cavendish, at six-and-twenty, — should
evince so great an affection for the animated and girlish
creature, whom four years before his " declaration,"
lie had lectured to, and romped with, but no, not romped
— Major Cavendish was too dignified to romp, or to
flirt either, — what shall I call it then 1 — laughed 1 —
yes, he certainly did laugh, generally after the most
approved English fashion, — his lips separated with a
manifest desire to unite again as soon as possible, and
his teeth, white and even, appeared to great advantage

THE TWO KATES. 301

during the exertion. Nobody thought that, though
young and handsome, he would think of marriage,
" he was so grave ;" but on the same principle, I
suppose, that the harsh and terrible thunder is the
companion of the gay and brilliant lightning, majestic
and sober husbands often most desire to have gay and
laughing wives. — Now for the episode. Mrs. Sey-
mour had fretted herself to sleep, Mr. Seymour had
sunk into his afternoon nap, and Kate stole into her
own particular room, to coax something like melody
out of a Spanish guitar, the last gift of Major Caven-
dish ; — the room told of a change, effected by age and
circumstances, on the character of its playful mistress.
— A very large Dutch baby-house, that had contri-
buted much to her amusement a little time ago, still
maintained its station upon its usual pedestal, the
little Dutch ladies and gentlemen all in their places,
as if they had not been disturbed for some months j
on the same table were battledores, shuttlecocks, and
skipping-ropes; while the table at the other end was
covered with English and Italian books, vases of fresh
flowers, music, and some richly ornamented boxes,
containing many implements that ladies use both for
work and drawing ; respectfully apart, stood a reading
stand, supporting Kate's bible and prayer-book ; and
it was pleasant to observe, that no other books rested
upon those holy volumes.

The decorated walls would not have suited the pre-
sent age, and yet they were covered with embroidery
and engravings, and mirrors, and camngs; — showing

D D

302 THE TWO KATES.

a taste not developed, yet existing in the beautiful
girl, whose whole powers were devoted to the conquest
of some music which she was practising both with
skill and patience. There she sat on a low ottoman,
her profile thrown into full relief by the back ground,
being a curtain of heavy crimson velvet that fell in
well-defined folds from a golden arrow in the centre of
the architrave, — while summer drapery of white mus-
lin shaded the other side — her features hardly defined ,
yet exhibiting the tracery of beauty, — her lips, rich,
full, and separated, as ever and anon they gave forth
a low melodious accompaniment to her thrilling chords.
There she sat, practising like a very good girl, —
perfectly unconscious that Major Cavendish was stand-
ing outside the window listening to his favourite airs
played over and over again ; and he would have listened
much longer — but suddenly she paused, and, looking
carefully round, drew from her bosom a small case,
containing a little group of flowers painted on ivory,
which he had given her, and which, poor fellow ! he
imagined she cared not for, — because, I suppose, she
did not exhibit it in public ! How little does mighty
and magnificent man know of the workings of a young
girl's heart ! — Well, she looked at the flowers, and a
smile bright and beautiful spread over her face, and a
blush rose to her cheek, and sufiTused her brow, — and
then it paled away, and her eyes filled with tears.
What were her heart's imaginings Cavendish could not
say ; but they had called forth a blush, — a smile, — a
tear, — love's sweetest tokens, — and, forgetting his con-

THE TWO KATES. 303

cealment, he was seated by her side, just as she thrust
the little case under the cushion of her ottoman ! —
How prettily that blush returned, when Cavendish
asked her to sing one of his favourite ballads, — the mo-
dest, half-coquetish, half- natural air, with which she
said, " I cannot sing, Sir, — I am so very hoarse."

** Indeed, Kate ! you were not hoarse just now."

" How do you know ?"

" I have been outside the window for more than
lialf an hour."

The blush deepened into crimson, — bright glowing
crimson, — and her eye unconsciously rested on the spot
where her treasure was concealed. He placed his hand
on the cushion, and smiled most provokingly, saying,
as plainly as gesture could say, — " Fair mistress Kate,
I know all about it, you need not look so proud, so
shy, — you cannot play the impostor any longer !" but
poor Kate burst into tears, — she sobbed, and sobbed
heavily and heartily too, when her lover removed the
case, recounted the songs she had sung, and the feel-
ing with which she had sung them ; and she did try
very hard to get up a story, about " accident" and
" wanting to copy the flowers," — with a heap more of
little things that were perfectly untrue ; and Caven-
dish knew it, for his eyes were now opened ; and after
more, far more than the usual repetition of sighs and
smiles, and protestations, and illustrations, little Kate
did say, or perhaps, (forthereisever great uncertainty
in these matters,) Cavendish said, " that if papa, or
jnumma, had no objection she believed, — she

304 THE TWO KATES.

thought, — she even hoped !" and so the matter ter-
minated j— and that very evening she sang to her
lover his favourite songs ; and her father that night
blessed her with so deep, so heartfelt, so tearful a
blessing, that little Kate Seymour saw the moon to
bed before her eyes were dry.

How heavily upon some do the shadows of life rest !
Those who are born and sheltered on the sunny side of
the wall know nothing of them, — they live on sun-
shine ! they wake i' the sunshine — nay, they even
sleep in sun-shine.

Poor Mr. Seymour, having gained his great object,
married, in open defiance of his wife's judgment, his
pretty Kate to her devoted Cavendish ; laid his head
upon his pillow one night about a month after, with
the sound of his lady's complaining voice ringing its
changes from bad to worse in his aching ears, — and
awoke before that night was passed in another
world. Mrs. Seymour had never professed the least
possible degree of affection for her husband ; she
had never seemed to do so, — never affected it
until then. But the truth was, she had started
afresh subject; — her husband's loss, her husband's
virtues, nay her husband's faults, were all new
themes ; and she was positively charmed in her own
way, at having a fresh cargo of misfortunes freighted
for her own especial use : she became animated, and
eloquent under her troubles ; and, mingled with her re-
grets for her " poor dear departed," were innumer-
able waitings for her daughter's absence.

THE TWO KATES. 305

Kate Cavendish had accompanied her husband during
the short deceitful peace of Amiens, to Paris, — and there
the beautiful Mrs. Cavendish was distinguished as a
wonder " si aimable," — " si gentille," — "si naive," —
" si mignone :" — the most accomplished of the French
court could not be like her, for they had forgotten to
be natural ; and the novelty and diffidence of the beau-
tiful English-woman rendered her an object of uni-
versal interest. Petted and feted she certainly was,
but not spoiled. She was not insensible to admira-
tion, and yet it was evident to all that she preferred the
affectionate attention of her husband to the homage
of the whole world ; nor was she ever happy but by
his side. — Suddenly the loud warwhoop echoed
throughout Europe ; — the First Consul was too ambi-
tious a man to remain at peace with England, — and
Major Cavendish had only time to convey his beloved
wife to her native country when he was called upon
to join his regiment. — Kate Cavendish was no hero-
ine ; she loved her husband with so entire an affection,
a love of so yielding, so relying a kind — she leaned
her life, her hopes, her very soul upon him, with so
perfect a confidence, that to part from him was almost
a moral death.

" How shall I think 1 — how speak 7 — how act,
when you are not with meV she said ; " how support
myself? — who will instruct me now, in all that is
great, and good, and noble 1 — who will smile when I
am right, who reprove me when I err, and yet reprove
:so gently that I would rather hear him chide than
D D 2

306 THE TWO KATES.

others praise !" It was in vain to talk to her of glory,
honour, or distinction, — was not her hushand in her
eyes sufficiently glorious, honourable, and distin-
guished 1 whom did she ever see like him 1 — she
loved him with all the rich, ripe fondness of a young
and affectionate heart ; — and truly did she think that
heart would break, when he departed. — Youth little
knows what hearts can endure ; they little think what
they must of necessity go through in this work-a-day
world J they are ill prepared for the trials and turmoils
that await the golden as well as the humbler pageant
of existence. After-life tells us how wise and well
it is that we have no prospect into futurity. Kate
Cavendish returned to her mother's house, without the
knowledge of the total change that had come over her
thoughts and feelings : her heart's youth had passed
away, though she was still almost a child in years ;
and her mother had a new cause for lamentation. Kate
was so dull and silent, — so changed ; the green-house
might go to wreck and ruin for aught she cared. And
she sat a greater number of hours on her father's grave
than she spent in her poor mother's chamber. This
lament was not without foundation : the beautiful
Kate Cavendish had fallen into a morbid and careless
melancholy that pervaded all her actions; her verj
thoughts seemed steeped in sorrow ; and it was happy
for her that a new excitement to exertion occurred,
when, about five months after her husband's departure,
she became a mother. — Despite Mrs. Seymour's prog-
nostics, the baby lived and prospered ; and by its

THE TWO KATES. 307

papa's express command was called Kate ; an ar-
rangement whicli very much tended to the increase of
its grand-mamma's discontent: " It was such a sin-
gular mark of disrespect to her not to call it ' Mary.' "
How full of the true and beautiful manifestations of
maternal affection were the letters of Mrs. Cavendish to
her husband ; — " little Kate was so very like him, — her
lip, her eye, her smile ;" and then, as years passed on,
and Major Cavendish had gained a regiment by his
bravery, the young mother chronicled her child's wis-
dom, — her wit, — her voice, — the very tone of her
voice was so like her father's ! her early love of study —
and, during the night watches, in the interval of his
long and harassing marches, and his still more despe-
rate engagements. Colonel Cavendish found happiness
and consolation in the perusal of the outpourings of his
own Kate's heart and soul. In due time, his second
Kate could and did write those mis-shapen characters of
affection, pot hooks and hangers, wherein parents, but
only parents, see the promise of perfection : — then came
the fair round hand, so en-bon-point, with its hair and
broad strokes ; — then an epistle in French ; and at last a
letter in very neat text, bearing the stamp of authen-
ticity in its diction, and realizing the hopes so raised
by his wife's declaration, that " their Kate was all her
heart could desire, so like him in all things." The
life of Colonel Cavendish continued for some years
at full gallop; days and hours are composed of the same
number of seconds, whether passed in the solitude of a
cottage or the excitement of a camp ; yet how differ-

308 THE TWO KATES.

ently are they numbered, — how very, very different is
the retrospect.

Had Colonel Cavendish seen his wife, still in her
early beauty, with their daughter half sitting half
kneeling by her side, the one looking younger, the
other older than each really was, he would not have
believed it possible that the lovely and intelligent
girl could be indeed his child, the child of his young
Kate. A series of most provoking, most distressing oc-
currences had prevented his returning, even on leave
to England ; he had been ordered during a long and
painful war from place to place, and from country to
country, until at last he almost began to despair of
ever seeing home again. It was not in the nature of
his wife's love to change. And it was a beautiful illus-
tration of woman's constancy, the habitual and affec-
tionate manner in which Mrs. Cavendish referred all
things to the remembered feelings and opinions of her
absent husband. Poor Mrs. Seymour existed on to
spite humanity, discontented and complaining, — a
living scourge to goodnature and sympathy, under
whatever semblance it appeared, — or perhaps, for tlie
sake of contrast, to show her daughter's many virtues in
more glowing colours. The contrast was painful in the
extreme; and no one could avoid feeling for the Two
Kates, worried as they both were with the unceasing
complainings of their woe-working parent. If a month
passed without letters arriving from Colonel Cavendish,
Mrs. Seymour was sure to tell them " to prepare for
the worst," — and concluded her observations, by the

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THE TWO KATES. 309

enlivening assurance " that she had always been
averse to her marriage with a soldier, because she felt
assured that if he went away he would never return !"
At last, one of the desolating battles that filled
England with widows, and caused multitudes of or-
phans to weep in our highways, sent agony to the heart
of the patient and enduring Kate : the fatal return at
the head of the column, " Colonel Cavendish missing" —
was enough ; he had 'scaped so many perils, not
merely victorious but unhurt, that she had in her
fondness believed he bore a charmed life; and
were her patience, her watchings, her hopes, to be so
rewarded ? was her child fatherless 1 and was her heart
desolate ? Violent was indeed her grief, and fearful her
distraction ; — but it had, like all violent emotion, its
reaction ; she hoped on, in the very teeth of her des-
pair ; she was sure he was not dead, — how could he be
dead ? — he that had so often escaped, — could it be pos-
sible, that at the last he had fallen 1 Providence, she
persisted, was too merciful to permit such a sorrow to
rest upon her and her innocent child ; — and she reso-
lutely resolved not to put on mourning, or display any
of the usual tokens of aflFection, although every one else
believed him dead. One of the Serjeants of his own re-
giment had seen him struck to the earth by a French
sabre, and immediately after a troop of cavalry rode over
the ground, thus leaving no hopes of his escape ; the
field of battle in that spot presented the next day a
most lamentable spectacle : crushed were those so lately
full of life, its hopes and expectations ; they had satu-

310 THE TWO KATES.

rated the field with their life's blood ; the torn standard
of England mingled its colours with the standard of
France ; no trace of the body of Colonel Cavendish was
found ; but his sword, his rifled purse, and portions
of his dress were picked up by a young oflBcer, Sir Ed-
mund Russell, who had ever evinced towards him the
greatest affection and friendship. Russell wrote every
particular to Mrs. Cavendish, and said, that as he was
about to return to England in a few weeks, having
obtained sick leave, he would bring the purse and
sword of his departed friend with him.

Poor Mrs. Cavendish murmured over the word
" departed ;" paled, shook her head, and then looked up
into the face of her own Kate, with a smile beaming
with the hope, which certainly her daughter did not
feel : — " He is not dead," she repeated j and in the
watches of the night, when in her slumbers she had
steeped her pillow with tears, she would start, — repeat
— " he is not dead," — then sleep again. There was
something beautiful and affecting in the warm and
earnest love, the perfect friendship existing between
this youthful mother and her daughter ; it was so
unlike the usual tie between parent and child ; and yet
it was so well cemented, so devoted, so respectful : the
second Kate, atfifteen, wasmore womanly, more resolute,
more calm, more capable of thought, than her mother
had been at seven-and-twenty ; and it was curious to
those who note closely the shades of human character,
to observe how, at two-and-thirty, Mrs. Cavendish
turned for advice and consolation to her high-minded

THE TWO KATES. 311

daughter, and leaned upon her for support. Even Mrs.
Seymour became in a great degree sensible of her su-
periority ; and felt something like shame, at complain-
ing before her grand-daughter, of the frivolous matters
which constituted the list of her misfortunes. The
beauty of Miss Cavendish was like her mind, of a
lofty bearing, — lofty, not proud. She looked and
moved like a young queen ; — she was a noble girl ;
and when Sir Edmund Russell saw her first, he
thought, — alas ! I cannot tell all he thought, — but
he certainly " fell," as it is termed " in love," and
nearly forgot the wounds inflicted in the battle field,
when he acknowledged to himself the deep and overliv-
ing passion he felt for the daughter of his dearest friend.

" It is indeed most happy for your mother," he said
to her some days after his arrival at Sydney Hall, —
"it is indeed most happy for your mother, that she
does not believe what I know to be so true ; I think, if
she were convinced of your father's death, she would
sink into despair."

" Falsehood or false impressions," replied Kate,
" sooner or later produce a sort of moral fever, which
leaves the patient weakened in body and in mind ; —
I would rather she knew the worst at once ; — despair
by its own violence works its own cure."

" Were it you. Miss Cavendish, I should not fear
the consequences ; but your mother is so soft and
gentle in her nature."

"Sir Edmund, — she knew my father — lived with
him — worshipped him j the knowledge of his existence

312 THE TWO KATES.

was the staff of her's ; he was the soul of her fair frame.
Behold her now, — how beautiful she looks, — those
sun-beams resting on her head, and her chiselled fea-
tures upturned towards heaven, tracing my father's
portrait in those fleecy clouds, or amid yonder trees ;
and do you mark the hectic on her cheek 1 — Could she
believe it, I know she would be better ; there's not a
stroke upon the bell, there's not an echo of a foot-fall
in the great avenue, but she thinks it his ; — at night
she starts, if but a mouse do creep along the wains-
cot, or a soft breeze disturb the blossoms of the wood-
bine that press against our window ; and then ex-
claims, ' I thought it was your father ! ' "

With such converse, and amid the rich and various
beauties of a picturesque, rambling old country house,
with its attendant green meadows, pure trout stream,
and sylvan grottos, — sometimes with Mrs. Cavendish,
sometimes without her, did Kate and Sir Edmund
wander, and philosophize, and fall in love.

One autumn evening, Mrs. Seymour, fixing her eyes
upon the old tent-stitch screen, said to her daughter,
who as usual had been thinking of her husband, —

" Has it ever occurred to you, my dear Kate, that
there is likely to be another fool in the family 1 I say
nothing, — thanks to your father's will, I have had
this old rambling place left upon my hands for my life,
which was a sad drawback; — better he had left it to
your brother."

" You might have given it up to Alfred, if j^ou had
chosen, long ago," said Mrs. Cavendish, who knew

THE TWO KATES. 313

well that, despite her grumbling, her mother loved
Sjdnej" Hall as the apple of her eye. " What, and
give the world cause to saj that I doubted my hus-
band's judgment ! — No, — no"; I am content to suffer
in silence ; but do you not perceive that your Kate is
making a fool of herself, just as you did, my dear, —
falling in love with a soldier, marrying misery, and
working disappointment." — More, a great deal more,
did the old lady say ; but fortunately nobody heard
her, for when her daughter perceived that her eyes
were safely fixed on the tent-stitch screen, she made
her escape, and, as fate would have it, encountered
Sir Edmund at the door. — In a few minutes he had
told her of his love for her beloved Kate : but though
Mrs. Cavendish had freely given her own hand to a
soldier, the remembrance of what she had suffered, — of
her widowed years, the uncertainty of her present
state, anxiety for her child's happiness, a desire, a
fear of her future well being, ■ — all rushed upon her
with such confusion, that she became too agitated to
reply to his entreaties ; and he rushed from the cham-
ber, to give her time to compose herself, and to bring
another whose entreaties would be added to his own :
he returned with Kate, pale, but almost as dignified as
ever. Mrs. Cavendish clasped her to her bosom.

" You would not leave me, child, — would not thrust
your mother from your heart, and place a stranger
there 1"

" No, — no," she replied; " Kate's heart is large
enousrh for both."

314 THE TWO KATES.

" And do you love him ?"

The maiden hid her face upon her mother's bosom ;
yet though she blushed, she did not equivocate ; but
replied in a low firm voice, " Mother, I do."

" Sir Edmund," said the mother, still holding her
child to her heart ; " I have suffered too much, — too
much, to give her to a soldier."

•' Mother," whispered Catherine ; "■ yet, for all that
you have suffered, for all that you may yet endure, you
would not have aught but that soldier husband, were
you to wed again ! "

No other word passed the lips of the young widow :
— again, again, and again, did she press her child to
her bosom ; then placing her fair hand within Sir Ed-
mund's palm, rushed in an agony of tears to the soli-
tude of her own chamber.

# * * * *

•' Hark ! how the bells are ringing," said Anne
Leafy to Jenny Fleming, as they were placing
white roses in their stomachers, and snooding their hair
with fair satin riband. — " And saw you ever a
brighter morning ? — Kate Cavendish will have a
blithesome bridal ; though I hear that Madam Seymour
is very angry, and says no luck will attend this, no
more than the last wedding !" The words had hardly
passed the young maid's lips, when a bronzed counten-
ance pressed itself amid the roses of the little summer-
house in which they sat arranging their little finerv,
and a rough and travel-soiled man inquired ; " Of
whom speak ye ?"

THE TWO KATES. 315

" Save us !" exclaimed Jenny Fleming, who was a
trifle pert. " Save us, master ! — why, at the wedding
at the Hall, to be sure, — Kate Cavendish's wedding,
to be sure ; she was moped long enough, for certain,
and now is going to marry a brave gentleman, Sir
Edmund Russel!" — The stranger turned from the
village girls, who, fearful of being late at the church,
set away across the garden of the little inn, leaving the
wayfarer in quiet possession, but with no one in the
dwelling to attend the guests, except a deaf waiter,
who could not hear " the strange gentleman's" ques-
tions, and a dumb ostler, who was incapable of re-
plying to them.

*****

The youthful bride and the young bridegroom stood
together at the altar ; and a beautiful sight it was, to
see them on the threshold of a new existence. Mrs.
Cavendish might be pardoned for that she wept abun-
dantly,— partly tears of memory, partly of hope ; —
and the ceremony proceeded to the words " If either
of you know any impediment;" — when there was a
rush, a whirl, a commotion outside the porch, and the
stranger of the inn rushed forward, exclaiming — *' I
know an impediment, — she is mine !"

A blessing upon hoping, trusting, enduring woman !
A. thousand blessings upon those, who draw consolation
from the deepness of despair ! — the wife was right,
— her husband was not dead — and as Colonel Caven-
dish pressed his own Kate to his bosom, and gazed
upon her face, he said — "I am bewildered! — they

316 THE TWO KATES.

told me false, — they said Kate Cavendish was to be
married I and "

" And so she is," interrupted Sir Edmund Russel;
but from your hand only will I receive her : — are there
not TWO Kates, my old friend 1"

What the noble soldier's feelings were, Heaven
knows, — no himian voice could express them, — no
pen write them ; — they burst from, and yet were trea-
sured in his heart.

" My child ! — that my daughter ! — two Kates ! —
wife and child ! " he murmured. Time had galloped
witli him, and it was long ere he believed that his
daughter could be old enough to marry. The villagers
from without crowded into the sweet village church, —
and, moved by the noise, Mrs. Seymour put on her
new green spectacles, and stepped forward to where
Colonel Cavendish stood trembling between his wife
and child ; then looking him earnestly in the face, she
said, " After all, it is really youl — Bless me ! how
ill you look ! — I never could bear to make people un-
comfortable ; but if you do not take great care, you
will not live a month !"

" I said he was not dead," repeated his gentle wife ;

" and I said " but what does it matter what was

said? — Kate the second was married ; and that even-
ing, after Colonel Cavendish had related his hair
breadth 'scapes, and a sad story of imprisonment, again
did his wife repeat, " I said he was 7iot dead !"

317

FRAGMENTS

FROM A METRICAL JOURNAL.

Andernacht.
Twilight's mists are gathering grey
Round us on our winding way ;
Yet the mountain's purple crest
Reflects the glories of the west.
Rushing on with giant force.
Rolls the Rhine his glorious course ;
Flashing, now, with flamy red,
O'er his jagg'd basaltic bed ;
Now, with current calm and wide.
Sweeping round the mountain's side ;
Ever noble, proud, and free.
Flowing in his majesty.
Soon, upon the evening skies
Andemacht's grim ruins rise ;
Buttress, battlement, and tower,
Remnants hoar of Roman power.
Monuments of Caesar's sway,
Piecemeal mouldering away.

318 FRAGMENTS FROM A METRICAL JOURNAL.

Lo, together loosely thrown,
Sculptured head and lettered stone ;
Guardless now the arch- way steep
To rampart huge and frowning keep ;
The empty moat is gay with flowers,
The night-wind whistles through the towers,
And, flapping in the silent air,
The owl and bat are tenants there.

St. Goar.
Past a rock with frowning front.
Wrinkled by the tempest's brunt.
By the Rhine we downward bore
Upon the village of St. Goar.
Bosomed deep among the hills.
Here old Rhine his current stills.
Loitering the banks between.
As if, enamoured of the scene.
He had forgot his onward way
For a live-long summer day.
Grim the crags through whose dark cleft.
Behind, he hath a passage reft ;
While, gaunt as gorge of hunted boar,
Dark yawns the foaming pass before,
Where the tormented waters rage.
Like demons iu their Stygian cage,
In giddy eddies whirling round
With a sullen choking sound ;
Or flinging far the scattering spray,
O'er the peaked rocks that bar his way.

I

IRAGMENTS FROM A METRICAL JOURNAL. 319

— No marvel that the spell-bound Rhine,
Like giant overcome with wine,
Should here relax his angry frown,
And, soothed to slumber, lay him down
Amid the vine-clad banks, that lave
Their tresses in his placid wave.
1S33. J. R.

MY AIN BONNIE LASSIE.*

BY DELTA.

I.

My ain lassie's blooming in yon Castle hall.
Among twenty fair maidens the fairest of all ;
Then, alack for my lot! — for my fortune is small.

And seldom a sight of her beauty I get ;
But, when we foregather, the glance o' her ee
Beams so softly, so kindly, so burning on me,
That, e'en though despairing, a hope it would gie

That she'll be my ain bonnie lassie yet.

* See the Frontispiece.

320 MY AIN BONNIE LASSIE.

II.

Her mouth is the rose-bud — her eye is the star
That glints on the brow o' the gloaming afar ;
And think ye then, silly ones, love to debar,

When hearts, thus dissevered, refuse to forget ?
As surely as Spring wreaths her green on the tree, —
As honey for winter is hived by the bee, —
So silently ripens Love's harvest for me.

And she'll be my ain bonnie lassie yet !

III.

Ah, true love has wily ways few can believe ;
And true love has tokens still fewer perceive ;
And matter from sigh or word true love can weave,

For raptures exstatic or bitter regret ;
And, when I remember the days o' langsyne,
When we grew up together, like th' ivy and pine.
They labour in vain who our hearts would untwine —

For she'll be my ain bonnie lassie yet.

IV.

Then fare ye weel, silver Tay, — fare ye weel, Pertli ;
Fare ye weel, Scotland, bauld land of my birth ;
And fare ye weel, Madeline, gem of the earth ;

I care not though kinsfolk may fume and may fret :
We now maun be sundered by mountain and main.
But when I come back from the battles of Spain,
I'll claim thee for mine, and I'll clasp thee again,

My faithful, my ain bonnie lassie yet !

321

HELL'S HOLLOW.

BY J. A. ST. JOHN.

[The incidents upon which this sketch is founded'are not imaginary.

Many persons, now living, remember all the circumstances ; aud the
atrocious bandit, to whon. the peasantry attributed many horrible
acts, was publicly executed in the Place d' Armes at Dijon. Creux d'

Enfer, like our "Devil's Bridge," appears to be a name commonly
bestowed on savage and dismal glens. J. A. S.]

" I saw him, I,
Assailed, taken, fight, stabbed, bleed, fall, and die."

Donne.

Notwithstanding the great number of travellers who
cross the Jura, and admire in passing the cloud-capped
summits of the Reculet, where the snow lingers through
two-thirds of the summer, and sometimes leaves a rem-
nant of the past winter to greet the coming, — few
leave the highway for the purpose of exploring the
deep hollows, the forests and caverns, which encir-
cle its base. Those who have taken this pains, how-
ever, will remember the Creux d'Enfer, or " Hell's
Hollow," a small glen, or rather gorge of the moun-
tains, of tremendous magnificence, in which one of
those nameless streams that water the eastern limits of
Franche Comt6 takes its rise. It is enclosed on all

322 hell's hollow.

sides by loftj rocks, which on the east are naked,
rugged, perpendicular, but elsewhere clothed with
pines, whose reversed branches, as if shattered by the
tempest, flap like a sea-fowl's broken wing in the blast.
The torrent breaks out with noise and foam through a
narrow cleft inthe rock, which forms the only practic-
able entrance into the glen ; and this, at all times dan-
gerous, is often rendered impassable by rain, or the
melting of the snow. Viewed from the summit of the
surrounding cliflFs, it appears utterly inaccessible ; yet
you see, perched like a nest among the rocks, a ruined
chalet, which has the air of having been inhabited at no
very distant period. Who and what its inhabitants
were, I learned from one but too deeply versed in its
whole history.

Quitting my family and carriage a little beyond La
Vatay, I strolled without chart or guide, towards the
R6culet, beholding at every step picturesque beauties,
which it boots not now to dwell upon. At length,
after many a toilsome ascent, through paths bordered on
either side with deep snow, — though it was now nearly
the end of May, — I suddenly reached the edge of Hell's
Hollow. Nothing that J had seen ever struck my ima-
gination like this wild spot — no, not the snowy shin-
ing summits of a hundred Alps, stretching away in
glittering files from Chambery to the Tyrol, like a world
formed of the vapours of the morning. — It seemed
as if man had never before regarded it — for the chalet
Was not immediately visible, and when it became so,
appeared, at first, like a portion of the rock. A gloomy.

hell's hollow. 323

painful sensation, quite unusual in such lofty regions,
insensibly invaded my mind. A sort of infernal sad-
ness seemed to brood over every object ; for, though a
few trees of feathery foliage and lighter green specked
the dismal verdure which, with the grey rock they
sprung from, formed the ground-work of the scene,
tliey looked as if planted there in mockery, — like the
rose, emblem of youth and beauty, blooming upon a
grave. I drew near the gulf with a shudder, as if,
impelled by some invisible hand, I must needs tumble
down headlong over those terrific precipices ; and was
gazing with a wonder not unchastened by terror at
tlie foaming torrent beneath, when I was startled by
the words' — "Behold Hell's Hollow !'' Turning in-
stantly round, I saw seated almost at my side, a wo-
man far, far advanced in years, wrapped in a cloak
that had once been blue, but which had now, by its
alliance with patches of many other colours, assumed
all the hues of the rainbow. Her head was wrapped in
a bright red handkerchief, which, like the women of
Fribourg, she wore in the fashion of a hood. Her face
appeared in perfect keeping with the scene ; wrinkled,
emaciated, brown as the floor of a tanyard, resembling
those countenances which you see on the beach, on
market days, at Vevey, except that it did not terminate
below in a goitre. It was lighted up by eyes that had
once been beautiful, but now shot forth a glazed ma-
lignant lustre, the beacon of villany or madness. On
entering into conversation with her respecting the
glen below, I, in fact, soon found, that together with

324 hell's hollow.

the elements of insanity, her intellect combined a sin-
gular degree of shrewdness, which seemed at times to
predominate, at times to be subdued by the malady of
her mind. After passing over several local topics,
while she sat on a ledge of grey rock, seeming to
luxuriate like a lizard in the sun, my eye lighted on
the chalet, and I inquired who could have lived in so
solitary, so desolate a spot. At this she turned round
sharply, and fixing on me her deep-sunken eyes, with
an expression of countenance not wholly devoid of
apprehension, replied by another question —

" What, have you never heard the story of the
chalet?"

" I am," said I, " a stranger, who has never before
visited the glen, and cannot, therefore, be expected to
know much of its ancient local traditions."

" Ancient traditions !" exclaimed the beldame, ris-
ing from her stony seat, and approching me — " ancient
traditions, indeed ! Are villany and treachery become
extinct, think you 1 Have the passions ceased, in these
days, to hunger after their objects'? Do strength and
wealth no longer provoke envy? And has youth
learned to conduct itself with the calmness of age V

Then coming up close to my side, and laying her
long bony fingers across my arm with a half convul-
sive grasp, she muttered in a low monotonous key, as
if rather talking to herself than to me, — " Droll things
have taken place in that chalet. Droll, droll things.
I often laugh, and sometimes weep to think of them,
in the long winter nights, when the tempest plants

hell's hollow. 325

his foot upon the Reculet, and shouts like a thousand
demons to the rocks and the valleys that lie trembling
below. Look at yonder small white cloud, which
whirls and eddies round the snowy pinnacles of the
cliffs. It is the forerunner of a storm ; and before you
can shelter your head in human habitation, you will
have witnessed one of those sights which rejoice my
heart, reminding me of days gone by, when that wild

glen was a paradise, and those I loved but step

into this cavern," said she, interrupting herself j " for
the rain will be presently pattering, and should it over-
take you, your garments would carry beyond the moun-
tains a memento of a Jura shower."

1 followed the old woman into the cave, with a curi-
osity highly excited ; and as soon as we were out of
reach of the heavy drops, which already began to fall,
she replaced her hand upon my arm, as if to prevent
my escaping from her half-told tale, and thus began : —

" About twenty years ago, the chaletinthe glen was
occupied by a widow and her six sons, all nursed in
arts of hardihood, all hunters by profession, — men who
scorned the soft pillow, the arm-chair, and the fire^
side, who loved to roam the mountain fastnesses of Jura
or Alp, in quest of the stag or the chamois, and some-
times of nobler game. Travellers,— men of the same
kidney, mayhap, — occasionally accompanied them to
their home in the glen, to partake of their hospitality j
but it generally happened, as report went, that they
quarrelled over their cups, that knives were used for
other purposes than carving pigeons, and that the

F F

326 hell's hollow.

brave brothers, tlms put upon their metal, worsted
their brawling unthankful guests. The ignorant base
peasants of the neighbourhood whispered it about, that
the insolent braggadocios who fell in these conflicts,
were made away with for their money. It is. true that
whatever gold they had about them, remained in the
hands of the brothers : how could it be otherwise 1
It had been useless to put the pieces in the mouths of
the dead when they were thrown into the well ; and as
to their heirs, how could the simple wild hunter of the
mountains, ignorant of the arts of towns, hope to dis-
cover them, or ascertain their claims, amid a crowd of
harpy lawyers'? The gold, I say, was kept by the
brothers, and, being kept, was naturally regarded as
their own, and employed in ministering to their unso-
phisticated enjoyments. Had the true heirs presented
themselves, the money, I repeat it, would have been
honestly rendered to them ; but no claims being made,
the chalet became the heir, and every inhabitant of it
enjoyed an equal share of these gifts of fortune.

" Nevertheless, these hunters had their chief. This
was Machoul, the second brother, a man formed by
nature to overawe and command his fellows. Gigantic
in stature, with head and limbs of prodigious size, his
muscular force was unequalled. The very wolf of the
forest was said to fly at his approach, or, if he offered
resistance, was strangled like a village cur.

" Occasionally, ladies, admirers of mountain scenery,
visited the chalet, at the risk, and sometimes, at the ex-
pense of their lives ; for, to strangers, especially such as

hell's hollow. 327

stayed all night, the air was poisonous, the water
death. Many died during the night, no one knew
how ; others, the dangers of the glen escaped, perished
with all their followers among the neighbouring pre-
cipices. Such, at least, were the rumours ; and, in
consequence of these rumours, with which Machoul
and his brothers were always connected, the officers of
justice, as they are called, had long lain in wait for
them, envying, peradventure, the calm tenour of their
lives, unruffled, except by such accidents as the above.
" While affairs were in this position, Machoul en-
countered on the mountains a traveller, who, having,
like yourself, had the temerity to stroll in unbeaten
paths without a guide, had lost his wav, and was found
about night-fall, fatigued and bewildered, in the vi-
cinity of the glen. He was sitting, when Machoul
first appeared in sight, on a mossy ledge, apparently
musing on the solitariness of his position. Seeing what
he supposed to be a peasant approach, he commenced
his inquiries by demanding whether there were in the
neighbourhood any cottage where he could pass the
night ; observing that he was weary with climbing the
rocks, and could not proceed much farther without rest
and refreshment. Machoul, who greatly admired the
rich cloak which he was taking from his knapsack, and
throwing carelessly about his person, replied that he
would be welcome to share such refreshment as his
cottage, which was hard by, afforded ; and, with the
word, putting himself forward as his guide, conducted
him to the entrance of the Hollow. On the way he

328 hell's hollow.

inquired in his plain manner, the route which the
stranger had followed, and the sort of travellers whom
he had overtaken or encountered on the way.

"'None for several days,' replied the stranger,
' excepting a party of gendarmes, with whom I supped
last night at Morez, and who, it seems, are in search of
the brigand Machoul and his brothers.'

" ' In what part of the country,' inquired Machoul,

* is the haunt of this brigand V

" ' Of that,' replied the traveller, ' I am altogether
ignorant ; and as, in this knapsack,' said he, smiling,

* I liave that which I should be sorry to lose, it is by
no means my wish to be more accurately informed,
unless I might thereby avoid him.'

" ' But,' said Machoul, * you have pistols in your
belt, and possess a form which renders you a match for
any man. I do not, therefore, see what you have to
fear. Besides, to be plain with you, I think the
gendarmes have formed this strange tale for some par-
ticular purpose of their own. The day of such ban-
ditti is passed. Petty thieves there are, and those are
generally in league with the gendarmes ; but for Ijands
of robbers, I fear me you will find few in the Jura.'

" ' Perhaps not,' the stranger replied ; ' the fewer
the better j but, although, if report be true, I should
find myself unequally matched against Machoul ; should
we encounter, it would cost him an effort to get at the
contents of this knapsack.'

" ' No doubt, no doubt,' said Machoul ; ' still it is
not very prudent to travel loaded with gold through

I

hell's hollow. 329

so wild a country as this, where every body is poor :
for the miserable, however honestly inclined, may
sometimes be tempted beyond their virtue.'

"'Peasant!' exclaimed the stranger, raising his
voice, and looking stedfastly at his companion ; ' I
spoke not of gold, but of riches of far greater price :
riches, which not only Machoul, but the very devil
himself in his form, should not wrest from me ! '

" ' Monsieur speaks like a determined man,' his
companion smilingly rejoined ; * but there is, in re-
ality, nothing to fear. We are all either hunters,
woodcutters, or goatherds, in these parts ; and though
we have from time to time heard of robberies, con-
fiding in the excellence of our police, we have given
but scanty credit to the rumours.'

" By this time they had reached the bed of the
torrent, which served as the pathway into the glen. The
waters quite filled their narrow channel, which being
steep, and broken into a series of steps, rising close one
behind the other, yielded no resting-phice to the
stream, that broke in snowy foam from rock to rock,
and appeared to menace with instant destruction the
man who should be bold enough to endeavour to
stem it.

♦' ' This way, sir!' said Machoul, as he dashed his
giant foot into the stream.

" ' Do you call that a pathway V inquired the
stranger, pausing at the mouth of the chasm : ' is there
no other entrance to your dwelling V

" ' Don't be alarmed at this brawling bit of water —

330 hell's hollow.

there is no danger,' answered Machoul : * at least
custom has rendered me insensible of it, though to a
lowlander, it may perhaps appear somewhat terrific at
first sight.'

'"Go on, go on, man !' the stranger replied impa-
tiently : ' I see that in these matters, my experience is
inferior to that of the peasant and the mule.'

" Black beetling rocks — the bases of those which
rise yonder on the left — thrust out their rugged snouts,
and seemed, like so many colossal bears, to be snuffing
each other across the stream. A clammy moistui»e,
produced by the never-ceasing spray, had clothed
them with water-moss, and from their numerous cre-
vices small dark pines, and Alpine plants in profusion,
projected themselves, and swung to and fro in the cold
wind which swept down the chasm. Machoul, ac-
customed to every nook and ledge, climbed along
with facility ; but the stranger, who knew not where
to plant his foot, and whom fatigue, moreover, had
rendered stiff and inactive, followed him with extreme
difficulty, and more than once envied the peasant his
local knowledge and untiring strength. He now slip-
ped into the water, now recovered himself; but at
length, after many narrow escapes, safely emerged
with his guide into the Hollow.

** ' The spray has soaked your manteau,' observed
Machoul, laying his gigantic hand upon his compa-
nion's shoulder, and roughl}'^ tugging off his cloak, —
* shall I bear it for you V

" ' I thank you,' replied the traveller, recovering

HELLS HOLLOW. 331

the garment with an eiFort , ' but I need it to defend
me from the cold wind. Proceed to your cottage.'

" This haaty act of Machoul appeared to awaken in
the stranger certain suspicions, unfortunate for both ;
as nothing irritated the mountain hunter more than
that distrustful air, and dogged silence, which from
this moment marked the manner of his guest. They,
however, proceeded, and arrived at the chalet, where
the traveller was introduced. All the brothers, who
happened to be then at home, crowded round him,
some admiring the gait and bearing of the man — for
he was tall, handsome, and distinguished by a certain
nobleness of manner which is seldom possessed —
others dwelling upon the rich appearance of his costume ,
or the beauty of his arms, which, in their simple
wonder, they attempted to draw from his girdle. At
this he drew back.

" ' Look you, young men,' said he, ' whether you
understand the usages of the world or not, I do, and I
counsel you never to lay hands on a stranger's arms. It
is a liberty I never permit any man to take with me.'
Then drawing a fine pair of pistols from his belt, and
holding one in each hand, — ' Observe,' said he, ' the
make of these things. They are charged, and might
be mischievous in awkward hands.'

" * As to that,' replied Machoul, with some warmth,
' we are not so awkward as you appear to think ; and,
in fact,' continued he, ' I myself possess a pair which
have the look of belonging to the same family with
yours.' With that he drew a pistol from under his frock,

332 hell's hollow.

and walking close up to the stranger with the muzzle
pointed, perhaps accidentally, towards his breast, began
to plaj, as if from mere thoughtlessness, with the lock.

" * I see,' observed the traveller, with perfect cool-
ness, ' that you are well armed. It is prudent, it is
necessary to be so. But you must not confine your
hospitality to the exhibiting of pistols. Your moun-
tain air has given me an appetite, which, however,
will not digest iron.'

" At this sally Machoul smiled, and replacing the
weapon whence he had drawn it, gave orders for sup-
per. The table was ere long spread, and the traveller
sat down to a repast, such as he certainly had not
reckoned upon finding in the mountains : flesh, fowls,
fish, trufl3es from the Jura, wines of Burgundy, to-
gether with those delicate little Alpine strawberries,
which are only found on the limits of eternal snow.
Wine heats the blood. Hot blood generates strife.
Who began the quarrel was never known ; it is only
certain that high words arose ; that the traveller re-
pressed with haughtiness the noisy but honest freedom
of his hosts ; and that, at last, a scufiie ensued. He
was placed at table next Machoul, wlio was somewhat
prone to wrath, more especially when heated with
wine ; and, enraged at some contemptuous expression
which fell from the mouth of his guest, struck him a
blow on the face. At this moment entering the room
with wine, I saw my boy "

From certain expressions which had escaped from
the old woman, and still more from the general tone of

hell's hollow. 333

her narration, I had expected this denouement; yet,
now that we had come to it, it appeared shocking, un-
anticipated : —

" You entered the room !" I exclaimed ; " What
are you the mother of Machoul?"

" Ay," replied she, with a ghastly smile, and
plucking off the rag which covered her bosom ; " Ma-
choul sucked at this breast. And when he was an
infant, sir, the neighbours of all the country round ad-
mired his smiling countenance, his matchless com-
plexion, his robust health, and extraordinary size.
And could I, when he hung at my breast, twisting his
rosy fingers in my black tresses, and gazing with un-
utterable fondness at my face, — could I foresee that
torture and the guillotine were preparing — that my
boy — my favourite boy — whu — whu — whu — ! "
And bitterly wrung by the remembrance of past days,
the old woman lifted up her voice and wept, covering
her face with her hands, and trembling convulsively in
every limb.

I was moved exceedingly. For the moment, the
crimes of her son were forgotten, and I thought only of
the suffering human creature by my side, whose wicked-
ness the Almighty had visited, though far more merci-
fully than her fellow-creatures. To attempt consolation,
to interrupt the course of her strong agony, would have
been wholly fruitless. I respected her penitential
tears, and suffered them to fall in silence. At length
the torrent of sorrow ceased to flow ; and she threw
back the handkerchief which j)artly concealed her face.

334 hell's hollow.

*' Whether you are a parent or not," she began,
" you will know how to excuse the weakness of a
mother — of such a mother as I — who have seen my
child — guilty or innocent it mattered not to me —
dragged away to tortures — to death ! But let me
not dwell on that ; let me not think of that ; my poor
brain is too weak. The bare thought of it has become
a whip of scorpions day and night to my soul for
twenty years ! Yet, strange as it is, and beyond my
comprehension — the subject which must necessarily
rouse its sting, is the only one upon which 1 care to
converse with strangers, for whom I have long lain in
wait in this solitary spot, that I might repeat to them,
what I have partly repeated to you. Too few, alas !
visit this fatal glen, about which I must linger until my
hour be come ; for the spirt of Machoul, escaping from
its prison-house, here visits me nightly. I see him
glide like a mist among the rocks — hover in fiery
brightness over my stony couch — pace before me
in the forest — shriek in the water- fall — moan in
the autumnal blast — and shout with a voice of thunder
in the storm !

" But I wander from my narration ; let me return to
it. I was, I believe, saying that I entered the room
with wine just as Machoul struck the stranger. The
latter, inspired with ungovernable fury by the blow,
leaped instantly on his feet, and seized my son by the
throat. At the sight I shrieked aloud, and, unmindful
of my feebleness, throwing the wine to the ground,
flew to the rescue. My other boys, however, fore-

hell's hollow. 335

stalled my design ; but not before Machoul's face was
quite black, and his body, apparently lifeless, dashed
upon the ground. The traveller now thrust back his
antagonists, as if they had been so many pigmies, and
then placing his back against the wall, and snatching
the pistols from his girdle, stood with five men before
him, like a wild beast at bay.

" ' I warn you,' cried he, * to keep at a distance. I
have no desire to shed your blood : but the first who
advances a single step, is a deadman. Make way for me !'

" And with the word, still keeping his face towards
us, while he retreated backwards, he sprang through
the door, and disappeared, before a single hand could be
stretched forth to detain him. When Machoul reco-
vered, and found that his enemy had escaped, his fury
knew no bounds. Numerous torches were immediately
kindled, and every nook and fissure of the glen searched
in vain ; though a slight sprinkling of snow which had
just fallen enabled us to trace his footsteps in several
directions, both across the torrent and along its side.
Machoul even extended his search through a portion
of the neighbouring country; but no vestige of the man
appearing, we all returned to the chalet, where we
found on our arrival, that his manteau and knapsack
had remained behind ; and these we carefully exa-
mined. Of the riches, however, of which he had
spoken, we found no trace ; not a single coin of any
description ; nothing, in short, but a few garments, a
small miniature, and a few half worn-out letters in an
unknown language. Of those letters not one fell into

336 hell's hollow.

the hands of the harpies of justice. I secreted them
carefully ; and here," said she, untying her greasy
housewife, " they still are."

On glancing my eye over them, I found they were
English, and addressed, apparently by a lady, to a
distinguished individual, whose known habits per-
fectly agreed with those imputed to him in the old
woman's narration. I wished to be permitted to re-
store them to his friends j but all I could then obtain
was the oiFer to peruse so much of them as was still
intelligible. This I declined ; upon which she replaced
the letters in her housewife, and proceeded.

" Finding in the knapsack nothing to reward our
search, we at length retired to rest ; but the presenti-
ment of approaching evil, — which in the course of my
life has often tortured me, — would not suffer us to sleep.
The ensuing morning broke with rain and high wind ;
the snow disappeared from the ground, and the tor-
rent of the Hollow, increased at once by its melting
and by the rain, swelled to an unusual size, and preci-
pitated itself in foam and thunder down the abyss. No
one expected to leave the chalet that day. However,
towards evening the rain ceased, while the wind in-
creased to a hurricane ; nevertheless, looking through
the window, I thought I perceived, shortly after
nightfall, a strong red light among the pine forests
on the summit of the cliffs. Alarmed myself, I
quickly alarmed my sons, who, hastily snatching up
their arms, sallied forth to reconnoitre. It was not
long before the figures of several men were disco-

HELL S HOLLOW. 337

vered on the heights, who, with flaring; torches in
their hands, appeared to be examining whether there
were any other entrance into the glen, than by the
bed of the stream below. At length, finding none,
they retreated. Machoul and his brothers doubted
not that they were the officers of justice, who had
selected the night that they might be the more sure of
their prey ; and that discovering no other pathway,
they would quickly attempt to force their way up the
stream. Immediately preparing themselves, therefore,
for a desperate struggle, they crept along the sides of
the abyss, through ways known only to themselves ;
and after waiting a considerable time in suspense, with
carbines and pistols cocked, beheld ten or twelve men
approach, the foremost bearing torches, and all armed
to the teeth. The narrow, winding, and precipitous
path lay along the edge of the chasm through which
the foaming stream tore its way, far below, among the
rocks ; and the party who had to traverse in mounting
it several narrow patches of pine forests, were now, by
the meandering of their road, brought into full view,
and now hidden amid the dense foliage. At last
they emerged from among the trees, and Machoul, on
perceiving in the midst of them his guest of the pre-
ceding night, was exceedingly troubled ; for that man
was the first who had taught him that his bodily force
was not invincible. The others stepped along cau-
tiously, as if fully aware of the peril of their under-
taking, from which however, they would not shrink ;
but this person, as if enamoured of danger, or wholly

G G

338 hell's hollow.

insensible of its terrors, pushed on rapidly, and soon,
notwithstanding the fury of the torrent, advanced to
the naouth of the fissure, and began with something
like preternatural strength to ascend.

" Machoul, who formed the vanguard of the fraternal
band, seeing that no time was to be lost, steadily
levelled his carbine at the head of the traveller ; but
he, in whom the boast of the Alpine riflemen, • of
never missing,' was scarcely presumptuous, now failed
in his aim, but struck one of the torch -bearers, who,
dropping like a stone into the water, was hurled with
his half-extinguished brand down the precipice, and
lost to sight. This unexpected event seemed for an
instant to damp the courage of the gendarmes ; but,
quickly rallying, they tossed aloft their blazing torches,
which casting a red glare on the faces of the brothers,
as they leaned forward among the rocks, enabled them
to take, alas ! too just an aim ; for in an instant the
youngest of my boys dropped lifeless into the same
gulf which had swallowed up his enemy. Upon this
my children retreated further up the stream, while the
gendarmes, following up their advantage, pushed on
more boldly. To secure themselves as far as possible
from the aim of their enemies, the torches were de-
livered to the hindmost, while the others, moving con-
siderably in advance of them, groped their way in
darkness. Meanwhile many random shots were fired
on both sides ; but with no other effect than to awaken
the startled echoes, which for ages had mimicked no
other sound than the voice of the cataract ; and at

hell's hollow. 339

lengtli, with incredible good fortune, they were draw-
ing near the inner extremity of the passage, when
Machoul, who knew that should they make good their
entrance into the glen, all were lost, calling upon his
brothers to imitate his example, threw himself, dagger
in hand, into the torrent, to oppose the advance of their
leader. The rocks here approached so close as barely
to afford a passage for one man, so that the first brunt
of the conflict must necessarily lie between the fore-
most of the opposite parties, while those behind could
yield no effectual aid to their champion. With the full
consciousness of this fact, Machoul and his antagonist
drew near each other. The dim light which forced its
way from behind, between the traveller's body and the
rocks, exhibiting imperfectly the terrific features of
the scene, fell upon the face of Machoul, disclosing to
his adversary the workings of his passions, and serving
to direct his aim ; while to my son it presented but
the dark outline of a man, which, as he spoke not,
might as well have been that of a phantom. Both
stood more than knee deep in the water, whose white
surface, shooting by like an arrow, was rendered
partly visible by the trembling uncertain light. Be-
hind the traveller and in support of him, the gendarmes
stood in a dense row, some holding aloft their torches,
which flared tremendously in the wind, others grasping
their weapons, and preparing to use them. My four
remaining sons crowded behind their brother for the
same purpose. Machoul commenced the conflict by
aiming a blow with a poniard at the heart of his anta-

340 hell's hollow.

gonist, in which, missing his aim a second time, and
striking his hand with prodigious force against the
rock, the weapon unfortunately dropped from his grasp.
The traveller at the same instant seized him in his
arms, and held him with such irresistible strength, that
the weapons which he wore at his belt could not be
employerl. Machoul now called upon his brothers to
use their pistols, exhorting them to shoot his adver-
sary, even should their balls be compelled to pass for
the purpose through his own body. Apprehension for
his safety, however, restrained them ; for the despe-
rate combatants had now grappled each other so closely,
limb was so intertwined with limb, that they appeared
but one frame, agitated convulsively by some internal
movement, and furiously seeking its own destruction.

" ' Yield thee, villain !' at length exclaimed the
traveller, imagining himself to be gaining ground, and
straining every nerve to overpower his antagonist ; —
' yield, before I hiirl thy carcase down the gulf!'

" 'As I had as lieve my carcase were down the gulf,
as on the gallows,' replied Machoul, ' I shall fight it
out. Death I must face in one place or another ; and
I care not whether it be here or elsewhere.'

" At the same time he was meditating on the means
of extricating himself. Perceiving that all hope of
safety lay in the speedy destruction of the traveller,
and preparing for a last attempt at effecting it, he
planted his left foot firmly against the rock, throwing
all his weight upon the right ; then suddenly lifting
up his adversary, who by no means expected this

HELL S HOLLOW. 34 I

movement, he endeavoured to swing him round, and
plunge him down the torrent, but failing in his pur-
pose, fell backward into the water, with his enemy
upon his breast. Even then, however, he did not im-
mediately loosen his hold, so that they lay for an in-
stant struggling and rolling in the foaming stream j but
the stranger, maintaining the advantage which good
luck had given him, at length succeeded in freeing
himself from the grasp of Machoul ; and then seizing
him by the throat, he plunged his head under water,
and held him in that position, notwithstanding the
terrific efforts which rage and agony inspired, until he
had swallowed an immense quantity of water, and was
nearly drowned. Then lifting up my son, and casting
him, great God ! like a dead dog upon the ground, he
called aloud, * Cease to trouble yourselves about the
inferior villains. Bring up the lights. Here is the
carcase of the miscreant Machoul.'

" All this I in some sort witnessed ; for, upon hear-
ing the report of fire-arms reverberating among the
rocks, I could not keep myself within, but crept down
trembling towards the chasm, sometimes concealing
myself among the trees which grew in clumps in the
bottom of the Hollow ; then again, as the combat grew
more furious, venturing farther and farther, until I
found myself within a few paces of where they fought.
So long as there was any hope that my sons might
succeed in driving back the blood-hounds of justice,
I made no noise, though my heart leaped like a snared
hare, in my breast ; but when all, as I conceived, was
G G 3

342 hell's hollow.

over, and Machoul a corpse, my mother's feelings
could no longer be repressed. Bursting forth from
my concealment, and bounding forward with shrieks
of agony, I fell senseless on the body of my son. The
senses of Machoul, however, had only temporarily for-
saken him. When I came to myself, I saw him sitting
upright by my side upon the ground, but with his
arms tied behind his back with strong ropes. Two
men bearing burning torches and cocked pistols were
standing, one on either side of us ; while the hated
traveller, the cause of all our misery, was supporting
me with an air of kindness and compassion. The pity
of the foul fiend would have been less unwelcome at
that moment. I started from him with horror, and
would none of his compassion. As I moved, the dead
bodies of two of my sons met my eye, weltering in
blood : the whole band, it seems, had attempted the
rescue of Machoul, and these unhappy two had fallen.
Torches were moving to and fro in the distance, in
pursuit, I did not doubt, of the remaining two ; but
they escaped, and still, I thank God, live, though far
from France ; and to this day have supported their
wretched mother with a portion of their honest gains,
though they have never been able to wean me from
this fatal spot.

" When the gendarmes found the pursuit hopeless,
they returned ; and observing me endeavouring, in a
patois unknown to the bystanders, to comfort Machoul
with the hope of escape, they conjectured the subject
of our conversation, and would have separated us}

hell's hollow. 343

but the stranger — and this time I thanked him in
my heart — interposed in my behalf, saying, ' Let her
alone. The prisoner is perfectly secure. There is no-
thing to fear.'

" An additional rope, however, was passed round
the breast and arms of Machoul, whom the gendarmes
could not, even when thus bound, regard without
terror ; and in this condition, surrounded by the whole
party, he was marched up to the chalet, with his
miserable mother by his side. Here the stranger re-
covered all his property, except the letters ; which I
kept, I know not why ; except that T saw liow deeply
the loss of them affected him, and was gratified even
by that small modicum of revenge. I had concealed
them in a dry nook of the chalet, where I discovered
them, many months after, on my return. The whole
party remained all night in the house, diligently
searching every part of it for proofs against my son.
Their suspicions even directed them to the well,
where, on descending, they found — what you will
easily conjecture. I cannot inform you — but, as-
suredly, those bones had considerable weight in procur-
ing the condemnation of Machoul. Next morning we
were hurried away to prison, whence, after many a soli-
tary, weary hour, I was dragged forth — not to suffer, but
to witness — Oh, great God ! what a spectacle for a mo-
tlier. They will describe it to you at Dole, or ,"

Here she ceased speaking, being seized with a con-
vulsive shuddering that paralysed her whole frame.
She fell backward against the rock. The paleness of

344 HELL S HOLLOW.

death came over her. Compassion ibr the misery
she had endured made me consider death as the only
haven in which her perturbed spirit could hope for
rest ; yet I had no wish to be the solitary witness of
her last moments, and independently of all reflection,
was impelled by common humanity to make every ef-
fort in my power to bring her back to life. I there-
fore bore her into the fresh air, and by casting water on
her face, at length succeeded in restoring animation
and consciousness. I then requested her to point out
the way to some human habitation. A woodcutter's
hut was at hand. As she was with my aid proceeding
thither, we were joined by its honest tenant and his
son, to whom the old woman was perfectly well known.
She appeared, however, to feel an invincible repug-
nance to approach the dwellings of man, and as we
drew near the corner of the poor man's garden, cried
out — " Stop ! — I must go no farther !"

She then seized me eagerly by the hand, and mut-
tered in a low tone of voice, as if she dreaded to em-
body the thoughts which thronged upon her mind, " I
have two words to speak before I die. I could have
wished to have been at this moment in the presence of
the only beings with whom I claim kindred upon
earth — who alone have any cause to regret or lament
me — to shed a tear on my grave — or feel an interest
respecting the direction in which my spirit shall take
its flight, when it has overleaped the limits of this
world — but this consolation is denied me ; and, in
truth, 1 have not deserved it. 1 tremble, too, lest the

HELL S HOLLOW. 345

step I must necessarily hazard, should endanger the
lives of my children. But they must receive this
packet, w^hich I conjure your compassion to deliver to

them at ," and she vsrhispered the name of a

Swiss tovpn in my ear. " I have long carried it in my
bosom against this hour ; and may God, who is the
friend of the friendless, of whom, alas ! I have thought
too little, reward you for the good you will thus be the
autlior of to three miserable fellow-creatures. The
letters of that traveller, the immediate cause of all I
have endured, I likewise entrust to your keeping.
Restore them — restore them to him."

With the word she was a corpse. I have fulfilled
her intention in both cases.

SHE RECKS NOT OF FORTUNE.

She recks not of fortune, though high her degree ;
She says she's contented with true love and me ;
And the truth of her heart my fond rapture descries
In the bloom of her blushes and light of her eves.

Jlow fearful is love to the faithful and young !
How trembles the heart, and how falters the tongue ;
While the soft rising sigh, and the sweet springing tear,
Check the half-spoken vow and the glance too sincere !

346 SHE RECKS NOT OF FORTUNE.

Her hand to my lips when at parting I press,

And she bids me adieu with a timid caress.

She glides off like a sun-beam pursued bj a cloud.

And I kiss every flower her dear footsteps have bowed.

As the fawn steals for play from the still-feeding flock,
As darts the young hawk from his hold in the rock.
So peeps forth my Lucy when none are aware.
So flies her fond lover her ramble to share.

We linger at noon by the rocks and the coves

Where the slow-winding stream sleeps in nooks whicli

he loves, —
When the freshness of spring has been mellowed by

June,
And the parent -bird warbles a tenderer tune.

We scarce talk of love, — she is scared at the sound ;
But it breathes from the skies, and it bursts from the

ground :
Of whatever we talk, it is love that we mean —
On whatever we look, it is love that is seen.

J. F.

347

BE HEAVEN MY STAY.

In all the changes here below
Of transient weal or trying woe
It may be given my soul to know, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When the faint heart would fail for fear.
No human eye to pity near,
No hand to wipe the bitter tear, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When I must bear the worldling's scorn
Derided for my lot forlorn.
E'en of itself but hardly borne, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When of the friends whom once I knew.
Around me I can find but few.
And doubts arise if these be true, —
Be Heaven my stay.

348 BE HEAVEA MY STAY.

When days of healtli and youth are flown,
My path with faded roses strewn,
And thorns are all I find my own, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When full of tossings oirmy bed,
I cannot rest my weary head.
Scared with dim visions of the dead, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When sorely chastened for my sins.
And pleasure ends while grief begins,
And agony no guerdon wins, —
Be Heaven my stay.

■% When all in vain I strive to brave

The gloom of Jordan's swelling wave.
And hand of mortal cannot save, —
Be Heaven my stay.

When prayer no longer will prevail,
When praise sinks to a trembling wail.
When faith itself begins to fail, —

Be Heaven my stay !
Aberdeen. John Ramsay.

349

THE DEVOTED.

a €alt Of i^oknlr.

BY A POLISH REFUGEE.

[The following narrative was written by a Polish Nobleman, now a
refugee in England. It is founded on facts which occurred during the
late heroic struggle of his countrymen for independence j in which the
writer and his fnmily were distinguished for their patriotic devotion ;
and, subsequently, not less distinguished for their cruel sufferings from
Russian vengeance. — The circumstance of this article having been
written in English by a foreigner, may account for some few pecu-
liarities of style.

The illustrative plate is the portrait of a Polish Countess. — Editor.]

I.

During the last Polish war with Russia, on the
evening- of the 28th of March 1831, two horsemen,
mounted upon jaded steeds, were seen on the side of
the River Bug, in Podolia, making the best of their
way towards the hollow road leading into a dark forest,
with the view of sheltering themselves from an impend-
ing storm. The wind howled fearfuUj ; the rain began
to fall in heavy drops ; and the thunder, not usual at
this season of the year, was heard in the distance in
tremendous peals. The elder of the horsemen, wrapped
in a large military cloak, gazed in silence for a consi-
derable time on his young companion, whose appear-
ance indicated that he had been recently wounded.

350 THE DEVOTED.

His head was bound with linen completely saturated
with blood, and his right arm hung in a scarf; while
with difficulty he maintained his seat on a horse ap-
parently almost as feeble as himself. At length, the
former of the two horsemen broke a long silence by
inquiring of the other if he felt himself better, and
whether he thought he should be able to reach the
castle. The younger, whose person, dress, and de-
meanour seemed to class him in a higher rank than that
of his companion, replied with the condescending fami-
liarity of a master to his vassal : " My honest friend John,
think not of my weakness, or the miserable plight in
which you now see me ; I have still sufficient strength,
not only to reach the castle before midnight, but also,
should it be necessary, to defend myself against a
second surprise of Cossacks. Be assured that to the
weakness of my horse the escape of the leader of this
band of robbers is to be attributed ; and make yourself
easy upon this point, that the remainder of these rogues
will not be tempted again to attack three, or even two
horsemen who bear the badge of Dwernicki." *

" Ah ! Lieutenant," replied old John ; " it is true
that by your hand two Cossacks were slain, and that I
assisted in the dispersion of the others ; but it's a sad
pity that our brave Sergeant Przyporski, after having
served gloriously in so many wars, in Spain, Italy, and
Russia, in Napoleon's time, should at length finish his

* In the battle of Ku row, on the 4th of IVlarcb, 1831, some squadrons
of cavalry especially distinguished themselves, and were rewarded by
General Dwernicki for their gallantry by a inarli of honour affixed to their
uniforms.

THE DEVOTED. 351

course in a paltry skirmish with these thieves. He
taught them, however, to know the stroke of a Polish
sword, which, I think, they will not speedily forget ;
and I helieve, had it not been for the Czerkie* with
his ianczarka t behind the thicket, who shot him in the
breast, you. Lieutenant, would not have been so des-
perately wounded ; and the poor sergeant would per-
haps still have lived to harass the enemy upon his
karosz f in many a battle."

*' What more is to be said, John? Human destiny is
irrevocable ; and although Sergeant Przyporski fell in
this trifling encounter, he has nevertheless died the
death of a hero fighting against the enemies of his
country. Glory be to his memory !"

"Amen!" sighed John, deeply affected, and the
travellers relapsed once more into silence.

During this conversation, the violence of the storm
bad increased. The peals of thunder became more
loud and awful, — the flashes of lightning were fre-
quent and vivid ; while around were heard the sound
of tempest-stricken trees, the fierce howling of the
wind, the cries of aflfrighted beasts, and the hoarse
roaring of the river, whose waters, swollen by foaming
torrents, and impetuously bearing along fragments of
stones, and splinters of riven trees, gave to the scene a
terrible grandeur. — Our travellers, however, proceeded.

* A savage horde belonging to Russia, who served in the wnr like the
Cossacks.

t The name of a Turkish musket used commonly by this tribe.

t A black horse. — Particular names are commonly given to horses
from their colour.

352 THE DEVOIED.

altJiougli with the greatest difficulty, in the darkness of
the night, through the deep recesses of the forest, un-
able to distinguish the road ; while their horses, weary
w^th their fourth day's journey, during which they
had been supplied with but scanty provender, were
barely able to sustain their riders, as they stumbled on
a path strewn with loose stones, and rendered rugged
and uneven by gnarled roots of trees.

After two hours, the storm in some measure sub-
sided, and the silence of the travellers was again in-
terrupted by an observation from old John, who re-
garded the gradually improving aspect of the road,
and the prospect of a more campaign country, as an
evidence that they were at last not far from the Castle
of L .

"Thank Heaven for that!" answered Zapolski, the
Lieutenant, "for I feel I want strength, and what is
worse, our horses canscarcelymove their weary limbs."

"Oh! my dear master," answered the other, "do
not lose courage. I fancy I already see lights beaming
from the castle windows, and although, judging from
their apparent distance, we are at least a half a mile*
from a comfortable bed, nevertheless, by the blessing
of God, I hope we shall soon find a welcome there. —
Come, my poor Tysiu,t get on ; in a short time oats and
hay will be your reward for the fatigues of the day.
Your Siwosz,:!: Lieutenant, I perceive, is aware of his

* A Polish mile is equal to four Enf>li)ih miles.

t The name of a horse which has a star upon its forehead.

t A grey horse.

THE DEVOTED. 353

proximity to a stable, — he raises his ear and walks more
boldly ; and see, my steed has also taken the hint."

Lieutenant Zapolski, although feeble, tickled the
side of the Siwosz at this intimation, and in another
half-hour our two travellers had halted before the gates
of the C astle of L .

II.

In the saloon of the Castle of L , Count Adolph

was sitting at a table, intent on the composition of a
list of the names of noblemen devoted to the cause of
their common country. His wife, a beautiful and in-
teresting woman, was standing behind his chair, to
whom the Count frequently referred for her opinion as
he set down the names. His sister, the young Countess
Helena, was occupied with two charming children, whose
innocent prattle and childish gambols were insufficient
to divert her attention from the important document
drawn up by her brother.

At length. Count Adolph, laying down his pen, said
in a tone of anxious impatience, " Julia, I can no
longer conceal or contain my alarm. The list is now
finished : I have no news from your brother Edmund,
and I doubt not that the most serious obstacles alone
have delayed his messenger. The dispatch I received
from him a fortnight ago, informed me of a movement of
General Dwernicki which was expected directly to take
place ; and he promised me that on the 27th of March I
might expect a messenger conveying directions how to
act. Yesterday was the day, — but he has not yet ar-

354 THE DEVOIED.

rived ; and I fear either that he has lost his road dur-
ing the tempest, or that he has been intercepted by
the Cossack patrols from the corps of Riidig-er.
The important moment is at hand ; and yet, ignorant
how to proceed, I must remain inactive at home, while
my countrymen are shedding their blood for the freedom
of our native land. Oh ! I regret now that I did not ac-
cept the invitation of your brother to proceed to Warsaw,
and I envy him his fortune in having taken part in the
insurrection from its commencement."

"My dear Adolph !" replied his wife, " your noble
heart, animated as it is by a pure feeling of patriotism,
must not suffer itself to be impatient or envious. As
in the field of battle it is necessary that there should
be men with heads to plan and hearts to execute, so
also at home, it is no less important that tliere should be
found those who, impelled by no less noble an attach-
ment to their country, will supply the army with men,
provisions, arms, and ammunition. To this sacred
duty you have been faithful ; you have performed
what every true Pole is bound to do, nor can your own
conscience reproach you. The time will soon come,
when you also will fight at my brother's side in the
national ranks, when you will fulfil the more congenial
duty to which your ardour and ambition prompt you.
As a woman, I may tremble at the hour of your depar-
ture ; but as a daughter of Poland I have no right to
detain you, nor do I wish to possess it."

At this moment the door of the saloon was opened,
and the servant in attendance announced the arrival of
two strangers.

THE DEVOTED. 355

" Our messengers, doubtless ; — let them be introduc-
ed," exclaimed the Count, starting up.

" Zapolski, you are welcome!" he added, as the
Lieutenant and John entered the saloon ; " we have been
anxiously looking for you ;" and taking the dispatches
which the Lieutenant presented to hira, he retired to a
window and broke the seals with impatience.

The Covmtess and Helen now approached, and wel-
comed Zapolski to the castle, while they conducted
him to a seat.

"You are wounded!" cried Helen in a tone of
anxiety that betrayed a warmer feeling than perhaps
she wished to confess even to herself. Your head is
covered with blood."

" Nay, not much," answered Zapolski, smiling
faintly ; " I may think myself fortunate, all things con-
sidered, that it is no worse ; but while the Count reads
liis dispatches, I will relate our adventure in the forest.
— On the 24th March, at six in the morning, I proceeded
from the camp of Zamosc* with Sergeant Przyporski
and our honest John here, who was appointed by your
brother to take me under his especial protection, being
better acquainted than myself with the labyrinths of

road that leads to the castle of L . During three

days, notwithstanding the vigilance of the Russian
patrols stationed at all points, we succeeded in eluding
them, and after the greatest fatigue and danger, riding
day and night, and scarcely halting for refreshment,
we entered this afternoon the mountains and woods of

* A fortress in Polan<l, near Volhynia.

356 THE DEVOTED.

B . We were now confident of being able to

reach the castle unmolested, when suddenly we were
surrounded bj a Cossack patrol consisting of sixteen,
and were instantly attacked by these base clans of des-
potism.

" Soon, however, the Polish sword, already accustom-
ed to the taste of the oppressor's blood, opened for itself
a free field. Sergeant Przyporski, by his courage and
uncommon strength, aided chiefly in the dispersion of
these robbers, and we were masters of the day, when
a Czerkie, concealing himself behind a tree, shot the
brave fellow from his horse, and the rest of the hounds
who had begun to fly, returned and attacked us with
renewed impetuosity. As I was already wounded,
John, like a true guardian, defended me manfully ; and
perhaps we should have been overcome by the supe-
riority of numbers and strength, had not Heaven, at this
instant, sent two huntsmen to our aid ; who, being at
a short distance, and hearing the noise and explosion
of arms, fortunately arrived in time to turn the scale of
fortune. At the sight of the woodmen with guns,
the Cossacks decamped, losing in their hasty flight
from the scene of action one more, who was brought
down by the shot of our deliverers. But enough of
our petty adventure. I am the bearer to Count Adolph
of General Dwernicki's orders, that the noblemen
should arm themselves forthwith, and be ready to join
him ; and that all who are able to deceive the Russian
vigilance should reinforce him without delay, and
bring with them magazines of provisions for men and

THE DEVOTED. 357

horses. The General will move on the first of April
from the camp of Zamosc, where the stormy weather
and the sickness of his soldiers have detained him so
long ; and will manage hy stratagem to evade the de-
tachment of General Kreutz, and come upon Volhynian
ground. Count Edmund transmits his orders in these

words ; " All men from the castle of L , and the

neighbouring estates, able to bear arms, are to be ready
under the command of Count Adolph, whom he begs
also to join the national banner, — and that he will
conduct them to the corps of General Dwernicki."

" I am infinitely obliged to my brother Edmund,"
said the Count as he approached, " for trusting me
with his men ; the invitation was hardly necessary,
for I have long anxiously desired to be in the foremost
ranks of the defenders of my country."

So saying, Adolph took the arm of the wounded
Zapolski, and conducted him from the saloon to the
chamber that had been prepared for him.

III.

It is now time that we should give a brief account of
Count Edmund O , whose heroic example had ex-
cited his brother-in-law, Adolph, to an active partici-
pation in a struggle which was to burst asunder for
ever the chains of Russian despotism, or to rivet them
more firmly than before.

Count Edmund, having attained that age when,
launching into a wider sphere, the soul reflects every
new colour presented to it, and opens itself to receive

358 THE DEVOTED.

every fresh impression, remained centered in himself,
insensible to illusions by which youth is too often de-
ceived. A vague and undefined melancholy incited
him to avoid that which is commonly pursued by others.
In the midst of noisy and unprofitable society he was
lonely and incomprehensible. As a patriot he suffered
in his pride and in his sjonpathies. With a view to
draw him out of this absorbing solitude, his family
compelled him to travel ere he had yet completed his
studies ; but on his return home his melancholy and
love of solitary meditation again returned, and the
spectacle that presented itself of Muscovite tyranny
rendering his stay in the capital intolerable, he re-
tired to his estates. Such was his life, when the re-
volution of the 29th November, 1830, opened the pros-
pect of a brilliant career to his naturally active and
ardent spirit. At the first signal Edmund felt his heart
bound with impatience within him, and in an instant
he was prepared to abide the issue at all hazards ; and
having entered the corps of General Dwernicki at the
commencement of the war, he had distinguished himself
in all the battles fought by that hero.

But the spark of patriotism was by this time fanned
into a blaze that illuminated Poland from one extremity
to the other, and his summons was scarcely needed to
call his vassals to arm themselves in the defence of
their country.

Scarcely had the first sunbeams touched the turrets

of the castle of L , when couriers were dispatched

to the several noblemen living far and near, to inform

THE DEVOTED. 359

tbem of the message of General Dwernicki and of
Count Edmund, respecting the duty they weie called
upon to perform ; and also to the surrounding estates,
to simimon to the field the brave and patriotic retainers
of the latter.

In the castle yard Adolph reviewed the hastily col-
lected peasantry, who had appeared at the first summons,
and in a brief speech explained to them the cause of the
appeal, and the duty which as Poles they owed to their
country.

" Longlive our fatherland !" (Niech Zyie Oyczyzna !)
— " we will lay down our lives for her deliverance ! '* was
the simultaneous response of the animated peasantry.
And now an unusual alacrity stimulated every inmate
of the castle. Some were sent out to capture the wild
horses in the Tabuny ;* others were busily employed in
the armoury cleaning and preparing the arms for im-
mediate use. The young recruits unaccustomed to
arms were actively disciplined by old John, grey in
battles, and by Count Adolph, who, present every where,
communicated courage and energy to all. Some of the
women of the castle were industriously preparing
small national bannerst for the courageous volunteers j
while others were occupied in the assortment of lint
and linen for the wounded. Throughout the castle the
same indefatigable spirit was at work, roused equally
by the sacred love of country.

* Places where the wihl horses are fouud are called by this name,
t The Polish lancers have their laitces ornamented with small bauuert
tfthe national coluurs, crimson and white.

360 THE DEVOTED.

The Countess herself was similarly occupied in one
of the saloons. Sprung from one of the noblest and most
ancient houses of Poland, and brought up in the school
of virtue, she had from her earliest youth nourished
the expanding germ of hereditary patriotism ; and when
she passed into the arms of her husband, she found
in this her new home the same sentiment and the same
examples. Before this great and absorbing political
commotion had aroused her to another duty, her life
had flowed on even and unruffled ; and, in the fervour
of youthful and innocent enjoyment, her thoughts had
not hitherto been directed to her country's present con-
dition ; but the cannon of the 29th November awakened
her from her dream of happiness. For a long time,
indeed, she had been distinguished among her youth-
ful companions for her national predilections, — but
since that memorable day, with what avidity did she
treasure up all that she had learned of the ancient glory
of Poland ! How many burning tears had she shed
at the narrative of her country's misfortunes, and the
revolting despotism under which it groaned. At such
recitals her eyes would flash with indignation ; and
now, when engaged on the embroidery of a banner des-
tined to lead to battle the company under the command
of her husband, she flattered her sanguine heart with
hopes of success, and the speedy deliverance of her
country from its oppressors.

Apart from the hurried excitement which reigned in

the castle of L , were grief, suffering, and pain.

The young and gentle Helen was seated near the rest-

THE DEVOTED. 361

less bed of Zapolski, whose life had been pronounced
to be in danger from loss of blood and the inflammation
of his wounds ; and with the tenderness and watchful-
ness of a sister she endeavoured to alleviate his pain,
and to soothe his impatient and ardent spirit.

IV.

At an early hour on the 13th April, the day fixed for
the departure of Count Adolph, a confused sound of
mingled voices, and the trampling and neighing of
horses were heard in the castle-yard. Volunteers
of different ages, recruited under the command of
Adolph, and bearing the banner of Count Edmund,
waiting with an impatience natural to inexperienced
soldiers the signal to march, received with assumed
indifference the farewell embraces of their mothers,
wives, sisters, friends and children.

In the spacious halls of the castle silence reigned.
Count Adolph, impatient to reach the camp of Dwer-
nicki as speedily as possible, and already prepared for
departure, could not leave the scenes so dear to him
without taking a farewell, perhaps a last one, of his
devoted wife. With beating and prophetic heart he
stood before the door which conducted to her apart-
ment ; and after a pause, with a noiseless step he
entered the room, in which he expected to find her
still sleeping, — but it was deserted. The astonished
Adolph, hastening with agitation through all the apart-
ments and galleries without finding the object of his
search, was at length directed by an anxious presenti-
I I

362 THE DEVOTED.

ment towards the castle chapel. As he listened at
the door of the sacred place, his ear was struck with the
sound of prayer, and recognising the voice of Julia,
he approached her in silence. Long did he gaze with
deep and fervent love upon this innocent being, kneel-
ing and lost in prayer — this young creature so dear to
his heart, and whom the duty of a Pole obliged him to
leave, perhaps for ever. At length, the reverie into
which he had fallen was broken by the earnest voice of
Julia, who, still fancying herself alone, concluded her
prayer in these words : —

'*0h! Almighty Being, who readest the hearts of
thy creatures, thou seest my soul, and thou knowest
all my desires ; but if they are not in accordance
with thy holy purposes, let not my will but thine
be done ! Be pleased, nevertheless, O Lord ! to hear
favourably the humble prayer of thy suppliant creature
buried in the dust before thy majesty! Bestow thy
blessing upon the Polish cause ! Save our dear and un-
happy fatherland ! Break her chains, and lay bounds
to the tyranny of the invading enemy ! Keep in thy
holy guardianship my beloved Adolph : if, inflamed
with the love of country, he rush into the midst of the
enemy, guard his life so dear to me ; turn away the
dangers which menace his days, and deprive not my
children so early of their father ! Oh ! God of my fa-
thers ! hear favourably my earnest prayer. Hear the
prayer of a true daughter of Poland ! If the heart of
my Adolph should prove unfaithful to tlie true interest
of his country. . . .Oh ! rather receive him to thy mercy !"

THE DEVOTED. 363

" Never shall it prove unfaithful !" interrupted
Adolph, deeply affected : " witness that Power to whom
you have appealed hut now, and who likewise reads
this heart, burning with the purest love of my country,
— that I will be for ever true to our country's cause !"

" Dear Adolph ! forgive my prayer," replied Julia ;
" I know your heart, and that you are one of the noblest
of patriots ; but sometimes the strongest characters are
subdued to human weakness. Not as a wife, but as a
Pole I have prayed to God, that in the moment of such
weakness, if it should ever chance that irresolution
enters your heart, he would rather take you to Him-
self, than allow you to stain the Polish name with
dishonour. Adolph, you go to fight for the freedom of
our common Mother ; I know that the fate of war is
uncertain, and that in a short time I may remain with
my orphans alone ; but 1 will detain you no longer, — I
desire not to weaken your courage with a woman's
tears ! Go, my husband, where honour and duty call
every true Pole ; be faithful to your country. Yet a
few words more : in other countries the days of chivalry
are over, but not in Poland ; with us a knight is still
faithful to his arms and to his love ; and even yet we
retain the symbols of those former times."

So saying, she took a white scarf from her bosom,
and would have given it to her husband j but the wo-
man's affection overcame the courage of the Polish
wife ; burning tears gushed from her eyes, and for some
minutes she yielded up her soul to weakness. At
length, rousing her spirits, she bound the sword of

364 THE DEVOTED.

Adolph with the scarf moistened by her tears. " Bear
it always," she said, " and when you advance to battle,
look at this scarf, and remember that the wife who once
wore it would not hesitate to give her life for a cause
which has already been consecrated by the blood of
thousands."

Adolph, pressing her to his bosom, answered her with
tears alone, and kneeling before the altar, swore to de-
fend the national banner unto death. But now the
beams of the rising sun glancing through the chapel
windows, warned him that it was time to commence
the march. Julia was the first to terminate a scene so
painful to both, and taking him with assumed gaiety by
the hand, she conducted him to his sister and children.

Having taken an affectionate leave of Helen, still
watching by the bed of the suffering Zapolski, and
bestowed a hearty blessing upon his children, Adolph
proceeded, accompanied by his wife, to the impatient
soldiers. In a short speech, he impressed upon them
the duty of Polish warriors, and Julia at its conclusion
presented to the small corps a banner worked by her
own hand, exhorting them never to forsake this ensign,
which was to conduct them to battle. " Let your mot-
to," said she, "be ever, • Death or Victory !' — rather
perish to the last man, than surrender the freedom of
your country to the vengeance of the oppressors !"
"Long live our fatherland ! — our blood, our life, — we
are ready to give them for her liberty. — Long live
Count Edmund and his honoured sister ! — long live
Count Adolph !"

THE DEVOTED. 365

While these enthusiastic shouts were yet vibrating
in the air, the trumpet sounded the signal to march j
and a hundred gallant horsemen, preceded by a hun-
dred and fifty riflemen, issued from the gates of L .

Julia, in spite of the remonstrances of her husband,
mounted a spirited charger, determined to accompany
the corps of volunteers a few miles on their march
from the castle. Arrived at the place at which it was
necessary she should leave them, with heroic calmness,
although with a tearful eye, she bade farewell to her
husband and his brave companions ; imploring in silent
prayer, that God might conduct them in safety to their
appointed place, and cover their arms with glory.

In a few minutes they had passed from her view, —
but she still stood gazing in the direction they had
taken, long after they had been lost among the trees
and rising mountains beyond. At length, the reverie
into which she had fallen, composed equally of fear and
hope — fear for the life of her husband and her brother,
— and hope for the deliverance of her country — was
interrupted by the approach of her attendant with the
horses, who informed her that he heard in the distance,
and so far as he could judge, in the direction of the
castle, frequent explosions and the voiceof tumult j im-
ploring her at the same time to leave the place forth-
with, where it must be dangerous to remain.

But Julia, occupied with other and more absorbing
thoughts, heeded not the advice of her attendant, but
advanced deeper into the wood, following, or attempt-
ing to follow, the sounding echo of a song from
I I 3

366 THE DEVOTED.

Adolph's corps — in which she could still distinguish
these words, which had been rendered recently fa-
miliar to her ear :

Rise, White Eagle,* rise !

Shake from thy stainless breast

The black plumes of the foe,

Who comes to spoil thy nest ;

Rise, White Eagle, rise.

And bid the ruddy tide of vengeance flow !

With what jojousecstacy she now gazed. It seemed
to her that she still beheld the departing warriors, and
with a beating heart she followed them with her
prayers. Imagination brought to her heart a fond
vision of her country's deliverance, — and already she
beheld the dear object of her affection returning crown-
ed with the laurel wreath of victory. — Long did she
remain fixed to the spot, lost in a happy unconscious-
ness of all around, feeling no weariness, and insensible
to the flight of time. The approach of evening, how-
ever, at length warned her to depart, and turning re-
luctantly to the anxious servant, she mounted her liorse,
and in another hour was before the gates of the castle

of L . But what had occurred in the meanwhile 1

—Let us relate it in another chapter.

V.

Breathless, motionless, and with the cold silence of
a statue, Julia stood before the smoking ruins of the

Castle of L . The number of dead bodies, the

burning habitations in the vicinity of the castle, too

* The ensign ofPolanil.

THE DEVOTED. * 367

plainly showed that here the rage of tlie Russian bar-
barians had been expended. The last sighs of the ago-
nized victims, — the shades of night which now began
to invest this scene of destruction, and the horrible
howling of the wind, as it caught up ihe dust and stifling
smoke from the rains, at length aroused her from her
stupefaction ; a heavy sigh burst from her tortured bo-
som ; and raising her tearless eyes to heaven, she
sought consolation from the everlasting God I

The scene before her was sufficient to carry convic-
tion of the fulness of her misfortune ; in one glance
fancy presented to her a picture of her murdered chil-
dren, sister and friends ; and for once, as she sank
upon the earth in agony of soul, the heart of The De-
voted forgot that even to this last dreadful sacrifice,
her country exacted her willing submission. The faith-
ful servant knelt beside her as she lay, and as one deep
and heavy groan burst from her bosom, raised his hands
to heaven, and prayed that the strength and consola-
tion of religion might return and tranquillize her soul.

Julia heard the touching appeal, and as she regained
her presence of mind, a flood of bitter tears gushed
from her eyes, and relieved her overcharged heart.

" Come with me," she murmured, as she arose from
the ground ; and, entering among the ruins of the castle,
her fearful glance sought to discover the remains of her
innocent children. — But no — her eye met nothing
but the murdered bodies of her vassals and servants,
mingled with the carcasses of Russian soldiers, —
united in one common death.

368 ♦ THE DEVOIEH.

At length her ear was struck with a deep groan, and
with a beating heart she approached the object from
whence proceeded this sign of life. How great was
her joy on discovering in the wounded man the faithful
John ! who, faint with loss of blood, rather than from
the dangerous nature of his wound, was in a short time
restored to consciousness by her timely assistance.

" Tell me, — how came this dreadful carnage 1" de-
manded Julia, as, aided by Casimir, she succeeded in
raising the body of the wounded man, which the latter
supported in his arms ; " let me hear it all ; I am calm."

The old soldier heaved a deep sigh, and passed his
hand slowly over his brow. " It is a dreadful tale," he
said ; "prepare to hear the worst, my honoured lady."

" I am prepared," replied the Countess — " proceed."

" About an hour after the departure of Count
Adolph with his brave company," began John, " Ge-
neral DavidoiF, heading a regiment of Cossack dragoons,
with four pieces of cannon, came before the castle and
summoned it to surrender. But notwithstanding that
we were not prepared to resist so great a force, we
barricaded the gates, and the forty riflemen whom the
Count had left us, commenced instantly a murderous
fire. The wounded Zapolski in vain attempted to rise
from his bed, eager to partake in the heroic defence
made by the brave riflemen, but his weakness denied
him that last consolation. In the meanwhile, the Coun-
tess Helen, regardless of the storm of Russian balls
that whistled around her, like a protecting angel, ran
amid the tire, tending the wounded, and animating tlie

THE DEVOTED. • 369

exhausted strength of the riflemen. The fight had
lasted about two hours, when she was struck by a ball
and fell dead upon the ramparts. The riflemen, wearied
with their long struggle against such overpowering
odds, and having exhausted their ammunition, and
lost half of their numbers, at last decided upon sur-
rendering ; but Zapolski, to whom the women of the
castle communicated from time to time the progress of
the combat, hearing of the death of the heroic Countess
Helen, and the design of the riflemen, conjured them
to carry him in a chair to the court-yard. The re-
mainder of the men still able to fight, at the sight of
the sick Zapolski, and at the sound of his inflaming
words, roused by a fresh spirit, and shouting, "Long
live our father-land !" rushed with desperate energy
upon the foe now entering at the broken gates. But
numbers prevailed over courage ; the riflemen fell to the
last man, and upon their lifeless bodies General David-
off with his hangmen entered the castle, and having
murdered with his own hand the wounded Zapolski,
unable to defend himself, and plundered the castle,
the villains set fire to the several wings, and with their
cannon razed to the ground this ancient refuge of
virtue and patriotism."

"And my children — what has befallen them 1'* in-
terrupted Julia, who had listened with intense and
dreadful interest to every word the old soldier uttered.

" Before I was struck to the ground," replied John,
" while defending the door of the children's room,
Sophia, their nurse, with two other women, escaped

370 ■* THE DEVOIED.

through the back door of the garden, — but wliether
they are saved or not, the Lord alone knows ! — Let us
hope that He has pitied and spared these innocent
beings. What further happened I know not ; only
that, being aroused from my swoon by the fire and
smoke surrounding the castle, I exerted all my strength
to escape from the dreadful death around me, but,
having arrived at the yard, I again fell, and was only
by your providential aid restored to life."

Julia wept bitterly at this narrative, and for a mo-
ment envied her sister and her friends their heroic
death ; but speedily calling to mind the duties she
still owed to her husband and her country, and not
without hope that she might still save her children, she
began to reflect in what manner she might best pro-
vide for the safety of herself and of her companions.

In a distant part of the park there was a summer-
house, not unlikely, from its concealed situation, to have
escaped the rage of the besiegers : thither they hastened,
and here for the present she hoped to elude discovery.

The sun of the 14th of April illumined as he was
wont the surrounding scenery ; but what a chauge
presented itself to Julia ! Surrounded, the day before,
by her children, husband, and friends, to-day deprived
of all who were dear to her heart ; — but, submitting
with resignation to the will of God — she prepared to
support without a murmur the trials with which He
had been pleased to visit her, to prove her patience, and
to exalt the virtue of her sacrifice to her country.

During two days, Casimir and old John were em-

THE DEVOTED. 37!

ployed in endeavouring- to discover the children, or
at least to obtain some clue to their fate, but without
success. Nothing whatever could be ascertained to
throw a ray of light upon the probable retreat of these
unfortunate beings, and the almost heart-broken mo-
ther was fain to rest her only hope upon that Power,
which from her earliest youth she had been taught
to look up to in all her sorrows and afflictions.

" There is hope still," — she said with a calm and
resigned confidence. — "I may yet reach the camp of
General Dwernicki, — there at least I may fulfil the
duties of a Polish wife, — there at least I may once
more behold my husband — if he yet lives !"

She checked the intrusion of the busy doubt that
had come across her brain, and having completed such
trifling arrangements as her altered fortune enabled
her to make, — alone, but with a strong and unshaken
heart, she set out on foot, resolved if possible, and
through all obstacles, to reach the camp of Dwernicki.

VI.

In the meanwhile, the brave troops under the com-
mand of Adolph, having on their way fallen in with and
dispersed several Russian divisions, at length reached
the camp of General Dwernicki on the afternoon of the
17th April, bringing as prisoners two adjutants of
Dybiez and Riidiger, the Russian generals. General
Dwernicki finding upon the persons of the adjutants
certain dispatches that discovered the real strength of
the enemy, which consisted of nine thousand infantry,

372 THE DEVOTED.

five thousand cavalry, and thirty-eight pieces of cannon,
resolved to proceed by a shorter route to Dubno, where
he expected to meet the Ukraine and Podolian insur-
gents ; but when he afterwards recollected the strength
of Riidiger, — that he would not be able to conduct
his corps on the right side of the Styr, because in the
woods on this side it was impossible for cavalry to
march, — that the infantry, composed almost entirely of
new and unpractised soldiers, would be of little value, —
and that, in the mean time, Riidiger would be able to
invest the woods with the columns of his infantry, he
determined to wait the enemy's attack in the same
place : — and with this view, hoping to conceal his
movement, he sent two battalions of infantry with
riflemen by the bridge, and posted them in the adjacent
wood ; by which he demonstrated an intention of
going in reality to Dubno. — His position was tolerably
good. The castle of Count Czacki, to whom belonged
the town of Boremla, was situated upon an elevation
opposite the bridge. The Prince Puzyna, leader of
a part of Dwernicki's artillery, placed upon the castle-
platform leading to the bridge, two cannon, and two
unicorns, with which he fired upon, the opposite wood,
from whence on tlie 18th of April, in the morning, the
columns of the Russian infantry poured forth ; and
under the protection of this fire, the two Polish bat-
talions covered their retreat. After which, the Musco-
vites carried a heavy battery, and began to fire upon
the castle. The marshes which are on both sides of
the river, rendered the cavalry useless ; and Dwer-

THE DEVOTED. 373

nicki perceived that this attack was onlj a false one,
and that Rudiger purposed to commence the attack as
from the right side of Berestevzko, or the left of Krasne.
— A strong cannonade was kept up during two hours
by both parties : the Russian balls took effect not only
upon the infantry who defended the passage of the
bridge, and who lost there about a hundred and forty
men; but also upon the castle of Czacki. — General
Dwernicki, who, having but a small force to bring
against the enemy, wished not to come to a decisive
battle, determined to attack one part of the corps of
Riidiger, stationed near Boremla, and open himself a
way to Dubno. But seeing in the afternoon and even-
ing, at the left of his position, the strong Russian
columns moving to the village of Stryniki upon Styr ;
and receiving news on the 19th of April, at sun-rise,
that the Muscovites had built a bridge, and prepared
themselves to go over. General Dwernicki decided
not to derange their passage, but to await them upon
a plain, which extended from the village of Stryniki
on the left side of the Styr. At twelve o'clock at noon
on the 19th of April, the Russians passed the bridge,
and approached with all their strength towards the
Polish camp ; at this moment their artillery began to
fire, and the Cossack columns showed themselves from
the side of Berestevzko. At this moment General
Dwernicki led his troops upon the plain, and placed the
cavalry upon a free field in reserve — in the front two
squadrons of the 5th regiment of chasseurs, and both the
Cracow squadrons of Kosciuszko, — and farther behind

374 THE DEVOTED,

on the right wing, three divisions of the 4th and 2nd re-
giments of chasseurs, and Poniatowski's Cracow horse ;
— behind them was the heavy battery of Puzyna ; and
round the enclosure of a cemetery, were two battalions
of infantry which formed the right wing of the line
of battle. — The left wing was formed by the light
battery of artillery, and three other divisions of cavalry,
with the small number of volunteers conducted by
Adolph. The bridge of the castle was defended by
two cannons, and one battalion of infantry with the

L riflemen. — The last two divisions with two

cannon were sent towards the Berestevzko, to keep
the body of the Cossacks in check. — Rudiger having
placed upon each wing twelve cannons of great calibre,
with numerous cavalry, and in the front his strong
columns of infantry, began a terrible fire upon the
left Polish wing ; which, haying resisted for a long
time with undaunted coolness, was compelled at last
to retire to the left into a valley j but the Russian can-
nons appearing to direct themselves only upon this
wing ceased not to pour their fire upon them. —
Dwemicki perceiving this profitable moment, sent
Captain Puzyna with his artillery, who, advancing at a
gallop, and approaching with his cannons near the
Russian battery, put it in great disorder with his well
managed fire. Dwemicki at this moment advancing
with the four front squadrons, together with the three
divisions of the left wing, attacked the remaining bat-
tery, but failed on the first onset ; the squadrons of the
left wing, harassed by the continued charge of the

THE DEVOTED. 375

artillery, were thrown into disorder ; and unable to
resist the second terrible fire, were obliged to retreat.
— At the same moment, when these squadrons were re-
treating in disorder, and when the Russian regiment of
Oranian hussars rushed with impetuosity to the charge,
the horse of General Dwernicki fell. Surrounded
by enemies, and in the greatest danger, he lost not his
presence of mind, but with a well known voice called
upon the lancers of the 4th regiment, who likewise had
begun to retreat. — " How I will you also leave your old
general 1" — At the sound of his familiar voice, which
had led them so often to victory, the retreating lancers
ranging themselves under the command of Major
Rutkowski, and Count Edmund, — and Adolph leading
also forward with unshaken courage the handful of
men confided to his trust, — the hussars were driven
back, and a fresh horse being brought to the general,
he was rescued from danger. — Dwernicki, after having
mounted the horse, gathered the cavalry together, and
attacked the enemy a second time ; and in this instance
more succesfuUy. The squadrons, ashamed of their
not having from the first kept their place, rushed for-
ward with the greatest impetuosity, cut in pieces the
Russian hussars, and seized eight pieces of cannon.
At this moment, the Russian reserve cavalry fell upon
the Polish ranks, who, in spite of their being four times
feebler than the enemy, fought with courage nearly
allied to despair. Count Edmund, in this emergency,
performed the duty both of a soldier and an officer ;
and Adolph, mindful of the vow he had made in the

376 THE DEVOTED.

L chapel, never to forsake the national banner

till death, folded to his heart the scarf moistened with
Julia's tears, rushed furiously upon the foe at the
head of his brave companions, and working dreadful
carnage among the enemj, sank down at last, pierced
with many wounds.

At the sight of their fallen leader, his company, to-
gether with a troop of lancers, rushed with fresh de-
spair and irresistible impetuosity upon the masses of
Russian cavalry, and drove them back with tremendous
loss. In the meanwhile, Edmund, who, as a guardian
angel had watched over the safety of his friend, seeing
him fall, and regardless of danger, sprang from his
horse and bore him away on his shoulders from the
heat of the battle, but alas ! all was in vain. — Death was
already passing over the pale brow of the brave soldier.
He pressed the hand of Edmund : " Should you
survive this battle," he said faintly, " tell Julia that I
died, like a true Pole, fighting for my country."

" She is here !" exclaimed a voice, and Julia sank
beside him on her knees — "Oh Adolph ! now am I
indeed bereft of all on this side heaven."

The dying man raised himself upon his elbows
with a violent effort. — " Julia, is it you 1" he gasped ;
" how came you here ? — what has happened at L — — - ?
— where are my children ? — I know it all — they are
dead — murdered — butchered — there is no help for
Poland — may God comfort thee, my poor wife! — Bless
thee, oh my country !"

He fell back at these words into the arms of Edmund.

IHE DEVOTED. 377

The Count gazed upon his face for a minute — it was
sufficient — " He is dead!" he whispered in a choking
voice ; and with a piercing shriek Julia fell senseless
upon the body.

It was a dearly-bought victory that crowned the
Polish arms on the 19th of April. As Edmund conveyed
his sister to the camp, his mind misgave him as to the
final result of the present contest. The most heroic
courage must at length give way before overpowering
numbers; and the General himself, although astonished
at the miraculous issue of the battle just ended, was
not unaware of the dangers that beset, and of the fate
that perhaps so shortly awaited him.

"This is no place for you, my sister!" urged Ed-
mund, as he endeavoured to offer such poor consolation
as was yet left at the present moment. " In Warsaw
you may still fulfil the duties required of you as a
daughter of Poland — at all events, you may there more
safely await the impending crisis."

"Thither, then, will I go," cried Julia, with sudden
animation, "even to the last, — deprived of rank —
fortune — husband — children — all, — I will yet prove
that I am devoted to our fatherland !"

It has become matter of history, and would here be out
of place to detail the subsequent operations of General
Dwernicki ; it may be sufficient to notice that Iliidiger,
unable to dislodge the Polish General from an advan-
tageous position he had occupied near the Austrian
frontier, in defiance of the law of nations, sent General
Berg with many thousand cavalry through the Austrian

378 THE DEVOTED.

territory to the rear of the Polish corps. Surrounded
on all sides, Dwernicki could no longer hesitate, but
was compelled to commence a retreat through a bje-
way into Galicia, trusting that the Austrians would
permit them to return to Poland or Podolia. But he
consoled himself with this hope in vain ! His corps
were disarmed — his arms were given up to the Mus-
covites— and his soldiers, officers, and himself impri-
soned in different garrisons, and treated with the most
savage barbarity, to the eternal dishonour of the Aus-
trian government.

The loss of Dwernicki and his corps was the first
fatal and decisive blow to the Polish cause, and was
deplored by all the sympathizing nations of Europe.
How much was lost to Poland in this great General,
was afterwards shown, when through the whole Polish
army ran the universal lament, " That with Dwernicki
fortune had left the cause of Poland !"

VII.

It was not with vain and regretful tears that Julia
called to mind the present position of her country, in
which so many wives and mothers were compelled to
the same sacrifice ; — remembering the duty which
every Polish man and woman were called upon to oflfer
upon the altar of her native land, environed by the most
imminent dangers, and in the midst of fatigues and
privations of every kind, she at length reached War-
saw. Here, although she took not her place among
the intrepid females who fought in the ranks with their

THE DEVOTED. 379

sons and husbands, she nevertheless performed services
in the national cause, not less useful, nor less beset
with perils. It was in the centre of the hospitals of
Warsaw that she proved herself a Polish heroine.
Surrounded by the sick and the wounded, she forgot
everything but the new duty which she had devoted
herself to fulfil ; and for five successive months thought
of nothing save of binding up their wounds and of al-
leviating their sufferings. The daughter of O ,

the wife of S , became a humble and an anxious

nurse to the brave men of Poland.

When the day of misfortune arrived, the Countess
accompanied the Polish army in their retreat to Mod-
lin ; and subsequently, taking advantage of the facility
her sex afforded of passing through the enemy's army,
she profited by it, and set out in search of her beloved
children. At length she arrived, after a long and event-
ful absence, at the spot in which she had passed her
happy youth. She had left it in the hope that she
might still live to see her country delivered ; she re-
turned to it, beholding her country in stronger and
closer chains ; and as she looked once more upon the
ruins of her paternal home, bitter tears gushed forth,
and the remembrance of her sorrows returned to her
soul in anguish almost too violent to bear.

But Almighty God, pitying her sufferings, rewarded
her for her fortitude and for her untiring faith, by giv-
ing back her lost children. As she hurried distractedly

through the woods surrounding L , which had once

been her own, but which were now the property of the

380 THE uevoii:d.

invading tyrant, she at length discovered her children
under the care of Sophia their nurse, in the deep fo-
rests of B , secluded from mankind, and at peace, —

if solitude may be called peace !

In the meanwhile, Count Edmund, sharing the fate
of Dwernicki, entered Galicia with him ; but, es-
caping from tlie Austrian guard, at length reached
Warsaw. After fighting in the bloody battle of Os-
trotzka, he marched with General Dembinski into
Lithuania, and on the unhappy result of the Lithua-
nian insurrection, he was one in the famous retreat
back to Poland. But determining to be ever in the
face of the enemy, he entered the active corps of
General Rozycki, with whom, after the fall of Warsaw,
(his corps being surrounded by the six times greater
strength of Riidiger, and having lost almost half his
force) he retreated to Galicia. And now, anxious
concerning the fate of his sister, he disguised himself,
and reached Podolia, designing to seek her. But
here, beholding only the sad remains of fortune and
greatness, — and lost in a reverie, whilst gazing upon
the scattered ruins of his noble home, he perceived not
that he was surrounded by a Russian patrol, who re-
cognising and seizing him, he was sent to Bobouysk, a
fortress in Lithuania, where he spent three months in
the greatest tortures in the casemates. From thence he
was sent on foot with other companions in misfortune to
Siberia ; but on the third day of his march, he suc-
ceeded in eluding the vigilance of his guard, and
effected his escape.

THE DEVOTED. 381

Protected by the honest peasantry of Lithuania and
Poland, though beset on all sides with the most immi-
nent dangers, he arrived at last once more in Galicia,
where, hearing nothing of his ill-fated sister, and fear-
ful of arrest by the Austrian government, he made his
escape to France, passing through Hungary, Austria,
Italy, Piedmont and Savoy. Here he spent several
months ; but unable to tranquillize his mind respecting
the fate of his beloved sister, he left that country and
again entered Galicia in 1833, whence in disguise he
proceeded to Podolia. More fortunate upon this occa-
sion, while forced to conceal himself in the forest from
the Russian spies, he accidentally discovered in the

woods of B a solitary cottage, and recognised in

its inmates his unfortunate sister and her children !

The mutual joy occasioned by this propitious meet-
ing having subsided, Edmund taking Julia, her chil-
dren, the faithful Sophia, and the veteran John, and
passing miraculously through the Russian guards,
reached Galicia ; and having found a solitary but
secure situation in the mountains of Carpathia, — he
placed his sister there, and began at last to repose in
her society, after so many perils a d misfortunes.

But Austrian policy, stimulated by Russian intrigue,
did not long pennit him to enjoy this tranquil retreat.
Hunted by the police, he was compelled to leave his
sister once more, and to flee to Carlsbad, disguised as a
domestic in the service of a Polish family. There,
again scented by the spies, and pursued like a wild
beast, he escaped to Saxe ; but the Russian Consul at

382 THE DEVOTED.

that place offering a price for his head, compelled him
to fly to Hamburgh, where, after living three months,
he was again discovered by the Russian blood -hounds ;
and in fresh danger of being delivered up, he retired
from that impotent city, and escaped to England.

Count Edmund has supported these almost unex-
ampled trials with calmness and resignation, sustained
by the conviction that fortitude under misfortune, and
devotion to his native land, are duties which he owes
to his country and to his God.

At length, upon the hospitable shores of Britain, he
has begun to breathe the air of liberty ; and at this
moment, from his place of exile, his eye is turned to-
wards the still gloomy aspect of Poland, and he only
awaits the first signal to devote himself once more to
her freedom.

His sister, the Countess Julia, buried in the moun-
tains of Carpathia, far fiom the world, and unknown j
scarce able to provide subsistence for herself and
children, lingers out her days of privation and of grief.
The duties of a mother may, perhaps, sometimes tran-
quillize the anguish of her soul j but the annihilation
of her country's liberty, — and the destruction of her
dearest hopes have sunk into her heart, and saddened
her existence for ever.

i

383
THREE SONNETS.

By R. F. UOUSMAN.
1. A GREEN LANE.

My homeward path wound through a woody lane,

Green, and of summer beauty. Up its banks

Clomb flowers of every hue, in glowing ranks,

And drooping yet with newly-fallen rain.

Scarce could my sense the pleasant load sustain

Of intermingling odours, breathed away

From the imruffled wreathes that near me lay,

Threading the ground in many a curious vein.

From neighbouring thickets sweetly poured the thrush

His mellow notes, beneath a rosy sky ;

And oft I paused, to hear the tiny gush

Of undiscovered rill, or springlet shy.

Dripping for ever with a gentle sound, —

Like fairy footsteps dancing on the ground.

U. THE LINN.

Here let us pause. How calm a spot this Linn
Has chosen ; with how musical a tone
Its foamy billows glide from stone to stone.
Low-gurgling. Overhead, the small birds win
Access through braided boughs ; and all within

384 THREE SONNETS.

Is a pale emerald gleam, and a faint smell
Of flow'rets, dew-fed, that delight to dwell
Where the cool waters make this soothing din.
— Speaks not this stream a moral as it goes.
Slow-wandering seaward 1 Speaks it not, sweet Love,
Of unambitious thoughts and chastened hopes.
In quiet nooks secluded, — where the Dove
Nestles, calm-hearted, near the thornless Rose,
And Peace for ever sings on sunny slopes 1

III. THE WANING YEAn.

Did I not see the brown and withering leaves.

And the chill aspect of the cheerless sky.

Yet should I know that winter storms were nigh ;

For now, the redbreast, perched on cottage eaves,

Sadly, as sinks the ashen evening, weaves

Into the wailing wind that whistles by

A desolate strain of touching melody,

Like one whom death of some last hope bereaves.

And lo ! high overhead, the watery moon,

AVith a rapidity betokening fear.

Hurries through vapoury clouds, thin, dark, and wild !

— Yet welcome, dreary season ! Though too soon

Fors.ime thou com'st — to me, O Waning Year,

Thou usherest in a time that ever smiled.

Printed by Slewati and Co., Old Batley.

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Friendship's Offering
1835

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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY