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Les passions sont les vents qui enflent les voiles du vais- 
seau : elles le submergeut quelquefois, mais sans dies il ne 
pourrait voguer. Tout est dangereux ici-bas, et tout est 

^I&iri) ©tJitiott, 



London : Printed by Schulze and Dean, 
13, Poland Street. 



Glenarvon was written and committed 
to the press without permission, commu- 
nication, advice, or assistance — this may 
account for, though it cannot excuse all 
the slighter, and many, it is trusted, of 
the more serious errors of the composi- 
tion. But if indeed the charge of im- 
moral tendency, which some have pre- 
ferred against these volumes, be well- 
founded, what palliation can in any de- 
gree extenuate so great an offence, or 
what praise can compensate for so odious 
an imputation ? The Author must bow 
with submission to the adverse judgment 
of the public, if that judgment be once 
pronounced decidedly, and upon due 
consideration ; but the flattering hope 



had been indulged, that the general ten- 
dency of the work was favourable to the 
interests of virtue. It is too late, it is 
presumed, to enquire whether those in- 
terests are, or are not injured by the de- 
scription of desperate characters, depraved 
conduct, and daring crimes ? Such have 
been from the earliest to the most recent 
times, the subjects of fiction ; such have 
ever been the themes of tragedians of all 
countries ; of the writers of novels, ro- 
mances, and romantic poems ; and the 
present period presents us with almost 
daily examples, which at least equal, if 
they do not surpass their prototypes of 
old, in the horrors, and atrocities, whicli 
they describe. 

The scene of the following pages is 
laid, for the most part, in Ireland, in the 
time of the Irish Rebellion. The events 
have no foundation in fact, and with re- 
spect to the characters, the painter well 
knows, that, when he is sketching the 
personages of history, or the creatures 


of his imagination, the lineaments, with 
which he is most familiar, will sometimes 
almost involuntarily rise beneath the 
touch of his pencil. The same cause has 
perhaps produced in this work, those 
resemblances, if resemblances they be, 
which have been recognized, admitted, 
claimed with so much eagerness, and 
then condemned with so much asperity. 
Yet a distinction is always to be drawn 
between the attempt at painting human 
nature as it is, and the base desire of de- 
forming, and degrading it. The crimes 
related in these volumes are evidently 
imaginary ; the situations fictitious ; much 
of the ridicule which has received a per- 
sonal application, is harmless in itself, 
and directed against trifling peculiarities; 
some imputations there are, no doubt 
of a heavier nature, and these were 
conceived to have been justified by in- 
jury and provocation. The language of 
resentment is generally more violent, 
than the occasion demands, and he who 


uses it, is of all mankind the least quali- 
fied to judge impartially of its propriety ; 
but those who suffer deeply, will express 
themselves strongly ; those w ho have 
been cruelly attacked, will use the means 
of resistance, which are within their 
reach ; and observations, which appear 
to a general observer, bitter and acrimo- 
nious, may perhaps wear another cha- 
racter to him who is acquainted with the 
circumstances, which occasioned them. 
This work is not the offspring of calm 
tranquillity, and cool deliberation, it 
does not bear the marks of such a temper, 
or of such a situation. It was written 
under the pressure of affliction, with the 
feelings of resentment which are excited 
by misrepresentation, and in the bitter- 
ness of a wounded spirit, which is natu- 
rally accompanied by a corresponding bit- 
terness both of thought and expression. 

" The blood will follow, where the knife is driven 5 
" The flesh will quiver, where the pincer tears, 
" And sighs and tears by nature grow on pain." 


These avowals being fairly, and dis- 
tinctly made, an appeal is still confidently 
urged to those, who have read impartially, 
whether, whatever may be the character 
of the more general reflections, the fea- 
tures of the few supposed portraits are 
overcharged and distorted, as if by the 
hand of malevolence, or whether their 
beauties, are not studiously heightened 
and brought forth, and their defects in 
some measure thrown into shade and 

When we cast a glance around us upon 
the frailty of human nature, and the 
errors and follies of the world, we must, 
it is to be feared, confess that malignity, 
had malignity guided the pen, might, 
without departing from truth, or in the 
slightest degree infringing the sacred 
confidence of friendship, have found 
it easy to expose foibles far more ridicu- 
lous, and to cast aspersions far more ill 
natured and injurious. — One observation 
further there is an anxiety to press upon 


the consideration of the public. The 
Author cannot be accused of having 
sought the favour of those who are gene- 
rally admired, and courted, of those who 
are powerful in influence and popularity, 
who are surrounded by friends and sup- 
porters, and who give, in a great measure, 
the tone and turn to the conversation of 
society, and the opinions of the world ; 
nor on the other hand, is the shaft of 
satire in any one instance directed against 
the weak, the fallen, or the defenceless. 

In the vain, frivolous and unrestrained 
character of Calantha, and in the kind, 
the generous, the noble one of Avondale, it 
was intended to enforce the danger of too 
entire liberty either of conduct, or of 
opinion ; and to shew that no endow- 
ments, no advantages, can ensure happi- 
ness and security upon earth, unless we 
adhere to the forms, as well as to the prin- 
ciples of religion and morality. Nor will 
it be held by the truly wise, or the trufy 
pious, to be too heavy an imputation 


upon the character of Lord Avondale, 
that he is represented as having in early 
youth suffered his mind to be overpow- 
ered, and his judgment in some measure 
misled by the vain wisdom, and false 
philosophy, which have distinguished and 
disturbed the times, in which it has been 
our fortune to live. The error attribut- 
ed, is one which unhappily has been in 
our day neither unusual, nor unnatural; 
it is one, into which have fallen men 
of the most powerful talents, and the 
warmest hearts, betrayed often by a confi- 
dence in their own strength ; and with the 
candid and tolerant the question will ever 
be, not whether the delusion has prevailed 
for a time, but whether it has been after- 
wards shaken off by the returning recti- 
tude of the feelings, and the growing 
vigour of the understanding. If this cha- 
racter had been represented, (as would 
have been easy) without blame or blemish, 
it would also have been without proba- 
bility, without interest, without admoni- 


tion. This transient error, which darkens 
for a moment the splendor of Avondale's 
virtues, is adduced not as forming an 
apology for the misconduct of Calantha, 
but as accounting for the tenderness and 
mercy, her husband afterwards evinced, 
when remembering that perhaps he had 
too little sought to strengthen and con- 
firm in her, those principles, which none 
more deeply venerated, or more strictly 
observed than himself. He commiser- 
ated her fate and wept upon her grave. 
The character of Calantha, of the Miss 
Seymours, of Lady Dartford, may be in part 
applied to many — they are not out of na- 
ture, nor overstrained ; those of Miss St.- 
Clare and Lad^ Margaret Buchanan are 
-iiore entirely fictitious. Their situation, 
their disposition, their vices, their projects 
have not the remotest allusion to any per- 
son who ever existed, or to any event that 
ever took place. Designing ill-will and 
erring curiosity, may exert themselves to 
discover realities in murdei^s, intrigues, 


marriages and separations, which have 
been only introduced for the sake of giv- 
ing some interest to the narrative ; but 
good sense, and discernment, will easily 
distinguish between such ill-founded 
applications, and those observations in 
which, it is trusted, the fair freedom 
of remark, and censure, which belongs 
to the British press, has neither been 
exceeded, nor abused. 

It is needless further to explain the 
plan, and object of each particular pas- 
sage, or character, which is introduced 
into the composition. Unless that object 
be delineated with such clearness, as to 
exhibit itself to the mind of the reader in 
the moment of perusal, it is vain to sug- 
gest and point it out in the preface. The 
whole has been written with the general 
design of inculcating the necessity of 
seeing both actions and opinions, in their 
true light, and as they really are ; of found- 
ing religion, not Hke Calantha, upon en- 
thusiasm, but upon reason and faith ; of 


founding morality, upon principle and 
experience, not upon ignorance of evil. 
If in any part of the work, any deviation 
from this prescribed course can be disco- 
vered : if any sentiment throughout these 
volumes, appears even to approach to the 
toleration of vice and immorality, it is 
vain now to say, how from the heart it 
is wished unwritten ; but in censures, 
which spring from very different motives, 
in misconstructions, misrepresentations, 
and, above all, in the charge of malevo-^ 
lence, the author never will silently and 
tamely acquiesce. 



In the town of Belfont, in Ireland, lived 
a learned physician of the name of Eve- 
rard St. Clare. He had a brother, who, 
misled by a fine but wild imagination, 
which raised him too far above the in- 
terests of common life, had squandered 
away his small inheritance; and had 
long roved through the world, rapt in 
poetic visions, foretelling, as he pretend- 
ed, to those who would hear him, that 
which futurity would more fully develop. 
— Camioli was the name he had as- 

It was many years since Sir Everard 
last beheld his brother, when one night 
Camioli, bearing in his arms Elinor his 

VOL. I. B 


child, about five years of age, returned, 
after long absence, to his native town, 
and knocked at Sir Everard's door. The 
doctor was at the castle hard by, and his 
lady refused admittance to the mean- 
looking strafiger. Without informing 
her of his name, Camioli departed, and 
resolved to seek his sister the Abbess of 
Glenaa. The way to the convent was 
long and dreary : he climbed, therefore, 
with his lovely burthen to the topmost 
heights of Inis Tara, and sought tempo- 
rary shelter in a cleft of the mountain 
known by the name of the " Wizard's 
Glen." Bright shone the stars that night, 
and to the imagination of the aged seer, 
it seemed in sleep, that the spirits of de- 
parted heroes and countrymen, freed from 
the bonds of mortality, were ascending 
in solemn grandeur before his eyes; — 
Glenarvon's form appeared before him — 
his patron 1 his benefactor! — he spoke of 
times long past, of scenes by all forgot, 
pointed with a look of despondency to 


his infant son ! — " Who shall protect the 
orphan that is destitute ?" he cried — 
" who shall restore him to the house of 
his fathers T' 

From visions so wild and terrible, the 
soft sweet voice of his child awoke Ca- 
mioli — '' How cold and dreary it is, dear 
father ; how lone these hills. I am weary 
unto death, yet I fear to sleep." — " My 
comforter, my delight, my little black- 
eyed darling,'' said the Bard, (enveloping 
her in his long dark mantle,) '' I will 
soon take you to a place of safety. My 
sister, the Abbess of Glenaa, lives in the 
valley beneath the mountain : she will 
protect my Elinor ; and, in her mansion, 
my child shall find an asylum. I shall 
leave you but for a short time ; we shall 
meet again, Elinor; — yes, we shall meet 
again. — Continue to live with St. Clara, 
your aunt: obey her in all things, for 
she is good : and may the God of Mercy 
avert from you the heaviest of all my 
calamities, the power of looking into 
B 2 


futurity." — He spoke, and descending 
the rugged mountain path, placed his 
Elinor under the protection of his sister 
the Abbess of Glenaa, and bidding her 
farewell, walked hastily away. 

The morning sun, when it arose, shone 
bright and brilliant upon the valley of 
Altamonte — its gay castle, and its lake. 
But a threatening cloud obscured the sky, 
as Camioli raised his eyes, and turned 
them mournfully upon the ruined priory 
of St. Alvin, and the deserted halls of Bel- 
font. — *' Woe to the house of Glenar- 
von !" he said. " Woe to the house of 
my patron and benefactor ! Desolation 
and sorrow have fallen upon the mighty. 
— Mourn for the hero who is slain in 
battle. Mourn for the orphan who is 
left destitute and in trouble. . . . Bright 
shone the sun upon thy battlements, O 
Belfont, on the morn when the hero bade 
thee ?. last ^dieu. Cold are thv waters, 
Killarney ; and many a tree has been 
hewn from thy rocky bosom, thou fair 


fountain Glenaa, since the hour in 
which he parted. But not so cold, nor 
so barren is thy bosom, as is that of the 
widow who is bereft of every joy. . . 
Mourn for the house of Glenarvon, and 
the orphan who is destitute! — No mo- 
ther — no companion of boyish sports and 
pleasures yet lives to greet him with one 
cheering smile. — There is not left one 
tongue to welcome him to his native 
land ; or, should he fall, one friend to 
shed a tear upon his grave!** 

Thus Sling the Bard, while the red deer 
were browsinq: upon the hills, and the 
wind whistled through the arches and 
colonnades of the Castle of Behont, as if 
in hollow murmurs for times whirh were 
long past. — " Woe to the house of our 
patron,*' said the frenzied old man, as 
with bitter tears he departed: — " even in 
this moment of time, the fairest star of 
Belfont sets forever: the widowed Coun- 
tess of Glenarvon is dead — dead in a fo- 
reign country ; and stranger hands alone 


perform her obsequies." He spoke, and 
looked, for the last time, upon the land 
that he loved, then turned from it as if 
for ever.. ..Previous, however, to his de- 
parture from Ireland, Camioli again 
sought his brother, (who was then an 
inmate in the family of the Duke of Al- 
tamonte,) for the purpose of commending 
Elinor to his care. 

Castle Delaval, the property of that 
nobleman, was situated in a valley shel- 
tered from every keen blast by a dark 
wood of beach and fir. The river Elle, 
taking its rise amidst the Dartland Hills, 
flowed through the park, losing by de- 
grees the character of a mountain torrent, 
as it spread itself between rich and varied 
banks in front of the castle, till it joined 
the sea beyond the Wizard's Glen, The 
town of Belfont stands close upon the 
harbour, and from one of the highest 
cliffs, the ruins of the convent of St. 
Mary, and a modern chapel may yet be 
seen, whilst Heremon and Inis Tara, 


raising their lofty summits, capped with 
snow, soar above the clouds. 

The abbey of Belfont, snd th© priory 
of St. Alvin, both the property of the 
Glenarvon family, were row, in conse- 
quence of the forfeiture of the late Earl 
of that name, transferred to Lord de 
Ruthven, a distant relation. Thedsserted 
priory had fallen into ruin, and Belfont 
abbey, as yet unclaimed by its youthful 
master, and pillaged by the griping hand 
of its present owner, exhibited a melan- 
choly picture of neglect and oppression. 
— No cheerful fires blaze in its ancient 
halls; no peasants and vassals feast under 
its vaulted roofs. — Glenarvon, the hero, 
the lord of the demesne is dead : he fell 
on the bloody field of Culloden : his son 
perished in exile : and Clarence de Ruth- 
ven, his grandson, an orphan, in a foreign 
land, had never yet appeared to petition 
for his attainted titles and forfeited 
estates. — Of relations and of friends he 
had never heard. 


Where are they who claim kindred 
\vith the unfortunate? Where are they 
who boast of friendship for the orphan 
that is destitute and in trouble? Yet the 
Duke of Altamonte, whose domains were 
contiguous, and whose attachment ex- 
tended to the son of his ancient friend, 
had ofttimes written to his sister enquir- 
ing into the fate of the child ; but Lady 
Margaret had answered her brother's let- 
ters with coldness and indifference. 



It is the common failing of an ambitious 
mind to over-rate itself — to imagine that 
it has, by the caprices of fortune, been 
defrauded of the high honours due to its 
supposed superiority. It conceives itself 
to have been injured — to have fallen from 
its destination ; and these unfounded 
claims become the source of endless dis- 
content. The mind, thus disappointed, 
preys upon itself, and compares its pre- 
sent lowliness with the imaginary heights 
for which it fancies itself to have been 
designed. Under the influence of these 
reflections, the character grows sullen 
and reserved, detaches itself from all 
social enjoyaients, and professes to de- 
spise the honours for which it secretly 
pines. Mediocrity aod a common lot, a 
man of this disposition cannot bring him- 

B 5 


self to endtire ; and he wilfully rejects 
the little granted, because all cannot be 
obtained to which he had aspired. 

In this temper, the Dukeof iVltamonte 
had r. tired from public affairs, and quit- 
ted the splendour and gaiety of the court, 
to seek in retirement that repose which, 
of ail men, he was the least calculated to 
appreciate or enjoy. He had married 
into a Roman Catholic family. In the 
society of the Duchess, he had found 
all that could sooth his wounded spirit: 
in Mrs. Seymour, the duchess's sister, he 
also welcomed a mild and unobtrusive 
guest; while the project of uniting the 
Lady Calantha Delaval, his only daugh- 
ter, to her cousin William Buchanan, 
heir presumptive to the Dukedom of Al- 
tamonte, and son of his sister Lady Mar- 
garet Buchanan, (the titles descending in 
the female line,) occupied his thoughts, 
and engrossed his attention. 

To forward this favourite object, he 
communicated to them both, that they 


were destined for each other; and, by- 
employing them in the same occupations, 
causing them to be instructed in the 
same studies, and in every way contriv- 
ing that they should be continually to- 
gether, he hoped that early habits, and 
the first affections of childhood, might 
unite their hearts in indissoluble bonds. 
But how short-sighted, how little found- 
ed in a right knowledge of human nature, 
was this project ! Habituated to the in- 
timacy which subsists between near re- 
lations, was it probable that love, when 
the age of that passion arrived, would be 
content with objects thus familiar; and 
that the feelings of the heart would 
quietly acquiesce in an arrangement 
which had been previously formed upon 
the calculations of interest and family 
pride? — On the contrary, the system pur- 
sued in their education, accustomed them 
in their intercourse with each other, to 
give way to their violent tempers, with- 
out restraint; and the frequent recurrence 


of petty quarrels, soon produced senti- 
ments, which bordered on dislike; so 
that at the moment when the Duke 
hoped to exult in the success, he had to 
contemplate the failure, of his project. 

Happily,a most important event occur- 
red at this time in his family, which turned 
his thoughts into another channel. — The. 
Duchess, after a long period of ill health, 
was pronounced by her physicians to be 
once more in a situation to realize her 
husband's most sanguine hopes. — " If I 
have a boy,'' he cried, " from the hour 
of his birth, all I possess shall be his. 
Give me but a son, ye powers who rule 
over destiny, and I consent to yield up 
every other claim, privilege and posses- 
sion." — The wish was heard, and at the 
appointed time, the Duchess of Alta- 
monte, after a few hours' illness, was de- 
livered of a son and heir. It was in vain 
for the Duke, that until this event he 
said to himself daily as he arose from his 
stately bed, that none other was his rival 


in wealth or power ; — it was in vain that 
friends surrounded him, and flatterers 
attended upon his least commands: — 
until this unexpected, and almost un- 
hoped for, event, he could not be said to 
have enjoyed one hour of felicity, so un- 
wisely did he blind himself to every other 
blessing: which he possessed ; and so ar- 
dently solicitous did he suffer his mind 
to become, for that one boon which alone 
had been refused to his prayers. But 
since the birth of his son, he looked 
around him, and he had nothins: left to 
wish for upon earth ; his heart became 
agitated with its own satisfaction; and 
the terror of losing the idol upon which 
every feeling and affection was fixed, 
rendered him more miserable than he 
was even before the fulfilment of his 

The education of the Lady Calantha, 
and William Buchanan was now entirely 
laid aside; the feuds and tumults in the 
adjacent countries were disregarded ; and 


he might be said to live alone in those 
apartments where, robed in state, and 
cradled in luxury, the little infant lay 
helpless, and unconscious of its honours 
and importance. Not a breath of air was 
suffered to blow too rudely upon the 
most noble and illustrious Sidney x\lbert, 
Marquis of Delaval. The tenants and 
peasantry flocked, from far and near, to 
do him homage, gazing in stupid wonder 
on their future Lord. The Duchess 
feebly resisted the general voice, which 
encouraged an excess of care, hurtful to 
the health of him, whom all were but 
too solicitous to preserve. Yet the boy 
flourished, unaffected by this adulation, 
the endless theme of discussion, the 
constant object of still increasing ido- 

Without delay, the Duke resolved to 
ietimate to his sister. Lady Margaret 
Buchanan, who was at Naples, the change 
wnicn had taKen piace in ner son^s ex- 
pectations. He felt the necessity of soft- 


ening the disclosure by every soothing 
expression ; and, as he loved her most 
sincerely, he wrote to urge her imnriediate 
return, with all the warmth of fraternal 
affection; — informing her at the same 
time of the circumstance which at once 
occasioned his delight, and her disap- 
pointment. With what fond overweening 
vanity did he then flatter himself, that 
she, who was the next dearest object of 
his affections, would share his present 
joy ; and forgetful of the entire ruin of 
her fondest hope, doat like him upon the 
child who had deprived lier son of all his 
expectations ! He knew not Lady Mar- 
garet : — less than any other, he knew 
that fierce spirit which never yet had 
been controled — which deemed itself 
born to command, and would have 
perished sooner than have endured re- 

At this very period of time, having 
bade adieu to brighter climes and more 
polished manners, with all the gaiety of 


apparent innocence, and all the brilliancy 
of wit whicl) bplong: to spirits light as 
air, and a refined and highly ci itivated 
genius, she was sailing in the prosecu- 
tion of ht^r accursed designs, accompa- 
nied by a train of admirers, selected from 
the flower of Italy, once again to visit 
her native country. With their voices 
and soft guitars, they chased away the 
lingering hours ; and after a h\r and pro- 
sperous voyage, proceeded, with their 
equipages and attendants to Castle De- 

Lady Margaret was received with de- 
light at the house of her father, in her 
native land. A burst of applause liailed 
her first appearance before the wondering 
crowd assembled to behold her. Fond 
of admiration, even from the lowest, she 
lingered on the terrace, which command- 
ed the magnificent scenery of which 
Castle Delaval was the central object — 
leaning upon the arm of the Duke, and 
bowing gracefully to the people, as if in 


thanks for their flattering reception. Bu- 
chanan alone met his mother without 
one mark of joy. Cold and reserved, 
from earliest childhood, he had never yet 
felt attachnient for any other being than 
himself; and fuWy engrossed by the 
splendour with which he was at all times 
surrounded, he looked with indifference 
on every event which did not promote or 
prevent Ids own personal amusements. 
He saw many new guests arrive without 
experiencing the slightest accession of 
pleasure- .lud wiieu those departed whom 
he had beeii in the habit of seeing around 
him, ii seltlom cost him even a momen- 
tary regret. He had so long and so fre- 
quently been informed that he was heir 
of the immense possessions belonging to 
his uncle, that he was overpowered by 
the sense of his greatness ; nor did the 
commiseration of his attendants, on his 
disappointed hopes, awaken him to the 
conviction of the great change which had 
occurred since the birth of the Marquis 


of Delaval. Indeed he seemed as indif- 
ferent on this occasion as on all others. 
Yet whatever his errors, he was at least 
in person and manner all that Lady Mar- 
garet could wish. She was also much 
pleased with Calantha, and thought she 
traced, in her radiant countenance, some 
resemblance to her own. 

The Duchess of Altamonte won the 
affections of all who approached her. 
She had a countenance in which languor 
and delicacy added sensibility and grace 
to beauty,— an air of melancholy half 
veiled in smiles of sweetness, — and a 
form soft and fragile as the bright fic- 
tions of a poet's dream ; yet a visible 
sadness had fallen upon her spirits, and 
whilst she appeared alone to sooth and 
bless every other heart, she seemed her- 
self in need of consolation. Lady Mar- 
garet's beauty irresistibly attracted ; her 
wit enlivened ; and her manners fasci- 
nated — but the dreadful secrets of her 
heart appalled ! 


Lady Margaret was not much liked by- 
Mrs. Seymour, nor by many other of the 
guests who frequented the castle. Her 
foreign domestics, her splendid attire, 
her crafty smiles, and highl}^ polished 
manners, — all were in turn criticised and 
condemned. But neither prejudice nor 
vulgarity received from her lips the 
slightest censure. She did not even ap- 
pear to see the ill will shewn to her. 
Yet many thought the discorc-s and dis- 
asters which occurred after her arrival in 
Ireland, were the fruits of her intriguing 
spirit, and all soon or late regretted her 
presence at the castle, till then, the seat 
of uninterrupted harmony and almost 
slumberous repose. 



Lady Margaret Delaval, only surviving 
sister of the Duke of Altamonte, was 
born in Trel uid, wiiere she r inained until 
her marriage vith Captain Buchanan. 
She then established herself at Naples; 
the fleet in which her husband served 
being stationed in the Medit^rr^mean Sea. 
After rhe birth of her son William, she 
jmmediatf'ly sent him to Ireland, there 
to receive, under her brother's tuition, 
an education more fitting the heir of Al- 
tamonte, and the future husband of Lady 
Calantha Delaval. 

Freed from the last tie which had 
bound her to one feeling of honour or of 
virtue, she, without remorse, gave way 
during the absence of her child and hus- 
band (who accompanied the boy to Ire- 
land) to a life of extravagance and vice, 


ensnaring the inexperienced by her art, 
and fasf'irjan'ng the most wary by her 
beauty and her talents. T'ne charms of 
her pi rson and the endowments of her 
mind were worthy of a better tate than 
that whic!h slie was preparing for htrself. 
But, under the semblance of youthful 
gaiety, she concealed a dark intriguing 
spirit, which could neither remain at rest, 
nor satist'y itself in the pursuit of great 
and noble objects. She had been hurried 
on by the evil activity oi her own mind, 
until the habit of crime had overcome 
every scruple, and rendered her insen- 
sible to repentance, and almost to re- 
morse. In this career, she had improved 
to such a degree her natural talent of dis- 
simulation, that, under its impenetrable 
veil, she was able to carry on securely 
her darkest machinations ; and her un- 
derstanding had so adapted itself to her 
passions, that it was in her power to give, 
in her own eyes, a character of grandeur 
to the vice and malignity, which aflbrded 


an inexplicable delight to her deprived 

While she was thus indulging her dis- 
graceful inclinations, her heart becanie 
attached with all her characteristic vio- 
lence to Lord Dartford, a young English 
nobleman, who had accompanied the 
Countess of Glenarvon to Naples, and 
who, after passing some months in her 
society, had already made her the offer of 
his hand. He no sooner, however, be- 
held Lady Margaret than he left that ob- 
ject of his first attachment ; and the 
short-lived happiness of guilty passion 
was thus enhanced by a momentary 
triumph over a beautiful and unfortunate 
rival. — Lady Glenarvon lived not to 
lament it : the blow which was given 
by the hand she loved, went straight as 
it was aimed ; it pierced her heart ; she 
did not long survive. 

Her son, already advancing towards 
manhood, she committed to the care of 
the Count Gondimar, the only being 


who, amongst the numerous attendants 
in the hours of her prosperity, had re- 
mained with her in this last trying scene, 
and received her dying wishes. — " He 
has no father," she said, weeping in re- 
membrance of the gallant husband she 
had lost ; " but to you I consign this 
jewel of my heart, the dear and only 
pledge of my true and loyal love. — 
Whatever crime I have committed since 
the loss of Glenarvon, my only protector, 
let not a shade of it be cast upon my son, 
or sully the bright splendor of his father's 
fame ! Promise a dying mother to pro- 
tect her child, should he be restored to 
his grandfather's titles and fortunes. To 
you, to you I entrust him. Ah ! see 
that he be safelv conducted to his own 

The Italian Count promised all that 
Lady Glenarvon desired ; and wept as he 
kissed the faded cheek of the English 
boy. But no sooner was the momentary 
interest which he had conceived for the 


unhappy sufferer ?t an end — no sooner 
had Lady Glenarvon expired, than, dis- 
regar'iiug her last request, he sought 
only to render himself useful and neces- 
sary to her son. For this purpose he 
eagerly assisted him in all his pursuits, 
however criminal, and whilst he lived 
upon the sums which were regularly sent 
from Ireland to supply the necessary ex- 
penses of his charge, he lost no oppor- 
tunity of flattering Lord de Ruthven, the 
present possessor of the estate, and of 
conniving with him in the means of de- 
taing Glenarvon in Italy, and thus de- 
priving him of a great share of his pro- 
perty. Gondimar*s lessons were, how- 
ever, in this instance unnecessary; Gle- 
narvon soon emancipated himself from 
his tuition ; and the utmost the base 
Italian could boast was, that he had 
assisted in perverting a heart already by 
nature but too well inclined to misuse 
the rare gifts with which it had been 


Glenarvon passed the first years after 
his mother's death, in visiting Rome ad 
Florence. He then expressed a wish of 
entering the navy; and having obtained 
his desire, he served under the comaiand 
of Sir George Buchanan. He even dis- 
tinguished himself in his new profes- 
sion ; but having done so, abruptly left 

Love, it was said, was the cause of this 
sudden change in Glenarvon's intentions 
— love for the most beautiful woman in 
Florence. Young as he then was, his 
talents and personal attractions soon 
gained the object of his pursuit ; but a 
dreadful tragedy followed this success. 
The husband of Fiorabella revenged the 
stigma cast upon his wife's fame, by in- 
stantly sacrificing her to his vengeance; 
and, since that fatal deed, neither the 
Chevalier nor Glenarvon had ever again 
appeared in Florence. 

Some said that the unhappy victim hnd 
found an avenger ; but the proud and 

VOL. I. c 


noble family of the Chevalier preserved 
a faithful silence concerning that trans- 
action. Glenarvon's youth prevented 
any suspicion from falling upon him; 
and the death of Giardini was ascribed 
to another, and a more dangerous hand. 
Strange rumours were also circulated in 
Ireland, after this event ; it was every 
where affirmed that Glenarvon had been 
secretly murdered ; and Lady Margaret, 
then at Naples, had even written to ap- 
prize her brother of the report. 



About the time of the disappearance 
of Gienarvon, Captain Buchanan died; 
Lady Margaret then expected that Lord 
Dartford would immediately fulfil his 
engagement, and reward her long and 
devoted attachment to himself by the 
offer of his hand. Count Gondimar was 
with her at the time. In all companies, 
in all societies, the marriage was con- 
sidered certain. One alone seemed eager 
to hear this report contradicted — one 
who, dazzled by the charms and beauty 
of Lady Margaret, had devoted himself, 
from the first hour in which he had be- 
held her, entirely to her service. The 
name of the young enthusiast was Vi- 
viani. A deep melancholy preyed upon 
his spirits ; a dark mystery enveloped his 
fate. Gondimar had, with some coldness, 
c 2 


introduced him to Lady Margaret. He 
was the friend of the lost Glenarvon, he 
said, and on that account alone he had 
strong claims upon his affection. Lady 
Margaret received the stranger with more 
than common civility: his ill state of 
health, his youth, his beauty, were 
powerful attractions. He confided his 
sorrows to her bosom; and soon he dared 
to inform her that he loved. 

Lady Margaret was now more than 
usually attentive to Lord Dartford : the 
day even for her intended nuptials was 
supposetl to be fixed. " Oh give not 
that hand to one who values not the 
prize," said the young Count Viviani, 
throwing himself before her: " let not 
Dartford call himself your lord ; his love 
and mine must never be compared.*' — 
" Go, foolish boy,*' said Lady Margaret, 
smiling on her new victim: '* I can be 
your frienci, as readily when I am Lord 
Dartford's wife as now.'' Her young 
admirer shuddered, and rose from the 


earth: ''You must be mine alone: — 
none other shall a}3proach you." ** The 
disparity of our ages." " What of that?** 
" Enough, enough. I will give my hand 
to Dartford ; my heart, you know, will 
still be at your disposal." A deep blush 
covered the pale cheek of Viviani, he 
uttered one convulsive sigh, and left her 
to ruminate on his hopeless fate ; for 
every thing, he was informed, was pre- 
pared for the approaching nuptials. 

But they knew little of the nature of 
man, who could coiiceive that Lord Dart- 
ford had one serious thought of uniting 
himself to Lady Margaret by any lasting 
ties. On the contrary, he suddenly and 
secretly, without even taking leave of 
her, departed for ngland ; and the first 
letter which she received from him, to 
inform her of his absence, announced to 
her, likewise, his marriao;e with .» la ly of 
fortune and rank in his native country. 

Lady Margaret was at dinner with a 
numerous company, and amongst them 


the young count, when the letters from 
England were placed before her. The 
quivering of her lip and the rolling of her 
dark eye might have betrayed, to a keen 
observer, the anguish of a disordered spi- 
rit; but, recovering herself with that self- 
command which years of crime and deep 
dissimulation had taught her, she con- 
versed as usual, till it was time for her 
to depart; nor till alone in her own 
apartment did she suffer herself to give 
vent to the fury which opprest her. For 
some moments she paced the room in 
silent anguish ; then kneeling down and 
calling upon those powers, whose very 
existence she had so often doubted : 
" Curse him ! curse him !" she exclaim- 
ed. *' O may the curse of a bitter and 
deeply injured heart, blast every promise 
of his happiness ; pursue him through 
life; and follow him to the grave! — 
May he live to be the scorn of his ene- 
mies, the derision of the world, without 
one friend to soften his afflictions! — 


May those, whom he has cherished, for- 
sake him in the hour of need ; and the 
companion he has chosen, prove a ser- 
pent to betray him ! — May the tear of 
agony, which his falsehood has drawn 
from these eyes, fall with tenfold bitter- 
ness from his own ! — And nTay this 
blooming innocent, this rival, who has 
supplanted me in his affections, live to 
feel the pangs she has inflicted on my 
soul ; or perish in the pride of her youth, 
with a heart as injured, as lacerated as 
mine 1 — Oh, if there are curses yet un- 
named, prepared by an angry God, 
against offending man, may they fall 
upon the head of this false, this cold- 
hearted Dartford !'" 

She arose, and gasped for breath. She 
threw up the sash of the window; but 
the cool air, the distant lashing of the 
waves, the rising moon and the fine scene 
before her, had no power to calm, even 
for one momsnt, a heart torn by guilt 
and tortured by self-reproach. A knock 


at the door roused her from her medita- 
tions. It was the fair Italian boy ; he 
had followerl her ; for, at a glance, he 
had penetrated her secret. With a smile 
of scorn he upbraided her for her weak- 
ness. — *' What! in tears lady \" he said: 
*' is it possible? can a marriage, a disap- 
pointment in love, overpower you thusT' 
Lady Margaret, affecting a calmness she 
could not feel, and opposing art to art, 
endeavoured to repel his taunting expres- 
sions. But he knew her thoughts, he at 
once saw through the smiles and assumed 
manners which blinded others ; and at 
this moment he watched her countenance 
with malignant delight. It was the face 
of an angel, distorted by the passions of 
a daemon ; and he liked it not the less 
for the frailty it betrayed. 

It happened, however, that he had 
just attained the means of turning the 
tide of her resentment from its present 
channel, ad by awakening her ambition 
— her ruling passion, of at once quench- 


ing every softer feeling. " You have 
read I perceive/' he said, '' but one of 
the epistles with which you have been 
favoured; and I am already b- fore hand 
with you, in hearing news of fir greater 
importance than the loss of a lover — The 
Duchess of Altamonte, *' — " What of 
her?" " After a few hours illness," 
continued Viviani, drawing one of the 
English papers from his pocket, " the 
Duchess of Altamonte is safely delivered 
of a son and heir." The blood forsook 
Lady Margaret's lips: " I am lost then T* 
she said : '• the vengeance of Heaven 
has overtaken me! where shall I turn 
for succour? Is there none upon earth 
to whom lean apply for assistanj*e? Will 
no one of all those who profess so much 
assist me? Sliall Darttbrd triuaiph, and 
my supplanted? Revenge — re- 
venge me, and I will be your slave/' 

If the name of love must be g-iven 
alike to the noblest and most dcfiraved 
of feelings, the young Viviani loved Lady 
c 5 


Margaret with all the fervor of which 
his heart was capable. She had made 
liim the weak instrument of her arts ; 
and knowing him too well to place her- 
self in his power, she had detained him 
near her, by all the varying stratagems 
of which her sex is sometimes mistress. 
— He now knelt before her, and, reading 
in her fierce countenance her dreadful 
wishes, " I will revenge thee," he said : 
" yes it shall be done 1" '' Blood — 
blood is the price!" said Lady Margaret. 
" My son must be Duke of Altamonte," 
returned Lady Margaret, deeply agitat- 
ed. — '' He shall." — "Swear it, my love- 
liest, my youngest friend 1" — " By the 
living God of Heaven, I swear it." — 
" Ah ! but your courage will fail at the 
moment : your heart, intrepid as I think 
it, will shudder and misgive you. — Say 
where, and how, it can be done with 
safety." " Leave that to me : keep your 
own counsel ; I will do the rest. 
He spoke, and left her. 


When tb^y met again, the following 
day, not one word was uttered upon the 
dreadful subject of their former dis- 
course : the compact between them was 
considered as made : and when once 
again the Count Viviani spoke of his 
passion, and his hopes, Lady Margaret 
reminded him of his vow ; and a fearful 
silence ensued. Revenge and ambition 
had urged her to a determination, which 
a sentiment of prudence inclined her to 
retract. Viviani, unconscious of her wa- 
vering resolution, enjoyed a momentary 
triumph. ''Is not this extacy ?" he 
exclaimed, as he viewed the woman he 
now considered as entirely bound to him. 
" Is it not rapture thus to love?'* " Re- 
venge is sweet,'* she answered. " Will 
you give yourself to me, Margaret? Shall 
I indeed press you to my burning heart! 
say — can you love?" ''Aye, and hate 
too,'* she replied, as, convulsed with 
agony, she shrunk from the caresses of 
her importunate admirer. 


From that hour he. courted her with 
unremitting assiduity : he was the slave 
of every new caprice, which long indul- 
gence of every selfish feeling could 
awaken. But the promised hour of his 
happiness was delayed ; and his passion 
thus continually fed by hope, and yet 
disappointed, overcame in his bosom 
every feeling of humanity, till he no 
longer cherished a thought that did not 
tend to facilitate the immediate gratifi- 
cation of his wishes. 



It was not long after Lady Margaret^s 
arrival at the castle that Count Gondi- 
mar proposed returning to Italy. Pre- 
vious to his departure, he sought his 
friend Yiviani, who was at this time con- 
cealed in the town of Belfont, and who, 
in order to pronnote his designs, had 
never openly appeared at the castle. 
" How strong must be the love," said 
Gondiniar, addressing him, " which can 
thus lead you to endure concealment, 
straits and difficulty ! Return with me : 
there are others as fair: your youthful 
heart pictures to itself strange fancies ; 
but in reality this woman is not worthy 
of you. You love her not, and it is but 
imagination which thus deceives you.'' 
" I will not leave her — I cannot go,'' said 
Viviani impatiently : " one burning pas- 


sion annihilates in me every other con- 
sideration ! Ah ! can it merit the name 
of prission — the phrenzy which rages 
within me ! Gondimar, if I worshipped 
the splendid star, that flashed along my 
course, and dazzled me -with its meteor 
blaze, even in Italian climes, imagine 
what she now appears to me, in these 
cold northern regions. I too can some- 
times pause to think whether the sacri- 
fice I have made is not too great. But 
I have drained the poisoned cup to the 
dregs. I have prest the burning fire- 
brand to my heart, till it has consumed 
me — and come what may, now, I am 
resolved she shall be mine, though the 
price exacted were blood.'* Gondimar 
shuddered. > 

It was soon after this that he returned 
to Italy. The evening before he depart- 
ed, he once more in secret affectionately 
embraced his friend. " She has deceived 
me,'* cried Viviani ; " Months have 
glided by, and she still evades my suit. 

GLEN A R VON-. 39 

But the hour of success approaches : — 
to-morrow :— nay, perhaps, to-night.... 
If thou, Gondimar — oh ! if thou couldst 
believe: yet wherefore should I betray 
myself, or shew, to living man, one 
thought belonging to the darkest of hu- 
man hearts. This alone know — I dare 
do every thing: and I will possess her. 
See, she appears — that form of majesty — 
that brow of refulgent brightness. The 
very air I breathe speaks to me of her 
charms. What matters it to me, whilst 
I gaze entranced upon her, if the earth 
shake to its foundations, and rivers of 
blood were streaming around me! — 
Pity me, Gondimar. — Pardon me.- — Fare- 

Hurried on by mad passion, Viviani, 
who constantly visited Lady Margaret, 
was now upon the eve of fulfilling her 
wishes. Yet once, in the hope of dis- 
suading his savage mistress from her 
bloody purpose, he placed the infant in 
her arms, and bade her tak\3 pity on its 


helpless innocence. " See thy own — 
thy brother's image in those eyes — that 
smile," he whispered ; " ah ! can you 
have the heart?" But Lady Margaret 
turned from the child in haughty dis- 
pleasure, thrusting it from her as if afraid 
to look on it ; and, for many days, would 
not vouchsafe to speak to the weak in- 
strument of her criminal ambition. Yet 
he, even he, whose life had been one 
continued course of profligacy, who had 
misused his superior talents to the per- 
version of the innocence of others, and 
the gratification of his own ungoverned 
passions, shuddered at the thought of 
the fearful crime which he had engaged 
himself to commit ! 

His knowledge of human nature, and 
particularly of the worst part of it, was 
too profound to depend upon any per- 
sonal or immediate aid from Lady Mar- 
garet : he, therefore, conceived a project 
which, by any one but himself, would, 
in every view of it, have been considered 


as altogether desperate and impracticable. 
It was, however, a maxim with Viviani, 
which his practice and experience had 
justified, that nothing is impossible to a 
firmly united league of time, money, and 
resolution. Alone, he could liave ac- 
complished nothing ; but he had a sa- 
tellite long trained in his service, who 
possessed every quality which fitted him 
to assist the designs of such a master. 
The name of this man was La Crusca. 
In spite of a seeming wish to conceal 
himself, in conformity, perhaps, with his 
master's designs, this man was known at 
the castle to be a servant to the Count, 
and, by his flattery and the versatility of 
his genius, had become familiar with a 
few of its inhabitants; but shortly after 
his arrival, he had been dismissed, and it 
was now three months and more since 
his departure. 

One evening, according to custom, 
Viviani having secretly entered the castle, 
sought Lady Margaret in her own apart- 


ment; his face was fearfully pale; his 
hand trembled : he approached her, and 
whispered vows of ardour and tenderness 
in the ears of his mistress, and urged his 
suit with every argument he could de- 
vise to overcome her remaining scruples. 
But when he had looked, in expectation 
of a favourable answer, he sprung back 
with terror from her ; for it seemed as if 
the fiends of hell were struggling in her 
eyes and lips for looks and words with 
which to express their horrid desire, al- 
ready, without the aid of words, but too 
sufficiently manifest ! At length, break- 
ing silence, and rising in scorn from her 
seat : '' Have I not promised rnyself to 
you?" she whispered indignantly, "that 
you thus persecute me for the perform- 
ance of a voluntary vow? Do you think 
your protestations can move, and your 
arguments persuade ? Am 1 a timid girl, 
who turns from your suit bashful and 
alarmed ? Or am I one grown old in 
crime, and utterly insensible to its con- 


sequence? — Nothing, you well know, 
can make me yours but my own free 
will ; and never shall that will consign 
me to such fate, till the sickly weed is 
destroyed, and the fair and flourishing 
plant restored to its wonted vigour and 
due honors. " Lady, the deed is already 
done ! This night," said the Italian, 
trembling in every limb, *' yes, on this 
fearful night, I claim the performance of 
. thy vow !" He spoke with an emotion 
she could not mistake. — " Is it possible ?'' 
she said, " my beautiful, my beloved 
friend :" and his hand trembled as he 
gave it her, in token of his assent. — 
Fearing to utter another word, dreading 
even the sound of their own voices, after 
such a disclosure, she soon retired. 

Was it to rest that Lady Margaret re- 
tired ? — No — to the tortures of suspense, 
of dread, ofagony unutterable. A thousand 
times sho started from her bed : — she 
tancied that voices approached the door 
— that shrieks rent the air ; and, if she 
closed her eyes, visions of murder floated 

44 clenarVon. 

before her distracted mind, and pictured 
dreams too horrible for words. Half suf- 
focated by the fever and delirium of her 
troubled imagination, she threw up the 
sash of her window, and listened at- 
tentively to every distant sound. The 
moon had risen in silvery brightness ; 
it lighted, with its beams, the deep 
clear waters of Elle. The wind blew 
loud at times, and sounded mourn- 
fully, as it swept through the whis- 
pering branches of the pines, over the 
dark forest and distant moors. A light 
appeared for one moment, near the wood, 
and then was lost. Lady Margaret, as 
if palsied by terror, remained fixed and 
breathless on the spot; — astt^p approach- 
ed the door ; — it was the step of one 
stealing along, as if anxious no one 
should hear it pass. Again, all was si- 
lent : — so silent, that the grave itself had 
not been more tranquil, and the dead 
could not have looked more pale, more 
calm, more still, than Lady Margaret ! 
But how was that silence broken ? and 


how that calm disturbed ? — By the shrieks 
of an agonized parent — by the burning 
tears of a heart-broken father — by the 
loud unrestrained clamours of the me- 
nial train ; and that proud mansion, so 
lately the seat of gaiety, whose lighted 
porches and festive halls had echoed to 
the song of joy and revelry, presented 
now a scene of lamentation, terror, and 
despair. ...The heir of Altamonte was 
dead — the hope so fondly cherished was 
cut off — the idol, upon whose existence 
so many hearts were fixed, lay in his 
gilded cradle and costly attire, affording 
a lesson impressive, although every day 
repeated, yet unheeded, although impres- 
sive — that it is the nature of man to 
rest his most sanguine expectations upon 
the most frail and uncertain of ail his 

The women who had been employed 
to attend upon him were weeping around 
him. His nurse alone appeared utterly 
insensible to his fate — her eyes were 


fixed — her lips motionless — she obeyed 
every command that was given ; but, 
when left to herself, she continued in the 
same sullen mood. Some called her hard 
and unfeeling, as in loud accents they 
bewailed the dire calamity that had 
fallen on their master's house; but there 
were others who knew that this apparent 
insensibility was the effect of a deeper 
feeling — of a heart that could not recover 
its loss — of a mind totally overthrown. 

She had arisen that morning at her ac- 
customed hour, to take to her breast the 
little infant who slept in the cradle beside 
her. But lifeless was that form which, 
a few hours before, she had laid on its 
pillow, in the full enjoyment of health. 
Spasms, it was supposed, had seized the 
child in his sleep ; for his face was black 
and dreadfully disfigured. All efforts 
to recover him were fruitless. Physician 
nor medicine could avail — the hand of 
death had struck the flower — the vital 
spark was extinguished. 


It was in vain that a distracted mother, 
pressing his cold lips to hers, declared, in 
the agony of hope, that they still retained 
a living warmth. — It was in vain that she 
watched him till her eyes, deceived, fan- 
cied they saw a change imperceptible to 
others — a breath of life restored to that 
lifeless breathless form. It was in vain : 
— and floods of grief, with the sad rites 
of a pompons funeral, were all which the 
afflicted Duke and his sorrowing family 
had to bestow. 

The tenants and peasantry were, accord- 
ing to ancient custom, admitted to sing 
the song of sorrow over the body of the 
child : but no hired mourners were re- 
quired on this occasion ; for the hearts of 
all deeply shared in the affliction of their 
master's house, and wept, in bitter woe, 
the untimely loss of their infant Lord. — • 
It was thus they sung, ever repeating the 
same monotonous and melancholv strain. 


Oh loudly sing the Pillalu, 

And many a tear of sorrow shed ; 

0<A OTTO^ orro, Olalu ; 

Mourn, for the master's child is dead. 

At morn, alon^ the eastern sky. 

We marked an owl, with heavy wing; 

At eve, we heard the benshees cry ; 
And now the song of death we sing ; 
Och orrOi orro, Olalu, 

Ah 1 wherefore, wherefore would ye die ; 

Why would ye leave your parents dear: 
Why leave your sorrowing kinsmen here, 

Nor listen to your people's cry ! 

How will thy mother bear to part 
With one so tender, fair, and sweet ! 

Thou wast the jewel of her heart. 
The pulse, the life that made it beat. 

How sad it is to leave her boy. 

That tender flow' ret all alone : 
To see no more his face of joy, 

And soothe no more his infant moan ! 

But see along the mountain's side. 
And by the pleasant banks of Larney, 

Straight o'er the plains, and woodlands wide, 
13y Castle Brae, and Lock Macharney ; 


See how the sorrowing neighbours throng, • 
With haggard looks and faultering breatli ; 

And as they slowly wind along, 
They sing the mournful song of death ! 

P loudly sing the Pillalu, 

And many a tear of sorrow shed ; 
Och orro, orrOy Olalu / 

Mourn, for the master's child is dead. 

Thus singing, they approached the 
castle, and thus, amidst cries and lamen- 
tations, was Sidney Albert, Marquis of 
Delaval, borne for ever from its gates, 
and entombed with his ancestors in the 
vault of the ancient church, which, for 
many hundred years, had received be- 
neath its pavement the successive genera- 
tions of the family of Altamonte. Heart- 
felt tears, more honourable to the dead 
than all the grandeur which his rank de- 
manded, were shed over his untimely 
grave; while a long mourning and entire 
seclusion from the world, proved that the 
sorrow thus felt was not momentary, but 
lasting as the cause which had occasioned 
it was great. 

VOL. I. D 



As sickness falls heaviest on those who 
are in the full enjoyment of health, so 
grief is most severe, when it comes unex- 
pectedly, in the midst of happiness. — It 
was from this cause, that the Duke, 
more than any one in his family, gave 
vent to the sorrows of his heart ; and 
murmured at the irrecoverable loss, by 
which he had been afflicted. The Duch- 
ess in vain attempted to share and lessen 
the regret of her husband : — he had that 
haughtiness of mind which disdains all 
confidence, and flies from all consolation. 
But of her far keener suffering, for the 
loss she had sustained, little shew was 
made ; for real misery delights not in 
reproaches and complaints. It is like 
charity and love — silent, long suffering, 
and mild. 


There are virtues which admit of no 
description — which inspire on the first 
mention of them but little interest. Great 
faults, and heroic qualities, may be pour- 
trayed ; but those milder merits, w^hich 
contribute so much to the comfort and 
happiness of life — that sweetness of dis- 
position, to which every hour that passes 
by bears an approving testimony, can be 
only felt, enjoyed, and regretted. Bene- 
volence that never fails, patience under 
the heaviest calamities, firmness in friend- 
ship, under every trying change — these 
are among its characteristic features; and 
these were all possessed by the Duchess 
of Altamonte, who seemed to live for no 
other purpose than to endear herself to 
those who surrounded her. 

With this consideration for others, and 
forgetfulness of self, she had apparently 
endured the loss of her son with greater 
fortitude, than had been expected : in- 
deed she sustained it with a degree of 
firmness which religion alone could have 
D 2 

lamoiS UBRARY- 

d'^I glenArvon. 

inspired : she murmured not ; but sub- 
mitted to the trial with the meek spirit 
of pious resignation. — '* My dear, dear 
t>oy, rny pretty Albert" would sometimes 
escape her, and a few tears would wait 
upon the exclamation ; but her whole 
study was to lighten the sorrows of her 
husband ; as well as to check the intem- 
perate complaints, and soothe the more 
violent agitations of Lady Margaret. 

But while her soul rose superior to the 
ills of life, her constitution, weakened by 
a long period of ill health, and by the 
agitations of extreme sensibility, was not 
in a state to resist so great a shock ; and 
though she lingered upwards of a year, 
the real cause of her death could not 
be mistaken: — an inward melancholy 
preyed upon her spirits, which she com- 
bated in vain. — " Many have smiled in 
adversity," she would say ; " but it is 
left for me to weep in prosperity. — Such 
is the will of Heaven, and I resign myself 
as becomes me, to that power, which 



knows when to give, and when to take 

On her death-bed, she said to the 
Duke ; " This is a hard trial for you to 
bear; but God, who, when he sends trials, 
can send strength also, will, I trust, sup- 
port you. You will pursue your career 
with that honour and dignity, which has 
hitherto distinguished it — nor would my 
feeble aid assist you in it. But I, on the 
contrary, like a weak unsupported plant, 
must have drooped and pined away, had 
I lived to survive the tender and faithful 
friend, who has guided and sustained 
me. It is far better as it is. You will 
be a guardian and protector to my Calan- 
tha, whose quickness and vivacity make 
me tremble for her. I could not have 
watche J over her, and directed her as T 
ought. But to you, while she smiles and 
plays around you, and fills the space 
which I so soon must leave — to you, she 
will prove a dear and constant interest. 
Never, my dearest Altamonte, ah ! never 


suffer her to be absent, if possible, from 
your guiding care, her spirits, her pas- 
sions, are of a nature to prove a blessing, 
or the reverse, according to the direction 
they are permitted to take. Watch over 
and preserve her— these are my last words 
to you. — To protect and save her from 
all evil — is also the last prayer I offer to 
my God, before I enter into his presence/' 
Calantha I unhappy child, whom not 
even the pangs of death could tear from 
the love, and remembrance of thy mother, 
— what hours o«f agony were thine, when 
a father's hand first tore thee from that 
lifeless bosom — when piercing shrieks 
declared the terror of thy mind, oppress- 
ed, astonished at the first calamity, by 
which it had been tried — when thy lips 
tremblingly pronounced for the last time, 
the n sue of mother — a name so dear, so 
sacr d and beloved, that its very sound 
awakens in the heart, all that it can feel 
of tenderness and affection ! What is left 
that shall replace her ? What friend, what 


tie, shall make up for her eternal absence ? 
What even are the present sufferings of 
the orphan child, to the dreary void, the 
irreparable loss she will feel through all 
her future years. It was on that bosom, 
she had sought for comfort, when pas- 
sion and inadvertence had led her into 
error. It was that gentle, that dear 
voice, which had recalled her, even when 
severity had failed. — There is, in every 
breast, some one affection that predo- 
minates over the rest — there is still to 
all some one object, to which the 
heart is rivetted beyond all other : — 
in Calanlha's bosom, the love of her 
mother prevailed over every other feeling. 
A long and violent illness succeeded, 
in Calantha ; a torpor which astonish- 
ment and terror at her loss had produced ; 
and from this state, she recovered only to 
give way to a dejection of mind not less 
alarming. But even her grief was to be 
envied, when compared with the disorder 
of Lady Margaret's mind. — Remorse 


preyed upon her heart, the pride and 
hardness ot which, disdained the humili- 
ty of acknowledging her offences in the 
presence of her Creator. 

The great effort of Lady Margaret 
was to crush the struggles of passion ; 
and when, at times, the agony of her mind 
was beyond endurance, she found it some 
relief to upbraid the wretch who had ful- 
filled her own guilty wishes. — *' Mon- 
ster \" she would exclaim, " without one 
tender or honourable feeling, take these 
detested and bloody hands from my sight: 
— they have destroyed the loveliest inno- 
cent that was ever born to bless a mo- 
ther's wishes : — that mother now appears 
in awful judgment against thee : — out, 
out, perfidious wretch ! — come not near 
— gaze not upon me."~ Viviani marked 
the wild expression of her eye — the look 
of horror which she cast upon him ; and 
a deep and lasting resentment combated 
in his breast every feeling of attachment. 
Seizing her hand, which he wrung in 


scorn : " What mean you by this mockery 
of tardy penitence?" he fiercely cried. 
*' Woman, beware how you trifle with the 
deep pangs of an injured heart : Not 
upon me — not upon me, be the blood of 
the innocent : — it was this hand, white 
and spotless as it appears, which sealed 
his doom. I should have shewn mercy ; 
but an unrelenting tygress urged me on. 
— On thee— on thine, be the guilt, till it 
harrow up thy soul to acts of phrenzy and 
despair : — hope not for pardon from man 
— seek not for mercy from God. — Away 
with those proud looks which once sub- 
dued me : — I can hate — I have learned of 
thee to hate ; and my heart, released from 
thy bonds, is free at last. Spurn me — 
what art thou no w.^ — a creature so wretch- 
ed and so fallen, that I can almost pity 
thee. — Farewell. — For the l^ist time, I 
look on thee withonesentiment of love. — 
And, when we meet again, tremble : — • 
yes — proud as thou art, tremble ; for, 
however protracted, thou shalt find the 
J) 5 


vengeance of Viviani as certain as it is 

" Is it possible/' said Lady Margaret, 
gazing upon that beautiful and youthful 
countenance — upon that form which 
scarcely had attained to manhood — " is 
it within the compass of possibility that 
one so young should be so utterly hard- 
ened? Viviani smiled on her, and left her. 
Very shortly after this interview, he 
quitted Ireland, vainly endeavouring in 
the hour of his departure to conceal the 
deep emotion by which he was agitated 
at thus tearing himself from one who 
appeared utterly inditferent to his ha- 
tred, his menaces, or his love. 



The habit of years, though broken and 
interrupted by violent affliction or sudden 
prosperity, fails not in the end to resume 
its influence over the mind ; and the 
course that was once pursued with satis- 
faction, though the tempest of our pas- 
sions may have hurried us out of it, will 
be again resumed, when the dark clouds 
that gathered over us, have spent their 
fury. Even he who is too proud to bow 
his mind to the inevitable decrees of an all- 
wise Creator — who seeks not to be con- 
soled, and turns away from the voice of 
piety — even he loses sight at length of 
the affliction, upon which his memory 
has so continually dwelt : — it lessens to 
his view, as he journies onward adown 
the vale of life, and the bright beam of 


hope rises at last upon his clouded spirit 
and exhaust d frame. 

From a state of despondency and vain 
regret, in which more than a year had 
been passed, the inhabitants of Castle 
Delaval, by slow degrees, revived; and 
the Duke, wearied of a life so gloomy and 
solitary, summoned, as before, his friends 
around him. Lady Margaret, however, 
was no longer the gay companion of his 
morning walks, the life and amusement 
of his evening assemblies. The absence 
of Viviani filled her with anxiety ; and 
the remembrance of her crimes embitter- 
ed every hour of her existence. If she 
turned her eyes upon Calantha, the de- 
jected expression of that countenance 
reproached her for the mother whose life 
she had shortened, and whose place she 
vainly exerted herself to fill ; if upon the 
Duke, in that care-worn cheek and brow 
of discontent, she was more painfully re- 
minde(i of her crime and ingratitude ; and 
even the son for whom so much had been 
sacrificed, afforded her no consolation. 


Buchanan estranged himself from her 
confidence, and appeared jealous of her 
authority. — He refused to aid her in the 
sole remaining wish of her heart ; and 
absolutely declined accepting the hand 
of Calantha. " Shall only one will," 
he said, "• be studied and followed ; 
shall Calantha's caprices and desires be 
daily attended to ; and shall I see the 
best years of my life pass without plea- 
sure or profit for me ? I know — I see 
your intention ; and, pardon me, dearest 
mother, if I already bitterly lament it. 
Is Calantha a companion fitted for one 
of my character ; and, even if here- 
after it is your resolve to unite me 
to her, must I now be condemned to 
yearsof inactivity on her account. Give 
me my liberty ; send me to college, there 
to finish my education ; and permit 
me to remain in England for some years. 
Lady Margaret saw, in the cool deter- 
mined language of her son, that he had 
long meditated this escape from her thral- 


dom. She immediately appeared to ap^ 
prove his intention : — she said that a 
noble ambition, and all the highest qua- 
lities of the heart and mind were shewn 
in his present desire ; but one promise 
she must exact in return for the readi- 
ness with which she intended instantly 
to accede to his request ; — provided he 
were left at liberty till a maturer age, 
would he promise to take no decisive step 
of himself, until he had once more seen 
Calantha after this separation? To this 
Buchanan willingly acceded. His plans 
were soon arranged ; and his departure 
was fixed for no very distant period. 

The morning before he left the castle, 
Lady Margaret called him to her room; 
and taking him and Calantha by the hand, 
she led them to the windows of the 
great gallery. Thence pointing to the 
vast prospect of woods and hills, which 
extended to a distance the eye could 
scarcely reach, '* all are yours my chil- 
dren," she said, *' if, obedient to parents 


who have only your welfare at heart, you 
persevere in your intention of being one 
day united to each other. Ah ! let no dis- 
putes, no absence, no fancies have power 
to divert you from the fulfilment of this, 
my heart's most fervent wish : — let this 
moment of parting obliterate every un- 
kind feeling, and bind you more than 
ever to each other. Here, Buchanan,'* 
she continued, " is a bracelet with your 
hair: — place it yourself around Calantha's 
arm : — she shall wear it till you meet.'' 
The bracelet was of gold, adorned with 
diamonds, and upon the clasp, under the 
initial letters of their names, were en- 
graved these words : " Stesso sangue, 
St€$sa sorte," " Take it," said Bucha- 
nan, fastening it upon the arm of Calan- 
tha, and remember that, for ray sake, you 
are to wear it ever.*' 

At this moment, even he was touched, 
as he pressed her to his heart, and re- 
membered her as associated with all the 
scenes of his happiest days. Her vio- 


lence, her caprices, her mad frolics, were 
forgotten ; and as her tears streamed 
upon his bosom, he turned away, least 
his mother should witness his emotion. 
Yet Calantha's tears were occasioned 
solely by the thought of parting from 
one, who had hitherto dwelt always be- 
neath tlie same roof with herself; and to 
whom long habit had accustomed, rather 
than attached, her. — In youth the mind 
is so tender, and so alive to sudden and 
vivid impressions, that in the moment of 
separation it feels regret and melancholy 
at estranging itself even from those for 
whom before it had never felt any warmth 
of affection. — Still at the earliest age the 
difference is distinctly marked between 
the transient tear, which fall« for imagi- 
nary woe, and the real misery which at- 
tends upon the loss of those who have 
been closely united to the affections by 
ties, stronger and dearer than those of 



The accomplishment of her favourite 
views being thus disappointed, or at least 
deferred, Lady Margaret resolved to 
return to Italy, and there to seek Vi- 
viani. Her brother, however, entreated 
her to remain with him. He invited his 
friends, his relations, his neighbours. 
Balls and festivities once more enlivened 
the castle : it seemed his desire to raze 
every trace of sorrow from the memory 
of his child ; and to conceal the ravages 
of death under the appearance at least of 
wild and unceasing gaiety. The hrilliaut 
fites^ and the magnificence of the Duke 
of Altamonte and his sister, became the 
constant theme of admiration ; and from 
far, from near, fashion an<i roily poured 
forth their victims to grace and to en- 
joy them : Lord and Lady Dart ford na- 


turally found their place amidst the va- 
rious and general assemblage. To see 
Lord Dartford again, to triumph over his 
falsehood, to win him from an innocent 
confiding wife, and then betray him at 
the moment in which he fancied himself 
secure — this vengeance was yet wanting 
to satisfy the restless fever of Lady Mar- 
garet^s mind ; and the contemplation of 
its accomplishment gave a new object, a 
new hope to her existence ; for Lady 
Margaret had preferred even the tortures 
of remorse to the listless insipidity of stag- 
nant life, where the passions of her heart 
were without excitement, and those ta- 
lents of which she felt the power, useless 
and obscured. What indeed would she 
not have preferred to the society of Mrs. 
Seymour and her daughters? 

The Duchess of Altamonte had pos- 
sessed a mind, as cultivated as her own, 
and a certain refinement of manner which 
is sometimes acquired by long intercourse 
with the most polished societies, but is 


more frequently the gift of nature, and, 
if it be not the constant attendant upon 
nobility of blood, is very rarely found in 
those who are not distinguished by that 
adventitiousand accidental circumstance. 
Mrs. Seymour had many of the excel- 
lent qualities, but none of the rare en- 
dowments possessed by the Duchess : 
she was a strict follower of the pat lis of 
custom and authority : in the steps 
which had been marked by others, she 
studiously walked, nor thought it allow- 
able to turn aside for any object however 
desirable. She might be said to delight 
in prejudice — to enjoy herself in the ob- 
scure and narrow prison to which she 
had voluntarily confined her intellects — 
to look upon the impenetrable walls 
around her as bulwarks against the hos- 
tile attacks by which so many had been 
overcome. She was a Roman Catholic, 
and all who differed from that persuasion 
were, in her opinion, utterly lost. The 
daughters were strictly trained in the 


Opinions of their mother. '' The season 
of youth" she would s&y. '' is the season 
of instruction " — and consequent y every 
hour he'd its lUoued task . i-ud every ac- 
tion was dire( tec! according u> some es- 
tablished ree; Illation. 

By these mt ris, Sophia and Frances 
were already highly accomplished ; their 
manners were formed ; their opinions 
fixed and any contradiction of those 
opinions, instead of raising doubt, or ur- 
ging to inquiry, only excited in their 
minds astonishment at the hardihood and 
contempt for the folly which thus oppo- 
sed itself to the final determination of the 
majority, and ventured to disturb the 
settled empire and hereditary right of 
their sentiments and manners. — " These 
are yowr pupils,'* Lady Margaret would 
often exultingly cry, addressing the mild 
Mrs. Seymour: " these paragons of pro- 
priety — these sober minded steady auto- 
matons. Well, I mean no harm to them 
or you. I only wish I could shake ofl 


a little of that cold formality which pe- 
trifies mCi Now see how differently my 
Calantha shall appear, when 1 have 
opened her mind, and formed her accord- 
ing to my system of education — the sys- 
tem which nature dictates and every 
feeling of the heart willingly accedes to. 
Observe well the difference between a 
child of an acute understanding, before 
her mind has been disturbed by the ab- 
surd opinions of others, and after she has 
learned their hackneyed jargon : note 
her answers — her reflections ; and you 
will find in them, all that philosophy can 
teach, and all to which science and wis- 
dom must again return. But, in your 
girls and in most of those whom we meet, 
how narrow are the views, how little the 
motives, by which they are impelled I 
Even granting that they act rightly, that 
by blindly following, where others lead, 
they pursue the safest course, is there 
any thing noble, any thing superior in 
the character from which such actions 


spring ? / am ambitious for Calantha. 
I wish her not only to be virtuous ; I 
will acknowledge it — I wish her to be 
distinguished and great. 

Mrs. Seymour, when thus attacked, 
always permitted Lady Margaret to gain 
the victory of words, and to triumph 
over her as much as the former thought 
it within the bounds of good breeding to 
allow herself; but she never varied, in 
consequence, one step in her daily course, 
or deviated in the slightest degree from 
the line of conduct which she had before 
laid down. 

Sometimes, however, she would re- 
monstrate with her niece, when she saw 
her giving way to the violence of her 
temper, or acting, as she thought, ab- 
surdly or erroneously ; and Calantha, 
when thus admonished, would acknow- 
ledge her errors, and, for a time at least, 
endeavour to amend them ; for her heart 
was accessible to kindness, and kindness 
she at all times met with from Mrs. Sey- 
mour and her daughters. 


It was indeed Calantha's misfortune to 
meet with too much kindness, or rather 
too much indulgence from almost all who 
surrounded her. The Duke, attentive 
solely to her health, watched her with 
the fondest solicitude, and the wildest 
wishes her fancy could invent were 
heard with the most scrupulous attention, 
and gratified with the most unbounded 
compliance. Yet, if affection, amount- 
ing to idolatry, could in any degree atone 
for the pain the errors of his child too 
often occasioned him, that affection was 
felt by Calantha for her father. 

Her feelings indeed swelled with a 
tide too powerful for the unequal resis- 
tance of her understanding : — her motives 
appeared the very best, but the actions 
which resulted from them were absurd 
and exaggerated. Thoughts, swift as 
lightning, hurried through her brain : — 
projects, seducing, but visionary crowded 
upon her view: without a curb she fol- 
lowed the impulse of her feelings ; and 


those feelings varied with every varying 
interest and impression. 

Such character is not uncommon, 
though rarely seen amongst the higher 
ranks of society. Early and constant 
intercourse with the world, and that po- 
lished sameness which results from it, 
smooths away all peculiarities ; and 
whilst it assimilates individuals to each 
other, corrects many faults, and represses 
many virtues. 

Some indeed there are who affect to 
differ from others : but the very affecta- 
tion proves that, in fact, they resemble 
the ordinary mass ; and in general this 
assumption of singularity is found in low 
and common minds, who think that the 
reputation of talent and superiority be- 
longs to those very defects and absurdi- 
ties which alone have too often cast a 
shade upon the splendid light of genius, 
and degraded the hero and the poet, to 
the level of their imitators. 

Lovely indeed is that grace of manner, 


that perfect ease and refinement which 
so many attempt to acquire, and for which 
it is to be feared so much is too often 
renounced — the native vigour of mind, 
the blush of indignant and offended in- 
tegrity, the open candour of truth, and 
all the long list of modest unassuming 
virtues, known only to a new and unsul- 
lied heart. 

Calantha turned with disgust from the 
slavish followers of prejudice. She dis- 
dained the beaten track, and she thought 
that virtue would be for her a safe, a 
sufficient guide ; that noble views, and 
pure intentions would conduct her in a 
higher sphere ; and that it was left to her 
to set a bright example of unshaken 
rectitude, undoubted truth, and honour- 
able fame. All that was base or mean, 
she, from her soul, despised : a fearless 
spirit raised her, as she fondly imagined, 
above the vulgar herd: self-confident, 
she scarcely deigned to bow the knee 
before her God : and man, as she had 

VOL. 1. E 


read of him in history, appeared too 
weak, too trivial, to inspire either alarm 
or admiration. 

It was thus, with bright prospects, 
strong love of virtue, high ideas of ho- 
nour, that she entered upon life. No 
expense, no trouble had been spared in 
her education : masters, professors, and 
governesses surrounded her. She seemed 
to have a decided turn for every thing it 
was necessary for her to learn : instruc- 
tion was scarcely necessary, so readily 
did her nature bend itself to every art, 
science and accomplishment. Yet never 
did she attain excellence, or make pro- 
ficiency in any ; and when the vanity of 
a parent fondly expected to see her a 
proficient in all acquirements suited to 
her sex and age, he had the mortification 
of finding her more than usually ignorant, 
backward and uninstructed. With an ear 
the most sensible and accurate, she could 
neither dance nor play ; with an eye 
acute and exact, she could not draw ; at 


the same time, with a spirit that bounded 
within her from excess of joyous happi- 
ness, she was bashful and unsocial in 
society ; and with the germs of every vir- 
tue that commands esteem and praise, 
she was already the theme of discussion, 
observation and censure. 

Yet was Calantha loved — dearly and 
fondly loved ; nor could Mrs. Seymour, 
though constantly discovering new errors 
in her favourite, prevent her from being 
the very idol of her heart. Calantha 
saw it through all her assumed coldness ; 
and she triumphed in the influence she 
possessed. But Sophia and Frances were 
not as cordially her friends : — they had 
not reached that age, at which lenity and 
indulgence take place of severer feelings, 
and the world appears in all its reality 
before us. To them, the follies and frail- 
ties of others carried with them no ex- 
cuse, and every course which they them- 
selves did not adopt, was assuredly er- 

E 2 


Calantha passed her time as much as 
possible by herself: the general society 
at the castle was uninteresting to her. 
The only being for whom she felt regard, 
was Sir Everard St. Clare, brother to Ca- 
mioli the bard, and late physician to her 
mother, and he was the usual object of 
ridicule to almost all his acquaintance. 
Lady St. Clare in pearls and silver; Lau- 
riana and Jessica, more fine if possible, 
ajid more absurd than their mother; Mrs. 
Emmet, a lady from Cork, plaintive and 
reclining in white sattin and drapery; and 
all the young gentlemen of large pro- 
perty and fortune, whom all the young 
ladies were daily and hourly endeavour- 
ing to please, had no attraction for a mind 
like Calantha's. Coldly she therefore 
withdrew from the amusements natural 
to her age ; yet it was from embarrass- 
ment, and not from coldness, that she 
avoided iheir society. Some favorites 
she already had : the Abbess of Glenaa, 
St. Clara her niece, and above all Alice 


Mac Allain, a beautiful little girl of 
whom her mother had been fond : — 
these had already deeply interested her 

In the company of one or other of 
these, Calantha would pass her morn- 
ings ; and sometimes she would stand 
alone upon the summit of the cliff, hour 
after hour, to behold the immense o<;ean, 
watching its waves, as they swelled to 
the size of mountains, and dashed with 
impetuous force against the rocks below : 
or she would climb the mountain's side, 
and gaze on the lofty summits of Here- 
mon and Inis Tara, lost in idle and vi- 
sionary thought. At other times joyous, 
and without fear, like a fairy riding on a 
sun-beam through the air, chasing the 
gay images of fancy, she would join in 
every active amusement, and suffer her 
spirits to lead her into the most extra- 
vagant excess. 



Love, it might be conjectured, would 
early shew itself in a character such as 
Calantha's ; and love, with all its ardour 
and all its wildness had already subdued 
her heart. \Yhat, though Mrs. Seymour 
had laid it down as a maxim, that no 
one, before attaining their fourteenth 
year, could possibly be in love ! What, 
though Lady Margaret indignantly as- 
serted, that Calantha could not, and 
should not, look even al any other than 
him for whom her hand was destined ! 
She had looked ; she had seen ; and 
what is more, she believed the impression 
at this time made upon her heart was as 
durable as it was violent. 

Sophia Seymour, Mrs. Seymour's 
eldest daughter, in a month, nay in a 
week, had discovered Calantha's secret : 


the same feeling for the same object had 
given her an acuteness in this instance, 
with which she was not at all times 
gifted : — she herself loved, and, therefore, 
perceived her cousin's passion. Calan- 
tha's manner immediately confirmed her 
in her supposition. She entered one 
morning into her room : — she saw the 
unfinished drawing; — she could not mis- 
take it — that commanding air — that 
beaming eye — there was but one whom 
it could resemble, and that one was 
Henry Mowbrey, Earl of Avondale. She 
taxed Calantha with her partiality: " But 
he thinks not of you," she said, and 
haughtily left the room. 

Admiral Sir Richard Mowbrey was an 
old and valued friend of the Duke of Al- 
tamonte. lie had served with Sir George 
Buchanan, brother-in law to Lady Alar- 
garet. Fie had no children; fuit his ne- 
phew, the young Earl of Avoi.dale was, 
next to his country, the strong^^st and 
dearest interest of his heart. What happi- 


ness must the Admiral then have felt 
when he beheld him ; and found that, 
in mind and person, he was distinguished 
by every fair endowment. Lord Avon- 
dale had entered the army young : he 
now commanded a regiment : with a 
spirit natural to his age and character, he 
had embraced his father's profession ; 
and like him, he had early merited the 
honours conferred upon him. He had 
sought distinction at the hazard of his 
life; but happily for all who knew him 
well, he had not, like his gallant father, 
perished in the hour of danger; but, 
having seen hard service, had returned to 
enjoy, in. his own country, the ease, the 
happiness, and the reputation he so well 

Lord Avondale's military occupations 
had not, however, prevented his cultivat- 
ing his mind and talents in no ordinary 
degree; and the real distinctions he had 
obtained, seemed by no means to have 
lessened the natural modesty of his c.ha- 


racter. He was admired, flattered, sought 
after; and the strong temptations to 
which his youth had thus early been ex- 
posed, had, in some measure, shaken his 
principles, and inflamed his imagination. 
Happily a noble mind and a warm un- 
corrupted heart soon led him from scenes 
of profligacy to a course of life more 
manly and useful : — deep anxiety for a 
bleeding country, and affection for his 
uncle, restored him to himself. He quit- 
ted London, where, upon his first return 
from abroad, he had for the most part re- 
sided, and his regiment being ordered to 
Ireland, on account of the growing dis- 
affection in that country, he returned 
thither to fulfil the new duties which his 
profession might require. Allanwater 
and Monteith, his father's estates, had 
been settled upon him : but he was more 
than liberal in the arrangements he mr»de 
for his uncle and the other brandies of 
his family. 

'. Many an humbler mind had escaped. 
E 6 


the danger to which Lord Avondale had, 
early in life been exposed : — many a less 
open character had disguised the too dar- 
ing opinions he had once ventured to 
cherish ! But, with an utter contempt 
for all hypocrisy and art — with a frank- 
ness and simplicity of character, some- 
times observed in men of extraordinary 
abilities, but never attendant on the or- 
dinary or the corrupted mind, he appear- 
ed to the world as he really felt, and 
neither thought nor studied whether such 
opinions and character were agreeable to 
his own vanity, or the taste of his com- 
panions ; for whom, however, he was, at 
all times, ready to sacrifice his time, his 
money, and all on earth but his honour 
and integrity. 

Such was the character of Lord Avon- 
dale, imperfectly sketched — but true to 
nature. — He, in his twenty-first year, 
now appeared at Castle Delaval — the 
admiration of the large and various com- 
pany then assembled there. Flattered, 


perhaps, by the interest shewn hin), but 
reserved and distant to every too appa- 
rent mark of it, he viewed the motley 
groupe before him, as from a superior 
height ; and he smiled with something 
of disdain, at times, as he marked the 
affectation, the meanness, the conceit, 
and, most of alU the hearllessness, and 
cowardice of many of those around him. 
Of a morning, he would not unfrequently 
join Calantha and Sophia in their walks : 
and of an evening, he would read to the 
former, or make her his partner at bil- 
liards, or at cards. At such times, So- 
phia would work at a little distance ; and 
as her needle monotonously passed the 
silken thread through the frame to which 
her embroidery was fixed, her eyes would 
involuntarily turn whither her thoughts, 
in spite of her endeavours, too often 
strayed. Calantha listened to the oft- 
repeated stories of the admiral ; and 
heard of his battles, his escapes and his 
dangers, when others were weary of the 


well-known topics ; but he was Lord 
Avondale's uncle, and that thought made 
every thing he uttered interesting to her. 
" You love/' said Alice Mac Allain 
one day to her mistress, as they wandered 
in silence along the banks of the river 
Eile ; " and he who made you alone can 
tell to what these maddening fires may 
drive a heart like yours. Remember your 
bracelet — remember your promises to 
Buchanan ; and learn, before it is too 
late, in some measure to control your- 
self, and disguise your feelings. '^ Ca- 
lantha started from Alice ; for love, when 
it first exists, is so timid, so sacred, that 
it fears the least breath of observation, 
and disguises itself under every borrowed 
name. " You are wrong,'' said Calan- 
tha : *' I would not bend my free spirit 
to the weakness of which you would ac- 
cuse me, for all the world can offer: your 
Calantha will never acknowledge a mas- 
ter ;— will never yield her soul's free and 
immortal hopes to any earthly affection. 


Fear not, my counsellor, that I will for- 
sake my virgin vows, or bow my un- 
broken spirit to that stern despot, whose 
only object is power and command. 

As Calantha spoke, Lord Avondale 
approached, and joined them. The deep 
blush that crimsoned over her cheek was 
a truer answer to her friend's accusation 
than the one she had just uttered. — 
" Heremon and Inis Tara have charms 
I for both of you," he said, smiling : — you 
are always wandering either to or from 
them/' '* They are our own native 
mountains," said Calantha, timidly; — 
" the land-marks we have been taught to 
reverence from our earliest youth/' 
" And could you not admire the black 
mountains of Morne as well," he said, 
fixing his eyes on Calantha, — '' my na- 
tive mountains? — They are higher far 
than these, and soar above the clouds 
that would obscure them." They are 
too lofty and too rugged for such as we 
are," said Calantha. " We may gaze at 


their height and wonder ; but more 
would be dangerous." " The roses and 
myrtles blossom under their shade/* said 
Lord Avondale with a smile ; " and Al- 
lanwater, to my mind, is as pleasant to 
dwell in as Castle Delaval/' " Shall 
you soon return thither, my lord?'' en- 
quired Calantha. " Perhaps never/' he 
said, mourntuUy; and a tear filled his 
eye as he turned away, and sought to 
change the subject of conversation. 

Lady Margaret had spoken to Lord 
Avondale : — perhiips another had engag- 
ed his affections : — at all events, it seem- 
ed certain to Calantha that she was not 
the object of his hope or his grief. To 
have seen him — to have admired him, 
was enough for her: she wished not for 
more than that privilege ; but she felt 
that every affection of her heart was en- 
gaged, even though those affections were 



To suffer the pangs of unrequited love 
was not, however in the present instance, 
the destiny of Calantha. That dark eye, 
the lustre of whose gaze she durst not 
meet, was, at all times fixed upon her ; 
and the quick mantling blush and beam- 
ing smile, which lighted the counte- 
nance of Lord Avondale, whenever her 
name was pronounced before him, soon 
betrayed, to all but himself and Calantha, 
how much and how entirely his affec- 
tions were engaged. He was of a na- 
ture not easily to be flattered into admi- 
ration of others-— not readily attracted, 
or lightly won ; but, once having fixed 
his affections, he was firm, confiding and 
incapable of change, through any change 
of fortune. He was, besides, of that af- 
fectionate and independent character, 


that as neither bribe nor power could 
have moved him to one act contrary to 
his principles of integrity, so neither 
danger, fatigue, nor any personal con- 
sideration could have deterred him from 
that which he considered as the business 
and duty of his life. He possessed a 
happy and cheerful disposition, a frank 
and winning manner, and that hilarity of 
heart and countenance which rendered 
him the charm and sunshine of every 

When Lord Avondaie addressed Ca- 
lantha, she answered him in a cold or 
sullen manner, and, if he endeavoured, 
to approach her, she fled unconscious 
of the feeling which occasioned her em- 
barrassment. Her cousins, Sophia and 
Frances, secure of applause, ind con- 
scious of their own power of pleasing, 
bad entered the world neither absurdly 
timid, nor vainly presuming: — they 
knew the place they were called upon to 
fill in society ; and they sought not to 


outstep the bounds which good sense had 
prescribed. Calantha, on the other hand, 
scarce could overcome her terror and 
confusion when addressed by those with 
whom she was little acquainted. But 
how far less dangerous was this reserve 
than the easy confidence which a few 
short years afterwards produced! and 
how little did the haughty Lady Marga- 
ret imagine, as she chid her niece for this 
excess of timidity, that the day would, 
perhaps, soon arrive, when careless of 
the presence of hundreds, Calantha might 
strive to attract their attention, by the 
very arts which she now despised, or 
pass thoughtlessly along, hardened and 
utterly insensible to their censure or 
their praise ! 

To a lover's eyes such timidity was not 
unpleasing ; and Lord Avondale liked 
not the girl he admired the less, for that 
crimson blush — that timid look, which 
scarcely dared encounter his ardent gaze. 
To him it seemed to disclose a heart new 


to the world — unspoiled and guileless. 
Calantha's mind, bethought, might now 
receive the impression which should be 
given it ; and while yet free, yet un- 
tainted, would it not be happiness to 
secure lier as his own — to mould her 
according to his fancy — to be her guide 
and protector through life ! 

Such were his feelings, as he watched 
her shunning even the eyes of him, whom 
alone she wished to please : — such were 
his thoughts, when, flying from the 
amusements and gaiety natural to her 
age, she listened with attention, while he 
read to her. or conquered her fear of en- 
tering into conversation with him. He 
seemed to imagine her to be possessed 
of every quality which he most admired ; 
and the delusive charm ot believing: that 
he was not indifferent to her heart, threw 
a be-riuty and grace over all her actions, 
which blinded him to every error. Thus 
then they both acknowledged, and sur- 
rendered themselves to the power of love. 


Calantha for the first time yielded up 
her heart entirely to its enchantment ; 
and Lord Avondale, for the last. 

It is said there is no happiness, and no 
love to be compared to that which is felt 
for the first time. Most persons errone- 
ously think so ; but love, like other arts, 
requires experience, and terror and igno- 
rance, on its first approach, prevent our 
feeling it as strongly as at a later period. 
Passion mingles not with a sentiment so 
pure, so refined as that which Calantha 
then conceived, and the excess of a lover's 
attachment terrified and overpowered the 
feelings of a child. 

Storms of fury kindled in the eye of 
Lady Margaret, when she first observed 
this mutual regard. Words could not 
express her indignation ; — to deeds she 
had recourse. Absence was the only 
remedy to apply ; and an hour, a mo- 
ment's delay, by opening Calantha's 
mind to a consciousness of her lover's 
sentiments and wishes, might render 


even this ineffectual. She saw that the 
flame had been kindled in a heart too sus- 
ceptible, and in which opposition would 
increase its force: — she upbraided her 
brother for his blindness, and reproached 
herself for her folly. There was but one 
way left, which was to communicate the 
Duke*s surmises and intentions to the 
Admiral in terms so positive, that he 
could not mistake them, and instantly to 
send for Buchanan. In pursuance of 
this purpose, she wrote to inform him 
of every thing which had taken place, 
and to request him without loss of time 
to meet her at Castle Delaval. Mrs. 
Seymour alone folded Calantha to her bo- 
som without one reproach, and, consign- 
ing her with trembling anxiety to a fa- 
ther's care, reminded him continually, 
that she was his only remaining child, 
and that force, in a circumstance of such 
moment, would be absolute crueltv. 



Lady Margaret insisted upon removing 
Calantha immediately to London ; but 
Lord Avondale having heard from the 
Admiral the cause of her intended depar- 
ture, immediately declared his intention 
of quitting Ireland. Every thing w^as now 
in readiness for his departure ; the day 
fixed; the hour at hand. It was not 
perhaps till Lord Avondale felt that he 
wds going to leave Calantha for ever, 
that he v^^as fully sensible how much, 
and how entirely his affections were en- 

On the morning previous to his depar- 
ture, Calantha threw the bracelet, which 
Lady Margaret and her cousin had given 
her, from her arm ; and, weeping upon 
the bosom of x\lice, bitterly lamented her 
fate, and informed her friend that sjie 


never, never would belong to Buchanan. 
— Lord Avondale had in vain sought an 
opportunity of seeing her one moment 
alone. He now perceived the bracelet on 
the floor of the room she had just quitted : 
and looking upon it, read, without being 
able to comprehend the application of 
the inscription, " Stesso sangue, Stessa 
sorteJ*^ — He saw her at that moment : — 
she was alone : — he followed her : — she 
fled from him, embarrassed and agitated ; 
but he soon approached her: — they fly 
so slowly, who fly from what they love. 
Lord Avondale thought he had much 
to say — many things to ask : — he wished 
to explain the feelings of his hearts — to 
tell Calantha, once at least before he 
quitted her, how deeply — how dearly he 
had loved — how, though unworthy in 
his own estimation of aspiring to her 
hand, the remembrance of her should 
stimulate him to every noble exertion, 
and raise him to a reputation which, 
without her influence, he never could 


attain: — he thought that he could have 
clasped her to his bosom, and pressed 
upon her lips the first kiss of love — the 
dearest, the truest pledge of fondness 
and devotion. But, scarcely able to 
speak, confused and faultering, he dared 
not approach her: — he saw one before 
him robed in purity, and more than ves- 
tal innocence — one timidly fearful of 
even a look, or thought, that breathed 
aught against that virtue which alone it 

" I am come," he said, at length, 
^' forgive my rashness, to restore this 
bracelet, and myself to place it around 
your arm. Permit me to say — farewell, 
before I leave you, perhaps for ever.'* 
As he spoke, he endeavoured to clasp 
the diamond lock ; — his hand trembled ; 
Calantha started from him. •' Oh!" she 
said. " you know not what you do: — I 
am enough his already : — be not you the 
person to devote me to him more com- 
pletely: — do not render me utterly mi- 


serable. Though not entirely under- 
standing her he scarcely could command 
himself. Her look, her manner — all 
told him too certainly that which over- 
came his heart with delight. — " She loves 
me," he thought, " and I will die sooner 
than yield her to auy human being: — ^ 
she loves me ; and, regardless of fears — 
of prudence — of every other feeling, he 
pressed her one moment to his bosom. 
*' Oh, love me, Calantha," was all he 
had time to say ; for she broke from him, 
and fled, too much agitated to reply. 
That he had presumed too far, he feared; 
but that she was not indifferent to him, 
he had heard and seen. The thous^ht 
filled him with hope, and rendered him 
careless of all that might befall him. 

The Duke entered the room as Calan- 
tha quitted it. — " Avondale," he said, 
offering him his hand, " speak to me, for 
I wish much to converse with you before 
we part : — ail I ask is, that you will not 
deceive me. Something more than com- 


mon engrosses your thoughts : — even 
now I observed you with my child." 
— " I must indeed speak with you/' 
said Lord Avondale firmly, but with 
considerable agitation. " Every thing 
1 hold dear — my life-— my happiness — 
* depend on what I have to say.'* He 
then informed the Duke with sincerity 
of his attachment for Calantha — proud 
and eager to acknowledge it, even though 
he feared that his hopes might never be 

'' I am surprised and grieved,'' said 
the Duke, " that a young man of your 
high rank, fortune, and rising fame, 
should thus madly throw away your af- 
fections upon the only being perhaps 
who never must, never ought, to return 
them. My daughter's hand is promised 
to another. When 1 confess this, do not 
mistake me: — No force will ever be made 
use of towards her; her inclinations will 
at all times be consulted, even though 
she should forget those of her parent ; but 

VOL. I. F 


she is now a mere child, and more infan- 
tine and volatile withal, than it is pos- 
sible for vou to conceive. There can 
be no necessity for her being now called 
upon to make a decided choice. Bucha- 
nan is my nephew, and since the loss of 
my son, I have centered all my hopes in 
him. He is heir to my name, as she is 
to my fortune ; and surely then an union 
between them, would be an event the 
most desirable for me and for my family. 
But such considerations alone would 
not influence me. I will tell you those 
then which operate in a stronger manner: 
— I have given my solemn promise to my 
sister, that I will do all in my power to 
assist in bringing about an event upon 
which her heart is fixed. Judge then, 
if, during her son's absence, I can dispose 
of Calantha's hand, or permit her to see 
more of one, who has already, I fear, made 
some impression upon her heart." 

Lord Avondale appeared much agi- 
tated. — The Duke paused — then conti- 
nued — " Granting that your attachment 


for ray child is as strong as you would 
have me believe — granting, my dear 
young friend, that, captivated by your 
very superior abilities, manners, and 
amiable disposition, she has in part re- 
turned the sentiments you acknowledge 
in her favour — cannot you make her the 
sacrifice I require of you? — Yes. — 
Though you now think otherwise, you 
can do it. So short an acquaintance 
with each other authorizes the term I 
use : — this is but a mere fancy, which 
absence and strength of mind will soon 

Lord Avondale was proud even to a 
fault. He had listened to the Duke 
without interrupting him ; and the Duke 
continued to speak, because he was afraid 
of hearing the answer, which he con- 
cluded would be made. For protesta- 
tions, menaces, entreaties, he was pre- 
pared ; but the respectful silence which 
continued when he ceased, disconcerted 
him. — '' You are not angry?" he said: 
F 2 


*' let us part in friendship r—do not go 
from me thus : — you must forgive a fa- 
ther: — remerpber she is my child, and 
bound to me by still dearer ties — she is 
my only one." His voice faultered, as 
he said this : — he thought of the son 
who had once divided his affections, and 
of whom he seldom made mention since 
his loss. 

Lord Avondale, touched by his man- 
ner and by his kindness, accepted his 
hand, and struggling with pride — with 
love, — " I will obey your commands," 
he at length said, " and fly from her pre- 
sence, if it be for her happiness : — her 
happiness is the dearest object of my life. 
Yet let me see her before I leave her.'' — 
'' No," said the Duke, '' it is too dan- 
gerous." " If this must not be," said 
Lord Avondale, " at least tell her, that 
for her sake, I have conquered even my 
own nature in relinquishing her hand, 
and with it every hope, but soo strongly 
cherished by me. Tell her, that if I do 


this, it is not because I do not feel for her 
the most passionate and most unalterable 
attachment. I renounce her only, as I 
trust, to consign her to a happier fate. 
You are her father: — you best know the 
affection she deserves: — if she casts away 
a thought sometimes on me, let her not 
suffer for the generosity and goodness of 
her heart : — let her not" — He would 
have said more, but he was too deeply 
affected to continue : — he could not act, 
or dissemble : — he felt strongly, and he 
shewed it. 



After this conversation, Calantha saw 
no more of her lover : yet he was very 
anxious to see her once again, and much 
and violently agitated before he went. 
A few words which he had written to her 
he gave into Mrs. Seymour's own hands; 
and this letter, though it was such as to 
justify the high opinion some had formed 
of his character, was but little calculated 
to satisfy the expectations of Calantha^s 
absurdly romantic mind; or to realize 
the hopes she had cherished. It was not 
more expressive of his deep regret at 
their necessary separation, than of his 
anxiety that she should not suffer her 
spirits to be depressed, or irritate her 
father by an opposition which would 
prove fruitless. — " He does not love 
you, Calantha," said Lady Margaret, with 


a malicious smile, as soon as she had 
read the letter — (and every one would 
read it): — '-' when men begin to speak 
of duty, they have ceased to love/* 
This remark gave Calantha but little 
consolation. Lord Avondale had quitted 
her too, without even bidding her fare- 
well; and her thoughts continually dwelt 
on this disappointment. 

Calantha knew not then that her nai- 
sery was more than shared — that Lord 
Avondale, though too proud to acknow- 
ledge it, was a prey to the deepest grief 
upon her account — that he lived but in 
the hope of possessing the only being 
iipon earth to whom he had attached 
himself — and that the sentence pro- 
nounced against both, was a death stroke 
to his happiness, as well as to her own. 
When strong love awakes for the first 
time in an inexperienced heart it is so 
diffident, so tremblingly fearful, that it 
dares scarcely hope even for a return ; 
and our own demerits appear before us, 


in such exaggerated colours, and the su- 
perior excellence of the object we wor- 
ship arises so often to our view, that it 
seems but the natural consequence of 
our own presumption, that we should be 
neglected and forgotten. 

Of Admiral Sir II. Mowbrey, Calan- 
tba now took leave without being able 
to utter one vv^ord : she wept as children 
weep in early days, the heart's convul- 
sive sob free and unrestrained. He was 
as much affected as herself, and seeking 
Lady Margaret, before he left the castle, 
and followed his nephew, who had gone 
straight to England, began an eager at- 
tack upon her, with all the blunt asperity 
of his nature. Indeed he bitterly re- 
proached himself, and all those who had 
influenced him, in what he termed his 
harsh unfeelinsr conduct in this affair. 
— " And as to you, madam,'' he cried, 
addressing Lady Margaret, " you make 
two young people wretched, to gratify 
the vanity of your son, and acquire 


a fortune, which I would willingly yield 
to you, provided the dear children 
might marry, and go home with me 
to Allanwater, a place as pretty, and 
far more peaceful than any in these 
parts : there, I warrant, they would live 
happy, and die innocent — which is more 
than most folks can say in these great 
palaces and splendid castles. 

A smile of contempt was the only an- 
swer Lady Margaret deigned to give.— 
Sir Richard continued, " you are all a 
mighty fine set of people, no doubt, and 
your assemblies, and your balls are 
thronged and admired ; but none of 
these things will make the dear child 
happy, if her mind is set upon my ne- 
phew. I am the last in the world to 
disparage any one ; but my nephew is 
just as proper a man, in every point of 
view, as your son ; aye, or any body's 
son in the whole world; and so there is 
my mind given free and hearty ; for there 
is not a nobler fellow, and there never 
F 5 


can be, than Henry Avondale : — he is as 
brave a soldier as ever fought for his 
country; and in what is he deficient?*' 
Lady Margaret's lips and cheeks were 
now become livid and pale — a fatal 
symptom, as anger of that description, in 
all ages, has led to evil deeds ; whereas 
the scarlet effusion has, from the most 
ancient times been accounted harmless. 
'* Take Lady Calantha then," exclaimed 
Lady Margaret, with assumed calmness, 
while every furious passion shook her 
frame ; " and may she prove a serpent 
to your bosom, and blast the peace of 
your whole family.'^ " She is an angel 1" 
exclaimed the Admiral, *' and she will 
be our pride, and our comfort/' She is 
a woman," returned Lady Margaret with 
a malicious sneer ; " and, by one means 
or other, she will work her calling." 
Calantha's tears checked Sir Richard's 
anger ; and, his carriage being in readi- 
ness, he left the castle immediately after 
this conversation. 



It may be easily supposed that Lady 
Margaret Buchanan and Mrs. Seymour 
had a most cordial dislike for each other. 
Happily, at present, they agreed in one 
point: they were both desirous of rousing 
Calantha from t,he state of despondency 
into which Lord Avondale's departure 
had thrown her. By both, she was ad- 
monished to look happy, and to restrain 
her excessive grief. Mrs. Seymour spoke 
to her of duty and self-control. Lady 
Margaret sought to excite her ambition 
and desire of distinction. One only sub- 
ject was entirely excluded from conver- 
sation: Lord Avondale's name was for- 
bidden to be mentioned in her presence, 
and every allusion to the past was to be 
studiously avoided. 

Lady Margaret, however, well aware 


that whosofever transgressed this regula- 
tion would obtain full power over her 
niece's heart, lost no opportunity of thus 
gaining her confidence and affection. 

Having won, by this artifice, an easy 
and favorable audience, after two or three 
conversations upon the subject most 
interesting to Calantha, she began, by 
degrees, to introduce the name, and with 
the name such a representation of the 
feelings of her son, as she well knew to 
be best calculated to work upon the 
weakness of a female heart. Far different 
were his real feelings, and far different 
his real conduct from that which was 
described to her niece by Lady Margaret. 
She had written to him a full account of 
all that had taken place; but his answer, 
which arrived tardily, and, after much 
delay, had served only to increase that 
lady's ill humour, and add to her disap- 
pointment. In the letter which he sent 
to his mother, he openly derided her ad- 
vice ; professed entire indifference to- 


wards Calantha ; and said that, indubi- 
tably, he would not waste his thoughts 
or time in humouring the absurd fancies 
of a capricious girl ; — that Lord Avon- 
dale, or any other, were alike welcome to 
her hand; — that, as for himself, the world 
was wide, and contained women enough 
for him ; he could range amongst those 
frail and fickle charmers without sub- 
jecting his honour and his liberty to their 
pleasure; and, since the lady had already 
dispensed with the vows given and re- 
ceived at an age when the heart was 
pure, he augured ill of her future con- 
duct, and envied not the happiness of the 
man it was her present fancy to select: — 
he professed his intention of joining the 
army on the continent : talked of leaden 
hail, glory and death! and seemed re- 
solved not to lessen the merit of any 
exploits he might achieve, by any want 
of brilliancy in the colouring and descrip- 
tion of them. 

Enraged at this answer, and sickening 


at his conceit. Lady Margaret sent imme- 
diately to entreat, or rather to command, 
his return. In the mean time, she talked 
much to Calantha of his sufferings and 
despair; and soon perceiving how greatly 
the circumstance of Lord Avondale's 
consenting to part from her had wounded 
her feelings, and how perpetually she 
recurred to it, she endeavoured, by the 
most artful interpretations of his conduct, 
to lower him in her estimation. Sarcas- 
tically contrasting his coldness with Bu- 
chanan's enthusiasm: "Your lover,'* 
she said, *' is, without doubt, most dis- 
interested! — His eager desire for your 
happiness is shown in every part of his 
conduct!— Such warmth— such delicacy! 
How happy would a girl like my Calan- 
tha he with such a husband ! — What filial 
piety distinguishes the whole of his be- 
haviour! — " Obey your father," is the 
burthen of his creed! He seems even to 
dread the warmth of your affection ! — 
He trembles when he thinks into what 


ittiprudeiice it may carry you !— Why he 
is a perfect model, is he not ? But let me 
ask you, my dear niece, is love, accord- 
ing to your notions and feelings, thus 
cool and considerate ?~-does it pause to 
weigh right and duty ?— is it so very ra- 
tional and contemplative ?...." Yes/' 
replied Calantha, somewhat picqued. 
" Virtuous love can make sacrifices ; 
but, when love is united with guilt, it 
becomes selfish and thinks only of the 
present moment/* " And how, my lit- 
tle philosopher, did you acquire so pre- 
maturely this wonderful insight into the 
nature of love?" " By feeling it," said 
Calantha, triumphantly ; " and by com- 
paring my own feelings with what I have 
heard called by that name in others/' 

As she said this, her colour rose, and 
she fixed her quick blue eyes full upoQ^.. 
Lady Margaret's face ; but vainly did 
she endeavour to raise emotion there ; 
that countenance, steady and unruffled, 
betrayed not even a momentary flash of 


anger : her large orbs rolled securely, as 
she returned the glance, with a look of 
proud and scornful superiority. "My 
little niece," she said, tapping her gently 
on the head, and taking from her cluster- 
ing locks the comb that confined them, 
" my little friend is grown quite a sati- 
rist, and all who have not had, like her^ 
every advantage of education, are to be 
severely lashed, 1 find, for the errors they 
may, inadvertently, have committed. " 
As she spoke, tears started from her eyes. 
Calantha threw herself upon her bosom. 
*' O, my dear aunt," she said, " my dear- 
est aunt, forgive me, 1 entreat you. God 
knows I have faults enough myself, and 
it is not for me to judge of others, whose 
situation may have been very different 
from mine. Is it possible that I should 
have caused your tears? My words, must 
indeed, have been very bitter ; pray for- 
give me." '' Calantha," said Lady Mar- 
garet, " you are already more than for- 
given ; but the tears I shed were not 


occasioned by your last speech ; though 
it is true, censure from one's children, 
or those one has ever treated as such, is 
more galling than from others. But, 
indeed, my spirits are much shaken. I 
have had letters irom my son, and he 
seems more hurt at your conduct than 
I expected: — he talks of renouncing his 
country and his expectations ; he says that 
if indeed his Calantha, who has been the 
constant object of his thoughts in ab- 
scence, can have already renounced her 
vows and him, he will never intruo/- his 
griefs upon her, nor ever seek to bias her 
inclinations: yet it is with deep and last- 
ing regret that he consents to tear you 
from his remembrance and consign you 
to another/' 

Calantha sighed deeply at this unex- 
pected information, to condemn any one 
to the pangs of unrequited love was 
hard : she had already felt that it was no 
light suffering ; and Lady Margaret, see- 
ing how her false and artful representa- 


tions had worked upon the best feelings 
of an inexperienced heart, lost no oppor- 
tunity of improving and increasing their 

These repeated attempts to move Ca- 
lantha to a determination, which was 
held out to her as a virtuous and ho- 
nourable sacrifice made to duty and to 
justice, were not long before they were 
attended with success. Urged on all 
sides continually, and worked upon by 
those she loved, she at last yielded with 
becoming inconsistency ; and one eve- 
ning, when she saw her father somewhat 
indisposed, she approached him, and 
whispered in his ear, that she had 
thoughtbetter of her conduct, and would 
be most happy in fulfilling his commands 
in every respect. " Now yt)u are a he- 
roine, indeed,'* said Lady Margaret, who 
had overheard the promise : " you have 
shewn that true courage which I ex- 
pected from you— you have gained a 
victory over yourself, and I cannot but 


feel proud of you." '^ Aye," thought 
Calantha, *' flattery is the chain that will 
bind me ; gild it but bright enough, and 
be secure of its strength : you have 
found, at last, the clue ; now make use 
of it to my ruin/* 

*' She consents,'* said Lady Margaret ; 
" it is sufficient ; let there be no delay ; 
let us dazzle her imagination, awaken 
her ambition, and gratify her vanity by 
the most splendid presents and prepa- 
rations !*' 



Calantha's jewels and costly attire— 
her equipages and attendants, were now 
the constant topic of conversation. 
Every rich gift was ostentatiously exhi- 
bited ; while congratulations, w^ere on all 
sides, poured forth on the youthful 
bride. Lady Margaret, eagerly dis- 
playing the splendid store, asked her 
if she were not happy. — *' Do not," 
she replied, addressing her aunt, " do 
not fancy that 1 am weak enough to 
value these baubles : — My heart is 
at least free from a folly like this : I de- 
spise this mockery of riches." " You 
despise it !*' repeated Lady Marga- 
ret, with an incredulous smile: — "you 
despise grandeur and vanity I Child be- 
lieve one who knows you well, you wor- 
ship them : they are your idols ; and 


while your simple voice sings forth ro- 
mantic praises of simplicity and retire- 
ment, you have been cradled in luxury, 
and you cannot exist without it/* 

Buchanan was now daily, nay even 
hourlyexpectedt—LadyMargaret awaited 
him with anxious hope; Calantha, with 
increasing fear. Having one morning 
ridden out to divert her mind from the 
dreadful suspense under which she la- 
boured, and meeting with Sir Everard, 
she enquired of him respecting her former 
favourite : " Miss Elinor/' said the doc- 
tor, '' is still with her aunt, the abbess 
of Glanaa ; and, her noviciate being over, 
she will soon, I fancy, take the veil. You 
cannot see her; but if your Ladyship 
will step from your horse, and enter into 
my humble abode, I will shew you a por- 
trait of St. Clara, for so we now call her, 
she being indeed a saint; and sure you 
will admire it." Calantha accompanied 
the doctor, and was struck with the sin- 
gular beauty of the portrait. '' Happy 


St. Clara,*' she said, and sighed: — *'your 
heart, dedicated thus early to Heaven, 
will escape the struggles and temptations 
to which mine is already exposed. Oh ! 
that I too, might follow your example; 
and, far from a world for which I am not 
formed, pass my days in piety and peace." 
Thatevening,astheDukeof Altamonte 
led his daughter through the crowded 
apartments, presenting her to every one 
previous to her marriage, she was sud- 
denly informed that Buchanan was ar- 
rived. Her forced spirits and assumed 
courage at once forsook her; she fled to 
her room ; and there giving vent to her 
real feelings, wept bitterly. — "Yet why 
should 1 grieve thus?" she said: — *' What 
though he be here to claim me? my hand 
is yet free: — I will not give it against 
the feelings of my heart.'* Mrs. Seymour 
had observed her precipitate flight, and 
following, insisted upon being admitted. 
She endeavoured to calm her ; but it was 
too late. 


From that day, Calantha sickened : — 
the aid of the physician, and the care of 
her friends were vain : — an alarming ill- 
ness seized upon her mind, and affected 
her whole frame. In the paroxysm of her 
fever, she called repeatedly upon Lord 
Avondale^s name, which confirmed those 
around her in the opinion they enter- 
tained, that her malady had been occa- 
sioned by the violent effort she had made, 
and the continual dread under which she 
had existed for some time past, of Bu- 
chanan's return. Her father bitterly 
reproached himself for his conduct; 
watched by her bed in anxious suspence; 
and under the impression of the deepest 
alarm, wrote to his old friend the admiral, 
informing him of his daughter's danger, 
and imploring him to urge Lord Avon- 
dale to forget what had passed, and to 
hasten again to Castle Delaval.— Restated 
that, to satisfy his sister's ambition, the 
greater part of his fortune should be set- 
tled upon Buchanan, to whom his title 


descended; and if, after this arrangement, 
Lord Avondale still continued the same 
as when he had parted from Calantha, 
he only requested his forgiveness of his 
former apparent harshness, and earnestly 
besouo^ht his return without a moment's 
loss of time. 

His sister he strove in vain to ap- 
pease: — Lady Margaret was in no temper 
of mind to admit of his excuses. Her 
son had arrived and again left the castle, 
without even seeing Calantha; and when 
the Duke attempted to pacify Lady Mar- 
garet, she turned indignantly from him, 
declaring, that, if he had the weakness to 
yield to the arts and stratagems of a 
spoiled and wayward child, she would 
instantly depart from under his roof, 
and never see him more. No one event 
could have grieved him so much, as this 
open rupture with his sister. Yet 
his child's continued danger turned his 
thoughts from this and every other con- 
sideration : — he yielded to her wishes : — 


be could not endure the sight of her mi- 
sery : — he had from her infancy never 
refused her slightest request : — and could 
he now, on so momentous an occasion, 
could he now force her inclinations and 
constrain her choice. 

The kind intentions of the Duke were, 
however, defeated. Stung to the soul, 
Calantha would not hear of marriage with 
Lord Avondale : — pride, a far stronger 
feeling than love, at that early period, 
disdained to receive concessions even 
from a father : and a certain moroseness 
began to mark her character, as she slowly 
recovered from her illness, which never 
had been observed in it before. She be- 
came austere and reserved ; read nothing 
but books of theology and controversy ; 
seemed even to indulge an inclination 
for a monastic life ; was often with Miss 
St. Clare ; and estranged herself from all 
other society. 

" Let her have her will," said Lady 
Margaret, *' it is the only means of curing 

VOL. I. e 


her of this new fancy." — The Duke, 
however, thought otherwise : he was 
greatly alarmed at the turn her disposi- 
tion seemed to have taken, and tried every 
means in his power to remedy and coun- 
teract it. A year passed thus away; and 
the names of Buchanan and Lord Avon- 
dale were never or rarely mentioned at the 
castle ; when one evening, suddenly and 
unexpectedly, the latter appeared there 
to answer in person, a message which the 
Duke had addressed to him, by means of 
the Admiral, during his daughter's illness. 
Lord Avoudale had been abroad since 
last he had parted from Calantha ; he 
had gained the approbation of the army 
in which he served ; and, what was bet- 
ter, he knew that he deserved it. His 
uncle's letter had reached him when still 
upon service. He had acted upon the 
staff: he now returned to join his own 
regiment, which v/ns quartered at Lei- 
trim ; and i)is first care, before he pro- 
ceeded upon the duties of his profession, 


was, to see the Duke, and to claim, with 
diminished fortune and expectations, the 
brfde his early fancy had chosen. — "I 
will not marry him — I will not see him:" 
— These were the only words Calantha 
pronounced, as they led her into the 
room where he was conversing with her 

When she saw him, however, lier feel- 
ings changed. Every heart which has 
known what it is to meet, after a 
long estrangement, the object of its first, 
of its sole, of its entire devotion, can 
picture to itself the scene which followed. 
Neither pride, nor monastic vows, nor 
natural bashfulness, repressed the full 
flow of her happiness at the moment 
when Lord A von dale rushed forward to 
embrace her, and, calling her his own 
Calantha, mingled his tears with hers. — 
The Duke, greatly affected, looked upon 
them both. '' Take her,'' he said, ad- 
dressing Lord A von dale, ''and be as- 
sured, whatever her faults, she is my 


heart's pride — my treasure. Be kind to 
her: — that I know you will be, whilst 
the enthusiasm of passion lasts : but ever 
be kind to her, even when it has subsided: 
remember, she has yet to learn what it 
is to be controuled. " She shall never 
learn it,*' said Lord Avondale, again 
embracing her : " by day — by night, 
I have lived but in this hope: she shall 
never repent her choice." " The God 
of Heaven vouchsafe his blessing upon 
you," said the Duke. — " My sister may 
call this weakness ; but the smile on my 
child's countenance is a sufficient re- 



What Lord Avondale had said was true, 
— One image had pursued him in every 
change of situation, since he had parted 
from Calantha ; and though he had 
scarcely permitted his mind to dwell on 
hope ; yet he felt that, without her, there 
was no happiness for him on earth ; and 
he thought that once united to her, he 
was beyond the power of sorrow or mis- 
fortune. ^ So chaste, even in thought, she 
seemed — so frank and so affectionate, 
could he be otherwise than happy with 
such a companion ? How then was he 
astonished, when, as soon as they were 
alone, she informed him that, although 
she adored him, she was averse to the 
fetters he was so eager to impose. How 
was he struck to find that all the chime- 
rical, romantic absurdities, which he most 


despised, were tenaciously cherished by 
her ; to be told that dear as he was, 
her freedom was even dearer ; that shje 
thought it a crime to renounce her vows, 
her virgin vows ; and that she never 
would become a slave and a wife ; — he 
must not expect it. 

Unhappy xVvondale ! even such an 
avowal did not open his eyes, or deter 
him from his pursuit. Love blinds the 
wisest : and fierce passion domineers 
over reason. The dread of another sepa- 
ration inspired him with alarm. Agitated 
— furious— he now combatted every ob- 
jection, ventured every promise, and loved 
even with greater fondness from the in- 
creasing dread of again losing what he 
had hoped was already his own.—" Men 
of the world are without religion/^ said 
Calantha with tears ; " Women of the 
world are without principle. Truth is 
regarded by none. I love and honor 
my God, even more than I love you ; 
and truth is dearer to me than life. I am 


not like those I see :—my education, my 
habits, my feelings are different ; I am 
like one uncivilized and savage; and if 
you place me in society, you will have 
to blush every hour for the faults I shall 
involuntarily commit. Besides this ob- 
jection, my temper— I am more violent 
— Oh that it were not so ! but can T, 
ought I, to deceive you V You are ail 
that is noble, frank, and generous : you 
shall guide me," said Lord Avondale, 
'^ and I will protect you. Be mine: 
fear me not: your principles I venerate: 
your religion I w^ill study, will learn, 
will believe in. What more ?'^ 

Lord Avondale sought and won that 
strange uncertain being, for whom he 
was about to Sdcrifice so much. He con* 
sidered not the lengthened journey of 
life— the varied scenes through which 
they were to pass ; where all the quali- 
ties in which she was wholly deficient 
would be so often and so absolutely 
required — discretion, prudence, firm and 


Steady principle, obedience, humility. 
But to all her confessions and remon- 
strances he replied : '' I love, and you 
return my passion : can we be otherwise 
than blest ! You are the dearest object 
of my affection, my life, my hope, my 
joy. If you can live without me, which 
I do not believe, I cannot without you, 
and that is sufficient. Sorrows must 
come on all, but united together we can 
brave them. My Calantha, you torture 
me but to try me. Were I to renounce 
you, were I to take you at your word, 
you, you would be the first to regret and 
to reproach me." " It is but the name 
of wife I hate,"' replied the spoiled and 
wayward child. " I mu«t command : 
my will — '' *' Your will shall be my 
law,** said Lord Avondale, as he knelt 
before her : *' you shall be my mistress, 
my guide, my monitress, and 1 a willing 
slave.'* So spoke the man, who, like 
the girl he addressed, had died sooner 
than have yielded up his freedom or his 


independence to another ; who, high 
and proud, had no conception of even the 
sligrhtest interference with his conduct 
or opposition to his wishes ; and, who, at 
the very moment that in words he yielded 
up his liberty, sought only the fulfilment 
of his own desire, and the attainment of 
an object upon which he had fixed his 

The day arrived. A trembling bride, 
and an impassioned lover faintly articu- 
lated the awful vow. Lord Avondale 
thought himself the happiest of men ; 
and Calantha, though miserable at the 
moment, felt that, on earth, she loved 
but him. In the presence of her assem- 
bled family, they uttered the solemn en- 
gagement, which bound them througli 
existence to each other ; and though 
Calantha was deeply affected, she did not 
regret the sacred promise she had made. 

When Lord Avondale, however, ap- 
proached to take her from her father's 
arms — when she heard that the carriages 
G 5 


awaited which were to bear them ta 
another residence, nor love, nor force 
prevailed. " This is my home," she 
cried: " these are my parents. Share 
all I have — dwell with me where I have 
ever dwelt ; but think not that I can quit 
them thus/' No spirit of coquetry, no 
petty airs, learned or imagined, suggested 
this violent and reiterated exclamation : 
*' I will not go." I will not, was suffi- 
cient, as she imagined, to change the most 
determined character ; and when she 
found that force was opposed to her vio- 
lence, terror, nay, abhorrence took posses- 
sion of her mind ; and it was with shrieks 
of despair she was torn from her father'^ 

'' Unhappy Avondale!'' said Sophia, 
as she saw her thus borne away, " may 
that violent spirit grow tame and tract- 
able, and may Calantha at length prove 
worthy of such a husband !" This ex- 
clamation was uttered with a feeling 
which mere interest for her cousin could 


not have created. In very truth, Sophia 
loved Lord Avondale. And Alice Mac 
Allain, who heard the prayer with sur- 
prise and indignation, added fervently : 
" that he may make her happy; that he 
may know the value of the treasure he 
possesses ; this is all I ask of Heaven. 
Oh ! my mistress — my protectress — my 
Calantha — what is there left me on earth 
to love, now thou art gone ? Whatever 
they may say of thy errors, even those 
errors are dearer to my heart than all the 
virtues thou hast left behind/' 



It was at Allan water, a small villa amidst 
the mountains, in the county of Leitrim, 
that Lord and Lady Avondale passed 
the first months of their marriage. This 
estate had been settled upon Sir Richard 
Mowbrey, during his life time, by his 
brother, the late Earl of Avondale. It 
was cheerful, though retired ; and Xq 
Calantha's enchanted eyes appeared all 
that was most romantic and beautiful 
upon earth. What indeed had not ap- 
peared beautiful to her in the company of 
the man she loved! Everyone fancies that 
there exists in the object of their peculiar 
admiration a superiority over others. 
Calantha, perhaps, was fully justified in 
this opinion. Lord Avondale displayed 
even in his countenance the sensibility of 
a warm, ardent, and generous character. 


He had a distinguished and prepossessing 
manner, entirely free from all affectation. 
It is seldom that this can be said of any 
man, and more seldom of one possessed 
of such singular beauty of person. He 
appeared indeed wholly to forget himself; 
and was ever more eager in the interests 
of others than his own. Many there are, 
who, though endowed with the best un- 
derstandings, have yet an inertness, an 
insensibility to all that is brilliant and 
accomplished ; and who, though correct 
in their observations, yet fatigue in the 
long intercourse of life by the sameness 
of their thoughts. Lord Avondale's un- 
derstanding, however, fraught as it was 
with knowledge, was illumined by the 
splendid light of genius, yet not over- 
thrown by its force. In his mind, it 
might be truly said, that he did not 
cherish one base, one doubtful or worldly 
feeling. He was so sincere that, even in 
conversation, he never mis-stated, or ex- 
aggerated a fact. He saw at a glance the 


faults of others ; but his extreme good 
nature and benevolence prevented his 
taking umbrage at them. He was, it is 
true, of a hot and passionate temper, and 
if once justly offended, firm in his re- 
solve, and not very readily appeased ; 
but he was too generous to injure or to 
hate even those who might deserve it. 
When he loved, and he never really 
loved but one, it was with so violent, so 
blind a passion, that he might be said to 
doat upon the very errors of the girl to 
whom he was thus attached. To the 
society of women he had been early ac- 
customed ; but had suffered too much 
from their arts, and felt too often the 
effects of their caprices, to be easily 
made again their dupe and instrument. 
Of beauty he had ofttimes been the wil- 
ling slave. Strong passion, opportunity, 
and entire liberty of conduct, had, at an 
early period, thrown him into its power. 
His profession, and the general laxity of 
morals, prevented his viewing his former 


conduct in the light in which it appeared 
to his astonished bride; but when she 
sighed, because she feared that she was 
not the first who had subdued his affec- 
tions, he smilingly assured her, that she 
should be the last — that no other should 
ever be dear to him again. 

Calantha, in manner, in appearance, in 
every feeling, was but a child. At one 
hour, she would look entranced upon 
Avondale, and breathe vows of love and 
tenderness ; at another, hide from his 
gaze, and weep for the home she had left. 
At one time she would talk with him 
and laugh from the excess of gaiety she 
felt ; at another, she would stamp her 
foot upon the ground in a fit of childish 
impatience, and exclaiming, " You must 
not contradict me in any thing," she 
would menace to return to her father, 
and never see him more. 

If Lord Avondale had a defect, it w^as 
too great good nature, so that he suffered 
his vain and frivolous partner, to com- 


mand, and guide, and arrange all things 
around him, as she pleased, nor foresaw 
the consequence of her imprudence, 
though too often carried to excess. 
With all his knowledge, he knew not 
how to restrain ; and he had not the ex- 
perience necessary to guide one of her 
character: — he could only idolize; he 
left it to others to censure and admonish. 
It was also for Calantha's misfortune, 
that Lord Avondale's religious opinions 
were different from those in which she 
had been early educated. She, as has 
been heretofore related, was a Roman 
Catholic, and had adopted with that ex- 
cess and exaggeration, which belonged 
to her character, the most enthusiastic 
devotion to that captivating and delusive 
worship. It was perhaps to shew him 
the necessity of stricter doctrines, and 
observances, that heaven permitted one so 
good and noble, as he was, to be united 
with one so frail and weak. Those doc- 
trines which he loved to discuss, au 


support in speculation, she eagerly seized 
upon, and carried into practice ; thus 
proving to him clearly, and fatally, their 
dangerous and pernicious tendency. 
Eager to oppose and conquer those opi- 
nions in his wife, which savoured as he 
thought of bigotry and rigour, he tore the 
veil at once from her eyes, and opened 
hastily her wondering mind to a world 
before unknown. He foresaw not the 
peril to which he exposed her: — he 
heeded not the rapid progress of her 
thoughts — the boundless views of an 
over-heated imagination. At first she 
shrunk with pain and horror, from every 
feeling which to her mind appeared less 
rigid, less pure, than those to which 
she had long been accustomed ; but 
when her principles, or rather her preju- 
dices, yielded to the power of love, she 
broke from a restraint too severe, into a 
liberty the most dangerous from its no- 
velty, its wildness and its uncertainty. 
The monastic severity which she had 


imposed upon herself, from exaggerated 
sentiments of piety and devotion, gave 
way with the rest of her former maxims 
— She knew not where to pa^ise, or rest ; 
her eyes were dazzled, her understanding 
bewildered ; and she viewed the world, 
and the new form which it wore before 
her, with strange and unknown feelings, 
which she could neither define, nor com- 

Before this period, her eyes had never 
even glanced upon the numerous pages 
which have unfortunately been traced by 
the hand of unrestrained enquiry, and 
daring speculation ; even the more inno- 
cent fictions of romance had been with- 
held from her ; and her mother's precepts 
had, in this respect, been attended to by 
her with sacred care. Books of every 
description, the works of Historians, 
Philosophers, and Metaphysicians, were 
now eagerly devoured by her ; horror and 
astonishment at first retarded the course 
of curiosity and interest : — and soon the 


surprise of innocence was converted into 
admiration of the wit and beauty with 
which some of these works abounded. 
Care is taken when the blind are cured, 
that the strong light of day should not 
fall too suddenly upon the eye; but of 
what avail was caution to Cakntha — 
ever in extremes, she threw off at once 
the sb?.ckles, the superstition, the re- 
strictions, which, perhaps, overstrained 
notions of purity and piety had im- 

Calantha*s lover had become her mas- 
ter; and he could not tear hrmseff one 
moment from his pupil. He laughed at 
every artless or shrewd rtmiirk, and 
pleased himself with contemplating the 
first workings of a mind, not unapt in 
learning, though till then exclusively 
wrapt up in the mysteries of religion, 
the feats of heroes, the poetry of classic 
bards, and the history of nations the most 
ancient and the most removed. — " Where 
have you existed, my Calantha ?" he 


continually said: — " who have been your 
companions?" ''I had none," she re- 
plied ; '' but wherever I heard of cruelty, 
rice, or irreligion, I turned away." 
" Ah, do so still, my best beloved," said 
Lord Avondale, with a sigh. " Be ever 
as chaste, as frank, as innocent, as now." 
'* 1 cannot," said Calantha, confused 
and grieved. " I thought it the greatest 
of all crimes to love : — no cen mony of 
marriage — no doctrines men have invent- 
ed, can quiet my conscience : — 1 know 
no longer what to believe, or what to 
doubt: — hide me in your bosom: — let 
us live far from a world which you say 
is full of evil : — and never part from my 
side ; for you are — Henry you are, all 
that is left me now. I look no more for 
the prQtection of Heaven, or the guidance 
of parents; — you are my only hope: — 
do you preserve and bless me ; for I have 
left every thing for you." 

Such is the transient nature of en- 
thusiasm; such the instability of over 


zeal ; and so short the adherence to 
the firmest, and most austere deter- 
minations, which are not founded in 
right principle, and accompanied by 
a tranquil and humble spirit. To a 
mind so ardent, and so irregular as Ca- 
lantha's, knowledge and information are 
full of danger and hazard. It is impos- 
sible to foresee the impressions which 
may be made, or in any degree to regu- 
late the course which may be taken by 
such an imagination. Some mistaken 
conclusion is eagerly seized upon, some 
false interpretation is easily seized upon, 
and tenaciously maintained, and reason 
labours in vain to counteract and remedy 
the mischief. The productions of such 
a soil are all strange, new, uncertain ; 
and the cultivator sees with astonish- 
ment a plant arise, entirely different 
from the usual result of the seed which 
has been sown, mocking his toil, and 
frustrating his expectations. 



There is nothing so difficult to describe 
as happiness. Whether some feeling of 
envy enters into the mind upon hearing 
of it, or whether it is so calm, so unas- 
suming, so little ostentatious in itself, 
that words give an imperfect idea of it, 
who can say? It is easier to enjoy it 
than to define it. It springs in the heart, 
and shews itself on the countenance; 
but it shuns all display; and is oftener 
found at home, when home has not been 
embittered by dissensions, suspicions, 
and guilt, than any where else upon 
earth. Yes, it is in home, and in those 
who watch there for us. Miserable is 
the being who turns elsewhere for conso- 
lation ! Desolate is the heart which has 
broken the ties that bownd it there. 
Calantha was happy ; her home was 


bliessed ; and in Lord Avondale's societv 
every hour brought her joy. Perhaps 
the feelings which at this time united 
them were too violent — too tumultuous. 
Few can bear to be thus loved — thus 
indulged : very few minds are strong- 
enough to resist it. Calantha was ut- 
terly enervated by it ; and when the cares 
of life first aroused Lord x\vondale, and 
called him from her, she found herself 
unfit for the new situation she was 
immediatey required to fill. When 
for a few hours he left her, she waited 
with trembbng anxiety for his return ; 
and though she murmured not at the 
necessary change, her days were spent 
in tears, and ner nights in restless agita- 
tion He more than shared in her dis- 
tress : he even encouraged the excess of 
sensibility which gave rise to it ; for men, 
whilst they love, think every new caprice 
and weakness in the object of it but a new 
charm ; and whilst Calantha could make 
him grave or merry — or angry or pleased, 


just as it suited her, he pardoned every 
omission — he forgave every fault. 

Used to be indulged and obeyed, she 
was not surprised to find him a willing 
slave; but she had no conception that 
the chains he now permitted to be laid 
upon him, were ever to be broken ; and 
tears and smiles, she thought, must, at all 
times, have the power over his heart which 
they now possessed. She was not mis- 
taken : — Lord Avondale was of too fine 
a character to trifle with the aflPections 
he had won ; and Calantha had too much 
sense and spirit to wrong him. He 
looked to his home therefore for comfort 
and enjoyment. He folded to his bosom 
the only being upon earth, for whom he 
felt one sentiment of passion or of love. 
Calantha had not a thought that he did 
not know, and share : his heart was as 
entirely open as her own. 

Was it possible lo be more happy i It 
was : and that blessing too, was granted. 
Lady Avondale became a mother : — She 

GLENAllVOX. 145 

gave to Avondale, the dearest gift a wife 
can offer — a boy, lovely in all the grace 
of childhood— whose rosy smiles, and 
whose infant caresses, seemed even more 
than ever to unite them together. He 
was dear to both ; but they were far 
dearer to each other. At i\l Ian water, 
in the fine evenings of summer, they 
wandered out upon the mountains, and 
saw not in the countenance of the vil- 
l?igers half the tenderness and happiness 
they felt themselves. They uttered, there- 
fore, no exclamations upon the superior 
joy of honest industry: — -a cottage of- 
fered nothing to their view, which could 
excite either envy or regret : they gave 
to all, and were loved by ail; but in all 
resj)ects they felt themselves as innocent, 
anxl more happy than those who sur- 
rounded them. 

In truth, the greater refinement, the 
g^^dter polish the mind and manner 
receive, the more exquisite must be the 
enjoyment of which the heart is capable. 

VOL. 1, H 


Few know how to love : — it is a word 
which many misuse ; but they who have 
felt it, know that there is nothing to 
compare with it upon earth. It cannot 
however exist in union with guilt. If 
ever it does spring up in a perverted 
heart, it constitutes the misery that heart 
deserves: — it consumes and tortures till 
it expires. Even, however, when lawful 
and virtuous, it may be too violent: — it 
may render those who are subject to it 
negligent of other duties, and careless of 
other affections : this in some measure 
w^as the case of Lord and Lady Avondale. 
From Allan water, Lord and Lady Avon- 
dale proceeded to Monteith, an estate of 
Lord Avondale's, where his aunt, Lady 
Mowbrey, and his only sister, Lady Eli- 
zabeth Mo wbrey resided . Sir Richard and 
Lady Mowbrey had never had any ciiil- 
dren, but Elizabeth and Lord Avondale 
were as dear to them, and perhaps dearer, 
than if they had been their own. The 
society at Monteith was large. There 
pleasure and gaiety and talent were 


chiefly prized and sought after, while a 
strong party spirit prevailed. Lady Mon- 
teithj a woman of an acute and penetrat- 
ing mind, had warmly espoused the cause 
of the ministry of the day. Possessed of 
every quality that could most delight in 
society — brilliant, beautiful, and of a 
truly masculine understanding, she was 
accurate in judgment, and at a glance 
could penetrate the secrets of others; yet 
was she easily herself deceived. She had 
a nobleness of mind, which the inter- 
course with the world, and exposure to 
every temptation had not been able to 
destroy. Big'otted and prejudiced in 
opinions which early habit had conse- 
crated, she was sometimes too severe in 
her censures of others ; but her heart, 
too warm, too kind, repented even any mo- 
mentary severity she might have shewn. 
At Castle Delaval,the society was even 
too refined ; and a slight tinge of affec- 
tation might, by those who were inclined 
to censure, be imputed to it. Though 
H 2 


ease was not wanting, there was a polish 
in manner, perhaps in thought, which 
removed the general tone somewhat too 
far from the simplicity of nature ; senti- 
ment, and all the romance ofvirtue, was 

At Monteith, on the contrary, this over 
refinement was the constant topic of ri- 
dicule. Every thought was there uttered, 
and every feeling expressed: — there was 
neither shyness, nor reserve, nor affecta- 
tion. Talent opposed itself to talent 
with all the force of argument. The 
loud laugh that pointed out any new 
folly, or hailed any new occasion of mirth, 
was different from the subdued smile, 
and gentle hint to which Calantha had 
been accustomed. Opinions were there 
liberally discussed ; characters stripped 
of their pretences ; and satire mingled 
with the good humour, and jovial mirth, 
which on every side abounded. 

Lady Avondaie heard and saw every 
thing with surprise ; and ti)ough she 
loved and admired the individuals, she 


felt herself unfit to live among them. 
There was a liberality of opinion and a 
satiric turn which she could not at once 
comprehend ; and she said to herself, 
daily, as she considered those around her, 
" They are different from me. 1 can 
never assimilate myself to them. I was 
every thing in my own family, and I am 
nothing here.'' What talents she had 
were of a sort they could not appreciate ; 
and all her defects were those which they 
most despised. The refinement, the 
romance, the sentiment she had imbibed, 
appeared in their eyes assumed and un- 
natural ; her strict opinions, perfectly 
ridiculous ; her enthusiasm, absolute in- 
sanity ; and the violence of her temper, 
if contradicted or opposed, the petiish- 
ness of a spoiled and wayward child. 
Yet too indulgent, too kind to reject her, 
they loved her, they caressed her, they 
bore with her petulance and mistakes. 
It was, however, as a child they consi- 
dered her : — they treated her as one not 
arrived at maturity of judgment. 


Her reason by degrees became con- 
vinced by the arguments which she con- 
tinually heard ; and all that was spoken 
at random, she treasured up as truth : 
even whilst vehemently contending and 
disputing in defence of her favourite 
tenets, she became of another opinion. 
So dangerous is a little knowledge — so 
unstable is violence. Her soul's immor- 
tal hopes seemed to be shaken by the 
unguarded jests of some who casually 
visited at Monteith, or whom she met 
with elsewhere : — she read till she con- 
founded truth and falsehood, nor knew 
any longer what to believe: she heard 
folly censured, till she took it to be cri- 
minal ; but crime she saw tolerated, if 
well concealed. The names she had set 
n her very heart as pure and spotless, 
she heard traduced and ridiculed: indig- 
nantly she defended them with all the 
warmth of ardent youth : — they were 
proved guilty ; she wept in agony, she 
loved them not less, but she thought 


less favourably of those who had unde« 
ceived her. 

The change in Calantha^s mind was 
constant, was daily ; it never ceased, it 
never paused; and none marked its pro- 
gress, or checked her career. In eman- 
cipating herself from much that was no 
doubt useless, she stripped herself by 
degrees of all, till she neither feared, nor 
cared, nor knew any longer what was, 
from what was not. 

Nothing gives greater umbrage than a 
misconception and mistaken application 
of tenets and opinions which were never 
meant to be thus understood and acted 
upon. Lady Mowbrey, a strict adherent 
to all customs and etiquettes, saw with 
astonishment in Calantha a total disre- 
gard of them ; and her high temper 
could ill brook such defect. Accus- 
tomed to the gentleness of Elizabeth, 
she saw with indignation the liberty her 
niece had assumed. It was not for her 
to check her ; but rigidity, vehemence in 


dispute, and harsh truths, at times too 
bitterly expressed on both sides, gave an 
appearance of disunion between them, 
which happily was very far from being 
real, as Calantha loved and admired 
Lady Mowbrey with the warmest affec- 

Lord Avondale, in the mean time, 
solely devoted to his wife, blinded him- 
self to her danger. He saw not the 
change a few months had made, or he 
imputed it alone to her enthusiasm for 
himself. He thought others harsh to 
what he regarded as the mere though t- 
lassness of youth; and, surrendering him- 
self wholly to her guidance, he chided, 
caressed, and laughed, with her in turn. 
*^ I see how it is, Henry," said Sir 
Richard, before he left Ireland, " you 
are a lost man ; I shall leave you another 
year to amuse yourself; and I fancy by 
that time all this nonsense will be over. 
I love you the better for it, however, my 
dear boy; a soldier never looks so well, 


to my mind, as when kneeling to a pretty 
woman, provided he does his duty 
abroad as well as at home, and that 
praise every one must give you. 

H 6 



The threatening storm of rebellion now 
darkened around. Acts of daily rapine 
and outrage alarmed the inhabitants of 
Ireland, both in the capital and in the 
country : all the military posts were 
reinforced ; Lord Avondale's regiment, 
then at Leitrim, was ordered out on 
actual service ; and the business of his 
profession employed every moment of his 
time. The vigorous measures pursued, 
soon produced a favorable change; tran- 
quillity was apparently restored; and the 
face of things resumed its former appear- 
ance; but the minds which had been 
aroused to action were not as easily qui- 
eted, and the charms of an active life 
were not as readily laid aside. Lord 
Avondale was still much abroad; much 
occupied ; and the time hanging heavy 


upon Calantha's hands, she was not 
sorry to hear that they were going to 
pass the ensuing winter in London. 

In the autumn, previous to their depar- 
ture for England, they passed a few weeks 
at Castle Delavai, chiefly for the purpose 
of meeting Lady Margaret Buchanan, who 
had, till then, studiously avoided every 
occasion of meeting Lady Avondale. 
Buchanan had neither seen her nor sent 
her one soothing message since her mar- 
riage, so angry he affected to be, at what, 
in reality, gave him the sincerest delight. 

Count Gondimar had returned from 
Italy, and was now at the castle. He 
had brought letters from A^iviani to Lady 
Margaret, who said at once when she had 
read them : " You wish to deceive me. 
These letters are dated from Naples, but 
our young friend is here — here even in 
Ireland.'' '^ And his vengeance," said 
Gondimar, laughing. Lady Margaret 
affected, also, to smile: " Oh, his ven- 
geance!" she said, " is yet to come: — 

156 r.LENARVON. 

save me from his love now ; and I will 
defend myself from the rest.*' 

Lord and Lady Dartford were, like- 
wise, at the castle. He appeared cold 
and careless. In his pretty inoffensive 
wife, he found not those attractions, 
those splendid talents which had en- 
thralled him for so long a period with 
Lady Margaret. He still pined for the 
tyranny of caprice, provided the load of re- 
sponsibility and exertion were removed : 
and the price of his slavery were that ex- 
emption from the petty cares of life, for 
which he felt an insurmountable disgust. 
From indolence, it seemed he had fallen 
again into the snare which was spread 
for his ruin ; and having, a second time, 
submitted to the chain, he had lost all 
desire of ever again attempting to shake 
it off. Lady Dartford, too innocent to see 
her danger, lamented the coldness of her 
husband, and loved him with even fond- 
er attachment, for the doubt she enter- 
tained of his affection. She was spoken 


of by all with pity and praise: her con- 
duct was considered as exemplary, when 
in fact it was purely the effect of nature ; 
for every hope of her heart was centered 
in one object, and the fervent constancy 
of her affection arose, perhaps, in some 
measure from the uncertainty of its being 
returned. Lady Margaret continued to 
see the young Count Yiviani in secret : — 
he had now been in Ireland for some 
months :— ,his manner to Lady Margaret 
was, however, totally changed : — he 
had accosted her upon his arrival, with 
the most distant civility, the most studied 
coldness : — he affected ever that marked 
indifference which proved him but still 
too much in her power ; and, while his 
heart burned with the scorching flames 
of jealousy, he waited for some oppor- 
tunity of vengeance, which might, by 
its magnitude, effectually satisfy his rage. 
Lord Dartford saw him once as he was 
retiring in haste from Lady Margaret's 
apartment ; and he enquired of her ea- 


gerly who he was. — '' A young musi- 
cian, a friend of Gondimar's, an Italian/' 
said Lady Margaret. " He has not an 
Italian countenance/' said Lord Dart- 
ford, thoughtfully. '' I wish I had not 
seen him : — it is a face which makes a 
deep and even an unpleasant impression. 
You call him Viviani, do you? — whilst 
I live, I never shall forget Viviani 1" 

Cards, billiards and music, were the 
usual nightly occupations. Sir Everard 
St. Clare and the Count Gondimar en- 
tered into the most tedious and vehe- 
ment political disputes, an evil which 
Calantha endeavoured to avert as often 
as she could, by inducing the latter to 
sing, which he did in an agreeable, 
though not in an unaffected manner. 
At these times, Mrs. Seymour, with So- 
phia and Frances, heeding neither the 
noise nor the gaiety, eternally embroi- 
dered fancy muslins, or, with persevering 
industry, painted upon velvet. Calan- 
tha mocked at these innocent recreations. 


" Unlike music, drawing and reading, 
which fill the niind/' she said ; — '' un- 
like even to dancing which, though ac- 
counted an absurd mode of passing away 
time, is active, and appears natural to the 
human form and constitution." 

" Tell me Avondale," Calantha would 
say, " can any thing be more tedious 
than that incessant irritation of the fin- 
gers—that plebeian, thrifty and useless 
mode of increasing in women a love of 
dress— a selfish desire of adorning their 
own persons ?— I ever loathed it. — There 
is a sort of self-satisfaction about these 
ingenious working ladies, which is per- 
fectly disgusting. It gratifies all the 
little errors of a narrow mind, under the 
appearance of a notable and domestic 
turn. At times, when every feeling of 
the heart should have been called forth, 
I have seen Sophia examining the pat- 
terns of a new gown, and curiously 
noting every fold of a stranger's dress. 
Because a woman who, like a mechanic, 


has turned her understanding, and hopes, 
and energies, into this course, remains 
uninjured by the storms around her, is 
she to be admired ? — must she be ex- 
tolled?" "It is not their occupation, 
but their character, you censure : — I fear, 
Calantha, it is their very virtue you de- 
spise.'* " Oh no '/' she replied indig- 
nantly : " when real virtue, struggling 
with temptations of which these sen^- 
less, passionless creatures have no con- 
ception, clinging for support to Heaven, 
yet preserves itself uncorrupted amidst 
the vicious and the base, it deserves a 
crown of glory, and the praise and admi- 
ration of every heart. Not so these 
spiritless immaculate prejudiced stick- 
lers for propriety. I do not love Sophia : 
no, tholigh she ever affords me a cold 
extenuation for my faults — though 
through life she considers me as a sort of 
friend whom fate has imposed upon her 
through the ties of consanguinity. I did 
not — could not — cannot love her; but 


there are some, far better than herself, 
noble ardent characters, unsullied by a 
taint of evil ; and I think, x\vondide, 
without flattery, you are in the list 
whom I would die to save ; whom 1 
would bear every torture and ignominy, 
to support and render happy." — " Try 
then my Calantha, " said Lord Avon- 
dale, '' to render them so ; fbr, believe 
me, there is no agony so great as to re- 
member that we have caused one mo- 
ment's pang to such as have been kind 
and good to us/' " You are right," 
said Calantha, looking upon him with 

Oh ! if there be a pang of heart too 
terrible to endure and to imagine, it 
would be the consideration that we have 
returned unexampled kindness by in- 
gratitude, and betrayed the generous 
noble confidence that trusted every thing 
to our honour and our love. Calantha 
had not, however, this heavy charge to 
answer for at the time in which she 


spoke, and her thoughts were gay, and 
all those around seemed to share in the 
happiness she ^elt. 

Lord Avondale one day reproved Ca- 
lantha for her excessive love of music. — 
*' You have censured work/' he said, 
" and imputed to it every evil, the cold 
and the passionless can fall into:— I now 
retort your satire upon music/' Some 
may smile at this ; but had not Lord 
Avondale*s observation more weight than 
at first it may appear. Lady Avondale 
often rode to Glenaa to hear Miss St. 
Clare sing. Gondimar sung not like 
her ; and his love-breathing ditties went 
not to the heart, like the hymns of the 
lovely recluse. But for the deep flushes 
which now and then overspread St. 
Clara's cheeks, and the fire which at 
times animated her bright dark eye, some 
might have fancied her a being of a purer 
nature than our own — one incapable of 
feeling any of the fierce passions that 
disturb mankind ; but her voi^e was 


such as to shake every fibre of the heart, 
and might soon have betrayed to an ex- 
perienced observer the impassioned vio- 
lence of her real character. 

Sir Everard, who had one day accom- 
panied Calantha to the convent, asked 
his niece in a half serious, half jesting 
manner, concerning her gift of prophecy. 
** Have not all this praying and fasting, 
cured you of it, my little Sybil ?" he 
said. — '' No,*' replied the girl ; *' but 
that which you are so proud of, makeg 
me sad: — it is this alone which keeps 
me from the sports which delight my 
companions : — it is this which makes me 
weep when the sun shines bright in the 
•clear heavens, and the bosom of the sea 
is calm.**—'' Will you shew us a speci- 
men of your art ?" said Sir Everard, 
eagerly. — Miss St. Clare coloured, and 
smiling archly at him, *' The inspiration 
is not on me now uncle,** she said ; 
'^ when it is, I will send and let you 


know." — Calantha embraced her, and 
returned from her visit more and more 
enchanted with her singular acquaint- 



As soon as Lord and Lady Avondale liad 
quitted Castle Delaval, they returned to 
Allanvvater, previous to their departure 
for England. Buchanan, as if to mark 
his still continued resentment against 
Calantha arrived at Castle Delaval, ac- 
companied by some of his London ac- 
quaintance^ almost as soon as she had 
quitted it. He soon distinguished him- 
self in that circle by his bold liljertine 
manners, his daring opinions, and his 
overbearing temper. He declared him- 
self at utter enmity with all refinement, 
and professed his distaste for what is 
termed good society. It was not long, 
however, before Lady Margaret observed 
a strange and sudden alteration in her 
son's manners and deportment : — he en- 
tered into every amusemeiit proposed ; 


he became more than u&iially conde- 
scending; and Alice Mac Allain, it was 
supposed, was the sole cause of his re- 

Alice was credulous; and when she 
was first told that she was fair as the 
opening rose, and soft and balmy as the 
summer breeze, she listened with delight 
to the flattering strain, and looked in the 
mirror to see if all she heard were true. 
She beheld there a face, lovely as youth 
and glowing health could paint it, dimp- 
ling with ever-varying smiles, while hair, 
like threads of gold, curled in untaught 
ringlets over eyes of the lightest blue ; 
and when she heard that she was loved, 
she could not bring herself to mistrust 
those vows which her own bosom was 
but too well prepared to receive. She 
had, perhaps, been won by the first who 
had attempted to gain her affections ; 
but she fell into hands where falsehood 
had twined itself around the very heart's 
core: — she learned to love in no common 


school, and one by one every principle 
and every thought was perverted ; but it 
was not Buchanan who had to answer 
for her fall ! She sunk into infamy, it is 
true, and ruin irreparable; but she passed 
through all the glowing course of passion 
and romance ; nor awoke, till too late, 
from the dream which had deluded her. 

Her old father, Gerald Mac AUain, 
had, with the Duke*s permission, pro- 
mised her hand in marriage to a young 
man in the neighbourhood, much es- 
teemed for his good character. Linden 
had long considered himself as an ap- 
proved suitor. When, therefore, he was 
first informed of the change which had 
occurred in her sentiments, and, more 
than all, when he was told with every 
aggravation of her misconduct and du- 
plicity, he listened to the charge with in- 
credulity, until the report of it was con- 
firmed from her own lips, by an avowal, 
that she thought herself no longer worthy 
of accepting his generous offer — that to 


be plain, she loved another, and wished 
never more to see iiiin, or to hear the re- 
proaches which she acknowledged were 
her due. "I will ofTcryou no reproaches,'* 
said Linden, in the only interview he 
had with her; ** but remember, Miss 
Mac Aliain, when I am far away, that 
if ever those, who, under the name of 
friends, have beguiled and misled you, 
should prove false and fail you — remem- 
ber, that, whilst Linden lives, there is 
one left who will gladly lay down his life 
to defend and preserve you ; and who, 
being forced to quit you, never will re- 
proach you : no, Alice — never ! 

" Gerald,*' said Lady Margaret, on the 
morning when Alice was sent in disgrace 
from the castle, " I will have no private 
communication between yourself and 
your daughter. She will be placed at 
present in a respectfible family; and her 
future conduct will decide in what man- 
ner she will be disposed of hereafter.'* 
The old man bent to the ground in silent 


grief; for the sins of children rise up in 
judgment against their parents. " Oh 
let me not be sent from hence in dis- 
grace/* said the weeping girl ; " drive 
me not to the commission of crime. I 
am yet innocent. Pardon a first offence.'' 
— '' Talk not of innocence/* said Lady 
Margaret, sternly : " those guilty looks 
betray you. Your nocturnal rambles, 
your daily visits to the western cliff, your 
altered manner — all have been observed 
by me and Buchanan'* — "Oh, say not, at 
least, that he accuses me. Whatever my 
crime, I am guiltless, at least, towards 
him.*' — '' Guiltless or not, you must quit 
our family immediately; and to-morrow, 
at an early hour, see that you are* pre- 

It was to Sir Everard's house that Alice 
was conveyed. There w^ere many rea- 
sons which rendered this abode more 
convenient to Lady Margaret than any 
other. The Doctor was timid and sub- 
servient, and Count Gondimar was al- 

VOL. I. I 


ready a great favourite of the youngest 
daughter's, so that the whole family were, 
in some measure, in Lady Margaret's 
power. Her ladyship accordingly in- 
sisted upon conveying Alice, herself, to 
Lady St. Clare's house ; and having safely 
lodged her in her new apartment, re- 
turned to the castle, in haste, and appeared 
at dinner, pleased with her morning's 
adventure; — her beauty more radiant from 

It is said that nothing gives a brighter 
glow to the complexion, or makes the 
eyes of a beautiful woman sparkle so in- 
tensely, as triumph over another. Is this, 
however, the case with respect to women 
alone? Buchanan's florid cheek was 
dimpled with smiles ; no sleepless night 
had dimmed the lustre of his eye; he 
talked incessantly, and with unusual af- 
fability addressed himself to all, except 
to his mother ; while a look of gratified 
vanity was observable whenever the ab- 
sence of Alice was alluded to. He had 


been pleased with being the cause of ruin 
to any wonman ; but his next dearest gra- 
tification was the having it supposed that 
he was so. He was much attacked upon 
this occasion, and much laughing and 
whispering was heard. The sufferings 
of love are esteemed lightly till they are 
felt : and there were, on this occasion, 
few at the Duke's table, if any, who had 
ever really known them. 

I 2 



Time, which passes swiftly and thought- 
lessly for the rich and the gay, treads 
ever with leaden foot, for those who are 
miserable and deserted. Bright pro- 
spects carry the thoughts onward ; but 
for the mourning heart, it is the direct 
reverse : it lives on the memory of the 
past: traces ever the same dull round; 
and loses itself in vain regret and useless 
retrospections. No joyous morn now 
rose to break the slumbers of the once 
innocent and happy Alice: peace of 
mind vi^as gone, like the lover who had 
first won her affections, only it seemed 
to abandon her to shame and remorse. 

At Sir Everard's, Alice was treated 
with impertinent curiosity, tedious ad- 
vice, and unwise severity. *' I hate peo- 
ple in the clouds," cried the Doctor, as 


he led her to her new apartment. " Who 
would walk in a stubble field with their 
eyes gazing upon the stars ? You would, 
perhaps ; and then, let me say, nobody 
would pity you, Miss, if you tumbled 
into the mire." — '* But kind people would 
help me up again, and the unkind alone 
would mock at me, and pass on.*' — 
" There are so many misfortunes in this 
life, Miss Mac Allain, which come unex- 
pectedly upon us, that, for my life, I 
have not a tear to spare for those who 
bring them on themselves.*' — " Yet, 
perhaps, Sir, they are, of all others, the 
most unfortunate." — " Miss Alice, mark 
me, 1 cannot enter into arguments, or 
rather, shall not, for we do not always 
think proper to do what we can. Con- 
scious rectitude is certainly a valuable 
feeling, and I am anxious to preserve it 
now : therefore, as I have taken charge 
of you, Miss, uhirh is not what I am 
particularly fond of doing, I must exe- 
cute what I think my duty. Please, then. 


to give over weeping, as it is a thing in 
a w^oman which never excites commise- 
ration in me. Women and children cry 
out of spite: I have noticed them by the 
hour : therefore, dry your eyes ; think 
less of love, more of your duty ; and re- 
collect, that people who step out of their 
sphere are apt to tumble downwards till 
the end of their days, as nothing is so 
disagreeable as presumption in a woman. 
I hate presumption, do I not L»ady St. 
Clare ? So no more heroics, young Miss,** 
continued he, smiling triumphantly, and 
shaking his head : " no more heroics, if 
you value my opinion. I hate romance 
and fooleries in women , do I not, Lady 
St. Clare ? and heaven be praised, since 
the absence of my poor mad brother, we 
have not a grain of it in oqr house. We 
are all downright people ; not afraid of 
being called vulgar, because we are of 
the old school : and when you have lived 
a little time with us, Miss, we shall, I 
hope, teach you a little sound common 


sense — a very valuable commodity let me 
tell you, though your fine people hold it 
in disrepute." 

In this manner Miss Mac Allain's 
mornings were spent, and her evenings 
even more tediously; for the Doctor, 
alarmed at the republican principles 
vrhich he observed fast spreading, was 
constantly employed in writing pam- 
phlets in favour of government, which he 
read aloud to his family, when not at the 
castle, before he committed them to the 
Dublin press. Two weeks were thus 
passed by Alice with resignation; a third, 
it seems, was beyond her endurance ; for 
one morning Sir Everard's daughters en- 
tering in haste, informed their father and 
mother that she was gone. " Gone T* 
cried Lady St. Clare — " the thing is im- 
possible.'* — " Gone !" cried Sir Everard 
— " and where ? apd how ?^' — The maids 
were called, and one Charley Wright, 
who served for footman, coachman, and 
every thing else upon occasion, was dis- 


patched to seek her, while the doctor, 
without waiting to hear his wife's sur- 
mises or his daughter's lamentations, 
seized his hat and slick and walked in 
haste to the castle. 

His body erect, his cane still under his 
arm, the brogue stronger than ever, from 
inward agitation, he immediately ad- 
dressed himself to the Duke and Lady 
Margaret, and soon converted their smiles 
into fear rmd anger, by informing them 
that Alice Mac Allain had eloped. 

Orders were given, that every enquiry 
should be made for the fugitive ; and the 
company at the castle being informed 
one by one of the event, lost themselves 
in conjectures upon it. Lady Margaret 
had no doubt herself, that her son was 
deeply implicated in the affair, and, in 
consequence, every search was set on 
foot, but, as it proved in the event, with- 
out the least success. Mr. Buchanan 
had left Castle Delaval the week before, 
which confirmed the suspicions already 
entertained on his account. 


Lady Avondale was in London when 
she was informed of this event. Her 
grief for Alice's fate was very sincere, 
and her anxiety for her even greater ; 
but Lord Avondale participated in her 
sorrow — he endeavoured to sooth her 
agitation ; and how could he flnl in his 
attennpt : even n)isery is lightened, if it 
is shared ; and one look, one word, from 
a heart which seems to comprehend our 
suffering, alleviates the bitterness. 

Though Lady Avondale had not seen 
Buchanan since her marriage, and had 
heard that he was offended with her, she 
wrote to him immediately upon hearing 
of Alice's fate, and urged him by every 
tie she thought most sacred and dear — by 
every impression most likely to awaken 
his compassion, to restore the unfortw- 
nate girl to her suffering father, or at 
least to confide her to her care, that she 
might if possible protect and save her 
from farther misfortune. To her ex- 
treme astonishment, she received an an- 
I 5 


swer to this letter, with a positive assur- 
ance from him, that he had no concern 
whatever in Miss Mac Allain's departure ; 
that he was as ignorant as herself whither 
she could be gone ; and that it might be 
recollected he had left Castle Delaval 
some days previous to that event. 

Lady Dartford, who had returned to 
London, and sometimes corresponded 
with Sophia, now corroborated Bucha- 
nan's statement, and assuned her that she 
had no reason to believe Buchanan con- 
cerned in this dark affair, as she had seen 
him several times and he utterly denied it. 
Lady Dartford was, however, too inno- 
cent and inexperienced to know how men 
of the world can deceive ; she was even 
ignorant of her husband's conduct ; and 
though she liked not Lady Margaret, she 
doubted not that she was her friend : — 
who indeed doubts till they learn by bit- 
ter experience the weakness of confiding ! 



The whole party at Castle Delaval now 
proceeded to London for the winter, 
where Lord and Lady Avondale were al- 
ready established in the Duke's mansioa 
in Square. 

A slight cold and fever, added to the 
anxiety and grief Lady Avondale had 
felt for her unhappy friend, had confined 
her entirely to her own apartment ; and 
since her arrival in town, Count Gondi- 
mar was alnaost the only person who 
had been hitherto admitted to her pre- 

He and Yiviani now lodged in the 
same house; but the latter still concealed 
himself, and never was admitted to Lady 
Margaret's presence, except secretly, and 
with caution. He often enquired after 
Calantha ; and one evening the following 


conversation took place respecting her 
between himself and the Count : 

'* You ren^ember her/' said Gondi- 
mar, " a wild and wayward girl. Is 
she less, do you suppose, an object of 
attraction now in the more endearing 
character of mother and of wife ? So 
gentle, so young she seems, so pure, and 
yet so passionately attached to her hus- 
band and infant boy, that I think even 
you, Viviani, would feel convinced of 
her integrity. She seems, indeed, one 
born alone to love, and to be loved, if 
love itselfmight exist in a creature whom 
purity and every modest feeling seem 
continually to surround/* 

Vivjani smiled in scorn. " Goridimar, 
this Calantha, this fair and spotless flower 
is a woman, and, as such, she must be 
frail. Besides, I know that she is so in 
a thousand instances, though as yet too 
innocent to see her danger or to mistrust 
our sex. You have often described to me 
her excessive fondness for music. What 


think you of it ? She does not hear it as 
the Miss Seymours hear it, you tell me. 
She does not admire it, as one of the 
lovers of harmony might. Oh no ; she 
feels it in her very soul — it awakens 
every sensibility — it plays upon the 
chords of her overheated imagination — 
it fills her eyes with tears, and strengthens 
and excites the passions which it appears 
to soothe and to compose. There is no- 
thing which the power of music cannot 
effect, when it is thus heard. Your 
Calantha feels it to a dangerous excess. 
Let me see her, and I will sing to her till 
the chaste veil of every modest feeling is 
thrown aside. Oh, I would trust every 
thing to the power of melody ! Calantha 
is fond of dancing, too, I hear ; and 
dancing is the order of the night. This 
is well ; and once, though she saw me 
not, amidst the crowd, I marked her, as 
she lightly bounded the gayest in the 
circle, from the mere excess of the ani- 
mal spirits of youth. Now Miss Sey- 


mour dances ; but it is with modest dig- 
nity : her sister Frances dances also, and 
it is with much skill and grace, her side- 
long glance searching for admiration as 
she passes by; but Calantha sees not, 
thinks not, when she dances : her heart 
beats with joyous pleasure — her counte- 
nance irradiates — and almost wild with 
delight, she forgets every thing but the 
moment she enjoys. Let Viviani but for 
one night be her partner, and you shall 
see bow pure is this Calantha. She 
boasts, too, of the most unclouded hap- 
piness, you tell me, and of the most per- 
fect state of security and bliss ; but they 
who soar above others, on the wings of 
romance, will fall. Oh, surely they will 
fall! Let her continue in her present 
illusion only a few short years — let her 
but take the common chances of the life 
she will be called upon to lead ; and you, 
or I, or any mnn, may possess her affec- 
tions, nor boast greatly of the conquest. 
In one word, she is now in London.. 

GLEN A R VON. 183 

Give but Viviani one opportunity of 
beholding her: it is all I ask/^ 

Gondimar listened to bis young friend 
with regret. " There are women enough, 
Viviani/' he said mournfully ; ** spare 
this one. I have an interest in her safety." 
''I shall not seek her/' replied Viviani 
proudly: "please your own fancy: I 
care not for these triflers — not I." 



To that heartless mass of affectation, to 
that compound of every new and every 
old absurdity, to that subservient, spirit- 
less, world of fashion, Lady Avondal^ 
was now for the first time introduced. 
It burst at once upon her delighted view, 
like a new paradise of unenjoyed sweets 
— like a fairy kingdom peopled with 
ideal inhabitants. Whilst she resided 
at Monteith and Castle Delaval, she had 
felt an eager desire to improve her mind; 
study of every sort was her delight, for 
he who instructed her was her lover — 
her husband : one smile from him could 
awaken every energy ; one frown repress 
every feeling '<bf gaiety ; for every word he 
uttered amused and pleased : she learned 
with more aptness than a school-boy ; 
and he who wondered at the quickness 


of his pupil, forgot to ascribe her exer- 
tions and success to the power which 
alone occasioned them — a power which 
conquers every difficulty and endures 
every trial. 

Arrived in that gay city, that fair mart 
where pleasure and amusement gather 
around their votaries, where incessant 
hurry after novelty employs every energy, 
and desire of gaiety fills every hour, every 
feeling, and every thought, Calantha 
hailed every new acquaintance, every 
new amusement, and her mind, unpo- 
lished and ignorant, opened with admi- 
ration and wonder upon so new, so diver- 
sified a scene. To the language of praise 
and affection she had been used ; to un- 
limited indulgence and liberty, she was 
accustomed ; but the soft breathing voice 
of flattery sounded to her ear far sweeter 
than any other more familiar strain; 
though often, in the midst of ils blan- 
dishments, she turned away to seek for 
Lord Avondale's approbation. 


Calantha was happy before; but now it 
was like a dream of enchantment ; and 
her only regret was that her husband 
seemed not to partake as much as she 
could have wished in her delight. Yet 
he knew the innocence of her heart, the 
austerity with which she shrunk from the 
bare thought of evil, and he had trusted 
her even in the lion's den, so certain was 
he of her virtue and attachment. Indeed, 
Lord Avondale, though neither puffed 
with vanity, nor overbearing with pride, 
could not but be conscious, as he looked 
around, that both in beauty of person, 
in nobility of parentage, and more than 
these, in the impassioned feelings of an 
uncorrupted heart, and the rich gifts of 
a mind enlightened by wisdom and study, 
none were his superiors, and very few 
his equals ; and if his Calantha could 
have preferred the effeminate and frivo- 
lous beings who surrounded her, to his 
sincere and strong attachment, would 
she be worthy, in such case, of a single 


sigh of regret, or the smallest struggle to 
retain her! — No: — he was convinced 
that she would not ; and, as in word 
and deed he was faithful to her, he fear- 
ed not to let her take the course which 
others trod, or enjoy the smiles of for- 
tune, while youth and happiness were in 
her possession. 

The steed that never has felt the curb, 
as it flies lightly and wildly, proud of its 
liberty among its native hills and valleys, 
may toss its head and plunge as it snuffs 
the air and rejoices in its existence, while 
the tame and goaded hack trots along 
the beaten road, starting from the lash 
under which it trembles, and stumbling 
and falling, if not constantly upheld. — 
Now see the goal before her. Calantha 
starts for the race. Nor curb, nor rein, 
have ever fettered the pupil of nature — 
the proud, the daring votress of liberty 
and love. What though she quit the 
common path, if honour and praise ac- 
company her steps, and crown her with 


success, shall he who owns her despise 
her? or must he, can he, mistrust her? 
He did not; and the high spirits of un- 
curbed youth were in future her only 
guide — the gayest therefore, where all 
were gay — the kindest, for excess of 
happiness renders every heart kind. In 
a few months after Lady Avondale's ar- 
rival in London, she was surrounded, as 
it appeared, by friends who would have 
sacrificed their lives and fortunes to give 
her pleasure. Friends ! — it was a name 
she was in the habit of giving to the first 
who happened to please her fancy. This 
even was not required : the frowns of 
the world were sufficient to endear the 
objects of its censure to her affection ; 
and th-y who had not a friend, and de- 
served not to have one, were sure, with- 
out f)thfcfr reco iimendation, to find one in 
Calantiia. All looked fresh, beautiful 
and new to her eyes ; every person she 
met app ared kind, honourable, and sin- 
cere ; and every party brilliant ; for her 


heart, blest in itself, reflected its own 
sunshine around. 

Mrs. Seymour, after her arrival in 
town, was pleased to see Calantha so 
happy. No gloomy fear obtruded itself; 
she saw all things with the unclouded 
eye of virtue; yet when she considered 
how many faults, how many imprudences, 
her thoughtless spirits might lead her to 
commit, she trembled for her ; and once, 
when Calantha boasted of the extacy she 
enjoyed — " long may that innocent heart 
feel thus,*' she said, " my only, my be- 
loved niece ; but whilst the little bark is 
decked with flow^ers, and sails gaily in a 
tranquil sea, steer it steadily, remember 
ing that rough gales may come, and we 
should ever be prepared.'' She spoke 
with an air of melancholy : she had, per- 
haps, herself, suffered from the goodnes-s 
and openness of her heart ; but whatever 
the faults and sorrows into which she had 
fallen, no purer mind ever existed than 
he4''s — no heart ever felt more strongly. 


The affectation of generosity is com- 
mon ; the reality is so rare, that its con- 
stant and silent course passes along un- 
perceived, whilst prodigality and osten- 
tation bear away the praise of mankind. 
Calantha was esteemed generous; yet 
indifference for what others valued, and 
thoughtless profusion were the only 
qualities she possessed. It is true that 
the sufferings of others melted a young 
and ardent heart into the performance of 
many actions which would never have 
occurred to those of a colder and more 
prudent nature. But was there any self- 
denial practised ; and was not she who 
bestowed possessed of every luxury and 
comfort her varying and fanciful caprices 
could desire ! Never did she resist the 
smallest impulse or temptation. If to 
give had been a crime, she had commit- 
ted it ; for it gave her pain to refuse, and 
she knew not how to deprive herself of 
any gratification. She lavished, there- 
fore, all she had, regardless of every con- 


sequence; but, happily for her, she was 
placed in a situation which prevented 
her from suffering as severely for her 
faults as probably she deserved. 

Two friends now appeared to bless her 
further, as she thought, by their affection 
and confidence — Lady Mandeville and 
Lady Augusta Selwyn. The former she 
loved ; the latter she admired. Lord 
Avondale observed her intimacy with 
Lady Mandeville With regret ; and once, 
though with much gentleness, reproved 
her for it. '* Henry," she replied, " say 
not one wordagainst my beautiful, though 
perhaps unfortunate friend : spare Lady 
Mandeville ; and I will give you up Lady 
Augusta Selwyn ; but remember the 
former is unprotected and unhappy." 

Mrs. Seymour was present when Lord 
Avondale had thus ventured to hint his 
disapprobation of Calantha's new ac- 
quaintance. — " Say at once, that Calan- 
tha shall not see any more of one whom 
you disapprove : — her own character is 


not established. Grace and manner are 
prepossessing qualities; but it is decorum 
and a rational adherence to propriety 
which alone can secure esteem. Tell 
me not of misfortunes/* continued Mrs. 
Seymour, with increasing zeal in the 
good cause, and turning from Lord Avon- 
dale to Calantha, " a woman who 
breaks through the lesser rules which 
custom and public opinion have esta- 
blished, deserves to lose all claim to re- 
spect ; and they who shrink not at your 
age from evea the appearance of guilt, 
because they dread being called severe 
and prudish, too generally follow the 
steps of the victims which their false 
sentiments of pity have induced them to 
support. Lord Avondale,*' continued 
she, with more of warmth than it was 
her custom to shew — " you will lament, 
when it is too late, the ruin of this child. 
Those who now smile at Calantha's fol- 
lies will soon be the first to frown upon 
her faults. She is on the road to perdi- 


tioii ; and now is the moment, the only 
moment perhaps, in which to check her 
course. You advise: — I command. My 
girls at least shall not associate with 
Lady Mandeville, vvhom no one visits. 
Lady Avondale of course is her own 

Piqued at Mrs. Seymour's manner, 
Calantha appealed to her husband : *' and 
shall I give up my friend, because she 
has none but m.e to defend her? Shall 
my friendship — " Alas, Calantha," said 
Lord Avondale, " you treat the noblest 
sentiment of the heart as a toy, which is 
to be purchased to-day, and thrown aside 
to-morrow. Believe me, friendship is 
not to be acquired by a few morning 
visits; nor is it to be found, though I fear 
it is too often lost, in the crowd of fa- 
shion." He spoke this mournfully. The 
ready tears trembled in Lady Avondale's 
eyes. — " I will see no more of her, if it 
gives you pain. I will never visit her 

VOL. I. K 


again." — Lord Avondale could not bear 
to grieve her. 

A servant entered with a note, whilst 
they were yet together: — a crimson blush 
suffused Calantha's cheeks. " I see," 
said Lord Avondale smiling, as if fearful 
of losing her confidence, " it is from your 
new friend." It was so : — she had sent 
her carriage, with a request that Lady 
Avondale would immediately call upon 
her.' — She hesitated ; looked eagerly for a 
permission, which was too soon granted; 
and without making any excuse, for she 
had not learned the art, she hastened 
from the lowering eyes of the deeply of- 
fended Mrs. Seymour, 



Long as she had now been known to 
Lady Mandeviile, she had only once be- 
fore seen her at her own house. She now 
found her reclining upon a sofa in an 
apartment more prettily than magnifi- 
cently ornamented : — -a shawl was thrown 
gracefully over her ; and her iiair, in 
dark auburn ringlets, half concealed her 
languishing blue eyes. Lady Mandeviile 
was at this time no longer in the very 
prime of youth. Her air and manner 
had not that high polish, which at first 
sight seduces and wins. On the contrary, 
it rather was the reverse, and a certain 
pedantry took off much from the charm 
of her conversation. Yet something 
there was about her, which attracted. 
She seemed sincere too, and had less of 
that studied self-satisfied air, than most 


women, who affect to be well informed. 
*' I am glad you are come, my beloved 
friend," she said, extending her hand to 
Calantha when she entered. '' I have 
just been translating an Ode of Pindar: 
his poetry is sublime : it nerves the soul 
and raises it above vulgar cares ; — but 
you do not understand Greek, do you ? 
Indeed to you it would be a superfluous 
acquisition, married as you are, and to 
such a man.'* — Lady Avondale, rather 
puzzled as to the connection between 
domestic happiness, and the Greek lan- 
guage, listened for further explanation ; 
— but with a deep sigh, her lovely ac- 
quaintance talked of her fate, and re- 
ferred to scenes and times long passed, 
and utterly unknown to her. She talked 
much too of injured innocence, of the 
malignity of the world, of contempt 
for her own sex, and of the superiority of 

Children as fair, and more innocent 
than their mother, entered whilst she 


was yet venting her complaints. A 
husband she had not ; — but lovers. 
What man was there who could see her, 
and not, at all events wish himself of the 
number! Yet she assured Lady Avon- 
dale, who believed her, that she despised 
them all ; that moreover she was mise- 
rable, but not vicious ; that her very 
openness and frankness ought to prove 
that there was nothing to conceal. The 
thought of guilt entered not at that time 
into Calantha's heart ; and when indeed 
a women affirmed that she was innocent, 
it excited in her no other surprise, than 
that she should, for one moment, sup- 
pose her so barbarous, and so malevolent 
as to think her otherwise. Indeed there 
seemed to her hs great a gulph between 
those she loved, and vice, as that which 
separates the two extremes of wickedness 
and virtue ; nor had she yet learned to 
comprehend the language of hypocrisy 
and deceit. 

Though the presence of the childrerjt 


had not made any difference, the en trance 
of three gentlemen, whom Lady Man- 
deville introduced to Lady Avondale, as 
her lovers, gave a new turn to the con- 
versation ; and here it should be ex- 
plained, that the term lover, when Lady 
Mandeviile used it, was intended to 
convey no other idea than that of an 
humble attendant — a bearer of shawls, 
a writer of sonnets, and a caller of car- 
riages. " With Lord Dallas you are 
already acquainted," she said, sighing 
gently. " I wish now to introduce Mr. 
Clarendon to you, a poet : and Mr. Fre- 
more, what are you ? speak for yourself; 
for I hardly know in what manner to 
describe you." " I am anything, and 
everything that Lady Mandeviile plea- 
ses," said Mr. Fremore, bowing to the 
ground, and smiling languidly upon her. 
Mr. Fremore was one of the most un- 
sightly lovers that ever aspired to bear 
tl^ name. He was of a huge circumfe- 
rence, and what is unusual in persons of 


that make, he was a mass of rancour and 
malevolence — gifted however with a wit 
so keen and deadly, that with its razor 
edge, he cut to the heart most of his 
enemies, and all his friends. Lord Dal- 
las, diminutive and conceited, had a 
brilliant wit, spoke seldom, and studied 
deeply every sentence which he uttered. 
He affected to be absent ; but in fact 
no one ever forgot himself so seldom. 
His voice, untuned and harsh, repeated 
with a forced emphasis certain jests and 
bon mots which had been previously 
made, and adapted for certain conversa- 
tions. Mr. Clarendon alone seemed 
gifted with every kind of merit : he had 
an open ingenuous countenance, expres- 
sive eyes, and a strong and powerful 

The conversation alternately touched 
upon the nature of love, the use and 
beauty of the Greek language, the plea- 
sures of maternal affection, and the insi- 
pidity of all English society. It was 


rather metaphorical at times : — there was 
generally in it a want of nature — an at- 
tempt at display : but to Calantha it ap- 
peared too singular, and too attractive to 
wish it otherwise. She had been used, 
however, to a manner rather more re- 
fined — more highly polished than any 
she found out of her own circle and fa- 
mily. A thousand things shocked her 
at first, which afterwards she not only 
tolerated but adopted. There was a 
want of ease, too, in many societies, to 
which she could not yet accustom her- 
self; and she knew not exactly what it 
was which chilled and depressed her when 
in the presence of many who were, upon 
a nearer acquaintance, amiable and agree- 
able. Perhaps too anxious a desire to 
please, too great a regard for trifles, a 
sort of selfishness, which never loses 
sight of its own identity, occasions this 
coldness among these votaries of fashion. 
The dread of not having that air, that 
dress, that refinement which they value 


SO much, prevents their obtaining it ; 
and a degree of vulgarity steals unper- 
ceived amidst the higher classes in En- 
gland, from the very apprehension they 
feel of falling into it. Even those, who 
are natural, do not entirely appear so. 

Calantha's life was like a feverish 
dream : — so crowded, so varied, so swift 
in its transitions, that she had little time 
to reflect ; and when she did, the me- 
mory of the past was so agreeable and so 
brilliant, that it gave her pleasure to think 
of it again and again. If Lord Avondale 
was with her, every place appeared even 
more than usually delightful ; but, when 
absent, her letters, no longer filled with 
lamentations on her lonely situation, 
breathed from a vain heart, the lightness 
and satisfaction it enjoyed. 

It may be supposed that one so frivo- 
lous and so thoughtless, committed every 
possible fault and folly which opportu- 
nity and time allowed. It may also be 
supposed, that such imprudence met 
K 5 


with its just reward ; and that every 
tongue was busy in itscensure, and every 
gossip in exaggerating the extraordinary 
feats of such a trifler. Yet Calantha, 
upon the whole, was treated with only 
too much kindness ; and the world, 
though sometimes called severe, seemed 
wiUing to pause ere it would condemn, 
and was intent alone to spare or to re- 
claim a young offender. 

When the World is spoken of in these 
volumes, it means alone that frivolous 
part of the community who dwell with 
delight upon the busy scene before them, 
and take interest in the momentary di- 
versions which every little novelty and 
every little event occasions. 



How different from the animated dis- 
cussion at Lady Mandeville's, was the 
loud laugh and boisterous tone of Lady 
Augusta Selwyn, whom Calantha found, 
on her return, at that very moment step- 
ping from her carriage, and enquiring for 
her. " Ah, my dear sweet friend,^' she 
cried, flying towards Calantha, and 
shaking her painfully by the hand, " this 
fortuitous concurrence of atoms, fills my 
soul with rapture. But I was resolved 
to see you. I have promised and vowed 
three things in your name ; therefore, 
consider me as your sponsor, and indeed 
I am old enough to be such. In the first 
place, you must come to me to-night, for 
I have a little supper, and all my guests 
attend only in the hope of meeting you. 
You are the bribe I have held out — you 


are to stand me in lieu of a good house, 
good cook, agreeable husband, and 
pretty face — in all of which I am most 
unfortunately deficient. Having con- 
fessed thus much, it would be barbarous, 
it would be inhuman you know to refuse 
me. Now for the second favour/^ con- 
tinued this energetic lady : — '' come ^ 
alone ; for though I have a great respect ; 
for Mrs. and Miss Seymour, yet I never : 
know what I am about when their very 
sensible eyes are fixed upon me.'' — " Oh \ 
you need not fear, Sophia would not come 
if I wished it ; and Mrs. Seymour" — 
" 1 have something else to suggest, ''in- 
terrupted Lady Augusta: " introduce 
me immediately to your husband: he is 
(^ivine, I hear — perfectly divine 1" *' I j 
cannot at this moment; but" — *' By the j 
bye, why were you not at the ball last i 
hight. I can tell you there were some I 
who expected you there. Yes, I assure 
you, a pair of languid blue eyes watching { 
for you — a fascinating new friend waiting 


to take you home to a petit souper ires 
hien assorti. I went myself. Tt was 
monstrously dull at the ball • insupport- 
able, I assure you ; perfectly so. Mrs. 
Turner and her nine daughters'. .It is 
quite a public calamity, Mrs. Turner 
being so very prolific — the produce so 
frightful. Amongst other animals when 
they commit such blunders, the brood is 
drowned ; but we christians are suffered 
to grow up till the land is overrun.** 
'' Heieho/* '' What is the matter? You 
look so triste to-day, not even my wit 
can enliven you. — Is'nt it well, love ? 
or has its husband been plaguing it ? 
Now 1 have it : you have, perchance, 
been translating an Ode of Pindar. I 
was there myself this morning ; and it 
gave me the vapours for ten minutes ; 
but I am used to these things you know 
child, and you are a novice. By the 
bye, where is your cousin, le beau capi' 
taine^ le chef des brigands P I was quite 
frappe with his appearance." " You 


may think it strange/* said Calantha, 
"but I have not seen him these eight 
years — not since he was quite a child/* 
" Oh, what an interview there wnll be 
then/' said Lady Augusta : " he is a 
perfect ruffian." 

'' Now areyou aware that we have three 
sets of men much in request ? — There 
are these ruffians, who affect to be des- 
perate, who game, who drink, who fight, 
who will captivate you, 1 am sure of it ; 
for they are always just going to be de- 
stroyed, or rather talk as if they were; and 
every thing they do, trhey must do it to 
desperation. Then come the exquisites. 
Lord Dallas is one, a sort of refined /^e^eV 
maitre, quite thorough bred though, and 
yet full of conceit. As to the third set, 
your useful men, who know how to read 
and write, in which class critics, reviewers, 
politicians and poets stand, you may 
always know them by their slovenly ap- 
pearance. But you are freezing, moti 
enfant. What can be the matter ? I 


will release you in a moment from my 
visitation; yet I have ten thousand 
things to say. — Will you come to my 
opera box Tuesday ? Are you going to 
the masked ball Thursday ? Has Mrs. 
Churchill sent to you for her dejeune 
pare. I know she wishes, more than I 
can express, to have you. Perhaps you 
will let me drive you there. My ponies 
are beautiful arabians : have you seen 
them ? Oh, by the bye, why were you 
not at your aunt Lady Margaret^s con- 
cert ? I believe it was a concert : there 
was a melancholy noise in one of the 
rooms ; but I did not attend to it. — Do 
you not like music ?" — " O yes 1 do; but 
I must own I am not one who profess to 
be all enchantment at the scraping of a 
fiddle, because some old philharmonic 
plays on it ; nor can I admire the gurgling 
and groaning of a number of foreigners, 
because it is called singing. .. .As to 
you, they tell me you think of nothing 
but love and poetry. I dare say you 


write sonnets to the moon — the chaste 
moon, and your husband. How senti- 
mental!" " And you," — " No, my dear, 
I thank heaven, I never could make a 
rhyme in my life. — Farewell — adieu — 
remember to-night — bring Lord Avon- 
dale — that divine Henry : though be- 
ware too ; for many a lady has to mourn 
the loss of her husband, as soon as she 
has introduced him into the society of 
fascinating friends." ^' He is out of 
town." '' Then so much the better. 
After all, a wife is only pleasant when 
her husband is out of the way. She must 
either be in love, or out of love with him. 
If the latter, they wrangle ; and if the 
former, it is ten times worse. Lovers are 
at all times insufferable; but when the 
lioly laws of matrimony give them a law- 
ful right to be so amazingly fond and af- 
fectionate, it makes one sick." " Which 
are you, in love or out of love with Mr. 
Selwyn?*' — ''Neither, child, neither. 
He never molests me, never intrudes his 

GLEN A R VON. 209 

dear dull personage on n)y society ; and 
I leave him entirely to himself in return: 
for he is the best of his race, and only 
married me out of pure benevolence. V/e 
were fourteen raw Scotch girls — all hide- 
ous, and no chance of being got rid of, 
either by marriage or death — so healthy 
and ugly. I believe we are all alive and 
flourishing some where or other now. 
Think then of dear good iMr. Selwyn, 
who took me for his mate, because I let 
him play at cards whenever he pleased, 
and he is so fond of cheating, he never 
can get anyone but me to play with him. 
Farewell. — A revoir, — I shall expect you 
at ten. — Adieu, chere petite.'* Saying 
which Lady Augusta descended the 
stairs, her voice murmuring on to herself 
as she re-entered her carriage, and drove 
from the door. 



Calantha now imagined, and was re- 
peatedly assured, that her husband ne- 
glected her: the thought gave her pain : 
she contrasted his apparent coldness and 
gravity with the kindness and flattery of 
others. Even Count Gondimar was more 
interested for her welfare, and latterly she 
observed that he watched her with in- 
creasing solicitude. At a masked ball, 
in particular, the Italian Count followed 
her till she was half offended. " Why do 
you thus persecute me as to the frivolity 
and vanity of my manner? Why do you 
seem so infinitely more solicitous con- 
cerning me than my husband and my 
relations?" she said, suddenly turning, 
and looking earnestly at him. " What 
is it to you with whom I may chance to 
converse ? How is it possible that you 


can see imperfections in me, when others 
tell me I am faultless and delightful?*' 
'* And do you believe that the gay troop 
of flatterers who now follow you/' said 
a mask who was standing near the Count, 
" do you believe that they feel any other 
sentiment for you than indifference ?'' — 
" Indifference I" repeated Calantha, 
*' what can you mean ? I am secure of 
their affection ; and I have found more 
friends in London since I first arrived 
there, than I have made in the whole 
previous course of my life/' " You are 
their jest and their derision/' said the 
same mask. *' Am I/' she said, turning 
eagerly round to her partner, Lord Trelaw- 
ny, '* am I your jest and your derision?" 
'' You are all that is amiable and ador- 
able/' he whispered. •' Speak louder," 
said Lady Avondale, " tell this Italian 
Count, and his discourteous friend, what 
you think of me, or will they wait to 
hear what we all think of them ?" Gon- 
dimar, offended, left her ; and she passed 


the night at the ball, but felt uneasy at 
what she had said. 

Monteaole House, at which the mas- 
querade was given, was large and magni- 
ftcent. The folding doors opened into 
fine apartments, each decorated with 
flowers, and filled with masks. Her 
young friends, Sophia and Lady Dart- 
ford, in the first bloom and freshness of 
youth, attracted much admiration. Their 
dress was alike, and while seeming sim- 
plicity was its greatest charm, every fold, 
ever\' turn, was adapted to exhibit their 
figure, and add to their natural grace. 
If vanity can give happiness to the heart, 
how must theirs have exulted ; for enco- 
mium and flattery was the only language 
they heard. 

Lady Avondale, in the mean time, fa- 
tigued with the ceremonious insipidity of 
their conversation, and delighted at hav- 
ing for once escaped from Count Gondi- 
mar, sought in vain to draw her compa- 
nions into the illuminated gardens, and 

GLEN A R VON. 21.3 

not succeeding, wandered into them 
alone, followed by some masks in the 
disguise of gipsies, by whom she was 
soon surrounded; and one of them whom 
she recognized to be the same who had 
spoken to her with Gondimar, under 
the pretence of telling her fortune, said 
to her every thing that was most severe. 
" What, said he, turning to one of his 
companions, " do you think of the line 
in this lady's hand? It is a very strange 
one : I augur no good from it.'* The 
dress of the mask who spoke was that of 
a friar, his voice was soft and mournful. 
" Caprice,*' said the young man, whom 
he addressed : " I read no worse fault. 
Come, I will tell her fortune. — " Lady, 
you were born under a favoured planet," 
— " Aaron," interrupted the Friar, " you 
are a flatterer, and it is my privilege to 
speak without disguise. Give me the 
hand, and I will shew her destiny. After 
pausing a moment, he fixed his dark eyes 
upon Calantha, the rest of his face being 


covered by a cowl, and in a voice like 
music, so soft and plaintive, begun — 

The task to tell thy fate be mine. 
To guard against its ills be thine ; 
For heavy treads the foot of Care 
On those who are so young and fair. 

The star, that on thy birth shone bright. 
Now casts a dim uncertain light : 
A threatening sky obscures its rays. 
And shadows o'er thy future days. 

la fashion's magic circle bound. 
Thy steps shall tread her mazy round, 
While pleasure, flattery, and art, 
Shall captivate thy fickle heart. 

Insatiate vanity shall pine, 
As honour, and as health decline. 
The transient favorite of a day, 
Of folly and of fools the prey ; 
Till reft of fame, without a friend, 
Thou'lt meet, unwept, an early end. 

Lady Avondale coloured ; and the 
young nnan who had accused her of ca- 


price, watching her countenance, and 
seeing the pain these acrimonious lines 
had given her, reproved the friar — " No, 
no/' he cried, ** if she must hear her des- 
tiny, let me reveal it.** 

The task to tell thy fate be mine. 

And every bliss I wish thee, thine. 

So heavenly fair, so pure, so blest. 

Admired by all, by all carest. 

The ills of life thou ne'er shalt know. 

Or weep alone for others' woe ; 

Nor malice shall, with v«nomM dart. 

Have power to reach thy spotless heart. 

" For the honour of our tribe cease, 
Aaron," said a female gipsey advancing; 
" positively I will not hear any more of 
this flat parody. Thefriar's malice I could 
endure; but this will mar all.** — Yet, 
whatever the female gipsey might say, 
Aaron had a certain figure and counte- 
nance, which were sufficiently command- 
ing and attractive. He had disengaged 
himself from his companions; and now 
approached Calantha, and asked her to 
allow him to take care of her through 


the crowd. " This is abominable trea- 
chery," said the female gipsey: this con- 
duct is unpardonable : good faith and 
good fellowship were ever our characte- 
ristics.*' — " You should not exert your 
power,"answeredtheyoungman, '-'against 
those who seem so little willing to use 
the same weapons in return. I will an- 
swer for it, that, though under a thousand 
masks, the lady the friar has attacked, 
would never say an ill-natured thing.'' — 
'' Take care of her good-nature then," 
said the gipsey archly; " it may be more 

The gipsey and friar then went off, with 
the restof their party; but Aaron remain- 
ed, and, asifmuch pleased with thegentle- 
ness of Lady Avondale's behaviour, fol- 
lowed her. *' VV^ho are you ?" she said. 
I will not take the arm of one who is 
ashamed of his name." — '' And yet it is 
only thus unknown, I can hope to find fa- 
vour.' — -'Did I over see you beibre?" — 
"I have often had the happiness of seeing 
you : but am I then really so altered ?" 


said he, turning to her, and looking full 
in her face, *• that you canu i even 
guess my name?" — '* Hiid 1 ever beheld 
you before,** answered Lady Avondale, 
" I could not have forgotten it." He 
bowed with a look of conceit, and !«ady 
Avondale coloured at his comprehending 
the compliment, she had snfficientiy in- 
tended to make* Smiling at her confu- 
sion, he assured her he had a right to her 
attention — " Stesso sangu£, Stessu sorter'' 
he said in a low voice. 

Calantha could hardly believe it pos- 
sible : the words he pronounced were 
those inscribed on her bracelet. " And 
are you my cousin ?*' she said; " is it in- 
deed so? no: I cannot believe it." Bu- 
chanan bowed again. •• Yes," he said; 
" and a pretty cousin you have proved 
yourself to me. I had vowed never to for- 
give you ; but you are much too lovely^ 
and too dear for me to wish to keep my 
oath." A thousand remembrances now 
crowded on her mind — the days oof her 

VOL. I. L 


infancy — the amusements and occupa- 
tions of her childhood : and she looked 
vainly in Buchanan's face for the smallest 
traces of the boy she had known so well. 
Delighted with her evening's adventure, 
and solely occupied with her companion, 
the masquerade, the heat and all other 
annoyances were forgotten, till Lady 
Dartford being fatigued, entreated her to 

She had conversed, during the greater 
part of the evening, with Lord Dartford, 
The female gipsey to whose party he be- 
longed, and who had attacked Lady 
Avondale, was Lady Margaret Buchanan. 
He had asked Lady Dartford many ques- 
tions about himself, to all of which she 
had answered with a reserve that had 
pleased him, and with a praise so unaf- 
fected, so heartfelt, and so little deserved, 
that he could not but deeply feel his own 
demerit. He did not make himself 
known, but suffered Lady Margaret to 
rally and torment his unoffending wife ; 


asking her repeatedly, why so pretty, and 
so young, Lord Dartford permitted her 
to go to a masquerade without a protec- 
tor. " It is," replied Lady Dartford in- 
nocently, " that he dislikes this sort of 
amusement, and knows well, that those 
who appear unprotected, are sure of find- 
ing friends/* At this speech Lady Mar- 
garet laughed prodigiously ; andturningto 
her companion, who, much disguised,stili 
followed her, asked him if he had never 
seen Lord Dartford at a masquerade^ giv- 
ing it as her opinion, that he was very 
fond of this sort of amusement, and was 
probably there at that very moment. 

In the mean time, Calantha continued 
to talk with Buchanan, and eagerly en- 
quired of him who it was who, in the dress 
of a friar, had with so much acrimony at- 
tacked her. " I do not know the young 
man," he answered : " my mother calls 
him Viviani : — he is much with her; but 
he ever wears a disguise, I think ; for no 
one sees him: and, except Gondimar, he 


seems not to have another acquaintance 
in England." 

It has been said that the weak-minded 
are alone attracted by the eye ; and they 
who say this best know what they mean. 
To Calantha it appeared, that the eye 
was given to her for no other purpose 
than to admire all that was fair and beau- 
tiful. Certain it is, she made tliat use 
of hers ; and whether the object of such 
admiration was man, woman, or child, 
horse or flower, if excellent in its kind, 
she ever gave them the trifling homage 
of her approbation. Her new-found 
cousin was, therefore, hailed by her with 
the most encouraging smile ; and how 
long she might have listened to the ac- 
count he was giving her of his exploits, 
is unknown, had not Frances approached 
her in a hasty manner, and said, *' Do 
come away: — the strangest thing possible 
has happened to me: Lord Trelawney 
has proposed to me, and I — I have ac- 
cepted his offer." — "Accepted his offer !^' 


Calantha exclaimed, with a look of hor- 
ror. — '' Oh, pray keep my secret till we 
^et home," said Frances. " I dare not 
t^ll Sophia ; but you must break it to 
my mother." 

Lord Trelawney was a silly florid young 
man, who laughed very heartily and good 
humouredly, without the least reason. 
He wore the dress, and had been received 
in that class of men, whom Lady Au- 
gusta called the exquisites. He had 
professed the most extravagant adoration 
for Lady Avondale, so that she was quite 
astonished at his having attached himself 
so suddenly to Frances ; but not being 
of a jealous turn, she wished her joy most 
cordially, and when she did the same by 
him — " Could not help what Tve done," 
he said, looking tenderly at her through 
a spying-glass : " total dearth of some- 
. thing else to say : — can never aifection 
her much : — but she*s your cousin, you 
know :" — and then he laughed. 

Lady Avondale prevailed on Frances 


to keep this important secret from her 
mother thnt night, as that good lady 
had been long in bed, and to arouse her 
with such unexpected news at three 
o'clock had been cruel and useless. The 
next morning, long before Lady Avondale 
had arisen, every one knew the secret ; 
and very soon after, preparations for the 
marriage were made. The young bride 
received presents and congratulations : 
her spirits were exuberant ; and her lover, 
perfect and delightful. Even Lady Avon- 
dale beheld him with new eyes, and the 
whole family, whenever he was men- 
tioned, spoke of him as a remarkably 
sensible young man, extremely well in- 
formed, and possessed of every quality 
best adapted to ensure the happiness of 
domestic life. 

GLEN A R vox. 223 


FRom the night of the masquerade, Lady 
Avondale dared hardly confess to herself, 
how entirely she found her thoughts en- 
grossed by Buchanan. She met him 
again at a ball. He entreated her to let 
him call on her the ensuing day: — he 
said he had much to tell her: — his man- 
ner was peculiar ; and his eyes, though 
not full of meaning in general, had a cer- 
tain look of interest that gratified the 
vainest of human hearts. " I shall be at 
home till two," said Calantha. — " 1 shall 
be with you at twelve," he answered. 
Late as the hour of rest might appear to 
some, Calantha was up, and attired with 
no ordinary care to receive him at the 
time he had appointed. Yet no Bucha- 
nan came. Oh! could the petty triflers 
in vanitv and vice, know the power they 


gain, and the effect they produce by 
these arts, they would contemn the fa- 
cility of their own triumph. It is ridicu- 
lous to acknowledge it, but this disap- 
pointment increased Calantha*s anxiety 
to see him to the greatest possible degree t 
she scarce could disguise the interest it 

Gondimar unfortunately called at the 
moment when Calantha was most impa- 
tient and irritable. " You expected an- 
other," he said sarcastically; " but I care 
uot. I came not here in the hope of 
pleasing Lady Avondale. I came to in- 
form her — '* " I cannot attend now." — 
'^ Read this letter," said Gondimar. Ca- 
lantha looked carelessly upon it — it was 
from himself: it contained an avowal of 
attachment and of interest for her; in 
proof of which he asked permission to 
offer her a gift, which he said he was com- 
missioned to bring her from Italy. Lady 
Avondale returned the letter coldly, and 
with a little affectation of dignity, de- 


clined the intended present. It is so easy 
to behave well, when it is our pleasure 
to do so as well as our duty. Gondimar, 
however, gave her but little credit for 
her conduct. " You like me not?" he 
said. " Do you doubt my virtue ?" she 
replied eagerly. " Aye, Lady ; or, at all 
events, your power of preserving it," 

Whilst Gondimar yet spoke, Buchanan 
gallopped by the window, and stopped at 
the door of the house. His hands were 
decorated with rings, and a gold chain 
and half-concealed picture hung around 
his neck : his height, his mustachios, 
the hussar trappings of his horse, the 
high colour in his cheek, and his dark 
flowing locks, gave an air of savage wild- 
ness to his countenance and figure, which 
much delighted Calantha. He entered 
with familiar ease ; talked much of him- 
self, and more of some of his military 
friends ; stared at Gondimar, and then 
shook hands with him. After which, he 
began a vehement explanation of his con- 
L 6 


duct respecting Alice; assuring Calantha 
upon his honour — upon his soul, that he 
had no hand in her elopement. He then 
talked of Ireland ; described the dread- 
ful, the exaggerated accounts of what had 
occurred there ; and ended by assuring 
Gondimar, that the young Glenarvon was 
not dead, but was at this time at Belfont, 
concealed there with no other view than 
that of heading the rebels. The accounts 
which the Duke of Altamonte had re- 
ceived in part corroborated Buchanan's 

Calantha listened, however, with more 
interest to the accounts Buchanan now 
gave: and, as he said he was but just 
returned from Dublin, even Gondimar 
thought the news which he brought wor- 
thy of some Jicention. " Send that 
damnecl Italian away,^' said Buchanan in 
a loud whisper: "I have a million of 
things to tell you. If you keep him here, 
1 shall go : — my remaining will be of no 
use/' Unaccustomed to curb herself in 


the least wish, Calantha now whispered to 
Gondimar, that she wished him to leave 
her, as she had soaiething very particular 
to say to her cousin ; but he only smiled 
contemptuously upon him, and sternly 
asking her, since when this amazing in- 
timacy had arisen ? — placed himself at 
the piano-forte, and struck its chords 
with accompaniments till the annoyance 
was past bearing. 

Buchanan consoled himself by talking 
of his dogs and horses; and having given 
Calantha a list of the names of each, be- 
gan enumerating to her the invitations 
he had received for the ensuing week. 
Fortunately, at this moment, a servant en- 
tered with a note for Gondimar. '' Does 
the bearer wait ?'' he exclaimed with 
much agitation upon reading it; and im- 
mediately left the room. 

Upon returning home, Count Gondimar 
perceived with surprise, in the place of 
the person he had expected, one of the at- 


tendantsofthelate Countess of Gienarvou 
—a man whose countenance and person 
he well remembered from its peculiarly 
harsh and unpleasant expression. — " Is 
my young Lord alive }" said the man in 
astern manner. Count Gondimar replied 
in the negative.** " Then, Sir, I must 
trouble you with those affairs which most 
nearly concern him." " Your name, I 
think, is Macpherson?" said Count Gon- 
dimar. '* You lived with the Countess 
of Glenarvon.*' The man bowed, and 
giving a letter into the hands of the Count, 
" I am come from Italy at this time,'* he 
replied, " in search of my late master — 
La Crusca and myself.'* " Is La Crusca 
with you ?*' said Gondimar, starting. 
*' The letter will inform you of every 
particular,*' replied the man with some 
gravity. " I shall stay with the child 
for your farther orders.** Saying this, he 
left the Count's apartment ; and returned 
into the anti-chamber, where a beautiful 
little boy was waiting for him. 


On that very evening, after a long con- 
versation witii Macpherson, Count Gon- 
dimar again sought Calantha at her fa- 
ther's house, where, upon enquiring for 
her, he was immediately adoiitted. After 
some little hesitation, he told her that he 
had brought her the present of which he 
had made mention in his letter ; that if 
she had the unkindness to refuse it, some 
other perhaps would take charge of it: — 
yet it was a gift which, however unworthy 
he was to offer it, he thouglit would be 
dearer in her estimation than the finest 
jewels, and the most costly apparel : — it 
was a fair young boy, he said, fitted to 
be a lady's page, and trained in every 
cunning art his tender years could learn. 
" He will be a play-mate," he said, smil- 
ing, for your son, and when, " added he 
in a lower voice, " the little Mowbrey 
can speak, he will learn to lisp in that 
language which alone expresses all that 
the heart would utter — all that in a barba- 
rous dialect it dares not — must not say/' 

230 GLEN A R vox. 

As he yet spoke, he took the liat from 
off Zerbellini's head, and gently pushing 
him towards Calantha, asked him to sue 
for her protection. The child immediately 
approached, hiding himseU with singu- 
lar fear from the caresses of the Count. 
" Zerbellini,** said Gondimar in Italian, 
*' will you love that lady?" " In'my 
heart/' replied the boy, shrinking back 
to Calantha, as if to a late found, but only 
friend. Sophia was called, and joined in 
the general interest and admiration the 
child excited. Frances shewed him to 
Lord Trelawney, who laughed exces- 
sively at beholding him. Lady Margaret, 
who was present, looking upon him sted- 
fastly, shrunk as if she had seen a serpent 
in her way, and tlien recovering herself, 
held her hand out towards him. Zerbel- 
lini fixed his eyes on Calantha, as if 
watching in her countenance for the only 
commands which he was to obey ; and 
when she drew him towards her aunt, 
he knelt to her, and kissed her hand 

G1.EXARY0.V. 231 

with the customary grace and courtesy 
of an Italian. 

From that day, Calantha thought of 
nothing but Zerbellini. He was a new 
object of interest: — to dress him, to 
amuse him, to shew him about, was her 
great dehght. Wherever she went he 
must accompany her: in whatever she 
did or said, Zerbellini must bear a part. 
The Duke of Myrtlegrove advised her 
to make him her page ; and for this pur- 
pose he ordered him the dress of an 
Eastern slave. Buchanan gave him a 
chain with a large turquoise heart ; and 
as he placed it around the boy, he glanced 
iiis eye on Calantha. Presents, how- 
ever, even more magnificent, were in re- 
turn immediately dispatched by her to 
the Duke and to Buchanan. 

Count Gondimar read the letters Ca- 
lantha had written with the gifts ; for she 
had left them, as was her custom, open 
upon the table. All she wrote, or re- 
ceived, were thus left ; not from osten- 


tation, but indifference or vanity, — 
*' Are you mad,'* said the Italian, " or 
worse than mad ?" "I affect it not," 
replied Lady Avondale. *' 1 conclude, 
therefore, that it is real.*' Indeed, there 
was a strange compound in Calantha's 
mind. She felt but little accountable 
for her actions ; and she often had ob- 
served, that if ever she had had the mis- 
fortune to refl( ct, and consequently to 
resolve against any particular mode of 
conduct, the result was, that she ever 
fell into the error she had determined to 
avoid. She might, indeed, have said, 
that the spirit was willing, but the flesh 
was weak; for whatever she resolved, 
on the slightest temptation to the con- 
trary, she failed to execute. 



*' I AM astonished, my dear Gondimar," 
said Viviani one day, addressing him, 
'* at the description which you gave me 
of Lady Avondale. I have seen her 
since we conversed about her, more than 
once; and there is not, I think, much 
trace left of that excessive timidity of 
manner — that monastic rigidity in her 
opinions and conduct, of which you made 
mention in one of your letters from 
Castle Delaval.'* '' I was wrong, utterly 
wrong,'' said Gondimar, " and you may 
now rank this model of purity, this para- 
gon of wives, this pupil of nature, whom 
I have so often praised to you, on a level 
with the rest of her fellow mortals." 
" Not on a level — not on a level,'' re- 
plied Viviani with gravity;" but falling 
far beneath it." 


The Count then repeated, in a solemn 
tone, the description of Rome, which 
Lncian has placed in the month of Ni- 
grinus, applying the enumeration of vices, 
temptations, and corruptions, attributed 
to the fairest capital of the world, to 
London ; and then asked of Gondimar, 
if it were possible for one like Calantha, 
to sojourn long amidst such scenes, with- 
out in some measure acquiring the man- 
ners, if not falling into the errors to 
which the eyes and ears were every hour 
accustomed ? He spoke of her with regret, 
as he thus pronounced her on the verge 
of ruin : — "a prey," he said indig- 
nantly, " for the spoiler — the weak and 
willing victim of vanity.'* *' The courts 
of her father are overrun with petitioners 
and mendicants," said Gondimar: "her 
apartments are filled with flatterers, who 
feed upon her credulity : she is in love 
with ruin : it stalks about in every pos- 
sible shape, and in every shape she hails 

GLEN AR vox. S3.3 

it : — vvoos it, alas ! the willing victim of 
prosperity, luxury, and self-indulgence." 
'^ And Avondale,'* said Viviani," Lord 
Avondale," replied the Count, " knows 
not, thinks not, comprehends not her 
danger or his own. But the hour of per- 
dition approaches; thefirst years of peace 
and love are past; folly succeeds; and 
vice is the after game. These are the 
three stages in woman's life. Calantha 
is swiftly passing through the second : — 
the third will succeed. The days and 
months once glided away in a dream of 
joy, dangerous and illusive — in a dream, 
I repeat ; for all that depends on the ex- 
cess and durability of any violent passion 
must be called a dream. Such passion, 
even though sanctioned by the most sa- 
cred ties, if it engrosses every thought, is 
not innocent — cannot be lawful. It plants 
the seeds of corruption, which flourish 
and gain strength hereafter. This is the 
clinrdte in which they will soonest ripen: 


— this is the garden and soil where 
they take the most rapid, and the deepest 
root. And think you that Calantha and 
Avondale are already weary of each 
other? that the warm and vivid imagina- 
tion of youthful love is satiated with ex- 
cess ? or that disappointment has follow- 
ed upon a nearer view?" '' All passion," 
replied Gondimar, falling back, and im- 
pressively raising his hand — *' all passion 

is founded on *' Friend,** 

said V^iviani, ** thy prate is unmercifully 
tedious." — '*' \ half believe that ihou art 
thyself in love with this Calantha; but 
for an explanation and detail of that 
master passion, I know not why I ap- 
plied to ^ou — Calantha is the object of 
your pursuit, not miee." '' Of my pur- 
suit ! in truth I believe you feel more 
interest in her conduct than I do ; I am 
old and weary of these follies ; life is 
just opening upon you; Calantha is your 
idol." '' No," replied Yiviani, with a 
smile of scorn, " it is not that party-co- 


loured butterfly, which ranges ever from 
flower to flower, spreading its lio^ht pi- 
nions in the summer breeze, or basking 
in the smiles of fortune, for which my 
life is consumed. Wild fifncy, stimu- 
lated by keen sensibility and restless acti- 
vity of mind, without employment, ren- 
der her easy to be approached, and easy 
to be influenced and worked upon. Love 
is the nature of these favourites of for- 
tune : from earliest infancy, they feel its 
power ! and their souls, enervated, live 
but upon its honied vows. 

" Yet Lady Margaret, you say, is un- 
moved." " What of Lady Margaret?" 
interrupted Viviani, while bitter smiles 
quivered upon his lip. " Do you mark 
the pavement of stone upon which you 
tread ? Do you see the steel of which 
this sabre is composed — once heated by 
the flames, now hard and insensible ? — 
so cold — so petrified is the heart, when 
it has once given full vent to passion. 
Marble is that heart, which only beats 


for my destruction. The time is not yet 
arrived, but I will dash the cup of joy 
from her lips ; then drink the dregs my- 
self, and die/' '' Mere jealous threats," 
said Gondimar, " The curse of innocent 
blood is on her,'' replied Viviani, as his 
livid cheeks and lips resumed a purple 
dye. " Name her no more." " Explain 
yourself," cried his astonished friend. 
*' You frequently allude to scenes of 
deeper guilt and horror, than I dare even 
suffer myself to imagine possible." "The 
heart of man is unfathomable," replied 
Viviani ; — " that which seems, is not: — 
that which is, seems not : w^e should 
neither trust our eyes nor ears in a world 
like this. But time, which ripens all 
things, shall disclose the secrets even of 
the dead." 

A short time after this conversation 
with Gondimar, Viviani took leave of 
him. He informed him fully of his pro- 
jects ; and Lady Margaret was also con- 
sulted upon the occasion. '' What is 

GLEN A R VON. ^39 

become of your menaced vengeance?" 
she said, smiling upon him, in their last 
parting interview. He laughed at the 
remembrance of his words. *' Am I the 
object now of your abhorrence ?'' she 
said, placing her white hand carelessly 
upon his head. '' Not absolutely," re- 
plied the young Count, shrinking, how^ 
ever, from the pressure of that hand. 
" Touch me not," he whispered more 
earnestly, '' it thrills through my soul. — 
Keep those endearments for Dartford : 
leave me in peace." Immediately after 
this he left London ; and by the first 
letter Lady Margaret received from him, 
she found that he was preparing to em- 



Frances Seymour's marriage with 
LordTrelawney was now celebrated, after 
which the whole family left London for 

Sophia, previous to her departure, re- 
proved Calantha for her obstinacy, as she 
called it, in remaining in town. " I 
leave you with pain,** she said : " forgive 
me if I say it, for I see you have no con- 
ception of the folly of your conduct. 
Ever in extremes, you have acted as I 
little expected from the wife of Lord 
Avondale; but 1 blame him equally for 
giving you such unbounded freedom : — 
only the very wise and the very good 
know how to use it.** " Sophia,** re- 
plied Calantha, " I wish not for re- 
proaches: — have confidence in me :— we 
cannot all be exactly alike. You are a 


pattern of propriety and virtue, and verily 
you have your reward : 1 act othev ise, 
and am prepared for censures : — f^ven 
yours cannot offend me. Lord Avondale 
talks of soon returning to Ireland : I 
shall then leave this dear delipiitful 
London without regret ; and you shall 
find me when we all meet for the spring 
at Castle Delaval, just the same, as when 
1 quitted it. Never the same, thv^ught 
Sophia, who marked, with astonishment, 
the change a few months had made. 

1 hey w^ere yet speaking, and taking a 
cold farewell of each other, when a thun- 
dering rap at the door interrupted them, 
and before Sophia could retreat, Mr. 
Fremore, Count Gondimar and Lady 
Mandeville were ushered in. A frozen 
courtesy, and an austere frown, were the 
only signs of animation Sophia gave, as 
she vanished from their view. 

" You have been ill," said Lady Man- 
deville, accosting Calantha. " It is a 
week since I have seen you. Think not, 

VOL. I. M 


however, that I am come to intrude upon 
your time : I only called as I passed your 
door, to enquire after you. Mr. Fre- 
more tells me you are about to visit the 
Princess of Madagascar. Is this true ? 
for I never believe any thing I hear? 
'' For once/' said Calantha, " you may 
do so ; and on this very evening, my in- 
troduction is to take place.*' " It is 
with regret I hear -it," said Lady Man- 
deville with a sigh : " we shall never 
more see any thing of you. Besides, she 
is not my friend." Calantha assured 
Lady Mandeville her attachment could 
endure all sorts of trials ; and laughingly 
enquired of her respecting her lovers, 
Apollonius, and the Greek Lexicon she 
was employed in translating. Lady Man- 
deville answered her with some indiffe- 
rence on these subjects ; and having said 
all that she could in order to dissuade her 
against visiting the Princess, took her 

That evening, at the hour often, Lord 

gl*:naiivon. 243 

Avondale and Mr. Fremore being in rea- 
diness, Calantha drove according to ap- 
pointment to visit the wife of the great 
Nabob; the Princess of Madagascar. 
Now who is so ignorant as not to know 
that this Lady resides in an old-fashioned 
gothic building, called Barbary House, 
three miles beyond the turnpike ? and 
who is so igHorant as not to be aware. 
that her highness would not have fa- 
voured Lady Avondale with an audience, 
had she been otherwise than extremely 
well with the world, as the phrase is — for 
she was no patroness of the fallen ! the 
caresses and petits mots ohligeantes 
which dropt from her during this her 
first interview, raised Lady Avondale in 
her own opinion ; but that was unneces- 
sary. What was more to the purpose, it 
won her entirely towards the Princess. 

Calantha now, for the first time, con- 
versed with the learned of the land : — 
she heard new opinions started, and old 
ones refuted— and she gazed unhurt, but 
M 2 


not unawed, upon reviewers, poets, 
critics, and politicians. At the end of a 
long gallery, two thick wax tapers ren- 
dering '• darkness visible,'* the prin<-ess 
was seated. Fevv events, if any, were 
ever known to move her from her posi- 
tion. Her pages — her foreiq:n attire, but 
genuine English manners, voice and com- 
plexion, attracted universal admiration. 
She was beautiful too, and had a smile it 
was difficult lo learn to hate or to mis- 
trust. She spoke of her own country 
with contempt ; and, even in her dress, 
which was magnificent, attempted to 
prove the superiority of every other over 
it. Her morals were simple and uncor- 
rupt, and in matters of religious faith she 
entirely surrendered herself to the gui- 
dance of Hoiaouskim. She inclined her 
head a little upon seeing Lady Avondaie, 
and Hoiaouskim, her high priest, cast his 
eyes, with unassuming civility, upon 
Calantha, thus welcoming her to Bar- 
bary House. 


The princess then spoke a little sen- 
tence — ^just enough to shew how much 
she intended to protect Lady Avontale. 
She addressed herself, besides, in many 
dialects, to an outlandish set of menials ; 
appointing every one in the room some 
trifling task, which was performed in ^ 
moment by young and old, with sur- 
prising alacrity. Such is the force of fa- 
shion and power, when skilfully applied. 
After this, she called Calantha : a slight 
exordium followed — then a wily pointed 
^atechism ; her Highness nodding at. in- 
tervals, and dropping short epigrammatic 
sentences, when necessary, to such as 
were in attendance around her. *' Is she 
acting r" said Calantha, at length, in a 
w^hisper addressing Mr. Fremore, who 
stood sneering and simpering behind her 
chair. '' Is she acting, or is this reality?*' 
'^ It is the only reality you will ever find 
in the Princess," returned her friend. 
She acts the Princess of Madagascar 
from morning till night, and from night 


till morning. You may fall from favor, 
but you are now at the height: no one 
ever advanced further — none ever con- 
tinued there long." 

" But why," said Lady Avondale, '' do 
the great Nabob, and all the other Lords 
in waiting, with that black horde of sa- 
vages" — '' Reviewers, you mean, and 
men of talents.'* Well, whatever they 
are, tell me quickly why they wear col- 
lars, and chains around their necks at 
Barbary House ? "It is the fashion,*' 
said Mr. Fremore. " This fashion is un- 
becoming your race," said Lady Avon- 
dale : " I would die sooner than be thus 
enchained.*' '' The great Nabob,'* quoth 
Mr. Fremore, " is the best, the kindest, 
the cleverest man 1 know; but like some 
philosophers, he would sacrifice much 
for a peaceable life. The Princess is fond 
of inflicting these lesser tyrannies ; she is 
so helplessly attached to these trifles — 
so overweaningly fond of exerting her 
powers, it were a pity to thwart her. 


For my own part I could willingly bend 
to. the yoke, provided the duration were 
not eternal ; for observe that the chains 
are .well gilded ; that the tables are well 
stored ; and those who bend the lowest 
are ever the best received." '* And if I 
also bow my neck/* said Calantha, will 
she be grateful? May I depend upon 
her seeming kindness ?'' Mr. Fremore's 
naturally pale complexion turned to a 
bluish green at this enquiry. 

Cold Princess ! where are your boasted 
professions now ? You taught Calantha 
to love you, by every petty art of which 
your sex is mistress. She heard, from 
your lips, the sugared poisons you were 
pleased to lavish upon her. You laughed 
at her follies, courted her confidence, and 
flattered her into a belief that you loved 
her. — Loved her ! — it is a feeling you 
never felt. She fell into the mire ; the 
arrows of your precious crew were shot 
at her — like hissing snakes hot and 
sharpened with malice and venomed 


fire; and yoti, yes — you were the first 
to scorn her: you, by whom she had 
stood faithfully and firmly amidst a host 
of foes— aye, amidst the fawning rabble, 
who still crowd your doors, and laugh at 
and despise you. Thanks for the helping 
hand of friendship in the time of need — 
the mud and the mire have been washed 
from Calantha ; the arrows have been 
drawn from a bleeding bosom ; the 
heart is still sound, and beats to disdain 
you. The sun may shine fairly again 
upon her ; but never, whilst existence is 
prolonged, will she set foot within the 
gates of the Palace of the great Nabob, 
or trust to the smiles and professions of 
the Princess of Madagascar. 



^' And what detains you in town ?*' said 
Gondimar, on the eve of Mrs. Seymour 
and Sophia's departure. " Will this love 
of gaiety never subside. Tell me, Lady 
Avondale, do you believe all that the 
Duke of Myrtlegrove, and your more 
warlike cousin have said to vou ? — What 
means the blush on your indignant cheek ! 
The young duke is more enamoured of 
the lustre of his diamond ring and brooch j 
than of the brightest eyes that ever gazed 
on him ; and though the words glory and 
renown drop from the mouth of Bu- 
chanan, love, I think, has lost his time 
in aiming arrows at his heart. Has he 
one? — 1 think not ?" — " But who has one 
in London ?" — ''You have not assuredly,'' 
said the Count : "and, if you knew the 
censures that are every where passed 
uponiyou, L think, for Lord Avondale's 


sake, you would regret it.*' — "I do; 
but indeed — 1 know enough. I have 
friends, have 1 not? and who, that has 
friends, is ignorant of what is said ? it is 
the office of a friend, I believe," said 
Lady Avondale, smiling, " to say to us 
what a foe would not/' 

The entrance of Buchanan put a stop 
to this conversation. "Are you ready?" 
he cried. " Ready ! I have waited for 
you three hours : it is five, and you pro- 
raised to come before two." — "You 
would excuse me, I am sure, if you knew 
how excessively ill I have been. I am 
but this moment out of bed. That ac- 
cursed hazard kept me up till ten this 
morning. Once, I sat two days and nights 
at it ; but it's no matter." — '' You take 
no care of yourself I wish for my sake 
you would." The manner in which Ca- 
lantha said this, was most particularly 
flattering and kind : it was, indeed, ever 
so ; but the return she met with (like 
the lady who loved the swine) ; " Honey ,'^ 

GLEN A R VON. 251- 

quoth she, " thou shalt in silver salvers 
dine :" '' Humph," quoth he, was most 
uncourteous. — '' Truly I care not if I am 
knocked on the head to-morrow," replied 
Buchanan. " There is nothing worth 
living for : every thing annoys me : I am 
sick of all society — love, sentiment, is 
my abhorrence." — "But driving, dearest 
Buchanan — riding — your mother — your 
— your cousin." — '* Oh, d...n it;, don^t 
talk about it. It's all a great bore." 

" And can Lady Avondale endure this 
jargon?'* — ''What is that Italian here 
again?" whispered Buchanan. "But 
come, let's go. My horses must not wait, 
they are quite unbroke ; and the boy can't 
hold them. Little Jem yesterday had 
his ribs broke ; and this youngster *s no 
hand. Where shall we drive?*' — "To 
perdition," whispered Gondimar. " Can't 
wait," said Buchanan, impatiently : and 
Calantha hurried away. 

The curricle was beautiful ; the horses 
ii^ry ; Buchanan in high spirits; and. 

^^2 6LENARV0X. 

Calantha — ah ! must it be confessed ? — 
more elated with this exhibition through 
the crowded streets, than she could have 
been at the most glorious achievement. 
" Drive faster — faster still.*' she conti- 
nually said to shviW tier courage. Alas 1 
real courage delights not in parade ; but 
any thing that had the appearance of risk 
or danger, delighted Calantha. '' Damn 
it, how^ Alice pulls.*' — *' Alice!*' said 
Calantha. ''Oh hang it; do'nt talk 
of that. Here's Will Rattle, let me 
speak to him ; and Dick, the boxer's 
son. Do you mind stopping ?" — *' Not 
in the least*" "Saying which they pulled 
in, as Buchanan termed it : and a con- 
versation ensued, which amused Calan- 
iha extremely. " How soon shall you 
be off?" said Will Rattle, as they pre- 
pared to drive on. — " It's a devilish bore 
staying in London now,^' replied Bucha- 
nan : " only I've been commanded to 
stay," saying which he smiled, and turned 
to Lady AvondalCj *' or I should have 


been with my regiment before this. The 
moment I am released, however, I shall 
go there. Hope to see you to-night, 
Will. Mind and bring Charles Turner. 
There's a new play. Oh, I forgot: — - 
perhaps I shan't be let off; shall I ? — 
''No/'replied Calantha, extremely pleas- 
ed at this flattering appeal. Will bowed 
with conceit, and off they galloped, 
Buchanan repeating as they went, " A 
damned strange fellow that — cleverer 
than half the people though, who make 
such a noise. I saved his life once in an 
engagement. Poor Will ! he's so grate- 
ful, he would give all he has for me — 

ril be d d if he would not."— Let this 

suffice. The drive was not very long ; 
and, the danger of being overturned ex- 
cepted, utterly devoid of interest. 

Lady Dartford had returned to town. 
Perhaps no one ever heard that she had 
5eft it : like the rose leaf upon the glass 
full of water, her innocent presenile made 
laot the slightest difference, nor was her 


absence at any time observed. She, how- 
ever called upon Calantha, a few mo- 
ments after Buchanan had taken her 
home. Lady Avondale was with her 
lord in the library, when she came. 
" Why did you let her in ?" she said 
rather crossly to the servant ; when ano- 
ther loud rap at the door announced Lady 
Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn.. 
Calantha was writing a letter ; and Lord 
Avondale was talking to her of the ar- 
rangements for their departure. " I wish 
I could ever see you one moment alone,'' 
he said. — ''Say 1 am coming — or shall 
not come/' she replied; and during the 
time she remained to finish the conver- 
sation with her husband, she could not 
help amusing herself with the thought of 
Lady Dartford*s alarm at finding herself 
in the presence of Lady Mandeville, 
whom she did not visit. *' You do not 
attend at all," said Lord Avondale. Alas ! 
he had already found, that the mistress 
of his momentary passion, was not the 


friend and companion of his more seilous 

Eager to amuse Lady Dartford, Lady 
Augusta, who knew her well, entertained 
her till Lady Avondale joined them, with 
a variety of anecdotes of all that had taken 
place since her departure; and, having 
soon exhausted other subjects, began 
upon Calantha herself. '' She is posi- 
tively in love with Captain Buchanan/' 
she said. ''At every ball he dances with 
hers at every supper he is by her side ; 
all London is talking of it. Only think 
too how strange, just as it is said that he 
has proposed to Miss Macvicker — a for- 
tune—twenty thousand a year — a nice 
girl, who really looks unhappy. Poor 
thing ! it is very hard on her. I always 
feel for girls. — " Come," said Lady Man- 
deville, '' last night you know, they did 
not interchange a w^ord : he talked the 
whole evening to that young lady with 
the singular name. How I detest gos- 
siping and scandal. Calantha deserves 
not this."—** Bless us ! how innocent 


we are all of a sudden !'* interrupted 
Lady Augusta ; — '' have you any preten- 
sions, dearest lady, to that innoxious 
quality? Now are you not aware that 
this is the very perfection of the art of 
making love — this not speaking? But 
this is what always comes of those who 
are so mighty fond of their husbands. 
Hea-vens ! how sick I have been of all 
the stories of their romantic attachment. 
There is nothing, my dear, like Miss 
Seymour for making one sick. She al- 
ways gives me the vapours.'' 

" Where do you go to-night?" said 
Lady Dartford, wishing to interrupt a 
conversation which gave her but little 
pleasure. *' Oh, to fifty places ; but I 
came here partly too in the hope of en- 
gaging Lady Avondale to come to me to- 
night. She is a dear soul, and I do not 
like her the worse for shewing a little 
spirit." — '' I cannot," said Lady Mande- 
ville, '' think there is much in this ; a 
mere caprice, founded on both sides, ip a 
little vanity. After seeing Lord Avon- 


dale, I cannot believe there is the small- 
est danger for her. Good heavens ! if I 
had possessed such a husband !" — " Oh, 
now for sentiment," said Lady Augusta : 
*' and God knows, if I had possessed a 
dozen such, 1 should have felt as 1 do at 
this moment. Variety — variety I Better 
change for the worse than always see the 
same object/' — " Well, if you do not 
allow the merit of Henry Avondale to 
outweigh this love of variety, what say 
you to Mr. Buchanan, being her cousin, 
brought up with her from a child ?''— 
" Thanks for the hint ; you remember 
the song of 

** Nous nous aimions dcs Vevfance 
Tete-d'tUe d chaque instant.''* 

and I am certain, my dear sentimental 
friend, that 

-' " ^ noire place 
Vq'US en auriezfait auiant.*' 

Then going up to the glass. Lady Au- 
gusta bitterly inveighed against perverse 
nature, who with such a warm heart had 
given her snch an uolv face. " Do vou 


kwow/" she said, still gazing upon her 
uncouth features, addressing herself to 
Lady Dartford — " do you know that I 
have fallen in love nnyself since I saw 
you ; — and with whom do you think ?" 
*' I think I can guess, and shall take great 
credit to myself if I am right. Is not 
the happy man an author?" said Lady 
Dartford. — " You have him, upon my 
honour — Mr. Clarendon, by all that is 
wonderful : — he is positively the clever- 
est man about town. — Well, I am glad 
to see my affairs also make some little 
noise in the world/* — '* I can tell you 
however,*' said Lady Mandeville, '' that 
he is already engaged; — and Lady Moun- 
teagie occupies every thought of his 

" Good gracious, my dear, living and 
loving have done but little for you ; and 
the dead languages prevent your judging 
of living objects — Engaged! you talk 
of falling in love as if it were a matri- 
monial contract for life. Now don't you 
know that every thing in nature is sub- 


ject to change: — it rains to-day — it shines 
to-morrow ; — we laugh, we cry ; — and 
the thermometer of love rises and falls, 
like the weather glass, from the state of 
the atmosphere: — one while it is at freez- 
ing point; — another it is at fever heat* 
— How then should the only imaginary 
thing in the whole affair — the object I 
mean which is always pureh/ ideal — how 
should that remain the same ?'* 

" Lady Mandeville smiled a little, and 
turning her languid blue eyes upon Lady 
Dartford, asked her if she were of the 
Christian persuasion ? Lady Dartford 
was perfectly confounded : — she hesitat- 
ingly answered in the affirmative. Upon 
which, Lady Augusta fell back in her 
chair, and laughed immoderately ; but 
fearful of offending her newly made ac- 
quaintance, observed to her, that she 
wore the prettiest hat she had ever seen. 
'' Where did you get it?** said she. — The 
question was a master ke}'^ to Lady Dart- 
ford's thoughts: — caps, hats, and works 
of every description were as much a so- 


lace to her, in the absence of her hus- 
band, as the Greek language, or the pa- 
gan philosophy could have ever been to 
Lady Mandeville, under any of her mis- 
fortunes. — " I got it," she said, *^ bright- 
ening up with a grateful look, at the only 
enquiry she had heard, that was at all 
adapted to her understanding, at Madame 
de la Roche's : — it is the cheapest thing 
you can conceive: — I only gave twenty 
guineas for it: — and you know I am not 
reckoned very clever at making — bar- 
gains?' '* 1 should think not," answered 
Lady Augusta, adverting only to the first 
part of the sentence. 

Calantha entered at this moment. — 
'' Oh, my sweet soul/* said Lady Au- 
gugusta, embracing her, " I began to 
despair of seeing you. — But what was 
the matter with you last night ? I had 
just been saying that you looked so very 
grave. Notwithstanding which, Lord 
Dallas could think, and talk only of you. 
He says your chevelure is perfectly Gre- 
cian—the black ringlets upon the white 


skin; but 1 never listen to any compli- 
ment that is not paid directly or indi- 
rectly to myself. He is quite adorable: 
— do you not think so, hey? — No — I 
see he is too full of admiration for you — 
too refined. Lady Avondale's heart must 
be won in a far different manner ; — insult 
— rudeness — is tlie way to it. What! 
blush so deeply! Is the affair, ihen, too 
serious for a jest ? Why, in on enfant, you 
look like Miss Alacvicker this moirjing. 
— And is it true she will soon be united 
to you by the ties of blood, as she now 
seems to be by those of sympathy and 
congeniality of soul ?" 

The eternal Count Gondimar, and af- 
terwards Buchanan, interrupted Lady 
Augusta's attack. New topics of dis- 
course were discussed : — it will be need- 
less to detail them : — time presses. Balls, 
assemblies, follow: — every day exhibited 
a new scene of frivolity and extrava- 
gance ; every night was passed in the 
same vortex of fashionable dissipation. 



The spring was far advanced. Calan- 
tba's health required the sea air ; but her 
situation rendered a long journey hazar- 
dous. Lord Avondale resolved to await 
her confinement in England. The birth 
of a daughter was an additional source 
of happiness : Anabel was the name given 
to the little infant. Harry Mowbrey was 
now in his second year. The accounts 
from Ireland were more satisfactory. 
Mrs. Seymour wrote constantly to Ca- 
lantha, regretting her absence. Weeks, 
however, flew by in the same thoughtless 
vanities : months passed away without 
regret or care. Autumn was gone; — 
winteragain approached. London, though 
deserted by the crowd, was still gay. 
Calantha lived much with her aunt Mar- 
garet, Lady Mandevillc, and the Princess 


f JNIadagascar. The parks and streets, 
but lately so thronged with carriages, 
were now comparatively lonely and de- 
serted. Like the swallows at the ap- 
pointed hour, the gay tribe of fashionable 
idlers had vanished ; and a new set of 
people appeared in their place: — whence, 
or why, nobody could guess. 

One day Zerbellini, Calantha's little 
page, had just returned with a note from 
Buchanan ; a French hair dresser was cut- 
ting her hair ; milliners and jewellers were 
displaying upon every table new dresses- 
caps, chains, rings, for the ensuing win- 
ter; and Calantha's eye was dazzled — her 
ear was charmed — when her aunt Mar- 
garet entered. — " God bless your Lady- 
ship, God preserve you,'' said a woman 
half starved, who was waiting for an an- 
swer to her petition. — " 3Ii Lady ; ne 
prendra-t'elle pas ce petit bonnet P^^ said 
Madame la Roche. '' Yes, every thing, 
any thing," she answered impatiently, 
as she got up to receive her aunt. — She 

264 GLEK.4RV0N. 

was unusually grave. Calantha trembled; 
for she thought she was prepared to speak 
to h^r about Buchanan. She was ex- 
tremely relieved when she found that her 
censures turned solely upon her page. 
" Why keep that little foreign minion?" 
she said, indignantly. " Is the Count 
Yiviani so very dear, that any present of 
his must be thus treasured up and va- 
lued r' " The Count Yiviani,*' said Ca- 
lantha astonished: who is he ?'* — '' Well, 
then, Gondimar," replied Lady Margaret. 
•• Calantha — as a favour, I request you to 
send back that boy.** — Lady Avondale's 
prayers were at first her sole reply ; and 
like Titania in her second, when Oberon 
demanded the trusty Henchman, she 
boldly refused. Lady Margaret left her 
immediately: — she was calm, but offend- 
ed. She was then going toCastle Delaval. 
Calantha told her they should join her 
there in the course of the next month. 
She only smiled with a look of incredu- 
lity and contempt, asking her, if her be- 


loved Henry v/ould really be so cruel a$ 
to tear her away at last from London r 
and saying this she took leave. 

Lord Avondale and Calantha had beeo 
conversing on this very subject in the 
morning. He was surprised at her ready 
acquiescence in his wish to return to Ire- 
land. " You are then still the same," be 
said affectionately. — '* I am the same," 
she replied, rather fretfully, but you are 
changed : — every one tells me you neg- 
lect rae.*' " And have they who tell j^ou 
so," said he with a sigh, any very good 
motive in thus endeavouring to injure 
me in your opinion ? ^f I attended to 
what every one said, Calantha, perhaps I 
too should have some reason to complain. 
—Business of importance has alone en- 
gaged my attention. You know I am 
not one who assume much ; and if I say 
that I have been employed, you may de- 
pend on its being the case. I hope, then, 
I am not wrong when I have confided 
myself, and every thing that is dearest to 
me, to your honour and your love/'— 

V OL. I. N 


" Ah, no : — you are not wrong," she an- 
swered ; but perhaps if you confided less, 
and saw more of me, it would be better. 
Before marriage, a woman has her daily 
occupations : she looks for the approving 
smile of her parents: — she has friends 
who cheer her — who take interest in her 
affairs. But when we marry, Henry, we 
detach ourselves from all, to follow one 
guide. For the first years, we are the 
constant object of your solicitude: — you 
watch over us with even a tenderer care 
than those whom we have left, and then 
you leave us — leave us too among the 
amiable and agreeable, yet reprove us, if 
we confide in them, or love them. Mar- 
riage is the annihilation of love." 

" The error is in human nature," said 
Lord Avondale smiling — " We always 
see perfection in that which we cannot 
approach : — there is a majesty in distance 
and rarity, which every day's intercourse 
wears off. Besides, love delights in gaz- 
ing upon that which is superior : — whilst 
we believe you angels, we kneel to you, 


we are your slaves ;— we awake and find 
3^ou women, and expect obedience : — and 
is it not what you were made for?'* — 
'' Henry, we are made your idols too 
— too long, to bear this sad reverse : — 
you should speak to us in the language 
of truth from the first, or never. Obey, 
is a fearful word to those who have lived 
without hearing it ; and truth from lips 
which have accustomed us to a dearer 
language, sounds harsh and discordant. 
We have renounced society, and all the 
dear ties of early friendship, to form one 
strong engagment, and if that fails, what 
are we in the world — beings without 
hope or interest—dependants — encum- 
brances—shadows of former joys— soli- 
tary wanderers in quest of false pleasures 
—or lonely recluses, unblessing and un- 

Calantha had talked herself into tears, 

at the conclusion of this sentence ; and 

l^ord Avondale, smiling at a description 

she had given, so little according W4th 

N 2 


the gay being who stood before him, 
pressed her fondly to his bosom ; and 
said he would positively hear no more. 
« You treat me like a child, a fool," she 
said :— " you forget that I am a reason- 
able creature." " I do, indeed, Calantha: 
you so seldom do any thing to remind 
me of it." " Well, Henry, one day you 
shall find your error. I feel that within, 
which tells me that I could be superior, 
aje, very superior to those who cavil at 
my faults, and first encourage and then 
ridicule me for them. I love, I honour 
you, Henry. Yoi» never flatter me. 
Even ifyou neglect me, you have con- 
fidence in me -and, thank God, my heart 
is still worthy of some affection. -It is 
yet time to amend." Calantha thought 
it had been— as she took in haste a re- 
view of her former conduct-of time, how 
neglected! friends, how estranged l- 
money lavished in vain '.-and health im- 
paired by the excess of late hours, and 
endless, ceaseless dissipation. 

London had still attractions for her 


but the thought of fresh air, and green 
fields recurring, she was soon prepared 
for the journey. She passed the in- 
tervening days before her departure in 
taking leave of her friends. Lady Man- 
deville, in bidding adieu to her, affirmed 
that the interchange of ideas between 
congenial souls would never be'lessened, 
nor interrupted by absence. She would 
write to her, she said, and she wou!d 
think of her; and, seeing Calantha was 
really sorry to part with her, " You have 
none of the philosophy," she said, 
** which your cousin and your aunt pos- 
sess, and every trifle, therefore, has power 
:o afflict you : — you scarcely know me, 
and yet you are grieved to leave me. 
Promise ever to judge of me by what yon 
see yourself, and not through the me- 
dium of others ; for the world, which I 
despise from my soul, has long sought 
to crush me, because I had pride of cha- 
racter enough to think for myself." 

If any thing had been wanting to 
Strengthen Calantha's regard, this boa^^t 


had been sure of its effect ; for it was one 
of her favourite opinions, not indeed that 
the world should be despised, but that 
persons should dare to think, and act for 
thenf)selves, even though against its judg- 
ments. She was not then aware how 
this cant phrase is ever in the mouths of 
the veriest slaves to prejudice, — how 
little r^ independence of character is 
found amongst those who have lost sight 
of virtue. Like spendthrifts who boast of 
liberality, they are forced to stoop to arts 
and means, which those whon-i they affect 
to contemn would blush even to think of. 
Virtue alone can hope to stand firm and 
unawed above the multitude. When vice 
assumes this fearless character, it is either 
unblushing effrontery and callous indif- 
ference to the opinion of the wise and 
fc good, or at best but overweening pride, 
^which supports the culprit, and conceals 
from the eyes of others, the gnawing tor- 
tures he endures — the bitter agonizing 
consciousness of self-reproach. 



Lord Avondale was desirous of pass- 
ing the winter with his family at Mon- 
teith, and in the spring he had* oromised 
the Duke of Altamo'nte to accompany 
Lady Avondale to Castle Delaval. Lady 
Mandeville and Lady Augusta Selwyn 
were invited to meet them there at that 
time. The wish of pleasing Calantba, 
of indulging even her very weaknesses, 
seemed to be the general failing of all 
who surrounded her : — yet what return 
did she make ? — each day new follies en- 
grossed her thoughts ; — her levity and 
extravagance continually increased; and 
whilst, with all the ostentation of gene- 
rosity, she wasted the fortune of her hus- 
band upon the worthless and the base, 
he denied himself every amusement, se- 
cretly and kindly to repair the ruin, the 


misery, the injustice her imprudence and 
wanton prodigality had caused. 

During a long and melancholy jour- 
ney^ and after her arrival at Monteith, 
Calantha, with some astonishment, con- 
sidered the difference of Lord Avondale's 
views, character, and even talents for so- 
ciety and conversation, as compared with 
those of her former companions. Lord 
Avondale had no love of ostentation — no 
effort — a perfect manliness of^conduct 
and character, a real, and not feigned, in- 
difference to the opinion and applause 
of the vain and the foolish ; yet with all 
this, he was happy, cheerful, ready to 
enter into every amusement or occupa- 
tion which gave others pleasure. He 
had not one selfish feeling. It was im- 
possible not to be foix;ibly struck with 
the comparison. 

Calantha, with her usual inconsist- 
ency, now made all those sensible and 
judicious remarks, which people always 
make when they have lived a life of folly, 


and suddenly return to a more tranquil 
course. She compared the false gaiety 
which arises from incessant hurry and 
vanity with that which is produced by 
nature and health. She looked upon the 
blue sky and the green fields ; watched 
the first peeping snow-drop and crocus ; 
and entered with delight into all the 
little innocent pleasures of a rural life: 
nor did even a slight restlessness prevail, 
nor any^rring thoughts steal back to re- 
visit the gay scenes she had left. In 
very truth, she was more adapted, she 
said, to her present course of life than to 
any other; and, however guilty of im- 
prudence, she thanked God she had not 
heavier sins to answer for ; nor was there 
a thought of her heart she would not 
have wished her husband to know, unless 
from the fear of either giving him pain, 
or betraying others. 

At length, however, and by degrees, 
something of disquiet began to steal in 
upon the serenity of her thoughts : — ^her 
N 6 


mind became agitated, and sought an ob- 
ject: study, nay, labour, she had preferred 
to this total want of interest. While 
politics and military movements engaged 
Lord Avondale almost wholly, and the 
rest of the family seemed to exist happily 
enough in the usual course, she longed 
for she knew not what. There was a 
change in her sentiments, but she could 
not define it. It was not as it had been 
once : yet there was no cause for com- 
plaint. She was happy, but her heart 
seemed not to partake of her happiness ; 
and regret mingled at times with her en- 

Lady Mowbrey spoke with some as- 
perity of her late conduct ; Lady Eliza- 
beth enquired laughingly, if all she heard 
were true: for every folly, every fault, ex- 
aggerated and misrepresented, had flown 
before her : she found that all which she 
had considered as merely harmless, now 
appeared in a new and more unpleasing 
light. Censures at home and flattery 


abroad are a severe trial to the vain and 
the proud. She thought her real friends 
austere; and cast one longing glance back 
upon the scene which had been so lately 
illumined by the gaiety, the smiles, the 
kindness and courtesy of her new ac- 

Whilst the first and only care of Lord 
Avondale, every place was alike delight- 
ful to Calantha; for in his society she en° 
joyed all that she desired : but now that 
he was often absent, and appeared to be 
involved in deeper interests, she consi- 
dered, with some feelings of alarm^ the 
loneliness of her own situation. In the 
midst of hundreds she had no real friends: 
those of her childhood were estranged 
from her by her marriage ; and those her 
marriage had united her with, seemed to 
perceive only her faults, nor appreciated 
the merits she possessed* To dress well, 
to talk well, to write with ease and per- 
spicuity, had never been her turn, Un» 
used to the arts and amusements of so- 
cial intercourse^ she had formerly felt 


interest in poetry, in music, in what had 
ceased to be, or never had existed ; but 
now the same amusements, the same 
books, had lost their charm : she knew 
more of the world, and saw and felt their 
emptiness and fallacy. In the society of 
the generality of women and men she 
could find amusement when any amuse- 
ment was to be found ; but, day after 
day, to hear sentiments she could not 
think just, and to lose sight of all for 
which she once had felt reverence and 
enthusiasm, was hard. If she named one 
she loved, that one was instantly consi- 
dered as worthless: if she expressed much 
eagerness for the success of any project, 
that eagerness was the subject of ridi- 
cule ; and even at home, with Lady 
Elizabeth and Lady Mowbray, she felt 
that she had conducted herself in a man- 
ner they could not approve ; she re- 
ceived a thousand proofs of their kind- 
ness and affection, but she pined also for 
their esteem. 

Oh I am changed, she continually 


thought: I have repressed and conquered 
every warm and eager feeling; I love and 
admire nothing : yet am I not heartless 
and cold enough for the world in which 
I live. What is it that makes me mise- 
rable ? There is a fire burns within my 
soul ; and all those whom I see and hear 
are insensible. Avondale alone feels as 
I do; but, alas! it is no longer for me. 
Were 1 dead, what difference would it 
make to any one ? I am the object of 
momentary amusement or censure to 
thousands; but of love, to none. I am as 
a child, as a mistress to my husband; but 
never his friend, his companion. Oh for 
a heart's friend, in whom I could confide 
every thought and feeling ! who would 
share and sympathize with my joy or 
sorrow ! to whom I could say, '' you 
love me — you require my presence ;'* 
and for whom, in return, I would give 
up every other enjoyment. Such friend 
was once Lord Avondale. By what 
means have I lost him ? 


Often when in tears she thus expressed 
herself. Her husband would suddenly 
enter; laugh with her without penetrat- 
ing her feelings ; or, deeply interested in 
the cares of business, seek iier only as a 
momentary solace and amusement. Such, 
however, he seldom now found her; for 
she cherished a discontented spirit within 
her: and though too proud and stubborn 
to complain, she lived but on the rae- 
xiiory of the past. 

Her principles had received a shock, 
the force and effect of which was greatly 
augmented by a year of vanity and 
folly : her health too was impaired from 
late hours and an enervating life ; she 
could not walk or ride as formerly ; 
and her great occupation was the indul- 
gence of a useless and visionary train of 
thinking. She imagined that which was 
not, and lost sight of reality ; — pictured 
ideal virtues, and saw not t^e world as it 
is. Her heart beat with all the fervour 
of enthusiasm ; but the turn it took was 


erroneous. She heard the conversation 
of others ; took a mistaken survey of so- 
ciety ; and withdrevir herself impercepti- 
bly from all just and reasonable views. 
Ill motives were imputed to her, for what 
she considered harmless imprudence :~ 
she felt the injustice of these opinions ; 
and, instead of endeavouring to correct 
those appearances which had caused such 
severe animadversion, in absolute disgust 
she steeled herself against all remon- 
strances. Every one smiles on me and 
seems to love me, yet I am censured 
and misrepresented. Convinced of this, 
she became lonely. She had thoughts 
which once she would have mentioned 
as they occurred, but which she now 
concealed and kept solely to herself. She 
became dearer in her own estimation, as 
she detached herself from others, and 
began to feel coldly, even towards those 
whom she had once loved. 



It is dangerous to begin life by surren- 
dering every feeling of the mind and the 
heart to any violent passion. Calantha 
had loved and been loved to such an ex- 
cess, that all which followed it appeared 
insipid. Vanity might fill the space for 
a moment — or friendship, or charity, or 
benevolence ; but still there was some- 
thing gone, which, had it never existed, 
had never been missed and required. 
Lord Avondale was perhaps more indul- 
gent and more affectionate now, than at 
first ; for a lover ever plays the tyrant ; 
but even this indulgence was different ; 
and that look of adoration — that blind 
devotion — that ardent, constant solici- 
tude, when, without a single profession, 
one may feel certain of bemg the first ob- 


ject in life to the person thus attached- 
all this was past. 

Such love is not depravity. To have 
felt it, and to feel it no more, is like being 
deprived of the light of the sun, and 
seeing the sanxe scenes, which we once 
viewed brilliant beneath its beams, dark, 
clouded, and cheerless. Calantha had 
given up her heart too entirely to its 
power, ever more to endure existence 
without it. Her home was a desert ; 
her thoughts were heavy and dull ; her 
spirits and her health were gone ; and 
even the desire of pleasin^^, so natural to 
the vain, had ceased. Whom was she 
to wish to please, since A vondale was in- 
different ? or, what to her was the same, 
absent and pre-occupied. 

Such depression continued during the 
gloomy wintry months ; but with the 
first warm breeze of spring, they left her: 
and in the month of May, she prepared 
to join the splendid party which was ex- 


pected at Castle Delaval— as gay in 
heart herself as if she had never mo- 
ralized upon the perishable character of 
all human happiness. 

Upon a cool and somewhat dreary 
morning, they left Monteith, and sleep- 
ing one night at Allanwater, hastened 
to Castle Delaval, where blazing hearths 
and joyous countenances, gave them 
a cheering welcome. Lady Mandeville 
and Lady Augusta had, according to 
promise, arrived there a week before, 
to the utter consternation of Mrs. Sey- 
mour. Calantha perceived in one mo- 
ment that she was not extremely well 
with her or with her cousins upon this 
account. Indeed the former scarcely 
offered her her hand, such a long detail 
Oi petty offences had been registered 
against her since they had last parted. 
A stately dignity was therefore assumed 
by Sophia and Mrs. Seymour on this 
occasion ; they scarce permitted them- 


selves to smile during the whole, time 
Lady Mandeville remained, for fear, it 
may be supposed, that Satan, taking ad- 
vantage of a moment of levity, should 
lead them into further evil. The being 
compelled to live in company with one 
of her character, was more than enough. 
" I am enraptured at your arrival,*' 
said Lady Augusta, flying towards Ca- 
lantha the moment she perceived her. 
" You are come at the happiest time : 
you will be diverted here in no ordinary 
manner: the days of romance are once 
again displayed to our wondering view. 
" Yes/^ said Lady Trelawney, *' not a 
day passes without an adventure." Re- 
fore Calantha enquired into the meaning 
of this, she advanced to Lady Mandeville, 
who, languidly reclining' upon a couch, 
smiled sweetly on seeing her. Secure of 
the impression she had made, she waited 
to be sought, and throwing her arm 
around her. gave her kisses so soft and 


SO tender, that she could not immedi- 
ately extricate herself from her embrace. 
Lady Augusta, eager to talk, ex- 
claimed — " Did you meet any of the 
patrole?*' " Possibly — but I was read- 
ing the address to the United Irishmen, 
and could see, therefore, an,d think of 
nothing else." '' Are you aware who 
IS the author?" ''No; but it is so 
eloquent, so animated, I was quite alarm- 
ed when I thought how it must affect 
the people/' *' You shock me, Calan- 
tha," said Mrs. Seymour. " The absurd 
rhapsody you mean, is neither eloquent 
nor animating: it is a despicable attempt 
to subvert the government, a libel upon 
the English, and a poor piece of flattery 
to delude the influuated malcontents ia 
Ireland. Lady Augusta winked at Calan- 
tha, as if informing her that she touched 
upon a sore subject. " The author," 
said Lady Trelawney, who affected to be 
an enthusiast, '* is Lord Glenarvon." 


" I wish, Frances,' said Mrs.Sevmour, 
" you would call people by their right 
names. The young man you call Lord 
Glenarvon has no claim to that title ; his 
grandf^ither was a traitor; his father was 
a poor miserable *xile, who was obliged 
to enter the navy jjy way of gaining a 
livelihood ; his mother w^as a woman of 
very doubtful character (as she said this 
she looked towards Lady Mandeville) ; 
and this young man, educated nobody 
knows how, having passed his time in a 
foreign country, nobody knows where, 
from whence he was driven it seems by 
his crimes, is now unfortunately arrived 
here to pervert and mislead others, to 
disseminate his wicked doctrines amongst 
an innocent but weak people, and to 
spread the flames of rebellion, already 
kindled in other parts of the island. Oh, 
he is a dishonour to his sex , and it 
makes me mad to see how you all run 
after him, and forget both dignity and 
modesty, to catch a glimpse of him." 


*' What sort of looking man is he, dear 
aunt? saidCalantha. "Frightful — mean," 
said Mrs. Seymour. '' His stature is 
small, ** said Lady Mandeville; " but his 
eye is keen and his voice is sweet and 
tunable. Lady Avondale believe me, he 
is possessed of that persuasive language, 
which never fails to gain upon its hear- 
ers. Take heed to your heart : remem- 
ber my w^ords — beware of the young 
Gienarvon. Gondimar, after the first 
salutation upon entering the room, 
joined in the conversation ; but he spoke 
with bitterness of the young Lord ; and 
upon Lady Trelawney's attempting to 
say a few words in his favor, '' Hear Sir 
Everardon this subject," said the Count 
— " only hear what he thinks of him." 
'' I fear," said Sophia, *' that all these 
animadversions will prevent our going 
to-morrow, as we proposed, to see the 
Priory." Nothing shall prevent me," 
replied Lady Augusta. " I only beg," 
said Mrs. Seymour *' that I may not be 


of the party, as the tales of horror I have 
heard concerning the inhabitants of St. 
Alvin Priory, from old Lord de Ruthven, 
at Belfont Abbey, prevent my having the 
smallest wish or curiosity to enter its 


Count Gondimar, now coming to- 
wards Calantha, enquired after Zerbellini. 
At the request of every one present, he 
was sent for. Calantha saw a visible 
change in Lady Margaret's countenance, 
as he entered the room. " He is the 
living image"— she murmured, in a low 
hollow tone— '^ Of whom ?" said Calan- 
tha eagerly.-^She seemed agitated and 
retired. Gondimar in the evening took 
Calantha apart and said these extraor- 
dinary words to her, '« Zerbellini is Lady 
Margaret and Lord Dartford's son : treat 
him according to his birth ; but remem- 
ber, she would see him a slave sooner 
than betray herself: she abhors, yet loves 
him. Mark her ; but never disclose the 
secret with which I entrust you." As- 


tonisbed, confounded, Calantha now 
looke*-] npon the boy with different eyes. 
Imnaediritely his resemblance to the fa- 
mily of Delaval struck her — his likeness 
to herself—his manner so superior to 
that of a child in his situation. The 
long concealed truth, at once flashed 
upon her. A thousand times she was 
tempted to speak upon the subject. 
She had not promised to conceal it from 
Lord Avondale : she was in the habit of 
telling him every thing: however she 
was now for the first time silent, and 
there is no more fatal sympton than 
when an open communicative disposi- 
tion grows reserved. 


J. Giile*., rhnter, down Couri, yictt Sirr.^t, I-ondcn.